My Backwards Walk
CW: child abuse, child sex abuse, suicidal ideation, suicide, disturbing imagery.
May is mental health awareness month. For me, though, every month is mental health awareness month. Every minute of every day I am aware of my mental illness and the impact it has on everything I do and everything I say and think and feel.
My diagnoses have varied over the years, with the one constant being depressive disorder. One psychiatrist diagnosed me with bipolar disorder, which does run in my family, but no other therapist or psychiatrist has agreed with that since.
My mother and father were both alcoholics, although I didn’t learn about my father’s alleged alcoholism until I was an adult. I still don’t completely believe he’s telling the truth, because he lied so easily and frequently in my childhood. There’s definitely something wrong with him, though. He was raised in an abusive household, and I can only assume depression and who knows what else runs in my family.
My maternal grandmother and my mother were both hoarders. I grew up in a home that was a level five hoard for most of my life. I would sporadically make attempts to clean my room or other areas of the house, only to be yelled at by my mother about how I was trying to act better than everyone else. I suppose not wanting to live in a house where you could find a dead mouse in the refrigerator at any time made me uppity.
My mother was presumably also depressed. She’d had to drop out of college because of money, and ended up marrying my father, a marriage which I believe was briefly happy before it turned into an abusive mess. When I was younger, my mother beat me often, frustrated with my slowness to potty train and my generally insouciant attitude. Around my early teens my father’s verbal abuse of my mother escalated into physical abuse, which he said he was doing on my behalf so I could do what I wanted.
If you’re not sure, this is not a stellar parenting choice.
My father had a creepy friend who would come around the farm often, and make disgusting comments to my sister and I about fornicating farm animals. My sister and I both developed fairly early, and this was ripe for his commentary as well. When my parents eventually divorced, my father said something along the lines of that he would fight for custody, but if he did my mother would probably accuse him of trying to molest us.
Again, if it is not quite clear, this is not a thing a healthy parent says to their child.
Frequently in childhood I would wish that I didn’t exist. One memorable time was when we were living in my recently deceased paternal grandmother’s house, where we’d had to move after our family home had burned down in a fire that I and others in my family strongly suspect my father might have deliberately set. My parents had been fighting and I, at my breaking point, had run screaming into the night, crying that I wished I was dead. My sister followed me into the barn and talked me down from it.
In college I had some chaotic friendships that were both good and bad for me, and a college counselor who wasn’t much help and in fact I found extremely judgmental.
My early twenties after college were messy, too; I did a lot of drinking and made a lot of poor decisions. When my problem drinking became too scary for me, I moved to Chicago to try and start over. Eventually I started seeing a therapist after a bad breakup and my mother’s death. (Thankfully, several years before she passed, my mother and I were able to hash things out and have a good relationship for several years before she died, for which I am forever grateful.)
This is only the slightest account of what I’ve lived through. Every time I share this story, I am startled. I am shocked that not only did I live to be an adult, but I am by all means a rather successful one, despite my ongoing struggles. I am employed. I have several strong friendships. I have a boyfriend who still loves me despite my continuing struggles to be mentally well.
I don’t say any of this to sound boastful, but I am proud of my hard won successes. I suppose I share all of this to say that even people who appear to have their shit together often do not have their shit together. And all of us, during this pandemic, have been under exceptional strain. Mental health care, which should be freely available to all, is a scarce resource that even those with health insurance are struggling to access these days. There are too many people needing help and not enough providers.
Again, I’ve been lucky. I’ve been able to coordinate care for myself and I have a strong network of friends who are open and honest about their own struggles. This is something that everyone deserves to have.
Along with therapy, medication, and relationships, I’ve also had creative outlets to help me cope with my mental health. As a child, writing stories where I could live another life helped immensely. In college, getting a guitar and starting to write songs helped me get my feelings out of my head and into the world. And as time has gone on, both of those pursuits continue to help me, especially music. It’s incredibly cathartic to write a song that purges some of my demons, or to learn a cover that perfectly expresses what I’m experiencing. To have another songwriter say what I’m feeling allows me to feel less alone, and by working on a cover I hope that I, in a small way, help the songwriter feel less alone, too.
When I first heard Frightened Rabbit’s The Midnight Organ Fight, I was immediately enraptured. The honest, energetic, forthright songwriting and the depth of feeling in the performances deeply affected me. I was able to see the band perform at Pitchfork 2009 and was so enamored that I made sure I went to their Bottom Lounge pitchfork show as well. That show, at the bottom lounge, was magical for so many reasons. I particularly remember how the band was able to get a crowded club of people to clap a fairly complicated rhythm with exceptional accuracy (most times when crowds begin clapping I want nothing more than to yeet myself into the sun, because inevitably they can’t stay on the right beats or in tempo). But not this night — this night the crowd and the band seemed to be of one piece, working together effortlessly.
As I remember the night, Scott closed out the show with a solo rendition of a new song, Swim Until You Can’t See Land. For me, the mark of a good song is how well it stands up without any extra instrumentation or production. If a song can punch you in the throat with just a singer and an accompanying instrument, then you know it’s a great song. And Scott Hutchison was a great songwriter.
When Scott died by suicide in 2018, I, like many others, felt the loss keenly and personally. He was only 36, so young, but he’d already accomplished so much — yet also had so much more time in front of him.
I’ve never fooled myself that I will ever be well known for my music or writing. I am old (by music industry standards) now, and I’ve always been fat, so I would never have gotten anywhere based on my looks. But I don’t care about fame or any of that. Like many creative people, I just want to share my work and my experiences, and build connections, and yes, make tiny changes to earth.
To that end, I’ve recorded a cover of one of my favorite songs written by Scott Hutchison, My Backwards Walk. Any money raised by this single will go to Tiny Changes, the mental health organization started by Scott’s friends and family, and other mental health initiatives. I hope this version of Scott’s beautiful, honest song helps you feel less alone. Because none of us are ever alone.
If you’re struggling, don’t hesitate to reach out. You can call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 800–273–8255 or text HOME to 741741 to connect with a Crisis Counselor.
