Book Sample

What is it like to live with mental illness?

Turn the page for a glimpse...

 by Kelleen Dawson

(Note: The following is still a rough draft.)

Chapter 1: Why me?

Every morning, I ask myself, “Why me?” My answer never changes: it’s always, “Why not me? I’m not better than anyone else.” Depression and anxiety are part of my life. They hold my thoughts hostage on every occasion and are my uninvited companions. Finding the right treatment is my obsession.

My mental illness is a daily struggle… and no one should have to dance with this monster from hell. I live in a nightmare while awake… and I want out. I will keep searching until I find my miracle: a calm mind.

In 2011, the government bailed out many important banks while homeowners were losing their homes, including me, Kelleen Dawson. I was 57, homeless, and broke.

After selling most of my belongings, my calico cat, BooBoo, and I hit the road. I restarted my career as a traveling salesperson, using my ten years of experience in advertising sales for restaurants and hotels. One significant perk of my new job was that I didn’t have to pay for lodging. This solved the problem of keeping a roof over our heads.

She is my tireless travel companion. Night after night, her playfulness eased my stress. For the next eight months, we were homeless, and we slept in one hotel after another for free.

Chapter 2: My Monster

As I exited the main highway on my way to the first city, I noticed a small shopping mall next to my hotel. I thought to myself, “I’ll go there after work tomorrow and buy the new clothes I need.”

The next morning, I woke up late and rushed out the door. The GPS directed me to my first appointment near the town square. There were benches, a playground, trees, and flowers. It was perfect for enjoying beautiful spring days. But as I looked around, something puzzled me. People, professionals, and laborers alike were sitting on benches, eating their lunches. “Wait a minute,” I thought, “today is Tuesday. Shouldn’t they be at work?”

I later learned that most businesses in the area took their lunch breaks around the same time. I had gotten a late start, so I grabbed some lunch and found a shady bench to sit on and eat before starting my day.

The afternoon went much better than I expected. It turned out that this town didn’t see many traveling salespeople. The town was a gold mine, filled with some of the friendliest people I had ever met.

After work, I drove to the mall to shop for clothes. I was exhausted after shopping, so I sat on a bench near the food court to catch my breath. That’s when my monster from hell reminded me why I had put off this shopping trip for so long. It was because I was unhappy with my appearance, and my monster knew exactly how to exploit that vulnerability. I tried to silence it, but it ignored my pleas.

This monster called depression doesn’t discriminate; he knows no boundaries and follows no rules. It lingers from the moment I wake until I go to sleep, blocking every thought, every spark of joy, and every hint of anticipation for things I used to enjoy. It leaves me feeling worthless, lifeless, and dangerous to my own well-being. Yet, I keep holding on, searching for that glimmer of hope and the promise of a calm mind.

I attribute it to my brain, and I know where it comes from: genetics. Mental illness often runs in families, and many in my family struggle with it, even though most choose to ignore it. My parents are third cousins, and I’ve been told that it can play a role, but I don’t know for sure.

I inherited a genetic disorder that makes finding the right medications a challenge. Life can give you a tough hand, but the true test is how you live with this unwelcome guest in your mind—the most vital organ in your body.

Amidst this internal battle, a woman in her forties sat down next to me, her gaze fixed on the food court wall, lost in thought. I recognized that distant look, as I often experienced it myself. She wasn’t putting up a facade or hiding her pain. Her suffering was plain for anyone to see. After a couple of minutes, she let out a deep sigh, and her hands jerked suddenly, her drink tumbled off the bench, spilling ice everywhere.

I promised to get help and left to gather paper towels from the nearby vendors in the courtyard. Together, we cleaned up the mess, and I introduced myself.

“Hi, I’m Kelleen,” I said, turning to her. “I’m Shelly,” she replied warmly.

We began talking, and I asked her what was wrong. “It’s everything and nothing,” she replied.

“Have you ever talked to anyone about your problems?” I asked. She shook her head, showing she hadn’t.

“Well, I understand because I face similar challenges, and I’ll listen if you want to talk,” I said.

“Well, I really don’t know how to explain what I feel anymore. I just feel lost, lonely, and confused. Sometimes I know why I feel sad, but sometimes I don’t have a clue. All I do is cry and sleep, and I’m always tired,” she said.

I explained to Shelly that regular depression and depression caused by a chemical imbalance are quite different. Remember the worst moment you have had in your life so far. It could be a divorce, losing a job, someone betraying you, or even the loss of a close friend or family member. Now, remember how sad and awful you felt. You may have sought professional counseling or medication for a brief period. You could reach out to your friends, church, or a family member for help. There were options available for you to get help.

“You’ve done that before, right?” I asked. “Yes,” she answered.

I continued explaining that it helps to talk to someone or go somewhere to take your mind off your sadness. You had a reason to be depressed. Now, multiply that feeling you remember by 100 times, but here comes the kicker: depression caused by a chemical imbalance has no reason. So, when someone asks you what’s wrong, you say you don’t know because you don’t know. This is when you start your journey for help to find the reason and a treatment. I told Shelly that she was not alone and that I also have the same problem.

We talked for another hour and discovered we had many similar experiences, though we both knew that depression manifests differently in each person. Before we left to go our separate ways, we exchanged phone numbers. When you help someone, it helps you as well.

Over the years, I have faced many common life challenges, but I could find solutions. After I made my decision, I put the plan into action, and I solved my problem. It felt good that I could share with someone and get advice, or just figure it out on my own. When I’ve lost dear family members or close friends, it was much harder, but again, help was available. So, I call this double dip depression. It’s ironic how my mind knows the difference.

My depression started when I was 13… at first, it began as moodiness and boredom, feelings I couldn’t explain or share with anyone. I didn’t want anyone to notice, especially not my mother. She believed in keeping her children busy to keep them out of trouble. I participated in so many activities—YMCA, track and swimming teams, Girl Scouts—that I barely had time to breathe.

Every Thursday evening, my family and I spend two hours cleaning the house. My mother had ridiculously high cleanliness standards. While I understood her obsession, I hated Thursday nights. I wish we had spent more time on family activities, but the house had to be spotless.

My mother had grown up in extreme poverty, the fourth of eight children. She lived in a tiny, dilapidated house in the country with her seven siblings, father, and mother.

To buy a few clothes and a single pair of shoes each year, she had to pick cotton. The rest of her wardrobe was hand-me-downs. She endured teasing at school for her shabby clothes and her lack of cleanliness. She made sure that I was always well-dressed and clean growing up, determined that I didn’t have the same experience that she had as a child.

In my twenties, my mood swings and boredom intensified, and anxiety attacks crept into my life. I kept switching jobs because I feared getting fired, even though I always received excellent reviews. Sometimes, the anxiety was so overwhelming that I struggled to breathe. My paranoia about losing my job grew with each passing year, and my monster saw an opportunity to tighten his grip on my mind.

By my early thirties, my anxiety and depression had increased substantially… the alarm goes off and it’s hard to get out of bed. Why bother? My monster seized my first-morning thought and left an emptiness in its wake. Nothing felt worth getting out of bed anymore. But when staying in bed longer would cause me to be late for work, I had no choice but to force myself up and get dressed. I had bills to pay, and my children deserved the best life I could provide. It wasn’t their fault that I had this monster, and it certainly wasn’t mine.

Getting up was even harder on days when I didn’t have to work. What was the point? Except for my two young children, I had no reason to get out of bed. My husband usually handled the early morning hours because he was a morning person, and I was grateful for that. I’d rather not get up at all.

The monster saw an opportunity to dig even deeper into my psyche, telling me I wasn’t worthy of my family, my friends, or any happiness. So why bother? The monster snuffed out any inkling of doing something enjoyable. It was relentless, and I often gave in, going back to sleep. When I was asleep, I didn’t suffer, so I slept as much as I could every day. I knew I was sleeping my life away, but it was my temporary escape.

Why did this happen to me? I was 34 years old, and my life was spiraling out of control. I didn’t know what to do except take my medication, which allowed me to function somewhat normally in society. Privately and professionally, I yearned to find my way back to what I considered normalcy.

Normalcy means being able to take care of myself properly and engage in genuine conversations without pretending to fit in. I longed for authentic conversations. It meant enjoying a hearty laugh, a movie, music, a book, or a party. It had been so long since I had derived joy from the simple things in life. My number one goal was to rediscover my life, to find my miracle—a calm mind.

I finally pulled myself out of bed. As I looked at myself in the mirror before leaving the bedroom, I mustered a smile for my family, but it was far from genuine. My smile was rarely real; it felt fake, a cover hiding my turmoil. But what other choice did I have? None.

I couldn’t confide in my husband because he didn’t understand why I wanted to sleep so much, and he acted like he didn’t care. He was waiting for the right moment to leave. He had decided.

I understood why he planned to leave. He wrote me out of his life. I had lost him. Our connection was gone. The relentless grasp of my monster destroyed it. 

When I walked into the living room, my husband asked me what was wrong. I replied with the usual, “Nothing.” I had become adept at telling these little white lies; without them, no one would want to talk to me. So, I hid my suffering behind my invisible mask, and I loathed that mask. I had become part of a private club that I never wanted to join.

The next day, my one-week vacation started. After sleeping for two days straight, I realized I needed to do something, anything. This town had a park with geese, and I thought a pleasant lunch in the park might lift my spirits. I found a picnic table in the shade and sat down to enjoy my meal.

Unfortunately, choosing that table turned out to be a disaster, as I became the major attraction for every bug within a mile radius. It was unbearable, and I had to leave. Then I remembered that the town had a shopping mall with a movie theater, and I could have popcorn for dessert. I love movie popcorn.

I always preferred going to the movies by myself, with one exception—my father. When I went with him, I knew it would be fun. I could escape my sadness for the duration of the film. Going to the movies was my refuge when life became too overwhelming. My father and I would choose a major supporting character and view the story from their perspective.

He taught me to do this, and he always challenged me to figure out who the killer, the liar, or the culprit was before it was revealed. This practice taught me to see more while watching a movie unfold. My father and I shared two grand passions— movies and history. We would have long, engaging discussions on both topics. It has been many years since he passed away, but I still enjoy watching movies this way.

My father wasn’t a talker, but he gave me advice two times when I was in my early twenties. His love advice was sincere. Once, when I got engaged, he asked me if I liked him. I said I loved him, 

but my father reminded me he didn’t ask if I loved him, but if I liked him because at first, love is passionate. Liking him becomes important after a year or two because that’s when real love begins. If you don’t like him, things can fall apart quickly. Really think hard about liking someone more so you can love them longer. Even then, there’s no guarantee since people will change, and all you can hope for is that you both change together.

I broke my engagement the following week. I seriously thought about my dad’s advice because it was the first time he ever gave me advice, and I believed it was his way of telling me not to marry him.

His second piece of advice was to pay attention to your instinct. He told me if I ever got an uneasy feeling when I was driving, shopping, or out walking, and even if I don’t see anything wrong, leave. You don’t need to wait to see if you were right. He told me to listen to your instinct because it may save your life one day. A few years later, I wished I had paid closer attention to this advice.

Both movies playing were ones I had seen, but I figured it was better than sitting alone in my hotel room. But soon after the movie started, I became overwhelmed by depression and couldn’t focus, so I left the theater. Nothing interested me anymore, nothing. I couldn’t understand what was happening to me. Why was I feeling this way?

My parents ended their 48-year marriage with a divorce. During the last 20 years, they both had changed, but not in the same direction. He trusted his instinct and took his own advice. For five years after remarrying, he was happy until his death at 77. I miss him dearly.

Back in my hotel room, there was BooBoo, my beautiful calico cat, waiting for me on the bed. BooBoo didn’t care where we laid our heads. If she was with me, she would be content. She meant just as much to me as any person. She gave me unconditional love. 

I sat down on the edge of the bed, and she came over and snuggled, seeking a comforting pet, but it was hard for me to pet her. I had hoped for a quick night’s sleep, but I ended up lying there, staring at the TV not paying attention. My sleeping pill was taking longer than usual to work.

Sleep was often elusive, with frequent awakenings. Sleep was my only escape from the monster, but sometimes he didn’t even let me enjoy that. He was relentless, continuously chipping away at my will to live, and he never stopped. I slept with a noisy fan, and the hotel’s air conditioner was extremely loud as well. Together, they drowned out his laughter at my misery. But the relief was temporary because he only grew louder in my thoughts.

My life is worth fighting for, and I knew if I didn’t give up, I would find my miracle—a calm mind. I was determined and bullheaded enough to keep searching until my last breath. Perseverance had always been my strength. Breathe Kelleen and take a deep breath. Breathe.

Do you hear me, monster? Do you? I hope you do because I am going to conquer you before our journey together ends. So, do you hear my roar?