Author:Paul Gilmartin

Maggie Mull

The 28 year-old writer shares about being unemployed and an only child, her fear of abandonment, being born with club feet, body and sexuality shame and the depression that often makes everything feel like an effort.

Follow Maggie on Twitter @IAmMaggieMull  Check out her Tumblr Page “Artwork: Me Style!”

This episode is sponsored by Sharri’s Berries.  To purchase them and support our show visit, click on the mic in the upper corner and use our offer code MENTAL.

This episode is sponsored by SquareSpace.  For a free trial with no credit card required visit and use the offer code MENTAL at checkout for 10 percent off.   To see the SquareSpace site that Paul built click here.


Oops I Went Off My Meds: A guest blog by Jenny McIlroy

In retrospect, I’ve struggled with depression for as long as I can remember. But I didn’t know what was wrong with me — or if anything was even wrong with me — and I certainly had no idea that I could feel any differently until I was nearly 25-years-old (I’m 32 now). That’s when I went to my doctor, spurred by my dad being diagnosed with depression. He had described to me how he felt and I recognized it as the same thing I had felt all my life — most notably, the sense of going through the motions of a life and not truly feeling much. He was prescribed Lexapro and it made a huge difference for him. My curiosity was piqued; I wanted to see if this pill could do anything for me.

It changed my life.

I remember swallowing the first pill before bed, hearing the doctor’s words echo, “It may take a month before you feel any effect.” — I had no faith and I felt hopeless that night. I woke up the next morning with something I would describe as a tiny “buzz” in my brain. It was as if a teensy switch had been flipped on as I had slept. Later that night, I went to see a Swedish metal band called In Flames play (go ahead, judge away) and had the best time of my life. I had been to countless other shows over the years and always believed I had had a great time, but that night I was able to really enjoy myself. I had a genuinely good time out in public with friends; and that was brand new territory for me.

That little pill gave me the ability to open up my brain to experiences and thoughts that were previously foreign to me. I had no idea it was even possible for me to feel like a real human being who entertains genuine emotions. I stayed on Lexapro — or some generic form of it or Celexa — for 6-ish years. I weaned off anti-depressants in May of 2013, confident I would be OK.

Then, in May of 2014, I had a full-body, straight-up nutzo anxiety attack. Although, I believed I was having a heart attack, as nothing like that had ever happened to me before and heart disease runs in my family. I thought, “Holy shit! Im having a heart attack, even though I exercise daily and eat better than most of the bipedal beasts roaming around these parts!” I went to an urgent care, where I was checked out to make sure I wasn’t dying. My body was fine, of course. The problem was in my brain. However, the physician informed me that they do not prescribe anti-anxiety medication for anxiety attacks. As I left the examination room — simultaneously holding in vomit and nervous shits — the physician said, “I dont know if youre religious or not, but please know that god never gives you more than you can handle. So just breathe through these thoughts youre having.” As odd as this sounds, her advice brought me comfort. With those simple words, she let me know I wasn’t alone in my abject lunacy.

The anxiety attack happened on a Friday afternoon, so I tried to maintain until Monday, when I could make an appointment with my doctor. However, the anxiety attack turned into what could probably best be described as a nervous breakdown of sorts. I simply could not function. I worked hard to get my mind off my mind; I even made some really sweet-ass picture frames out of old barn wood that weekend. Nothing worked however, and I ended up going to a different hospital’s ER on Sunday morning.

I was ushered into the ER’s Psychiatric ward, where I was once again told that they would not prescribe medication for an anxiety attack. But I insisted that I needed something, as I could not continue on without some relief — I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t sleep, I was manic and I was scared of where my brain was going to take me next. I knew for certain I could not get out of the state I was in on my own. The ER’s psychiatric nurse somehow convinced the doctor to prescribe the lowest dose of Lorazapam. I’m very thankful for that relief, as I was able to go home and sleep for a few hours before my mind revved back up.

Before I had left he hospital, I asked the nurse if she could help connect me with a psychiatrist, as I had never visited one before. She ended up printing out 17 pages of psychiatrists in the Kansas City metro; each page had 15 doctors listed on it. It felt impossible to wade through. In fact, it was impossible. There was just no way I could dig into it and figure out which ones would take my insurance, then research them and make an appointment with one…Yeesh! It was an overwhelming task at the time. I was fortunate that my youngest sister (who is also a huge fan of Mental Illness Happy Hour, by the way) sees a psychiatrist and was able to refer me to hers. I was able to get in to see that doctor a few days later. She didn’t take my insurance, but I was desperate for relief and happy to pay the price. She diagnosed me with major depressive disorder and generalized anxiety disorder (as well as an anxiety attack). She put me back on Celexa and added in Gabapentin. I’ve been on both of those medications since the first week of June. She also gave me some Xanax to help get me through the continuous anxiety attack I experienced for over a week after it began.

This whole ordeal cost me thousands of dollars; which is very funny to me now, as anxiety about finances was a major factor in my depressive spiral that led to all of this. I had such a slow and steady mental decline from May 2013 to May 2014 that I didn’t even realize it was happening. I started a business in 2013 (although, looking back, I have no idea how I was able to do that in my depressive state) and I used the tininess of my income — which I rationally understood was normal for a new business — to beat the shit out of myself on a daily basis. That eventually made way for me to turn anything remotely negative about myself (i.e. EVERYTHING) into a nice, girthy beatin’ stick. My broken brain was unable to see the potential of my business and, more importantly, my potential as a person.

I’m happy to report that in the last couple of months (really, more like the last few weeks), I’ve been able to plug in and make plans for the future. I’m so thankful for mental health professionals and medication that have allowed me to gain this new, clearer perspective on my life. My heart breaks for people who have a mental illness, but do not have a support system or the means to get help. To be honest, although I thought I did, I do not think I ever truly appreciated what mental illness is before I experienced this event that rubbed the very serious nature and reality of it in my face.

Spending time in an ER’s psych ward will do that to you, I suppose.

Although I knew I had some form of mental illness all along, I never used to consider it significant or “real” in comparison to others’ problems. I think listening to Mental Illness Happy Hour has helped me to understand that just about everyone has their own struggle with their own dumb, broken brains and it’s pointless to compare our issues with someone else’s. Talking about mental illness and discussing our struggles — no matter their severity — is vital for public awareness and acceptance. Plus, as Mental Illness Happy Hour proves on a weekly basis, sharing on this topic usually leads to some pretty incredible voyeuristic delights; and that’s certainly something we can all get behind.

For more of Jenny follow her on Twitter at and/or her posts on (


My Experience with Police as a Young Black Male: A guest blog by “Dee”

“If you haven’t done anything, then you have nothing to worry about.”

Right. In a perfect world that would be great. Oh sorry. Let me explain. Growing up as a black male, I have heard non-black males say that exact same thing to me. It is in reference to cops harassing black males. Ideally, that quote is correct. If you haven’t broken the law, you should not fear the police. You should see them as your friends. An organization that is out there to serve and protect us. Unfortunately, that is not the case. The following is one account of my run-ins with police officers.

My first major incident happened in 2002. I was at college and was studying for final exams which were in two days. I was a 19 year old freshman. It was approximately 1:45am. I was rather hungry, so I ordered a pizza. I paid for it over the phone with my credit card. I had done this many times before, so it was nothing new. Because I lived in a not so nice area of the campus, the pizza delivery guys wouldn’t actually come up to the room. We would have to go down and meet them on the street. But like I said, this was nothing new. They told me that the delivery time would be about 45 minutes. So while I waited, I watched TV, played a game on my computer, and went to the bathroom. I took about 30 seconds in the bathroom. At 2:30am, I heard a knock at my door.

So like I said before, the pizza delivery guys would never come to my door. So I was extremely surprised that this pizza guy came to my door. I looked out the peep hole and to my surprise was two university police officers standing on the other side. Confused, I opened the door. They asked me where I had been in the past 20 minutes. I shared with them the lackluster night that I was having and told then them that I was waiting for the pizza guy to call me so I could meet him and get my pizza. The two police officers looked at each other and then told me that somebody had taken the pizza from the delivery guy. I told them that I had been waiting in my room this whole time.

The two police officers leave for about two minutes, then come back to my door. They tell me to get some shoes on because they want to ask my some questions down at the station. I said sure. So they escort me down the stairs, out the door, and finally out to the courtyard. In the courtyard is a large crowd of students. You see, they were all attracted to the two police cars that were illegally parked in the courtyard with their lights flashing. They then tell me that I have the right to remain silent and read me my rights. Confused, I asked if I was under arrest. They told me not yet. Then they handcuffed me and put me in their car. I then see them talk to a man who I now know is the pizza guy. I see him shake his head yes. They get in the car, and speed down the street to the police station.

We arrive at the police station and I am taken to an interrogation room. They take my handcuffs off so I can write a statement of what I was doing that night. They then ask me to verbally say what I did that night. Scared, the officers then handcuff me to the chair. I know they were scared because one officer said “I have to handcuff this guy, I’m not used to suspects not being handcuffed.” They then call in the investigator. He asks me for my story again. So again, I tell him. Now, what you guys probably don’t know about me is that I am very mild mannered. I mean, I stay calm in most situations. In fact, my personality served me well when I was an EMT on an ambulance. But I digress.

So during this, what is now an interrogation, I remain calm. The investigator tells me that I am lying. He instructs me to “tell the truth”. I tell him the truth…again. Again, he tells me that I’m lying. Then tells me that they not only have me on camera, but they have my accomplice in the other room. And of course my accomplice said that I did it. I asked to see the video. His answer was, that’s official evidence and I can’t show you. I was questioned for about four hours. The entire time telling him that I not only didn’t take the pizza, but I also paid for it on the phone with my credit card.

They then asked if they could search my room. Not having anything to hide, I consented. They searched my room looking for pizza boxes I guess. And of course they find nothing. They then take me back to the police station to question me for another three hours. The entire time maintaining my innocence. I then ask the investigator if I can ask him a question. He responds with: “This isn’t your place to ask questions!” I just shake my head. I was going to ask him a very simple question: If I was going to swipe the pizza from the pizza guy, why would I pay for it first?

So I then sit there for 45 more minutes. This time by myself in the interrogation room handcuffed. The officers were all fighting about who was going to transfer me to the country jail. Nobody wanted too because their shift was coming to an end. So they waited for a person from the morning shift to come. On the way to the county jail, I ask this new officer if I can ask him a question. He says, “Sure”. I then ask, “If I was going to swipe the pizza from the pizza guy, why would I pay for it first with my credit card?” He makes this confused look on his face and then radios in to the police station. He says, “Yeah this guy I’m transporting says he paid for the pizza.” That’s it though. You see, I already told them that I paid. They even made a copy of my credit card. They didn’t care though. So we arrive at the county jail.

Seeing this place, two thoughts go through my head. The first thought was: I’m gonna wake up from this dream at any time. The second thought was: I’m gonna get raped.

Jail isn’t like they show on TV shows. The cells weren’t these squares with bars around them and an officer just outside the cells. This place was just like the show on HBO called “OZ”. Exactly like it. I had to change into a blue jail uniform. But that was after I was strip searched and made to take a shower in front of a large black guard. And I kid you not, this guy had the nerve to say “You missed a spot.”

To make a long story short, I was charged with felony robbery by sudden snatching without fire. Yeah, that’s a real charge. And it’s punishable with up to 15 years in prison. A few days later, I saw the judge, and was released on a $1000 bond. You see the judge that I saw had a problem with the case. She said that I didn’t even match the description of the man that the pizza guy gave. Three months later, the state decided to drop the charges. I then then had to go through the process of expunging the arrest from my record. $2500.00 went to my lawyer as well. If you think about this whole story, you realize that I was actually the one that was robbed. You see, the pizza company charged my credit card $11.79 for the pizza. I never received the pizza. Ridiculous. But at least I wasn’t raped in case you were wondering.

Was race a factor in this? I’m not sure. But it made me grow up and mature much faster than a normal 19 year old kid. Being stripped searched does that. And it also let me know that we are guilty until proven innocent. But this is just one of many stories.


Arianna C

The 40 year-old shares about her traumatic upbringing (incest, religious extremism, abandonment) and the ways her body and mind learned to cope; hallucinating, going numb and following strangers and elaborately envisioning how to kill them and get away with it.


This episode is sponsored by Shari’s Berries.  To get the MIHH deals and support the podcast click on the link then once at their website, click on the microphone in the upper right hand corner and use the offer code MENTAL.


Renee M.

The Hispanic, 31 year-old PhD shares about the downside of raising herself up by her bootstraps; growing up knowing she couldn’t depend on her passive mother or gambler father, and now finding her emotional development lacking, especially in areas of trust, intimacy or being comfortable asking for help.


Remembrance: A short film by listener Christopher O’Brien

I believe in stories. Stories are all that we are, individually, tribally, even as a race. Stories create the lives we live for good or ill, and after many retelling, stories can be hard to change. They may change, by accident, by tragedy, by force of will, but it ain’t easy.  

Two years ago I was committed. It lasted 10 days. Ten days of safety that allowed me to break the cycle of alcohol abuse and suicidal ideation. I am still not sure if I wanted that. And since then it has been two years of sometimes doing what I am told. Mostly showing up, occasionally doing the right next thing. Just this past summer I acknowledged baby steps.  

A year after being released, give or take, and just three weeks into a new living arrangement with strangers, I had an experience that made me pause. Like a frozen cod slapped against my numb face.  I handled it well, as I can be stoic in times of crisis. Then a year went by, and my drinking escalated, and my scratching returned and I suspected it might be due to the approaching of the one year anniversary of that event.  I had already written some stuff, and I just had aquired a video camera, and I thought I might be the only one who would remember in a remembrance way.  So I made a film and this it.

Christopher O’Brien – Ottawa, Canada