Conversations from hell

[Anna Mae Bollocks]

Yeah. And getting through it and writing about it like that is like walking out of a fucking plane crash. You don't see it often.

[Adios]

Thank you P3nt. Since I was tricked by my therapist into admitting how deep my depression is I feel like my grip is weakening. You have no idea how much your writing is helping.

[Cramulus]

reareading the whole thread ... damn dude ... again, thank you for sharing these things. These are fantastic pieces of writing.

[trix]

First off, I'd like to thank P3nT4gR4m for this thread.  There aren't a fuckload of people that can readily understand what that kind of thing is like, and that includes me.  I've gotten glimpses, in the past.  And maybe a couple more tiny tiny peeks from this thread.  And I am grateful, both for your skillful writing and the stories you could share.

Nigel suggested I try my hand at writing.  So, if it's okay with you, I'd like to add it here, since it seems on topic, and I don't want to start a new thread.  If it's not okay with you, let me know and I will remove it and make a topic.  Or just remove it, as I'm not convinced this is a good idea, and the subject matter still bothers me.

I will start with a bit about my past, I wont go into it deeply or cover anything offtopic, as I'm not comfortable doing so.  

When I was a kid I was stupid.  Still am, in a lot of ways.  Stuff happened, and I ended up diagnosed with PTSD.  Well, that's what they called it.  I still don't think it was, I just don't think they had an official name for it.  I called it my blackouts.  Somewhat like drunken blackouts, I'd completely lose track of time.  One example is sometimes my mom would get me ready for school, make me a bowl of cereal, and leave for work.  We didn't live far from school, so i was expected to walk.  While eating the cereal, I would kind of zone out for a minute, and suddenly snap out of it upon hearing the door slam.  Four hours later, as my mom stopped home on her lunch break.  The incredible ache in my arm tipping me off to the spoon in my hand, still hovering above the bowl.  Cereal so soggy there wasn't any milk left.

I liked the blackouts at first, as they started during the situations I was diagnosed with PTSD for, and caused me to "skip" through some very long hours.  Ever seen that movie Rewind, with Adam Sandler?  Surprisingly a lot like that.  But, with far less lulz.  Like the movie, however, they only got worse.  Long story short, I was shoved into a place where they could "try out medications to find one that may help".

This place was not like the one P3nT4gR4m described.  This was kiddy school.  Temporary assignment for teens (which ended up being around 2 years long for me ) while they either fix your 'small' problems or transfer you to the drug-em-and-throw-away-the-key lifetime place.  And this story is not (anymore) about me but about someone I met there, the above was just some background so you understand wtf I was doing there.

For the sake of her privacy, I'm going to call her Brittany.  She was very sweet, modestly beautiful, well read (for her age), and intelligent.  Also she was quiet, and prone to bouts of crying.  At least, this is how I would have described her after the first couple weeks.

At the place I went to (called Rogers, lol @ Dok) they make us sit in a group once a day with the other patients, one therapist, and four or five "nurses".  They were called nurses there, but they were mostly male, bulky, and had an attitude like prison guards.  The point of the group was to talk about what brought you there.  Most of us hated it, but some people just like to talk given any excuse.  Brittany was of the former type.  She hated it.  For the first week, she refused to talk at all.  The more they pressured her, the more she'd hide her face and yell no.  Eventually, she'd break into tears and run to her room.  Nurses would follow, pressure her more, and try to get her to talk one-on-one, usually met with failure.

After the first week, they tried meds on her.  I'm not sure what they gave her, but she called them Zombie pills.  Because that was the effect.  Her eyes would be glazed over, she'd be very slow to respond, and she'd sluggishly do whatever was told of her.  Critical thinking, hell any thinking, was out of the question.  On the third day of that, she stopped taking them.  She had to deal with a lot of flack for refusing her meds (and meet with The Doctor, a woman named Dr. Romine who spent more time talking about the pure-bred horses she breeds then whatever you were there for) and eventually the only ones she stuck with didn't actually do much but she said they made her feel better anyway, just to avoid trying more zombie pills.

At around her third week there, they increased the pressure on her to share her story, and she continued to refuse.  They'd follow her to her room when she ran away crying again, and pressure her even more intensely.  It got to the point were she'd refuse to come to group or leave her room, blocking the doorway with her mattress and trying to hold it there.  In Rogers, that is unacceptable and they call a "code green".  Which meant the call went out and 15 or 20 "nurses" came charging in, put her on the gourney, and locked her in the "quiet room" in a straight jacket and strapped to the metal bed in the center.  One nurse sat in there with her, and the rest could just watch the camera footage via the TV's at the "nurse's station".  Minimum 3 hours, but often overnight, depending on the staff on duty at the time.

Eventually it worked, and she started sharing in group.  Her older brother had molested her nightly, often forcefully, for years.  When she tried to tell on him at first, her parents thought she was just trying to get him into trouble, so she stopped trying to tell them.  Until they caught him one night, and sent HER to Rogers.

Now, I should mention, this girl was not completely off her rocker or anything of the sort.  In fact, she appeared (emphasis on appeared) one of the sanest in the place.  She loved to draw, and read, and played the games we played.  She was extremely shy, but not shockingly so.  She was a big fan of reading Glen Cook, which is how her and I became friends, as that is my favorite fiction author.  We became pretty good friends and for most of the third and fourth week she was there I think we both felt like things would turn out alright.

Now, a big part of her problem was guilt.  She was a cutter, which is another thing her and I had in common, though our reasons were different.  I cut myself when I felt myself zoning out, to jerk myself back into the present and attempt to avoid blacking out.  She cut herself because she found physical pain easier to deal with than emotional pain, and discovered that she could only feel one at a time.  She cut to give herself the kind of pain she preferred.  At least, that was how she explained it to me.

I never pressed her for details on the other stuff, as it was obvious she didn't want to remember it.  But that doesn't fly in group.  I think the idea they had was that talking about it, and seeing the reaction of others, would make her more comfortable with what happened.  Maybe they thought as she got used to discussing it, it would become "just a memory" to her and she'd 'get over it'.  They were mistaken.  The more their tactics worked, and she had to talk about her brother, the more erratic her emotions became.  The more she found ways to hurt herself.  She couldn't cut much, as they never gave us anything sharp, but there are many many ways to hurt oneself given motivation.

Others in the group found it difficult to understand why she felt so guilty.  He had forced her, had he not?  But to me it seemed pretty obvious.  Both by what she said, and what she did not say.  It's enough of an emotional rollercoaster to be raped, an experience I cannot begin to imagine.  It's even worse when it's your big brother.  It's even worse when it continues nearly every night for years.  She thought she was a sick person, worse even then her brother.  In her mind, he was a horny guy being horny.  That is the impression I got from her about her parents too, they saw her as responsible.  Added to that guilt was the horror of getting used to it.  Of coming to expect it.  She was, after all, human.  The human body responds to sex with pleasure.  Feeling pleasure at something so wrong must be horrific.  I gave a lot of thought at the time, and in the years afterward, of how she must have felt.  I, of course, can never really understand, but so often I tried anyways.  How guilty would she have felt, on the days he did not come into her room?  Laying there, in bed, waiting sleeplessly as the minutes rolled by.  And when it finally occurred to her that he wasn't coming that night, the relief mixed with a tinge of disappointment maybe?  Then guilt that she kind of wanted him to?  Sex is, after all, physically enjoyable.  So much guilt that girl must've had, regardless.

As close as her and I were, and we were very close, adapting a very us-against-the-world attitude, the therapists and nurses tended to keep us apart, more and more.  Maybe they thought the attraction was sexual, or that they were protecting her.  In retrospect, however, I think they just didn't want to give her an out.

You see, they ruined her.  Those people.  All she wanted to do was forget.  Maybe, had she been allowed to, she could have healed.  The scars would remain, of course, but maybe she could have had a life.  But they wouldn't let her forget.  They pushed and pushed and pushed.  The story gets less detailed now, because I don't want to explain to my roommate why I'm crying.  As they pushed, she got worse.  She pushed back.  It came to a breaking point, and she attempted to hang herself with her own pants.  They ripped.  She was sent on to the long-term facility, with a prescription of zombie pills.  I never found out (not through lack of trying) if it became permanent.  But that place usually is.  She was 14.

And, though it didn't do a fat lot of good in the end, I loved her.

[Luna]

And you thought you couldn't write.

Hope it helped to get it out, Trix.

[trix]

And you thought you couldn't write.

Hope it helped to get it out, Trix.

I thought it might, but actually it just depressed the hell out of me.

So I went and picked on my roommate instead and she cheered me up.

[Mesozoic Mister Nigel]

That was beautiful and sad.

Sending your kid to those places was very popular when I was young; it was a huge industry. Thankfully, it's less popular now.

Your friend's story is very similar to the story of the only woman I've ever been in love with. She was/is an extraordinary woman.

[Murmur]

Wow... this is harsh. Glad you're sharing, sad for the memories.

[Luna]

And you thought you couldn't write.

Hope it helped to get it out, Trix.

I thought it might, but actually it just depressed the hell out of me.

So I went and picked on my roommate instead and she cheered me up.

Give it time.  Lancing a boil isn't painless.

[The Rev]

Trix, a very well written and incredibly sad story.

[Phox]

Very well written, Trix.

[P3nT4gR4m]

Would have worked in it's own thread but it's exactly what this one's about so I don't have a problem with you posting them here if you have any more. Thanks for sharing. It's nice to know I'm not the only one every now and again.

[BadBeast]

Only just caught this. Nothing to add, just . . . . nope, nothing. Props.

[The Wizard Joseph]

The stories I've read so far ITT have been excellent and deep. Might take me a bit to get through and digest them all.  Thank you very much for sharing to P3nT4gR4m and Trix both. You're all too right about the sexual impulse and guilt complex Trix.  It's a sad but true fact.  Many folks never really recover.  Trying to make people re-live what they are trying to ignore just to survive never works when forced.  Worse yet these things (a lot of things in any psych ward) border on the spiritual in a way that can seem all too real.  I'm not convinced that there's no such thing as spiritual damage.  It can be difficult to play agnostic when the reality of the people around you both conflicts and is inescapable.  Like when you're a ward inmate, or it's your family. 

[trix]

It can be difficult to play agnostic when the reality of the people around you both conflicts and is inescapable.  Like when you're a ward inmate, or it's your family. 

I would argue that it can be difficult to "play" anything but agnostic or atheist.  Given the chaos and randomness of life, Eris (or what I used to call the big d20 of life) seems to be the most plausible explanation for the best and worst and everything in between.