Top Ten (Ponderings of a Warped Mind)

10. Swallow bleach.
9. Slit my wrists.
8. Cut my throat.
7. Jump off a building.
6. Play in traffic.
5. Sit on the train tracks.
4. Take a whole bottle of pills.
3. Overdose on insulin.
2. Buy a gun, shoot myself in the head.
1. Kill a bunch of assholes and let the cops shoot me.

Do "Fat" and "Crazy" go hand in hand?

Obesity -- defined as a body mass index, of 30 or higher -- was associated with a 25 percent increase in the likelihood of major depression, bipolar disorder and panic disorder.

Although the risk of depression over a lifetime is about 20 percent, the study indicated that it is 28 percent among people who are obese, a statistically significant difference.

The link between obesity and mental illness was most pronounced among those who were more educated and had higher incomes. The association may be as high as 44 percent among individuals who had attended some college, according to the research. No significant differences between the sexes were found.

The study sparked debate over the chicken-and-egg question of which comes first -- obesity or mental illness. One expert suggested that the two conditions perpetuate one another.”

Source

I remember riding in a cab one day and discussing my experiences with mental illness with the driver. He told me “Just lose weight and all of your mental health issues will go away”. I was offended.

But then I really sat and thought about what he said. I had to question whether there was kernel of truth to what he was saying. All my life I had told myself that if I was just thin, I would be happy. Then, these doctors had come along and told me that I was “mentally ill”- that I had a biological condition not related to my weight that caused me to suffer from depression, mood swings, and an inability to participate in healthy, mutually beneficial relationships.

It was so easy to accept the word of the doctors. After all, most people believe that an individual is fat because of their own laziness and lack of moral integrity. So, I had walked around believing that since my weight caused me misery, I had brought it all on myself. So, I quickly latched on to the “mental illness” theory because it meant that my issues were NOT MY FAULT.

Over time though, I have come to believe that the intersection of mental health and obesity is far more complex.

I have a condition called “borderline personality disorder” which presents as a severe problem establishing appropriate boundaries, obsessiveness, and fear of abandonment. A chemical component has NOT been established as a causative factor for BPD. It does not respond to medication. Most doctors believe that environmental factors (or “nurture”) have a larger role in the development of BPD than genetic or biological factors (or “nature”). Looking back over my life, I believe that I was so severely traumatized by the bullying I received as a child due to my weight issues that I developed maladaptive ways of coping which resulted in BPD.


So, I really hate my BPD diagnoses. Instead of blaming the people who constantly bullied me and the ones who failed to stand up and protect me, I blame myself. I feel like it was “my fault” that I was fat, and that the people who terrorized me were only responding to a situation I brought upon myself and could have prevented. Maybe if the societal messages that fat people are ugly, stupid, and worthless were not so strong, I would not have developed this disorder. Maybe BPD is not even real. Maybe it is just an excuse for my failure to thrive. I have even gone so far as to tell my doctor that BPD is not a “real” mental illness, and that the real problem is that I am a just a fucked up person (part of me has bought into the idea that most of society perpetuates- that mental illness is not a "real" disability and mentally ill people deserve derision, not support).

I wonder how many children will develop this disorder because they suffered at the hands of bullies? If our society was not so filled with hatred, if discrimination was not so acceptable, could the next generation have better mental health? Why do we consider it OK to mock people, especially children, for being different, and expect that there will not be serious consequences down the line?

I have also been diagnosed as being bipolar, and having generalized anxiety and panic disorder. These I can deal with. In fact, I sometimes ENJOY these diagnoses, since they give me an excuse for my bad behavior and actions. If I hurt someone I love, I can tell them it was the mania talking. When I am too lazy to go shopping, go to work, or even shower, I can say it is because of my depression. And maybe I am telling the truth.

Depression causes changes in appetite. Some people eat exorbitant amounts of food when they are depressed, simply because it provides them comfort. I know when I become extremely down or very anxious, eating helps to relieve some of the tension. So, for many people, depression can lead to weight gain. I believe that depression from childhood contributed to my weight gain when I was younger.

So, did my mental illness cause me to become fat or did the fact that I was fat cause me to become mentally ill? I do not know, but I suspect that the answer is not so cut and dried. I think that I became fat for a variety of reasons, including depression, genetics, and laziness. I believe that the torment I faced at the hands of my peers as a child triggered my predisposition towards depression, and that my depression caused my weight gain to spiral out of control. And from there is was a vicious cycle. The more I ate, the fatter I got.The fatter I got, the more depressed I became. The more depressed I became, the more I ate. And the fatter I got, the more I was tormented. The more I was tormented, the more my coping mechanisms became maladaptive.

I think that if someone had recognized that I was suffering as a child and had interceded on my behalf I would be healthier today. If so much stigma was not attached to being overweight, I would not have gotten to the point where food was my only friend. If I had been treated with kindness instead of ridiculed as a child, I would be a different person than I am today.

Would I be fat? I do not know. Would I have been mentally ill? Again, I cannot answer that question. But, it is what it is. I AM fat. I AM mentally ill. And, if I work really hard, I KNOW I can be a happy, successful person despite both of those facts.

Some People Say I'm Crazy

I am NOT mentally ill. I DO have a mental illness, but it is NOT who I am. For years as an individual in the mental health system, I learned to define myself by my diagnoses. When people asked me what I was, I said "I am bipolar" or "I am borderline". As if my mental illness defines me as a person. I am so much more than a medical condition.

I am a woman,
I am a lover,
I am a fighter,
I am a writer,
I am a sister,
and I am a daughter.

For so many years, my life was spent living as a mental patient. Not because I was in the hospital (although I did spend some time there), or because I was in an outpatient psychiatric treatment program. I spent my life as a mental patient because I allowed my diagnoses to tell me who I am. I let my illness tell me how I should run my life.

That is over.

I am no longer going to let anyone put me in a box because I happen to have a medical condition. And, oh yes, it IS a medical condition. It is not a moral defect, it is not laziness, it is not an excuse.

It is NOT something to be ashamed of.

I used to frequent a message board on a cooking website. From day one, I was open and honest about myself, sharing some of the most intimate details of my life with the others on the board. I shared that I had a psychiatric condition. I shared that I was on SSD. I shared the information that I live in Section 8 housing and receive Medicaid. And boy, was I sorry.

The shaming began early. From day 1, I was accused of "stealing" taxpayer money for receiving Social Security, WHICH I PAID INTO for many years. I was told that I didn't act "poor" enough because I had a computer and a TV. I was told that I did not need the subsidized housing or medical benefits, because I didn't have a "real" disability. I was accusing of defrauding the taxpayers.

If I had exposed that I had a PHYSICAL ailment that prevented me from working, I would have received nothing but support and well wishes. Instead, I got accusations of impropriety. I was told I was not fit to serve as a field editor for the magazine by another field editor BECAUSE I shared my experience as an individual with a mental illness.

I asked this woman if she would have been opposed to me holding this position (which is an unpaid, at home volunteer job) if I had chronicled my life as a person with diabetes. She didn't even need to respond, I already knew the answer. My diabetes is an "acceptable" diagnosis. Diabetes is a "real" medical condition. My mental illness offends other people. They believe I should keep quiet and neglect to advocate for myself and others with a mental illness. They want me to hide from the world.

They want me to be ashamed.

Well, I am tired of being ashamed.

I HAVE A MENTAL ILLNESS.
IT IS NOT WHO I AM, IT IS SIMPLY A MEDICAL CONDITION.

And as much as people might hate me, I do not care.
My family loves me.
My friends love me.
I love me.

And in the end
isn't that what really matters?

I Love A Good Cry

I am a crier. I cry at TV shows, movies, new articles, even TV commercials. I LOVE a good cry. But, for a period in my life, I was totally UNABLE to cry. I could not figure out why. I would feel like crying. I would WANT to cry. But, nothing would happen. All those emotions stayed bottled up inside with the tears I could not shed.

I was in a psychiatric day program at the time, and I complained to my shrink that I had forgotten how to cry. He had a simple solution for the problem. He took me OFF of my anti-depressant, and lo and behold, within a few weeks, I had regained the ability to bawl. And bawl I did.

I cried all the time again. Not out of depression. Not even out of sadness. I cried when I was touched. I cried when something or someone pulled at my heartstrings. I cried at music, literature, Youtube videos. You name it, I cried at it. And I LOVED IT. I still cry now, though not with the same intensity as when I first got my tears back. I think I have teared up AT LEAST three times over the past 48 hours. And I wouldn't change it for the world.

I am an emotional person. I do not like to bottle things up, and crying helps me to relieve my pain and anxiety. So, I have made the decision that I WILL NOT take anti-depressants again. Nor will I take mood stabilizers. I HAD sworn of ALL psychotropic medication, but when my anxiety started getting really bad, I had to give in and take an anti-anxiety medication. Not one of those real powerful, addictive ones. Just a real mild little something to take the edge off.

A few years ago, I lived in a house that was owned by an agency that provided housing for mentally ill individuals. I was REQUIRED to take medication. Someone even came over twice a week to monitor and count my pills. I thought I was going to have to take meds for the rest of my life.

When I moved to my own apartment, I continued the medication for a while, CONVINCED that I would fall into a deep depression or get extremely manic if I did not take pills every day. About 2 years ago, I just decided one day to not fill my prescriptions (NOT recommended, it CAN be potentially deadly if you don't taper off) I go through bouts of depression. I go through manic periods. BUT, it is nothing I cannot get through with the help of a few good friends.

In this society, they want to medicate us for everything. I mean, did Restless Legs Syndrome even EXIST before they came out with a medication to "cure" it? I hear of children as young as five years old being diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder (which rarely starts earlier than the late teens to early 20s) and given medication. They give us pills because they do not want us to be too "difficult". But, it deadens us.

It makes us fat. It decreases our sex drive. It causes us to be unable to reach orgasm. It deadens our emotions. It makes us PLIABLE. It make us VULNERABLE.

Now, I am not saying that NO ONE should take psychiatric medications. I mean if someone is hallucinating, or having delusions and medication can make them stop, then by all means prescribe something. BUT, psychiatrists often like to prescribe as many medications as they possibly can, in hopes that ONE will work. And DAMN those pesky side effects. Just a small price to pay.

At one point I was taking 9 psychiatric medications a day. Now, I take ONE. And, I feel SO much better. I am more productive. I can think and write better. My fantasy life (I have a vivid imagination) was GONE when I was on medication. Now, it is back. I can cry. I can dream. I feel like a million bucks.

Taking medication might have been necessary for me AT SOME POINT (though it is debatable) but now I do not need it. I feel like I am free now. I feel like I can be me. I feel like I can fly!

I got More Issues than a Magazine Rack

OK, I should be doing what any good liberal blogger should be doing right now, and writing about the overturning of Prop 8. But, to be honest, right now I just do not really care who gets to marry who. To be honest, I would rather NO ONE be allowed to get married... that way maybe I will not feel so disgusted with myself for being a lonely old spinster cat lady with no prospects.

Yeah, I got issues. Anyone who talks to me for more than 15 minutes knows that I am a whole sack full of crazy. For that reason, I do not have many friends. The people who ARE in my life are the ones who can put up with my clinginess, my selfishness and my histrionics. As you can imagine, there are not too many of them.

I have had people tell me that they cannot understand why I am so lonely, why I spent most of my days home alone of the couch with no one to talk to, nose deep in a book. I am friendly, I am smart, I am caring. On the surface, I seem like a really great gal. But, once you get to know me, it is like you opened Pandora's box and unleashed all that is evil on the world.

When I find someone who treats me with respect, who seems to give a damn, I start to OD. I call them CONSTANTLY. If I cannot get in touch with them for an hour or two, I freak out and start to think that they are mad at me and never want to speak to me again. When I end a conversation with someone, I find myself mulling it over in my head for hours after wards, chastising myself for all of the things I said or did wrong. I pick apart every minute detail, and see only failure. Usually the other person who is in on the conversation never even gives a second thought to some faux pas I made that to me seems like a major tragedy.

My therapist told me I have abandonment issues. I do not know where they come from, but my life seems to revolve around the fear of someone leaving me. So, I end up pushing them away by all of my crazy demands. And I really don't mean that I consciously demand "things". Rather, I demand a lot of time and attention. I need Someone who is going to be there to talk to me and listen to me when I need someone to talk to. I need someone to talk me down when I have a batch of pills in my hand, and am ready to swallow them all. I need people who can deal with my crazy.

And frankly, that type of person does not come along very often at all.