part 46

I was talking to a friend the other day and the topic of mental illness came up.  She believes there are a lot more fucked up people in the world than we (the general public, society at large, etc.) know about.

I agree with her completely. Being obsessively self-analytical and having an overall fascination with human behavior has taught me how to recognize a lot of certain indicators of certain neuroses or behaviors or disorders or whatever, and a lot of the time I can pick up on them within the first minute after meeting someone new.

I can pretty much see at least some hint or slight indication of mental illness in everyone I meet. It is kind of fun, but also kind of scary, and it definitely does not help to reduce my inhibitions regarding new friendships. However, for the most part, I am okay with it.

The thing is though, I’m not a doctor. One of my friends reminds me that I am not omnipotent (it’s true, I’m not omnipotent, but somehow I always forget). Also, I am not psychic (that I’m aware of), and I don’t have ESP.

I can’t move objects with my mind, either, but that has more to do with a super-power concerning physics than a super-power concerning the general manipulation of the thoughts and ideas of others. Regardless, I do not believe super-powers exist. I believe that it is possible for the human mind to obtain a level of awareness and/or intuitiveness beyond what is typical in our world, but I don’t have that either.

What the hell was I talking about? Oh yeah – my mental illness.

So anyway, I have had a theory congruent to my friend’s in that I believe there is much more mental illness in the world than we are aware of, or recognize, or give a shit about, or whatever. During that conversation with my friend, though, it occurred to me that by generalizing mental illness throughout the human population, I am minimizing my experiences and how they have affected me.

(I’m SURE I have written about this before….kind of sure. Whatever.)

I have been aware of how I systematically normalized my traumatic experiences as a component of the survival aspect of living life without my brain melting and dripping out of my ears. I had not considered the notion that I also have been normalizing the effects of those traumatic experiences, as well.

I have learned to recognize and accept the different ways my brain and body work as a consequence of trauma. For example, I get very easily startled. Just tonight, I was on a walk with my family and my husband touched my shoulder. He was standing right next to me – I knew he was there and that he wouldn’t hurt me, but it still really startled me.

Loud, sudden noises and movements trigger a duck-and-cover response in me. Suddenly becoming aware that there is another person (no matter whom or whether or not I previously knew they were there) in my personal space scares the bejesus out of me. (Side note: the word “bejesus” was not flagged by spell check. I just thought that was interesting and worthy of a side note)

I have noticed a distinct decline in my overall sensitivity to loud noises and things since my dad died. That has happened before, after starting therapy. The sensitivity declined, ebbed a bit, but came back again over time. I just try to accept it as one of those things I have no control over, because there are no set rules as to what will startle me, or when, or where.

These moments of being repeatedly startled are really very exhausting. There is a scene in the movie “Elf” where Buddy is doing quality assurance on jack-in-a-boxes. He knows that thing is going to jump out at him and scare him, and he had been turning the little cranks over and over and over for hours. Still, he was startled when that little jack-bastard jumped out at him.

That is kind of how I feel almost all of the time.

I have tried expressing to those close to me that I am very easily startled, but when I try to let them know each time I get startled (so they won’t do whatever it was that startled me again), I feel like I am making a big deal of nothing.

I feel like I am just trying to bring attention to myself and convince others to behave differently around me out of respect and sympathy for my “condition.” Actually, that is pretty much what that is all about when I tell them particular things startle me.

I used to not tell people at all about getting startled. Some people eventually noticed that I get startled pretty easily, but I didn’t point it out or try to think of an explanation. I will actually apologize to someone who startled me when my startling startles them back – I mean, I can really relate to how they feel at that moment.

This startling thing is one of those long-lasting effects of what happened to me as a child and young adult.

As I have begun to learn about the long-lasting effects of PTSD, and of complex PTSD, I get a little upset. It bothers me when I learn that something I always felt was simply “quirky” actually turns out to be a common effect of prolonged PTSD. I can tell myself that a lot of people who do not have PTSD do the same things in similar situations, too.

I want to believe that someone who is familiar with PTSD cannot watch me for a few minutes and recognize my dysfunction, that my “quirks” can be easily attributable to something else – something normal.

So does this mean I am trying to normalize the effects of trauma? Does it mean I am just trying to get through each day without over thinking every single reaction I get from every single person I encounter? If I don’t try to normalize these things, does it mean that I am histrionic as well?

I suppose all of those things are possible.

I can’t deny how difficult it is, though, when I recognize one more way I have been impeded in living life. I don’t like the idea that my dad and all of my other abusers are still affecting me now. It is actually kind of painful, and I want to cry thinking about it.

I don’t want to be disabled. “Quirky” is much more preferable.

But where does that leave me every time I miss a day of class or work because I’m too scared to leave my house? Where does it leave me every time I have to be told slowly and multiple times how to get to the bathroom in a public place? Where does it leave me when I get lost driving around the town I have lived in my whole life?

I don’t think “quirky” covers all of the ways I am out of place and obnoxious to inpatient people. I also don’t think that “quirky” is a valid excuse to forget to go to work, or to miss a final exam because I mixed up the dates or times.

Quite the conundrum, these things.

Of course, my dad is still dead, so things could definitely be worse.

J

part 45

There are some pretty significant things that I have not been able to share here, for a variety of different reasons. It is weird to not be able to discuss these other events that have played such a huge role in my life, and in my recovery.

My intention is to “put it all out there.” I almost accidently reference the other things over and over when I write about my past. It feels like I’m keeping secrets. Maybe someday I will get to a place where I can include them here.

I will, however, say that those other significant things all carry on the sadistic and monstrous events I have already discussed here. Of course, these other things involve my dad, as well. Having lived such a life, and having died such a death, my dad has presented so many philosophical and psychological questions about the human mind, and about human beings in general.

For example, why do some people end up like my dad, while others do not? I think it is safe to presume that most people do not end up like my dad, but I truly believe there are a lot more people like him in the world than we as a society consciously acknowledge.

Of course, I also feel that, as a society, we are very quick to condemn others regardless of our knowledge of actual circumstances. It may not seem like such a big deal on an individual level, but I believe that lack of empathy is a continuously corroding element of the foundation of who we are as people.

Maybe ten years ago, a man I had known since childhood began discussing his views on drug dealers. He stated that all drug dealers should be killed. I asked him if he felt there were any mitigating factors to consider before condemning someone to death, and he made it clear that he believed the single act of selling drugs was justification for punishment by death.

His theory in support of his view was nothing that I, as a child of the 1980’s “Say No to Drugs” era, had not heard before. He believed that drugs killed people, and that no matter who you were or where you came from, if you sold drugs at any time in your life, you would be responsible for the death of someone who died from a drug overdose, or for the death of someone who might die of a drug overdose in the future.

His point was that once you deal drugs, you don’t know where they are going to go or whom they will harm, essentially like sending a loaded gun out to a crowded playground. Because drugs inevitably harm someone at some time, killing all drug dealers would be good way to keep that from happening, a good deterrent from other people becoming drug dealers, and would also be a just consequence for dealing drugs to begin with.

It is a logical argument. I don’t agree with it, but I can see how some could.

Anyway, I told this neighbor that I used to be involved with dealing drugs. If he really wanted to get technical, he could call me a drug dealer.

I don’t remember if he responded to that, but I do remember it was effectively the end of that conversation. (By the way, if you are craving to be in an awkward situation, just see me - I am the queen of creating awkward situations)

I didn’t try to argue with him – he was really getting on my nerves anyway. But my point (that I seriously doubt the neighbor guy got) was that drug dealers are not complete strangers, or even only people you may remotely know through a series of other people.

Drug dealers are human beings. They are sons and daughters and fathers and mothers and sisters and brothers. It is easy to condemn drug dealers to death as an entire group if you do not consider that human factor.

I did not tell this neighbor that the first time I snorted amphetamines was in his house after his son showed me how to crush up my Ritalin with the bottom of a spoon, and then to suck it up my nose through a rolled up dollar bill and off of his kitchen counter.

I am not advocating a specific leniency in the prosecution of drug dealers, nor am I implying that every son or daughter may become, is now, or has been a drug dealer. I’m just saying that it doesn’t make any sense to dehumanize criminal behavior when it is always a human being committing the crime.

I refer to my dad as a monster. I feel that he is somehow not human because of the things he has done. It makes me feel better that I can separate my dad from all other human beings like that. It makes it easier for me to not look at what I myself am capable of, or what anyone close to me is capable of, or what anyone at all is capable of.

Nothing my dad ever did can change the fact that he is a human being – a horrendous and dead human being, but a human being nonetheless. Sixty years ago, my dad was an adorable baby boy with a curl in his hair and a sunny smile. He was a little kid as desperate for his parents’ love as I was for his. He was innocent.

How did he become a monster? I have my theories, of course, but at the end of the day, there is no completely definitive way to answer the question of how my dad went from a beautiful little cherub to a terrifying mad man.

There is no completely definitive way to answer the question of how I did NOT become a terrifying mad man.

I don’t believe that what my dad did was in any way excusable, because it was not. However, a big part of the person he ended up being was because of how horrible other human beings had been to him during his childhood. He was condemned before he could ever even have a chance to naturally grow up to be a good person.

I don’t know why I am writing this. I just really believe that we should never forget that human beings are human beings, no matter what we want to see them as. Following, we are all human beings who are capable of becoming monsters. This is not okay with me, but it is real.

My dad always had standards for me to meet before he would allow me to believe he cared about me. That was really fucked up. It’s also fucked up that people do that to each other every single day.

All I know for sure is that I can do my best to just love my kids and my husband and my family and my friends for who they are, and to be as tolerant and kind as I can to everyone else. I don’t think this will guarantee that I will never become a monster, but I do think it will help to not speed up the process of anyone else becoming a monster.

That’s about as close as I can come to a conclusion on this post, so I’m just going to stop writing now, and go take a nap.

part 44

I had gotten used to the flashbacks. Having them was like non-stop peek-a-boo with a big bowl of horror, but I had become so familiar with the process, I was very rarely startled or shocked anymore. It makes me sad and glad to think of how well I had gotten at managing my own mind and its potential to run me over at any given time. Glad because it was manageable, sad because of what there was to manage in the first place.

Now that my dad is dead, and I am feeling sooooo much safer, the flash backs have really decreased in frequency and intensity. Instead, I am now just remembering things. Instead of “HEY! LOOK OVER HERE! A MIND PICTURE OF SOMETHING HORRIFIC!” I am getting full-on memories.

Entire scenes and voices and noises and smells and feelings. Horrible, horrible things. But now instead of plucking a little note in my brain for me to obsess over, the whole song is simply there.

Instead of getting hit with a drop of rain out of nowhere, I’m swimming in a lake full of rain drops.

It is really quite an odd sensation.

I’ve been consciously and subconsciously fighting my awareness of these events and feelings all of my life. I was terrified when I first started remembering them, and I stayed terrified for years. But terrified and I got well acquainted, and even though I really don’t like the little bastard, I could accept that he was there in my life.

The terror is missing now. It is weird that I would write that the terror is “missing” as though it were something for which I feel a loss at no longer having. I guess I do feel that way, but the thing that I lost was so heavy around my heart and my brain and my body, and so painful, that losing it was liberating and thrilling instead of devastating.

I don’t miss my dad. Before he died, I would try to imagine what it would feel like if he was dead. Now he is dead and it has occurred to me to try imagining what it would feel like if he was alive again. I think I could imagine that pretty well, but imagining my imagining that is so close to absolute madness and sheer terror that I don’t even want to approach it.

And I don’t have to.

There it is again – the feeling of loss transforming into relief.

Once on TV, I saw a weather man demonstrate how cold it was by taking a cup of water and tossing the water out of the cup toward the camera. The water froze so immediately in the cold air, it was like a magic trick, like there had been little slivers of ice in that cup the whole time. The camera did not get wet. (It made me think for a moment that I might want to be somewhere cold enough to see that happen in real life, but then I remembered that I don’t think I would ever like to be anywhere that cold ever.)

Anyway, that is what the loss feels like. It is the water in the cup, and I am anticipating being soaked, but it doesn’t happen because it has almost immediately become relief in the form of tiny pieces of ice. It feels much more like a very few grains of sand brushing my face and my body in a soft breeze.

Like when I’m at the beach, at the end of the day when the sun is beginning to set and the heat first breaks, but before I start gathering my towel and book and chair and stuff to go back inside. The soft breeze begins to hit me, and it has picked up just enough sand to hit me along with it that I am physically aware of the sand and the breeze – but only just enough for me to be aware that it is there and to know that it is real.

I put my hands on my hips and look at the sun going down, and then out at the ceaseless water, and close my eyes and breathe in a huge breath and let it out and open my eyes again. It is a moment of perfection, where all of my senses are soothed simultaneously. I can inhale and allow the greatness of life’s beauty in for just a few seconds, to appreciate it is there and to gain strength from it, and then I can exhale and go about my business again before the past and future have a chance to run me over.

Wow. I am full of analogies today.

It has just occurred to me that I interpret my own feelings through these analogies. I thought maybe I used them so other people might get a hint of what I am feeling, but I use them for myself all the time. They take the big feelings and assign them to something I can see in my mind. I guess being able to identify the feelings with a concrete image (oxymoron?) makes it easier to process.

“Process” is a good word. I feel like I have genuinely “processed” “trauma.” It’s like one of my first therapists described, that processing trauma takes an experience that is completely intrusive and overwhelming and terrifying, and turns it into just something really shitty that happened in the past.

I feel really good about where I am right now. I am sad about where I was in the past. I don’t know where I will be in the future. Somehow the serenity of the present and the grief of the past and the anxiety of the future have all balanced each other out and it just feels peaceful.

The only intrusive thoughts I have had over the past couple of days are ones concerning whether or not Lindsey Lohan will become a convicted jewel thief. The only reason they feel intrusive is because I would prefer to just not give a shit.

My current internal struggle is over whether or not I give a shit about Lindsey Lohan. I mean, I do, but I don’t want to – that could be an entire blog subject all on its own.

But the point is, that is where my worrying and my anxiety are pointed right now. At Hollywood gossip. At something so incredibly inconsequential to me that worrying and being anxious feel nothing more than silly. Silly is nice.

part 43

I had been experiencing a lot of inner peace and spiritual growth and stuff like that in the months before my dad died. I was finally able to fully accept certain things about him, and certain things about me, and to really just let it all go.

I don’t mean let it all go, as in forget it or whatever. Maybe a better way to phrase it would be that I stopped holding on to all of it so tightly. I had been working toward the point where I could know in my heart and soul – a/k/a “accept” – what I knew in my mind to be real, and I had begun to feel that distinctly in the months before my dad died.

The timeline of events is really quite extraordinary, and I am talking about several pretty big events at one time. Let me go back and explain what I mean:

In the past few months, I had finally gotten to a point where I felt I accepted myself wholly. I knew in my mind that I was not my dad, but there was so much shit to sift through from his years and years of brainwashing me to believe that I was a definitive extension of him. I wrote of the effects of this brainwashing a lot throughout my posts in this blog – it has been very, very, very difficult to overcome.

I have been terribly disappointed to find that being able to analyze and intellectualize and explain who I am in certain ways, and why I have done certain things, has not been the key to changing or getting past difficulties or to recover from pain. I suppose it has always been my main obsession to know “why” – I view this question, and even this word, as madness incarnate.

It is a ridiculous thing to ask over and over, especially when it has kept me from accepting the obvious and living my life. I read a story in a book that is pretty well-known in the recovery world, about this person who described the question of WHY beautifully.  

He (or she, I don’t remember) imagined himself on a bridge above a body of water. This is not a story about suicide, so I like to think that the bridge was very small and close to the body of water, and that the body of water was a trickling stream or tepid pond or something like that.

The author describes himself as standing there on the bridge looking down at the water, and the entire time his pants are on fire. The fire is burning him, he knows it could kill him, he is afraid of it, it hurts a lot, but it does not even occur to him to just get in the water. He cannot comprehend this logic because he is so consumed with WHY his pants are on fire.

It’s as though he MUST answer the question of WHY his pants are on fire BEFORE he can realize that he can just step into the water.

In my mind, I also think that he probably eventually figured out he could just get in the water, and that the fire would go out, but he still was so consumed with WHY that he didn’t do it, or maybe even couldn’t do it. Perhaps there were people who loved him standing all around him yelling at him to get into the damn water before he was burned to death, but still that question – the insane notion of WHY – prevented him from saving himself.

In the book, the author goes on to describe this as analogous to his refusal or inability to begin the road to recovery from addiction. I could really relate to that, but that story stayed with me and I began to see how it applied to so many other things in my life.

One of the biggest ways it has changed my thinking is because of how ridiculous it is that the guy couldn’t or wouldn’t get into the water because he had to know WHY his pants were on fire first. It would have been just as easy (actually, much easier) for him to jump in the water and put the fire out, and then reflect on why his pants had been on fire.

Considering the insidious WHY in this context really allowed me to open my mind in so many ways. One of the ways was to realize that the answers to all of my questions might not be as important as I think they are. Eventually, I even began to realize that the answers to all of my questions – and even the questions themselves - might not be relevant at all in how I live my life.

In other words, I don’t have to know everything in order to put one foot in front of the other. All I need to know is that every time in my life I have put one foot in front of the other, it has landed on solid ground. The ground might not be so solid at the surface – maybe it seems like quicksand or something, or like it is not there at all – but never EVER have I put one foot in front of the other and not been eventually assured that I was actually stepping onto some sort of hard surface that would without question support me at that very moment.

I learned at a very young age that life is scary, and that trusting people can result in pain and death. But I have finally begun to realize – and ACCEPT – that I wasn’t put on this earth to be scared all the time.

And so even though I was still terrified of my dad, I made the decision to take a step toward my own family, the family I had never really known. My dad’s family.

And that was the next big event in the chain I was referring to at the beginning of this post.

The next big event was described in my post a few days before my dad died. “Part 38,” about how I had come to accept that he has much more to fear from me than I do from him, and that I have come to be able to see him for who he is, without all of that shit he wove around my eyes to make him look like anything else.

Then the last big event in this chain was that my dad died.

All of these events occurred within about three months, and in an order so perfect that there is no way to explain it away as mere coincidence. And I don’t believe it is mere coincidence – I believe it is much bigger than that, and much bigger than me, and I don’t really know what it is, and that’s okay.