The Journey of a Survivor

Thinking of the 11 year old is difficult. I don’t have a picture of her in my mind the way I did the younger kid. I think it is because when I think about her I winch and shut my eyes. It is strange not being able to picture yourself at that age, but it is like I can’t remember or better to say I won’t remember. My initial reaction when trying to bring up her image is an overwhelming sense of shame. I can’t believe I lived like that. For god’s sake, I lived in a crate. Where was I suppose to take a shower? Where was I suppose to wash my clothes? There was a trailer there, but it had no heat, no stove, no refrigerator—the rats were so bad you could not sleep in it. It was safer in the crate. It was safer down by the river. At one point I gave up brushing my hair—it was so matted, I could not get a brush through it. How could the school system let me come to school like that? How can I ever admit I was like that? No respectable person would live like that.

Mainly I sit around thinking or fantasizing about shooting myself. I feel like a failure—like nothing I have done in this world has made a difference. I just got out of an appointment with my pdoc and he said these are the things we all worry about—whether we matter—have we accomplished anything—have we made a difference in the world—what is our purpose for being here…I think what he was getting at is that I am not the only one who thinks these thoughts—even he thinks them about himself. The difference is I am sitting around with a gun while I think about them. He reassured me that I do make a difference to the people around me and that right now I am viewing this all through a filter of depression. Things will become clearer and look differently when I am not so depressed. The question is…can I make it out of this depression?

So, my boyfriend claims I am distant—not engaged in our conversations. He is right. I spend the majority of my time in my head having these imaginary conversations with myself. Matter of fact, all I really want to do in life is carry on these conversations. Anything that interrupts them irritates me. The only times I can focus on something else is when I take Dexedrine. It calms my mind down and lets me focus on whatever I need to get done. I have no emotions. I don’t feel good or bad…just indifferent. In some ways it does not even bother me that my boyfriend is not speaking to me. Oh, yeah, he is not speaking to me because I am “so withdrawn.” I guess I am not emotionally available enough for him. I think the medications I am on numb me out. I can’t tell him what I feel because I don’t know what I feel…I feel a whole lot of nothing. Well, I worry about things—is worry a feeling? My brain goes non-stop, 100 mph. It whirls around all the shit I should have done or should be doing…so, I escape by having these conversations in my head.   

Last night I decided to try to get off my medications. I take Abilfy, Dexedrine, Wellbutrin and Lamictal. When I first got up this morning I took a dose of Dexedrine, but I have not had any of the other medications or any more of the Dexedrine. It is about 3 PM and my head is really starting to hurt. Matter of fact, I think I can feel my heartbeat in every single one of my hair follicles.

I am not really sure what is going to happen…how I am going to manage to do this, but I want off these meds. I am so out of touch with my feelings that I don’t even know who I am anymore. There is no joy in my life. Life is just a series of tasks that must get done so I can go to bed. I just can’t stand to live like this anymore. I can’t stand the nothingness. Oh, my god, my head hurts.

At least, at the moment, I am not whacked out delusional. It does seem like every time I fall into a depression, it gets worse. I get a little bit crazier each time. That is a good reason to do everything I can to stay out of the depression. I am doing everything I can possibly do to get better–therapy, shrink, meds, reaching out, journaling, volunteering, being there for others in my support group…I still feel like I have a wet blanket over my life. I don’t feel happy or joyful…I have very few good feelings. Eating is about the only thing that seems to be pleasurable. Life seems like a task I have to get done. I keep pushing myself and keep doing things, but in some ways none of it really seems to matter. I print because it occupies my mind, I can’t say it really feels good. It just feels better to print than to sit around doing nothing. There was a time, I really did enjoy printing. Now, I am not so sure. I keep turning the radio on because I know I should like music, but really, it does not matter. It is just noise–none of the music makes me feel good. Sometimes it is difficult to be with you because I have to talk–I have to interact with you. I really have to push myself to do that. It is not because I don’t love you. It is because my world is this gray nothingness. I know I should be having feelings when I am with you, but they just are not there. It is like there is this big void inside of me. Sunday night I thought about your health and what if I lost you. I would be devastated. I don’t know if I could survive or not. You anchor me to reality. You keep me trying to get better. If it was not for you, I don’t know that I would still be here in Columbus. I might have given up by now. I want to get better because I know what it is like to feel that joyful love I have for you. I want to feel that, but it seems buried inside of me. It is difficult to know you love somebody, but to not be able to really feel it. All this frustrates me. I think part of the not feeling is the meds. The meds keep me sane, but they also flatten out all my emotions. Things just don’t matter. It is weird to not be real depressed, but to not really care about anything. Of course, I am just talking about feelings. My mind goes a million miles an hour. Sometimes, it is like a runaway train. I can’t sit and watch a movie because I can’t turn off my brain. I can’t lie next to you and relax because my thoughts just churn inside of my head. Even sleep does not stop my brain–my sleep is filled with dreams and often nightmares. That is where the printing is so useful–it requires me to focus enough that it distracts me from my thoughts. Printing may not feel real good, but it is an escape from the constant bombardment of thoughts. It does not matter if I produce any art. What matters is that it gives me a break. That is why I sometimes just have to take a night and print. I have to shut off my brain. I just don’t give a shit about life. I am not suicidal, but it does not really matter to me if I live to see tomorrow. I don’t know if there is an answer to all this. I know I don’t want to spend the rest of my life like this. I just can’t imagine what else I could possibly do to make it better. I guess I will just keep doing what I am doing…just keep getting up every morning and trying to make things better. Surely this can’t last forever.

Dr. Z., In addition to the meds I have been trying to do everything I can to stop the depression. I have been throwing myself into my volunteer work. Trying to keep myself looking to others instead of dwelling on my problems and the depression. Working hard in therapy and with my journaling. Trying to take time for myself to do things such as paint. Paying close attention to my sleep cycle and eating. Taking my meds like it is a religion. Setting small goals and trying to reach them…household and work. Imagery before I go to sleep at night. Reading about recovery, depression, ADD…I have even modified the 12 steps and have been working them for depression. I took out the god part out, switched out alcohol for depression and modified them a little. They are still the steps, although they look a lot different. So far, I have made it to step 3. I am not sure if I will follow through with the rest of them or not. I am the poster girl for recovery.

If nothing else I have stopped the depression from getting worse—that in itself is a miracle. Maybe a slight improvement—enough that I am motivated to do the things I need to do to fight the depression but not enough to completely get rid of it. As long as I am able to keep working to recover, I don’t want to increase any of my meds. Can we just leave them the way they are and let me try to work my way out of this? I am trying real hard and I’d like to be able to do this on my own. I am feeling like I want to quit all the meds, but I know they help me. I think the med combo we have right now is keeping me above water just enough that I am motivated to keep working at this. Lets just let things ride for awhile.

My blog has been in idle mode for some time…my world has been busy and I have lacked the creative energy it takes to continuously blog. Seems like the blank paged just stared at me and those damn elusive words would not form themselves into a sentence let alone a coherent idea or story. Anyway, I am back and I hope to start posting again. Please check back later.

My father is nearing the end of his alcoholism. He is only 58 but he is dying. He has 2 teeth left and is basically starving to death. He is severely depressed and is not eating. He drinks from the moment he wakes up until he passes out. He was extremely bloated and slightly overweight from the booze, but now he has lost all the weight and is thin as a rail except for his protruding stomach. I don’t know how much longer his body will last.

My brother and I are both in recovery. Due to violence and another brother that is insane, we had to remove ourselves from the situation in order to preserve our own safety and sanity. I am dealing with it fairly well, but my brother is struggling. He feels as if he has abandoned my father to die–he is taking on the responsibility for my father and is blaming himself for not helping my father. I have had long conversations with him–trying to help him see that my father has a disease–that the disease has taken over his life and we can not force him to stop drinking. Even if the drinking is killing him. We can’t help him until he decides he wants to be helped…in no way whatsoever are we responsible for his alcoholism or his situation in life or his eventual death. Ultimately, my father has to make the choice–we can’t do it for him.

Also, we can’t put ourselves in danger–we have to take care of us if we ever want to be there to help him (if he ever decides to stop drinking). I have seen my father once in 10 years. I have not abandoned him–I keep him in my heart–I carry him with me. I am taking care of me–I am keeping myself sane–I can’t live in that type of violence and suffer the abuse. A part of me believes that my father wants me to be happy–that he wants the best for me–that he would want me to take care of myself. Although I have suffered abuse from him, deep in his heart he does not want me to hurt. After all, he is my father and the love for your children is special. He is a very sick person–it is the alcohol that makes him do the bad things–he is not evil–he is sick.

I believe that my father loves me. He is just unable to show it. I have forgiven him for the abuse, but my brother still holds a tremendous amount of anger about how we were and continue to be treated by my father. On one hand my brother is angry with him but on the other hand he loves him and it is tearing him apart that he can not help my father.

My father basically has nothing–he is living in poverty–he is facing jail for fraud. He is absolutely miserable. Sometimes I think that the only thing that keeps him going is the thought of his next drink–the illusion that it will somehow make things better. Even though it is just forcing him deeper and deeper into misery.

My brother and I are my fathers legacy. We honor him by growing into good, respectful members of society. We have overcome severe abuse, broken the cycle of poverty and violence…we are successful, well rounded adults. If my father was not blinded by alcohol, he would be proud of us.

I am really worried about my brother. I worry about the toll this is taking on his sobriety–my biggest fear is that he will relapse. My other fear is that he will live his life with the heavy weight of guilt for something he has no control over. My father has taken our childhood from us–he has scarred us and given the opportunity would continue to abuse us. He has stolen the joy out of our childhood and I fear he is going to suck the happiness out of my brothers adult life. This makes me want to scream. It frustrates me, angers me…saddens me. I love my brother and I want him to finally enjoy his life–to find some peace. His life has been hell, he deserves better. I just wish he believed that he deserves better–that he deserves to be happy–he has paid his dues–it is time for him to find peace.

If I had one wish in the world, it would be that my brother learned to love himself and to come to terms with this so he can enjoy what is left of his life. He has suffered too long. Alcoholism has stolen so much from him–it does not seem fair that he should suffer so much. I hate alcoholism–I hate what it does to people’s lives–the intense pain it causes–the absolute misery it leads to.

Tonight my heart is heavy. My brother has an adorable little boy inside him that needs to be let out–that needs to finally heal. Peace, the boy needs to find peace. He deserves to be happy.

Physical abuse, sexual abuse, neglect, alcoholism, drug use…what caused these intrusive thoughts? They really started hitting me when I was about 11 years old. Although, they were occasionally around when I was a little younger. That was when I started drinking and huffing gas. That was also my first suicide attempt. I have no idea what caused these intrusive thoughts—why me? Why do I have to deal with them? All I really want to be is normal.

The worse part about these thoughts is how alone they make me feel. Nobody but me knows about them. Nobody but me feels them. I am completely and utterly alone when it comes to these thoughts—nobody is ever going to be able to experience them. I don’t feel as if I have been able or ever will be able to make another person truly understand them. Isolated. They make me feel so incredibly isolated from the world.

They come into my mind and I can’t stop them. So far I have been able to keep myself from acting on the big ones—I’ve just done a little cutting and such. Part of me wonders if I will be able to hold them at bay forever.

As a child I spent much of my time alone. I read or did other things to entertain myself. Feeling like I never fit in with my family or kids from school made me feel distant and I never really bonded with many people—friends or family. The abuse I endured, especially the sexual abuse, made me feel different—unworthy of others time—I felt like nobody wanted to know me. I adapted to the feeling of loneliness and learned to accept it as a way of life. I am not sure if that is what made me an introvert or if I am just naturally introverted.

Now, I need time alone to recharge my batteries, but when does necessary alone time turn into unhealthy isolation? Really, part of me would be content to spend almost all my time alone in my house doing art, reading and such. Building relationships with others and being part of the world are elements of a healthy and well rounded person. I constantly feel like I have to force myself to get out and go shopping, talk with people, participate in the community…but, just going to work everyday wears me out.

My introversion causes problems in my relationships with my friends and significant other. It’s hard for me to stay connected with friends and my boyfriend often feels neglected. People tend to think I am uninterested or don’t care about them. That’s far from true—I do care about my friends and my boyfriend—it just takes so much energy to make it through my normal work week that getting out and socializing is a real stretch for me.

I don’t know what the answer to this is…I don’t know if I am ever going to change. What I do know is that I have to keep pushing my boundaries so I don’t become a complete agoraphobic.

Crack is what just about ended it all—I almost let it steal my life. There is no greater pleasure than that first hit—calming, numbing—it hits your head like a tidal wave and the rest of the world just disappears. Instant euphoria—ultimate pleasure. For that brief moment everything is perfect. Too bad the perfection is so short lived—the rest of the night is spent chasing that high—feeling good but never quite “there.” Each hit I took would get bigger and bigger—trying to get back to that initial state of serenity. Sure, every hit felt good, but not like that first hit. At times I wondered if my heart could handle another big hit so soon—the longer I smoked, the more I smoked. There was no rationing and although I wondered if my heart was going to explode, I still took the next big hit. Ultimately, it no longer mattered—death was irrelevant—the only thing that mattered was getting high—getting back to the starting point.

One night I was in a crack house smoking with a few people. One lady had her kids with her—they were sleeping in a pile of clothes in the corner. Her face had sores and scabs all over it and yet I was sharing the pipe with her. I had one brief moment of clarity—right after I lit up I looked into her face—she was eagerly waiting for the pipe—I could see the hunger in her eyes. In that instant I knew I had to quit because I did not want to end up like her—a crack whore with a few kids and scabs all over my face.

That incident was enough to turn me around—I stayed clean for a couple years. But then, a friend offered me some coke and I snorted it. I figured it was okay because it was not crack. Soon, I was right back into the pit. I did not fall off the wagon, I dove off head first into the first crack house I could find. This run of crack got me into a few scrapes. I had guns held on me, my money stolen, one of my crack houses got busted and I was fingered as the nark. I knew going back to the same group of people was not an option and I had been sent home from work for being high. I was broke, defeated and about ready to lose my job. How I managed to keep my job so long was absolutely amazing. So, I decided, yet again I would have nothing to do with the crack. I packed all my shit, shut off my cell phone and moved across town.

When I moved, I started a whole new life. That was 6 years ago. I have not touched crack in 6 years. I still fantasize about it—I can close my eyes and almost feel that euphoria. If somebody handed me a pipe right now, I am not sure I could turn it down—no, I know I could not turn it down. So, the best thing for me to do is to stay away from it—I don’t go to that part of town and I don’t associate with people who smoke.

Not only had I screwed myself financially and at work, I was an emotional train wreck. The hardest part about quitting was the ensuing depression. So, I did what any good addict would do—I started drinking. Booze slowly took the place of the crack. In other parts of my blog I talk about the depression and alcoholism, so I won’t go into that. I’ll just end this blog by saying—if you have never smoked crack, don’t do it—its not worth it—you could lose everything. I just about lost myself.