When it was time...

The change was almost instantaneous to those around me. I was a lot calmer, a lot happier, and a lot easier to work with according to most. The cold doctor was able to work with my more to find the right medications and dosage that would help me the most. Bit by bit, I earned back my personal possessions. It wasn't until I had been in the hospital for almost 30 days that the doctor and I both agreed it was time for me to leave. 

The morning of October 15th, I gathered the few things I had collected or had been given and left the ward for the last time. I had taken a moment to say my goodbyes to a few of the staff and other patients I had grown close to. There were many that I would have liked to stay in contact with, but understandably the staff tended to discourage outside contact once both parties were out of the hospital. A few instructions were provided to my parents for the next couple of weeks as the doctor wanted to make certain I didn't have any adverse reactions to the treatments I had received. It wasn't until the doors closed behind me that I felt the full weight of leaving what had become my crumbling grounds.

Leaning back in my seat as we started our drive home, I could almost feel the changes swimming through me. I felt lighter, for one thing. The cold hands of death's advocate no longer rested on my shoulders, beckoning me to come to the grave for a permanent holiday. My inner daemons were no longer actively pulling at my heart continually, simply cuddled up idly in my mind, waiting for their next time to play. I knew that they would never go away fully. But for the first time in as long as I could remember, I felt that I was the one in control. It'll be a brighter future. But for now, let's take it one step at a time...

I am not here to claim that I am an expert in how the mind works. We all function differently. Each of us has our own set of cogs unique to only us, no matter how much alike we are. How we think, how we act, how we feel, all of it is colored by our own experiences, no matter how big or how small. You are who you are and dispite what anyone might tell you, I know for a fact that you are still an amazing person. No matter your circumstances, you are still a beautiful human being worthy of the gift of life.

Let's practice something. I want you to take a moment to look at yourself in the mirror. Really study your face. follow each curve, trace every small wrinkle. Do this for a full minute.

Seriously. Do it. Then come back and keep reading.

Now. I want you to list the first 10 words you would use to describe your face to a stranger. What did you come up with? How many of those words were positive? How many were negative? Now, I want you to repeat this exercise, but this time, think about one of your favorite people whether it's a friend, relative, loved one, or similar. What were the results? Surprisingly (or not surprisingly, really) most people tend to list almost all positive descriptions for their friends while listing negative descriptions for themselves.

As a society, we have been trained to find the good in others but rarely the good in ourselves. Messages bombard us from all around, continually telling us that we are not as good as other people and we need to be better if we want to keep up. Whether through mainstream media (magazines, articles, shows, etc) religious sermons (you're righteous, but your neighbor is more righteous than you because they gave more) or any other avenue, the constant comparison is always there. Keeping up with the Jones's is real, and it is something that is causing some major damage.

Take a second to sit back. Clear your mind. I want you to think about these negative thoughts about yourself and where they came from. It's okay if you're not sure. If you can trace them back, that's great. If not, that is fine as well. I want to let you in on a secret about these thoughts.

They are not you.

No matter how many people have said you are ugly or hideous, you are beautiful. No matter how many people have said you are stupid, you are intelligent. No matter how many people have said nobody would want you, you are the answer to someone's prayers. You are amazing. You are phenomenal. And most importantly, you are worth more than you know and more than I could ever tell you.

If you have any thoughts, stories, questions, or random ventings you would like to share, please let me know, you can find me on Facebook (if you're not already friends with me on there http://facebook.com/spenser.marzo), leave a comment below, or you can email me at spenser.marzo.is@gmail.com. Just remember that I am always here to talk to you and that I always will be, no matter what.

The nuances of Joy...

By the end of my second week in the hospital, my doctor was thoroughly frustrated with me. I had inflicted harm on myself multiple times, many of the prescriptions he had me try weren't having the desired results, and I was becoming more and more hostile with each encounter with him. Instead of following the usual patterns, I was being difficult. Part of me wanted to get out of there as fast as possible. But the rest of me knew I needed to get better and find the treatments that worked for me.

About halfway into the third week, the doctor finally brought up an idea that both horrified and intrigued me. "Have you considered looking into ECT?" It wasn't until he used its more commonly known name that I felt that cold chill trace down my spine: shock therapy. Instantly, my mind jumped to the horror films where someone was strapped to a table and forcibly shocked repeatedly in an agonizing manner. Surely such archaic methods weren't practiced in modern times, of course. 

My dad came up to the hospital one afternoon and the doctor detailed what happens during a session of ECT. During treatment, patients would basically experience a "reset" through a shock-induced seizure (still not sounding good at all.) They would of course be put under anesthesia and would not feel anything. There were very few known side effects, all of which the cold doctor shrugged off as wives tales or as something with such a minimal chance of happening as to almost be entirely non-existent. Several hours, many tears, and an instructional video later, I came to the decision that this would be a good thing for me to try.

Within the next few days, I had my first session. They woke me up well before dawn and escorted me to where the procedure would take place. As expected, the room was not inviting at all due to the knowledge of what I would be put through. I was quickly laid down in a hospital bed to observe the room around me as the staff prepared me for treatment. The one thing that always sticks out in my mind about this experience is the anesthesioligist. She was a very cheerful and friendly woman who always wore outrageously patterned scrubs and insisted at all times that showtunes be playing when she worked. I was a bit confused when they strapped two blood pressure cuffs to my arm before they began to inject the sweet concoction of drugs to put me under. My eyes began to get heavy, my heart slowed down, and I gently drifted off to the soothing sounds of Mame.

What could have been minutes, hours, or even days later I woke up, groggy and lost in the fuzzy forest of half formed thoughts. I had been wheeled over to an area nearby where I could recover before they would take me back to my room. Even though I was still under the influence of the medications, I could sense that something else was off, something....deeper. But I had no energy or motivation to chase that thought process, and so I settled back comfortably as the anesthesiologist changed the soundtrack to Oklahoma before I was taken back to my room. Maybse something good would come of this after all.

The stigmas surrounding mental illness and the treatments associated with it are always there and unfortunately will most likely always be there. We live in an age where although we are learning more about those illnesses we still treat them as unreal or even as something that is a cry for attention in many cases. Be honest with yourself: how many times have you seen someone who is depressed and in a less-than-charitable thought wondered if they were doing this for attention? Believe it or not, every single one of us has had that thought, whether consciously or subconsciously. We fear that which we don't understand, which will often trigger negative thoughts and sometimes negative action.

There is a series of pictures that communicates my feelings almost to a 'T' when it comes to how people handle mental illness or mental disorders. It is a series of small cartoons, each image showing what it would be like if people treated other diseases like they treat mental disorders. Think about this for a minute. What if physical diseases were treated the same way?

"Have you tried to not have the flu?"

"Aren't you afraid taking your insulin everyday is changing who you really are?"

"Oh don't worry. You just have to change your frame of mind. Then you'll feel better."

Mental illness is real. People suffer from it. Until we improve education on the field and until we can learn to understand as a society, it will continue to be treated as something that isn't real. Take some time today. Look up information about these. Try to understand what others might be going through. And above all else: Love those around you no matter what they are going through.

A short respite for gratitude

Unlike the remainder of the posts already made, I will not be starting this one talking about my time in the hospital. Instead, I would like to take this time to express my gratitude for all of you who are reading my blog. Truly I am blessed to have all of you amazing people take time to read my ramblings, whether it's for entertainment or if its to understand more about what you or a loved one are going through. Thank you so much for your support.

I also want to take a moment to give a shoutout to a great friend. Charmaine is actually the person who inspired me to write these blogs. I have known her for over 14 years and each year I am surprised and impressed by her own personal strength and insight. If you haven't checked out her blog, here is the link for it.
http://bipolarexpressride.blogspot.com/

I want to know from you, what questions do you have about depression,bipolar, anxiety, suicide, or any related topics. I am here to help all of you in any way that I can and to answer any questions. You can leave them in the comments below or you can reach out to me directly through FB or email (spenser.marzo.is@gmail.com) if you don't want everyone seeing what you are asking. I will respect your privacy and will only share what you wish for me to share.

Again, I thank you all for your amazing support and I hope that no matter what you are going through you know that I am here for you.

Hold On...

The first week in the hospital was absolute Hell in my mind. I did my best to hold my composure when around other patients and the staff, but inevitably the dark comfort of brooding thoughts and the overwhelming tides of tears would take over within moments of being away from people. The cold doctor had decided to start the dosages of medications low so that he could see what would work on me. Little did he know that he was going to have such an annoying case on his hands, as became apparent to him when I was still in the hospital after a week.

It became clear to me over that first week that in many cases the patients would only be here for a few days before being given a clean bill of health and sent on their merry way. Secretly I loathed those lucky enough to be in and out that fast. 

Every day would start the same with some of the staff coming in to wake us while routinely checking our rooms for anything that we could use to injure ourselves. Shortly after that, breakfast would be brought up to us, followed by medications then various activities; art, group sessions, checkups, smoke breaks, and similar things. Lunch came next, followed by more of the same bullshit we traversed in the morning. If we were well behaved and didn't do anything too bad we were allowed to actually leave the ward to go down to the cafeteria to get our dinners ourselves. Many people in the ward saw this as a privilege. I saw it as another way to be displayed like a circus act.

After that first week the urge to feel something other than hate became too much. The first time I hurt myself in the hospital, I had taken a plastic knife from the cafeteria when the staff was distracted by another patient. I had slipped it into my shoe so that they wouldn't find it by checking my pockets. My one room mate had been released from the hospital earlier that day, so I had the whole room and bathroom to myself. As soon as I saw that the staff had checked in on me, I made my move. 

Huddled in the doorless shower, I began sawing away. It took minutes before the flimsy plastic finally pierced my skin. At that moment I felt a surge of relief and anger mixed in its own dangerous cocktail, pushing me further and further to feel the pain more. The emotional dance between shame at my actions and humor at the irony of the situation left me even more confused than I was before I started. For what felt like hours, I let myself sink into the terrible pleasure that had become my own personal heroin. Saw, saw, pant, saw, saw, gasp, sob, saw, laugh....

I heard knocking on my door. The panic set in as soon as I realized that I had lost more blood than could be explained as a mere accident to the staff. Desperate to hide my self inflicted shame, I quickly turned the shower on as I heard them enter my room. They called out to see if I was alright, respecting my privacy as I washed away as much evidence as possible. After assuring them for a couple of minutes through the sound of water splashing, they left me alone. The thrill of getting away with fooling them into thinking I was just showering was almost intoxicating as I finally settled into bed for the night.

The momentary euphoria was quickly dashed in the predawn hours of the next morning. Unlike the usual soft knocks and calm voices luring me to the land of wakefulness, I was startled awake by flashlights in my eyes and inquiries of if I could hear them. One of the night nurses had not been convinced by my charade the night before and had sent one of the male nurses to check my bathroom. They had found the plastic knife, remnants of skin and blood lodged in its pathetic plastic teeth. After that was found, the nurse had rushed to check on me and found my self inflicted wound gouged deep into my arm and leaking its crimson secrets over the sheets. I had apparently been unresponsive, so more urgent action was needed. As I slowly came to, they quickly began to treat my wound while also routinely taking any and all personal effects and anything else they could deem as a threat to me. I was left only with my scrubs, a comb, a toothbrush, and other items needed for hygeine. 

The embarassment and self loathing that followed this quickly overwhelmed me. I wouldnt talk to any of the patients or staff. The only response I gave to anyone that entire day could be summed up as an emotional outburst fit for the Incredible Hulk without the smashing. The cold doctor had began questioning me about why I had hurt myself and asked a very simple question which I instantly took as an attack: "Do you even want to get better?"

After a few days of silence, I had my second moment of collapse. Still left with the bare minimums for hygeine, I quickly began to find ways to stick it to them. The first attempt, although foolish, was the comb. repeated sawing did indeed produce a minor flow of vermillion relief, but it wasn't enough. The real humor to me came when I realized how many prisoners became so inventive. I sharpened the end of my toothbrush on the grout between the tiles on the wall, turning that plastic dental product into a makeshift weapon. I will not go into details from here other than to say I was discovered the same way.

The urges for the red romance became a constant obsession. I was not allowed to use anything remotely sharp, pencils replaced with charcoal or crayons, forks replaced with spoons, no access to shaving equipment even with direct supervision. For decency, I was allowed up to 2 minutes in the bathroom alone to do my thing before a male nurse would be required to be present. Even with all of these precautions, I still could think only of that soothing feeling of pain.

Then one day, a new male nurse began working in our ward. A truly kind soul, he quickly broke through many of the barriers I had put up and did one better than I could imagine. He found out about my past experience with music, and had somehow tracked down a guitar that he would let me play while he listened and talked to me about all of his favorite bands and songs.

This. This was hope incarnate in my eyes.

We as a society will often talk about addictions in a way that can be deemed as taboo. Whether it is drugs, eating, not eating, alcohol, self harm, or any other form of addiction, a knee-jerk reaction is to either gloss over the offenses or to treat the person as a terrible person. From someone who has suffered their fair share of addictions, please allow me a moment to share my thoughts on the subject.

Addictions do not make a person a bad person. Ignoring the addictions or glossing over them in many ways can be as damaging as the addiction itself. Everyone falters at one time or another when it comes to addictions.

If you are suffering from an addiction, understand that I do not believe you are any less of a person. You are amazing and have the strength to make it through this. It will never be too late to reach out for help. I will always be available for you no matter the situation. I will do anything I can to help you.

If you know someone who is suffering from an addiction, please remember who they really are. In many cases it may seem like a lost cause, but as long as life still exists, hope is there. Reach out to them. Help them to find the resources they need to become better. Hold them close and love them with all of your heart. Every person has their own demons, and each person deserves to be loved in spite of that.

So take a moment. Hold a friend close. Let them know you love them. And do everything you can to help them through their hard times.

What is it?

So much of what I had previously known was slowly peeled away from me during my first night in UNI. 

After being admitted, a nurse had led me to a separate room to await the doctor's attention. She was kind enough to ask me about how I was doing, if I had eaten dinner yet, and even went so far as to offer her sympathy and a sad but kind smile to assure me that I would be well taken care of. Food was sent up and I ate as I changed into my hospital issued scrubs. Although it was a bad situation. I felt the glimmer of hope that something good would come of this.

I felt that, that is, until the doctor came into the room. Short cropped grey hair, flinty eyes, and a permanent scowl bolted in place, you could tell that he had dealt with similar situations in the past and had little to no sympathy for those in my situation. For what felt like hours but was most likely only minutes, the doctor grumbled to himself while he looked over my chart and studied me in turn. After a while I had honestly wondered if he was incapable of talking until he began barking his questions in short clipped bursts.

"What brings you in?"
"Is this your first attempt?"
"Have you been hospitalized before?"
"Why did you decide to attempt?"

There were several other questions that he asked in his detached way, but it was that last question that caught in my mind and haunted me for years to come. Why did I decide to attempt?

Why always has been a big question for everyone regarding the decision to commit suicide. We have all heard the typical responses over our times, whether it is "I didn't want to hurt anymore" to "Nobody would miss me anyway." Believe me. These reasons have all run through my mind.

Those who are not suffering from a mental illness or disorder will often look at any answer given to them by the afflicted with a degree of sympathy while never fully understanding the emotions behind it. People will always try to relate to the afflicted, try to give encouragement and tell them it will all be okay. But to truly understand what they are thinking, you must understand what they are experiencing.

The Mayo Clinic defines depression as follows:
"Depression is a mood disorder that causes a persistent feeling of sadness and loss of interest. "
Sure, that gives a rough idea of what it really is, but it by no means defines depression fully nor does it come close to scratching the surface of what it truly means to those who are experiencing it. Those who have or are going through depression would often look at the above statement and probably state something like "if only that was all it was." 

Depression is more than a clinical diagnosis. It is more than a common cold or a simple bout of the blues. I often have had people ask me how I would explain depression to someone who doesn't know it. It's at this point that I will walk them through a scenario to help them to get a glimpse into the emotional state.

Imagine you are wandering down an old dirt road after your car broke down a few miles back. Your cellphone has terrible reception, and you are expecting an important call from a friend. Your phone rings, so you quickly answer it. It's not who you were expecting. It is a loved one crying on the other end. Someone you both know has had a terrible accident. Before you can tell the person where you are or try to get them to tell you more, the call drops. Frantically dialing them time and time again does nothing, and your phone dies before you can make contact again. So let's recap what is going on:
You're lost.
You can't communicate with anyone.
You can't be there for those people you love.
I will ask people to describe how they are feeling at this point if they were really in this situation. Often I will usually get responses such as "I'd be upset" or "I'd feel helpless" or even "I wouldn't even know what to do at that point." At that point I will tell them one simple thing:


Imagine that feeling, infinitely stronger and infinitely longer. This is how it can feel to someone who has depression.

I do not give this example as a morbid reminder of what is being suffered through or as a way of saying "Oh I/we have it so much worse than you" or anything of that sort. I give this example as a way for those who may not understand the depth of the emotional impact these situations have on those with depression. 

Of course, this is different for each person.  I would never go so far as to say that every single person experiences depression the exact same way. But hopefully by using my example you might understand a little more of what goes on behind the scenes.

As to the "why" in my own case, I could list off any number of the typical answers. All would apply to how I felt when I was reaching for that knife.

All I ask is when someone you know is suffering, instead of asking why they are feeling that way, ask them how you can be there for them. Be an emotional pillar for them. Hold them close and pour out all of the love in your hearts for them. And never let go.

Finding the pieces

The next few hours after my sister came home were a blur of thought and emotion. Calls to family members, friends, loved ones, and even just people we thought needed to be updated were made. A continual stream of questions was shot my way that I didn't have the ability to answer. Why had I tried? What was really so bad? What could they do to help me? There were no answers I could provide that would make sense to anyone but myself.

Hours later, we arrived at the ER for the University Hospital. The standard stack of papers was issued to us to fill out and we were directed into a back waiting area. This is where the string of long clinical questions began.

Have you been diagnosed with depression? Yes.
Have you had thoughts of self harm in the past? Yes.
Have you recently inflicted harm on yourself? Yes.
Is this your first time attempting suicide? No.
Does your family have a history of depression? Yes.

As the questions continued, I watched my family's reactions around me as I numbly answered all of the questions passed my way. I was ashamed of myself as I watched the pain dance just behind their eyes. I knew that I had let them all down and it was all I could do to not simply crumble away. I was trying to pretend I wasn't collapsing inside, but each blink, each tear they shed, knocked out another piece of my feeble defenses.

The questions finally completed. I stared blankly at the floor, matching patterns in the tile sections as I vaguely heard the assessment provided. I would be admitted to the psychiatric hospital for a brief visit. I would be transported up to the building in an ambulance and would then begin the "quick and easy" process of taking time to get my life back together. Protocol dictated that I had to be on a gurney when we arrived at UNI, but the EMT with me was kind enough to offer me a small but significant choice; if I wanted to, I could sit in the back of the ambulance and not be strapped down until we arrived at our destination. It may seem like an insignificant offer, but it meant I could hold onto a small shred of dignity, even an imaginary one.

With all of the decisions made, I was escorted to the ambulance where I climbed inside. I saw my parents following behind the ambulance in their jeep, flashing their lights any time they noticed me looking out of the rear windows. Each flash delivered its clear message.

We love you.
We're sorry we didn't know.
We're here for you.

This ride is when the pieces began to come together for me. I knew at this moment that I wouldn't be leaving the hospital willingly until I had answers. Until I had the right treatments that worked for me. Until I felt that I could be a better person.

Living with an invisible condition will always be a struggle, no matter how good things are. I'm not here to tell anyone that once you get help life is always going to be sunshine and daisies. It won't be. Nor will ignoring treatment lead to a life existing in a continual state of gloom continually suffocating you in its brumous clouds. Each day will have its ups and downs throughout. Each week will have good days and bad. Each year, there will be low points as well as high. My question to you about these peaks and valleys is a simple one. When you are on your path, are you focusing on the peaks or on the valleys?

Don't look back. Keep pushing forward. It might be a difficult road right now, but once you reach the peak, I promise you it will be worth it. Don't be afraid of what's ahead. Don't focus on what you have already passed. Keep your chin up and do whatever you need to in order to keep moving forward. You are not alone. No matter what, I'm rooting for you. You are an amazing person and I will do anything I can for you.

I promise.

Darkest Hour

Stumbling through the door, I quickly headed to our kitchen knives. Any of them would do; they just needed to be sharp enough to make a clean cut. I grabbed one, admiring its sharpness as I thought about what was to come. I headed into the dining area and slowly eased into one of the chairs at the table. I never really liked these chairs, in fact I always found them to be extremely uncomfortable. Well, I wouldn't need chairs where I was going anyway. Some last-minute thinking led me to get a towel to spread on the table. I didn't want them to have to clean up a big mess. My phone was continually ringing, probably with people anxious to understand my cryptic message I had sent out. Soon they would know.

I stared at the knife for a long time, planning through all of my next actions so that I wouldn't waste any effort and could still try to contain the inevitable pool of life that would be coming from me. I looked out the window to my back yard. I wanted one of my last thoughts to be about the beauty of the trees and the setting sun instead of focusing completely on the task at hand. With a final sigh I grabbed the blade, preparing to gouge my arm deeply from wrist to elbow, hopefully bleeding out quickly. But that's when it happened.

A soft click as the door handle to our side door was twisted echoed through my mind, followed quickly by the sound of the hinges protesting the weight of the door as it swung open. Before I could do anything, my sister had come home. It was in that moment that everything broke down inside of me; my fear, my anger, my resolve, all of it. Looking at her pleadingly I could only utter one word before the sobbing began.

'Help....'

To give a bit of an introduction, my name is Spenser. I enjoy anything nerdy, reading, and imagining new worlds and ideas. And I am also Bipolar. Before jumping to conclusions, let me give some history on this matter.

When I was in Ninth grade, I was diagnosed as Bipolar. Like many, I did not fully understand what this meant and as such I would often be put on medications only to slowly "forget" to take them when I started feeling better. I always assumed that I was in complete control of my emotions. Sure, I would occasionally get mad and have explosive outbursts, but who doesn't? Yeah, sometimes I would be in go-mode for days, often getting little if any sleep during that time as I reorganized, cleaned, painted, drew, and a whole other host of activities I would do. And of course, for most of the time, I would simply want to curl up into a ball and forget the world like I had felt the world had forgotten me. But although I knew about it, I always brushed off Bipolar as an almost made up disorder the pharmaceutical companies made up so they could spread their chemical love over more of the population.

A series of unfortunate events led me to the moment above. I know I was responsible for the problems that overwhelmed me. Poor financial decisions, the sudden ending of a relationship with a woman I was ready to spend the rest of my life with, and not managing my condition all led up to this attempt at suicide. Yes, there were other attempts in the past. But as you notice, none of them were successful (thankfully).

I didn't realize it then, but this day would be a very big turning point in my life that would forever change who I was, who I am, and who I will be.

To those of you who are suffering: I know how hard things can be, and I have felt everything from the top of elation to the valleys of dispair. I may not personally know you, but I am here for you no matter what.

To those of you who are wanting to understand more: with this blog, I am hoping to explain what I went through while hospitalized as well as convey the lessons that I learned during and after that time. I will be explaining many of the nuances of the emotional rides and teaching how you truly can conquer anything.

But most of all, if there is one true message I want to really emphasize, it is this:

No matter how hard the circumstances, no matter what you are going through, your darkest hour will lead to your brightest day if you just hold on.