Til It Happens To You

You tell me it gets better, it gets better in time
You say I'll pull myself together
Pull it together, you'll be fine
Tell me, what the hell do you know? What do you know?
Tell me how the hell could you know? How could you know?

'Til It happens to you
You don't know how it feels, how it feels
'Til it happens to you, you won't know, it won't be real
No, it won't be real, won't know how it feels

Growing up, words like child abuse and domestic violence weren't something I heard very often. I didn't even really know what they were until I was in middle school and by then, I was already in the midst of being abused myself. When I was sixteen, almost seventeen, the physical abuse finally stopped, but it wasn't until I was eighteen that the mental, emotional, and verbal abuse finally ended. But even now, almost ten years after the last time I spoke to my biological father, I still feel the effects of being abused. I struggle with anxiety, depression, nightmares, and a distrust of men. Most days, I'm able to function and get through my day without much incident, but there are still days when I will have panic or anxiety attacks in the middle of work and it's a literal hell. And on the rare occasion I actually run into my father (like today), it spirals me into a nightmare of panic, wanting to throw up, and shaking.

A 1997 survey stated that 1 in 5 high school girls were a victim of physical or sexual abuse. Over half of the abuse occurred at home in this same study. My abuse was always at home, behind the privacy of doors that kept the rest of the world from seeing the hell that I lived in. It wasn't always physical either. Sure, there were beatings with a belt and slaps across the face, but the worst part wasn't the physical. I almost would take the beatings to the verbal, mental, and emotional assault. Being told you're worthless or that you are a "stupid bitch" over and over again is a nightmare that sticks with you...even now, ten years later, I feel worthless sometimes and like I won't do anything good in my life. Even though all the evidence says otherwise, I still feel like trash because that was what I was made to believe and how to feel about myself.

Something I have been told many times, mostly by well meaning and loving friends, is that it gets better in time. And while I know that they mean well, I want to beat my head against a wall because they don't know. They don't know what it's like to have a parent mistreat and abuse you for years on end, then blame it on you. Sometimes I want to ask them how the hell could they know how I feel when they've never experienced what I have or walked in my shoes. It doesn't just take time to get better. It takes therapy, sheer willpower, and a hell of a lot of love, patience, understanding, and compassion to get even one ounce better. While I wouldn't wish that on anyone, I sometimes wish they could understand how I feel...understand that I don't want to be the way I am, but that I am the product of my experiences and can't always control how I react to certain situations because they're triggering for me. For over ten years, I have struggled and fought tooth and nail to get better, to work through the hell, and figure out how to make it better. But still, it's like there is this wall between me and them and I'm screaming at it, but they can't hear me.

Until it happens to them (which I hope it never does), they won't know how I feel. 

Dear Dad

Dear Dad,

I'm writing this as a way of helping myself. It's been almost 10 years since I've spoken to you and a lot has changed in those 10 years. The years have taken me from the scared little girl you once abused and made me into a wise and strong woman. For years, I doubted I would find that woman, but I have reached a point in my life where I have found the confidence to say the things I have always wanted to say but never had the courage to before. And now that I have found that courage and strength, I will finally say what I need to and move on with my life for good without you.

Years ago, you once told me that I was going to wind up as a nothing. That I was worthless. For years that weighed on my self-esteem and invalidated everything I ever did as not good enough. You. Were. Wrong. Not only do I have a bachelor's degree in Psychology, but I also went onto achieve my master's degree in counseling and am working on my license to become a counselor. I have a full-time job working in my field and I pay my own bills, have a nice car, and a lot of other things I have worked very hard for. No one supports me and I don't live off of the system. And I don't blame others for my problems the way you have done for years. I have made something of myself that I am very proud of and will continue to work on as I get older, building my career and making my life everything I deserve.

For all the years you weren't there and weren't a father when you should have been, I have doubted myself most when it comes to relationships. My relationships and even my friendships are filled with anxiety and self-doubt because you made me feel like I wasn't good enough. A girl's father is supposed to be the first man in her life to teach her how men are supposed to treat her and yet, you treated me like shit and never wanted me in the first place. This is why the cycle of abuse continues because little girls like me grow up thinking men are supposed to treat them like dirt, so they find boyfriends and husbands who do the same as their fathers. You threw me against walls, slapped me across the face, screamed at me, and used a belt to beat me. No father should ever treat their child that way. And it will never happen again in my life. That stopped the moment I decided that I was worth more than trying to appease a parent who never loved me. I will NEVER let another man treat me or any of my future children the way you treated me and Mom. Ever.

You left me broken and full of doubt when I finally walked away from you and it has taken me years to reclaim the little girl who had such big dreams. Now I'm all grown up and learning to take back those dreams and make them realities. Never again will you take my confidence and crush it or make me feel worthless. I'm not the worthless one here. I'm not the one who abused his family and lives on perpetual lies.

The last thing I want to say is that, despite the apology I will never receive, I forgive you. But I don't do that for you. I do it for me to give me the peace of mind that it is over. So that I can move on with my life and forget you like a bad nightmare. You hold no more power over me and I will forget you exist one day. I hope that one day you can admit to your wrongs and make your peace with your God. Because I have made my peace, called it good, and moved on without you.

-Lacy

Living With Mental Illness

I still remember the first time I heard the word depression. I was a kid in middle school, going through the usual health education classes and in my class, we skimmed along the mental health section with the usual spiel about how if you're going to kill yourself, you should reach out to someone and that was the end of the conversation. Like most thirteen-year-olds, it was no big deal to me and I didn't pay much attention to it because it didn't apply to me...at least I didn't think it did. It wasn't until a year later that I came face-to-face with my monsters for the first time in a very ugly way. I was fourteen the first time I cut myself. I never was one to draw blood because I was too scared to, but I definitely used a needle to scratch to the point where it stung and left marks for days. Just enough to numb the pain and isolation caused by having to live with the huge secret of what my father had done. Just enough to provide relief for the anxiety and pain I felt on the inside that I couldn't express to anyone.

My father is a sex offender, charged and convicted with indecency with a child. He molested a girl two years older than me and lied about it for years. He is also an abuser. For years, he abused my mom and myself. He would scream at me and tell me I was a worthless bitch and would amount to nothing. Lots of other obscenities were flung in the years to come after I became a teenager. There were times when he would push me against a wall and cock his fist back at me, saying I was "so damn lucky" because he had so much self-control or I would be through the wall. He slapped me across the face for "back-talking" and standing up for myself when I told him to be the parent one time when my brothers were hungry, I had a lot of homework, and my mom had a night class. He would tell me everything I was involved in was stupid or a waste of time and money.  And on particularly bad nights, he would beat me with a thick leather belt for whatever "infraction" I had done. Sometimes I have these memories of other things that happened, but I can never decipher if they're real or a nightmare I had. My gut says they're real. The abuse carried on for a while, kept secret because of his promise to make it worse if I ever told anyone, especially my mom. My biological father was/is a manipulative and conniving man, so no one knew anything about the home life I lived. Many still don't or live in denial that it happened.

I was diagnosed with depression when I was just fifteen. Medications made me sick to my stomach and my first counselor was an unsympathetic asshole, who made me shut down even more, so I kept on cutting and prayed that it would all be over soon. One night when I was about sixteen, I tried to end it all and take my life, but I failed twice when the pills didn't work and I was too scared to hold myself under my bath water for long enough. When my mother filed for divorce and my father was forced to leave, things improved but it was still hard because I had to go on court ordered visitation with him every other weekend. I tried counseling a second time and was able to find a counselor who was understanding, empathetic, and allowed me to open up at my own given pace when I trusted her. The cutting stopped and I was finally able to breathe for the first time in nearly three years around the time I turned eighteen and was able to walk away from my biological father.

Through the last twelve years, I have had a lot of ups and downs with depression, anxiety, and struggling with finding who I am. During my years of abuse, I was told I wouldn't amount to anything. Now I have two degrees and yet, I still feel worthless sometimes because of all the years of hearing I was nothing. It's difficult for me to trust and open up in relationships, both romantic and non-romantic, because of the abuse. I question people's intentions toward me and constantly look for reasons for people to hate me, even when there are none. Sometimes my anxiety is so bad, I can't even hear my own rational thoughts over the constant nagging thoughts of how stupid I sound or how my decision is just going to end badly. My anxiety spikes on particularly bad days when I'm triggered by a memory or I happen to see a vehicle that resembles the one my biological father supposedly drives. I've even seen him in public a few times, which tail-spun me into an anxiety attack. I happen to have two degrees in Psychology, so I understand the processes I'm going through with the anxiety, but it doesn't make it any easier to live with.

Depression is something that people tend to romanticize or criticize. There are the posts on Tumblr and Twitter about girls with mascara running down their face and captions about depression, making it seem so glamorous. This is wrong...don't make depression or any mental illness seem like a damn fad. It's dumb and makes everyone who really has a mental illness look completely stupid. Or, on the other side of things, people tend to just tell those who live with depression, "Oh cheer up, it's not that bad" or "Some have it so much worse" or things like that. Thank you, you heartless assholes, for invalidating my feelings and making me feel like a leech on society for something I can't control. Yes, let me just turn off the way I feel and make you feel better about patting me on the shoulder and saying, "There, there", before sending me packing. What people don't understand is how hard I work to keep myself going some days. I work at a mental health agency and sometimes, it's overwhelming and I have to remind myself to leave it at the office instead of taking home some of the things I hear and see.

Something I have learned through living with depression for so many years is compassion and understanding. If someone comes to me and says that they are having a hard time getting out of bed every day, I won't judge them because I know that struggle. I might have a full-time job, but some days it is very difficult for me to get up and going. Some days I have to mask the inner struggle, even from my closest friends, because I don't want to burden them with the really dark things that go through my mind, even in passing. And some days, the storm lifts long enough for me to see the sun. To know that I'm not going insane from the weight I feel. It gives me hope and provides me with the strength to fight the bad days. That is what I fight for. To have more good days than bad. And I know I'll get there again.

By The Grace of God

Sometimes no one gets it. No one understands how hard I have worked in the last twelve years of my life. Or how hard it is for me still to function. And if you've never suffered from depression or had a background in Psychology, you don't understand what goes through my head or how I think. So invalidating my feelings, even if you don't mean to or think you're helping, does nothing to help me and makes me even more reluctant to talk to you about what's going on in my head and about the things I've gone through in my past that I've never opened up about to anyone.

I've rarely ever truly opened up about the abuse I went through in my childhood and teen years, even to counselors and friends. Though I've shared pieces and snippets, there is a huge part of it I've kept to myself for a long time that I don't think I'll ever be able to share with anyone no matter how close I am to them. Physical, emotional, mental, and verbal abuse all became a huge snowball that rolled me over again and again as I was growing up. Being slapped, thrown against a wall, and held in a choke-hold against the wall by your father while he cocks his fist back and says "You're so damn lucky I have so much self control or you'd be through this wall right now" isn't how you want to remember your childhood, but that is a lot of what I remember about my younger years. Wishing you were dead instead of dealing with it...that's something I remember feeling too, all the time. Even as I got older and my abusive parent was no longer in the picture, I would have nightmares about it that plagued me into adulthood and sometimes still reoccur when I'm feeling particularly stressed.

And I have never opened up about my suicide attempt when I was 16. No one, save one person, knows about that and I have never talked about it openly with anyone. But I reached a point so low when I was that age that I couldn't imagine going on anymore and did try to take my life. That, coupled with my increasing problem of self-harm was what pushed me to finally get help because I realized I couldn't keep going the way I was and live. And by the grace of God, I somehow survived and made it through to adulthood, though nothing is perfect and I still struggle with all of it.

Despite all of this, I still want to reach out sometimes...but each time, I find some reason not to. I don't want to burden people with my problems because I'm the one with two degrees in Psychology and should be able to deal with this shit by now, but the truth of the matter is that I can't. I've pushed the stone so far up the hill without help that I fear it's going to run my ass over if I try to hold it up by myself anymore. But the people I would turn to don't understand it or if they do, I don't want them to feel like I'm asking them to take this from me on themselves because I'm not. I just want to be able to feel normal for once in my life. But what will it take for me to finally feel it?

Battlefield

It's easy to fall in love, but it's so hard to
Break somebody's heart
What seemed like a good idea has turned into a battlefield

Once lust has turned to dust and all that's left's held breath

Forgotten who we first met
What seemed like a good idea has turned into a battlefield

We both know it's coming, does illusion count for something -- we hide
The surface tension's gotta break, one drop is all it takes to flood out this lie

You and I we have to let each other go

We keep holding on but we both know
What seemed like a good idea has turned into a battlefield

Peace will come when one of us puts down the gun
Be strong for both of us, no please don't run, don't run
Eye to eye we face our fears unarmed on the battlefield

We seemed like a good idea

No blood

Will spill if we both get out now
Still it's hard to put the fire out
What seemed like a good idea has turned into a battlefield

Feelings are shifting like the tide, and I think too much about the future

What seemed like a good idea has turned into a battlefield

We both know it's coming, does illusion count for something -- we hide
The surface tension's gotta break, one drop is all it takes to flood out this lie

You and I we have to let each other go

We keep holding on but we both know
What seemed like a good idea has turned into a battlefield

Peace will come when one of us puts down the gun
Be strong for both of us, no please don't run, don't run
Eye to eye we face our fears unarmed on the battlefield

 
We seemed like a good idea

We seemed like a good idea

We seemed like a good idea

We seemed like a good idea

To Live

"To live would be an awfully big adventure." - Hook

The death of Robin Williams has shaken me to the core of my being. To see someone I grew up watching in movies like Aladdin, Flubber, Mrs. Doubtfire, Fern Gully, and so many more succumb to something I have struggled with for ten years brings it home to me. 

Depression is a bitch. It can sneak into your life and betray you at any given moment. You can fight it back and push it to the edges of oblivion, masking it with smiles and laughter, but if you don't seek help or find a way to treat it, the darkness will creep back in and make you feel like you have nothing. And that loneliness is what often pushes those who hide it to the brink of drastic measures, such as suicide. To put it into perspective, I use this analogy to describe it to someone who has never experienced depression or doesn't understand how you can be alone in a room full of people: Think of yourself in a room full of people, but you are in a soundproof box. People can see you and certainly do see you all the time as they pass you by, but do they hear you? Even if you're screaming at the top of your lungs for help to get out, do they really know what you're saying or understand that you're asking for help? That is how depression makes you feel. It isolates you, like a deceitful little monster that lives in your mind, telling you that no one cares or that no one is going to listen to you anyway. And society's views on mental health and illness don't help either.

As a whole, society fears what they do not understand or what isn't "normal", which is why having a mental illness like depression carries such an unnecessary stigma. Unfortunately, it takes someone as famous as Robin Williams dying to bring light to the problems surrounding the mental health system and the views of society as a whole. How many other people have taken their lives in the last month alone because they had nowhere to turn or feared what people might think if they asked for help? How many more deaths can we prevent by being more compassionate and understanding of those who are struggling and need help? 

I have struggled with depression for ten years, since I was only fifteen. And the amount of pressure I have felt to hide my struggles is almost insurmountable at times. There are times when I want to break down and tell people that I just can't do anything today, but I force myself to wear a smile and do it anyway, no matter how much I just want to lay in my bed and sleep. I have hidden the fact that I self-harmed for many years from almost everyone and the fact that I considered taking my life on more than one occasion when I was a teenager. And while I have a better grip on my problems now than I did ten years ago, it doesn't mean that I don't still have days where I just want to give up. 

Depression is often times a life-long battle between a person and their monsters, which is why we need a better mental health system and a better view of those who are struggling with their inner demons. Not only for those with depression, but those who struggle with addiction, bi-polar disorder, and so many other problems. And when we start changing the attitudes of society and the path of care, then can we start to mend the hearts and souls of the broken.

Slipped Away

I miss you, miss you so bad
I don't forget you, oh it's so sad
I hope you can hear me, I remember it clearly

The day you slipped away

Was the day I found it won't be the same

A little more than two weeks ago, my Papaw passed away from this life and we laid him to rest. He suffered a stroke in March of 2013 before fighting hard for a year to continue to live and stay with us through many complications of his heart disease. Like any Marine, he soldiered through procedures, doctors' visits, nursing home stays, and horrible, inconsistent home health care with nurses that didn't show up and aids who were no help at all. He was denied benefits from the Veterans Association, which would have helped pay for a wheelchair ramp to our house and the modifications to the bathroom to help bathe him. Even though he served three tours of duty in Vietnam and one in Korea, it seemed like no one wanted to help my Papaw, even though he fought bravely for this country and served for twenty-two years before retiring from the Marine Corps. For a year, my family waited for help when no one would step up to the plate and fix it. But that is for another time and another place.

My Papaw may have had his faults in life, like all human beings do, but he quietly served others in ways that he never received or wanted recognition for. He brought food to people who needed it, helped fix houses, mowed lawns for elderly neighbors, and served on the Honor Guard for military funerals in the area, serving other military families in morning. His quiet service to others and his unwavering loyalty to the military he served and loved is what I remember and will always remember about him. Like the saying goes, the Marines are always the first ones in and the last ones out of any fight. My Papaw was the first one to offer help to others and the last one to leave when the job was done. I'll never forget Sunday barbeques at our house or how he would put out the rose bushes every year in front of our house. And I won't forget hearing him yell and curse at the hammer when he hit his finger while trying to work on something in the garage. My Papaw might have been a simple man, but he was never simple in the actions and service he did for others. I'll always miss him, like I miss my Grandma Sandy from the other side of my family, but I know he's there with me now and forever.