Tick, 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.
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.
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.
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.
At this point, I wasn’t stepping toward the hospital, I was tumbling uncontrollably downhill toward it.
TRIGGER WARNING
Saturday, May 31, 2014 2:00 a.m.
I woke up drenched in sweat, breathing heavily and my heart pounding as if I had been running a marathon. My jaw hurt, and I forced myself to stop clenching my teeth. My ears were ringing with screams, even though my small bedroom was dark and silent as the grave. I rolled onto my back, kicking off my sheets, and just lay there for a bit, letting the nightmare finish receding.
Another nightmare. Again. How many nightmares have I had? How many more will I have?
The ebbing fear was being replaced by rising anger. I pulled the spare pillow into my arms and squeezed it punishingly, my arms becoming boa constrictors, reveling in the pain of unaccustomed muscle strain. My throat was tightly holding back my voice, my limbs were consciously keeping me in my bed, but every other part of me wanted to stand up and scream into the blackness – she was raped! and Mom just watched!
But of course, I didn’t. It would wake my daughters. Thinking about them had a calming effect, and I could feel my anger relax into cynicism. Bad things happen to children all the time, and this news was forty years old. Can’t do anything about old news but set it aside and forget about it. Anger was a waste of time. Statute of limitations was long gone, and who would put a new widow in jail for something that happened so long ago? Certainly not Meg. If she were to press charges, she would have done it already. No, there was nothing that could be done. This was old news. Children were raped all the time, were probably raped today, even this very minute. There was absolutely nothing that I could do.
The pillow slid to the floor, and the tears came.
P.S.
In less than an hour, I cycled from fear to anger to helplessness to depression. Worse than that. I went from bone-crushing fear to violent anger to a puddle of helplessness to the bleakest depression. The difference? It was just as much in my body as it was in my mind and soul. Adrenaline, blood pressure, heart rate, muscle contraction, even sweat glands – dozens of physical responses to dozens of emotions were tumbling uncontrollably downhill together, and all I knew was that something wasn’t quite right with me, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.
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.
Tick, 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. 
Erase and Start Over 