Hidden Tears to Healing

By Penny B Price

Penny thought she could run away from her sad feelings.  But long surpressed emotions, amplified by a perception of unworthiness, finallly erupted with such power she found herself in the throes of depression. 

This true story of triumph over adversity is entertaining, insightful and full of practical information.  Penny shows us how conquering agonies from the past and the discovery of our own light can eventually lead to healing -- and a life of peace, joy and contentment.

Written for those on their own journey to wellness and for anyone helping others on a path to recovery, Hidden Tears to Healing explores the thoughts, feelings and beliefs that often hold people back.  A greater understanding of psychological injuries and an alternative healing technique could be the answer to resolving many mental health issues.  

• Language: English
• Publisher: Penny B Price
• Release date: Oct 1, 2017
• ISBN: 9780995946804

Book preview

Note to Reader

The material contained in this book is not a substitute for appropriate professional advice. The author’s intent is only to offer information which may assist you with your journey to emotional, spiritual and mental well-being. If you have a specific medical condition, consult a qualified physician, psychiatrist or health care provider.

Preface

With hurricanes, fires, floods, tsunamis, earthquakes and other natural disasters on the news almost daily – along with bombings, mass murders, genocide killings and other terrible man-inflicted acts – it may seem a bit trivial for me to be writing about the circumstances of my past. Yet, it isn’t just the big news stories that knock the ground out from under us and cause us to fall to our knees in pain, sorrow and grief.

Whether suffering alone or with a group of many others, we often still ask the same questions: Why? How do I overcome the fears, insecurities and obstacles before me now?

As much as we all need food and shelter, we also need hope, meaning, purpose and a way to move beyond life’s painful events. Otherwise, we remain lost, frightened and vulnerable, often deprived of the ability to function and move forward.

This is the true story of my life written under a pseudonym. I haven’t exaggerated my story, nor have I added in the stories of others. If anything, it isn’t nearly as complete as it could be, but it does describe the major events.

I come from a middle-class background and I am currently neither rich nor famous. That is part of the reason I wrote my story. Too often, we don’t hear about the struggles or triumphs of the ordinary person. Not that anyone’s life should be classed as ordinary; however, we often look at our own lives that way. Instead of realizing how unique and extraordinary our lives are, or could be, we get bogged down in feelings of hopelessness and unworthiness.

This story begins when I am sixteen years old because it was a major turning point in my life. It is hard for me to believe that I am now in my sixties. To some that may seem old, but to others that’s not old at all – our perceptions guide us to make conclusions about everything. Although I have no educational designation behind my name or previous books written, I hope those facts will not deter you from enjoying my story. You might just find some food for thought within it.

Although the sequence of events in my life may differ from those experienced by others, the issues described have affected people for generations. None of us are completely immune to life’s ups and downs.

Writing my story has enabled me to connect on a deeper level with the feelings, fears and confusions I had in the past. Often, while recollecting an episode that took place many years ago, I found I’d gleaned knowledge from research (or simply through experience) to better understand what was happening at the time.

A critical eye may be astonished at how naïve and unknowledgeable I was at times, but that’s the whole point of my story. We don’t arrive in life knowing exactly how to cope with all the circumstances in which we find ourselves.

Some have asked why I am exposing myself, and long-hidden family secrets, which perhaps should just be forgotten. Well, it is definitely not to blame anyone in my family or anyone else who has crossed my path. Instead, I hope that by sharing my story I will assist others along their own journeys.

Additionally, I hope to encourage people who are not struggling in their own lives to be considerate of others. Outside appearances do not always show how much pain and unworthiness a person is carrying on the inside. Personal tragedies are often well-hidden and buried below the surface.

Many times in my life, I was in so much need myself I didn’t recognize the needs of others, nor did I fully recognize those who, through their kindness and gentleness, gave me comfort or a helping hand.

Sometimes people would appear mysteriously for short periods of time just when I needed them most. Others went above and beyond, astonishing me with words and actions that then empowered me to move forward in my life. I have only mentioned a few individuals in this book, but many touched my life. I am so grateful for these encounters with inspirational individuals who came in person, or reached me through their written word in the many books I read along the way.

Regardless of what has occurred in the past or is currently happening, each of us can still create an exceptional future. It is not always easy to turn that corner and find the amazing life waiting for us. I know all too well the difficulties ahead for someone who finds him-or herself on the dark side of life. As hard as it may be for you to believe in something better, I am living proof that in between the seemingly horrible times, good things do occur. The story below is one of my favorites, it taught me to see how a disaster might ultimately hold a blessing, and how a blessing might present a challenge ahead.

We can’t predict the future; therefore, change and chaos may be the catalyst for fortune or misfortune in our lives. But as the saying goes: Without change, there can be no breakthroughs. Without breakthroughs, there can be no future.

The Old Story of the White Stallion

Once a king owned a magnificent white stallion. People traveled from far and wide to admire the steed and to praise the king. Sir, you are most fortunate to own such a fine horse, they chorused.

After much consideration the king replied, One cannot tell the fortune of another in such a short span of time. Maybe I am fortunate I own such a magnificent stallion. Maybe I am not. Only time will tell.

The people left, confused.

One day, the king went to his stables only to discover that the magnificent steed had jumped the fence and escaped. His subjects gathered around him and offered their condolences on his great loss. It is so unfortunate that you have lost your fine steed, my Lord.

The king replied, One cannot tell the misfortune of another in such a short span of time. Maybe I am unfortunate to have lost my stallion. Then again, maybe I am fortunate. Only time will tell.

Now the people were even more confused.

Another day, to the bewilderment of all, the king’s stallion returned. The stallion was followed by a beautiful mare. Then the people were a little less confused. All those who had offered their condolences on his loss flocked to the king and offered their congratulations on his new mare. You are so fortunate to have this beautiful new mare, my Lord.

Once again the king replied, Maybe I am fortunate. Maybe I am not. Only time will tell. Once again the people left confused.

Some time after that, the king’s only son was breaking the spirited mare. The prince was thrown from the mount and broke his leg. The people rallied to offer their condolences yet again. Your son is most unfortunate! they cried.

The king’s reply was, Maybe my son is unfortunate. Maybe he is not. Only time will tell.

Not long after, the army arrived to gather all the healthy young men to go to war. Many would never return. The prince was spared because his leg had not yet fully mended.

At last, the people were no longer confused.

Contents

Note to Reader

Preface

1  One Tragic Day

2  Desperation is Amazing

3  Back Into Darkness

4  Changing and Growing

5  Be Careful What You Ask For

6  Looking for Answers!

7  Transformed

8  Journey of Discovery

9  Putting the Pieces Together

10  Healing

What Actually Causes Mental Health Problems?

Appendix

What if I’m Thinking About Suicide?

What Can I Do if Someone is Suicidal?

Depression: Common Signs & Symptoms

How to Help Someone Deal with Depression

1

One Tragic Day

I closed the door to my room and pulled my bed across to block it, hoping I wouldn’t bear the brunt of anyone’s anger this evening. It was just another night of listening to my parents arguing after consuming many beers. By now, they were probably into the rye whiskey. Maybe they started with the whiskey. It didn’t matter – it always ended in the same way.

After securing my door, I often sat in the darkness of my bedroom closet. In that small space, buried amongst shoes and clothes, I was able to shut out my parents’ voices and feel safe. The drinking, the arguments and my mother’s swearing had gone on for years, but it seemed to be getting worse. Maybe it was just bothering me more as I got older. After a while, I learned to recognize certain times when it was better to stay far away. I would hope I had not forgotten to do something, or, worse, done something I was not supposed to do!

Alone in the quiet of the closet, I could alleviate some of my fear and anxiety. There I found peace, solitude and a chance to dream and think my own thoughts.

The household I grew up in was definitely not a place to show your individuality. Kids were to be seen but not heard unless spoken to. When you were spoken to, you had better have a ready answer, and it had better be a good one. I can fully relate to the term walking on eggshells. Many of my days and nights at home were full of trepidation, knowing that any wrong move I made might cost me dearly. Worse than being in trouble myself was hearing the anger and punishment directed at my older brother. He usually didn’t deserve what was doled out to him any more than I did.

Hugging or gestures of affection, sympathy or compassion were not a part of my upbringing; even crying was frowned upon. Any tears shed over something sad or painful drew a stern rebuke from my mother, What the hell are you crying about? It was as if I had just committed a sin. Over time, I learned how to control my emotions and conceal any feelings, especially those of sadness or anger, at least in front of Mother.

There were occasional, sporadic times when I did feel my parents cared. Out of the blue, my brother or I would get some positive recognition for completing a task. It was usually a work-related task such as a job around the house we had accomplished to our parents’ satisfaction. There was no sitting around idly. Both my parents were hard workers and strict taskmasters. My brother and I also worked hard and tried not to get into any trouble at home, school or anywhere else.

We rarely went on family holidays, except to visit relatives. Nor did my parents take any holidays together. My favorite memories are of times spent away from home, out in a group setting with relatives or friends. During summer vacations, my brother and I often spent weeks staying with our grandparents and other relatives who still lived the rural farm life. Although we were expected to help with the daily farm chores, our relatives always planned a couple of family fishing or berry-picking trips. Those, and the card games played in the evenings, were the best times.

My grandfather also had quite a temper, but it was generally short-lived and my grandmother seemed to know how to calm him. Usually, we all just stood in silence, not moving a muscle or saying a word, until he stopped yelling. Even today, when I hear a person’s loud expression of anger I tense up, and my anxiety level rises the same way it did when I was young.

To outsiders, we were not much different than any other typical 1960s middle-class family. We had a modest family home in an average neighborhood. Our yard was maintained. We had two vehicles, four kids and a dog. Yes, my parents liked to drink and smoke, but they were good providers and I never went without a decent meal. I might not have liked some of my clothes, but they were always clean and in good repair. By no means did we live an extravagant life, but we were far from being impoverished in any material sense.

My dad was born into what was commonly referred to as a dirt-poor family who lived on the bald-ass prairie. Like so many others, his grandparents had left behind the famines in Europe to start again in America, the land of opportunity. Later, they moved to Canada, where they stayed until their deaths. As we all know, what is sometimes advertised as a glorious adventure is not always quite the same in real life. When he was old enough to leave home, my grandfather headed west, eventually settling on the Prairies in a wide-open barren area where hardly a tree grew.

Many of the original settlers to this area first started out by living in sod shanties. Settlers built these shanties by digging slabs of sod off the ground and piling them on top of each other to form four-walled shelters and places to call home. By the time my dad grew up, most people had some kind of wooden structure to live in, but many were still very poor trying to exist off the land. With a number of younger brothers and sisters still at home who needed to eat, Dad left at the age of fifteen.

He lied about his age so he could join the army. World War II had just begun, so he was quickly trained and sent to the front lines in Europe. He was a radio operator in a tank, and he witnessed a lot of death and destruction. According to my brother, who saw it once, Dad had a box of war memorabilia. He received a number of medals during his time in the army, and he was honorably discharged when the war was over.

I don’t recall Dad talking about his days in the army at all, at least not to us kids. My parents sometimes went to the local Legion to drink with other veterans; however, Dad’s experience in the army seemed to be a topic he didn’t want to discuss. To me, it appeared to be a time in his life that he just wanted to forget.

At the ages of nineteen and twenty, my mother’s parents also emigrated from Europe. Both ended up on homesteads, plots of land given out by the government to get people to populate the remote areas in the West. At least in the area where they lived there were many trees, which allowed them to build log cabins. Still, you needed to be a pretty hardy soul to live in the wilderness while clearing the land and building a structure to live in. Building a house was only part of what needed to be done. Fields needed to be cleared of trees, rocks and stumps. Fences had to be built to contain livestock, and shelters constructed to house the farm animals in the harsh winters.

Mother was my grandparents’ firstborn child. Their second child was also a girl, and it was many years before they had a son. With horses and manpower as the primary means of getting anything done, families relied heavily on their children to work in the fields and perform other chores. With no boys to fill the role, my mother often got up at the crack of dawn to feed and harness the horses for another day in the fields.

After morning chores, she traveled by horseback to the one-room schoolhouse she attended until the 8th grade.  Afterwards, girls either left home to attend a boarding school for further education, got a job, got married, or stayed and worked on the family farm. Mother helped my grandfather on the farm until she was old enough to get out on her own.

When Dad returned from war, he started working in the area where my mother lived. They met, got married and purchased an old farm hoping to make a life for themselves in the country. Shortly thereafter, my brother and I were born. With limited finances to get a farm started, and a couple of years of bad weather resulting in poor crops, my parents were forced to let the farm go.

We moved to a small, one-room log shack near a logging camp for the first winter. Here, we could all live together while Dad earned a good wage. Eventually, we moved to the nearest city in time for my brother to start school. In the city, Dad worked as a taxi driver in the evenings and trained to be a finishing carpenter during the day.

Once my brother and I were both in school, and my parents were established in the city, they decided to have more children. I became the big sister to two baby girls, seven and nine years younger than I. As a result of this second family, my mother never worked outside of the home until much later in life. However, anyone who has children knows that taking care of