Looking back on the span and scope of my life, I’ve come to recognize that I’ve lived with anxiety and depression since I was a child. I was an insecure, sensitive kid with big feelings. I was often told by my dad that I was “too sensitive” and, when I was sullen, he often told me to “snap out of it.” I guess over time I learned that expressing certain emotions — like sadness, anger, frustration, and agitation — those that are typically labeled as “BAD,” were not really acceptable. When I did express these emotions, they were BIG. I needed to keep them stuffed down. But I could only do that for so long before they came spilling out. When they finally came, they exploded.
One of the ways my stuffed-down feelings surfaced was in the interactions with my sister, who is two years and three months younger then I am. In almost every conflict between us, my feelings would bubble up like hot lava and pour over the rim of my soul. Karen was the one who most often suffered from my hot, spewing, volcanic-like emotional eruptions. Today, at the ages of 59 and 57, we are very close, but back when we were growing up it seemed as though we were constantly finding ways to oppose, antagonize, frustrate, and generally piss each other off. The result? Fights. BIG fights. Like punching and kicking, hair pulling and screaming, and throwing things.
I recall one particular event, the memory of which upsets me to the core, even today, after close to fifty years. This memory stings. What was the cause of this fight? I do not recall. But I remember the feeling of hot, boiling, rage. I remember just wanting to kick and punch as hard as I could, but something in the way she looked at me made me hold back. I clearly remember throwing a comforter over her face. It was a soft, cream colored comforter with little yellow and gold flowers. We had matching comforters on the twin beds in the room that we shared together. I remember them so well — like I could reach into my memory and pull the comforter out of my mind and hold it out for you to touch. Once that blanket covered Karen’s face, and I could no longer see her, I just kept punching. Raging. Then I remember hearing her scream. And then seeing blood. My sister’s blood. All over the soft, cream colored comforter with the little yellow and gold flowers. I bashed her nose. The memory of what followed is blurry, but I REMEMBER the FEELINGS. I remember feeling a catharsis: a release; one I imagine is much like the pressure being released from the old-fashioned pressure cooker our mom made dinner in when we were kids. Then I felt the FEAR. Panic. SHAME. Guilt. The thoughts, “What did I just do?!” “How could I have done this?” “What is wrong with me??!!” “Could I really be capable of that? Of pounding my sister until she bled?!” “I am horrible!” But mostly I felt afraid. Afraid for my sister. Afraid of what I did. Afraid of what my parents would think. Afraid of who I was.
Sharing this story makes me feel ashamed. The voices in my head whisper things like, “Don’t bring up the past!” “You should not talk about such things.” “Won’t telling things like this embarrass your sister and your mom?” “Aren’t YOU ashamed of yourself? “Aren’t you afraid that people will think differently about you?” “Why would you tell people that? Family matters are private!” But there are other voices, too. These voices say things like, “It’s okay to be honest.” “It is okay to tell the truth.” “Don’t be afraid to be real.” “Everything about your past contributed to the woman you are today.” These voices tell me that sharing this story makes me brave. Telling the truth is brave. Even when (especially when!) the truth isn’t pretty. When the truth is hard.
When I was in my thirties I went through a very emotionally dark time. I went through whole bunch of “yucky” stuff — things that I don’t want to talk about in this particular post. During this time, with the support of a dear friend, I was able to find a therapist. I was diagnosed with anxiety and depression. I was also diagnosed with bulimia. I was suicidal. I was getting the help I needed, but no one knew. On the surface I was FINE. I was HAPPY. I was OK. But deep down, I was NOT fine. I was NOT happy. I was NOT OK. It was exhausting living that way. I remember feeling worn out. There was no fire or rage left in me, just numbness and exhaustion. I desperately wanted to FEEL something other than numbness and exhaustion. I had swallowed and suppressed my feelings for so long that I did not know how to feel them let alone deal with them.
I used to hide this part of my story. It used to embarrass me. I used to feel ashamed about my depression and anxiety. I heard the voices in my head say things like, “You should not talk about such things.” “Won’t telling things like this embarrass your family?” “Aren’t YOU ashamed of yourself? “Aren’t you afraid that people will think differently about you?” But then I got BRAVE, and I told the truth. Every time I told the truth it got easier and less scary. Every time I told the truth I felt braver and stronger. Every time. And now I am able to tell you these things without fear or shame. I know that this part of my journey, while not pretty or pleasant, is important. It’s one of the many things that have contributed to the compassionate, honest, empathic, understanding, accepting, supportive, and caring person that I am today.
I used to spend so much time mulling over the past. I would dwell on things that I did or didn’t do; should or should not have done. I would play certain events over and over and over in my head until I had no energy left for living in the present. I would press the replay button again and again and revisit choices I made (or didn’t make) until my brain and heart hurt. Counseling helped me to make a conscious choice to stop living in the past, but it also allowed me permission to VISIT the past so I could see it clearly and learn from it. I think visiting the past can be helpful. As an adult, I can look back and feel love for and offer forgiveness to that scared and angry little girl that didn’t know how to — or have permission to — express her big, hard feelings. I can look back at the young woman who was numb and exhausted from pretending to be happy while quietly dying inside, and cheer for her bravery for getting help so she could reclaim her life. I can look back and see how far I’ve come. I can look back to see what I learned about myself and discover what I still need to learn. And there is still so much to learn!
The past? No. I don’t live there anymore. But sometimes I visit.
Until next time…..
XO, Christine