Category Archives: suicide

Freddy Bear

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10

Big sister and little brother

Freddy Bear,

I’ll never forget the day Mom announced to us that she was pregnant with you. But Mom being Mom did it in her own typical way. We were at the dinner table, and, as usual, dinner was a hot mess of arguments and fights. In the middle of this mayhem, Mom just shouted, “God Dammitt all of you! I’m pregnant! You understand that?! Pregnant! I hate you people! I should be dead!” The part that gave us pause was the pregnant part, the wanting to be dead and hating us, not so much as that was a frequent occurrence.

But Mom changed her tune when we were in a serious car accident while she was pregnant with you, and we nearly lost you. Thereafter, she referred to you as The Bonus Baby.

You were born the summer between 6th and 7th grade for me. It turned out to be a weird summer. Shortly after you were born, Mom and Dad were spending time at the hospital with Cate. To this day I don’t know why Cate was in the hospital. For most of the summer, Mom and Dad were largely MIA. I don’t remember why. Because of this a large portion of your care was turned over to me. I even moved your crib out into the living room so that it would easier to keep an eye on you.

You were such a joy of a baby to care for as you were not difficult or cranky. I was so lucky. Our siblings blamed me for your love of Madonna because the summer I cared for you Madonna released her True Blue album, and MTV could not play those music videos enough. The television was always on MTV, and you lived in the living room.

But then you grew up, and you grew up in our wretched home. Mom was still Mom with her fits of rage and frequent threats of suicide. One particular day, you were around 5 or 6, Mom was raging and yelling about dying. As usual we all just stared at her, and waited for it to end. All of a sudden you started climbing on her saying, “Mommy, I love you, I love you, I love you … .” As you said this you climbed into her lap, and started kissing her face. We all just wondered, “Where did this beautiful child come from?” You weren’t like the rest of us as you had a heart that seemed to be unaffected by the ugliness in that house.

All these years I’ve wanted to tell you that I’m so sorry about that day in 1992, when you were 7, and I came to visit all the way from Tacoma.

I had practiced with my therapist on setting boundaries with Mom. I was ready. I walked in that house, and, unsurprisingly, within 5 minutes of my visit Mom was raging at Timmy. She was doing her ferocious yelling and raging that I want no part of at all. When she gets that way I get that floaty feeling and just want to escape.

When she got this way with Timmy I told her that since things were hectic I would return the next day to visit as I preferred to visit when things were calmer. She didn’t like this, and started yelling at me to get back inside as I walked out. I just repeated myself, and started walking back to my in-laws house. Mom then got in the car, and started following me or chasing me, after all these years I’m not sure which it was. I do know she drove onto the sidewalk as she was following/chasing me. I wasn’t so sure of her intentions so I cut across backyards in our neighborhood to get away from her.

Mom then declared to the universe that she had one less daughter. She forbade family members to have contact with me, but oddly enough she brought the family to the airport when I was leaving. You guys weren’t allowed to hug me goodbye. It broke my heart to watch you standing there confused. Mom acknowledged me, and watched the rest of you as if she was testing y’all to see if any of you would defy her by showing me affection.

You stood there so confused, and my heart was breaking. Part of me was wishing you would come hug me, and the other part of me was trying to convey to you that it was okay that you chose her. I understood as you still had to live with her. I got to leave. You had to stay. I tried so hard to convey that I loved you no matter what. You never looked littler to me than that day in the airport.

Our relationship has never been the same since that day. It was a pivotal moment for us. It’s almost as if you’re still following that edict from her long ago in 1992. I understand Freddy Bear. I do. You stayed behind, and had to survive. I miss you, and I love you.

Your Big Sister,

Beatriz

(Photo credit: Torbein)

a cheese sandwich

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6

Muenster!

I met with my therapist today, and we mutually agreed that I would not immediately transition to the psychiatrist. I was a freaky mess even just talking about it, crying and shaking. Her theory is that I have a lot of transition going on right now, and right now is not a good time to abruptly go from seeing her to the psychiatrist in the span of one week. I’ve been seeing her for 6 years, and I’ve accomplished a great deal with her in that time. There were many times when I felt she was the only one in the world who cared about me, and there were times that the only thing in the crevices of my mind that kept me from going too far in my suicidal ideation was the fact that I did not want to leave her with the burden of my suicide, especially with all the help she had given me.

So, I’ll transition in a few weeks to the psychiatrist. It feels like the right way to do this.

In other news, the new office space at work feels like a scene from Hoarders. There are boxes and loose papers everywhere around us. The previous owner of my desk must have had a fondness for jam sandwiches, or something with jam. I went to open a desk drawer today and found the handles sticky with old jam. I nearly retched. I cleaned the outside of one drawer before the heebies set in again. I stayed far away from that nasty desk today.

So, I knew I needed to try to be good to myself after my session given the way I was feeling. I went grocery store shopping for dinner, and I found myself being drawn to Muenster cheese and sandwich bread. I decided I would have a cheese sandwich for dinner, and it oddly put a smile on my face.

Muenster cheese reminds me of my grandma, Mama Titi. She was called Titi because my cousin Steve pronounced her first name, Beatriz, as Titi. Mama Titi would get a big block of Muenster cheese on a regular basis as a government commodity. She would make me quesadillas with that cheese, and, sometimes, it was the best food I’d had all week. The gooey quesadillas on fresh soft tortillas were a great big hearty hug for a sad and hungry girl.

This past winter I went to the residential center at McLean Hospital for three weeks. For lunch they provided a stocked pantry and refrigerator from which you could make your own lunch. I was so freaked out being around so many strange people that I did not want to linger in that kitchen. So, my lunch was a cheese sandwich because it was the quickest and easiest thing to make. After the third day at McLean, I was no longer too scared to linger in the kitchen. But by then the cheese sandwich had become a source of comfort for me. It remained a regular part of my lunch rotation the entire time I was there.

At McLean I started to feel hopeful again. With my grandmother I felt hope and comfort, and so it goes for the cheese sandwiches that remind me of both of them.

Don’t tell me what to do

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2

English: A soapbox at Occupy Boston

Warning: This is more of a soapbox post. I’ve got a bee in my bonnet today.

I’m having an issue at the moment with someone giving me explicit direction on actions to take in treating my PTSD. Doing this is a surefire way to get on my bad Mexican side. I’m never sure what to do with such unsolicited advice. It is my belief that PTSD impacts all of us in different ways. We all have different triggers, and I believe that the treatment can be potentially different for many of us.

Don’t get me wrong. There is nothing wrong with saying to me, “You think you might want to call your therapist/psychiatrist, etc?” Or, “Wouldn’t it be better if you got out of the house, or ate something healthy?” I see these things as helpful suggestions, not as directives. Lord knows we need these suggestions when we get in the dark place. At least I do.

To me, directives are “You should do xyz treatment.” If a person is not part of my clinical team then they should please frame such things as suggestions, and not as directives. Good Lord!

What works for me may or may not work for others. I may make suggestions, but I will never direct. If I ever do, please call me on it.

Perhaps I’m in a mood because I heard from a friend of mine and learned that she tried to take her life back in April. We’re both suffering, but I recognize that her triggers are different from mine. Also, very few medications have shown any success with her. She’s trying, and tripping up and trying again. God knows she doesn’t want to suffer anymore. I can’t stand the suggestion from others that she just needs to change her attitude and she will be better.

We don’t want to suffer. We want to have families and be loved just like the rest of the populace. We want to do more than hold down jobs. We want to succeed at our careers, and we want to be able to do things like get out of bed in the morning without the daily fight just to get our asses out of bed. We’re tired of gaining weight from psych meds that mess with our metabolism. We want our goals to be more than “shower, eat, don’t die.” But sometimes just doing those three things is success for us in a day. Sometimes that is where we are. We keep going even though we know that, for many of us, are lives are half lives because of the struggles that keep us from doing all that we want to do in this life. But still we keep going. We keep going because we have the hope that some day our lives will improve if we keep up the fight.