Rising Above It

By Leah Barker

I apologize for the poor grammar; I needed to get this off of my chest on a time-crunch before work!

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I suppose I should start off by clarifying exactly what “It” is:

Hate. Cruel Words. Mocking. Carelessness. Hostility. Insults. Ect…

I’m writing this post in retrospect after I received a very hurtful message from someone who I once considered a friend. In my anger and pain, I posted the message on a Huntington’s Disease Support Group page in hopes of finding some comfort (which I did times a million because our community is awesome), but I was also wisely counseled into letting go of my hurt and rage. I also began to realize that my experience was one that many have shared and continue to share. Below are just a few examples from a small community in a big, big world:

Makes you kinda sick to your stomach, huh? I know it did for me.

And guys, this kind of thing happens to people with all kinds of mental/physical illnesses. The worst kind of people will see your sickness as your most vulnerable spot and then use it against you when they want to hurt you. It can hurt, and often does. It can make you angry, depressed, unsure, and left feeling with a need to retaliate, but you know what?

“It” doesn’t have to. 

I know first-hand that words like these can cut especially deep if they are coming from someone you love, but a person who claims to love you and care about you would never cross a line that thin. “It” has a name, and it’s called abuse. You do not need to have someone around in your life who uses your willingness to confide in them (with something as serious as an illness) to curse you with the same mouth the words “I love you,” come from. It is okay to cut people out of your life, but first and most importantly, you have to leave behind the grudge, the anger, and the hurt.

You can start by ignoring their comments altogether, no matter who they are. Trying to rationalize with a person who is irrational enough to use hate this way usually only adds fuel to their fire.

You then have to consider the “why” for their reasons of saying such hurtful things, and the answer is always the same: Because they feel insecure in whatever situation you both are in and they need to make themselves feel bigger and better by taking advantage of you.

Do you know what that means?

It means that the problem is not you, so you cannot let yourself feel belittled or low. Most of the time, people who hate like this have absolutely no idea what it is like living with whatever illness you have, or else they would surely be kissing your feet rather than speaking to you in such a heartless manner.

*I will make an exception to this when it comes to Huntington’s Disease, as when someone is sick with it, they become extremely mentally unsound and are prone to say all sorts of unkind things that they don’t mean. I know it still hurts.*

But look, this person or these people who use your illness against you wake up every morning, go to work, come home, pay the bills, and lay their heads on their pillows hoping to live a long and prosperous life.

You wake up every morning (with HD, with ALS, with Manic Depression), go to work (with Parkinson’s, with Tourette’s, with O.C.D.), come home (with Alzheimer’s, with Paranoia, with Schizophrenia), pay the bills (with MS, with Bipolar Disorder, with Dementia), and lay your head on your pillow worrying about how long your disease will allow you to live, long-term healthcare plans, medical bills, coping mechanisms, advocacy, and passing your illness along to children you might never get to have.

You are living your life times two. “They” don’t get that. They don’t understand that you are stronger than they could ever hope to be in every aspect because you do everything they do, but with a serious, incurable, fatal illness. And I’m not using those words to make you feel down, no, completely the opposite. When someone attempts to use your illness to make you feel small, I want you to look in the mirror and remember that you are amazing. Look at yourself, living your life, even if you’re having a hard time. Especially if you’re having a hard time. Look at yourself and realize that the people who see your illness as a weakness are blind, so do not hold anything against them. Your eyes, perhaps because of your illness, are wide open. And that this hateful person, who does not have to struggle with your illness, still needs to stoop down so low in order to make themselves feel better. “They” are the ones that are sicker than you, but not in a way that brings about strength.

Drop them. Leave them behind. Ignore them. They don’t deserve an explanation, and you don’t owe anybody one. Block out the hurt and the pain because when those words were said, they came from the other person’s hurt and pain, and it does not belong to you.

Even at your weakest points, you are stronger than them because you’re alive, which means you’re not giving up.

Rise above it.

 

Why Mental Illnesses Should be Treated as Seriously as Physical Illnesses

A day in the life of someone who suffers from a mental illness:

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July 22, 2016

My first trip to the emergency room for anxiety.

*Alarm goes off*

I literally can’t get out of bed today. I have to get out of bed today. If I lay here and do nothing, then I’m wasting all of my time and being lazy. If I get out of bed, then I have to face the world. My head feels so heavy. The clock always ticks so slowly, and I’m going to have to talk to a lot of people today. Maybe I can call in sick. Maybe I’ll crash my car on the way to work. Maybe…

I get up to get ready.

My hair looks so frizzy today. You know what? I’m not going to wear makeup today. No-wait, if I don’t wear makeup, people will think that I’m lazy and ugly. But if I put on my makeup, people might think I’m trying too hard. I have to put on just the right amount. 

Ugh, I overdid it again. I look like a slut now. I’ll have to wear something to make it look like I really wasn’t trying that hard. 

I throw on some sweats and a t-shirt.

Now my face and my outfit don’t match. I just won’t go anywhere until I have to work.

I look at all of the medication I have to take for the day. Sometimes they make me feel almost normal, and sometimes they make me feel like a ghost.

I wonder if I could leave out this medication and replace it with this medication so that I’ll be able to feel better? I’ll just take these five and this one later. I hope they keep me level-headed today. If not, I’m really screwed.

I sit down on the couch to try and watch some T.V., but my thoughts are racing so quickly that I can’t even concentrate on what I’m watching.

What am I doing with my life? I’m 23 and still in school. I have so many bills to pay. What if I never meet someone before I get sick? I want to have children so badly. What about my mom? I have to help her, I have to make her well. And my sister, she can’t have Huntington’s, and neither can my nephew. If we all have it, who will take care of us? I’m sitting on the couch, literally doing nothing with my time. What if my writing career never takes off? I don’t even feel normal enough to punch something out really quick. Why don’t I look like that model on T.V.? Does God hear me when I pray? Why can’t I muster up the strength to check in on my friends?

And this is all within about a two minute time-frame.

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Work rolls around, and the medication I had taken earlier was not making me feel very good.

Oh God, I’m so scared to get into the car. What if I get into a wreck? What if I accidentally kill someone? Or get pulled over? I would go to jail for life. What if I’m late to work? I would get fired and have no money to pay all of my bills. I have to make enough money today. If my car breaks down, how am I going to pay to fix it? God, please help me.

My heart begins beating rapidly, but I drive off to work anyways.

I arrive with five minutes to spare and a mind that is not ready to interact with people, at least not properly.

I do fine at first, conversing with my tables politely while satisfying their need for quick, friendly service.

But my mind hasn’t stopped. In fact, it’s been racing faster and faster as every minute passes.

My heart starts to race. I begin to notice that I keep running into things: tables, chairs, the walls.

And then I wake up on the ground, gasping for every breath and shaking like crazy. People are surrounding me, shouting at me to roll on my back, no, on my side, keep your head tilted. Open up your chest. Breathe.

I’m taken out of work on a stretcher and hoisted into the ambulance. The medics put breathing tubes into my nose, and soon, I begin to feel normal again, but completely unable to answer the question, “What in the world just happened?”

And as fate would have it, I am brought into the hospital (the #1 place that gives me anxiety) and stuck with needles (which are on my top ten list of phobias…yes, I have a list) and then told that everything was fine.

My anxiety was telling me otherwise. There must be something seriously wrong with me. All of this couldn’t have just been one big anxiety attack.

So, I had them run every test available. The only thing that came back abnormal was from my x-ray, which showed that I was a little bit constipated.

After a couple of hours, I was released and feeling back to normal, or at least my version of it. Needless to say, the whole debacle was a huge wake-up call for me. I never really even thought twice about the serious effects that mental illnesses can have on your body, but now I know. Now I know.

Whatever mental illnesses you might be suffering from should not be ignored. If you’re really feeling badly, then do yourself a favor and do whatever it is you do when things get bad. Stay in bed if you need to. Take a hot bath. Drink some tea. TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF. You’re not doing anyone a favor by pretending to be “fine” all of the time.

You see, physical pain can be treated with pain medication, a splint, and some crutches. It can be seen, most of the time, anyways. But there is never an easy way out of your own thoughts. People that can’t control certain aspects of their brain can only be treated to a certain extent, and I’d much rather have a healthy mind than anything else.

If you need to take a sick day because of your mental illness, go ahead and do it. It’s just such a shame that we have to make up some sort of physical ailment rather than tell the truth.

It’s 2016. The earth is millions of years old. It’s time for that to change.

 

 

 

Important Update (And an Unoriginal Hipster Photo)

Hi lovelies!

I updated my blog. Take a look! 🙂

I have a goal of reaching 1,000 likes by the end of the month! Not just for the publicity…actually not for that at all, but so that I can bring more awareness and hope for people suffering from terminal/mental illnesses! This is my passion. The day I got tested, I prayed that God would give me the test results that would bring Him the most glory and the world the vision to see that they are much, much bigger than any of their sufferings.

Anyways, I have around 930 followers here on WordPress, so if you could take five seconds to like my page, it would mean the world!

(I hope I don’t sound desperate, LOL)

Just log into Facebook and search Capturing the Corners.

Love ya’ll to the moon and back!!

 

Am I Beautiful Now?

The day I was born, my daddy held me in his arms, looked into my mother’s eyes, and whispered, “She’s perfect.”

Untainted and in pure form of newness to the world, I was the reason for my parents contentment.

They swore that my smile lit up a room, and the fact that I was loved became a matter that was irrefutable.

To my parents, to my family, to the world, I was beautiful.

But there would come a day all too soon, all too young, all too innocent

When my caretaker would convince me that the words “beauty” and “my body” were two ideas that where entirely too dissonant.

From my own home came the first concepts of insecurity and self-hate

So I starved myself, ran off what little calories I consumed, and quickly lost weight.

At 14-years-old I stepped on the scale and watched the number 85 appear.

I was thinner than most, and better yet, happy, but blind to the fact that my illusions were severe.

Am I beautiful now?

Contentment came short-lived, as this type is usually known for.

Insecurity came back with a vengeance as my mind demanded an encore.

I got older and realized that my face lacked the symmetry I found in my magazines:

I had small lips, a round face, and crooked teeth that could never be witnessed on a movie screen.

All of my friends got attention from boys who never even gave me a second glance

And I was certain that if I didn’t change anything, then I would never stand a chance

So I clumsily applied some makeup, got braces, and shopped for tighter clothes,

Promising myself that I would never again live in the footsteps of my friends shadows.

Summer passed, and I had been perfecting my new look every day.

It took a lot of work, but on the first day of school, I knew the old me had gone away.

I got the attention I so badly desired, but what nobody told me

Was that I’d never be able to understand why people hadn’t flocked to my past-self, even though I still had the same personality.

I was still incomplete. I still wasn’t happy.

My need for acceptance became a self-fulfilling prophecy.

But comparison became a drug, and I was a heavy user.

The television left me craving more, and I revolutionized my passions to be replaced by consumer.

Am I beautiful now?

I knew that something was wrong with me, I guess I’d always known.

It was apparent in my family, so I allowed the doctor to hand over my next milestone.

Huntington’s Disease. Positive. One word that changed my life forever.

A downward spiral. Depression. Life became a hopeless endeavor.

My childhood fantasies got swept up in the flood I was drowning in.

My cry for help only emerged as a haunting silence that clawed beneath my skin.

I spent my days beneath the covers while all my friends went on with their lives.

Nobody wanted to hang out with the sad girl, especially when they couldn’t empathize.

I became disgusted with who I was and my inability to “get over it”

And all of the makeup in the world couldn’t force my emotions to commit.

I didn’t want a mourning period, I wanted to fit in

So I went to the doctor’s to be inscribed with every possible prescription he could’ve written.

They made me sick, dizzy, and weak, but I was informed this was “standard”

My mind became numb enough to tolerate putting on the mask that society preferred.

I still didn’t feel like myself.

Maybe I acted like I was happier, but the pills only replaced who I really was with someone else.

Am I beautiful now?

I could hear their whispers. This kind of gossip always circled back to me.

Our friends. Our family.

To them, if I remained single my whole life, I would be labeled “sad,” “alone,” and “anomaly,”

But if I fell in love, I’d be trapping him in a snare, becoming “selfish,” “irresponsible,” and “greedy.”

I told myself I would never marry, but there I stood at the alter

Everyone told me I looked breathtaking, but I knew they all felt so unsure

Draped in all white, I was meant to represent everything joyful, everlasting, and pure

But I couldn’t shake the facts: That this marriage would be chaining him down to a sickness that had no cure.

I didn’t want to ruin it, so I pretended that my tears flowed from gaiety.

But “in sickness and in health” stabbed me with the sharp knife of reality.

And everything was numb besides one emotion: Guilty.

I wanted to hang on to who I was, my honor, and my pride.

Growing old with the one I loved was a right we had been denied.

But I stapled on a smile so that everyone else could at least feel temporarily satisfied.

It was supposed to be the happiest day of my life, but with every motion I presented as bliss, I lied.

Am I beautiful now?

My sickness is in full effect, and I never stop moving

The person I was is long gone now, but I still try so hard to keep improving

My husband spoon feeds me, changes my clothes, and patches my wounds when I fall

But when night comes, he thinks I can’t see that he is drowning his pain in alcohol.

And I am the cause.

The woman he once loved is now hiding under thin limbs that are covered with gauze.

I can’t hide behind makeup, fix my hair, or speak words of charm and whit.

I don’t know if this is who I truly am now, or if my reflection is just counterfeit.

When I was just a baby, the world saw me as lovely and pure

Even though I was completely dependent, clumsy in my new skin, and the embodiment of immature.

Now, I am similar to a baby in almost every sense,

Except now, no one thinks that my helplessness is cute or mistakes my infantile behavior for innocence.

Despite my past efforts to layer on different masks so that the world would see me as pretty,

I had always secretly wished that I could be myself. No makeup. No charm. No “body.”

My wish finally came true.

I’ve lost all control of my figure, my hair, and my mood.

But the only attention I receive now comes from curious stares and looks of pity.

I only wanted to be purely me. I thought it might be pretty.

Am I beautiful now?

Everybody I’ve every loved has come out to see me today.

The room is packed shoulder-to-shoulder, and food is being served that is nothing less than gourmet.

Only the best for the best, they’d say.

People took turns coming up to me

Telling me that I was loved, I was beautiful, that there was no place they’d rather be.

“Her dress is perfect!” “Look at her nails!” “Doesn’t her face look lovely?”

They touched my perfectly curled hair and kissed my airbrushed forehead.

My husband re-read me his vows and embraced me as if we had just been newlywed.

This was what I’d always wanted: To be loved.

But I was dead.

My body’s twitching had finally ceased. I lay in my casket peaceful and still.

The mortician had plumped up my skin and enhanced my best features so I looked like I had never even been ill.

In fact, my figure had taken on a perfection that in life, I could never achieve.

I lay looking as new and fresh as the day I had been conceived.

My goal had finally been reached, so I stood up to take a bow

Shouting to ears that couldn’t hear and eyes that never saw:

“Am I beautiful now?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Falling in Love

I’m in the process of writing an HD love story, and I have to say that it’s the most difficult story I’ve ever attempted to write.

Most of my days are spent searching for a home in my mind, and aching for the days when I felt “normal.” I’m the type of person who can be traditional and happy for days, and then all of the sudden, I’m scared to go outside, so it sit in my apartment with the shades pulled shut, hair disheveled, sitting in one spot all day, too anxious to move.

That’s when I write, and it’s a sweet salve to my wounds. I think this story will be beautiful, and I might be falling in love with the people I’ve created. Maybe that’s me falling in love with myself. I guess we’ll see:

“Our love runs deeper than the skin, deeper than anything they see, and it’s more than external, fleeting sensuality. Our souls mesh into one like it’s found its missing piece, and I’m so sure that through time, my love for her will only increase.
I’m stupid and plain, but she laughs at everything I say. I live a little more each time she smiles, and I think I might be fully alive someday. As long as she’s around to smile at anything, my heart will mend itself when I see she is healing. She doesn’t like her scars, but in them, I see history: the pain of her past is just a transparent accessory. And I love her, even when her tide is high. I’ll be her steady ground while I paint her a sunset sky.”