I am having a bad day today I feel on the brink of tears at any moment. I will blame it on the PMS and looking through old pictures.
I so far have not displayed any signs or symptoms of bi-polar disorder and I think am in the clear as I am past the age of onset.
I do sometimes think I suffer from delayed post traumatic stress disorder.
I have watched my mother and two siblings suffer over the years with diagnosed and undiagnosed mental illness. Three years ago my father confessed that my paternal grandfather was committed for 6 months and my paternal aunt was also committed for one year for “depression and manic episodes”. I didn’t find this out until my baby sister was diagnosed bi-polar. My younger brother soon got his diagnosis shortly after my sister. My sister and brother manage their illness quite well and I know it was devastating to be diagnosed with a mental disorder because they are such wonderful brilliant people and fear the stigma linked with such a label. My brother self medicated for years with pot and cocaine. When he was up and manic marijuana helped him sleep and calm down. When he was in a depressive rut he snorted cocaine. When he hit bottom and was arrested he finally sought help. My little sister tried to take her own life.
The only true psycho in my family that was never formally diagnosed was my mother. The irony of it all was she was an RN in a psychiatric hospital!!!!!!
My mother was selfish, miserable, cruel, and cold as long as I can remember. Sometimes she was nice but it was reserved for her precious sons. We always knew she suffered from “depression.” I watched my other three sisters cower and take her verbal battering and physical abuse without a word. I guess I was stupid/crazy because I never accepted her treatment and told her so. I would sometimes distract her away from my weaker sisters as they silently bowed their heads and cried. I even told her once as an adolescent to leave if she hated us so much. I held my fists up to her face and dared her to hit me again. The breaking point when I was 14 I remember it as the hanger incident. No, it’s not a Mommie dearest recap. That day my mother decided that I was on drugs because I refused to cry when she screamed hit me repeatedly. I wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction I thought to myself. She marched me up to her bedroom and told me to lie across the bed and then it started. I don’t know how long she lashed me but it seemed like forever and after awhile I didn’t feel anything. I still did not cry even though I could feel the blood running into my tee shirt under my sweater. I stood up and glared at her and asked her if she was satisfied. She freaked out and started crying that I was evil and sick. I walked downstairs and proceeded to cook dinner as my mother did not cook. When she did it tasted like shit. I took over cooking for 8 people at the tender age of 13. That night my father came home and patted me on the back while I was at the stove and noticed that I winced in pain. He asked me what was wrong and I said nothing. He noticed that my sweater looked wet (it was dark blue). The floodgates opened and between sobs I told him everything. He lifted up my top and pulled off most of the fused scabs and started screaming her name. I never heard my father scream in such a primitive fashion he usually growled in a deep low tone that could instantly bring tears. He ran to find my mother and grabbed her by the throat and pushed her into the wall. I want to clarify that my father never in the entire time before and after that day ever raised his voice to my mother or touched her. He told her that he wasn’t going to call the police because he didn’t want his children taken away from him. He then looked deep in her eyes and and said, “If you ever touch any of my children again I will kill you with my own hands. I was so scared and blamed myself. I wished for death. I ruined everything. My mother proceeded to punch and claw at my father telling him that I was evil and sick and needed help. He started crying and told her that he loved her but if she thought that about her own child then she needed the help. He asked me to come over and made her look at my bloody frail back. She then started screaming and crying and telling me she was sorry. She said that she didn’t understand why she hated me so much. After that day my mother never touched me again, she just got more creative with her words.
The saying sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can break my heart, should be taken more seriously.
