Over the weekend, I watched "Young Adult" starring Charlize Theron. While it wasn't the best movie I've ever seen, it was a fearless character study. Charlize Theron plays a highly unlikeable woman, Mavis, who is obviously (in my non-professional opinion) mentally ill. Once the most beautiful and popular girl in her high school, she is now 37, but still mentally stuck in high school. Her character is incredibly self-absorbed, and selfish. Just like a child to never think about anyone but themselves.
Her apartment is disgusting, and for some reason, this woman has a dog. A dog that she never takes for walks, never gives water to, and that she locks in her hotel room alone for most of the movie. Her TV is always on reality TV, mostly "Keeping Up With The Kardashians". Her appetite for TV that a 16 year old would watch is just another facet of her mental immaturity. She is consistently drinking throughout the movie, so it appears she has an alcohol abuse problem as well. I think, as we all probably know, alcohol is going to exacerbate every problem she currently has. She gets an email one day that her former high-school boyfriend has just had a baby with his wife, and that is her wake-up call. It's like the thought suddenly dawned on her that her ex was not sitting home alone, and crying because he doesn't have her anymore. In her mind, she is so beautiful that everyone wants her. Just like a high schooler to think something so naive. And just like a high schooler to think that beauty is the only thing that matters, and that beauty would make a married man leave his wife.
She gets in her car, and drives to the town she grew up in, intent on whisking her ex away with her to big-city life. It never even crosses her mind that this man is married, happy, committed, content. He will obviously jump at the chance to be with her again, and leave his wife. Sigh. There is a lot more that happens in the movie, but what I'm walking away fascinated with is her character. Her character is the author of a young adult book series, which is fitting for her. Because she is likely forever 16 in her mind, she writes in a high school voice.
Her newest book, about a beautiful popular girl, is how Mavis thinks about herself. She changes the names of her characters, but the book is her thoughts. She talks about how her character, Kendall, is envied by everyone and how she is better than everyone. This is exactly how Mavis feels about herself. At the end of the movie, when she is rejected by the happily married man, in order to make peace with her mind, she kills off the love interest in her book. This is how she deals with the fact that she was rejected. Just kills him off. Because, of course, it wasn't her. It was him. It's so interesting that she couldn't have a breakup in her book, she had to completely kill him off in order to go on with her life. Nothing else, but death could explain why her character Kendall is not united with her love interest. It also shows how closely Mavis's real life is entwined with her novel life.
I think what drew me to this character is how similar she is to fantasy-me. I've always been drawn to writing, and I regularly write stories in my head. While I'm getting ready in the morning, I'm imagining a story in my head. When I'm cooking dinner, I'm writing another story. Cleaning the house? Lost in my imaginary world. And my fantasy-me is so beautiful that everyone immediately falls in love with her. Exes pine and never get over me. They think I'm the one that got away, and they would take me back in a second. This is a part of me that never manifests itself in my real life. In real life, I'm shy, awkward, and I wouldn't ever think that every single man I see wants me. In my head, my ex would leave his wife and family for me. In real life, I know this person is happily married and would never leave them in a million years.
I was just so drawn to this character. In Mavis, I saw a part of me that only exists in my head. In my head, I'm extremely narcissistic. I just don't care. I walk around saying whatever I want, to whoever I want. But to be a narcissist, I'm pretty sure you have to lack empathy, and empathy is not something I lack. I'm very happy that this part of me doesn't manifest, because let me tell you, it wasn't pretty to watch in a movie. Her delusional behavior was just that. Delusional.
Showing posts with label mental illness. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mental illness. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
Monday, July 9, 2012
Looking For Answers, Found More Questions
So, my conversation with my dad last week...
It was a really, really hard conversation for me to have, but I'm glad I did it. I'm proud I finally got the courage to ask my dad the things I needed to ask. I almost backed out the morning I was supposed to have the conversation, I was one button push away from sending a text to my dad saying I couldn't talk that day. My husband talked me down however, pointing out that my dad probably had a sleepless night anticipating out conversation. He made a good point, and I went through with the phone call.
It was actually my dad that called me, and about an hour earlier than we'd discussed. We made our usual small talk, what's going on out West, and I updated him on what's going on here out East. Eventually though, I bit the bullet and asked him what I needed to know. Was he aware of any incidents that could have occurred when I was a child, with Uncle S., that I might need to know about?
I got that long pause again. It was with some hesitation that my father told me that my uncle was my primary babysitter from when I was age 1 to about 3. I was with him exclusively from 7:30 am to 5:30 pm, Monday through Friday. My dad told me that they took me out of that "situation" when they realized there may have been an "issue".
My heart sank and I felt sick. An issue? I asked. My dad said he wasn't aware of any specific events, but that him and my mom were "suspicious" something had happened. I asked him to be honest, point-blank, did he think something happened? He said yes. We continued to talk about my uncle for awhile. His drug use, his mental illness, the fact that he identified as a homosexual, and his relationship with my brother and I.
We talked for more than an hour. I felt good when we ended the conversation, mostly I think from the fact that I've been needing to have this conversation with my dad. I didn't really get any direct answers, and now I have even more questions, but for some reason, I feel better.
What's next on my bucket list? Sigh. Making an appointment with another psychiatrist. You could say I've been nursing my bruised ego from perceived "rejection", but it's time to move on in my journey.
It was a really, really hard conversation for me to have, but I'm glad I did it. I'm proud I finally got the courage to ask my dad the things I needed to ask. I almost backed out the morning I was supposed to have the conversation, I was one button push away from sending a text to my dad saying I couldn't talk that day. My husband talked me down however, pointing out that my dad probably had a sleepless night anticipating out conversation. He made a good point, and I went through with the phone call.
It was actually my dad that called me, and about an hour earlier than we'd discussed. We made our usual small talk, what's going on out West, and I updated him on what's going on here out East. Eventually though, I bit the bullet and asked him what I needed to know. Was he aware of any incidents that could have occurred when I was a child, with Uncle S., that I might need to know about?
I got that long pause again. It was with some hesitation that my father told me that my uncle was my primary babysitter from when I was age 1 to about 3. I was with him exclusively from 7:30 am to 5:30 pm, Monday through Friday. My dad told me that they took me out of that "situation" when they realized there may have been an "issue".
My heart sank and I felt sick. An issue? I asked. My dad said he wasn't aware of any specific events, but that him and my mom were "suspicious" something had happened. I asked him to be honest, point-blank, did he think something happened? He said yes. We continued to talk about my uncle for awhile. His drug use, his mental illness, the fact that he identified as a homosexual, and his relationship with my brother and I.
We talked for more than an hour. I felt good when we ended the conversation, mostly I think from the fact that I've been needing to have this conversation with my dad. I didn't really get any direct answers, and now I have even more questions, but for some reason, I feel better.
What's next on my bucket list? Sigh. Making an appointment with another psychiatrist. You could say I've been nursing my bruised ego from perceived "rejection", but it's time to move on in my journey.
Sunday, June 24, 2012
Where Did It All Begin?
I'm 4 days away from my first appointment with a psychiatrist, and I've pondered this thought for a long time now. Ever since I kinda, sorta put the puzzle pieces together, I've been reaching and straining to really, really put the pieces together.
It's just not that easy. What I have recovered are more like flashes of images, not actual memories that play like a movie in your mind. I want to remember, because I want to heal, but obviously my mind is not ready to concede. I know this. Sometimes at night, when I am laying in bed, waiting for the Ambien, Noritriptyline, and Hydroxyzine to kick in, I try to remember.
I have lots of memories from this time period (3-5 years of age), but none fit together in a succinct timeline. I felt a lot of fear as a kid. I remember my mom leaving me at daycare, and crying inconsolably for hours because she had left me. I remember being horribly afraid of the dark, to the point of panic if I was completely in the dark without my nightlight. I suffered from terrible nightmares as a child, dreaming about everything from ghosts, to serial killers, to killer clowns. I was convinced there was something under my bed that would grab my legs and pull me under if I got out of bed at night. My window shades in the room had to be tightly shut with no way to look in. Because, you know, if you could see in my window, the aliens would see me and take me away. I honestly believed that if I looked in the mirror at night, there would be a ghostly image of a girl who would pull me in. I still avoid mirrors at night to this day.
I remember my grandmother's (my mother's mother) house that she lived in at this time. It was right next door to my parent's house and 2 houses down, my aunt, uncle (one of my mom's brother's, the sane one), and cousins lived there. I remember my grandmother's front door, her living room, her kitchen. I also remember the room that my uncle (my mother's other brother, the not-so-sane one) lived in, the way the window was positioned, his wood bed, the furniture, his ash tray on the bedside table. I cannot, for the life of me, remember her bathroom or her living room couch. I have an image in my mind of my uncle rubbing me on her couch, but I can only feel the couch against my skin and see the couch as separate from the room. I cannot picture the room with the couch in it.
My uncle was bipolar and schizophrenic. He had a pattern of going off his meds, and disappearing for months at a time, not contacting anyone in the family to let them know where he was. He would always return, docile and completely medicated. When I was 5, my parents decided to leave the town I was born in and move 60 miles south. I remember during this time that my uncle was not allowed to contact my family. Not by phone, not by letter, and definitely not to see me or my brother. My parents told us that he was addicted to valium and until he went to rehab, he wasn't allowed to have any contact with us. I was 7 when some sort of deal was reached between my parents and my uncle. My uncle apparently went to rehab, and later moved to the town where we had moved to. I'll save this story for another time, but my uncle disappeared permanently when I was 16. Off his meds, and into a life of homelessness.
For as long as I can remember, something was amiss between my mother and her mother. They never got along, and my mom could barely stand speaking to my grandmother. My dad was the go-between, and he was actually the one who took care of my grandmother as she was dying. My mother rarely visited her mother as she was dying, and could barely bring herself to see her before she passed.
Now that I'm where I'm at, pondering what has made me the way I am, I'm wondering how there could be so much I didn't see as a child. Could my uncle have been harming me, and my parents found out? Is that why we moved? Is that why I wasn't allowed to see my uncle? If so, why would they let him back in our lives? Did my grandmother know about this? Did she know about this and not do anything, and that's what happened between my grandmother and mom? If this did happen, why didn't my parents tell me? How could they not see a link in how troubled I was, the constant headaches, the stomach problems, the drugs, the promiscuity? How could they know, and yet, let me suffer?
I'm struggling with where I am today. My grandmother is dead, I cannot ask her what happened. My mother is such an emotionally shut down person, I couldn't imagine ever asking her these questions. My dad is an intelligent and very caring person, so I imagine there will be a time in the future when we will be sitting down and discussing this. In the meantime, I will continue to wonder where it all started. I will continue to reach for memories, despite the fact my mind tells me I don't want to remember. I just have to know. I just have to.
It's just not that easy. What I have recovered are more like flashes of images, not actual memories that play like a movie in your mind. I want to remember, because I want to heal, but obviously my mind is not ready to concede. I know this. Sometimes at night, when I am laying in bed, waiting for the Ambien, Noritriptyline, and Hydroxyzine to kick in, I try to remember.
I have lots of memories from this time period (3-5 years of age), but none fit together in a succinct timeline. I felt a lot of fear as a kid. I remember my mom leaving me at daycare, and crying inconsolably for hours because she had left me. I remember being horribly afraid of the dark, to the point of panic if I was completely in the dark without my nightlight. I suffered from terrible nightmares as a child, dreaming about everything from ghosts, to serial killers, to killer clowns. I was convinced there was something under my bed that would grab my legs and pull me under if I got out of bed at night. My window shades in the room had to be tightly shut with no way to look in. Because, you know, if you could see in my window, the aliens would see me and take me away. I honestly believed that if I looked in the mirror at night, there would be a ghostly image of a girl who would pull me in. I still avoid mirrors at night to this day.
I remember my grandmother's (my mother's mother) house that she lived in at this time. It was right next door to my parent's house and 2 houses down, my aunt, uncle (one of my mom's brother's, the sane one), and cousins lived there. I remember my grandmother's front door, her living room, her kitchen. I also remember the room that my uncle (my mother's other brother, the not-so-sane one) lived in, the way the window was positioned, his wood bed, the furniture, his ash tray on the bedside table. I cannot, for the life of me, remember her bathroom or her living room couch. I have an image in my mind of my uncle rubbing me on her couch, but I can only feel the couch against my skin and see the couch as separate from the room. I cannot picture the room with the couch in it.
My uncle was bipolar and schizophrenic. He had a pattern of going off his meds, and disappearing for months at a time, not contacting anyone in the family to let them know where he was. He would always return, docile and completely medicated. When I was 5, my parents decided to leave the town I was born in and move 60 miles south. I remember during this time that my uncle was not allowed to contact my family. Not by phone, not by letter, and definitely not to see me or my brother. My parents told us that he was addicted to valium and until he went to rehab, he wasn't allowed to have any contact with us. I was 7 when some sort of deal was reached between my parents and my uncle. My uncle apparently went to rehab, and later moved to the town where we had moved to. I'll save this story for another time, but my uncle disappeared permanently when I was 16. Off his meds, and into a life of homelessness.
For as long as I can remember, something was amiss between my mother and her mother. They never got along, and my mom could barely stand speaking to my grandmother. My dad was the go-between, and he was actually the one who took care of my grandmother as she was dying. My mother rarely visited her mother as she was dying, and could barely bring herself to see her before she passed.
Now that I'm where I'm at, pondering what has made me the way I am, I'm wondering how there could be so much I didn't see as a child. Could my uncle have been harming me, and my parents found out? Is that why we moved? Is that why I wasn't allowed to see my uncle? If so, why would they let him back in our lives? Did my grandmother know about this? Did she know about this and not do anything, and that's what happened between my grandmother and mom? If this did happen, why didn't my parents tell me? How could they not see a link in how troubled I was, the constant headaches, the stomach problems, the drugs, the promiscuity? How could they know, and yet, let me suffer?
I'm struggling with where I am today. My grandmother is dead, I cannot ask her what happened. My mother is such an emotionally shut down person, I couldn't imagine ever asking her these questions. My dad is an intelligent and very caring person, so I imagine there will be a time in the future when we will be sitting down and discussing this. In the meantime, I will continue to wonder where it all started. I will continue to reach for memories, despite the fact my mind tells me I don't want to remember. I just have to know. I just have to.
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