Where I Belong

I’ve stared at the blank screen for days now and the words I want to write still won’t resonate on the screen. The right words are in my head, but for some reason, I can’t seem to type them.

My second college term is officially complete, but in my psychology class a couple of weeks ago, we talked about where we belong in the world. All of my classmates were answering without hesitation. Some answered church or other group, others with their best friend, children, husbands, and wives.

I couldn’t answer. I honestly have no idea where I belong.

Yes, I have my dog, I know, but it still gets lonely since he can’t talk. I don’t have any friends that I talk to regularly or hang out with. I feel like a complete outcast in my family, both immediate and extended. I don’t belong to a church anymore. Even when I went to church, I didn’t belong.

I know this looks like I am begging for sympathy, but that is far from the truth. I don’t need attention. In fact, I hate it.

Where do I belong? Where can I feel like I’m not completely worthless? I don’t belong at home, at church, at school, even online. I try to talk to people on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, even on Xbox Live, and I get nothing. I don’t have a husband or kids. I just truly do not belong anywhere.

I never knew I was having this problem until that particular class a couple of weeks ago. Being a psychology major has opened my eyes to so many problems within myself that I never knew I had. I never really realized that I had them, so I’ve never talked to a therapist about them. But now I can work on fixing them.

So, positive? I know I have this problem of unbelonging so I can hopefully fix it.

Negative? The problem itself.

What about you? Where do you belong?

We’re Not Crazy!

cra·zy

ˈkrāzē/

informal

adjective

1. mentally deranged, especially as manifested in a wild or aggressive way.

I hate the word crazy when it comes to mental health. It’s the epitome of mental health stigma. People believe that just because someone has a mental illness, that they are “crazy and will kill someone.” While obviously that has happened in the past, it doesn’t ring true for a lot of the mental health community.

Most people that suffer from a mental illness, like myself, do not want to hurt or harm others. I can’t speak for others on some of this, but for me, the only person I’ve ever thought about harming was myself

I’ve been asked (indirectly, might I add) to stop working with children at my church because of my mental illness. I’ve been called many names, including “batsh*t crazy.” I’ve been stigmatized, and I admit: I don’t know how to handle it.

I try to put it in the back of my mind, but it always makes it way back to the front. I try to play it off like it didn’t or doesn’t bother me, but it always did and continues to.

Depression is such a nightmare. Not even just depression, though. Every single mental illness diagnosis in the world is a 100% NIGHTMARE.

Last year when I was talking to my doctor, I told him what was going on with me and then told him, “I hate the word crazy, but I know I sound crazy when I tell you all of what’s going on with me.” He then proceeded to tell me, “You’re not crazy. You’re a regular, normal person who is going through a hard time.” That hit me like a brick wall and I’ll never forget it.

I remember walking out of his office trying not to cry because I hate crying in front of people. But when I got to the car, I let it out. Here was someone who I had just met only a month or two prior to that visit that didn’t think I was full blown crazy. 

People I had known for years or all my life called me crazy, but not Dr. B. He showed empathy. I’ll never forget what he said to me. I remember even telling my mom what he said and after a few seconds of silence, she said, “Wow.” Neither of us knew how to handle it. I had never heard such a kind, gentle statement made to me about my mental illness.

I’m not crazy. We’re not crazy. We’re humans with a problem invisible to the blind eye. But we need help just like someone with cancer needs help. Obviously different kinds of help. But both are invisible. Stop treating us like we’re not human.

We’re not crazy.

Stronger Than A Lion

Depression is a demon. It lives inside of us. Sometimes it’s sedentary, but when it’s awake, it holds a death grip on us. A chokehold.

Is there any way to get it to truly let go?

True, medicine helps. But we have to stand strong. We have to get up, look it in the face, and say, “You hit like a punk.”

We don’t run away. We stand up to it and spit in its face!

You’re saying to yourself, “But what if I can’t?”

You can. You’ve done it before because you’re still here. You’re alive. You’ve beat it. You can do it again. You’ve made it so far and I’m so proud of you!

Keep fighting. Keep staying strong.

You take the hits, but you’re not defeated. You’re not weak. You’re stronger than a lion. Get up and fight back! Get up and stand strong!

You can do this. We can do this.

We are an army. We are warriors.

Depression is our enemy, and it’s strong, but together, we’re stronger.

Stay strong. Put on your armor.

Let’s fight.