This morning I woke up at 3:30am and couldn't fall back asleep.  As I laid in bed flipping through Facebook, I found an article that stated that May is Mental Health Awareness month.  So I thought it was a fitting time to write this post.

The last time I talked to my 'parents' it was in regards to my adoption.  We hadn't spoken in 2.5 years prior to that phone call because to put it mildly, they have always been abusive, neglectful and narcissistic assholes.  More on that in future posts.  Now that I'm a mother myself, I didn't need that in my life and I sure wasn't going to allow that around Nathan.  So J and I decided that in order for me to maintain what sanity I had left, that it was best to cut them out of our lives.  So when I sat there in our office staring at that sentence in my medical records, I inevitably had to pick up the phone to confirm.  I wasn't upset about finding out I was adopted.  Really I wasn't.  What upset me was realizing all the the abuse and neglect I dealt with was more than likely due to my adoption.  During the conversation they kept trying to turn the blame on me.  They kept trying to say how much they loved me, how they saved me and despite all their 'love' I turned out to be such a mean person. Typical. 

Let me clarify what they meant by me being 'mean'.  In 2001, while attending Southwest Texas State University, now called Texas State University, I got into a car wreck while driving my friend to visit her boyfriend at Fort Hood.  I knew that 'mom' would blow a gasket and kill me.  So I figured I would save her the trouble and do it myself.  So that night, while I sat in my college dorm room by myself, I took a whole bottle of Tylenol PM.  I eventually got scared and called a friend.  She was out of town with her family.  So she called another friend who ended up driving me to Central Texas Medical Center, where the staff proceeded to pump my stomach.  Once they had pumped me full of charcoal to neutralize the toxins, they called my 'parents'. As expected they were pissed and 'mom' wailed about how I was an embarrassment and how could I do that to her.  The next morning they showed up at the hospital.  I was there for observation for a couple days to make sure my liver wasn't going to implode.  Before I was discharged, a social worker suggested I was bi-polar and highly recommended I be evaluated. After a phone call between 'dad' and a mental health professional, the two of them had determined that I was not bi-polar. That's strange that they could so easily diagnose me without even evaluating me.   So therefore, no need to seek treatment.

Fast forward to present day.  I have seen an army of counselors and taken the whole list of anti-depressants since 2001.  Nothing has worked.  Then one night it hit me.  What if I am bi-polar but I don't know because guess what...I never got properly evaluated or diagnosed?  If I was bi-polar, the meds and treatment methods are different for bi-polar than they are for depression.

After finally getting in to see a psychiatrist that would take my insurance it was determined I indeed am not bi-polar.  So 'dad' and the original psychiatrist were correct on that analysis.  However, my psychiatrist did diagnosis me with Borderline Personality Disorder, or BPD, which has very similar characteristics and mood shifts as bi-polar disorder. BPD lies smack dab in the middle of depression and bipolar and if 'dad' actually taken me to get evaluated, he would have learned that there is a whole spectrum to mental illness.

Mean is me calling them Dumb and Dumber from this point on in my life. He is Dumb and she  is Dumber.  That's actually the nicer of the names I could give them.  Because at this point I really, really cannot call them parents.  They failed that test on all levels.  Me attempting to kill myself wasn't mean.  Again, it was a mental illness that they failed to get me evaluated and treatment for. There is a huge difference between the two terms.

I guess this post is two fold.  It also comes the day after Mother's Day.  In today's social media era, it was hard not to see everybody professing their love for their mothers and all the things they learned from them.  I guess I did learn something from my 'mother'.  I learned what I didn't want to be.  I knew growing up that I didn't want to be anything like her.  I didn't want my child to grow up fearing me.  I knew I would never hit my child.  I knew I would never say the hurtful things that she said to me.  So I guess I can thank her for that.  I can thank her for showing me what I never want to become. I've also learned from them not to put up with people's bullshit but also to be compassionate because there are enough mean people in the world.  It does sadden me to know that I never had and never will have a normal relationship with her.  And what makes me the saddest is that they will never get to know how great Nathan is.  The last time they saw him, he was barely talking.  And he's walking, running, talking, reading.  He is his own person.  But that's their loss.  Just like it's their loss that they spent all these years thinking I was mean.

I hope this post, as hard and sad as it was for me to write, may be helpful and give some hope to others. Mental illness shouldn't be stigmatized and it shouldn't be something that people are afraid or embarrassed to talk about.  If you are suffering, please, please talk to somebody.  Seek help.  There is nothing wrong with asking for help when you need it.  I now have a great support system and a great therapy plan in place and I am optimistic that I will heal the emotional and mental damage that has been done one day at a time.  Until my next post, take care.  

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I'm a 35 year old working, running and shopping (not necessarily in that order) mom living in the burbs surrounding the beautiful city of Austin with my husband, our very active 5 year old and our rescue dog Buddy. This blog is my little space of the internet where I let my ADD run loose and I blog about...anything.


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