I sometimes get overwhelmed by the amount of bad memories. My therapist asks about specific situations and there are days when it's all just one giant blur of bad. I know life was scary and that fear rises each time I think about it.
The memory that comes up the most isn't even a specific memory, because it happened so often. I would be doing the dishes and my father was annoyed at the speed at which I was doing them and he would stand behind me with a pool cue and smack the back of my legs whenever I started to slow down or cry too hard.
The only real specific memory associated with that is when my brother and sister and I took all the pool cues in the house, broke them into pieces and buried them in the back yard. I don't ever remember my dad getting angry that they were gone. He always had his belt so losing one instrument wasn't that big of a loss.
So many people I talk to don't understand the shear dread and fear that immediately hits my heart when someone raises their voice in my general direction. People say things like, "yeah my dad was a hardass too." but that's not it. I lived in terror of my father. That terror still haunts me today. Telling me I'm weak and worthless. That terror reminds me that I didn't get the childhood that I deserved.
That terror reminds me that don't get to function like the average everyday American. I can't hold down a job. I've worked in over 40 places in 15 years. My panic attacks and suicide ideation are well documented. I figured I would take the advice of the medical professionals in my life and apply for disability. It's now been a full year that I have been without work. I make a pittance doing odd jobs here and there and I have to rely on family to pay for my medications.
If it weren't for my family I would be homeless like so many other mentally ill people in this country. I have (according to my lawyer) another 10-13 months left of waiting so that my claim can be heard in front of a judge.... I've thought of taking "the easy way out" several times. It doesn't surprise me at all that suicide rates are what they are with the state of how people with mental illnesses are treated.
I still deal with idiots on Facebook that post stupid things about turning your frown upside down and that depression is only a state of mind and if I really wanted to get out there and be the best version of myself all I have to do is tell myself I can. Or better yet there are the posts that say "if you think you have it bad ask someone for their story, someone always has it worse off than you." While there may be a kernel of truth to that statement, all it does is invalidate my feelings for my situation. I'm not allowed to be upset or have panic attacks because John who works at the record store was in a car accident and lost both his legs. That argument makes no sense and I hate it.
So I wait. And wait. And wait. Because it's what I'm able to do. It's not all bad though. I have thought myself how to spin yarn and with any luck I can start making a little money selling things that I make. If not, I'm no worse off than I am now.
The memory that comes up the most isn't even a specific memory, because it happened so often. I would be doing the dishes and my father was annoyed at the speed at which I was doing them and he would stand behind me with a pool cue and smack the back of my legs whenever I started to slow down or cry too hard.
The only real specific memory associated with that is when my brother and sister and I took all the pool cues in the house, broke them into pieces and buried them in the back yard. I don't ever remember my dad getting angry that they were gone. He always had his belt so losing one instrument wasn't that big of a loss.
So many people I talk to don't understand the shear dread and fear that immediately hits my heart when someone raises their voice in my general direction. People say things like, "yeah my dad was a hardass too." but that's not it. I lived in terror of my father. That terror still haunts me today. Telling me I'm weak and worthless. That terror reminds me that I didn't get the childhood that I deserved.
That terror reminds me that don't get to function like the average everyday American. I can't hold down a job. I've worked in over 40 places in 15 years. My panic attacks and suicide ideation are well documented. I figured I would take the advice of the medical professionals in my life and apply for disability. It's now been a full year that I have been without work. I make a pittance doing odd jobs here and there and I have to rely on family to pay for my medications.
If it weren't for my family I would be homeless like so many other mentally ill people in this country. I have (according to my lawyer) another 10-13 months left of waiting so that my claim can be heard in front of a judge.... I've thought of taking "the easy way out" several times. It doesn't surprise me at all that suicide rates are what they are with the state of how people with mental illnesses are treated.
I still deal with idiots on Facebook that post stupid things about turning your frown upside down and that depression is only a state of mind and if I really wanted to get out there and be the best version of myself all I have to do is tell myself I can. Or better yet there are the posts that say "if you think you have it bad ask someone for their story, someone always has it worse off than you." While there may be a kernel of truth to that statement, all it does is invalidate my feelings for my situation. I'm not allowed to be upset or have panic attacks because John who works at the record store was in a car accident and lost both his legs. That argument makes no sense and I hate it.
So I wait. And wait. And wait. Because it's what I'm able to do. It's not all bad though. I have thought myself how to spin yarn and with any luck I can start making a little money selling things that I make. If not, I'm no worse off than I am now.
