From very early in my life I had many different problems. I started having asthma when I was 2 and a half and I never spent more than a week in daycare with other children. Every year my mother would enroll me but, even though I have no memories of those times, I suspect we both suffered from separation anxiety. I was shy and had a little social phobia. My mother overprotected me and didn’t equip me with the tools to go out into the world, so being away from home without anyone familiar brought me so much anxiety I would soon fall ill with something. When I turned 5 and it happened again, my mother started panicking. The next year I would have to start school no matter what (homeschooling is not really an option in my country). So after talking to my pediatrician, he gave her the number of a child therapist.
From the age of 5 to the age of 10 I went every week to see this therapist. I have very few memories of these sessions (which is weird considering they span for a period of 5 years) but when I try to look back the feeling is that I was generally happy there. And I did make some progress. I had no trouble at all when I started school at the age of 6, I made friends on my own, asthma went away around 7 or 8.
However, all these years later when I look at myself and my “collection” of illnesses I wonder what was it that therapy did to me. I think that all that it did was make me functional, while it did nothing about the underlying problems that had resulted in me being a very troubled child. For instance, I don’t let anxiety and fear stop me from doing things that I find challenging, but I still get anxious, and those anxiety symptoms have been taking a toll, eroding my entire system. Still, I’m the epitome of functional. No one knows I’m sick if I don’t tell them, I work full-time as a copy editor, I study at night, I exercise, I see my friends and family, I have a lot of interests, I keep my apartment as clean and tidy as possible, I manage insomnia, depression, endometriosis and multiple sclerosis as best as I can… I am so functional and apparently so normal that when I do complain about something no one really believes me. Sometimes not even doctors, which is probably the reason why I went for so many years without a proper diagnosis, proper medication and proper support.
But I’m also the epitome of troubled. My functionality has been disguising a lot of issues that date as far back as my early years and go on up until now. And the clues were all there. Coming from a family with a history of mental illnesses such as schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, addiction, and depression should have raised a few eyebrows. But no. They looked at me and saw this gentle harmless young woman who wouldn’t want to be any trouble. And me, I was too puzzled to even be able to make sense of things, too scared to trust people.
So today I wish I was a little more dysfunctional. Maybe people would have taken me seriously. Maybe this wouldn’t have been hurting for so long.