As I was mowing the grass yesterday, I wondered if all Mental Illnesses mean you are not in reality? That the meaning of being ill in your mind, is when you can't see or be with reality? While there are different stages of not being in reality, are all various degrees… being removed from what is truly going on?
What I do know from my experience, is that as a child of abuse, IF you can't speak of it, and must hide it, you are forced to live in an alternate reality…you could say forced to make your mind come up with a nicer version of where you live. And this is the seed that starts our Mental Illness.
The beginning of being 'sick' with reality.
I think many will focus or see "Mental Illness" as a mind that has gone wrong, but not how or what its causes are. Just seeing it as a broken mind, but not looking at this from a wider viewpoint, doesn't give the overall picture of what it truly means as an application in life?
Perception is all we change when we are asked to keep a secret.
We are not changing the person who has abused us, JUST our perceptions of him/her.
And this change of perception is the cause or being mental in reality.
What many have suggested to me, is that I went mental, when I flopped into reality and became unmoveable there. I would no longer 'change my perception' I became rooted in reality, no matter their pleads, their reasons, their needs….I was like a rock.
I clung to reality like it was my life line and I refused to let go.
Now I know that my life prior was a life of mental illness, where a huge proportion of it was lived with incorrect perceptions.
What I didn't know is that I was a highly functioning mental lady…at the time. I was not able to know my perceptions were all wrong about my childhood and family.
Knowing this is common place after abuse, makes me normal.
Here is what Terry Wise wrote in her book, "Waking Up".
"Does not talking about it allow you to become less aware of it?" (Betsy her therapist asked)
"I guess not," I replied, suddenly realizing that of course, I was always aware of the things that bothered me. But, prompting a more extensive discussion about my anxiety by admitting this to Dr. Glaser was another matter. "Regardless, it still feels worse to talk about it," I continued."
"It may feel worse at first, Terry. But, I believe in facing our feelings head on, not running from them. Talking about the anxiety over and over again will give you a different understanding of it. If you develop a different understanding, you will eventually feel less anxious," Betsy said, attempting to reassure me."
"Yes, but that doesn't mean I can't hate talking about how I feel," I replied."
"What feelings do you hate talking about?"
"Anxiety and loneliness. Even when I am with people, I feel alone." I soon learned that the more uncomfortable or anxious I became, the more Betsy pushed. What's more, from this session forward, she always knew when to push, as my discomfort was written in red, all over my face."
"Do you ever remember feeling like this before?" she asked."
"Like what:" I stalled."
"Anxious, alone, or anything else you are feeling right now," Betsy sighed rolling her eyes at having to drag every word out of me."
"Yes, plenty of times. Except for the years Pete was healthy, I've probably felt like this most of my life. I've never felt so disconnected," I explained. My face instantly began to flush again. I had always been an expert at creating appearances, choosing when and where to maintain my composure. That was over. My anatomy forced my hand."
"Terry, why are you so anxious? What haven't you told me?" she persisted. I could hardly hear her words over the pound calypso drums that now inhabited the inside of my heart."
"I don't want to say."
"Why not?"
"Because, then it will become true," I replied, surprising myself with the insight. Until I voiced this answer, even I had never been fully aware of this fear."
"I don't understand. Explain that to me," Betsy demanded.
"Because saying things out loud is different. If I don't put some of my thoughts into words, I can still hold onto the chance that my beliefs may not be true," I explained. Somehow I had deduced that hearing my thoughts aloud could transform a feeling into a reality."
"But if you talk about your thoughts, maybe there will be a different way to understand them," Betsy suggested.
"There isn't any other way. I already understand exactly what I'm feeling. Believe me Betsy, I know certain things about myself, and they are undeniable no matter how you look at them," I insisted."
"There are always other ways. Terry, do you remember how you felt when I first talked about Louis and the abuse? You've felt like this before, but after you talked, your perspectives changed in ways that you hadn't perdicted. What are these 'things' that you know about yourself? What are you so afraid to say out loud?"
"Anxiety throbbed in every organ of my body. Even my tongue felt like it had a heart of its own. Throughout my adult life, I had numerous experiences with public speaking. Even if I was rattling inside, my complexion had never changed, and I always remained poised. Now however, I had no choice but to step forward."
"Mostly its that I am a fraud," I confessed, inhaling deeply."
"What do you mean?"
"I'm not the person that people think I am. There is so much about me that people don't know."
"What don't they know?" Betsy asked."
"They don't know how I feel about life or myself. Generally, people think I have my shit together, that I am confident, and self-assured. I've scammed everyone into believing that I'm someone I'm not," I answered.
"So then tell me, Terry, who are you?" Betsy asked.
"I would rather not say."
"Why not?"
"Because, like I told you, once I say it, it will be for real," I repeated."
"You mean that as long as you don't say the words, how you feel won't be real?" Betsy would not let up for a moment."
"I suppose," I answered, feeling her reasoning loosen my stronghold."
"Please Terry. I want you to tell me what it is about you that you are so afraid to say," Betsy softly pleaded. Her persistent kindness gave me a final push."
"I'm selfish and dishonest," I whispered, slowly peeling back another layer of my appearances."
"Why do you think you are dishonest?" she asked."
"Because I've alway needed to feel someone worry about me. When I was younger used to pretend or exaggerate things, so that my friends would be concerned. there is definitely something wrong with me." Until the moment the answer rolled off my tongue, I had always planned on taking this "quality" of mine to my grave. I immediately felt my anxiety rise incrementally with every degree of my body tempature."
"Why do you think that makes you dishonest?" Betsy was surprisingly unfazed."
"Because, I did those things for attention, and to feel taken care of. My feelings are not truthful if I embellish them."
"Terry, I think if we look closely enough at your history, and the people in your life, you would see that others were not always able to give you what you needed. This isn't a surprise. Obviously, nobody can get every one of their needs met all the time. But, I think what is remarkable is that you found a way to fill some of them. This does not mean you were dishonest. it just means you found a way to get what you were missing," Betsy explained."
"No, Betsy. I always felt cared for and loved by the people in my life. I was born with a sickness. I know it," I insisted."
"You could have been cared for and loved, while at the same time, had needs that weren't being met. It's not black or white, or either-or, Terry," Betsy replied. "What sickness do you think you were born with?"
"I don't know. There's something wrong with me because I am the type of person that I am, and the attention I crave."
"What type of person are you?"
"I finally decided to brave my most private, defining, character flaw. "It's hard to tell you. But, I guess it doesn't matter saying it, or not saying it, won't change the fact that it's true," I began, inching out from behind one of my most private walls of self-condemnation."
"What Terry? What's the truth?" Betsy softly asked, trying to cushion my turmoil."
"The truth is that I am a loser." My mouth felt like it had produced its own sounds." Terry Wise.
This book clearly shows the state we get left in when we are not allowed to be with reality….how we flip reality around and in turn it flips us backwards.
Instead of my father being bad, I was.
Instead of my mother being unloving, I was unlovable.
So, again, it is my humble opinion, that mental illness is not being able to be with reality…we were forced into being mental in order to survive and to be loved.
I highly recommend reading this book…it is a great exchange between those outside of reality and those who work to get us back.
I M Perfect lady 