BANG CHAN — Special MC KCON LA DAY 3 (230821)

Becoming Aware of Mental Health Care

Google led me here:

https://www.nami.org/Find-Support/Diverse-Communities/African-American-Mental-Health

To here:

https://www.metrocareservices.org/mfc

To finally here:

https://www.metrocareservices.org/our-services/adult/medical-services/rapid-assessment-prevention-(rap-team) -This post is about my upbringing and mentally unpacking some bullshit- 

I grew up in a household that was divided. My mom is a musician, single mom, black, lesbian and we stayed in my grandparents house. They have been married for about over 40 years. Principal within my school district and Military Drill Sargent who tutored throughout my Elementary and Middle School in the same district. 

Single child. Book worm, latched on hard to Playstation and games. As well as a lot of other ‘not normal for a black girl things.’ Harry Potter when it came out, the Merlin Series, The Subtle Knife Series, Anime, Dragon Ball, Pokemon. I fell in love with the Viola and singing harmonies. Lord of the Rings ruined me for accents and beautiful haired men and women. STAR. WARS. <3 Legend of Zorro (unnf) I was different. No where near the sterotypical American black family of America. I was brought up well in a predominately good school district. Oddly enough, this in itself made me into a black girl that “didn’t act black/like black things. Whitest black kid.” Self Identity

In that house I grew up seeing a very fucked up balance relationship for money. My mom was happy as a musician, still is and is living her life the best she can. But we were also living paycheck to paycheck. When she would have a gig I would ask for 3 things. Was there  free food, a pool table or drinks offered for her performing. If there was 2 of the 3 I would go with her. Sitting at one of the booths or tables, I would read a book or color while she would perform on stage at bars or night clubs. I would help her set up or tear down, helped to sell her cds. Financial issues

It was fun for me and a different lifestyle. I learned very quickly how to socialize with the adults and learned street smarts/common sense. I was well spoken and well read for my age. At times, they would confuse my mother for me. (Dark clubs/venues) From leather bikers to professional lgbtqia mainly female, a good dash of male and gender fluid. Due to drinking, some of them would hug me or give me a kiss on the cheek. “I’m the daughter, that’s my mom.” They would be embarrassed/apologetic and laugh it off politely. I took it in stride and told my mom whenever it would occur. Around this time, I was 6 - 15. Sexual orientation and association

Grandparents were well off. We lived in a suburban neighborhood. Over the time I grew up there, grandfather bought at least 5 cars with some assistance. 2 story house. They would travel whenever they could, which was a lot. Either for a day to a weekend up to a week or 2 out of state/country. I grew up nearly alone in that house. I was 15-21. Isolation and Abandonment 

Elementary, Middle and High school were within walking distance of that house. I would walk it majority of the time once school was out. Romance novels were abundant in that house as well as the full leather hardback dictionary and Thesaurus. I learned very quickly how to utilize those, broadening my vocabulary and learning things I probably should have discovered later in development. And then my grandmother got a desktop with internet access. I was already learning about floppy disks and cds to computer games in middle school. Having access to AOL chat rooms and sources to anything really changed my thinking and searching habits. Sexual orientation and questioning

The schools were manly Caucasian with a healthy dose of Mexican, other cultures and a decent amount of African American kids from all over. I mainly befriended the Outcasts. Goth kids, Theater, Creative Arts. Those interested in music or games, things that I liked. I can nearly count on 2 hands the amount of other black kids that liked the things that I like. I know that we are out there, but finding each other was hard back then. It has gotten a lot easier nowadays. I did find friends that have lasted for about goodness, 12 years now and going.

I also read voraciously. Walking down the halls with a book in hand or eating lunch one handed while I read. Books where my shelter and my safety blanket. I was still picked on for everything about me. Size, color, hair. Of course I’d tell my family about it. “Small minds do small things,” my mom would tell me. “They don’t know better, kids are just mean and cruel sometimes. Pay them no mind.” Grandparents would say the same. But walking home with those thoughts from each school tore me up mentally.  -Fat. Blackie. Weirdo. Book. Worm. Gay. Stuck up, Snob, Book worm. She’s so (insert insult here) she’ll never have friends. The list goes on. Suicidal Tendencies and attempts

I would do odd things as a kid. Walk on the balls of my feet, sleep with a box fan on towards my face for sensory comfort. Eerie accuracy at recalling lines or quotes from movies, shows, books, games. Mimicking people/accents. Heavy comforter, laying near pillows as much as possible. I’d find pretty rocks or pieces of wood and rub them along my hands and fingertips, bite my lip a lot and pick at my nails. Scratch at my body and be ashamed at how large I was. Talk out loud to the tv just to hear a voice in the house or around me. Turn on lights to make the room feel more ‘full’. Pull my hair or rub my forehead if I became distressed. Bite my thumb/wrist. Isolate in my room with a blanket over my head or rub my face into something soft. Rock side to side to music or sing/hum to myself. These things I would do well away from my family cause I never saw them doing something like this. Surely something must have been wrong with me cause I was doing them for YEARS once I moved out of that house.  Words like Autism, Self-Care, Stiming, Depression, Anxiety Disorder, Mental Health, High Functioning Autistic were not really discussed or mentioned. I didn’t really hear about these things until I got into college and that was now, 11ish years ago. Mental Health 

That house was always clean.  Rarely was there a magazine not stacked in it’s rightful place or the closets left open. Visible lines from the vacuum was indicators in the beige rug that I had cleaned. My dresser drawers always had to be closed, clothing put up, desk tidy. Growing up I understood the importance of keeping my space tidy. It got to the point that I was lining up my posters just right or making sure that the bed was always made up. Smooth lines, not ruffled. Like a bed you would see in a hotel. For my grandparents it was not tidy enough.  Growing up in that house there would be days I would come home from school randomly to find the upstairs area vacuumed and my door left ajar. A sure sign that my grandmother or other family member had been in my room and cleaned it to their specifications. They would have gone through all of my drawers, the closet, the bed. And she would indeed find my personal diaries or personal things and leave them ON MY DRESSER. IN PLAIN VIEW. My room was not my room. My privacy was never really my own.

When I was 16-19 I’d ask her as calmly as possible coming home from a stressful day at school, to please stop cleaning my room and going through my things. I am aware of how to clean my own space and am capable of doing so. When you do this, it is causing me a lot of anxiety. “I do it cause I love you and I care,” was her response or my fucking favorite, “my house, my rules.”Personal Boundaries and Privacy Issues, Ptsd

My grandfather is a bragger. Every year for their anniversary he would buy my grandmother a rose for every year that they were married. On that rose he would have the florists tie a $100 around it. He’d bring it home and have it sitting on the dining room table for her to see. For anyone visiting to see. It was his way of showing that he loved and cared for his wife. He aspired for his kids and grandkids to be well off enough to do something akin to this for their partner. 

The flowers were always lovely. When I started to learn the value of money I became awed, and then ashamed, to finally regretting seeing that fucking vase. Some years he would ask me to count the money and dotingly talk about how beautiful and deserving his wife was of these things and more, comparing her to the roses... There I was, counting out thousands of dollars and being terrified to ask them for $5 or $20. I couldn’t ask my mom, she was usually at a gig or working out of town. She scrapped by happily as possible while loving on me the best that she could. While I stayed in that house. Watching my grandmother go on another shopping trip “just for fun or to help her relax.” She had at least 6 closets (part of mine in my room) with clothes that she had bought literally decades ago with the price tags still on them. Shoe boxes still with mint condition heels, sneakers, boots. They changed the patio to another “living room” that held a tv, then more clothes she had bought. At one point there was a circular clothing rack stuffed with clothes. Everything was still neatly put away and organized. But there was still a LOT OF THINGS. One of the worst was having to ask for spending money when I was younger. I’d go ask my grandmother most of the time cause even she understood that my grandfather and I were starting to butt heads. If she didn’t have cash then, she’d tell me to go talk to him. “I know that he can be gruff at times, just nod and bear it.” Nod and bear it... He’d be sitting up in bed watching tv on yet another of his latest flat screen additions for the house. I’d have to stand at the foot of the bed or the door and shyly ask for some money. Usually waaay under the amount I actually needed to go do/get the thing.  “You know...”(sits up more on the bed) “money just seems to burn in your pocket.(gestures to his dresser for me to retrieve his wallet) “You don’t really know how to save money.” (flips open thick wallet to show off a wad of cash) “At church they really need to teach you more about saving and giving 10% to God...” (counts out bills to find right amount) “The Lord/Good Book reminds us that...” (holds more than I asked for in his hand and lectures to me) “How is work/school going? Is your car holding up?” (answer as best as I could while shaking and feeling incredibly guilty for having to ask for assistance again) “Now, I know you asked me for $10 but here’s ($20, $30, $40, way more than I had asked for) “You go treat yourself.” -or...- If I was having car issues with one of the cars that he had given to me... (I tell him about needing a car thing fixed, new tire or key ignition going out) “I’ll help you this time but you need to be able to pay me back at some point. Not now cause you’re a poor college kid and don’t have money. Money is still burning in your pocket huh? Just can’t seem to hold onto it.” 

You’d think that getting more money than I asked for would be a good thing.  This. Fucked. Me. Up. To this DAY I have issues with financial things. He would do this every. Single. Time I needed money help. This gave me such bad anxiety I’d have to go take a few moments to calm down in my room. I couldn’t scream out loud so scream into a pillow or chew the royal fuck out of my inner lip, dig my nails into my arm.  Asking for financial help from friends and partners always fills me with dread. I’ve gone weeks to months suffering due to the fact that I was to scared to ask for help and because of that, at certain times, my phone would be cut off, A/C would be off, food options were extremely limited. Passive Aggressive Financial Control Stress eating happened. Oh boy did it happen. Since I was alone most of the time I’d have to fend for myself until one of the grandparents would come home. They had a large family until my mom dropped me off to live with them and finish my school career. Peanut Butter and Jelly sandwiches were usually my go to, or whatever was in one of the 2 1/2 freezers. Usually junk food. I didn’t learn how to eat healthy until late high school if that. My weight (still) is playing hell with my body and mind. 

I remember working really hard to get a Ps2 and the setup for DDR Dance Dance Revolution. I wound up loving that game and losing a little weight from it. Since it was still a ‘game’ they didn’t really care for it and would tell me to play it less when they were downstairs watching tv in the main living room. I couldn’t play it in my room cause it was upstairs and lots of jumping. I already was ashamed for being heavy, hearing myself stomp around on a floor that telegraphed my movements 10 fold was not great for my self-confidence. I did softball for a bit, liked that, felt powerful. My mom got me into it when she lived with the grandparents for a while. I do not know why we stopped going. Probably cost to much... Coming to the house during college breaks was not the best. I’d learned through experimentation that I was actually having reactions to breads and flour. I stopped eating gluten things and started to feel immensely better. I’d let them know gently that I could no longer eat Church’s Chicken or things that were coated in bread because they would make me physically ill. “But, I just made all of this for dinner. You can eat a little bit of it.” (no actually, I can’t I will have a bad physical reaction if I do.) This knocked out about...75% of what I could eat over the holidays. They would still forget that I couldn’t eat flour based things even though I’d told them again and again. Voice their opinions about my ‘food choices’ if they took me to dinner with them cause unfortunately, eating healthy cost A LOT. I’d manage with eggs, deli meats, veggies or things that I bought over to share. 

One Thanksgiving I had made a healthy apple pie for dessert. I was so proud to make this and show them that fresh things like this can be filling and good for you with no flour. My mom and I were the only ones to eat it. My family made fun of me for bringing over ‘healthy food for the holiday.’ The rest was thrown away. I never cooked them a thing again. 

My grandmother didn’t help my self-esteem with this. “Have you put on weight? You know, if you keep eating like that, you’re going to get as big as a house. If you lose weight with me, I’ll buy you some new clothes or give you money for each pound you lose. Do at least 10 sit-ups before bed.” Instead of telling me in a more positive manner to help with my weight or provide some research, this was how she would encourage me to get fit. My grandmother would tell me this, when I was 12 up until I moved out, at random times. She’d call and check in on my classes or my job and then “have you lost any weight?” Somehow she would always find a way to put that into the conversation. Every time would make me feel heavier with shame. The heaviest I’ve ever been is 296. I’ve never seen the other side of 240. Health guilt, Body shaming, lowered Self-confidence

This is me finally starting to let go some of this held on aggression towards that House and my Family. It was fucked up. This. Fucked. Me. Up. Mentally. And. Physically. I am still showing symptoms that I have triggers from these and other past experiences. I’m allowed to talk about things like this. I didn’t have the strength or courage to fully, I’m starting to gain strength towards it now.

I am allowed to say this, to talk about it. To let others know that I am just now at the age of 30, learning that I have Anxiety, Mental Health Issues, High Functioning Autistic. That I have body dismorphia, self-esteem and confidence issues. That I still have some things to mentally unpack.  But now that I have resources and a way to vent, now that I am in the happiest living situation ever with understanding Partners and Chosen Family, I can start to heal. Finding that article about Black Mental Health helped and scared me. It’s going to be a tough journey. Healing Hurts. Healing from this is going to fucking suck ass. It will be well worth it overall. I hoped this helped someone out there in the Internet Void. It’s already helping me.