Growing up Irish Catholic in a town known for it’s toughness, pride, and let’s face it, bigotry, the last thing you wanted to be thought of was weak. Weakness meant you were a loser, a wimp, and that other “p” word that I don’t use.
These were the types of values that were engrained in you as a child, life rules that were taught in the home along with the abc’s, the Yankees suck, your phone number, and that Santa and God were beyond a shadow of a doubt, white. (See bigotry). I’m fairly certain that when you were baptized in my neighborhood, the priest ended the ceremony with “in the name of the father, the son, and don’t be a little bitch”.
From the time I could speak it was clear that I was not the typical Southie tough girl. I was a crier, a worry wart, and afraid of my own shadow. In those days we didn’t use the term socially awkward, no, I was simply branded a “fuckin’ looza” by most of the people who knew me.
My mom was one of 9 kids, she came from a long line of tough girls, today they’d be called bad bitches, I idolized them. Though she was never a fighter, my mom was a great athlete, a total rebel, and the life of the party. These traits, unlike scoliosis, my attitude, and horrific eyesight, I did not inherit from her. I think part of her was relieved that I wouldn’t be causing the kinds of trouble she had, but the other part had no idea what to do with my anxiety. I was just weird. And that was ok with her. Since I wasn’t pregnant or on crack, I was doing just fine. Don’t get me wrong, this is not a dig at her parenting, she did the best she could and I worshiped her. She was pure magic.
My weirdness truly peaked in high school and in my twenties. This untreated quirkiness was the cause of a lot of turmoil. I think back to being about 14 and my dad telling me that “all this crying is gonna land you in the loony bin”. So I figured it was best to hide my issues with whatever form I could to avoid being locked away like he claimed my aunts had been. Helllll no was I going to be locked up somewhere that didn’t have cable, call waiting, or the freedom to eat Oreos on my own terms. This was the 90s! I had a lot of shows to watch and snack food was in its prime! I would persevere!!
Except I never really did persevere. I learned to mask my demons with humor and attention from guys. If I can make people laugh and guys like me, nobody will know how sad I am. Sounds wicked smaht , right? I did all of the things that I could to keep my mind occupied. I worked multiple jobs at a time so that I wouldn’t have to spend much time alone thinking. I took care of everyone I could and dated one controlling, emotionally abusive guy after another. The depression I would fall into after breakups were awful. My bounce back time was far longer than “normal” people, and I could never understand why. Once someone decided I wasn’t good enough for them, I believed I wasn’t good enough, period.
A few years ago, after a series of devastating and sudden losses, the combination was taking its toll on everything and everyone around me. I couldn’t focus, I couldn’t find joy in anything, and everything I did at work was wrong, I was disappointing everyone and it was a minute by minute reminder that I was a useless, lousy employee, friend, and wife. And even though in my heart I truly wanted to be better, my brain had different plans. I became so overwhelmed with unresolved grief , relentless worry and fear, rock bottom would have been a step up.
As much as my Boston Irish brain told me that getting help was a bitch move, and that I should just suck it up and figure my shit out, 39 years of doing just that had caught up to me: I needed real help and needed it now.
Luckily for me I was and am surrounded by amazing people who talked some sense into me and made me go to therapy. I was very accustomed to showing “normal Jill” to strangers and couldn’t possibly explain to this rando what had brought me in today. But that’s the beauty of therapists, they know how to get it out of you and they recognize a hot mess when they see one.
She sent me to my doctor to get a prescription for Prozac: another no no in my Irish mind. I imagined myself turning into a zombie, or becoming an addict and spiraling into another set of problems completely. But instead of listening to that voice, I tried something new and listened to the doctors and some friends who have been there, done this.
It’s been over a year now since I got that prescription, and even though I’m still “weird” and have some bad days, I thank god for agreeing to try it, and the people that never gave up on me. If you take anything from this post please let it be this: Never, ever discourage a person who says they need help, don’t tell them therapy is crap, that it’s useless and fake. Don’t tell them what they should do instead. And don’t ignore the signs of a person who might be trying to reach out. Never shame someone for any of the (legal and safe) ways they are trying to get better. Take it from my dad “you’re a lot happier these days ha? No more of crazy shit, it’s nice”. Just don’t follow it up with his next statement of “maybe you’ll get back to the gym someday ha? You were in great shape a while back; what happened?”
Take care of you first! You’re worth it, and you need your best self , if you haven’t met that self yet; trust me, you’ll love her (or him) !!!
Where Was I Going With This? 