Not All Wounds Are Visible

by Maria Boggs

“It’s not a disorder, it’s just laziness.” The famous words my father used to say at my yearly parent-teacher conferences when my teachers would express to him their constant observations on my struggles with focus and attention span. The truth is my teachers were not wrong. My thoughts have never been my own. It is as if 30 different radio stations are all playing at once and my power button appears to be jammed. This is how my brain has always functioned for as long as I can remember.

I would often spend my nights lying in bed physically tired but unable to sleep because the radio stations in my head refused to follow through with the plan. Is it going to rain tomorrow? I wonder if my parents remembered to lock the doors. What is for lunch tomorrow? I did not like the thick, rubber pancakes that they made us eat today. I never folded my hands during prayer. I wonder if my principal caught me. Boy would he be mad if he did. Does that mean I am going to Hell? I should have folded my hands, but that fly kept landing on my plate, and I just could not take my eyes off it. I wonder if it is true that flies always poop when they land on food. Gross. I wonder if I ate fly poop, and now I have an infection. I better tell my parents tomorrow so I can go to the doctor to get checked out. Except, I really do not enjoy my office visits with my doctor. His breath always smells like rotten eggs mixed with baby vomit, and what is up with that creepy smile he always gives me? I cannot tell if he is trying to greet me with a genuine warm welcome or planning his attack to stab me with needles for his own enjoyment. His hands are always so cold as if he purposely sticks them in a gallon of ice prior to the electric shock he gives when he checks for swollen lymph nodes. On second thought, I will keep the fly poop story to myself this time.

Day after day, year after year, I just could not comprehend what was lying in front of me. Some teachers would agree with my father that I was not applying myself. Others would empathize with me, giving me their sad grin as if they could feel the sadness and frustration I was generating inside. Why didn’t the other kids seem to struggle like I did? Why was I the only one coming home with report cards full of D’s and F’s? I questioned if my father was right. Perhaps I was lazy. I swear I felt like I was trying. In my head, it felt like I had just run a 20-mile race only to look down and find myself still standing at the “start” line.

By the time I got to middle school, I was exhausted. All of those after school tutor sessions, and all I could do was think about every other topic aside from what was in front of me. The teacher who was tutoring me would try to encourage me with “Try harder, I know you can do this.” I wanted so badly to respond to that teacher with “Why don’t you try harder with that hair style of yours? You think that comb-over is fooling anyone?” I refrained. I was proud of myself for keeping my mouth shut on that one.

When high school came around, I could feel myself giving up on my education. At one point, I was attempting to read the first chapter of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn that was given to us as an assignment from our teacher. I must of have read that same opening paragraph eight times and I still could not recall what I had just read. I could see the words and I knew what they meant, yet my brain could only envision a page of blurry lines as if I had suddenly become farsighted. I can remember this specific day well because it was the day I officially discontinued my efforts to learn. What was the point of trying anymore? I was not getting anywhere. My report cards were permanently stamped with D’s and F’s and the “brain lecture” my father would give me was starting to become a daily event. I used to cry when he gave me those lectures, but now I just pretend I am watching an episode of my favorite show and tune him out. I knew the future for myself was not bright, but I just could not find the energy to try anymore.

Senior year was the worst for me. Everyone around me was planning their future dreams and plans for college, and I could not even make it a month through dance team without being benched for bad grades. My inner struggles were starting to project themselves to the world as I watched all my friends go off to college to pursue their dreams and I was stuck in the quicksand of failure, with no future in this small and lonely town. I would try to play it off that I was not going to college by my own choice, not because my 2.0 GPA would be laughed at by every college admissions office as the comical joke of the year. I was embarrassed. I was ashamed.

Fast forward seven years and one child later. I was working at a nursing home. One thing I always found to be good at was taking care of people. I always worried about everyone, and it was my duty to keep people happy and laughing. I loved my son and my husband, and I loved my residents. When it came time to help them out with the everyday tasks of living, I did it as perfectly as I could. I never had to think about that; it just came naturally to me. Maybe I was not as dead and useless on the inside as I thought, so I held onto that for my everyday motivation.

When I became pregnant with my second child, the volume on my internal radio stations seemed to have turned up. My constant fear of my unborn child being in harm’s way seemed to be the main talk on these radio stations. I would call my OB’s office almost daily, verifying if the thoughts in my head were real. “I ate an orange and accidently swallowed a seed. Could that seed be damaging the umbilical cord?” or “I walked by someone at Walmart today who was smoking a cigarette. Did that short period of secondhand smoke get into my baby’s system?” The racing thoughts never ended. Sometimes the thoughts would physically hurt my head. No need to worry there though. I made sure the doctor ruled out any possible brain tumors.

I remember my OB asking me to come in for a visit with her. I knew it. That orange seed was blocking the umbilical cord. I better get there now. I sat down in the exam room filled with portraits of tiny babies in pastel tutus, sleeping so peacefully with smirks on their faces. How adorable is that? I wondered how long it took those photographers to pose those babies. What if one of the babies had a diarrhea blow out? What a mess that would have been. I remember those first newborn poops with the black, tarry substances. Stop and focus! You are here for other reasons. But my gosh, those tutu babies were adorable.

My OB came in with a concerned look on her face and sat down at eye level with me. She started to express her concerns about my mental health. That sent immediate red flags to my internal radio stations. Mental health? Who? Me? How could you think that? Absolutely not. Mental health is for crazy people, not me. Those radio stations got louder and louder. In fact, there was one point where I had completely forgot that I was not alone in that room, and I screamed out, “I’m not crazy!” I stormed out of that office with so much anger. Shame on that doctor for insults she threw at me. I swore I would never come back to see her again

I came home to my 5-year-old son and husband sitting on the couch with disappointment sprayed across their faces. Did the doctor call and tell them she thought I was crazy? Why were they upset? Before I even got to analyze and overthink the 200 additional questions in my head, my son started to scream out to me. “Mom, you missed parent day at school. You promised you would be there, and you missed it.” My frustration quickly turned to sadness. “Sweetheart, I am so sorry. I have no idea how I could have forgotten that. I am so, so sorry.” I replied. He stood up, walked over to me, and gave me a hug. “That’s ok, Mom,” he said. “I still love you, but I wish you would not forget so many things all the time.” What a stab to the heart that statement gave. He was so right, though. I forgot about soccer sign up last week. I forgot to take him to that birthday party the weekend before. Why could I not remember this? Why wasn’t this one of the main headlines to one of the radio stations constantly playing in my head? I looked over at my husband who refused to look back at me. I knew he was checked out. I knew he was done with having to remember for us both. I knew he could not handle the impulsive thoughts and actions of me anymore. I have seen that look of disappointment before on my father’s face when I was a child. Although he was physically there, I knew my husband was gone and it was all my fault.

I recall crying that night harder than usual as the radio stations were getting louder and louder with the latest updates. “This just in: she is the world’s worst mother and wife.” I could not take this anymore. To constantly disappoint myself was one thing, but to disappoint my son and husband, that was a hard curveball to the temple. I wondered if my OB was right. I questioned if I had a mental health problem. I was about to bring a second child into the world, and I was damned if I was going to let her figure out my failures. I never wanted to see that face of disappointment on my son again let alone my infant daughter. I made the decision to call my OB the next morning and agree to have her place a referral for me to establish with a psychiatrist.

I still remember walking into that psychiatrist’s office for the first time. There was this beautiful brown leather furniture that looked like it had never been touched before with its smooth and shiny reflection and that fancy leather smell, far too expensive for me. Why were there so many plants? To keep a good oxygen flow throughout the room? How come I can remember this moment from 10 years ago like it just happened, but I struggle to remember what I ate yesterday for lunch? I locked eyes with the psychiatrist as she sat in her matching professional leather chair. Her legs were crossed with her notepad and pen on her lap. Here we go. She had a thick, blank book, ready to write down all the negative observations she had of me as if she were God and that was my final judgement day. I scanned the room for the closest exit and made sure to take a seat in the fancy chair next to it. I had my plan for escape if needed.

“Hello there, I am here to help,” she began her opening welcome statement. I could tell she had more to say but I felt the overwhelming and impulsive need to cut her off and said, “If you think I am going to take medications, then you are mistaken, and we can consider this meeting over.” “Absolutely not,” she replied. “We are just meeting because it sounds like you are having a difficult time and I want to be able to help you navigate your feelings, even if it just involves talking it out.” I thought to myself, good luck, Lady. I have been trying to navigate these internal radio stations for years and there is no hope. The power button has been permanently ripped off by this point. You are wasting your time.

Let me tell you, this psychiatrist knew what was doing. She had all the right words to say to ease my mind. Suddenly, I could feel myself letting my guard down and projecting my entire life and internal struggles onto her. I was expecting to see that same face of disappointment as I did with my father, husband, and son, but it never came. Instead, she had a genuine look of empathy as she replied with the perfect responses to make me realize she just wanted to help. I let her into my brain. I let her listen to those radio stations. I even let her perform psychological tests on me, and when the results had come back with severe ADHD, combined, as well as generalized anxiety disorder and a sprinkle of obsessive-compulsive disorder, I was not shockingly offended or defensive like I would have expected to be.

The psychiatrist was so patient with me when I expressed my firm decision and refusal of any medications. She respected my wishes and agreed to continue to see me week after week for follow up therapy. I had no knowledge back then that a psychiatrist’s role is to primarily diagnosis, prescribe, and maintain medication management. If a patient does not wish to have medications be part of their treatment plan, the patient is urged to consult with a licensed counselor for therapy. The psychiatrist never once informed me of this. Instead, she continued to see me for my vent sessions. I would come to find out later that she had similar life struggles as mine with undiagnosed ADHD. Once she was accurately diagnosed and her condition was managed, she dedicated her life to dissecting ADHD from every single angle and becoming a psychiatrist in hopes to help others who were struggling. That woman had a mission to save my life, and she did just that.

After my daughter was born and my husband had left me, I was determined to work harder than ever on “fixing” myself. This included weekly intensive therapy and education of how to manage my new diagnosis. Eventually, I agreed to initiate medication management after receiving the correct education and understanding of it. The outcome was that I became an entirely different person. It was as if someone was finally able to fix my jammed button on my internal radio stations and turn down the volume to a controllable sound. I finally could think about one subject at a time. To be completely honest, it was extremely creepy at first. I felt more insane than before. Why could I focus on the birds chirping their good morning song when I sat outside sipping my coffee? How did I manage to write all the upcoming events and appointments for myself and my children, but also remember to attend them? Why was I so calm? Why was I thinking things through before I said them? What was wrong with me? Is this how a normal person’s brain is trained to think?

I eventually accepted and enjoyed this new change, and I took advantage of my (mostly) controlled and focused way of thinking. I enrolled in college to become a Certified Medical Assistant. I recall the confused expressions from the woman who helped enroll me into the technical college. She would double blink her eyes while staring down at my high school transcripts, as if she were hoping she was hallucinating when she saw my 2.0 GPA. I was preparing myself for rejection but was shocked when she informed me that if I were able to achieve the required scores on the entry exam, that I would be accepted into their program. She suggested I establish a tutor through their student center to study and prepare for the exam. I was beyond excited for this opportunity. I thought to myself for once, I am going to prove anyone who had ever doubted me wrong.

I faithfully went to the student center to receive tutoring sessions and this time I was able to focus and understand what was being taught to me. Hallelujah! I cried tears of joy when I passed the entry test and was officially on my way to my Certified Medical Assistant diploma. For the first time, I can say I thoroughly enjoyed school. I was determined and dedicated to push myself to receive those gold cords. When I graduated with a 4.0 and walked down that graduation aisle wearing gold cords proudly over my gown, I felt like I had finally finished my marathon from beginning to end. I remember looking over at my parents and seeing my father cry. This was something I have never witnessed in my life. After the graduation ceremony ended, I watched my father marching towards me. Typically, I would associate that fast-paced walk with an upcoming “brain lecture,” but this ending revealed a huge plot twist. Not only did I get the biggest hug from my father, but for the first time in my entire life, I heard the words, “I am so sorry. I should have listened. I should have taken you to get the treatment you needed years ago.” I hugged my father as tight as I could, despite the awful old spice cologne that was creating my headache (yes, my brain still has a few radio station dysfunctions from time to time) and instructed him to stop apologizing. This was not his fault. He did not know better, and neither did I. Mental health was not a topic that was spoken about much back then, but I am so relieved that it is being talked about now.

Here I am 10 years later at 35 years old. I have 4 children and am happily married to my second husband for almost 6 years now. I work at a psychiatry clinic, and I absolutely love my job. I have become an advocate for mental health. I know what struggles mental illness can bring as I have lived and continue to live with them myself I also know how life changing it is when you get accurately diagnosed and treated. I have this desire to help educate others who are struggling. This is what influenced me to continue my education and to one day become a therapist myself.

Ten years ago, I would have never shared this story with anyone as I kept it bottled up and stored in my “embarrassed” file folder in the back of my mind. Today, I have shared my story with many friends, family, and even patients I tell my story with no desire for receiving empathy or praise in return. Instead, my goals are to help people understand the importance of mental health and the realization that even though the internal wounds are not visible, they are valid, and appropriate treatments can help them to gain back their happiness again. Life is challenging enough, but no one should ever have to suffer in silence with mental health for the fear of being shamed or viewed as “broken”.

I have often watched my patients let their guard down after I share my personal story about mental health. I want to prove to them that I am not in any position to judge them, nor do I view myself any better than them. I want to show them the compassion and understanding I have as well as the respect that I have for them to make the commitment to be here, ready to receive the help they need and deserve.

There is nothing about my life path that has ever been easy for me. I still struggle with my condition despite medication management and continued therapy. However, looking back at how far I have come fuels my fire to continue down that path. As strange as it may sound, I do not regret a single moment of my past struggles. I do not wish my parents would have gotten me treatment sooner In fact, I am glad they did not jump to conclusions and have me put on random medications as a child, in hopes that one would be the magical cure to change me. My struggles and lost battles are what drove me to the destinations I needed to be at in that moment. My internal radio stations are still present, but some of the stations have fallen out of range and the remaining ones are much more controlled and focused I finally got my tools from my toolbox to fix that power button and adjust my sound.