Pill

What stands between my night and day,
My Jekyll and Hyde,
My technicolor and black & white,
My dreams and nightmares,
My revelry and mere existence.

Time to swallow.

Torment Returns

I thought most people, even some bullying peers, could grow up and move on. Evidently, that's not the case.

Getting Better, I think

The time since my last post has been crazy, but productive in terms of my recovery. I've got a psychiatrist and psychologist I'm seeing regularly, both o whom were very highly recommended. I've been diagnosed with PTSD, General Anxiety Disorder, Major Depressive Disorder - Recurring, and Social Phobia. I'm also on an anti-depressant. Zoloft, to be exact.

I have to admit that at first I wasn't too thrilled with the idea of taking anti-depressants. I felt that I shouldn't have to rely on a medication to feel normal or at ease. I thought my need to be "normal" was all in my head, and it was all in my head, so to speak. I guess my experiences reprogrammed me biochemically as well as psychologically.

But now, I can't imagine going without the meds. I can sleep, my mood is much more even-keeled, and I don't feel as self-conscious as before.

I still have a long way to go, but I think I'm off to a decent start.

Letter

Dear Raging Bitch,

It's been at least a month since I last talked to you. I'm not sure if you remember, but you called me because you couldn't somehow figure out to do some overly simple task on your computer that any illiterate monkey could have done.

You have toll-free technical support with your computer. You even have Google. But no, nagging your oldest child seemed like the best option. Especially since I am self-employed and that evidently equates to not really having a job in your small, reclusive world.

Even though I told you I was barely awake, you still thought it was a fantastic opportunity to become overbearingly irritated at me because I, after 33 years, still can't read your mind. But you know those old feelings of insecurity, defensiveness, inadequacy, lack of confidence, and fear. The very sound of your voice brought them back, just like every other time I have to talk to you.

I don't exactly remember how the call transpired because 1, I was barely awake and 2, I just didn't care that much about your problem, but I do remember the call ended with me hanging up on you for the first time in my life even without saying goodbye. You used to do that crap all the time to people, so I do wonder how your own medicine tasted. If you're in any way surprised that someone finally did it back, you shouldn't be.

It was kind of nice in a way. I called up my husband at work to celebrate. He was quite glad for me. He and his family don't like you either. What's funny is that neither I nor my hubby told them what happened in my childhood. They figured you out in no time flat. You see, you tipped my hubby off when you refused to acknowledge his presence for the first 45 minutes that we were under the same roof. You didn't even really go out of your way to introduce yourself. You were civil, but far from friendly.

But I digress . . .

Those old feelings didn't go away on their own this time. They festered and festered for days, eventually poisoning my relationships with everyone around me. I ended up in a psychiatrist's office this week and, for the first time in my life, I am on anti-depressants. I will be on anti-depressants probably for the rest of my life. Should hubby and I have children, I will probably be closely monitored for post-partum depression.

I have a mental illness, and it is your fault. You had no real empathy. I wonder how hard it was to feign interest in us at home, in private, when we weren't an extension of yourself. We wanted a mom. Yes, you were our mother, but that doesn't make you a MOM. You wanted us to stop being a big, god damn inconvenience.

I remember for most of your early single parenthood, you wouldn't even eat dinner with your own young children. I remember how you never attended a single tennis match of my sister's. I remember my teachers asking why Dad was at more of my school functions than you were. I remember, too, how your boyfriends always took center stage when they were around.

Let's not get into that incident involving my brother and feces again. That's really the main reason I'm seeing a psychiatrist AND a psychologist. I still can't sleep. I still hear the screams and see the movie in my head. I am too close to blurting out your name to go much further. That time, however, is coming.

I especially remember how, just last November, you were all too eager to show off yet another redecoration and remodeling project when I came home for my Grandma's funeral. You know, Dad's mom? You seemed oddly chipper and upbeat. All I wanted to do was change into my nicer clothes and then go pay my respects. I know you hated her and refused to let us visit her much as children, but she was my grandmother, you dumb cunt!

Anyway, I'm past my pill-popping time. I need to keep up my doses so that, maybe, one day I can know what it is like to feel like a normal human being. And don't call me. I won't pick up and I won't call you either.

Sincerely,

The Oldest Child

Rewind, Repeat.

I'm going back into therapy.

Again.

Maybe this time I make some progress.