A Miracle Yet Curse (Part 1)

To all the people who have loved, supported, and got to know me. And took the time to invest in my mental health. And to my parents who have always loved me, even through the rough times.

There are many things in life that we all go through. Some are easier than others, but then there are the harder things. Some deal with cancer, some deal with chronic pain, then there are the people who deal with what I deal with. Nearly 1 in 5 Americans suffer from a mental illness, and from personal experience, it can be one of the hardest things. I have not only suffered mentally, I have also suffered financially, physically and emotionally as well.

You know how some parents talk about terrible twos? Well, that’s what I was, times ten. I obviously don’t remember it back then, but I think that was the first sign to a long and frustrating road. Every child is stubborn, and every child throws temper tantrums, I was just more on the extreme side. I remember this one time my momma told me I was throwing one of my “fits”, and it took my aunt and her 45 minutes to get me to calm down. Most children tire out, but I was like the energizer bunny. I was kicking, screaming, crying, yelling. Momma told me I actually bit her once.

I finally reached elementary school, where I was at an age I had my first memory. I lived in Oregon at the time, it was the start of fourth grade. I had moved around a lot, so being the new kid was nothing new. Furthermore, I had made my first friend, her name was Kayla. She was considered “popular” so it was an honor to be her friend. At the time, I didn’t know what bullying was or how traumatic and how much it effected mental health. She pushed me into things I did not want to do, yet I did them because I wanted her to be my “friend” and I didn’t want to “hurt her feelings”. The last straw before I started acting out was the upcoming talent show. Spice Girls, the boy bands, and all of them were in. So we decided to do a dance slash karaoke to one of the hit Spice Girls singles. She was quite a bit larger than me, and made me wear one of her spaghetti straps. As we're singing, the top slipped down and showed my chest in front of the whole school. I hadn’t hit puberty at the time, so most people would say hey, at least you didn’t have breasts yet. It was one of the most embarrassing moments I can remember. After that, my more extreme ups and downs started to show. I started to mouth off to Mr Craft. Get several detentions. Referrals, I even got called to the principle's office once or twice. I would go from extremely happy and gregarious to crying for no damn reason.

Once I started middle school, which I had moved three hours away, so I would have been the new kid, yet again. I was excited. Fresh start, new friends, can this go any better? However, along with my excitement came a raging storm that would push and test the limits of every relationship I had.

When I moved up to Sherwood, my sister and I were put in a daycare like setting while my mom and dad worked. It was the summer before sixth grade, and I was probably the happiest I had been in a while. My sister and I joined Taekwondo, I was active, and I enjoyed it. Sixth grade came along, and everything was going great. Until, yet again, my mood swings started to show.

My anger creeped up on me like a slithering snake they compare to as the devil. At times that’s exactly how I felt possessed, and “out of control”. My increasing anger led me to my first physical altercation. I was always loving, caring, and overprotective in family, friends, any relationships that I had. One day because I was protecting my friends, a girl came after me in the bathroom. That feeling of possession took over, and I slammed her in a wall, but the insane power I felt was gratifying. I felt strong not just physically but emotionally. It was a high that I couldn’t explain.

As my anger escalated, I began to lash out on my parents. At thirteen, I was sent to my first of many therapists. My mom use to drive me up to Portland to see Dr. Beamer. As we were driving up for the very first appointment, I thought to myself, “fuck you! I do not need this shit. I’m fine.” For the first few sessions it was mainly pointless. I didn’t wanna talk, and if I did, it was a “hey, how are you?” or “I hate the world” As he got to know me, the first of a good deal of diagnosis came. I was put on ADHD medication. I had to have tried every pill in the book, but I had a reaction to every single one. I, either couldn’t sleep, got too hyper, depressed, you name it. A few appointments later, he threw out an interesting suggestion. He said, “I wonder if you're bipolar?” I said there’s no way I’m bipolar, and if I am, I refuse to be treated for it” He asked why I said “because I do not want to be labeled as crazy” The more I worked with Dr. Beamer the more attached I became. I started to enjoy going to our sessions, and talking. On our last session, he told me that he wouldn’t be seeing me anymore because he was moving outside the country. I felt like someone had wrenched out my heart, and tore into my stomach at the same time. I was so angry I couldn’t even think straight. I don’t know if I told him, but I know for a fact I thought, “Why would you leave me? I hate you! What did I do wrong? Are you leaving because of me?” I didn’t know it at the time, but years later I would find out why I felt that way.

After Dr. Beamer left, I quit seeing therapists for a while. By the time I reached fourteen or fifteen, I was at the point where my fights with everyone, including my parents, grew increasingly stronger. My parents and I fought to the point where I had kicked a hole in the wall because I was angry, broke my thumb from a trash can falling on it, because I slipped and fell where I was crazily walking because I was so enraged. Dad even punched a hole in the wall once, because a fight broke out. There was a point where my fights with my parents had reached a head. I would get pissed off for the stupidest things. My sister and I would always fight. I would get so upset with her, but what always bothered me the most is I always thought she hated me, that she would rather have another sister, and I wasn't good enough for her. So, I decided if that was the case, and she hated me then so be it, I didn't need her.

By the time sophomore year ended, we had picked up and moved to North Carolina to be closer to my uncle Rich, who was very estranged at the time. He had cancer, and they lived in Virginia, so we would go see them as much as we could.

When junior year started, my first major depressive episode began. For six months straight, I wouldn’t do my homework, socialize. Nothing remotely interested me. I would sleep a lot, write a lot of depressing poems about death and suicide. Eventually, my geometry teacher called a meeting with my mom. She was concerned about my lack of interest and focus I had in the class. Teachers always thought I was a brilliant student. That I had lots of potential, but I never did well because I would “tune out” so to speak. Once we got in the car, I had thrown my notebook in the backseat, where my mom grabbed it to reach for a page to spit her gum out. I panicked and hurriedly reached for the journal. She saw one of my writings, oops. My mom got quiet. Looked at me for a while, and asked what I was never wanting anyone to ask me. “Are you okay?” Then the worst one came, “do you need help?” I managed to squeakily say no, I’m fine. We drove home, and I knew she was going to show my dad, and I was dreading it. The car ride home felt like hours, but sitting in the driveway waiting to get the will to get out of the car, and walk through the door to see my dad felt like days. He basically asked the same question I told him I was fine, and we moved on, but my depression never went away.

That year was probably was one of my hardest. I was consumed by the world, and what was happening. I was critiqued on every little thing. I was probably 5’6 a hundred and fifteen pounds maybe twenty. I had a fast metabolism, so of course I would eat a lot. My friends would always make fun of me, for how much I ate. They would always say, “You're going to get so fat if you keep eating that way.” I would always laugh it off, but each joke chipped away a little piece of me. Fight if off, fight the way I looked, fight the way I was eating less. Eventually it spread in my body, mind, and emotions like it would with cancer. I started starving myself, skipping lunchtime at school to go to the track, and run. When I first started out after, I would begin eating again, with however many days I starved myself. I would buy like fifteen, twenty dollars worth of school cafeteria food, which is a lot I would scarf it down, then the guilt would set in. I couldn’t resist. I rush to the bathroom, thinking to myself, “Shit, I’m not going to make in time to get rid of all these calories.” I was terrible, starting out. I tried every which way to get the food up, sticking my finger down my throat, utensils, whatever I could. Over the years it got to be easier and easier, and going from tiny bits of my meal coming up to the whole thing and more.

To Be Continued....