Married at Twenty

Lately, I’ve found myself thinking about my life compared to other young woman around my age. I’ve been debating whether or not to accept the fact that I’m the stereotype. “Oh, everyone is getting engaged.” “Military couples get married too quick.” 

I’ve argued with myself about embracing the fact, or ignoring it. I married shortly after I turned 20. We hadn’t even been engaged an entire month before we went to the courthouse and eloped. It definitely wasn’t the wedding I had spent much of my adolescence planning, and it’s absolutely not where I thought I would be. It was never my plan, honestly. I much preferred a wedding over a marriage. Matrimony seemed like just an expensive piece of paper for a title that earned you tax deductions. I was just in it for the big party and the pretty dress. 

There were neither the day that George and I were married. It was just me, him, and an old man standing a little too close as he read our vows and watched our first kiss as Mr. and Mrs. We were in a small chapel somewhere in downtown San Antonio, on Halloween day, with a very busty woman waiting for her turn to use the cheaply decorated chapel. It was not at all what I pictured when I imagined my wedding day, and it was still the happiest day of my life. The ceremony with just George and I, and Pastor Cravy, was odd, but intimate. I realized in the moments that George and I were saying “I do”, that although this was hardly my plan, it was exactly where I was meant to be in this life. 

Much like any other couple, we had rough times. We had our share of arguments, selfishness, and even a break up. However, as cliche as it sounds, we had to fall apart to realize how much we needed each other. I can’t speak for George, but I’m so thankful we had that time to understand how deeply we wanted each other. The boy I sat in front of in sophomore chemistry, who teased me all throughout high school, had grown so important to me, and I don’t think either or us really recognized how much we really needed the other person. 

Getting married so young scared me. I spent the night before we got married sobbing on the couch, absolutely inconsolable because I was afraid of what we were doing. I wasn’t necessarily worried about me, I was so afraid George would change his mind. I was afraid what everyone said about young couples or getting married at 20 would weigh too heavily on his heart, and I was terrified he would regret choosing me. Even now, it’s hard for me to truly grasp the fact that he chose me and married me and even though I have his last name, I just have to ask once in a while how long he’ll love me, to which he replies “7ever” (because it’s more than 4ever, duh). 

Along with my own insecurities, like needing to be told that yes, he does still love me, and no, he’s not mad at me, I’ve realized a problem I’ve created for myself is being so dependent on social media to tell me how I should be loved. When I see a girl who’s partners mm has brought her flowers or set up a cute gift for their anniversary, I would get a twinge if jealousy, a sort of “Why doesn’t that happen for me?” When people post cute pictures with their girlfriends with sweet captions, I would wonder to myself “am I not pretty enough to show off?” I would become incredibly sad because I felt like all these other girls were being spoiled and although I appreciated everything George did for me, I wanted more. I felt like I would send him long paragraphs pouring out my heart to him, and he would reply with a couple sentences. I would send him pictures all day of what I was doing (thanks, long distance relationship), and he would open them and not respond. I felt like I was doing so much, and it wasn’t being reciprocated in the ways I wanted. I didn’t understand how toxic I was being to both of us. 

Being able to live with George has really opened my eyes to how much he did for me without me even realizing. What I took for tough love was him wanting me to better myself. He pushes me to do better and to want more, not just for us but for myself. He loves me in his own, private, intimate way, in a way I’ve never been shown love. He cares for me in such an immense and powerful way, I actually cry if I think too much about it. 

We get on each other’s nerves and we argue over who has to pick lunch, but the marriage that we have is everything I could ask for. I’ve stopped comparing us to what I see on twitter, and I’m so much happier for it. The attention I thought I was lacking was a toxic mindset that I drove myself into, and have very much grown from. The love that I’ve been lucky enough to have for the past years has made me a stronger young woman, and shown me the way I should be treated. We have a genuine “I can finish your sentences, literally before it’s out of your mouth” connection, and he’s easily my best friend who I can tell anything to. 

Being married at 20 isn’t ideal for everyone, and I definitely never pictured it for myself. But it’s just extra years I’m able to spend seeing the world with the best teammate I could ask for. I’ve found someone who encourages me to grow, and will always help me to do just that. And I couldn’t ask for more. 

Undiagnosed

Today, I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. I sat in my car and cried for ten minutes while I looked at my prescription. The illness that has waged wars within myself for years has finally been tagged. I finally have an answer. And I couldn’t be happier. 

I’ve been diagnosed with depression since I was 14, when I was first hospitalized. I had years of self harm and suicidal ideation under my belt. I was hospitalized again at 17, for the same reason. It was obvious I was depressed, and my anxiety has never been easy to hide. But I knew there was something more. 

For years now, I’ve had dramatic mood swings that felt uncontrollable. Out of nowhere, I felt the incessant need to punch or break something, or sit and sob for hours. No warning. No trigger. No explanation. I’ve generally been a pretty kind person, and although I would never intend to cause anyone harm, unwanted thoughts would fog up my head. 

I didn’t really understand what bipolar disorder was when I was younger. I figured it was just mood swings, and the term was used so loosely, I couldn’t understand how serious it was. Crying randomly was normal for me, due to my PTSD. I didn’t think much more of it, besides understanding my depression. I’ve been actively working to tackle that demon for years. I was 16 when I first began to think there was another layer I didn’t quite grasp. ‘I was just fine a minute ago, why am I so angry now?’ ‘Today was a good day, why am I feeling so down?’ I was told it was hormones or it was stress, and even so much as I just wanted the attention. I hid my problems. I pretended. I kept quiet. 

I’ve always been very open about my journey through recovery, and will continue to be. However, I’ve never talked about these intense mood swings. I’ve never talked about the manic feeling I get for a few days, the new instilled self confidence that would come and go. The feeling that I was indestructible. That i could do anything and nothing bad would happen. The higher I got, the harder I would fall. Although things could be fine in my every day life, I was angry. I was irritable. Annoyed. I snapped at people. I lost my temper. I felt guilty for things beyond my control. I was overthinking everything. I had a weight on my chest that I couldn’t lift, and so I allowed it to crush me. I’ve been putting up with this ongoing battle for longer than I could remember. But it was just “hormones”. Just “stress”. 

Sitting across from the psychiatrist today, I didn’t expect an answer. I’ve never gotten one beyond “depression”, which didn’t excuse the voices I heard, the racing thoughts, the aggression. I felt misunderstood and hurt by myself that I could let my mind win. To have an answer to the problem I’ve been facing for so long almost immediately brought me to tears. I’ve been living undiagnosed for so long, and now, FINALLY, I can work on my solution. I’m not crazy. I’m not looking for attention. I’m not just stressed. I am fighting every day, constantly, for a moment of peace in my mind, and this diagnosis is everything I’ve been waiting to hear. As sad as it makes me to know I have this disorder, I’m so happy that we can work towards a better understanding of how I need to heal. I start my new medication today. I meet again with my therapist soon. I’m on the right track to loving myself and the life I’m living. 

The past twenty one years have been far from easy, but I’m choosing every day to keep going. That’s the thing, I wake up, and have to make that choice. But I will continue to work on healing, I will continue to work on my peace. It’s a hell of a journey, but it’s not done yet. 

Therapy Session 1

Ephemeral 

Ephemeral- lasting only but a short moment; fleeting, momentary, short. 

I opened up, today. For the first time in years, I opened up to an unfamiliar face and released an undiluted roar of emotion that I have held in my head for an ungodly amount of time. 

Today, I looked in the eyes of a soul mine had never met, and I talked, something I’ve always had some issue with. Either I talk to much or too loud, I share too much, I don’t communicate enough, I apologize too much, I’m too narcissistic. I’m too quiet, I’m too awkward, my sense of humor isn’t fit for the setting. Today, I squeezed a twenty one year long journey into an hour, but lord knows I talk so quickly, it flew by. 

Today I talked about my abandonment issues. This is always the easiest place for me to start, regardless of friend or stranger. Being raised by a single mother is not at all a rare situation. In fact, it’s often relatable. I grew up without my father, and to this day, have never met him. We talked once on the phone, for a short time that I don’t remember. Ephemeral. We have the power to remember so many useless facts, while forgetting things of importance. There is almost nothing I wouldn’t give to recall the sound of his voice, be certain of what I said, what he said. Maybe that phone call is what pushed him away for good. I was only seven, I don’t understand what I could have possibly said to ruin a relationship we could have had. My entire life, I have spent wondering what my short comings were to not be enough for him to love me, why I wasn’t enough to want. 

Father figures I’ve had in my life have left as well. I understand it couldn’t possibly be because of me, but it’s so hard to let go of someone who promised to take care of you. I’ve had men who came and stepped up to the plate, and even gone as far as to say they would legally adopt me. Willingly take me in. Say they would be my new dad and love me as his own. And they’ve left. 

Today I talked about my mother, the woman who raised me “on her own.” The woman who’s one job was to protect me and care for me, and who I cannot honestly say tried her best. While I know my mom loves me, she has never known how to show it properly. Looking back, I was a very sweet, smart, well behaved kid, and yet I grew up hating myself, believing I was never enough. There’s an entire novel of stories I could get into to talk about her, but it would just be broken record at this point. I was told I was selfish, I had no common sense, and I was ungrateful. I was told I could go live in a girl’s home many times. I was told she was going to put me in foster care because my dad wasn’t around, and she couldn’t “be a mother anymore.” I was told over and over again that she had lost her respect for me. My mother had problems of her own, but always managed to take them out on me. Every angry thought, every bad day immediately was reflected on me. I grew up scared of my mother. Physical abuse was minimal, but the psychological torment she put me through, unknowingly or not, has followed me for years. I am afraid I’m never enough. I’m afraid when someone raises their voice too loud. I am afraid when people don’t respond as quickly too me. Every good memory I may have from my childhood with my mother seems fleeting. Ephemeral. I know what I went through could have been much, much worse, and I understand that “she is still my mother”, but at 20 years old, I made the long awaited decision to cut out that toxic part of my life. The part of my life that made me feel like I wasn’t good enough and I was only a disappointment. The part that made me feel like I would never have a happy family. 

Today, I talked about my history with sexual abuse. I talked about how at only 6 years old, I knew how grown up intimacy was supposed to grow. My first abuser was some years older than me. I had chronic nightmares, the same plot over and over, about this time in my life. This went on for years. I would run to get help, only to be dragged away and instructed not to tell anyone about it or they would kill me. I had these dreams well into adulthood. My second abuser was a family member, who thought I was asleep that night. I was 7. I told almost no one for years, for fear of being made fun of. I didn’t tell my family, because I didn’t want to be the reason my family fell apart. I saw him for years afterwords, a dark stain on every holiday we went to, every family reunion, every time I heard his name. I finally confided in my mom, years after it happened, and she did the one thing I was afraid she would do. She told the rest of my family. I still pretend like nothing happened, but every god damned holiday, there remains a noticeable uneasiness. My third abuser was someone I loved, someone I trusted. Someone who had broken my heart and my trust and my happiness. Someone who wanted me to wait for him, while he “experienced other people”. When he found out I began to see someone else, he did what I assume gave him his power back over me. I was pinned down that night, sobbing, and begging while he kept telling me how much I missed this, how bad I wanted this. I didn’t. That night, I took my entire bottle of anti depressants. I swallowed all of them with vodka to wash it down. I went to bed that night, expecting to never open my eyes again. I slept for two days. When I woke up, I was told that I was lazy, and being unproductive. I went back to school that Monday, and told no one what happened. I didn’t open up about this to anyone, until one night, I drank a little too much and in the midst of being black out drunk, I confessed to George everything. I told him about the rape, the over dose, the fact that I went back to my abuser afterwords. I still don’t know why I told George, and why I don’t remember any of it. But I do remember the nightmares I had and how I turn off certain songs that sound a little too familiar. I lost a piece of myself that night. The strength I thought I had was gone, short lived, ephemeral. 

Today, I talked about my miscarriage. I talked about how vulnerable I was after losing my baby. How confused I was. It hurt to know there was some relief. I was 16, close to 17, when I found out I was pregnant. I was young, scared, unsure of what to do next. I began to write letters to my baby, originally to help myself come to terms with what I was going to endure. But with every letter I wrote, I grew more attached. I would write, telling about how much I loved it already, how I couldn’t wait to meet it. How much I was going to do and how hard I was going to try to ensure it lived the happiest life. We poured over baby names, and decided on Jameson. I just knew I was having a boy. I knew before I ever actually knew that I was pregnant. I dreamt about for an entire month before. I dreamt about the little boy I would be holding in my arms. I knew. Of course, when I told my mother, she expressed very clearly how disappointed she was in me, told me all the things I would have to give up, but I was ready. I accepted this before I ever told her. I was working at the baseball fields the day I miscarried. It started with spotting in the morning, but by that evening shift, it was concerning. I was bleeding way too much. I called my mom immediately and we rushed to the emergency room. The doctor ordered an ultrasound. I prayed that we would still hear a heartbeat, see a picture on the screen. There was nothing. My baby was gone, and my world was shattered. The tech didn’t have to say anything, I knew right away there was not going to be a Jameson anymore. After I was wheeled back into my room, the doctor confirmed what we all knew. I didn’t sleep properly for two weeks. I couldn’t fall asleep without taking something to force me down. I couldn’t stop crying. I couldn’t eat. I wasn’t just sad about my loss, I was sad that I was relieved. I wasn’t going to be a teen mom, I wasn’t going to have to give up prom, I had my life back. And I felt selfish. I hated myself for finding comfort in the fact that I didn’t have to grow up quite yet. Above all this, though, I hated that my baby wouldn’t grow up to read the letters I poured my heart into. These documents with every change I felt physically and emotionally would never go to anyone. They served as a reminder for what once was, a brief moment. Ephemeral. George and I haven’t necessarily tried to start a family yet, but there also has been no pregnancy announcement. There have been no positive pregnancy tests. We don’t know yet if we can have a family, and one of my biggest fears is that the only positive test I will have will be for my baby that I lost. It’s hard not to beat yourself over things like this. To not be mad at yourself and your body for not being able to do the one thing it seems like every other woman can do. It’s hard to understand that I’m not broken, and these things take time and that everything happens for a reason. After all that I’ve been through, my miscarriage is what I believe I’ve struggled with the most. 

Today, I told a stranger all these personal, vulnerable events in my life that seem to stand out the most. I woke up feeling sick to my stomach knowing I would have to go to get another counselor, tell my story yet again, and start my progress over. But I did it. It’s not a major stepping stone to other people, but this is the movement I’ve been waiting to make for myself. I’ve tried for so long to be a catalyst for change in other people’s lives, talking about my recovery from suicide attempts and self harm, informing other they aren’t alone, that I don’t take the time to tell myself the same things. I’m not alone. Every single thing that I’ve held on to was a brief moment in my life that I allowed to control me for so long. I’ve been through eating disorders, cutting myself, trying to overdose, I’ve written suicide notes, I’ve made plans, and I’m still standing. And I have to understand this is not for nothing. I still have some very bad days, where nothing seems worth it. But I’m trying. I’m trying to be a better me and encourage people to do the same. I am not my abusers. I am not my past. I am not a lost cause. My name is Mackenzie, and I am hopeful. 

Writing Prompt #1

Most of the memories I felt were warm, that sort of scene you’d see in a movie, with the glow of a summer sun illuminating a room, splashing a golden tone on the walls. I’ve felt the love, the joy, the hope of each person. I’ve seen the birth of long awaited babies, I’ve seen the reunion of couples after months of distance, I’ve seen countless dance recitals, concerts, sports games, you name it. Those were my favorite, the happy memories.
Not everyone could focus on the good, I guess. Through the minds of my patients, I’ve seen war. I’ve watched loved ones pass. I’ve watched tiny caskets lower into the ground. I’ve seen a red eyed, tear stained face in the reflection more times than I could name. Those are the hardest memories to see. 
I don’t know how to explain it, the images I see. When I operate, the memories my patient holds onto, I can feel them, relive them. It’s like a cosmic gift, except it isn’t a gift. Not always. So often it feels like a burden. I hold so many secrets from so many people, and no one knows. Who would believe me? I’ve looked through the eyes of every person who has laid on my operating table, and I have felt what they felt. Heartbreak, relief, anger, romance... Maybe I was afraid to tell anyone. Maybe if I let my secret out, I would lose these experiences. As awful as it could be at times, it made me feel human. It humbled me, reminded me that so many other people live live’s we have no idea about. 
Neurosurgery had always been a passion of mine. I was entranced by the human mind. Memories fascinated me, how one organ can dictate what we do and don’t remember, without us even knowing. I’ve had patients from all ages and backgrounds, and I’d thought I’d seen it all. I’d built a name for myself, made sure my family was taken care of. There are some things you can’t prevent, I guess. Things you can’t save.
My wife developed a tumor on her temporal lobe. She had always been so strong, and seeing her weep when the news was broken to her was one of the memories I wish my brain would get rid of. I hurt for her, but I trusted I could fix her, I could make her better. 
Seeing her asleep on the table shattered my heart, tore up my insides. The woman who I promised my forever to, who gave me my children, who made our house a home, was now vulnerable, something I’d never seen before. My hands could not, would not stop shaking. I had reminded her over and over again that morning that she would be okay. The words echoed in my head, pounding, as if they were boomeranging around. Clawed at my skull like an animal trying to escape. ‘I can fix her,’ I assured myself, ‘I can make her better.’
It wasn’t until I had begun that I remembered my “gift”. I had been so caught up in everything, it wasn’t until I felt that familiar vibration, I realized I would soon be seeing what she had seen. It always began that way, with a slight buzz in my head. This time was different, though. I was nervous, anxious to see how she saw me. Who I was through her eyes. 
She had always been a lively woman, I’d never loved someone the way I loved her. The way she could light up a room, how her laughter carried on the wind. Her mind seemed no different. A million memories flooded as though a barrier has been broken. I had never felt such a rush of emotion, it almost became distracting. My hands slowed while I worked, as her thoughts took over mine. It was almost like holding your loved one’s diary, and knowing better than to read it, except I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t push these thoughts out. I felt so nosy, so selfish. And at the same time, I couldn’t resist. I could hear the usual mumbling of the nurses, and the hums and beeps of the machines, that was the only thing that kept one foot on the ground while I drifted away into her thoughts. 
We had some memories that coincided, of course I just watched from her point of view. Our daughters first steps, our son’s tee ball games. I watched her prom night, her first kiss, her old best friends I only knew through pictures. I watched her become the woman I knew her as. They all jumbled together, but each one left a different feeling in my heart. I felt her heartbreaks, her laughter, her peace. I wished I could have stopped and just held her in that moment, let her know how much I admired her and her mind. 
What felt like hours in her world was nothing on earth. It had become a routine for me, I knew the procedures, I could focus on her. 
I could see the night we met, and I couldn’t believe she would fall for me. But that blind date couldn’t have led me to a better life. I watched her walk towards me at our wedding, watching me carefully at the end of the aisle. She never took her eyes off me, and she seemed so happy. I could have sat and wept like a child. She chose me. She loved me.
Almost immediately, i got this sick feeling in my stomach. I felt weak, confused, nauseous. What was once an ultraviolet light became grey and clouded. It took everything in me to keep from collapsing on the cold tile floor. Normally I kept these visions in the back of my mind, my patients were important to me, but their memories were not, so although I couldn’t stop watching, i could keep myself focused on the surgery. This time was different. 
I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was going to hurl. I began to see a figure above me, blurry, but I could tell it was a man. I couldn’t recognize him. I did not know him. The image became more clear, and his sweaty body crowded over her. I felt disgusted, why was this something she would think of? Was he a past lover, someone she hadn’t quite gotten over? No, I told myself, trying to fight the jealousy growing inside me. It’s just a memory. You can’t help what you remember. 
I tried to distract myself, but it roared louder, stung like a wasp in my mind. I wanted to pass out, I wanted to walk out of the room, but kept myself standing because I knew I had to fix her, make her better. 
I watched her roll around with him, and briefly, I caught a glimpse of her wedding ring. Immediately, my hands stopped their motion. I froze, I was a statue caught in this dark storm. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. She was wearing her wedding ring, the ring we went to 6 different stores to pick out. The ring I knew she kept her eye on, but wouldn’t admit it out loud because it was out of our spoken price range. The ring I surprised her with on our wedding day, and remembered seeing the way the light in her flickered as I slid it onto her finger. The ring that symbolized the promises I made to her, and the ones she failed to keep to me.
In the middle of the crude images I was forced to remember with her, she had flashbacks to our wedding. I could see the way they zipped in and out. It was like an ugly game of ping pong, a few seconds of each memory bouncing around. She was thinking of me that day. She knew what she was doing. She knew.
I could hear the nurses asking me questions, but I couldn’t make out their words. The buzzing didn’t stop. The floating sensation I had felt in her world immediately crashed, as if someone tied cement blocks to my feet. I felt as though I were sinking, drowning, stuck watching the woman I loved break the promises we made. I wanted to scream out, I wanted to storm out of the room. I couldn’t. 
I was stuck in a sort of paralysis, as I watched her meet with the same man over and over, with different backgrounds. Different hotels, different beds, and then one that seemed to hang forever in the air. It was our bed. I could make out the footboard that we had argued over, but I finally gave in because she swore it matched our carpet better. I could see the ugly decorative “Live, Laugh, Love” canvas that she cherished so much, as though it were a unique piece of art. I could see our window, that faced our backyard, where you could see the tree that had a family of sparrows every spring. She brought this man into our house. Into our home. 
I became outraged. The house I bought to grow our family in was now tainted. I could feel the tears brimming my eyes, burning, but I wasn’t sad. I was angry. I held her life in my hands and in that moment, I could no longer want to fix her or make her better. I couldn’t make myself forgive her. I could feel my hands drop my tools, I could feel the tears that burned my eyes begin to run down my face. I watched as she recalled our first dance on our wedding night. I never was a dancer, I looked awkward and lanky as I held her close, but she was as smooth as ever, with a rhythm that burned like a fire in her soul. She didn’t whine when I stepped on her feet, she instead held me closer. She chose me, she loved me. I could feel the nurses begin to shout over the ringing in my ears, pleading with me for some sort of reaction. I could hear the monitor beeping quicker. Her life was in my hands, and I couldn’t save her. She trusted me to fix her, to make her better. I couldn’t. The trust she had in me died as quickly as mine did in her. I felt yanking on my sleeves, but I stood, and with stinging, burning tears, I wept, without motion. Every image began to churn together, a technicolor swirl of pictures from every part of her life, childhood to now. I watched as the colors became white washed, a blinding light, before pitch black. 
I snapped back into myself, I could see my wife once more, still motionless, but the buzzing was replaced by a solitary beep. Mumblings from my colleagues flooded my ears at once. She chose me. She trusted me to fix her, to make her better. But resting on the monitor was a single, flat line.


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