A Ruler and a Little Bit

A series on childhood & depression.

“Sorrow slips into your heart through a pinhole, like a faucet that leaks and there is comfort in the sound.” - Death Cab For Cutie.

When asked about my birth, my mother said “You were only this big” and held her hands not too far apart. “Just, a ruler...and a little bit.” I’ve always been just a little bit more.

Maybe this is why I, naturally, have always been loud and have made a point to take up space. I’ve never been large, standing at a solid five feet tall, but I have had moments, days, weeks, where I felt large, loud, impenetrable. That’s how I would best describe my actions, my energy and my thoughts during those periods. Maybe a good picture would be if the Hulk was embracing “Treat Yo Self Day” for three months at a time.(I would make Donna and Tom proud, I’m sure.) 

Maybe I’m such a compact size because I’m meant to move quickly, suddenly and often I do, without care. I hate standing still but I never go far. I’m drawn to familiar places, I like to see how they’ve changed while I’ve been gone. I like to bring new faces around and show off the secret gems. I love new places too, don’t get me wrong but I’ve always been keen on the familiar. 

Maybe that’s why I welcome my mania and depression with open arms. I embrace the tsunami coming for me because what can I do to stop it? (Sure, doctors will argue a lot but this isn’t about them, it’s about me.) What is going to stop the thoughts other than pure determination and a lot of effort? My family, my support team and brand new people in my life who want to prove they care, insist on stopping it immediately. What they don’t realize is that, wanting it to stop is not enough. Saying positive affirmations only does so much. 

Maybe the foundation is strong and there’s adequate support underneath but that can’t stop a leak in the ceiling or a pipe from bursting. Maybe a good picture would be Sadness from Inside Out, a hundred percent of the time for three months at a time.

Imagine seeing water slipping in from the crack under your door.

Imagine you run to the door and it’s locked from the outside and you realize there are no windows large enough to slip out of and the water has started to rush in. Imagine all you have are towels, that only soak up so much before they drip too. Imagine that, day after day and you’ll realize a flood is inevitable.

Calling for help causes a lump in your throat and when it gets to a certain point all you can do is tread water. You’ll eventually be pushed under by the ceiling.

Yet, that’s not to say I don’t kick my legs and scream to stay afloat, to stay alive.

On this blog, you will read how much I’ve fought, how I have battled until I got bloody. You will read about my parents, how they are stubborn like I am and yet, they are the most understanding people. You will read how my older sisters fucked me up and later saved me. You’ll read how despite my efforts, despite all the times I’ve stayed afloat, the water still rushes in again and again without warning. 

Young me, Christmas Eve ‘98, in all my glory.

  Since a young age, I have been coming apart at the seams, slowly cracking and rusting all over. One of my earliest memories is of a cracking moment, a large over reaction to a simple mistake. I don’t remember my age but I know I was wearing a purple dress with Angelica Pickles on it and white K-Swiss. Like the clumsy and lazy kid I was (and still am) I double knotted my sneakers and would slip them off untied. This day, I couldn’t get them untied so I turned to the good ole scissors trick. It totally backfired and I cut my shoelaces. LET THE FLOODGATES OPEN. My world was shattered, my mother simply told me to pick new shoes. I could not fathom such a thought. We were going to the mall, my mother said we could buy replacement laces but I could not fathom such a thing! I screamed and cried, everyone came out of their rooms ready to go while I sat in the hallway bellowing about my sneakers. No one made it to the mall that day. 

I wear my emotions on my sleeve. They are right there to see, to touch, to hurt. Always have been. I’ve always been “too sensitive” or “too much” for some people and a “firecracker” to others, both terms which created this odd sense of actually not being enough deep down. When called a firecracker, I hear “You’re about to explode.” And that’s the feeling that resonates, that sense of being about to blow into pieces because often my behavior is that exact feeling being embodied. I can’t stop talking, moving, bouncing- the seams are about to come loose. Being “too sensitive” is like being told ones feelings are not valid, or that one lacks emotional maturity. It’s invalidating to be told you’re over reacting. My feelings have always been head on and strong, who is to say that is “too much” if that is who I am? 

Granted, I’m prone to crying spells, deep depressions and fleeting suicidal thoughts. (No intention to, no plan.) I’ve been in therapy and medicated for depression, anxiety and more recently bipolar II disorder, since I was 13. I’ve had terrible doctors I hated to see, it took me a while to realize I didn’t have to keep seeing them. I always took the time to find someone I felt was listening and giving me feedback I may not want to hear but that I need to hear from someone who has a taken the time to understand and listen to me reflect. I once had a psychiatrist who said to me “You’re Bipolar, I knew it as soon as you started talking but I need to know what you want to do about it.” That was mind-blowing to me, that I could lead my own care. I honestly think that’s the best approach to caring for yourself. Know what you want to do about it, how much effort are you willing to put forth to truly, deeply, care for yourself. 

I’ve always been dramatic. (I hope mostly the fun kind. However I was that weird drama kid who quoted Shakespeare a lot, so maybe I was the worst kind of dramatic.) I’ve always been one to test the limits. How hard can I push before theres a push back, a resistance to my stubbornness? Or the opposite? Will I burst through to the other side, whatever it may contain? And if I don’t push? What becomes of me? I’m afraid I’ll burst if I keep it inside. I’ve rarely hid my feelings. Except for the dark times, I don’t share anything during those times. (Yes, we’re getting to the dark times soon.) 

CLICK “SKIP” TO BYPASS TAGGED TRIGGER WARNING PASSAGE.

I am very accident prone. Stitches, broken bones, falling up a flight of stairs, totaled cars. I’ve done ‘em all. There’s also a history of self harm. I’m not sure if it went unnoticed for a while but I do remember a therapist telling my mom to try and ignore it which made my mom internally scream. It was a weird time, I guess. I was young and very sad and very unable to communicate that with everything else going on.

I can’t give you a definite reason as to why I cut myself, why that was the method I chose. But, I also can’t lie either- I remember the relief I felt, I remember the calm. I remember the sensation of the blood, trickling out of me, letting all the water inside my head drain out.

Maybe I craved control over my feelings,

maybe I thought it was the only way I could ask for help,

maybe it gave the pain a reason to exist, and a way out.

Maybe all of the above.

A therapist once suggested an ice bucket as an alternative, so my mom wrote my name in pretty lettering on a floral pink and blue bucket. But the cold did nothing for me. There wasn’t a release, just more tension. The water dripping down my arm did not satisfy me the way watching my blood trickle out did. It was mesmerizing to see something, anything, escaping. The power it had, emphasis on had, was intoxicating to an out of balance adolescent.

I believe I was 13 the first time I cut myself. I was 16 when I fully stopped. I was 24 when I relapsed.

I was lost (once again). I felt hopeless (once again). I needed a release (once again).

I did not get the same satisfaction all those years later. I was left feeling stupid.

I was left with marks of my sadness to mock me.

I was left in the same place before, silently screaming and struggling to stay afloat.

Like Modest Mouse says, “We all float on"“

There was a long internal journey into therapy. There were months of built up tears and frustrations, of doubts and insecurities. There was a volcano of guilt in my chest for simply thinking “I need help.”  I remember that day, the day I finally asked, the day that I chose hope. 

My mother was frustrated with one of my sisters and naturally, complained to another daughter about it. I felt very attached to that sister at this time because she was the only person in the house who seemed to struggle in the ways I felt inside. Being that I cherished her so much, hearing my mothers word hurt me deeply, the volcano erupted. I did my “go-to” when things got too much, I screamed at her while my eyes welled with tears of my own frustration. Frustration with her, yes, but mostly frustration with myself for losing control. No one ever likes yelling at their mother. 

I felt the lava in my blood, rushing to my head, this hot current of emotion over taking me. After whatever defense of my sister I yelled at my mother, I ran to my room in tears to cry as silently as possible into my pillow. No one ever likes having their mother hear them cry. 

After a good sob, I heard our very creaky front door open and shut,I snuck out of my room to an empty house so I crept my way to the long, skinny front window. I distinctly remember crawling towards it to peek out juuuust enough to see the porch bench. I catch a glimpse of my mother and duck back behind the door, lingering for a moment to hear. 

“It seriously came out of nowhere,Roseann, we had been together all afternoon. She was fine!” 

I ran back to my room as the guilt of depression crashed over me. Of course she called her best friend, I know that now but back then I didn’t have friends I felt I could call. Small middle school, small pond of kids, small chance they’ll want to befriend the class cry baby.  

I turned to writing down the screams of the overwhelming emotions. It was in the form of a letter to my mom. Instead of holding back I told it all. I detailed the months of feeling hopeless, of hiding my tears, the self harm. I made one request, I wanted to go to talk therapy. 

 I don’t remember if I had planned to give it to her from the start or if it was just practice in my mind, but as soon as I had myself under control enough I crawled back out of my room, note in hand. My mother was still on the porch and on the phone, I took a chance and opened the door with a crack only big enough for my small hand to slip out and drop the paper. I didn’t crawl back, I ran to my room and the panic of what she might say swept in. 

After a bit my door opened to my mother with a tiny smile.

“Of course you can start therapy.” 

To be continued….