No Witness? No Problem.

I was off-kilter, a contradictory and erratic individual. 

Remarkably determined in many ways but unaware and intolerant in others. My chaotic formative years and the losses incurred during them left me an automaton, mummified with symptoms — to an extent I couldn’t see for myself at the time.

The turning point

I think I was about the turn of 19. This was around the time when it became clear that, yeah, I probably wasn’t right. Separate from peers, siblings, the rest of my family. I’d stay in. I’d watch movies. Isolating before I knew what it was or its corrosive effects. There was exercise, to be fair. That was the only healthy habit I ingrained. Curiously, it had to be conducted at night — the dead of night — when no one could see me, where I couldn’t be witnessed. Shame drove my life as my mind began to rot.

For the better part of a decade, I was far from stable. On and off antidepressants and bouncing in and out of therapist offices. Suffering from what I believe was an ego collapse, in hindsight. While not a clinical diagnosis, it describes the state of my mind at the time. The psychological middleman and regulatory system of all our desires, whims and impulses, the ego was no longer operational. As a result, a therapist would tell me that I was either possessed by my feelings or stuck in my head. The end result was the same: aggressive rumination and depression.

At my most unwell, my most isolated, I can account for two times where I saw things that weren’t there. You see, an auditory hallucination is a fairly common phenomenon. You don’t need a psychological ailment to hear something that’s not there. But to see things that aren’t there, well, you’ve  got to be in desperate need of help. I was, and I subscribed to every available avenue of which I knew for aid.

Those hallucinations took place following a rough breakup. An overwhelming grief, that throughout my youth had remained in a state of incubation, burst through. I had held it all in for so long; finally, the incubator broke. Pain I hadn’t wanted to acknowledge took hold of my existence, my perspective, my sanity, my sense of reality.

I felt entirely separate. I didn’t make much room for the outside world. When it came to relationships, people who were there during my most alienating years, my sister, my closest childhood friends — they stood by me, they supported me. What did I offer them? I don’t know what to tell you. What did they get out of being there for me? I was the storm, not the shelter. Neither is it lost on me; I was an inevitable object of ridicule and pity.

It’s nearing two decades on. I’ve done the work and can stand on my own two feet. I’m sane, not without my scars, but I’m seeing life on life’s terms. I’m whole now. (And considerably less medicated, I’d add.)

An achievement without fanfare

Unfortunately, life is not a movie. Neither is an undignified reckoning with arrested development. Somewhere down the line, I held a real desire to turn to the people who witnessed me at my most unwell and show them I’d turned a page — light them up with good feelings, warm association, and be the one with the good stories. They’d be able to see how far I’d come. How well I’d done.

That was not the case. You see, if people have witnessed a dissociated, grandiose wreck, that may become a static image in their heads. Not for nothing, it comes at an emotional cost to them. Those people holding that imprint lack the capacity to see anything else even a couple of decades later. It’s more a case of their being emotionally drained than a lack of love.

I played my part in creating that image and forming that fatigue, irrespective of how powerless I was to do otherwise. It’s all mine, even if emotional duress was the last thing I’d want for my loved ones. So, I get witnesses for the fall, but I don’t get witnesses for the rise.

I’m incredibly blessed, given my circumstances. I even got a chance to clear the metaphorical rubble of my beginnings through therapy. I had the means to get help, something that far too few are able to do. Ultimately, healing is a solitary journey. This journey is mine: to carve out a life, to set a path, and live a life of exploration and integrity. I’m happy to say I’m doing that.

Those whom I would’ve loved to see my healing and growth aren’t going to. It’s far from too little, but it is too late. There’s genuine care, but a distance between us remains, and I’ve earned that. There are damaged vertebrae with my name on them. Leaving first means they don’t have to close the door or keep one open they’re too tired to. Maybe that’s the least I can do out of respect and recognition more than recompense.

Sometimes, when there’s enough love, you don’t lose people, you return them.