Today is the first day of Mental Health Awareness week here at school. Inspired by this, I am going to share my mental health story. I have not been officially diagnosed with anything, but am going to work on getting counseling and, hopefully, get the help I may need.
When I was 2 years old, my biological mother died from food insufflation brought on by a Grand Mal seizure. I don’t remember her, but I know the fact of this affects me pretty much every day of my life. My sister and brother (who were 10 years old and 5 years old, respectively, at the time) say they don’t remember her either. I don’t know how true that is. My earliest memory is my mom, shaking on the floor by the back door (by the washer and dryer). Then I remember the paramedics (guys in black uniforms in my memory, as I didn’t know what paramedics were then) taking her out on a stretcher. I remember my sister crying hysterically and me not knowing what was happening. All I know now is that my mom was gone and things were never quite the same.
I remember Brenda always being the one there. She started babysitting us shortly after my mom died. My dad had 3 kids and had to go back to work so he could provide for us. I remember sitting in our living room as a kid, with my sister, brother, Dad, and Brenda, doing family devotions and talking about Mom. We did this for a while, but stopped (I later found out it was because my parents didn’t think we wanted to do it anymore). I wish we had kept doing it, because my sister and brother should have had memories of my mom to share with me so that she could stay alive somehow. It kind of angers me that they say they don’t remember her.
My mom’s death created a fear of getting attached to someone. I don’t want them to leave me, so I push them away until they prove that they aren’t going anywhere. According to Focus Adolescent Services “In every situation that children experienced their parent’s love being cut off (e.g., divorce, abandonment, abuse, neglect, death, imprisonment, or their love becoming conditional), the emotional bond was broken” (http://www.focusas.com/Attachment.html). When this emotional bond is broken, children can develop a sense of being unlovable or that they were somehow at fault. I, personally, developed a beginning of being unlovable. I knew I was still lovable, but the foundation was cracked.
The next thing that contributed to the complete obliteration of that foundation and made me feel unlovable was things that happened to me as a child in Sunday School. Jonathan Hartman was 12 years old, I was 6 years old. He was my Sunday School teacher because I was the only one in my age group. Things happened. I found out a couple of years ago that he was arrested, convicted, and imprisoned for molesting girls at the church he was “volunteering” at (his parents were the pastors). Within a month of finding that out, I was inundated with nightmares and memories resurfacing about things that he did to me. I don’t want to go into too much detail, but there were things that he did to me (and, I found out later, he used me as a way to prevent girls from telling people… saying that I had tried telling, but it didn’t do anything to stop him) that were beginning stages of sexual abuse. This went on for 3 years. I am his first “victim”.
One of the things he did to me was to tell me “no one will ever love you like I do, not even your parents do”. This line was repeated to me on a regular basis. I heard him say that in my mind for the next 20 or so years. Whenever I would get an interest in a guy, or a guy would express interest in me, I would hear those words and retreat. Jonathan Hartman did not, in any way, love me. He loved the control he had over me.
I have worked on forgiving him and have finally moved past that. The nightmares that I’ve had for the last 2 years have finally subsided, for now. But his actions pushed a wedge in that cracked foundation and crumbled it completely.
I have lost more people in my life than any one person should lose at a young age. My mom and Grandma Betty didn’t have a choice in the matter as the loss of them was by death. I believe firmly that if they’d had the choice, they would still be here.
Other people, however, were completely by choice. I’ve explained the relationship with my Dad’s parents and his sister before. But there were others who made the choice to be out of my life for extended periods too. I don’t know their reasoning, but it contributed to my issues as well.
My sister and brother both walked out of my life for around 10 years (my brother was less time, but he also has little to no contact with me now, his choice). My sister and I have talked about this. I have told her how angry I was at her for what she did. My brother won’t listen to what I have to say, because he doesn’t want to hear it.
Shawn: I love you. You are my brother. We had amazing conversations as kids and I miss that with you. I hope you can someday finally grow to a place where you can listen to my feelings about everything that happened and how you disappearing from my life for so long affected me.
My biological mom’s mom also effectively walked out of my life as well. I tend to focus more on my dad’s parents, because they were so vocally adamant about it, but this woman also left a hole in an already crumbled foundation.
One summer day, while sitting at home with my mom (Brenda), my dad called and told us we should come up to his work (Wendy’s up north, next to a hotel). My Nana, Aunt Becky, Uncle Eddie, and cousins Tracey and Archelle were up there. Apparently, he was doing something in the lobby and, upon glancing out the window, saw them in the parking lot of the hotel. Somehow he got their attention and they came in.
They had been in the area for a few days. About a year ago I found out that they had taken my sister, her kids, and my brother up to see my Grandpa in the Veteran’s Home and they had spent a couple days up there at the lake, going water skiing and such (believe that when I found this out, I was immensely unhappy, but unable to say anything because I didn’t want to upset my sick Grandpa). They had no plans of seeing me. If they hadn’t gotten caught, I wouldn’t have seen them.
*Disclaimer: NO ONE TOLD ME THIS. I FIGURED IT OUT ON MY OWN.*
Turns out they had talked to my dad’s sister while they were in town. Apparently my aunt had nothing good to say about my parents (big surprise, not) and somehow the grandmother that supported my second mom (Brenda) and her relationship with us all of a sudden turned against her and my dad. I was, once again, unwillingly tossed aside. This woman packed up her piece of foundation and went to do her own thing. She sent a card once in a while saying happy birthday or happy graduation, but it was never the same.
So there went most of the rest of my foundation. I was left with my parents as the only piece of foundation left.
People that took pieces of my mental health foundation:
Grandma & Grandpa Rants
Mom
Nana
Shawn
Margo
Jonathan
Grandma Betty
Most people can live a fairly healthy mental and emotional life with a few pieces missing. But I had already had one piece of foundation removed and replaced (or grafted in if you will) when my mom died and Brenda came in.
I constantly felt out of control. In order to control these things I resorted to controlling every single thing I could, and some I couldn’t. I became angry when something wouldn’t go the exact way I wanted it to go (which was a lot, I had extremely high expectations and very detailed plans for things). My parents, even this summer, were at wit’s end with my irritability and constant anger. I kind of forgot how it felt to be happy. In a previous blog (here) I discuss my monotone emotion of sadness.
In high school a teacher and I discussed some of the things I was going through. Panic attacks (that no one else knew about. I still have them sometimes), depression, fear of people. He also struggled with panic disorder and depression and said that he would sit down with my parents if I wanted him to do so. I talked to my parents that night. They thought all I wanted was attention and medication. I don’t completely disagree with them. I didn’t know exactly what I wanted from them. Maybe an agreement from them that I was mentally unstable? I’m not quite sure still.
I was also a cutter for a long time. Even after I told my parents and promised I would stop, I continued to cut. I hid it, I claimed it was from other things. All I knew was that when I cut myself, I felt better. I could sleep, I could function. My mind was more focused on hiding and caring for my cuts, so I wasn’t focused on what was going wrong around me or on what I couldn’t control. I finally quit for a while. It wasn’t easy and someone coming into my first solo apartment would have been confused by all the strings tying drawers shut. I did slip up once. I was sitting on my bed, crying about my friend who decided not to be my friend anymore… and the next thing I knew I was looking down at my arm. It was bleeding from about 10 different cuts. I had blacked out, ripped apart my shaving razor, and cut myself. That was 5 years ago.
I’ve begun working through some of my issues. I’m working on forgiving the people who walked out of my life and moving forward.
I’m not sharing this to hurt anyone or make them feel bad, but rather as a story of what I have personally gone through. I really hope it can help someone else in their own quest for mental stability.