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.

We've Become Experts

Those of us who lean more toward the crazy have become experts in our field of mental illness. We look blurred into the mirror, one eye focus while the other eye sits confused by the sudden onset of light. Our hands tremble as we reach for food or soda or the tv remote, those few early symptoms of "not so good" coming to a head. We try to hold it together for everything it's worth. We try to tame the craving of running away, setting one unstable foot in front of the other, and scamper away from whatever demon we think is in hot pursuit. We start to lose sleep. We toss and turn, aggravating the loved ones and furbabies as the covers go on and then in a fit of feeling confined toss the blankets aside. This insomnia induced dance goes on for hours.

But WE see the signs, sometimes, those of us who are trained in the art of knowing our of own minds. We tend to cradle the "not so good" in order to maintain some presences of peace but deep down we know it's only a matter of time before we lay curled in front of tv, unable to focus on anything because our eyes are dry.

Halloween is one day away. One day. And I start to relive the night, that one night so long ago, now 40 years ago when who I was suppose be was shattered. I know the signs of my "not so good" now, I'm an expert, and I know I will not sleep tonight, and Halloween will be here in 46 hours, and I count them down. But I won't sleep, I don't want to see the imagines.

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.

I found a way to control my binge eating

Along with other myriad of issues I have, I am also a food addict. That is a very controversial subject, people will say, you cannot be a food addict, you are simply eating to try to erase the pain you feel, the memories you want to avoid, etc. I can see that point of view, I can even agree with it. But until an accurate label is placed upon it, all we have left is food addiction.

That being said, I used to binge eat whenever I felt a sudden rush of stress I could not handle. We all have stress in our lives, and for the most part I could control and handle my stress. But there days when it became too much and I binge. I ballooned to 325 pounds. The weight never bothered me. I was never unhealthy. Never diabetic, no high cholesterol, I was healthy but fat. I was happy and content to be fat for several reasons, but that's not why I'm writing this. I am writing this to explain how I developed a way for me to control my binge eating.

How? You may ask... I started cooking.

I have always enjoyed cooking but all of my skill was rudiment, no real skill, no serious experience. In 2006 I started baking more, I did research to learn how to make cakes from scratch and from there my passion for cooking grew. In the winter I bake my face off, bake... my... face... RIGHT... off! Not with pot but with sugar and spices! I make cakes, brownies, cookies, breads, etc. I found my love and my passion. But how did making food help you control binging? Fair question.

I discovered the most hands on I was with food, cutting, mixing, marinading, creating rubs, everything. Then I discovered America's Test Kitchen who took the passion for cooking to another level by teaching not only great recipes but the techniques that make those recipes work.

I had to slow down to create these recipes. I couldn't just throw food into a pan and then gorge. I had to slow way down, red section of the recipe several times, slice, cut, julienne, etc. When I was forced to slow down and truly concentrate on what I was doing with the food, the concept behind the food changed. It was no longer temporary bandage over a void festering wound. Food became a canvass, it became a way for me to be creative when the writing juices weren't flowing easily.

I had to slow down and then... I started concentrating on the wound. It didn't happen all at once, it was a long painful process. Healing is a long painful process but it's worth it, the fight to better is worth it. I found my way to control my binge eating, everyone should.

Side Effects may include...

I think doctors have a sick sense of humor and are a bit sadistic. Yet, we put our trust in them because we assume, in some small part, they have the answers.

I recently saw my psychiatrist. I actually like this one. Those she fumbled a bit on the lamictal, she has fully understood my need for xanax. I don't use it often, only to leave the house for appointments, to help Melissa with grocery shopping, taking the dogs or cats to the vet, etc. I can make a 30 day supply last for 90+ days. That's not boasting, that's just my reality. 

So, during my last psychiatric visit my doctor prescribed topomax. The first day I had the following side effects: I could not comprehend a thing anyone around me was saying, except every other word, and I needed time to piece those words together and figure out what it meant; I was groggy; my mouth was dry; I had zero interest in food; food tasted funny; soda... well... soda tasted gross; and I felt exhausted. 

Can you imagine what must go through the minds of doctors as they prescribes these medications? They know these side effects will take place. They know some of the side effects will not be fun. One of the side effects of topomax is a feeling of being tired but also insomnia. To that I say... o.0

I will feel tired but I won't sleep? Sucks to that! That's what I'm feeling now. It's ok though. I get a lot done in the middle of the night.

Well, it's that time of year again...

During the mid-August through November 13th, I am usually a wreck. It is also during this time that I withdraw from those around me, the burden I carry gets a bit heavier during this time of year. I do and say things I wouldn't normally. I become a bit apathetic and I close myself off. I never mean to hurt anyone but I know I do, especially Melissa. She loves me more than any person on this planet ever has. And when I pull away during this time of year she is always there when I reappear November 14th. And we pick up right where we left off.

It has been my experience with people in my life who cannot fathom my mental illness and until this passed year, neither did I. I could always say to myself, "well, I am lucid, I am aware that I say and do things that seem irrational but I am always in partial control." What I failed to grasp, what I am learning to grasp now, people who are mentally ill cannot always see the life they are in, nor the actions I execute, nor the words I sometimes say in the heat of an episode. I can't always see it. For instance, Melissa commented how much she loathes this time of year because I am such a wreck it sucks the fun and joy out of our time together, sometimes. I said, "well, it will be over soon, right after November 13th." She replied, "No, it goes longer than that." I was stunned, because I had no idea what she meant. I asked her to explain and she said, "You start to change just before August, almost anticipating August. Then when we get to September, you get worse. October you withdraw. November you are still gone. December... well, you start to come back in December. But it goes longer than November and its worse than you understand. But its also ok because we get through it."

I didn't know. I didn't see it. I'm wondering if its just not seeing it or some level of denial. I can work with either one, I can work my way through it and emerge on the other side stronger than I am now. But right now I need to pull away so my heightened senses can rest a bit, so my mind can just bear the weight of the memories its trying hard to ignore, so when I resurface I can be a better wife and friend.

I've had enough

I have gone through some lengthy attempts to prevent my family from contacting me. Last night I learned it was to no avail. I blocked them on all social media sites I use, most they wouldn't know how to use. I took precautions because they are harmful to me, emotionally especially. They ignite rage and depression and anxiety. Being away from them has helped me overcome a lot of things. But last night, my older sister went so far as to send a message to a dear friend and a newly found niece. She disregarded my need to have her and the rest of my immediate family out of my life by dragging these poor souls in the middle. Mind you, I have made no attempt to contact them in 4 years, and a couple of them six years.

My sister told me that in December she had a heart attack. This may sound harsh and inhumane, but I don't care she had a heart attack. I don't care about any of them, nor do I want to know if any of them die. I walked away because having contact with them was the most destructive thing that was happening to me, for 40 years. It means nothing to me that she or my mom are sick.

So, why am I so pissed?

Because they, once again, completely disregarded what I need and only thought of themselves. They went around and side stepped everything I did to hide from them. I figure, as long as I am on the internet, they will find me.

Medusa, my love

One of my dogs died August 15th, and my heart broke. She had been in my life since she was 6 weeks old. This December she would have turned 14. She was a border collie/lab mix, with the intelligence of both and need for a job from both. Border Collies are known for their need to herd and steer creatures, to get them all in one location. Medusa was no different. She would herd our cats, she would tattle on them if they got on the counters, and if they got too close to us while we were eating, she would "gently" remind them to back the fuck up! She was also not subtle when it came to things she wanted. She had a perfect knack for looking at what she wanted, then looking at me, then back to the thing she wanted. If I did not respond to her request, she would poke me with her nose and make a grumble sound, as if to say, "your ignorance bores me."

As for her Lab side, she loved water, when she was younger and her hips were in better shape. We used to take her and our other two dogs to a lake near us and they would play for hours and sleep peacefully that night. When we finally moved into a house with a nice size back yard, Medusa would take so much delight in chasing the various moles and voles that invaded our yard. On several occasions she got one and ate it. What can I say, she was an animal, a carnivore, that is what they do.

When Medusa was a baby, we had taken her and her brother, Lucky, from a man who didn't take such good care of them and for the first year or so, Medusa did not want to be touched, nor did she want us near her. It took a lot of patience for her to understand we did not want to hurt her. Lucky, on the other hand, was a cuddle whore. When he was full grown, he weighed 93 pounds, and no, he was not over weight. He was just a big boy. He would give the best hugs, placing his on my chest, just under my chin, and lean in until I wrapped my arms around him and held him close to me. He died June 13, 2011. And that was the same time Medusa would no longer sleep in the bedroom where Melissa, Medusa, Lucky, and I shared. Medusa would sleep in the living room with our other two dogs Dori and Charley. But them something happened and she needed to be near me. So, to make Medusa more comfortable and help her sleep, we moved our king size bed into the living room where we slept for over a year. We did this because to us, Medusa was not just a dog, she was our child. We raised her to be the best possible dog, to be kind, to be loved.

Medusa was diagnosed with dementia. Melissa could never quite understand what that meant. She loved Medusa as much, if not more than me, and I think she could not wrap her mind around the fact that this dog, this strong, beautiful creature would ever be anything close to weak. But after Lucky died, something of Medusa went with him.

In July of 2010, a little puppy ran up to me while I was leaving for work. She came to be known as Dori, Dorpeyface, and Face. Lucky did not take to her, but Medusa did. It was strange how Medusa took Dori to raise. Dori learned everything from Medusa; how to wrangle the cats, how to tattle on them, how to ask for things she wants. Medusa would also scold Dori. And whenever Dori needed just to be close to Medusa, she would curl up near her and sleep. Dori feels Medusa's absence.

The night Medusa died, she couldn't get up. Until 8pm, she was able to get up and walk outside to potty, get water, food, readjust herself, albeit with some pain, but she was able to. When Melissa got home, Medusa could not get up. And after so many months watching Medusa have a harder and harder time with her hips, she finally stopped being able to stand up.

For people who not only have dogs (because anyone can have a dog or a pet and not feel that connection with them), but love their dogs, know and fully understand how gut wrenching it is to make the decision to help your dog out of pain. To anyone who thinks that decision is easy, then you never loved your dog. I couldn't go with Melissa when she took Medusa to the emergency vet. We actually waited three hours before making that decision to see if Medusa's pain pills would help her stand up again. She still wasn't able to use her hind legs when she got to the vet. Melissa said it was quick and Medusa didn't feel a thing.

The moment the door closed when Melissa and our friend Amanda left, I walked into the kitchen, grabbed my chest, and sobbed. My knees started to get weak and I walked into the living room and sat on the bed we moved especially for Medusa, and sobbed. Dori came and sat in front of me, worry in her eyes, confusion on her face, and just as Lucky used to, she put her head on my chest just under my chin, and let me wrap my arms around her and I cried until Melissa and Amanda got back.

I love Medusa even though she's gone. Everything in my life for the past 14 years was wrapped around her, Lucky, and our first dog together, Randi. We had the three of them their whole lives, until Dori came to us in 2010. Randi is the only one left out of our three original dogs. He turned 14 this month. Just as Medusa was my heart, Randi is Melissa's heart. I can't imagine losing him. He has gone blind but he gets around like BOSS! Never running into anything, and moves like a champ. Charley knows Randi is getting old and he challenges him constantly but that is the way of dogs.

Even though this process of having a dog is so difficult, I cannot imagine my life without one. They give something to me no other animal has given me. I feel connected to them on a spiritual level. I have never felt afraid with dogs. My mom used to tell me when I was young and saw a dog, I would just go up to it. I still do. I go to PetSmart and watch what we call, "Dog TV," the play area for the pets staying in the pet hotel.

Nothing else calms me the way a dog can. I love them, I care for them, and until I die, I will go through this process of growing with them, and letting them go. Because what I get from them is more profound then anything else in the whole world for me.

I get why he did it

I have felt strange since hearing Robin Williams committed suicide. I think it is a combination of him dying but mostly because of what people are saying. "He gave up," "He's selfish," "He should have gotten help." These are people who have never been that close to suicide, have never contemplated suicide, never experienced mental illness.

Mental illness is so pervasive, so burrowing, it drills itself deep into the mind and just shreds everything in its path. We can't control our actions, we can barely control what we say. But there is one creature in the mental illness arsenal that is completely devastating, for everyone involved. Depression.

I am a silly person. By nature, I am funny, witty, my jokes are clever, and I love to see people laugh. When my depression was at its worse, all of that disappeared. I couldn't see a point, I couldn't appreciate nice weather, food lost its flavor, my life felt pale. I tried to commit suicide when I was 19. It wasn't a cry for help, it wasn't attention seeking. I gathered my "supplies" while no one was watching, I quietly went into my room, locked the door, kept to myself, and did what I felt I needed to do to end the suffering. I was suffering. Every second of everyday I spent in throes of utter suffering, some of it caused by the abuse I sustained, but also because I developed depression at a very young age.

I wish I could describe it adequately. I wish I could describe it at all. What does depression feel like? Believe me, it isn't just feeling down. It isn't just a phase of feeling "blue." I heard it compared to, "being in a cave." Yeah, just walking into a cave, feeling for the end, feeling for some sort of light switch, hoping the next moment will lead to some sort of... hope. I'm not using the word hope arbitrarily. Hope has sustained prisoners of war, kidnapped victims, rape victims, and abuse survivors for centuries. It is a truly powerful emotion. But with depression, it's gone.

Imagine, for a second, stepping into traffic. Everything in your executive brain tells you NO! Everything in your executive brain tells you to step back onto the curb, seek shelter, stay alive! But there is another part of the brain, another section in the mind of someone with Mental Illness that screams just a titch louder, telling you to, "yes, step into traffic... do it... there is nothing going forward... there is pain... there is hopelessness... there is nothing... do it... Do It... DO IT!!!" It's overpowering. It literally... LITERALLY takes everything to not step into traffic. It isn't just a mental screaming, it pulls at your muscles. It tries to move you forward into traffic. It isn't the strong who resist. It isn't the weak who give in. It's mental illness. Some make it, some don't. It's a life... long... struggle... and it is exhausting.

We wake every morning after a fitful nights sleep, trying one more day. We try constantly. It is physically exhausting, I can't say that enough. Have you ever been so tired it's difficult to lift your arm? You think to yourself, "I can just fall asleep right here." That's what the exhaustion of Mental Illness feels like. But we can't sleep. For five years I had a bedtime routine. I would let my dogs out, I would get a drink of water and take a fist full of vitamins and in the mix would be 6 503mg of valerian root and 2 tylenol pm. And I might get 5 hours of good sleep. I was one of the lucky ones. I actually fell asleep. I may not have stayed asleep, but I could fall asleep. There are some who can't sleep for days, weeks, and their mental health deteriorates. Then I started taking Pristiq along with my usual nighttime regiment and eventually I was able to stop the tylenol pm, but still take the valerian root to help me fall asleep but now I am sleeping 7 to 8 to 9 hours a night.

But there are some who just can't go on. I don't blame them because I get it. I get that there comes a point when we have tried for that one more day for years and we do it for family and friends. We try so hard. There are some who have tried everything, decades of therapy, one anti-depressant after the next, medicine cabinet full of the ones that didn't work. Years upon years of trying the next thing; yoga, inspirational posters, religion, meditation, over and over, each attempt full of a mixture of hopefulness and fear it won't work.

I'm sorry Robin Williams is gone, I'm sad for his family and friends. But I am probably one of the few who understands why he did it. I will never regret trying suicide, I will never regret failing. But when I was at that point it made sense to me. It was the only option left. So, I get why he did it.

We Are The Crazy

We are the crazy, the loonies, we are the ones you stare at in the mall while we walk and talk to ourselves. We are the ones you make fun of while we stammer through our excuses as to why we did what we did, when no explanation will do. Why did we fling ourselves against the door? Why did we throw our food on the floor? Why did we wake screaming in the night? Why did we…?

We are the ones who suffer in silence as people mock us for being unable to control our impulses, we suffer knowing our loved one are frightened of us, they are tired of dealing with one more mood swing, they wait and watch and are prepared to dial 9-1-1 in case we finally snap hard enough to burn the world down. We can’t stop when the movement of our crazy begins, when the motion drags us screaming into that place where all the crazy go, we pass others trying to claw their way out, we almost wave but it’s rude, especially when the reeling makes us vomit.

We know. We know it hurts and we know it looks funny and we know you don’t believe us when we say, “we are sick, please forgive what I may say and what I may do.” WE KNOW! But knowing isn’t the same as understanding and understanding isn’t the same as being able to stop it. Our actions, when we are in the throes of our latest “episode,” are not our own, it’s the illness shaking loose the reins, just once in a while, because even the illness needs to go crazy sometimes, just release that pent up energy, to keep it from burning the world down.

Forgive us, this one time and the million times to come. Please, just forgive us because we can’t stop the illness, we can only control it…. sometimes. We don’t do any of it to hurt you, or embarrass you, or make you hate us. But I can see your yawn in your eyes as you look at the “episode” displaying again and you wait for “this one” to end, and we chalk it up to the illness, and you are so patient, and I can tell you love me because you take that “episode” and you wait for the next “episode” with the poise and grace of a saint.

Just please forgive us when sometimes we can’t hold it back. We will do better next time, and we do better the time after that, and the time after that, and the time after that… and the….

No one really gets it... unless they experience it

I'm irritated and somewhat saddened. My wife, my friends, my therapist all say the same thing, and I know it's just a slip of the tongue, not meant to be anything more than mere conversation, but the result in me is hard for me to disguise.

Often, people in my life will say such things as, "OOO, you could go to the zoo! It's free on Tuesdays." or, "There's an over eaters anonymous meeting you could attend, they meet twice a week." or, "Make sure you give them a call today." All completely innocent suggestions but it shows me they forget what it means for me to leave the house.

As I approach the door, a storm starts to brew in my gut. It takes everything... everything in my being to hold it together. But as I slowly inch toward the door, my panic attack erupts, whether I take a Xanax or not. My cold, sweaty palm lays upon the cool brass brushed door knob and the storm gets worse. My panic attacks do not manifest in shakes or cries, pacing or rapidly staring about, they manifest in angry outbursts. Not violent outbursts, never violent. I reach a level of irritation where nothing is right. And my first target... my wife. My sweet, nurturing, loving, gentle, patient wife who expects me to do these things at this point, but it still hurts me as I hear the words, the accusing words spill from my lips and I see the hurt spread across her face, and even if I saw I'm sorry and she says it's ok, I know it isn't ok to hurt anyone. I try so hard to never say anything but positive things while we are out now, but I still say hurtful things because it is beyond my control. And that is what people do not understand.

For agoraphobics and people with severe anxiety disorders, the way we react to the world around us is usually beyond our control. Though when we reach awareness of causes to react the way we do, it is still a constant battle to remain in solid control over our reactions. I fail daily. When I finally accepted that I have Mental Illness and it is something that I must struggle with daily, I had to also understand and accept it would take years for me to reach a point of functioning. When my breakdown happened in 2010, it wasn't because it had reached a boiling point, it was because I finally lost the struggle of denial and maintaining the veneer of normalcy. I knew it was coming but I waited too long to seek help.

When someone tells me I can simply walk outside and if I keep doing that I will get better, my follow-up question is always this, "I did that for six years, I went to work everyday that I could, and I never got better, what do you make of that?" And not one person to this day has ever given me a good answer. They just look at me with that therapist look trying to determine if I am either that messed up or if I am a defeatist. I am not a defeatist! I cannot stress that enough. I hate giving up, I simply hate it. Anyone who knows me knows that much about me.

I wish people could truly understand what it's like for me. When I am outside, I am in a constant state of suffering. My mind is on high alter. My skin is hypersensitive. My hearing is overly acute. Every sound reverberates with such intensity it hurts, it actually causes me pain, like someone is driving nails into my nail. I am not exaggerating. Every person is a possible attacker. I am constantly memorizing people around me, exits, paths to safety, I keep touching my pockets to make sure someone has not taken my keys. I check my feet to make sure they are not wounded in case I need to run. This is every... single... time I leave my house. And then it takes me three days to recover. I am tired, physically exhausted, I sleep, or need sleep for those three days, and nothing gets done around the house. And that went on daily for six years while I left the house to work.

I had to finally give in though, at some point I had to make the pain stop so I could focus on finding the reason behind the panic. I have narrowed it down to two things; 1. my mother is still living, she was one of my biggest abusers, and she lives only five hours from me. She used to come down twice a year on her way to Tunica, MS to gamble. 2. my ability to handle any level of stress has simple gone. I cannot handle the stress of living in a big city any longer and Memphis is big, and crowded, and loud, oh my god is it loud. Boom cars, people yelling at each other from a block away, people yelling in a store, children screaming outside my house, from up the street. It's so loud.

I have decided to just work on my writing while I continue to work toward some state of functioning outside. One day I hope to, I really like the sunshine, I really like walking my dog, I miss the beach, I miss hiking, I miss taking picnics in the park. But I will keep working at it.

Why create a gaming company?

Recently, a friend of mine asked me why I wanted to create and run a gaming company. I knew it wasn't for the money. Most indie gaming companies rarely get that "big hit," and most really aren't in it to become millionaires. Brent Knowles mentioned in his Lazy Game Designer series, (I'm paraphrasing here) if you aren't in it for the art of the gaming industry, and only interested in the money, stop now. And I have to agree with him. I love computers! I love what they can do, I love what we can create with them. Technology will save the world. I truly believe that. I love games! I never used to. But after my breakdown, and throughout my struggle to just find solid ground again, I discovered games help me do that. The types of games I play require some strategy, figuring out where to go next, how to keep from dying, etc. So, I really wanted to pay homage to the industry. That was one reason. The second, I am agoraphobic and leaving my house to go to work is draining, emotionally and eventually physically. I try and I have to take three days out of my life just to recover from that one day out.

So, why? Why create a gaming company if I know I will not become rich? I thought very long and very hard about that question because I didn't want to just do this for me. I wanted clear purpose. I wanted a true path to MY idea of success. My true reason, is to help other people like me. Yes, plain and simple, to help people. I have had a YouTube channel for six and a half years and each week, or at least I try each week, to dish out advice I hope helps people. I don't have a lot of subscribers, but that isn't my purpose, my purpose is to help people. How will a gaming company help people? Right now, I can't hire people, I don't have any money. It will be a LONG time until i can hire people, but the people I want to hire are those people who want nothing more than to go back to work BUT have trouble leaving their house. Agoraphobics, social phobics, people living with debilitating anxiety, depression, etc. will find a job with me. This is a company that will be able to function from home. The internet, Skype, Twitter, YouTube, all of those will help people work from home. The server will sit in my house and those people will be able to access the server and upload their parts of the games. Those people will NOT have to apply for disability just to pay the bills. They will not have to count on the government to feed them or give them health insurance. I can help them. I WILL help them!

Every venture should have a true, solid purpose. THIS is my purpose.

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!

Something happened at therapy that is bothering me

Not what you think.

When I was 14, I started to gain weight. Around the same time, the sexual abuse stopped. It was also around the time my family started to ignore me. In my mind, being heavy equals safety.

Fast forward 30 years, I have maintained my weight between 280 and 300 pounds. If my weight starts to drop, my anxiety will go through the roof. Don't get me wrong, I fully understand years of being obese is terrible for my body, but so was abuse. I had to trade one thing (my health) for something else (safety). It was probably right at my breakdown nearly four years ago that I began to understand being this heavy is probably super bad and I should lose weight. I also knew that just losing weight wouldn't work while the underlying issue related to my weight was still lingering.

So, I figured while I was in therapy I would approach the topic and see if I can get passed it. But every time I brought it up, it would eventually either be overshadowed by something else my therapist wanted to discuss or completely skirted and never brought up again. That is what happened Monday when I started my session like this, "I have two things I want to discuss today and the first thing is pretty big. Since I started Pristiq, I have lost my appetite and I started to lose weight which has caused my anxiety to flare up. And it's something I need to figure out because I don't think me losing weight will stop any time soon." My therapists response, "How old are you now?" "I'm 44." "Well, maybe it's your body's way of telling you to lose weight, to spare your knees and your general health." My response, "I don't have health issues. I don't have heart disease or diabetes, I don't have back problems, I have high blood pressure but two doctors have diagnosed it as stress and anxiety related, and I have taken medication for 8 years to control that with no issues." And that was it. She started talking about something else and we never got back to it. She is a good therapist, she specializes in anxiety and agoraphobia and her approach fits my personality. It's hard to find a therapist who will not discuss the MPD (multiple personality disorder) when you make it clear it is not up for discussion. She respects that boundary.

But this is bothering me. So, I told Melissa it was bothering me and I knew it was something I needed to work on but just like my therapists, she ended up skirting the issue and I called her out on it. Melissa said, "Huh, you're right. That's interesting." And that was it. o.0

Why is this so hard to discuss? Why is it so hard to get help for this? There has to be other people out there who are experiencing the same thing; gaining weight to protect oneself, and then losing weight without trying to having that cause anxiety. I can't be the only one. I don't know what to do about this if no one is willing to listen to me and understand there is great concern about this. But I will try again during my next session and I will let her know that it did bother me and this is not something that needs to be skirted. If I don't stand up for me, no one will.

Medication

When I started this blog some time ago, I really truly believed I could manage my anxiety with vitamins. I was successful in managing my depression with Niacin and have for a couple of years. But for the life of me, I could never find a vitamin to control my anxiety, nor more importantly, my agoraphobia. So, out of options I made the very difficult decision to go back on medication.

As a lot of people with Mental Illness knows, taking medication is a pain in the ass! Not just the process of having to remember to take said pill/pills at regular intervals but also having to deal with the side effects, that at times, feels like someone is pulling your belly button out through your nostril.

I was on Buspar for three months. Every single day, three times a day, I felt like I was going to puke my soul out. I never adjusted to the Buspar. My psychiatrist then put me Pristiq, 50mg once a day. The ONLY side effect I have noticed with this medication is the lack of appetite. When I say lack, I mean zero appetite. I have lost so much weight (which is anxiety inducing on it's own, but that's for another blog) that the tattoo I have on my left wrist has shifted. But the anxiety was still there. So, she added Lamotrigine (Lamictal), 50mg once a day for two weeks and then 100mg once a day thereafter.

Saturday was the first day I actually felt something was different. By then, I had been on the combination Pristiq/Lamotrigine (Lamictal) cocktail for about four days. I spent 8 hours in the backyard working on rebuilding my fascia on my house. 8 hours. Outside of my house. I did not notice the anxiety. I didn't think about the fact that I was outside. I thought it was maybe a fluke because 1. it was a project that needs to get done, and 2. Melissa was with me the whole time. Then Monday rolls around and I have to go to therapy. I drop Melissa off at work and head to my appointment. I feel a titch anxious but not like normal. I come home after my appointment and take a nap. I leave the house once again to go get Melissa from work, this time I feel a bit more anxious but still not like usual.

Then yesterday and today I am still doing some work on the house and I am outside. The anxiety is there but a LOT less than usual. I really do think the combination of Pristiq and Lamotrigine (Lamictal) is actually doing something. I think this is the combination I have waited for for so many years. I have been on: Depakote, Paxil, Prozac, Zoloft, Gabapentin (which caused me to gain 45 pounds in a month and nearly cut off my breathing), Lexapro,Xanax, Buspar. The Xanax works but I don't like taking it, so I until recently recently, I only took it when I had to leave my house. I haven't taken it today. Even though I am working outside today and probably will for a few hours, I haven't felt a need to take it.

As much as I hate it, I think I am benefiting from the medication. I am also skeptical because it is still new to me and I have only taken it for a short time. We shall see in a few months once my system has had prime opportunity to adjust to it fully. But still, I can't help but get a bit excited by the early results.