Several decades ago, my brother was missing. He was enlisted in the Air Force and deployed overseas. No letters had arrived in weeks, and no one had knowledge of his whereabouts. He was found stateside in a hospital. Diagnosis: Schizophrenia.
That was the beginning of a very hard journey to recovery. I'd suffered depression my entire childhood. Married and had children with all the baggage. My family was just overcoming the first onslaught as I completed my first year of college. Just prior to the third semester, I experienced fear, anxiety, paranoia. Not knowing how these operated, I was overwhelmed and felt I'd made a bad decision in my divorce, blamed myself for being a horrible mother who divorced their dad.
I drove my car off into a ditch. I lived. I dug a crowbar out and beat myself with it. I lived. I tried to slash my wrists. I lived. Stitches and a brief meeting with a chaplain left me still bereft of hope. I left for my home; my family several miles away.
Symptoms worsened. Voices began chastizing me and guilt upon guilt deepened my sorrow and my resolve. In three rounds of a suicide mission, I never heard the comforting words from family that I needed to hear, "You are loved." or "You are needed." "you are forgiven."
Of a rape, I was told, "We told you not to go there." and "Were you really raped?"
Of amnesia memories that began to flood back, I was told, "That never happened."
The day I told a family member I was actually sharing my story and talking it over with 'professionals', I was told, "It wasn't that bad."
It was the only confirmation I had from anyone that something happened. I needed so much for someone to help me heal...to hear me. Yet no one, nothing...until one hospitalization in particular. I picked up an alcoholic brochure for something to do and was immediately overwhelmed with a heaviness that was unexplainable.
It would be years before I emptied the last drink, threw away the last bottle and got free. It's five years this year free of that.
I began life in a new church. One that I noticed involved hugs from the women. I longed for that more than anything. These women would be a lifesaver to a drowning victim.
The voice had me running. Special diet, exercise, guilt, shame, lack of sleep, no TV, no radio, no newspaper...the messages were too intense. Long hard walks and painful accusations...even a city that refused to assist in a crisis, "unless I got better".
Consideration of a fourth suicide ensued. A larger voice threatened, "Do that and you go to hell."
I stopped, and started. He continued to assure me hell was the answer of that pit. The end of that story. We fought all weekend. I yelled. He threatened. I cried. He comforted. I yelled. Round after round, we went all weekend long. Monday morning, I stood at the window and I broke in anger..."Okay, I'll stay alive, but it's going to be like this!" I was broken. I was strengthened. I was loved.
My childhood was painful. Hard. Lonely. Save for the loving pets, I had none to really turn to. They tried. They suffered. I could not respond properly. The reason was a childhood secret. A rape by strangers who later threatened my Mother's life. That terrified me.
I was catatonic for several days. Finally I came to. Our life crumbled.
Father drank. Mother argued. People judged. Siblings hated.
I'd learned the art of withdrawing even in noisy places. A bus of noisy children? No problem. I learned how to read by the grace and gift of God.
Those beautiful women from my church sat in my home one evening, several years later. offered sound advice in listening to music - Christian music. I learned to call on Jesus' name to fend off the evil voice. I still hear a voice. If it lies in any form I'm aware of, I call on Jesus. If I'm not sure, I call on Jesus. If I need His comfort, I call on Jesus.
I've sung praise and worship, led the church, played my trumpet and taught small children of this beautiful God we have. I've written songs. I work in a mental health facility, and attempt to witness as a peer. If I'm unable to preach of the Lord, I teach His values.
I still have some depression, but I am so much stronger for the journey. Helping another has become my strongest cure for what ails in the mental health concerns.
Praise God! I am Victorious through the blood of our dear Lord Jesus Christ.
That was the beginning of a very hard journey to recovery. I'd suffered depression my entire childhood. Married and had children with all the baggage. My family was just overcoming the first onslaught as I completed my first year of college. Just prior to the third semester, I experienced fear, anxiety, paranoia. Not knowing how these operated, I was overwhelmed and felt I'd made a bad decision in my divorce, blamed myself for being a horrible mother who divorced their dad.
I drove my car off into a ditch. I lived. I dug a crowbar out and beat myself with it. I lived. I tried to slash my wrists. I lived. Stitches and a brief meeting with a chaplain left me still bereft of hope. I left for my home; my family several miles away.
Symptoms worsened. Voices began chastizing me and guilt upon guilt deepened my sorrow and my resolve. In three rounds of a suicide mission, I never heard the comforting words from family that I needed to hear, "You are loved." or "You are needed." "you are forgiven."
Of a rape, I was told, "We told you not to go there." and "Were you really raped?"
Of amnesia memories that began to flood back, I was told, "That never happened."
The day I told a family member I was actually sharing my story and talking it over with 'professionals', I was told, "It wasn't that bad."
It was the only confirmation I had from anyone that something happened. I needed so much for someone to help me heal...to hear me. Yet no one, nothing...until one hospitalization in particular. I picked up an alcoholic brochure for something to do and was immediately overwhelmed with a heaviness that was unexplainable.
It would be years before I emptied the last drink, threw away the last bottle and got free. It's five years this year free of that.
I began life in a new church. One that I noticed involved hugs from the women. I longed for that more than anything. These women would be a lifesaver to a drowning victim.
The voice had me running. Special diet, exercise, guilt, shame, lack of sleep, no TV, no radio, no newspaper...the messages were too intense. Long hard walks and painful accusations...even a city that refused to assist in a crisis, "unless I got better".
Consideration of a fourth suicide ensued. A larger voice threatened, "Do that and you go to hell."
I stopped, and started. He continued to assure me hell was the answer of that pit. The end of that story. We fought all weekend. I yelled. He threatened. I cried. He comforted. I yelled. Round after round, we went all weekend long. Monday morning, I stood at the window and I broke in anger..."Okay, I'll stay alive, but it's going to be like this!" I was broken. I was strengthened. I was loved.
My childhood was painful. Hard. Lonely. Save for the loving pets, I had none to really turn to. They tried. They suffered. I could not respond properly. The reason was a childhood secret. A rape by strangers who later threatened my Mother's life. That terrified me.
I was catatonic for several days. Finally I came to. Our life crumbled.
Father drank. Mother argued. People judged. Siblings hated.
I'd learned the art of withdrawing even in noisy places. A bus of noisy children? No problem. I learned how to read by the grace and gift of God.
Those beautiful women from my church sat in my home one evening, several years later. offered sound advice in listening to music - Christian music. I learned to call on Jesus' name to fend off the evil voice. I still hear a voice. If it lies in any form I'm aware of, I call on Jesus. If I'm not sure, I call on Jesus. If I need His comfort, I call on Jesus.
I've sung praise and worship, led the church, played my trumpet and taught small children of this beautiful God we have. I've written songs. I work in a mental health facility, and attempt to witness as a peer. If I'm unable to preach of the Lord, I teach His values.
I still have some depression, but I am so much stronger for the journey. Helping another has become my strongest cure for what ails in the mental health concerns.
Praise God! I am Victorious through the blood of our dear Lord Jesus Christ.
I also was raped by my first boyfriend. He gagged me, tied me to the bed and assaulted me. Afterwards, I didn't tell anyone, and I didn't go to the cops. I wrote a letter to a friend of mine, and told him what happened, because he knew my boyfriend. I foolishly left the letter on my table, and went to visit a neighbor across the hall from me. When I came home my parents were in my apt, and had found the letter and read it. Looking back now, I don't think they believed me because they never asked what happened, who did it, etc. And they never urged me to go to the cops and have him arrested.
