Help and Hope for Those In Need

 http://aheartfeltmanifesto.blogspot.com/2012/04/12-large-larry-sweeney-mental-illness.html

 When I wrote about my struggle with depression in April, I had no idea of the response I would get. I didn't know if one person would read it or ten. I didn't know if people would scoff, accusing me of seeking more attention, or think I was looking for sympathy, or believe I was putting the blame for my actions some place other than myself.


I can honestly say I was and continue to be overwhelmed by not just how many people have read it, but by the overwhelming support and encouragement people have responded with. Despite what I say and how open I can be on social media, I have never been completely open talking about my mental illness. And to be very honest, I'm not as bad as other people are.


I work at a hospital that treats people for drug and alcohol addiction, but also with mental illness. I have seen people come in that have just suffered their first manic episode; I've seen people that cannot stop crying due to suffering an earth-shattering event; I've seen people who talk to themselves and see hallucinations. Compared to these poor people, I know my depression is not as bad or as deep as it could be.


Still, sometimes I spiral downwards. After my grandmother passed away in May 2002, regret tore me up and as my family started to fall apart and fight among themselves (I have cousins from my grandmother's side of the family that we don't speak to; and my aunt has cut herself off, lost to her own addictions), the only way I felt any measure of control was to cut myself. It was my way of saying that I was in control of myself, no matter what outside events occurred, I still could control my own body. One of the only scars I still have from that time is a cut on my wrist. It's not very noticeable but it reminds me of a quote from the "Red Dragon" movie. Dr. Lecter says, "And be grateful. Our scars have the power to remind us that the past was real." I look at it from time to time. It serves as a reminder of how far I went - and how I never want to get back to that point.


Depression is different for everyone. What I feel, what I go through, is not the same as what somebody else goes through and what they feel. I can only write about my experiences and know that they are subjective. This post isn't as organised as the first one, this is more my own thoughts and feelings and musings on the past and present. The first one brought up a lot of emotions and memories I hadn't thought of in a long time. It wasn't easy to be as honest as I was, but the fact that I've had nothing but positive responses lets me know that I did the right thing. One person told me that it gave them more of an understanding of depression. That meant a lot to me, as did everyone's words of encouragement and support. It was a way to show people what I have dealt with, and continue to deal with, and a way to explain why I say or do the things I do online and off. This post though, this one is more to show others that they aren't alone if they are struggling with mental illness. Writing helps me deal with things, maybe it can help others who are going through similar experiences, or those who know someone who needs help.


A lot of the way I am was shaped by my experiences in middle and high school. Whether the depression was triggered by these, or whether it would have manifested if I had had a better time, I don't know. I know I wasn't prepared to enter life after high school, and the abrupt shift from one phase of life into the next probably triggered some of it, as I can remember asking mom, "Work, work, work - is that all there is?" When she said, "Yes" that threw me for a loop.


At work, when I answer the phone and it's someone who saw our number on their caller ID, they ask what kind of facility this is. Inevitably when I tell them it's a hospital for mental illness as well as drug and alcohol rehabilitation, their tone changes. "Oh. Well I don't know anyone who would be in that kind of facility." I may as well have said, "Oh this is a leper colony." 

Do these folks really think that someone in their circle of friends or family hasn't gone through some kind of struggle in their life at some point? That someone hasn't battled addiction (of any kind), or experienced a mental crisis? Is it still that taboo and risque to admit that - surprise, surprise! - not everyone is perfect and flawless? I'm glad that there are facilities like the one I work at that can help people who need it. 

The strongest people in life, I've found, are the ones who can admit that they have a problem and need help to handle it. Not cure it, not fix it - you can't 'cure' addiction or mental illness, only treat and try to handle it. I admit, I thought years ago that was the case but it isn't. No body is perfect, we all have our demons and our weaknesses and our illnesses. At some point, we all need help. And you know what? There is nothing to be ashamed of. Nothing at all. We are all human, we all feel, we all bleed and when we stumble there is nothing shameful about asking for help to get back up.


God knows I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for the help I received at various times in my life. When I left high school, I was so shy and inward that I couldn't even make small talk with a cashier at a store. Seriously. It was THAT bad. I went to counseling and slowly but surely she helped me face my fears and start opening up little by little. Now I'm comfortable enough to not retreat into myself at the cash register - it's such a small thing that folks take for granted, being able to smile at another person and ask them how they are. (Of course, online is another case entirely. I've always been able to be more open and free, starting when I frequented chat rooms on America Online. The anonymity that the 'net offers is a very freeing thing. Sometimes too freeing.) Over the years, as I started to learn and grow in the world and realise the issues that are important to me, I'm more confident and able to speak up and out on most every kind of issue. Once I would have shied away from debate but now I embrace the chance to speak my mind.


Me from 17-23 would be amazed at 30 year old me.


However, the larger point is, I would be almost unable to function in the world if I had not gotten therapy when I needed it, for that and for other issues. I am currently on Zoloft. None of this makes me abnormal, a freak or crazy. It makes me human.


Although, I do confess, at times I think this may ultimately prevent me from having a lasting relationship. Because I can be very hard to deal with during my down times, and sometimes the smallest thing can set me off. I used to not care, I was fine on my own and never expected to get married, nor did I have any desire to. But things change, and deep down inside, all of us want to be loved and to love. Unselfishly, whole-heartedly, with all we are body and soul. It takes a very strong, supportive and compassionate person to be willing to go the distance with someone who has a mental illness.


I try not to think about it. After all, I wasn't looking when I met Lee, and people always say something happens when you least expect it. But at the same time, I wonder. If the distance hadn't been an issue, would he have been able to put up with me? There were times when I frustrated him, I know, and I fear it would be the same even if I met someone who lived next door to me.

Edit. I do not suffer from addiction but several people in my family do, including one I am close to. Let me share their story. Her real name will remain private but I'll call her Wendy.

Growing up, she was shy like me, never got into trouble. She got married right after graduation and had a daughter. But her husband started to become paranoid and before it got too bad, they divorced. It was a bad time but fortunately Wendy's parents were around to help support her and the child.

When she met her second husband, he was into a wild scene and it was the first time Wendy had been exposed to that life. She always made sure her daughter was with her parents, so she were never exposed when they were under the influence. He introduced her to drugs such as LSD/acid and alcohol. It was a wild time but after a few years, she discovered he was cheating on her and they divorced.


She was clean for a little over 10 years when a cousin gave her cocaine. She tried it and got hooked. Wendy became paranoid, nervous and racked up debts. Finally her immediate family got together and gave her an ultimatum - if she didn't get clean they would take her youngest daughter away. That, together with her work sending her to a counselor that finally got through to her, finally broke through. She went to rehab for a year with that counselor, got fully clean and hasn't had a relapse since.


Wendy is a recovering drug addict has been clean for over 15 years now. People who suffer from addiction relapse several times before they finally break the habit. That 'itch' never goes away though. Never. It eases up and the voice grows quiet, but that is what it means to be an addict. You are always recovering, you are never cured. There is no such thing as a cure for addiction. It's something you fight every day, but even if you relapse, that's okay as long as you get back up and try again. Always try again. Never give up. It's hard, it's a life long struggle but it is possible to get clean and stay that way. There is hope.


This ends my edit, because the rest of this holds true for addicts and those who have mental illness.


However. Beyond all of that, my core message is this. If you are suffering from addiction, depression, or any other kind of mental illness:


You are not alone.
You are not hopeless.
Do not feel shame or weak.
There is help out there.

Reach out. If only to a friend or a family member, reach out to and talk to them. Together you can get help and start to breathe again. Google "mental health/addiction help services" for your area and I can almost guarantee that there will be phone numbers listed for you to call or places you can go. Or, if someone you know is having problems, don't wait for them to reach out to you, extend a hand to them. You never know, the one time you ask, "Can I help?" may be the crucial time.

Love. Compassion. Forgiveness. Kindness. Understanding. Hope. These are things that someone who is suffering needs the most. This can't be said enough. Never discount the comfort that a shoulder to learn on can offer.

President John F. Kennedy said the following in a speech about the Cold War but I think it applies here just as much:

"Our most basic common link is that we all inhabit this planet. We all breathe the same air. We all cherish our children's future. And we are all mortal."

Horror Movie Villains and Relationships

I've been going back through my Live Journal looking for a few posts I made and came across this. It was done around Halloween one year and is basically an assessment of the pluses and minuses of having a horror movie villain as a partner. Decided to re-post here as it's one of my favourites.

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As a chick, sometimes it's hard to believe that a lot of guys (note I said a lot but not most or all) think girls can't be hardcore horror flick fans. On the contrary, I'd much rather see Hellraiser than She's All That. And as a woman, I can give a unique outlook to the major horror franchises. For instance, for the male fans you always have your hot girls (victim or heroine), and us females usually have some eye candy of our own. But have you ever stopped to think about who the most interesting horror movie characters are, and how they would rank in relationships?

Thats right. The villians. So what follows is one girl's opinion on the pluses and minuses of dating a horror movie maniac.



Lets start with the most famous names. Freddy Krueger. The man's burned over 90% of his body. Not the sharpest dresser in the world (no pun intended). Lousy with children. Uneducated. When you look at it, what does this man have to offer any girl, sane or otherwise?

Well, lets look at it another way. Some girls find the voice a turn on. For my money, I get shivers when I hear the line "This..is God.". And he's not going to be on any kind of "Most handsome" list, but he's not drop dead ugly either. Piercing set of eyes.
And he takes pride in his work. The way he uses those knives when he gets into the full passion of mayhem...it's rather akin to an artist with their paintbrush. If that passion could be focused into other areas, who knows what could happen?

Something tells me he could be quite kinky for those who're into that. Certainly not me, no..

If he knows your dreams, then he could be very effectual in fulfilling them. So to speak. His intensity and tenacity could be used in other areas of a relationship as well. Maybe in a chosen line of work.

There's potential here, if someone's willing to work at it.

*Jason Vorhees. Okay, time to be blunt. You would be dealing with a child in a grown man's body. You could never tell what he's thinking because he wears a mask. Never speaks so communication would be non-existant. And he only expresses himself when he has a machete.

Plus, he is such a momma's boy it's not even funny. You would have to deal with the mother in law from hell (literally), and it'd be even worse since you can't exactly compete with a dead woman.

He also seems to have a problem with teenagers, and sex. Not exactly the kind of mate to have children with.

From the few times we've seen behind the mask, he's the kind of guy that would scar you for life. We can do much better than Jason, so lets move on.

*Michael Myers. See my first paragraph about Jason. Plus he seems to have the same hangups about sex, if not about children as well. There isn't too much to work with here, either.

*Leatherface. Ooohh boy, talk about the inlaws from Inbred, USA. Although butchers, I think, do make decent money, so if you could get him out of the family's clutches, you may have a shot.

This will probably never happen. Not to mention it looks like he's a walking health hazard. His cholesterol is probably off the charts. With that comes cardiac problems. Doesn't seem like he's destined for a long life, and you definately don't want to be left alone raising 10 children with some crazy ass in-laws. Next!

*Chucky. He's already got a wife and kid, so lets not try to split up a happy home.

*Candyman. Now who doesn't love a man with a hook for a hand. Seriously, he's got some positives. Dedicated - he was killed for loving a woman society said he couldn't have. Promises to give immortality to any woman who would "be his victim". VERY sexy, if you can overlook the bees (or maybe you can get some kicks from that, who knows). Voice that could melt butter. Looks like he knows how to show a lady a good, seductive time. So, on the whole, you could do a lot worse than Candyman.

*Pinhead. Okay, admittedly it'd be hard to touch him. Not impossible, though. And being a Cenobite seems like it pays pretty well. So thats covered. No in-laws to deal with. Although he may be a workaholic, something to work around.

Piercing eyes, a definate turn on. And lets face it - the guy knows how to work a body to the extremes of pain and pleasure. Frankly that'd be worth experiencing, despite any negatives. Of course, that could be just me.



So, thoughts? Have I missed anyone? Feel free to add to the list, guys and gals. I know I've overlooked some of the minor leaguers but this is one of those open-ended lists.

Happy Halloween!

Ten Years Ago Today..

I really have a hard time believe it's been ten years ago since my grandmother, my mom's mother (Nannie, as we called her), passed away from lung and brain cancer. So much has changed in the last ten years within our family, some of it as a direct result of her passing, it's surreal when I think about it.

Nannie was a beautiful woman. Not just physically but emotionally and spiritually. She was a lady through and through. But she was a spitfire - if anyone wonders where I get my temper and my stubbornness from, it's not just because I'm a Taurus, it's because of Nannie and her Italian blood. She was one of six kids born to an Italian immigrant and American woman with a bit of Indian blood in her. Two girls, four boys. Her marriage to my grandfather (Pawpaw) was hard at points but having grown up in that era, divorce was never in her mind. And they made it work.

I can remember when I was little going over to Nannie and Pawpaw's for holidays like Christmas, Thanksgiving and Easter among others. The house that they lived in that I first remember was a cozy place in a nice subdivision and behind the house were woods that, on the other side, was a farm that we could hear a rooster crow. My parents, sister and I lived about 10 minutes away so we saw them often, and actually had to drive across a creek to get to the subdivision where they lived. I'd joke that the song "Over the river and through the woods to grandmother's house we go" was true for us. Their house also had a real fireplace that sometimes they would light up for us.

Nannie would babysit for me when Shannon couldn't, and I can remember coming over when Pawpaw was home and watching the Cubs play with him. That's where I get my love of the Chicago Cubs from, my grandfather. I often say I'm a third generation Cubs fan since my mother is as well. But that's where it started, sitting on the floor by the couch where Pawpaw was, watching them play. Nannie spoiled me - when I was little I had a bad habit of eating garlic and seasoning salt. Pawpaw forbade me to have it but every once in awhile I could beg Nannie into giving me just a little. Of course, I always got caught since I'd go to kiss Pawpaw goodbye and he'd smell it on my breath.

He had a small office that I wasn't allowed to go into that was by the living room but I was fascinated by it. He had a metal desk, papers and an old fashioned table lamp that you pulled the draw string to turn it off and on. When he passed away, I actually got (and still have) a few items from the desk. There was an old oak bookshelf that had kick-knacks on a few of the shelves and books on the bottom. There were many times where I sat and read or looked at the pictures in these books. One was a children's Bible, one was a small dictionary and there were a few other, older books I can't remember.

Above all, it was a warm, loving home full of nice smells from Nannie's cooking or potpourri she had around the house. But when Pawpaw started feeling run down towards the end of 1993, they decided to move into an apartment. The apartment was fun, it was surrounded by a large creek, plenty of woods and places to explore, as well as a set of train tracks. They moved in in November '93. In February '94 Pawpaw died from a sudden heart attack. Nannie was strong even though it took a toil on her mentally and physically. During the rest of the year she attempted to keep up with the apartment but financially she wasn't able to. In early 1995 we moved to a house closer to the apartment she lived in, and it wasn't too long before she moved in with us.

We lived (and still do) in a house with a finished basement so she took the downstairs. Despite having quadruple bypass surgery in 1996, she cooked, cleaned, did the laundry and took me to school while mom and dad worked. Me and her spent a lot more time together, and now the family came to our house for holidays. These were good times.

I did drive Nannie crazy though. At the previous house, there was a playground far in the back of the subdivision I discovered at one point and spent the day playing there. I returned before dark though and I can still hear Nannie yelling, "JENNY!!!" It's ironic, I can't remember her normal voice but I can hear her saying my name in that sharp, exasperated tone heh. I didn't cause THAT much trouble!

When we got Spike in 1995, he was so little we had to bottle feed him for awhile. Nannie helped out with this and grew to love him as much as I did. He would sit in a chair next to her at the table and if she ignored him or didn't feed him as much as he would've liked, he'd lean over and nip her on the arm or wrist. She'd always swat at him but he didn't care - he ended up getting food. She never stayed mad at him for long. He was "her little devil."

Nannie loved to travel and she got to travel a lot. She went to Italy in 1997 and got to meet her father's family, along with Rome and other cities. She went with one of her brothers, Uncle Louis, and his wife, Aunt Marie. I still have the postcard she sent me. Years earlier she had also gone to Greece, and some time in the 90's (after Pawpaw died, possibly around the time she went to Italy), she went to New York City. We have a video tape of her and my Aunt Tina when they went to the top of one of the Trade Center Towers. It's eerie watching it now, seeing as both are gone and so are the Towers...

She collected a lot of nick knacks from her travels and decorated her part of the house with them. We had to actually get a separate phone line so she could keep her phone number because every call we got was for her. She had so many friends along with family - everyone absolutely loved her. Nannie was one of those women who you couldn't hate. She had a gentle, sweet nature and was so soft spoken. Nannie was a lady but thanks to her life, she had a will of steel and was ferociously protective of her family. In her last years, her sister, my Aunt Tina was diagnosed with Alzheimer's Disease, and Tina's own children didn't take care of her properly. Nannie did, making dozens of trips, taking her to doctors, helping her out with bills and her apartment. It wore her out but she wasn't going to let Tina go through it alone.

In January 2001, my parents got re-married and looking back at the photos of the small ceremony that took place in our living room, Nannie looks a lot more tired than we realised at the time. I honestly have no memory of it but mom says she had started to do less around the house and rest more. One of my strongest memories is from September 11th, we had no tv in the area that mom and I worked in, so Nannie kept calling in with updates as to what was happening. I remember I got home before mom did and Nannie greeted me at the door. First thing I did was give her a long hug. We watched the news together that day and she spoke about when her and Tina had gone there.

It was six months later, in late March, that she had a seizure. I wrote about that day in my previous blog about depression, and I'll never forget the sight of Nannie in her nightgown on the carpet shaking uncontrollably. Mom had called 911 and was getting things ready while I sat with her, and I kept thinking that she was going to die in my arms. She didn't, but as it turned out, it might have been easier on her if she had. Over the course of the next few days, it was discovered that she had had cancer in her lungs that had spread via her lymph nodes into her brain. The subsequent tumor therein had caused the seizure. It was in an inoperable part of the brain as well. The doctors said that she was going to die, they just had no way of knowing when. It could be as little as a month or two or she could make it to Christmas.

Mom knew she wasn't going to make it to Christmas. Nannie opted for chemo and radiation and hoped for the best in the first few weeks. The radiation did shrink the tumor in her brain so that she had no more seizures. But both made her weaker and weaker. It got to the point where she chose not to have any further treatments even though she knew what that meant.

I learned what real love and strength was in the six weeks between her hospitalisation and her death. I learned this from the one person I'd learned the most from in my life - my mom. Debbie, her sister, didn't come over to help or give mom a break; and Shannon did a few times, but it was mom who took care of Nannie. At the start of April I started a new job, and I admit this ashamedly, but I was glad to be out of the house when Nannie started to go downhill. It was excruciatingly painful to watch, as Nannie was always one of the strongest people I'd known. To see her go from walking around to being pushed in a wheelchair; from chatting with everyone to mostly quiet; to hear her moaning for mom at all hours of the night in the intercoms we bought to hear her if she needed us; to seeing the light in her eyes slowly fade...

I watched Nannie die in those six weeks. I watched my mom grow haggard and worn out caring for her. I watched my aunt avoid coming around. I helped when and however I could, but I was scared and all too eager to avoid it. Most of my regrets with her are simply not spending enough time with her. She liked me to read to her and I did once or twice but not as much as I wish I had.

She died on Friday, May 3rd. Wednesday, May 1st, I was getting ready to go to work, and we talked. She wanted me to stay home and was sad when I said I couldn't. I can still see the frown on her face. After that, she got so weak she either couldn't talk or chose not to. Either way, her last words were to me. I took Friday off because we all sensed something. The last day most of her organs had shut down. Her skin was cold and blueish in points, her eyes were wide staring at the ceiling, her mouth open, breathing in hard gasps. It was ironic - the heart that had had to have quadruple bypass surgery on it in 1996 was the last organ to go. It kept her alive until the end. I can still remember that day. Mom and dad were eating, I was in my room sitting in my computer chair and thinking that I would get a book and go in to read to her when I heard mom go into the room and make a sound. She'd walked in just as Nannie had taken her last breath.

Her funeral was beautiful. We were all taken care of - mom had dad, Shannon had her then-husband Shawn, and I had a friend of the family Dale. Not only had all of the family come from the other states (her brothers all lived out of KY), but all her friends and even those of the family that we hadn't spoken to in years came.

There were tensions even during the viewing, however. Since then, our family has slowly drifted away or, in some cases, broken after fights. Some of the fights were about Nannie's possessions. And we discovered things that none of us had known. Some were serious. Others more light hearted - for instance, behind the books in Nannie's nightstand mom discovered 3 old cigarettes and a lighter. After her heart surgery Nannie had stopped smoking, but apparently she kept a few souvenirs.

I learned a few things from her passing. Afterwards, in conversations with family, I never hung up the phone without telling the other person, "I love you." When I would leave the house, be it to go to the store or to work or wherever, I would kiss my mom and dad goodbye and tell them that I loved them. I took to heart the fact that none of us know what will happen tomorrow or an hour from now. Our time to go may happen at any point. And if something happened to me when I left the house, I wanted my last words to be loving ones. Same with hanging up the phone. 

After awhile, my parents started doing the same, with me and with each other. Then my sister. That really warmed my heart. It's such a simple thing, but powerful. I've tried very hard since then to treat others as I want to be treated, and to have less regrets (although I've failed on that second part). I also learned from my mother patience, compassion, understanding and true love and strength from watching her care for Nannie. It is one of the most beautiful expressions of love I've ever seen.

I think of her often. She was a beautiful, loving, gracious little spitfire who taught me how to be strong, stubborn and brave. Her laughter was infectious. Nannie took opportunities when presented them and lived life to the fullest. She raised two daughters and while one remains lost, she never gave up on the other who beat her own demons and proved to be as strong willed as Nannie. My mother is very much her mother's daughter, just as I am partially the sum of those two women.

I miss you Nannie. I hope I have made, and continue to make, you proud. Ti amo, mia nonna.

Why? Because I can.

So last Friday the 27th, I dressed up and had a photo shoot before work. Then I put on something a bit more bold than I usually wear to work. I posted all the pictures on my Twitter and Facebook. To say that my co-workers were stunned is an understatement. They'd never seen me all glammed up before. They all asked, "Why? What's the occasion?"

There is none, quite simply. Friday was day 5 of "Operation Lady Gojira" and I planned this all week. Each day I've accomplished a goal or goals that put me further on my way back to being the kind of woman I want to be and further away from being the woman I was these past few months. Today, my goal was to boost my ego and prove to myself that I am a drop dead fucking gorgeous sexy bombshell. It was also to show the world that there's another side to me. 

I am a woman that can fit in watching a performance of "The Nutcracker" decked out in my best and I am a woman that can go to a wrestling show, wearing a shirt supporting one of my numerous favourites, and yell, wince and applaud until my voice gives out and my hands are numb. 

I read feminist books, Dostoevsky, Stephen King and Charlaine Harris. I watch The Daily Show, The Colbert Report, Rachel Maddow Show and Storage Wars. I stargaze and imagine other worlds out there, and I follow the news and think about the world I live in. I am a student of history and I follow politics because I firmly believe that the individual can change things. 

I am a woman, a feminist, a bitch. I am strong and fragile. I can be wild and I can be passive. Dominant and submissive. I speak my mind because I am not afraid to do so. My ancestors won the right for me to vote as well as several other things and I will defend those hard earned rights. They are mine and no politician has the right to take them away from me.


Above all, I want to be accepted and loved for who and what I am. "Warts and all," as that traitor Oliver Cromwell once said. Because if you can't handle me at my worst, then you damn sure don't deserve me at my best. This is the part of me that no one will ever take away from me, as Katy Perry put it.


What I do, I do for me. Why? Because I can.

"If you obey all of the rules, you miss all of the fun." - Katharine Hepburn

"Risk! Risk anything! Care no more for the opinions of others, for those voices. Do the hardest thing on earth for you. Act for yourself. Face the truth." - Katherine Mansfield.

Operation Lady Gojira

"When I say I'ma do something, I do it. I don't give a damn what you think - I'm doing this for me. ...And I just can't keep living this way, so starting today I'm breaking out of this cage. I'm standing up, I'ma face my demons. I'm manning up, I'ma hold my ground. I've had enough, now I'm so fed up, time to put my life back together right now." - Eminem "Not Afraid"


I'll be honest - I've been in a rotten place since Lee and I broke up at the beginning of February. I've been sad, angry, depressed, suicidal, bitter, happy, optimistic, ashamed, pessimistic...every emotion you can feel, I've felt. I've ran the gamut of feelings. Along the way, I've tried a lot of my friends' patience, my mother's patience and my own patience. I've talked about it until everyone and myself was blue in the face. I've cried, screamed, hit things, wanted to hit people and I've hit myself. I knew I was in a bad place but every time I tried to climb back out, a memory would hit me (usually at 2 a.m. when I was trying to get to sleep), or something would happen that would trigger a response and I would be right back in that hole. It wasn't just one step forward, two steps back, it was one step forward and ten steps back.

Last weekend I finally hit rock bottom. I can't tell you how or why I know - all I know is that I had once again tweeted my feelings for the world to see, cried several times on Saturday even when I was out doing errands, stayed in bed Sunday and then it hit me, ironically enough as I was watching a Godzilla movie. I kept thinking about the message a friend of mine, Chris, sent as well as the words in the book I'm reading. "It's Called a Breakup Because it's Broken" by Greg and Amiira Ruotola-Behrendt is full of humourous anecdotes but also a lot of blunt, harsh truth that I needed to hear. A lot of it was what my friends were telling me but without the candy coating.

I know I have nothing to be ashamed of. I may not have dealt with the breakup as well as I should have, but everyone copes and reacts differently. What I experienced and how I reacted were unique to me. I've learned and grown to accept certain truths, about myself and about the relationship in question.

*I did nothing wrong. During our relationship I made my own choices on how to react, and those choices were right for me at the time. Everything I did, I did without pressure, and it was completely natural and normal. I have nothing to be ashamed of. Nothing. This was another life experience, a growing experience, and there are lessons I can take with me.

*Lee did nothing wrong. He simply could not cope with the distance between us. That's it. We tried, and due to me having more experience in this type of situation, I had more patience than he did. We had a wonderful year, and a lot of memories I would not trade, and a lot of experiences I wouldn't trade. He is a good man and it was thanks to him that I learned a lot about myself. I was safe and comfortable enough with him to expand my boundaries and grow as a person in ways I hadn't before. For all of this and for many other reasons, he will always remain special to me.

*Both before and after the breakup, we both hurt each other. I was hurt by his growing distance, the fact that there was a disconnect whereas before I always felt like he was just a message away, and also by the fact that it took a long time for him to reach a conclusion. Perhaps I should have taken the lead and broken things off but I wasn't strong enough. Instead I put it on him and I know he didn't want or intend to hurt me, which is probably why he took a long time to decide. Afterwards, I hurt him by putting a lot of personal things on social media in discussions I was having in public. I did not think about his feelings, even though I knew he was/is a very private person. At the time, I wasn't trying to deliberately hurt him, I was reacting to the pain and shame I was feeling. Regardless, however, I did hurt his feelings. It ended badly, and for my part I am sorry for that.

*I am an amazing, gorgeous, sexy, intelligent woman. I may not have felt like it in the past few months, but I am growing confident in the new woman I am becoming. I have a bunch of beautiful, awesome friends and family that have given me great advice, and I thank them with all my heart for helping me through this. I haven't made it easy, but thanks in large part to them, I'm finally turning the corner. I love them all so very much, and I'm going to be a better friend to them. ^_^


With all this in mind, Sunday night I made a decision. I was going to launch "Operation Lady Gojira" and regenerate (copyright Doctor Who) myself into a new, better woman. Why did I name it that? It came to me while watching the aforementioned Godzilla movie. (Gojira is the Japanese name for him, Godzilla is the American translation FYI.) Gojira was my first love, alongside Greek Mythology, that started when I watched his dubbed movies when I was six or seven. My imaginary friends were all the Kaiju from the movies (MechaGodzilla, Titanosaurus, King Ghidorah - all of them.) As I grew up and started learning more about the mythology behind him, the cultural background of the original movie, and seeing the older and newer movies in their unedited, subtitled versions, I learned something. You cannot kill Gojira. They tried in '54 with the Oxygen Destroyer; they tried burying him an iceberg; they tried burying him in an erupting volcano; heck he even had a nuclear meltdown but all his radioactivity just went into his son Gojira Junior. He either rejuvenates, regenerates or is succeeded by his offspring. But he never truly dies.

Like Gojira, I too may be damaged, hurt, broken and wounded - but I won't die either. I thought I would during these past weeks and there were times I wanted to. But I didn't. I want to live and see what else life has to offer for me. True, this has hurt like a motherfucker, mostly because this was only the second serious relationship I've ever had, but also because in many ways it was the first completely open relationship I've ever had. And it was my first real heartbreak. I'm 29 and most women have had their hearts broken long before now, but I was different. With Andrew, I'm the one who did the breaking up, I was the one who wanted to move on. This time I wasn't - and the fact that the man I thought I would eventually marry was breaking up with me almost crushed me entirely.

But I didn't die. I wallowed, I ate unhealthy foods, I slept a lot, I ranted and raved, I did all the things that this book says women do when they're rejected. I thought I was losing my mind, but I was just reacting normally. It was only when I realised that I was stuck in this hole and in danger of losing my friends that I knew I didn't want to live like this. I'd done so for the past two months, almost three - enough was enough. I'd mourned and it was time to pick myself up and move on.

Operation Lady Gojira is my 'plan' to better myself. Every day I have a few small or large goals I want to meet (whether it's something as small as not having a coke after I get home from work or something as big as publicly thanking my friends and apologizing for the mistakes I've made) and as of Wednesday I've met them all so far. I've also made a few minor changes that are designed to eliminate possible temptations or ties that are unhealthy. For instance, I made a new playlist for my iPod that has nothing but strong, positive songs on there to lift my mood and put me in a motivated mood. That was a small but positive change I made. Everything I do, I do for me and for no one else (except in the case of sending messages to my friends - I want everyone who sent me a kind word or encouraging message to know I appreciate and value them immensely!). I'm also determined to put only positive messages on my twitter and Facebook. (Exception being minor gripes about wrestling, politics or attempts to be funny that may crash and burn. ^_~ But nothing negative about me or my life or anyone I know personally.)

I started this plan on Monday the 23rd and granted, it's only Thursday the 26th, but I am immensely proud of myself. I can't describe what it is that's changed in me, it's kind of like a light switch that's been clicked 'on.' I'm clearer, more focused, less negative and not bitter. Like a caterpillar that's been wrapped in it's cocoon for so long, I'm ready to crawl out of it, spread my wings and fly.

Or, like a massive radioactive monster that's been buried in an iceberg for a long time, I'm unleashing my radioactive blasts, melting the ice and stomping towards Tokyo.

ROAR~!

12 Large: My Battle with Mental Illness

I debated writing this. First off, I want to make it clear I didn't know Larry Sweeney (real name Alex Whybrow). Like many others, I was just a fan of his work in wrestling. He was one of the most fascinating and entertaining people I'd ever seen. His charisma and presence were off the charts. Plus, he was beloved by dozens - in an age where rumours and dirt are quick to make their way online, I hadn't ever read anything bad about him. I was just a fan.

Like many fans, I was shocked by his death on April 11th, 2011. I remember talking to Lee when, I believe it was Chris Hero, who first posted the news on Twitter. I was stunned and followed the news as it unfolded over the next few days. It unfolded that Larry had killed himself after a life long battle with mental illness. He was bi-polar, a fact that I hadn't known and probably other fans hadn't either. But his family and friends had. But in that sense, I felt like I knew him - I have a mental illness as well, like millions of people world wide.

I am not bi-polar, however. I was diagnosed with depression when I was 20 and have been on medication for it ever since. Zoloft, Paxil, Effexor, back to Zoloft. I have been in therapy off and on - counselors, psychiatrists, psychologists. Mental illness runs in my family - my cousin is bi-polar, so is my sister. My mother suffers from depression and chronic anxiety. My sister's son is ADHD. There is a good chance that any child I have will also have some sort of mental illness.

For the first time, I am writing about my own struggle with my illness publicly. There is still too much stigma attached to mental diseases, even with all the knowledge out there. People are still taking their lives because they cannot deal with the struggle any longer. Larry did not leave a suicide note, to my knowledge, and no one really knows why he chose to kill himself, but if I had to make a guess I would say it was because he was tired of struggling with his mental illness and other personal problems. So many people cannot see a way out and decide it's better to die than to fight any longer. They feel alone, misunderstood and hopeless. I've been there many times. I'm telling my story now, on the anniversary of Sweeney's death, in the hopes to make myself understood and to let others know who are fighting the same battle that you are not alone.

I had a happy childhood up until I went into middle school, for the most part. I can vividly remember being shy but with friends in my neighborhood I was outgoing and active. Playing baseball, riding my bike, playing in the creek - I was your average tomboy. The only hiccups were when my sister began to act strange. She is eleven years older than me, so when I was about 8 or 9, she was 19-20 and her bi-polar began to manifest. One memory I have is of wanting to wear a different shirt than what she had picked out. When I refused to wear the one she wanted me to, she went off, calling me all sorts of names, leaving me crying and bewildered. It wasn't until much later that I realised she was bi-polar and what that fully meant. She went through her own battle, first to be accurately diagnosed, then to find the right mix of medication, and to finally accept the fact she had to take the medications for the rest of her life. The last took years for her to finally accept and come to terms with. Now, though, I understand what she was going through and know it wasn't her fault.

When I entered middle school, that is where things started to change. Adolescence is hard enough on any child, but for me it was painful. I was shorter than most of the other kids, I wore huge glasses and was a plain, shy child. My nickname for the two years I went to Knight Middle School was "Frog." I had to mask how much I hated that nickname by taking it on and wearing it like it had no effect on me. Hence, why the two yearbooks I have from MS commonly have messages from others that start with, "Hey Frog!" (I have long wanted to get rid of those yearbooks but mom still keeps them.) My grades suffered as well as my attendance record. I withdrew into myself and escaped into books, which caused more ridicule. The only good times I had during those two years were being a part of the "Total Recall" team which was a sort of "trivia" club that played other schools and entered tournaments. There, a nerd like myself could use my misc knowledge for good.

All the knowledge didn't save me, however, from being bullied almost constantly. I had to have my family take me to school in the car due to being harassed on the school bus - with the driver knowing and sometimes taking part in the bullying. It got to the point where, instead of taking a "secondary" class like computer graphics, art or woodwork, I did errands for the office. The ladies who worked as the secretary and in other positions liked me and for that hour each day there was a reprieve. This didn't go unnoticed by the other girls though, and they would routinely make up for it when we had to attend P.E. We all had to change in a locker room (always a traumatic experience for girls like myself going through puberty) and one day while entering the locker room, one of the girls told me that as soon as they had changed back into regular clothes I was going to get it. I knew what "it" was. I changed as quickly as I could, grabbed my things, and as they would spot me if I tried to leave the room, I went back into the old showers (Knight used to have students shower after PE but this had been stopped before I started attending.), shoved my backpack under a seat and stood on the seat. There was only a sliver of wall that separated me from being seen. This time my smallness was an advantage. I remember standing there for what felt like an eternity until I heard the next class coming in. I heard the bell ring that started next period and I realised I was late for whatever class was next on my schedule. I didn't care. I was scared and went to the office. The principal called my mom who came up to talk about my being bullied. The principal's response?

"It's a good thing she was smart enough to hide." I've never forgotten that. Mom's response was, "She shouldn't have had to hide." Needless to say, nothing changed, and my attendance got so poor that Knight refused to have me back. Which was fine, as my family had moved to another side of town out of Knight's district. Mom and dad decided to put me somewhere that was safer - and what could be safer than a private school? For grades 8 through 12 I attended Highview Baptist School. Which, true, I was safer physically. But the usual taunts and verbal slams continued. Silly me, I thought kids at a private Christian school would be nice - I learned quickly that kids were kids, no matter where they attended school at.

Nonetheless it was here that I started to develop who I was as a person. I made a few life long friends and pretty much coasted until I graduated. The biggest things during this year were when my family got a computer and America Online in May 1997. Thanks to a Marvel Chatroom called "The Danger Room" (so-named after a location in The X-Men comics), I was able to be a completely different person and make friends that eventually became real friends, beyond online personas. But it was also here that I went through a two year obsession with a guy in our circle of friends that played me, along with every other female in our circle. It wasn't until he completely cut ties with me, changing all his screen names and disappearing that I was able to start thinking clearly. It was here, in March of 1999, that I happened upon WWF RAW after Wrestlemania 15. I'm not lying when I say wrestling helped me get through that - I simply transferred from one obsession to another. Which wasn't really healthy, but it got me through that hard time, and has gotten me through several others since then.

After I graduated, I had a tough transition to make, and it was here that my depression started to manifest. I was 18, graduated on Friday, and started work on Monday at my mother's place of work. She helped me get my first job as a medical records clerk at a cardiology office. Since her and dad divorced in 1999, she needed my help to sustain the household. I had to put off college.

I started to spiral. I hated the work, I hated the woman I worked under (my 'team leader' was a mousy woman who sucked up like no one else), I hated the fact that I would have to work for the rest of my life. I had a breakdown at work and mom took me to the hospital to talk to a psychiatrist. Of course, I told him what he wanted to hear - if I had said that I couldn't see the point of living if all it was going to be was dull, dreary work, he would've admitted me to their psych ward. He thought I was just going through a rough time and I would get through it.

I quit my job in December of 2001 after mom walked out (things had evolved to the point where I was working directly with her and only staying to help her out) and only a few months after in March 2002, my grandmother (mom's mom) had a seizure. I can vividly remember mom shaking me awake and telling me to go downstairs where Nannie was on the floor. She was still seizing and I remember thinking that she was going to die in my arms right there in the basement. She didn't, and she got to the hospital where after a battery of tests she was diagnosed with lung cancer that had gotten to her lymph nodes and spread to the brain, creating a tumor which had caused her to seize. The tumor was in a part of the brain that was inoperable. Radiation and chemo would cause the tumor to shrink, deceasing the chances of another tumor, but that was it.

Nannie was going to die. Since she lived with us, I saw her go downhill day by day and I saw the toil it took on mom to take care of her. I learned what true strength and love is from my mother during that time. During that time, I got a job at another cardiology office, and it was a blessing to be out of the house for those 8 hours a day. I was too weak to handle the emotional stress at home. Nannie liked for me to read to her, but I only did twice. Her last words were to me, wanting me to stay home with her. But I had to go to work. She was so weak that that Wednesday she stopped talking. Everything started shutting down until only her heart (that she had had quadruple bypass surgery on in 1996) was keeping her alive. I can still hear her labored breathing and see her wide eyes, staring at the ceiling. We were out of the room, mom and dad were eating, and I was thinking about going in there to read to her when we heard a last gasp. Mom had walked in right as she breathed her last.

That summer I spiraled harder. The regrets about Nannie tore me up. The only positive side was that I had started a relationship with one of the online friends that I had known since 1997. Andrew stayed with me and helped me through Nannie's illness and death. He, himself, had a form of cancer called Neuroblastoma that he had been diagnosed with at age 12. I didn't understand it at the time, but it was a miracle that he had lived as long as he had up until then. Nonetheless, I tried Andrew's patience. My moods shifted rapidly. I still saw life as one big meaningless thing that either ended in sickness and death or old age and loneliness. It felt like all there was was work that just wore you down.

It was during the summer of 2002 that I started cutting myself. I felt like the only thing I had control over was myself, and I used, of all things, a curved dagger I had bought at the flea market a few years ago to cut my arms. Never deep enough to draw blood but enough to leave marks. It was a release, a way of affirming I was in control. I still have a scar on my right wrist (it was my arms I mostly cut) from this period in my life.

One night in September, I was on the phone with Andrew and I was cutting. I told him what I was doing and he begged me to stop. I finally asked, "Why do you care?" Drew started crying and said, "Because I fucking love you!"

That got through. I quickly hung up and realised what I was doing, to myself and to him. That's when I knew something wasn't right. When mom came back from her trip, I had a serious talk with her. I then talked to my primary care doctor, who put me on Zoloft. She diagnosed me with depression and recommended I go into counseling.

Over the next few years, I saw several different therapists and counselors, who helped me break through my shyness. Before, I couldn't even make small talk with a cashier at the store. That's how severe it was. And large crowds, forget about it. I'm still shy, but at least now I can make conversation and be more open. But I've always been more open and outgoing online - that hasn't changed. At one point, I was switched to Paxil by my doctor. I still harbored regrets about Nannie, but after her death, I made a point to always tell my family and loved ones that I loved them. Whether I was going out for the day or hanging up the phone, I told them I loved them. Eventually my parents and family started doing the same. I became a believer in that you never knew what each day would bring, and I resolved to never let angry words be the last words I spoke.

It's why I hate losing friends and if I can, I make amends and rebuild bridges. I have so many regrets, and I continue to have regrets and make mistakes now, but Nannie's death really brought home to me that you never know what might happen.

During the 2000's, the medication and therapy worked, but there were still times I struggled. Andrew and I split up in 2004 and I treated him terribly. It wasn't until 2007 that we started to talk again. He wanted to be friends but I pushed him away for a long time until then. He said his health was acting up and the cancer returned off and on but he always bounced back. December 2007 I sent him an email telling him Merry Christmas and, since I hadn't heard from him since October, asking if he was okay. That was Christmas Eve.

January 8th, 2008, I received a voicemail on the way to work. It was Alex, Andrew's younger brother. He told me that Andrew had passed away on the 7th. I lost it completely and only barely managed to pull over into a parking lot. I called mom and inbetween sobs told her what had happened. She urged me to come back home but I had to go to work. I had to. I remember very little about that day, other than calling Alex on my lunch break and hearing him tell me that him and his parents were looking at coffins. I almost threw up.

Mom tried to dissuade me from going to the funeral but I had to. I hadn't been there for him, and I felt bound by our friendship to go and pay my respects. God bless his family, they treated me like I was his widow. I wasn't sure how they were going to receive me, but Alex, Diane (his mom) and David (his dad) treated me like I was family. There were pictures of Drew up on a board and several of them featured shots of us together. Saturday was the viewing, Sunday was the Mass. His family talked to me, so did his friends. Sunday, for the Mass, his family sat us by them in the first pew. I'd never been to a Catholic ceremony, let alone a funeral Mass - it was beautiful and so heartwarming. Andrew had been a firm Catholic Christian, and even in his darkest moments, he never blamed or hated God. On the contrary, his faith was strong and he remained hopeful and strong to the very end. He looked peaceful in his casket. Before the lid was closed, I leaned over and gave him a kiss and whispered that I loved him and that I was sorry.

His parents gave me a lily from his funeral wreath and I've kept it preserved ever since. At the wake, they gave me a sealed letter he had written me before his death as well as his half of the necklace I'd given him. It was one of those that each person wore a half and they fitted together. I'd long gotten rid of my half, but he never got rid of his half after we broke up. It wasn't until we were back home (he lived in Pittsburgh) that I read the letter.

It was only one sentence. "Jenny, I love you more than tongue can tell, always. Drew." A line from The Twilight Zone, one of our favourite shows. My heart broke and I mourned for years. I felt like I had betrayed him, and as a consequence, I vowed that I would remain single for the rest of my life. I went on a downward spiral as regrets and memories ripped me apart. It took a year to re-coop from his death, but the vow remained engraved in my heart.

It was in 2009 that I found SHIMMER and 2010 that I attended my first show. During these years, the Paxil hadn't become as helpful so I started seeing a psychiatrist and a counselor, the former changed me to Effexor, the latter helped me get through my anger issues with a co-worker. However in January 2010 I was fired after my temper got the better of me. Plus, I found out that if I skipped even one dose of Effexor, my body would go through massive withdrawl symptoms. Shakes, fever, headaches, not to mention my mood would shift rapidly. 2011 I went back to Zoloft. I couldn't handle the Effexor's side-effects. It's a mild dose of Zoloft, but it helps keep me from becoming dangerously depressed. Although the medicine doesn't completely control my moods. Case in point what happened after Lee and I broke up.

2011 was honestly the best year of my life up until now. When Lee and I met over the SHIMMER weekend of September 2010, there was instant attraction. After he kissed me, however, I went outside to my car and cried. I was still wearing Andrew's half of the necklace - I'd never taken it off except for showers since receiving it in Jan 2008. I felt guilty for kissing a guy I barely knew, and ashamed - that wasn't me, I didn't go around kissing guys in bars. Despite how liberal I had become in a lot of areas, I still felt the shame and discomfort when it came to physical/sexual matters that the five years at Highview had installed in me.

I thought, "What would Andrew say? How could I do something like this? I don't kiss guys in bars, what kind of woman does Lee think I am?" and so on and so forth. I couldn't face him or anyone else. I wound up back in 39TEN and hid in the restroom until closing time. I had to calm myself, I almost took the car and went back to the hotel I was so freaked out. My reaction has almost always been to run away from difficult situations. But once we got back to the hotel, I went to my room to change shoes and I thought about it. I realised I'd been punishing myself for two years. My regrets about how I had treated Andrew and not getting to say goodbye had torn me up - but that Drew himself had forgiven me a long time ago. I knew he would want me to be happy. So..Carpe Diem.

As a result, 2011 was the best year of my life to date. I grew as a person with Lee's help and encouragement, and I embraced the sexual side of my personality that I had long hidden. For the first time I felt like a whole woman. He encouraged my blossoming and we both reaped the benefits. I was alive. That isn't to say that we didn't have our down moments, mostly due to my fear - I had to fully trust him, not only with myself but also that he wouldn't cheat on me, and eventually I did. I told him everything about myself - my fears, hopes, dreams, fantasies - everything. And he trusted me in return. I experienced more in 2011 that I had in the past 28 years of life.

He dealt so well with my moods, he was compassionate and understanding and patient. I didn't make it easy for him, but with his willingness to be so patient and accepting of my boundaries (I made it clear from the start that sex before marriage was off the table - to my pleasure and surprise, he accepted that and never broached the subject except when I brought it up), I began to think that maybe Lee was the one. I'd never thought about kids, but I started to think that maybe having a family wasn't out of the question. I had hope.

I didn't realise he was having a hard time with our distance and with problems of his own until after the SHIMMER trip in October 2011. We had a talk and I told him that I would give him all the time he needed - that I would let him make the decision. I was capable of waiting until the circumstances were right and one of us could make a permanent move. He had to decide for himself if he could. It wasn't until February of this year that he decided it would be best to break things off.

To say I was devastated is to put it mildly. I had started to spiral during the intervening months between Oct and Feb, going from hope to despair and back again, and then at the end of January my mom went into the hospital. She'd contracted pneumonia and had gotten so bad her kidneys had shut down. Her body had started to shut down. If dad hadn't taken her to the hospital, she would have died in the next day or two. It felt like too much, like life was crumbling around me.

I wanted to die. I spent weekends in bed, only getting up to go to work and half assing it there, getting up multiple times to go into the bathroom to cry. I watched my mom try to recover and suffer fall after fall again and again. I have been taking care of her more and more each year since 2006 when she had a lot of health problems. She falls a lot, cries often, and for a few years now I've had to put her medicine in a weekly box and keep up with her medication list. My sister has her own life out with her son and boyfriend and hardly has the time to come over, let alone help out. It's all on me and dad.

At one point I looked at the kitchen knives and thought about how easy it would be to get into the bathtub with warm water and slit my wrists. Just fall asleep and fade away. Two things kept me from killing myself - the support of my friends and my mom; and fear. I was simply too scared to die. But I was in pain and I lashed out - I wrote in my written journal and lashed out on Twitter and Facebook. I didn't realise how much I was hurting Lee, and how out of control I looked, until Rhia finally told me about a week or two before the latest SHIMMER trip, March 17th. The depression had consumed me - depression is anger turned inwards, and I was turning my anger outwards. I didn't care how I looked - I just knew I had to get my anger and sadness out.

And shame. It took a year to grow completely comfortable, physically, with him. To get rid of the shame I felt regarding sexual matters. But in the aftermath of our breakup, I would lie in bed at night and the memories of our times would come roaring back. I was disgusted with myself - I felt dirty and ashamed that I had gone so far with him. I felt cheap. I struggled with these thoughts and they were part of why I wanted to kill myself. I felt like damaged goods. It was only through talking to friends like Amber and Emily that I realised I had nothing to be ashamed about. I am a sexual person. Lee helped me realise this. That one boundary was never crossed, I can take pride in the fact I never crossed it, and grateful to Lee that he never pushed the issue. But it was something I also vented about publicly, which I should not have done.

Again, it took someone who cared about me to get me to see what I was doing. After Rhia's note, I looked at what I had written and I felt ashamed of how I had reacted. Which made me go deeper into the hole I was in. Again I thought about suicide, but again the fear was too much. Then, mom went into the hospital - for the second time, she'd been prevented from dying. This time it was me who saved her life. The idea that if I had gone to work and not called 911, I would have come home to find her dead still haunts me. The past four months have been so chaotic and horrible. The only bright spot was SHIMMER - it was a healing experience, being with friends who love and care about me. Growing closer to Amber in particular has been a real blessing. She and Eric helped me through the darker times when I wanted to kill myself.

I am not trying to excuse what I did, however. I could have vented my anger and sadness privately, and I did do so to many friends who listened. I could have simply logged off Twitter and Facebook - the fact that I did not, and as a consequence hurt Lee when he was already down, is a source of shame and regret. I have apologised but have no way of knowing if he's read my messages or not. I have no way of knowing if we will ever talk again - and that hurts. He wasn't just my lover or my boyfriend, he was also my best friend. His absence hurts, but I acknowledge that I am to blame completely for my actions in the aftermath. Depression may have driven me, but I could have made better choices. I don't ever want to use my mental illness as an excuse or a crutch. It's...honestly, it's confusing. Because sometimes, people with mental illness honestly can't control their emotions. But can we control our actions if emotion is driving us? I don't know. All I know is that I have more regrets added to the ones I already have. I hope one day he will forgive me. I remain ashamed of myself for behaving the way I did and lashing out. All I can do is take from this the lessons I have learned and try to make better choices in the future.

Mom left the hospital and is now more alert than she has been in the past two years. It turns out that the medication she has to take due to her chronic pain left her groggy and unable to think straight. While in the hospital, they put her on a routine that spaced out her medicines and lowered her pain medicine dosage. However, due to a lack of oxygen from both times (she had aspiration pneumonia, which you get when you inhale some of your food, which she had done when she was groggy at night), she lost brain cells. Her short term memory has been really affected and we have no way of knowing if her brain will recover or not. As a consequence, her and I made up a daily medicine chart, noting what times to take what medicines. I monitor her pain medicine daily as well as the new medicine she takes for her anxiety. I call in her prescriptions and take note of what she needs. I also now keep her checkbook up to date, and do her bills. All of them. Her and dad are going to put me on their bank account so I can sign the checks. She makes dozens of notes on paper, and also on a recorder for me each day when I get home from work. It's not uncommon to have 10-20 messages waiting for me. Most of them is her repeating herself - she is afraid she will forget something important. Her, dad and myself have had to have a lot of patience with her and she cries frequently she gets so frustrated. It's added a lot of stress to our lives, and sometimes I get depressed thinking of what all she is going through.

I still live with a lot of regrets: about Nannie, about Andrew, about Lee, about other friends I've treated badly in the past. Before Leslie moved to Japan, I wrote him a letter apologizing and he forgave me. Also, someone else that I treated poorly, Melanie, reached out to me to my surprise early this past year. Given how badly I had done her, it was a shock to hear from her. My irrational anger faded away and I no longer feel angry, instead I feel shame for what I've done to her as she did nothing to me. After receiving that email I feel that at least we are on civil terms. Those are two bridges rebuilt (at least one partially), and that means the world to me. But I still hold onto regrets and with death, there is no way to make those right. I have to live with that.

All of this leads up to where I am today. I'm still on the Zoloft, but despite being on medication, I still am prone to bouts of depression and mood swings. This past week, Monday I felt terrific. Tuesday I was on a downswing. Mental illness is a constant battle, a struggle, that I live with each day. Sometimes, I can feel extremely good and all it takes is one sentence or one action (unintentional or not) to make me plunge downwards. I've had well meaning people tell me to think positive and choose to be happy. And on good days, I can believe that and practice it. But on bad days, I look at these people like they have two heads. People with mental illness can never fully control it. Never. We can only try to manage it and we lose that battle on some days.

And some of us, like Larry Sweeney, simply can't fight the battle anymore. Could someone have saved him? Possibly - no one is beyond help. But no one should be condemned for giving up either. Some folks think that those who kill themselves are weak and deserve to be scorned (I never heard this about Sweeney fortunately), but I disagree. Sometimes it's too hard to keep fighting. And sometimes, mental health resources aren't available, depending on where you live. Insurance in this country has a virtual stranglehold on how much service hospitals can provide. It's a no-win situation. I've seen it, since I currently work as a receptionist at a hospital that provides in and out patient services for people who have substance abuse as well as mental illness problems. Patients get kicked out when insurance stops paying. It's truly fucked up.

"She's crazy." "He's lost his mind." "She's gone psycho!" Then there's the stigma still attached to mental illness. I'm guilty of using phrases akin to what I just listed, but there's also people who throw these at people who have an illness. Maybe they are trying to deliberately hurt others, maybe it isn't deliberate. I've been called crazy before.

I am not crazy. I have an illness. Like millions of others in the world. It is not something I chose to be born with and I shouldn't have to be ashamed of it. No one should. No one should have to suffer in silence.

Larry Sweeney would have been 31 years old this past February. Instead, friends and family and fans are mourning his loss today. He may be gone, but don't let his passing be in vain. If you know someone who you suspect is suffering from any type of mental illness, don't wait. Go to them. Most often, all we need is someone to listen to us. To try and understand how we are feeling. If you can, call a mental health organization and get some guidance on how to help them.

The National Suicide Prevention Hotline in the US is 800-273-8255.

Or try www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org.

Thresholds is an organization that helped Sweeney when he was in Chicago. They do wonderful work and are a non-profit group that can always use donations. Make a donation in Larry's name. http://www.thresholds.org/explore-thresholds

There is hope and help for people who live daily with mental illness. Don't let them suffer in silence. Reach out before it is too late. I'm grateful to God for my family and friends who have and continue to help and understand what I am going through. Chances are, someone you know is suffering in silence. Help them. Please.

*This post was edited on 9/10/12. I would also highly encourage everyone to read Rhi's blog posted here for World Suicide Prevention Day: http://bubblesrhi.tumblr.com/post/31264173650/swinging-between-the-lines  It takes a lot of courage to be as open as she has. Rhi is a lovely, compassionate, caring woman and it's been my honor to get to know her as a friend. The last line is powerful: "Don’t be afraid to ask someone if they are okay, it could just save their life." Amen.

Titanic: A One Hundred Year Old Obsession

This week marks the 100th anniversary of the HMS Titanic's maiden, and last, voyage. She hit an iceberg and sank in the early morning of April 15th, 1912, around 2:30 in the morning. Since then, there have been numerous books, movies, poems, magazines, artwork, et cetera regarding her doomed voyage. Very few other disasters have caught the public's imagination, or have lasted as long in her collective memory. Most others that have have been natural disasters - volcanic eruptions, hurricanes, and so forth. Titanic was different. She was a man made creation, created to exemplify the elegance of the Edwardian age. People had been crossing the oceans for centuries, but never like this. Never in such style and comfort. Even third class (despite what the movies may show) was relatively comfortable and had meals that were relatively better than what they had known before.

Titanic was something that had never been seen before, and indeed would never be seen again. Perhaps it was fate, then, that sealed her as she sailed away into the Atlantic. The people at White Star Line boasted that God Himself could not sink this ship. To make such a boast is to invite disaster. Pride goeth before a fall, after all.

My own fascination with the Titanic began when I was young. I got into history at an early age, and disasters held a particular hold on my interest. I don't know when I learned about the Titanic exactly, but for years I've read everything I could get my hands on, watched every documentary that was on television, studied the diagrams of the ship, and watched some of the movies that were created, such as James Cameron's "Titanic" and "A Night to Remember". There are countless more out there for me to read and watch.

I don't know why it holds my interest so much. After all, there are countless other events that are more tragic and more horrific. Maybe it has to do with the fact that this could have been avoided. If the Captain hadn't been pressured to increase the speed of the vessel; if they had taken a different route, one that took them more south to avoid icebergs; if they had heeded the messages that warned them of the danger ahead...

Or even if the accident wasn't avoidable, the loss of life was. They purposefully chose to put less lifeboats on board, as the thinking went that if they had the required number of lifeboats on deck, it would remind the passengers of the possibility of sinking. The last thing they wanted was to make their passengers uncomfortable. That line of thinking baffles me, to be honest. But they were convinced that if the unthinkable did happen, the water tanks would hold however much water came in, and the ship would stay afloat.

If anything, however, Titanic's sinking brought about radical new codes, rules and regulations for ships in the future. Never again would ships be allowed to skimp on lifeboats due to "passenger discomfort." It never fails, for things to improve there must be a corresponding disaster to show the flaws. The Chicago fire brought about new building codes for cities; the Triangle Shirtwaist fire in NYC brought about new workers rights and standards for factories; the Hartford Circus fire brought about new regulations for recreational facilities and events. And so on.

The Titanic, since being found in 1985 by Robert Ballard, there has been renewed interest, study and fascination in her story and the stories of the victims and survivors. People have visited the wreckage and learned much that wasn't known before (for instance, before 1985 we assumed the ship went down in one piece; we now know that the water pressure forced the ship to break in two either right before it went under or as it was sinking). The pictures that have been taken of her on the ocean floor are mesmerizing. She still retains her elegance and majesty, despite the toil that time has taken on her. Despite the seaweed that has covered her bow. Despite the damage that people themselves have done to her since her discovery.

Since most people had on life jackets, very few actually went down with the ship, but there were some. There are pictures of children's shoes lying on the ocean floor; plates still lined up in perfect rows; chairs in their upright position; even the ship's wheel is in place. Titanic is a memorial and a graveyard. It should be preserved and protected from pirates and from those that, however unwittingly, are doing damage to it. It is no different than the battlegrounds that are hallowed and protected ground across the world.

Due to her tragic fate, Titanic will live on in our memory and history, as a reminder of when man's hubris gets too large, and a reminder of a glided age that came to a halt all too suddenly. It was perhaps a warning of the World War that was to come and completely shatter the Edwardian Age, and the world itself, forever. For me, Titanic is a wonder, a legend and a reality that will always hold my fascination. I cannot fully explain why, but she does. If anything, she helped my interest in history grow into what it is today.

Nonetheless, this April the 15th, I will be remembering Titanic in my own way, and I know there are hundreds of others who will do the same. Farewell, Ship of Dreams...