All my life, I have asked myself that question. Because this year has been more difficult than other recent years in terms of my depression, I have probably asked myself that question more often than not. Although my therapist and literature I have read emphatically state I am not in fact broken, I can't make the same assertion with any confidence. As a result, I tend to blame myself for feeling like garbage, which in turn just feeds back into my depression.
Perhaps just as frustrating as not knowing whether I am damaged or not is the fact that I can't determine exactly why I have these emotional problems. Through self-reflection and therapy, I have identified at least two possible contributing factors from my life.
First, I was born with birthmarks (or congenital nevi for you doctors out there) over most of my skin. In and of itself, that may not be a big deal, but there was one nevus that extended from the back of my scalp (at ear level) down to about two-thirds of back. This birthmark also covered my shoulders and part of my chest. When I was three years old (I think), this abnormally large birthmark was removed and a skin graft taken from my belly was attached in its place. Most of this scar tissue could be hidden from view under most shirts but it was always obvious that something was wrong (at least cosmetically) with my neck. Later, there were at least one hundred birthmarks removed from my legs, leaving additional obvious scars (at least when I was wearing shorts).
I remember vividly being teased about my birthmarks and questioned somewhat callously about my scars. Sometimes I still wish that I had "plain" or "normal" skin (maybe a dozen birthmarks, not hundreds). Given the skin I'm in, it probably makes sense that I don't appreciate tattoos very much. When I see some that are especially large or ugly, I can't help wondering why that person couldn't have just been happy with their nice, consistent skin. (There's probably a lesson in happiness for me in that statement somewhere.)
At this point, being asked about my scars does not bother me for the most part, but I am far from being happy with my natural appearance. In particular, there is a rather large mole on the tip of my nose that makes me still feel rather freakish. Aside from that, I think I have accepted the way I was born. Even so, it only seems logical that these struggles with body image may have left lasting psychological wounds which I am still trying to heal.
The second major factor contributing to my depression (at least in terms of life experience) was my parents' dysfunctional, codependent relationship. More specifically, my father was an alcoholic, my mother was neurotic, and together they argued incessantly. I never had much of a conversation with my father until I was 18, because when he was drunk, he was usually yelling or sullenly silent. On the occasions when he was sober, like when he'd take me on errands with him, he'd buy several cans of beer for the road and we'd usually stop in some bar for a few hours before heading home.
By the way, my parents ran a bar together. They bought it when I was eight. I don't know if my father was an alcoholic before he owned his own business, but I am aware that he did drink. The steady stream of beer from their bar, combined with the stress of working twelve or fourteen hour days to keep their business afloat, made my father extremely belligerent. But here's where my mother comes in. Generally, my father could keep his mean streak in check (burying emotions runs in the family) except when my mother was nagging him. Which happened constantly.
I think my mother herself suffered from depression and anxiety, and there was a hint of panic always hiding just below the surface (sort of the way I feel nowadays). But her real problem (and mine too, for it contributed to the unpredictable quality of our home life) was her lack of common sense. My mother wanted to discuss legitimate, worthwhile concerns with my father, but instead of broaching a topic when he was sober and capable of intelligent conversation, she would needle him after he was well past the point of intoxication. In her defense, he was only sober in the morning while having coffee.
I could never understand why she had such poor judgment when beginning serious talks with him. After I turned 18, I worked as a bartender for my father (at this point my mother was not very involved with their bar). There were many nights when my father and I came home after 2 AM, and my mother would insist on starting some big discussion when he was exhausted and may have still had a decent buzz. This may not have been an issue for me if we lived in a normal house since these late night talks did not typically result in an argument (unlike the rest of the time). Unfortunately, we lived in a slightly modified summer cottage, and the wall separating my parents' bedroom from mine stopped about two inches from the ceiling, so I had to listen whatever bullshit she was spewing when I was trying desperately to fall asleep.
My mother's nagging and poor timing made for a volatile mix when added to my father's lack of communication skills and drunkenness (and he was a mean drunk). The resulting screaming matches often extended to include my sister and I. Any additional stress on our family dynamic, like holidays, would make matters worse. To this day, Easter, Thanksgiving, and Christmas bring with them the memories of many special occasions that should have been joyful but were instead ruined by vicious verbal fights.
The two worst memories I have of my parents' marriage are the night my mother jumped out of the car while my father was driving (luckily she didn't have any severe injuries) and being told by a few regular patrons of my parents' bar that my father once pulled a gun (his .357 Magnum) on my mother during the course of an argument. Who knows if he really would have shot her? It may have just been a desperate attempt to shut her up. What's the point of owning a bunch of firearms if you don't use them for anything? (Kidding.)
The upshot of all this is that my parents' behavior and my physical abnormality probably combined to establish and reinforce the insidious idea I have that I am worthless, a failure, a loser, etc. Struggle with this negative self-concept is ongoing, and seldom easy. Part of me knows that my parents tried to do the best they could and they did have my best interests in mind much of the time. They couldn't change the way I was born. The surgeries I had prevented me from looking like an even bigger freak in some ways and may have helped prevent some of my birthmarks from developing into malignant skin cancer. But another part of me knows that on several levels, my parents failed in a grand fashion. Maybe one day I can forgive them and forgive myself for being born.
I know this must read like a description of any other cliched, dysfunctional family. These aspects of my life have certainly contributed to my mental illness, but what is so confounding for me is that I didn't grow up in a terribly extreme environment, yet I'm still struggling with the "trauma" of these experiences from my childhood. No, my parents never beat me. No, I was never sexually abused. Yes, I was often neglected, given all the hours my parents worked during my youth.
Still, I was born with all my fingers and toes. I'm not crippled. My five senses all seem to work (to varying degrees). I've been lucky enough to have shelter, clothing, and food available throughout my life. So why can't I just be happy and shut up? It's likely there's some neurochemical imbalance in my brain, but it's difficult to pinpoint as my unpredictable, inconsistent experiences with various medications will confirm. Until I can make some worthwhile progress, I keep reminding myself that there are positive things about my life and the world around me. (Some days it's harder than others to accept this statement.)
And when that fails, I can always rely on good, old schadenfreude for a pick-me-up.
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