There's something to be done through the pain of experience. With experience comes maturity; empathy.
This series of posts will give you a look at my life; one that I don't share too often. But the point of writing, at least publicly, is to share your experience in the hopes that there might be another person, just one, that could benefit from knowing they aren't alone.
You aren't alone.
Why now, though? I'm not in school any longer, and I don't need validation; proof reading. This essay (broken into pieces) is the hardest thing in the world for me to share. I'm not even exaggerating. (Which, I am inclined to do from time to time).
I'm sharing it because I want to make a difference. Mental Health; Depression; PTSD. These are buzzwords - still attached to a stigma that shames. I want to be a part of the movement that changes that. And so I begin.
Dear Lindsey,
I’m writing this to
you from the hospital, because I need to communicate with you, and this was the
best way I could think of. I love you so much more than anything in the world.
You are so extraordinary in every way. I thank God everyday for you…
***
Writing this has been difficult…,
even now, the shame of who I was comes shining…no, not shining, leering
forward, rising to the surface. I was never
happy with myself back then. I hated what I did, what I thought, how I felt. I
hate admitting to you who I was. I wish I was different. I wish I was telling
you about how I matured, how I helped my mother through it, how strong and
capable I was. But I would be lying to you.
***
Every family has its problems, its hidden scrapes and
bruises. I didn’t know my family’s problem, I didn’t want to. Ignorance truly
meant bliss for me, and to give her children ignorance my mother suffered a war
that was fought beneath her skin. She was hurting, but she was a practiced performer,
hiding her pain, masking her bruises, making the symptoms disappear. Maybe I
didn’t understand because I was too young, maybe it was because my parents
thought I wouldn’t have been able to handle it, maybe it’s because I was
stubborn, confused, or just happy to have things the way that they were.
Maybe it’s because she was just too good at hiding it.
But had I known about
the battle lying beneath the surface, I would have begged my mother to release
herself from the tyrannical oppression of her memories. Or at least, I hope
that’s what I would have done.
***
…the only problem is
that I wanted to believe I was okay, and that none of that mattered. It does
though. It’s taken me forty-five years to admit that. I have some mental
illness issues that will probably always be there. I do have depression. Panic
anxiety disorder, and post traumatic stress disorder. My childhood was so
horrendous that I don’t even know how to describe it. I can’t change that, or
genetics as much as I would like to. I never thought I deserved a life because
I feel like I failed as a child. I couldn’t change my mother’s schizophrenia,
or my brother’s drug addiction. I thought maybe if I cleaned the house of all
the mold and made meals for everyone, that all could change. Mom wouldn’t be
schizophrenic, my brother wouldn’t be a cocaine addict – everyone would be
happy. The truth is that as a child or even an adult, I can’t change my family,
nor am I responsible for them. God made them who they are, and unfortunately, I
am not a superhuman being…
***
309.81
Posttraumatic Stress Disorder, Diagnostic Features:
Criterion A1:
The essential features of Posttraumatic Stress Disorder is the
development of characteristic symptoms following exposure to an extreme
traumatic stressor involving direct personal experience of an event that
involves actual or threatened death or serious injury, or other threat to one's
physical integrity; or witnessing an event that involves death, injury, or a
threat to another person; or learning about unexpected or violent death,
serious harm, or threat of death or injury experienced by a family member or
other close associate
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