I really don’t know how to start this post so I will just write whatever comes to my head. The reason is that I’m scared to write. I scared to accept the fact that I’m a writer and I have something to offer society. And my mind is convinced that if accept that fact, then maybe I actually have a future. For the last 7 years I have been in a non-stop battle royal with my brain. For the longest time I was convinced my brain was a corporeal being that was trying to kill. But after awhile I realized that it was just my self-pity and self-hatred taking over my mind and my body. It was the constant pain of depression and uncontrollable impulses from my mania. So when combined together I had a lethal ticking time bomb of a brain. Eventually I ended up in the hospital, met my current psychiatrist and found my current therapist-both of whom have saved my life and shown me that there is a future for me and that I don’t have to succumb to the dark thoughts in my head. The problem was that I had been so used to the emotional turmoil and endless depression, that I started to sabotage myself (this is examining what happened the last few months, eventually I will go back and write about my pre-hospitalization days but it’s going to take some time as the memories are painful and hard to deal with. I’ve spent a lot of time trying to suppress them. But I think that is part of the problem, so maybe writing about my past can give me some closure) through destructive behavior, drug overdoses, excessive eating, lethargy, agoraphobic isolation and numerous other “activities.”
I was desperate to not accept happiness.
For some odd reason I started to believe that I didn’t deserve to be happy, that I was worthless and that no one cared about me. I believe these thoughts began in high school, when I was “deathly” afraid dying. I would wake up in the middle of the night unable to breath. When I calmed myself down, my mind started to examine death, the fact that in the near future I would no longer exist, that I would enter an endless void where I no longer thought, acted or spoke, rather I would just disappear from existence. These thoughts haunted me for many years and it got to the point that I had to constantly tell myself “go away bad thoughts” “go away bad thoughts” “go away bad thoughts” over and over again, till the voice and fear of death dissipated. I remember vividly ridding the exercise bike in my parent’s living room while watching a TV show, my mind had begun to wander and thought of death and failure overwhelmed me, it was the first time that my self-hatred began. It was also at that point I finally told my mom I couldn’t remember my childhood; in fact I couldn’t remember anything prior to 5th grade, save for a few disjointed memories (I still don’t remember much of my childhood, which drives me crazy as I have a photographic memory and have the ability to remember places, conversations, emotions and people perfectly, in fact sometimes it’s so vivid that I completely leave reality.
But I can’t remember my childhood.
It’s completely blank.
One of my therapist told me it was brain trying to empty itself of useless memories, to allow for new memories to form. Bullshit. If that was the case then why can I remember almost everything that has happened to me since the 5th grade, but prior to that nothing exists. My mom was at first confused, then frustrated, then angry. It was as if I had accused her of being a bad parent and causing me to have a horrible childhood. But that wasn’t the case, in fact the few memory fragments I have left are extremely happy and joyful memories, or at least the emotions that are still left in my mind are those of happiness and love. I had to explain to my mom that it had nothing to do with my upbringing, or my parent’s parenting. Rather, I was convinced it was due to the therapy I had to go through.*
*I need to pull back a bit so as to provide you with some background. At the age of 7 I was diagnosed with ADD by this child psychiatrist my parent’s had found. I remember two things, she gave me poppy seed muffins and had me take the Rorschach test. She was friendly and kind. It seemed like she cared about my well being. I vaguely remember sitting in a chair that was facing her, both of us were sitting in front of a window and across the way in the other room was a massive window overlooking LA (I’m just remembering this, it’s been years since I’ve thought about this psychiatrist and these experiences. I’m surprised I even remember them. But right now I can see myself sitting in front of the psychiatrist while she administers the Rorschach test. According to my parents I also took an IQ test, they refused to tell me what score I had received because they didn’t want me to become like my uncle who had scored genius level on the IQ test and was an arrogant, stubborn and angry scientist. My only guess is that I must have scored as high as my Uncle did, otherwise why would my parents have hid the test from me. They also told me when I was “of age” they would show me my IQ score, but according to my dad it was lost a long time ago. Let’s get back to the story of my diagnosis. Eventually the psychatrist determined that I had ADD, my dad was devastated but my mom who is rock of our family pushed forward and asked what she could do to help me (it took my dad awhile to come to terms with my diagnosis.
He saw it as his fault that I had been born like this and that he had failed as a father. It saddens me to see my dad suffer like this, and although I have talked with my dad about what I’ve gone through, it has only been a few times. Although, my dad did save my life as he talked me through an extremely unstable and violent manic episode. Well now that I think about it, my dad has come around quite a bit as I’ve finally told him about the extent of my drug use and how bad it had gotten. That I had overdosed numerous times and was mentally unstable. I told everything and although I was scared, I was able to finally talk with my dad as son, instead of as a friend (for the longest time all of my conversations with my dad were about sports and politics, nothing else. The reasoning behind this is another complicated matter, lets just leave it as being a result of abusive and unloving parents. Something my dad has fought hard to overcome).
Following my diagnosis, my parents searched for the perfect therapist and they found one in Dr. V. At that point we were given the option of medication or intensive cognitive behavioral therapy.
I’m going to stop this post right here, I know it’s in the middle of the story, but I want to know from readers if you guys are interested in hearing more about my childhood and the struggles I went through while dealing with mental illness at a young age.
I hope you are all doing well and I look forward to hearing from you,