And the Beat Goes On…

“Man up!” “Men don’t cry!” “Therapy is for pansies!” “Nobody wants to hear a dude whine.”

But also:

“I don’t want to bother anyone with my stuff.” “It’s not that bad.” “Could be worse.” “Other people have bigger problems.”

It occurs to me that there are lots of reasons for not talking about our mental health. Reasons. Excuses. Whatever.
Society as a whole has gotten better I think at addressing mental illness. Thank you Chester. But, and I know this is just anecdotal (at least until I do more research and gather some data and write another blog) but at least from what I see, nobody in my world is talking about their depression. Their own anxiety. And I include myself in that. In fact I do just the opposite of reaching out and instead isolate from people even more! How fucked up is that?!?!
We’re in a frickin pandemic….yes, still….and still have some rules in place, especially for those of us with compromised immune systems and other disabilities that put us at higher risk of complications from CoVid. And of course that’s gonna cause some mental health issues. It’s been 18 months since most of us started this social distancing thing, wearing masks, avoiding crowds. How is that not gonna mess with your mind??
And nobody’s talking about it. I mean, maybe to a shrink, but I{m pretty sure most of us are too broke to afford one! So I mean, occasionally someone might be brave enough to reach out on social media (I’m not) or is even braver and texts a friend (I don’t), or is even braver and actually calls a loved one or a friend (I don’t use my phone for that 😐) and that’s good. But I’m willing to bet more often than not, a whole bunch of people lay awake at night, maybe crying maybe not, and just think. Overthink. Their mind races. They’re overwhelmed with the bad thoughts.

“And cue nightly existential crisis in 3….2…..”
Hell it’s 2:30 in the morning right now and I’m up writing this. Wife laying next to me, no idea my insomnia is once again rearing it’s ugly head. And why not?? Wake her up, dumbass. Just wake her up.”

“But I don’t wanna bother her with my stuff. She’s got her own stuff. I don’t wanna bother her with my stuff.”
And the beat goes on…..

#MakeChesterProud #IAmTheChange #320ChangesDirection #SickNotWeak
#TheBloggessTribe #NeverAlone
#MentalIllness #Anxiety
#BeThe1To #ReasonsISpeak
#StopSuicide #AFSP #NSPW #IKeptLiving #PTSDAwareness #YouMatter🤘 #YoureNeeded🤘 #YouRock🤘

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Spina Bifida Awareness Month Continues. And So Do I…..

When I was growing up, I would receive our local SBA newsletter and I would read about how this 12 year old or that 9 year old with SB died suddenly.
That sticks with you.
I never thought I’d live very long. I thought I’d be dead in my teens. I mean, if that 12 year old died, why wouldn’t I? And when that didn’t happen, I thought I’d die by 24. Why 24? Dunno. Why not. Now here I am, 43 and still alive. Albeit with health issues, both SB related and non-SB related. And both physical and mental health issues. But I’m here. So. That’s cool.

And yet, my friends and fellow people with SB continue to die. Kidney failure, compressed lungs from their messed up spines, inhibiting their breathing. Or the infamous pressure sores that they couldn’t feel until they’d get down to bone and caused sepsis and ultimately death. Friend of mine died a couple years ago at 40. A little girl with a family I used to be close to died at 6 because she was dealing with flu and shunt failure simultaneously, and her little body couldn’t take it.

And we’re coming up on a year since one of my best friends and favorite people on this Earth died. Tom Baroch. Dear sweet wonderful kind-hearted Tom. Kicked my ass when I was being dumb, and fiercely loyal and protective when he felt people were being unfair. Was his death SB related? No I suppose not. Not directly anyway. Spina Bifida exacerbated it, but either way 58, a couple months from 59, is way too young in this day and age. Don’t get me wrong, I’m trying to get to 58, and hopefully a decade or two more than that. We’ll see. But it’s sad.

But on the plus side, I know people my age and older, oldest one being 73, who have Spina Bifida and are still well. Quite well, in some cases. All their faculties, still walking around, doing fine.

Don’t really have a point. It’s 1am and not being able to shut my brain off is sorta my thing. Just never know when it’s your time to go I guess. Nobody knows, I get that.

Still. Some days it’s overwhelming knowing the odds have been stacked against you since birth.
*goes back to holding his wife, for which he is grateful.*

#BifLife #BiffinAintEasy #ProfessionalPatient #SpinaBifida #Myelomeningocele #ThisIsWhatSpinaBifidaLooksLike #Hydrocephalus #TooMuchBrainToContain #ChiariII #ChronicIllness #Spoonie #TheMidlifeBifLife #IDidntChooseTheBifLifeTheBifLifeChoseMe #DamnItFeelsGoodToBeAGangsta🤘

Posted in 2am Thoughts, My Life (or "More About Me Than You Ever Wanted to Know") | Leave a comment

My Story

Backstory to what you’re about to read: Regular readers of this blog know I was born with Spina Bifida. I wrote this after I came back from my first Spina Bifida conference in 2003. Before that, I had never even met another adult with SB. I knew they were out there, I just never met them and so, well, here’s that story (and I still changed my name through out, to My Bleeding Ink because even tho everyone and their sister knows who runs this blog, I still dig whatever anonymity I can get):

“Hi! My name is (Bleeding Ink). I’m 28 years old. I’m married. I have a dog and a pet snake. I like to read. I like to go down to 16th St. Mall and people-watch. I hope to go back to college someday.”

That’s how I introduce myself now. It wasn’t always like that. I used to say, “Hi. My name is (BleedingInk) and I was born with Spina Bifida.” Maybe I would add, “I was born in El Paso, Texas but my family moved to Colorado when I was 3 months old, in order to find better medical care.” I used to say that because, in my head, that’s all I was….a disability. But that said nothing about my interests, about my likes and dislikes, nothing about my hopes and dreams. I’ve learned a lot in the past year, and while this story may seem like one of pessimism and sadness, by the end you will see it’s a story of healing.

While I did have friends growing up, it was often a struggle to get to know people. And even with the friends I did manage to make, I never really got out socially and did much with them. I was fortunate in not needing any shunt surgeries until I was 15. Then from 15 to the age of 20, I had at least one surgery a year. This contributed to the depression I’ve had most of my life. I know there are many others with SB out there who say, “Just one a year?! That’s nothing!” But to me it was new and scary and sad. I was hardly in high school, hardly saw my friends. In college, I had to drop out because of more surgeries as well as dealing with this growing depression/anxiety.

I’d always experience what I now know were classic symptoms of panic attacks. Every day. In situations that I was not comfortable with, which were most of them, I would start to sweat…I’d get a headache…my chest would get tight and start to hurt….my heart would beat faster and faster. I felt as if the whole world was watching me and laughing at me. I was afraid of meeting new people, of being in new social situations, afraid of getting stared at, laughed at, pointed at. As a teenager I even grew my hair down to my waist and had piercings on my face. But it wasn’t any sort of “rebellion” thing. These were my ways of getting people to stare at something other than what I thought were my glaring physical disabilities.

Depression. I had it big time. All the surgeries and all the medical issues only made it worse. My home life didn’t help much either. My dad was not a very nice man.* I’ve struggled with what to say about him in this story. He is such a big part of my pain and my depression. I’ll just say that while there was no physical abuse, there was verbal and emotional abuse every day. He said things, he screamed things at me, that you should never say to your child, let alone your child born with disabilities who already has a hard enough time in school being made fun of. “Why are you so stupid?!”  “You’re useless!”  “You were a mistake!” And I believed him. Growing up, your parents, especially your father, might as well be God. You hang on to his every word. And when those words are negative, poor self-esteem becomes the least of your issues. I don’t blame my mom. She was and is amazing. She was always there for everything. She was supportive and loving and she is truly the only one in my life who never left. I have been blessed to find my wife.** But growing up, my mom was the biggest source of love and support I had. I don’t blame her because I am adult enough now to know that life is complicated. It’s not as easy as “Your husband is mean. Leave him.” She was 23 years old. She was a housewife. She didn’t speak the language of this country. She didn’t know anybody. She also had my older brother to take care of. If she left my dad, where was she going to go? 

So I did the only thing I knew how to do. Stay in my room. Literally. Afraid to come out to eat. Afraid to even come out to go to the bathroom, for fear of incurring the wrath of The Father. And it wasn’t just as a child. I was 19, 20, 21 years old, unable to move out because of my physical disabilities and my “special needs.” I spent a lot of time in my room. Alone. Sad. Scared.

All of this started to change in August of 2002. My wife and I had been in our own home for a year. But I seemed to be getting more and more depressed. I’d cry a lot. I’d feel hopeless and often scared, but never knew why. That’s when I decided (and it was not easy) to finally get the therapy that 1 or 2 people always knew I needed, but that I never admitted to myself. I spent 8 months with a therapist. While I did learn a few things and did improve somewhat, it didn’t help too much. It helped me stabilize enough that I didn’t want to die, but not enough to really be happy. Therapist had recently gotten her Master’s degree, and had been working exclusively with rape victims and schizophrenics before I showed up. Heavy-duty stuff, but stuff that really didn’t prepare her to deal with a disabled man who was dealing with depression. 

In February 2003 I decided to discontinue therapy with her. I had gotten myself well enough that I thought about going to the National Spina Bifida conference in San Antonio that June. In the past it was something I would NEVER have done. I never participated in any of that. Not Colorado SBA, not the Adult group, and certainly not a national conference. I always thought, “Why bother? Nothing will change. I’ll still have SB. I’ll still have problems and nobody will change that. How is hooking up with a bunch of people in SBA going to help?” Still, I decided to give the national conference a try.

CONT’D on page 2

Posted in Disability Advocacy, My Life (or "More About Me Than You Ever Wanted to Know") | Leave a comment