Tag: resilience

Mental Health stories of courage and resilience Part 3

Y is for the true You inside

Welcome to part 3 of the Mental Health stories that are part of the memories I carry with me. This mini-series resulted from the April 2018 A to Z writing Challenge. If you’d like, you can go back to part 1 and start at the beginning.   Again at the end of the post, I will add a couple of links to provide resources for additional information. 

At some point, my life path crossed with those of the individuals that I write about this week. These are not stories of magic wands and happy endings but of audacity and survival. I may not know all the details of their lives, but I cherish the snapshots they left behind. They remind me that, at the core, we all have our “you,” our essence that makes us who we are. In these posts I will tell you about two women; their stories are very similar, but each one of us is unique in the way we face our challenges or our demons. 

Della Mae and Margaret had a lot in common. I met both women when they were around middle-aged. They both were married once; both had children they did not raise. They had experienced multiple long-term hospitalizations in the wards of state mental hospitals in the 1960’s and 70s – before patient rights and deinstitutionalization. They both carried the dual diagnosis of Bipolar Disorder and Substance Abuse. Their Bipolar Disorder was with manic episodes, and their substance of choice was alcohol. Alcohol abuse is common among persons who try self-medicate and manage their symptoms without professional help; it’s socially acceptable, legal and at least initially slows the racing thoughts.

Della Mae was born and raised in the South. She met her husband shortly after high school while he was stationed at a military base near her hometown. They were married and moved North. Together they started a family and a business. She helped with the secretarial and administrative duties at the company for many years. Eventually, they were divorced; he had custody of the children – a boy and a child.

I met Della Mae as part of discharge planning from the state hospital. She was familiar with the system. She had been to various state-run hospitals since her first “break” decades ago. She didn’t talk about past; it was not necessary in order to make plans for the future. She was angry at herself and the world because she had gambled with life and lost it all – again. As she walked through the gray metal doors upon discharge, she squared her shoulders and held her head high carrying all her worldly possessions in one shopping bag.

Della Mae went to live in a small supported housing apartment with another woman, also making her way back to the community after a lengthy hospital stay. Staff was onsite but not in the unit. She started volunteering, eventually obtained a part-time job at a local non-profit and bought a used car. Because of her age, she was able to get on a waitlist for Affordable Housing for seniors. At first, she was reluctant. She did not want to be living with “old busybodies,” but soon realized age was an advantage because general subsidized housing vouchers had a ten-year waitlist. She had her own apartment in a little over a year.

Things were stable for Della Mae. She had not required a psychiatric hospitalization for several years. I was meeting with her less frequently. Her daughter Kara, now an adult, started coming over for visits. One day Della Mae called me to move up her appointment, she needed to talk. We went for coffee at a small quiet shop near her apartment because her daughter had stayed with her and was taking a nap.

As soon as we sat down, Della Mae told me she had started decreasing her medications. She had not told her doctor yet, but she had made up her mind. It was her right to refuse treatment. She explained that on her medication, she felt numb. Things were going on in her life and her daughter’s that merited some kind of reaction, but she could not feel a thing, not sadness, nor rage, not even joy at reuniting with her daughter.

Della Mae and I talked about the risks, but she knew all about it. This was not her first rodeo. We scheduled an appointment with her doctor and therapist to review her Safety and Crisis Plan to try to mitigate the risks. No, she didn’t want her daughter involved. We talked about that point of no return where nothing was going to stop the snowball effect in her life. Even though her history told a different story, she believed that if she remained sober, she could make it work. This was her life, and she was in charge.

As it turned out, her daughter had also been diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder. Della Mae’s rage and sadness were from not being able to protect her daughter from that. Kara had left her father’s house to stay with Della Mae, but that jeopardized the subsidy at the elder housing complex. Della Mae could not ask her daughter to leave, and that’s where the snowball started for both of them. The stress and conflict around the housing situation proved to be what tipped the scale. Eventually, Kara was also referred for supportive community services, and they both began to restore what they had lost.

There are plenty of people who are able to rebuild their lives without community supports, but I am telling the stories from my experience. I found that in the absence of a robust natural support system these dedicated professionals have helped countless individuals fight stigma and get back to a life worth living.

Please check out the links below for additional information for family supports as well. Many times family and friends want to help but don’t know how. There is also information about Peer support groups and peer mentoring programs. No one has to do this alone.

SAMSHA (Substance Abuse and Mental Health Service Administration) at https://www.samhsa.gov/
NAMI (National Alliance on Mental Illness (a grassroots organization run by families and consumers) https://www.nami.org/About-NAMI

Mental Health stories of courage and resilience Part 2

 

Y is for the true You inside

A few days ago, while participating in the April 2018 A to Z challenge, I wrote a post about  The fun side of living on the edge of reality.  It was about the silliness of letting my imagination run away. I imagine it’s a trait common among those of us who like to write.  My theme for the challenge was to tell the stories that marked my simple life; the memories of those moments are in my mind like snapshots.  After I wrote the post, I felt the need write the stories of those who struggle with harsh realities, yet find a reason to get up every morning and do their best to make it a great day. For the next few days, in honor of Mental Health Awareness Month in May, I am telling their stories.  Once again, at the end of the post, I will put links to resources for additional information.

Imagine 

Joy of graduation
Imagine you are a high school senior or college freshman

Imagine for a moment that you are a high school senior or a freshman in college. You ’ve been a straight A student, involved in sports programs and volunteering.  You’ve done everything right. Just last month you were told that it’s a great thing to have your whole life ahead of you.  The world is your oyster, the sky is the limit, and yet here you are, sitting in with your parents in a psychiatric ward waiting to talk to your hospital team about discharge planning. You have been handed a diagnosis something like Paranoid Schizophrenia or Bipolar Disorder.  You’re a smart kid, intellectually you understand the information, but it doesn’t make sense.  You can’t return to school; you need extended treatment in an outpatient day program.  You may need to pack your things and move out of your dorm, mid-semester to a therapeutic residential program in your community.  You don’t remember how you got here.  You’ve heard the stories, you’ve been given a diagnosis, but you can’t believe this is happening to you. 

Mental health services and the Government

For the most part, I loved my job. I found it meaningful. I believe it addressed a need in our community especially for the families and individuals we served. Even though we were just another branch of government, I felt we were doing great work moving forward to try new ideas in the interest of improving the system for our clients.  As it happens sometimes, I was promoted to long days of sitting behind a desk with a mountain of paperwork while trying to interact with the bureaucracy. I missed being out in the field, but I was fortunate enough to work with a team of intelligent, well trained and compassionate professionals who were driven to provide the best services for their clients on the road to recovery.   Together, in weekly sessions, we did a lot of brainstorming and problem solving to address the individual needs of the clients.

During this particular time, our emphasis was to work towards helping clients break the revolving-door cycle.  In particular, we had begun paying close attention to the unique issues of the transitional age and young adult population.  These individuals ranged in age from 16 to 24 years old.  In some cases, we were able to expand age limitations to 30 years old. We sponsored supportive education and employment initiatives, peer mentoring and independent living in the least restrictive settings.  We wanted to offer user-friendly alternatives to interrupted lives.   That is how I had come to know about Mike.

Mike –carrying the stigma of an ex-patient

Mike had come to us after his second or third psychiatric hospitalization at a local hospital.  He was in his late 20’s, almost out of age range for our new menu of services.  He was bright, hardworking but was having a hard time adjusting to his life as an ex-patient of a mental hospital mainly because of anxiety about the stigma it carries. Who was he now?  He had been living with his uncle and family for many years.  Upon discharge had returned to work at the family business but symptoms of his anxiety, OCD, and depressed mood caused persistent and unrealistic worry. At times increase in symptoms became full panic attacks and physical immobility.   His case manager thought he would flourish with a young adult support system and advocated strongly for a spot.

I met Mike for the first time at the office when he came looking for his case manager who was out on appointments.  He asked to speak to me because he felt that being with anyone who understood his struggles would help to lessen his anxiety during this episode. He had just had a falling out with his cousin who was supervising his work on a project.  His cousin felt he was too slow and taking too long to get the job done.  He was feeling overwhelmed and worried what his family would think.  He worried that the incident would be a setback in his recovery plan.  We reviewed his Recovery Plan and the Safety Plan that he had worked on with his therapist and case manager for these very same situations.   

“You know what I wish?”

He told me he felt he was on shaky ground with his family since his hospitalization.  He said he knew they saw him differently.  “They think I’m lazy; they don’t realize what a struggle it is for me to get up and face the day each morning.” He didn’t feel he could address it because he believed they would mock him.  Whether it was true or not, I can’t say, but that was his perception.  We talked about how unrealistic expectations and perceptions could present a barrier to recovery. 

He was sad and angry.  On the one hand, he explained people see a good looking young man who appeared smart, secure, physically fit and “put together” as if there was nothing wrong.  But the reality he said is that he can’t manage his fears and anxiety without support and medications.  He sat quietly for a moment; shoulders slumped as he stared at his hands resting on the desk.  He took a deep breath and with a surge of energy, leaned in on the desk to look me straight in the face. “You know what I wish sometimes? I wish that I would have lost a leg or an arm or have some form of disfigurement in my face or body.  I wish that I looked disabled. Then people would be more empathetic and realize that I am living with something catastrophic.”  

It wasn’t self-pity, he was stating the obvious.  I had heard it before verbalized in different ways.  Anxiety disorder and depression are sometimes referred to as a silent epidemic.  However, in our society, it is often misunderstood, and its effects minimized, precisely because patients do not appear as if there is something wrong with them.  They don’t fit the stereotype of “mental patient.” 

Mike did eventually move out of the family home and into his own apartment with minimal supports.  He enrolled at the local community college and began to think about becoming a peer mentor.  The road to recovery with mental health issues varies for each person, as life does for all of us in general.  Sometimes for every step forward, there are two steps backward, but the key is to keep going.  

If you would like more information about mental health services in your area, please check out these links below.

SAMSHA (Substance Abuse and Mental Health Service Administration) at  https://www.samhsa.gov/

NAMI (National Alliance on Mental Illness (a grassroots organization run by families and consumers) https://www.nami.org/About-NAMI

 

Mental Health Stories of courage and resilience Part 1

A to Z challenge and the letter Y

A few days ago I wrote a whimsical post about the fun side of living on the edge of reality. As I wrote that post, I made a promise to myself and to the ghosts of past clients, that I would tell their stories of courage, resilience, and survival. I knew just where to put it. I was working on the April 2018 A to Z Challenge and I worked on the story while waiting for the letter “Y” because Y is for The You Inside and I haven’t forgotten. Because these are the stories of real people, I wanted to take time and be true to them. I will post each story as a different part this week.  I also decided to hold the post a few days because, since 1949, May has been Mental Health Awareness Month. This year Mental Health Awareness Week is May 14-20, 2018.

Case Manager Vs. Life Coach

In a previous life, I was hired by the Department of Mental Health to join an army of professionals and para-professionals. We were tasked with providing community services for persons with recurring and persistent mental illness as the push for deinstitutionalization continued from the previous decade. New medications were addressing the symptoms of their illness and we were going to help them return to their communities to find a “life worth living”. I was a Case Manager. Actually, I considered myself more of a Life Coach; I was ahead of my time. I can fill my days simply writing the stories of the men and women I’ve met. Instead, I will tell you of the snapshots that jump from my memory when I see the news or hear the debate about affordable healthcare.

For some reason, she wanted to die.

Time and again, I remember the day one of “the new girls” ran to our apartment crying and looking for my mother. They needed help because their mother had just eaten some rat poison. For some reason, she wanted to die. Days later, I accompanied my mother to visit the neighbor in the psychiatric ward. I didn’t remember seeing her before that day; she looked like death warmed over. We caught a glimpse of others on the ward; they looked the same, pale gray figures, walking in circles. It was scary. I was a just beginning my teens, it was the late 1960s.

Anne

I met Anne when she was in her late thirties. She had been a clerk for IRS when she had her first major “break down”. She had become angry and the police took her away. She was a tall, woman with a large build. Her short blonde hair was starting to turn gray and she glared at me with powder blue eyes. She explained that she had been angry because no one believed her story that the Mayor had raped her when she was a child playing with his daughter. We worked together for several years after that meeting and I learned her perpetual glare was more a sign of fear than defiance. She lived in fear, never knowing when “the cops would show up and haul her away for no reason.”

It was the mid-1980s. She had a long history of psychiatric hospitalizations precipitated by psychotic thinking and consequent irrational, uncontrollable anger; this was common jargon in hospital records back then. Her mother couldn’t confirm her rape story. No one bothered to corroborate it because it was considered a symptom of her illness. She carried the diagnosis of Paranoid Schizophrenia. She told me she had stopped her meds often because she didn’t like how they made her feel; she felt no need to elaborate. Anne had been discharged on an injectable medication to assure compliance. She agreed to move into a group home to increase her independent living skills. It was my job to get her an apartment in the community and provide support to get her out of the revolving door that kept her in and out of hospitals. Needless to say that it all sounded so much better on paper.

In our society, social drinking of alcohol is quite acceptable. Some people say it takes the edge off and they can relax. They feel more social. Unfortunately, we all know folks who are better off when they don’t drink at all. One particular year, things were going well for Anne. She had her own apartment in a nice part of town and had made friends with some neighbors who were not associated with her life as an ex-patient.  Sometimes, they would all go out to listen to a band and have a good time.

Y is for the true You inside

Anne and I would talk about how to stay safe in the city and about the risks associated with mixing alcohol and meds especially an injectable medication. Part of my job, of course, was to point out all she had achieved while on the prescribed medication. I don’t remember the exact conversation or the words I used but I do remember something I said caused her to stand up and stared down at me with her powder blue eyes, holding back her tears “you don’t understand do you? You never will. Those medications take away my YOU. THAT’s who I really am. Who I’ve been from the day I was born. It’s my dreams, who I want to be. It’s MY reality. The one on the medications, that’s not me. The one everyone says is doing soo well”, she added with a touch of sarcasm, “She is a product of the meds.”

Irrational thinking starting to sound rational

She went on to ask questions like who determines what’s irrational. Who determines what right and wrong, what is true or not? And then she started telling me that no one knows that Bill Clinton comes to visit her and loves her. She explained that they had to let Hillary stand next to Bill in her place in the news because she looks better for the TV cameras. A part of me could rationally understand what she was saying about her dreams and her meds.  I can’t begin to explain, however, what it feels like to watch someone lose their grasp on reality, know where it’s heading and feel powerless to stop it. It was her right to drink socially as it was her right to refuse medication and treatment. I’ll try to touch on the laws surrounding this in one of my other posts.
It was months before she ended up in the hospital again. Yes, the police were involved.

It was another few months before she was ready to go home again. Fortunately, we were able to save her apartment and she didn’t have to start at the beginning again, even so, it wasn’t easy to return to that place. Eventually, we found another apartment and she found another group of friends. I don’t know if she ever made peace with her You and her medications, but she certainly gave me an education that I could never repay.

Resources

You can find many more stories, resources to find services or general information for consumers and their families at the following sites:
SAMSHA (Substance Abuse and Mental Health Service Administration) at https://www.samhsa.gov/
NAMI (National Alliance on Mental Illness (a grassroots organization run by families and consumers) https://www.nami.org/About-NAMI

Please look out for my other posts related to this topic.

AtoZ Challenge – oh, BEHAVE

Blog challengea2z-h-small.

Here I sit on my second day at the challenge. I realize other members have very clear goals for their themes, but because I was living in the moment, I jumped in without thinking it through. So far I’ve started to think about the next theme B, as soon as I posted the first letter A – ABOUT. This morning I started to write about BEING: Existence. In keeping with my mantra of keeping it simple, I chose the definitions from Oxford Dictionaries. These include being alive, living and my favorite – the nature or essence of a person. This “essence” is really who we are; it’s the spark, it’s what makes us act the way we do depending on the circumstance. It’s what stirs inside when we are excited and hopeful or feels like a lead brick in our stomach when we get bad news.

I was just getting warmed up on this topic, or maybe I saw it was eventually heading towards that other B-word – Boring when a thought crossed my mind “Oh behave!”. It was Austen Powers in my head. True, I didn’t want to get all deep and philosophical about my existence. Getting all straight-laced, proper and preachy is easy. I decided instead to switch topic because as the oldest child, it seemed that “oh behave!” was all I heard from my mom.

I suppose she thought my being alive had a particular purpose. She reminded me to be a good girl, to get good grades, to stop whining or being mouthy or whatever because I needed to be an example for my younger siblings. To be fair, it certainly wasn’t the only thing I heard, my mom was pretty cool, and because I loved her, when I was home, I behaved, the way she wanted for her higher purpose.

Now and then I needed to take off my nerd hat and shake out my uncontrollable hair. Not that I was a wild thing or at least I never really thought myself in that way, but the other day in my memorabilia box I found a note. The note is probably 50 years old. It was from one of my best friends in high school, and it appears that she passed it to me when we crossed in the hallway during a change of class. In her note, she said she had to talk to me in person about something urgent. To which she added,” I know you’ll understand, I’ve seen your crazy side, I don’t think many people have, but I know ….”. I’m not one of those people who need a little “something, something” to get the party started but she was a quiet and serious girl; any number of fun things may have felt crazy to her. We loosely stay in touch through social media now, but I didn’t contact her to see if she remembered what that was all about.  I wonder if she’s learned to get “crazy”.

I am fully aware that I still I have a “crazy side.” I have great fun with friends and family, but mostly I keep it contained until I’m with my granddaughters or my grand nieces and nephews. Sometimes I hear “oh behave, Mom!” from behind my daughter’s stern grin. I enjoy the payback though. It doesn’t take much; a silly walk, a funny face or changing the words to a favorite song as you are singing as loud as you can. I love when we all get to that place where our bellies ache from laughing.

Enjoying those moments is the essence of my being, of my existence. When I’m feeling out of sorts and not very jolly, I seek out chances to laugh or even scavenge for some giggles. I try not to let the well run dry because that’s how I manage to keep it together. These are the memories that I summon up when I need enough energy to climb uphill or swim against the current.

How do you do it? What is the essence of you?

A to Z challenge – About

Blog challengea2z-h-small.

Today, as I’ve started to feel human after a terrible allergic episode, I’m trying to engage in the A to Z Challenge that I signed up for last month. I’ve decided to keep it simple and start the Challenge with ABOUT and perhaps try to explain why I’ve decided to write a blog that seems to be about me.

I had been writing a blog with a running title of “Self-Censored/ A blog about me. Verbal snapshots of a simple life”. The other day I was discussing my blog with someone who asked, “why would you write a blog about yourself, it’s not like you are someone famous … You need to write about something that your reader will value and come back for …”. These were good points, so I took the information and filed it in my brain under “THINGS TO PONDER.”  Here I am, trying to ponder as I participate in the A to Z challenge.  Please join me.

Over the past few months, I finally had the chance to go through boxes of old photos and family memorabilia – which is probably why my allergies are out of control. The treasures I found prompted me to contact some people and take an opportunity to sit and talk. Some of these folks I’ve known all my life, some all of theirs, and others for at least a couple of decades. A constant theme in these conversations has been what was going on beyond the photo, beyond the eye of the camera.

It was in those memories that we learned things about each other that were hidden in plain sight. For example – who knew that you sang and played guitar on stage at a coffee house in New York City when you were in college? Or that you had looked up who Ty Cobb was and were proud to be part of the team, wear your uniform and play at those little league games that your Dad dragged you to each weekend. Who knew you didn’t really get lost on the subway that day when everyone was so worried – instead, you had a crazy adventure with friends. Who knew you stepped up to take care of the family dog and neighborhood strays when your older sister went off to college? Who knew that at age ten you already knew how to make something beautiful out of repurposed materials? Who knew that you always wanted to play the clarinet but when it was your turn to chose, the trumpet was the only instrument left, and yet you thoroughly enjoyed jammin’ with the band? Who knew all these things, these little sparks, you would carry in your heart alone until the time was right to shine?

I want my reader to feel a smile creep across the face as he or she joins me in the memory. Do you remember walking out of the comfort zone and then feeling ecstatic and relieved all at once. What a feeling to know you survived – you did it, and you enjoyed it! What if you haven’t yet? Well, why not. Tomorrow is another opportunity. What if you don’t have an experience readily available in your toolbox? I’m hoping you can borrow the energy from one of the stories I share.

I worked in a state-run system of human services for many years where I provided rehabilitative and supportive counseling for countless clients. Some didn’t have much of an opportunity to make happy memories, but somehow they knew there was something better, and that’s what kept them going. Some folks, knowing that they had nothing more to lose, took more chances. The strength and resilience I saw in these people were a blessing to my own life.

Those are the kind of stories I want to share – true stories of simple everyday people, putting one foot in front of the other walking the path before us. Few of us can skate through life on Easy Street. Most of us will follow the scenic route with all its twists and turns. Let’s take plenty “snapshots”.