MY STORY
I have often wondered what would happen if I told someone my life story, my whole story. What would they think of it, think of me? Would they see it as a normal life, or would they be shocked? I really don’t know. What would I think hearing my story told as someone else’s life?
I have no perspective, it’s the only life I know.
When you think of trauma, a lot of us think of one momentous event. A huge life-changing event. An accident, a great loss, tragedy. I know I did. But what if it wasn’t one traumatizing event but many small events. Events which on their own seem insignificant but together life-changing.
I have always seen my life as pretty normal, maybe not typical but I always had what I needed and always felt surrounded by love. I have always been anxious and a little shy as are so many. I was never an overly social person and maybe had a few close friends rather than a large group, but I felt like a valuable member of society with a pretty good sense of who I was.
After having my first child in my 20s, I started to feel consumed by fear, isolated, and often despair. The days following my childs birth I would have daily visits from the nurses who would ask specific questions about how I was feeling, designed to detect post-natal depression. Whilst going through the list, even though I was suffering from every symptom, I was very careful not to tick all the boxes on the list, I didn’t want them to think I was depressed, there was no way I could be. Surely I was just tired.
Fast-forward three years and I was barely hanging on. I was lonely, could only function whilst sticking to a safe small routine, and was incredibly volatile, especially when my husband came home from work each day. I’m sure he never knew which me he was coming home to.
On one of my many trips to the GP I broke down, I told him I was miserable and felt like my life was over. He proceeded to tell me I was suffering from post-natal depression and had been since my son’s birth. He gave me the name of a therapist. I had my doubts, but I was so unhappy I decided to go. And I did go. Once.
What I do remember from that session was a lot of crinkled brows, sad nods, and what I didn’t realise at the time, was the first spark that maybe my life wasn’t that typical after all.
I went home and told my husband the therapist was a crazy drama queen, who had lived up to every negative stereotype I had come to believe.
After a few more years and another baby , my eldest child had to have some tests at the children’s hospital. I inquired if his, at times, extreme anxiety and compulsive behaviors may be a side effect of his condition. They sent us for an appointment with a psychologist. It was just my husband and I for the first session giving insight into what we thought was going on, however sometime during the hour and a half the conversation turned to me, after which I left with a strong recommendation to see a psychiatrist.
I once again ventured to the psychiatrist and even continued to go for the next few months. The cracks in my mental resolve were getting larger and for a few seconds, I could really ask myself if there was maybe something wrong, though surely, I would have known by now. I resisted medication as that was for ‘’real problems”, I was just sad and difficult, so of course, I could sort this out on my own. Yes, I was anxious and had my quirks but so did everyone right? After several months and many canceled appointments, I found myself needing back surgery and due to the large expense it gave me the excuse I needed to stop going.
More years passed but something was different. Something had shifted. I was starting to question if maybe everybody doesn’t feel this way. Maybe it’s not supposed to be this hard. I would watch my friends, envious of their energy and bravery, having new experiences and enjoying their lives. Until now I was safe in my all-consuming motherhood, with all the reasons in the world to stay home in my safe little nest. I always had deep guilt that I wasn’t doing enough with my kids, that they were missing out on trips to the zoo, days at the library, and everything else the supermums were doing.
Life got a lot harder when my eldest started school. And not just any school it was an exclusive private school. Having grown up in a densely populated housing estate area, I was relentlessly bullied at school for having a talent for singing, which resulted in many days hiding at home, then barely passing my HSC. There was no way I could risk anything like my experience happening to my children.
Immediately I was pushed out of the nest and into a social circle of wealth, judgment, materialism, and more, all of which were incredibly alien to me and paralyzingly scary. As I would eventually come to realise when you are struggling to keep control of your own life it is increasingly difficult to be responsible for someone else’s.
I spent several years cultivating a public persona of a pleasant middle-class mother, whilst drawing further inside myself, always on guard, never relaxing, wishing away huge important chunks of my life. I remember driving to pick up my kids from school every day and as I drove along, I would look at the old trees by the side of the road and imagine just swerving a little to the left and driving straight into one. I didn’t want to end it all necessarily but maybe it was worth the risk to just stop the merry-go-round, just long enough for me to take a breath.
I once again struggled on for a few more years thinking if I could ignore my pain and if I didn’t acknowledge it, perhaps it wasn’t really there. Life once again intervened, and I found myself breaking down in the doctor’s office. I couldn’t take it. I do remember having a dream around this time. In it I was walking down the street and bumped into someone I hadn’t seen since school. She asked about my life and I told her all about it. Her response was eye-opening. She said wow, your life sounds amazing, you must be very happy. I had the realization that yes, my life did sound wonderful, followed by the sinking thought of, then why am I so miserable. That dream stuck with me after that and still does today.
Finally, after a long conversation, my doctor convinced me to try medication, so I could maybe feel a little more positive in a few days.
3 1/2 days later my whole world changed.
I have been seeing a psychiatrist once a month and a psychotherapist weekly for almost four years now. Life still holds many challenges, and probably always will however, I now understand what I am fighting against. I have Major Depressive Disorder, Anxiety Disorder with a side of Bipolar. I have days when I can’t get up, days when I can’t sit still, sad days, scary days, euphoric days, and all the other days in-between.
Whilst my condition is mostly genetic there are definitely events that have changed me and maybe even changed the person I could have become. I definitely have times when I think the doctors have it all wrong and I am just a scared lazy person. I have a never-ending dialogue in my head that often asks, why do I feel I have to see my illness to be confident I have it. If it was physical like a heart condition or diabetes you could see it. Others can see it and there’s no room for doubt, there is no question. Another record on repeat in my head is how can I feel sad and angry when there are people who have been through major trauma and seem more rounded than I am. My husband's father died suddenly when he was young and he is coping. People have been through truly horrendous events and they get on with it. I don’t feel qualified to feel the way I do.
My situation has been described to me this way. A large trauma is a specific event or reoccurring event that can be unpacked and focused on. Like a break that can possibly be mended. Multiple events are more like consistent drops of water over long periods of time causing a crater in the rock below it. So too does it shape the person.
Why is it so hard to accept I’m not ok? Why do I hide it? Why can’t I talk about it and say when I’m having a hard day. I have people close to me who have doubts about my diagnosis and I understand. They are asking why I was ok as a child, how did they not see it. They can’t reconcile that person to the person I am describing today. I had seemed fine. What they didn't see was I lived as a chameleon, changing to blend into my surroundings, even at home.
My life is changing slowly, and I am starting to find my way once again in the world. Motherhood has been my sanctuary, but my children are getting older and soon will be out living their own lives. I can see my past and how different events have helped sculpt the person I am and my behaviours. I understand there is no cure, and I will probably be on medication for the rest of my life. At times I want to go back to my blissful ignorance, back when I thought my struggle was normal. In some ways, it was easier.
It is a constant exhausting fight to stop my life from becoming small. Sometimes I can feel it shrinking. It takes a lot of courage and strength to push the boundaries back out. The less I push the stronger the walls become around me.
I have started to open up to a few people, though I’m still very guarded. I will watch intensely for any change of movement or micro expression, no matter how slight. If I perceive even a shadow of doubt I will wind back and close the conversation down.
I’m moving forward albeit slowly. I’m working on creating a new future that I can be excited about. I’m opening up to more people and letting them see a little more of me. I still wear the mask and perhaps always will. Though to my closest circle, I feel the cracks are getting easier to see.
Karht