Month: May 2015

How Harry Potter saved my mental health

Ok, so maybe Harry Potter didn’t really save my mental health. He saved the ENTIRE WORLD from Lord Voldemort. All Hell broke loose at the Battle of Hogwarts, and Harry claimed victory, (even though Hermione did ALL the work but that’s not the point I’m trying to make). Since the beginning of the end, AKA middle school, the Harry Potter series has had a tremendous influence in my life.

Potthead Puberty

I read the books on the school bus every morning as a distraction from the impending doom and anxiety that awaited me at my destination.

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I read during study hall.

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*Except for that one year, where my study hall teacher was the wife of Satan…

damn kids!

I read on the ride back home.

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It was middle school that taught me that the majority of other people my age were severely lacking in moral fiber, rational thinking, and general intellect. These are not qualities that a young girl needs during a time of mental and emotional turmoil. My peers were alien to me, and so, I sealed myself shut within the pages of the HP books; a safe and comforting place to be.

One of the Gang

Soon, the films were created. Amazingly, I was the same age as the actors playing the main characters: Harry, Ron and Hermione. When they were eleven years of age and starting their first term at Hogwarts, I was nearly eleven myself. What a coincidence, I thought to myself, it’s like I was supposed to be at Hogwarts too.

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As my neurological crap grew increasingly more devastating, I propelled myself into the world of wizardry and witchcraft. No human bodily malfunction could bring me down me, I WAS A WITCH IN TRAINING. There was bound to be some spell to alleviate all this junk happening in my life.

I clung to the ridiculous and impossible chance that I would receive my letter to Hogwarts. I fantasized about the day I would look out my window and spot a doofy owl hurling itself towards my house, a tiny white envelope clutched tightly in it’s possession. I would retrieve the letter containing my acceptance, and my life problems would simply vanish. My salvation and mental health were dependent solely upon my acceptance to Hogwarts.

GOODBYELIFEPROBLEMS

My letter never came.

I started high school in September, trying to retain a sense of normalcy despite the fact that everything was not normal. My anxiety, depression, and sensory processing disorder reached a record high score on the “How Much Does Your Life Suck Right Now” meter. I was brought to doctors and therapists of all kinds, and in return, I received puzzled expressions or bottles of pills that made everything worse.  But I still had Harry Potter.

At the end of my freshman year I was pulled out of school because I was so ill. During that summer, I painted murals all over my walls – my own art therapy. Sprawled across one wall, monumental and extraordinary, was my rendering of Hogwarts Castle. Above it was a portrait of Harry surrounded by his name. In my little miserable world, it was breathtaking and comforting.

its...its

PERFECTION

*Note: The mural truly looked like this. It was ginormous and super awesomesauce.

The years grudgingly went by….

The one constant in my life was Harry’s journey. During the deep, unrelenting surges of depression, anxiety, anger, and isolation, the wizarding world was my safe haven – an alternative reality. Granted, things were not super great in Harry’s world either. Lord Voldemort was trying to kill him, and he was trying to kill Lord Voldemort; it was not all butterbeer and chocolate frogs, if you know what I mean.

But the idea of it all – the story from start to finish – carried me away.

Here I am, 24 years alive, and still awaiting my Hogwarts letter. Santa bought me a fake one for Christmas a few years ago – was he seriously foolish enough to think I’d fall for that crapsauce? Would YOU fall for this?? (note: the fuzzy yellow caterpillar was not included in the original letter. I drew it there to cover my address. I don’t need internet hooligans knowing where I live).

(click to view bigger):

new hogwarts letter

I do not want to identify myself as a muggle (non-magic folk), for that would delete my rich, inner fantasy life that keeps me afloat in moments of suffering. I am the owner of a wand – with a tip that lights up when the wand is waved. I have a Hogwarts cloak, Gryffindor scarf and hat, Harry Potter quiz book, a 200 lb Harry Potter encyclopedia of sorts, Harry Bobble head, Snape action figure, and a million more things which you don’t probably give a crap about.

Dementors and Depression

By engulfing myself into the wizarding world, my numerous illnesses morph into Dementors; soul-sucking, happiness-destroying, butt-ugly creatures. Dementors cannot be killed, only kept at bay until they die from natural causes, or from crashing into the night bus.

Either way, you must use the Patronus Charm to protect yourself from the Dementor’s kiss of death (it’s as delightful as it sounds). The Patronus Charm is conjured by concentrating intensely on your happiest memory while stating the words, Expecto Patronum. Your wand should release a glowing animal figure which will defend you from the Dementors.  Expecto Patronum can be roughly translated from Latin to mean “I await a protector.”

“Ok Kelly, that’s real fascinating, but how does this all relate to depression?” -You

“GIVE ME A MINUTE, WOULD YOU? THIS IS COMPLICATED MATERIAL!” -Me

 

The author of Harry Potter, JK Rowling has confirmed that she created the Dementors after her own experience with depression. She stated: “Dementors are among the foulest creatures that walk this earth. They infest the darkest, filthiest places, they glory in decay and despair, they drain peace, hope, and happiness out of the air around them”.

expecto patronum

The story of Harry Potter has given me unrelenting strength when facing situations that I was certain would be my demise. When curled into a blobby ball of emptiness, it is the thought of the antics of Fred and George that bring a stupid smile to my face. It is Hermione being a general badass. It is Ron dancing awkwardly with Professor McGonagal. It is Severus Snape, dashing around down the castle halls with his cloak billowing behind him like a majestic, dark stallion. It is Harry, doing…ugh…whatever it is that Harry does.

 

In conclusion, I’d like to amend my original statement to this: Harry Potter did save my mental health. Thanks, Harry…cough…cough..Hermione.

xo kelly

 

 

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Personal Hell: Visiting a psychiatrist

When I’m being treated by a psychiatrist, I imagine I’m on the popular television show, Jeopardy. It goes like this:

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Throughout my twenty-four years of existence, I’ve had a heaping amount of visits to doctors of all kinds in an attempt to manage my numerous life issues – my sensory processing disorder being at the forefront.

I believe psychiatric/psychological help is imperative when dealing with physical illness. So darn it all, I’ve got to pull on my big girl panties and get stuff done, no matter how miserable it is to visit a psychiatrist.

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I never enjoy going to see a psychiatrist. If I had $5 for every bizarre session with a psychiatrist, I could probably afford to go to medical school, become a psychiatrist, and THERAPEUTIZE myself.

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As usual, I just made up another word: therapeutize.

Definition: Therapeutize: to use therapeutic techniques.

In a sentence: “I’m going through a tough time with my wife, if I could only therapeutize my marriage back to where it used to be, we’d be happy again.”

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Psychiatrists never seem to pick good locations for their offices. Unfortunately for me, these locations are sensory UNFRIENDLY. I’m uncertain whether or not these locations are chosen on purpose.

One psychiatrist had the office lights so bright, I almost couldn’t open my eyes. That was a fun visit.

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Another had a million winding stairs up to the office, like one of those M.C. Escher paintings. I felt like I could die at any moment whilst making my way to the top. Additionally, it was nearby a train station, so periodically, the train would blare its horn and I would feel my lungs give out from the intensity of the sound. I’d grip the staircase railing, waiting for death.

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Some psychiatrists have leather couches to sit on. I don’t know about you, but my body doesn’t understand leather. It’s shiny, and rubbery. My body actually hates me when I sit on leathery surfaces, as I find myself sliding right off and into a pathetic puddle on the floor.

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Some psychiatrists don’t understand my sensory needs at all, which is both humorous and sadly ironic. For example, everything they do is often very noisy, including speaking. It’s not done intentionally, but most of them are so oblivious that they don’t even notice how sensory unfriendly they are. Even if I tell them directly about the nature of my issues, all psychiatrists seem to live in their own psychiatric bubble. Must be nice there…

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well times up

Even WORSE is when I’m in the middle of an appointment, and I REALIZE the absurdity of what is happening. I want to explode with rage and hurl various sized fruits at the ignorant person in front of me. Problem is, I never remember to bring the fruit with me.

so anxiety

fascinating

why yes i am

wow congrats

thank you darling

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Still, the most difficult part of all of these psychiatric visits is when I have to think critically about myself and answer endless complicated questions.

How do you feel? How are you feeling? Describe that process? Can you give me an example of a time when your SPD did this or that and why it made you behave in this or that manner? The severity of anxiety and depression dissociative tendencies increases or decreases when compounded with the negative associations of certain stimuli with which you are negatively associated on the grounds ohfds  hfds hjbdnjcfnd sun43uhu nfjdnsf

My brain, now reduced to a mushy potato, replies:

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When it’s all over, I have an overwhelming urge to fill a void in my delicate psyche (created by psychiatrists poking at it too much). There is only one remedy for this kind of destruction:

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xo kelly

p.s. Please send all cake to me, I will stuff it into my psyche void. Thank you.