To All The ‘Andrew Tates’ Of The World, On Behalf Of Anyone Kickboxing Depression

“When ignorance is given a voice, ours must be louder.” – Nicole Lyons

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article was originally published for The Odyssey on September 25, 2017.

Three weeks ago, The Mighty, a website that only publishes articles having to do with illnesses and chronic conditions, broke a story about kick boxer Andrew Tate who tweeted some seriously ignorant thoughts recently. He began a twitter thread where he began to describe how ‘depression isn’t real.’

The thread, which is more than a hundred tweets long, is extremely offensive and anxiety-inducing, to say the least. I’m here to summarize it, tell you why it matters and speak not only to Andrew Tate, but all the people agreeing with him.

When you’re a celebrity, you have a platform. You also know that whatever you say on your platform will be scrutinized whether it is the popular opinion or not.

Andrew Tate has not rescinded any of his tweets. This means people can still read them, and that’s dangerous.

Before I delve deeper, I want to make one thing clear: whether or not Tate is trolling, he is still causing a problem. By trolling, he’s welcoming those who agree to bully and shame those who are mentally ill, thus causing more issues.

On September 7, 2017, Andrew Tate tweeted out the following, “Depression isn’t real. You feel sad, you move on. You will always be depressed if your life is depressing. Change it.” He mostly draws attention to people he believes aren’t making the most of their situations. He tweets, “Sure. Natural to sometimes FEEL depressed. It doesn’t make it a DISEASE. I feel hungry sometimes, then I change it.”

As if these thoughts weren’t dangerous enough, he even begins to call out people specifically for their appearances as they reply to him. He cites others’ photos, picks on them for their physical attributes and then makes comments about other irrelevant things.

Also:

Like I said before, one of the biggest issues is that when you utilize a platform, you’re going to be scrutinized, no matter what you say. In tweeting these things, Tate also sparked other debates about feminism, masculinity and gender bias.

And:

Speaking this way to a vulnerable audience is dangerous. While Tate may believe that it will ‘help’ these people, he has accomplished the opposite; making people upset, anxious and depressed.

Why is this a problem, you ask? Not only is this man going out of his way to try and ‘prove’ that depression isn’t real; he’s gathering a group of people with a toxic way of thinking together to encourage the bullying of people who struggle with mental illness.

These people direct messaging Tate to agree are fueling the fire of those who think it’s acceptable to speak this way to anyone struggling.

September is Suicide Prevention and Awareness Month, which means we dedicate this time to prevent and spread awareness of suicide and the effects it can have. Andrew Tate not only encourages the mindset of those who think suicide is cowardly but also encourages those who are suicidal because he’s invalidating them.

Let us not forget that in announcing that depression isn’t real, Tate and his followers are also invalidating every single public figure who has fallen victim to suicide.

What’s that Robin Williams? What did you say, Alexander McQueen? Sorry Chris Cornell and more recently, Chester Bennington. You guys just wallowed in pain and didn’t make the most of your situations! Sorry! If only you could be like Andrew Tate!

Andrew Tate believes he’s a winner because he won’t ‘let’ himself be depressed. It appears Andrew Tate wouldn’t know depression if it knocked him on his ass, and let’s hope for his sake, that it never does.

Nicole Lyons, of The Mighty, first brought my attention to the issue at hand. She says it best when she writes, “Unkind people are usually that way because others have been unkind to them, but there is no excuse for ignorance or complete denial of mental health issues. That is a dangerous thing. When ignorance is given a voice, ours must be louder.”

According to Andrew Tate, I’m depressed because I’m not changing anything for the better in my life. It’s because I’m being a ‘little bitch’ and believing in the ‘hoax’ of depression, right?

I am someone who fights every single day to get out of bed and get shit done. I refuse to wallow, and yet still, for some silly reason, I’m still depressed.

Explain that, Andrew Tate. Explain to me why, that despite my ever-growing efforts to be a successful woman, get a degree, a job, activities and work out among other things, why am I still depressed?

It’s because I have a chemical imbalance in my brain and depression is fucking real. That’s right.

Here’s my open letter. Don’t worry, if you’re still reading, this will be short.

To all the Andrew Tates of the world: Fuck off. Everyone in the mentally ill community already deals with enough bullshit without having to deal with the likes of you. Are you allowed to have an opinion? Sure. Are you allowed to post that opinion? Sure.

But if you ever come face to face with mental illness or depression, I hope you have access to help. Because we’ve all been somewhere where that isn’t the case, and we were left to flounder until we grew stronger.

Cancer is just as real as depression; when you have cancer, you can’t cure it by saying, “Cancer isn’t real, I can still kick ass!” Stop treating mental illness like it isn’t illness. Both are debilitating and valid illnesses.

If you are someone who lives with mental illness or depression, you keep doing you. You’re out here killing the game, getting up every day and moving forward, even when it feels like all the forces in the world are moving against you. Even on the days when you’re not getting up or moving forward, you’re still fighting the good fight. Keep your head up and your eyes ahead – the future is coming and you’ll want to stick around for it.

I’m sorry that the Andrew Tates of the world are trying to discredit you and hold you back. Know that you are stronger than them and you can do this. Reach out and take a hand; we will work together to push forward. That’s all we can do – keep going. We’ll keep going together.

If you struggle with any of these issues and you need help, you can call the hotline at 1-800-273-8255 or text “START” to 741-741. You can also utilize the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline online chat.

Yes, My Mental Illness Is Debilitating

“I’m just a little bit caught in the middle. I try to keep going but it’s not that simple.”

This article was originally published with The Odyssey on August 9, 2017.

I’m sick today. I feel shaky, my hands are sweaty and my head hurts, among other things. I have a laundry list of complaints that include body aches, bloating and a fluctuating change in appetite. I’ve been to the doctor, but they say I’m healthy.

They’ve checked all my boxes, noting that I’m doing well with eating vegetables and fruits. This is a different kind of sick. This is the type of sick where I don’t want to see the sun, don’t want to get out of bed, don’t want to see anyone ever again. I have mental illness and it’s debilitating.

I’m not intentionally ignoring you. I’m not ghosting you on purpose and I didn’t read your text and not answer to hurt you. I haven’t answered emails in days because I know I will have to prepare myself to truly process all they have to say. I know I was supposed to have that file sent to you last week, but it’s honestly on the bottom of my to-do list.

It’s not that you’re unimportant to me; you are very important to me. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about all the things I’m not doing to show you that. I haven’t forgotten about the things I was supposed to do for my boss, my mom or my doctor either. Everything is piling up and I’m less than thrilled.

I feel like an anvil is crushing my shoulders. My head is filled with pressure and my ears are ringing nonstop. I don’t know what I did to my neck or my back, but I feel terrible. I am not only sluggish but fatigued. I’m absolutely exhausted and I haven’t even made it out of my bed yet. Everything is so dark and I feel as though I don’t deserve to see the light just beyond my blinds.

My phone is right there. You’re probably near yours too. If I just picked it up and dialed your number, you’d probably answer. But what if you don’t? What if you’re too busy to answer? What if you’d rather not talk to me and you press ignore? It’s better I don’t touch the phone at all.

It’s been hours since I woke up and my stomach is growling. I know I should feed my body something to sustain it, but I can’t think of anything I want to eat. I can’t think of anything appetizing and make myself sick to my stomach just thinking about food.

Even if I manage to get out of bed today, I will not be productive. I will hug myself in the shower, neglecting to wash my hair, as strands or even locks of it twirl around the drain. I will put off getting dressed for too long. When I do get dressed, I’m lucky if I put on a bra or socks. I honestly feel as though every move I make is forced.

I return to my room and sit on my bed, staring at the wall for probably hours. You text me, but I don’t answer. You felt obligated to text me. You don’t really want to hear from me. I don’t want to annoy you. I don’t know what to say to you. I opt for nothing at all.

How do I describe how I’m feeling? I would write a text, backspace, rewrite, delete, edit, compose again, and finally lock the phone altogether. I just feel…empty. No, that’s not it. Tired. That’s too simple. Jumbled. Confused. Overwhelmed. How can you be overwhelmed when you haven’t done a single thing today? Scared. Anxious. No, not nervous. Anxious. Panicked. Suffocated.

Despite all those adjectives, I feel my true feelings don’t even scratch the cusp of those descriptors. This overwhelms me more.

Later I may manage some food and maybe I’ll manage too much. I’ll eat too much, returning to the nauseating sensation that plagued me just a few hours earlier. With a heated blanket and a heating pad, I swaddle myself. I overheat. I sweat, I hyperventilate and panic.

I don’t want to see anyone. The question of whether or not I should contact you is not even a thought in my mind anymore. I can’t stop thinking about all the things I’m not doing. I can’t stop thinking about all the deadlines I have missed. I can’t stop thinking about all the people I have disappointed. All the people I have let myself disappoint. All the people I have let myself let down because I couldn’t force myself to get through another day.

I am constantly fighting with myself. There is and will always be a crazy battle raging inside of me. I am either not doing enough or doing entirely too much. I am either not eating or stuffing myself. I am either over-sleeping or barely getting 4 hours. I will never do anything in-between. I will never do anything half-assed. I have mental illness and it debilitates me.

I hate that it debilitates me. I hate that I let it win some days; that I let it convince me to stay in bed, avoid all contact and sunlight and convince me that I am not worth it. I hate that it discourages me from doing things I love. I hate that it makes everything difficult. I hate that I woke up feeling exhausted.

Though I despise my mental illness and absolutely wish it would slink away to give me a chance to catch a fucking break, I have to let it engulf me sometimes. I have to let myself rest. I have to convince myself that it’s OK to let myself rest. I have to put myself first and I have to give my body time.

Though I shouldn’t go days without human contact, a shower, a decent meal or any sense of productivity, I have to let myself breathe. I have to learn to do things in little steps, instead of overwhelming myself.

Maybe we’ll opt for dry shampoo and face wash tomorrow. Maybe I’ll try to text a few people tomorrow. Maybe I’ll order in or ask a friend to bring something over. I’ll answer a couple of emails. I’ll check some things off the to-do list.

I have mental illness. It’s debilitating. I don’t want to get out of bed sometimes and I force myself to get out of bed other times. It’s not constant but it never goes away. I’ll talk to you about it after I have my latest episode. I’ll try to describe to you what I’m feeling.

I’ll try to open the blinds and let some light in. Maybe I’ll open the window. Maybe I’ll go for a drive. I’ll try to watch a movie I like or listen to music I like. I’ll attempt to go to work. I’ll attempt to get my work done.

My mental illness is debilitating. Sometimes, I let it convince me of things I know are not true. Sometimes I let it lock me up deep inside myself and convince myself I’ve forgotten where the key is. I let it convince me that I don’t even have the key. Sometimes, I gather all my might and kick it up to high heaven. I let my mental illness know that today is not the day. Tomorrow might be, though.

It’s hard. It’s never going to stop being hard, but I’m never going to stop trying. I have mental illness. It’s debilitating. I let it hold me when I can no longer hold myself, but I never let it win.

No, I Won’t Reach Out To You When I Am Having A Breakdown

When I am having a major depressive episode, anxious meltdown, or drowning in my mental illness, don’t expect me to come to you.

It’s just not something I’m comfortable with.

This article was originally published with The Odyssey on June 27, 2017.

When I am having a major depressive episode, anxious meltdown, or drowning in my mental illness, don’t expect me to come to you. When I have a breakdown, I feel as if the entire world is resting on my shoulders, but my shoulders are weak and could give out any minute. I feel as if I am paralyzed; I cannot stand up. I cannot stop crying. I am frozen. I won’t ever reach out to you when I’m feeling like this. It’s not personal. it’s not a cry for help. I just can’t function like that. Let me help you understand.

It doesn’t matter how long we’ve been friends. It doesn’t matter how many times you’ve come to me with your problems. It definitely doesn’t matter if we’re in the same proximity. When I am breaking down, I will not reach out to you for help because I don’t think I need help. My first instinct is to doubt myself – I automatically think that my trigger was self-inflicted, or I was being too sensitive. My second instinct is to hide my feelings. I shouldn’t bother anyone else with my problems. People have problems of their own, and I’m freaking out over nothing. My third instinct is to push it down, far away and act like it never happened. I should be stronger than this.

When I don’t come to you, don’t take it as an insult. Don’t think that I’m avoiding you, or that I’ve been speaking to someone else over you. Don’t be upset with me because I wasn’t able to express myself. I’ve never been very good at expressing my feelings. It’s hard to explain why I was fine a second ago, and now I can’t stop shaking. It’s even more difficult to let myself be so vulnerable. When my mental illness strikes, I’m as raw as it can be. There are no shields, gates or guards up; I am completely naked and surrounded by darkness. It’s terrifying.

I’ve tried coping mechanisms, but personally, I’ve found that riding it out is the best way for me to handle a breakdown. When I open up to others while breaking down, I feel it is often harder to calm down because I feel like I have to prove or explain myself. I don’t always know the reasons for why I become upset. I rarely have the answers.

When I’m breaking down, don’t expect me to reach out to you. Don’t expect me to come to you when I’m letting my anxiety and depression get the best of me for an unexpected amount of time. Don’t ask me to talk to you while I’m crying, don’t ask me why I’m shaking, and don’t ask others what is ‘wrong’ with me.

I know that people aren’t so great at handling grief, depression, or mental illness in general. It can be hard to reach someone, especially when they have a mindset like mine. It can be even harder to know what to say and what not to say. A trigger could disguise itself as a compliment; you never know what weapons you’re expelling when you speak. It’s a difficult situation. I choose not to back others into the corner that is mental breakdowns because I don’t want anything to become worse. When I’m at my lowest and most vulnerable, I can’t chance anything going wrong. I don’t have it in me to handle mistakes when I’m down like that. When I’m down, I’m not feeling very strong at all.

What I will do is come to you after a breakdown. I’ll text you, call you, or return to our hang out after I’ve cried my eyes out and calmed myself down. I might tell you about it if I’m feeling a bit stronger, or I may wait until I’ve got my feet planted firmly. I’ll talk to you about why it happened, and maybe we can discuss ways to maybe soften the blow the next time.

I will reach out to you when I feel I am strong enough to. Please understand that you have done nothing wrong. I will reach for your hand when I feel safe inside myself enough to do so. Let me return to my strength before we can be strong together.