Disorder
When my inner conflict began to surface, it manifested as physical signs and symptoms. Anxiety. The most prominent initial presentations were restlessness and insomnia. During childhood, my anxious state was mostly ignored, with the exception of nights where my irritability progressed into emotional distress that allowed me to cry without exhaustion. For this, I would hear the bedside table drawer open, the popping sound of foil packaging breaking, to which a pill was dispensed into my small hands. It knocked me out which meant both my mother and I would get a ‘good night’s rest.’ The sleeping medication was effective. So much so, that on a night I suddenly woke to orally expel the entire contents of my stomach all over my bed, my mother’s course of action was to direct me to retrieve a towel from the linen cupboard, place it over my sick and sleep on it. These instructions were groggily delivered before she rolled back over to fall back into sleep. In the morning my bed was stripped for the wash and an apology was delivered with the excuse that she didn’t realise it was that bad. This would become a running theme of behaviour by the matriarch of the household, although, no apologies came thereafter.
My body’s refusal to rest wasn’t the only deviation from conformity. I began to experience compulsions. I would catch myself playing games with friends when a voice in my head would tell me to “hop on one leg three times, or your entire family dies.” I would proceed to do so, whilst appearing odd in front of whoever I was in the company of, them completely unaware that I had just saved my family from an early demise. Obsessive-compulsive disorder runs in my family on my father’s side, but I never thought to ask if anyone had similar experiences in their youth. From my observations, I concluded that it was a trait I solely experienced, at least as far as my immediate circle was concerned.
My grandma is an avid cleaner. She never allows a moment to pass without tending to the home. In my child mind, she possessed capabilities of 10,000 elves. The kitchen always spotless, and the rest of the house just as immaculate. If you were to take one step into my grandparents' home, you’d quickly decipher it to be the residence of a collector. One with a very specific taste, a special focus on ceramics. Most crafted with no intention to serve a practical function, but rather to be displayed. Mugs, the kind you would only ever be able to source from an estate sale these days. Clay sculpted into faces with scrunched up expressions, disproportionately large noses and wrinkles so deep, it appears as twisted caricatures of whatever royal figures they were made to honour. Other figurines looked like they were made as props for horror movies and became no less terrifying to look at the older I got. What I can only assume was a complete set of decorative blue and white Staffordshire plates, never once used, not even for special occasions. Finally, the dolls. My grandmother would gift one to me every birthday, but I never took a liking to them. Their porcelain skin always too pale and features too grim. A stiff body, dressed in garments from a life that was never meant for me. This paired with forced countenance and glass eyes that carry a silent ache. Lucy, on the other hand, was a permanent fixture of my childhood, one I grew fond of. Fabric skin that covered the plush body of a three-foot tall figure. Draped in a flowy mahogany dress with a high-neckline and a puffy white tulle underskirt that flared over her white stockings. Her medium-length mousy brown hair with loose curls appearing from under a wide brim straw hat. Positioned in the corner of the living room, she buried her face in her hands, a pose that mimicked a child covering their eyes to count for a game of hide-and-seek. But her hands weren’t just placed to her face; they were stitched to it, with no eyes, nose or lips underneath. I learnt from a young age that these objects that occupied every room of my grandparents were to be admired with the eyes alone, but my father didn’t follow these same rules. He would intentionally cause his mother to enter a state of emotional distress, tinkering with the positions of her ceramic figurines around the house. A behaviour of control amongst a power struggle with inspiration he attributed to Stephen King’s Misery.
Reflecting upon my family’s quirks, it’s clear to me that there are more neurodivergents in this bloodline of mine. One memorable instance was receiving a two-hour long drunken lecture from my father on the history and origin of ironing. He compared the removal of creases in fabrics to an art form. I like to tell myself that this was a unique experience, but as a woman who loves statistics, I know the chances of that being the case are slim.
Circling back to insomnia, whilst not exclusive to the neurodivergent population, it’s a central nervous system (CNS) disturbance more prevalent amongst them. It’s also another disorder that runs in the family. My father used to drink himself to sleep, my brother followed in his footsteps, while my mother and I ended up on prescriptions formulated to slow down the CNS. Both alcohol and benzodiazepines ultimately have the same sedative effect when consumed with that intent.
New symptoms started to emerge. The onset of tightness in my chest and the irregular breathing that coincided, began around the time of my pubescence. I voiced my discomfort until I realised I wasn’t being listened to. Seeking help from my primary carer was a hopeless mission. Too preoccupied with the life she was building with her new husband and the image they projected to the world. He was a man of God: the kind I couldn’t openly have discussions of evolution within his earshot. Armed with a holier than thou act that everyone but me seemed to buy into. I had never even had a conversation with this person, yet we shared the same roof. I was expected to attend weekly family dinners adopting his as my own. Already feeling like I was on the outskirts, I was forced to share meals with the entirety of this man’s family, his parents and three adult children included. I didn’t have the support of my brother who was allowed to stay in his room. I, on the other hand, was scorned on the nights I complained or voiced my reluctance about having to join.
There was a spoken rule in my family that was drilled into me from a young age. “Just do it to make her (my mother) happy.” But this blended family act felt like a performance. One put on for the benefit of strangers.
The frequency of the fights between my mother and I increased, all while I was being told by my brother to bite my tongue to keep the peace. I started having small outbursts after my mother left my room. Sometimes she would say things to me with the intent of getting a reaction, even if she knew it would hurt me. It was a pattern I noticed years earlier, but it progressed from minor remarks to outright telling me my own father didn’t love me.
Then, as if the solution to all problems fell out of the sky, my father made me a proposition. He was moving back home from Indonesia with his wife and my half-siblings and asked if I wanted to live with him. We knew my mother would never allow it, so we began concocting a plan for me to run away. I packed all that I would need, put my cat in a carrier and left a letter to be found. I can’t remember exactly what I wrote, but I addressed that I wasn’t happy with my living arrangements and left the only way I knew I could. It was discussed that if my mother caught wind of my plans to leave, she may file a court order for her husband to become a legal parent, through the means of terminating my father’s parental rights and allowing for adoption.
I was fifteen when I first encountered the police. My mother had asked them to place my name on the Airport Watch List, covering all international ports in Australia, set to expire after I turned eighteen. Plainly put, I was on a no-fly list and couldn’t legally leave my motherland.
This request was approved based on the information my mother provided. She claimed that my father owned a house in a “red-light” district of Indonesia. My mother made a point of creating a fear-driven justification for this action, insisting there was a very real possibility that my father would take me and not return. She alluded to, at the very least, a potential risk of kidnapping and missing out on completing my education, and at worst… I’m sure you can put two and two together. Police were sent out to my father’s residence to perform a welfare check on behalf of my mother. They carried out their duty, asked me all the protocol questions, and deciphered I was there freely and of my own will. After speaking with me, they communicated the message that it was up to me who I wanted to live with.
My mother persisted. When the police wouldn’t entertain her any further, she returned to the courts. I was removed from school on the day of a final exam to attend the family court for a custody hearing. I wasn’t present in the courtroom where the hearing itself was being conducted, so I’m still to this day perplexed on the purpose of being removed from school, especially with the concern that was had for my education. Regardless, my mother lost. She didn’t have control over me anymore and I was finally free.
Or so I thought.
The situation wasn’t any better living with my dad. My step-mum would send money back to her family in Indonesia and they would fight about it. My dad would drink, get drunk, deny when confronted, and they would fight some more. She would sometimes threaten to leave, taking their three young children back to her country, and this led to one of the only times I’ve seen my father cry. He sat me down on the living room couch and apologised for taking me out of one hell just to put me in another.
My mental state continued to decline as new symptoms arose. Intrusive thoughts. Sometimes it would be a voice, an internal monologue, other times it was visuals. Disturbing events unfolding in my head in real time. Images of harming people I loved played out like a horror movie.
Guilt filled me. I couldn’t understand why my mind would create such scenarios. I remember supervising my little brother on the balcony, holding him as he looked over the rail, when a voice urged me to toss him over. I even envisioned it, scene for scene. Something I would never do. Something I know now is outside of my capabilities, but at the time, it made me feel like a threat. A danger to others. Like I couldn’t be in the vicinity of anyone else.
What I have described is referred to as ego-dystonic: thoughts and feelings that are distressing or cause a sense of internal conflict as they go against your beliefs, values or sense of self. Having these thoughts does not mean an individual will act on them. In reality, the negative impact these unwanted and repetitive thoughts cause is usually a strong indicator that you're not at risk of harming others, but rather are struggling with an anxiety-related condition, a symptom that falls under the OCD spectrum. I wish I knew this then.
Outside of school and my social obligations with family, I started isolating. Staying up all night to watch movies alone in my room and sleeping the day away. My priority became to distract my mind or to create habits that left me too tired for it to function properly. That was easier than being around people. The torment of my own thoughts was dulled and became directed towards myself instead of others.
This method worked for a short period until it didn’t, and I knew I had to find something else to quieten my mind. In the pursuit to escape myself, I found a way of self-managing what I couldn’t understand. It was in the viewing of an obscure Polish film that I was presented with an option that promised a sense of relief. Broken disposable razors, a bit of blood and some minor scars seemed like a fair trade in gaining control over my own body. It became a way for me to release all the pent-up emotions, with frequency varying from a daily to weekly practice, depending on my emotional state and external triggers. This habit of mine even started to feel good, with each cut prompting the release of endorphins, a neurotransmitter stimulated in response to stress or pain. It was a natural painkiller.
The target area was one that I hated and conveniently could hide, my upper thighs. When the blood would start to spill from each incision, I’d wipe my hands over the open skin, painting my face red. It seemed like a waste to let it diffuse into the water, so, I treated it as a face mask. With my rudimentary understanding of blood-letting practices, I didn’t think of it as being that bad. In Ancient Greece and Rome it was used to balance the four humours; blood, phlegm, yellow bile and black bile. A framework that shaped medicine, psychology, and even personality theory for over a millennium; with each fluid representing one of the four elements. Although, if I had known more of the history, I would have known that bloodletting was a practice used in the treatment of individuals presenting with fevers, rashes and other symptoms thought to be related to “overexcitement.” In Medieval Europe, it was used to treat everything, melancholy included. In Ancient China & Ayurveda it was used to detox the body from “bad blood” or energy blockages. In Islam there is a practice rooted in traditional medicine that involves making small incisions and drawing blood using a cupping technique. Done with the aim of boosting blood circulation and treating various ailments. I could go on in a way of justification (where there is none). My reasoning was that I was sick. I had chosen self-mutilation as a coping mechanism because I had not been taught how to self-soothe and in my mind, it was an effective treatment.
This habit of mine was a secret. For me and my eyes only, one that I was able to hide even if I were at the beach with my friends. I always cut high enough to be concealed by my boardshorts. Then, at sixteen, I entered into my first relationship. To him, it was alarming at first, but then it became a disturbance. He loved to squeeze my thighs but couldn’t do that if they were covered in fresh wounds.
After coming back from a sleepover, I found I had been moved from the study, in which I had my own space, into the bedroom to share with my three siblings. I no longer had a place to cry in peace. Between the bed-wetting incidents and night-terrors of my siblings, I deteriorated. I was expected to clean up after everyone in the household. On school nights, I would be so exhausted that I would forget we had a dishwasher in our possession, and would clean the cutlery, cups and bowls of six people in the kitchen of a one-bedroom apartment. One late evening, I started hearing voices and, in that moment, all I could think of was my nan. She had lived the last of her years in an aged-care facility. But in her youth, she was a part of a community-based amateur theatre group. Every month they would host a social and play evening. In 1947, at just eighteen years old, she performed on stage in front of over a hundred people. I think about the courage that must have taken. I can’t even deliver an oral speech in front of a class of thirty without my legs shaking and my voice quivering. The play she was cast for was Weatherwise, an absurdist comedy written by Noël Coward. Storytelling of turmoil caused by a mentally deranged woman who enters a trance-like state and behaves as if she were a dog, every time the weather is mentioned. Though she didn’t portray the main character, she was cited in the local newspaper, “noticeable for her fine voice and enunciation.” How I wish that trait was passed down to me. I didn’t get the opportunity to know this version of my nan but was told she adored me. Her cognitive ability declined when I was young. I have no memories of the woman she once was, only the ones of the fortnightly to monthly visits to her facility with my mother. I distinctly remember my mother sneaking in a razor to shave her moustache, something my nan herself wasn’t present enough to care for. I would watch on in confusion as peach fuzz was removed from her upper lip. I didn’t understand my mother’s persistence in this routine of grooming, or why it mattered to her so much. It certainly didn’t matter to anyone else. Being estranged from the woman who birthed me, I can only theorise that it was my mother’s way of holding on to her, the woman she knew her own mother to be. Maintaining her image to honour the matriarch. When my nan died, my mother came to me for comfort. I didn’t know what to do, and there was nothing I could say. There was a severance of familiar connection. To me, my nan was simply a woman I visited to say hello to, never to expect a response in return.
My nan declined drastically, earlier than the onset of most dementia sufferers. Her disorientation and poor judgment weren’t limited to being lost in familiar settings or accidentally leaving the stove on. It was sinister. My father had gifted her a TV set, but instead of comfort or entertainment, it became a source of fear. My nan believed that people were talking to her through the TV’s speakers. This escalated to her hallucinations of receiving messages that her own husband was plotting to kill her. In one of her worst moments, she drove down a highway the wrong way. Luckily, she was stopped by a concerned member of the public who was travelling that same road. That’s when it was decided her living arrangements needed to change, that she needed the care of support workers.
In those first few seconds of hearing voices while washing dishes alone in the kitchen, these events flooded my mind. I thought that what had happened to my nan’s brain, was happening to mine. All that worry dissipated when I saw the flashing light of the baby monitor, and I realised the radio was picking up other frequencies. Nevertheless, that moment clings to me, with concerns of history repeating itself the way it always seems to.
As time passed, self-injury lost its therapeutic value. I started fantasising more of death, specifically my own. Suicidal ideations became my new form of escapism; I relished in all the ways it could be done. But I couldn’t do it. Not when I shared a room with my younger siblings. So, I decided to move back in with the person I once sought to escape from, my mother. My father and stepmother couldn’t understand why I was choosing to return to a place they had fought so hard to keep me from. In leaving the apartment my stepmother began yelling at me in her mother tongue, exchanging words I could only decipher with tone coming from a deep place of pain; betrayal. I don’t remember my father saying anything to me, but there was anger and disappointment written all over his face.
The ideations continued, with no real intent to do anything but to survive the emotional pain I was experiencing. Eventually, my boyfriend encouraged me to seek support. It took me months to gather the courage to confide in my mother, and when I finally did, I was met with the approach of a clinician. Cold, with no emotion, but a plan of action was immediately set in place for me to speak with a therapist. Help was promised to me with one condition; the first half of the session was a one on one but in the remaining thirty minutes, my mother would be sat next to me as my therapist relayed everything I had discussed with her. My self-harm was reduced to an attention seeking behaviour and every symptom I exhibited was explained away as a result of my rebellious nature. I started lying to my therapist in the presence of my mother, and our last session was turned into an attempt to quell my dislike for her current husband. A man completely irrelevant to my emotional state of wanting to terminate my time on Earth. It was an easy scapegoat. To my mother, there had to be a simple, non-nuanced, or multi-layered reason to explain away, why I was the way I was. It couldn’t possibly be that I was troubled and deeply traumatised.
I stopped being able to sleep at night completely and was seventeen when I was prescribed diazepam, the same pills my mother had once dispensed to ease my restlessness. I listened to my GP and followed their instructions, taking them only when it felt essential. I took a total of five, one at the end of every weekday to reset my sleep. The next week I found myself struggling to fall asleep again, there were twenty-five left when I last closed the packet and now, they were all gone. My mother helped herself to my prescription medication, just as she did letters addressed to me in the mail.
I couldn't rely on pharmaceuticals or the moral compass of my mother, talk therapy wasn’t a viable method of treatment and that’s when unhealthy friendships and relationships stepped in as a suitable vice.
But all of that is work for me to delve into on another day. The scars on my thighs are faint. So much so my last partner told me I should have cut deeper. A “joke” he thought was so funny he shared it with me on more than one occasion...I still experience suicidal ideation, although it’s rare, and never something I think to entertain. Just a passing thought, either triggered by stressful life events or simply an occurrence with no rhyme or reason. I still struggle with intrusive thoughts, but they’re easy to brush off. They’ve been reduced from homicide to more innocent, yet still offensive acts. The most common one appears when I’m sat across from someone I’m engaged in conversation with. If I have freshly brewed tea or coffee in hand, my brain will tell me to throw the mug at them. I’ll ignore it and my mind will rudely interject again, envisioning the act and aftermath. These thoughts rarely appear in the company of strangers, only when I'm with someone I deeply appreciate, but I expect them now. I’ve made peace with the fact that my mind has the tendency to periodically go rogue.