I’ve always skirting on the fringes of mental illness, I think.  My first panic attack was when I was in eighth grade, but no one was talking about panic attacks then; it was just “nervous about public speaking.”  But I kept my over the top reactions to having to do presentation or speeches under wraps well enough that no one realized how nauseated I was, or how swollen my tongue felt as I tried to squeeze the words out, or how the ringing in my ears drowned out every other sound in the room.  And, eventually, I learned how to pretend that my speeches were coming from someone other than myself, as though my real life was the same as what I did with the drama club.

I remember cutting myself in high school, not enough to do any lasting damage, but just enough to see what the blade would feel like.  But only a few times, not as a habit.  The throwing up was the same thing- every once and a while, I’d lose control and eat a pound of Oreos and stick my finger down my throat in response.  But never enough for anyone to notice and never enough for it to be a “real” eating disorder.

There were days when hauling myself out of bed and facing stuff took all of my energy.  But everyone kept telling me how charmed my life was, so I tried to convince myself that I was just being selfish or whiny, and after awhile, I found reasons that I had to fight past the fog.  I did therapy for a couple years, but my therapist was saying the same things that my sister had been telling me, and I decided to save the co-pay and listen to her advice.   Affirmations and cognitive therapy seemed to address the anxiety and depression that was identified, so I should have been fine at that point.

I reacted to problems and stress in my life by drinking too much sometimes (but nothing like the “too much” that I saw from my uncle before he hit AA, or my college roommate who let loose once she was not under her dad’s thumb), or by seeking attention from guys (but not to the point of being considered at all promiscuous), or by binge eating (yeah, I think we may have covered that one already…)

And now my children have…issues.  It’s probably self-centered for me to think all of those issues have to do with me, but every time one of the professionals asks whether there is a family history, my husband’s “Well, no one on my side of the family has been diagnosed with any mental disorders,” feels like a slap in the face and an accusation.  I’m not crazy enough to need help and medication any more, not I’ve never been quite right either.   And I don’t know how to put my own worries about whether I’m OK enough to do the right things to help the children to whom I may have passed on the crazy genes.