A broken mind

As a child in the 1970s I grew up looking at this book cover in my mother's bookshelf. She was an avid reader of all things Vatican II, and the Catholic Worker Movement, started by Dorothy Day and Peter Maurin, was a part of the necessary history of the renewal of the church. Pope John XXIII famously used an open window as an analogy to "...let the fresh air of the Holy Spirit flow through."

I was always drawn to the art on the cover and the story of Dorothy Day. But the art struck me viscerally, even as a young girl. I'm no art critic, and in fact haven't taken even one course or read one book on art, but something about the drawing spoke to me in a way no one or nothing else ever did. I felt seen. The stark minimalism of the black and white lines, the woman with child sitting alone, in grief, the road to Calvary and the cross. The barrenness of the place and the suffering spoke to me. Yes, there is an angel tending to the woman, and the picture of a dove - a common artistic depiction of the Holy Spirit, but I never focused on those. I missed them completely.

When I was a teenager my mother remarked that I was incorrigible. I had to look it up, but the meaning was clear through her tone- I was resistant to change. She would often remark that I would be in one sad mood or another and that I was like a cup filled with holes that, "I could fill that cup all day and it would all spill out. It wouldn't make a difference."

My first mental health therapy appointment occurred when I was 16. At 11 I had written a suicide note and a plan. I would overdose and end it all. When I was a bit older I remember learning about other kids who slit their wrists to die. I thought about it, but I'm very squeamish. I can take a lot of physical pain but I curdle at the thought of inflicting it upon myself. I saw that therapist 4 times and then my father cut it off. He didn't approve of her reputation.

I have seen lots of counselors, psychologists and a few psychiatrists over the years. One of the early ones was at the county mental health clinic, because I was young, unemployed and poor. He had an office with a parrot, who would shit during sessions. I talked for a bit and then he concluded, in a Eureka! sort of way that my problems stemmed from my fear of .....then he wrote on his whiteboard - SEX. That was a one time visit. I've had many nice counselors who tried to help me, but they all tried some version of cognitive behavioral therapy and while I felt affirmed for awhile, and I certainly got a new perspective, eventually I would revert back into my bad brain and feel miserable again.

I've been on lots of different mental health meds. I like Prozac the best. It doesn't change my personality or calm my brain down as much as I'd like, but it helps me function. I'm really miserable without some medication. I've tried to be without it, because who wants to take meds? I come from a German father who would not abide weakness. I always appreciated my second psychiatrist who explained to me that type 1 diabetics need insulin in the same way I need SSRI's. It just helps me live rather than die. I don't understand the biochemistry and really, even super smart neuroscientists don't always understand why these things work either. For some people, they just do. We are lucky that they do, because how many other awful things out there a kid can be born with that stifles their life trajectory are there? So many parents and kids just have to face heartbreak. A bad brain that is just Eeyore all time isn't so bad. I'm not psychotic, violent, or severely developmentally delayed.. I'm just socially isolated, perpetually bankrupt, a dysfunctional parent and twice divorced. It is what it is.

But is it? There are days I'm on top of the world, or carrying the world on a string - choose your worldly metaphor. When I have a good day on the job, or a great time with friends or family, or feel complemented by a handsome man, I feel on top of life and completely sane. I even feel, though I hesitate to say it - stable. But pervasively, there will always come days, which turn into weeks or months or years, where I feel utterly insane, afraid, nihilistic, alone, irritable and inconsolable. So, which is reality? Are they both reality? There are reality in as much as there is a story I believe depending upon the day, my biochemistry, my environmental circumstances and innumerable other factors contributing the stew in my brain.

Now, an outsider would likely quarrel with my assessment. Some people think I'm awesome, insightful and really kind. Other people think I'm a flighty loser. Most people find me irrelevant. So, it really doesn't seem like seeking a neutral perspective on my performance of humanity is the ticket to the evaluation of myself that I'm always fighting with. There are too many variables here. I can't trust anyone's evaluation. I need to find my own.

So, now that I'm at a stage of life where I have somewhere between 1 day and 35 more years of living left, I have to figure out how to answer a life-long question. Am I ever going to be at peace with myself? Buddhism is awesome, Jesus is awesome, all the other religious traditions are awesome. But my brain cannot let the dark self hatred go no matter what I try. And yes, I still have suicidal ideation. Thankfully, that is all it is. I'm safe. I only mention it to reinforce the point that I have tried everything. I have read all the personality inventories, studied psychology and sociology, looked into religious practices and prayed incessantly. I believe in a just and loving God. I pray my loving-kindness metta everyday. Still, since I'm currently a few months into unemployment - same brain - same issues. Feel awful. Incorrigible.

Someday, I will get a job and I will feel on top of the world. Or I will go see the ocean or the forest. Or someone cute will say hello to me. That is all I will need and it will last awhile, but not forever. I will revert back to the bullshit that has framed my whole life. And no amount of tapping, or drugs, or food, or meditation will change it. This is hard to accept. I don't want to be an old miserable lady. Sure, I want to be an old lady, but I'd prefer to be a cute one who is either sage like or who is a bit too frank for everyone's liking. But I would like to like myself and to accept my reality. I don't know if I can ever get there before I die, but I am trying.

Early in my mental illness journey I was diagnosed with Chronic Depression and Generalized Anxiety Disorder. About 8 years ago one of my counselors insisted I must be Bi-Polar type 2. I don't think that fits, but honestly, who knows? My kiddo suggested the other day I might have Borderline Personality Disorder. Maybe I do. When I get a job with insurance I will seek a new diagnosis. I'm not sure why, but it can't hurt and it might help. I do think I have challenges that other people just don't have and couldn't possibly understand. I can't just snap out of it. I wish I could - oh no one has wished harder for anything than I have wished for that. But as my paternal grandmother used to say, If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.

I created this space to document my journey. I will post some memories of how mental illness has harmed my life and the lives of the people I love, and what the journey ahead looks like. Can an old lady who has succumbed to the darkness in her broken brain for 50 years ever recover? You'll have to stick around to find out. I'll have to stick around to find out too...