My Tattoo

For those of you who have read my sister’s blog, you already know that my dad passed away nine years ago. I’m not going to get into all the details about when he was diagnosed with cancer and, six months later, his death. That will be a story for another time. For now, let me tell you about the many months afterward, that foggy time when the rest of the world has continued normally, while I was forever changed.

My dad died in April of my sophomore year in college. I was in my dorm room at my Connecticut school when I got the call that I needed to come home to California. I spent about a week with him before he died and another week or so dealing with the funeral and such. Then, I went back to Connecticut long enough to cram the end of my semester into four days, pack everything, and return home for a summer of adjustment. The chorus that greeted me was so far from what I would’ve expected, so cruel. But it happened and I didn’t handle it well.

“Morgan, you know, we’re all really worried about your sister. I mean, this really isn’t a big deal for you, but it’s really unfair that she had to lose her dad at such a young age. You’re 20, but she’s only 17. You can handle it, but it’s tough for her.”

Um, yeah. That’s what I heard, over and over, all summer long. As if I had taken that freshman core course called “How to Watch a Parent Die”. To be clear, none of that came from my mom or sister, both of whom were in the midst of this weird hell with me. I did hear it from family friends, coworkers, etc. and it sucked. So, how did I react to that? I took it all in. Accepted it as truth. I was fine, this wasn’t a big deal, and I was old enough to handle it without much effort. Until I went back to school for my junior year.

I couldn’t figure out why I hated myself so much when I looked in the mirror. I was just so mad that I wasn't "fine". I was having anxiety attacks once or twice a week (I have had them my whole life, but they used to occur about once a year). It only got worse that summer and my depression finally peaked at the beginning of my senior year. I stopped eating and started cutting myself and it wasn’t nearly as subconscious as I think it is for many people. I knew what I was doing, but I wanted to punish myself for not being perfect and, at the same time, make other people see that I wasn’t ok. That I needed attention, too. I’d take a steak knife to my leg and then tell a friend about it. I’d tell people that I hadn’t eaten more than half a bagel in the past 36 hours. I may not have had the strength to make myself well, but I did enough that people intervened.

I was required to meet with a doctor once a week for tests, since they were afraid my heart would give out. My first attempt at any sort of counseling didn’t go well. I was told by the university shrink to “just eat”, as if I had been forgetting something so obvious three times a day. I was medicated and trying to stay as stable as I could, but I kept slipping. My favorite professor had taken me into his home my first Thanksgiving without my dad, and he knew what was happening with my illness. He referred me to his wife, who had a private practice and would see me for free. After weeks of seeing her with no improvement, she declared me “non-functional” and recommended that I leave school and seek more intensive treatment. That was just three weeks before my graduation, but I couldn’t stay long enough to attend.

Back home, my mom took me to the state mental health center for an evaluation. Deemed a suicide risk, they kept me there, doubled my antidepressant dosage, and put me on a sedative. I was trapped in a cold building and wanted out. That was my rock bottom, being there. I knew I didn’t belong in that barbed wire place, with people who had tougher lives than my own. It was time to work at being okay with myself, okay with not being able to handle everything without help. Oh, and I finished up my semester via email, graduating magna cum laude and Phi Beta Kappa.

About a year after my hospitalization, I decided that I wanted to commemorate my journey. I wanted to remind myself that I am stronger than I know. I came up with the idea of having three Chinese characters tattooed onto my lower back. "Stumble, survive, smile" was a nice way of saying “shit happens, get over it”. People ask why I put it on my back, since I can’t see it easily, but I don’t need it right in front of me for it to be powerful. It’s always there and I love it.

Just a few months after getting my tattoo, I found out that my favorite professor had died. As difficult as that was to accept, I knew that he had saved my life and I couldn’t take it for granted. I’ve stumbled, I’ve survived, but I’m still smiling.