Category Archives: Anxiety

by | August 28, 2015 · 4:17 pm

Depression: From the Inside Out


I usually consider myself a fairly up-beat person. If nothing else, my ability to find humor in the oddest places helps to keep me sane. Unfortunately, depression has ever-increasingly consumed my life lately. I’m not sure if it’s because, at 41, I’m closer to menopause – and all the symptoms (including increased depression) which accompany that milestone – or if it can be attributed to something else entirely. Perhaps it’s because I’m focusing – for the first time in my life – on speaking openly about and learning the affects childhood sexual abuse has on my mental and physical health, while at the same time struggling to raise (and understand) an adolescent boy who lives with ADHD and Asperger’s? I don’t know. Suffice to say, if I must suffer with depression, I want to be able to survive with my sanity intact. So, for me, that means talking – and writing – about it. From the inside. I don’t know how depression looks from the inside to anyone else, but I’d like to tell you what my depression looks like to me…

Depression-1 Cropped

red runs through my brain. nerve endings are sensitive. everything becomes its own little Broadway drama. i shut down because if i don’t everyone will be caught up in the hurricane that consumes my mind. i don’t talk much. ocd feeds my depression. i suffer mostly with the obsessive part of ocd. if i tell you i’m “stalking” you & grin or wink, i’m mostly joking. but there’s a very real part of me that does obsess, does wish to stalk. to get as close as i can to you (that’s why they call it “obsessive”). but that’s illegal and people would have me committed, so i keep a lid on it. my compulsions aren’t usually anything useful, like cleaning the house. no, i’m compelled to count the letters and numbers on billboards, license plates and various other signage. boring and very, very useless.

when my obsession(s) is/are, for whatever reason, unavailable to me…either because i’m attempting to appear normal & sane, or because they’re just unreachable for a time, then my depression deepens. i know, insane, right? the irony is, i don’t know if these are symptoms of my survival of child sexual abuse or if they’d have been part of my personality either way. my abuser took my innocence and trauma rerouted the synapses in my brain before my personality could be truly known (although, my grandmother reportedly told my mother when i was just a few days old that i would be trouble. sooo…). i don’t really know who i am, who i’m supposed to be. some attempts at discovery (writing and editing) have met with surprising success. other attempts (marriage) have met with crushing failure.

Photo from Unsplash.com Credit: Wyman H.

Photo from Unsplash.com Credit: Wyman H.

purple streaks bruise the darkness of my mind. The white-chalk Cliffs of Dover and long drops appear suddenly and i weave violently to avoid falling. sometimes i fall. if i’m lucky, a ledge catches me. if it doesn’t, i fall into the deep, narrow pit of depression. the sides of the pit are almost completely vertical. where did the hand and toeholds go? sometimes it takes a while to emerge. all the while functioning, attempting to be normal for the sake of those around me so they don’t wonder and ask what’s wrong. because i’m so close to tears at this point and cannot explain what’s wrong with me. because i’m not even sure myself. except that the demons have come out to play, to taunt me with what i don’t have with what i cannot have with what i am not with what i never will be. pushing them back behind the door at the bottom of the pit again and securing the padlock that hangs on rusty hinges takes all the energy i don’t have. i’m exhausted. and i cannot replace the lock, the rusty hinges. i don’t know how or where to find replacements.

my therapist sees the anger and the desperation and the depression and the despair and the darkness that lurk within. i try not to let others see. what will people think? i don’t know if this is para-menopause or if it’s just Wendy. is this depression and ocd or symptoms of something more? the one constant in my depression is music. not books, not people. music-mostly instrumental or few lyrics. this session of depression’s playlist (if you care to know) has been full of enigma’s a posteriori & love sensuality devotion, draconian’s a rose for the apocalypse & turning season within, really slow motion’s iron poetry, chopin’s nocturnes, imagine dragons’ radioactive (from night visions) and two steps from hell’s invincible (don’t really like their name, but love their music). i don’t know how long this bout of depression will last. it started about a week ago. the last one was on and off for the whole month of June (as in, 2 months ago). it pretty much has to work itself out of my system, i guess.

i become an automaton. i ask no questions. i don’t want to know. i don’t really care at this point. i struggle to care. i can’t people. i don’t adult very well either. i do my work and avoid people as much as possible. my focus is inward. i’m selfish. even my son suffers lack of my attention during this time. fortunately he’s mostly independent so i don’t have to worry about being arrested for child neglect. i just can’t people. too much drama. too many eyes. too many breaths. too many hands and fingers and feet and toes. too many smells. too many voices. too much noise. just. too. much. i’m a mass of nerve endings. i hunch inward around them. trying to protect them. because if you brush up against the wrong one, i might implode. i’ll fall apart. maybe not in front of you because that just makes people uncomfortable. but in private i fall apart. i try to keep the implosions to a minimum because they make the depression worse. there’s a lot of self-deprecation and self-flagellation and self-recrimination going on inside.

Depression-3 Croppedsometimes i want people to ask questions. just so i know they care. but they usually don’t know the right questions to ask. and i don’t know how to tell them which questions are the right ones. if i knew, don’t you think i’d answer them so i could go back to being me? sometimes i just want to be held. ask me what i want. what will pull me from this depression? what will work this time? i don’t know. i can think of a dozen things over which i obsess at various times, but will any one or more of them pull me from depression this time? i don’t know. i just want oblivion. want to slink into the cave of my room, cocoon myself in my bed and be one with oblivion. at least temporary oblivion. until this passes.

maybe tomorrow the sun will shine again.

 

(The depression finally began to dissipate after about a week. I’m beginning to feel like my usual self again. But I know it will return. If only it would adhere to a set schedule, I could be prepared…)

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Filed under ADHD, Anxiety, Blogging, Depression, Life, Mental Health, Writing

by | May 15, 2015 · 6:37 pm

I Still Remember…


Trigger Warning: Memories of Childhood Sexual Abuse

 

Stronger Than You Think2 cropped graphicI still remember my first sexual encounter. I was 4 years old. I remember every detail, as if I was a spectator, rather than the child. I don’t remember the physical sensations, but I do remember every word spoken, every scene enacted. Since it’s with me more than 35 years later, with more clarity than any other moment in my life, this must be the definition of trauma.

In reading fellow Booktrope author Rachel Thompson‘s memoirs about surviving her own childhood sexual abuse (CSA) trauma – Broken Pieces and its sequel Broken Places – for the first time a couple of months ago, many of her essays and poems struck a cord within me as a fellow survivor of CSA. My experience was different than Rachel’s, but some of the demographics are the same; my abuser was also someone I knew, though he was a child himself (8 years older than I) and the abuse occurred only once. Probably because my parents, and his, put the fear of God into him. But it didn’t stop him, only kept him away from ME. I know of at least one other girl, a good friend of mine, who he sexually abused, perhaps more than once; we didn’t discuss it much, even when we grew up. My abuse was also in the late 70s, at a time when such occurrences weren’t talked about.

Unlike Rachel, I never strove for perfection (I was always awkward. Still am, a bit, come to think of it.) or became a straight-A student (Geometry was my high school nemesis). I did, however – as I can see from the distance of 25 years – suffer from depression as a teenager, which probably contributed to me becoming an introvert (I still have to give myself pep talks  sometimes in order to interact with people in a crowd), who writes sometimes dark and depressing poetry. This was recently confirmed by my therapist, who also confirmed that my sexual “acting out” as a child was a direct result of that one incident, experimenting with both boys and girls, well into my teenage years. I’m not sure why it stopped then. Perhaps because at that point I realized I could get pregnant and knew I wasn’t ready for that.

I never forgot my experience. Not Innocence cropped graphicTo this day, I can remember every minutiae, as if holding a magnifying glass on the scene, every word that was spoken down to the image that goes with it. It’s almost as if it was another little girl, another blonde, green-eyed, 4-year-old pixie of a girl experiencing that and me watching and cringing, helpless to do anything to stop it. Then again, watching that same little girl seeking out that same experience with other children.

Later, when I was about 10 years old, I had a crush on this same boy who abused me, with whom I went to church and school (K-12) for years. Until he married and moved away. I saw myself as sick, that I would crush on someone who would victimize a child – only I didn’t think of it in those terms until I reached adulthood. All I knew was that I was ashamed to have tender feelings toward him, and didn’t understand the why of any of it. I’ve always wondered, but never asked: did she, the woman he married, know what he’d done? They’re divorced now, have been for many years. And when out of the blue, my parents received a Christmas card from him and his new wife “Wendy,” that’s the first time I remember having a “trigger” – it really scared me…as nothing had prior to that in a long time… Was he trying to say something? Send a message? Why did he marry a woman with MY name?

Was this why I became introverted? (How to make friends when you’re carrying around this huge secret.) Why books became my best friends? (Books cannot hurt or betray you.) Why as a teenager I would stare for hours at the ceiling above me? Why for years I couldn’t sleep in the dark or without my stuffed animals? Why I would shut myself inside my bedroom and throw my Birthday Girl figurines – I had all of them at one time; none of them survived – against my bedroom walls until they shattered into tiny pieces? Why the calm descended after each of those girls shattered? (Throwing things and hearing them break against a wall is very soothing. Cleaning up after yourself, not so much.) Were they ceramic substitutes for my own body? I had too much survival instinct, or else too much fear of hell to attempt suicide (though one summer spent with my cousins on our grandparents’ farm in Texas, I carried a thick rope, and when I was alone, would twist it tightly round my neck) – raised in a conservative Christian household, I learned from a very young age that suicide is a sin…and there’s no repenting THAT sin.

cropped-cropped-cropped-Stigma-Fighters-V1Though I’ve never really been secretive about this, I’ve not made it a regular part of my conversations, either. Since becoming friends with so many other writers – collectively known as Stigma Fighters – who, like me, live daily with some form of mental health issue, and who have become such inspirations to me through their bravery and selflessness in sharing their stories and their encouragement, I knew I needed to be brave enough to share some of the darkness within my own soul, in hopes of lending my support – and the occasional hug – to others like us.

 

(Stigma Fighters logo used by permission. The lines of poetry in the graphics are my own.)

 

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by | April 17, 2015 · 3:25 pm

my creed…(trigger warning: sarcasm)


I'm delightfultreat others the way you want to be treated; this is the best rule to live by (i.e.: the golden rule). even if you’re an athiest, or an agnostic, or any other type of -est, -ic, or -ist.

don’t say you will do something and then back out without warning or explanation.

if you’re wrong, if you make a mistake, apologize and do your best to make it right.

those we love the most often bear the brunt of our fears, guilt and frustration, whether or not they are actually to blame; be mature enough to ask their forgiveness when you take it out on them.

grow up and take responsibility for your actions.

as a good friend constantly reminds me: you ARE NOT Atlas; so stop trying to carry the world on your shoulders. it will end up crushing you.

if you have child(ren), hug them everyday and tell them you love and are proud of them. if your job or school demands you be away from them for any length of time (i.e.: overnight), call them. our children are our greatest responsibilities… and our greatest achievements. they represent immortality and the best part of life.

you’re never too big or too old for Mama to take you down. she brought you into this world, and she can darn sure take you out. at any time. always respect Mama.

yes, we mothers DO have eyes in the backs of our heads, and no, we will not show them to you.

if you fight with your sibling(s), be sure to make up quickly. they’re some of the best friends you’ll ever have, and if they’re not, maybe you should sit down together and talk about what each of you is doing wrong. fix it. these misunderstandings are wounds that can fester if not lanced right away.

please remember that i’m an individual; if one of my brothers does something stupid or one of my parents offend you, please remember i’m NOT them; don’t blame me. i make enough of my own stupid mistakes and offend enough people; i don’t need to take someone else’s credit. the only two people i’ll accept blame – and praise for – are myself and my son. otherwise, go to the source.

i’m an open book. i’ve been told this before. along with that other cliche, that i wear my heart on my sleeve. if you don’t like to read and you like guessing games rather than the refreshing change of someone who prefers to tell it like they see it, then feel free to leave.

AttentionALWAYS keep open lines of communication with your significant other – or the one you want to BE your significant other. if you want the relationship to last, to work, YOU must work – both of you. and you can’t keep secrets from each other (unless it’s what you’re getting him or her for their birthday, Christmas, or other special days), or go to bed angry.

no cheating. ever. unless writing a book and that’s the character. then it’s okay. sometimes.

i have trust issues. i’m working on them. but if i trust you, don’t lie to me. i’ll do my best to hold myself to the same standard. if i lie to you or you think i have, please tell me so i can make it right if the fault lies with me.

if you need help, ASK FOR IT. but by the same token, don’t expect someone else to solve your problem(s) for you. it’s still your problem; we’ll help if we can, but don’t get lazy.

i don’t want your drama. i have enough of my own. (especially when my characters start taking control of their stories.)  i’m always willing to listen and offer comfort, advice, compassion, a shoulder to cry on/lean on, or assistance, whenever possible, but please remember to take your drama home with you. don’t dump it on me; i’m not your personal landfill. i’m raising a child who lives with ADHD & Asperger’s, and additionally, have my own problems with OCD, adult ADHD, anxiety and depression. i’ll try to extend the same courtesy to you.

i’m willing to listen to your side of the matter, as long as you’ll then listen to mine. (yes, i’ll let you go first.) we may not either succeed in changing the other’s opinion, but we can be satisfied by free, open dialogue. you may not like or agree with everything i have to say, and vise versa. but let’s talk anyway. different points of view are part of what makes life interesting. ignorance begets war. if you don’t believe me, then you need to brush up on your world – or American – history.

Healthy brainyes, i’m sarcastic, and often blunt, with a wacky sense of humor, and likely to stay that way; i’m a writer. it comes with the territory. if you can’t handle that, then maybe our friendship isn’t as strong as i thought it was.

i don’t like to play games. (except when my characters dictate that i do so.) i’m pretty up front with how i feel about people, situations, and life in general; i expect the same courtesy in return. (yes, i said this before, worded differently. somethings are worthy of repetition.)

i take great strides to avoid lying to myself or anyone else (omitting or evading with my son doesn’t count as lying); i expect the same courtesy in return. (also worthy of repetition).

i’m harder to offend than you might think; you disagreeing with me is rarely something worth being offended over. and if i do get offended, i’ll get over it. it’s called maturity.

i’m not stupid. sometimes my learning curve is way out in left field, but eventually i’ll get the picture. though sometimes not until i get smacked in the face with it.

Pretend to be normali’m an open-minded moderate conservative, and quite proud of it. the “open-minded” part means (among other things) that i’m happy to listen to your side of the story, and might even agree with you. the “moderate” part means i’m probably not as “right-wing” as you think i am. the “conservative” part means (among other things) that i don’t like to hear God’s name (or titles) cursed. why are you blaming Him for your problems? ever heard of a little thing called “free will?” everybody has it, and unfortunately, sometimes my free will infringes on your free will, so on and so forth. don’t blame the devil(s) either; free will still applies. if you make bad decisions, it’s your own fault; if you make good decisions, you can pat yourself on the back. good and bad happen to us all.

why do people always say “God****?” why not “Satan****?” or (insert parent’s name here)**** or (insert ex-spouse’s name here)****? etcetera, etcetera. i’m sure if you try it, those expressions will “flow off the tongue” just as easily as God’s name, who probably ALSO wonders why you’re cursing Him.

if i offend you, don’t expect me to know it if you don’t tell me. contrary to what seems to be popular opinion, i DON’T have esp (except for where my son is concerned). i may not apologize for offending you (especially if it wasn’t deliberate), but at least i’ll know the borders of your thin skin before our next interaction.

if you have a problem with me, i’d appreciate it if you tell ME rather than the grapevine. nobody likes a tattle tale.

yes, i’m assertive (aka, pushy). it’s all part of my charm.

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