By Robin*
When I think of the word “crisis,” I’m reminded of an earlier life. Not in the sense of Shirley McLaine living past lives but in the sense of my years before and my years after my own life-changing crisis. It was the ultimate crisis, the one that prepared me for every other one—even as they come for me now.
The old saying, “God doesn’t give you any more than you can handle”—well, it’s not one I buy in to. I believe we torture and smear ourselves up in our own personal crises and then God pulls us out of the muck. If we’re willing. I am surrounded by “muck survivors,” and I promise you, God had nothing to do with the pain inflicted on each of them. But they are all survivors, and thankfully, so am I.
I grew up the youngest of three daughters, separated in age from my sisters by the eleven and seven years between us. My father, the best man I ever knew, worked at three jobs to provide for us. Seems now like he worked the better part of his life. My mother, a woman with extraordinary Movie Star looks, suffered from mental illness—schizophrenia.
My beautiful eldest sister left home at 18 to marry a man she did not love. She sacrificed her dreams and her body to find some form of unattainable inner peace. She searches for it even now. My middle sister ran away a month later, to escape the private Hell—our own dark secret—we lived in. She was only 15-1/2 but she was strong and grew into a fearless warrior of the streets. My father would frantically search for her and then drag her back to “safety,” only to find her missing again. Finally he gave in.
When you’re nine and left behind, you have no choices really. You’re too young to make any. I clung to my father whenever he was home, taking in all of his kindness and his unspoken heartache. He did what he thought was best for me at the time and I did everything I could to please him.
When he wasn’t there, I was left in my Mother’s “care” and I was just too small to know how to fight back. (He later discovered that his youngest daughter with the beaming smile was just not strong enough.) I learned to turn inward, to hold it all in, trying to escape the madness that surrounded this terrified, shy little girl.
I learned to never ask for help, never to draw attention to myself, never to tell anyone about my home-life, never to show anything but absolute harmony and my big wide grin. I faked my way through school, church, and every friendship I managed to cling to. I survived by performing, as if in a hideous play that never ended.
Eventually, blessedly, I grew up, moved out (that’s a story in itself) and scraped by with what money I had. I landed a good job, a nice home, and a wonderful partner who I thought I would hang on to forever. I had done everything by the book—working hard, not making waves, and never, ever showing a sign of weakness.
Things were going well until at 30, my “perfected life” took a nosedive and I lost my forever partner. I was tougher by then, plus I was still young, so I dusted myself off and kept my head high knowing I had weathered far worse.
Within a month, I got laid off from my job. A fingers-tightening-around-my-throat panic started to seep in. Within six months I lost my beautiful home and everything else that I thought defined me as a successful, “normal” person. I moved in with a friend, and for the first time in my adult life I had to admit defeat.
From there, it was a small step from a life with fulfillment to a life without meaning and I became totally enveloped in the old terror of the past. I got up, ate, went back to bed, slept and maintained that cruel existence without understanding what was happening to me, nor knowing I needed help—badly.
There’s an insidious thing called “depression” that eats at your soul, making you feel unworthy. Most of us have been down that road at some time in our lives. But within my family tree, there’s a villain that is far worse—extreme psychotic depression. If your life takes that road, chances are you will not return whole, if you return at all.
At 30, I knew nothing of either ailment and when voices began to fill my head, they seemed to have an answer for finally eliminating my crisis and all my pain. Oh, I fought them with everything my will had left, but my will was scarred and battered. Eventually, I lost the battle.
I stood at the mirror and watched another person—a weathered, beaten version of myself, older in body yet terrified like the little girl—put her hand to her mouth, repeatedly, and swallow the pills. I was helpless to stop her.
I awoke in a strange bed with no recollection of where I was or how I had arrived there. I remember a woman talking to me, her voice full of fear, saying she had just driven her car into a tree but somehow survived and that she would try again. I was later taken to a room to be evaluated by a Doctor who gently told me that I was in the psychiatric ward, in a wing for the “less dangerous,” and that I had survived swallowing over 400 pills. I believe the words he used were “a damn lucky walking miracle.” The pills had no lasting physical effects.
Here’s what happened in my biggest moment of crisis: everything I knew before that moment became my past and every minute aftewards became my future. My future, now crystal clear, was all the life I had in front of me, come what may.
I was released within 48 hours, completely altered from the ghostly human that had arrived, reborn as someone new. As God as my witness, from that moment to this one now, I have never looked back for an answer or questioned why I survived. I knew.
There were 21 people in the entire world that knew this story. They have honored me these past 20 years with their protection, their silence, and more important, their love. And now, there are more who know.
Today, I take each crisis as it is. I deal with it the best way I know how, and I move on stronger than before. Everything from that moment taught me how to live, how to forgive, and to have absolute faith in miracles. And as I age, I grow younger. I’m now a laughing child whose heart is free.
Robin (*not her real name) is a friend and fellow creative spirit. She wrote this piece in response to red Ravine post, WRITING TOPIC – WHERE DO YOU GO IN TIMES OF CRISIS? Because of the personal nature of her story, Robin chose to use a pseudonym.
Here’s what she had to say about writing this piece: It was tough to write those words, but I thought maybe anonymously, I might be able reach someone who’s in trouble or thinks they’re alone in their own crisis. People close to the edge are not as easily recognizable as the general public seems to think.
Thank you, Robin, for sharing your story with red Ravine.
Robin,
Thank-you for sharing your story. Your bio says you are a “fellow creative spirit.” I don’t know if you ever intend on writing more about your family, but I can tell you I was dying to hear more while I read. Things like: Did your parents stay together? Did the mental illness show up after they married? Have you returned to the ER where they pumped your stomach? What about your sisters; do you see them? Your story reminds me of the movie, “Girl, Interrupted.” I’ll enjoy a Part 2 anytime.
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There is a line in this piece, about not buying into the idea that “God doesn’t give you any more than you can handle”—that made me think of a story my mother-in-law told about a woman she knew who was being treated for cancer.
The woman’s husband had died a few years ago from a massive heart attack. People told her, “Well, God doesn’t give you more than you can handle.” Then the woman’s oldest son died within a year from the thing—a genetic predisposition. People again brought out that line. A year later, her second died, also of that same thing. Again people pulled out the line about what God gives you.
The woman herself was then diagnosed with cancer, after losing her husband and two sons within the past four years. Sitting in the chemotherapy room with other women who also had cancer and who knows what other crises in their lives, she told them, “If one more person tells me that God doesn’t give more than you can handle, I’m going to slap them!” They all burst out in laughter.
My mother-in-law said it was relief to hear the woman say this, as every one in that room had probably heard the same thing from people who meant well yet didn’t realize how little solace those words offered.
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The other thing I want to say, Robin, is that you are amazing and what you did as a result of this crisis, that had to have taken *enormous* strength. I respect, too, your decision to not go back and revisit, why exactly did you survive. What matters is that you did.
What you say, too, about People close to the edge are not as easily recognizable as the general public seems to think—I’ve wondered sometimes, when I’ve fallen into a deep funk or had enough of a bout of anxiety to cause me to just withdraw for a while, if the edge is closer than I think.
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I honor you and your spirit…you are a survivor!
I have no doubt your story has and will touch many hearts, mine included. I needed to read this tonight, and I thank you for sharing your story.
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Hi Teri,
I love your questions. I have thought many times about writing something. Fact is, I have very little memory good or bad of my childhood. It’s strange though, every once in a while I will hear a sound or smell something that brings back a memory that I can’t quite get ahold of. Last week I was getting ready for a big function and I heard a voice outside my house. The high pitched tone had me froze in place for about 10 seconds. I realized I was shaking, snapped out of it and just as quickly, it was gone.
My mother and father were married 55 years. My father loved her regardless, until the day he died. My mother showed no signs of the disease when they were married and my father thought he was the luckiest man in the world. My sisters have told me stories of her before I was born, as it became apparent that something was very wrong. My oldest sister said she used to lift the other one high into the closet to protect her and then climb up herself.
My mother had her first nervous breakdown weeks after my birth and slowly desended from there. Sadly, I never knew her any other way. When her mother, my grandmother, passed away, I inherited her beautiful cherrywood dresser and high poster bed. While going through the drawers, I found a dozen cards my mother had sent to her when she was a young woman growing up. She sounded so very sweet and full of innocence and it made me cry like a baby, never knowing who she had been.
I never return to wherever I was taken. I never knew and chose to leave it that way.
My sisters and I are very close, more so than any others I’ve ever known. I have never in my life argued with either. They continue to this day to be my protectors and champions and I in turn do my best to protect them.
yb, I am a very average woman, nothing amazing at all. I was blessed by a miracle and now am thankful for everyday I have. Each year, I celebrate the anniversary of this new life with people that have no idea why I celebrate. I like the mystery of it.
Gypsy-heart
I hope you are right. People should know there really are miracles, even in the darkest hours.
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Robin, gypsy-heart is right on. You are a survivor! I think if each & everyone of us took a deep look into our lives that we too, have survived a personal crisis, perhaps not to the extent of what happened to you, but a crisis no less. Mine was this past summer. You know what really pulled me through? Writing about it & talking about it. Most of the healing occured thanks to my 7 year old Grandson. One night when I thought I could take no more, feeling sorry for myself, he & I were looking for falling stars. Bless his heart, he would stare at the stars & insisted they were falling, make a wish & put it in his pocket. His little words of wisdom were quite simple. Though the stars he stared at were not really falling he told me that the harder I looked the more I would see. He was right! And though I felt as though I was falling, I had to pick myself up & be strong for me & especially for those around me. I feel lucky. I had the best support system anyone could hope for. Your words “Everything I knew before that moment became my past and every minute after that became my future”, how very true! We can take control of our future if everyday we take a harder look. Thank God you were able to come to that conclusion. Some can’t, sad to say. They feel helpless, lost, and give in to those feelings. But if we look hard enough at our lives, the more we will see & hopefully piece it together. Looking in the mirror & taking those pills must have been a helpless feeling. You couldn’t stop the moment. I agree with Teri. I wanted to read more. Thanks for this post. I needed to get back in tune with my own crisis & pick myself up again. Bless you for sharing! Stay strong! D
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alittlediddy,
Don’t children have the most wonderful little minds? I’m always amazed at their perception of this world.
I’m so glad your Grandson was there to sneak into your heart, just when it needed loves healing. You should tell him, when he’s old enough to understand, how much those words meant to you.
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This sent chills down my spine, and made me look back over the last 27 years – very carefully. And what I see makes me wince, but also stand a little taller, too.
You see, I am a mom who has a form of schizophrenia -when I was diagnosed with full blown symptoms, my littlest was not yet 3. My children saw more than their share of the ravages of mental illness – a mom in and out of hospitals for months at a time, a mom medicated and unable to care for them when she was home, a mom that didn’t always do the “mom” things they wanted.
Thankfully, there is more treatment available now. My husband talked to my kids about what was going on, and I did too when I was in a stable place. They didn’t get the “mommy is sick line” and then get sent away to wonder or left to deal with it on their own. They learned how they could help, both me and themselves. They even had a nanny (one we could barely afford) because that was the only way I could keep my family intact. The alternative was foster care.
In the past years new treatments have made my illness manageable, my life quite normal.
Somehow I have manged to have strong relationships with my children, and as adults in their twenties they seem to be okay for all the upheaval they experienced. It wan’t the childhood I would have wished for them – it wasn’t the adulthood I would have wished for my husband or myself either – but we worked hard to normalize a situation that wasn’t normal as much as we could.
I am so happy to hear that, though your experience was really difficult, you were able to move on to a good future, leave the past. It is good that you had your father’s love and support, and your own strength necessary to make a new start.
But I mourn for the children that are raised in such homes without the needed support and care. It’s a difficult, horrible position to be in, living with such uncertainty and so wanting things to be “normal.” Sometimes, even now, I watch my kids carefully, and the tiniest voice in my head says “Are they all right? What do they remember? Do they think I am a good-enough mom?”
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anon, you did everything you could to alleviate their suffering. You sound like a good, loving mama and with the help of your caring husband and a nanny, I have no doubt they turned out just fine. The 4 woman in my father’s household would never have survived without his strength and his courage.
It is a great relief that today there are medicines that can help. In my mother’s time, there were straight jackets and shock treatments; something that makes me physical ill to think on now. Each of my sisters’ youngest children suffers from this terrible disease and it’s so sad for us to watch them suffer. But we offer them laughter at the most important moments and they know how greatly they are loved.
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Robin, thank you for sharing your story, for trusting us with publishing your piece. I have always known you to be a positive force in the world, optimistic and encouraging. And to read your story brings a powerful perspective to the way you have turned your life around. It offers hope.
It also talks about debilitating depression, something that we now see every day in drug ads, but still – even in this day and age – you rarely hear “real” people discuss or talk about when it is impacting them or their families. I have suffered from depression off and on throughout my life. And even entertained suicidal thoughts during the worst of those times. It wasn’t until the generation after mine that people even talked about it.
It has been many years now since I felt that way. And I hardly recognize that isolated young woman. But I am vigilant to keep watch. Depression runs in our family, too. And can always return. I ask my close friends to tell me as soon as they see a change in me. Because with depression, you often can’t recognize early on that you need help. It’s insidious that way.
When I read your story, I am especially attuned to children who are depressed or experiencing anxiety (which sometimes runs hand-in-hand with depression) but it’s not being recognized by their family members. Or parents think it’s just a low time and their kids will simply “get over it” or grow out of it. Untreated depression can really take its toll. And kids don’t have the tools to recognize that; it’s up the the adults in their lives to help them out. And there are so many more options out there today – therapeutic and antidepressants – than when I was growing up.
Thank you for your courage and willingness to share your story. I think it will help others. And some will recognize themselves in what you have been through. I am also heartened by all the readers who have risked responding to your piece in the Comments. Thank you.
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QM,
Half the battle is the person recognizing they have a problem. If they can, they are already on the way to recovery. If they have others looking out for them as well, then they are doubly blessed.
Mental diseases and imbalances are typically hereditary. Depression runs rampant through ours so we keep a close eye on each other. I am glad to know you have people that care, love and watch over you when you become low. It makes a great difference.
It’s been my observation that people who talk about suicide, usually are the ones that do not follow through. But the people good at fooling others, who might seem just slightly out of character or slightly withdrawn, those are the ones found out too late.
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I’m in Seattle now, Robin, but I wanted to thank you again for taking the risk to write this deeply personal piece and share it. It reminds me, too, of the importance of not making assumptions about people we know and even those we feel we know well. We never can understand how it is to be that person, to walk in his or her shoes, and to make the choices he or she makes.
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I was moved, and thrust into such a thinky mode tuesday, after I read this and red Ravine’s equinox post that I ended up not saying anything but took an introspective turn.
But your words have power, and I got a sense of what a brave thing it was to write this both from what is said and what is not quite said in the narrative.
I think that signifies a move toward healing. It seems like what effects our core the most is sometimes the most difficult to put into words. Brave of you to put this out there- even anonymously, that’s a hugely courageous act.
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I found this and thought you might find it interesting. http://shiftingcareers.blogs.nytimes.com/2008/09/23/from-journalist-to-novelist/
This journalist found Natalie’s books helpful in writing her novel.
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Thank you Robin for your story. I like that you pointed yourself in the direction of your future and never looked back. Mental illness touches many of us. Some parts of your story had me nodding my head in recognition and I imagine the same may be true for others who will read your post. Rather than entertaining yourself by pulling at the threads of your past, you choose leave the past where it belonged and to move forward. That is a powerful message. Again, thank you.
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yb,
No truer words were ever said. “Never make assumptions about anyone”. The only mind you know for sure is your own and even that isn’t guaranteed.
amurin,
I wrote this 2 days before sending it, rolling it over and over in my mind until I finally could. I can tell you honestly my stomach churned right after hitting the “send” button. A “courageous” person wold have given her true name.
I know both QM and yb were worried that this story would meet with “awkward silence” because of the personal nature and people being uncertain about what to say. I am so glad that you and the others decided to come back and respond, in truth, as much for them as for myself.
Jackie,
The only reason I would ever have to look back is so see how far I’ve come. Only the very best parts of that little girl survived and I promise you, she is strong and happy and loved.
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Jackie, thanks for the link. We’ll have to check it out. Always great to find other writers who are using Writing Practice to move them along. We are ever grateful to Natalie for that.
Robin, it sounds like our exchange was kind of like O. Henry’s The Gift Of The Magi. 8) It’s true, ybonesy and I are very protective of our Guests. We like to help give people an idea of different scenarios that might happen with very personal pieces on a blog, because most of those scenarios we’ve experienced ourselves.
I’m so happy that people have responded to this piece the way they have. And thanks again for everything.
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I don’t know Robin but wanted to chime in support for this courageous soul. I applaud her and the bare bones honesty in her experience – I bet many resonate with this writing – even if they didn’t comment. This was beautifully written and conveyed….
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[…] Crisis Changed My Life by Robin […]
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