I’ll be honest. All the voices in my head are screaming at me not to write this post. But after binging Making a Murderer and The Innocence Files, I realized I have a lot to say. And in order to say everything, I think it’s important that you know a little about me.
“The story so far:
In the beginning the Universe was created. This has made a lot of people very angry and been widely regarded as a bad move.”
~Douglas Adams, The Restaurant at the End of the Universe
Look. I’m not going to start at the very beginning. I don’t have time, you don’t care . . . Why bother? But I wanted to get this stuff out because these events and experiences are what make me me. The things I care about, the opinions I want to voice here. These are the things that shaped them. So, let’s just get all the dirty laundry aired out quickly, then, shall we? Bring on the dump truck!
Surviving Suicide
When I was five my dad shot himself in the head. There it is. No, not in front of me. In fact, I didn’t know how he died–just that he was gone–until I was eleven. I have only flashes of memories of him. Throwing back a catfish caught on an overnight fishing line on his houseboat. Driving through the woods to my grandparent’s house in Humboldt County. Yelling at me for throwing a beer can in the water. Otherwise, all I know about my dad is what my family has told me and what I’ve been able to glean from old letters.
There. All done. Mic drop. Time to move on.
Ha, well, I’m only half-joking, though. I don’t like to talk about this because when I tell anyone my “tragic” back story I get two reactions: First and most common, their face falls and they get really uncomfortable. Like “Oh. That sucks and I’m very uncomfortable, now.” The second reaction I get is sort of a weird desire to compete for sympathy. Look. I’m just a regular person. Sure, I feel broken sometimes, but who doesn’t?
Anyways, I know a few other people whose dads killed themselves when they were young and they’ve dealt with that loss by clinging to anger. I think anger can act like a life-preserver for people. They forget who they are without it. Sure, it can keep you going for a while. And it’s a lot easier to be angry than to feel vulnerable. But damn that’s a lot of wasted energy, isn’t it? Just stuck in the past and never moving forward . . .
I was angry for a long time. Well, really just my teen years. I spent my early childhood idolizing my dad. Remember, I didn’t know how he died until I was eleven. When I found out, it was like I lost him all over again. I was taking anti-depressants and seeing a therapist for a few years. When I got tired of saying the same things to my therapist and my anti-depressant dose was so high I was completely numb to all my feelings EXCEPT anger, I decided to figure things out my way.
And I’m not angry anymore. Maybe it’s easier for me because I struggled through depression, too. I know how hard it is when you’re in pain and you don’t feel like you have a reason to live. Yeah, compassion helped. But honestly, at the root of it I think I just got tired of clinging to the past.
Suicide is a sad thing. I’m sad my dad was depressed. I’m sad that he was in such a dark place that he felt like that was his only solution. I’m sad I didn’t get a chance to know him, to fight with him, to laugh with him, to cry with him, to ask him for advice. But those are things I can’t have, no matter how badly I fantasize about them. And, honestly, who’s to say I’d have had them if things were different? My dad was a raging alcoholic. He was going to hurt me no matter what.
If my life has taught me anything, it’s that clinging to pain and anger doesn’t do anything but hurt you. It takes courage to be vulnerable and strength to let go. When I was in Alanon, we said the Serenity Prayer before every meeting:
“Grant me the Serenity to accept the things I cannot change, Courage to change the things I can, and Wisdom to know the difference.”
Well, it’s cliché for a good reason. What’s the point in holding on to something that you are powerless over? The past is the past and we have to let it go (after learning from it, of course). The only thing we can change is the future, so that’s what we should spend our energy on.
Anxiety and Depression
I talked a bit about depression already because, for me, it’s very closely tied to my dad’s suicide. But anxiety is the true demon on my back. Full disclosure: I had my first panic attack at my middle school graduation. Yup. Thirteen years old and I started hyperventilating on the way to the venue. Well, I was embarrassed. What was I so freaked out about? It seems silly, now–as most of my panic attacks do–but I was afraid of starting over in a new school with new people, having to make new friends.
The thing about anxiety is that society sees it as a weakness, so people who have it hide it (if they can). Guys. I see you. You aren’t weak. You’re really strong. Consider this: If you poured an equal amount of the fear that’s normal to you into someone without anxiety, they would probably be paralyzed. Because bravery isn’t about not having fear, it’s about facing it. You get through every day facing a crippling amount of fear. That’s something to be proud of! Own that.
For those who don’t know: Anxiety is the monster that whispers all those nasty nothings in your ear. It tells you you’re going to die alone, you’ll never be successful, that everyone hates you . . . Basically, it’s that guy in the movie that’s super abusive and you don’t know why his partner sticks around. A panic attack is like being trapped in a room and the walls are closing in on you. There’s no way out. Like, seriously, there is No. Way. Out. It’s that end of the world, deer-in-the-headlights, “oh fuck” moment that literally steals the air from your lungs and punches you in the gut for good measure.
Anxiety, and specifically PTSD, are things I talk a lot about in my novel. Here’s why: Our culture shames the people that are brave enough to admit they have hardship. And that’s fucked up. While neurodiversity is a word used more specifically to neurological differences–as in the structure of the brain–I feel that the philosophical concept applies to mental health differences as well.
Why? Because I’ve been told I’m crazy or sensitive or emotional or that I need thicker skin . . . What is this noise? There isn’t anything wrong with me. Anxiety is a natural and healthy response to negative stimulus. It’s only a problem when it cripples you–anything that prevents you from living your best life is a reason to seek help. Otherwise . . . Society’s stigmas against anyone that expresses genuine emotion can suck it.
As decades of psychological research has shown (and any true crime enthusiast knows), long-term repression often leads to an explosive release. That’s right. Rage killers. So shut up.
Abusive Relationships
Ugh. There’s that pesky ‘s’ at the end of ‘relationship’ that makes it multiple. OK, yes, I will begrudgingly admit I have been in two abusive relationships. Both were primarily emotionally abusive. For the extent of both, I didn’t know I was being abused.
Ah, my shame is showing. I shouldn’t be trying to validate my choices here.
Guys, the only person involved in an abusive relationship that should be ashamed is the abuser. If abusive relationships were as simple as “I get hit sometimes” everyone would drop it like it’s hot, no problem. This isn’t the olden days when you couldn’t get divorced and if you did you were basically fucked (talking mostly about het partnerships here) so you were forced to stay with your abuser. There’s literally no way an abuser can (legally) trap you in a relationship in this era, so they have to get into your head.
Can you tell this is going to be another #soapbox?
Now that I’ve finished “justifying” myself (not that I needed to!), I’ll tell you a little about both relationships. The first was so subtle that I didn’t know it was abusive until months after it was over. I spent two and a half years with this person who was basically a leach. They manipulated me into moving in together, they manipulated me into covering their expenses, and they manipulated me into taking care of them.
There was a lot of lying and a lot of guilt and shaming. “My friends don’t want to hang out with me anymore because they don’t like you,” because they were trash-talking me behind my back. “I dropped out of college so that I could get more hours at work and help out with the bills,” even though I never saw a cent after they started working full time. “It’s OK. I like a girl with a little extra weight,” when I was developing anorexia.
Oh, yes. And here’s the most damning: “You know what people are saying about you? They think you’re a bitch.” This was an extremely successful tactic that this person used to isolate me from my friends and support network. I didn’t find out until months after our breakup that nobody ever said anything like that about me.
The other relationship ended when things got physical. But I’ll get into that in the next section.
Untreated Mental Illness
Mental illness is real. It’s not calling someone crazy for being emotional. And it’s not the nonsensical warpath depicted in movies. Mental illness is like a subtle knife that cuts everything good out of your life. My second abusive relationship was with someone with bipolar disorder.
This person came right after the first abuser. They empowered me and supported me. They made me feel beautiful, strong, and confident. They also argued with me about the weather and didn’t want me to work . . . So, some control issues, there. When they finally went into a manic episode, things got real. After staying awake for several days, they became psychotic. Like, the dictionary definition: lost contact with reality often with hallucinations or delusions.
They threatened me to get in the car and then drove me over a hundred miles through the night. When I asked to go home, they threatened to run us off the road. They called me a whore, a liar, stupid–you name it, they said it to me. What happened to my supportive, affectionate partner? Where did the love go? After that first abuser, I’d become so addicted to how nice my second abuser was most of the time that I overlooked all the other red flags. I even refused to acknowledge when most of the time because only sometimes.
They bought plane tickets to Las Vegas with my money and tried to manipulate me into eloping with them. It was a wakeup call. I got my car keys back and left them at the airport. After a week, they came back. They were emaciated and sunburnt. They told me that they’d been hospitalized against their will and it was my fault. We went home and, when I tried to convince them to see a psychiatrist, they attacked me.
Guys. Mental illness is not a joke. It’s real. And it hurts people. But the tragedy here is that it doesn’t have to. I happen to know a very wonderful person with treated bipolar disorder. They have a healthy, happy life. Mental illness shouldn’t just be written off and the people who suffer from it should be supported rather than feared or mocked. They should be encouraged to seek help if they need it, not subjugated and segregated.
Discrimination
Well, I’m a woman. I guess you would call me cisgender if you want to simplify things, I’m het, and I’m white. I have fewer barriers and obstacles than other minorities. And yet I’ve still felt the burn of discrimination. I’ve literally sat down and listened to the “managers can’t be emotional” excuse to deny me a promotion that I was qualified for. Twice. From the same person who, when I told them I was crying because I was frustrated and angry, said, “Really? Huh. I hit the wall when I’m angry.”
Because violence is a healthier way to react to emotions than crying.
Anyways, I find that conversation tired and dated, so I won’t linger on it. There will be plenty of time to rant in more detail in later #soapbox posts. The point is that I’ve felt the power of a society structured around oppression. So, I have compassion for minorities that have it worse than me. I’m lucky that I can still live a reasonably fulfilling life despite my existence as someone who is not equal. There are a lot of people in this world that can’t.
I’m not blind. I know the criminal justice system is designed to keep certain people in prison longer. That offenders who commit crimes against women are more likely to get out early (so they can reoffend) than a minority who committed a nonviolent crime. I know that sexual assault, domestic violence, and stalking are technically problems, but don’t seem to be treated like it if the defendant isn’t a minority.
Here’s a special nugget: When my mentally ill partner assaulted me, the responding police convinced me it would be useless to press charges. Because they didn’t leave a mark. And it would be inconvenient for me. This is from the same police force that arrested my sixteen-year-old friend and her mom after her stepdad, who was friends with the arresting officers, beat the living crap out of them. The same police force that murdered Breonna Taylor and outrageously never saw charges filed against them. I’m ashamed to admit that in my panicked state, I listened to him.
But that’s why I write. That’s the small part I can play in fixing things, one day at a time.
TLDR
This was meant to “out” myself but I guess it turned into a few mini #soapbox rants. Oops! But that’s the whole point, anyways. I wanted to share these experiences because they back up my opinions.
TLDR? Hey, that’s cool. I always skip to the recipe, too. But head’s up, the next one will be longer.
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