Shaking Like a Human Being

Here's three unwelcome words:  Summer is over.  Sorry.

Summer has been very good and very bad to me over the years, like a lot of people.  I know I'm not unique in that way.  But my mental illness issues always dictate to me what kind of a season it's going to be.  Last year was quite nice, even the year before.  I exercised a lot, didn't really go anywhere trip-wise, but I was with my wife pretty much 100% of the time.  Whether or not she's with me doesn't necessarily determine if things will go smoothly, but when she's there, the chances of the good outweighing the bad always skyrocket.  I'm enormously blessed to have her in my life.  I've said it many times:  if not for her, I wouldn't be around today.

I have a friend named Tim who I've often proclaimed as a brother, and that's permanent.  He's a no-shit, good willed man of faith who's always willing to help someone in need.  When he expressed interest in seeing one of our mutually favorite bands, King's X, in Portland, Maine, I was all in, on the condition that Janice was with me.  That wasn't even in question for Tim, as he already knew.  His soon-to-be wife Marley was in on the trip too.  We had a lot of fun over the almost three day run.  Janice got sick to her stomach one day, we suspect because of carb overload - it's happened before - but she recovered quickly, thank God.  On the very positive end, the King's X show was incredible.  We were front row center in the club called The Aura, where apparently a lot of pretty good acts go, and we surprisingly got to meet the band after the concert was over.  I had a short discussion with Dug Pinnick, the bass player and lead singer, about how much many of his lyrics mean to me, particularly those about his battle with depression.  I told him how much King's X music helps me and has gotten me through some pretty hard times.  He was genuinely touched and there was a distinct connection we'd made there that Janice was witness to, having been at my side through it.  It was a lifetime moment for me.  I thanked Jerry the drummer and Ty the guitarist profusely for all they do and have done through the years.  We got pictures taken and autographs, the whole nine yards.  I thought of my friend Steve a lot through this whole thing, because back in the late 80's when I was a store clerk for Green Gables, Steve was the one who loaned me "Gretchen Goes to Nebraska", King's X's second release.  I didn't really 'get it' upon first listen, or second.  Or tenth, even.  But I kept playing it, and something clicked.  King's X's music is so rich with detail and rife with influences like Rush, the Beatles, Metallica and Black Sabbath, even KISS (King's X actually played on the KISS Kruise a couple of years ago), that I grabbed onto the sound and sought out the other two albums of the time, "Out of the Silent Planet" and "Faith Hope Love".  "FHL" actually made me rediscover my faith in God and Christianity, which has stayed with me since.  Anyway, with Steve being a hardcore King's X fan, we had a lot of discussions about their music through the years.  We even attended a show, with Janice, for the "Dogman" tour in Toronto at a club called Gasworks back in '91.  That too was amazing.  Steve pretty much arranged that trip and acccomodations, forming unforgettable memories I'll cherish forever.  We also all saw the KISS "Revenge" tour around the same early 90's era.  We amusingly made it onto MuchMusic TV as we waited outside the studios for KISS to make an appearance.  When host Erica Ehm asked fans what their favorite KISS ballad was, Steve proudly answered, "God of Thunder."  Classic Steve! 

So, this summer was going along pretty good.  Janice and me have been inseparable, except for when we have to work.  She keeps me grounded.  On the Portland trip, we were unaware that we were going to be gone for two nights, so I missed a couple of rounds of my meds, and so did Janice.  I wound up with elevated anxiety that I was able to manage with her help, and of course, I reciprocated in taking care of her as she dealt with the pain from her lack of medication, which can become intolerable if she goes without for too long.  It also probably contributed to her being sick.  All in all, it was manageable, and a great time was had by all of us.  But... I have this 'voice' in my head that tells me afterward how much of an ass I acted like, that I should have behaved better, that I shouldn't have said or did certain things... such is the life of a person with chronic anxiety.  I always feel guilty about something.

We've been going to the gym pretty regularly since we've joined Fit4Less several months ago, after we'd left the Y.  I'll get into why we left in the near future, because we departed under dubious circumstances that we're still upset over.  But Fit4Less turned out to be a good change.  Exercise has many benefits for everyone, but one in particular for me is to clear the cobwebs and just feel better.  I don't think I'm super fit or anything, but I'm probably in the best shape I've ever been in, providing I don't get derailed from going.  Still, at least 75% of the reason I do go is Janice.  Exercise is absolutely crucial to her mobility, where her multiple illnesses ranging from chronic arthritis to fibromyalgia threaten to freeze up her body unless she keeps moving.  The two of us going is a whole yin-yang thing.  We help each other by training.

But one thing that does derail us from going, typically in the winter months, is work.  The retail Christmas season can be torturous.  My job is very physical as it is when it's calm, but when things get busy, it can get increasingly stressful.  I used to cherish the post-Christmas season, because that's when things typically level off, but this year it just didn't.  The best way I can describe my job as a receiver where I work is warehouse work.  There's lots of lifting, carrying, and moving things around, and I put a lot of miles in running around the place, chasing the doorbell for deliveries while I'm doing something else.  I typically work through my breaks and lunches, because I like to get things done.  If I'm going to literally put my name on my work, I want it to be the best it can be.  And I get upset if it's otherwise.  I want to be an asset to my employer, and I'm passionate about it. 

People go on vacation during the summer, of course.  That's just logical.  But when someone goes out where I work, that person isn't replaced, and it puts a strain on the rest of us.  Business didn't drop off very much at all after last Christmas.  At times, it even got more hectic.  The busier it gets, of course, the more stress there can be, especially when manpower decreases.  Thankfully, I had a week off in July myself with Janice.  It was a much needed breather for the both of us.  She also suffers from a lack of manpower where she works at a post office kiosk, of which she's the manager of.  But her higher ups hesitate to give her more workers.  Thus, for much of the year, it's been just her and our daughter Alexandra working there.  It's quite ridiculous, if I'm being starkly honest.  She's much smarter and stronger than I am, though, so she vents with me and it seems to help. 

News struck us a month ago that our dear friend Steve passed away suddenly in his home after a sudden illness in Halifax.  I felt like it was a horrible dream that I desperately wanted to wake up from.  The last time we saw Steve was when KISS came to the Maritimes, visiting Saint John and Halifax, and we went to both shows.  Steve hitched a ride with us for the second show, in Halifax, and we got what I now cherish as time that I wouldn't ever trade for anything.  He welcomed us in his home before the show, we had some deep conversations ... par for the course with Steve ... and Alexandra got to know him more and developed a sweet bond with him.  He gave me a copy of his album "Fresh Footprints", an instrumental disc dotted with his trademark humor and deft musicianship throughout.  In fact, it was my favorite record I'd listened to that year, I loved it that much.  I would have taken a copy of it to give to King's X when we went, but I selfishly didn't want to part with my own!  I told him how much I admired it and his talent, and he was profuse in his appreciation for my fandom.  I stand by it today, "Fresh Footprints" is a professional, bonafide classic that I think everyone should give a chance.  I wish that it got more recognition than it did.

When I went to Halifax with Alexandra (Janice had to work, hence the manpower issues) for Steve's memorial, as I drove into town, I distinctly felt his presence.  I know how corny that sounds, but it was a feeling unlike any other.  I so miss the guy, and I know on some other plane of existence, he knows that.  Along with the many others that were at his memorial.  I saw a lot of familiar faces there, and many friends, all of us more than heartbroken at the fact of the reason we were present.  Alexandra was heartbroken.  Steve was always very kind to her, and always treated her like an equal adult, even in her childhood years.  That's why she respected him so much.  She always was entertained by our conversations because they were so deep!  One particularly about the Mandela Effect, a deja vu type of theory that muses on whether or not people actually died when it was publicly announced that they were.  I witnessed an instance of it myself once, when Tom Wilkonson's death was announced on TV while we were in Welland, Ontario visiting my brother Pete.  It was right there on TV, but months later, he showed up on TV promoting a new movie of his.  Janice may not have been at Steve's memorial, but she certainly was in spirit.  Her and Steve always had that humorous greeting... he'd say "hey man!" and she'd answer with "hey woman!" which he always responded to with his distinct laughter.  When the memorial was over, there was a reception that we didn't stay for, as I didn't know how I'd react because of my elevated anxiety.  That was probably selfish on my part.  But I also feel like I don't really belong in that group of friends anymore.  That's on me, not them.  But I digress, as I don't want that topic to be about me at all.

But needless to say, Steve's passing weighed heavy on my heart ever since.  I think about the guy a lot, and I'm thankful for having known him.  His friendship and brotherhood were indeed a gift that I'll never overlook. 

We are both now just starting our second week of vacation as I write this.  And it couldn't be more timely.  This past week has been horrendous to my body and mind.  I've worked nine to ten hour days all week, no breaks or lunches, and it still wasn't enough to get done what I wanted, although I'm admittedly picky when it comes to my work.  But these long days ate into my downtime, and the fact that I work two of those days starting at 5am cuts into my sleep.  We were only able to go to the gym together one day this week.  A stressful work year only got worse with all these factors pitching in to take painful cracks to my endurance.

Last night was the first night of vacation after I'd finished up a 9 1/2 hour shift at work on four hours sleep.  I expressed to Janice how hard a time I had with it all, but perhaps I was a bit lax in describing it.  She's actually seen me work, but she doesn't really know the scope of what I do.  I know no one at my work recognizes it.  It's the most thankless job I've ever had, but I work at the level I do as a matter of pride. I left the building yesterday as a man on the verge of melting down under the stress. 

My brother Roy is celebrating his 70th birthday this weekend, and the party was yesterday, which I most definitely was in no condition to attend, very regrettably so.  We said we'd go today for a visit at least.  He's got a cottage with my other brother Greg at Caissie Cape, a community I'm familiar with because of Steve's family's history there.  He used to look after his family's A-frame cottage in the summer, and host his friends for parties there a lot.  My old YQM band actually recorded our demo at his cottage.  That community will certainly have a different feel now, sadly.  But at least I have family there.  And I just know Steve's spirit will be wandering around with us when we visit.  I only wish that the Mandela Effect would prove itself in bringing dear Steve back.

But we will go under the specter of what transpired last night.  I was eventually overcome by stress and anxiety to the point that I couldn't bottle it up anymore.  I shook uncontrollably... paced and ran around the house ... SCREAMING at the top of my lungs ... quite literally beating my head against the wall ... laid on the floor nearly naked quivering trying to get my bearings back.  And Janice witnessed all of it.  It obviously upset her terribly, as she cried and pleaded to help as she watched it all unfold.  The more questions she asked, the more anxious I got, which is not her fault whatsoever, of course!  But a man with my condition faced with making even the simplest of decisions can be very overwhelming, in this case, nearly catastrophically.  Janice gave me some cannabis oil, which after some time, calmed me down to the point where I was coherent and not shaking anymore, and ultimately calm.  She may have even saved my life with it.  Again.  She never left my side even through all this.  I love her.

I woke up today sore and stiff all over from last nights events.  I'm now faced with visiting family which I won't be able to see again for months if I don't go, so I must.  I shouldn't be anxious about it, there's no reason to be.  But I am. 

I need to also point out that I still haven't heard from my psychiatrist or doctors since my last visit months ago.  I now hesitate to go, because I truly don't feel they believe me when I tell them what goes on.  Hell, the government doesn't believe me either, because they no longer recognize my disability!  My only real hope is Janice.  She talks to my doctors for me and stresses to them that what I'm dealing with is indeed real and indeed serious.  Apparently, that's what it takes.  What I also worry about, is others who deal with the same kind of issues that don't have anyone to vouch for them.  Where do they go to for help??  We need the medical community to take depression and anxiety seriously, once and for all.  And government needs to smarten up about the fact that it needs desperate attention.  I'm skeptical about that ever happening, though.

But to anyone who may be reading this, I need to say...... if you are suffering, if you have anxiety that gets the better of you at times, if you're feeling depressed, you absolutely must get help.  You must!!  And it's best that you have someone to advocate for you, the way my wife does.  I do get taken far more seriously when she goes to bat for me.  She is my guardian angel.  Find yours.  It may be your wife, husband, mother, brother, sister, friend, or work colleague.  But find someone who takes you seriously, especially if your medical professionals won't.

God bless you, and thank you for reading.   

The Nature of the Beast

I get a fair amount of feedback on my posts about my dealings with depression and anxiety.  I'm guessing because of my outright honesty pertaining to it, and my frustration with getting adequate help.  Now here I go again with another frustration-laden post, so, spoiler alert.

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 most likely just scare them off.  I've learned from past mistakes.  In recent years, I've had friends that I was open to that I would share my feelings with, only to never see them again or have them become the hi/bye type.  I know that's my fault.  I know that's on me.  So why do I keep hearing that people like me with mental illness should talk more, and more should listen?  I even feel like I get the bum's rush from my professionals when I look for help.  I feel like my allotted appointment time can't be expanded and thus, sorry about your damn luck.  Happy trails. 

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.

Darkness and Light

I hear it's Mental Health Awareness Month.  Being a person who's dealt with mental health issues all of his life, I wanted to throw in my own thoughts on the issue.

Firstly, "Awareness".... it's not really the appropriate term.  Not to me.  Everyone knows about the issues surrounding mental health illness and its pervasiveness.  The real, true issue is the lack of action taken with it.  There's lots of talk, lots of corporations (I'm looking at YOU, Bell Canada) getting kudos for raising so-called awareness about it and trumpeting how much cash they're throwing at it, but from what I can see, few benefiting from it, other than the businesses getting all kinds of publicity because of their grandstanding on the subject.

Don't get me wrong.  I'm glad people are talking about it more.  I'm glad the stigma is coming down.  I'm glad that more people take it a lot more seriously now than they used to, say, when I was a teen back in the 80's, when no one would blink an eye at the word concussion because they didn't think they were all that bad.  I had several of them in my teen years.  Clearly, today medical professionals would keep an eagle eye on someone who's gone through something like that.  Me in the 80's?  Not so much.

Concussions are a big deal now in the sports world.  Namely football, hockey and pro wrestling.  This month a lot of discussion is being made over the death of a young female wrestler named Ashley Massaro, who broke into the WWE through a talent competition many years ago.  Her career was dotted with an array of concussions, and subsequently, she joined a class action lawsuit against WWE over consequences related to those injuries, holding the company liable for not taking better care of their talent.  She suffered from depression, mental lapses and suicidal thoughts, and ultimately took her own life, leaving behind a young daughter and countless supportive colleagues in the pro wrestling world.  This re-ignited discussion on the care, or lack of it, being taken in sports, or for that matter, life in general.  My concussions never arose from sports injuries, for example.  But, I experienced similar, if not identical, symptoms as Massaro had.

I don't think I need to write much about the correlation between concussions and mental illness, as pretty much everyone knows the major connections.  My concussions didn't end with my teens.  There were others that occurred in the following years, but they were brought on by self-inflicted injuries because of the those troubles I had in my formative years.  To this day I deal with self-harm issues.  Perhaps not as frequent in this present day, thanks to medications that are actually working, but as little as two months ago, I suffered from suicidal thoughts.  I brought this to the attention of my physician and psychiatrist, both.  My wife was in attendance with these professionals when I saw them.  So what actions did they take?

How about a big fucking fat nothing?  Not even a follow-up appointment.  THIS is the state of mental health treatment in the world today, at least in these parts.  There's actually a sign in my psychiatrist's office waiting area that states not all treatments are covered by medicare.  That's pretty damn encouraging, isn't it?  If I had a broken bone, a major cut, even a bruise on my head, I'd be seen promptly and given treatment.  Now, when I proclaim to my doctors what happened in my past and my suspicions that it contributes to my illness today, I get a proverbial shrug like they're questioning whether I'm telling the truth or not.  I've experienced the same in the past with friends and family.  This is maddening.  But that's where we are right now.

There are plenty of people who would say, "well, you're dealing with it at least, good for you!"  Self awareness of it is a major, massive first step, but it's a step I took back in 1996 with the birth of my daughter.  It was then when I went through some wicked self-harm incidents that I realized I need to get better for my daughter and my wife.  I must note, I was never abusive toward anyone else.  It was always to myself.  Through the years, I was plagued with self-loathing and an extreme lack of self-confidence.  That hasn't waned, either.  Indeed, it may have worsened.  I continue to battle it daily.  It ebbs and flows, and I have to deal with it whenever it rears its ominous, ugly head.  I've stated many, many times, if it weren't for my wife and daughter, I would not be alive today.  That is 100% true.

Thank God I have the understanding of those two.  I'm certainly a handful to deal with sometimes.  I try to keep things in check, like putting myself down in front of others and insulting myself, but the fact is that I'm literally ill.  I will be till the day I pass.  I just have to keep looking for ways to deal with it.

When I say I'm a handful, I mean I am with everyone.  I can be a jerk (read:  I think I AM a jerk), and that's something I'm working on especially recently.  Over the years, I know how opinionated I was, and it's only in the last several months that I've come to see things through the eyes and ears of those I see and talk to.  I hate having my feelings hurt.  Why would anyone else be different?  Realizing this made me re-evaluate myself as a person in a major way.  I think that's a good thing.  The bad thing is, it has the potential to bring on more self-hatred.  It's very tricky.

With Mental Health Awareness, it's good that focus is on the young and women, but the truth of the matter is it's a human issue.  I don't believe people should be categorized and grouped into neat little boxes for the sake of statistics.  Mental illness is something that needs to be attacked head-on without discrimination.  And I say especially mental health, because if there's too much focus on one group than the others, that sends a message to the others that they don't matter as much.  I sure as hell feel that way.  I'm a 53 year old male, and my category isn't talked about at all.  And I don't want my category talked about.  I want the entire problem to be handled and addressed, without bias or priority.  It's the fairest and most responsible approach for all victims of mental illness.

I participated with my wife in a corporate sponsored run open to the public that donated funds to, among other women's issues, women's mental health.  This might make me sound hypocritical, except that I know that the funds raised do for a fact go to a local women's shelter.  I applaud that kind of effort to combat such challenges facing women in these modern times.  I only wish that those outside the limiting parameters of such fundraising could benefit from these kinds of things as well.  You don't see a lot of active causes raising awareness for middle-aged victims of mental illness, for example.  At all.

But I digress.  It shouldn't be about isolating one group that seems to be affected more than another.  For that matter, all the fundraising that happens continentally didn't seem to help the likes of Massaro much, if at all.  Ignorance seems to have taken the top spot on the podium in that case, as is all too common.  To those struggling to find help and understanding, it's incredibly frustrating.  We keep hearing, "speak up!  Talk about it!  Get help!"  I don't know how long Massaro sought help for her condition - probably a long time.  But I do know I tried in vain to see a psychiatrist for years... over a decade, almost two... only to feel like I'm being rebuffed, despite getting some help with appropriate medication.  These are the challenges men, women and children face when we try to make people listen to us.  We do speak up.  We do talk.  We do get help.  But all too much, it's like trying to break through a concrete wall with a plastic spoon.

I'm not trying to say to others that you need to treat people with mental illness with kid gloves or walk on eggshells.  I'm only trying to point out that care needs to be taken when it comes to common sense observations.  Exclusion is one of my biggest enemies.  If I'm shunned or left out of something, even if it were short-sighted, it ignites doubt in my self worth and how much I matter.  Whether it be a gathering of friends or family where I'd most often be invited; even if I didn't go, it counts in a big way to be thought of, at least.  I've dealt with exclusion a lot over the years, but it doesn't get easier.  It may even be getting worse.  I don't blame those that don't want me around.  I've mentioned I realize I'm a handful!  But it also signals that I'm not worth dealing with.  And I get it.  I can be quiet and reserved, perhaps not terribly outgoing, I hate talking on the phone with a passion, etc.  You might say I'm only asking to be shunned.  Or, if you knew what I struggled with, you might see me differently.  I'm a wide open book when it comes to my depression and anxiety.  I tell everyone in my challenge to help me defy the consequences of what can become of my behavior.  But it might be a failing strategy.  Perhaps speaking up, talking about it and getting help doesn't work at all?  If not, then what does?

In the end, I do still implore those with depression, anxiety and other mental illnesses to seek out help and talk about it with loved ones and professionals.  I did find at least two people that listened, with my wife and daughter.  My boss at work understands somewhat.  Sometimes even my doctors listen.  My point is, if you don't try at all, you're guaranteed to not make any traction.

If you know someone suffering from any of this, I invite you to be a lamp post on that long, dark road.  The more light that's shed on that path, the less likely the car is to go off the rails.