Circle Game

I almost never do this; write a post that I intend to publish immediately without worrying and overthinking about how to frame my thoughts. Nothing but a cursory edit. My dreams are sad and dark lately. Sad for my younger self as I navigate parenting my now adult child.  I am sitting in a waiting room (aptly named) for the fifth or sixth psychiatrist to care for my child, and if there is one thing I have learned on this journey, it is that my child is doing better than I was at its age, even though it would seem to be the opposite if you looked at me at twenty in comparison. 

I graduated high school on time. Went to university.  Had numerous jobs, sowed many wild oats, got my first apartment with a boyfriend, went to college, and then university again. Always worked, read obsessively, ended up with two degrees and a college diploma, got married, had a baby… all the boxes checked.  From the outside, I seemed pretty together.

Fear. Fear was the thing that kept up that facade. Fear of ending up in a psych ward because I knew deep down inside that there was something profoundly wrong with me. This was simply a fact and I self medicated in all the possible ways. 

Around the age of thirteen or fourteen, I started having vivid nightmares that I was being chased by a cloaked figure in black through a foggy and dimly lit parking lot. Every single night.  I would wake up in a panicked sweat just as it reached out to grab me. Every single night. I would wake up at 3 or 4 AM, too frightened to go back to sleep, so I would start to put on makeup and do my hair. I was impeccably groomed, rocking the perm and giant bangs, which were the style of the time (Grandpa Simpson voice).

Maybe it was the sleep deprivation, maybe it was the hormones shifting in my pubescent brain, or maybe it was the epigenetic angst of my ancestors trying to come to terms with the newest physical manifestation of their body,  but I started to have intense feelings of disgust and hatred toward myself whenever I would be looking in the mirror doing my hair and makeup. One morning, it burst forth in violent glory, causing me to suddenly realize that I was smashing my face into the protuding corner that defined the space I used to do my hair and makeup.

I sat there stunned. Stunned that I had done that to myself,  stunned from the physical pain that I had inflicted on myself,  and stunned that everything was now so calm and quiet.  It was like a wave of comfort and anchoring had rushed over me, and I felt relaxed in my body and mind for the first time. Euphoria. Violent, calm, euphoria.

I did not breathe a word of what was happening to me. Not to my best friend, not to my boyfriend, not to my parents, not to my sisters, not to my family doctor.  I didn’t want my mom and dad to feel the terror that I imagined would overcome a parent if their child was insane – a feeling with which I am now intimately acquainted although I would now scold my younger self for being overly dramatic and use the word “struggling” but back then there was no education about mental health and I equated anything that was not the normal happy veneer with loss of control. In retrospect, it seems both ridiculous and fitting that my way of managing the roar in my mind was to hold my breath so that my body would remain still and my racing brain would slow down. Don’t breathe, and don’t breathe a word to anyone. 

Fast forward a couple of years to the day I decided to get help if I woke up. I won’t go into detail, but I did something that I thought would end my life and went to sleep with the idea that if I woke up, I would go to my guidance counselor at school and ask for help. I did wake up and did go to the guidance counselor, but I did not get help. It made things worse. I decided that I would never again disclose to anybody what was happening to me. 

All the milestones, all the boxes checked.  All the self-hatred, self-harm, and inner turmoil. All the scolding myself and treating myself horribly in order to seem normal. I look at old photos of myself and feel so, so sad that the outer image was pretty much the opposite of what was happening in my mind. There have been many times that I have literally felt invisible – to the point of psychosis. I have only learned that this was psychosis by sitting in on my child’s psychiatric appointments. Seeing photos of myself has become an interesting journey in itself… as recently as 2013, I was self-harming.  Cutting my forearms and wearing long sleeves in warm weather to hide it.  

Old photos have been a thing lately.  My only child just turned twenty, and I want to frame a photo of it at twenty alongside one of my mother and myself at the same age. It occurred to me while sitting here waiting in the waiting room that my child, who has been under psychiatric care for most of its life and continues to miss milestones such as finishing high school, is probably doing better at twenty than I ever was. 

The diagnostic letter from the previous psychiatrist lists Borderline Personality Disorder, OCD, ADHD, anxiety, and gender dysphoria (my child is trans, hence the pronoun “it”). I have had to drag it to the psych ward more than once, and active psychosis has now manifested scores of dissociative identities. My child contains multitudes. Walt Whitman would be proud.

I am proud. Intensely proud that my child has not let the inner chaos win by hiding what was happening.  So intensely relieved that we live in a world that is slowly becoming a safer place for children with psychiatric disorders to be seen and heard.  So intensely terrified that the current political climate seems to be one that would roll back all of this progress and lead to people hiding, as I did to my own massive detriment.  

Gender dysphoria arose as the result of my child hiding who it really was inside. Trans issues in children are getting a lot of airtime lately, but honestly, it has been the easiest of all of the issues to tackle. We got excellent medical care and access to trans affirming support. I say we because there was so much excellent parent support that I felt cared for and able to navigate the ground that often seemed to be shifting under my feet.

I fear that the current discourse around transgender children and their care will lead to many of them hiding what is happening to them.  I have never identified as trans, but I certainly had mental health struggles, and my life would have been so much better had they been addressed. I grew up in a time where anyone who was different was ostracized, openly mocked, and harmed in both emotional and physical ways. I was never going to tell anyone what was happening inside of me. I am thankful that this new generation feels entitled to mental health and wellness, rather than hiding and trying to appear normal by checking all the boxes. 

The shame of my generation is hypocrisy.  Thinking we stood for non-conformity but harming ourselves physically, emotionally,  and financially in order to conform and be functional at any cost. I remember being in high school when it was cool to have “unique” things… and then wondering if it was really unique if everyone was trying to look unique…?! “I love your necklace/earrings/bracelet/hair pins, they’re so UNIQUE!!!”  while simultaneously shunning anyone unable to afford red tab jeans. Halting the hair and makeup, raiding my dad’s closet for orange tab work jeans and flannel shirts, looking at myself as little as possible, trying to be invisible, hating myself: these were all survival tactics. 

Sitting in this waiting room today, I am feeling happy that my child is getting the care it needs. Happy that it did not finish high school if it meant constant thoughts (and actions) of suicide in order to achieve, and happy that whatever path lies before it, it will not be a secret one.