I have an obsession with pictures of creepy scenery and girls..not quite sure why.

What's Wrong with Dog Hair, Anyway?

My mother has always had great timing. She's caught me having sex in her basement when I was 16. She's walked in on me smoking in my bedroom. She even caught me and my best friend sneaking back IN the house after being out drinking all night.  This time, I guess, I should thank her. I had called her and asked her to bring her van over so I would only have to make one trip with all of my things. 

With the gun to my head, and my sweet furry friend, Tammy, laying by my legs, my mother walked in the front door. Her screams and cries were enough to make me stop what I was doing, not turning around to see her, just freezing. She ran over to me and wrestled the gun from my hand, ripping my shirt she was so violent in her maneuver. 

I was embarrassed and ashamed, but more than that I was done. I had no place to go, I had nothing to live for, and I might not even have my dog, as my mother told me I had to get rid of her. My mom (and sperm donor) were allowing me to move back in with them for a while, but the rule was no pets. My dog had been with me for everything, and was my only friend in the world. There was no way I was going anywhere without her. I would just as soon live on the street than live without her. 

I planted my ass on the couch, with my dog, and  refused to move. Either Tammy was coming with me, or I wasn't coming. I suppose my mother thought I had been through enough for one day, you know, with me trying to blow my brains out and all, so she agreed that my companion could come, too. 

Goodbye Cruel World...

How I never put all those things together...I just don't understand. I knew it wasn't normal, and I knew that there was, in me, a hatred for my father so intense, that it was impossible to explain to anyone else without seeming insane. So I went about my life. I graduated high school. I went to college. I had an awesome roommate and great friends. Until that day that I remembered everything.

How can our minds hide such things from us? How I wish to God that I had never remembered. It would have made my life so much easier.

When I came home from college for that week, I never confronted my father. I  never told my mother. For whatever reason I thought it would be a good idea to transfer to a college closer to home so that I didn't have to live on campus. Why? I would like to know the answer to that one, myself. My second year, at the new college, was a flop. I had all passing grades, but I hated the school, didn't have any friends, thought the professors were sexist.

I did  have a part time job that I loved. I worked at a high end jewelry store and got to play with diamonds all day. Who wouldn't love that? The women I worked with dared me to put a personal ad in the newspaper. Yes, people still did that way back then. There was no Match.com. I put an ad in the local paper and every day we would all call and listen to the replies and laugh....I mean, some of these men could barely put a sentence together, or they had just gotten out of prison, or were  married looking for something "discreet."

But one message caught my attention. He sounded sincere. So I actually called him. We talked every day for two weeks: LONG phone calls. When I finally met him it really was love at first sight. He was shy, funny, smart, and kind. Maybe a little too short for me - but hey, a girl can work around those things.

Frank and I met in June. We got engaged Thanksgiving day. Announcing our engagement to our families was anything but a joyous occasion. His father asked if I was pregnant, my father made him cry and kept saying that I was too young to get married. This really should  have been an omen. When we got married a year and a half later, it was on April 1st. No joke. The universe was smashing me over the head with bricks and I just kept smiling stupidly.

The first year of our marriage was great. We were happy, I got along with his two kids, and we went everywhere together. Then he started drinking. His behavior was intensely erratic and when he finally agreed to see a doctor about it, he was diagnosed with Manic Depression. The drinking and the psych meds were a bad combo for him. When he was drinking, he was nasty. He never laid a hand on me, but he was so verbally and emotionally abusive. He did finally quit drinking a year later, but by then he had already cheated  on me.

I was raised to believe that marriage is forever. I actually took my vows seriously when I said, "For better or for worse." He agreed that he wanted to work on it. We went to counseling, he went to AA, I went to Al-Anon. And for a while things got better. To make a very long story short, he cheated on me two other times, tried to commit suicide twice, we separated 5 years after getting married, and two years after that finally got a divorce.

The day I moved of out "his" house, he had left so we wouldn't fight. I was packing my things up from the back room and I noticed his gun case. It was locked but I knew where he kept the keys. I opened it up, and looked at all the guns. He loved hunting. He and his son went all the time. I took out a small pistol that I had used at the rifle range before. I loaded one bullet into it. I remember crying so hard I couldn't breathe, crying so hard and so long that I ran out of tears and my crying became soundless sobs. My dog came and laid next to me. I kissed her head, told  her I love her, and put the gun to my head.

The Hate Affair Begins

After the complete meltdown in my dorm, I sat and looked around at the complete wreck of a room I had left. I felt horrible, but more than that, I felt confused and scared. I couldn't tell my roommate exactly what was going on, and the sweet girl was so understanding I wanted to cry. 

I decided I should to go to the campus nurse and see if there was anything she could do for me. I'm really not sure what I was expecting: a magic pill maybe? Could she fly around the earth fast enough to turn back time? I was very disappointed when she opened the door and wasn't wearing a red cape. 

I didn't really know what to tell her. I stumbled over my words and managed to mutter something close to “I think I just had some kind of meltdown." I can't remember the rest of the conversation, but I do remember that she gave me an excuse to miss the rest of the week's classes. I was getting all A's so taking a week off wasn't a big deal. The big deal was figuring out where I was going to go. I had no place to stay except my parent's house. The thought totally turned my stomach. But I was a grown woman, what could he possibly do to me? If he tried anything I would have the fucker arrested. 

I don't know how I did it, but I managed to go back home and act like nothing was wrong. But I think somehow I had always known there was something wrong, very wrong. 

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Let's go to back to me in the basement, crying and praying for death. On the outside everyone thought I was a playful, joyous child. On the inside, however, I always felt differently: like I didn't quite fit in.  Every time my father tried to hug me, I cringed. I hated everything about him.  I hated the way he smelled, I hated his voice. I even hated the way he ate, shoveling everything into his mouth and breathing through his nose so loud.  I remember watching him eat and hoping he choked.

I have other memories of him, too. Memories that should have been a big red flag, but instead just got filed in the “wow what a fucked up father I have” drawer.

I was eight. I was in the kitchen. I was standing at the sink doing some dishes that my mom had asked me to wash. Sitting behind me, facing away from me, was my father. He was talking on the phone to one of his friends. He was smoking a cigarette and the smoke filled the room, choking me and burning my eyes. I always asked him not to smoke around me. He did anyway.

He turned to me and asked me to scratch his back for him. I said no. He put his hand over the phone receiver and said “Just do it!” I turned back around to the sink and noticed a knife sitting in the sudsy water. I picked it up and thought to myself how easy it would be to kill him. His back was to me, I could just turn around and stick this knife into his back and then run. Even if they caught me, I’m a kid, what could they do? I even started to turn around with the knife. But then he told me “Hurry up!” and I slid the knife back into the water.

I turned around to look at him. He was still facing away from me, chatting on the phone. I started to scratch his back but the more I did the more hatred built up inside of me. I sunk my  8 year old nails into his back and scratched as hard as I could, leaving red streaks down his back that were just starting to weep blood. He turned around and asked “What the hell is wrong with you?”

But after that he never mentioned it. Is that normal? To have your daughter do something like that to you and then not say something to her, not find out what’s going on, not ground her? But that’s what happened. He seemed to forget the incident even happened. I never did.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

I was 9 years old.  I was bouncing around the house playing with whatever is was that I played with, Barbies probably. My father had some of his work friends over.They were sitting out on the back deck drinking and talking while my mother made them dinner.  My father told me to come out onto the porch. I didn’t want to go and told him no, but he angrily told me to go out there, and the look on his face meant business. So I walked out on the deck and immediately he told me to turn around so everyone could see me and proceeded to ask his friends, “She has a cute figure doesn’t she? She’s going to be a really beautiful young woman. She even has little boobs starting to grow.” I was mortified and ran back into the house. I don’t know why this didn’t strike me as something that just wasn’t normal, I just thought it was my dad being my dad, the prick that he was. I never thought it was abuse of any kind.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

I was 12. My mom had tickets to go see Journey in concert. I was so jealous of her, I begged her to take me with her. But more than wanting to go see the concert, I didn’t want to be left home alone with my dad. I never wanted to be home alone with my dad, I always avoided it at all costs. But it seemed that this time I had no choice. That night I spend most of the night alone in my room. I didn’t want to see my dad so I avoided him, actively.  When it was time for bed, my dad came to my room and told me to get ready for bed. He told me I should change into my nightgown. “Not until you leave.” I said. 

“Oh so now you’re all bashful and shy?” he said. The tone of his voice made me want to vomit.

“Please leave so I can get changed.”

“Oh OK, have it your way!”  He left my room in a huff and as soon as he did I locked the door. I don’t remember anything else about that night, but I do remember that when I heard my mom come home around 1 in the morning, I felt such a wave of relief wash over me. She was home, and now I wasn’t alone with him anymore.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

I was 15 now. My mom was teaching me how to cook. I was at the stove with a spatula in my hand. I can still remember what it looked like. It was all black plastic and the bottom part had small marking on it where someone had let it sit too long and it melted a little. My father was in the kitchen sitting at the table. He started to tease me about something, but I was just ignoring him. He finally stood up and started to slap my butt. I told him to stop. He ignored me and did it again. Again I told him to stop. And again he ignored me and did it again. I had finally had enough and I turned around swinging the spatula at him, spraying him with hot oil and yelled. “I told you to stop, I don’t like it, don’t’ touch me.” I threw the half melted spatula at him and ran to my room, cranked the music as loud as it would go, and hibernated. I could still here him out there bitching to my mother about me.

“Who does she think she is? She acts like her shit don’t stink! She acts like a goddamn princess in the house, she never wants to help with anything; she’s so lazy.”

Is 18 Too Young to Have a Nervous Breakdown?

I just got done watching Silver Linings Playbook. What a great movie. Some movies about mental illness, while being spot on, can still be terribly depressing. This movie is such a feel good movie. I can't wait until it comes out on DVD. 

Anyway, I started this blog to basically start to tell my story, and after that how I cope day to day with depression and anxiety, or at least how I try to cope. I really don't know how to start. I guess I'll just jump right in. 

I have been depressed for as long as I can remember. When I was 5 years old I distinctly remember being in the basement of my parents' house, sobbing uncontrollably  and begging God to let me die. I'm not sure of the exact reason, but I can guess. 

I had always hated my father. When we were in public he acted like the perfect father. He had many friends who all thought he was such a great guy, a real man's man. He was Ward Cleaver's long lost cousin. But in the privacy of our home he was a dictator.  He treated us like we were his employees instead of his family. His word was law. If you didn't listen to him, his true self would show up. And his true self was ugly. 

I never really questioned why I hated my father. I always thought it was just because he was such an asshole. And yes, that's the right word for him. 

At 18 I went away to college. It was about 45 minutes away from my parent's house, so it was close enough to go home on the weekends but far enough away that I needed to stay on campus during the week. 

One day my college roommate jokingly jumped on my bed "attacking" me and tried to put me in a choke hold. It was in good fun, but in that instant, I remembered. I remembered the weight of a body on mine, the smell of stale cigarettes and sweat, a scratchy beard against my face. I freaked out and threw my roommate off of me. I didn't know what to do, I wasn't sure what was happening to me. I trashed our tiny dorm room, throwing my computer on the floor, breaking a window, tearing clothes. 

My poor roommate did her best to calm me down. God bless her she was so understanding. But I still didn't know what to do. How could I be suddenly remembering things that I never had any knowledge of before?

Mother's Day 2013

What a day I picked to start my blog about depression. I woke up in a relatively good mood, looking forward to my mother coming home from the shore, and quickly took a sharp left turn into "Fuck this day." I had forgotten about the fact that I don't have children, that I probably never will have any children, for a few days. And then while scrolling through my Face Book feed I began remembering why I always found this day so hard.  I have no children. I will  never have any children. I have always wanted nothing more than to be  happy, and to be a mother, and neither one of those things will ever happen.

So, yeah, I picked a pretty shitty day to start my blog. But at least I'm still moving ahead.

Go me.

Oh  yeah, Happy Mother's Day.