"The Crazy Label"

I already wear the "crazy label," the one they gave me. It's stamped
right in the middle of my forehead. It's lighter than it used to
be.

They say that they didn't mean to hurt me. They did. It disabled me for
years. For me accomplishments and excellence are part of who I am.
These things are a source of pride. I took every part of my education
seriously from the start. I'm a nerd; I like school. I like
competition; I compete against myself.

Before the War

I was raised in Philadelphia. The southwest section was grouped around
ethnic areas. At the center of life for each was the local church. In
the 60's and 70's two groups still held strong, the Ukrainians and
Italians. My mother's parents lived down the street from "Our Lady of
Loreto," the Italian parish church. The bread bakery was directly
across the street and wafted wonderful odors while I attended the
crowded parish school. Windows were the source of air conditioning.
Similarly, small town sounds echoed in the classrooms. They were
familiar and didn't disturb anyone. The "huckster" would blare on his
megaphone the price of peaches or baccala (salt cod). The fare differed
daily. People would hurry to shop in the street. Milk was delivered. A
farmer would come twice a week to sell eggs from the back of his
station wagon. Across from the parish school was "Campos" the local
variety store. The barbershop with an actual red and white pole was a
few doors down. The shoe maker was close by as were the bakery, hair
dressers, doctor offices, butchers, drug stores, ice cream shops, home
realty, insurance broker, car repair centers, gas stations, caterer,
tailor, super market, restaurants and take out, bars, movie theaters
and clothing shops. (I may have missed something.) The point is that
everyone walked everywhere and everyone knew everybody.

I was the offspring of one the larger families. My mother is the
youngest of six. Aunts, uncles, and my mother's second cousins resided
in the area. Through the generations, many of the local families merged
through marriage. The whole area seemed related. In Italian families,
when friends become godparents, they become family too. I also called
my parents' friends, aunt and uncle as a sign of respect. I consider
their children my cousins. My extended relations would occupy all of
the units in a small hotel for a one-week vacation in Wildwood, NJ. It
was great fun; babysitters were everywhere. I can say that I really
grew up in the small town of "Loreto."

This is the background that I believe gave me strength to deal with
difficulties that would arise in the future. I also gained a better
than average education in faith provided by the good polish sisters of
our parish. I was truly sheltered from the evils of the outside world.
Seeing people at their worst was an eye-opener. Their infestations
broke me for a while and created my crazy label.

The "Crazy Label" is especially damaging since it creates doubt and
eats away at your own self worth. I pay for it in my relationships
every day. My husband watches for me to crack. Prolonged exposure to
extreme stress caused damaging insomnia. After the war, I was
exhibiting delusional behavior. I would leave the house to buy chips
and cheese in the middle of the night. I believed that I was going to
win two thousand dollars and spent the wad on donations to channel 12.
That really freaked him out. I lived in another reality. Panic attacks
increased. I watched the sunrise day after day from an inability to
sleep. As a result, I was sent from work on disability.

I hated being pitied or spoken about in whispers. My parents moved in
for a while. I remember dad driving me in the car. I sat slumped in the
back seat with a knitted hat pulled around my head. I just wanted to
hide. The "work appointed psychiatrist" told my husband that I was
incurable. He diagnosed me incorrectly. I was delusional from lack of
sleep and in a deep depression. I was so stressed that paranoia had me
literally hiding in the dark. I stopped eating. I remained at home on
disability for a month; my mother-in-law was living with us by then. I
was notified that my position at work was filled. The letter said
nothing about wanting me to reapply. I was devastated. I told the "work
appointed psychiatrist" that I would not return to work. It was a bad
decision financially, and I was not fit to make it. My husband blew his
lid again. I stopped taking the quack's prescriptions; I was paranoid
that he was trying to poison me. He prescribed the wrong medication
anyway.

I had to fight to regain my self-worth. I also had to fight my husband
to regain my position as an individual. He treated me with distain and
only added to the problems. To be fair he had a lot to handle in
addition to our own survival. My therapist was my mother-in-law. I was
not on any medication.

Twelve years ago there was little media coverage about depression.
Mental illness was very taboo, but I was now removed from the source of
my stress. In the meantime my son "Chip," only two years old at the
time, lived with an absentee mother. I was present but could not
support him or interact with him. Chip was scarred. I realized that I
had to dig myself out of the pit that consumed me.

My son was my goal. I set myself small tasks. I focused on supporting
my mother-in-law's physical needs. I was determined to eliminate all of
my harmful behaviors. The first steps were very difficult, and I lived
from hour to hour. I was not productive in the work force; the best I
could do was to make copies. When Chip was four, his grandmother passed
away. This only added to his problems, but by this time I was able to
support him. I also began to support my husband's business.

Work was the best medicine. We had our best fights at "the shop." My
husband's response to my questions was ridicule. My mother-in-law's
manual bookkeeping system was too slow. That was my fault too. He
blamed me for every problem. My father even separated us once by
shutting me in the copy room. I turned to designing after our graphic
artist left. I dealt with irrational fears that I had never experienced
before; managing the counter caused panic. In time I regained my
confidence.

I finally discovered a competent psychiatrist and councilor, and I was
placed on the correct medication. My psychiatrist alerted me to the
likelihood of my son's feelings of low self-worth. At that point she
was no longer a provider on my insurance, but I paid for her to
evaluate Chip. I've switched him from councilor to councilor to find
one that could get him to speak truthfully. At least he's been properly
diagnosed and medicated. He's 15 now. I think we finally found a
councilor he can relate to.

I'm wise to the fact that many people suffer from depression and have
sought professional help. Customers freely discuss their problems over
the counter, and I've been able to provide direction to people who
ask.

I consider my husband's feelings too. I always carry a cell phone so he
can reach me. I discuss purchases with him to ease his worry. He
manages all of the household medication. I can live with a few
concessions.

The "crazy label" doesn't bother me any more. I came out of that closet
a long time ago. The label on my forehead got easier to carry as my own
perception of mental illness changed. Today, I count it as one of my
battle scars; an incision that has been stitched over and healed. It's
a victory over something extremely difficult that I can show off and
write in a history book for my children.