I’m certainly not the only one who danced with her siblings on the coffee table day after day, inspired by the Jackson Five, practicing my singing and my dance moves wearing just my stocking feet. I’m not, right? My brother dropped out of our band after the first rehearsal, my eldest sister was soon to follow. Maria and I remained side by side; I got more ambitious with my dance moves now that there was extra room on the coffee table. I slipped off several times, but I got back up. It was so important to practice. I knew deep down inside that this was going to be my ticket out of the hell of my home. It never occurred to us to practice on the floor. We had to be up as high as possible and get in every second of rehearsal we could before my Dad came home. He couldn’t know of our plan, but one day he would see me on TV and be so sorry.
Thriller was the first album I ever owned but it was a painfully long wait. I had a cassette of “Off The Wall” that my cousin made from her copy. I could tell the whole tale of how bad I wanted that record, but I knew that my Mom couldn’t afford it, so I said nothing. I could go into detail about how all of my classmates had it, and I hated them for it, but I consoled myself, knowing that one day they would say they knew me when. The details don’t matter much.
The part that I remember was after the months of longing to own that album, or even just a tape of someone else’s copy, my birthday rolled around. My Dad never bought us gifts, but my Mom would always figure out a way to come up with a little something for us on our birthdays and Christmas. When she handed me that square wrapped in tin foil after dinner I reached out for it, hands shaking, certain that it couldn’t be Thriller. It was a brand new copy, still sealed in plastic.
That’s what I thought about today as I worked in my garden, thinking of Michael Jackson’s death. I have been ignoring the media coverage for the most part, although it’s almost impossible. I just wanted to quietly reflect on the role his music had in my life, and on the hours of joy his songs gave me in what was for the most part a pretty rotten childhood.
Now that I am in Cognitive Behavioral Therapy I am being taught about thinking errors, among other things. One of the examples the therapist used for a thinking error was the thought that life owes you something. I’ve been thinking that for 30 odd years. I still think my plan would have worked. After I saw The Partridge Family I begged my Mom to buy a bus and drive us around so we could make it big.
I have been feeling really shitty this past week, and also incredibly irritable, so I’ve been trying not to talk or write much for fear of lashing out. Anger. I feel so much anger and I have always buried it, equating it with violence and fear. I am frustrated, stressed and afraid. A lifetime to get to this very point and my insurance is telling me my time at the hospital treatment is almost up. Having lived for many years without medical insurance I know full well to be grateful for the opportunity I’ve had. I just haven’t a clue what the next step should be.
' June 27th, 2009 at 02:41am
I sat on the edge of the worn green couch, sipping warm black coffee and trying to remember how to make small talk. I tried to remind myself that I had to do this. I had to meet the parents and visit their homes before I could just leave my child there to play.
After we talked about the Holocaust, of all things, she leaned in closer. “Say”, she asked with a smile, “does your daughter have fleas? As soon as my daughter started playing with your daughter at school, she came home with fleas.”
I was hot with anger. I felt the need to defend my children, my home, and my pets. Unfortunately, I also started to feel incredibly itchy.
' June 18th, 2009 at 06:18pm
“Dying is easy it’s living that scares me to death.” Annie Lennox -Cold
I am still in treatment, although not with anyone who can act as if he cares as well as Gabriel Bryne does; I am doing better some days, worse other days. It’s frustrating and it is always in my mind that I should be able to work, that sitting around in a hospital doing what I have started to refer to as going to college feels incredibly selfish at times. Now, feelings aren’t facts. I do know that much. But what do I have left?
I shall continue. I wanted to say thank you again for the love and support I have received from you all. I know I owe some emails and I will as soon as I can. Tomorrow there is a Farmer’s Market not a long walk from my house. I am going to try to go, and let that be OK. Just the trying.
I baked at home yesterday and it was lots of fun. I made a large rhubarb coffee cake and two loaves of rye bread. It’s been awhile since I really felt like baking at home. I am still planting seeds in my garden. Several people have said it’s too late but whatever. I have been finding seed packets around the house as I try to clean and get more organized and I don’t care if they’re expired. They grow, or they don’t grow. I’m fine either way.
' June 14th, 2009 at 01:45am
Oregon State Hospital
The number one thing that I wish to say is that the kindness and support I’ve received here from my readers has meant so much to me. I printed out the comments and I carry them with me one the bus to and from the hospital. I am still struggling with agoraphobia, depression and panic disorder, so it helps me to have something to pull out and read when things feel helpless.
Number two, and this one was perhaps the hardest for me, was that I have recognized that I am very sick at this time and so I made the decision to ask Alex to place a paypal donate button on the sidebar. A few people have offered assistance and I have been hesitant to ask for help. I am trying to remember how good it feels for me to give and that others might feel the same. I am on FMLA right now with no concrete date as to when I’ll be well enough to work again. I went ahead with the application process for social security disability with the help of my therapist. The process takes 3-5 months and there is no guarantee that I’ll be approved. If anyone is willing and able to donate it would be greatly appreciated and I can promise that I will spend my life paying it forward.
I understand now my Mom’s comments about me being brave, and of her being proud. My Mom dedicated her life to various care giving jobs. She spent some time working as a CNA at the Oregon State Hospital, the building where One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest was filmed, and I realized that I’ve never really talked to her about that job. I used to think that was cool when I was a teenager, the fact that she worked in an insane asylum, but I am guessing that it was as far from cool as a job could be.
The treatment program I am in at a hospital here in Portland is the hardest thing that I have ever done. The primary focus at this stage is for the patients to work on the basics, a list of ten things to do to help us deal with our mental illness. I’ll type them out here later in case they might be useful for anyone else. It is a fairly simple list of ways in which we are to take care of ourselves i.e. eating frequent small meals, getting sufficient sleep, practicing different methods of relaxation etc. I imagine that this list is common knowledge for many people, but I never learned how to take care of myself and my coping mechanisms have been mainly self destructive my entire life. There are psychiatrists to diagnose and prescribe medications, but most of the one on one time is spent with the counselor we are appointed. The counselor comes up with a list of classes that he/she feels will be the most beneficial and we use these schedules to move from room to room as the hands on the clocks dictate. There are also group therapy sessions. It is heartbreaking seeing so many people suffering, and it is in my nature to want to reach out and help them. I have to remind myself that I am a patient there too, and that there is a staff to help them. I can offer up a few supportive words or even just a nod to acknowledge that I understand what they are saying . I also find myself moving the tissue box closer when someone breaks down and weeps because the first few days I was in there I ended up in tears several times, and no one should have to cry into their hands while a circle of strangers watches.
My mood goes up and down. I think that I am feeling better and then I find myself slipping again and it is disheartening. I am trying to recognize that this is a process. There are certain things that are off limits for discussion during groups. Vague references to past abuse are allowed, but no dwelling and no details. Admitting, for example, that you have a problem with self harm, such as cutting, is allowed, but no graphic details. It is believed that words such as those I describe can be triggering for the other patients. Some of the counselors will allow you to speak to them privately about past abuse, others believe that although it is normal for these memories to resurface , that they are not to be dealt with now as we are supposed to be focusing on the here and now and learning how to care for ourselves. I like my counselor. He is easy to talk to and very supportive.
My future is unwritten and that is OK. I am trying to realize that it’s not too late and that it is actually a sign of strength for me to get up everyday and to try again rather than hiding in my house, or trying to escape by sleeping too much, or by trying to numb the pain with drugs and alcohol.
Thank you.
' May 30th, 2009 at 02:20am
I have wrestled with the idea of how to write this, or whether or not to write this. When I first started this site I knew that I wanted to reach out to others who were suffering from mental illness and their families. I believe that I have done that to the best of my abilities.
The past few months have seen my mental health take a dramatic turn for the worse. After a particularly brutal weekend and several consultations with my doctors I feel that I have little hope left but to enter an outpatient intensive therapy program. It has been scheduled for me to start Wednesday morning. It will be a day program, allowing me to return home at night. I have been forced to leave my job at this time due to a worsening of my depression and panic disorder. I am back to that place I never thought I’d ever be again of being too afraid to leave my house.
Over the weekend, while panic attack after panic attack washed over me, I tried through various methods to calm myself down. I tried taking my valium and telling myself that I would feel better in 20 minutes, but better never came. I seriously considered ending my life; not because I want to die, but because I don’t know if I can handle being this sick. In the end I reached out to my husband, Alex, and explained what was happening to me, and then to my mother. My mom drove over and held me and told me that she was proud of me for reaching out for help. I don’t feel like anyone anyone should be proud of, ever, but I want to one day.
My not working is going to place a financial strain on us. Alex and I have gone over our budget and decided which ways we can cut back to compensate for my lack of income. If it becomes financially neccessary for us to stop hosting this site I will post a message; I won’t just disaapear.
I spoke with each of my children seperately yesterday and explained to them that I was going to be seeking treatment. I answered their questions and many hugs were shared. I am glad that I have the opportunity to do this on an outpatient basis so that I will still be able to see them each evening.
The support I’ve received here has meant so much to me. For those of you who are also suffering from this please listen to me when I say don’t give up. I have to believe that through all of this there is going to be a brighter day on the other side, and that it will be possible for me to learn coping mechanisms other than just taking medications. I want to live and I am not going to surrender.
' May 12th, 2009 at 06:30am