Get Messy Blog Hop Final Round of Bravery

20
May

Lately I’ve been pursuing things that are brave, even if that simply means something as small as believing in a possibility instead of dismissing it, trusting someone with an important decision, or trying something new.

These are challenging things, even if they seem small.

I’m also very aware that the calendar keeps flipping over and my family and I are approaching a painful milestone as we come up to the one year anniversary of losing my dad. I don’t know how to prepare for that. I don’t know what to expect. I’ve found that in other situations if I put too much emphasis on feeling a specific emotion in a particular moment, I usually get it wrong. It’s like my feelings are petulant toddlers who don’t want to be told what to do. I don’t have a lot of words about the anniversary yet, except to say that I think some of the incapacitating intensity of loss has ebbed…today.

That said, I’m trying to focus on what I think I might want to have around me as that day nears: my favorite scarf, fresh air, my family, and some paints.

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This great community of art journalers, Get Messy, has been focused on the word “brave” for a while now, and this is one of our last linkups on that topic. I didn’t include any pictures that had the materials used to create the pages but I’ll try to get some of those again in the future. If you want to see the way other people interpreted some of the challenges, click here.

Are they falling down or floating up?

My biggest news is that I started a part time job. This may not seem like big news, but I’ve been home full time with the kids for many years. MANY YEARS. So any paying employment that takes me away from home and has regular hours and a PAYCHECK is a big deal. It’s going really well, but the next art journal page comes out of A. being brave in re-entering the workforce, and B. being swamped with all the new information I have to learn (relationships, names, positions, responsibilities, programs, etc.).

It’s a waterfall of information.

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When I was in fifth or sixth grade, my family went to a conference out in Colorado. Remember, I’m a child of the 80’s so this was around the time that neon colors and black rubber bracelets were the big thing.

I wanted to join in the fad, so I somehow acquired a new pair of earrings (I don’t remember having money or taking the initiative to go buy them, so my mom must have bought them for me). They were super-cool, dangly and neon. I wanted to wear them with an air of nonchalant confidence but in fact, I was terribly self-conscious about them. I was sure everyone was staring at me.

My family went to a party — with dancing — at the end of this conference, which had people of many ages attending. A much older boy came up to me during this party and very sweetly asked if I’d like to dance.

PANIC!!!!!

No way was I going to dance with this super cute older boy. Was he insane?!

“No, thank you,” I mumbled, totally embarrassed.

He left and I spent the rest of the evening silently wishing I had said yes.

This journal, made on a flat canvas board, is a shout out to those earrings, which were an act of bravery even if I was self-conscious about them the entire time I wore them.

An ode to neon earrings.

This one is an attempt at a new technique.

Trying new things is fun…and unpredictable. The words read: What’s happening on the outside and on the inside are very different.

I submitted some artwork and an essay to an online publication. I don’t know if anything will come of it, but it was definitely an act of bravery to push “send” on that email.

Feathers are inspiring.

Okay, this final page is scary for me to share but that’s part of what this is all about. I’m trying to learn a new thing and simultaneously take steps to share, even if in the process things are imperfect.

More feathers, in lots of ways.

There we are, friends. I’ve shared some of my brave moments with you. Do you care to share any brave moments of your own? Can’t wait to hear from you in the comments!

Parents who work away from home are tough as Nails (in case you’d forgotten)

18
May

The back door to somebody’s workplace.

For all the parents who made umpteen phone calls arranging childcare,

For all the hours spent searching online for reputable organizations and references,

For the extra batteries in the alarm clock, the lunches made the night before, the papers signed, the backpacks packed,

We salute you.

For all the pinch hitting,

For all the brief personal phone calls at work saved up and made in a flurry during a break,

For the favors called in when a child gets sick,

We humbly bow.

For every meeting missed,

For every boundary established,

For every “quick bite to eat with the team after work” sacrificed,

We hear your call.

For the way you prioritize projects at work,

For the art of delegation,

For every lunch taken at your desk,

For your ability to switch gears from employed person to parent of a young child,

We give you props.

We doff our caps to you, sir or ma’am, for you have earned this small gesture of respect.

You work hard at work and at home, and this is no simple task. It involves organization and planning, and

You go get ’em, ’cause you got this…
Like a boss.

Playdough and other gray Areas

21
Apr

http://mrg.bz/DLazQs

We are such a comparmentalizing, either/or people, arent’t we?

We want each washcloth to be folded and neatly stacked. If we could give each one its own zip locked, mesh, linen bag, that would be extra comforting. That way, it won’t come unfolded, get wrinkled, or tumble out of the linen closet when we open the door. It will stay contained.

Decided.

Resolved.

Tidy.

But what if the stack tumbles over, the bags come unzipped?

To use another analogy, what if the play dough colors get put away in *eek!* the wrong containers?

Clay will become swirly, a merry mix of blue, green and red, yellow and purple to make **double eek!** a warm shade of gray. (All you play-dough separators out there — and I KNOW you’re out there — this is NOT directed at you personally. Go with the analogy okay?)

We don’t like gray much, do we? We want the colors (and people and ideas) to stay obediently in their places.

Moms stay in the home.

Dad’s are the bread earners.

Women are the ones who communicate emotions.

Men want respect above all else.

Men are the analytical thinkers. Women’s views are skewed by hormones and feelings.

We can do only one role well, or other roles will suffer.

Or we apply this to issues of faith, wanting there to be an “in” club and an “out” club. Because it’s not fair if I do all this work to be in the “in” club only to find out it’s ALL the “in” club, is it? And those gender role stereotypes come heavily into play in the church, even when we think we’re being forward minded.

What if we were able to see the beauty and relief of gray?

What if we focused on the coolness a shadow provides after the burning rays of the sun?

What if we admired the texture of an elephant’s skin instead of criticizing it for being less vibrantly colored than an exotic bird?

What if we valued the creative process of expression that produced that marbled mix of all colors when a child finished with that clay, instead of painstakingly separating out the colors and returning them to their yellow containers with corresponding lids?

It seems that some people feel that to not know the answer to a difficult question is indicative of not knowing the answers to any questions, and this inhibits them from seeing an opportunity to learn more or reexamine long-held suppositions. It makes people more uncomfortable to sit with the question than it does to spit out an answer they haven’t thought about in years.

What if we were okay with the question, even if that left us in the gray?

Lots and lots of questions here today, but I’m going to be bold and ask one more: what is your take on this? There, I did it. That was just one more. I’m a woman of my word. 🙂

Being brave might look different for you than for Me

10
Apr

I hate to say that some things are relative. It sounds so milquetoast, so ambivalent. And yet, there are things that are relative. Not everything is concrete or one-size-fits-all. Have you tried on a glove that’s one-size-fits-all? It just doesn’t, that’s all I can say.

In the same way, being brave looks different for different people. Going without hand sanitizer for a whole day may be brave for some people to the point of nervous twitches and increased blood pressures. Daring to speak in public can really challenge some people, while others thrive in that setting.

This month I’m working through a theme of “Brave” with the Get Messy peeps, and the timing is eerie. This word keeps popping up for me, which makes me feel like somebody’s walking around two steps in front of me, leaving me little notes. Maybe that’s the idea of secret messages – that when we’re paying attention we receive many more of them than we previously realized. This is definitely one of those alignments.

In that vein, I’d like to share some more art journal images I’ve come up with. If you’re interested in finding out more about the Get Messy prompts and crew, you can click here.

I Use My Voice

Look at all the jumble-y yumminess!

Disappointment versus Hope

I am Brave

Dripping with Bravery

Okay, now it’s your turn. Would you call yourself brave? Have you tried anything lately that’s made you feel brave? And how about those secret message — do you ever notice any of those sent to you? I’d love to hear your story!

Pretty Pictures (Get Messy Art Journal Blog Hop)

26
Mar

Despite seeming like one more dabble in a long list of dabbling, art journaling has been a really helpful tool for me for over a year now. Sometimes I use it as a “prayer language” if you will — a way to commune with God and work through things for which I’ve yet to find language. Other times, it’s a valuable creative expression for me. Because writing has been challenging (writing here refers to making forward progress on the novel I’m working on…along with forming consistent cohesive thoughts to submit to other online venues), I’ve been using a different form of that drive to create and have been putting things in my Etsy store, as well as guiding some art journaling workshops.

I’d like to share some more images with you. Many of these, but not all, are in response to prompts given by the Get Messy Art Journal group. A little background on them: for a small fee you get a lifetime membership. They offer tutorials, inspiration, and examples, and even just the tips on how to photograph your pages has been helpful. I’m going to leave a bunch of links at the bottom of this post, and these are other people who have also joined the Get Messy group. If you’ve got a minute, it’d be interesting (and I know they’d appreciate it) if you popped over to see their pages.

I’m grateful to have this space to share this journey with you. Thanks for being such a supportive group.

If you want to see the other takes on these prompts and just other styles people have, here are seven other people who are taking part in this blog hop and the Get Messy bunchafun.

Karyn http://karynscraftingobsession.blogspot.com.au/
Lauren www.lauren-likes.com
Rebecca http://daintydora.co.uk/
Keshena http://prettypaperandcoffee.com
Kimberlee http://scrapsandsass.blogspot.com
France http://bananafishstudio.com
Nina www.meinlebeninscraps.blogspot.de

What do you think? Do you ever get a craving to mess around with paints? Could you even see these images? — I was worried they might not load for some people. Thanks so much for reading!

No shortcuts, no Passes

23
Mar

It took me forty-five minutes to drive there, but I barely noticed. I didn’t have a good grasp of time; my attention was elsewhere. I think even if time marched by playing a tuba it would barely have registered (I probably wasn’t the safest driver on the road). So forty-five minute drive up felt like a blip, and the forty-five minute drive home was a good recovery time so I didn’t look like I’d been crying. Although, I probably always looked like I’d been crying…because usually I had been, or if not fully crying all the time, then on the brink of it.

Something told me to get help. Something inside me said I’d better call for reinforcements ’cause I was working above my pay grade.

Thus I found a counselor who was probably going to be a good match with my personality (I have counselor friends so that helps in weeding through the seemingly boundless choices) who happened to be forty-five minutes away. Worth it, if the counseling helped to assuage the gushing pain from losing my dad. I’d have been willing to drive for hours to make that happen.

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When my husband and I were first dating and also in the early years of our married life, if we had a disagreement I would want to address it right away. I’d want to talk it out and work through it. I felt very unsettled until we had come to some conclusion or found a middle ground of compromise — an action plan, if you will.

Need more communication? Set aside a specific time to connect each day so things are kept current.

Not sure about the finances? Decide in advance how much you’ve got to spend that week and stick to it.

How are we going to coordinate schedules to make summer plans work smoothly? Pull out the calendars and mark ’em up with who’s going where and when.

This drove my husband a little batty (I’m putting words in his mouth, but I think he’d agree). It must have felt like constantly making New Year’s resolutions every single day.

He wasn’t always ready to crush a problem the way I was. He might first need to be made aware of the issue. Then if it was deemed to really be a problem, he’d need time to analyze it and consider the different aspects of it. And one possibility was that there was no resolution to be made.

Hubba-whuh??

No resolution? No action plan? No CLOSURE???

You’ve got to be kidding me.

This approach caused problems for me in many ways. It required patience — not my strong suit. It required thorough analysis — again, not always my area of expertise. And it required an ability to acknowledge that some things could not be given a clean answer — for sure not my forte at the time.

In this period (which may have lasted longer than I care to admit) I found it challenging to discover my own propensity for being defensive and reactionary. I also have a great imagination, which can be less-than-helpful in conflict situations. The longer something dragged out, the more imaginary issues I infused it with and the more complex I made the problem. But in trying to force the discussion before he’d had time to mull it over, I was bullying my own agenda through. It would actually lead to more conflict, since then we’d have to unravel the additional subject of our different ways of processing problems.

What a headache.

I used to hear people wait to bring things up with their spouses, and I thought it was such a funny way of coming at something. If you wanted to talk about something, you talked about it, the moment it popped into your head, which was usually one nanosecond before you brought it up. What was this waiting business? Why would you need to wait to talk about something if it was important to you, and if you were talking to someone who loved you? It made no sense to me.

It does now.

Waiting to talk to my husband about something is a consideration to his process. It’s appreciative of the way he ticks. It’s not a matter of manipulation, nor is it a form of being subservient. It’s a matter of courtesy. It’s also ends up being better for me, since if I address every little blip that pops into my head, I’ll be addressing things that end up being much smaller in significance, and I’ll waste a lot of mental and emotional energy inconsequential stuff.

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When I started going to the counselor, I thought she’d have some solutions for me. I expected her to recommend a few books, maybe a YouTube video I should watch, even some natural supplements I should try. I figured we’d confront the issue of kids, deal with it and be done.

She gave me nothing.

There was nothing she could give me that would deliver what I wanted from her.

I wanted to find a loophole.

I wanted a shortcut.

I wanted to bypass feeling so horrible all the time, feeling like I couldn’t gather a thought, like I was walking around with my head in a sound-proof helmet with a tinted visor.

There was no way she’d be able to offer me anything to help with any of that.

What I needed was to settle down into the grief and quit trying to leapfrog over it. I wouldn’t be able to speed it up, and more time would have to go by before I could have any hope of feeling those things less frequently.

Did I mention that I started seeing the counselor in September? My dad passed away at the end of June.

I guess you could say I was trying to get a jump on that grieving thing, really trying grab hold of it and get it all out, rip off that Band-Aid.

It’s a wonder the counselor didn’t toss me out of her office.

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There’s no short cut in grief. You can’t expect to face the thing head-on and somehow beat it into submission. You can be present in it, mindful of your needs and respectful of your own process. There’s no closure that I can see, no end point. My dad keeps on being gone and missing out on stuff he ought to be here for. That’s not going to change. He will forever miss out from this point forward, and we will forever miss out. There’s no amount of processing or action-planning that can alleviate that.

Yes, maybe counseling will end up helping. Maybe if I can be clear about what I hope to gain from it (besides catapulting me over the sorrow) I’ll benefit from it. I’d better if it takes me forty-five minutes just to get there.

What’s your view of the benefits of counseling? Have you had times when you felt it would be helpful? How do you “get the most” out of counseling — or is that the wrong mindset?

Remember, this Medical Mondays series is open to anyone who might want to share. Just contact me if you’re interested in guest posting, and we’ll talk details. Tell your friends!

Legitimate Journeys

20
Mar

There are people who are solid in much of what they do. They have a plan, they stick with it. They don’t question the “why” of things, and they are content. Their journey is sincere, their faith is genuine, and they’re dedicated, upstanding members of their communities and their lives. That journey is a legitimate journey.

I’m realizing I might not ever be one of those people.

Instagram: tclmn

That’s not to say I’m the opposite of them. I’m also sincere and genuine. However, it appears that my journey might look much different than theirs, specifically my journey of faith. My faith is real even if it’s messy, and I must work to affirm that my journey is also legitimate. It takes a certain amount of vulnerability and willingness to admit that I’m more like “one of these kids is doing their own thing” as the PBS show used to sing. I don’t know that I aspire to become more like the non-questioning-types, but I just sort of assumed it would eventually happen, that maybe along with maturity or a certain number of years I’d mellow into a version of myself that’s closer to them. I’ve long known there are seasons of faith, times of drought and times of plenty, and that over the course of a lifetime a person will see ebbs and flows. I just thought I’d out grow the tendency to ask why.

Let’s just say, It ain’t happening.

It appears that I am born to question, to wrestle, to see inconsistencies between what was said and what was then implemented, to be able to hear Christian-ese even though I’m steeped in it. It’s not something I try to feed. I try to be careful to not base my worth or identity on going against the stream. It’s just something that keeps coming up.

It’s like when you suddenly become aware of a beeping coming from another room of the house when you’re trying to have a conversation with someone. You can’t NOT hear it until you break off your conversation and investigate the beeping (and in this example, turn it off).

It seems my ear may be tuned to the beeping question why.

It also makes me wonder if other people can hear it, and are just trying to act like they hear nothing.

Can you recognize different seasons of faith in your life? What season are you in right now, and how can you tell? What questions do you find yourself asking when it comes to matters of faith?

Creative pursuits are healthy Pursuits

16
Mar

Today you’ll see a short list of different articles and websites that document the benefits of pursuing creative outlets. This is by no means exhaustive, but meant to whet our appetites for incorporating small acts of creativity into our lives, or helping us see where we’ve already have worked these into our regular routine, maybe even unknowingly.

We’re all familiar with the stereotype of the eccentric creative person, plagued by substance abuse and unmet deadlines, stumbling around the city while mumbling to herself about changing the wording on page 78 or some encoded rant about a Muse. These ideas don’t reflect the best parts a life spent in pursuit of creative expression. These are the shadow side, the side when a person (who may’ve been somewhat fragile to begin with) allows their drive to become obsession and their discipline to become enslavement. That’s not what we’re talking about.

While creativity is a mysterious thing, that doesn’t have to mean it’s somehow malevolent. Tapping into our creativity doesn’t mean we unleash some pent up darkness (although, let’s be honest, a little aggression thrown down on a canvas does release some inner negativity in a constructive way). It means we bring out to play a child-like part of ourselves we’ve ignored — we’re big grown-ups now, after all — , a part that is willing to try new things without the expectation of instant mastery, a teachable part that is curious and adventurous. It is this part we engage when we allow ourselves to express our creativity, in whatever form that may take.

We’re talking about the freedom that comes with play, the ingenuity that develops when you allow your mind to wander and make connections between seemingly unrelated things, and the exploration of purpose and wellbeing that comes as you discover the intrinsic fullness of exercising your brain and your heart through creative outlets. Sound good?

http://mrg.bz/tO0tgY

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Here’s the brief roundup of just a few websites with information about the healthiness of creative endeavors.

An article researched by people at the website Art and Healing.org lists the health benefits from different creative activities, as well as different movements (yoga, tai chi, etc.). Another article, this one from News in Health, cites the benefits of listening to music, doodling, writing, and other creative activities. It stresses that you don’t have to be a professional artist in order to reap the positives of artistic activities.

This article by Be Brain Fit includes a video that discusses the benefits of art therapy.

This article offers an interview with an art therapist, and in my own experience with art journaling, I echo her statement that “the point” isn’t about the end product but about the process. And I love this piece from Psychology Today about the merits of meaningful activities done with our hands, not just mindless key-tapping or scrolling, but the act of transforming something, be it veggies for supper, yarn and textiles, or paper and paint.

Are you a little more visual? Need to see something in action? Here’s a short experiment in art therapy which measured its influence on happiness: In this video they even say you don’t have to be an artist in order to see the positives that can come out of artistic expression (and it’s from Soul Pancake, which is just a super fun, sweet phenomenon).

And finally, here you can watch a program about people who’ve been diagnosed with cancer and how exploring the arts adds to their wellness and sense of fullness.

Creativity is a wide open field, with room to spread out and inclusive of many different forms. Don’t be too quick to discount yourself from the party.

I’d love to hear your responses, and whether you feel you take time to invest in this important part of yourself. Please chime in in the comments, and be sure to share what form your creativity takes.

Sometimes plans come Together

12
Mar

Did you grow up watching the A Team? I know I’m dating myself by asking, but maybe you’ve seen re-runs. Oops, dated myself right there too, didn’t I?

Back to the A Team.

Do you remember their black van with the red stripe, those characters and their catch phrases?

“I pity the fool…”

The guy they called “Face” because apparently he was so handsome? (Wonder if that guy ever got over finding out that he wasn’t all that handsome?)

And my favorite, “I love it when a plan comes together” said by the guy with gloves, chomping on a big cigar.

Being a child of the 80’s, I’m sure it provides fuel for cult classics.

It may also provide cause for psychotherapy, because “I love it when a plan comes together” has been true for me. I DO love it. I enjoy planning things and watching them come to fruition.

There’s just one tiny problem…

When the plans DON’T come together. When the plan doesn’t work out. When all the best arrangements and orchestration goes down the tubes and you’re left with a big rats’ nest of problems, similar to Bon Jovi’s look during their Hair Band days. The internal decision is there – do you pout and withdraw or go with it? Can you get over it? Can you allow for the unknowns, leave room for the not-always-negative improvised and natural moments that come when we don’t orchestrate every.single.detail?

It might be challenging for some, easier than you’d think for others. Which way do you lean?

http://mrg.bz/cNrdDm

Want to share a story of plans gone awry? We’d love to hear from you!

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(This is a short link up with Five Minute Friday, hosted by Kate Motaung. We let ourselves write without listening to the inner critic, just write for five short minutes and put it out there. Then we get to see all the ways people interpreted the prompt, all the different ideas people have. It’s a lot of fun, with people from all over the country, and it’s open to anyone, so if you’re interested, click on Kate’s name and add your five minutes!)

Depression is more than a Hashtag

9
Mar

I’ve gotten to know Kate a bit through a shared online writing group. She’s basically amazing. Ask her about her stage makeup (is that what you call it when you can transform yourself completely with makeup?) or about her taste in fairy wings and you’ll get an answer from an expert. I asked her to share today about her depression, because if you look only at her social media photos, you’d have no idea she ever feels anything but jaw-droppingly put together. And I think that’s the way certain health elements can be — hard to sympathize with because a person is able to get through a day or may show few outward signs of distress. But we on the outside have no idea what it took for that person to do what had to be done.

Here’s Kate’s post, and please help her know her voice is important by showering her with glitter and love in the comments.

http://mrg.bz/e84IRn

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I turned my depression into a hashtag.

Because “real” depressed people prove how depressed they are by advertising it on the internet for all to see and scrutinize. Ahem. Just kidding.

Actually… I did do it for the sake of visibility. By definition, a mental illness originates in your brain. And because, like most humans, I keep my brain stored between my ears, it’s hard to know what depression looks like. It’s like bronchitis; I can’t see the tiny cactus spines growing in my lungs, but I feel them trying to claw their way out of my chest like a baby xenomorph.

Depression is like a metaphor wrapped in a cliche cultural reference.

The way people view depression is through the lens of popular culture, which hasn’t been especially kind or empathetic about it. Portrayals range from demented invisible rabbit hallucinations, to montages of tween girls sitting in their pajamas, staring out the window. Granted, the latter is more relatable to the truth about depression, but it isn’t the only truth. I still have good days, even when I’m fighting depression. I still leave the house, I still eat meals, I still talk to people. Depression just makes all of those things extremely difficult. That isn’t hyperbole; I have to talk myself into following a routine, despite feeling like the saddest doll in the doldrums — or I wind up feeling like I am actually losing it. Like… I’m not even remotely in control of my body or brain. This we will call the “danger zone”. We do not go to the “danger zone”, for it is dark and full of terrors.

But despite running a blog dedicated to Anxiety and Depression advocacy and awareness, I don’t find myself able to talk about depression as readily as a seasonal malady. It’s too difficult to make people understand; it’s not just being sad all the time. It’s just as painful as have a physical illness–sometimes more so. Which makes people super uncomfortable, like they don’t want to talk about me having a problem in my brain because that idea is just gross. …and yet, on Facebook, people talk about the color of their mucus and how many times they’ve thrown up.

Excuse me! Gross! You’ll talk about bodily fluids, but you won’t even listen to me talk about pain that you can’t even see?

I have lost friendships over depression. But, despite the temptation, I have never disowned a friend for having pneumonia. Why is this disconnect between discussing physical vs. mental illness so very rift-like?

It makes me want to vomit. So… I turned my depression into a hashtag of my own invention: #7daysoflight

I committed to one week of total transparency about my depression–but I advertised it as a beauty campaign (because remember, people think depression is icky). I pledged to spend one week posting one photo a day of myself in an outfit, complete with hair and makeup. Naturally, there are people who do this every day of their life, and I applaud them for it.

When my depression is at its worst, the thought of putting on makeup is frankly just impossible, let alone curling my hair and picking out clothes that actually match and aren’t made of Lycra.

I feel better when I am in full regalia, however, so it made sense to me that spending one week keeping myself together physically might help me mentally. And help me be SEEN for once.

It did help me feel better. It also didn’t. The thought of having more to do in the mornings was stressful, which meant starting my day already frustrated. It meant pulling myself out of bed and climbing a hill made of lipstick tubes and bronzer and fake eyelashes–for a picture. To put on the internet.

Did it help people really see me, though? Not as far as I can tell. Because I didn’t make it a conversation. I made a gallery of seven photos, each showing a day of triumph, which was very visible to me–but I never talked about how I had championed my depression each day. I just posted seven versions of my face looking more put together than usual.

What does a depressed person even look like?

I don’t really talk about having bad days on Facebook in general, and I curate my image so carefully on social media that there aren’t even any candid photos of me, really, unless they were approved before someone posted them. Because never do I want to appear as anything other than this carefully woven basket-case. People know I’m “a mess”, but if you look at my profile, it’s unclear if I’m messy because I’m constantly painting, or because I have assumed the cliche title as compliment bait.

And admittedly, I like attention. In certain controlled situations, the likes of which I have created with my own cunning. But I’m an Introvert as well as depressed and anxious, so I don’t actually like baring my real problems.

That’s where we have a huge problem with mental illness visibility in the first place: the people who suffer do not want to even attempt to be seen, because people without mental illness do not want to talk about it. That’s what it feels like. So we don’t speak up about what it’s really like to be prisoner to your own body. So the stigma holds, and we hear people called “crazy” because the victims are invisible.

I have a confession to make: I cheated at my own challenge. I took a day off of the internet. I sat around in the comfiest clothing I own, and I went nowhere near social media. And the next day, I posted two photos: one I claimed was from my internet-free day, and one from that day. The internet-free day photo was actually from several weeks ago. I wanted to be invisible.

But what I am and was feeling over those seven days? Several things, on and off. Most days, even when I’m doing pretty well, my hands just ache a little bit. I’m prone to small headaches, but I combat it with lots of stretching and drinking water constantly.

And when it’s bad?

Joints aching so badly that my hands are nearly numb

A headache so terrible that my body starts to try to put me to sleep

Stomach pains and a severely disrupted digestive system, which makes me wary of all food and not want to stand or walk

Mood swings, which leave me angry or upset about absolutely nothing (or ten times more reactive to small things)

Inability to focus on any one task

Insomnia

My hair falls out in clumps
Heightened paranoia and dastardly intrusive thoughts
Night terrors
Little or no enjoyment of things I normally like
Difficulty driving
Panic attacks, which leave me short of breath and hyper-aware of possible triggers

The list goes on… and that’s just what depression does to me, nevermind all the symptoms of anxiety that I experience on a particularly rough day.

Yeah. It’s gross. To live it.

But despite being frustrated that sometimes I am very sick, I’m really not ashamed of it. Because there is no room for shame in my body when all that other stuff has taken hold. I’ve failed myself in only one instance lately, in this seven day challenge: I didn’t allow myself to be visible. To turn a phrase, I advertised the armor instead of the war.

I spend so much time listening to my body and validating my own feelings, and yet I didn’t extend myself that courtesy at a prime opportunity. So now, my depression is still invisible, and I have seven pictures of myself looking put-together, no different than the tons of selfies I take on a regular basis (I’m team selfie — if you feel good about yourself, there’s no good reason not to share that with others!).

The truth about becoming visible is that I have to overcome my fear of appearing broken. Sometimes I am broken, and sometimes I just want to tell people that I’m not doing very well, but that I’m working on it and not to worry.

In order to de-stigmatize talking about mental illness, I can’t rely on other people to see the truth behind the projected image. I have to change my language to a format the general masses can understand (and it has nothing to do with bodily fluids).

So here’s what I am today: not broken, small headache, and out of all the joints in my body, only my fingers are aching. Outfit? Lycra pajamas–but they’re matching. No makeup, no intrusive thoughts. Hopeful, overwhelmed, but putting my energy towards letting go of today’s fears and embracing the gifts of the day.

See? That wasn’t so bad.

Bio: Kate is a Portland-based writer, artist and mental health advocate. She is appreciative of Jane Austen, a coffee snob, and a lover of Young Adult fiction. Visit her at thehonestbrain.wordpress.com for more information about her journey to better mental health, as well as testimonies from other mental health champions.