12 posts tagged “mental health”
I'm seeking entries that go back to the years before the diagnosis and the time that led up to it. They'll be posted the best chronological order i can manage. This was written in 1998 for the pastoral counseling team I was seeing at the time.
2 months into my first high school year I was smoking pot. Started writing poetry and short stories. Stephanie Anne Ross was born. An alter ego 3 years older and far less afraid of parents or police than I was.
Created problems at school. Set fire to my jacket in class. Principal reminded me that he knew who I was, hated Quintanas, and was watching me. Started disappearing for a day or a night. Spent one night on the roof of a building taking the skin off my left arm with a piece of glass. Got so cold I started walking. Was picked up by a couple of guys in a truck. They saw the blood and called an ambulance. Spent the night in the police station. Tried to refuse to go home. Parents decided to try family counseling. Counselor at Mental Health Dept. told parents I was a discipline problem and my attention seeking behavior was to be rewarded with punishment. He told my parents I was simply a liar and to treat me as such. Mum was ecstatic, Dad was furious. We did not go back
Cut my wrists in the bathroom during lunch. Ran from the ER. After I was caught the principal took me into a room alone and slapped me then threw me into a wall. I was then arrested for assault. My father threatened a lawsuit and charges were dropped. I was admitted to the first hospital that night. Stayed the week of Thanksgiving.
Was placed in an alternative school. Got caught smoking behind the school and when told to put it out I put it out on my arm. So burning was added to razor play. I spent most nights in my bathroom with a razor and cutting my wrist under the running water. Found that if I did a little each night it would leave a huge scar and that should I get caught, it couldn’t be stitched up. Also started burning myself with other things. A curling iron was effective if slow. After putting a 3-inch burn on the side of my face I was sent to a neurologist. He found nothing wrong aside from my attitude. Next several months are a blur of nights in the bathroom, drugs, running away, and overdoses.
Sometime during the summer I cut into an artery for the first time. I got scared and called a friend. She called an ambulance. I took off for the river near our house and hid until they found me. The EMT asked if I had been drinking and spoke to me about alcohol abuse. He told me about AA and gave me the places and times of some meetings. He suggested I try it. My parents were furious at the idea but allowed me to go with the understanding that it was only as a support system for me outside of the hospital. By the time I tried to tell them that I had a problem with drinking, they refused to listen or believe.
Ran away to DC for 2 days. Was picked up by a guy that offered me a way to make money. Stayed with him until realized what he meant then cut my wrists at his house and told him not to waste his time with me. Spent the next couple of weeks with a friend and then my sister.
Became a candy striper through a recommendation from my youth leader. After deciding I didn’t care to be around people, I started working in central supply. Found it to be a good source of blades, xylocaine, syringes, and suture kits. (Had learned to do sutures watching my sister practice) So now I could cut to my heart’s desire without feeling the pain that came from hitting tendons and arteries. I could also stitch myself up to save my parents the expensive doctor’s bills.
AA was of little help, as my primary symptom wasn’t drinking. No one could relate to my other efforts at self-destruction. I did meet a man named Jim who invited me to baby-sit for him and his wife. Jim became a very good friend and before long I was showing up at their door on Friday nights and staying ‘til Sunday evening. Jim’s house is where I met Charlie. We were not instant friends, but he was only person who could make me laugh. I started showing up at Jim’s and hoping to see Charlie’s Nova parked outside the house. I didn’t know then that he was coming over in hopes of seeing me. After treating him really badly for no good reason, he was the first person to show me what forgiveness was. I didn’t know it then, but see now that I had never had anyone put a wrong so completely behind him and never remind me of it again.
There were another couple of overnight hospital visits and another week at the local hospital psych unit. Then back to the hospital in Sleepy Hollow by police escort. My parents were told that I would need long term care and to start looking for somewhere that could take me for years rather than weeks. After discharge I refused to go home and moved in with Jim and Brenda. My parents gave them legal guardianship and paid them for my room and board. I became their live in babysitter. It quickly became a nightmare as I realized that I had moved from one miserable troubled house to another. I wound up walking away one night. Swallowing 150 aspirin and hitching a ride out of town. When the ringing in my ears was so loud I couldn’t hear anymore I made my way back to their house. At dawn I told Jim what I had done. He made me apologize to his wife. By the time the kids needed to get to school I was ready to go to the Emergency room. My parents were told I would probably lose kidney function altogether, if I was lucky. Another few days in the local hospital, then after convincing a judge I didn’t need commitment, I went back home. Within a couple of months I had had enough and spent several days saving up the meds I was supposed to be taking. Over 2 days I took 2000 mgs of Tofranil. By the time my mom realized I had OD’d it was in my system completely. I had a grand mal seizure at the hospital and I’m told, went into cardiac arrest. Again my parents were told I wouldn’t make it and was air lifted to Children’s hospital in DC. My parents brought Nora and Zac to say goodbye in ICU. I spent the next 5 weeks in the Psych unit of Georgetown University Hospital in DC. Before coming home I told my Dad about the sexual abuse in childhood I could remember. I made it home days before Christmas. (I don’t remember a Christmas morning after I was 10)
Here is where the grand idea of reposting entries hits another roadblock. How do I decide what to keep and what to let go? How do I gently edit without glossing over things and how do I stay true to the desire to see the positive without sounding like I didn't/don't take it seriously?
For that matter, how do I look at my writing style in those first six months and not GAG? blech. This is why the previous attempt to go back and look ignored most of the first six months. It wasn't until November 2002 that I saw something of real value in the writing... more than a place to vent, it had become a place for support and education.
I have chosen, and most of the time am readily able, to accept myself as I am. Accepting myself as I was is truly not so easy... but it's still a choice. A choice I will continue to make.
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this ain't sybil |
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part of what makes my crew different is that we knew from about the age of 13. the problem tho was that few professionals believed in it and because most multiples have no clue about the others living within them, trying to be believed was a nightmare. we were often accused of lying or 'attention seeking' (i HATE that term!!!). the result of that is that we split more in the teen years than when the physical and sexual abuse was at it's worst. the agony of not being believed was almost more painful than what we'd lived thru til then. anyway, don't really know why i'm posting this entry. the real goal is to treat this diary as if no one will see it. if you're interested in learning about DID and it's causes or treatment you can check out this web site http://www.sidran.org/didbr.html the Crew |
Long before blogs and online diaries, there were email groups. For a little over a year I belonged to an email support group for people struggling with depression and self-injury. This was originally part of an email exchange with that group. It was reposted in response to a reader question.
The idosyncrasies in the spelling suggest it was something written by both reese and me.
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here's what you were looking for |
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she couldn't do any mortal damage. after several shots at a vein and realizing the glass wasn't sharp enough, we just started peeling skin off the left arm. that was the moment when it went from an attempt to get help to being the help. we sat there in the freezing cold mumbling the 'i'm a shit' mantra and just kept going until the glass was just too dull to do any more damage. the right hand was so cold and numb we almost couldn't put the glass down and the blood had more or less glued it to our skin. we had to scrape our hand across the tar paper on the roof to get the glass off.it was another year and a half before we stepped up from superficial cutting to needing the bloodloss as much as the cuts themselves. sadly, that started because our scars in comparison to a girl we'd met in hospital were, to our mind, inadequate. somehow there was the thought that if we could cut like she did, leaving the huge red keloid scars, someone would see the seriousness of our situation and help. (duh) again, instead of bringing help it became the help and bloodletting became like a drug.we've been able to stop the cutting for even years at a time, but it seems that in between there is always some other form of SI being used, so it's never really stopped. |
take care,
marisa (who's never told about it this way and wonders if she should print it out for the therapist...)
It's so odd to look back and see how much has changed in six years. We were at the point of communicating with each other and trying to work in cooperation. I was seeing both Lyn and Dr. C. each week. I was no longer focusing all my attention on the rejection/betrayal cycle from that year of the diagnosis. I was a mess but not as much as I have imagined.
It was a huge risk to jump into pouring things out online... without reservation... without holding back. Despite the initial issues with learning that people hiding behind anonymity can be nasty, it was a risk worth taking.
I remember Reese (it is so odd to capitalize her name... I think she prefers it with the small r) writing the poem in an effort to avoid reaching for the razor blades. It had been several months but the pressure was building inside again and she wanted relief. Therapy was touching on tough subjects and she was terrified. Self-injury was at that time, her most reliable tool for relieving the overwhelming emotions we had, as a collective, not yet learned to express.
The random, very nasty note suggesting I was ruining the lives of my children sent us into an instant tail spin. Because of the communication we had learned by that time, it was possible to simply choose to step back and let Stephanie do her thing. She ranted to Charlie... I think one of us ranted to Dr. C and of course, she ranted to the diary... in her inimitable style. As a result, we were able to move on.
Looking back, I can see the glimmers of health I couldn't see then. For all the chaos, the fight to heal, grow and be responsible was clearly being fought. There is still a journey being taken but even then, it was well under way.
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Stephanie Again |
06/14/2002 |
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I don't get it. I'm still so pissed I can hardly see straight. Why the hell does Reese have to be the one to get shit on every time? She doesn't do anything to deserve people ragging on her. It doesn't matter if it's her or anyone else, she gets the shit.
Oh well, this is life though isn't it? You live, you get screwed, you die. Wasn't it the drunken asshole boyfriend in '28 Days' who said life is all about minimizing the pain? He was on to something. At least Reese didn't have to read what that stupid little shit wrote. Thank God for small favors at least, right? Stephanie of the Crew |
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Stephanie |
06/14/2002 |
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Since it is obvious that people who have no fucking idea what they are talking about are reading this and making judgements, then I'll make an entry of my own. Unless you know what it is like to be mutilated and molested before you are even big enough to walk, don't make judgements about how unbefuckinglievabley hard it is to dredge up those things and talk about them.Unless you've been thrown across rooms and beaten black and blue so often you know nothing else, don't tell us to get over it. Unless you have been actively taught to believe that everything you do is wrong, that your existence is a mistake, and that anything that goes wrong in the family is your fault, then don't tell us how to recover from that. Unless you know what it is to heal from these things and have done so, unless you know what it is to live with many minds in one body and try to bring them together to heal, then back the fuck off and put your time into growing up yourself. To those who have not posted notes to us passing judgement on what kind of person or parent we must be, then ignore this. Those who have shown their small mindedness in vicious notes to a wounded soul, know who they are. Stephanie of the Crew (in response to an open diary comment on resse's entry from someone who said i was ruining the lives of my children) |
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Amelia |
06/14/2002 |
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thare makin the bad girl cry. shel tell secrits and get us in trubl. im a good girl an i dont do bad things. (amelia- six years old... written in the paper journal) |
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can't go there |
06/13/2002 |
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oh man, i can't talk about this stuff. i know that's what's coming next. dr c will want ME to tell about MY feelings and memories about this stuff and i can't. god i just can't. jeez i've hardly talked to him at all in what, like 2 years? and when i do he's so damn sympathetic and all 'it's not your fault and you've done a lot to help' i'm so sick of hearing that. i haven't done shit. how have i helped if i couldn't stop it from happening? thoughts and emotions suspended in time as water cascades pouring from my face all along my flesh washing away the filth of my existence the blade so shiny and new quickly and cleanly releasing the pain a river of warmth in cascades from my arm swirling in red and pink streams around and around the drain washing away the filth of my existence sinking to the floor as relief settles in and the fear and anguish the rage and despair subside for the moment washing away the filth of my existence reese |
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another long friggin' day |
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beginning to dread mondays and wednesdays. it's the right thing dragging up all this old crap and talking about stuff we've NEVER talked about before. but GOD does it have to leave us so utterly screwed up for the rest of the day? charlie called from upstairs earlier and didn't realize i was just below him. scared the crap out of me because he yelled so loud. so we go into panic mode and it pissed him off which of course just made it worse. so littles are crying, reese wants to cut, can't go for a cigarette because we'll wind up burning and all because we freak out over a loud voice. i mean, charlie appologized for getting mad. he knows it's a trigger but he got caught off guard just like i did. besides, it's got to be frustrating as hell feeling like you have to walk on eggshells around us because you never know when we might get scared over something tiny. he knows someone inside is scared of him but we don't know who, but even understanding as well as he does, i think it still hurts him. he's so gentle and to be feared makes him feel like his dad, which i won't even get into. reese, i know, wants to write since she's pretty much quit talking. i miss her input and fun... anyway, i'll scoot and give her space.marisa |
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