Life: My Therapy Session

What happens when nobody listens or cares? It’ll be too late? Most of you won’t read this post, but it’s okay. 

I showed up ten minutes early.

I clicked on the light switch to let her know I was there and waited anxiously on the couch. As usual, soft elevator music was playing and the room was dim as if to invite calmness. I looked at my watch to make sure I wasn’t late. I wish I had canceled. I heard the door open and I saw her smile. I felt bad. Was she ready for what I was going to tell her? I took a deep breath, walked in, and sat down.

“What’s on your mind?” she asked.

“A lot of things.” I said. My mind was racing. I didn’t know where to start. From the beginning of dinner, after the bar, or during the drive home?

After a few seconds, I began to tell her my story.

“I saw my ex again.” I said.

“Oh” she replied. She knew our history.

I continued, “He invited me to dinner and I accepted. We ate, laughed, and I thought we were starting to move past our issues. I told him that I was going to go to a bar to meet a potential friend and I was excited because I hadn’t had a friend a could talk to in a long time. He said he was happy for me and that he may even make an appearance.”

At that moment, I stopped.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“I thought he actually cared,” I said, “I met my friend and we were having a good time. I told him about my best friend and school  and he told me about his life and childhood. We related, but I couldn’t help and think about what my ex had told me. Was he really going to show up? A couple hours later and he did.”

“What happened then?” she asked.

I said, “I went up to him and he pretended not to know me. All of a sudden my world stopped. To think that someone who hours before invited me to dinner and who I shared personal details about my life acted as if I was a stranger.”

“That must be hard, what did you do after he told you that?” she replied.

I responded, “I only remember glimpses of that night. I remember feeling depressed. I remember telling the Uber driver that I had enough. And I remember taking all the pills I had in my drawer. 30 Trazadone, 23 Prozac,10 Propranolol,  and 12 Xanax. The next thing I remember was waking up on the floor at the police station. I guess someone had called and they thought I was drunk. The police officers didn’t know I had taken any pills and just took me away. They released me a couple hours later and I remember entering my room, laying myself on the bed, and sleeping for hours. I spent the weekend at home with a fever, my body shaking uncontrollably, not being able to pee, and feeling alone.”

I paused. All this time I had been looking down on the floor that I forgotten my therapist was there. I looked up. Her eyes kept from crying, but her face looked sad.

“I’m very grateful you’re alive to tell me this story,” she responded, “that you’re able to tell me me what happened coherently. Not everyone gets lucky enough to make it.”

“What’s wrong with me?” I asked.

“Nothing is wrong with you, it’s your inability to regulate your emotions that we need to manage,” she replied quickly.

“Can I ask something?” I said, “have you diagnosed me with anything?”

“Yes,” She replied.

Her response scared me. I wasn’t expecting her to reply with a yes. But for some reason, I knew this day would come. My life was full of pain. Full of traumatic events that I somehow managed to live through.

I looked up again. “What do I have?” I asked.

“Bi Polar and Borderline Personality Disorder.” she answered.

The rest of the session went by slowly. We discussed my feelings and I ended up with the idea that my life needed to change. The next days were full of mental evaluations and appointments. That was the last time I saw my therapist. Not because she wasn’t good. But because I couldn’t afford it.

And that’s were I come in and ask for help from you.. I am asking for donations to go back to therapy. I plan to make a different page just for my writings on sessions and my progress. I want to go twice a week, but each session is $80. 

Dealing with BiPolar and Borderline Personality has been difficult. Thoughts of suicide and depression have been the story of my life, but somehow I have been able to be fortunate enough to come out alive and write about my experience.

Any type of donation would help. Even a reblog would be appreciated.

My name is Eddy and I have Borderline Personality Disorder and BiPolar, and I am alive to share my story. Thank you.


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My Life: The Unspoken Monologue

As a school assignment, we were to give a presentation about the reasons why we wanted to be a therapist. I, of course, decided to write a monologue about my life and how it led to me being in a classroom learning skills to become one. However, as the weeks progressed and my monologue became more personal, I decided that I was not ready to share. Instead I gave a presentation using family photos that showed a glimpse into my personal life. I concluded by saying that I wanted to be a therapist for my family. Funny, how I almost convinced myself that this was the truth.

Through the process of looking at my childhood, adolescence, and adult life, I discovered just how much of my past I had been running from. I do hope everything makes sense. Thank you.

In order to understand why I want to be therapist, I had to reflect back.

I thought of when I was a kid and how I constantly heard my mom get yelled at by my dad.

I remember how she just stood there, took it all, and begged him to stop drinking.

I thought about when my dad drank, his anger, and the pain I felt when he hit me and my older brothers.

I remember my older brothers, the drugs they took, them getting locked up, and taken away.

I thought about how alone I felt, the bad thoughts in my head, and how scared I was of someone finding out.

As a child, I wanted to escape my family.

But those thoughts of hanging and drowning myself became unbearable.

Instead, I decided to separate myself from my family. That way their problems were no longer mine.

My older brother wasn’t schizophrenic. He faked all the voices he heard in his head. And just for attention, he lost those twenty pounds. Barely slept. Never showered. He stunk so bad from not cleaning himself after going to the restroom that my dad forced him into the bathtub, yelled at him, and threw water on him until he was clean. Slowly his screams faded. He never learned his lesson.

My other brother, I hated him. His promises and his lies. The last real conversation I had with him was when we were both outside staring at the clouds and he turned to me and told me that things were only going to get worse from there on. This was before the meth. Before he got locked up for breaking into an empty house to sleep in when my dad finally decided to kick him out. Before the drugs messed with his head so much that he could barely speak in complete sentences.

At the age of fourteen, I convinced myself that they deserved it. We stopped talking soon after.

Years later when both were deported, I was too focused on school to care. And when one of them went missing, I was too concerned with moving to San Francisco to pursue a degree in a field that helps people that he never crossed my mind. And when I graduated, I was too obsessed with finding the right job that I had forgotten to visit the remaining one. And when I got the job, I was too stressed out to notice that he needed my help.

At the group home, I worked most days and long hours. Heard all these tragic stories by clients. I thought I was making a difference.

Then one day, a client ran away and I ran after her. I didn’t mind her cursing at me or the fact that I was running into traffic. I needed to save her. We ran far until she eventually got tired and decided to lie on the grass. She turned to me and asked why I didn’t just leave her. Nobody wanted her and nobody cared. I stood there silently. As she began to cry, I thought about how alone she felt. Her life full of pain. How much she reminded me of my older brothers. All her life she struggled with abuse. At the age of eleven she started using drugs. At thirteen she was arrested. And at fourteen she was sent to the group home. Before she ran away, she was told that she needed to stay there a few months longer because she was caught using drugs again. She told me she felt stuck and just wanted to be home and see her family. As I looked back at her, I finally said that I cared for her and the only thing that mattered in that moment was her. She began to cry again, but a few minutes later she stopped. A staff came and we were able to get her to return back. The next day she thanked me for running after her and to let me know that I was fast as hell. I smiled. Weeks later she relapsed and months later she ran away again. I will never know what happened to her or if I ever made an impact.

So why do I want to become a therapist?

Because of the guilt. Because I convinced myself that if I help others, it will ease the pain of not helping my older brother’s. But it won’t. And I will continue to search for that missing void in my life. And it will hurt. But in time, I will learn to let go. Learn that not all the things I experienced were my fault. I know that’s not the healthiest reason. Or a good one. But that’s the truth. And perhaps, that’s what that assignment was all about.

 

Here’s a link to the audio version of my post. Thank you for all the support.

My Life: Becoming a freelance writer

Hello? Is this thing on?

If so, I would like to say hi and welcome you to my blog. And for those who have not heard from me in years, I would like to apologize. My life these past two years have been chaotic (and that’s keeping it simple). I went from home to home trying to find a place to call my own, changed job positions, and invested a significant amount of time and money on pursuing a Masters degree.

However, life happened and I am no longer in the right circumstances to continue.

I hope to share with you, in time, that chapter of my life. You’ll understand all of my struggles, my joys, and my pains. But for now, I would like to share something that I have not told my family. I am trying to find meaning in my life and in the process, I have decided to become a freelance writer. To tell you the truth, I don’t have a clue about what I am getting myself into, but that has never stopped me before.

When my guidance counselor told me that I would not go to a four-year college, I ended up graduating from San Francisco State University with a B.A. in Psychology and minor in Counseling. When all my other brother’s dropped out of school, I applied to a Masters program and got in. And I will continue to move forward regardless.

My stories aren’t too sophisticated (trust me, I know). Nor are they grammatically perfect (that is a creative choice). But they are honest (I promise). And that’s why I want to write and make a living out of it. I want to share my story and help at least one person get through the day. Or to make them laugh. Or cry. Or make them not feel alone.

And with that announcement, I would like some help from you.

I know this may alienate the people who read my blog, but I would appreciate any leads that can help in me becoming a freelance writer or at least a place where I can make a living sharing my stories.

Here is a list of some stories that show off my writing skills. I hope you all enjoy them! 🙂

Life: A Message To My Future Daughter

The Night My Life Changed: An Introduction

The Brother Who Left My Life

The First Sexual Encounter Of My Life

I know it’s a long shot, but it’s an attempt. Hopefully someone out there can hear me. Thank you.

 

Sincerely,

EDDY

 

 

The Brother Who Left My Life

This is the one of the most honest and sensitive topics I will write about. I hope you read until the end before you judge. It will mean a lot to me. Thank you.

I want to tell you about my older brother. He was the second child in the family and only three years older than myself. I looked up to him as a kid because he took care of me, plain and simple. I remember how he used to come up with these crazy funny jokes that made everybody in the room laugh and he had a laugh that would make us laugh some more. He introduced me to new music, hairstyles, fashion trends, graffiti, cigarettes, youth gangs, and the way drugs worked. He was amazing.

But as much as I hate to think about him as a person with great potential who let drugs take over his life, I know that’s the truth. He started drinking and smoking weed in junior high and soon upgraded to doing heroin and cocaine while in high school. During his senior year, the drugs took over and he started to act paranoid. He stayed up during most nights, checked the windows, and insisted people were coming to harm the family. In his head, he was only trying protecting us just like he did when I was younger. But as a teen, I didn’t want any protection.

One night I was frustrated with the way he was behaving that I started yelling at him to act normal and stop pretending to be mentally ill (I will never assume someone is faking ever again). I don’t know how it happened, but I remember that suddenly my brother was on top of me and he started choking me. I couldn’t move. All I could do was stare at his face. He looked so  terrified. From there one, I just remember how cold his hands felt around my neck. That was the first and last time he ever laid his hands on me. My oldest brother came rushing downstairs, pulled my brother off, threw him to the ground, started hitting him, and told him to never hit me again. He kept his word.

After that incident, I convinced myself to never talk to my brother again. I gave him the silent treatment which did a lot more damage than I had ever anticipated. I ignored his jokes and pretended he wasn’t my brother. I would leave the room when he wanted to talk. He would beg for me to listen, but I looked the other way. Ignoring him was the easy part, but noticing the real problem was the hardest.

He soon starting behaving more psychotic. He stayed in the room for hours and laughed hysterically when he was by himself. He refused to eat and lost a lot of weight in a short period of time. He refused to take showers or clean himself after going to the bathroom. He would make stories up and believed there were people who wanted to harm the family. He was suffering, but I didn’t care. I always thought he was pretending. My cousins suggested that I talk to him because that is what he really wanted. I’m not sure if talking to him would have prevented or prolonged his condition. I really don’t know.

He soon got arrested for being in a gang neighborhood that his probation terms prohibited him from entering. That was his third strike, so he got deported back to Mexico. He remained there while I graduated high school, received my AA degree, and moved to San Francisco. He called home on his birthdays, December 31st, and my family would take turns talking to him on the phone. They would wish him a happy birthday and say that they loved and missed him. I would get skipped whenever it would be my turn; my family knew that I didn’t want to talk to him. I now wished that I had.

You see, my brother was living in a place where there continues to be many kidnappings and murders, and my family lost contact with him almost a year ago. My mom prays that he will one day show up and we will be a family again. She has hope. I don’t now how. I can’t imagine the pain of not knowing if your son is dead or alive. I hope I never do. I visited my mom a few months ago, walked in her room, and saw a small shrine of my older brother with a photo of him that was taken before he lost weight. I couldn’t help, but get sad.

During that trip, I kept on thinking about how he didn’t see me graduate high school or wish me good luck before moving to San Francisco. I kept on thinking about how he missed out on my life. But then again I wasn’t there when he needed my help or when he got deported. I wasn’t there to wish him a happy birthday. I wasn’t there to tell him that everything would be okay and that we will soon be together. I wasn’t there to hug him when he needed it.

Then I think think of all the things he won’t get to see. He won’t get to see me when I get married. He won’t be there to wish me good luck when I get my first professional job. He won’t be here when I adopt a child. He won’t be here to protect me anymore or to tell me that everything will be okay and that we will be together soon; that makes me cry.

I often wonder if he ever thought of me during those nights in Mexico. I was a bad person to him. I wouldn’t be surprised if he stopped caring. Truth is, I really miss my older brother. He was a good person that just needed help. I can’t take back what I did (or didn’t do). It’s too late for that now. All I can do is hope that he’s in a good place right now, and to tell you that I love him.