I wrote this poem when i was in a dark place and wasn’t sure who i really was..I’m Tony I have Major Depression with Hostile outburst and Anxiety..this poem is how a lot of you maybe felt or feel when you look at yourself in the mirror you don’t recognize the person staring back at you..

“The Real Me”

You Say you want to know the real me

Even I ask who is the real me

The real me deep within

hiding from being hurt again

the outer shell that you see

is not the real me you that you see

For the real me is broken and bruised

lost in the world and unable to face the evil truth

One day I hope to see the real me, the real that I use to be

Happy…Free..able to look in the mirror and see the real me looking back

Body Focused Repetitive Behaviors, or for short, BFRB. They can range from anything from biting your lip until it bleeds, to spending hours ripping at your scalp. It can be caused by anything from OCD to Autism to ADHD but most of the time it begins in childhood and the cause of it is never identified. 

Mental Illness is nothing new to me, I was diagnosed with OCD and Depression at thirteen, attempted twice to take my own life before I was even twelve years old, and prescribed medication and promptly told to hide the bottle so my friends that were sleeping over wouldn’t see, so I was very familiar with the stigma and shame that comes with having a mental illness, but what happens when no one, not even the people in your own community of mentally ill patients, will address your illness? What happens when no one even knows it exists? 

I was diagnosed with Dermatillomania (the compulsion to tear at my own skin), and Dermatophagia (the compulsion to bite at my own skin), two years after my original diagnosis of OCD and Depression. I was fifteen at this time and had been unknowingly suffering from my Mental Illness for nine years at that point, tearing at my scalp, nails, arms, legs, and face, biting my lips, cheeks, and fingers until I was left with permanent scars and a deformed fingernail. For years I hadn’t even known that what I was suffering from had a name, I just thought it was a “bad habit”, like the way my OCD hand washing was just me practicing “good hygiene skills”.

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The first time I tried to kill myself was in fourth grade. It was a Sunday night in early December, just two months shy from my tenth birthday. I was laying in bed, surrounded by the bright pink walls of my innocent bedroom, struggling to calm myself down from a panic attack. I remember thinking about how much easier it would be to just end it all and not have to deal with anything anymore. Not having to go to school and wake up early in the morning, having to suffer from panic attacks day in and day out, and most importantly, I wouldn’t have to face the harassment of my peers that made me feel like I was worthless. I tried to suffocate myself by putting a pillow over my face and, yes, I know today that this would never work, but back then I was naive and thought I would die from it. I slammed the pillow down hard on my face and felt the air leave my lungs, a sudden hollowness filled my chest as my lungs screamed for air, my heart begging for me to stop. The pain was what stopped me, and made me realize what I was doing. 

I threw the pillow to my bedroom floor and burst into tears. That night I told my parents what had happened. I remember my mother’s eyes filled with anger. I did not understand why she would be mad at me, did she not want me to tell her what I had done? Only now do I realize that the anger in her eyes was not directed toward me, but toward the world, for the unfairness of it all. She had lost a child to a miscarriage just one year before my birth, and now the world was trying to take away her nine year old daughter as well? It didn’t seem true. She sent me to my room and I later heard her yelling at my father, my name being brought up again and again. At that moment, it seemed as if I was more of a burden than a blessing to my family.

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I am a woman. I have a successful career. I am a mother of three healthy, smart, active, social children. And I am a wife. I take care of myself. I take care of my children. I take care of my husband. My life, like everyone else’s has its normal ups and downs, normal stresses. There is nothing tragic that happened to me. I had a wonderful childhood with loving parents and am still close to my siblings. My in-laws are amazing. There is no “reason” why I don’t work right.

Yet I suffer from severe depression. I am borderline bipolar. My official current diagnosis is severe depression with mixed depression and anxiety. Prior to that it was severe depression with cyclothymic disorder and anxiety. Look that one up.

My synapses do not work like they should. They don’t shoot the serotonin that my body produces correctly to the other synapses. Or my body doesn’t produce the correct amount of serotonin. Or my serotonin that is produced is wrong. The exact scientific reason is not known. But why do diabetics process and produce insulin incorrectly? What is the magical makeup of cells that starts cancer? Is it just in their heads?

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My act of courage happen when I did a presentation on mental illness. I was afraid of rejection and the stifling stigma associated with the topic. It is a very personal story for me as I myself suffer from Bipolar Disorder which was the topic of my presentation. I was the guest speaker for my Kiwanis club and they are an exceptionable group of people. They were very accepting of me and showed great empathy. I was very proud to be a member of such a remarkable group of people and am very happy I shared my story! www.nami.org

NAMI: National Alliance on Mental Illness

NAMI: National Alliance on Mental Illness NAMI.ORG

What do I hope for when I talk about mental illness?

I know what I don’t hope for.

I don’t hope that people will think my life is harder than theirs.

It is not.

It is a different struggle, one that I want to help demystify.

I hope that by sharing my struggles it will help me to understand what is going on even more.

I hope that it will make those embarrassed to live with mental illness, feel a little more comfortable.

I hope that it will make those who don’t fully get it, get it a little bit more. 

I hope it will make people ask questions, reach out, reach into themselves.

I hope it will remind myself that we don’t need permission to be vulnerable, that it is not a deficit, that being vulnerable doesn’t mean you’re being a victim.

I hope that people will understand while it is nothing I’m ashamed of (most of the time,) it does not define who I am, and I can’t wait till it is less a focus of my life. 

I hope that people get that mental illness is not a personality trait, that it is a disease, cause as personality traits go, I’m a pretty fun time.

What I hope for myself is that I can believe all of this, that I can let go of people not getting it or opportunities lost because of my openness, because there is so, so, so much more in the win column for sharing

Hi my name is Kimberlee I am 36 years old.  My first nervous break down was at 15 and have been on disability since I turned 18.

I have panic attacks, I’m OCD, ADHD, Borderline personality disorder and manic depression. 

I’ve got a grip on things more some days then others. I take medication to help balance my chemicals and without them I would be in a bit of crazy unpredictable state of mind. 

I love NAMI and all they do to help bring awareness to mental health issues. 

My name is Samuel Routh, I’m a professional storyteller in Portland and I am trying to reach out to someone to create a mental health storytelling show here in Portland. My mother was a paranoid schizophrenic who committed suicide before my 18th birthday. It took me years to understand and come to terms with her illness and how it effected me. Now that I have a clearer head about my life I want to return the favor, but I’m not really sure where to start in all this.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nYk2eBvsqqU

Here’s one of my stories…

Maybe this can reach someone who can help me make it happen. 

-Samuel Routh

It seems like my entire adult life I’ve been addicted to something. I started off pretty good but my second marriage ended with an epic mental breakdown.  Somewhere between doctor appointments, cheer leading practice, fundraisers, PTA meetings, cleaning, owning an insurance agency, three kids, and a husband. I became overwhelmed and I lost myself and my identity. I lost me.  

That’s when my first battle with addiction began.  I had tried therapy and antidepressants but nothing in my environment was changing.  I didn’t have a support system at home to deal with my feelings of being overwhelmed. I was introduced to meth and it seemed to be the answer to my problem.There were more hours in the day, I had all the energy in the world, and my house was insanely clean all the time.

It didn’t take long before my life quickly spiraled out of control and I lost everything.  Being overwhelmed was the least of my problems. My meth addiction cost me my kids, my marriage, my home-MY LIFE!  On March 13, 2005 I found a letter in my husband’s briefcase that said “Dear Michele, I’m sorry it’s come to this but I’ve taken the kids and filed for divorce”…along with the divorce papers. I carried this letter in my wallet for nine years as a reminder and as a punishment to myself for my actions.

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