#every identical twin i know has mental illness about it in some way and therapists never know how to deal w it unless theyre also a twin or | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

sir-severance · 4 years

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connective tissue - mlandersen0

this is my piece for the fantastic Slenderverse Zine (2019). this was a pleasure to write, and i am honoured to have been a part of such a wonderful project. you can check out the zine here, and read this fic on AO3 here.

a quick disclaimer - i hope it's quite clear that i do not support the views which the character Shaun Andersen expresses in this fic. this is an exploration into mental health stigma, the entitlement of neurotypicality and the damage which can come about from both sides of any relationship within which someone is suffering because of mental illness. i am not interested in any discourse. please take this fic for what it is, and if you disagree, feel free to write your own. likewise, please heed the content warnings.

thanks, and i hope you enjoy <3

cws: mental health, mental illness, ableism, sickness, anxiety, depression, blood, twins, abuse, therapy, gore, terror, horror

Shaun’s parents often address him in the same breath as talking about Michael, as if the two are immutably connected, their meaning solely defined by virtue of each not being the other. But the parental Andersens could not always retain this facade of equality in front of their youngest child. No, Shaun found the documents when he was ten, long after Michael’s departure.

At the time, the words he found staggered him with polysyllabic ambiguity:

Monochorionic.

Parasitic.

Anemic.

But one phrase unfurled its roots and lodged itself into the squishy whorls of his brain.

The night of the discovery, little Shaun Andersen ran screaming into his parents’ bedroom, tears and terror marring his face the way fresh understanding of horror always does. When his mother hushed Shaun, held him close and begged him to explain what was wrong, the boy’s answer made the colour flood from her face.

All too soon, Shaun found himself confronted with yet more walls: walls so staggeringly bleached that, to Shaun, the paint served not as a reminder of cleanliness, but of spores and fungi and bacteria, swelling into turgid contaminants ready to burrow through his skin and pick his bones clean.

“Twin-to-twin transfusion syndrome,” the therapist reads from her notes. She smiles at Shaun, with too many teeth. “Where did we hear such big words, hm?”

Shaun keeps quiet. In the time since Michael left, the value of silence impressed its qualities upon him. The art of disquiet is something everyone knows about, but few possess the gall to produce. Shaun maintains fixed eye contact with the therapist, while revelling in the security offered by his glasses. There’s a plastic quality to her dimples: an artificial construction of pleasantry that only a child could see through.

She doesn’t care about you.

Shaun believes there’s relief for both of them when the light goes out of her eyes.

“It’s okay, Shaun,” the therapist says. Her voice quavers noticeably. “I think you’re a very smart boy. You’d like me to tell you the truth, wouldn’t you?”

I think you want to tell me the truth and not have to deal with me, Shaun thinks. The therapist continues on regardless:

“Sometimes, when people have babies, things can go wrong. The baby might come out sick, or a bit different.”

The therapist watches him for a response. Shaun tries his best not to blink. Her mouth twitches.

“When a mom has a baby inside, the baby gets their food from an organ called the placenta. It’s kind of like a phone charger — it gets plugged in to the wall of the mommy’s tummy, and when she eats, nutrients from the food are transferred to the baby. These nutrients are transferred by blood. Do you understand?”

You’re talking to me like I’m an idiot. This doesn’t feel professional at all, is what Shaun Andersen understands. How old does she think I am?

“With twins, sometimes they share one placenta, instead of having one each. And sometimes, blood gets passed between the twins.” Her face creases, like she’s recalling something unpleasant. “This can mean that one twin doesn’t get enough blood — they’re called the ‘donor’ twin — and the other gets too much blood, making them the ‘recipient’ twin.”

The therapist actually looks away before going on, and Shaun is sure it has more to do with practiced decency than genuine upset.

“Michael received the blood your other brother didn’t get.”

It sounds like she’s reading from a script. Maybe she prepared this. Wanted to scare me and take me off guard so she can get into my head. I’m not going to say a damn thing. Fuck her.

“I’m sorry you had to find out the way you did, Shaun.” The therapist’s mouth twists in a grim approximation of sympathy. “But it’s just a fact of life.”

A fact of life that Michael devoured his twin in the womb.

It’s only now that he’s in some lightless attic, face-down on the floor with his skin prickled against the cold, that this wash of memories coats Shaun with their accusatory foam. There’s a peculiar, pickling scent prodding at his gag reflex; this room reeks of mold and misery. It’s as if the air itself is frothing from an unseen mouth. For Shaun, this triggers a memory encased in nausea. A taste identical to the sour pills the therapist gave him that day spills onto his palate: anti-anxiety medication.

Shaun vomited the first batch he took, so he ceased taking them all together. Instead, he replaced each pill in his medication box with chalky, pastel candy, and made a big show of swallowing one in the morning and one in the evening.

He’s just like Michael, really. As long as there are witnesses, he’ll put on a show.

Splinters impale the meat of Shaun’s mouth, and sawdust cakes his tongue. He hacks and coughs, and writhes on the floor. His knees manage to find purchase in the gloom, but his muscles tremble and quiver with the effort of kneeling. He’s been bashed and bruised, dragged carelessly and tossed aside like a used rag. Tenderised meat before the slaughter.

And Michael’s going to be the same.

Shaun’s breath pulses out in panicked bursts. He can just about see his exhalations curling away in the freezing cold. No, he can’t be this weak — he must shove it back, quash the feeling. He’s worth more than this. If he goes back on the things he said to Michael now — horrible, hateful things — then he’ll never be able to live with himself.

So Shaun breathes steadily, working his way around the anxiety attack the way his therapist never showed him. As his heart rate steadies and adrenaline drops, all that energy and fear circumvents his guts, and heads a frontal assault on his brain. This leads to a conclusion burning through his mind with perfect clarity

This is all Michael’s fault.

Shaun never knew the name for whatever disease ravaged his brother’s mind. Not that he ever asked. The less he knew about Michael’s... abnormalities, the better. He remembers phrasing it that way to his parents, when he finally said no to another trip to see the remains of their estranged son.

Each week flowed the same way: stilted conversation between siblings, and pained platitudes from their parents. All meaningless little words of encouragement deliberately skipping over the elephant in the room — or, rather, the room containing the elephant, with its queasy walls and claustrophobic bars on the windows. No one in there ever used words like crazy or sick — in fact, they gave you a sheet of words to refrain from using when in the presence of the patients. All the relatives and guests of the inmates were expected to behave in this fashion.

This nauseated Shaun. He knew his brother was still in there. And he knew better than anyone how Michael liked to play his little games.

Regardless, Shaun tried his best to make Michael talk, and find something recognisable in the muddy depths of his eyes. But every visit, the dark deepened. No matter how many toys he tried to share, no matter how many stories he’d try to tell, and no matter how many times he affirmed to Michael that they were best friends and one day he’d get out of the hospital so they could play again... he stayed the same.

The final straw comes one dismal, rainy Friday afternoon. Shaun and his dad sit next to each other, opposite Michael with a table acting as barrier between them, saying nothing.

An aide took them both aside before they entered the main facility, and explained that Michael is being trialed on another type of medication. The visit is going as miserably as the weather foretold.

Michael looks barely human. Something is altered in the familiar shape of his body, like a bent coat hanger hastily reformed into an approximation of its original structure. The older Andersen brother slumps back in his chair, his skin several shades whiter than the wall behind him. His mouth is cracked with dehydration, and his hair is tangled with sleeplessness and grease. But worst of all are his eyes. They sit listless and devoid of comprehension, with blank pupils gazing aimlessly at his family, through them, and beyond them. A candle snuffed out before shrinkage of the wick.

Shaun remembers the emptiness of his therapist’s eyes. The glee in outwitting her. The pleasure of looking into those sad, brown depths.

There is no joy in peering into Michael’s skull.

Without warning, Shaun’s temper seizes him with all the ferocity a young boy’s hormones could. He slams his clenched fist down on the table, rattling metal. All conversation in the room ceases, a veil of corpselike silence.

Michael, however, doesn’t react. He doesn’t even acknowledge the sound.

The words jump from Shaun’s mouth like oil from a sizzling pan, murderous in their venom.

“You’re such a freak.”

Before the aides can reach him, Shaun’s dad grabs him by the shoulder and yanks him out of the room, into the hallway. Shaun can tell he’s furious, but there’s so much anger pumping through his blood that he just doesn’t care. He needs to do something, anything, to puncture the film over Michael’s eyes. Anything to make him so much as flinch.

But Michael remains unaffected.

As expected, the facility removes them both immediately, and Shaun is given a one-month visitation ban. This doesn’t bother Shaun in the slightest — in fact, he feels victorious, and righteous in his fury. There’s no way he’s coming back. Not this time. Michael squandered his last chance.

Even so, he’ll never forget his last view of that room, before his father pulls him away.

Tears spilling freely down Michael’s stony face.

From then on, the pre-trip talk with his parents is a minefield to navigate. They try so hard to make everything light and cheery, to speak about Michael like he’s still a part of their family, but Shaun overhears them speaking about their visits when they think he’s not listening. Now, more often than not, Michael’s arms are bound throughout their visits. Other times, they’re only able to converse with their son from behind a pane of tough glass.

Sometimes, they came home early.

‘Oh, Mikey’s feeling a touch under the weather today,’ their mother chirps. ‘But he says he misses you lots and lots!’

Her happy tone belies the true quality of their visit. It doesn’t matter. Shaun never asks for further details. Eventually, Shaun is old enough that his moods are ascribed to the terrors of puberty, and he is left to his own devices.

In retrospect, the seven years between Shaun’s Michael-detox and their first meeting as adults seems superfluous. The difference the years wrought upon Michael shocked Shaun.

Where once there existed a timid, chubby little kid with the brightest of smiles, now stood a gangly, hollow-looking man, with eyes like pits of coal. Though the corners of Michael’s mouth upturn upon seeing him, Shaun doesn’t register any warmth.

Somehow, this infuriates Shaun more than his brother’s tears ever could. He’d always assumed that even though his brother is older, Michael would remain the same size — adulthood somehow being barred for the mentally ill. Resentment boils away in Shaun’s stomach seeing how much taller his brother is, how clean-cut his features are. But this isn’t the thing which incenses Shaun the most.

It’s that, in those eyes, those chasmic clefts gouged out in his pale flesh, Shaun saw quiet patience.

Intelligence.

Forgiveness.

Just the mere hint of any kind of pity from his brother makes Shaun’s thoughts curdle with rage. How dare he be okay? He’s supposed to be sick! Isn’t that the whole reason why he got locked up in the first place?

Shaun knows these are irrational and angry thoughts, but would rather cut out his own tongue than internalise them as ‘unfair’. He slaved away the better part of his life playing second fiddle to his parents’ worry and concern, always visiting Michael, paying more attention to Michael... all while their favourite son plays the part of a theatre dummy.

So Shaun makes the decision there and then. He is under no obligation to take care of this man forced upon him by blood — but he will. He will be the most selfless, compassionate human being his brother has ever seen.

Then they’ll see who has the right to forgive.

The walls of the attic Shaun can’t see feel like they’re closing in on his aching body, dragging themselves closer with hidden, noiseless claws. If you hadn’t lied about seeing the Tall Man, he wouldn’t be as sick as he is, his thoughts hiss, and he thinks that the walls are growing mouths and speaking to him, indicting him, readying to pluck his head from his shoulders and smack it on a pike.

Yet, as his fear increases, tiny increments of light make themselves known in Shaun’s vision. Eventually, he’s able to zero in on a shape just out of each — something large and mostly crimson, with a long curved blade extending from its middle. Sickly, distended panic courses through Shaun like a white-hot fever when he recognises the shape.

It’s a fucking chainsaw.

The enormity of the situation crashes into his nervous system. He’s being laid out, prepped and ready for consumption. Oh God, he drugged me to tie me down and cut me open, and then he’s gonna go find Michael and do the same thing-

Keep it together! Express some reticence, for fuck’s sake. You’re not going to break down. You’re not going to give in. Michael’s the one who hurt you, kept hurting you, all this time. Without him, you would have a real family. A home. A future. Not biting the dust spilled on some dank basement.

The attic betrays nothing but the acrid stench of death. People have died here. People have been tied up and carved open like autopsy specimens, all for the gain of their sadistic owner. Shaun, despite his terror, continues to squint at the weapon.

You’re about to bite the dust anyway...

When Shaun sees the blood staining the steel, he screams.

Another flashbulb memory comes searing into his head: his brother’s wafer-thin form keeling over in the snow. That chokehold of panic throws Shaun into immediate action, forcing him to run and cradle the body of his brother. He’s so desperate and terrified, not knowing if this is really Michael, what this body could be capable of...

And yet Shaun grabs hold anyway, all grudges suddenly forgotten, and oh fuck it must be Patrick, because his nose is bleeding and his limbs are as heavy and wet as the white beneath their boots. Shaun hauls him the best he can, inwardly cursing his lack of strength, and as he drags Patrick over to the frozen table he can only pray his mental fortitude is made of stronger stuff.

“I came here to apologise.”

“Really.”

The sarcasm pours out of Shaun without a second thought, so heated it almost scorches the icy air. But there’s no way he could ever dam this wave of fury.

‘There’s still a lot you don’t know...’

It takes everything Shaun has to not to let his poker face flicker, but the rage beneath makes him want to seize Patrick by his lapels and bash him against a wall. How dare he. This freakshow of a bodysnatcher can’t even keep his brother’s body alive and well long enough to stand up while having a conversation, and yet has the nerve to patronise him?

Shaun hears, ‘I’m sorry for Stormy,’ as if from the other end of a tunnel. All that’s brewing in his head is the conundrum sitting in front of him. Two personalities, one body. They’re interchangeable now, one and the same. Twice the twin, half the skeleton. Michael, playing patient zero to a contagion which wrecks and wrings until bloodied flesh is all that’s left behind. Patrick, a disease forged in the womb and soaked into the being of a boy who could have been something different.

Should have been.

Never will be.

No one could reconcile the two but Shaun.

So it must be a sickness, an illness, a disease. And everything bad that ever comes from sweet Michael’s mouth is a result of his condition.

If that’s the case, is it so awful to want to be as far away from them — from him — as possible, whoever — and whatever — he is?

Patrick is only sharing the broken-down condo which remains of his brother’s body.

Taking back his stolen property.

And where does that leave Shaun?

As the unspoken martyr, of course.

There’s only so much room in my head for bullshit, Shaun seethes. I’m not going to live my life cleaning up after him — not for Michael or Patrick.

And that’s it - that’s the one thing that people never let him have. The realisation which hits upon their return to the motel, where Michael cowers beneath the words spat from Shaun’s molten mouth. He always possessed a thought process blessed by rapidity, but a tongue cursed to be silver. Shaun is nothing but a host to a panoply of pain as essential to him as his own veins.

As essential as the blood flowing between Michael, and the brother he never met.

When Shaun storms out into the cold, determined to be somewhere, anywhere that puts great distance between him and the entity Michael/Patrick Andersen, he feels the full force of the Virus, nesting, breeding, multiplying beneath his skin. There’s no room for guilt and worry and pain — just the cure.

To never be near his brother again.

When Shaun saw Patrick’s nose bleeding, he had to swallow back bile. He knew in an instant that their brother never left, not really. Once, connective tissue held the bonds of their brotherhood fast. The transfusion continues. The real question is — who is the donor, and who is the recipient?

Even his own family emphasised the importance of their blood-bond, unable to comprehend Shaun’s behaviour.

“He’s your brother, Shaun, and he needs your help,” his mom tells him one night, barely holding back the tears. “I know he can be difficult to deal with, but this isn’t his fault. He didn’t ask to be sick.”

And Patrick didn’t ask to die, Shaun wants to scream. No one blames Michael for cannibalism, do they?

Now he’s facedown in the wood, sawdust clinging to the hot streaks his tears leave behind, and that mortifying image which plagues his nightmares comes looming large from the recesses of his mind; two twin boys, floating without care in a shared amniotic sac, their umbilical cords respectively attached to the same fleshy hunk in lieu of a beating heart.

Shaun feels like his foetal never-brother. Severed. Shrink-wrapped in his own sac, the very thing keeping him alive. And then eventually swallowed whole.

It’s time for Shaun to cut the cord for good.

Why couldn’t you just be normal? The tears start for real now, fat and salty and rolling down Shaun’s face in a tempest. His internal monologue is louder now, drowning out the background noise of his softer (yet much more insidious) conscience.

Stormy would still be here if you weren’t so fucked up... I could have had a normal life if it weren’t for you...

There’s no time left for forgiveness. Because of Michael... Patrick... because Shaun willingly exposed himself to this pathogen again and again, he is going to die here, in this glacial attic, with no one around to know or care.

But, as the lights are turned off, and a dark, unfamiliar laughter fills his every sense, a set of horrid thoughts riot in the screeching crowd of his brain; the thoughts that could never quite be buried.

Michael didn’t know what he was doing... Michael didn’t know what he consumed…

Shaun once made the mistake of asking his mom what his other brother was going to be called.

No-one ever asks to be infected.

Shaun’s eyes shut against the darkness for the last time.

“I always liked the name Patrick.”

#mlandersen0 #the andersen journals #slenderverse #michael andersen #shaun andersen #patrick andersen #slenderversezine #quinnwrites

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trippz2ill2ace8itout · 5 years

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🥀ιzzу21.i❤️&MissMySonAnthonyMartinez.RIP2KimberlyOlivarez,RIP2JeremyBaraz&IshmaelBaraz.RIPGrandpaHarold.RIPKeraAndrews. RIPJuanTorrez, RIPMamaLisa (One 0f My Foster Parents) RIPDad (Tortured/Abused Me In All Ways),RIPGrandmaSarah (My Mom's Mom) Biromantic-Asexual.Sтαуѕтяσηg.вαттℓєѕcαяz.GOD.TraumaSinceAge4TillJuly2018.Occuring24/7.BяσкєηNDamaged.RIP2Me.Surviver.Vocals&[email protected]❤️M0M.i❤️PeteWentz&Tyler Joseph.Queen0fJupit3r.W3ird.Singer.Actor.Writ3r.2Caring.Ace8ItOut.🥀 UrNotAlone. I make movies,Music,freestyles,vlogs,shows,shortseries/films,I'm here4everyone. my solo musician project."Br0k3n R0z3z".All content on this channel owned by me. MyWattpad Ms_SweetInsanityyx (IWroteABook)

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WARNING: I help everyone and everything obsessively (I am there no matter what, I'm here to be there and help in any way, shape, or form possible. So if you need someone, you can contact me on my socials.)

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System Malfunction; Errors: Brain Possession, Sanity Loss, Mind Damage, Overthinking, Too High Maintenance, Loss Of One's Mind, and Killing Of OnesSelf Slowly.

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🖤🥀Updated A Lil Part Of My Life Story Summerized🥀🖤

.♪★I am a recovering drug addict and alcoholic, on Step One &10 MonthsClean.

♪★My deceased father tortured me since I was 4 (I fought back at age 9, when my dad's torture got worse, (on multiple occasions on our he injection me with Meth and Heroin (inside a parked car at Carl's Jr

♪★now I've been homeless 13 times

♪★I rose a 9 year old kid (now 14 years old) named Anthony Castillo-Martinez, he was In an abusive foster home (the same one I was in), so me and my motel roommate and ex girlfriend of One Year. Kimberly Marie-Olivarez took him in

♪★I was mentally unstable and unfit so CPS took him away, (under Kimberly's false accusations that I "gave him drugs")

♪★im known for police, fire department, AMR, sherriffs etc.

♪★Jeremy Baraz & Ismhael Baraz, got shot && I saw the entire thing , and I almost got killed as well

♪★I was Prostituting/got sold, got drugged up and abused for money for us (To raise Anthony, and have a hotel for me Kim and him to live) and she killed herself (right in front of me and I tried to st0p her, but I was to late

♪★ I've been raped by my drug dealers which also drugged me up.people on the streets, Kimberly && many more)

♪★I was in Foster Care a couple times, ×°the 2nd time i was in abusive/Drug addicts, Angela and Jimmy Miller (they tortured, force fed, raped, abused, but me, drugged me up, had multiple people (over 40 a day) come in an rape me one by one

x°first a foster called GHS with staff instead of parents

x° and with Lisa (who was like a grandma to me but she passed away later on so I moved , later finding out that she attempted suicide)

♪★I’ve been in 215 mental hospitals (ETS, Loma Linda, Arrowhead, Cedars Cienai, San Bernardino Community, Delamo, The Willows "CRC", Auoura Charter Oaks, Auoura Las Encinas, UCI, Canyon Ridge, Kaiser, Kaiser Sunset, College Hospital)

♪★lock down treatment centers,1in Utah called Copper Hills Youth Center, ♪★multiple treatment centers

crisis centers (Crisis Stabelization Unit a 24 hour crisis center [CSU] over 80 times)

♪★2 week mental health and drug/alcohol programs (STAY Program (2x), Jumpstreet, Excelsior House, Rancho West, and Telecare Lagos...2x each)

♪★group homes (Rancho Domocitas), ♪★Boarding Cares (Golden Girls, a SSI paid house of all girls)

♪★rehabs (Cedar House 2x, CHYC, and multiple others)

♪★shelters (House of Miracles, Lutheran Mission, Set Free Ranch, Path Of Life, and many otherz)

♪★the streets (13 times homeless/on the streets, LA, OC, Menifee, Riverside, Murrietta, Mission Viejo, Corona, irvine and San Bernardino)

♪★been in car accidents (over 10 times)

♪★i have anger issues (extremely bad), been kicked out of multiple schools since 7th grade

♪★I’ve attempted suicide over 50 to 100 times

♪★I’ve self harmed on multiple occasions (in all kinds of different methods)

♪★I have bipolar (manic depressive disorder type 1 mixed episode).

♪★depression (major depressive disorder).

♪★paranioa.

♪★anxiety.

♪★Buliemia.

♪★insomnia.

♪★Dissociative Identity Fued.

♪★skitzoaffective (extreme skitzophrenia && bipolar mixed) ♪★PTSD.

♪★ocd.

♪★attachment disorder.

♪★Autism.

♪★borderline personality.

♪★amnesia.

♪★multiple personality disorder. ♪★anorexia.

♪★&&..i helped the homeless and people In hospitals (I help everyone way toooo much)

♪★been 0n all mental Health medication (I mean ALL)

♪★ People Tried To Send

Me To Metropolitan State Hospital(highest level of Care)

♪★IMD (Institution For The Mentally Diseased) on multiple occasions

♪★ive been to many therapists, physciatrists, ER's, and been on 51/50, 52/50 holds , concervertaship

♪★and lastly ive got taken away from my mom on four occasions (personal reasons)

♪★I’ve never had a stable home since 2011, now on Augest of 2018 I’m finally home

♪★I help others cus im used to people not caring about me

♪★I have trust issues, im always there to help to care to make sure there OK.

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concept22 · 5 years

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Today I got a bipolar diagnosis

edit: btw, nobody was injured when i crashed. it was into a light post and nobody was around.

There is confetti everywhere around my room. And I am confused why there is such a mess and why it’s so pretty to me and also why despite seeing beauty in the mess I feel uncomfortable with my space having little shit all over it and I want it to be clean. Today shit hit the fan and the shit was a balloon and when it hit the fan it erupted and confetti flew everywhere. I got a bipolar diagnosis today. After nearly 10 years of clinical diagnoses from major depression, generalized anxiety, ocd tendency, mania, psychosis, to a literal thought disorder called delusional disorder, as well as PTSD, today I heard something that felt like it contains all of me and there is room for me to be me and not feel so confused and like my identity is all over the place depending which disorder is showing it’s face most. I am Cassidy Jean Gardner, and I am bipolar with PTSD. I feel terrified and so confused and Im crying while I write this but the tears feel like a relief a sweet rush of acceptance from and for myself that I have been yearning for for a long, long time. My therapist believes I have mixed manic-depressive bipolar called cyclothymic bipolar, not to be confused with a less “emotionally intense” cyclothymia diagnosis. With my understanding so far, I understand that Bipolar 1 is characterized by more manic tendencies with depressive stints. Bipolar 2 is characterized by more depressive tendencies with hypomanic bursts. The difference between these types of bipolar and the one have been experiencing the spectrum of for the last 2 and a half years years for sure is that BP 1&2 symptoms of mania or depression last several days, weeks, or months. Cyclothymic bipolar experiences of mania and depression can last hours. I have been so confused by my own mind for so long, and like my emotional responses to things were never valid, true, natural, and in my manic times, not even human. I can go from being manic to then coming across something that doesn’t fit my manic ideology and having an extremely depressed, hopeless response, to, sometimes it feels like minutes later, come up with a new “solution” that helps me feel better and relieved of the shame i feel about my manic beliefs and world view that I go right back up there again, and the cycle repeats. Thinking myself in and out of mania it can feel like. The days when I am not crippled or at best, so far, consistently hindered, by the accompanying anxiety of not having much of a sense of emotional normalcy or “neutral” perspective on things are my best days. The days when I am hypomanic, and I decide to scrap everything I’ve been working toward and stop identifying with these things in the name of authenticity libration and creativity, are my favorite right now, and that is hard. because it’s not super helpful to be this way- so passionate and “righteous”- that i throw out the window regard for any sort of routine i have worked hard to establish myself in the name of having “figured out something better”. It’a hard to feel so happy I can’t listen to my rational self because I feel so intoxicated by the feeling of happiness motivation and productivity I so crave. I am not sure what is harder. Being so manic that I become psychotic, completely delusional to the point that I literally believe I am Satan or Lucifer herself and that everything around me is confirming this horrible burden yet somehow “karmic blessing” that I never asked for, the the times when my depression is so bad I sleep for 16 hours of the day, have no motivation to even fathom life becoming better ever, and prefer to dream than live waking, walking life. I have lived in ambivalence for years, and as a coping mechanism I convinced myself I thrived in this arena. I see myself in front of the pendulum that is my mind. Every day it swings and I try to control it. It doesn’t stop swinging. It swings so roughly and rapidly that it flys out of the bars holding it up often. It’s like there is a wind pushing it that is the devil itself tricking me by being “invisible” aka not existing. When it’s on the manic side, I try to grab it and in the process get picked up off the ground and everything around the pendulum gets knocked over in my efforts to hold the pendulum and keep it on the “happy” side. Like the things around me are my life that I’ve built and they will fall as easily as bowling pins. There is no weight to keep them stable when I hit them. The foundation is slippery. On the depressive side, I rush over angry that I wasn’t strong enough to hold things on the manic side and desperately try to push it back toward my “happy” side, but it is so so fucking heavy. and I don’t remember it being that heavy and I cannot believe I ever fathomed loving the pendulum I was clinging to sometimes minutes earlier. Shame guilt self loathing. compared to my visions of grandiosity, of the world revolving around me, of having a sense of self worth and confidence and the courage to claim it and say hey i deserve to feel good about myself. to god how dare I ever think that. I am the most selfish person on the planet the sheer vain and foolishness to believe everything even anything really could possible be about or for me. I like to believe that I am somewhere in the middle. I prefer the hypomanic side, and this is a detriment as well, because i can easily get too high. but the hypomanic can be so... fun. The bits of excessive energy, the slightly inflated sense of self worth, the belief that I can follow my dreams and the ability to use my mind to direct my thoughts toward ways to create strategy to get where I want and build stepping stones. The fear of fallibility. the anxiety that comes with ever feeling good about myself from the ptsd of that abusive relationship and that night especially. I shouldn’t plan, because they will be foiled, if not by me by a man most likely. nowhere is safe, especially not my own mind. thats’s where I perceived love, and oh hasn’t god shown me how powerful that is. being so manic that I confuse the feeling with someone being my soulmate, twin flame, my destiny. telling that person and responding to the rejection emotionally by going psychotic and fully delusional. How afraid I have been to love, of my own love, being truly loved that i don’t feel the need to constantly prove myself, and certainly the idea of ever loving myself for being who I am. In 2016 when I got PTSD and no longer was the “high functioning” “mentally ill” girl I was before, many people treated me like I had fallen from grace and it was my fault. Thank fucking god for the people who have been here for me. So many people took this as an opportunity it felt to slander me. “ha, I knew she wasn’t so wonderful, look how crazy she is. She intentionally crashed her car. who does that?” a person who is so confused with their undiagnosed bipolar and the fact they are going through a manic episode as a response to intense trauma therapy does that. I was told my whole life I was wonderful for being pretty and intelligent, and what a special combination. what a bitch of a “gift”. The two things I was naturally both with and did not earn, my intelligence and my body and my face. What about my humor? What about my ability to be a good friend? What about how hard I work? I was told I should never dare praise myself for these things because I was already “lucky enough” to be praised for the things I never asked for but was given by either genetics or fate- god knows. I have so many feelings. and I’m so grateful to know that I am impulsive. Sure, I’m “spiritually gifted”, but not necessarily everything has to be a blaring call from god or synchronicity that I must act on immediately if I want to see the “right things”, see the world the “right way”, and “be where I am to be”. My perfectionism has nearly killed me. Seeking to be spiritually perfect because I sure has hell was not physically or mentally perfect, I mean, look at those guys and girls more “beautiful”, look at those men and women more “accomplished”. And the brainwashed peers (not their fault) for idolizing me, giving me a sense of power I never fucking sought. Sure. Maybe you can make the argument that my “soul wanted this”, but suffering was never in the deal. and I have suffered. I have been so miserable I didn’t even know how to fathom the energy to put together a plan to kill myself. and thank god for that level of depression, because I didn’t die. because I’m supposed to be here and finally I feel I can make some peace with my singular identity as Me, Cassie. someone who is fun, funny, smart, relatable, bipolar, and so much more. I feel terrified of stigmatization even though I know it’s fucked up that it even exists. At least, I think, with the delusional disorder diagnosis, even though it was similar to a schizophrenic diagnosis just lacking frequency of symptoms, hardly anybody knew what it was. Oh I have a thought disorder and the propensity to think in delusional ways sometimes. NBD tho as u can see I’m perfectly fine :). So many more people know about bipolar. And many have strong opinions. The plus here is that there is more push to end stigmatization and more research into ways to cope manage and accept this diagnosis which I am so thankful for, and more easily accessible community. There was nothing on delusional disorder. It was so uncommon that when my psychiatrist in the rehab told my therapist what my diagnosis was she handed me the DSM to read about it because she didn’t know what it was. Yeah, I went to rehab. Last november (2017) I had a psychotic break, though it was not my first experience with delusion. I became manic as a response to feeling rejected by a guy and it escalated to me hardly sleeping, doing a lot of cocaine and other drugs, and having a full blown psychotic break. I experienced psychosis for 2 and a half months. The first 3 weeks of this stint it was all i could feel or think about. At first it was fun, until it wasn’t. I legitimately thought that there was a secret society the illuminati that had been made to “illuminate” me, that all art had been inspired by me, the energetic muse, lucifer “finally reincarnating” back to earth in the age of aquarius and dawn of immortality, and nobody around me was safe because I was all that was valued by this illuminati and the people who I loved most were in danger because while I loved them most and the illuminati knew this, the illuminati was angry that these people has hurt me, someone who was so impressionable, “born schizophrenic and able to hide it in order to learn about ‘normal society’”, and were responsible for the pain I felt which I handled with negative coping mechanisms like addiction. So it was my job to create worldly and spiritual circumstances to keep them safe from disaster and accident or murder because they all felt so bad about hurting me subconsciously that they had less of a will to live, and this was a dangerous way to think, subconsciously of course. That I was everyone’s higher self in the 4d’s favorite 3d person other than their person, and that they all were working to send me messages from the consciously unaware around me. I was fully out too my mind. I legitimately thought I was lucifer, the most hated person on the planet but god’s favorite angel, ready to ask for entry back into heaven. And the only thing that was me was my fear response to my thoughts and the way I read into everything. no I can’t dare think this this can’t dare be true but somehow everything around me is telling me it is. Literally fuck this. I felt that I needed to be with loved ones constantly to “keep them safe” and I understandably was simultaneously scaring the shit out of my family due to my mental health, and exhausting them. my mom and I both agreed the best thing was for me to go into a treatment center, the rose house. A “dual-diagnosis” rehab that treated mental health and addiction. Cool, well when I got there apparently every single reason I had mental health problems was because I had used substances, not because I had struggled with my mental health since becoming conscious in light of my father passing when i was almost 9 and eventually found drugs as a coping mechanism. I felt shamed for my addiction to marijuana and 100% misunderstood and ostracized. out of the 15 women there all of the girls my age were in primarily for addiction and the only woman who was there for first mental health was an older woman named Kathleen, and she wasn’t an addict. The delusions never stopped I got better at hiding them. I was heavily medicated, afraid, fearing homelessness if i didn’t follow my family wishes to finish the 90 day program, and still pretty insane. After I got my diagnosis I left the treatment the night I got onto “transition” 67 days in and got my phone back, called a friend, and got brought up to fort collins where thank god emma was willing to let me stay with her. Miraculously, the delusions stopped within days. I was no longer so stressed and afraid that I couldn’t think for myself. I was bipolar this entire time. and my mania was “so irrational and unrecognizable” that they didn’t even know to recognize that this was my issue, it was more like I was “almost schizophrenic” without the visual hallucinations or auditory hallucinations. I wasn’t hearing other voices, but the voice in my head wanted me dead just as much as it told me I had a special reason to stay alive. I had a “sane reaction to insane circumstances”, and I temporally lost my mind. and I was petrified and anxiety ridden to the point I couldn’t function for months. I couldn’t make a single decision for weeks without going into full blown panic. I felt like everyone knew something that I didn’t and that they couldn’t tell me what I thought I knew, just give me hints, because otherwise they could be punished and also because they “believed in me”. I felt horribly betrayed while simultaneously fearing abandonment and isolation so much I felt I had developed Stockholm syndrome.

When I experienced full blown psychosis that was so scary, my whole life went to shit. I lost my scholarships. I lost my house in boulder so my family could afford rehab. everything changed while I was in panic and when I “returned” to a “normal” state of mind I couldn’t recognize anything in my own life, even myself. When I was on medication I gained 70 pounds in 2 and a half months. I went into rehab 95 pounds. I was so manic for months, either full blown or hypo, that I would forget to eat. And I was 165 when I left. I hated my life and the months following I was more depressed than I can ever remembered. I relapsed in april. april to september was a mix of drugs and romance that I don’t really care for. When I got sober again, prompted by a really scary night of returning to psychotic thinking which I thankfully learned reality checking skills for, I feel like after 4 almost 5 years of using drugs I was finally ready to stop feeling so out of control, at least with my substance use. Thank god for today, no matter how afraid i am of my future. I am just as hopeful. I have for hate myself for the ways I have treated people in my manic episodes, my family in my depressive episodes, and how I can hardly even remember it. but I do not deserve to feel this hate. I was suffering. I was living in a world I hadn’t found the words to describe. and now I know. That I am beautiful. truly. inside and out. and I have a beautiful mind. I love fiercely. I believe I can make a contribution to help “save the world”. That those who are mentally ill should be hugged tightly when they need it, that schizophrenic people especially, imo, are horribly and unfairly understood and deserve to feel cherished and accepted just as much as anyone else, not to be feared and casted out of society. I believe every single person no matter what deserves to know they are not alone, no matter how lonely they feel, and so much more good. I am not the ugly or the bad. I am a motherfucking survivor. And thank god I didn’t die the day I re-enacted my dad’s car accident. Because I do have a purpose, and it is special. Most importantly, it’s just as special as everyone else’s special purpose. We are all in this together. And I’m excited to find a community of people who have fought similar battles. Who I can laugh about my “a trillion under the sun” delusions with and find humor in the ways my mind sought to preserve a will to live. and how other people have done the same. I am me, and today I became free of my own condemnation. I will struggle, but now I know there is community and resources that I don’t need to scour the earth to find. I have a home, and it is here, proud to be me. There is confetti everywhere around my room. Who knew that balloon I had been so afraid of letting go of was my own attempt to celebrate myself. I may feel late to my own party, but I’m here now. And there is no problem with not wanting my room to always look like a wild rave. I can always make more confetti, anyways :)

To end with some gratitude, thank god for my true friends and my family. Emma has never left my side as my best friend, even in the distance of living in different parts of the state. She is my best fucking friend. My other close best friends as well, who have not been afraid to hug me when I swore to them my entire body was covered in needles. My mom, who has done everything for me to make sure I know I am never truly alone, no matter how much my mind tries to tell me otherwise. For my little brother, for putting up with my craziness and still being willing to love me and laugh with me at the end of the day. Everyone in my life now is so beautiful it’s hard to deny that there may be some beauty in me, too, then, if they all tell me they like when I’m around. I’m grateful to know that my father, who i have idolized though gone now, was whole loved by the people around me. Whose described as “large than life” personality and substance abuse may have been a way to mask bipolar symptoms, was still a loved personality and loved person. This I know. This people have convinced me. and that I am of him just as much as I am of my mother. I’m grateful for the mental health professionals who have not given up on me, even when they required i be medicated in order to be able to be worked with, even when i was misdiagnosed, these people have helped to save my life too. so many times. And I am so grateful for my higher power, for prayer, the only thing that felt safe to think that sometimes I would just repeat the serenity prayer for hours for the sake of at least having a way to direct my anxious energy and not be in panic from my own delusional thoughts. God, who has always shown me that i will never be truly abandoned or given up on, who has helped me understand my higher power as something that is absolutely not punitive. My family and friends have been my lifeboats, and god, the universe, gaia, the god in every person, has shown me how to survive the storm. I am. I desire. I see. and i am free.

This has been such a clusterfuck of emotions coming out that I have been wanting to feel for a long time and as messy as this is i’m grateful as well for the will to sit through this and write about these experiences, no matter the feelings they bring up. Because know I feel free to understand that the feelings will pass, sometimes more quickly than others, and that I can always survive. Even when that’s all I “manage” to do. Today. I stayed sober. I laughed. I put up the christmas tree with my mom and brother. I talked on the phone with my best friend. I told close friends what I learned about myself today. and I got diagnosed with bipolar. and I found a hope and interpretation for my mental narrative that I never felt was right for me because i don’t understand the words for what i was experiencing. I have learned today. And I have grown. and I am smiling as i finish typing this with tears rolling down my face, because I believe I can be happy. Sustainably happy. and sustainably grateful and hopeful when it’s hard to get to feeling the happiness. I believe and I survive. and I become<3 I am 21. I am brilliant. and I am bipolar.

#bipolar #personal #off my chest #very personal #text

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alivinghopes · 3 years

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Emotional Numbness

Weekly Discussion

At some point or another we’ve all heard these words before:

“Suck it up princess!” “Be a man!” “Stop being a cry-baby,” “Get over it,” “Stop being so sensitive,” “Get thicker skin!”

While these words were likely spoken without consciously intending us long-term harm, they nevertheless point to a common and undeniably tragic truth in our society: that expressing your emotions is a sign of weakness, rather than strength.

If you were born into an emotionally repressed culture that valued the “masculine” ideals of efficiency and logic, it is likely that you struggle with some level of emotional numbness.

If you were born into a family that shunned any form of strong emotional expression, it is even more likely that emotional numbing is an issue for you.

And if you experienced an extremely traumatic life event that was simply too overwhelming for you to handle (from which you haven’t recovered), I can almost guarantee that you suffer from emotional numbness.

So how does emotional numbness impact virtually every part of our life? And what advice can I share with you after going through my own struggle with this issue? Keep reading and you’ll find out.

What is Emotional Numbness?

Emotional numbness is a defense mechanism employed by the mind to avoid intense and overwhelming emotions such as fear, hatred, jealousy, and grief. When you go emotionally numb, you lose the ability to feel and experience your emotions on a psychological and emotional level. In this sense, emotional numbness is often clinically connected with dissociation, which is the disconnection from one’s memories, identity, environment, body, or senses.

What Causes Emotional Numbness?

As with most issues, emotional numbness goes back to childhood and the way we were raised by our parents. Being abused by our parents physically, emotionally, sexually, psychologically, or spiritually can contribute towards our inability to self-regulate emotions, which results in emotional numbness. Feeling alienated or disconnected from one or both of our parents, or family at large, can also contribute towards emotional numbness. Being punished whether directly or indirectly for expressing our emotions in childhood also creates emotional numbness.

Numbing our emotions may also start after a severely traumatic experience, such as witnessing acts of violence, being assaulted, experiencing rape, suffering intense loss, or anything that we didn’t have the capacity to psychologically and emotionally handle in the moment. For this reason, emotional numbness is often a symptom of PTSD and various anxiety disorders.

Emotional numbness is also influenced by our culture and wider social circles, particularly those that emphasize being stoic, rational, and emotionally invulnerable (e.g., British, Chinese, American, Russian).

The Danger of Emotional Numbness

If you even have the slightest inkling that you might be emotionally numb, it’s time to listen up. Emotional numbness is not a small character flaw or minor area of self-growth to improve in – it is a serious problem which needs to be addressed immediately.

Speaking from experience, emotional numbness has formed the root of many issues I have faced (and still continue to face) in my life. Due to my upbringing in an emotionally stunted, dogmatically religious family whom I felt disconnected from for the majority of my life, I never learned how to handle strong emotions. I was punished verbally, emotionally or physically anytime I expressed strong emotions, and freethinking or any form of dissent was rejected, resulting in being ostracized.

The combination of having a British father and a mother who was traumatized by her own emotionally unstable mother – on top of an oppressive fundamentalist religion – led to grooming me as a stoic and “stable” person who was taught that expressing emotions was not only bad but shameful.

As you can see, sometimes there are numerous factors at play that may contribute to your inability to regulate intense emotions, and therefore resort to unconsciously numbing them. In my case, I learned that strong emotions = punishment in one form or another, and so I learned that they were dangerous to experience.

The danger of disconnecting from your emotions is that it can lead to a host of mental, emotional, physical, and spiritual issues. Such issues may include dysfunctional coping mechanisms (obsessive compulsions), mild to severe depression, spiritual emptiness, inability to enjoy life, inability to form close and fulfilling relationships, disconnection from inner self, confusion, irritability, fatigue, addictions, chronic illnesses, and somatic illnesses (illnesses produced by the mind). In extreme cases (and I’m talking about situations where emotional contact is nil), emotional numbness can lead to acts of cruelty.

Why is it ‘the Secret Illness’?

I call emotional numbness the secret illness because it is so pervasive in our society, and so socially acceptable, that it often flies underneath the radar. In a society that largely doesn’t know how to handle strong emotions in healthy ways, being stoic and “level-headed” is valued – yet this very same calm and collected facade often conceals unhealthy detachment from one’s feelings. Thus, emotional numbness is a secret illness because so many of us struggle with it, yet don’t even realize that we have it until chronic issues start emerging.

13 Signs You’re Struggling With Emotional Numbness

Emotional detachment is not always a bad thing. It comes in handy when you need to maintain boundaries, avoid undesired energy overload from others, and even help others in crisis situations. But emotional detachment turns into its unhealthy twin (emotional numbness) when it becomes an automatic inner defense mechanism. “What’s so great about feeling strong emotions?” you might ask. The answer is that without feeling our emotions, we don’t have the capacity to live and learn from them or experience the beauty and depth of life.

Here are some of the most significant signs of emotional numbness that you should look out for:

Inability to express strong negative or positive emotions

Inability to “fully participate” in life (i.e., feeling like you’re a passive observer)

Feeling that life is like a dream (a sense unreality)

Living on autopilot

Lack of interest in activities others find enjoyable

Feeling distant from others

The tendency to withdraw from friends and family members

Emotions are only felt in the body as sensations, but not by the mind (or else are completely muted in the body and show up only as illness)

Dislike of people who express strong emotions (both positive and negative)

Not feeling anything in situations that would usually generate strong emotion

Panic or terror when strong emotions eventually breakthrough

Feeling empty inside

Physical and emotional numbness or “flatness”

In extreme circumstances (such as in PTSD sufferers), emotional numbness may even influence the desire to commit suicide. If you are considering suicide, please seek out support immediately.

How to Overcome Emotional Numbness?

Like any psychological defense mechanism, emotional numbing can be complex to deal with, and often requires support from a trained professional such as a therapist.

If you feel that emotional numbness is significantly impairing your life, please do an act of self-compassion and seek out support either locally or online (there are even free counselling services online).

For the time being, here are some helpful practices which I have personally found to increase my ability to feel, cope with, and express strong emotions:

Anchor yourself to your body. As mentioned above, emotional numbing is connected to dissociation (mental disconnection from one part of yourself). In my case, whenever I experience strong emotions, my automatic response is to either (a) only feel the emotions in my body, not my mind, or (b) to have a complete meltdown. In both cases, one of the best self-soothing mechanisms I’ve learned is to anchor myself to my body through mindfulness and physical contact. Similar to what a mother does with her child, I tightly but gently hold one area of my body – usually my hand or stomach. This method helps me to feel contained and grounded in my body. I also recommend using shapewear or a pressure vest to help you in extremely emotionally turbulent periods to anchor yourself to your body (here is a good example of shapewear). Shapewear is used by women and men to keep “love handles” and other body parts slim and defined. For our purposes, shapewear is like a hug to the body that will help you feel safe and ‘held together.’ Pressure vests are a little more expensive and they are used by people with sensory integration disorders (such as autism) to relax.

Deep breathing. Whether used alone or in conjunction with the above-mentioned technique, deep breathing is a simple and easy way to help you mindfully move through whatever you’re experiencing. This practice is particularly useful when intense feelings such as fear or rage break through. There are many books out there that talk about the importance of deep breathing (such as this one), and there are many online tutorials with breathing techniques. I recommend sticking to something simple, something you don’t have to think about too much, and something that doesn’t feel forced. The point of deep breathing isn’t to follow someone else’s technique perfectly, it is to use your breath (in whatever way suits you), to calm your mind and body. Also, I recommend breathing slowly, deeply, and softly instead of forcing deep breaths (which can increase anxiety) – let your breath be natural. Read more about how to relax using deep breathing.

Keep a journal of sad thoughts. I realize this suggestion may sound a tad bit melancholic, but it’s a practice worthy of your time and effort, particularly if you’re wanting to feel and express your emotions. Journaling is also a powerful form of shadow work (a way to express what you would usually suppress). In a physical journal or online diary, spend five to ten minutes every day writing down something which triggers even the slightest pang of sadness in you. For example, you might write down a memory of your dog who died, an issue in the world, something someone said to you, a scene from a movie, a daily struggle or virtually anything that is upsetting (or what you imagine would be upsetting). Creating a sad thoughts diary has two main benefits. One, it helps you express your emotions, even if in an indirect way at first. And two, it acts as a catalyst for feeling and letting out your emotions, particularly when you need momentum (I’ll elaborate more on this soon). Always try to finish your sad thought journaling with something uplifting, like reading the uplifting news subreddit, spending time with someone you love, playing with a pet, or watching something entertaining on YouTube or Netflix.

Catharsis (let it all out, baby!). When emotionally numbing ourselves becomes our default defense mechanism, we tend to have a huge amount of suppressed emotion lying just beneath our conscious awareness. In order to safely and effectively express your suppressed emotions, try some form of catharsis. Catharsis may involve screaming into or punching a pillow, using your sad thoughts journal (mentioned above) to stimulate sadness and crying, intense emotional-fuelled exercise, impassioned dancing, or dynamic meditation. Regular catharsis should be a must on your journey. Without regularly ‘letting it all out,’ you run the risk of experiencing the repercussions of festering emotions (i.e., depression, emptiness, chronic illness, etc.).

Yoga and self-massage. Yoga is a well-known way of helping to clear and balance your energy. Not only that, but yoga often has a way of releasing emotions stored in the body. I recommend doing slow and gentle forms of yoga such as Hatha yoga for at least ten minutes a day. Remember, the goal isn’t to become some Instagram-perfect yoga star; it is to connect with your body, mind, and heart. The truth is that our unexpressed and repressed emotions are often stored within our bodies. I like to think of our bodies as being reflections of our unconscious mind: they are maps that help us to figure out what we are keeping locked away, and what unresolved issues we need to face. In my article about chronic muscle tension, I list the nine types of emotions trapped in different areas of the body. In order to release these emotions, I regularly use something called the ‘Acuball’ to introduce fresh blood flow and energy into these tense areas. I like the Acuball because it gives me a deep tissue massage, while also helping me to stay grounded in my body, relax, and release pent-up stress. (You can get the Acuball here).

Creatively express your feelings (or lack thereof). Write a song, doodle in a journal, paint a picture, create a collage, find some way of expressing what emotion you last felt. If you struggle to feel anything at all, express that artistically. Grab those greys and blacks and turn that damn page into your own work of art. Pay attention to how you feel afterward. Does even the slightest feeling of satisfaction enter you? Journal about these emotions.

Take care of your inner child. As it was your child self that likely copped the trauma that caused you to default to emotional numbing, take care of this part of you. Practice inner child work and find ways of comforting and nurturing this vulnerable place within you. You may even like to create empowering affirmations for your inner child to help him or her access emotions. For example, you might repeat to yourself when you are in a difficult circumstance, “It is OK for me to feel,” “It is safe for me to feel sad,” “My anger is valid,” “Being vulnerable is being strong,” and so forth.

Dedicate space and time to feeling. In our busy lives, it is very easy to numb and distract ourselves with social media, the TV, shopping, food, social commitments, and other things that constantly cause us to look outside. Looking inside is much harder and requires far more self-discipline, hence why most people don’t do it. If you are serious about overcoming your emotional numbness, you will need to dedicate space and time to all of the activities I have mentioned in this article. If you struggle with self-discipline, I recommend making yourself externally accountable by joining a meditation group or other practice to help you turn inwards. Please don’t skip this step, it is imperative that you spend time exploring your inner self, and in particular, what you are repressing and why.

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Emotional Numbness Q&A

Here are some commonly asked questions about emotional numbness. Hopefully they’ll answer any remaining concerns or thoughts you may have about this topic:

What causes emotional detachment?

The simple answer is trauma. Usually, emotional detachment (or numbness) can be linked to early childhood experiences such as being abused mentally, emotionally, sexually, or physically. However, not everyone who experiences emotional detachment had tough childhoods. Sometimes, other traumatizing experiences later in life can trigger emotional detachment as a protective mechanism (such as divorce, job loss, rape, illnesses, war, etc.).

Can numbness be a sign of anxiety?

Yes, emotional numbness can mask intense feelings of anxiety – it’s the mind’s way of protecting itself from being flooded by overwhelming emotions. Numbness is a primal reaction to fear and is also known as the freeze response. There are three main reactions to anxiety-provoking situations that we have: fight, flight, and freeze.

How to fix emotional numbness?

To fix, or rather regain the ability to feel again, it’s important to be gentle with yourself. Try reconnecting with your body, practicing deep breathing, doing some catharsis, journaling, and creating a safe environment for yourself. Seeking out professional support is usually crucial, as emotional numbness is usually a major sign of a traumatized nervous system. To regulate your nervous system, you need a safe holding environment, which a professional therapist/counsellor can provide.

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battlefieldheart · 7 years

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Let’s talk Andrew Minyard.

More specifically, let’s talk Andrew Minayrd in terms of his disorder.

Disclaimer: I’m not a mental health professional. I’m just a girl that’s been coping with mental disorders for half her life and has a tendency to research even the smallest things about them. (and has also been professionally diagnosed with Bipolar II, if that ups my credibility any.)

So let’s begin with what Nora herself has said.

“Last I checked*, Andrew is manic depressive, with more deep lows than highs.“ (x)

If anyone doesn’t know, “manic depressive” is another way of saying Bipolar. If you want to be even more specific, Manic Depression was the previous term for Bipolar Disorder, but it was changed when Bipolar was split into types, mainly because Bipolar I doesn’t need depressive episodes to be diagnosed. Nowadays, most of the time if you hear Manic Depression, it’s commonly referring to Bipolar II, which has alternating periods of major depression and mildly elevated moods (otherwise known as hypomania). So, through Nora’s wording of what Andrew’s disorder is, we can assume he has Bipolar II.

But I know the fandom likes to disregard canon in certain instances, so let me just continue trying to make my case.

So first, let’s just define what makes a manic episode and what makes a depressive episode, as defined by the National Institute of Mental Health. (x)

Mania:

Feel very “up,” “high,” or elated

Have a lot of energy

Have increased activity levels

Feel “jumpy” or “wired”

Have trouble sleeping

Become more active than usual

Talk really fast about a lot of different things

Be agitated, irritable, or “touchy”

Feel like their thoughts are going very fast

Think they can do a lot of things at once

Do risky things, like spend a lot of money or have reckless sex

Depressive:

Feel very sad, down, empty, or hopeless

Have very little energy

Have decreased activity levels

Have trouble sleeping, they may sleep too little or too much

Feel like they can’t enjoy anything

Feel worried and empty

Have trouble concentrating

Forget things a lot

Eat too much or too little

Feel tired or “slowed down”

Think about death or suicide

There are also Hypomanic episodes, which have the same symptoms as Manic episodes, but aren’t as extreme as in a full mania.

Now, another thing you need to realize about these episodes is that they have to deviate from what the person normally acts like to be considered and episode. So while irritability and touchiness are considered symptoms of mania, in Andrew, who is normally irritable, I wouldn’t consider it a symptom of him being manic unless it was much, much worse than normal.

Now, let’s talk about the types of Bipolar Disorder before and start narrowing it down.

There are four main categories; Bipolar I, Bipolar II, Cyclothymia, and Unspecified Bipolar Disorder.

Unspecified Bipolar Disorder is diagnosed when one shows symptoms of Bipolar Disorder, but their symptoms don’t match up well enough with any of the three other types well enough for a diagnosis to be made.

Cyclothymia can be “defined by numerous periods of hypomanic symptoms as well numerous periods of depressive symptoms lasting for at least 2 years (1 year in children and adolescents). However, the symptoms do not meet the diagnostic requirements for a hypomanic episode and a depressive episode.”

Let’s move on to Bipolar I. Bipolar I is mainly characterized by long periods of mania. Depressive episodes often occur during Bipolar I, but aren’t necessary for a diagnosis according to the DSM-5. Also, the manic episodes are often extreme enough to lead to hospitalization. Bipolar I is easier to diagnose than Bipolar II and is usually diagnosed at an earlier age.

Bipolar II, on the other hand, is categorized by hypomanic episodes lasting at least 4 days (when I was in therapy, I was taught that hypomania is similar to periods. Count the days, and if you can make it through four, you’re basically home free) and major depressive episodes lasting at least two weeks. Bipolar II usually doesn’t result in hospitalization and is much harder to diagnose (most cases, especially in younger patients, are misdiagnosed as Depression). While the highs aren’t as high in Bipolar II, the lows are much lower and last longer.

So, what does this mean for (one of) our favorite PSU Exy goalkeeper(s)?

First off, let’s set a base. Andrew, on his medication, is often referred to as Manic and shows symptoms of mania (fast talking, impulsive, extra irritable, etc.) so we’ll set that as a standard for what a full blown mania would look like for him.

Therefore, since Bipolar I is known for extended periods of full mania, I think we can safely say he is not Bipolar I. So that leaves Bipolar II and Cyclothymia.

Let’s talk about Andrew symptoms.

I’d say he does display a couple of manic symptoms (reckless spending, substance abuse) but he more shows symptoms of Depression. While you could refer to this as a mixed episode, I don’t quite feel comfortable doing that. I actually show a couple of symptoms typically associated with mania (namely irritability) in my depressive episodes, so it’s not uncommon for the line to be a bit blurred.

As for his Depressive symptoms, I’d say he shows:

hopelessness (”You are a pipedream”, anyone?)

lethargy

apathy

sleep problems (which could be linked more to his trauma than a mental illness)

Inability to enjoy things

Feeling empty

And that’s just what we’re told. We don’t know everything he thinks or feels.

I think he definitely shows more than enough symptoms of Depression that are bad enough to avoid the diagnosis of Cyclothymia. But he can’t be Bipolar II, right?? The only time he’s manic is on his pills!

Actually, that’s not quite right. Let’s discuss Rapid Episodes or Rapid Cycling.

Rapid Episoding is when a person with Bipolar Disorder has more episodes per year than average. AKA...they have at least four episodes in 12 months. And Rapid Episoding only occurs in about 10-20% of those with Bipolar disorder and is more prevalent in women. (x)

If we assume Andrew is cis male and assume he is not Rapid Episoding, then he would only have at most 3-4 episodes in a calendar year. If we also atake into account that hypomanic episodes last at least 4 days and (in my experience) usually no more than two weeks, it’s likely he could have had a hypomanic episode that wasn’t in the books. Or,even more likely, he didn’t have one over during the books. After all, we did only see him off his medication for about four months during The King’s Men. It’s likely he was either in a depressive episode during that entire time or that he was in a depressive mood for part of it and evened out or ‘normalized’ for another part. Even if he is Rapid Episoding, there’s no promise he would have had a hypomanic episode during that time frame anyway.

Speaking of his medication, he was manic that entire time! Doesn’t a long period of full blown mania mean Bipolar I??

No, that doesn’t make him Bipolar I. Want to know why? He was very, very likely misdiagnosed and put on the wrong kind of medication. Do you know what some antidepressants do? De-stabilize moods. Which is the exact opposite of what you want to do for someone that has Bipolar Disorder. Antidepressants, when not mixed with a mood stabilizer or antipsychotic, often cause mania when prescribed to a patient with Bipolar Disorder, according to a therapist I once saw.

Let me just talk for a minute here about my personal experiences. Remember, I’m just one person and my experiences aren’t everyone’s. I was misdiagnosed as Depressed for four years before and as such was put on multiple different antidepressants. Every last one I tried made me feel so (for lack of a better word) fucked up. Everything was off while I was on them. My actions, my brain functions, my emotions...everything. But a mixture of antidepressants and antipsychotic drugs? Worked like a charm.

So, in my opinion based off this evidence, Andrew Minyard is Bipolar II. The evidence does corroborate what Nora herself said.

Just adding onto this:

Bipolar Disorder is very, very genetic. Especially in identical twins, who are three more times to both have Bipolar Disorder than fraternal twins. It’s also said that as the generations go on, Bipolar Disorder gets worse and gets diagnosed at a much earlier age. It’s very likely that Andrew and Aaron both have a genetic predisposition for Bipolar Disorder. (Another personal experience time: The only other person in my family that’s been diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder is my aunt, who had her children taken away from her because she was abusing them and had substance abuse problems.) I can’t make a case for Tilda being Bipolar, since we aren’t given too much information on her, but if she was, Andrew (and Aaron tbh) would have a genetic predisposition for it mixed with childhood trauma and stressful situations. Bipolar Disorder often manifests and is diagnosed in the late-teens to early-twenties, so there’s a chance that Aaron is also Bipolar and just hasn’t developed the symptoms yet.

#andrew minyard #this post is so long but hey whatever

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