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!

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.

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.

She needed to stay fat

The spoon rest lazily in her hand, the heavy side resting on her middle finger, her thumb casually keeping it from hitting the plate. She could feel crumbs lay upon her chin while grease coated the corners of her mouth. Her stomach felt extended and painful as the lasagna and burgers and tacos and lots and lots of water sloshed unrelenting against the lining. It was all she could do not to vomit. She wasn’t a purger, she was a binger. She binged to release the pain in soft burps, to fill the void of never knowing herself, to stay as fat as possible to keep hands at bay.

She ran her tongue along the corners of her mouth tasting the remains of the dishes she made a few days ago, maybe a week ago, maybe a month, who’s to say? It was an examination of self control and retribution for being born into the skin surrounding her. She could still occasionally feel her father’s prodding her for pleasure and each time those memories skimmed her brain, she would fill her stomach.

Each spoonful took her further up into the stratosphere, far above the sneak attack from the memories, she would hover in the high, in the sway of the air cradling her as the food took her apart, piecing back together into grotesque fat, blubber, thick thighs, sagging breasts, double chin, and a large ass. The last time she could look down and see her feet, she was cresting puberty, by the age of 14 her tender sweet body was gone, hidden in layers of clothing, shame, and a size 20.

30 years later, it was still the same, gorging until the sweat spilled from her skin, making it difficult to hold the spoon, tears streaming down her cheeks as she knew this would not stop anything, it would not prevent the memories, the knowledge she was just a plaything, a temporary stop of sexual frustration for the people who couldn’t stop their own impulses. A true cycle of addiction, no matter what you call them, addiction can strangle the reason out of someone, smother caution until it dies.

She could feign OK during the day, she could avoid eating, stay away from the kitchen while she made her way through the motions of each day, get up, get dressed, drink coffee. But as a vampire knows when the sun is coming, she always knew when night was approaching her, she could feel it stingy her insides, making her wish she didn’t have to feel her body, wishing she could feel something else. As the dark took the world around her, her mouth would water, she would scan her cabinets for something to make that was the worst possible thing to make and eat. She would make food loaded with calories, fat, grease, she would sit and smack her lips, filling her mouth as quickly as it would empty. Shoving mounds of food into her made her feel less tainted, less raped, less wanted. It soothed her. Her full stomach, pressing against her clothing, the salt making her skin tight as her body swelled. It was all a process, an attempt to either feel something else or die.

She needed to stay heavy, she needed to stay fat! That single mantra carried through her day after day until she was put on a medication that actually did what it was suppose to do, but the side effect she did not want, weight loss. When she started taking the little pill to erase her depression, she weighed 300 pounds. Within 5 months, she lost 40 pounds. Then the panic set in. People were noticing she was losing weight, people noticed there was less of her. She couldn’t make them understand that was not a good thing! They wouldn’t hear it. Weight loss is good, they believe that. Society tells everyone being thin is important but they never read the small print of being thin, the small print, the disclaimer that states you will be a victim of rape and sexual assault. You will be gawked at by male privilege. You will be reduced to nothing but a vehicle for taunts and woots, no matter if you want it or not. Visual rape is as real as physical rape. She needed to stay fat because she had been a victim of all of that.

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.

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.

Five Steps to Cooperation - Introduction

Five Steps to Cooperation

Introduction

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

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

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

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

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

The fight continues

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

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

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

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

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

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

But fix it… we must. The fight continues.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I hate medication! So. Much!

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

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

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