So much heart

I had the radio on during the drive home last night because I really couldn't focus enough to follow an audiobook. Some deejay on some station mentioned two recent local (central Kentucky, maybe Lexington urban area maybe Frankfort area maybe greater Louisville area -- I cover a lot of ground between work and home) news stories. First, someone has been stealing credit cards at a cemetery during funeral services. And a couple donated one ton (an actual ton. by weight. not hyperbole.) of food to their local food bank. It was the deejay's comment (paraphrased because I couldn't exactly take notes while driving these miscellaneous two-lane country roads): It's amazing how some people can have so much heart and others have none.

He's right. And that idea really struck me last night. Because as I drove I ran through all of the excuses (and I know they're excuses, not reasons) why I haven't gotten help. I was so proud of myself last week for recognizing signs early and I was all set to research psychiatrists in the area and . . .

And nothing. I did nothing. No follow through. I know that's common with mental illness. Making that step. Getting the help you need. And, yes, I have lots of excuses.

And one at-the-heart-of-it-all reason. Because some people have lots of heart but others have none. And like so many people who have problems with depression and panic attacks, I've dealt with too many of the heartless ones.

I don't want to vilify them even in my own head. I want to see their side. I want to accept that they weren't actually heartless. Probably just clueless.

I worked, very briefly, at a state mental health institution. Three months, maybe, tho it seemed like a lifetime in hell. I can't imagine what it's like for the patients. And like with every job I worked with good people and bad. The good people -- a lot of the nurses and nurse's aides -- were truly saints. They did everything they were allowed to help their patients, even the patients who yelled racial slurs and death threats at them. And then there were the others. Many of the doctors, many of the social workers, all of the administration I met. I tried to tell myself they had to keep at a metaphorical remove from the patients, for everyone's sake. Which doesn't explain why they were so bitchy to other staff.

I remember listening to a woman who was probably in the middle of a panic attack (I'm not licensed so I'm just guessing, not diagnosing) trying to answer the intake evaluation questions. She was crying, trying to get herself under control, then she'd lose it again. I know the social worker needed straightforward answers. I also know, from personal experience, it's hard to force yourself to yes or no when you're in the middle of a damn panic attack. And that being cut off mid-sentence every sentence does not help you. It makes you very aware of your own ramblings which leads to guilt and dismay over your failings in general which leads to more anxiety and more panic and more crying and just let the poor girl have some control over her own damn narrative for two whole minutes you fucking bastard. Is what I wanted to yell. And one of the security guards was passing through and said something about just having no sympathy for women who get hysterical and cry like that.

Many many years ago I had a panic-hysteria-breakdown whatever like that. And if you've never experienced anything like this, it's fine that you don't understand what I'm saying, just please turn off the judgment before reading on. Thank you. I was sixteen or seventeen. I was (surprise!) at a mall. And I think my boyfriend (my first when I thought I would never ever have even the one) dumped me. And I fell apart.

I left the mall and, I can't explain, but I just reached a point in the far back corner of the parking lot and I couldn't hold on any longer and I started crying so hard I couldn't see where I was going, couldn't breathe. I sat down. And cried. And someone (what the hell was anyone else doing out rows beyond the last parked cars) came along. They were probably trying to be kind. They asked (it seemed to me) a lot of questions. I couldn't answer. I just focused on trying to get all of the wet snot off my face and stand up and nod as some indication that I was okay and continue home (or at least to a sheltered area where I could collapse in peace). And I tripped on, probably air in all honesty. And went down hard. Scraped up both palms, big gash on my knee. And in trying to get up and limp off (still crying, still trying to not cry, still trying to hide that I was crying), suddenly I was surrounded.

Okay, maybe not. I remember it as a terrible crowd of people. I tell myself, now at a distance of a hundred miles and thirtyplus years, that it was probably really no more than five, maybe less even. But the number of strangers around me is irrelevant. And I'm sure they were kind and trying to help, which is also irrelevant. 100% fight-or-flight, which for me is always flight.

Flight. It sounds so graceful, so effortless. I was none of that. I was limping and bleeding and crying. I remember trying to tell people I just wanted to go home, that I was going home. Someone called an ambulance (way back before 911, before cell phones, so I have no idea when or how they called) because suddenly there was one in the parking lot.

Most of my memories of that day are vague. I remember the heartache I felt. I remember the despair bringing me to my knees in the parking lot. I remember the overlapping voices and the bright sun and just wanting to get away and hide from all of it.

And I remember the paramedics mocking me for crying. I remember the paramedics threatening me because I'd wasted their time with just a cut on my knee (which I wouldn't actually let them look at). I remember trying to tell them I didn't call them, didn't ask for them, but one of the paramedics cutting me off and calling me a baby for crying. I remember wanting to pound his face into the asphalt for being such an ass, but wanting to just get away even more than I wanted to hurt the jerk

I remember a man suddenly in the middle of it all yelling at me for creating a disturbance. He was the mall manager, he said. I was a nuisance, he said. I was banned from the mall, the mall property, he said. I should be arrested, he said.

I remember trying to leave, limping away from him, and him grabbing my arm and yelling over over that I was allowed there as he prevented me from leaving.

I remember the "helpful" strangers fading away. No one admitting to the paramedics that he or she had called, not me. No one telling the mall manager that first the crowd and then the paramedics had actually prevented me from leaving. No one actually doing anything to help the situation, no matter how kind and well-meaning and helpful they thought they were.

And I know this is why I stop myself from actually calling and making an appointment. I know there are a people with so much heart, and I know there are they other kind, too. And when I've been at my lowest, the heartless (or at least clueless and casually cruel) ones were in charge.

p.s. That woman at the institution was there because she was crying in a public place and someone who thought they were helping called 911 for EMTs because crying always equals depression which always equals suicide (no and no) and someone else called 911 for police because with all of the well-meaning people and EMTs she was making a scene. The officers actually pulled her out of the cab she got once she got rid of the EMTs. And she started crying again and the officers didn't know what to do with her so that brought her to the state mental health institution -- where she was not admitted after all of the hours of evaluations because crying is not a crime and is not the same as crazy. The social worker had me call a taxi and give the woman a voucher for the cab fare, and sent her home with journaling exercises on mindfulness and redirecting negative emotions.

p.p.s. I've been working on two kimono-style robes. I made the first one -- sort of purply/puce chrysanthemum pattern -- for myself to just work through the directions. Once I had it, I made the poppies-on-white smaller one for Bestie as a birthday present. She is shorter than me, but also her robe is supposed to be shorter, lightweight for summer. It's hanging funny. And I set the belt too low.

I still want to add patch pockets, because women need pockets. Bestie's new house gracefully ascends a wooded hillside. So there's a lot of steps. Seriously. There are two levels below the main "ground" floor and a loft master bedroom suite above. Pockets are an absolute must in that house. Phone, book or craft, snack, drink . . . you quickly run out of hands to carry it all and once you're settled on the back deck (G -1) or, god help you, the cozy fireplace room (G -2), you don't want to slog back for a second load.

I'm pretty happy with them.

p.p.p.s. Yes, sometimes people fighting depression and anxiety can still do stuff. Sometimes we can't. We can still have moments of laughter and joy. Sometimes not. Do not believe how drug commercials portray mental illnesses in commercials.

p.p.p.p.s. I need to allow that most mental health professionals do know what they're doing and want to help patients. That if I call a psychiatrist she or he will not mock me for asking for help even tho I'm not bleeding or limping and almost kind of sorting functioning at a low level. To everyone who has made that call and is getting help, my god you are so brave.