by Band Back Together | Jul 30, 2013 | Abuse, Anxiety, Child Abuse, Coping With Depression, Depression, Emotional Abuse, Generalized Anxiety Disorder Resources, Guilt, Major Depressive Disorder, Psychological Manipulation, Self Injury, Suicide |
One of the hardest things a friend can do is to try and help a self-destructive friend.
This is her story:
I know that none of this is your fault.
I know that it wasn’t your fault for being depressed. I know that it wasn’t your fault that your parents emotionally and verbally abused you, or for having a severe anxiety disorder. I know that you were in blinding amounts of pain, and you were just trying to survive in any which way you could.
I know that you honestly never meant to hurt me.
And yet still, I still can’t help but be angry with you.
For a good seven months of my life, I was stricken with terror every single day. I spent countless hours talking you down from suicide; comforting you after you’d have a panic attack, and listening to you describe in detail how you’d hurt yourself that day.
I tried my best to be there for you, even as I was simultaneously dealing with my own self-harm, anxiety, and a crippling depressive episode – so crippling, in fact, that eventually, I had to be hospitalized.
I couldn’t walk away even if I’d wanted. Many times, you’d said I was the most important person in your life – if I left, you’d kill yourself. However, you also told me even if I stayed, you would eventually kill yourself.
I was trapped.
I pleaded with you to get help. Each time, you refused.
Once, I had to call the police to keep you from swallowing your prescription medications. Fortunately, they got there in time; unfortunately, it did nothing to deter you from attempting again. Over the course of six months, you went on to attempt suicide nearly two dozen times.
I was there for it all.
I can still remember the day my younger sister broke up with you. Like me, she’d been backed into a corner and didn’t know what to do. You called her names, accused her of lying to you, and threatened suicide. I spent two hours behind a computer screen trying to talk you down while my sister sobbed helplessly in the background. My mom called your parents. They did nothing to help the situation.
All in all, it was useless.
Later that week, I broke down. I climbed into the shower, bit down on a washcloth, and screamed at the top of my lungs. I screamed until my throat was hoarse and cried harder than I’ve ever cried.
Finally, months later, I attempted to walk away. You responded with aggression and hatred, and later made it known to me in a very marked way that you’d tried to kill yourself that day.
Even then, I recognized this obvious act of emotional manipulation, but that still didn’t change that you’d attempted to end your life… because of me.
When I did eventually manage to extract myself from your grasp, it wasn’t pretty. All my anger and hurt poured out all at once. I said things I shouldn’t have, no matter how sincere; I hurt you needlessly.
The guilt will never fade.
It’s been over two months since that day, and I’m still struggling with this insurmountable level of anger, hurt, and guilt I feel.
I remember the day you told me, to paraphrase, I was the worst thing that had ever happened to you. Ever since, I’ve questioned everything about myself. I’ve never believed I was a good person, but I’ve tried my hardest to do the right thing. It makes me wonder if all my efforts have been in vain, because when it came to you, I tipped the scales.
I blame myself for a lot of things: your descent into self-harm, several of your suicide attempts, and various slights I made along the way.
As I’ve been almost completely socially-isolated for the past five months as part of the aftermath my hospitalization, there isn’t much I can think about besides self-hatred. The same chorus of thoughts play throughout my head: an endless loop of guilt and self-loathing.
I keep trying to remind myself that you were just a sixteen-year-old boy in pain. You felt alone. To some degree, you weren’t entirely responsible for your actions. That does little to quell my anger. I’m not even certain that I have a right to be angry at you. After all, weren’t you the true victim here?
I guess I’m just not sure who I hate more these days: You, or myself.
I’m trying to forgive you for it all.
I’m desperately trying to forgive myself.
I just don’t know if I can.
by Band Back Together | Dec 21, 2010 | Coping With Depression, Faith, Forgiveness, Major Depressive Disorder, Trust |
As I’ve been reading through a number of the posts and comments here on BBT, I’ve been struck by the number of people who use faith and religion as a source of healing and inspiration. I also sense there might be people struggling despite this quality.
I hope this message comes across with the simple, positive intention with which I write it.
It’s OK if you DON’T have faith.
I was born and raised/indoctrinated Roman Catholic. I had the simple, uncomplicated trust in the doctrine and the stories that any child has, because I–like all children–was incapable of taking them at anything but face value.
But my life experiences and my questioning nature have destroyed not only my belief in Catholicism, but in the existence of a God, as well. The older I got, the more the placid off-the-shelf answers of the clergy rang hollow and hypocritical. I found honesty in those who admitted to now knowing all the answers, rather than trying to rationalize why the real world doesn’t always follow dogma. As comedian Julia Sweeney put it so elegantly, the universe functions exactly as you would expect if there were no God.
To some, this is a nihilistic statement, but to a skeptic, it is a positive affirmation in which we take strength. And–are you ready for this? Brace yourselves–I’m MORE at peace now than I was when I believed in God.
Now that I have left behind a belief system that did not work for me (and has failed countless others throughout the centuries), I now turn to means of self-healing that actually WORK.
I no longer see depression, self-loathing, and shame as the reaped harvest of sown sins. I see them as medical and psychological problems for which there is medicine and counseling available. Whenever I do wrong to another person, I no longer seek the sanctity of the confessional; I seek that person’s forgiveness. It’s more satisfying. I never did find comfort in prayer, especially Catholic prayer (every time I hear the word “rosary,” my eyes glaze over). Instead, I find great peace in the meditative and physiological healing of exercise, namely cycling and, more recently, running. I no longer seek answers in an ancient text which cannot provide them. I seek comfort in my great friends.
The stories I have read on this site have moved me sincerely to tears. I admire the resiliency of those who have overcome trials that would have broken me. To those who are struggling, I have a simple plea: take comfort in good people. It is the most soothing formula I have ever found.
Peace.
by Band Back Together | Dec 3, 2010 | Abuse, Adult Survivors of Childhood Sexual Abuse, Child Abuse, Coping With Anxiety Disorders, Coping With Depression, Generalized Anxiety Disorder Resources, Major Depressive Disorder |
wall. hit it. check that off my list for today.
trying to get them to school on time–wrong
trying to get them to eat–wrong
trying to get them dressed–wrong
trying to get them clean–wrong
zipping the jacket–wrong
having them not show up to school late–wrong
waking them up–wrong
waking up–wrong
words–wrong
My silence in my home is the only acceptable form of me to the three who need me.
The hardest thing about being a depressed mother? The odor. No matter how much relentless, caffeine-induced energy, forced enthusiasm, skilled application to educational crafts, or books read on development. No matter what care taken with my fragile mental health…taking my pills like a good girl every night so I wake up in the morning to do it all again. No matter how clean the kitchen sink, how nutritious the meal, customized the birthday presents, thoughtful the note in the lunch box. No matter how carefully I avoid repeating patterns of abuse and violence –no matter. I stink. It is as if my depression leaves a permanent, distasteful and toxic odor coming from my very being. No matter how much I dress it up, clean it off, put make-up on it, expose it to fresh air and aromatic therapies. I toss chemicals into it, paint it pretty colors, or force it into room-mommy scenarios.
It still stinks.
The fumes of depression seep out of every pore with the stench of decaying life and flammable, noxious fluids that lead to forensic evidence in my face–that my own mother chose my father over me and my father chose me over my mother. My children–they are bomb-sniffing dogs.They smell the little girl I was–discarded and thrown into the trash with the giant Gallo wine jugs. They smell the lack of basic import I have ever had on the mother, father, brother, and sister family of origin I fell into. They smell the dangerous mix of rage and intelligence that may combust at any moment. They smell despair and destruction. My kids smell my depression.
I stay vertical as to not hurt them more than I already have by exposing them to a life long…long life…with a chronically depressed mother. It goes like that…it is like that. New strategies on disinfectant, deodorant, dialogues on anti-depressants. Days like this are the scratch and sniff of it. These days scrape hard on my soul. And I reek of it.
They are out there…my kids are out there right now waiting for me to pick them up after school, as I do every afternoon in a dutiful attempt to assure them that my love is greater than the force of gravity on my heart. I am already dreading the predictable, palpable disappointment they will have when they get in the minivan and the smell of my mood reminds them I am not EVER going to be the bounce-house of distraction-filled fun that is their father.
They will never know he broke me too. Asshole. And I stayed for them, sleeping with one eye open and one foot out the door ever since. Seven years of a thirteen year marriage straddling suspicion and motherhood.
Against every fiber of my being to drive it off a cliff and enjoy the fall–I am getting in the fucking minivan, I drive on the right side…stop at all the red lights, avoid oncoming traffic whenever I can.
Joy gone. Independence gone. Creativity gone. Respect gone. The possibility of being touched by a man and feeling safe–he and my dad put the nails in that coffin, too. Yuck.
it is this always
i am barely, rarely, fairly ”good enough,” silent, and vertical.
and i smell like a martyr.
by Band Back Together | Dec 1, 2010 | Bipolar Disorder, Coping With Depression, Major Depressive Disorder, Postpartum Depression |
I had tried to deny it throughout the months of November and December but it is now clear that I am once again going through another one of my depressive episodes. Honestly, I kind of expected it. These episodes have been happening since I was 15-years-old and even though some people in my life don’t fully understand why, they will continue to creep up and knock me (and any confidence I have) on my ass.
That’s just how it goes when you’re dealing with bipolar II disorder. It can be controlled but there is no cure. This is something I will have to manage for the rest of my life, like millions of others in this world. That thought both frustrates and saddens me. Frustrates me because oftentimes, especially during these episodes, I feel like a victim. Why did God choose this path for me? Saddens me because I just want to be a happy positive person but my brain chemicals won’t let me be who I want to be!
Since I can’t take medication right now I was holding out hope that my pregnancy hormones would ward off depression just as they did when I was pregnant with Landon. No such luck. But I am thankful that I have been through enough of these episodes to know the difference between a bad day and full-on depression. I am thankful that I have done enough therapy and research to recognize when getting better is beyond my reach.
I have all the classic symptoms, i.e. random spurts of crying, sudden internalized anger, unable to muster up enough energy to perform basic life skills (taking a shower, doing the laundry or dishes), loss of concentration, no desire to talk to or be around family members or friends. Basically feeling so overwhelmed with the thought of doing anything that I just plain can’t pull myself out of bed. Is that what you would consider a bad day? What if you felt like this for a week or an entire month?
I just want to note for any worry warts out there that I DO get out of bed. I DO take care of my son. I feed him, play with him, change his 12 diapers a day and hug and kiss him all day long. I’ll admit that sometimes I have to force myself to do it. But he is my greatest motivator. Sometimes I will roll out of bed at 5:30 a.m. even though I don’t want to because he is up and jibber-jabbering. I will walk into his room and see that huge grin on his face and suddenly I realize I’m actually smiling! Oops, wait, stop smiling Molly because you’re supposed to be depressed! I will sing our usual morning songs while changing him and getting him his milk. It’s nice to know that even though I am having a really rough time right now there is still sunlight in the shadows of this disorder.
One positive about having had this disorder for all of my adult-life is that I am armed with the perspective that I CAN and WILL get better. That’s why they are called “episodes.” I’m convinced that much of why I feel the way I do is circumstantial. Unexpectedly leaving my job (and my nice salary), rarely seeing Naaman because he has to work so much, trying to sell our house in a down market, and how about we throw an unexpected pregnancy in there? I am happy to have this surprise blessing in our lives and I feel certain this baby is here for a reason. But I am still pretty upset about the timing of it all. All of these circumstances at once could drive anyone to their breaking point. But someone like me who doesn’t come wired with the usual coping skills? It’s a recipe for disaster.
Blogging about my struggles and strengths with this disorder is something I think I need to do more of this year. Maybe it will help someone else out there to know that they are not alone. That you can manage motherhood AND mental illness successfully. I do realize that writing about this on my blog subjects me to the awful and unfair judgment of strangers. There are still so many in this world who don’t understand mental illness. They never will. They see it as a weakness or a fault. They see me as someone who doesn’t deserve a loving husband or a beautiful family. They assume that if I can’t be happy then I don’t deserve what I have. But they’re wrong. Just because I suffer from depressive episodes through no fault of my own does not mean that I don’t have the same right to happiness that everyone else does.
I desperately wanted to reach the same milestones as most everyone else. High school and college graduation, successful career, engagement, marriage, babies. I am still a human being with feelings and a heart and I am convinced that I deserve the same happiness as everyone else.
One misconception is that I can turn the depression switch on and off. That I can “snap out of it” or “get over it.” Oh, if it were only that easy. I do not choose to feel this way. I was born this way and had some horrible things happen to me when I was a teenager that exacerbated my symptoms. Do you think I don’t try to wish these feelings away every day? I would give anything if I could just snap my fingers and feel happy. I know what it is to be and feel truly happy. And I want those feelings back as soon as possible. But I’m smart enough to know that this won’t just disappear into the background. Not without regular therapy and medication. I suffered through many years of agony and the darkest pain before I was able to come to this realization. But now I can get help before I reach my lowest of lows.
It’s a New Year. 2010. There is so much to look forward to this year. A new little miracle will enter my life and I want so much to be ready to welcome him into the arms of a happy, more centered mama. I want to feel the unspeakable joy that I felt the day we brought Landon home. I don’t think I’ve ever smiled a bigger smile in my life than on the day when we came home and put him in his crib for the first time. I want that with B and I’m trying to remain hopeful that I’ll get that chance.
But right now it’s oh so tough. I am once again feeling resentful of tragic things that have transpired in my life. So much so, that I start to forget that my entire life sets within an hourglass. I have no way of knowing how much sand is left. All I want is to be grateful for every particle that falls to the other end because that means that God has given me another day. Not the ones that are still waiting to go through. Not the ones that have already fallen. I want to be grateful for the sands that are falling through the hourglass right now.
My next OB appointment is Tuesday. She knows all about my history with this disorder and is ready and willing to talk about treatment while I’m still pregnant. I will let you all know how it goes. I am hopeful that there is a solution for me so that I can get better. I am smart enough to know that I have to act now. I cannot wait until after B arrives. Thoughts and prayers are always welcome. Every good vibe sent my way helps a bit.
At the recommendation of my OB who was extremely supportive of antenatal depression I took a small dose of antidepressants and received weekly talk therapy. Brigham (Baby B) was born on May 2, 2010 to a happy, stable mama. Please talk to your OB. At the time of my pregnancy I thought there was no way I would ever be happy.
Antenatal depression exists.
Just know, you’re not alone in this struggle.
by Band Back Together | Nov 28, 2010 | Coping With Depression, Divorce, Emotional Abuse, How To Help With Low Self-Esteem, Major Depressive Disorder, Self-Esteem, Suicide |
I was never going to write on here. I was going to comment and offer support… but I was never going to write about how I felt.
“It’ll go away later,” I’d tell myself. “There worse things out there in life than feeling down every now and then.” “Everyone gets overwhelmed this time of year.”
But then I wonder if it’s worse than that.
I’ve always been relatively smart. My elementary school wanted me to advance to 2nd grade during Kindergarten. I was in Beta Club and always enjoyed school. Then, in the 3rd grade, my parents split up.I vaguely remember an incident where my dad hit my mom. They got back together when I was in 6th grade. But, things weren’t going well.
We moved after 6th grade. My best friend had moved away a year earlier and I had a hard time making new friends in my new town. I was smart… and smart kids aren’t the cool kids. So, I dumbed myself down.
Things weren’t good at home, either. My parents were not happy and it showed. My mom had a meeting with my teachers my sophomore year to discuss my poor grades and my English teacher told her it was because I was bored with school. It was too easy for me, and I had given up. I had driven myself to the point that I actually told my mother that I wanted to kill myself. To this day, I cannot guarantee that it was an empty threat.
After we moved, everything about me changed. I became my mother… she gets upset too easily. She’s depressed. As far as I know, she’s not gotten help for it. She’s always telling me to stop getting “into tizzies.”
I’ve been in some bad relationships where I was used and cheated on and emotionally abused. I was called a “butterface” (everything is okay about her, but her face), ugly, and fat. I think the worst thing people made fun of me for was my nose. It’s on the larger side and now every time I look at myself in the mirror all I see is that damn nose. How it makes me far from perfect.
I’m engaged now and I love my fiance with all of my heart and I know he loves me, too…but there’s this voice that comes out every now and then and eats away at me. It says that he deserves someone beautiful and he’s going to find her and leave me. I trust that he loves me and won’t leave me… but that voice in my head won’t shut up.
The best way to describe how I feel is when you go to a store like Best Buy. And you go to the back of the store where all the TVs are, and you put each TV on a different channel and close your eyes. All those voices, all the things running through your mind – and I can’t make it stop.
I can’t even make simple decisions like what I want to eat for dinner. If I go to make a speech or presentation in class, I get so shaky I can barely stand up, let alone speak. In some classes I can’t understand the material, so I cry, and when Tony asks me what I don’t understand so he can help, all I can muster is, “I just don’t understand.”
What is the most important thing I don’t understand? Why I went from a smart, outgoing kid to someone who wants to hide in their room with the lights off.
And, then there are days when I feel great and nothing is wrong and I just say to myself, “it went away like usual. See? Everything is better. Sometimes people just get sad.”
Until that voice in the back of my head finds those remotes again
by Band Back Together | Nov 23, 2010 | Anger, Anxiety, Coping With Depression, Emotional Abuse, Infidelity, Loneliness, Major Depressive Disorder, Marriage Problems, Sadness, Self Loathing, Self-Esteem |
I have a fairly melancholy personality, but that doesn’t mean I can’t see the good things. Most days, I do see the good things. I revel in them. But I do have bad days. Maybe more than your average chipper wonder-girl, but not enough to be a ‘bad thing.’ Problem is, there are parameters around my life that make it difficult to have any bad days at all. And so on those days, I feel very, very alone. Today is one of those days. Today, I had to write. I’m not alone if I have words to keep me company. I don’t have to be scared if I can still be coherent. But really, I am alone.
I’m married, but I have no husband. He would rather spend time with his Facebook or his phone. Or his pillow. He doesn’t love me. He says he does, sometimes, but how could I ever believe him? He doesn’t like to kiss me. He only touches me when there’s no chance of anything more. I go for sex and get excuses, or yelled at, or worse, silence. Snores. When I’m upset, he goes to sleep. The self-proclaimed night owl can’t keep his eyes awake at 8:30pm if he thinks there’s something bugging me (or I’m feeling amorous). I have one bad day in months, and it’s further proof to him that we should never have kids, that I would be a terrible mother. As if I’m the one unable to care for someone else. The best birthday present he’s ever received is an email from his ex-girlfriend. At least, that’s what he told her. He doesn’t know I know that. I asked him about his favorite birthday present, and he said it was the concert tickets I just gave him. The ones I couldn’t afford, but I rubbed two pennies together to make happen. Because for some inexplicable reason, I love him, I believe in him, and I have hope for us. And for my next act, I will jump off a bridge.
I’m a sister and a daughter, but I have no family. They don’t understand me, and they put up a facade of attempt. It fails. They fail. Or maybe I’m the failure. Either way, they’ve fenced me out. And then criticize me for it. Do I deserve to be the black sheep? My guess is that if you met all of us, you’d wonder how I ended up the way I am. You’d wonder what they have to vilify me. You might tell me I’m better off being the black sheep, but I don’t feel better off. Not today.
I have friends, too, maybe, but none are nearby. None know me. Not the real me. Most days, I like it that way. There are only so many words I can share on any given day. And how do you maintain a friendship without words? Besides, I don’t even know myself right now, so how could I possibly expect someone else to? It gets a little lonely sometimes. Then again, people are self-absorbed, and they give bad advice. Last thing I need is someone telling me how they’d like to solve their problems, under the guise of my benefit.
I’m say a Christian, but I have no real faith. Belief, sure, but in what? Who is my God? I don’t know. He’s a stranger right now (he, or she, or it, or them…). As a recovering fundamentalist, I don’t understand God at all. I’d like to try better, learn more, figure out what was and what is true, but when it comes to God, there aren’t answers, just more questions. Questions, and narcissism. Funny how God’s attributes line up so nicely with your own opinions.
All in all, I have a great life. Sure, it’s lacking in some areas, but I have no shortage of things to be happy about. Most days, I’m happy. Content and smiling and good. I want more than good, though. I want more than a decent marriage, I want an out-of-the-park one. I want to be married to someone who cares about ‘us’ as much as I do. I don’t have that. I don’t have a spendthrift cheating drunk abuser, but I don’t have a true partner either. I want a family who doesn’t just love me but accepts me. I don’t have that either. I could sure use a friend, too. Someone I didn’t have to pretend with. Someone who could point out my own childish crap without making me feel guilty or condemned. Really, though, I just want some answers. About God. I used to have them, until I saw how lacking my perspective was.
Right now, during this bad day, lack is all I can see. And that is why, today, I hate myself.
