Tag Archives: depression

Computer Crash: Amanda’s Story

By now, most of you have probably at least heard something about this story. Amanda Todd, to put the story in its most basic terms, was stalked through three cities, bullied, beaten, and harassed to death. She was a 15-year-old girl who ended up choosing suicide over living one more day in the hell created by her peers both at school and in the online/social media world that has now become a haven for all manner of bullies and predators. This behavior sickens me. Amanda left behind a chilling  Youtube video explaining her situation. And for the full story, you can read what her mother has to say in the The Vancouver Sun.

Having been a victim of bullying, of violence, and a teenager who tried to commit suicide, I really feel for this girl. I think I can understand the place she was at; I thought, maybe I could put that in a poem. So this poem here, this is for Amanda. This is also for everyone who doesn’t understand what is is to want to end your life. I don’t know that I can explain that, and I’m not trying to speak for her. I can only reach back into my own experience, and maybe offer a little perspective.

I am so, so sorry Amanda. We all failed you. But maybe your story will help others, and I hope that gives you peace.

 

10/12/12

Computer Crash: Amanda’s Story

All I wanted was to be liked

I just wanted people to see

That I was a funny, fun person

I wanted them to see the real me

Instead, I was lured to a trap

I was told I was beautiful, cute

He told me to lift up my shirt

For an unknowing photo shoot

From that moment my life was over

I was stalked like deer in the woods

There was nowhere for me to hide

I tried three neighborhoods

But the stalkers and bullies, they followed

They tracked me through wires and webs

I never asked for this fame

To be one more naked celeb

They used every weakness against me

They beat me and tortured me so

Finally I couldn’t take it

I decided I had to go

It’s not like anyone cared

The police didn’t even try

The haters get away with it all

While I sit with a razor and cry

So goodbye to the stalkers and bullies

Goodbye to my parents, I regret

Too bad I have to end this life

That’s hardly happened yet

For Amanda Todd

 

© Sarah Ann Henderson

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Domestic Violence Story Project: Cathy

Hello everyone! Thank you for joining me once again for the Story Project. This fourth story on our series comes to us from a woman who has really turned her pain into power. The way she did it may not work for everyone, and you may or may not agree with her spiritual views, but you must agree that she has taken her experience with domestic violence and used it to transform the lives of other victims. I believe Cathy to be a very brave woman, and I’m glad she was one of the fortunate ones who survived to tell her story. 

 

My name is Catherine Staton, and I am a survivor, advocate and spokesperson of domestic violence and abuse. I am the founder of MyHelpMyHope Charity, Inc. I could not believe the man I had married, was not who he said he was. He was a retired from the army as a drill sergeant and I was his cadet. At the beginning he would set the clock for 2am and I had to get up and have sex every morning before he went to work. And if I didn’t give it to him, he made my life miserable. I couldn’t even decorate our home without his approval. If he came home and there was a scratch on the wall, it was an argument. If my son put the dishes in the dish washer wrong or the wrong dish in the wrong cabinet, it was an argument. I was nothing but a sex machine.

Outside of that he had no conversation. His true self appeared 6 months after moving into his home and giving up mine. Before I moved with him, he acted like he loved my son. That changed once we moved in. After we moved in, it was like my son was not even there. I was head butted like a savage beast. I was told to get out. Can you imagine being married and your husband telling you to get out of your home? After you have physical and verbally attacked me, how is it that you think I want to lay with you? That’s what I would ask him. He would physically or verbally attack me and then want me to lay with him. He didn’t even expect me to drive my own car.

The day we buried my mother, this man wanted to have sex. Enough was enough. I fled for my life 3 years ago, went back after a year, and then fled for my life again 1 year after that, from extreme verbal, emotional, physical, mental and psychological abuse. When I went back the second I thought he had changed. I was trying to live according to the word. But nothing had change. I became very depressed, I lay in the bed all the time, I didn’t want to go anywhere. This time he didn’t put his hands on me but he verbally, emotional, mentally, and psychological abused me every day. I started praying to God more than usual. Then one day, I was driving in my car and I saw the clouds in the sky like I never seen them before, the grass and the trees weren’t just grass and trees any more.

Something was happening to me. God started my transformation. I tried to make my marriage work, according to the Bible, especially since God was transforming me. So I did everything I could to make this man happy, but it was not good enough. So as God transformed me, he spoke to me. I started volunteering at a domestic violence shelter, and educating myself on what was happening to me. I found out I was being abused. As I got more informed God put this shield around me. My husband would come attack me verbally and I wouldn’t hear a thing. During the last year of being abuse I developed an intimate and personally relationship with God and during this period is when I discovered my calling.

I started preparing myself to get out of that situation and when I got the chance I ran and never looked back. I created a new life for me and my son. I am happy to be here and that we are free. I truly believed how I was being treated, was the way a man was supposed to treat you, until I got married and started living for Christ and I woke up. I started speaking and doing things for victims and survivors. I decided to turn my negative into a positive. I decided to live to make a difference. I refused to let my circumstance take over me.

Peace is something powerful to have and I was glad to have it. My son and I could have a good night’s sleep. Change starts from within. I refused to let what my husband had done to me take over me. I had to start living my life for today. I had to get up and be obedient to what God was whispering in my ear to do. Go out there and show other victims and survivors that they don’t have to live a life of abuse. There is help and hope, if you leave. Transitioning wouldn’t be easy, but if I could do it, so can you. Through God all things are possible.

 

 

 

 

www.myhelpmyhope.org

Helping Victims of Domestic Violence

I Live to Make a Difference!

TOGETHER EVERYONE ACHIEVES MORE!

(757) 202-2451


Domestic Violence Story Project: R.

Hello everyone, thank you for joining me for Writing for Recovery’s Domestic Violence Awareness Month Story Project. Throughout the month of October I’ll be posting stories that I’ve received from women who have been in violent relationships, and a couple from those who have lost loved ones to violence. As many of you know, this is a subject that is a close to my heart, as I grew up in a violent and chaotic home and have felt and watched the damage it can do. However, I have also been witness to the enormous strength of those who survive these situations…and unfortunately, too many people do not. I have been privileged to hear and receive your stories and I thank everyone who has taken part in this Project. Your voices matter, they need to be heard, and it’s possible they could save a life.

The first story I’d like to bring to you was actually taken (with permission) from an e-mail I received. This lady describes the pain and fear of living inside a violent relationship in such an emotionally raw way because she is actually in one right now.  I wanted to post this first so that it’s possible to get perhaps a little bit of a glimpse inside what it might be like to live this way. To answer that tired and uninformed question, “Why doesn’t she just leave?”

 This is why. 

 

I am not sure how to begin this….( I am just telling this so that I CAN FEEL A LOT BETTER….. )

I considered myself a fighter and a survivor in my own way. It’s not easy and yet I still bear a scar and wound that can never heal.

In the Asian context, domestic violence is considered a taboo subject , it will be such a shame to let what happened in your marriage out in the open. Especially when you are being abused by your husband. Being emotionally, physically and verbally abused……it really tears MY life apart. I don’t really recognize my own self. Being called hurtful names or spiteful remarks, being kicked and punched like a ball ….. the list goes on and on…….

Imagine being spat on??…..spat on in front of the kids??…. I felt so dirty, so disgusted and so humiliated. I felt so insulted …… I hate myself…..and I hate HIM even more….

Someone told me….try to forget the hatred so at least I don’t hurt myself inside….But can you blame me for feeling like this ??????…..

I get out of the marriage after I got a knock on my senses suddenly. But that kind of braveness never came knocking on me again…it just totally left me helpless and hanging like a thread. As time goes by…..I began to feel that I am at the bottom of a pit….so low till I find it difficult to bring myself up and out….

I am scared of him…..scared of even his shadow….his voice ….. what makes matters worse, we are still living under the same roof , although we are undergoing a divorce process which I think took such a slow process….

Whenever there is a need to talk to him, the talk became an argument and it escalates into abuses….I shivered and shake whenever I try to talk to him…..

The FEAR never leaves me totally…..it will still be living in my soul as long as it takes….

I am trying my best to overcome all this in a slow and painful way……

I am tired……very tired emotionally and physically….

 

R.

Asia


National Recovery Month Stories: Psych Nurse

Hello everyone, welcome back to to Story Project. This week we have a story from a treatment provider (who wishes to remain anonymous) and she has an interesting perspective on what it’s like to deal with addiction and recovery from the other side, to be the person who watches and guides patients through that process. I think her message shows that people who provide treatment really do care.

 

As a psychiatric nurse I deal every day with people who are trying to cope with anxiety, depression, OCD, PTSD, schizophrenia, or other mental illnesses. Many of them have been trying to cope with the distress of their illnesses by self-medicating. Some abuse prescription medications such as anxiolytics or pain meds, still others use marijuana and tell themselves it’s “not really a drug,” some drink excessive alcohol, and others take anything they can from LSD to mushrooms to crack cocaine to meth.

The one characteristic all these people have is that they come to treatment in pain. And just being in treatment doesn’t mean they are hopeful about being there. A large part of the staff’s job is to help the patients find that hope. Without it, nothing else progresses because the work in overcoming illness and addiction is hard.

If someone arrives still under the influence of drugs/alcohol they have to go through detoxification. We use medications to try to ease them through that process, but it is still not an easy one. However, almost always after detoxing the patient is much better able to consider other things on which to focus and be able to stay focused on those things that form the steps of recovery.

During treatment, other means of coping with stress need to be found for each patient, and better habits of responding in a new and less destructive way. The lucky ones find the right person with whom to explore, process, and resolve their underlying issues, particularly trauma. Without that process, relapse is all too common.

I admire anyone who makes that first step and starts some kind of treatment. I use the analogy that everyone has a little red wagon and we pull it around, carrying our emotional baggage. In treatment we try to help the patient unpack some of that baggage, put it in the right storage, or maybe even discard some of it, making the wagon a little lighter to pull.

Treatment is available but you may have to look for it. Some people are fortunate enough to be able to afford wonderful private facilities. Others have to hope they are lucky enough to find good care in a public system. Keep looking. Ask for guidance, but seek help if you are dealing with addiction or any mental illness. I have seen life-changing results from getting the right care. Best wishes in your recovery.

Anonymous, RN-BC, MSN

 


National Recovery Month Stories: Nikki

Welcome, everyone, to Writing for Recovery’s National Recovery Month Story Project! I’m honored to be able to bring you these narratives, written by the people who experienced them. I’m grateful for their vulnerability in sharing these pieces of their lives, in hopes that others may take away something that helpful.

This first story is by a dear friend of mine. It is beautifully, if painfully, written. She has been through more pain than anyone should ever have to endure; and yet, despite that, she has a firm conviction about her recovery. An amazing story, a great way to start. Thank you, Nikki.  -Sarah

 

Imagine a girl.

Imagine a girl who was broken. A girl who was abused, neglected, and abandoned throughout her life. A girl who couldn’t trust her father. A girl whose mother picked drugs over her. A girl who was bounced between family members for the first 10 years of her life, only to be permanently placed with the most abusive one of them all.
A girl who stopped eating. Started purging. Cutting. Eventually moved onto pills. A girl who hated herself and felt unsafe in her world. A girl whose mother died when she was 21. A girl who discovered her biological father, her last hope for a parent, had died when she was 14. She never knew him.
A girl who went in and out of so many treatment places that she has even lost count. A girl who lied and manipulated others. A girl who hurt and was hurt. A girl who almost died, should have died many times.
2 serious suicide attempts. 2 surgical feeding tubes. Crushing pills to dull the pain. Purging. Thousands of dollars spent. Dozens of therapists seen. Blame, hurt, sadness, anger, despair; often misplaced.
Imagine a girl who hated herself.
Then decided, one day, she was tired of hating herself. Tired of lying. Of pain. Of hurting. Of hating being alive.

Imagine a girl who clawed her way out of the mess she had created. She fell a few times, but managed to find her way out. She made amends with family, forged new friendships, and decided to begin living again.
One day, that girl met the man who became the love of her life. He understood her, loved her for who she is, not who she was, and knew everything about her. He didn’t care about the past, he fell in love with this girl.
Many months later, this girl got pregnant. After all of the abuse she had shown her body, she was told it would never happen. She had abandoned the hope of a family, of children of her own. She was overjoyed. Grateful. Blessed.
15 weeks later she was grieving, broken, devastated.
“I’m sorry, your son has no heartbeat anymore.”
Words that came to define her life.
She cried, screamed, got angry, sad, spent nights in despair.
But she did not fall. She did not relapse.
3 months later, she got the surprise of her life when she discovered she was pregnant again. Joy combined with terror and fear.
Please don’t let it happen again.
At 8 weeks:
“I’m sorry, there’s no heartbeat.”
And there she was again, sitting in a funeral home signing a fetal death certificate. For her second baby. Devastated.
But again, she is not falling. She has not relapsed. She knows her recovery is real. She knows that no behavior will bring her babies back. Starving, cutting, purging, running, pills; nothing is distraction enough to take away the pain of losing her children. Her hopes, dreams, visions of the future. Gone, in the blink of an eye.
14 days after the news, she is still angry, sad, broken, defeated, devastated, and in agony. She cries daily, nightly for her babies. She needs them. Wants them.
This girl’s recovery has been tested, and still stands strong.

We are stronger than we give ourselves credit for, stronger than we ever thought we could be.
This girl is me. And I am proud to say, that despite losing my baby Aiden, and my second baby (who we take to be a boy) Connor, I am still solidly in recovery. I waiver in many things, but never that fact.
I know pain, the worst kinds of pain. And I know that behaviors, of any type, only multiply pain.

Thank you for allowing me to share my story.

Nikki Albrecht

 

 


Good Grief: Where I Am On the Path After Loss

I was hoping it wouldn’t hit me this hard.

I didn’t want to be affected so much. I didn’t want to end up feeling like this, not like this, not for this long. I feel sad; that’s to be expected. I feel empty and depressed. I’m restless, hurting. At times very angry, spoiling for a fight with anyone who dares cross me. At other times severely apathetic, almost to the point of recklessness; a sense of fuck-it-all-who-cares.

I’ve been ignoring things I need to do to care for myself, and that’s not good. I gave up a job opportunity where I could have made really good money, but I backed out of it suddenly because I just didn’t think I had the physical energy to keep up with it. (Granted, 55 hours a week chasing after two toddlers is a hard job.) I’m scared of how exhausted and just…off I feel. It sucks majorly.

The thing is, this is not just about the one death of my godfather this past week. This feels like it’s about more than that. I think it’s the cumulative effect of so much death that happened in my life this month…the impact of it all together is crushing.

This month, July, also happens to be the month that my cousin Tyler was killed in a freak accident, hit by a train, just three weeks shy of his twenty-fourth birthday. It’s also the month that a girl I knew from treatment died suddenly of cardiac arrest due to complications of her eating disorder. Later in the month, July 20th, is of course, Tyler’s birthday. A few days later comes the memory of the day that my best friend’s brother died of a heroin overdose. He was only twenty-two. Now to all of that I get to add the day that my godfather, my Uncle Lyle, died in a private plane crash.

It’s enough that I just want to scream.

How can the universe do that? How can it cram so much death and tragedy into four little weeks? How can it bear to break so many hearts at once, shatter so many families, cause so much grief? It seems out of order somehow, and I want to argue with the universe: How dare you! What the hell are you thinking? If you have to do this at least spread it out a little so we can manage?! And all the universe seems to say in reply is: Live with it.

Of course, part of me says that I have no right to be bitching. It was not my son who died. Not my daughter. Not my husband. I did not lose a sibling or a parent, surely a much more devastating loss than a cousin or a friend or an uncle.  Who am I to be complaining about how hard it is to live with grief, when I can’t even comprehend the kind of grief that those families must be feeling? I know there is truth in that.

However, another part of me- the rational part- understands that I have a right to grieve those losses too. Grief and loss are relative things, like trauma; in fact, they are a special form of trauma in themselves.  Different people experience loss in different ways and move through it in different times. Also like trauma, people have different levels of tolerance for such events, different capacities for coping. For someone like me, who’s experienced a lot of grief and excessive amounts of trauma as well, even losses that may seem more peripheral in nature may affect a person as if they were much closer.

On the other hand, the closeness of relationships can’t be judged by their title. Some siblings never speak, some parents are estranged, some cousins are like siblings, some friends are closer than family.  For instance, if my father had been the one killed last week, my life would be no different in any way. The last time we spoke on the phone was the day he died for me, so his physical death is all but irrelevant.  I worked through all I needed to work through, grieved what I had to, and let go. So when he physically dies it really isn’t going to matter; I’ve been through that process already.

Which is what made me think, as I was standing there at my godfather’s funeral, that I wish it had been my father who was killed. That sounds horrible doesn’t it? Only if you didn’t know those two men. On the one hand, my godfather: a brilliant, generous, adventurous man- a surgeon, a pilot, and a veteran-who was bigger than life to me. He was the Gentle Giant; at over six feet tall, when he picked me up as a little girl and carried me around on his shoulders I felt like I could see the whole world. Having three sons with my Aunt Pat, he was thrilled to have a little girl to fuss over, even building me a gigantic dollhouse from scratch for my sixth birthday. He was protective and kind and nothing but sweet to me; he didn’t understand and was possibly a little hurt by the fact that I sometimes feared him and couldn’t explain why. “Why” had to do with the other man, the one whom I assumed had loved me but couldn’t possibly because a father that loves his daughter does not abuse her. He does not rape, molest, hit, and threaten her. He does not ignore her existence the other twenty-three hours of the day. He doesn’t treat her mother like shit. And he doesn’t tell her that she is worthless. That’s the man my father was…is. So why does he get to live while this other man, the one who truly did love his family, he died? It doesn’t seem right.

I should probably feel bad about wishing my father dead in place of my godfather but I don’t. I feel like the world should be a fair place, like loving and kind people should get to live and horrible human beings who abuse their wives and children should die in plane crashes.  I try to tell myself that God will even things out someday, that there will be justice even if I never know about it, even if it occurs beyond this life. And that has to be enough.

But it doesn’t stop me from wishing that I could have my Uncle Lyle back.

I will always miss him. He gave me an example of the kind of father that I should have had, the kind of father I deserved. He gave me a some of the love that I desperately needed from a father figure, and I dearly wish that I had been more able to receive it. This month will always be hard for me, remembering all the losses, the lives of people I knew, loved, and respected that were cut short. But I think the only way to get through it is a concept a friend recently mentioned to me called radical acceptance.  Understanding that while these people have passed from this life, they still live in the hearts and minds of the people who loved them. And as long as I can remember my cousin teasing me and laugh, remember my godfather picking me up and smile, they are never truly gone.

© Sarah Ann Henderson 2011


Both Sides Now: Recovery and Absolute Thinking

 

Hello Recovery Writers! I hope you all are well. As most of you know, I have recently had some struggles with my past behaviors and gotten back into therapy. This has me thinking about all sorts of issues in recovery which, of course, I end up writing about. I hope my ramblings are helpful to some of you. Peace, Sarah

There is good and bad in everything. I don’t believe anything in life is completely bad or completely good; it’s all shades of gray. Unfortunately, as addicts and people with eating disorders, we tend to think in terms of extremes and absolutes. Black and white, good and bad, yes or no, all or nothing. And that kind of thinking is part of what keeps us sick and addicted.

In my recent struggle with the reemergence of my own eating disorder, I’ve been thinking more about this. In the past I’ve certainly realized that despite how much damage my eating disorder and various other behaviors did, and despite the fact that they nearly killed me, they also ironically saved my life. The eating disorder, the cutting, the pills; those things protected my sanity even as they were destroying my life and my body. So I honor that. I appreciate and respect what they did for me. And in that way, I cannot see my eating disorder or my cutting or my addiction as entirely bad things. Someone who’s not well-acquainted with a situation such as this might wonder, how can you say that? And I would say, there were good intentions at the heart of it. People who have been there know what I mean.

And just like I can’t say that my eating disorder and self-destructive behaviors were all bad, I can’t say that recovery is all raindrops and roses. As much as I enjoy the freedom and peace and new opportunities that come with recovery, a lot of new responsibilities show up as well. When you recover, you have to grow up. You have to function like a person, like an adult. You have to do the everyday mundane things that you got to neglect when you were sick: laundry, bills, dishes, cooking, shopping, cleaning, etc. When you were depressed or manic or caught up in your disease, you probably ignored most of these things; I certainly did. I became quite dependent on other people for help with managing the grown up stuff like rent and insurance because it all seemed too overwhelming for me to deal with. I never opened my mail because I couldn’t handle looking at bills that I didn’t know how to pay. However, when you get into recovery, this changes. You have to learn how to deal with these things, face your fears, become more independent. You eat your meals, take your pills, get to your appointments. And there is a sense of accomplishment and pride in those things that is really cool. But sometimes there’s also a kind of wish to go back to when it was easier, when you could just throw up your hands and say, I can’t! I’m sick! and people would take care of things for you. I would never advocate staying sick just to avoid responsibility. But I can’t say that it hasn’t crossed my mind before either. When you grow up in a way that’s really abnormal, destructive, or abusive, it’s not uncommon to get to adulthood without having learned basic life skills like how to balance a checkbook or cook for yourself. So a lot of the time it can be easier to fall back on addiction or other behaviors rather than try to learn those skills and be independent. And I don’t judge anyone who does that— it’s scary as shit to take on being responsible for yourself, and it’s taken me a hell of a long time to get even halfway there. We are creatures of habit who seek to avoid pain, avoid fear. And so often that’s what leads us back into illness.

Really I think that what it comes down to is how much benefit you will get out of which state. Will you get more benefit out of being sick at the moment? Or will you do better with being recovered? There are benefits to both. There are also drawbacks to both. In my opinion, the benefits of recovery far outweigh the benefits of staying sick. And the consequences of staying sick far outstrip the discomfort and anxiety that can come with recovery. However, at certain times, that perception can shift and it can seem like a better idea to go back to the familiar comfort of your illness. I get that. I just did that. And I think it was because I felt like I was so overwhelmed with all the grown-up stuff I was doing, I just needed to be in a safe and comfortable place of dependency on something I knew I could count on the be there for me. And what fit that description better than my eating disorder?

I hope that soon I can come out of that place, and can re-create a feeling of safety outside of my eating disorder. As I’ve said before, recovery is a process and it comes in shades of gray. It’s not perfect or shit, all or nothing, a slip and back to day one. It’s just life. You forgive the bumps in the road, move past them as best you can, and keep pushing forward. The more you are able to do that the easier it is to remain in recovery; the more compassion you have, the easier it is to strike a balance between the extremes.

© Sarah Ann Henderson 2011