Brainbent

We're all mad here.

Posts tagged depression

26 notes

"My Hospital Expirience," heehee

Alright, hehe sorry, I don’t really know how i’m supposed to do this, so I guess i’ll start off with my formal diagnoses so that if people don’t want to hear about that stuff they can just scroll on by? My release form from the hospital says “Generalized Anxiety Disorder, Panic Disorder, Major Depressive Mood, Avoidant Personality Disorder, Self-Destructive/Suicidal Thoughts, Hyper Sensitivity due to Synesthesia” That’s…a bit long and scary sounding huh. ;3;

Okay so, I was on a very small dose of Zoloft for a long time that my doctor had prescribed to me because I couldn’t get in with a psychiatrist. And when I finally did, he was really worried because he wanted to change my medicine completely, but was afraid of how it might effect me, so I went to this nice place called Royal Oaks. I was there for nine days all together.

After my parents crying for hours and overall just a horrible experience, I got there at just around 8pm, which is when everyone went to sleep. They searched through all of my clothing, the paperback copy of Kidnapped, and the Scalemate my boyfriend made for me that I brought with me. In clothing, we were allowed no jaw-strings, hoods, zippers (unless they were on jeans), or under-wire in our bras. no bobby-pins, piercings had to be taken out, though they let you put fishing wire in so the holes wouldn’t close up. I had a friend with gauges who filled his holes up with rolled up paper towels. They also took away your shows until you were off restrictions; we would congratulate people who got their shoes back, though some people got really jealous.

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29 notes

Readercontrib via anonymous: In which someone posts their experiences with mental illness

If I like, I’d want to share my experience with chronic depression. Ironically it’s almost six years to the day that I managed to successfully hospitalize myself, though considering I had tried less urgent methods to gain the attention of the school social worker and, mainly, my mom, without success, it was time to do something.

I wasn’t a self-harmer or anything like that. I was trying my best to articulate what I was feeling to the social worker and she’d try to relay this message to mom. However, mom only thought I was being lazy, despite daily struggling to do all my homework just for the slightest show of appreciation from anyone. I had no friends. Or at least, no friends that didn’t take advantage of my passiveness. So the school social worker was really the only person I could turn to.

 

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173 notes

HOW DO I RELATIONSHIP WHAT IS COMMUNICATE

Part One => Sollux: Be D00med.

Part Two => Gamzee: Be distressed.

Part Three => Karkat: Worry.

Part Four => Sollux: Bake a Cake.

The drive back to St. Lobaf’s is cold and rainy and you are in mortal danger of falling asleep at the wheel. Dad 2 has the heater running on full blast, for one, and that combined with the lulling rhythm of the windshield wipers would normally be enough to send you swerving gently into the nearest ditch if it weren’t for the Lady Gaga song pumping through the speakers.

Your eyelids flutter as you grip the wheel and try to keep an eye out for deer. Everything is gray and flat and there’s a pinched, anxious feeling in your chest at the idea that in less than an hour it’s going to be dark out. Wasn’t it only a little while ago that sunset was at 8:00 and the weather wasn’t complete ass?

But that’s depression induced timesinks for you. Your brain couldn’t decide to work in May or July or something, no, it had to wake up just in time for winter to shit all over you.

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565,421 notes

coollikerinthetardis:

jordansjourneyto130:

This is the greatest thing I have ever seen. People do not understand that mental illnesses, such as depression, are actual chemical imbalances in your body. They are not brought on by choice. My dad was diagnosed with depression. He was so ashamed of it that he hid it from me and my brothers. A month later, he killed himself. The stigma that comes with mental illness made my Dad embarrassed to talk to his own kids about this problem because he felt like less of a man.
Erase the stigma. The more we talk about mental illness, the less likely it will end in suicide.

Please reblog.

rEALLY GOOD BILLBOARD, i LIKE THIS CAMPAIGN,

coollikerinthetardis:

jordansjourneyto130:

This is the greatest thing I have ever seen. People do not understand that mental illnesses, such as depression, are actual chemical imbalances in your body. They are not brought on by choice. My dad was diagnosed with depression. He was so ashamed of it that he hid it from me and my brothers. A month later, he killed himself. The stigma that comes with mental illness made my Dad embarrassed to talk to his own kids about this problem because he felt like less of a man.

Erase the stigma. The more we talk about mental illness, the less likely it will end in suicide.

Please reblog.

rEALLY GOOD BILLBOARD, i LIKE THIS CAMPAIGN,

(Source: losingthe-war, via jumpingjacktrash)

1,758 notes

jumpingjacktrash:

variablejabberwocky:

bogglelovesyou:

It makes me so sad when people talk about not having the right to feel depressed. That’s like saying you don’t have the right to have a broken leg.

“But I only slipped in a puddle! That girl over there fell out of a third storey window!”

Your leg is still broken! What does she have to do with you? Please get yourself to a doctor!

I am legit crying over this.

you don’t need to be depressed ‘about’ something, any more than you need to have the flu ‘about’ something. depression is an actual illness. your brain chemicals are fucked up.

everyone knows you can’t ‘get over’ leukemia by willing your bone marrow to generate more white blood cells, so why would you think you can ‘get over’ depression by willing your brain to lay off the serotonin reuptake or whatever? this is medical science here, folks, not a failure of character.

and i know how much it sucks to bum out your friends by being honest, but if you had the stomach flu would you feel you had to lie about it? if they were like ‘hey come out to eat with us’ would you be like ‘yeah great let’s go’ and then make up excuses for turning green when you smelled the food? no, because your friends understand that having the heaves is a real thing that you have to actually deal with.

so trust them to understand that depression is real too. have faith in them. even if the voice of depression is telling you to doubt them. faith is reaching out even when you’re not sure.

TA: yeah.

TA: everybody

TA: 2top what youre doiing

TA: and lii2ten two the owl.

TA: iit know2.

(Source: boggletheowl)

23 notes

Anonymous: im confused, when did sollux change his quirk?

TC: BrOtHeR wEnT aNd GoT hImSeLf MaD dEpReSsEd, Yo. :o( OnE a ThEm DoWnSwInGs WhErE hE gEtS aLl MuTtErIn To HiMsElF aNd CrYiN.

TC: I fIgUrE iT’s BeSt FoR mE tO jUsT bE sTaYiN oUt Of HiS wAy FoR nOw TiLl He CoMeS bAcK aRoUnD aGaIn. 

TC: If I wErE tO gEt My HoNeSt OpInIoN oN tHoUgH, i’D sAy Im GeTtIn KiNdA iMpAtIeNt. I mIsS tHaT mOtHeRfUcKeR. i WaNt My FrIeNd BaCk.

11 notes

Anonymous asked: Thank you all. You've created such a wonderful thing, and you continue to put your hearts into it while dealing with what sounds like trouble from the real world. That takes a lot of dedication and commitment, and I hope you know how much it's appreciated. (Also, you guys just helped me write a note to my mother about my depression. Considering how I've convinced myself not to do exactly that for several years, it's pretty impressive. I always thought my problems were no big deal. So thank you.)

{Aw man, anon, thank you. And GIANT KUDOS to you for writing that letter. You are incredible; that takes serious guts. I hope it helps and I wish you all the best.}

[HUG!!!]

<*fistbump* Congrats to you — it takes a lot of bravery to take that first step. I’m so proud of you.>

1,016 notes

On Going Public With Depression (CNN)

heysawbones:

psychotherapy:

By Kat Kinsman, CNN

I am 14 years old, it’s the middle of the afternoon, and I’m curled into a ball at the bottom of the stairs. I’ve intended to drag my uncooperative limbs upstairs to my dark disaster of a bedroom and sleep until everything hurts a little less, but my body and brain have simply drained down. I crumple into a bony, frizzy-haired heap on the gold shag rug, convinced that the only thing I have left to offer the world is the removal of my ugly presence from it, but at that moment, I’m too exhausted to do anything about it.

I sink into unconsciousness, mumbling over and over again, “I need help… I need help… I need help.” I’m too quiet. No one hears.

Several months, countless medical tests and many slept-through school days later, a diagnosis is dispensed, along with a bottle of thick, chalky pills. There is palpable relief from my physician and parents; nothing is physically wrong with me (thank God, not the cancer they’ve quietly feared) — likely just a bout of depression. While it helps a little to have a name for the sensation, I’m less enthralled with the diagnosis, because I know it will return. While this is the first time it’s manifested heavily enough for anyone else to see it, I’ve been slipping in and out of this dull gray sweater for as long as I can remember.

What doesn’t help at the time are the pills: clunky mid-1980s tricyclic antidepressants that seize up my bowels, cause my tongue to click from lack of moisture, and upon my return to school cause me to nearly pitch over a third-story railing from dizziness. I flush the rest and, mercifully, no one bothers me about it.

If they do, I probably don’t even notice; my brain is too occupied, thrumming with guilt, stupidity and embarrassment. Nothing is physically wrong. It’s all in your head. This ache, this low, this sickness, this sadness — they are of your making and there is no cure.

Now, 25 years later, I’ve lost too much time and too many people to feel any shame about the way my psyche is built. How from time to time, for no good reason, it drops a thick, dark jar over me to block out air and love and light, and keeps me at arm’s length from the people I love most.

The pain and ferocity of the bouts have never eased, but I’ve lived in my body long enough to know that while I’ll never “snap out of it,” at some point the glass will crack and I’ll be free to walk about in the world again. It happens every time, and I have developed a few tricks to remind myself of that as best I can when I’m buried deepest.

The thing that’s always saved me has been regular sessions with an excellent therapist and solidarity with other people battling the same gray monster (medication worked for me for a little while — I take nothing now, but it’s a lifesaver and a necessity for some). When I was diagnosed, it was not in an era of Depression Pride parades on the main street of my small Kentucky town. In 1987, less than one person in 100 was being treated for depression. That had doubled in 1997, and by 2007, the number had increased to slightly less than three.

My friend Dave was part of that tally. We met in our freshman year of college, and he was one of the loudest, funniest, most exuberant humans I’d ever met — and the most deeply depressed. Not that anyone outside our intimate circle knew; like many of us who live with the condition, he wore a brighter self in public to distract from the darkness that settled over him behind closed doors. Most people don’t see depression in others, and that’s by design. We depressives simply spirit ourselves away when we’ve dimmed so as not to stain those who live in the sun.

Dave saw it in me, though, and I in him; and for the first time in my life, I felt somewhat normal. Like I didn’t have to tap dance, sparkle and shine to distract from the fact that I was broken. I could just be me, and that wasn’t a half-bad thing in his eyes. I began to tell more people as plainly as I did other facts of my being — I was born in New Jersey, my real hair color under all this pink dye is very dark brown, and I’ve suffered from depression as long as I can remember. I’m Kat — nice to know you.

Dave never made it that far. His cracks were too deep and dark, and he poured so much vodka down into them to dilute the pain. A year after graduation, in the late summer of 1995, I was unsurprised but thoroughly gutted when I got the call — Dave had tidied his apartment, neatly laid out a note, his accounts and bills, next to checks from his balanced checkbook, and stepped into a closet with a belt.

I see Dave in little flashes all the time, still — hear his braying OHMYGAAWWWDD laugh around a corner and see his handsome gap-toothed smile in a crowd. I want to smack him full across the face for giving up and leaving us all, and I want to drag him to a computer and sit him down: Look — we’re not alone.

Dave was the first person I ever knew with Internet access. Among a million other things I wish he’d lived to see is the community of souls online, generously baring and sharing their depression struggles with strangers. There’s no substitute for quality therapy (in whatever flavor you take it) or medication (if that’s your cup of homeopathic tea), but by God, it’s hard to get there.

To see your feelings echoed and normalized in essays like comedian Rob Delaney’s much-forwarded “On Depression and Getting Help”; author Stephen Fry’s legendary letter to a fan, “It will be sunny one day”; the ongoing, public struggles of widely read bloggers and authors Dooce and The Bloggess; and guests of the no-edges-blunted WTF Podcast from comedian Marc Maron — all highly successful and public people — is to dare to let a crack of blue sky into the basement where you’ve been tucked away. I can barely imagine what it would have meant to my 14-year-old self to read Delaney’s words:

“The sole reason I’ve written this is so that someone who is depressed or knows someone who is depressed might see it. … But after having been through depression and having had the wonderful good fortune to help a couple of people who’ve been through it, I will say that as hard as it is, IT CAN BE SURVIVED. And after the stabilization process, which can be and often is f**king terrifying, a HAPPY PRODUCTIVE LIFE is possible and statistically likely. Get help. Don’t think. Get help.”

Or Fry’s:

“Here are some obvious things about the weather:
It’s real.
You can’t change it by wishing it away.
If it’s dark and rainy it really is dark and rainy and you can’t alter it.
It might be dark and rainy for two weeks in a row.
BUT
It will be sunny one day.
It isn’t under one’s control as to when the sun comes out, but come out it will.
One day.

It really is the same with one’s moods, I think. The wrong approach is to believe that they are illusions. They are real. Depression, anxiety, listlessness — these are as real as the weather — AND EQUALLY NOT UNDER ONE’S CONTROL. Not one’s fault.

BUT

They will pass: they really will.”

Dave will never see those words, or these, but someone will — including the 14-year-old me who still sometimes rides shotgun as I’m driving through a storm. I show her these words, these essays, these poems, these podcasts beamed out by the other souls who glitter out in the darkness. And I take her hand and lead her up the stairs.

These are my favorite posts, podcasts and essays on living with depression. Have another? Please share it in the comments below.

Rob Delaney - On Depression and Getting Help
Marc Maron and Todd Hanson - WTF Podcast
Kay Redfield Jamison - Acknowledging Depression
The Bloggess - The fight goes on
Dooce - Surrender
Stephen Fry - It will be sunny one day
David Foster Wallace - The Depressed Person
Rebecca O’Neal - The Depressive’s Guide to Comedy
Captain Awkward - The case for therapy
Katherine Sharpe - In Praise of Depression
Mooshinindy - The Depression Ones
Miss Banshee’s Inverse Candlelight — The Slip
William Styron - Darkness Visible
Hyperbole and a Half - Adventures in Depression

If you are depressed or have had thoughts of suicide, please seek help. Here are a few resources:

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline
National Alliance on Mental Illness
Depression and Bipolar Support Alliance
American Psychiatric Association

I wish this didn’t read like they were enthralled with the artsy spectre of depression, but it’s still a decent read, with some good links at the bottom.

(via jumpingjacktrash)

38 notes

Anonymous asked: KARKAT: I want to hug you so bad!!! GAH! STOP BEING SO ANGRY ALL THE TIME!PLEASE?

YOU KNOW WHAT HAPPENED TODAY?

THE WEEABOO CAT GIRL HAD A ROUGH SEAM IN HER SOCK AND THREW A SCREAMING FIT RIGHT THERE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE DINING AREA.

LALONDE’S WEIRDO COUSIN TRIED TO VISIT WITHOUT AN APPOINTMENT AND SHE TURNED UP FUCKING TIPSY SO THEY HAD TO KICK HER OUT.

THE CRAZY MOTORCYCLE CHICK GOT BUSTED TRYING TO FLUSH HER THONG COLLECTION DOWN A TOILET AND PUNCHED ZAHHAK IN THE NUTS.

CAPTOR WON’T GET OUT OF BED, WHICH MAKES TWO WEEKS OF UNMOLESTED “S” SOUNDS WITHIN EARSHOT, WHICH IS FOR SOME BIZARRE FUCKING REASON COMPLETELY DISTURBING.

OH YEAH, AND FERDINAND THE FAIRYBULL IS ALL FUCKED UP OVER HIS BOYFRIEND NOT BEING ABLE TO ROLL OUT AT THE PRIDE PARADE TOMORROW.

OH. AND THIS JUST IN? MY STEPDAD EMAILED BECAUSE HE WANTS TO KNOW IF THEY CAN USE MY ROOM TO STORE SHIT IN SINCE THEY CAN’T AFFORD A STORAGE UNIT BECAUSE THEY’RE PAYING FOR ME TO COOL MY HEELS IN THROBBING BRAIN INFECTION PARADISE AND BASICALLY DO FUCK-ALL WORTH REPORTING EXCEPT LEARN TO SHAVE AND ~MAKE FRIENDS~ LIKE A GODDAMN CARTOON CHARACTER.

ANGER? WHO NEEDS IT. I’LL START TO FEEL THAT FUCKIN’ SUNSHINE ANY MINUTE NOW.

191 notes

Karkat: Worry. (3/4)

It’s half an hour into art therapy and you’ve done nothing with your lump of modelling compound but poke holes into it with your forefinger. Art therapy is a waste of your time on the best of days, but at least on those days it’s a pleasant waste of time. Today, the clock just crawls; neither Sollux nor Gamzee are here, Egbert is huddled together with spiderbitch, Dave has a session with Dr. Tongue, Eridan is… Eridan, and the ladies are so busy with their own group project you’d feel weird butting in. 

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