Erin Beyonce sang about being independent. Nancy Hart defended herself displaying amazing independence over a damn turkey! Lil’ Boosie taught us all to spell independent! The pursuit of independence lies in many of us. Especially for women.
We do not always need help. We may manage to do just about everything on our own. The home, children, finances, play uno (as my husband and I call it in front of the children). With science, you can even have a child on your own. At one point or another, we all DO have to ask for help. Step stools and hitting the lid of a jar with a butter knife will only get us so far. You may manage to move that cinder block, but you need help moving that trampoline. You are smiling, but you know you need to talk to someone.
I never liked psychiatrists. My birth mother made me see them all the time as a child. She wanted desperately to prove that something was wrong with me. She did this to overshadow her insecurities of dealing with her own psychosis. Don’t hate on her. She is sick. Schizophrenia and bipolar disorder is not a good combination. I would be asked over and over again what I was thinking. What was I feeling? Did I want to hurt myself? All I could think was,” Why is no one asking my mother these questions?” “Why am I sitting in this chair, and not her?”
She refused treatment throughout my childhood and teenage years. My father and family would push and push. She would become upset. She probably felt inferior or worse……. like something was wrong with her. It certainly is not healthy for me to make excuses for the abuse I suffered. But it is far better than holding a grudge. She was sick. She is sick. She will never not…. be…. sick? I’m keeping that double negative!
Into adulthood, I became very anxious. What you think are heart attacks are later discovered to be panic attacks. I thought I was losing my mind. The smell of instant coffee or oatmeal would make me think I was dying! Going to a church needed an hour of preparation telling myself, “Everything is going to okay. You will not see her there.” I tried to avoid my mother so desperately, I married the first man that told me he loved me. It did not end well for either of us. I thought it was fate after learning his mother suffered the same. My father was not so easy to avoid. I love him still as he lives with me now to this day. I have forgiven him, and understand his reasons for not removing us from that situation. If you do not think I am crazy yet, just wait.
When someone you think you love is sick, you take care of them. Raised in church both bad ones and good, you are taught to honor your mother and father. I honored my father by always trying to make sure my mother was cared for. Despite my anxiety, I became her guardian. Now a single mother with my mother and father all under one roof, I worked and searched for doctors. I made some bad but sometimes fun choices on the side, but my family was always first. If my mother was manic, my daughter could not be there. If my mother decided she wanted more attention, she would threaten to “unalive” herself. Then you would have to call the psych wards, and the ambulances, and sometimes the police. Having to physically watch my mother take her meds was not for the weak. If she wasn’t watched, it was the earlier mentioned cycle all over again.
I met a man. He pursued and pursued. I denied and denied. How could I bring someone into this life? I told him everything hoping that would scare him away despite me falling in love with him. It did not phase him. He asked questions, of course. Still, he said he wanted to be a part of mine and my daughter’s life. After some time, he moved in. Months of manic episodes did not scare him out of proposing. Hiding valuables and sharp objects did not scare him. Scary as hell family dinners did not scare him either. The three of us made memories despite the madness. My daughter and he were inseparable. They watched cartoons. They read bedtime stories. They went to every county event we could make time for.
We were now going to bring in another. I became pregnant, and despite my past with miscarriages, this one was sticking around. My father and mother had to go. I could no longer allow the danger to be in our home. With the proper acknowledgment, my father took my mother out west. In October of that year, I had a birthday, and we had a son. Unfortunately, the peace was short lived. My father could no longer manage my mother. They returned. I had to come up with a plan.
Up to this point, my mother had not inflicted the same physical abuse on others that she had me. She was never alone with our children. That was rule #1! I searched and called every organization, facility, hospital, and care service imaginable. Adult protective services would say she is not qualified because she has my home. Hospitals were short term. Some facilities cost more than social security. She was banned from some because she claimed “unaliving” herself falsely too many times or injured staff. She was too healthy for hospice. Everyone’s primary question was, “Why place her when she has you as a perfectly fine guardian with space?” After months of trying, and doing my best at being careful with my family, it happened. She struck my daughter.
Luckily she was not injured. I say luckily, but it is not luck. My husband was the luck. One moment of leaving a room to tend to our baby, and she lashed out. All it took was one moment. Five seconds out of the room. Both my father and my husband left, and she was angry. She was angry because my daughter did not listen to her. As soon as my husband heard her voice rise, he ran back to find her hand on my baby girl. That was all it took. In case you are wondering, she did not apologize nor was she “aware” of what she did. Much like she claimed to never be “aware” of all the times she abused me. I called my lawyer, and put the order in motion. I was relinquishing my guardianship.
Now you can’t possibly say anything that I did not already say to myself in the coming years. I hated myself. I thought I was the worst daughter in the world. I thought I was going to go to hell for what I was doing. I needed help, and I could not do this on my own anymore. I could not independently take care or secure my mother. I had to let go, and let someone else do it. She has been residing in a facility. It is nice. Despite the advice of much calmer and smarter people, I visited her once. Some people are kind, but just sick. Unfortunately, my mother is not one of those people. I haven’t seen or spoken to her in seven years. I’m okay with that.
PTSD was something just meant for worse cases than me right? We always try to say someone has it worse so we shouldn’t complain. We need to be more independent because someone really can’t do it right? Psychiatrists just want you to talk. Once they give you a diagnosis, they want you to talk even more. “Tell me about your mother.” “Let’s revisit this childhood experience.” “What makes you so sad, and let us talk about that even more?” It seems so unproductive. I do not want to talk about what makes me so sad. If I am going to talk, I wanna talk about getting better, and ways to do it.
For many years I was able to avoid talking. My anxiety and PTSD meds were done through my general doctor. I just answered a few questions and reassured them I was not going to go postal. Boom! Here’s your refills. That all stopped a few months ago. Once you reach a dosage limit, they need you to start talking again. I avoided holidays like Mother’s Day, my birthday, and her birthday. These days were a trigger for me. I knew to avoid certain smells, movies, songs, and there is not a single angel in our home. I managed well. Unfortunately, I now have some triggers that I can not avoid. I can not independently handle my PTSD. I can not do it all on my own. At nearly thirty- seven, I had to start talking today.
I have met many people with PTSD. I worked in an entire program focused on assisting Veterans and first responders with PTSD and other combat related injuries. I’m a military wife for God’s sake. I am surrounded by it. I always said, “My PTSD is nothing compared to theirs! Why should I complain?” Suddenly a trigger happens, and you need to “complain.” You need to reach out. You need to ask for help. You need to stop focusing on the need to independently handle everything.
I have been very blessed in my life since letting go of what I can’t handle on my own. My husband supports me despite my anxiety attacks. He supports me through rare panic attacks and moments of “I just really need a big hug!” We have been married nearly twelve years, and going strong. Not everyone is as blessed as my family. Many out there do not get passed the dangerous independent mindset. Many of them will not be with us. They suffer in silence. They are in my prayers. I encourage you to not push, but to just let them know you love them. Check on them. We love the occasional text message, and memories post. Just knowing they are on someone’s mind will inform them. When they most need it, they can say, “Hey, I need to talk.”
I’m glad I talked to my psychiatrist, I’m glad I did this. I feel better. I hope you do too.
