Should I consider myself suffering, or, should I consider myself a survivor?

I’ve been battling mental illness since I was 11 years old. I’m 25. So 14 years, and my symptoms have intensified as I aged. However, I still RECOVER!

It’s during the episodes of depression, or the aftermath of mania that I feel victimized to an unstable brain. However, when I’m stable it’s when I realize I’m a survivor.

I’m 25 and a junior in college, I told my therapist basically, that I’m a loser;  because my friends are traveling the world, I’m not; my friends are getting married having families, I’m not. So then I tell myself “I must be less THAN them”

It’s when I doubt my journey, and the recoveries I’ve made, the clinical progress I’ve made; that  I subject myself to suffering. Truth is, I recover a lot faster than I did during my teens. My hospitalizations are fewer, and  I’ve established more community relationships and friendships than before. So, no, I’m not suffering. I’m LIVING!

We have to give credit where it’s due.

I have a 14-year-old cousin who I consider a little brother, and I’ve helped raised him. Going to school events, basketball games and more; cooking adventures, museum trips and more… I did that while I was sick and well. I poured into another human beings life and thought outside myself. I put another person first, while I was sick and while I was well. I’m a survivor! I’m a mentor, I am a friend.

Sometimes when depressed, I write my best blogs and now have readers from all over the world.

I think of AA and NA meetings, where you introduce yourself stating, “Hi, I’m Domenia and a cutter or addicts (whatever it may be) and then I wonder when will I stop subjecting myself to my past, and create a new identity. I don’t believe once an addict always an addict. Once a cutter always a cutter. I think once you put down that needle, drink or scissors, you’re more than your addiction.  You’re a child of God and a survivor. We struggle, urges are there, but when you think of yourself as apart of a deity, a child of a God, and a part of something bigger than yourself, you then realize you’re more than your addiction, more than a mental or physical illness and more than your mistakes.

Once you accept the love from God/Universe/Allah (whoever you believe in) you have accepted the calling that your “higher power” has bestowed upon you.

I’m apart of many groups on facebook, filled with people who vent, and are ever so quick to accept their illness to the extent that they forget the other ingredients to their personality and identity.

I’m a writer (with poor grammar 🙂 ) I’m a mentor, I’m a student, I’m a friend to someone, a mother or father, I’m an artist, I’m a singer…We need to find the good gifts that were given to us and enhance them so that they consume us positively and we live out our “true potential”

Yes, I have a bipolar disorder and psychosis and ADD. Yes! I’m not going to lie to myself. Yes, I struggle. Yes, sometimes I need to admit to the hospital. Yes, I need medication to stay leveled. But this is 25% of me, maybe less. I’m 75% more! And this is what we need to remind ourselves. It takes practice but with every down, there is an up, we just need to realize it.

We can do it!

I judged myself for not being done with college and finding a stable job. However, I didn’t realize that I’m still in college, I haven’t quit. I still have friendships, so with every depressive thought, I fight that illusion with the truth. Jill Griffin, says “feelings are not facts” and that’s like a holy scripture in my world. What I feel isn’t always true.

Some of us are afraid of being free, afraid of stability, and are complacent and we complain. Most of us think that the solution to our mental illness will be in a pill. However, it’s not always true. Pills help, but there is work we must do; there is a degree of self-actualization that needs to be discovered.

My grandma always told me, from the day you’re born, and the day you die, aren’t the most important two dates, it’s what you did in between the start of your life, and the end of your life that speaks volumes.

If I don’t graduate until I’m 30, then at least I graduated. If I don’t get married or have kids, it’s ok! If I don’t have kids, it’s okay. Because I have a little brother who needs my support, and I’ll be there. There are other kids I can mentor. There are many ways you can give back to life, without a fancy degree and title. Lets, think outside of our capitalist society, think outside this political dogma, think outside your perceived limitations.

And Live your truth!

Hi, I’m Domenia Dickey, and I have bipolar disorder and psychosis. However, I am not bipolar!

Dear Gramma,

I never told you how proud of you I am. Not only did you raise 8 girls and 4 boys you raised multiple grandchildren, like me. With every year, you aged, your skinned glowed even more, and the only thing that aged on you were your hands. I’ll miss how when I walk into your house you would yell “hey”. I’ll miss how you would call Auntie Estelle in your southern voice “Estelle, have you seen my visen? Estelle: “Ma!” You were the funniest grandma ever. You came to hear me sing solo at a fashion show, 8th-grade graduation, kindergarten graduation and choir events. You came to my first program, and I got to praise Jesus with you in a dance.

I walked into your house today, and I didn’t smell food. I didn’t. No pork chops, fried chicken, no, salmon in the oven, grits on the stove, neck bones and rice, nothing. But I could still feel you there. I saw your pictures, in your room. I took a deep breath before I entered and fell on your bed. I told myself not to cry. If I could take your bedroom with me, I would have. I saw your bible on the stool. I hugged your many bears your grandchildren have gotten you over the years. In a still small voice, I said “Hey Gramma” and tear rolled down my eye, because I knew I wouldn’t hear you say “Hey Mimi”

I remember when you were sick in 2006/2007 and you almost died. I went into your room, it was just me and you. You cried on my shoulder, I was finally able to hold you. I told you “you can’t do this, don’t cry because when you cry, I cry, and then we are both no good” the next thing you said was “what’s going to happen to my children, without me here, who will keep them together”. I didn’t know what to say. I never told anyone you said this because you told me to keep it secret. You were the glue to this family. You held Thanksgiving dinner, prayer sessions, church services in the living room and Christmas dinner, you bought all of us dresses when we were younger for Easter. All of us! You were the glue, and now you’re gone. I’m not sure what is going to happen to us.

I remember you and me talking and you’d say “I pray my children to get it together before Jesus returns” You loved your children. They way you nursed uncle Fred back to health and made sure he was sober. I loved hearing him call you “mama” it was like a child calling for his protector. You hugged him when he was in the hospital, you held his head, and said “son, it will be ok, mama’s here” I cried when I got home because I never had my mom say that to me.

I never had my mom say with her heart say “she loved me”. My mom doesn’t hold me. She doesn’t hug me. She doesn’t call me. She doesn’t say I love you when she hangs up the phone. I only got that from you. I got the hugs from you. You were the mom I needed in a way. I want you back. I’m hungry. I go to bed hungry. I eat from a food bank.  I slept in a shelter with drug addicts. I slept on the street. I’m eating foods I’m allergic to, because that’s all I can afford, and it’s killing my insides. Your daughters, my aunts don’t call me, they don’t reach out to me. You sons don’t answer the phone. I don’t see my cousins.

I’m annoying. I know. I talk too much, I know. I’m different, I know. I’m mentally ill, I know. On holidays when I see the boys get hugged, or families together, my mom and brother wasn’t there. I felt alone. I felt forgotten. I feel unloved. The only one in the family I felt that loved me was Charles, Auntie Stell and you. Now your gone, I get no love. It feels like I have no family and my heart is breaking.

I used to ask you as a child, why my mom doesn’t love me? why does my mom put men before me? what did I do wrong not to deserve love? I cried to you. You held my head. I remember one Christmas my mom didn’t show up, and you prayed over my head while I cried. You were my mom at that moment. You said, your words were “Mimi, grandma is sorry. I don’t know what makes Brenda do this. I don’t. God sees it though. I’m here though. I’m here. I need you to pray so your heart does not turn hard. Then you said, I know it hurts. Baby I do.”

Gramma, you did more than feeding me. You protected me. I miss you so much. I’m grateful that you felt my pain and was there for me. I’m hungry grandma. I don’t know when I’ll eat again. My programs pays my rent. I don’t have a job. My adopted mom and mentor have been helping me out a lot. My mom Caroline and mentor Jenn have been helping me and listening to me cry, and when they can, they feed me. I wish you could have gotten to know them. Matter of fact, you’re the reason I know Jenn. You allowed me to go to YALE HIV Course, and to eat dinner with her. You let me hang with her despite what DCF said. Thank you gramma. Thank you so much.

If I could have taken cancer away and died for you I would have. I’m glad you didn’t suffer long. When you were dying and we talked, I apologized. because I wasn’t the best grandchild. I was disrespectful and hurtful. I was hurting though and wanted someone to hear me, and hurt too. You said ” you don’t need to apologize” and that you understood, and you said, “I should have apologized.” But, “what has happened has happened, and you need to know grandma loves you.” you turned your head to the left, a tear ran down your eye, and you said “grandma loves you” I believe you knew it would be along time until I heard those words again from someone.

One thing I knew from my grandma, was that in spite of everything, “grandma loves you”. I say this to myself daily. I listen to your video of you singing “Somebody here” I think about how you prayed and called out to God in your room. I saw your tears and how happy you were when you talked about Jesus. You lived your true potential. You feed the state of CT and students at MCLA. Cooking was your ministry, the holy spirit moved through your cooking, and peoples souls were healed and lives were changed through the God in you by your cooking.

Your skin glowed 100% until the end and even after. The wrinkles on your hands were a testimony to the children and grandchildren you raised, battles you fought, nights you cried, and prayers you prayed; babies you held, meals you cooked and an illness you fought. Cancer didn’t kill you, your spirit was too strong, your mind was too sharp, cancer thought it had you but God wanted you home, so before it could do any damage, you went to your true home.

Love you, I Miss you. Watch over me! Shine like a star. Finally, have that talk with Jesus. Rest in him. Praise him in a dance in a new body without pains. Breathe fresh air. You’re home.

See you, soon, but hopefully not before I can earn my wrinkles too.

Your granddaughter/son

Domenia Lizshate Sheri Dickey “Mimi”