Tag Archives: depression

Wide Open: Opening Up About My Trauma

May 10th, 2018

I hear my therapist ask me “what was it that brought these memories back up?”

I think about it for a minute. These repressed memories of sexual abuse were bound to pop up at some point now that I’m being open about my trauma. I knew the answer within a minute or so. “I was making a timeline of the emotional and verbal abuse he put me through, and then all of these repressed memories I’d tucked deep down kind of popped up as I was writing.

In my lifetime, I have been sexually assaulted, as well as emotionally,verbally, and sexually abused in a relationship. I hadn’t found the courage to talk about it until about August of 2017. It started with me in the car with one of my best friends. We were talking about my ex boyfriend and the words came flying out of my mouth, the words I hadn’t been brave enough to utter before then. “He was emotionally abusive towards me.” Back then, although I didn’t admit the other abuses, I still felt so free. I felt like I could start talking. My friend hugged me and said, “I’m glad you told me. It takes courage.”

My openness took a break in November of 2017, though, when I got a new therapist. She was extremely rude and had a serious lack of knowledge in trauma and abusive relationships. She asked the question therapists should know the answer to; “why didn’t you just leave?” I already had doubts about her, but this is why I stopped seeing her. If she couldn’t understand that concept, she wouldn’t understand anything about me.

I was hospitalized in January of 2018, and had to address a lot of the trauma I had endured. I had to work through challenges, including flashbacks and panic attacks, and I made it. I got out and am starting to thrive. I have two jobs, and am learning the most important two words I need to know and practice the most: self care.

Self care is the most important thing I do for myself. I write about my struggle. I talk to friends and others in my support network when I feel low. And, I’m learning that I have to stop blaming myself for what has been done to me. I am not the deeds that have been done to me. No, I am much kinder. I am a giving person, and I need to work more on realizing I am not at fault.

If you are, or have been, a victim of abuse, please realize you are not defined by your trauma. You are not to blame for what happened to you. There are people out there who understand. There are people who can and will support you through this. You are so strong, and I am so proud of you for how far you’ve come.

If anyone you love is, or has been, a victim of abuse, please realize there are some things you shouldn’t say. Pay attention to triggers. Ask them what is not acceptable to say, and what their specific triggers are. And most importantly, please respect their boundaries. If they tell you they are uncomfortable doing something or are uncomfortable with what you are doing or saying, respect it. It is extremely important.

Our young adult blogger chooses to remain anonymous. They like to sing and advocate for change.

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Ramblings within a month-long depressive episode

July 4th, 2017

I’ve been wondering recently what it’d feel like to work in one of those call offices for suicide hotlines. I know the pay is crap and that shouldn’t matter but you must be pretty strong to help someone after they shatter.  The thing I love though is that the people who actually call those are trying to put their life back together.

I’ve been on and off suicidal for as long as I can remember. I’ve never attempted. I smile. I laugh. I lend every helping hand I have. My depression is caused by demons of my past that I almost got away from but they’ve caught back up to my present. I look to my past and see nothing but haunted houses and ghosts. I look to my future and see a vast, empty desert with no road. I am lost and I am scared. Imagine looking to your future and seeing nothing. Nothing but a death trap. I live in a house I fear I will never escape and the worst part is…it’s not actually that bad.

I learned how to be independent at a young age. With a father who was busy working so the family could have money, a mother who was all talk and no action and an older sister who never felt or acted older. I had no choice. I don’t remember when I first started questioning who would miss me. I knew my dad would be devastated and my mom would blame herself. My sister might try to follow me as well because I’ve always set an example. My best friend would feel like she lost everything and as much as we jokingly say we want to die to each other, I think she’d be upset she didn’t take me seriously.

I got a new therapist recently. She’s nice but when we talk I discover walls I never realized I built and don’t have the strength to knock down. I haven’t figured out how to vocalize my feelings yet and it’s much easier to write this thinking no one will be reading it. But people have to read it. I want people to know that it’s a good thing I’m scared to kill myself. I’d much rather a car hit me or a shooter shoot me. Although in some sense it’d be pointless because I believe in reincarnation.

I’ve been on medication since I was 8 and it really messed with my hormones and nervous system. People have suggested I look back into them but they honestly scare me. They messed me up so bad. They messed me up because my depression was situational. My depression isn’t caused by a chemical imbalance in my brain. It’s caused by me living in a city, a state, a place I hate. The real question is, though, Where do I like?

I have spent my entire life living because other people seem to think I should. I live to stop my family and friends from crying. I live because what if I actually am supposed to marry the kpop star Choi Minho in the future, I can’t leave him alone. What about the kids I haven’t adopted? What about the cats I haven’t pet? I live for all these reasons but none of them are actually for me. If you asked me what I want to be when I grow up I’ll probably lie. My real answer would be dead…or somewhere I feel alive.

The author would like to remain anonymous, but has been a long-time member of Youth MOVE Massachusetts and offers their support to other peers who may also be struggling.

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When the filters come off

June 21st, 2017

I remember the day my son came home with his back a mass of cuts, bruises and blood.  He had just come out of several weeks of sadness, anguish and plans to kill himself.  Almost overnight, the dark cloud lifted and he was happier.  Then even happier, happier still, giddy, even euphoric.  He wanted to ride his bike around the neighborhood like other kids, he said.  He was 8 at the time and I thought, why not?  He deserved this simple pleasure after weeks of inertia and despair.

Then he came home with a bloody back.  He had taken his bike to an empty lot and done bike tricks.  He was sure, he told me, that he could suspend himself midair upside down, grab onto clouds in the sky and make his body speed as fast as his very-manic mind.  Even after all the cuts, scrapes, gouges, bruises and blood, he still believed it.

Lots of kids might think they can do superhero stunts.  That’s not what this was.  This was one of those times when the cautionary voice in his head had vanished.  His sense of self-preservation had dimmed.  His ability to contrast his abilities with his reality was flickering.  Those things provide a filter, a kind of mental pause. The filter had failed both of us.

Although it was one of the first times I saw the filters come off, it wasn’t the last.  They came off in his language where he raged, swore, was cruel and obscene in ways that shocked us all.  They came off in risky behaviors like that day on his bike or another day when he tried to walk into downtown Boston traffic because “nothing can harm me.” They came off when he was depressed and hurt himself repeatedly and nothing would deter him. They vanished when his emotions became a landslide that buried any deterring thought or feeling.

His doctors labeled this “disinhibited behavior,” especially when it was accompanied by other manic symptoms. In psychology, disinhibition is a lack of restraint manifested in disregard for social conventions, impulsivity, and poor risk assessment.   He was 8 the first time I heard this term and I said, “He’s what?” and asked the doctor to spell it.  Even when I knew what it was called, I wondered what to do about it.  But I also saw the same lack of restraint when he was depressed or hurting himself.  It just wasn’t labeled disinhibition then.

As parents, we try to counter many of our children’s impulses.  We teach them to wait for the light to change before crossing the street or to think before saying everything that crosses their mind.  Some of it is to keep them safe, some to get along with others and to give them a voice inside their mind, a point of view, to counter those feelings and thoughts.  Sometimes it’s just to create an instant of consideration, like pushing a pause button.  When my son had milder moods or his thinking was just a little off track, this worked.  He’d say, “ I didn’t do that because I knew you’d be disappointed.”  But when his moods rushed in like a hurricane and his thoughts were like a jumbled avalanche, all bets were off.  So were the filters.

I watched the Netflix series 13 Reasons Why last weekend.  (Spoiler alert!) In case you haven’t seen it yet (though it seems like many interested in mental health issues have and also have strong opinions), the show focuses on a high school student, Clay Jensen, and the girl he really likes, Hannah Baker, who committed suicide.  Hannah has recorded a box of 13 cassette tapes before her death which detail the 13 reasons she ended her life.  As Clay listens to the tapes, Hannah recounts a series of really awful things that happened to her including betrayals, destructive gossip, sexting and rape.  We watch how each event pummels Hannah a little more.

As I watched, I thought about how everything that was supposed to protect Hannah failed her, even her filters.  Especially her filters.  They were battered by the awful things that happened to her and eroded by her own pain.  They took enormous hits from the outside and from the inside.

Parents try to create that little voice or that pause button inside their children again and again.  Overall, I think we do a pretty good job.  We hope it’s enough. We don’t know what’s going to come at them in life, what they will have to go through.  We hope we’ve made that little voice strong and indestructible. But there are emotional disorders like depression and manic moods and jumbled thoughts which diminish those inhibitors.  There are experiences like bullying and trauma that muffle them.  You don’t know which is stronger until that moment in time comes along.

It’s easier to see the filters come off when your child has risky behavior or swears colorfully at all the wrong people or behaves in a shocking or bizarre way.  But parents know it can happen with depression or severe anxiety or trauma as well.  We see our child lose touch with the thoughts  that help inhibit or lessen suicidal thoughts, self- harm and emotional pain – that say life is worth living, that they are worth loving and they will feel good again.  During those times my son used to say, “But I can’t feel that, I don’t believe that.” I’d look at him with tears and say, “But I do.”  And I’d hope it would be enough.

 

 

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Don’t pass by

May 15th, 2016

sad seated girlWhen I was in middle school and early high school, I would see kids in my grade who were struggling emotionally, and I would turn away, pretend I didn’t see their pain, and not give them another thought. I would feel bad, but I didn’t know what to do with that, and I certainly didn’t want my friends to think I cared about the super weird kid in math class who kept to herself. Teenagers can be cruel, and no way was I risking my somewhat okay level in the middle school social economy by showing compassion for someone who was so obviously different, strange, and maybe even dangerous for all I knew. No, I desperately wanted to fit in, and my status with my friends would not be jeopardized by some “emo kid.”

Three years later, I became that “emo kid” who got words like “bi-polar” and “crazy” and “weird” thrown at them as weapons instead of truths. I had my first episode, though it would be 10 years later before the mention of bipolar was brought up in a clinical setting as a feasible diagnosis, and the world as I knew it fell apart. My friends grew more and more distant as the hospitalizations piled up, and I would have given absolutely anything for a visit from my family. Everything I thought I knew about myself suddenly became symptoms of my anxiety, depression, and mania. You mean not everyone is absolutely terrified of social situations but sucks it up anyway? You mean I’m not supposed to consistently want to die at least half of every day? And you’re telling me I’m not supposed to wake up 8 to 10 times every night with bad dreams? And not everyone’s mood goes up and down as quickly as mine?

I found myself sinking deeper and deeper into depression with all this clinical exposure, and when I wasn’t in hospitals, it became harder and harder to pretend to everyone at school that I was doing well. I had appointments during school hours that I played off as doctor appointments, but were really specialists and evaluators to help with my psychiatric treatment. My grades were starting to reflect my absences as well. I was silently suffering, and no one at school bothered to ask how I was.

If I could change anything about my actions in life, it would be how I passed by that girl in middle school and did nothing as people ridiculed and ignored her. Because now I know what it’s like to not have a friend in the world to count on, and I know what it’s like to feel different and strange and unwanted by everyone you know. And how all you want to do is curl up in a ball and die, but you keep going anyway. Now, I don’t see that girl as strange, or weird, or dangerous. I see her bravery and resilience in visibly fighting a fight that none of us understood, but finding the strength to do it anyway.

Everyone who has a mental health condition, is fighting that fight in some capacity every day. Whether it’s hanging on for one more day when all you want to do is disappear forever, or dealing with those awful voices in your head that just won’t stop and are often very scary. Or going through trauma therapy or trying to get over your anxiety. Or even just talking with someone when you need to, or helping someone you think might need it. These are all very hard steps, and if someone, anyone, at school had stopped for me instead of passing me by, my journey might not have needed to take as long as it did.

It wasn’t until I was in the same shoes that I found my compassion, but it doesn’t need to get to that point. After all, we are all fighting something, some of us are just better at hiding it. Be kind. Be compassionate. Be open to embracing differences, not afraid of them. And don’t pass by.

Our guest blogger is a young adult who wishes to write anonymously.

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My experience with public school

March 20th, 2016

girl studyingThroughout my public school years I always struggled with teachers, school counselors, and just about everybody in administration. When I began school, I started having problems immediately. No one there believed that I had mental illnesses. I did get a 504 plan starting in the 3rd grade. It consisted of bathroom breaks or breaks in general without questions, but my teacher didn’t follow my accommodations at all. I had the same accommodations on my 504 plan each year and each year the school did not follow it. I was given a pass to go to guidance and the school nurse whenever I needed. Multiple times when I would go to the nurse, she would tell me I was faking and send me back to class.

One incident happened where I was having a severe panic attack.  I went to my guidance counselor because I needed someone immediately but she was no help. As I was walking in, she was ready to walk out. She saw I was in distress so she sat me down to talk – or so I thought. I sat down, then she said she didn’t have time to talk because she had lunch duty.  She handed me a piece of chocolate and left me in her office alone. I started really freaking out because I didn’t know what to do. I was not allowed to call my mom because the school didn’t want me to go home when I had a panic attack. I was scared and felt I couldn’t trust anyone. When she came back, she looked at me with a nasty look and asked me why I was still in her office. I couldn’t even talk because of how bad I was panicking.

I was diagnosed with depression right before I started junior high, along with the anxiety I already had. My teachers constantly picked on me for falling asleep in class even though it was my medication making me tired. I had one teacher yell at me and tell me I should go take my meds in front of my entire class. I was extremely embarrassed.

I was always a quiet kid but I started getting mouthy with my teachers because they treated me with no respect whatsoever. They would threaten to take things from me, send me to the office and, in some cases, they would give me detention or an in-school suspension. My teachers still didn’t follow my 504 plan.

My high school years were the worst of all. I tried a new school that eventually didn’t work out due to my mental illnesses. I went back to my old school. After years of fighting with the school, I finally got an Individualized Education Program (IEP). Even with an IEP, the school still did not do what they agreed to do for me. I stopped going because I was having a really hard time.

I got diagnosed with agoraphobia shortly after that. My psychiatrist filled out a home/hospital form, which is a doctor’s order that lets a student be educated at home. During this time, the school sent cops to my house, filed a CHINS on me and called the Department of Children and Families. After being out for two school years, I went back for a short time to see if they would help me get back on track. The only thing they did was put me in a “quiet” room which was really the printer/fax machine/microwave/coffee maker/student file room.  Teachers constantly were in and out to get stuff or do something and would always tried to converse with me while I would try to work.

Finally, after doing all I could do to get the school to help me and listen, I couldn’t take it anymore. I decided to leave public school altogether and get my GED. Being out of school relieved a lot of stress and anxiety from my life.

I wanted this blog to end with a happy ending, like most of them. But my story isn’t over yet.   I have big plans for my future and I won’t let anything hold me back.

G.G, a 16 year old youth, is our guest blogger.  G.G. enjoys music, the arts and has completed the intern program at Youth MOVE Massachusetts.

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