Autobiography

         The lack of geographical variety in my life parallels the extensiveness of my life experiences. I have lived in Virginia for all 19 years of my life, since March 24th, 1994 when I was born in Fairfax. In fact, I lived in the same house in Manassas until I was 18 and my parents divorced. I moved to Richmond by myself for a year, then moved back to Manassas in an apartment with my dad. I have never been outside of the continent, and have only visited one state, California, that wasn’t on the East Coast. While I would like to have the financial capacity to travel, I’ve found out that my individuality creates sufficiently interesting experiences regardless of my dull, external location.

         There are certain qualities that have consistently reflected my character and impacted my life, regardless of whether the consequences were negative or positive. First, I am remarkably sensitive. The gage on my emotional spectrum ricochets unpredictably between extremes. I feel despair, elation, and rage instead of sadness, happiness, and anger. I even feel guilty for stuff that I had nothing to do with. When studying the Holocaust in depth, I had an existential crisis that oddly resulted in an inferiority complex. I was fourteen when I wrote “What did I do that’s so great that I get to live a full life, and all those people in the Holocaust didn’t? It’s not fair for everyone else that I’m still alive. Why enjoy life or experience it at all? At some point humanity will cease to exist, and there’s been trillions of lives. So what difference does my individual life make at all?” I’ve had more mid-life crises than is logistically possible for my age. If mid-life crises truly marked the middle of my lifespan, I’d have died more times than I’ve been kissed.

         I have a sense of determination so strong that it often evolves into a consuming obsession, perceived stubbornness, or sometimes, a literal behavioral addiction. The latter is best exemplified by my running career.

I became addicted to running when I was in seventh grade. One look at me would indicate that I am not a naturally fast runner. But almost every day since I was 13, I went running for at least three miles, and am now up to seven. This constitutes an addiction not because of the frequency, but the fact that I continue to run despite the negative consequences – such as injuries like shin splints and stress fractures, being late for work, running on the treadmill at 3 AM, etc. As far as process addictions go, I would say that exercise is not a terrible one to have. In high school, I was recruited for the Varsity Track team as well as the Cross Country Team. I had the second fastest 800-meter dash time for the entire region. When I got home from races, the first thing I would do is get on the treadmill. I would not have accomplished so much as an athlete if running didn’t trigger a cyclic dopamine reward system in my brain. But it all felt so fraudulent -- I didn’t, and still don’t really enjoy the sport, I just feel a physical compulsion to run.

         Another significantly influential, regular attribute of mine is impulsivity. A lot of my life-changing events are the result of a single arbitrary, impulsive decision. When I was five, my mom mentioned something I don’t remember about a violin. I immediately decided that I wanted a violin, despite not really knowing what it was. I’ve since taken lessons for 14 years, played in several professional symphonies, and currently teach lessons.

         I was in middle school when I consciously decided that I wanted to be a “bookworm”. I took to reading books on the bus, during lunch, and at home, frequently instead of assigned schoolwork. While in my parents’ eyes, my grades suffered (meaning straight “B’s”), I developed a passion for reading and writing that eventually translated into other opportunities. In High School, I won two contests for poetry and was recruited into a selective journalism program. I was probably also the youngest person to daydream about David Foster Wallace and model myself after Sylvia Plath.

         I am often driven by perceived injustice. I first revealed this characteristic in fifth grade after I learned that our classes’ last recess would be replaced by a graduation ceremony rehearsal. In anticipation of the final recess of my entire life, I had already attached a sentimental, nostalgic quality to this future experience. I articulated these thoughts in a much less eloquent petition, in which I referred to the faculty’s time management abilities as “catastrophic”. I wasn’t trying to be melodramatic -- I was just excited that I finally had an opportunity to use a cool new word I had just learned. Then, I went around on the school bus and the hallways before the bell rang, filling the page with students’ signatures. I hand-delivered the petition to the music director (who initially thought he was receiving a thank-you note, sadly), went back to the classroom, and awaited the applause.

I was reprimanded immediately. So was everybody who signed the petition, which needless to say, they loved me for. Watching my friends get yelled at by various authority figures in the school overwhelmed my guilt complex. It wasn’t really their fault. I doubt they even read the petition. That is how I decided to come forward and take responsibility for my actions. Otherwise, I would be a complete hypocrite for advocating justice in the first place.

         I spoke to my teacher and the guidance counselor and accepted full responsibility for the petition. All the other students were instructed to write apology letters, while I received one day of after-school detention. I also managed to maintain a relatively calm composure, despite how unfair it was to punish students for advocating for their desires. Did they really intend to teach us that we should unconditionally abide by authority, and not think for ourselves? Of course not. It was just a case of power-struggle. They were fully willing to indoctrinate a horrible lesson in more than a hundred kids for the sake of maintaining appearances. This upset me more than having to apologize for my supposedly “defiant behavior”. But I also realized that as an unsupported eleven year old girl, I had no chance of fighting them. So I humbly apologized, and accepted the punishment obediently, as they preferred.

         At the graduation ceremony, I was unexpectedly acknowledged for my act of “integrity”. Not because of the petition, but because I accepted the blame for everyone. Another lesson well-taught by Coles Elementary. I was applauded by all of my forgiving classmates and their confused, jealous parents as an “American Citizenship Award” badge was pinned on my dress.

I have since developed a more reasonable, effectual manner of reporting on issues that worry me. Last year at Virginia Commonwealth University, my International Relations professor allowed my freshman class to try out for a Political Science Conference. I had already been working on a self-described “investigation” on the inefficacy of the Occupational Safety and Hazards Administration. I decided impulsively to submit an incomplete summary of my essay a few hours before the deadline. At 3 AM that morning, for some reason, I received my acceptance email and was told I would be reading my speech in front of a panel of judges. Shit.

         My self-esteem was so low during this time that I genuinely thought I had Social Anxiety Disorder. The idea of Colleen Kilday, who is 18 years old, who is not even a Political Science major, and who has no public speaking experience at all, giving a speech in front of an audience was incredibly daunting. I spoke with my professor from a different class, who helped me turn my essay into a speech and gave me advice on public speaking. My career counselor and mental health counselor gave me tips on maintaining my (virtually non-existent) composure. I didn’t attend any classes two days before the conference. I practiced my speech over and over again in my dorm room, very aware that people could probably hear me through the walls. The morning of, I ate two bananas (beta-blockers to reduce stress hormones) and stood in the elevator with my hands on my hips (assuming a dominant posture to increase confidence).

         My voice was shaking as I read straight off the paper, avoiding eye contact with the audience and judges. But, I presented a topic that was important to me, and I was the youngest presenter among graduate students and upper-classmen. One of the panelists suggested that I continue researching my topic and work on getting it published.

         A few weeks later, the professor who helped me with the speech came to class with a blank presentation board. At the end of class, he calls me over and hands me the board. He requested that I present my topic at the Focused Inquiry Exposition.

My confidence was higher than it had been that entire year during the exposition. I had people genuinely interested in my research, and I was able to speak clearly and coherently to complete strangers, which was huge for me. Not only were people impressed with my research, but they were as outraged as me at the injustice suffered by workers. It validated my belief (and hope) that morals aren’t relative – I love the idea that principles, especially justice, are universal, ubiquitous, and real.

I think my obsession with justice is a delayed reaction to various injustices I’ve experienced during my adolescence. When combined with my extreme sensitivity and genetic predisposition, I am essentially a magnet for psychiatric disorders. 

         My psychologist and psychiatrist have determined that my relationship with my mother is almost entirely responsible for the fact that I have Borderline Personality Disorder. My mom exhibited the typical behaviors of an emotionally abusive parent – name calling, mocking, ignoring and belittling – but also some behaviors that to me, are inexplicable.

         I was ten when I first suspected I was being treated unfairly. It’s incredibly difficult to recognize that something is unordinary with the way you have lived your entire life. I was listening to my Walkman in the car, singing to myself, when my mom started laughing at me, singing “Colleen can’t sing, she sings like a rat,” to a mocking tune. When I started crying, she laughed at me because “it was funny that it made me so upset.”

When I first began driving, I would borrow my mom’s car, and she always made me pay her back for the gas used. So when I got my own car, and she had to borrow it, I assumed she would pay me back for the gas. I was sitting on the couch eating cereal when I asked her to reimburse me. She stormed upstairs and came back down with a handful of change, which she promptly threw into my cereal bowl and watched as I picked it out.

         Once, when I had lost my patience with her, I began yelling at her and blaming her for my lack of self-esteem. Her reaction was to run upstairs, grab my journals, and throw them all away. I don’t think this was completely random – I had previously written some less than ideal memories of her in them. I suppose she had read them beforehand and used my outburst to warrant eradicating the written evidence of her behavior. There was no way I was going to risk retrieving them considering that her malevolence would surely be the consequence. But, I did tell her that she was not entitled to taking my belongings. Her response was “YES, I AM!”.

         Honestly, these odd experiences were inconsequential to the constant neglect. My sister and I began paying for our own groceries when we were young teenagers, and even though my dad reimbursed us the times that we told him, the fact that my own mother wouldn’t spend her money to buy food for me is devastating. I can clearly remember the times when my mom wouldn’t even look at me for days on end, much less talk to me. I wasn’t a particularly bad kid. I had a typical teenage attitude, but I was academically, musically, socially, and athletically successful. I didn’t have my first sip of alcohol until I was 18. I have been employed consistently since I was 17. I understand that trying to justify her behavior isn’t the healthiest response, but in a way, it’d be nice to find out that I deserved it somehow.

         My other experience with abuse occurred when I was 16. I enrolled in driving school during the summer to get my license earlier. It became clear to me fairly quickly that my driving instructor was not a safe guy. To say the least, he treated me differently when we were the only ones in the car.

         While I wasn’t necessarily traumatized from the physical experience, I quickly developed a negative sense of self and worldview. It was far easier to accept that the sexual assault was my fault. Then, I could prevent future situations from occurring. For example, if I don’t wear this kind of shirt, or say this certain thing, or act this certain way, or whatever, then I am in control of the situation. It is much easier to accept that I am the variable, and that my actions affect the outcome, instead of everybody else in the world being the variables. It is way too scary to accept the fact that crimes can happen unpredictably, regardless of what I do.

         My memory is an arsenal of trauma, activated by an inordinate amount of sensory triggers. Sights, sounds, and smells take me back to moments of severe suffering. But recognizing that I'm not currently experiencing the recalled incident does nothing to alleviate the emotional stress I endure.  On the outside, I imagine my reaction to certain triggers must appear completely random and ridiculous. Who else sees a “student driver” sticker and starts to tear up? Who else cringes when their phone screen reads “Incoming call: MOM”. Who else could smell the Yankee candle “Beachwood” and immediately be relocated to the site of several suicide attempts?

         Suicide became my primary motivation in life when I was 13. At this age, I became dangerously unique in that my evolutionary drive for survival was equally matched by my myopic drive for self-destruction. Naturally, this detachment from and disregard for reality elicits reckless behavior. Who cares what consequences there may be if I can just escape them permanently?

         For reasons that I don’t even remember anymore, I first overdosed on some sleeping pills in 8th grade. I ignorantly believed that seven sleeping pills would be lethal. I merely overslept for school and had a headache for the next few days. I kept these experiences and related thoughts to myself. From an early age, my mother told me not to reveal if I was suicidal, because I may be committed to a mental hospital. From the outside, it may seem like she must have had some bad experience at a mental hospital. But I honestly believe she would rather have her child in severe danger than have her reputation damaged.

         A few weeks after my first “attempt”, I swallowed a bottle of Accutane and sat in my bathtub, reading my favorite book and awaiting permanent relief. This relief came in a strictly physical form, of my body violently rejecting the dozens of pills I swallowed. It was one of the most painful things I’ve ever experienced. Still, I didn’t tell anybody. I made it through the next couple years with various “overdoses” on substances like Advil, vitamin A, cough syrup, and others.

         When I was 16, I was found out. I took a bottle of Advil PMs and completely lost my mind. It was the first time I had ever been cognitively manipulated by a substance – I had never gotten drunk or high or anything before. I was freaked out, and realized how serious the situation was. I only wanted the pain to end, not my life. I messaged a friend on Facebook about what I did, who rushed over and told my parents she was taking me out to go get food. We drove around for a while she assessed my well-being. Drifting in and out of consciousness and mumbling gibberish led her to conclude that my situation warranted a visit to the ER.

I don’t remember much of my experience in the hospital that time. All I remember is having to drink activated charcoal, undergo an EKG, and have my blood pressure tested every 30 minutes. I also remember that when the psychiatrist spoke to my parents, sister, and I, my mother adamantly argued against my being admitted to the psychiatric facility. She literally convinced the psychiatrist that I just didn’t know what I was doing, and thought that more pills would make the drug work better. Had I been in a functional cognitive state, I would have refuted her ridiculous claim. Instead, I was discharged the next morning with no plans for the proper treatment. The negative consequences of my attempt, however, provided me with the incentive to avoid suicidal urges as best as I could. The emotional pain I endured after my attempt was inexplicably worse than the pain that led me to attempt in the first place. I remember specifically when my dad asked my sister “Were you concerned for her when she was unconscious?” to which Catherine replied “No, because I know she was just doing it for attention.” The fear of surviving another suicide attempt kept me alive for another two years.

         In my effort to re-become a functional human being, I began to consider using antidepressants. Before, I would have refused to deliberately change the chemical composition of my brain. But I figured if I was already willing to lose my life, why not try fucking up my brain first, and see if that works? I walked into the doctor’s office and left about five minutes later with a prescription for Zoloft, and a complementary sense of doubt for any prescription drug that could be attained by essentially saying “I’m sad”. This doubt, however, didn’t translate to my initial experience with Zoloft. I found out that I am equally susceptible to “the placebo effect” as I am to psychiatric disorders. The first day after taking it, I told my dad “Oh my god I feel so much better!” Then I mistakenly researched the process of Selective serotonin re-uptake inhibitors. I discovered that the positive effects don’t kick in for the first four weeks, and was consequently slapped by my depression back into my lightless room with the door closed.

         For the next few years, the Zoloft combined with regular therapy kept me on relatively stable grounds. But as my confidence and happiness increased, so did the diversity of social scenes I became involved in. People seek to be in environments that make them happy. I soon discovered that artificial, but convincing happiness can be attained instantly with drugs and alcohol. I experimented with substances indiscriminately until benzodiazepines, alcohol, hypnotic drugs, and weed became weekly indulgences. I used these drugs more regularly than my anti-depressants, which I had fallen out of the habit of taking responsibly. 

         I picked up these habits just after I had just moved to Richmond with two roommates whom I wasn’t well acquainted with. The healthy kind of self-consciousness quickly progressed to full-blown paranoia and self-hatred. I think this is partially due to my reckless behavior with drugs. Any weekend I spent in Richmond, I’d be so afraid to socialize, that I would wash down a handful of sleeping pills to render myself temporarily comatose. Usually, I’d wake up the next day to an overwhelming sense of regret and embarrassment for literally wasting a day of my life.

         Approximately one month of this routine pushed me over the edge. I decided to confide in my Professor, who immediately provided remarkable support, alleviating the fear my mother indoctrinated in me of being honest about my needs. But no matter how many people told me that they cared, that I wasn’t a terrible person, or that things could truly get better – nothing resonated. My worldview and self-conception were indisputable, concrete knowledge to me. If I looked down and saw my two feet, no amount of well-intentioned reasoning could convince me that I only had one foot. My extreme sense of inferiority was reality, not a belief. Instead of a recovery process, it eventually became a self-sustaining effort to convince others that I needed to die. Permission for suicide was my primary motivation for reaching out to people.

         While clinical depression laid the foundation for my suicidal ideation, fear of worsening circumstances is what motivated me to turn my thoughts into actions. I was petrified of the endless supply of uncertainty in life. I was miserable, but at least it was relatively consistent. During this time, I wrote “I don’t know if I’ll ever be okay. The only guaranteed state is death, and honestly that kind of consistency is quite appealing to me right now. At least then my indifference towards life will be justified.”

         All of these thoughts and behaviors were the results of literally zero external events – although it could be argued that traumatic events in the past got the ball rolling. In other words, I created these huge, life-ending problems all by myself. So when bad things ACTUALLY happened, I’d be sent over the edge, no matter how miniscule.

         I ended up in the hospital for the first time in 2013 because of small incidents which I perceived to be social failures. If I was too quiet in class, if I said something awkward, etc. That is truthfully all it took to trigger an unbelievably negative spiral of thoughts, eventually leading me to wash down a bottle of Zoloft with vodka.

         This instigated my first (and ideally, last) experience at a mental hospital. Since I was under severe suicide watch, I was placed in the most intensive, and thus most oppressive, section of the Psychiatric hospital. I couldn’t wear the dress I had come in with because I was placed among sexual predators. People with severe schizophrenia walked around aimlessly, speaking to people who weren’t there. A young woman screamed about how her mother was the devil reincarnated, and that she followed her, surrounded by serpents.

         Being around these patients all day was scary and stressful enough, but the incompetence and carelessness of the nurses really prevented me from turning this experience into an opportunity for post-traumatic growth. After I left, I found out that many friends and family members tried to call me, and that they were just kept on hold until they hung up. I didn’t receive a single call while I was there, nor was I notified that anybody had tried to reach me. I ended up feeling much more isolated and uncared for than I needed to.

         My passive demeanor somehow seemed to indicate approachability in the eyes of fellow patients, and I found that I was often confided in. One man ended up in the facility after smoking weed that was apparently laced with an additional unknown substance. He told me about how he would never commit suicide, because then he would live forever in the afterlife, and he was tired of living. He then asked me if I was Muslim, and when I said no, he said “Well then you’re a cop.” Another woman cried to me about how the nurses were trying to destroy her family and steal her son. I was extremely conflicted over whether or not I should validate these people’s irrational concerns. If I chose to validate them, I’d confirm their debilitating fears. If I chose to invalidate them, I risked experiencing their defensive reaction. This is how I developed the capacity to listen without judging, and support people without necessarily affirming their thoughts or actions.

         After three days, I was discharged. When I checked out and requested my belongings, I was told that I never came in with any. I was positive that I arrived with my backpack, which included my laptop and wallet. One of the nurses said to another nurse, right in front of me, “She’s crazy and making it all up”. Her statement and actions summed up the behavior of most of the staff there. They treated us as inferiors, and failed to make distinctions between our varying degrees of mental health and diagnoses. Being severely depressed isn’t anywhere near being psychotic. Luckily, her shift ended and another nurse quickly located my belongings.

         Just as I had experienced when I was 16, the aftermath of the suicide attempt was even more emotionally demanding than the events leading up to the attempt. I withdrew from VCU for the year, quit my jobs, and moved back home to NOVA. I enrolled in an Intensive Out-Patient program in Fairfax which was the first true turning point.

The insight I gained, the confidence that was restored, and the entire experience of the OPP could fill a book. I could not be more satisfied with the services at INOVA Fairfax. Each day, from 9:00-3:00, we had five classes. We started the day with Check in, followed by Psychoeducation, Cognitive Behavioral Therapy, Interpersonal Relationships, and Closing. As a group, we quickly developed a sense of camaraderie so strong that we could fearlessly share our deepest, most vulnerable thoughts, after having just known each other for a few days. I remain in contact with several friends I made there.

         I was referred from this program to CATS – which stands for Comprehensive Addiction Treatment Services. It’s a dual diagnosis program, so it helps treat both addiction and mental health issues. Remaining in a support group, like I was in at OPP, is integral to my recovery. I am held accountable for withstanding from (non-prescribed) mood-altering substances, and everyone in the group truly wants me to get better. The collectively vulnerable nature of all members in the group, again, is what makes it such a powerful, rewarding experience.

         I intend to complete this program and continue participating in support groups for as long as I am financially capable of doing so. Ideally, by the end of July 2014, I’ll find myself in a more stable, confident position that would allow me to move back to Richmond and continue my education at VCU. I’ll earn my Master’s degree at VCU as well, although I’m not settled on what specific career path I plan to pursue. I’ve been told by many mentors and peers that they envision me as either a teacher, a writer, or a psychologist. Since I’m in the process of earning Bachelor’s degrees in both English and Psychology, they all seem like feasible, exciting jobs to me. My idealistic, and likely naïve vision for my future centers on a stable home environment, in which I get to live with people of my choosing. If I’m lucky, this would mean a supportive husband, and some turtles and hedgehogs. Possibly some human children as well. My career would be intellectually demanding, but not exhausting. Mostly, I aspire to live a life worthy of my sufferings. All of this is entirely dependent on my recovery process. I need to learn to cope with my Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, ADHD, and Borderline Personality disorder, and overcome addiction, so that I can move forward and begin to pursue my expectations.

         I enrolled in Creative Writing because writing used to be a talent of mine that helped sustain my self-esteem, which would greatly contribute to my well-being. Being held accountable to pursue my passion will also help me feel fulfilled, and may even serve as a cathartic experience to counter the past few years. Also, if I intend to pursue writing as a career, I need a lot of practice and guidance. Ultimately, enrolling in this class is an integral step forward in my struggle for recovery.