Back From the Blue and the Black

Family members have told me that my father required that my crib be kept in the basement so that he would not have to hear me cry. My mother went along with this arrangement. Clearly, these choices reflect poor parenting templates and make me wonder how many generations back my troubles could be charted. I recall my grandmother telling people that I was the only baby she ever knew who had the blues. “Blue” was my nickname for years. People wondered what the name was about, but I didn’t want to explain. Fortunately, my little brother’s approximation of my first name became the nickname that took in the long run.

My father had been neglected and brutalized as a child. As an adult, he was given to marked sensitivity, mood swings, and rages. We never knew what to expect. Would he be sweet, play with the dog, and make us sandwiches for lunch, or would he become a storm that tore through the house and left us in ruins? My conclusion at age five was that sometimes he was my father and sometimes he was a monster. Regardless, I could not trust him. One night, after my father broke all the living room furniture and left my beaten brother sobbing, my mother crawled into my bed seeking solace. She tells me to this day, “You said, ‘Don’t worry, Mom, it will be okay in the morning,’ and it was.” She tells me this as if my words worked magic and could make things better. I began to feel responsible for what was taking place but couldn’t do anything to change it.

The creative aspects of my mind allowed me comfort and companionship. I would hear music playing as if I had my own radio in my head. The music was beautiful but made sleeping difficult. I had an imaginary friend named Bob who simply materialized one day when I was feeling lonely. He was an older gentleman who always wore suits. I could see him just as I could see anyone else. He would listen to me quite attentively and would always play whatever I wanted to play, including tea time with my stuffed animals. Sometimes he stayed for lunch, but he always went home for dinner. I miss him to this day, although I recognize him as an internal capacity. All the same, I would like to take this opportunity to say, “Thank you, Bob, for the good times. You’re a gentleperson and were always kind to the dolls and the teddy bears. And you always looked so dapper.”

When I started school, I kept to myself and did not know how to interact with the other children. I would sit off to the corner at recess and simply watch the others playing without any idea how to join them. I had trouble focusing and learning in class. I would daydream and sometimes sing out loud without realizing I was doing so. The whole matter of school was rather a disaster.

Home life grew even worse. My father continued to terrorize us and began to sexually abuse me. These incidents would cause me to see black and leave through the back of my head. There was no way I could contain or absorb the experiences. I simply could not stay. I had no choice but to dissociate. Coming back to my body meant taking up residence in a territory that was no longer mine. I began to think about killing myself and decided to look into it. I went out and gathered a quantity of holly berries because I had been told they were poisonous; I kept a mason jar full of them under my bed. I would take out the jar during especially rough periods and stare at it, thinking, “If I ate those, I could die. I wouldn’t have to be here. I wouldn’t have to wake up tomorrow. If I ate those, I could die.” Having the option out was freeing somehow. I never ate a single berry. There are years of my young life for which I have only small pieces of memory.

I heard a voice calling my name for the first time at age 16. I would walk all over the house, looking for the voice but never finding the source. The experience was disconcerting. Soon the voice began to tell me that I was going to meet people who would involve me in important pursuits. It was all quite vague, but I liked the sound of it because I was lonely and wanted to be involved in something that mattered. I didn’t feel that I mattered much myself. I would go to the park in order to meet the people the voice directed me to, only never to encounter them. Sometimes I would fall asleep waiting, only to wake up in the middle of the night all by myself in unfamiliar surroundings. At first I would have trouble remembering just why I was there, and then I would hurry home. It’s amazing nothing happened to me, given that I was a small woman sleeping in a park at night by herself.

At age 18, I got a part-time job as a waitress and moved into my own apartment. I began spending days at a time alone; I relished having my own place. Unfortunately, under the new conditions, the voice became louder and abusive. The voice would criticize and ridicule me. It would tell me I should be in pain and did not deserve to be around others. I would actually feel physical pain as if the voice was hurting me. The voice was there when I went to sleep and there when I woke up. It would follow me around laughing and mocking me. This continued until my father’s suicide. His death by his own hand took away the ground from beneath my feet. I experienced a tumult of emotions that I could not sort out or make sense of. I began remembering pieces of abuse that I had managed to forget for years. It was at this time that the voice I had been hearing became demonic, saying, “You should be dead, you should be dead, you should be dead!” Finally, the voice would repeat over and over again, “Die! Die! Die! Die!” I couldn’t sleep and couldn’t work. I became homeless. I wandered around, came into contact with the police, and drank and used street drugs. At times I didn’t care if I lived or died. I spent time with individuals lost in addiction and criminality and didn’t care how others treated me. Finally, I managed to seek refuge at my grandmother’s home. She seemed to understand, and having someone to talk to helped me to stabilize. I couldn’t stay there forever, however. With her encouragement, I made a plan to go to college and move into student housing.

At college, my moods would swing widely, and I would sometimes hear voices and see things in class. I wanted a social life and a boyfriend, but people seemed to think I was strange. I sought therapy through student counseling services and talked about my trauma and the development of my extreme experiences. Even though I found therapy very helpful, I was still a troubled individual. During one dark period, I made an attempt on my life. I sort of woke up in a dark tunnel in noncorporeal form. Once I got my bearings, I figured that I must be dead. I noticed that for the first time I was no longer in pain. A light up ahead looked warm and inviting, and I began to make my way toward it. Just then another noncorporeal entity came up to me and asked, “What are you doing here?” I replied that apparently I had died and was going to go into the light. The entity told me that I couldn’t be there yet and had to go back. I was very disappointed and didn’t want to go, but the decision was not mine, and I was sent back. I woke up in a battered body lying in blood. However, I was thinking to myself that I must not be such a bad person if I had been about to go into the light. I decided that there must be a reason I had lived and that I was wanted on the planet after all. I did what I could to get better. I learned that my symptoms traced back to trauma and that the demonic voice reflected dark experiences. I learned to express my emotions and reach out for help. I’d had monstrous experiences but did not have to continue to dwell within them. I was not what had happened to me.

Eventually, I began working in community mental health. I found that I could be very helpful to individuals who were struggling. My interest in being a good therapist kept me on my own recovery journey. Meeting others like myself through the consumer advocacy community deepened my appreciation for what I have to offer. I value my madness and remain a differently organized individual. Sometimes I hear music playing. I attend to a strong inner guiding voice that I believe everyone has. Metaphors can readily manifest for me; I may see or hear what others only think or feel. Darkness can become visible, as can joy. I grew up thinking I wouldn’t make it. My life in recovery has been a blessing. Blessings to you, too.