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Rosacea…When Bad Skin Is A Sign of Mental Illness

Rosacea…When Bad Skin Is A Sign of Mental Illness

“Do you have a good dermatologist? I mean a really good dermatologist?”

A female co-worker had pulled me aside, peered grimly at my face and waited for a response. Pride died quietly inside the caverns of my being.

My answer was short. “Yes, I do.”

I continued to work, hoping the subject would drop.

She pushed ahead. “I mean, how long is this going to go on?”

For a moment, I blinked in disbelief. A generous portion of tactless, insensitive gruel had been dropped on my plate.

This woman was unaware of the struggles I faced; antibiotics, gels, creams, and endless doctors’ visits. She assumed a horrendous case of acne was to blame.

It was Rosacea; the manifestation of a deeper, more serious condition…Complex-PTSD.

The National Rosacea Society states that “emotional stress is reported to be one of the most common rosacea triggers.” (emotional stress | Rosacea.org)

My psyche had raged against my dermis. I was shocked.

I had managed to hide the emotional turmoil for more than a year. Buried deep inside an internal, seemingly dormant volcano, lava had quite literally bubbled to the surface.  Eruption was imminent.

I remained polite, yet tight lipped, when my co-worker pushed the name and number of her “qualified” dermatologist into my hand. I saved the tears for later.

This was not the first uncomfortable and intrusive encounter involving the state of my skin.

A previous visit with my drycleaner had left me embarrassed and deflated. The clerk suggested numerous homemade remedies for my imperfect complexion.  I wanted clean clothes, not unsolicited medical advice.

Complex-PTSD is an illness that can have numerous physical side effects. While outwardly battling visible symptoms, I secretly fought impalpable demons.

Rosacea caused embarrassment. I felt conspicuous and unsightly, especially when my job brought me into public view. I found it difficult to socialize and concentrate as people indiscreetly stared at the lumps and bumps on my fiery red cheeks.

While my pores continued to burst forth one heinous creation after another, my employer prepared for a company-wide award ceremony.

Annual sales ratios had been calculated. My department head called to inform me that I ranked as a “top performer” in the Retail Division.

Forever the master of disguise, I excelled in the workplace. My personal life was an insufferable closet of secret skeletons.

Sales Representatives, belonging to this elite category, would be honored at dinner party in a function hall. An appointment had been scheduled for a head shot, so my photo could be projected on a jumbo screen while I was presented with an award from the CEO.

To quote Alanis Morissette, “Isn’t it ironic? Don’t you think?”

Raw, red, covered in painful pustules, cysts, blotches and burst veins, I begged to be excused. I was mortified and refused all photographs. I looked like I had gone ten rounds with a meat grinder.

Although I was allowed to provide my own “pre-rosacea” photograph, the ceremony was obligatory. I showed up, faced my co-workers, gracefully smiled and accepted the award.

Years of denial along with unmanaged, untreated symptoms were finally catching up. Other health problems quickly presented and it became even harder to maintain normal daily routines.  Mentally and physically, I struggled to keep up the charade.

A month later, my doctors would not allow me to continue to work.

My face was sore, swollen and painful to touch but the emotional agony of mental illness was comparatively worse.

Eventually, I stopped caring about my appearance. Depression tightened its’ grip. I was numb to any concern about personal vanity.

I took steps to remedy my skin, but the rigorous undertaking of emotional healing was front and center.

Oftentimes, mental illness is an invisible disease…until it leaches out like infection from a wound. Disguised as other ailments, these maladies are warning signs of deeper, more complicated problems.

The mind/body connection is real. When you are mentally unwell, the physical wiring starts to short circuit.

Today, my rosacea has improved. Seeking mental wellness continues to be a bumpy and treacherous journey, much like an odyssey through a bubbling, cavernous lava field.

Once you accept the disturbance is there, navigating your internal volcano becomes clearer. Magma and ashes are part of the process.  Even after eruptions, the mountain is usually still standing.

And, it helps to have a therapist…I mean a “really good” therapist.

© thejitterbur.org 2018

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Absolutely…I Think

Absolutely…I Think

My husband calls it having a case of the “I don’t know whats.”

This phrase pointedly refers to my regular bouts of indecision. He gleans much pleasure in being able to sum up the inner workings of his wife’s psyche with this witty maxim.

I live my life in a constant swirl of wavering resolution, ranging from what clothes I should wear to what to have for dinner; short sleeves or long sleeves? Spaghetti or hamburgers?

Why am I so afraid of making the wrong choice?

For the most part, my husband stands by and lets me work through these little internal skirmishes on my own. Sometimes however, he will become exasperated by my painful affliction of “straddling the fence,” and just make a decision for me.

“Hamburgers. Tonight we will grill hamburgers. There. Decision made.”

Am I relieved he made up my mind or mad he stole control? Oh, I don’t know!

“I picked you!” I always tell him. Sometimes, I think that may have been my one and only act of certitude.

Insignificant and humorous as it may seem, the realization of this trait brought me to a screeching halt.

I became aware this problem did not encompass only minor aspects in my life. I realized, this IS my life. I have always been this way and the problem has gone hand in hand with the big decisions as well as the small ones.

This issue came into focus a few years ago. I was struggling to decide if I would remain at my current job. In fact, I was thinking of changing careers altogether. What had been the problem? You guessed it….I didn’t know what I wanted to do. I really never have.

I always envied my high school classmates who went off to college with their 4 year plans and their undisputable goals. Doctor, Lawyer, Indian Chief. Seriously, how did they know? I knew I wanted something, I just had no clue what it was or how to figure it out.

Unfortunately, a life long battle with mental illness reared its’ ugly head in 2016.  The symptoms of Complex-PTSD, Anxiety, Depression and OCD became unmanageable. Hidden skeletons tumbled out; the closet was open and the mess in full view.

The decision was made for me…I could no longer work.

Today, I understand these indecisive tendencies stem from a life long battle with depression, anxiety and OCD. Years of therapy and introspection have helped me to conclude that I was never given the skills or latitude to sort out who I was or what I wanted.

Growing up in an abusive home with an emotionally unstable mother left no room for the personality of a young girl to grow and develop.  Teenage angst is happening now…20 years late.

Throughout my working years, I had been successful, despite my unorganized and faltering disposition. Well-respected and hard-working, I made a decent living and excelled in my position during a 16 year tenure.

Every hint of fear, doubt and self-hatred was hidden from the world. Feelings of inadequacy and qualm were pushed down deep inside, where torment and destruction operated in seclusion.

I was a master of disguise. (Well, except from my husband!)  I never saw the implosion coming; who would? When you sweep a problem under the carpet, the world can’t see it, but neither can you. You know it’s there, but it’s so much easier to pretend otherwise.

Did I choose the career I had committed to for so many years? Not exactly.

Thinking it would be temporary, I applied for work after a short stint at college.  I had left school due to depression and needed time to heal.  This job was a placeholder until I figured out my next move.

Remarkably, the ball started rolling and I didn’t stop it. Promotions poured in and I decided to stay without pausing to think about long-term goals or personal desires.

Disorientation of self-worth has a way of creating limiting beliefs.  I felt lucky to have a company who wanted me, despite that fact I may not have wanted them.

I stayed because I didn’t have the confidence to leave.

In the back of my mind, I often wondered…would I be happier in a different career?

I had a co-worker who left her position and dropped to part-time status while completing her degree.

One night, over drinks, she confessed uncertainty in her path after graduation. This feeling didn’t bother her at all. Her current situation was simply unwanted; the future would sort itself out.

I couldn’t decide; was she taking crazy pills or was she the bravest person I knew?

Today, I’m in my late thirties.  I’m unemployed. I’m trying to heal, recover, discover ways to function in the world again. I am still trying to decide what I want to be when I grow up. It scares the hell out of me.

It’s not a case of “The I don’t know whats.” It’s mental illness. I understand that now.

Mostly, I just want to stop being afraid of making a wrong choice so that I can move forward and simply make a choice. It gets awfully frustrating being rooted to a spot by fear and doubt.

Even now, I want to delete every word I’ve typed. I thought I liked them but now I’m not so sure.

Dinner, tonight? I’m mostly, almost positive, it’s certainly without a doubt, spaghetti…absolutley…I think.

©2018 thejitterbug

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What’s Your Mental Illness Avatar?

What’s Your Mental Illness Avatar?

Everyone Has An Avatar

We are all familiar with the cliché depression cloud that haunts sad-faced patients in medication commercials. While this fog of doom is not an inaccurate metaphor of being dogged by unrelenting symptoms of emotional disorder, other images come to mind when I see these advertisements.  There are many types of mental illness and everyone has a different “avatar.”

Describe It

Picturing these inner fiends is helpful.  I can see they are a part of me but not the whole of me.

“A dirty jacket,” I tell her. “One that won’t shake off or come unzipped. It’s a filthy coat of misery causing panic and despair.  I can’t escape its’ rotten grip.”

If this garment were to slip off my back, I would feel exposed, naked, vulnerable…because it hides of lot of wounds and gentle, breakable parts. I have a paradoxical relationship with my unkempt cloak.

Mental health blogs, articles, online resources and books are places I’ve sought knowledge and a community of peers during my journey towards recovery.  I have learned that each individual has a unique expression regarding the form their demons take; some declare a heaviness, like an elephant on their chest. Others refer to the monkey in their brain that never stops his chatter.  There are walls that enclose…stone towers…dark wells with bottomless depths; powerful imagery for a powerful illness.

Different components of one’s illness may also have different avatars.  I know mine do.

Avatars Can Change

For a long time, I could only focus on my dirty jacket. Ah, the jacket! Get it off!

Recently, I’ve thought it over and the dirty jacket “avatar” no longer represents the construct of my illness.

Bark. Dead wood. Grayish brown and rough and thick with ugly warts and scratchy husk.  That’s my mental illness epitome.  I am a dried out branch in an untended garden.  Only now, I’ve realized…I’m the gardener.

The therapy, the rest, the treatments, the searching, the hope and self-care; I’m learning to tend this derelict patch of prickly rigor. And guess what?  It’s not dead.  If I scrape away, and pick and prune the hardness gives way to new green growth with potential and possibility.

Gardening is damn hard work. You’ve got to get your hands dirty and dig deep.  Sometimes I neglect my withering greenhouse.  Sometimes I nurture it.  I’ve reached a juncture in my recovery where at least it’s getting some attention, rather than left to rot and decay.  Every weed I pull is one less weed and every flower blooming is a victory.

What Does Your Mental Illness Avatar Look Like?

My Mental Illness Avatar: Old gray bark hiding tender life inside; not a dirty jacket which cannot be repaired.

Brand your inner turmoil.  Give it shape and form. Weaken the grip of intense power by facing it head on.  I liken this to an exorcism when you call a demon by its’ name.  It must be separated from the host.

What does your mental illness look like? I’d love to hear from you. Participate in the following poll or leave a comment if you have a different image you want to share.

Take good care, The Jitter Bug

What Is Your Mental Illness Avatar?

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Excuse me, Porter?

Excuse me, Porter?

In 2005, my husband and I picked up a connecting flight in Puerto Rico on the way to our honeymoon destination, St. Lucia. I remember standing at the ticket counter when a porter kindly offered to help us with our bags. Being young and naïve we allowed him to do so…and he literally rolled them a few feet to the gate, a task we easily could have managed.

Feeling foolish and slightly taken advantage of, we paid up when the man held out his hand for a tip.

The Caribbean is replete with citizens in need of work and income. Lack of jobs creates competition and islanders have learned to become resourceful and assertive in their approach to make a living. We quickly realized our few dollars had helped not only a struggling economy but a human being, a man trying to put food on the table for himself and his family.

The porter had been so eager to take our luggage. The task and weight of carrying bags for tourists added value to his day, his life, his wallet.  Our baggage was necessary for his survival.

Flash forward to 2017.  I am in the process of working through and living with the struggles of Complex-PTSD, severe anxiety and depression. My siblings and I were raised in a home by a mother with borderline personality/narcissistic personality disorder.  Each of us struggle with the trauma embedded in our sense of self.

Feelings of guilt, shame and not being “good enough” continue to dog us in our adult years. At a young age, our brains were wired to believe the standards my mother set were true and if we didn’t meet them we weren’t acceptable.

Now in our thirties, three decades of unhealthy behavior have been spent in the form of people pleasing, self-condemning, unjustified “answerability. ” We continue to struggle with learning healthy patterns

After a recent session with my therapist regarding “emotional and psychological baggage,” here is my take away…only porters should take on baggage. Let me say that again. Only porters should take on baggage.

This intangible burden, a weight I had picked up and carried for three decades, was not mine at all. I had been carrying my mother’s baggage, her standards, her insecurities and the last time I checked, I wasn’t a bellhop.

This weight was hurting my survival, not sustaining it, as it did for Caribbean porters in crowded airports.

I didn’t finish college, my sister wasn’t skinny enough, my brother married the wrong girl…hefty luggage that never had our tag on it.  But, we picked it up, dragged it around and rolled it from one metaphorical gateway to the next, making restitution for un-met standards. This behavior was not only limited to relations with our parents but over-arched the structure of our lives.

Each of us developed different coping mechanisms; we became excessive worriers, doers, helpers.  We spent money, bought gifts, became obsessed with perfection and sacrificed our mental and emotional health.

My siblings and I thought we were “getting paid” in a co-dependent way of compensating acts, trying to elicit positive feedback.  Any hint of accord was like a coin in our pocket, a tip, small compensation that never added up to much.

We had been lugging around my mother’s trunk of skeletons our whole lives, trying to carry a weight that didn’t belong to us to begin with.

I’m not upset I didn’t finish school, my sister is a beautiful and accomplished woman and my brother is happy with the partner he chose.  The suitcases full of expectations and standards can be left at the ticket counter.  The tags don’t have our names on them.  The contents are not ours to claim.

So, unless you are working for an airport, hotel or transportation service only take what you need for your journey.  Everything else will drag you down.  Leave the unclaimed baggage on the carousel.

 

copyright2017 thejitterbug

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The Measuring Stick…My Own Worst Enemy

The Measuring Stick…My Own Worst Enemy

Bust 32″, waist 24″, inseam 28″…oh, and I wear a size 5 shoe. Fair to say, I’m tiny. Five feet, two inches tall and that’s only if I’ve done spine stretching yoga exercises before the doctor stands me up to check my height. Crawling through a doggie door or half open window would present no challenge, making a career in cat burglary an excellent option.

Don’t worry. Nicking pearls in the dead of night from wealthy old socialites is not my plan. But, I do have a plan, or rather, an intention, regarding my “so called” measurements. Being physically small is of little importance…it’s being emotionally small that’s my hitch.

What Is “Good Enough?”

Type A personality can go on my “size chart” along with shrinking, waning, withering feelings that steal my self assurance time and time again. Maybe the cat burglar is inside me?

These negative emotions have sustained a life-long battle with anxiety, obsessive compulsive disorder and depression.  Somewhere, deep inside, the “real me” is hiding while mental illness plunders every last bit of self-worth from the caches of my soul.

During a recent therapy session, I admitted to never feeling “good enough.” Never. I’m not even sure I know what the parameters of “enough” entail. Of course, my therapist prodded me to go a deeper (an annoying but necessary professional stratagem) and I explained this life encompassing feeling.

  • I’m not a good enough wife; maybe my husband would be happier with someone else; someone smarter, prettier, less of an uptight, bitchy anxious control freak.
  • I’m not good enough at my job, at cooking, at writing, at sex.
  • Daughter, sister, friend…I could be better, better, better.

The list is endless. The measuring stick reaches high, like Jack’s beanstalk disappearing into lofty clouds. But, there is no golden goose egg at the unattainable “top.”

What Am I Up Against?

After this painful discussion, my therapist asked, “What are you measuring yourself against?”

I just sat there and blinked.

Anxious, driven, proactive perfectionism has always dominated my life. Control is a must not an option. I over analyze, set my performance in contrast to others, take out the big, straight-edged stick and determine where I stack up against…what? I didn’t have an answer. And then, the smoke screen lifted.

The Poison Bean Illusions

There is no “against.” I compare my so-called achievements to fraudulent ideas, bogus thoughts, unattainable paradigms that were planted in my head like Jack’s magic beans.

Except, these beans were poison, germinated during an upbringing in a home of emotional instability, cultivated by a society riddled with immense standards and fueled by my aggressive Type A ideals.

My therapist pointed out that this compulsive measuring had less to do with accomplishment and more to do with acceptance; behavior stemming from a childhood where credit had been handed out in random, contingent and inconsistent rates. Looking to be the “best” was not my true intention.

The stamp of approval, to be seen, to be heard, to be loved, to be recognized without condition is what I was searching for all along.

Perfectionism is the Enemy of Forward Movement

The clouds parted right there on the proverbial psychotherapy couch. The measuring stick was not at all about achievement but everything about acknowledgment and confirmation of my worth.

I needed to be high up on that stick because if I wasn’t, I was scared my valuation would deflate in the eyes of those around me. It is a paralyzing affliction. If I feel it won’t be perfect, I feel I can’t begin. Possibilities and opportunities have been left by the roadside because I felt I would never measure up.

Just like the beanstalk is a fairytale, the measuring stick is a fictitious notion designed by my own masochistic nature of self-deprecation.

The beanstalk only got Jack the “cat burglar” into trouble and sure enough it all came crashing down. For me, the outcome will be the same, if I continue to set my gaze on the unattainable lofty heights of “performance” rulers.

My intention is to stop climbing beanstalks and seeking golden eggs. To continue, I’m only stealing from myself. I’m defrauding every opportunity I have to just be me and let that be enough.

©thejitterbug 2017

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Anxiety, Medication and Disaster Pants

Anxiety, Medication and Disaster Pants

If you think this story is about a bad fashion choice involving purple paisley pants…you’re wrong. It’s about anxiety, embarrassment, internal absolution and a very wise phrase coined my by ten year old nephew, Stevie.

Something’s Gurgling…

Complex-PTSD was an illness I had battled for a lifetime (only recently coming to terms with what my struggles were all about.)

After a long road of trial and error, my doctors and I had finally found a medication to combat my symptoms. I was starting to feel the grip of anxiety and depression loosen.

But the stress of the illness, anxiety and those pretty little pills, came with a price tag and I’m not talking about paper currency. The premium was gastrointestinal discontent. Irritable Bowel Syndrome.

At the time this was a cost I was willing to pay, but have now revisited this decision.

Bouts of diarrhea, gas and abdominal discomfort were daily struggles. Holistic teas seemed to help and my confidence improved, perhaps too much so.

The Event

One Thursday evening while conversing with my husband, I felt some abdominal pressure. Thinking this was merely intestinal vapor, I discreetly took action to relieve myself and received a big surprise.

The tragedy had already occurred before my frantic attempt to reach the bathroom. I had ended up with what my 10 year old nephew Stevie refers to as “Disaster Pants.”

My husband, normally unflinching in any situation was totally nonplussed. The bathroom door flew open, a pair of clean underwear flew through the air and the door slammed shut as he retreated to a less noxious space.

Disaster Pants

“Disaster Pants.” My nephew could not have coined a more accurate description for when in life, we literally or figuratively shit our pants.

Not always, but often times, a disaster is not something we caused or made to happen.

Merriam-Webster dictionary says a disaster is “a sudden calamitous event” or a “sudden or great misfortune.” (My yoga pants were ruined…perhaps not a great misfortune but disappointing none the less.)

We all have things that happen to us, not because of us. At some point, we all have to wear a very real or metaphorical pair of “Disaster Pants.” But, then we take them off, or clean them up or find a new pair because after “disaster,” anxiety and embarrassment there is usually recovery.

My nephew didn’t come home from school announcing he had pooped his corduroys. “He” didn’t do it. It was not a choice but a bodily function that occurred beyond his control. Stevie simply stated to my sister that an incident of “Disaster Pants” had occurred.

Internal Absolution

This statement reveals a self-forgiving and nonjudgmental perspective; perhaps an attitude we all need to assume upon finding ourselves in uncomfortable, awkward, unavoidable situations that are truly not our fault; situations that a little bleach or internal absolution can most likely repair.

Anxiety is Self Punishing

We judge ourselves, we blame ourselves, we punish ourselves for misconstrued transgressions. Sometimes, we are just at the mercy of this chaotic universe.

Learning this little bit of priceless wisdom has helped me to let go of some anxiety surrounding things I cannot control.

I’m not enlightened or healed; I have good days, bad days, worse days. But, now when I get up in the morning I’m a little more ok with the knowledge that things might not go exactly how I want them to, that most likely it won’t be my fault and there is nothing to be embarrassed about.

After all, everyone has disaster pants and we all put them on, one leg at a time.

©2017 thejitterbug

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