White Hinterland shares heartfelt blog post on mental illness and depression

Following the death of actor Robin Williams, Dienel shares an inspiring personal story on her blog. You can read that in full below.

Remember that the Samaritans are available 24 hours a day to provide confidential emotional support for people who are experiencing feelings of distress, despair or suicidal thoughts - call them on 08457 90 90 90 or email jo@samaritans.org / In the US, call 1-800-273-8255 for the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline.

ON SELFISHNESS AND BEING SCARED.

It’s been a heavy week. A few days ago we lost one of our heroes, someone who was better than anyone else at reminding us to hold onto laughter when it gets dark. I’ve heard members of the choir murmur “suicide is selfish” in passing. I imagine we’ll be hearing it a lot more, and that’s a shame. It’s also not true. First it was tutted at LAX by a woman watching TMZ. Anonymous commenters on news sites. Little burps on twitter. A well-meaning friend to me over text. I don’t mean to diminish in any way the serious business of taking one’s life, but what about a dialogue that didn’t rest on the axis of “selfishness?” For many the suicidal state is involuntary. You get there because you feel trapped in a corner. You get there because you can’t see any other way out. Being told it is a selfish thing to do reinforces feelings of helpless- and hopelessness while driving the discussion away from what is most important: helping people who are seriously ill receive treatment. Depression moors you on an island where you can’t feel anything beyond pain, can’t see what lies ahead. It’s not a fog, it’s a white out. It’s a brutal illness. I know from experience.

What I have is Dysthymia with bouts of Cyclothymia. I think I have had some variant of it my whole life. Basically it’s a mood disorder. By medical standards my diagnosis is ‘mild.’ It’s nowhere as extreme as Bipolar I—although as anyone who has experienced it knows, none of this makes living with depression any easier. I suppose to an outsider I look “normal” (another term I have grown allergic to, right alongside words like “speculum.”)

Growing up I was prone to moodiness. I got used to hearing I was too sensitive or intense; that if I lightened up or grew a thicker skin one day I’d be a happy person. It confused me. “So what you’re saying is you have to be tough as leather but light as air to get through this life?” “It all feeds the artistic beast,” they said. ”Part of the process,” they said. “Turn it into a song.” When I grew up the mood swings surged. Low-grade stage fright turned to crippling anxiety that induced vomiting. Average self-doubt took on the personality of a belligerent football coach shouting inside my head at volume 11. I fantasized about deep sleep. Going to bed without that critical voice nagging me. At no point did any of these feelings drive me to write better songs—they interrupted my process and my life. I was deeply unhappy and isolation was the one tool in my kit I could cling to. The inevitablity of being unmasked haunted me. Small things set me off. Screwing up part of a song I knew by heart at a show. Sad stories on the news. Burning a pan of rice by accident. I swallowed all of it down, pushed it as deep as it would go, imagining I was storing those feelings in a vault somewhere below my bed, never to be unearthed. I believed if I told people about these thoughts I would be cast out, floating further away from the small chance for happiness I had left.

Sometimes I had no appetite or will to change my clothes from several days before. For months I went into hiding like a dog that goes off into the woods to die on its own. Occasionally I got behind the wheel of my car and felt so tired of it all I couldn’t turn the key in the ignition and I burst into tears. Then came the panic attacks accompanied by chronic insomnia. Many people do not seem aware that anxiety can manifest physically. In my case my skin boiled and flushed, my heart raced so fast I could hear it drum in my ears. It was like having my mind on a treadmill at full speed that could not stop. This would last for several hours, sometimes for a few days.

Once an attack hits all rational thought flies out the window. I said appalling things to people I loved. I did not care about tomorrow. I was never thinking about myself but about how scared I was the panic would never stop. At my lowest about two years ago, for nearly six months on a regular basis I heard the coach voice trying to silence me for good. While making coffee the voice would say “why bother? you should kill yourself.” While at a dinner with friends it would say “you are a burden to these people. It would be better if you killed yourself.” The best thing I ever did was tell someone what was going on. I delivered my confession like it was a joke (not a big surprise to anyone that knows me), but that person had the good sense to take me seriously. Desperate to keep my shit together but completely crumbling on the inside. I was lucky to have a family who insisted I get treatment. I began seeing a therapist regularly who I still see to this day even when I am feeling OK.

For a time I called a suicide hotline so often it became routine. On the first call I nervously laughed when they asked me what was going on. (I have long held the habit of laughing at inappropriate times.) No matter the time of day someone was there to listen. I can’t tell you what enormous comfort that was. Not to spoil your after school special version of hotlines but these calls were never hysterical. A lot of depressed people are terrified of appearing “crazy.” Sometimes it’s hard to tell from the exterior the rough going of the interior seas. Depression doesn’t always look like Bradley Cooper in The Silver Linings Playbook. These phone calls were a safe space for me. The volunteer was there to listen without judgement. Sometimes we talked about unrelated things like my cat or the place where I grew up. We talked about how I imagined doing it. I fantasized about drowning or jumping from a bridge or a window. The voice on the phone was always kind, soothing, a little quiet. The voice never called me crazy. I always imagine it as a woman’s voice, although several times the person on the other end was a man. The voice never called me selfish. It showed me great compassion when I needed it most. To this day I don’t know if I would still be here without those volunteers. I never had to be rushed to the hospital, but that doesn’t mean there weren’t some truly scary close calls. At my worst, I really was living for those around me more than myself. I didn’t want to let anyone down but I had become a sleepwalker. Embarrassingly, it took getting t-boned by a SUV at a busy intersection for me to realize how much I wanted to “be here.” On impact my only thought was “not yet! not yet! I’ve still got so much left I need to do!”

Stigma is our fear, and as a result too many people suffer alone needlessly. God forbid someone learn I had days where I was so over it I couldn’t get out of bed even though I had to pee. Or the way I circled around the grocery store for two hours debating over getting pinto or black beans as though one of those cans contained the nuclear codes. When my mask fell off, I saw a lot of people struggling just like me. Many of them have heard that belligerent coach inside shouting we were worthless, unloved, unloveable, or a bad people. We know the opposite of these things is true, but depression is not discriminating. It doesn’t care “how good you have it.” It doesn’t care about your socioeconomic standing, your race, your gender, your sexuality. It doesn’t care how much you love the world. That’s not how a disorder works.

Every day I get to spend alive I am now grateful for. It’s the small things that keep me going: singing, laughing at a cheap dick joke, swimming in water so cold I’m surprised my hair didn’t fall out, eating a perfectly ripe peach over the sink, going to the movies. Every time something good happens to me I think “I could have missed this.” Sometimes I feel this way when something bad happens too. Recovery has enabled me to write again, something I doubted possible. I’ve been in therapy for several years and it’s going well, but I won’t sugarcoat where I’m at. I still stumble from time to time. It took a lot of work but the most vital component to gaining my life back was the support I received. It’s not lost on me for one second how many people in this country are denied access to the services that saved me on a daily basis. I had healthcare in Massachusetts, a state where mental health is covered. I wish for a day where mental illness is seen for what it is, a disease requiring treatment and counseling—no different from any other chronic illness.

I write this so that if you are someone who has felt this way that you might feel less alone. I also write so that if you still feel this way it will encourage you to seek help. I know it’s scary, but it’s alright to be scared. I also want you to know you have a right to feel scared. Those that love you want to help you. Think about a time someone came to you for advice or help—did you turn them away? Likely you did not. It might have even made you feel good to be needed in that moment. You deserve to know that you are valuable, loved, loveable, and a good person. I know how hard it is to see the other side that from where you are sitting. I have been there more than once. I wanted to hide too, but hiding is a band-aid, not a long-term solution. Please call one of the hotlines below, reach out to a therapist, or tell a loved one. You have so many options even if at the moment it is a challenge to see them.