My Story( unfinished and edited I like to share my writing process).

I am learning I might have to accept having these mental health challenges.

And not that I try to avoid them or let them overcome me; but admit they are real and challenging, and maybe I need to stop resisting them.

I’ve dealt with these things for most my life. All of it, if anything.

Some times they are harder to live with, sometimes they disrupt everything; and other times not so much.

It all depends on the circumstances and things going on in life, and for how long things may be going on.

I have been searching for reasons behind these demons. The why’s? From where? And who’s to blame?

I have come to the conclusion that no one is too blame; but again we all are in a sense. We all add or subtract in some ways to the life or death of it all…

We have to become aware of the certain “generational curses and sins” that may plague our families more than other plagues and either bring more life or death to it.

I don’t write these things for pity or attention. But rather this is a form of expressing myself that has been significantly liberating since I began to write when in junior high or before.

Writing allows me a voice. Whether someone chooses to listen or not. I’ve said what was needed. I can work through my thoughts and feelings. And unlike other social media platforms, it is more up to the reader to desire and search for: it is not there in your face. You can read or not.

I can think clearer when I write, unlike speaking where my thoughts seem to get ahead and I end up saying shit that can be taken wrong or expressed wrong, when that was not my exact intent.

My emotional and the lack of control I have for them, are a symptom of my mental health problem. They are more intense and irregular. I can not bring them back down when they are heightened like most people, and they take longer to do so.

So writing helps me express myself, without the conflicting emotions speaking for me out of turn or tune.

Anyway, this is another symptom I have come to notice in my life: an intense longing to explain myself. I have trouble not feeling the need to do this, though I know it’s not necessary.

Anyway my mental health challenges:

I think a lot of it is both genetic and environmental as we will see the statistics showing. I’m sure it starts somewhere, and it is interesting how even our cells and genes I guess, can mutate after trauma or when generations of substance abuse have been in play.

A collection of yuck lol.

My grandma killed herself.

My mom was 14 and my uncle 12.

They have 2 older siblings, both roughly 10 years older. You can tell the significance of age and the older 2 being out of the house when their mothers health spiraled. They have their issues, but are both more sound financially than the younger who were at home with their mother, my grandmother.

I guess she got addicted to pain pills. Most likely from depression and just the things at that time she was going through alone while my grandfather was always gone working?

When the doctor died that gave her the pain pills, she turned to drinking.

My mom said she would try to kill herself often. At times my mom and her brother having to clean up the blood from a slit wrist or another time my mom said her body fell off the gurney as they were taking her out of the house and into the ambulance. She survived this time.

She later cut her wrist open in a bathtub and passed. My mom said she knew inside that day on her way home from school something bad had happened. She could sense it.

It was the day she was supposed to come home from the half way house.

She had a closed coffin, and my mom didn’t believe she was dead for about 4 years later she told me. Some sort of defense thing for a young kid maybe? Denial? The closed coffin she said might have had a role in it.

I think this could be where the pain of my mother began. Well I know it is. But obviously, my grandmother had to be in tremendous pain too. I just don’t know the story that got her there.

My mother and uncle raised themselves from then on out really. There dad was always on the road working. Partied the pain away.

Or maybe added to it?

Who’s to say.

My mom said one time her dad put a gun to her head when she was younger, her siblings wouldn’t believe her.

Decades later one of those siblings put a pistol to my 7 year olds head one jolly Christmas night.

Maybe they’d believe her now?

My mom said I had to forgive and forget after that. And we kept going to Christmas. Anytime he would go in that room, slowly attributed to guns..I would get nervous.

Any little sound. Booze and guns.

Nervous twitch.

Merry Christmas you know?

We didn’t eat Christmas dinner for roughly 7-8 was always not ready by the end of the night, still cold, or everyone was already on edge, drunk or fighting. There was only 5 of us.

I was groomed as a child by my horseback riding instructor. He’d want me to sit on his lap while he drove to the stable. My favorite place and escape. The horses the barn.

Until this creep came around.

When I was in the saddle he’d put his finger on places he shouldn’t and tell me this is where I needed to feel the saddle at.

I caught on to this all thankfully. I did not tell my mom for a decade later. I had just told her I did not like horses anymore.

Later on I wish I could have turned him in. I knew then the atrocity of what he had been doing and the fact he had instructed other kids made me sick.

I was too lost and young to know before. And I guess the law then only allowed someone 10 years to file a crime? Something like that.

I never knew my dad. I guess he was an angry man. He would get in fights a lot. My mom said I look like her, and have his temper.

He would leave her a lot. Without food. And power. The neighbors we lived around in Long Beach CA at the time would help her. We were the white family there and there was one of every other type of race or culture there she said. In that apartment complex.

One time we had no food and she called around looking for help. The Mormons were the only ones to come to her. And she’s always admired them ever since.

I tried to call my father several times over my life. I talked to him a few. Always brief, always’s ok.

Looking back now I forgive my father. I know my own heartaches, traumas, confusions and internal struggles have caused me many losses. I wonder if he wrestled so?

He is gone now. They think he got beat up to death. He was cremated and when he was young his family had already bought him a burial plot. My mom said he’d bitch about that sometimes . Saying, they want him dead. Lol, sounds like me when I’m whining.

I was his closest of kin.

I had to sign some release from to have the father I never knew buried.

It was my brother, my dad’s aging Aunt, a hired preacher and I that watched that white box and my father find his final resting place.

Crazy how life works.

4 thoughts on “My Story( unfinished and edited I like to share my writing process).

  1. You have been through a lot – my heart aches for all the trauma in your life. Thank you for sharing your story – it’s a powerful story. Grace and peace to you…


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