Showing posts with label counselling. Show all posts
Showing posts with label counselling. Show all posts

08 March 2021

The Long Lonely Crisis

Originally written early 2018.

This is something that's been on my mind for a while now.

(Trigger warning -- suicide.)

Most of you probably know that I attempted suicide in March 2017. A month later I finally had the opportunity to ask for help and subsequently began counselling. I 'stabilised' -- in theory. But you know when the suicidal thoughts were at their absolute worst? Do you know when I was the closest to ending my life?

It was eight months later -- November 2017.

I was still in counselling once a week. I was still attending all my classes. I continued my rigorous practice schedule. But in late October there had been a serious incident involving a close friend of mine and that was all it took to break me. The fragile progress I'd made vapourised in the aftermath of one horrible text. I doubled the frequency of my counselling appointments in the wake of what had happened but I would still go back to the house for lunch every day and sit there in the living room, staring out the window, visibly shaking, rage coursing through every capillary in my body, literally not even sure if I would survive the next twenty minutes or if I would snap and end it before then.

When I attempted suicide in March 2017, that was actually a more spur-of-the-moment thing. Certainly the anger and frustration that triggered it had been building for some time, but I didn't sit there and plan it that day. I didn't even really realise that I was about to attempt suicide until my feet were already moving. But in November, I was literally planning it out in my head... the details of what I would do, how I would do it, and -- most importantly -- the reactions of others ('maybe then someone would finally be sad for me'). You're not supposed to give those thoughts space and I knew that, but I was too completely, utterly exhausted/spent/depleted/frustrated/beat down to steer them in another direction. All I had the energy to do was just sit and let them run their course, winding my nerves tighter and tighter, increasing my internal tension to the breaking point.

From my counselling, I knew that I should say something. Text someone. Go to a friend's house. Call 911 if necessary (I knew I would not survive the drive to the hospital if I tried to drive myself). That May, when I had started telling people close to me about my attempt in March, they had all said things like, 'you can talk to me if you need it.' They spent time with me, checked in on me, told me I needed to live -- for a while.

But when I hit bottom in November 2017, I never called anybody. I didn't send any texts. You know why?

Because the phrase 'I'm here for you' has an expiration date. Always. I'd learned that after my cousin's death in 2015, and I knew I'd passed that date. Quite a few of those people who had been so concerned in the weeks following my March attempt had already, by November of that same year, told me I was wallowing too much (as if one can 'wallow' in a medical condition that's outside of their control!). I knew if I tried to contact anybody -- including those that helped me the first time around -- they would just assume I was looking for attention or perhaps overreacting. 'You've been in counselling. You know people care about you. That was months ago -- why are you still not better yet? Why aren't you trying hard enough?'

I knew my condition was serious, but I had no way of convincing anybody else that it was. I'd been in treatment for seven months. I was supposed to be better, right? And if I wasn't better yet, then obviously it was all my fault. I wasn't trying hard enough. And nobody wants anybody to do with somebody who's 'lazy' and 'doesn't try...' (Perhaps it is better for that person to be dead...?) (Don't tell me you're not thinking this sometimes when I'm struggling and seem exceptionally needy.)

Listen to me, just for a moment. Recovery is not linear. Recovery is not instant. Let me say this again -- recovery is not instant.

Please get this.

There is no quick fix for depression. Yes, there is counselling, and yes, there is medication, but neither of these are quick fixes, and neither of these is guaranteed. At this moment in history, depression is incurable. If you don't understand this, you cannot say you understand depression. You cannot understand the weight of knowing there is no end to the fight, ever, for the rest of your life. Recovery -- especially from a suicide attempt -- can take years. Literal, calendar years. And if you say you're going to be there for us through that time of picking up the pieces, you need to realise how long that really is. It's long. And it's hard. And it's slow. And it's lonely. And it feels pointless. And because we're already depleted from actually getting to the cliff edge of our lives and clawing our way back up over the edge of our own demise, we don't have a lot of strength left. It's like how you're depleted and listless after a flu -- it takes time to get your strength back. In the very earliest days of my 'recovery' (April 2017), I had zero will to live -- I was in fact still actively planning to die. It took a lot of people pouring their determination into me for a long time (we're talking every single day for months) before I began to even reflect any of it myself (it took even longer than that for any of that determination to truly get inside me). I have said of one friend who was there at that time that she fought harder for my life than I did. I had well and truly given up the ghost, but it was people like her who doggedly insisted that I needed to live and stayed close to me to ensure that I did.

But the thing is, over time, they begin to drift away. They think you're better and they begin to drift away and assume you're in remission. But just because the initial emergency has passed doesn't mean that you're cured. You're now at 20% battery instead of 1%, which is of course an improvement, but that 20% can -- and does -- get depleted quickly. Meanwhile everyone assumes that you're now permanently at 100% and gets upset with you if you so much as hint that you aren't.

A crisis is not solved (though, yes, it can sometimes be temporarily alleviated) with a ten-minute text friend-therapy session. A mental health crisis can last -- even with treatment -- for years. The suicidal thoughts that nearly killed me in 2017 actually started in early 2015. I was in full-blown crisis for two years -- BEFORE I even made an attempt. And don't make the mistake of thinking it the crisis ends immediately after one attempt (even with treatment).

Even now, there are still more dark days than I let on. There are fewer now than there were in November 2017, yes, but there are still days where I am frustrated and lonely and feeling like nothing I ever do will be worth any of the time I'm putting into it and I start thinking, 'why even bother?' Because of my personal history with this cocktail of depression/perfectionism/suicidal ideation, this little phrase alone opens the floodgates to dark things very quickly -- as soon as that question comes up, I can go from neutral to suicidal in literal seconds. It's such a fast slide that I often don't even realise it's happening until I'm already planning what my imminent death will look like. Basically, because I've been to the edge of suicide before, it means I can wind up back in that state easier and faster than others who have never attempted. It's become a sort of muscle memory.

But I consistently don't contact anyone because I know that nobody is going to take me seriously -- they're just going to roll their eyes and ask why I'm not trying harder. I've gone through a lot this past year, but I kept pretending I was fine. At the moment that's doable. But if I start sliding again, that means I'm not going to contact anybody.

This is why checking in is SO imperative, even if somebody looks fine. If we don't feel safe to say we're struggling, a lot of times we simply won't. And that's dangerous... it means we won't warn you, we'll just fire the fatal shot and hope someone cares enough to bury the body.

25 June 2019

Investing

As I mentioned in a recent post, I have a fixed amount of money and that amount is rapidly diminishing.

I managed to peel the entire front off my vehicle, managed to land an audition with a fee that the company conveniently neglected to mention until I'd already committed to the audition, and probably should get counselling as I spent the last four or five days in a pit of suicidal rage. That will pretty well take care of my savings, and I haven't even paid rent yet.

What really annoys me about this (I realised while ranting into the void), is that I can no longer invest in myself. Self-care for me includes dance class, it includes driving around listening to music, it includes wandering shops, it includes photography, it includes writing, it includes auditioning, it includes counselling, it includes creating things.

But dance class costs money. And I need new tap shoes (again), which costs money.

Gas costs money. Wandering around shops usually costs money because I usually find at least one costume piece. Lord knows film and development cost money and my dear Pentax is in desperate need of service.

With Lila broken, my writing is severely curtailed. If I had an income, I could justify buying another word processor on eBay or something but I have no income so I can't.

Auditioning often requires me doing video auditions, and that requires me having a memory card for my video camera -- mine is full, so I went out and bought another but it turned out to be a piece of trash. A good memory card runs into the $100 range... I cannot justify that in my current financial circumstances. And heaven knows counselling costs money.

I can't create anything. I can't do anything. And as mentioned before, that makes me feel really useless. I want to make dance and writing and photos and art and maybe one day that will be a source of income. But right now I'm in a place where I can't continue with any of that until I can make these investments. But can I really justify these investments when I can barely afford rent and gas to get to rehearsals (I haven't really eaten in a week in order to cut down on food costs). I have no assurance that these investments will actually pay off... out of the literally dozens of auditions I've done so far this year, only two actually cast me (and one was with the school so they kind of had to shove me in somewhere though we all knew the director would rather have gouged out his own eyes than work with me).

I want to do all these things. I want to pursue these things, even though they're mere hobbies at the moment. I want to continue to hone my skills and develop my stage presence. I want to keep auditioning and making dance films and writing novels. I want to get counselling. I want to do and enjoy all of these things. But I can't -- I can't justify spending that kind of money on literally zero income with no assurance of return on my investment.

27 March 2019

Pieces of Starving

Written 23 March 2019.

Whatever this thing is that wants me dead -- mental illness, demons, whatever you want to call it -- is resourceful. I've started fighting to not be sad and negative all the time (because otherwise nobody will ever associate with me and I want human interaction more than anything), and in the absence of space to be sad, it's turned to other means.
In an attempt to get this out into the open but unwilling to burden my already long-suffering friends and acquaintances with yet another issue, I'm posting it here. If my friends see this, they see it of their own accord. I didn't force it on them, and I take comfort in that.

I've been restricting food. I've discussed this with my counsellor before on a couple of occasions, as it's popped up before. But each time it gets stronger. I only ate one meal yesterday, and it's 1.23pm as I type this and I haven't eaten yet today.

Part of it is finances -- I can't really afford to buy more food, so I'm trying to stretch out what I have.
Part of it is perfectionism -- 'you aren't good enough to deserve to eat.'
Part of it is scheduling -- between school and rehearsals and job-hunting, I don't have time to make food.
Part of it is exhaustion -- again, school and rehearsals and job-hunting take so much out of me that the thought of making and eating food makes me want to lay down and die because I just don't have the energy.
Part of it is for attention -- maybe if people notice I'm not eating they'll start paying attention to me, if only to intervene.
Part of it is suicidal -- if I stop eating, eventually I'll die. Maybe the too-soon death of one who literally starved for the sake of being good enough (too busy practicing to eat) will wake some people up. Plus, I'll be dead and won't have to fight anymore, and I'm just so tired of fighting. It seems pointless and I feel like I'm not really needed. Yeah, it would suck for the shows I'm in because they'll have to respace everything, but really, how much would it affect anyone's soul if I wasn't there? I'm shoved in the back anyway because I'm not good enough, it's not like anyone will notice I'm gone... and that's not their fault, it's mine. For not being good enough. For not practicing hard enough.

I shouldn't feel guilty for eating food, for spending the money, for not eating something other than eggs -- again, but somehow I do. It's not that I think I'm fat or need to lose weight, it's mostly just pure mental/physical exhaustion.

31 January 2018

Mental Health and the Performing Arts

It's difficult as a performing artist to know what to say. How much can I talk about this? I feel relatively little stigma from my general friends and acquaintances (although I think a lot of that is because at least a few of the people I hang out with struggle with similar things), but in the professional performing arts world, how much can be said? Any health struggle, mental or physical, can preclude you from getting roles -- getting work. No director wants to hire someone who may be unreliable -- even if it's something out of the actor's control, like their health. How do you reconcile 'the show must go on' with 'I have a chronic condition'? In the performing arts world, you are supposed to be able to do absolutely anything at absolutely any time. 'I'm tired/I'm not feeling well' is not a valid excuse -- ever. We've all heard stories of dancers who have performed on severe sprains or actors who have done shows hours after huge personal tragedies.

I get that -- I do. Our literal job as performers is to become someone else, to create another world. The audience comes so they can forget about their own problems, not be saddled with mine. So then how do you know when to just escape into your character or into your practice routine and how do you know when to say, 'I can't do this today or I will relapse'? Maybe this isn't as much of an issue for some as it is for me... for me, my life is literally staked on being able to do this performing arts thing. My counsellor and I were talking about this at my last appointment. He asked me, "Pretend for a moment that you decided to the do the easy thing and get a 9-to-5 job. What does it look like? What would happen?"

I said, "I have two reactions to that... On one hand, I can't even picture not being in the arts. It just sort of feels inevitable. It always has, for as long as I can remember. But on the other hand, if I had to live that life, to do the same thing over and over, meetings and phone calls and reports... I would actually kill myself. It would be SO boring and pointless." And I actually found myself tearing up as I spoke. I couldn't really picture myself living that life -- but for the fleeting seconds that I did grasp a vague image of it, my heart plunged into a despair that terrified me and I got the words out and banished the image before I could descend any further. It felt like I had been standing on the very edge of a black hole and tripped. I've attempted suicide twice in my life and I have still never felt anything as black and breathless as that vague fleeting image of myself not in the arts.

I've said things to that effect on this blog for years and years -- how I could never do a 9-to-5. But now it's really beginning to sink in that my life literally depends on whether or not I can stay in the performing arts. Because I know that if I can't, I will literally die. And that puts a lot of stress on me when I try to practice (never mind perform) because I feel this immense pressure to improve even more, to become the best the fastest, just so I don't fade out and become disposable -- so I don't get replaced by the next starlet who doesn't have depression (and also can do a developpĂ© up to her ear and sing without sounding like a strangulation victim).

On one hand, you are asked to probe the depths of your pain and bare it on the stage, and on the other hand you are asked to shove it aside and pretend it doesn't exist. Is it any wonder so many artists break?

08 January 2018

Remember... Remember... (2017)

This post is mostly for myself, so feel free to skip... I just thought I'd take a few minutes and note the changes that happened in 2017, the good things, the things that only a few short years ago I only thought about wistfully and the things that I never could have foreseen.

Overall, 2017 -- mostly just the past few months -- was a year of significant upheaval for me emotionally, mentally, and spiritually. I'm still in the middle of it and I'm still processing a lot of it (it'll likely take years), but so far these are my observations.


- January: First posted an excerpt of one of my dance practices on social media. (This was actually supposed to be a one-off thing, but it set in motion almost literally every ounce of dance growth that would happen over the rest of the year.)

- January: Began a consistent dance practice schedule that would continue until the college Christmas break.

- March: My first comedic role (Person in Chair in The Drowsy Chaperone).

- March: Choreographed for a stage production for the first time (The Drowsy Chaperone).

- April: Finally admitted to another person just how much I was struggling mentally/emotionally.

- April: Began counselling. (This in turn set off the long, long process of beginning to deal with my friend's death, my cousin's death, my extended family's issues, the emotional abuse throughout my childhood and teen years, the neglect and mistreatment from my former church, and the perfectionism -- both forced and self-imposed -- that almost literally killed me.)

- April: Performed literally the hardest, most complex tap dance I could ever have dreamed of in my worst nightmares... and performed it really quite well.


- April: Began my internship (as director's assistant).

- May: Told a few close friends about my depression.

- May (ish): Found my head voice. This opened up a whole other world for my voice.

- June: Performed a high G for the first time.

- June: After years of crap, finally left the church I'd attended for ten years and began attending a different one on the recommendation of a school acquaintance. So far I enjoy the new church. (At the very least it got me out of the old one.)

- July: Finished my 2016 NaNoWriMo novel draft.

- August: A few college friends got together and put together a book of encouragement for me.

- August: Moved into a legitimate house -- not dorm -- on my own (well, with roommates) for the first time.

- September: Submitted a statement to my former church about my reasons for leaving their church, including detailed stories of the way the leadership at this church mistreated me.

- September: Landed a job for during the school year.

- September (ish): Began making it a point to dress up a bit more. (Up till this time in my life I was dressing almost exclusively in jeans and t-shirts.)

- October: Learned/performed my first opera solo (Stizzoso, mio stizzoso from La Serva Padrona).

- November: Did a 30-Day Choreography Challenge, involving choreographing a minimum of 32 counts every day and posting the day's output on social media every day.

- November: For the first time in my life it occurred to me that I might actually be able to separate the depressed voice and my voice in my head... that they might actually be separate.

- December: Filmed, edited, and released my first dance video.


I won't say too much more because today was a rough day and if I throw a pity party here after this list that I made to look back on good things it would pretty much negate the purpose of making the list in the first place. But there it is. Things did happen... they're just not going as quickly and improvement is not as dramatic as I had been hoping.

11 August 2017

Mirror

6 July 2017; 11.19pm.

I've been trying (again) to get somewhere on revising Kyrie -- my best (and favourite) novel to date. I'm beginning to feel a tiny bit like I'm actually progressing, but it's been emotionally difficult.

It's not much of a secret that the character Kyrie is heavily drawn from my own experience, from me. She is, in many ways, the person I wish I was. She is also, however, the person I perceive myself to be within the family unit -- rejected, despised, ignored, abused. She starts the novel as the quintessential Barbie character -- full of life and energy and quickly becoming a favourite in the local social circles. But as the novel progresses, we begin to see that the way her family treats her is smothering her, draining her... killing her.

This novel was tricky enough to write when I first drafted it. But now, to revise it while also dealing with my own (very similar) issues in counselling -- including emotional abuse from immediate family and the church -- is threatening to smother me too.

I know exactly what Kyrie was writing in her journals, feeling in her heart, when she went off her medication. Because I'm writing it and feeling it too.

17 June 2017

State of Mind - Intro

I've been working through a lot of things lately. To make a long story short, this past April I wound up in counselling (something longtime readers have probably seen coming since the inception of this blog). One day I'll probably post that story here -- it's all written out and waiting for the right time.

Through counselling, though, I've had to face the issues that I knew were haunting me and even a few that I had nearly forgotten were there... obviously the year 2015 is in there, as well as the youth group I attended as a teen, the trauma surrounding the birth of my youngest brother, and the loss of two of my best friends in the world (one to a significant move, one to death). But in our collective digging, I've begun to revisit my home life during my teen years...

I remember things being difficult at home in those years. The reason I stayed at that horrific youth group was to escape the horrors of home. But while the treatment I received at the hands of the Christian youth remained fairly fresh in my memory, the details of my life at home had not. I was in survival mode for the better part of ten years and did not have the luxury of properly encoding the memories... I was too busy trying to survive.

As a result of some of the things that have come up during counselling, I decided to go back through the draft archives of this blog and see what I had written and never published. I had originally started this blog as a place to escape (however temporarily) from the difficulties of my life at home, so I knew some of those drafts would probably touch on it.

What I found made me feel a bit sick, even though I had already lived it. I had wondered, sometimes, if I was exaggerating when I recalled those days in the counselling sessions. I wondered if perhaps I was being melodramatic -- I am, after all, an artist. But the posts I found proved that I was actually not doing those days enough justice. Things had actually been worse than I remembered them to be.

It's funny how much you can justify. It seems incomprehensible to me that someone would simply stay in an abusive situation and not attempt to get out -- yet I did that very thing. I knew even at the time that something was wrong, but I didn't realise until last week how wrong things really were. I once heard another domestic abuse victim (abused as a child) say, while talking about his experience, "I thought it was normal. I didn't know anything else. What is normal, anyway?" (It was actually hearing about that experience that made me realise that perhaps my own childhood experience had been at least borderline abusive.) Although I knew innately for years that my experience was not ideal, I thought perhaps it was just me being my melodramatic artist self reading far too much into things and being far too sensitive. To realise that it was all real and that something was at least as wrong as I had suspected... that's still kind of a blow. I'm still absorbing it.

As such, I don't really have a proper ending to this post. But I wanted to warn you all that this is where I am right now. Future posts may expand on this.