One of my scary and overwhelming (but not shameful!) experiences is that I have mental illness. For most of my life I have fought, flailed, floundered and finally FLOWN through my diagnosis of Major Depressive Disorder and Generalized Anxiety Disorder. I remember being 12 and visiting a counselor once a week to learn self hypnosis and drawing pictures of how I really saw myself. I remember being 16 and hospitalized for the first time, the day after Christmas. I remember being told that because I wore black trouser socks with black pants I was a perfectionist and that if I would just wear blue ones or - even riskier - mismatched shoes, I would be cured. Ummm, alrighty then - who's crazy now?
My illness manifested in many ways: I used drugs, I stole from my parents and a retail job, I was a victim of domestic violence and learned from decades of poor choices. I was one of the first inhabitants of the (then new) A...n County Detention Center. But I now very proudly work in the A...n County Government building that was built on the site of the old detention center. I talk openly about my drug use and recovery so that someone feeling hopelessly stuck will know that getting unstuck, while difficult, is possible. I talk openly about being in the emergency room with a broken nose and infected bite marks so that someone who may be unsure if their lover's touch will be loving and gentle or violent and painful, knows that she or he can move away from that person, no matter how much love they feel. I talk openly about hiding under my desk at work and not being able to get out of bed in the morning in the hopes that someone else who is afraid of nothing specific or so depressed they can't remember their last smile knows there is help available. I talk openly about as much as I can in the hope that being open, that by waving my banner, that I will be joined by others and we will start a parade. A parade of slightly bruised, wiser for the journey, laughing survivors walking with heads held high.
You sharing your journey with me has made mine much less scary. I often felt like a little kid holding a sibling's hand. It also helped that we could both laugh our ass off at and with each other after the scary parts were over.
ReplyDeleteThank you Nan, you have been a rock for me since I can remember and your trust in me, willingness to go to bat for me, and ability to help me make sense of what seemed like chaos has been amazing. And I agree - the laughing is the very best (and most frequent!) part.
ReplyDeleteThank you for your bravery. I know we bonded over sharing histories rife with abuse and drug issues, plus the adoption connection. I don't shy away from telling someone if they ask about certain details but do keep my drug use and subsequent jail experience quiet unless I feel it can help someone. Thing is most people dont believe that a white girl from the suburbs was a crack addict. I am as always inspired by your grace especially during "teachable" moments.
ReplyDeleteI know exactly what you mean, I had bystanders when a group of us who were arrested say that I was too fat and too white to be a crack head!
ReplyDeleteThank you for sharing and trusting me. <3 you!