by Marina Shishkin | Mar 10, 2023 | Personal Story
We had a fairytale love story that ignited in March of 2011. After dating for a week, I knew Bryan was the one and we married on September 1, 2017. Every day with him was magical and full of love and laughter. We wanted to share that by growing our family. After a yearlong struggle with infertility, I got pregnant in April of 2019. We were over the moon and couldn’t wait to become parents. Bryan often said to me, “Are we ready to be parents?” I always reassured him by saying, ”is anyone ever really ready?”
Fast forward to September 4, 2019. It was a normal day. He was up early working in his office and I was on my way to work. We texted throughout the day as we always did. He was supposed to go bowling that night, but didn’t make it. Bryan was a healthy, happy 34-year old who lived every day to the fullest, but that fateful day, his heart stopped beating. He fell to the bathroom floor and that was it. My husband, my soulmate, the absolute love of my life was gone in a flash second. I came home to his lifeless body at the top of the stairs and kept telling him to wake up. I laid next to him and said you can’t leave me and our baby boy. It was the absolute worst day of my entire life and I didn’t know how I’d live life without him, especially with our baby boy on the way.
My pregnancy was pretty typical. I had morning sickness, heartburn, and extreme fatigue, but the last trimester was very difficult, especially after having lost my husband so unexpectedly. There were days that I didn’t want to eat or get out of bed. I was so excited to meet our son and hold him in my arms, but I didn’t think I would do so without my husband by my side.
Once our son was here, I didn’t think I would be able to take care of him. I didn’t want to be the only parent, but what choice did I have? As it was, I suffered from major depression, anxiety, PTSD, and then added to the mix, post-partum depression. I was scared, not just for my life, but for my son’s. There were days I wish I didn’t have him. I had days where I just wanted to die. I remember sobbing on the bathroom floor, the same spot where my husband died, telling my mom I needed to go to the hospital because I couldn’t breathe. I would pace around my room thinking of how to end it all; all of the pain and suffering.
I was in close contact with my OBGYN and my psychiatrist. I started seeing a therapist who specialized in grief counseling and post-partum depression. The combination of medications and professionals helped to an extent, but I was the one that had to do the work to get my mind in the right place. I had to take care of myself so that I could care for my son. I have a lot of work to do and know there will be bumps along the way.
Grief doesn’t have an expiration date. To this day, almost four years later, I struggle… a lot. I keep busy with my full-time job and my sweet, stubborn, thriving 3-year-old, who I absolutely adore, but there will always be a piece of my heart that is missing. I take things one day at a time and try to focus on the step in front of me, not the staircase. Life is so different and not at all what I imagined it would be like, but life is for the living and I’m trying to do that every single day, even if that means that all I accomplished for the day was getting out of bed. I am hopeful for the future and that I will be happy again, but it will be a different kind of happy. The pain of losing my husband will never go away, but I know it will ease with time. Hug your loved ones tight because tomorrow is not promised. And if someone hasn’t been in your shoes, don’t let them tell you how to tie your shoelaces.
by Kristin Colino | Jan 13, 2023 | Personal Story
I’m here… because I have lived a life protected from pre-existing conditions that would prevent my health care coverage. I’m here… because I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder when I was 20. I’m here… to answer the question, “What does life look like after being diagnosed with a mental health condition?”
When my brain started to malfunction, I was still in high school. I was a straight-A student, who was at risk of not graduating. I didn’t know why, but I was mentally unable to do the work. I felt like a gigantic failure. By the skin of my teeth, I ended up in my cap and gown marching across the stage to receive my diploma. I promised myself college would be different. Little did I know there were more storms on the horizon.
I went to college far away from home, and my immediate peers were still relative strangers. The devious thing about mood disorders is their tendency to show up in early adulthood – a time to break away from the security of home, establish new friendships, and a career path. In the fall of my sophomore year, after receiving useless assistance from the university’s counseling center, I decided it was best to confide in my mom about my inner turmoil.
She made sure I saw a top-rate psychiatrist, who administered all the standard psychological tests to determine my level of emotional pain. The conclusion… I was off the charts in agony for a young adult, and I was ready to call it quits. No more school, no more stress, no more worries.
I immediately started treatment with an antidepressant. At that time, I had no doubt I was the guinea pig while precautions were established for psychiatric medications. Since I was prone to develop bipolar disorder, the antidepressant treatment prescribed induced a manic episode. After a six-week hospital stay, all I could think was I must have done something horribly wrong in my past to deserve such mental torture. Not to mention, there were physical side effects. How would I ever recover from such gross humiliation?
Not only did I recover, I went seven whole years without another bipolar episode. I took my medication diligently, structured my life accordingly, exercised, and ate right – if the doctor said it, I did it. In those seven years, I managed to accomplish many personal and career goals. I held several jobs for prominent organizations in the city, attended a local university to develop my job skills, and maintained a long-term relationship with a man of equal ambition.
Sadly, in my late twenties, I suffered what was to this day my most intense episode. What’s worse is I never once stopped taking my medication prior to or during this psychosis or break from reality. It lasted for a grueling nine months. I even consulted “the experts”, and no one had a solution. Thousands of dollars later, I was instructed to take my “meds” and “wait it out.” What options did I have? The medicine kept me well for seven years. I had more faith in that than I did in the doctors at this point. It was about this time I learned an extremely difficult lesson… There are things in life I have absolutely no control over. My recovery time is one of them. In the meantime, I vowed to thoroughly educate myself on my disorder and seek out peer support.
In the three-year reprieve between my second and third episodes, I studied hard and became a resident expert on mental health conditions to both my family and friends. I also joined a local peer support group with whom I could share my day-to-day struggles. The group proved to be a saving grace, but in the beginning group therapy of any kind was just terrifying. The fact I was being forced to identify with people who I was convinced were much worse off than I was… Well, it was extremely humbling. What I learned was I had a great deal in common with them, I was just too scared to admit it. Once I accepted the company I was keeping, it became a joy to let down my guard twice a month with my moody comrades. In fact, they have a very good sense of humor about their circumstances.
During those same three years, I started using my college skills in my chosen field of graphic design. It was the Fall of 2002 when I suffered my third bipolar episode. It was unique in many ways. I brought more experience to the situation, and I tried to be as prepared as possible. It was also quite public in that many of my coworkers witnessed my odd behavior. I cried for help in my own chaotic way, but I was too ashamed to vocalize the real problem. My actions said it all, but I said something astoundingly different. It was a game I was playing all inside my own mind – one that I now view as a battle for survival. In the end, I was unable to prevent another crash and burn. It was emotionally devastating and physically dangerous.
In the last 30 years, I have been able to overcome tremendous challenges by surrendering to the transforming power of Christ. I have been employed with nonprofits and corporations, implemented my job skills, and maintained long-term relationships. Of course, there were a couple more trips to the hospital mixed in there. Still, I learned this extremely difficult lesson… There are some things in life I have absolutely no control over. My recovery time is one of them.
By the grace of God, each episode has taken me one step closer to understanding myself and coping with my mood disorder. Years of research and education on the diagnosis started paying off. While knowledge was not going to prevent my condition, it helped me make necessary lifestyle adjustments. My suffering led to humility and compassion, and I see those as benefits.
by Paul Simmons | Sep 27, 2022 | Personal Story
By TINA CRUIKSHANK
It’s been thirteen years since I took two vials full of lithium and Lamictal and chased them down with a bottle of wine. I felt I had gotten the “go-ahead” from Jesus, with whom I was conversing at the time. We had been having regular conversations since I was a child, trying to remove the nails that bound Him to a crucifix in my grandparents’ old bedroom. Then, I had wanted Him to rescue us from the lower-case him in our home.
I was beyond rescue at this point. Two abusive relationships and one rape in, my childhood mantra that “things will get better” had long grown stale. This was not my first attempt, but I was determined to make it my last. After my first attempt three years earlier, an ER doc told me I would have had to take an entire vial of each of my meds to succeed. (I’m pretty sure “succeed” wasn’t his choice of words, but I felt I got the gist.) Vials on hand and what I thought were neatly tied conversations, I was ready to embrace the silence.
I woke up convulsing, panicking, looking for the kitchen phone that no longer existed. It did not come to me that my cell phone must have been nearby. I remember the moment briefly, when the only presence speaking was mine. I didn’t want to die.
I woke up again, but this time in the ICU, hooked up to a dialysis machine. It seemed no vein was left untapped; I was entangled in cords. I did not get myself to the hospital. (As I was later informed, I had passed out in a pool of vomit.) Someone who long ago forfeited being any measure of a “friend” (I said I wasn’t ready. Did he not hear me?!?) “had a feeling,” which set in motion actions that resulted in my being there. I snapped a selfie with my shitty flip phone. “Do not try this again,” I captioned it inside my head.
Time was a blur. I had no idea how long I had been there, but my father and sister had made the trip from Florida. My college friends added their names to a dry-erase board, as did my high school best friend. None of this guaranteed permanence in my life. Within the month, I’d lose a huge part of my heart, of which the scars remain. But I didn’t know that then.
In the ICU, I decided I would never try to kill myself again. I didn’t want anyone to have to explain my actions to their children, including my nieces, including another that felt so close to being my own. I didn’t want anyone to feel the type of aching void I had felt. But, more than anything, I made peace with God that my existence mattered.
I continue to share my story to let others know they are not alone in this world and that despite the worst thoughts that come into their heads, their lives are worth living. YOUR LIFE IS WORTH LIVING, AND I’M SO GLAD YOU’RE HERE.
by Paul Simmons | Jul 12, 2022 | Personal Story
By Sally Littlefield
My story begins after the most stressful work meeting of my life. I drove home after the meeting and parked my car at around 10:30 am outside my San Francisco apartment. I paused to collect my thoughts for a few minutes, but when the sun started going down, I realized I’d been sitting there for six hours. During that time, I struggled to remember what had just happened in the meeting, but the more I tried to remember, the more memories of things that couldn’t possibly have happened started to fill my brain. Memories of things like seeing people die, of being sued, of being interviewed on CNN. Unbeknownst to me, I was experiencing the onset of schizoaffective disorder, bipolar type.
Eventually, enough of these fake memories filled my brain that I became convinced that a team of psychologists had assumed control of my life and was experimenting on me against my will. I believed that they controlled every circumstance of my life, and I believed everyone around me was a paid actor being fed lines by the psychologists. I thought even my own parents were wearing teeny-tiny earbuds through which the psychologists were feeding them lines. Except, of course, on the few occasions when I thought my parents were robots.
During the ten months I believed this, I talked to myself on the street like every stereotype of a schizophrenic homeless person you’ll ever come across; I picked other people’s used cigarettes up off the ground, put them in my mouth, relit them, and smoked them; I broke into houses and cars; I got tackled by police officers; and I got sedated by injection against my will four times.
My 10-month bout of psychosis came to an end all at once after several medication adjustments greatly reduced the number of signs and clues from the psychologists I was seeing in my surroundings. One day I bit the bullet and googled “characteristics of schizophrenic delusions,” and I realized it fit what I was experiencing to a T. In that moment, I went from being the future president of the United States as my delusions had me believe I was, to being a member of a marginalized population.
The initial stages of my recovery were the most difficult, as I experienced rejection from some family members and was given a pretty grim prognosis from doctors. But I beat the odds and made a full recovery, and what’s more is that I found healing through advocacy work. I began to speak publicly about my struggles, and it felt great to not apologize for who I am, mental health condition and all. I also became a support group facilitator, and I’ve found it rewarding to help others on their own mental health journeys.
Though it’s certainly been trying at times, I’m grateful for aspects of my journey. Because of my schizoaffective disorder, I’ve found a greater purpose in life advocating on behalf of those with similar challenges. I hope that my story can give them hope in a world in which people like us don’t have nearly enough role models.
by Paul Simmons | Feb 21, 2022 | Personal Story
By the time of my 17th birthday, I had been diagnosed with major depressive disorder and anxiety, placed on two antidepressant medications, and was sent to local psychiatric hospitals four different times. At this point, my brain became convinced that suicide was a viable solution for my life.
When my mental health became life-threatening, I was sent out of state to a residential treatment center; a stay that ultimately lasted 11 1/2 months. In a matter of a day, I went from living with my parents and attending public high school to being 700 miles from home in a year-long treatment program. No phone. No car. Not allowed to leave campus. No access to social media. 24/7 staff monitored. Living with 14 other boys. The transition seemed unbearable in “normal times,” let alone the challenges I was experiencing personally with my mental health.
But for the first time in my life, I experienced the intentionality of mental health being part of the day-to-day regime. We had access to resources, programs, therapists, psychiatrists, different types of counseling, personalized medication plans, and more. We learned to live in vulnerability and with accountability. This was the first time I learned that I wasn’t alone in my experiences. From the staff members at this facility to the other patients I was living with, I found support and a safe place where I could be myself, and take life one step at a time to get back on track.
I didn’t conquer anxiety here. I didn’t conquer depression here. But I did progress. I did improve. I no longer was decimated by suicidal thoughts. I was able to function again and began living a meaningful and fruitful life. Looking back, I’m forever grateful to say that this experience wasn’t the help that I wanted, but it was the help that I needed.
Now, I am married to my beautiful wife Vanessa, and we are beginning to build a family! I have also had the opportunity to work for a Fortune 50 company over the last five years. Furthermore, I am active in the mental health community, where I speak with students and have written and published my story, “The Battle Against Yourself.” In addition to being a Board Member for DBSA California, I am a Mental Health Speaker for Active Minds, the nation’s premier nonprofit organization supporting young adult mental health. What makes my life full now, even amidst struggles that arise, is my family, friends, mental health passion projects, and my faith in God. I am grateful for His grace and put my trust in Him first and foremost.
No matter your struggle, please know that you’re not alone and it’s OK to not be OK. And remember, we all have an opportunity to support one another; what a beautiful role it is to be there for someone who may have no one else in their corner.
by Paul Simmons | Feb 18, 2022 | Personal Story
My name is Abraham Sculley and I was diagnosed with major depression during my freshman year of college.
Growing up, I had no idea what mental health was. I grew up in a devout Christian family and Jamaican-American household with not one but two Jamaican parents. At home, we didn’t talk about our feelings, and to me, the words “mental health” meant you were crazy. As a young man, I was raised to be a protector, provider, and priest for my future family. And there wasn’t any space for being vulnerable or expressing emotions that weren’t positive.
In 2014 I left home to be the first in my family to attend college. I was excited to go to college, but as a first-generation student, I dealt with a lot of challenges. I worked to provide for myself financially, I was a full-time student and I felt the daily pressure of succeeding at a high level to prove to my family, myself (and my 2 haters), that I could be successful.
It wasn’t until my second semester that everything went downhill. I became overwhelmed with stress and the pressure of being perfect weighed heavy on me. I remember not being able to physically get out of bed. I was missing classes, missing work, and I lost all motivation.
One weekend while in my apartment, I got a phone call that changed my life. My best friend saw that I was struggling and withdrawing so she decided to reach out and check-in. That conversation became a catalyst for me. It was the first time I had ever been honest, open, and transparent with someone, anyone.
Speaking with my friend helped me realize that it was okay to struggle, and I didn’t have to be ashamed about it. She even told me about the counseling center on campus. After speaking with a professional, I was able to identify a name for what I was experiencing, which was depression. And it was the awareness that led me to develop a passion for speaking up about mental health.
Today, I speak with audiences across the country, sharing my story so others will see there is hope, there is help, and we don’t have to suffer in silence. My passion for mental health advocacy comes from my battle with depression during college.
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