by Band Back Together | Feb 18, 2016 | Anxiety, Cancer and Neoplasia, Childhood Bullying, Divorce, Shame, Suicide, Teen Bullying, Trauma |
I’ve felt what it feels like to feel alone. I’ve felt what it feels like to feel unwanted. I’ve felt the pain of being judged. All thanks to you.
It all started in the beginning of seventh grade. I met this boy, in which at the time, was your boyfriend. You befriended me only to keep an “eye” on me. You told me, “You’re like my best friend”. You lied, repeatedly, all because of this one boy. I still remember the day when your friends texted me and told me to “back off” because you thought he was losing interest in you because of me. That’s when it began, when he “broke” your heart. I don’t know if I would’ve made it out alive, you tormented me to a point of disgust.
Everyday, you’d pass by only to call me names. You’ve called me absolutely everything one could think of. Ranging from a “slut”, to a “cry baby”. You wrote my name on walls and desks, commenting on how much of a “whore” I was. I hadn’t even had my first kiss yet. But you still kept on. Your parents supported you, babied you, all because they had no idea of who you really were, and still are. I was only 12, turning 13, but you kept consistent with your words. Only 12, and I was already thinking about suicide.
You made rumors, and pressed charges against the very person that you once “loved”. This remained until the end of eight grade. At this point, I was losing. I was losing myself, I was losing my aunt, and I was losing my parents. I cried in school because my aunt was dying from cancer, but you thought it was because of your words. That’s why I was a “cry baby”, to you. I still recall the day I messaged you on Facebook, and apologized, the same day she died. As if it was all my fault. My parents were getting a divorce, and you just kept on. Having no respect for anyone but yourself because you believe you’re the only one who deserves it. That’s a bully, that’s who you are.
The bullying subsided for about a year. We were “friends”, at least that’s what I believed. You asked for answers on the test, you asked me for help with your work. You pretended. It all started again in tenth grade, you came up to me about midway in the school year. Telling me to “keep my nose out of your business”. I was so confused, I don’t talk to any of her friends exactly for that reason. I’d never respect her, but I’d also never what to be part of her dramatic life. I was extremely unaware of what the situation was. I couldn’t stop shaking. That’s when I realized that I didn’t hate you, but despised you. Everything you were, everything you are. You traumatized me, you made me into this person full of anxiety, full of sadness. I wasn’t gonna let you win.
The next year came, I tried my best to ignore you in every possible way. The previous year, I had dated this boy, let’s just call him “Bunny”. I told everything to him, and he told me everything. We hurt in all the same ways, but he left for the summer, and we split. He knew about you, he said he’d “never date” you for what you did. But of course, that was a lie. The only person I connected to, you stole. You made him block me, exile me out of his life, and he probably hates me. That’s why I’m here now, you pass by me in the hallways, and call me a “slut”, while he’s holding your hand. All I say is “thanks”. Thank you for making me feel. I’ve felt. In which, is past tense, in which it means I won’t anymore. I’ve felt pain. But I now feel happiness. I’ve felt insufficient, but now I feel enough. I’ve felt disgusting.. But now I feel beautiful. All because of you.
by Band Back Together | Nov 20, 2015 | Abuse, Adoption, Baby Loss, Bipolar Disorder, Divorce, Suicide |
Target.
1:30 on a Tuesday.
Buying my husband socks.
This is what I was doing when my mom called me to tell me that my older brother had taken his life.
I broke down crying in the middle of the underwear section as onlookers watched. We bought our items and drove to my sister’s workplace to tell her what had happened.
My brother was bipolar. He was in the middle of a divorce. His six month old son had died a year ago. Our father had been abusive. He didn’t like his job. He was adopted. He had been in jail several times. He had attempted to take his life several times before. All of these are risk factors, we just never thought he’d actually do it.
That day was the most painful day in my entire life. Even now as I write this, I’m welling up with tears. He was only 21 years old. He was the most brilliant person I know. He was always inventing things and had a unique way of looking at things. He could be a jerk sometimes. I mean, he was my older brother. We yelled at each other. I feel terrible saying this, but I hate it when people sugar-coat the lives of the deceased.
I had gotten married ten days before his death. He didn’t make it to my wedding because he had to appear in court. We had just gotten back from our honeymoon and were going to go spend our gift cards, thus the sock buying. I hadn’t spent much time with my brother leading up to the wedding even though he was living in the same house as me because I was so busy and I regret that. But I can’t go back and change what has been done.
by Band Back Together | Oct 28, 2015 | Adult Children of Mentally Ill Parents, Major Depressive Disorder, Social Isolation, Suicide, Teen Depression |
Well, isn’t that the most creative title you’ve ever set your eyes on? It doesn’t matter, though; I’ve a great many things that need to be said, and damn it all, I’m going to say them regardless of how impressive my title is
In any case, hello again, Depression. Have you missed me?
It’s been a while since you were a real force in my life. A while since you were anything more than the reason I take a pill every day when I wake up. You’re pretty damned harmless now, I have to say, but don’t get me wrong; I can still remember quite vividly what you did to me from the time I was thirteen until a few months ago, when I finally got help.
You’re a clever bastard, I have to say. You almost got me, I guess as a sort of revenge for not being able to take my mother down when she was my age. Disguising yourself as regular teenaged angst from thirteen to sixteen, and then going all-out and turning me into a nearly catatonic husk of a person from seventeen to twenty. Pretty damned smart of you. We both know that you nearly tricked me into killing myself on more than a few occasions, and that your suffocating influence is what lead me to giving up all of my friends, alienating my family and hiding away from the world for a good three years. You’re damned good at what you do, but you’re just not good enough.
You see, Depression, I won.
I beat you. It’s over. One pill, and you can’t put your hands around my throat any more. One pill, and I emerge from my home with the biggest fucking smile you’ve ever seen. My friends, who are seriously the best fucking friends a girl could ask for, were waiting for me when I came out from the shadow of my disorder. My grandmother broke down and cried when she learned that I was able to kick your ass out of my life. For the first time in ages, I’m happy. I’m happy, I’m doing the things I love to do, I’m spending time with the people who make my life truly amazing, and I’m enjoying every moment of this life that you tried to steal from me.
I don’t know who I’d be, or where I’d be if you hadn’t come into my life at such an early age. Maybe I’d have graduated instead of getting my GED. Maybe I’d be in love. Maybe I’d live somewhere that I can only dream about right now. Maybe I’d be dead. It’s useless, really, to think of all the ways that I would be different were I not one of your victims. You came into my life, just as you came into the lives of all the relatives I inherited you from, and you’re always going to be here, lurking in the shadows and waiting for a day I forget to take my medication. You’ll be there when I have a child of my own and I worry that she’s going to be pulled into your toxic embrace. You’ll be there every morning when I pop the top from my bottle of meds, that lingering reminder of what I used to be, and what I could be again if I allowed it.
But for now, my dear Depression, I can take comfort in one thing.
I won.
by Band Back Together | Oct 20, 2015 | Anxiety, Childhood Bullying, Depression, Eating Disorders, Restrictive Eating Disorders, Self Injury, Self-Esteem, Suicide, Teen Depression |
Hello The Band,
My name is Sarah and I am 22 years old.
When I was 13, I was bullied, and in response I began my nine year (so far) journey with depression and self-harm, followed by a seven year journey with a restrictive eating disorder.
Until now, The Band I have never written or spoken about my story in complete, honest detail. It’s more important than ever that I come to terms with how that individual made me feel.
I still don’t feel brave enough to open up this much to people who know me, so opening up to you, The Band, is the first step.
I was always a shy child growing up. I first found myself a victim of bullying at the age of five. I can’t remember much, apart from trying to hide from those two boys in my year and their cruel words – even then, I never told anybody about what was happening. Despite that experience (which was thankfully short-lived), I always had a good number of close friendships and grew up as a happy, quiet, attentive, little girl.
I moved through the next eight years of my education without any significant hiccups. During the usual childhood friend tiffs, I’d always find a new handful of friends right around the corner. I enjoyed school. I guess the only problem I had (although I didn’t notice it at the time) was that my family was not particularly open.
My parents had been together throughout my childhood (and are now celebrating their second year of – finally – being married) and I had an older sister. Both of my parents worked full-time throughout my childhood, so my grandmother would often walk me to and from school, and look after my sister and I at home.
I have few memories of spending time with my parents but those I have are happy ones. I wouldn’t realize until years later that the emotional distance between my family and I made me a very closed person.
For the record, I’m beyond the blaming stage – we are all consequences of our experiences and we can’t change the past. Now we just have to try to learn how to move forward.
I made it to secondary school without too many problems. My first year was similarly successful – I was in the top sets for everything and had a close group of friends. About halfway into my second year of secondary school, not long after my thirteenth birthday, the bullying began.
I remember the first time so vividly.
I was walking home from school with a girl who I didn’t usually talk to much, and the boy in question (let’s call him B for “bully” for convenience) was walking with his friends some way behind us. There was nobody between us.
The next thing I knew, I heard him shout “Sarah, get your tits out!”
Instinctively, I turned around, stuck my middle finger up at him and continued walking. The girl I was with asked me what he’d said, but I pretended that I hadn’t heard the exact words.
I still remember my heart dropping a beat when he’d shouted, but I went home and got on with the day, not thinking much of what had happened. I didn’t know that it would change so much.
The next time it happened, I was walking home alone with B walking with his friends behind me. This was the start of countless occasions almost identical in content:
He would, on an near-daily basis, shout three words down the street at me: “Sarah saggy tits.“
I was (and still feel) so ashamed but I didn’t feel I could tell anybody. I’d never even judged my appearance until that point. I hadn’t noticed that I was developing faster than the other girls my age, and it made me feel like I was disgusting.
I hated my body, because (in my head) that was the reason this was happening. It didn’t take long for the self-hate and anger to kick in.
The first time I purposely hurt myself was following one of these incidents. I got my mathematical compass out of my pencil case, took off my trousers, and dragged the tip over my thigh several times. It felt so good to actually DO something, because I’d felt so helpless.
The next day, after B had done exactly the same thing, I tried to self-harm again. Problem was, I didn’t have quite so much anger and self-hatred built up, so had trouble making myself do it.
I was desperate for that release. I started drawing lines on my legs with pen and methodically scratching at them with the compass until all the pen had been scratched away. It didn’t take long before I didn’t need the pen, or before I used more harmful instruments, and moved to other parts of my body.
All the while, I was doing whatever I could to avoid walking in front of B on the way home from school. I would stand around the school gates, until the number of people dwindled so much that I was almost sure that he’d already left (sometimes it succeeded, other times it didn’t). I also started slowing down to the pace of a snail if I saw him ahead of me on the path.
After avoiding B on the way home for a while, he started bullying me in other ways, although he never used those words anywhere but on the walk home.
He began trying to trip me up around school. Having to see him in classes every day was torture. For the first time in my life, I hated going to school. I’d be anxious every morning and would feel sick at the thought of going in.
Then, the bullying started on the Internet, too.
We all had these “websites” and he would use his to bully me further – publicly. He’d post comments on his page, pretending to be me, saying horrible things (the most memorable being that I masturbated at the image of this unpopular guy at school).
Everyone saw it.
Nobody said anything, but I knew they had.
And B was relentless in his bullying, both in person and cyberbullying.
The first time I tried to be more aggressive to stop the bullying was after the online bullying had begun. Apart from what he’d said about me, he’d also followed a young teacher home and posted her address online. I used this to report him to the site host and his account was deleted.
For a short while, the bullying paused. However, my friends told me that B knew I was the one who’d gotten his site taken down, which meant that he was clearly still saying things about me.
After a few weeks, the three word harassment on my walk home began again. The next step I took was to tell my head of year about what he’d put about that teacher online. My friends were called into the head of year’s office and she asked them about what he’d written. They told her about the teacher and that B had written things about me on there, too. This teacher didn’t speak to me again, but B was suspended for a grand total of three days.
He never bullied me again, clearly knowing that that had been his punishment without me mentioning what he’d put me through.
About half a year after it started, the bullying was over.
However, the damage was already done.
I was depressed and self-harming on a daily basis. Self-harm became my way of coping with every negative feeling I had. I tried to stop a number of times, but always ended up self-harming worse when I gave in. It was also around this time that I learned my closest friends were talking about my self-injury behind my back. Everybody knew about my self-harm, but nobody approached me about it. Again, I changed groups of friends and, thankfully, was not alone.
I was 15 and just about to start my last year at that secondary school. My appetite was greatly suppressed by my depression and I’d often only eat one meal a day.
It was just before starting school that I consciously decided to stop eating. I began weighing myself every morning, before putting a few drops of milk into a bowl to make it look like I’d eaten, throwing away my lunch on the way to school, and reluctantly eating dinner with my parents each night. About three months later, I was at a BMI of 16% and my parents had noticed something was wrong.
I spent a few days pretending to be ill so that I didn’t have to eat anything, when my mother told me that they thought I was starving myself. I laughed it off and went back to eating properly. I lasted a week (and a 5 pound weight gain) before my emotions caught up with me.
It was then that I became trapped in the cycle of trying to lose weight and self-harming. Sometimes, I made myself sick, I over-exercising, one or two times of laxative abuse, quite a few minor overdoses, and lots of self-harming and cutting.
Since this started, I’ve seen quite a few different therapists.
The longest I’ve been without cutting is four months, and I’m currently coping better with the eating disorder than ever before. I’m still struggling quite a bit, but without this experience, I wouldn’t be where I am now.
I’m 22 and I’m on my way to my dream career as a researcher. I am just starting my PhD in psychology, with my research topic greatly inspired by what I’ve been through. I’ve come a long way since the first time B shouted at me. I still have problems with depression, anxiety, self-harm, and making myself eat enough, but I’m so much more confident, knowledgeable and open than I was back then.
I have a massive way to go, but I’m encouraged by how far I’ve come.
There were a couple of times that I came really close to telling a teacher what I was going through, but I never had enough courage to do it. I can say now that things may have be a lot easier if I’d been brave enough to say something.
Please, please consider reaching out to someone if you know they are being bullied.
by Band Back Together | Oct 14, 2015 | Asperger's Syndrome, Child Abuse, Child Sexual Abuse, Childhood Bullying, Divorce, Domestic Abuse, Emotional Abuse, Suicide |
I did it again.
While I didn’t yell at my wife, or make any physical advances, No, what I did was worse.
I made her cry and hide in a corner. My own wife.
And it keeps happening; it’s becoming more frequent.
I grew up in an abusive household in the United Kingdom. My mother, sister, and I lived under my father’s proverbial gun. My mother and sister were sexually assaulted by him.
His control ruled my life and dictated that anything I ever did wasn’t good enough. When I’d get straight A’s, I was told they should have been A+’s. Eventually, I rebelled a little which was for my own good.
We’d gone out for a walk in the forest and I needed a rest, so I hung back and sat down to catch my breath. He came thundering down, and with no no one else around, he knocked me down, and started to kick the living daylights out of me. I lost all control. I began to bleed from my head. Then, he picked me up and dragged me in front of a crowd of people.
Not a single person tried to stop him, not a single word of dissent.
From that point on, I decided I should be alone. Beside my mother, no one cared about me, and eventually she began to abuse me as well. It was a vicious cycle that eventually broke down when he divorced her and moved away with his mistress.
But after the incident in the forest, I just wanted to be alone, not exist at all. It was compounded by the fact that I was bullied every day at school at school as well. When I went to counselors or my mother, I was usually told, “you’re just being stupid,” and was written off.
Eventually I went to University, during which time I almost managed suicide with an overdose of painkillers. The next morning, I went to the doctor and was sent straight to the ER. It was no comfort when I was told that the amount I’d taken was enough to kill a “normal” person. Around this time, I’d disowned my father and there were threats that he and some of his brothers planned to descend upon the University to “correct” me.
I saw killing myself as the only option.
My now-wife has stood by me no matter what. We met playing games on the Internet, and eventually I moved to the USA to marry her. We’ve been married over a year, I’m doing the job I always wanted, and we’re expecting our first child.
She suffers from Asperger’s Syndrome and sometimes, as is the case with autism spectrum disorders, doesn’t know how to act or respond appropriately. It feels like I have to organize our daily lives because she can’t or won’t.
I love her to pieces and wouldn’t give her up for the world. Recently, however, I’ve started to make snide comments to her or vent at her about stuff over which she has no control.
For example, we’d just had our apartment building set on fire by some careless fuckwits, and while the apartment wasn’t damaged, it did smell like smoke. The Red Cross had us stay in a hotel, and when we returned home, we both set about organizing our apartment.
When I ask her what else we needed to do, she says that we need to grab CDs from the car so she can rip them onto her laptop. I’m thinking,
“What the fuck? We need to inspect the apartment in case we need to make any claims, and you want me to go downstairs and grab CDs? Seriously?”
Then I say it aloud. I berate her. I berate her because I now have to be her eyes and ears. That I have to organize her day for her. How much it all stresses me out.
And then it hits me like a ton of bricks.
The one thing I swore I’d never do – abuse my own wife or kids like I was abused – I’m doing.
And now, I feel like scum for breaking such an important promise to myself and undermining, hurting her.
There’s a big part of me that feels I should leave quietly and not return so I don’t hurt her anymore. Maybe go somewhere, be alone, and die in a corner quietly. Because that’s what I deserve. And she deserves so much better than me, a broken person who doesn’t know whether he’s coming or going.
I just don’t know anymore. I don’t know whether I should fight it, give up trying to change my fate, or remove myself from the equation permanently.
by Band Back Together | Sep 13, 2015 | Anxiety, Bacterial Infectious Diseases, Caregiver, Chronic Illness, Fear, Grief, Help For Grief And Grieving, How To Cope With A Suicide, How To Help A Friend With Chronic Illness, Infectious Diseases, Invisible Illness, Lyme Disease, Stress, Suicide, Trauma |
Click here for Part I
Everyday I feel like I am going to die.
It’s pretty difficult to sleep at night when you are afraid that you won’t wake up in the morning, leaving your 18 month old motherless. And in the *capable* hands of your husband who, when it’s his night to make dinner, relies on boxed Mac and Cheese. Without me he’d probably revert back to Kraft, leaving organic Annie’s behind.
Neurologic disorders are their own beast, I think. The symptoms are literally all in your head, and yet you feel them everywhere. My feet tingle. Sometimes I can’t stand the feeling of pants on my legs because my nerves are hyper sensitive. My hands go completely numb some nights. Just a minute ago I was pretty sure that my tongue had stopped working and that maybe I was having a crazy allergic reaction. When I touch the skin of another person, sometimes it feels like it’s burning.
I’ve been to the ER too many times this last year. At first it was chest pain, which was treated with Ativan. Turns out I have chest wall inflammation. Advil was much more helpful than the anxiety drugs, but I’m a woman so must be crazy. Then I went to a doctor for what felt like the flu in the height of the swine flu outbreak. She listened to my heart, which had become tachycardic. She thought I was having a thyroid storm. Nope. Just Lyme disease. (It would have been helpful to know it was Lyme then.)
Lyme is also extra special because it causes psychiatric changes. Remember IRENE from the Real World? Don’t you wish you were my husband? I swing between uncontrollable anger to lying on the floor thinking about death. Suicide is actually the leading cause of death for people with Lyme. When I was first diagnosed and reading about the disease, I couldn’t figure out why there were links to suicide prevention lines. I get it now.
And then there’s the memory deficits. I’ve always had a really sharp memory. My mom hates me for it. Pray that your children don’t remember every phrase you ever uttered to them! I’m also a word freak and can kick some serious Scrabble ass. But now, I have trouble remembering the word for “countertop” (yep, happened the other day). I don’t know how to spell things. And I often just stop in the middle of a conversation unsure of what we were talking about or what I was saying or what I want to say next.
My stomach hurts. My knees ache. I lose my sense of taste sometimes. I can’t sleep, and yet I’m profoundly exhausted. I get night sweats. Bright lights bother me. And low lights bother me even more. I feel jittery and can’t sit still. But I’m too tired and sore to move. And I constantly feel like I’ve just gotten off a Tilt-A-Whirl, that’s how dizzy I am.
This is my life. I don’t tell you this for sympathy. I tell you it because it’s real. And frankly it scares the shit out of me.
