How did I get here?

I am the face of depression. 

I am the face of mental illness.

I am the face of mental health.

I am the face of recovery.

I am the face of emotion.

I am the face of misunderstanding.

I am the face of change.

I am the face of passion.

I am the face of humanity.
I am the face of generosity.

I am the face of frustration.

I am the face of negativity.

I am the face of a wife.

I am the face of a mother.

I am the face of a sister.

I am the face of a daughter.

I am the face of family.

I am the face of your friend.

I am the face of creativity.

I am the face of a nurse.

I am the face of reality.

No longer can I hide. 

No longer may I crawl away.

I started writing here two years ago, when I felt like I found buried treasure.  My writing voice tucked away and safely stored.  My passion, masked by the veil I so proudly learned to cover my inadequacies.  My feeling, my soul, my longing for more, all gradually reappeared as I looked inside myself, as I honestly asked, and stubbornly demanded answers.  I have some now.  I will hear more soon.  I’m on the path of redemption.  I am serving penance for my missing years.  Years began a lifetime ago this month.  Years I was granted by God and years I lived unconsciously, mind and soul split into pieces, like torn paper floating downstream.  I was lost and now I’m found.  Or something equally dramatic and less prophetic.  How did I get here?

have I ever told you about my depression?

I checked into the local looney bin ten years ago.  My kids were babies and so was I.  Fear lingered daily as I swam through its depths searching for order and semblance.  I felt like I wore black and slept in hell.  Sleep was my respite.  Sleep took me away from my thoughts and lack thereof. 

Awake with the little hands of love and asleep soon after the waves and cheek pecks.  Hurry up and sleep before kindergarten ends.  Turn off the telephone’s ring, and never answer the doorbell.  Cancel all appointments without rescheduling cuz you’re not brushing your teeth anyway.  Avoid thinking about your husband’s frustration and disappointment of you.  Pull up those blankets and close your eyes, let darkness embrace your heart.   Sleep to forget how to live.

  

part of the story

(originally written to French class friend prior to the birth of this blog 10/2009)

Forty three years ago…my day is approaching. Unconscious reflection consistently appears this time of year. I remember some horrible horrible birthdays. Sad, cautious, mean birthdays. In my adulthood. The best b-days were the ones in Wheeling. Mom combined brother's with mine cause his is November, and we themed it Halloween. All the kids wearing costumes and bobbing for apples in our basement and a long picnic table inside with party hats, cake and balloons. A world ago. Another lifetime…my first lifetime.

My lifetime before the move and divorce a couple years later. Before I was forced to stand under dad’s umbrella of confusion and guilt. When Mom asked us who we wanted to live with and she gave us to Dad anyway.

…Before we visited Mom at her little condo apartment down the road and had sleep overs with the strange furniture and strange expectations. Before Mom moved in with that guy with a long ponytail, at his house. Where did he come from? And where’s Morton Grove? Too far apparently to see Mom often. Good thing I was almost outta there…5 hour drive away to the next lifetime.

1976: Step right up folks, see the brand new home built in the sticks, away from everything familiar and everyone I know in my whole life of ten years old. Bigger house, better home? Mom works sporadically, Dad develops his home office. Why is he staying overnight so often at his apartment in Chicago? Doesn’t he work here? Oh the weather and the games and the nightlife…disco lessons and foreign friends. Huh??

Then the long secret, closed-door discussions Mom and Dad would have in the basement office. We’d sit upstairs watching TV and listening for arguing…none heard. Don’t think it’s bad, cause they’re not hurting each other as far as we can tell. No explanation for a year or so. Then mom takes me into her room to fold laundry with her, one quiet evening. Dad’s in the city, bro and sis somewhere else in the house…The laundry folding talk will always be remembered.

The main points: Your Dad and I are divorcing. Who would you like to live with, if you could choose? Well, sorry, Dad said he would take us all to court and fight for custody so I’m letting him have you. I don’t want that court experience to hurt you. He’ll keep you here, same house, same routine, same friends. You can stay home from school tomorrow and Dad’s coming home so we can talk as a family.

My thoughts: Where did this come from? I didn’t even see you argue or hear yelling from the basement. Why would I want to live with Dad, he’s never around, he and I don’t do anything together, and he’s no fun. Are you joking? I need my mother. So dad’s got more money and knows people who can screw you? I get it, dad’s in the mafia or something and he wants our life to suck. See why I don’t want to live with him? Are you joking? When is this happening to me? What do I tell my friends? Nothing’s the same. Where’s my Mom gonna be when I need her? When will I wake up from this dream? What is happening????

The new lifetime begins. How many is that now?

And the journaling begins. And so does the lifetime of depression. The lifetime began is replaced with the unknown eggshell walk of teen angst and risky behavior and self disrespect and craving love and wishing for change and fighting the forces of unreasonable expectations. Bye bye childhood lifetime. I’ll remember you fondly and pretend I’m still there with you. You, me, child innocence, growth began, wonderment explored, hopes raised, comfort creepin in…I mourn you all. And never see you again.

Finality hurts, no matter the reason.

Loss is mourned, no matter the subject.

No matter who you are

Who you want to be

Losing lifetime is unfair…

For a child.

Find the cost of Freedom…CSNY sings to me now. The costs are high and I’m not done paying. Mother Earth will swallow you, lay your body down. Wish it was that simple. Not my choice to end God’s lifetime. Must live on until He says I’m done. My lifetimes may be molded though.

the more things change, the more they....well, you know.

Here's an older post, from january, a few months ago. My words are rough and my emotion is raw...that's me at my best and my worst. I put this one on the back burner, hidden from readers, saved for future use...apparently my family can't absorb the strength of my soul and when some read of my trouble, I received phone calls and "talks" about my sanity. Didn't y'all know I was crazy? I thought that was a given!
Today I require a revisit and review of this scene. Introspection running rampant in my mind begs for answers to similar questions. I'll fill you in later. Life is calling.
~L

Honesty is the best policy.

So here's the truth. I wanted to run away last night. I drove two hours, stopped to look for a hotel to sleep overnight, and turned around toward home. I'm glad I changed my mind. All I needed was time to think, and sleep. Which I did when I arrived home at 2:30 am.

No one knew I had escaped. My son called me to tell me he was home at curfew and we exchanged I love you's. My husband was in the basement when I left, and when I returned. They still have no clue. Irrational? A little. Necessary? You betcha'.

It's not my first attempt at escaping my reality by automobile. I can drive the four hours to my extended family in my sleep, been traveling that road for over 20 years. Usually I head in their direction. Usually I am guaranteed a soft place to land with one of my clan. This time I wanted to avoid them at all costs. Really, I needed to avoid confrontation. Confrontation put me in my car and pushed me out of town. No, I needed and wanted a reprieve. A respite. I was looking for peace.

Here I sit, 24 hours after my great escape, wondering where I am. I cannot see the forest from the trees. I'm squinting through leaves, standing on my tip toes, craning my neck to look around twisted branches. Too bad the sun isn't shining, I could use more light. Here I sit, 24 hours later, sorting through the underbrush. Shall I gather sticks and start a fire? I may have to stay here for a while. What will I use for cover if it begins to snow? I'm on my own, so I best begin. Begin again. Again.

Lay me down in the cool grass and let me do my stuff (Fleetwood Mac).

My husband and I have been married for 20 years. Well, officially shy by two months, which in the grand scheme of two decades of matrimony, means nothing. My husband and I confronted our demons last night...again. The unwelcome demons that linger here. I hate these demons. I hate them. Hate them. Hate. These fears that paralyze us. The feelings that haunt us. The misunderstandings and miss-communications that fuel our fire. The past precedents of confrontation eat at us, even after we promise them away for good. They tear at our hearts and reveal our weaknesses to each other. The ugly truth rears its head and we talk and emote and engage and stop listening. My husband and I own a pattern and cycle of dysfunctional cooperation. We are not partners. We know this.

We struggle to get along. To like each other. To expect less and receive more. To be content with each other and comfortable together. For twenty years we try. Our history is colorful and checkered. Checkered with choices of circumstance and change. Checkered with unexpected tragedy and unfinished trials. Checkered by the dissimilar expectations we brought with us. Last night I saw, heard, and felt my husband's pent up frustration and anger. Last night was another reminder of our separate lives desperately trying to fit together. I told him my truth and he told me his.

We have all been here before...(CSNY)

Each day I keep my depression in check and my life takes on meaning which he does not understand. I am misunderstood by my life partner and I feel sad. I feel sad because he tells me that I misunderstand him. I feel hollow inside when I see his eyes tear and his voice crack when he tells me that he doesn't know how much more he can take, or give. I empathize. I do. I feel exactly the same honey.

Still we live on. Forging what must be the shape of a married couple's life. Following the bread crumbs we find and praying we found the ones that lead us somewhere...and not back where we started. Last night we came back around, again. We walked onto the path of destruction and started running toward our familiar. Histrionic emotions exited by mouth and entered our storm. Hurt thundered around our heads. Regret gained velocity and pushed the demons closer. And I ran.

aftermath

Four days ago I sent out a proclamation to all my family and very close friends.  You read it too, "just one thing" post.  For some of my family members, this wasn't only an introduction to my recently discovered artistic passions, this manifesto was a warning flag.  I received a few calls and a few interesting questions about my mental health.  They have every right to worry.  They have every right to check up on me.  And I am thankful they did, and hope they do again.

No, I'm not melting down or dipping into the depressive dungeon.  My mind is clear.  No, I'm not taking street drugs, drinking beer with breakfast, collecting razors.  Yes, I am taking my Zoloft and vitamins and herbal supplements.  I'm sleeping, eating, crying, laughing, socializing, and getting outside.  All in a somewhat chaotic balance, but for me, just right.  In other words, I'm OK.

This is all about pulling up my proverbial bootstraps and digging into the fresh dirt around my roots.  Change is good, even if you don't agree with it.  Here's some Q & A that may be of interest:

"Why do you feel the need to share your innermost thoughts with strangers on the internet?"

 ~~Validation.  Encouragement.  Fellowship.  Education.  Opportunity.   Support.

"Why don't you just talk to your family, your friends, a professional?"

~~Please don't assume I'm not.

"You sound angry."

~~Some days I am angry.  Angry is a valid feeling.  But, no, I'm not angry in general.

"Is this another one of your passing phases?"

~~This is me. This excitement is a breakthrough which I explained in "just one thing."  My passion.  No sudden moves to an ashram.  No discard of my nursing skills.  Just a release of expression in writing and photography and my journey of their integration into life as I know it.

"Why did you copy your post to so many family and friends?"

 ~~I am sharing my love with you.  Simple.  This is how I roll.

"Do you realize that some recipients may misinterpret what you communicate?"

 ~~100% I do!  I know we have difference...of opinions, tastes, likes, expectations,  methods, communication, beliefs, values, behaviors, and how we interpret.  All I can say is, if you have a question, ask me.  If you have a concern, call me and we'll talk.  I respect you.

another one bites the dust OR being alone on my birthday really sucks!

Not feeling forward momentum today.  Sliding backwards, sliding away.  Feeling the old creeping in and encompassing the good vibes.  This is a recurring pattern, not as often as years ago, but does occur.  so maybe it's the seasonal effectiveness of grey skies and torrential rains for 12 hours of awakeness.  Remember every fall and winter years ago?  Black tunnels of Hell.  Not anywhere near that now.  Thank you God.

So why the mood?  Why the pout? Why the negativity?  Good question.  Be thankful for what you've overcome...

Emotional abuse from two men, well, one man and one wanna be man.  Back to back blunders for me.  Not realizing the pattern for many years...see how you get caught up?  When someone says they love you and you believe them and you expect certain ways for their love to be expressed to you, you can get caught up. Caught up in looking for those expressions and expecting your expectations and needing more than you are receiving.  Becoming vulnerable by the minute because you believe what they tell you and then they don't produce what they promise.  Believe that you are the reason for their unhappiness...when you haven't done anything differently than the first day.  The day you were born, the day you met, the day you agreed to give yourself entirely.  Dad or boyfriend, doesn't matter, both are who I wanted to please and wanted for them to please me. 

Trusting a father is something a child is born with.  Trust that you get taken care of no matter what.  Trust that you will be comforted and protected and listened too, eventually.  When that day doesn't come, and that day turns into fear and uncertainty and confusion...that's when you turn to someone else who may be able to fulfill your wants and needs.  Friends who use you and talk shit to others about you.  People who assume you are someone other than you are and take what they can.  You let them because you need to feel needed.  You let yourself be someone else, be somewhere other than where you are because that doesn't work anymore.  You strive to change into a foreigner, someone you don't even recognize.  Fuck your self respect, he tells me it's wrong anyway.

Smoke up, forget.  Drink up, forget.  Drive a carload full of drugged up kids, forget.  Lie about everything, forget.  Forget how to be yourself.  Forget what loving yourself means.  Wait, I never learned how that feels.  What does that mean anyway?  You are supposed to agree with your thoughts and like what you say to people and know that you may make mistakes but you will survive after that?  What the hell does all that have to do with feeling loved and wanted and included and listened too?  I'll go on following the other high kids and see how much comfort that brings me. And if that doesn't work, I'll find someone else who can provide my instant gratification...to forget and feel good.  No matter the cost.  I never developed morals and values and opinions of my self behavior, so there's nothing to act out against or feel guilty about.  Fuck it!

See Dad, see world, see how I can make my own decisions and survive my way?  Barely...survive right into the arms of another abuser.

Well he didn't start out that way.  Actually I introduced him to drugs and he turned ugly soon after.  I started using him and he turned it around on me...who'da thunk?  By the time I was left ragged, wrung out, and broken, he was in rehab and I found my way out.  I didn't plan on breaking up with him over the phone, when he called me from the hospital...but he got mad and I got mad and I did it.  I planned on telling him the next day when I visited him.  His parents already knew I would.  His therapist knew too.  I met with his therapist.  Why?  Because for the last 2 years he threatened to kill himself if I left him...and I didn't know what to do about that burden.  He was in a safe place and the supporters were ready for the worst, so I cut myself free and haven't spoken with him since.  Done.  Finality. Freedom...for three weeks exactly.

Then the next, unexpected lifetime begins.  Boyfriend, daughter, husband, move, son, move again.  On our own.  Here we are.

can't find my way home

I am good at pool because I grew up with a pool table in my basement.  And ping pong because the table fit on top of the pool table and my brother and I would play matches.  Haven't played in a while but it usually comes right back to me.  The blue chalk, the bridge cue, the break triangle, all the tools of the trade.  Oh, the green felt and the way my hands formed around the stick...like riding a bike.


Listening to the guitar chords of Eric Clapton. Singing the blues through those rich guitar chords, feels like private conversations between two other people, maybe I shouldn't be listening...but now he's live and the entire audience hears him...


Plant your love and let it grow...let it grow, let it grow, let it blossom let it grow...


Remember listening to this album while my sister and I drove to visit our bro in college, the same college I graduated from the year before.


when I was in college I had no college life.  maybe freshman year, before I started believing what he was saying about me.  before I decided to give up my friends, roomie, and study habits because of what he said to me.  Pretty pathetic when a college student isn't smart enough to make her own decisions.  I missed everything.  I look through my one yearbook from those four years and I see photos of people, students, having fun.  My fun was ordering a Garcia's stuffed crust with sausage and extra sauce and buying a pint of chocolate chocolate chip Haagen Daz from the Piggly Wiggly for desert.  And eating all of it by myself after smoking a one hit or two.  Pathetic.


I used to glob onto my neighbors.  They lived in a big house, 2 guys and a girl from Sweden...they smoked too and listened to great music, so I sat in their house and helped myself while they studied.  Pathetic.  That was after he dropped out and I was totally alone.  Thank God for people's sympathy. 


Freshman year I had fun.  I hung out with a high school buddy and we checked out the parties and partied hard.  i hid booze in my dorm room fridge and tempted my RA to open it to see if I wasn't lying...she didn't.  I safety pinned the calves of my jeans to make them super straight, like my friend across the hall did.  she was from Chicago and much wiser than a girl from the burbs.  We went to football games late and drunk. We sang Beatles songs in our dorm while eating the cookies my Grandma sent.  We bought posters at the union to decorate our walls and ate bags of flavored popcorn while we studied in the common room on our floor.  I always wore this bulky knitted sweater that tied closed...a gift from my dad from some carribean island or Las Vegas...and knitted bootie slippers from Canada.  We were comfy and content and carefree.  One year.


Then he started telling lies about me...to me.  What an ass.  Me, I'm the ass, for believing what he told me.  For believing that I was wrong and believing that I had to follow his ideas.  do his homework and laundry.  WTF?  lame and pathetic.  Abuse? possibly.  for 3 years and one after graduation.  No good times at college for me to savor...sad, very sad.


So when I look at myself in the mirror today, I try not to blame myself.  I try to say it's OK because you made it out of that.  You are OK now.  Am I?  Am I telling myself what I should?  what I need to hear?  It's easy to abuse yourself, to talk negatively like you have been for decades, to listen to the doubt and remember the shame.  Reaching for the light of positivity and compassion is difficult for an abuse victim.  Time moves slowly and every step taken may end up being negated by one back.  Frustrating to say the least.  Necessary to stay alive.

You don't believe the compliments at first, or after ten times heard.  You avoid situations that remind you of your weaknesses.  You cry because other people are happy and you know you can't be.  The negative talk.  The doubting yourself and wishing you were someone else. it's trying and tiring to live this way.  but you don't have enough energy to figure out the other way to live.  Decades of tired.


Even after I shed the old and begin the new, I am broken.  The healing is not quick.  The help is sparse and undefined.  The little things are disastrous and the big things are neglected.  He is kind and just as young and doing his best.  I am not trained to be a partner.  I barely know how to be me alone.