Interview with Tinamarie Cox

I grew up in an emotionally chaotic home trying my best to be invisible while also doing everything I could to please everyone else. My parents were emotionally immature– a term I only learned more about recently– and made me feel as though I was the problem in most situations. I kept quiet about my emotions because I didn’t want a lecture about how things could be worse, or how I needed to be more grateful for my parents.

As a teen, it became more difficult to pretend I was okay. Self-care was a huge battle, especially since I was expected to put everyone’s needs before mine and not complain. I spent a lot of time alone, avoiding social situations and anything that required my emotional energy. I just didn’t have any to spare. I started living to survive.

When I look back on my teenage years, it’s undeniable that I had symptoms of depression. Most days, a shower took too much energy. I was tired all the time, and yet I couldn’t sleep. I had trouble expressing joy or a genuine interest in anything. Classmates were going out socializing, meeting up during the summer breaks, participating in school events and extra curricular activities, and dating. I only had the ability to show up to school and use my minimal energy to appear a functional human being.

I had to keep up with the high expectations for me at home, constantly compared to my siblings and my parents’ younger selves. Despite my lack of a life outside of people-pleasing, my outward symptoms of depression went ignored by those closest to me. I had excelled at masking - to my own detriment. No one could admit that I wasn’t a “normal teenager,” not even me.

I was diagnosed with anxiety and panic disorder in my early 20s. But it wasn’t until my mid-30s that I was brave enough to confront my depression. I was diagnosed with major depressive disorder. Admitting and accepting my mental illness was an affront to everything I had been raised to believe about myself, my family, my emotions, and the dysfunctional patterns I was stuck in.

How did you feel? How did you cope at the time?

While I knew something felt “wrong” with me, I didn’t understand my feelings. Emotional intelligence was completely nonexistent. I was ingrained with the notion that feelings were for the weak, something that would be mocked and teased for.

My parents were in constant competition with each other, and us children. Nothing I experienced growing up could ever compare to anyone else in my family, especially my parents. Their immaturity and inability to empathize left me feeling like a burden, an inconvenience, and like I was defective for not feeling happy and grateful with my family at every waking moment. I was made to feel as though I owed my parents my complete loyalty, absolute devotion, blind obedience, and never-ending servitude for their bare minimum parenting. Love was withheld from me if I faltered or did not meet their ever-changing standards and expectations. 

All of this caused me to hate myself and feel worthless. I sank deep into a cycle of depression that would continue into my late 30s. To this day, I find it nearly impossible to accept any kind of love and praise. It’s difficult for me to not only celebrate my achievements, but just to acknowledge them.

It was in my teens that I started using writing and drawing– solitary activities that kept me quiet and easy for my family– to cope with the heavy emotional load. I had given up journaling in junior high school because my older sister was a constant invader of my privacy and boundaries. Somehow, wherever I hid my diary, she’d find it in our shared room, read it, and mercilessly tease me about whatever I had written. 

No one came to my defense or rescue in my sibling confrontations. I was convinced I had to hide my feelings and the parts of me that were supposed to define who I was. No one seemed to want to listen to how I felt and when I did speak up, my experiences were constantly invalidated. Not expressing any feelings (besides happiness), unique opinions, or individualistic ideas was how I stayed safe.

On the surface, our family looked average. There were pictures that contained smiles, but when I look back at some of them, I can still feel the pain I buried. Putting on the “everything’s fine” show was slowly killing me. 

At around 13, I asked my mom if I could talk to a psychologist and was denied. It was rare that my mom was willing to spend any money, or her emotional energy, on me back then. She told me that if I wanted to talk to someone, I could talk to her for free. But I think she feared an outsider finding out we were not the shiny, happy people we appeared to be; discovering how our family functioned from behind closed doors. 

Any light that didn’t reflect the image of an ideal family was a threat. That is one of the biggest rules of the dysfunctional family: Keep the dysfunction a secret at all costs, even if it costs your mental and emotional health.

By the time I turned 19, I was utterly broken, numb and hopeless. I became a suicide-attempt survivor. But my near-death experience went unnoticed by my family despite us living under the same roof. And I was so embarrassed and ashamed of myself for attempting suicide, I couldn’t bring attention to what I’d done either. Even when I tried to talk about it years later, my mental health struggles were still not fully accepted. Anything that didn’t fit neatly into the smiling box was shamed and submerged. I didn’t know how to escape. I didn’t think I ever would.

My anxiety, depression, and suicidal ideation went on being ignored, even by myself, and therefore, went untreated for many years. I suffered through depleting panic attacks, sank deep into depressive episodes, danced with suicidal thoughts, and reminded myself I was supposed to be happy. Family loves you, why would they hurt you? I tried to rationalize my emotions. I was convinced there wasn’t anything wrong with my family, just me. I told myself I didn’t need help. I just had to survive my mind and emotions. I had to keep wearing a mask and keeping secrets.

What do you do, or have done to cope?

I tried therapy for the first time in my life only a couple of years ago. Eighteen years after my near suicidal-death, I reached a point where my depressive episodes were, again, significantly affecting my everyday life. I had truly believed I could fake it until I made it. Many of my days had blended together and life felt pointless. Happy moments came and went without the ability to enjoy them. I feel like I missed out on fully experiencing many of life’s rights of passage because I was consumed by my mental illness.

I wasn’t the mom I wanted to be. I wanted my kids to have a better mother than mine. I wasn’t the wife I felt my husband deserved. I didn’t want a marriage like my parents. I felt like a hindrance to everyone else’s happiness. I tried to put all my energy into my kids and continued to feel empty inside. As much as I loved my children, I didn’t love me. I was alive but still not living.

Therapy took some getting used to. Finding a therapist I felt comfortable with was a challenge. I quickly realized I didn’t know how to talk about myself because I didn’t know myself. Everything I was had been a persona I created to please others and meet the expectations of my family of origin. After several months, I began to rediscover myself and explore the parts of me I had buried.

When I decided to embark on my healing journey, I started journaling again. Now that I lived in a home where I felt safe and could have boundaries, it was easier to spill my thoughts onto paper. I have a husband that I trust and is supportive, who has loved me through my ups and my very deep downs. 

Eventually, I added medication to my mental health regimen. I was aware that I needed more support and it is a decision I have no regrets or embarrassment about. I still have anxiety and depression, but they have become manageable. Combined with my therapy, I know that my feelings are not going to last. I know I can talk to someone. I know I can have my medications adjusted. I feel like a better mom and wife because I feel better. 

Cutting out the toxicity of my family of origin was more beneficial than I could have imagined. To say it was painful to recognize, acknowledge, accept, and leave my unhealthy roots behind would be an understatement. However, it was completely necessary for my healing and growth into my authentic self. All my life I had believed I was the problem and sacrificed who I was in order to feel some semblance of love. Choosing me felt selfish at first. Now, I know otherwise. I know that I am worthy of love, respect, and empathy. I know I deserved better and I will no longer settle for less. I feel like a new person and I am having an amazing time getting to know her.

When did you start using poetry to help you?

A lot of “terrible” poetry came out of my teenage years. But at that time, I wasn’t writing to be published or recognized for my work. My poetry was purely an outlet, something private. I kept much of my writing and creativity a secret. My family was heavily critical and judgemental of everything I did. My notebooks and sketchbooks were the “therapist” my mother refused to take me to see. Notebooks wouldn’t mock me, judge me, or share my secrets. I could be anyone I wanted on a page of paper.

I left poetry behind after college. As much as I loved composing poems and stories, I had it drilled into my head that I couldn’t take that anywhere and I wasn’t that good at it anyway. So, I thought I had “grown up” by focusing on a career and building a family. The things we are told from childhood to covet.

Many years later, I rediscovered my love for writing poetry through journaling as an adult. Feelings that overpowered a journal entry often became a series of poems. And sometimes I skipped a long-winded journal entry and opted for a burst of emotional poems instead. Putting my thoughts and emotions into words on a page was a natural part of me. I was finally ready to acknowledge that and embrace it fully.

I always wanted to be published and share my work with others but my anxiety and depression would get the best of me. With my husband’s encouragement and my new found sense of self, I started to submit pieces to various publications. There was definitely a learning curve and I got a lot of rejections at the beginning. But for once in my life, I wasn’t going to give up on something that was important to me.

Poetry has not only been a healthy way for me to cope, it has also helped me connect with people. I still tend to be a loner, not wanting to drain my emotional energy before taking the necessary time to care for my needs. I continue to need space to explore my unique self so I can live more authentically. Becoming aware of who I am at my core versus who I was told to be has been quite a journey. Poetry has also helped me process how my past has affected me. It’s healed some of those wounds handed down to me by my family of origin.

Writing poetry has helped me to be active in my recovery from anxiety, depression, suicide, and people-pleasing. It has taught me self-compassion and made me self-aware when it comes to my own behaviors. I feel as though writing has brought me to a healthier place within myself, and that’s something I want to share with others. I want readers to find the best parts of themselves, too, and celebrate their battles as much as their successes. 

By publishing my poetry, I believe I am showing others who struggle with their mental health that they are not alone. That their feelings are valid. That they are not broken or helpless or hopeless. Emotions are neither positive nor negative, they simpler are. And experiencing emotions is normal.

Where has your poetry been published?

I have been lucky enough to have my poetry appear in many different literary publications and anthologies (such as Poetry For Mental Health’s first volume of Mental Health), as well as in book format. Last year, I published my first poetry chapbook, Self-Destruction in Small Doses, with Bottlecap Press. This collection of micro-poetry is mental health-related and takes the reader into the depressive and self-destructive thoughts many struggling with mental illness have experienced. My second chapbook, A Collection of Morning Hours, still pulls on those existential/who am I/what is life about sort of vibes, but in a lighter way. I don’t think this particular chapbook would have been possible without the assistance of therapy and medication helping me to appreciate nature, opportunity, and myself.

My first full-length poetry collection, Through a Sea Laced with Midnight Hues, will be released with Nymeria Publishing. These poems are extremely personal and directly correlate with one of my depressive episodes. I noticed that many of the poems I wrote at my lowest referred to the ocean, sinking, and drowning. I was able to trace a journey through my major depressive disorder via my work. This collection of poems is special because it puts words to feelings many people have trouble articulating. I want it to inspire hope for those who are at odds with their mental health, as well as understanding and compassion from the loved ones in their lives.