When, if ever, do I “out” myself to my girlfriend/boyfriend that I have bipolar and/or depression and/or anxiety and/or schizophrenia and/or PTSD and/or fondness for disco?
First off, I don’t like the words “out”, “outed”, or “outing” when speaking of mental health symptoms. The implication is there is an innate shame having mental health symptoms, the implication is symptoms must be hidden . . . to the extent of not being able to hide mental health symptoms any longer and thusly falling into full-on mental health crisis. Not totally rad, dude.
Having mental health symptoms; c’mon, it’s not like being Patient Zero for having Herpes Simplex 3988 because I like “dating” green monkeys. It’s just a bunch of symptoms I manage that consequently affect behavior. Heck, if that was something shameful, my ex-wife should feel googols of tons of shame every time her “blood sugar dropped’ (she was hungry is her explanation), because her behavior got all fussy and grumpy when her “blood sugar dropped.” I’m willing to give her the benefit of the doubt and say in blanket terms she was always fussy and grumpy regardless of blood sugar level. An absolute angel I wanted to strangle with her halo, the ex-wife was.
I’ll give my reply succinctly, just as soon as I get done with things you really want to reveal immediately to a new or established lover.
You’re infected with Ebola
You like to date nursing students.
You like burying nursing students more than dating nursing students.
Are you a nursing student?
Have you considered going into nursing?
Okay, my answer. When to “out” yourself? Do me a solid and don’t say “out” yourself. Do me another favor. Answer the question for yourself based on what your heart tells you.
When? Whenever it feels right.
Look, regardless of when you tell someone of symptoms you may exhibit, either they’ll accept that it’s only a disease you have and it is not your identity, or they will schedule an operation to have their head surgically implanted in their rectum. And if they can’t accept that? Well, there are plenty of other people on the planet and chances are you’ll stumble across an understanding soul. And truly, if the person you’re with is saturated in stigma and can’t see beyond mental health symptoms, what are you going to do, spend the rest of your life trying to get them to understand? It’s their ignorance, not yours. You don’t have to accept their ignorance.
There’s nothing shameful about having mental health symptoms. It’s a lot of work managing these symptoms. And you are worthy of having someone in your life who accepts this and supports you regardless and unconditionally.
That’s what everyone wants, mental health symptoms or not. See? We’re not different in any w
Have you read the Harry Potter yarns? Did you see the flicks? Answering “no” means either you’re lying to me or you’ve been living in the deepest cave on a hunk of nitrogen ice and silicate rocks in the most remote region of the Kuiper Belt with your eyes sewn shut and your thumbs twisted firmly into your ears.
So, since we’ve all read Harry Potter books and/or seen Harry Potter movies, the term “Muggle” isn’t an unknown word to you. In the Harry Potter universe, a Muggle is a person without magical powers. Aunt Vermillion, Uncle Owen, Cousin Doodlebooper. Those guys are Muggles, and they will never understand magic because they have no magical powers. All they can do is observe magic. They’ll never know what is like to be a wizard or witch.
In the behavioral health universe, “Muggle” is a word shanghaied by my pals and I in DBSA Albuquerque to refer to a person without a mental health diagnosis. A Muggle is someone without a mental health diagnosis, a person who does not know what it is like to take medications, go to therapy, learn and develop tons of coping mechanisms, and maintain their behavior daily just to keep the symptoms of bipolar or ADD or depression or schizophrenia or PTSD or OCD or every flavor of anxiety at bay, to keep these symptoms from having hugely detrimental effects in their lives. A Muggle in the behavioral health universe can observe the symptoms of a mental health diagnosis but will never understand what it’s like to deal with symptoms of a mental health diagnosis. They’ll never know what it’s like to be a Peer.
In the behavioral health universe, who can be considered a Muggle? Many providers are Muggles. Politicians by and large are Muggles. Family members can be Muggles. Friends. Pastors. Musicians. Forest rangers. Police officers. My two rabbits (they are miffed I haven’t been talking about them enough in my blog). The neighbor next door whose tree I felled. Judges. Lawyers. TV hosts. Game show contestants. The CEO of Trump Industries. Authors. Poets. Lab techs. Girl Scouts. Men. Women. Children. Anyone who doesn’t live with the challenges and triumphs of having a mental health diagnosis is a Muggle.
While it’s a jokey, ha ha, flippant wholesale thievery of a word from a fictional literary source, the word Muggle has much more weight and significance than being an “inside-joke” for me and my pals. I’ve been watching the social progression and entomological evolution of peer usage of “Muggle” in support groups, at meetings, in classrooms, with providers, and everywhere else Peers insert themselves into our communities. What have I seen? What differences are noteworthy? What do peers have to say about it?
Peers Using the Word Muggle is Empowering.
An unfortunate circumstance of the Peer Experience is the symptoms of a mental illness often rob us of confidence, worth, and self-certainty. For me, time and again I was fired from jobs. My marriage shattered. I lost some of my closest, dearest friends. I was convicted of felony embezzlement. I flunked out of college one semester short of graduation. All of these life circumstances are life experiences 100% attributable to undiagnosed and unmanaged bipolar symptoms. I went from being the Golden Child of New Mexico Mineralogy (this was a nickname coined by others, not me) to being a pariah who couldn’t sell a 15 cent broken quartz crystal to a mineral collector anywhere in New Mexico, and many regions near, far and beyond New Mexico.
How did this make me feel about myself? Worthless. Unworthy. Deviant. Pointless. Shameful. Valueless. Lost. Powerless.
I made the statement Peers using “Muggle” is empowering. I know it’s empowering for me. How can a single goofy word from a literary Brit kids series be empowering? Think about it this way.
In the Harry Potter universe, the kids who are stalked by creepy owls (who most likely legally aren’t allowed within 100 yards of a school) with waxed-stamped letters are the special kids, the lucky kids, the kids who are remarkable. Of course, Harry wasn’t aware of this.
Harry, living with his Muggle aunt, uncle, and cousin was kept under a staircase. He was “weird” and had “weird behavior.” Uncle Vehicular even threatens poor Harry on a simple trip to the zoo that “there better be no funny business.” Uncle Verizon presumed that Harry’s behavior would be a problem, and Uncle Vroom had grand reservations that Harry’s behavior would ruin the day and embarrass the family. Sound familiarly stigmatizing, Peers?
The upside to the Harry Potter epic poem is Harry learns there are other kids out there with magical powers. He learns his behavior is not bizarre, it’s only that his adoptive family doesn’t (and can’t) understand what it’s like to live with magical powers. And he learns that having magical powers is totally metal cool and his adoptive family is quite envious of his innate abilities.
Is the analogy sinking in? If you don’t have a mental health diagnosis, you don’t (and can’t) understand what it’s like to live with a mental health diagnosis. Only other Peers can. We Peers are not weird, we Peers are the magical ones, we Peers have special talents, and we Peers are remarkable. And all because we live with the challenges and triumphs of a mental health diagnosis.
When Peers use the word “Muggle” to describe others without a mental health diagnosis, it is empowering because for once we’re not the outcasts and we’re not the bizarre people in the room. Stigmatization? Misdirected envy from anyone who doesn’t have a mental health diagnosis. The feeling of isolation? Replaced by the unity and acceptance of Peer Support.
Living with a Mental Health Diagnosis is a Gift, Not a Curse.
So, over the past few years DBSA Peers in New Mexico have been inserting the word “Muggle” into the narrative, and from direct conversations, for the past few years a good number of providers, politicians, policy-makers, etc., have taken umbrage with being referred to as “Muggles.”
What is an explanation of their distaste for the name “Muggle”? I’ve been told it’s belittling, and it serves no purpose other than to separate Peers from everyone else, and it gives the impression that Peers hold a station above everyone else.
Here’s the thing. We’ve already been separated from everyone else by the reality that we have mental disease symptoms and others do not. And by and large, we often feel we are on the bottom of a deep, endless pit looking up towards whatever sunlight might grace our diminished presence. I even heard a state senator proclaim proudly at a public meeting “Real change comes from the top down.” Top: Legislature. Bottom: Peers.
And, there’s even a wonderful name placed upon us that describes those with a mental health diagnosis who utilize services:
“Consumer.”
We didn’t choose this name, and talk about belittlement. “Consumer” makes us sound like an economic unit for wealth-producing throughput. Take a Peer, put him through psychiatric services, pull him out on the other end, bill the insurance. “Consumer.” Ick.
Considering Peers have a label like “Consumer” that, to we Peers, is belittling, dismissive, bland, presumptive, and DISEMPOWERING, I’m uncomfortable discouraging my friends from using the word “Muggle” that turns that disproportionate notion on its head.
Really, why would I discourage a one-word communal concept that generates so much community worth? That makes very little sense at all. My peer advocacy has always been transparent. I’ve never had huge aspirations to lord over New Mexico behavioral health upon a throne forged from the skulls of my slain mortal enemies (good thing my mortal enemies are parakeets and hamsters). What I’ve always strived for is to help my friends empower themselves. “Muggle” is a perfect, effective empowerment tool for Peers.
As a peer dealing with bipolar symptoms that have robbed me time and again of my dreams and my happiness, that one word like “Muggle” can help me make sense of my recovery journey and can help me regain some of my forgotten strength, value, and abilities makes “Muggle” an amazing word with an amazing worth.
Other Peers? At DBSA Albuquerque peer support groups, the word “Muggle” is a topic that can immediately and immensely change the dynamic of the conversation. Bring up “Muggle” in group and it’s an automatic reminder that we are special, remarkable, and valuable. It is a testament that we are not alone in our recovery journeys. We are magical.
Look, Peers saying those without a mental health diagnosis are “Muggles” is not meant to hurt feelings or lessen our gratitude for those who dedicate their lives to helping us make our lives better. Still, isn’t the point of meds, therapy, exercise, WRAP, advanced psychiatric directive, support network, coping skills, self-awareness, personal responsibility, peer support groups, and all the other stuff we Peers make use of every second of every day designed to help us make our lives better? Since “Muggle” is such a positive and simple additional way for us to take charge of our dreams, happiness, and destiny, where’s the harm in Peers adding the word “Muggle” to our recovery & wellness toolkit?
Muggle… for all its simplicity, it is immeasurably empowering for Peers. Quite the magical word indeed.
We’re doing a podcast, and we have two podcasts in the can. Booya! Tackling the most uncomfortable truths. Thus far we’ve taking swipes at narcissistic personality disorder (second podcast) and a bunch of introductory waffling (first podcast).
For our third podcast we’ll be exploring PTSD, self-stigmatization, and self-care. This one is going to be a rough go, and just like our first two podcasts, there is plenty of room for laughter and tears . . . most laughter though. Like our Laugh It Off program, if we can laugh at the horrible stuff in life, it takes away some of the power that horrible stuff has over us.
We’re looking for guest speakers for the podcasts so if you have any ideas or topics you want to explore, give us a buzz.
Have you read the Harry Potter yarns? Did you see the flicks? Answering “no” means either you’re lying to me or you’ve been living in the deepest cave on a hunk of nitrogen ice and silicate rocks in the most remote region of the Kuiper Belt with your eyes sewn shut and your thumbs twisted firmly into your ears.
So, since we’ve all read Harry Potter books and/or seen Harry Potter movies, the term “Muggle” isn’t an unknown word to you. In the Harry Potter universe, a Muggle is a person without magical powers. Aunt Vermillion, Uncle Owen, Cousin Doodlebooper. Those guys are Muggles, and they will never understand magic because they have no magical powers. All they can do is observe magic. They’ll never know what is like to be a wizard or witch.
In the behavioral health universe, “Muggle” is a word shanghaied by my pals and I in DBSA Albuquerque to refer to a person without a mental health diagnosis. A Muggle is someone without a mental health diagnosis, a person who does not know what it is like to take medications, go to therapy, learn and develop tons of coping mechanisms, and maintain their behavior daily just to keep the symptoms of bipolar or ADD or depression or schizophrenia or PTSD or OCD or every flavor of anxiety at bay, to keep these symptoms from having hugely detrimental effects in their lives. A Muggle in the behavioral health universe can observe the symptoms of a mental health diagnosis but will never understand what it’s like to deal with symptoms of a mental health diagnosis. They’ll never know what it’s like to be a Peer.
In the behavioral health universe, who can be considered a Muggle? Many providers are Muggles. Politicians by and large are Muggles. Family members can be Muggles. Friends. Pastors. Musicians. Forest rangers. Police officers. My two rabbits (they are miffed I haven’t been talking about them enough in my blog). The neighbor next door whose tree I felled. Judges. Lawyers. TV hosts. Game show contestants. The CEO of Trump Industries. Authors. Poets. Lab techs. Girl Scouts. Men. Women. Children. Anyone who doesn’t live with the challenges and triumphs of having a mental health diagnosis is a Muggle.
While it’s a jokey, ha ha, flippant wholesale thievery of a word from a fictional literary source, the word Muggle has much more weight and significance than being an “inside-joke” for me and my pals. I’ve been watching the social progression and entomological evolution of peer usage of “Muggle” in support groups, at meetings, in classrooms, with providers, and everywhere else Peers insert themselves into our communities. What have I seen? What differences are noteworthy? What do peers have to say about it?
Peers Using the Word Muggle is Empowering.
An unfortunate circumstance of the Peer Experience is the symptoms of a mental illness often rob us of confidence, worth, and self-certainty. For me, time and again I was fired from jobs. My marriage shattered. I lost some of my closest, dearest friends. I was convicted of felony embezzlement. I flunked out of college one semester short of graduation. All of these life circumstances are life experiences 100% attributable to undiagnosed and unmanaged bipolar symptoms. I went from being the Golden Child of New Mexico Mineralogy (this was a nickname coined by others, not me) to being a pariah who couldn’t sell a 15 cent broken quartz crystal to a mineral collector anywhere in New Mexico, and many regions near, far and beyond New Mexico.
How did this make me feel about myself? Worthless. Unworthy. Deviant. Pointless. Shameful. Valueless. Lost. Powerless.
I made the statement Peers using “Muggle” is empowering. I know it’s empowering for me. How can a single goofy word from a literary Brit kids series be empowering? Think about it this way.
In the Harry Potter universe, the kids who are stalked by creepy owls (who most likely legally aren’t allowed within 100 yards of a school) with waxed-stamped letters are the special kids, the lucky kids, the kids who are remarkable. Of course, Harry wasn’t aware of this.
Harry, living with his Muggle aunt, uncle, and cousin was kept under a staircase. He was “weird” and had “weird behavior.” Uncle Vehicular even threatens poor Harry on a simple trip to the zoo that “there better be no funny business.” Uncle Verizon presumed that Harry’s behavior would be a problem, and Uncle Vroom had grand reservations that Harry’s behavior would ruin the day and embarrass the family. Sound familiarly stigmatizing, Peers?
The upside to the Harry Potter epic poem is Harry learns there are other kids out there with magical powers. He learns his behavior is not bizarre, it’s only that his adoptive family doesn’t (and can’t) understand what it’s like to live with magical powers. And he learns that having magical powers is totally metal cool and his adoptive family is quite envious of his innate abilities.
Is the analogy sinking in? If you don’t have a mental health diagnosis, you don’t (and can’t) understand what it’s like to live with a mental health diagnosis. Only other Peers can. We Peers are not weird, we Peers are the magical ones, we Peers have special talents, and we Peers are remarkable. And all because we live with the challenges and triumphs of a mental health diagnosis.
When Peers use the word “Muggle” to describe others without a mental health diagnosis, it is empowering because for once we’re not the outcasts and we’re not the bizarre people in the room. Stigmatization? Misdirected envy from anyone who doesn’t have a mental health diagnosis. The feeling of isolation? Replaced by the unity and acceptance of Peer Support.
Living with a Mental Health Diagnosis is a Gift, Not a Curse.
So, over the past few years DBSA Peers in New Mexico have been inserting the word “Muggle” into the narrative, and from direct conversations, for the past few years a good number of providers, politicians, policy-makers, etc., have taken umbrage with being referred to as “Muggles.”
What is an explanation of their distaste for the name “Muggle”? I’ve been told it’s belittling, and it serves no purpose other than to separate Peers from everyone else, and it gives the impression that Peers hold a station above everyone else.
Here’s the thing. We’ve already been separated from everyone else by the reality that we have mental disease symptoms and others do not. And by and large, we often feel we are on the bottom of a deep, endless pit looking up towards whatever sunlight might grace our diminished presence. I even heard a state senator proclaim proudly at a public meeting “Real change comes from the top down.” Top: Legislature. Bottom: Peers.
And, there’s even a wonderful name placed upon us that describes those with a mental health diagnosis who utilize services:
“Consumer.”
We didn’t choose this name, and talk about belittlement. “Consumer” makes us sound like an economic unit for wealth-producing throughput. Take a Peer, put him through psychiatric services, pull him out on the other end, bill the insurance. “Consumer.” Ick.
Considering Peers have a label like “Consumer” that, to we Peers, is belittling, dismissive, bland, presumptive, and DISEMPOWERING, I’m uncomfortable discouraging my friends from using the word “Muggle” that turns that disproportionate notion on its head.
Really, why would I discourage a one-word communal concept that generates so much community worth? That makes very little sense at all. My peer advocacy has always been transparent. I’ve never had huge aspirations to lord over New Mexico behavioral health upon a throne forged from the skulls of my slain mortal enemies (good thing my mortal enemies are parakeets and hamsters). What I’ve always strived for is to help my friends empower themselves. “Muggle” is a perfect, effective empowerment tool for Peers.
As a peer dealing with bipolar symptoms that have robbed me time and again of my dreams and my happiness, that one word like “Muggle” can help me make sense of my recovery journey and can help me regain some of my forgotten strength, value, and abilities makes “Muggle” an amazing word with an amazing worth.
Other Peers? At DBSA Albuquerque peer support groups, the word “Muggle” is a topic that can immediately and immensely change the dynamic of the conversation. Bring up “Muggle” in group and it’s an automatic reminder that we are special, remarkable, and valuable. It is a testament that we are not alone in our recovery journeys. We are magical.
Look, Peers saying those without a mental health diagnosis are “Muggles” is not meant to hurt feelings or lessen our gratitude for those who dedicate their lives to helping us make our lives better. Still, isn’t the point of meds, therapy, exercise, WRAP, advanced psychiatric directive, support network, coping skills, self-awareness, personal responsibility, peer support groups, and all the other stuff we Peers make use of every second of every day designed to help us make our lives better? Since “Muggle” is such a positive and simple additional way for us to take charge of our dreams, happiness, and destiny, where’s the harm in Peers adding the word “Muggle” to our recovery & wellness toolkit?
Muggle… for all its simplicity, it is immeasurably empowering for Peers. Quite the magical word indeed.
S: My bones crack easier. Turns out my low potassium level ends up leaching potassium from skeletal bones. Cracked my thumb brushing my teeth. No biggie.
B: I hate these diseases that are more on the rare side. They are painful and people don’t understand them.
S: Long ago I stopped trying to explain myself, particularly mental health, to anyone outside of my education programs. Being met time and time again with “But that doesn’t make sense” or “Have you JUST tried this or that” is wearisome and time-wasting. And, I’ve got a precious reserve of moral outrage, so why waste it on something so Google-friendly?
Instead, I point them to a website or more often a single word to Google. I then invite them back to ask any questions they might have after some independent, critical secondary research.
I’ve got nothing to prove. Right now, I’ve got hypokalemia. If interested why I’m dragging my arse around with a pimped out walker, look it up.
Very rarely does anyone come back with questions. Their academic curiosity was merely cleverly-disguised gossip-mongering. If they do return, it’s often with the same flavor of questions . . . “I heard what you said, I read WebMD, and that still doesn’t make sense” . . . at which time I invite them to have the disease themselves or work towards a PhD in biochemistry to answer their own non-germane, non-erudite, non-eloquent questions. Have at it.
I don’t have anything to prove to people like that. They don’t want to understand anyway. My experience is they want to prove your suffering is a hoax.
Bosh.
B: I agree. Most people want to prove that it is a hoax.
Dealing with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder is so much like gastrointestinal constipation. Think it through.
When constipated, you are trying to force strenuously useless shit out of your body, expending so much effort, energy, frustration, discomfort, shame, pain, tearing . . . sounds pretty traumatic, yes? You’ve been sorely log-jammed at least once in your life, perhaps after eating twenty pounds of raw cookie dough after your boyfriend gave your the boot, so painful with heartbreak, now so painful with perching on the porcelain throne. Will the suffering never end?
Now consider post traumatic stress disorder. You’re equally trying to force useless shit out of your body, only this time it’s shit in your head and not your bum. Where did the trauma happen? How did it get jammed up in your head? What’s it going to take to get all that traumatic shit out of your head? Will the suffering never end?
There is one important component where this analogy diverges. With constipation, you know exactly when the shit is out of the body, and you get to flush it away and never have to deal with it again. Unless all twenty pounds of recycled cookie dough comes out in one pipe-cramming massive wad, and then it’s either use the garden rake handle and break that wad up into discrete flushable chunks or make that embarrassing phone call to the plumber who also happens to be your ex-boyfriend . . . where was I going with this?
Right. There is definitive evidence that the suffering is over with constipation. With PTSD, peers are not so lucky. With PTSD, my ample experience is learning how to live with the trauma, developing the tools and tactics so the shitty memories and resultant emotions don’t shut down my ability to function or manifest as knee-jerk behaviors detrimental to my life. But I can’t ever squeeze out the PTSD and flush it away. Sadly, it’s permanently jammed up in my head and body.
So what’s my PTSD rooted in? My ex-wife and the way she treated me. Treated. There’s a kind word of euphemistic nonsense. She abused me. Physically, verbally, emotionally, psychologically, sexually. She’s the angel I want to strangle with her own tarnished halo.
And has anything occurred in my life that triggered severe PTSD symptoms? Yep. A woman named Paula Burton physically and verbally attacked me at an MHRAC meeting, in public with no recourse or consequence to her, and I was a wreck for over a year. It wasn’t the only time she had verbally abused me in public. She did so outside of The Rock at Noonday, angry that I wanted to bring a peer mentor from Santa Fe to teach new mentors practical instruction on running a successful Peer To Peer class. Because of that verbal attack, I was unable to put my NAMI training to use. And she verbally attacked me at a NAMI meeting, in front of other board members, which was humiliating and so reminiscent of my ex-wife. My reaction? Not fight, not flight. I froze. This only ever happened when my ex-wife abused me. Just great. And unexpected. Such is PTSD for me.
There is another unfortunate trigger that went along with Paula’s attacks. The one at MHRAC occurred in front of Albuquerque Police Department, and Paula was not held accountable. This harkens back to the one time (in the late 1990s) I called APD because my wife (at the time) had beat me so I was bruised and cut. One of the responding officers pulled me aside and said, “Man the fuck up and don’t call us again.” So I didn’t. This is also part of my PTSD.
For my mental wellness, I resigned from MHRAC, effectively removing myself from any additional opportunity to be triggered the same way once again. which s a true shame. This is another article to explore on its own merit, where I can expound on what it means for me to be a “wreck for over a year” because of PTSD I didn’t know existed in such an ingrained way inside me.
Is this an overshare? Has my sharing my story made you uncomfortable? Or are you stuck on the image of a basketball-sized half-digested wad of Pillsbury Poop and thus has thrown you off the weight of how serious PTSD can be?
Look, the analogy is a light-hearted way for those who don’t contend with PTSD to understand what it’s like. Everyone has been constipated, and I’ve learned that directly comparing a mental health issue with a physical health issue is the best way to educate others on the peer experience. It’s an inexact comparative model, and by definition that is what an analogy is. The model works, though. So it’s one method I use in Stand Up To Stigma presentations. The more vivid the word art, the better . . . and the more illuminating for the audience . . . and the more self-empowering and re-empowering for me. Everyone wins.
Notice that the word “analogy” has the word “anal” in it. The universe isn’t lazy enough for coincidence.
Once (many times), when my misbehaving-brain symptoms were in full swing, I was at home trying to do two things:
1.) Take care of myself and manage my symptoms. 2.) Debating with myself if I was bad enough that I should go to the emergency room or not.
So this one time I did this instead. I went to the ER, or rather, I went to the ER waiting room. Preemptively. I didn’t go to the desk and ask to be admitted. When I was asked by a hospital employee why I was in the ER waiting room and hadn’t checked in yet, I said, “Because I wanted to be close to the ER just in case I needed to check in.”
What did this accomplish? I was able to focus exclusively on taking care of myself and managing my symptoms. If things got bad enough I was already right there and ready to check in. No need to drive to the ER when in full-blown crisis, no need to call 911 and say I’m in crisis. If things progressed to crisis, I was where I needed to be to get crisis services.
In practical terms, I took the energy-consuming and wellness-distracting debate of whether or not to go to the ER off the table.
I never checked in. I was there all night. I focused entirely on applying my strategies in my WRAP where I know I was safe and could get immediate service if my symptoms escalated to crisis levels.
And you know what? It was so much easier to work my WRAP while not equally weighing if I should or should not go to the ER. And you know what else? This revelation was borne of wisdom and life experience.
I know with 100% certainty that I pushed myself into an unnecessary crisis situation so many times by fixating on whether or not I was in crisis and needed to go to the ER.
Just because you’re in the ER waiting room does not obligate you to checking in to the ER. Just pretend it’s as if you’re camping out in front of the Staples Center all night to get first shot at Demi Lovato tix.
Once (many times), when my misbehaving-brain symptoms were in full swing, I was at home trying to do two things:
1.) Take care of myself and manage my symptoms. 2.) Debating with myself if I was bad enough that I should go to the emergency room or not.
So this one time I did this instead. I went to the ER, or rather, I went to the ER waiting room. Preemptively. I didn’t go to the desk and ask to be admitted. When I was asked by a hospital employee why I was in the ER waiting room and hadn’t checked in yet, I said, “Because I wanted to be close to the ER just in case I needed to check in.”
What did this accomplish? I was able to focus exclusively on taking care of myself and managing my symptoms. If things got bad enough I was already right there and ready to check in. No need to drive to the ER when in full-blown crisis, no need to call 911 and say I’m in crisis. If things progressed to crisis, I was where I needed to be to get crisis services.
In practical terms, I took the energy-consuming and wellness-distracting debate of whether or not to go to the ER off the table.
I never checked in. I was there all night. I focused entirely on applying my strategies in my WRAP where I know I was safe and could get immediate service if my symptoms escalated to crisis levels.
And you know what? It was so much easier to work my WRAP while not equally weighing if I should or should not go to the ER. And you know what else? This revelation was borne of wisdom and life experience.
I know with 100% certainty that I pushed myself into an unnecessary crisis situation so many times by fixating on whether or not I was in crisis and needed to go to the ER.
Just because you’re in the ER waiting room does not obligate you to checking in to the ER. Just pretend it’s as if you’re camping out in front of the Staples Center all night to get first shot at Demi Lovato tix.
So Salty and me were presenting “Laugh It Off” at Turquoise Lodge last Friday, and the support group part of the presentation was going great, and then Jackie’s stand in (our babysitter to make sure we don’t do anything untoward or triggering) jumped in with some comment or another that totally sucked the joy out of the room. I’m going to pick on this lovely young lady to cover my own secret shame that will not be secret soon. Truth told, our handler was very professional and super great, but as Jackie noticed for the past couple of weeks, having her in the midst of the group changed the dynamic.
So there we are, Salty and me, and our handler was not part of the circle of peers by prior planning, and we were laughing and crying and laughing and offering kind words and support and everything else that happens in a peer support group. Our lovely handler jumped in with a comment, from outside the circle, and the conversation dead stopped. What did I say with the wisdom of a thousand Yodas?
“Oh, man, you are such a buzzkill.”
Aw, crap. I caught my error immediately. It wasn’t difficult to miss, like Rosie O’Donnell making her perigee-syzygy. Aw, crap. Crap!
Splendid. I just (jokingly) called someone a “buzzkill” in a room of detox and rehab patients. Thing is, that got the conversation jump started again with laughter and snickers. I made so many apologies, tried to spin it into “You see? This is how deep into our everyday language stigmas run.” Whatever. I messed up. Badly. So unprofessional. And this was the first time our handler sat through this performance.
Just splendid. I made apologies again to the group, and the consensus was it was just fine and no one was offended. Funny dynamic, support groups. Making that stupid faux pas actually made me more popular with the group. Thank the Yodas.
So Salty and me were presenting “Laugh It Off” at Turquoise Lodge last Friday, and the support group part of the presentation was going great, and then Jackie’s stand in (our babysitter to make sure we don’t do anything untoward or triggering) jumped in with some comment or another that totally sucked the joy out of the room. I’m going to pick on this lovely young lady to cover my own secret shame that will not be secret soon. Truth told, our handler was very professional and super great, but as Jackie noticed for the past couple of weeks, having her in the midst of the group changed the dynamic.
So there we are, Salty and me, and our handler was not part of the circle of peers by prior planning, and we were laughing and crying and laughing and offering kind words and support and everything else that happens in a peer support group. Our lovely handler jumped in with a comment, from outside the circle, and the conversation dead stopped. What did I say with the wisdom of a thousand Yodas?
“Oh, man, you are such a buzzkill.”
Aw, crap. I caught my error immediately. It wasn’t difficult to miss, like Rosie O’Donnell making her perigee-syzygy. Aw, crap. Crap!
Splendid. I just (jokingly) called someone a “buzzkill” in a room of detox and rehab patients. Thing is, that got the conversation jump started again with laughter and snickers. I made so many apologies, tried to spin it into “You see? This is how deep into our everyday language stigmas run.” Whatever. I messed up. Badly. So unprofessional. And this was the first time our handler sat through this performance.
Just splendid. I made apologies again to the group, and the consensus was it was just fine and no one was offended. Funny dynamic, support groups. Making that stupid faux pas actually made me more popular with the group. Thank the Yodas.
