I am so thankful for the people who read this blog.
Whether you follow my posts or have just dropped by once to read a single entry, I am blessed by you being here.
You give me a reason for living, an ear to listen to my voice. Through my hardest times and my beginning and continuing the journey through recovery, someone out there has been listening to me.
But even more important to me are some of the responses I've gotten to my stories here. I've been able to listen to other people vent about their life with BPD. I've heard from people who are searching for answers and guidance and beginning their own recovery. I FINALLY know that my own suffering has not been in vain, because people here have found strength and hope in my story. I can't honestly say that this has made it all worthwhile, like the cliche says, but its makes me feel worthwhile and somewhat whole. to know that my life reaches out across the world and touches others lives.
So, as I sit here and tell you how much you mean to me, it literally brings a tear to my eye as I feel so blessed to have shared my progress here, and will continue to do so.
So, you mean the WORLD to me!!!
And again, thank you for reading!
Monday, April 26, 2010
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Read my Story. Sign your Name. Make a Difference.
My journey of recovery from BPD was so close to not happening.
For years I suffered from the disorder and though I suspected I had it, I had no health insurance so no access to mental health services. At one point I began seeing a counselor at a family center, but the cost - even on the reduced fee scale - was such a burden on my finances I had to stop. At one point, when severely depressed and self-injuring, my sister took me to a crisis center and all I got was the runaround - a list of people who I needed to call...and when I called them I was simply referred to another person, who referred me somewhere else, and so on.
I suffered due to stigma as well. Not so much the stigma against mental illness - I knew I was sick and embraced that. I talked about it with my closest friends and family and although they did not know what to do to help me, they loved me through it. Yet I feared going to a doctor or counselor and saying "I think I have Borderline Personality Disorder." I thought for sure he/she would brush me off as a crazy person self-diagnosing by googling my symptoms or reading Wikipedia (I did both of those things, but also consulted a copy of the DSM-IV). In a way, that fear held me back from diagnosis and treatment.
My recovery began almost by accident, and almost did not happen at all. It actually began during a period of very good mental health. I was happy and stable when I developed a (painful!) kidney stone and went into the emergency room. Because I didn't have insurance, I asked the ER if they had some form of financial assistance. They got me the paperwork to apply for Medicaid, and though it a was taxing and very confusing process, I eventually was placed on a low-income County Health Plan.
Several months later, when I took a nosedive, I called the number of the Community Mental Health program listed in the book of covered services I got from the health plan. After a phone assessment (they assessed me for Bipolar because at the time I suspected I might have that), I was told I was not eligible for services under the plan, and was referred to two other counseling centers for help. I contacted both of those agencies; one told me they did not have a program for my possible condition (bipolar) and the cost at the other one was more than I could afford. I resigned myself to the inevitable: I would probably die from this disease.
Then something wonderful happened. I received a call from a counselor at Community Mental Health Center who had further reviewed my file and found that I was also on the Adult Benefits Waiver program, which entitled me to free services at center. (to this day, I have never received anything stating that I have this program or what it includes. I also don't know whether or not I am actually on Medicaid...the entire program is so confusing and unorganized). I set up an intake interview with this counselor and met with her a few days later. My recovery was about to begin.
That's a long story with one simple point: Though mental illness is more accepted and understood in our world today, access to recovery and services is still difficult and sometimes impossible for some suffering from it.
Which is why today I want to share the petition from "The Walk For Depression" They are attempting to gather signatures from 1 million people to push congress for more acceptance, more research, more services and better access to help.
Obviously, I support this 100%. As of today they have less than 2,000 signatures. In August several volunteers will walk 850 miles to gather more signatures and support. I have added my name to the list and hope that, after reading my story or living your own, you will sign too.
Sign here: http://www.walktowashington.org/sign-the-petition
For years I suffered from the disorder and though I suspected I had it, I had no health insurance so no access to mental health services. At one point I began seeing a counselor at a family center, but the cost - even on the reduced fee scale - was such a burden on my finances I had to stop. At one point, when severely depressed and self-injuring, my sister took me to a crisis center and all I got was the runaround - a list of people who I needed to call...and when I called them I was simply referred to another person, who referred me somewhere else, and so on.
I suffered due to stigma as well. Not so much the stigma against mental illness - I knew I was sick and embraced that. I talked about it with my closest friends and family and although they did not know what to do to help me, they loved me through it. Yet I feared going to a doctor or counselor and saying "I think I have Borderline Personality Disorder." I thought for sure he/she would brush me off as a crazy person self-diagnosing by googling my symptoms or reading Wikipedia (I did both of those things, but also consulted a copy of the DSM-IV). In a way, that fear held me back from diagnosis and treatment.
My recovery began almost by accident, and almost did not happen at all. It actually began during a period of very good mental health. I was happy and stable when I developed a (painful!) kidney stone and went into the emergency room. Because I didn't have insurance, I asked the ER if they had some form of financial assistance. They got me the paperwork to apply for Medicaid, and though it a was taxing and very confusing process, I eventually was placed on a low-income County Health Plan.
Several months later, when I took a nosedive, I called the number of the Community Mental Health program listed in the book of covered services I got from the health plan. After a phone assessment (they assessed me for Bipolar because at the time I suspected I might have that), I was told I was not eligible for services under the plan, and was referred to two other counseling centers for help. I contacted both of those agencies; one told me they did not have a program for my possible condition (bipolar) and the cost at the other one was more than I could afford. I resigned myself to the inevitable: I would probably die from this disease.
Then something wonderful happened. I received a call from a counselor at Community Mental Health Center who had further reviewed my file and found that I was also on the Adult Benefits Waiver program, which entitled me to free services at center. (to this day, I have never received anything stating that I have this program or what it includes. I also don't know whether or not I am actually on Medicaid...the entire program is so confusing and unorganized). I set up an intake interview with this counselor and met with her a few days later. My recovery was about to begin.
That's a long story with one simple point: Though mental illness is more accepted and understood in our world today, access to recovery and services is still difficult and sometimes impossible for some suffering from it.
Which is why today I want to share the petition from "The Walk For Depression" They are attempting to gather signatures from 1 million people to push congress for more acceptance, more research, more services and better access to help.
Obviously, I support this 100%. As of today they have less than 2,000 signatures. In August several volunteers will walk 850 miles to gather more signatures and support. I have added my name to the list and hope that, after reading my story or living your own, you will sign too.
Sign here: http://www.walktowashington.org/sign-the-petition
Sunday, April 18, 2010
A Sense of Hope
Was very heartened to get a comment on my last post from a reader who found my sense of hope "inspiring" and like to see my proactive approach to my condition. (thanks Stacy!) I worry sometimes - especially lately when I have been doing so well and am the closest to recovery that I've ever been - that people will find this blog to be saccharine and superficial. So it is good to hear that people in the world are finding some support and help in it.
When I started writing here in the fall of '09, I had just started my journey to recovery. I had just been diagnosed with BPD, although I has suspected it for a while and had displayed the symptoms for about 5 years. I'd been through so much before then, so much that I never shared anywhere, not even in my personal journals. The only record of those 5 hard years lies in my memory and a few small scars that never fully healed.
But when I started this blog, I was in a dark place again - I had limited functioning in the real world and barely left the house, let alone my bed. At my best times I was numbing my feelings with daily fast food binges and escaping reality with continually watching Grey's Anatomy DVDS; on my worst days I would take extra sleeping pills and a few shots of Vodka to lull myself into painless sleep.
I wanted to die, but knew I couldn't let that happen. The mental image of my family and friends at my funeral was frightening. So my only other option, if I wanted to survive (be it only to protect my loved ones from the pain of my death), was to fight.
So I did - I took that proactive approach; even though it seemed hopeless I did it anyway. I got evaluated and diagnosed. I started seeing my counselor regularly. Even though I had little faith that it would help, going to therapy and group sessions at the mental health center were comforting, they soothed me almost as much as eating or drinking. There were setback, such as the fact that the DBT group in my area was on hiatus. So I bought a DBT workbook and did DBT on my own with guidance from my therapist and discussions with others in group therapy. Often I had to push myself to do things I just didn't feel like doing, like simply leaving my room to go out into the real world. Going to therapy and group was taxing on days when I was simply exhausted, so I had to push myself. And each time I did, it got a little easier. My therapist always seemed so impressed with my ability to work so hard to recover. But she hadn't seen the years I'd spent not recovering. And besides, I didn't have a choice. It was fight or die.
Which brings me to today. I'm not recovered, but I'm better than I've been in years. I'm thinking clearly, making decisions, I'm less emotional and more level headed. I've learned how to deal with some of the major problems that have tripped me up and ruined my life in the past five years. More than that, I have actually written plans on how to deal with them - specific steps and strategies to followed when I feel lonely or scared or someone hurt me.
So overall I welcome the sense of hope that I have now. It's been hard-earned and long awaited. And for years I didn't think it was possible to feel this way. But I know now that was one of the lies that BPD tells you. I know now that there is hope.
When I started writing here in the fall of '09, I had just started my journey to recovery. I had just been diagnosed with BPD, although I has suspected it for a while and had displayed the symptoms for about 5 years. I'd been through so much before then, so much that I never shared anywhere, not even in my personal journals. The only record of those 5 hard years lies in my memory and a few small scars that never fully healed.
But when I started this blog, I was in a dark place again - I had limited functioning in the real world and barely left the house, let alone my bed. At my best times I was numbing my feelings with daily fast food binges and escaping reality with continually watching Grey's Anatomy DVDS; on my worst days I would take extra sleeping pills and a few shots of Vodka to lull myself into painless sleep.
I wanted to die, but knew I couldn't let that happen. The mental image of my family and friends at my funeral was frightening. So my only other option, if I wanted to survive (be it only to protect my loved ones from the pain of my death), was to fight.
So I did - I took that proactive approach; even though it seemed hopeless I did it anyway. I got evaluated and diagnosed. I started seeing my counselor regularly. Even though I had little faith that it would help, going to therapy and group sessions at the mental health center were comforting, they soothed me almost as much as eating or drinking. There were setback, such as the fact that the DBT group in my area was on hiatus. So I bought a DBT workbook and did DBT on my own with guidance from my therapist and discussions with others in group therapy. Often I had to push myself to do things I just didn't feel like doing, like simply leaving my room to go out into the real world. Going to therapy and group was taxing on days when I was simply exhausted, so I had to push myself. And each time I did, it got a little easier. My therapist always seemed so impressed with my ability to work so hard to recover. But she hadn't seen the years I'd spent not recovering. And besides, I didn't have a choice. It was fight or die.
Which brings me to today. I'm not recovered, but I'm better than I've been in years. I'm thinking clearly, making decisions, I'm less emotional and more level headed. I've learned how to deal with some of the major problems that have tripped me up and ruined my life in the past five years. More than that, I have actually written plans on how to deal with them - specific steps and strategies to followed when I feel lonely or scared or someone hurt me.
So overall I welcome the sense of hope that I have now. It's been hard-earned and long awaited. And for years I didn't think it was possible to feel this way. But I know now that was one of the lies that BPD tells you. I know now that there is hope.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
I Don't Want this Feeling to go Away
Lyrics | Jack Johnson lyrics - Upside Down lyrics
This time last year, I was talking daily walks through the woods around my house. Though I wasn't necessarily emotionally healthy, I was pretty happy. I had a lot of opportunities ahead of me and I was hopeful for the future. That was a good feeling.
But it wasn't too long before everything in my world fell apart, and like a person with BPD, I couldn't handle it I fell apart too.
I used to listen to this Jack Johnson song a lot on those walks, especially when I climbed to the top of the nearby hill and looked down at the world. And as I walked that hill today listening to the same song, I realized I feel just as happy and hopeful now, one year later.
But in the past year so much has changed. I've been officially diagnosed with BPD, gone through a year of therapy and finished a DBT course. I have a plan for handling the ups and down of the future that I am looking at, a future that in the past year has gone from hopeful, to nonexistent, to possible once again. And I am looking forward to living the future and continuing to heal from BPD.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
