I'm trying.

It was with some interest, earlier, that I read up on the concept of depressive realism after a friend of mine provided this link:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Depressive_realism

Basically, the theory is that those who have a tendency towards being mildly to moderately depressed actually have a more realistic perspective of their environment - their own abilities, their importance in the world, the scope of their locus of control etc. I can only assume that this is usually what depresses them :-/

I wish I could dismiss this theory offhand, but I can't. That would be too optimistic. Ba-dum-bum-tish...

As most of you know, I have grappled on and off with depression myself. It's not something I am either ashamed of, or inclined to use for self-pity. It's just a fact. It's more than likely due to a combination of conditional and hereditary factors - my mum has also got mental health issues, and basically I'm not the only one in the family. Although whether our shared tendency towards depression is hereditary, or because we have to constantly deal with each other, is anyone's guess. But I think it's helpful to be honest about these things - if you cannot bear to articulate your own feelings of despair, whether current or in retrospect, I think you contribute to a conspiracy of silence for other people going through the same thing. Someone has to start talking, and frankly I don't mind being that person.

Aaaaanyway - there is a point to this post, and more than likely it will present itself eventually. The reason I am thinking about this right now is because I went to see the social worker in charge of my brother's case again today, to discuss progress within my family, etc etc.

I have very mixed feelings about how the meeting went. She was marginally better than the last social worker originally assigned to Paul, although that's not saying much since the original one was about as useful as a chocolate teapot. It was cathartic to me to discuss some of my difficulties in making reports with her, but it did make me conscious of my feelings of helplessness and fear with how things are progressing in my family. I feel kind of adrift in a sea of other people's agendas, with their motivations like currents pushing me this way and that way... my parents' inability to face their own mistakes/shortcomings, the dynamic between my mom and dad, the social worker just trying to tie up all the loose ends of red tape, my extended family - who remain mostly ambivalent on the subject, but support my mom, mainly - my little brother clinging to me, my sister... god it's exhausting. Maybe I have my own motivations? I suppose I must, but honestly the only thing I really *feel* about the situation is that I want my little brother to be OK, and to minimise the adverse effect that my parents have on him. I guess what the article on depression realism said about such individuals being conscious of their lack of control in certain scenarios really struck a chord with me - I am conscious of my lack of control over all the factors at play in this situation, and it drives me crazy.

I'm the kind of person who always wants to *fix* everything. I can't see something I think is unfair and not try to fix it. My friend gets screwed over by social welfare, I write to them to complain. I read something that annoys me in the paper, I write to it. I read about unethical practice of a company, I boycott it. I see my brother being abused by my parents, I report them to social services. Seems simple, and clean cut, but it isn't.

The emotional fallout from reporting my parents in February has been enormous. I have been in turns ignored, made homeless, guilt tripped, accepted back, chastised, blamed for everything, and denied access to my brother. It's been a roller coaster, emotionally, and to be honest at this stage I don't know my head from my ass. Every time I think I'm reaching some kind of mental plateau where I can accept the situation as it is and deal with it, something else happens to make me question my sanity/maturity/motivations.

I love my parents, but as the social worker said this morning, they categorically deny everything that happens at home. Both of them deny ever hitting my brother, or that there are problems at home, and they resent the social worker's intrusion and questioning of their parenting abilities. What the SW said this morning is that my parents have preconceived notions of the kind of people social services deal with - layabout drunks, mainly - and they don't see themselves as being at all in this category. Which is fair enough, but kinda misses the point. I need scarcely point out the fallacy of thinking that you have to live in a council estate with piebald ponies roaming your front garden, drinking Stella Artois in a wifebeater vest at 1 o clock in the afternoon, for there to be child abuse - or for social services to be necessary. It makes me crazy, because every now and again I'll think I've made a breakthrough, if a small one, in getting through to them. Usually, I'll have a discussion with my dad - the more self-aware of the two, whereby I outline erratic or dangerous behaviour in the past, on mom's part especially, and he acknowledges it. But it's like he just can't *face* the extent of it, so the next time I see him I'm practically back to square one of "problems? What problems? I don't see a problem, except you."

I just so bloody unfair. I'm aware of how petulant that sounds, but it's just so cruel. I know I have shortcomings. I don't mind admitting them. There have been times where i have said things I shouldn't/didn't mean, and when Paul was attacked in June I was too slow to report it to social services. I should have done so immediately, I recognise that now. But I'm scared. I'm scared of hurting my parents, I'm scared of severing my relationship with them forever, I'm scared of causing more pain - but more than anything else, I'm scared of letting Paul down. He needs me, and if I have to be the only one in this scenario willing to stand up and say that our family is fucking messed up? I'll do it. I just wish I wasn't alone, one voice shouting against a howling wind comprised of contradiction and misplaced guilt. Where's a bloody fairy godmother when you need her...

Mensa, here I come?

Very recently, I applied to sit the supervised test to prove myself eligible for Mensa membership. That may appear to some a pompous thing to do, but for me, it was important. I passed the home test some years ago, but ever since I have long put off sitting the supervised test. Why? I am not entirely sure – I think that a part of me was afraid of failing it. My intellect is as much a part of my personal identity as my nationality or my hair colour, but one I am significantly more self-conscious about. I sometimes find it hard to acknowledge my own cognitive ability – I was taught for so long to downplay it so as not to make people uncomfortable. I often wonder if I would have been so encouraged, had I been born a boy. Certainly, as I got older, I came to realise that demonstrating superior intellectual prowess made boys uneasy, and the vapid hair-tossing, giggling Beverly Hills wannabe variety of teenage girl was what I was expected to aspire to. Think more Tori Spelling than Virginia Woolfe. That, combined with the fact that I was condemned to spend my school life unfulfilled and neglected, has significantly hindered my acknowledgement and nurturing of my brainpower.

As a child, I was always told I was bright. I was a bright girl, very clever. A real bright spark. This was usually accompanied by a pat on the head or a similarly affectionate but condescending gesture. Even as a little girl, I was made to feel like a dog that had just managed to sit on command. In retrospect, it was a bit more than that. I read my first words off the side of a doll box when I was two, and by the age of five I had memorised the precise distances between the planets of the solar system. I knew what a black hole was, and how it worked. I had a reading age comparable to someone in their mid-teens by the time I started school at the age of 4 or 5. I was obsessed with dinosaurs, and knew the difference between vertebrate and invertebrate creatures. I wasn’t “bright”, I was prodigiously intelligent. I’m not saying that to be obnoxious, that is an entirely toothless statement. What I am trying to express is that I was consistently taught to undervalue and neglect my intelligence, rather than nurture it for what it was.

When I started school, I was actually made to repeat my first year because I never paid attention. The teacher seemed to be under the impression that I couldn’t keep up with the curriculum, when in fact this couldn’t have been further from the truth.
I was bored out of my skull, and on top of this I was terribly afraid of my teacher. I developed a phobia of going to school, and I was scream and cry when my mother would wake me in the mornings to bring me. Eventually, my parents entered into a deal with the school whereby I was permitted to leave class earlier than normal that year, in exchange for repeating the class. My parents were desperate – by this point I was all but clinging to their legs in the morning, and this was all that would calm me – so they agreed. The results were disastrous. This decision all but ensured that I would spend the remainder of my school career constantly ahead of the curriculum, and bored out of my tiny mind. Within two years they were bringing in extra work from higher classes, just for me to have something to do – but by then, I was socially well-adjusted so they never remedied the situation by moving my forward.

Anyway – please bear with me, for this post does actually have a point besides lamenting how bored I was as a child.

For me, going to Mensa would be the beginning of a truly new existence. One where my intelligence is acknowledged and nurtured, rather than undermined and ignored. Part of my quest for identity, now that I have left the church, is figuring out just who I am, and trying to form associations with people I have a great deal in common with. I want to seek out the company of people who have something in common with me, be it intelligence, political worldview, (non)religious affiliation, interests, or personality type. I think everybody could benefit from doing this. My intellect, to me, is a talent, no more or less to be appreciated than the ability to sing or draw well. I want to love being who I am, and that involves recognising my individual qualities, and caring for them accordingly. I would like to think that this could encourage you to do the same, because if you are reading this you can be sure that it is no more than you deserve also.