I have a hypothesis (keep in mind that it is only an hypothesis) that the reason mental illness cases are on the rise, and are especially on the rise in the US and Western Europe, is because the number of psychiatrists, psychologists and counselors are on the rise. Universities are pumping out those degrees and those new “Doctors” must have patients, right?

On a side note, I had a doctor start me on Cholesterol meds once. When I went back for a follow-up, he ran tests and said, “Great! I see the meds are pulling your cholesterol levels back down! I will write you out a full prescription.”

Except that I never took them. The levels went down on their own. That was 15 years ago. I have no doubt that had I taken them then I would still be on them today, and we now know what those statins can do to you as far as liver damage and diabetes.

All right, back to my point.

Let’s say there’s a kid who isn’t doing well in school. We’ll call him Little Huck. Let’s say that Huck is a little wild, has trouble sitting still, doesn’t like to read, isn’t eating right, is almost unmanageable even. I knew a kid just like that once! Classic signs of Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, right? Well, those are also classic signs of poor parenting. But wait, the parents are bringing the cash cow to the bank, so why would the doctors blame them? Instead, let’s let the bad parent off the hook, call it ADHD, prescribe Adderall, Daytrana, Dexedrine and Ritalin for… well, for life, right? Forever follow-up visits, forever prescriptions, and little brothers and sisters coming up the ladder-all.

So now our boy Huck is 17. Little Huck has been on those drugs since he was 12. He is moody now, hardly eats, has no friends, few interests, chews his nails, is scared of everything. No problem… just a little anxiety, they tell us. A little Xanax will take care of that, or Valium, or Ativan? Hell, we’ll try them all til we find one that works best for Poor Lil’ Huck ;)

But now Huck is 19. He has been on one, or probably a combo, of those drugs and Lithium for 7 years, and he is showing the effects from it. He is lazy, lethargic, depressed… you know the type, the Paxil, Zoloft type. The type that is addicted to all sorts of prescription and non-prescription drugs now, hates his parents, dropped out of school, steals, and is unwelcome at Thanksgiving dinner when all he really needed was more outside time, structure and discipline as a child.

But no worries! We still have that shrink who will work very hard at keeping Huck alive and insured so that she can keep up the payments on that new Lexus SUV that gets her kids to soccer practice. We wouldn’t want HER kids on all those meds now, would we?

But hey, I am no expert, so please don’t be too hard on Old Huckleberry now that you’ve read this.

It IS only a hypothesis, adder all.

(Was shooting for the bonus points, but doubt I’ll get’em, as somehow my straight-shooting hypothesis’ generally make me out the bad guy in the court of popular opinion.)

poems

typed up en masse

until my fingers ache

and my eyes

swim

with the black and white

of empty documents

being filled.

these are

the things i cannot say aloud

because there's something

impersonal

about writing something personal

and putting it

where the world

can see it,

a lack of intimacy

in ink

that doesn't exist

out loud.

reassurance,

knowing that

the words i say

will never be seen by friends,

but instead shared among strangers,

to be read

and forgotten.

my darkest thoughts

are passing entertainment,

a fleeting smile,

a hasty comment,

a brief flash

of truth

that maybe makes you

snap your fingers

in the grocery store

and nod

at the glow of a screen

before you remember

that you have to

pick the kids up

from school

and you put your phone away

and pick up

tonight's dinner.

it is

an impersonal form

of intimacy

to touch someone

so deeply

for such a short time.

and i'll watch

my poems buried

by more poems,

the curse

of being

(self-professed)

prolific.

and soon i won't be able

to find them at all.

even i forget

my own thoughts.

burying them

in the cemetery of my mind

so i can visit them

once a year

and eventually

stop visiting altogether

because i can no longer find the time

to dwell on

masterpieces that have passed on.

or maybe that's an excuse

i tell myself

to avoid

reliving

the experiences behind them.

poems

are my fleeting gift

to myself,

and maybe the world.

i'll

hold them out

towards the world

and wait for love.

and even if they're

made of razors

and they sink

into my skin,

i'll

stamp myself with

humor

until i'm able to pretend

that my poems aren't a confessional,

and i'll lie

to hide

the diagnosis behind them.

my poems are

brought to you

by my crippling

mental illness.

it's a corporation

that you might not have heard of,

but it's the one

that makes my fingers spasm

against the keyboard,

and it doesn't even bother to pay me

for all the work i do

to keep it alive

inside me.

A smile, one with too many teeth. Finger guns and a wink. I've blurted something out again that was and wasn't me.

No one laughs. It was and wasn't a joke.

There are too many contradictions, I know.

I rush to cover up my mistake. Trembling, tripping over words to get their attention off what I've just said.

"How many therapists does it take to change a light bulb?"

Indulgent, fake fake fake smiles. Not endeared, but polite.

They hate me.

"Only one! But the light bulb has to want to change!"

A forced laugh, nervous in the straight faces of the others. They nod slowly, dismiss me and jump to the next topic naturally.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

Why did I think-no, I didn't think, that's the thing.

God, if you're up there, strike me down, please.

So the powers that be decided I should have Generalized Anxiety Disorder, all while making sure I had the type of career that would exacerbate just such a disorder. I work as a high school English teacher.

And, historically, I have done really well with this career, at least I think so, considering I am in my 29th year of it. (As an aside, I wonder, what will year 30 bring? Can I even make it? Should I end the career there, on a nice, round number?) All through the years, I have been the kind of teacher that kids really relate to, and they generally like me, not because I am a pushover, but because I know how great they are, and I don't let them get away with not showing it as much as possible.

My methods, however, are...atypical to say the least. Unorthodox. Revolutionary. Geez, do I sound conceited enough yet? Is it conceit, or is it self-awareness?

At any rate, my mental illness works counter to the expectations of my job. I have a hard time being around people, but as a teacher, I am constantly surrounded by up to thirty human beings at a time. And all these humans, essentially, are looking to me for guidance, for answers, for a reprieve from all the work and expectations.

Meanwhile, I am inundated with my own work and expectations.

Imagine that.

Admin, parents, society at large -- all expecting me to meet certain standards, to do certain things, to do things a certain way.

Yeah, right.

It's hard enough getting up in the morning. It's even harder to come up with something engaging, something entertaining, something worthwhile, something educational, ALL AT THE SAME TIME. Oh, and did I mention, I have to deliver this to and interact with a crowd of people that I have a hard time being around?

Don't get me wrong. Overall, I love the kids. They have always been and still remain the best part of the profession of teaching. However, my performance, my worth, is dictated by the performance by a cluster of young adults. How they behave, how they perform, how they feel -- all of these are what I am judged on, and my GAD always my sidecar.

Yippee.

So I carry this weight with me everywhere I go. What's the next lesson? Hell if I know. Maybe I'll figure it out ten minutes before class. Maybe I'll have it a day prior. Maybe I'll wing it once the kids show up.

This is no exaggeration -- all three of those scenarios have happened throughout the tenure of my career. Not only that, all three have happened this year. This. Year. Almost thirty years into a career.

Good thing I'm a goddamn genius. And I mean no immodesty there; again, I am self-aware. I have a gift, and that gift is engaging kids in ways that most teachers cannot. Sure, maybe every single moment is not chock-full of maximum education, but seriously, education is a joke most days. It is a process that takes sweeping moments, not snippets that disappear the moment they are assessed.

Oh, there I go, distracted again. Did I mention that, on top of GAD, I probably have ADD or ADHD as well. Do these count as mental illnesses as well? I should know this as an educator, right?

Learning Disability or Mental Illness. Is there a difference? Hell if I know? As much as I love to be pedantic and parse such differences, I am better at doing that with etymology or poetry or literary discourse. I'd rather use my potential autism in those areas than differentiating between LD and MI.

Are those official acronyms? Does it matter? Did you know that a true acronym is one that spells an actual word? Is that more ADD or ADHD? I've never been diagnosed, so I guess no. But I was raised in an era that predates the whole explosion of ADD and ADHD, so who knows. (Only the Shadow knows! Oh, can I use this as evidence of ADD or ADHD?)

See where my GAD has taken me? Avoiding it. I'm not in denial -- that would be just silly, given my knowledge. But I avoid it. A survival technique? Are we talking actual, literal survival, or societal?

Societal Survival -- Band name? Album title? Memoir? TED Talk? College course? Episode of The Walking Dead?

All of the above?

So now you have a sense of where my brain goes, or went, at least. Do I have a mental illness? It's important, contextually, since the prompt addressed it.

However, I have only been diagnosed with the GAD. In this day and age, is it really a big deal? Seems like everyone has it, or will develop it.

Did I only have it once I was diagnosed, or did I have it all along and not know it? If I didn't know it, did I really have it? Do I really have it?

Of course I do. The question is, Do I handle it appropriately?

I don't know. And there are a couple reasons for that. One is that I have not been to a therapist for a number of years now. What's the number of years? Hell if I know. You'd have to ask my insurance company.

The other is this. I talked about my GAD, and my poTENtial ADD or ADHD. And my poTENtial autism.

I haven't even broached the topic(s) of the other mental illnesses I have been diagnosed with.

Just so you know, for whatever it's worth, as if you needed another avenue toward pathos, I have also been diagnosed with Dysthymia (a low-grade form of depression that is persistent and resistant to established modes of therapy), as well as SAD (seasonal affective disorder).

I mean, it's not ALL bad, right?

Although, if you check the date of this posting, you should notice that it is happening shortly before the winter solstice.

But hey, like Howard Jones once said, "things will only get better."

Right

“Brought to you by my crippling mental illness.”

Lines like these are common expressions used to comfort, cushion a blow, make you forget. Anything spun into a joke in this sense can turn any morsel of drama or ill-feeling into a sense of momentary cope, an outlet. What I’ve experienced time and time again through friends of mine and even my own emotions is that downplaying or re-wording the pain we feel is a way of lessening the pain or saying that things have become too much but that there’s no comfortable way of relaying those emotions off easy. That‘s something that hurts.

From a young age, there seemed to be an incentive for me to try and make myself laugh at my misfortune anytime anything didn’t go my way so that my outlook on the situation changes, and as such, I, in theory, become less effected to said misfortunes. But this method can only go so far.

Laughter stops feeling good when the muscles that create the function begin to ache. Any good feeling can be wiped with a heightened sense of doubt and lack of real coping mechanisms. These methods of support are not always available, and people who feel these emotions as strong as they do have to become creative. They have to do something. Even knowing happiness only lasts so long, it’s an emotion we desperately reach out for as if it were the only commodity left on earth.

“Brought to you by my crippling depression” is a method of coping, but that does not mean that said person has coped or will. Be kind and loving, for every rainy person raises high their umbrella toward the sky.

glass is sharper than you

think

I've got the scar for

insurance reasons

though it didn't hurt

really

it's the dull things

that ache the

longest

you are built with

the ability to

break yourself

your nails

shaped to give

friction burns

to satisfy every inch of

self loathing

it stings more

later the

adrenaline isn't

enough to make you

feel real for long.

When I was younger I was diagnosed with a mood disorder at the time it was just DMDD or dysfunctional mood dysregulation disorder but now that I'm older it's odd (officinal defiant disorder) and DMDD. It makes me feel powerless having to take meds and go to therapy just to control the fact that I can't control my disorders, my mood... One year I lashed out and said something some kid said I was so pale I looked dead so I had said he looked so black but I never finished it then I started getting called a racist for the whole year and that pushed me to do something I regret to this day I started Self-Harm. I had no one until I started making online friends online I felt in control of myself and who I was and I found myself along the way. on bad days my online friends helped me comfort me and helped me slip into my little space to help myself but on good days we laughed messed with each other and joked around. Over time after being sent to mental hospitals and residential I got better I got my confidence back I got my happiness back so even though I still struggle with self-harm I'm getting better and that's all that matter. I love my friends my family and most importantly myself and I won't let anything get between me from being happy ever again.

I tried to come to you with cupped hands, my face covered in embarrassment. You didn't know what to expect from a time bomb such as I.

But in those cupped hands were words I didn't know how to say. The lack of speech did no good. The words dripped through the fingers that didn't know how to hold them.

Depression

I tried pulling my hands close to my chest, but it was futile.

Depression. Anxiety.

I tried to swallow the words, but they just spewed forth.

Depression. Anxiety. ADHD.

I tried to run for it, but you grabbed my arm and pulled me back making all those words spill to the cold ground.

Depression. Anxiety. ADHD. OCD. Abulia. Gender Dismorphia. PTSD. Adiction. Stuttering. Anorexia. Dyslexia. Autophagia.

They made you laugh with glee.

Then you had me cup my hands again, so I could hold on to all of yours, After all it was brought to me by your crippling mental illness.

White linoleum

The smell of bleach

The smell of shit

I can't sleep

They won't let me.

When the collard greens

Rise up again

Breaking through the snow

I know

I too can rise up through

Like my garden

Every day is a season

Each night I die

Each morning, I am born

Like my garden

I will survive.

Late September is always tough for everyone. It's normal to feel down. Summer is over, it's the big back to school/back to work season, the air gets fresher, the sun is not as warm as it used to be and doesn't show up as much. It's normal to feel down, but it gets better eventually, you'll see. That's what Benny from accounting said.

The thing is, Benny, back in june, I already was feeling this wonderful pain in my chest that prevents me from breathing every once in a while, that weighs a tone, and sometimes, keeps me from getting up in the morning.

My friend Cora, that I have known for ages, but don’t see as much as I used to now, keeps asking me how I am. I hate saying that I'm good when I'm not, so I try to avoid the question because I don’t want to kill the mood, so I talk about something else, but then she asks the question over and over again and at some point I have no other choices than answering and saying that I feel "blaaa", and how I just feel like I don't want anything right now and I have no motivation and then I stop there because I don’t wanna be too much of a pain in the arse to her and also because I don't want her to join the "life is pointless club" with me, I think that would make me even more depressed, it's MY thing, you know? After that, she just looks at me and smiles. But not a cute or hypocrite smile. Honestly, I would've preferred either of those. No. Like the worst kind of smile you can think of. The kind of smile that says : "I feel a bit uncomfortable with you oversharing but I’m trying to give you some ounce of reassurance and support in a very clumsy way" and it's not completely filled with empathy, there's also a lot of pity in it, which makes it a tad condescending in the end. She just gives me a pat on the back and says that life is tough you know? It's ok to feel down every once in a while, you just gotta get a grip.

Well yeah, of course, silly me, I’ll just get a grip it’s as simple as that, sorry for replying honestly to a question you have asked me about a thousand times. But you have to know, Cora, that this “down” that everybody feels every once in a while, has unfortunately become too much every while for me. As in 24/7. 7 days a week.

I'm not even gonna go on about all those relatives that keeps reminding me how much of a pretty pretty life I have, and how some people are not as lucky as me, so I gotta enjoy it for them or whatever.

All jokes aside. Don't ever say that to anyone. You might as well put a rope in their hands and just say "go on, off you go" with a big smile on your face. I never got that whole "life is shit, but be happy that some people have even shittier lives so you can feel better about yourself". You might as well end it right now if that's really the only thing that gets you up in the morning. What a horrible way of going about your life.

People just don't get it. Now, I prefer to laugh about it. I already have too much to cry about anyways. Although I haven't been able to cry for months. I feel numb. I feel like, I just can't feel. Anything. All I can feel is boredom. Everything seems just so utterly plain, annoying and dull. Life is just a big pot of chicken and rice and someone's forgotten to add salt, sauce, pepper and all spices in mine. No taste, no flavour, no savour whatsoever and I refuse to have any of it. The only thing that sorts of still does it for me, is mother nature. That's why I very often take walks anywhere that doesn't involve any kind of human life form. Forests, mountains, hikes, fields etc.

I have to say, I switched it up a little bit today, because today is a special day. I can't particularly tell why. But it just is. It feels like that kind of day when everything changes. For better or for worse. Nothing will ever be the same. Something very corny and dramatic like that.

So here I am, walking along the beach with my shoes off, in this not so warm-not so cold weather. And I remember how much I've always loved the beach. The smell of the sea, the sound of the seagulls, the rumbling of the waves on the shore, people, kids, laughing in the distance.

I can hear people but I can't really see them. As a matter of fact, I can't really see much, everything feels a bit blurry, and I feel a little dizzy. I don't know if it's the wind or the smell of the sea but I feel funny. It might sounds like a weird thing to say but I haven't really been able to tell dream and reality apart lately. I just feel like I'm not really here sometimes. Or like everything around me is staged. I don't know. I think you have to experience it to feel it I guess.

So I just go for walks when I feel like that. It's just easier to deal with it when there are people around me. If I stay inside my house all alone, (there's hardly anyone ever there anyways. So I might as well) I might go mental. That is, if I am not already. I can't really tell anymore. I sort of stopped keeping track of my mental health lately.

I have had this recurring dream that curiously resembles a lot this particular walk, this particular day. That's why I went on it actually. I've had this dream so many times, I thought it had to be some kind of premonition, or guide or prophecy or something, I don't know. So I decided to go for it and see how it goes, see how it ends, because it feels like someone's sending me signs or messages through my dreams or something. I'm not sure if I believe in all this, but there has to be a reason or a meaning. I don't know.

I've been so lost in my own thoughts, I've walked a lot and I'm not on the beach anymore. It feels like I've walked for hours and ended up completely outside of town. I don't really know where I am. But I'm standing on top of a cliff and all there is around me is ocean waves and the sun is shining on my skin, the wind is blowing through my hair (which always tends to annoy me might I say), people seemed happy on the beach, the air smells delicious, and it could almost all feel like heaven. But yet, I still feel grey. Not happy nor sad, I feel a lot and nothing at the same time, and I'm just done because I'm just so tired, physically and mentally, and everyone annoys me, and I don't really wanna be here or anywhere else.

I'm walking closer to the edge and I feel the wind on my face and the sound of the waves and silence. So much silence. I used to find it to be a scary sound. But with all that noise in my head, I appreciate it every once in a while, I find it soothing now. And I kind of feel at peace, you know? Like I've done my time, did my thing, done my part and that's it. Maybe I should've written a letter and left it on my pillow or something like they do in melodramatic movies. I look far away beyond the waves and there's just nothing there but I still wonder if there's something. The earth seems round, and everything is so cinematically beautiful etc etc. What a more poetic way to end it, right?

I let myself fall, and I close my eyes and that's when I get scared. More scared than I have ever been before. The fall feels like an eternity and I realise an eternity is not long enough because I really don't want to touch the ground.

I open my eyes. Silence. Rays of sun shining through the blinds of my bedroom window. My cat's asleep at the edge of my bed. And I should feel good. I should feel safe. Or at least safer, saved. But I feel worse. I have a really bad feeling. Like I’m anxious about something. But not as in - anxiety anxiety, panic attacks, breathing problem, i think im dying, I can't ever go outside - type of anxiety. More like, something isn't right and I feel really weird. Like someone is watching me. Like someone is reading me, like I'm not real. But I am ; I just woke up.

"Am I awake?" I'm waiting for my cat to open his mouth and answer me.

He startles, turns to me, lets out a kind of unbothered miaow and goes back to sleep.

"So I am awake" I say, petting him.

In case you're a bit confused, you have to know that, when I dream, I have full on conversations with my cat. Like he talks back to me and everything. He's the Salem to my Sabrina. Although his voice is super squeaky and annoying, not at all like you'd expect an old fat cat to sound like. I thought he'd have a super deep voice and so I looked very surprised - for this reason only - the first time he spoke to me. I think he looked a bit offended, but I'm not so sure because he doesn't like to talk much about how he feels or about him at all and I'm not much of an expert on cat face reading. Actually, in my dreams he acts like he's my therapist. It was a bit disturbing at first and quickly started to annoy me but I've grown to get used to it.

Anyways don't mind any of that, you know my cat can't talk, it's all in my head.

I grabbed a cup of coffee and no one was home - as per usual - so I decided to go back on that walk. I still don't know why I keep dreaming about this, it feels like I’m obsessed with knowing what it means. I probably just go on that beach too much. Both when I'm awake and asleep. I've pictured myself jumping from that cliff a trillion times as well before dreaming of it of course. But I never actually tried to do it. Maybe I just should. At least I'll stop dreaming about this, and about my cat analysing my subconscious and I'll just forget about everything else I want to forget about.

I don't know whether I make any sense to you or not. I make no sense to me. But this all comes from the most honest place there can be.

This is simply, all brought to you by My Crippling anxiety.