You broke me, mom

Dear mother,

I know you don't realize it, and I know you never will, but you broke me.  I have been following a page on Facebook called Emerging From Broken, and the author posted a quote from her book the other day.  "I was not born broken.  There was something that happened to me that caused the issues that I struggle with." And it goes on to say exactly what I have felt for years.  I was not born broken, I know that.  I was born whole, and I was a happy-go-lucky, funny, adorable kid.  As you know, I used to wear those funny pair of red glasses around all the time because they were cute and funny and so was I.  And because kids do those sorts of things.  

You broke me, mom.  I was happy until the age of six.  That year, 1986, was when dad told you he was having an affair, had fallen out of love with you, and was leaving.  I can't even imagine how hard that must have been for you to hear, and how devastated, broken, and humiliated you must have felt.  It was very hard for you, I know.  But, I always got along with dad more and, so, as a six-year-old, I didn't understand everything, but I knew that I wanted to be with dad.  My older sister always wanted to be with you, and you liked that.  That gave you some solace in the midst of such chaos.  I wanted to be with dad, and made that clear, and so that's when it began.

You broke me, mom.  In the last couple of years, through therapy, and support from others, I have come to realize that what you did to me was in fact, emotional abuse.  It took me a long time to come to terms with this, and I know that you don't think I should use that term, or even blame you for what you did, but abuse is the right term.  I know it is because it has had such far-reaching effects on my life that I'm still having to deal with the consequences of what you did.

You broke me, mom. You used your power and authority as my mother to manipulate, harass, brain-wash, and guilt me for 23 years.  In the beginning, when I was six, the abuse was really bad.  When I cried that I wanted to go be with dad, you screamed at me to just go and be with him then.  But, obviously I knew that you were screaming at me so you must not have been very happy with what I said, so I shouldn't want that or say that.  You used my sister to do your bidding for you, too.  We got to visit with dad and his family on Wednesday evenings and every other weekend, but you didn't like that, so you used my sister to make sure I felt bad the whole time, and couldn't possibly enjoy myself at dad's.  She was your pawn. Of course I don't blame her, because she was young like me.  I blame you.  You filled my head with so many lies that I could never figure out what was the truth and what was a lie.  My dad and stepmom had to "de-program" all the lies that you told me every other weekend when they had me, and by Sunday night, when I was almost de-programmed, I would have so much anxiety because now I had to go back to your house.  I loved Friday nights when dad would come pick us up, and I absolutely hated Sunday nights after he had us for the weekend because then I'd have to see you again.

You broke me, mom.  Because of not being validated by you, or anyone for that matter, I have always sought validation from older, motherly women, who were my mentors.  Even my therapists have always been older, motherly women. And you have always hated that. You  have screamed at me "You have a mother that you don't want to talk to!"  You are exactly right, too.  I have a mother who abused me and treated me terribly, so why on earth would I want to talk with her?!  You always made me feel bad for seeking out these mentors and getting validation because, I think you knew that what you were doing was wrong, and you didn't want anyone to find out.

You broke me, mom.  Because of your abuse, I tried to kill myself at the age of 14.  I was on the adolescent unit of the psych hospital and tried to tell the doctors and nurses what you were doing to me.  They didn't hear me, just like no one ever did, and told you, dad, stepmom, stepdad, and me that it was a chemical imbalance and that I would hopefully do better with medication.  You never accepted responsibility and so the abuse continued. I tried to do what you wanted, and I tried to be close to you, because every girl wants to be close with her mother, but I never could.  You projected a nice, wonderful, motherly person on the outside, but I really thought you hated me.  Sure, you would tell me that you loved me and you would come to my school functions (you were a teacher yourself, so you had to do those things), but I have never really connected with you.  I've always feared you and wanted to be as far away from you as possible.  I tried to cut off contact when I was ten and went to live with dad, but you made it so unbearable for me that I eventually came back to live with you.  You just couldn't let me be happy, could you?

You broke me, mom.  I've attempted to kill myself many times, and all because of the illnesses that you created in me.  I've had low self-esteem all my life, and that is because of you.  I have Bipolar Disorder, Major Anxiety, and I was diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder many years ago.  I am living well with my illnesses now, and that's only because I cut off most communication with you seven years ago.  I just couldn't take your abuse anymore.  Granted, it had gotten better in 23 years, but it had not gone away.  

You broke me, mom, and now I live with the consequences.  I have mental illness because you broke me.  I used to struggle every single day, but now I don't, thank God.  I don't talk to you anymore, but the tapes keep playing in my head, like my former therapist used to say.  I don't even need you to abuse me anymore, I just know in my head what you would say, how you would react, and the guilt you always made me feel, and I instantly have anxiety.

You broke me, mom.  I used to think that it was all my fault.  The illnesses, the terrible or non-existent coping skills (like cutting), the reason why I never have gotten along with you.  But now I know that it's not my fault, it's yours.  

You broke me, mom.  I am married now, and have been happily so for almost 7 years.  You often told me that I would never get married and that I should live alone.  I used to have so much anger, which was meant for you, but got directed at anyone who came my way.  I used to hit and kick my sisters, but it was all directed at you.  I knew that I wasn't allowed to kick or hit you, so I did it to them.  I shouldn't have done it to anyone because that's not right, but I was so mad that I didn't know what to do with myself.  

You broke me, mom.  I am finally putting myself back together. It has taken years, and mostly no contact with you, but with the help of my loving and amazing wife, my pups, and many years of therapy, I am almost there.  I don't think I will ever be completely there, because your words and actions broke me, mom.  I am so grateful for those people who have helped me know that I am worth everything.  My wife loves me unconditionally and that is everything.  

You broke me, mom, but I am finally putting myself back together.

Megan

Blog Series Guest Post: Parenting a Child With a Mental Illness

Author: Cate Luther

Bio: I'm Cate, a former classroom teacher who taught for over 20 years. Now I'm a stay-at-home-mom, blogger and educational advocate. Check out my blog at : Raising a Drama Queen. I also have a Facebook page called: Raising a Drama Queen: Adventures with Autism and Bipolar Disorder.

As I previously wrote about on this blog, I grew up with two parents who had mental illnesses. My father’s affected him most of my life. My mom’s lie dormant until I was an adult and on my own.

Before my husband and I considered having a child of our own, we wanted to educate ourselves about the possibility of having a child with a mental illness. I attended a NAMI Family-to-Family 12 week class to learn how best to support my severely mentally ill mother and to learn what the percentages were of me passing this on to any future children I might have. I was encouraged to learn that it wasn’t that great. (Keep in mind this was over ten years ago. Recent statistics place this at close to 10%.)

Armed with this knowledge, my husband and I decided to spin the roulette wheel. We desired a child who was not only physically healthy, but also mentally healthy.  Once I became pregnant with our daughter, we saw a genetic counselor. He took copious notes while we told him about all of the various health challenges that run in our families: cancer, high blood pressure, high cholesterol, diabetes, strokes and heart attacks. The odds were not stacked in our child’s favor. Knowing this, we  continued to move forward. The ultrasound I was given to detect if there were any birth defects, showed there were none. Since I was almost 40, my doctor also recommended that I have an amniocentesis performed to see if my baby had Downs Syndrome. After reading up on this and learning that sometimes it can result in a miscarriage, I opted out of this test.

When our daughter was born a few months later, we were happy that she appeared normal and healthy. This was especially significant since my husband had had two bouts with cancer before she was conceived. He was concerned that radiation that he had received six months prior may have affected her. I remember him holding her up and saying, “Ten little fingers and ten little toes, she’s perfect.”

The first few years after our little cherub was born, were hectic, but we thought we were just like everyone else. We just had a child who was a little more spirited and defiant. During her Kindergarten year, she was given the diagnosis of ADHD after a few less than pleasant incidents at school. That same summer we had a clinical psychologist perform a complete mental health evaluation on her. One sentence in the summary of his report still echoes in my mind. It read, “…but the possibility of bipolar disorder cannot be ruled out.”

I was in shock when I read those words. As a classroom teacher, I  could handle a child with ADHD. I could even handle one with Oppositional Defiant Disorder. The bipolar diagnosis, on the other hand, had me searching for answers. One of the first things I did was go to the bookstore to learn more. I picked up “ Bipolar Disorder for Dummies” by Fink and Kraynak. I found one chapter about bipolar disorder in children.  In this book I found another sentence that would change my life, “For more information go to Child and Adolescent Bipolar Foundation. At …” (It is now The Balanced Mind Parent Network, http://community.dbsalliance.org/welcome.htm)

On this site I found parents like me trying to make sense of our child’s intense mood swings as well as parents who had been in the trenches for a while.  They were my lifeline for many years. I am now one of the ones giving back to this wonderful organization.

Additionally, my husband and I sought out professionals who would help us with our precious child. We found a gifted and compassionate marriage and family therapist who was a bevy of resources.  She had a wealth of knowledge about how to parent a challenging child. My daughter liked her and saw her on her own for several years until she moved her practice out of the area. Within six months of our daughter’s initial diagnosis, we were also blessed to find a wonderful psychiatrist after two others didn’t work out. The further along my daughter went in her educational career, the more we realized that she would need more help than the average child. Our therapist recommended an educational advocate to us. Over the years we have had three fabulous advocates who helped us navigate 504 and IEP meetings. I am convinced that my daughter would not be at the fantastic therapeutic day school she has been at since fourth grade, were it not for the guidance that my husband and I received from these talented advocates.

My daughter finally received the official bipolar diagnosis at age seven. She was hospitalized five times before the age of ten. My husband and I have survived it all. We learned that one of us needed to be available and to provide structure for her. A little of four years ago I ended up resigning from over 20 years of teaching so I could provide that support. We learned not to fill our child’s schedule so that she has very little down time.  Yes, it’s hard, however, it is not impossible.

It took me a few years to stop saying, “Why me? I already had my turn with living with individuals with a mental illness.” A friend taught me, the teacher, that I was the perfect mom for my precious daughter. Since I’d had experience with mental health, I know what to look for to get my daughter the help that she needs. I’m blessed to have been chosen to raise this child.

The road we are traveling on has many bumps and turns. It is often like riding a roller coaster.  Even so, I’m confident that my husband and I will figure out the next part in our journey as parents to a child with mental health challenges. We have a whole team of professionals cheering us on.

Blog Series Guest Post: Things Will Get Better

Author: Kay E.

Yeah, yeah, I know it sounds like a cliché, but hear me out:

If you’ve lived with any mental illness for any amount of time, you know how rough it can be. There are so many times where you feel lost and hopeless, like there’s nothing to look forward to. But if you’ve stuck it out, you know that you will return to normalcy. When you’ve emerged from a several month long battle with your illness, and can finally walk out in the sunlight, you find a new appreciation for the little things. Laughing never felt so good before, your best friend’s smile never seemed brighter, and music never made you want to dance more. The love that your friends and family have for you has never seemed stronger. Not only will things look up for you, but they will seem even better than before. My challenge for you, the next time you feel like things are coming to an end, remember they’re not. Remember that life is brighter on the side. Remember that it will get better. You will get better. 

Blog Series Guest Post: "Hope?"

Author: Leslie Kassal

Bio: ...I remember being about 4 or 5 and feeling as if something was different, wrong, "too private"....as if I was not healthy, but growing inward, and disturbed.  In retrospect, I was carrying more sadness than any child should have borne.

Now, I am 65, and more whole than I have ever been.  I am grateful for expert psychiatrists, medicine, hospitalizations, and friends like Megan Roach, that I have met along the way.......

"Hope?"

"The very least you can do in your life is to figure out what to hope for. And the most you can do is live inside that hope." Barbara Kingsolver

When my Facebook friend, Megan, asked if I would be willing to share some words about mental illness, I decided that would be fine.

I thought that the subject of Hope and its role in recovery would be a rather easy thing for me to describe and share.  But it has not been as easy as I had wished.

For, while I know that Hope is essential to all of life, and that recovery would be very challenged without having Hope, when I looked more closely at my life, I needed to be far more honest.

Hope does not come easily for me.  I often feel as if I am on a jungle gym, and hanging on for dear life, just to get to the next bar of metal.

Will I fall, will I hurt myself?  Will I be able to enter the 'playground' at all?

What I know about myself is that I often feel as if I literally cannot go on one minute more.  My Inner Hopelessness is real, and pervasive, and I try to hide how unnerving it feels.

Somehow, some way, I have entered a rhythm in my life which works.  I know that I can call my psychiatrist, leave a message; I can use prn meds; I can write (which brings me great succor and relief); I can go to sleep; I can use food to anesthetize me.

What I cannot do is give up.....................

So there you have it: my imperfect, idiosyncratic take on Hope.  I am still alive, which is something I never take for granted.

Blog Series: Love & Marriage

Author: Me

Marriage is hard.  Throw a couple of mental illnesses into the mix, and it gets ten times harder.  It is possible, though.  I have three mental illnesses and have been married to the love of my life for over six years.  But, she and I will both tell you that it's a lot harder when one of the partners has a mental illness.

When Stace and I first started dating, I was having a terrible time coming to terms with the fact that I was gay.  I had known since I was 19, but hadn't really come out of the closet until I met her at age 27.  That's a long time to have anxiety about being gay.  And, not only was I having anxiety about it, but I was engaging in Borderline behaviors, and having massive mood swings as well.  

Somehow, Stace stayed with me and helped me through all of that, and we are doing better every single day.  But, it wasn't easy at all.

She proposed to me after only eight and a half months of dating because we knew, from basically Day One that we were going to spend the rest of our lives together.  We fell in love within a month, moved in together after four months, got engaged after eight and a half months, and got married on our two-year anniversary of our first date.  It was a whirlwind of excitement and anxiety all at once, at least for me.  

I was so happy to be marrying the love of my life, but I had a couple of mental illnesses to contend with.  I lump our dating and marriage relationship into one because it was a struggle from the very start, for both of us.  We fought pretty much all the time, mostly because I just didn't know how to be with someone.  That might sound weird, but it's true.  I just didn't know how to handle being around and living with a person that I loved with all my heart, but still did things that I didn't like. 

I remember that during the early days until just a couple of years ago, when I got mad, I would often slam doors, or if I didn't even want to look at her, I would get in my car and drive around.  And, please know that I used to have major anger problems, and my wife is about as happy-go-lucky and loving of life as anyone I've ever met.  So, it was mainly me that was having the issues.  

But, like Stace always says when I ask her why she stayed with me, that she always "saw the good in me" and when she saw a certain smile on my face, she knew that we'd be okay eventually. She loved me enough to stay while I changed into a better person, and I loved her enough to do the changing.  And, I know that everyone says that "don't expect him/ her to change once you get married.  That won't happen."  But, for us, I WANTED to change. I WANTED to get rid of my anger and do better with my illnesses, and I knew that if I worked hard at those two things, I would be a better person and we would be together forever like we both wanted.  

I had been in therapy with a wonderful therapist since August of 2007, and then Stace and I met in December of 2007.  So, I was actively working on myself, and Stace knew that.  When we would have a major blow-up, she would go to therapy with me the next week and we would work it out.  Being unhappy with my psychiatrist of a few years, in July of 2010, I decided to switch to the doctor I am currently seeing, and Stace was fully supportive of that.  I finally got on a good cocktail of meds, and have been stable on them for about 5 years now.  

A major point of contention between us was that I literally could not work.  I had been working part-time and going to school when we met, and then when I finished school, I worked full-time for a few months.  I had to quit that job because it was too overwhelming, and was hospitalized about a month after that.  That was when we decided that I would just do house-wifey things like take care of the boys, clean, do laundry, take care of the house, dishes, etc.  I'm so glad that I do that now!  It is a lot less stressful than working and thankfully my honey can provide for us all. (I do get Disability every month).

So, now that we've been through so much in our early years together, we figure anything is better than that.  We have a very strong love for each other, and our pups, and we are committed to making this marriage work.  We don't fight hardly ever now. It is much more peaceful in our home, and we tell each other that we love each other all the time.  We know each other's quirks (and, yes, Stace has some, too).  

We are honest with each other and we each know everything about the other.  We are stable now and have been for a few years now.  We are mindful of my limitations and we work within them.  We make everything work, and isn't that what marriage is all about?

Blog Series Guest Post: Depression and The Single Guy

Author: Philip Kaplan

Bio:  I am a 37 year old resident of Towson, Maryland, although I originally hail from Jersey. I spent over seven years as a lawyer for parents in custody cases initiated by Child Protective Services. I struggle with severe depression and am in treatment for it. In the past, I have served as a judge and scorer in regional high school mock trial competitions, as well as an appellate moot court judge in law school practice exercises. I am a huge fan of random acts of kindness/generosity and was fortunate enough to have gotten the chance to be one of the Kmart "layaway angels" making the rounds in recent years. More currently, I am a proud member of and volunteer for NAMI (National Alliance on Mental Illness). In my spare time, I enjoy power walks, pop music, twisted humor, and deep conversations.
 
It is shortly after 12am on a weekend night in early 2015, and one of the main local bars, a favorite among the nearby college crowd, is packed. People are drinking, dancing, talking, or some combination of the three. The energy level is palpable as Taylor Swift's "Shake It Off" plays loudly in the background. The bartender rushes to serve the customers who are either ordering drinks, waiting for their drinks, or trying to get his attention. Groups of girls begin entering the room for the first time, crossing the dance floor area and heading to the bar while talking to each other or texting on their phones.

One such group of three girls is on the outskirts of the bar area, waiting to order.

A good-looking, 30 something guy wearing a gold leather jacket strolls confidently up to the three girls, taps one on the shoulder, and says, "This looks like a group that's doing shots!" He flashes them a broad smile.

They smile back.

Within minutes, he is handing each of them a cinnamon flavored "fireball" shot and doing one himself. They all raise a toast to the night and cheer. A short time later, he is making small talk with one of them, easily balancing out her wide-eyed responsiveness with seemingly effortless displays of wit and charm. She's a junior at the university. He asks her what her major is. Communications. She asks about him. He tells her he's a lawyer.

"A lawyer?" She replies, visibly impressed.

They continue to talk for a few more minutes. He gets her number, promising to call. At some point, he makes his departure, flashing her one more warm smile upon leaving.

A few days later, the man in the gold leather jacket parks his car in the lot behind the office building. A few minutes later, a door opens in a waiting room, and he is greeted by a man in his early 50s. He enters the man's nicely decorated office, and they sit across from each other.

"How did it go?" His therapist asks him.

"I went out Saturday night. I guess I had a decent enough time, chatting up some girls, buying them a few shots. I did get one girl's number, and I texted her the next day about getting together, but I still haven't heard back. Whatever. I guess I'm proud of myself for having made the effort, right?"

His therapist reaffirms that he should be proud of himself, particularly for venturing outside of his comfort zone.

However, the man in the gold leather jacket does not appear happy.

"Look, it's not like I'm not proud of myself. I know I'm trying. Fine. But that's not good enough. I'm so lonely. I'll never understand why this has to be so difficult. Sometimes I really just want to die. I don't want it to end like that. But I don't know. Sometimes suicide seems to make perfect sense. My life feels like a nightmare from which I can't wake up."

 I know the man in the gold leather jacket. I see him every time I look in the mirror.

For three years now, I have battled severe depression, a recurrence of an illness that affected me throughout my adolescence. As a teenager, I was psychiatrically hospitalized three times and came close to killing myself on several occasions. My teenage depression ended at age 19, and with a newfound confidence and optimism, I became very focused on outward achievement, putting all my energies into academic/career goals. I graduated from college with honors, went to law school, and ultimately became a well-respected trial attorney.

Yet my dating/relationship life remained troubled. I was a late bloomer and did not begin dating until my early 20s. I've only had one girlfriend-- from age 25 to 32-- and looking back, I question whether we were ever right for each other. I am now 37 and have been single for over five years. I have struggled just to get dates, and I average maybe 3 to 5 actual, in person dates a year.

The college bar scene was one experiment among many. I've obviously tried online dating. I've tried asking women out in other contexts.

How do I explain that I am depressed, in large part, because I am single and lonely? That my dating frustrations frequently make me want to die? Men know how it is. If we dare to open up about our dating problems, we get told that we must be doing something wrong. Then we drive ourselves crazy looking inward, trying to identify some hidden flaw that we imagine might be the cause.

How does a guy begin to say what he really feels, which is that the 21st century dating culture is a bewildering, incomprehensible maze of catch-22s, double binds, and no-win situations? That so many men are completely baffled as to how, when, and where to approach women for dates? That more men than you'd ever imagine-- otherwise successful, socially functional, good-looking men-- are nonetheless having trouble simply getting dates, and that many of us have been painfully alone for years?

When will people realize there are no easy answers to any of this?

Song lyrics begin playing in my head.

"I'm dancing on my own.... I make the moves up as I go... and that's what they don't know..."

Tomorrow I will have another therapy session.

Blog Series Guest Post: 1 in every 5

Author: Michelle Belles 

Bio: I am Michelle the mom to three adult children, two of which suffer from mental illness. Our journey hasn't always been easy, but it's been more than worth it. My children are a blessing and a lesson. They have made me strong, kind, and courageous through their journey to a healthier, happier state of mind.

As the mother of two children who suffer from depression, I've spent years researching and learning the facts surrounding mental illness. Like a lot of mothers, I blamed myself for the problems my children have. Only after learning the facts, and accepting that mental illness is a true health issue, have I been able to see the absolutely amazing individuals they are. I would never want someone to identify them based on their illness. 

I've had so many people ask me, “Why?” They say to me “You guys have such a great life: you live in a nice home, money isn't an issue, you have a strong marriage, your children went to great schools, and they have been given all the advantages.”  I used to tell them I didn't know,  but over the last several years, I've changed my way of thinking. My answer now is, “Mental illness doesn't discriminate.”

Anyone, at any age, can develop a mental illness. It's just like catching a cold; it just happens. If your spouse or child was diagnosed with cancer, you would seek any and all medical help available. Your family and friends would rally around you, offering support and prayers. So why is it when that you, share that you, or your child, are suffering from depression,  or are bipolar, these same people want nothing to do with you? Could it be all of the myths that surround mental illness, creating the negative stigma that seems to follow it around like a shadow on a sunny day? Should someone with a mental illness be marked with this negative stigma, branding them as a person of disgrace, and grouping them by their illness, instead of the content of their character? Prejudices, negative attitudes,  and discrimination based on an illness just doesn't make sense. It's equal to judging someone based on the color of their skin, or their sexual preferences. If we dispel the myths, and spend more time spreading the truth, will more people be willing to accept the facts, and see mental illness as a real, treatable health issue? Will people come to realize that you can't just get over or shake off depression? Will people come to understand that depression isn't just being sad; it is irritability, lack of energy, loss of appetite, restlessness, racing thoughts, and reckless behaviors? Will people become cognizant of the fact that 1 in every 5 children under the age of 13 suffer from depression? If we keep spewing the facts, will the nonbelievers finally get it?