Butterfly Cauldron

My mother believes I've never allowed myself to be happy.

She says she doesn't know why that is. She says she doesn't know why I don't always seem to believe she loves me. And, I could explain it all to her, but I'm not sure she'd understand.

I was raised in a very conservative Southern Baptist Church, by parents who were and who remain wholly devoted to their faith. It is their very breath, my mother has said, and she is not exaggerating. Our lives revolved around the church when I was a child. We went at least three times a week: Sunday morning, Sunday night and Wednesday night. Our weekends were generally filled with church-related activities: youth rallies, revivals, prayer meetings. My friends were made at church. The first time a boy actively hit on me was at church. The first concert I attended was a church concert. The first play I performed in was a church play. The church and it's teaching were the core of my life.

So, when the teachers tell you that Jesus loves you, you believe it. And when they tell you that Jesus will also send you to Hell, you believe that too. That these things were incompatible never seemed to occur to anyone else, but they certainly occured to me.

My mother would never understand that the very thing that gives her such great peace is the source of my greatest pains. She'd never understand that being told, repeatedly, that I was not worthy of God's love made me feel I wasn't worthy of anyone's love. After all, if God couldn't love me, how could any human being? If I deserved to die and then to burn eternally in Hellfire, regardless of my sincere desire to be good, to do good, then how was anything I could ever possibly do good enough? How could I ever be good enough? How could I ever try hard enough? I threw myself into Bible study, into prayer. I begged God to love me, to accept me, to tell me I was Good Enough.

But that never happened. No matter how much I tried to assure myself that I had done all the right things, I had prayed all the right prayers, I had opened myself completely to God. That fear never went away. That terror that still wakes me in the middle of the night -- that Jesus has come again and I've been left alone, abandoned, forgotten. Because I wasn't Enough. I could never be Enough. God loves me, but I'm going to Hell. My sins, such as they were, were too great. I was too broken. I was too unlovable, too unsalvagable.

What could an 8-year-old child do that was so horrible she could never be forgiven? I didn't know, but I was sure I had done it. I was 8 when my first phobia manifested. I became terribly afraid of water. Why water? I don't know. But I was stricken with a certainty that something, some demon was going to come up the pipes while I took a shower or a bath. I used to grab my cat and my radio, go into the bathroom and lock the door, run a bath, turn the music up really loud and then lay on the floor, sobbing into my cat's fur, too petrified to actually get into the water. But I knew I couldn't tell my parents. I was certain they'd tell me I was being stupid. I was certain they'd tell me no such thing could happen. But, if demons were real -- and the Bible said they were -- then why couldn't it happen? Why couldn't a demon decide to possess me? It had happened in the Bible, to people who were seemingly innocent. And I, well I was worse than that. I was certain of it. I'd been told. I'd been taught. No one is good enough for God. No one deserves to go to Heaven. We all deserve to burn forever. I deserved to burn forever. So why not a demon?

So I didn't tell my parents and I continued to go to church. Three, four, sometimes seven times a week or more. Year after year, drummed into my head: You're bad. You're broken. You're a sinner. Sin is evil, therefore, you are evil. All the tacked on platitudes that God will save me anyway, if I just do what he wants meant nothing. I was doing what God wanted! So where was my peace? Where my rest? My parents had it. My brother had it. Everyone else around me had it. But it was not for me. Was I one of those the Bible spoke about, the ones whose hearts God would harden? The ones God had given all the chances allowed too, so that even if I begged on my knees, even if I ripped out my hair and gashed out my eyes, he would refuse me? It says that, you know. That God has a limit to the number of chances he'll give a person to be saved. And, I was told, you never know how many you're going to get. You? Maybe you get only one chance. That guy over there? Maybe God gives him 100. No one knows and when your chances are up, they're up. It's Hellfire for you, even if you realize you're wrong. Even if you beg, even if you plead, even if you sacrifice yourself on the altar, God won't care. He won't hear you. Because you're evil, you're rotten, you deserve to burn.

All the other stories? The ones about Jesus loving people, the ones about the shephard leaving his flock to search out one single lost lamb and bring it home to safety? Those stories didn't make sense, not in the face of a God who would randomly cut people off. How could God care so much about one single lamb, when he didn't really give a damn about that other lamb over there? And how could you know which lamb you were? It was impossible!

And they said, God is a Father. An eternal, immortal parent. Parents are supposed to love you, to protect you, care for you. They are not supposed to decide some of their children deserve to burn forever, while others get to loll about Heaven. And if your God Parent can't be counted on to love you, to protect you, to keep you from eternal damnation, how can you count on your human parents? Aren't they much more failable? Aren't they much more fickle? If a single lie told by my 8-year-old self was enough to make God cast me into fire -- a fire where I would not actually die, but live, feeling the fire and the pain and the agony, over and over and over for eternity -- then what would it make my human parents do to me? No. No. I had to try harder, I had to be better, I had to find something, some way to be better, to be worthy. But it was impossible, because the Bible said so.

And this haunts me. No matter how much therapy I do, no matter how much processing or talking it out or reasoning through I do, it haunts me. No matter that I've rejected it all, it's still there. And so, no. I don't always believe my mother loves me. On one level, I know that she does, of course. On one level, I don't doubt it. So long as I do what I'm supposed to do. So long as she doesn't find out about the ways my life differs from what she thinks it is. I doubt anyone really, genuinely loves me -- not once they know who I really am. Not once they find out where I diverge from the path. I am constantly, eternally on edge -- even when I'm not consciously aware of it -- that I may wake up and everyone will Know Me and that they'll leave. The trumpet will sound and *poof* they're all gone, scooped up by that vicious God, leaving me abandoned and alone.

So there it is, why I have such a hard time being happy. Every bad thing in my life, some part of me believes I deserve it for being such a rotten, horrible person. And I blame my parents for it, even though I know they didn't realize what they were doing, for sending me to church, over and over and over, despite my pleas not to go. My parents, whose only answer to the obvious suicidal depression I endured as a teenager was to send me to church MORE often. And I don't think I can tell my mother this, because I know it would break her heart.

Labels: childhood memories, childhood trauma, depression, family, fundies, mothers, pain, parents, religion, sadness

This story about Mychal Bell, one of the Jena Six, just makes me sad.

Regardless of how you feel about Bell's involvement in the original incident, the man tried to kill himself. According to the news report, he'd been getting his life back on track. He'd been studying, working out even though he could not play high school ball because he still hoped to be able to play college ball next year. Moving him to Monroe and placing him in foster care seems to have been good for him. And yet, he developed a depression deep enough to make him feel like his life was not worth living.

Now, maybe he was trying to shoplift. So what? Yes, it's wrong. Yes, it's a crime. And yes, if he's guilty, there needs to be punishment. But the fact is, if he had not been involved in the Jena case, his name would never have been more than a single line in the local paper's police blotter. He'd probably end up having to pay a fine, do some probation. It wouldn't be the end of the world and it certainly wouldn't be the end of his football career.

How long will he be punished for the Jena incident? He pleaded to a lesser charge in that case, he did his time and was working to get his life back on track. So how long will it be before we let him move on? Bell was 16 when Jena happened. Everyone is stupid at 16. Some of us are more stupid than others, but we all do things that we shouldn't, things we look back on later and wonder how the hell we ever did. The fact is, no one died in the Jena case. No one was even seriously injured. (And if you're going to say that Barker was, just stop. If you're well enough to attend a party later the same day, you're not seriously injured. Bruised and hurting? Sure. I'll give ya that. But bruises and aches are not serious. I've gotten worse injuries fighting with my brother and he probably WAS trying to kill me.)

How long is this man going to have to pay for being a stupid 16-year-old? How long is he going to be followed by the media? (And believe me, he's being followed. No one is stalking him or anything, but you can be damned sure that ever few months some Editor goes to a reporter and says "Check on Mychal Bell. See what he's up to." Why? Because he made a stupid, dumb mistake that will haunt him for the rest of his life. And if all the reporter finds is that he's now attending college somewhere, the Editor will make them write a story starting with: "Mychal Bell, the only member of the Jena Six to stand trial and be convincted of attempted murder, enrolled at the University of Blahblahblah. . .")

When this man dies, hopefully many many years from now after a well-lived life, his involvement in the Jena Six will be mentioned in his obit. Despite the fact that he may end up being a world-class surgeon that saves lives, despite the fact that he may become a great civil rights leader, despite the fact that he may just become a decent mechanic, whatever the hell he does with his life, the Jena Six thing will haunt him forever.

Listen. The man did his time. He paid for his crime. He's clearly still dealing with the fallout from that. Let it go. Let him be. For gods sake, stop hounding the man until he feels his only option is death.

Labels: bitching, crime, culture o'death, depression, foster care, Louisiana, outrage, power, racism, stupid people, suicide

I doubt anyone actually reads this thing anymore, but anyway....the following post will be rantish, whiny and totally self-centered. You've been warned.

First, I have PMS and (maybe) the flu. I do not feel good in any way. I'm tired, I have a fever, I have a headache and I just want to cry. My mother and SiL will be arriving tomorrow evening to spend the night and go shopping Saturday. I have zero money for this and I'm going to ask them for gas money. I don't usually do that, but if I don't, we'll be shopping from the busy isle of my couch. So. I also am going to insist we go to one of the four resturants I have a gift certificate from, otherwise I can't eat. I really wish they would come next weekend, but alas, it is not to be.

I'm really, really cranky. This has to pass, because I have a job interview next week and I need to be sharp. If I get this job, I won't have to move and will be making at least $500 extra a month. That's the base pay and I intend to ask for more than that. I've got a masters degree and eight years of relevant experience. Dammit, I wanna get paid.

I'm feeling very down on my romantic prospects again. Brought on by general blahness and a thread on a mailing list I'm on. I am not a conventionally attractive woman. That's fine, really, but now I'm starting to think I may very well end up spending all my time alone. Now, normally that doesn't disturb me too much, so may this is just the hormones and flu talking, but it all makes me want to curl up in my bed and hide forever.

(FYI -- when you have a fever and you cry, your tears feel like they've been boiled. Did you know that?)

I feel tragically boring. Like there isn't a single thing about me that's interesting or unique. I'm just kinda....blah. I don't have any stores of knowledge I can break out to impress people. I don't have any outstanding talent. I'm not musical or dramatic or....I don't know. I'm not even particularly domestic. I'm just....boring.

I'm 33 years old, I have four cats, no real relationships and a chronic illness. Please god, don't let this be the flu. I don't have a rheumatologist in town and it takes about two months to get an appointment with one as a new patient.

Labels: depression, Lupus, sadness

What is it that pushes one person forward, but leaves another person content with what they have? Is it inborn or learned?

I've chronicled my own trip through illness, depression, whatever on and on here. And will again, I'm sure. But this post isn't about me. (Ha!) I have a friend, someone I love very much. He's the same age I am. In many ways, we're like twins. When we met, we have that spark of recognition you only get once or twice in a lifetime. We just clicked. Like we'd known each other forever.

He's got a lot of the same issues I have, even. Depression, possible chronic illness. (He thinks he's diabetic, but he won't go to the doctor because his father was severely diabetic and he had to watch him die.) Anyway, he's also brilliant and artistic. But he had some problems when we started college and lost his scholarships. So, he set out, for a semester at first, until he could get things straightened out. Well, that one semester has turned into nearly a decade now. He never finished college, he doesn't have a job, or a driver's license. He lives with another friend of ours, who doesn't require anything of him, really, except for him to be there for her as a friend. Free room and board, doesn't make him get a job, no paying for any of the bills. And that works for them.

But I wonder -- since I know he's still decidedly depressed and often unhappy -- what it is that keeps him from doing something different. So, he doesnt' want to go to college. Sure. It's not for everyone. But there are all sorts of things he could do. He's a talented writer and artist. And there's no reason he could do a simple, basic job -- fast food, retail, whatever. Sure, it's not glamarous, but you know, someone has to do those jobs, don't they? He'd need to learn how to drive and get a license -- so how hard is that? I'd teach him, his roommate would teach him. There's nothing really standing in his way of having at least a simple job. It would get him out of the house, which would go a long way to helping with his depression. Maybe he'd get a job with insurance, so he could get on medication for that depression. And find out if he is, in fact, diabetic or if those symptoms are in fact caused by his depression.

He operates out of fear, a lot. I understand that. I lived in fear for years, worried that the doctors would tell me that I was dying. That all those symptoms were dangerous, deadly. Probably cancer. I feared I'd never get a new job, never find love again, never have anything more than I had. And it was fucking hard to get past it, but something in me would not let me give up, even when I wanted to. Even when my brain is screaming just let me die already!

So what is it that is there for one person, but not for another? Why did I have that in me, even when I didn't want it, to find a way out of all that hell? Finish school, find a job, go to a doctor. Go to another doctor. And another one until someone finds out what the hell is wrong with me. Take some time to heal, let time cure all those emotional wounds. Take the chance, step outside, see what makes life worth living.

So why can't I give that to him? Why can't I convince him to come stay with me for awhile, get out of that place he's in, so that he can see there's more out there and that he can have it? Why can't I convince him he can stay with me while he goes back to school? (He's mentioned he wants to go to culinary school and there's one reallly close to my house.)

Why doesn't he want more? And I think he does want more. I think he wants a life of his own, where he has his own job and his own apartment and his own life and value and no more depression. So why can't I get through to him that he can have that? That there are people who've done it before and hey, I can show you the way out, if you want.

I know that you cannot force anyone to move before they're ready. I know that there were doubtlessly so very many friends who thought the same thing about me at one time. I get that. I just...hasn't he lived like that long enough?

Labels: depression, friendship

Having survived life-long depression and suicidal episodes, I'm always looking out for new therapies and treatments that may be of use to me. I'm on a good drug right now (Cymbalta, yay!) but this sounds awesome.

People with treatment-resistant depression experienced relief in as little as two hours after a single shot of a drug typically used in higher doses as an anesthetic, according to a study published Monday.

The experimental treatment could open the way for drastic changes in the way mental-health professionals treat clinical depression, a debilitating illness that affects nearly 15 million people each year in this country.

It's a small study, and the drug -- ketamine -- isn't right for longterm use, but it's suggestive of a new line of research for new drugs. Effects in two fucking hours? Damn. Just...damn. That's bloody amazing. Even more amazing, the study found that one shot can work for up to a week. Almost no build up time and long-term action. That's just incredible. Plus? It works for almost everyone.

The patients in the study were randomly assigned to either get one active dose of ketamine or a placebo. Depression improved within one day in 71 percent of the patients who got the active drug, and 29 percent became nearly symptom-free within that first day. More than a third of the ketamine patients still showed improvement a week after they got the shot.

Seventy-one percent. That's just....depression drugs don't have those kind of numbers. Most anti-depressants take weeks to build up to effectiveness and most patients have to play around with dosage and drugs to find a good one. I went through three to find this one and I generally respond really well to medication. The potential good this research can do is just astounding.

So many people suffer from depression. So many people. If we could find a way to fix that...can you imagine the kind of change those people could make in the world?

Labels: depression, medication

I am not, by nature, the sort of person who keeps quiet. If I have an opinion, I express it. I've gotten better at doing so in ways that don't get me in trouble as I've gotten older, but I'm really not good at keeping my mouth shut.

Some of the things I talk about make people uneasy. I understand that. But that doesn't mean I'm going to stop talking. My opinions, at least 95 percent of them, are rooted in much more than impulse. I think about things, I roll them around in my head, I try to figure out what each side is thinking, I weigh things before I make a decision. So when I talk about something, I'm talking about something that matters to me, that I think is important.

I disturb some people when I talk about mental illness. I understand that. Mental illness is disturbing on all levels. If it wasn't disturbing, there'd be no problem with it. But it becomes more disturbing when no one talks about it.

As someone who suffered for half my life with debilitating mental illness, I feel that it's my responsiblity to talk about it. To not be quiet, to not let it be covered up. Because I'm incredible lucky. I can talk about it. I made it through to the other side. I survived. But so many others don't. So many others end up taking their own lives to escape the crushing pain. So many keep living, but they're living half-lives, afraid of admitting to anyone what they're going through. So afraid of disappointing their family or their friends or losing their jobs or being looked down upon.

I talk about my own journey a lot. I talk about having my first panic attacks when I was 8. Of having debilitating fears of water or religion or death. I talk about having to, compulsively, pray four times a day, read a chapter of the Bible every night, forgo all secular music and books and t.v. I talk about trying desparately to come up with a reason to go on living and coming up with one. Just one. If I die, no one would be there to feed my cats. And so, I didn't take the bottle of sleeping pills.

I talk about how my family didn't understand, even though my Mother suffers from depression herself. How they thought taking me to a pastor would fix the problem. How I faked being better for them, because it hurt too much to carry my own pain and theirs too. I talk about all the things I had to do. All the notebooks full of writing I was using to just get the pain out of me. About the cutting I did, how some of the scars people think came from me falling are actually from me cutting myself over and over. Because it feels so, so much better once I started to bleed. How people don't understand that, unless they've been there themselves.

And I talk about how incredible strong people suffering from mental illness are. How incredible strong and brave. You'd be hard pressed to find anyone made of tougher stuff than someone who has gone their entire life battling against themselves. You'd have to look far and wide to find anyone more self-aware. It's a vast misconception that the mentally ill are weak or flawed. A weak, flawed person wouldn't last a week in the sort of pain and confusion an mental illness can bring. A week or flawed person would wilt.

I also talk about how it's possible to move through it. You never get over it, it never leaves you. But you can carve a way through it, with time and medication and the right doctors. If you can find people who love you, who believe you, who support you, you can get through it. I'm not certain you can ever be cured of a major mental illness. Because I haven't been suicidal for at least three years, does that mean I won't ever be again? I don't know. I hope not. This is the longest I've gone and I'm on very good medication. But there's no guarantee that I won't have another episode again in five, ten years. I don't believe I will. I believe I've got this all behind me, at last. But I can't ever be sure and living with that uncertainty -- and going on anyway -- is another mark of bravery.

It's important that people know it's possible to survive. It's possible to survive and build a good life. I'm in the process of doing that myself. It's incredible to wake up and not be sad that you did. It's amazing to look around and see that the future isn't all darkness and doom. It's the most amazing feeling when the things you once loved start to come back to you, when you start to realize you can have them back. I feel like a kid again, seriously. Well, a teenager at least. Which makes sense,because that's when my life really went off the rails. But it's possible to have it all back and people need to know that. They need to know they're not alone, that there are other people who understand and who will help them, if they just reach out. And they have to know there are people who will not judge them, because they haven't done anything to be judged for.

Labels: depression, mental illness

I don't know why this surprises me. It's not like anyone with half a braincell believes this administration actually values human life, but this is kinda low. President Fratboy and his Band of Very Merry Monkies have plans to...reshape...1-800-SUICIDE. Pam's House Blend has the story.

So. Let's think of all the ways this could go wrong, shall we? Anyone remember FEMA? That worked really well, didn't it?

I never used suicide hotlines when I was, well, suicidal. But I could have. I could have used the reassurance that I wasn't insane or alone or as fucked up as I thought I was. Two million people helped by this hotline. Two million people. Or do they not matter? Does the figure 'millions' only count when it's totally terminated pregnancies or dollars spent in Iraq? I get so confused, what with that crazy womb of mine making me all fuzzy-headed.

And can I just scream at the notion of "faith-based" suicide prevention??? That's what my family tried with me and frankly, it only made it worse. I have a good idea of what those sessions will be like.

Preacher: Now, Susie, why do you feel like killing yourself?
Susie: Well, I just....I just hurt all the time. And I'm sad. I can't stop crying and I think sometimes I hear voices and...
Preacher: Voices? Oh, Susie, that's just Satan trying to tempt you! You can't let him win, Susie. Here, read these Bible verses everytime you start to feel a little sad.
Susie: But, I don't just feel sad. I want to carve HELP ME into my skin with a rusty knife and...
Preacher: Susie, do you want to make Jesus cry? Aren't you grateful for his sacrifice on the cross? How can you be so selfish?
Susie: *blinkblink* Can I borrow that letter opener?

And really, do we need this government having access to personal information? Of people who are in pain and apt to be...less than themselves? I know that when I was suicidial, the things I said and felt and did were not reflective of who I truely am. If those things had been recorded, put in a database and pulled up years later? Shit. I was the most unstable person on the planet, a far cry from where I am now. And I'm grateful that no one has a record of that, that it's all in my mind. Because otherwise, there'd be all kinds of reasons to deny me jobs, medical treatment, loans, whatever.

This is fucking scary, the way this government keeps collecting data on people and most people just...don't notice. Sure, today they're not coming after you, but who do you think is going to protect you when the rest of us have been collected, cataloged and put on a shelf?

Labels: culture o'death, depression, lies, mental illness, suicide

And so, it shouldn't surprise me that I'm depressed on the solstice. Longest day of the year and all that. Welcoming in the summer. But summer always makes me sad. All the sunshine, all the heat, all the seeming pointlessness of it all. Summer triggers numerous Lupus and fibro flares, leaving me in lots of pain for months on end. And so....

I haven't posted much lately because I've been feeling a bit down. Surprise. There are things I want to talk about too. Like my state just signed into law a truly draconian abortion law. And there's that whole blowjob thing going on thanks to Twisty. (For the record, I don't like 'em so I don't do 'em. Your mileage my vary. I don't get off much on judging what consenting adults do, so if ya like 'em, more power to ya. I will, however, be posting a bit about power imbalances in relationships. As soon as this blue funk passes.) Then there's a followup to the bit about the Wiccan soldier getting a pentagram on his tomb. I've got that article here somewhere. Has some nice quotes from some Christian orgs that I wanted to talk about. Mostly though, I just want to come home from work, curl up in bed, eat ice cream and sleep. Which is what happens to me in the summer, because I'm just exhausted all the time.

I just started a new anti-depressant that I really love. (Oh yeah. There's that post about depression over at Pandagon I wanted to talk about. See? I'm reading lots. Just can't seem to get myself motivated to post about it. Yet.) If you're looking for a good AD, I recommend Cymbalta with no reservations. It's totally quashed the numbness/pins-and-needles in my hands and legs from the periphial neuropathy my Lupus has caused. Which is totally awesome. So, I'm sure I'll feel better in a few days. Just right now...not so much.

Labels: depression, Lupus, pain, summer

It occurred to me recently that I really like being alive.

Now, I realize that doesn't sound like a radical realization. But until fairly recently, the last five or six years probably, I've spent a good deal of my life severely depressed and occassionally suicidal. My memories of Episodes (that's what I call 'em) go back to about...eight or nine, I think. I was petrified of water. There was no reason, I just became, suddenly, horrified of water. I couldn't take a bath, because something was going to happen to me if I got into the water. But I couldn't tell anyone that, so I'd take my radio into the bathroom, drag one of my cats into the room with me, turn the music up loud, fill the bathtub up and lay on the floor crying, petting the cat, because I was so, so very scared. And confused. Logically, I knew, there was nothing going to happen to me if I got into the bathtub. I tried all sorts of things to work around it. I'd make up little rituals, moving all the possible dangers away from the tub. No razors, nothing battery operated, certainly nothing that so much as looked electrical. I even put the soap away, so I didn't fall on it. In the end, there was just a plain, blank tub full of water and I still couldn't get into it. And there was absolutely no reason for it, none. No childhood trauma, no near drowning. I was just suddenly, unexplainable terrified of getting into the bathtub. And I stayed that way for about a year and then, just as unexplainably, it went away. Just one day, gone. I could get in the tub, I could go swimming, whatever I wanted. No problem. And no explaination.

I started getting hung up on certain thoughts, after that. Random things. Like I was obsessed, and terrified, with getting my period. Nothing really strange about a girl worrying about her period, but this wasn't normal. I was so stressed and worried, I'd bargain with God. Not this year, okay? I just can't handle it right now. And...there wasn't anything bad going on in my life. Again, no trauma, no abuse, no nothing. I was just obsessed with...things...with all the things I was doing wrong, with how I wasn't good enough or smart enough or how I was 'sinning' all the time. (See previous post on the Evils of Fundamentalism, if you would.) Again, I couldn't tell anyone any of this. I just knew they'd have reacted badly. Or worst, they'd have been dismissive. It was all in my head, I was just being silly. So it all just kept building. I went through stages. When I got my period, that obsession faded. Then it was things like, oh the music I was listening to was evil and God would punish me for it. Seriously, I thought that. (Admittedly, I had shitty taste as a teenager, but I hardly thing God sends people to hell for that. Otherwise, damn, Hell is gonna be HUGE.) So I'd have to read my Bible every night, a chapter a night, or I was in trouble. Then it got to the point where I couldn't listen to anything but Christian music or I was going to Hell. (Yeah. Try finding decent rock Christian music in the 80s. Uh huh. Little did I realize it then, I was IN hell listening to that stuff.)

Anyway, the point is, I kept having these episodes and they kept getting worse as the years past. And I couldn't tell anyone about them, because in my very religious household, this things Did Not Happen. Regardless of the fact that my mother has a history of depression. Regardless of the fact she's got a lot of the same problems I do. These things Do Not Happen. If my mother had a rough patch, she'd just go to church a bit more often or pray more often. And that seemed to work for her. But it did not for me. (Again, see previous post about how the Fundy church warped my brain.) By the time I was 14, I was full-blown suicidal. I was just too depressed to actually act on it. It's a preverse irony, the disease that made me want to die also saved my life. I was too exhausted from just getting through the day to actually be able to carry out my suicide plans.

And I had them. Oh, did I have them. My father, as all good Southern men, is a hunter. And there are guns all over their home. Unlocked, with bullets right next to them. I know how to handle a gun. Dad made sure of that, since it would be irresponsible to not educate your kids about guns when you've got so many. And there were always pills in the medicine cabinets. Sleeping pills, pain pillls, all kinds of things for whatever illnesses my folks got. Then again, we lived right next to a creek. It wouldn't have been very hard to 'trip' and drown. And growing up on a farm, I could imagine a hundred 'accidents' that could quickly dispatch me. And yet, I was just so very, very, very tired. All I could do was go to school, come home and go to sleep. I couldn't physically DO anything else.

And then, I'd have breaks in the episodes. Sudden, almost complete remissions. One day I'd be so very depressed I wanted to die, the next I'd wake up and feel perilously close to normal. When those breaks came, I'd make myself believe I was better. It had all just been a test and I'd passed, so God was rewarding me. And I'd really believe that, until it started again.

And that was my life, for years. Until I was about 22 and in college. I'd gotten really, really sick and gone to the doctor. Who happened to notice I was depressed and put me on Prozac. I know people malign Prozac, but that damned green pill saved my life. It didn't 'fix' everything (because what was going on wasn't strictly depression), but it kept my head just far enough above the waterline so I didn't feel like I was dying all the time. I still got depressed, but my suicidal phases faded to once a year instead of every three or four months. (Yeah, I was seriously THAT depressed.)

But my physical symptoms increased. And intensified. Until I was ready to die, again. And I started going to doctor after doctor after doctor....who kept telling me I was just depressed and fat and needed to relax. For the next three years, that's what I got. So,I just stopped going to doctors. Just gave up completely.

Until the pain got so bad I couldn't stand it and went to one more doctor. Who finally listened. She listened and she did some tests and it turns out, HEY! I'm wasn't just depressed -- I had a serious, chronic illness that had been uncontrolled for years. It had a name (Lupus) and it had treatment and I wasn't crazy and I wasn't imagining things and yes, I was sick and yes, she believed me.

That was almost six years ago. I started out taking fourteen pills a day and now I'm down to two. If I'm lucky, at my next doctors appointment I'll be able to get down to one. It's taken a lot of time and trial to find a treatment plan that works for me, but I have. There are still rough days. There are still days when this illness kicks my ass. (I haven't gone into details about the physical effects of Lupus. I've got lots of those too. But since it's affecting my neurological system, I've also got an extra handful of the psychological symptoms. My doctors think the disease has been working it's evil magic on me for a very long time, but didn't show any diagnosable symptoms until I was in my 20s.) But even when I'm getting my ass kicked by this damned disease, I don't want to die.

I haven't wanted to die in a very long time. Not since someone listened to me. Not since I found out the name for what's wrong with me. Not since I was able to take back some measure of control. I cannot control this disease, but knowing that it's real, that's it's not a personal, moral failing (which is what I was also made to feel it was before) allows me to take some ownership, some responsbility. I cannot control this disease, but I can control how it makes me act. I cannot control the fact that it makes me feel like I'm physically dying, but I can control whether it makes me actual act to kill myself. I can control if I decide to value my life, pain and all.

And the thing is, I really do. I don't know when I started, but somehow it's occurred to me that I'm a pretty valuable person. Not just valuable, but so incredible strong and brave. You don't survive the interal struggles I have without being strong. You don't look at the future, knowing you have a disease that could decide to royally fuck you up at any moment, and say to yourself "Yeah, that's where I want to be" unless you're brave. It's not the kind of strength or bravery this world puts much value in, but it's real and it lasts. Everytime I get afraid, I stop myself. What, exactly, could be so bad? What could possible scare me? What could possibly hurt me so much I couldn't recover? I'm not a fool. I know there are lots of horrible things that could happen to me. And I don't want them to happen, of course. But if they did...I've spent most of my life fighting myself. No one knows the buttons to push like I do. And if I can survive myself jumping up and down on them for 20 years, I can pretty much handle anything.

Anyway, I realized I like being alive. As crappy as life can be sometimes, it's still way better than the alternative.

Labels: childhood trauma, depression, Lupus, suicide