Chapter 8...Bluebird of Hope

"She can deal with stress and carry heavy burdens. She smiles when she feels like screaming, and she sings when she feels like crying. She cries when she's happy and laughs when she's afraid. Her love is unconditional. There's only one thing wrong with her. She forgets what she's worth!"



When we moved to the South twenty years ago, I spent many afternoons at my sister's home in the country. It was the first time I ever saw bluebirds in such an abundance. If allowed to, I could sit in awe watching the graceful birds until the sunset. There is something about any birds with blue feathers that can be hypnotic and mystifying. Perhaps it's because they're a shade of Heavenly Blue or that bluebirds are symbols of happiness, or maybe Godly is the word I'm trying to find.

Kevin Spacey starred in an early 2000 movie whose name was Prot. Prot was portrayed as a mental patient/possible alien. There were several characters Prot helped, but a fellow obsessive compulsive patient named Howie, was who came to my mind. Howie was tasked by Prot to look out into the garden until he saw the bluebird of happiness. Rather than going about his regular routines, Howie sat at the window watching the trees for the elusive bird to come to him. There's more to the story, but this is the movie that came to mind this morning. However, the thought and the setting seems appropriate for the state of repair I'm in.

Every home we owned had a large window, French doors, or sliding glass doors in the kitchen dining area. I based the purchase of our homes to have this requirement, because I thrive on bright natural light. It was important because the kitchen has always been the nucleus of our homes. It's the place our family and friends gravitate to. Its where we traditionally gather daily for meals, where we solved problems whether they were important or insignificant. Its where we entertained, studied, laughed and cried. When my children were babies, they were bathed in the sink while the aroma of fresh baked goodies escaped from the oven. Birthdays, weddings, funerals, and graduations all centered within the kitchen, and its no wonder to anyone who knows me that I'd be writing this at my kitchen table.

Lately, more often than not, I've been sitting at this same table with my head in my hands, wondering. Wondering about trivial things and those which are not so easy to define. I gaze without expression at all the beautiful flowers I've planted that have finally reached maturity and the freshly mowed lawn, and feel nothing. An emptiness I can blame on many things, but my mind goes blank when I try to pinpoint any one thing, and the other is fear. Then one day not long ago on a particularly “blue” day, I lift my head from my hands and focused my medicated eyes to see a bluebird sitting on a planter directly in front of the window. I didn't move except for the tears that ran down my cheeks. If I didn't know better, it looked like he was looking at me looking at him and transmitting the thought that tomorrow will be a better day. I praised the Lord. Did God know I needed to see that bird of hope? I believe He did.

This exact incident has happened three times since then, and each time my eyes teared. It was therapy I didn't have to pay for and I know in my heart, God is walking by my side through this journey. I felt the same overwhelming hope Howie did when the bluejay landed by his window.

 

Chapter Seven...Letting go...

“The journey of a thousand miles begins with one step.” Lao Tzu

 

You wonder if you will ever feel normal again. You want to go back to being the person you were before the trauma took place. You seek ways to forget that the experience ever happened and look for substances to help you forget. Sometimes you attempt to create a life for yourself in which you try to avoid the memories. It becomes a purposeful attempt to forget. I don't know what kind of person I was before, or how I can define normal to today's standards. I made a mistake not talking to someone about what happened to me, and the life that followed was half-lived. I have so thoroughly avoided dealing with that part of my past, and let it affect me in serious and substantial ways, that I've never experienced my true self or a real life to its fullest. When I hurt the most I have a tendency to think family contributed to the cauldron of my growing-up years, all the emotional hurts, lack of emotional support, rivalries, and misunderstandings had a way of casting a long shadow of mistrust on my adult years. Maybe they did. Maybe they didn't. Maybe it was just me. It's taken an enormous kind of courage for me to step beyond the normal roles and expectations for my past behavior and share. I want to fulfill that normal role, find that normal place and relax in the idea of it. To find serenity within and accept that it did happen to me rather than work so hard to deny it ever happened or believe that I'm somehow dirtied and damaged from it.

 

How does one find happy? How does one let go once and for all? Some days any strength I try to produce seems to be missing from me. The damage turned into an infected wound. It takes some time for a scab to form, and even more time for it to fully heal. Do you remember that movie with Jodie Foster? She was gang raped in a public place and others watched for fun. She was portrayed as someone who asked for it because she drank alcohol and seemed promiscuous. I hate it. I will never understand the logic that someone could ask for something like that to happen to her. Only people who have not been raped could believe that someone asked for it. The classic abuser mentality, “I wouldn't have hurt you if you didn't make me.”

Most decisions start with a goal in mind. At the end of this new life adventure, where do I want to end up? I don't know. I certainly don't want to walk around talking about what happened to me when I was a little more than a child to people who only pretend to be supportive. I don't see myself becoming a public advocate on the rights of women and children, I tried it recently and it was another set-back. I don't see myself cutting up a cardboard box to make a sign with red paint that reads, “Stop Violence Against Children,” or worse, “I was raped in a cabin by three older teens and no one cared.” Where the hell would I even picket? It's hard to even imagine picketing when I can't picture the who, the what, the where and the why's or the action. Lastly, I don't want to write a depressing blog forever.

 

I am new to my recovery. I have good days and I have bad days. I am learning to use imagery to wipe the filth and grime out of my mind. It happened to me, and yes, occasionally it will get me down. Instead of letting the dirt seep in, I am learning to clean it off. Breathe it out. I'm learning to tweak my perceptions. I viewed the experience as something that dirtied and scarred me. Something that anyone could see if they just looked at me. In reality, no one ever guessed what happened to me that fall evening before my fifteenth birthday. I give power to the hurt by keeping it close to my heart and soul. I don't want that hurt as part of my heart and soul anymore. Instead, I want happiness, forgiveness, acceptance and hope for a better tomorrow.

 

Tonight, my thoughts are scrambled as I reevaluate my life. If my thoughts intermingled with other thoughts and left you scratching your head wondering what I said...sorry, I'm working on that too.

Chapter Six...My Soul

 

Cabin In The Dawn

1970

Words upon words, I lay on once more

Promises and lovers are gone with the morn.

When one day a fair haired boy came with promises in poem.

He was wild with rage, he was crazy and scorned

Telling me of his world where I will not mourn.

This boy made me a woman the boy killed my life

Flying in midair he slashed my soul with his knife.

This was written a long time ago by the hand of a once innocent girl. It's one of hundreds of poems and short stories I wrote and still possess. The aging notebooks filled with penciled doodles and handwriting are now beginning to fade. I've carried them through the years tucked away in an unpacked box rarely ever reading them except for one or two. I wrote them in study hall, at the library, in the confines of my bedroom and at my most favorite place, the lake. I don't remember where I wrote most of them, but the scraggy script on some told me I either wrote them on the way home from school on the bus, or with gloved hands and shivering on the icy lake shore. Some are wrinkled with the sweat of a bottle of pop that dried in a circular pucker, or an occasional mascara stained tear. Every one was filled with the emotions of a heavy heart that no one but me would understand. I may not remember the where, but I can clearly pin the events of when each was written. Reading them now, I see a very forbidden world, filled with ups and downs, the kind not reserved for a young woman. I was reading a bipolar account of being a damaged teenager and looking into the soul of the person I forgot, unable to distinguish love from abuse.  

Today, I placed myself in the best comfortable yoga position I could muster in front of the paper shredder, and began to shred some of those poems...the ones that caused me the most pain. I have kept them sacred for over forty years, and just like the pain I've hidden so well, it's now time to dispose of them one by one along with the memories attached to each. The time has come to perform a final exorcism and rid the ghosts that have attached themselves to me. We moved across country twice in the past 30 years. I thought by leaving the beautiful state that runs through my blood, I would be set free. I was not.

My Soul

1970

i stood naked in the ocean holding my soul

and watched as it turned to hot salted sand

desperately clenching my fist to hold it

until the grains began to burn and etch my skin.

through my small straining fingers

every grain escaped into the lapping waves

and dissolved into the foaming gray water at my feet

now, nothing but every tear, every lie

and above all, every sinful act lingers

when i opened my tired hand my soul was gone

i trembled and died.

i struggle to hide the deadness inside

and conceal the emptiness in my eyes

my body shudders and my mind screams

fight

fight to live.

but why?

because my handful of existence has vanished

and my soul is lost.

 

At fifteen, I never saw the ocean, but I imagined a magnificent body of water illuminated with fiery diamonds dancing on the waves. I knew the power and beauty of God's making was certain to take my breath away, and it did just that several years later. My memory of writing that poem was after standing in slightly mucky lake water after looking for skipping stones. I never learned to be a proficient swimmer and the thought of wading out until the water was over my head was a terrifying thought. I knew I would panic and drown. Drowning, was a thought I contemplated on that particular day. It was a thought I had when I walked for miles on the ice covered lake and unexpectedly fell through a thin spot. I read somewhere back then that when people drown, it's like falling asleep. But, one night reality dug its gnarly nails deep into my arm and my life force kicked in when I was threatened to be electrocuted, wrapped up in a shower curtain and dumped into the lake. It no longer seemed like a peaceful easy way to go.

Drowning danced off and on in my mind, but the consequences to my everlasting soul kept me from doing it. I owe my life to a strong religious upbringing. Even though I had my mind made up I was going to hell and I was heading there on the fast train, there was a chance I would find someone who would love me for who I really was. The greatest sin would be to take the life God gave to me and destroy it and spend eternity with all the other lost souls. I turned my back on my faith and ran rampant with the rest of the wolves, knowing redemption and forgiveness would eventually find me. It got worse before it got better and the things I did, I am not proud of.

Chapter Five...Peers

“Fear makes the wolf bigger than he is.” ~German Proverb


In real life, women who are depressed or troubled by an event usually turn their anger and self-hatred against themselves. Time and time again they reflect back on the events that led to their disgrace. I am referring to they as those who have ever been abused and sexually victimized. People close to us don't know what it is to be so chronically touched that an accidental contact by a stranger sends a white hot jolt of abhorrence straight to your groin. And, when asked what's wrong, you shrug it off and hope they don't continue to pursue the issue.

Until my senior year of high school, I sat at many desks feeling exploited. I was an object of objectless love and it swelled deep in my gut like stone. I was afraid one of my endless “daymares” would leave me crying out loud or worse. Everyone around me, the jocks and the snob bitches would laugh except for maybe the girl in the back of the room who everyone tormented, I think should would understand.

They would remember me at class reunions like this...

Old Bald Jock: “Hey, do you remember when that dark haired chick, you know, what's her name, had an acid trip in the biology class?”

Drunk Disco Jock: “I don't remember her name, but I sure as hell remember that day! That happened in Mr. B's chemistry class. Wasn't she screaming that the whole world fucked her?”

Still an old asshole Jock: “Man, that was some crazy shit... What happened to her anyway?”

Old Disco Jock: “Hell if I know, and it matters to any of us, why?” Laughter...and they toast the good old days...Ha!

That's the way I imagine it anyway. I never went to a class reunion, and I don't know if I would have ever gone. Nonetheless, I didn't have to concern myself about it, I was never invited. Negative, I know, but I'm working on it.

I kept a very detailed diary during that time of my life, it was probably the only time period I ever did. I created a reservoir of all the emotions I felt. I wrote stories, but mostly poems, a lot of poems. I wrote several compositions and poetry for different people regularly, it came easy to me. One of the poems I submitted in English class was wadded up and thrown in the trash in front of my wide-eyed classmates. The teacher said loud enough for everyone to hear, it was vulgar and I needed to submit something else. The jocks in the back of the room snickered while I slunk to my desk. I did not write another, I took the F. That incident further instilled what I was becoming, and as I look back now, it was a subliminal cry for help. But, who was he to judge my work when no one judged him for fucking a student or two in the supply closet. Unfortunately, a lot of young people, and the adults who should have been role models, got away unscathed with a gross amount of atrocious behavior.

I wonder what kind of life my violators led since then. Did they violate some innocent virgin more than once? Did they have a conscience, and if they are parents what would they do if their own daughter or granddaughter was raped? Would it bring to mind a remote frenzied event from their past when they were over-sexed drunk studs? I have an answer for two of them...one is no longer with us and his everlasting life is in God's hands. The second, the last I knew he was a business owner and remained active in the town I escaped from. The third, I don't know. I don't care. I would be lying to myself if I didn't wish them all, well, you know...

Yesterday's session left me numb. For the first time, I feel anger not fear.

Yes, another sleepless night...

Chapter Four...Exposed

“A human being is a part of the whole called by us the universe, a part limited in time and space. He experiences himself, his thoughts and feeling as something separated from the rest, a kind of optical delusion of his consciousness. This delusion is a kind of prison for us, restricting us to our personal desires and to affection for a few persons nearest to us. Our task must be to free ourselves from this prison by widening our circle of compassion to embrace all living creatures and the whole of nature in its beauty. Nobody is able to achieve this completely, but the striving for such achievement is itself a part of the liberation, and a foundation for inner security.”
~Albert Einstein writing to Norman Salit on March 4, 1950



Finally, you break down, you're diagnosed, you get the help you need because you don't want to jump off that proverbial cliff just yet. But now the real fear surfaces...the truth and how will your family deal with it. Does the truth really set you free or does it create more complications, and now that the truth is out there in front of God and everyone you love, will you feel you are being judged all over again? Probably, it's human nature.

No one likes to be exposed when you have found a smashing good hiding place. Do you remember playing hide-n-seek as a child? You found the absolute perfect place to hide from your friends and it was so good you'd rather pee your pants than to give up your location. Everyone gives up trying to find you and goes about playing while you're still hidden. You come out of hiding to everyone's surprise, but no matter how hard they taunt you or tickle you, you won't give up where you were.

Your mind is a hiding place, little closets locked with an array of different keys. Sometimes the doors can be opened easily, while others won't budge and remain covered with dust and cobwebs. Some minds are strong and never have to look for a way in. Those minds found resolve in one form or another, whether it was through forgiveness or being forgiven. Some find the key and willingly open the door ready to embrace what was hidden away. Others have their hand on the doorknob for many years wanting to force it open but cannot face the unapproachable. This was me.

First thing comes to mind is, I'll get it out into the open and then deal with the consequences of my actions. Then you do it. So, it's out in the open that's the first step, now what? Then, do you shout it to the world, or do you confide in one person you know you can trust? I told someone, someone I cared very much for (my trigger) and was reduced to being a scared teenager once again. That was three years ago. It was too late to turn back. Up until then, two friends of mine briefly knew, and an ex-in-law whom I could trust. Back then, you didn't press charges. In fact, you covered it up and hope it eventually goes away. Living in a small town, everyone one knows everyone else's business, (remember Peyton Place?) and the repercussions of telling could be worse.

I took a couple days off school, if I took anymore than that I would have to explain to my parents why the stomach ache wouldn't go away. I avoided eye contact with anyone, terrified they would see into my fragile battered condition. Soon as I came home from school, mom always had dinner ready, I reluctantly shared my day at the table, I helped clean the kitchen, did my homework, and went to bed. Soon, I gave up wanting an education and any dreams for the future. I gave up on me. I became one of those girls every girl whispers about behind your back, and the one every boy wants to go out with. I became an outcast amongst my peers and begun to seek out other “damaged” individuals who I could relate to, and believe me there were plenty of them. I finally found acceptance I needed and fit in somewhere. I skipped school to be anywhere else than there, and was back by the second ring of the last bell. My all A's and B's record became a thing of my past, and I was certain my fourth grade teacher, Sister Mary Gordon would suggest the convent wasn't for me anymore. My dream of being a teacher collapsed along with everything else.

Right now, I am going to stop and ask you some questions. Think of one “bad” girl you went to school with. Try to envision what she looked like, was she plain or pretty? Was her hair long or was it short? Was she shy or outgoing? Who were some of her friends and was she judged by them? Why do you think the “in” crowd put her down? Was she really “loose” or was it because of a cruel rumor started in the boys room? Did she become that kind of girl because of false accusations? Do you ever remember seeing her at Homecoming or the prom? Did you ever smile at her or did you look the other way? Did you feel dirty being anywhere near her? I believe your plate is now full and I'm curious how you will digest it. Share your answers, you can do it anonymously. It's clear, far more than anyone would care to admit, petty judgments are harmful. It's all pervading and supremely powerful.

Subscriptions

I have been getting emails saying some of my new subscribers are not getting any posts. As you know, once you enter your email address and follow instructions, a confirmation email will be sent to you for you to confirm that you did indeed subscribe. That confirmation email may be going to your spam and you might want to check it. If it's not, try submitting your email address again and please let me know if that doesn't work. Peace & Love...

If you can't be with the one you love, do you love the one you're with?

If you don’t know what exposure therapy is, it is a form of therapy that uses mental images, writings, or in some cases, a visit to the place where the event happened. It helps you face the trauma head on by taking you back and exposing you to the experience and events as they happened. Something I never did. Avoidance of those memories makes PTSD symptoms hang around longer, maybe even a lifetime. The therapist explained, by avoiding memories, thoughts and emotions those experiences a person cannot fully process the what’s and why’s of the situation.

Today was not a good day…last night I wrote about my rape experience because that was part of my “homework” for today. I tore it up, wadded it in a tight ball, and threw it in the trash like it was infected with something mysterious hidden in the vaults at CDC. I went back to my pad of paper and all I could think about was the wadded paper in the trashcan. I pushed my chair away from the table, retrieved it, and proceeded to take it apart and place each piece through the paper shredder. Did I feel better? No. I was drained and wanted to sleep. Did I sleep? No.

I did this one time before not long ago and shared it with one of my “triggers.” It was the first time I had spoke about it, let alone write about it. It was when I thought I could face the faces and somehow find forgiveness...I was so wrong. By doing so, it opened Pandora’s Box and everything that I kept to myself for over forty years was on the surface eating at my heart and soul. Black tears of revulsion and betrayal blinded me and left me in a void with no way out.

I don’t want to, and there’s no reason to describe to you in detail what happened that October night, other than there were three older boys in a private cottage, with no adults expected to be there. Two of them had been drinking before I arrived with my date, the polite and handsome boy I fell for at a home football game. It was our third official date and he wanted to stop by his friend’s place for a few minutes before going to the restaurant. I only ever kissed one boy before him and that was shy and awkward. My fifteenth birthday was the next week.

My date takes me home, I was terrified to move in the passenger seat. He pulls in my driveway and turns off the car, he’s crying too. Says he’s sorry. What the fuck? You rape me and you’re crying? It was eleven o’clock, right on time. Dad was in bed and mom was closing things up for the night. From the kitchen, she asked how my night was. I told her it was fine and went into my room and locked the door. I crawled into bed with my clothes and coat on, crying, too numb and too terrified to move. I waited till I knew for sure she was sleeping. My clothes went in the trash and I sat in a scalding hot tub, my blade out of my razor, I nicked at my thighs, my arms, my legs…and stopped at my wrist where I inserted the edge and pulled…all I had to do now was dig deeper and drag… The bloody water was welcoming me with Satan grinning on the other side…I was in hell. I am going to hell. The thought of my parents and my little sister seeing me dead in a blood filled tub stopped me. Not much mattered after that night, I was on a self-destructive path. I lied, I took drugs, I was sexually promiscuous, I shoplifted, and I hurt and betrayed the people I loved the most. It didn’t matter if I had a high IQ, and a future at my fingertips. I made up my mind I wasn’t someone who deserved anything good. Remember, I said I was going to hell.

My daughter-in-law is in the medical profession and she mentioned a while back about how she and the other nurses get disgusted when the same battered women come in the ER for treatment and not press charges against their husbands or boyfriends. It was one time I couldn’t hold back and got emotional. I explained to her that they couldn’t because hopefully, one day…just one day, things might get better and the sun will finally shine on their parade. I know. You see, I “dated” that older boy off and on for two years. Some of the times we spent together were great, then it became a dangerous game of truth or dare if I didn’t get a particular act right or if I got hurt, he produced tears of shame and wanted forgiveness. That was the game, I forgave him…I loved him…maybe this is what you do to keep a boyfriend. Normal? No. It’s that insane fraying piece of thread that keeps you dangling between hate, love, and madness.

At this moment, I am reminded of the short story by Joyce Carol Oates, “Where Are You Going? Where Have You Been?” She wrote it sometime in the mid 60’s and much of it seemed to hit home. When I first read it in high school, my first thought was how did she know, because it reminded me of myself. It’s about a teenage girl named Connie who confronts her self-awareness as she transitions into adulthood. At home, she acts childish. She argues with her mother and abhors her older sister, and when she’s out with her friends, she strives to be sexy and mature. Arnold Friend appears, he is older and threatening. Connie faces a new kind of danger and will not come away unscathed. Her life has irrevocably changed, and her future looks hopeless. Arnold threatens Connie and her family and implies that if bad things have happened, there will be worse things to come, and if bad things have not yet happened, then they most definitely will. There is much symbolism in this short story of psychological terror and what lies ahead for Connie.

So, this was a portion of today’s session...terrifyingly vivid, extremely humiliating, and so very ashamed of myself. Good night.

When Did I Stop Dancing...

"The spirit in which you do something is often as important as the act itself."


When did the music stop and why am I standing alone on the dance floor? At what point did my world lose its texture and hue and become black and white? One thought leads to another, which feeds into another, in an endless debilitating cycle that sucks any energy, leaving one to feel like a hollow shell drifting in limbo. Life was irreversibly damaged.

Mental pain under the surface stirs those thoughts. It keeps the leash just snug enough on those thoughts so they don’t escape telling the world your dirty little secret and leave you vulnerable or unstable. Some of the painful thoughts that keeps going round and round in my head…

§ There is nothing I can do
§ I am falling apart at the seams
§ I am worthless
§ I have lost some thing I’ll never find again
§ I am not my old self anymore
§ I am an embarrassment to my family
§ I am a failure
§ I am defeated
§ I am damaged
§ The pain will never go away
§ I have no future
§ Repeat all of the above

Triggers come in many forms and too numerous to mention. The answer lies in how we remember events from the past. For instance, when I was in kindergarten, my teacher put me in the supply closet for talking too much in class. She turned the light off, and what was probably about ten minutes seemed like eternity to a five-year old. Her perfume is a trigger for me, a distinctive and very strong fragrance. On a few rare occasions, I caught a whiff of that same scent, usually on an older woman, and mentally it put me back crying in that small dark closet. I’m sure you may have similar experiences where a scent, taste, or touch immediately transposed your mind’s eye back to an experience you had in your past.

I’ve been asked, “…But it’s been so long ago, why can’t you let it go?” Well, I thought I had a grip on depression for a long time by working long hours and raising a family. Then one day a fleeting moment sneaks in and floats past your nose, and the stench of that memory almost brings you to your knees. Every day after, you take a hot bath, put your makeup on, you comb your hair and try to shake it off, but it’s still there clinging like the addict’s monkey sinking its teeth into your fleshy parts. Those teeth are called triggers and one day I was defeated. There were several events molded together which led up to where I now stand, expanding a thriving business, a wedding, two floods, selling a house, buying a house, a phenomenal business that was failing because of the economy, and lastly, being ostracized from my family for some lame reasons. It was a downhill spiral and all the feelings I listed previously weighted me down with failure being at the top of the list.

Everyone has at least one fear that haunts him or her. Maybe it’s losing your sight, your hearing, your teeth, your hair, a limb, growing old or dying. My fear was being committed which I think derives from some early childhood experiences. My mom volunteered many hours at the women wards of two different mental hospitals in the Detroit area, one I don’t remember much about except that a favorite aunt seemed to take residence there often and I couldn’t visit her. The other, my mom occasionally brought me along with my dolly. I was content and didn’t mind until one day, a lady came down the stairs and walked towards me holding a baby. She wore a blue poodle skirt, white shirt, bobby socks and brown and white oxfords. She wore a smooth pageboy and dark rimmed glasses. She sang softly and stopped to smile at me. Her baby was swaddled in a pink blanket tightly in her arms, sleeping. I held my baby doll close to me as she neared. When she sat down, I saw her baby was a doll too. I became frightened when she stroked my hair and I saw her baby had a hole in its head. A couple nurses escorted her back up the stairs and she tried to resist the firm hold they had on her arms. I’ve thought about that incident many times, the woman, a child, a breakdown and I think I understand.

You see, I was raised in a time when mental issues were only whispered about, shhh…hush, hushed away. We were a proud family, my parents were pillars of our church and community, but we were not a close family due to the age differences between siblings. You knew not to do things to humiliate your family and to uphold the integrity of your family name. You loved God, your country and lived by the Golden Rule. No one openly discussed individual troubles, and some secrets remained secret until now. I am a strong, proud woman and I will find the help I need to liberate the woman in the mirror without embarrassment or persecution from others who are not willing to understand the lifelong effects how rape and depression can fuck up your life…

First Post in a New Blog

If you’re a first time visitor, I’m so pleased you dropped in and I hope you decide to hang with me by subscribing. If you are one of my faithful followers or visited me on The Constipated Woman, I welcome you to my newest blog. People are brought together through mysterious ways and it’s comforting to know by reading someone else’s words, no matter what the circumstance, you are not the only one…


“The World Health Organization estimates that depression will impose the second-biggest health burden globally by 2020. Think about that for a moment. Depression will impose a bigger burden than heart disease, arthritis and many forms of cancer on both individuals and society in less than a decade…It’s not a great stretch of the imagination to assume that in a few decades of unhappiness, depression and anxiety will have become the normal human condition, rather than happiness and contentment.” Mark Williams, PhD.

This was an interesting statement by Dr. Williams, especially the last sentence of the quote. It’s not a far reach to see that it can happen or possibly will happen the way our society is changing. Depression used to be an illness of the late middle-aged, now it strikes a substantial amount of people in their teens and younger. I’m not going to write about any more statistics, what I am going to write about is how it has taken forty-three years for a diagnosis of what the frick my problem is.

I consider myself a first-class make-up artist. In other words, I’m good at concealing any wounds, verbal or physical. Something like a wild animal would do to protect itself from predators. Our moods naturally wax and wane. It’s the way I think we’re meant to be. But repetitious thoughts and memories when triggered can leaving you hanging naked upside down, making others think, what the hell is wrong with her anyway? These self-attacking thoughts are incredibly powerful, and once they gather some momentum they are almost impossible to stop. One thought or feeling triggers the next, and then the next…and no matter how hard you try to break that runaway thought train, you can’t…then you’re out of control. I know.

The last post I made on my other blog, The Constipated Woman I tried to put my dark emotions into words. To most people, I didn’t make sense. Hell, I didn’t make sense to me and that’s when I sought help. I know myself and I knew something physically was going on with me other than the normal physical progression of aging. I’m talking about the tug-of-war going on in my head that was affecting the body; higher than high blood pressure, a TIA (mini stroke) that, fortunate for me manifested in the doctor’s office, memory loss and pains in the chest that mocked heart attacks and then to top it all, the doctor suggests I may have early signs of Alzheimer’s disease. Holy Shit! I freaked, and went into a deeper depression. I sought out a different doctor, one with newer training and not stuck in the ways things were done a hundred years ago. During my first visit, he asked the right questions and pushed all the right buttons, and then, right there in front of this beautiful blue-eyed young man, I broke down like a two year old who lost her mommy.

He alleviated one of my burdens after a few tests by telling me Alzheimer’s was out the door only to be replaced what he thought was PTSD.
“PTSD? No, I don’t think so.” I wrote about one of my novel characters experiencing PTSD after coming home from Nam. When I hear the term, I think war related mental images. Period.
“I’m fairly certain,” he said. “You said you were gang raped...”
“I did?”
“You did, at your first visit…”
I didn’t remember telling him, but he said I did. I don’t remember even now telling him, and for God’s sake, why is all this shit coming out now? I don’t remember how I drove home without getting in a wreck that afternoon. My memories penetrated my thoughts with oozing black sludge and instead of focusing on finally having a diagnosis and getting past the past; all I thought about was finally facing my family. I would eventually have to admit it to my husband. I’m sure he suspected something through the years, like all the times he woke up in the middle of the night with me beating him with closed fists, the nightmares, or the intimate moments that were interrupted with fits of crying. Through the years things got better and I got stronger, but the triggers, whether they were emotional or physical were always teetering on the edge waiting for me to let my guard down and become one unguarded thought away from insanity. I felt like the little bird with a broken wing and the cat patiently hidden within the bushes waiting to devour it when it quit trying to fly away. I’m tired of putting on a happy face or being that cheery voice on the other end of the phone. So, I quit putting myself in those types of situations until I can do it freely.