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! ūüôā

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

 

 

Life: Getting Myself Tested For HIV

I want you to know that I hate clinics. And pills.

A couple weeks ago, a person I had previously¬†hooked up with contacted me to say he was HIV positive. I stood there quietly as I reread his text. I was shocked and didn’t know how to feel. I asked him when he found out and if I should be worried. He told me he had been positive for 6 months, but that he was undetectable now. He kept on insisting that we should sex¬†again and to forget about using condoms. I stopped listening. He continued¬†going on about how¬†condoms burn him, make him break out, and how much he loved bareback sex. I just hung up. But I didn’t mean to be rude. He chose¬†to engage in high risk behaviors and became¬†HIV positive. I¬†chose not to have sex with him again.

I walked into the clinic early in the morning the next day. I gave the receptionist my personal information and told her that I had been to this particular clinic before. She smiled and told me to wait in the lobby until I was called. I took a seat and saw a couple holding hands in front of me. They were watching T.V. and occasionally the guy would burst out laughing. I smiled. They were a cute couple. On the left of me was a girl who looked no more than 20 years old. She stared at the T.V., but never laughed. Not even during the funny parts. I continued watching T.V. until the nurse called my name.

I walked into the other room and knew the procedure. I took everything out of my pockets and got¬†weighed. I had lost four pounds. The nurse gave me a small container¬†to pee in and told me go inside the bathroom. I took a pee, left the¬†container inside, washed my hands, and stared at myself in the mirror. I¬†stood there for a few minutes. Then I began to cry. I don’t know why. After, I washed my face,¬†walked to¬†another room,¬†and¬†waited for the doctor.

She was petite and had a friendly smile. She asked the usual questions: Are you¬†on any type of medication? Are you experiencing any type of symptoms? How many sex partners have you had since your¬†last check up? I told her that I was not on any type of medication and¬†I didn’t know what were symptoms of HIV. She started explaining a few symptoms and I just nodded. I really just wanted to leave. She then asked how many sex partners I¬†had in the last year and suddenly I became sad. I told her I didn’t know. It was a pretty rough year for me. She told me to make an estimate, so I did. I had never lied to a doctor before. She made a note, walked toward the door, and said the nurse would be there¬†shortly to take my blood.

I waited quietly for the nurse. She walked inside and told me to extend my right arm so she could take my blood. I did as I was told and looked the other way. I didn’t want to see her or the needle. I had always been afraid of seeing blood. As, I sat there staring at the wall, I thought about the first time I got¬†tested and how scary the experience had been. I thought about the time I found out I had¬†gonorrhea and the embarrassment I felt telling my partners. I thought about how much I hated taking the¬†pill to get rid of it. I thought about how I could recall the number of sex partners a few years earlier and how I now couldn’t. I then felt a sharp pain on my arm. I never was¬†used to the needle. The nurse told me it would be over soon. I said okay and continued looking at the wall. Time had never moved more slowly in my life.

Once done, the nurse gave me condoms and told me to check out in the front. I walked to the receptionist and she said that the clinic would call if the results showed anything positive. I thanked her and quickly walked to my car. I sat there and looked at the bandage that the nurse put on my arm and touched it lightly. The pain was gone. There was nothing I could do now, but wait to get my results. And for a small moment, everything seemed alright. I started the car, hid the bag of condoms in the glove compartment, and drove home.

Life: A Message To My Future Daughter

I want to start off by letting you know how¬†happy I am that you’re in my life and¬†to let you know you’re beautiful.

At the time of writing, I am 24 years old, have my Bachelors in Psychology, and working with at-risk adolescent girls. My life is far from perfect. I am single, living with my parents, and¬†only¬†working part time. Sometimes I wonder why I should keep going. Other times, I don’t want to stop. I am writing to let you know that I struggled to get you. See, at the age of 21, I realized that I wanted a daughter. But there were¬†problems. I was gay and depressed. Young and immature. And all I could think about was¬†how bad things had gotten with my family.

Back then, my family life wasn’t the best. Your grandmother and uncles had been¬†deported, one of them¬†was missing, and I was hiding my secret from everyone. So I moved to San Francisco to escape. I know. What a scary and selfish thing to do. To leave your family and be on your own. But you know what? Those two years were some of the best in my life. I was exploring a new city, making new friends, and being openly gay.

You see, I always struggled with making friends. Real ones. Ones who still wanted to be my friend even if I shut down on them repeatedly. And on those cold nights in San Francisco, surrounded by my gay friends studying, playing, or drinking, I felt accepted. And for a brief moment I was happy.

When I left San Francisco to move back in with my family, I realized that I had to become an adult. But I never was good with change. And boy did I struggle. I was jobless. Poor. Lonely. And my depression worsened. I thought about leaving this world. And how nobody needed me.

I hope you don’t think about the same things I once thought. Or I hope you would be able to talk about them with me. Things do get better. I can promise you that much.

Because when I was about to give up on¬†the world, the world¬†showed me that it wasn’t going to give up on me. I ended up getting¬†a¬†job working with at-risk adolescent girls. And just like that my life¬†changed. I actually looked forward to¬†waking up in the morning.¬†And taking care of those girls, who never experienced a loving home or were struggling to find hope in their young lives, gave my life purpose for once. And when I held their daughters, looked in their eyes, and saw their smile, I knew what I wanted in my life.

I wanted you.

I know I will have to wait a few years from now to adopt you,¬†but I can’t wait. I can’t wait to hold you in my arms for the first time. I can’t wait to stay awake all night trying put¬†you to sleep. ¬†I can’t wait to get tired after¬†running around the house playing with you. Because hearing your laugh will be worth it. I can’t wait to hear you talk and have a conversation with you. And to understand the world as you see it. I can’t wait to see you grow into the most beautiful person you can be.

So I would like to thank you. For being there for me even when you weren’t. And¬†I hope that makes sense someday. And if it doesn’t, I’ll make sure I’ll be there to tell you.

The Night My Life Changed: An Introduction

So it began. The night that turned everything in my life around. I don’t know how it happened, but in some strange way, I kind of anticipated it. I don’t know how to describe it. It’s the kind of feeling you get when you’re walking home on a quiet night after a long day of doing good and you suddenly stop, look at the stars, and you can’t help but smile. Or when you’re wandering around a big city during the peak hours of the day and you can’t help but feel like you belong. You feel good and anticipate more. I was once told that in life, the things that make an impact in our lives will randomly come. They will hit hard. And maybe, just maybe, they will last a life time. I’m sorry to say that this event didn’t last a life time.

Ten days earlier, I had spent my 21st birthday alone in my room. I don’t know why. I had a lot to celebrate. I was going ¬†to graduate with my AA degree in a few days, move to San Francisco in a few months, and live the college life for two whole years. But none of that mattered. My birthday hadn’t meant anything to anyone in such a long time. I wished myself a happy birthday and continued on with my life.

The impact of being 21 wouldn’t register until months later, for now, I was back to my daily routine of finding potential friends online. For every ten messages I sent, I would get a reply from one or two guys. The rejection was brutally painful and the process dangerously lonely.

To be honest, I had no idea of who I would talk to that night. I was only trying to cure my boredom. It’s surprising how a single message could change your life, but that’s what happened. I mean, I didn’t know it in that instance. And I guess that’s what made his appearance into my life that more special.