When A Writer Can't Write

This week I've been slowing fading away into a depressive state, this is not uncommon for me but the slow progression into depression is. Usually it's a hard fall, quick, painful. More of a plunge really, taken after I've fought to hold the monsters at bay. In the end their stamina is a lot greater than mine. However, this week has been a long drawn out battle. I've fought at every turn to keep my head above water but I had my slips. Other parts of my life have suffered so my mind could remain on the edge of control.

Like my work (freelance stuff), Monday I made a lot of headway but then that stopped. Progress slowed on Tuesday when I moved away from commissioned projects and onto my own work, I tend to neglect my own projects for other peoples. Something the brings on my depression because my work often goes unfinished, which then leads me to feel like a failure. It's made even worse by the events of the last year of my life. This time last year I was falling apart.

Life is. . . I would say funny but that's not what I mean, so lets call it a wonder. A mysterious thing with twists, turns, loop-to-loops, water slides, and unfinished tracks. For someone like me who has lived in the more depraved natural world I see only shadows the majority of the time. The world is a dark, grimy, and sullen with awful energy but even I still have hope. It's the one thing I cling to, and June of last year I rested my whole well being on hope—on the thought of a future for the first time in my life.

I started medication for my anxiety and depression, I spent most of the spring out doors, something I never do. I enjoyed things, nature, people, in small doses but still. I felt—better, stronger. Slowly my victimized self started to lessen and I felt like the warrior I wanted to be, but then came life. Another twist, a loop I wasn't strapped in for. My body got sick and for the last year I've been battling my diagnoses of a chronic illness, along with the knowledge that everything I was taught growing up had lead me to worsen my condition. I'm killing myself, slowly.

Not that I mean to be doing it, but when a lifetime of bad habits pairs with mental illness, recovered memories, and an non-existent sense of self-worth. Well, everything falls to chaos. That's where I currently am. A lost child among chaos.

Can't I get a damn break?

That's what I think right now. I moved past denial of being ill, of having this other problem piled on my mountain and am firmly in the anger zone. I'm pissed at my mom for never giving a damn or ever caring enough to get me properly checked out. I could have been getting treatment for years and have this firmly under control. Instead, when I brought her my concerns about problems that I found out are symptoms of my chronic illness, she brushed them off. So here I am, 33 and feeling like the world has it out for me. It feels like nothing is easy for me, not ever.

I hate my small moments of happiness last year because in my warped way of pairing things my mind tells me this awfulness I've been swallowed into is all because of my happy time. It's the price to be paid to keep the shitty universal balance. I know that is messed up irrational thinking, the universe is really out to fuck everyone. Not on purpose but it's simply doing it's thing. Doesn't lessen the anger—doesn't take away the feeling of being disadvantage by the vast expanses of the universe. Nope, it all feels like a shit-storm right overhead.

The thing I'm struggling the most with is my passions. If you follow the definition of a passion I guess I really can't call them that at this moment. Depression does that to you, it kills your passion. It steels everything you love, sucks the joy right out of it. In some cases you deprive yourself of the things that bring you joy because you don't see the point, other times its a sick need to punished yourself. Then there are those haunted by the judgment of others for their pursuits, those nasty voices are all that can be heard when you try to enjoy yourself. I suffer from all of the above. There is always something holding me back and the messed up part, it's all in my head. I do it to myself.

I'm such a dick to myself, and as much as I want to be pissed off at myself about holding myself back that's not where I should be putting my anger.

The one thing that makes my blood boil—the one thing I often try not to focus on because it messes with my head even—is that this was done to me. . . People—a woman I thought loved me, did this to me—trained me to be this way. Forced it into me. Took a blank slate of a child and tormented them with verbal abuse until they had no self-worth left I was willing to clean a kitchen floor with my tongue just to watch a movie. (True event, I was 6-7).

Right now I'm sitting here hating myself because there is something I've been trying to do all week—a long standing passion of mine—I haven't been able to do for months. Not since I found out I was sick last year. Yeah, I do a little here and there but I see no end in sight for my lack of progress. I can't throw myself into the task like I once did. It holds no joy or escape for me anymore, there's too much judgment roaring up from Dani and old high school friends. My mind won't let me move forward, and I desperately need to move forward.

I haven't been able to write. I'm an author who hasn't release a book in over two years, and hasn't had a solid writing session in a year. Okay, I know what you're thinking. I write here don't I? I'm writing this blog, but this is venting. It's not storytelling, this is sharing. The worlds I used to love crafting, the characters I gushed over bringing to life, the blood rushing thrill of a new plot twist I don't feel any of it anymore. I'm numb to my own creative world. It holds no joy, instead it feels tedious and impossible.

The first time I knew I wanted to be a writer I was in the ninth grade. I always had a rich fantasy life, but it came out in play with dolls and toys. I thought up ideas but only for fun, it wasn't till an autumn day, a dream, and composition book came into my life that I started to form things into real ideas. When I wasn't writing out my very first story by hand in my notebook, a special composition book I inked all black and put random stickers on, then I was thinking about it. Playing out the next scene in my head, forming a new villain, a new task for the characters. Every second I could spare I was writing in that damn book, my friends often made fun of me but I didn't care.

Half way through the book I went to my mom and told her I found out what I wanted to do for the rest of my life. I wanted to be a writer. I was going to work really hard in English class (a weak subject of mine) and start working on my stories and rewriting them, I wanted to do this. More than any other idea I brought to her. Imagine the heartbreak I felt when she laughed at me.

Yes, my mother laughed at me.

Not because she thought being a writer was silly or anything like that, but because it was me wanting to become a writer. Me, the girl who was still reading at a fourth grade level and couldn't spell worth a damn. The child that struggled through anything written, me. I wanted be a writer, a girl who was always in the 'special' learning classes growing up because a lack of reading/writing skills.

It shattered me when she said no publisher would ever take me seriously, and after that my writing slowed down but didn't stop. Nope, I still wrote in my book. The wind might have been knocked out of my sails, but fuck it. I wanted to write, and even if it was only for me I was going to do just that.

I wrote for years until I reached the age of 17. By then my mom had forced friendships on me, you know, because having a kid that liked to sit home and write wasn't normal. I was forced out into the world and praised when I made friends, so that's what I did. My writing fell away because those so called friends often made fun of me for it. They laughed at my ideas, teased me about my stories, and generally poked fun. My mother right along with them. Dani often mocked my creative mind, rolled her eyes at it and called me 'different' or artsy fartsy. I hate that phrase.

By 19 I was so far into the worst years of my life that my creative life halted to a stop. Writing was painful, and cruel because all I heard were people's judgment of my ideas. They wanted me to be crafty, expressive, but also to reign in my creativeness. It was a maddening time that has stuck with me. I tend to censor myself a great deal because I don't want to offend or upset anyone. My creative is on a leash, and right now it's wearing a choke collar.

Mid-twenties I started writing again, but just for me and maybe my husband. I was more into art. It's funny, I have a friend that tells me a lot authors write because they can't draw. Me, I draw because I always thought I couldn't write.

Truth is, I can write. According to my limited number of fans and small group of supporters, I do it well. I guess, because I always feel I'm at a disadvantage. Most if not all writers/authors feel their work sucks at some point, I feel it to the tenth degree. What with Dani's memory still laughing and me and my lack of grammar and spelling abilities.

In 2014 I self-published my first book, a novella to wet my feet. By 2016 I was putting out my first full length novel that actually won #1 mystery in a contest, and yet here I am. Unable to write more than two lines before I hear my mother's laughter, the demon she put inside my head telling me how much I suck. I hear her judging words from years later when I told her I was going to try and publish a book, the way she questioned me with skepticism. Her lack of belief in me, and I reflect that onto myself. I replay the pokes my friends made about my wild characters, how my brother and sister laughed at me for coming up with talking animals and my need to be successful becomes too much. I crumble under the weight of it all.

I look back over the last year of my life and see all my failed deadlines, my plans all gone because my body wanted to do it's own thing. I watch as my fan base dwindles away and think to myself, “what's the point. It's like I'll be starting all over again.” I see years of work slipping through my fingers, and I watch as authors I had the honor of debuting with pushing themselves forward toward success, while I'm just here. Back sliding into nothingness.

It makes it hard to open my files and work, I judge every word, every sentence. Which is maddening. Every writer does that at some point in their manuscript, but doing it every single time. . . It's exhausting. I look at my worlds, my vivid places and shrug. “What's the point. . . I've failed just like my mom said I would.” I have no money, literally. I can't work because I get panic attacks and start to feel even more worthless. I feel so little self-worth that I'm uncomfortable charging my freelance clients what I should for my very hard work, and I keep thinking to myself, “even if I do finish a book I can't afford an editor. I have no budget for that or marketing because I've spent it all getting to the place I was before I found out I was sick.” So what does that leave me with? Why put in the work if it's going to go nowhere? Why waste my precious energy when I have so little of it to get through the day?

I hate this—I hate it all. I want to be able to escape back into my fantasy worlds, but depression—my mother—people I used to call my friends, have taken it away from me. I have nothing left but my suffering and the little joy I feel from day to day, which dwindles when I focus on my illness and my lack of ability to make a living. I'm so tired. . . I'm depleted.

Most days—days like this—weeks like this, I just don't have it in me anymore. My past has taken almost everything I've ever loved, and I want it back but I'm too tired to fight for it. So then what. . . what am I suppose to do?

I guess when I find that answer things will start getting better. Until then, fuck knows.

#Struggling #AuthorProblems #Selfworth #WorldInChaos

~JAX~

Mental Illness & Double Standards

There is a lot of stigma out there when it comes to mental illness, a lot of people grow up in families that have this idea that mental illness is all in your head. I know, I know. It is all in your head, ha ha, but what I mean is that you are simply over thinking a small problem. Depression isn't real, it's an illusion. You're just sad. You don't have anxiety you worry too much. Stop thinking all the time. Like those of us with these problems can stop our brains from being the way they are. Too many people out there think mental illness is not a real thing, when you have a breakdown it's because you're weak. Hell, I grew up in one of those households.

I used to believe that I couldn't be depressed if I knew what depression was, because then I would just be faking it since I knew the symptoms. “I'm must be looking for attention” (this is something my mom told me). Yes, it sounds stupid when I say that out loud, but in my family it made total sense. I needed to toughen up, focus on the here and now, I'm not depressed. All of this is a dangerous road to take when it comes to any mental illness, ignoring the problem does nothing but make it worse.

Would you ignore a lump in your breast? How about an oozing sore in your mouth? Or you know a toe that just happens to fall off?

For everyone of them an average person would head right over to the doctor for treatment. (I say average person because I know a guy that literally let his toe rot away until the bone was showing, while knowing about it the whole time and having health insurance. Lucky bastard.)

With all this negative and avoidance type response to mental illness I feel the need to share a positive story about mental illness when it comes along. Hit the link and read about this amazing mother who helped her son when he came to her. It really hits the feels.

How a mom's response to son'sdepression helped him. . .

There is not a lot of details in the story, and the mom didn't do anything super special and over the top to help her son. Instead she listened, took in what he had to say, and went to get him help. She stood by his side, and really that is HUGE!!!!

Give her the mother of the fucking decade award! Any parent that listens to their children about their problems, believes them—validates what they are feeling, and then sets out to help them through it. Damn, parent of the year right there, because there are a lot of parents out there like my own mother who. . . who don't give a single shit about their kids. While they, themselves, suffer from mental illness and at times pass it down to their children, these people still stick their noses up at the idea of depression, anxiety, bipolar disorder, ect. They teach their children that mental illness isn't real, depression isn't real, and for those who take meds for such things are completely nuts.

Like my cousin, Bee. She has always had her problems, and being a spoiled brat is a big one of them, but she also has a mental illness. She is clinically depressed and is bipolar, and ever since I can remember when Dani talked about Bee this is how it went.

“My poor sister dealing with a mental case for a daughter. . . Bee is nuts she just needs to get her shit together. . . There is nothing really wrong with her, she just likes attention.”

My extend family was nice to her and allowed her to come to family things, but what Bee didn't know was she was shunned. Family members whispered about her behind her back, some suggested she be locked up in a hospital, and others thought she needed her own straight-jacket. Nice family.

Knowing how my family sees mental illness and how I was raised to think anyone with head problems should be committed, it was a big deal for me to confide in my mom about what was going with me. We briefly went over depression, suicide and other mental illnesses in health class. I knew the basics and still I refused to believe I was depressed in my teens, even though I knew I was. When I hit about 15 or 16 I started doing things I didn't understand, I was rebelling. Taking things apart, crying in secret all the time, wanting to burn myself. When Dani asked, in complete annoyance at my behavior, what was wrong I broke down. I cried in hysterics and told her I didn't know, that I felt all over the place. I kept repeating I didn't know what was wrong with me, that I cried all the time, I was restless, and a lot of times I couldn't sleep. It was like something you see in a movie. The main character having a complete breakdown and getting it all off their chest, and from there things are suppose to get better.

Well, it didn't. Not for me, because this is life and not a movie. Dani hugged me, told me to clean my face up, and then went into the school to get my brother and sister from basketball practice. Or whatever they were doing.

We never talked about it again. Dani never brought it up, never offered to help me, or take me to a therapist. It simply never happened. My big moment of emotional release—of truth—and it was like it never happened. I know I have recalled this moment before on here, so why am I retelling it.

Two reasons. 1. So newcomers don't have to go back and find it, and 2. because there is more to the story.

How could there be more, right? What other bullshit could Dani have done?

Hold on to your seats because I'm about to reveal just how much of an outcast I was in my own family. When I was in the 5-6 grade Dani and CJ (my stepfather) started having real problems. To be fair they have always had problems, my earliest memory of them together is yelling, screaming, a laundry basket being put through a motel room window, and the police showing up. When I say they started having real problems, what I mean is CJ's temper reached a new violent level, and his cheating stopped being so secret. Dani did the right thing and kicked his ass out, but then she fell apart and so did my brother and sister. They were young, super young. My brother had just started kindergarten, and the fighting on visitation days effected us all.

My brother was most effected, which I believe was due to the fact he had speech problems growing up. He had his own language about the time he should have been talking, one only my sister and I understood and would often translate for everyone. Expression was not his strong point and when the split happened he started chewing on his shirt collars. He would go through two to three shirts a day because his front would be soaking wet. It got so bad his lips and chin were chapped all the time. My sister got more impossible. For a four year old she knew how to manipulate the hell out of people. She knew what buttons to push to get a rise out of anyone, and damn if she wasn't an exasperate at that, still is till this day. Clearly they had developed some mental illness as a result of their parents breaking up, not to mention the emotional abuse from their father and probably sexual at some point (hell he did it to me, I wouldn't be surprised).

Why am I telling you all this? What point am I trying to make?

Well these behaviors came off and on way into my brother and sister's teen years, and a lot it went away and then came back and got worse when CJ married his new wife. This was right around the time I had my breakdown. You know what my mom did for my brother and sister?

Anytime any of their symptoms showed up she took them straight to their therapist. Yep, she took them to therapy. Dani researched for the best child therapist in the area to help with family problems, and dealing with stress. She took them each twice a week to talk to someone. She told them it was alright and that things were going to get better, hell she even saw the same doctor sometimes herself. Me. . . I was left out in the waiting room. I never got the help I needed, Dani instead told me to grow up—man-up—we are independent women, we don't have time for crying.

I was in crisis, I reached out but I never got any help. Even after her boyfriend sexually assaulted me, Dani never offered me to talk to anyone. Okay, I take that back. She wanted me to talk to the priest at our church. An old man with shaky hands, uhhh, no thank you.

The day after the assault happened Dani turned it into something all about her. I was the one taken advantage of, and yet somehow it was all about her. She was the afflicted one because she lost her man, and it was her daughter that was attacked, the poor woman!

We arrived at my brother and sister's school/our church and everyone knew about what happened. The teachers were coming up to me apologizing, saying how sorry they were for what happened. God, I didn't want anyone to know. Getting through the police interview the night before was hard enough.

Everyone fucking knew I was sexually assaulted, do you know how embarrassing that was? How mortified and off guard I felt? It was hell all over again, I might as well have been raped right there all over again, for everyone to see.

Dani, the amazing person she is, proudly turned her nose up and said, “she's handling it perfectly. I talked to a therapist this morning about it and he said Jackie not acting like a victim is a good thing.”

Not acting like a victim? Fuck, I didn't even know what was going on 90% of the time. Which way was up or down, I just wanted it to go away. Which is NOT a healthy way to deal with it. But she never once took me to talk to anyone, I was never given the help I needed. Instead I was paraded around like a brave child Dani had raised. Yes, she instilled this strength in me. My bravery as all her. While I suffered alone and in silence she peacocked.

However, my brother and sister start acting out and right to therapy they go. The double standards in my family are. . . well, I never saw them until a few years ago. I thought this was all normal, it's traumatizing when you find out your normal is an average person's hell. I often feel emotionally handicapped.

I would like to end by saying, good for you, to this inspiring mother, and add I wish she was my mom. I might have stood some type of chance in life. I wouldn't have the scars and wounds I carry now, and maybe—just maybe—I could make it through a day without haunting memories or having a breakdown over a few dropped eggs.

Here's to us survivors that were given no support and shamed for our mental illness, spread the word and never ignore someone that opens up to you. It takes a lot for anyone to admit they are struggling.

#AwesomeMom #MentalIllnessAwareness #Depression #Anxiety #SaveALife

~Jax~

"Suicide doesn't take away the pain, it passes it!" Stop Saying This!

I was going to simply post on Facebook my reaction to someone's meme of, “Suicide doesn't take away the pain! It passes it to someone else!” Instead I feel it needs to be a blog post, because there is a lot to explain about this phrase.

“Suicide doesn't take away the pain! It passes it to someone else!”

We've all seen the memes, heard the phrase, and nodded in agreement about true how suicide effects more than the person taking their life. But for the love of god I HATE this statement. I hate everything it says, and all the guilt it brings down on a suicidal person. Like we don't have enough stuff to feel shitty about, lets guilt the fuck out of them to keep suffering. This is not me supporting suicide, death is a very permeate thing, and even when life sucks it's worth waiting out the storm for bluer waters.

I will admit this idea of guilting into living is what kept me alive. When I often came close to ending my life I realized that if I died—if I disappeared from the world—my family would suffer. I couldn't handle that, so I wouldn't go through with driving my car off a bridge into the river. Or walking into traffic. I had no one that said this to me, it was something I came up with all on my own. I'm sure most suicidal people have thought about the pain their family would feel, acknowledged it, and feel great remorse for what they are leaving behind, but it doesn't stop them from ending this. All it does is pile on the guilt for a bigger crash. It could also be the final stone that crushes them.

Here's why.

People that think about killing themselves are suffering, we are in emotional pain. We battle it everyday, and most days we can conquer it. However, when it feels like the world is falling apart around us, when everything is going to shit, aka a bad day for an average people, our strength dissipates. There is nothing left to hold our most intense suffering back, our mind grows tired and allows the pain in. We feel it deep, to our souls and in those moments rational thoughts vanish. Often the sense of being a burden is present, that everyone would be better off without us around. We could end their suffering of having us around by simply ending our own suffering. That brings the guilt. We feel guilty for living because we are making others suffer. I only touched the surface on the range of messed up shit and pain we feel in those moments, but you get the idea. Now on top of all that you're going to add “Suicide doesn't take the pain away, it only passes it to someone else!”

How fucking compassionate are you?

First off, the pain suicidal people feel, well it's completely different. Yes, the loss of the loved one is devastating and when you feel that loss maybe you could get a quarter of the way to the level of anguish a suicidal person consistently exists in. Some do manage to get to the level of a suicidal person and that's awful, and heartbreaking. No one should be that lost in pain to take their life, but don't be a prick by guilting someone into living, trust me. We don't need any help getting our guilt-trip on. We are packed and ready for the journey long before you come along with your memes.

Instead, why not show compassion and say something like, “I can't begin to understand your pain, but I'm willing to listen. I'll always be here.”

That's what most suicidal people want to hear, that we are not alone. We are not a burden, and that our problems are not all consuming. Show us some light at the end, give us a glimmer of a blue sky, and we will respond.

Last Sunday, I wanted to kill myself. For the first time in a long time I was thinking about ending my life. Why?

Well, I woke up feeling shitty. I had dreams about my mom and her bullshit, which put me in a sour mood. I wanted to go out to eat, be around people to take my mind off things. My husband didn't want me to go out because he didn't think I would enjoy myself in my current mood. Understandable since most of the time when I'm upset first thing in the morning I don't want to be around people. He didn't understand that me asking to go out for lunch was my way of trying to pull myself out of my mood. I wanted to feel like apart of the world that day, but he didn't get it and that was lack of communication on both our parts. Instead of explaining it to him I went down an old path destructive path, and started doing things to increase my shitty mood. I told him I didn't want to cook because the kitchen was a mess. Really it wasn't, just some dirty dishes but when my depression kicks in. Well, it might as well be a war zone. That's how different my perception of things are from non-drepessed me, to depressed me.

Just a few dishes, or fucking World War lll. Fun, right? (hint: it's not. Trust me.)

Things progressed, I got a shower still trying to shake my mood, husband started the laundry and when he came back up I told him he didn't have to start the clothes I could do that. His response of, “I got it” sounded annoyed, and that's the moment my day fell completely to shit. Right away I was pissed off at myself for being such a fucking loser. Letting a few silly dreams get to me. Then I hated myself for putting my wonderful and patient husband into a foul mood, and my thoughts went to, “if I wasn't around he wouldn't be in a shitty mood. I'm ruining his weekend!”

Which makes me feel even worse because he works during the week, and while I'm at home working on freelance designs/illustrations and my novels, I still feel like I don't actually work. Like nothing I do is as valuable as him going out to his job and making money. (Thank you mom for putting that value system in my head). This deepens the shit-storm. After that I break down, make him food because I have no right not feed him, it's my wifely duties. Yep, I fall into these old-fashion gender roles, why? Because that's what Dani taught me. I tell myself this is my purpose in life, to serve him. Do what he needs because my husband is so much better than me. I don't matter. Because without him I would be nothing. Then I start to realize that if he's pissed at me I don't have anything left in life.

There is nothing keeping me here. I don't have any family, at least none close and none that I'm close with. I don't have any place to go if I leave my house or if my husband finally wakes up and realized how much of a loser I am and kicks me out. . . and really there is no where I want to go. I mean without my husband who else is going to put up with my shit, but really sticking around is making him go through things he doesn't deserve. After all these are my problems, not his.

(I want to make it known I don't think like this all the time. Usually only when I have a rough day. If I don't catch it this is the irrational and honest path my line of thinking takes. Sorry if it's upsetting.)

And that's when the first thoughts of killing myself come to mind. Inside, my head is telling me my husband—humanity would be better off not dealing with my bullshit. I'm weak, pathetic, I'm such a loser. I'm not talented at all, and sickness follows me everywhere. Over and over these thoughts come until I'm broken. . . completely shattered and I want it to end. The pressure of the burden I bring is. . . there is no word for it. It's one of those things you simply can not put into words because unless you feel it for yourself you can never understand it.

Now James, my husband, never lets me get that far. Usually, but sometimes I'm good at hiding how far down the rabbit hole I have fallen. Even then he'll keep pushing and pushing until I tell him wants wrong—what's going on inside my head. He knows better than to leave me alone when I start spiraling, and he always pulls me back from the edge.

Guess what?

He never says stupid shit like, “suicide doesn't end the pain, it passes it on to someone else! Do you want me to suffer?”

Because he knows I don't need anymore of a guilt-trip than I'm already on.

Okay, let's switch gears here. Guilt-tripping aside I want to show you how damaging this statement is beyond the guilt can be.

Like I said I came to the realization that if I took my life my family would suffer. While it kept me dying when I was 19, it also created a hideous monster inside me. It actually made me a more willing slave to my abusers. See, Dani has used me as far back as I can remember. That's what she does, being a narcissist and boarder-line. When I had reached the peak of my emotional pain, and had no idea how to express it I wanted to end the suffering. Like when you get a deep cut, you want the pain to end. My family life sucked, I was getting called names, told how incapable I was, how stupid I was, how lazy, sad, pathetic, weak, ect. Yes, Dani said those things to me. Well, she yelled them at me. The camouflage of an insult held inside a compliment was gone, it was out right verbal abuse. All while she showered my brother and sister in compliments and praise to keep their love over their father, but that's another story.

So I was torn down at home.

My so-called-friends were no better. Well, it wasn't all of them but most of them. The main offender was my ex-boyfriend who I remained friends with after we broke up, best friends in fact. (NEVER do this.) He was dating someone else that he often flashed in front of me, allowed his boyfriend to belittle me, antagonize me, ect. Didn't help we all worked at the same place either. There was no escaping the torment. On top of that my ex wasn't a very good friend. I was there for him through his relationship problems, his drinking problems, and when I hit my own relationship problems, well. I got dropped. Hard! My ex was more interested in a MMORPG we played together than me crying my eyes out over some guy.

My other friends gave me shit. Like a lot of shit, but that's not completely their fault. They saw me as a tough chick. A bitter, honest bitch that did what needed to be done. None of them actually knew me because I never let them see. Honestly, I don't even really know who I am to be fair. I'm discovering as I go. Still, no one stopped to ask if I was alright. If I was hurting or if anything my ex did was bothering me. Instead, it was business as usual. I was taking shit from all sides, so yeah. There was no escape for me but one.

Then I reminded myself if I took my own life it would be selfish. “Suicide doesn't end the pain, it passes it to someone else!”

In that twisted line of thinking I took upon myself a rationalize—found a messed up reason for me to keep going. To battle foward. Are you ready for it. . . Are you ready to know why I didn't end my life at 19?

It was my duty to suffer.

Yes, that's right. My sole purpose on this earth was to suffer, be in agony because I could take it. I found my pain noble because I noticed when I suffered everyone else smiled and felt good. I took everything anyone had to dish. I was the defender for my family and friends, the shield they stood behind. I took on their problems and helped them through rough times, I let them abuse me if it made them feel better, and in the end I lost any little part I had of myself.

I fell so far into depression it took me a decade to crawl back out. Ten years of my life to get out of my hole, and I'm still not completely out. I stopped writing, listening to music, drawing, I didn't watch movies anymore. I stopped feeling and put myself in a neutral state. A lot of people thought I was smoking pot because I was so chill. Nope, it was self-inflected. I wouldn't allow myself to feel anything because if I did then I would have to feel it all, and I couldn't handle that. I cried at night for no reason, and often had long explosive conversations with myself. I honestly thought I was going mental, but I fought through because I needed to go on. For my family. . . for my friends. . . for the world so it could be a better place by putting all it's burdens on me. I could carry it.

Fuck, I failed at everything else. I couldn't fail at this. No. It was my only reason for living. . . it's why I was put on this earth. To suffer, live in agony and push through so I could take on the next load and the next. I fought for my family, my abusers, and the ex who trashed my spirit. Then. . . then I crashed. There is always a crash right around the corner.

It wasn't pretty, far from it. When the load overtook me. . . the pain I felt ran deeper than ever. I felt double shitty because not only did I now have all this stuff pressing down on me, but I had the added guilt of failure.

I failed at my self-destructive task. I failed my family—my friends—the world, I failed them all! I really couldn't handle all the burdens, and while it was years down the line I started to seriously think about killing myself all over again.

“Suicide doesn't take the pain away! It passes it to someone else!”

That wonderful statement that people share around did the job. It guilted me into living. For awhile, and then it drove me closer to the edge than ever before.

Instead of having random, half-hearted thoughts on my commute home from college about driving my car into the river, I got serious about ending my pain. I spent days researching to make sure I truly died. I didn't want to fail at this, I had failed enough for one lifetime. I knew I could never get through the full pain of cutting my wrists, and thought pills would be the best way to go. I researched common household items, over the counter medication, I wanted my life—my suffering—the suffering of life-times—to finally be over. Most of all I wanted the world to be rid of such a failure—a plague of uselessness. Fuck who mourned me because I already failed to keep them from feeling pain.

Know why I'm still here today, even after I thoroughly plotted my suicide?

One compassionate person that said, “Yeah, your life is a mess but I'm right beside you. I'm with you, and I'll hold you until your ready to let me in. You are not alone.”

Damn if his pushing and probing don't annoy the fuck out of me sometimes, but James does it because I mean that much to him. Now, when I'm standing at the abyss I don't think about the guilt of my death or life. I don't think about how it's going to effect other people. Instead I think about myself and what I have to live for. I know that no matter how far I lean over the edge someone always has my hand.

I live for the sake of living, not out of the fear of guilt. That's the way it should be.

So the next time you want spout this bullshit to someone in crises, no matter how true it might be, please keep it to yourself. Suicidal people don't need any more fuel for their internally anguishing flames.

Instead let them know you are there. You are willing to listen, and they are NEVER a burden.

If you believe someone you know is in crisis or if you feel you are in crisis please reach out and call the Lifeline. 1-800-273-TALK (8255). Or if you're like me and don't like talking text: 741741. Reach out, don't be alone. You're worth sticking around!

#Suicide #MentalHealth #Crisis #Compassion #SaveALife #Depression #Anxiety #OnTheEdge

~Jax~

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~