Biography Lite, pt. 2

Last time I talked about my early childhood, and it was kinda depressing as hell. This is the second half of my story, and still kinda depressing/infuriating depending on where you are...but after this, I swear it'll be much better!

Socially, I was now awkward and nervous, always afraid I'd have to live through my experiences again due to trusting the wrong student. So friends were out.
Schoolwork was a no-go.
My parents were still too distracted to care or notice.
I was alone with no reason to feel any sense of self-worth.

When I was young, I wanted to run away, but I was too afraid I'd run into more evil people. When I started to understand I could die--around fifth or sixth grade--I was suicidal. My anxiety saved me, however, as I knew that even one minor miscalculation and I could end up paralyzed, brain-dead, or worse. So that's basically how I've spent the rest of my life to this point.
I graduated high school by the skin of my teeth, dropped out of college, then started a long, unfulfilling career in customer service. My boyfriend at the time--in 2007--dropped out of college and joined the Navy. I supported his decision, but was really jealous myself: I come from a relatively militaristic family. When he left boot camp, he went to 'A' school in Great Lakes, IL.
It was one particularly shitty night for me--sitting in my stained Taco Bell uniform, about to go to work--that he called. The conversation was fairly short as I had to leave soon, but it was the call in which he proposed to me.
Me? Really? The borderline hysterically depressed bitch who can't make anything of herself and can barely handle food service?
Yep.
I still can't quite figure it out now, but we've been married since November of that year so I must be doing something right. Anyway, 2010 rolls around and I'm now fairly stable, emotionally. I'm healthy, mostly happy, getting better by the day...so fuck it--let's enlist!
Now I'm not Wonder Woman, but I'm not the Penguin, either, and I made a 90 on the ASVAB so I could pick any job I want; AD, no contest. I was so ecstatic that I cried all one and a half hours home from MEPS. Finally--I get to make myself and my family proud and have a job that actually means something.

In boot camp. I'm fucking loved the physical side of it all; the recruits are all stupid fucks, but I was in the best shape of my life and I still felt like I'm going to make a difference.
One month in--halfway through--and something's wrong. I was bleeding like crazy every night, and it felt like I was shitting razor blades. Everything else was fine, so the HMC told me to just stop eating peanut butter (because he doesn't bother to listen to more than half of what I say). This didn't help, obviously, but I push through to 'A' school in FL. The doctor there took one look and told me that I have Crohn's disease.
"It's incurable, but it's treatable, and you'll probably have to be medically discharged."
He set me up with a GI doc at the hospital and practically shoved me out the door. My only information about Crohn's at this point was Google and WebMD.
So now I'm alone, about to go through physical hell, and terrified. I've always had a fear of doctors, so this doesn't help. One day I write to my husband, telling him we need to find him a good mother for his future children, and how I loved him and just wanted to best for him and how I couldn't give that to him anymore...basically, my plan was find him a good wife and then off myself.

Because I was already given shore duty, they allowed me to transfer despite my medical condition. I really wish I hadn't. My new command hated broken people. And that's all I was to them: broken. I couldn't do heavy lifting, I couldn't exercise with them, I couldn't stand for too long...I was useless, and they made sure I never fucking forgot it.

It actually got so bad that my GI doc asked me if someone was hurting me. My posture, demeanor, and even vocabulary had changed to the point where he thought someone was beating the shit out of me. Nope, I'm just hated and verbally berated everyday because I'm a useless human being, is all...I was told I could change commands, but they said they couldn't guarantee that it was going to be any better.

During this time I was seeing different therapists, psychologists, psychiatrists, and counselors. I won't go into all the different people I saw, as that's another post, but one of them was particularly helpful in how fucking awful she was as a therapist. After not listening to a word I said and asking me about my sister for the third time that session (the one that I have never had), I had a mini-breakdown. I felt like no one understood what it was like to just suddenly become disabled like I had. No one cared. And mainly, no one could help. But here's where it gets awesome: I realized that I understood. I cared. And with training, I could help others like me.

I was already going to be kicked out of my life purpose once. But this gave me hope that I would find it again. I just have to get through school...

And that's where I am now.

This Fall will be my third year in school majoring in psychology. I'm still battling depression, and have resigned myself to the idea that I probably will be forever. But my struggle has purpose now, and I'm trying my damnedest to remember that.

Next time I'm checking in, and I encourage all of you to do so as well--I'll be setting goals for myself for the next week, and evaluating how I did this week, so come join me! Monday will be a sort of fun shaming of the process I went through to find a therapist worth talking to, and hopefully these stories will help someone realize that it just takes time (and a LOT of trial and error) to get in a good spot.

Thanks, guys!
~ML

Biography Lite, pt. 1

Childhood.

I grew up with both a mother and father living at home for most of my life. We weren't ridiculously poor (as far as I was aware), we were white, we were American, we lived in the suburbs. All of these were very obvious advantages. But there's always something isn't there?

Daddy worked nights mostly, so I rarely saw him conscious. This left mom to take care of me herself. She was very depressed, however, and seem to feel abandoned, alone, undervalued, and also a little like she deserved it. This led to a lot of "go play outside" intermingled with over-protective coddling and smothering. I also had two older half-brothers: one who lived with us only during the summer, and the other who lived with us most of the year until he turned 18.
The one who usually played nice (a saint compared to the older brothers of other girls I knew) was the one gone most of the time, while the elder brother was much too old for me to play with. He was just entering the sulky/angry teenager phase, if I recall correctly.

Other than the basics, my memory of my childhood is largely incomplete. This is due to the coping mechanisms of a 6 to 8 year old girl going through a long and hellish ordeal: trauma and abuse I won't really get into here, perpetrated by three people two houses down from where I lived. This was my main source of learning for those years since I was so young, and when I start talking about CPT, I'll mention more about how that period of time is where I got most of my "stuck points" (yeah, I know that sounds more like "hippie crap").
Anyway, these experiences changed me. I became nervous around others. My once utterly fearless self was reduced to a socially crippled, overly cautious, and highly distrusting child. I didn't deal with what had happened properly, because no one was there to help, so all I could do was repress, withdraw, dissociate, and eventually develop depression. Just like my mom, I had become hopeless and alone, and I had begun to feel like I deserved it.
Pretty much from that point on, I had been either self-isolating or ostracized by others just about constantly. There have been good things, of course (such as my previously-mentioned husband), but that's for part two.

UGH--so this is just too depressing, amirite? Here, for making it this far, here's a reward:

This is my dog. :)

Better? Of course not, but that part's over.

So anyway...I have always been trying to better myself (I suppose that's a logical route for someone who hates themself to take) through religion or knowledge, or practicing different talents I had, but I never really found what I was looking for. And of course I never got over my mental problems (if you could just "get over it" there wouldn't be Ph.D.s for that kind of thing). What I did get was a gift.

A wonderful, useful, life-altering gift: my depressive journey.

Wait, no! Where are you going? Let me explain!
I promise this isn't some stupid New-Age-y thing. This is a legitimate feeling that took nearly 27 years to fully appreciate, which is why I'm writing this now.
I'm not cured of my depression. Realistically, I've accepted that I may never be. But after really thinking about it and looking at all the insight I've gained and the opportunities I'll have to help others once I (one day) graduate with a degree...I couldn't help but re-frame it.

It is a purpose, a career, and an advantage--it's still a goddamn pain in my ass, but a beneficial one, nonetheless.

As for the Crohn's...I'll talk about that on Wednesday. But after that, this will stop being such a depressing string of posts, I promise!

Next time: "Biography Lite, pt 2: The Military and Crohn's, or Why I Hate the CCFA.

Keep on keeping on guys!
~ML