Shame

Curl up
Shrivel
Shrink into myself
Slowly disappear

Shame

Help vs. Advice

There's quite a lot I need in my life.
Some of it, you can give me.
Some of it, you know someone who can.
And one of it has to come from God.

Sometimes, I need help.
If I come to you with a request for help,
And it's not something you can do for me,
Saying "I'm sorry I can't help you with that"
Is fine.
Is good.
Is even helpful.
Honesty helps.

Sometimes, I need advice.
If I come to you for advice,
And it's not advice you can provide
Saying "I can't help you with that"
Is fine.
Is good.
Is even helpful.
Honesty helps.

But if I come to you for help
And don't ask for advice
Please don't offer it.
It hurts.
It makes me feel like you don't trust me.
Trust my judgement.

So just stop.
Please.

And when you condition your help
On me going against the advice
And professional recommendation of my treatment team
Not only do you sound dumb
And unhelpful
But I begin to question
Whose best interest you have in mind-
Is it mine
Or your ego's?

Nightmare

When you have a nightmare
And one of your favorite people in the world
Hurts you
And you know it's not real
But you still need to reality check it
But that person
Is away from home
With no cell phone
And you just
Have
To
Wait

Tired

I'm so tired
Tired of begging
Asking people to help me pay
For treatment
For something that wasn't
My fault.

Just like cancer patients
Get treated
Get helped
Even if they can't pay
We all get together
Make sure their needs are met
Because they can't help it

Shouldn't I?

What I Wish You Knew

This has been floating in my head...

I wish you knew
That I was nearly destroyed
By you.

Yes, you.

If you think I may be talking to you,
Then, yes, YOU.

You, who should have known better.
You, who know the difference between "danger to self or others" and "not doing very well at the moment".
You, who knew how depressed I was, and still wrote off my gratitude list as "making a joke out of it" instead of realizing how little I had to be grateful for.
You, who deliberately shared triggering art, made by YOU, as an exchange for some of my poems, when all I wanted was for you to read and understand.
You, who saw me dissociating, told me to "come back into the room", and never once thought to screen me for a dissociative disorder.

Yes, you.

If I thought you knew this, if I really thought you did, maybe you would still be on the list of therapists I tell my friends are worth trying.
If I thought you knew this, if I thought it would make one iota of a difference in how you treated future clients, I would come banging on your door to tell you all this.

But the last time I reached out, you didn't respond. You didn't answer.

You, who saw me crying, blowing my nose, with a terrible cold, and wouldn't believe me when I said "I can't breathe in from my nose" because literally, I couldn't.
You, who never believed when I said "I don't know", and didn't even consider the possibility that I really didn't.
You, who told my parents that they didn't protect me enough, in front of me, when I was clearly not ready for that.
You, who never even called to find out why I never made another appointment when I came back from a short trip.

Yes, you.

You, who called my mother down for a meeting without even trying to discuss the issues with me first.
You, who asked me to draw pictures and write so you could analyze them (duh) but didn't even tell me why I was called down to your office.
You, who tried to tell me what I thought and felt.
You, who didn't even recognize that I didn't hear a word you said, because I was so dissociated.

Yes, you.

You were the professionals. You were the ones who should have known, should have seen. I didn't have your education. I didn't know, because no one taught me.

You should have done the research. You should have said "wait, this doesn't make sense! what am I missing hear?"

You should have known.

I also wish you knew, however, how lucky I feel that I moved past you. That I stopped paying you tell me that I wasn't good enough, wasn't trying hard enough, wasn't moving forward enough. That I found people who kept digging until they found the root cause. Who didn't skip over parts of the DSM & ICD, but took all my symptoms into account, even the ones I couldn't name. I found those people. And you? You wouldn't recognize who I am becoming.

Because you never saw the real me.

And I wish you had.

Mental Illness, Disability, and other words I "shouldn't" use about myself

I just posted this on an online support group for frum women dealing with mental health issues. I feel like it belongs here, though, as well.

So here goes!

Okay, I'm gonna say it.

Many of you know me in real life. Many of you may think you don't, but will find out you do. Some of you really don't know me at all.

One thing that many people here (and in the world at large) have in common, however, is disliking putting the word "illness" or "disability" alongside their identified struggles. I am not among those people. 

The point in this post is not to make you change your mind about how you should identify yourself. That is purely your prerogative. If you aren't mentally ill/disabled, or don't feel like the words should be used to describe you, that is your right. However, please consider my perspective!

Hi, my name is Little Sheep. My name is Mamela. I have 22 other names as well. I am mentally ill. I am disabled.

I am linking to an article on the topic which I would love to discuss!

Invisible

Invisible
Unseen
To the world

Invisible
Funds
Don't help

Invisible
Because
You can't see how sick I am.

My illness is real.
Just Invisible.

Cancer ravages the body,
So cancer gets funds.
Anorexia can be seen,
So anorexia gets cash.
Addiction, Infertility,
The Shidduch Crisis.
Schools. The Arts.
Technology.

DID is Invisible.

My therapist isn't, though.
Invisible money
won't pay my therapist
or her rent
or for her supplies
student loans
time
patience
energy.

Invisible money
won't pay my therapist
for her emails
because something occurred to her
and she wanted to be sure that I was okay.
For her caring
her overtime
her note taking
letter writing
advocating.

Invisible money
won't get me to the
Invisible destination
I hope to reach.

https://GoFundMe.Com/DIDTherapyFund

No Tantrum

I didn't tantrum
Or complain when
My Purim seuda with my family
Was taken away
In favor of everyone else
Travelling to join his.

And I didn't tantrum
Or complain when
My Shabbos Chol Hamoed with my family
Was taken away
In favor of him
Joining everyone else here
Because of a shalom zachor
He didn't want to miss
So I missed it instead
Because he tantrumed.

And now I will sit here
In silence and cry
And not tantrum
Or complain out loud when
He decides he needs to come
And take away
My last Pesach meal of freedom.

I tell myself it's not worth it to say anything
Because I know it is a waste of
My energy and my breath.

But inside I'm falling apart
And don't think this will end well.

Old Friends

Today, I got to thinking
About Old Friends.

You know,
The Old Friends You kind of forget about.
The ones who were there for you at the important times
That you didn't know were important.

So, this is to you...
The Old Friend
Who taught me science
So I could retake the test I handed in blank
Because I had no memory of anything the teacher said in class.

The Old Friends
Who took me under their wings
When they were really busy with their teenage lives,
And I a little kid
Invaded their bungalow
Didn't shower
And hid in closets.

The Old Friends
Who accepted the things I told them
Wise beyond their years
Didn't freak out
When I spoke of sexual abuse
When we were only 13.

The Old Friends
Who studied out loud on the phone
When it would have taken them half the time
To study on their own
But did it anyway
So I didn't leave school
Feeling like a complete failure.

The Old Friends
Who came back
Time and again
Even though I pushed them away
Ignored them for years
But were there anyway in my times of need.

The Old Friends
Who went with me to
Therapists
Psychiatrists
And other more uncomfortable doctors appointments.

The Old Friends
Who saved my life
By coming over in the middle of the night
Dragging me away from
My Weapons of Self Destruction
And not giving me any choice
But to Live and Fight on.

Thank you, Old Friends.
Some of you will see this.
It will show up in your inbox.
Some of you, I don't even know how to contact anymore.
But whether you see this or not
Whether you recognize yourself
In my words
Or don't even realize you know me,
I thank you.

Dear Old Therapist

Dear old therapist
Do I haunt your dreams at night?
Does thinking of the pain you caused
Wake you up in fright?

Do you realize that when you denied
The times I worked, the times I tried
You made me feel that I'm just bad
That true healing just can't be had?

Dear old therapist
Do I haunt your dreams at night?
Does thinking of the pain you caused
Wake you up in fright?

Do you realize how you missed the signs
Of a disorder you didn't treat
So the more I came to visit you
The more I felt defeat?

Dear old therapist
Do I haunt your dreams at night?
Does thinking of the pain you caused
Wake you up in fright?

Am I the only one of us
who lies awake in bed?
Do you realize that each week I'd come
And be well filled with dread?

Dear old therapist,
I wanted to do well,
But you refused to see how much I grew,
And focused on how I fell

Dear old therapist,
If you don't recognize yourself,
You need to wonder if you're perfect,
Or denials' on your shelf.

Dear old therapist,
I SHOULD haunt your dreams at night!
You SHOULD think of the pain you caused,
And do something, you might--

                ---take a class to learn about the signs you may  have missed
                ---pick up a phone, call, and apologize for work  you just dismissed

Because you know, I'm not lazy,
I'm not a liar,
and I don't just make things up.
You treated me but carefully walked
Passed the cage where I was
locked.