February 23, 2008

Life’s journey is not to arrive safely at the grave in a well-preserved body,
But rather to skid in sideways totally worn out shouting - ‘Holy Shit - What a Ride!’” (unknown)

Whoa, boy - this is gonna be tough. I said I’d never do this. But I’ve had a recent change of heart. Hang with me, please -I’m going for the condensed version here.

I’ve been seeing a lot of my fellow bloggers in a state of overwhelm and trying to reclaim control of their personal lives. Herein, I open the locked door to my inner turmoil and how I’ve managed to deal with it.

For those who don’t know, besides Nick, I also have a son who’s in his mid-20s - “JC.” I’ve not had any communication with JC since he was 14 years old. It eats me up every day, but slowly, I’ve come to terms with it. For my sanity, I had to. I hoped for a long time that, as he grew into adulthood, JC’d seek me out. That hasn’t happened. I’ve been assured he’s healthy and happy, which gives me some small comfort. Not much, but some.

When JC was three, his father and I split up. When he was 4, I realized I couldn’t raise him on my own, and gave custody to my ex and his parents, who could provide all of the necessary things - and stability - that I couldn’t. I recognized my shortcomings and made the gutwrenching decision to put JC’s welfare ahead of my own satisfaction. But the day I gave him to my ex is etched into my eternal memory - to see and hear JC crying out “please don’t go mommy.” The cliche “hindsight is 20/20″ never rang so true as when I made that choice. Having had my heart ripped out, my life almost ended.

At first, everything was okay. My ex and I were quite civil towards one another. I had unlimited visitation and got to spend as much time with JC as I wanted. Shortly thereafter, everything began to unravel.

My ex remarried the second time and the happy little family decided JC didn’t need his biological mother. Bitter court battles and broken promises resulted in parental alienation. On top of that, I was having my own set of problems with my family, and had isolated myself from them, turning instead to reckless abandonment - going out drinking and clubbing with friends, partaking in illegal substances, waking up in places that weren’t my home.

On Memorial Day in 1987, I said f*ck it - I can’t take it anymore. My whole world was crashing down on me. So I downed a bottle of Halcion and a bottle of mepergan with a bottle of Amaretto. Surprisingly, hours later I woke up in the emergency room to find my mother and sister by my side. The fact that I woke up pissed me off; the fact that the first words out of my sister’s mouth pissed me off even more -

“Weren’t you wearing any underwear?”

“What?”

We’re trying to gather up your clothes. Weren’t you wearing underwear?”

“How the hell should I know? Where am I?”

“Vanderbilt ER.”

“Oh.”

(To this day, I have absolutely no recollection of that day up until I awoke in the ER. From what I was told, I had called someone to say goodbye. That person broke into my apartment and called 911. I was rushed to the ER and had my stomach pumped.)

A doctor came in to check on me. Much to my surprise (and embarrassment, and relief), it was my doctor friend who lived upstairs in my apartment building. Dr. S. asked if I was aware that I could be arrested for attempting suicide. (Did you know that? You do now.) Anyway, Dr. S. said he had arranged for my release on the condition that I agreed to undergo a minimum of 6-months of psychotherapy. What choice did I have at this point? I agreed to the therapy.

Therapy was a joke. My therapist had as much desire to have me as a patient as I had in having him assigned to me. We never broke through to any core issues; however, I completed 6 months with him and parted ways. The one takeaway from those sessions I carry with me to this day is a firm belief that writing about what’s bothering me is extremely helpful. Getting it out of my system on paper and either reading it back, burning, shredding or destroying the paper is therapeutic. It didn’t/doesn’t have to make sense - it’s working through the frustration/anger that is key.

That was the lowest point in my life. Occasionally I have mini-bouts of depression, but never allow myself to get remotely close to that point again. In some way, we all go through our ups and downs but manage to pull ourselves back up again. I’m a firm believer that the great powers above won’t put any more on us than we’re able to handle. I’m living proof of that.

I will say my perspective has changed in many directions since that fateful day:

• I try not to worry unnecessarily about tomorrow when it’s today that requires my attention.
• I try not to overwhelm myself with unattainable feats I know I’ll never accomplish. Instead, I stick with what I know I can do or feel comfortable trying.
• Most important - I accept me for who I am and not for who/what someone else would wish me to be.

Sure, sometimes I have to stop and remind myself of these points. Bottom line, almost 21 years later, I’m here to share this story with any who may find value in it. When you think all is lost, don’t give up. I promise you there is a light at the end of the tunnel; it just may take a little bit longer and someone to help you make your way through. I have faith in you - please have faith in yourself.

I end with this great quote - it’s one of my mantras.

Life’s journey is not to arrive safely at the grave in a well-preserved body,
But rather to skid in sideways totally worn out shouting - ‘Holy Shit - What a Ride!’” (unknown)

(Note: “Mother and Son Reunion” came on as I was wrapping this up. I kid you not!)

If you enjoyed this story, please subscribe to the full RSS feed. You can also have it delivered straight to your mailbox. For something different, mosey over to eScapes and check out dKaye's take on life through photos.

|  Printable version | Posted in reflections, self-help | Tags: children, complacency, family, life, moral conscience, parental alienation, relationships, self-help.