ESSIG MAGAZINE by ESSIG magazine

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y l k n a f r

are optional, but are required.â&#x20AC;?

But let’s talk about the weddings are optional part. I think I’ll make a new rule:

It was Thursday night and I was making the two hour drive home from a day spent working on the South side of Chicago. I took a phone call from my boss to catch up on the day’s events. He was also on the road and heading to the North side of the city for a funeral. Sadly, it was a wake for a young man who died tragically in a drowning accident. I expressed to him that I was sorry to hear that he had such a sad event to attend. He kind of sighed and spent a couple minutes talking about how the timing wasn’t great considering his busy schedule, to which I responded that it was “good of him to make the time” and that “the family would be appreciative.” Then, he profoundly shared with me one of his rules of life. He said “Weddings are optional, but funerals are required.” We said our good-bye’s. I continued navigating the I-294 traffic and I was thinking about what he said. For a very brief moment, I thought that his rule was good and more people should prioritize that way. And then I realized that his statement was absolutely backwards. Weddings are optional, but funerals are required? Translation…it doesn’t matter if I show up for life, but I better be there when they die? Ok, ok…I know that is a somewhat harsh translation of his life rule. It certainly is of great importance to support a family in times of loss and pay respects to those who have passed.

Let’s show up for the good times, not just the bad.

Everyone always talks about it the other way around. You hear things like, “I was sick and my sister was there every day for me,” “I was upset and my friend came right over to console me,” “My Gramma passed away and I couldn’t believe how many people showed up.” People are great in a crisis or time of need. How many of those same people wouldn’t have time if you were asking them over for a cup of coffee, to go for a walk in the park or to make cookies?

to coffee. And to the walk in the park. And to cookies. And to talking about our busy schedules. Let’s say

My Grandparents were always busy working around the house, but if someone pulled in the driveway, they’d gladly drop what they were doing to put on a pot of coffee and sit down for a nice visit.

The work waited just fine.

I am so happy that you sent me this story. It really makes me smile, and I hope that everyone who was able to read this feels the same sense of refreshment that I feel after reading your piece.

Be there for

life.

dear jodie,

I love this idea, and I think it’s so crucial to hear. It seems like such a daunting task, when really, it’s what makes life worth living. We work so much and push so hard that we often don’t take the time to appreciate the people that make our lives special. We stress over work-related issues, tell ourselves that we don’t have the time or the strength to worry about mundane situations, like having a drink with an old friend or having dinner with a long-lost cousin, until they’re gone and we’re driving along, kicking ourselves all the way to the funeral!

I hope that you will continue to love this life you were given, and that you spread your message to everyone you meet. At the end, we all want to be able to look

back and remember the people who made our lives special. But we’ll never know which ones decided to come to our funeral, because by then, it’s too late.

Be there for life,

share in the world as it moves and grows all around you. It’s not the destination that determines your destiny, but the

journey.

frankly

a gun or a

thought? A gun gives you the o p p o r t u n i t y ,

but a thought pulls

the trigger.â&#x20AC;?

“THE

MOMENT

WOKE

I only felt one emotion; A N G E R . I WAS ANGRY WITH THE NURSES,

I WAS ANGRY WITH MY FAMILY,

But most of all,

I WAS ANGRY WITH THE WORLD

I was so saturated with anger that I couldn’t feel anything else for days. I just laid in the hospital bed, heart pounding and head reeling, completely unable to acknowledge how I’d just been given a second chance at life. Why would I even want a second chance when I failed so miserably the first time? The world had been telling me for years that I wasn’t good enough or anything other than a freak. I was weird, I was crazy, I was hyper-emotional…It didn’t matter if there was something legitimately wrong with my mind which was causing me to behave this way. I couldn’t seem to control my emotions, and that made people scared of me. It made me scared of myself. I lived my life with so much self hatred that I couldn’t even get out of bed some days. It was too much to look at myself in the mirror. It was too much to even see my hands or feet in front of me. Every part of me was bad.

My stay in the hospital was absolutely excruciating. When I was finally released about a week later, no one at home really knew what to do with me. I felt even more like an outcast.

Most people just said nothing, as to keep from saying the wrong thing. But to me, the silence was unbearable. It gave me a lot of time to think about how I had gotten to this point to begin with. When I started noticing my symptoms and looked them up online, I was surprised to see there was a name, an actual condition, describing exactly what I was going through. General Anxiety Disorder. I had never known anyone with a mental illness before, so I didn’t really know what to do about it.

Months later, I went to the doctor when I was having trouble breathing. I mentioned feeling similar symptoms to what I read online about anxiety, and she immediately concluded that the solution was to get counseling. She sent me away with no referral, expecting me to go out and find the help I needed. Obviously, I didn’t. I continued trying to live my life the best I could. I had just gotten married, and was approaching my last semester of college. Eventually, being on campus was extremely difficult for me. I was scared of loud noises and felt like I was under a spotlight every second of the day. I stopped eating due to the fear that I’d make a sound with either some sort of wrapper or plastic baggie. I would often try to not even move, petrified of being a nuisance to anyone around me. I was utterly exhausted all the time. My heart was constantly racing, and I often thought it would beat right out of my chest. My legs felt so heavy; even walking to class was almost more than I could physically manage. I had such a hard time breathing; I learned that yawning helped to open my throat and get a slightly larger breath, so I started subconsciously yawning a lot. That made me even more tired… Eventually, I couldn’t even leave my apartment. Once I missed a class, I just knew everyone would notice what a horrible student I was. If I showed up the following week, I couldn’t stand sitting there, feeling like everyone was judging me and wondering why I wasn’t there the week before. I felt like I was no longer worthy to be in the same room as my successful, ambitious classmates. It became absolute torture just to sit through a fifty-minute lecture. I dropped out of college at the end of my second to last semester,

I sought help from my ecclesiastical leaders, but—not being trained mental health professionals— they could only do so much for me. I went through a phase where I was constantly scared for my life, twenty four hours a day, seven days a week, for almost a year. Imagine the feeling you get when you watch a really scary movie…now imagine having that feeling every single day.

I was in and out of the mental health clinic, attempting different medications and therapy. Nothing seemed to work. If anything, the medication they gave me only made it worse. There was one perscription that caused me to start cutting myself. I had horrible scrapes, scratches and infected cuts that would make my face burn, only adding to my misery. I would cut song lyrics and depressing phrases into my arms, shoulders, wrists, and legs. It was oddly comforting… It felt so much better to have physical pain, because I was able to control it. As soon as I put a wet washcloth over a fresh cut, it would instantly feel better. The pain was still there, but that feeling of relief was absolutely blissful and I became addicted to it. I was frustrated with my doctors and counselors because they didn’t seem to understand; It was almost as if no one was really listening to what I was saying. One of the hardest struggles faced by those with mental illness is dealing with the system that’s supposed to help them. Our mental health care system is so antiquated compared to physical medicine. There’s a significant difference in the way people are treated by society depending on whether their illness is mental or physical. If your friend had cancer, you would feel overwhelming sympathy for them. You would support them through chemo and radiation treatments, making any effort you could just to get them to smile. So why is it then, when someone has a mental illness, no one knows what to say?

I stopped sleeping at night because I was too scared to close my eyes, and the little sleep I managed to get during daylight hours was interrupted by more nightmares. Sometimes I was so terrified that I couldn’t even move. My body was paralyzed with fear, and I couldn’t speak or get help. I was utterly useless. The worst part was the crippling depression that came along with my anxiety. I was doing absolutely nothing with my life and I hated myself for it. In my mind, everything I worked for up until then had all been washed down the drain. I knew there was no hope for me, or my future. I moved back home with my parents after I went through a divorce and was on my own. I would lie in my bed in the dark every day, only moving if I absolutely had to. I slept as much as I could to escape the horrible thoughts taking over my mind, often interrupting my own nightmares with sobbing. At this point, I couldn’t get along with anyone—nobody could say the right thing. Even when they tried so hard to be nice, everything hurt my feelings.

We see someone deteriorating in front of us due to a mental illness, but in our heads, it’s somehow their own fault. The schizophrenic on the street is homeless because he’s crazy and refuses to get help or hold down a job. Our prisons are filling up with criminals who refuse to take their anti-psychotic medications. People are committing suicide because they’re cowards and weak. People like me—the ones you grew up with—are lazy and stupid for not finishing school or getting a job. These are stereotypes faced every single day by those suffering from mental illness. You wouldn’t judge someone who was born with HIV for their parents’ mistakes. You wouldn’t judge someone with cancer for being lazy after chemo treatment. You wouldn’t laugh at someone with a broken leg for not being able to walk. This same compassion should extend to those suffering with mental illness.

Eventually, I started a ne w medication that actually worked an d I slowly started feeling like I could do more th ings. I got a part-time job , which led to a full-time job and I was finally fe eli ng like a normal person ag ain. Coming to terms wi th everything I’ve lost du e to my mental illness is st ill something I struggle wi th. It’s painful to recall the memories from that pa rt of my past, but at lea st I know now that I can manage my condition an d still live a normal life.

If you know someone wi th mental illness, gently encourage them to seek help from medica l professionals. Tell them to stick with it—the mental health care syste m is extremely hard to navigate, but we need it. For the sake of your friends or family, and fo r people like me that yo u don’t even know, please help us fight the stigm a of mental illness. Ther e is so much we cannot do alone. My purpose in writing this article is to promote mental health awareness. So many pe ople who have struggled wi th mental illness cannot talk about their experie nces, simply for the fact that they’re not here an ymore.

â&#x20AC;&#x153;I felt like my entire

future had f a l l e n a p a r t in just a matter of

minutes.â&#x20AC;?

When I accidentally got pregnant, I was only nineteen. I was young, reckless, and thought I was untouchable. I knew of many girls who had gotten pregnant unexpectedly, but I never thought it would happen to me. Back then, I spent a lot of time online which was eventually how I met Derrick. He lived halfway across the country and wasn’t particularly stunning, but he gave me a lot of attention which boosted my low self-esteem. We spent a lot of time talking in the chatroom we met, but eventually transitioned over to more personal ways of communicating, such as exchanging Facebook profiles and phone numbers. Derrick wasn’t my usual type – in fact, he was pretty much the opposite. He was short, lanky, not overly ambitious, and yet I still found him goofy, charming, and sweet. He was constantly complimenting me and always made me feel wanted when I was feeling down. Several months went by and I realized I spent more time talking to Derrick than I did with my actual friends. I’d text him throughout the day and we’d video chat at night. We were still chatting casually at that point, but I suspected he might have a bit of a crush on me. I definitely flirted – I won’t deny it – but I also didn’t think it’d ever progress from an Internet friendship. I had tried the long distance thing in the past and it wasn’t for me, so I wasn’t planning to take our relationship any further. We’d regularly joke about meeting up, but I was well aware that it probably wouldn’t happen. I didn’t have the money to just take off across the country and he had a full-time job of his own. For a while, those hypothetical talks were just that – hypothetical.

By the time October rolled around, our friendship was in full swing and we both felt a really strong connection. That’s when Derrick mentioned he’d been looking online and found a deal for $200.00 flights from Massachusetts to Kansas. I didn’t take it too seriously but after realizing I could actually afford to go, I asked him if he really wanted to meet. He told me I could stay at his place and fly over within the next few weeks. Although I was elated, my friends and family were quite the opposite. All of them advised me not to go. Being nineteen and stupid, I did anyway.

When I arrived, I didn’t feel awkward like I expected. Derrick and I chatted like we were old friends and I was awestruck that I was actually meeting someone I’d only spoken to online. When we got to his place, which turned out to be a small, messy bedroom in an apartment shared with two other guys, I unpacked my things and went on and on about how I couldn’t believe I was actually there. We opted to stay in for the rest of the night and things eventually began to heat up. Because I didn’t ever expect to have sex with someone I just met, I didn’t bring any condoms and he didn’t have any either. Due to the fact that my sex life was pretty much non-existent, I let him know I wasn’t taking birth control. Way against my better judgment, I decided we could have sex anyway. I justified it poorly with the fact that normally, I did use condoms. While I was well aware I could wind up pregnant by opting not to use protection, even just once, I was still thinking in that blissfully invincible mindset of “but that would never happen to me.” Wrong. The rest of the trip went well but when I finally arrived home, I felt relieved to be living my life normally. I only started feeling uneasy when I realized my period was a couple days late. Inside, I began to panic, but convinced myself that I was just being paranoid. I decided to wait a few more days and then, if my period still didn’t come, I’d buy a pregnancy test just to give myself some peace of mind. Three days later, I made the horrible trip to a CVS down the street, where I purchased a First Response pregnancy test from a girl I went to middle school with. Although I didn’t know it at the time, the mortification of that moment was the very least of my worries. I was anxious and jittery when I got home, contemplating whether or not to take the test. I was terrified my parents would somehow find it and start asking me questions. After much hesitation, I finally brought it to the bathroom. As soon as the deed was done, I left the test on the bathroom sink and ran into my bedroom where I waited for the negative results.

Despite the fact that I was excessively worried,

STUPID LITTlE PlUS SIGN

However, when I returned to the bathroom to check,

and I felt like my entire future had fallen apart in just a matter of minutes. My heart was pounding, my mind was racing, and I began to feel extremely sick. I didn’t know who to talk to and immediately decided that I couldn’t, and wouldn’t, be able to tell my parents. Instead, I took a picture of the plus sign and sent it to Derrick. I was hoping he’d point me in the right direction or somehow make me feel better but instead, he simply asked me what I wanted to do. He didn’t seem shocked, or angry, or even like he cared at all. He reassured me that whatever decision I made was my own and if I opted to get an abortion, he would pay for some of the cost. Knowing that I couldn’t afford it on my own, I finally felt like I could breathe again. While I’ve always been pro-choice, I never thought that I, personally, would ever be able to go through with an abortion. The second I saw that plus sign though, I knew it was the right decision for me. I felt completely alone and extremely torn, but I knew I had to take action sooner rather than later. I spent the next few days scouring the Internet for various organizations that provided abortion services, called my insurance company to see if the procedure would be covered, and finally made an appointment to end the nightmare I was living. As soon as the date was confirmed, I knew I wouldn’t want to be alone, so I reached out to one of my best friends from high school to see if she’d accompany me. She responded with an excuse that

she had class that day, but she wished me the best. Eventually, I worked up the courage to ask one of my newer friends to come with me and, God bless her, she agreed. When we arrived at the abortion clinic, I felt absolutely sick. I was afraid that Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d be confronted by some super-Christian radicals, or be spotted by someone I knew, despite the fact it was an hour away from home. I checked in at the front desk and was given a stack of forms to fill out. As I signed off on the papers, I surveyed the room to see what kind of women were there. I expected to see a lot of trashy looking types but truthfully, a lot of the others looked just like me â&#x20AC;&#x201C; young girls who had made a huge mistake.

SOME WERE THERE WITH THEIR BOYFRIENDS, SOME WITH THEIR FRIENDS, AND SOME HAD SHOWN UP All AlONE. Never in my life was I so grateful to have such a good friend. It seemed like an eternity before my name was called but when it finally was, I was filled with fear. I was told my friend would have to wait in the lobby, so I made my way to the exam room alone. The nurse assigned to me was an absolute doll and went above and beyond to make me feel comfortable. We went through the usual questions before she brought me in for an ultrasound. The amount of fetal tissue was too small so I had to get a blood test before we proceeded. Once it was officially confirmed that I was pregnant, she sat me down and asked me what I wanted to do. I told her that I was definitely going to have an abortion, though I would like to take the abortion pill if I was still within the time frame for doing so. Luckily, I was.

Before I could take the prescription and go home, I had to sit down with a counselor and make sure abortion was definitely the route I wanted to take. She was inquisitive but sensitive; she asked if the father was pressuring my decision and made sure I felt safe at home. She answered all my questions about how the pill works, what the actual process would entail, and when I could take another pregnancy test to ensure the abortion was successful. While I was confident with my decision, I was still horribly shaken up by the whole ordeal, and cried the entire way home.

ONCE I ARRIVED, I took the first dose of pills & SWORE I WOULD NEVER BE SO STUPID AGAIN. Over the next few days, Derrick texted me to make sure I was doing okay. I told him I was still upset but glad I had gotten the abortion. He agreed it was the right choice to make and attempted to carry on with casual conversation, but I really didn’t feel like talking to him. Days went by and I felt like I was dying. I was bleeding excessively (which is normal), vomiting at random, and had the unfortunate opportunity to experience real contractions.

During that time, I was in horrible pain but I equated the agony with A second chance at having the future I wanted.

“Without struggle, there is no progress.” I reminded myself again and again.

with my life the way it was. I was actually happy I didn’t have a child. Having said that, I’m completely aware that some women do regret the decision to have an abortion but now I can also say, with confidence, that I am not one of them. I no longer keep the fact that I’ve had an abortion a secret and speak openly about my experiences in order to educate, and/or reassure, others who are struggling with the same decision. I no longer feel guilty about making the best choice for myself. It’s been almost three years since I made the decision to have an abortion and I haven’t looked back since. There are no days when I wish I was mothering a child or contemplate what I’d be doing at the moment if I had. I am now married to a beautiful woman named Ciara and live in an apartment right on the outskirts of Boston. I have a six month old puppy named Bailey, who I absolutely adore, and will be graduating from college in June of 2016.

When it became clear that Derrick had no intention of paying for any of the abortion, I decided to cut off all contact with him. He had shown me his true colors and while I didn’t care too much about the money, I was extremely disappointed in how wrong I was about his character. I blocked him on all social media and deleted his number from my phone. I had no desire to speak to him again and still haven’t to this day. In the few months following the abortion, I felt like I had done something very wrong. I was confused, upset and had an overwhelming feeling of guilt weighing me down. I was embarrassed to talk about it and while I’d publicly defend a woman’s right to choose, I would never voice the fact that I was speaking from firsthand experience. I couldn’t figure out why I felt so guilty about my decision when I was confident it was the right choice. There was a lot of contemplation and internal debate before I finally figured it out. In the long run, I realized the only reason I was upset about my abortion was because that’s what I thought was expected of me. Pro-life propaganda is always telling these stories about women who’ve had abortions that’s absolutely ruined their lives. Some of that rhetoric has been echoed by women I know and have also gotten abortions themselves. Because of that, I thought I was supposed to feel as if I’d done something unspeakable; I was supposed to feel guilty. I finally had that “a-ha” moment and realized I was content

If I’ve

ANYTHING

THE

ONlY

ONE

“They took turns

holding me down WHILE ONE WOULD THRUST

CAUSING EXCRUCIATING PAIN &

TERROR

AT THE SAME TIME.”

It’s your fault.

their grip; leaving behind bruises as reminders. My insides were raw, similar to the feeling after sitting on an uncomfortable bicycle seat for too long. The seams of my underwear even caused a painful sensation. Suddenly, looking at my own reflection made me feel hollow and sick. I was disgusted, ashamed, and full of guilt for being so naïve to agree to give complete strangers a ride in my car. They were the “friends” of my sisters’ older boyfriend, so it didn’t seem that unreasonable or dangerous at the time. They took turns holding me down while one would thrust himself inside of me, then switch places with another, and another, causing excruciating pain and terror at the same time. I was suffocating, trying to draw in air as I began to hyperventilate. I could hear their muffled laughs, but their words made no sense to me. It felt like I was in a horrific dream that I couldn’t wake from. I heard the change fall out of my pockets onto the slab under the picnic table. Imagining a penny rolling further than the rest, then hearing it spin

You let them in your car; three strangers you didn’t even know. What the hell is wrong with you? That’s all I could think in my head, staring at my nude body in the mirror. Mirrors don’t lie. The steamy shower couldn’t undo the damage or take away my shame and humiliation. It only made the physical bruises more obvious. I’m compelled to scream, but the sound won’t come out. I don’t look like me. I’m on fire inside. “These assholes stole from me!” I confess angrily, but I can’t open my mouth to speak the words. Warm tears wet my rosy cheeks, streaming down my empty face.

I felt severely broken and worthless. My thighs were smeared with patches of purple, still swollen and tender. I could still feel their thumbs and fingers pressing into my flesh as I tried to escape

before falling flat. It was black and cold in the park. From afar, I could see the exhaust smoke from my car still running a few hundred feet away, headlights shining south, away from me; my baby sister inside, undoubtedly hysterical. I begged them to leave her be. They said if I screamed, she’d be next, so I tried hard to hold my breath, biting my lip to avoid making noise. I cringed and squeezed my eyes shut, attempting to direct my mind elsewhere, waiting for the nightmare to end. Pieces of me were forever lost in that park, remnants strewn across that picnic table and the ground beneath it as if it were nothing but grains of salt. I struggled to remove the atrocity from my memory banks for some years. It was something I didn’t want to remember at all, but it wasn’t easily forgotten. The emotional wounds stuck with me for a long while, resurfacing whenever I’d drive near the park where it occurred. Being in the vicinity of the attack caused me to relive the painful memories as my eyes welled with tears.

Those three men remain faceless to me; I wouldn’t recognize them now just as I couldn’t identify them then. And, perhaps that’s a good thing. I don’t want to live in fear or be looking over my shoulder at every guy that might resemble one of them. Maybe those three men are faceless because they don’t mean a damn thing to me, and they don’t deserve to be recognized. I haven’t allowed what happened to hinder me from living a joyful life. If I lived in fear every day since then, they’d have succeeded in making me a lifelong victim. I still believe most people are good, kind and trustworthy people. I got over the effects of that day which once caused me much grief, anxiety, and anger. I faced my fear head on a few years after I was raped in Peter Pan Park by forcing myself to go back to the very spot it took place. It made me realize that I couldn’t deny what happened there, but I could put it behind me.

“YES, I WAS RAPED, BUT I AM STILL A valuable HUMAN BEING & I CAN MAKE A difference IN OTHERS’ LIVES BY TELLING

GOD GIVES ME strength & SUPPLIES ME WITH MANY GIFTS WHICH I AM TO UTILIZE IN HELPING OTHERS.

WORDS TO PAPER

ALLOWS ME TO SHARE SOME OF THOSE GIFTS THROUGH MY WRITING. YOU CAN HEAL... THAT’S MY M E S S A G E .

I’M PROOF OF THIS.”

“MENTAL ILLNESS

IS THE ONLY DISEASE THAT CAN MAKE YOU DENY ITS OWN existence. CERTAINLY THE IDEA that THE BRAIN CAN DENY ITS OWN ILLNESS IS A FRIGHTENING THOUGHT."

What I wanted

And if I had to s a c r i f i c e

my life

so be it.â&#x20AC;?

My mind is my worst enemy. The relentless, racing thoughts that rarely let me relax have me convinced I’ll be single and alone for the rest of my life. I’m positive that the ringing of the telephone is really a portent of doom. There are moments when I know with all certainty that the universe is conspiring to decimate any dream of happiness and success I’ve ever had. The result is a pervasive

desire to draw the curtains, order fried chicken and watch documentaries until my mind is so exhausted that it’ll allow me to sleep for a few restless hours.

I was diagnosed with type II bipolar disorder at the age of thirty-three. Formerly known as manic depressive illness, Bipolar disorder is a legitimate medical condition involving changes in brain function which result in dramatic mood swings. These have severe side effects and can impair everyday activities such as social interaction, work, and relationships. I was actually relieved by the diagnosis because it meant I wasn’t a freak show after all. Identifying the illness meant there was hope of finding a treatment that could improve my quality of life. I spent three weeks at the hospital as an out-patient while learning about my illness and undergoing cognitive behavioral

The fatal flaw with the knowledge responsible for my torment ..... is the fact that none of it’s true.

I have a doting boyfriend who loves me, my friends and family call regularly to see if there’s anything I need and I’m like a ninja when it comes to landing on my feet after a setback. So, where’s my attitude of gratitude? Where’s my pocket of sunshine? Why have I convinced myself that my only happy place is on the couch with my dogs? The answer is simple. Mental Illness. 36

therapy. I worked one on one with a skilled and compassionate psychiatrist who miraculously made me realize how my perfectionism was in fact crippling me with undue stress. Despite me kicking and screaming with refusal to take any drugs that messed with my mind, I began taking an antidepressant called Effexor. As the end result, I was a stronger and more resilient woman who could now cope with the potentially devastating symptoms of type II bipolar disorder. By taking my medication and applying relaxation techniques with new

thought methods I learned as an outpatient, my career as a journalist quickly flourished. I began a relationship that made me infinitely happy and found the inner peace that had eluded me all of my life.

Then fast forward 10 years. In the span of two years, the career I loved was taken from me due to cutbacks in the industry. The relationship I believed would last forever was now a distant memory, as the cherished home we once bought together was being prepared for sale. While many people experience depression after a breakup or failed career; I began suffering from two unusual symptoms – blackouts which erased chunks of time from my memory, and an almighty fear of holes and bubbles. Yes – bubbles. It was so intense that the sight of a jellyfish on television sent me screaming out of the room and directly into the shower so my skin would stop crawling. A little research revealed that I had developed trypophobia – a claimed pathological fear of holes and irregular patterns of holes. Imagine living a life where the sight of a pancake cooking makes you itchy and nauseous. This was my world. But the worst of all my symptoms was the insomnia. For months on end, I’d only sleep three to five hours a night. With the stress I was under, the continuous tiredness made me crave sleep like an alcoholic craves a drink. The meditation and deep breathing that once worked like a charm had lost their effectiveness. I continuously grew more exhausted and depressed. It felt like no matter what I did or where I turned, there was another catastrophe waiting to happen.

I felt helpless. I felt weak. I felt hopeless. 37

On April 15th, 2015, the combination of utter physical, emotional and mental exhaustion led to one of the worst mistakes of my life. I decided I wanted to go to sleep and never wake up again. I vaguely remember taking two handfuls of my anti-anxiety medication and falling asleep, only to be woken by my panicked ex-boyfriend who called an ambulance. I have little recollection of the rest of the night, but I do remember receiving hospital care and promising not to hurt myself again.

Suddenly, the doorbell rang. My heart dropped when I saw police officers and an ambulance at my front door. Realizing I was in real crisis and they couldn’t get to me fast enough, my friends had called for help. The officers were compassionate, but smart enough to realize if they had left me to my own devices, that night would be my last. I was put in handcuffs and taken to the hospital. During the suicidal blur of that night, there were two distinct things that shocked me. The first one occurred in the triage department while I was being escorted by the police to my room. I glanced at the officer walking behind me. He was a tall, strapping, handsome young guy who did the uniform proud – and there he was casually carrying my purse as if he did it every day. For some reason, the sight made me laugh.

It was not a promise that I would keep. My symptoms were out of control. I was having conversations that I later couldn’t remember. I cried constantly and never slept. I was convinced that nothing would ever get better for me. In my mind, I was truly alone. No one understood the depth of the pain I felt and I did not want to keep fighting. Like so many people who are suicidal, I began to make plans. In a casual way as to not raise suspicion, I let my ex-boyfriend know where to find the paperwork for the house and insurance. And I made my final wishes known to my brother. On June 21st, 2015, I calmly sent out texts saying goodbye to the people I loved the most.

When I think back on that memory, I know it was at that moment when I realized something inside of me was still alive. Now I knew that no amount of loneliness or misfortune could kill my ability to find the humor in any situation.

I began taking the pills but only this time,

I was determined there would be no saving me. I began searching for the hunting rifle given to my ex-boyfriend from his father. I felt surprisingly calm and unafraid, almost numb. I spoke soothingly to my dogs while they loyally followed me around as I searched every room and closet for the gun. It wasn’t just that I wanted to die. In fact, death was byproduct. What I wanted was release from the agony of hopelessness and despair. If I had to sacrifice my life to achieve that then so be it.

The second thing that made all the difference was the reaction of my friends. As word spread that I was hospitalized for suicidal behavior, they immediately flooded my ex-boyfriend with offers to come to the hospital and help in any way they could.

Anyone suffering from a mental illness will tell you that the worst part is the isolation and loneliness. When the veil of depression and anxiety come down, it becomes so easy to forget that there’s people who care about you. The illness whispers lies to distort your thoughts. “You are not worth loving.” “Your family will be better off without you.” “You will always be a failure.” I’ve had to learn again how to tune out those lies and

I had been so wrapped up in my pain, that I’d forgotten how many people love me.

I am

rather remind myself that worth loving. That the challenges I’m currently facing are only temporary.

Though I cried myself to sleep that night while alone in a psychiatric ward; the next day I was blanketed by love and understanding. Countless friends came forward to share their own battles with depression and offered to help me find myself again. However, every single one of them made me promise I would get professional help and reach out to them if suicidal thoughts ever became too much for me.

What’s permanent is the compassion and understanding I’ve received from my loved ones and even from strangers. I will forever be grateful to the officers from the Peel Regional Police Department and the staff of the psychiatric department at Credit Valley Hospital for literally saving my life. I know I wouldn’t be here right now if it wasn’t for them.

I have faithfully kept that promise. 39

It’s been almost five months since that horrible night. The journey has been agonizing at times but occasionally I’d see glimpses of the person I used to be. I’m able to get absorbed in a good movie instead of my thoughts wandering back to my problems. My creativity is beginning to return and I can even pull the occasional prank on an unsuspecting friend. Most importantly, I am taking care of myself. After speaking to me extensively, my new psychiatrist revised my diagnosis to borderline personality disorder and prescribed a new series of medications that are working wonders for me. I no longer walk around waiting for another catastrophe to strike, nor do I suffer from the blackouts. Even the trypophobia is under control. And, thankfully, the medication helps me sleep. I cannot stress enough how getting enough rest has helped me to keep my mind on track. I believe that now I’m on the other side of this crisis in my life. I have a new relationship that’s filled with promise and I’m taking baby steps toward using my skills as a journalist again. There are real moments when I feel the sun on my face and look forward to the future. I know and accept that innocence has been lost; I’ll never again believe in happy endings. But perhaps there is something good in that knowledge. I find that I enjoy the little things in life more. I savor times of love and laughter with friends and family. I soak in the sweet peace of quietly snuggling with my dogs and losing myself in a good book.

I appreciate the sense of wellness after waking up from a good night sleep. I know better than most people what it’s like to be deprived of these simple things, so I make a conscious effort to live those moments to the fullest.

After all, life is a series of moments. If I can make the good outweigh the bad,

I’ll have won my battle with mental illness.

“I SAW MY Youth THE REST OF MY LIFE

to support a kid I hadn’t planned.”

As we were pulling up to the clinic expecting to see protesters, we were surprised to see the parking lot was almost completely empty.

I imagined Planned Parenthood differently in my mind, for it was just like every other waiting room I’d been in before. Old magazines, “Days of Our Lives” on the television, and white walls filled with health posters. The normalcy of the room contrasted greatly with the discomfort I felt. Erin came and sat down next to me without saying a word. She was scratching at the skin around her fingernails, just like she always did when she was nervous. Reaching over with my left hand, I wrapped it gently around her and she immediately rested her head on my shoulder and closed her eyes. Within a few moments, she found an escape from her worries by falling asleep. The receptionist opened the door to the exam rooms and waited with a sympathetic expression in the door way. Quietly saying her name and stroking her back, I woke Erin up.

I said to my girlfriend Erin. She smiled weakly and I regretted my attempt to make the situation light. I could tell she wasn’t ready to go in yet, so I sat there quietly and watched the rain fall on the windshield. November’s grey skies and bitter cold coupled with our emotions made it feel like Erin and I were actors in a sad movie. Normally, she’d be smoking to calm her nerves but she wouldn’t until after we left. Although she didn’t say it, I knew she didn’t want anyone inside to judge her. She let me know she was ready by touching my hand and we went inside. While Erin talked to the receptionist, I sat down next to a pile of magazines but didn’t feel like reading at all.

Erin turned her head to look around the room before she remembered where she was. She still said nothing to me as she walked away, disappearing into the back with the receptionist who closed the door behind them. Sitting there by myself, I felt guilty about what I said to Erin when she first told me.

When we got back to the car, she lit a cigarette and rolled down her window. She exhaled a stream of smoke and lost herself in thought. I wanted very badly to ask her how she was feeling, but saw she was more comfortable in her own mind at the moment. Turning on the radio to fill the dead air, I drove us back to her apartment. We were at a stoplight when she let herself cry. She didn’t lose her composure, but rather just let the tears flow down her cheeks. I asked if she was okay, and that’s when she snatched up my hand, squeezing it tightly to let me know she appreciated my company. I remember marveling at her ability to cope with something I knew to be incredibly hard for her. When we were a few miles away from her place, she finally spoke and said something I wasn’t expecting.

When I heard her say she was pregnant over the phone, I saw my youth slip away and pictured doing manual labor in a dirty factory for the rest of my life to support a kid I hadn’t planned. That was my own father’s path before me and why I could picture it so clearly. What made it so terrifying was how miserable my father’s job made him, but how necessary it was to make sure we had everything we needed.

In the time I’ve known Erin, I never saw her as anything less than a warm and loving human being, so I knew she wasn’t being callous about having an abortion. She was nineteen, working full time at a doughnut shop for minimum wage. Everything good that’s supposed to happen, hadn’t happened yet. We might have loved each other, but we didn’t want a life together and she knew it was a situation a baby shouldn't be born into. Erin felt awful about it, but knew in her heart that it wasn’t what she wanted. She shared this with me later that night, during hours of conversation. We saw each other frequently for another month, either by meeting up at coffee shops or at each other’s places just to talk for hours like we used to.

I could hear Erin waiting for me to be mad on the other end of the line. I cared about her very much and could tell she was scared too and didn’t know what to do. She was religious, as were her parents who would judge her harshly if she opted not to have the baby. She also knew we had no resources to raise a child. After my shock had subsided and I stopped worrying about me, I said what was in my heart, “Whatever decision you make, I’ll support it.” I meant it too, and really didn’t want to influence her decision. After a few days of thinking it over, she called me again and we made plans to go to the clinic.

Sitting in the waiting room all alone, I felt guilty about Erin having to ultimately make that decision by herself. About an hour later, the door opened again and there she was. Studying her face for any indications of her mood, I didn’t see much emotion. After talking to the receptionist and paying for the appointment, she took her paper work in hand and told me we could leave. 44

I heard through some old acquaintances that she had a son a few years ago. I myself, had four daughters in that time.

“Sometimes WE’RE

SO CAUGHT UP IN OUR TINY LITTLE BOXES, that we forget we’re actually not alone.”

Last night after work, I headed to my usual local bar to unwind. My friend Chuck and I talked about work over whiskey and ginger beer while in our traditional drinking competion as two guys from the naval academy. Ordinarily, I'd use my sarcastic wit to charm some chicks, but regardless of how hot they were, I decided it wasn't worth my pursuit tonight. It seemed like just another typical night in the booze filled, infinite wealth possessing town of Annapolis. That’s when I met the most awkwardly, intriguing person I’ve ever seen in my life. He was a twenty-something year old college student and his name was Max. Initially, I thought he was just another kid that drank too many vodka sodas. Then I thought he was on some type of drug judging by the way he continually put his head down on the cobblestone bar top while forcefully running his hands through his hair as if he just wanted life to be over. But neither of those were true. Actually, Max was autistic and in my eyes, just as socially awkward as me. I found Max to be so interesting because our conversation challenged me to dig deeper into my intellect, to look further into my soul; something I’m just not used to doing on a typical Saturday night out.

I could hear the passion in his voice when he screamed abruptly “I just want to be treated like a human!” That’s when I began to realize we had a lot more in common than living in the same shallow town. And I made sure to tell him that. We engaged in more conversation about how screwed up the world is and discussed the way people camouflage their demons to conceal their emotions. I explained to Max how everyone has the same deranged thoughts of fear, judgement, insecurity and disappointment that he does; we all just deal with them differently. Sometimes we’re so caught up in our tiny little boxes, that we forget we’re actually not alone. We ignore the fact that others are experiencing these exact feelings in a habitual battle of emotional instability. Instead of becoming interconnected with our fellow humans and promoting progress, we see our differences as reasons to mock, satirize and isolate each other out of pure ignorance.

When will this cycle stop? How many amazing people have to be destroyed? How many exceptionally talented people have to commit suicide? How many times does a child in middle school have to be a victim of bullying for us to wake up and realize what society is doing to us?

I told Max that I was just as afraid of the world as he was, but I won’t allow that fear to prevent me from

I can spark a change.

believing

I won’t

there’s beautiful people in this world allow it to alter my faith that

who want nothing but happiness for themselves as well as others. After getting a little erratic, I placed my hand on Max’s shoulder and asked him what he usually does to calm himself down. His response was, “I really like to do math.” And for a moment, I just smiled. I proceeded to tell him how I was the same way and loved math all throughout middle school and college. There was something about numbers that I was just fascinated with, and Max was the same way. After relating on everything from internal feelings and traveling, to the greatness of Kobe Bryant; I can honestly say that Max was by far the coolest person I’ve ever met on a night out in downtown, Annapolis. And again, both Chuck and I assured him of that. After offering to buy us drinks and give us a place to crash, we politely declined as we said our goodbyes.

I couldn’t help but get a sense that he was used to people taking advantage of him and yet, that still didn’t stop him from offering. Providing for others was something that gave him gratification, as I can recall him talking about paying it forward a few times that night. Once again, I saw myself. 48

This article is dedicated to all the The ones who struggle with expressing whatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s really going on in their minds. The ones who fear deceptively heartless people, but still arenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t afraid to try. The ones who The ones who wake up thinking of ways to The ones who just want to spread love, peace and happiness. The ones who smile 50

when they see others happy. And

Youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re the reason I have faith that the world will become a better place to live. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m beginning to see the transition as we open our hearts and expand our minds to come together.

You are five years old.

You have an aunt who is only nine years older — she’s your babysitter today.

You wake up to a strange man raising his voice toward her. The first thing you hear is:

“If you wake her up, I’ll kill her.” The first thing you see is her face,

terrified.

The second thing you see is a gun. She tells you to stay asleep, or at least to pretend. Then he takes her to another room.

Do all of my friendsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; daddies treat their daughters like this?

“Step out that door, young lady, and you’ll be suspended.”

The world you knew is no more.

that beautiful color. The color that matches the new blouse you bought for work. The color that brightens up any outfit or party or painting.

on your face

that now puts a smile

your future. 61

Trying to relieve the stress and anxiety, I take in deep breaths of the stuffy air and exhale. It’s going to be fine. I stare at the knobs. All I have to do is touch the stovetop to feel if it’s hot. But what if I touch it and it is hot? I would not be able to leave. I could turn the stove on just by touching it. And one of the switches is off center, not completely in the off position. The oven could be on. If I move the knob, I could turn it on. “1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10...”

“1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10...” Counting to sixty is my self-imposed limit.

The stove is off.

“1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10...” It’s not on.

“While you’re on the flight, your house is going to explode.

All of the switches are in the off position. “1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10...”

The fire will spread to your neighbors’ houses. People will die.

Enough. Stop it.

That dust mop you call a cat is going to be barbecued. And it will be your fault. When you’re in the air, there’s nothing you can do about it. You’ll be trapped. Every second that you’re on the flight, you’ll wonder if the cops are waiting at the gate to arrest you. When they hunt you down, they’ll haul your ass off to jail and put you away for

Eddie is waiting. We have to go. If I watch the stove for one minute and it doesn’t explode, it’s not on.

the rest of your useless life.”

Dad, stop it! Leave me alone. Get out of my head.

In the cramped house I heard Dad yell to Mom, “You are such an idiot! You can’t put out a grease fire with water.” “If you know so much, then you do something!” she screamed.

“Remember when the lamb chops caught on fire?”

How could I forget?

I heard a slamming sound.

I was four years old when it happened. While Dad sat at the kitchen table reading the newspaper, I played on the floor with my toy oven. Mom tended to the lamp chops cooking in the gas broiler. The meat snapped and sizzled. The greasy smell of the fatty food made me hungry. Suddenly, I heard a swooshing sound and my face flushed with heat. I looked up and saw the angry red and blue flames reach out to me like octopus tentacles. Puffs of smoke hung over the kitchen. “Oh no!” Quickly, Mom grabbed a bucket and filled it with water from the sink. She tossed the water into the broiler. Then she swiftly scooped me up and brought me into the family room. She hurried back into the kitchen.

Dad said, “You’re supposed to suffocate the fire by shutting the oven door.” He came into the family room and said, “Everything’s okay, Linny. Your mom isn’t too smart. She could have burned down the damn house.” He went to the wet bar and poured himself a drink.

“1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10...” The oven is off. I haven’t turned on the stove since we moved in 10 years ago. You’re to blame when the house burns down Linny”, Dad says. Go away! You’ve been dead for 23 years. “1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10...” I try to tear my eyes away from the stove. The sound of Eddie’s feet shuffling in the hallway makes me feel jittery. So much pressure to leave the house and I have so much more to check. Maybe I should come back to the stove after checking everything else in the house. I struggle to peel my fingers off the

SATURDAY VACATION CHECKLIST that I’m holding in my fist. My pen lingers over the space next to STOVE OFF, but I can’t bring myself to put a check mark next to it. Before going to bed last night, I used my

FRIDAY NIGHT VACATION CHECKLIST

and put marks beside the spaces next to - MICROWAVE UNPLUGGED and OFF, - DVD UNPLUGGED and OFF, - ED’S LAMP UNPLUGGED and OFF, - ED’S CLOCK RADIO UNPLUGGED and OFF, - T.V. UNPLUGGED and OFF, - PATIO DOOR LOCKED, - FRONT DOOR LOCKED, - COMPUTER OFF and UNPLUGGED, - PRINTER UNPLUGGED, - ELECTRIC PENCIL SHAPRENER UNPLUGGED, - COPY MACHINE UNPLUGGED.

Again, I try to check off the blank space next to STOVE OFF. “1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10...”

I take in some shallow breaths. The apartment feels as if a vacuum cleaner is siphoning up the air. Exhausted and thirsty from all the stress, I pick up a bottle from the counter and gulp down some water. The bottle of water was open. I could have tipped it over and the water could have spilled into the electrical outlet. That might cause a fire. Couldn’t it? I decide to come back to the stove after checking off everything else on the list. Moving on to the kitchen faucet handle, I remember that several times my husband had neglected to turn it off completely. Every day before leaving the house, I take the strainers out from the drains in both sinks and push down the faucet handle. Or else we could have had a flood. “1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10...”

He picks up an indoor temperature gage that’s sitting on a table. “It’s friggin’ 90 degrees in here,” Eddie says, his voice rising to a squeaky pitch, warning me that he’s going to lose it. Our cat, Dakota, creeps into the room. I carefully move out of the kitchen to avoid bumping up against the dishwasher (and inadvertently turning the knob to the on position). I go into the family room. Dakota lets out a meow. “Come here, boy” I say. After picking him up, I place my hand on the smooth skin under his front legs. Feeling the strong thump of his heart and listening to his soft purr is comforting. “Why bother going away if leaving the house is so tough for you?” Eddie says.

From behind, I feel Eddie’s eyes boring into me. “It’s time to go,” he snarls.

I look up at my husband.

It’s only 6:00 AM, but the Arizona summer heat is baking the roof of the upstairs apartment. I can see through his soaked tee shirt. Eddie peels the shirt from his skin and pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket. He mops the perspiration from his forehead. My husband is also on the list. On Friday night, he was required to take a shower so I could make sure the faucet isn’t dripping. Also, he had to push up the lever on the air-conditioning unit to 80 degrees to save on electricity. He could have turned it off, but we would have suffocated. Locking the windows the night before we leave the house is also on the list.

“I can’t let my OCD win. I want go places and see things. And I’ll never forget when you went to Europe without me.” “Could you blame me? I had to get away.” Dakota squirms and jumps out of my arms. “I’m better now. With the meds at least I can drive and leave the house.” 65

After entering the mudroom, I open the door leading to the garage and yell, “Eddie, you can come back in now.” He comes out from behind the trunk of the car and looks at me wearily with his huge, tired, brown eyes. “Come in here,” I command. He follows me through the mudroom and into the family room. I point to the cat. “Dakota is in here, right?” I want to make sure that he does not follow me out to the garage and escape. Eddie says, “Goodbye, boy.” We leave the cat and head out to the car. “Watch me lock the door.” I close the door and turn the lock. “It’s locked,” he says as if repeating a mantra.Eddie opens the door leading to the garage. He pushes the remote and the garage door makes a scraping sound as it moves along its hinges. “Come back here. You have to watch me lock the door that connects to the garage.” He turns and sighs. The sunlight feels good against my face. I take in deep breaths of the cool, refreshing air. I insert the key into the top lock and turn it. I do the same in the bottom one. “The door is locked, isn’t it?” I say. He reaches toward the doorknob. “No! Don’t do that.” If he touches the knob, the lock might open.

Eddie bends down and opens the cooler that’s sitting on the floor. He takes out a can of soda. Last night he was required to take the sodas and ice packs out of the refrigerator and put them in the cooler. After we go to sleep, the refrigerator is off limits. I worry that if it’s not closed, Dakota would jump inside and get stuck when the door slams shut behind him. My husband pops the top of the can. When he takes a drink, his lips curl into a frown as if it tastes like oil from a car engine. “Warm?” I say. “Yeah.” Dakota jumps and meows. “I wish that I could take you with me”, I tell the cat and give him a hug. “We’ve got to go, now.” “Okay, okay. I’m almost finished.” Dakota rubs his head against my eyeglasses. “Goodbye, boy.” Reluctantly, I let go of the cat. Krista, our pet sitter, takes care of Dakota when we’re away. I will call her every day. She will tell me if the house is still standing. Eddie picks up the cooler, takes the soda, and goes into the mudroom. “I’ll be in the garage.” “But you have to watch me shut the door to the mudroom,” I call after him.

Therapists have told me that I use these repetitive behaviors as a way to avoid facing my fears. I’m stressed out about going on every flight. Not even the meds help. I suffer from panic attacks when there’s turbulence. The plane is going to crash. I am sure of it. We get into the car and shut the doors. But, we’re not finished yet. Eddie backs the vehicle out and presses the garage door remote. I watch as the beige colored door reaches the ground. Eddie steers the car toward the gate. Turning my head, I squint to catch a glimpse of the garage door. It appears closed, but maybe I’m wrong. I bend over and plant a kiss on my husband’s cheek. “I’ll take another spin around,” he says. “You are the best husband that I ever had.” He grins. “I’m the only husband that you ever had.”

On any other day, Eddie would have dumped the warm soda into the sink and tossed the can into the recyclable bin located outside the front door to the house. But this morning he is not allowed to open that door. Last night he took out the trash, newspapers and soda containers so I could check off GARBAGE OUT, CANS OUT, NEWSPAPERS OUT, and FRONT DOOR LOCKED on the list. I go through the house and check off the last items. Dakota is also on the list. Last night I filled the cat’s two bowls with water and put food in his dish. I stuff the VACATION CHECKLIST into my humongous handbag crammed with meds, tissues, pens, mints, gum, money, extra eyeglasses, I-POD, a small notebook, and the bottle of water.

When we reach our house, he slows down and stops. “Is it…” “It’s closed.” He drives back to the gate. It opens and we are on our way to the airport.

After years of cognitive therapy, I am stable. I’ve been learning how to recognize and change negative thought processes to positive ones during panic attacks. This also helps me cope with my fear of dogs, new situations, and places.

OCd

Still, I compile exhausting lists, check and recheck locks to the house. I don’t feel comfortable outdoors, visiting friend’s homes, going to new places, or flying.

working toward living a

“WATCHING HIM SLEEP, MY HEART knowing how much he

.”

He carries the weight of shame on shoulders that have almost given up. He carries someone else’s shame, not his own. My boyfriend carries the shame of his family. And he covers that shame up with drugs.

Drugs don’t judge him or expect him to be normal. THEY HELP HIM FORGET, until he is unable to use, that is. In 1970, his mother was abducted, raped, and tortured at the age of fifteen. The men got very little time, and all those involved told her it was better to forget and move on. Uneducated, she was unable to read the court documents, so she had no idea that the judge would let her rapists question her on the stand. She was so traumatized, it prevented her from remembering their faces. Her mother told the rest of her family that it was a car accident. Nothing more. She spent years trying to forget, and her emotional breakdowns gradually got worse. After she gave birth to her sons, the torment tried to consume her. My boyfriend grew up under the shadow of his mother’s shame. She hid him out of fear, overprotected him out of fear, and refused to be alone out of fear. She was never able to let him go, even as a grown man. 70

So, I watch him struggle. When he uses, he feels GUILTY for being weak and when he’s sober, he’s haunted by his failures. He tosses and turns in the uneasy sleep of an addict needing a fix. Soon he will get up because he’ll need to vomit again.

Even before his mother was raped, she already knew how a man could hurt her. She’d seen it happen to others. She also saw that those men were never punished. In her world, they always got away with it. So, after her rape, she knew those men wouldn’t be punished either. So she punished herself. There must be something wrong with her for that to happen, right? He punishes himself for not saving her. There must be something wrong with him that he can’t ease her pain, right? And the people that love them are helpless, left with their own pain to deal with because neither one can be saved.

But they can be loved, even if they are too broken to love themselves.

His mother recently wrote about her tragedy and made it public. That’s an act of bravery she never believed would happen. Her son is coming to terms with his addiction, which is also an act of bravery. But acts of bravery come with moments of self-doubt and fear. Letting go of that fear would be the ultimate act of bravery.

I also see that he has the kindest,

most loyal and loving heart I’ve ever seen in a man. I guess that’s another reason he suffers so much. That heart of his, he gets from his mother too. Neither knows how to hate. So, I sit and watch as they both struggle to grow, loving each of them in the best way that I can.

My fear?

... it will never be enough.

dear ps,

First of all, I’d like to take a second to let you know that you are an incredibly strong person. It’s with a heavy heart that I write this response, both for the current state of all those involved and the way through which you’ve been able to express what you live with every day. You’ve been more frank than I could ever be, and it’s a true act of bravery on your part to expose this existence to the world around you. Thank you so much for writing in. Many times in life we can do nothing but sit upon the sidelines of bad experiences that the ones we love most experience. But as you have shown, PS, even in hopeless situations there is always something we can do to make that experience less traumatic, and most of all that thing is

is, not just what it feels like it is. I wish you luck, PS. There is no way I can think of to soften this situation, but I think that you’re doing the right thing by being there for everyone involved, including those who are stuck with you on the sidelines. We can’t help loving the ones we love, and there is always a chance for a silver lining around this grey cloud you’re walking through right now. Embracing those around you can bring in more support, and show you that you’re not suffering all alone.

SIMPLY Understanding.

Don’t give up on any of them.

And don’t downplay the strength you have when you feel hopeless.

To many this situation would be met with aggression and disdain, condemning your partner for his drug addiction or blaming his mother for the way his life turned out. But that’s not what you did, or how you think, PS. Instead of turning a disgusting eye on the entire thing or turning away from it entirely, you

Imagine what this situation would be without you, with no one to sit on the side and understand. You are an important piece in this situation, and as long as you can last, you will be appreciated. Even if no one ever expresses that to you.

face this reality head on.

And that, beyond anything you could do, is such a powerful sentiment.

Sometimes the most difficult part of dealing with a difficult situation is actually looking at it objectively and understanding it for what it actually

frankly

ÂŠ 2016 ESSIG INC.

414 s. service rd. ste 306 patchogue, new york