When I was younger and didn't quite yet know that I suffered from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) I used to lay awake in bed at night and dream up ways of showing people what was happening in my mind. I would replay my day and I would go up to the people who had misunderstood me or gotten angry at me and I would touch my finger tips to the side of their head and I would make them see what I saw, feel what I felt.
I would watch their face twist with horror and I would watch them fall to the ground wrapping themselves in a ball and begging me to take it away.
And then they would know.
And then they would stop being frustrated with me for being different.
And then I wouldn't feel so alone.
Maybe then it wouldn't be so scary to live in my head like I did because people would understand a small bit of what I was constantly going through.
Maybe they would be more kind and gentle with me.
Maybe they would speak softer.
Maybe they would ask if I needed a hug if I looked afraid.
I spent years going through this nightly routine of thinking of ways to show people.
It's been almost an entire lifetime wishing I had that special secret power. The routine eventually stopped but the wishing hadn't. I still spend entire days thinking of how I can show it. Of gathering resources and feverishly writing my thoughts out to be read and reread and understood.
I don't think it matters.
Not to the people who it's intended for.
It's intended for the ones who don't understand but I'm not sure how far it reaches.
It's not understood. Something is missing.
It's not lack of resources. I sometimes spend my days sharing them with those closest to me.
It's not lack of explanation. I will talk and explain until I'm literally blue in the face.
It's not lack of accessibility. I make my blogs public.
I am but one person.
I can't make a difference, why am I even trying.
Nothing changes.
My mental health problems turn into (or already are) disabilities. People don't leave their houses. They don't explain themselves. Why would they? This world is full of people with their faces pointed towards the sky. Not very many bad things happen up there besides occasional bad weather.
My dad has cancer.
Cholangiocarcinoma. It's a cancer of the bile duct and it typically presents and resides in the liver.
It's really rare and the cause was unknown. It wasn't anything he did. He didn't cause it.
Well, I mean, he exists, so I guess he is partially to blame for it.
When he got diagnosed my mom was overwhelmed so I started to go along to all of his appointments. Besides listening to doctors explain his case and the cancer and all of the treatment options and drugs, I did research. Any time I needed to understand something further, I asked a question or I looked things up. When I couldn't find an answer or needed validation I would ask his doctor. "Let me make sure I'm understanding you correctly,..." and then I would say what needed to be said for clarification. When I got home, I would write it all out in both ways that any medical people would understand and in complete layman's terms and then directly state whether it was good or bad and how it affects him. People helped in any way they could. No one really knew what it was like to have cancer, but they knew it wasn't easy. They knew it was life threatening and required treatment and care and kindness and prayers. People were gentle and helpful and encouraging and sympathetic.
What I did, wasn't that hard. He is my dad, it was affecting him and the entire family and anyone that loves him was concerned and wanted more information on what he was going through and how to understand it and what they could do for them.
Why, are we as a society, completely unable to view mental health in the same way?
My PTSD brain, is completely physically different and altered. I didn't do that. You can't blame me.
And my postpartum problems... would you blame my kids? My choice to have kids? Did I do it to myself? Is it a choice?
I'm not asking anyone to be an expert on it. On me. Not in the same way I became well versed in Cholangiocarcinoma and the various treatments that my dad went through.
Do I hope for that level of effort and understanding? I used to. I used to want a "person". After much debate and years of trying, I think I'm giving up on that one for now. It always ends in distance and frustration. Why sit with your ear to the ground when you can easily go back to pointing your face at the sky?
I'm also not asking for people to feel sorry for me in the same way they felt sorry for my dad and his cancer. I'm simply asking for a small ounce of kindness and gentleness and care. Maybe it will try to counter balance all of the shame and guilt and self hate.
I know, I know. "This is ridiculous, people DIE from cancer. How can you compare the two?!"
As of 2013 suicide is the second leading cause of postpartum death.
Google search postpartum suicide. It's not a selfish way out, it's a side effect of this maternal mental health problem that people don't think is important enough to properly voice.
Do I want to die?
I want to raise my kids. I want to know they are safe and loved and that no one else is replacing me in a mother type roll that could really never compare to the extent in which I love my kids.
I do understand the ones who don't want to live anymore. I sometimes whisper it within my own head. "I get it..."
And that makes me feel more alone than I have ever been.
Why am I even wasting my time on this? I am only one voice.
I might only have one match, but I can make an explosion.
