I've never been shy with my anxiety disorder. Mental health is nothing to be ashamed of. Especially after the last year of this pandemic. The thing with mental illness is it takes a very strong person to feel safe enough to open up and talk about it with someone. Trust is a very difficult thing to build, when most of the time you worry too much that you'll be judged by those you love. It's hard to feel open, when for years, mental illness has been taboo...something not talked about, something hidden and fearful.
Something that instantly screams "CRAZY!"
It's because of those reason, I don't talk much about the feelings unfolding within me. I've been in therapy on and over since I was nine years old. Over twenty years. It was about three years ago, that I finally received a diagnosis after years of always being told it was just anxiety. But it was more than anxiety. It was paralyzing fear, grippingly panic attacks, the desire to run away almost always, constant replaying of negative past events from childhood all the way to adulthood. It was constant mood shifts. Some that would last for mere hours, some for days. It was shopping sprees with no consequences or thought of what consequences could follow--it was being afraid of my own child, rushing thoughts--some rational, others mostly not. It was a constant fear of something being terribly wrong and everyone telling me to suck it up.
But as I said, three years ago, after nearly 28 years of hiding and fearing and pretending, I was finally given relief when I was finally diagnosed with Bipolar II disorder, PTSD and acute anxiety disorder.
The realization of these words hit hard and sent me on a spiral of shame, sadness and self awareness. PTSD is something, that is thrown out there, but most associate it with those returning from war trauma or being objectified to something of the unspeakable. I didn't know that PTSD could be triggered or even lasting of someone like me. I grew up in the suburbs, had a wonderful childhood, loved my family and was very happy (most of the time.) But its the things, the dark that are hidden that we pretend never happened or try not to remember that is where PTSD comes into play.
For me, it was a childhood in the suburbs, but one spent fearful for my father. I would spend hours tracking where he was on his days off, his mood, his behavior. I would follow around blindly but angrily after him when he's moods began to shift and hide in corners when I found the empty bottles, cans and sometimes even full ones. I feared all the time of losing him. Of something happening. My sister and my mother seemed to overlook his behavior. Maybe excepting, maybe because it was easier to pretend there wasn't a problem. But I knew. I could always tell when he had been drinking. Always tell when things were going to get switch tracks without warning.
When I was nine years old, I didn't know what to call what was happening in my life. I didn't know how to address it or even what I could do to prevent it. I was the happiest when my father went to work, because I knew there he couldn't be drinking. I knew he was okay and safe. I breathed a little easier those days. But he was on a swing shift all my life. Meaning his hours were long and forever changing from nights to days with time off in between. Those days off came with a price and usually resulted in him not returning to work the day he was supposed to.
It wasn't until I became a teenager that I really felt out of control with fear for my father. By that time, I was able to fully recognize it. Understand it. Put feelings to it. I became angry and would sneak to his hiding places and dump it out. I would wait in the driveway when he would return from errands demanding to know where it was. I would watch closely and would mouth off when I could tell he had gotten into another bottle of beer. My father is a villain. He has loved me fiercely my entire life. He has never made me feel unsafe or unloved or even cared about. He's never been a villain in my life or the story of my life, but he did have a problem and it was his illness.
I did what I could. Empty full bottles out, make comments about what I found hiding behind the hot water tank. I was a smart mouth when needed, but never disrespectful because I was taught never to be. But I never hid from him the realization that I knew what he was doing. I started working at 15. It was a way to secure myself from the house when mom wasn't home or at work. I resented my sister at that time because she moved out to attend college and left me alone with the hurt and fear. I felt like it became my responsibility or always had been my responsibility to take care of my father.
When I was 17, I had three places of employment. One was working with my mom, another was working with my aunt and the third was the job I started at 15. My spring/summer job of serving ice cream. I loved my jobs. I loved the growth I learned from them, but what I kept hidden was the reason I had so many. To continue to not be home. To make excuses as to why I didn't have to be home to try and protect my father from himself.
A few times I came home from dates to find my father asleep on the bench swing in our front yard by the driveway. Knowing full well that he had fallen there because he was coming out from the garage where he kept a few cans hidden. Those nights, I quickly jumped out of the vehicle, waited for them to pull out of the driveway and try to wake him. But after several attempts with no avail, I eventually leave him to become a feast for mosquitos.
I never told my friends what was happening at home. Once did my high school boyfriend have to come pick me up and take me away from a situation and even then I couldn't admit to him why my sister had called him and begged him to come get me from the house.Why I couldn't stop crying or rocking back and forth. He never asked questions, but I knew he knew the secrets that my home life kept hidden.
I chose not to attend college out of city or state. I went to community college so that I could stay close to home. I never told my parents this, but I did it to protect my mom and dad. I did it because I was afraid of what my leaving might do--if I wasn't there to prevent something. My sister has moved away to college and it hadn't been a great result. And I still held resentment towards her leaving me alone in the situations that she pretended never existed.
The day I finally did move out, was filled with guilt and relief at the same time. I was 22 when I said goodbye to my childhood home and moved in with my then fiancé, turned husband. I still can feel the guilt and sadness of leaving home. Of what felt like abandoning my mom, of abandoning my role of trying to protect my dad from himself. The trauma of those feelings, alongside playing protector pulled me in so many directions, I didn't know how to express them.
Today, my father is well. He battled his illness and won. He took control and became the man I knew him to be without the hidden beer. He has become the best grandfather, my biggest confidant, my hero and inspiration. I've never asked him what made him fight. I like to believe if was the birth of my niece that changed everything. Or my grandmother getting diagnosed with advanced dementia.
About a two years ago, after being diagnosed with PTSD, I was finally able to talk with my parents about those memories. I was finally able to open up to my dad and tell him the truth of how much his illness affected me. And my anger in having to grow up faster and feeling so alone because mom and my sister hardly ever expressed that there was a problem at our house. It went unspoken for many years, until as part of my healing, I was able to approach them with my truths.
I'm proud of my father. And I love him with all my heart and never once stopped during his illness. He has always been my dad, even on the nights I barely recognized him. Part of my recovery is forgiveness. I've never thought of forgiveness from him for his transgressions. He was my dad and I love him and would do it all over again to protect him, but when I finally was able to tell him how much it impacted me, how much it still effects me, was I able to realize that forgiveness was something I needed to give, even though I never believed I held resentment. Once I came to that, once I was able to see that I needed him to know, was I able to breathe a little easier, love a little deeper and forgive not only my family but myself.
In the years that I have been in and out of therapy, not once was PTSD mentioned. Yet, now learning more about PTSD, hours of research and discovery, months of therapy talking PTSD, I know without a doubt, that I suffer from PTSD. My childhood played a role, but not all of it was related to the drinking at home. And I'm finally able to talk about it. And I will.
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