When I was nine years old both of my parents remarried. The summer before fifth grade my brother, my mom, myself and my stepdad all moved to Virginia from Colorado. My brother and I left behind our father with his wife and her two children. It was a hard move on everyone.
The beginning of fifth grade is the first time I remember consciously lying to my mom. What had happened prior to that is I had started to break rules I didn’t know were rules. Like, leaving the refrigerator door open for too long. Or closing the garage door too hard. Or putting my feet up on the couch. These were all new things brought in with my stepfather. Rules that I didn’t know were rules until I got in trouble. So, at one point when I was asked if I had done something I generally would just lie because I didn’t know if I had broken a rule or not. This behavior kept me safe from confrontation or getting in to trouble that was lurking behind every step that I made. When I would go to my dad’s house I had to do the same thing. You see, what was absolutely not acceptable at one house was absolutely fine at another house. Or vice versa. Adjusting to new parents and what made them tick- in addition to completely different lifestyles within each home- it was…difficult, to say the least. I walked on eggshells until I learned if I just lied when I was asked about things I could make my ground a little more solid.
I used to journal A LOT. I found one from fifth grade that had a map of my moms house in it. Every room was labelled and I had written a suicide note right behind the map, along with where they could find my body. That girl who wrote the note-she had started to control me. When nobody was looking I was often crying. I started self-harming in sixth grade (I was pulling chunks of my hair out or burning myself with candle wax) and I didn’t tell anyone. Not a friend or a parent or a teacher. I wasn’t sure if I would get in to trouble and it helped me feel in control. I eventually moved on to cutting and even asphyxiation. Yes, asphyxiation. I would try to strangle myself with plastic bags. I often woke up passed out and covered in sweat-one time vomit.
At some point I started doing things I KNEW were wrong and had become skilled at lying. I broke rules and acted out to feel…something…anything other than the anxiety and depression that had moved in to my heart. By freshman year of high school I attempted to kill myself the first time (which has been discussed in a previous post). By the end of my sophomore year of high school I went to my first mental hospital.
Sixteen years old and in a psych ward. And for the first time in YEARS I felt like I belonged. There were other girls there just like me. So, naturally, I assumed that was exactly where I belonged-locked up with other crazy people. When I was released only one of my friends knew where I had been. I didn’t dare tell anyone else. I was so confused and ashamed and I had already been bullied at that high school…can you imagine what kids would say?? Kara-if you’re reading this-thank you! Thank you for NEVER judging me-to this day-and keeping such a big secret. One of many, ha! You have been one of my best friends in this life and people like you are so rare. Your friendship saved my life! Arnie loves you.
Although I was put on antidepressants after the hospital (and numerous times the last twenty years), my thinking didn’t change. I still felt alone and scared and anxious.
Around my junior year is when I started drinking or smoking pot somewhat consistently. I had found that I didn’t feel like I wanted to die when I was drunk or high. Drugs and alcohol saved my life. No doubt. They kept me from killing myself.
The thing is, my brother grew up in the same exact environment. He didn’t become a liar. He didn’t cope with things by getting high. He certainly didn’t want to kill himself. This, I believe, is the predisposition. Because I have the most incredible family and I didn’t go through much more than any other child of divorce. So, why am I like this?
I don’t think like other people! We addicts have a processing problem that gets solved by drinking or using. The problem is that the drugs cease to work and eventually we end up with the same terrible thoughts (but amplified by about a thousand) along with the obsession that eventually the drugs will work again.
At this point in my life I have been locked in a psychiatric ward twice. The last one being only eighteen months ago. WARNING: If you have any inclination that you’re an addict/alcoholic or have depression DO NOT TAKE BIRTH CONTROL without extensive research and consultation. The possibility of a full mental breakdown is greatly increased.
My parents didn’t make me like this. My thoughts did. I do believe that many events triggered my addiction-losing Brett being the main one. But, nothing made me like this. I don’t think so. I think I was born a bit more sensitive than most. I think I am painfully aware of everything around me and have had to find a way to live life without letting the negativity drown me.
Even writing these posts my brain is yelling at me. It says,”STOP! They’re all going to see you now!” And the other part of me wants to go deeper and tell you everything. Down to the details of how those hospitals smell and all the stories of the people I met. I want to take you into the corners of every dark part of my life and put light on to them. But I am scared. As an addict my whole life has been a secret, in one form or another.
So, you if you have an addict in your life, please, I beg you, try to understand that they have a monster living in their head. It tells them they’re worthless and stupid and a failure. It tells them to be ashamed of all their thoughts and the monster never goes to sleep. He is awake even when we’re not-doing pushups in our brain-gearing up. The meanest things I’ve ever been called are the ones that come from the beast inside my head. And I used go to any length to kill him.