The past few years haven’t exactly been all sunshine and puppy dogs for us. Two years ago (has it really been that long?) in January Ian got terribly sick and was diagnosed with Reiter’s Syndrome, an autoimmune syndrome that, thankfully, hasn’t reared its ugly head again since. Though he has been healthy since, knock on wood, he had to leave his job as a production manager and look for something less physical, since the Reiter’s could flare up at pretty much anytime.
While Ian got sick, I managed to land a full time job that I thought was going to be a good one. I was fresh out of grad school and convinced the world was mine for the taking. Eh, not so much. While the salary was good, the job itself was mind numbingly boring and my coworkers were the kind of cliquey, catty folks I thought I had left behind in Jr. High. I decided to cut my losses and get the heck out of there, which was ultimately a good decision but one that left me in the lurch for awhile and also made me question my own talents, personality, likeability. When you have a history of being rejected, you tend to want to make everything your fault: had I not tried hard enough? Been nice enough? Kissed enough ass? In retrospect I definitely did the right thing, but it was kind of a blow to my psyche for awhile there.
Then, I found another job that I thought was going to be even better, and for awhile it was. The work was more challenging, and my coworkers were all much more the kind of people I wanted to associate myself with. Just one problem: the owner of the company was, how do I put this, a complete sociopath. He’d scream at us, scream at our partner companies on the phone. Throw things, threaten, and generally make us all feel like we were walking on eggshells. At least this time I could say, well, its not just you. He drives ALL of us crazy, everyone here hates him. I began to wonder how long I’d be able to stick around to get what I needed out of the position and then move on. I was doing well at my job, got a raise and more responsibilities and so I felt I wanted to tough it out to use it to move on to bigger and better things. But, his behavior became more and more erratic and violent the longer I stuck around, and it started to take a toll on me. I started losing sleep, gaining weight, and a host of physical issues that all tied into the stress at work. I started seeing a psychiatrist, taking anxiety meds, sleeping pills, you name it, I tried it. I was convinced there was something that I needed to be doing to make the situation more manageable. I tried ignoring him, confronting him, trying to diffuse the situation with humor: nothing worked. I realize now that it is not possible to reason with an irrational person. But my self-esteem and self-worth was so tied up in this idea of a job, a career, of being “successful”. I sacrificed my own sanity to try and be some perfect automaton and prove to everyone that I was “tough”.
I started having anxiety attacks. Small ones at first, and a general amount of “floating” anxiety. In addition to the work situation, my family was going through some pretty serious work-related trials of their own, specifically my father. The reader’s digest version of all of that is that my father is currently being forced to fight for the business he spent 30 years building, all on his own. 30 years of waking up at 5 AM and coming home at 7. Of investing his own money to build the business. Now, he’s forced to defend the assets he created from a group of people who he thought he could trust, who only care about money and will do anything they can to get as much as they can, even if it involves doing things that are illegal, immoral, and just plain wrong. My father is my hero. He always has been and he always will be. All I’ve ever wanted is to be as hard working, smart, and generous as my dad. Watching him have to defend himself against these people has been terribly, terribly hurtful to my entire family.
Sometime in May I began to lack the ability to cope. I was physically and emotionally drained, and was having almost constant panic attacks. I decided to take a leave of absence from work, hoping that if I took a week or so to rest that I would be able to deal with all the work stress. The morning I was supposed to go back I had a massive panic attack. I knew I couldn’t cope, and realized I needed more than just “rest”. There were other things too, deeper problems weighing on me: secrets kept for decades, hurt that had never been addressed, scabs that I’d been picking at for 20 some years that never healed.
I lost it.
When you picture a mentally ill person, what do you think of? A homeless man who talks to himself? A woman with glassy eyes and a blank stare in a straightjacket? A criminal? A hermit?
I was, and I am, someone living with mental illness.
I checked myself into a hospital. An inpatient psychiatric unit. This was an extreme measure, a desperate attempt to say “Everything is not okay, and I need help”. I drove up in a shiny, brand new car, and I checked in with a packed bag full of fancy face creams and books, carrying a Marc Jacobs bag and looking to the world like a picture of success.
But I could barely keep my head above the water.
I stayed there, for three long days, and wept for the life I had never been able to have. A life free of anxiety, depression, self loathing. I met people who I never would have met otherwise. My roomate, an incredibly gentle woman with horrible health problems, a horrible past, haunted by her own illness. We laughed, and giggled like teenage girls at a slumber party. Talked about the men in our life, our cats, our weight, our womanhood. This woman who, if I had passed her on the street, I would have thought “We are not the same”. We were.
I delved into memories that were painful beyond words. Hurts I had been carrying around since early childhood. And, I realized: this is not my fault. I am a victim of a disease. An insipid, unrecognized, underanalyzed disease: dysthymia. A chronic, low grade depression that lasts for years upon years and robs its victims of their joy, their memories, their self esteem. There are whole years of my childhood that I can’t recall. All I remember from my wedding is what I can see in the video. I have always felt sick, tired, sad, and alone. That is not me!
It is not a character flaw. It is not underachieving. It is not all in my head. It is a disease.
My husband has Reiter’s. He takes pills, says his prayers, and works through it.
Some people are diabetic, epileptic, have thyroid disorders: I have dysthymia. It is the same.
I take a handful of pills a day. They keep me in the moment, give me energy, make me feel hopeful. I don’t have the horrible, self loathing thoughts that used to plague me for the first half of my life. I can see myself as a capable person: a smart girl, a pretty girl, a funny girl. I could be a great teacher, a great friend, a good mother, someday. I didn’t know this before.
So why am I saying this now? Why am I bearing my soul to the faceless internet, full of weirdos and shut ins and strangers?
I have no idea. I guess it has something to do with a rebirth. Shedding the skin of my past life so I can take on the new one, the one that is really mine.
Tomorrow, I begin my studies to be a teacher. It will be challenging, and undoubtedly I will question myself a million times in this journey–why would I make such a drastic change in my life?
I just keep thinking of myself at 8 years old. An awkward, goofy girl who was reading on a 6th grade level. Who loved to act, loved to sing, loved to read. I can’t help but think there’s some other little girl out there, in Uptown, or Back of the Yards or Pilsen or Bridgeport or even Lincoln Park: reading her books under covers late at night with a flashlight–feeling apart from the world, and alone, and wondering why.
And if I can find her, and tell her it’s okay, and that she is beautiful and smart and worthy, then it will all have been worth it.
Cat Hair Tumbleweeds 