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Defective (adj.) - imperfect or faulty, lacking or deficient.

Yep, that was me. I had a dead baby. I had a mediocre marriage. I had two sons, but I had pretty much ruined their lives. I had no sisters anymore. My brother was now in jail. My parent sucked, all 400 of them (haha). And I was mad.

I had already been taking anti-depressants for years. I'm sure they were doing their job. I wasn't obsessively cleaning all night long or having anger outbursts. But somehow, pills just don't compensate well for mourning or hate. The idea that I was never going to get better made me realize that I would probably be prescribed another pill. That realization was overwhelming!

All I wanted to do in my whole life was be happy and joyful. I wanted to love and be loved. How did I end up being the girl who needed pills in order to be nice or to just get through her day? What happens the next time a bump comes into my life? More pills? I might as well just start drinking everyday and taking heroine. When was enough going to be enough? Why was I defective?

I said those words, to my therapist, out loud in our 4th or 5th session. Still a professional, she asked me to move chairs. I shook my head. I always sit in the same place, but I moved.

She made me sit across from my regular chair and she introduced me to the empty chair.

"This is my friend, Shelly. She was abandoned by her father when she was born. Her mother, who clearly as mental issues, did not really care for Shelly. Instead, she used Shelly as a crutch for every feelings or need that she had for her own self. Shelly was beaten by her new dad and had to go to foster care. She was really scared. She parented her siblings, pretty much on her own, by the time she was 12. She was molested from age 9 - 15. She has lost her two surrogate parents, her grandmothers. She is rather alone at times and now, she is grieving the loss of her baby who was murdered."

There was a pause as she looked at me, looked at me in my face, and said, "Now, tell Shelly that she is defective. Tell she should get her shit together and be better. Tell her that she should just get over all this stuff and not need any medications at all. Tell her!"

I've told this story many times since that day, when I finally could, and I bawl each time. I sit here and type those words and I cry. Needless to say, I couldn't tell that silly, empty chair of Shelly that she was defective.

"Tell her, Shelly. Tell her she is defective," she urged.

I shook my head and couldn't utter a sound. I was chocking back all sorts of snot and tears and gasps of air. My chest was heaving and I finally blurted, "I can't. I wouldn't say that to anyone."

"Then don't say it, ever, to someone who has lived your life and survived."

When life hands you lemons...

Life has not really handed me a useful, tasty lemon that is consumable and delicious with a bit of sugar. Life gave me crap. There is no additive to rid crap of the smell. No amount of sugar to make a crap palatable. And there is no amount of cleaning or purifying it that would not make me sick if I have to eat crap.

I stored my crap. I didn't know what to do with it. I must have obtained an emotional trash bin when I was first really abused. Who knows when that happened? Each time life handed me...well, crap...I opened the lid and put it inside. I could pretend it wasn't there. I didn't really have to smell it.

Yet, I didn't ever deal with the trash bin either. I didn't clean it out because I didn't know how. I didn't let anyone else do it either because I was too ashamed to let them see all the crap that I had. It was too much, too stinky and too out-of-control. When it got full, I think I may have added the contents to another, larger can. Eventually, I ran out of room.

Jackson's death was a big, fat load of rotting crap. It was big contribution to the can. The lid wouldn't not shut. For the three years that the lid wouldn't close, I dumped spoons of that mess into everyone's life that I encountered. Nothing too big or they would notice. One nasty word. A cutting eye. A menacing joke.

And when I had to face the trail I had left in my life of crap, I decided to shut the lid. I slammed that thing down with so much hatred and anger.

You can overfill any container, but if you try to shove in extra, something is going to come out. Jackson's hurt went in, the anger at my mother came out.

So, I sat in that stinking office for two years processing the anger I held inside for how I had been treated all those years. I wasn't upset with my stepdad for molesting me. It was seriously still gone. I wasn't really upset about my adoptive father having beaten me for those few years. I saw the differences in his life. But I was downright mad at my mother and there was nothing more I could do with that.

My can was full. I did not have anyone who could help me clean it out. I was a broken person with very little hope.

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