Teenage Survival as a Closeted Queer
It’s hard to explain my relationship with medication. For so long my stubbornness and refusal to take medication as an adult directly led to my inability to grow in my own physical and mental healing, but at the time it wasn’t something I exactly understood either. Medical abuse is a part of my trauma and having the knowledge that my chronic illness is directly linked to the abuse I endured, is a hard pill to swallow (pun intended 🙂).
Presentation was huge in my house growing up. If we couldn’t fix the brokenness on the inside, we could at least paint a damn beautiful picture on the outside to hide it all behind. So an outspoken, rebellious child that doesn’t fit the mold of the expectations of a typical “daughter” tends to make that plan a little more difficult. Medication was a typical plan of action for submission by my mother. Constant doctor shopping, medication switching, mixing and adding because “nothing ever worked.” Episodes of medication induced psychosis after an “accidental” mixing of incompatible medications, years of high school reduced to a zombified version of myself, being abandoned for long stays in inpatient care, and no one listening to my frequent requests for the abuse at home to stop.
Then it happened. My body began to break down. The pain. The inability to stay awake. Incontinence. So afraid. So much shame.
I started to refuse medication shortly before my 18th birthday. There were times I forced medication with my mouth held until I swallowed. The inside of my mouth would be searched to see if I was able to keep one of the many pills from squeezing down my throat with the rest. When I was finally, legally, able to make my own decisions, I stopped everything. But the damage had already been done. I was warned that I would need medication for support for the rest of my life. This was supposed to be ok because it was not the same medication that had harmed me, but I dug in. No more pills.
Around that time I was really into Angelina Jolie movies (looking back now, it was totally an undiscovered girl crush but I digress). I had been reading an article about her tattoos (again, not obvious?) and one really struck me. It is a phrase that can be found on a painting of playwright, Christopher Marlowe. It states in Latin, “Quod me nutrit me destruit”, which when translated to English means, That which nourishes me destroys me. I honestly have no clue what it means to her but in that moment I knew what it meant to me.
What is a mother? A protector? A provider? Someone who is meant to keep you safe and look out for you? Who recognizes your hurt and hurts with you? This person who had given me life, also chose to take away my spirit, day by day. And as a child, who only ever wanted the unconditional love of a mother, I did not know how to stop coming back for more.
Like a zebra lost in the desert with no food and no water, wandering, longing for a drink and finally stumbling upon a small pond of salt water. The zebra does not know the salt water will not be helpful, in fact, it will be hurtful. The zebra is just so thirsty and the water is so wet, the zebra believes that water will satisfy its thirst.
But this phrase, That which nourishes me destroys me, has become more relevant as my relationship with medication has changed and as my chronic illness has progressed. I have found that certain foods (nourishment) can inflame my body and make things worse (destroy). My passion, my work (nourishment) can sometimes cause me to take on extra negative energy that increases anxiety levels which can also exacerbate symptoms (destroy). But most significantly, I have recently discovered that I am medication (nourishment) dependent for life in regards to my chronic illness and knowing that my condition was medication induced (destroy) means it has served both purposes in my life.
In addition to this, a few years ago I entered into some deeper work into my PTSD and had an increase in symptoms. I began experiencing significant intrusive thoughts and felt a part emerge that I had not experienced in many, many years. Being a therapist and knowing the significance of this emergence, I knew that I had to make a decision. Thankfully, I have a doctor that I felt comfortable talking to. I explained my trauma history with psychotropic medication and my fear of reintroducing them. He was very receptive and helped me with a gradual process of reintroducing medication. He also spent time listening to the medications that I had been on in the past as to make a clear choice to avoid them as well as meds from the same categories.
Today I can say that I am finally on the right combination for both my physical and mental needs. That may change in the future but for now, I know I am ok and that gives me comfort. For a long time, I wanted to be a person that could survive without medication but I have accepted the fact that I cannot. This is who I am. This is a part of my story.
But it also doesn’t stop me. From anything.
