Six years later, I am, to put it lightly, thrilled with the progress I have been able to play a role in. It has been the honor of a lifetime. But, similar to my decision to join the organization, it was never about my successes. It wasn’t even about the organization’s successes. It was about the Jewish community’s needs. That was what spurred the organization’s beginning, and it is as well what spurs its ending (at least for the time being). So many mental health-centered organizations catering to the Jewish community have appeared seemingly out of thin air over the past six years. It would be a silly exercise to try to name them without leaving any out. There are so many more educational programs and resources offered at schools, shuls, community centers, you name it. The pandemic probably turbo-charged the progress the Jewish community was already making in understanding the significance of mental health education. 

Is there no more work Refuat Hanefesh can do? Of course not. As long as there is still one person battling mental health challenges in silence, the job is not done. But that does not change the reality that the days of nobody doing anything about the glaring hole in the Jewish community have passed. Reasonable minds can argue about what role Refuat Hanefesh still could play in the here and now and what it might be able to be reimagined into to best serve the current needs of the incredible Jewish community. Maybe the day will come when Refuat Hanefesh reactivates. For now, however, the board of directors has decided to dissolve the organization.

When this decision was finalized, my mind immediately turned to all of those who have supported and contributed to Refuat Hanefesh over the years. The volunteers, the writers, the speakers, the advisors, the donors. The most obvious action to take in order to honor and preserve their contributions was to make sure all the resources they enabled Refuat Hanefesh to create still have a home. To that end, the website will remain up indefinitely, where you can find the archives of Refuat Hanefesh’s blog, live conversations, creative contest winners, gap year conferences, and more.  

It makes me sick to my stomach that I will miss at least someone, but I have to thank all of those who have directly impacted and/or made possible my journey at Refuat Hanefesh. Ariel Mintz, your decision to start this and commitment to grow it has saved lives and impacted countless people. Shanee Markovitz, your passion and determination has inspired thousands, and I am so grateful for your friendship. Noam Stein, your leadership and knowledge has taught me so much and done wonders for mental health education. Lauren Mazal Blum, your work behind the scenes enabled Refuat Hanefesh to operate effectively, your contributions often going unsung. Avi Gordon, your vision and commitment were invaluable. Akiva Clair, your creative and logistical support behind the scenes has meant a great deal to me. Thank you also Alyssa Kolatch, Andrew Waters, Aryeh Goldberg, Avital Mintz, Batya Mandelbaum, Chaim Ancier, Claire Segal, Dani Bauer, Devorah Waters, Dovid Zrirkind, Jonathan Kugel, Max Engel, Moshe Winograd, Nati Keswick-Faber, Sarah Last, Shelli Sussman, Stephen Glicksman, Talia Korn, Tamara Feldman, Taryn Simon, and Tzivia Appleman. You know how much your contributions have meant to me as much as those do who I neglected to include. 

With immeasurable gratitude to everyone in the Refuat Hanefesh community,

Etan

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Clean flesh, delicate, never maimed.

My scars tell a story that I’d prefer to delete.

And unlike the spirit that intensifies, gets wiser and more vigilant with its wounds, bodies are lazy.

Destroy it once, it will never be perfect again.

All you children with the lines, marks, nicks and perfectly aligned holes.

The skin at the scene of the attacks trying way too hard to appear innocent, way too pallid to be natural.

Believe me, I know.

You can’t even remember how you gave yourself that scar but it still itches and glares an angry red.

Your sneaky body has you twitching on the left when you know the scars are on the exact same spot on the right.

All of you whose pupils widen in disbelief and you flinch at the sight of our skin, please pretend it’s natural.

I have natural scars too.

At six, I jumped off a gate. My face hit the pavement and soaked it red. A thin white bridge still lays sprawled against my forehead, only visible when I ache with anger.

At ten, I cracked my wrist in half. I am reminded of my forever damaged bone when it rains, or when I strum my guitar for some time.

At fourteen I had shingles. White clumsy patches are still scattered on my stomach.

But the difference is that the intentional scars bring emotional torment too.

They agonize me, revolt me, prompt my emotions, memories beliefs and urges.

It’s a fight.

Don’t finger them. Scratch them. Don’t look. Trace them with marker. Drink up photos of self-harm. Cover up. Hurt some more.

They scream at me. From someplace deep inside.

They remind me of all the times I kept things in and bled them out.

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It is important to note that while each of us has a responsibility to learn about stigmatizing language and the effects our speech has, Lizzo and Beyoncé are not the issue. Not only did Lizzo and Beyoncé remove the lyric and issue apologies, but they are just an example of a larger societal issue— how we treat disabled people. (After much research, to my knowledge, I am honoring the most updated consensus on respectful language which is to use the term “disable” and not use people-first language.)

Understanding Albeism

So, what is ableism? There are many definitions available online, but the best one I have found was on accessliving.org: “Ableism is the discrimination of and social prejudice against people with disabilities based on the belief that typical abilities are superior.” Here, the term disability may be a bit of an umbrella term as it includes people with physical, cognitive, developmental, and/or other disabilities, as well as chronic physical and or mental illness. Like with all forms of discrimination, there is much discussion about whether or not the best practice is to categorize different experiences together— for example, discrimination against someone who uses a wheelchair and someone who has a chronic mental illness will look different. However, I would like to argue that both types of discrimination, as well as all of the aforementioned, share the same fundamental reasoning: your worth is equivalent to what you can accomplish.

A History of The S-Word

Before we can fully delve into the S-word and why the way we talk about things matters, we need to establish some linguistic background and theory.

Words’ meanings change, and they change for many reasons and in many ways. One way this happens is that the words’ connotations can change, for better or for worse. When words change for the better it’s called amelioration and when they change for the worse it’s called pejoration. An example of these conceptions is the words “buddy” and “sissy.” While the words used to be diminutives for brother and sister, respectively, “buddy” has ameliorated to become a term of endearment, while “sissy” pejorated to an insult. I like this example because it shows how the meaning of the words has really changed. If you tried to use “buddy” to mean brother instead of friend, nobody would understand you. I also like this example because it reflects another concept— the semantic shifts in words often reflect cultural attitudes and realities. An unfortunate reality is that the world at large thinks very highly of men and masculinity and thinks very lowly of women and femineity.[1] Notice the one-way relationship between the words’ meaning and the cultural norms. Broadly speaking, it is the way we think that influences the way we speak and not the other way around. There are many notable exceptions to that rule, but the most notable are slurs and stigmatizing language; not only do they reflect the way we think, but they also change it.[2]

Let’s talk about the S-word’s history.[3] It started off as a clinical-diagnostic term, spasticity, meaning a medical condition featuring altered skeletal muscle performance. It quickly became a specialized term describing features of cerebral palsy. And then the S-word came into existence as the pejorated form. The word became a derogatory term for physically and cognitively disabled people. The word then shifted meanings yet again. It also became the general opposite of “cool” while specifically referring to clumsiness, inaptitude, otherness, overexcitability, and awkwardness. Today, in the UK, the S-word is considered to be the most offensive term for disabled people and is still used as a slur for disabled in many Anglophone countries, including the US.

So What’s The Harm?

The harm of this term, even with its most current meaning, is that it sends a clear message of who is deemed acceptable and who is not. The use of the word tells us that those who can do are better, and those who can’t are not only worse comparatively, but inherently bad. It’s not just you want to be abled, but you actively don’t want to be disabled. This is evident from the fact that the word’s meaning hasn’t shifted much; it went from directly insulting disabled people to also insulting their behaviors and mannerisms. The S-word says not only is it bad to be disabled, but it’s also bad to be like a disabled person.

This line of thinking is reinforced by so many systems that are the basis of our society today. The biggest culprit is a society that has equated human worth and value to labor output and performance. Fixing that will require major reform on many systemic levels, and the work to do so needs to start. However, on the individual and cultural level, there is also much work to be done.

In our culture today, we act and think of our health and ability as products of our choices and therefore representative of our character. To put simply, as a society, we believe that anyone who is “healthy” is that because they “put in the hard work” and anyone who isn’t was “just too lazy” to be healthy. There are so many fallacies with this line of thought, the largest being that health is a choice when in reality it rarely is. In addition to the falsehood of that thinking, it breeds a self-fulling belief of justified prejudice and discrimination. When we view disabled and chronically ill people as morally less-than because we believe they “chose to be that way”, then we convince ourselves that we don’t need to create a society that is inclusive to them; when we don’t create a society that is inclusive, then traits of disabled and chronically ill people are viewed as weird or bad, and thus adding more reason we feel the need to change our society. The two thoughts play into each other, adding more fuel to each, and come to a meeting point at how we think of and act toward disabled people. When we use the S-word, we are saying both that being disabled is a) weird and b) wrong. Using the S-word reinforces our societal norms to outcast disabled people while also stripping away the sympathy we would need to have in order to change those norms. Using the S-word keeps us in the same socio-cultural echo chamber that has hurt so many people with disabilities and/or chronic illnesses.

Takeaway Message

There are two lessons that I would like to highlight. Firstly, as much as we might feel like we have destigmatized disability and chronic illness, there is still so much work to be done, individually and societally. We need to have policy reform. We also need a cultural reform and remove the moral stigmas behind health and ability.

Secondly, the way we speak makes an impact on the way we think and act. It’s not just that slurs cause harm to people’s emotional wellbeing; it is that by equating an attribute of a person that is external to their being to something that is lowly, we start to think of that person as lowly. In the context of the S-word— when having an illness or disability is equated with “uncool” and “unlikable”, then we start to think people who have them are not worthy of our respect, care, and consideration. It’s time we start building and continue to build a world that is safe for all and considerate of the specific needs of people with illness and/or disabilities. So, let’s start with a very easy first step— stopping to use the S-word.

[1] See Muriel Shultz, The Semantic Derogation of Women, (1975).

[2] See John McWhorter’s Nine Nasty Words, (2021); and Amanda Montell’s, Wordslut: A Feminist Guide to Taking Back the English Language, (2019).

[3] Much of this paragraph is taken from the Wikipedia entry, Spastic (word), https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Spastic_(word).

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My sister-in-law is bipolar.

My son is divorced. Well, his mother-in-law is bipolar. What can you expect?

It’s all over, the judgment. The stigma won’t go away.

Yet, I believe the greatest stigma is inside my own heart.

I hate myself. I hate myself for being so hopelessly bipolar.

I want to be free. Free to follow my heart and accomplish goals. Goals that others have mastered in their twenties. I am in my thirties and I don’t see an end. I don’t believe I will ever be able to get that degree and take that job I really want.

I’m a playgroup Morah. No, not the Morah. The assistant. I help out wherever it’s needed. I love the children. I enjoy my job. But it’s not ideal. With this job, my bipolar states don’t get in the way. I can be happy and actively involved with the kids, or I can choose to sit quietly near them, cutting and pasting.

I dream of being the Morah. I dream of teaching first grade. I dream of doing social work. I know I have the ability for these careers. I can do it. And yet. And yet, with bipolar in the way, it will be near impossible.

I have my ups. Days when I want to sing and dance and life feels so blissful. Days? It’s more like hours. Because it quickly spirals to intense energy; intense irritability. The slightest stimulation feels like too much. Noise is amplified. Things I need to do feel burdensome. And people around me are treated to my irritable behavior. I leave that up to your imagination.

My brain is exploding and I want to bang my head in the wall, bite myself, anything to take away the tension. I want to die…I slide down into the muck. Sad, tired, unable to do anything. Feeling so depleted, so hopeless. I stay in bed, my blanket over my head.

Life is hard. So hard.

I am bad. Bipolar is just an excuse, isn’t it? Judgment pounds at me.

Maybe it’s not just bipolar. Maybe it’s Borderline Personality as well. Now I’m really messed up.

My husband is suffering. My kids are suffering.

Does it matter if you create a mental health organization if I’m judging myself as bad? If life hurts so much that death is better?

How will it help my inner world change? How will it help me do more in my life besides fighting my emotions and urges?

Maybe that’s my purpose in life. To fight myself. To apologize one hundred and one times to my husband and children for hurting them; for being.

I can take all my dreams and trample them in the dust. I will never amount to anything.

I am bipolar. I’m sorry.

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–Malka Esther from the Purim Megilla

Shalom,

My name is Hadassah Chavivah Zeltzer, A.K.A Kimmie Zeltzer. In my everyday life, I use my Hebrew name Hadassah Chavivah because when I was a little girl in Hebrew school, I was taught that my Hebrew name has great spiritual significance and that it could be a window into a person’s soul and character. It could also be a compass for genuinely actualizing a person’s true potential in this world.

Why I Share

I wanted my story to be told so that my life would have not been in vain, nor the lives of others, whether they are Jewish or not, who have experienced similar misfortunes. So I am writing you today as an act of making meaning out of my personal suffering, and the suffering of those who are the closest to me, as well as the many other men and women who have suffered similarly. The same systemic issues and intersectionality have kept all of us locked out from a reasonable chance to access the quality support which would afford us the humanity and dignity to build and create a meaningful and quality life.

Because of the personal traumas of my past and my overall disappointment and hurt with the “Mental Health System”, I  became very defiant as a defense to protect myself so I would never be hurt again. I resided into a world of fantasy and leaned extremely heavily on the G-d I was taught about in Hebrew School, who would be there for me even if everyone else around me failed or abandoned me.

Now that I am an older person, I realize that even with G-d by my side, I still have to act in a way that will create my own miracle and do all I can in the physical l world. This will allow me to heal and reclaim my life. Then, if it is G-d’s will, I want to be in a position that will allow me the ability to support others with similar experiences. 

Queen Esther’s Role

I started my post with a quote from one of my favorite Jewish heroines, Queen Esther. I only added the words “to me” to make it more personal to my story.

She is my role model and who I turned to for inspiration for my decision to share my story. I loved that she was willing to do the right thing, despite knowing that she was not guaranteed that her life would be spared.

I also believe the context of Queen Esther’s story is a true reflection of the experience I and so many men and women globally are still going through. We are barely living, existing at best.

The Need For Change

Even though I am doing my best to be brave and come out of hiding, I am earnestly terrified of what will really happen and become of me and the most vulnerable like me if things don’t change urgently.

My prayer and hope for this blog post’s impact is that G-d will use my writing and first-hand experience as a vehicle to open the floodgates of salvation for myself and all those who are suffering like me, hidden in plain sight or not so plain sight.

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It has been a long time since I wrote anything about mental illness. I used to be a big NAMI (National Alliance on Mental Illness) advocate. I even wrote a book titled Surviving Mental Illness, My Story, and became a Peer Specialist/Advocate. 

My sister struggled with Paranoid Schizophrenia and other psychotic disorders for nine years. When I learned of her death, I gave up on the idea of recovery and stopped publishing and advertising my book, so when self-publishers called me, I told them I am not interested in writing anymore. I no longer wanted to be a member of NAMI or any organization that had to do with mental illness, even Jewish ones. I no longer wanted to be a Peer Specialist because that meant that I have to believe that everyone has a possible chance to achieve recovery. I lost faith in the mental health system. Somehow though, I never lost faith in my Judaism and in G-d. I never knew the reason why I had such strong faith. It was always in me and I always felt it, but I could never describe it until now.

Uncovering The Truth About My Sister

Recently, I learned that my shul and two main rabbis that I have grown to love and my Jewish community that I have grown to love had kept a confidential secret from me regarding the details behind my sister’s death, although I had my suspicions. I went one day to the Rabbi whose shul was in charge of the Chevra Kadisha (group of people who prepare the deceased for burial) of my sister, even though deep down I knew and had suspicions but was not ready to admit to it when she had passed away. The Rabbi finally told me in an email that hearing about other people talking about trying to kill themselves can be triggering; I want you to know and remember in big capital letters, “YOU ARE NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR YOUR SISTER’S SUICIDE.” I thought I was learning to accept how I knew deep down she died, and I think I was, but it triggered me into having a manic episode, and before it got too bad, I said to my husband Charles, “you better take me to Zucker hospital.” 

When I was admitted to the emergency room, the mania exploded. At the hospital and without notifying me, my psychiatrist at Advance Center for Psychotherapy with consult of the hospital staff took me off of my old medication, Prolixin, which had kept me stable since I was 24 years old. Instead, they gave me Abilify and Clonazepam, which helped me sleep and lessened the anxiety. I stayed there about a week and when I came home, I continued with my psychiatrist and met with the director of the clinic who helped me interpret the manic episode I had in the hospital because I wrote it down in a journal. It was then that I realized I had a spiritual connection to Hashem, to my family who are in heaven, to certain spiritual leaders and rabbis in my community, and of course, to Judaism.

Working Through The Medications

I realized the Abilify had given me hypermania, lack of sleep, and migraine headaches. I told this to my doctor and he of all people, who I thought knew me very well, asked which medicine I felt was better for me. I told him of course the Prolixin, but he should have known that after dealing with me for so many years.

One day, I went to my retail pharmacist and she saw that I was not myself, which means the hypermania must have gotten worse. She could not get a hold of my doctor and called Charles. They both called Hatzolah ambulance services and brought me to the emergency room at Zucker hospital for my second trip, but what I did not know was that I was admitted involuntarily. I felt like the doctors and nurse practitioners and staff were ignoring me and not believing what I had to say. They put me back on Abilify 20 mg, the medication which started this whole thing. When my doctor sent them a message, they realized what they did wrong and that they did not properly listen to me.

I was not sleeping day and night and did not feel up to joining groups and was above all crying. Once they got my medication fixed back to my Prolixin, they switched me to voluntary stay, and soon after, I was out of the hospital. However, they wanted me to join Zucker’s PACE Program, which is a short-term partial hospitalization program.

Realizations

During my stay at the hospital and with the PACE Program, I realized that my sister in heaven wanted me to regain my mental health and to still believe at least that there is hope for me, even though she is gone. Because of my strong spirituality to Hashem, to my parents, and definitely to my sister, I realized that even though she did not want to commit suicide, I believe that it was Hashem’s plan to let her go.

I think and realize today that my sister Susan and Hashem wanted to show me that there is still life and it is up to Hashem. My sister wants me as well as my parents to continue using mental health through wellness but focus it in a different way. I have decided to volunteer more with Jewish organizations, such as working with seniors at the local senior centers. When I am ready, I will rejoin Chazkeinu and may volunteer there in the future by running a group on Zoom about suicide loss for family members.  I also want to rejoin NAMI sometime in the near future and participate in a spirituality support group.

This is the longest article I have written in a very long time. Writing does help with mental wellness. This does not mean I will write another book. It does not even mean that I believe in recovery at this point. I do believe in spirituality through strong mental health, which includes wellness, prayer, meditation, self-care, and believing in Hashem, or whatever faith a person observes.

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Swirling snow;
serpents at our heels.
My body buzzes;
muscles shivering.

Tension crawls –
beneath my skin,
and my mask –
begins to crumble.

My stomach hurts;
I am afraid.

I face a semi-circle;
eyes in faces stare at me.
It’s time for me to tell the truth,
let everybody know –
“I Am”

My tears are slow and silent,
they slide backwards-
absorbed behind my face.

Yet-
The Composure cannot falter;
my stance must say,
that I am present,
I am tall.

Pressure in my joints, as
my body
knows –
Release is coming.

How can I let myself
spill out so much truth?
My inner-me is screaming.
Stop!
Don’t let them see…

The truth, I am.

I am leaving my years in Egypt,
my comfortable entrapment
– home.
Where my body is a cage,
and my soul is kept enslaved.

I know the path to freedom,
crosses a parted sea –
but my ankles are still soaking,
and my feet encased in mud.

The Promised Land
is not a land of glory-
nor does it promise to
flow with milk and honey.

No –
it is a land where truth,
through struggle,
emerges.
Where words –
a source of healing, quench
a throat still parched.

And, yet – me, here,
standing in the semi-circle –
No staff nor wand in hand,
breathing deeply,
letting go –

Hello, my name is …
Hineini
I Am.

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If only mental illness was contained just in the brain!

Then, maybe I would be able to cope with the pain

Tell me, is there a way to explain

That besides for my mind, my body also feels insane?

I feel real lame

With my constant, almost nagging refrain:

‘I’m not feeling ‘well’.

It seems my pleas are in vain.

I need someone to understand

Hold my hand

Bring me back to wellness land.

Because the panic I feel in my head,

Or the depressive thoughts heavy as lead

Also ache in a very physical way.

It starts in my knees-my body starts to sway

I lie down breathing deeply

Waiting for the pain to pass, please hashem

Make it go quickly!!

Then the anxiety hits my middle,

My stomach is in knots, the constant nausea is a riddle.

Tension makes my neck stiff and tight

So bad it hurts  looking to the left or right

A migraine develops- a never ending hot band of pressure

The agony is beyond measure

I am tired of pill popping

Doctor hopping

The cure is out of my reach

I surrender

Instead

I learn to treasure my role

Embrace my suffering soul

So divine, infinite and sensitive

Special designed to help me live

To make a difference to others, to give

This inspiring perspective

Helps me look beyond the major pain I can see that good things grow only with rain.

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I grew up in a non-orthodox Jewish family. Although not religious, I attended synagogue regularly, my parents looked upon as respectable and to the outside, we seemed like a typical Jewish family. It couldn’t have been further from the truth. Behind locked doors, we bore a secret that no one spoke about. My dad was sexually abusive towards me and other family members as well as being physically violent towards my half-siblings. It also led to my half-brother sexually abusing me from the age of four until I reached the age of ten.

For so long, I wondered what it was like not to wear the heavy anchor of shame around my neck as a survivor of childhood sexual abuse. I remember discussing this at a later stage with my Rabbi, that I felt like I was a sinner for not honouring my parents, and would anyone believe a respectable Jewish man to be capable of committing such heinous crimes or judge me for being complicit with the sexual abuse from my half-brother, without question?

At the time, I couldn’t connect the dots to my emotional and mental state growing up. I never realised the impact of the sexual abuse, neglect, abandonment, or how it would affect my mental health. I was hypervigilant, highly anxious, experiencing flashbacks, and convinced I was being punished for being a ‘bad person.’ From the age of eight, I had a constant desire to overdose and self-harm; I assumed my anger and rage were part of my personality. I didn’t believe I was lovable and pushed away anyone that dared get close to me, whilst at the same time, was crying out for someone to accept me for who I was. I took all the anger I was too scared to show as a child, from all the controlling, bullying behaviour against me and acted the same way, but to the extreme. I had no idea I was suffering from complex PTSD. I spent much of my adulthood trying to reconcile what happened to me with various professional counsellors and psychiatrists telling me it wasn’t my fault.

I wanted to believe them; I really did. I read the self-help books, I also kept telling myself it wasn’t my fault. But did this ring true? No. Instead, I carried around a secret burden that I couldn’t eradicate no matter how hard I tried. It followed me wherever I went. As a parent, as a wife, and a person living in a world where I felt silenced and misunderstood without ever knowing why.

It was 2016 when my previous counsellor suggested I start a creative hobby as an outlet. So, I reluctantly joined a choir, leading to singing lessons, taking up drama and writing to improve my lack of confidence. To my surprise, I loved it! With the support of my drama teacher, she encouraged me to discover my life through the power of writing, providing a safe space to explore my emotions. I wrote my first poem the day after my dad died. Writing was my creative tool to express the bottled-up feelings, anger, and pain that I had struggled to articulate over the years.

Poetry has been one of my therapeutic mechanisms of helping me find my voice again and a way of dealing with the emotional scars of trauma. My poems share a part of my journey with some of the difficult feelings around my sexual abuse, the shame, low self-esteem, abandonment issues, struggles with complex PTSD, disassociation, and fear. But I also write about my strength and empowerment of taking back my voice.

I grew up thinking I was a sinner for loving my abusers. That I deserved what happened to me for not fighting back or saying no. It has taken me over 40 years to finally acknowledge that what happened to me as a child was never my fault. That I no longer need to keep quiet. Singing, drama, and writing my poetry book about my journey, have given me a voice from an entity of silence. I will never allow anyone to push me back into a corner, forgotten. My story is mine to share with others to give them the strength to know there is light on the other side. Everyone deserves a voice and a right to be heard. I am not only meant to survive but thrive and speak my truth so others can take hope and comfort they are not walking through the storm alone. Today, I am no longer the silhouette, but the songbird!

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Why all his friends run
And everyone says he ain’t fun
Life is just a scam and con
He feels like he’s done

The voices in his brain
Drives him insane
With no direction or lane
He feels like in the drain

I’m done with the world
I can’t take it, who would?
Running away from everyone I should
I can’t anymore who could

With saliva and sweat
I’ll make a bet
That all I need is for the world to let
To hide in my safety net

Sinking and sinking
Just my brain spinning and thinking
Without even blinking
I’m done fighting

Months go by
No one notice my pain, or telling me hi
Locked in my pupa up high
This isn’t a joke or a lie

Sitting there with so much pain
Thinking I’ll never appreciate the sun or rain
With this amout of guilt and shame
I have no wish to continue this game

Laying in my bed
Thinking I’m good as dead
Depressed about the life I had
With a mom and dad
That were always so mad
And never wanted me so bad

I felt something moving inside
But I couldn’t even hide
I tried turning to my other side
This isn’t something I can abide

Hope is shining in
There is a small grin
Maybe life isn’t made to always be in the bin
Maybe one day I’ll fly and stop the spin

Pushing and breathing
Stopping the chatter and meeting
There is no time for talking
Or even space to be walking

Depressed says no way
Hope responds “breathe” you say?
Depressed says don’t you dare
Hope responds breathe I sense a glare

Hope says keep the fight
You might find delight
Maybe tomorrow or tonight
You will see the light

Pains and aches
My body shakes and wakes
It reformes and takes
Wings it makes

Final push through
Out of my stuckness and glue
I spread my wings into the blue
Passing the electric wire with the shoe

I laugh and fly
I can’t believe I was once Depressed and shy
I feel like I can almost touch the sky
I never thought “I wanted to die”

Metamorphosis it might be
Don’t blame he or she
The more pain your life brings
Just might mean that you’re developing stronger and more beautiful wings

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This is a long overdue letter, and I thank you for patiently waiting. I have so much to say. Where do I even begin?

I’ll start with two simple phrases consisting of a total of four words. Words that carry with it years of pain, suffering, gratitude and admiration: I’m sorry and thank you. Let’s chat.

I would venture to say that it’s quite obvious that we’ve had a long and complicated relationship. As I reflect on this, I realize that for most of our time together, it’s been a one-sided relationship that I’ve had with you. I hated you. I say one-sided because I was so caught up in hating you that I didn’t realize that you never hated me. Through my journey, I have come to know the truth behind the hate.

Why The Hate? 

Of course I hated you. This is what I was taught. My mother and older sister were obsessed with dieting. I was shamed and called fat by family members. (This included more than just body shaming.) Naturally, I didn’t feel accepted for who I was. By the age of ten, I developed an eating disorder.

Children generally believe what they are taught, and why shouldn’t they? It’s not until they arrive at the stage of development, the process of forming one’s identity, that they start questioning. In our case, I didn’t go through the regular stages of development, so I’m first doing this work now as an adult. I am at a point in my recovery journey that involves questioning many messages that I received; hating my body is one of them. It’s not simple to undo a belief that was ingrained in my psyche at such a young age, one that I believed for so many years. However, I no longer wish to believe those messages. Intellectually, I don’t believe them anymore, but the emotional process takes time.

What I have learned during this process is that you did nothing wrong and you are not the problem. What I know about you now is that you always were and still are BEAUTIFUL, STRONG, RESILIENT, AND LOVABLE. 

You Loved Me Through The Abuse

The truth is we’ve had many chats over the years, whether consciously or subconsciously. You were there listening to it all. Taking in the verbal and physical abuse while continuing to love me and heal. You stood by me despite all of the eating disorder related harm and other forms of self-harm which I did to you. You fought for me and didn’t give up. How incredible is that! To stay resilient and stand by the very person who is hurting you.

I often say that you had faith and trust in me that one day I would come around to loving you. I have come even further to believe that you love me unconditionally. It baffles me. How can I feel so much hate towards something that loves me – the very thing that is keeping me alive?

I’m Sorry and I’m Trying

I want you to know that I am sorry for hating you and continuing to hurt you at times. I wish I can say that I fully love and embrace you. Unfortunately, I am not there yet, but I am definitely closer than I used to be, and nothing can beat the yearning that I feel to be at that place. To let go of all the shame, accept all your perceived imperfections, and treat you with love and respect. Thank you, dear body, for continuing to stand by me as I move through this process. Thank you for being the vehicle that takes me through this life.

With love and admiration,

Simmy

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As I gingerly approached the medicine bottle and unscrew the cap to pop yet another pill into my bloodstream, a thunderbolt hits me. While G-d is ultimately in control, I am fulfilling my obligation to make every effort I can to better my own situation. As I swallow the tiny capsule, I am doing my bit. And then whilst the pill travels into my body and hopefully boosts the right hormones, I need to let go. Stand back. Wait and watch and pray hard. My mental illness has taught me countless valuable lessons, but I must say the most powerful one has been: I am powerless. I need to let go. I do not cause illness. I do not cause pandemics. I cannot control or cure them. But, I can do my bit and pray.

I was Petrified

I did not always have this approach. When I was a new member of the psychiatric medication club, I was petrified of the powerlessness and vulnerability I was subjecting myself to by allowing chemicals into my body. The what-ifs overwhelmed my already tormented brain, and I wallowed in misery for months whilst the unopened box of pills lay in my top drawer.

My good friends that really cared encouraged me to start, and with their support, I did. My body rebelled big time at first. And so did my emotions and brain! I was fighting this help with all my might. But when I became too weak, I tried to make friends with the medication. Yes, I approached the little green pills with a smile. “Thank you so much for trying to help me,” I whispered to them. And behold, as I embraced the medication, my body began to embrace it too. I won’t say I experienced a sudden miracle after I started medication. There are so many ups and downs, dosage adjustments, but ultimately, it has begun to help me recover and improve my quality of life.

Changing my Attitude

I have begun to cherish my medication routine. I don’t stuff the pills down and turn away, trying to forget what I just did anymore. Instead, I take my meds, swallow, and pray: “Hashem, you see me trying to heal. Please let this medication be the right conduit to help me get better and serve you with joy and health. Let it agree with my body and do the right job.” Then I continue my day.

Occasionally a frisson of fear runs through me. “What have I done? Am I really reliant on medication to feel well? Maybe it’s not working!!” When that happens, I repeat this life-saving mantra to myself: “let it flow, let it go. You are not in charge.” And by letting the medication flow through me without my interference, I am allowing the results to be solely in G-d’s loving hands. Like everything else in my life.

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Going to a yeshiva program in Israel is an exciting step many people take after high school. I went to yeshiva in 2017-2018 and gained a lot from it. However, the mistake I made was that I thought that leaving home also meant leaving my problems at home. I soon learned that life doesn’t just pause; it’s dynamic. 

Like many boys who go to yeshiva for the year, the thought crossed my mind to join the Israeli army. But I thought to myself, “How could I go to the army and do combat if I was on a couple of medications?” So, with the help of a doctor, I slowly got off of one of my medications. I immediately noticed my anxiety spike, but it was manageable. So I went through the rest of the year relatively stressed but able to function.

Enter My Second Yeshiva Year

The summer after my first year, instead of going home, I stayed in Israel and became a volunteer first responder for Magen David Adom, the Israeli ambulance corps. I had a great time volunteering, but I also noticed how slowly but surely my anxiety and OCD started to bother me more and more. Towards the end of the summer, as I started my second year in yeshiva, I had relapsed. By relapse I mean my symptoms from when I was 14 came back full-fledged. This was so painful, especially because I had already gotten past these symptoms such as taking hours to daven, excessive washing of my hands, taking a long time in the bathroom, and even intrusive thoughts. I had to balance these painful symptoms while trying to enjoy yeshiva.

Yeshiva was still great, but my mind was in two different places. Many times learning became a chore. It was so hard to read through the parsha, because I couldn’t deal with the thought that I may have missed a word or didn’t understand something. I would spend countless hours repeating things to try to alleviate some anxiety, which made it hard for me to enjoy learning and resulted in less time to learn other topics and hang out with friends.

OCD Doesn’t Do Gray Areas

There is a common struggle that many yeshiva and seminary students find themselves in, and that is how religious they want to be. For me, this was particularly stressful because OCD hates gray areas; it only likes black and white. So there I was, a modern orthodox boy who has friends who are either hardcore “flipping out” (becoming ultra-religious) or choosing a middle ground type of lifestyle. But for me, in my head, it just seemed like it was all or nothing. Chareidi (Ultra-Orthodox) or go home, you know? Of course, this black and white choice is not the case, but that’s how I saw it. So this made yeshiva that much more confusing which translated into me overthinking a lot more than I enjoyed. For this reason, I tell people that I liked my first year of yeshiva more than my second, because I didn’t obsess about how religious I wanted to be in the first year nearly as much as I did in my second.

Getting Help

I saw a therapist in Israel which helped, but I still wasn’t in a good place. The summer after my second year in yeshiva, I started going to CBT (cognitive behavioral therapy) for the first time in my life. I had been to a few therapists and psychiatrists ever since I was diagnosed with OCD at the age of 14, but no one recommended that I do CBT or ERP (exposure response prevention therapy). The crazy thing is that anyone who took psychology 101 knows that CBT and ERP are the most effective treatments for OCD, combined with medication as well of course. So I was pretty annoyed about the general ignorance there was in the medical community with regards to mental health and proper treatment.

One of my therapists said something so profound.

He said that it’s funny, when someone has pain in any part of their body below the neck they’ll immediately go to a doctor and get it checked out, but the second it comes to a different type of pain above the neck, such as a mental pain, many people think God forbid they should be weak and go seek help from a doctor and therapist. 

I encourage everyone to work on their physical health as well as their mental health. Working out and aerobic exercise is its own kind of medicine. With the endorphin release and the ability to get lost in exercise and music instead of endless thoughts, exercising can be very therapeutic. I’m sure some of you know that studies show how medication and therapy combined with exercise can significantly improve one’s mental health. 

Resist The Stigma

There is a stigma in society that only crazy people go to therapists, when in fact so much of the population goes to one. Never be embarrassed to help yourself. The stage of life you are in doesn’t make a difference. Whether someone is in elementary school, middle school, high school, yeshiva, college, the workforce, or retired, there is never a bad time to start going to therapy. You also don’t need to have a mental disorder to go to therapy. Life can be stressful and often times it is very helpful to talk things out with a therapist rather than keep them bottled up. This was especially true for me in yeshiva, and I think most people would agree with me that therapy can be an important part of the spiritual and mental growth process in yeshiva.

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In the middle of a very chilly winter, I took a big step in my frum (religious) journey and moved into a large community where I would be able to live, go to shul – and the biggest benefit for me – attend Seminary. I was excited. I was thrilled. I had no idea what was coming for me. But, mostly, I was very naive.

I had never felt the need to have to “trust my gut”. I had never truly felt lost. I was someone who, since childhood, had always felt a certain and clear sense of direction.

A little over a month into Seminary, we went to a local Rabbis home for the Friday night meal. It was that night that started months of abuse.

I watched a few of my own friends being sexually abused and they, in turn, watched the same happen to me.

I was numb. It was like all of the happiness was drained out of me. Food didn’t taste the same, the sky never appeared quite as blue, my eyes quenched constantly with the ever-flowing tears that my soul really felt broken. I lost that certainty and direction that I had always held close to me.

Not only was I uncertain about where Hashem could possibly be taking me -but I didn’t know if I could hold on for another day. I lived in constant fear and I questioned myself throughout every day: why couldn’t I protect myself?

I knew that I needed someone – but I didn’t want to need anyone. I just wanted to pretend that it never happened. I wanted – I needed a hand to hold and someone that I knew would be there and wouldn’t see me as less of a person (at the time, my worst fear) because of all of this. My best friend was one of those abused, and after it happened, neither of us spoke about it. To me, it didn’t even exist.

But, the lovely thing about the trauma that comes along with abuse is that your body remembers it even if you force yourself to forget the details.

Dealing With The Symptoms

It was several months in when I questioned if I could keep on existing. I didn’t feel that my existence mattered. I felt dirty and used all of the time. I wasn’t good enough or deserving of anything in my mind. And the people in my life that I thought I could trust – teachers, other adults – fed into my fears and distrusts.

I felt trapped and I really believed that I had no one and that no one would believe me or even really truly cared. I felt like a burden – which kept me locked inside of my head instead of going to the people in my life who would have been there for me.

It was one day, months in, that I returned home from seminary, and decided to take a shower. I had the first real panic attack I’ve ever had. Everything that I’d been experiencing passed in front of my eyes. I was dizzy, I couldn’t stop crying, pain seared through my entire body.

I quickly composed myself and ran to the kitchen, where I phoned a friend.
I shook as I dialed her number, uncontrollably crying. She came in a few minutes and as I kept getting sicker and dizzier – my emotions more intense than in the minutes prior – she called Hatzalah.

I remember so vividly, one of the Hatzalah members who had me sit in the ambulance looking at me for a long time before asking me if something was wrong. If something had happened. He kept pressuring me to tell him what was “really” going on. At the time, I was so upset and angry. I didn’t know what was wrong with me; it felt like he was accusing me of something. Only now do I look back and wish I could thank him. He was able to point out something that some of the people who saw me every day weren’t able to see. Someone who was really hurting and longed for help.

Getting Help

Shortly after my hospital visit, I was convinced to try therapy. At first, I couldn’t imagine entrusting someone that I didn’t know with all of this. But, after my first session, I felt a weight lifted off of me that I hadn’t felt in so long. It has taken time to work through all of these intense feelings and unashamedly – I’m still in therapy growing and taking back my life.

It feels unreal to sit here in my living room – very much alive – realizing that I almost gave up. ​ As I sit here, fully conscious, my life has pulled itself back together beyond what I could have imagined. It’s incredibly imperfect, but I can see and feel the healing in my life. Because I reached out, I was able to save myself from the unthinkable.

Since all of this, I experienced living in Israel, finding community, building relationships and connections, and most of all – healing and becoming more of a whole version of myself that I wish could go back in time and hold my shattered self. 

When I allowed myself to reach out (no matter how hard it really is!), when I allowed myself to be cared for and to accept the support of others and to be okay with not handling everything all on my own – that’s when the core of my own personal healing began. From someone so dear to me teaching me the importance of trusting ourselves, being someone who truly listened and allowed me to feel my pain but encouraged me to grow and heal – to my Rabbi who constantly encourages me to never give up on my own future and to keep paving the way.

Never Give Up

I want to encourage you to never give up, because there are so many people who deeply care about you. And as someone who couldn’t allow herself to ever believe that: I’m telling you – it’s not just a shallow statement – it’s true. I never believed that I would make it to a path of healing. I could barely breathe through an hour – much less an entire day!

Please allow yourself to reach out for help, please don’t be silent when you’re being hurt, please trust your gut on what’s right for you and learn to be in-tune with your own needs. Keep fighting for the beautiful future that you deserve. Hashem has a bright and beautiful plan, even when you feel abandoned and alone. Trust me on that.

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The Importance of The First Sentence 

The first sentence of a patient’s note is called the chief complaint. It is meant to be a brief concise title to the rest of the note. Medical personnel make a list of possible diagnoses based on it to help them figure out what the patient has. The first part introduces the patient and gives a medical history that is relevant to the complaint. For example, “Eight-year-old boy with a history of asthma…” The second half of the note is a list of the most salient symptoms. For example, “…presents with four days of fever and cough.” However, it would be inappropriate to put down, “Eight-year-old boy with ADHD presents with four days of fever and cough.” What business does ADHD have in steering a diagnosis? Therefore, putting a mental health diagnosis in the chief complaint when it has nothing to do with the symptoms is not only inappropriate but could bias a provider’s thinking in determining the proper diagnosis and possibly compromise the patient’s care. I would like to share my experience and examples where I felt bias was a part of it due to my bipolar being put in the chief complaint. 

Examples of Bias

One day, I noticed my eyes looked puffy. I was encouraged to go to the emergency room by my nephrologist, but before I went, I didn’t want to be perceived as a hypochondriac, so I asked every nurse in my building if my eyes were puffy. Even my boss (a physician) said she saw it the day before. But the ER staff simply declared they did not notice any puffiness and sent me home. 

A few days later, not only my eyes but my whole face became grotesquely swollen, so I returned to the ER. This time they did a CT scan and came back with a diagnosis of multiple lymph nodes. 

I kept asking for an infectious disease consult to evaluate the large lymph nodes, but they kept refusing. In the end, I went straight to one of the best infectious disease specialists on my day off. He took me seriously and ordered a bunch of tests, and no good doctor will order unnecessary tests. As a pediatrician, I see enlarged lymph nodes all the time, and I have a good idea of what to do for them, so I don’t know why the doctor in the ER didn’t take me seriously unless my bipolar biased them. (Of course, there’s a saying that “doctors make the worse patients.”)

Because of the large lymph nodes, the medical staff on my case had an initial working diagnosis of lymphoma (a type of cancer). They actually did not tell me this; they did not tell me about some malignant findings on my CT scan, nor that they were consulting oncology. The funny thing is when I saw the oncologist in my room the next morning, I didn’t think anything of it because he is my regular hematologist. (These are cancer doctors. They are called “Heme/Onc” for short because they also do blood disorders.) By the way, my final diagnosis was blood clots and I feel well now.

My other example that I feel might have had an element of bias or at least a discomfort for any mental health patient was the off-timing of my meds. While hospitals may be notorious for this, as patients, we tend to be more sensitive. One night it was 8:00 already and I usually take my meds early. I asked the nurse when was I going to get my meds and he said I was set for 10:00, so I foolishly said, “If I don’t get them soon, I might get all bipolar on you.” He just left the room without saying a word.

Then my worse fear came true. They took a lithium level and they probably didn’t time it right. So it was in the toxic range, and they called psych and lowered the dose. Luckily, I have a super nice psychiatrist who I was able to get on speakerphone and explain the proper dosage to them. We redid the levels and returned to the original dose when I got home. 

Takeaway Message

The reality is we can’t control what medical professionals put on our charts (unless maybe we lobby against mental health bias). If possible, having an advocate with you is always helpful. I was told once in residency that you can’t control what others think or do, only how you react toward it. I know that bipolar doesn’t define me. So, yes, be on the lookout for bias, but at the same time, don’t let it affect you. 

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“Woah, why are you being so OCD; who cares if your desk is neat or not?”

“I like to eat with a napkin because I’m OCD when it comes to messy food.”

This is what I used to think obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD) was, just some adjective that meant being clean and organized. I think many people still have this idea today. I am no longer one of those people. I now know that OCD is an anxiety disorder characterized by intrusive thoughts and fears – known as obsessions – which lead to compulsions to alleviate the anxiety from those obsessions. This is my story of living with OCD. 

My Story: 31 flavors of OCD

When I was 13, I started having intrusive thoughts about not believing in G-d and couldn’t get the feeling of guilt out of my head. Soon after this obsession came the obsession with cleanliness. This manifested itself in taking a long time in the bathroom and washing my hands repeatedly with an excessive amount of soap. My hands got so dry and itchy that at times they would bleed. 

Next, my OCD latched onto the religious practices in my life. This is known as religious scrupulosity and plagues many religious individuals who deal with OCD. Davening in the morning became a living hell for me. I would nauseatingly repeat the words over and over because I was afraid that if I missed a word, G-d would punish me for it. While davening, I would constantly have intrusive thoughts about praying to avoda zara (idolatry), Hitler, or inappropriate images – which would make me restart the prayer. You may be thinking, “Okay so you had a bad thought or believed you missed a word. Go back, say it again, and move on.” I wish it were that easy. The reassurance I would give myself by giving into my OCD and repeating the words only made the doubts stronger and perpetuated the painful cycle of obsessions and compulsions – repetitive actions done in order to alleviate anxiety. 

I started to daven out loud so I could hear the words and reassure myself in that way, but not only did this not help, it made my friends hate davening next to me. People thought I was shtark, so holy and connected. “Look at this guy taking 30 minutes in his Shemonah Esrei! Wow such kavanah (focus).” They didn’t know that I dreaded davening and just how painful it was for me. I eventually would stop repeating a prayer after I had lost all my energy, but this could result in a two to three hour davening in the morning. 

I also dealt with kissing mezuzahs a certain number of times before entering a room, turning on and off lights an even number of times, constantly checking if the front door of my house was locked before going to sleep, repeatedly checking to see if the gas on my stove was off before leaving the house, and making sure all of my Jewish books were upright. Sometimes, I would have the urge to make sure I didn’t have a siddur on top of a chumash because I thought that G-d would punish me for such a thing. Going to sleep at night took a long time, as these rituals could take up to an hour just to get into bed. 

While I struggled with religious scrupulosity the most, I also had unwanted and intrusive thoughts about harming others. This subtype of OCD, known as Harm OCD, made it difficult for me to enjoy watching violent movies or be around knives because of the intrusive thoughts of what I could do with them. People with OCD struggle with these thoughts because the intrusive thoughts of harming people are so repulsive that it becomes hard to just let them go and view them as the intrusive and unwanted thoughts that they are. I would constantly feel like I was an evil person for my intrusive, unwanted thoughts. 

The crazy thing was that I knew it all didn’t make sense and that my obsessions and compulsions were irrational, but there was still some part of me that was scared about the “what if they were rational”, and I couldn’t live with that anxiety and constant doubt. The irony of course is that I lived with that anxiety anyways and temporarily alleviating my anxiety with compulsions, in reality, just made my OCD stronger. When I say temporarily, I mean for seconds, or at most a couple minutes.

Anything But Medication and Therapy

Before high school, I went to a therapist and psychiatrist who helped me and started me on medication to help with my OCD. At that point, I thought my life was over. See, I was the guy in middle school who used to judge the kids who took ADHD medication. I always thought that they were messed up for having to take medication every day. I thought that about kids who just had ADHD; now, here I was starting to take antidepressants every day for OCD. I never thought I would be in this place and just the idea of being on medication was so foreign to me. I felt like I was a broken person who would never go anywhere in life.

Afterall, I was taught by the societal stigma to think that people wouldn’t want to  hang out with a person on medication. I thought that therapists were just for messed up people. But since life was hell at the time, I had no choice but to give medication and therapy a try.

High school

The medication made my first year and a half of high school an interesting one. For starters, everyone thought I was a loopy stoner who was just out of it. You see, when psychiatrists first start someone on medication, it often takes time to figure out the proper dosage with the least amount of side effects. I was just starting medication and fatigue and loopiness were some of the side effects I had to deal with until the psychiatrist and I figured out what worked best for me. After I got the medication under control, things started looking up for me in high school and in life generally. I still dealt with intrusive thoughts and my davening still took a longer time than normal, but nothing compared to what it was when I was first diagnosed. I didn’t compulsively wash my hands, turn on and off lights compulsively, kiss the mezuzahs a certain amount of times, or do most of my old compulsions.

As high school went on, I got a girlfriend, and Guess what?! My OCD latched onto that too! I know shocker, right! An example of the type of intrusive thoughts I still dealt with was that I would constantly doubt whether or not I was attracted to my girlfriend, if we were compatible, or if we should even continue dating. This is another subtype of OCD known as relationship OCD, where someone obsessively doubts different aspects of a relationship. I would constantly ask my friends for advice in an effort to reassure myself of my decisions, but giving in to my obsessions like that only made my overall doubts stronger. 

Over the course of high school, it also became very hard for me to let things go. If I didn’t get a joke, I would keep asking what someone meant by it. If someone jokingly made fun of me, I would continuously ask if they were serious or not. If I felt like I hurt someone’s feelings, I would continuously say sorry to them. This was all because I couldn’t live with the doubt, with the thought that maybe I don’t understand whether my friends were joking or maybe I seriously offended someone. So my compulsions were to constantly ask my friends for that reassurance to make sure I understood. Needless to say, these compulsions became burdensome not just to me, but to others as well, which led to them finding me annoying to hang out with. 

Recovery and Everyday Living

I improved a significant amount with Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT), which I started before college and continued through my time as a student in Yeshiva University. One mistake I made along the way was I went to Yeshiva in Israel and thought that since I had a lot of my symptoms under control, I didn’t need to go to therapy. What I found was that the lack of therapy made me revert back to my old habits of OCD, so I started going to therapy again. 

A couple summers ago, I attended an outpatient OCD program at UCLA which further improved my symptoms and taught me valuable skills I use to manage my OCD. One of the skills I learned was to lean into the anxiety and doubt and be okay with the uncomfortable feeling. Believe it or not, the urges to perform a compulsion do fade over time. This is by no means an easy skill, and it is one that I work on every day.

Today

I still struggle with some of the symptoms I previously described, but I’m able to deal with them much better and function normally. That doesn’t mean that I don’t have bad times or bad days. OCD, as well as most mental health challenges, are a constant work in progress. 

I’ve been there where I felt like I had no hope and there was no way up. I also never thought I would be someone who goes to therapy and takes medication. The fact is that these things don’t make you weak, but there is a stigma in society that they do. True strength means acknowledging your weaknesses and being able to ask for help when you need it. I want everyone to know that they’re not alone and that there are people who care and want to help them.

Despite my OCD, I graduated with a degree in Biology from Yeshiva University with a good GPA, and I plan on studying to become a doctor. Don’t give up or lose hope, even when you encounter therapists or take medications that don’t work for you. The road to recovery is far from easy, but it’s well worth it and you owe it to yourself to take it.

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My mind plays on me relentlessly. I wonder if it’s all true. It must be so because it feels so. I try to tell it to be quiet, but then it gets even louder, terrifying me. Thunder rolls, and a thought so terrible goes rumbling by. Like a bolt of lightning, I see the truth. I stop breathing. No one loves me for real. No one can ever love me. I feel the lightning thought penetrating through grey mass and the pain, like a sharp knife, wedges itself somewhere deep inside. Thoughts of escaping this prison desperately pound their way through the storm. I need to get out. My mind is exploding. I scream.

And then, as the rain continues pounding through me, and the thunder and lightning continue their show, I feel a gentle hand. It extracts a bit of that grey mass, gently rubbing it between warm palms. Slowly, the little grey bit gets softer. The hand continues rubbing, gently, gently on all the bits of grey mass. Each bit gets a bit of compassionate rubbing, and slowly, I can feel my mind coming back to me. Slowly, ever so slowly, I can start to breathe again.

The prison gates are still there. Painful memories, invalidation, paranoid thoughts, and the all-powerful critique all vie to keep the gates firmly shut. They will not relinquish control too easily. But sometimes, I can reach in, and with hands so warm and steady, I can love that grey mass that’s working so hard. I can gently tell it to relax a bit, while I take over the reins. The grey mass responds surprisingly well, and then I need only remember that I do have the upper hand in this prison. I can set the rules. Even in prison.

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A relative was recently diagnosed with third-stage cancer and last week she started chemo. The family is worried, tehillim (prayer) groups and phone calls and meals and babysitting arrangements are being sorted. And I feel terribly guilty because as everyone else hustles and bustles, I am overwhelmed with jealousy. I would pay a million dollars to trade places with my aunt. Yes, she is in a lot of pain. The injections and the nausea and the weakness and sudden incapacitation must be awful. I really feel for her. Spending nights and days in the hospital whilst Code Blues blare and the whitewashed walls match the sterility of the doctor’s professionalism as they consult clipboards and charts and ratch up the IV. It must be so so difficult.

But I am also ill.

How My Illness is Approached

Ever since I was diagnosed, re-diagnosed and then re-diagnosed again, no one has ever sent me a get-well card. No one has ever called to check in on how I am feeling the day after treatment. No one sends vitamin juices after a grueling meeting with the doctor. No one offers me a lift to the hospital. There aren’t any pretty rugs or lamps in my room where I spend most of my life. None of my favorite drinks and snacks during an especially rough week.

There’s good reason that I don’t get the attention I really do deserve. I am only ill by some people’s standards. Mental illness doesn’t qualify as an actual malady in my family. So, I might be suffering; I might be in horrific pain; I might also be having weekly therapy treatments that I feel are as horrific and as painful as open-heart surgery without anesthetic. But the thing is I go to work. I volunteer. I cook supper. I talk on the phone. I clean and bake and function. So since I’m doing all this, I’m well! No matter that all these things take tremendous superhuman effort. That a casual phone call to an acquaintance leaves me gasping and weak. That the wedding I went to took nearly two weeks ago stole days of my sanity; yes, that’s how long a social event like that took to regain a level of emotional equilibrium.

Oh, and I have plenty of physical pain as well. The near-constant migraines, full-body aches that run my life and decide my energy levels, insomnia, nausea, and then the endless energy so that my body feels like it’s exploding with the excess.

My Invisible Illness

I experience no compassion and no help, just because I don’t wear my illness on my forehead. Just because my brain is infected, instead of my body. I wish those who claim to love me would have an appreciation of how much it takes to engineer a calm, regulated veneer. How much it takes not to spill what my thoughts really are, for it would traumatize those around me and alienate them even more. Indeed, the privacy of my pain is my saving grace, but it is also my biggest hardship in this lonely battle. I wish my family and friends, I wish the world around me would stop, accept and embrace mental illness like they do for any other sickness.

I did just that and it has helped me tremendously, allowed me to a place of graceful acceptance of the challenge bestowed upon me. Now that I embrace mental illness like physical illness, I regard my manic and depressive episodes as experiences of sickness, experiences that I am powerless over, experiences that I must pray to G-D about, as I would for a cold, pneumonia, a toothache or leukemia, G-D forbid. I did not cause my mental illness any more than I would have caused a physical one.

Written in dedication to all my sisters and brothers who identify with this post.

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I was born with generalized anxiety disorder: a genetic, textbook case. Because of it, nearly my entire childhood was hell. I was afraid of everything, all the time. And if there was nothing to be afraid of, I was just plain afraid, the venomous feeling spurting through my veins as baseline existence. The crux of the torture lay in the social arena. Despite such anguish, I didn’t know I had a problem. I was born that way; as far as I knew, everyone’s brains functioned like that. I assumed my problems were my own fault. However, thank God, after many a wave of unnecessary cortisol, midnight meltdowns, self-imposed starvation, and excruciating Shabbatons, I was diagnosed. I began to understand. And the diagnosis came with meds, magic pills that freed me from the shackles of pathophysiology and elevated me to a paradisal future. Outside of high school, I was able to reinvent my identity, and surprisingly emerged an outgoing, confident, and amazing young woman.

The Virtues of Retelling

This retelling has several virtues. First, it’s incredibly optimistic. The focus of the narrative is the solution and my current upward trajectory. The story doesn’t attest to current struggles or personal weakness; it doesn’t beg for pity or gush insecurity.

Beyond the optimism, this narrative is a retroactive, hyper-intellectual account of thousands of concrete experiences spanning over a decade and a half. Instead of an artistic venture to create empathy and emotion — instead of depicting memories to transmit the raw human pain of mental illness — I make use of disease labels and hormones. Everything is told from the perspective I have now. People don’t need to know every embarrassing moment and toxic relationship I’ve had. While “opening up“, I hide my old insecurities and bad decisions.

But the quintessential advantage of the narrative is that it completely eliminates blame. According to this story, I didn’t do anything wrong. It was a disease. The same way diabetes is a disease, the same way cancer is a disease. Anxiety, I claim, isn’t an intrinsic attribute but a removable obstacle. I can’t be held responsible for any of my thoughts and words and actions from ages 0 to 17, thank you very much.

I have mountains of shame about the person I was for the vast majority of my life. And I don’t deal with it. I deny it.

Is this a narrative I create for my own comfort? Obviously. Like any story, it says more about the writer than it recounts the past. But it’s also true…I mean, I genuinely believe its implications. My own experiences confirm that mental illness is extrinsic, and psychiatry and mental illness advocacy also address mental illnesses as diseases. Extreme fear is debilitating, so why would anything be my fault?

Bringing Family Into The Narrative

For a while, I contentedly adopted this story with its simplicity, optimism, and spirit of mental illness awareness activism. (Pretty much the three main things you look for in a good story, am I right?)

However, as I overcame my own problems and projected more energy externally, the happy ending of my gift-wrapped narrative became more layered. Maybe I was in a psychologically good place, but, you might remember that I mentioned that my anxiety is genetic; my family remains a crash and burn mental illness wreck site.

My mother has anxiety. Since she suffers from clinically diagnosable fear, she’s too afraid to endow control of her brain to another person, and uses her MD to self-medicate inaccurately, saving the remaining anxiety to fuel the unhealthy stress-reliant life she’s built for herself.

My sister (who we shall call Sarah) suffers from anxiety and insomnia.

My brother (Shlomo) suffers from anxiety, and in the past has experienced major depression, panic attacks, suicide attempts, and hospitalization.

My uncle has schizophrenia.

My cousin suffers from anxiety.

Both my grandmothers are on antidepressants.

My other brother (Moshe) suffers from the dual conditions of being a third child and having three mentally ill siblings.

So Shlomo has always been on the misbehaving and immature side, and, growing up, we all took issue with his disposition and criticized the way my parents raised him. However, about two years ago, things significantly deteriorated. Simple instructions, like stop watching TV or go brush your teeth, would result in cataclysmic meltdowns and shrieking. He would curse at and hit my parents. Soon, he stopped going to school. One night, he tried choking himself with a pillow and was hospitalized soon after.

He was sick. He was crumbling into fear, insomnia, anger, and self-hate–causing tremors that erupted onto the family. Living with him was torture. Moshe and I were trying to live normal, high school lives, but our house shook with shrieking, cursing, and fighting. The family dynamic was stifled with tension and frustration. Moshe and I hated Shlomo for behaving the way he did and were frustrated with our parents for allowing him to deteriorate. When he went to the hospital, our parents left us completely to spend every daylight hour sitting in the waiting room to be let in for two thirty-minute intervals each day. Moshe was only a freshman at the time, and our parents’ attention was stripped from him. We resented Shlomo – both as a person and the source of damage.

At one point, Sarah came home from college for a family vacation. At the airport, Shlomo characteristically refused to cooperate. We all schlepped extra bags so he could carry nothing, but he nonetheless unleashed an enormous meltdown, filled with stomping, yelling, and cursing out my parents.  and I commiserated, insulting Shlomo and the negativity he endowed our lives. But Sarah, despite not living at home, told us not to blame him. It’s not this fault, she said. He’s really the one suffering.

At the time, her sanctimonious preaching irritated us, but in hindsight, I’m hard-pressed to counter her statement. If I believe I’m not at fault for my feelings and actions while intensely anxious, how could I have harbored animosity for Shlomo? Maybe I should’ve overcome my frustration and supported him through his difficulties. After all, he is my brother, and I know firsthand the horrors of mental illness.

I experienced a similar dilemma with a classmate I shall call Shimon. Since freshman year, Shimon and I shared many friends and nearly all our classes. To the best of my anxiety-hindered abilities, I reached out to him, tried to become friends. Again and again, he brushed me off and reached out to mutual classmates in my presence. I was irate — and the pain of rejection was magnified by my anxiety disorder. What made it worse, everyone thought of Shimon as practically Hashem. He was smart, nice, athletic, fun, and a devout Jew. Hurt by his rejection, I tried to find something wrong with him to legitimize my resentment. He was a hypocrite, I decided. How could he bear the title of good Jew but be so selfish? How could he go to Yachad Shabbatons but not give someone “uncool” the time of day?

This was, of course, before I was diagnosed. Once I understood the illness and my ability to overcome it, I rethought my frustration with Shimon. After all, my anxiety seriously impaired me socially. Was he really responsible to befriend someone he wouldn’t enjoy being around? Would I have wanted a fake friend anyway? He was never actually mean to me, always polite, at worst a combination of passive aggressiveness and standard teenage boy idiocy. He hurt me, but technically, he didn’t do anything wrong.

Forming My Takeaway Message

So how do we deal with problems like these? How do we balance the injustice of subjecting people to consequences of decisions they could not make and the injustice of having our mental health destroyed? How do we reconcile our woke understanding of mental illness as a legitimate disease with the need to keep ourselves shielded from proliferating shrapnel? In these stories, who’s right and who’s wrong?

First, I find it crucial to unequivocally state:  denial is not a solution. For years, lacking a diagnosis, I believed admitting to my issues meant surrendering to weakness. I thought strength meant pushing through. And it was horrible. I learned the importance of being honest about needs and problems, irrespective of whether you’re sick or collateral damage. We’re often told things like “look at the brightside” and “make the best of it”, which are really great advice in lots of situations. A festering psychiatric disease poisoning its vicinity like toxic gas is not one of those situations.

But while venting about these problems, it’s important to remember that mental illness is not a choice. While it’s okay — maybe even necessary — to be angry or frustrated, the anger and frustration must be directed at the situation or the disease, not the person. We live in a society in which the law is trusted to find justice. To right wrongs by punishing the guilty. Such a system instills the fundamental contention that problems have causes; in other words, that there’s always someone to blame. But the truth is that not all crimes have criminals. In the world of mental illness, there are deaths without murderers and jails without wardens and fear without danger. Sometimes the action and its consequences are ridiculously disproportionate, as if blown up under a microscope. Sometimes there’s no action at all to pinpoint as the source of blame; pain and suffering manifest from thin air. So the message of this story isn’t incredibly optimistic and there’s no real solution: sometimes we have to accept negativity unprovoked.

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I tried once. There was no answer.

I sent a text a little later. There was no answer.

I tried to call the next day. There was no answer.

I send a text later that day. There was no answer.

Finally, you returned my call. The explanation was simple; you were busy, packing to go away for the weekend, and so we didn’t manage to connect. 

Me vs. You

To you, that is simple. But to me, it’s another incident. Another situation that caused me much pain and anguish. When I reach out to you, it takes tremendous effort and work. The depression in my heart says ‘Don’t Bother. Not Worth the Risk’. But then my brain tries to be rational. How can loneliness get helped, if I don’t reach out? And this time my brain won. But only to some extent. I reached out but didn’t get answered. I opened my heart which is so vulnerable, and it got a blow.

I know. The issue isn’t with you. People tend to get busy and return calls or texts a day or two later. The issue is me. The issue is my heart, my depression, and my pain. Because all this reaching out to others is too much for me. I am way too sensitive, lonely, and needy, to just handle not getting a response.

Can I Build Any Connecton?

I don’t let people realize the amount of maintenance it would take, to have a connection that doesn’t hurt me all the time. But I realize the amount. I know the searing pain of depression and loneliness. And then I wonder.  Maybe I was created different than most people. Maybe I am just not like most human beings. And I know the answer; that I am not like others.  My insides are different. My emotions are different. My heart is constructed of damaged muscle that just can’t get past its pain.

And so I question myself. Is there a place for someone like me in this cruel, dark world? Is it even possible for someone like me to have a life without too much pain? Is there an option for me to have one happy day? To just feel connected to other human beings? I don’t think so. The people of this world don’t talk and communicate my language. There is no friend to reach out to. Only a trained professional that has learned her trade and therefore knows the facts. Not another human being. Not a sister or a brother. Not a friend or a relative. My language cannot be understood by others. Is there someone out there that speaks my language? That understands my words? My pain and frustration?

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I wish you knew how frustrated I feel when I have a setback.

I wish you knew how hard my mental illness can be on my friends and family. 

I wish you knew how annoying it is to be scared of things that most people aren’t. 

I wish you knew how difficult it is to not be able to do the things that I used to be able to. 

I wish you knew how often I appear perfectly fine when really I’m panicking inside. 

I wish you knew how scared I am of having a panic attack at any moment. 

I wish you knew how jealous I feel of people without mental illness. 

I wish you knew how many times I’ve gotten frustrated during therapy. 

But there are a lot of other things I wish you knew, too. 

I wish you knew how strong my mental illness has made me. 

I wish you knew how lucky I am to have supportive friends and family. 

I wish you knew how happy my dad gets when I tell him I’m doing better. 

And I wish you knew how caring he is when I tell him I’m doing worse. 

I wish you knew how many times I’ve faced my fears head on. 

I wish you knew how many times I sacrificed the short-term for the long-term.

I wish you knew how many times I didn’t keep my mental illness from controlling my life. 

I wish you knew how blessed I feel to be able to afford therapy. 

I wish you knew how happy I feel when I can help others who are struggling. 

I wish you knew how awesome it feels to see myself making progress. 

But lastly, above all, I wish you knew how proud of myself I am, for going out there and trying my best every single day. 

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Sometimes I hate therapy and what it brings up for me. I hate facing my failures, challenges, and the force of my own emotions. It’s the place where I am most raw and vulnerable, hurt and so wanting. Where I want to cry and let go but am too locked up sometimes to do it in the one place where I can and it’s okay. It’s where I feel desperate and helpless, dependent on another to see my self-worth when I can’t.

But it’s also where I can begin to see my strengths and start to hope. It’s where I can be accepted and maybe start to accept myself. It’s a place of balance when I feel unbalanced, a support to help me find my own support within myself. It’s a place where I begin to discover trust in small raw moments as I let my guard down and let someone else’s compassion and perspective in.

It’s where I learn to let my mind broaden beyond its narrow confines and become more flexible, letting in tentative sunshine where I saw only darkness. It’s a place where despair fights with hope, and frustration battles desperation to change. It’s a chaos of frightening emotions, though not necessarily only negative ones; positive emotions can be terrifying if unused to, or if there is fear of losing them.

Therapy is a place that is confused and clear, broken and whole, lost and found, triggering and easing, shaky and solid, shocking and predictable, burdening and relieving all at once. It’s where you might walk in calm and walk out in tears or walk in crying and angry and walk out shaken but calmer. It’s where I discover that while trust has been broken it can be built up again, like me.  

It’s where I learn that where I see myself as messed up I can be built up and am handed the tools and encouragement to do it with, another’s belief in me lending me strength until I develop my own muscles. It’s where I give up and decide to try again, where I feel safe and vulnerable simultaneously. I can laugh or cry, speak, or shut down and it is okay.

I can be alternately understood and misunderstood, communicate or speak in riddles. It’s where I sometimes push boundaries and other times learn them and develop them. It’s a place where I work my muscles until I’m sore and then run for miles; where I fall countless times and stand up again. It’s a place where I fight for my life even if there is sometimes no trace of evidence. 

It’s a place sheltered from real life even as I drag the mess of real life into it; a cocoon where I take my inner reality and learn how to channel it safely and capably into the real world outside of here. I love therapy and hate it. I can make fun of this world to others and yet know starkly that it is nothing to joke about; that it is life-giving where I saw my life as over prior to entering.  I despise and respect myself for being in it. I crave it and resent it. I wait for it and dread it. 

In therapy, I can yell in a whisper and scream so quietly without a sound spoken that no one hears but my therapist can. I can cry without a sound and have emotion read when I speak with no emotion.

I can feel the feeling of no feeling and acknowledge the depth of despair in not wanting to live but feeling too weak to stay with the pain; of wanting it to be over but wanting to live a whole and healthy life seemingly out of reach.

It’s a place where I learn to look at the dreams I had and see possibilities while acknowledging the reality of what I am missing and some things I may never be. And that life can go on and I can be complete with all I am missing and satisfied without having all I want.

It’s where I can accept or fight to understand that my not normal is normal and that normal may not exist. Therapy is where things can make sense even when they don’t seem to and there are two ways to think about the most contradictory elements. It’s where someone can see I’m not okay when I say I am and can dissect my situation logically without blocking out emotions and mix the two together to form a truce.

Who My Therapist Is

I like my therapist and am upset and hate her sometimes too because she’s there to get a point home, make me face reality so I can build it, and sometimes I don’t want to or can’t be present to understand it because I can’t deal. There are times when I can’t communicate and feel hurt and angry at the misunderstanding that results. I am learning to notice that and not judge or blame; how to validate the difficulties and fears blocking me and accept myself with it, yet work to improve it. Therapy has taught me to do this. As much as I feel bound to it sometimes, it is my choice because I want to heal. Here someone believes that I can.

And because they believe that, I will. I am learning to internalize that even if it takes time it can still happen. That my small steps can be big, and that progress is not a straight line but a complex dance, forward, backward, and forward again. My life is not condensed into a file, it is a part of the human heart sitting across from me, and for that I am grateful.

My therapist is an instructor and guide, yet not a dictator. She is a shaper yet will not model me into the image of her choice. She shows me the puzzle pieces and teaches me to fit them together, assisting yet not completing. She begins a thought and lets it sink in, takes a half-baked thought and brings it full term. She starts to plant a seed and lets it grow, keeps watch over the flowers as they bloom, sometimes replanting stems where they were previously trampled and uprooted so they can grow anew.

She combines personal perspective and experience with objectivity. She monitors the vital signs of emotional health and the red alerts of crisis, patiently holding on through the push and pull of trust and progress with regression, knowing the fine line of when to press and when to ease up and how to read between the lines. She merges skills and guidelines with flexibility, empathy with humor, understanding with boundaries, compassion with firmness, and validation with reality.

It takes a wise mind to learn and internalize all this. But it takes a caring heart and soul to really do it, putting it into practice.

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Difficulties During my Time Studying in Israel

Things began to change when I started my first year learning in a yeshiva in Israel in 2016. Ideally, yeshiva is a place where one can daven, learn, and enjoy the incredible opportunities to further religious growth with a sense of deep joy and meaning. For me, however, all the davening and learning that I did was accompanied by a nagging sense of self-doubt and guilt. Sure I davened, but I could have had much more kavanah (concentration). Sure I learned, but I could have done a much better job. Did I really need to take that five minute snack break in the middle of morning seder (morning study period)? It’s true that I spent four and half hours in the Bet Midrash (study hall) learning, but I spent too much time talking to my friends, so obviously that seder is considered a failure. I didn’t understand shiur, so that must mean that I’m a failure. And so on and so forth… 

When Rosh Hashanah was right around the corner, I kept a notebook in order to do a proper cheshbon hanefesh (assessment of myself). At the end of the day, I wrote down all the sins I had committed that day. Because that’s what teshuvah (repentance) and Elul are all about, right? I felt horrible about myself, but isn’t that the point?

Escalating Out of Hand

This pattern continued to get worse well into winter zman (winter time study period). On the outside, I was doing fine, functioning, doing everything that I was supposed to be doing, but internally, I was a wreck. It got to the point where everything I did was subjected to the constant criticism of the critic inside me. I felt as though I was a disappointment to my rebbeim (rabbis), a disappointment to the yeshiva, and a disappointment to Hashem. 

Around Purim time, I finally realized the extent of how out-of-control my situation was. I had just finished student guard duty in yeshiva at the end of the Taanit Esther fast day and was thinking about going to eat a little bit in my room before coming to night seder… a few minutes late. No sooner than the plan entered my mind was I attacked by a vicious stream of thoughts. “You call yourself a serious student?? Eating is bittul torah (wasting Torah study time)!! You’re a disgrace to the yeshiva! Hashem is so disappointed in you! You and your eating; how could you be so disgraceful to the Torah?!!”

This was a bit extreme, even for my standards. I called my mother – a psychiatrist – and shared what had just unfolded, as well as all the guilt and shame that I felt about my Avodat Hashem (service to Hashem) throughout the preceding months. She calmly and lovingly suggested that maybe I’m not as bad as I think I am. And that more importantly: I need help. 

So I got help. I learned that what I have is a form of OCD known as “Pure-O”, meaning persistent intrusive thoughts that were causing me great distress. What was so confusing and painful for me was that the thoughts – seeing as they were “religious” in nature – seemed very valid and true. But with the help of medication and cognitive behavioral therapy, I was able to regain control, and slowly regain a sense of joy and fulfillment in my Avodat Hashem.

Lessons Learned Over The Course of My Experience

First and foremost, never be afraid to ask for help. As you know, there is a lot of stigma surrounding the world of mental health. But one thing I’ve come to firmly believe is that just as someone with diabetes or an infection needs help, so too someone suffering emotionally needs help as well. There is no weakness involved in wanting to improve your situation. If anything, it is a sign of strength and a demonstration of taking personal responsibility for your well-being.

Secondly, just because a thought may seem to be religious in nature, it does not make it so. A ham sandwich with a hechsher (kosher certification symbol) on it does not make it kosher. To paraphrase the words of the Chassidic Masters, the yetzer harah (evil inclination) can look very “frum” in a tallis and tefillin. But it’s the yetzer harah nonetheless. And a “religious” thought which can cause a person inner turmoil and suffering and damage to his sense of self as a tzelem elokim – a beloved son created in the image of Hashem – is anything but an authentic religious thought. Because in Judaism, “דרכיה דרכי נועם” (Her {The Torah’s} ways are pleasant ways, And all her paths, peaceful. ) is not just a nice idea – it’s a halachic principle that guides the world of Torah and Mitzvot. Indeed, Judaism, Halacha and Avodat Hashem can be quite challenging. . Sometimes they can be very hard. It’s not fun to get out of bed at 10:30 at night while you’re in your pajamas because you forgot to daven maariv. The Torah may challenge us, but Hashem does not want His children to spend their lives in perpetual, debilitating angst. 

Lastly, I’ve learned that at the core of my being and identity, I am a tzelem elokim – a child of Hashem, created in His image. His love for me is constant and never-ending. And he knows and understands my human limitations. While it is true that we’re constantly called on to improve and perfect ourselves in our character and observance of Mitzvot, we will never be perfect. The goal isn’t to attain perfection but to strive for improvement, one step at a time. There’s a delicate balance that must be attained; striving for more and wanting to grow on the one hand, while at the same time not becoming a tyrant and your own whip-wielding taskmaster. 

All that we need to do, and all we can do, is to try our best.

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I would love to think of myself as being the perfect ally all the time, but I know that is not true. However, there was a time when I did think of myself as the perfect ally. I would say buzzwords like destigmatize and mindfulness. I could tell you that trauma comes in many forms. I even owned a poster that said, “Depression is an illness too.” I was outspoken, supportive, and “woke.” Like I said, I thought I was the perfect ally- that is, until I started dating my now wife. While I have learned and continue to learn many things from her, one of the most important things she has taught me is how to listen.

Lessons in Being an Ally

The first thing I had to l accept was that I didn’t “get it” and I wasn’t supposed to. I used to try so hard to turn my wife’s mental health into a concept that I could understand through my own experiences. For example, when my wife was expressing how she was feeling or telling me about traumatic events she experienced, I would respond with comparative phrases such as, “it’s kind of like,” or, “it’s similar to.” I would also get frustrated with her when she would tell me certain behaviors of mine, or phrases I used, would upset or induce anxiety in her because I could not understand why they affected her, and therefore I couldn’t accept that they indeed did. To me, these were just mundane things. It was only once that I accepted the fact that none of it needed to “make sense” for me to be able to respect her needs that was I able to start supporting her.

A big mistake I made in the beginning was that I wouldn’t treat my wife as a person, let alone my partner, when her trying to give her support. I would speak in taglines and say the things I was taught to say from TV shows and movies. My wife would often say to me, “I don’t need you to be a ‘good’ ally right now, I need you to be my ally.” Taking away the personal aspects of someone’s struggle is unhelpful, and even harmful, for several reasons. Firstly, no one is exactly the same as anyone else and therefore no one’s needs are exactly the same as anyone else’s. To better help my wife, I had to learn to cater to her specific needs and not to what I had assumed she might need based off of what other people’s needs were. Secondly, using taglines and not acknowledging the personal nature of mental health made my wife feel like she was an “other.” It gave the impression that by having a struggle, she was lumped together with everyone else who struggles (as if there are those that do struggle and those that don’t) and no longer possessed an identity beyond that. Lastly, it was specifically because of our relationship that my wife sought my help. I am not her therapist. I am not some influencer sharing a “love yourself” video. I am her life partner. We have a specific intimacy and comfortability with each other that cannot be replicated in other relationships. By saying what I thought she wanted to hear, I never actually said what she needed to hear.

The Power of Listening

Another important lesson I learned was where my limits are, such as when I could and could not be helpful or what I was and was not able to handle. There isn’t a cure to end all mental health struggles and I am not a mental health professional. It took a lot of time for me to understand that there wasn’t anything I could do other than listen. I also had to learn that I wasn’t always ready to help bear the weight that is on my wife’s shoulders. I have, and continue to have, my own struggles with mental health, and I needed to learn when to acknowledge that I was not always in a place to offer support.

The hardest thing I had to learn about being an ally is that there is always room for me to grow in my sensitivity towards others. I will never be done learning how to be an ally. Even now, each time I refine a listening skill or become attentive in a new way, I find myself thinking that I’ve learned it all. The truth is, not only can I improve the skills that I have already learned, but there are also so many more skills that I have yet to learn- and that is just to be an ally to my wife. What works for us will not be the exact same as what my friends and family need.

It’s Incumbent Upon Us

Being an ally may sound like it’s all about giving, but in all honesty, I have received a lot more than I have given. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I haven’t put in a lot of hard work. Rather, that in the process of learning how to help someone else, I have also learned so much about myself and how to better be the person I want to be. Being an ally to someone takes many forms and differs from situation to situation; figuring that out is hard work, but I still believe that being an ally is a duty that everyone has.

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