I wanted to let you all know that this spring,  I am going to be run/walking the Long Branch 1/2 Marathon, while raising money for the Mental Health Association in New Jersey.  I am raising the money through an organization called Running on Love.  I am running in honor of a teenage friend of mine, Jillian, (the beautiful girl above) who struggles with a difficult eating disorder.  In addition, I am running for the 1 in 4 Americans every year who struggle with their mental health.  I want to bring awareness about mental illness to people, and hopefully help to break the stigma associated with these illnesses.  In addition, it is a known fact that people with a mental illness die on average 25 years earlier due to obesity and smoking.  I am trying to reverse this process in my own life, and encourage others to do the same!  To learn more, or to donate, please follow this link:  http://www.active.com/donate/ROL-NJM2012/2012EGrossm     Thank you so much for taking the time to read this, for your continued support, and for your generosity. 

This caption so clearly illustrates the way I felt at my first "weigh in" at Weight Watchers this morning.  I reflected on the past three years, and how I had gotten to this place, almost 100 lbs over where I'm supposed to be.  I remembered my last bout with depression, and the way I tried so hard to "eat my way" out of it. I remembered that this only made things worse.  And, I decided to persevere. 

The statistics show that I am not alone in having a weight gain as one of the residual affects of struggling with my mental health.  According to an article in Time Magazine from December 3, 2008 entitled "Why Do the Mentally Ill Die Younger?"  it has been found that "people with depression or bipolar disorder are about twice as likely to be obese as the general population; in people with schizophrenia, that likelihood is three times greater. "

And, from the same article, an even more morbid statistic:  "the National Association of State Mental Health Program Directors (NASMHPD) published a study two years ago called Morbidity and Mortality in People with Serious Mental Illness. The report analyzed data from 16 states and found that, on average, people with severe mental illness die 25 years earlier than the general population."

Twenty-five years younger?!?  Me?  Well, no thank you!  I really believe that these statistics are leaving out one really important thing:  Choice.  Yes, it may be true that with a mental illness, I could die younger.  But, I know that this is a choice.  I can choose to stay this weight forever, and die young from obesity-related complications, or I can do something about it.  And I choose to do something. 

When I wake up early tomorrow morning to run with my running team,  Running on Love, for the first time, I know that I'm not just taking a step towards raising money for mental illness.  I'm taking the first steps to extend my life, and prove that those with mental illness can live full and LONG lives, with the proper self-care.  I'm going to be running towards solving my weight problems for the first time in a long time, rather than running away from them.  And hopefully, I'm going to be inspiring others to do the same. 

Be Well
~Emily

I have decided to run the Long Branch Half Marathon on May 6th 2012 this year.  I am raising money for the Mental Health Association in NJ, an organization whose mission I believe in deeply.  I am running in honor of a teenage friend of mine, JIllian, who struggles with an eating disorder, and in honor of the 1 in 4 Americans who struggle with their mental health each year.  I am being helped with the training and fundraising efforts through a beautiful organization called Running on Love, which is designed to help people to run endurance events and fundraise for a charity at the same time. 

It was not easy to decide to run this race, as I am the heaviest I've ever been, and I tried to run a marathon when I was in better shape than this and got injured.  However, my passion for this cause and my hope that it will inspire my friend Jillian and help her to recover are what is keeping me very motivated.  Also, it is a known fact that those with mental illness have a much lower life expectancy than the average population.  I hope that in running this event, I not only change my own life, and add years to it, but I also encourage others to do the same.  I will be posting more about how to contribute money to this cause as the event gets closer.  I want to thank my readers in advance for your support of my mission. 

Be Well
~Emily

I could play both sides of this question.  On the negative side, because people post mostly the good things that happen to them, and not the bad things, Facebook represents a sort of "distorted reality."  If one buys into the distortions that Facebook creates- (eg. all of your friends have happy, wonderful lives), it can hurt one's self esteem.  It can make people feel very alone with their problems, and make it look like the rest of the world is not having any.  Let's face it...people are not usually REAL on Facebook.  They are projecting an image of how they want the world to see them, rather than who they really are. However, it is easy to forget this, and fall into the kind of self-deprecation that can result in depression. 

On the positive side, Facebook helps people to come out of isolation, which is a common symptom of depression.  It is a way for people to connect and feel like they are not alone.  For people who are socially phobic, it allows them to reach out to people with the buffer of the computer there to soften the anxiety around the difficult task of reaching out to people.   

I am by no means down on Facebook.  I use it myself to help to promote my blog and business.  I just think that in order to protect one's mental health, it is important to take people's posts with a grain of salt.  Everyone has problems.  They are just not necessarily posting them on Facebook for all the world to see.  One of the key reasons that I write so honestly on this blog is to make an attempt at being more real.  I am not advocating for people to start airing all of their dirty laundry on Facebook, but I do think that if people could be a bit more real, and not try and make their lives look so idyllic just to impress others, Facebook itself would be much more mentally healthy place for people. 


Be Well
~Emily

Antonio Lambert has struggled with his mental health a great deal in his life.  He has been an addict, incarcerated, and also living on the streets.  But, what is most miraculous about him is that he has recovered, become a mental health peer, and even gotten into a position where he trains other mental health peers to do their job. 

In an article on him in the New York Times entitled, "After Drugs and Dark Times, Helping Others to Stand Back Up," the importance of peer support in the recovery process is highlighted.  A mental health peer is someone with lived experience with mental illness, who has recovered, and then provides mental health services for others. In the article, the success of peers is explained: "recent research suggests that peer support can reduce costs, and in 2007, federal health officials ruled that states could bill for the services under Medicaid — if the state had a system in place to train and certify peer providers. In the years since, “peer support has just exploded; I have been in this field for 25 years, and I have never seen anything happen so quickly,” said Larry Davidson, a mental health researcher at Yale. “Peers are living, breathing proof that recovery is possible, that it is real.”

This article really explains what I have experienced as a peer providing mental health services.  Clients who see that they have a healthy person in front of them who once struggled with mental illness get much more encouraged than if they see a clinician that has "book knowledge" of mental illness but no experience in it themselves.  How can you know what truly will help people if you have not been down the road of recovery yourself?  The peer model has been used with great success in the Alcoholics Anonymous world for years.  I'm really happy to see that it is now expanding, and becoming a well-recognized form of treatment for those with mental illness as well. 

Be Well,
~Emily

In one of my favorite scenes from "The Muppets Take Manhattan," Kermit has a plan to get his broadway show, Manhattan Melodies, produced.  He goes to the famous restaurant in NYC named Sardi's, and acts like he's a big-time director.  He even goes as far as to take Liza Minelli's picture off of the wall, replace it with his own, and sit right under it.  After this, he has all of his friends, who are rats, go underneath the tables and whisper about the show to get people talking about it.  All is going great, and people start talking.  That is, until Liza Minelli herself walks in and notices that her picture is no longer on the wall, AND the rats start sneezing and pop up from under the table, scaring all of the guests.  So, ultimately the plan does not work out for Kermit. 

However, I think that the plan can work for helping to end mental health stigma.  I'm not suggesting that you go to Sardi's and blow your paycheck on an expensive meal.  But, I do think that stigma will end when a critical mass of people are talking about the idea that mental illness is nothing to be ashamed of, and that people with mental illnesses can still lead full productive lives. 

So, here's what you can do to help.  Yesterday, over 500 people read my blog.  That means that over 500 people are semi-interested in the cause.  If each of these 500 people had a quiet conversation with one of their friends tomorrow explaining the truth about mental illness, there would be 1,000 people aware of this and not stigmatizing.  You see, the end to the stigma doesn't come when people are loud about it.  It comes from quiet conversations with loved ones, helping them to overcome misconceptions about mental illness.  It will spread quickly if you just tell one friend, and ask them to tell a friend, and so on. 

So that's my plan.  Let's use Kermit's idea as motivation for a global change in the way people view those who struggle with mental illness.  After all, it's not easy bein' green. 

Be Well
~Emily

Nine years ago, my life was in shambles.  I had been kicked out of my parents house and had to live in residential housing for those with mental illness.  It was a terrible situation, living with people much sicker than I was, and much older, too.  While I wanted to go out and enjoy life, they would sit at home, mumbling to themselves in front of the TV.  My life had hit an all-time low, and I wanted more for myself.  Although this was an extremely difficult period of my life, I was motivated to get out of there, and did so within 3 months. 

Once I was living with healthier roommates my own age and working, I had this overwhelming feeling of "now what?"  I knew that I wanted to be a teacher, and on a whim, I applied to Columbia University's Teachers College.  And I got in.  But, I kept losing jobs due to my illness symptoms flaring up.  How could I justify taking out a loan when I didn't know if I'd ever be able to hold a job long enough to pay it back?  Well, I took a risk, and went, knowing in my heart that it was the right thing to do for me, and went to Columbia. 

The outcome?  Amazing, but not for the reason that I expected.  While in graduate school, I met a couple of friends who were Buddhist.  One in particular, Gonzalo, really took me under his wing, and exposed me to Nichiren Buddhism.  I had always been curious about Buddhism, but was really cautious.  What would my parents think if I changed religions?  Was this a legitimate religion, or was I getting involved in some Buddhist cult?  But, the more that I learned about Nichiren Buddhism, and the more I chanted the special chant, Namyohorengekyo, which loosely translated means "devotion to the mystic law of cause and effect through sound," the better my life got.  I now had a practice to help me center myself and manage my bipolar symptoms, which included mania, panic attacks, delusional thinking, and deep depression.  I didn't have to give up my Jewish faith- to this day, I still practice all of the holidays and traditions, just like my ancestors did.  But, most importantly, I saw actual proof, and benefit in my daily life when I chanted. 

From the time that I started chanting to now, I have never had to struggle to have a roof over my head, never had to struggle to find or keep employment, and my symptoms of bipolar are totally manageable, if not mostly gone.  My father and mother are now completely supportive, and have even remarked that this is the kindest and most compassionate that they've ever seen me be.  And, for once I can say that I love my life!  I have a community of supporters through my buddhist community that are some of the best people that I've ever known. 

But, most importantly, I have a life philosophy that works for me.  One of the things that we talk about in buddhism is how obstacles are there to help one "polish their inner diamond" and become enlightened.  Think about it- a diamond cannot be shiny without rough sandpaper to shine it.  Likewise, our lives cannot fully shine without the "rough sandpaper" of obstacles to challenge us to grow.  I learned that we all have a buddha inside of our lives just waiting to come out, and chanting helps me bring out my "inner buddha."  And, I learned that my break-down (or series of break-downs) set me on the path towards enlightenment, which makes it all worthwhile. 

Be Well
~Emily

"I'm beautiful in my way, 'cause God makes no mistakes. I'm on the right track, baby, I was BORN THIS WAY...." Lady Gaga.

I was born with the genetic proclivity to have a mental illness.  I learned this the very first day that I was diagnosed bipolar.  I was told that bipolar disorder is a chemical imbalance in the brain that is passed down from generation to generation, much like cancer is passed down. Well, tracing back, in every generation that I know of in my family, there was at least one person, if not many, who had mental illnesses.  Yup, I was definitely BORN THIS WAY. 

But, what to do with this information?  At first, I hated myself for it.  How could I be so damn imperfect?  My friends after 18 seemed to be living the normal college life, while I was stuck in one psychiatric hospital after another.  My life was chaotic.  After college, when most of my friends were building their careers, I couldn't hold a job.  While my friends were getting married, I was holding on to an abusive relationship for dear life.  But, what I realize now, is that, NONE OF THIS WAS MY FAULT. I didn't ask to be born mentally ill, with the outcome of this being that I had maladaptive coping skills which created havoc in my life. I didn't ask to have emotions so intense that they were crippling.  I was BORN THIS WAY. 

This is not meant to be a cop out.  Just because you are born a certain way, it doesn't mean that you don't need to take responsiblity for your life and your decisions.  But, what I realized is that while I was so busy beating the crap out of myself for how my life turned out, I was taking away the energy that I needed to make my life better.  As cliche as it sounds, I couldn't improve my situation until I loved myself just as I was, crappy life and all. 

So, how did I come to love myself in spite of and BECAUSE OF being mentally ill?  Moment by moment, and imperfectly.  Fitting, for the girl who once expected herself and her life to be perfect, to learn to love herself in an imperfect way.  Some days, I looked at myself as a survivor, and other days, I was back to feeling like nothing but a perfect failure.  But, I started to realize that no one has self love all of the time; it's human to want to improve and dislike pieces of ourselves.  And, the more I gave myself permission to be imperfect, even in my love for myself, the better I got. 

Then, I learned something.  That all of the things I went through, extreme as they were, had a PURPOSE.  A reason.  God really makes NO MISTAKES.  When I loved myself enough, I became brave enough to start telling my story, and I realized that it could help people; it was a story that people needed to hear, at a time in our history when people were ready to hear it.  Had I been born just a generation before, or in a different part of the world, maybe my story would not have been relevant or helped people. And, not only did I have a story to tell, but I had been blessed with the gifts to tell it.  I was always told that I was very articulate.  I was an English major.  I had been trained on how to tell a good story for four years, and now, this was the skill that I needed the most to help other people. 

My friend called tonight. She's making a plan to get the help she needs to get over her own crippling depression.  She asked me to be a part of that plan; to be in her innermost circle of trusted supporters. She knows that I can help her because I've been through it, and I know just what to say.  After all, I was born this way. 

Be Well
~ Emily

 Today, I am watching a friend who trusts me enough to share that she is being pulled deep into the abyss of depression.  Few know about this, as this person is hiding, like many do.  This person has revealed that it is not that she wants to kill herself, she just wishes that someone would kill her.  And here I am faced with a dilemma.  I could call the authorities, who won't put her into the hospital because she is not a "danger to herself or others."  She says she isn't going to kill herself; she just wants to die, and for the Psychiatric Emergency Screeners, that's not enough to go on.  So, she is forced to suffer without getting much help beyond her regular psychiatrist appointment. 

But, the other part of the dilemma that I face is even deeper; even if she were to go to a hospital, I am not quite sure that she would find it helpful.  For most illnesses, when one is sick, he or she ends up going to the hospital, receiving treatment, and then coming out when they are well.  Well, not so in a psychiatric hospital.  There, the main objective is this:  to keep you safe, and then when you say that you won't take your life or someone else's, they send you home- cured or not. 

I remember my first hospitalization.  I was 18 years old, and had come home from Emory University in Atlanta for "treatment."  I had worked hard to get into Emory, and thought that I had ruined my life by having to come home,  and I wanted to die.  And, verbalizing this earned me my very first hospitalization at Carrier Clinic in Bellmead NJ.  So what did I win?  Well, I remember saying goodbye to my family, and the doors locking behind me on the ward that people who had come before me affectionately named "Crazy Eddy's."  It was dark and run down.  I remember one guy deciding immediately that I was "the one," and following me around everywhere asking me to marry him.  I told the nurses, and they told me to "stop flirting with him."  I was scared out of my mind.  Nothing locked.  Not the bathrooms, the showers.  Nothing.  You could easily get raped in a place like this, and although I was somehow protected, I heard stories upon coming out that others had, in fact, been raped there.  You could hear men publicly masterbating with no one stopping them.  Nurses remained behind thick glass windows, where you were responsible to go to get your medication.  They didn't come out to make sure you were ok.  Frankly, they were probably too scared.  Those who got to aggitated were strapped down and injected, with what, I don't know.  Every day, the doctor would come around and ask me if I was "safe."  Of course, I told him no.  Who was "safe" in a place like this?  I learned after being there for a while that "safe" was code for, "have you given up on the notion that you want to kill yourself?"  It took me at least a week to learn this and be transfered to a calmer unit. 

So, why the hell was I placed on a unit like this?  I don't know.  It wasn't so that I could come out "cured" from my depression.  The trauma that I suffered left scars in me that I still have to this day.  Having been hosptialized many times since then, I must say that the first was the worst.  Or, was it just that by the 10th or 12th time, I got used to it, and toughened my skin?  I don't know. 

But, here I am today, trying to advise a friend who is crying her eyes out.  She feels alone and like it never will get better.  And the last thing that I want her to do is go to the hosptial for treatment.  Something is WRONG with this system.  Why can't mental hospitals be places for people to go to get the respite that they need, and the proper medication to return to the world well?  Why is it that some of my clients claim that they would rather die than get hospitalized?  It's not just the stigma of being in a mental institution, it's the fact that those places are SCARY AS HELL!  If we don't improve treatment for those who struggle with a mental illness, how do we expect people to get help?  Is this the best that we can do for people?  I think not.  The trick is, that more people have to stand up and say that the system is mistreating people.  Don't do it for me; I'm well.  Do it for the 25% of your friends that you know that have or will struggle with a mental illness, and should not have to suffer while trying to get treatment to get better.  

Be Well
~Emily

Ah, Marlboro.  This town, located just one hour southwest-ish of NYC, was once all farmland and clay. The "marl" in Marlboro is a clay that the Indians used to use to make clay pots and such (at least that's what Ms. Breen told us in third grade). 

Growing up in Marlboro was wonderful in many ways.  It was a suburb of NYC, so very often, my parents or friends and I would hop a train and go into the city.  The sprawling farmland was sold and turned into the kind of soccer fields that any "soccer mom" would adore.  The school district was very highly regarded, and as an upper-middle class suburb, none of my friends ever had to deal with the pain of poverty or starvation. 

HOWEVER, there was something in the air in Marlboro; let's for now call it "friendly competition."  There were EXPECTATIONS- which started among the parents, but trickled down to the kids like the water in a leaky faucet trickles into the sink.  Conversations amongst parents when I was young would go something like this,  "I would have let David come over to play today, but he's so busy, what with travel soccer, his Project Venture homework (our district's elementary school Gifted and Talented Program), and gymnastics competition that he couldn't possibly have time."  To which the other mother would respond, "well, that's ok.  My son was busy too- he was working on his science fair project, which he, by the way got an A+ on and taking his concert piano lessons, so he couldn't have had a friend over anyway." 

This "competition" continued throughout my youth, and into adolescence.  The conversation became different, but the main messages were still the same. How come my father, who bless his heart traveled back and forth to NYC everyday with many of the other Marlboro fathers, could tell me by the time he got home at night exactly what my schoolmates' SAT scores were, where they were going to college, and what they were majoring in.  Believe me, it wasn't because he was highly interested.  It was because the "competition conversation" continued  from Marlboro to NYC, and then all the way back home.  And it didn't end there.  Dad was also able to overhear how much money people's kids were making on their first job, where they were working, and eventually who they were marrying, and how much the engagement ring cost.  Is anyone else seeing something wrong with this picture?

As I said before, there were "EXPECTATIONS," in Marlboro.  Not from my parents, but from the general masses. Expectations about how well one did in school, how one dressed, the kind of car they drove, the extra curricular activities that one was involved in.  And for someone like me, someone who always wanted to be her best self, I certainly got wrapped up in all of this.  Part of it was just trying to fit in.  Part of it was that I am competitive by nature.  But, I put so much pressure on myself to fit the "Marlboro Mold." I had to look, dress, achieve, and generally fit in with the high standards set by many parents, and absorbed by their children. 

But, in all of this competition, where was the room for a child with special needs?  It wasn't there.  And by high school, although I did well academically and socially, I was just that; a child with special needs.  I was anorexic.  I was highly depressed and anxious.  I felt alone.  And all of this, I ever so carefully hid behind my "Marlboro Mask," letting only a few close confidants see the "real me."  I remember going to football games in high school, and putting on my makeup and my best cheerleader smile, only to come home and break down in tears behind closed doors. I remember hiding in my basement from friends that just stopped by for a visit if I didn't think I looked my best, and making my sister tell them I wasn't home.  I remember all of the compliments I would get on my 90 lb body when I was in high school, and hoping I'd always stay 90 pounds.  No one cared that I was starving myself, not even me.  It didn't matter.  I had to fit in, I had to be "perfect" and keep my "Marlboro Mask" intact. 

But, this left very little room for the real me.  The real me was someone that I squelched and hid under the covers at night, secretly hoping she'd disappear so that I could be as perfect as friend X and friend Y.  The real me was a depressed, anxious mess who felt so scared of her symptoms and completely alone.  I remember having to learn relaxation exercises from a therapist to take my SATs and make Varsity Cheerleading.  Really?  Yes.   That's how bad it got.

I started at Emory University, a place that I like to call "Marlboro south," and believe you and me, my "Marlboro Mask" came right along with me.  But, within months, it all came crashing down.  You can only squelch full-blown bipolar disorder and your own self for so long before it bubbles up to the surface.  And bubble up it did.  I had to leave school to go into the hospital within my first semester.  I was mortified.  What would I tell all of my friends from Marlboro and their parents?  I hated myself for "ruining my life," and only wanted to die. 

Well, finally, I was forced to face myself; forced to start to take off my "Marlboro Mask."  It was a gradual process, but in college, I just couldn't run from who I really was anymore.  I had to share about the most intimate parts of my life with my schoolmates, because it was obvious that something was wrong, and frankly, I was tired of hiding.  It was exhausting.  I remember being so ashamed because I was living in my sorority house, but getting picked up by a bus to go to my day program for my mental health every day.  I remember being in and out and in and out of the hospital for my psychiatric health.  Trying medication after medication.  Nothing was working.  But, I could no longer hide from who I really was.  And, in retrospect, humiliating as it was, it was the best thing for me. 

I went through all of the stages of loss of my former self- the anger, the grief, and finally acceptance.  This came after I graduated college and was working on my first job.  I joined an organization called NAMI In Our Own Voice, in which they trained you to tell your recovery story.  I remember my trainer, who has now become a dear friend of mine, was a man who had schizophrenia, but managed to become the CFO of several Fortune 500 companies.  I remember seeing others who struggled with their mental health, and had recovered and lived amazing lives.  And, I finally realized three things: 1) I wasn't alone, 2) it wasn't my fault, and 3) I had nothing to be ashamed of.  From the first time that I told my story to an audience, I realized that this story put me in the position to help others.  That there were so many people like me, who suffered in silence, who hid behind social masks, and were ashamed and hopeless.  And, as I shared my story, I gained confidence and a realization of why I was put on this Earth with Bipolar Disorder- to help others who were suffering.  Finally, I took my "Marlboro Mask" and incinerated it.  And, in doing so, I set myself and others free.  It feels damn good to be thirty three, and accept myself exactly as I am, and even LOVE that person.  And it feels great to know that you, my readers, can benefit from the pain that I once felt- there was a purpose behind my suffering.    I hope that by getting rid of my "Marlboro Mask," I can encourage others to do the same.  Self love, not self blame. 

Be Well,
~Emily