As a teenager, I had no idea how to be normal. I liked the bands I liked, and got ridiculed for it. I remember my uncle Lenny coming to our home to do some renovations. I was listening to music that apparently he didn’t like. He got upset with me and told me to turn it down, or something like that. I just remember the admonishment for listening to this music. How DARE I try to listen to music in my own room! For shame! Of course I should be ridiculed! My orchestra teacher ridiculed me for music I like – professing his was much better. My brother Tim ridiculed me for liking the music I liked. Matter of fact – many years later, he confided that one of our uncles ridiculed him for his taste in music. And – shock, he didn’t like that. Apparently, I was supposed to have been made of a stronger stock than I was. I had seizures as a kid, I was in special education because of learning disabilities, I was overweight – and yes, lets add the additional traumas to my life, please?

We didn’t know for the longest time about the RYR2 mutation that afflicted my family. It seems to appear in the maternal line of my family. So, when people were struck with this mysterious death/near death causing medical malady, I was even more of a freak of nature. I tried to act normal. I did. I never seemed to figure out how to do it. After the trauma of losing my sister. After the trauma of my mother landing in the nursing home – I was terrified of losing people that I was close to. Everyone I loved seemed to be leaving me. Stephanie, my sister’s daughter moved to Japan with her father and his new wife. I was stuck in an unforgiving situation with an intelligent father, with no ability to cope with me. I did all the things that teenagers did (and then some), not realizing what trouble I would l get into. I listen to true crime podcasts and have this realization… Holy shit! That could have been me! I could have been a Jane Doe at any time. Thankfully, I was spared. As was my family.

Platitudes were a plenty in faith. It is now understood, by me, that platitudes are used by the speaker to help themselves out of an uncomfortable situation. An uncomfortable situation to which they have no answers for the problem. “Everything happens for a reason” That was the most loathsome platitude of all, for me. I heard it time and time again. I tried to stuff all my depressed feelings in. When my mom was in the ICU after her initial incident, I watched her. I watched her, unresponsive. Attached to many medical equipment. I watched family and friends come from all around. I would walk from Northern Michigan University after I’d get done with my UPYC (Upper Peninsula Youth Choir) practices on campus. There was nothing like enjoying a beautiful day – listening to voices that only the Gods could have created. I was in my version of heaven. And after, I got to watch my family weep and moan over our unfortunate set of circumstances.

I tried to talk to my guidance counselor at school – both middle school and high school. I tried to find a way to fit into this world I managed to be born into. Everything became a quest to be good enough. Good enough, pretty enough, drunk enough, pretending to be happy enough. No matter what, I always got the short end of the stick because somehow, I was supposed to know better. I was responsible to be stronger than I was through this chaos that came through my life. I should have been stronger to understand the silent criticisms (and the not so silent) to what I was doing. That was a natural response, right? I was supposed to understand why my uncle called me with a hoarse voice to yell at me for my cousin getting the condom out of my room and getting caught with it. My sixteen-year-old brain was supposed to understand that my uncle and cousin were going through some stuff. Sure, that makes sense!

Why does everything get left to me? Why am I the responsible one, or the one who should have been responsible? Why weren’t my elders held responsible for their bad behaviors. They’re sinners too, right? Why didn’t anyone chastise them for not helping me? Why didn’t anyone speak up when they saw judgment in my direction. Defended me when they heard or saw someone act unfavorable towards me.

I have always wanted people to respect me. Being that I never completed college – and I’ve had below respectable jobs (most of the time) with below respectable earnings – I’ve felt less than. Society helped me feel less than too! Not that I needed help. The sigh you hear using your food stamps in the grocery line. The judgmental tone when you have to bring your sick child in to the E.R. using Medicaid. The newspapers or news programs that talk about people who are a drain on society, like I was. And even when I’d get close enough to making a decent wage, I had to pay for medical bills, deductibles, my employee portion of the medical insurance in and of itself.

Before Darrian died, I was on Medicaid. The only reason I was on Medicaid was due to the fact that she was an underage dependent that lived in my home. The day she died, Wisconsin Medicaid cut me off of medical assistance. Reason? Because I had over $3000 set aside in my 401K – the government considers that assets. Even though you’re penalized for early withdrawal – it counted against me. When I went to see my lovely Brown County Psychiatrist, she criticized why I was indicating I was diagnosed with PTSD. Apparently she had (at the time) recently had a house fire. And she was fine. This is the professional that has a medical degree in all things, the brain. From that moment on, I decided I’d never see her again. She made me feel like I didn’t deserve to be treated with respect. Just like so many others. So why? Why after losing everyone that meant anything to me? Why losing my home? Why finding out about this medical affliction? Why would I continue to agonize in fear of never being good enough. And why would I continue to agonize over – any moment, being left. Alone.

You tell me. Do I seem to be off? Should I pick myself up off the ground and brush myself off and say it’s only happened because I didn’t try hard enough. My faith wasn’t strong enough? Or could you imagine a world where I would feel awful in general. And how in that world, I could feel insecure and try too hard in everything. Even in my current job, I try too hard. I do more so I get the external validation of being good enough. Why? It feels like that’s what I can do. I can’t force anyone to tell me that I’m good enough. Even if they tell me, I don’t trust that they’re being honest. That somehow everything from my past. The judgment and scrutiny, it followed me. I’m 45 years old, feeling like I felt 30 years ago. Hence why I’m in therapy. This is a never ending process. Or at least it fees like it. And up until recently – I thought this was just me. I didn’t see anyone else suffering like I did. And what I’ve found out more and more over the years – you’re never alone. It just feels like you are. Like I am. Now that I’m not alone – and I know that, I have to deal with that. What does that mean to me. And how do I begin to process that? Jesus…….