5 people, 1 room

It was almost 27 years ago. It was May. I remember it being May because my cousin's twin daughters were making their First Communion, which typically happens in May, and I was missing the party. I remember it being around Mother's Day. Can I give you an exact date? No. It's all just ballpark.

There was a school's boys lacrosse trip. The coach, the school chaplain, with whom I was quite close, were there. And, obviously the team. There was the only other girl and me, who were the bookkeepers. There was a bus ride. There was a hotel stay. There was drinking in one of the rooms. There were the shakes and nausea I feel from guilt, not from drinking. There was exhaustion from not sleeping. There was a bus ride home. There was a return to school. There was the chaplain coming up to me and asking me if I knew anything about things going on that may have included drinking. There was me telling him there was because I couldn't look him in the eye. There was him being surprised that I was actually involved. There was punishment from the, mine doubled by the anger of the other kids. There was religion class with a game called Scruples being played. There was a kid asking me a made up question in the game of moral dilemmas about whether or not I would drink on a school trip. There were the really pissed girlfriends/dates of some of the guys involved because the guys couldn't go to prom. There was me telling my mom before the school could and dealing with that punishment --- the punishment of the silent treatment, which was far worse than the taking away of my license.

So what?

There's a story in that general list of things that happened. Actually, there are 5 stories. One-fifth of those stories is mine.

I'm going to go with the proverbial renaming of the other girl in this story as Jane. We'll go with Joe, Jack, and John for the guys. And me, I'll stay as I am. So, there's the 5, Jane, Joe, Jack, John, and me.

Jane and I shared a room at the hotel. We were the only females, so that was given. Joe, Jack, and John were sharing a room. People gathered in their room. They were a pretty big deal. Real jocks.

Out came the booze. There were the makings for a generic Screwdriver, a gallon of orange drink mixed with vodka. To continue to keep it a teenage drinking party was some MD 20/20 Banana Red. It may not be good, but it will get you drunk. I don't remember when the other guys left and if they were there for the drinking, but at some point the only people left were the 5 of us.

Joe passed out, which gave me a sense of relief. He was a really built and strong guy. Jack went and pissed in the sink, which is out in the open as is common in middle of the road kinds of hotels and motels. I didn't see his penis, but I was really starting to stress out. I really wanted to go back to our room, but I didn't want to leave Jane, who I knew wasn't going to come with me easily. So, I just laid down on the bed with the passed out Joe. The other bed had Jane, Jack, and John. They were under the bedspread. There was a lot of giggling on Jane's part and some laughing on Jack's and John's.

At some point, Jane and I returned to our room. I did not sleep. I was filled with guilt about being in that room and drinking. I just laid there shaking and nauseous. When it was time to go, I was a hot mess of exhaustion. The others didn't look bad at all. They were experienced with partying and late nights. Then you go back up to the above list with the bus ride home, etc.

Through the years, I have found myself wondering what went on with Jane, Jack, and John. Did my staying in the room protect her from something terrible happening? Did something terrible happen under the covers? Was she drunk to the point of not knowing what she was doing? 

As I hear about Kavanaugh and his cronies, I immediately think of Joe, Jack, and John. Then I think about Jane and other girls from high school and what may have happened to them.

It's not going away

In the early 1990s, I was a pretty conservative kid in some ways. In September of 1991, I was a junior in high school and 16-years-old. The SCOTUS confirmation hearings for Clarence Thomas were taking place and I gave no shits, as far as I recall. Then, in October of 1991, Anita Hill started to testify about being sexually harassed by him. That's when I started to pay attention in my young, naive, conservative way.

I called bullshit. How in the world was this woman coming forward after all that had been done? His confirmation was practically a done deal. This seemed so ridiculous to me. I thought that if things were that bad, she would have done something about it.

I was everything that disgusts me today.

I really should have known better. When I was a kid, I had experienced some sexual curiosity, I guess you could call it. This is nothing like assault. I wasn't a victim of something. It gave me horrible guilt and anxiety, in part because of who I was with. I'm leaving that out because they have the right to privacy, and, like I said, it wasn't an assault or anything like that. However, I carried it in the pit of my stomach for close to 20 years. I was afraid of getting in trouble and having people looking at me with disgust.

I did tell someone, finally. The very first psychiatrist/therapist I saw. I was 28-years-old revealing something from when I was about 12. He told me it was entirely normal behavior. He told me kids do that, they are curious, and they do it with whomever they are hanging around at the time. I had a sense of relief and told a couple other people, including my mom. Everyone's reaction was pretty much "that's it?" kind of vibe. I still have moments of feeling terrible, though, and try to work my way through by remembering the reactions of others.

What does this have to do with Anita Hill or #MeToo or Kavanaugh? I was not a victim. I was not abused. I was not assaulted. I was not harassed. Without all of those things being a part of my story, I was still afraid of revealing it to anyone for well over a decade. So, if I wasn't victimized and had no fear of the person I was with coming after me in some way, how can I possibly have the mindset of my 16-year-old-Anita-Hill-is-full-of-shit self? How can I expect women to report the crimes against them right away? How can I not #BelieveAllWomen #BelieveWoman #BelieveSurvivors? 

Searching

It's been a while since I've posted anything. I've had some thoughts, so it wasn't for lack of things to say. This is probably a good example of what depression can do. It wasn't that I didn't have anything to say; it was that I didn't have the will or the energy to do it.

Anyway, that's not the focus of this post.

What I'm dealing with right now isn't really a unique thing to those of us with mental health issues. I can imagine that many with chronic illnesses have a similar experience. There are certainly varying degrees.

I have come to a point where I need to find a new psychiatrist. Things have just not been working. Plus, my current doctor is no longer on our insurance, so that's a practical reason for change. Shawn and I are on the same page with needing to make a break and move on. Actually, it was time a while ago.

So, why would I stay? A psychiatrist isn't like a primary care doctor who you see for a flu shot, a cold, or a basic physical. Yes, you do have a relationship with a PCP. For someone like me, a psychiatrist is deeply involved in my life. There's a level of intimacy that I don't share with some of my family. My psychiatrist is treating what is her best guess as to what is wrong with me. It's using her notes, whatever history I have given her, and playing with combinations of medications to try to get me well.

Trying to find a new psychiatrist is stressful. It fills me with anxiety. It means finding someone I am comfortable with. It also means that I have to remind myself that just because I meet with a psychiatrist, that doesn't mean I have to make that person my new doctor. I can go through an "interview" process with them. Then, once I select the doctor I will see, I have to go back to the beginning. It's the re-telling of my story. I have to go through my medication history, which quite frankly, I don't have the best recall of that list. Whatever files the new doc get transferred to him will have my best guess as to my history. Also, what happens if this doctor looks at my current diagnosis and says, "Oh, fuck no! Not even close!"? I mean, my current doctor is the first of 4 who came up with a bipolar depressing diagnosis. Where the others wrong? Will the new doc agree? There is no blood test to diagnose these things. If the new doctor disagrees with the diagnosis or the medications, that means a pretty significant change. Changes in medications are difficult. The side effects can be so horrible and it can take a few weeks to even know if the drugs are working. So, you may suffer through some side effects, which may wane after your body adjusts, only to have the medication proof to be in effective. It's a lot of work physically and mentally.

And that is why it sometimes seems better to stay put.