I Don't Do Improv

When it comes to treating my depression and anxiety, I have been through it all: inpatient, outpatient, partial hospital programming, DBT (four times, I think?), CBT, ACT, medications, individual therapy, group therapy, and the list goes on. As far as I thought, my list of options was exhausted. I was now fairly stable for a long period of time, on a consistent medication regimen, and had "graduated" from both group and individual therapy. So when a day came several months ago at work when the waves of panic and anxiety knocked me off my feet and I fled in tears, questioning others' faith in my ability to do my job, I was terrified and devastated. This can't be happening again, I thought, I've done everything I can to get over this debilitating anxiety. I have nothing else to turn to. Finally in my dream job, I resolved to figure it out. Failure was not an option. It couldn't be. I couldn't lose all I had worked so hard for. I had come so far, and it felt like I was coming apart at the seams in an instant. 

After spilling the whole story out to my sister, she gave me a ridiculous idea. At least at the time I thought she was nuts. She wanted me to take an improv class. Oh, hell no! Making up what to say on the spot? Not planning out conversations in my head before they happen? Impossible! I don't DO improv! I could already picture it: all eyes are on me, waiting for me to say something. The walls are closing in on me, I can feel my cheeks warm, and tunnel vision sets in. The tears are welling up in my eyes and all I want to do is escape and never come back. 

Ironically, I love acting, so you would think I would jump at an opportunity like this, but Nope! I remember, probably 15 years ago now, when I played Nurse Ratched in a college production of One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. I had a monologue where I lecture the patients for their bad behavior and lay down the law. During the middle of this speech, with all eyes on me, I stood up from a chair, and my silver ring of prop psych ward keys went clanging down from my pocket onto the stage floor. Someone with even the slightest sense of improv or ability to go with the flow would have picked the freaking keys up off of the floor and moved on! But that was not me. I panicked, paused, then left them on the floor and continued on with taking "privileges" away from the "boys." You know what would really happen if Nurse Ratched dropped her keys and left them lying there on the floor? McMurphy would swoop those suckers up and hightail it out of there with all the rest of the gang! Thankfully, someone picked them up for me between scenes, but I did endure some light teasing for my transgression (As well as for wearing hot pink underwear under a white nurse's uniform, but I digress). 

That brief moment during the play when the teeny tiniest detour of keys falling is an example of my worst nightmare: feeling stuck in a situation where I don't know what to say or do and a swarm of feelings envelopes me. Rather than attempting to cope and learn how to get through those situations, in theater and in life, I resolved to never get myself in those situations to begin with. I would write conversations in my head before I had them, not really listening at all, because I'm too busy trying to figure out what to say after the other person is done talking. Or, just avoiding conversations with people all together so that the chance of being stuck with nothing to say would be eliminated.

Taking this improv class that my sister threw at me would be like facing that fear. I would be charging headlong into the throes of my most feared social situations on purpose. Why would I want to do that?! Luckily, the class started the next day, so I signed up on impulse without any time to change my mind and run far far away. The first misconception that got bashed on day one is that improv is for actors trying to be funny. Nope! Improv truly is our everyday life. Each moment we are making things up as we go and inventing conversations on the fly. This wasn't a class of actors learning how to be funny. It was regular people like me wanting to improve their interactions with others, gain more meaning from life, make new connections, improve work performance, and just learn and be open to the possibilities that the class would bring. And a lot of them were just as nervous as I was! 

The first time I had to speak in class, I drew a blank, just like I thought I would. As each second ticked by, my heart raced faster and I felt myself shrinking as all eyes awaited what brilliant thing would come out of my mouth. The instructor rescued me, affirming my fears and assuring me that anything and everything any of us said would be correct. Of course, in "real" life that wouldn't be the case, but in a learning environment it felt good to always be validated, hear "YES!" to all my suggestions, and be met with smiles and nods. With each week that went by, I started coming out of my shell, trusting myself and trusting my classmates. I started looking forward to each session, having fun, laughing, and seeing what new ideas we would come up with.

I could never relay 10 weeks of valuable information in one blog even if I tried, so I suggest that you all consider taking an improv class if it's offered in your community. It truly can benefit everyone. For me, it was life changing. Not only did it infuse me with confidence and skill in my job, which was the reason for taking the class in the first place, but it also gave me tools that I can use outside of work and in my personal life. Ironically, the very last session of my class ended up being online as COVID-19 began to turn all our world's upside down. The timing couldn't have been more divinely planned. Those improv tools also gave me the ability to roll with all the punches COVID-19 has thrown at me the past several months, which has truly saved my life. With these skills fresh in my mind, I sincerely believe that it has helped prevent a COVID-19 fueled downward emotional spiral.

When I "graduated" from my DBT class and individual therapy a few years ago, I thought that was the end of my journey. I thought I had done it all. I thought all my options had been exhausted and that if I faced more challenges in the future that I would have nothing else to try. But the truth is, there is more to self improvement and treatment than the therapist's chair or a prescription bottle. Improv was just one option I didn't even know existed, and maybe I'll take it again later to refresh my skills and just have fun! Realizing there is a world of untapped possibilities has given me a sense of hope. If I discovered improv, I wonder what else there is for me out there? I can't wait to find out!

Special thanks to my sis for shoving this class down my throat and to all the wonderful people at Brave New Workshop in Minneapolis, MN who are dedicated to bringing improv into the lives of many souls, one Tuesday and one "Yes!" at a time. 

On Surviving Well

I’m a survivor. I’ve wallowed through the deepest pits of depression, trudged through snarls of overwhelming anxiety, and I’m still here. Sometimes I’m very proud of that. Sometimes I think how cool it would be to transform the self-mutilating scars on my arm into an artistic tattoo representing my emergence through the fires of hell. Maybe it would be centered around a semi-colon, now an ever-present symbol in the mental health community. In a sentence, it means it’s not over. And in life, it represents a person’s story that isn’t finished yet. It’s worn with pride in a similar way that someone might wear a colored ribbon to show they’ve beat cancer or some other disease.


Lately, I’m not feeling it. I’m not happy to be a survivor, because I feel like that’s all I am doing. I’m barely holding on each day. It is exhausting and leaves no room for anything else in my life. Three months ago, I went on the second medical leave I’ve taken from a job that was burning me out in its toxic environment. No sooner had I returned from my leave, I was offered a new job. I guess I still maintained the silly hope that a job better suited to my personality and interests was the missing piece of the puzzle in my life. And for a while, I felt like that was true. Like the delirious joy that comes with the beginnings of a new relationship, I thought that this was it, I’ve finally reached my destination.


Now that the newness has worn off, I’m back where I started. I’m still me, but in a new location. I still cry at work sometimes, and I am desperately convincing myself to pull it together almost every moment. I keep telling myself, I just need to get through one more day; just one more day, and it will be the weekend. Then I’ll say, I just need to make it until lunchtime; just a couple more hours, and then it will be okay. There is this constant conversation going on inside my mind that not a soul around me is aware of. It is beyond exhausting. I’ll sometimes come home after work at 6:20pm (If the bus is on time) and collapse into bed for a nap. It’s a less than ideal time for a nap, but the idea of lasting another three hours of wakefulness seems an impossible feat.


Five days a week I am practically dead in the evenings. When the weekend hits, I feel an immense pressure to take advantage of it to its fullest extent. I have these two days to bring myself back to baseline so I can try to do it all over again the following week and remain standing. If I do too much, I’ll feel overwhelmed. If I do too little, I’ll feel like I’ve squandered my limited time. Once Sunday comes, I’ll inevitably lament the weekend that is already slipping from my hands, terrified at the insurmountable treacherous terrain scowling back at me yet again. Here we go, another week of just surviving.


Where is the pride in this existence? It’s as if “life” is inherently superior to death. That by living, I am somehow better off. Well the jury is still out, because I’m not entirely convinced that life is the best option out there. Merely surviving is no cure. And maybe that sounds morbid to you. It is morbid. I think about death. Sometimes I think about not wanting to live but at the same time, not wanting to die. I can think of two distinct days in the past week that I honestly wasn’t sure I could make it. It’s scary and sudden. Sometimes it’s gone as quickly and fiercely as it came. Sometimes the very next day is one of the best days I’ve had in weeks. It makes no sense. I feel like I have no control and have no idea what cards I will be dealt the next day. My mind is a Magic 8 Ball: “Will today be a good day?” Shake, shake, shake. “Don’t count on it.” Bummer.


What is it like to never not want to live? It’s most of you out there that like to live all the time that baffle me. How did everyone else get the good juju and I missed the boat? Through my writing, my ultimate hope- when I’m not feeling like a pile of shit- is to help others and offer inspiration and hope. Well, you know what? I don’t have any of that for you right now. If you read through this and are feeling similarly, then at least you know you are not alone. But answers? I have none of those for you right now. I am surviving, but I don’t just want to survive. I want to survive well. And after countless therapies, medications, yoga, aromatherapy, medications, and who knows what else, I’m still not “cured.” Maybe I never will be.

Fuck This Shit! Hey, Swear Words- It Must Be a Good Blog Post!

If you want a fun scavenger hunt idea, visit your local Barnes & Noble (or other bookstore) and see how many self help books with swear words in the title you can find. It's actually pretty fun and amusing. Here is the list I came up with:

Fuck Feelings
Get Shit Done
How to Get Shit Done
Unfuckology
Unfuck Yourself
How to Stop Feeling Like Shit
Let that Shit Go
Find Your Fucking Happy
The Good Girls' Guide to Being a Dick
Fuck Love
Calm the Fuck Down
Get Your Shit Together
I Used to be a Miserable Fuck
The Life Changing Magic of Not Giving a Fuck
Everything is Fucked
Stop Doing that Shit
The Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fuck

Swearing is kind of the "in thing" nowadays. You can get swearing coloring books, mugs, dish towels, and -my favorite- socks. But why are we into that? To make light of all the crap in our lives? To wear our pain with a smile? Honestly, it's probably just a bunch of marketing bullshit. Marketing has our best interests at heart, right? Publishers are looking out for our health and wellbeing, one quality book at a time. Yeah, right. Unfortunately, they are all pretty much the same. Some fluffy words and quotes amid artsy-fartsy lettering and swathes of pastel watercolor. The authors always have lots of letters after their name- some professional jargon, indecipherable to the general public. Because the more degrees you have, the more credible you are (obviously!).

I want to write. I want to publish a book. The only credential I have is that I've been through the meat grinder of mental illness and come out barely alive on the other side with a moderate amount of success. I don't have a bachelor's degree. I didn't take any fancy writing courses. I never studied mental illness treatments- I went through the treatments as a patient. I know and understand what works, and I want to share that experience with others in a way that's approachable and affordable to others. Not many people are in a position to take off weeks or even months of work to go through therapy one to five days a week, let alone be able to afford the extravagant cost of therapy. In that respect, I know I was and continue to be very fortunate. And so, I will continue to write here in a boring font with absolutely no marketing ploys or cool visual graphics, hoping that at least a few souls out there will be inspired even in the slightest.

Work? Check, Please!

In the past week, I've cried three times at work. Two of those times I ended up leaving work all together. And I got a warning. A warning? I don't think I've ever gotten a warning for anything in my life. In general, I'd describe myself as a stellar employee. I have high morals and standards when it comes to work, and that has shown in all that I do. But apparently crying at work is inappropriate and disruptive. If losing composure at work is something that will be repeated, then I must disclose a disability and have specific accommodations written out by my treating physician. After having this conversation with management, I felt like the rug got pulled out from under my feet. A crushing weight sat on my chest, suffocating me. The world felt like it was crumbling around me and I was sliding backwards, returning to a time in my life where I just couldn't "do life." Why am I getting "in trouble" for a mental illness? If I barfed at work in stead of cried, would I have been written up? I felt like my character was being attacked. "Maybe this isn't the right job for you." "Maybe you can't handle the stress of this job." "Maybe you need to be more open to change." No! Stop! This isn't me! I've gone above and beyond in every way possible. I've contributed great ideas, taken on extra work, stayed late finishing things. After one year of being a rock-star employee, I felt like my entire worth was diminished by my recent loss of composure.

After leaving work (the second time), I cried and screamed, I panicked, and felt trapped. The drive home felt like it took a lifetime. I just wanted to escape this situation as fast as I could, but was limited by rush hour traffic. My mind was racing, and I brainstormed all the possible options I had to get this disgusting feeling out of me. Will I have to go back to the hospital? Would that be best? No, it would only disrupt my life even more. Do I need to hurt myself to get away from this black hole? Is dying the only way to fix this? No, I've got this. I just need to hang on for now. Just hold on a little longer. Maybe hope isn't all lost. Having passive thoughts about dying freaked me out even more. My mind was spiraling out of control, and I had no idea how to get off of this emotional roller-coaster.

Luckily, I already had an appointment scheduled to meet with my psychiatric nurse just a few days after this whole ordeal. It is nearly impossible to get in to see mental health professionals on short notice, so I was incredibly thankful that this appointment had already been scheduled ages ago. The timing couldn't have been more perfect. The waterworks made another appearance at this appointment, as I laid out all the stressors of my job and how they had been piling up for an entire year, wearing me down, and breaking my resolve. I'd finally reached a point where I had lost my ability to cope. Even after a fabulous weekend off from work, I found myself starting each new week on Monday feeling like I hadn't recovered enough from the week before to survive yet another week of the same old ridiculous circus.

We decided it would be best to take a short leave of absence under FMLA. For those not familiar with FMLA, it is a law that grants employees (unpaid) time off of work for various reasons while protecting your job in the process. It can be used for things such as a personal illness (in my case), a new baby or adoption, to care for a sick relative, or military leave. Effective immediately, I left my appointment feeling like an immense weight had been lifted off my shoulders. I could finally breathe. I went home, read a great book, and then took the most amazing two and a half hour nap. I slept like a corpse (Probably a bad analogy under the circumstances), as if my brain and my body could just let all the tension go and finally rest and recuperate.

I'm feeling more hopeful now that I have this time to build my mental health back up. I'm still scared to return to work in two weeks. Or the prospect of starting a new job all together is equally daunting. But for now I'm going to focus on "me" the next two weeks.

Finally, I Want to Live

For the first time in a long time, I want to live. Now, I didn't say anything before, because I wasn't sure if this was a fluke or not. My emotions can be a bit volatile. I'm pretty mind blown that I find myself in this situation. I never would have believed it was possible if I wasn't living in it right now. My therapist told me there would be a time that I wouldn't see her anymore. I thought she was totally bogus. Not happening. There is no way I could get to that point. But I did. Somehow a few months have passed since I've met with my therapist, and I don't feel like I need to. And here I am, looking forward to my days.

So, what changed? I would say the biggest leap I've taken is that I finally found a job I absolutely love, that pays the bills and more, and that fits my personality. It has been a complete game changer. When my last x-ray job didn't work out a few years ago, I turned that blame inward; I felt like something was wrong with ME. I felt ashamed of myself when I would see my friends from college successfully living out the career I somehow failed at. I felt like I was less of a person than them, and I could barely look them in the eye. I felt like a complete failure and that I was worth nothing. I looked at all my past accomplishments- my 4.0 GPA, my graduation speech, nailing a job right out of the gate, and I diminished everything I had ever achieved. I looked behind me and saw someone who was successful and had so much potential, and I felt like I lost it all. I was nothing. I let everyone down.

I've gone on many mental health journeys over my lifetime through depression and anxiety and pills and therapy and hospitals. This journey- this chapter- was three years long. Maybe you look at that and think, "Holy shit, that is a long time to wallow in a pool of sadness and stress and a lack of self worth." If you are struggling under your own black cloud right now, it might seem impossible to visualize yourself requiring YEARS to finally see the light at the end of a tunnel. It seems hopeless. I won't lie- it's hard, it's time consuming, and there are no promises.

What didn't work out about that job 3 years ago was that it didn't jive with my personality. I felt isolated, alone, and bored. I didn't know other people at the clinics I worked at, and nobody knew me. That environment ate away at me. I thought I HAD to fit myself into this job, otherwise something must be wrong with me. I would not allow myself to think that I had the right to feel like I needed a different work environment better suited to my personality. I thought I had to take what I could get in a job, no matter what. I thought it would be selfish to want anything different. And all this time it wasn't me that was flawed, it was the job. Gee, wish I would have figured that out long ago! Would have saved me some time!

This roundabout journey took me on some detours that I believe really helped me get to where I am now. When I became unemployed, going back to my old retail job was just what I needed at that time in my life. It was difficult at first. I spent six months on unemployment adamantly opposed to returning to my previous job. I felt like it was a step backwards for me. I felt like going back to that would be settling, giving up, admitting defeat. I had worked too hard, invested too much time, racked up too many student loans just to give it all up. Once I started working there, though, it immediately brightened my affect. I was part of a community of coworkers that were close knit and supportive. It made my soul happy. And then weeks turned into months which turned into years. I became complacent. A tiny part deep inside of me knew that I needed to get kicked out of the nest and spread my wings again. This season of my life was needed to change. I never had the guts to do it on my own- it took getting laid off to force me to make the career leap I needed.

It's weird to say that I am so glad I lost my job- both jobs, in fact. I am happy these bad things happened. At the time, I couldn't imagine going on with my life or seeing any future for myself. Yet here I am. So many morsels of skills, inspiration, therapy, tricks, thoughts, and so much more have helped me along through all these years living with mental illness. My hope is that, moving forward, I am able to pass those golden nuggets on to other people who are struggling. How that's going to happen? I haven't a clue! But I've got life by the horns and I'm ready to see where this rodeo will take me next.

Gun Ownership: A Mental Health Perspective

In light of the recent school shooting in Florida, I'd like to offer a mental health perspective on having access to guns. Now, I hate politics, and I don't care to get into the nitty gritty details of the issues at hand, but as someone who has dealt with and continues to be challenged with depression, I know a gun does not belong in my possession. If there is not a law that would guarantee that, then I think there should be. I'm not about to go shoot up a bunch of innocent people, and the vast majority of people living with mental illness are more a danger to themselves than others. They are more likely to be victims rather than perpetrators.

You might describe me as being "in recovery," but there is still a delicate line there. What life circumstances would trigger me? What trauma would crumble my will to keep going? A job loss? A friend's suicide? Both have happened in the past couple weeks, and I'll admit I am pleasantly surprised at my ability to get through these circumstances in a healthy way. I have reached a level of self awareness that I can generally sense and express when I am a danger to myself. I will tell someone if I don't think I should be alone. I enlist my husband to lock my medications away when I am feeling "off," as a precaution. We don't keep hard liquor in the house, because in a moment of weakness, having ready access to that isn't safe. For me to be able to get to a point where I can express those needs, and for my family and friends to respond to those needs properly has taken YEARS of therapy and more so, breaking down the barriers and stigma that keep loved ones from talking about these things openly.

I am in a place in my journey where I can admit that having access or ownership to a gun is not in my best interest. The risk of me using it to hurt myself is tiny, but the risk is still there. Any risk is too much and not worth it. I don't think there are a lot of people who struggle with mental health issues that would be able to keep themselves safe on their own. It takes a lot of humility and self care to find yourself in a place that you can do that- to admit that you need to rely on others for help, that you have nothing to prove by going it alone. A gun law that would help make the decision of safe gun ownership through screening would be advantageous. I don't believe this because it will keep guns out of murderer's hands (although that would be cool, too); I believe this because it would keep guns out of the hands of people like myself who are at risk of hurting themselves. Sure, it feels a little like being a kid and not having control of yourself. Grown ups don't like being told what they can and can't do or have. I'm strong willed and stubborn, so when my mom or sister say, "Maybe you shouldn't have such-and-such in the house for your own safety," sometimes it makes me want to throw a tantrum. "I'll do whatever I want! I can take care of myself! I don't need any help! I'm not a child" That's the thing about being an adult- you need to show willingness. It isn't just about getting your way and having anything you want.

In the days following my coworker's suicide, sitting alone at home, craving a heaping dose of something strong to numb the grief I was feeling, I thought to myself, "My damn family knowing what's best for me! It just pisses me off! I guess it's good that we don't have any liquor in the house after all, even if I thought I was completely in control." The thing is with control- you have it, until you don't. Just like an insurance policy, you never know when disaster will strike; you will feel good knowing that you took the precautions in the first place.

I view being granted a gun as something you need to earn and qualify for. We take classes and tests to drive a car, we need to meet certain criteria to be granted medications, there are hoops to jump through with licenses and certifications and applications to get stuff in this world for the safety of ourselves and others. Some of those hoops are stupid, worthless busywork, but a lot of times they are in everyone's best interest. So why shouldn't it be the same with owning a gun?

Open Letter to My Coworkers

If you've been following my blog, you know that one of my coworkers committed suicide almost two weeks ago. In the days following his death, I started writing this "letter" to my coworkers. At the time, I didn't know whether I would ever share it with them. I didn't know if I wrote it for them, for me, or for no one. But for that week, we all pulled together. We all had our tears, and we all offered shoulders to cry on. We became closer, and I really started to feel like this was a safe place to be, a place that I was proud to call my work home.

Little did I know that when I bucked up and went to work after the funeral that that would be the last shift I would ever work at my job. I can't decide if it's just ironic, bad luck, or some kind of joke. The timing couldn't have been more tragic. I was laid off. And what's more sad is that I wasn't surprised by it. I think a part of me knew it was only a matter of time. A part of me knows that I am replaceable and only as valuable as how much money I can make for someone else. (This is the part where people that know and love me are yelling at the screen for me to stop putting myself down! But the truth is, although we like to say everyone is of infinite worth, our society has a shitty way of showing it!)

But I think the message I wanted to say is still relevant even if I don't have any coworkers anymore. The message being essentially that you see the people you work with everyday- probably more than your own family. We need to be there for each other, all differences set aside. I'm sick of adding to the list of people I knew who committed suicide. My intention was to work on my "letter" more before it being read by others, but after losing my job....I can't say my heart is into making any improvements to it:


"Whether you have worked here for two weeks or you were around in the ancient days when this store opened, before eBooks and WiFi existed, you are part of our family. If you need to cry, we will let you, and we won't judge you. Just like family, we will probably hold grudges, we'll get pissed off at each other, and annoyed. Sometimes it's hard to let people in or ask for help. As someone who has struggled with depression and multiple suicide attempts, hospitalizations, therapy, and medication cocktails, I personally know that it's very hard to trust anyone with that kind of crap. We'd like to think that we live in a world where people are accepting and understanding about people from all sorts of walks of life and backgrounds, but the world still has a ways to go. When I came back to work for The Barn, I had lost my job as a successful x-ray tech not once, but twice. I didn't even see it coming. I had grown up with the message beaten down my throat that you do not ever let on to anyone if you struggle with mental illness, because you might lose your job; someone might use it against you. For the first time ever, I did open up about it at my x-ray job. I thought things were different now. I openly communicated every step of my journey to my management team so they could work with me and my medical commitments, but even so, I still lost my job (twice). My wall came back up. When I came back to The Barn after that, I was skeptical. I was really vague about the circumstances of my return, and I was not about to trust anyone with my struggles. If I had to get time off work for a medical reason, or if I just up and didn't come to work for a few days because I had literally overdosed over the weekend, I skipped the details and downplayed everything. I was so afraid I would lose my job again. Little by little, the wall began to crumble as management worked with me to schedule shifts around my many therapy and med check appointments. They even asked how things were going periodically. It was weird. A good weird, but I was still waiting for the other shoe to drop. I figured it was only a matter of time before something bad would happen; this nice act had to be up at some point, right? Well, three years later, I am still here. Sure, I probably have some beef with some of you, and maybe you have some annoyances with me, but in light of what our Barn family has gone through lately, it's all just a bunch of bullshit, isn't it? Damn rewards card percentages and email collections and nasty bathroom cleanings and pricing gripes- it's all just stuff. It doesn't even matter. You matter. I matter. We all matter. We are more than just employees and customers- we are a family and a community. We care about each other and we look out for each other. So if you need something, tell someone. Maybe you'll be thinking, "Well, I don't know this person very well," or "They won't care about what I have going on," or "If I show any weakness or, heaven forbid I cry in front of someone, I will be so mortified!" just get that junk out of your head. We've all cried in the bathroom or the break room, so there's nothing to be ashamed of. We've all got our shit to carry. And maybe, like me, you are thinking, "Fuck! I knew he had some bad stuff going on in his head, but I just didn't know what to do!" or "I wanted to say something, but I didn't know how!" Well, you aren't alone. There is a lot of that guilt thing going around. "He died because I was too worried about saving my own face, cuz I was too chicken to say anything?!" No, you are not alone. We've all got those crazy ass nasty thoughts going through our heads, but they ain't true."