Suicidal thoughts, a faulty system, and societal shaming, oh my: why getting help is easier said than done.

If you’re reading this on your phone, I suggest turning it on its side and reading it that way because it looks better and is much more palatable.

I know I already posted the interview today but I saw this article and had to link to it because I have been seeing a lot of people echo this in regards to their personal experiences and I think we don’t discuss it enough as a society. It seems as if we always have enough energy and time to make simplistic statements about how suicide is 4.pnga “permanent solution to a temporary problem” and those struggling with suicidal ideation simply need to “get help” as if there is some infallible checklist and, if they just complete it, they won’t commit suicide.

I think about suicide, a lot, and I think the reason people are eager to write it off with a simple fix-all suggestion but don’t have the same attention and interest in taking an honest look at the state of mental health in our society, is the same thing I have realized in a dragged-out, exhaustive few years of trying to help myself and get help for suicidal ideation: suicide is such a complicated thing and trying to understand it requires going down the rabbit hole. There you find yourself caught in an overwhelming, chaotic Wonderland that unsews the fabric of your mind and resews it asymmetrically.

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While I do enjoy the concept of Wonderland, I can appreciate why people prefer the simple reasoning of “if a person feels suicidal, then he just has to do this and he won’t be suicidal anymore” to a world that turns all of that reasoning upside down and inside out to the point you can’t form any definitive opinions on it–because there are no set logical rules that govern suicidal ideation. You have to be really comfortable with ambiguity and willing to accept the dissatisfaction of not being able to write out a solution and file it away as a job well done–or you just have to experience suicidal thoughts and what it is like to try to do anything about them.

This article is important and I think you should read it so I won’t go further than my personal experience because I could ramble and turn this over in my mind a hundred times today, which I probably will. But what I will say is that my experience corroborates the questions and argument Sarah Schuster is making. All aspects of my life–in terms of getting an advanced education, being an athlete all through college, exercising, taking medication regularly–fit the description of things people say you can do to ward off mental illness. I did them and enjoyed it–and they didn’t work. They don’t magically ward off depression like some silver bullet because suicide is so much bigger than what my extracurriculars were in high school and college, what is on my resume now, or what I do on the weekends. We sell these easier narrative that mental illness is the fault of the individual–they aren’t self-disciplined enough, they are snowflakes, dramatic, all of things that give society a pass from seeing this really pervasive and severe thing that drastically affects people’s lives. But time and time again we see depression doesn’t discriminate and you can try to avoid it, and some people succeed, but you choose it no more than you’d choose to be born into a violent home. It’s just there and it’s all you’ve ever seen and it gets a bracingly strong grip on you before you get the chance to choose.

I have an extensive history of trauma. I started showing mental health symptoms in college when it just felt like my legs were cut out from under me. Suddenly the way I had metaphorically walked in my life had to be entirely different. The way I experienced the world and my vantage point was entirely different. And the problem was, like most people who experience mental illness, I didn’t have any background in that and had no idea how to fix myself. I kept trying to will myself to be able to do everything like I always had, to be this well-rounded and just very capable and whole person, all while being certain I had never actually been that person. So I would promise people things and take on responsibilities I believed I could manage–because I had been able to do it my entire life and because I so passionately wanted to. And I still haven’t found an answer to that.

I have a really, really strong passion for life and certain things. When I get glimpses of my actual self between episodes of mental illness, I burn with and emit heat, passion, and enthusiasm for the things that are important to me. But it doesn’t matter how much you love the water and how much experience you have boating or how much you want to embrace the blessing of wind and sail–if there is a substantial hole in your schooner, you’re not going to get very far. Depression is my hole. It is the hole in which I hide and this spiritual, mental, and emotional puncture from which all of the effort, energy, will, belief, and passion I want to channel towards things sometimes leaks and other times pours. And I have tried a lot of ways to fix that hole. And sometimes, if I am lucky, I can repair it just long enough to believe the sinking is behind me and to get a taste of what it feels like to sail on a gorgeous, windy day. But my mental illness is acid; give it time and it will erode or eat or find some way to destroy any repair.

So in spite of the fact that I was about to complete my second master’s degree and third degree in the eight years since I had graduated high school, one day when I was on my way to my graduate assistantship, I needed to abruptly find somewhere to pull over on a 3side street like you do when somebody is about to vomit in your car. I put my head against the steering wheel and felt as if somebody kicked me in the gut and was squeezing my heart so hard I thought I’d burst, ear drums and all. All along, the part of me that doesn’t fit the stereotype of depression was sitting on my shoulder telling me to calm down (because of course it would be so easy from her worldview). I tried to make reason outweigh the physical sensations telling me I was standing in a pit as all of the pillars I had tried to build in my life crashed deafeningly down into a heap of ruin.

I tried to call my ex and he was at work so he didn’t answer. So I called my mom who was with my cousin, five hours away in my hometown. They were having lunch and she answered the phone with a laugh in her voice and said, “hey baby!” which is what she calls me when she’s feeling good because I’m the second and youngest child. Because I feel so much pressure to carry out this facade that I don’t need anything and have it together in a family where it has been common for my brother and cousins to drop out of high school, I wasn’t and still do not tell my family how much I struggle because I don’t want to burden them or wallow in the privilege I have accrued since I went to college, making my problems seem laughable and weak in comparison to their own.

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This is the work of artist Camille Rose Garcia, the illustrator for a new edition of Alice in Wonderland published by HarperCollins.

Needless to say, she was not expecting that call. I put my head against the cracked steering wheel of my car and I sobbed and hyperventilated, not being able to determine what my next step should be so I could get back to work and be functional like everybody else. It felt as if there was some bacteria rapidly eating away at my brain. If you asked me to tell you where the epicenter of that bacteria is, I could without hesitation point to the part of my head where I swear I can physically feel it at times. Somehow–and I can’t remember how–I managed to call the campus psychiatrist I had been seeing for months and make an emergency appointment. Surprised to see me in that raw of a state, he told me I needed to skip my evening class, in spite of the fact that I had a group presentation, and go to the emergency room immediately. I agreed to go but said I didn’t want to abandon my group so first I was able to give them my materials for the presentation’s activity and what they needed to be able to do the presentation without me, all with a suffocating heap of regret, guilt, and shame.

Then I went to the hospital where I sat from 5pm to 4am and was seen by a doctor who, clearly, had to stop more immediate problems like actual bleeding, and emptily asked if I had a plan and all of your basic suicide checklist questions. Then a social worker who was equally professional and distant came in and talked to me about how I was doing, if I had calmed down, what was upsetting me and my plans for going home, getting a good night’s rest, accepting where I was and beginning to rebuild from there. By this time, ashamed and feeling as if I should, I gave them the lighter versions of where I was emotionally. I had tried to convey how seriously and painfully this situation was hitting me but when their concern did not seem to match the intensity of my belief that I was better off dead and just needed to actualize the inevitable, I resigned and toned it down to say what I knew needed to be said so they could feel as if they had done everything needed to avoid liability. Two women from this volunteer crisis organization came in and talked to me. They were much more genuine and made me sign a plan that they would call me at the same time every day and if I didn’t answer, they or the social worker would call the police and send them to my apartment for a wellness check. It felt as if I had broken curfew and was grounded and couldn’t be trusted; which, given the potential danger they thought I could pose on myself, was fair. But it also made me feel as worthless and an inappropriate burden as I thought. They gave me materials to think about a daily outpatient 8-5 therapy program to properly address my illness and said we could talk about it the following day.

Nobody ever called me. Ever. Thankfully I lived with my ex who was finishing up his training to be a clinical and mental health counselor. He called the hospital and the numbers we had been provided and they were all dead ends. I just slept for a few days until I could trust my hands to not give in to these strong desires and then, like a coward, I slunk back into my work and my life. I’ve been in the neighborhood of that severe a moment point a few times since. I’ve called and chatted and communicated with the emergency services numbers. A few times they talked to me long enough that I was so distracted by the conversation I relaxed and could sleep off the heightened anxiety. There have been other times I waited so long I gave up and did something like emotionally drag myself out of the house for a walk to avoid what I thought was inevitable if I was alone. Other times I walked away from reaching out feeling just as misunderstood and dismissed as I felt that day at the hospital. (It varies and although it should certainly receive more support in order to do its job, it is a wonderful resource and I encourage you to use it if you need to do so; I might not be here without it. I don’t know).

What I will say is a card or a handout or a phone number, as much as we want to feel comforted by the delusion that is all we need to fix suicidal people, is only part of the answer for most of us and it is so much more daunting than you could know if you haven’t been there (and I mean there as in more than the what-if questions we ask about our lives and worth and suicide at some point in our lives). It’s hard and the hardest part about it, is I feel as if I live in a world that thinks I am weird and broken and of less value 2because I am this way and as if I am stuck on my pain and not willing or able to move past it like others. In my opinion, that is why people kill themselves. It is because they are trapped on the top floor of a burning building but people walk by on their lunch hour without feeling the oppressive heat from it because, in their world which is supposed to be the grounded world, there is no fire. And when you are trapped in a burning building that is rapidly chasing you to the top and there are no fire crews or emergency services coming to get out, and everybody thinks a pail of water will do for your imaginary spark, you sit there and try to decide between the agony of burning alive or taking your chances and escaping it, even if that means you probably won’t survive.

I clearly had more on my mind than I thought today and it just kind of poured out of me as I tried to write what I anticipated would be a two paragraph plug for this article and its finer points. If you feel this way and to you the world is burning, know that I believe you and I acknowledge how scary and blisteringly, scorchingly painful this moment is for you. And I hope you find a way to delay your fire long enough to put it out. If you need to spit out your own suicidal thoughts manifesto like I just did, I’ll read it if you need to say it to somebody.

We Tell Suicidal People to ‘Get Help.’ But What Happens When They Do?

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A Mighty feature by Sarah Schuster.

Again, if you need help: if you just type suicide in google, the first hit should be your country’s suicide hotline (which is of course incredibly sensible). If you’re in the United States, you can start here. 

My ex came out 6 years into our relationship (interview).

I strongly recommend you read the blog post that goes before this (it’s actually split into two shorter entries. Click here to read the first one.

 

Me (awkward because we’ve been on the phone for 30 minutes now): …hi.

Michael: Sup.

Me: This is the most awkward conversation I think we’ve ever had and that includes when you told me you were questioning.

Michael: Want me to talk in a Trump voice so it’s great? What do you want to know about me that you don’t already know?

Me: Is there anything you think I don’t know that you would be comfortable telling me? I feel like if it is important, I know it.

Michael: I think I’ve known longer than what I probably told you… that I was just in denial of my own sexuality but also didn’t want to accept it because I knew it would hurt you. But then I realized it was hurting you from not telling you and hurting me as well.

Me: Can you explain more how it hurt you?

Michael: I think being in denial just limited my options in what I should do. I loved you during that time but like you said before, I didn’t embrace it in fear I wouldn’t have support or anybody left because I was afraid I would lose you. So I didn’t give myself the chance to do anything about it and instead had this thing I was afraid of.

Me: Did you ever try to tell me and change your mind before I knew?

Michael: Yeah. I tried to play it off like I was joking but now looking back it was just my way of slowly accepting and testing the waters to see how you would respond. Like do 15128973_10207765738727740_3747544522836714370_oyou remember when we were watching Will & Grace junior year and I acted like I was confessing to be gay? I don’t think I knew at that time but I was playing with it.

Me: How did you expect me to react when you imagined telling me?

Michael: I was afraid you’d throw something at me–get upset, and walk out and never talk to me ever again. Just get really pissed off and that would have devastated me because the one person I knew I could trust and who would support me leaving would make me feel like I lost everything. I thought even if my parents might not accept me when I finally told them, I’d still have you so it would be okay.

Me: Wait, you thought I would get physically aggressive?

Michael: No. I don’t mean that. I mean I do but I don’t. What I mean is I always had it built up in my head like it was going to be this big, scary thing and that’s just what I imagined. I was anxious about it so what I imagined was worse than I knew it would be.

Me: How long do you think you knew before I knew?

Michael: I think I knew maybe six months before I told you, so maybe around January to March 2015 I knew.

Me: What was the tipping point? Was it gradual or did it hit you all at once?

Michael: I think when I realized, I noticed I was checking out men too, just noticing them.

Me: Did you ever think about just living with it and marrying me and not telling me? We were getting to the point where we were starting to deal with the inevitable engagement questions.

Michael: Yes. I didn’t want to hurt you and I loved you and thought we would be together for forever so I was just going to keep it to myself. But then I realized that over the course of our relationship, there were a lot of…

Me: Murky?

Michael: Yes, murky times where I didn’t know if the conversations I was having with women were cheating or not cheating but they felt wrong. But I still kept feeling like I needed to do it. Then I started having them with men. It seemed like I just kept gravitating towards that our whole relationship.

Me: What do you think made you do it before it involved men?

Michael: I think I knew and have always known but was in denial and thought if I talked to women online then I could prove to myself I was straight.

73616_454161377905_773892_nMe: Were you physically attracted to me then?

Michael: Yes. But I wasn’t sure if it was just you.

Me: So if you were dating a woman, why do you think you needed to do that to make sure you were interested in women?

Michael: It’s hard to explain. Maybe I was trying to make sure I wasn’t just attracted because of our emotional relationship and that I was attracted to women in general.

Me: Makes sense. That’s what I think you told me before. I’m going to change gears if you are okay with that. Let’s talk about when you came out.

Michael: You were the first person. I didn’t even tell Matt. I think he had an idea but I never said it to anybody else.

Me: Can you walk me through how it happened when I found out?

Michael: I remember when you came across some of the conversations I was having. We were searching for your car keys and you picked up my Ipod touch. When it lit up from being picked up, it had all of these message notifications on the home screen and that’s how you knew. It was really hard. I felt like my life was ending but also it felt relieving, like a weight was lifting off my shoulders, all while the world was crashing down. If that makes sense.

Me: What do you think of how I responded?

Michael: I think you responded a lot better than I thought you would.

Me: Even though I was mad about the secret conversations?

Michael: Yeah. I remember a lot of crying, mostly mine, and you were really, really angry and hurt because it was cheating to you. That’s what you were focused on. You rose your voice about the cheating and were hurt. You didn’t seem to even notice it wasn’t all women.

Me: How did I respond when you told me you might like men?

Michael: It was like an angry aha moment, like that explains everything but you were afraid and when you get afraid, you get angry. I got the death glare and I think after we talked some, you walked stormed off because you needed to process. It was like you knew but when it was actually there and it might change everything, you needed time to process. You didn’t want to say much until you had I think. On some level though, I think you were relieved.

I think before, you thought I was just doing something I don’t know shitty because this had happened a few times earlier years in our relationship and it was happening again. You were more understanding when you realized why I was maybe doing it. As much as you didn’t want to believe it, you were more understanding and you seemed more supportive and aware.

Me: Did you expect me, being mad about the sort of cheating, to tell everybody and “out” you?

Michael: That was another fear of mine when I imagined telling you but I knew you could do it but that you’d understand and wouldn’t do it to me. No matter what. You might tell somebody in confidence to talk and process but I didn’t think you’d blow it wide open.

 

There is a second part of this interview that you can follow here. Also, if you have any questions or comments, please feel free to leave them below or email them at atlasgriffin12@gmail.com.

My Blogtober Project.

This entry is a follow-up to a previous entry which you can find here (I recommend reading it first or this won’t make as much sense).

14567480_10207527117322354_4177760255090210184_oWith that being said, he is a big reason I want to do OUTtober and Blogtober together this month. It made me realize that while I can get heated about things like same-sex marriage and other LGBTQ rights, I have a lot to learn and still have some subconscious biases that I need to continue to address. Because of this, I want to use this project as a learning opportunity and a means of becoming a better friend, peer, and community member. Although we are from different geographic areas, we both come from backgrounds where LGBT rights and social issues are not given the recognition or respect they should receive. As social media has shown us, there are plenty of people will never behave towards the LGBT community with any decency or respect. There are also, however, a lot of people who are prejudiced (which is still wrong) because it is unfamiliar to them and they haven’t had to grapple with it.

I don’t have a ton of readers. Quite frankly, I don’t know how regularly people read my blog and I’m okay with that. This experience, I hope, will check some biases which I may still have and also help me determine how I can better handle conversations with others who may not be as accepting. I am going to have some guest posts from members of the LGBT community, a set of interviews with Michael where we talk about his experience being in a “straight” relationship and questioning, and I’ll be reading and summarizing some articles on LGBT topics for students selecting colleges, how LGBTQ is defined, and an introductory understanding to the LGBT community for individuals who may be unfamiliar with it.

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Photo by Sanketh Rao on Pexels.com

My goal is to post an LGBT-related entry every day for October. If you manage to see this, wonderful and I hope it helps us both to learn. If there is something you notice that you think I could do differently, if you agree or disagree, if you have questions, please let me know! Also, if you happen to be less comfortable or familiar with LGBT topics and have something you want to talk about or learn about, chances are I could benefit from learning about it too and can ask others or research online to find the answer. If you don’t feel comfortable commenting here, please feel free to reach out to me via my contact form at the top of the blog or emailing me at atlasgriffin12@gmail.com.

Thank you and I hope you check out my interview entry with Michael which will post tomorrow at 9am EST. Please consider commenting below. I would love to hear your thoughts (regardless of what they are; I’m always open to feedback).

Happy Blogtober!

 

Does that make me crazy?

I heat up. A ball in my gut, just a lumpy nothing-of-a-rock pushes on me from the inside and lights a spark. Heat, not the kind of warm heat when you step inside your well-lit home on a cold winter day, but a shallow heat that will burn faintly and exhaust quickly, crawls to the tips of my fingers and toes. It lazily floats through my blood and takes up residence in its own pit behind my eyes. I don’t know if it’s anger, frustration, disappointment, fear, hurt. That nameless feeling is the one I get in all of those situations. It just bathes my motionless body in it like warm milk.

The nerves in my skin and some part of me inside, the most vulnerable part of me, divide the unpleasantness. The outer layers of my skin resign to being unsettled with no physical reason. Confused and unable to determine the cause of the mildly agitating sensations, I can feel the entire outer layer of myself, my skin, my muscles, everything, curl up in inpatient frustration. Bracing itself.

Meanwhile an entirely different process occurs inside me as I feel my emotional self retreat, shrinking back from the points where it joins the tips of my fingers, connecting me to the world outside my body, shuttering and pulling itself in from my legs and my throat and my chest, rolling up on itself like an armadillo, absorbing whatever unnamed emotion made it past my skin. Whatever sharp object it grabbed as it sank back to its refuge, it holds, like a terrified snake that has wrapped itself around a knife but, because rolling up is what it does to protect itself, can’t release the tension that holds it there.

Like a President and a Vice President, the ball that holds me inside and the shell of my body that keeps everything unknown at a distance mutually and systematically have separated because the risk of having the two of them together is greater than the benefit. Together, they both become vulnerable. Instead, like boats in a game of Battle Ship, they spread apart because if one takes a fatal hit, at least one might avoid being punctured.

All of that happens. In seconds. That’s the beauty of routine and the remarkable nature of repetition. I do it on autopilot now, even with the slightest notion of possible hurt. At this point, it’s really my body’s decision. It’s like an overflipped switch; now it can flip itself and the defenses slam themselves into place like a veteran of bomb raids. My mouth, caught in the middle but forgotten, is still, uninformed by the inner recesses of my mind and deprived of the muscles and motor functions at the corners of its lips.

You can ask any questions you want. Blank eyes will be your answer. Because you’re speaking to an empty room that doesn’t reach the bottom of the well where I hold myself. Not that it matters. You won’t miss my voice. You likely wouldn’t even notice the silence if it wasn’t saying something about you, something which you then hold against me. My absence creates chasms of silence that your self-important words fill as is only natural.

I love you. Well, the part of me that can feel when it isn’t compacted into this claustrophobic ball really loves you. But I need not say this because you don’t miss my voice. I’m not even sure you’ve really ever fully heard it. You miss the reassurance that its presence means you aren’t accused of something. You don’t care what it has to say and it’s not personal to you. It’s just not important enough to even realize how much of me you’re missing. And I try so much to show you. I practically beg for you to glance but your screen holds your eyes a willful prisoner.

Is this all in my head? Am I too demanding? Or is it realistic to write letters you think the addressee will read? Is it too much to ask you to look at what I hold for you to consider for longer than four seconds before you return to your Facebook, trying to recuperate that missed time? Probably.

Simple steps for when you most need a lifeline.

So one of my favorite quotes when I’m not feeling well (and by not feeling well I mean I’m having a really hard time with suicidal ideation. I don’t actually want to die but it’s almost as if there is something chemical that keeps triggering that switch) is, just to give you a heads up, ironic given the topic. But, for some reason, it works for me. As ironic and insensitive as it may sound (I am a firm believer in being genuine and still mindful to wording things as sensitively as I can), in that moment I  get some relief from an old FDR quote. Paraphrased, it’s basically: when you get to the end of your rope, tie a knot in it and hang on. I figure if a sailor’s knot can hold a ship to a dock, it can sure as well at least keep me holding on for the time being.

It’s not a quick fix but it’s a reminder of what I need to do. Tying a knot is a skill you need to know before you need it and its utility is to hold something together. This is my metaphorical knot when I need something to hang on.  Different things work for everybody and I’m not saying it will work for you but if you’re like me, you keep trying something new, never expecting anything to stick and then something seems to have at least a little adhesiveness. Because because mental illness is a fickle and confusing thing and I can only speak to my experience, I suggest the following. If it works for you, then it has made writing this impromptu post worth it. If it doesn’t, as hard as it is, keep trying because something could surprise you (even if you feel like that is a Hallmark thing to say and there is no way that could happen, been there).

Okay, so let me walk you through it. Chances are, if you don’t feel well, you aren’t up to doing a lot of things, so determine tasks with your depressed self in mind, meaning don’t get overly enthusiastic about solutions that sound great when you feel well but will be barriers when you don’t.

Below you’ll see that I address the note and use the word “you” instead of “I.” I write “you” because, at least for me, when I’m having suicidal ideation, the person telling me I can’t get past it might at the moment feel like the real me but it isn’t. And the real me isn’t going to be there if I’m that bad so I essentially write a note for myself for when I need it. It’s short, sweet, and in that moment I can trust it because I know the better version of myself that thinks more clearly wrote it knowing how hard that moment is.

Step 1: Address your note. Keep it short. Example:

Hey Atlas,

I know you don’t feel well right now and you’re not up to a lot but just trust me on this one, do each of these things your list and it will be okay.

Step 2: Write down the following on a piece of paper (these exact words in this exact order):

Something that brings you relief:
Something that brings you comfort:
Something that makes you feel connected:
Something that makes you feel supported and loved:

Note, these should be very easy and simple to do. Mine, for example, are as follows:

Something that brings you relief: Open up your Cooking Craze app. Don’t spend any money but play this until you can at least think.

Something that brings you comfort: Put on your soft hoodie, pick up three things that you can easily put away/throw away in one minute. Put on either your I want to process and embrace the suck right now playlist or your pick-me-up playlist. [I actually have mine under the playlists tab if you are into this idea. Or you can just go here:]

Something that makes you feel connected: text somebody you miss. All you have to do is say, “Hi.” When they respond, respond back. It only has to be one sentence.

Something that makes you feel supported and loved: Open your planner, page 3 or 4. [This is a page where I have written down things that people have said to me in the past, including myself, that have made me feel loved or good about myself. It can be validating like acknowledging something I have done well or just an expression of how the person feels).

Step 3: If you took the time to read this, you clearly haven’t quit yet. Love, Atlas.

I prefer a handwritten note because I’m almost always home when I need it but it can be an email, a note in your phone, whatever works for you. For me, the note just says, Hey, you believed in this enough at one point to write it down. 

If you try it and it works, or if you try it and it doesn’t, I’d love to hear about it. I haven’t ever read about this particular coping solution but I’m sure somebody else has written about it at some point and it kind of fits within the overall umbrella of making some sort of plan. Whether it is this or something else, I hope you find something that helps you.

Do you have other things that work for you? Have you tried anything that didn’t work?

Out to Sea.

You left. I still ache for the leaves that were on the ground the last time you danced across the lawn. I watched you go. I let you go, pledging to follow that old time rule: if you love something, let it go and if it comes back to you, its yours. Well, doesn’t really work that way with ships because your current never came back my way. You left. And I stayed.

I stood there, that afternoon. I’m sure my body witnessed the sunset-they’re so pretty on beaches- but I didn’t. I was glued to that skyline, the one where the waves slip into the clouds. The water washed my sandy feet again and again, a little colder, a little more each time. I don’t know exactly how long it’s been. All I know is sometimes I’ll drive by, peer over that hill, and see myself, rooted there, hair surrendering to the wind, watching that skyline. And that’s when I know, even if I haven’t remembered to look in a while, that you left. You never came back. And I’m still standing there.

People Like You

 

 

 

 

 

Although I have a mental illness and am aware of cultural misconceptions of what that means, I still hold those same stereotypes and stigma against myself, only making things worse. I was thinking about this last night and how much I worry people won’t see beyond my diagnosis if they find out. As humans, we are visual creatures so I came up with the idea of taking photos of people with mental illnesses which expand our understanding of what that means. I chose some photos of myself in moments where I am happy and active as a means of showing that anybody can have a mental illness despite appearances, we should not assume people aren’t struggling with things, and it is just another illness but because it happens mostly in the brain, it isn’t always visible.

I wanted to show that I am a person WITH a mental illness, not a mentally ill person. I am still myself and an entire person without it. Sometimes I need that reminder and I think others do too. I’m asking people who are comfortable and interested to submit their own photos so I can add them to the collage I want to put on social media and my blog. I’m not saying this is going to be a big thing at all but, if for anything, I think we deserve the right to represent and speak for ourselves.

If you are interested, please fill out this google form.

Thank you for your interest and I welcome any thoughts, questions, or suggestions you might have.

(I need both your pictures AND the form via Google. It is fairly easy to complete, like a survey. I won’t use your name without your permission and will have you approve the image first. If you can’t do it on google, email your pictures and these answers to me at atlasgriffin12@gmail.com

Name
Email Address
Are you 18 years of age or older? If you aren’t, I will just need to make sure there isn’t a legal issue with me sharing your photos but I don’t believe there is.
Any blog or social media accounts you wish to include
Diagnosis (if you are comfortable)
Anything you’d want to share or to have people know about you that goes beyond your diagnosis (completely optional and may be used in graphics)
I give permission for the aintnoatlas.com blog and associated social media accounts to use the photographs I am providing for the sake of this project. I understand they may be posted on social media and a blog. By sharing these photos, I am asserting I have the rights to the photographs and any necessary permissions of those involved in taking them or shown in the photos.
Questions and Comments