I have always had a problem with being alone. I don't know if it's my codependency or my separation anxiety. But let's say it's the latter.

It is very quite on my street at the moment, and it has been like that for a while now. Normally I am at the beach, out in town or meeting people and helping them with mental health problems. However, like many in this Covid-19 pandemic, I am staying at home, helping to save lives. My world is upside down and my mind is pretty chaotic. Going to the supermarket is stressful because there are markers and social distancing rules. Going outside is suddenly scary again.

Maybe I am having a crisis, maybe I just have a heart… I am freaking out.

There are people on this earth who swear they really know me. They’ve known me for at least five years or more and they’ve partied with me a majority of those years. Partying with me means drinking. Drinking with me means seeing the best (inebriated) version of me and that’s the one that keeps people around. My Bipolar Disorder (type II) has been a part of my life for the past eighteen years.

Every day I used to find myself surrounded by hungry, frightened people who were desperate to “fix” what’s wrong (now we're all socially distanced but I bet it's still the same, maybe worse).

On February 15th a 40 year old woman took her own life. I may not have known her, but she was one of the 7 billion+ humans I share this planet I call home with. She had a life to live, family and friends who loved her, and so much left to add to the shared experience we are all living through. But n0w she's gone. And though I didn't know her, I can't help but feel pangs of genuine anger and sadness.

An Open Letter to Lady Gaga -

“No one is going to hold your hand if it looks like that,” I remember the first time that you told me that. Eight years old, I had chewed my nail and picked the cuticle so badly I was bleeding. “I just need a bandaid,” half embarrassed, with zero understanding of how anxiety can manifest itself.

Who is Patrick Bateman?

The physical health of Europeans is improving, yet the same cannot be said for mental health. Whereas public health has been a priority, it is mostly focused on physical health and disease prevention, with mental health being secondary. Nonetheless, suicide accounts for 1.4 percent of deaths worldwide and is the second most prominent cause of death amongst young people. The act of suicide should not be considered an individual issue, but rather one that affects that person’s family, their surroundings and society in general.

I was fairly late to the anxiety party, I can't say it was one I particularly wanted to be invited to after hanging around the depression get-togethers for too long.

Damned are the eyes that bear witness to its grin, the cold bloodied rabbit still ripe with its sin.

This wasn't easy for me. For years I thought you were going to change. I´ve seen you power through the struggle and be the man I always wanted. You were hard-working, a loving father and a sympathetic lover. The day you chose to put that needle into your arm is the day you gave up, and the day I should have. Now I'm sitting here wondering why I didn't do this a long time ago. But I loved you. I trusted; When you were untrustworthy. I had faith; When you were unfaithful. I held on when you let go. I have struggled for the last few years trying to put you together, picking up the broken pieces and frantically trying to put them back. But, every time I thought I found two pieces that fit… They would fall out of my hands and break again. When I think about what you put me through. The darker, colossal, intimidating demons that possessed you when you pushed that precious concoction into your veins. The ones that nobody else has seen. The stories I never told anyone. I see it in your eyes. Everytime. a switch turns. The lights are off and you're not there anymore. It's like looking into an abyss. I see all the hatred and lies inside those not so empty eyes. They tell me so much, I read them like an open book and I used to think that in there somewhere.. I could see a cry for help. Fragile, faint and and dim; But it was there. It was like hearing a wolf cry in the distance. I don't hear it anymore. No longer will I lose sleep at night wondering where you are. No longer am I going to cry myself to sleep because I don't know if you are dead or alive or if you are alright. No longer will I wait, beg, and plead for you to let me try and help you. I have done what I could and it is no longer enough. I am physically and emotionally drained. Loving you has taught me a lot. Loving you taught me that sometimes you have to give up. and that's okay. I swore to myself growing up that I would get away from all of this. That these drugs were done affecting my life in such a massive way. I watched everybody I loved dwindle and wither away to dust and I was going to get away and never put up with it again. Funny I ended up with you. The very thing I promised myself I would never tolerate. The more I fell in love with you the harder it was. I just wanted to help. I finally realize I can't. I can't make you want something. I thought I could do it. I also thought that I needed you. The beautiful thing about life, is people grow and change but you took a wrong turn somewhere and took the unsightly route. I understand addiction. I do. I've seen it my entire life and I have seen the positive and negative outcomes. It’s one thing when you are wholeheartedly trying. When you really want it to be over and you're struggling. But, It's another when you're not. I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you. You were my one. My only. All I ever wanted was you. When I say “you” I’m not really sure who i’m talking about anymore. I dont think its the you I fell for. The you I love. You walked through that deadly door, shut it, locked it and never turned to look back. You are your own person that makes your own decisions and I have to accept that. It cuts me like a knife every time I see you make the wrong ones or every time those lies roll off your tongue; and you believe, that I believe you. I tried for a long time to trick myself into believing it too.. you and I both know I didn’t. Now, that knife has cut me so many times that I don’t feel it anymore. I’m numb. Not completely, but in a way that its not pain, not grief, or sadness. Its anger. More so at myself than anyone. For letting this continue for as long as it has. For not standing up for myself and my children and doing what was best for them. That mistake is going to take a lot of recovery time and will probably haunt me the rest of my life. I really hope that you and the kids can have a relationship in the future and that it's not too late for you. When my father did these same things to me when I was a child… I grew up and put the pieces together. I figured it out. Now, It's a little late, Because he waited to long. whether or not he's doing well now is no concern to me. I gave up. I hope our children don't have to go through life wondering why they were never enough for you to be a part of their life or why drugs came before they did. Those were always questions I had for my parents. I watched my mom overdose as a child. All I remember is the ambulance coming and getting her and me going to another family member's home. Go figure.. Because years later that's how her life ended. She could still be here. I need to heal. That's why I am taking the knife out of your hands and I am going to take some time to mend my wounds and salvage what I have left of myself. Which, believe me isn't a whole lot. I need the space and the time. I don't know how much or how long. I need to stop being blinded by love and memories and live in the present. Right here, right now. This isn't healthy. A lose:lose. For you, for me, and for our beautiful babies.. Were like fire and gasoline. You finally got to the end of the line you never thought I had. That, hell, I never knew I had. Thank you. Really for teaching me so much about myself. Every time you picked up that needle and injected “life” into yourself you depleted it out of me. Your eyes grow stooped and tired because you've been up for days. Mine, because I didn't sleep last night not knowing if after that fight we had and you left.. If I would ever see you again. You're angry because I care. Im angry because you don't. I'm tired of fighting and being inferior to a fatal syrup inside a needle. Every Time you locked that bathroom door, I died inside. My heart and stomach dropped like going down ten floors in an elevator. My eyes welled up with water. Hot and unable to breathe I try to keep it together because out of the corner of my eye that four year old little boy that calls you daddy is watching my every move and listening to every syllable that falls out of my mouth. Those times you held those loaded guns to your head. I have never felt so terrified in my entire life. If your finger ever would of put enough pressure on that trigger I would of lost it. Little do you know my plan was to stay so close to you because I could try grab it from you and turn it away. Even if it was in my direction because I would’ve lost my life if it meant saving yours. But, you're losing it now. Your life. Just not as quickly. I wish you knew how painful it is for me to write this. These memories are still so vivid and fresh like they were yesterday. I sit here writing this. trying to find the words to describe. In all honesty, this doesn’t do the real feelings and memories any justice. I'm watching you pick up the shovel and dig your own grave. Every needle is another few inches deeper. I watch you transform in front of me from a healthy, strong man and beautiful soul into a delicate, drab bag of bones. Your blue eyes turn black. Those lavish, long eyelashes get picked out. Your full lips become dehydrated. Cracked and barren as a desert. Your clothes become ill-fitting and unshapely. Your soft skin becomes drenched with sweat and oily as the bottom of a fast food bag. I loved you. With everything I had. I lived for you and tiresley put every ounce. Every last drop of hope, love, faith, and commitment into you, into us, into our relationship. You never miss the water ‘till the well has run dry. My soul is so old after these years. I’m lost, confused, and don’t know where to begin again. Although I am confident I will find my way. I’m not so sure you will find yours. I am no longer depending on the day I do not have to search for used needles clinking inside empty soda cans in the trash to prove to you that I know you're using and lying to me about it. I will no longer hope that I do not come across a tiny bag with reminisce of a white, crystal substance or find used tinfoil with black residue along side a straw or taken apart pen. I will not pray that you do not find my wallet and take bill money for drugs. I will not wish that you be put away in jail so I am assured of your safety. I will not wonder if you are cheating on me for a ninth time. I am not an addict. But try and love one and then see if you can look me square in the eyes and tell me that you didn't get addicted to trying to fix them. I will not, because I am giving up.

Silence is welcomed when beckoned, right? When we want to study, read for leisure, or do homework, we extend an invitation to the silence. But when no one reaches out, and it still shows up, what do we do?

1. First thing first, why did you click on this link?

I have always had a problem with being alone. I don't know if it's my codependency or my separation anxiety. But let's say it's the latter.

What's my story?

In my March 17 piece, Coping with Coronavirus in California, I acknowledged that much of what I wrote would quickly become outdated due to how quickly things were evolving and escalating in relation to the pandemic. Change is proving to be the only constant, especially in these trying times. I decided to write a follow-up based on what has transpired since and the need to prioritize mental health during the pandemic.

There are people on this earth who swear they really know me. They’ve known me for at least five years or more and they’ve partied with me a majority of those years. Partying with me means drinking. Drinking with me means seeing the best (inebriated) version of me and that’s the one that keeps people around. My Bipolar Disorder (type II) has been a part of my life for the past eighteen years.

Share a personal experience where you learned something about mental health. This could be a time when your mind was changed, when you realized something important, or when you learned something useful

Bipolar disorder, also known as manic-depressive illness, is a mental health disorder that is identified by the severe highs (known as mania) and lows (known as depression) in mood, affecting and causing changes in sleep, energy, cognition and thinking, and behaviour. There are two types of bipolar, type one and two, that are distinguished by the severity of the opposing moods. Those diagnosed with type two, like me, suffer only moderate highs called hypomania, though both mania and hypomania feature symptoms such as irritability, reckless behaviour(s), and risky, impulsive decision-making. Most people with bipolar disorder spend more time dealing with depressive moods than manic or hypomanic symptoms, but it can be debilitating when enduring symptoms of either of the two "poles". The time between the peaks in mood swings is relatively normal for those living with bipolar, which can lead others around the diagnosed to doubt or become frustrated with their seeming on-again-off-again attitude. There is no definitive cause for bipolar - though genes, stress, and brain changes are all considered factors. There is no limitation to those who may be and can be affected by it. Bipolar disorder is usually triggered in adolescence/young adulthood and can be hereditary in families. While both men and women are equally likely to become affected by it, women are more likely to experience rapid cycling (four or more mood episodes within a year) and also, on average, spend more time in depressive states than male counterparts. Many people with the condition abuse alcohol or other drugs when manic or depressed, though this is more prevalent with men, while others also have a significant change (either an increase or decrease) in their sex drive and sexual decisions overall. People with bipolar disorder are more likely to have seasonal depression, co-existing anxiety disorders, post-traumatic stress disorder, and obsessive-compulsive disorder.

It is very quite on my street at the moment, and it has been like that for a while now. Normally I am at the beach, out in town or meeting people and helping them with mental health problems. However, like many in this Covid-19 pandemic, I am staying at home, helping to save lives. My world is upside down and my mind is pretty chaotic. Going to the supermarket is stressful because there are markers and social distancing rules. Going outside is suddenly scary again.

2020 has got to be the weirdest year I've gone through. Most days this week (starting: 30th March) I've been thinking about how unbelievable this all is. It just doesn't seem possible that something like this is happening all around the world. Its starting to feel more and more like a bad dream, something this worldwide just can't be possible.

At times like this, it's easy to slip away. Self isolation can be hard, it's okay. When you're depressed, you self isolate on your own, in your own way. Even in a crowded room you can feel alone, but at least there's some distraction.

People are speaking a lot more about mental health and it’s great. Sadly it’s just not the way I expected. Society is leaning towards sugar coating the whole idea of it like it’s some misconception we fumbled across. A piece of gum found under a desk that had been stuck there weeks ago.

Seven months ago, I was diagnosed with a life-changing illness. No one can tell just by looking at me. No one can tell simply by talking to me. The only way another human being would know about my disorder is if I say it out loud. Unfortunately, this disorder is extremely misunderstood, wrongfully diagnosed, and often overlooked. For years, it was considered a mental illness due to the lack of diagnostic proof available. Many people still believe this, including some doctors. I was lucky enough to be under the care of a physician that took my symptoms seriously. He listened to my concerns and addressed each one to the best of his ability -- his name is Dr. Matthew B. Presson.

Obsessive Compulsive Disorder is otherwise known as OCD. Is a debilitating mental illness that affects 1 out of 5 people. It is characterized by Intrusive thoughts and compulsive behaviors that are very hard to deal with. the intrusive thoughts are often terrifying for the suffer to experience because the intrusive thoughts cause high levels of anxiety. People with OCD have to perform rituals and compulsions in order to temporarily stop the anxiety. it's something terrible to experience and something that no one should ever have to go through yet tons of people around the world experience this mental illness.

N-Acetylcysteine For OCD

It was a conscious decision I made one day. I just felt it, I knew I was ready to fully commit this time. Like a spiritual awakening or a calling, I was excited and felt dedicated to embark on a new journey, to transition, to shed. To grow into someone new. I wanted a challenge, a focus with no emotion attached - to win something. I wanted to be thinner. I was thin already, but not thin enough. I decided, I’m going to be thin. Really. Thin.

i never knew that an inanimate object could be my biggest enemy. it’s digital numbers and cold glass front give me chills every time i stepped on it. closing my eyes praying the numbers would go down. breathe i tell myself as i look at the numbers. just breathe. “it’s okay” is the first thing i say as i try to calm myself. the numbers went up instead of going down. “i’ll just skip lunch or maybe eat half of dinner” is a common phrase i think while reassuring myself that i WILL go down again. Every time i start to feel hunger, i tell myself i will go another jean size up, anyway i feel prettier when i’m hungry. pretty hurts, right? i first got the idea of “skinny” when i heard the doctor say 127 pounds. Chills ran down my spine as i heard these horrifying words. i felt i had to do something. i couldn’t even look at myself in the mirror. I was disgusted. slowly, i stopped eating. inch by inch, i started losing weight. i loved how i looked after the first few shedded pounds. i need to lose more to look picture perfect. my clothes started fitting loose and my face started looking thinner. people started noticing, and i loved it. questions started flooding in, “how did you lose weight to fast?” “just changed my diet”, i would say. i couldn’t let anyone know my secret. but there were consequences to my actions. i would often feel week and i would get sick very easily. the dark circles under my eyes became more visible and i was easily fatigued with doing minimal activity. soon, my collar bones became visible and so did my rib cage. i looked sort of scary. it’s not enough. not till i looked like a bobble head i told myself. i thought maybe if i was skinny, boys would like me. all my friends had boys begging on their knees for them, but I didn’t. I wanted to make all my friends envy me. all I want is to be beautiful. all I want is for a boy to look at me like i’m the most beautiful thing they’ve ever seen. but they don’t. so i’ll try my best to make them. when girls talk about their boyfriends, it makes me very insecure. almost as if nobody notices me. it sounds shallow i know, but there’s this longing. it’s just stays in my heart, and it won’t go away

Most kids are fussy with food at some point or another in their childhoods. I always tried to pretend that's what I was; "fussy". Except I took it to the extremes and would barely touch anything that didn't have a concrete certificate of approval, and even then the conditions had to be just right. My mum and dad were always brilliant and exotic eaters so it wasn't like I wasn't exposed to a vast culinary choice. I just could not bring myself to try new things, no matter how hard and tirelessly my parents tried. They took me to doctors and kept me off school to try and crack the problem. They tried being nice, they tried being harsh, shouting, pleading, every single trick in the book and beyond, but nothing anyone said could ever sway me to even hold new foods, let only taste them. I couldn't explain it, it just felt wrong. The very idea of putting anything new in my mouth overwhelmed me, like I might die. I truly would have rather gone hungry than just give something a go.

It may seem stupid to double check that your new potential therapist knows about OCD as they're a therapist, they're there to help you right? And surely they wouldn't offer you their services if they didn't? Well, you'd like to think so but this isn't always the case. This articles was sparked this morning in my imagination after I attended an assessment at a new therapy practice in the hopes of finding a full time and long-term therapist.

Welcome to my labyrinth of a mind. Don’t get confused. I’ve always known I was different. It used to bother me. I honestly thought I was an alien or mentally ill before I realized I am an INFJ. A turbulent one. A Cancerian too. The ONLY sign governed by the moon. Now I describe myself as a walking contradiction of authentic complexity. I have many truths.

Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD) is often categorized — in short — as a mental illness where the survivor exhibits explosive anger, impulsive behaviors, and unstable relationships — with romantic partners, as well as friends and family. Due to the destructive nature of these symptoms, BPD has almost become a bad word in the mental health community. As an MSW, I have come across professionals who won’t work with individuals who have been diagnosed with BPD due to the stereotypical “abusive” nature of the disease. However, the symptoms listed above provide an overgeneralized assumption of the disorder based on only three out of nine possible symptoms — and all symptoms are frequently linked to trauma. This overgeneralization of BPD marginalizes survivors of the illness by belittling or oversimplifying their experience — particularly those who don’t fall under the assumed criteria. Furthermore, it makes finding help extremely difficult, let alone receiving an appropriate diagnosis. There are four types of Borderline Personality Disorder that all exhibit differently, and to be diagnosed with BPD, one must exhibit five out of nine possible criteria. The variation of symptoms then puts the survivor on a sliding scale of 256 possible representations of the disorder. Because of this, no one person fits 100% into any one of the four categories of BPD due to the number of possible variations. Survivors often exhibit symptoms that put them in more than one category — and sometimes all four — but the categories help survivors, loved ones, and professionals better understand Borderline Personality Disorder, possible causes, and treatment options.

As a Licensed Practical Nurse who has worked for over twenty years in psychiatric hospitals, there is one part of my life I have hid from my past employers and my patients: that I also struggle with mental illness and have been hospitalized. There is a word that explains why I haven’t shared what I call my “dark night of soul.” The word is stigma and it means a mark or label imposed by others that leads to devaluation and discrimination. Sociologist Erving Goffman in his ground breaking study in 1963 explained the origin of the word.

The Secret Life of the Manic depressive are Stephen Fry's words, coined in his two part documentary detailing his breakdown, his secret shame, and the stories of countless others that go through the debilitating effects of untreated trauma coping mechanisms.

Maybe I am having a crisis, maybe I just have a heart… I am freaking out.

On this evening I was in my third and final year of uni, I was 21 years old and was having a particularly difficult time with my mental health. I was spending time with some friends from my course at the Student’s Union on campus, the group consisted of myself, my mature female friend whom I lived in a house share with, a mutual female friend of ours I wasn’t particularly close to, a male former course mate from the year prior and one of his male friends whom no one else knew. The five of us spent the evening drinking and chatting, having a really great time, and I was happy to escape my loneliness and avoid wallowing in depression for the night.

This was thirty-four minutes of my life. I was at work on the sales floor, cleaning like I do every day. Nothing happened, no one said anything to me but I got to a point in the back of the store where I had to stop. Something entered my body. Not just my brain but my entire body. This was not a physical ‘thing’. It was more on the metaphysical side. It was something that was already there and it chose the perfect time to fuck up my night. I stood there for a moment and stared at the glass in front of me without really seeing anything. I felt people walking around me so I had to walk to the office. I couldn’t sit so I paced back and forth and repeated, “This is my body, this isn’t me”. I said that more times than I can remember. At this point, my hands were shaking.

When I was little I questioned my faith. I was raised Greek Orthodox and one day my family was telling me the story of Jesus walking on water to save a man from drowning. Kid me then said "well if God made everyone walk on water no one would be drowning in the first place"... which honestly was a brilliant thought for a 6 year old to have. I was then yelled at because I shouldn't question or judge God. This is when my intrusive thoughts started. Because of my new fear of appearing unchristian these thoughts would pop into my head saying things like "you worship the devil" or "you're a demon". Which was really scary for 6 year old me... I wish they were like that now because the older I got, the scarier my fears became and because of that my perception of myself got worse and worse.

**Disclaimer** I am not a medical professional and am not intending to give medical advice. These are suggestions based on my own life experience as someone who has a mental illness and has checked into a mental health hospital. **Disclaimer**

I have considered taking anti-depressants before but I have always struggled of the idea of medicating myself. I think that largely stems from being gay for some reason. Coming out as gay is a huge thing, it’s about saying to the world ‘this is who I am, like it or not, this is me, and its Ok to be me’. It’s about saying who I am is OK, so it feels like a bit of a betrayal to have to acknowledge that sometimes who I am is not OK. With chronic as opposed to episodic depression, there is a chemical imbalance within your brain that can’t be chased away with happy thoughts any more than you can pep talk a diabetic pancreas into producing insulin.