by Steve Bringe
Unintentionally finding myself involved in behavioral health peer advocacy illuminated a universal truth:
It’s been an advocacy guiding principle for me and it’s been working out just fine.
Reprinted with kind permission of Steve’s Thoughtcrimes.
This is an important photo in my recovery journey and the advocacy stuff I do.
Taken at Behavioral Health Day at the New Mexico State Capitol Building (aka “The Roundhouse”) in 2012, this was my first full term as president of DBSA Albuquerque. The photo is of me (obviously) and Dr. Chris Morris, then with Optum Health.
DBSA Albuquerque had a table for the event and Chris dropped by to say hi. When the crowd thinned out a bit, Chris asked to have a private word with me.
By this point early on in peer advocacy, I was fairly well-networked and fairly well-known as a peer advocate. And, it was already a thing I was torquing off prominent stakeholders who’d been in the community much longer than the two years I’d been around.
So Chris pulled me aside and said, “Steve, you know you’re making people mad and upset, right?”
Sadly, I knew this. And it was a mystery as to why.
Chris then said, “Why should anyone be mad at you? What are you doing wrong? You create new support groups, you hold peer focus groups for advisement, you bring peers to meetings so they can have a direct voice, you set up peer education events, you write opinion pieces and letters to anyone you feel can help peers, you hold community education developed and presented by peers. Why should anyone be angry with you? You’re not doing anything but trying to help peers be empowered.
“This is the reason: You are threatening people’s power, money, or both. You are outside their influence and they can’t control you. This is why people are angry with you.”
Wow. A bit of a gut-punch to hear that. I really was naive early on.
Chris then offered advice which is a cornerstone to how I approach advocacy to this day. Chris said this:
“Don’t stop doing things your way. If you do, then you’ll put yourself where others can control you … and stop you.”
These words mean everything to me and are a constant reminder to keep straight on what my friends are saying and the goals I hope to accomplish. Chris’ words are also a reminder of how limiting bureaucracy is and how building new, novel solutions to peer needs is more efficient and successful than trying to fix broken systems.
Chris’ words also guided me to the very foundation of how I view behavioral health advocacy:
The enemy of innovation is asking for permission.
And, yes, I still piss people off. And, yes, people still try to stop me.
Dr. Chris Morris is a hero of mine. With complete sincerity. Thank you, Chris.
A peer advocacy project I’m taking on this year is more of a community awareness conversation than an actual advocacy project. What I want to share is a deconstruction of non-profit corporations (501c3) and how the idea of a non-profit is misconstrued as all donations (or most) go to charitable community projects. This just isn’t the case and it’s a misconception nurtured by several non-profits to mask a branding and income-generating machine.
Many of you know I was president of DBSA Albuquerque for seven years. We did a lot of really great things for our community – as volunteers – for which DBSA National gained respect and noteriety in New Mexico. The accolades rightly belong to our peers and our community and not an organization in Chicago that never finacially supported our local projects in any way.
Financials get people’s attention. Let me give you some quick rough numbers on the Depression and Bipolar Support Alliance that our former treasurer researched last year. There are about 700 DBSA chapters (the majority are 100% staffed by unpaid volunteers) and each chapter pays a $120 affiliation fee yearly to use the DBSA brand.
This adds up to $84,000 from annual affiliation fees.
Now, here are the numbers our treasurer found in his research:
$84,000 versus $89 million.
Not once in my seven years as president did DBSA National fund any local projects. We requested an inter-organizational grant each year to simply cover the cost of support group venue rental costs.
Most people in Albuquerque, if asked what DBSA is, have the impression the ENTIRE ORGANIZATION is a volunteer peer group providing peer support groups for free.
This misconception is one main reason we brought our peer support groups to the local community, adding the groups along side our existing Stand Up To Stigma education programs. All of what we do remains free to the community. We receive funding in more transparent and honest ways. And we’re open with our plan to pay peers for giving presentations, facilitating support groups, and taking part in community advisement. Our time has value and not simply “doing good is its own reward.”
This is the proverbial “tip of the iceberg” and our research includes many more behavioral health non-profits. This is an ongoing community awareness conversation we’ll be detailing this year.
A final note for this prologue. For my entire tenure as DBSA Albuquerque president, each year I invited a representative from DBSA National to visit us, to put a face on our affiliated parent organization in Chicago. From what I gathered from peers who have been attendees at DBSA Albuquerque since as long ago as the 1990s, no one can recall meeting anyone from DBSA National.
Each year, DBSA National was thrilled receiving our invitation. I was quoted the speaker fee plus expenses.
This is an ongoing community awareness conversation.
A colleague who reviewed this article asked/warned me, “Aren’t you afraid DBSA National will sue you to get you to shut up?”
Absolutely I’m afraid. I don’t have the backing of $89 million for attorney fees. And, I’ve already been threatened by DBSA National in a way that violates the First and Thirteenth Amendments.
So, yes, I’m very concerned. If it cones to civil litigation, hopefully folks will understand it’s merely a large organization bullying a peer advvocate striving for peers to be valued and justly compensated for their value.
I tried to make myself dead a couple weeks ago. However, that’s not really want I want to talk about.
For the past few months a peer has insisted on confronting me about “issues and concerns” she had about me. When I plainly stated my mental health was not in a solid enough place to take on this sort of conversation, her reply was, “Well, let’s give it a try and see where it goes.” I flatly declined to do so, repeating my mental health was my prioirity.
Similarly, at a STS peer support group this year, I had a peer member call me out on expressing my difficulties and challenges. He said, “I’m very uncomfortable, Steve. You’re supposed to be our rock. I don’t think you’re being appropriate.”
The spectre of this demand upon me loomed with everpresence. My ex-gf even pressured me, saying “If you don’t talk to her, you’re going to lose her. You’re strong enough.”
Of course I have strength. I am very proud of myself for my strength. And at this time in my recovery journey, all my strength is dedicated to my wellness. I’ve made this absolutely clear.
Something I’ve recognized over time is there is a misconception I have “my shit together” at all times and in all ways. Proudly, I do carry myself well and present well. I believe people’s misconception comes from the success I have “wearing the mask” to function in society, especially when feeling kind of rough. It’s a fair assumption considering.
Yet, it’s exhausting when already exhausted. What I find most draining and disheartening is not when a Muggle says something like “You should think happy thoughts” or “Have you tried not being depressed”, it’s when peers are imposing upon me prioritizing my mental health and feel an entitlement to encroach upon – or even violate – my explicit boundary of “self-care first.” It’s exhausting.
Fellow peers not listening to my plea of “NO MEANS NO” is a pressure that depletes me and breaks my heart. I take it very seriously and very personally.
Trying to precisely define my emotions borne of peers expecting more of me than I have the strength to muster brings up feelings of hurt, disappointment, anger, weariness, exhaustion, loneliness…
If really expressing myself honestly, my emotions are a great swell of betrayal and abandonment. Betrayed and abandoned is how I feel.
These are my emotions to own and I’m confident I’ll learn ways to successfully manage the resultant symptoms. Still, it sucks feeling this way.
It’s been full-on difficult the past two months. I pushed myself harder than healthy (a constant failing of mine), my med regimen of seven years is losing efficacy, I’m not managing the symptoms of CPTSD very successfully (thank you, Susan, Paula, and MHRAC for this Disneyland of turmoil), and the holidays are simply emotionally defeating since losing my Mom in 2011.
All said, I made a best effort at killing myself two weeks ago. First time in over seven years. I’m here typing this so apparently I suck at suicide.
It’s important to know I firmly stand that it’s bipolar that led me to the (foolish) decision to try to be dead. There are always contributing stressors reinforcing mu brain’s capacity to lie me. It’s my malfunctioning brain lying to me that’s at fault and nothing else.
One crucial element for me, moving onward, is building upon learning how to express myself explicitly when I’m in crisis and learning how to ask my support network for help before the crisis turns deadly… and hoping they’ll understand the severity when I ask. It’s tough to see my distress behind the mask and it’s my responsibilty to reach out make myself understood. Pride is deadly sin for a reason.
Even more crucial is being very clear “NO MEANS NO” and not taking “No, I won’t respect your boundary, I won’t respect your health, and I won’t respect you” for an answer.
My Dad is here to help keep me alive day to day while I work with Deb on new meds, while I confer with my new therapist exploring the wonder of how much CPTSD manifests itself during my daily existence, and while I draw upon DBT skills as strongly as possible.
As for STS peer support groups, although being called out as “uncomfortable” to the group (no member disagreed) was a tough nut to chew, it is fair and useful feedback. We’re no longer a small cog in the bigger DBSA machine. As the founder and proprietor of STS there are different expectations of me and it’s very kind and generous for the members to help me understand this. I’m honored we have a community of trust where members feel safe enough to express their needs to me.
And, to close off, I’m doing much better thanks in large part to friends who are there when I (finally) ask for help.
A number of folks I’ve recently met asked “Are you with NAMI?” or “Are you with DBSA?” or ‘Are you with MHRAC?” or “Are you with ____?”
The answer is “No.” I’ve resigned from each board and committee of all organizations where once I held leadership positions and I am focusing exclusively on Stand Up To Stigma peer education programs, peer focus groups, and peer support groups. These are the projects important to me and my close friends and to be most responsive to the needs of our communities we must be a fully independent peer collaborative.
What I learned is behavioral health solutions must be innovative and opportunistic. The enemy of innovation is asking someone else for permission to do what you KNOW is right in your heart.
When I was 46 the State of New Mexico honored me with an award for Lifetime Achievement in Behavioral Health Innovation. I’m stoked by the opportinities DBSA, NAMI, MHRAC, APD, BCFIC, and other organizations/acronyms provided me. What I realized is what was being honored was the advocacy stuff I was accomplishing independent of existing organizations.
So, the longer answer is it’s great collaborating with good folks like NAMI and DBSA, and it’s doing stuff as a completely peer-developed, peer-managed, and peer-led organization where I feel most useful in mental health advocacy.
My friends and I work best where growth, community, and innovation are encouraged and nurtured.
We’ll be talking a lot more about STS’s mission as we move forward with our support of our community.
Remembering when I used to have a life. I do this all the time. My friend gets mad at me saying I’m always speaking of the past and showing older pics. But, it’s these times I remember since the loss of me. I guess it’s a reflection on the good times. Like an old man/lady who sits on the porch telling their grand-kids about the good ol’ days.
I remember traveling, going to concerts, comedy clubs, movie premiers, out dancing, going to school to get an MBA, dating, etc. Nothing made me upset, depressed or anxious, except the normal stuff that would cause anyone to feel this way. Everything was impromptu and everything made me excited, especially swimming, hiking and biking.
The best memory is never having to use an alarm clock; in bed at 10, up at 6 and then for a long bike ride before the sun came up. No meds in my cabinet except for a multi-vitamin.
This pic is when I was in Mexico with my girlfriend. We just hopped a plane and went to Mexico and had the absolute best time, even though the hotel was cheap and I slept on a block. It just didn’t matter. I went with the flow on everything. I always laughed at shitty situations and found the good in the bad, the silver lining on every cloud.
Well, now, I just want to die. Every day I feel like I have the flu, am burning on fire, movements in my body, SI, anxiety off the charts, etc. I have no real friends/family anymore. Nobody understands and nobody cares. The world is a fair-weathered friend. I guess it’s a survival of the fittest theory.
I want children, a nice husband, nice friends (the ones I have are utter shit), a safe home and to wake up at least feeling 75%. This is no way to live. I honestly don’t see how people do it. Some doctor destroys our lives with a shitty Big Pharma drug and we must resign to the fact that we will be sick/bedridden for a decade, if we even make it. I’ve lost my looks, my personality and my will to live.
I very much miss the good ol’ days.
F*ck you Kl*nopin.
Dear editor,
In response to the October 29, 2019, article by Dr. David Osser, I would like to share insight into diagnostic modeling from the patient perspective.
https://www.psychiatrictimes.com/article/mania-and-hypomania-latest-thinking-duration-episodes-and-other-features
I’ve got bipolar. Both I and II. And schizoaffective disorder. And . . . anything else diagnosed in that 15 minute span of presentation at the ER, which is where I received each of these diagnoses.
For me, an initial diagnosis is a great place to start deciding how to treat my symptoms. After that, the game plan is to treat my specific symptoms and not the diagnosis. Providers sometimes miss this essential progression in treating peers because of adherence to diagnostic criteria.
My significant issue with bickering about manic durations is that showing symptoms for too short a span (it appears 7 days for mania and 4 days for hypomania) serves the primary medical rationale “We might treat it wrong if we don’t have the proper diagnostic definition.”
I’ve been riding this rodeo since 1987, diagnosed in 1999. I’ve had rapid cycling with frequencies every hour and not days. Some providers question the existence of mixed episodes. I’ve had a provider insist I treat psychosis first because of the schizoaffective diagnosis, when the psychosis is consequential of severe depression. Treat the depression, the psychosis goes away.
In all this time messing about with treatment, there is one constant:
So, does it really matter about the duration of mania in treatment? I’m showing mania-oid symptoms that happen to last three days. Try me out on some LiCO3. If my mania-oid symptons abate, bam, good job. It’s mania. If not, then . . . let’s trial and error other treatment options.
Being practically cynical, adhering to a minimum episodic duration means peers like me won’t receive the proper treatment of mania because I don’t meet the diagnostic criteria. This is exactly the contrary argument being debated for a revised two day episodic duration . . . even with the proposed revision, my true treatment needs again fall outside the diagnostic capture zone.
Being fully cynical, I often believe the DSM is a billing manual more than a diagnostic treatment manual. This is borne primarily from years of trial and error treatment efficacy frustrations and probably isn’t a reflection of actual purpose.
All said, my sincere recommendation for providers is treat the person and the empirical symptoms and not the diagnosis and diagnostic criteria. This is what works best for me in my recovery journey.
Kindest regards
Steve Bringe
Founder, Stand Up To Stigma
My divorce . . . I wasn’t fond of my divorce. The only difference between my divorce and a bloody, puss-filled, and inflamed hemorrhoidal tissue is nothing. It was icky and messy, it hurt really really really bad, and it was a world-class pain in my arsecrack. So uncomfortable, so ouchy.
After my divorce, I did that most natural of bipolar activities. I isolated. Big time. Calls went unanswered and window shades unopened. The thought of retrieving mail brought on such anxiety-ridden bouts of sleeplessness and self-doubt I questioned my ability or willingness to breathe. My Blanket Fortress was in a perpetual threatened state of being saturated in urine because, in practical terms, it would be easier to change my sheets later than to take on the Himalayan expedition of crawling to the bathroom to use the toilet. I kid you not. This was a serious debate I had each day. My divorce left me in razor-thin mortal existence and my bipolar depressive symptoms were insistent on knocking me off this ragged edge.
I have friends. And, with some of these friends, I was missed. This longing for my presence elicited concern and this longing also elicited an unsolicited visit to my home. I have friends, and I have very good friends who know about my bipolar symptoms and I have very good friends who like me alive. One such friend is Michael.
After a month of completely ignoring the world, Michael and his boyfriend came to my home and kept unrelentedly ringing the doorbell, and despite my bipolar depression sensibilities, I had to answer the door just so I could murder whoever was incessantly leaning on the doorbell button. No, I don’t want another copy of The Watchtower. I appreciate you dropping by. Oh, yes. Stand very still. You have to be murdered.
Drats. It was Michael at the door with Geoffrey. They were smiling, although Geoffrey appeared nauseous over my appearance and aroma. Yes, I was nasty gross from weeks of hygienic neglect. Still, don’t invest too much weight in Geoffrey’s reaction because a used bandaid floating in a public pool triggers Geoffrey’s gag reflex so badly that he dry heaves until his entire body is turned inside-out.
Michael said, “Get ready. You’re going out with us tonight.”
I said, “Michael, leave me alone. I feel like shit.”
Michael said, “No choice, buddy. Get in the shower.”
I said, “Michael, I don’t have the energy for a shower. Just go away.”
Michael said, “Fine. We’ll give you a bath.”
I said, “Michael, I’ve told you a trillion times, I’m not gay and regardless of sexual preference I’m not into threesomes.”
Michael said, “You can’t insult me until I go away. Off to the bath.”
I said, “Fine.”
Geoffrey said, “Uggggg!!! I just threw up a little bit in the back of my throat!”
I said, “You had to wait to say that until my clothes were off? What an excellent ego boost you offer.”
Michael said, “Grow up. And don’t bother deciding on your outfit for the night. We have something special set for you.”
For Michael and Geoffrey, the outfit was more important than hygiene, but only just. What they had planned for me involved many razors and many parts of my body. It involved the makeup aisle at Walmart. It involved a trip to Savers. It involved viewing clothing sized “14” rather than sized “L.”
Shit. I hate my friends.
After the rigorous scrubbing so I didn’t smell like a dumpster fire in the alley behind a curry house, I had so little energy to argue or struggle. I just said, “Shit, Michael. Fine. Whatever. I have only one demand or I’m not going.”
“And what’s that?” inquired Michael, already boasting a smile that wouldn’t fade.
With no hesitation, Michael and Geoffrey agreed to my non-negotiable. Perhaps demanding EVERYONE hit on me would have made them go away.
Painted up with cheap, vibrant face makeup so I looked like a Teletubby vomited a bag of Skittles on my head, and spruced up in a Prince-purple discoball sequined full length prom dress and electric-shock blonde wig, Michael and Geoffrey shared we were going to dinner at my favorite restaurant at the time (Trombino’s on Academy, still a fave) and then off we’d go to shake the night away at Pulse (admittedly, the best dance club with the best dance music in Q-Town). I barely picked at my thick and rich chicken/pasta plate. I barely had the energy to lift my chin above 24 degrees off my chest. How the hell was I supposed to go dancing to a bass-soaked 350 bpm reimaging of INXS’s “Need You To Night”? Collapse was imminent. I didn’t drive myself, effectively without escape. I was screwed.
“I’m not kidding, Michael. Nobody better hit on me tonight. Get the word around as soon as we get to Pulse.” My mood sucked and I was exhausted from bipolar depression increasing the gravitational constant of the universe for only me. I had nothing left in me to ward off unwanted romantic attention. It’d be easier to melt into a puddle of infected off-green sinus-goo and take residence in a CDC petri dish for all eternity. Michael sighed his reply.
We got to Pulse and I wearily pleaded with Michael and Geoffrey to crack the window and leave me in the car. No go. Michael is slim and Geoffrey is short. How they hauled my 6’3″ nearly-dead weight frame into the club and kept me upright on the dance floor for three hours is Herculean and I learned that night that either bloke could kick my ass if wanted, even when I am at full strength. Very humbling, although it did make me feel very safe and protected. This was important.
The three hours were the worst three hours I’ve ever spent immediately following a meal at Trombino’s while dressed up like a prom date drunk on steroids. It couldn’t end soon enough and it didn’t. The saving grace is Michael and Geoffrey were true to my demand and I wasn’t hit on all night.
Finally, my upright misery could turn into prone misery as Michael and Geoffrey ferried me back to my house and the safety of my Blanket Fortress. It was the first time I was out of the house in over three weeks, and truth told I didn’t hate being out of the house. This is entirely credited to the love and caring Michael and Geoffrey showed me. This sort of adoration is energizing I’ve come to appreciate in my very best friends.
Collapsed in the back seat of their Prius, I forcibly mumbled out, “Hey, guys. Thanks for getting me out of the house. And really thanks for honoring my wish. No one hit on me all night and that means everything. Thank you.”
Michael looked at Geoffrey and Geoffrey looked at Michael as if thumb wrestling to decide who would acknowledge my gratitude. It was Michael who lost.
After leveling that devastating full-body ego slam, my friends stayed the night to make sure I didn’t kill myself.
It was one of the best nights of my life.
Kindly reprinted from Steve’s Thoughtcrimes.
