held my hand and told me everything will be okay. I don’t believe her. “Think of something nice” she said.
The doctor told me that I’ve tried it my way but now he wants to take control. He wrote me a prescription for anti-depressants and a referral to a psychologist for help. I don’t want to take medication and I’m afraid. Even antibiotics, which have their place, are not high on my to-do list unless they’re absolutely necessary.
Now I’m reduced to medication. “Debbie’s little helpers!” I resisted to begin with but he insisted because he was “very concerned” about me and so he will no longer give me a choice.
Mum prefers to use a homeopath but now she’s actually agreed with the doctor’s pronouncement. She held my hand and even though she probably felt otherwise, she gave her permission for me to take the medication. I’m 33 years old and in my mind my mother’s permission is required in order for me to take the damn medication!
Really, I just want the pain to stop. Right now I would do anything to make it go away with, or without, my mother’s permission.
17th September
There are two weeks left until we move and even though we now have somewhere else to go now, I know I won’t be able to do it. I can’t leave my home. They will have to drag me from it kicking and screaming. I can taste acidic fear in my mouth and I know there’s no going back. My fantasies that everything could be undone are gone and I have to face the reality that no matter how I feel there is only one direction I can travel.
I don’t understand why I’m like this. I feel guilty and embarrassed about my behaviour.
I never expected my life to be like this. I don’t understand why I have succumbed to living a life that’s enveloped by fear, distress and sadness. I’m powerless.
Anxiety controls me.
Destroys me.
How many times do I have to beg to die just to escape this torture?
I hate the new house. I can’t believe I have to go there. What if someone needs me and they don’t know where I am? It’s a nice house but I don’t want it. I can’t do it. I can’t move.
I’ve been driving past the new house every chance I get sometimes parking outside it for hours at a time. I’m trying to imagine that that is my home. The place where I live. But it just makes me cry.
I want to die.
3rd October
There was no panic and no screaming. I still feel low, a little depressed maybe but I managed to control myself and even be a little helpful.
Leanne did most of the packing and unpacking for me because I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I could feel the anxiety in my chest and I waited for it to manifest. But it didn’t. Perhaps the medication is working and is providing the relief I need to get through the day. Or perhaps, I’m beginning to recover from whatever this is.
4th October
I’ve been to see the psychologist. I’ve seen a few counsellors to find out why I get anxious so I’m not holding much hope.
I arrived at precisely the right time to begin the session and Joan, the psychologist, showed me to the correct chair in her small home office. She has the big comfy chair!! Then with a notepad and pencil in hand she asked me what had brought me to see her.
I started with “I had a very normal life” then without warning the sewerage of my life came spewing out like a pipe had broken. I told her about my childhood and how it was to grow up in my family. She was interested to know more about my dad but there’s other stuff that needs to be dealt with so I can just get through ‘now’ so I think she’s waiting until next time.
I’m not sure I agree with this “it’s all in your childhood” psychology. At the end of the session Joan told me that she thinks I have control issues. She says they probably developed in my childhood when I felt unsafe and now they’re not working for me anymore. That’s what’s creating the anxiety she says.
11th October
I took a photo of me with my mum and dad from when I was a baby to show Joan in my visit today. Joan decided to ask me about my father and that’s when the tears started to well in my eyes. I’m not sure what sparked them but I couldn’t even bear to think about him. I looked at the photo but it had become impossible to hold so I threw it on the floor. It landed face up forcing me to maintain contact with the faces looking back. I couldn’t pick it up and left it lying discarded on the carpet for the entire session.
Joan wasn’t convinced that I didn’t have any issues with my father and she left the photo on the floor where it landed. “What do you think your father thought about the attack you suffered?” she asked carefully.
“I don’t think my father ever knew about it” I told her.
He certainly didn’t know about the ongoing abuse when I was a teenager. No one knew about that. But I’m not sure whether mum told him about the man who came to the door. Mum and dad were beyond talking, so it was unlikely.
Mum had applied for legal custody of my brother and I (the two youngest children) because she didn’t like the way dad disciplined us. I think mum was mad at dad for all the stuff he put her and the older kids through. She had also obtained a legal separation from him even though they still lived in the same house.
Joan can’t believe mum wouldn’t tell dad, regardless of the state of their relationship.
“It doesn’t surprise me” I told her.
Joan wants to know if my mum was afraid of my dad, but I don’t think she was. She was past being afraid of him. I think she was angry with him more than anything else.
“Were you afraid of your dad?” asked Joan.
I looked back to the photo of my family on the floor and tried to find some way to divert Joan’s attention onto something else but I can’t clear my head. I couldn’t answer her. I squeezed my eyes shut to block out what my mind could see but no matter how hard I squeezed, I could still see it.
The tears that I hoped to hold behind my eyelids started to escape and dribbled down my cheeks. I couldn’t answer Joan’s question and I wasn’t even sure that if I opened my mouth that any words would come out. I could feel them in my chest but I was mute.
I blinked and saw Joan waiting patiently in her chair. She expected an answer but nothing about her displayed any impatience. My face was wet, my nose was running uncontrollably and I didn’t care. I hoped Joan didn’t care either but she slid a box of tissues towards me so I think maybe she did.
I took a tissue from the box and blew my nose. I was still in her small office. I could only look at the tissue in my hand and fiddle with its corner between my thumb and finger.
I think Joan was worried about me because she asked if I was okay. I nodded, still mute. I tried to focus on the tissue as I squeezed it down into my fist. I closed my eyes again because they stung.
My
