The Silent Struggle of Trauma and Mental Illness

Why do depression and anxiety affect so many people, young and old, male and female?

Here is a cold, hard fact for you. It doesn’t matter your age or gender. Your skin color or the culture you come from are also irrelevant. Mental Health Does Not Discriminate. Without the proper help, you will find yourself in a cyclone cycle. But what is the appropriate help?

Sure, those of us who struggle may have good days. Still, most of us fear being ‘too happy.’ We think “something” bad is about to happen. As a result, the good days are masked. The bad days are awful. Yet, we have learned to mask those days. We have learned to cope and put on a “happy” face for those all around us. It is a sick psychological disorder.  

I am writing this because we need adequate help and guidance to win this battle. In my personal experience, the more we talk about it, the more we learn to heal from it.

In my personal experience, physicians and NPs are trained to avoid conversation. They may choose not to listen to you. Instead, they focus on prescribing drugs, saying, “Let us numb the pain.”

I consider myself an expert in this field, and here is why. I didn’t need a college degree to know that I had PTSD, depression, anxiety, and oppression. Yes, I have been diagnosed with all of these, but I knew I suffered from this. Walking into the doctor’s office and counselor’s office, I knew I had all of this, and here is why. I grew up in an abusive, dysfunctional home. We were kids when my abuse took place, and I was the youngest of four.

We went to the cops, and we went to the school nurse with bruises. I experienced sexual, emotional, and physical abuse from the time I was born. This continued until I could move out at the age of 18. We moved all around the state of Kansas and Missouri, evicted from one home to the next. Life as a child, well, it just plain sucked.

I attended several different schools in my childhood, from Kindergarten to 12th grade. We rarely had hot water, no telephone, and hardly ever had electricity. Did I mention we were always evicted? See, I was the poor girl in school, roaches crawling out of my backpack, wearing dirty clothes all the time. I was the stinky kid no one wanted to sit by or be around, and rightfully so. But for the ones who went to school and got their degree, you know who I am talking about. They are the school counselors, teachers, doctors, nurses, officers, superintendents, pastors, attorneys, and judges. The list goes on. We were always the case in the system. Our home was visited by DFS, cops, CPS, teachers, school counselors, and pastors. Everyone was asking questions, yet we were still in the hands of our abuser. So, to me, a degree only puts you in a seat. It truly doesn’t make you smart enough to know any better than the next.

Some of you out here have more degrees than a thermometer and still need to do something with them. Growing older brings wisdom, and I have learned that it does not matter who holds a degree or certificate. Many of those individuals are trying to survive themselves.

My point simply being, if you are in the seat of your degree that you worked hard to get. If you are not changing the world with what you are doing, then frankly, who cares? That may sound terrible to read. If you can help the less fortunate or a child and choose to ignore it, you might feel proud of that degree. However, no one else is. At the end of this life, no matter how rich or poor we are, We all face the same creator. You may have the riches of the world. I have never seen a UHAUL behind a hearse in the 40 years I have lived. This perspective remains true when it is all said and done.  

Anyone with a brain or consciousness knew what was going on; did they not care? I don’t know and can’t answer that. As a child, that is how I felt; as an adult, I understand there is a lot of red tape in many situations. But that is now. Was it that way in the 1980s or 90s? I don’t believe so.

I remember here recently conversing with an attorney widely known for his success in getting the “bad guys” charges dropped. Many were abuse charges that he was putting the children back in the hands and homes of their abusers. I specifically asked him, “Does this bother you knowing you are putting these children back in danger?” He replied quickly, “No, I am getting paid to do this job and I am successful at it.” He was like those who were there for me and my siblings when I was young. Spineless and crooked, chasing the dollar. Nonetheless, he was successful at it.

I don’t blame just them. I blame many of my family members. Regardless, those individuals didn’t have my back. They didn’t help that little girl. At the tender age of six, I learned there was no hope in our justice system, school system, family system, and church. However, I knew one day it would be my job. If I were ever blessed enough to have children, I would break this cycle.

That little girl has grown up into a woman. She is ready to scream for the world to know. “That without adequate help and the right kind of professionals, you will keep having mental health crises.”

See, I had no control over the abuse and trauma that took place as a child. The pain that it caused me was not my fault. However, the healing is my responsibility. Your pain from your trauma is your responsibility to heal.

I will start with my story, but the truth is, my story is not very different from others.

We, the “problems,” all visit the “doctors” for help. Since we were small, we were brainwashed as children to believe that to feel better, you go to the doctor. But then you go and become nothing more than a lab rat. As you grow older, you realize they know nothing about how to “fix” you. Many doctors and health professionals refer to a guide. They hope it works with the chemicals in your body. It is at no fault of their own, but I have had enough. If you use the word “suicide,” you are a mental case and need to be put on watch. They ask a series of questions. Then, they pop you a pill. You will come back in a few weeks. Then, “we will see if it works.”  

We must find a way to heal our minds from past trauma. This trauma could be inflicted by ourselves or by someone else. If we don’t, it will kill us. That is just the hard, cold truth. You do not have to be a doctor to know this. We all know someone who holds onto the excuse “they did that to me.” They might say, “I can’t get over what they did.” Someone you know has become or is the angriest person you have ever met. This is due to past trauma. If you study their behaviors, you may notice their health may not be good. Their attitude is off. Their glass is always half empty. Are they always in pain somewhere in their body?

It causes depression and oppression in our bodies. This is what hurt and anger do to us. It eats us up from the inside out. When you hear someone encourage you to forgive that person who hurt you, it isn’t for that person. It is for you. It is so this person who inflicted this pain on you doesn’t get to continue to control you ever again. You may think, “They don’t control me.” If you have used substances to cope with the pain they caused, then they still control you. If the person still pops up and you think about seeking revenge, they still control you. If you still speak about your trauma, and you are using it as an excuse for your actions. They still control you. If your trauma is not being used as a testimony or to help others. The person who hurt you still has control of you. And whoever inflicted this pain on you does not deserve another ounce, another minute, another hour of your day.

You never have to succumb to this person ever again, but for your own good, health, and freedom, you must forgive your abuser. I struggled with this concept for years: why would I forgive my father for the abuse he put on me and my siblings? He called me filthy disgusting names like whore, slut, and cunt. He told me I would never amount to anything. He even said, “If you were on fire I wouldn’t piss to get you out.” I was sexually abused by him and became his punching bag. In my mind, forgiving him would let him off the hook. I lived through that hell for 18 years. I turned him into the school, church, my mother, and my family; my siblings turned him into authorities and others. People knew, but people didn’t care. “We just didn’t know what we could do.” That is what I heard years later. But I had to learn as an adult that forgiving him wasn’t for him. He was never going to pay for what he did here.

Now that he is dead, I don’t know if he is paying now; sometimes I wonder. Some people believe my mother, siblings, and I are lying. To some people, he was the most incredible man that had ever lived. On his deathbed, I did show up for a few reasons. I needed closure, but I needed to see for myself that he was dying. I have only shared this with a few people. Now I am sharing it with everyone. It is part of my story. My story is not negated because it may offend the part of the family that did not believe that my father was an abuser.

When I walked in, the male nurse in the room stated, “Oh, he hears his daughter’s voice.” My 58, 6’6″, 300lb bloated father lay in a coma and started wrestling around. “He is so excited you are here.” I looked at this male nurse who was doing his work. I said, “No, he most certainly thinks I am here to kill him. He was not a good father.” The nurse looked at me and started rambling. “Wasn’t he a biker? He did all these great things while listing this and that.” I did not reply to the nurse. Instead, I laid my hand on the big, fat, bloated belly of my dying abuser. I said that either you or your friends have been telling this man a lie. Regardless, I will let him believe the good things about you. You know if only one of the ten words spoken about you is accurate. It is usually the bad words.

He was a charmer. People who didn’t live with this monster loved him. Actually, I still can not wrap my head around that at times. He could be hilarious at times. So, I just had to understand while growing up, not everyone would believe the story of my abuse. As I continued to talk to my dying father, I told him I forgave him. I hoped that one day I would see him in heaven. He died two days later. I do not miss this man whatsoever. My children have heard of him and met him a couple of times. They never knew him personally. For 18 years, I was forced to live under a roof and endure the pain of his abuse. The flashbacks are brutal; I have to forgive him daily. I used to want to kill him, but the fact is, he is dead, and the pain is still there.

I thought that the day this man died, all my feelings of pain would disappear. The hurt he did to me would vanish too. But, nope, they are still there. The only thing that calms me is knowing that he can no longer harm another child. He can no longer lie and manipulate other adults into thinking how great of a person he is. The truth is the pain may not have been my fault. However, the healing is my responsibility. Your healing from your trauma is your responsibility as well. Be blessed.