The Breakdown: Mental Health Evaluation

Yesterday was. . . a royally hot mess for me. I don't know why, but there are a lot of factors. Two days in a row I dreamed about my mom. In my husband's theory, Saturday I had a fun day so then I usually crash the next. Which is very likely, but I don't feel like that's the case this time. Also, it's been over two weeks since I've seen my therapist. I really should be going every week, I feel better when I do and I need the encouragement, but. . . sadly like most people here in the states, I don't have the money for that. So I go every other week. It works out alright, but I canceled last Monday because I felt the need to work on commissions than take care of my needs. Dumb, I know.

Anyways, after I stopped being a stubborn ass and allowed my husband to feed me, (I went a good 13+ hours without eating because I felt I didn't deserve food since I was depressed) my anxiety kicked in. I went on a hunt for a lab-work paper I needed to get my blood done this morning. You know, since my doctor sent me the wrong one when I asked for a new one for my new appointment, and hasn't sent me the right one I asked for. I figured I could use the old one because the only thing different was the date scheduled. Unfortunately I couldn't find it. I would like to think I didn't toss it once I realized I was going to get a new paper, but who freaking knows with me.

I spent about an hour going through every piece of medical crap I had, and I came across my mental health summary. In 2016, around October, I finally broke down and went to the doctors for a four year long ear infection. Yes, you heard that right.

FOUR YEARS I suffered with an infection in both ears because I was afraid to leave my house, go to the doctor, or anything. I was afraid of what the course of action would be, would we have the money (we don't have insurance and make too much to get any kind of medical help). For four years I had shit coming out of my ears, pain, loss of hearing, sinuses headaches, extreme colds due to congestion, and a lot of other problems. I still have lingering effects from all this, but it's slowly healing.

When I went to the doctor, you go in and they ask you a bunch of questions and we all know at least one of them is, “Have you suffered from depression or think you might be depressed? Have you had thoughts of hurting yourself ect...”

No matter what they asked or how much it applied to me the automatic response was always no. Even when I was having suicidal thoughts and I would go in for a cold at Dani's insistence so my new born nephew wouldn't get sick. I always said no. Inside I would chuckle to myself in a twisted dark humors way while thinking, “you have no idea.” But this time. . . this time I said yes.

I don't know why I said yes or choose that moment to be honest. Maybe it was my final cry for help—a last chance to reach out and hopefully get some much needed help. Whatever it was I said yes, and thus began the longest year of my life.

The doctor came in and talked in length with me about how I didn't need to suffer alone and that there was help for me. She gave a little push and said that at least get an evaluation done so I would know what I was dealing with. Again, for whatever reason—timing, intense emotional pain, ect—I went and had the evaluation. For three long sessions I sat with a stranger and answered questions, uncomfortable and thinking twice about letting anyone that close to me, I suffered through the memories he triggered and completed the evaluation. On the last visit he went over my results, which were. . . heart breaking.

I knew I was fucked up. I figured a little anxiety with a sprinkle of depression, but for the most part I figured that was the way people were. Everyone has their problems, mine weren't that bad. Boy was I wrong.

I went into his office and for a long while we sat there, him looking over my results stumbling to find the right words. Yes, stumbling. According to my doctor this guy was very professional. Came highly recommended and dealt with a lot of extreme cases, yet he didn't know what to say to me. Yeah, it was that bad.

Finally, he came out with it. Gave it to me straight and I respect that. His first words were, “I've never seen scores like this. You measure off the carts for anxiety and depression. . . How do you live?”

A guy—a professional—that has dealt with extreme abuse and neglect cases was amazed I could make it through a day.

Well, shit!

Right?!

From there I barely listened to what he said. Up till this point I knew my life was messed up, but damn if this didn't throw me. I wasn't simply a little rattled from my past. Now, I was grade-A fucked up! The winner of the mental illness world cup, and right there I had to come to terms with the fact that everything I thought was normal—everything I passed off as being, okay—wasn't. Till that point I figured I had a rough life, but abuse? Me? My mom, abused. . . me?

No that couldn't be right. I couldn't, wouldn't, accept that.

Life was just. . . rough. . . I mean that's life. . . we surviv. . . oh fuck. I was abused. My life wasn't normal, not a single thing about it was.

It's a lot to take in for an hour long session while facts are being thrown at you. My mind shut down, and I cried the whole way home (the hell I was going to cry in front of a stranger I still don't let my therapist see me cry). I was a mess, and it took me months to actually seek out treatment of any kind after this.

One of the things I did do when I started on medication was get a copy of my test results, but I never looked at them. Never read them, and last night while I was looking for my lab-work paper I stumbled cross the brief summary of my results (not the in-depth one that got passed over to my therapist. Can't stand to look at that one). So I read it. This is what it said word for word:

Jacqulene was administered the Millon Clinical Multiaxial Inventory, 4ed. (MCMI-IV), which is a standardized test of personality while also providing a diagnostic assessment of psychiatric functioning. Her responses produced a valid profile which is strongly indicative of major depression, anxiety, and PTSD. These are manifested by chronic, recurring depressive moods, fearfulness, and pessimism. She notes deep-rooted feelings of guilt, isolation, and undesirability. She expresses feeling trapped with anxiety-producing and painful memories that are easily triggered by social demands. She is intimidated by people or situations that could produce confrontation, either real or imagined. Also notable are features of an avoidant personality which reflects her negative beliefs of herself with regard to insecurity, past humiliations, and personal inadequacy. She has a distinct tendency to magnify her most undesirable traits and expresses disillusionment in feeling that life is empty and meaningless.

An eye-opener. . . I look at this and I'm overwhelmed. I think “what the hell did I do to deserve this?” In my messed up way of thinking I answer back with, “I must be the most awful person in the whole world. . . I deserve this.”

Problem is, I don't. I have done nothing to deserve any of these daily struggles. I mean, have I snuck a smack in on my sister because she was being a brat, sure. Have I teased my brother when we were little? Yeah. Refused to clean my room, sure. Lied, well yeah. It was the only way to get through the day in my household. I drank with my friends when I was 19, I had sex before I was out of my teens, never did drugs though. Hated cigarettes so never took up smoking. Made crude jokes with my friends. Swear. . . a lot (it's like a second language to me). Drove too fast, kept money I found on the street, stool coins from my mom for lunch money, watched porn. Told my sister the man that lived in our closet wanted to eat her, introduced my younger brother and sister to horror movies wayyy too early in life, but I feel like this is standard stuff. Things the average person growing up might have done.

So why. . . why was I punished. . . why am I still being punished?

Because my mom, for some twisted strange reason, didn't like me? Because I might be better than her? Because people thought I was an adorable baby, or my grandfather paid too much attention to me and not enough to his own daughter?

Is that really the reason I'm so fucked up? Because one person was so damn petty in life they needed to rip apart of a child? Train them to feel lower than scum so they will never strive for anything? To my an innocent suffer?

Try to get your mind around that, because I haven't been able to. I struggle everyday with it, I haven't come to the acceptance that Dani, my mother, would want to bring me so far down because I got all the attention. I know that level of pettiness is out there in the world, but for it to hit this close to home—I don't know. My mind can't process that, so I'm left with anxiety, depression, a feeling that I'm often a worthless piece of shit. Fear of anyone noticing me, or achieving anything, and a nice big helping of PTSD that's so bad I get panic attacks when I hear shouting, loud noises or any type of conflict. I grow tense at the idea of walking into new places, and often have irrational fears about my future. In fact, in all honesty, I don't know what to do with myself at this point in life because I never thought I would live to see this age.

Yes, I often thought and sometimes even strive to have my life end long before my 30s. I wanted to go into police work in the hopes of getting shot. I sort out programs for law enforcement that would put me in the most dangerous areas, because I didn't want to live. If this is what life is, I didn't want any part of it. Not to mention I often feel like a big burden on the world, that the simple act of breathing imposed upon the happiness of everyone on this earth. I have a firm belief, that I still struggle with, that everyone would be better off without me here.

It's beyond sad or tragic—honestly, there is no word for it—that a child is born. Fresh, untainted by social presses, unburdened, pure and free of anything. Complete and utter innocence. An untouched piece of clay that can literally be anything. This child—this unformed person—will carry your lessons and teachings. Be shaped by you, its' parent. You can show it wonders, give it passion, develop its' skills and watch it turn into a masterpiece and instead. . . you shatter it. I often feel less than human because of my past, and the worst I have to live with is this was done to me. I was made to feel this way, but someone I loved, trusted, and held my future in their hands.

#MajorDepression #Anxiety #PTSD #Abuse #Survivor #MentalIllness

~JAX~

Tattoo Meaning, Heart Break

There are always signs pointing out a persons real nature. Some are big red flags blowing in a storm, and others are extremely small, but they are there. For people trapped in an abusive relationship of any kind (spouse, parent, friend, ect.). . . we are blind. Blind fools. Yeah, we see the signs but not really or worse yet we can justify them. It's how the abuser trains us, their victim.

We are told love is painful, and if something is good than is should hurt because that's life. We're told to be grateful for what little twisted compassion we get from our abuser because no one else would put up with us. They, the people that tear us down, are our only fans in the whole world, and because of that we see the signs—the warnings—and turn a blind eye. Because we believe the rules—situation—life is different for us. (Not in a good way).

What does this have to do with tattoos, right?

Well, now that I can think and see things more clearly than when I was growing up. I have noticed all the small signs of my mother's destructive personality I never took into account before. They are simple, small, and some would even call them petty things that have my mind in a tangle. Things that don't even make sense why they would be so important, and yet for me, looking back, they make my wounds deeper. I strike out at myself for being so damn blind, as most victims of abuse do.

We can't help it.

Most of us are told over and over again everything is our fault, and we believe it. Down to our last fiber, we believe everything is our fault. We—I'm—always in the wrong.

Knocked a drink over. . . I shouldn't have reached across the table.

Forgot to take out the trash. . . Fuck, why am I so damn lazy?

Meteors are pelting the Earth. . . Shit, I should have seen this coming!

Every little thing is my fault. So when I glance back into my past, or more accurately it jumps into my present, guilt is the strongest emotion I feel. Along with shame for thinking such a small moment in my past means as much as I feel it does.

Here is the small thing I'm ashamed I feel hurt over today!

Around the age of 33-35 Dani went through this mid-life thing. I wouldn't call it a crises so much as a, “it's all about me” vein streak. She started tanning everyday, got her nails and hair done every week, spent a good amount of money on looking all polished up. Everything from makeup to hiding the gray hairs that were starting. Every woman deserves to spend some time for herself, but Dani took it really far during this time period. I was with her on most of these pampering outings. Often I received a lot of back-handed compliments from Dani when the laddies at the shops commented about how much we looked a like. Dani always hated to hear how I looked like a younger version of her.

My therapist firmly believes Dani has been jealous of me from birth. I'm still trying to wrap my head around the idea of a mother feeling so competitive with her child they would destroy their self-worth, but back to the main point.

One summer day, Dani comes home after tanning and says, “Let's go, I'm going to get a tattoo.” Me being a teenager, was super excited. A tattoo was something I wanted for ages, sadly I couldn't talk her into letting me get one too. I mean I was only around 13 or 14 at the time, but it wasn't like I didn't try. No, instead she wanted me along so I could see how painful it was, and would never get one of my own.

I went along, of course. At the very least I got to see all the cool artwork in the shop. We arrived at the little place and that's were I found out she had already been in to talk to the tattoo artist an hour before. She stopped in on a whim and asked for something special to be designed for herself. Something that she could live with for the rest of her life, since she wanted to knock off tattoo on her to-do list. Settling on a theme she wouldn't regret later in life, Dani got a tattoo that represented her children.

Nice, right?

The artist put together a sample. The design was to be a teddy bear (for my brother who we called Chetty Bear), holding a rose (my sister was all about her middle name Rose), and behind all that was suppose to be a Dallas Cowboy star for me.

Alright, alright before you kick me out the door for my choice of football team let me explain. I never liked football or Dallas. Dani was and still is the Dallas fan. I simply went along with it. I requested Dallas jackets for Christmas and stuff so Dani could borrow them, and because I thought it made her like me. Excited about a football game, not me. While I threw myself into pretending to love Dallas at a young age, at this point in my life I was not a fan of football anymore and Dani knew that. Still, she thought I loved Dallas to my core, so there was a cheesy as hell Dallas star behind the teddy bear. Honestly, I believe she requested it for herself.

Well, the Dallas star was simply awful. Not the artist fault, it didn't fit with everything over all, so Dani cut it from the design and into the tattoo chair she went. She promised me that later, after this tattoo healed, she would go back and get a unicorn on her hip for me.

Yes, I loved unicorns. I still like them but I'm not insanely in love with them anymore. I'm more of a dragon person now.

Her promised thrilled me more than the lame Dallas star, and it fit me better. Dani even said I could help her pick the unicorn out. This kid right here was thrilled!

Only. . . she would never get that tattoo.

Nope, after she got the bear holding the rose she went on for months showing it off to friends, family, co-workers. Saying, “She got it for her children.” With a bright smile and deep joy she explained the meaning of the sweet little bear and the rose which made people go, “awwwww.” Followed by comments on what a good mother she was to go through the pain of a tattoo for her children.

Sometimes people would ask, “what about your oldest?”

For awhile Dani would tell them she was going back to get one for me, but that didn't last long. Instead the story changed, as it always does with her. One day she looked at the tattoo when someone asked what part of it was for me, and said the heart on the teddy bear represented me. The tiny tiny heart that was already part of the artwork was me.

Doesn't that say it all.

Me, the after thought. The part of the drawing you never noticed or cared about until someone pointed it out. A forced piece in a puzzle I don't belong in. That's what it feels like—that's what it felt like the first time she came up with the lie. I felt the hurt then, as a teenager, in the moment it happened but I let it go. I brushed off my intense disappointment and shook my head telling, myself it wasn't what it felt like. It wasn't Dani putting me off in the distant of the family, or shunning me. No, Dani wouldn't do that. She was my mother. She loved me. . . She's a good mom—the best mom ever!!

So then why did I mean so little to her? Why does it hurt so much if the abuse wasn't real?

Later, somehow, I mustered the courage to ask her why she lied about the heart inside the bear. Dani said, “oh honey, I can't go back and get another tattoo. It just hurts too much. You understand, right?”

Fuck, I hate that question/statement.

You understand?

Understanding. . . I hate that word with a passion. It was her weapon against me. To make sure I was complicit, and I was just that. . . understanding.

I realize it's a silly tattoo, some ink on skin, but what is symbolizes—what it means to her and people that see it—well, that makes it more. That tattoo is a slap in my face that I took with a bright smile. When I think about this small gesture—a simple tattoo—my heart breaks. The tears well up in my eyes, and I feel like a child left out in the cold. Discarded by the person they worshiped—begging to be loved, accepted—to be apart of the family I was born into, here I am. Still the outsider, and it's a feeling I can never get rid of.

It doesn't matter who welcomes me into a group, or how warm and loving the place is. The stigma of being an outcast among outcasts haunts me. It's the scars I wear and can never be free of. Thanks mom.

#tattoos #outcast #victims #warningsigns #littlethingsmatter

~Jax~

"Think Something Else" Yeah, Right!

It's been awhile. Honestly, I've been isolating. My mind has been a nightmare of tangled thoughts lately and all I want to do is hide. Not the healthiest thing in the world, but it's better than some of my other coping methods.

Today, however, I feel the need to vent—rage even. See something happened at the wrong time. I tend to avoid my feelings, and they build, and build. . . and, you guessed it, build. Usually they start as anger for what has transpired in my past. Don't let my laid back, mellow exterior fool you, I'm often extremely angry. With good right to be, that's something I'm working on. Allowing myself to feel anger. As I said, usually I let it build and fester until it turns inward and forms into a nice ball of depression.

HOWEVER, there are rare occasions while my internal anger, annoyance, general pissy nature is stewing that someone or something happens that sets me off. Enter rant mode!

My therapist would say this is a good thing, and while it's going to feel really nice to rant right now, I know later I'll be feeling guilty for being bitchy. Anyways, here it goes.

My thoughts are my fault. . . Yep, my mental illness is, and I quote, “In reality is 'your fault'” as someone commented on a post/graphic I shared on Facebook. See this guy's theory is that I think too much, which I'll admit I do, but he seems to believe that my extreme anxiety and depression is my own fault because all I have to do is think of something else. Let new thoughts enter my head.

WOW!!!!

Fucking, WOW!!!

It's so simple, I mean—there it is. The answer to all my problems! The solution to a lifetime of suffering, a way to never have to worry about suicidal thoughts ever again! Just think something else. . . Let it go. Move with the flow of life, man. Note the sarcasm

I get what this person is trying to say, but dude while some people do simply over-think, mental health is more than excessive thoughts. It's more than lingering on one thought or a series of thoughts. I am not in control of what I think! I can not control when my trauma is going to pop up or what daily thing is going to trigger me. That's what my therapy is for, to help me retrain my mind and thought patterns to better deal with my past and the trauma.

Telling someone to go with the flow or think something else when they suffer from mental illness is like telling a deaf person to open their ears. Man what I wouldn't give to snap my fingers and switch my thoughts, fuck if I never entertained that idea.

And telling someone that in reality it is their fault, you just devalued their feelings—their illness. You belittled their experiences, and their illness, you lessened them, and you should be ashamed. By stating this ignorant statement you have said to people struggling with mental illness, “Yeah, it's all in your head. Get over it. Move on” AKA you're feelings don't matter. . . YOU, don't matter.

While that might not have been this person's intended meaning, that's what it comes across as. Hence why we need better education for mental illness. Not to say everyone is going to be as compassionate or understanding about mental illness with education or more awareness. I mean some people are just assholes, but couldn't we show a little acknowledgment and remove ignorant statements from the majority? Sure, with proper education.

Now, I'm going to be posting this reply on the post that originally started my need to write this, and I can see/hear the rebuttal already. Before everyone crucifies me with the, “I'm being too sensitive” here is why the post sets me off.

I was born to a woman who instantly thought of me as her competition. I looked up to my mother, Dani. I worshiped the ground she walked on, all the while she was grooming me to be less than human. To have the thoughts and self-worth of a slave. Since I was young I got backhanded compliments such as, “yay you finished a drawing, it would look so much better if you stayed in the lines. Oh well, this is the best you can do.” Up to the point I graduated college with a BS, “I'm so proud of my daughter. I could never do online schooling. I get too distracted by a dirty house, I would have to clean it. Not Jackie. She is focused on her work.”

At one point in my life the formality of covering the insults with a compliment stopped. There were days Dani yelled at me straight with things like, “How stupid are you? Why can't you do anything right? You're fucking lesbian, aren't you? Worthless? Pathetic? Druggy, alcoholic, lazy. . . ” The list goes on.

By the time I was able to work up the courage, mainly borrowing if from my husband, to go to therapy I felt like pond scum. That is not an exaggeration. I hated myself, I still hate myself most of the time. I feel as if I have no right to be angry, upset or hurt by the fact Dani abused me—tore me down, and let her boyfriends' use me for their sexual pleasure, while she turned a blind eye. My upbringing is nothing short of a crime documentary in the making. How I didn't end up a mass murderer or serial killer I'll never know.

I have been trained, by Dani, to not acknowledge or value my own emotions. I don't feel validated in feeling things, in fact I often try to avoid feeling all together that way I'm not internally conflicted about whether or not I should or shouldn't be feeling something. However; through therapy I'm slowly learning to come to terms with my emotions, and feeling validated with them.

So when some ignorant ass says something that devalues my illness—my new found beliefs—and things I'm trying to get my brain to understand are real. It pisses me the hell off. Seriously, I'm pissed off.

In no fucking way is my mental illness my fault, I can't just think a new thought because evil people—awful people—a woman that was suppose to love and care for me put nasty, unhealthy, and sick thoughts into my head. They were drilled into me over and over again, beaten into my skull daily to make sure I never rose above anything more than being a helpless child.

Go with the flow of life, you say?

If I went with the flow of my life I would be dead, JOE! DEAD!

I would have taken my life after my step-father first laid his hands on me, instead of eating the doughnut shaped like a man he bought me. I would have driven my car off a bridge on my way to class the morning I heard my mom fucking the man that sexually assaulted me. And two months ago, if I went with the flow of life I would taken all my pills and ended my suffering. Because every statistic—mental health professional—therapist I've seen has said the same thing, “It's remarkable you're doing as well as you are. You should be dead (suicide) or a have an addiction problem.”

Not all of us can have a supportive family and friends, not all of us are as lucky as you, Joe. So the next time you open your fucking mouth, open that closed mind of yours first and do some research.

That was suppose to be the end of my post, but I need to address something else. Joe thinks thinking of something else will make it better. In other words, avoiding the subject/bad thoughts. Yeah, I did that for years. I hide and ran from my past and trauma. You know what happened?

October 2012 my husband came home from work. The house was a mess, pictures and my old artwork thrown all over the place. Pictures were burned and cute apart. Empty bottles of wine, and beer and there I was. Passed out on our bed, drunk to fuck with my left forearm mangled to hell. Carved, burned, and bleeding. He was lucky he didn't find me dead that day. That's what ignoring the problem does. It allows all those nasty thoughts to pile up until one day the pile topples over.

Everything comes crashing down, and recovering from it. . . well, it's taken me years. So while Joe seems to think smiling, laughing, and moving on with life is the best medicine for mental illness. I know for a fact, avoidance can be far more dangerous, and in some causes deadly.

So, Joe. You can take your overly positive avoidance personality disorder and shove it. Because some of us only get to live in the darkest depravity humanity has to offer.

#MenatlHealthAwareness #Ignorance #Compassion #Education #ItsNotYourFault

~Jax~