Karma Chameleon

Pay back is a bitch. My parents used to tell me this would happen, “just wait until you have children of your own, then you’ll know what we’re going through.” I didn’t believe them. If I had, or if I’d had any real clue as to how difficult I was to raise, I would have had my lady parts discarded as soon as I turned 18.

But I didn’t and so now I am reaping my karma. I am raising a child just like me. It’s a wonder my parents didn’t kill me. Again, my elementary principal, whose name I can’t remember but who must have been a very astute man, told my parents I needed to see a psychiatrist. Apparently he knew I was not right in the head. He’d also had my manic-depressive sister before me and she had struggled in school as well. She struggled with academics. Academics were the only thing I was good at.

I’m not sure how normal my insides were while growing up. How much of the chaos and confusion was due to being a child, an adolescent, a young adult and how much was being bi-polar. I know I felt anchorless. I was desperate for some way to stop my ever-changing and intense emotions. But no one talked about these things then and my parents, out of shame or pride or fear, never did take me to a psychiatrist. Instead they sent me off to a distant relative the summer before I started high school to “babysit.”

I was in a deep, deep depression that summer having coming off two wildly unsuccessful junior high years. Those years were absolute torture. I had no friends, boys made fun of me constantly, we moved from my childhood home to a snotty neighborhood and Tom Stratico shot himself.

Tom Stratico had his locker right below mine –since my name then was Servies – otherwise I would have never known him. He was also in my homeroom but we ran in very different East Whittier Jr. high circles. Tom was tall, the cutest boy in school, captain of the basketball team, dating the cutest girl in school (she later became homecoming queen in High School) and had friends, followers and worshippers. I was in the last category. He deigned to tease me but it was mild teasing and I’ve come to think we had more in common than I ever thought. Certainly it takes some deep psychological problem for a 7^th grade boy to take a shotgun, lie down in his bathtub and shoot half his head off. 

I’d never known that kids could die. I had been lucky and no one I knew had died except my grandfather. It was acceptable to me that my grandfather died. He was old and I never really liked him much. Although he was my mother’s father he was an older version of my own father; critical, perfectionistic, and alcoholic. He may have even been worse but that’s another blog.

When Tom killed himself, the rumors swirled. He had been heartbroken because his girlfriend had dumped him, he was being sent to military school, his parents were getting a divorce, he was dared to do it. But no one really knew. Just as no one knows what goes on inside most people’s inner world. Tom looked good on the outside but he wasn’t. No one takes their life if they are mentally well, it is the instinct of our species to survive, after all. 

I think we were all affected by the tragedy, though I remember my mother talking about how shameful it was that one girl wore a purple dress to his funeral. I remember clearly thinking that was the absolute most evil thing I’d ever heard. What I don’t remember was any counseling. No one talked to us –well, not to me –about how we were feeling, what we were thinking, what were we going to do with this new information. The information that children not only die but take their own lives. My Dad had a gun. I knew where it was. No one talked to me.

I’ve taught at three High Schools in my short teaching career and in each one a teen took their life. Not only were the kids given extensive counseling, we teachers were too. There was a lot of concern about copycat’s and how we as teachers should handle each incident. How we were to model sane behavior to our students. We’ve come a long way and for that I am grateful.

If I had to guess what Tom and I had in common was that we were both bi-polar. I remember his ups clearly and obviously his downs were above the average adolescent angst. What made it even worse, if that is possible, he had spent the day telling everyone he was going to do it. Only one girl and our homeroom teacher believed him enough to contact his parents. Apparently they didn’t believe him. Still, the rest of us wrestled with the guilt that we had done nothing, some had even laughed at him. I’ve never forgotten it, obviously.

Now my son is struggling, really, deeply struggling with his disease. He’s off his meds and spinning out of control. I know bipolars are more likely to commit suicide and he’s talked about it several times. I’ve taken him to hospital emergency rooms, psychiatrists and counselors but in the end I’m not in charge of whether he lives or dies. He’s 22 and it is his decision. He can stay on the meds, but he doesn’t like how they make him feel. Like a lot of creatives he likes the mania. It feels like he gets a lot done then and he is inspired. But then, an abnormal amount of creatives die young. Read . Darkness Visible by William Styron about his lifelong struggle with mental illness. He wrote the brilliant Sophie’s Choice, won the Pulitzer for The Confessions of Nat Turner and then committed himself to a mental hospital for electro-shock. He chronicles, in this slim volume, the heavy weight that mental illness has on writers especially. He speaks the names of all those he lost to the struggle. It is a daunting loss.

 Still, I get it. I really do. Art is the most important thing in my life after him and I have had to learn other ways to become inspired but I sure do miss those manic days sometimes.  My medication makes me a little sluggish and lazy and is a great excuse for my poor housekeeping. I want to clean but my meds say I don’t have to today.

But just like I did after Tom Stratico’s suicide, I keep wondering and searching for things I can do to stop another person’s slide into madness. For that’s what it is. I lived with the madness in my head my whole life. I clung to anything or anyone I thought would stabilize the vertigo. I made bad decisions because I didn’t know of any good ones.

So, I wonder – did my parents suffer watching me? Did they feel helpless and hopeless like I do now? Did they ship me off to relatives because they thought it would do me good or because they couldn’t stand having me around anymore, making them feel inadequate as parents? Have I been horribly unfair to them?

God knows I wasn’t easy. Neither was my sister. God knows it was hard to like me let alone love me, I’m just getting around to it at 60. But if they suffered then they must have loved me because it is only the deep love I have for my child that causes the kind of pain I am feeling.

I called my oldest Al-Anon friend last night. I told her I just needed to talk to someone who loved me and she does. She was honest though, telling me I needed to prepare for my son’s slide into the darkness because it is happening and the only one who can help him – isn’t me.

She also reminded me that he has his own Higher Power and that he is on his own journey. True. All he has to do is ask and his God will come through for him.

Just… what if he doesn’t want to ask?

Hell in the Hall

When God closes a door he always opens another, but sometimes it’s hell in the hall.

Have I talked about hall hell already? I don’t think I have but if so, I’m old and apparently we repeat ourselves. So give me some slack and a kind pat on the back and read on.

On one side is a glistening new future. Oooh, I can see it. Almost. It’s everything I want. Helping others. Independence. Money. Travel. It looks so nice. 

On the other side is my abusive boss and my call center job.  I get a paycheck every week and all I have to do is put up with degrading bullshit. 

What a dilemma, right?

You’re thinking it’s a no-brainer and you’re probably right. But as smart as I am about some things I am absolutely mentally challenged about others. Like believing in myself and my own dreams. Like believing in happy endings.

See, I don’t like endings. Any endings. I hold onto whatever piece of shit (pick one or all) job, husband, friend, that is already in this bird’s hand. I am a flaming liberal everywhere else but I am a die-hard conservative when it comes to holding onto crap I don’t want or like anymore.

One of the great little pieces of Al-Anon wisdom I love is, that if you have a glass of some old flat soda and you want some new, sparkling refreshment, you must first pour out the old. Yes, the glass will be empty for a moment and yes this can cause a woman with crazy brain to have multiple panic attacks, but nature hates a vacuum and soon the glass will be filled with the new.

Years ago I read a little book called Adult Children of Alcoholics. It was the first psychology book I had ever read that made sense of me and my insane personality. Remember I have a BA in psychology so I’ve read a LOT of psych books but this one resonated in a way that made me weep.

It talked about 13 traits ACOA’s have. The first was that we guess at what “normal” is. Growing up watching My Three Sons, Leave It To Beaver and Father Knows Best and then living through my own American Horror Story I sorta guessed there must be a middle ground. Didn’t know what that was. Still not sure, but today, I have a better guess. I don’t think it’s a normal tradition for Thanksgiving to include the annual “throwing of the turkey” or “slamming of the doors”. It’s not, is it? 

Another of the ACOA traits is that we are loyal where loyalty is no longer appropriate. In other words, we are kicked dogs who think their master is just in a bad mood today. Excuses, excuses, excuses. I got ‘em all. I’ve got me a black belt in rationalization. And a P.h.D in taking crap.

What I’m trying to tell you all is that I’m sad to be leaving my call center job. I know it makes no sense. Craigslist is FULL of crappy call center jobs. It doesn’t matter, this one was mine.  I like the people I work with, save one huge exception, and the work is easy and I’m good at it. So, why am I having to leave? Who told me to stand up for my principles? I’m gonna kill that guy.

Leaving is also bringing up some of my betrayal issues. Probably a titsch of abandonment as the cherry on my crazy sundae.

I am sad, profoundly so, that they didn’t want me enough to fix the issue. They chose the abusive asshole over me. This has happened to me before. Like, a LOT. And I know I’ve talked about how important it is to me to be ‘chosen’ before.  What if no one ever chooses me again? What if no one wants life coaching from someone like me? What if, what if, what if. We call this future tripping and it’s the only trip I have enough money to take right now. 

So, I’m in Hall Hell right now. Trying to be patient without becoming a patient. Living on friend’s good wishes and peanut butter. 

Waiting for the new door.

An Asshole by Any other Name ….

I know my way around alcoholics. I grew up with a couple, married a couple, worked with more than a couple and may have spawned one (jury is still out on that one.)

What I know is that they are all the same in their wonderful, individual ways. What I mean is that they don’t come in the same package, with the same backgrounds or the same chips on their shoulders but they act the same. I have learned that if it walks like a duck and talks like a duck …. It’s an addict.

But Nancy, you proclaim, not ALL addicts are the same, how can offer such a blanket opinion? ‘Cause I’ve sat in the rooms of the people who have loved them, been parented by them, or given birth to them and they have all been hurt by the same things; lying, cheating, stealing and rampant narcissism.

For a long time I used lots of different labels to categorize the ones I know and love. My mother has narcissistic personality disorder, my father was a depressive (from the depression, no less), my sister is bi-polar, and my ex has borderline personality disorder. But I finally figured out that an asshole by any other name is …. An ASSHOLE.

 I don’t care what is wrong with you, FIX IT! 

Oh, I know denial is not just a river in Egypt. I’ve cruised that river on both banks. I’ve been in denial about everyone, but mostly about myself. Am I an addict? I don’t drink or do drugs. Am I an addict? If it walks like a duck, and it talks like a duck…. It’s fucking poultry!

When I had finally become sick and tired of being sick and tired and starting working the steps with a sponsor I identified three addictions that were making my life unmanageable; eating, working and screwed-up relationships.  Did those addictions cause me to lie, steal, cheat, etc.? You betcha’. Though I never stole money, I stole a couple of friend’s boyfriends. I lied about what I did, why I did it and to whom I did it to. And I cheated myself out of my own respect. There are still things only my sponsor knows about me. And it’s going to stay that way –I’m not that crazy.

Suffice it to say that I did enough rotten things that I lost people who meant a lot to me. And I lost myself.  That’s the funniest part about being a narcissistic addict –we are the piece of shit around which the world revolves.

I know what you bleeding hearts are saying right now –“But Nancy, addicts can’t help themselves, it’s genetic.” Yes and NO. There is choice. I know it’s not popular to mention it but there is always a choice. With all the information out today, the anti-drug campaigns, the free rehab centers, the AA meetings on every corner –you can’t say we don’t know what’s bad for us. 

And somewhere along the way some of us choose to wake up and smell the giblets (in keeping with my poultry theme.) Why we do is the mystery. But I am damn lucky to be one of them and I look at people on the street every day and say “there but for the grace of God.” 

I’m going to end this little upbeat missive with a story –a personal one –that is why I am sure there is always a choice and that genetics does not damn us to a life of pain and vomit in our beds.

I was once in love with a boy named Jim. He had an identical twin named Joe. Identical. Totally. They were the last of seven brothers. When I met them 2 of the brothers had already died of alcoholism and another had hit AA big time. There was no denial in this family of what was in their genes. Both twins developed drinking and drug problems but at one point one of them decided to stop and the other didn’t. Maybe you’re saying that the one who stopped had life better than the other but you would be wrong. They were both married to people they loved, both had beautiful children, both were bright and engaging.  But one stopped and one died. At the age of 42.

Remember when I said denial was a killer. I wasn’t yanking your chain. We do have a choice and frankly it doesn’t matter what you call the chaotic person in your life, what label you give them, they will die if they don’t choose not to.