Answer Addiction

Tag: suicidal ideation

  • Tallulah Willis Discusses Mental Health, Suicidal Thoughts

    Tallulah Willis Discusses Mental Health, Suicidal Thoughts

    The 25-year-old used Instagram to bring attention to smiling depression.

    Demi Moore’s long-awaited autobiography, Inside Out, has been making headlines for her confessions about her past drug abuse, and the mental health issues she dealt with growing up in a dysfunctional family. Now her daughter, Tallulah Willis, is speaking out on Instagram about her own mental health issues as well.

    Back in December 2018, Willis posted a video of herself dancing in a pink bikini, seemingly happy and carefree. Now she writes, “We are not what we show. When I filmed this video I remember everyone telling me over and over how they wished they had my energy, my freeness, a ownership of self.”

    High-Functioning Depression

    Yet nothing could have been further from the truth. “When this video was filmed I was three months into the deepest suicidal hole I had ever been in.”

    Willis’s confession was timed to coincide with Mental Health Awareness Day, and she continued, “I’m not ready to share my story yet, but I’m with you…Pain is pain. It’s different and enters each of our lives through a myriad of ways, but each electric stab or dull ache is real. The kind of pain that you can’t see, the pain that lives in the space behind your throat. I’m scared of my brain, the capacity for pain it has and will continue to bear. My fight is daily and for the duration of my life and each day I chose to find the glowed moments, a thefted giggle, or true peaceful pause.”

    While Willis said she’s not ready to share her story, she has spoken out about her mental health issues before in the press. In 2015, she spoke about suffering from depression with Teen Vogue, explaining, “I haven’t felt OK with who I am since I was 11 years old.”

    Her Own Worst Critic

    Coming from a famous family, Willis eventually succumbed to the taunting from cyberbullies, and she “became my own worst critic.” Willis eventually developed an eating disorder and her weight plummeted to 95 pounds. Once her depression engulfed her in college, she went into a treatment center. “It’s not night and day,” she explains. “It’s not like now I completely love myself and have no problems. That isn’t how it works. But there are the starting points of that, and that’s really exciting.”

    View the original article at thefix.com

  • Let’s Talk About Suicide

    Let’s Talk About Suicide

    Changing misconceptions and long-held stereotypes won’t happen overnight, but making the conscious decision to talk openly and honestly about suicide is a strong start.

    Suicide is everywhere. We hear about it on the news, we see the headlines, we read the sad statistics. But here’s the thing: We don’t talk about suicide. We’re not having the kind of open, honest conversations that will start breaking down harmful prejudice and stigma – about people who die from suicide and also the people left behind.

    We know the facts and figures, but that’s only part of the story. We don’t know how to actually communicate about suicide to learn what’s behind the statistics. We can’t fill in the blanks because we’re afraid: We worry that we’ll say the wrong thing, or unintentionally offend someone. So instead we say nothing at all. But staying silent is far more damaging; it further stigmatizes suicide, which is already misunderstood and has so much judgment attached to it in the first place.

    Start a Conversation

    September is Suicide Prevention Awareness Month – a time the National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI) describes as a time to share stories and resources in an effort to start meaningful conversations on the taboo of suicide.

    “We use this month to reach out to those affected by suicide, raise awareness and connect individuals with suicidal ideation to treatment services,” reads NAMI’s website. “It is also important to ensure that individuals, friends and families have access to the resources they need to discuss suicide prevention.”

    Suicide is the 10th leading cause of death in the United States overall, but it’s the second leading cause of death in people ages 10-34. In 2017, there were twice as many suicides (47,173) in the U.S. as there were homicides (19,510).

    How Can We Help Prevent a Leading Cause of Death if We Can’t Talk About It?

    There’s a catch-22 when it comes to suicide: People are reluctant to talk about it because it’s a sensitive and deeply personal topic, but it remains a sensitive topic because people don’t talk about it. So we find ourselves tip-toeing around suicide altogether, which doesn’t help anyone. For years, I’d find myself at a loss for words whenever someone would mention suicide, so I’ve been there.

    And yet, I also found myself desperate to talk about it after my father died from suicide in 2003. In the months and years following his death, I began to see up close just how much people are unwilling to talk about suicide. I never realized just how uncomfortable the topic makes people, whether they’d personally lost someone to suicide or they’d seen one of the many headlines about celebrities who die by suicide. It really is a taboo topic. 

    How can we help prevent a leading cause of death if we can’t even talk about it? And how can we help people who have been left behind if we can’t acknowledge the cause of their pain?

    That’s why I’ve been trying to change suicide’s shameful stigma. For the last 16 years, I’ve been vocal, unafraid to talk about the very things people don’t want to talk about. In the beginning, I talked about my father as a way to process my grief. I saw it as a way to keep my father’s memory alive, but as the years went on, I began to realize that my talking about his suicide wasn’t just for me. Sure, it may have started out that way, but the more statistics I read and the more stories I heard, the more I learned how many people are affected by suicide. I began to feel a responsibility to share my story.

    I Want People to Know They’re Not Alone

    Today, I talk about suicide because I want people to know they’re not alone. I talk about suicide because I want people who have lost a loved one and people who suffer from suicidal ideation to know that they shouldn’t feel ashamed or like there’s something wrong with them. And not talking about it? That silence only reinforces harmful stigmas and can even be a significant barrier to someone seeking help.

    Instead of silence, we need to start regularly engaging in an open and honest dialogue, including debunking common myths associated with suicide. For example, misconceptions like the belief that most suicides happen without warning, and that people who die from suicide are selfish and “taking the easy way out” are false and incredibly damaging.

    So where do we go from here? Perhaps the best place to start is to realize that we all have a responsibility to create a safe space, says Forbes contributor Margie Warrell, who lost her brother to suicide.

    “While we may not all suffer from mental illness, we each have a role to play in ensuring that those who do suffer feel less afraid to reach out and get the support they need in the moments when they need it most,” she wrote in 2018. “If people felt as comfortable talking about their PTSD, bipolar or anxiety as they did talking about their eczema or tennis elbow, it would markedly reduce the suffering of those with mental illness and the ability of those around them to support them.”

    The stigma of suicide is far too strong, and any chance you get to talk about it is another opportunity to break down those walls of stereotypes. Don’t say the word suicide in a hushed tone, as if you’re talking about something you shouldn’t; the statistics show that most people have been impacted by suicide in some way. And try not to lie about how your loved one died because you think it will be easier than dealing with the looks and questions from people. When you lie, you’re sending the message that what your loved one did was shameful, and that further contributes to the misconceptions and prejudice people have about suicide. It might be difficult to be open about this, but it’s also freeing (and it gets easier each time you do it). 

    Mental Illness Is Physical Illness

    I’ll never understand why people don’t treat mental health the same as physical health. Why is someone “heroic” for battling cancer, but “weak” for dying from suicide? At its core, mental illness is a physical illness, so we can’t separate the two. The more we start talking about mental illness in the same way we talk about physical illnesses like cancer or diabetes, the more we lessen the stigma surrounding suicide. Changing misconceptions and long-held stereotypes won’t happen overnight, but making the conscious decision to talk openly and honestly about suicide is a strong starting point. 

    If you are in crisis or are experiencing difficult or suicidal thoughts, call the National Suicide Hotline at 1-800-273 TALK (8255).

    If you’re uncomfortable talking on the phone, you can also text NAMI to 741-741 to be connected to a free, trained crisis counselor on the Crisis Text Line.

    For more information about suicide prevention, or to get involved and learn how to help someone in crisis, visit #BeThe1To.

    View the original article at thefix.com

  • The Million Dollar Smile: My Life with Bipolar Disorder

    The Million Dollar Smile: My Life with Bipolar Disorder

    As many as 60 million people worldwide have bipolar disorder. Many of those people, like me, lead productive, happy lives.

    He said my smile was worth a million bucks, or was it that I had a million-dollar smile? 

    I remember when smiling was foreign to me. I’d wake in the morning feeling great for a few minutes, and then the dark clouds came, weighing in on my body, pressing down on me. Depression overwhelmed me, so much so that my entire body ached. I felt empty, hopeless, sad beyond belief, and exhausted.

    An Emotional Black Hole

    It was another day filled with mental and physical pain…another day spent looking for ways to make the pain stop. I sought help from the big one – God. I was in the early stages of finding Him. I also saw a psychologist for therapy, joined a support group, and listened to Melanie Beattie healing tapes. I read books like Happiness Is a Choice and joined a running club. Nothing worked. I sank deeper and deeper into an emotional black hole.

    I wondered how I could enjoy my new relationship with God, love Him, and still feel this intense pain. It was like nothing I ever experienced. I began to understand why people kill themselves, they want to stop the pain. So did I, and I entertained thoughts of committing suicide. Once when running, I visualized doing the deed. It felt real. I sobbed and limped home.

    Even in my desperate search for help, my suicidal thoughts were a closely-kept secret. I was afraid that if I revealed them to anyone I would be admitted to a hospital – maybe locked up forever.

    My life was spiraling down fast. Scared, I called my therapist. He referred me to a psychiatrist who focuses on chemical imbalances.

    The psychiatrist listened to me and asked me a series of questions. He seemed to know the symptoms I experienced without me telling him. Our session ended when he diagnosed me as bipolar 2. He said after six weeks of taking the medication he prescribed, a lot of those symptoms would disappear. I left his office feeling optimistic. Maybe this was the help I needed.

    A Real Smile

    Six weeks later, something wonderful happened. I was in my car and heard something funny on the radio. I smiled – something I hadn’t done in a long time. It felt so good that I pulled the car over and looked at my smile in the mirror.

    It was as if the sun burst out from behind the dark clouds, gobbling each one up. The cobwebs in my brain cleared, and I was smiling – even laughing. The medication wasn’t a miracle worker, but it squelched my black depression and left me with the ability to deal with my problems. 

    That was nearly 20 years ago. I don’t remember what it felt like to live with intense mental and physical pain for no apparent reason, and I don’t want to go there again. So, I take my medication and see my psychiatrist regularly. The dark clouds came back to haunt me once in the last 20 years, and I immediately saw my psychiatrist for help and got back on track.

    The Big Secret

    For the most part, I prefer to keep my bipolar status under wraps. I guess it’s out of the bag now with this story. There’s stigma and prejudice against people who are bipolar. Most people don’t know much about people with mental illness and expect us behave in negative, sometimes scary ways. Some of the most common beliefs are that we have wide mood swings, engage in manic behavior, and that we’re promiscuous, wild spenders, and we can’t sustain relationships or jobs. Even worse, some people, including the media, promote characteristics that bipolar people have tendencies to be violent.

    Sometimes the media reports a story about a criminal or murderer, adding that the person is bipolar. This makes me cringe. They don’t comment if a person has asthma, hypertension, allergies, or was overlooked for a promotion. Labeling these people as bipolar compounds the negative stereotype of violence. People with bipolar disorders don’t come in one category, and most of us, like the general population, do not have violent tendencies. 

    Should I Tell Him?

    Because of the negative stigma and prejudice, I’m careful about who I share my diagnosis with and when. I decided 10 months into a relationship would be a good time for this revelation. By that time, the person I’m in a relationship with would know what I’m typically like. I’m an okay, normal person who gets sad when the situation merits it – like when my boyfriend died from cancer or my job was eliminated. 

    Things moved fast when I met my husband. We started falling in love on our first date, so I felt he should know that I’m bipolar 2 sooner rather than 10 months later. Three months into the relationship, I told Larry about my diagnosis. I remember that nerve-wracking evening. When I tried to speak, the words stuck in my throat. It seemed to take hours before I had the courage to tell him. During this time, Larry grew nervous and wondered if I was going to break up with him. After I told him about my diagnosis, Larry acted like I told him about the weather – not anything serious like being bipolar 2.

    At my suggestion, Larry came with me to the psychiatrist so that my doctor could tell him about my case and answer his questions. Again, I was nervous. I believe I’m okay, but what will my psychiatrist say? What if I’m a nutcase in denial? My psychiatrist of 17 years told Larry that I have a mild case and will be okay as long as I continue taking my meds regularly and get enough sleep.

    Larry and I have been married for three years. As I expected, there haven’t been any crazy episodes or depressions.

    I feel very lucky that I’m getting the treatment I need. I started seeing my psychiatrist four times a year; now I see him twice a year. When I asked him if I could get off the meds, he said it’s not a good idea. I’m fine because I take the medicine.

    There Are a Lot of Us

    As many as 60 million people worldwide have bipolar disorder. Many of those people, like me, lead productive, happy lives. Some articles state that our 16th U.S. President, Abraham Lincoln, had bipolar disorder. Other people with this diagnosis include Catherine Zeta-Jones, Oscar-winning actress; Mariah Carey, singer; Jean-Claude Van Damme, an actor; Ted Turner, media businessman and founder of CNN; Patricia Cornwell, crime writer; Patrick J. Kennedy, Jesse Jackson, Jr., and Lynn Rivers, former members of the U.S. House of Representatives; Jane Pauley, a television journalist; maybe your colleague, sibling or neighbor…and me, a corporate communications and freelance writer.

    Bipolar disorder is a chronic illness with no cure, but it can be managed with psychiatric medication and psychotherapy. I’ve been doing it for nearly 20 years and plan to do that for the rest of my life. Being free of bipolar symptoms enables me to smile…and mean it. 

    View the original article at thefix.com

  • Access To Gun Shops Increases Suicide Risk For The Uninsured

    Access To Gun Shops Increases Suicide Risk For The Uninsured

    Over a 10-year period, suicide rates increased 41%.

    Having access to gun shops but lacking access to health care contributes to rising suicide rates among rural Americans, according to a new study. 

    The study, published in the journal JAMA Network Open, found that suicide rates are increasing for all Americans, especially those who live in rural areas. Between 1996 and 2016, suicides in the U.S. increased 41%.

    Suburbs vs Rural Areas

    There was a large difference in the risk of suicide in suburban versus rural areas. Between 2014 and 2016, metropolitan residents had a suicide rate of 17.6 deaths per 100,000, while rural residents had a much higher rate of 22 deaths per 100,000. 

    “While our findings are disheartening, we’re hopeful that they will help guide efforts to support Americans who are struggling, especially in rural areas where suicide has increased the most and the fastest,” lead researcher Danielle Steelesmith, a postdoctoral fellow at Ohio State’s Wexner Medical Center, said in a news release. 

    Counties with the highest suicide rates were found in Western states including Colorado, New Mexico, Utah and Wyoming; in Appalachian states including Kentucky, Virginia and West Virginia; and in the Ozarks, including Arkansas and Missouri.

    Researchers identified factors that contributed to increased risk for suicide. 

    “Suicide is so complex, and many factors contribute, but this research helps us understand the toll and some of the potential contributing influences based on geography, and that could drive better efforts to prevent these deaths,” Steelesmith said. 

    Suicide rates were higher where people had access to a gun store, said Cynthia Fontanella, a study co-author and associate professor of psychiatry and behavioral health at Ohio State. 

    “The data showing that suicides were higher in counties with more gun shops—specifically in urban areas—highlights the potential to reduce access to methods of suicide that can increase the chances an at-risk person will die,” she explained. 

    Service Members

    In addition, areas with more veterans had higher rates of suicide, highlighting the prevalence of mental health issues among former service members. People who had lower socioeconomic prospects and lack of access to resources were also more likely to die by suicide, a trend that was pronounced in rural areas. 

    “In cities, you have a core of services that are much easier to get to in many cases. You may have better access to job assistance, food banks and nonprofits that might all contribute to less desperation among residents,” Steelesmith said.

    The study authors point to ways that suicide risk could be reduced, including increasing social supports in rural areas and community engagement so that residents are aware of these resources. 

    “For example, all communities might benefit from strategies that enhance coping and problem-solving skills, strengthen economic support and identify and support those who are at risk for suicide,” Fontanella said.

    View the original article at thefix.com

  • But I’m Depressed, Not Addicted

    But I’m Depressed, Not Addicted

    I was there to treat my depression. I couldn’t tell the truth. I couldn’t say I got smashed almost every night, whiskey whistling through my veins, thinning my blood and seeping into my brain.

    “Why are you here today, Emma?”

    Hungover and filled with self-loathing, I’d just revved my car onto a usually-busy street, hoping to get hit by a truck, but nothing happened. Not even a Smartcar in sight. Shakily, I’d walked back into my apartment and asked my boyfriend for a ride to the St. Vincent’s Stress Center. After I’d sat for an hour in a sunny lobby with green chairs and green carpet, a man in glasses and khakis called me into a lamp-lit room.

    “I’m in crisis.”

    “Are you going to harm yourself?”

    “No. I mean, I don’t think so.” I couldn’t bring myself to mention the high-speed reverse onto one of northside Indianapolis’ main thoroughfares. This guy would have to work to get the truth. “I have a history of suicide attempts, though. And depression. I just can’t do it anymore. I’m so overwhelmed with school and work and my dogs and my boyfriend and my house and my…”

    He cut me off and flipped to a new page on his clipboard. “Would you say you’re having suicidal ideation? Do you wish you could just ‘go away?’” Air quotes. Meaningful pause.

    “Yeah. Sort of. I want things to get better, but I don’t know what that looks like. I’ve been through stuff like this before. Depression, I mean. If I have to be hospitalized, it’s okay.” I didn’t want to be responsible for myself anymore. Being in the hospital would mean I could blank out for a while and let someone else take care of me.

    The intake assessor tilted his head at me. “We won’t hospitalize you unless we have to. Let’s talk about your day-to-day. What does that look like?”

    I ticked off my work schedule, school schedule, social schedule; listing my life as if from a résumé. One boyfriend. One job. Two dogs. Fifteen credit hours. Good grades. Dad nearby, but we weren’t that tight. Close with my mom, but she lived far away. No clubs. No sports.

    “Do you drink alcohol or use drugs?”

    I looked up from my lap. “I drink. I mean, I’m a college student.” If there had been a window in the room, I would have glanced out of it. I needed something else to look at.

    “How much?”

    I couldn’t tell the truth. “It depends. Between one and six beers a night.”

    He blinked and frowned for a millisecond. Oops. That was an underestimate. Is between one and six too much?

    He didn’t say. Just returned to his neutral expression and kept moving down his clipboard. “How often do you drink between one and six beers a night?”

    “Oh, maybe three times a week? I guess it depends.” Again, I couldn’t tell the truth. I couldn’t say I got smashed almost every night, whiskey whistling through my veins, thinning my blood and seeping into my brain.

    He blinked again, made a note on his board, and kept questioning, reducing my depression to a list of symptoms. Suicidal ideation. Feelings of worthlessness. Guilt. Sleep disturbance. Headache. Was I missing work? Missing school? Maintaining good hygiene?

    I just ran my car blindly into traffic, I thought, and this asshole wants to know if I brushed my teeth. Medicalizing depression sure was depressing.

    In the end, Mr. Blinky decided that I didn’t need immediate hospitalization. Instead, I’d be admitted to IOP: intensive outpatient treatment. Three hours at the Stress Center, three days a week. “With all your commitments, this will be perfect for you,” he assured me.

    Although I downplayed all my problems, part of me must have known I needed help—serious help. But I couldn’t admit it, not even to a person whose job description included “assessing mental health condition and recommending appropriate care.” I wanted the help forced on me, wanted to be figured out, fixed. Someone needed to see beyond my deception. That would take the burden of recovery off of me and place it on them. Secretly, I wanted to spend a few days in the psych ward, locked away from work, papers, dogs, and dishes. I couldn’t confess that, I thought. I’d sound crazy. I didn’t see the irony of worrying about sounding crazy when I sat in a mental health intake office.

    Instead of screaming, I nodded. Blinky placed me in a “dual-diagnosis program,” a familiar phrase from my teen years that meant I’d qualified as both mentally ill and addicted.

    “Most folks graduate in four-to-six weeks,” he said, handing me a pamphlet. “Good luck.”

    ***

    On my first night of IOP, I entered the Stress Center’s lobby to find a sweater-vested receptionist behind the tall desk. “Walk straight down the hall to the first office on the right. I’ll tell Dave you’re here.”

    Dave, a soft-spoken therapist with glasses, a mustache, and a lisp, met me at the door of his office. Instead of sitting behind his desk, he pulled his chair around to sit across from me.

    “Bring this with you every night,” he instructed, passing me a maroon folder with the St. Vincent’s triple-dove logo stickered on the front. “It’s like your Bible for this group. It’s pretty empty now, but by the time you graduate, it’ll be full of handouts, worksheets, and journals.” He lowered his chin and raised his eyebrows. “Many of our patients hang on to these for years after they leave us because they find stuff they can use and reuse for the rest of their lives.” He closed his eyes, re-opened them. “That’s what we’re here to do. Help you get the skills you need to live.”

    I nodded, arranging my expression into eager, pliant, and friendly, my eyes sparkling, my smile full. Already, I was trying to charm my way out, as I had in my psych ward trips years before. Had I forgotten that putting up a front back then had led me to this place, this office, with its commercial-grade chairs, fluorescent lights, and a non-ironic “Hang in There” kitten poster?

    For the next 15 minutes, Dave explained what I could expect from my 12 weekly hours of IOP. Then he looked at me over his glasses. “You’ll also need to go to three meetings a week. Here’s a schedule of all the recovery groups in the area.”

    I took the pamphlet, thick as a chapbook, and showed off my nod-and-smile routine again. Skepticism crept in. Couldn’t this guy see that my problem was depression, not drinking?

    “We’re all set then. Let’s get you to your first group session. Don’t worry, we won’t expect you to speak up on your first night. Feel free to just sit and listen.”

    Dave led me to another fluorescent-lit room at the end of the hall. In it, a circle of identical chairs with padded green vinyl seats and backrests. I took an empty seat and surveyed the six nametagged patients around me. Robin, a thickset, bowl-cutted, auburn-haired, lip-ringed woman. Jack, a soft middle-aged guy who looked like Dave, but with a weaker mustache, aviator glasses, and adult acne. Madison, a thin girl who couldn’t have been more than 18. Ryan, a young guy with sagging, wide-legged jeans and a backwards baseball cap. Jane, a twitchy blonde with scars skimming her forearms. And Gladys, an older black woman who looked like an elementary-school principal.

    Dave walked in the room, smiling softly. “Everyone, meet Emma. This is her first night.”

    They replied in unison. “Hi, Emma.”

    Inside, I squirmed, but outwardly, I exuded alpha-dog confidence. Smile, lips closed. I told myself. Chin up. Relax in your chair, elbows hooked over the back. Cross your legs. Look at their foreheads when they talk. It’ll look like you’re making eye contact.

    The first group session consisted mostly of Ryan, the baseball-cap boy, talking about his “Moral Inventory.” To me, it looked like a scribbled list, but Ryan blushed with pride when he held it up. The other patients clapped as though he’d found a cure for lymphoma.

    “I finally did it,” he said. “I kept relapsing every time I got to this point, but now, I did it. I have my inventory.”

    Dave beamed. “Ryan, we’re proud of you. We all knew you could do it. Now, what did you learn?”

    Ryan’s gaze dropped to the floor. “It’s mostly fear. Fear is like this big demon, ready to eat me alive. It’s why I dropped out of school. Why I let my girl leave. Why I get in fights.”

    Dave turned to the group. “What are our two responses to fear, folks?” His lisp swallowed the “s” sounds. Rethponthes. Folkth.

    Robin raised her hand. “Fuck Everything And Run.” Dave looked at her over his glasses. “Sorry, Dave. ‘F’ Everything And Run.”

    “Or Face Everything And Rise.” Gladys, the school principal, finished the saying.

    It all sounded like cheerleading to me. Acronyms. Group responses. And a moral inventory? How could that not make me want to kill myself? If Dave hadn’t released us for a break, I might have asked to slit my wrists then and there.

    When we returned, I listened to the group members talk about hitting bottom. Four words bounced around my skull. I do not belong. Ryan had slugged his ex-girlfriend and blamed it on his dad, who had used him as a punching bag. Jack’s wife had left him after he got his third DUI and lost his license forever. He’d never been able to stand up to her, probably because he was raised by an overbearing mother. I do not belong. Jane smoked meth in the bathroom between double shifts at Burger King, her first job since she’d stopped prostituting. When she was eight, her dad had molested her. Gladys had gotten fired and had to move back in with her alcoholic mother. Church used to help her, but she couldn’t get herself out of bed before noon anymore. I. Do. Not. Belong. I was in college. I had a job. My driver’s license was intact, unsuspended. My parents loved me. I’d never been molested. I’d never stood on 38th Street in a miniskirt, hoping to snag a john. How could I be an addict?

    The next Monday, Dave invited me to his office after group. He wanted to “check in.” Air quotes. Meaningful look. He must have gone to the same training as the intake coordinator who’d interviewed me when I first walked in.

    “Have you found any meetings you like yet?”

    I hadn’t gone to a single one. “Adding on three hours’ worth of meetings on top of the 12 hours a week I’m here, on top of my 15-credit hour school load, on top of my 20-hour work week—it’s too much. I came here because I felt stressed and overwhelmed. How can I add more to my schedule when the main source of stress is my schedule?” My voice had risen in volume. I looked away, toward the door, and hunched my shoulders.

    Dave sighed. “If you want to get better, your sobriety should be a priority.”

    “But I’m depressed, not addicted. Maybe I could cut back a bit on the drinking, but addiction isn’t ruining my life. I don’t belong here. I’m not a meth-head. I haven’t lost my job. I haven’t lost my kids — I don’t even have kids. I’ve never gotten a DUI. I don’t do heroin.”

    Dave nodded and motioned for me to continue. He wasn’t going to let me off the hook.

    I didn’t know what else to say. I looked at my feet. “I’ll try, okay?”

    That night on my way out I threw my folder in the trash can, hoping the other patients would see it. I didn’t return. Instead of climbing the steps to IOP the following Wednesday, I slithered into a bar booth and ordered the usual, beer and a bourbon. Then a pitcher to split with my boyfriend. Fuck it, another shot. And another. Then—oblivion.

    That summer, while walking my dogs in the evening, I stared at the lives inside the yellow squares of windows I passed. I defined these lives, these people, as “good.” Young couples unloading groceries. Families sitting around oaky tables, eating dinner. A girl my age doing yoga in her living room. Husbands and wives suiting up for an evening run. It looked like love, warmth, virtue, balance. When I walked the dogs in the morning, I gaped at the men and women jogging or biking past me while I sucked on a cigarette and squinted my hungover eyes against the sun. Every morning, every night, as I contemplated everyone else’s healthy normalcy, I felt like an ugly exoskeleton, wishing I could fill myself with whatever they had. I could see it, but I couldn’t access it. Instead, I stumped down the road with my unwashed body and my stringy short hair, pulled along by two ill-behaved dogs. In my mind, my body, I couldn’t find those families’ goodness and light. The closest I knew to it was liquor, so I filled myself with that instead.

    ***

    That first round of IOP didn’t take, but maybe Dave and, more importantly, Ryan, Jack, Gladys, Robin, Jane, and Madison had planted a seed. A year later, I walked into my first meeting and said Hi, I’m Emma, and I’m an alcoholic. As soon as I said it, something cool and smooth moved to the center of my chest and clicked. That sentence was the most honest thing I’d said in years. It removed the barrier of I do not belong and replaced it with the doorway of Help me—I’m just like you. 

    Today, I’m ten years sober. When I give a lead, or speak at the psych ward, I try to remember the scared girl I was. Head thrown back, chin up, elbows wide; putting up a tough front to hide my fear. I look for her in every crowd, and when I find her, I make eye contact. She usually looks away, but that’s okay. Someday, she might be able to hold my gaze.

    View the original article at thefix.com

  • Teen Suicide Rates Are Increasing As Mental Health Resources Stagnate

    Teen Suicide Rates Are Increasing As Mental Health Resources Stagnate

    Nearly 80% of the country is experiencing a “severe shortage” of child and adolescent psychiatrists.

    Suicide rates for people aged 10-19 increased by 56% from 2007 to 2016, according to a recent report by the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services (HHS) and the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC). While unintentional injuries have fallen since 2007, suicide rates have steadily increased for this age group.

    This has occurred as mental health resources have remained insufficient to meet the need in the mast majority of the U.S.

    According to the American Academy of Child and Adolescent Psychiatry, 39 U.S. states fall into the range of either having an insufficient supply or a “severe shortage” of child and adolescent psychiatrists. The remaining states are classified as having a “more sufficient supply,” with Washington, D.C. having the most of any municipality at 60 psychiatrists for every 100,000 kids.

    This lack of mental health professionals has a direct impact on young people with psychiatric disorders and particularly those who attempt suicide.

    Rick Leichtweis, senior director of Inova Health System’s Kellar Center, told USA Today that Fairfax County, Virginia parents “often have to travel three to four hours south when inpatient beds open late at night” after their children attempt suicide. Others “regularly wait days in emergency rooms before a bed opens up in hospital psychiatric units.”

    Child psychiatrist Dr. Wun Jung Kim called the system of care for mentally ill teens “lousy.”

    “The lack of access to psychiatric care has been a problem for a long time, and it’s not improving because of the increasing demand for care of our nation’s youth,” said Kim.

    At the same time, despite the fact that many serious mental illnesses begin developing during childhood years, kids often remain untreated for up to 10 years. This may help explain why suicide is the second leading cause of death for individuals aged 10 to 24.

    Another recent study on suicide in young people found that the rate of suicide for young girls is rising faster than that of boys. Analysis by researchers at the Nationwide Children’s Hospital in Columbus, Ohio revealed that the previous gender gap in suicide among children aged 10 to 14 is closing at a rapid pace.

    The rate for girls climbed by an average of 12.7% each year from 2007 to 2016, compared to 7.1% for boys. The researchers stressed the importance of considering gender-specific issues in mental health care in light of these results.

    “This narrowing gap underscores the urgency to identify suicide prevention strategies that address the unique developmental needs of female youth,” they wrote. “Future research is warranted to examine sex-specific risk and protective factors associated with youth suicide and how these determinants can inform interventions.”

    View the original article at thefix.com

  • Surfer Sunny Garcia Hospitalized Amid Depression Battle

    Surfer Sunny Garcia Hospitalized Amid Depression Battle

    Garcia has been very open about living with depression on social media.

    If you or someone you know is in crisis, call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255 (TALK).

    Professional surfer Sunny Garcia, who has been open about his battle with depression, has been hospitalized following a suicide attempt. 

    “With heavy hearts we confirm that Sunny Garcia is in the ICU in the hospital,” the World Surf League confirmed on Twitter on Monday. “Sunny has always been a great champion of surfing, both in and out of the water. Our prayers are with him and his loved ones at this deeply challenging time.”

    Garcia—whose real name is Vincent Sennen Garcia—posted a picture of himself as a teenager on Sunday, prior to his hospitalization. 

    “If I told this kid the things he would go through and things he would achieve he would tell me I’m crazy,” Garcia, 49, wrote. “Wow it’s been a crazy ride since this photo was taken.”

    On March 20, Garcia opened up about his depression on Instagram, something he had done in the past as well. 

    “Doesn’t matter what kind of mental illness you suffer from, we all suffer in silence and deal with it best we can and most people that don’t suffer can’t understand the pain and frustration that we go through,” he wrote. 

    “I have a incredible life surrounded by people that love and care for me, and I get to travel to beautiful places to surf and meet different people from all over the world but I can tell you when I get down that none of that matters,” he said. 

    Garcia wrote that he “spent the morning curled in my dark closet feeling like I just didn’t want to be here anymore”—but said that he knew that ultimately things would get better and he was determined to speak out.  

    “I just feel like nothing or anyone can help me at the particular time so I just keep sharing my feelings hoping that it helps any of you out there that suffers from anything and encourage you to reach out and talk to others like yourself because this life can really be beautiful. If we all just talk and let it out so others see that it’s ok to share and we are not alone in this suffering.”

    Garcia first posted about his depression in December 2014, when he asked his followers for advice. 

    “Depression is no joke waking up feeling like you’re ready to take on the world then a couple hours later feeling down on life and wondering what’s wrong with you,” he wrote at the time. “Well I know I’m not alone and I’m not sure what’s wrong with me because I have no reason to feel the way I do. It’s been happening for about two years and would love to hear from any of you who suffer these feelings so I can figure out what I should do.”

    View the original article at thefix.com

  • "I Want You to Want to Live": Jody Betty's Viral Love Letter to People Contemplating Suicide

    "I Want You to Want to Live": Jody Betty's Viral Love Letter to People Contemplating Suicide

    “I know the things I want to hear when I am suicidal and I think that if my words can reach even one person in their moment of crisis, then sharing my pain was worth it.”

    Trigger Warning: The following story discusses attempted suicide and links to potentially triggering articles. Proceed with caution. If you feel you are at risk and need help, skip the story and get help now.

    Options include: Calling the U.S. National Suicide Prevention Hotline at 800-273-TALK (8255), calling 911, and calling a friend or family member to stay with you until emergency medical personnel arrive to help you.

    “Dear You,
    If you are reading this there is a small piece of you that wants to hold on…”

    Jody Betty wants you to live. Even more, Betty wants you to want to live. But perhaps most importantly, she wants you to know that every day she fights to live herself. 

    Betty is the author of “I Want You to Want to Live,” an essay with over 15,000 likes on The Mighty. The piece, she says, is one of the most referenced links in online searches that connect people who are contemplating suicide to her. No matter how depressed someone may be when they reach out to her, she says, the very act of reaching out tells her that at least a small part of them is still fighting to hold on. Betty describes the response to her essay over the past few years as “astounding.” She is grateful to serve as a resource when needed. 

    The Toronto-based 47-year-old writer, who is currently on disability due to mental health issues, first attempted suicide at the tender age of eight, and shares that she has lived with suicidal ideation for most of her life. Today, Betty is a source of hope and inspiration for those trying to fight their way out of the dark. She’s a mental health and suicide awareness and prevention advocate who wears her heart on her sleeve, putting both the good and the bad days out there in her writing on her Twitter feed, because she knows that it’s the shared experience and empathy that helps people find meaning and connection, and possibly the sustenance or hope they need to make it through another day.

    “I will remind you that although I don’t know what tomorrow will bring, I will be by your side to find out…”

    “Living with suicidal ideation most of my life has been incredibly hard. It is a constant battle in your mind to find reasons and hope to keep going, to keep fighting when you have a brain that is literally attacking you, convincing you that there is no more hope. It becomes emotionally and physically exhausting,” Betty says. “I wanted people to hear from someone actually suicidal, not someone who has been trained to deal with suicidal people. I have people who just need to be truly listened to in a safe environment, so that is why I leave my Twitter DM open for anyone in need.” 

    Being open and honest about the state of her mental health sometimes includes sharing the very suicidal ideations that have plagued her since she was a child with her social media followers. The motivation for this is twofold: letting people know that they are not alone in what may be their darkest hour and battling the stigma still so heavily associated with mental illness. 

    “You are incredibly strong. I won’t ever tell you that you are being dramatic and don’t really want to die…”

    “I firmly believe that talking about it lets other people know they are not alone in their feelings and that their feelings are valid, and in moments of crisis, knowing we are not alone is crucial,” Betty explains, adding that the stigma surrounding mental health is “real, hurtful, and harmful.” “It’s an illness. The brain, just like any other organ, can get sick.”

    We tend to judge what we don’t understand, which is exactly why it’s so difficult to shatter the prejudice and stigma surrounding mental health and the topic of suicide, says Betty, 

    “People generally do not seek out information on something they are not personally touched by in some way. You likely would not read up on cancer if it in no way touched your life, and the same applies for mental health,” she says.

    According to the most recent statistics from the Center for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC), suicide rates are still on the rise, making suicide the 10th leading cause of death in the United States. In 2016, the CDC’s Vital Signs reports, nearly 45,000 Americans ages 10 and older died by suicide. 

    “Suicide is a leading cause of death for Americans – and it’s a tragedy for families and communities across the country,” said CDC Principal Deputy Director Anne Schuchat, M.D. in the release. “From individuals and communities to employers and healthcare professionals, everyone can play a role in efforts to help save lives and reverse this troubling rise in suicide.”

    Betty is doing her part, she says, by sharing her story of hope and healing. 

    The CDC and Association for Suicide Prevention advise that anyone can help prevent suicide by taking such steps as learning how to identify the warning signs, how to appropriately respond to those at risk, and contacting the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline. Betty acknowledges that these steps are not to be ignored. Sometimes, though, the key to getting through to someone contemplating suicide is being able to practice empathy instead of sympathy. 

    “I don’t know you, but I do care because I can empathize with your pain; I feel it myself.”

    “I find sometimes the crisis lines seem very scripted, and often don’t say the right things simply because they have never been there,” Betty says. “They can sympathize but not empathize… and there is a big difference. I wrote [I Want You to Want to Live] from the heart. I know the things I want to hear when I am suicidal and I think that if my words can reach even one person in their moment of crisis, then sharing my pain was worth it.”

    Betty’s grateful when her words reach people in need at the right time.

    “The hardest thing to do is reach out your hand and ask for help but once you do, you would be shocked at the number of people who reach back.”

    Read “I Want You to Want to Live” by Jody Betty and follow her on Twitter.

    If you or someone you know may be at risk for suicide, immediately seek help. You are not alone.

    Options include:

    • Calling the U.S. National Suicide Prevention Hotline at 800-273-TALK (8255)
    • Calling 911
    • Calling a friend or family member to stay with you until emergency medical personnel arrive to help you.

    View the original article at thefix.com

  • Avicii's Family Launches Foundation For Mental Health Awareness

    Avicii's Family Launches Foundation For Mental Health Awareness

    “Tim wanted to make a difference. Starting a foundation in his name is our way to honor his memory and continue to act in his spirit,” his family said.

    The family of the late DJ/producer Avicii announced that it has launched a foundation to raise money and awareness for a variety of causes, including mental health and suicide prevention.

    Rolling Stone reported that the Tim Bergling Foundation will pay tribute to the late musician, who died of an apparent suicide in 2018, by supporting those causes and addressing global and national issues in his native country of Sweden.

    In a statement, the family said, “Tim wanted to make a difference. Starting a foundation in his name is our way to honor his memory and continue to act in his spirit.”

    In addition to supporting mental health issues, the Tim Bergling Foundation – which takes its moniker from Avicii’s real name – hopes to also bring attention to worldwide issues like climate change, development assistance, nature conservation, and endangered species as well as initiatives that are inherent to Sweden.

    The effort echoes the charitable work done by Avicii during his lifetime, which included support for Feeding America, the FEED Foundation,  (RED) and Sweden’s Radiohjalpen.

    Arguably one of the most popular and successful electronic dance music (EDM) artists of the last two decades, Avicii rose to global fame on the strength of his Top 5 hit “Wake Me Up” in 2013, and according to Variety, placed regularly on Forbes’ “Highest-Paid DJs” list.

    At the height of his fame, Avicii stepped away from live performing, citing stress, anxiety and illness as the reasons for his decision. He also suffered from health issues, including pancreatitis caused by excessive drinking, which required the removal of his gall bladder and appendix in 2014. 

    “The decision I made might seem odd to some, but everyone is different and for me, this was the right one,” he wrote on social media after announcing his retirement.

    On April 20, 2018, Avicii was found dead while on vacation in Muscat, Oman. An autopsy found “no criminal suspicion” in his death, but TMZ reported quotes from sources that indicated that the DJ had taken his own life with a shard of glass from a bottle.

    His family released a statement shortly after his death that stated in part that Avicii “really struggled with thoughts about Meaning, Life, Happiness. He could not go on any longer. He wanted to find peace.”

    View the original article at thefix.com

  • FDA Approves Ketamine-Derived Spray for Depression

    FDA Approves Ketamine-Derived Spray for Depression

    The newly approved esketamine nasal spray will be administered under a doctor’s supervision at approved and certified treatment centers. 

    Clearing the way for the first major change to depression treatment in decades, the FDA approved a ketamine-derived nasal spray that can be used to rapidly treat depression on Tuesday (March 5). 

    “Thank goodness we now have something with a different mechanism of action than previous antidepressants,” Dr. Erik Turner, who teaches psychiatry at Oregon Health & Science University, told The New York Times. 

    In recent years ketamine has garnered a lot of attention from the medical community because it quickly and effectively relieves depression and suicidal ideation. Ketamine treatments have become popular, but until now the drug, which is approved as an anesthetic, has been used off label. This means treatments are unregulated and not covered by insurance. 

    The medication approved this week is esketamine, which contains a part of the ketamine molecule. It was developed by Janssen Pharmaceuticals and will be sold under the name Spravato.

    Since up to a quarter of depression patients don’t get relief from current antidepressants, people in the mental health community are happy to see a new option for treatment. However, Turner and others are cautious in their excitement. 

    “I’m skeptical of the hype, because in this world it’s like Lucy holding the football for Charlie Brown: Each time we get our hopes up, the football gets pulled away,” Turner said. 

    Under the FDA recommendations, esketamine will be used in conjunction with an established antidepressants. Patients will get treatment twice a week for four weeks, and then as needed.

    Although the nasal spray is non-invasive, it must be administered in a doctor’s office where patients can be observed for two hours. The use of esketamine could give patients fast relief from their symptoms, which is important since traditional antidepressants can take weeks to become effective. 

    Dr. Todd Gould, a psychiatrist at the University of Maryland School of Medicine who has done ketamine research, said that the potential for fast-acting relief is appealing, even if ketamine doesn’t completely revolutionize depression treatment. 

    “These are exciting times, for sure,” he said. “We have drugs that work rapidly to treat a very severe illness.”

    Vanderbilt University professor Steven Hollon agreed. 

    “We’ve had nothing new in 30 years, so if this drug is an effective way to get a more rapid response in people who are treatment resistant, and we can use it safely, then it could be a godsend.”

    The FDA fast-tracked esketamine’s approval process. Although the drug has been used safely as an anesthetic for decades, medical professionals will be carefully monitoring its use in the mental health space, researcher James Stone told Newsweek last year. 

    “Although ketamine is potentially a huge breakthrough in the treatment of depression, we still don’t know about the long-term safety, or about how to keep people well from depression without requiring regular ketamine dosing. Further studies are needed to address these questions.”

    View the original article at thefix.com