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~
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