Erase and Start Over

The resurfacing memories of a woman with PTSD.

Category Archives: Depression


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Rest

camelliasTick, tick, tick, tick, tock, tock, tock, tick…I can’t help but notice the irregular pattern because the house is so silent that there’s nothing else to hear. I know it means the battery needs to be replaced, but I don’t move from my armchair. I don’t write it down. I don’t even note it in my mind to remember later.

My mug is on the coffee table, just inches out of reach, but I don’t lean forward to pick it up. It’s cold by now, anyway.

I don’t know why I am still here. I got up, drove Daisy to school, turned the car toward home, and ended up here. Again. My laptop is over on my desk, waiting for me to upload morning posts for my Facebook clients. I need to finish writing a client’s annual report. We’re out of towels, so laundry is on my list. I have a client I am meeting at noon, and a potential client at four, then a job interview for a church secretary position at seven tonight. I should take out some chicken to thaw for dinner. The newspapers need to be taken to the recycling bin.

Tick, tock, tock, tock, tick, tick…

Tasks float in and out of my mind like dust motes in a ray of sunlight. They gleam for a moment before slipping into the shadows. I feel empty. Pointless. There is nothing to do that I haven’t done before. As soon as I do them, I’ll have to do them again. The repetition leads nowhere. Nothing is ever finished.

My head has lowered into my hands. I don’t remember doing it, but the light pressure of my fingertips feels comforting on my forehead. The light is now seeping through my hands as well as my eyelids, making the shadows slightly pink. Orange-pink. Salmon. I like salmon-colored roses.

I raise my head and settle back into the armchair, picturing salmon-colored roses mingled with miniature white daisies and plenty of green fern. No, not daisies. Big, white camellias in full bloom, taking up most of the space above some piece of tall, elegant porcelain, with the salmon roses and green ferns dressing them like jewels in luxurious hair.

Thoughts of my cell phone, calendar, chores, are gone. There are only flowers of white dappled with rich salmon and green. So beautiful. My shoulders finally lower. My chin is dropping. The colors are so beautiful.


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Still Swimming

Some mornings, I don’t get out of bed unless I have to. I’ll drive my teenager to school at 6:30 a.m., have a cup of coffee, and crawl back in bed to read or stare at the ceiling or sleep. Not every day. Just on bad days.

I know my ceiling well. It is an eggshell white, covered in a flat matte paint that glows a soft gray in moonlight. I’ll keep the blinds closed so as to gray the daylight, too. If it weren’t for the silence, I could imagine being in a darkened room in a pristine hospital, with whispering nurses shuffling in to take my blood pressure, check the monitors, smile gently to me, nod to each other, and quietly leave.

How nice it would be to be completely helpless in a hospital bed. If I ask for my cell phone to check in with work, the nurses would say shush, your boss called and said you are only responsible for getting better. When my daughters visit and I tell them I’m sorry, that I’ll try to get home as soon as possible to take care of things, they will say shush, we are doing just fine, you are only responsible for getting better. When friends and colleagues notice I’m not at functions and write-ins and volunteer events, they’ll understand and nod and say they are glad I am getting better.

There’s no judgment in a hospital. No one to tell me I have to get myself out of bed, shake it off, get over it already. When you’re in a hospital, people gasp or draw their eyebrows up in concern. They ask if there’s anything they can do to help. They agree that bed is the best place for me, and don’t shake their heads and silently accuse me of shirking my duties.

My sister, Beth, sent me a text this morning with pictures of snowflakes, telling me she thought perhaps I had lost my childhood sense of wonder, and if I could just rediscover it by remembering how much we loved catching snowflakes on our tongues when we were children, and spend some time recapturing that sense of wonder we had as children, perhaps I would get better sooner. She’s not judging me. She’s genuinely concerned and wants to do something to be helpful, to fix it.

I know she reads my FB posts. I am sure she’s grabbing at straws and can’t possibly believe I have lost my sense of wonder. Laying in bed doesn’t stop me from spending time on my phone Facebook app. I share amazing photos from several of NASA’s posts that depict with incredible beauty the wonder of our universe. I laugh at silly kitten videos just like everyone else. I share charitable events and moving human interest stories, news of the world, and curious discoveries and advances in STEM fields.

No, I have not lost my sense of childhood wonder. I can stand on the edge of a ridge at Thacher Park and marvel at how far my eye can see. I can feel my knees wobble as my soul soars toward the blurred curvature of the earth in the distance, where the mountains fall away on this big blue marble of ours.

I eavesdrop on my daughters’ conversations in the living room. I don’t feel guilty about that – a living room is a public space where they know I could walk in at any moment. Besides, if they ever did begin to talk about something clearly private, I would back off. Raise your eyebrows if you want to – it’s true. I think trust and loyalty are the two most important aspects of any relationship, so yes, I back off as soon as I get even the tiniest tap from my conscious that perhaps their words are not meant for my ears.

But I digress. The point is, laying in bed, with the bedroom door cracked, and hearing those two young women laughing over some creative music video or debating whether a dress is blue with black trim or white with gold trim, is music to my ears. They are bonding and building memories that will last them a lifetime. No matter what happens to me, they will have each other, and my guilt at the idea of leaving them settles more gently in my chest at the thought.

Because part of me does yearn to leave them. To leave everything. I’m tired of surviving the crashing waves only to battle them again another day. I’m weary. I’m done.

I still feel awe just remembering the beauty of the sun rising over the Atlantic before a whale-watching trip one summer. I still thrill at the idea of the next adventure one of my fictional characters will take in one of the many half-written manuscripts I have laying around my computer files. I am confident that whatever job I end up with next, I will do it well and earn my salary and kudos.

If I leave, all that would end. If I leave, I will not hold my grandchildren – if I have any – on my lap. I won’t see my sister Amy married to the man I know is just around the corner for her – her one true love that I am as confident is waiting for her as I am confident the Earth will still turn tomorrow.

And I think that’s my point. The Earth turns perfectly fine without me. I am but one small speck in the mass of humanity that is struggling to survive every single day. My daughters will bend under the weight of economic downturns and natural disasters and disease just like I have, just like everyone has and will. Life is very hard, and the human spirit can only take so much of it. I’ve protected my girls from most of it, but not too much because I want them to be strong for whatever may come. I am confident I succeeded.

It’s different for me. Hard life came early for me, and it has aged me before my time. My daughters are filled with the youth and vitality I had lost by the time I was 20. At nearly 50, I feel 100. I’m too tired to keep going, but no one believes me. They say I just need to snap out of it, go for walks in fresh air, taste a snowflake on my tongue, get out of bed and I’ll feel better.

My throat is tight, even at the back and up and down my spine as I write this. My face is hot, and there’s pressure in my ears and nose and eyes, forcing the frustration of being unheard to wetly spill over.

I do get out of bed. I tend to do chores now as necessary, rather than a little every day, but I still do them. When Daisy runs out of jeans, I’ll do laundry. When Demi is working too late too many days in a row to take out the trash, I’ll take it out. It took me two months to unclog the hair out of my bathroom sink, but I did do it. I work every day – if not a steady job, at least I’m temping or pulling my laptop into bed with me to blog for $8 an hour.

I am functioning, but that’s it. I’m going through the motions because my daughters want me to. My sisters want me to. It doesn’t matter that I feel like an old horse that is still drawing a cart long past its prime. They love me so much, they’d rather see me draw that cart with my arthritic tailbone, heavy heart, and dragging spirit than finally – gratefully – lay down to rest forever.

If I did go to the hospital, I could get some rest. But they would pump me with drugs to artificially raise my spirits, I guess with the philosophy that I can fake it ’til I make it. But I’m not sure how that’s so different from binge-watching Netflix, Hulu, or Amazon Prime. (Yes, I have all three. Together, they are still way cheaper than cable). A well-crafted story can always raise my spirits. But story or drugs, neither solve the fact that I must still find a way to survive, pay bills, provide for my daughters, and basically be a productive member of society.

I’d rather be home than the hospital anyway, laying in my own bed, surrounded by the little things that remind me of who I am – like my books and movies and photographs and the voices of my daughters. I would have access to my laptop and cell phone and can explore NASA and Scientific American online. I can curl up into a ball and remember and remember, chewing on those memories until I’ve examined every corner – like poking a tongue into a hole in my tooth, flinching when the pain comes but refusing to stop until I am completely sure I know what it is I am exploring. I need to remember and journal and remember some more – so I can get it all out of me, like squeezing the pus out of a festering wound. All the stories and drugs in the world won’t cure me any better than getting all that yuck out of me once and for all.

And when the pain of squeezing gets close to more than I can bear, stories will give me some escapist breathing room from the stresses of those memories of my too-long life on my tired old soul. I could be an alcoholic or worse, but nope, I find odd jobs, pay what needs to be paid, cook what needs to be cooked, clean what needs to be cleaned, and then stare at either the ceiling or stories until the clock ticks to my next task. Once in awhile, I will get up and join my daughters in the living room. Sometimes my smile is a little strained, and sometimes it’s genuine, but I make the effort because I love them and don’t want them to worry about me laying in bed alone all day. No one believes this either, but I actually like being alone.

I got another text from Beth suggesting I should imagine myself in my perfect retirement setting, that little Cape Cod beach house I would love to have, with weekly maid service and plenty of money to have a nice Christmas with my family and to enjoy a dinner and movie out once in a while, and stay home writing Pulitzer-prize-winning stories every year.

I read The Secret. I have walked The Road Less Traveled. I know the Color of my Parachute. I have no problem imagining my best life. I know the first step to achieving is to imagine. The second step is to write it down. The third is to break it down into smaller, achievable stepping stones. For all of you who are hooked on self-help, let me just say this: make sure your needs can be met by your practitioner or self-help book. Some conditions are more serious than what these folks are trained for. No life coach in the world is prepared to deal with cases of childhood rape or domestic violence, and don’t let them try to convince you otherwise.

I think my growing disdain for self-help comes from the fact that I’ve done it already. They aren’t telling me anything that isn’t basic common sense, that I haven’t already done for myself. I went from being a stripper to reading and writing law impacting millions of New Yorkers. I went from being a battered wife to becoming a successful single parent with two smart, confident, successful daughters who have no trouble taking on the world as needed. I have overcome poverty more than once. I have proven I can fall off horses and get back on. I am a helluva strong woman who has even looked attempted murder in the eye and overcome that, too.

Imagine my retirement and make a plan to get there? Sure, no problem. Of course I can do that.

I just don’t want to. I’m TIRED. No one’s going to make that plan for me – I’m going to have to do it. I’m going to have to imagine, plan, and execute all by myself. Again. And succeed or fail – all on just my shoulders – again. No one’s going to do it for me. No one’s ever done it for me. Since I was six years old, it’s been on me, and I’m just too damned tired now, after 40-some-odd years of troubleshooting. It’s way past my turn to sit down on the curb and let someone else do the driving. Why do people have trouble getting that? Enough already. I’m done.

I say that, yet here I am, knowing that when I finish typing I will get up, put in a load of laundry, check my email, and plan dinner. I wish I could sit with my daughters and make a plan for their future, as well as a plan with a timeline to say goodbye, but I won’t. Whatever I say, no matter how calmly I say it, no matter how sensible my argument and supporting points, they will insist I pull the cart and pretend it’s not too heavy for me now.

Drugs, exercise, stories – none of them are a cure for being done with life, but any one of them will help me bear the cart a bit easier. And as I keep going, perhaps one day one of my stories will have meaning for someone. Perhaps I will get my cottage on a New England beach. And my sisters and children will nod and smile and say see, aren’t you glad you’re still here?

And I’ll nod and smile.


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Checking In – La Parte Dos

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TRIGGER WARNING

Monday  June 2, 2014 12:30 p.m.

I was trembling from the time I left my office, through the cell phone calls from my car trying to find help, to the time I pulled into the garage of the medical office park. I felt physically sick and lightheaded, and my emotions were swinging from anger to trepidation to relief and back. I was going to get to talk to someone and get this all out of me, and everything would be back to normal tomorrow. I locked up the car and headed to where I thought the entrance was for the Capital District Psychiatric Center. Every step was a struggle. I wanted to sit down in the middle of the road and just cry. But I made it to the building and, after a little confusion, found the right entrance. The door was locked, so I pressed the buzzer and waited, wishing there was a bench to sit on.

The unprepossessing entrance was opened by a wary face who only let me in as far as the vestibule, his eyes looking me up and down as if I could be hiding a weapon. I lifted my eyebrows, a bit surprised, and he explained that they had to be very careful about what went past those doors. He asked my purpose, and made sure I understood that if I admitted myself, I couldn’t leave until the doctors gave permission for me to leave.

I didn’t see a problem with that – I knew I wasn’t a danger to myself or anyone else, I just needed to talk to someone and I couldn’t wait six weeks for a regular therapist to be available. I was sure I’d be out in a few hours, so I signed the book and let him look through my purse, and then he unlocked the next door and let me in, locking the door behind me.

I had never been in an emergency room like this one. Being locked in made me apprehensive enough, but the place was dingy. An old box T.V. was attached up high in one corner. The wood and cloth chairs were bolted together and to the floor. There was only one wooden table with rounded corners, also bolted to the floor. The dull fabric looked stained. The glass door behind me had small lines running through it – some kind of security glass, I guess. It was cloudy with greasy fingerprints and smudges. I wouldn’t want to touch that door handle unless I was wearing gloves. There was another door to the left, locked with a small window at eye level, and a third door just like it straight in front of me. To the right was a reception area, with a staff person sitting behind more security glass. There was a long hallway to the right, with several gray metal doors with small windows.

Everything looked grubby, and there was an occasional waft of unwashed human bodies floating in the cold air-conditioned space. Curled up on a chair near the reception desk was a woman with unkempt hair, covered in a blanket up to her chin, sleeping. There was a litter of small brown paper bags on the chair next to her, and a half-eaten apple.

The staff person who admitted me regained my attention and took me through the door straight ahead. On the other side was a row of three closet-sized rooms, each with a table and a couple chairs. He gestured to one and explained that I would begin with some paperwork, and then there would be an initial intake interview. Then he left me alone with a pen and clipboard.

I pushed back my regret as I reached for the paperwork. Finally, something that made this place feel a little more like a legitimate hospital. Of course they’d get the money-part right. I filled in my insurance, took emergency contact numbers out of my cell phone, and was just finishing up the last form when a man and a woman walked in, smiling their welcomes.

I shook their hands and they walked me through the next steps. One was a social worker, the other a staff member trained in peer counseling and emergency aid. They were both kind and intelligent, so I relaxed a bit, ready to trust the process. The relief started to outweigh the trepidation.

When they asked why I was here, I gave them the short version first as background. I was abducted by a parent at 3; we were always on the run – went to 5 elementary schools; she beat the hell out of us with a metal cooking spoon and whatever else she got her hands on; I was a teenage runaway; I got pregnant and married at 19; that marriage ended with me in the hospital and him in jail; and my real father found me when I was 21; that I’d been having nightmares my whole life.

Then I told them what was new that brought me in here: that my step-father had died the week before, and I went to visit my estranged mother at my sisters’ request. That my sisters and I had gotten to talking, and that one sister revealed she had been raped – in our mother’s presence – when she was 9 years old. And after that I began having memories I had never had before. That I was afraid I might have been there when it happened. That I was so angry and had all these emotions I was struggling to control. I told them I just needed to talk to someone and get it all out because I felt completely wrong, like I would explode if I didn’t do something, anything.

They asked me if I had ever contemplated suicide, and I told them of course, just like anyone else, but I wouldn’t do it because I have two children I’m responsible for. That worried them at first, but once I explained that Demi was 29 and Daisy would be 16 in a few days, and that Demi and my ex-husband could take care of Daisy in my absence, then they were reassured. I did say that sometimes I thought that if I could just hang on for two more years, until Daisy went to college, then I could go away, perhaps forever. And that was partly why I was here, so I could make it the next two years, because the way I had been feeling and acting this past weekend, since Meg’s revelation, I wasn’t sure I could make it two weeks, much less two years.

As I’m writing this, I realize how dramatic that sounds, but when I was facing those two people, I didn’t want to hide anything. I wanted help, real help, so I quietly told them the truth. I tried not to cry, but I did reach for a tissue and did my best to keep my cheeks dry and speak calmly. I wished ruefully that someone else would take care of me for awhile. I have been taking care of someone else since I was six years old. I was just so tired, too tired to be a strong, normal, responsible person anymore.

They took plenty of notes but still managed to give me their full attention. They made me feel like they really heard me and they cared. I felt like I was finally going to get help. They said I would need to wait in the waiting room for a little bit, while they reached out to my primary care physician. They also took my purse and cell phone, apologizing and explaining that they would be locked up safe and that they couldn’t have those things in with other patients. They would try not to be too long and would come back to me with some next steps.

So I went back out to the waiting room, relieved and obedient. An hour later, I was a little impatient but amused. Just like a hospital, the wait is always longer than the doctor visit. I watched other patients come and go, some staying with me waiting. A couple of them spoke with me, freely telling me their stories. I have a neon sign on my forehead that says “I want to hear your life story” and often people obey that sign, even if all I want to do is crawl under a rock and deal with my own problems.

I was surprised to still be in that small room with people who were quietly rocking or walking and talking to themselves at 5 p.m., when they handed out brown paper bags of cheese sandwiches and applesauce. I asked if I could call my daughters at that point, because they were expecting me home from work soon. They let me get the numbers off my cell phone, but I had to wait while someone fetched it, then I had to keep my hands and cell phone inside the tiny window on the receptionist’s desk. No cells allowed for a single second in the waiting room. I used the landline provided for patients to call my girls and explain where I was. I promised I’d call them as soon as I knew anything further.

I went to use the bathroom and immediately knew I had made a mistake. No way did I belong in this place. This wasn’t a hospital, it was a minimum security prison. There was a shower in there with a torn black curtain and a floor that was too grimy for bare feet. There was toilet paper but no trash can and no paper towels and no mirror and – what was worse – no lock on the door. I went back to the receptionist to explain I was on my period but there was no trash can, and he told me I had to wrap my ladies things in toilet paper and put it in the cardboard box of trash under the TV in the waiting room, the worst place for privately throwing something away because the whole room was facing that direction. He handed me a tiny bar of soap, like what you’d get in a hotel, and a rough white washcloth he said I could use to dry my hands. He said to just leave it in the bathroom.

I was in that waiting room a total of seven hours before one of the intake staffers spoke to me again. By then, my anxiety was higher than it was when I had walked in.


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Self-Destructive Behaviors

TRIGGER WARNING

We’ve all done this. Showing up late to work every day with an unconscious desire to be fired, even though being fired would be the worst thing right then. Spilling all your skeletons out on a first date with a really great guy, ruining a future before it’s begun. Not paying bills on time or over-extending credit cards. Saying yes to one more drink, then driving home anyway. Well – that’s both self-destructive and potentially other-person-destructive.

Point is, teenagers aren’t the only ones with frequent self-destructive behaviors. The difference between teens and adults is that we know better, do it anyway, and often don’t get caught or held accountable. Are we really going to shake a finger in our own face, saying shame-on-you for getting that extra credit card, extra drink, extra pint of Ben & Jerry’s?

Well, yes.

I don’t know about you, but I’m shaking a finger in my own face all the time. Truth is, my own guilt and shame is not enough of a deterrent. I’m sure my mother shakes a finger in her own face all the time, but she’s still drunk before noon on a regular basis. How can I hold myself accountable when I feel like I deserve whatever punishment is coming to me?

Logically, I know I have personal power. Of course I can lose weight. Of course I can clean out my fridge with a sponge instead of my stomach. Of course I can find a way to make time to exercise. So why do I spend countless hours watching season after season of West Wing, curled up in bed with popcorn and coffee?

I’m being self-destructive. Why? Depression. PTSD. Low self-worth. Suicidal tendencies. Am I going to commit suicide? No, of course not. I am fortunate enough to have three amazing sisters and two wonderful children, all with more unconditional love for me than most people get. It would devastate them if I ever did anything like that. I would never hurt them.

That doesn’t mean I don’t think about it. It has crossed my mind numerous times that in two more years, my youngest will be on her own, off in college. I’ll have an empty nest. If I pay down all my debt by then and save for my cremation expenses, my girls won’t be financially burdened. It would be so easy to plan this out. I could drive right off that curved bridge I travel every day home from work. Thelma and Louise style. I could research online to find the right mix of over-the-counter meds and put myself to sleep forever, just as I prayed would happen that night when I was 15.

I told my psychiatrist all this. I wasn’t sobbing or being hysterical. I just calmly explained that I’m done. I’m not almost 50 years old, I’m almost 100 years old. I have lived more life in my first 22 years than most people will ever experience. I am not just tired, I’m exhausted. I have been responsible for someone else’s needs since I was 6 years old. And then there’s the violence. Really, how much violence can one person take in a lifetime?  The injustice of knowing that no one is going to pay for what they’ve done, and the helpless realization that even if that were possible, it wouldn’t make a difference. I would still have to get up every day, go to work, clean my house, pay bills, take care of others and know that there is no one to take care of me but myself.

I just can’t be responsible anymore, not even to me. The weight is too much for too long. I have taken care of my mother, my children, my husbands, my community through volunteer work, and even served the people of NYS as a public servant. I’ve done my part to make the world a better place. It’s someone else’s turn now. I can’t do it anymore. I’m done.

I think if I really were a hundred years old, no one would have a problem with me being done. I sometimes think if I just explain to my family how I feel, that they would understand that some people age before their time and that’s just the way it is. I think they would be sad, but after a year or so of getting used to the idea, we’d all say our goodbyes and I would leave.

My psychiatrist was pretty calm about this. He raised an eyebrow and asked how often do I have this particular fantasy? I almost laughed out loud. In one fell swoop, he let me know that I’m not the only one who has ever thought like this, and that it’s a self-indulgent dream that deserves to be discredited. And he knew that I knew better. He’s worth the extra drive it takes for me to get to his office, compared to doctors that are closer to home.

I think what hurts families the most is the surprise of suicide. If it’s planned, like in Oregon, then everyone has time to discuss it, prepare, even change minds. I think it’s a shame that talking about suicidal thoughts is so frowned upon in our society. Why not stand up and say “I’ve had all I can stand and I won’t take it anymore?” There’d probably be fewer suicides if we talked about it more.

Well, thinking is not doing in my case. Yes, I know that it should be taken seriously anytime someone even hints that it could be a possibility, but truthfully I can’t do it. I love my girls and my sisters too much. I do want to see how their lives turn out, and to help them achieve their dreams any way that I can. I’m not too tired to do that.

Meanwhile, I have to stop being self-destructive in other ways. Writing about it helps. Talking about it with my family helps. Making the time to do things I’m good at, so I can feel accomplished, really helps. That’s part of my treatment. DBT. But that’s for another post. Right now, I have a writing workshop I’m going to. See? I won’t be in bed with Netflix today.


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Checking In

TRIGGER WARNING

Monday morning, June 2, 2014

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I was on automatic. I showered, dressed, had coffee, drove my youngest to school. My responsibilities were completed in numb automation, but there was a silent struggle going on in my mind and body. I wanted to stop and scream – she was raped and I was there! I was trembling with anger. I wanted to call the police. I wanted to hop in the car and drive to North Carolina and look that woman in the face and demand her apology, demand she get on her knees and beg forgiveness from all of us sisters. I wanted to throw her in a rehab facility and swallow the key, then smash every bottle she has in the house into the kitchen sink.

I parked and hung my employee tag on the rear view. Gathered my things, locked the car and walked to the elevator. I let my eyes follow the trees through the elevator glass, idly pretending I was climbing up them, like I always imagine when riding those elevators. I stepped out and walked past Congress park, as usual, and idly wondered for the umpteenth time what the city was doing with that old fountain, now surrounded by signs of construction. I paused at the traffic signal, waiting, staring up at the walls of the New York State Capitol building.

The powerful structure rose several stories above my head, unashamedly representative of a monarch’s seat, with red-orange turrets and intricate carvings. The building usually centered me, its carefully crafted beauty inside and out reminding me that someone, somewhere, cared deeply about a good job well done. Just a few weeks ago, I was among a handful of people negotiating a $22 billion budget for 700 school districts, in a small room on the first floor of that beautiful building. Not a good job well done.

I didn’t want to walk in there. The halls echoed with the powerlessness of good people trying to do the right thing. Politics too often trumps proven research, and about a quarter of the decisions made are to support a re-election campaign rather than the needs of the people. Much as I loved the building, I couldn’t stand facing another impotent day of work. Fighters don’t belong on hamster wheels.

But there was nothing I could do about it. A single mom doesn’t just quit her job. Policy analysts are a dime a dozen in Albany. There was nowhere else to go.

The beeping of the crosswalk signal brought me out of my reverie. I walked across the street, pulling my security pass out of my purse. My eyes were wet with helplessness. I couldn’t quit. I couldn’t call the police. I couldn’t stop in the middle of the street and scream. I couldn’t protect my sister. I ran. I ran and left her there.

I made it to the policy pit on the fourth floor mezzanine, dropping my bag on my desk. One of my co-workers got up to hug me, saying she was sorry for my loss. With her arms around my shoulders, I realized I had almost forgotten about my step-father, whose ashes sat before us at the wake just four days ago. I felt ashamed anew, and couldn’t hold it back anymore. I clung to her, sobbing my heart out, much to the surprise of everyone in the room. The story just spilled out – I told her that I had just found out that my sister had been raped at 9 years old, that Mom just watched.

I backed away, realizing I shouldn’t have said that out loud, and saw the shock and concern on my coworkers’ faces. I gulped and pulled it all back together. Grabbing a tissue off my desk and drying my face, I apologized and waved everyone off, telling them I was fine and just needed to focus on work.

I sat down to sort through my missed emails from the last week, but focus was not coming to me. Impatiently, I opened my snail mail instead, and automatically began sorting. Then I sorted all the files that were scattered untidily all over my desk. Then I got some paper towels and cleanser from the bathroom and started cleaning my desk. I scrubbed the phone, my keyboard, even my chair. And when there was nothing left to clean, not a single paper out of place, I stared back at the computer and realized there was no way I could understand a single piece of legislation today. I emailed my supervisor that I was going home, shut off my computer, told my coworkers that I’m sorry, I’m just not feeling well, and left. I didn’t even make it to noon.

I drove two blocks before I realized I had no idea where I was going. I pulled into an empty parking spot on the street and called a therapist I had seen the year before. She could see me in a couple weeks. I googled more therapists on my phone. Three, four, six weeks before anyone could see me. One of them told me that if it were an emergency, I could go to the Capital District Psychiatric Center, and check myself in. I googled it and drove there, figuring I’d talk with someone for a few hours, feel better, and be back to work the next day.

I didn’t realize that it would be a month before I saw the Capitol building again.


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Knock, Knock, Knocking on …

TRIGGER WARNING

Looking back on that Sunday, June 1st, I don’t remember much, but I know the overwhelm took me. I didn’t give in to it – I know what giving in feels like. Giving in is when you come home with drive-thru nachos and microwavable kettle corn, turn on Netflix and binge watch for eight hours. Giving in is my mother with red wine swirling in her morning orange juice. Giving in to overwhelm is a conscious decision to put the world on hold and self-medicate for awhile. It’s a miracle that I prefer salt over alcohol in my worst state. I tell myself that whenever I take my blood pressure medicine. It could be worse.

No, on that particular Sunday the overwhelm took me, without my permission.

My girls say it seemed as though I had the flu pretty bad that day. My walk was unsteady whenever I got up for the bathroom or water, I had no appetite, I was alternating freezing cold and sweating hot, and I mostly slept.

I remember there were nightmares. I think I cycled through just about every recurring nightmare I’ve ever had and then some. My first husband’s fingers around my throat. My sisters screaming. Running and running but not able to get anywhere.

My waking moments were all memories:

Me, falling out of bed and getting my lip split on the corner of the nightstand. Getting stitches. I was 3.

Mom, sitting dejectedly on the end of the couch, cigarette smoke making rings around her tousled hair, her make-up-smeared eyes red and bleary. I had stayed home from school to make sure she didn’t carry out her threat to kill herself that day. I was 16.

Walking stiffly for a drink at the water fountain in the police station, my uniformed escort asking me why I was so formal, and me telling him I was not going to cry. I was 25.

Being slammed into the bathroom wall of the Pink Garter, a stranger’s lips forcibly taking mine. She had followed me in and had me pinned, her whole big, muscular body crushing me against the wall. I struggled and fought and was thankfully released to run when someone else walked in. I never thought a woman would ever do such a thing. I was 18.

Mom, kicking me as I lay curled up in a sleeping bag on the floor in my room. Kicking me again and again, screaming horrible insults at me. I was 15.

A door being slammed in my face. More stitches. I was 7.

Carrying a ringed pillow from class to class in junior high, telling everyone I had chipped my tailbone from a fall off my roller skates. I was 13.

Daddy #3’s finger in my face, threatening me literally into a corner, and Mom behind him telling me to just say yes, daddy. I was 17.

The videographer who offered to drive me home from an evening SCA event, pulling into the back of a grocery store and telling me he was in pain and only I could help him. He unzipped his pants. I convinced him that I was on my period. He said that’s okay, I could still help him and I wasn’t going home until I did. It was him or face a metal cooking spoon for missing my curfew. I was 14.

Walking six miles in the middle of the night, jumping into shadows any time a car came by, not knowing if my parents were after me. I carried a small bag of clothes and was headed to an older friend’s apartment. I didn’t know where I would go from there, but I was never, ever, going home again, not until I had made enough money to rescue my sisters. I was 17.

My sisters and I, all neatly dressed and sitting on the couch facing the CPS investigator. We told her we were fine, happy, that there was nothing wrong. No way were we going to let this stranger separate us girls from each other. I was 15.

Being slammed into the coat closet door and then rocked onto the living room carpet. Being straddled with his hips on my thighs and his knees on my hands and his hands around my throat, squeezing and squeezing until the black cloud came and I knew I was dying, knew I would never see my little girl or my sisters again. I was 25.

That’s but a handful of the memories I cycled through that day. And now I had four new memories:

1. Me in the pool, looking up at my naked, nine-year-old sister on the diving board.

2. Me, ten, running from the pool, tripping, hearing men’s laughter.

3. Mom, sitting in a pale pink wrap in the patio set by the pool, smoking and saying “just say yes daddy” over and over.

4. A man standing by the pool, between the diving board and the patio set. But that’s for tomorrow’s post.

One night, when I was 15, I knelt before my bedroom window, looking up at a full moon. The house was quiet. My youngest sister, Beth, silent in the next room. They had beat her hard that night. Her screams and sobs still rang in my ears today, but all was quiet and the house was dark at that moment in my memory. I remember kneeling there with my hands folded in prayer, appealing to the distant, peaceful orb that hung in the night as if that were God’s face, blurred by my powerless tears, and not the man in the moon.

Please, God. Please don’t let me wake up tomorrow. Please, take me to heaven tonight. Please. I can’t do this anymore.

That’s how I felt on June 1st, 2014. But in my despair that overwhelming Sunday, I knew then what I didn’t know for sure at 15. The morning was coming, and there was nothing I could do about it. I was going to wake up.


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The Beginning of Done

Today is the last day of National Suicide Prevention Month, making this post apropos. I’ve been fighting bouts of depression for years, just like any parent in America trying to keep their heads above water. It’s hard to keep up with multiple responsibilities at home, at work, to extended family, to friends and neighbors and nonprofits. Add the occasional surprise, like unexpected surgery or a sudden opportunity for your child that costs an arm and a leg. Not to mention the guilt around grabbing fast food for the family when you come home too beat or too late to cook.

Intermittent depression, pierced with rays of joy here and there, is just the American way of life, and most people don’t complain about it. They just keep swimming, and enjoying those infrequent stretches of rest on sunlit beaches. As do I, usually.  It’s just this year has been unusually hard.

It started in March. I was working long hours, barely seeing my family, eating crap, feeling the onset of menopause with hot flashes and other symptoms, and feeling like my boss was setting me up to fail at every budget meeting. Then my grandfather got sick, my stepfather was diagnosed with cancer, and my nightmares increased to almost daily.

I don’t only have the stresses of an overburdened American life. I also have the memories of a violent childhood and first marriage. Life has been one very long struggle and I’m pretty tired. In March I realized I was too tired to keep going.

I wrote the below a couple months later, and looking back at it, I can see the sparks that were going to head me to the hospital in June.

May 15, 2014

I just turned in my annual financial disclosure form to the NYS Legislative Ethics Commission. It’s due by May 15th every year. I dragged my feet on it. It’s long and complicated, and anyone who is a policymaker has to report from where and how much money we get throughout the year, to prove we aren’t taking bribes to pass legislation.

I cried as I handed it in. Far from showing kickbacks or unexplained windfalls, that 14-page public document shows the world that I have nothing. Almost every line is filled with “non-applicable” in my tight handwriting. I just turned 49 years old, and I have absolutely nothing to show for it. No property, no savings, no investment accounts, nothing. The lady was sweet and sympathetic, and not at all surprised to see a face of tears turning the form in. I’m guessing I’m not the first. She noted the front of the form which clearly stated ‘single with child’ and remarked that I needed to find myself a rich husband, or at least buy a lottery ticket. Then she stamped my form as received and handed me a receipt.

And you know what? I didn’t walk away in feminist outrage. I walked away, still in tears, thinking no wealthy man would want a middle-aged fat woman like me, and that my three-cent bank balance would not even get me a lottery ticket.

I’m tired of being outraged. I’m tired of being broke. I’m tired of doing meaningless work. I’m tired of fighting battles and – win or lose – living to fight again another day. I am life-battle weary. So very weary. If only I would get sick and have to be in a hospital for a month. Just one whole month of someone else taking care of me for awhile. I’m done.