Hitting Rock Bottom...A Story of Personal Accountability

“Ester asked why people are sad.
"That’s simple," says the old man. "They are the prisoners of their personal history. Everyone believes that the main aim in life is to follow a plan. They never ask if that plan is theirs or if it was created by another person. They accumulate experiences, memories, things, other people's ideas, and it is more than they can possibly cope with. And that is why they forget their dreams.”
― Paulo Coelho, The Zahir

Sometimes I get sad. I know we all do and that it's a perfectly "normal" emotion but I find myself feeling selfish (on top of sad)...as if I don't have the right to be depressed.

Years ago (and who really knows when it all started) I suffered from pretty severe depression. Severe enough that over the years I went from a being hospitalized anorexic to an over-weight binge eater to a self-sabotaging, controlling bitch of a wife to a divorced, needy, recluse who couldn't leave the house for anything other than work since that actually gave me a reason to live. I took Paxil just to be able to muster the "I-give-just-enough-of-a-shit" to take a shower and feed myself at least once in a while.

During my stint in the psyche ward in Anchorage, Alaska (for anorexia) I went to therapy sessions daily. They ranged from one-on-ones to groups with a lot of role-playing, acting as the concern parents or as each other as outside observers. I was only 16 (I celebrated my 17th birthday in the hospital, as well as Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Years) so I was still looking for others to tell me how to feel and show me how to act. I wasn't ready to be a grown up and with high school graduation looming I knew I was at a crossroads...no longer the youngest child and certainly not ready to face real life. Still, I learned a lot.

After my discharge I went almost a decade without professional help although I struggled immensely as my weight fluctuated up and down the scale and my life remained out-of-control. I married a military man because it was the only life style I knew. Even though the chaos of moving every 2-3 years had previously worn me down my young self saw no way out of it at the time...I depended on the medical benefits. Instead of trying to find happiness I chose to try to control my husband. Things did not end well.

At some point I decided to search for more answers. I'm analytical...I need to see the map before I can commit to taking the first step. I found an Al-Anon program that met locally as I was sure that the root of all of my "issues" stemmed from my dad's alcoholism. I went 3 times a week to 3 different groups. None of it clicked and frankly, it left me more confused and depressed. I looked at the women in those groups, some of them now grandmothers and great-grandmothers who appeared to still be blaming their parent for their entire lives. I wanted to "get over it" not wallow in pity for the next 40 years. I wanted to heal and found quite the opposite happening in these meetings.

Shortly after my Al-Anon experience I really hit rock bottom (I know, you'd have thought that would have happened when I was in in-patient care barely clinging to life). I worked as many hours as possible, often for free, just so I wouldn't have to go home. I lived alone and was in the most destructive relationship I've witnessed. Had I been my own friend I would have slapped myself across the face and asked "what in the hell are you doing to yourself?? Get OUT!!". But I didn't like myself and felt that the pain of remaining in this relationship was my Karma...and it was quite possible I deserved worse.

I beat myself up real good in those few years. It got so I couldn't leave the house and dreaded the weekends when I knew my boyfriend would make promises to come see me but wouldn't...leaving me waiting from Friday after work until Monday morning...unable to sleep, constantly checking my phone or listening for a car door to slam. I missed so much life by just waiting.

I slept all the time until bruises started to form on my body. Then I got brave enough to see my doctor, sounding utterly pathetic as I explained that while I didn't want to die I also really didn't care if I lived. It was too much work and so exhausting to be. That's when I got the prescription for Paxil.

I hate taking medication and, as a control freak I really hated taking psychiatric drugs. I naively felt that "smart" people didn't need drugs...we can analyze things and figure it all out with common sense. But I lost complete control and was spiraling deeper into the abyss. The Paxil was able to slowly start applying the brakes.

In my new mellow state I turned to yoga and meditation and through much diligence was able to get weaned off of the Paxil (with my doctor's help). There were some rough spots and it would have been easy, if not medically sound, to start the pills again but I wanted a clear mind to face the demons head on...even though it was terrifying. The drugs had made me not care...but they didn't fix anything and I wanted to be fixed. If I stopped them cold turkey I would most definitely get sucked right back down that rabbit hole...it was the self-realization and personal accountability that was truly healing me.

I stopped blaming my dad's alcoholism for my issues...that was a far to easy of a crutch to use as I started to approach my 4th decade of life. I stopped blaming my mom for being co-dependent instead of standing her ground (something I was actually very wrong about and I hope to write about my mom's bravery in a future post). That was her battle and not something I was obligated to become just because she was. I learned to accept and embrace responsibility for myself and my actions. And I didn't just say those words...I mean I embraced it...100%. Yes my dad was an alcoholic but that does not define me!!

So many people have uttered those words..."I take responsibility" only to follow up with "but so-and-so needs to take responsibility too". No they don't. This is our own journey and while there may be people hanging out on the periphery they do not have control over your life, your emotions or your future...unless you let them have control. And then guess what...it's still your fault for handing over that control.

It's a hard thing to accept, I know. It means standing in front of a mirror and having a good long talk with yourself. It means facing every situation and making the best decision for you and accepting the consequences good or bad. It means looking at all of those things you'd like to blame your issues on and realizing that you and only you can allow them to continue to control your happiness.

Use those instances as a crutch and I promise you will never heal. We all have our own lives to live and we all make insanely ridiculous decisions on occasion. But we need to move forward or be stuck reliving those moments for the rest of our lives. My dad was an alcoholic. Some shitty things occurred in my life due to his alcoholism but I have released him from any responsibility for my actions or my current or future happiness. It's only fair. He obviously had his own battles to wage...

I still get sad...and sometimes it scares the shit out of me. I know from personal experience how precarious the edge can be. I have a wonderful life and have been born into pretty ideal conditions. I often feel guilty when I feel the sadness creeping in. Sometimes the guilt is worse than the sadness...as if I have no right to just be sad. Sometimes I try to fight the sad until it turns into an ugly form of displaced anger. But in the end what I really need is just to be sad. Maybe even cry. And no matter how beautiful my life or how perfect the day I must embrace this sadness and let it have it's moment...with no blame and no guilt.

*This is my personal story and is in no way intended to replace sound medical advise. Every one is different and it is ill-advised for anyone to stop taking prescribed medication without professional medical supervision as it could have adverse effects on one's mental state. Please seek proper medical advise from a professional for help if you think you suffer from depression.

What Doesn't {but almost} Kill Us...

My last blog post I wrote about my own experience with anorexia. I’ve often referred to this time as surreal, like a story I read or a movie I watched…completely detached, as if I was not the protagonist. I guess it’s sort of a defense mechanism on two fronts. One being the embarrassment of having allowed myself to almost die right in front of my parent’s eyes, with no ‘good reason’…a typical white girl from a typical middle-class family, starving herself to death for what?? Even I didn’t know.

My first full day in Charter North Inpatient Hospital (1987).

The second being my embarrassment over the fact that if you met me you would see there is no physical evidence of this illness. To hear me tell this story in the body I have now doesn’t compute…at least not in my head. It’s easy to disassociate myself because the dots just don’t connect. How could someone who ‘dieted’ from 125 pounds to less than 80 pounds in a matter of a few months now struggle to lose (and keep off) even 5 pounds?

What I have managed to hoard away are snippets of distorted eating and thinking…sneaking food, guarding my plate, trying to stretch calories, abhorring any discussion of my food while I’m eating, and a tendency to eat in a structured way (vegetarian, vegan, raw). Intellectually, I know that I still obsess about food, exercise and my weight. I often wonder if fluctuating between the extremes is really all that much better-as if eating half a bag of Doritos is really a healthy way of thumbing my nose at anorexia or dieting in general (only to later “pay for it” by a day of green smoothies, shakes or all veggies and no carbs).

For years now I’ve claimed to be completely recovered from anorexia, and looking at the scale that would be more than true. But, since part of this disorder is about everything except the weight I can see that I am not truly recovered…not completely.

Like a lot of people I know who battle with eating disorders ranging from bulimia to binge eating, healing the exterior doesn’t always mean the inside is fixed as well. In turning to my yoga mat and meditation I find the bandage being ripped off {again} and the pain being exposed. It hurts, it’s raw…and yes, it might seem easier on the surface to let it hide in the dark corners of mind. But I’m ready to heal…face the intermittent sadness and self-doubt (or hate or loathing) that is truly at the root of all of this.

I’m ready to own the illness that that almost killed me rather than pretend it happened to someone else. Twenty-five years of battling my mind and body is long enough.

Silencing the Past

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I used to keep a journal. It was your basic composition book type journal (the old hard backed black and white notebook), which I felt was very Holden Caulfield-ny...someone I thought I'd rather be, especially when I was writing. Before the composition book when I was a young girl I remember having a real Diary, it even had a lock. Later, in high school, I kept a plain old college ruled spiral bound as a journal, until my father 'accidentally' mistook MY yellow spiral bound book of secrets as HIS yellow spiral bound book of work notes and read it...it was not good. It was then when he learned, at work, that I was no longer virgin.

Me, age 17 on a day pass from the hospital in Anchorage where I was 'recovering' from anorexia. My dad came down from Fairbanks to visit me during Christmas.

But, even as an adult...primarily when I was struggling with some love sickness, loneliness, undefined life plan, or...loneliness (yes, I know I said that already) I felt drawn to write in my hard backed comp book. I had learned of it's importance while hospitalized in Charter North for anorexia at age 16 (not long after the above incident), some 350 miles from our 'home' in Fairbanks Alaska. I had also learned that I could make people laugh and get high praise from my English Lit and Written Composition professors at University by writing about what seemed to me the mundaneness of my life.

When Bridget Jones' Diary hit the shelves my journaling took on a new life. I would be sure to write in it daily lest it miss me too much. It was a friend and confidant. It was a place I knew, in the back of my mind...even while the shit was hitting the fan...where I would go to write down all of the awful things that were happening to me at that instant. Somehow that made it all tolerable, although I would find myself weeping onto the pages as I relived my days...the pain of horrible breakups, empty promises, loneliness, disappointment, financial struggles, etc., etc., etc...

Maxx

I wrote about my horse, Maxx, and the devastating effect his death had on my life. I wrote about my old boyfriend, Adam, who would promise to come over and then never show up...for days or even weeks. I wrote about my disappointment over where my life was headed...no where. Wasted talent, wasted mind, wasted life. Always wrapped up in either a boyfriend or lack there of. Pages and pages of me reasoning with me. It's hard to be smart and logical yet always making the worst decisions possible.

Don't get me wrong, my journaling led to quite a bit of insight, especially when I would reread what I wrote. Often I would barely recognize the words as my own. Sometimes even the handwriting was different...me but not. Or maybe me just telling me in a different 'voice' how to get out of whatever situation I was in. I had no family around me, opting to live in Northern California, 3000+ miles from my parents, even when I was in my mid-20's. There would have been no shame in 'going home' at that age after a divorce and having only a $13 an hour job for income.

The best wine for my limited income.

Instead, I journaled. And watched a shit-ton of Friends and Seinfeld. Oh, and then Bridget Jones' Diary came out on video...so I watched that, over and over and over again. I developed my own break-up/pity-party basket...Gloria Gaynor's song I Will Survive, the movies "Singles", "Reality Bites" and later "Elizabeth", "Closer", and "Love Actually", microwave popcorn and 2 Buck Chuck for dinner. I worked a ridiculous amount (full time with as much OT as I could get at a car dealership and then part-time waitressing at night) just so I wouldn't have to be home...alone.

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But my journal...that's what kept me sane (or somewhat sane because I literally thought my life was spiraling into oblivion and happiness would either never be mine or only found in a pill). In desperation I tried that pill which was called Paxil...only to find out it didn't bring happiness, it brought blase...a non-committal to any kind of emotion happy or sad. And as painful as my life seemed to be I knew that I would rather feel that pain to full extent if that was the only way to be able to recognize the joy that I knew I deserved. I got rid of the pills, focused on my journaling and started meditating.

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Many years have passed and I find myself reading Joyce Maynard's At Home in the World: A Memoir right now (thanks to a post by Michele at Yoga Freedom Blog). Joyce, as well as her mother, kept all of their letters over the years...and even made carbon copies of the one's they sent. Writing on a topic which happened 26 earlier, Ms. Maynard has at her finger-tips, not only an exquisite memory but years and years of correspondence with her family as well as author J.D. Salinger (whom she ended up having a relationship with when she was 18 and he was 53). Being inspired yet again to journal I recall, with mixed emotion, that I have destroyed ALL of my old ones.

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Gone...each and every one of them. Not long ago I came across one (which has since been destroyed) read a few pages and experienced a visceral response (something like embarassment) to the pain and struggle I went through. I felt I had changed so much that I couldn't (or maybe didn't want to) relate to that person who wrote those words...that they came from a moment (or year) of weakness. A weak person, unhappy and confused, whose words were not worth saving. What could I possibly learn from those words and why would I want to reread them anyway?? By destroying those journals I felt I was silencing the past...but the lessons have still been learned.

There are lost moments, realizations, and insights to be sure. But I won't be dwelling on them. Instead, I have my not-so-good memory and those of my closest and oldest friends and sister. It's not that I want to relive my past or dwell there for some sentimental reason. I'm happy right here in the present, while occasionally venturing out to plan some amazing adventures in the near future. Perhaps destroying those journals was the right thing to do...I will never know because there is no other option. Perhaps, for me, that act of writing down my feelings and battling them out on paper was all I needed.

But now, with computers and internet and 'free' blogging sites I find myself enjoying the process even though I know it can be a more permanent record...perhaps not so easily destroyed as those old composition books. As I grow older (and hopefully wiser) I understand that all of those moments...even my weakest ones, are what helped to form who am I right now. And for that, there is no shame or embarassment.

Sliding down the curve

There have been many significant 'turning points' in my life. Some are of the common variety; getting married, getting divorced, getting fired (that one really hurt). Some are not so common; suffering from anorexia in high school, losing my dad in an automobile accident 7 months ago, having 3 miscarriages and 2 tubal pregnancies (yes, I am childless)...but two events really stand out as life altering. I didn't pick them, they picked me...so I can't feel guilty or bad if they don't seem like they should be all that significant to anyone else. Or that the death of my father isn't one of them...I don't think that has really sunk in yet, although it certainly has impacted my life greatly. One involves the death of my horse, Maxx, in 1998. The other was a trip to Death Valley in October 2008.

Maxx was one of the biggest pain-in-the-asses I had ever met. Oh, don't get me wrong, I thought he was cute, in a pathetic sort of way, the day I drove to Temecula to see him. I had wanted a horse for several years after having to sell my previous horse when my father (and therefore the rest of the family) got orders to Alaska when I was 16. Now, at 21, I was ready. My then husband was stationed at Edwards AFB in California and they had a stables there that we could afford. I found Maxx in the Horse Trader. He was a rescue from the Charo Rodeo and had been used for tripping...a cruel "sport" where horses are chased and then roped by their rear legs and thrown to the ground. Sounds like a blast. But he was only $500 and even though I didn't HAVE $500, I could figure out how to get it if I liked what I saw.

And I did like him. He was so damaged that I sensed that he needed me, and that I needed him too. Thirty days later he was delivered to the stables and I was a proud horse woman again. Maxx had to be gelded right away. He was 2 years old and abused...the last thing he needed was that stud mentality! But it didn't seem to help much. He was stubborn, acted like a stud, and was terrified of everything. It took about 4 months to be able to pick his feet up for cleaning. And over the course of the next 2 years we fought like brother and sister over EVERYTHING! I put up ads to try to sell him and even offered him to a local trainer...for free!

We got stationed a little further north to Travis AFB near Napa. They have a beautiful stable with a covered arena and real stalls. There are several really high caliber dressage and eventing trainers in the area and I decided to try to make a go of it with Maxx. After all, no one else wanted him so I was stuck. We spent a lot of time together. He was the first (and only) horse I ever 'broke'. We learned everything from the ground up...together. He started trusting me so much that I could now crawl under his belly, right between his legs, scarred from the rope burns from his days in the rodeo. We would go on trail rides, just the two of us, and I would play Beethoven on my walkman. I had bought speakers that I carried in a fanny pack so he could enjoy the music too. We even went to a few shows and did quite well!

Maxx was the first to know that I was pregnant (this would end up being my first miscarriage). I was riding him in the dressage arena when I noticed how tender my breasts were. I just knew I was pregnant and I told him as we walked around...afraid to tell anyone else because I had recently found out that I COULDN'T get pregnant. A few weeks later I lost the baby and my bond with Maxx grew stronger. I focused my energy on him so that I didn't have to deal with the pain of losing a baby. If I couldn't be a 'real' woman, I could at least be a great rider/trainer.

It was a gorgeous spring morning and Maxx had been cooped up for days due to rain. The turnouts had just a little new grass coming in. I remember insisting that he needed to be turned out. I told my then husband that I would let Maxx out on my way to work but he had to promise to bring him in at lunch. I didn't want him eating too much grass. The morning went by like any other day. By late morning I got a phone call...it was from someone at the stables, I can't recall who, but they asked if Maxx was turned out and wanted to know which one he was in. I told them, a bit of panic in my voice. They told me I needed to get down there right away. Something had gone wrong.

I told my boss I had to go and took off for the stables. I could see Maxx standing in the turn out...looking towards me. I went as fast as my legs could take me. The man holding onto Maxx's lead rope told me that he had been running, having a good time, when all of a sudden he heard a loud pop...almost like a gun went off. Then Maxx was running on 3 legs...his left hind leg tucked up. I could see it was swollen. I ran my hands down his side...feeling as best I could. He put his toe down and his 'ankle' twisted in a grotesque manner. I knew it was broken. The vet was on the way.

I stood looking at him. He was so perfect. He had grown into a beautiful horse, nicely muscled, his coat shining. So different from when I first got him and through his awkward years. The vet came and we slowly limped Maxx back to the stable to take xrays. I put him in his stall and we went to David Grant Medical Center and begged the hospital staff to develop the images. His fetlock was definitely broken. I insisted on taking the xrays to UC Davis for a second opinion and to discuss options...as if there were any.

The vet at Davis confirmed the diagnosis saying that Maxx's ankle was shattered. "Imagine a bag of ice", is what she said. "There's a 75% chance that if we attempt surgery I will put him down as soon as I open him up and see the damage. It's always worse then what the image shows." She then informed me that the real risk come AFTER surgery, if he survived. It would be a horrible attempt at recovery and he would never be the same. He would never be able to leave his stall. She practically begged me to put him down.

I wanted someone else to decide. I couldn't utter the words "put him down"...I didn't want to play God, who I had just decided I hated. But no one else would do it...they couldn't. We drove back to the stables and I saw Maxx in his stall. He was happy to see me but looked confused because I'm sure he was in pain and didn't understand why his leg didn't work anymore. I was an emotional wreck. How could he look so perfect and feel so warm. He nuzzled me and ate a carrot out of my hand. That one little bone was going to cost him his life. No, my insistence that he be turned out that day was costing him his life. I was to blame. Not only couldn't my body make and keep a baby but I couldn't even keep my horse alive. Babies are fragile but Maxx was about 950 pounds. I had failed yet again.

The vet handed me some scissors so I could cut a lock of hair from Maxx's forelock. She asked if I wanted to stay and be there for him. I couldn't, not with this kind of guilt. My friend stayed with him. They took him to the back, behind the tack rooms and let him eat some grass. The vet administered the leathal dose and he fell to the ground...the new spring grass still in his mouth, he was 6 years old. Later, I was given his front shoes...someone had pulled them off for me to have. His stall was decorated with flowers...a beautiful woven tapestry.

Something changed inside of me...maybe something died besides Maxx. I used to have horrible dreams of forgetting I had a horse for weeks or months or years and then running to the stables to find him emaciated, standing knee deep in feces and mud. These dreams lasted for years. I was a shell of a person. I tried to talk to the pastor from my church. He looked at me as if I were crazy. "Horses and pets are not like people, I don't even know if they have souls or go to heaven. You just have to get over it." I never went back to that church, or any church for that matter. If there aren't horses and dogs and cats in heaven then I don't want to go...that would NOT be heaven to me.

This was one of the most significant times in my life. This marked the start of my confusion...who was I without Maxx. Who was I without children? What do I do now? I am a damaged person...babies die inside of me and horses die due to my actions. I entered a very dark time filled with paralyzing depression. I suffered another miscarriage about a year later. I felt I had wished it upon myself because my husband was leaving for Greece and would be gone a year. How could I have a baby alone?? When I lost this baby I knew it was my fault for not wanting it. How could I have become such a horrible person?? More depression...my husband went to Greece, I slept as much as I could and never left the house. My marriage was falling apart and I finally got on anti-depressants. It was too late though. I didn't recognize myself anymore...I was a stranger in my own body. I went from a somewhat confident woman to a weak girl...easily taken advantage of..and boy did some people exploit that...but that story is for later.