how I remember it all going down.....

I've realized something... why I have little faith in myself.  I don't think I ever felt as though anyone ever had reason to have faith in me... truly. 

I was a troubled little girl.  Problems began around age 3-4.  The general anxiety, separation anxiety, and subsequent panic that ensued.  Fight or flight truly took over, and I chose flight every time.  I still do.  I have been rescued my entire life.  Granted, there have been times that I waded through the mud on my own, but that wasn't until I was at least 18.  Up until that point, I could not rely on myself to simply deal. 

I was:  terrified... always, it seemed.  If I saw a man on the way to school that I didn't know, rest assured, my sister could count on me running and screaming back home, fearing only the worst case scenarios.  If I was at school and became overwhelmed, I would break out into a panic and would not calm down until my mom came to take me home where I was always safe in her company.

Counseling started around age 8 and lasted a few years.  My counselor was Trudi Bach Whitehead.  She was Jewish and pretty.  She did help me find ways to calm the incessant fear I dealt with, slowly, but surely.  Proof, right there, that at least I could be fixed to some degree, yet not all the way.

I remember headaches/migraines starting around age 10.  I think it was my body's way of dealing with the still present anxiety and overwhelming stress.  I seem to remember random doctors and tests confirming that I didn't have a brain tumor or something.  I remember how freaked out I was of the MRI machine, and that knocking, my mother's hand on my sock covered foot, trying to soothe me.

The anxiety held steady, but then I started to experience depression around age 12.  I'm lucky enough that "the curse" runs strongly on both sides of the family.  Kleins and Taylors are a crazy bunch. I, myself, possibly the craziest.  The depression overtook me.  The anxiety and panic made it worse.  School was completely overwhelming, and I was often not in class, but rather in hall "freaking out" to put it mildly... bargaining with myself as to how much longer I could take it before I finally called my mom to pick me up and bring me home.  Junior high was not fun.

At this point in my life, I was convinced of my craziness, and the abnormality of it all.  I think I was back in counseling, definitely on medication, and felt fucked-up beyond repair.  As the depression steadily increased, my self-esteem plummeted.

I'm sure I had already begun, but I really REALLY started to loathe myself.  I remember obsessing over books such as "Six Months to Live" and praying to god to give me cancer and let me die.

I had never been delusional enough to consider myself "normal" and the self awareness cut deep.  I learned to accept that this was who I was:  the fucked up girl who could not handle her shit.  I was a mess the majority of the time.  I felt pressure coming from everywhere, and when I couldn't take it, and usually I couldn't, I would simply shut down.  It seemed most people, including myself, accepted this as simple fact.  I could not rely on myself.  I was not strong enough.

It was through my early teenage years that I saw Dr. Richard Ferre.  He prescribed my meds.  I don't remember if I was in counseling or not, but it doesn't stand out.  I remember very well being told, or hearing, or just knowing somehow that the doctor had "exhausted our options."  What to do now?  What was anyone supposed to do with me?

On the first day of 4th quarter in 10th grade, I walked into my class, driver's education, took a deep breath, turned around, and walked my ass to the office to call my mom.  She picked me up from Hillcrest for the last time.  My parents agreed that high school wasn't my bag.  I dropped out with their support.

I started a job not long after.  I was a busser at Francesco's.  My memories of this time in my life are hazy, which will be explained in a moment.  I had been working there for maybe a month, month and a half at the point that I essentially had a mental break at work, got picked up.  Went home.  I remember feeling desperate.  I remember needing to be able to feel SOMETHING other than the self loathing.  It was the second time I had ever done it.  I was not proud after, but rather embarrassed to show my dad the damage I had done to my arm.  I knew it looked bad.  I don't remember going to the hospital that night, but it happened. 

After already one stint at Primary Children's, I landed myself at the University Neuropsychiatric Institute, which many lovingly refer to simply as UNI.  I was under the new care of Dr. Lowry Bushnell.  It was decided I should start ECT (aka electroconvulsive therapy aka shock).  I know the series of treatments started around my 16th birthday, but memories elude, thanks to the short term loss caused by ECT.  Somehow, I started "responding" to treatment.  At this point, I had grown so apathetic about my life, I just didn't care.  Sometimes I wonder if it "worked" because it made me forget, for a little while.  However, the whole situation led to me being under Dr. Bushnell's care, and I felt a true bond with this man.  In later years, he would treat many members of my family... siblings, parents, uncles....

I started back up at school in the middle of the year at Valley High, 11th grade.  I had been doing better, and Valley was a perfect fit for me.  I was not THE fucked up girl, I was one of many fuck-ups.  I still had breakdowns, but they seemed to occur less and less, much thanks to the Valium I was on.  I can actually say I enjoyed my experience at Valley.  I loved my teachers, especially Margaret.  I barely graduated, but, I did it.


I don't know what the point of all this is.  I got off track. 


Oh yeah, faith in myself....  After so many years of viewing myself as so fucked up and a burden to all those I'm close to, I'm finally trying to change that image.  I have proved over and over to myself that I AM fucked up, so much that I'm probably so comfortable with that piece of identity, I'm struggling more than I ever thought I would to try to let it go.  It seems far off, but hopefully nearer than I realize.  I do have hope.  At least there's that.