Issuu

Breathe COMPLIMENTARY ISSUE

Magazine

SPRING 2020

Together

Breathe Magazine

“We’re in this together”

VISALIA

Wellness C enter

1223 S. Lovers Lane, Visalia, CA 93292

559-931-1001

PHONE The Visalia Wellness Center (VWC) offers a wide array of wellness and resiliency-focused services in a lively and supportive environment tailored to individuals who are on their journey to wellness.

What VWC is… • VWC provides a safe space where individuals can have the opportunity to connect with others who have experienced and understand what it is like to live with behavioral health challenges • Support group activities address and normalize behavioral health challenges to achieve wellness • Staffing is comprised of former and current consumers of behavioral health services

What VWC offers… • Stress Reduction & Techniques • Wellness and Recovery Action Plan (W.R.A.P.) • Depression & Anxiety Management • Arts & Crafts • Gardening • Nutrition Education/Cooking Instruction • Life Skills Training • LGBTQ+ Support Group Eligibility requirements include: 18 years or older, having lived behavioral health experience and being well along in one’s individual wellness journey.

Hours of Operation: Monday through Saturday • 8:30 AM to 5:30 PM Closed most major holidays

Hours of Operation:

Monday through Saturday • 8:30 AM to 5:30 PM Closed most major holidays

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Contents

10 Together

26 Yoga for Better Living

By:Gwen Schrank

By:George Jagatic

How Mental health is achieved by

How yoga helps to heal body,

caring for the whole person.

mind,and soul.

15 Parenting the Broken

28 Rocks That Bring Hope

By:Martin Velasco- Ramos

By:Martin Velasco-Ramos

Loving children with mental

How rocks can bring cheer to

health issues.

those who hurt.

33 The Sun Means Hope

36 Love and Trauma

By:Private Writer

By:Destina Hernandez

How to help in crucial times. Suicide Prevention

The journey to heal during a time of anxiety and depression in a relationship.

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Contents

28 13 Julio Had Work to Do

18 Redemption Scars By:Connie Armerding

By:Martin Velasco-Ramos

How sisters overcame their comparison and competition

A man’s journey to change is life and help others.

issues and made peace.

30 On Repeat

Sand Into 22 Turning Bedrock

By:James Espinoza

By: Domingo Munoz

How does severe OCD and depression feel? James gives a

A story about a veteran coming home and how you can share with

solid description.

others like him.

44 My Battle With

40 4 Poems

By:Michael Jasso, Katie Taylor, Brinn Spencer

Depression and Suicide By:Michael Varela

4 Poems from the minds of three

My battle to stay alive has

who struggle.

become more doable.

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Editor’s Note Welcome For this quarter, Breathe Magazine focused on the theme of “Together,” inspired by May’s National Mental Health Month. One of our goals was to diversify the mental health stories to better reflect the communities within Tulare County. We grew closer to that goal in our 2020 Spring issue by featuring voices from Dinuba, Three Rivers, Woodlake, Tulare, and Visalia. Our stories were selected not only to illustrate how important human connection is to mental wellness, but also to give our readers an opportunity to witness how varied and universal mental illness is in our communities. I can’t emphasize enough how courageous our contributors have been. Mothers, veterans, professors, and students have stepped up to bare some of the most intimate and painful parts of their lives. And I’m proud to announce that many people of color have also chosen to share despite the stigma that surrounds mental illness. With that being said, we understand the risk of sharing these private stories. As you’ll notice, one of them is written by an anonymous writer. I want to highlight how seriously we take these deeply personal experiences. Unfortunately, despite our efforts to curb the stigma, it is alive and well. And revealing too many details can put a person’s life at risk of discrimination or persecution. Breathe Magazine (like its umbrella organization, Clubhouse Visalia) strives to save lives, not endanger them. So we will continue to view our stories and the people who write them as sacred by protecting their right to privacy. As someone who has suffered from mental illness, one of my goals was to validate the efficacy of intervention, therapy, and medication. It’s for this reason that we included pieces like “Suicide Prevention: the Sun Means Hope,” “Parenting the Broken,” and “Love and Trauma.” These are all personal testimonies of the benefits that medical providers, therapists, support groups, and mental health hospitals offer to our communities. At the same time, authenticity is one of our core values, so we included voices that spoke to the mental health system’s shortcomings as well. Suicide rates are rising in our nation, especially among our youth. It’s a sign that although we have taken the right steps towards mitigating the damage and loss of life caused by mental illness in our country, it is still not enough. It is my hope that Breathe will help fill that gap through the stories, poetry, art, and resources provided within these pages. This is my first time acting as an editor and having such a heavy hand in any countywide magazine, and I will vouch for the overwhelming passion, heart, and determination among our staff. Like you, we are growing and learning with each passing issue, and we will continue to aspire to create a publication that shares stories, stops the stigma, and provides resources for mental wellness. With much love and respect, -Martin Velasco-Ramos breathe.martin@gmail.com

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CONTRIBUTING WRITERS Gwen Schrank Martin Velasco-Ramos GWEN SCHRANK Connie Armerding FOUNDER/DESIGNER George Jagatic gwenschrank@gmail.com Michael Varela Destina Hernandez James Espinoza Angela Reed Michael Jasso Katie Taylor Brinn Spencer Art Arreola Alexandria Domingo Munoz PHOTOGRAPHERS VALERI BARNES FORMER PUBLISHER WE WISH VALERI THE BEST OF LUCK IN HER FUTURE ENDEAVORS.

Destina Hernandez Martin Velasco-Ramos Kelly Wright

CIRCULATION/ DISTRIBUTION

We have a team of 12 volunteers who are committed to delivering magzines throught Tulare County.

DUE TO COVID -19 SPRING ISSUE IS DIGITAL ONLY Breathe Magazine is published quarterly and is distributed throughout Tulare County. Views expressed in columns are those of the columnist and not necessarily those of Breathe Magazine or our advdertisers. Our goal is to provide mental wellness resources and stop the stigma associated with mental illness by providing a platform for people to share their journeys. If you have any questions or concerns please contact the Founder Gwen Schrank via email. gwenschrank@gmail.com.

RECOVERY STARTS HERE What is the SUD 24/7 Access Line? SUD’s 24/7 Access Line, 1-866-732-4114 or TTY: 1-800-735-2922 is a confidential, free, 24-hours-a-day, 365-days-a-year information service for individuals and family members facing alcohol and drug addictions (substance use disorders). What types of information will be provided? How to access needed services

24/7 ACCESS LINE

1-866-732-4114

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Referrals to local treatment facilities, support groups, and community-based organizations Will my information be kept confidential? Yes, this service is confidential.

One Love Nail Salon @o onelovenails_ Text 559-730-8804 108 S Church St, Visala 93291

Get smart about your coverage!

Thank You To All

559.697.3292

Essential Workers throughout Tulare County and California for your hard work and dedication to our community during this crucial time in our history.

Danielle Griffiths Your Local Farmers Agent | CA License # 0L84673 1126 N Chinowth St Visalia, CA 93291 dgriffiths@farmersagent.com

BREATHE Magazine Team

Kelelyn

P H O T O G R A P H Y

V I S A L I A ,

C A

2 0 9 - 6 0 4 - 4 7 2 2 9

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MENTAL HEALTH AWARENESS

TOGETHER

HEART & SOUL

Caring For the Whole Person

Written by GWEN SCHRANK

May is National Mental Health Month, and we at Clubhouse Visalia are looking at the importance of strengthening our mental wellness by focusing on the whole person care model. It’s an approach that looks at every area of one’s life, not just one aspect of it. It’s meant to coordinate care, provide support, and helps individuals address their trauma related issues. This is done in a way that promotes healing, recovery, and understanding with everyone who is involved in the care system, such as families, providers, and community-based organizations. Our nation has a mental health system that has been working hard to solve the many challenges that our communities face with mental illness, homelessness, and substance abuse. When we look at the core of mental health and pull back the curtains of escalating issues, we find a system that has been working on single issue problems, one at a time. There are multiple resources that can help people, however, they often work in isolation from one another. This can result in duplication of services, people seeing two or more providers for the same service, and a huge waste of finite system resources. The lack of communication among resources also results in people falling through the cracks and providers working against each other due to their inability to share information.

BODY

MIND

As someone who has suffered from mental illness for over twenty years, I am determined to crack the code on mental well-being. While going through therapy, I shared many experiences that I’ve had in life that has led to anxiety attacks and mental breakdowns. I discussed different medications that I have tried to balance out the imbalance in my brain. Breathe Magazine

TOGETHER

Therapists and I talked about triggers and the effects that come afterwards. We tried different techniques to help me process through my emotions and my reactions to stress factors in my life. We examined so many things in my life and what I’ve gone through, but what wasn’t brought up was how we can work together with other providers, family, social support, and my faith based community to create an action plan where we can all be on the same page, working together toward helping me create balance, boundaries, and tools to manage my everyday life. I am not blaming providers for my problems, but I do want to be someone who is self-advocating in a way that can bring everyone together who can help keep me alive. I have attempted suicide multiple times in my life and have been afraid after not succeeding, because I didn’t feel that I had a community to support me through the anguish I suffered. Everyone in my life, from family to providers, all had their own perspective when it came to the care I needed. The truth is, I, like so many others, need to focus on care for my whole person.

Whole person care solves problems by providing personalized one-on-one mentoring, teaching people how to use available services to get what they need. It also coordinates providers’ efforts so they know more about the other services people are receiving, which makes a truly integrated team approach to treatment possible. People who suffer from mental illness, chronic homelessness, and substance abuse cannot break the cycle of hopelessness and addition on their own. They need strong, coordinated, and effective community based support systems to get back on their feet and eventually stand on their own. It is important that we create a system, together, to collaborate and coordinate the many different parts of the health care system in order to treat the whole person and not just a single issue. This approach also takes into consideration the underlying factors that can inhibit a person’s ability to practice healthy habits. It takes a look at the trauma that has occurred in a person’s life, such as violence, abuse, neglect, loss, disaster, war and other emotionally harmful experiences. The effects of 11

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CONNECT

MAY IS MENTAL HEALTH AWARENESS MONTH

SUICIDE LIFELINE 1-800-273-8255

OR IN CASE OF EMERGENCY DIAL

911

traumatic events place a heavy burden on individuals, families, and communities. The need to address trauma is increasingly viewed as an important component of effective behavior health care. This is a team model that provides people a place where they can feel physically and psychologically safe. It promotes interpersonal interactions. There is trust and transparency between all parties involved. Peers support each other and provide a mutual self-advocacy approach to problem solving. Everyone has a role to play and feels valued. It’s a place where everyone understands that the experiences of trauma may be a unifying aspect in the lives of those involved, while working together to empower each other. Everyone has a voice, and it matters. People have a choice in their treatment path and monitor it by goal setting, assessing, and working with an action plan that works. The cultural needs of individuals are served, and there is access to different cultural connections, gender identities, religions, and other resources that recognize and address historical trauma. The whole person care model gives people the opportunity to self-advocate, work together toward identifying common issues and concerns, and brings multiple resources to the same table for the healing of the mind, body, and soul. It encourages collaboration and a mutual understanding that people have history, culture, and experience that should be taken into account when working on mental healing. As you look at your own mental wellness plan, visit one of Tulare County’s local programs that aim to treat the whole person.

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FACTS

1949 National Association for Mental Health was created but is now known as Mental Health America which puts out a “toolkit” to aid the observance of Mental Health Month by educating and providing resources. 2013 Former President Barack Obama cemented movement with Presidential Proclamation 2020 Toolkit is called, “Tools 2 Thrive” You can get additional information by visiting www.mhanational.org/self-help-tools

LOCAL EVENTS

Dates and times may have changed due to Covid-19 Pandemic Check with Event Coordinators Listed •

May 13, Porterville Mental Health School Collaborative’s 3rd Annual Conference: Social and Emotional Wellness- Register through eventbrite.com

•

May 15, Mental Health First Aid Training- Register through eventbritecom

•

May 16 Natural Solutions for ADD- Call 262-370-4788 for additional information

•

May 22, Mindful Movement: Exploring Mindfulness and Kinesthetic Techniques in Play- Fresno, Register through eventbrite.com

•

May 23rd, Friends and Family Pincic- Visalia

• •

Clubhouse Visalia - 206 E. Oak Ave. Visalia, CA (559) 754-2909 Visalia Wellness Center- 1223 S. Lovers Lane, Visalia, CA (559) 931-1001 Porterville Wellness Center- 333 W. Henderson Ave. Porterville, CA (559) 256-1183 Starbucks Locations throughout Tulare County visit: www.gsclubhouse.org for dates and details

• •

LOCAL RESOURCES

•

Tulare County Mental Health- (800) 834-7121

•

Suicide Prevention Task Force- Visit www.sptf.org for information and event details

Julio Had Work To Do Written By

MARTIN VELASCO-RAMOS Twenty years ago, Julio Torres was at a house party and got into a fight that changed his life forever. He was stabbed in the neck, an injury that left him paralyzed from the waist down. The doctors told him he would never walk again. For three years, Julio fought for his legs to do the job they had once performed instinctively. “I had to learn all over again,” Julio said in his slow, cool cadence. Looking at Julio today you would never guess that he lived the life he once did. He greets everyone with a warm smile and a persistent sense of humor. It’s hard to imagine him ever hurting somebody else. The only visible remnants of his checkered past is his subtle limp and the words “thug life” inked across his knuckles. But like many, his troubled past didn’t start from nowhere. Julio was born in San Jose and had a father who he described as a “bad guy.” When Julio turned 10, his mother escaped the abusive situation and fled to the City of Tulare with her son. They moved in with an aunt and lived a relatively peaceful home life. His mother and aunt insisted that Julio go to church often, so he did, even if it was out of obligation. They tried their best to raise Julio to be a good Catholic boy. But his aunt lived on the east side of town. The streets were teeming with death, drugs, and violence. Some of it spread to his family and invaded his home. It wasn’t long before Julio got involved—at the vulnerable age of 11. “It was rough,” Julio admitted. “I was on the street, robbing, stealing, fighting. Then I got into the drug thing.” Years passed,

and he got good at it. He got it down to a system, using temporary jobs as a cover for all the money he was making by illegal means. He lived that life for about ten years before that fateful house party where Julio lost his ability to walk. His legs eventually healed, although not completely. He no longer uses a cane or a walker, but there was significant nerve damage to his body, so he only has 60% feeling in his legs. He has to consciously look down at his feet to make sure his shoes are on before he leaves the house. And his mind is still heavily scarred by the event. “I still have nightmares,” Julio said. And then there’s the stigma surrounding his condition. Julio has run into situations where people view him negatively because of his mental health struggle. He’s been diagnosed with PTSD, bipolar disorder, and depression. Sometimes when people find out he has these conditions, they treat him differently, which is why Julio now emphasizes how important it is to find support. He attends six different support groups. The burden of his past could break any man, so he understands the value of group therapy and appreciates the members of his group. “It gets me through,” Julio said. “When I’m going through something, I think about these people. What would they do? How did they get through it?” Julio has tried his best to change his life for the better despite all of that. He may have spent ten years of his life living a life of crime and drug abuse, but he has spent the past twenty years attempting to right those wrongs. He has volunteered for various agencies including Goodwill, CSET, and Clubhouse Visalia. Today, Julio is 56 years old. He’s been married for twelve

years, and has seven kids and three grandchildren that he’s raised as his own. He’s been sober for eight months, is currently working towards his GED, and recently became a facilitator for a men’s group at Clubhouse Visalia. Very few people have lived the kind of life Julio had and turned around to make such a dramatic change. Julio shared what happened and how he was able to change his life. Julio credits and thanks God. You see, several years ago, Julio went to the hospital for indigestion. The doctors sat him down and gave him something for the heartburn. Thinking that was the extent of his medical treatment, Julio stood up to leave, but the doctors and nurses grabbed him by the arms and insisted he stay. Confused, Julio, naturally, asked why. “Ninety percent of your heart is clogged,” the doctor said. Julio didn’t understand. “You’re having a heart attack.” And that was the last thing Julio heard before his vision went black. He died for ninety seconds. And then last year he had another one. He fell face first on the driveway while his children were playing. Paramedics lost his pulse while he was in the ambulance. This time, he had a vision. He was in a hallway. At the end of the hall was an open door. And beyond that were flames. “My body was light, but I wasn’t allowed in,” Julio explained. “I had work to do.” Breathe Magazine

Julio views these events as a sign from God. He believes that he was brought back for a reason, so he spends his days helping others without payment. He runs from group to group and volunteers. He feeds the homeless and gives them shelter when he can. He cares for his grandchildren and makes sure they have the resources that he didn’t have. But most of all, he smiles and jokes around because it makes other people feel good. When asked if Julio was proud of himself for overcoming his past and surviving everything, he said no. “I’m just happy,” he replied. “I’m just glad I can give back.”

" I'm just glad that I can give back."

~Juilo

Parenting the Broken

Written by MARTIN VELASCO-RAMOS

Picture the person you love most in the world. Think of a memory you shared together, your favorite, the one with them laughing. The one that makes you smile simply because your loved one was experiencing joy. Maybe it was their third birthday. Maybe you still have a photo of them struggling to blow out the candle, and it’s the saddest and cutest thing, all at the same time. Now, imagine that person began to slowly disappear. Imagine one day they just stopped smiling. Envision watching them become a shell of themselves, a husk knocking at death’s door. And it feels like no matter how

hard you try to stop them from reaching the other side, it never seems to be enough. That is what it’s like to love someone with severe mental illness. And if you’re a parent, the stress, pain, and fear caused by the possibility of losing your child to mental illness can be harrowing, especially if it goes on for many years. “It would be a lot easier to walk way,” Susan Long explained as she reflected on her experience. She’s a Program Coordinator for Self-Help Enterprise. But more importantly, she’s a mom. Susan has been battling to maintain her children’s mental health since they were young. Her oldest son started to develop signs of ADD by second grade, and one of her daughters was diagnosed with severe anxiety by age seven. These conditions continued and some even worsened as her children grew. Susan had her own mental health trials, so she was able empathize and at least provide some understanding. But she struggled to find that kind of support from anybody else. When her son first began to show signs that he was struggling in class, Susan reached out to the school, but the administration didn’t believe there was an issue. They

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attributed his inability to focus as a natural product of “boys will be boys,” and turned their backs. “I kept trying to get the school to do some testing,” Susan recalled. “But they kept saying nothing was wrong. It’s hard when you don’t have acceptance in your support group.” Unfortunately, this wasn’t the last time that someone denied her children’s condition. Her ex-husband was skeptical of their daughter’s need for medication, as well, and seemed unable to understand why it was necessary. Susan insisted that their daughter’s mental illness was no different than any other medical condition—that medication was a step toward healing and not a step backward. “If she were a diabetic, you wouldn’t tell her not take her insulin,” Susan admonished. Ignorance and lack of understanding from friends and family can make parents feel alone when dealing with their child’s mental health. Add a layer of cultural barriers on top of that and you have a bitter parfait of helplessness and frustration on your hands. Paula Velasco knows exactly what that’s like. She has three daughters of her own that have conditions ranging from PTSD to depression. What makes Paula’s situation difficult is not the scale of mental illness, but the lack of understanding from friends and family. Although Paula was born in Los Angeles, her parents are from Mexico. Hispanic households are less likely to have conversations about mental illness, and it was for this reason that Paula was hesitant to tell her family when one her girls was committed to a mental hospital in Bakersfield. And when Paula did decide to tell her parents,

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they essentially told her that treatment was a mistake. “They said [the doctors] would take my daughter,” Paula explained. “That I would get in trouble, and they would take all of my girls away from me, instead of saying it’s good that she’s going to therapy, and we’re going to be here for her.” Paula’s parents couldn’t understand what their grandchildren were going through. They literally couldn’t see the problem. They only saw three healthy girls. It wasn’t until Paula’s parents decided to visit their granddaughter in the mental hospital and witnessed the sheer number of youth committed, that they finally started to open their eyes. However, despite their good intentions, they were never able to truly comprehend the situation. Like Susan, Paula had a very limited support network. The father of her children was abusive and out of the picture, she didn’t have any friends, and there were few resources in her town of Dinuba at the time. Paula had to learn how and where to find the help her daughters needed on her own. Eventually she found therapists for her daughters, and she spoke to them often. “I had to educate myself,” Paula shared, “and understanding what they go through helped a lot.” Susan had a similar struggle with searching for resources in Tulare County. All of the programs in her area would refuse to treat her daughter because she wasn’t on Medi-Cal. “I was like, what do you mean? We have insurance. It’s not like I’m not a paying customer.” At this point, Susan’s daughter was a teenager, and her condition had only gotten worse. She was getting into trouble often and was resorting to drug and alcohol use. “It was stressful,” Susan said. “I would spend days making phone calls for my daughter.” Fortunately, Susan did find resources through King’s View in Hanford, and her daughter has been healing ever since. But that doesn’t mean the struggle is over, because as many parents know—moms especially—sometimes you spend so much time caring for others that there’s no time left for yourself. So the question is, how do you manage to practice self-care while tending to the needs of your family?

“I don’t,” Susan admitted with a laugh. “That’s what my husband would say. I’m definitely a mom that is like, ‘Oh, what do you need? Let me do that.’ And that’s just me by nature. [My husband] sometimes has to tell me to stop, even if I don’t like it. It’s difficult, but I need to hear it.” According to mental health professionals, Susan’s right. She does need to hear it. Moms like her and Paula become lightning rods. They, on their own, take on the overwhelming burden for their loved ones. They carry it with them silently while giving them rides to school and cooking their dinner. They take it with them to work and keep their phones close just in case. And when disaster strikes again, they take the shock and continue the never ending fight to protect their children because there’s no

how difficult it can be to navigate through that kind of conversation with your child. “It’s a topic that isn’t touched,” Paula agreed. “It’s something that parents try to avoid. But you’re not going to help anyone that way. The only thing I can tell you is that if you see your kid and see that they’re acting different, something is going on. You need to talk to them. And if you can’t help them, get therapy. It does work. If you can help your children today, do it today. Don’t wait until tomorrow.” “Don’t give up,” Susan emphasized. “Find the right resources. They’re not easy to come by, but keep calling. Keep talking to people until you find what you need.”

one else to do it. There’s no denying that this behavior is admirable, and maybe even encouraged in our society. But it’s not sustainable—not without support. “You’re the main person in the house. You need to be physically and emotionally well to help others,” Paula said, as she recalled her therapist’s advice. When Paula expressed to her therapist that God was her main support, she encouraged her to continue going to church, which she did, but she also found solace within group therapy. “Group for parents helps a lot too.” Paula added. “Just hearing other parents and what they’re going through with their kid, like how many times they’ve been in the hospital or what they’ve done. It’s eye opening, because you also know what to look out for.” Although Susan struggles to make time for group therapy and taking advantage of local mental health resources, she recognizes the value in it and encourages her daughter to attend a youth group at Clubhouse Visalia. “You don’t have to talk,” Susan said, remembering the conversation she had with her daughter. “You’re gonna learn a lot. You’re gonna hear from adults that have learned more than you, and the things that they’ve experienced. And there’s gonna come a point in your life where you might be in that situation or experience something like that, and you’ll have a reference.” It’s easy to get a sense of Susan’s openness with her daughter. She’s able to talk to her about topics like medication and therapy. It’s impressive considering

Visalia for a variety of groups and resources. They can be reached at 559-754-2909.

To find a group near you, contact Clubhouse

Redemption

Scars

Relationships are tricky. Just when I think I have the rules of engagement figured out, I realize that they aren’t easily applied in any situation, because we are all different. It was in my formative years that I learned that relationships don’t always fall nicely into place. I have a sister that is 21 months older than me. We always loved each other, but the liking part didn’t come as easily. My sister and I are different in more ways than we are alike. These differences, instead of being celebrated, became a breeding ground for comparison and competition. Those thieves wreaked havoc in our relationship. They stole joy that should have been shared between us. Instead of turning towards each other to embrace and encourage, we turned away to defend and protect. Over time, our story has come full circle. My sister and I have talked about these years in detail with a deep sadness for what we allowed to govern our relationship, which in turn, wounded our friendship. With her blessing, I share of the wounds that have become

Markers of Healing and Restoration Written By CONNIE ARMERDING

Breathe Magazine

“Place these two personalities side by side, and you had oil sitting on top of water.”

close friends and connected easily with others, but was perplexed that an easy relationship didn’t exist between us as sisters. I tried to bridge the gap between us, but was met with a cool demeanor of disinterest. I was confused as to why my sister didn’t like me. We hadn’t had an argument or a falling out. I concluded that who I was bothered her. And I didn’t know how to change that. Looking back, Kristin would say that jealousy was what kept her from pursuing the friendship we both desired. The lie of scarcity dictated the script of our lives. We made a list and decided that only one of us could stake claim to any given attribute. We were both smart, but Kristin was smarter. We both played sports, but I was the more athletic one. You see where this is going. We each laid down gifts that were placed in our hands. Comparison lied and told us there wasn’t room for both of us. And we believed it. This train of thought caused us to believe we needed to cut ties with parts of us that were meant to grow and thrive, but instead we let those gifts begin to suffocate and die. We chose to become small for the sake of pacifying the other. Come to find out, the cost was high. We felt it in our souls and carried with us the ache of a broken relationship.

redemption scars. These scars are markings of a new story—one of healing and restoration. KRISTIN HAS A BRILLIANT MIND At a young age, she played independently and devoured book after book. Her brain is wired to think analytically, and she pursues excellence in all she does. She observes, watches, deliberates, and then intentionally moves forward in action. This methodical approach to living her life has made her into a scholar. She just recently completed her doctorate and works in public health. She travels the globe problem solving on behalf of the poor and marginalized, using the gifts she has been given to better the lives of those around her. I have not met anyone with her level of tenacity and compassion mixed up in one body. She is fearless and strategic and now lives in India. AS A CHILD I WAS FULL OF CURIOSITY AND WONDER I was born with a big heart and even bigger emotions. My energy was fueled by people, and I wanted to be in the middle of the party. I have a fire in my bones to compete, but want to do it alongside others. I feel most alive when I’m part of a team. I’m resilient and passionate. I carry a list a round in my wallet of all the dreams I hope to accomplish in my life. The list consists of twenty-five things. A few have been accomplished, and I aim to scratch off more in the years ahead.

THE TRUTH OF GOD’S WORD TELLS A DIFFERENT STORY. “The boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places; surely I have a delightful inheritance. “ Psalm 16:6

Place these two personalities side-by-side, and you had oil sitting on top of water. We didn’t understand each other, and the narrative, over time, became that “different” was a negative term. As sisters, we always shared a room. There was one particular year where we even shared a queen size bed. We spent so much time drawing boundaries and policing the other person that we completely missed any opportunity to connect. I looked up to my sister. She was gifted in so many ways, and all I really wanted was for her to move toward me in relationship. I had a crew of

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These lines have been designated for us as a gift from the Father’s hand. God is the one who draws the boundary lines around our lives. We don’t draw them for ourselves, and others don’t draw them for us. And the truth of His word tells us that the boundary lines fall in good places and that there is an inheritance that is ours for the taking. But, we have to take ownership of what He has graciously gifted to us. It is our decision whether we choose to fully occupy the land that is portioned out in our name. There is something specific that God has purposed for me to do with my life, and the same is true for you. One of, if not the greatest struggle we face is over our identity. Are we defined by what others think of us or say that we are? Are we defined by our own limitations and what we think of ourselves? The truth of scripture declares that who I am, and who you are, is determined by the one we belong to. “And since we are his children, we are his heirs. In fact, together with Christ, we are heirs of God’s glory” Romans 8:17 God is our Father and we are His children. Our lives are to bring glory to His name. That begins with fully receiving and occupying the designated place set before us. With boldness we receive our inheritance as a co-heir with Christ. We are not of those that shrink back. Lies deceive, thwart, and destroy what was meant to be beautiful and enjoyed in abundance. Maybe today some of those lies are coming into focus. Once they are identified and exposed, they

lose their power. It is not too late! God is the author of redemption and He promises to heal all of our broken places if we let Him. My sister and I spent 23 years managing our dysfunctional relationship. It reared its head all the way through our college years. But there was freedom waiting for us when the lie was exposed. A better road, one full of life, was set before us. I remember the moment that the lie fell to the ground. It was the night before my wedding and it happened at my rehearsal dinner with a room full of onlookers. People had been taking turns toasting Taylor and me on our impending marriage. My sister stood up, and when she had the floor this is what she said: “The tape that is playing in my head is one rooted in comparison. I am fighting thoughts of what my rehearsal dinner was like and how more people are standing to honor you than honored me. But you know what? I am done with that conversation. I am ready to start championing you instead of comparing myself to you. You love well and you inspire, and I want to be the loudest voice cheering you on. I have kept silent for too long.” You could have heard a pin drop. The people in that room with us that night were those in our closest circles. Many of them knew the breakdown in relationship that had existed between us for years. The Holy Spirit moved in power that night with a room full of witnesses. In a moment, everything changed. When we believe the truth, and declare it with our mouths, the atmosphere around us shifts. That was 17 years ago. Since that time my sister and I have begun to experience the relationship we have always longed to share. I am fiercely loyal and she is my biggest cheerleader. She moved toward me with open arms and together we dove headfirst into the rivers of grace and forgiveness. Only with God can the bitter turn sweet in a moment.

onnie Armerding is a writer, speaker and

storyteller. She tells stories of her ordinary life to reveal the hope waiting to be

realized in everyday moments.

lexandra Famisaran

@ARKEYANA

From Three Rivers, CA

Breathe Magazine

TURNING SAND INTO BEDROCK written by DOMINGO MUNOZ

How To Support Those With Trauma

During Army basic, I met a Kentucky native that our company decided to call “Big Country.” I had met seven other Big Countries in basic, so it wasn’t like anyone was being original with the nicknames. I also met someone from the Bible belt. His wife cheated on him when he was in basic, so his upbeat and kind demeanor changed to that of an angry and potentially dangerous person. He was definitely going places in the Army. He was infantry, after all, and they love a soldier with the will and temper of a starving wolf. Although we were all different, and it created tension between us, one thing was clear—we only had each other, and if we did not learn how to tolerate one another, it could very well threaten our unit’s integrity and/or even put our lives at risk. Once I had graduated from basic and moved to Fort Campbell, Kentucky, it was like having to start over. Brand new leadership expected us to prove our worth all over again, and we brand new GI’s only had each other once again. However, there were times when we found recompense. It wasn’t the times that we fought side-by-side, it wasn’t the times that we were training, or even when we were feeling isolated and prosecuted from the outside world. It was when things were quiet. It was when we played Halo, when we flew back from Baghdad, or the time we

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drank and laughed until our conversation became serious and reflective. After my first deployment, we flew over Fort Campbell and neared its airport. The pilot’s voice boomed from the speakers and welcomed us home. He thanked us for our service—or something to that extent, and just then, a pillow flew past me and hit someone in the face. The victim didn’t take it well. He yelled an obscenity and threw it back, but accidently hit someone else. “Knock it off,” a man said as if speaking to unruly children. Nobody listened and the pillows kept flying. One hit me, and I grabbed it with the intent to return fire. To my left, was Alexander Inniss, the “Haitian Sensation,” as we called him. He gave me a look and said, “Don’t do it Munoz. I’ll mess you up,” but in a more expletive manner. I hit him multiple times, and the entire Charlie Company 1st of the 502nd Infantry Regiment joined the fight in a flurry of pillows. A curious flight attendant emerged with a camera, and we concentrated all our fire on her. She ran off laughing so hard that her milky white complexion turned to that of a tomato. The pilot’s voice blared once more, telling us to prepare for landing. The entire plane cheered. We were home. And although not much was shared and nothing was really

said, it was one of those experiences that brought us closer together than our own family. Later that day, I was invited to have a few drinks with fellow soldiers from other companies. As we sat in the backyard of one of their on-post homes, we drank beer and joked around. It eventually led to conversations about our deployment. It got serious. Lives were lost—people we would never talk to again . Whatever innocence we may have had before deploying, was now gone. There was a moment of silence, maybe only for a few seconds. We all looked at each other and suddenly

began to laugh. I wasn’t sure what was so funny at the time, but now that I think of it, I think that Kurt Vonnegut expressed it perfectly at the end of Slaughterhouse 5. After everything that had transpired, the protagonist crawled out of the rubble and saw a vast landscape; saw what used to be homes and businesses now laid to ruin after a bombing. A bird appeared at that moment and went, “Poo-tee-weet.” And that was the end of the book. It made no sense—all of those time jumps, the aliens, and the war. What did it all mean? Well, we knew what it meant that night in Fort Campbell, Kentucky. It meant nothing. Diplomacy failed, and we went in. We fought, we suffered, and some of us died. But in that moment, we were all in on the joke. It was something our families could never understand, but we did. And that was all that mattered. We had each other that night, a community of like-minded individuals. Though we had different experiences and were affected in different ways, we had a couple things in common: We were together, and we supported each other without realizing it. When I left active duty, it felt like I was a free man, like I had wings and could fly the hell out of Fort Campbell. However, I was more like Icarus flying too close to the sun. Being in the military was tough, but at least I had community. Once I was out, the people I had once relied on, the people who invited me to birthday parties or for drinks at the bar, were now gone. I had to start over. And I was alone again.

Back in Kentucky, I had the boys, and their families treated me like one of their own. I went to their barbeques and even read their kids bedtime stories. They supported me. And I didn't get that in civilian life—not for a long time. The Lakota call trauma “nagi napayape,” which means “the spirits leave him.” It feels that way sometimes. It feels like all my energy and joy has left me. Post-traumatic stress is often mislabeled. Viewing it as a disorder can be harmful because it may create an image of someone ready to snap at a moment’s notice. In reality, those with PTS are more likely to harm themselves through alcohol and self-medication. So when it comes to talking with someone who struggles with PTS, I always recommend not discussing trauma right away. It’s best just to talk about their day or their week. Talk about yourself; a one-sided conversation becomes an interrogation quickly. Remember, you're having a dialogue. And try not to compare. Your trauma may not be their trauma and vice versa. It’s possible that your trauma is more severe, but it’s not a competition. Most importantly, don’t ask insensitive questions. More times than I’d like to admit, I’ve been asked if I ever killed someone. That’s like asking a doctor if they ever lost a patient. Not only is it insensitive, but it may put them back in a place they’re not ready to be in again. When they are ready to share something as intimate as that, they will. Don’t push them, or you’ll lose them. And the worst thing to ask, in my opinion is, “Why don’t you just get over it?” My psychologist once told me that Veterans with PTS have the same symptoms of those who survived sexual assault. And I can’t imagine anyone telling a rape victim to get over it. Returning soldiers lose something when they come back. And post-traumatic stress is the aftermath. So when we finally let our guard down and share what we went through, it’s us trying to reclaim that loss. I don’t like to call myself a survivor or a hero. I don’t feel like either. That’s just how I cope. I try to stay humble and helpful. That’s how I work on my trauma. Not everyone will use my strategy, and that’s okay. It’s important to remember that. We are not machines. You can’t just pop the hood and throw pills at the problem. But PTS is treatable, and support is one of the most important prescriptions out there.

THE HEART OF A MENTOR

MANAGIN G MY EMOTION S Written by ART ARREOLA

the source or root cause of our emotional reactions. What causes me to fear and what sets it into motion? I began to understand much of my own fear by first identifying the trigger that caused my heart to shift and adrenaline to flow and flood my veins. I noticed how one minute I could be just fine and in an instant start to panic, though nothing at all had changed around or about me. Now that is interesting! Something triggers a fear or perceived threat within me. Just a thought about an upcoming interview, deadline, or event could send me into a fear dance and ruin a perfectly good day. I began to learn about and then unlearn these patterns in order to break the well-rehearsed response within me. Here’s another thing to consider: The marketing geniuses of Madison Avenue know all too well this truth and use it to make a subtle deep impressions in our minds. When we see a commercial on screen or a picture of an adorable baby on a page, it can provoke emotions that lodge in our subconscious and manipulate or condition us to choose that company’s brand when shopping. We are often and easily being manipulated in this way and don’t even know it. But guess

What is fear? Where does it come from? My teachers and mentors challenge me to be healthy and wise by asking better questions and searching for the answers. It has been noted that babies typically are afraid of two things: a loud sudden noise and the sensation of falling. If this is true, then everything else we fear must have been learned, somehow, along the way. “Anything we have learned we can unlearn with practice.” –Paul Martinelli. The Law of Attraction claims that, “We attract what we focus on.” Thus, the longer we focus on something or operate in a certain belief, the greater capacity we develop to attract those very things until they become our reality. This process can be applied in very healthy and unhealthy ways to program or train our minds to think. However, we know that unchecked, unhealthy fear can escalate to chronic anxiety, depression, and many other negative and debilitating conditions that can lead us to live a trauma filled, unbearable existence. What about the trigger? It is very helpful to know where and what to look for if we want to understand Breathe Magazine

“Perspectives and Expectations are extremely powerful in shaping our Lives” what! We’ve learned that with common fear, we can often observe closely and determine where it comes from. Then we can begin the process to disarm the spark that set things in motion. We develop new, confident responses to things that we once feared deep down inside. “…let me assert my firm belief that the only thing we have to fear is fear itself.” –President Franklin D. Roosevelt. Fear is just one of the many obstacles I have had to overcome to be here with you today. Many years ago a dear friend and mentor, Ernie Kumpe, asked if I would be interested in speaking on Sunday mornings at local churches that were temporarily without a leader. I replied with enthusiasm, “I would love to, but I don’t know how to preach.” “Art, you learn to preach by preaching,” he said. I was so excited that I accepted this wonderful opportunity. Then, suddenly, there went my heart pounding away and my breathing became erratic. I had a great attitude, but zero faith in my abilities to handle such a great responsibility. So what exactly is faith? Where does it come from? There are many definitions and connotations for this word in our culture today, but I have found the author of Hebrews describes it in a simple and most profound way. “Now faith is the substance of things hoped for...” Heb. 11:1. We know that hope promotes a good outlook and expectations. Perspectives and expectations are extremely powerful in shaping our lives. If we routinely focus on these excellent things, they, in time, will become our reality as we increase our capacity to attract more into our spirit through practice and The Law of Attraction. My wonderful mentor, bestselling author and authority on leadership John Maxwell writes, “We see things not as they are… we see things as we are.” Thus,

“Our perspectives determine what we perceive, and in turn, receive from life.” “People only see what they are prepared to see.” – Ralph Waldo Emerson. I always get asked this question from my student mentees getting ready to graduate with their business degrees: “Can you please help me to overcome my fear to interview, network with new people, and public speaking?” It is simply amazing to watch as these young people slowly begin to unlearn their deep seated fear and start to train with confidence, as they develop the skills required to connect with and engage an audience. One of the drills we use is to simply have them stand and recite the Pledge of Allegiance with the poise and eloquence of Abraham Lincoln. Since they already know the words, they can focus on the delivery, posture, and the presence to connect with the audience. The training is what they lacked to develop the competence and confidence to deliver. They understand the fear of failure will always be there in the background. It’s the focus that has changed. In my very first presentation in a college speech class, I had my notes in hand. I was prepared—or so I thought. By the third sentence, I could hear my dry mouth smacking and that greatly increased my discomfort. There’s just no substitute for experience. These days, I always have a bottle of water to drink before and during my presentations. Finally, take a firm grasp of the power of words. The Good Book says, “So then faith comes by hearing...” Rom 10:17. I hope that you have heard and received something encouraging here today that will help you develop the faith, skills, and confidence to be all that you were meant to be and make this a better place for you and me. Just breath.

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YOGA FOR BETTER

Many people are intimidated by the idea of going to a yoga class. However, Yoga has many health benefits, and what most people don’t realize is that it can be accessed by anyone, at any time in their life. To begin a yoga practice, it helps to understand what yoga is so that you can be successful as you progress. Yoga is a perspective, a philosophy, a way to approach life through practiced movement. It has been around for thousands of years and was originally created as a way to unite the human spirit with the divine. This may seem like simply a spiritual journey, but when you look at the vehicle of our body that we are traveling in during our lifetime, how we treat that vehicle has a great effect on our spirit and, therefore, our beliefs about life. There is one aspect of religion that we in the west

LIVING Written By GEORGE JAGATIC, MS

a sense of peace as we stretch ourselves into new and unusual positions. This puts our body into poses and postures that we may not encounter during our daily routine. These new moves stretch us, holding the poses strengthen us, and breathing consciously through our practice keeps us present and aware. Flow comes in as we move from one pose to the next. It can indicate whether we are rushed or anxious, whether we are weak or we aren’t wanting to do something. The poses themselves can also have an effect on how we feel. Each pose has a physiological effect, yet also can have a unique feeling state associated with it. One pose may make us feel strong and another might make us feel humble. Each one can help us get in touch with a deeper understanding of our feelings and how they can be enhanced by our own postures. All these aspects of yoga—stretch, strength, breath work, flow, technique, and spirit—give us not only an answer about how our body is doing, but can inform us about our connection to the greater consciousness. These feelings can be kicked up when a group of people are moving together in synchrony and can be quite profound. My company, Flow Arts, sprang forth from a deep love for movement and a great curiosity about why movement makes such a huge impact on peoples’ lives. My own experience was so profound that it led me back to school for Dance Therapy to study how ones movements affect their mental health. My background in professional dance, Tai Chi, yoga, and flagging established a broad knowledge base of a variety of movement techniques and a deep understanding of how each ones energetic component affects their mind, body, and spirit. Helping others expand their movement repertoire is not only good for them physically, but actually helps all of us be more emotionally flexible and better able to cope with our daily stressors. What flow is and how it can support better living is what I wish to share with the world.

have lost sight of—the connection between spirituality and the body. You can think of yoga as taking one small step toward a healthier life each time you practice. Those small steps begin to add up after a very short period of time and can quickly change not only how your body feels, but how your spirit feels, as well. This can have a great inﬂuence on your spiritual perspective and lead you to continue to explore different ways of being. This path is not as familiar to people here in the Western culture as it is to people in the East where yoga is part of their spiritual journey. Here in the West, we look for a divine connection when we go to church on Sunday, but not when we go to the gym. What would it mean if we took the time needed to really understand what we put into our body and what kind of activity it needs? How might this understanding change the way we approach life, both mentally and physically? This is where yoga comes in. A yogic approach takes both the body and the spirit into consideration and begins simply by breathing. Our breath is our life and in our yoga practice, we connect our breathing to our movement. As we ﬂow from one pose to the next, we use our inhale and exhale as a way to stay fully aware of what we are doing and to maintain

George Jagatic has been teaching yoga for over 20 years. He is the owner of Axis Danz and can be found teaching at Clubhouse Visalia and Visalia Wellness Center.

Breathe Magazine

R OCKS THAT BRING WRITTEN BY MARTIN VELASCO-RAMOS

HOPE

Denise Albright was on Facebook one day when she came across a page called “Exeter Rocks!” It’s for a group of locals that paint and hide rocks in hopes that the right person will find the right message and/or artwork at the right time. They had posted a photo of a rock painted with a pink flower with the words “Be Strong” next to it. Denise had been going through some life challenges at the time. Her husband was on disability and facing early retirement, so she found the rock calling to her. Recognizing where the rock was placed as the Exeter Art Museum mural, she went looking for it. “I still have that rock,” she explained. “It’s in front of where I paint. And I paint every day. I’m always there remembering that I need to be strong, in whatever circumstance it is.” At 64 years old, Denise has done a lot and still does a lot. She runs her own graphic design business, and has worked with the Exeter Women’s Club and Exeter Chamber of Commerce. She was even named Exeter’s Woman of Breathe Magazine

the Year in 2017. But Denise felt like she needed to do more, because she was still very aware of the darkness in our world. “I have had friends that have committed suicide in my life time,” she shared. This is why Denise decided to join the suicide prevention movement by painting and hiding rocks herself. Her hope was that the messages on the rocks might inspire someone to keep going. In fact, all her rock designs include the semicolon in one form or another—in suicide prevention, the semicolon means to keep going. But she didn’t stop there. One day, Denise decided to take her rocks to her therapist’s office and leave them in the reception area for other clients to take. “The first time she brought some, I put them on this little silver tray,” Linda Del Rio, a marriage and family therapist in Visalia, recalled. “And they disappeared like nano-quickly, and to me that means that something there spoke to someone.” Linda was so thrilled about her clients’ interest in the rocks that the next time Denise brought her a batch of rocks, she decided to keep them in her office and try an experiment. She would listen to her clients speak and whenever they made a statement, goal, or problem that

sounded remarkable, she would reach for a rock with the right inspirational message and give it to her client. “And they just love them,” Linda said smiling. “Because little messages like this—little gifts, little tokens—can mean so much to someone who has a need or hope or wish or a problem that it might address.” Denise continues to paint rocks along with everything else she does. Recently, other mental health providers have been reaching out to her about the rocks, some from as far away as Texas. She’s happy people see the potential and are interested in her art. But one of Denise’s goals is to inspire other people to try it out themselves. “The goal is to have other people take on the challenge and do the same thing. It’s a tiny little thing. It’s a perfect message at the right time. And we need more of that out there.”

“AND THEY JUST LOVE THEM.”

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ON REPEAT

The problem with this story is that it repeats itself, so it can start anywhere, but maybe twenty-two is as good a place as any. You’re fresh out of college, no more than three months, and you find yourself chain smoking in your sister’s car—soon to be a 5150. On this day, your sister will save your life because on this day, you break, and when such things happen, a body is a dangerous space. You crawl to the back seat of your sister’s Honda Civic to lie down and cradle grip your cranium, hoping the thinking will slow. You grit your teeth to bite through rogue thoughts, as if this will reprogram brain circuits to flash greens, yellows, and reds like street lights you’re not zooming past fast enough on the way to a hospital. Any hospital. You see, soon you will believe the only option is opening that car door and letting gravity do the work; allowing it tear your body from the passenger seat into a next-lane car that will smash your skull like a pumpkin, releasing the repetitive thoughts, releasing you from that rage in your gut, and from that endless loop of what ifs. The repetitive thoughts and accompanying anxiety are not based on your first-grade obsession with perfect letters or thirteen-yearold compulsion of checking door knobs. The thoughts are even more bizarre, and the fear they create is just as unbearable as the anxiety itself. You plead with your sister to tie your hands because you’re afraid you will act on these thoughts—these strange urges that pump through your blood. Although you know you won’t, it doesn’t feel like you know. For the past few weeks, you have not lived one moment of your day without your brain firing, without the rage of anxiety in every molecule of your stomach lining, in every fiber of your muscles. Every second of every minute of every hour you feel it burning,

Written By JAMES ESPINOZA

and there’s nothing that will make it go away, even when, throughout the day, you plunge a finger down your throat to vomit. The problem with this story is it repeats itself, and the truth is you’re not even sure how it begins. It could have begun back in first grade. That’s when you first remember that gnawing feeling—the electricity running through your gut—that instinct to take your eraser to paper and erase. Then erase again. And again. You’re learning how to write, learning to print letters, and somehow, from somewhere, you get that pang in your belly. It’s that uncertainty and doom, how the dot over the “j” is not centered enough, and how the vertical line of the “l” is too crooked, even though you’ve erased and straightened it ten times. So you erase until the strokes of each letter not only look perfect, but feel perfect; feel as if order in the world is restored. But now there are smudges on the paper like dark clouds, so you erase those, too, over and over until the rubber burns a hole on the paper—until your desk looks like an army of dead pink ants. What you can’t erase, though, is that feeling of panic. It races through your spinal cord and spreads through every nerve ending. It seems to grow and explode deep in your gut. It tenses your muscles, and it urges you to take that pencil up again and erase. At forty years of age, it’s been close to twenty years since that car ride with your sister, so you might understand being twenty-two a bit more. It could be those teenage years, when your father was drinking too much, trying to find his healing from his own childhood traumas. You were too busy playing family peacekeeper, absorbing the household tension, the uncertainty, the anger. You took

it all in, just like your mother also once did as a child in her home. She has told you, for instance, about that one night when a fight between your grandfather and grandmother spilled outside, and how he was searching for his knife among the weeds. She watched all this happening, paralyzed with fear, hoping his drunkenness wouldn’t let him see that moonlight glint off the knife. This could be how an amygdala re-circuits, how a nervous system learns to activate adrenaline, how acute stress turns chronic, and how all of this is stamped in DNA, passed on through an umbilical cord, reverberating a time way back—a time when wolves and tigers lurked in the bush, and it was only this awful fear that kept you alive. And at age twenty-two, it’s this wild fear that has your mind on a string, and the world is sharp scissors. The problem with this story is it repeats itself, like when you’re ten years old and you keep checking under the dining room table and under the couch for something you left behind. You’re not even sure what, but you get this feeling that you left a toy or paper or something, anything, under there, so you keep checking, stealing glances when nobody is looking because even though you’re only ten you know it’s strange. You can’t seem to stop doubting, because that doubt feels too real. It burns deep in your gut and in your muscles— that fight or flee response gone amok—so you wait for everybody to go to sleep and sneak out to check one last time. Or, like when you’re thirteen and you keep checking the doorknob, if it’s locked, if the silvery surface feels locked, though no matter how much you check, it doesn’t quite feel right. So you put palm to metal again, attuned to how your skin feels on the curve of the knob. The slippery smoothness of the slope is this close to feeling perfectly locked, perfect like stenciled letters, but soon enough the doubt creeps in and gnaws at your insides until you can’t hold it anymore, and you’re back in front of that door. It could be that at age twenty-two, like so many other young people, the pressures of the real world remind you that you have no idea what you actually want do with your life. All along you’ve been following the plan of school, of making it to college, of graduating college, because at the end of the day, your immigrant parents sacrificed their lives to make this a possibility. You know this is one of the only ways you’ll be able to escape a life of labor, a life you already know too well. The thing with education is, if you do it right, it will rattle your core. It will make you question the world, yourself—everything. It will undress humanity, and you won’t be able to look away from its nakedness, the beauty and ugliness. The thing with book-heavy questions is that they dig deep, and sometimes, before you know it, you feel lost, the blues turning darker and darker. And then, of course, there’s that part of your brain on repeat, always in those shadows. The problem with this story is it repeats itself, and at age twenty-two your sister will drive you to an emergency room where you will try to explain a brain on repeat as best you can to the emergency room doctor, and to the psychiatrist on call at the hospital, who keeps asking if you’re “hearing” these thoughts. Just as you spelled it out to the ambulance driver, who lets you know you’re lucky all the county

beds are taken, so you’ll be headed to the Kaiser facility, you’ll tell it to the nurse on that first night, scheduled to not leave your sight. And then again to the staff psychiatrist at the mental health facility, who will prescribe a cocktail of anti-psychotics, mood stabilizers, and anti-depressants, and who will eventually come to the diagnosis of obsessive-compulsive disorder and clinical depression. You’ll describe it in detail to the girlfriend, soon-to-be ex, who visits and attempts to assure you that everything is going to be okay, and to the other patients who gather three times a day for group therapy. Then you’ll expound on your brain issue to the clinical social worker upon your release one month later, and to the shaman in Guadalajara, Mexico your mother finds because she worries this might be some sort of hex. Likewise, you’ll tell it again to the psychologist who straps an apparatus on your head that transmits subtle electrical currents, but also to the notebooks you’ll fill, writing about the repetitive thoughts in order to desensitize your brain and gut, and eventually to the cassette recorder where you record these thoughts and “what ifs” as part of exposure response therapy. The problem with this story is it repeats itself, how at age twenty-seven, for instance, you find yourself once again at a therapist’s office, trying to explain your obsessive-compulsive, depressive brain, and wondering whether to laugh or cry at the poster that announces “When you’re at the end of your rope, tie a knot and hang on.” Or how, earlier today, before you sat down to finish writing this, you had an appointment about your Wellbutrin. Yes, the problem with this story is how it repeats itself, how it repeats itself again and again and again, but the best part is how you, too, repeat.

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THE SUN MEANS HOPE PRIVATE WRITER

When I asked him if he was having suicidal thoughts, I wanted him to say no. I wanted him to tell me I was overreacting. That refusing to leave him alone was unnecessary. That me slamming my hand on the roof of his car over and over again until it went numb and swollen was just plain stupid. That losing my temper and yelling for him to “Let me in,” was overdramatic and insensitive to our sleeping neighbors. And maybe it was over the top. Maybe he wasn’t going to kill himself that night. But I was scared, and I didn’t want to lose him, so I took his keys and called the crisis hotline. The first night my mother and I visited him in the mental hospital, they took all our personal items and directed us to a high-ceiling room resembling a cafeteria. It was so cold—it felt like they were trying to keep the dead from rotting. We sat there in silence with other families until he appeared. He still wore the light blue scrubs worn by mental patients in the emergency department at Kaweah Delta. His eyes were like dark pits. The last 24 hours had taken a toll on him. My mother embraced him and held him as if he would disappear at any moment. I kept my distance, cautiously observing him as if he were a wounded animal. I watched his eyes. They stared blankly ahead into an invisible abyss as he held my mother’s hand.

We spoke to him softly. I tried to explain that he was safe here. If he needed anything he could speak to the nurses, and if he felt unsafe at any point there was a security guard nearby to help. He simply nodded his head, refusing to lift his gaze from his feet. I felt his anger toward me. When he did look at me, his eyes spoke to me in harsh whispers. You did this to me. This is your fault. I cried afterwards in the parking lot while my mother now held me. I cried again soon after in my girlfriend's arms. I walked away from each encounter feeling emptier than I did before. It was as if the grief was violently tearing out my vital parts. When I finally arrived home, I walked straight to my father’s room. He was lying in bed, calmly reading a book on repairing family ties. “He hates me,” I said. My father looked up at me with mild interest. “How do you know?” “He won’t even look at me.” My father paused. “Well, you didn’t give him a chance.” I thought back to the moments before I called the crisis hotline, to the concerning texts where he said goodbye, and to the conversation about his plan to end his life in his car. I imagined a world without him. It terrified me and

nearly drove me to madness. But now I was in a world where he hated me. And I wasn’t sure which one was more terrible. I looked at my father and asked for permission to hug him. “Claro, mijo.” So I clung to my father and emptied what was left of my sorrow onto his shoulder. “I love him more than anything in the world.” The words were painfully true. “I know, mijo. I see the way you are with him.” Afterwards, I crouched on the floor and apologized to my father. I repented for misbehaving in my youth, for causing pain and worry to my parents. He forgave me, of course. But what I didn’t mention was how ashamed I was for hating my father in the past. And worse, I was penitent for letting that hate be known. I now understood what it was like to sacrifice parts of yourself for the person you love most, and to have that love repaid in suffering. It was akin to my view of hell. So I had to make sure my father knew that I didn’t feel that way anymore. “You know I love you, right?” My father smiled. “Si, mijo.” The conversation with my father had helped some, but I still needed guidance. So I reached out. I spoke to close friends. I visited mentors. Everyone told me that I did the right thing—that I saved his life. One mentor, in particular, showed me a silver badge in the shape of the sun. In the center of the sun was a smiling face that resembled Breathe Magazine

the Buddha, joyful and caring. He said that in suicide prevention the sun means hope. He gave me the badge and called me a hero. I was grateful for the gesture, but met the word “hero” with some resistance. I couldn’t shake my guilt. I didn’t save him. I merely handed him off to someone more capable. The next night, I didn’t visit the mental hospital. My mother said that my brother didn’t want to see me. I didn’t want to make the process more difficult, for all of our sakes. I decided to search for a support group instead. My mentor advised me the National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI) hosts a variety of support groups and encouraged me to search for a local one. So I googled the organization and reached their hotline. Coincidently, there was a Family and Friends Support Group that same night at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church on Hall Street in Visalia. I was very familiar with that church. I had covered its events many times in the past as a journalist, specifically their homeless outreach through their annual warming center. But this was the first time I would be visiting the church searching for help, instead of a story. I drove that night with my silver sun in the breast pocket of my jacket. My intent was that maybe it would remind me to be hopeful. It was only maybe 48 hours since the hospitalization and the weight of the admission was slowing me down. It was difficult to concentrate. In class, my thoughts would constantly return to that night. At home, I was becoming irritable, apathetic. When was the last time I slept? I couldn’t remember. My lower back replied with a muffled throb, reminding me of my broken sleep during his stay in the ER. I made the sign of the cross with my thumb and index finger, put it to my lips, and pulled into the church parking lot. The support group was basically a collection of parents. Some were angry. Others were stoic. Most of them were worried sick. I sat in that circle patiently as they told their stories. One mother, an older Filipino woman, explained how her daughter was bipolar, and she hadn’t seen her since last October. Apparently, she had escaped from a variety of mental hospitals and fled from the police in San Bernardino. Before that, her daughter was a straight A student at a prestigious university, working towards her doctorate.

The couple next to the Filipino woman related with her, explaining how their daughter has not been the same since she returned from university. “I just want my daughter back,” the second mother said. Another woman shared how her son has been in and out of jail for years and detailed his meth addiction and subsequent slip into insanity. She looked the most weary of the bunch. The support group meeting was long, and I was one of the last people to share. “You did the right thing,” the oldest woman of the group said after I finished the retelling. I laughed mid-sentence to mask my pain. “That’s what I keep hearing.” But why is it so hard for me to believe? “He’ll thank you later for what you did,” she assured me. She looked at me with such conviction when she said those words; she could have been a prophet foretelling the second coming of Christ. And I believed her at that moment. I believed that I did the right thing, and that my loved one would rise from the dead, life would return to his broken vessel, and those dark eyes would light up with life again because of it. When I left that room, I had a handful of pamphlets containing resources and some business cards in my hand. I hugged and shook hands with everyone, and then we went our separate ways. Outside the church, homeless people were lining up for a chance at hot coffee and a warm blanket. During the last couple years covering that warming center, I interviewed dozens of homeless and listened to their stories.

I even walked alongside some of them during those cold winter nights. I always thought that St. Paul’s provided people with warmth and shelter. But I was wrong. What that church really gave people was hope. And it took me needing it to realize that. Three days later, he was discharged from the hospital. We didn’t really talk that first day. It was a difficult week. I was physically and emotionally drained by the end of it. And to be honest, I was still hurting. It wasn’t until the next day that we both happened to find ourselves alone together. We were outside with the sun brightly shining on us, and it felt nice on a chilly morning like that one. I lit a cigarette and kept a good distance away so he wouldn’t inhale the smoke. We stood there for a while with nothing but the sunlight, the smoke, and the silence to fill the space between us. I don’t remember how it started, or who spoke first, but someone broke the quietude, and he lit up just like I envisioned him during group therapy. He told me about the people he met in the hospital, and how boring it was, and how they prescribed him the same medication as me. We compared doses, and I explained how the medication worked. He listened. He told me stories. I listened. He talked more than I can remember him ever talking. He smiled. He joked. He laughed. We laughed. I finished my cigarette and went back inside. He never thanked me for what I did for him. And he never apologized about what happened. But no one should have to apologize for feeling the way he did. It’s hard enough just going through it. We don’t talk like we used to. And that makes me a little sad. But we’re both still healing. So I hope we can work on that one day. I hope that the woman from the support group is right, and he understands why I made that call. I hope he forgives me for yelling at him and hitting his car. And I hope he forgives me for loving him so much. Until then, I carry my silver sun in my breast pocket wherever I go, and I’m grateful every day to have my little brother back.

Love and Trauma

Written by DESTINA HERNANDEZ

A Journey of Imperfection

THEY TELL YOU THAT LOVE IS THE " CURE ALL"

In the media, love is portrayed as this search for your soulmate. They tell you love is a “cure all,” that as long as you try hard enough things will always work out. You see this message in social media, television, books, and even music. The part they forget to mention is that falling in love is different for everyone, and mental health can play a large role in the relationship. During my second semester of college, I met a boy in my English class that I immediately had a crush on. He carried the typical bad-boy persona. He was brooding, had tattoos, and always arrived late to class. But for me, the cherry on top was when he told me that he was the president of the Creative Writing Club. I loved the escape that a pen and paper brought me and had written since high school. So you can imagine that if I had a guy type, a writer would definitely be my weakness. Our relationship didn’t blossom right away, of course. A couple months went by with me staring at him in class, but he barely acknowledged my existence. Our story didn’t start until we began to bond over our shared passion. One day, we ended up on the same project together for Lit Hop in Fresno, a walkable event that showcases local writers of all ages. We shared our writing and read together in preparation for the event. Eventually, he started seeking me out on a daily basis. I introduced him to the poetry slam scene and watched him grow as a poet. We went to Denny’s, went on drives, and literally talked until dawn. We fell for each other. But my anxiety and his depression didn’t mix well. It made our relationship chaotic and unstable. It was a roller coaster. The extreme lows and highs were there from the beginning, and went from the “I love you” that was said during the first week, to avoiding any affection months later. When we were six months into the relationship, a pattern emerged that looked like “let’s get married'' one day, to “I need space” the next. Once we were two years in, the conversation shifted to “let’s move in together” during one month, to “I want to break up” in the following month. Navigating all of this was one of the most challenging experiences of my life, because I came from a family where

mental health wasn’t a topic of discussion. I have memories of my mom telling me things like “you have no reason to be crying” or “you have no reason to be sad.” This taught me to shove every emotion I had into a tomb where I could lay them to rest. And I thought it worked. I thought I had sealed everything away for good. I once had a high school boyfriend who was very sweet and did everything that boyfriends were supposed to do. We were together for a while, and he told me that he loved me early on. But I remember looking into his eyes, and telling him I couldn’t say it back, because I literally could not feel anything for him. After that relationship ended, I wrote essays in high school about how love didn’t exist and wrote poems about the false ideas that surrounded it. I learned to stop feeling my emotions by staying busy. I joined journalism, played softball, and performed in band. I tried to do as much as I could to keep my emotions at bay. I was scared that if I rested, every feeling that I had buried would come flooding back. But I couldn’t keep them buried forever,

“MY ANXIETY AND HIS DEPRESSION DIDN’T MIX WELL”

and it eventually came rising to the surface in my future relationship. My college boyfriend and I started speaking of more serious plans to move in together, to get married one day, and relocate to Texas for school. It all came so fast—too fast. All these plans arrived before we could even think about taking care of ourselves first. All of the love that was poured into these plans was too much for me to handle. I would get extremely anxious about losing everything, to the point I needed constant reassurance. And eventually that anxiety created an urge to self-sabotage. I started to think of ways I could ruin the relationship. I thought if I destroyed it myself, then I could avoid the pain of being hurt by someone else. While I was struggling with my anxiety and selfdestructive behavior, my boyfriend had demons of his own. His depression would keep him in bed most days. He stopped going to class, smoked weed frequently, and constantly lost himself in his writing. It hurt me to see him suffer, and it was exhausting. We broke up. However, it was a significant moment of realization for me because even though a profound love had ended, at the very least I learned that I was capable of feeling love for someone else—a pure love that hurt—but it also showed me one of the best parts of being alive. We got back together, eventually, which was something I thought would never happen. When it did, we talked about our needs and about boundaries to make sure our

relationship stayed healthy. This was also when our couple’s therapy journey began. We both realized that it was our poor mental health that pushed us further and further away from each other. And as cliché as it sounds, it was the love that we had for each other that made us determined to change that and create better versions of ourselves. But we didn’t know how to do that exactly, so we reached out. College of the Sequoias had provided my boyfriend with a voucher to find a therapist at a significantly discounted rate. Fortunately, we were able to use that same voucher to get ourselves a couple’s therapist through Family Services. Neither of us really knew what to expect from couples therapy. We knew that we wanted to understand each other, and we wanted to learn how to communicate better. Luckily we were blessed with a good therapist that helped us work on that. We learned about each other’s triggers, the time of year when our trauma was at its worst, and how our depression and anxiety revealed themselves. We cried in our sessions and talked about some of the ugliest parts of our lives. We didn’t always walk out feeling like we were back on track. However, we did learn skills that helped us to lean in to our problems and work on our relationship, and we learned how to grow as individuals while we were at it. If this article says anything at all, I want it to say that we are not perfect. Our relationship has never been perfect. Media feeds us this ideal version of what love is supposed to look like, but we fail to realize that we can create our own unique version of love. My boyfriend and I have been through betrayal, stress, frustration, and the push and pull of emotions, but somehow we always manage to come back to each other. There’s this misconception that couples therapy is a last ditch effort to save your relationship—to save something that is broken or prevent separation. But the goal of therapy, at least for us, wasn’t about how to fix each other. It wasn’t about becoming perfect or achieving happiness. It was about becoming the best version of ourselves possible. And we still work on that, every single day.

Sriracha Honey Chicken Ingredients 2 pounds chicken wings, thighs 2 tablespoons olive oil 1 ½ teaspoons ground thyme 1 ½ teaspoons garlic powder 1 teaspoon ground paprika 1 teaspoon salt 1 teaspoon ground black pepper 3 tablespoons raw honey 3 tablespoons butter 2 tablespoons sriracha sauce 1 ½ tablespoons soy sauce

Directions Step 1 Preheat oven to 350 degrees F (175 degrees C). Line a baking sheet with aluminum foil. Step 2 Combine chicken wings/thighs, olive oil, thyme, garlic powder, paprika, salt, and pepper in a large bowl. Mix chicken until coated and arrange on the baking sheet. Step 3 Bake in the preheated oven until an instant-read thermometer inserted near the bone reads 165 degrees F (74 degrees C), 45 to 50 minutes. Step 4 Combine honey, butter, sriracha sauce, and soy sauce in a saucepan over medium-low heat; cook and stir until butter is melted and sauce is smooth, about 5 minutes. Step 5 Pour sauce into a large bowl. Transfer chicken from the baking sheet to the bowl using tongs; toss until coated with sauce. Place coated chicken in the oven for 5-8 min.

DEVIN Poem By MICHAEL JASSO

When I ﬁrst gave you a name, My intention was to have something To mark your headstone. You were meant to be laid to rest, But depression cannot be easily buried Without ﬁlling extra spaces in the ground— Not without pulling back the covers Revealing that monsters Just get better at hiding in our mind. Sometimes even the darkest Secrets carry to the grave; It’s enough to make the skeletons In closets roll their heads.

Can be uprooted from this family tree. Better to break off a branch With poisoned fruit than let it spread Deep within our bark. I named you Devin to remind myself That you are just as ﬂawed. Just as broken. Just as human as I am.

I decided to name you out of caution To prevent being labeled “In Denial,” Scarlet letters burn too heavy On the mind. Like hot coals, Your name is handled with care. Speak it too loud and leave With burn-blistered lips.

That you are as much a part of me As the hands that ﬁrst scrawled Your name onto the canvas. If I must, I will wear you like a scar; A reminder that we are both dangerous— That one day one of us will pull Or push too hard, sending the other Spinning out of control. So I named you Devin, To give gravity to our relationship.

I named you Devin because Depression Doesn’t roll off the tongue the same way; It comes with pills too hard to swallow.

I named you Devin because it hurts Too much to name you Thief. What crime could be worse than stealing a life?

I named you Devin to remind myself You are just an uninvited guest At a party I’d rather not attend. Names like yours are never said Out loud at family dinners— It has always been better to brush You under the table. If we ignore you, Perhaps you will eventually go away. This family can do without a Devin, Can do without passing as inheritance, Can do without tainting our bloodline,

Not all of us have mastered grave robbery, So before I am laid to rest, you should know That you won’t hold me down like the dirt Shoveled over my body. Even some secrets aren’t worth Carrying to the grave.

Anxiety II

I walk down the street and the shadows of my choices leer up at me Twisting themselves from twigs and stones, Live bark and long-dead carcasses Sometimes even the wind If it blows just the right way Knocking down snags and kicking up shit I did when I was thirteen– And stupid. I trip over old thoughts (Forget-me-nots) I scrape my knee and ﬁnd myself back at age four Screaming ‘til I lose my voice at monsters in the closet And asking my mother the only two questions: “Why?” and “What if?” (And screaming ‘til my throat is raw) (At the demons in my closet)

And I just wonder what will happen if I mess up And what will happen if I already did. Did I? Did I mess up? I’m pretty sure I’ve messed up. And what does that say about me? And how? And why? And what if? And what do they think? And what will they say? And what should I think? And should I say it? And if I say what I think I should think, but don’t say the thing I think I should say, Do you think that they’ll think I should have said it the other way? (Who are they?) And am I too old? And if so, Why do I feel so damn young? Like the top half of two children in one overcoat Sneaking into an x-rated ﬁlm Which I’d hoped would be better But just gave me nightmares. And can I go back? Just for one hour, To when I didn’t have all these questions?

Poem By KATIE TAYLOR

Or at least, To when I could believe the answers? And can I go back? To a moment when my mom tucked me in at the same time every night And stood by me, praying Praying to keep the monsters out of the closet And laid by me, breathing Reminding me that I wasn’t alone And talked with me Before the shadows became too abstract to escape my throat, Showing me that I wasn’t a freak. Maybe someday I’ll walk here again (Maybe tomorrow) And the bushes will have turned back to bushes The trees to trees And I’ll throw my head back in the sunshine and drink it, Laughing Steward over my own thoughts once more (Even if it’s just tomorrow.) As the sharpened branches that grabbed my ankles and cut my wrists yesterday Shrink back into the now emasculated shadows– Immobile (For now) Silent (For now) Dead (For now) Looking as innocuous to me as they do to every tourist who wanders down this street (For now.) And I’ll smile while I can (Right now) And when I stumble I’ll bite my own blood and look forward to tomorrow, Or the next day, or the next– When I can step on my shadows Grind my heels down into them Until they’re dead. As dead As they would have me.

I’d Name Names

Poem By BY KATIE TAYLOR

The tic-tac electricity, telegraph phantom pain The warmth of a shower Cold wind in a sunrise The surprise of tears at the end of a romantic movie when you're alone, I mean really alone. To my then-and-there when my friends Weren't in my when-and-where, To my twenty-fourteen When we were both teens My heart’s instinctual guess At the light on the screen For the soap bubble dream– Just you and me in a ninety-day team Unnoticed together in our midnight screams. You could quote me my diary All backlogged in texts Cause I know today and twenty yesterdays went by Without me ﬂitting through your mind, but Forever etched in your memories There’s a six-month pressed-ﬂower version of Me That you could recite like rhymed poetry During all of those nights that you couldn't fall asleep Remembering me and not counting sheep. Done and gone, but trapped in your head like some old song You heard once and played every day for a week– Until you got bored ‘Cause that’s all we were And so much more. I just wanted to say Though we've picked our forked paths, Though we've replaced ourselves and all that we meant and all that we were, Though we've spent all our potential on the dreams that we dreamt through, And burned all of our could’ve-beens as fuel for unspokens– I just wanted to say Thank you.

THE THEATER

Poem By BRINN SPENCER

Today my mind instructed me to die, In a voice I’ve heard so many times. And I’m pretty good at following directions. But instead, I went to the movies alone. I sat in the dark absorbing The smell of popcorn as previews Went by collectively ignored. I felt alone in that crowd. But as I sank into the plush And eased into that shadowy chair, Something occurred to me: Others have been in this seat. They watched these bright lights gather On the big screen like our ancestors Stared at the stars. Their silhouettes Remind us we are not alone. I felt an unusual peace, A feeling never enjoyed Among the presence of strangers. To feel it in this place of recreation Was surreal, to realize this is life. This is me living. I spent my life in the back of the theater Staring at the exit sign, Looking for a chance to run. But now I wait to catch every showing. You could say I have a mortal Fear of missing out, so I can’t leave In case of a bonus scene. Today, I watched the credits unspool And read the names of people Who have done something with themselves. Today, I have done something with myself I have gone to the theater And learned something. I have the ticket stub to prove it.

MY BATTLE WITH DEPRESSION AND SUICIDE WRITTEN BY MICHAEL VARELA Growing up I always thought my parents had me too

warmth inside along with the laughter and joy. Now imagine

young. My mother was 18 when she gave birth to me, and

you’re on the other side of the wall hearing yelling and

my father 19. They did their best not to make me feel at

emotional bitterness. Imagine feeling responsible for that.

fault for their trials and tribulations while raising me, but

This is where my depression started.

somehow, I always knew the truth. The truth was that I

“I have to be something,” I would tell myself. But with

was responsible for a lot of misery and was never going to

grades that looked like they were struggling to say “failure,”

amount to much to compensate for it.

it didn’t look like things were going how I had hoped. By

Did you ever hear the music of a party while you’re

the time I turned seven, my mom was fed up with my below

outside in the rain? Even though you’re on the other side of

average report cards. She would say that there was no ex-

the wall leaning against the cold brick, you can still feel the

cuse, and that I was just lazy. She was probably right. But

she really cared, and that’s why she was so frustrated with me. It would take me ten times longer than other students to retain the information. I wondered, what was the point? When I was in in fifth grade, my mom said this would be the year I would turn things around. “You can do it,” she’d say everyday like my own personal Rob Schneider cameo. My parents did everything they could to help, from tutoring to after school programs. They spent tons of money and resources. Then the moment of truth arrived, and I got my first report card that year. I got an A in P.E. and an F in nearly every other subject. I couldn’t take the disappointment on my mother's face anymore. Cut back to months prior when I saw an R-rated movie with my cousins. In the film, a man walked into his bathroom to see that his wife had killed herself in their tub by slitting her wrists. Subliminally, the idea settled in my mind like a restless obsession. I felt compelled to do the very same thing as the wife in the movie. I grabbed a knife and made my way to our bathroom, but jolted at the sound of my mother opening our front door. She saw me with the knife and asked what I was doing. I wasn’t much of a liar at that point in my life, and even if I was, I couldn’t think of any reason why I would be walking to our bathroom with a knife, so I told her the truth. She crouched down to my level and started to cry. Up until that very moment, I knew nothing of hell—only heaven. I had been worried about death at a very young age, but my mom told me we all went to heaven when we died. I figured I could kill myself now, and I wouldn’t have to be a bother to her anymore. “We could meet up in heaven later,” I told her. “No,” she said and proceeded to explain to me the concept of hell. If I killed myself, I would definitely end up there. There was no easy way out of life for me. I could either stick it out and continue to be a disappointment,

or face eternal damnation. At least that’s what I thought, until I completely lost my faith. My senior year of high school came around, and I was finally getting my life together. I had chosen a goal, which was joining the U.S Marine Corps. The only problem with this goal was that I was joining for all the wrong reasons. “Why do you want to be a Marine?” my recruiter would ask me, and I gave them some fake generic answer. If I shared the real reason, they wouldn’t have let me in. The truth was bad—I was still suicidal, and I just figured that I could die making my parents proud. I joined infantry, and I made it through boot camp. However, once I got to the fleet, I was getting screamed at for making colossal mistakes. I had always been a screw up in my life, but in the Marines that was intolerable. Not even my peers could put up with me. But for me, the worst part about the military wasn’t getting screamed at every day. It was the loneliness. Before getting to the fleet, I had one friend in my infantry school. One of the many things we had in common was suicidal ideations.

He had tried to kill himself and ended up being held back. So I went on without him.

that day still makes my fingers sweat and my heart pound. I still deal with depression, amongst other things, but I

Once I made it to the fleet, I was given a room in the

cope by spending time with those who care about me. I play

barracks. I noticed on the front door of the room was my

video games, read graphic novels, and watch some of my

name, along with my infantry school friend’s name. We could

favorite dark comedies, like “In Bruges.” Sometimes I write

have been roommates. All throughout my childhood, it was

stories where the characters deal with similar problems I’m

my friends that helped me during difficult times. I felt safe

dealing with, then add exciting, out of proportion problems

staying the night at their houses, because there wasn’t any

and have them heroically overcome them. These characters

yelling. But now, I was in the Marines. My only friend was

make me feel less alone and less of a loser, because they

gone. And I was trapped with people who shouted out that I

can battle an 11-foot demon while also dealing with that

was failure. I might as well have stayed home.

invisible monster Depression.

One month into the fleet, I cut my wrists in the barracks. A lance corporal found me. The next day I had a talk with

My friends are home to me. And although most of them are spread out now, either in college or in a faraway state, I

the first sergeant, then with a psychiatrist who concluded

still have a few nearby that I hang out with often. I’m distract-

that I was suicidal and sent me to Balboa Hospital. When I

ed from my dark thoughts when I’m around them. I make

returned from the hospital, I discovered that I could no longer

them laugh, which makes me feel a little more important at

be in the Marine Corps. I didn’t leave immediately, however,

least. I also tell them my story ideas, and they encourage

because I still needed to fill out some paperwork.

me to write them. I dream of becoming a graphic novel writer

The next few months went by very slowly and were even

one day, and those dreams keep me moving.

more depressing. Some of the other Marines told me to, “Try

I admit that it’s hard when the people who make me hate

harder next time.” They were referring to my suicide attempt,

myself are the ones that I love the most. Loved ones can put

of course. So I did.

an uncontrollable and desperate fear in me. I want to escape

My parents came to visit me on one of my “Libo” days,

them, which throws me into a viscous cycle of self-hatred.

which is basically Marine Corps slang for the weekend.

I was reluctant to write this, because I knew that no mat-

After I spent time with my family, I felt a deep sadness that

ter what, I couldn't make them proud. Love, in all its different

followed me eagerly like an invisible monster. Before my par-

forms, is complicated. It’s why I live, but it’s also why I tend

ents drove me back to base, I decided to follow the advice

to wish I were dead.

I was given and managed to get my hands on a bottle of

But I’ve had enough self-hatred in my life. When I listen to

painkillers. I forget how many I took because I didn’t care.

the lyrics of “2:45 AM” by Elliott Smith, I cry because I think

I just didn’t want to take any chances this time. The

of my suicide attempts. I think of my friend from boot camp.

drive back to base was four hours long, and I took the pain-

I think maybe I’m not the only one feeling this way. I think of

killers at the beginning of the drive. I started to feel a pain in

my friend who went to a hotel room to kill himself, because

my stomach, and I asked my parents to pull over.

he couldn't stand the pain of being alone. And that’s why I

It was all a blur. My parents took me from hospital to hos-

keep writing. I don’t want anyone to feel that way—not if I

pital, and I felt terrified. If I did end up succeeding in killing

can help it.

myself that day, I was positive I would have regretted it. What if I died that day? The sadness on my parent’s faces was permanently engraved in my mind. Remembering