Shortly after, I was sent to the first in a long line of therapists. He was a young Mormon guy and I assessed him quickly. I decided that I was smarter than he was. I was experienced in duality after all. He lobbed softball questions and my answers hit them out of the park. I was well behaved and responded in an intelligent cohesive manner. I told him what he wanted to hear. Yes, I was angry that mom had a new husband. Yes, I was having a hard time adjusting. Yes, I slept well, (read: insomnia). Yes, I was a little down (read: deeply depressed). He gave me pointers on how to deal with stress. Ideas on how to learn to adjust. My parents loved me and I needed to respect that (read: fuck you). I needed to go to church and ask Heavenly Father for help. However, I already went to church on a weekly basis to appease Mom and Mike.
I was started on anti-anxiety medication and antidepressants. Wow, my own prescription for downers. Taking a few Ativan gave me a drowsy, dreamy feeling. Not ideal because of the drowsiness but I took what I could get. I knew I had to be careful with my behavior, though. My darkness, depression, hatred, and anger would have to wait until the nighttime when I was alone. Even then I had to be careful because of the missing door. Eventually my sessions were reduced to every two weeks then to once a month. I felt paroled on good behavior.
We moved to Lodi and I began sophomore year in 1981. I tried out for and made the junior varsity basketball team. Still, I was living a dual life. I was introduced to the Punk movement and sound by friends. One friend in particular stood out. He was a big guy for a freshman. A skinhead who wore a leather jacket decked out in layers of metal pointed studs. It intrigued me that his experience with drugs far surpassed mine. Though he was partial to hallucinogens and I had always been afraid of acid/PCP, etc. My imagination was over active enough. His senses seem to have been dulled by the compounding effects of the drugs because he would insert pins into his skin, pierce his ears with safety pins, etc., with no outward reaction. I admired his self-control and lack of feeling. Determined to follow his example, I pushed a safety pin through the webbing of my thumb and wore it like that until my traitorous body demanded I take it out.
YOU ARE READING
The Hole Within
Non-FictionMy soul-searching story of a dark past. Growing up in a strict Mormon household I slowly withdraw into a dark world of my own; self-mutilating, suicide attempts and self-medicating with drugs and alcohol. I go into therapy and discover repressed mem...
