My Battle Uphill

Copyright © 2012 by Michael J.Carroll.

Author Credits: Michael Carroll

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ISBN: 978-1-4759-6331-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-6332-8 (ebk)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012922092

iUniverse rev. date: 11/21/2012

Contents

Acknowledgements

The Introductions

Michael’s Mental Illness and How It Affected His Family

Michael’s Life and Condition at This Time

This book is dedicated to my mother,

who always put my needs first and foremost.

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank my mother, sister and brother, who were instrumental in the care I received. They were a tremendous support system, and always sensitive to my needs.

I would like to thank my good friend, Alice Tetreault, along with Sam Markley, who helped make the final edits, reviewing and correcting my writing.

Lastly, I would like to thank Joyce and Lenny King, and their son, Jason, for all the time they spent with me. They were loving and supportive friends, and I appreciate all they did for me.

The Introductions

My biological parents were always from the honest and hardworking lot. My father, Gerald, was employed with an aerospace engineering company in Northeastern Connecticut from the sixties until his furious departure in 1987, which was initiated by, according to his own words; a new young punk boss who had no respect for him or other established co-workers. Ironically I found out later in life that he hadn’t been especially content with his position since its inception, as he had other aspirations that he rarely discussed fully.

He never revealed too much about his times over in the Japan sector either while serving in the U.S. Air Force. He would vaguely state that he enjoyed his cruises over there, and that they taught him how to repair typewriters and such. I’m fairly confident he was not content to do this forever. Typewriters would be the exact last thing on my mind too, and that’s just polite old me.

My dad always seemed ecstatic about his greatest love, golf. Even though he realized no endorsement deals would be flying over his head anytime soon, he had a true passion for the green game nevertheless. The thing I believe made this sport extra special to him was having his true friends and family there employing their infectious camaraderie as they cheered him on down those immaculately cut fairways. Unfortunately, this great game brought out the worst in my dad as well, including him launching clubs into the woods inherently, keeping positive sportsmanship at an all-time low. If he swung and missed a ball or if after hitting a ball and it did not meet the fairway, you pretty much knew the rest in advance, a cerebral detonation for the masses if you will.

Like most human souls on this planet, we all have to embrace the good when we can achieve it, and hopefully, but not always, learn from the bad. My father lived through most of his life with these unpredictable emotions, which I know for certain I inherited from him. But I loved and respected him regardless of his or our differences. I believe he did his best to be as good a father as he could have been. Even families that are touted as fully functional are never what they seem.

Sadly, my father is no longer with us and I continue to have a difficult time with his unplanned absence from my world. He had this risky procedure to remove a tumor that basically had to be deftly separated from his pituitary gland. That clearly came with the scary risk of an irreversible meningitis infection in the brain, with broad spectrum antibiotics naturally picking up where the surgical team left off. The drugs frustratingly failed in the end. May he rest in peace as well as being in a far better place.

My mother, Phyllis, became a licensed practicing nurse at a fairly young age and put her skills into motion at the local hospital. I felt she was partially content with her current occupation but it seemed evident that she may want to become more independent from the norm. She became acquainted with one of the local real estate firms within our town. She really seemed to pick up the art of selling, as well as acquiring the necessary people skills to execute her business. She eventually established a private real estate firm for herself called the Executive Real Estate Company that was pretty much prosperous right out of the gate. She was always quite courteous as well as very generous to all her clients.

My mother always put my needs first and foremost, naturally paying more attention to my desperate needs, causing a slight alienation of my brother and sister. They never really showed any noticeable resentment, but in part these ailments consistently seemed to occupy my life. My mom always stood behind me, never wavering in her determination to get me the help I truly and desperately needed. She always encouraged me to continue with my talents and strengths, even with things I wasn’t so good at, which showed great character.

The thing that seems ironic now is the fact that I was probably too young and disturbed to feel the emotional bliss that most people may feel when they assume they might be favored over someone else, even if it’s ever so slight. Even just a little favoritism can make some folks way too cocky. I was blind to that whole revolution, too busy talking to imaginary friends or simply dealing with extremely complex emotions.

My brother, Jeffrey, was excessively active with his high school and college sports such as baseball, football, and some golf on the side for good measure. Realistically he was best at the first two but he would also have his shining moments at the local nine-hole course from time to time. My brother suffered an unfortunate battle with leukemia to which he eventually acquired an experimental research drug that pretty much landed him into remission, but before all the miracles he nearly perished due in part to that disease’s initial onset and also because of a failed first drug. Unfortunately we were all extremely devastated to observe all of his unnecessary suffering.

To this day, my brother is a little kid at heart, always having an infectious sense of humor that always seemed to bring me back from the brink when I could indeed be at my very worst. It couldn’t work every time but he did the best he possibly could, taking the good days when he could get them. He certainly didn’t hold a PhD in how to navigate my unpredictable explosiveness and unexpected bizarre nuances, but as I said, he took the good when he could get it out of me.

Jeff liked to party and drink beer with friends, trying to create this atmosphere of unlimited euphoria, with some nice girls thrown in to make it all the more worthwhile. At least he was happy and to me that’s what matters the most, whether some see it as taboo or not.

He is probably the hardest working guy I can think of. He never really was terminated from any of his positions over the years and showed, wherever he was employed, that he could be a team player. This is truly a good practice to have in motion when you have children to put groceries on the table for.

My brother also liked to fly his radio-controlled plane around his house as well as at a finely cut field a few towns over at the local flyers club.

My sister Kristine was completely behind my cause from the very beginning, even typing this piece about how she thought I was currently presenting myself. Basically she described this troubled young boy with obvious discrepancies in his emotional demeanor. She laid those thoughts down in print to fortify the reality that I desperately required more than just a basic overnight visit at one of the many psychiatric facilities the state had to offer me. After all, I wasn’t going to be admitting to any of these discrepancies myself, especially not to the professionals who wanted to contain me in their volatile facilities.

She spent many of her earlier years with college obligations as well as a cornucopia of job endeavors. She experimentally dabbled to find the one that she could eventually meld a little purpose and meaning into and finally settled into a major hair salon enterprise in the Beacon Hill District near Boston. I know for sure that she was pretty well content with this. She worked with a travel company for a couple years or so in that same basic vicinity, which I know she really seemed to like as well.

Presently my sister is proud to call herself a registered nurse, making a decent salary and lovingly taking care of her husband, Jim, their beautiful daughters, and adorable son and, of course, each other.

I think Krissy had the hardest time of all in the acceptance phase of my irreversible condition, even though she didn’t show that emotion quite as clearly or vividly as my mother portrayed her version of it. With my mother, you could literally read the writing on the wall and then some, so to speak.

And lastly, I, Michael, the author of this autobiography, have basically spent much of my natural existence in a multitude of institutions and other private facilities over a span of a couple decades. I have always tried to nurture my disease by doing the very things that keep my life interesting. I enjoyed fishing, listening to inspiring music, playing electric guitar and piano and singing, to boot, while also trying to enjoy the presence of cherished friends and family. I have endured a lengthy bout with schizophrenia, bi-polar disorder and intermittent explosive anger disorder and consistent weird behaviors. These disorders forced me to live out my life with this wide array of complex emotions and feelings as they were and still are. These conditions were extremely hard for most people in my immediate circle and especially those who barely knew me to understand and decipher. I certainly wasn’t going to be figuring it all out either. It was and still is my responsibility to remain on all the necessary medications as prescribed by my physicians. To drift away from that as I did in the past would be like accepting defeat, or at worst, the fate of imminent suicide, which I simply can and will not allow. Since this bio is labeled My Battle Uphill, you will indeed learn exactly to what that moniker refers to. I hope you all learn something here, now get to it.

1975. Jeff, Kris, and Mike. The dog is Princess.

1980.Kris, Mom, Jeff and Mike

At grandma’s house. Fall, 1980

Brother’s Jack ‘n Jill 1996

1984. Mike, Kris, and Memre

Fish caught at private school pond,

Pennsylvania. 1989 Summer

Fall 2006. Mike and Mom

Kris and Mike with baby Isabella, Summer 1998

Shortly before any signs of mental instability became devastatingly apparent, I pretty much grew up like any normal child in the early 1970’s. My very first established homestead was on Cedar Drive in Brooklyn, Connecticut. It felt quite normal and innocent in those very early stages of my development, with me carrying on like most innocent children would be expected to. My behavioral standing during my first few years had deteriorated into a gradual but progressive state with only minor or verbal nuances. Then about the fourth year into my slide, the signs became more prominent and startlingly visible, with unlimited unpredictability that went from one extreme to the other. Nevertheless, I did not seem to pose an immediate danger to family or friends, including school teachers and administrators.

I consistently loved playing outdoors with the other children next door and contently running through the corn field behind our house. My brother and I would ride around in this homemade go-kart my father built for us that had no working power plant, so we would push each other around in this hand crafted wonder until it eventually fell apart at its seams from excessive abuse, as we were inherently rough on our toys.

All our local relatives would come together pretty much every season to participate in the camaraderie and entertainment at our little red house to talk about apparent successes or even some of life’s failures. Of course we never heard too much of that negativity. I’m pretty sure my dad didn’t want to hear any of this entertainment-sapping and depressing commentary, especially during family gatherings. He would save that for the in-house turmoil which would quickly build behind the scenes, my mother getting the brunt of it right before lights out.

One afternoon my father was planning to fly his radio controlled aircraft for us kids but the engines simply wouldn’t turn over. So he poured gasoline all over the planes and lit them on fire, thinking this would make the engines fire up. I am not trying to pick on my late father here, but sometimes when parents get a little hot under the collar, especially when it comes down to pleasing an important crowd or an armada of tired guests, extreme frustration can make people do stupid and crazy things. I think the fire woke them up. This really happened. My dad was not the only person to do dumb things. One time I climbed over our stone wall to play in the woods for a bit before sundown, and when my mother finally called me in for the evening she couldn’t believe what she saw in my