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.

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'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.

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.

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.

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.”

It's a process... always a process

Most people think it's incredibly easy to get over agoraphobia. In the minds of people who don't have it, they see it as simply walking outside. Just stand up, go to the door, open it, walk through, and then close the door behind you. Simple, Right?

Here is a small list of what goes through the mind of someone who has agoraphobia as they think about walking toward, let alone, actually walking toward the door.

1. Heart rate instantly increases.
2. Breaks out in a cold sweat.
3. Body starts to shake.
4. Dizzying feeling and swaying. Sometimes accompanied by falling down.
5. Nausea and/or vomiting because of being worked up.
6. Sudden and occasional violent panic attacks.
7. Flashbacks.

These are just a few. Well, what causes it? I can't answer for everyone who has this but for me, I have no idea. I don't know what it is about going outside that causes so much fear. I have yet to pinpoint the exact reason and my symptoms have been steadily getting worse since 2006.

I was once on disability for Multiple Personality Disorder starting in 1992 to 2004. I was so happy the day I stopped and was able to go back to work. I was able to leave my house everyday without fail. But then in January of 2006 I noticed a slight change, very slight, so subtle it was often missed by myself as I decided to not only go back to work but work on my education as well. The first two years of my college career were spent taking classes through their online program. There were only a couple of classes that were on campus but I was able to go to them. I was doing ok until May of 2006 when I got a promotion at work and was moved to a different floor with different responsibilities. That is when I started calling in. Before then, in my entire working career, and that includes starting to work at age 15, I called in maybe 10 times. I didn't believe in it, I didn't want to burden my co-workers, I didn't want to let my boss down. My belief is when a company hires you, they take a huge risk because they do not know you but they have to trust they made a good investment in you to help keep their business going. Calling in or showing up cracks that trust and they really have no reason to keep you when there are thousands of people who will show up. I never wanted to give them a reason to feel they bad a choice. Though, I really believe I let one of the best bosses in the world down, and I have to live with that because I never told him what I had, I just tried my hardest to power through. Which leads me to 2010 and the pushing through nearly destroyed me.

It isn't about being lazy. It isn't about being stupid. It certainly isn't about striving for unobtainable goals. I am not nor have I done any of those things. I am a hard worker, I don't know any other level of working. I LOVE working. I love getting into the mix and figuring out why something is broken and how can I fix that? I love being on a team of like minded people all working to make something better, to make a product function better, to make the company better. Yes, when I join a company I immediately drink the cool-aid because they deserve loyalty for taking a risk on someone they do not know. I rarely ever go into a job thinking it would not lead to a career. And the moment my agoraphobia got so bad I couldn't function outside my house was the day I felt that part of me wither a bit, and that was a sad day.

People have such horrible misconceptions about people who have agoraphobia because they do not educate themselves on it, they just sit back on their "I'm better than you" pedestal and make rash judgments. It's unfair and cruel. They don't know me or my struggle. They never take the time to try. They see what they want and disregard everything else. That's called apathy and being a dickhole. Don't just assume I am lazy. If you are curious or wonder why I can't do something, ask me.

I am working on getting better but that also means I will be walking through my past again, saying hello to old demons, killing a few and learning to live with the rest. This will wear on me and my wife. This will alienate me from most of my friends. This will also change the person I am. But I am invested in getting better, so much so that I am actually going against one of my deepest rooted beliefs of not taking medication for it. I always believed I am intellectual enough to reason why I am the way I am and fix it. That doesn't always work and I get that now. So, I am taking medication three times a day, seeing a psychiatrist once a month, a therapist once a week, and digging my heels in, stretching my shoulders, staring deep into the heart of the mountain in front of me, and preparing for the hardest task in my entire life. For me and for my wife. I do this to honor her because I have never had anyone love me like she does. I have never before trusted that love or the heart that showers me with such adoration and want, it feels so intense. I was watching her the other night and it suddenly hit me, like a pen running my spine and dotting the back of my head; she loves me, me... not to spite my illness, nor to fix it, but because she can see passed that part. She can look beyond that small part of me that demands so much energy and she can love what lies beneath. She is forgiving of my illness and problems it is causing. So, I honor her by working hard to get better.

 Donning new Emperor's clothing is difficult work but in the end I am hoping for a new life. It will be nice to have a picnic.

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.

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.