The Power of Fandom

I haven’t written in a long time.  Like most things that I should continue to do while suffering from a depressive episode, this fell to the way side as I was trying desperately to get through each day without giving up.  I found myself fighting new symptoms, new issues I hadn’t before.

My depression always manifested as exhaustion, listlessness, no motivation, a desire to avoid all unnecessary humane contact.  I would have shitty sleep, and I would eat like crap, but never enough.  Now I found myself with no appetite, nauseous most of the time, vomiting during the worst parts.  Loosing weight, muscle ton, what little fat I have on my slim body.  Biggest sign I was getting to thin, I dropped two cup sizes in my bras.  I have always had large breasts compared to by body size, now they are proportional, my breasts haven’t been this small since I was in high school.

The most upsetting new symptom, I wanted to hurt myself.  Not suicide, I didn’t have a desire to die, I had a desire to experience pain.  I wanted to feel something physical, because I know how to deal with physical pain, and I can tolerate a ridiculous amount of it.  My wings are an example of that, my ability to endure pain.  Self harm desires usually manifest out of a desire to feel something other than the emotional pain that one is experiencing, I can relate to that.  I would find myself getting angry with little provocation, and with that came a desire to hurt myself.

I was able to resist this, mostly, until recently when I took it out on my right thigh, I have bruises there, and every time I bump into something and feel it I am reminded of my failures.  My inability to control my anger, my self loathing, my self hatred in that moment.

My downward spiral had been going on for several months, and finally resulted in a breakdown, in downtown Minneapolis (I like to have public breakdowns, to make other people uncomfortable around me.)  On the phone with my mother, I finally realized how badly I needed help.  With a quick call to my social worker, the first step was made.  I was on the path to getting better again.

It takes just as long to get better as it did to get sick, or worse.  Depression is sneaky, and I found myself deep before I even really could acknowledge what it was. Now the fight back begins, and this past weekend I found a source of energy and power to fight for happiness again through a powerful group, the Supernatural fandom.

For the first time a Supernatural convention came to Minneapolis, and living so close to the place it was being held, I had to go.

Background first.

I discovered Supernatural two years ago, after I had taken the bar exam and was awaiting my results, I was unemployed, living on my sisters floor (thank god for family) and finding it difficult to get through the day.  I did my best, but found that I enjoyed sitting around and watching TV.  At the advice of my then 11 year old niece, I started watching a show about two brothers, who hunted monsters.  They were very pretty brothers by the way.  Feast upon their beauty!!!

Jensen Ackles, on the left, and Jarad Padalecki on the right at Upfronts for the CWs Supernatural Season 10.

It turns out though, that the story resonated with me in a way I could never have expected.  The gentlemen on the left, one Jensen Ackles, plays Dean Winchester, and I found myself relating to his self sacrafice, his self worth issues, and his serious issues.  I was hooked.

As I progressed through all 9 seasons at the time, I found myself connecting to the show on a level I hadn’t experienced before.  So I did what all fans do, I went online, and I found the Supernatural Fandom.  I found my family.

I could write numerous blog posts about the power of this Fandom, instead I will guide you to those that do it much better. https://fangasmthebook.wordpress.com/ These women have literally written books about the Supernatural Fandom, the power behind it, the community that it created, both online and in the real world.  All of the things that have grown from it.

The three lead actors, Jensen Ackles, Misha Collins and Jarad Padalecki, have taken this incredibly strong fandom and turned our numbers into a force for good.  I suggest you check out the charity work all three have done.  Also, Misha is also adorable.

Misha Collins just being an angle, with the most amazing blue eyes nature has ever created.

Again, I could write a book on how much this show, and the interaction these men have with their fans, have done for me.  I will focus on one specific thing.

Jarad Padalecki has been open about his battle and struggle with depression and anxiety.  Check out his Twitter account and you can see him talking about, google him and you can read him talking about it.  He took his struggle, and decided to be open and honest and create a campaign, Always Keep Fighting.  He has launched t-shirt campaigns to raise money for organizations that support mental health issues and treatment.  His campaigns launched at the front end of my tail spin back into serious depression.  I bought one of his shirts, supporting a cause I believe in, but mostly I was so grateful that someone that had the ears of so many people, took the time to be vulnerable and honest about a very really issue for so many of us.  His strength inspires me.

Now, Minneapolis Con (Minncon for the uninitiated) was this past weekend.  I was surrounded by all of these fans, all of these people that shared a passion for an amazing tv show.  Even though I had gone alone, I was not in doubt that I would soon make friends, and I did, within the first 10 minutes of sitting down.

Now my friends and family tolerate and humor my effusive discussions and excitement about Supernatural.  They are very kind when it comes to my freaking out about stuff.  One might say they are even supportive.  Hell even my therapist has told me if it makes me happy I should watch as much as I can without interfering with my life.

What made this weekend so amazing though, and so important to me at this moment in my life, was the fans that stood up during a panel, and talked so openly about their own struggles with mental health issues.  How the campaign and Jarad’s honesty about his own struggles helped pull them back from a dark place.  As I sat there and listened to them say this, I found myself crying, wanting to completely break down.  I was not alone, I was not the only one that drew strength from a strangers fight.  I was not the only one that turned to this fandom as a reason to live, as a source of purpose and joy.  This wasn’t a dirty little secret here, this wasn’t something that I had to tone down.  I was allowed to be completely open and honest with my love of this show, these people, and how they have helped me through some of the darkest times of my life since Afghanistan. I had found my Supernatural Family.

At one point I got on stage during a break, people were given the opportunity to talk about their favorite episodes and why.  I got on this stage and talked about the two episodes that resonated the most with me.  The ones where Dean broke down, and talked about how Hell had affected him (literally, he was literally in hell) and how the fighting in Purgatory was simple (again, literally in purgatory.)  I talked about how his reactions, his emotions reminded me so much of how I felt coming home from Afghanistan, coming home from war.  People shouted out, “Thank you for your service” and for the first time, I didn’t feel like I needed to make a joke.  I didn’t feel embarrassed, I felt embraced.  I felt loved in a genuine way.  That is what this fandom has done for me.

I got a photo op with Jared, Jensen and Misha.  I was wearing my Always Keep Fighting shirt, and had spent a lot of time making sure I didn’t look like death warmed over.  I had slept poorly the night before, emotionally exhausted but unable to sleep.  As I walked up to them, Jared complimented me on my shirt, I told them I wanted a sandwich picture, and I was embraced by these three amazing men.  The entire encounter lasted about 20 seconds, they are very efficient.

This is the most amazing sandwich I will ever be a part of.

This weekend did not cure me.  I wasn’t suddenly happy and carefree again.  I am in the midst of medication adjustments, therapy, multiple appointments with MDs trying to figure out why I feel so sick all the time.  I am just at the beginning of my fight to get back to my normal.  It will take time, it always does.  I am going to have supremely bad days in the process.  Monday is an example of that, and my thigh is physical proof.  But this weekend was a reprieve.  It was a break from the pain and depression I have been fighting for the past three months.  It was a much needed break.

Support and love comes from unexpected places.  Those that were brave enough to speak of their struggles in an auditorium full of strangers have no idea how much their strength impacted me.  They have no idea that their courage has made me stronger, has given me this extra boost to keep fighting.  They have no idea how powerful their strength is, but I have a feeling they know how powerful our Fandom is.  That they gather the same strength and support from millions of men and women who could talk for hours about this amazing show, and these amazing people.

Family don’t end with blood, and I have a huge Supernatural Family.

I am not strong, but my mask is.

I haven’t written in a while.  I have been very busy, in both a good way and a bad way.  Running around with friends, weekends full of adventures, running and training for several upcoming road races (I am not fast, I am stubborn.)  New group therapy through the VA, which is proving helpful in some spots, but not so helpful for others.  Basically, I have been living my life.

The problem with living ones life though is that often times it is not what we want.

I love meeting new people, I love learning about them, talking to them, figuring them out.  I am a very extroverted introvert sometimes.  My “public” persona however is much different from how I feel a good chunk of the time.  I always try to smile, be upbeat, positive and welcoming.  Who knows how well I actually do while attempting this.  This is the persona that people get to know, and slowly if we stay in each others lives, I let them see the smaller, weaker me.

This can backfire however in the dating world I have noticed.  I present myself as confident, strong, self assured, and certain of where I am proceeding in my life.  For some people this is an instant attraction or a repellant.  I have been described by some as bad ass, amazing, awesome (not trying to brag, just repeating) and I then feel like I have to constantly live up to their descriptions.

On average these compliments, while oftentimes making me uncomfortable, are welcome because I see them for what they are.  Lately however I have been feeling anything but strong. I have been feeling like I am broken, and the glue I have been using to keep myself together for the past several months has stopped working.

Constantly presenting myself as my ideal, what I want the world to see, means that when I fail at maintaining this facade it devastates me, and makes me spiral down into a pit.  When I attempt to do things that people see as easy, normal, and expected of someone like me (socially that is) and I fail at it, I feel farther and farther away from my generation.

Friday I went to a Minnesota Twins game with some friends to celebrate a birthday.  Large crowds and noises cause me some anxiety, but in a controlled environment like a professional sporting event I can ease myself down, knowing that there are hundreds of people around to keep us safe and happy.  I had a couple of drinks, ate some overpriced ball field food, and enjoyed myself with these friends.

My anxiety was under control.  Friday night home games they have fireworks after the game, and since the Twins won I think it was more spectacular.  The fireworks, so close to mortars and explosions, started to ramp my anxiety back up.  We went to a packed bar, where I went to look for another friend.  We met up, hung out for a bit, and I left with him and his friends to hit the next bar.

Now I haven’t been bar hopping since college, I am that awesome.  For those interested, I am 31.  But I was enjoying myself, these new friends I had met were nice, we got along, and I felt safe.  So despite the early warning signs that I was putting myself in a position that I found stressful and dangerous for myself, I kept drinking and enjoying the company of nice people.

By the third bar I was drunk, not black out, not out of control, I could still make decisions.  This bar was packed, crushing up against each other packed, or that is how it felt.  One of the guys took me onto the dance floor, and about 5 minutes later I finally felt the clawing panic manifest itself.  I dropped my beer and ran outside.

Minneapolis does not have the most happening downtown night life, nothing like Chicago or New York, but we play a decent game.  I found a corner, sat down and the panic swallowed me up.  I was coherent enough to call a friend, one who I knew could calm me down and get me somewhere safe.  She did, she was amazing.  She, along with the help of a stranger who relayed my location to her, got me an Uber to take me home.  There was also another women that knelt down and talked to me, ultimately getting me to the car and making sure I was safe.  I cannot fully convey my gratefulness for the strangers, and of course for my friend Andrea.  There was no judgement in very voice while she talked me through the worst of my panic attack.  Only love and understanding.

Upon my return home I did what any drunk, almost incapacitated person would do, I took my dogs out to pee.

Next, I called my sister and left an unintelligible voicemail.

Then, what all good combat medics do, I started my own IV.  I knew I would be hurting in the morning, and I knew this was my best bet at mitigating it.

Now, I did somethings at this point that I am not proud of.  I called my mom, who luckily was awake, but I hung up on her when my sister called back.  I was so ashamed and embarassed by my behavior and reactions, that I ended up turning my phone off, and lying on the floor crying, precious saline dripping (actually flowing quite quickly) into my veins.  It was only after about 20 minutes that I realized that I had hung up on my mother, and she was probably worried.  I called her back, turns out she was moments away from calling the Minneapolis police so they could do a wellness check on me.  I have to admit, I could have used one if I hadn’t called my mom back.

I wasn’t suicidal, I have been lucky in that I have never felt the urge to take my own life.  I consider that a gift.  I do however often have the urge to inflict pain on myself, something to bring me back to reality.  I want to hurt physically when I cannot handle the emotional pain.  I had the strong desire to punch one of our brick walls, breaking my hand, just to feel something.  I didn’t.

I got off the phone with my mom, exchanged some texts with my sister who wisely advised me to drink some water, cuddle with our dogs, and watch some Supernatural.  This is what I did.

I woke up the next morning feeling not hungover, thank you saline!  I did however have a very nice black eye.  I don’t remember what happened to get that injury, and my best bet is that I caught an elbow running out of the bar.

Everyone experiences shame, and regret, and anger at their actions at some point in their life.  I am incredibly ashamed of how I reacted to the situation.  I am angry that I cannot go out and enjoy drinking with friends without the incredibly real fear of completely freaking out and getting hurt, or hurting others.  I do not feel regret over this though.

Prior to all of this happening the guy friend I specifically went to meet had been singing my praise, about how awesome I was, how I was a combat medic, how cool and hardcore.  This made my episode feel so much worse.  Clearly, I am not the person he sees me as.

It would be very easy for me to have a pity party, and let me tell you, I am having one.  Saturday was pathetic, Sunday and Monday were tolerable, today I lost it at work.

There was an event I was going to go to tonight, discussing an amazing book about women in combat.  There were some people coming though that I could not face with a black eye.  I was so embarrassed, and I just could not remove the thought from my head that they were going to spend the whole time judging who I was, and how I acted.  I left the office in tears, almost hysterical again, when I thought of how pathetic I would appear to these people.

Now, I have very little to no evidence that they would have been anything but concerned and supportive.  The brain is a powerful thing, it can make you believe anything in the face of actual evidence. So I skipped the event, spent an hour crying in a downtown park, and just continued my pathetic streak.

So what have I learned?

Nothing, yet.  Too close to the incident. Still to ashamed of what happened, no matter how bad ass people tell me my black eye is.

I am also incredibly disappointed in myself.  I feel as if I am not sure who the real me is.  The person I project to those around me?  Probably to a degree.  I know I am always confident in my medic skills, skills as a soldier, I am a compassionate and caring person.  I am smart, in shape, surrounded by people who love me.  I am to a degree that person everyone gets to meet right away.

I am also a broken shell of a person.  Someone that wakes up nightly covered in sweat, panting in fear.  I am so petrified of being hurt, physically and emotionally, that I cancel most of the dates I arrange, because it is easier than taking the chance. Loud noises kill me, screaming children will make me shut down for hours, if not a whole day.  I am medicated and have been in therapy on and off for almost 3 years.  The men I am interested in, the men I want to date and get to know, and hopefully one day fall in love, are also the men I don’t talk to or go on dates with because I am 99.95% certain that when they learn about the weaker part of me, will run, or worse pity me.

Now, I know that there are no such things as absolutes, so I know I do not have to be either my super strong mask, or my weaker shattered self.  I know that I am a combination of those two, and many more, aspects of my personality.  I know I am not alone in these feelings, and fears, and emotional pain.  That brings a great comfort to me, because just knowing you are not alone can help get rid of so much despair.

I want to find a partner (romantic, I have a really good number of close friends) who I can be my vulnerable, broken self it.  I am terrified that my mask is all they want to see, and when they see the deeper, more broken me, they run away.  If I am honest with myself I know that this is a burden.  PTSD, depression, anxiety, long term health effects of war, these are not things that should be handled lightly, and I would never want to ask someone to help me take them on.  I would never want to burden another human being with these issues.

And maybe that is the root, and basis of my mask.  It is a protective presentation, not just for me, but its my way of protecting those around me from having to deal with everything I have become saddled with.

To be honest, I am going to protect myself, and those who want to be with me, right into a lifetime of loneliness.  I just wish I had the courage, the skills, and the strength to stop this path.

My New Normal

It has been three years since I left for Afghanistan.  Much has happened in those three years.  I have deployed, safely come home, finished law school, taken and passed the bar exam, and even had a job.  I have been waiting to feel “normal” for the past two years.  Several weeks ago, I realized that I probably am never going to achieve “normal” again. 

I dislike the concept of “normal.”  You can tell this by my use of quotation marks around the word.  This is how one denotes their dislike of the accepted definition of word.  I feel the use of the word puts a large amount of societal pressure to conform, and I find that makes life very boring.  Death to Normalcy.  

More recently though I feel as if I have been failing at reintegration.  The idea of reintegration is that when we return from War, we are transitioned from the stress and reality of a combat situation to that simple, benign life of the civilian again.  For the National Guard there are entire programs, three phases, that help us and our families smoothly transition from War to Peace.  I have successfully completed this process twice.  Let me tell you, I am totally reintegrated back into society.  

There are numerous non-profits organizations that are also dedicated to helping Veterans transition from military to civilian life.  I am a member of several of them.  Most notably is Team RWB.  You can read all about this amazing organization in the link.  I have connected strongly with this one in particular because of its focus on physical activities and exercise to reconnect us to our communities.  It is trying to do good things.  

Back to me failing though.  I knew that the person that left three years ago would not be the same person that returned, whenever that time frame was.  I knew, it was a fact I had accepted.  I was hoping I would be a different person, it is why I wanted to go so badly.  I wanted the pressure, the challenge, and the change.  I wanted the chance to have been in both wars.  I knew what I was getting into.  So I didn’t expect to come home and slide back into my old life.  I didn’t expect to be able to reconnect with my friends and family and go back to the Shannon prior to Afghanistan.  

I did not anticipate the continuous struggle though. 

In the media, and in our lives, we have heard a lot about Veterans coming home with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Moral Injuries, and a host of other mental health issues.  It surrounds us.  There are multiple narratives that I have heard, we are either broken irreparably, or we need treatment, support and understanding and we can be cured.  I am finding it more nuanced than that.  

I came home and reintegrated, I had some adjustment issues.  Heightened vigilance, anxiety in crowds, sleeping issues, difficulty reconnecting with close friends.  Everything I had experienced coming home from Iraq.  That I was prepared for.  I was even prepared for the depression, and eventual diagnosis of PTSD.  I was prepared for the reality of medication, and intense Prolonged Exposure Therapy, and the possible need for follow ups.  Once I went through it all, I was ready to get back to normal.  I was ready to resume my life and move on.

Now I want to highlight and emphasize that I am speaking for myself.  My experiences, and ideas, my voice.  I do not want people to think I am speaking for all Veterans, all Female Veterans, all Combat Medics.  This is me, my new normal. 

This is a fight that I am fairly certain may never end. 

I have accepted and gotten used to operating on about 5 hours of sleep a night, with the help of sleeping medication.  I have gotten used to and accepted the three or four nights a week I wake up completely drenched in sweat.  Not just sweaty, soaked through.  I am also glad I invested in a waterproof mattress protector.  I originally thought I was buying it because my dog likes to pee on my bed when he is mad at me, he hasn’t peed once, I have sweat through my sheets a couple of dozen times.  I understand that a loud room, or a group of people in a room that is too small for them (my workplace sadly) is going to cause me anxiety, heighten my vigilance, and make the rest of the day stressful and upsetting.  I know that there is a good chance I will cancel a first date at the last minute because the fear of meeting someone new overwhelms me.  I am aware of these things, so I can recognize them and fight to overcome what I can. 

Knowing these things, and being logically aware of them, does little to protect me from the practical realities of what this means.  My reality is that despite all of this knowledge, quality medication and mental health support at my local VA, there are days, or weeks, where I still feel like I am drowning, on dry land, surrounded by people yet still completely alone. 

It is my new normal. 

The friends I have made since I have returned, they are invaluable because they only know me as I am now.  They don’t know who I was before, so there are no expectations or misunderstandings.  I do not have to try and be who I was before, I can just be me, and they love me for it.  The friends I had before I left, they will read this and reach out and tell me that I don’t have to pretend or try to act like I did before I left.  They will mean it, they will genuinely mean it.  And I will love them for it.  The reality is that most of the time I feel as if I am interacting with strangers.  We all changed between when I left and when I came back.  It is the reality of the passage of time.  It still hurts. 

It hurts to realize that I will always be fighting to stay above water, it hurts to realize that no matter how hard I work I will still have days when I want to come home, lock myself in my room with a bottle of booze, and drink until I cannot remember anything.  Where I will be crying myself to sleep, in an empty apartment, feeling as lost and helpless as I did before I got help.  The difference is that I know not to drink those nights, or to limit myself to a small glass of wine.  I will wake up tomorrow and start my day like my night didn’t end in hysterics and tears. 

I won’t dwell and wallow in the pain, but every once in a while it does overwhelm me.  Tonight is one of those nights. 

This is my new normal, and I wouldn’t change it for the world. 

Mission in Afghanistan

 

Alone in a Room Full of People

I went to a New Years Eve party with a friend from law school, her husband, and my sister.  I didn’t know anybody outside of the small group I went with.  I am not a shy person, I have no problem with people I don’t know and talking to them.  Add a little alcohol and I am usually quite good in social situations.  I was the designated driver (Yay safety and responsibility) but sobriety doesn’t affect my ability to socialize, just ask my coworkers.  What affects my socializing ability more than anything else, is the massive feeling of disconnect I have around the vast majority of my generation.  I cannot relate to the rest of the world, and I do not have the energy or the desire to try and explain to people why.

It is referred to as The Civilian-Military Divide and it has been growing wider every day during the course of our two wars.  A good article on it was featured as a cover story in Time magazine, An Army Apart: The Widening Military-Civilian Gap.  

I should give a disclaimer before I get into the meat of my little discussion here, these are all my opinions, views and experiences.  I am not trying to speak broadly for the military, or my fellow combat veterans.  I am speaking for me, about me, and how I feel.

One of my favorite things about being the designated sober person at a party, is watching all the non-sober people progressively getting louder, rowdier and more excited by everything.  I enjoy watching people, because people are fascinating.  I can be having a good time without talking, interacting, or doing anything other than sitting and watching.  The problem with this is that people around me are convinced that I am not having a good time, I blame my resting bitch face for that, and they try to engage me.  I appreciate it, I do, but they end up ruining my good time by introducing actual human interaction.  The more intoxicated people become, the more they insist on me talking, and moving around, and saying hi to people I don’t know, and will not meet again after this one night.  I let them, it is easier then fighting them.

During this particular new years party I was sitting in front of a fire, a lovely fire, listening to the music and enjoying everyone else happiness and unbridled joy at the welcoming of a new year, a fresh start.  Two people next to me were talking about upcoming events in their lives.  A young man, I say young because I felt older than 99% of the house, was talking about how he was going to attend a 3 day Navy Seal style training camp.  I am not sure if this is the one he was referring too, but this gives a good overview of the general concept.  Now I respect the Navy Seals to a degree I cannot fully articulate, their mental toughness is to be admired by all.  3 days of training does not, I repeat does not, give you any fucking clue what it is like.  I have no idea what it is like, I would never presume to be able to speak as if I did.  This mans perspective obviously is different, and the more he talked the more I wanted to body slam him to the ground and describe to him how wrong he was.  Since I am not writing this from a jail cell, obviously that didn’t happen.

The gentlemen he was talking to, an older guy who probably was a teenager during Vietnam, or a younger kid, but definitely not draft age during the War, then started to talk about how he “totally understands the mental component” because when he was pledging a fraternity (my head almost exploded at this point, and I am was glad I was sober) he once had to stand for 3 hours straight.  3 hours of standing, oh deal Lord how did you recover from that.  I should bow down to your supreme mental toughness you warrior you.

This is my experience with the civilian-military divide.  The house was decent sized, there were a good number of people there, and I had not felt so much like the 1% then I did that night.  I had experienced something that no one in that house could ever relate too, I had done things that no one could ever relate too, I was a completely different type of person.

My time in the military has served me incredibly well.  My training, experience and support structure has enabled me to get through some of the most difficult things in my civilian life.  Compared to everything I had to deal with in Iraq, my first year of law school, notoriously stressful and difficult, was so similar to my undergraduate time that I had to refrain from asking people why they were so stressed out.  After treating combat casualties in Afghanistan, the Bar Exam was 2 days of very structured time, which I appreciated.  Working long hours, on minimal sleep, is something I can do.  Physical endurance I can achieve through pure mental determination.  I can also identify all of the exits and escape routes in any room or building I am in quite quickly.  I am proud of my service, I am grateful for the person the military has helped me become.  I would never trade any of it.  Not the poor sleep, PTSD, anger issues, respiratory issues, joint and back pain, the list could go on.  For me, it was worth it.

I am now, permanently disconnected from those that I have served.  I was a different person after Iraq, and I am a much different person after Afghanistan, and I can see it in my friends eyes when I do or say something that puts them off.  I may not know what they are thinking exactly, but I can see the change in their eyes and behavior around me.  They don’t know the new me, the changed me, the slightly more broken (to a degree shattered) Shannon that came home 2 years ago.  They don’t know what to do.  God love them, they try.

So as I sat, in this house full of strangers, surrounded by their optimism and their love for each other, I felt significantly more alone than I had in months.  It wasn’t because I was being isolated, or people were ignoring me, or I wasn’t having fun.  It was because when you belong to such a small minority, such a tiny population, you will always feel alone.  No matter how inclusive those around you try to be, you will feel alone.  I feel alone.  I always feel alone.  Surrounded by love and compassion, support and attempted understanding, I am alone in a room full of people.