by Band Back Together | Jun 27, 2018 | Abuse, Family, Health, Loss, Mental Health |
Welcome to The Band Back Together Project, a nonprofit group blog that aims to shine a light in the darkness. We try to reduce the stigma associated with mental illness, trauma, loss, grief, and tragedy through the power of the written words.
You’ll notice that stories are grouped by category and searchable from the sidebar box and along the top. Or, if you’d prefer, you may read them all. We even have an RSS Feed.
What’s more, we’d love to hear your stories, too. All of them. Everyone is welcome, nay encouraged to share their story with us. Everybody has a story, of course, and we’ve made sure that you’re in a safe place to share it. No story is too small, no problem too insignificant. These are your words, your problems, and they matter to you – and they matter to us, too.
All are, as always, welcome.
You’ll notice that most stories have several resource pages associated with them. We’re proud to share that we have over 500 resource pages to help you grow, learn, and heal. This is the library, after all, and all libraries have a glossy set of encyclopedias. I’m the head librarian, if we haven’t met before, and I make sure our library runs smoothly.
We welcome you with open arms and hope you’ll find our cozy little library comfortable. The lights are dim and soothing, which should help you relax a little. They’re the kind that make everyone look Soap Opera amazing, even if your face is tear-stained and puffy right now. It doesn’t matter if you’re wearing ancient, frayed sweatpants and a stained t-shirt, because in here, you look like a beautiful soap opera star. Besides, even if you look like you got run over with a steamroller, we’d love you anyway.
It really is like old library in here, isn’t it? The decor is so charming; all old polished mahogany wood and rich burgundies and tapestries and overstuffed chairs. The candlelit wall sconces make me feel like I’m in some old Agatha Christie novel or stepped back in time, don’t you agree?
I’m getting ahead of myself. I apologize. I do that a lot.
Let me formally introduce myself. My name is Becky and with my group of volunteers, we run this library. Your library – it really belongs to you, The Band. We don’t make any claims that the content is all ours and we are not liable for anything you say or do.
So here’s the How To Contribute To Band Back Together guide. It’s really worth a read, but the quick and dirty is this: don’t be a judgmental asshole, we’re not liable for your actions, don’t steal from us, and we’re moderating and editing everything – including comments – here. Why? Because this is a safe place for everyone.
We also have several special places to note in this library. We’ve got The Twitter wing at @bandback2gether, and our Facebook page is nestled in the back, by the gramophone.
By the stereo, there’s our Guidelines for Submissions and How To Contribute for those of you unfamiliar. If you look over there, you’ll see the Operational Committee. Cynthia is making drinks for us – Manhattan’s I believe. Or maybe just a cup of chamomile tea. It’s hard to tell in this light. If I squint, I see Christine organizing the encyclopedia collection while Anne puts something special on the stereo for you.
We all work together behind the scenes to keep this place running smoothly for you.
Kathy and Nathan have fixed the place up and will be down shortly to sit with us too. We can’t wait to hear your stories. We’re all here for each other. You may be wondering where you are. This is a place for you to share your stories, slay your dragons, celebrate your victories, and support those who need your help.
This is the place where we have gotten the Band Back Together. We can’t fix your new world order or make things go back to the way they were before, but we can remind you that we are none of us alone.
So please, take a look around. As one small blog in a sea of millions, we are small, but together, we can do amazing things, if we can Band Back Together.
We are all of us connected.
We are none of us alone.
*Due to the sensitive nature of the site, all comments and submissions are subject to moderation and/or editing.
by Band Back Together | Oct 22, 2017 | Anxiety, Anxiety Disorders, Cancer and Neoplasia, Caregiver, Chronic Illness, Fear, How To Cope With Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, How To Help A Friend With Chronic Illness, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Stress, Trauma |
Four years. Four years later. And still I struggle. Not every day. But enough.
The reminders that won’t let me forget.
Seeing my daughter doing the things my son should have been doing four years ago. Climbing, running, not needing to hold the walls to walk down the hallway as he did at the end.
The surgical scar on the back of my son’s neck echoed in the scar on my soul.
The checkups, though now yearly, renew my fears… what if…
When does this end? When do I get closure?
When it’s been five years since the tumor was successfully removed? When my son gets to go to prom like the diagnosing neurologist essentially promised us? Or goes to college? Gets his first job? Gets married? Has kids of his own?
Do I get closure? Or is closure bullshit?
Yes, it does get easier. Yes, I’ve gone on with my life. But some days (most days?) I’m not convinced it’ll ever really be over, that the door on this chapter of my life will ever really close. Rather I feel that this chapter is just beginning and it’s a long one.
I try to console myself, thinking it’s okay to feel this way, that it never ends. I can be okay with that. Right?
And yet… And so… this is where I am left… my son is alive and well. Why can’t I let go of the past?
Why won’t it let go of me?
by Band Back Together | Aug 1, 2017 | Addiction Recovery, Anxiety, Anxiety Disorders, Coping With Anxiety Disorders, Coping With Depression, Generalized Anxiety Disorder Resources, How To Help A Loved One Who Self-Injures, Major Depressive Disorder, Self Injury, Self-Destructive Behavior, Shame, Stress, Uncategorized |
Clench my teeth
brief sensation of pain
Wait for it to come
it takes a second
Bringing with it relief
here it comes
Pain flows out
trickling down my arm
In little red rivulets
so warm and wet
I have no problems
That cheery little poem is mine. Oh, it’s from many years ago. Back when I was still living with my parents, in fact. That last line? Is total crap. Yes, the blood brought relief of some feelings, but the guilt and anxiety that was left every time I looked at the scars….yeah, sometimes even THAT was enough of a trigger.
I’ve been pretty up-front about dealing with Postpartum Depression, Generalized Anxiety Disorder and major depressive disorder.
But, to add to the list of things that I don’t talk about, I’m also a cutter.
I probably ought to say “was”…..because I haven’t actually cut myself in years. But you know how some people say that they will always be a recovering alcoholic, and never recovered. It’s like that.
The urge to give in is there. It’s not my first reaction to bad news, anymore, but when I’m at my lowest, or most anxious, I still want to.
There are certain movies that I couldn’t watch all the way through for a long time, like Thirteen or Girl, Interrupted because they make me want to cut myself.
This is a big step for me. Other than my parents, one or two friends from way back then, and my husband and now half-the-freaking-internet, no one knows this. Come to think of it, I don’t know if I bother to tell my therapists. Yes, I know. I’m a horrible patient.
After I decided to stop, which wasn’t until I was pregnant with my first, AND it was totally selfish at first; too many doctor’s exams that required getting naked. I kept waiting to outgrow the feelings. You know, the way I outgrew angsty poetry, and emo-ish music? But I’m still waiting.
Still fighting.
Still coping.
Kinda.
by Band Back Together | May 22, 2017 | Chronic Illness, Coping With Depression, How To Help A Friend With Chronic Illness, Major Depressive Disorder |
My daughter just got home from school and asked me what was wrong. I told her “I don’t feel good” but I can’t really pin down what’s wrong or why I don’t feel good.
Ever since this morning, I’ve been so out of it. Just doing a sink full of dishes seemed like it took a huge effort. I managed to haul the laundry to the laundromat. I plugged earplugs into my Blackberry, which I shoved into my pocket. I wasn’t listening to anything, but I didn’t want anyone to look at me, let alone talk to me.
I feel like this cloud is surrounding me. I can see glimpses of the sun at times, but it doesn’t last. Or it’s like I’m treading water. I’m doing what it takes to survive, but not much more.
The only thing that feels good is if I am alone, wrapped in a blanket or in bed. I go through the motions for my husband and daughter. Mostly because I know they won’t understand. And how do I explain how I feel when I don’t even know myself?
Maybe it’s the depression… maybe I need a different medication. Maybe it’s hormones. My period is due any day now, and I already know my hormones are all kinds of screwed up.
I feel alone when I feel like this. I want to talk to someone, but I don’t know who will understand. Who will “get it”. Who won’t just think it’s all in my head?
In the meantime, I try to move forward. I try to keep going through the motions.
by Band Back Together | Nov 22, 2016 | Breakups, Caregiver, Coping With Depression, Family, Help With Relationships, Major Depressive Disorder, Marriage and Partnership, Marriage Problems, Mental Health, Romantic Relationships |
Sometimes, people on the outside have no idea how to help those with depression.
This is her story:
How do I make you see that being depressed is not something I have control over? How do I make you see that when the darkness is creeping in, I feel alone and I need an anchor?
I can’t just “be happy”. I can’t just change my negative thinking. I can’t just change the fact that I feel like a failure. I need a lifeline.
You are that person for me. You are my rock, my oasis. But that doesn’t mean that the darkness does not creep in. It doesn’t mean the thoughts cease.
It does mean that I will cling harder to you while pushing you away. And I hate that about me. Because I love you. Because I know you deserve better. Because I know in the one year we’ve been together, I have come to trust you more than I have anyone in 16 years. Because we’ve walked through fire together.
But my mind won’t let me see that enough. My mind tells me, “He doesn’t love you.” “He will leave you.” “You will be alone.” And instead of looking into your eyes and hearing you tell me you love me and planning our future together, I listen to the voices. My mind isn’t trying to protect me. My mind has gotten used to the negative thoughts and now thrives on them.
Unfortunately, the voices haven’t always came from my own head. They’ve come from bad relationships. Some that lasted only 10 months, one that lasted almost 6 years. Six years of hell. Six years that left me scarred. Time may heal wounds, but the scars are still visible. As the years have passed by, I have tackled one issue after another that I carry as baggage. But I still have the depression. I still have the anxiety. I still have the fear. And that’s when the darkness begins to creep in. And the cycle begins anew….
I want to be a better person. Not just for you. Not just for my kids. But for me.
But I need your help and your understanding that these walls are not about you, they’re about me.
by Band Back Together | Sep 30, 2016 | Anger, Anxiety, Compassion, Denial, Depression, Emotional Regulation, Faith, Family, Fear, Feelings, Grief, Guilt, Help For Grief And Grieving, How To Cope With Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Self Loathing, Shame |
This is her story:
I’ve been suffering, silently, for going on eight months…I guess. And, I’ve needed and wanted to write about it. But, I’ve been afraid. Mostly, I’ve been afraid of the emotions that come flooding back to me when I think, talk, or picture the experiences that led up to this day.
Actually, I don’t know when it started. But, I finally said something last week to Mr. B and my Momma.
This suffering stems from an accident, on July 19, that involved my 7-year-old son.
Bubs was in a golf cart accident with his grandfather. The 800-pound cart, fell on a 45-pound baby and drug him on concrete for quite a distance. Bubs was air-cared to the local Children’s Hospital. And I, well I was 39 weeks pregnant. And, I fell when I saw him. Literally.
I fell because my son, my first born, and my best friend was trapped. Under a machine. He was covered in blood from “road rash” and he was broken. everywhere. He suffered with a dislocated hip, broken femur, butterfly fractured femur, crush-fracture of his foot, dislocated toes, puncture wounds and road rash all over his body and a removed quadriceps muscle. When I stood from falling, there he was, screaming for help and frantically searching for his mommy. And my heart couldn’t take it. It was broken.
In that instant, I was changed. Forever. I can’t forget the pain of driving to the scene. The soul crushing fear that flooded through my body the way I imagine Hurricane Katrina taking over New Orleans – engulfing your body with no hope or relief in sight. The fear and pain took me to a place that had not existed prior to this accident. And now I can’t seem to find my way out of it.
I still remember the scene like it was a dream. There were people rushing all around me, ambulances screaming to the scene, a helicopter circling overhead, paramedics asking questions…about him…and about me, paramedics taking blood pressure, police officers begging me to go to the hospital. I was swarmed but still felt invisible. All I wanted to do was go back in time. Just 20 minutes earlier. To make this moment disappear. All I could think about was this “never happening” and how it “couldn’t be happening” to us.
I am ashamed to admit…but, I didn’t care about the baby inside of me in that moment. Because the boy who had my heart first was seriously hurt. More serious than I even knew or wanted to know in that moment. More serious than anyone was willing to “tell the pregnant mom.” It was hard for me to consider the unborn child. I “knew” right where she was and I “knew” she was okay. All I knew was I heard words like “internal bleeding”, “head trauma,” “internal damage” and “spinal cord injuries” being thrown around…regarding my baby. MY baby. It was as if I was having an out-of-body experience.
I still remember the paramedic who took me to the hospital. His attempts at consoling me, while my son flew overhead, were heroic. He was kind and gentle and was a true professional. There are no words that can describe these moments. No words created by man that can put your thoughts and fears on paper to describe the instant you think you may lose your child. It’s a pain like I’ve never known. A pain that was sharp and reckless and it had no concern for me or the perfect family I had built.
And now, it has been replaced with fear.
As I sat in the hospital waiting room, waiting for his six hour surgery to be complete, and cried. I cried for my unborn baby, who would be born into a world interrupted. I cried for me. Because I was afraid and exhausted and broken-hearted. But mostly, I cried for my baby boy. Because I didn’t know what the future held anymore. 10 hours prior, I knew. And now my world was crashing in around me. I couldn’t breath.
See, Bubs and I started on this journey alone. Mr. B was our answered prayer that came four years later. For four years it was just us…and nothing will ever match those four years for our small family. Nothing will ever match the bond we built. He is my best friend. My confidant. My companion.
I am suffering silently with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I am struggling every.single.day with constant fear and irrational thoughts. I become overwhelmed with illusions, memories and possibilities…which all hold me back from living. These fears consume everything I do. Everything I let my family do. And, they consume every thought I have. I catch myself living in a world of “what-ifs” rather than just living and loving life. (Loving the life that God so graciously spared last summer.)
And, even with Bubs upstairs sleeping in his bed. Even if we made it through 12 weeks in a wheel chair and two weeks in a walker and one week of God-fearin’, earth rattling pain and torture…I still can’t shake the memory.
I still live in fear of losing someone. And not just Bubs now… Mr. B, Bubette, my mom, dad, step-dad, cousins, aunts…it is growing. And, for that reason, I have decided to talk to someone who knows more about this than I do. A professional….which makes me feel like a nut job.
Because prior to July 19, I lived in a beautiful world where horrible things happen “to other people.” and now…well, I can’t help but think that those horrible things “could happen to me.”
…because they did.
And I can’t seem to find my old self again.
