throughout my life, there was always something wrong.
whether it would be problems with parents, school, friends.
a sad movie would throw me in the funk for days.
i started seeing a therapist when i was nine. yes, nine. my mother, raising me in the firm belief that i was jealous of my much younger brother, decided that something was wrong. too young for drugs, too big to spank, too old to baby.
and no one knew why.
throughout my short life — it was the same thing. over and over again suicide thoughts heading towards reality. an obvious suicide mishap landed me in trouble with my mother. her scathing words when i was up and walking around? “next time, use knives instead of my medication.”
did i mention my mother had some mental problems of her own?
it runs in the family.
maternal grandfather and a few of my mom’s sisters were in and out of the looney bin.
there was no reason why i would stay locked up in my room for hours doing nothing but read and write.
but i was convinced no one liked me. primarily my school chums. i didn’t ‘get’ boys, relationships or even invited to Saturday afternoon roller skating parties.
as i got older, my depression became more severe coupled with new bouts of manic phases. weeks spent with little time on sleep (longest gone: 8 days on three hours). headaches coming fast and furious once i start thinking. no relief. school HURT. things were too easy. short attention span. got bored easily. started big opus’ and never finished them. spend hours obsessing over silly things and not wonder about the consequences. a week maybe? two would be stretching it. then back under the covers, no room to breathe. eating only when needing to counter balanced by OVEREATING. headaches would die down for a week or so. i wouldn’t talk to anyone. panic attacks rise when feeling locked in a cage.
i would stare at the mirrors disgusted/enraged with myself.
then the breaks started happening.
i woke up one night in my bedroom. Danny was lying with me on this shoddy twin bed we were sharing while he was visiting me in san francisco. i woke up 1/2 hour after i had fallen asleep. i didn’t know who i was or where i was. i started crying about going home. I JUST WANT TO GO HOME! i would cry. i don’t know how he did it, but he talked me back into going to bed. i was not sleepwalking. i didn’t remember it the next day.
i don’t know when is started creating alternative personalities. nick names of people inside of me. all very conscious of each other. not MPD for sure — one entity still exists — me.
several years later, justin and i are lying on our queen sized bed in oakland. fooling around. he does “something” — i don’t know what or remember what — i start screaming bloody murder and begging for him to stop. i didn’t know HIM or remember where I was. cathleen wasn’t home. he soothes me back into some sort of sleep. we didn’t have sex for awhile.
for the last few years, I’ve termed this period in my life as the prozac period. being on prozac for a short bit in early 97 made me feel horrible — completely uncreative and cerebral. i stopped after a month.
since my move to california, i have been been feeling lackluster. the passion i would create in my own head stopped for awhile. sometimes i would feel it rasping on my heart — but i won’t/didn’t let it in.
this is what the last few years have been for me. that completely middle ground of nothingness that people PURCHASE for. it’s disgusting. i can’t understand why someone would want to feel this way all the time.
and still no one knows why.
most therapists are a joke. drugs weaken you. i can mind fuck anyone. it’s that simple. they want to hear about how my dad raped me, my mother would tell me how often i was a mistake, the beatings i took from my first lover and the mental abuse from others.
but why?
I’m fine now, thanks for asking.
people would say it was just teenage angst — i had it worse then most kids. but how can you still have teenage angst at 26?
