After a life-altering trauma, the author sought healing beyond conventional medicine. What followed was a demanding inner transformation—integrating fractured parts, rebuilding self-worth, and shedding inherited identities. Through somatic work, intuitive guidance, and spiritual practice, she championed a personal relationship with God, cultivated self-reverence, and learned to forgive, quiet the ego, and live from Love.
I would like to say the decision to re-enter the workforce was mine, but it wasn’t. I was gently nudged in that direction—handed a printout of a job posting. I just didn’t have the gumption to knock on doors, shake hands, smile, and sell myself to potential employers. When you’re in a mental-emotional state like the one I was in, the drive—and the self-esteem—to advocate for yourself just isn’t there. My energy was occupied with trying to keep myself together enough to just complete rudimentary tasks. Somehow, I made it through the interview process, and with that, I began to be around people again. I felt unsure. Timid. Like a dog that’s been hurt and doesn’t know if it’s safe to come close.
I planned to just keep to myself, reasoning that if I didn’t invite trouble in, trouble wouldn’t show up. I might as well have taken a vow of silence. I didn’t speak to anyone unless it was necessary to complete the job. People wanted to talk to me, but I felt it was better for all of us if we didn’t. As lonely and as isolating as it was, I can confidently say that you learn a tremendous amount about human nature when you just keep your mouth shut and listen.
Eventually, my iciness started to thaw, and I started to enjoy laughing with people again. Maybe I did want to connect with others. But, did I have the ability? Making the decision to seek professional medical assistance, I asked my primary care physician for a referral to a therapist. She emphasized that the therapist whom she was recommending was welcoming to gay people. When you’re in the birthplace of the Moral Majority, this is a pertinent and important consideration.
One of the first things the therapist told me was that I was the loneliest person she’d ever encountered. I saw no reason to disagree with this. I did disagree with her diagnosis. She passed me the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders with the pages opened to a particular entry. As I read, she explained that she had to “pick” a diagnosis from this manual, provided by the American Psychiatric Association, in order for my health insurance to even consider approving coverage for my treatment. The diagnosis was major depression with psychosis—meaning, I was so profoundly depressed that it had caused delusions (never mind that I hadn’t experienced any “delusions” since leaving the city, and it wasn’t like I was any less depressed). After much debate, we settled into a mutual disagreement, making for an interesting dynamic. She referred me to a psychiatrist, who prescribed a very low dose of sertraline, the generic form of Zoloft, an SSRI. From there, she and I began cognitive behavioral therapy, once a week, every week.
After we had gotten a few sessions under our belts, my therapist suggested I take antipsychotic medication. I bristled at this. I reminded her of my disagreement with her diagnosis, and regardless of what she thought, I was adamant that my brain had not produced any delusional mental farts. However… I desperately wanted the pain to stop. I’m not sure mere words can do the job of accurately describing the sheer, soul-searing pain produced by a tortured psyche. So, I won’t try, but know it was a big deal when I agreed to meet with the psychiatrist to entertain the idea of taking these meds. I was at a point where just about anything could have been suggested, and I would have given it serious consideration. I’m very relieved to report that I did not follow through with taking the antipsychotic pills; I didn’t even get the prescription. But, fuck, I was close.
Much to my annoyance, it didn’t take long before the therapist started asking questions about my childhood. I insisted that we didn’t need to talk about that and instead should focus on what had brought me to therapy in the first place. Somehow, I was convinced (probably with the promise of pain alleviation) to acquiesce to this discussion. It became the central focus of our work together.
As with the events in New York City, I don’t want to dwell on the details. Regardless, there are some key bullet points that do need to be established for the sake of the account. When I was six years old, my biological parents started a dragging, nasty divorce. At home, they had fought violently and often. There had been knife throwing and threats of murder-by-shotgun (among other abuses, but these two examples should get us on the same page rather effectively). That’s the setup. Here are the bullet points:
- It was determined that my biological father had sexually abused me. I can neither confirm nor deny this because I cannot remember—I’ve tried. I remember certain scenes “around” it, like conspiring with my father to say that he had ‘just been tickling me.’ I have memories of there being arguments as to why he was spending so much time in my room with the door closed, but I cannot remember what happened in that room. Somewhere along the way, I developed an anxiety that I had lied about being sexually abused. Since I can’t remember, I’ve been carrying around three possibilities: 1. He did it, 2. He did it and I was encouraged to believe I had lied about it, or 3. I lied about it. The guilt and shame have been stifling.
- My paternal grandmother worked at the primary school I attended. Every day I had to walk through her classroom in order to reach my first-grade class. One day, after getting her attention, she looked right at me and said, “I don’t know you.” Every day after that, I still had to walk through her classroom and face her rejection. Every. Day. Of. School.
- The preacher from my paternal grandparents’ church visited my home to inform us that we (me, my sister, and my mother) were damned and going to Hell because my mom had filed for the divorce. That message went as deep into my heart as it could go, and it festered there. I believed from that moment on that I was defective, unlovable, and that God didn’t even like me.
- The entirety of my paternal side of the family (aunts, uncles, cousins) vanished from my life, seemingly overnight. They were there, and then they weren’t. My cousin and I had been best buds—we never played together again.
- Later, when I started to realize that I was attracted to women, I thought this was further evidence of my inherent depravity. I believed that I had to hide my true self or others would be disgusted. I didn’t admit to myself that I was gay until college, and I didn’t admit to anyone else until a few years later in culinary school. It wasn’t until my mid-twenties that I told members of my immediate family.
I spent a good amount of energy being resistant to talking about the above items. For all our differences, my therapist exhibited tremendous patience with my defensiveness. I remember one session in which I showed up, didn’t speak for 25 minutes, then got up and left (I wasn’t feeling it that day). She told me I was hard to read, said I had a great poker face and actually seriously suggested I play poker because of this notable quality. It took poking and prodding to get me to talk, and then, when I decided I was done, good luck getting me started again. You would’ve never imagined I was there voluntarily.
One thing I want to say about my therapist (and this is probably the ultimate reason I stuck with her) is that she was brutally honest with me. I never once questioned whether what she was saying was actually what was going on in her head. I may not have liked it all the time, but I knew it came from a sincere place without any attempt to be manipulative. I appreciate this quality in a person and I think it should be a non-negotiable when choosing someone to help excavate the darkest parts of your psyche.
After a few months on the job, I was promoted to a managerial role. The interpersonal relations component of this position sent my mind reeling. It started to churn uncontrollably again (that sensation never fully went away, it had just diminished—the antidepressants, I think, did this) and I wasn’t able to control it. Anytime a situation even remotely hinted at the duplicity I experienced in New York, I felt like I lost control of myself—I didn’t have the ability to tell my brain what to do. Instead, it just took over—and it didn’t know what to do either.
It was a despairing feeling to have the aspect of yourself that you use to navigate the world go rogue and turn against you. I thought nothing could be done to fix it; I was doomed never to be able to function normally again. This was not how I wanted to live. Having determined that my situation was hopeless, I decided the only viable avenue out of my pain was to commit suicide.
Planning my own suicide was a surreal experience. It was like the ultimate “senioritis.” I noticed neighbors driving down the road and considered that in a few days, I would no longer exist, but those neighbors would still drive down the road, live their lives, and concern themselves with their own worries. The sun would still shine. The sky would still be blue—the world would continue on, business as usual. I looked at my world with detachment, like everything happening around me was actually a TV show that I was just watching. I felt like a visitor who hadn’t fully unpacked because there was no need. There was a peacefulness about it, believe it or not.
Then there were the logistics. Were all my bills paid? What would happen to my dog? Would I be leaving any mess (other than the organic kind) for someone else to clean up? My mind flashed an image of the blood and brain spatter that would drip from the curtains—I decided to be outdoors when I shot myself. I hadn’t seen my family members doing well with being in the same building in which I had committed suicide—it was going to create a lot of mess, and there would probably be a smell. I found myself contemplating thoughts like: In what direction should I stand and aim to mitigate any collateral damage? And where should I place the gun against my skull? Do I insert the barrel into my mouth like I’d seen in the movies? How would it be if I held it up sideways against my temple? Maybe I should tilt my head back and aim it up through my chin? Do I leave a note?…
I decided “no” on the note. I also determined to use a double-barreled shotgun (which was going to require more planning about how and where to aim it). I wanted to make damn sure that it would work—I didn’t want to have a failed suicide attempt and be a paraplegic or stuck in a coma. I also wanted it to be quick and efficient. No flailing around on a homemade noose. No sitting around thinking while waiting for the carbon monoxide to kick in. I wanted an instantaneous ending.
Before any of this could come to fruition, my therapist got wind of the situation. She told me I could either voluntarily admit myself to the psych ward of the local hospital, or the cops would be called, and the process would become far more involved. Either way, the outcome of my being in the psych ward would be the same. Fine.
As I was admitted to the hospital and placed on suicide watch, I found consolation by deciding I could just kill myself after I was released. Next came the interview with the staff psychiatrist. This was a “hot seat” moment, as it would determine what medications would be administered. I took a deep breath and told the shrink the exact same story I’d shared with my therapist. Then I clenched my seat with my hands and stared at the floor as I waited for his response. He considered and then said, “All of which could be true.” All. Of which. Could. Be. True. It had been two years of agonizing, soul-crushing struggle with self-doubt, terror, shame, and despair, and in one short sentence, he had affirmed my sanity and my worth as a lucid human being. It was like walking out of a burning, billowing house into crisp air. The world felt a little lighter. It was validation that, no matter how unbelievable, my account was certainly plausible. They increased my dosage of the antidepressant medication, and I was released within 48 hours. Not since has anyone mentioned psychosis or the potential use of antipsychotic medications.
In the next posting, we’ll move from the first phase (passive involvement) of this journey to the second, which is distinguished by a growing awareness of other healing modalities and a need to be more assertive in my treatment.