Back When I Thought I was Crazy

I found my way to peace and happiness

All is well in the Queendom. I sit here in my warm house wallowing in my comfort zone. Legs, crossed at the ankles, are stretched out on the sofa.

My only focus at the moment is on sipping creamy, hot coffee and nibbling homemade chocolate, peanut butter candy. There is money in the bank and a chicken in the pot. Boundaries are intact. I have a painting studio in town in a building with other artists. I have great quality friends to discuss life with.

I like my body.

I haven’t had a panic attack in years. I am at peace. This day has been a long time coming.

Back when I thought I was crazy, I had no idea what being at peace felt like. I didn’t even know there was such a thing. I was desperate for some peace of mind. I was intent on trying to outrun myself and my wrongness.

I knew just as sure as Tif Garcia had chopped Jerry Garcia’s middle finger off with an axe that everything I did was wrong. To the core of my being I was wrong.

I was thrashing around trying to find some relief from the constant anxiety. I bounced checks, I lied to cover my tracks, I got offended over nothing, I had sex with unworthies, I let people take advantage of me, and I could be talked into doing stupid, harmful things.

I let people down, I know. I hurt myself and other people.

The beginning

Early in life I learned not to speak and not to speak up for fear of getting slapped on the back of the head. My words were clipped off one by one until there were none left. I hid in the background not wanting to call attention to my worthless self. I didn’t talk.

In the basement, Dad was trying to fix the washing machine. He had me and my sister try to hold it up tilted at an angle. We let it fall. It was too heavy for us to hold. The cussing and name calling started.

I got so pissed off that I yelled at him, “What do you expect us to do? We’re children. We can’t hold that heavy thing.” He started after me and I ran out the door. A wrench flew past my head and landed on the ground. I kept running until I got to my Grandmother’s house where I spent the night.

Needless to say, I didn’t sleep much that night. The whole scene kept running over and over in my mind. I knew I’d have to pay for that outburst of mine but I wasn’t sorry.

The next day I went back and did my assigned penance by hoeing in the garden until my hands were blistered, cracked and bleeding.

I endured the screaming, the cussing, the humiliation. I didn’t know what else to do.

I could find no safety in that house I grew up in. I would hear my father’s voice and I would shake and my heart would pound. I didn’t trust a lull in the chaos because the lull would never last. I was always on alert for signs of the inevitable temper explosion.

I thought if I could just hold on until I graduated from high school and I could get away I would be free and everything would be alright. I got out of high school so fucked up I could barely function in polite society. I didn’t know up from down or my asshole from my izzard. That was the beginning of a long relationship with anxiety and depression and two stints in a psychologist’s office.

My father had PTSD from the war and from upholding a long family tradition of abuse. He yelled, he cussed, he ranted, he blamed, he accused, he humiliated, he hit, he kicked, he criticized. He was wild-eyed and flinging spit. And every day he went to work at a job he hated and brought home a paycheck.

One afternoon, my mom was driving the tractor down a row with him following behind cussing and throwing rocks at her. Later that day he pulled a shotgun on her. I don’t know what the neighbors thought. They didn’t interfere.

Another time, my sister and I sat bumping along in the back of trailer being pulled by Dad on a tractor. We crossed a shallow creek and started up a hill where some blackberry briars had grown out in an arch over the trail. Dad pulled the trailer through the briars. He backed up and pulled up dragging us through the berry briars as we screamed for him to stop. He laughed and laughed.

On that day I realized that there was something seriously wrong with this man.

Peace is possible

When I was out on my own, slowly, day by day, bit by bit, through therapy, meditation, affirmations, and every little off-the-wall thing I heard about to relieve stress I started to get better. I took a nose dive down every rabbit hole I could find to try and figure out what was wrong with me. Why was I so shy? Why couldn’t I fit somewhere? I’m not sure what actually worked or if it was a combination of all of it.

Although I was terrified most of the time, I managed to get myself a college education, found jobs, moved to California, lived in Europe, sang in a barbershop choir, learned to play the fiddle, acted in several plays and in a major motion picture. I am also a fine arts painter. Not so bad. The terror didn’t stop me from doing what I wanted to do.

Peacefully day by day

I have to say, though, that I much prefer being at ease with myself now that I have finally come to that point in my life. I am careful to watch what I eat, not much sugar. I drink no alcohol. I exercise every day. I stay away from people who don’t honor me and I set strong boundaries with people. I’ve had to fire some friends. I only read hopeful, uplifting stories. And only watch movies that make me feel good.

I have to stay vigilant for signs that I’m starting to dip into depression. One sure sign is that if I’m neglecting self care. If I’m not wanting to take a shower and wash my hair, uh oh. Go get in that shower girl friend.

And now what is next for me? At this advanced age I’m just getting started. I hope the God I don’t believe in will allow me many more years to enjoy this. I have more painting to do, more songs to learn and more cities to visit.

Now it’s time to straighten my crown and get on with it.