Posts Tagged ‘mental-health’

Addendum to “My God, My God…”

November 29, 2025
Painting by author

My husband’s question

The previous entry was one of the very hardest to write so far. Every fiber in me just wanted to beg off writing it. I could barely force me to the keyboard, and I felt such a heavy load of pure exhaustion.

My husband asked me, “Was the desire to avoid writing because I was afraid to show my shame publicly to my readers?”

I thought that was a good question, so I wanted to answer it here.

My mentor’s question

In reality, at my current age, I don’t really care if I share my moments of shame publicly anymore. What is the worst anyone can do to me? Think poorly of me?

And do I think I am the only person who has ever failed to live up to their ideals and ethics at some moment of their life? As a mentor once said to me:

“Did you expect to be perfect?”

If anyone thinks that this story is of me being the totally strong, ever pushing hard forward hero, who never slipped and fell or erred in choices, they will be disappointed. There are more shames to come, more poor choices. I was not perfect. I can simply say I did the best I could at any point, even in my mistakes. Sometimes our best is wonderful, and sometimes our best is flat-out poor. But I tried. And when I failed, well, in writing what it was like then, I can now see I was simply human, pushed too far.

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My College Cocoon — The University of Connecticut, Torrington Branch

November 9, 2025

College.

My hoped-for ticket out of “trapped.”

My path to a future…whatever that might be, even as I didn’t yet know.

The expectation that somehow by the end of it, I would be independent, on my own, somehow no longer being abused, and just living a peaceful, “normal” life.

What else could I want?

Yes…..

My own world

The University of Connecticut, Torrington Branch, may have been only a mile away from our new home at “the Lot,” but in another way, at least for me, then, it was a world away. It was a place I could go and “stay all day” and into the evening if I wanted. Classes were not the solid schedule of high school and strict rules, but were on a schedule you set. And you were your own boss. You failed or succeeded on your own, and no one interfered with your right to that. As long as you paid your tuition.

Most of the friends I had in high school had gone away to college. But a few of my friends continued on here and there were new people from the local towns, all of us in the same boat — able to go to college only because this local branch gave us low tuition. We bonded over our mutual situations.

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“Those” Journals — My Younger Selves

November 8, 2025
Photo by author

Finally daring to step back in time

For the past few days, I have been in 1972…1979-1983…1986…then 1995-1997….teens through my forties, the incomplete adult through escape, suicidal to the warrior trying to fight him.

And it has been GRUELING. I would sit in the back room where I write, reading those years, and just reeling from the intensity of it all.

I thought I was ready for those pages…and I AM strong enough, but, oh God, I was still taken aback by the crushing pain in them.

To read the journals was to be back there again…living all the moments drenched in despair, confusion, fighting, and fear.

I had not read those journals since I wrote them. For a long time, they lived in a box in a closet, those parts of my life literally hidden. At some point, knowing I would eventually write this memoir, I emptied out every last box of photos, journals, and life documents, and put them in order.

I flipped through the pages of those books just long enough to see what was there and thus put them on a shelf chronologically. But that was it. I resisted actually taking in the full meaning of the cursive writing on those pages. I wasn’t ready, yet, to see, much less, feel, what my agonized and despairing younger selves wrote.

But the other day, I knew it was time. I can’t just “wing” writing about the worst part of those years. It would be wrong to trust my memory when I have actual, in-the-moment records soaked in the pain and despair of those days.

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Before Continuing — Some Thoughts on The Emotions of This Writing Journey

November 6, 2025

First, the “Writing Talismans”

Every day when I sit down to write these entries, I wear a specific ball cap:

Photo by author

It is my “talisman” of writing power. It is less a reminder of why I do this but more a reminder that I can.

On the especially hard emotion days, though, I have a super-weapon to help me through.

Photo by author, of “Dotty”

It is a lavender-seed-filled otter my husband named “Dotty.” It was a gift from a friend who never realized it would be needed. On those harder days, I hold Dotty against my chest. The pressure helps me feel “safe,” protected, and loved. And on the worst days, I can even warm the otter in the microwave, and it will give off a calming lavender scent. If anyone thinks this is silly, I will tell you that I know better. It is, instead, empowering and a gift of self-love to admit that I am brave even in the face of scary emotions. So, for anyone out there who needs a “writing buddy,” I recommend this.

Time to assess things before the hardest part…

Before moving into the next section, I just wanted to take a moment to assess how this process evolved, how it’s going, and how I am doing with it emotionally.

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The Cracks in the Wall Widen

November 3, 2025

I keep speaking of having to keep my feelings to myself. And that included showing no trace of any negative reactions to things he said or did. I was risking physical injury if I did that. He would come at me in a split second if I dared to make a face.

Drawings by author

And while he “might” not react as badly to angry eyes, because that meant you were “tough,” if you dared to do an eye-roll…God help you.

Drawings by author

The difficulty was that the further into my teens I got, the more my emotions were all over the place. That is true of the teens, even under normal circumstances. But to add shame, alienation, despair, suppressed emotions, and building rage into the mix — that was difficult.

But I wasn’t really aware of WHY I was feeling the way I did. I just FELT it. And so what registered mostly on my face was either surly defiance, but not to him. Or…despair.

Photos by author

The misplaced self-hate

For a long time, when I looked back at my teen self, I often viewed her with disdain and thought, “Why couldn’t she have stood up to him more?!” I was so ashamed of her and for many years, just HATED that part of myself.

Well, in going back over my life through this writing, and studying the photos and paintings, I regret that self-hatred…and how I’ve treated my younger self. Seeing what I had to live with and the mental and emotional twists he put me through, I realize how grossly unfair my self-judgment has been.

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Notes from the Shower – A Morning Insight About Painting, Drawing, and Writing Those Past Abuses

October 15, 2025
Photo by author

Notes from the shower

I am one of those people who, when I get in the shower, relax and let everything slip from my mind. Which is precisely what my subconscious is waiting for!

The minute the mind goes blank and focuses on the snuggly warmth of hot water cascading over my skin, the subconscious starts talking. Some mornings just a word or two, and other mornings…a mile a minute. Everything from items for the grocery list, to what I need to write, connections for things I have been trying to figure out, or flashes of insight out of nowhere about a long forgotten question.

Aware that I can’t trust my memory to remember any of these things in my head until after my shower, I needed a way to capture them. Then I remembered that the nature researchers at the museum I taught at use waterproof field notebooks and pens to capture observations. So, I bought myself a package of “write in the rain” memo pads and a waterproof pen. And voila! I no longer have to worry about remembering.

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Who Was That Kid? – The Dreamer

September 18, 2025

In trying to answer the question of how I survived that household, I need to explore who that young girl was — me — in the times when Dad was not around, in the times I could just be “me.” In a lot of respects, so much of who I became, and still am, how I navigated life both then and now, came out of her spirit.

Even in my seventh decade, I am a 9 or 10-year-old at heart. I am still all of the qualities listed below that she had. Those things got pummeled and almost beaten out of me. But somehow, the spark stayed alive within, and slowly, ever so slowly over my lifetime, I’ve fanned those flames back alive. And I would say it is now, in my seventh decade, that I have fully returned to the spirit of that kid. And no, it’s not “second childhood.”

About the only problem, though, is that while I have reclaimed my inner 10-year-old and she continues to drive all of these things in my heart, my body begs to differ with me on some days. So I am learning now to “moderate” that 10-year-old to match the 70-year-old body!

But to come back to that question of how I survived, if I had to give a short answer, aside from key people along the way, and God, it would be: “Her spirit.”

Who was she? Here is a list of those qualities she embodied, and I’ll expand on them over the next few pieces.

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The Chemical Equation For My Life in That Household

September 13, 2025
Photo by author

As a scientist, one of the best ways to capture what happens in a reaction, especially a chemical one, is to set up a formula. On one side of the equation are all the reactants, the items that are mixed together for the reaction to take place, and on the other side is the final product or outcome.

I wasn’t aware of what was happening to me all those years, because when I was living in the “water” of that house, I just considered it the norm and never questioned anything. But now, when I look back, I can see the patterns. If I want to visualize life in that house, I could use the following formula:

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The Fog of No Words

August 15, 2025

The Fog

After all the see-sawing of emotions I had been totally unaware of, the final surprise was what came next — the silence. In that immensity and intensity of whatever this was about, it silenced me, and I had no words.

So I painted. And painted. And painted. And gradually, a few words seeped out.

Painting by author
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30, June, 2025 – Morning Flashbacks

June 30, 2025

Visiting darkness, and exiting with ritual

The alarm hasn’t yet gone off, but I am awake. I’ve been so since about 5:30, like many mornings. The oblivion of sleep, its escape from reality, at least on the nights I have no nightmares, is over. While my regular blanket keeps me groggy and warm, the weight of the other blanket starts pressing me into the mattress. It is the heavy sensation of feeling scared, hopeless, and like I have done something wrong and will soon be in trouble. I neither want to stay in bed nor get up. I wish I could just sleep in oblivion all day. Getting up means facing another day of writing, struggling to live with the pain it releases, and holding the chaos I feel inside.

I get up anyway, because by now, in my 7th decade, I know that this is part of my life, my existence, at least for the time being. Even as I felt great last night, felt ready to take on the world, yet again, this morning, the black cloud was there to greet me when my eyes opened and consciousness returned. But life has taught me that, like the weather, everything eventually changes. You just have to wait long enough. So for now, I just focus on my “routine.”

The routine. It is something I had to create after I retired from teaching at Raleigh’s North Carolina Museum of Natural Sciences. When I was working, I didn’t have time to feel all of this. I had to get up, get moving, battle traffic, and then revel in the last job of my life — which was my total joy.

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