Different Hats

For as long as I can remember, I have always felt different from other humans, as if there’s something wrong with me. There are many days I question my existence and think about what could possibly be my purpose on this planet. As I sit on the ground fondling with the grass, watching the sun set into darkness, I close my eyes and the tears escape.

Sometimes I wonder what I did wrong in life, was it something that I did in a previous life and I was paying for the consequences now? I wasn’t always the best type of person to be around when I was younger and I’ve made a tremendous amount of mistakes, some unforgivable to those I once loved. Now that I have children I try and do the right things and make the right decisions, for them and for myself, and yet I still feel like I am a failure at life.

Since I was a little girl, I have always let the negative and dark thoughts consume the insides of my skull. Little girls should have happy thoughts, loving family members, and a place to feel safe without fear. A place to wake up in the morning and smell fresh buttermilk pancakes coming from the kitchen. A place where family and friends gather from all over, tell stories of past and present and give kisses goodbye. A place to cuddle under the blankets and listen to Goodnight Moon be read as the stars glisten in the midnight sky.

It sounds wonderful as it’s typed out but this scenario is just a dream I once had as a kid. I used to imagine what it felt like to have all of this growing up; to have both parents in the household, not listen to arguments escalate to violence, feel loved instead of a hindrance. Just like many others in the world, my childhood wasn’t that great and because of how I grew up I have issues that will never go away. I’ve spent years with different psychological professionals and I’ve worked through those problems; I’ve even accepted them and forgave those who’ve hurt me, but I’ll never be the same again. The images of what haunts my soul flash before my eyes without control and will continue to do so until the end of my days.

It’s a strange feeling to have people in your life but still feel so alone, that’s all I’ve ever felt since I was nine years old. I spent much time alone as a child, no siblings or children in the neighborhood to grow with. Many times I would wander to my sandbox to sit, sit alone and play with toys from the 90s and occupy myself while my mother worked her fingers to the bone. She worked nights cleaning and other different jobs during the day to pay the bills and bring food to the table – she did it all and she’s all I have to thank for in life.

My father on the other hand was the complete opposite – he was filled with rage and unpredictable with his emotions, he loafed around the house and did only what brought him joy in life. Cleaning was the last thing that he wanted to do; he felt it was beneath him to take out the trash or be seen by others vacuuming a carpet, so my mother took care of that part. The funny part is that they owned a cleaning service together so they were business partners essentially, but he left her to do the hard work.

Well, it didn’t last long and eventually she wanted a divorce; she was tired of working hard alone and living with someone who was abusive, controlling, and it was time to make a change. When it came time to break the news, he didn’t take it well and things went downhill from there. His world had just flipped upside down and he didn’t know how to handle this situation, he became inhuman that day and I had to watch him unravel into an explosive monster.

Instead of having a civil divorce and accepting what my mother wanted, he opted for violence as his answer. Holes in the wall, glass shattered from thrown objects, vehicles ripped apart, pictures shredded, state troopers, and the deed to the house set ablaze. The worst part was having to witness his hands hurt my mother, there were times I would be the one to intervene between the two of them and pull him off of her – I used to fear for her life and pray the nightmare would end.

Eventually, things resolved and he took off for a new life in a new state. He left behind his child, his responsibilities, and has blamed my mother for everything that he did. It was a happy day to watch him leave because he caused nothing but despair, but also sad because it was the last time I would have a father. In the midst of all of this chaos I was dealing with something else in silence, a secret my grandfather was keeping to himself and I became his victim. As I grew older I started having flashbacks – these quick little pop-up videos inside of my mind of what he’s done to me and I couldn’t understand what was happening. It was like I couldn’t shut my brain off and when I tried I only felt worse; I could feel my heartbeat pounding on my eardrums while gasping for air.

A member of my family was causing harm to me – someone I am expected to trust was the enemy in plain sight and I was a perfect target. For a few years this continued until I realized what he was doing was wrong, because I wasn’t the only victim in this twisted situation. When I would spend time at my grandparent’s house, I would frequent their neighbor’s house to play with the daughter. We had great times together – played tag in the backyard, splashed around in the pool, and ate hamburgers on the deck watching the sun set. One day, her parents burst through the front door of my grandparent’s home with their daughter in tears – she had informed them of something disturbing that had happened to her while she was here, and that was the day I’d learn not only was she sexually abused, but so was I. The family soon put the house up for sale and I never saw her again.

When it came time for my turn to break the news, I wasn’t sure myself of how to explain to my mother what had happened to me, so I gave as much detail as possible. She was by my side through it all – she had let the family know what was going on and they just kind of turned the other cheek, they couldn’t accept the fact that their father was a predator. No one had believed what I had to say or the fact the neighbors left town, so from that day on I’ve learned that family won’t always have your back.

From that point on, since nine years old, it’s always been my mother and I. She’s the only one who’s ever proved her love as a parent and as a person, and I have always stayed close to her as she has no one herself. Both of us together have learned that we are each other’s family and that’s good enough, it doesn’t matter how many family members one has as long as you have one that loves you.

That’s all I’ve had growing up was one parent. She played both roles of Mom and Dad and I give her all the credit in the world for what she’s done. I’ve never had a father figure in my life; I’m not even a daddy’s little princess, and that’s something I have accepted after all these years. Yeah, I tried the whole reconciling thing and it just didn’t work out, you can’t go forcing something if it’s just not right. An important lesson I’ve learned is just because they are your parent doesn’t mean you have to give them the time of day.

As my mother worked day and night to provide for us, I spent my days at school and nights at home, and most of the time alone. Alone to ruminate with my thoughts and reflect on the events that have happened in my life, the beginning of anxiety and depression. Growing up, I used to panic about everything – the existence of life, the toilet paper roll and why it’s called that, a small freckle on my skin, a headache, and the thought of death. I was always in a constant state of fear even when I didn’t feel threatened, I just wanted to feel normal.

I was twenty years old when I first decided it was time to speak with psychological professionals, I had no clue where to start or who to speak with. I went to my primary doctor where I could unload all of my thoughts and feelings; I lied about the initial reason for the visit because I was so nervous to tell the truth, I feared they would think I was insane. I waited for the doctor to come in – a knock was at the door and she appeared, she introduced herself and asked what was type of pain I was experiencing.

If memory serves right – the first thing I did was cried, and I cried hard. I tried my best to explain myself – the symptoms, the intrusive thoughts, the emotional outbursts, I gave as much detail as I could. The doctor saw all she needed and began to calm me down; she elaborated on how I was experiencing the symptoms of general anxiety disorder and post-traumatic stress disorder. This was the first time that I ever heard about both of them; I never knew such illnesses existed at this point, but such sweet relief to finally learn what’s wrong with me. The doctor and I discussed the options I had available for help and prescribed me an antidepressant and then I went home.

That was my first time taking psychiatric medication and it wasn’t the last. From that day on, my mental health journey began and it’s been one hell of a ride. I’ve seen psychiatrists, psychologists, and different types of therapists. I’ve been on twenty different types of psychiatric medications and several cocktails. I’ve been addicted to the benzodiazepines and went through the withdraw process. I’ve checked myself into the hospital, sought help in a place with white walls, barred windows, and only spoons for utensils. I’ve been misdiagnosed and mistreated based on that diagnosis. I’ve lost friends over how sick I was, because I wasn’t strong enough to see that I was not the same person I used to be.

It took twelve years to realize that mental illness cannot be cured, no matter how much medication is prescribed or how many therapy sessions it takes – it’s permanent. What helped was accepting the fact that I cannot change the bad things that have happened to me, and I’m not the only person who’s been through this. It also does not make me a bad person even though I still feel like one on dark days.

My hope is by sharing my story and the things that I have been through will encourage others, make them feel like they are not alone and that help is possible. Sitting in silence will only make it worse. I’ve learn to appreciate having the mental health conditions I’m forced to live with, and sometimes I would go as far as saying it’s like a special gift.

I’m proud to have this special role in life and how far I’ve come on my journey. I’m thankful that I am different from other people and I’ll probably never understand what it’s like to be a normal person.