“Wasted days and wasted nights,” words of a Freddy Fender song, describes my lifestyle much of the time. I'm not proud, and am constantly bombarded by feelings of guilt and shame. True, I have choices. I find that exercising better choices is my biggest challenge. Sometimes I'm even successful in reaching my goals.
The guilt and shame that still hangs over my head in spite of all the therapy I've been through is a constant source of anxiety and depression. The face I show the world smiles and portrays an attitude of liveliness and humor ? sometimes even the clown. When I cannot get that kind of composure, I isolate. Well, I isolate for other reasons, also. However, that's another story.
I have been diagnosed with major depression, bipolar Type 2 disorder and post-traumatic stress disorder. I am not my diagnosis. I am a woman who has a multi-faceted personality, much like a patchwork quilt.
There is a blessing in this too ? having had personal experience with depression. I have compassion toward others who experience these feelings in their lives. I am a good listener, and bring a non-judgmental attitude of encouragement. I can give to others what I am not always able to give myself. I believe God wants me to use my experience in the mire of muck to make a positive difference in the lives of others. God gets all the credit.
Some people (family for the most part) have told me to “get over it and move on,” or “depression is a luxury.” I hope they never have this so-called luxury. Another thing I've been told is that I'm still living in the past. I disagree, even though by writing this story it's necessary to tap into the past.
I'm not sure when I first started having mental difficulties, but I do remember seeing a psychiatrist when I was ten. I wasn't depressed that I know of, but I was an angry little girl even before age ten. I wasn't consciously aware of having abandonment issues. I believe they were there. After all, my mother claimed she couldn't take care of me because of the job she had (a live-in domestic worker) where she could not have children and she needed to earn money. My sister and I were made wards of the court and lived in separate foster homes. I remember the temper tantrums I used to have when I was eight. I'd jump up and down, screaming, crying, and I'd even bite my arm (no, I didn't bite hard enough to draw blood, just teeth marks). I don't remember what provoked my angry outbursts.
At the foster home I was verbally and physically abused. Then I lived in a convent, in a warm, nurturing environment and I became the abuser. I didn't know how to respond to love. I lived with my mother and her new husband, my stepfather, where I experienced sexual abuse.
The next stop was a school for emotionally disturbed children, where I saw my first psychiatrist. I thought the ink blot tests were fun. Being somewhat keen, I noticed a certificate hanging on the wall of the school's lobby, which read “School for Emotionally Disturbed Children.” I was absolutely indignant at such a slap in the face. Did that mean I was considered emotionally disturbed? How dare they! I flounced down to the Director's office immediately (he was a psychiatrist) to verbalize my outrage. I don't recall what he told me, but I was placated and didn't make any more waves about it.
After two years at the school it was time to go. I was going to be released to my mother and stepfather's custody. I did not want to leave. I was safe there, and had friends. I was afraid that my stepfather would molest me again. I couldn't tell anybody why I didn't want to leave because I had been sworn to secrecy. As I write this down, I'm thinking of how different my life might have been if I had spilled that dark secret.
My mother, sister and I were in court when the judge awarded her custody. My next specific memory is going on the Super Chief train from Chicago to California, a new home for my sister and me. It was a three-day trip. I was shy; my sister was gregarious, quick to make new friends. On occasion I would go with her to the dome car and look at all the scenery (mostly fields of wheat and corn). My mother had prepared sandwiches and drink mixes for the trip because we couldn't afford the dining car.
We finally arrived in California where our stepfather was waiting in the car to take us to our new home. Home was a tiny cottage with a large kitchen. My mother's job was preparing breakfast and lunch for the farm hands. I had never lived on a farm in the middle of nowhere. However, it was a new adventure and I got used to it. I even started relaxing after a few days because no untoward moves had been made by Otto (stepfather). Unfortunately, that was short-lived.
My sister had long, beautiful hair which she wore in braids. The second day we were there, my stepfather lopped them off with a knife. I think she was bewildered and I was angry.
My mother's mood changed as well. She was not so cheerful anymore. Did she bite off more than she could chew in regaining custody of her children? I don't remember what I did or didn't do at the time, but I remember that she was frequently annoyed with me.
Since this story is about challenges and choices involved in depression today, the preceding has been a backdrop to illustrate some contributing factors.
My shyness lasted for years, and even when not shy, I was reserved and did not make friends easily. I was afraid of rejection and usually, that's what I felt. Today I'm not shy and rarely feel rejected.
Joyce Meyer has said, “I'm not where I want to be, but I'm not where I used to be.” And I hang my hat on those words. My personal growth has been a series of steps, some forward, and some back, on a zigzag path of progress.
In conclusion, I'll borrow a 12-step program saying: “God is in the results department. I'm in the efforts department.” Do I choose to make the effort? That's the challenge.
It is my hope that this reaches someone who will benefit by reading it. Thank you for letting me share.
