Into the hole of darkness
I have fallen
Defeated and lost,
I cry
Negative thoughts
Torment me
Emotions flood me
I struggle
To climb out
I fall again
I feel hopeless
Hands grasping,
I pray for help
A hand reaches down
Into my darkness,
Pulls me up to the light
With God’s help
I find tools to cope
A renewed strength
To fight
Burns within me
In recovery I stand
Depression sucks life out of you. It’s a heavy burden to carry. It takes away your self-esteem, energy, ability to make decisions, joy and so much more. It’s easier to give up than to fight depression. It’s easier to lie in bed all day than to force yourself to get up and do something. It’s easier to let negative thoughts beat you down than to challenge them. It’s easier to choose death than to choose to face your illness, but giving up isn’t worth it.
There is a light above the dark hole you are dwelling in. There is hope when there seems like there is none. You can become a functioning member of society. You can find happiness and brighter days. You can decide to live and fight this awful sickness. Doing what is hard takes a lot of determination, strength, and energy, but the outcome is worth it. Don’t give up. Fight. I fought and I now live above the hole of depression.
I once thought that there was no way out of my dark hole. Climbing the walls towards the light seemed impossible. My negative thoughts were endless, I couldn’t sleep at night, I had little energy, I hated myself, and my life seemed hopeless. I even planned my death. One night I took a bunch of pills and felt dizzy and sick. Some how I drove myself to college and back in a snowstorm. My only explanation is that God got me there and back. I was ready to give up, but God wasn’t ready to give up on me.
I had turned my back on God. I blamed him for my illness. Why was he allowing me to suffer? Did God make a mistake when he made me? Was God real or a fairy tale? Was he punishing me? I stopped going to church. I lay in bed and allowed the darkness to overtake me. But God did not give up on me. He pushed me forward. He gave me determination to fight even when I thought I couldn’t. He gave me a wonderful mom who searched for help for me. He gave me a good therapist. He gave me people to support me and encourage me.
I’ll be honest with you. Fighting depression and reaching recovery is a brutal battle and it takes time, persistence, determination, and all your energy. It took all of mine to fight it, but God was whispering in my ear, “Don’t give up.” I wanted a better life, I wanted to find happiness, and I wanted out of my hole. I climbed the hole and fell again. Then I got up and started again. I kept pushing myself forward no matter how hard it got. I just wanted to live again instead of just existing.
I have lived through a lot of heartaches and struggles in my life, and I couldn’t have made it through them if I had given up. By fighting I learned that life is full of hard times, heartaches, and challenges, but if you keep fighting you can get through them. Things do get better. There is always sunshine waiting for you beyond the rough times.
Taking your life is permanent, but depression is not permanent. There is no cure for mental illness and you will have bouts of depression, but you’ll be strong enough to pull yourself out of it in recovery. Happiness and a productive life are waiting for you. Don’t take the easy way out. Fight for yourself, fight for happiness, fight for a bright future, and fight for the light. You can do it! I believe in you.
Because I didn’t give up, I live a happy life in recovery wrapped in the arms of God.
Sometimes it seems like life is out to get you. It keeps slapping you with one problem, heartache, or struggle after another. It’s very easy to slip into depression, especially if you’re in recovery or working towards recovery from mental illness. It can seem overwhelming and hopeless. You wonder when will things get better.
Lately it seems like life keeps handing me with one problem and heartache after another. First Esther, our dog, had a lump removed from her leg, and I had to nurse her to recovery. Next the lump’s biopsy came back as cancer, and she got a bad infection that ate through her flesh to the bone. Then finally we had to send her over the rainbow bridge. It’s a heartache my husband and I are still dealing with. But it doesn’t end there.
We took a much-needed vacation to Johnstown where my husband grew up. Before we left the “check engine” sign came on in our SUV. We had it checked and it was the catalytic converter. My dad told me to get stuff to put in the gas to clean it out. It worked. We thought we were in the clear. We drove to many places on our trip and had a wonderful time. Then on the last day we found out my dad’s bone cancer came back and when we got home the check engine light came back on.
My dad does a lot for us. He fixed our furnace, put windows in our home, repaired my cars, put faucets in our sinks, with a friend he replaced the roof on our garage, and much more. He has always come to our rescue, especially now that my husband is sick. He is always supportive and encouraging. I can’t imagine life without him.
The cancer centers in Erie and Cleveland are moving fast to treat my dad. They are worried that the cancer spread, so he got a pet scan. July 7 they are drilling a hole in his spine to do a biopsy. July 8 he’s going to Cleveland Clinic for ten days to get a series of new shots that will make his immune system fight the cancer. We don’t know what side effects he’ll have from the shots.
Fourteen months ago, my dad had a procedure done that was supposed to put him into remission for five years. The procedure involved a very high dose of chemo which has caused him lasting side effects. I can’t imagine him going through even more.
On top of that my dad won’t be able to fix our car, and the repairs and even the cost of the catalytic converter are very expensive. They are beyond what we can afford. We are living paycheck to paycheck. We can’t finance a newer car either, but we can’t keep putting money into the one we have. So, we are searching the internet and car dealerships for an older car with low mileage. My dad told me what mileage to look for.
My husband and I continue to grieve the loss of Esther and adjust to life without her while worrying about my dad. On top of that I am stressed about finding a car we can afford. I already have taken on a lot of responsibilities while my husband is sick, and now I have more. How do I cope with all this? It’s a lot to deal with. The thing that keeps crossing my mind is I can’t lose my dad. I already lost my baby girl, Esther; I can’t lose anyone else.
My therapist tells me to allow myself to cry and to take care of myself; self-care is very important. She says to do things for me. Since my husband got sick, my life has mostly been revolved around taking care of him. Now my dad is sick, I’m focused on how I can help my parents out.
I have been sneaking off to our bedroom to watch TV alone while my husband watches TV downstairs just so I can relax and be free for a little while. After Esther passed, I had lunch with a friend. It was nice to talk and laugh with a friend instead of crying over our loss. Going on a trip was a way to have fun and get us out of the house that seems empty now. I’m writing this blog post and it helps me express myself. My husband and I are going to game night on Tuesday at a friend’s house. This will help keep my mind off everything going on.
I’m doing different things to take care of myself. I’m making sure I take my medication and keep my therapy and psychiatrist appointments. I’m journaling and leaning on my support system. I allow myself to cry. I try to find the positive in my life. I rest when I need to. I practice relaxation techniques like deep breathing and grounding techniques.
I’m taking each day one at a time and leaning on God to get me through this rough time in my life. I feel like life will not stop slapping me with problems, but I remind myself that things will get better.
By practicing self-care I am holding on tight to the light of recovery.
High school is a hard time for teens. They are at the dating age, they face peer pressure, and they work hard to fit in. If you dress differently, are too skinny or too big–boned or have any noticeable difference, you are teased and put down. Many try to change who they are to be part of the popular crowd or to fit in. Bullies are people who act aggressively towards people who are different. They pick out someone whom they determine is weak and abuse the person physically, verbally, or by cyberbullying. They prey on people who dare to be different.
My older sister was in the most current style before the others in our small-town school. She wore lots of makeup and got up early in the morning to do her hair just right. She was beautiful. I just got up in enough time to brush my hair, get dressed, and go to school. Even as a child she was a girly girl. I was always the opposite of her. I was a tomboy. I played with cars and action figures. I didn’t mind getting dirty. My older sister played with dolls and hated getting dirty. My parents loved us for the individuals we were.
I spent my childhood being bullied for having a learning disability and then in high school they found new things to put me down for. As a teen I liked tee shirts, sweatshirts, and jeans. Some of my clothes came from yard sales. I didn’t care about what was considered in style or doing the latest hair style. I hated makeup and nail polish. I was what my classmates and other teens considered an outcast. Many teens in my school picked on me about my clothes and hair. They abused me verbally for being my own person. They made me feel ugly and worthless. I wanted to fit in, but I liked my own style, which was simple.
Then a couple of teachers in my special education class decided to hold a beauty day for all the girls in the class. They had a beautician and makeup artist come in and make us up. I hated every minute of it, but I was willing to give it a try so that maybe I could fit in with everyone else. The eye shadow made my eyes itch, rubbing foundation into my skin felt weird, my eyes watered, making the mascara run, and I couldn’t help but lick my lips, wiping away the lipstick. My hair was curled and styled with a curling iron, and when I looked in a mirror I felt like I was staring at a stranger.
The teachers were trying to help me without realizing they were asking me to change who I was to fit in. I went along with it, and I tried to do lipstick and eye shadow on my own. I tried different hairstyles, but it didn’t change things. I was still an outcast and I only hated myself more. I felt ugly in my new style, and I felt like I wasn’t being true to myself. This only deepened my depression and destroyed my self-worth.
Through this experience I learned to never change who you are to fit in. Be true to yourself even if your classmates and your bully use it to put you down. Trying to be someone you are not only deepens your lack of self-worth and your depression. Be the person, the unique individual, you are meant to be and the person you feel comfortable with. Don’t let anyone change who you are just so you can be accepted by others.
Many teens who dress like the popular crowd are not being themselves. They are often just following the crowd and hiding their true selves. Each one of us has different likes, dislikes, styles, and personalities. Owning our differences and daring to embrace them, even though others don’t agree, is a bold and strong step. We must be true to ourselves whether others like it or not.
As an adult I’m happy to be my own person. I rarely wear jewelry, and I don’t expect my husband to buy me any. The only jewelry I wear is my engagement ring and wedding band. I don’t put makeup on; I feel comfortable with my natural looks. Most of the time I wear tee shirts, jeans, or sweatpants. I like short hair that I can just run a brush through and be ready to go. I have a streak of pink in my hair to symbolize that I am a breast cancer survivor. This is who I am.
Being myself is what lifts my self-esteem and carries me in the light of recovery.
In 2016 my husband and I went to the ANNA Shelter, a shelter for dogs and cats, to look at the dogs. Lou stopped to go to the bathroom and told me to go in and look around. I looked at the cages with dogs of all sizes inside. I stopped at a cage with a black dog with white on her paws, a strip of white stretching up from her nose, and white on her neck. I read the paper outside her cage saying her name was Esther and she was two years old. All the dogs in the shelter began barking except for Esther. It was like God whispered to me saying, “This is the dog for you.” I knew she had to be mine.
Lou came out of the bathroom. “Are you ready to look at the dogs?”
I pointed at Esther. “I want this dog.”
“But we haven’t gotten a chance to look at the other dogs,” he said.
“I don’t need to look. I must have this dog. Let’s see if we can take her in a room and hold her,” I said.
Lou reluctantly agreed. We took her in a room and I held her. I fell in love with her right away. When we brought her home that day, she clung to me. She didn’t want anything to do with Lou. Over several weeks Esther slowly started coming to him. In time she came to him easily, snuggling up on his chest. When Lou went down to watch TV in his mancave, Esther snuggled up on my lap as I stroked her ears and back. After a while she would go down and spend time with Lou.
Not too long after we got Esther, I had surgery on a torn tendon in my ankle. I was confined to the couch and used a walker to get around. Esther lay beside me and refused to leave my side. Lou had to pick her up and carry her outside to go potty, and he had to feed her on the couch. Through the years we had her I went through a bilateral mastectomy, hysterectomy, and back surgery. For each surgery she stayed at my side giving me comfort as I recovered.
Esther became more than just a dog; she became a comfort for surgeries and mental illness, and she became our baby, our child. Every time I got depressed and cried, Esther laid her head on my chest and looked up into my eyes. I’d bury my head in her fur and pet her. Her soft fur and head against my chest warmed my soul and brought light into my darkness. She knew what I needed and she gave it to me unconditionally.
She had her own anxiety. She didn’t like to be left alone while Lou and I worked. She made a mess out of the house. We had to put her in a crate while we were gone. The crate became her place of comfort. When Lou yelled at the Steelers game on the television, she retreated to her crate and she also went there when she got in trouble. She would even take her food there to eat it.
Esther barely ever barked. When she did, we were shocked. She was a very quiet dog. We knew where she was by the sound of her nails clicking on the floor and the jingle of her tags on her collar. She loved company. When people came to visit, she went up to them for attention. If we had more than one person visiting, she would go from lap to lap. She loved everyone except the mailman. When I took her for walks, she let the neighborhood kids pet her.
As she got older, she stopped sitting on my lap as much. She had arthritis in her left front leg. She started lying on the pillow I lay on when I’m resting on the couch. She would take up my whole pillow. So, I would gently rest my head on her and she was content. When my sister gave us a couch with back cushions you can move around, Esther crawled in between the cushions and the only thing you could see was her head. I would reach back and pet her.
Several months ago, I noticed a lump on her leg that was getting bigger. We took her to the vet and had it removed, but they couldn’t get it all because some of it was in her joint. I took care of her through her recovery. The vet said the lump was an aggressive cancer. Not too long after her surgery, another lump formed above the one that was partially removed. By Memorial Day her lump was open and seeping. It smelled bad. I took off from work that Tuesday to take her to the vet. Her leg was infected, leaving a hole that went to the bone. We could have had her leg removed, but the chances of her surviving and recovering were slim, or we could send her over the rainbow bridge. We couldn’t let her suffer.
The vet tech bandaged her leg up and sent her home with us for a few days. We fed her fries, ice cream, spaghetti, and eggs. We hugged her, petted her, and gave her all the love we could before taking her back to the vet on Friday. I held her tightly to my chest as the vet administered the medicine and she drifted away. I laid my head on her head and wept. Tears caressed Lou’s eyes too as he also said his goodbyes.
Now Lou and I both grieve Esther. She gave us endless love for nine and a half years. She gave us comfort. Lou found comfort in her with his illness and while he was home alone while I worked. Now our lives seem empty and sad. Esther will always have a place in our hearts. She was our therapy dog, our companion, our best friend, and our baby.
We are taking each day at time as we grieve Esther’s loss. In time we’ll get another dog, but right now our hearts have to heal. Memories of my baby girl keep me hanging on to the light of recovery.
We all experience life with different perceptions. We go through life’s struggles and each person’s journey is different. What may seem like a minor bad point in a person’s life may seem like a major one in another person’s life. Someone may feel sad about a situation, while another person may feel happy. No person on earth experiences life the same or feels the same emotions as another. Everyone’s feelings are valid even if we don’t feel the same or understand them.
Feelings are a tricky thing especially when it comes to mental illness. It is so hard to understand why a person with a good life could fall deep into sadness. It’s even more difficult to understand how a person could feel so hopeless and depressed that he or she would want to commit suicide.
A friend’s aunt came in my line at work. I told her that her nephew was really struggling with depression.
She looked at me and said, “What does he have to be depressed about?”
I was taken back by her response. It was like she couldn’t understand her nephew’s feelings of sadness. This happens a lot to people with mental illness. Many don’t understand those struggling and they shrug them off like their feelings are not important, when they are very important.
After my mastectomy I struggled with grief for the loss of my breasts. Many of my friends told me that I didn’t need them anyway and I should be happy they were gone. Some said they were envious of me and would love to get rid of theirs. I felt like they didn’t validate my feelings of grief and depression. This made me feel even worse. It’s like my loss was a joke to them, and it wasn’t. I lost a part of my body, a part that made me a woman, and yes at times I wished I didn’t have them, but when it came to having them removed, it was like a piece of me was stolen from me. The hardest battle for me with breast cancer was dealing with my loss, and having friends who didn’t take my grief seriously made me feel even worse.
This has happened with my mental illness too. I had lived two years in recovery from mental illness. I had friends, I was living in an apartment with a friend, and I had a boyfriend. Then suddenly I fell down that hole of depression. I felt hopeless, depressed, useless, and worthless. Some people didn’t take my feelings seriously. It didn’t make sense to them that I would feel those emotions when it seemed like I had a good life. To them I had no reason to feel bad. This made me feel even more alone. The more my feelings were not taken seriously, the worse my depression got.
Years after I recovered from mental illness, I went to a friend’s house for a dinner. There was a group of us. They talked about a girl we all knew. The girl got upset and locked herself in the bathroom during a party. The girl told them her life was hopeless and she felt like she had nothing to live for. The group of girls who told me about it said that she was doing it for attention. They didn’t take her feelings seriously. They thought she was a joke when she was crying for help. To the girl her feelings were real and very overpowering. By locking herself in the bathroom and telling the group her feelings she was begging for help, and they didn’t listen. By not validating her feelings and noticing her call for help they made her feel more depressed, and she injured herself.
When I was in school there was a girl who kept talking about taking her life. I knew nothing about mental illness or that I was suffering with it. I thought she was telling us that for attention. She told me she was sad, and I thought she was a spoiled child craving attention. The teachers at my school never took her cries for help and feelings seriously either. She never got the help she needed because no one would listen to her or validate her feelings. I found out many years later she struggled with mental illness and was never able to get the proper help she needed. She has been living in an inner hell since she was a kid and it led to a very rough life.
Everyone’s feelings are real and valid even if we don’t understand them or find a good reason for them. With mental illness the darkness, the feeling of hopelessness, the worthlessness, and inner anguish is very real. Not recognizing the person’s feelings and letting him or her know you acknowledge how they feel can be detrimental. It can lead a person deeper into his or her mental illness and can lead to suicide attempts or suicide.
When a person turns to you and tells you he or she is feeling depressed, that person is confiding in you and asking for help. Say you’re there for him or her, suggest he or she gets help, and listen to him or her. Don’t brush the person off or ask them, “What do you have to be depressed about?” Never assume the person is just trying to get attention. Don’t turn that person in to a joke you can talk about with your friends. Those feelings the person has been struggling with are very real, and if he or she is telling you about them then it is to ask you for help. Don’t ignore him or her. Validate his or her feelings. Many years ago, when I confided in my mom my feelings, she went out of her way to get me help. Because people who care about me, friends, and family, validated my feelings, I got help and I dance in the light of recovery.
I missed a post this week because I have a sinus infection and we have to send our furbaby, Esther over the rainbow 🌈 bridge Friday. She has cancer in her leg that caused a really bad infection. The vet gave us some time to spend with her before we say our goodbyes. We’re heartbroken 💔.
Anxiety attacks are different for everyone. Many experience symptoms like chest pain, dizziness, panic attacks, throwing up, and so on. One thing strugglers have in common is that the attack takes a lot out of them. It’s hard to go through both physically and emotionally, and it’s hard to recover from an anxiety attack.
The other night I had an anxiety attack. I threw up and then my whole body started shaking uncontrollably. My husband held me and rubbed my back until the shaking eased. That night and the day after I felt weak, fatigued, and drained emotionally. I couldn’t think clearly. Handling the attack afterwards is what helped me get back on my feet. So, I put together a list of tips for recovering from an anxiety attack.
Here is my list:
Anxiety attacks are hard to go through. Give your body and mind a break afterwards. Try these tips to help you recover from an attack. If these don’t help, find ones that will help you. Talk to your therapist about ways you can recover.
Using these tips to recover from anxiety attacks helps me bathe in the light of recovery.
I want to wish all mom’s a Happy Mothers Day. This includes mom’s of pets, aunts who are like a mom, women who lost babies and those who loves someone’s child or children like their own. Every type of mom is special and deserves to be honored. I would not be where I am without my amazing mom.
In 1999 Cheryl Miller was transferred from the west twenty-sixth street grocery store in Erie, PA to the Harborcreek store where I worked. It didn’t take long for Cheryl and I to become friends. We were able to talk easily with one another. We had a lot in common. Cheryl soon became more than a friend. She became a sister and a support person.
When I fell into depression and moved in with an abusive boyfriend, Cheryl stood at my side. When I felt depressed, suicidal, or like self-injuring, I called Cheryl. She would talk to me at all hours of the day or night. She would stay on the phone with me until two a.m. and talk to me until I was calm or started laughing. She knew what to say and do to help me. When my ex-boyfriend couldn’t handle me, he would call her. She would tell him what to do or talk to me until I felt better.
One time I drove her and her baby son home. I was feeling very depressed and was suicidal. I stopped in front of her apartment building and got out of the car. I stood in the middle of the road as a car was coming. Cheryl pulled me out of the road. She talked to me until I laughed, and my will to live came back. I often think about what would have happened if Cheryl hadn’t saved me. I would have missed out on a lot in my life.
I was so caught up in my illness that I didn’t notice the problems Cheryl struggled with in her own life, and she never tried to tell me about them. She focused on being there for me. I knew her boyfriend wasn’t good for her, but I didn’t realize how bad he was until years later. I was consumed with my illness and couldn’t be as good of a friend to her as she was to me, but she didn’t care.
When I was sad at work, she’d leave encouraging notes at my register, or she’d leave me a smiley face she drew. She just knew the right things to do and say to help me get through my rough days. She had the gift to lift my spirits from the bottom of my pit.
She moved away with her boyfriend, and we kept in touch for a while. She moved back to Erie when I started dating my husband. Things were getting harder for her with her boyfriend at the same time I was getting better. Then she moved again and we lost contact for many years. While we were separated, I got better and married my husband. When my niece set me up a Facebook account, I started searching Facebook for Cheryl and I found her. She was no longer with her boyfriend. She was with a man who treated her well.
Ever since Cheryl and I reconnected we have been inseparable. For a while we lived in separate states and texted each other constantly. Now we live in the same state and we still text constantly, we video chat with her sister and watch TV shows (we call it date night), and I have gone to her house for visits.
Now I can support her during hard times and be the friend I couldn’t be years ago. She still knows what to say and do when I’m struggling with my illness. When I’m down, I turn to my husband and Cheryl. Cheryl and I can talk about anything. We have no filter. She understands me better than any of my other friends. I understand her too.
Cheryl often gives me the same advice as my husband does and I tease her and say she is sneaking and talking about me with him. Cheryl reads my blog posts and uses what she learns to help me. I tell her she’s not allowed to use my blog posts against me. She responds with, “Too bad.” I talk over my problems with her and my therapist. I call her “therapist number one” and my actual therapist, “therapist number two.” She calls me “little sis,” and I call her “big sis.”
I can’t imagine life without Cheryl. She has been an important part of my struggle with mental illness. She kept me alive when I wanted to die, she lifted me up when I had hit the bottom of my hole, and she helps me stay in the light of recovery. Without her I would be lost. I can’t put into words how grateful I am for her dedicated friendship. I am so happy that she didn’t walk away from me when I couldn’t be supportive to her. I’m so happy that I now can support her through rough times.
Finding a friend to support you like Cheryl has me is hard, but if you do find one, hold on to her or him tightly. Not all friends will talk to you until two a.m., but be grateful for any friend that is willing to support you through your struggles with mental illness.
Having Cheryl to turn to when times get hard helps me stand tall in the light of recovery.
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