Survival - It Was My Time

by Elizabeth Varian

Survival isn't just "the act of remaining alive or in existence."1
People have existed physically, but many have never mentally
survived. These people go through their daily routines without
bringing closure to a trauma that they've endured. To me,
surviving is successfully surpassing or overcoming a
situation/event in one's life. To do so, I feel that one must
take the control back in one's life and to not blame others for
perceived faults.

I, myself, am a survivor. I am a survivor of divorce, an
unfortunate common theme in the life. When I was two years old,
my parents split up and to me it seemed as though my father and I
were split, too. My father was there for visits in the beginning,
but they spaced out farther apart until they were no more. I
felt pain; and in my heart, I felt the harshness of not being
wanted.

Since he was never around for me, I declared him dead. In my
mind and on all school forms, the word "deceased" appeared next
to the word "father." With my real father gone, I replaced him
with an imaginary one. My new father was there for me. He
helped me with most of my problems.

A father is supposed to help a girl understand her masculine side.
He is supposed to protect her from the ghosts under her bed and
the boys that come knocking at the door. An absent father can't
do these things.

Surviving childhood without a father was not always easy. I allowed it to bring me problems that I couldn't easily dream away. My imaginative father wasn't able to assist me through my depressing years of puberty. As my body changed, so did my life. During my high school years, I suffered from severe depression.

My depression was accompanied with feelings of low self-worth, self-hatred, and self-agony. These feelings were suffocating. They usually grasped when I was in a crowd among my peers or in a confined area with my mother. I felt as though I was going to explode from the inside out.

The day came for the untimely explosion. As usual, my mother and
I were arguing over something meaningless in the confinement of
her car. Once we arrived home, she went to her room for a nap.
I went to the bathroom. The next few moments of this day in my
history are blurred. During this blankness, I managed to
overdose on prescription drugs and aspirin.

Soon after taking the drugs, I felt my body freeze with fear.
This was not a fear of dying. It was a fear of not knowing what
my mother would do. I called 911 myself and my mother sent the
paramedics away so she could take me to the emergency room
herself. That was the longest and quietest car ride of my entire
life.

Once at the hospital, we went to the emergency room. They
induced vomiting and found nothing. Apparently, my body had
absorbed the medication quicker than the average body. I was
forced to drink this black medication called "Charcoal"--trust me
it didn't just get its name from its black coloring. After 24
hours in the Intensive Care Unit for observation, I was admitted
to the Adolescent Psychiatric Ward. I was released from there
after only two weeks and was in counseling with a psychologist
for about nine months after that.

All of this help was good for me at the time, but it only cured
the symptoms not the problem. That cure came. April 1995, I was
lying in my bed and thoughts came rushing to me. I finally
admitted I could not go on with my life the way it was. I could
no longer blame my father for my own life events. I forgave him.
Out loud to God and for myself, I forgave the man whom I had
blamed for all of the love I hadn't had, for all of the wrong
choices I made, and for everything that was wrong about me. It
was as simple and difficult as that. Simple because the words
were easy, difficult because the emotions that came with those
words were literally raised up from within me. In less than 24
hours, I felt--for the first time in my life--a sense of a weight
being lifted out of my life. I didn't call him up and I didn't
hunt him down to tell him; because it wasn't for him, it was for
me.

December of that same year, I received my first Christmas card
from my father. To my amazement, I was filled with joy. We have
kept in touch ever since, mainly through letters (and now the
internet), and I have even visited a couple of times. Meeting a
half-brother and sister I hardly knew added even more joy to my
life. Today, it still sounds strange to say father, but a good
strange.

I now consider myself a survivor. I no longer blame anyone for
my life. I have taken back control and ownership of my life. It
was my time to and, when it is your time, you will feel the same
freedom and relief as I did.
___________________________
1As noted in the American
Heritage Dictionary