WITS Goes Mental (Health) Ep. 1
Re: How is Taylor Sirard?
It has been no secret here on WITS that I experienced some serious mental health issues earlier this year. I talked about this in the posts entitled "NOT GREAT" and "It Couldn't Hurt." After writing those posts, which were less laborious than usual, I decided to take a break from working on the blog altogether.
Coming back from that break, I feel it is important to share more details of my mental health journey. Although the world has made great strides in mental health awareness and destigmatization, I think there is still more work to be done. I hope sharing my story can, in some small way, contribute to the mental health of at least one person.
This post is the first in my latest blog series, WITS Goes Mental (Health.) In these posts, I will be checking in with myself, and reporting to ya'll about my current journey with mental health.
In June of 2019, everything in my life was aligning beautifully. I had just started a job in my field, a rare accomplishment for someone with an art degree. I had recently moved into a beautiful home with a clean, respectful, and good friend of a roommate. My relationship with my partner was on its tenth love-filled month. I was in the swing of two passion projects, including this blog. Summer was arriving, a long-awaited celebration in my northern city.
Everything was perfect, right? Right? I certainly thought so. I was staying incredibly busy with my two jobs, unpacking into my new home, and my creative projects. Yes, I was a little stressed, but I figured staying busy with the things I love was a virtue.
I simply didn't have time to stop and check how I was doing. I told myself I would get to it later when everything slowed down. "Besides," I thought, "I must be doing pretty well with all of the good things going on."
One evening, I was at a potluck with my new co-workers. My employer threw the party to welcome our most recent hire, a celebration we had when I had first arrived. I was elated to be working in such a welcoming and considerate environment. As the party wrapped up, I didn't want the fun to end.
I thought about calling my partner. Seeing him would surely continue the social high I was riding. Some part of me criticized that desire, so I hung up the phone after one ring. I began walking home alone while my mind was debating the topic of the phone call. It was a really small and simple idea, but my mind began to race.
It was in times like this I would usually pull out a cigarette to calm myself, but I had quit a couple months prior. Instead, my mind continued to battle against itself.
I started to notice the sound of my breath more than usual. The more I focused on it, the faster it became until it was the only thing I could hear.
I noticed my heartbeat had picked up with my breath. The throbbing echoed throughout my whole chest. Something was wrong with me, but I couldn't understand what.
I flexed both of my hands open and closed, but the tingling and loss of sensation continued. The same numbness was echoed in my feet.
As if the answer to my problem was somewhere nearby, I looked around me. I noticed that my direct vision was the only thing that was clear. Anything in my peripheral became blurred specs of light.
I was afraid I was going to faint, or vomit. Perhaps I was having a heart attack or a stroke. Whatever was going on with my body I needed to be somewhere safe. I began walking home as quickly as I could with a steady stream of tears rolling down my cheeks.
Although I was so obviously unwell, I didn't think about stopping or sitting down. I didn't worry about composing myself for onlookers. I just felt an intense urgency to be home and, fighting the overwhelming sensations in my body, focused all of my energy to get there.
When I finally made it through my doorway, I collapsed on a landing halfway up my stairwell. I called my partner again, but could not muster the courage to say I needed his help. Through my distress and fear, I told him I was okay. I curled into a fetal position and lay shocked, sobbing, and frozen between the outside world and my dwelling.
I did not attempt to get up or consider the possibility to do so. My eyelids were stuck open and my visual focus was far past the carpeted step inches from my face.
An hour passed. My breathing and heartbeat had slowed. I crawled up the rest of the stairs and folded into my living room sofa, clutching my torso with both arms.
I spent a defeating afternoon calling a list of therapists I had found online. Not a single one was taking new clients. Fatefully, I found a therapist who had availability while bartending. He helped me out of the darkest moments. He provided a system of accountability and a routine of checking in with myself. I recently decided he wasn't the right fit for me, but I can not overstress the importance of this tool for mental health. EVERYONE SHOULD GO TO THERAPY.
Throughout this time of panic and mental unrest, I reached out to my family and loved ones. Asking for help and admitting I was not okay was the most important step. As it turns out, my coworkers didn't hate me, my friends understood, and my family offered to support me in any way they could.
Part of that support, from many in my life, was enabling me to take two weeks off of work. The people in my life gave their time, work, and even money to help make this happen. While I felt guilty about taking this help, I felt immense gratitude that I was surrounded by people who took my mental health seriously.
This ability to take time off is a privilege. Although I couldn't personally afford it, I was fortunate enough to know people who could help me. I was extremely fortunate to have understanding and flexible employers.
The experience made me ache for all of the people who struggle but don't have the option to take a break. Single mothers. Those in unsympathetic work environments. People who can't afford to lose two weeks of income and have no one in their life that can help them financially.
Moral injury, like trauma, is a reaction to extreme experiences. [To be clear, trauma and moral injury are not mutually exclusive. You can experience trauma and moral injury as a result of the same event.] My therapist and I concluded that my experience of some events in my adult life falls into the category of moral injury. Unlike trauma, moral injury can't be treated with traditional therapeutic methods. However, according to my therapist, a small number of studies have shown success in treating moral injury with spiritual practices or rituals.
I've been feeling the pull to dive deeper into my spiritual practices, but I have yet to do so in a significant way. Having a clinical therapist suggest spirituality as the best treatment was validated that intuition.
As much as a hate to admit it (for whatever reason), the most powerful healing experiences I have had involved spirituality. Whether it was my personal practice or energy healers, that's the stuff that gets to me. I think I've fought that, gripping onto some sense of logical superiority. But why would I prioritize scientific proof over feeling better? I understand the reasoning, but it isn't working for me anymore.
I'm choosing to try a new path now. One that feels scary and vague and a little silly, sometimes. For now, I'm going to use holistic and spiritual practices to aid my healing. If it helps me choose my life, I don't care if it's real or not. I think as long as I keep checking in and being honest with myself, I can't go wrong.
It has been no secret here on WITS that I experienced some serious mental health issues earlier this year. I talked about this in the posts entitled "NOT GREAT" and "It Couldn't Hurt." After writing those posts, which were less laborious than usual, I decided to take a break from working on the blog altogether.
Coming back from that break, I feel it is important to share more details of my mental health journey. Although the world has made great strides in mental health awareness and destigmatization, I think there is still more work to be done. I hope sharing my story can, in some small way, contribute to the mental health of at least one person.
This post is the first in my latest blog series, WITS Goes Mental (Health.) In these posts, I will be checking in with myself, and reporting to ya'll about my current journey with mental health.
 |
| [Image: A vintage illustration of a human head in profile. A labeled diagram of the brain sections and their functions overlay the head. A label over the neck reads, "A PICTURE OF GOOD HEALTH."] |
In June of 2019, everything in my life was aligning beautifully. I had just started a job in my field, a rare accomplishment for someone with an art degree. I had recently moved into a beautiful home with a clean, respectful, and good friend of a roommate. My relationship with my partner was on its tenth love-filled month. I was in the swing of two passion projects, including this blog. Summer was arriving, a long-awaited celebration in my northern city.
Everything was perfect, right? Right? I certainly thought so. I was staying incredibly busy with my two jobs, unpacking into my new home, and my creative projects. Yes, I was a little stressed, but I figured staying busy with the things I love was a virtue.
I simply didn't have time to stop and check how I was doing. I told myself I would get to it later when everything slowed down. "Besides," I thought, "I must be doing pretty well with all of the good things going on."
---
One evening, I was at a potluck with my new co-workers. My employer threw the party to welcome our most recent hire, a celebration we had when I had first arrived. I was elated to be working in such a welcoming and considerate environment. As the party wrapped up, I didn't want the fun to end.
I thought about calling my partner. Seeing him would surely continue the social high I was riding. Some part of me criticized that desire, so I hung up the phone after one ring. I began walking home alone while my mind was debating the topic of the phone call. It was a really small and simple idea, but my mind began to race.
It was in times like this I would usually pull out a cigarette to calm myself, but I had quit a couple months prior. Instead, my mind continued to battle against itself.
I started to notice the sound of my breath more than usual. The more I focused on it, the faster it became until it was the only thing I could hear.
I noticed my heartbeat had picked up with my breath. The throbbing echoed throughout my whole chest. Something was wrong with me, but I couldn't understand what.
I flexed both of my hands open and closed, but the tingling and loss of sensation continued. The same numbness was echoed in my feet.
As if the answer to my problem was somewhere nearby, I looked around me. I noticed that my direct vision was the only thing that was clear. Anything in my peripheral became blurred specs of light.
I was afraid I was going to faint, or vomit. Perhaps I was having a heart attack or a stroke. Whatever was going on with my body I needed to be somewhere safe. I began walking home as quickly as I could with a steady stream of tears rolling down my cheeks.
Although I was so obviously unwell, I didn't think about stopping or sitting down. I didn't worry about composing myself for onlookers. I just felt an intense urgency to be home and, fighting the overwhelming sensations in my body, focused all of my energy to get there.
When I finally made it through my doorway, I collapsed on a landing halfway up my stairwell. I called my partner again, but could not muster the courage to say I needed his help. Through my distress and fear, I told him I was okay. I curled into a fetal position and lay shocked, sobbing, and frozen between the outside world and my dwelling.
I did not attempt to get up or consider the possibility to do so. My eyelids were stuck open and my visual focus was far past the carpeted step inches from my face.
An hour passed. My breathing and heartbeat had slowed. I crawled up the rest of the stairs and folded into my living room sofa, clutching my torso with both arms.
---
It took me a while after calming down to consider I might have had a panic attack.
Although I have struggled with mental health for a long time, I had never experienced a panic attack before. I wasn't sure a panic attack could be that physical and consuming. Whatever it was, I hoped I never had to experience it again.
Two days later, I had the same experience when I arrived to work at my older job. I spent forty-five minutes frozen in the stairwell as the busy kitchen worked around me. Finally able to stop crying, I spent most of my shift sitting to cope with the numbness in my hands and feet.
About a week after that, I found myself collapsed on the side of a bike trail. I was unable to walk the seven blocks to my house, even with my partner beside me. I called my roommate to pick me and the bike up.
The aftermath of these events felt like hangovers. I was exhausted. My mind was slow and I often had a headache from crying. Most similar to a hangover was the desire to do nothing and go nowhere.
Two days later, I had the same experience when I arrived to work at my older job. I spent forty-five minutes frozen in the stairwell as the busy kitchen worked around me. Finally able to stop crying, I spent most of my shift sitting to cope with the numbness in my hands and feet.
About a week after that, I found myself collapsed on the side of a bike trail. I was unable to walk the seven blocks to my house, even with my partner beside me. I called my roommate to pick me and the bike up.
The aftermath of these events felt like hangovers. I was exhausted. My mind was slow and I often had a headache from crying. Most similar to a hangover was the desire to do nothing and go nowhere.
---
Finally, after three of these acute experiences over a span of two weeks, I knew I needed help. My ability to solve and cope with this problem alone had dissolved.
I was stuck trying to figure out how to heal in the immediate way my body was telling me I needed. Unfortunately, the medical world only readily gives emergency care to those whose mental health issues have turned physical. Suicide hotlines exist for those who are worried their life is at risk. You can go to the emergency room if you fear you can't keep your body safe. Rehab facilities are for those who have addictions, a physical circumstance as much as a mental one. Residential mental health facilities tend to focus on patients who are a threat to the safety of themselves or others.
But where do people go who haven't hurt themselves or others? Where does someone go who can keep themselves alive, but can't go to work? Where can someone turn to prevent a mental health emergency from becoming catastrophic?
I found no such place. Although I desperately felt I needed to have immediate 24-hour mental health care, the world was telling me I wasn't broken enough yet. It seemed I would have to continue my life as usual, regardless of how I was feeling.
---
Concluding immediate professional care was not an option, I sourced other kinds of help. The first step I took was to reach out to the people I spent my time with. I let them know I was struggling and I might not seem like myself. I hoped that the act of sharing this with others would point me in the right direction. Overwhelmed with my state of mind, I couldn't see a solution on my own.
My partner suggested I talk to a friend of his who has also struggled with mental health. He arranged a meeting for the three of us.
We sat down with his friend, Mary, and I shared with her what I had been experiencing. During this, a part of me was shouting, "SHUT UP. Why are you telling this STRANGER all of this intimate information? Do you actually expect her to have any answers for you? If so, that's way too much to ask of someone you barely know!"
Even though I had no clue if this meeting was going to help me, I kept sharing. My desperation overshadowed the doubts I had. My life had become a prison of fear and panic. At the beginning of the year, I was traveling alone on the opposite side of the world and just six months later I was terrified to go outside. It felt like my house was on fire, and I was stopping any passerby's to ask them, "What do I do?!"
Even though I had no clue if this meeting was going to help me, I kept sharing. My desperation overshadowed the doubts I had. My life had become a prison of fear and panic. At the beginning of the year, I was traveling alone on the opposite side of the world and just six months later I was terrified to go outside. It felt like my house was on fire, and I was stopping any passerby's to ask them, "What do I do?!"
Mary confirmed the intense events were panic attacks. She then graciously shared with me the darkest experiences in her life. We talked for hours about how we both felt, or had felt in the past. Within that meeting, she gave me advice no one in my life had yet offered.
She started it with a simple question, "Why don't you take a break?"
I laughed mockingly, "I can't just stop my life!"
"Why not?" she asked in a serious tone. "What would actually happen if you took some time off?" She assured me that whatever it was, it wouldn't be as bad as the result of me ignoring my state of mental sickness.
Mary was the first person who gave me permission to prioritize my health over my responsibilities.
Although I was still skeptical I could take a complete break, she convinced me to pull back from some of my commitments. I let go of one bartending shift per week, shortening my work week to five days. I stopped writing this blog and unpacking from the move.
I felt shame for breaking the commitment I made to the WITS patrons. I felt guilt over adding more stress to my co-workers and roommate. These feelings compounded the self-loathing thoughts I was already drowning in. I was enacting a self-fulfilling prophecy of cyclical worthlessness; The worse I felt, the less I felt capable of doing, and the less I did, the more worthless I felt.
FUN.
---
Although I was still skeptical I could take a complete break, she convinced me to pull back from some of my commitments. I let go of one bartending shift per week, shortening my work week to five days. I stopped writing this blog and unpacking from the move.
I felt shame for breaking the commitment I made to the WITS patrons. I felt guilt over adding more stress to my co-workers and roommate. These feelings compounded the self-loathing thoughts I was already drowning in. I was enacting a self-fulfilling prophecy of cyclical worthlessness; The worse I felt, the less I felt capable of doing, and the less I did, the more worthless I felt.
FUN.
---
Over the next month, I took several more steps to pull myself out of the soul-sucking pit I had fallen into.
I made an appointment with a primary care physician in hopes that the physician could refer me to a psychiatrist. That appointment was about four months ago as of this writing. I have yet to receive a referral.
I spent a defeating afternoon calling a list of therapists I had found online. Not a single one was taking new clients. Fatefully, I found a therapist who had availability while bartending. He helped me out of the darkest moments. He provided a system of accountability and a routine of checking in with myself. I recently decided he wasn't the right fit for me, but I can not overstress the importance of this tool for mental health. EVERYONE SHOULD GO TO THERAPY.
Throughout this time of panic and mental unrest, I reached out to my family and loved ones. Asking for help and admitting I was not okay was the most important step. As it turns out, my coworkers didn't hate me, my friends understood, and my family offered to support me in any way they could.
Part of that support, from many in my life, was enabling me to take two weeks off of work. The people in my life gave their time, work, and even money to help make this happen. While I felt guilty about taking this help, I felt immense gratitude that I was surrounded by people who took my mental health seriously.
This ability to take time off is a privilege. Although I couldn't personally afford it, I was fortunate enough to know people who could help me. I was extremely fortunate to have understanding and flexible employers.
The experience made me ache for all of the people who struggle but don't have the option to take a break. Single mothers. Those in unsympathetic work environments. People who can't afford to lose two weeks of income and have no one in their life that can help them financially.
---
I am not writing this because I think what I struggle with is unique or noteworthy. I am writing this because what I experienced is extremely common, yet still widely denied as significant.
As I mentioned in my last post, America is a culture that has valued acceleration for centuries. Not just speed, but acceleration: an ever-increasing idea of the acceptable rate at which we move through the world.
I wonder when will we hit our top speed. How many hours must someone work in a week to be doing "enough?" It is 40, one-quarter of our lives? Is it the more common 60-80 I see, almost half of our lives? These hours, of course, do not include housework, errands, cooking, eating, and sleeping: all of the things that directly involve our survival.
What about the value of slowing down? The value of enjoying what we are doing while we are doing it? The purest fulfillment and joy I have ever felt are moments when I feel completely present. I am in love with that experience of timelessness: singing, dancing, making love, deep meditation. Yet, I spend so little of my life living like that.
---
So, I slowed down. I pulled back. I took two weeks off from overworking myself. I tried medication, but the side effects were too severe. I started taking some more holistic supplements instead.
All of the steps I took helped a lot. My depression isn't currently as severe, and my suicidal ideations aren't as constant. Getting my will to live back is huge, but I feel like I still have a lot of healing to do.
Now, I feel in limbo. There is a life I visualize of slowness and presence, but I'm not there yet.
Through therapy over the last few months, I learned the term "moral injury." As The Moral Injury Project at Syracuse University describes, "Moral injury is the damage done to one's conscience or moral compass when that person perpetrates, witnesses, or fails to prevent acts that transgress one's own moral beliefs, values, or ethical codes of conduct."
Now, I feel in limbo. There is a life I visualize of slowness and presence, but I'm not there yet.
Through therapy over the last few months, I learned the term "moral injury." As The Moral Injury Project at Syracuse University describes, "Moral injury is the damage done to one's conscience or moral compass when that person perpetrates, witnesses, or fails to prevent acts that transgress one's own moral beliefs, values, or ethical codes of conduct."
Moral injury, like trauma, is a reaction to extreme experiences. [To be clear, trauma and moral injury are not mutually exclusive. You can experience trauma and moral injury as a result of the same event.] My therapist and I concluded that my experience of some events in my adult life falls into the category of moral injury. Unlike trauma, moral injury can't be treated with traditional therapeutic methods. However, according to my therapist, a small number of studies have shown success in treating moral injury with spiritual practices or rituals.
I've been feeling the pull to dive deeper into my spiritual practices, but I have yet to do so in a significant way. Having a clinical therapist suggest spirituality as the best treatment was validated that intuition.
As much as a hate to admit it (for whatever reason), the most powerful healing experiences I have had involved spirituality. Whether it was my personal practice or energy healers, that's the stuff that gets to me. I think I've fought that, gripping onto some sense of logical superiority. But why would I prioritize scientific proof over feeling better? I understand the reasoning, but it isn't working for me anymore.
I'm choosing to try a new path now. One that feels scary and vague and a little silly, sometimes. For now, I'm going to use holistic and spiritual practices to aid my healing. If it helps me choose my life, I don't care if it's real or not. I think as long as I keep checking in and being honest with myself, I can't go wrong.
---
Thank you for reading this. I feel honored that you have made space in your life to witness my experience. The biggest thanks to my patrons. You can join them in supporting this blog here.
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