Brutal Honesty

Some things in life are easier to talk about than other things.  And some things we’d rather not talk about at all ever.  Unfortunately, sometimes the truth has to come out, even if it means ripping open old scars and picking at scabs.

It’s been a while since I’ve posted on the fact that I’ve been going through depression.  I just spoke with my doctor today, and naturally things are progressing very well for me.  However, my doctor did tell me that I had the worst case of depression that he’s seen in years.  And that naturally got me thinking about the causes of my depression, and ultimately I realized that it’s something that I’ve got to share.

My story begins when I was in third grade.  At that time, I had two best friends in the world, Adam and Mark.  Adam once gave me a Garfield comic book, and he had had his father who did woodwork so he gave me a plaque with my name carved in it.  Mark taught me how to ride a bike, and we used to go all over town.

Things were fine through third and fourth grade.  But something happened in fifth grade.  I still don’t know what it was, but suddenly I became the person that everyone picked on.

Kids are cruel.  This is undeniable.  You don’t have to teach a two-year-old to smash someone in the head with a wooden block or to steal the toy from the girl in the corner.  They do these things completely of their own nature.  And ultimately what I got to experience was pure, unfiltered human nature.

It started small.  People would come up and punch me in the arm as hard as they could.  Then they’d laugh.  I, of course, was an idiot and never fought back.  (To this day I don’t know why…it’s something that I can’t explain to myself.)  So the kids would escalate it.  They’d punch me in the arm a couple of times, and maybe kick me, and throw my homework in the trashcan and tear up my library books so I’d get a fine.

One day, a kid named David brought a coil of copper wire to school.  He had it rolled up into the shape of a club, and he hit me in the head with it as hard as he could.  I got dizzy and went to the nurse’s office; they called my parents to come get me.  My dad asked what happened and I said: “I got hit in the head with wire.”

My dad said, “Wire?”  It was the shocked way that he said it, like it was impossible for that to have been the cause.  And I know that he didn’t intend it that way, but it felt like he didn’t believe me.  I quickly explained that it had been rolled up into a club shape.

My dad took me to the doctor.  My doctor asked what happened and I said “I got hit in the head with wire.”  He said: “Wire?” in the same way that my dad had done.  I know that he too did not mean it in a way that doubted me, but it still felt that way.

My doctor diagnosed me with a concussion.  I went home and a few hours later there was a knock at the door.  David stood there sheepishly with his parents behind him and he apologized.  I was naive enough to think he meant it and I forgave him.  I hope that meant that it was over, that they’d be nice to me after that.

But of course that wasn’t what happened.

Groups of kids would get together and tell me that they were going to beat me up after school.  They’d form their little mob by the front door, so I had to sneak out the back of the school and run home as fast as I could (I lived across the street from the school in those days).  They caught on and started posting “lookouts” at the back exit, so I had to hide inside the school and wait for them to leave.

My parents told me that I should just fight back.  They told me I wouldn’t get in trouble.  Even the principal of the school told me that she wouldn’t suspend me if I got in a fight.  But that didn’t change me.  It didn’t make me feel any more like I could fight back.  My will was already broken.

Adam and Mark began to join in too.  One day, after school, Adam pushed me into the fence and tore my coat.  That was the only time that I almost faught back.  I was ready to go, angered that he had torn my jacket and that meant my mom would have to sew it, so it wasn’t just me that Adam had hurt but my mom too.  I balled up my fist and stepped forward, and one of the other kids named Jesse suddenly stepped inbetween us and said, “Go home.  I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

Which was absurd, since he was one of the guys pounding on me day after day.  Still, I went home instead of fighting Adam.  And the next day, Jesse joined in with the others making fun of the fact that I had “run home crying like a little girl.”

Mark was slightly different.  During the school hours, he would pound on me and mock me.  But a few hours after school, he would be my best friend again.  I used to call him my “After School Friend” because after school, he was my friend.  And at the time, I accepted the fact that he needed to fit in with his other friends, so he had to pound on me too.

My aunt once told me, “An After School Friend is no friend at all.”  But she didn’t understand.  An After School Friend was the only friend I had.

I used to wonder why battered women would stay with their husbands, but when I realized that it was really no different than what I went through I no longer wonder.  When you’re at that place where there is absolutely no one, you’ll take what little you can get.  You’ll rationalize and justify the pain–Mark had to hit me so he’d be cool with his friends, and I can understand that.  You pretend that the reality is what happens after school, when he’s being nice to you.  He just has to act in front of his friends.

And thus, you begin to act too.  You accept your fate because you know that afterwards you’ll at least have a friend.  And soon enough, you actually believe that it’s “normal.”

Fifth and sixth grade were hell for me.  My family moved to a different town after that, and I literally think it saved my life.  I don’t know if I could have taken another year of the abuse I got in school.  I once read that rape isn’t really about sex, but it’s about power; and if that’s the case, then I was every bit as much raped as if there had been sexual abuse.  I think the only difference was that the kids were too young for the hormones to have kicked in already.  Other than that, it was identical.

Being forced to lick dirt off someone’s shoe.  Constantly having to run in fear of mobs beyond the reach of authority.  Knowing every instant an adult wasn’t around was going to be pain.  Two years of this adds up.

I learned lasting things from those two years.  I learned that it’s best to not have any friends at all.  Because only your friends can really hurt you.  Your enemies are expected to try to shaft you–you’re prepared.  But your friends are supposed to support you.  But they never do.

Betrayal from a friend is worse than the pain of not having a friend at all.

I learned that I can’t have any really lasting relationships with anyone of the opposite sex.  It would require too much “opening up.”  I would have to allow her “access” and as had been proven to me, people with access were people who could hurt you the most.  So even though I could be (and have been) “friends” with many different women, I’ve never really had a true person I would call a girlfriend.  I simply can’t trust anyone that much.

I learned that I’m not someone that anyone cares about.  I learned that lesson particularly well.  I learned it so well that I began to hate myself too.  Then I figured if I didn’t love me, why would anyone else?  And it cycled deeper and deeper into depression.  The only reason I didn’t kill myself was because it would take too much effort to go through with it.  Besides, I’d probably survive the attempt, and my new motto became: No Pain.

But of course, it’s impossible to obtain.  Instead, I really have: Pain I’m Used To In Order To Avoid Potentially Worse Pain.

I’m still not completely out of the woods.  It’s still hard for me to trust anyone at all beyond the mere “acquaintence” stage.  I have several people whom I could call a friend, but no one whom I would expect to actually sacrifice anything for me if I needed it.  I’m more used to getting shafted, and it’s easier to accept if you just go numb.

A few months ago, I went with my parents back out to the old town I used to live in.  We stopped outside the house I had lived in for four years, and I realized that I didn’t remember it at all.  My parents did–they pointed out how certain parts had been altered and said things like, “I remember that window!”  But I didn’t.  It was a part of my life I have blocked out.  There’s a lot about those times that I don’t remember because I don’t want to remember it.  And there’s also things that I couldn’t forget if I tried.

So why am I putting this up here on my blog?  Simply because it’s real.  It’s what happened, and I have to accept that this is my past in order to move on from it.  I rationally understand that God has His purpose for it.  I know my atheist friends would mock me for that: How can you believe in a God who allowed you to go through so much pain?  But I do. What I went through has so radically altered my life that I know I am nowhere near what I would have been had I not gone through that.  And I trust that I’m better off for it than I would have been without going through it.  I do that because I believe God has a purpose for everything that happens, and because I can hold to the fact that all things work together for good.

Yes, sometimes I hate God for it, it’s true.  But I can’t help but wonder what God has saved me from by having me go through this dark valley and learn complete dependence upon Him.