I was 13 years old the first time I tried to kill myself. Fortunately, he had no idea what he was doing and it turned out to be an epic fail. I was so embarrassed that I never told anyone. Ten years later, my third attempt landed me at Mater Hospital with organ damage. So many nights in between I went to bed praying I didn’t wake up and in the morning I woke up with a broken heart.
Why did he want to die? Well, the problem is that I’ve lived most of my life in an abusive relationship. My abuser tells me every day that I’m disgusting, everything from my big forehead to my thick ankles. But he hates what’s inside even more. She yells at me all the time that I’m a failure, a victim, a narcissist, desperate for attention, drowning in self-pity, and the list goes on. She repeatedly tells me that my husband thinks he loves me, but one day he will find someone he truly loves and leave.
He says that my children are ashamed of me; when asked about their parents, they say that their father is great, but their mother is a basket case. She tells me that she wishes she had never been born; that I should have been aborted; that it disgusts him to look at me; I give you goosebumps. He says the thought of having to spend the rest of his life with me makes him want to die and he has begged me many times to kill myself.
Most mornings, the abuse begins before I’ve even finished brushing my teeth and goes on and on, every second of every minute of every waking hour of every day. And it is agony. Why don’t I run away, you may ask? Well, therein lies the crux of the matter. I can’t escape, because the abuser is my own mind.
I’ll spare you the sad story, but growing up I lost a lot of people who were important to me, starting with my mother, who died when I was four years old. Another major loss came when I was seven years old, another when I was 11, and another when I was 17. As a child, trying to process these losses, I deduced that the common denominator was me, and I must be pretty horrible to cause so many. people to go out That belief has compounded over the years and the end result is this intense and unrelenting self-loathing.
The repulsion is visceral. It’s a constant low-grade nausea in the back of my throat. Sometimes it gets so intense that it makes me throw up. My youngest son invited a friend to play one day. I had to run past to get to the bathroom and heard her friend ask; ‘Is your mom sick?’ My daughter replied, ‘No, he just throws up sometimes.’
Vomiting should not be confused with ‘feeling dirty’. That washes over me in a tidal wave of shame that comes without warning and makes me want to rip my skin off with my own fingernails.
As a teenager in my early 20s, I thought it was normal to dislike yourself if there were reasons for it, and I had lots of those. It wasn’t until I was in my early 20s that someone first told me that what I was feeling wasn’t normal, that it wasn’t some cliffhanger I was resting on, and most importantly, that it could be treated. My amazing psychiatrist, who has saved my life more than once, simply said, “No one would choose to feel the way you feel.”
My clinical diagnosis is major depressive disorder and generalized anxiety disorder. I like to think of it as interesting and windswept. But what drives my depression and anxiety is this crippling self-loathing.
We all have that inner critic. Our inner critic is our friend. It is a crucial part of our character. It’s the part that says, ‘Woman, stay away from that shot of tequila.’ Do you remember how you put on a show last time? It’s the part that tells you your size 14 butt isn’t going to fit in those size 10 jeans.
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Dawn also believes that we are only scratching the surface when it comes to mental health research.
Self-loathing is when that part of your character goes into overdrive. Self-hatred and self-criticism become pervasive and disabling, interfering with all other thoughts. It’s there when I watch TV, shower, read, drive, work, shop, socialize, always. If I don’t defend it constantly, it can consume me.
Let me be clear, I am not unhappy. I am not depressed. I love my life. I am surrounded by the funniest and most loving group of people you will ever meet. I grew up in a wonderful home that was full of love and laughter. I have an amazing husband who has an inexhaustible capacity to love unconditionally. I have three healthy and happy teenage daughters and am fortunate to have a job that I love. I have family and friends who are there for me day and night. I know that I am loved, even if I don’t understand why.
Since that first meeting with my psychiatrist, there has been a lot of counseling, medication, some electroconvulsive therapy, and one hospitalization. That episode of hospitalization took me completely by surprise. It felt like a rubber band on my head had just snapped. I can pinpoint the exact moment it happened. One minute I was fine, the next I was paralyzed, unable to speak or move my limbs.
That was the furthest I’ve ever gone into the black hole. It was terrifying, humiliating and lonely. I don’t remember much about it, but I do remember my husband sitting by my bed saying, ‘I don’t know how to bring you back to us.’ I didn’t know either, and I felt tremendous guilt for dragging him into this life. You deserve better. I was wondering if it was worth fighting. In the black hole I felt no shame or guilt. I didn’t feel much of anything.
I had never written about this before, mainly because I never wanted my condition to define me. It’s not that I’m ashamed of having a mental illness. There is a line in Fiddler on the Roof which says that there is no great shame in being poor, but there is no great honor in it either. Well, there’s no great shame in being mentally ill, but it’s no great honor either. It is not my cross to bear. It’s not a badge of honor. It simply is.
But I am ashamed of who I am because of my mental illness; this weak, thin-skinned bag of moans. When I’m close to the edge, the slightest failure, criticism, or perceived betrayal can push me back and spiral into the abyss—the antithesis of the strong, resilient woman I want to be. Anyone who reinforces what I feel for myself must be removed from my life immediately and completely.
I am writing this now because we will not succeed in destigmatizing mental illness unless we start being honest about what mental illness is. It’s not always as easy to define as depression or anxiety, eating disorders, self-harm. Mental illness is messy and ugly. It is uncomfortable to be around and can be so intertwined with personality traits that it makes it difficult to know where the disease ends and the individual begins.
I’ve seen brave people talk about their battles with mental health and recovery, but I’ve always wondered, where are the people like me? Where are the people who have not recovered, who cannot recover? I can’t be the only person who lives like this. Could it be that this self-loathing is what drives some people to drug and alcohol addiction, self-harm, and even suicide?
I don’t claim to be a mental health expert and I don’t claim to understand anyone else’s experience. I think we are only in the embryonic stages of understanding mental illness. There was a time when cancer was considered a single disease. Since then we have learned that cancer is different depending on the organ it affects.
Even within an organ, it is different depending on the cells involved and even the tiny receptors on the cell surface. Research already shows that certain parts of the brain are activated or inactive in a brain scan in people with different psychiatric conditions. Hopefully, we’ll get to a point where we have the same knowledge and specific treatments for mental illness that we have for cancer.
We have to recognize that not all mental illnesses are curable. Sometimes when the damage is discovered, it is so extensive that it cannot be repaired, which is why the mental health of children and adolescents is so crucial. We can catch these negative thought processes before they take hold.
For some, like me, a cure is not an option. What I’m looking for is nice, long periods of remission while I prepare for the inevitable relapse down the road.
I have been studying my disease for 30 years and I know my enemy inside and out. I know some things help and some things make it worse. Social networks are bad. Alcohol is very bad. Being around people who make me feel worse about myself is very, very bad.
Doing something for another person is good. It feels good to give €15 a month to Doctors Without Borders instead of buying a Sky Cinema pass. Even better, we started breeding dogs a few years ago and it has been a very rewarding experience. There is no better feeling than knowing that you saved a life.
The best way to manage my illness is to keep my mind busy. Manic distraction, my psychiatrist calls it. I work long hours. I do Pilates as often as possible because it’s hard to think about anything when you’re contracting one muscle, keeping others relaxed, and not falling over. Basically, I try not to spend too much time in my own head.
I am at war with my mind and will be for the rest of my life. Even with the skills I’ve learned and the arsenal of weapons I’ve amassed over the years, it’s tough and there are still times when I feel like throwing in the towel, but I’m damned if I’m going to. let me win I have gone to battle with my mental illness many times over the years and have kicked its butt every time so far. I’m still here!
For Samaritans, call 116 123 for free or consult samaritans.org. For the visit to the Casa de la Piedad pieta.es
