Around six years old I watched the movie Mask. Not to be confused with Jim Carrey's The Mask, it was a movie about a boy who was born with a face deformity and it stared Eric Stolz and Cher. I absolutely love that movie and I had become obsessed with Cher. I thought that she was more than just an actress and singer. To me she was an ethereal being. She was a black leather and metal stud wearing, lip gloss slathered, tall and sinewy, butterfly tattooed on her derriere angel. I believed she was the most beautiful woman to ever walk the face of the earth.
I drew detailed pictures of her (stick figures with black scribbles as hair) on notebook paper and taped them all over my wall next to my bed. I even believed that one day I could grow to be a 5'8" tan woman with glossy jet black hair and smoldering brown eyes. I not only believed it but I was convinced. Much to my mother's chagrin of my constant idolization of her and all of her talents. My mother just wanted me to be happy with who I was. It never occurred to my six year old brain that as a strawberry blonde, dark blue eyed, freckled face, girl that no amount of plastic surgery or money could even make me resemble Cher in the least. She has beautiful blemish free tan skin. My skin is the bleached out white color after a wet band-aid is removed. She has the most amazing black hair and I was just sure that black hair would eventually sprout from my scalp and all of my red hair would fall away in jealousy. That obviously didn't happen. I felt that she was the take no crap from anyone kind of woman and yet if you fell and scraped your knee she'd stop to help you. I loved her and I guess I still do but not in the drawing pictures of her and taping them on my bedroom wall kind of way. At thirty four years old that would be odd and slightly creepy.
You have to admit at sixty six Cher is still rocking it out like the cool chick she is.
Now, what in Sam Hill does Cher have to do with my mental illness blog? Hmmmmm......well I really just wanted to share my childhood obsession with Cher. I do believe that it was the first star I ever really liked. I also believe it might have been my first obsessional thinking from my OCD on a person. Not in the creepy "I am a stalker" kind of obsession but just thinking about her and what her amazing house must look like kind of obsession. I was six, people. I still believed in unicorns for God's sake. Stop Judging me......
What Cher has to do with my mental illness is, I realize that even early on in my life I had a way out of control imagination and a ton of impractical dreams. After all, becoming a fairy princess pirate wearing pink tutus and ruling over the land of dreams while riding flying magical horses never came to pass. I never married Atreyu from Never Ending Story (the first one) as I was so sure I would. When mental illness came to be a huge factor in my life I was unable to do even the simplest of dreams. I was unable to complete high school due to huge anxiety attacks. Therefore my dream of being a college graduate also fell to the way side. That doesn't mean that I can never get my GED and go to college. I can when I feel well enough. I had to realize that some of my dreams, right now, are unreachable. Some of them are impractical at this moment. That does not mean that I can't ever accomplish them. It just means that I may have to wait ,at this time, for some of them. I also learned that the obstacles that mental illness has placed in my life has made me create new dreams that so far, I have been achieving. I may not be a swashbuckling pirate but I am a mental illness advocate, which contains verbal swashbuckling. I may not be a princess that rules over dream land but I am a mother who teaches her children that they can rule over their lives and be whatever they wish to be. I never married Atreyu but I married a wonderful supportive man that loves me "crazy" or not. I may not look like Cher but I am beautiful and talented even though I do not have a butterfly tattooed on my behind. I am sure my mother is relieved by that. My dreams are more practical now, but they are still worth achieving and I always feel a sense of accomplishment when I do.Sometimes my dreams are to write in my blog. Sometimes they are to reach out to those that suffer like I do. Sometimes they are just to have the will to get out of the bed in the morning. My dreams don't have to be out of this world to be good dreams. They don't have to be about fame for me to appreciate the life I have right now.
I have dreams and I have hopes. Mental illness can not take those away form me. [tweet this]. I may not have the same dreams I did growing up but I have the dreams and goals I set up for myself everyday. Every time I get up out of bed and and will myself to do my daily routine I have accomplished a dream. A dream where today I will be who I want to be. A strong person who stares in the face of my mental illness and says,"You can't have today. Today is mine for the taking and I am getting out of bed and facing it. Because I deserve to be happy. I deserve to be functional. I deserve to be me and all that entails". So my blathering about Cher actually is a good lesson for me. I don't have to be famous to be worthy. I don't have to be rich to be happy. I don't have to look like someone else to be beautiful. I am more than just a dream. I am reality and I rock.
And you know what? So do you.
Neurotic Nelly
Wednesday, June 19, 2013
Tuesday, June 18, 2013
What Does Mental Illness Look Like?
Russel Brand was once quoted as saying,"My personalty just doesn't work without fame. Without fame, this haircut looks like mental illness."
Now, that probably should have been insulting to me , but instead it made me chuckle. In his defense he has struggled reportedly with bulimia, self injuring, and drug addiction. He is now sober and clean.
What it did make me ponder is what do people think when they hear the words Mental Illness? What images go through their minds? What do they think we look like?
Maybe they think of us as scary or creepy. Maybe images of dirty homeless people with sour expressions play through their minds. Although, there are a lot of homeless that have mental illness not all mentally ill people are homeless. Most of us appear to be perfectly normal and you would have no idea that we have mental illness issues if we have not told you.
I am not scary looking, well let me correct that. I am not scary looking after I have had my first cup of coffee and have brushed my teeth and combed out my fiery red medusa-esque hair. After I have been groomed I look just like everyone else. I am not dirty or disheveled. I am as normal looking as one can get. In fact, almost all of the mentally ill individuals I have come across look perfectly normal.
What does it mean to look mentally ill?
I have had some serious reservations about what people think mental illness looks like. We have been bombarded with negative images of scary looking people. Angry people with mean sneers. Vintage photographs of people in asylums mumbling to them selves or banging their heads on the walls. I am not saying that this never happens but I am saying that when properly treated, people are less likely to mumble and bang their heads. It is all about proper treatment. The reason these old images are they way they are is when they were taken the people were not receiving proper care or even decent care that you would provide for any human being. I think that should go a long way to understand that mental illness is not something that can be picked out just by looking at someone. Most of us would never seem to have mental illness issues by the naked eye.
I have had mental illness since childhood and I have never met someone who told me that they knew I was sick just by looking at me. In fact, most people thought that I was somehow going to be snob. Then they tell me they were pleasantly surprised when they realized I wasn't snobbish at all. I have no idea why they think I would be a snob but I have been working on not appearing that way. I don't want people to find me unapproachable because they feel I am going to judge them. I never judge others. I have made mistakes and screwed up things as well, I have no soap box to stand on or high horse to ride off on. I am just like everyone else in that manner.
Now, growing up in the eighties I have made some questionable fashion choices. Brightly colored leg warmers, corduroy pants, and sideways pony tails were all the rage and I participated. Raccoon eyes make up and colorful shoestrings. I admit it. I was guilty of crimes of fashion but then again we all dressed like that including shoulder pads to make us look more like football players rather than normal girls/women. It happened. I am so glad that there are not many pictures of me floating around wearing such horrid attire. Some might think that these outfits were what mental illness looks like but if that were true we would all be guilty of being mentally ill.
Then I wore some of the nineties fashion. I wore the New Kids On The Block merchandise.....headdesk....headdesk...headdesk. I apologize to anyone that saw me wearing these items. Ugh. I am thankful that my mother refused for me to get the Lisa Stansfield hairstyle that I thought would look so great on me. You know, the one where it was buzz cut but there were little sloops of hair that were gelled and stuck to her face.....Thank you mom. Thank you. We can not forget the evolution of parachute pants. I never got to wear these but I did have a "cool" science teacher that did. He had neon ones, multicolored ones, shiny ones. I often imagined him having a whole closet full of nothing but M.C. Hammer pants. It's kinda disturbing to look back at that whole fashion design back then. It is possible that this would be the look of mental illness? It may seem that we might have all been crazy to like this ugly, with a capital U, look but in reality fashion usually makes no sense.
So despite what outfits or haircuts that we may have, in no way does that represent the actuality of mental illness. It could be that we just really have bad taste. It could be that we are following the trends of fashion. Or it could be that we just really like balloon pants and shoulder pads. You can not, I repeat can not look at someone and know for sure if they are suffering from mental illness. It is not something that we wear on our clothes like "crazy badges" or "mental illness belt buckles". One in four people suffer from mental illness. Look around, how many of them seem nuts? How many of them can you just tell by looking at them that they are suffering? We need to stop this ridiculous notion that the mentally ill are all dirty and scary. We need to stop feeding the fears of the general population that those that suffer from mental illness are creepy.
You know what's creepy? Taking a bath and relaxing with your eyes closed, hearing a noise and turning to look and seeing three of your cats sitting side by side a foot away from you staring you down. That's creepy. I would much rather sit beside someone with bipolar or depression than to know if my cats are secretly planning ways to off me. I have said this before but I am going to reiterate, mentally ill people are more likely to be a victim of violence rather than commit a violent act. Mentally ill people are not anything to be afraid of. If anything we might need to be more afraid of fashion fads that scar us for life or worse yet, plotting cats that stare at you in the bath.
Neurotic Nelly
Now, that probably should have been insulting to me , but instead it made me chuckle. In his defense he has struggled reportedly with bulimia, self injuring, and drug addiction. He is now sober and clean.
What it did make me ponder is what do people think when they hear the words Mental Illness? What images go through their minds? What do they think we look like?
Maybe they think of us as scary or creepy. Maybe images of dirty homeless people with sour expressions play through their minds. Although, there are a lot of homeless that have mental illness not all mentally ill people are homeless. Most of us appear to be perfectly normal and you would have no idea that we have mental illness issues if we have not told you.
I am not scary looking, well let me correct that. I am not scary looking after I have had my first cup of coffee and have brushed my teeth and combed out my fiery red medusa-esque hair. After I have been groomed I look just like everyone else. I am not dirty or disheveled. I am as normal looking as one can get. In fact, almost all of the mentally ill individuals I have come across look perfectly normal.
What does it mean to look mentally ill?
I have had some serious reservations about what people think mental illness looks like. We have been bombarded with negative images of scary looking people. Angry people with mean sneers. Vintage photographs of people in asylums mumbling to them selves or banging their heads on the walls. I am not saying that this never happens but I am saying that when properly treated, people are less likely to mumble and bang their heads. It is all about proper treatment. The reason these old images are they way they are is when they were taken the people were not receiving proper care or even decent care that you would provide for any human being. I think that should go a long way to understand that mental illness is not something that can be picked out just by looking at someone. Most of us would never seem to have mental illness issues by the naked eye.
I have had mental illness since childhood and I have never met someone who told me that they knew I was sick just by looking at me. In fact, most people thought that I was somehow going to be snob. Then they tell me they were pleasantly surprised when they realized I wasn't snobbish at all. I have no idea why they think I would be a snob but I have been working on not appearing that way. I don't want people to find me unapproachable because they feel I am going to judge them. I never judge others. I have made mistakes and screwed up things as well, I have no soap box to stand on or high horse to ride off on. I am just like everyone else in that manner.
Now, growing up in the eighties I have made some questionable fashion choices. Brightly colored leg warmers, corduroy pants, and sideways pony tails were all the rage and I participated. Raccoon eyes make up and colorful shoestrings. I admit it. I was guilty of crimes of fashion but then again we all dressed like that including shoulder pads to make us look more like football players rather than normal girls/women. It happened. I am so glad that there are not many pictures of me floating around wearing such horrid attire. Some might think that these outfits were what mental illness looks like but if that were true we would all be guilty of being mentally ill.
Then I wore some of the nineties fashion. I wore the New Kids On The Block merchandise.....headdesk....headdesk...headdesk. I apologize to anyone that saw me wearing these items. Ugh. I am thankful that my mother refused for me to get the Lisa Stansfield hairstyle that I thought would look so great on me. You know, the one where it was buzz cut but there were little sloops of hair that were gelled and stuck to her face.....Thank you mom. Thank you. We can not forget the evolution of parachute pants. I never got to wear these but I did have a "cool" science teacher that did. He had neon ones, multicolored ones, shiny ones. I often imagined him having a whole closet full of nothing but M.C. Hammer pants. It's kinda disturbing to look back at that whole fashion design back then. It is possible that this would be the look of mental illness? It may seem that we might have all been crazy to like this ugly, with a capital U, look but in reality fashion usually makes no sense.
So despite what outfits or haircuts that we may have, in no way does that represent the actuality of mental illness. It could be that we just really have bad taste. It could be that we are following the trends of fashion. Or it could be that we just really like balloon pants and shoulder pads. You can not, I repeat can not look at someone and know for sure if they are suffering from mental illness. It is not something that we wear on our clothes like "crazy badges" or "mental illness belt buckles". One in four people suffer from mental illness. Look around, how many of them seem nuts? How many of them can you just tell by looking at them that they are suffering? We need to stop this ridiculous notion that the mentally ill are all dirty and scary. We need to stop feeding the fears of the general population that those that suffer from mental illness are creepy.
You know what's creepy? Taking a bath and relaxing with your eyes closed, hearing a noise and turning to look and seeing three of your cats sitting side by side a foot away from you staring you down. That's creepy. I would much rather sit beside someone with bipolar or depression than to know if my cats are secretly planning ways to off me. I have said this before but I am going to reiterate, mentally ill people are more likely to be a victim of violence rather than commit a violent act. Mentally ill people are not anything to be afraid of. If anything we might need to be more afraid of fashion fads that scar us for life or worse yet, plotting cats that stare at you in the bath.
Neurotic Nelly
Saturday, June 15, 2013
What Lies Beneath
What lies beneath my smile and decent mood, lately has been an obsession that I have dealt with for the last year or so. It stems from my childhood and research that I have been trying to do for the last five years. I am left feeling lost, bitter, and angry. It is all directed at one person.
Thirty four years ago I was born to a twenty one year old amazing abuse survivor on her birthday. We are very close and she has always been as honest with me as possible. To say my mother and I are best friends is an understatement. She was abused by her father, a preacher only to marry a physically abusive and mentally abusive man who not only beat her but cheated on her constantly. He was a monster. In this time she had begun to work at a fruit stand in Greenville, Texas. It was run by Barbara and Nick Nicholson. She had met their son Monty. My mother became very close with these people and they were the only friends that she had. She fell in love with their son who was, for lack of a better word a womanizer.
Before I was conceived another woman that had been in a relationship with Monty had told him that he had gotten her pregnant. He has admitted this to me on the rare occasions that we have spoken. Barbara couldn't believe it and was angry so the woman left with her son to California. The only information I could get was that his name was Patrick.
Not to long after that I was conceived. My mother was told by Nick not to tell Barbara that Monty was my father because not only would she not believe it but it could ruin the great relationship my mom had developed with Barbara. I would not be able to see them and be a part of their lives. So my mother stayed quiet. However my mother did name me after her.
I grew up playing in the fruit stand for a few years in the summer. Barbara would pick me up and coddle me. Nick would let me play and he was very good to me. Monty, I have less memories of. He was around sometimes and I have been told he would take me out with him places, but I do not remember that. My mother left her abusive husband and met and married the man who raised me. Time changes and with it relationships can fall to the way side. We moved several times and I never saw Nick and Barbara again.
As a child I had been told that Monty was my father. I grew up feeling adopted. Hours spent looking at my face and wondering if I looked like the Nicholson family. Were they like me? Did we like the same things? Did they have my eyes or my button nose? I always had an emptiness inside of me of the not knowing. Why was I not good enough for him to want to be a part of my life still? Why would they not want to claim me to others? Why couldn't Barbara be told that I was her granddaughter?
Nick had often told my mother that I looked like his side of the family. I always held onto this hope that I was somehow like them. An empty whole that could never be filled by anything else except knowing why I was cast aside and forgotten. Was I such a bad girl that they could no longer love me? What part of me is my mom's side and what part of me is them? Looking in the mirror created more questions than answers. You see, there are physical traits that I have that no one else on my mom's side has. She would tell me I had a long neck like Barbara and I would try to lift my head higher to see it and imagine that maybe somehow I was like her. Grasping at any straws that I could grasp. How would I ever know myself without knowing what makes me, me? I have no information on my ancestry on that side. I have no medical information on that side. I have nothing but a gaping empty place where my soul should be. A wound that has never quite fully healed.
Fast forward to my first pregnancy at age twenty three. I had met my wonderful husband and we decided to have a child. Going to the doctor's was scary but pretty common until they started asking me questions about my family history. Questions I had no answers for. So I had decided that for my child I would stand up and stop allowing myself to be a dirty little secret to my biological father. I was no longer going to be silent. I found his parent's phone number which thankfully had not ever changed. I called Barbara and I told her the truth. She remembered me and we talked. Apparently, at that time Monty was staying with them and when pushed he admitted I was his daughter. I got some medical information and for the next five years Barbara and I became quite close. I would call her every two weeks and I sent her pictures of my children once a month along with a letter. I even talked to Monty. Not realizing that he was trying to get back with my mother who refuted him. All was going pretty well and part of me started to heal. Then Barbara and Nick went to a nursing home. Nick had health issues and Monty would not tell me what nursing home they moved into. I was afraid that because Nick's health was bad that maybe I should back off. About two months later I was told he had died. I was told by my mother because Monty had emailed her to tell her. He didn't call me or email me. It was a slap in the face. I called him to give him my sympathy and ask about how Barbara was. He was stand offish and when I asked if I could talk to my grandmother (she is after all my grandmother) he told me she had Alzheimer's and did not remember me. After five years of talking she just forgot me. That quickly I was extracted from the family I had fought so hard to connect with. Again.
I was devastated and so I found the online guest book of the obituary of Nick. It mentioned his sons and his family. It talked about his grandchildren from his other son. My name was not mentioned. I was refuted again. I became angry. I began to hate Monty. I realized that he was talking to me only to get to my mother. I realized that when he apologized for not being there for me, he was just trying to feel better about himself because I forgave him. I realized that he had never told any of his family that he had a daughter. I was still his dirty little secret. Nothing had ever changed. I still was not important to him and my existence was never going to mean anything to him. He never loved me or even cared.
He changed his number and stopped replying to my emails. He moved away and never told me where. He even took Barbara with him. What I know is that not only had he sabotaged me having her as a grandmother the first time but he took her away from me again. Twice he has done this to me. I tried to wrestle with pain and frustration. I tried to fill the whole that was left inside of me. Again.
So knowing that I would never fill the abandonment of him. I tried to be the best person I can be. As I grew up I made sure I never turned my back on anyone like he has done to me over and over again. I strived to be better than Monty. Better than lies and half truths. I strived to be a person he could accept and then I strived to do the one thing he never could or would. I strived to love myself, because I deserve so much better than that.
I had been thinking about my brother Patrick. Maybe I can find a missing part of myself if I could reach out and find my brother. Maybe I could have a meaningful relationship with him. Maybe we could heal together. The only issue with that is that I would have to rely on Monty for information. I found him on face book. He added me back but he wouldn't answer my questions.Typical to do what he wants but not give me the one thing I have ever asked for. The one thing I really feel I need at this point. So I waited and after two weeks of crying and checking to see if he would answer me. After two weeks of feeling all of the pain and anger that I stuffed down for thirty four years the feelings started to come back up. I decided to message his wife.
I knew she probably did not know he had a daughter but I tried anyway. I told her the honest truth. That Monty was never in my life. That he told me about a brother and I just needed my brother's mother's name and his whole name and birth date. I didn't want to start trouble but I had been asking this man for a while. That he never gives me the time of day. That I have this whole inside of me that he created and I needed just one thing from a man who has never given me anything and I didn't think it was too much to ask. I asked if she knew what it was like to look at pictures on face book or google+ with the name I have and try and see if you look like these people. Does he have my eyes? Does he look like me? I asked her if she knew what it is like knowing you have a brother out there and not know what he looks like. If he is alive or dead. If you have walked by him the grocery store and not ever known it. That I don't think I can heal unless I can at least see a picture of him. That I have questions and I just need to know.
She responded and made him message me. She is a terrific person for doing that for a stranger. She had no idea he had a son either....shocking.(sarcasm)
His message was just as I expected. " His name is Patrick. I have never seen or talked to him. I don't think it would be wise for you to contact him. Wish I could help more."
Really. Yes, I can see that helping me has always been top on your list. Ugh. What really pisses me off on this whole thing is not only did he avoid telling me anything of use, but the " not wise to contact him" statement. I think in the thirty four years of Monty's decisions on who I can talk to or communicate with that I should be allowed to make up my own mind. People that are MY family that I was hidden from. People that I have missed out on because he didn't want anyone to know. Not only did he do this to me but he also did this to MY brother whom he feels is unwise to contact. Why because he is afraid that it will hurt me? Hurt Patrick? Why should he be concerned with our feelings now that we are in our thirties when he didn't give a damn when we were kids?
So, I guess my issue is how do I learn to heal this rawness? How do I stop feeling the pain of loss for people who refuse to help me find the one thing I want more than anything. How do I stop looking at myself in the mirror and feel like pieces are missing? Bits of my soul are broken. It's not enough that I deal with mental illness but I am also dealing with devastation that somewhere there is a piece of me walking around that does not know that I exist. And worse yet, I have no way of finding him and telling him. I could handle him not caring or wanting to talk to me. But shouldn't that be our choice? For once can't that be something that WE decide? I would just really like just once to have the option to try. I would just like to see his face, a picture, whatever. Am I asking too much? Am I really? Because we have only one life and Monty has taken so much from mine already, why does he choose to take away the right to know about my brother?
So if there is just a tiny chance that someone somewhere knows of a Patrick over the age of thirty four that was born in Greenville Texas and then moved to California please have him read this. If there is a Patrick whose father is Monty G Nicholson born in 1955 in Greenville Texas know that there is someone on that unbelievably selfish, self-centered family that is looking for you. That there is someone that cares. You are not a dirty little secret. I am not a dirty little secret. We matter and I want so desperately to finally know what you look like. I want so desperately for you to know that I exist and I care. What lies beneath all of these lies and falsehoods is us. We are beneath the lies he has told and fed us at every point and I am trying to climb out from under the weight of it and find you.
Neurotic Nelly
Thirty four years ago I was born to a twenty one year old amazing abuse survivor on her birthday. We are very close and she has always been as honest with me as possible. To say my mother and I are best friends is an understatement. She was abused by her father, a preacher only to marry a physically abusive and mentally abusive man who not only beat her but cheated on her constantly. He was a monster. In this time she had begun to work at a fruit stand in Greenville, Texas. It was run by Barbara and Nick Nicholson. She had met their son Monty. My mother became very close with these people and they were the only friends that she had. She fell in love with their son who was, for lack of a better word a womanizer.
Before I was conceived another woman that had been in a relationship with Monty had told him that he had gotten her pregnant. He has admitted this to me on the rare occasions that we have spoken. Barbara couldn't believe it and was angry so the woman left with her son to California. The only information I could get was that his name was Patrick.
Not to long after that I was conceived. My mother was told by Nick not to tell Barbara that Monty was my father because not only would she not believe it but it could ruin the great relationship my mom had developed with Barbara. I would not be able to see them and be a part of their lives. So my mother stayed quiet. However my mother did name me after her.
I grew up playing in the fruit stand for a few years in the summer. Barbara would pick me up and coddle me. Nick would let me play and he was very good to me. Monty, I have less memories of. He was around sometimes and I have been told he would take me out with him places, but I do not remember that. My mother left her abusive husband and met and married the man who raised me. Time changes and with it relationships can fall to the way side. We moved several times and I never saw Nick and Barbara again.
As a child I had been told that Monty was my father. I grew up feeling adopted. Hours spent looking at my face and wondering if I looked like the Nicholson family. Were they like me? Did we like the same things? Did they have my eyes or my button nose? I always had an emptiness inside of me of the not knowing. Why was I not good enough for him to want to be a part of my life still? Why would they not want to claim me to others? Why couldn't Barbara be told that I was her granddaughter?
Nick had often told my mother that I looked like his side of the family. I always held onto this hope that I was somehow like them. An empty whole that could never be filled by anything else except knowing why I was cast aside and forgotten. Was I such a bad girl that they could no longer love me? What part of me is my mom's side and what part of me is them? Looking in the mirror created more questions than answers. You see, there are physical traits that I have that no one else on my mom's side has. She would tell me I had a long neck like Barbara and I would try to lift my head higher to see it and imagine that maybe somehow I was like her. Grasping at any straws that I could grasp. How would I ever know myself without knowing what makes me, me? I have no information on my ancestry on that side. I have no medical information on that side. I have nothing but a gaping empty place where my soul should be. A wound that has never quite fully healed.
Fast forward to my first pregnancy at age twenty three. I had met my wonderful husband and we decided to have a child. Going to the doctor's was scary but pretty common until they started asking me questions about my family history. Questions I had no answers for. So I had decided that for my child I would stand up and stop allowing myself to be a dirty little secret to my biological father. I was no longer going to be silent. I found his parent's phone number which thankfully had not ever changed. I called Barbara and I told her the truth. She remembered me and we talked. Apparently, at that time Monty was staying with them and when pushed he admitted I was his daughter. I got some medical information and for the next five years Barbara and I became quite close. I would call her every two weeks and I sent her pictures of my children once a month along with a letter. I even talked to Monty. Not realizing that he was trying to get back with my mother who refuted him. All was going pretty well and part of me started to heal. Then Barbara and Nick went to a nursing home. Nick had health issues and Monty would not tell me what nursing home they moved into. I was afraid that because Nick's health was bad that maybe I should back off. About two months later I was told he had died. I was told by my mother because Monty had emailed her to tell her. He didn't call me or email me. It was a slap in the face. I called him to give him my sympathy and ask about how Barbara was. He was stand offish and when I asked if I could talk to my grandmother (she is after all my grandmother) he told me she had Alzheimer's and did not remember me. After five years of talking she just forgot me. That quickly I was extracted from the family I had fought so hard to connect with. Again.
I was devastated and so I found the online guest book of the obituary of Nick. It mentioned his sons and his family. It talked about his grandchildren from his other son. My name was not mentioned. I was refuted again. I became angry. I began to hate Monty. I realized that he was talking to me only to get to my mother. I realized that when he apologized for not being there for me, he was just trying to feel better about himself because I forgave him. I realized that he had never told any of his family that he had a daughter. I was still his dirty little secret. Nothing had ever changed. I still was not important to him and my existence was never going to mean anything to him. He never loved me or even cared.
He changed his number and stopped replying to my emails. He moved away and never told me where. He even took Barbara with him. What I know is that not only had he sabotaged me having her as a grandmother the first time but he took her away from me again. Twice he has done this to me. I tried to wrestle with pain and frustration. I tried to fill the whole that was left inside of me. Again.
So knowing that I would never fill the abandonment of him. I tried to be the best person I can be. As I grew up I made sure I never turned my back on anyone like he has done to me over and over again. I strived to be better than Monty. Better than lies and half truths. I strived to be a person he could accept and then I strived to do the one thing he never could or would. I strived to love myself, because I deserve so much better than that.
I had been thinking about my brother Patrick. Maybe I can find a missing part of myself if I could reach out and find my brother. Maybe I could have a meaningful relationship with him. Maybe we could heal together. The only issue with that is that I would have to rely on Monty for information. I found him on face book. He added me back but he wouldn't answer my questions.Typical to do what he wants but not give me the one thing I have ever asked for. The one thing I really feel I need at this point. So I waited and after two weeks of crying and checking to see if he would answer me. After two weeks of feeling all of the pain and anger that I stuffed down for thirty four years the feelings started to come back up. I decided to message his wife.
I knew she probably did not know he had a daughter but I tried anyway. I told her the honest truth. That Monty was never in my life. That he told me about a brother and I just needed my brother's mother's name and his whole name and birth date. I didn't want to start trouble but I had been asking this man for a while. That he never gives me the time of day. That I have this whole inside of me that he created and I needed just one thing from a man who has never given me anything and I didn't think it was too much to ask. I asked if she knew what it was like to look at pictures on face book or google+ with the name I have and try and see if you look like these people. Does he have my eyes? Does he look like me? I asked her if she knew what it is like knowing you have a brother out there and not know what he looks like. If he is alive or dead. If you have walked by him the grocery store and not ever known it. That I don't think I can heal unless I can at least see a picture of him. That I have questions and I just need to know.
She responded and made him message me. She is a terrific person for doing that for a stranger. She had no idea he had a son either....shocking.(sarcasm)
His message was just as I expected. " His name is Patrick. I have never seen or talked to him. I don't think it would be wise for you to contact him. Wish I could help more."
Really. Yes, I can see that helping me has always been top on your list. Ugh. What really pisses me off on this whole thing is not only did he avoid telling me anything of use, but the " not wise to contact him" statement. I think in the thirty four years of Monty's decisions on who I can talk to or communicate with that I should be allowed to make up my own mind. People that are MY family that I was hidden from. People that I have missed out on because he didn't want anyone to know. Not only did he do this to me but he also did this to MY brother whom he feels is unwise to contact. Why because he is afraid that it will hurt me? Hurt Patrick? Why should he be concerned with our feelings now that we are in our thirties when he didn't give a damn when we were kids?
So, I guess my issue is how do I learn to heal this rawness? How do I stop feeling the pain of loss for people who refuse to help me find the one thing I want more than anything. How do I stop looking at myself in the mirror and feel like pieces are missing? Bits of my soul are broken. It's not enough that I deal with mental illness but I am also dealing with devastation that somewhere there is a piece of me walking around that does not know that I exist. And worse yet, I have no way of finding him and telling him. I could handle him not caring or wanting to talk to me. But shouldn't that be our choice? For once can't that be something that WE decide? I would just really like just once to have the option to try. I would just like to see his face, a picture, whatever. Am I asking too much? Am I really? Because we have only one life and Monty has taken so much from mine already, why does he choose to take away the right to know about my brother?
So if there is just a tiny chance that someone somewhere knows of a Patrick over the age of thirty four that was born in Greenville Texas and then moved to California please have him read this. If there is a Patrick whose father is Monty G Nicholson born in 1955 in Greenville Texas know that there is someone on that unbelievably selfish, self-centered family that is looking for you. That there is someone that cares. You are not a dirty little secret. I am not a dirty little secret. We matter and I want so desperately to finally know what you look like. I want so desperately for you to know that I exist and I care. What lies beneath all of these lies and falsehoods is us. We are beneath the lies he has told and fed us at every point and I am trying to climb out from under the weight of it and find you.
Neurotic Nelly
Thursday, June 13, 2013
Waiting for Someone to Save You
My advice on waiting for someone to save you from yourself or love you like you are unable to love yourself is, don't. Don't do it.
In our history there are always fairy tales that give the impression that we should wait and our prince/princess will come and rescue us. Our knights in shining armor on white horses slaying the beasts that imprison us. It's a reoccurring subject matter force fed to us since the time that we are able to walk and form words. Pretty little stories spoken to us in hushed tones at bedtime by our parents. Snow white, Cinderella, and Rapunzel there are so many stories and so little time to list them. Now, I love fairy tales but they are just that tales of fairies, gnomes, witches, and magic. Dragons and flying carpets, fantasy and falsehoods.
Relationships are hard enough as a normal individual. When you throw something into the relationship like mental illness you have other issues. It becomes less about flying carpets and more about will the prince/princess stick by me as I try a new medication and bloat up sixty pounds? Will they be able to deal with the nights of crying and despair? Will they be able to handle my not being able to work or go out places with them? How will they feel about the fact that I will have emotional breakdowns and psychiatrist appointments? Can they take the fact that I have anxiety or I hear voices? Will they be there if I need to be admitted to the mental hospital? Will they hold my hand when I am scared to get out of the bed in the morning or if I am depressed and haven't showered for three weeks?
It is hard enough to have a relationship as a healthy person. It is much harder to be tied to someone that has self esteem issues and self negative notions. Not to mention that the stigma of having mental illness is not just an umbrella of shame that hangs over your head but it also overhangs your partners life as well. Because he/she is connected to you not only do they deal with your issues but they also will be judged by others for being with you. It is a hard thing to tackle.
I am not saying that you should not have relationships when you have mental illness. I have been married for twelve years and we are still going strong. What I am saying is that you have to learn to love and accept yourself first. If you do not, the first person that professes love becomes your safety net and that is really not a power you should be giving anyone over you. The knight and shining armor riding in on his/her white horse may really be a loser wrapped in tin foil with a wooden sword riding in on a broken unicycle with a flat tire. We especially as a younger person feel this perverse need to share cohabitation with someone and have a relationship like The Notebook. Not realizing that The Notebook relationship can actually be a Silence of The Lambs relationship.
Manipulation and lies, sadness and despair, anger, and pain can erupt. If you can't like yourself or accept yourself then you have low a self esteem. You are unable to stand up for yourself. This causes a huge issue as you now believe wrongly that your opinions do not matter. Imagine a relationship where you can not say no when you don't want something or like something. Imagine having your feelings over looked and ignored. Imagine being manipulated and lied too. Does that sound like a romantic relationship to you? It is a slippery slope that leads directly into a dark, dank, smelly pit of hell. Trust me, I have been there. You are not a welcome mat, don't let people walk on you or use you to wipe their feet on. No one deserves that.
Another issue that we come across is that in wanting to be saved from ourselves we do not realize that we are allowing our partner to make decisions for us. We do not realize the power that goes with making a decision for ourselves. We have lost the ability to know our true selves and now we are allowing others to decide for us what we want, like, and have to do. We are letting them tell us who we are rather than finding out ourselves. What if you really are not who this person wants you to be? They can whittle you down and force you to become something you are not happy with. You are not a block of balsa wood. You do not need to whittled away until you the fit the mold of what someone else wants. Become whatever and whoever you choose to be.
Getting into a relationship when you are unstable is like a really bad chemistry experiment that is likely to go horribly wrong and blow up in your face. No one wants to walk around with singed off eyebrows smelling like sulfur. You know what fire and brimstone smells like? Sulfur( see dark, dank, smelly pit of hell above).
You need to give yourself some time. You need to get to know who you are and learn to stick up for yourself and your beliefs. Get help for your mental illness and learn to stand by yourself first. Then and only then can you safely meet your Mr./Miss Right. You have a better chance of falling in love with Noah Calhoun rather than falling for Hannibal Lecter. Oh, he probably won't cook a piece of your brain and feed it to you, but it may feel like he has. Do you really want to take that chance? This could be my OCD talking here, but I would rather be safe than sorry. Most likely he/she would just suck out your soul and everything good out of you. He/she would leave you a dried husk of what once was you laying on the ground. You are worth much more than that.
So take it form an older more wiser woman who has been in this situation. Please don't rush into something you want but are so not ready for. Save yourself the heartache and scars. Be the knight and shining armor for yourself. Don't wait for someone else to heal you or love you. Heal and love yourself. Save yourself from drowning. Save yourself from falling. Save yourself from these ridiculous notions that we have to be saved by mythical royalty to begin with. This is your life, seize it and take no prisoners. Accept only what you deserve and want. Leave the Hannibal Lecters of the relationship world to themselves.
with fava beans and a nice chianti.....
Neurotic Nelly
In our history there are always fairy tales that give the impression that we should wait and our prince/princess will come and rescue us. Our knights in shining armor on white horses slaying the beasts that imprison us. It's a reoccurring subject matter force fed to us since the time that we are able to walk and form words. Pretty little stories spoken to us in hushed tones at bedtime by our parents. Snow white, Cinderella, and Rapunzel there are so many stories and so little time to list them. Now, I love fairy tales but they are just that tales of fairies, gnomes, witches, and magic. Dragons and flying carpets, fantasy and falsehoods.
Relationships are hard enough as a normal individual. When you throw something into the relationship like mental illness you have other issues. It becomes less about flying carpets and more about will the prince/princess stick by me as I try a new medication and bloat up sixty pounds? Will they be able to deal with the nights of crying and despair? Will they be able to handle my not being able to work or go out places with them? How will they feel about the fact that I will have emotional breakdowns and psychiatrist appointments? Can they take the fact that I have anxiety or I hear voices? Will they be there if I need to be admitted to the mental hospital? Will they hold my hand when I am scared to get out of the bed in the morning or if I am depressed and haven't showered for three weeks?
It is hard enough to have a relationship as a healthy person. It is much harder to be tied to someone that has self esteem issues and self negative notions. Not to mention that the stigma of having mental illness is not just an umbrella of shame that hangs over your head but it also overhangs your partners life as well. Because he/she is connected to you not only do they deal with your issues but they also will be judged by others for being with you. It is a hard thing to tackle.
I am not saying that you should not have relationships when you have mental illness. I have been married for twelve years and we are still going strong. What I am saying is that you have to learn to love and accept yourself first. If you do not, the first person that professes love becomes your safety net and that is really not a power you should be giving anyone over you. The knight and shining armor riding in on his/her white horse may really be a loser wrapped in tin foil with a wooden sword riding in on a broken unicycle with a flat tire. We especially as a younger person feel this perverse need to share cohabitation with someone and have a relationship like The Notebook. Not realizing that The Notebook relationship can actually be a Silence of The Lambs relationship.
Manipulation and lies, sadness and despair, anger, and pain can erupt. If you can't like yourself or accept yourself then you have low a self esteem. You are unable to stand up for yourself. This causes a huge issue as you now believe wrongly that your opinions do not matter. Imagine a relationship where you can not say no when you don't want something or like something. Imagine having your feelings over looked and ignored. Imagine being manipulated and lied too. Does that sound like a romantic relationship to you? It is a slippery slope that leads directly into a dark, dank, smelly pit of hell. Trust me, I have been there. You are not a welcome mat, don't let people walk on you or use you to wipe their feet on. No one deserves that.
Another issue that we come across is that in wanting to be saved from ourselves we do not realize that we are allowing our partner to make decisions for us. We do not realize the power that goes with making a decision for ourselves. We have lost the ability to know our true selves and now we are allowing others to decide for us what we want, like, and have to do. We are letting them tell us who we are rather than finding out ourselves. What if you really are not who this person wants you to be? They can whittle you down and force you to become something you are not happy with. You are not a block of balsa wood. You do not need to whittled away until you the fit the mold of what someone else wants. Become whatever and whoever you choose to be.
Getting into a relationship when you are unstable is like a really bad chemistry experiment that is likely to go horribly wrong and blow up in your face. No one wants to walk around with singed off eyebrows smelling like sulfur. You know what fire and brimstone smells like? Sulfur( see dark, dank, smelly pit of hell above).
You need to give yourself some time. You need to get to know who you are and learn to stick up for yourself and your beliefs. Get help for your mental illness and learn to stand by yourself first. Then and only then can you safely meet your Mr./Miss Right. You have a better chance of falling in love with Noah Calhoun rather than falling for Hannibal Lecter. Oh, he probably won't cook a piece of your brain and feed it to you, but it may feel like he has. Do you really want to take that chance? This could be my OCD talking here, but I would rather be safe than sorry. Most likely he/she would just suck out your soul and everything good out of you. He/she would leave you a dried husk of what once was you laying on the ground. You are worth much more than that.
So take it form an older more wiser woman who has been in this situation. Please don't rush into something you want but are so not ready for. Save yourself the heartache and scars. Be the knight and shining armor for yourself. Don't wait for someone else to heal you or love you. Heal and love yourself. Save yourself from drowning. Save yourself from falling. Save yourself from these ridiculous notions that we have to be saved by mythical royalty to begin with. This is your life, seize it and take no prisoners. Accept only what you deserve and want. Leave the Hannibal Lecters of the relationship world to themselves.
with fava beans and a nice chianti.....
Neurotic Nelly
Wednesday, June 12, 2013
Confident in Spite of Me
I have often been asked how do I have such confidence in myself with everything that is going on with me.....Kind of an insulting question if you think about just what that implies,but it is a fair one. I have mental illness and scars from my childhood abandonment. I have scars from my fraudulent and unfair institutionalization at the age of ten. I have scars from my first marriage and the toxic relationship that was us. I have many scars and many issues. How do I have confidence in myself?
I think the better question is if I don't who will? If I can't believe in myself how do I expect anyone else too? If I can't like myself how can I ever let anyone else love me. I am a work in progress. I am always striving to do better to be better. It takes small steps. It takes years but it is possible. I don't buy into the ridiculous notion that you can change your opinion on life over night. For me that wasn't case.
It wasn't easy and there had to be some really deep soul searching. I had to look at the ugly parts of me and learn to accept them.What I found is that no matter what comes my direction I am a good person. I am a kind person. I am a compassionate person. I feel, I hurt, I love, I fear, and I cry. I am like no one else and yet I am like everyone else.
I am satisfied with my personality, torn as it may be. I am strong and I can handle anything after looking in the blackness that is my mental illness. I take strength in the fact that I am my grandmother's granddaughter because like her I am stubborn and persistent. I take comfort in the fact that I am like my mother in her capacity to adapt when change comes and slaps me in the face. I am not perfect but I am beautiful. I am different but I am also unique. I am an enigma wrapped up in a mystery, wrapped in complication. I am not easy to deal with on a daily basis but I am so worth your time..
I have confidence because I choose to love myself and I choose to love the world. It can hurt me but it also can give me such support, such love, and such beauty.
This not just true for me but it is true for all of us. There is hope. There is always hope even at your weakest point, even at your darkest moment. There is always another day and another struggle. There is always a chance for victory. Victory over your pain. Victory over your grief. Victory over stigma. You have to become the change you want to see in the world.
I don't like the quote when life gives you lemons make lemonade. What if you don't like lemonade? I think it is good but I much more prefer tea. Tea is calming. Tea is good both cold and hot. Tea is adaptable to just about every situation. So my quote is when life gives you tea leaves grind them up and put a kettle on the fire. When life gives you obstacles don't just go around them, know that you have conquered them.
My biggest accomplishment of having confidence is really the people around me that have supported me. Sure, there are those that have been harmful and rude. There have been those that have turned their backs on me. There have been those that walked away. But I am still here and really the truth is that they are the one's missing out. So for those of you that have been abandoned, for those that have never been told that they are important, for those that have been abused and neglected, I would like to tell you something I hope you can grasp.
It is wrong that no one has ever told you that you are beautiful. It wrong that no one has ever stood by you. You are not dirty. You are not bad. You are not guilty or shameful. You are not an embarrassment. You are strong. You are brave. You are courageous in the face of things that most people would run away from. You are worthy. You are important. You matter. You are the director of your life's journey. It is up to you and no one else. Let no one put you down or make you feel less than you are. You are magnificent. Believe in your truths. Believe in your strength and most of all believe in yourself. I believe that you can do it. I believe that you can be whatever you choose to become and I believe in you.
Neurotic Nelly
I think the better question is if I don't who will? If I can't believe in myself how do I expect anyone else too? If I can't like myself how can I ever let anyone else love me. I am a work in progress. I am always striving to do better to be better. It takes small steps. It takes years but it is possible. I don't buy into the ridiculous notion that you can change your opinion on life over night. For me that wasn't case.
It wasn't easy and there had to be some really deep soul searching. I had to look at the ugly parts of me and learn to accept them.What I found is that no matter what comes my direction I am a good person. I am a kind person. I am a compassionate person. I feel, I hurt, I love, I fear, and I cry. I am like no one else and yet I am like everyone else.
I am satisfied with my personality, torn as it may be. I am strong and I can handle anything after looking in the blackness that is my mental illness. I take strength in the fact that I am my grandmother's granddaughter because like her I am stubborn and persistent. I take comfort in the fact that I am like my mother in her capacity to adapt when change comes and slaps me in the face. I am not perfect but I am beautiful. I am different but I am also unique. I am an enigma wrapped up in a mystery, wrapped in complication. I am not easy to deal with on a daily basis but I am so worth your time..
I have confidence because I choose to love myself and I choose to love the world. It can hurt me but it also can give me such support, such love, and such beauty.
This not just true for me but it is true for all of us. There is hope. There is always hope even at your weakest point, even at your darkest moment. There is always another day and another struggle. There is always a chance for victory. Victory over your pain. Victory over your grief. Victory over stigma. You have to become the change you want to see in the world.
I don't like the quote when life gives you lemons make lemonade. What if you don't like lemonade? I think it is good but I much more prefer tea. Tea is calming. Tea is good both cold and hot. Tea is adaptable to just about every situation. So my quote is when life gives you tea leaves grind them up and put a kettle on the fire. When life gives you obstacles don't just go around them, know that you have conquered them.
My biggest accomplishment of having confidence is really the people around me that have supported me. Sure, there are those that have been harmful and rude. There have been those that have turned their backs on me. There have been those that walked away. But I am still here and really the truth is that they are the one's missing out. So for those of you that have been abandoned, for those that have never been told that they are important, for those that have been abused and neglected, I would like to tell you something I hope you can grasp.
It is wrong that no one has ever told you that you are beautiful. It wrong that no one has ever stood by you. You are not dirty. You are not bad. You are not guilty or shameful. You are not an embarrassment. You are strong. You are brave. You are courageous in the face of things that most people would run away from. You are worthy. You are important. You matter. You are the director of your life's journey. It is up to you and no one else. Let no one put you down or make you feel less than you are. You are magnificent. Believe in your truths. Believe in your strength and most of all believe in yourself. I believe that you can do it. I believe that you can be whatever you choose to become and I believe in you.
Neurotic Nelly
Tuesday, June 11, 2013
Scarred and Alone
In life there is pain. In life there are struggles. In life there is immense sorrow. I am not going to sit here and blow smoke and tell you life is all about rainbows and unicorn farts. Obviously that is not the case. But there is beauty. There is love. There is acceptance, hopes and dreams. Life is hard but it is everything that we have. It is in fact all that we have. This life and what we choose to do with it.
We are all afraid of something. We are all scarred and broken in places. There are tiny cracks in our swords. Small chips in our in our chain mail. Chinks in our armor. Places where life has thrown something at us that we deflected but not quickly enough to avoid all damage. We have splinters and they fester. We are the walking wounded each and everyone of us.
We all at some, point have felt alone. In today's world having mental illness is deemed as being unworthy, unemployable, and unsafe. Mental illness is a now dirty word and all of us diagnosed with one are looked upon as being somehow less of an individual. We are thought to be overacting, attention seeking, and over dramatic. We are seen as the cause of our own issues.
The result is people being untruthful with us. Walking on eggshells or not walking with us at all. Avoidance and secrets are not helpful and if anything it makes us feel even more alone. We feel alone always. Even if placed in a crowded room full of family and friends. There is always a feeling of difference between us and them that makes it hard to feel like part of the crowd. Especially, if we have self esteem issues or are awkward in our movements, speech patterns, and thought processes.
Imagine being at a pool party with everyone you know. Everyone is dancing and swimming around in their swim suits and having an amazing time. You want to join in but under your clothes you have long, deep, red scars that you feel embarrassed about. You feel ugly. You feel unacceptable. You feel like you are hiding something. And so instead of being there to have a good time and socialize you sit in the back and watch others with all of your clothes on even though it's hot. Even though your sweaty. You are too afraid of what other people will say if they see your scars. If they see the real you. You miss out and even though you know these people are your friends they have no idea who the real you is. The complicated you. The scarred you in all it's glory. The you that is not just a pretty face or a silly smile. They don't know your secrets or your feelings on the matter. They only know what is easy for them to process. And so you sit out because you always sit out. You do not reveal the real you.
Are you in a crowded place? Yes, but you still feel so very alone. Imagine this being everyday of your life only the pool party is the office or your dinner table. Your clothes hide no scars but your smiles do. Your scars are inside your mind. There are broken bits in your soul. You can be with the people you love the most and yet you feel totally lost and alone. They are not like you. They are not scarred in the way you are.
When we are honest we tend run across four types of people. The first is the fair weather friend. They avoid and walk away. Let them go. Grieve the loss and walk away with your head held high. They are not worth the time and effort. Do you deserve half assed friends with half assed attempts to support you or understand your pain? No, you deserve the kind of friends that are there for you like you are there for them. If they don't make the grade cut them away like the cancer they are. No one needs fair weather friends.No one.
The second group is a little more complicated. They are the egg shell walkers. They are aware of your issues and are unsure of how to proceed around you. They don't want to bother you with stress or issues that may rise. They fail to include you in decision making. They try to make everything seem perfectly fine when in truth the walls of your life are on fire and falling down around you. Now, these people are not like the fair weather friends. These people care and want to be there for you but they are misguided into believing that somehow your mental illness has turned you into a child incapable of dealing with life and all it holds with in. These people just need to be educated and you can do that by simply sitting them down and explaining it to them. They may have to be monitored and reminded from time to time that they are falling back into old habits. We have mental illness, we are not stupid, ignorant, and most of us can take the truth as it is given to us. After all don't you think we know what we can and can't handle better than you? I mean we tend to be more familiar with truth than the average person.
The third type is the dearly loved ones that are the bad advice givers. Ugh God, really these ideas are so crazy sometimes I wonder who the one with mental illness is. These people love you. They want to make it better but since they have never been mentally ill they give you advice like you have never experienced mental illness either. Forgive them for they do not know what they are doing, seriously. They have no idea that their advice is ridiculous and obvious. As if something simple is something we had not thought of before and that doing it will automatically make us well. They try and although their advice can be slightly insulting and laughable with sarcasm, at least they have decided to help the best way they know how. You can either try to educate them, warning these types tend not to understand what you are broadcasting, or you can let it go and just feel good that they love you enough to keep trying. They are practical and offer only practical advice. As mental illness sufferers our minds might be practical but our emotions are anything but. Telling me that my fear of germs is irrational because we have millions of bacteria on our bodies and they are helpful, doesn't make me any less scared of germs. If anything I feel like I now have to wash myself with bleach and a s.o.s. pad. I do appreciate that you love me enough to give me your time and advice.
The fourth type is what I affectionately call the crazy cousin. It is as if mental illness and bizarre circumstances had children and they are a product of that weird dysfunctional relationship. They either suffer from mental illness or have had so many in their family that they get you in a way that no one else does. They can be relatives, internet friends, coworkers, or neighbors. These people are the kind that would wake up at three a.m. to discuss why you should not be afraid that you have accidentally poisoned yourself by the shampoo dripping into your eyes. They are the people that will drive through a foot of snow to come over and have tea with you when you are lonely. They are the kind that would send you an email from work just to check up on you. They make it possible to laugh at not only how screwed up you are but how screwed up they are in turn. They support you wholeheartedly. They are there for you at your best and there to hold your hand at your worst. They are crazy. They are beautiful and if you find one of these do not take them for granted. They make it possible to go to a pool party and take off your shirt and swim because they are equally scarred and they will dive head first in with you. They don't care how scarred you are they love you not just in spite of them but because of them.
So whether you have fair weather friends, egg shell walkers, bad advice givers, or crazy cousins there is no reason to feel lonely. I can assure you are not alone. There are so many of us that suffer. So many of us that are scared to reveal our true selves. We have no reason to be ashamed of our scars. We have no reason to hide in the back of the room and not participate. We are not alone. You are not alone.
We are all afraid of something. We are all scarred and broken in places. There are tiny cracks in our swords. Small chips in our in our chain mail. Chinks in our armor. Places where life has thrown something at us that we deflected but not quickly enough to avoid all damage. We have splinters and they fester. We are the walking wounded each and everyone of us.
We all at some, point have felt alone. In today's world having mental illness is deemed as being unworthy, unemployable, and unsafe. Mental illness is a now dirty word and all of us diagnosed with one are looked upon as being somehow less of an individual. We are thought to be overacting, attention seeking, and over dramatic. We are seen as the cause of our own issues.
The result is people being untruthful with us. Walking on eggshells or not walking with us at all. Avoidance and secrets are not helpful and if anything it makes us feel even more alone. We feel alone always. Even if placed in a crowded room full of family and friends. There is always a feeling of difference between us and them that makes it hard to feel like part of the crowd. Especially, if we have self esteem issues or are awkward in our movements, speech patterns, and thought processes.
Imagine being at a pool party with everyone you know. Everyone is dancing and swimming around in their swim suits and having an amazing time. You want to join in but under your clothes you have long, deep, red scars that you feel embarrassed about. You feel ugly. You feel unacceptable. You feel like you are hiding something. And so instead of being there to have a good time and socialize you sit in the back and watch others with all of your clothes on even though it's hot. Even though your sweaty. You are too afraid of what other people will say if they see your scars. If they see the real you. You miss out and even though you know these people are your friends they have no idea who the real you is. The complicated you. The scarred you in all it's glory. The you that is not just a pretty face or a silly smile. They don't know your secrets or your feelings on the matter. They only know what is easy for them to process. And so you sit out because you always sit out. You do not reveal the real you.
Are you in a crowded place? Yes, but you still feel so very alone. Imagine this being everyday of your life only the pool party is the office or your dinner table. Your clothes hide no scars but your smiles do. Your scars are inside your mind. There are broken bits in your soul. You can be with the people you love the most and yet you feel totally lost and alone. They are not like you. They are not scarred in the way you are.
When we are honest we tend run across four types of people. The first is the fair weather friend. They avoid and walk away. Let them go. Grieve the loss and walk away with your head held high. They are not worth the time and effort. Do you deserve half assed friends with half assed attempts to support you or understand your pain? No, you deserve the kind of friends that are there for you like you are there for them. If they don't make the grade cut them away like the cancer they are. No one needs fair weather friends.No one.
The second group is a little more complicated. They are the egg shell walkers. They are aware of your issues and are unsure of how to proceed around you. They don't want to bother you with stress or issues that may rise. They fail to include you in decision making. They try to make everything seem perfectly fine when in truth the walls of your life are on fire and falling down around you. Now, these people are not like the fair weather friends. These people care and want to be there for you but they are misguided into believing that somehow your mental illness has turned you into a child incapable of dealing with life and all it holds with in. These people just need to be educated and you can do that by simply sitting them down and explaining it to them. They may have to be monitored and reminded from time to time that they are falling back into old habits. We have mental illness, we are not stupid, ignorant, and most of us can take the truth as it is given to us. After all don't you think we know what we can and can't handle better than you? I mean we tend to be more familiar with truth than the average person.
The third type is the dearly loved ones that are the bad advice givers. Ugh God, really these ideas are so crazy sometimes I wonder who the one with mental illness is. These people love you. They want to make it better but since they have never been mentally ill they give you advice like you have never experienced mental illness either. Forgive them for they do not know what they are doing, seriously. They have no idea that their advice is ridiculous and obvious. As if something simple is something we had not thought of before and that doing it will automatically make us well. They try and although their advice can be slightly insulting and laughable with sarcasm, at least they have decided to help the best way they know how. You can either try to educate them, warning these types tend not to understand what you are broadcasting, or you can let it go and just feel good that they love you enough to keep trying. They are practical and offer only practical advice. As mental illness sufferers our minds might be practical but our emotions are anything but. Telling me that my fear of germs is irrational because we have millions of bacteria on our bodies and they are helpful, doesn't make me any less scared of germs. If anything I feel like I now have to wash myself with bleach and a s.o.s. pad. I do appreciate that you love me enough to give me your time and advice.
The fourth type is what I affectionately call the crazy cousin. It is as if mental illness and bizarre circumstances had children and they are a product of that weird dysfunctional relationship. They either suffer from mental illness or have had so many in their family that they get you in a way that no one else does. They can be relatives, internet friends, coworkers, or neighbors. These people are the kind that would wake up at three a.m. to discuss why you should not be afraid that you have accidentally poisoned yourself by the shampoo dripping into your eyes. They are the people that will drive through a foot of snow to come over and have tea with you when you are lonely. They are the kind that would send you an email from work just to check up on you. They make it possible to laugh at not only how screwed up you are but how screwed up they are in turn. They support you wholeheartedly. They are there for you at your best and there to hold your hand at your worst. They are crazy. They are beautiful and if you find one of these do not take them for granted. They make it possible to go to a pool party and take off your shirt and swim because they are equally scarred and they will dive head first in with you. They don't care how scarred you are they love you not just in spite of them but because of them.
So whether you have fair weather friends, egg shell walkers, bad advice givers, or crazy cousins there is no reason to feel lonely. I can assure you are not alone. There are so many of us that suffer. So many of us that are scared to reveal our true selves. We have no reason to be ashamed of our scars. We have no reason to hide in the back of the room and not participate. We are not alone. You are not alone.
Saturday, June 8, 2013
Hatred Of Sounds
Today I would like to discuss something a little different from my usual diatribe. Today I would like to discuss my other mental dysfunction misophonia. It is more common that you think.
For people with a condition that some scientists call misophonia, mealtime can be torture. The sounds of other people eating — chewing, chomping, slurping, gurgling — can send them into an instantaneous, blood-boiling rage. Many people can be driven to distraction by certain small sounds that do not seem to bother others — gum chewing, footsteps, humming. But sufferers of misophonia, a newly recognized condition that remains little studied and poorly understood, take the problem to a higher level. -http://www.nytimes.com/2011/09/06/health/06annoy.html?_r=0
I have had it since childhood. My first memory of it was telling my best friend that if she smacked her ice cream cone one more time I was going to literally shove it up her nose. She laughed, I laughed, and I envisioned it still as I laughed. It is not enough that I have OCD and have a problem with smells and textures. I also have a problem with certain sounds. A big problem.
I have a hatred of sounds. I am not talking about a mild annoyance. I am talking about a knee jerk violent reaction that makes me want to scream and punch the offender. I do not act upon it because I am a non violent person. I do however think about it really hard. Hearing my trigger sounds make my jaw tighten, my blood pump, and my rage explode. I can usually only manage a strangled voice through clenched teeth, "Do it again and I will hurt you....I ...will...hurt...you." That has been my mantra for over thirty years. Now, I have never followed through on that threat but I do threaten and mostly people laugh. Sometimes they make my trigger noises just to watch me spin my head around like the exorcist and shoot them a nasty look.
My trigger sounds are licking, smacking, sucking sounds, clicking things on your teeth, whistling sounds from your nose, gulping, and some loud breathing sounds.
I am often told by my grandmother to get a dining room table. I would love to but I will not be able to eat at it. I can hear the swishing sounds inside of people's mouths when the eat and I have to get up and leave. Thanksgiving dinner is hell. Pure hell. I have to choose where I am gong to sit carefully because SOME of my more distant family members eat like farm animals complete with talking with their mouth full and saying it while spraying it. Ugh.
The worst offender in my house out of my two children, my husband, and my four cats is my twenty two pound orange cat Hobbs. Just so you know I got him that big. He and I have a running problem with his rude behavior. He is a licker. He licks constantly. I know it is sign that he is happy but out of the four bedrooms in my house why does he choose to go right next to me to do it? Like there is no place else he can go? I usually snap my fingers at him. He looks at me, I look at him. We have a staring contest. I stare, he stares. I squint my eyes , he winks at me mid lick and then goes back to cleaning himself. I think he is secretly trying to drive me insane. Well, more insane than I already admit to being.
When I here these noises I have a fight or flight response. I can't handle them. I always flee because for some reason punching random people in the throat is frowned upon in our society. I have even pushed someone walking too slow out of my way because a man in the clothing store was walking behind me while clicking a peppermint on his teeth....sorry Mom. She was cool with it and all but I probably should have just went around her instead of body checking her into a rack of clothes like a hockey player....again my apologies.
When confronted with these noises I have often dug my finger nails into my palms until they bled. Just to concentrate on the pain rather than the sound. It doesn't really work that well but that has been all I have in situations where I could not flee. The sounds are amplified in my brain. I can't concentrate on anything else or hear anything else. It is a horrid experience. I seem to get more trigger sounds as I age. I also have to have the t.v. up when my cats eat or drink. The noises are unbearable. I mean why can't they drink from a glass like everyone else? Not having thumbs is not a good excuse. I mean is it my fault that they don't have lips? Well, is it??!!??
All kidding aside, it is very hard to be around noises that are almost painful. It is torture. There is no known cure at this time and I would love for them to find one. I would love to be able to sit at a table with my family and friends and not be like a crazed caged animal looking for a way out. I would love to be able to not have to drown out noises with music or t.v. so I can remain calm. I would love to join in things that right now I avoid due to the rage that isn't really my personality at all. Do you have misophonia as well? If so I feel your pain but I am glad I don't hear it.
For people with a condition that some scientists call misophonia, mealtime can be torture. The sounds of other people eating — chewing, chomping, slurping, gurgling — can send them into an instantaneous, blood-boiling rage. Many people can be driven to distraction by certain small sounds that do not seem to bother others — gum chewing, footsteps, humming. But sufferers of misophonia, a newly recognized condition that remains little studied and poorly understood, take the problem to a higher level. -http://www.nytimes.com/2011/09/06/health/06annoy.html?_r=0
I have had it since childhood. My first memory of it was telling my best friend that if she smacked her ice cream cone one more time I was going to literally shove it up her nose. She laughed, I laughed, and I envisioned it still as I laughed. It is not enough that I have OCD and have a problem with smells and textures. I also have a problem with certain sounds. A big problem.
I have a hatred of sounds. I am not talking about a mild annoyance. I am talking about a knee jerk violent reaction that makes me want to scream and punch the offender. I do not act upon it because I am a non violent person. I do however think about it really hard. Hearing my trigger sounds make my jaw tighten, my blood pump, and my rage explode. I can usually only manage a strangled voice through clenched teeth, "Do it again and I will hurt you....I ...will...hurt...you." That has been my mantra for over thirty years. Now, I have never followed through on that threat but I do threaten and mostly people laugh. Sometimes they make my trigger noises just to watch me spin my head around like the exorcist and shoot them a nasty look.
My trigger sounds are licking, smacking, sucking sounds, clicking things on your teeth, whistling sounds from your nose, gulping, and some loud breathing sounds.
I am often told by my grandmother to get a dining room table. I would love to but I will not be able to eat at it. I can hear the swishing sounds inside of people's mouths when the eat and I have to get up and leave. Thanksgiving dinner is hell. Pure hell. I have to choose where I am gong to sit carefully because SOME of my more distant family members eat like farm animals complete with talking with their mouth full and saying it while spraying it. Ugh.
The worst offender in my house out of my two children, my husband, and my four cats is my twenty two pound orange cat Hobbs. Just so you know I got him that big. He and I have a running problem with his rude behavior. He is a licker. He licks constantly. I know it is sign that he is happy but out of the four bedrooms in my house why does he choose to go right next to me to do it? Like there is no place else he can go? I usually snap my fingers at him. He looks at me, I look at him. We have a staring contest. I stare, he stares. I squint my eyes , he winks at me mid lick and then goes back to cleaning himself. I think he is secretly trying to drive me insane. Well, more insane than I already admit to being.
When I here these noises I have a fight or flight response. I can't handle them. I always flee because for some reason punching random people in the throat is frowned upon in our society. I have even pushed someone walking too slow out of my way because a man in the clothing store was walking behind me while clicking a peppermint on his teeth....sorry Mom. She was cool with it and all but I probably should have just went around her instead of body checking her into a rack of clothes like a hockey player....again my apologies.
When confronted with these noises I have often dug my finger nails into my palms until they bled. Just to concentrate on the pain rather than the sound. It doesn't really work that well but that has been all I have in situations where I could not flee. The sounds are amplified in my brain. I can't concentrate on anything else or hear anything else. It is a horrid experience. I seem to get more trigger sounds as I age. I also have to have the t.v. up when my cats eat or drink. The noises are unbearable. I mean why can't they drink from a glass like everyone else? Not having thumbs is not a good excuse. I mean is it my fault that they don't have lips? Well, is it??!!??
All kidding aside, it is very hard to be around noises that are almost painful. It is torture. There is no known cure at this time and I would love for them to find one. I would love to be able to sit at a table with my family and friends and not be like a crazed caged animal looking for a way out. I would love to be able to not have to drown out noises with music or t.v. so I can remain calm. I would love to join in things that right now I avoid due to the rage that isn't really my personality at all. Do you have misophonia as well? If so I feel your pain but I am glad I don't hear it.
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