Up the Mountain: Part I, The Character

Article submitted. Deadline met. I’m done with my Mental Health article that I put so much sweat and tears into. Well, maybe not tears, but I did violently fist the air on multiple occasions at the imaginary apparition, hanging over my shoulder, that represented my story. I’ve spent weeks struggling to shape something that when I was finished with it I wanted to do more than just burn. But it wasn’t all smooth. It was certainly a strenuous climb to the top.

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So there I was staring up at the top of this mountain, wondering if maybe I should have picked something a little smaller. Of course you can’t even see the top, you never do. All you know is it’s big as hell.

I take off full force, enthusiastic, energized. I had thought my biggest obstacle would be finding someone who was willing to share their personal story with me about their experiences dealing with a mental illness and seeking treatment in a rural area. I wrote an entire post on what stake-holders I would contact to get the human interest element that I needed for my story. I’m down a half of year’s worth of business cards and fancy letter head, attempting to create the most confidential method I could think of for stakeholders protected by HIPAA laws, doctor/therapist-confidentiality, or basic morals to pass my name on to individuals who they think would be willing to talk to me. My fingers were crossed. All that effort and I don’t get a single hit. Not even one.

But it’s okay I’m just barely start to slip back down to the bottom before I luck out.

Have I mentioned that the agriculture extension office shares a building with the parole office? Small, rural towns make me smile. I roll into the parole office one day and ask if anybody has a few minutes to talk to me. I hate cold calls, but I love cold visits. I take pleasure out of just showing up. I dress down. One of my colleagues dresses up. He says he feels like he gets better responses when he’s dressed up. I say, I feel like I get better responses when I’m dressed down. Sneakers, jeans and a cotton shirt. My name is Marona, no last name needed. Maybe because I’m a female? Or maybe because I’m a black female in the south? Or maybe my smile is just so incredibly disarming that once you see it, you want to hold nothing back from me. Who knows. He leads me to Florence’s Manor, which I also blogged about. This is where I met Amanda. She shares her story with a level of transparency, that only makes you wonder, if she’s sharing all this, is there anything left to even hold back?

I’m taking that mountain in stride. I’m halfway up, and not even out of breath. Or at least that’s what I thought.