Did my intake at the Wright Institute. I’m going to be talking to a therapist regularly again. Spent most of the ninety minutes talking about my life. Mentally ill mother, great dad, sports, addiction, happy marriage, children, depression, anxiety, panic attacks, writing, film, books, big mistakes, big laughs, friends who died, pain and joy and confusion and certainty.
I don’t mind yakking about myself. I’ve been seeing shrinks of various kinds since high school so I’m quite used to it. Good for me. Good for anybody — assuming you’re honest about it. No use bullshitting someone who’s trying to help you. Imagine going to a doctor because of severe pain then omitting information or embellishing. Maybe I’m on the wrong track, maybe 99% of people are perfectly honest with therapists. How the hell would I know? First of all you’ve got to be honest with yourself. Failure to do so will negatively effect the ability of anyone to help you and badly curb your ability to help yourself.
It’s weird recounting my childhood again. I mean the parts about my mother yelling, cursing, stomping her foot, angry at people who aren’t there. Raving like a loon. Okay so weird was the wrong word, it’s exhausting. You live through something like that then you have to spend the rest of your life recounting it. You can never shake the memory and worst of all you can never forget how it made you feel or in some respects how it DIDN’T make you feel. In some ways I was anesthetized to what was going on. It was at once horrifying but also part of the white noise of my misery. It was ever present.
The worst part was coming home. Just before opening the front door Id be wondering if mom was going to be like a regulation mother or a raving lunatic. And if she was doing the whole June Cleaver bit, how long would it last? You never knew when she was going to go off into the deep end again and swim in the murky waters of batshit crazy.
No kid should go through that feeling. For crying out loud this was happening when I was five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, a teenager.
So I was the ultimate helpless victim. That’s a messed up thing to realize that you had no power in the situation, helpless, like being in the jaws of a huge and powerful beast.
To my credit I carried on. I made the most of my childhood despite the secret horror that I lived with. Plenty of friends, a loving dad, a vivid imagination (boy did I do a lot of hiding in that) great extended family. Running like hell through fields, being enthralled by books, laughing at stupid TV shows, making up games with my friends. Marveling at sports and the exploits of athletes. Later there were The Beatles and music and girls (what an amazing discovery!). Life was so rich. There was so much to do, so many experiences to have, so much to learn. School actually seemed to get in the way of my education. Feeding me what they wanted me to learn rather than what I craved, what I needed. But school was a great place to meet friends, to get to know people, to understand my fellow travelers. Sometimes teachers would expose us to things worth knowing. They mostly had good hearts.
But the pain of my childhood followed me when I went off to college. But boy did I have a way to cope. Booze and drugs cured all. The pain was gone and I was sociable and giddy. Yes, of course the cure became nearly as bad as the disease. Problems, complications. My life ended up going in a wide array of destinations all at once. I didn’t know what I had when I had it and I didn’t know where to go, where I’d been or where I was.
Mental illness, the consequence of my childhood or a nasty combination of both?
Anyway I’ve struggled through. Loving wife, AA, great children. Good friends. Medical professionals.
Still have nasty scars and horrible reminders of what was but I’ve spent a lifetime drowning that pain in good times, worthy endeavors and exploring the endless variety of fascinating questions and mysteries that make up our world.
Depression is still an unwelcome companion, as are obsessive thoughts that do me no good. I’m hoping another stab at therapy will help me feel better. There’s always the next day.
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