Tag / friendship

by bcmiller2014

Nervous Breakdown

The term “nervous breakdown” has different connotations to different people. When I had one, I didn’t even recognize it as such, it was so different than what I thought one would look like. There wasn’t any screaming or wailing or illicit drug use. I didn’t become suicidal, and didn’t want to die until several months after the initial event. I know that every person’s experience is different but the only story I can tell is mine, so I thought I might clarify what a nervous breakdown is like, from my own singular perspective. 

It started with a bad decision. I was told by my parents that instead of pursuing a different plan of action in getting my grandmother moved from Illinois to Oklahoma, they were putting it off until I could spend two weeks alone with my physically disabled mother, caring for her while my husband helped Dad with the actual move.  My response, 2000 miles away, was to curl into a ball and start wailing because the burden of it felt absolutely overwhelming. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t overwhelmed by giving physical care. I was undone by something totally different and difficult to quantify.  I couldn’t even define it for myself, so it felt outside my rights to refuse to do as they wished. I love my parents. I’ve always wanted to make them happy (which statement may give some clue to the source of my issues).  It may also help to know that I am the only child of two people whose siblings had both died young, so we’ve always been a small, tightly knit clan. 

I should’ve been more honest from the beginning. Instead I was obedient as usual.  I arrived a day early so I could spend a bit of time with a friend, brought running clothes so I could exercise, and even borrowed some baby bunnies for some fuzzy comfort. I felt like I had put as many coping devices in place as possible. 

The strangest thing is that while I was there, nothing very eventful happened. My mother is a generally kind and submissive person, and our only issues were quiet ones. She didn’t like that I went running because it meant time away from her, although she never did anything significant to prevent it. There were some moments during which I was disappointed not to be able to share myself with her, my struggles and deep thoughts, because her own manner of coping requires a certain level of superficiality. In the end, I think what weighed on me most was the knowledge that I literally meant everything to her. I was her one true human connection in the world, her source of security and joy. My father was never emotionally available to her when I was young, and I became a sort of emotional stand-in for him. There are more dynamics but I have no desire to put my parents’ failings onstage. I merely mention them as context for my reactions. They are well-intentioned people who had painful childhoods, did the best they could, but because they’d never faced their own demons were unempowered to prevent the creation of an emotionally abusive household. 

Every day I was there I could feel the burden of my parents’ happiness and security growing heavier, but I put on my game face and fought through to what I thought was the end.  I was taught to honor my parents. I’d learned not to make waves with them in order to survive, and those childhood patterns are incredibly difficult to break.  I didn’t have a therapist at that time to call and ask for advice. Perhaps if I’d been able to come home when I expected there would’ve been less fallout. Then again, perhaps not.  I probably would’ve been left alone at home while Keith worked, and as things worked out, I had more support than I ever could’ve anticipated. 

During the last couple days of our stay, during which Keith had originally planned to visit his family and a client in a neighboring city while I stayed with my own parents, things went awry.  My grandmother fell, and although she ended up being fine, it shook everyone up and delayed getting her apartment put together.  In the end I realized that I would have to stay for an extra week, even while I knew I couldn’t.  I felt the mask of my strength melting away and there was no outlet for my pent up emotions. In desperation I called my dear childhood friend and asked if I could stay with her for the extra week, and it was a matter of my salvation that she accepted me with open arms. She moved one of her girls into her own room and made up a bed while Keith and I pretended to say goodbye to my parents at the airport. Then Keith dropped me off at her house and went to take care of business. 

The friend with whom I stayed lives on a lovely little farm. They’d been her baby bunnies I’d borrowed, but she also cared for a plethora of rescued cats, several dogs, chickens, ducks and pigs. She’d also been through her own hard times, becoming a widow before the age of 40. The last time I’d stayed there I’d gone to be with her following her husband’s death. This time the tables were turned. 

Providentially, her adopted brother from California happened to be visiting at the same time. He has the heart of a healer, is a trained masseuse and is well-informed on natural health remedies. Perhaps more than anything, he has a soothing presence that was comforting and stabilizing. 

I don’t actually remember what happened at first when I got there. We probably talked, and then her brother (we’ll call him David) gave me a massage. I curled up on the bed afterward and laid there in the dark, but not for long. I was surprised to discover that I didn’t really want to be alone. I didn’t want to have to talk, but I wanted to have people around me. That was one of the miracles of the situation. No one there expected anything from me or was weirded out by the fact that I spent hours at a time curled up silently here or there, sometimes at someone’s feet. They’d go to the feed store and take me with them, or go with me for a walk, but I basically was allowed to simply exist. All of my energy had been spent, and I was entirely empty.  There were many hugs and shoulder rubs, and the oldest daughter kept bringing me baby bunnies to comfort me. 

One day David asked me if I was ready to give back to my parents the keys to their lives. I said “yes” and he walked me through an utterly spiritual visualization exercise in which I did so. I won’t give the details here, but I will tell you that it was profound, and one of the reasons I was able to continue breathing. 

“What?” You may ask. “No hysteria?  That doesn’t qualify as a nervous breakdown.”  Oh, my friend, it most certainly did. My body stopped digesting properly. I was constipated for five days and so I stopped eating. I didn’t really want food anyway. I wasn’t thinking clearly. I was having a conversation in the kitchen with David one night and remember taking a deep breath and then…nothing. Fortunately he caught me because there were sharp corners everywhere. I just remember hearing a disembodied voice that sounded vaguely familiar, urgently calling for my friend. She’d already gone to bed but came back out, and I could hear them talking about me.
“She just wilted,” he said.
They tried to figure out what to do, and managed to get me to the bed. David asked me questions, and my answers were slurred. I could use my whole mouth but there simply wasn’t enough energy to form clear consonants. He took my pulse in both wrists; they put my feet up. I gradually came back around to thinking clearly, and we finally decided I should just go to bed. David won eternal citizenship in my heart by sleeping on a mattress on the floor next to me because I was scared. I woke up the next morning, shivering. It was July in Oklahoma and I was freezing cold. They immediately set to work making me food that wouldn’t clog up my works any further. I’ve got to say, that was the best oatmeal I’ve ever eaten in my life. The long and the short of it is that they cared for me. They nursed me, and didn’t freak out that I was in bad shape. I’ve rarely experienced that kind of unconditional acceptance and love. It was this compassion and affection that kept me from sliding further into the abyss, and I am fully aware of how fortunate I am. 

Months later the head of my department saw me at a meeting and said to herself, “Oh, dear!  We need to get her some support!”  I still had little life in my face, my steps, my shaking fingertips. 

So, what did having a breakdown feel like?  I don’t know about others’ experiences, but for me it felt like a complete absence of resources, as though the well from which I daily draw all my abilities and connections with the world, were utterly depleted. Forget creativity!  I had just barely enough energy to move air in and out of my lungs. The only energy I did have was frenetic and anxious, robbing me of sleep even when I was completely exhausted. 

It’s been a long road back. Some things that were lost haven’t yet returned. I lost some degree of manual dexterity. I lost the motivation to cook, and now I go by the grocery store on the way home and buy salads or salmon and roasted vegetables. I’m still not high on energy and I had to start taking anti-anxiety meds. But here’s something it might be helpful to know. I didn’t become stupid or oblivious to the effect I was having on others. I didn’t drool into a cup or become a completely different person than I was before. My essential “self ness” remained the same, but muted as though I were reaching out from a long distance. As I mentioned, I often wanted to be around safe, mellow people who wouldn’t make a big deal of how pale my life was. 

I guess I’m sharing this mostly because I don’t think a lot of people have felt comfortable being vulnerable about anything remotely related to mental illness. There’s still a stigma attached to it, and it’s not that I’m astoundingly courageous. I just want to be part of bringing more transparency to topics like this one. I know no other way to make progress against prejudice and fear. If you know someone who’s going through a hard time emotionally, whether due to loss or hardship or mental illness, try to imagine yourself in their shoes. I know that’s trite, but it still holds true. If you were 40 years old, had been raised as an only child in an emotionally abusive environment, had never learned any tools for drawing healthy boundaries, and felt completely responsible for your ailing parents’ security and happiness, how would you respond?  My situation was further complicated by my parents’ strict religious teachings, and the fact that not a single other person on earth ever witnessed the darker side of my family experience. My parents were well mannered and highly respected. 

I’ve wished sometimes that I were more rebellious. If I’d stood up earlier and defied them, maybe my life would’ve been easier. None of that matters, though. What matters is where I go from here. How do I take back my life?  How do I move forward, caring for these people who will almost certainly maintain the same behavior, and change my responses to them?  How do I allow this experience to make me a better person, with more empathy, more voice, more permission to be human?  These are the questions I face today. What about you?

by bcmiller2014

Impossible Soup, Part III

Some of the Friday Friends on the beach at Whidbey Island

Some of the Friday Friends on the beach at Whidbey Island

It’s a remarkable thing to have a community, like a big extended family full of people who wear you out and fill you up, annoy you and have your back. They hold you with love, acceptance and the perseverance to work through the myriad of things that can be relationally difficult. Coming from a tiny family, just me, my parents and my grandparents who were far away, the gift of community has been profoundly wondrous, occasionally perplexing and sometimes exhausting. But it’s always been worth it. I think the hardest thing about it has been the lesson that things change, and the members of that intimate circle shift in availability. Change is a natural part of life.

While we met with Jason and Linda and the group that formed around them, we met every week on Fridays. We called ourselves the Friday Friends, and determined that our overarching goal was to be family to each other. Different people came almost every week. There were people who were from our church but there were others who Jason had usually met in some way. It may sound trite, but he really was magnetic, and he had a huge heart. Jason was an actor who worked for a non-profit organization focused on providing affordable housing to struggling families. He was great at it, but he always longed for the stage. His love for his wife and daughter meant he needed to spend evenings at home, so he let that go for a while.

Every year we’d all chip in and rent a big house on one of the local islands. We’d hang out and play games, go to the beach, and take long walks. We’d also gather to share the real stuff that was going on in our lives, pray for each other and simply be with each other in hard times. Jason would make traditional Indian chai in the morning. Linda had taught him how, and she’d spent a couple years teaching music in India, so she knew how to make the real stuff. Waking up in a house with so many people in it, I’d be a little overwhelmed until I’d stand next to Jason while he served up the chai. Somehow then I knew I was safe. He was the first man I’d ever felt safe with, besides Keith.

His protective brother-ness helped me out at church, too. We’d always sit in the row in front of the Francai (Francis, but plural), and I knew that with Keith next to me and Jason behind me, nothing was going to hurt me. I suppose that even included God, since I was quite afraid of him. Jason was spiritually gifted in remarkable ways, and since he was okay with me it seemed like he created some kind of bridge that I could stand on and be near God and not be destroyed.

There was a profound sweetness about that time with them, even though I was extraordinarily desperate in other ways. We always knew that Jason and Linda would leave eventually, but we thought they’d end up going back to India and having occasional furloughs back with us. I tried not to think about it, which I think was the best thing to do (or not do). The sharing of one’s heart naturally implies that it will be broken. The only way to prevent this is to live without giving one’s heart away, and that’s no life at all.

by bcmiller2014

Impossible Soup, Part II

I’m grateful to say I’ve been the recipient of an amazing amount of love during my life, and not just from my sweet husband. Although I was loved as a child, it was mixed with a lot of emotional unhealth.  When Keith and I first got married there were a lot of disastrous familial events as well. When I think of being loved, I think of the time since I moved to Seattle. 

When we first came we didn’t know anyone. We’d simply fallen in love with the area while interviewing for work, and decided to go ahead and move.  It was risky but such a good decision, and good timing, too. We got here in August, 2001. Had we waited another month the world would’ve already changed and we’d probably have stayed where we were. 

We found an apartment in a charming part of West Seattle, immediately painted it tangerine and magenta to offset the coming weather, and worked on getting jobs.  In the evenings we found ourselves staring at each other blankly, and outside of deciding we’d overreacted to stories of cloudy Seattle days and should probably repaint, we wondered how to get connected with a community. I was still entrenched in all the “shoulds” and “oughts” of Christianity so finding a church was automatically on our list of things to do. I have to admit, it did provide a means of meeting new people, and we were fortunate to find a faith community in which we seemed to fit.  

The church on which we settled was located in the heart of the University District, which has a slightly ragged vibe and is home to a lot of street kids. In the 60’s it was actually designated as an official area where the homeless could legally hang out.  The church leadership seemed humble and the people down-to-earth, and a lot of genuine, practical care was expressed toward those in the neighborhood. The sanctuary walls were and still are, I am sorry to say, a horrendous shade of peach, and the trim is kelly green with red accents. The building had been used as a Mongolian grill at one point, and there’s never been enough money to redo it.  

After church one Sunday there was a potluck lunch. Now, Seattle has a lot of remarkable qualities, and one of them involves the regional cuisine. We focus on fresh fish, vegetables, lovely gluten and dairy-free options, and plenty of international influences. Our specialties are coffee (of course), teas, chocolate, and artisanal breads. In general it’s quite fabulous. Our church, though, was a quirky little melting pot of hippies, students, professors and international visitors. While a Midwest potluck would consist of half a dozen casseroles, some chickens, part of a cow and the inevitable jello-based salads, we found our own potluck dishes were limited to fried rice, some chips and something that smelled profoundly of garlic and coriander. There wasn’t any soup for my shaky hands to deal with and nothing was exceptionally bad on its own, but it was a strange conglomeration. We’ve never been back to a potluck since. 

We lined up behind another couple. The  pair were engaging and affable and the wife was extremely pregnant.  We chose to sit together at a small table, and as we started to chat we began to notice unusual similarities in our stories. Linda and I were both born in small, northern towns in Illinois and majored in music for our undergraduate degrees. Keith and Jason looked like brothers and even wore the same wedding bands. Even more notably, both pairs of us went to Wisconsin on our honeymoons. Who else in the world would do that, on purpose?  I mean, there’s nothing really wrong with Wisconsin, but as far as honeymoon destinations go, it’s somewhere above Detroit but below places where you can’t drink the water.

With each revelation Jason and Keith grew increasingly animated and Linda and I began exchanging glances that said, “Oh my God!  How can there be another man who’s this energetic and expressive?!” 

Strangely enough, for the next month or so we kept seeing each other everywhere.  We’d pass on the highway. We’d bump into each other in a suburb on the other side of Lake Washington. They’d be sitting in a cafe that we’d spontaneously chosen to visit. It got to be ridiculous. It seemed divinity was determined for us to get together. 

After Linda had their first child, a baby girl, she and Jason started feeling isolated, themselves. They no longer could go out and visit with people in the evenings without getting a sitter, so they decided to try bringing visitors to them. They opened their little home to a group of friends, and we were included.  It was through this community with Jason and Linda, that for the first time I began to experience unconditional acceptance. Even when my facade was broken and people could clearly see how fucked up I was, hugs were waiting for me on the other side of our friends’ front door. 

Jason’s hugs were the best. He was always the greeter and every single time he saw my face, he was genuinely glad to see me. His put his whole body into his hugs, and wrapped me up in his acceptance. All I had to do was show up, which was sometimes quite an accomplishment. 

Often I’d be hiding in a corner, making myself as small as possible. Jason would inevitably call me out, and I always had wished someone would. I’d felt invisible and hadn’t liked it, even though I had no idea what to say or do to be different.  When I was with those friends though, I was wanted, and that was everything. I began to learn to let myself be loved, which was crucial on many levels.  It’s hard to love others on an empty tank. 

Those first few years here were some of the most dreadful, soul-shredding, family-building years of my life.  I never would’ve survived on my own, and there I was in a brand new, somewhat introverted city building some of the deepest and most rewarding relationships I’ve ever had. It may have qualified as a miracle. It’s possible that it saved my life. It’s certain that it saved my basic faith.