The Anti-Charismatic

On Monday, I was discharged from inpatient care. Again. This time, to get me off of a new medication that just didn't react well for me. Topamax is a great medication, I'm sure. But for me, I noticed my anxiety levels spike, and I began to have severe panic attacks daily. On my last day of IOP (intensive outpatient program) at the hospital, I was taken to an intake assessment room and admitted to inpatient care involuntarily. I was a mess. I had been up since 3:30AM checking my stove obsessively to be sure that it was off. I had to call my boyfriend while I was driving to stay distracted and avoid a panic attack on the way to IOP that morning. I felt like I was completely out of control, and I couldn't think straight. My thoughts were a million miles an hour, and none of them made sense. I met some truly amazing people over the 5 days I spent there, though. I wasn't happy about being "trapped" and "controlled" so close to my return to work date, bu...

There's a funny thing about being "in crisis" when you have a mental illness. At least for me, anyways. I've spent most of the last 10 years dipping in and out of this life-or-death scenario, and it feels almost normal. I've dealt with these suicidal thoughts and urges in a multitude of ways over the years. Many of these turned into habits. The nastiest of them has been self-harm. Many people in my life have no idea that I struggle with this. A very few know about it. I think for most people, we jump to the image of deep gashes and monstrous scars when we approach this topic. I know plenty of people whose experience has been exactly that. This has not been my experience, though. My self-harm has never left a lasting scar. And this fact has typically made me feel as if my experience is now invalid. My thin yet precise razor marks heal within a week, never once landing me in a hospital or requiring stitches. They have always had a specific purpose for me: just enou...

Thirty-three days ago I was at a crossroads. My hands full of pills, shaking under the weight of knowing there weren't enough to make the pain stop. As I sobbed into the steering wheel, I knew I had two options. 1. I could continue to struggle and silently plot my own death. Save my note for another day, another miserable night of my thoughts endlessly bouncing through my head, gaining momentum the more I shout at them to just stop . 2. I can ask for help. For whatever it may turn out to be worth, I owe my roommate my life. He sat with me and knew exactly what to say. What miraculous words did he utter to change my distressed mind? None. He sat by me in silence, waiting with me for the panic to subside. "It's alright. Let's just go upstairs." Okay. After what felt like hours of chain smoking in the frigid January cold, I finally found my words. "I think I need to go to the hospital." "Right now?" "Yeah... if I don...