Category: Self-Empowerment (Page 1 of 2)

Not nice people don’t get nicer because it’ll help you heal.

When someone doesn’t care about harming you they’ll care even less about apologizing for harming you. Waiting around for accountability and justice is as useless as rummaging through the shrapnel trying to piece together a bomb that’s already detonated long ago.

If ever a stronger reason exists for healing oneself, any reason conceived wouldn’t rival healing oneself from the abuse of an emotional bully. The bully erodes confidence, composure, success, joy, stability, identity, strength, and the list goes on and on and on. The list goes on even after removing the bully’s direct influence, and the list never lessens when the goal of treatment and recovery is requiring the bully understand they’re a bully; and accept they’re a bully; and recognize the harm they caused as a bully; and apologize for being a bully.

That’s most likely never going to happen. Yet Americans crave this. And Americans feel entitled to this. Americans have a cliche word for this:

Closure.

Time spent envisioning the relief and satisfaction of the bully being held accountable is time better spent learning to live with the personal trauma. How is it possible to fully heal without the bully owning their consequence? The answer is self-evident and right there.

It’s not possible to fully heal from the trauma of bullying.

In my own experience with a less-than-angelic wife who was supremely creative in her range and escalation of new ways to abuse, I spent many years and went through many therapists who perpetuated that goal of closure. This went as far as encouraging me to write the ex-wife a letter explaining what she did and how it affected me. Because this is empowering, I was told. Because this would help with closure.

Not so. What I often explained to therapists certain I needed to contact the ex-wife – effectively creating communication I purposely spent years actively ignoring and avoiding – was this was in no way empowering because I was just as happy leaving the abuse in the past and instead learn ways to regulate the emotional responses caused by being married to the Queen of the Netherworld. Here is your crown, your majesty. The last time I saw her she was at the Gates of Hell in the midst of a hostile takeover, and I’m better off letting that be the last memory of her to enter my life.

And writing a letter admitting to her she messed me up is just the sort of information she would revel in knowing about me. That her abuse was lasting and still affecting me would be like Christmas morning baked into a pumpkin spice muffin served upon my subjugated back while she sits high upon her throne built of the skulls of her abused and conquered enemies.

Maybe Christmas is the wrong holiday; she was moderately dyslexic and I happened across her “letter to Santa” one year that read, “Dear Santa, You are my Dark Lord. Guide me in my abusive whims, oh Most Unclean One.” In retrospect, perhaps Santa wasn’t the intended recipient.

So here’s the thing. Eventually, after many years, I broke ties with any therapist who promoted “closure.” That’s such an American conceit, really. Will any of the children of the Israel-Hamas War ever be afforded “closure” for the horrors they’ve lived? I’m confident in saying “not likely at all.”

Moving past therapists whose therapy was “closure centric” allowed me to find self-empowering treatments that built skills for me to live with the trauma and residual traumatic responses. I can accept the trauma of abuse but not be held paralyzed by the trauma of abuse.

For me, Dialectrical Behavioral Therapy was the skill set I was looking for.

For another series of articles I’ll be talking about my DBT course, how much it helped, and how it kicked my ass big time and solid because it dredged into the muck and horror of being married to the High Priestess of Agony Desired. DBT was an expedition into emotional realms unknown, and being emotionally, physically, and psychologically prepared for the course work was absolute and essential. If I’d entered DBT soon after the divorce, I would have been messed up in a whole new way. Being prepared for DBT took time and experience.

What did DBT do for me? I like to think of it as emotion regulation. By this my take is DBT built skills where I can feel the strong emotional trauma response while not allowing myself to be adversely affected by the ingrained trauma. My worst trauma response is “freezing” in the fight, flight, or freeze school of study. Through DBT I learned to live with the trauma of abuse and still be able to function in my life and in society.

I can have trauma but I don’t have to be ruled by it.

Okay, I’ve built up the ex-wife with allusions to her evil, and I’m not going to leave it hanging without an instance of her evil. And I use the word “evil” with purpose. So here goes:

A stipulation of the divorce was she and I had 50/50 custody of my wonderful son. She wanted full custody or even majority custody so she could move him out of New Mexico and away from me. She didn’t get this because the judge just didn’t like her at all. And my divorce attorney worked extra hard for me because in all her years as a divorce attorney she never truly hated an opposing party as much as she hated the ex-wife. So I had that going for me.

And how was she evil? When she dropped my son off for my 50 percent custody she was fond of saying, “I know how to push all your buttons and then you’ll kill yourself and then I’ll get full custody.”

You see? Evil. Never a doubt.

Musing on the quality of suicidal thoughts over the years

With bipolar depression, there’s a sooper sucky quality to suicidal thoughts. The harder I try to quiet the suicidal thoughts the more pronounced the suicidal thoughts become. Why is this?

The reason is easy. Because I’m actively thinking “Shut up, suicidal thoughts” I now have the original suicidal thoughts plus additional thoughts of thinking about suicidal thoughts. It’s doubling down on the suicidal thoughts creating an amplifying Suicidal Thoughts Feedback Loop. Sooper sucky.

This is along the lines of micro-epiphany after many rounds with suicidal thoughts over the years. Wisdom borne of bipolar misery. That’s kind of cool.

Conspiracy theorists and mental health peers share a strong similarity.

Conspiracy theorists are upset that their views are dismissed and they thesmelves are marginalized. I say this is an excellent dynamic and I’ll tell you why, as a mental health peer advocate.

When I first started this peer advocacy thing – ten years ago – and began attending community behavioral health meetings in New Mexico, I was continuously “complimented” by others for “being so articulate… for a peer.” Yes, this is incredibly ignorant, biased, discriminatory, and just plain mean, and I could have gotten upset and demanded peers be treated with professional and basic human respect.

But I didn’t.

Why? Because as long as these minimizing well-wishers underestimate peers, we can get through all sorts of necessary change with little bureaucratic pushback. Being seen as intellectually deficient and less capable is a stigma worth capitalizing upon. So I did and I encourage fellow peer advocates to do the same.

The point is:

Now, my conspiracy theorist friends, a number of your ideas seem absolutely whack to me, but that’s a good thing. I take you seriously AND I think you’re nuts (at times). Folks like me are primed to accept your conclusions when we’re shown otherwise and logical proof. And to let you in on an observation, theorists friends. You’re more right that wrong, it just takes most of us longer to catch up.

So being tagged as a conspiracy theorist is a gift, not an insult. Let it ride. And, you can perpetuate their self-constructed myth even further with primely chosen words. For example:

Mental health community stakeholder: “Steve, you’re so articulate FOR A PEER.”

Me: “I’m sorry, I don’t know what half of those words mean.”

Just know going in, invariably the gift is rescinded when they figure you out. This gift to peers hasn’t been available to me for years. In fact, I’m seen as “too functional,” and because of this, mental health colleagues either didn’t recognize or simply ignored that I was falling into a seriously dangerous suicidal episode by volunteering to help the Albuquerque Police Department. But that’s a different tale for another time.

For now, always keep this chestnut cliche firm to the chest, ready at mind, and primed at the fore: Self-care, self-care, self-care! And this is a great number of articles for another time.

And again, let them underestimate you. It’s a great way to get things done with little resistance.

Modern parable: Flattery always gets you somewhere.

You ever have that one someone on Facebook, that one someone you know only as text and don’t recall how they got on your friends list, that one someone who posts a cute comment and smiley reaction to your photos almost every time you share any ol’ thing on your profile, and that one someone guaranteed to give you big hearts on your stories? And then you check out their profile to learn a little more about them, see what they like, check out a few pictures. And then you start wondering:

“I wonder what they’re really like? What are they really like in person? What things do they do? What thoughts do they carry with them through the day? What dreams do they dream? Should I? Do I take the chance? Should I . . .

“Should I just block them?”

And then I block them.

Gawd, how I despise Facebook stalkers. Creepy. Ew. Ick. Blech.

If a parable is to be had here, it’s that social media is a great place to practice setting emotional and mental health boundaries. Grimm Bros, eat your heart out.

Reprinted with kind permission of Steve’s Thoughtcrimes.

“Reasons to Live” by Feti’a

Stars, especially shooting stars

That weightless second on a swing that makes you think you might actually fly

Warm baths

The smell of petrichor and wet concrete

Rainbows

Thunder storms

Waterfalls

Greenery

Fascinating things to learn from any/every subject

Laughing until it hurts

Running until I’m drenched in sweat

How my body feels after yoga

Cool textures

Songs that change my brain chemistry (aka: of the classical sort)

Writing

Creating weird worlds in my head

Silence

Deep breaths that fill my whole lungs

Fog over mountains or in valleys

The taste of the smell of rain

Feeling thankful

Colors, especially natural

Pleasant words like equidistant or bubbling or soliloquy

Accomplishment is Measured in Effort

Having been attending STS support groups (formerly DBSA Albuquerque) since October 14, 2010, I’ve heard said, “All I could do today was take a shower. I was exhausted. I feel like such a failure.”

I’ve heard similar words out of my own mouth, although mine was more akin to “All I could do today was make it halfway to the toilet from my bed, decided I wouldn’t have the strength to lift the toilet seat if traversing the entire remaining distance, so I moistened the carpeted floor over which I stood, and then my knees buckled from the exertion of urinating, never making it back to bed, and lightly moistened myself. Big win!”

Thing is, that was all the strength I had that day. Every. Last. Ounce. Of. Strength. Getting halfway to the bathroom took all the effort I had that day.

Contrast that with a few months on, and I’m training for a marathon. Truly. And that was the strength I had that day. Every. Last. Ounce. Of. Strength. Training for a marathon took all the effort I had that day.

Let’s say it together.


There’s a HUGE difference betwixt peeing on the floor (and collapsing into said puddle of pee) and training for a marathon.


And let’s have me counter immediately this fallacy.


Nothing a peer accomplishes is a “pathetic small thing” and a “monumental huge thing.”


Why, that makes no sense, says some. How can I make such a claim?

This is because, as a peer, I measure my accomplishments in terms of “effort.” If all the effort I have gets me halfway to the bathroom from the bed, it is EXACTLY equivalent of all the effort I have to train for a marathon. It’s the magnitude of the effort, not a qualitative “that is so much more than this” stigma.

Where I’m going to with this is to say to my fellow peers, pat yourself on the back, on the front, on the arse, wherever, because any accomplishment that expends all your effort for the day is HUGE!


HUGE!!!


I don’t beat myself up any longer, with “Geesh, I’m pathetic and weak. Why am I so exhausted?” I’m exhausted because I put every last bit of effort I have in me into whatever supposedly pathetic, weak task I accomplished. Some days, it’s making it to the toilet and back into bed. Some days, it’s pushing hard so I can beat a three hour finish time on the marathon.

Give yourself credit, peers. You didn’t ask for this life, with a brain condition that determines how your effort can be expended that day. Give yourself credit because you accomplished something amazing.

Self-disclosure. Before losing Clare, I felt I had unlimited reserves of effort. Nowadays, just making it to STS support group takes everything I have not to stay home and isolate instead.

Measure your deeds in the amount of effort you put into it. It’s that magnitude of effort that defines your accomplishment. Such as, reading through this entire article wondering if my meds are working properly. I know how much effort this takes. I’ve been told so very many times.

Accomplishment is Measured in Effort

Having been attending DBSA support groups since October 14, 2010, I’ve heard said, “All I could do today was take a shower. I was exhausted. I feel like such a failure.”

I’ve heard similar words out of my own mouth, although mine was more akin to “All I could do today was make it halfway to the toilet from my bed, decided I wouldn’t have the strength to lift the toilet seat if traversing the entire remaining distance, so I moistened the carpeted floor over which I stood, and then my knees buckled from the exertion of urinating, never making it back to bed, and lightly moistened myself. Big win!”

Thing is, that was all the strength I had that day. Every. Last. Ounce. Of. Strength. Getting halfway to the bathroom took all the effort I had that day.

Contrast that with a few months on, and I’m training for a marathon. Truly. And that was the strength I had that day. Every. Last. Ounce. Of. Strength. Training for a marathon took all the effort I had that day.

Let’s say it together.


There’s a HUGE difference betwixt peeing on the floor (and collapsing into said puddle of pee) and training for a marathon.


And let’s have me counter immediately this fallacy.


Nothing a peer accomplishes is a “pathetic small thing” and a “monumental huge thing.”


Why, that makes no sense, says some. How can I make such a claim?

This is because, as a peer, I measure my accomplishments in terms of “effort.” If all the effort I have gets me halfway to the bathroom from the bed, it is EXACTLY equivalent of all the effort I have to train for a marathon. It’s the magnitude of the effort, not a qualitative “that is so much more than this” stigma.

Where I’m going to with this is to say to my fellow peers, pat yourself on the back, on the front, on the arse, wherever, because any accomplishment that expends all your effort for the day is HUGE!


HUGE!!!


I don’t beat myself up any longer, with “Geesh, I’m pathetic and weak. Why am I so exhausted?” I’m exhausted because I put every last bit of effort I have in me into whatever supposedly pathetic, weak task I accomplished. Some days, it’s making it to the toilet and back into bed. Some days, it’s pushing hard so I can beat a three hour finish time on the marathon.

Give yourself credit, peers. You didn’t ask for this life, with a brain condition that determines how your effort can be expended that day. Give yourself credit because you accomplished something amazing.

Self-disclosure. Before losing Clare, I felt I had unlimited reserves of effort. Nowadays, just making it to DBSA support group takes everything I have not to stay home and isolate instead.

Measure your deeds in the amount of effort you put into it. It’s that magnitude of effort that defines your accomplishment. Such as, reading through this entire article wondering if my meds are working properly. I know how much effort this takes. I’ve been told so very many times.

Back by (not) popular demand. It’s okay. We’re still willing to chip in.

Have you ever had a sibling you just couldn’t get along with and always bickered with and even though you were at each other’s throat you could still sit down at the family dinner table and love each other anyway?

This is nothing like that.

I am so aware of my reputation in the behavioral health community as a brash, diagreealbe peer advocate who turns people off because I am quick to challenge established protocol and quicker to express peer needs in blunt, direct terms. And my reply?


Good. I’m doing my job right.


You see, I didn’t start out in behavioral health advocacy to make friends with the world and attend hugfests in a peer-hostile echo chamber. I started out in peer advocacy because I had friends in DBSA Albuquerque who didn’t even know how to apply for Medicaid (nor did I) and these friends desperately needed services and medications. Without insurance, this doesn’t happen. So, my friends suffer needlessly. They suffer. And I watched them suffer. Every week I watched them suffer. So why did I start attending meetings like LC2?


I started out in peer advocacy to find the answers to my friends’ questions so they didn’t have to suffer any longer.


Some eight years later, I’m still out there finding answers. Better, I’m out there creating answers. The State of New Mexico gave me this Lifetime Achievement Award in Behavioral Health Innovation I think in part because . . . I have no idea why they thought I’ve accomplished everything I’m going to do by age 46. Am I supposed to stop living now? Weirdness.

In any case, with the help of my friends, we endeavor to help others understand our needs by sharing of ourselves and our life experiences. In this, we have the best opportunity of reaching Muggles, policy makers, providers, legislators, and the community. In fact, this is what Stand Up To Stigma is ENITRELY built upon. Peers openly telling tales of challenge and triumph to help others understand . . . by way of sharing their stories living with mental health issues.

As an important deviation, grammar style guides insist that all numbers between zero and ten be fully spelled out and not expressed with the digit character. Given the example above, “Some eight years later” is proper. “Some 8 years later” means you were too distracted from learning because of passing notes in first grade of the ilk “Do you like me? Yes. No. Maybe.” It must lag hard you got so many “no” notes passed back. Jenny Caruthers’ reply included a sketch of her vomiting all over your head. She showed me. That must be traumatic, any time a woman vomits in your presence. And then draws it. And sends it to you. I know this happened in the Cottonwood Mall food court on Sunday. It’s on YouTube and viral. Go check. You can run away from my blog but you can’t run away from the truth.

Hey, did you know that the beautiful bosque cottonwoods were not always as lush and established as now we enjoy? Farming upstream in the San Luis Valley of Colorado led to increased siltation and seasonal flooding as the Rio Grande passed through Albuquerque. The result was hyperalkaline swamps along the banks of the river making once-profitable farming in Albuquerque a historic relic beginning in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Read up on Aldo Leopold and the Middle Rio Grande Conservancy. The reclamation he developed and initiated not only saved farming along the Rio Grande, it also provided the ideal habitat for lush, dense cottonwood forests along the Rio Grande. And, we got Tingley Beach, the Zoo, and the Botanical Park out of the deal. And a country club. And a path for Route 66. Speaking of cool historical stuff to read up on, research the history of Conservancy Beach … Municipal Beach . . . Ernie Pyle Beach . . . Tingley Beach before the polio fright in 1951. By all accounts it was magical.


If not for Aldo Leopold, perhaps we would visit Hot Topic at Hyperalkaline Swamp Mall instead.


Get this. I embrace my controversial slash & burn advocacy stylings . . . much like I embraced Jenny Caruthers behind the handball court and then told you about it right after recess in algebra class . . . because I’m proud of my ability to weather either reciprocated or reflexive defensiveness from those who tug gently the strings of peer wellness. It’s the frustration of penetrating the geometric din of the peer-hostile echo chamber (PHEC). Frustration. I’m sure destructive interference resonance within the PHEC is annoying. It’s natural to experience something you don’t want to hear as combative. I fault no one. I offer to embrace you if it helps you empower yourself to feel better.

By the by, my primary emotion at many behavioral health meetings is this frustration. It is not the emotion of pissiness. When I see my friends suffering and when I attend a meeting voicing their issues, concerns, and needs and join my friends later sharing that we’ve made no headway, I don’t feel like a very effective or successful peer representative. And by the by again, the honor of peer representation is often mistaken for showing up and being a peer placeholder. A dedicated representative listens to friends and represents THEIR issues, concerns, and needs. And ultimately, what is represented is our peer solutions. And by the by once more, it often feels like I’m talking in some weird moonman language. There must be moonman prejudices on these committees. I heard rumbles of building a wall between the US of A and the moon. For shame.


Or as my fellow peer moonmen would say . . . for shame.


We’ve done a Stand Up To Stigma podcast where I share openly – with the support, encouragement, and love of my dearest friends – my experience with PTSD borne of my choice to be on the Mental Health Response Advisory Committee (MHRAC). The motivation for the podcast was for me to reempower myself through personal accountability and responsibility and create the effective reality of taking back the power I gave others on loan. The gift is as a team member of an independent peer collaborative I no longer am required to ask for permission to do what’s right in my heart and the hearts of my friends. The greater gift is our community now has a pure peer voice guided by this benevolent principle:


Please work with peers to make our lives better. Please understand peers are suffering RIGHT NOW and we need quality services and effective policies RIGHT NOW. And please realize you don’t have to guess what we want. We are happy to tell you if you are happy to listen.


Our Stand Up To Stigma peer focus group is trained, is activated, and is coming to MHRAC. And we’re excited for the opportunity we’ve created for peers. We’re moving into the community. We’re offering our voice. We will share with you the solutions that will work best for us. Free of charge.

I’m happy to share I’ve come to terms with my PTSD symptoms. I’m happier to say I’ve reempowered myself. I’m happiest to say I’m back to the person I know I am. I’ve missed everyone so much it hurts. Let’s embrace.

By the by, this article is just a little tongue in cheek. Only just.

Reprinted with kind permission of Steve’s Thoughtcrimes.

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