There's still no word from my psychiatrist about a follow-up appointment after the one in the spring. I don't get it. I'm admittedly a basket case sometimes who's had self-harm issues and suicidal thoughts, yet it doesn't seem to warrant the attention necessary to remedy more attention than that of what I ask for. So yeah, I'm on my own there. Folks like me shouldn't have to go it alone on things like this. Specifically with depression and anxiety. When us patients with these problems actually muster up the courage to talk about it, you'd think it would be taken seriously, but I know I'm not the only one who feels this isn't happening.
You know what does get a lot of attention though? The media gets all hot 'n horny over stories of gun-toting killers who are eventually discovered to be victims of mental illness. Consistently. In fact, more often than not, when you hear of a mass shooting or beating or whatever, I'd almost bet that most of the time, the perpetrator is a victim of psychiatric issues. I won't take the assertion that these men (let's face it, they're pretty much all men, right?) have a crutch to lean on with their illness that justifies them to do such dastardly acts. But let's face it. In a broad number of instances, people are driven to madness to become these monsters in the media not necessarily for the attention, but because those around them for years leading up to these terrible events didn't bother to acknowledge the warning signs that they are, indeed, ill. Neither am I blaming the people around them. Rather, I just don't see the help readily available for those looking to get it that could prevent these things from happening to begin with. I can speak truth to this, because I can't seem to get adequate professional support myself. Not that I want to lump myself in with mass murderers, of course. The big danger with me is to myself, and thus, those around me watching me disintegrate before their very eyes.
I can tell you that I'm okay one week, or day, but then the next everything seems to change. I can have a great streak of days only to wake up one morning, like today, and feel this black cloud of dread blocking the sun from my consciousness. That's the nature of mental illness. Every day is a roll of the dice as to how easy or not it will be to get through the day. Medication helps, if you have the right stuff. But even if you do, you can still get derailed, and that's why professional help is still needed.
When I'm having one of these excruciating days, it's a good time to call off work and recollect my wits about me. But I can't. I'm allowed one paid sick day off per every two months of attended work. That's pretty tough to accumulate. I wind up being stuck between a rock and a hard place; the rock being work, the hard place being my illness. 99% of the time, I have to muscle it out and go to work. If I don't, I know I have two days of work the next day waiting for me, because my shifts don't get replaced, and my work not covered. This, obviously, creates heightened stress to get things done, which is obviously detrimental to my health because of my condition, the reason I called off work in the first place. It's a vicious circle. But we live in times where shareholders and CEO's dictate whether or not their workers are worth being cared for; in most cases, they're not. And never mind going on disability benefits for any amount of time as I did last year... the tax collector will reclaim that when the season comes around.
And with mental illness survivors, it's tough being us. We're always being told "it could be worse", or "help is available", or "be thankful for what you have". Let's not forget the classic "only you can change your outlook". If you want to know how to isolate someone with depression and anxiety even more than they already are, talk to them like that. You might as well take the shovel away from them they're digging a hole with and be giving them a back hoe tractor.
As far as it goes with me, I've re-evaluated things a lot over the past year or so, at least. I now see myself as the problem and the burden. How else is one supposed to feel if they get shunned by the medical professionals they're pleading to get help from? One of them virtually insinuated it was 'all in my head'. Hell... when I got in-person counseling from a professional for a while, which I thought kind of helped a little, it ended with the person giving me a written evaluation of my writing work that I had submitted. I was encouraged verbally to keep writing, but the criticisms written on my work made me stop cold. This was nearly two years ago. I don't know that my illness was taken into consideration when that kind of critique was administered to my work. That's why I'm a little dumbfounded when I get compliments on these blog posts I write. I'm grateful, but with all apologies, I can't help but question the sincerity. "They must just feel bad for me."
I hear stories and see pictures of friends and family gathering and realize I'm not in them anymore, and it feeds support for my theory that I really am a drag to be around. I have one person in my life that genuinely wants to be around me that I can clearly tell, that being my wife. If I have a conversation with someone else, I try to avoid the topic of me, knowing that I'll
The only remedy for that which I can think of is to just remove myself from these pictures and gatherings before they happen. A couple of weeks ago, I cried uncontrollably for a whole day when I came upon some of these such things. I realized how irrelevant I've become at the expense of my illness. And I am truly sorry to those that I've brought down, and I will refrain from it from this point out. Such is the nature of the beast that I fight daily.
I don't purport to be a musician or percussionist or anything, because I really don't think I'm any good -- I've been told that enough. So after years of owning drumkits since I was 13 shortly after my father died, I'm giving serious thought to selling all my gear and just getting real about it all. I had a friend named Wayne who was kind enough to talk me out of doing just that many years ago when I was in a band with him for a short time where other members weren't too keen on my drumming. Wayne insisted that was wrong. I believed him at the time. But times have changed. It's kind of hard jamming with yourself, but, here I am. And I'm wary of pity.
You might be asking yourself, "he's given up writing, his music, what's next?" Now I guess it's just survival. I know I won't get the help I need, so I'll keep going to the gym for a distraction -- at least until I give that up too -- and watching TV and being with my wife until she reaches the point she can't deal with it anymore either. Which she insists won't ever happen.
Ultimately, this post is yet another testament to how broken the health system is in treating those with mental illness. I live in a part of Canada where medical professionals are leaving in droves because their workload is ridiculously heavy and they are underpaid. Yet we have government after government telling us people in need they're in the process of fixing it. The check is in the mail and... you know the rest.
But this blog post should at least serve as a shout out to those who are also suffering, to tell you, you aren't alone in your frustration, as much as it feels like it. We have to stick together and hang in there and support each other. And for God's sake, Don't. Give. Up.
God bless and thanks so much to care enough to read.
