Over the next several years we moved a few times, and I worked sometimes at low-paying social service type jobs, but by the time we had three children I was a stay-at-home mom. There was very little communication with or support from my family, as once I stopped playing their game I was out of sight and out of mind. I never knew how, really, to make friends. When I was eight years old I decided not to try to make friends anymore – it hurt too much to leave them when we moved – and my parents thought that was a good plan and supported it. My husband was not a lot of help when the children were small. He would come home from work and the kids ran to him to greet him, and he yelled at me to keep them off of him because he needed a break. I never had a break.

From time to time depression was particularly troublesome and I tried counseling a few more times here and there, but I still didn’t know what to say. I went to a social skills group that ended too soon, during my last year of college. I was held up as an example because I was married and still didn’t have social skills. One therapist, a graduate student who I saw after my rejection from graduate school, was only interested in my sex life and I had nothing to tell that was particularly interesting to her. Another time I was referred to a therapist when I broke down crying because I had been asked to help in the nursery at church and I didn’t have the ability to say no, so I worked in the nursery for over a year even though I felt just as trapped there as I did at home with the kids. That therapist observed that my family of origin had erased my personality. Once he came to my house for a tour, and made suggestions about decorating, which I had no budget for. When he dismissed me several months later, he suggested that I try to start making some friends. It was a while after that when I suddenly recovered a memory of being molested by our landlord who lived across the hall from us in Spain, when I was 11 years old.

A few years later, in 1996, we got the Internet, and I joined a few email lists where members shared joys and sorrows and I learned through writing and participating in those groups about forming relationships and making friends with people who shared some of my interests. Finally I could be confident that relationships could be maintained even through moves, since the relationships were not dependent on living nearby. It was easier to express myself in writing.

I continued to feel stuck and trapped in a tiny house that I hated with three children I could never detach myself from enough to have any significant amount of time to myself. I don’t know when the insomnia started, but I took a lot of very hot baths at 3 in the morning when I couldn’t sleep. Anger and frustration got out of control sometimes, and I would scratch myself hard enough to tear the skin, or even use a pair of scissors. Someone emailed me a do-it-yourself stress kit with the instructions to print the page, hang on the wall, and follow the direction, “bang head here” when stressed. Soon there was a hole in the wall behind the piece of paper, and several other holes throughout the house. I have memories of banging my head or slamming it in my locker when I was in high school, and scratching my face when I couldn’t take any more of an argument sometimes just seemed like the only way to deal with that kind of situation. When I thought back far enough, I remembered being six years old and my mother being embarrassed about the self-inflicted bite marks all over my arm. She was afraid that people would think it was ringworm.

One winter was particularly bad, with fog that set in and covered the sun for six weeks. For two months I felt like I couldn’t take it anymore, and was planning an overdose of pills. I acted normal so that nobody would suspect. When the day and time came, the bottles of pills made too much noise in my pockets so I took them out. Disappointed in myself, I shredded my face with my fingernails and slammed my arms and legs in the door of the truck, trying to break something. I was exhausted and didn’t want my children to see me like that, so I sat down in the flowerbed in front of the house rather than go in. Neighbors saw me in that condition and called the police. The hospital in town didn’t have psychiatric services, so I was held in jail until someone came to evaluate me. By that time all I really wanted was to go home, so I answered the questions in such a way that they let me go.

The next day I felt better, and I got back into therapy again, and started reading everything I could. That was when I found Psych Central, and discovered that there were others like me. I read about St. John’s Wort, and decided to try it, and also ordered a light box since it was usually winter when my symptoms were worst. There were two books that helped me to recover lost dreams. The first was about a psychologist who suffered severe depression and still was able to help her clients (Undercurrents: A Life Beneath the Surface, by Martha Manning). If she could do it, I thought maybe there could be hope for me. Next I found Who You Were Meant To Be, by Lindsay C. Gibson, which helped me to start to see past some of the obstacles.

Something was working, and I felt better than I could ever remember. I decided to try again at completing my education, and started by going back for more undergraduate psychology classes, intending to apply to graduate schools after getting a bit of current experience. That dream was what kept me going.

When I perceived a threat to my dream, another crisis occurred. I was confronted by someone who felt that my children were poorly groomed, and they offered to help, but to me it said that I was inadequate as a mother, and my family would be better off without me, because then at least someone else could step in and do what I couldn’t. How could I even consider being a student when I couldn’t handle basic tasks at home? I crashed instantly, and went home and collapsed in a heap. My husband was going out of town, and I told him to go. My only thoughts were of cutting my wrists and neck and bleeding out, and I knew that I could because I was used to cutting myself. What stopped me was the image of my children finding me. I couldn’t put them through that. After that experience I have had no fear of death, since in my mind I have been there and it was actually a thrill to me, but I know that it will not be by my own hand. That would be an easy out for me at the expense of people I care about.

I am still in therapy, and I am still in school. I am now a graduate student in counseling. I am still a work in progress, but I think that my experiences will give me an understanding and an empathy that I couldn’t have had otherwise. I still don’t have the answers, but I have learned a few things. One is that I can’t afford any longer to avoid living my own life. When I finally figure out how to get out of my own way, I will write a book.

–Rapunzel

    Last reviewed: By John M. Grohol, Psy.D. on 25 May 2006
    Published on PsychCentral.com. All rights reserved.