Tag: mentalhealth

Like a stone skipping across the pond

I chose pond because we are going to discuss Thoreau a bit today, as I discuss why I’m writing now. Why I have huge imposter syndrome in everything I do. Why imposter syndrome is so deadly and unnecessary, how it’s a form of perfectionism and comparison, and how both are the death of joy and progress. I might dally around the idea of creative writing, run-on sentences, eschewing grammar perfection, and my love of the humble ellipsis……and not caring how many periods I use in them. (OH MY JIBBERS CRABST NO THAT IS WAY TOO MUCH — so me LOL)

Anywho skipping stones… this actually came up with my Psychiatrist visit the other day. I told her how my life seems interesting and full from the outside and people often marvel at how many things I’ve done…but I realized not too long ago that it’s because I’ve been skimming the surface of life. Hopping, skipping, jumping from one thing to the next w/out ever really going very deep. OH sure at FIRST I’m going deep dive. Like that first stone that you try to skip hits the water and sinks…but after that initial dive? I’m off, it’s too much. Boredom sets in. Imposter syndrome sets (Yes it sets in before I even start it’s a whole thing, hey it’s why I’m in therapy LOL) She was already saying it before me – apparently, this is a whole bipolar AND ADHD thing. My whole life I’ve been called flaky, and a flibbertigibbet (OK admittedly I do talk A LOT) as I flit from one big thing to the next. I have a lack of sustainability. Little did I know that it was sort of baked into my brain chemistry. Generally, the pattern is GO ALL IN – realize MEH I don’t love it as much as I thought – Or more precisely -OH god this sucks or I’m not really that good at it or UGH you gotta be like 100% IN for this to be your thing… so I’m OUT. There’s more than bipolarness at work though. I also have a fear of intimacy and some serious issues about joining things. (My childhood in the catholic church made me feel like joining and believing things too deeply was SUSS as hell so I get itchy at any sign of over-identification with things) Heck, even things I love like SciFi I avoid going too deep lest it becomes an obsession. (what is that some sort of OCD reversal? def. something to ask the therapist about LOL)

So that is why I’m here writing.
1. because I’m trying to feel the feelings that my therapist says I’m avoiding. (it’s a skill to be this emotional and still not acknowledge about 80% of what’s really going on)
2. so I can actually go deeper. Having done “The Artist’s Way” a year ago and being on over 400 days of #morningpages I finally beleive I can go all in and not only not lose myself but find myself.
3. By giving up on perfectionism and comparison I am finally free to write and not care who reads it or what they think. I hope it reaches people and maybe even helps a few but it’s not why I write and that changes everything.
4. I used to not only correct but OBSESS about grammar and spelling…then I realized that is just ableism, classism, and honestly just judgy nonsense that keeps us from communicating freely. I know my writing is “terrible”, I don’t freaking care anymore my point is to share not be a great writer. And maybe by finally admitting that I might get better because now I’ll actually DO IT.

Be brave enough to suck at something forever and still do it is my new motto

Not going deep has made me feel perennially like an imposter, but I think it was really just my fear of not being good enough at anything and as always comparing myself to others. So here is where Thoreau comes in. I had recently joined the ranks of those who maligned him, sneering at his “roughing” it while his mom did his laundry and brought him sandwiches. But then I realized I was “throwing out the messages with the man” (it’s just as bad as the baby and the bathwater) I was angry because I had let his work make me feel bad… I had compared myself to him and found myself wanting. So when I found out it was partially a sham I was self-righteously angry. But as that cooled, I realized how freeing this is….everyone is a work in progress. And just as I’ve learned not to judge a message by its spelling or grammar I am learning not to judge a work on unrelated things. Thoreau never asked us to worship him, he simply made excellent observations and STRIVED to live as he wanted. He fell short but that still doesn’t negate some of his words and his wonderful writing. One can be inspired even if the author is imperfect. (OH lord there’s a whole thing there huh) Bottom line it wasn’t his fault I was using his work to belittle myself that was all on me…and I could instead learn from it.

Here is the FB post I wrote when I first learned about the problem with Thoreau :

In case you have imposter syndrome feelings. In case you worry that you aren’t “marching to your own drum” enough. Or that you need to sacrifice something.

Remember that the man we credit with some of these thoughts was basically an imposter, taking help from multiple people, including free labour from his mom….

No journey is done alone, and that’s FINE just remember that… and don’t be afraid to ask for support and help.

I guarantee you that ANYONE you admire or worship or aspire to be like was not fully the person you imagine, they were/are imperfect, and even if they had greatness they too had struggles.

Don’t just skip along afraid to go any deeper. Tell your story. I bet it’s at least as real and inspirational as this classic work. I won’t tear Thoreau down too much, because I think he was more like us than not. The key point is that even with all the not-so-great “truth” the book is still a wonderful and insightful read and much can be garnered from it. The same is true for the rest of us. How can we ever dare to greatness if we don’t start somewhere and stick with it?

#yourstorymatters #yourvoicematters and it’s ok to need help

This cuckoo did not like the nest

TW: Suicide discussion, medical abuse, trauma
Through all my antics in my 20s, I never ended up in jail, the hospital, or the psyche ward. I got away with a lot of dumb shit…mostly it was the 80s everyone was on coke so it was hard to tell who was actually manic :O I was mostly lucky. Lucky I didn’t drive myself into a light pole. Lucky I didn’t hurt anyone else. Didn’t have a heart attack, didn’t get any STDs (still a bigger miracle than I care to contemplate) didn’t stay manic long enough to run away too far too often. It’s hard to say but I think I’m lucky that I was so depressed a lot. Probably saved my life when I was so massively unregulated and unaware.

But Luck only goes so far…

You know what a suicide attempt doesn’t get you? ANY kindness, compassion, sympathy. At least that was my experience. If you are lucky most people will just pretend it didn’t happen. But mostly they fall into two categories shame and blame.
“How could you” –
“If only you could get your life together”
‘you are so selfish’
“What a drama queen”
“attention whore”
— and those are mostly your friends.
But ya know what? any of us that feel that terrible to make an attempt are not surprised by the response… if anything it’s what we expect and part of why we end up where we do…but that’s like a whole PBS special worth of sh*t to discuss so we’ll just move on. (Pssst please find out how and why suicide happens so that you can help prevent further suicide ideation – isolation does not help)

What I was not prepared for was just how truly “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest” the whole freaking system was. (Mind you this is 15 years ago perhaps it’s better in some places? I have very little hope but maybe?)

The first thing I was subjected to was being hit to keep me awake. Surreptitiously, (this is where I tell you not to leave vulnerable people alone if possible everyone needs an advocate. Stores soapbox for later use) And yelled at. The way they spoke to you like a criminal. Like you had reached out and attacked them personally. But see here’s the thing I think that’s why we get so judgy around suicide ideation and death by suicide because people feel guilty and rather than stopping and going HEY maybe this person needs our help everyone goes “HOW DARE YOU MAKE ME FEEL BADLY ABOUT MYSELF HERE IS MY MISPLACED DISCOMFORT IN THE FORM OF JUDGMENT AND ANGER” and I can tell you from experience it absolutely makes things worse. Some compassion would save a lot more lives and possibly let people live happier lives. I was once again lucky. I had a few key people that made it known I would be missed and I was worth the hassle. Praise jibbers for my family. Not everyone is so lucky. I wandered off again. It’s hard to remember this stuff. It’s like flashes of a bad movie. The moment I was out of sight of my family I was ridiculed. Called sad princess. Oh, what no one loves you honey…we’ve heard it all.

This was the staff y’all. The other mental patients were all just sad and needy and broken down. God, it was truly a terrible experience. I suppose for me it sort of worked. I guarantee I’ll never let myself go back to a ward. That was a worse trauma than childhood beatings, catholic school. and the death of my husband. You are at your most vulnerable. You’re like a small child who just had a terrible accident and you’re laying there crying and bleeding and instead of someone picking you up and taking care of you everyone laughs and points and tells you not to be such a worthless clutz.

Y’all I was a 37-year-old woman and I had been abused before and I tell you this was awful. Can you imagine what has happened to old people, children, and more vulnerable people? Everyone was treated like a stupid, evil, uncooperative child. We were yelled at, humiliated, and watched. And the WHOLE time I still felt lucky because I had my faculties about me – the people I was surrounded by broke my heart. There was screaming and crying and rocking and no one, except the group therapy guide, they were pretty reasonable and kind, was soothing or helpful or kind.

Y’all I had a good corporate job and pretty darn good insurance…now imagine what is happening… No, don’t imagine it. Do what I did. I got out on a Wednesday with my new Seroquel prescription, after 5 days. (Again I was so lucky) That Wednesday night we watched “One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest”
and I laughed that gallows humour laugh until I curled up in bed and cried myself to sleep. Because that sh*t was barely exaggerated. I guess I’ve never really told anyone how bad it was. It’s sort of embarrassing actually. That I never did anything. That I just walked away.

I was lucky. I was so damn lucky. So many others aren’t. So if you ever wonder why some people choose to live on the street rather than “get help” this might help you out a bit.

Go hug someone you love. Call a friend. Be there for someone. You never know that one kind word, that smile, it could change a life…maybe even save it.

And if a friend uses suicide to cry for help….don’t punish them. They just need to know that they matter. Shame is never the helpful answer when someone is hurting.

And then sh*t got weird

The one where I describe the total cr*p fest that was the 18 months after my husband’s death.

TW: Suicide (I’m too worn out to make it pretty with memes and pics sorry for the wall of text)

After Rob’s death, I sunk down into a deeper depression than I had thought possible. The very act of living and feeling was like a knife in my brain. I didn’t want to feel or think about anything. I had a bit of luck in that my company underwent a merger and I was laid off – lucky because I surely would have lost my job anyway and at least this way I got a severance package. After the first month of binge drinking and living on anti-anxiety meds. I turned to yoga. When I say I “turned” to yoga, I mean like in a cultist way. That trajectory will be woven through some of this but it deserves it’s own examination so maybe one day I’ll do a series on how asana (yoga poses) saved me and then destroyed me. It’s a whole thing. But now it’s simply a thing I do to keep my hip from screaming and I believe meditation is one of the greatest gifts I took from being a yogi and a teacher. Again meditation deserves it’s own telling but that is for another time.

I get super into Core Power Yoga. I chose it randomly from an internet search because they had a location and schedule I could use. I went EVERY DAY, sometimes multiple times a day for months. Simultaneously I was living this duel life where I was partying with my motorcycle and Hashing groups. So I was living so bipolar it’s comical. I was split and needed constant distraction. But I thought I was “healed”. I was pretending. I got involved with a few different lovers very quickly as well… and that is where it got weird. I was playing in polyamorous couples, drinking, dabbling in drugs again (I had given them up after college) it was like I was at my worst manic stage from my 20s but coupled with a deep depression and accented with a lot dissociation and outbursts of anger.

I was still pretending that yoga had “cured” me of my grief. But I was secretly spiraling out of control. Then the money ran out and I had to go back to work. This was probably the beginning of the end for me because the stress of a new job, traveling, and trying to maintain my yoga practice (which might have been the only thing keeping me from joining the circus at this point) I was slowly unraveling. I looked like a super hero on the outside. But inside I was suppressing more and more. The yoga stopped being soothing and just became another place where I was pretending to be OK.

One of my relationships unravelled, it wasn’t shocking none of us had any business trying to be a thruple and I was ousted of the relationship. I was too vulnerable. Mind you this is less than a year from Rob’s death. I was in no way ready to move on but I felt I had to and I was DESPERATE to replace that love. DESPERATE. It was like I had a collapsing black hole inside me and I was trying to fill it with anything – wine, women, song! You name it I would have tried it. I travelled. I took Rob’s ashes to new places for that first year. I wrote a SHITE tonne of poetry. I pretended.

But when that tiny ray of light was doused when the third in my thruple said I had to go – I was crushed in a way that felt worse than the night robbed died. I just couldn’t stand to feel the things I was feeling. That black hole sucked me right in…After I was dumped. I, once again, pretended I was strong enough. I was fine. I went to a movie and dinner with my mom and assured her I was fine.

(Cue Morgan Freeman: She was, dear listener, not fine)

I went to bed with a glass of wine and lay down on Rob’s side of the bed. I saw his last crossword puzzle unfinished. I cleaned his glasses. I rummaged in the nightstand. And there they were. His pain meds – Oxycontin. I thought. Just one so I can sleep. I took one. Waited. I still felt. I still wanted to sleep. I didn’t want to die particularly, I just wanted things to stop for a bit. I wasn’t strong enough. I was failing. I was letting everyone down….I took another one.
Then I thought – F*ck it…and took a handful. Mind you washed down with wine. Then the panic set in. What if it worked and I never saw my kids again. What if this was it. I was conflicted.

It is fuzzy from there- I know I talked to someone on the phone. The cops were called. I had a gun pulled on me when they asked what I took and I reached for the pills in the nights stand. I woke up in the hospital. I saw my mom’s face.
I was transferred to the psych ward…Identified as BiPolar yet again…and that my friends is a story for another day. Because oof da. That’s a lot.

There is still so much shame. Sigh – but when I come back maybe we’ll talk about how sh*tty the psyche ward is and how we watched One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest when I got out.



Good Grief -The Dead Husband Card

Robert Gregory LaFavor-Courtwright went on life support just before my birthday 16 years ago. For a few days it was up in the air, then on my birthday, Oct 7th, 2005 we were told there was hope. So my sister-in-law, my birthday twin, and the rest of the family went out that night to celebrate our birthdays. I was turning 37. I got a tattoo. My mom got a tattoo. We were hopeful. I had faith. I believed he was too good and too loving and had too much to offer to be gone. He loved me. He loved me in a way that I didn’t think was possible. Then two days later, October 9th, 2005. I lay next to him on the bed as they turned off the machines and I felt his last breath leave his body. I cried the kind of keening cry the man-in-black cried in the “Princess Bride”, the sound of ultimate suffering. And in that very moment, the process of grief began and would be quickly stunted and would forever change how I showed up in the world. I would enter an extremely tumultuous decade where the rapid cycling of emotions would make me careen back into ways I thought I had “overcome” and left in my 2o’s. I would learn that grief makes others uncomfortable and that people are super judgy about how much hurt we are allowed to feel and express and for how long and where…the rules are endless, and honestly, cruel.

I already knew this actually but until this time I hadn’t realized just how much we squash emotions in others and how much that can truly harm someone.

There is so much to unpack – within the first moments of his passing I was IMMEDIATELY told I had to be quiet. Stop crying. That won’t bring him back. I physically collapsed (I was also exhausted) and was told to “stop being so dramatic”. I began the process of stuffing my feelings.

See it was always hard to explain to people that have friends and close relationships that work how devastating a loss can be when you have struggled with connection your whole life. I’ve always felt off, a little wrong, too emotional, too needy, and yet too independent. I never felt people got the whole of me. The dichotomy that I’m, so completely two (ok dozen but who is counting) things at all times. A manly girly girl. A rainbow goth. A sensitive biker b*tich. A punk rock ballerina. But Rob? OH he got it and relished in it… he could treat me like I was a lady and then ride on the back of my motorcycle celebrating my independence and power. Around him, I never had to choose which persona got to come out and play. He was there for all my sides. When you have been starved of that your whole life and finally FINALLY feel like a whole human just because someone says “Hey all of you is great” and then have it ripped from you? Well, it was devastating.

But I heard these things all in the first week
-“you weren’t even together that long.”
– “I mean he was sick right”
-“it’s not like your life was so great”
-“you weren’t even really married” (we were common law and we both recognized that and considered it “enough”, I had proposed a year earlier and we were putting off a ceremony because of his health)
Within a month I was hearing
-“try to think about the good memories”
-“you need to be on anti-depressants this is taking too long”

And the ultimate shut down came that New Year’s Eve so less than 3 months later- which would have been Rob’s 37th birthday- I wanted to plan a smaller meal with some friends at a special place but it would have made someone else’s plans be delayed and while trying to say I didn’t want their plans to be overridden I just needed this – I was told “well it doesn’t matter you’ll just play the dead husband card and get your way” (I didn’t get my “way” I gave up and got about the business of acting ok) I think that was the single worst moment for me… it was when I felt even more keenly the loss of someone who cared enough about me to see my pain and not put qualifiers on it. It was all my fears about not having “real” friends laid bare. And in that moment I splintered.

I have been leading a duel life every since. One where I pretend I’m OK and make terrible decisions out of pain but act like it’s all normal. And one where there’s a ball of sadness locked away that bleeds out as anger and impatience. It leaks out as apathy. It oozes over things and makes even happy times duller. And all because I didn’t want to play the dead husband card. I didn’t want to make people feel inconvenienced or uncomfortable so I set about creating the biggest mask of all….one of the healed person. A mask I wore with limited success but a lot of fakery for nearly 10 years until my body and mind just couldn’t anymore.

I just can’t anymore. But that’s a good thing. Pretending to be ok is malarkey. That’s why I am here to embrace the full reality of me. And that includes being bipolar. (OH Yes you know what’s coming, here in 2026 reading this laughing a little at the next evolution… but wait there’s more) Maybe if I can get all these other layers out I can face down that struggle and fully understand it.

I got some big emotions. My feelings are BIG. (turns out sensory issues effect EVERYTHING — who knew? OH good psychologists knew? cool) Learning to feel them and not let them bang up everyone around me is a journey. So whatever you are going through don’t let anyone else tell you when you are “done” or “ready” or whatever unhelpful advice they might give – I guarantee you it’s more about them than you. Only you can know if you are still processing. Only you get to decide how much it hurts. No one is inside your heart but you. Feel your feels. Trust me on this – either you feel them on purpose or you and everyone will feel them anyway in a less helpful way.

cogito, ergo sum

I am. I have. I will be.
I was re-diagnosed as bipolar almost 30 years ago(back then we called it manic-depressive which admittedly is more descriptive but way less cool-sounding, I mean who doesn’t want to sound like they are the earth, or a magnet? right?). My youngest was a year old. I had been first diagnosed at 17 and that was changed a few years later when I went through a battery of psychological tests for a legal battle. (we’ll maybe talk about my Twins’ father abuse and how it change the trajectory of everything, you’ll get used to the digressions that say “for another time” because no one wants that book right now) Then at 25 it came back into my world and this time the diagnosis was withdrawn when it was discovered I had hypothyroidism and the psychiatrist felt that a lot of my symptoms could be confused with someone going through the death spiral of their pituitary/thyroid axis combined with postpartum depression. Looking back I was a child, now with a third child and soon a third husband (do I really have to mention that is also a WHOLE other Jerry Springer?) I didn’t have google (oddly enough it was being invented that very year) or a lot of resources. In my less than optimal state, I said COOL and I started on Synthroid and Prozac and went about my life depressed, stressed, and fighting my body. I didn’t even have memes to get me through – I KNOW RIGHT, terrible. The old days were lame.

Little did I know the cyclical nature of my brain. Little did I know how often I would blow up my life because I had no idea who or, more precisely, what I was dealing with. (I feel compelled to chronicle that it was a chiropractor that first identified my suspected thyroid disorder and sent me to the doctor for my first test, which my doctor almost didn’t do because “I had just had a child and needed to just exercise and I would feel better” I later found out that postpartum is a common time to develop it and had I listened to my doctor I would have gone longer undiagnosed-and thus began my long journey of medical harm and gaslighting) The primary care gaslighting YES obviously that is a whole other side quest – let’s just focus on the mental health aspect. It will be enough.

I would be re-diagnosed in my early 30’s by the rudest, gruffest, most condescending psychiatrist of the bunch (the bar was pretty high too) His misogyny was epic. We tried a few medications but I was never really prepared for their effect and almost always got incredibly worse right away – and I was always “over-reacting” and “being hysterical” – so after a year I rejected the diagnosis, the meds, and well, therapy in general for quite some time. This is just one of the times psychiatric care did more harm than good because I was never coached or supported through the process. SUUUREEE now I know that meds can make you worse at first, SUUUURREE NOW I know that bipolar can make you think you don’t need meds and more I know that AFABs can be continually misdiagnosed, SUUUUUUUUUUUURRRREEEE NOW I know a lot of things…but imagine if that doctor had explained that to me? Instead, I was labeled “non-compliant” “difficult” and “combative” … because I cried…a lot (anyone who knows me might laugh at that) and begged for different medications.

I was a single mom with three children and was made to feel that all of it was my weakness and lack of effort. Another nail in the gaslighting coffin as my confidence, joy, and belief in my own feelings eroded. Still, I persevered.

A few years pass without meds or therapy and I start my Master’s Studies, I get promoted and move up in my work, … I have hopes and dreams and I meet the love of my life. Sure I struggle but I believed that I had “overcome” my issues. I was responsible, I wasn’t doing all the manic things I had done in my 20s – so surely that was all youthful exuberance and not a mental health disorder. I drank too much. My newfound love is sick and struggling and I begin having my first panic attacks. But that’s normal right? things are hard so of course, I’m panicked. OH, there is too much, I will sum up… My husband’s health issues take over our lives and he eventually dies from an allergic reaction to MRI dye – It was on my 37th birthday. OOF still 16 years later it hits like a train wreck. My anger and sadness run so deep. I blamed myself. I blamed the medical system. I didn’t blame god because I don’t believe in them, but man that sure would have been a nice outlet. Again I digress – it’s sort of my MO 😛

Holy crap – this is a long story. Let’s leave it there on this uplifting moment of my dead 36-year-old husband because I need some space to let this wash over me. This is 10 years of my life. And looking back what a freaking intense 10 years. 10 years of not getting the help I truly needed. 10 years of self-medicating harm as I tried to just hang on to life by the tips of my fingers. During that time was also that first divorce with a costly custody battle. I bounced back with a new job, life, and love. And then love was torn from me. Every time I thought I had my proverbial shit together there was a blowup. sometimes caused by me, and sometimes caused by life that was then exacerbated by my mental health.




That’s 3 — THREE bipolar diagnoses received and rejected.
4 – FOUR marriages
3 – THREE children
10 – SIX different medications (approx. my memory is often shoddy at best)
and a whole host of jobs and career changes and moves. My word did I move a lot. LOL

Until next time. I once again am facing the bipolar diagnosis. And I’m trying very hard to embrace and accept that. I might even finally be able to find some peace. Peace, Love, Punk, and Rainbows.