Made of Midnight: A Poem

Made Of Midnight

I have a black cloak

made of midnight.

The heavy velvet

hangs tight around my neck

and 

the clasps

cannot be undone. 

Darkness is carried around 

on my quiet shoulders, 

sore and stiff;

the absence of light 

invisible too all 

but me. 

I drag it 

through weather too hot, 

down streets where 

people crowd around me and 

cannot see it’s 

weight; 

they wonder, 

“why are you so tired?”

I drag it through winter;

the weight of short days, 

long nights,

and the frosty closeness

of family

pull 

me

downward. 

Season after season

my midnight cloak

hangs tight around my neck, 

making it hard to breath…

hard to walk…

hard to stand. 

So, I lay down. 

I spiral down 

down and down 

under the weight 

as my thoughts 

are consumed by my 

cloak made of midnight. 

Property of Susan Sontra. May not be used without permission. 2017

Eight Lessons I have Learned from Domestic Violence and Mental Illness

Eight Lessons I have Learned from Domestic Violence and Mental Illness

1) I have light and dark within me. It is inevitable but it isn't a bad thing. Some of surviving the worst times comes from my darker side. Some of surviving the darkness of depression is from the light.

2) I can only control my own self. As much as one would like to tell someone what to do, each person in only responsible for what they can control and you can only control yourself. I had never had power over his behavior even though for the longest time he had me convinced that I was responsible for how he acted.

3)  I am allowed, entitled even, to have a bad day. I don't mean a Mean, take-it- out-on-someone- else day, but a day where I can't get up or get going. A day that feels blah and empty. They happen. They are a part of recovering from both being a victim of DV as well as depression and other mental illnesses.

4) I am NOT alone. I always thought that I was even when I was being told I wasn't. It wasn't until I really fell into a dark space in my depression, did I really see that I wasn't alone. It was when I finally left him, that I realized I had support all along.

5) Life moves in cycles. Mental illness has a cycle. Domestic Violence has its cycle. Since I have both in my life, I have a cycle of my own. I am learning when my depression is creeping in on me. I have learned the cycle the PTSD does on my self worth and self- esteem. I haven't recovered fully from it but I am learning.

6) Healing takes time. I have been working at it for a couple of years. I am still recovering. I am still learning. I know people who have take six or more years to recover from a mental illness incident because it throws your life so upside down down. I still fight suicidal thoughts on bad days. I don't want to. I am working on it. PTSD is time consuming to heal as well. You have to rebuild a whole world of trust again. That is not an easy task. If you think it is hard trying to trust others, try relearning to trust yourself.

7) No one is Perfect. No ONE! Even if they don't have mental health issues or DV in their past; not a single person is perfect. Nor does everyone have a perfect life. AND I have to stop comparing how I feel inside to what I perceive of their outsides. They may have a good life but they make their own mistakes...have their own vulnerabilities. It is all okay. We were never made to be perfect anyways.

8) The more vulnerable and open I allow myself to be the stronger I am.
     (What?)

  The more I allow my soft gushy side open to the right people (those who have EARNED the right to know my story), the stronger I become. Once the gushy stuff is exposed to the right people, then it can't consume me. It can't eat me alive in shame and guilt. It can't bury me in self-loathing. So in setting it free, I make myself stronger.

One Mental Illness Journey

When I was sixteen, I was depressed, lonely, had engaged in self- harm and was suicidal. The fateful day I admitted it to a school peer helper, I was picked up from the school by my dad and taken to a psychiatrists office. The psychiatrist, in his big office with heavy furniture and degrees on the wall, waited until my dad left the room and asked me, "What boy were you in love with that you did that?"
A BOY! I didn't do this over a boy. I did it out of desperation and loneliness, constant criticism from my dad, who I was living with at the time. A boy wasn't even in my scope. I knew at that moment, that I had to just be the "good girl" and promise not to do it again, and he let me go home.
That weekend I moved back with my mom and didn't speak to my dad for nearly six months. She wanted to ground me for not telling her and to keep me from talking to the neighbors...because what would they think. I was silenced. I learned not to bring up those feelings to anyone ever again. I threw myself into school, theater, church and other activities. Anything to get away from where I wasn't allowed to be myself.
For a while, it worked. I was keeping busy with things I liked, but the depression was still there, hiding under the three jobs, and going to college and working in the theater. I was burying it so I couldn't feel it. Then, I met my ex when I was 21, and you can read about our story here. I didn't have time for any of my feelings. I was always too busy just trying to keep up with his. If mine surfaced and dared to show through, I was told I was being dramatic and attention seeking.
My anxiety came to an intolerable level when, not only did I kick my husband out, but the job I had for over nine years was closing its doors. I didn't know what to do so I sought out therapy for anxiety. It turns out there was so much more.  When the doors finally closed, I lost all the friends that I had worked with over the years. They were just suddenly gone. I couldn't find another job even though I tried. Over time, depression started creeping in. Soon, the realization that I had PTSD hit me as well. I spent the next twelve months trying to balance everything and to not lost my cool.
Finally, in January 2015, I had too much. I was numb. I was beyond just depressed. I had started drinking because all I wanted to do was die. Over the course of a week and a half, I attempted suicide three times. Each time, no one caught me. No one came upon me. I just woke up because I didn't take enough pills or drink enough alcohol. After the final time, I admitted myself to the local mental health hospital. I tried to hide it from my family but a friend went behind my back and told my mother what had happened. When she called me, I fell apart. I didn't want her to know. I love my mom and am grateful for all the help I have received from her, but she just didn't understand. She took it onto her self, invalidating my pain and my heartaches. And I hated that.
I was in the hospital for nearly a week with the initial 72 hour hold plus three extra days, with a diagnosis of Major Moderate Depression, recurrent, PTSD, and anxiety. It wasn't the brightest hospital. The rooms were plain but the people working there were descent enough. They tried several different med combos before settling on one that seemed stable. I had been attending groups and engaging with the social workers so once the medication was stable, I was set to go home. Home is not where I wanted to be. My children thought I was in the hospital for other health reasons. My ex never found out since I knew he would use that against me in getting divorced. My mom and I hardly mentioned it. But going home didn't mean I was okay. Far from it.

My therapist dropped me because she said she couldn't do enough. It was out of the blue and unexpected. Though I found a co-pay therapist group, where I was finally being seen twice a week, I had a hard time trusting my new therapist. I couldn't stop feeling suicidal, and whenever I felt suicidal, I would drink. Not every day liquor. I went for the 99 proof stuff. I wanted to die still. All my therapist did was put me on contracts week after week. Then, they switched therapists on me and I had two, one for each day of the week for a while. This was hard. I never felt I could trust either one and I didn't know what would be expected from one session to the next and Still, I felt like I wanted to die.

My meds were adjust a couple of more times because my anxiety was still so high. We finally found a combo that worked. Medications that I was happy with and so was the psychiatrist. But where I live, to access mental health services when you are on state aid requires you to go through county funded non-profits. The first one just wanted to get rid of me as quickly as possible and put my medical doctor in charge of my psych meds, which my medical doctor had told me he did not want. So I transferred to a different service. One where I still see a psychiatrist every three months, period! I also was attending two different mental health support groups, one the specially dealt with depression and a NAMI Connections meeting.
Once the meds were stable, I felt a little better but suicidal ideation was always with me. Always in my mind. I felt worthless. I felt lost and despairing.
During this time, I began writing affirmations. I would write little positive thinking poems and other little sayings that made me feel good. I shared these with other people, and they loved them. I began to get a little of self-esteem back. Not a lot. It was another six months before I started not feeling suicidal every day. I wrote more. I crafted more, making cards for sale too. I was blogging again, off and on. But on good days, I would be able to write. I stopped drinking. Though I have had a couple of relapses...other suicide attempts that I kept to myself, I have been slowly doing better. Not one hundred percent. I finally went down to one therapist two times a week. I find refuge in creating positive affirmations and cards with my photographs. I find peace in writing.
This past December, just after a relapse attempt, two days later I was in the hospital with another health condition that was potentially life threatening. And it got worse over two weeks. Here I was feeling suicidal and I also felt the universe was trying to kill me. What bigger sign from the universe to die but though I felt desperate and lost and lonely again. I even refused to take any meds for any of my conditions for several days. But now I am getting through it. My health condition will take another 3-6 months to heal. I haven't had to write a  no harm contract in a few months. I am starting to believe my therapist and my friends when they say I am resilient. I am still a work in progress. But I started this blog to bring awareness to mental illness and domestic violence because I know that I am not alone. And, I don't want anyone to feel alone in their experience.

On Our Own...

When we finally had a place of our own across town, it seemed ideal. Bill was working, I was working, and we had some money in savings. All appeared well. Bill lived his life with untreated, but diagnosed Bipolar disorder. He also smoked a lot of marijuana and was drinking energy drinks like water. It wasn't long before he confronted his bosses and lost his job just a month after us moving. But other things were also happening. His mood swings were erratic and when he was manic, he would keep me up all night, sometimes days at a time. I was living in exhaustion. I had a cell phone now so he was always keeping tabs on me. I couldn't go to the store, or see a friend or even be home late from work without numerous phone calls.
It was as if having our own space pushed him over the edge and I had no idea what to do. When I tried to talk to a friend about leaving, I learned he was reading my IM messages and e-mails, and then I wasn't able to talk to them when he was around. I learned he was reading my journals and was told I couldn't even write the truth in there because they were all lies. According to Bill, he wasn't that bad. In the meantime, on one income, we burned through savings and I couldn't pay the rent every month and juggled to bring food in and pay the bills. I played bill roulette and used check cashing places so I could make ends meet, all driving me further in debt. He refused to move, even when I told him we couldn't afford it anymore, he refused to believe me. If I dared to say I was leaving, he threatened to take our two daughters from me.
There was still the physical violence behind closed bedroom doors and loud arguments in the middle of the night when children were sleeping. I felt trapped, and even though I had co-workers willing to help me, Bill had made me so afraid of what he was capable of doing with lies and manipulation that I couldn't trust that my girls and I would be safe, even away from him. At one point, he was hospitalized and I tried to make my escape then but the hospital let him out three days earlier than they said they would, and I felt trapped once again.
In the meantime, I was borrowing money to make rent. Using up friends and resources, and feeling worse about myself in the process. My friends at work stopped trying to help and though they tried to understand, I just am not sure they did know how afraid I was. This up and down cycle in our own place went on for almost three years until I broke down, asked my family if we could move in with them, and told the landlord a big lie about why we were moving at the last minute. I hated myself. My self-esteem was shot. Oh...and just before six months prior to losing our house, I had given birth to our third child, a son. I felt so broken. I thought I would never be able to say no to him. He would always win.
So, even though he still was not working, we moved back into my family's house and I did the best that I could. He would refuse to leave causing HUGE arguments with other family members. He broke down and was hospitalized two more times for still untreated mental health issues complicated by pot use. I just kept going. I kept looking for a way out but what do you do when someone refuses to leave and threatens to call CPS on your children? I was scared. I felt alone. My c- workers never really gave up. They tried to help but I felt stuck and trapped. It wasn't until a family vacation when our son was four that finally I was able to do it. He almost ruined the vacation by going off his meds and becoming manic. He was doing the same old behaviors that got him hospitalized. Finally we had an argument where he told me that no matter what happened his brother would take him in. So I did it. I finally told him, "Call him now and move in with him." When we got home, he moved out. This brief summary is taken from a length of eighteen years that I lived with him.
It has only been three and half years since he finally agreed to leave. I am still recovering. Putting your self-worth and esteem back together doesn't happen overnight. I work at it. Shortly after he left, I sought therapy because I was having really bad anxiety attacks. I had anxiety when I was a teenager, depression as well. In seeking therapy, I have learned I still have anxiety and major depression, but now I also have PTSD, some have called it unofficially, Complex-PTSD from long time abuse. This is why the topic of domestic violence is so important to me as well as mental health. I am doing this with the encouragement of a good friend because it is vitally important to share our stories.
I have purposefully changed names and left out specific dates for the protection of my younger children. As they become older, and I become more comfortable with telling my story, more details may be revealed but for now, the protection of my children's identity is important to me. I look forward to continuing the conversation.

In the beginning....

My story starts on my 21st birthday. A friend had taken me to a bar to see John*, someone I had a crush on, run karaoke night. Other than hello, the guy didn't acknowledge me all night. However, his friend, Bill*, wouldn't leave us alone. And My friend, shooed him away more than once. The next day, Bill showed up with John where we worked in the theater. John bluntly told me he would never go out with me because I was a "good girl" that same night. So without my permission, he gave my Bill my phone number.
Bill called me the next day and the next day, until I finally agreed to go out with him.
In the beginning, the calling, extra attention, wondering where I was at, seemed enduring and lovable. However, in the back of my mind there was a tugging that something wasn't quite right. But Bill was the first real guy who had paid attention to me, and wanted to date me for me, so I believed.
After dating a few months, I moved to Los Angeles to follow a dream. It was after I was there for two months that Bill quit his job without telling me, and when he drove down for, what I believed, to be a visit, he informed me that he was moving in with me. At the time, I was not living in my own space and didn't really have room for him. But I didn't know what to do. So, I let him stay.
Bill went everywhere with me. I went to work and most of the time, he drove me there, stayed around the mall, and then drove me back. Again, the attention was odd, but I didn't know any better.
There were couple of other moves. Los Angeles didn't work out, we both had to go home. His home, originally, was all the across the country. After a year apart, I moved there. It was a disaster. I ended up pregnant, and though I was 24, kids were not on my agenda. I tried to make it a couple more months but couldn't.
I felt alone and scared so I went to my sisters where I had been invited to nanny while I was pregnant. Bill was supposed to follow me but didn't. In fact, it wasn't until I made it back to California, that he arrived just before our daughter was born ( five weeks early).
This is when the relationship began to get rough. He didn't have a place to stay so he stayed with a relative, then went to a shelter and finally a crappy studio until he landed at another relatives place. All the while, the blaming, the threatening to call CPS because the baby fell asleep on her stomach...all of it was my fault. By the time she was a year old, I was working two jobs and got my own 1 bedroom apartment. Before long, Bill moved himself in there. Originally staying there on weekends since I worked overnights. Eventually, though he moved in. He bought a car in my name but I wasn't allowed to use it. There were arguments and physical altercations because he wanted to go to his pot dealer after he had been drinking. I wasn't allowed to go out with friends very often anymore.
Everything was behind closed doors. My daughter never saw it. My neighbors never knew.
We moved again to get a "fresh start" out of state. Things only got worse. Bill drank more. Smoked more pot. Tried other drugs. Finally paranoia and isolation got the better of him and he left.
I was grateful. I went back to California. I had my own apartment again, my daughter was almost four. I found work at my old job. We were peaceful for quite a while. He would call and I would tell him we were broken up all. the. time.
This wasn't good enough for him. He came back to California so he could see his daughter, and stayed with a relative again. My babysitter for my weekend job quit so he began coming over for weekends after he got off work. I worked 15 hour days. I seldom saw him except at night.  I had just started feeling better about myself, starting school and working and paying my own way. Eventually, he stopped taking no for an answer and ended up in my bed.
I was pregnant again.
I had to take an extension at the university for a semester.
I became injured at work.
I had to go on disability.
All this time, inside I was prisoner again. I couldn't see my friends whenever I wanted. If I was gone for more than an hour, then there was an argument. I couldn't write what I wanted. My creative writing was looked at, criticized and always about Bill in some negative way. I felt I would never get rid of him. I stopped saying no. There was no argument I could win.
Skip ahead after our second daughter was born: we had lost the apartment and were living with my family. Shortly after she was born, I had blood clots. I was barely able to walk. He ended up losing his job right after Christmas because he was helping take care of the kids.
He blamed me for not getting better soon enough.
Blamed me for doing everything wrong.
During this time, often behind the closed doors of our bedroom, Bill would complain that I didn't do enough. Even though I made his lunch, cooked dinner, did laundry and other household chores while trying to complete school, while still out on disability. But I was lazy, incompetent and never did enough. There were physical altercations. Being shoved, pushed, even choked. All behind the doors, quietly. To my relatives he was mostly nice so long as you agreed with him. He could not hold down a job, when Bill finally did, we moved out to our own house. That is when the real trouble began.
*names changed for protection.
Stay tuned for Part two...On Our Own.