“Man stands face to face with the irrational. He feels within him his longing for happiness and for reason. The absurd is born of this confrontation between the human need and the unreasonable silence of the world.”
― Albert Camus, The Myth of Sisyphus and Other Essays
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DISCLAIMER: This post contains sensitive and explicit references to self-harm, suicide, and mental illness.
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By my sophomore year of undergrad, the anxiety attacks had become more frequent, the depression worse. I was sent to the counseling center by the campus nurse for an evaluation of my mental state.
I remember that day vividly. The room seemed too tall—the ceiling miles away from the area rug that would hold my gaze for countless hours throughout my senior year of college. Dr. M sat in an over-stuffed blue chair in front of a bookshelf and a door that never opened. I sat on a small sofa at an angle from her and studied the seemingly useless bookshelves. Only one had actual books on it. A lot of things in that office didn’t seem to live up to their potential. Mismatched doorknobs. Empty shelves. Empty folders. And me—an empty person. While my tears ceased momentarily, Dr. M said, “So tell me what’s going on with you.” And the floodgates opened into a fast-paced description of what came to be diagnosed as recurrent severe major depression.
It is the singular most difficult challenge of living with a mental illness that our suffering is often so unnoticeable to the naked eye. On the outside, I may have looked a bit more melancholy and tired than the average person, but ultimately, we who battle mental illness are fighting a monster whose destructive nature and invisibility to others are directly proportional.
Depression is a cancer that can metastasize at an astonishing speed and drain the life from a person just like any other malignant tumor--but depression is soul cancer, so it can go unseen. I subdued my invisible monster through self-medication--some methods safe and good, while others were unorthodox and dangerous.
After being diagnosed sometime around 2012, I began to study my own brain in a deeper way. I could not kill the dragon, but I certainly got better at fighting it. I have always understood that my soul cancer is incurable. I can go into a state adjacent to remission, but I will never be rid of it. In understanding that, I began to find ways to coexist with my depression. Unfortunately, the only real way to develop a strategy of defense against this monster requires a great deal of time--and by May 2015, I had only been a student of my impressive enemy for a few years.
In May 2015, living many lonely depression-filled months of my first year of graduate school, finding out my then boyfriend had cheated on me, and receiving some painfully negative evaluations from some students in the first class I ever taught on my own culminated into what mental health professionals refer to as an “episode.”
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I had lived with symptoms of depression essentially my entire life, but had only been living with a true diagnosis for about 3 years at that point, and I was ill-prepared for the journey my mind decided to take me on after it had been injured by the treachery of a man and the unfeeling responses of some college freshmen destroying hopes of my ultimate goal of becoming a college professor. Two consecutive hits to my already fragile mental state like that caused seismic shifts and unprecedented damage.
The trouble was my brain’s core process center is split into four distinctive chambers: Romantic, Feminist, Depression and Pragmatism. Born out of naivety, experience, mental illness, and necessity, respectively, they were fighting for control of every situation.
Initially, Depression took the helm and convinced me to sail directly into the whirlpool of the always alluring and frightening state of oblivion. After all, I was now a broken thing. I would never find love again. My career goals had been set on fire by a few negative reviews filled with colorful language and suggestions, such as “she’s a bitch who needs to get laid.” Therefore, I concluded that continuing to bail water from the sinking ship was not only futile, but ridiculous. I was to die alone, drowning under the sea of my own inadequacies, and there was no reason to think otherwise.
Depression’s argument is always cruel--but also always deeply compelling.
And once the boat of mental stability had been fully submerged, I found no reason to swim to shore, since that shore was merely a deserted island full of nothing but the gravestones marking painful memories. At that time, drowning seemed the most reasonable response. Even Pragmatism, whose only job or reason for existence is keeping me alive, stood silent in my mind with no argument convincing me to choose land over sea.
The night my heart was shattered, I ran a razor blade across my upper thighs over 20 times. I watched the bright red blood slowly snake its way down my legs in long slow lines that all converged near my ankles and pooled onto a white linen robe. In an effort to keep me alive, my brain dismissed all other trauma and noticed only the blood, clotting in long thick strands as it drained from my body and onto the floor.
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For me, cutting was about the focus, the sharp clarity brought forth as blade punctured skin. By May 2015, I had been cutting for about 4 years, and it was a very precise, monitored practice. Usually, I would make one or two cuts on my upper thighs when my world felt out of control. By inflicting this injury, I established an alternative and more pressing singular issue for my brain to focus on. Rather than being overwhelmed by 25 things simultaneously and spiraling into a panic attack and hyperventilation, I created a lightning rod for my anxiety in the form of self-harm. The cuts became a very pressing and singular place for my brain to latch onto.
Instead of thinking, “Oh my god, what am I going to do about X, Y, Z???” the cuts forced my brain to think “Oh my god, I have to stop the bleeding!” For people on the outside of this practice, I understand the immediate initial reactions of disgust, shock, and/or confusion. It is next to impossible to comprehend the logic of this behavior from the outside looking in. But, I assure you, at the time, there was therapeutic method to this madness.
By May 2015, I had watched the bathtub water turn pale red as blood ran down my thighs from the wounds made by a shaking hand--my hand-- holding a razor blade many, many times. These disciplined sessions had been under my control--a means to an end. But after my heart was so fully shattered by the carelessness of so many people, what was once a disciplined coping mechanism became a dark self-mutilation to punish myself for whatever it was I had done to deserve this treatment. I blamed myself.
I was taken to the darkest recesses of my brain--past where even Depression itself would dare wander and through the river Stix in my head. I lost myself in the infinite forest of self-destruction within. With the help of my dad, I was able to make it through that night and finish my midterm essays and grading for that first year of graduate school--broken, but alive. However, within a couple of weeks, I experienced the “episode,” which led to my brief stay in a mental health facility.
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During my intake interview, which I only vaguely recall in fragments, the nurse looked over the self-inflicted wounds and asked if I hurt myself because I wanted to die. It’s a difficult question for a fiercely intellectual and analytical mind like mine, especially when it had already been fractured so deeply by recent trauma--and I could not answer the question. She determined my lack of response was uncertainty and declared I was “ambivalent about death.” A decent attempt at labeling my current state, but not entirely accurate in hindsight.
Had I been able to articulate my true feelings then, I would have told her that I did not want to die, but that I did not want to be here anymore either. What the chambers of my brain demanded was a temporary visa to purgatory. Dying is so permanent and painful for those you leave behind. That’s not what I wanted. I just wanted to escape--and there was nowhere for me to go.
While this story involves a broken heart and an unfaithful ex who wasted my time, the true purpose of my sharing this experience has little to do with him or that relationship. This is a story about me. My hope is to (at the very least) shine a light on mental health issues and recovery, and (possibly) inspire someone who may be struggling with an “ambivalence” to death to choose to live.
My experiences in the facility are a story for another time. For now, I will just say that I am thankful to have had a family who did what needed to be done. In discounting their own fear and confusion and heartbreak to pull me from that bathtub, they saved my life. And they have continued to save my life every day since. Through medication and my own initiative to continue practicing Dialectical Behavior Therapy, I was discharged.
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A little over a month after being released, on June 27, 2015, I got my first tattoo. Drawing inspiration from Project Semicolon, a wonderful organization that works to prevent suicide by creating a visible community of allies for those struggling with mental illness and suicidal ideation, I decided to get a semicolon tattoo on my wrist.This tattoo and placement are not unique to me, but rather Project Semicolon’s way to establish a visible presence for yourself and others that you are a survivor and/or an ally for those struggling with the burdens of mental illness, self-harm, or suicidality. As the Project Semicolon website explains, “suicide prevention is the collective responsibility of each and every person on the planet,” and this simple grammatical symbol has the power to connect all of us and remind us that our stories aren’t over yet.
Next to my semicolon I got the word “invincible,” which is a reference to a quote by Albert Camus. He wrote, “In the midst of winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible summer. And that makes me happy. For it says that no matter how hard the world pushes against me, within me, there’s something stronger – something better, pushing right back.” Camus is a constant source of inspiration for me, and this one little word reminds me daily of everything I have already overcome and my ability to continue my story.
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Most importantly, I came to realize that happiness is a responsibility--the biggest responsibility we have in life--which is why so many people decide to live without the trouble of creating their own happiness. It’s incredibly hard work. I resisted making my own happiness for years. I stayed fixed in places and with people well beyond the expiration dates like many people do, out of fear and complacency. But now that I have granted myself permission to “be” happy, rather than tasked myself with “finding” happy, my world is a much brighter place. And most days I feel very positive, rather than ambivalent about being alive.
I would like to say that I made it through my crucible and will never return, but that’s just not realistic when you’re dealing with mental illness. I hear the siren song nearly every day--calling my mind, body, and soul back to that luxurious silence and stillness. Normally, I hush the call with minimal effort. But I know it’s there--the monster under the bed, waiting to grab my ankles right when I wake each morning, hoping to drag me back under.
Although, over the past several months my mental state and personal outlook have improved exponentially, I will remain locked in a lifetime battle with Depression. But in better understanding this part of myself, I have moved from a place of fear and anger and am coming to a place of coexistence.
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As of June 27, 2018, I am three years self-harm free. I can say without the slightest hesitation that my first tattoo has kept the blades from my skin during several difficult moments in the past few years. I look at my wrist every day and remember where I was when I got the tattoo, but more importantly, how far I’ve come and where I plan to go! In an effort to celebrate my three years of self-harm sobriety and my strength in training every day to continue this battle, I decided to get another tattoo on June 27 this year.On my right wrist, standing opposite its brother, I drew a sketch for a simple tattoo depicting the myth of Sisyphus, a Greek mythological figure who was punished by the gods for his hubris by being forced to roll an enormous boulder up a hill every day just for it to roll back to the bottom before he could ever reach the top. Most translations and understandings of this myth assert that Sisyphus’ task represents the futility and meaninglessness of life.
But I prefer Camus’ interpretation, which argues that Sisyphus is an absurd hero. To quote Camus’ essay “The Myth of Sisyphus,” “The struggle itself towards the heights is enough to fill a man's heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy.” To me, the boulder represents the immense weight of living with a mental illness that cannot be fully overcome. The fact that Sisyphus continues to move through the struggle every day is an inspiration to me.
If I can offer one piece of advice for those who share their lives with loved ones suffering from mental illness who may engage in self-harm, I would say this: Celebrate the victories, and recognize that each and every day is a victory. For those of us who battle mental illness like this, we recognize we will be rolling this boulder up that mountain forever. We will not get to rest. We will not ever fully reach the top. And we will never completely overcome this obstacle. But with the support and patience of the people around us, we can significantly lighten the burden.
So, if you ever want to help us, but just aren’t sure how, put on your boots and lean into the rock with us! Maybe that means spending time with us or surprising us with something nice or talking us through a particularly difficult day. Just be present and keep marching up the hill with us. And although it's been said a million times, I want to thank all of my friends and family for helping me up the mountain each day.
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Life is struggle. Happiness is struggle. But you can choose to see struggle as an existential crisis, devoid of meaning of purpose. Or, you can view struggle in the Camusian sense and believe that there can be happiness and joy in the journey and effort put forth, even if your boulder never quite reaches the top.
I’ve begun to live my life in service of my own happiness. No one else can be responsible for your happiness. You can and should surround yourself with people who lift you up, challenge you to be the best version of yourself, and show you their love for you. But, if you are waiting for people or things to give you happiness like it’s some party favor for a job well done, that boulder will crush you without apology or mercy every single day of your life.
Most of us know the things in our life that need to change or be added or subtracted in order for us to grow and create our own happiness and meaning. A lot of the time, taking action to achieve those things is the hard part. And the first step on any life-changing journey is always forgiveness of self. I challenge everyone to be kind, patient, and forgiving to everyone—and start with yourself. Forgive yourself for any missteps in your past, for the time you wasted on people who hurt you, and for not being kind enough to yourself during your moments of darkness and self-doubt. Then take the next step. And the next. And the next.
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Sisyphus never made it to the top of his mountain, but he got up and tried every single day. Some would call that insanity, but I like to think of it as irrevocable and relentless hopefulness. In his punishment, Sisyphus found his invincible summer. And if Sisyphus, (a highly problematic—depending on your translation!) mythological man can be seen as an exemplar for hope even though he never reached the top of his mountain, imagine what you--a living, breathing human being--are capable of!
If you can let go of the people and things holding you back, who’s to say you won’t make it to the top of your mountain?
-Olivia Gehrich
___________________________________________________________________________If you are currently suicidal and need someone to listen, the best place to call is the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-TALK (8255).
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