Pam's Story

Life in Michigan was good - cold sunny days in winter, warm sunny days in summer.  I was an ice skater and a swimmer though not with any competitive training; sticking to anything longer than one day proved a challenge, without someone to prod me on.  My house and life are both littered with grand ideas brought to life and then neatly tucked away to be resumed on another day.  That day seldom arrives.

It was in Michigan, as an elementary age girl that I was diagnosed with seizures and allergies; what followed were 60's era medicines and an almost-impossible-to-maintain-severely-restricted-diet.  I was Mom's happy-go-lucky girl, though depression was about to encroach on that cheerful demeanor.

The summer day arrived when Dad announced that we were moving to the beautiful Northwest, where it rains incessantly.  My eighth grade year began following an introduction to the other geographic transplants on our humble hill.  Five girls showed up on our new doorstep inquiring as to whether there was someone starting in junior high that year.  They became my closest friends - allies in the fearsome world of junior high school newbies.  It was a good, positive start to a new chapter in my young life. 

But my three triggers got worse with time; the medicines, the allergies and the famous Northwest drizzle.  The combination transformed Mom's happy-go-lucky little girl, now in high school, into a hopeless mess until she did the unthinkable.

Following a summer's evening with my friends wherein we'd meet so-and-so's boyfriend and his friends and go do whatever, I gave no clue, actually had not a clue myself, as to what was about to happen.  The ratio of males to females was 1:1, relationships were already being initiated.  I was being 'fixed-up'.  Upon seeing me, my 'fix' chose to do something else that night.  I was being rejected.  I was now extra baggage.  My triggers were actively, menacingly working on my thoughts; by the end of the evening, I smiled, thanked my friends for inviting me and walked inside my parents closed up home and began my before-bedtime routine.

That included meds, but instead of taking my prescribed dosage, I took a 'whole heaping handful' of Phenobarbital, the drug used to control my seizures, in hopes of sleeping into eternity. 

Obviously, I survived.  But there was no follow up with counselors, etc.; all was well after that.  The blackness of yesterday had given way to the illusory bright promise of a new day.

I should state, right here, that to people who understand medicine, you may be thinking, Phenobarbital will not kill, no matter the dosage.  I truly don't know. What I do know is that I made the choice, that night, to believe the lies that were swimming in my head, and, in fact, to act upon those lies.  Whether I used a viable method to kill myself or not is a non-issue.  The real issue is that I was willing to go through the act of ending my life, hoping my means were sufficient to accomplish that end.  I chose to believe a lie direct from the lips of the Father of Lies.  Much akin to Eve, of Garden fame.
My meds, over the years, changed.  In speaking with the doc about seizure meds of the 60's, 'wicked' was the operative adjective.  It was not until I was upgraded to Dilantin that my family learned of the dynamics of the previous meds.  My world was ruled by an alternating sense of lethargy and hyper-thought.  Sometimes life happened in slow motion, sometimes at warp speed, always with voices to narrate or guide me through life.  Sometimes the voice was good, sometimes menacing.  Isn't that every one's reality?

After graduation, five years of recreational drugs ruled, including alcohol; I am confident that self-medicating was the goal.  Eventually I did get to a counselors office, but discovering and addressing the core issues of this self-abuse never happened.

I tried imaginative fixes, seeking always to leave for somewhere new and exciting, a place where the sun shined. Wanderlust they called it.  I came by this naturally; as a teacher, Dad took summers to show us the other parts of the country - an utterly fascinating and tempting lifestyle full of euphoric, endorphin driven fun.  For long summers that were entirely too short we slept in tents, spied on bears, got dinner from the lake and, of course, did our business in the outhouse.

As an adult, two of the three triggers continued to drive my bizarre behavior.  Just as the rainy season approached, I began planning forays into whatever region in the U.S. was known for their warm and sunny climate.  In the spring, after months of rain, I executed those forays.  Why I never took them when I began planning the trips, I don't know.  It's kind of backwards.

I was in my mid-forties before I completely understood what was happening: my body was being inundated with the dynamics of Seasonal Affective Depression Disorder, toxic foods that caused emtional imbalance and seizure meds (still).  It was good to now have a handle on this; I could begin looking for a solution.

And that solution was a process - I was not inclined to add medication to my arsenal of "cures" - which took time. 

I had good days and some very bad days.  Occaisionally, I would still drive down our rural highways and contemplate how fast I would need to be going to effectively wrap my car/truck around a telephone pole.  Never tried it, figuring if I didn't succeed, I wouldn't want the troubles, which would include doctors, psychologists, and more drugs.  They would surely be on the other end of such a self-destructive impulse.  So I continued waking every morning, going to bed every night and filling my days with work, family, (however dysfunctional) and church.

And that is where I found healing - in the primary lessons of church, though in a unique fashion.