Is this the last time you are going to feel like this?
Do you think you will feel better by the weekend?
Holy fuck.
How do I answer those kinds of questions?
I keep telling myself that this is hard on him. I know it is.
I know it is. Because I've lived in a house with a ranting suicidal maniac. But I'm not like that.
I'm just quiet. Writing here these past few days is the most I have ever talked about feeling this bad. But I have yet to scream and yell; throw things or make threats.
At my mother's worst, she showed up on the door step of my apartment and slit her wrists. She lived that time but it was fucked up to say the least. It also made suicide real to me.
A person. Distress. Blade. Blood. Tears. Anguish. In a way it began to desensitize me.
My sister. I saw that through to completion. It's hard to look at someone so beautiful with half their skull gone to relieve pressure without euthanizing a piece of your soul.
Yesterday I went to the apartment where my mother slit her wrists. I went to the door step without knowing what I was supposed to be looking for. I stared for a minute and then I left.
I then drove to my sister's old townhouse. Where she ended her own life. I looked out the window of my car searching for a hint of lingering. I didn't see her. The porch had pretty pots full of pansies. Someone who lives there is happy enough to care about flowers. I pretended the flowers were for my sister instead.
I stopped short of going by my parent's house where my mother ultimately succeeded. That was probably a good idea. Lots of other bad things happened there too.
It is probably morbid to do these things. I'm probably not supposed to even think about them. And I bet writing this in black and white is even worse. But I wanted to see what it felt like. As if they had a disease that was catching. And I want to know what makes me immune.
So to answer his first question; is this the last time I'm going to feel like this?
Yes, has a certain finality to it. And probably not the answer he really wants even if he doesn't realize it.
No. Well, I don't want this to be the answer because I hate feeling like this.
I don't know is really the only answer I can give.
I try to do the right things; I go to therapy, I see a shrink, I take my meds {mostly}, I write, and I would like to think that I am getting better at actually verbalizing what is in my head.
So I don't know if all the right things add up to erasing suicidal thoughts forever. My other thought is that I think far more people think about suicide than will admit to considering it as an out. It's taboo right along with admitting to struggling with a mental illness. But I can't be the only one.
I sincerely hope to push past this. It's an exhausting way to live. I just said that word again... hope.
And to answer his second question, sure. Which falls under the category of if you ask a stupid question, you'll get a stupid answer.
I keep telling myself that this is hard for him.
Showing posts with label feelings. Show all posts
Showing posts with label feelings. Show all posts
Friday, February 10, 2012
Thursday, February 9, 2012
Air
I think about suicide every day.
That's what I told my husband last night. It's probably not the best way to qualify how I'm feeling right now but I needed him to understand that these struggles and thoughts are not out of the blue.
He did a stint in a mental hospital 10 years ago because he hit a bottom and had a plan and the materials to carry it out. He called his mother and off he went to the hospital. He stayed there 7 days, got on meds, had some therapy and straightened his thinking out. He did outpatient therapy for three months afterwards and discontinued his meds 6 months after that. And then he was all better.
So that's where he is coming from and he doesn't understand how I can feel like this all of a sudden when I'm on medication and already in therapy. I tried explaining things to him and he still didn't get it.
Finally I was over trying to make him feel better because I hardly think this is the best time to have to explain my feelings. They just are and they suck. So that's when I blurted out what I think about every day. He was shocked. So I described it like this:
His depression was like a brown paper bag. Sure, it gets a little dark sitting at the bottom of the bag but it's not stifling to exist in there either. He eventually wanted a way out and he figured it out with some help. He got out and the bag left in the wind.
My depression on a good day is like living in a straight jacket. I might be tied up but I can still walk and function in a limited way. And because I've lived like this for so long, I've grown accustomed to it and I can even free a hand or an arm on a good day. No, it's not pleasant to live like this so yes, I have thoughts of what it would be like to be free. That seems pretty normal to me.
But when this hits it is like being thrown in a trunk and buried. Still with the straight jacket on. It's dark. I can't move and the air begins to wane. I twist and fight but then I feel panicked and then I really can't breathe. So I get still and almost peaceful. That's where I am right now. That's also when I know that I need help.
That help doesn't include explaining the why's that support my feelings because those got buried along with the fucking trunk. I'm still trapped and need that last bit of air to free myself. Maybe then I can figure all this out.
Because it's a lot easier to breathe in just a straight jacket.
That's what I told my husband last night. It's probably not the best way to qualify how I'm feeling right now but I needed him to understand that these struggles and thoughts are not out of the blue.
He did a stint in a mental hospital 10 years ago because he hit a bottom and had a plan and the materials to carry it out. He called his mother and off he went to the hospital. He stayed there 7 days, got on meds, had some therapy and straightened his thinking out. He did outpatient therapy for three months afterwards and discontinued his meds 6 months after that. And then he was all better.
So that's where he is coming from and he doesn't understand how I can feel like this all of a sudden when I'm on medication and already in therapy. I tried explaining things to him and he still didn't get it.
Finally I was over trying to make him feel better because I hardly think this is the best time to have to explain my feelings. They just are and they suck. So that's when I blurted out what I think about every day. He was shocked. So I described it like this:
His depression was like a brown paper bag. Sure, it gets a little dark sitting at the bottom of the bag but it's not stifling to exist in there either. He eventually wanted a way out and he figured it out with some help. He got out and the bag left in the wind.
My depression on a good day is like living in a straight jacket. I might be tied up but I can still walk and function in a limited way. And because I've lived like this for so long, I've grown accustomed to it and I can even free a hand or an arm on a good day. No, it's not pleasant to live like this so yes, I have thoughts of what it would be like to be free. That seems pretty normal to me.
But when this hits it is like being thrown in a trunk and buried. Still with the straight jacket on. It's dark. I can't move and the air begins to wane. I twist and fight but then I feel panicked and then I really can't breathe. So I get still and almost peaceful. That's where I am right now. That's also when I know that I need help.
That help doesn't include explaining the why's that support my feelings because those got buried along with the fucking trunk. I'm still trapped and need that last bit of air to free myself. Maybe then I can figure all this out.
Because it's a lot easier to breathe in just a straight jacket.
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
Normal
My husband asked yesterday if I ever thought I would be normal in regards to certain things. I told him that I didn't know what normal looks like but that my goal is to be healthy. He looked at me weird but he does that a lot when I actually get out of my head and talk.
Those certain things that he's referring to are my incredible sexual hang ups. I came home from therapy the other night with a list of things that he cannot do and the reasons why. He was told all of those things by my counselor before we got married so that we were hopefully on the same page.
Problem was, when he did any one of those things that bothered me, I never said anything to him.
My counselor originally wrote the list as I talked about what things bothered me. But I decided to I hand write it again so that he knew that it was coming from me. I gave it to him and initially he looked surprised and confused. Then he said that he needed some time and I was positive that he was really mad at me.
Turns out that he was mad at himself for hurting me. He thought those rules were my therapist's rules and not my own. I confirmed that thinking when I never said anything when he did something that hurt me.
I won't get into the details of the list because it was awful to talk about and write. But I think that what upset me the most was the fact that I had no good answers for why I let him do things that hurt, bother or upset me. All I knew was that I was the same person with him that I have been in the past with all the other men and I felt so ashamed for that.
My EX-husband, among other things, had a rape fantasy. So guess what he did every few months? I still have a hard time walking into my own dark house even though it's not the same one he and I lived in together. And forget about hiding around a corner to scare me. That's a cardinal sin in our home and everyone knows it.
My father... my best bet was to look like I enjoyed it. If I showed pain it only made it worse. Same for his friends. But then there were the times where I couldn't muster anything close to a look of pleasure because kids aren't made to do those kinds of things. Those were the worst times.
My husband isn't anything close to being like the other men. If I told them not to do something because it hurt me, they did that thing even more. My husband isn't like that and I don't understand why I would think that of of him. But I do.
I also think that says more about my own condition than his state or that of our marriage.
Now I'm not going to lie. I'm scared to death now that he knows the things that can hurt me and bother me the most. I trust him but then I don't because really, I don't fully trust anyone. I feel extremely vulnerable. I don't know the things that could bring him to a mental stand-still or break him down yet he knows some of my deepest and exacting issues.
It's hard enough growing up the way I did. But then I grow up and once again find myself in a disadvantaged position in my own marriage with the man that I love. I hate that.
I guess the good thing is that he hasn't gone anywhere in 6 years. And he's still here even after me bringing home a list of do's and don'ts. So even though I don't know what normal is; I guess this might be our own normal. He still doesn't understand my differentiation between normal and healthy and that's probably because healthy is normal to him. I guess that makes sense for someone who isn't as fucked up as I am.
I feel childish in this thinking but it's what I want. I don't care about normal but I want to be healthy. Normal can mean so many different things but healthy seems like a much more concise goal. I just read my last few sentences and I realized that I just said something that I want. I don't ever do that so I'm hoping that is a step in the right direction of healthy.
Those certain things that he's referring to are my incredible sexual hang ups. I came home from therapy the other night with a list of things that he cannot do and the reasons why. He was told all of those things by my counselor before we got married so that we were hopefully on the same page.
Problem was, when he did any one of those things that bothered me, I never said anything to him.
My counselor originally wrote the list as I talked about what things bothered me. But I decided to I hand write it again so that he knew that it was coming from me. I gave it to him and initially he looked surprised and confused. Then he said that he needed some time and I was positive that he was really mad at me.
Turns out that he was mad at himself for hurting me. He thought those rules were my therapist's rules and not my own. I confirmed that thinking when I never said anything when he did something that hurt me.
I won't get into the details of the list because it was awful to talk about and write. But I think that what upset me the most was the fact that I had no good answers for why I let him do things that hurt, bother or upset me. All I knew was that I was the same person with him that I have been in the past with all the other men and I felt so ashamed for that.
My EX-husband, among other things, had a rape fantasy. So guess what he did every few months? I still have a hard time walking into my own dark house even though it's not the same one he and I lived in together. And forget about hiding around a corner to scare me. That's a cardinal sin in our home and everyone knows it.
My father... my best bet was to look like I enjoyed it. If I showed pain it only made it worse. Same for his friends. But then there were the times where I couldn't muster anything close to a look of pleasure because kids aren't made to do those kinds of things. Those were the worst times.
My husband isn't anything close to being like the other men. If I told them not to do something because it hurt me, they did that thing even more. My husband isn't like that and I don't understand why I would think that of of him. But I do.
I also think that says more about my own condition than his state or that of our marriage.
Now I'm not going to lie. I'm scared to death now that he knows the things that can hurt me and bother me the most. I trust him but then I don't because really, I don't fully trust anyone. I feel extremely vulnerable. I don't know the things that could bring him to a mental stand-still or break him down yet he knows some of my deepest and exacting issues.
It's hard enough growing up the way I did. But then I grow up and once again find myself in a disadvantaged position in my own marriage with the man that I love. I hate that.
I guess the good thing is that he hasn't gone anywhere in 6 years. And he's still here even after me bringing home a list of do's and don'ts. So even though I don't know what normal is; I guess this might be our own normal. He still doesn't understand my differentiation between normal and healthy and that's probably because healthy is normal to him. I guess that makes sense for someone who isn't as fucked up as I am.
I feel childish in this thinking but it's what I want. I don't care about normal but I want to be healthy. Normal can mean so many different things but healthy seems like a much more concise goal. I just read my last few sentences and I realized that I just said something that I want. I don't ever do that so I'm hoping that is a step in the right direction of healthy.
Monday, January 9, 2012
Completed
My mothers sister killed herself in November. I spent part of my Thanksgiving week traveling to view and claim her body. Of all the horror I have witnessed; this was one of my more disturbing moments. I went in alone and I still wish that I had not.
She is number three. My sister. My mother. And now her. They are a group of three while I am on the outside looking in.
I wish people would leave my life without forcing themselves, by their own hands, through that narrow tunnel of death. Forced is never easy. For the person dying or the one left behind.
I try not to imagine what their final moments might have been like. I walk that fine edge of looking but then ripping my eyes away. I want to know but at the final moment I turn away because I am not a part of their sacred group.
I wander into another kind of group that is supposed to support people like myself. Those left behind to answer all the questions that never have an answer.
There are six of us. A group of six with little in common except a forcible death in our lives.
Completed suicide. That's the phrase they use when introducing their loved one.
When I think of the word completed, I think in terms of... completed 1st grade... completed a project... completed a task.
Completing death? Creepy. And a nice way of dressing up the fact that there are some people who off themselves because things suck really bad for them.
The circle stops at my chair I say my name and rattle off my group of three. The leader repeats back my group of three and it suddenly sounds so much worse.
The circle begins again as each describes how their loved one completed suicide. There's that word again.
In graphic detail... three gunshots, a hanging and an overdose. Blood... eyeballs bulging... vomit... brains and walls. If completed didn't sound strange before it has certainly become the fucking understatement of the evening now.
The circle stops at me again and I stare. I finally just say no thank you and the circle keeps on rolling down the steep descent.
Now it's time for the grief and feelings. The other five members have all lost their children. I'm the only one who has lost a parent, sibling, and an aunt. I tell myself that doesn't matter. Grief is grief. Feelings are feelings.
But as I listen to the parents grieve their children I am stunned as I hear their words.
... anything to take their place...
... I would have taken their pain...
... miss them so much...
I hear their words but hear my mother's louder as she wished aloud that it was me instead of my sister lying in that hospital bed. And once again speaking her wishes once my sister passed away. Quite the contrast.
I break out in a cold sweat. I shiver as my stomach lurches. My head is screaming as the voices gain momentum. I try to gather a few feelings to speak but they are drowned out by the frantic pitch my mind is at.
It's once again my turn to share. My heart is pounding and the room is spinning. I know what comes next. I grab my keys and excuse myself. I get sick in the parking lot and then I drive away. My head hasn't stopped screaming yet.
I completed my first attempt at a support group and that was the only time that evening that word was used correctly.
She is number three. My sister. My mother. And now her. They are a group of three while I am on the outside looking in.
I wish people would leave my life without forcing themselves, by their own hands, through that narrow tunnel of death. Forced is never easy. For the person dying or the one left behind.
I try not to imagine what their final moments might have been like. I walk that fine edge of looking but then ripping my eyes away. I want to know but at the final moment I turn away because I am not a part of their sacred group.
I wander into another kind of group that is supposed to support people like myself. Those left behind to answer all the questions that never have an answer.
There are six of us. A group of six with little in common except a forcible death in our lives.
Completed suicide. That's the phrase they use when introducing their loved one.
When I think of the word completed, I think in terms of... completed 1st grade... completed a project... completed a task.
Completing death? Creepy. And a nice way of dressing up the fact that there are some people who off themselves because things suck really bad for them.
The circle stops at my chair I say my name and rattle off my group of three. The leader repeats back my group of three and it suddenly sounds so much worse.
The circle begins again as each describes how their loved one completed suicide. There's that word again.
In graphic detail... three gunshots, a hanging and an overdose. Blood... eyeballs bulging... vomit... brains and walls. If completed didn't sound strange before it has certainly become the fucking understatement of the evening now.
The circle stops at me again and I stare. I finally just say no thank you and the circle keeps on rolling down the steep descent.
Now it's time for the grief and feelings. The other five members have all lost their children. I'm the only one who has lost a parent, sibling, and an aunt. I tell myself that doesn't matter. Grief is grief. Feelings are feelings.
But as I listen to the parents grieve their children I am stunned as I hear their words.
... anything to take their place...
... I would have taken their pain...
... miss them so much...
I hear their words but hear my mother's louder as she wished aloud that it was me instead of my sister lying in that hospital bed. And once again speaking her wishes once my sister passed away. Quite the contrast.
I break out in a cold sweat. I shiver as my stomach lurches. My head is screaming as the voices gain momentum. I try to gather a few feelings to speak but they are drowned out by the frantic pitch my mind is at.
It's once again my turn to share. My heart is pounding and the room is spinning. I know what comes next. I grab my keys and excuse myself. I get sick in the parking lot and then I drive away. My head hasn't stopped screaming yet.
I completed my first attempt at a support group and that was the only time that evening that word was used correctly.
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Webs
Trying to appear normal while walking straight into a spiderweb of depression is tricky.
The web, invisible to the average bystander, is sticky as it swirls and wraps around my mind.
I wave my hands furiously around my head trying to clear away the residue.
Perhaps some around me watch and wonder what hidden foe I'm fighting as they clearly cannot see any physical source of my feverish panic.
If those closest to me would stop and look; they would see what I'm fighting. But instead they are holding their own hands in front of their faces. Trying not to see what is really going on.
The stringy web is there as no amount of fighting can remove the remaining shreds. They surround me. I struggle my best to remove them. But even I cannot see the full scope of damage as darkness begins to fall.
And then I'm ensnared.
The web, invisible to the average bystander, is sticky as it swirls and wraps around my mind.
I wave my hands furiously around my head trying to clear away the residue.
Perhaps some around me watch and wonder what hidden foe I'm fighting as they clearly cannot see any physical source of my feverish panic.
If those closest to me would stop and look; they would see what I'm fighting. But instead they are holding their own hands in front of their faces. Trying not to see what is really going on.
The stringy web is there as no amount of fighting can remove the remaining shreds. They surround me. I struggle my best to remove them. But even I cannot see the full scope of damage as darkness begins to fall.
And then I'm ensnared.
Friday, September 23, 2011
Skeletons
Two steps forward. One step back. Slam the door on the weeping skeleton.
My last post was horrible to write. I still cringe when I attempt to read it. I have wanted to delete it but I know that wouldn't do much good. It still happened. It still hurts. I am still deeply ashamed.
Shame is a funny thing. Sometimes I can push it to a corner of my mind. Other times I cannot even wrap my mind around it to find a place for it to rest.
Sometimes I wonder if processing and grappling with every memory is meant to be. What would be the harm of burying the horror if a larger amount has been handled?
Everyone has skeletons. So what if mine are a little more fucked than usual.
My last post was horrible to write. I still cringe when I attempt to read it. I have wanted to delete it but I know that wouldn't do much good. It still happened. It still hurts. I am still deeply ashamed.
Shame is a funny thing. Sometimes I can push it to a corner of my mind. Other times I cannot even wrap my mind around it to find a place for it to rest.
Sometimes I wonder if processing and grappling with every memory is meant to be. What would be the harm of burying the horror if a larger amount has been handled?
Everyone has skeletons. So what if mine are a little more fucked than usual.
Monday, September 19, 2011
Shame
I take it all back. The part about not being bad. The part about not being dirty. The part about them being bad.
It's all me.
I wanted to believe that I'm none of the horrible things they said I was but the actions do not lie. I can normally write about what hurts but I'm too ashamed to even do that. When it appears in black and white it is real and ripe to be judged.
If I lock it in my head then it happened to the others. Not me.
I used to believe that anger was the worst emotion. I was wrong about that too.
It's shame. And it makes you feel less than human.
It's all me.
I wanted to believe that I'm none of the horrible things they said I was but the actions do not lie. I can normally write about what hurts but I'm too ashamed to even do that. When it appears in black and white it is real and ripe to be judged.
If I lock it in my head then it happened to the others. Not me.
I used to believe that anger was the worst emotion. I was wrong about that too.
It's shame. And it makes you feel less than human.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Why
Like many who have survived abuse, I struggle with God. To compound that, I grew up in a Christian home with well respected parents. That is both good and bad.
Good because I truly believe that I would have died had I not been able to draw on my beliefs that there was God and He was bigger, stronger, and somehow in the midst of my mess of a home.
Bad because there were elements of abuse that twisted those same beliefs into everything that they were not. The result left me unable to get past the why of what was happening to me.
My conclusion: that I was bad. Otherwise, I would have been saved. And because of my badness, I became so focused on the why.
Why did God allow this?
Why was I so bad?
Why wouldn't He help me be good?
Why did they hurt me?
It must be because I was bad; why else?
I have struggled in a figure eight pattern for years. It's entirely predictable. The circular logic of the why... a possible answer of why... no, that's not the answer and then I'm headed into another pointless loop of questioning. A vicious cycle.
Somehow I have kept my belief in God intact. It hasn't been and probably won't ever be pretty. But it's there. We attend church weekly; a miracle to explain on a different day. This past weekend someone spoke about asking what instead of why. What has many more answers than why.
What happened? I can answer that if I tell the truth of what they did.
What was wrong with them? They were mean people.
What could I have done differently? Not a lot. I was a kid.
What do I feel about what happened? I can name the feelings if I think hard enough.
What did God do back then? He created a way for a child's mind to cope. He kept me alive.
What is different now? Everything.
What can I learn about myself? I'm stronger than they thought. I'm stronger than I thought.
What can I learn from my childhood? This one is harder to answer but I have some theories...
Questions are good. But answers are almost always better.
Good because I truly believe that I would have died had I not been able to draw on my beliefs that there was God and He was bigger, stronger, and somehow in the midst of my mess of a home.
Bad because there were elements of abuse that twisted those same beliefs into everything that they were not. The result left me unable to get past the why of what was happening to me.
My conclusion: that I was bad. Otherwise, I would have been saved. And because of my badness, I became so focused on the why.
Why did God allow this?
Why was I so bad?
Why wouldn't He help me be good?
Why did they hurt me?
It must be because I was bad; why else?
I have struggled in a figure eight pattern for years. It's entirely predictable. The circular logic of the why... a possible answer of why... no, that's not the answer and then I'm headed into another pointless loop of questioning. A vicious cycle.
Somehow I have kept my belief in God intact. It hasn't been and probably won't ever be pretty. But it's there. We attend church weekly; a miracle to explain on a different day. This past weekend someone spoke about asking what instead of why. What has many more answers than why.
What happened? I can answer that if I tell the truth of what they did.
What was wrong with them? They were mean people.
What could I have done differently? Not a lot. I was a kid.
What do I feel about what happened? I can name the feelings if I think hard enough.
What did God do back then? He created a way for a child's mind to cope. He kept me alive.
What is different now? Everything.
What can I learn about myself? I'm stronger than they thought. I'm stronger than I thought.
What can I learn from my childhood? This one is harder to answer but I have some theories...
Questions are good. But answers are almost always better.
Monday, September 12, 2011
Birthday
My birthday is this week.
I was looking through some old posts here and noticed a pattern. For the past two years, I have never posted in the month of September. Until now.
I don't know exactly what that means. I want it to mean that I'm stronger. I want it to mean that I'm healing.
I despise my birthday. It celebrates the cruelest of jokes. The day I was born into that family. If you can call them that.
But as my daughter has grown, one of her very favorite things is to celebrate a birthday. I have had to grit my teeth and smile because it's certainly not her fault that I don't enjoy marking the day I was born.
And then there's my husband. Sans one year that he forgot; he likes to be extravagant. I don't care for extravagant anything.
This year feels different. I still don't want the fanfare or gifts but I'm at some sort of peace with the day. My memories of years before are still hell but I'm not drowning in their depressing sorrow either.
Am I happy? Not really. I feel grief well up from my hurting heart.
I am also alive and that was no small feat. Dead before 30. A "doctor" spoke it. And I believed it. But somewhere along the way I learned to fight.
It hasn't been easy. It's still not easy. But I also have a sense of pride to have fought and won.
I can't say that I'm always glad to be alive. But I survived and that has to count for something.
This year I choose to celebrate survival.
I was looking through some old posts here and noticed a pattern. For the past two years, I have never posted in the month of September. Until now.
I don't know exactly what that means. I want it to mean that I'm stronger. I want it to mean that I'm healing.
I despise my birthday. It celebrates the cruelest of jokes. The day I was born into that family. If you can call them that.
But as my daughter has grown, one of her very favorite things is to celebrate a birthday. I have had to grit my teeth and smile because it's certainly not her fault that I don't enjoy marking the day I was born.
And then there's my husband. Sans one year that he forgot; he likes to be extravagant. I don't care for extravagant anything.
This year feels different. I still don't want the fanfare or gifts but I'm at some sort of peace with the day. My memories of years before are still hell but I'm not drowning in their depressing sorrow either.
Am I happy? Not really. I feel grief well up from my hurting heart.
I am also alive and that was no small feat. Dead before 30. A "doctor" spoke it. And I believed it. But somewhere along the way I learned to fight.
It hasn't been easy. It's still not easy. But I also have a sense of pride to have fought and won.
I can't say that I'm always glad to be alive. But I survived and that has to count for something.
This year I choose to celebrate survival.
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Afraid
My husband recently referred to me as a neurotic freak who is afraid of everything.
He is a good man and infinitely patient but this was probably not his shining moment of spousal support or encouragement. But I took from it what I needed.
The truth hurts. I can either be upset and bitter at his words or I can work things out. Because he's right.
I am afraid of nearly everything. When you grow up in a house like I did, nearly everything becomes an instrument of torment. I started making a mental list and now that I really can't sleep, I thought that I would continue here.
Just the things or situations... the reasons aren't as important anymore.
Clothes hangers
Hair brush
Curling iron
House slippers
Milk
Pudding
Cats
Closets
Deep-freeze freezer
The dark
Whole bananas
The dentist
Needles
Liquid medications
Most colognes
Old Spice aftershave
Ants
Spiders
Rope
Loud noises
Screaming and yelling
Slamming doors
Glass breaking
Popping balloons
Scaring me
Mirrors
Electrical cords
Belts
Men crossing their legs
Touching me
Pillows
Vaseline
Baby dolls
Tight spaces
Smell of latex
Knives
Bathtubs
Water
Masks
Duct tape
Bright lights
Using the restroom
Hands
Garden hoses
Cemeteries
Smell of gasoline
Boiling water
Bouquets of flowers
Like I said, nearly everything.
I could go on but I'll save myself the smallest amount of dignity.
As I read through the list some are rational. Some make sense to me. Some are irrational. Some you could figure out with a bit of imagination but I really don't recommend that.
I'll own up to the afraid part. I'll even own the neurotic part. I don't care much for the freak part. They were the freaks. Not me. I'm just the unfortunate byproduct.
Another fear; passing my fears on to my daughter. She doesn't deserve to live in my fearful shadow. There is no such thing as a fear-free life but I don't want her be afraid of bananas just because her mom wilts at the sight of one. I want her to be a kid, have her own experiences and even develop a few fear of her own.
I'm not sure what I will do with this list. Maybe I'll work through it one by one. Maybe I'll ignore it all together. Maybe I'll print it and give it to my husband; tangible proof that I'm not afraid of everything.
I'm not afraid of apples.
He is a good man and infinitely patient but this was probably not his shining moment of spousal support or encouragement. But I took from it what I needed.
The truth hurts. I can either be upset and bitter at his words or I can work things out. Because he's right.
I am afraid of nearly everything. When you grow up in a house like I did, nearly everything becomes an instrument of torment. I started making a mental list and now that I really can't sleep, I thought that I would continue here.
Just the things or situations... the reasons aren't as important anymore.
Clothes hangers
Hair brush
Curling iron
House slippers
Milk
Pudding
Cats
Closets
Deep-freeze freezer
The dark
Whole bananas
The dentist
Needles
Liquid medications
Most colognes
Old Spice aftershave
Ants
Spiders
Rope
Loud noises
Screaming and yelling
Slamming doors
Glass breaking
Popping balloons
Scaring me
Mirrors
Electrical cords
Belts
Men crossing their legs
Touching me
Pillows
Vaseline
Baby dolls
Tight spaces
Smell of latex
Knives
Bathtubs
Water
Masks
Duct tape
Bright lights
Using the restroom
Hands
Garden hoses
Cemeteries
Smell of gasoline
Boiling water
Bouquets of flowers
Like I said, nearly everything.
I could go on but I'll save myself the smallest amount of dignity.
As I read through the list some are rational. Some make sense to me. Some are irrational. Some you could figure out with a bit of imagination but I really don't recommend that.
I'll own up to the afraid part. I'll even own the neurotic part. I don't care much for the freak part. They were the freaks. Not me. I'm just the unfortunate byproduct.
Another fear; passing my fears on to my daughter. She doesn't deserve to live in my fearful shadow. There is no such thing as a fear-free life but I don't want her be afraid of bananas just because her mom wilts at the sight of one. I want her to be a kid, have her own experiences and even develop a few fear of her own.
I'm not sure what I will do with this list. Maybe I'll work through it one by one. Maybe I'll ignore it all together. Maybe I'll print it and give it to my husband; tangible proof that I'm not afraid of everything.
I'm not afraid of apples.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Different
I am different. I always have been.
A little girl is crying in the corner. Her tears are on the inside. Long, tired streaks down the dirty windows of her soul. Her soul is old. Her soul is different.
Shame. Her t-shirt is never quite enough. It stretches over her knees just short to cover her shame. Exposed. Her shame; it burns. Her shame is different.
Her hair. Long and twisted; a curtain to hide the pain behind. His scent lingers as it curls her hair into knots of hate. Her hair; it would be beautiful. Instead her hair is different.
A little girl. She is still to let the corner hug her. A plaster embrace will have to do. A wall that hugs; it's not so bad. This corner is safe. Her hug is different.
A grown up girl stands in another corner. Afraid to touch the pain across the room. The tears are gone. Clothes are hers. Her hair is short. That different corner still remains.
Go to her.
Clean her up.
Dress her shame.
Give her human comfort.
Any other girl. But this one is different.
She is me. And I am different.
Undeserving. And indifferent.
A little girl is crying in the corner. Her tears are on the inside. Long, tired streaks down the dirty windows of her soul. Her soul is old. Her soul is different.
Shame. Her t-shirt is never quite enough. It stretches over her knees just short to cover her shame. Exposed. Her shame; it burns. Her shame is different.
Her hair. Long and twisted; a curtain to hide the pain behind. His scent lingers as it curls her hair into knots of hate. Her hair; it would be beautiful. Instead her hair is different.
A little girl. She is still to let the corner hug her. A plaster embrace will have to do. A wall that hugs; it's not so bad. This corner is safe. Her hug is different.
A grown up girl stands in another corner. Afraid to touch the pain across the room. The tears are gone. Clothes are hers. Her hair is short. That different corner still remains.
Go to her.
Clean her up.
Dress her shame.
Give her human comfort.
Any other girl. But this one is different.
She is me. And I am different.
Undeserving. And indifferent.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Letdown
You know. It's the feeling that you get right after Christmas. All that work and then it's all over in a matter of hours and you wonder why the hell you worked so hard in the first place.
I spent the long weekend with overwhelming times of letdown. Not all the time because that's dumb. But some of the time when I had a moment to think and reflect; my letdown was laughing at me.
I've worked really hard in the past month or so. I've cleaned out mental closets. I've faced some huge fears. I've unpacked long overdue boxes. I have said some very difficult goodbyes. I have even been good, for the most part, about taking my meds.
After all that I thought I would feel better. Even happy. I looked forward to this long weekend. I kept telling myself keep going, it will be so nice to have a happy and peaceful weekend.
It wasn't a terrible time. I had the tiniest moments of happiness. But it certainly was not what I expected. What a letdown. That's when disappointment set in like a black cloud.
That black cloud? A close neighbor to my standard issued rain cloud of depression. Mix in some thundering anxiety and some lightening strikes of pain and I have the perfect storm of mental illness once again.
I waffle between stupidity and embarassment. How stupid of me to expect happiness. Embarassment over that expectation of more than a passing relief.
It's hard to not be disappointed. Why the fuck would I work so hard while expecting some relief? I have very little to show for that work and that borders on pathetic. I guess it's time to lower my expectations before I get hurt again.
I spent the long weekend with overwhelming times of letdown. Not all the time because that's dumb. But some of the time when I had a moment to think and reflect; my letdown was laughing at me.
I've worked really hard in the past month or so. I've cleaned out mental closets. I've faced some huge fears. I've unpacked long overdue boxes. I have said some very difficult goodbyes. I have even been good, for the most part, about taking my meds.
After all that I thought I would feel better. Even happy. I looked forward to this long weekend. I kept telling myself keep going, it will be so nice to have a happy and peaceful weekend.
It wasn't a terrible time. I had the tiniest moments of happiness. But it certainly was not what I expected. What a letdown. That's when disappointment set in like a black cloud.
That black cloud? A close neighbor to my standard issued rain cloud of depression. Mix in some thundering anxiety and some lightening strikes of pain and I have the perfect storm of mental illness once again.
I waffle between stupidity and embarassment. How stupid of me to expect happiness. Embarassment over that expectation of more than a passing relief.
It's hard to not be disappointed. Why the fuck would I work so hard while expecting some relief? I have very little to show for that work and that borders on pathetic. I guess it's time to lower my expectations before I get hurt again.
Friday, June 17, 2011
Prolonging
I need a break. A respite from my feelings. I know that must sound strange assuming that most like to feel; it's how they know that they are alive. Me, my feelings taunt me and remind me that I'm not dead. Flashback after flashback invade my frazzled mind and body until my pounding heart is breaking in the wake of no relief.
How long have you felt depressed?
I don't remember not feeling depressed...
When was the last time you felt happy?
I have fleeting moments of happiness...
When did the abuse begin?
I don't remember not being abused...
I started seeing a new shrink and those were some of her questions and then some of my answers. There was a rhythm to my replies which involved prolonged misery.
I want to feel better so I go to a shrink. I take medication. I see my therapist. I feel and it hurts like hell but I think that I am working hard and at some point it will pay off. But then there is a lingering suspicion he knew that even after he was gone his evil would still haunt and hurt me.
What kind of person brings a child into this world and shapes her childish life to know nothing but confusion, pain and sadness? Terror that she longs to stop even after you are gone. I bet he's laughing now knowing that I'm still pleading with the hurt to end.
How long have you felt depressed?
I don't remember not feeling depressed...
When was the last time you felt happy?
I have fleeting moments of happiness...
When did the abuse begin?
I don't remember not being abused...
I started seeing a new shrink and those were some of her questions and then some of my answers. There was a rhythm to my replies which involved prolonged misery.
I want to feel better so I go to a shrink. I take medication. I see my therapist. I feel and it hurts like hell but I think that I am working hard and at some point it will pay off. But then there is a lingering suspicion he knew that even after he was gone his evil would still haunt and hurt me.
What kind of person brings a child into this world and shapes her childish life to know nothing but confusion, pain and sadness? Terror that she longs to stop even after you are gone. I bet he's laughing now knowing that I'm still pleading with the hurt to end.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Feelings
I have been doing a lot of work with my feelings lately. I have avoided them for most of my life because, well the bad ones outweigh the good ones.
The rest of them were fucked or beaten out of me.
I have always believed that my feelings only led to trouble and pain. A simple feeling stated as a child sent me tumbling down a rabbit hole of horrific pain. An innocent smile was interpreted to be nothing but filthy desire. A frown was nothing but blatant rebellion that had to be dealt with.
My thinking is extremely black and white. Good or bad. Right or wrong. But what I'm learning is that feelings don't fall easily into any of those categories. The classifications that I have used to reason my life into some semblance of order do not work for feelings.
So walking in this grey area is very difficult for me. I cannot make much sense of what I allow myself to feel and if I do, I get stuck. The detachment I have felt to my memories is slowly being bridged by the missing feelings. And that is terrifying.
I have always been able to share, matter of factly, the details I have chosen to disclose. And I'm very afraid that those details were the easy ones; the ones I could disconnect from and push the feelings onto someone else.
Remember those rabbit holes? When I find the feelings associated with that pain it's like falling down that hole bound, gagged, and blindfolded. My logic was my only means of control and I've lost it amongst the feelings. The only way to climb out of that hole?
Literally feel my way out.
The rest of them were fucked or beaten out of me.
I have always believed that my feelings only led to trouble and pain. A simple feeling stated as a child sent me tumbling down a rabbit hole of horrific pain. An innocent smile was interpreted to be nothing but filthy desire. A frown was nothing but blatant rebellion that had to be dealt with.
My thinking is extremely black and white. Good or bad. Right or wrong. But what I'm learning is that feelings don't fall easily into any of those categories. The classifications that I have used to reason my life into some semblance of order do not work for feelings.
So walking in this grey area is very difficult for me. I cannot make much sense of what I allow myself to feel and if I do, I get stuck. The detachment I have felt to my memories is slowly being bridged by the missing feelings. And that is terrifying.
I have always been able to share, matter of factly, the details I have chosen to disclose. And I'm very afraid that those details were the easy ones; the ones I could disconnect from and push the feelings onto someone else.
Remember those rabbit holes? When I find the feelings associated with that pain it's like falling down that hole bound, gagged, and blindfolded. My logic was my only means of control and I've lost it amongst the feelings. The only way to climb out of that hole?
Literally feel my way out.
Saturday, June 4, 2011
Celebrate
Today is the fourth. Every fourth of June we used to celebrate my sister's birthday. But now the fourth is filled is guilt. Hurt. Anger. Sadness. Anything but celebration.
She would want you to celebrate her life...
This is the type of phrase often turned by the grieving left behind. I don't believe that this is true about her and I don't believe she would have ever desired such a celebration. I cannot celebrate a life so shattered, so damaged, so wilted that it funneled down to one eventual option of death.
Our lives closely resembled one another until she shot a hole in that toxic fork in the road. How do you celebrate a life gone by when you can't even celebrate your own? She's dead. I'm alive. I consider myself lucky and nothing more. Not exactly reasons to reflect, release some balloons or even visit the final marking of her earthly existence.
And then the selfish side... I don't want to fucking celebrate a person who placed so much responsibility, need, and cries for soothing squarely upon my shoulders. I gave so much but in the end perhaps I gave too much. When she left she took a piece of me that I cannot recover. Now I'm left with the scar of death barely stitched together with the thread of hope that I truly did all that I could do.
How do I celebrate a life passed too early? How do I remember her with anything but painful regret?
She would want you to celebrate her life...
This is the type of phrase often turned by the grieving left behind. I don't believe that this is true about her and I don't believe she would have ever desired such a celebration. I cannot celebrate a life so shattered, so damaged, so wilted that it funneled down to one eventual option of death.
Our lives closely resembled one another until she shot a hole in that toxic fork in the road. How do you celebrate a life gone by when you can't even celebrate your own? She's dead. I'm alive. I consider myself lucky and nothing more. Not exactly reasons to reflect, release some balloons or even visit the final marking of her earthly existence.
And then the selfish side... I don't want to fucking celebrate a person who placed so much responsibility, need, and cries for soothing squarely upon my shoulders. I gave so much but in the end perhaps I gave too much. When she left she took a piece of me that I cannot recover. Now I'm left with the scar of death barely stitched together with the thread of hope that I truly did all that I could do.
How do I celebrate a life passed too early? How do I remember her with anything but painful regret?
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Lump
I find myself tangled in the lump of my throat. Trapped somewhere between my mind of logic and my twisted and aching heart I am dizzy with conflict. I am worth something. I am worth nothing. I am worth more than words can offer.
That familiar lump squeezes and twists my weary emotions as I grasp for a momentary breath of logic. A thought that reassures what kindness says; an understanding that I am so much more than what they said. But in that moment their words, their actions; they come crashing down on me as the lump threatens to engulf me.
Pain and bitter bile wash over me and the choices seem so non-existent. Why else would their hatred spiral? Why else would a child so young bear such deep and burdened scars?
It must be because I am worth so little.
The secrets that we shared. The secrets that I keep. These are the fuel to ignite a burning lump of torture. I struggle to move on and I struggle to let go while the lump clutches its tiny treasure. How do I feel my worth when all I feel is the pain wiping away even the smallest doubt that they might have been wrong?
I want to breathe. I want to feel the full capacity of worth expand until that lump of disbelief is pushed aside for good. I want to exhale until I know that they were wrong.
That familiar lump squeezes and twists my weary emotions as I grasp for a momentary breath of logic. A thought that reassures what kindness says; an understanding that I am so much more than what they said. But in that moment their words, their actions; they come crashing down on me as the lump threatens to engulf me.
Pain and bitter bile wash over me and the choices seem so non-existent. Why else would their hatred spiral? Why else would a child so young bear such deep and burdened scars?
It must be because I am worth so little.
The secrets that we shared. The secrets that I keep. These are the fuel to ignite a burning lump of torture. I struggle to move on and I struggle to let go while the lump clutches its tiny treasure. How do I feel my worth when all I feel is the pain wiping away even the smallest doubt that they might have been wrong?
I want to breathe. I want to feel the full capacity of worth expand until that lump of disbelief is pushed aside for good. I want to exhale until I know that they were wrong.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Status
Just like everyone else, I am glancing backwards at 2010. Good year. Bad year. Something in between...
My father is dead.
I told some secrets.
I made some quilts.
I was promoted.
I learned a lot.
I cried some more.
I made a friend.
I returned to church.
I integrated broken pieces.
I am alive.
My father is dead.
I told some secrets.
I made some quilts.
I was promoted.
I learned a lot.
I cried some more.
I made a friend.
I returned to church.
I integrated broken pieces.
I am alive.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Locked
I locked myself out of Blogger. I guess that is what I get with too many people trying to run the show around here. But after going around and around with Blogger support, I'm back now.
I'm doing alright. Some days are better than others. Some days are downright awful. And some days are Disneyland.
Now all these years later I am finally trying to wrap my arms around the wrong because my mind cannot comprehend it. And that wrong these days is in my mind, my multitude of crippled friends, because the perpetrators are gone. The wrong is frightening and so many times I want to slam and lock the door on it to take my time to intellectualize the pain. Yet as I analyze my pain the wrong has tiny fists that pound the door. Louder and louder; screaming for embrace until I unlock the door that acts as a threshold between my mind and my heart.
I'm doing alright. Some days are better than others. Some days are downright awful. And some days are Disneyland.
For real.
We went to Disneyland for vacation and my daughter had a blast. It is always so intriguing to watch the world through her eyes and this experience was no different. I went to Disneyland as a kid and I actually have some distinct memories of the trip. But what my childlike thoughts were certainly do not mirror my daughter's thoughts.
Going through "It's a Small World" was a surprise to me as a child. So many beaming kids. All singing the same song. And the real kids on the ride; they were happy. I was not. But I remember painting on a plastic smile to match the characters while thinking... what is happening to me is not happening to these other kids... something is very wrong...
Now all these years later I am finally trying to wrap my arms around the wrong because my mind cannot comprehend it. And that wrong these days is in my mind, my multitude of crippled friends, because the perpetrators are gone. The wrong is frightening and so many times I want to slam and lock the door on it to take my time to intellectualize the pain. Yet as I analyze my pain the wrong has tiny fists that pound the door. Louder and louder; screaming for embrace until I unlock the door that acts as a threshold between my mind and my heart.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Brown
As far as colors go, brown ranks pretty low in terms of beauty. It is drab. It blends in. It is a non-color. It is certainly not in the rainbow.
Dead plants are brown. Rotten bananas turn brown. Brown is what comes of all the colors when they collide together. Paper bags are brown. And these bags are meant to disguise a secret. An embarrassment. The guy on the corner who drinks all day... he hides his bottle in a obviously discreet paper bag.
I carried a brown paper bag today. It didn't contain my lunch. And no, it didn't carry beer, wine, or liquor either. It's the see-you-in-six-weeks kind of day. The day where I go sit in my shrink's waiting room and pray that I don't look as crazy as I feel. Today is the day that I rate my mental state by the bag I carry. Am I carrying my favorite handbag or am I carrying a loud and awkward paper bag stuffed with meds?
My psychiatrist is a nice man. He is fairly intelligent as well. He is the first of his profession to treat me with kindness and respect. It's refreshing. I don't say a lot. I smile at least once so I do not present flat. I answer his questions with single words if at all possible. I am not having a good time of it and that must show. When he starts his shrink talk with "I'd like to talk to you today about..." I know that my meds are being tweaked or changed. Yippee.
Thirty minutes later I've paid my bill and I walk the twenty five feet across the waiting room full of people and I'm holding that damn brown bag. Any chance of appearing normal is wiped away when people see that crinkly bag full of she's-not-quite-right samples.
I skip the elevator to avoid riding in a closed space with someone who would clearly know they were confined, for a one floor descent, with a crazy girl. I make it to my car and I dump the bag out and cram the samples into my black leather handbag. Much more presentable because crazy people don't carry professional messenger bags, right?
The snarky humor is here but beneath that is my anger. I'm angry that I have to do this charade every six weeks. I'm angry that I'm a walking stigma. I'm angry that I pay good money for appointments and medication to help me function and unfuck what they did to me. I'm angry that I have side effects from the cocktail of meds that I take. I'm angry that the medicated me is better than the can't-get-out-of-bed me.
I'm still struggling over the events with my mother in law for reasons that some may not understand. I will try to put that into words shortly because I need to find a way to express in words what is churning in my mind. My husband's advice has been, "just be yourself", which I always inwardly smirk at because the thought of an un-medicated "me" attending a family dinner is something I'm almost certain he never wants to encounter.
Dead plants are brown. Rotten bananas turn brown. Brown is what comes of all the colors when they collide together. Paper bags are brown. And these bags are meant to disguise a secret. An embarrassment. The guy on the corner who drinks all day... he hides his bottle in a obviously discreet paper bag.
I carried a brown paper bag today. It didn't contain my lunch. And no, it didn't carry beer, wine, or liquor either. It's the see-you-in-six-weeks kind of day. The day where I go sit in my shrink's waiting room and pray that I don't look as crazy as I feel. Today is the day that I rate my mental state by the bag I carry. Am I carrying my favorite handbag or am I carrying a loud and awkward paper bag stuffed with meds?
My psychiatrist is a nice man. He is fairly intelligent as well. He is the first of his profession to treat me with kindness and respect. It's refreshing. I don't say a lot. I smile at least once so I do not present flat. I answer his questions with single words if at all possible. I am not having a good time of it and that must show. When he starts his shrink talk with "I'd like to talk to you today about..." I know that my meds are being tweaked or changed. Yippee.
Thirty minutes later I've paid my bill and I walk the twenty five feet across the waiting room full of people and I'm holding that damn brown bag. Any chance of appearing normal is wiped away when people see that crinkly bag full of she's-not-quite-right samples.
I skip the elevator to avoid riding in a closed space with someone who would clearly know they were confined, for a one floor descent, with a crazy girl. I make it to my car and I dump the bag out and cram the samples into my black leather handbag. Much more presentable because crazy people don't carry professional messenger bags, right?
The snarky humor is here but beneath that is my anger. I'm angry that I have to do this charade every six weeks. I'm angry that I'm a walking stigma. I'm angry that I pay good money for appointments and medication to help me function and unfuck what they did to me. I'm angry that I have side effects from the cocktail of meds that I take. I'm angry that the medicated me is better than the can't-get-out-of-bed me.
I'm still struggling over the events with my mother in law for reasons that some may not understand. I will try to put that into words shortly because I need to find a way to express in words what is churning in my mind. My husband's advice has been, "just be yourself", which I always inwardly smirk at because the thought of an un-medicated "me" attending a family dinner is something I'm almost certain he never wants to encounter.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Sick
Broken babies everywhere. Fraught with shredded suffering, nothing soothes or makes them calm. I am so afraid that I have a very sick mind.
They scream. They hurt. My head throbs with psychic suffering and torment. I am so very tired of having this twisted space of devastation within me. Normal is relative but with simple confidence I can say that normal people do not have these images of pain.
Most memories are ones that I can endure but bleeding babies push me towards capacity. Common people smile at me while daily acquaintances are kind and complimentary.
If they only knew...
If they only knew the poison that has washed over my mind. If only they knew the images that I can never shake. The oily suds of sin that froth and foam, they will never wash completely clean.
I wrestle and I twist with these faces until I am overcome with the fear. My bitter stomach churns as I reach for a familiar metal. My hands shake with forward reaching regret until the warmth of release stings when mixed with salty tears.
My mind lurches forward as the flashbacks of the past find me unsuspecting. The mental whiplash leaves me lost as the jarring shock brings me to my knees. I am begging for an end; a present firmly rooted that is able to withstand the forces of his latent life.
I am begging for relief before I am sick like him.
They scream. They hurt. My head throbs with psychic suffering and torment. I am so very tired of having this twisted space of devastation within me. Normal is relative but with simple confidence I can say that normal people do not have these images of pain.
Most memories are ones that I can endure but bleeding babies push me towards capacity. Common people smile at me while daily acquaintances are kind and complimentary.
If they only knew...
If they only knew the poison that has washed over my mind. If only they knew the images that I can never shake. The oily suds of sin that froth and foam, they will never wash completely clean.
I wrestle and I twist with these faces until I am overcome with the fear. My bitter stomach churns as I reach for a familiar metal. My hands shake with forward reaching regret until the warmth of release stings when mixed with salty tears.
My mind lurches forward as the flashbacks of the past find me unsuspecting. The mental whiplash leaves me lost as the jarring shock brings me to my knees. I am begging for an end; a present firmly rooted that is able to withstand the forces of his latent life.
I am begging for relief before I am sick like him.
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