Suicide Secrets- Time to Spill It… Secrecy Just Makes It Worse

With all of the suicides of notable people in the last couple of weeks, it has stirred up my own battles with depression and suicidal thoughts.  Not to worry- nothing ‘serious’ has gone on for years.  When the physical pain becomes more harsh than usual, or there are more health scares, I do think about the ‘what ifs’ of a longterm and debilitating illness, but I’m nowhere near that.

“Flaws”  were never discussed in my home, even after I’d talked briefly with our pastor about suicide when I was in 8th grade. There were some hard times in high school.  An English teacher that I did not have as a teacher reached out to me, and did an old, quick depression assessment.  I didn’t do well, and she told my guidance counselor who’d known me since I was two years old.  He talked to my dad (the principal of said high school) , who was furious that I’d made some “not perfect life” comment to those outside of our house.   I was given strict instructions to never tell anybody that anything was wrong.  Verbatim:  “If someone asks you how you are, you say “fine”.  I don’t care if you have an arm dangling by a thread.  You are FINE.”  When I worked in psych and alcohol/drug rehab, “FINE” translated to ‘f-ed up, insecure, neurotic, and emotionally disturbed.   I guess I have been ‘fine’ a few times in my life 😉

Back to the suicidal stuff.   In my early teens, it wasn’t something I considered seriously (mostly because I was terrified I’d get in trouble, assuming I’d mess things up and survive). And I didn’t really want to DIE.  I just wanted to feel less confusion, fear, and emotional pain.  I felt a lot of pressure being the principal’s kid (some self-imposed, some overt instructions from my folks).  Then I went to the University of Illinois after a summer of becoming anorexic.  I was a mess.  That was the fall semester in 1981.  By the first couple of weeks  after Christmas break  in late January 1982, I was still a mess, with the anorexia getting worse, and being alive felt like torture.  With my brain starving, my thoughts were not ‘normal’, and dying seemed like the only way to make the eating disorder end.

By the first week of February 1982, I had a plan, a private dorm room, and the whole thing figured out- except I didn’t really want to die. Plan:  I would overdose on the tranquilizers I’d gotten to (presumably) make me less anxious about eating, involve some sort of booze, and go into my lockable dorm closet, lock it from the inside, and also make sure my dorm room was locked.   I had been mandated to see a university student health center counselor my first semester there, and I finally fessed up to her.  She had the university fire department take me to McKinley Health Center, where they ‘babysat’ me until an adult friend (for a long time, from church) could come and get me- I did NOT want to face my parents.  I was SO ashamed for not being ‘perfect’ enough.   There was a blizzard that made most of IL a skating rink that February, so it took a few days for everything to happen to get me to the hospital near Chicago.   Where my parents were waiting in the lobby (I hadn’t considered them needing to be there to sign me in, since I was on dad’s insurance).   They were allowed to see me, then ‘banned’ from any contact for a month until my assigned psychiatrist tried to sort out the family dynamics.

I wasn’t a teenage drinker.  I’d  tried a few things here and there, but I hated the whole going across state lines thing on Friday nights,  where the drinking age was 18 at the time.  But that fall semester of 1982, when I finally got to return to school, I was not coping well with feeling like  the designated nut job.  I tried SO hard to make it look like all was well, but it wasn’t.   I started going to bars and drinking 4-5 drinks in less than 2 hours, then stagger back to the dorm.  On September 2, 1982, I got  back from the bars, and was SO tired, but couldn’t fall asleep. I remember taking the prescription sleeping pills (from shrink I was assigned to at the hospital near Chicago).  I just kept taking them (there were 10 Dalmane 30mg capsules left, and I took them all), like some sort of automated prescription Pez dispenser was dropping capsules into my hand, that went to my mouth seemingly of its own accord.  I didn’t think about dying, but after taking the sleeping pills, I was told (and stomach contents confirmed) that I then went on to take 50 imipramine tablets.  No matter what was going on in my head, my body went into a 3 day coma.   My roommate didn’t notice anything alarming enough to call an ambulance until the day after I’d taken the meds on top of the alcohol.  I told her I was just tired until I couldn’t talk anymore.  I was told more than once that I physiologically shouldn’t have survived the type and quantity of medications along with the booze, and the length of time before my stomach was pumped.

I didn’t want to die.  I wanted the expectations to FEEL less intense (they weren’t imposed by anybody but myself at that point).    I’ve been in therapy for various things, starting with the fall of 1981.   I was stunned to wake up in the ICU at the same hospital where I’d been born prior to being placed for adoption.   The first thing I remember was someone putting an oxygen mask on me (then I fell asleep again), and a syringe going towards my crotch (at the time, I didn’t know that a syringe removed the water from the balloon of a catheter that keeps it from falling out.  I didn’t know I HAD a catheter… so that was awkwardly confusing).   I also remember not being able to follow the Saturday morning cartoons they’d put on the TV.

One therapist would ask me about suicidal thoughts, and told me she would NEVER ask me to give them up, since having that option helped keep people from feeling backed into an inescapable corner.  She would ask me to hang on just until she called me at whatever pre-determined day/time she came up with.  And that was helpful.   She never shamed me for essentially just looking for ways to not feel emotional pain.   I never liked “contracts” because I didn’t want to sign something I might not be able to uphold- but the simple verbal request to hang on was enough (everybody is different, and some folks need more supervision, so more formal contracts or even interventions and required hospitalization might be the first step some folks need).  At the very least, I knew that someone cared enough to take 5 minutes to call and see if I was OK the next day.  Sometimes, when things were chaotic in my head, that external reminder that I wasn’t alone was sufficient.

I hope someone reads this who is a survivor of someone who completed a suicide attempt, not surviving it.   You need to know that it isn’t about not loving family/friends enough to stay (or reach out).   In that state of mind, people truly do believe that the world (meaning their family and friends) would be better off without them.  It’s about not being able to imagine things ever getting better.  It’s a desperate, last-ditch attempt to find some peace.  But it’s not generally about not wanting to live.  It’s about not wanting to have to endure emotional pain that feels like endless torment.

Don’t be afraid to be blunt if you are concerned about someone.  Asking about suicide will not make someone suicidal !!   The best thing someone can do, especially if they don’t know what to do, or don’t have training in crisis negotiations, is just to listen.  Don’t judge.  No empty “it’s going to be fine”.   And NEVER “oh, it’s not that bad”- that just says “you don’t care enough to try and understand me”.    Let the person know that you realize that they are doing the best they can.  Let them know that you understand that their pain is overwhelming.   NEVER “I know how you feel”…. unless you are in a person’s head, and have had identical experiences and reactions to things, you have no clue.   Empty platitudes are not helpful.  Saying something like “how can I best help you?” is very helpful.   Letting someone know that you don’t have the answers, but will do what you can to help is SO much more helpful than someone who is clueless trying to help someone when they don’t take the time to really understand the situation, and can’t admit that they don’t know what they are doing.  If you feel like you are in over your head with someone who is suicidal, call 9-1-1.   If the person gets mad, they’ll either get over it or not- but don’t put yourself in a position to have unimaginable regrets if the person can’t hang on.

Suicide… It’s Not About Dying !

Tonight we learned  that Robin Williams is dead, and the consistent information is that he took his own life.  Social media being what it is, there are many comments.  Most are of shock and acknowledging the incredible talent and genius of a brilliant actor and comedian; another  who is gone too soon.  There are some  comments that are just rude and clueless.  But there are also those who just don’t understand how someone could get to the point of feeling that it was just time to give up on life, that it was too painful.  That there is no hope in sight, and that the people closest to him/her would be better if he/she was just gone… Thank God most people don’t understand what it’s like to be so far down in a pit of ‘no hope’ that suicide makes sense.

Suicide isn’t as much about dying as it is about wanting the pain to stop.  The cause of the pain isn’t really that important, though addiction is often a component.  Alcohol, drugs, eating disorders, gambling, etc. are ALL ways to numb some sort of emotional pain.  I worked as an RN in drug/alcohol rehab and adolescent psych for years, and nobody ever listed death as the main reason they considered suicide.   I had a good friend (also a co-worker) who was so solid in his sobriety and recovery  when I knew him.  He became a well-known therapist in the city where we worked.  Recently, I found out that he killed himself a few years back , while  I  was searching for him online, hoping to reconnect.  He had great local resources about where to get help (including where he could get away from town for treatment).  He knew the warnings… and yet, he relapsed into drugs, and overdosed in an amount that was said to be inconsistent with an accident.   I was able to find a close friend of his who could help me fill in the blanks, enough to know that something happened to take him into that dark hole of depression and relapse. Those are never good together.

With Robin Williams, he had resources and had recently gone back to treatment for a ‘tune up’ of sorts, knowing that he was feeling a need to protect his sobriety, not that he’d relapsed  (common knowledge).  He was getting help.  None of us know what his pain was from.  We look at the professional aspect of the man and can’t make sense of what could have been so bad in his life that he decided to give up.  But even if we knew the ‘reasons’, for most, the decision to end one’s own life will never make sense.

In 1982, I was battling an eating disorder, and got to the point of feeling very overwhelmed and unable to see that things were going to get better.  I don’t remember wanting to die.  I overdosed and was in a coma for 3 days.   I was lucky to have survived, and was able to get past those feelings of just wanting to go to sleep so I didn’t hurt (in my situation, nutritional ‘rehab’ was a huge part of clearing up my thinking).  I remember taking the sleeping pills, but don’t remember ‘death’ being my goal.  I don’t remember taking the 50 antidepressants.  I don’t remember the ambulance trip, or anything else until  I woke up in ICU three days later.  At other times, always when dealing with eating disorders, I would find myself in a mindset that didn’t see an end to the overwhelming hopelessness I felt.  I would feel myself on the edge, and yet I didn’t ever want to die.  I just didn’t want to feel so much pain.  It’s an incredibly dark place to be… and there’s a feeling of loneliness that has no words to adequately describe it.  Even with people in my life, they didn’t understand what was going on in my head, and the surrounding circumstances made things more isolating.

For those that don’t understand, please be thankful that you have no frame of reference for that kind of despair.  Please look around and see if there is someone who might need a quick phone call or note to say that they matter, and to just check in to see if they’re OK.  If someone you know has changed and either seems really down, OR suddenly ‘up’ after a period of severe depression, see if they’re really OK.  When someone makes the decision to give up, sometimes they are so relieved at making the decision, that their mood improves.  That type of ‘improved’ mood (sudden) is an alarming sign.  Gradual improvement is more likely due to good treatment ( medication for the biochemical issues, and/or psychotherapy to resolve emotional pain).  Don’t be afraid to ask direct questions.   When someone approaches from concern, it’s unlikely that it will make a situation worse.

Clinical depression isn’t sadness.  It’s not about ‘reactive’ grief that many people will feel during their life when they lose a friend or family member to death, or the loss of a job, pet, or if someone moves away who had been a part of daily life.  Clinical depression is often a biochemical disruption to normal thinking and feelings.  Hopelessness and helplessness become so pervasive that the ‘normal’ way of seeing solutions to problems just doesn’t work.  While suicide is a permanent solution to temporary despair, it doesn’t feel that way to someone who finds it  worth considering.  It doesn’t feel temporary.  It’s kind of like being too far underwater after falling off of a boat, and wondering if getting to the surface is ever going to happen… like there’s no air left in life, and no ability to feel that the surface could be reached with just a couple of kicks to reach the air that restores hope. Even if getting back on the boat is a ways off, at least there would be air.  It’s like treading water UNDER water, and never getting closer to the surface.  It’s hard to withstand that type of hopelessness and helplessness for a long time, and each person has their own threshold for how long they can hold on.

People can’t snap out of it.  They can’t just go pop in a funny movie and everything is OK.  It’s a disease, that needs treatment, and  support of friends and family that understand that the person is doing the best that they can.  And when the ones who are depressed are finding themselves going further from their normal way of looking at life, they need someone who can help them hang on…

But sometimes, it just isn’t enough.   And those left to make sense of the loss  will never have a good reason to satisfy the ‘why’ questions that inevitably come up.  It definitely isn’t fair to those left behind.  And while it’s something they have to live with for the rest of their lives, it really wasn’t about them.  Sometimes, there is nothing that will redirect a tragedy.  But nothing can take away the good memories the person leaves behind… always remember the good.

Suicide Attempt: Those Who Knew Never Asked…

…why I attempted suicide in September 1982.  I later found out that it was a big secret from  family (or close friends) who seemed like they’d be obvious to inform (as in why I’d suddenly dropped off the face of the earth and was no longer at the University of Illinois, Urbana-Champaign campus).  And, for the most part, it seemed  like nobody really gave a rats tail.  I did have an uncle who had visited me at the psych hospital the semester before, God bless him.  He wasn’t afraid to see whether or not I was drooling in a corner somewhere (I wasn’t – in fact, back in those days, I was downright intact compared to many there, and it was a private facility in the days where  you either went to a state hospital – like ‘One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest’- or to a private facility that was essentially a hotel with nurses and a lot of pills; there were no ‘treatment centers’).  There was the friend of another uncle who befriended me (strange situation).  But that was the extent of asking me WHY I was there.  My parents were the most silent.  Nobody ever asked me why I’d tried to end my own life.

That seems a bit odd. Maybe it was some sort of bizarre form of ‘manners’ to not ask.  But if there’s ever a scream from a mountain top that someone needs to say something about SOMETHING, it’s a premature, unnatural attempt to die. During that time, my mom was going through radiation, post-mastectomy, and I’d been dropped off at school a week early to accommodate her radiation schedule (I was fine with being at school early- though the dorms were kind of spooky without everybody there- there were about 10 of us in a 12-story dorm).  I don’t remember dealing with my mom’s cancer at all. I’d been in such a rush to ‘look normal’ after having to leave school the semester earlier… I know I’d never have wanted to ’cause trouble’.

Looking back, I’m not sure I know all of the reasons for the overdose, and only remember the first part of it when I mechanically took sleeping pills one after another with the only conscious thought being how much I just wanted some rest.  I don’t remember any actual ‘death wish’. I  ‘just’ wanted relief from so much pressure of being back on that campus after being ‘removed’ the semester before because of deteriorating anorexia, bulimia, and depression with a suicide ‘plan’ (that was pretty dang lethal).  I was trying SO hard to ‘look OK’, and that pressure was unbelievable. SO when I started taking those sleeping pills, one after another, I was only wanting relief from the pressure. I had intended to wake up, from what I remember. When I woke up after nearly 3 days in a coma, I was confused.  I also didn’t believe that they’d found the remnants of fifty antidepressant tablets when they pumped my stomach.  I don’t remember that at all. I eventually sent for the hospital and university health center records.  I needed gaps filled in.

I also wrote to my roommate years later, who told me that I’d been out at a local bar (underage), and came back to the room drunk before dinner. She hadn’t seen me actually take the sleeping pills (I do remember her being in the room, but I was sitting at my desk, my back to her; being drunk explains the impulsivity and lack of planning for consequences of my actions- and why the drugs ‘took’ so intensely). But she said I went to sleep and didn’t get up the next morning. She said I’d mumbled something about not going to class because I was so tired. When she got back late that afternoon, I was still out of it, and she couldn’t wake me up. At all.  She got one of my floor-mates from the last semester who knew me better, and she looked at me and called the ambulance (about 24 hours after taking the pills…it’s amazing that I survived that long). I was taken to the university health clinic, who sent me on to a regular medical hospital/trauma center with a blood pressure that was nearly meeting in the middle. (Not good).

In looking at the records, my ‘coma scale’ couldn’t go any lower. I responded to nothing. Zip.  And, understandably- but frighteningly, I remember none of that. I don’t know when I took the bottle of antidepressants.  I don’t remember having my stomach pumped (and used to get so uneasy later in my nursing career when OD patients were often ‘threatened’ with having their stomachs pumped as some sort of punishment; they were seen as deliberately causing unpleasant work for the ER staff who had ‘real’ patients to take care of- those who hadn’t put themselves in that position- never mind that the person was in so much emotional pain that they felt they had no other options).  I never told anybody that I planned to overdose. I don’t think I knew I would OD.   I’d been trying to fit in and be social (not something that came easily outside of my home church group setting). I wanted to be in school.

I do remember asking the nurse in ICU what I had been wearing when I was brought in, as that would tell me what day it had been. I’d been brought in on a Wednesday.  I had been wearing a red gingham shirt and overalls- I did remember putting those on on Tuesday- brought to the ER on Wednesday.  I probably looked like a dead farmer.  I was very close to not making it.  I sent for my medical records years later, and my vital signs were very bad- as in not much difference between the top and bottom numbers of my blood pressure, a heart arrhythmia, and very slow respirations.  I was given some resuscitative drugs to maintain my heart rhythm, and fluids to maintain my blood pressure, and over a few days, I woke up.  Freaked. Out.

My first recollection is of someone moving an oxygen mask to ask me a question, so they could see me talking.  Then fade to black again.  Then, I clearly remember a nurse going towards my crotch with a syringe (no explanation that she was removing the catheter). I’d never been in a real medical hospital before. From there on, it was a bunch of blips of memory, finally getting back to a ‘slow’ normal. I remember being very confused by the Saturday cartoons.  I’d been propped up in a chair with the cartoons on (at age 18?), and it was hard to follow them. Bugs Bunny was too ‘deep’. For a while, there was concern about permanent brain damage, and the psychiatrist I went back to was surprised I wasn’t impaired.  I also remember the charcoal diarrhea… I didn’t know the ‘rules’ in ICU about not disconnecting the EKG leads without help before getting out of bed ( I didn’t want to bother anybody), so it would look like I’d flatlined when I was just in a hurry to get to the bathroom.  They didn’t like that very much. I felt the bruising on my breastbone where I’d been ‘knuckle-rubbed’ to wake me up, and the scratchy feeling in my throat where tubes had been.  And it all confused me.

While I don’t remember a lot about the overall overdose, I do know I didn’t want to leave school! I wanted to do well !  I wanted to show my friends that I was OK ! (And with that, I had some desert property in the Everglades for anybody who was on board with that idea). I didn’t want to be a failure.  I have to admit, that at 18 years old, in an ICU room in Urbana, IL, I had a serious meltdown when I was told I’d be sent back to the nut farm I’d spent February through mid-April earlier that same year.  My parents had been called (that was like ramming a dagger into my heart- how could they call them? I especially didn’t want to disappoint them… but  how could they NOT call them?  I was a huge liability at that point). Everything was falling apart.  I was hysterically crying when I saw my mom and dad show up later that day (?Sunday- no cartoons, and mom had to be at radiation on Monday) after clearing out my dorm room and selling my books back to the bookstore– for some reason, losing those books was almost like the ultimate ‘proof’ that nobody believed in me… I’d been ‘removed’ from school. Again.  For weeks, I cried about that.

My therapist from the previous and current semester had been called in (she was recovering from a blood clot in her leg, and having a semi-miserable first months of pregnancy).  She explained that there were no other choices.  I couldn’t remember the overdose- that was almost worse than planning it out.  They couldn’t ensure my safety. Forest Hospital in Des Plaines, IL had already been notified, and since I was as medically stable as I was going to get, I was being discharged from the ICU to be driven back up to the suburbs of Chicago.  I was devastated.  I was horribly ashamed.  I’d failed. Again.  I didn’t see the ‘illness’ part of what was going on. I just saw failure.

It was almost a bit of a relief to be around people who knew me, who didn’t think I was a lost cause (though the next several months- September 1982 through early January 1983 weren’t exactly smooth at the hospital… I was a train wreck, and things got worse before they got better, in the days of endless insurance days inpatient; ‘losing’ school was absolutely devastating, and stirred up a lot).  I spent a total of 7 months in the hospital over 2 admissions.  I was tested (I’m reasonably intelligent, so they said- LOL) from one end to another, and I tested them. I’d always been pathologically well-behaved (confirmed years later by my folks), and at the nut farm, I blew through some rules.  I also tried to escape (going where?) and hurdled the gardner and his wheelbarrow only to collapse on the sidewalk about 1/2 a block from the hospital, in full view of a busy road…. nice to have that on my resumé. *rolling eyes*  At any rate, I was in a place to work on whatever was the immediate problem, which was making sure I didn’t blindly go on some life-ending rampage.  I was never a ‘danger to others’… it was always ‘danger to self’.  I’d give the shirt off my back to ‘others’.   Whatever had happened in that dorm room in Urbana couldn’t happen again.

In some ways I don’t know if I’ll ever know what was going through my ethanol laced brain that Tuesday afternoon when I started eating sleeping pills.  Maybe the booze was a huge part of that horrendous time.  It does explain a lot- but there had to be enough going on to ‘set up’ what happened.  What I did.  The memory loss has always been really hard to deal with. There are days that are just ‘gone’.  No matter how hard I try to figure it out, it’s just not there.  But I always wondered why nobody asked me if I’d really wanted to die.  The answer is no.

The Designated Nut At Age Eighteen

As a result of anorexia and the depression I only experienced during periods of starvation, the university I was attending decided I wasn’t safe staying on campus. I was to be sent to a psychiatric hospital near Chicago.  It no longer exists, but my memories sure do.

It was February 1982, and I was falling apart.  The eating disorder and coinciding mood swings were making university life and class attendance nearly impossible.  I was horrified that I couldn’t just make it work.  I had some suicidal thoughts, and the means to carry them out , as I’d discussed with the therapist I’d been seeing as a condition of staying at the University of Illinois (they found out about the anorexia very early in the first semester in the fall of 1981). She didn’t want to take any chances.  I’m sure that the fact that I was talking more had to be somewhat alarming, since I’d said little besides “I don’t know” to anything she’d asked since first meeting me in September of 1981.  I didn’t have much choice- either voluntarily admit myself to a psychiatric hospital, or be committed.  I was horrified and ashamed, which wasn’t helping anything.   I agreed to go to the hospital near Chicago, but only if my parents were NOT the ones who drove me there.  Arrangements were to be made, but in the meantime, I was taken to the university health center and kept for observation.  Nifty way of saying they didn’t trust me, and weren’t sure I wasn’t going to kill myself.  The therapist had the university fire department drive me over there.  Subtle.

I didn’t really want to die. I just wanted the pain to stop and I hadn’t found any way to make that happen.  I was 18 years old, and didn’t have the life skills to know that the bad times don’t last forever, and the eating disorder that made most anything ‘logical’ impossible was driving a lot of my thinking.  So I was to stay at the inpatient clinic until the plans were arranged.  I’d asked for a specific family friend to drive the 200 miles to come and get me, and then take  me the 170 miles or so to the hospital.  That’s a lot to ask, but she agreed.  Then it got complicated.

In February 1982, central Illinois got hit with a blizzard, and the arrangements to pick me up had to be postponed until the roads were cleared, and it was safe to travel.  If I remember right, it took about 3-4 days.  During that time, my dorm friends came to say goodbye.  It was sort of surreal.  My brain was so starved that not much really sank in.  I knew what was happening, but at the same time,  I had no idea about what  type of place I was going to be admitted .   The only type of psych hospitals I’d seen were those on TV, and the accuracy of those was questionable.  Finally, the weather cleared enough for me to be picked up by my friend and her daughter (who I also know and like- I still know them), and I was taken to the hospital.

I was mortified to see my parents in the lobby. I was so ashamed that I’d failed to just pull it together. They had to be there to sign the insurance forms and admissions papers for billing, but I also had to sign myself in since I was ‘of age’.  I was the youngest person on the adult unit.  And in for a real education.

My psychiatrist (assigned at random) ‘banned’ my parents from contacting me for at least a month. He let them know if I was doing OK.  He wanted to get to know me, and find out why I didn’t want them to pick me up in Urbana (shame). He also wanted me to learn to let loose a little bit; I was too restrained and worried about what other people thought.  He asked my folks to send $100 (worth a lot more in 1982 than it is now- though still a nice chunk of change) so I could go to K-Mart and get some overalls (something my mom refused to let me wear) and have some fun shopping with one of the psych techs who monitored us nuts on the unit.  My mom never let me go to K-Mart (it hadn’t spiffed itself up at that point; afterwards, she didn’t mind it).  I was to be dressed in name brand clothing (preferably stuff that made The Preppy Handbook… I’m not kidding). Marshall Field’s & Co. was HER preferred place to get my clothes. I hated that store when I was growing up.  Too much foo foo.

I was the designated ‘nut’ in the family, but no member of any family gets to the point of needing psychiatric hospitalization for eating disorders (or anything else) in a vacuum. In the early 80s, eating disorder treatment was in its infancy.  Nearly all ED patients were put on general psych wards, and the stigma went with that.  I didn’t find out how bad that stigma was until much later when I found out that my folks never told anybody where I was.  I just ‘wasn’t’ at the U of I.  Enter a void in time and place regarding my existence. My mom’s ‘baby’ brother came to see me, so he’d found out.  I’m still not sure how.  It doesn’t mean that my immediate family was some raging psycho farm, but something wasn’t OK.  Sometimes it’s perceived, and sometimes it’s actual dysfunction- but the end result is actual dysfunction for somebody. When I got older and worked as an RN in a psych hospital with adolescents, I saw it all the time.  The family needed someone to direct their troubles at.  The kids are easy targets- and often are acting out in some way because of the dysfunction.

My mom was not a warm type of mom.  Even the social worker caught on to that during the one  interview with my folks.  My mom wasn’t ‘evil’ or ‘bad’-she just had her own stuff.  She and my dad had both lost newborn sons about two years apart from the same disease, before they were 25 and 29 years old (roughly).  That’s pretty young to deal with such loss. Dad turned to work, and mom just shut down.  Now, they’d be offered counseling without that being seen as ‘weak’ or ‘defective’ (as therapy often was up until, and through, my treatment for anorexia).  It just wasn’t done by ‘normal’ families.  So a lot of hurting people were stuck in their pain, alone.  My mom wasn’t in a place to be nurturing a baby when she was terrified something would happen to me, and she stayed at a distance to protect herself. It wasn’t about me.  She was in pain.

Anyway, I was at the hospital for about 3 1/2 months that first admission.  I did better, but eating disorder treatment didn’t address the core issues of self-worthlessness and overall loathing of taking up space on the planet.  That wasn’t about dying either.  It was about feeling like  I just shouldn’t ‘be’.  It took many years to get to the core reasons I was so self-destructive via the eating disorders.  It made me the designated family crackpot.  That seemed handy, and it was a big secret to anybody outside of our home and very close family; I’m still not sure most of them ‘know’.  I’m not proud of it, but keeping things secret just perpetuates disorder.   NO family gets through this life without something dysfunctional going on.   Everybody has stuff.  It hurts less when it doesn’t seem to be so shameful.