by john | Nov 2, 2017 | #HoldOnToTheLight, Real Life
Yeah, that’s a picture of my wrist.
Yeah, I have a semicolon tattoo.
Yeah, I have lost friends to suicide.
Yeah, I have had suicidal feelings at times.
No, I’ve never attempted suicide.
No, I don’t have suicidal thoughts anymore, nor have I for several years.
No, this isn’t a “cry for help,” or any other random way of me looking for sympathy for my past, current, or future issues with depression, bipolar disorder, or anything else.
This is me talking about my tattoo, who it’s for, why it’s there, and what wearing it has meant for me.
This tattoo is for my uncle, who took his own life while his wife folded laundry on the porch. This tattoo is for my actor friend who survived not only the suicide of his father, but also his twin brother, and grew up to be one of the strongest, most talented motherfuckers I know. This tattoo is for my pal Logan, whose demon won the fight one dark night. This tattoo is for every writer on the Mid-South con circuit who woke up one morning thinking “What could I have done to make it better?” This tattoo is for my friend Dave whose life caught up with him and overwhelmed him. This tattoo is for my poker buddies who sat around a table with me wondering “How could he?” then listened in shock as I explained exactly how he could, and what it felt like on the inside of that struggle when everyone around you is completely unaware that you’re even fighting.
If there’s anyone that’s a better liar than an addict, it’s a high-functioning depressive. And if you want to talk about a dubious fucking honor, that’s one right there.
I put this semicolon on my wrist earlier this year. My buddy James R. Tuck did it, along with other tattoo work. James is my brother from another mother, a helluva writer, and a good man. When he asked me which way I wanted the tattoo to point, I didn’t know.
“Is it for you, or is it for other people?” he asked.
I didn’t know the answer. But in the moment, I said “For me.” And he oriented the tattoo so that every time I look at my wrist, I’m reminded that I’m still here because I have shit left to do. I’m not finished, and I’m too arrogant and stubborn to think that anyone could carry on my projects without me. So I guess I’ll stick around.
All of that still holds true. But since I put that tattoo on my wrist, a funny thing has happened. Funny, and heartbreaking at the same time. When they see mine, they show me theirs. It’s like we’re part of this odd club – the survivors. I’ve had gas station cashiers roll up their sleeves out of the blue, waitresses hike up their uniform pants to show me an ankle, and more than one person at a con give me a questioning look before showing me their ink.
Yeah, I’ve been there. I love and hate that I’m part of this club. I love it, because there’s a network of people wearing this tattoo and talking about their pain and their issues. I love it, because every time we have an open conversation about mental health it helps erase the stigma associated with it, and that can lead to someone getting the help they need before they become another statistic. I hate it, because it means that a lot of other people have spent a lot of time hurting, and I really wish that weren’t true.
But if I can bring more attention to the fact that a lot of people have earned their semicolons, whether they have a tattoo or not, then it’s worth a sometimes-awkward conversation. If you aren’t familiar with Project Semicolon, their website is here. It horribly ironic that the founder of this website and movement lost her battle with depression and suicidal ideation, showing that it’s a never-ending struggle.
I’m okay. This has been a good week, following a good month. Not a great month, but a good one. I’m consistently hovering around a 4-7 out of 10 on my personal wellness scale, where 10 is amazeballs and 1 is dead. My lowest in recent history has been a three, which is pretty good. My highest has been a nine or so, which is awesome. Most days I’m on the high side of the scale, which is great. So I’m okay. But if you aren’t okay, please understand that there are people out there who have been there, who give a shit, and would like to see you around for a long time. So if you need help, find help. There are a lot of resources out there, and a lot of resources on the #HoldOnToTheLight website.
You story isn’t finished yet; keep on writing it.
by john | Jul 11, 2017 | #HoldOnToTheLight, Real Life
This post doesn’t have anything to do with writing, or helping you make more money from your writing. This post doesn’t attack any of the current sacred cows of publishing, or promote any new releases. This post isn’t funny, and probably won’t piss anybody off. So if you’re looking for my typical fare, you should probably skip this one and come back next week. I can probably find something to bitch about by then.
Last week I lost a friend.
More specifically, last week a friend lost his lifelong battle with depression and mental illness, and took his own life.
This isn’t the first time I’ve gone through this, and it probably won’t be the last. I write some variation on this post every time, because I feel like I owe that much to my uncle Ed, to Logan, and now to Dave. I can’t make sense of their actions, and I can’t explain them. I won’t excuse them. I’m still angry at all three of them for choosing a short-term solution to a long-term problem, and I probably always will be.
But I understand why.
I have a semicolon tattooed on the inside of my left wrist. Depending on who asks, I either tell people it’s for suicide awareness, in honor of people I’ve lost, or I tell them the truth. I tell them that it’s there because I could have ended my sentence, but chose not to. If I’m being honest, I tell people it’s because I’ve considered suicide, but never made a serious attempt. I’ll tell people that I’ve never been truly suicidal, but I understand how fine a line it is between living and dying when you deal with depression and mental illness every day.
I recently had a conversation with another friend who battles depression, and something finally crystallized for me – I never wanted to kill myself, but there have been a lot of days when the thought of dying, or just not being alive, was pretty fucking appealing.
Let me clarify – I have never attempted suicide. Yes, I’ve had suicidal thoughts, but not for a long time. My depression is pretty well-managed right now, with medication and good people around me. But I know where it lurks, and I know what it’s like when it’s on me.
I know what the fight feels like, and I know how goddamn tiring it can be. I know the bone-deep exhaustion that comes from fighting every minute of every day. I’m lucky. I’ve never lost that fight. My friend last week lost. He probably lost for just a minute. Maybe less. But that’s all it takes.
It’s not like anything else. You can lose a championship boxing match and come back for a rematch. You lose your fight with depression, and the monster kills you. You give it one opening, and the monster kills you. You drop your guard for one fucking second, and the monster kills you.
That’s why people who suffer with depression seem so tired sometimes. Because they are fighting for their life every second of every day. Because if Mike Tyson lands one punch, you’re probably knocked out. If depression lands one, you don’t get up off the mat. Ever.
So yeah, I know what Dave’s fight was like, even if I don’t know nearly everything about what he was going through. I was shocked when I heard he’d taken his own life, but the fact that he hid that side of himself so successfully for so long surprised me not at all. The best liars in the world are addicts and depressives, and there’s a reason there’s so much overlap between the two groups. Nobody hides their true fan better than someone with serious depression. Nobody.
So please, if you’ve got shit going down in your life – talk to someone. If you don’t have a therapist, talk to a minister. If you don’t want to talk to a preacher, call a hotline. Call somebody who understands how to talk you down off the ledge. Sometimes your friends might be the worst people to talk to, because they may not understand what’s going on. It might be better to talk to a faceless person on the other end of the phone. But talk to somebody. Just for a minute. Maybe two. Take a second to let somebody shield you from the body blows your monster is dealing you. Most of the time, that’s all you need – a minute or two. Then you can get back in the ring. You can get back in the fight.
Because your depression? It’s a lying sack of shit. It’s going to tell you that nothing you do matters. I can tell you firsthand, from looking in the eyes of too many friends and family left behind and asking why, that everything you do matters. You matter. And I don’t lie. I don’t have the energy for it.
So I’m sad. I’m not depressed because my friend lost his fight. I’m sad. There’s a difference, and it’s pretty critical. I also hope that wherever he is, he finds peace. Because his fight is over. He can rest. I can’t. I won’t. I’ll keep fighting for me. And if you need me to, I’ll fight for you, too. Just stay in the ring with me. We might not ever beat the monster, but together, I promise the motherfucker won’t beat us.
Keep fighting.
For more information and resources, go to Hold On To The Light, a campaign for mental health and surviving founded by Gail Z. Martin.
by john | Mar 8, 2017 | #HoldOnToTheLight, Real Life, Writing
People sometimes ask me how I’m so productive, how I manage to turn out a novella every month, plus run a publishing company, and do a couple of podcasts each month, and attend an average of 1.5 conventions each month, and do all the other shit I do.
The answer is – productivity through mental illness.
No joke, no bullshit, I am mentally ill and that is how I get so much shit done.
When I am able to do anything at all.
I self-diagnosed myself with depression when I was a teenager. I didn’t go see a doctor, or talk to a therapist, or do anything healthy to deal with it for almost thirty years. Last year, after dealing with depression for years, and after realizing that it wasn’t just depression, but I also had episodes of super-manic activity that were often equally damaging to my life, I self-diagnosed with Bipolar II disorder. This is not the bipolar that leads to throwing things in tantrums, or driving across multiple states wearing a diaper to murder the spouse of your astronaut lover. That’s Bipolar I.
This is the bipolar that vacillates more slowly, sometimes having month-long or multiple months-long episodes of depression, alternating with equally long episodes of mania. The depressive episodes are marked by hypersomnolence (sleeping all the time), lack of enjoyment in things you generally enjoy, lack of energy, and general malaise. The manic episodes are marked by lack of sleep, irritability, judgmental tendencies, waspishness, and hyperproductivity.
After a couple of meetings with a psychologist and some testing, my personal diagnosis was confirmed, and added to – ADHD along with Bipolar II. So I went on drugs. I take one pill every morning, and the idea is just to keep my shit regulated, to knock the tops off the highs and the bottoms off the lows. As I said to my GP, who is the one I talk to now about my meds, I’m not currently under psychiatric care (although given the fact that I don’t think I need it, I probably do), I just want to keep life on a range between a 3 and a 9, instead of a 1 to a 12.
The drugs I’m on haven’t done much to mitigate the current manic episode, I still don’t often sleep more than five hours each night, but I am less irritable, so that’s something. What the drugs have done is really helped with the depressive episodes. I had a pretty rough depressive episode in November, then another in January. December was okay, and February was pretty level. I was still able to work during November and January, and that’s probably mostly thanks to the drugs. In the past, when I had a depressive incident, I didn’t write at all, and that’s no good for someone with as many deadlines as I have, and someone who lives month-to-month from the fruits of their writing. A period last summer of no writing made for a couple of very tight months in the early fall.
About halfway through February, I felt the restlessness start to pick up, and I knew I was coming into a manic time. So I upped my daily word count, and I’m now writing as fast as I can to take advantage of the illness. That’s my current coping mechanism – when I’m feeling manic, I write as much as I can as fast as I can, that way I have stuff stored up for when I come down. It helps me stay productive, and keep getting paid, which the people that hold my mortgage appreciate. It’s just another part of living with a mental illness – learning the coping mechanisms.
I owe a lot to a couple of people in particular for their part in me getting help. Wil Wheaton released a video about his depression and anxiety that was really influential, and Jim C. Hines wrote a blog post about his fears of going on medication, which mirrored my own, and his positive experiences. Those two things really pushed me to get help, which lets me continue to bring people the stories that they hopefully love. So if you don’t feel right, find someone to talk to. If you can’t afford a doctor, try a clinic. If there isn’t a clinic around, ask around for a patient minister. If you don’t like church, call a hotline. Or phone a friend. There have been too many statistics. You don’t need to be one.
Words from Gail Z. Martin, founder of #HoldOnToTheLight –
#HoldOnToTheLight was inspired by #AKF #AlwaysKeepFighting, a campaign from the Supernatural TV show fandom (http://www.supernaturalwiki.com/index.php?title=Always_Keep_Fighting)
#AlwaysKeepFighting #AKF showed the reach media stars have when they talk about issues, and I wondered what would happen if genre authors opened a similar conversation. I recruited my usual partners in crime—John Hartness, Misty Massey, Jaym Gates, Jean Marie Ward, Emily Leverett and my husband, Larry N. Martin—as the steering committee, and we started asking our colleagues and author friends to join us.
The result? More than 100 science fiction, fantasy, horror, paranormal romance and speculative fiction authors are part of #HoldOnToTheLight—and the outreach grows every day.
To find out more about #HoldOnToTheLight, find a list of participating authors and blog posts, or reach a media contact, go to http://www.HoldOnToTheLight.com and join us on Facebook https://www.facebook.com/WeHoldOnToTheLight
by john | Oct 7, 2016 | #HoldOnToTheLight
This is something I’ve never talked about. Not on this blog, not to my wife, not to a therapist, nothing. So if you don’t want to deal with shit getting real, this is the time where you should probably go be somewhere else. Go buy Midsummer, the new Bubba the Monster Hunter novella. It’s funny as fuck, and my favorite piece in the series by a mile.
You’re still here? Alright, you were warned. But here’s another caveat – I’m not going to discuss this post. Not at a con, not over drinks, not on the phone. I might respond to comments here or on Facebook, but don’t hold your breath. I’m throwing this out here because it might help somebody, not because I have any real desire to dredge it up and talk it out. Got it? Okay, I guess I’ve danced around it all I can, let’s rip the bandage off, shall we?
I was a cutter through the latter half of high school and the first half of college. There wasn’t a term for it then, and I never knew that it was even a thing until decades later, when I heard about teenagers cutting themselves, usually as a coping mechanism or a cry for help. I didn’t talk about it with anyone, didn’t want to kill myself, didn’t have any great desire to mark myself in any way that anyone would ever see.
It was just the only way I could feel anything. I sat in my bedroom on more than one evening and drew lines in my flesh, usually on my left shoulder, with my pocketknife. It made the most sense to cut there – nobody could see it, and I’m right-handed. I didn’t do it every day, not even every week or every month. But on multiple occasions over a period of four or five years, I felt so numb inside that I cut myself just to see if there was a physical pain that I could inflict upon myself to prove that I was still alive, at least physically.
A lot of people who know me have heard me talk about the fact that I’ve dealt with depression for almost thirty years, starting when I was fourteen or fifteen. Until recently, I’d never been diagnosed with anything, and never been medicated for it. It was only through watching a YouTube video that Wil Wheaton posted about his depression and anxiety, and reading a blog post by Jim Hines about his struggles with depression that I got up the courage to go see a psychologist and get tested for some things. The results weren’t terribly surprising; bipolar 2 disorder with some ADHD. Nothing I couldn’t have told the doc myself, other than the plan for treatment. And we’re still working on that – the first antidepressant they tried was completely unacceptable, turned me into a vegetable for a couple days. Can’t have that, I’ve got shit to do. So I go back to the doc in a week or so and we’ll try something different.
But that’s not the point of this rambling post. The point is that while I was graduating in the top ten of my class (fourth or sixth, I don’t remember), getting a college scholarship, taking Honors classes at college and generally doing all the things that a successful student should do, I was doing it all through a mask. The face I showed the world had very little connection to the face I saw in the mirror. Outwardly I was a bright young man, an excellent student with some minor theatrical talent. But inside, there was nothing. I had girlfriends, and I even fell in love for the first time, as much as I could at the time. I had friends, some of whom I’m still in contact with.
But there was an emptiness inside, and overwhelming lack of anything, that I was looking for a way to fill. I guess I knew at the time that I was suffering from depression, but I’ve always been pretty good at compartmentalizing. When I was in school, I could tuck away the parts of me that I didn’t like, bury them under schoolwork or after-school activities. But when I was alone in my room, there was nothing to hide behind, no projects to use to distract myself. There was just me, and my edged friend.
I never did any lasting harm, and even the scars faded after a few years. Looking at my arm now, I can’t see any evidence of my previous self-inflicted wounds. I never wanted to kill myself, and I never wanted to attract attention. I knew what I needed out of the blade – pain. I needed to feel something, anything, and because I was in such a dark place mentally that I never thought I would feel real joy, I thought that pain was the answer. And it helped, to be honest. I’m sure it wasn’t a terribly healthy coping mechanism, but it gave me just enough to get through the night and not do anything more serious to myself, so I’ll take it.
I’ve heard recently about the concept of high-functioning depressives, which I suppose is what I’ve always been. “Bullshit artist” is another very good term for that, by the way. So I guess what I want out of writing this is to put a couple of ideas out there for people who might be feeling that kind of overwhelming darkness, the kind of numbness that just starts in your chest and goes outward to every inch of yourself until you really feel numb inside and out.
One – Whatever method of coping you have is fine. I don’t give a shit if you get tattoos, listen to music too loud, lift weights, run, bike, or listen to B.B. King and play tic-tac-toe on your upper thigh with an X-Acto knife. If it keeps you from making the deep cut with the vein, or taking a whole bottle of sleeping pills with a Jim Beam chaser, or running a hose from the exhaust pipe to the driver’s window, then fine. Cope however you need to cope, because you’re stronger than you think, and it gets better.
Two – It does get better. I stopped cutting myself in college. I don’t remember the last time I hurt myself on purpose, outside of drinking with Drew Hayes. And there was no sudden realization of “hey, I’m fine now” to mark the end of that darkness. There was just a general lack of need to see my own blood to prove that I wasn’t empty inside. I just didn’t need to do it anymore. I still haven’t gotten the treatment I probably need, and there are still weeks and months when I just don’t have the bandwidth, the energy, or whatever metaphor you want to use for the ability to get shit done. I fight the monster every single day, but it’s been a long time since I let the monster make me bleed.
Three – There are people that care. There are people that can help, and there are people who want to help. If the monster gets to be too much, then go find one. That’s what this #HoldOnToTheLight campaign is about – helping people find the resources and get better. Because we all fight the beast from time to time, and sometimes we need backup. Find your backup, and don’t be afraid to call on them.
Thanks for reading. I hope there’s someone out there who can find this helpful, because to be brutally honest, sharing this sucked and I don’t ever want to do it again. But I will. Because if I can help one other person realize that it’s worth keeping going, then it’s worth my discomfort. Take care of yourselves.
JGH
About the campaign:
#HoldOnToTheLight is a blog campaign encompassing blog posts by fantasy and science fiction authors around the world in an effort to raise awareness around treatment for depression, suicide prevention, domestic violence intervention, PTSD initiatives, bullying prevention and other mental health-related issues. We believe fandom should be supportive, welcoming and inclusive, in the long tradition of fandom taking care of its own. We encourage readers and fans to seek the help they or their loved ones need without shame or embarrassment.
Please consider donating to or volunteering for organizations dedicated to treatment and prevention such as: American Foundation for Suicide Prevention, Hope for the Warriors (PTSD), National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI), Canadian Mental Health Association, MIND (UK), SANE (UK), BeyondBlue (Australia), To Write Love On Her Arms (TWLOHA) and the National Suicide Prevention Hotline.
by john | Oct 5, 2016 | #HoldOnToTheLight
Karen E. Taylor is a talented writer and a friend. When she wanted to participate in the #HoldOnToTheLight campaign but didn’t have a platform, I volunteered this space. This is her story.
I wrote a story called Mexican Moon once. A lot of people really liked it, and it even received a nomination for a Bram Stoker award. I had no idea why. The story of the relationship between a sentient robot and the scientist who made her, it seemed to me to be nothing more than a toss away. And although it took me forever to finish it, I didn’t give much thought to the ending or what it might mean. A story is sometimes just a story, right?
As it turns out, nothing could be further from the truth. I used to go to a lot of conventions and I would read this story since it fit so many different genres. During its last reading, I finally got it. And I started to cry, when I realized what it meant. How it was really a call for help from the bottom of the well by an emotionally and physically abused person. I can’t read it out loud anymore. Sometimes I cry just thinking about it. The realization floored me, because I never once expected it.
The after-effect of domestic abuse can be like that. It can sneak up on you after months or years and all of a sudden you’re back in that relationship — back into the fears, the flinching at sudden movements, the wincing at angry words, the constant apologizing for things you could never possibly control. Suddenly you feel worthless, helpless, and hopeless, for no good reason other than that was what you used to feel, what you were taught to believe by the abuser(s) in your life — that everything bad that happens is exactly what you deserve.
Except, dammit, you don’t! It takes so very long to recognize abuse sometimes, and it even takes longer to get out from under that abuse. There are always reasons why you shouldn’t leave, reasons why you can’t. Numerous though they are, you can’t let those reasons stop you. The sooner you get out of an abusive relationship, the sooner you can start to heal. And though that healing may seem like it takes forever, eventually there will come a day when you know that you have survived. That you’ve come out from under in one piece, not necessarily without scars or damage, but in one piece. You’ll need support for getting out of an abusive relationship and you’ll need support afterwards, to treat the damage. Don’t ever be afraid to ask for help.
You don’t heal overnight. I’ve been out of my abusive relationship for over 40 years, and I still have days when I wince and cringe, days when I feel worthless. But it really does get better and easier with time. Turn your back on the abuse and the past and allow yourself that time.
#HoldOnToTheLight is a blog campaign encompassing blog posts by fantasy and science fiction authors around the world in an effort to raise awareness around treatment for depression, suicide prevention, domestic violence intervention, PTSD initiatives, bullying prevention and other mental health-related issues. We believe fandom should be supportive, welcoming and inclusive, in the long tradition of fandom taking care of its own. We encourage readers and fans to seek the help they or their loved ones need without shame or embarrassment.
Please consider donating to or volunteering for organizations dedicated to treatment and prevention such as: American Foundation for Suicide Prevention, Home for the Warriors (PTSD), National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI), Canadian Mental Health Association, MIND (UK), SANE (UK), BeyondBlue (Australia), To Write Love On Her Arms and the National Suicide Prevention Hotline.
To find out more about #HoldOnToTheLight, find a list of participating authors and blog posts, or reach a media contact, go to https://www.facebook.com/groups/276745236033627/
