Writing 101-Day 15 Your Voice Will Find You

With psychosis, you don’t hear voices, but you do see your imagination as reality. Maybe that would be okay if you lived in a nice, wonderful fantasy world. However, mental illness rarely ever lives in a nice, wonderful fantasy world.

Mental illness is the terrifying and claustrophobic grip of an unscrupulous hand. Most often it is the hand that has been placed there from forces of our past. These horrendous events rise like the erruption of a volcano, releasing the red hot flow of it’s core.

Mental illness is a person’s unconscience screaming from it’s self-imposed prison of despair.

When the psychiatrist first saw me, she asked, “How long has she been like this?”

The person with me replied, “Two weeks.”

“You have allowed her to be like this for two weeks and didn’t bring her in?!”

At that time I was in gripping paranoia that had me (visually) climbing the walls of the psychiatrist’s office. It was the.. it was… I could not speak it. It would be evil for me to speak it. Instead, I suffered in silence. Sleep had not found me in what seemed to be months. I was exhausted and in a major terror which had gripped me for the past two weeks.. unrelenting.


My panic attacks began after the birth of my first child. My labor was very long and arduous. After a day and a half of major labor, the nurses of the tiny hospital took me into the delivery room without the knowledge of my doctor and had me push for two hours. Nothing happened.

One and half day later he was born. He was born because my husband finally demanded the baby be delivered by Caesarian if it wasn’t born within two hours. The doctor took me into the delivery room and with the help of forceps, my baby was born into this world.

The labor had not only exhausted me, it had changed something in my brain as well. Every woman that has experienced the pain of childbirth will understand what it would be like to experience it for three whole days. In those days, Caesarian delivery was frowned on and was rarely ever done, especially in a little town of 900, 2500 if you count the cows.


“She needs to be admitted.” declared Dr. Barry.

(After this, I really don’t remember much except for being admitted into the lock-up ward of the mental hospital).

I do remember the first night very clearly. I remember pacing and pacing, up and down the hall, in an effort to “run” from the horrible images in my head. Saying I was in distress would be putting it mildly. I was in despair and indomitable fear.

After, maybe thirty minutes, one of the nurses began pacing with me. She was letting me know I wasn’t alone. I appreciated that. I had not had that up to this point. I had been shamed and shunned by my family.

After a few minutes she turned to me and whispered, “Will you sit down with me and talk?”


Confusion and panic gripped me, “I..I…can’t.”

“Yes,” she responded, “Yes you can. Please sit down with me.”

We sat at a table across from one another, her eyes showing me she cared.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“I can’t tell you.” I responded. “If I tell you it will come true,” looking down at the table to avoid her eyes.

“No.” she said softly. “No, it won’t come true.”

My eyes found hers to search for any sincerity. They were soft and brown and they spoke to me, saying, “you can trust me.” I wanted this to be true.

Pausing, I whispered, “It’s the end of the world.” Mentally hoping the roof of the building didn’t crash down on us all.

She kept her eyes focused on my eyes and answered, “No. It isn’t. It isn’t the end of the world.”

She planted a seed that day, a seed of hope among the many thorns of a hopeless world.

Healing, step one had begun.


…more to follow


Victim Victim Fool Fool!

In non-functional families (I am trying to avoid using the term, “dysfunctional”), there is always at least one person that is in the victim role. Unfortunately, in my family, that would be me.

I grew up being the victim sometimes gracefully but most of the time, not so gracefully.

My personality is such that I automatically trust trusted people. I was stinkin' nice. Always believing in the “golden rule.” Treat people nice and they will treat you nice.

I spent my childhood being chased down the street by my sister with a butcher knife in her hand because I “borrowed” some of her clothes without asking. We fought constantly and often used our fists. She was selfish and self-centered, and I was always in the “survival” mode around her. For some reason, my mother thought this was okay.

I learned to avoid her as much as I possibly could. I learned that my mother would always take up for my sister – to her, she was perfect and I was the “problem” child. I stayed at my grandmother's as much as I possibly could.

With my sister's abuse and the emotional abuse from our father, our home was my nightmare.

In today's world, people think of victims as fools. We are fools because we are considered mindless and weak. (Maybe that is my problem, I am mindless and weak).

When I married I looked forward to being away from the place I was constantly being victimized. Finally! I would be loved, wanted, and needed, and would never again be a victim. What I found, however, is, I did not know any other way to be, but as a victim. When I divorced him, he victimized me even more.

As victims, our self esteem is destroyed and we learn to go inward with all of our emotions; our anger, our fears, and all of our emotional pain.

Because if we don't, again, we are considered weak and are victimized mor

That word, “victim” not only defined me, it chased me, it terrorized me, it abused me, and it threw me into the darkness of severe depression and mental illness. I fought it, I screamed, I kicked, I just wanted to die, but most of all I wanted to survive WITHOUT being a victim! But how? How does one stop being in the role of victim?

Love…maybe that is the answer! I will find someone who really does love me and will treat me with love and respect. I will find a man that will “adore” me and who I will adore. There is a problem with that. Soon you become the victim of gossip and wagging tongues. You are called a “whore”, a “bad” girl, a “hussy”, someone no right-minded good man would want.

For awhile alcohol seemed to do the trick. Alcohol “seemed” to keep me from being the victim. I didn't have to feel all the emotional pain of being victimized. There is a problem with that too. Soon, you become the victim of the alcohol.

I have learned, there is no shortage of victimizers. And, there are no shortage of victims. I have learned that victims are always human. Although many victimizers are humans, some victimizers are not always in “human” form. We can become victims of love, alcohol, drugs, money, greed, work, and you fill in the blank.

What there is a shortage of in this crazy and mixed up world is… kindness, love, and understanding. Until this world is filled with more people with these qualities, there will always be plenty of victims and victimizers.

This is our final day for the Zero to Hero Challenge. I have learned a lot from this challenge and am looking forward to future challenges to further my blogging skills. Thank you to all my readers and friends that have stuck with me through this challenge. I wish you all much success in all your future endeavors, as well as, in your blogging future.