Shattered Fragments: Anime and Mental Illness

I never set out to be an advocate for mental illness, it was never something I was passionate about because I didn’t understand it. As a matter of fact, it terrified me because of the stigma that is associated with it. It wasn’t until I was diagnosed with depression and anxiety that I really began to understand what it’s like to live with something like a mental illness, what pain really was, and what it’s like to live in a world that fears and misunderstands you. I may sound a bit dramatic, but when you’re constantly told that your condition is something of an imaginary concept and these feelings that you have aren’t validated, you get fed up and want to speak what is in your soul.

It’s hard to explain what it’s like to someone who doesn’t have a mental illness what it’s like to have one. I only know how I feel on my darkest days, and I am very different from someone else with a similar condition, see that’s what makes this so hard: no two people with a mental illness are exactly alike. What works for one may not work for another, it’s not an exact science; it’s mostly trial and error because the human mind is one of the most mysterious “organs” on the body.

The world hasn’t really been kind to those with mental illness, since the very first human came into existence we have feared and mistreated those who suffer with this condition. It’s been associated and portrayed in our society as a negative thing; television shows and movies depicting horrific asylums, crazy killer patients, and perverted psychologists (sometimes referred to crudely as “shrinks”). It also doesn’t help that a stigma has been in place for centuries. While researching the subject, I discovered that the first recorded Lunatic Asylum in Europe was the Bethlem Royal Hospital in London, and it has been a part of London since 1247 when it was built as a priory. It became a hospital in 1330 and admitted its first mentally ill patients in 1407. Before the Madhouse Act of 1774, treatment of the Insane was carried out by non-licensed practitioners, who ran their Madhouses as a commercial enterprise and with little regard for the inmates. The Mad House act established the licensing required to house insane patients, with yearly inspections of the premises taking place. Back in America, the U.S. Library of Medicine states that the mentally ill in early American communities were generally cared for by family members, however, in severe cases they sometimes ended up in almshouses or jails. Because mental illness was generally thought to be caused by a moral or spiritual failing, punishment and shame were often handed down to the mentally ill and sometimes their families as well. As the population grew and certain areas became more densely settled, mental illness became one of a number of social issues for which community institutions were created in order to handle the needs of such individuals collectively.

This scared the crap out of me when I read it because we really haven’t come that far as far as the stigma and treatment of the mentally ill is concerned. It shows in our culture but it’s not obvious like some other issues that we deal with in society, it’s subtle and quiet.

Anime has been the only genre that openly deals with issues like depression, anxiety, psychosis, PTSD, and many other conditions. It unapologetically portrays it in a raw, gritty manner, not pulling any punches and it’s just…real. As someone who has been in this world for some time there is an authenticity to it, an authenticity that you just can’t find anywhere else. Here are just a few characters that I relate to, and characters that I think portray what it’s like to live within this often dark world. The following may contain spoilers so read with caution!

Yuki Takeya: School-Live!

Yuki is a classic case of someone dealing with PTSD and psychosis. The NIMH classifies PTSD and psychosis as so:

“ PTSD develops after a terrifying ordeal that involved physical harm or the threat of physical harm. The person who develops PTSD may have been the one who was harmed, the harm may have happened to a loved one, or the person may have witnessed a harmful event that happened to loved ones or strangers.”

“The word psychosis is used to describe conditions that affect the mind, where there has been some loss of contact with reality. When someone becomes ill in this way it is called a psychotic episode. During a period of psychosis, a person’s thoughts and perceptions are disturbed and the individual may have difficulty understanding what is real and what is not.  Symptoms of psychosis include delusions (false beliefs) and hallucinations (seeing or hearing things that others do not see or hear). Other symptoms include incoherent or nonsense speech, and behavior that is inappropriate for the situation.”

She sees the world as she wants it to be and not how it really is. After witnessing both her classmate Kurumi kill her senpai because he turned and the courage of her favorite teacher sacrifice herself to the zombies, Yuki completely shuts down and enters a psychosis where it is not the apocalypse and everything is as it should be: she’s at school with her friends, she regularly goes to classes, and she enthusiastically bounds through the hallways as if nothing has happened. The most tragic of this situation is her dealing with the death of her favorite teacher Megumi. She still speaks and addresses her as if she is still there, even having hallucinations of her. As the show progresses we find that slowly, Yuki’s world is collapsing around her and she is forced to accept the fact that her favorite teacher is in fact dead, and her life as she knew it has changed. It’s often very hard to watch and even the most experienced doctor has trouble with patients suffering with these conditions because as I said before: no two cases are alike.

Shinji Ikari – Neon Genesis Evangelion

Shinji, like me, suffers from major depression and anxiety. If he’s not isolating himself and questioning his will to live, he’s constantly seeking approval from his peers to make up for his sense of self-worthlessness. Going back to the NIMH, it has several definitions for depression, so I’ve somewhat formed my own: It is a condition where you feel worthless; no matter what you do it won’t amount to anything. You hurt and you want to cry but you have no idea why nor is there a good reason for it. It’s like a dark cloud hanging over you that is constantly telling you how stupid, worthless, and insignificant you are. Add anxiety into the mix and you have this feeling of falling and seeing the floor coming up fast on you—all the time. Shinji is constantly questioning his worth, he’s always worrying about what others think of him, and he’s contemplating that he’s just not worth anything. The creator Hideaki Anno, suffered from depression and psychosis. He actually wrote the original ending during a psychotic break; the show is tied as a projection of the author’s own mental state.

If you are one of the 350 Million People Worldwide that suffer from depression, if you are suffering from anxiety, if you are suffering from any sort of mental illness I want you to know something:

I’m here to say that it is okay to say that you hurt, that you matter very much, and you are no different than someone with any other medical condition; you just hurt in a different way. That’s the key to getting a handle on your Mental Health: remember that you matter, that there is someone out there who does care, and you story is an important addition to this world we live in.

Your story is important; you have something wonderful to give to this world. Sometimes anime can be a mirror of someone’s heart and soul. This is not weird; it doesn’t make you a freak. It makes you human. What are some of your favorite shows? Who in an anime has spoken to you? Let’s have a discussion. That’s how change happens, that’s how stigma’s get kicked out.

If you want to read more on this topic, here’s a great article from BuzzFeed: http://www.buzzfeed.com/jeanlucbouchard/how-an-anime-series-helped-me-recognize-my-depression#.oc9GaEoDL

Review: Erased, Ep 1: Flashing Before My Eyes

Erased is one of the many new shows this winter premiering on Crunchyroll. Usually I pass over several because I simply don’t have the time to watch them all. This show intrigued me as I do have a special place in my heart for the psychological thriller, however I went in with a below average expectation because the show, from the description, sounded like a typical anime trope (from Crunchyroll):

Satoru Fujinuma is a young manga artist struggling to make a name for himself following his debut. But, that was not the only thing in his life that Satoru was feeling frustrated about…he was also living with a strange condition only he was able to experience. - REVIVAL A strange phenomenon where one is transferred back to the moment right before something life-threatening occurs. This continues to happen until the cause of the threat is erased. It is as if somebody is forcing Satoru to stop it from happening

Sounds kind of “eh” right? The descriptions never really do the show justice I’ve found. Let’s dive into it shall we?

Minor spoilers ahead!

“I’m scared to get to the heart of my own mind.”

The show opens with Satoru stating this internally as his editor in chief tells him that he must put more of himself in his work if he ever wants to become a better manga artist. As he walks back to his dead-end job at a pizza parlor I notice that the character design of Satoru is very specific: He’s tall and lanky, he has glasses, and a sort of “woe is me” look on his face all the time. He’s immediately portrayed as someone who is more of a reactive force in his life rather than a proactive one. Strangely enough, I found myself being able to relate to him. Depending on what age you are, we’ve all had moments in our lives where we’re working at a dead-end job just to keep the lights on and the fridge somewhat full. It’s not what we want to do for the rest of our lives, no that dream we proclaim to the world and hope that through our talent and will it’ll come to fruition. Satoru has sort of reached the more stoic, dead part of the journey: the loss of hope that his dream will ever come true. He has sort of become his own worst enemy and has become a self-defeating, hopeless person.

We get a feel for how Satoru uses his “powers” within the first ten minutes or so of the show. He’s out on a delivery and the scene sort of interrupts with this flash and brief change of color, suddenly we’re presented with the same information that we just saw only there’s a more urgent feel to the situation. Satoru is looking around for anything out of place, and we’re placed in that same frantic situation as our protagonist. The pacing of the scene was fast and progressive, like everyday life; you really had to pay attention to find what was out of sorts. Satoru finds what was out of place and he, while complaining the entire time, fixes the problem and tragedy is averted. He doesn’t necessarily “embrace” his powers, he’s more like “I guess I’ll do this because I’m here.” The show really does focus on Satoru’s lack of ambition for his own life, again being more reactive than proactive.

Luckily, we’re not just faced with Satoru’s less than enthusiastic view all the time; we get a refreshing counter to his character in Airi Katagiri. Katagiri is not only spunky and adorable (waifu material guys), she’s also presented as very driven and smart for her age. She’s a high school student that works in the pizza parlor with Satoru, Satoru just doesn’t understand her (surprise) but after she witnesses what he does to avert the tragic situation as previously mentioned; she seems to be much more interested in him. She flat out tells him that he doesn’t really open up to people and she, unlike him, has hope in her dreams—which she didn’t tell him what they were because she said “It’s not like we’re close or anything.” The show presents us with tantalizing cliffhangers as we don’t really know what her dream is, we have to earn it like Satoru.

Another cliffhanger that is presented is the case of the “abductions” that we hear about throughout the show. When Satoru was in fifth grade, two of his classmates were abducted and brutally murdered. His mother, Sachiko, did her best to try and make Satoru forget what happened. Surprisingly, I didn’t fault her for this. Fifth graders aren’t really supposed to deal with adult situations so she did what she thought was best for her son. Sachiko is a wonderful character, you wouldn’t think that she was Satoru’s mother as she is presented relatively younger (not that 52 is old mind you) and not showing signs of aging. But that’s not what makes her wonderful, it is suggested that she knows about her son’s supposed “powers” even if she doesn’t understand it she still accepts him and listens to him.

This is presented very well in a scene where Satoru has another “revival” as they are leaving the supermarket. She doesn’t shun him or say “oh you’re just imagining things,” she actually stops and looks around with him. In a surprising turn of events, she’s the one that prevents the event from conspiring so I’m left to wonder if maybe she has some sort of higher than average observation skill or a similar power to Satoru’s.

What’s always on the back of the viewer’s mind is the fact that Sachiko knows more than what she is letting on about the abductions. She drops hints throughout the episode but nothing proves it more than the scenes following the supermarket. She’s torn about telling Satoru the truth about the abductions, it shows in her face and in her demeanor. She feels guilty about not believing a young Satoru about something that deals with the abductions, what that is I won’t say as it will spoil the story. She attempts to reconcile this, to tell Satoru the truth about everything. She attempts anyway
.

It’s not until Satoru is faced with an impossible situation that we really see if he’s going to start to become a proactive force in his life. The episode ends on a tantalizing cliffhanger that left me wanting more. Will Satoru finally stop being reactive and play a part in his own life? It’ll be interesting to see how this character develops.

Overall the show starts off strong and ends strong, one could find a trope or two but it’s not an episode breaking thing. I’m very curious to see how the character of Satoru develops and learn more about Katagiri. The universe is very appealing, and the pacing definitely fits the show—not slow and explanatory, but fast and unforgiving like life is. All in all, I give this a four out of five stars, and I can’t wait to see what happens next.

Online Harassment

The Internet is probably the most influential and fundamental invention of my lifetime. I’ve seen the birth of America Online, Macbooks, iPhones, and Androids; I’ve seen obscure websites like Facebook and Twitter grow into the juggernauts they are today. It’s pretty amazing to be a part of something like that.

However.

I’ve also seen the darkest parts of the Internet and what it can do to people. How it can ruin and sometimes end lives, and how one click of a button can change everything. I was watching a popular show on HBO called Last Week Tonight with John Oliver and he was covering a story about Internet harassment. It’s mind blowing the amount of harassment that goes on, and if you don’t think that it does or that it’s not a big deal well congratulations on being an average white guy. If you are a woman and you make the “mistake” of trusting someone, or if you dare to have a thought in your head and post it on the Internet then you are probably going to face some sort of harassment or even worse. Take Anita Sarkeesian for instance. Those of you who are not familiar with her probably aren’t into video games; she’s very popular amongst that group of people, sometimes for the wrong reasons. Sarkeesian is a voice for women in video games and a critic as well; she frequently posts her reviews online and vocalizes the obvious sexism in the video game industry. She has not only received lewd remarks for doing so, but some of these are much more serious and threatening. She has received death threats not just geared towards her, but her entire family. She has also received rape threats that often are graphic and way too disturbing for me to even quote. Despite the threats she still keeps going, refusing to let these threats of violence deter her from her end goal.

Amanda Hess, a writer who posted a critique on the harassment of women online, received threats that were along the lines of “I’m going to rape you and cut off your head.” She went to the police, (it is against the law in California where she lives to make threats of bodily harm) and the police officer that came to her door didn’t even know what Twitter was. The officer didn’t really think that a crime had been committed even though clearly it had. When the police don’t understand something they cannot investigate it,if they can’t investigate it and come to a conclusion, then the person who committed the crime gets away with it. How would you feel if you were that person? Knowing that this sick individual got away with doing harm to you or your loved one?

Online harassment doesn’t just stop at threats of violence; there is another way women are harassed and humiliated: it’s called revenge porn. Revenge porn is where private and/or nude photos are posted online for the world to see without their consent. Now I can hear the response already: “Well if you don’t want that to happen don’t take those sorts of pictures!” First of all, not all of the pictures are taken; some are stolen from hacking webcams. Secondly that statement is what I like to call “victim blaming.” What you do in your own personal time with your partner is YOUR business, the news and other sources have hard-wired this sentiment in our brain. What victims are often told are “Sorry about your luck, but you trusted the person so it’s kind of your fault” or if it’s about general harassment some victims are often told “Just turn off your computer, it’ll go away eventually.” Okay first “turn off your computer” is not practical because we use the internet almost every minute from our PC’s to our phones, I mean somewhere in the world right now there is a sheep herder in some remote location using wifi; secondly blaming a person for something because they trusted another person is stupid, what if that person stole from you or worse? How would that make you feel? “Oh sorry about your loss but it is kind of your fault for trusting that person.” Insert any other crime into this situation, “I mean if you don’t want to get robbed, don’t live in a house!” “If you don’t want your identity stolen don’t shop online!” See what I mean? It’s all about the way we think about these things, and how they are presented to us. It’s always the victims fault until suddenly you are the victim. What you do with your significant other is your business, and if they betray that trust then our response shouldn’t be “well you shouldn’t have trusted them.”

If a woman goes to the police stating that someone threatened her life on Twitter, or if she goes to a lawyer because her vindictive lover posted nude photos of her online the response should not be “What in the world is Twitter?” or “Well you should date better people.” This is 2015, and the fact that women are still being harassed just because of the simple fact that they are women with thoughts is ludicrous.

The purpose of this article is not to rant or rage, the purpose is to get people to think of things differently. We need to raise our daughters to be strong and independent, and our sons to be respectful and upstanding. If you go to John Oliver’s YouTube page and watch the video on Online Harassment, you’ll see it has a 40% “downvote.” Why? Because people don’t want to talk about it or acknowledge that it’s happening and that’s the major part of the problem. We can be part of the solution by bringing it out in the open, talking about it, and teaching our children that these things are wrong.

Mental Health: Why I'm an Advocate

It’s no secret that I am an advocate for Mental Health Awareness; I’ve sort of made it my goal to promote awareness and education on the subject. Mental Health has had a pretty bad reputation since, well people first learned to speak. It’s been associated and portrayed in our society as a negative thing; television shows and movies depicting horrific asylums, crazy killer patients, and perverted psychologists (sometimes referred to crudely as “shrinks”). It also doesn’t help that a stigma has been in place for centuries. While researching the subject, I discovered that the first recorded Lunatic Asylum in Europe was the Bethlem Royal Hospital in London, and it has been a part of London since 1247 when it was built as a priory. It became a hospital in 1330 and admitted its first mentally ill patients in 1407. Before the Madhouse Act of 1774, treatment of the Insane was carried out by non-licensed practitioners, who ran their Madhouses as a commercial enterprise and with little regard for the inmates. The Mad House act established the licensing required to house insane patients, with yearly inspections of the premises taking place. Back in America, the U.S. Library of Medicine states that the mentally ill in early American communities were generally cared for by family members, however, in severe cases they sometimes ended up in almshouses or jails. Because mental illness was generally thought to be caused by a moral or spiritual failing, punishment and shame were often handed down to the mentally ill and sometimes their families as well. As the population grew and certain areas became more densely settled, mental illness became one of a number of social issues for which community institutions were created in order to handle the needs of such individuals collectively.

Imagine being ostracized because you had high blood pressure, or a broken arm. You were so afraid of being criticized or laughed at, or even worse told to “just get over it.” If you had high blood pressure eventually your head would start to feel like it was going to explode before you had a severe heart attack, with a broken arm the bones wouldn’t heal properly without a splint or some other form of support and you would be in pain for the rest of your life from the severely deformed bone. Mental Illness is the same thing, it’s not a physical condition but it is still a medical condition that requires just as much attention as that broken arm. Yes the asylums were horrendous. Yes the patients can become dangerous. But don’t let American Horror Story be your point of reference for learning about the Mentally Ill. When it comes down to it, we’re all carrying around some sort of hurt. Sometimes that hurt becomes a wound that won’t heal but festers and we need help to make it better. How is that a bad thing? Why are we so conditioned to try and do it on our own when it’s nearly impossible to do so? I’m here to say that it is okay to say that you hurt, that you matter very much, and you are no different than someone with any other medical condition; you just hurt in a different way. That’s the key to getting a handle on your Mental Health: remember that you matter, that there is someone out there who does care, and you story is an important addition to this world we live in. 

Anxiety: It's not just "Worrying"

Many people seem to brush anxiety off, saying it’s nothing but “overreacting” or “worrying.” People treat it not as an illness, but as something for someone to just “get over.” The National Institute of Mental Health states that “Anxiety Disorders affect about 40 million American adults age 18 years and older (about 18%) in a given year, causing them to be filled with fearfulness and uncertainty. Unlike the relatively mild, brief anxiety caused by a stressful event (such as speaking in public or a first date), anxiety disorders last at least 6 months and can get worse if they are not treated. Anxiety disorders commonly occur along with other mental or physical illnesses, including alcohol or substance abuse, which may mask anxiety symptoms or make them worse.” A person with anxiety is always second-guessing, always worrying, and always fearful. Here’s how the mind of someone without anxiety works, take for instance turning the coffee pot off or wondering if you locked the door: “I’m pretty sure I locked the door, yeah I did. I just don’t remember because it’s something that’s second nature to me.” Now someone with anxiety: “Oh God, did I lock the door? What if I didn’t? Someone’s bound to notice and break in! What if they’re waiting for me there when I get home? I’d better go double check that door.” It may seem a like the person is over-reacting, but those are, in their mind, legitimate fears that could come to fruition.

I will be discussing the most common anxiety disorder: Generalized Anxiety disorder. The National Institute of Mental Health defines Generalized Anxiety Disorder as this: “People with generalized anxiety disorder (GAD) go through the day filled with exaggerated worry and tension, even though there is little or nothing to provoke it. They anticipate disaster and are overly concerned about health issues, money, family problems, or difficulties at work. Sometimes just the thought of getting through the day produces anxiety. GAD is diagnosed when a person worries excessively about a variety of everyday problems for at least 6 months. People with GAD can’t seem to get rid of their concerns, even though they usually realize that their anxiety is more intense than the situation warrants. They can’t relax, startle easily, and have difficulty concentrating. Often they have trouble falling asleep or staying asleep. Physical symptoms that often accompany the anxiety include fatigue, headaches, muscle tension, muscle aches, difficulty swallowing, trembling, twitching, irritability, sweating, nausea, lightheadedness, having to go to the bathroom frequently, feeling out of breath, and hot flashes.”

Now I know you must be thinking: “Why can’t they just tell themselves that it’s all incessant worrying and move on?” The reason is not a question of will, but a question of brain chemistry. Anxiety is natural, it works as a motivator and it acts as a warning system for danger in someone who doesn’t have a hiccup in their brain chemistry. In the 6.8 million American adults with GAD, it’s an inhibitor; the chemicals in the brain are on overdrive and high alert. It’s not something that can just be brushed aside, it needs treatment; just like someone with high blood pressure. I suffer from GAD, and it’s a constant struggle to keep my brain from going mad with worry. I do take my medication every day, but some days it isn’t enough and I need to focus on myself for a few hours. I meditate, do breathing exercises, and avoid loud or over stimulating places. This didn’t come easy; I never thought I could just focus on my breathing when I was in the grips of an anxiety attack. It took practice, and years of therapy to achieve this. I had to learn that Anxiety wasn’t who I am, but just a hiccup in my brain that couldn’t be helped, but could be treated if I wanted it to be.

Now, how can you help? When a person in the middle of an anxiety attack is suffering, the worst possible thing you can say is “Calm down.” What you should say is “What can I do?” Listen to them, even if you don’t know what to say, they need to be heard and acknowledged. Someone who has anxiety already feels silly because they know they’re worrying for nothing but can’t help it. The last thing you want to do is make them feel worse because this in turn makes their anxiety worse. A person with anxiety is just like you, they’re not some medical anomaly, after all you wouldn’t treat someone with diabetes or high blood pressure like that; so why treat someone with a mental illness like that?

I hope that this has opened your eyes to Anxiety; I hope that this has helped those with anxiety. My goal is to do just that: Promote understanding and aid. Mental Illnesses are no different from any other medical condition and should not be treated as so. 

Dear Baltimore,

I am in pain right now from what I see on my television. I see hatred and bigotry, I see violence and destruction; this is not the charm city I know and remember. So I will address both sides with honor and respect, I will not let hatred seep into my speech.

To those who have white skin: You must understand that some wounds take a long time to heal. We have been privileged just because of our skin color. Throughout history we have been the conquerors and now we must be the healers. To those who took up the vow to protect and serve I respect you, it takes some special courage to put on a bullet proof vest every day before work. You took that vow with honor and courage, you had it in you to do something that most of us would never think of doing: going up against evil and protecting the innocent. Words cannot express how thankful I am for you, however it is the wolves that lurk among you that I fear. Those who would use the power you have been granted for their own selfish purpose, to cause harm and spread hatred. You, who wear the blue and defend us must hate them more than anyone because they are a seeping blemish that curses everything you stand for. Like all blemishes, they must be lanced and eradicated.

 To those who have black skin: I will not stand here and pretend to know what it is like to be ostracized because of my color. I will not judge those who raise their voice in protest and cry out for equality. I will not stand by and allow you to be called a derogatory  name nor will I turn my back on you when you need a listening ear. However I will not be a target of your hatred. I will not accept looting and assault as forms of protest, I will not accept chosen ignorance, and I believe that you can be better than what your circumstance dictates. Do not give people a reason to stereotype you, become better. Stand tall and show respect, remember Dr. King and Gandhi--they raised their voices not their arms. Please, stop the violence. Do not become the monster that took your peer. 

I want nothing but peace. I want nothing but love. I want nothing but equality. Yes I am a white, middle class individual; but I am also a human being, therefore nothing human is alien to me. We should remember that we are all human, that nothing another human being does is beyond us. We are all human, we all require the same basic needs, why is this so hard to grasp? 

December Song

Christmas is always a wonderful time of year for me, I have my mother to thank for that. Though sometimes it can be bittersweet because this marks the thirteenth year I'll be without her, there is a warmth there that allows the emptiness to be easier to bear.

Lately I haven't been able to write, it's been torturous. Then some Christmas magic happened: I magically was hit with inspiration and produced the poem below. I hope you enjoy.

December Song

The tree twinkles in the moonlight
as I sit enveloped in the warmth
of the fireplace. 

I am the only one awake
on this December night,
this holiest of nights. 

The house has fallen silent,
I hear each snowflake as it gently glides
down from the sky.

The flames twinkle as I await midnight
with only a blanket and tea
as my companions.

 It's hard to describe, 

this emotion that plagues me;
a peaceful silence

 coupled with a woeful emptiness.

My eyes divert from the fire
to a lonely ornament
 on the humblest of branches.

It has your name etched
in glitter, it sparkles
in the dim light.

I have so much more
than most this night,
but it is not enough.

I need you,
you who fostered this love,
you who taught

 that there is magic,

and peace is attainable.
I used to sing a December song,
now the lyrics are lost to me.

In this silent night
I'm on a journey
to find them again.

I close my eyes
and try to remember...
my heart longs for it,

for this night is
not complete without it.
Softly the fire crackles,

the snowflakes shimmy,
and the steam from my
tea floats above my mug.

I can hear it,
the soft melody of
my December song

within the silence.

It was never lost,
just forgotten until now.
A smile curves across my face,

I can feel you now,
my December song.
I will not falter now,

for now I have
this melody
etched upon my heart. 

Confessions of a Girl Gamer

I’m probably going to damn myself to a life of ostracism by confessing this, but what the hell: I am a gamer. I love video games, I play video games, I have played video games since I was a little kid in the Nintendo age of the late 80s early 90s. I thought I would recant my experience in the gamer world.

It all started with Mario and the original Nintendo. I remember logging hours into that game, trying my best to get to that very last level before I had to inevitably cut it off and go outside—my mother was very strict about TV time and outside time and for that I thank her. Then came the wonderful PSOne and I’ve continued my love affair with the Playstation franchise ever since. I spent hours playing classics like Spyro the dragon, Crash Bandicoot, Rayman, and Ape Escape. I absolutely loved being taken away to these other magical worlds where I could do anything.

Then there was Tomb Raider. And it was then that my perspective on gaming changed.

I was fascinated by Lara Croft, her agility, her smarts, her badass guns; I loved her. It wasn’t until I was really into the franchise when I asked myself a very important question: Where are all of the female characters in games? Why am I always stuck with a strictly male character?

It wasn’t until I was much older when it really started to grind my gears. I went on to get a Playstation 2, and though there were more Tomb Raider games for it, it seemed as though Lara Croft was the only game in town for me. Don’t get me wrong, I love Tomb Raider (except for the shorts…come on now who the hell is exploring tombs in short shorts?!), but once I beat it there was really nothing left for me to do but go back to God of War and a male forerunner. I felt as though I was the only girl in the world who played video games and there was something wrong with that. I loved them, but I felt isolated because I wasn’t really being represented as a female.

As it turns out, I’m not alone. A recent report stated that nearly 50% of the gaming population is female, that’s almost half for those of you who aren’t good with percentages. However a more troubling percentage enters my mind: 3% of all the decisions made on how women are represented in the media are made by women—that means that 97% of those decisions fall to men. That’s staggering, even in the 21^st century.

Then you have reasons like the one Ubisoft gave, who when asked why there were no female assassins in their new Assassins Creed game, basically said that making female characters is way too hard.

Um. What? That sounds like a cop-out to me…totally calling bullshit on this one.

Then they had the nerve to say about their new Far Cry game that there ‘are tons of women in it!’

Really? So how come we don’t have a playable one? How come you, Ubisoft, haven’t given us a playable female character in a Far Cry game? Oh wait…it’s too hard to make one; Even though the Far Cry franchise has historically been a first-person shooter and ALL YOU SEE IS THEIR HANDS.

It’s either one extreme or the other it seems in the gaming industry. You have one developer who says “Making female characters is too hard!” or “Nobody will want to play as a female character!” Then you have some other douche bag saying “Look at all of our strong female characters! They’re scantily clad and have tits the size of a bowling ball but they have great personalities!”

Seriously? Can’t a girl just have a strong, normally dressed, kick ass female lead?

All hope is not lost though. The past few years have brought us a revamped Tomb Raider (who FINALLY DRESSES LIKE A NORMAL WOMAN), Fem Shep in Mass Effect, Gravity Rush, The Last of Us, and most recently First Light, a DLC based off of the Infamous Second Son game. I’m sure there are more that I’m forgetting at the moment, but I still have an issue: It shouldn’t be that easy to list games with female leads. I should really have to struggle because of the number, but alas it’s still easy. Now naming a game with a buff white guy? Sheesh do you want the short list or the long?

Why are there so few female leads in video games? It’s a question I’m going to keep asking until I see results. As a female gamer, and part of a large community of female gamers, I feel that I should be represented in a positive way like any other sort of media. That’s what this is all about, I’m not asking for a major change here. It’s not that hard to write a female lead, nor is it that hard to make her compelling. So I’ll ask again: Why? 

A Letter to all of you Twenty-Something’s

I’m sad to say I’ve reached my late twenties. That point in one’s life where the struggle of being an adult becomes real. No more partying on the weekends (or after classes during the weekdays) because you have to get up and work the next day. No more sleeping until noon (or possibly later depending on the state of your hangover) because you will most likely get fired if you do. No more Ramen Noodles, Easy Mac, or cheap Chinese food (well maybe higher end Chinese food. I refuse to give up lo mien) because you probably should start thinking about your health and let’s face it: there is massive amounts of sodium and fat in all mentioned. You have to be an “adult” now. That means you have to learn how to do “adult” things. What in god’s name is an “adult” thing? How on earth can I do it if I don’t know what it is? Am I even old enough to be qualified as an adult? I still sleep in “Superman” pajamas for crying out loud!

            Personally, I don’t think one should be considered an adult until they’re at least 35. That seems like a legit age. But I digress.

            So what qualifies as “adult” things? Paying bills, managing your finances, buying groceries (beer no longer qualifies as your top “grocery” item guys, sorry), signing up for health insurance, paying bills…paying bills…paying off the inevitable student loans that you’ve probably racked up during your college years. Holy crap. This is getting scary. Life is starting to creep up on you. Slinking its long, gnarly fingers around your wallet and mind; threatening to drive you mad! Life! You thrust the skull high and dramatically say: “Alas poor Yorick I knew him!” Then you realize that you not only don’t know someone named Yorick, but someone else said that first. So you sit down in the corner and fall into the fetal position crying out: “I don’t want to be an adult! I can’t handle all of this!”

            Take a deep breath. Uncurl yourself from the fetal position, and sit up. You’re going to be fine. I know it’s a lot to take in and it’s scary as hell, but you are not alone. There are thousands of people going through the exact same thing as you, maybe not at this very moment but trust me they’re definitely going to feel it soon. I am one of those people; I’m terrified of becoming an adult. But being an adult doesn’t mean changing who you are completely, it means making a few tweaks here and there to make sure you’re successful and most importantly: happy. Let me explain:

First off, people unfortunately need and require money in order to survive. Wouldn’t it be better if we all could pay with pocket lint or something? Or pennies? There are probably more freaking pennies than there is pocket lint. Sadly, that’s not the case so one needs to find a job and become a contributing member of society; a taxpayer. Preferably, you want a job that makes you happy but alas, that doesn’t always happen. The truth is you’re going to have to work a few crappy jobs before you find one that makes you happy. I truly believe that if you keep pressing on, you’ll find that job. Just keep going kid, you’ll make it.

Secondly you’re going to have to learn how to manage your money. I feel so hypocritical saying this because I am awful with money. But it’s something I am learning to do. If you have to, talk to someone about planning a budget or finance management. There are people out there who do that sort of stuff for a living (I know, shocking right?) so they’ll be more than happy to help you out.

Lastly, never lose track of where you came from; whether that place is lower class, middle class, or first class. Where you come from is an important part of who you are and it’ll keep you grounded. I’m blessed to come from a wonderful family who supports me in all I do, even when I screw up royally I’m able to come home and find my bearings. If you’re not as lucky as I am, then remember where you come from and become better. Remember that someone can’t be more human than you, if a human being did it than it is attainable for you. 

Maleficent and Feminism

I don't normally do two blog posts so close together, I'm lucky if I do two in one month. However after seeing Disney's recent film Maleficent for a third time I felt that I just had to record the many observations I had during multiple viewings of the film. Spoilers ahead for those who haven't seen the film.

Maleficent tells the tale of the classic "villain" in a new way; it gives her back story and why she became evil. As it turns out, Maleficent had wings. Her wings represented freedom and identified her as a fairy, they were massive and glorious; they were strong and reliable. Utter joy and elation was on the characters face as she soared through her homeland the Moors, they gave her the freedom and the identity of a fairy. The Huffington Post recently posted an article comparing the loss of Maleficent's wings to rape. Now at first I thought it was a bit harsh, after all it is a Disney movie, however when I really sat down and thought about it and after my third viewing of the film...I'm inclined to agree with them. Here's an excerpt from the article:

Imagine you're drugged by someone you thought you trusted. You wake up in the morning with your face down in the dirt. You're aching. Your appearance has changed and you can feel that you're different as you try to stand through the pain. Beyond the physicality of it, your power was stolen from you. Your flight response. Your dignity.
You're confused. Enraged. Devastated. Angry. You set everyone on fire around you. You wish hatred on newborn babies. You want to hide in an evil shell of darkness where everything is black and no one can touch you. Or ever hurt you. They talk about walls on reality TV shows. Oh, you build walls -- they're walls of thorns with armed towering guards that will crush any man who tries to approach it.

 The story goes as follows: Stefan and Maleficent were childhood friends, this lead to young lovers. Stefan was ambitious and headstrong, he had a huge set of blinkers on and could only see what was in front of him. Maleficent coudn't understand the greed and folly of men's world and though she was hurt by Stefan's actions at times, he had never given her a reason not to trust him.
Recently defeated in battle by Maleficent and her comrades of the Moors, the King stated that anyone who could avenge him for this loss and his imminent death would be named king. Well this was the opportunity that Stefan had been waiting for and he was willing to do anything to get it. The whole scene is absolutely horrifying to me: Stefan goes there with the intent to kill Maleficent, he drugs her, and when the knife is high above her head he finds that he cannot bring himself to kill her. So instead he takes iron chains (we find when they first meet that iron burns fairies) and literally saws her wings off; he rapes her of her ability to fly. He takes her very identity, her freedom, he alters who she is, and wounds her both physically and emotionally.

Sounds a lot like a sexual assault to me.

I had to write this because I myself am a victim of sexual assault and it took three viewings of this film for my mind to finally accept that I was seeing an action of assault. So what does this mean? The Huffington Post has an idea:

But Maleficent is a commentary on current male and female relationships. It's a commentary on rape culture. And much more, it's a story that allows a woman to recover. It gives her agency. It gives her power. It allows her to reclaim the story. And this is something that can't be ignored.

Maleficent was able to reclaim her story, she was able to rise above what happened to her and get her wings back. Her wall of thorns came down and she was able to let the light in again. I think this is probably one of the most important movies that Disney has made thus far, even if this wasn't their intent. It shows that they are taking a new direction and telling more stories that women can relate to instead of roll their eyes at the classic patriarchal fairy tale.

I like the direction that Disney is going, I hope they keep on this track because lets face it, women are powerhouses and they need to adapt to the changing times.

Preventable Tragedies: Mental Illness and Violence

It seems as though lately we have been living in an incredibly violent world. The recent shootings have prompted a heated conversation on gun control and how we need stricter gun laws. It seems to me that we are talking about everything else EXCEPT the one glaring similarity between the shooters: they all have a severe case of mental illness. A recent report on CBS News Sixty Minutes noted that most of these gunmen all have reported or we have found out about them hearing voices in their head telling them to do horrible and unspeakable acts of violence. This symptom is commonly diagnosed as schizophrenia, a disabling mental disorder that causes people to hear voices other people don't hear. They may believe other people are reading their minds, controlling their thoughts, or plotting to harm them. This can terrify people with the illness and make them withdrawn or extremely agitated. Its a dark, abysmal world that they inhabit, one that no one can understand unless you have been there. In the case of the Washington Navy Yard shooter, he went and told someone that he had been hearing voices and he was worried that something bad would happen. Nothing was done and he ended up succumbing to his illness and killing twelve people. Every single shooter that has killed mass numbers of people has had a red flag raised against them and people have been told that they were not only a danger to themselves but could possibly be a danger to another person as well. Nothing was done. 

In the late sixties when state hospitals were shut down, the patients (we're talking about a half of a million of them) there were supposed to be housed in residential treatment centers, supervised, and medicated. What happened? Well the programs were never adequately funded and so a half of a million severely mentally ill people were left to fend for themselves. Most of them are not being treated and suffering with their ailment. Instead of funding these residential treatment centers, we are worried about other things and not looking at the real problem here: These people need help. They need to be medicated, monitored, and have regular psychiatric care. Now I am not saying we bring back the state hospital system. That's a terrible idea. What I am saying is that people need to start paying attention to the fact that mental illness is a real issue when it comes to the safety of others. Its not the guns that are the problem, its the people pulling the trigger. 

It is incredibly difficult now to get help for someone suffering from either a psychotic break or having suicidal ideations, etc. Take the case with Virginia Senator  Creigh Deeds, whose 24-year-old son, Gus attacked him and then died by suicide in Nov. 2013. His son was suffering, and there were no beds available for him. This is a U.S. Senator, he has resources that average people don't and yet his son could not receive the attention he needed because of this messed up system we have for people with mental illness. 

Lets take me for example. I suffer from depression and anxiety, while now I am on medication and am doing okay, before I was medicated I suffered severe anxiety attacks which led to severe depression, and that led to suicidal ideation. I was so close to taking my own life last September that I nearly didn't make it to the hospital. Once I was there, the doctor said that my insurance would not cover my stay at that particular hospital and they said that they may have to send me up to Cambridge, MD where they have a hospital for people with mental health issues. Basically, I could not stay at my local hospital because my insurance didn't think it necessary for me to do so. I ended up staying at my local hospital thanks to my doctor's persistence but I couldn't help but wonder how many people that happened to. 

People with mental health issues also face a stigma that they are not "normal" or they are "special" in a bad way. This needs to stop. It's causing people to not go get the help they need, or even worse deny that they need help for fear of being ostracized. This world is tough and not everyone handles it the same way when life gets really shitty. There's not a day that goes by where I don't feel normal; I feel like I have to constantly apologize for my condition even though I know I can't help it. Because of this stigma, I feel like I'm...different, and not in a good way. 

So what do we have here? We have a broken system in need of repair, and a stigma that's permeated our culture. What can be done about it? Plenty. Write to your Senators, raise your voice and for gods sake remember that we are all human beings. Human beings are the same, no one can be more human than you. Just because someone has bipolar disorder, or depression, or schizophrenia, or anxiety doesn't make them alien. The world is a very difficult place, think of how much more difficult it is for them. 

Why I need Superheroes

There have been several things said about Superheroes over the years, and I'm probably going to repeat some of it in this essay. There are a few poor, unfortunate and sometimes ignorant souls that don't see what the big deal is with superheroes, or just flat out think that they're silly. I want to make a case for their importance, and in using my own personal experiences I hope to do just that. 

I was about thirteen or so when I really started to get into comic books, I can remember vividly my first purchase: New X-men volume 1. I had grown up with the x-men and justice league cartoons and I was basically brainwashed into loving these characters. I can remember really connecting to both Wonder Woman in the Justice League and Jean Grey of the X-Men. When you're a kid, you don't really have a concept of these connections; you just like them because they're cool and they kick ass. I wouldn't realize how much I would need these characters, how much they would mean to me, and how closely I would be able to relate to them.

When my mother died, I was thrust into a world of darkness and pain. I'll skip the grim details, but needless to say it was a bad time. This is where the purchase of that X-Men comic comes into play. I can remember the cover:

I was afraid of ridicule because at that time, comic book people weren't really that cool. In fact they were labeled as nerds and outsiders. Being thirteen, self-conscious, and concerned about what people thought I hid my adoration for this series. I can remember being excited about Jean Grey's revival, see she dies...several times. It's a long story, just check out this article on Wikipedia and you'll be set. Anyway I was so very happy that she was back. It meant more to me because the sign of the Phoenix was a very powerful one for me. See everything that I was, all of my being was wrapped up within my mother. She was my idol, she was my best friend and she was the only person (besides my father) who really understood me. When she died, I lost everything. I didn't really know who I was or if I could do anything worthwhile. Jean Grey struggled with the forces inside of her; she struggled with her dark side. The Phoenix Force proved to be both a blessing and a curse. Her mind gained great power, her telekinesis grew, and she ultimately became the most powerful being in the Marvel universe. However this power came at the cost of her sanity, her husband, and eventually her life. I could relate to that. Even not having powers, I could relate to the human struggle with darkness inside. Jean was able to rise from the ashes eventually but the darkness was always there. It always haunted her. I can relate to that. 

Along with Jean Grey, Diana of Themyscira AKA Wonder Woman also gave me hope. If you've seen my previous blog post about Diana, you'll see that it's no secret that I adore her. She gave me hope, she gave me peace, and she allowed me to believe that I could do anything despite what circumstances life had put me in. Wonder Woman gave me a reason to believe again. 

Superheroes are our mythology. The Greeks and Romans had their gods and we have ours. They are modern mythology in motion. I will never believe that Superheroes serve no purpose. They were born out of the Great Depression, when America needed an ideal to live up to, they needed something to give them hope. Superman did that, he was the first. He never let us down and still continues to give us hope. 

I don't want to live in a world without them. I don't ever want to go to a city or a town and not find at least one comic book shop. I want to share these stories with my kids. Superheroes are coming back, the recent box office shows that. People want that ideal to believe in, that there is something good and just in this sometimes shitty world. They want to see Captain America, or Thor, or Superman come in and save the day. They know that these guys will never let them down. 

That simple belief, is the reason why I believe Superheroes will always live on and why we need them now more than ever. 

Wonder Woman, all the world is waiting for you.

I sat down to write and this essay ended up being about my all time favorite superhero: Wonder Woman. Five pages later, this is what I came up with:

            My adoration of this character started when I was just a kid watching the Justice League cartoons. Wonder Woman was voiced by the fabulous Susan Eisenberg, and I remember being spellbound by her; awed by her strength, compassion, and loyalty. That adoration for the character never faltered—she was always at the back of my mind. The only girl on an all boy team, a woman who didn’t need any male assistance nor did she feel the need for a lover. Sure there was her crush on Steve Trevor, and later Batman, and most recently her love affair with Superman—but never once did she need them. There’s not a drop of dependency in her Amazon body.

            Recently it was announced that she would be in Zach Snyder’s Superman sequel. At first I was happy—but that happiness only lasted a mere second or two. You may by wondering: “Why Lauren? As big a Wonder Woman fan as you are—you should be delighted!” I should be, but I’m very worried about how the character is going to be portrayed by actress Gal Gadot. Let’s start with a little bit of history first.

            Wonder Woman came on the comic book scene in 1941. She enjoyed a wonderful run until the 50’s—because of a book called Seduction of the Innocent (which basically blamed comic books for juvenile delinquency), a comics code of ethics was adopted; Wonder Woman’s pro female message and mostly female cast led the author of the book to believe that she was a lesbian and promoting lesbianism. So she went from kicking some serious ass and going on these grand adventures to being a romance editor and being carried across streams by Steve Trevor. She fell on some hard times after the code of ethics was adopted, in the 60’s she was stripped of her powers and was going on these ridiculous spy-fy adventures. That is until the first Feminist Movement led by Gloria Steinem; the feminist of the Movement demanded that she get her powers back—with much reluctance their wish was granted and Wonder Woman became a symbol of female empowerment. Her character continued to be invigorated into the 70’s when Lynda Carter put on the golden tiara and lasso of truth in the television show. The show was a huge success, running for nearly four years, but after it ended the Amazon’s popularity started to slip a bit—despite continuing in the comics. Throughout the 90’s and today though, her popularity has increased significantly in the last 30 or so years. Thanks to the Justice League cartoons, DC Comics New 52 movement, and her ongoing romance with Superman Diana has experienced a little increase in popularity.

            I wanted to give you that little bit of history because in order to really understand the character and how important she is to me—you need a little background.

            The reason I am concerned about our new Wonder Woman appearing in the Man of Steel sequel is because I want so much for the cast and creative team to get her right. She’s not just some superhero with tits okay she’s so much more and she represents so much more than just a pretty face with superhuman strength. Wonder Woman was created to be an ideal woman: strength, compassion, humility, equality, and beauty.

            Wonder Woman is strong—physically, mentally, and spiritually. She can bear the weight of anything, be it a two ton truck, a heavy decision, or a devastating loss. When she’s down she gets right back up and keeps on going no matter what, she keeps fighting and will fight to the death.

            Wonder Woman is compassionate, she can empathize with people. She isn’t just for female power but for the community of people and their needs. She never goes in fists blazing like other superheroes, she tries to find alternate ways to solve problems before fighting despite her warrior’s training—fighting is always her last resort. She’s the embodiment of love and compassion, never judging or bullying.

            Wonder Woman is humble—always reverent and respectful. She’s not arrogant about her powers or abilities but grateful for them; she knows that they are a gift that she could possibly loose. She is reverent towards the gods and is always respectful to those who are older and wiser—something we could all learn from.

            Wonder Woman stands for equality. She doesn't just stand for women’s equality but the equality of all divine beings on this earth. She comes from an island where all are equal, and does not stand for a patriarchal society. Equality belongs to all beings.

            Wonder Woman is beautiful. Thick, dark hair, big blue eyes, and a womanly figure that’s not unrealistic or subjected like most comic book heroines. Her beauty isn’t just physical—as cliché as it is to say, her true beauty is a combination of all of the things I’ve mentioned; that’s what makes her beautiful.

            That is the Wonder Woman, the Diana Prince, which I have come to know and love. I want so much for this character to thrive on the big screen in a full length movie—she can handle her own, you just have to trust the character! The DC Universe animated film is still one of the most popular one they’ve made! It tells a brilliant story and it doesn’t try too hard to get you to like her because there’s no need for that: you adore her from the first moment you see her! If you’re going to do Wonder Woman you’ve got to do her right, and that’s not entirely difficult to do—it takes trust in the character and what she stands for.

            Who knows what Zach Snyder has in store for Wonder Woman; we won’t know anything until we see the movie. I can only hope it helps and not hinders Diana. After all—she’s fought a damn good fight.

Fear vs. Love

I've had an epiphany. 

I'm a coward. There I said it. I'm a scared little girl who doesn't want to grow up and face the future. 

At first I was ashamed of this, I denied it and tried to tell myself that wasn't the case. It's funny how you think you're fooling everyone when really you're not--you're just fooling yourself. 

What is the root of this fear? Why is it so powerful? Is there any way that I can face it? These are questions that I've been asking myself lately. It all started a few days ago when I was in a session with my therapist and I was talking about why I had been feeling so anxious and hadn't been sleeping well. I thought it was because of the fact that my father and I are moving--after all that is pretty stressful--and the fact that it's still pretty up in the air was stressing me out. Now my therapist is a good one because he has an excellent bullshit detector, however he has to bring it to your attention in a more professional matter. He asked me about school, which is usually a topic I avoid because I don't think it deserves any attention and it has nothing to do with how I'm feeling. 

Bullshit.

It has A LOT to do with how I'm feeling--it's the primary source of stress and anxiety in my life. But why? is it because that's just how it is for college students? Sort of, with me there's always more to it than just the norm. It's the source of stress and anxiety because it's all I've known and it's beginning to draw to an end. I am literally a semester away from graduating and I should be happy but I'm not. I'm fucking terrified--I hate it it when people ask me when I'm going to graduate or how school is going. I hate it so much that I nearly snap at anyone who does ask. I don't want to move on. I'm stuck in a routine, one that I'm comfortable in but it's one that is poisoning my soul and keeping me in this quicksand like state.

I realized this when I was talking about the new Disney movie Frozen with him. I didn't realize how deeply I related to it until I was talking about it out loud. You see I don't just relate to Elsa, I am Elsa. 

Elsa is a girl who, when she was younger, embraced herself and everything that came with it; she loved life and what it had to offer and wasn't scared or anxious about what came around the next bend. However (as life often does) life threw a curve ball--something happened in her childhood that made her question everything, made her doubt, made her afraid. So she concealed who she was, holding it all in because she was afraid of what might happen if she let it go. One day she did and she ran away from it all, and for one fleeting moment she was free--everything felt...normal, she could be herself but she was alone, isolated, and she thought that is what she was destined for: to be alone where she couldn't hurt anyone. She was afraid to let the love in because it might hurt. She was afraid of her power, afraid of the future. 

Wow this is beginning to sound pretty familiar. 

Anyway because it is a Disney movie everything turned out okay. But see, we don't live in a Disney movie and it fucking sucks because then we would know for certain that everything is going to be okay.

I am afraid to move on. I am afraid to let it go. Why? I don't know yet. Maybe I think that the future is going to suck as much as parts of my past have, maybe I'm just afraid of uncertainty, or maybe I'm just afraid that I don't have what it takes. Hell, maybe its all of that. I can't really answer that question because I've just made this realization like four days ago. Epiphany's take time I've discovered...

I don't know what the future holds, I don't know if all of this college shit is going to be worth it, I don't know if I can live up to the expectations that have been set for me, I don't know any of this and it's terrifying for me. I'm a sensitive and deep feeling person that is her own worse enemy and harshest critic of herself--it sucks. 

There is one thing that I am trying to remember: On the other side of every fear is freedom. A freedom that I can't even begin to comprehend and a love that is beyond words. I should probably get it tattooed on my forehead because I'm having a hard time remembering it. But I am trying, and doing the best that I can. 

Why am I putting this out here for the world to see? It's therapeutic for one, it makes me feel less alone for another, and lets face it I do love attention. Well, that last part was just to be funny but in all seriousness I guess I just want people to know that if they are afraid that it's okay--that they aren't alone. Because isolation sucks, it's not helpful and it keeps you in a depressed state. I know that now. Now if I can just learn to let love in, and learn that on the other side of this mountain is a freedom that will be intoxicating I'll be okay. 

And you know what? I truly believe that I am going to be okay. 

Three South: A short Essay on my time at PRMC

The cold, bright lights pierce my eyes as I came to. I remember checking myself in, but I don’t remember anything else. I have to try. Remember damnit. My thoughts are racing, I can’t focus on anything right now except the smells and how scared I am. This room smells sterile, like bleach and fear; the sterile smell seeps into my nostrils and stays there, mixed with uncontrollable sense of terror. I’m having a full blown anxiety attack, it’s hard to explain how those feel unless you have one so I’ll try: it’s an uncontrollable fear that grips your soul, your hands are shaky and sweaty, and your heart is pounding so loud that you can hear it ringing in your head like a bass drum, your stomach is in knots and you’re nauseated. The anxiety is so powerful that I can’t control my thoughts, all I can remember is I started to feel the depression envelop me as the anxiety set in; because my thoughts were racing I couldn’t think logically which led to this attack. I wanted to kill myself; I wanted to go home and take a knife and slit my wrists or hang myself in a doorway. I didn’t want to but I couldn’t control what my brain was saying. That’s why I’m here. I became a danger to myself.

My only companion at the moment is the camera in the corner that watches me, it’s making sure I’m not going to try to attempt to follow the suicidal thoughts that are plaguing me; they’ve made it nearly impossible for someone who is suicidal to commit to their actions in here: there’s no interior doorknob, the bed has no guard rails unlike other hospital beds, and the chair has no arm rests. The room is fucking freezing, even the blanket they gave me is cold and I’m trembling; of course at the moment I can’t tell if the trembling is from the cold or from the fear. They took all of my things: my purse, my phone, even my jewelry—all except my necklace with my mother’s initials on it, I told them it was the only thing that was keeping me sane. I fidgeted with it, tracing the initials with my fingertips, feeling the smooth gold underneath. It was all starting to become clear now; I was beginning to remember what led me to the ER.

I was walking back from class; it had been a particularly hard day. See when you have depression your days start weird. It’s almost like they start when you’re asleep, (at least for me anyway) if you have nightmares or don’t sleep well then you wake up feeling like shit already. For someone who’s “normal” they just grumble about it and have an extra cup of coffee, but for me it makes the fight to stay balanced even harder. Nothing feels right and nothing makes sense; you’re in a fog, you can’t concentrate, you can’t think, you can’t eat or drink, you can’t even see straight. All you can think about is how fucked everything is, especially you—you, you worthless piece of shit who can’t do anything right, who can’t understand even the simplest concept because your brain is all discombobulated. The struggle for me was that I knew that I could be better. I knew that I wasn’t worthless and that my family was proud of me and I could do this—but my mind was at a constant war with itself. It was almost like there were two different people living inside my brain. I even gave them personalities: One was gentle and compassionate, had the patience of a saint and would always try to build me up (which was a job in itself because I had a very low self-confidence rating anyway). The other was evil, my dark side that manipulated me into thinking that I was all of those things I mentioned. They would tell me to take the knife and slit my wrists, or take the rope and string myself up; they reminded me constantly of the darkness in the shadows at night.

The “darkness” I refer to is the face of the man—the teacher—who molested me—the man who caused me to be this way, who gave me my anxiety and constant fear. He did it when I was at my weakest: five fucking months after the death of my mom. He groomed me, led me to believe he was harmless when really he was the monster that I had always been warned about. It started when I was taking his class, I never thought that the extra attention he paid me was more than just sympathy. I was a stupid fourteen year old girl wrought with grief over losing her mother, what the hell did I know about things like that? It was at a time where that sort of stuff just didn’t happen, people didn’t talk about it.

Anyway back to the present.

As I mentioned before my day was shit already, I had nightmares all night and I was just tired, so tired. I didn’t remember what happened in class, and I felt so heavy, like someone had placed a boulder or something on my shoulders; I was walking back to the parking garage and I kept thinking “Something’s not right…I feel so overwhelmed. Something isn’t right! SOMETHING ISN’T RIGHT!” I wanted to cry out and scream and cry all at once, I managed to make it to my car and I just lost it. My eyes were so full of tears that I couldn’t see, I couldn’t think, my throat was closing up so I was having trouble breathing, every fiber in my body was trembling. The anxiety was so bad that I could almost feel a noose tightening around my throat, constricting me like a massive boa constrictor. I looked down and could see the blood streaming from slices on my wrists even though there was nothing there. I was in deep shit. I knew if I went home I would try to kill myself, even though deep down I wanted to live so bad—I just was so tired. It was so loud.

So that’s how I got here. I remember now. I’ve finally fallen off of this great precipice that I had been struggling to stay on for years. I thought I had finally gone insane and they were going to ship me off to that hospital in Cambridge where they send all of the other crazy people. I was terrified.

The nurse comes in and starts asking me questions about my family history, and then proceeds to get into why I was here:

“How long have you been feeling this way?”

“A couple of days…it just got really bad and I just couldn’t take it anymore.”

“Have you ever tried to kill yourself?”

“No ma’am…just thought about it…”

“That’s good. You’ve taken the first step you know, the first step towards healing.”

“Then why am I so scared? I’m terrified, I can’t think—“

That’s when the tears came; I don’t remember what I said or even what happened after that. I know from my sister working in the ER that they most likely admitted me and were waiting for confirmation from the South wing of the hospital. They weren’t going to send me away, they were going to keep me here and treat me.

Three South. Has a nice ring to it doesn’t it? The official name is the Mental Health Ward, it’s called Three South because it’s on the third floor in the southernmost wing of the hospital. It’s a place where people can recollect themselves, it’s not a One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest situation, the most people stay there is a week. Because PRMC is small, the ward itself isn’t exactly spacious; it only has about ten to twelve rooms and each patient has to share a room with a patient with a similar condition and the same gender depending on the number of patients that were there at the time. After about two hours and one visit with my father later, I was whisked away to Three South. My dad came as soon as he could and we talked about why I checked myself in and what I would need in the coming days. He went home to pack my things and try to wrap his head around why his daughter finally went off the deep end. I wondered what he was thinking; was he blaming himself? I hope not, as a matter of fact he was the reason why I was still alive. I wanted so much for my brain to shut up, to stop confusing me by telling me I was worthless and I should just end it; it was because of him that the knife always fell to the floor or the noose was never tied. I didn’t want him to have to bury his daughter after having to bury his wife just twelve years before.

They go through all of your things when you get admitted, mainly to see if you’re carrying anything dangerous and to see if you’ll need anything out of your bags. They don’t let you keep a bag or anything in the ward, it’s considered a safety hazard because you or someone else could strangle themselves (remember we are in a mental health facility) with the strap or someone could steal your shit. So they keep your bags behind the nurses’ station which is a large, glass enclosed area across from the patient’s rooms. It was the central nervous system of the ward; it contained patient information, medication, and of course the most important element of the ward: the nurses. I was shown to my room and saw that they had taken a few things out of my bag and left them on a desk that was across from my bed. Along with my clothing, she had left my journal and a copy of T.S. Eliot’s poetry. The nurse that had checked me in was a tall, white-haired woman with gentle eyes but a stern disposition (I found that most of the nurses here had to have a firm, empathetic, and gentle disposition), she didn’t intimidate me but I wouldn’t cross her. She meant business but she also was patient and kind, she didn’t take any shit but she earnestly listened to you. She weighed me in (why in God’s name you needed to get on a scale is beyond me) and as she was doing so, a large black woman came up to us.

“Hi. I’m (insert name here), what’s your name?”

“Now (Patient name), let her get settled and then you two can introduce yourselves okay?” the nurse said

“Okay!”

I was relieved that the nurse said that because I really wasn’t in any frame of mind to communicate with another patient at the moment. As she was completing the weigh-in, I got a good look at part of her chart:

Patient name: Lauren Ellen Wilson

Diagnosis: Severe Depression with suicidal ideation; severe anxiety.

Medications: Lexapro (10mg); Ativan (.05mg)

I was shown to my room, I would be rooming with another girl who had been here for two days and had the same condition I did and was around the same age. I was relieved to know that, and even more relieved when I met her:

            “Hi, I’m  (patient name). Looks like we’ll be roomies, you don’t snore do you?” she smiled

            “Not to my knowledge.” I laughed. She was funny and charming, with red hair and big blue eyes and freckles. Her presence was soothing, and I felt myself calming down.

            “Good. I think we’re going to be cool.”

I began to talk with her about the other patients, she told me that your room was really the only place where you didn’t have to deal with anyone except your roommate. The patients were all grouped together in the common area; it was where we watched TV, ate and off to the right was a separate room where group therapy was held. It was controlled, she told me that the nurses were really great and they kept things civil. She said that the food was…okay, but she could not wait to eat what she wanted. The patients were given a menu each day with breakfast, lunch, and dinner selections; you made your choice and that was it.

She introduced me to two other patients that came here at about the same time that she did. One was a man, who had an athletic build, like he played football, and he was real easygoing; despite this, he had a nervous breakdown and ended up here. Like my roommate, he didn’t seem like the type of person you would typically find here; it goes to show that a mental breakdown can happen to anyone. The other was a very sweet older lady who I later learned was manic, meaning she had extreme mood swings, going from elated to depressed in a blink of an eye, but she had no idea that’s what it was. My roommate proceeded to point out other patients and tell me their stories. There was a black man who was a manic depressant and an addict—he was addicted to pills and cough medicine. A guy who had made it all the way from Wilmington on a bus who smelled real bad when he arrived, she wasn’t sure what his issue was but he definitely wasn’t all there. He would sit and stare, fidgeting his left hand and leg while his bottom lip hung from his mouth and trembled. There was a woman who had severe depression; she spent her days in her sleeping clothes, wrapped in a blanket. There were days when she wouldn’t come out of her room, not even to eat; she would just be locked in her room with the curtains drawn and waiting for the darkness to take her. My roommate told me that she had been here almost two weeks. There was another girl who was about my age, possibly older, that just stood and stared; she just stood there staring off into oblivion as if the pain of a thousand sorrows weighed upon her mind. Occasionally she would stare at the wall and randomly bang her head, it was sad—she was trapped within the confines of her illness. Then there was the large black woman I mentioned earlier. We weren’t quite sure what her issue was—we knew that it had a lot to do with hallucinations and delusions—but we did know that we tried our best to avoid her. Not that she was dangerous or anything, she was just so damn annoying. She was loud, often obnoxious, had no sense of personal boundaries, and her comments were often lewd, inappropriate, and outrageous. She talked of her nonexistent husband and how she didn’t need him, she would often sing gospel songs at ungodly hours of the night, and she would often take the food right off of your tray if you weren’t careful. Despite all of this, I still maintained a feeling of empathy because her case was a tragic one; she was not really that person, the person she is and desires to be is trapped within the walls of the illness. That could be said for anyone here, including myself, the person that you want to be and the person that you are is trapped within and you have to figure out how exactly to release them.

My first night was not a successful one. I slept badly. The unfamiliarity of the place, the goddamned construction going on, and the fact that I was terrified beyond any sort of description all contributed to my poor sleep. I refused to take the Ativan that I was prescribed that night, mainly because I was too lazy to get out of bed to go get the pill—I was exhausted and was not leaving that bed unless there was a fire. Another reason was that I'm obstinate, I hate medicine—I was one of those kids that my mom had to literally sit on my chest in order for me to take it. I knew when my anxiety became uncontrollable, and though it hadn't reached the point that I described earlier, I could feel it getting there so I committed myself to my breathing exercises; they took a while but eventually worked. The obstinacy and persistence had seen me through my ailment, and it had kept me off of Lexapro for a while—it also taught me when the meds were necessary, and I learned the hard way to never lie to myself about these things.

My second day there I had my first breakdown. I knew it was going to be a bad morning when I reacted to someone's outburst that led to him becoming highly agitated. It was the manic depressant addict, though I wouldn’t call him an addict to his face as that’s what set him off. He began to scream and swear, banging on the walls and saying how he “wasn’t addicted to any fucking thing.” He was a far cry from the tranquil man I had met just yesterday. The nurses were trying to calm him but their task was a hard one, he was inconsolable. His eyes were wild and he just kept screaming how he wasn’t addicted, he was laughing like a mad man.

I began to immediately feel a Level 10 anxiety attack coming on—the tightening of the throat and stomach, the sheer, unsettled, urgency and terror—I was upset to say the least. I went for the Ativan first—something I never do, this was the sign of my breaking point. The nurse wanted to talk to me and calm me down, she was unaware that I had Ativan in addition to my Lexapro. You see Ativan is in the same family as Xanax, and is classified as highly addictive if you're not careful with the distribution and usage of it—which explains why the nurse was so hesitant about giving me the pill. She took me aside into one of the conference rooms where I told her what brought me here after she asked:

 “What made you feel this hurt?”

“My mom died when I was thirteen you see…and then after that I was molested by my schools bible teacher…I—I just—I’m so damn tired of it all. I feel disgusted and raw, I hate myself, I miss my mom, I know that her being here would make this so much easier. I am just so…tired of everything.”

I did hate myself, I hated that I couldn’t be the person that I wanted to be because of my depression and anxiety. I wanted to be stronger but I wasn’t, I wanted to be more than what I was, which was still that fourteen year old girl who was scared and alone. I had locked her away for so long, trying so hard to be “strong” and “brave” that the shackles that held her finally broke, which lead to my being here in this room with this amazing nurse who doubled as a counselor. She talked with me for an hour, listening and verifying my feelings. I never really had a chance to deal with all that had happened to me, after all it happened so fast: my mother was dead within a month of her diagnosis and not even a year after that I was molested. I suppressed it, not wanting to deal with it—I couldn’t deal with it—after all what does a fourteen year old know? How can someone who isn’t an adult deal with adult things?

After I calmed down a bit she said that I could still have the Ativan if I needed it; I found I didn't need it after all. I retreated to my room to write and read.

Even though I was locked away—the real world was still there, all I could think about was school and the fact that if I missed too many classes my graduation date would be pushed back to December. I tried to put it out of my mind; after all I was here for me. It was just before dinner—I was staring out the window, marveling at the “glorious” view: the graveled rooftop and the piece of sky that the tall buildings allowed me to see; I was watching the sunset—it was almost like I had a front row seat in Monet's studio, watching him paint his latest masterpiece. I know it's cliché but I'm in the mental health unit so I'm allowed to use such clichés.

I began to feel a sense of calm; things were starting to clear up I began to feel like things were starting to make sense. I had made great progress in these two days—I haven’t had one suicidal thought since the first time I was checked in, my desire to live was becoming more and more prevalent as my family came to visit each day. They loved me back to life; I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for them, they reminded me of how much I had to live for and how great I could be. For the first time since I came here, I felt, on that second day, that I was going to be okay.

Day three: I was discharged at noon. How do I remember that? Well my sister told me it was lunchtime and she wanted to take me to get “real” food. We went to Chipotle.