Confusion

Whoa, it hit me. I suddenly felt this pause. I think I’m ashamed to claim my diagnosis. It’s one thing to accept them in solitude, where I honor them as a title for growth potential. It is another to be vulnerable to the world and share what’s been sacred to me for a long time.

My verdict came from noted observations and conversations that I can only imagine held multiple perspectives, from both doctor to patient. Then the patient becomes the doctor through grueling experiences, and the doctor becomes the patient, who could not comprehend or connect their previous patients' silence to their screams for help.

I remember taking a psychology class in high school and pursuing it briefly in college.

As I learned my normal was considered “wrong” in societies of education and was actually categorized as a state of dire assistance, that was the first number on the lock to my cage that began to replace its code for a new one.

I was supposed to trust the word of society. But it only dropped a negative connotation on my normalcy. They couldn't understand nor respect that my tragedy was my foundation, my home. Instead, I felt pitied for it.

I felt like they were trying to control the narrative. They were trying to make me feel like the victim... because those are the ones we are allowed to feel sympathy for. But maybe that was just the narrative they needed to find the inspiration to help me. To be the educated savior to my ignorant life.

They told me, because I went through this and that as a kid, I probably have this. Now they didn't say probably; they told me, word for word they’re conclusion for my diagnosis, but the tone I always heard time and time again was uncertainty. And sadly, I still decided to trust in them regardless because of the authority they had over me.

In my culture, society had always taught me to be obedient and never taught me to trust in my intuition.

So what else could I do but trust in those who say they’re trying to help me? Question their authority? Challenge it on the basis of what?

So I trusted their treatment plan, which culminated in meds on top of meds before I even hit my 20’s.

What they couldn't value was my past tragedies. It was never a concern to decode, but a fact that gave them the evidence they needed to “do their job” and to sign off on the “care” provided. I remember feeling like a lab rat. Passing me off to another doctor to monitor me and manage these meds.

And even those doctors had no interest in dissecting my past. There was no desire to understand what could be going on neurologically and emotionally. I needed another doctor to help me translate. A counselor. And they would have to first psychoanalyze me for some time to create their own perception of my personality, where I had no practice expressing myself because I wasn't confronted with the right doctor. And then it becomes my job to assemble what I think I’ve learned through the repetitive reaffirmations of my social worker or therapist, all while fighting this constant inner battle: seeking liberation while being retraumatized by the things I haven’t become aware of yet. Then I’m expected to take that fragmented understanding and relay it back to my medication doctor—someone who barely asks questions—so they can understand what I understand about myself and determine whether the medications they’re prescribing are actually helping me heal. Lab rat all over again. Like my life is a product of trial and error. It’s infuriating.

There was so much uncertainty from all angles; it only made sense for me to quit on these science-based solutions.

I was so young with what I felt was conditioned guidance…and I only wished I had one person with the will to be curious enough to learn about my tragedies and the desire to learn from me because they respected my courage and my will to understand them myself.

When I spoke, it wasn’t for a cure in return but a sense of safety to feel all that I feared. To connect all the pieces that pierced me. To find an awareness that liberated me.

As much as I resented the system, I still respect the titles. I became open to interpretation as I figured I was the one experiencing these labels, not my doctors. I listened to their conclusions. I became receptive to their guidance and respected their intellect. They still dedicated their time and sacrificed so much to know what they know, and for that, they get my respect & curiosity. But I always knew, at the end of the appointment, I was going to decide for myself what I needed & I probably learned more than I ever could with a fixed mindset.

It took me a few years to truly assemble this opinion, through trial and error, of course. Tormented by a cycle of self-fulfilling patterns.

But then I did something devastating. I traumatized my love. I not only took something, but I replaced it with the same pain I’ve endured all my life.

Because I inflicted such harm, I knew my life was going to change forever.

But I decided to fight for it.

I realized… I could become that one person who had the will to be curious. To take interest and study my own tragedies because I myself honored my courage and held respect for my truths.

And for a time, I did become the person I needed. A protector, a fighter, a leader, and most importantly, a lover. But nothing ever stays the same.

#MentalHealth #Confusion #anger #receptivity #growth

So I mentioned sharing something a bit, well, a lot raw in an earlier post. I've elected not to take it quite so far, partly because I don't want to play around parsing the 3700 words I wrote two months ago into multiple 'thoughts' and partly because I probably don't want it all out on the web.

Here's the deal -- a couple of months ago, I got a call from the Mission Viejo Sheriff's office informing me that my father had died.

Initially, it hit me like the death of a D-List celebrity that I had forgotten was still alive. A curiosity, nothing more.

Then, I was told that he died in a county-run hospice while suffering from vascular dementia and was indigent at the time.

So, somehow, this man who was making 70K a year in 1976 and retired from Boeing in the early 2000s had died destitute, scared, confused, and alone.

To be honest, his death couldn't have been more fitting. He was a full-fledged monster, but the sneaky kind.

To put it as succinctly as possible, when he moved out of state (I was 16 and lived with my mom), I didn't see him off because I was afraid I'd end up in jail for life. And the one time I allowed him to get within touching distance of one of my sons a decade later, I almost vomited on the spot.

None of this, however, is my issue.

My issue is this - after chuckling with my brother over the phone, celebrating the level of suffering dear old dad must have endured in the end, things changed in my head.

Now, I've experienced terrible grief not long ago, losing my mom suddenly - two days after a successful surgery - in May of 2020. So, I know what soul-searing pain feels like.

This wasn't that.

And yet, for about ten days, my mind was so ....floaty(?)... that I couldn't write (I'm paid well to do that daily), and I could barely think. There was a quiet but massive rage lurking somewhere inside, but mostly I just felt permanently drunk.

Why?

I don't miss him. I hadn't spoken to him at all for nearly twenty years. The closest I got was telling his rarely used FB profile (which at the time had an 11-year-old unanswered friend request sent to me) that Mom had died. He never responded but was probably already mentally lost at the time.

I sat with my wife that evening, racking my brains, trying to conjure a single good memory that involved my dad, but I couldn't come up with a single one. The memories I could conjure weren't so happy, but they were old news and not why I failed in my quest.

And yet, there I was... ten days of quiet rage, confusion, and consternation. He deserved nothing. He deserved apathy. So why did it screw me up so bad? The devil died -- and suffered at it for months if not years. It should have been a party.

Why wasn't it? And if it wasn't, why wasn't I sad? Why was I so angry? So ... floaty?

Why?