My Detailed Autobiography (Mental Illness), 1970s-90s, by Lorre L. Mendelson
From MemoryArchive
Who: Lorre Leon Mendelson What: Mental Illness When: 1970s-1990s Where: USA Who: Lorre Leon Mendelson What: Mental Illness When: 1970s-1990s Where: USA
I was born to a middle class Jewish family in New York City in the early 1950’s, raised in the city until, at the age of two, moved with my parents and my new brother to Norwalk, CT. My father, a survivor of the Great Depression and World War II veteran, worked in the city, commuting by train six days a week while mom made sure we had a well-run home. My father’s Depression-era, segregated upbringing brought his own ghosts into our home: fear of poverty, workaholism, and distrust of non-Jews. My mother was raised in a very cosmopolitan home and had a great interest in art, people of different cultures, and travel. Each had little experience or realistic expectations of children.
When I turned 9, my parents divorced: a chaotic time when everything turned to quicksand for me: my one-day-a-week of “Dad” time became weekend visits to NYC, mom went to work, each side of my family no longer asked about the other, and my parents never again spoke to each other outside of court. At 11, my mother met, and the same night became engaged to, the man who was soon to become my first stepfather, Nelson.
My mother’s new marriage was very exciting with a move to Nelson’s home in Washington, DC. I acquired a new dad, an older sister, Mary, (living at home) and two older siblings who had already grown up. Soon after mom and Nelson married, he started coming to my room at night and touching me in places that were sexual and private. Not understanding what he was doing, my child’s mind figured, “this must be something new dads do”. I soon began smoking cigarettes and pot, drinking, stealing, lying, driving, and acting out sexually. The hands-on abuse finally stopped when I confronted my stepfather at about 14. My mother chose not to believe me, and, I believe it is that day I lost my mom. It is now almost 35 years later and I am filled with sadness of the loss of that relationship that is still so very important to me. Today my mom is dying of ovarian cancer and after several years of our being estranged, chooses not to see me.
I began therapy in 1976 shortly after graduating from college, when I realized that feeling ill around men was NOT something I wanted to live with for the rest of my life. Over the next 20 years I steadfastly plowed through 12 steps (actually 48 steps in 4 programs), psychotherapy, advice, workshops (channeling, tarot and animal medicine cards, visualization, meditation) shadowing Jung, MMPI, Gestalt (bless you), process therapy, EMDR, and relationship counseling trying to recreate myself. I knew what healthy looked like so did the footwork, following in the advice/footsteps of my peers, praying I would finally (please let me be like everyone else) lose that place of emptiness, doubt, fear, and hollowness inside myself. But, it didn’t happen. I maintained friendships, kept jobs, had relationships (providing they were with people who had less self-image than I), and paid my therapy bills. This was my life. I sought joy but believed those who claimed I was sabotaging myself because I didn’t think I deserved happiness. I trusted their intuition and insight, rather than mine.
Until…
July 1996. I insisted on a referral to a psychiatrist from my HMO therapist because I knew how ill I was. I was so ill, I realized, I was even willing to try medication. I walked into Dr. Acenas’ office, wondering how much I could safely disclose without being locked up. She and I spoke and in moments diagnosed me with obsessive-compulsive disorder, post-traumatic stress disorder (from the molest) and depression. I hadn’t been labeled: I was reprieved! NOW I knew what the devils were who clung to my brain and spirit and, that I wasn’t alone.
Millions of children, teenagers, men and other women globally suffer from the same disorders and symptoms I do. It turned out the intrusive thoughts, fears, panic, rituals of confessing, hand washing, and verbal protective warnings to others from my perceived disasters were all medical symptoms of illness. I learned it isn’t a reproach to take medication. I have to take medication and I am so grateful it helps me live a better quality of life. The medication I take reduces my anxiety and I use Cognitive Behavior Therapy (CBT) creating changes in my brain allowing me to think more clearly with fewer intrusive thoughts. I re-evaluated my beliefs about psychiatric medications: we take antibiotics for infections, insulin for diabetes, vitamins as food supplements and in my case, paxil for clearing out cobwebs.
I believe the treatments most effective for OCD are CBT or a combination of medication and CBT. Each person with OCD has their own prescription or rules we follow to keep our world safe (in our minds) often based on a fear that we “MIGHT” become injured or “MIGHT” injure someone else. The treatment for us is walking through our fear. Can you imagine doing the things of which you are most fearful? That is what those of us with OCD must do: we need to “monkey-wrench” our belief systems. For instance, one of my fears is I will hurt others with my germs. So, I have to purposely drop my napkin (or silverware) on the floor (rugs are scarier for me than wood) and wipe my mouth with the side that touched the floor, live with the anxiety, measure it, use techniques to reduce it and kiss my husband without warning him or apologizing, living with the “possibility I may have hurt him with my germs.” So far, he lives!
My different diagnoses play havoc with me on some days. It is very frustrating to awaken from nightmares screaming or suffering flashbacks brought on by a song, a smell, a tone that renders me incapable of responding to loving touch, kind words or life in general, leaving me depleted, emotionally hostile and depressed. How many years I spent sitting at home wondering if I would ever get beyond these feelings of hopelessness. Child sexual abuse keeps on giving to the abused person no matter how old we become, how much food we eat to pad ourselves, or substances we use to forget the pain from the past and fearful unknown futures. I was stunned to learn recently that post traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) actually changes your brain. Children, who are abused, may experience an organic change in their brain, which affects perception. When another person sees an angry face—they confront it, walk away or deal with it. For me an angry face became a lion’s open jaw encompassing my head and I had nowhere to run.
There are days OCD keeps me off balance and I seek reassurance (one compulsion or ritual) from those closest to me. They love themselves and me so much they have learned boundary setting with compassion and empathy, guiding me back to myself while maintaining their own energy for themselves. Because my symptoms of OCD and PTSD interact, some days I cannot tell which is which: my psychologist, Jim, tells me it doesn’t matter. Yeah!! As anxiety disorders, I can medically treat OCD and PTSD in similar ways—cognitive behavior therapy, prescribed medication, support groups, meditation, relaxation, friends, hugs, mindfulness, hot bubble baths surrounded by lit candles and soft music, and, on some of my rougher days, chocolate cake!!
While I still have some difficult days (no longer months or years), I find far more joy than I could have imagined. For the first time in my life I feel I am a part of the world! There are days now when I don’t have anxiety preying on my thoughts and have the tools to challenge them when they arise and I have my wonderful sister, Mary, who has stood with me in my recovery.
For many years I doubted I would get married. Miraculously, I started dating Ross, a colleague, six months before I was diagnosed. He, along with a good friend, learned about OCD and brought recovery to me. After four years of friendship, love, and learning to laugh again, Ross and I agreed to get married and at 46, found myself getting married to the most loving, creative, humorous, accepting man I could have hoped to find. I have been learning what intimacy really means and how to love someone else. Commitment had new meaning!
In January 2000, the National Mental Health Association (NMHA) flew me to Long Beach, CA to participate in a train the trainer’s workshop for the Voter Empowerment Project (VEP) helping people with mental illnesses participate in the voting process. The late Ken Steele led this workshop. I feel so fortunate to have met him and shared a few minutes with him, hearing about his lifework and treatment for schizophrenia. Ken became my hero and mentor.
Energized by our conversation, I returned to Northern California, eager to implement the VEP. This resulted in presentations on voter registration to people with mental illnesses and other disabilities at meetings and conferences, collaborating with ROV (Registrar of Voters) offices to insure access to voting sites, and with community groups helping people become registered to vote and voting who have a disability, are homeless, people of color and other disenfranchised groups. My husband, new Executive Director of the Urban Ministry of Palo Alto (UMPA) providing services to people who are homeless, and I collaborated, implementing voting activities for his clients using the VEP model. Last fall, I organized and facilitated a non-partisan debate with the disability representatives of the major political parties at UC Berkeley and volunteered for the NMHA for a similar event in Washington, DC on access and accommodations.
It is essential we include our brothers and sisters with sensory, learning, medical and other physical disabilities in information and resources for excellent mental health. I’m delighted to have been nominated by the Santa Clara County Registrar of Voters for the California Secretary of State’s “Hall of Fame” honoring voter outreach efforts above and beyond assisting with registering voters and encouraging voter participation, January 2001. Thanks to the Voter Empowerment Project, I helped increase voter registration to over 35,000 in my county, participated in training for 5,500-6,000 poll workers for national election 2000, and influenced a language revision in the official ROV manual in our county to be more inclusive of people with mental illnesses and other disabilities.
I returned to the drop-in center for UMPA on Election Day for voters requesting assistance. One woman and I walked to the polls and, as she had difficulty reading, read the voting materials to her. She decided how she wanted to vote and we went to the booth together. I read her choices while she voted. When we finished, she got a sticker to wear indicating she had voted. She told me this was the first time in her life she had voted. I heard she wore that sticker for a week!
In 1996 I vowed to help others become educated about effective medical services. Today, I work with people globally, helping them find appropriate resources and support systems for their needs. I’ve learned that each one of us makes a difference. One of my life goals/challenges is to educate people about mental illness and raise consciousness about the prejudice that keeps us from receiving appropriate health services, education, employment, political strength, and overall quality of life that all people should be able to enjoy. I present nationally to groups that there is no difference between physical and mental illness/health. There is illness and there is health.
As humans we are connected by spirit, mind, emotion, physical being; all of the things that make us so wonderfully human. I pose to you that judgment and isolation are the real killers behind mental illness; true healing is based on acceptance, understanding, and inclusion. It is when I learn to embrace my trauma, my uncertainty, my sadness, and my fears, I become whole.
Reproduced with permission from New York City Voices, where you will also find more information about recovery.
