~I Suffer For My Writing~
I have lived with depression as long as I can remember. It didn't have a name to me, but it was a very strong and heavy burden on my heart. I wanted everyone to like me and when I was disliked, reprimanded or told no it felt like I was a bad person... I can remember as a child feeling such strong and crippling empathy for my family as well as our pets. I would take on other people's problems, pain, stress that I could not sleep. I cried constantly. I don't know if that emotion came before or after being sexually abused but I imagine either way it did not help.
Growing up I tried very hard to be good for my parents. They had their hands full with my older brother so I kept quiet, did my chores and whatever else was expected of me. After my brother left the house and went onto jail, I guess I became unable to quiet my suffering any longer. I voiced my pain and shame through slicing up my arms. But oddly enough, the people I needed the attention from~my parents~didn't know until much later what I was doing to myself. I hid it from them while sharing, and shocking, teachers with my issues. I don't think I was suicidal~ I didn't want to die and leave my family with pain or add onto the stress they already had with my own selfish action, but I didn't want to live any longer~ Not with such a heavy heart. Not feeling like a broken and shameful waste of a person. I hated myself but could accept everyone and anyone else.
When I was 12 or 13 my pediatrician got tired of what he called, my being a "hypochondriac". Now, I am not going to argue the point of whether his frustrated and unedited spitting out of this possible diagnosis to my Mother (as if it were something I did on purpose) was true or not, but I will say this~ If a child comes in with many different issues that are possibly made up in their mind, a doctor should not just wave the child off as an annoyance but instead, offer a referral to another doctor who can maybe get to the bottom of WHY the child is acting out in such a strong and attention seeking way.
My Mom started taking me to a family doctor at that point.
It wasn't until I was 15 that it all came to a head. Having self harmed for over a year at that point and toying with the idea of suicide, my life became too much. School work, acting in plays, doing the "right" thing didn't make my self-esteem better. I needed validation for everyone else outside of my home. The fear of abandonment was overwhelming.
One night in 10th grade I lost it. I got together the sharpest knives, all the medications in the house and I sat in my room fuming at myself for feeling everything I felt.
I wanted to punish myself. But for what? Everything...Nothing...For being Me.
Something in me suddenly wanted my Mom. I called her up to my room. I admitted to self-harming, to wanting to leave my life. I asked her for help.
That night they drove me to a psychiatric hospital some 3 hours away. I don't want to get into my experience at that hospital now but lets just say being there, seeing the worst of the worst mental issues and meeting kids my age that had been dumped off years before, I saw my problem from a different perspective. It didn't fix me but it made me look at my self-harming from a place where I could understand it was a call for help. I knew then that there had to be a better way. I can't say I never cut again, but I didn't do it so casually or without remembering what my life could be.
My chemical and life depression went undiagnosed for many years. After my 1st child was born I sought help for postnatal depression and I was put on medication. While I still had many issues to deal with like self-esteem issues, feelings of shame and abandonment, I wasn't feeling such a heavy heart and uncontrolled empathy. I still took on other peoples problems but not in such a deep and scarring way.
I noticed though that either because of the direct effects of the medication or because I was no longer suffering, I could not write my poetry in such an easy and unfiltered way. I was blocked. Still, I was too busy being a Mom to worry about it. I went off the medication at some point for financial reasons and felt the depression shadow my life again. Soon I became pregnant with my daughter so the medication was forgotten about. I wouldn't take anything while pregnant anyway so it wasn't an option to me.
A year later I was suffering with feelings of shame and depression again. The poetry was flowing but my heart was hurting. Back on the medication and bam...a month later I was numb but steady again.
So it seems I have a choice...Suffer for my writing, feel all the pain and write like crazy or take my medication and feel my muse and the depression get pushed down. Honestly, it never goes away, it just hides somewhere within. Some of its life...the ups and down and the everyday things, but I know that without my medication I would feel all that pain no matter how "great" life was.
I force the writing, I take my medication and I dream of a breakthrough. Not of the pain, but of the voice of it. I have so much of my childhood pain left over that I need to get it out.
Poetry or lack of (most) of my depression and shame? It's not a fair trade but it's better than the alternative.
To read more about my experience at the hospital click here...
Growing up I tried very hard to be good for my parents. They had their hands full with my older brother so I kept quiet, did my chores and whatever else was expected of me. After my brother left the house and went onto jail, I guess I became unable to quiet my suffering any longer. I voiced my pain and shame through slicing up my arms. But oddly enough, the people I needed the attention from~my parents~didn't know until much later what I was doing to myself. I hid it from them while sharing, and shocking, teachers with my issues. I don't think I was suicidal~ I didn't want to die and leave my family with pain or add onto the stress they already had with my own selfish action, but I didn't want to live any longer~ Not with such a heavy heart. Not feeling like a broken and shameful waste of a person. I hated myself but could accept everyone and anyone else.
When I was 12 or 13 my pediatrician got tired of what he called, my being a "hypochondriac". Now, I am not going to argue the point of whether his frustrated and unedited spitting out of this possible diagnosis to my Mother (as if it were something I did on purpose) was true or not, but I will say this~ If a child comes in with many different issues that are possibly made up in their mind, a doctor should not just wave the child off as an annoyance but instead, offer a referral to another doctor who can maybe get to the bottom of WHY the child is acting out in such a strong and attention seeking way.
My Mom started taking me to a family doctor at that point.
It wasn't until I was 15 that it all came to a head. Having self harmed for over a year at that point and toying with the idea of suicide, my life became too much. School work, acting in plays, doing the "right" thing didn't make my self-esteem better. I needed validation for everyone else outside of my home. The fear of abandonment was overwhelming.
One night in 10th grade I lost it. I got together the sharpest knives, all the medications in the house and I sat in my room fuming at myself for feeling everything I felt.
I wanted to punish myself. But for what? Everything...Nothing...For being Me.
Something in me suddenly wanted my Mom. I called her up to my room. I admitted to self-harming, to wanting to leave my life. I asked her for help.
That night they drove me to a psychiatric hospital some 3 hours away. I don't want to get into my experience at that hospital now but lets just say being there, seeing the worst of the worst mental issues and meeting kids my age that had been dumped off years before, I saw my problem from a different perspective. It didn't fix me but it made me look at my self-harming from a place where I could understand it was a call for help. I knew then that there had to be a better way. I can't say I never cut again, but I didn't do it so casually or without remembering what my life could be.
My chemical and life depression went undiagnosed for many years. After my 1st child was born I sought help for postnatal depression and I was put on medication. While I still had many issues to deal with like self-esteem issues, feelings of shame and abandonment, I wasn't feeling such a heavy heart and uncontrolled empathy. I still took on other peoples problems but not in such a deep and scarring way.
I noticed though that either because of the direct effects of the medication or because I was no longer suffering, I could not write my poetry in such an easy and unfiltered way. I was blocked. Still, I was too busy being a Mom to worry about it. I went off the medication at some point for financial reasons and felt the depression shadow my life again. Soon I became pregnant with my daughter so the medication was forgotten about. I wouldn't take anything while pregnant anyway so it wasn't an option to me.
A year later I was suffering with feelings of shame and depression again. The poetry was flowing but my heart was hurting. Back on the medication and bam...a month later I was numb but steady again.
So it seems I have a choice...Suffer for my writing, feel all the pain and write like crazy or take my medication and feel my muse and the depression get pushed down. Honestly, it never goes away, it just hides somewhere within. Some of its life...the ups and down and the everyday things, but I know that without my medication I would feel all that pain no matter how "great" life was.
I force the writing, I take my medication and I dream of a breakthrough. Not of the pain, but of the voice of it. I have so much of my childhood pain left over that I need to get it out.
Poetry or lack of (most) of my depression and shame? It's not a fair trade but it's better than the alternative.
To read more about my experience at the hospital click here...
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