by Irene Daniel
I've often heard it said that we shouldn't put our business out in the street. Don't reveal the messiness of our lives, our broken hearts and dreams. Move on, they say. Just get past it. Don't wallow in self-pity, fishing for sympathy from others. Our community seems to value the stoic, but not those of us who cry out in our pain.
I put it out there because I know that there are people who read my posts who are suffering from a self-imposed silent, and unhealthy, isolation because they are afraid of their very selves. We can't reveal our problems and perceived weaknesses to our fellows. We are afraid of being judged. We don't want people to look down on us when we are struggling. We wouldn't want our neighbors to think we're crazy. We fear mental illness; in others and especially in ourselves.
I used to do that too. And it has not worked. My harsh self-judgment was born of many messages I have received throughout my lifetime; messages subliminal and covert, as well as blatant and overt, telling me that our society does not value the weak, the depressed, the bi-polar, the "sensitive" among us. We have seen our kind lobotomized, over-medicated, institutionalized, marginalized and otherwise kicked to the curb in more ways than one. And it is very frightening.
It is frightening to see how we are perceived and what might happen to us if we don't "buck up" and get ourselves together. So, we deny ourselves the treatment and/or medication we need to treat our disease of mental illness. We don't want to be thrown away like garbage. We can't let our employers, circle of friends or potential lovers know that we are ill. We want to be loved and valued just like everybody else; and we are afraid that we won't be if people think we're crazy.
However, I have learned that the more I deny myself the care I need, the more I tend to overvalue others and undervalue myself. And then I get afraid; afraid of being thought of as "less than." I tend to isolate myself from the rest of the world; not answering my phone for days, not going out of the house, not responding to those who love me. Woefully, this isolation of shame only makes matters worse.
I have found that the more I stuff my feelings and my psyche into a closet in my soul, the more likely it is that my illness will surface at the worst possible time. The angst and frustration just builds up and builds up until one day I will just lose my entire cool. When this happens I often hurt those closest to me, and especially cause even more damage to myself. And then my soul gets sick; for it has been infested with a darkness that does not belong there. And I put it there myself. And then, I just hate myself more and isolate more and on and on and on.
I saw this dance of shame play itself out with my mother, who undoubtedly suffered from depression and anxiety. She never sought treatment, for to do so would be a disgrace to her family and her community. And so, in her fits of rage, her illness was visited upon her family, especially her children. We all knew that she needed help, but no one knew how to talk to her about it without inducing more rage. So we never really talked about it and she was never treated.
I do not share this to shame my mother. In fact, I am very, very proud of her and all that she accomplished, and I am proud to be her daughter -- very proud. Rather, I share this to honor her; because in spite of her illness, she faced her life every day with courage and faith. She raised 3 kids by herself with no money, and still bought a house; the house in which I now reside. I just know now that it didn't have to be so hard for her. She could have experienced much more enjoyment in life and a greater and deeper emotional intimacy with those she loved had she been afforded some relief from her illness; and illness which took the life of her mother.
I am named after my maternal grandmother, Irene Velasco Cervantes. I never met her because she ate rat poison in the throes of menopause at the age of 52, ending her sad and difficult life. I can't help thinking sometimes that this is the only reason my mother never killed herself. I know she wanted to, and sometimes talked about taking a bunch of pills and never waking up again. I cannot even tell you how much I love her for sparing me this horrible tragedy which she and her sisters suffered. I always knew how unhappy and frightened of the world she was, and how ready she was for it to end. It could have been different for her. I want it to be different for me. And I want it to be different for you. Yes, you, the one reading this hoping that no one can see how desperate you are for relief.
As with many diseases, mental illness can be hereditary. My father's side of the family is also not spared of mental illness. Both sides of my family are rife with stories of rages, alcoholism, "nervous breakdowns," and other manifestations of our family disease. There are people in the world I am related to who I have never met; as well as many that I have not seen in years. All the angst and unresolved anger led to a diaspora of family members who are strangers to one another. What a waste!! What a waste of love -- precious, life-affirming love. As I write this, I lament what might have been.
With all the abuse and abandonment, not to mention the trauma of watching my house burn down on Christmas night when I was only 5 years old, I really should have been treated as a child instead of waiting until I was almost 40 years old to deal with this illness. Although it is never too late as long as you're alive, by that time I had compounded my condition for decades by carrying around all that hurt, anger, shame and sadness for so long. The sustaining damage takes a lot longer to heal.
And so, if you are reading this and you recognize yourself or someone you love, please don't ignore this illness that has taken my family away from me. Don't let it take you. Don't let it take away someone that you love because you don't know what to do.
Please, please, please get help!! I am not asking. I am not suggesting. I am BEGGING you -- you my readers, my friends -- GET HELP!!
You are worth saving, and so am I. Maybe if my grandmother had been treated, then perhaps I would have a memory of being held in her embrace. I wish, I wish I wish. But wishing will not heal me. Only action will do; seeing my doctor, taking my meds as prescribed, seeking therapy when necessary. And taking action will not happen without the courage necessary to move from the darkness to the light.
Judge me if you want to, but I am too busy getting well to notice. If reading this post can enable just one person to value themselves enough to seek treatment or to stay on their meds, how could I ever be ashamed of such an outcome.
I wish all of you love and happiness and, above all, wellness.
Copyright 2015, Irene Daniel, all rights reserved.
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