Hello guys,
This is my 'I am new here' type thread. Please forgive any precociousness or presumptions on my part in the content I post, a decade of misery and suffering, and worse, subjecting my family to it daily, has made me realize I have to start SOMEWHERE to get some help. And I suppose in order to do that, I should talk, so here comes a long-winded novel-length condensed summary of the things in my life that continue to ail me (or, in other words, get some popcorn! :)):
I have had two especially traumatic and mentally debillitating incidents in my life, and even better these have been chronologically spaced evenly throughout my 25 years of life (6 and 16, respectively). The first happened to me as a young child and involved myself and other children and one older boy, who was almost an adult. Needless to say (through inference) there were incidents of a sexual nature which at the time I never quite understood (and being a young boy I went along with it willingly) and it culminated in me having to give statements at the local police department in one of the single most humiliating public addresses I can yet remember. I saw a psychiatrist for a few years, struggled with certain sexual identity issues throughout an awkward adolescent- and post-adolescent (if anyone is wondering how that worked out I have a 16 month old son now, no going over to the other side for me lol) phase of my life, and possibly due to genetics as much as circumstances I was diagnosed as clinically depressed at 13. I had also been taking 'therapeutic' doses of Pemoline (marketed as Cylert, which was FDA blacklisted around 2000 for adverse health effects!) since around age 6 or 7 up until I was 14 years old. Pemoline is a methylphenidate drug used to control ADHD and in some cases, perpetuate weight loss (which it certainly did for me until I quit taking it). I feel I have surmounted any vestigial problems from this incident, minus maybe some bitterness towards the older fellow (he was about 17 at the time, I think).
Junior High and High school were pretty tough. I have always felt lazy and unmotivated to boot, and despite trying hard and succeeding greatly at school when I switched schools, I (as I had predicted) ran out of steam and my grades plummeted. I had received my first 'F' in 4th grade social studies, and I remember being completely distraught. High school ended up being bad, I had no social skills, no friends, my grades were horrible, I was almost corpulently obese (185 pounds in 9th grade) and I was horribly awkward.
In the summer of 2002, right as I was gearing up for my junior year of high school, my father died from a massive heart attack. Right on the floor of our living room. I should point out my father was probably my best friend I'd ever had in the entire world, and still to this day I think I believe that. Anyways, I had been downstairs in my room with one of my friends doing stuff on the computer and I remember hearing a loud THUD upstairs and thinking it was the neighbors fighting again. My stepbrother ran to the stairs to my room and started screaming for me to come up because my dad had fallen down, at the time I thought maybe he fell because he had a severely injured leg at this point (so bad in fact he had been going to the Mayo clinic in an effort to save it, though the Mayo told him he would have to have it amputated soon) and I remember thinking 'Aw sh** dad broke his leg again.'
The second I saw him on the floor, barely conscious (any movement or activity was apparently lower brain stem activity, Cheynes-Stokes breathing, et cetera) I had felt something inside my head snap. Of course my reaction was to panic, and start screaming at the top of my lungs for someone to call an ambulance while I tried to resuscitate him. I had thought his difficulty breathing could have been his partial (denture) getting lodged into his throat, so I opened his mouth and tried to feel for it and sweep it out, of course to no avail. I remember taking his pulse and feeling this ebbing, feeble pulse that was slowing to a complete halt with every beat, and when it stopped I tried to do chest compressions (I sometimes wonder if I expedited his death with a rusty CPR skillset I learned through Red Cross lessons earlier on in my life, though try not to dwell on it). The paramedics arrived less than 45 seconds later (we lived just 1 1/2 blocks up the street from the local hospital) and started to do more advanced CPR, defibrillators and tracheal intubation, the works. The police showed up and escorted me out of the house along with my family so the EMTs could do their work, and I just remember wimpering to the paramedics 'please help my dad.' I remember vividly the paramedic working hard to get the trach in, so hard that a few spots of blood came out when they removed the airway, and the worst of all of it was watching them zap him with that defibrillator, and being hopeful that when his pulse came back it would stay at 90 bpm but it would just keep flatlining.
A few minutes later, a police officer came out and called for me by name to identify me. I asked him if he was okay and the officer told me 'I'm so sorry, but your father didn't make it.' And I screamed. I had never screamed so hard in my entire life, even with a broken shoulder or a busted hand, but I remember wanting to go grab my shotgun and kill myself because I just could not hack this. Fortunately, the gun had been secured in the trunk of my dad's car (we would take it out frequently to shoot clay pigeons in the rural areas around my hometown) so I couldn't get at it and the chaplin arrived. I found it later to be something of a ray through the clouds because the chaplin had been the pastor at a church I had attended for a while, and I admired and loved the pastor very much. He came in and said a prayer over my father's body and the coroner came probably a total of 45 minutes or so after he first had the heart attack. I had felt completely shattered. I cried some more when I went out to my mom's house (folks had been separated for some time now) and felt this overwhelmingly, and strangely, welcome hot flush come over me when I put my head on the pillow. I had actually felt guilty about trying to allow myself any sleep, but I had been just exhausted, and I passed out almost instantly.That next day waking up, I had relived the whole incident all over again. My mind had not consciously accepted that my father had died, and I woke up almost delirious, thinking about going to see if he was awake or not. I could imagine the physical pain and discomfort equivalent of this experience would be similar to having a 3 ton dump truck running over and dismembering all of your limbs.
In the months and first 2 years after it had happened I had gotten some therapy for it, and some of it had worked. I had an especially nasty panic disorder that would prompt sudden, severe panic attacks to the point of making me physically ill and weak and I ended up getting some pills to help with the anxiety, along with psychotherapy. I am happy to say the panic attacks have subsided for the most part in my life, but now, now I have so many more problems. I still feel constantly anxious, I am irritable and combative (in the verbal sense, I am not physically abusive) against my girlfriend and son, I am socially detached from everyone in my life. I drink, use drugs and play video games to eat up my time (I lost my job 7 months ago due to the bad economy shutting down our store and have had great difficulty finding a new one) just because I can't stand the thought of being bored and allowing myself to think too much. Please allow me to state that while I do in fact do these things, I am exceedingly vigilant with our son, always taking care of him, feeding him, cleaning him... I just don't feel a personal connection to anyone anymore. Not even myself. I love my son, I love my girlfriend, but socializing or even doing tasks around the house just seem like climbing Everest to me. My girlfriend and I fight a lot, with both parties equally instigating problems, and I am just miserable. The moment my son was born was the first time I'd ever cried with joy, and I had fooled myself into thinking this would trip some 'switch' in my brain and turn me in to super dad, because of course I am reactive to my reality.
The foolishness of that assumption has led to even more grief. I have an utter inability to cope with my everyday stressors in life. I pretty much procrastinate everything, to the point of it never getting done. I feel scared and anxious to get up and do things or go places. Taking care of my son especially is an uphill battle, coupled with the rocky relationship I have with my girlfriend. It feels like I lose my temper easily with my son, which in turn means he gets punished more (sometimes it is a slap on the hand or the butt, but usually a timeout) when I should be taking the time to interact more with him because he probably just wants attention (he does naughty things ALL THE TIME, ALL DAY LONG). I never sleep, I am just lethargic and angry and bitter and paranoid (fear of people, especially) and depressed, if I could sum it up in a less-than-grammatically-sound sense.
I just don't know what to do anymore. It has been almost 10 years. Should I give up, and hope that maybe something will just happen and maybe push that mysterious throttle switch in my brain the other way? I don't want to do that, I know that. It just seems like there are 2 sides to me, and they are always fighting. One is telling me I NEED TO GET OFF MY ASS and do something, and the other is telling me that it is just too hard and not worth doing. My mind feels as though it is in a complete fog. I know at the absolute core of my being, I am a loving, altruistic, generous and intelligent person, I know this. It just seems like there is some presence in my mind that will not allow it anymore. My problems even undermine my ability to function at the cognitive level, granted my history (and father's family-side history of both) of substance abuse and genetic predisposition to severe mental health problems such as manic depressive disorder do not really stack the odds in my favor, either.
So that is my story. And now comes the eternally vexing question, what do I do? These ailments are no longer isolated to feelings of despair over losing my father. In whatever manner I have effected, I have learned to accept that I will never ever again see my father in this lifetime, no matter how hard it is to swallow on some days. But what now? I don't want my behavior to dissolve my family. I want to be in my son's life. I want to see him happy and healthy, I want my girlfriend to be happy and healthy. I want ME to be happy and healthy, but it feels like whenever I feel I have scraped the bottom of the barrel, so to speak, for some motivation, I somehow find a way to crush said motivation and just sink back to the bottom of an ever-deepening pit. Is it too late for help? Have I crossed beyond the scope of PTSD and into something really bad like Schizophrenia or Bipolar Disorder or some kind of psychosis? I have actually found myself startled by looking in the mirror when driving to check behind me. I have actually found myself asking the reflection if it was actually me. I feel like I am just breaking down and I don't know what to do, and I don't have the testicular fortitude (or greed) to end my life. I would never want that as a solution, and now discounting that, I sometimes feel like there is none.
This thread has gone waaaaaay far beyond the length I had intended, so I am going to hope maybe somebody has something good to share with me, maybe something helpful, maybe even something that could help me realize that I'm not the only person that has gone through the exact same experience and that maybe there is some hope somewhere.Thanks for reading guys, God bless.
This is my 'I am new here' type thread. Please forgive any precociousness or presumptions on my part in the content I post, a decade of misery and suffering, and worse, subjecting my family to it daily, has made me realize I have to start SOMEWHERE to get some help. And I suppose in order to do that, I should talk, so here comes a long-winded novel-length condensed summary of the things in my life that continue to ail me (or, in other words, get some popcorn! :)):
I have had two especially traumatic and mentally debillitating incidents in my life, and even better these have been chronologically spaced evenly throughout my 25 years of life (6 and 16, respectively). The first happened to me as a young child and involved myself and other children and one older boy, who was almost an adult. Needless to say (through inference) there were incidents of a sexual nature which at the time I never quite understood (and being a young boy I went along with it willingly) and it culminated in me having to give statements at the local police department in one of the single most humiliating public addresses I can yet remember. I saw a psychiatrist for a few years, struggled with certain sexual identity issues throughout an awkward adolescent- and post-adolescent (if anyone is wondering how that worked out I have a 16 month old son now, no going over to the other side for me lol) phase of my life, and possibly due to genetics as much as circumstances I was diagnosed as clinically depressed at 13. I had also been taking 'therapeutic' doses of Pemoline (marketed as Cylert, which was FDA blacklisted around 2000 for adverse health effects!) since around age 6 or 7 up until I was 14 years old. Pemoline is a methylphenidate drug used to control ADHD and in some cases, perpetuate weight loss (which it certainly did for me until I quit taking it). I feel I have surmounted any vestigial problems from this incident, minus maybe some bitterness towards the older fellow (he was about 17 at the time, I think).
Junior High and High school were pretty tough. I have always felt lazy and unmotivated to boot, and despite trying hard and succeeding greatly at school when I switched schools, I (as I had predicted) ran out of steam and my grades plummeted. I had received my first 'F' in 4th grade social studies, and I remember being completely distraught. High school ended up being bad, I had no social skills, no friends, my grades were horrible, I was almost corpulently obese (185 pounds in 9th grade) and I was horribly awkward.
In the summer of 2002, right as I was gearing up for my junior year of high school, my father died from a massive heart attack. Right on the floor of our living room. I should point out my father was probably my best friend I'd ever had in the entire world, and still to this day I think I believe that. Anyways, I had been downstairs in my room with one of my friends doing stuff on the computer and I remember hearing a loud THUD upstairs and thinking it was the neighbors fighting again. My stepbrother ran to the stairs to my room and started screaming for me to come up because my dad had fallen down, at the time I thought maybe he fell because he had a severely injured leg at this point (so bad in fact he had been going to the Mayo clinic in an effort to save it, though the Mayo told him he would have to have it amputated soon) and I remember thinking 'Aw sh** dad broke his leg again.'
The second I saw him on the floor, barely conscious (any movement or activity was apparently lower brain stem activity, Cheynes-Stokes breathing, et cetera) I had felt something inside my head snap. Of course my reaction was to panic, and start screaming at the top of my lungs for someone to call an ambulance while I tried to resuscitate him. I had thought his difficulty breathing could have been his partial (denture) getting lodged into his throat, so I opened his mouth and tried to feel for it and sweep it out, of course to no avail. I remember taking his pulse and feeling this ebbing, feeble pulse that was slowing to a complete halt with every beat, and when it stopped I tried to do chest compressions (I sometimes wonder if I expedited his death with a rusty CPR skillset I learned through Red Cross lessons earlier on in my life, though try not to dwell on it). The paramedics arrived less than 45 seconds later (we lived just 1 1/2 blocks up the street from the local hospital) and started to do more advanced CPR, defibrillators and tracheal intubation, the works. The police showed up and escorted me out of the house along with my family so the EMTs could do their work, and I just remember wimpering to the paramedics 'please help my dad.' I remember vividly the paramedic working hard to get the trach in, so hard that a few spots of blood came out when they removed the airway, and the worst of all of it was watching them zap him with that defibrillator, and being hopeful that when his pulse came back it would stay at 90 bpm but it would just keep flatlining.
A few minutes later, a police officer came out and called for me by name to identify me. I asked him if he was okay and the officer told me 'I'm so sorry, but your father didn't make it.' And I screamed. I had never screamed so hard in my entire life, even with a broken shoulder or a busted hand, but I remember wanting to go grab my shotgun and kill myself because I just could not hack this. Fortunately, the gun had been secured in the trunk of my dad's car (we would take it out frequently to shoot clay pigeons in the rural areas around my hometown) so I couldn't get at it and the chaplin arrived. I found it later to be something of a ray through the clouds because the chaplin had been the pastor at a church I had attended for a while, and I admired and loved the pastor very much. He came in and said a prayer over my father's body and the coroner came probably a total of 45 minutes or so after he first had the heart attack. I had felt completely shattered. I cried some more when I went out to my mom's house (folks had been separated for some time now) and felt this overwhelmingly, and strangely, welcome hot flush come over me when I put my head on the pillow. I had actually felt guilty about trying to allow myself any sleep, but I had been just exhausted, and I passed out almost instantly.That next day waking up, I had relived the whole incident all over again. My mind had not consciously accepted that my father had died, and I woke up almost delirious, thinking about going to see if he was awake or not. I could imagine the physical pain and discomfort equivalent of this experience would be similar to having a 3 ton dump truck running over and dismembering all of your limbs.
In the months and first 2 years after it had happened I had gotten some therapy for it, and some of it had worked. I had an especially nasty panic disorder that would prompt sudden, severe panic attacks to the point of making me physically ill and weak and I ended up getting some pills to help with the anxiety, along with psychotherapy. I am happy to say the panic attacks have subsided for the most part in my life, but now, now I have so many more problems. I still feel constantly anxious, I am irritable and combative (in the verbal sense, I am not physically abusive) against my girlfriend and son, I am socially detached from everyone in my life. I drink, use drugs and play video games to eat up my time (I lost my job 7 months ago due to the bad economy shutting down our store and have had great difficulty finding a new one) just because I can't stand the thought of being bored and allowing myself to think too much. Please allow me to state that while I do in fact do these things, I am exceedingly vigilant with our son, always taking care of him, feeding him, cleaning him... I just don't feel a personal connection to anyone anymore. Not even myself. I love my son, I love my girlfriend, but socializing or even doing tasks around the house just seem like climbing Everest to me. My girlfriend and I fight a lot, with both parties equally instigating problems, and I am just miserable. The moment my son was born was the first time I'd ever cried with joy, and I had fooled myself into thinking this would trip some 'switch' in my brain and turn me in to super dad, because of course I am reactive to my reality.
The foolishness of that assumption has led to even more grief. I have an utter inability to cope with my everyday stressors in life. I pretty much procrastinate everything, to the point of it never getting done. I feel scared and anxious to get up and do things or go places. Taking care of my son especially is an uphill battle, coupled with the rocky relationship I have with my girlfriend. It feels like I lose my temper easily with my son, which in turn means he gets punished more (sometimes it is a slap on the hand or the butt, but usually a timeout) when I should be taking the time to interact more with him because he probably just wants attention (he does naughty things ALL THE TIME, ALL DAY LONG). I never sleep, I am just lethargic and angry and bitter and paranoid (fear of people, especially) and depressed, if I could sum it up in a less-than-grammatically-sound sense.
I just don't know what to do anymore. It has been almost 10 years. Should I give up, and hope that maybe something will just happen and maybe push that mysterious throttle switch in my brain the other way? I don't want to do that, I know that. It just seems like there are 2 sides to me, and they are always fighting. One is telling me I NEED TO GET OFF MY ASS and do something, and the other is telling me that it is just too hard and not worth doing. My mind feels as though it is in a complete fog. I know at the absolute core of my being, I am a loving, altruistic, generous and intelligent person, I know this. It just seems like there is some presence in my mind that will not allow it anymore. My problems even undermine my ability to function at the cognitive level, granted my history (and father's family-side history of both) of substance abuse and genetic predisposition to severe mental health problems such as manic depressive disorder do not really stack the odds in my favor, either.
So that is my story. And now comes the eternally vexing question, what do I do? These ailments are no longer isolated to feelings of despair over losing my father. In whatever manner I have effected, I have learned to accept that I will never ever again see my father in this lifetime, no matter how hard it is to swallow on some days. But what now? I don't want my behavior to dissolve my family. I want to be in my son's life. I want to see him happy and healthy, I want my girlfriend to be happy and healthy. I want ME to be happy and healthy, but it feels like whenever I feel I have scraped the bottom of the barrel, so to speak, for some motivation, I somehow find a way to crush said motivation and just sink back to the bottom of an ever-deepening pit. Is it too late for help? Have I crossed beyond the scope of PTSD and into something really bad like Schizophrenia or Bipolar Disorder or some kind of psychosis? I have actually found myself startled by looking in the mirror when driving to check behind me. I have actually found myself asking the reflection if it was actually me. I feel like I am just breaking down and I don't know what to do, and I don't have the testicular fortitude (or greed) to end my life. I would never want that as a solution, and now discounting that, I sometimes feel like there is none.
This thread has gone waaaaaay far beyond the length I had intended, so I am going to hope maybe somebody has something good to share with me, maybe something helpful, maybe even something that could help me realize that I'm not the only person that has gone through the exact same experience and that maybe there is some hope somewhere.Thanks for reading guys, God bless.