I decided to move to Pennsylvania in June of 2005. By July, I was gone. I entrusted the transport of most of my worldly goods to a friend who had relatives in Jersey Shore, which is about 30 minutes away from where I live now. (And no, Jersey Shore is not in New Jersey. It's here in PA, hours from New Jersey. Don't ask me why, because I don't remember why.) I bought a one-way bus ticket from Evansville to Lock Haven and boarded it with one small duffel, 2 carry-on bags, and a manual wheelchair. I had a 20 dollar bill in my pocket and another $200 hidden in my shoe. And that was all she wrote. I haven't looked back since.
There are many reasons I decided to do this. One is still too painful for me to talk about, even to this day. The other two were: 1. I was sick, and 2. I had always wanted to move out of state anyway, and PA was simply the first chance I got. The latter requires no further explanation. The former, I will discuss somewhat.
In June of 2005, I was officially diagnosed with something called Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, and after that, I couldn't get far enough away from French Lick. I wanted to take off running and keep going till I reached the other side of the world. I wanted to dig a hole and pop out in China. My little campus apartment in Evansville could not contain me anymore: I was a bundle of neurotic energy, always afraid of hearing a knock on the door and opening it to see my mother staring me in the face, coming to desecrate everything I had made safe. I jumped at every little noise. I was afraid to leave my apartment. I had nightmares so vivid they even happened when I was awake, which I now know is called a flashback. Every time I went to French Lick for a vacation or a school break, there was a memory lurking down every familiar street. I got paranoid and thought I was being followed through town, so I stopped going to town. Then I stopped leaving the house. Then I stopped leaving my room. I got my grades at the end of my last semester at USI and discovered that within that one semester, my GPA had dropped from a 3.8 to a 3.0 -- I was too busy scouting for danger to concentrate.
There is really no way to describe PTSD accurately; you just have to have suffered it to know. I thought it hit me like a bat out of hell, but I realize now that mine was a slow, inexorable decline that just picked up speed toward the end like a train headed downhill. For months I had tried therapy and prescription drugs and various unhealthy methods of self-medicating -- one look at my arms will tell you that story. The meds made me sleep 24/7; the therapy was a forced ordeal that saw me through one faulty, unethical counselor after another. I swore off it all and tried denial, which landed me on a psych ward in May. I did not breathe a word about this to any of my family members for fear of being judged; people already saw me as the Drama Queen, the attention-seeker. I never did determine whether anyone had ever believed anything I ever said about what happened to me under my mother's roof, and for their sake and mine I have spared them the worst parts. I hope to God no one knew what really happened in that house, because if they knew and no one did anything to save me, I may never be able to forgive them for their inaction. I also still have half a notion that I'd still go unbelieved, and I do not want to open myself up to that kind of rejection. I got some in February from someone I love dearly, and I still don't know what to do about it. Quietly, then, I suffered, as I always had. And I knew something had to change.
Moving here to PA was a way of putting myself in a new world, surrounded by people who had no preconceived notions about me. No one had heard any stories that I myself hadn't told. No one had any expectations, or lack of them. There were no whispers or accusatory glances, no sudden facial expressions that said: "Oh, I know who you are, you're that girl who ----------- (Fill in the blank.) I will be the first to admit that I was no angel as a child, but I wasn't any worse than any other kid out there until I had to be, until I had reached a point where I was willing to do anything, be it good or bad, to get someone to notice that I existed and that I needed help. This backfired, as it will, but I didn't know that would happen: I was a kid. I should not have had to scrabble and scramble to save my own skin; someone should have been there to save it for me. Kids can't take care of themselves; no wonder I screwed it up! I was trying to do something I never should have been expected to do, and given the circumstances, I think I did an admirable job of it. I am not dead or in prison. That has to count for something.
My illness followed me here, of course, and eventually a diagnosis of Major Depressive Disorder was added to it. My brain now functions on a carefully balanced mixture of Paxil, Abilify, and some long, complicated-sounding thing for nightmares, plus a stimulant for concentration and the occasional sleeping pill This lovely combination has resulted in a weight gain of 100 pounds, which I fight to reduce and control every day. I refuse to go "home" because I am ashamed to be seen like this. I also couldn't return to school for several years, which means I'm still living in a rent-controlled efficiency apartment while fighting my way toward a BSW, and I am ashamed of my poverty. "What do you do for a living, Tif?" "Oh, I live on SSI and work at the library ten hours a week. I can barely afford a houseplant." That's not something you want to have to say to people you haven't seen in 5 years. It boils down to: "I'm fat and poor and have accomplished next to nothing." I hate the fact that for me, every day my feet hit the floor is an accomplishment. That not having been hospitalized for over a year is an accomplishment. I had such huge plans for my life, and none of them have panned out. Here in PA, people know me, really know me, now, and they know how hard I have fought and what I have won. I'm afraid it won't be that way across the Indiana state line, that my story won't translate across all the miles. Honestly, there are people I want to see, but I can't: I'm afraid to be seen. I'm afraid of not amounting to a hill of beans over there. Sometimes I want to call someone and say, "Hey, I miss you," but I'm afraid if I did that I'd start to cry and I wouldn't be able to stop. But I'm trying. Facebook has let more people back into my life than anything else: know me on facebook for awhile, talk to me, and you'll see the real Tif. And maybe you'll love her, even with the extra weight and the nonexistent income and all those damn insecurities. Or maybe you won't. But I guess all I can do is offer you who I am and let you decide for yourself.
"When all my hopes and dreams have been betrayed,
I stand before you -- my hands are empty ...
I fall and stumble, flat on my face,
I'm shamed and humbled, in disgrace:
I am yours, if you are mine."
-- Tracy Chapman
I miss you.
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