Every life story that has been written is unique. The character’s journey along the path of life is their own. The struggles and suffering cut deep and leave scars that can be felt for decades.

Then there is the flip side of that coin, all the beauty and courage experienced throughout life strengthens the soul. You can feel the wings on your back grow and expand.

With sadness comes joy.

With day comes night.

With birth comes death.

37 years of life has given me all of these experiences and more. My experiences are unique, my journey is my own.

Mental illness has been part of my story since the beginning. My struggle has always been an uphill battle. My view of the world around me looks very different than the one you see. Sensations feel more intense. Colors are more vivid. Smells around me paint a picture. Sadness and happiness are always at extreme ends. There is never a calm sea, the waves are always tumultuous.

Beginning

If I expand my mind and stretch the memories as far back as I can the first image that appears in my mind is one of my crib. I can remember being a little baby. It is clear as the room I am looking at now. I can remember the furniture placement. The feeling of the cold wooden crib bars pressing on my back. The uncomfortable scratchy feeling of the diaper I was wearing.

The fear I remember. Having a deep penetrating fear inside of me. I could feel the fear and darkness swirl all around. My mother would put my favorite blanket over the crib to play tent. It made me feel safe. The darkness outside could not penetrate the bars around me as long as my blanket was protecting me.

That blanket went everywhere with me. It was my security and safety. When it was time to launder the blanket she would have to sneak it away in the night while I was sleeping. I would not let it out of my sight.

This all became a problem when I had to begin kindergarten. The blanket could not come with me and protect me from the fear. The school experience was not a pleasant one for me. I had trouble making friends. Other kids almost seemed afraid of me. I felt like we spoke different languages and we could not understand one another. Growing up I only had two friends throughout my childhood.

There were numerous recesses that I spent alone. I envision it clearly. The sun shining on my face. I felt completely detached from everyone around me. I can still feel the woodchips scraping under my shoe as I would drag my foot across the ground while I swang back and forth on the swing alone.

Being in the classroom was just as empty. I felt isolated from everything going on around me. I could not follow the lesson plan or concentrate on the test given. Because of this, I was put into special classes. I would leave my normal class to have a one on one lesson with a teacher. This was the only way that the school could get me to participate.

I would miss school regularly. I was always sick. There was one year where I actually missed more days than I attended. I was always in the nurse’s office not feeling well. I loved being alone in the nurse’s office. It was the only time that I felt peace. She would let me lay down in the office and turn off the lights. The absence of the lights helped remove the fear inside of me.

My home was a strange experience. It was not a home in the definition sense. It was where I wanted to be because I was alone. But the house always felt so heavy. I had this urge raging inside of me to escape and run away from there. I wanted to run and never return.

There was a day where I had such an outburst with my mom that I ran out the front door, jumped on my bike, and rode away. It was pouring cold rain. It was pelting me in my face and felt like needles piercing my skin. All of my extremities began to go numb. The cold sharp pain was less painful then the pain I experience back at home.

If you were to ask me what caused me pain and why it hurt, I just didn’t know. Nothing made sense. None of my feelings and emotions made any sense to anyone around me. My poor parents were at a loss with me. They had the school telling them that “there was something wrong with me”. The school told them that they thought that their daughter suffered from bipolar disorder.

I can still recall the first time I thought about suicide. I was about six years old. It was a cold winter night. The ground was covered with a good amount of fluffy white snow. It was falling lightly throughout the evening. I used to enjoy going outside at night. I liked the way the snow would crack under my boots as I walked. My breath would escape my lungs and disappear into the night sky. The darkness of night brought a calmness to my soul.

I remember laying down in the fresh snow onto my back. I looked up into the night sky. It had a strange orange hue from the city of Chicago. I could see the snow slowly fall and hit my cheeks and melt. It was calming and brought me peace. I remember lying there and thinking of just falling asleep there in the snow. I wanted the cold to wash over my body and my eyes to close forever. The urge I had for that peace. I realized at that moment it could be achieved from death. Looking back now, it tears my heart to think of a child so young that would have such horrific thoughts. I feel sad for the loss of innocence the young me had that day.

Hormones and Teen Angst

My outbursts of sadness, grief, anxiety, detachment, and the mania continued for years and years. I was never given any medication or professional counseling until I completely went off my rocker in my teenage years.

We moved to Colorado when I was about 11. My father was transferred there for his work. I think with that move my parents were hoping for a fresh start. Hoping my mood and actions would change. Maybe a hope that their daughter would act like other kids.

Moving there caused something to snap inside of me. I started acting more bold. I would not listen to anything my parents said. I had no respect and felt fearless. I starting to act out even more.

I made a friend in middle school who was like gas on the fire. When I was with her nothing mattered and I would do anything I wanted. I was completely lost and out of control. The urge to escape was growing. All I could think about was how I could stay away from home.

I began to run away from home for days on end with nowhere to stay. I was on the streets running wild. I remember one night sneaking out of my house. I climbed out of my second-story window in a t-shirt, shorts, and barefoot and ran. I would just walk the streets. I was gone for 5 days. I had no money. I remember I would not eat for days. But starving was better than going back to my prison at home.

My parents put up missing posters of me. They also reported me missing to the police. I recall spotting them walking down the street looking for me and I hid behind a bush and held my breath as they walked by. Not knowing that their missing daughter was only a few feet away. I eventually went back home just to run away again.

Institutionalized

This went on for a few years. Finally, my parents decided to commit me. That day was one of the most traumatic experiences of my life. The mental hospital was so cold and foreign. Everything screamed get me out! There was nothing about the hospital that said this is a place to heal. It was horrible.

The environment was even more detached than my mind. Everyone there was a shell of themselves. All their dreams and ambitions were sucked out of them.

It truly was like a horde of walking zombies. Everything was scheduled and cold. The meals were served on plastic trays like you would find in a prison. We were not even allowed real silverware. We were given flimsy cutlery. The food was as bland as the white walls.

I was locked into a living hell. The air was stagnant. I had no idea how long I would be there for. Every day was the same, hopeless and bleak. They started to pump me full of medications. The side effects were horrendous. My stomach was nauseous, my head ached, I felt hollow and dead inside. All the color and richness life once had was snuffed out. I felt nothing. I had become a walking corpse.

The windows of the hospital were made of plexiglass that was dull from age. You could barely see out of them. They did not allow us to go outside for fresh air or sunshine. We were not only stuck in the prison of our minds but the prison of the hospital walls as well.

The daily task of showering was dirty. I was told to strip naked in front of one of the female nurses. At the time I was only 13 years old and felt dirty and uncomfortable with my changing body. Having a stranger watch me undress and watch me bathe makes my skin crawl to this day.

Each day ran into the next. Outside of the dull plexiglass windows, the seasons were changing. But nothing was changing inside of me. I felt only emptiness and wanted it all to end. I couldn’t understand what was happening to me and why I deserved the hell I was being put through. My urge to run and escape only became worse. I felt my skin itch with the urge.

Over the months and months, I do not recall my parents coming to visit me. I think it was too painful to see me there. To see what creature they shaped. I understood then what Frankenstein felt. His loneliness and hopelessness. He was cast out for being a freak, for being different. He couldn’t help the way he looked. He was created that way but persecuted and called a monster.

I began to lose hope that I would ever be released from my living hell. I realized that the only way to find hope and be released was to play the game. It was on that day that I realized that being different meant we had to play a game with everyone. Make everyone around you think you were like them. I have been playing that game ever since.

Playing the game meant you told them you felt something. You felt “normal”, the medication miraculously “cured” me. I had to act as if I had no mood shifts. I was a stable person. I had to convince them my skin was not crawling with the need to escape. After a month playing the game and giving my Oscar performance, I was finally released.

On the way to the car, I started to sprint towards the first tree I saw. I hugged that tree with such force I thought it would crush under my pressure. The feel of the rough bark and the smell of the fresh air is still vivid in my mind to this day. I never realized until that moment how beautiful a simple tree was.

Truth and Perfection of Imperfection

Only until recently, I realized that being that way was not being true to one’s self. I am now myself through and through. I shed the costume that society wants me to wear. I stopped playing the game that I have played every day for over two decades. I am glorious and beautiful in my imperfect state of being. I have found meaning and hope for being myself.

This being said, it is not an easy path to take. Every day I wake up and I am suffering from an invisible illness. There are people out there that judge me. I am looked at and thought of as less than human.

I surround myself with people who love me for me. They love all that I have been through and continue to encourage my growth. I am a stronger woman, mother, partner, daughter, friend, and person because of them.

I treat my mental illness exactly like it should be treated, as an illness. I see a therapist and a psychiatrist regularly. I take my medication that is prescribed and work through difficult emotional moments by following my therapist’s recommendations. I find healthy ways to express my feelings through art and exercise.

When I meet others who suffer as I do I let them know that I understand and sympathize. I let them know that is it okay to be yourself. They do not need to play the game. They can be true to themselves and ease their symptoms through positive channels. I found by starting this blog and website gives me purpose by helping others. My purpose is clear. The story of my life that I choose to share is very personal. It is raw and brought up a lot of emotions I have not unearthed in a very long time. I hope that my story helps inspire others to tell their story loud and proud.

We are all human.

We all bleed.

We all hurt.

We all yearn for love and acceptance.

We are all in this together.

Today, October 10th is World Mental Health Day. Share your experiences with mental health. Do you suffer from mental health issues or does someone you love? If you or anyone you know is struggling and are thinking about suicide don’t be ashamed to look for help. Contact Lifeline 1-800-273-8255 for suicide prevention and assistance.