My sister tells me to stop saying “It makes me sick” because she’s afraid “it” (the abuse) really will make me sick.
Once upon a time, “It makes me sick” was a kind of heart-sickness, an expression. Now I really am sick.
The first time I realized that I really felt physically sick because of my marriage problems was in 2002. My boys and I were living with my grandmother while Will retrained for re-entry to active duty.
I kept a purple journal then and filled it with pictures. A few of them are pictures of me, of what’s going on inside of me. And in those pictures, there’s a big knotty ball drawn in my chest cavity. Sometimes the ball starts at my throat and extends to my navel, and sometimes there are two separate “balls” – one over my heart and one over my stomach.
I Drew the Poison of Abuse
At the time, I labeled these knotty balls “depression”. (Hee hee – “knotty balls” – sounds funny.) I did (and still do) live with major depressive disorder.
Now, my cholesterol levels are over 300 (taking Vytorin though), I have panic attacks, and I’m “obese” on the BMI scales. My heartsickness is setting the stage for another form of attack – a heart attack.
I can and will unravel those damn heartsick, disease-causing balls. I’m sure of it. But they and the physical disease they’re causing are already here.
Depression does make you physically sick, and abuse causes depression. How you feel mentally and emotionally will have effects on your body over time. My thoughts and emotions are telling my body to gear up to kill me. My spirit is (was, I hope) dying. And without my spirit, there’s no reason for my body to be here at all.
Abuse kills. It makes me sick. Now you’ve been warned.