Why I Didn't Write About Robin Williams

Most surely you’re aware that beloved comedian and actor Robin Williams was recently found dead in his northern Californian home, having lost his battle against major depressive disorder.  It has been nearly impossible to escape reports of this tragedy, and the abundance of subsequent tributes and responses.  Admittedly, upon hearing of William’s death, I was filled with immense hope that maybe – just maybe – this tragedy would result in less stigmatization and more understanding of mental illness.  If an individual such as Williams, who brought humor and joy into hearts and homes across the nation, could suffer from mental illness, then most surely society would come to understand that major depressive disorder, bipolar disorder, and similar ailments are not a choice.  Such outcomes have largely been my goal when sharing my own stories and struggles with bipolar disorder and post-traumatic stress disorder.

Subsequently, it occurred to me that I should create a post addressing the issue.  After all, wasn’t this an opportunity to further my mission and raise more awareness of mental illness?  However, I had second thoughts: Was it selfish to view a family’s tragedy as an opportunity?  How vital was it that I put up a new post while William’s suicide was still “trending” in social media?  These considerations gave me pause, and in this interval, the internet had already been flooded with responses that sounded as if they had been pulled directly from my internal thoughts.  I would like to tell you that this post ends here; I have provided you with the reason for my failure to respond to this actor’s death.  It had all already been said and done, so it was that simple, but that’s not the real reason I failed to respond to the loss of this comedic legend.

It was within 24 hours of Williams’ body being discovered that I was sitting on my kitchen floor sobbing and swallowing down pills, completely convinced that I was nothing but an inconvenience to my family and friends, and therefore the world would be a far better place without me.  I was exhausted and overwhelmed – exhausted from trying my hardest to remain positive despite the challenges my illnesses (and life) continue to present.  I felt unloved and underappreciated, and my illness had effectively convinced me that such feelings were my own damn fault because I was, in fact, unlovable.  I was a worthless, miserable failure who only presented problems for those I most loved.  Even my two beautiful children, who have been nothing but incredible blessings in my life, would be so much better off without me.  They would have a father who could commit fully to their happiness and well-being if he were no longer totally tapped out trying to fix me and all my fuck-ups.  I needed to die.  I deserved to die.  My death would ultimately be a favor to the world. 

There was just the smallest part of my pure heart and rational head that remained and tried to speak, but I found that voice was muted.  That voice was unable to say I want to live because I would never abandon these children.  I want to live because I have friends that really do love me.  I want to live because there is yet light and promise in this world.  Those thoughts went unheard and instead a voice told me to grab a bottle of pills. Ironically, though not uncommonly, I thus swallowed down anti-depressant after anti-depressant.  Failing to do their job in the prescribed form, I suppose they may have been ultimately successful as I would no longer feel crushed by this heavy depression in death.  But death was just one more goal I would fail to reach as my husband woke from his slumber and halted my progress.

Consequently, I ended up in the emergency room and then in a locked behavioral health unit.  When I might have been home typing a brilliant post in response to Robin Williams’ struggles in an effort to end the stigmatization toward mental illness, instead I was being admitted to a small white room and having my belongings inspected for safety.  Although I did not write that post in a timely fashion, here is what I want you to know now: Robin Williams did NOT kill himself.  Depression killed Robin Williams.  Had I actually been successful in my attempt, I can only imagine how much it would have pained me to then be blamed for my own death.  I was not in my right mind when I believed I needed to die and that suicide would actually be a favor to my family.  That was not me; it was the major depression.  My illness was responsible for my actions.  If I were fully in charge, I wouldn’t struggle with feelings of worthlessness and self-loathing in the first place.  If I were fully in charge, I would never take my life and leave my two young children behind.  I wasn’t in charge; it was the illness.  You need to know this, so I repeat that Robin Williams did NOT kill himself.  Depression killed Robin Williams, just like it has formerly made me cut myself and it more recently made me swallow those damn pills.

While on the unit, another patient asked about my family.  I showed her a photo of my children and she expressed how beautiful they were.  She then asked about my home and my career.  After sharing a bit of my life with her, she then said, “Well, look at you.  You have a strong education, a beautiful home, and two amazing children.  Your life sounds pretty damn good. How can you possibly be depressed? Why are you here?”  My reply to her was very basic as I simply stated, “Because I have a mental illness.”  This, too, is what I had hoped society would recognize from Robin Williams.  It does not matter how many external blessings you have in your life.  You can have a wonderful, loving family.  You can have a strong education and a promising career opportunity.  You can even have fame, fortune, and admiration.  None of that matters if you have a mental illness.  Mental illness does not discriminate and no amount of wealth or wisdom can cure it.  It is; it just is. Yet this question came from a woman who was sharing a behavioral unit with me.  Even she didn’t get it.  If she didn’t understand, how could I expect the world to understand although it earlier appeared to me that it had all “already been said and done”?  We need to keep on saying.  We need to keep on doing.  It’s going to take a lot more than 48 hours of trending articles in reaction to an actor’s death in order to change the misconceptions that exist about mental illness.  Mental illness is an ugly, ugly beast and we better start paying attention to it as I assure you it refuses to be ignored for those who are suffering. 

Despite my earlier considerations, I have decided it is not selfish to talk about mental illness in the wake of Robin Williams’ death.  It is necessary, just as it is every single day, to continue to educate society about mental illness and suicide.  In addition, the act of suicide itself is not a selfish one.  It is indeed tragic and devastating, but we must hold major depressive disorder and mental illness responsible rather than the ailing individual. Approximately 38,000 people die from suicide annually, and 107 other individuals lost their lives to suicide on August 11^th, the day the world lost Robin Williams.  We can’t ignore those numbers. We can’t continue to ignore mental illness and expect that individuals just “snap out of it” because they have good things in their lives.  The illness can speak louder and then one only sees a distorted view of the world – a view in which the world is far better off if he or she were just dead.  Trust me.  Please trust me because I know, and I know our attitudes and beliefs about mental illness MUST change.  Every moment should be an opportunity to make a difference and end the stigmatization of mental illness.   

Things We Don't Want to Say (But Need To)

I showered today.  Trust me that this is sincerely an achievement worthy of mention here. I took a shower, and it’s a really big deal.  I know that most of you probably won’t understand this at all, but I think it’s about damn time that society as a whole start trying a slight bit harder to comprehend this struggle.  These are the confessions most individuals who suffer from mental illness don’t want to make, and the very same announcements the rest of the world would almost gladly not hear.  You may not want to know that my showering today was truly a triumph as I spent the last three days mostly confined to bed, wearing the same dirty underwear, matted hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, teeth not brushed and face not washed.  You may not want to know that my uncleanliness was of no concern because I had no will to live.  I didn’t feel like a human being of worth and value; I was just a lump of tissue and meaningless mass. 

You may not want to know that nothing could bring me joy; even the smiling, fresh young faces of my two loving toddler children could not break through this thick depression – this impenetrable suffering.  You may not want to know that while it was a sunny 85 degrees outside, I just hid under my covers and tried to shrink away from the world and all its accompanying labors.  I would rather be asleep than awake for only in sleep could I truly hinder my self-hatred, anxiety, worthlessness, anger, and fear. 

These are the things I often don’t want to say, and don’t want others to see.  I don’t allow many people to observe my suffering as I fear they will falsely judge and label me – crazy and incompetent.  My illness is not all I am; I am so much more than this bipolar disorder, anxiety, and post-traumatic stress disorder.  Such a large portion of society fails to perceive my illness as akin to any other medical condition and simply cannot comprehend that I too am capable of being intelligent, creative, dedicated, and valuable.  Thus, I am taught to be silent and to keep secrets because the whole of society will all too readily diminish an individual’s worth if mental illness is discovered.  My mental illness is a massive black smudge on an otherwise brilliant resume.  This is not as it should be, but such is the reality.

Although doctors did recently discover a pre-malignant tubular adenoma and thus remove it from my person, (fingers crossed) I have never suffered from cancer.  However, I would never say to the individual who is suffering from this illness, “Why don’t you get out of bed?  You can’t really be that exhausted.  You know, I don’t have cancer and I’ve never felt that way, so I just don’t get it.”  I certainly hope you all agree that such statements are demonstrative of immense cruelty and ignorance.  If agreed, perhaps then you can tell me why it’s acceptable to tell me, “I’ve never been depressed. I guess I just don’t get it.”  You don’t have to experience my illness to show some kindness and understanding.  Why does it seem acceptable to propose that I “just snap out of it?”  Just like the cancer patient can’t miraculously cure his or her illness of sheer will alone, neither can I just brighten my mood by changing my attitude or being more appreciative of my blessings.  Mental illness is not a choice; it is a legitimate medical disorder and must be recognized as such.   

There are things we don’t speak about because too many individuals continue to believe that depression and anxiety are chosen and desired.  I, myself, cannot think of one single reason why I would choose to spend three straight days in bed when I could be out gardening, playing with my children, enjoying the sunshine, doing these things I love to do when I am well.  But I am not well.  Episodes of great depression can overtake me so suddenly, just like an unexpected fever or infection that keeps the mentally well person somewhat restricted for a period of time.  This individual has the knowledge, though, that the fever will pass and they will be wholly well again.  During my severe bouts of depression, I am filled with an all-encompassing distress and anxiety that I will never again recover and I will never again be valued or loved by another.   I don’t normally speak about such apprehension though, for if others knew of such fears, would they then accept my alarm as reality and thus be even more dismissive of my abilities? (I will get better, and I am capable of abundant achievements.)

Mental illness alone gives me much reason for concern.  I worry that a bout of illness will occur at a most opportune time.  I worry that my illness will be obstructive and prevent me from achieving my goals, hopes, and dreams.  I worry that my illness will affect my children and they might hate a mother who brought them into this world while fully aware she might not always be physically and psychologically available to them.  I worry that I will lose loved ones who have grown too exhausted and frustrated with this miserable beast of an illness.  I worry that my past manic behaviors might return and I could destroy my marriage or my finances.  I have all these worries, and so many more.  I don’t need the additional worries of being misunderstood and misjudged due to the stigma of mental illness.  This is not as it should be, but such is the reality. 

I want to believe that perhaps – just perhaps – we can alter the reality if we break the silence and agree to speak out, to not be shamed, to not be victimized by stigma.  Yet, I fear that I can scream as loud as I want, that I can try every single outlet to educate others properly about mental illness, and it all won’t make a damn bit of difference until others are also willing to listen and identify with these struggles.  You may not want to hear about this hopeless, heavy depression, but you need to.  I’m here saying the things nobody wants to say, so now it’s your turn to listen.  Please listen; it’s time to start trying.   When we rid the world of this dreadful, damaging stigma, this too will most certainly be an achievement truly worthy of mention. 

Dear Anxiety,

Dear Anxiety,

Fuck you! Seriously, just fuck off already, you awful little bitch.  I hate how you always sneak up on me and surprise me when I’m not even expecting it.  I know you have an especially difficult time staying away during these heavy winter months.  You must get cabin fever too, I suppose, but please – could you not disrupt my fucking life because you’re bored?  I seriously hate you, and hate is a really strong word.  I reserve it for very few folks.  I do have a handful of individuals I hope end up burning in hell – some relatives, some former bosses.  There are others, as yourself, that I have personified so that I can properly hate you – you, anxiety – the sneaky little cunt that creeps up on me,  freaks me out (often without justification), causes hyperventilation, and then renders me useless and frightened for hours.  There’s also my mistress manic-depression, who I in turn both love and hate for at least she has made me wiser and more empathetic.  What have you done for me, anxiety, other than make me miss hours of work, cry under the covers, and fear all interaction?  You really are just fucking awful – really.  I’ve personified self-doubt too, so I can tell her to kiss my ass whenever I have defeated her, but there’s something triumphant and motivating in that victory.  But you, anxiety, whenever you come around, you always win.  You’re a terrible, cheating, lying piece of shit.  You’re just a completely awful, wretched, stinking creature with no redeeming qualities whatsoever.  I could go on and on and continue to berate you.  Here’s the trouble with that though.  When I berate you, it’s also a judgment on me.  I, too, feel like an awful, worthless, weak, cry-baby asshole.  So, now, while the words flowed quickly, without hesitation or correction when I believed I was cursing only you from behind this key-board, now I sit here, immobile, hating myself, unsure of where to go from here as I realized I have damned my own self with such words.  I know I can’t go outside – no, no, no – you convinced me that terrible things will happen if I leave my home.  For some reason, I believe those awful, damaging lies.  Those lies drip from your mouth with such delight because you know you can make me such a hopeless, gullible, victim.  You’re some kind of evil, alright, some kind of evil.  I just wish you would fuck yourself and get out of my life.  You wicked thing – you know you have stolen all of my weapons for fighting you – my courage, my strength, my confidence, my determination.  You’re a liar and a good-for-nothing thief.  Just go to hell and get out of my life already.  You are the biggest fucking cunt I have ever encountered. 

Sincerely, Angela   

 

 

Not a Day for the Death Mobile

I groggily rose from my bed, and as I glanced out the window, I witnessed a thick snow rapidly building upon existing heaps of the heavy, dangerous substance.  While the white, sparkling accumulation indeed looks lovely resting upon the pine trees, I have a hard time appreciating that beauty when I know that such weather can so easily rob lives.  Therefore, that morning, as I observed the snow falling, I also remembered brakes screeching, cars slamming together, bones breaking, blood spilling, and life lost.  

 

I tried to shake the image from my mind, determined to not allow post-traumatic stress disorder to immobilize me.  I went about my usual morning routine, pouring a bowl of cereal and quickly perusing my social media.  That ritual turned out to be especially detrimental as several facebook statuses made note of the terrible weather and road conditions.  A number of them also included photographs of accidents they had passed during their travel -- semis in the ditch, sedans stuck in snow banks.  Such images made my heart beat faster and my breathing became erratic.

 

I tried to calm myself down and simply steel myself for my own travels.  I can do this. I can do this.  My car is safe.  I can do this.  While I was trying ardently to convince myself I was capable of traveling, I then remembered that my husband was driving my car and the minivan was also currently out of commission with a flat tire. This meant I was left with the vehicle that we have long affectionately referred to as “the death mobile.”

 

The pins on the hood are necessary for it to stay closed.

The children are not allowed to be passengers in the death mobile, a 1996 Pontiac Bonneville with 248,000 miles on it.  We first began referring to it as the death mobile approximately five years ago after my husband’s collision with a deer. Even at that time, it was simply not worth the investment to properly fix the damage done.  Rather, my father made some unique and impressive home repairs. This included jumping upon the hood of the car and smashing it back into shape with the force of his body and a large sledge hammer.  This also included replacing the wrecked head lights with a set from the old 1978 three quarter ton Ford that sat decaying in the back forty.   As the airbag exploded, the steering wheel now lacks proper cover and one must place two wires together should he or she wish to honk the horn.  In short, it’s a real piece of shit on wheels.  

 

However, we have generally found the condition of the Bonneville hilarious.  I would not drive it often, but before the children if I had to pick up groceries or run other errands in this car, I felt totally bad-ass.  To me, riding in that car spoke, “Yo, look at me, I do not give a fuck.  I will run your stupid little Kia Soul right off the road if you can’t drive the fucking speed limit, you skinny little whore.”  In this particular moment, I did not feel bad ass or invincible in any way whatsoever.  I felt panicked and terrified, and that panic grew into a full blown anxiety attack when my spouse called me to warn that I be careful driving to work as the roads were quite slick and the weather conditions dangerous.  I began hyperventilating and stammering out words, repeating “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.”  Tears began to stream down my face and I began shaking at the thought of driving that unsafe vehicle, which really ought to be driven by no one – ever. I simply could not drive it on slick roads, potentially leading to a fatal crash far too reminiscent of the past that yet haunted me.  

 

Beep, Beep, Mother - Fuckers! (Yeah, not today)

Therefore, my husband hung up with me and called my employer to explain the situation while I headed to the medicine cabinet for my clonazepam, taking a tablet and then crawling back under the covers where I was safe and sound. I wasn’t bad ass and I wasn’t brave.  I suppose my PTSD had defeated me in this instance.  I know that just a year ago I would have been ridden with guilt for missing work under the same circumstances.  This time, as I calmed myself back under the comfort of the covers, that guilt was not allowed to join the other demons.  I recognized that my PTSD is valid and this was just a day that the death mobile should not be driven.  I was assuredly afraid to drive that unique vehicle in inclement weather conditions, but I am also assured that such fear is not my fault.  It’s not my fault.

Burdened by Bricks

I crawled into bed next to my husband, whose eyes were just starting to slowly glaze over with sleep. 

While certain he was exhausted and in need of rest, I leaned over to him and spoke, “We need to talk.”

“I know,” he languidly replied.

“I’m not okay,” I said, and then lie there staring into his eyes hoping to recognize sincere acknowledgment of my state of illness on his face, yet receiving only a semblance of emptiness and disregard for my state of affairs.

“I know,” he again replied with little enthusiasm, as though the response were one recorded on audio, like he just pressed a play button and let things sort themselves out however they should without his active intervention.  He was just going through motions with me.  I recognize it’s difficult to love someone who suffers from mental illness, but I wanted to scream or slap him across the face, tell him to wake the fuck up and start giving a shit if he didn’t want to keep pressing replay on these same tired scenes --- weeks of wellness and then a rapid, unexpected drop into deep depression. 

If he knew I wasn’t okay, as he had just muttered to me, why was it me, the one who was afraid to leave the house, afraid to live, afraid that she was nothing but a worthless fuck whom was a burden on everyone in her life, who had to initiate this conversation?  If he knew I wasn’t okay, why wasn’t he actively attempting to make things better? 

“Well, if you know I’m not okay,” I then replied, “you should also know that continuing to ignore my illness is not going to make it simply disappear.  Just because you don’t address my depression doesn’t mean it’s not there.  You can’t just leave me under the covers and go about your day believing that I’ll soon reemerge and be well again.” 

However, that’s how things happened.  I was fine, fine, fine for weeks – in fact I was even well and thriving during some of this time.  Then I would wake up one day with severe anxiety and depression and fall into this deep hole of self-hatred and horror for two days minimum to six days maximum and then reemerge again like I was whole and those ugly, dire days hadn’t even happened – like they were just a nightmare that passed over us in sleep.

“I can’t keep doing this.  I can’t not be a competent, reliable employee, I can’t not be a patient, loving mother, I can’t not be a kind, considerate lover for several days each month.  Something has to change.  I don’t know what to do.  I just don’t know what to do.”

“I don’t know what to do either, Angela,” he replied.  However, when I spoke, it was clear that I was running through possible strategies in my mind, while his reply seemed resigned like there simply was no answer and he had given in to the idea of losing me for days.  He didn’t seem to be aware that if we let this keep happening, where I wasn’t really myself for days at a time, the depression would continue to amplify to the point where he would lose me permanently to suicide. 

“It’s just …” I began, not knowing how to explain my situation, as I didn’t understand myself how much was external, how much of my depression could be directly linked to trauma, and how much was simply neurological – a genetic chemical imbalance that couldn’t be explained, and was simply confounding for non-sufferers to understand.  “It’s just I feel like there’s all these bricks, these bricks on my back.  I’m burdened by bricks, and I can’t move, I can’t breathe, I can’t get over it all and get better.”

He nodded, half in acknowledgment of my speech, and half a natural nodding of his head as it bobbed gently into sleep.

“I’m not over what that district did to me,” I said, “I’m just not. And I know you talk about how proud of me you are for writing – you acknowledge how cathartic and healing it can be.  But you know that I can’t talk fully about what they did yet, with the legal proceedings and what not.  And the lawyers, I’m so angry, I’m just so god-damn angry.  They’re not representing me properly.  This suit has taken too long and that district needs to be accountable for what they did to me.  They broke me, they fucking ruined me, you know?” 

He knew; he knew all too well.  He knew that I suffered so severely that I would lay awake at night thinking of ways to kill myself without also bringing harm to the child that was growing inside of me.  He knew that teaching was never just a job, that the word teacher is part of my identity and they were killing part of me.

“And every day this bullshit lingers on, every day that they continue to get away with it, and the proper action isn’t being taken, it’s another brick on my back.  It’s harder to breath because there’s no fucking justice in this world.”

He was struggling to keep his eyes open and pay attention to me.  His arm was wrapped around my back, rubbing up and down, again just a motion with no real feeling or attachment evident.

“And because I’m stuck, tied to that sadness and that torment, I keep thinking about all the other injustices in my life, and the bricks pile up and I feel crushed.  There are all the bricks from the dishonesty and discrimination from my former employer, and I hate, hate, hate that what they did to me is affecting my current job and I’m missing work.  I’m in a district I want to be in, and I can’t make it to work because these bricks from the past are holding me down.  It makes me so fucking angry, and this new district isn’t getting to see the wonderful, amazing educator and mentor that I am, that I know I can be, because the pieces aren’t all back together yet.  I’m still just hurting so damn much.”

There was a physical ache in the pit of my stomach as I spoke these words, and I knew I had to start being honest about how much I was hurting.  Being brave and trying to convince myself that I could go on wasn’t really working, not when I was missing two to four days of work every god-damn month. 

“And you know, I want to be hopeful, I want to believe in myself, but I can tell you right now, I know I can’t work tomorrow.  I can’t leave this home.”

He looked upset with me, but said he would call my employer, knowing that I couldn’t even communicate effectively when I was in such a depleted, dispirited state.

“And here’s the thing,” I continued.  “Then I feel every fucking sadness and injustice of the past.  So, here we go, load up the bricks.  Here’s a brick for every time my father told me I was worthless when I was growing up, how he joked that he wished I was never born.  Here’s a brick for the first time I was raped, violated by an individual that I believed I loved, the first person I ever loved. Here’s a brick for the second time I was raped, raped more violently by two men, made to feel like an awful, disgusting whore who deserved such appalling punishment for allowing myself to get so god-damn drunk.  Here’s a brick for all the nights I spent sleeping with a razorblade to my wrist, just praying for the fucking courage to kill myself because I didn’t know how else to get out of my abusive marriage, stuck with a man who threatened suicide whenever I mentioned leaving him.  Here’s a brick for the night he put his thick fingers around my neck and tried to choke me.  Here’s a brick for the young man who lays in a grave somewhere, only seventeen when our cars crashed into one another and his life ended, and my life changed forever.  Here’s a brick …”

I was crying now, sobbing and shaking.  I was overwhelmed with this depression, and wanted to discuss the next step.  Do we need to talk about hospitalization?  Do we change medication again?  What do we do?  It wasn’t simply a question of what I needed to do next, because my husband is my best friend, my partner, my lover, my support.  We are a team, and we needed to make this decision together. 

I had been talking so long, my eyes closed, as though somehow shutting my eyelids allowed me to shut out some of the pain that accompanied all of these memories I was mentioning, brick by brick until I felt like I could barely breathe.

I opened my eyes and looked over to him, to discuss where we go from here, how we begin to lessen the load and eliminate these days of despair and dejection, these days of misery and melancholy, these days where I am completely immobilized.

“So, you know,” I said, opening my eyes and just staring up at the ceiling.  I then turned to him to ask what he thought we should do, and I saw him there … asleep.  I was burdened by these bricks, and he had fallen into a restful sleep, freed by dreams from the hollowness that filled my heart.  My partner, my best friend, my teammate, left me alone to carry this load. 

Frozen in Fear ... Warmed by Love

I groggily arose from the bed, and rubbed the tired edges of my eyes, having crusted over with cold symptoms.  As my eyes finally opened wide, I glanced out the bedroom window to see that thick layers of snow had accumulated, while I slept restlessly, upon the land and the tree branches.  The snow rested heavily upon the limbs of pine trees, weighing the branches lowly down, nearing the ground.  With this sight, I felt as though the weight of this heavy snow was weighing down upon my own body, crushing my heart, making me feel stuck and immobilized. 

I began to hyperventilate.  My mind began to race.  I don’t want to go out there. I can’t go out in that weather.  It could happen again.  It can’t happen to my children like it did to me.  I won’t go out there.  It’s today, the exact day. These racing thoughts flooded upon me; I was drowning in waves of anxiety and fear.  Flashbacks that had formerly been erased from my mind came back to me.  I saw the vehicle come crashing horizontally into me on this day, February 11^th, over a decade ago.  Over a decade ago, but the event lingers with me in diagnosed Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.  I tamped my hands over my ears believing I could hear the loud, crashing, grinding sound of metal automobile exteriors slamming rapidly into each other.  I could hear the sirens this morning, even though they existed only in a memory over a decade away.  I could hear the calming voice of the police officers explaining how I would be removed from my vehicle with the jaws of life, I not fully understanding their gentle intonations as I could only hear my own violent screaming and sobbing, staring forward at a spider webbed windshield, frozen and disoriented in that moment. These violent memories engulfed me. 

 

1988 Buick Electra after the accident - I truly believe this car saved my life

I managed to slow my breathing, call my husband to explain my fears, and then go to the medicine cabinet to find and consume my clonazepam – an anti-anxiety medication.  Yet, even as I write this, my legs are restless, my mind restless, my memory haunting and my mind bound up in irrational fears.  I was alone then, but I would have my children with me if I were to leave today.  No. Not on this day – not February 11^th.  I can’t bring harm to them.  The seventeen year old boy in the passenger seat who was declared dead upon impact.  The seventeen year old boy in the driver seat in a coma for four months.  No, no, no.  My children will not meet such a fate, so I must stay home.  I must.

But, fuck, I don’t want to miss any more work.  What do I call and say?  I’m sorry I can’t come to work today, but I’m fucking crazy and I’m terrified that if I leave I will kill my own children in an automobile accident.  The weather is making me anxious, and I can’t form cohesive thoughts.  I’m not okay, okay? It’s embarrassing, but this is my reality. 

I hung up the phone with my husband, who was on his way home from work to make sure that I survived the day and that the children would have one competent parent home with them.  I felt foolish and embarrassed and why didn’t I just suck it up and straighten my shit out, get to work, and stop letting nightmares of past events corrupt my current life.

Another view of the Buick

 

Shortly after I hung up with my spouse, my mother called.  “Are you going to work today, Angela?” she asked.  I replied that I wasn’t, and, with great shame and self-judgment, I tried to explain the flashbacks and the terror– how I felt sick to my stomach and frozen in fear.  I thought she would judge me too, and tell me to get over it already, get the kids ready for day care, and get in the damn car so I don’t put strain on my employer, having to find a substitute with late notice.

She said none of this.  Rather she said, “I know what this day is, Angela.  I know that was a long time ago, but I know it still hurts you.  If the roads were clear, I would tell you to be brave and move forward.  But, Angela, I just went into town and the roads are awful.  I don’t want you to go to work today.  Let your employer deal with it however they need to.  You need to protect yourself and your children.  Your PTSD is real.  Did you take some of your clonazepam?  And will Sam be home?  Okay. Okay.  You’ll be okay.  Just relax and give those children all your love, knowing they are safe at home.  I want you and them safe at home.  It will be okay.”

It’s hard to believe it’s going to be okay now as I sit in tears watching more snow fall upon the roads.  It’s hard to believe it’s going to be okay given the guilt I feel over missing work, and also knowing my husband is losing wages by coming home to take care of me and the children.  It’s hard to believe it will be okay when I feel like such a god-damn burden to those that love me.  But the most important part of that statement is that I have so many people who love me.  My spouse, my children, my parents, my in-laws, they all love me and they all know that my illness is real --- this manic-depression, this seasonal affective disorder, this anxiety, this post-traumatic stress disorder. 

The best medicine for all of these, while I still rely on mood stabilizers and anti-depressants, is the love and support of my family.  I am choosing to believe my mother today.  I am missing work, and the memories that accompany this snow fall weigh heavily upon my heart, but it will be okay.   It will be okay.  I am loved.  I won’t suffer any loss today in the warmth of my home.  Maybe it’s irrational to need to stay here, to be brought to hyperventilation by the thought of traveling those roads, but the safety of my home and the support of my family is what I need today.  It’s my medicine. 



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