BORN MAD

BALBOA PRESS

Contents

Foreword.......................................................xiAcknowledgments................................................xiiiJust Call Me Firebucket! |.....................................1Introduction...................................................3Chapter 1 Born Mad.............................................7Chapter 2 The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly......................15Chapter 3 Unawareness..........................................23Chapter 4 Better Off Dead......................................35I Have What? |.................................................55Chapter 5 Pot Brownies, Hypnosis, Lobotomy.....................57Chapter 6 Bad State of Mind....................................85Chapter 7 Brain Transplant.....................................93Chapter 8 No Coincidences......................................99Chapter 9 It's All Small Stuff.................................107Conclusion.....................................................117Related Resources..............................................121Other Anger-Causing Disorders..................................125About the Author...............................................127

Chapter One

The waiting room was the perfect temperature, sparsely decorated with a few paintings and a large dish filled with hard candies. Soft jazz music was playing. The music calmed and comforted me, and I felt a little more relaxed and reassured. Even so, I was nervous and frightened to be in unfamiliar territory.

A small envelope with my name on it lay on the table. I reached for it and tore it opened. It was a note from the psychiatrist saying he'd be with me in a few minutes and to make myself comfortable. Those few minutes seemed like an hour, a dreadful, lonely, and agonizing hour.

While sitting in the doctor's office, all I could really do was pray. A few magazines were sitting on an end table, but I didn't feel like reading. Instead, I asked God for this to be the answer, the solution to my chronic anger, anxiety, and madness.

I had never visited a psychiatrist, so I had no idea what to expect. Would I have to give blood? Would the visit be physically painful? Would I know the answers to his questions? Was I manic? Did I have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD) or some kind of mood disorder? Was I really autistic, as neighbors during my childhood thought I was? This was the make-it-or-break-it point, the moment where I would sink or swim. My mind was racing with a million thoughts.

It may sound rather strange and morbid, but at this point, I wanted to be diagnosed with some kind of disorder. It was my last hope. I had tried everything I could think of—affirmations, anger management, the Emotional Freedom Technique, believing in God—but nothing had a permanent effect. I was still angry every minute of every day.

Was I really a mean, nasty, hateful person, or was my anger beyond my control? If my anger was due to a dysfunction, a chemical imbalance of some kind, then it wasn't me. I anticipated that problem could be treated with medication.

I sat in silence in the waiting room, still nervous but hoping I was mentally unstable, that I did in fact have a mental disorder. I am not a professional in the mental health field, so I didn't have the foggiest idea about what kind of mental disorder would cause chronic anger, but I hoped I had it—whatever it was.

During those few agonizing minutes sitting in the waiting room, I asked myself how I had gotten there. What events in my past had led me to a psychiatrist's office wondering if I had a mental disorder? Reflecting on the past events of my life, it all made sense. The last forty-four years of my life had all been leading up to this defining moment. This was the culmination, the sum total of my life.

* * *

Born on June 1, 1966, I weighed six pounds and four ounces, with a few strands of bright red hair standing straight up on my head.

Like most babies, I was born screaming at the top of my lungs. Little did I know this screaming would become a life-long pattern, haunting me for years afterward and leaving me feeling like I was always doing something wrong and the universe was out to get me.

My family consisted of my mother, my father, and my sister who was two years older than me. My father was a manufacturing engineer. Over the years, he had many interesting jobs, including assembling light bulbs and waterbeds. He was the prankster and jokester who gave my sister and I piggyback rides every night before he threw us down on the bed to "hit the hay." My mother worked at a retail store in the catalog pickup area, back when that kind of service was available. She was the one who brushed our hair and walked us to school; drove us to Girl Scout meetings, swimming lessons, and flute recitals; and read to us every night after dinner from the Little House on the Prairie book series.

No one knew I was born angry, although there were plenty of warning signs over the years. Plagued with sporadic episodes of anger as a child and into adulthood, I often frustrated my parents and sister, made more mistakes and blunders than I wish to admit, and messed up many parts of my life that I shouldn't have.

I learned that anger was a strong emotion of displeasure caused by some type of grievance, either real or perceived. Causes of anger, according to www.ezinearticles.com, include past experiences, behavior learned from others, a genetic predisposition, and a lack of problem-solving skills. In other words, anger is caused by a combination of two factors: an irrational perception of reality and a low frustration point.

These two factors were present in me even as a young child. I expressed my anger and frustration in various ways that should have been obvious clues to those around me that I needed help.

Cranky Baby

Intrigued by my behavior, my parents have told this story numerous times over the years. As a baby, I apparently disliked everyone, including my father. My mother and my grandmother were the only two adults who could hold me; no one else could get close. I would scream and yell at the top of my lungs, so no one dared come near me. My father couldn't hold me, feed me, change my diapers, look at me, or do anything that might involve coming within a foot of my personal space.

My aversion continued for a good six months. At this point, of course, no one will ever know why I acted like that. Since I can't explain what I was thinking or feeling back then and no one could read my mind, it will always be a mystery.

I do think my behavior was odd, even for an infant. One day, it appeared as though I just "got over it." My fits of rage stopped and suddenly I turned into a happy, bouncing, smiling baby—or at least that's what everyone thought.

I Lost My Kitty Kat

When I was one year old, I was given a stuffed animal—a cat with arms that had wire inside, allowing them to form a stiff circle so the toy could hang tightly around a bedpost or other object. It had a pink-and-white checkered body and fuzzy face, feet, and hands. I named it Kitty Kat.

My sister got a green frog just like it. She put it on her bedpost, and it stayed there, nameless, looking brand new even years later. But not my...