Basketcase, Inc.
Jul. 19th, 2009 11:28 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
flamingswordI saw Half Blood Prince again today, and GLEE for the 4th time. In my life I've seen Titanic 4 times, AKIRA 5, Moulin Rouge 6, and Romeo + Juliet 14 times, and Dune so many times the cassette tape wore out. Who else does this? Do you have any insight as to why we do it? Or is it purely the enjoyment factor of the familiar?
In other news, according to Xenoix, I've never talked about being in therapy . . . which I don't actually believe, because when do I not talk? But it's vaguely possible, and I'm pretty sure I've only mentioned it here in passing. Behind the cut tag will be a massive entry on my being a headcase and the first bit of how I got better.
There's a lot of backstory about my going crazy, so there's even more about my being crazy and getting better. Finding and befriending Jillian Sutton (first person I met crazier than I was) was the beginning of my snapping out of it, but what kept it going was my mom and aunt going through Discover. The Discover program is one of those self-help seminars that teach you important life skills like how to listen to yourself, how to recognize when something is not working and stop repeating the mistakes that got you there, and how to deal with your life without being a jerk. It explained how pushing people away is a defense mechanism against having to care, which at the time was a big problem for all of us. Rhoda went through it, got Mom to go through it, went through a follow-up course herself, and then got me to go to Discover Kids Camp that summer. So not all of this was an unqualified success, life continued to be messy and life-like. But things got a lot less dire the summer that I was . . . 12 I think?
The worst part about my being crazy was that I couldn't tell anyone, couldn't let on that terrible things were inside me, couldn't stand to have anyone too close to me because there was no way that I could explain and when they didn't understand I'd just feel more alone, that sometimes I couldn't remember what I was doing a second ago, and that I liked the rage and the guilt and the despair because those were feelings that stuck around - didn't come to the door for a few minutes and then leave like a salesman selling something I couldn't afford. That was what being me was like from about 9 to almost 13. I was terribly lonely, confused, closeted about everything, and when people pushed too hard I was violent. And that's not even counting the part where some of the things I remembered weren't real, 'cause I can't really timestamp that realization, so I don't know if it was during or after this bit. :(
But anyway, Discover Kids Camp was where the journey towards mental health started for me. I had just found Jill, and the shared insanity was much better than solitary insanity, without actually bearing any resemblance to sanity. The people who taught us at the camp that week gave me this odd idea that I might be able to recognize and stop doing some of the things that identified me as a freak, that I might be able to pass better as a normal person and maybe keep Mom from worrying. The idea that I could actually get better happened later. I learned a lot of behavior-emulations then, a lot of reasons why people did what they did and puzzled out how to mimic that. But at the back of my mind that whole week was, "Where is my Aladdin sountrack casette? I had it in my bag when I left, I know I did, I checked FIVE TIMES."
But things had gone missing before, and when they turned up some really obvious place, Mom and Rhoda would give me these pitying but uneasy looks like they were really sad that I couldn't find my glasses that were pushed back on top of my head, and that something might be wrong with me. And since they were right, I learned to forestall suspicion by just not asking when I was looking for something, to pretend to be cleaning when I was really scouring every surface looking for my glasses, keys, book, hairbrush, ANYTHING. It was a daily occurrence, and the cleanest my living space ever was. So since we were really poor, and my stepdad had taken my saved up allowance with him when we moved out, the Alladin soundtrack was sort of the only thing I had been able to buy for myself that year. It was my one beautiful thing. I still had the Nutcracker tape, but it was starting to warp in places from overuse, and my copy of Dune that was taped off of TV had died more than a year before. It felt like being betrayed by my own mind, in a hundred tiny ways, every day. It felt like my worst enemy lived inside my skin, ready to destroy the things I loved and be horrible to anyone for no reason. My self-hatred that week was especially high for having 'lost' it. And at the end of the week of my passing successfully as a human being, Aunt Rhoda showed up to pick me up and gave me the tape back which she had 'borrowed' - taken out of my bag without asking. And THEN I lost it. And the few kids that were still there, and all the camp counselors got to see about five seconds worth of the real me. And then I swallowed that up, too.
When I was at my most horrible, I used to turn into my father: say the most unforgivable thing you can think of and then stay silent and so distant you might as well not be there. After her words of apology got swallowed up in icy, hateful silence, it was a very quiet trip home. I don't think I ever properly forgave her for that. As you can tell I'm still bitter about it. And I'm okay with that.
In other news, according to Xenoix, I've never talked about being in therapy . . . which I don't actually believe, because when do I not talk? But it's vaguely possible, and I'm pretty sure I've only mentioned it here in passing. Behind the cut tag will be a massive entry on my being a headcase and the first bit of how I got better.
There's a lot of backstory about my going crazy, so there's even more about my being crazy and getting better. Finding and befriending Jillian Sutton (first person I met crazier than I was) was the beginning of my snapping out of it, but what kept it going was my mom and aunt going through Discover. The Discover program is one of those self-help seminars that teach you important life skills like how to listen to yourself, how to recognize when something is not working and stop repeating the mistakes that got you there, and how to deal with your life without being a jerk. It explained how pushing people away is a defense mechanism against having to care, which at the time was a big problem for all of us. Rhoda went through it, got Mom to go through it, went through a follow-up course herself, and then got me to go to Discover Kids Camp that summer. So not all of this was an unqualified success, life continued to be messy and life-like. But things got a lot less dire the summer that I was . . . 12 I think?
The worst part about my being crazy was that I couldn't tell anyone, couldn't let on that terrible things were inside me, couldn't stand to have anyone too close to me because there was no way that I could explain and when they didn't understand I'd just feel more alone, that sometimes I couldn't remember what I was doing a second ago, and that I liked the rage and the guilt and the despair because those were feelings that stuck around - didn't come to the door for a few minutes and then leave like a salesman selling something I couldn't afford. That was what being me was like from about 9 to almost 13. I was terribly lonely, confused, closeted about everything, and when people pushed too hard I was violent. And that's not even counting the part where some of the things I remembered weren't real, 'cause I can't really timestamp that realization, so I don't know if it was during or after this bit. :(
But anyway, Discover Kids Camp was where the journey towards mental health started for me. I had just found Jill, and the shared insanity was much better than solitary insanity, without actually bearing any resemblance to sanity. The people who taught us at the camp that week gave me this odd idea that I might be able to recognize and stop doing some of the things that identified me as a freak, that I might be able to pass better as a normal person and maybe keep Mom from worrying. The idea that I could actually get better happened later. I learned a lot of behavior-emulations then, a lot of reasons why people did what they did and puzzled out how to mimic that. But at the back of my mind that whole week was, "Where is my Aladdin sountrack casette? I had it in my bag when I left, I know I did, I checked FIVE TIMES."
But things had gone missing before, and when they turned up some really obvious place, Mom and Rhoda would give me these pitying but uneasy looks like they were really sad that I couldn't find my glasses that were pushed back on top of my head, and that something might be wrong with me. And since they were right, I learned to forestall suspicion by just not asking when I was looking for something, to pretend to be cleaning when I was really scouring every surface looking for my glasses, keys, book, hairbrush, ANYTHING. It was a daily occurrence, and the cleanest my living space ever was. So since we were really poor, and my stepdad had taken my saved up allowance with him when we moved out, the Alladin soundtrack was sort of the only thing I had been able to buy for myself that year. It was my one beautiful thing. I still had the Nutcracker tape, but it was starting to warp in places from overuse, and my copy of Dune that was taped off of TV had died more than a year before. It felt like being betrayed by my own mind, in a hundred tiny ways, every day. It felt like my worst enemy lived inside my skin, ready to destroy the things I loved and be horrible to anyone for no reason. My self-hatred that week was especially high for having 'lost' it. And at the end of the week of my passing successfully as a human being, Aunt Rhoda showed up to pick me up and gave me the tape back which she had 'borrowed' - taken out of my bag without asking. And THEN I lost it. And the few kids that were still there, and all the camp counselors got to see about five seconds worth of the real me. And then I swallowed that up, too.
When I was at my most horrible, I used to turn into my father: say the most unforgivable thing you can think of and then stay silent and so distant you might as well not be there. After her words of apology got swallowed up in icy, hateful silence, it was a very quiet trip home. I don't think I ever properly forgave her for that. As you can tell I'm still bitter about it. And I'm okay with that.