Trauma Story

It was Spring of 1981 when the trouble began. I was a freshman at a small, private and somewhat exclusive University on the East Coast. My family and my home were in California, so I was out of my element, yet loving it. It would seem that I had everything together, and had no reason for the events that were about to occur, but it would only seem so, it was just not the case.

I had just left work, as a Chiropractic Assistant in a small practice in downtown Madison when I received a long distance phone call on the dorm phone from Mom. I could hear the escalation in her voice, the anger and the approaching hysteria. My gut told me it would not be long before the inevitable. I had been there before with her, and I could sense it.

It was a week before Spring break, and I was not planning on going back home for the week, but because I felt that she might need me, I chose to go home. Things at school were pretty hectic with a 35 hour a week job and 19 units, I felt I could use a break. I knew deep down that going home right now, though would be no picnic. Mom was sending out signals of trouble.

She had a condition known as Manic-Depression or Bipolar disorder. I didn’t know then that my life would become intimately intertwined with this illness.

I called my boyfriend, Joe, on the phone and asked when I should meet him for dinner. He said, “If you aren’t doing anything important now, why not come over to my room.”

I knew that some of the guys from his hall were probably listening to the Grateful Dead and getting high, which sounded like a pretty nice idea at the time, my mind was reeling with dread of the situation at home. I could use a break from this consciousness and confusion, or at least thought so.

Somebody would say to me five years later that drugs may have been the cause to my problems, the catalyst of my troubles. I believe now that if not the catalyst at least they probably did contribute to the problem; they definitely didn’t help.

But on this Spring day, I had no idea of the events to come, and turning on and tuning out was just what I felt I would need.

Joe was in his room partying with two roommates from down the hall, Chris and Keith. The music was blaring and the smoke filled the tiny cell, they so euphemistically referred to as a double room. Joe, a nineteen year old native of New Jersey, was sitting on his loft with a grin and bopping his head to the tunes. Keith was standing in the corner loading the bong. Trying hard to fit in. Looking so much like the over-achieving intellectual that he was. Chris was sitting at Joe’s roommate’s desk, smoking his Dunhills and commenting on the rugby jocks and how much Carl wants to fit in, Carl was Joe’s roommate. Carl was good-looking, homogeneric looks appeal to you, soccer player who was intently struggling to make the academic grade at the time. “Hey, Darlene, come on in and shut the door, Godammit! The R.A. is just two doors down,” Joe said strongly, if good-naturedly.

I sat down on the sofa underneath Joe’s loft. Picking up the album cover that was laying on next to me. I had never even heard of the Grateful Dead before coming back East and was trying hard to learn all I could to fit in with Joe and his friends. “Oh, Oops!” In a second, Joe flew down from his loft and said “Oh Shit, Oh Noooo.” I had just emptied the remainder of Joe’s stash onto the carpet. It was sitting in the album after having been cleaned of seeds. I was smiling guiltily and trying hard to rescue the weed along with Joe, who was scolding me in no uncertain terms to be careful next time. In Jersey, unlike California, pot was basically more difficult to get a hold of.

Keith and Chris were smiling sympathetically at me for sustaining the wrath of Joe, and at him for losing his supply. “Oh well, have a hit, Joe, and mellow out. It was an accident. ” Chris said taking the bong from Keith and handing it to Joe. Chris was trying hard to keep peace, knowing well the heated tempers of both Joe and I, who were notorious for our passionate arguments. Joe inhaled from the water pipe deeply, held his breath, then exhaled in cough, “What the Fuck, hey, it is just weed, and I guess it was an accident. Here, Darlene, take a hit and you’ll feel better. You look like you’re wound tight, babe. You know I didn’t mean those names I ca1led you,” throwing his arm around my neck and handing me the pipe. The pot worked quickly, soon I was smiling and feeling much better, This time our tempers had been intercepted and there had been no fight. I was glad because I had my Mom on my mind, and was in no mood for a verbal sparring match with Joe.

At Dinner, I told him that I was going to have to go home for Spring Break. I don’t remember whether I told exactly why. I don’t think I did. Joe had never met my Mom, and I didn’t think he’d understand. Besides the shame and terror I felt about her condition were deeply ingrained in my mind. Besides so far, I was just speculating. I wasn’t sure she would really have a problem again. “It’ll probably do you good to go home. Lately you seem pretty uptight. Go home, see the parents, and Debbie, relax in the sunshine. Hell, I wish I was going to California.”

I don’t remember much about the flight home, except that I was worried what state Mom would be in. I don’t remember much about the week either except that it was no relaxing week in the sunshine of California. Mom was escalated, had seen it before. Dad knew that she was in the danger zone and wanted to get Debbie, my sister, Brad and me away from her, My sister Denise was on a camping trip with her friend Cyndi and her family. My father’s answer for any problem was take a vacation. He was notorious for spur of the moment trips, and since the divorce, vacations, and holidays were the only time we d spend with him. He suggested a trip to Mazatlan in the private plane he and a friend shared. He was a private pilot. It is only thru hindsight that I now realize why he decided on the trip. The four day excursion was a disaster. We ran out of fuel and made a crash landing on an old airstrip that was left over by some filming crew of an old movie. In the air he kind of smirks and says “Oh oh, I think we are out of fuel. Kay, honey, check the other tank.” Kay is my middle name and all my family calls me by it. The other tank was just about on empty so we started speculating on our options. We could either find the airport that my Father was so sure was somewhere nearby, make an emergency landing on the highway below, but that was dangerous because of the power lines, or we could just crash and burn. Not an acceptable option to say the least. We looked frantically for this supposed airport. but it was nowhere in sight. There was a small city below us that the air map, a 20 year-old map he had used on his last flight, assured us was San Carlos and had an airport. We flew thru these two steep mountain peaks and saw salvation in an old worn out strip. Not an airport but we’d go for it. Coming over the water onto the beach-front strip on one gallon of gas had all our hearts fluttering and the adrenaline rushing. But we were safe. The trip was one disaster after another. We never made it to Mazatlan. My father’s game of trying to see how close he can make it on a low tank of gas, which he played frequently on the freeway had almost ended up in disaster in the air.

Anyways, on the trip home, we got marooned by a storm. In the hotel room in Hermicilla, I encountered a problem with him that I had had before. He had been down to the bar drinking and when he came up to the room he wanted to get into bed with my 20 year-old sister, Debbie, and me. She rolled over and let him in pretending, I think, to be asleep. I fought back. Dad had done this before, each time it happened I thought would be the last. I also put it out of my mind as soon as possible. The pain it caused became part of my sub-conscious.

It was an experience that seemed to go hand in hand with my mother’s illness. When Mom would go into the hospital to recuperate, Dad would get upset, drink and come on to my sister and myself. When we returned home, Mom was no better. She was worse. I had four more days until I had to get back to school.

I again do not remember much except for a shopping trip to the mall. She demanded that we buy anything we wanted and she ran around the mall, on a reckless buying spree. Among other things she had her ears pierced and bought diamond earrings . Then she scolded me in front of a salesman in the Broadway for not buying enough. We got into a huge argument in the car home and she said I had to go back to school now.

I had initially gone home to try and help her, but I had not been able to. I don’t know why I thought I could. What had happened was that I had increased the stress on myself manifestly. Going home had exposed me to problems I didn’t ever want to face When I got back to school, I was in sorry shape. In two days after my return my sister Debbie called to tell me Mom was in the hospital.

This seemed like the straw that broke the camel’s back. Later I would learn that my image of myself was extremely intertwined with my feelings for my mother. Maybe because of the sort of Electra-complex with my father maybe because I resented yet felt responsible for her, maybe for many reasons. Whatever way you look at it, though, I loved her. Having a Nervous Break I thought was the worst thing that could happen.

There was so many things going thru my mind. I had had enough problems of my own that were being ignored. I went for counseling at the student center. I needed to talk to somebody.

Tony, who was my counselor tried that week to keep me together, he was fighting a losing battle. It was then that I experienced my own break with reality. I want to be honest. I want to be open. In a way, I wanted attention. I felt that it wasn’t fair that everybody dropped everything to help Mom, and nobody seemed to pay attention to me. I had read much and experienced much of how somebody acts while having a psychotic break. I started acting out in every way I could think of. However, I do not believe I had total control over my actions. I wasn’t faking but I was doing everything I could to cry out for help.

Tony realized that I couldn’t be kept on campus. I was not only embarrassing myself, but I was aggravating Joe as well. He soon had me hospitalized. “Oh well,” I thought now that they would pay attention to me. Once on the ward I was given Stellazine, an antipsychotic drug closely related to Thorazine. It was given to me in connection with Cogentin. I would later find out how important that is. The combination of the medications made my vision funny, and calmed me down. I felt so fogged and blurry, I started having visual hallucinations of a sort. It was the medication but I wasn’t sure of that at the time.

This was a unique experience for me and I had no idea at the time that to everybody at school I had flipped out. All I really knew was that for the first time in a long time I was free of responsibility. I was told not to worry about school or home just to take care of myself. I think it is a common experience for a first time patient to feel like the world revolves around them. Doctors, Social Workers, and Nurses are paid to listen to you.

I felt unique and different. I didn’t realize that this experience would come to have severe repercussions on my entire life, self-esteem, and on the opinions of others about me.

During my time on the ward I got close to one of the other patients. He was a 25 year-old man named Fred. Fred was talented sensitive, and I thought he could understand me better than anyone else because we were in there together. I watched him closely and started keeping track of his behavior. I would begin to emulate him. Not really a smart move. Anyways soon I became controllable and my release was being spoken about. All of a sudden I had to think about returning to school and life. The Doctor thought if I felt I needed the support system of the hospital that I could benefit by going to school in the day-time and return to the hospital at night. I agreed. For a few weeks I was a daytime student and a night-time patient at a mental ward.

Finally it was decided that I had to return to school. I think they felt that I need to get back to responsibility and life sooner rather than later. It didn’t last long. As soon as finals approached I had lost control again. I took incompletes in all my courses and my Mom who was now out of the hospital. came to take me home. She felt I could get better care at the private hospital where she had always been treated, There was a doctor there who was supposedly good with adolescent children.

Mom came and I felt so happy to see her. I felt moved that she had flown all the way out to N.J. just to take me home, I felt special and glad of her attention, However as soon as we reached L.A. she asked if I would go home for the night and we could see how things went. I said no. I felt I needed to be hospitalized. And so I was. Las Encinas was Country Club-like hospital.

You were treated like a first-class guest at a lavish hotel. The dining room was like a restaurant with waitresses, crystal glasses and food that would please any palate. For therapy, there were personal one-on-one sessions for 30-40 minutes daily with the doctor, jacuzzi or hydrotherapy followed by a lotion message. There was recreational therapy like swimming in pool on the grounds. Arts and Crafts were also available. Group therapy was scheduled into the remaining time. If you felt like it you could walk on the grounds, which of course, were beautifully manicured with gardinias, roses and magnolias. In other words, this place was not a bad place to spend a few weeks. However, almost immediately I wanted to know when I would be released. I had been anxious to go, now I was desperate to leave.

I was put on Lithium. The most common chemical therapy for bi-polar illness. Once stabilized because of my constant nagging, I was released. Lithium is the same medication that they had put my mother on with limited success. As long as she continued taking the medication her symptoms were controlled and she would function normally again. Because I am her daughter, and my symptoms appeared as being those of a Manic episode, I too was placed on Lithium and given a similar diagnosis.

Dad was concerned about my recent behavior and I believe he felt the possible guilt of being partially responsible. He knew deep down that molestation of a young daughter by her father doesn’t make for the most optimum conditions of perfect mental health. Like I said earlier, his reaction to any problem was to vacation. That is exactly what we did. He took my two sisters, my older sister’s boyfriend. and my brother and me to the beach in his motor home. We stayed at Seacliffs, a beach on the Ventura freeway south of Santa Barbara.

I was a nervous wreck because I had forgotten my medications. I had been severely warned about that and I was scared of the repercussions. Debbie who was finishing her second year of college, and studying psychology was the family expert. She tried to convince me that I was O.K. and would be fine for a weekend without meds. I, however. was convinced of the opposite. Also, being in close quarters with my Father caused all kinds of emotional ambiguity. I was afraid of him. Yet I wanted to tell him that I had forgiven him of the past just so long as it never happens again. I had had some therapy on the matter of being molested as a child thru adolescence and I felt the best thing for both of us was to just forgive and put it behind us. I remember wanting so badly to talk to him about it. I remember even saying. “Dad, you know I forgive you.” We were walking hand in hand down the beach. He told me as he often did when he had the chance, “Kay, you know I love you.” I wanted to talk about my feelings I wanted him to admit to what he had done. In his own way I suppose that he did.

We were never to come any closer to a discussion on that matter. Although he had stopped drinking, started jogging and his blood pressure was down, Dad died of a heart attack a week later. I was already back at the hospital. I had overdosed unintentionally on the Moband, the anti-psychotic medications that I was taking along with the Lithium. I say unintentionally because what had happened was that I was so intent upon taking the meds once I returned from the beach I took too many. I suffered my first distonic reaction that caused behavior my mother didn’t understand. But I’ll get to that later.