I have heard from a couple of different people who actually read that post. I'm honestly surprised that anybody reads my blog at all, so I'm stunned that two people read the post and felt moved to comment about it. Thank you to you both.
I don't share that story about how my dad passed away very often. I'm not sure I've told any of my friends the whole story; hell, I'm not even sure that I've really shared the whole thing with Alan. I've spent a lot of time since November 14th second-guessing my decision to leave it posted to my blog, especially since I'm so reluctant to tell people the story in person.
I guess I posted it because I really do have to work things out in text form. For some reason, I cannot process feelings or make certain obvious connections on the fly as events happen in my life. I literally have sit down and write out the situation in detail later, so that I can begin to figure out the feelings I was having (if any), and make the connections between events that should have been obvious at the start. In short: I have to write it down to organize it and figure out how I feel about it. Why? I have no idea. I joke that I'm not from this planet, but sometimes the joke feels a bit too close to the truth. It seems I'm really wired differently from most folks. (I am not sure if that's true, but since I never talk to people about these things, I guess I won't know whether it's common or not.)
Some of my weirdness has to come from my upbringing. My father was an abusive alcoholic whose addiction started shortly after I was born and spiraled out of control until he died in 1979. I'm sure he must have been bipolar, but of course, at that time there were no effective treatments for most mental illnesses, never mind addiction issues. And at that time, society itself thought very differently about things like addiction and mental illness. When I was growing up in the 1960s and 1970s, it was tacitly understood by everybody that "Nice people never talk about these things openly in polite conversation. EVER."
Of course, such socially-enforced secrecy only led to isolation and desperation. Knowing the statistics as I do now, I realize that my family couldn't possibly have been the only one dealing with these issues, but I don't ever recall anyone else saying anything about having a crappy home situation of their own. I came to believe that we were the ONLY family wrestling with the horrible degenerating cycle that comes from the conflation of untreated alcoholism and mental illness. I thought my brother and I were the only kids who had to put on the brave face every morning and head out the door into the world while ignoring the despair and the rage and the frustration and the hurt and the abandonment; and who felt such anxiety about going home in the evening, wondering what the hell was going to happen tonight. It was like living in a war zone -- we never knew or where the bombs were going to explode, what would trip my dad's temper or my mom's rage, or what would happen next. In that sort of environment, it's best NOT to feel anything. It's the only way to cope.
There's a line in a Pink Floyd song that resonates with me to this day. In "Wish You Were Here," Roger Waters asks:
"And did you exchange
A walk-on part in the war
For a lead role in a cage?"
Oh yes. Yes, I did.
I began to live in a cage of my own making almost immediately after my dad died. That particular night I decided I would never ever plan anything ever again, since it was so patently obvious that disaster could happen at any moment. But a bit later on, I also decided that I would never let anybody get close to me ever again. (Because they can so easily be taken away, you know.) I also consciously decided that I would do my best to be self-sufficient and self-contained and never need anybody ever again. I decided I would never be weak enough to share myself or my feelings with anybody ever again, because my interior critics assured me that I had nothing to contribute and nobody really wanted to hear from me anyway.
And I carried out these decisions beautifully: I became invisible through high school. I had no friends. I got high grades because all I did was go to school, go to work, go home. I had no social life, no interests, no desire to do anything fun -- hell, the whole concept of "fun" was completely foreign to me.
And I felt so desperately alone and trapped in my own head, with no respite from the interior voices that continually reminded me how useless, how terrible, how much of a failure I was and always would be.
Like I said in the previous post, I made it to almost 21 before I broke down. I was living in Albuquerque, attending UNM and working part-time at a law office as a file clerk. It was a Wednesday in January of 1987. I had decided that I had had enough pain. I was ready to kill myself, so I decided to drive out to the Sandias and disappear. I didn't want the whole drama I had experienced with my dad's death. I didn't want anybody to find me.
But on the way out of town, I felt compelled to stop in at the office where I worked. And my boss (who later became my friend) was still there. He asked me why I was there. I told him this was just a brief stop before I left and never came back. He said, "Sit down. Let's talk." And he spent the next four hours talking to me about his own depression and his own struggles. And he said something that I just could not wrap my head around: "There can be life without pain. And you can have one yourself."
Floored me. What a vastly strange, unlikely, but incredibly intriguing concept. Me? Have a life where I'm not in excruciating emotional pain or complete numbness? How is that even possible?
It was possible, eventually. He got me in to see a therapist. He paid for my initial sessions until I could afford them (I had no health insurance). I owe the man my thanks and my life, literally.
I remember the pain of opening up to that therapist and telling him the horrible things I saw, felt, and did. It hurt like hell at first, but it also lifted a tremendous weight from me mentally. I learned from that experience that sharing my past isn't necessarily a bad thing, sometimes.
And that is why I'm posting all of this, and why I've left the November 14th post still up. I still have to remember that my first instinct -- which is always to ignore, to bury, to not say anything -- is not necessarily a good one. And I'm still learning how to share and how to talk about my past, and realizing that it's a necessary part of me that should not be buried or ignored. That I need to embrace it to get past it.
A friend who read my November 14th post sent me a message in which she encapsulated the most important thing I've never even considered about my experiences:
"What you wrote really captures some important aspects of being human and certain human experiences that some humans have to live through, live with, and somehow live despite."
I'm guess I'm living right now despite everything that should have made me dead by now. I hope that's a good thing. I think it is.