A VIEW OF THE “I am broken”
Viewed through the perspective of a Christmas card, a biography scan or an introductory social discussion, my life can appear beautiful and compelling.
The surface view isn’t the reality.
For years, I cared too much about maintaining the illusions of those who know me least. At the end, believe it or not, I am very private with my intimate life and I only show what I want people to see, no matter the price, no matter the judgement or how connect or disconnect may look from the outside. I think we, humans, do some of that. Don’t we?
Meanwhile, the price of my internal torment continues to be paid by those who love me most, those who see me rise every morning, sleep for days, absent for years and still love me anyway.
I can’t carry this burden any more. I realize now that maintaining the illusion is adding to my struggles. I hope that speaking out will provide a measure of relief to others who share elements of my struggle, as well.
After the birth of my second child, I fell into postpartum depression. Over time, the depression deepened despite treatment and even disciplined prescription adherence. I remember like yesterday falling into this unknown downward spiral of pain: how could I, should I, would I? A guilt that was killing me, just for thinking that I could hurt my own kids.
As time passed, the symptoms swirled. Lack of sleep. Extreme mood swings. Spending splurges. Moments of creativity and intense activity. A deep urge to write through nights in a row. A pendulum between incessant thought and vacuum-like intellectual emptiness. Racing to the next crash. I was diagnosed with bipolar depression disorder.
What does bipolar depression disorder looks like? In my case, the good moments include extreme productivity and creativity. When I’m flying high, I think fast and make quick decisions. Great performance, work-focused, very result driven. But these moments of achievement come at a high price. Irritability. Sleep deprivation. Excessive, unfiltered talking. Financial missteps. Ultimately, an inability to function at even a basic level.
The hypomania, the part of the disorder when I seem to function, lasts a few days or a week. The subsequent depression always endures far longer.
Those depressive days last longest. I feel cold, damp and dark even when surrounded by what others might see as sunny warmth. I lose interest in everything and everyone I love. Life passes without any notice. I stare at the leaves hanging in our front yard tree from my bed, the pace of their movement in a soft wind being as much I can absorb.
My body demands to shut down, to sleep, to unplug from reality, the painful reality that crushes my soul until I simply feel empty. Eating becomes daunting. Talking is draining. The “black dog” as Winston Churchill used to call his own depression, puts all of his weight on my heart, restricting its ability to pump life through me.
In many ways and trying to make sense of something that many times makes no sense, I am thankful for everything I have endured in my life. “The good, bad and ugly”, like in the classic western movie, in which Clint Eastwood’s gun was as fast as the change of my days. The extraordinary, painful and confusing. Even those times when my demons seem to have conquered any angels inside.
It took me a long time to realize that I am not alone in my struggle.
Two years ago, during one of my missionary trips to Honduras, I could see while working with a wonderful doctor that many of her patients suffered from depression. However, when asked if there was anything else they wanted to tell the doctor, they remained quiet. I knew something else was inside, the same heaviness I had carried for years.
Hispanics carry this “tabú” about mental illnesses, more than other cultures. At least in the United States of America, things seem to be more open, not always, let me be clear, judgment and lack of knowledge stills big. But for us, Hispanics, depression, bipolar disorder, anxiety and mental illnesses in general are still considered: 1. Too much time in people’s hands, 2. Stuff people make up in their heads to become the center of attention, 2.Little downs they can fix with positive thinking and being thankful. 3. Lack of faith 4. A reason to be “ashamed”.
I have been told all the above in many ways.
THE STRENGTH IN BEING VULNERABLE
It has never being my intention to be perfect. The more I grow, the more I love my imperfections, my scars, my bruises and the stories that each of them tell about me. It’s not easy to embrace them.
It isn’t a coincidence that for the last three years I have been obsessed with a word, with an art, with the possibility of an analogy; everything because my profound allergy to perfection, to the copy and paste, to the “everyone let’s follow the white sheep without questioning” and don’t you dare have answers or offer solutions or other points of views.
Who would expect that someone as broken as me would create a something to mend the broken with gold? Kintsugi Effect, LLC exists for others and for me. That has been the greatest discovery. You cannot give what you don’t know or have.
When I stand in front of people to talk, present or give a workshop, I open my self, I share about my imperfections, sometimes if appropriate, I will share a little about my bipolar depression journey. You see? I wouldn’t be who I am or I wouldn’t be able to give or think in this way, if it wasn’t because of my scars and the way I have decided to tell a my story.
IT’S ABOUT BRAVERY AND COURAGE
“Vulnerability makes us stronger” and sharing that vulnerability with the only purpose to become the voice for others, requires bravery and courage.
As I write these lines, I am attending an outpatient program for mental illness at the psychiatry building of my local hospital. In these last 5 months, I have been challenged with the toughest crisis of my life.
I was laughing on my third day of the outpatient program and I wrote to Carlos García Ruiz, my best-friend and business partner: “Guess what? I think I just arrive to Kintsugi boot camp”. Every single person who spoke to the group used words that are core in our program: “After this process you will be stronger” “It’s o.k. to feel fragile, vulnerable”, “Part of the mending is embracing your imperfections ”, etc…
How perfect was that! How beautiful! At the end of the day, therapy is seeking the truth and speaking the truth even when pain hurts.
Every day I am feeling a little better. My husband, Daniel, and boys are so resilient. My parents are giving the necessary space and love to heal. My brother and his family have been a fresh air of love. My closest family has been an incredibly support. I don’t know what would I have done without the strong men and women around me, those that I have ask space, and at the same time and without words, they understood I need it them the most.
Judgement is a serious and a flaky thing humans have created to masked fear for lack of understanding. When we see things that make no sense, we judge. When we read things that do not compute in our “this is the way it should be” way, we judge. When someone does something or stops doing it, we judge. This is my invitation to judge or not, but before we make that choice, let’s ask questions, let’s try to walk in the other person’s shoes and then, decide.
Mental illness is one of the most beautiful gifts I have receive. I have learned to get to know the two in me much better, I have learned so much about others and their thinking, and it has enable and empower me in my journey of mending my own breaking points and guide those who decide to join me.
Copyright © 2016 Fermina Ponce . All rights are reserved.
