Good-Bye, Shane

March 23rd, 2015, it will be three years since my friend, Shane, died. For those three years I have been so angry with him, not only because that he died, but how he died. 

Shane was a unique spirit, that was the draw to him for many people. What I found intriguing about him was his brain, his intelligence, his ego. Those things combined made him an asshole but as my wife likes to say, "he was our asshole." He was and he is. 

His brain: he was so smart it was often scary. He could deduce like a wizard, knowing who the killer was in a thriller, how a movie or book would end ten pages in, the dynamics of a game. He was truly amazing. 

His ego: this was his friend and foe. He had a palpable relationship with his ego. Tug of war, fist fights, ravage lover. He never wanted a single person to test his ego, he never wanted anyone to... love or hate it either. That's how it seemed to me. I will never presume to know what was going on in his mind, this is only what I saw and observed. 

He never seemed compassionate about mental illness. His wife, my dear and best friend, lives with mental illness daily and like all people with mental illness, has suffered with it for decades. Shane seemed on many occasions to try and bully the illness out of her. When my breakdown happened, and I spent the next few months after just trying to clear out the fog, he was known to say how wrong I am for Melissa. No, he really had no sympathy for mental illness and just figured someone could just change their mind and behavior and be done with the illness. 

For three years following his death I was so angry with him, there were few times I could think of him and not feel anger. The reason behind that anger was two reasons: 1. he hurt my friend. When I am friends with someone, I am viciously loyal. And I am fiercely protective. So, when he died, he caused her such pain she is still reeling from it. 2. how he died. This is the hardest to write because to this day, I just cannot understand. 

The night he died, Amanda's mom called Melissa while Melissa was driving home from work. Melissa saw the number, thought it was Amanda, and answered with a cheery, "Hello, friend!" Then she was thunderstruck by the news, "Shane died." When she walked in the door, I could instantly see she'd been crying and then she told me. It didn't sink in, it wasn't possible, it didn't make sense. He was 37. 

There was a free falling sense for the next few hours as we went to Amanda's side, I held her briefly, which is not something Amanda and I do. It's not that we don't love each other, but we're both introverts and aren't really touchy feely. But she was in such pain and shock, the only thing I could do was hold her, and she fell into my arm and we sat silently and waited for the coroner to arrive. 

The next few weeks, my friendship with Amanda grew closer. She couldn't sit at home so she came to my house nearly every night. We talked, she talked, she needed to talk. I learned about Shane during those talks. My love for Shane teetered and often fell, but always came back. After six weeks we learned how he died and my anger came back. He was a huffer. For those who are not familiar with the term, it's someone who, "Inhalant abuse (commonly called "huffing") is the intentional inhalation of chemical vapors to attain a mental "high" or euphoric effect." 

His "drug" of choice was the canned air used to clean electronics. He went through cans and cans of it without any of us knowing. His health started to suffer a month before he died. He seemed to have a cold that wouldn't go away. He died because he was stupid. Plain and simple. He balked at mental illness while he lived and died in one. He found people who couldn't "shake" their illness as weak. Yet, his killed him. I was pissed for his hypocrisy. I was pissed by his blatant disrespect for the struggle people like Amanda and me go through. I was pissed, so very pissed, I could not see anything but him being an asshole. 

But then my anger faded and it hit me, my friend is dead. My wife's best friend is dead. He's gone. His whole life now packed in boxes, his mother childless, his ashes in an urn. I miss him. When my anger started to fade, I could see I really miss him. 

This is my good-bye letter to Shane, thanking him for the time he spent in my life, wishing he were still here, thanking him for loving my friend, for the laughs, for the talks, and the friendship. 

My Journey

The journey I know thus far began when I was 22. I started therapy to recover my past at 21 and a year later I started to fully remember. I remembered my brother Jonathan. The thing that bothers me the most, though I have very clear memories of him, I can see his face, I can see him, I remember him, I can find no records of him. I can find no photos, no public records, no birth certificates, though I haven't tried everything yet. I have almost come to the conclusion that he was a boy I knew but he wasn't my family. He died in front of me. I remember that clearly as well. I can see that night, though some of it staggering and stuttering in my mind's eye, I can tell you exactly what the place looked like, how the night began, what my parents were wearing, how the insects sounded outside the nearby window. I can even recall the smells that lingered in the air after he died.

I am going mad trying to find some evidence of all of this. I have pictures of a child that looks like me but then there is another picture of a child at the same age with different hair color, different style of clothing, slightly different smile. In 1969 and 1970, around the time these pictures were taken, the majority of the photos show a young person wearing masculine clothing. My question is, during that time frame, in that era, would parents dress their daughter in "boy" clothes? From what I have found in my research, no. It was considered "odd" to put a girl in boy clothes, even at very young ages. Another picture shows a baby posed for their first "real" picture and the onesy is covered in trucks and dogs, considered boy clothes.

Recently I started having a real relationship with my two older sisters, the ones I didn't grow up with and whom have a better grasp on reality. I want to ask them about my life at that age but they weren't in contact with my dad around then. They didn't have a relationship with him and from I can gather was never around.

Here is what I know:
My mom was best friends with a woman who worked in medical records in the hospital where I was born, she also worked for the county clerks office.
She followed my parents to Bloomington, IL. where I grew up, after we moved there from Cincinnati, OH, and after we moved there from Rockford, IL.
She remained my mom's best friend until her death.
During the time we lived in Rockford, there were a string of child deaths. A woman was arrested and convicted for those crimes. She lived on the same street, 4th avenue, as we did.
We moved to Cincinnati, OH into a townhouse.
Once we moved to Bloomington, we lived on McGregor street, I can remember every inch of the house we lived in, I can draw the house from memory. My uncle Terry lived with us.

So now I'm at an impasse. Going forward I see no solution to my quest, staying put leaves me wondering who I am and if by finding out those things I want to know will change me forever into someone I may not like. I'm starting to believe finding the answers won't really be answers, just more shame. A boy named Jonathan did live, I remember him.

She Taught Me...

Every survivor knows what it means to remain strong for years upon years. I am not new to the concept, for over 40 years, strength compounding against my nerves, keep moving forward. Do not slow down, we tell ourselves, over and over. Whatever is needed to keep going, we do it.

Calm is similar to a lodged foreign body in the throat. It won’t kill you, not all at once, it takes awhile, it’s uncomfortable, it hurts. Over time it gets more noticeable.

During our life we saw the worst that humanity could do. Does that mean I lost faith in humanity? No! For many years I did not consider humanity, I shut it out and concealed myself, but then I met Melissa. I cannot write in adequate words the kind of soul Melissa has because words would insult the description. She is the kind of person who reminds you what being vulnerable in the right conditions can mean. How the tickle in the your stomach going down a slide can mean fun. She reminds me what love is, what kindness is, that hands don’t have to hurt.

She also taught me it is ok to slow down, she taught me it’s ok to be weak. She also taught me it’s ok to take a break, but not forget to get back up!

So, even though I may get tired from being too strong for too long, I can safely take a break. And when I’m ready, I can get back up on stronger legs, and continue on, with her by my side.

Embrace it!

I am broken. It isn't so bad. If one is broken, that means one can be repaired. I may not fit the mold of who I was but that person had a dickens of a time fitting into the mold of her parents design. I am free to repair into the image of my design.

I find it incredibly powerful to know no one else in this world can do my illness like me. It belongs to me! My illness, in good days or bad, is mine! I know it seems counter intuitive to embrace an illness, but when can I do? I can't get rid of it. It's like fighting an albatross. Instead, I choose to embrace it. I give it a name. I choose to call it not illness but rather... TennyPenny. I'm embracing it!

My dad's birthday is soon

My dad's birthday is on November 13th. It's been ten years since he died. I feel like my memories of the past ten years go a little something like this...

I see him lying in the hospital bed, black and grey hair splashed against the stark white of the hospital pillows. A beige knit sweater type blanket covering the lower part of his body. He's breathing, he's aware of everything around him, but he can't move. There was a smell... on the tip of my tongue it tasted like decay. In my nose it felt like death crawled in.

BLINK

Two days later my older sister was screaming at me over the phone asking why I would not return for the funeral.

BLINK

Two months later I stood before my friend, Kristen, she said she was sorry to hear about my loss. I remembering shrugging, sort of to say, "Thank you? I'm not sure how I feel." But I do remember listening to "My Immortal" about 37 times a day for those two months.

BLINK

2004: I started losing sleep.

BLINK

2004: We moved from the rental house to the apartments.

BLINK

2006: We bought a house, I worked for St Jude, I was in school.

BLINK

2009: I get hired, I started failing school, I start missing work, I have surgery.

BLINK

2010: I have a break down.

I didn't think of him much during my break down but I thought a lot about him after. Ten years goes by so fast, it really felt like a fast moving stream shuffling me through my everyday, hitting the occasional rock, feeling bumps and bruises, scrapes and tears against my skin, not knowing when I would stop.

Then I stopped this evening and remembered he is dead. I can't remember his voice, I threw away all of the pictures of him, his face is fading from memory. He isn't my father anymore. I'm still glad he's dead.

Disheartened

Since 2008, I have made YouTube videos. I talk about being MP, what it's like being MP, the Gang (as I call them) also make videos. I am told I help people. I am told my videos make a difference. But lately, along with everything going on, time of year, and so on, I have felt less like making videos. I almost feel as if I have said everything I can say about the topic.

The point of my videos is clear; one can gain cooperation with their system, the system is not the enemy, there are five steps to help gain cooperation, be kind to oneself, be kind to others, do not judge others. Pretty plain. Honestly, what more could I possibly say about it? After 250+ videos, it's all been said.

Yet, I feel like I'm abandoning my subscribers if I stop making videos. I suppose in a way I am. Not really abandoning but pausing. I haven't made a decent video in over a month and I can't honestly say I will be making one anytime soon. I feel disheartened by the process. I haven't had bad experiences on YouTube, strangely enough. I have not been hounded or harassed by trolls or haters. I have met some amazing women and men on YouTube. And I helped people.

So, what is this feeling? Why do I want to stop? Why do I want to do a farewell video, thank everyone for watching, and just stop making videos? I wish I knew.

The Baking Season Has Begun!!

When I was younger, say, around 11 through 15, my dad baked. It was the few times in my life I can remember looking at him and seeing something very close to peace. He made everything from scratch and from memory. Cookies, pies, cakes, everything made by his hands, no electric mixer, no stand up mixer, he made meringue by hand. He stood in the small kitchen of our double wide trailer and for fifteen minutes, whipped egg whites and sugar to perfection. He allowed me to watch him bake. We shared a quiet moment, neither of us speaking, he taught in movements, never words.

If I had to inherit anything from him, I am glad it is the love for baking. I crave it during this time of year, when the air is cool, the mornings crisp, and turning the oven on doesn't feel like satan's asshole. I make breads, cakes, cookies, pies, all from scratch. And all the while, I lose myself in the process. Nothing enters my mind except the next step, the next ingredient, the next part of the culinary puzzle. My shoulders ease, my posture loosens, and I relax. After the tumultuous two and a half months before, this next part of the year brings me to full life. With flour on my forehead, with butter caked between my fingers, I watch the day rise along with my breads, and for a little while, I forget I am a survivor and I just relish in the desserts.

Keep moving forward

When people see me, they have an immediate assumption; lazy, good-for-nothing, won't work. They don't understand on what level I want to work. I hear people complain about their jobs all the time and all I can think is, "really? You get up, walk outside your home, and work? And for some reason that sucks?" I started building a home based business because I need to work. I don't make money from my business, yet, but I am working. I am working toward something.

Have I mentioned, I hate medication!

I have developed a reaction to the Lamictal. Shortly after starting the medication, I developed small patches of rashes on my back and legs, hives popped up on my legs and thighs. No sores in my mouth or nose, so that's a plus. I had only been on it for exactly two weeks. I called my psychiatrist and spoke to the receptionist, he is such a nice guy, and he told me to stop the Lamictal AT ONCE. I am incredibly itchy, restless, and have flu-like symptoms. I see her tomorrow but man, is it really worth this? The medication I am currently, Pristiq has helped my depression, I am taking less Niacin, but it has done nothing for my anxiety.

I have been seeking help for my depression and anxiety since I was 15. For 30 years I have seen, maybe, 12 therapists and 3 psychiatrists, with almost no results. The only therapists that actually helped me were Shela and Dale. They forced me to look deeper within the issues, the true issues, so that I could find my way out of them. My issues run deep, from an eating disorder, anxiety, depression, isolation, and countless others. And although I went into each session filled with hope that this therapist would help me, I would leave knowing they couldn't. For whatever reason, The only two therapists who actually helped me, Shela; she was just amazing! She specialized in in MPD (Multiple Personality Disorder). She was an early pioneer in the field and made breakthroughs very few therapists at the time could. Her approach to treatment was first, let the system know there would be no integration, unless the ENTIRE system wanted it. Second, the treatment could only work if the client was in control of its progress. I made such incredible progress with her. Then there was Dale; she is the kindest, most endearing woman I have met since Shela. Her approach was pretty much the same, but what she treated was not the level of anxiety I have. My treatment could only go so far with her and we both knew that. I have had two other therapists since Dale but none have done for me what she did.

After 30 years of trying, of course it stands to reason I would get tired, tired of trying to new approaches, new medications, the latest fads in medicine with such horrific side effects I would lie in bed for days feeling as I were slowly dying. And for what? Nothing is helping the anxiety. But, through my skill of self analysis, I think I have found the cause.

My family lives roughly five hours from me. My mother has visited Memphis on several occasions, and it was at the start of those visits that my anxiety became unbearable. So much so I withdrew. The harder I tried to be "better," the worse the anxiety became to the point I had a breakdown. And here I am, nearly four years later, still trying to recover from that.  But I feel if I were further away from them, my recovery would be leaps and bounds ahead of where I am now.

My point to this tirade?
Medication will not work for me, it hasn't in the past, it will not in the future. Why? Because my anxiety is trigger by my proximity to my family. I can fully grasp that reality. It makes sense to me. It fits because when I was in California, Texas, Nevada, Arizona, New Mexico, South Carolina, North Carolina, Colorado, and Florida, I was fine. I functioned outside, in California I had jobs, I spent my weekends walking around downtown L.A. and Pasadena. I went to the beach, movies, etc. So, yes, I know the closer I am to my abusers, the worse I am.

Do I know what I sound like?
Yes, I know full well this sounds like the rants of someone who is ill and feels they would do better off the medication. The problem with that theory is, I am fully aware of my mental faculties, I am aware of myself. I self analyze daily. I take frequent inventory of my psyche every chance I get.

So, I'm back to square one. But one thing about me, I never give up!

How does my relationship in the midst of Mental Illness?

A lot of people have asked me recently, “how does your relationship work? Does your mental illness ever come into play? Does it affect your relationship?”

First, yes, my mental illness affects my relationship. It causes strains and stress and it causes resentment and anger. Being with someone with a mental illness is difficult, even for the most patient person, like Melissa. She gets frustrated when I can’t go outside, when she wants to go to the store but she doesn’t want to go alone, when she wants to go to the museum or the zoo, when she wants to do yard work, these are the things she loves to do but she rarely wants to do it alone. But my illness, my agoraphobia and social phobia gets in the way and it hurts her when we can’t do things together.

But then there are days when I can, and we go out, we have fun, we laugh, and remember what it was like before my illness got so bad. That is not, however, the only thing that makes our relationship work in the midst of an illness, it’s a combination of several things.

1. We talk. We talk all the time.

2. We touch base with each other once a week or once a month. We make time to check in and say how we are feeling, if we are upset, angry, frustrated, disappointed. Regardless of how the other person feels (and that is the hard part, because we never try to hurt someone we love, but sometimes honesty is the best way to set loose the pains that plague us), don’t get me wrong, we never hurt each other on purpose, that isn’t cool, but we have to be honest.

3. We understand the illness is separate from our relationship. When people think of a relationship, some believe that it is all in or nothing. It simply isn’t true. In every relationship, there is a Me, a You, and an Us. Nothing can change that.  In that order! Before anything else in a relationship can work, the “Me” must be well and taken care of. When one of us needs alone time, the other respects that. Everyone needs time alone to reflect and to self analyze. Putting every ounce of ourselves into a relationship will starve the relationship because the part of us we put in there will be eaten up really fast, and the other person will feel smothered. And when that happens, the relationship will fail.

4. Communication is not enough, when one person in the relationship speaks, the other must be willing to listen…. really….. listen! And not just pick out the words that seem threatening or derogatory. When we listen, we know and understand where the other is coming from and what they need from us in order to meet those needs. When your partner talks about something they need or how they are feeling, it is never an attack on us, never. They need to voice their feelings just like we do, and they do it for the same reasons, they need to vent. When we listen, we must never take an immediate defensive stance, because the moment that happens, the conversation is already over.

5. Allow the other person to grow. Each person continues to grow even in a relationship, they continue to mature and learn in life, and they use those experiences to become the person they grow into each day. And that growth and those experiences can add to a relationship.

6. Respect each others boundaries. No matter how long or intense a relationship is, each person has boundaries, and each person should respect that. Melissa has diaries, I have never read them. Those are her personal thoughts and feelings. If she wanted me to be privy to them, she would tell me. But until she tells me, I will not pry. If I am upset, she will not pry. She will ask if I want to talk about it and if I want to I will, but if I am not ready, she will not ask a second time.

7. Even after all that, sometimes fights happen. When tempers flare and people get angry. But we must remember that even when fights happen, that just means someone is angry, it doesn’t mean that the relationship is over. It just means someone is angry. If people threw in the towel every time someone gets angry, then no relationships would last after the first three months. It is especially difficult for those with troubled childhoods to fully understand that. Coming from an abusive childhood meant I saw my parents fight, sometimes violently, very often. So, my understanding of how relationships works was skewed, to say the least. I understand the way my parents were in a relationship was one out of desperation, they didn’t want to be alone, so they clung to the first person who showed them any interest. That is not love, that is co-dependency.

8. There is also a full understanding that no matter how hard we work at the relationship, there will be times when we don’t like each other very much. But the love will is still there. Don’t lose faith in each other simply because of a tiff. Find out why they are upset. Find out why they got angry and really, really listen to what they need. And then do those things. Meet their needs.

9. Compromise is not a dirty word. It means not being selfish. It means giving as much as taking. It means meeting your partner halfway. You cannot compromise on everything but compromising on most everything will ensure strength and trust in the relationship.

10. Trust is not freely given, it is earned. But when that trust is gone, the relationship is doomed. Lying does not spare your partners feelings, it puts a wedge into the foundation of the relationship. And over time, that wedge gets bigger and bigger and soon, the only reason you are still together is out of familiarity, not love. That is not a good reason to stay together, ever. Nor for the kids. Nothing damages a kid faster than watching two people who hate each other fight daily.

Now, even when everything on this list fits into place, that does not ensure a relationship will last forever. Each day you are together is a blessing but also understand sometimes relationships end. Not because they don’t love each other but because they grew in different directions. They need something else. It doesn’t always end because they met someone who fulfills them more than us, but because their needs outgrew the confines of the relationship. Enjoy each day you have together. Love each other.

I carried her once... ***TRIGGER WARNING*****

I carried her once, from the kitchen to the bathroom, dragging her through the vomit she left in front of the sink. She smelled of anger and stale beer, her hair was matted reddish brown and puke. I tried to clean her up, running water in the tub, placing her gently there, hand cradling her head, laying it down, her bare breasts sagging became buoyant in the water that reached up to her chin. She’s a small woman, my mother, and she seemed so much smaller that night, she left most of herself in tears and wailing in front of the sink, after he ... Did... What he usually did... When the mood struck. She struck him back, but her tiny fists were no match for his muscular manner and muscular air he breathed in the dusty trailer where he kept us all. He left her lying there, half naked and wailing, drunk and cigarette dangling from her broken finger. She fought back that night. She fought back so hard he had marks on his chest for weeks after. Maybe it was the alcohol that slowed his healing, or maybe he was a rat bastard of a person and deserved an infection that hurt when he breathed or moved or just lived.

I took the wash rag over her small frame, trying not to wake her, trying to keep the water from her mouth, trying, trying to keep her alive. And I really don’t know why. Perhaps it was pure obligation, or perhaps I was hoping that at some point she would look at me taking care of her and she would understand that all I really wanted was for her to love me. Isn’t that what they are supposed to do? When you give birth to someone, isn’t YOUR obligation to simply love the life you created? And how can it be so easy to look at that little face looking up confused at you and strike them?

She moved her fingers in the water as the soap lingered in a pale haze, as the residue started to cling to her thin skin. She looked so old that night but she was only 30. She was 30 that night with four kids, three failed marriages, and years of scars trailing her that began with her father and her brothers. “I hate him so much, one day I’m going to kill him,” she whispered just before she threw up again. I turned on the shower, rinsed her off again, wrapped a towel around her, and put her to bed. I cleaned the bathroom because I knew neither would remember what happened and she would of course blame me or my older sister. I scrubbed away the remains, the last remaining bits of her womanhood down the drain and went to bed. At ten, I felt all the years of an old person. My body ached. “Yeah, I wish you would kill him one day, too.” How can that be ok for a ten year old to think that? How can it be ok to drag your mother to the bathroom to clean the unhappy stank from her body? How can it be ok to do that to a child?

She always treated me with care... what a foreign sensation

…1980

I was ten when I met her and I thought she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. Even the movie stars of the time had nothing on her. Her long sandy blonde hair caressed her thin but full face, her piercing green eyes peeking through her feathered bangs. She stood five feet five inches tall but to me she was a giant. I can’t remember why I thought she was so big, so much larger than life but she was. I didn’t just gaze up at her with my adoring eyes but I also felt my neck strain as I watched her atop the pedestal I placed her upon. She was everything I needed in one person and I sat overwhelmed by her most of the time.

I knew her through my younger sister’s best friend.  Her name was Linda; a name I would associate with safety and love. My dad had started traveling to Rockford, IL during the week and would only be home on weekends and he needed someone to stay with us. Tonya wasn’t quite old enough to be left with that responsibility so he employed Linda. I came home from school to see her sitting in the dining room with my dad discussing what he needed, what she would be expected to do, and so forth. She sat looking at him, smiling and nodding, occasionally peering at me with the same smile. I can still see her sitting there. My initial reaction was one of pause, caution, concern. I had never seen her before that day; I had no idea who she was. For all intents and purposes she could have been someone who rented me for the day.

After they spoke for another fifteen minutes or so she came into the living room where I had finally settled, watching tv and snacking on chips. She came in and sat next to me, took a handful of chips and just watch tv with me without saying a word. She would giggle now and again at something that was said or done but other than that she never spoke a word. Once the show was over she looked at me, patted me on the leg, stood and left. My dad walked into the room and said, “That’s your new babysitter while I’m in Rockford.” He went into the kitchen, grabbed a beer and got lost in the can as the next show began.

She changed my life. In one singular gesture, in one singular promise, she changed me, even if she never knew. She had been babysitting for months when we got the monthly HBO guide of the movie playing throughout the month. The Rose starring Bette Midler was set play that month. I can still recall how excited she was to see it. We had missed the night it premiered but she was determined that she and I would see it that Saturday night. She kept saying I promise, I promise you we will see it together, no matter what. I didn’t believe, at all. I had no reason to.

Saturday came around, she was gone most of the day, I can’t remember why. My cousin in law had come over for some reason and we were hanging out playing tag. I was running through the trailer, rounding a corner a bit too sharply and my foot made contact with the hutch her had in the dining room. I stopped; fell to the floor clutching my foot. I couldn’t cry at that time, Tina was still very active and I switched for a few minutes while she cried for me. I limped over to the couch where I took my sock off, certain I would see blood and gore from the amount of pain I was in but was only met with a purple fourth toe on my left foot. I stared at it for the longest time, in awe of something trivial causing so much pain. As I sat there rubbing the section of foot just above the toe Linda walked in. She saw my toe and immediately ran over to me. She checked the toe out, went into the kitchen returning with a towel full of ice, placed the ice on my toe and looked at me with sincere concern. I reassured her I was ok and then she lowered her head to avoid eye contact. I knew what was coming, I was prepared. It didn’t make a bit of difference to me; I didn’t understand why she was making a show of it. She looked up and said she would be late, she had a date, but she swore she would be back by the time the movie started. I just nodded and looked at the towel. Her tenderness was alien to me. I dropped all pretense of anticipation or want. I let her leave, I let her know with my silence I didn’t expect her to be there and I would sit and watch the show as I promised myself I would.

Eight o’clock rolled around, I sat on the love seat and watched the movie begin. As the beginning credits began I heard a car screech to a halt in front of our trailer. I leaned forward slightly so I could see outside and I saw Linda dash out of the car, run up the steps, and stopped just inside the doorway and looked at me.

“I told you I would be here.” She said as she made her way into the kitchen and return with a tub full of hot water with Epsom salt and throughout the movie, the whole movie, she sat on the floor in front of me, my foot in the tub of Epsom salt, and she rubbing my foot. I had never known anything so precious or so honest in my life. She gave me so much of herself and told me everyday how good I was.

One evening I knew for her sure she would be leaving my life completely when she and my dad got into a fight. It was something so stupid but he made a big deal of it. I lay on the hide a bed in the living room waiting for him to tell her to never come back. I closed my eyes, begging in the back of my mind, chanting over and over ‘please don’t go’ and hoping the way only a wounded child can, when I heard him say he would give one more chance.

A few minutes later she came into the living room and for whatever reason I pretended to be asleep. I had gotten pretty good at it. And I listened, “I promise to be better for you. You deserve so much greatness in this world. I wish I could be that person you absolutely need since your mom left and I know how much you hurt. I can see in your eyes how much pain you are in all the time. You have to let go of that anger or it will rule your life. I know this because it happened to me. And now I seek love anywhere I can get it. Don’t be like me. I love you so much. I couldn’t love more unless you were my own child.” The whole while she spoke to me in that soft voice she rubbed my head. After Jonathan I never felt close to anyone but she got closer than most at that time.

I saw her years ago sitting in a hospital waiting room waiting to hear some news about her mom. My dad had been taken into the ER and I was waiting to hear news on him. I couldn’t speak to her. I felt so ashamed that I never lived up to the person she hoped I would become. I was 23, living with my girlfriend, no job, no prospect, no hope for much of a future and I couldn’t look at her. That was the last time I saw her.

I can close my eyes and see her. I can feel her hands and her words and her promises falling on me, a safety blanket from my past. For a short time she made me feel so safe, so wanted, so protected in the world I knew. When I think of her I always wish I had said thank you the last time I saw her. I’m not sure she would even know what I was talking about. But when you hold something as fragile as a wounded child in your hands, the only thing they will ever judge you on is how you handle them. And she always handled me as a prized piece of art.

Dear Daddy...

“Dear Daddy,

“How dare you leave the way you did. I didn’t have a chance to tell you everything I felt toward you or how much I hated being your child or how much I wish I had more time with you. I didn’t want you to go, but I didn’t want you to be around either. You made this confused vortex inside of me and never gave me a reason as to why you lashed out at me whenever you had the chance. And then when I went away, you cried. What the hell? It wasn’t as if you wanted me there... or did you? But when I was there, you ran me off by the harsh words you spilled over me. How dare you call me your daughter and then make me feel as if I had done you wrong by being born. It wasn’t my fault; it wasn’t my idea to be here. I didn’t ask to be born, I didn’t wish for any of this. This was your idea. It was your fault. And for as long as I could remember, I paid for it. Mom left, that wasn’t my fault either. How dare you make me the woman I am today? To afraid to walk outside, to afraid to encounter people for fear they will talk to me the way you did. The words you used, the hateful words you used, the pain you inflicted could have killed me a dozen times but I stayed in hopes that one day you would forgive me. And then I sat by your bedside, your death bed for four days and watched as you struggled for breath and all I could think was, "please don’t let him be in pain" and for what? You left, you mother fucker... YOU DIED!!! You left me to sit and wonder why the hell I should give a shit that you died. I am so mad at you for dying before you could make it right. You don’t live there anymore, I won’t see your face again, although I have to say, I really loved your smile.”

***

“The words from the soft voice of the singer waft over me, leaving behind fragments of memories. The shield of sadness, the veil of depression, the cause and effect of my need to say goodbye to him never sway. He gave me breath; life, need, want, and he left in me anger, despair, suicide, death. What did he expect? He was lost in his own maze and all he could see of me was a shadow that he could not recognize chasing him through his life. He was dying since birth, and in the latter part of his existence he drank his death with ever laden arms, needing that sweet carbonated eraser everyday to remind him that all was fine and when the end came, all he could do... was exhale with gurgled pauses...

“He is gone now, passed the point of funeral preparations and burial. He left behind a legacy of fogged moments of happiness in his desire to be well without her. But she had taken the best part of him and she never gave it back. She saw him several times a year and the only photo in his wallet was the paused moment of smiles with his wife and three of his daughters, grinning into the camera, ripped out of the daily life of questions and never knowing fear, and replaced briefly by the nice outfits and the camera shutter... CLICK... a happy family. I don't remember that day, but he did, and he carried that day with him from the day he got the picture until my sister took it out of his wallet... out of his hand... out of his life. We weren't there when he died... a family friend... the brave soul... the brave face sat with him to the end until she was awakened to hear the dreaded words, ‘his breathing has slowed, it's almost time.’ Her only thought, ‘Call Joni, Call Tonya... they need to know.’ But he left before they could get there, they simply could not see him die, that would kill them, he wouldn't allow it. So after twelve days of no food, of upping morphine, of saline drips, and humiliating wiping and turning, he let go of his mortal coil, and for the first time in his existence he was free. And drenched with confusion, I cried with the news... the words that chased the need for him, ripped through me like a machete, I cried.

“Goodbye daddy, I'm ok now, I'm free from you and the things you said. I release you from the rope you tied to me that anchored me to your destiny. You can go now... please go now... I can't take mourning you anymore. Please...go.”

Five Steps to Cooperation - Introduction

Five Steps to Cooperation

Introduction

To put it bluntly, I have Multiple Personality Disorder. The DSM-II (the book used to diagnose me in 1991) defines Multiple Personality Disorder as, “The presence of two or more distinct identities or personality states.” It took several years after being diagnosed to actually say those words. Mixed with shame was the after taste of denial and uttering those words would mean the end of a long road from abuse to broken. Just as anything devastating, I was immediately thrown into denial. Thus began the five stages of grief. This is common; almost every survivor goes through this when finally faced with reality. There are two stages that are most common; denial and anger. These can last for years and within that time further withdrawal can occur; not just by the core but by the system as well.

In my youth, I endured unimaginable amounts of abuse by the hands of my parents, two uncles and the uncle of a friend of mine and several friends of my parents. The abuse consisted of sexual, emotional and physical including mutilation of my body. The scars I bear are almost badges of honor; though it happened I came out of it alive. As a way to cope and deal with the abuse, which is very difficult for a child to endure let alone comprehend, my brain divided over and over, 200 times, in order to sustain and protect me. That only earns my gratitude, respect and loyalty.

When I was diagnosed in 1991 the DMS-II (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual, Second Edition) was still in use as was the terminology Multiple Personality Disorder (MPD). Since then, the DSM has undergone some changes and with that the definition and terminology of MPD. When the DSM-III was introduced the new name for MPD was Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID) and the idea behind it was slightly changed as well. Under the term MPD it was very plain and distinct what was truly happening; multiple personalities all residing within one consciousness. The awareness of the core never changed, whether inside or out, they remained exactly who they were. When the definition and terminology changed the idea of MPD also changed. Dissociative Identity Disorder does not explain it, in my opinion. The true definition of dissociation is: “the splitting off of a group of mental processes from the main body of consciousness, as in amnesia or certain forms of hysteria.”  If someone were to break down the words it would roughly mean when the core person “switched” they no longer knew who they were and “portrayed” whatever personality they chose.  Basically, it was the same person dissociating to feel better and to make that happen they had to pretend to be someone else. This is not so. Though I am sure the Psychiatric community has the best intentions they fail to accurately define what is really going on. By claiming the alters are not real, they basically negate the validity and the sacrifice of the alters. When I switched, I still retained my identity, I knew who I was at all times. I resided within my mind, within my consciousness while the others did what they needed. They knew who they were; separate from me, completely separate and aware.

Never in my life have I met a person willing to endure the most unspeakable traumas for another individual. Ask yourself, if you saw a child getting beaten within an inch of their lives, and you knew the abuser would not stop no matter what, would you step in and take a beating? Or rape? Or mutilation? I can honestly say I don’t know; I want to say yes immediately but in reality I don’t know if I could but every single day of my youth, until I was fourteen, that is exactly what my alters did. The world they were born into was wrought with so much horrific viciousness it is at times incomprehensible. They never gave a second thought about what they would do when faced with abuse; they took it, no matter how bad, no matter how painful. They took and endured everything. And when they couldn’t take it anymore, they created more people. The cycle went on and on until there was a small army and their ONLY purpose was to protect me. How can anyone look at them, knowing what they did for me, and say they don’t really exist? Most people disregard the disorder as false because they cannot understand how it works. But on the other hand, most people have a hard time accepting that people can harm a child on that level. It’s amazing what humans are capable of doing… even to a child, but it happens every second of  every minute of every single day.

Disregarding the alters does not honor them, it does not praise them, and their sacrifice is rejected. When I think of that happening, I become very sad. I made a decision to be an alter advocate because when I stopped saying, “poor me… poor me… this terrible thing happened to me,” and I started thinking about them and what they did, my perception of them changed drastically. They became my heroes.

I can't remember what happened first *TRIGGER WARNING!!!*

*TRIGGER WARNING* I speak of being molested by my uncle. Do not read if this will trigger you!

I remember sitting on the bed, a twin bed, trying hard to pull my shirt down to hide my naked lower half. Uncle Terry was standing at the window, Tonya and one of her friends was peering in. I can’t make out the look on Tonya’s face. She knew, though, I think, she knew what happened to me. It was day time. The light from outside was pouring into the room. We were in the house on McGregor. So much happened there. I can recall so many other things but I can’t remember what happened before Tonya in the window, or Uncle Terry trying to close the curtains or me trying to pull my shirt down.

I can piece it together. I was four, we hadn’t been living there long. Terry came later. So, maybe I was five. No, I was around four because that was also the time I was going to school, kindergarten, half days, in the morning. That’s when I drew the picture of my naked father and naked uncle. I was too young to be there, they said, but they were more concerned as to why I drew those pictures. Then I didn’t go to that school anymore. Too young? That’s what my mother said later. The truth? I don’t know. I was probably taken out because they asked too many questions.

I was four. It was day. What time of day was it? Tonya was there. School must have been out. It couldn’t have been the weekend because my parents didn’t work weekends. Terry was suppose to watch us until our parents got home. I can remember four times he molested me. But this one time I can’t remember what happened before I remembered trying to pull my shirt down. Why can’t I remember that?? I can remember the day he walked in on me while I was using the restroom and I tried to pull my pants up because I knew seeing him that something bad... No, that’s not right. The rest room wasn’t the first time, me pulling my shirt down was the first time. That’s why I don’t remember. The day he walked in on me in the restroom I knew him being there was bad because it had happened before. I knew I didn’t want him in there because I knew what he would do.

He was standing by the window, trying to pull the curtain closed. Tonya was at the window with her friend and they were looking in. I can’t quite make out the expression on Tonya’s face. I can only see her face from the nose up. She is straining to look in. He wasn’t wearing a shirt and his belt was undone and his zipper and pants button was undone. It’s right there, what I’m not wanting to remember. They are holding it. They don’t want me to know. Maybe it belongs to someone who only has that memory left.

I can’t remember. I can’t remember what came before that.

The fight continues

I hate being agoraphobic, I just hate it! I used to live in California, in Southern California, in Santa Ana, then L.A., then Pasadena. I never stayed inside, I was always outside, going to the beach, to the mountains, to different shops, different experiences. I was active, I moved, I breathed in fresh air until my lungs felt full. I rarely stayed home, and when I did, I was very “social.” I chatted through mIRC, an internet relay chat program, and I met people through there and then met them in real life. I had friends, I did things. This trend followed me from California, Georgia, South Carolina, but the moment I hit Memphis, I slowly started to withdraw. In the passed year, I learned it was not Memphis that caused my sudden and severe withdraw from the world. 

I was on disability from 1991 to 2005, I hated being on disability, with it comes a stigma about being lazy. I am not lazy, anyone who knows me knows I am a very driven woman. My mind cannot sit still therefore neither can I. But when people learned I was on disability, they thought me instantly lazy because I didn’t “look sick.” And there lies the crux of most people’s idea behind mental illness. So, when, in 2004, I was able to go back to work, I felt as if I had won the lottery. I left the house 7 days a week, 5 days for work, the weekends were reserved for my wife and we would go to estate sales, the zoo, the park, to the lake, etc. We were active. Then I met friends, good friends, people I still talk to, people I still want to see. As I moved from job to job (because I get bored easily once I learn a job), I became more and more social. 

But then, in 2006, something started to change. I was working for St Jude, a very good company to work for, I loved the company, their philosophy, their ethics, the people I worked with, I was happy there. The first 5 months I worked there, I worked just like I always did, I went to work everyday without fail, even if I was sick. That is my work ethics, work… don’t go to a job and give half-ass and want the full benefit, no, that’s not how its suppose to work. That philosophy got lost in the world somewhere along the way, but I digress. I was promoted to a good position and something changed. I started calling in… a lot. There were just days I felt so sick that I couldn’t get out the front door. I thought it was the work, it was a very physical job, so physical I lost 25 pounds in the first two months I worked there. No, that wasn’t it. I thought it was the type of work, it was very emotional. No, that wasn’t it. I kept calling in and I started to feel worse and worse. I found a different job with a different company in 2007. But I still called in. My contract with that job ended and I went to a different job in 2008. And still, whatever was happening just got worse and worse and then the breakdown in 2010. 

Wow, for so long I thought my agoraphobia got worse in 2010 but no, after thinking on it it started in 2006. I heard once that, “do the thing you fear the most and the death of fear is certain.” I call bullshit because that is bullshit! I did the thing I feared the most everyday for six years and I got worse. I left my house, against everything my body was telling me and I got worse. I call shenanigans! And now, I am feeling over anxious because tomorrow, 25 1/2 hours from now, I have to go to therapy. I’m snappy because the way my panic attacks manifest is with irritation and sudden outbursts of anger. I am never violent but my patience are shortened and my ability to control my irritation is pretty much gone. So, to keep me from hurting my wife’s feelings, I have put myself in my office, closed the door, and I am writing it out until my Xanax kicks in. I don’t want to be this way anymore and I am so tired of being agoraphobic. I do like my new therapist though. When I told her the “do the you fear most” quote, she shook her head and disagreed with that statement altogether. I liked her immediately. Because that statement isn’t true, is it? 

People with agoraphobic don’t leave their house because we are too lazy, or too weak, or anti-social, or anything negative cruel people can think of to call us. No, we don’t leave the house because our fear is so monumental, so intense, so incredibly palpable it drives us into the ground. We experience fear on such a level, we actually suffer. Think about the one thing you fear, it can be anything, fear of spiders, fear of water, fear of whatever, now multiply that by 1,000 and then you will start to understand phobias. Agoraphobia is no different. We fear being outside because something in our minds and bodies tell us there is something out there to fear. 

As much as we hate living like this, it is so ingrained in us by the time it reaches this point, it will take years to correct. And just that thought alone is exhausting, let alone trying to fix it. 

But fix it… we must. The fight continues.

TRIGGER and SPOILER ALERT...... I was suppose to be someone else

************TRIGGER WARNING*****************

I was suppose to be someone else, I am sure of it. When I was born, I was on a trajectory for something good, maybe not great, but at least good. The suit of skin I was suppose to wear was poised and prepared specifically for me. And so I started down that road toward that good person with goodness in their future, I set out as confident and ready for whatever was about to come at me. But just as a pebble on the train tracks can derail a large train, at age five I was thrust into a different direction and I wasn’t able to find my way back to the good path. My suit of skin sat in the window dressing waiting for me but after many years it slowly decayed and faded. And who I was suppose to be no longer mattered until I remembered I was suppose to be someone else. 

It’s cruel to do that to anyone, to do that to a child. To do that to a living a thing is like the Dementors and their kiss. You will remain alive but there is almost no point, not missing the soul of the person you were meant to be. Getting knocked to your knees, getting the air pushed out of you, lying still in a curled ball on the ground almost makes you wish ... Almost.... Death would have taken you long ago. 

I often say I wouldn’t change a day because I like who I am now. 

Very few people know this about me, this is something I don’t share very often, it’s a burden I have always felt I should carry alone because the weight of it is enough to drag anyone to their knees. But my legs are strong by now, I have carried this with me so long now that if I didn’t have it, I wouldn’t know how to walk, or be. 

I often think about moving to another country, to be far away from here because no matter where I am in the states, my family will find me. But they are also dumb, and I don’t mean that fully as a hurtful statement, they are dumb. They never finished school nor have they tried to better themselves. They are stagnant in their ignorant revery and they don’t ever wish to change. They wouldn’t understand how to fill out the passport application nor would they put forth that kind of energy. Being that far from them would maybe, maybe, maybe give me the leg up, to become someone else that is closer to who I was suppose to be. Who they were suppose to be was ripped from them at a very young age. When people talk about cycles, that is exactly what it is, a cycle from one person to the next who will never be who they were suppose to be. 

So, here I am, memories pounding my mind like hail on a tin roof, just trying to hold myself together with two tired arms and hoping the onslaught ends soon. And hating my parents for taking away the person I was suppose to be.

I hate medication! So. Much!

I’m sick. I’m sick and tired. And I hate every second of this. I can’t see beyond right now when my eyelids burn to close, nor can I see beyond right now because my brain is soggy, or at least feels that way. For the passed twenty-two years I have ran through my life in the blur of Prozac and Paxil, Zoloft, and Depakote, and Lexapro, and Amitrityline, and Xanax, and now Buspar. My stomach aches and churns in the mixture of everything I take just to keep my skin from peeling apart and ripping me to shreds from what other people did to me. I was created into the person I am now because of actions and results, not because of hard work on my part. Though I can look back and say no I wouldn't change a day, I actually like myself, as strange as that may sound. But fuck them! Why did they take their perversions out on me? Maybe it was because I was so small, so petite, they thought I was weak. But I did survive that ordeal. So what! I can’t leave my house, I need tylenol pm to stay asleep, I don’t eat well, blah blah blah and so forth. I’m just sick and tired.

I started Buspar eight days ago and I have been so sick since. Nausea, vomiting, lethargy, inability to concentrate, dizziness, and general sickness. I hate pharmaceuticals. Far too many side effects that outweigh the benefits. And I know it’s still early but I haven’t noticed a difference and I haven’t noticed a decrease in my anxiety. I’m going to give it another 7 days and then if nothing has changed I’m stopping the medication. I don’t like how I feel. But I also don’t know what else to try. I have completely given up on going back to work outside my house. I know how that sounds, that I’m giving up, I’m not giving up. “Do the thing you fear the most and the death of fear is certain.” So the saying goes. So I did. I left the house everyday, every fucking day for 9 years and I had a breakdown. It only got worse and no one can tell me why. I tried, I tried so hard to keep it together because I wanted to be perfect for Melissa. I still do. I want to take care of her. I want to be well... For once. But I won’t be well. I know I can be managed, I know I can live a great life, and I know I can do whatever I want. 

I’m just having a down day. These come and go, just like major symptoms of my “mental illness.” This too shall pass but dammit if these side effects aren’t burning my ass! 

I'm agoraphobic

Realizations are scary... At best. I know academically that I am agoraphobic.But I am also he master of denial. Until this evening. 

Three years ago I had a breakdown. My mind was pushed to the ultimate boundaries of endurance and I finally snapped. And for ten years before that I lived in Memphis, TN. Unarguably one of the worst places to live in the United States, Memphis has a long enduring history of hate and anger and a strong cultivation of apathy. They strive for apathy here like animals strive for survival in the wild. It’s their instinct, it’s their culture, it’s their lineage, one they will never change. I hate it here. I would rather live with my abusers than live here. 

While doing the dishes this evening, I do what I always do and had an in depth internal dialogue about my situation and things I have observed about myself. I do this all the time. I self analyze. I dissect myself and try to filter out the bad. At times it is excruciating because I see certain parts of myself and know I cannot change them or filter them out. I try so hard to better myself all the time and tonight I realized I was doing something wrong.

As I mentioned before, I dislike Memphis. I have never hidden that fact. I also blamed a lot of my condition on the fact that Memphis is the root of all evil. I started working again in 2004 and I continued to work until I couldn’t anymore. And for the longest time, I blamed Memphis for this. I blamed Memphis for me not wanting to go outside, explaining to anyone who would listen that I was different before I came here, I used to go outside all the time in California, in El Paso, in Savannah, etc. I explained that I have held down jobs, I have spoken to people, I talked on the phone all the time. I would drive to the store without ever worrying about it. I would... I would... I would... But that wasn’t true either. In California I went outside because my then girlfriend wanted it that way, and then the girlfriend after that. I held down jobs during that time because I needed more money than I had. In El Paso I the same thing, in Savannah same thing. It was always for someone that I pushed myself beyond my endurance level and in the end of each of those, I suffered. 

So, when I first started noticing that I was slipping away emotionally, I did try to reach out to people and explain it was happening but I also kept blaming the job, the people I worked with, the type of work, the amount of work, the mentality of the people who grew up in Memphis and their incessant apathy, and having to commute with the piss poor drivers here. I blamed everything else. 

It wasn’t Memphis at all. I’m agoraphobic. At an early age I was conditioned to stay away from people. Every time I was close to people they harmed me in some way. When I started to stay away from people I felt ok. During my childhood and adolescence I learned to be alone and I felt safe. 

I’m agoraphobic. When I was leaving the house each and every day to go to work, I was pushing myself beyond what I could actually handle. And slowly I lost every ounce of strength I had to hold back the fear and anguish I felt. Each time I went to work, I got weaker and weaker until that day in August in 2010. Then all bets were off, the damn broke, and I fell to the ground in a heap of tears because it was all just way too much. And this evening when I finally saw that it was not Memphis at all, something clicked, it was like someone ran a pen up my spine and dotted the back of my head. I’m agoraphobic. I never wanted to believe I was that bad off. I never wanted to believe I still had years of work ahead of me to deal with what happened. I have spent 44 years not dealing with what happened. And now, my mind, in small bursts of remembering, is forcing me too. I had a major memory recently thanks to Dexter, the tv show. Long story. Some people haven’t seen the most recent episodes so I don’t want to spoil anything. Needless to say, there was a very triggering scene for me and since then my brain has been waging war with itself with releasing memories and fighting to keep them at bay. My defenses are faltering and acceptance is rearing its ugly head. 

I’m agoraphobic. I don’t have enough energy anymore to keep any of the crap at bay. In the past when I have been in therapy, I always reach a point just before I start talking about my childhood and then I stop going. I can’t do that anymore. There is nothing else to blame, nothing else to do but move forward and to do that I must, I must confront the crap.

Acceptance and All Things Brave

The day I finally reached acceptance of my system was like feeling the sun on my face. It was 1996 and I remember I went inside and stood in the doorway of their house and just watched them for a long time. They have a viewer in the middle of the living room, a huge screen where they can watch what is going on outside. They have a sectional couch facing the viewer. On the couch sat Cassi, Cathi, Mimi, Sara, and a handful of Littles. On the back of the couch sat Richi doing his nails and every once in a while interjecting into the conversation. I just watched them and it suddenly occurred to me what they went through. It wasn’t just about me having gone through some terrible times at the hands of my family and their friends, my system did too. They probably got the worst. I stood feeling these enormous emotions slowly start to overtake ma and I remember I started to shake. Soon, I was crying heavily. Soon after that, as they have done my entire life, my system came to me and lifted me up, taking me to the couch and cared for me until I regained my composure. 

I don’t have words to adequately explain my system, what they did, who they are, and what they did for me. Words almost fail me. If it wasn’t for them, I would surely be worse than I am.  

I will never know what it is like to form friendships and bonds after enduring war. I will never fully understand how people share those fundamentally, soul altering experiences when faced with gun fire and carnage. But I can, with 100% clarity, know the bond I have with my system after we endured ongoing onslaughts of repeated torture, rape, mutilation of body and mind, and seeing in their eyes how even the light of day is kept at fingers length. I know the pain of a survivor. I fully grasp and understand how life goes on but in mechanical motion. I know and see how the heart is wrung close to death at the painstaking awareness that people in this world wanted us dead. It is not a cavalier statement, people wanted us dead, erased from the earth, wiped clean of any knowledge to our existence. And when you are a child, fighting against those odds, who you were meant to be becomes moot because that person is gone. In their place is someone who will never fully trust, who is constantly on guard, who is wrought with scars, both external and internal. 

So, looking at my system as the forefront of all things brave, one can begin to fully understand why to me they are heroes.