Monthly Archives: February 2013

I guess I have a few choices…

I awoke with a bit more clarity this morning (I’m back on the analytical side of the wall). I have a few options to get through this crap: 1) I could keep reaching out and trying to say what it is I need until I get it right and I actually get it;  2) I could give in and fall apart with a slight measure of control so I don’t do it totally out of control,  or 3) I could suck it up and force the pieces back together in whatever way I can so I stay “together” as long as possible in hopes that Medicaid (Medicare?) comes through before I completely lose it…  

Maybe this is all so I’m forced to build up a support network down here…? A way to get through things without relying on professionals as much as I do.  The thing is,  I’ve relied on myself so much growing up,  it took years to learn to trust anyone else to help keep me safe… now to have to learn to do it all myself again seems like a step backwards. 
I am learning to rely on my wife more though.  I’m learning to let her in little by little,  but I don’t want her to be the main support. She has a lot on her plate also, and she needs to be able to take care of that too.  I help as best I can,  but I feel so wrapped up in myself most of the time that I know I’m not a very good resource. 

I was pleasantly surprised yesterday when D acknowledged that the self injury was my only coping method for so long,  it is hard to learn to replace… it was nice to hear someone say that childhood/early learning is more difficult to change – its more deeply written in our psyches than later learning.  I know Dr C seemed to understand it,  but never really said it. I’m glad D did. 

So back on the topic of my choices; I’m not sure what to follow through on.   Even if I do a “controlled burn” so to speak, I can’t until after Saturday (huge volunteer commitment I would feel utterly guilty for missing,  even if it means my mental health may suffer. Tho it may just help me make it through this period). The waves of feeling terrible come and go,  but mostly it feels like a stagnant pool of hopelessness. It really sucks… but maybe if I can make it through the weekend,  I am then that much closer to next Wednesday,  where I have hope of making that session better… of getting farther with it… is it worth it?


let-downs

I’m not 100% sure what I was hoping would happen today in therapy, but whatever it was did not happen.  I left feeling just as lost and frantic as when I had entered… I keep trying to tell myself that similar feelings popped up with Dr. C when I first started seeing her, but it’s of little comfort… ugh…

I need something but I have no real idea what.  I know what I want, but not what I need. How do you reconcile that with yourself?  How do you get both satisfied, if you don’t really know what part of it is?


collaging

followed through on what I had wanted to try yesterday: art. I collaged a lot while listening to music… Now I just have to be able to explain them to D when I see him… not sure I want him to see them all, but will try to show at least one. I showed my wife a “safe” one that, while still hitting very close to how I feel right now, was on stuff that’s easier to talk about…
If I remember, I may post one here… though I wouldn’t hold my breath if I were you…


“Erasing Death”

The Today Show had a piece just now on death,  the afterlife,  and a doctor who feels that we are on the cusp of figuring out how to reverse death.  My mom commented that those people who have supposedly had a near-death experience seem to not fear death.  Though I have never had one, I do not fear death.  I also would not want to be brought back from death… while I do not believe in the catholic version of the heaven,  I do believe that we must transcend this life to get to the next (more closely aligned with the Hindu idea of reincarnation,  but not quite that either). I believe that we live non-linear in time outside of this life.  Our souls (for lack of a better term) drift along the lines and select a life to live out.  we gain experiences, then move on to the next one.  We remember snippets of this learning in this life,  but overall I think it is mostly reserved for our understanding outside of corporeal existence.  so if I’m moving back to that state,  please leave me to do it… don’t bring me back from death.  I’m done here…
This has no real bearing on the suicide issue other than if I’m dead, leave me be. Whatever the reason or path to death, once it is achieved,  don’t try to “save” me.  My beliefs mean that death is another step in evolution… please respect that.


Questions

How do you make something safe that is inherently dark and dangerous? And how do you bring it up?  How do you make that even a topic of discussion?

My darkness is creeping in again. Samantha Jane is peering at me around a corner. I think I realized she is my protector, as weird as that sounds. She is that scared little girl who only comes out of hiding when she is worried… definitely need to talk to either D or Dr C about this :/ Wednesday is not coming soon enough…


frozen in myself

I’m lost.  I don’t know what to do.  My normal avenues of release (positive and negative) are blocked.  I can’t figure out what it is that I need to do to release this in a healthy way.  I want to draw or collage, but it feels like a monumental task just to gather everything… and then there will be questions to explain it, but I don’t know if I have the energy to do all that… and the doubts that it will actually work swim through my thoughts, kicking at the images I want to capture.  Doubt and perfectionism is a wonderful de-motivator…


I wish I knew

I wish I knew what to say (and how) to get whatever it is that I need… I reach out in all the wrong ways.  Even after a lifetime of this struggle, I still don’t know how to articulate what I need to in an effective manner…  It feels like my learning stopped the day I first felt hurt like that… the words don’t come. Not even pictures of what would help form in my mind (at least nothing healthy).  How do you learn to speak what is unspeakable?  How do you breach that gap in cognition and emotion?  How do you figure out what it is you need to say that gets you the help you need?  What if there is nothing like what you are searching for?  What if the vague idea coalescing in your head has no corporeal existence, so no one knows what you mean when you actually do say it?  What do you do when the only words you’ve learned to ask with portray the wrong picture?  They do no justice to what it is you truly need… so you say you don’t know what you need, because there are no words to convey it effectively… and sometimes you really don’t know. They are just ideas and instincts you go on, because you have learned to follow your instincts of late… but no one believes you know what you need.  You have said you don’ know so many times… Only maybe you know what you don’t need this time around…

It would be easier if I had a traditional addictions problem.  I could go to meetings and find sponsors and have support from those who have experienced similar beasts… but my only outside option like that is to go to a 12-step meeting where they focus on God (any God really, but the word and the concept are huge triggers for me)… oh, and there’s DBT, which is also a huge trigger for me.  But when I tell them this as they recommend it for the millionth time, they simply stare (listen) puzzled, after all, how can DBT or AA not work for someone?!

D, If I reach out to the resources you gave me, will they know how to respond? You told me to try again until I found someone who understood… Do you know how hard it is for me to talk to anyone about any of this, let alone multiple people?? I told you I called and hung up 4 times before I found the courage to acknowledge the greeting? Did you understand that I was trying to tell you how incredibly hard and painful and scary it was to reach out so strangers like that, just to get someone who did not hear a thing I said after the first 5 words?  Sometimes I feel like you get lost too after my first few words, just like the woman on the phone.  You don’t really know what to do, so you focus on that tiny shred of information, because the rest is too scary to see… I’m sorry scare you.

I wish there was a video tutorial on how to communicate when you have no clue what to do…


some history… (a box of triggers maybe. open with caution)

I read another blog (the few lines that came up on my reader, as it refused to load) and it got me thinking… my methods and preferred spot have changed over the years.  I started with a few small scratches on my left arm… I did it with a pin.  It barely left a mark that lasted for a few short hours.  Like any good addiction, it stopped being enough.  I remember the first day I “graduated” to scissors… it scared me, but I felt better.  I also switched arms – I had run out of unmarked skin… I had bruised my arm up really bad with a desperate attempt at hurting myself one night when I had nothing but a key to work with.  I started wearing nothing but long sleeves at school (in the sweltering heat).  I wore a sweatshirt that 90 degree day when I cut at school and it bled through my light yellow uniform top.  No one questioned it… I was usually cold anyway, anorexia will do that to you.  I’m not sure what prompted me to reach out one day and admit to my guidance counselor that I self-injured.  She took it in stride and offered support.  She had experience from one of her other students from a different school… She agreed not to break confidentiality if I would continue to seek help.  I nodded.  She knew it would be ugly if my parents found out.  My dad had not reacted well to the news of Anorexia, forget self-injury.  It was brought on by s**t at home anyway.  I’m glad she left it up to me to tell them.  I don’t really remember when I actually said something to them (if I ever did before I was first hospitalized… it’s a bit blurry).  Once I went  away to school, the intensity changed, and I branched out in my preferred spot to self-injure.  Once anyone noticed, I had to switch to someplace easier to hide.  That, and I was running out of places to cut…  I didn’t scar so easily back then.  My nurse commented on it one day… I was to check in with her regularly (per my therapist) to assess the damage.  I think I saw her about once a month… She saw the worst of the cuts (relatively deep), and they rarely scarred.  She said I was lucky.  I think her saying that broke my body’s spell, and I started to scar up shortly after that.  I don’t really remember the intensity of my cuts changing, but the scars started remaining on my body… I don’t really remember why, but I know I had to see the gyn a few times (I think it had something to do with abnormal test results… or maybe they were just checking up on me).  A few times she had remarked to my therapist that I had words carved into my legs… I remember J gave me the chance to explain them to her, and tell her what I had written… when I did not fess up to it (I was too embarrassed… wasn’t sure why I had written what I did), she asked me outright “Why the words ‘Slut’ and ‘Whore’? ‘Worthless’ I understand, but the other two confuse me”… I don’t remember what I said, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t even close to anything truthful, as I really don’t remember being in touch with it at the time.  I think I confused even myself with that.  I still am not sure I know why I wrote it… There was a sense of shame from Duckboy and being molested earlier in life… I think I internalized that as my fault… I no longer have access to what I was thinking then.

Shortly after that time, I started cutting my legs more and more… I tried my abdomen, but it wasn’t satisfying… My legs became my next abuse victims.  I did the worst damage there.  Those cuts would take weeks to heal, and my nurse would shake her head.  There were a few she contemplated stitching up, but I never consented… I miss her.  She was gentle and kind, and another non-judgmental person to be accountable to… I wasn’t used to genuine, kind caring, but I liked it.  It was a huge loss when she retired before I graduated.  She had kicked my butt into line for 3 years… my most consistent support yet at that time in my life.  She sent me to the ER one day, and I was beyond hurt and angry at her, but I know she had to do it.  I’m glad she did it during lunch… it was less embarrassing that way, Health Services was more empty… fewer faces to witness my crumbling facade.  I really miss M and my therapist at the time.  They tag-teamed me more times than I’d like to admit just to be able to get me through each year… I don’t know what I would have done if I was kicked out of school and forced to move back home.

The next few years are a blur… I was in and out of therapy after graduating, mostly out because my SO at the time thought it was useless… I held it together as best I could.  Then one day I remembered that feeling of falling… I knew it was there; at a distance, but I was along its ever-speeding trajectory.  I reached out to find a therapist again.  I called so many numbers and left so many messages… one woman called me back.  I met with her, and she became my therapist.  I think it was in that first session that she diagnosed me Borderline Personality Disorder, and said she was “an expert of sorts” in it… She worked hard to convince me that I needed to embrace the diagnosis.  She strongly pushed DBT (I had tried it before in college, but no one ever talked to me about being BPD… or maybe they did and I dissociated it, I’m not sure).  I resisted for quite a while.  She also pushed meds (which I was also resistant to) and finding a psychiatrist.  I grudgingly sought one I could tolerate… I think I went through 3 before I found one I could sit with and remotely trust… She ended up moving away after a few short months.  Back to the drawing board.  I never did find another psychiatrist I liked, but I stuck with meds because I was told I should.  I tried all the ones they had tried me on in college, and continued on through the gamut of available meds that even remotely had psychiatric applications.  I experienced crazy side-effects and was mildly allergic to a few.  My most hated phrase from a psychiatrist (or any medical professional) to this day is “but do the benefits out-weigh the negatives?”… “it’s just a little weight gain” (80lbs in 2 months); “but do you feel depressed when you feel sick?”; “the nausea is just temporary”; “do you really need to drive yourself to work? can’t you get a ride?”; “can you live with the drowsiness for a while longer?” “it clears up in a few days… weeks… months…”  No, it did not clear up.  No, a recently anorexic patient can’t handle 80lbs of weight gain.  No, I can’t rely on others for transportation to and from work over 45 minutes away… No.  The benefits do not out-weigh the negatives (are there really any benefits                       ?  I have been hospitalized more times in the last year on meds than I think most chronic psych patients do in a lifetime)…

Something happened and I was able to maintain a decent facade for the next 2 or 3 years even on meds… I struggled frequently with self-injury and suicidal thoughts, but I was on meds, so it was ok right?

I thought I was well enough to tackle grad school having had 2 years “clean” from major break-downs (little ones littered my days however).  I managed to hold down a relationship, a full-time job, and advance in that job… I had to be ok for school, right?  Wrong!  The pressure and the triggers became too much.  I had not yet dealt with the trauma I was trying to bleed away.  When I encountered it again in the position of helper, I crumbled.  It felt like trying to fill a wire-frame statue with damp sand in the hot, drying sun… I had a new therapist and was glossing over much of the “dirty” stuff in my closet, but we figured I was able to handle a degree in the same field.  The mess at school coupled with the triggers at my internship finally tipped the last domino and I it was down-hill from there.  If I thought my first bout of hospitalizations was a lot, little did I know how often I would be passing through those revolving doors that coming year.  They did not know what to do to help me.  Hospitals are only meant for containment and stabilization on meds… they keep you alive, but don’t help you move on through the pain.  There is physical support, but no real emotional support… their general practice is to medicate to the hilt if anything distressing comes up, and not to help you learn to deal with the feelings that are so incredibly overwhelming… why would they? it gives them more work… I can’t tell you how many times I requested that Haldol be taken off my PRN list at the hospital only to find a nurse had slipped it into my med mix because I was having a rough time.  It would knock me out for 2 days, and I would get shit from family and staff for not participating.  I resent that more than most things… I know my body and I know what medications do to me.  If I specifically ask that something be removed from my available meds, please do so…

It’s amazing how fast professionals can give up trying when their usual interventions don’t have the desired results.  Yes, I’m crashing harder and faster than ever before, but then why are we doing the same old shit over & over again?!  I remember asking, begging for a different program, a different intervention.  I remember adamantly refusing DBT (so far, all 5 times resulted in severe self-injury, suicide attempts, or long hospitalizations; but the 6th time, that one will be different…).  I bought into it, L did a good job of wearing me down on it in the 4 years she was my therapist).  I tried again.  I struggled and floundered and was triggered beyond belief.  I begged for help, and ultimately  I was kicked out for screwing up and “not using my skills.”  Only they didn’t realize I was dissociating so badly I lost several days… I begged for help… it wasn’t good enough.  The week following my discharge that time, I was sent to a PHP program the floor below the DBT program… Apparently the psychiatrist was not versed in DBT despite the program’s proximity.  She committed me for riding the wave of self-harm urges that weekend.  She said I told her I would try to kill myself and could not commit to safety… In actuality, I had said I would use my skills to ride out the emotions because I had done it that weekend, and I was sure I could do it again.  I also said that I would reach out if things got too bad… She only heard what she wanted to.  It was a turning point for me though.  I felt anger towards another person (other than bitch or my dad) for the first time ever.  I was so angry I wanted to pummel her head in with my water bottle as they walked me through the underground tunnels to the locked unit… I was calm outside.  I forced it.  No matter my anger, I would never hurt another person.  When someone walked in too close a proximity to me, I calmly (and barely above a whisper) told them to step away from me… no one thought to take my heavy water bottle from me… I would not have acted on my rage, but boy was I brimming with it.  (How dare you tell me to do all this shit, trigger me to the hilt, have me actually succeed (in my eyes) at something extremely difficult, then negate any progress…  you are just like that bitch…)… I had such a hard time that hospitalization… I was rageful towards everyone in power… I found no one to connect with and no one to seek support from… I was unable to convince the doctors to release me. I was there for a full week… it felt like months (I had just left there 2 days ago).  For the first time in my life, all my anger was focused externally.  I was telling the truth when I told the psychiatrist that I had absolutely no thoughts of harming myself… That time, I lived on Haldol… if it knocked me out for the duration, all the better.  I don’t remember what prompted my discharge, but apparently I was outwardly better, or insurance refused to pay for more.

I do not remember how long after that it took me to find my way back to the unit, but I was back again (multiple times).  While I was intensely suicidal the days before my last hospitalization (and actually planned on carrying out an OD in the woods the day before I was committed), I had no intention of dying by bleeding to death from my self-injury.  That was just an addiction and a release from all the thoughts swirling in my head.  The problem was that I had found a place to cut that was way too dangerous.  I did not realize the extent of the damage I was doing, all I wanted was the relief of the flowing blood.. I actually stopped that time, frustrated that I could not bring more to the surface… I did not know that I had already bled out most of my volume in the last 2 days… there was nothing left to gush, so nothing did.  I reached out to my therapist and others so much those days… I could not go more than 10-15 minutes without cutting… I found ways to do it even with others in the house.

The next day, my therapist convinced me to go see my doctor.  I was worried too, as the bleeding was still pretty heavy (not at all normal for me).  Someone had made a note somewhere in my chart tho, because even though my doctor was on vacation that week and I quickly hung up, the nurse called me back with an appointment time with one of her colleagues.  I was not given much of an option, but told I was expected in at a particular time.  I am not sure how it happened, but my wife was home early to take me… I traumatized a lot of people that day with the extent and nature of my injuries… the sad part is, while I regret it to some degree, I would never have gotten into the trauma program at The Center at PIW.  I would not have started that very crucial step towards recovery… I would have missed out on the trauma of the whole ECT affair, but I would have also missed out on insight and a detox from all the meds they had me on.  That was my rock bottom.  Though I had attempted suicide in the past, this was my absolute lowest point… I was hopeless, frequently suicidal, and easily able to harm myself to within hours of death.  I was dissociating, experiencing very strong and frequent flashbacks, and I was desperately searching for anything to make it all better.  In my flailing, I wounded so many… I truly regret that part…  I’m sorry you have to live with that… If I could do things differently, I would remove you from any instance of my self-destruction.  I would protect you from my demons, because after all, they are mine alone…

That break was not an easy one.  I struggled daily with hating myself and life and wanting to hurt myself again to make the anxiety and pain go away.  I had eyes on me 24/7 though, so I was not able to do anything.  I also had support in DC.  While I was pissed that I was not allowed to dissociate when things got too much, it helped center me.  I was able to find a way to wall off the intense emotions.  I found a way to make it through the days.  I found ways to relieve the stress without self-harming… It was a giant step towards recovery.  It is a rough road, with a ton of bumps… but I have to remember, as D said, the future is not an absolute.  Can’t lose hope just yet.


I hate…

I’m scared if my wife finds out about the state of my head, she will freak out. And I have no one to talk to about it… the weekend is coming, so I will be even more without resources… I hate this so much. I hate that I have to wait to build up trust again. I hate that I have warring parts of myself that are constantly doing battle. I hate that I ever picked up cutting all those years ago. I hate that I have been so close to it lately. I hate… me. I’m just so angry that I don’t know how to express what I need to in a way that is meaningful and safe. I am floundering, and I have nowhere to turn. I know he gave me a list of resources, but I don’t trust any of them, and I can’t bring myself to talk to my wife because I don’t want to stress her out. I feel SO lost… SO alone…  My heart races with thinking that random people will find out, but part of it is that maybe then they would be able to find a way to help me.  I want to ask for more help with this, but I don’t know how. I don’t want to start cutting again, and it be a way for me to get help. I want to keep from doing it. I want to be able to have enough supports around that I don’t resort to that. I want it to not feel so inviting and comforting.

How do you make it stop being so damn comforting?!

That restriction and threat of abandonment are the only things that feel real to me sometimes.  I know I’m loved, but that is scary, because I feel like such a failure and worthless.  At least with strangers, I’m of no real consequence, so I can’t disappoint them as badly.  And they have no emotional investment in me, nor I in them.  The “abuse” can continue and it just feels right, without feeling like as much of a betrayal.  So if I cut and get locked up and stay in fear and self-loathing, it just all makes sense and feels right. ugh!!!! MAKE IT STOP!!!!! Make it not be a viable option anymore. please!!

I get lost in the addiction of it, and suddenly the trauma and the PTSD symptoms go away because they are over-shadowed by the craving to damage myself as badly on the outside as I am on the inside… and the high is GREAT… and it’s all-consuming… I ****ing hate it! but I love it too, because it does make other things less of an issue…

I wish insight made it easier to battle. I wish having the knowledge of all it does and does not do could lessen the struggle… and i wish I had someone to talk to about it all… but I can talk to myself about it all I want.  The little damaged kid in me cries and feels terrified.  She can’t shake the memories of the past, and the feelings they bring up.  Being here again brings them up so much more (but below the surface, where I have no real conscious recognition of it)… only they have no basis, so she has to give them a reason for being there… because why would she feel so scared with nothing there but ghosts?  so my head takes over and screams out the urges and makes them so damn strong that they take over for the fear and the memories and the pain… and now we need something to be legit about all that, so hurting me would make it real, would give it a reason for being… it would be a validation of having a real reason to feel so horrible… and in that skewed little way of hers, that little girl thinks that the only real love comes from pain and fear and abuse… so we recreate it whenever we can… because it just feels right.  That feeling of peace is not possible here, because all the memories are of chaos and terror and… pain greater than words can express…

I so hate this.  I hate that I can know all this, but can’t switch that dissociation on again and keep it contained until it’s safe to deal with…  right now, alone, it is not at all safe to deal with…


Meh. M.e.h. meh.

I dunno. I think I’m all over the place.  Hormones have my mood way down, and my thoughts all crazy… it feels like a weekend,  but it’s not,  which means my weekend will likely feel interminable… I also feel like my normal detachment will not be there, so I either won’t write much, or it will be sub-par. Apologies in advance…


toying with something here

i go back and forth between making this blog public on my personal fb page. i war with myself on my stance of taking the stigma out of mental illness, and being a very private person amongst my friends. outside of an anonymous online spill, i rarely let people close to me in on what goes on… especially embarrassing or hurtful things that go on inn my head… but at the same time I want to tell my story and share my struggles in hopes that i find i’m not as alone as i feel… i don’t know. maybe it’s all best left anonymous.


numb in a good way

today was tiring. I finally gave in and emailed my therapist asking him if it was ok to email him something more that I didn’t think I could say. he said ok. he also offered a time to come in and talk about it. I picked today, as I feared I would lose all courage to address the topics I had mentioned (feeling like he would run away if he knew who I really was, having a frank conversation about self injury, my fears/hesitations about his skill set as he is a student).

By the time I actually made it to his office through rush-hour traffic, my anxiety was pretty high and I contemplated turning around several times. I followed through though, as I worried about having to wait until next week (might as well get the anxiety over with so I did not have to sit with it and amplify it for the next 7 days). I was already “spacey” as I got there and fidgeted relentlessly with a worry stone I sometimes still keep with me. I don’t remember all of what we talked about, but I know we covered some grounding (can I tell you I hate grounding techniques, especially when read straight from a book) and actually found something that worked in the moment. I let him do most of the talking, as I struggled to get to what it was that I needed to say. Then, as we were wrapping up (I full expected to be leaving) he threw a safety plan at me. I would have been ok with the concept if he had described it as a safety plan, but he described it as a safety contract (a contract means to me that I will not act on anything without serious repercussions, one of which may be termination of therapy. but that is only because of how I have experienced them in the past). a safety plan simply outlines who to contact in case you are having a rough time… when he pulled out the piece of papaer and started going over it, my head immediately flashed to all the times I have f****d-up and been kicked out of therapy or the program. (actually, it just flashed to straight up paralyzing panic. it took quite a while to be able to figure out exactly what about the situation was causing the panic). he tried grounding again, but something in me was able to muster the courage to interrupt him and help ground in a less formal way (namely get to the root of the panic). i was able to tell him that I had no issue agreeing to all that reaching out stuff if I felt suicidal, but that I had a really difficult time committing to that for thoughts and urges of self injury. he was able to help me express that I really don’t want to die, and that I have a side to me that will protect me if that ever comes up again (the extreme dissociation I had back in 2011 was that side coming out after part of my brain had settled on the concept of peace via death. i became needy and sought help in every way I could think of with people I trusted. ultimately, I got the help, though it was after i started to OD in the dbt group room when the clinician I was talking to stepped out for something… all i remember is her coming back into view of the doorway and being really pissed at me). we briefly touched upon me not being effective and skilled at asking for help the right way. I think he relaxed a little after that conversation. I think I did too… but then he hit upon the hospital resources in the area, and I panicked hard and fast. I went from a 2 to a 99 on the scale of dissociation he was using to check in with me throughout the session. he didn’t notice, so i let him in on the fact that he “lost me.” only he interpreted it as me saying I did not understand his explanation. I just couldn’t figure out how to tell him that I had checked out… for some reason even the vocabulary he had established throughout the session escaped me and I was lost in space. he eventually turned around from the computer (he had been looking up emergency resources) and realized my blank and panicked stare. I think this is when he got a bit panicked too, and tried to find a way to get someone else in the room to explain his thoughts behind the “contract”. I could only manage out a “no” so we were stuck struggling through that really awkward and scary moment. maybe this was when the conversation around the true reason for the panic came up, and not before. I don’t really remember…

anyway, it turned out well in the long run. we both dealt with panic moments, and both came through on the other side a bit wiser… trust is still being worked on, but it never comes easy with me.

now my brain is numb. i am surprised if this came out comprehensible… apologies if I was repetitive or unclear… I will edit again tomorrow, but just felt like I needed to update while it was fresh…


When does it get better?

When does something give to make this all easier? I’m so tired of struggling and coming up against dead ends…


A Child Disappears

When I heard she had died, I felt like I had personally failed her. I didn’t know her or even listen to much of her music, but something about her story and her being spoke to me… This may explain a bit of why. I did not write this, but it rings so true.

The Truth Ache

suicideHave you ever had an urge? An urge for chocolate, for cigarettes, for that one sip of alcohol?  Have you ever lived with that urge until it began to consume your mental thoughts?  You become in such need of that rich, sweet, taste of chocolate that nothing, I mean literally nothing will do but to find that exact taste.

Now multiply it by thousands.  Imagine being a strung out heroin addict, who will literally kill for that next fix.  Imagine being so obsessed with one simple thought that all rational thought, everything you thought you knew about yourself and those that you love is pushed so far into the darkness that they can not be seen, and they can not be felt.

This weekend another celebrity died.  Wouldn’t be big news for the world, and most will chalk it up to the price of fame.  We may have a moments regret for the…

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Tip of the week: Customize your treatment

an individualized program can mean the difference between success and failure… and often times has been for me… I search long and hard for something that will help, because ultimately, I know myself best, even if I can’t articulate what the reasons are for my dislike of something or my success with something (ie: DBT sucks for me)… this blogger put it very well.


sad news re: Mindy McCready

They think she killed herself… it all just got too much 😦


nothing to say

what happens when you run out of words? vocabulary can be so small and limiting. music and art, they have limits too, but vastly farther out than words…

a lot has happened in the last week and nothing has happened. I put up a wall again, and nothing is getting through right now. I’m blissfully floating in that disconnected space. I’m hiding from contact and thinking and… everything. I function and smile and cry and watch movies and volunteer, but I don’t really feel much connection to any of it right now. I wish I did. I wish I was paying attention. But things have fallen, so the wall is back up.

I was forced to pick between the two therapists, and the woman at the LGBTQ center would not even talk to me to try to get to know her better before I had to choose, so I walked out. It took everything in me to keep from crumbling right there, but I walked out and made it home. I think that’s when the diconnect happened. I was ready to give up on therapy all together down here… I waited to make that decision tho, and chose to follow through on seeing D for now. I didn’t talk about anything significant though. I don’t really have access to it. There’s so much emotion behind switching therapists that I shut down at the thought of having no real control over it. So I’m just floating through. Whatever right?


Constant re-reading

I find I can write things one day (or one minute) and totally forget what I wrote later on.  I find myself reading and re-reading everything a multitude of times,  and not necessarily knowing the thought process that was behind it… much like needing to stare at my reflection in the mirror to study the person looking back at me.  I often times lose connection with that body.  It throws me for a loop. Then people think I’m too self-absorbed.  They don’t understand it’s because I need to know what’s there… I surprise myself sometimes… there is actually a person starting back at me,  but it’s hard to draw the mental line from there to here. 

I know it has a name and a diagnosis,  but I wonder if people who don’t experience it can ever figure out what it’s like… not that I would want them to experience it,  but just to truely understand what it’s like to look in the mirror and not really feel what is looking back at you… it’s weird and unnerving to know there is something corporeal there… even these days, with an awareness of the problem,  I can still spend an eternity looking at my reflection just wondering if it really is me. And my writing is the same way.  I read it over and over again to try to grasp the thoughts that connect it to me… weird phenomenon.


Finding your Zen

I’ve struggled with what to write lately.  I got to a point where I felt like everything was a complaint… then a topic hit me this morning (head-butted continuously is more like it).  I read an article on the importance of sticking with positive habits and making them a way of life.  What brings you joy? If not joy,  then at least balance?  I know when I get depressed, nothing does that without a massive struggle (at least nothing positive and healthful).  I can engage in those things that would bring me happiness on a good day,  but on bad days,  it’s just something else I have to do.  The thing is, I have to do it. My zen comes from animals and nature.  I have a small army of minions… I mean pets, that I must take care of daily.  They don’t stop eating or going to the bathroom or needing attention just because I want to hide in bed all day.  Those that are free-roaming remind me of their presence incessantly (I also keep and breed many reptiles and fish, who are less “in your face” but just as needy in a captive setting). I have recently taken up having my coffee on the patio in the mornings.  The house is quiet, as is the neighborhood.  I get to sit and enjoy the birds and other wildlife.  The cats will also join me at times, especially my mom’s cats who now feel displaced with the huge influx of animals into their home.  They spend most of their time outdoors these days,  and miss the human contact.  Meet Rora, my morning coffee friend today

image

She hates my cats,  is terrified of my dogs,  but loves people.  She was the one that head-butted me earlier and made me re-realize my Zen.  I take an hour or so out of my day to just be.  I enjoy my coffee,  listen to the noises of the morning,  and when the cats let me,  play with the camera.  These things bring me peace.

Animals and nature are not everyone’s thing though,  and I realize that.  My wife and I often disagree on my animal obsession.  My mom wondered just the other day how caring for over 40 reptiles can be relaxing… it just is.  I enjoy watching my snakes explore.  I like seeing my lizards interacting with each other and their environments.  I really enjoy making kick-ass vivs for them to live in (there is a guilt piece with keeping any animal caged without mental simulation.  Contrary to popular belief, even reptiles can get depressed without enough to do and see).  The only time they stress me is when I feel like I can’t provide appropriately for them,  and that’s when I kick my depression aside for the moment and tend to them… some people enjoy exercise, I enjoy nature (even if that means much of my time is spent cleaning poop of one kind or another).

I know I remember this feeling now, and can easily access it, but I have to remember this when everything is gray and hopeless… what brings you Zen?


Living with someone is hard…

Especially if you are no longer used to their quirks, or you have drastically different ideas on what to do when…


I don’t know

I find myself resisting the thought of my new volunteer commitment.  I want to work with the animals,  not the people…

I also find myself longing for more of a connection to the local gay scene. I miss it.  I miss being around openly accepting people… saw a new therapist at the local GLBTQ services center today.  It’s located in a more openly gay area (and by that I mean it literally caters to male or male identified crowd. I saw no lesbians…) and it really made me miss the environment.  I miss seeing openly gay or lesbian couples.  I miss the acceptance.  I miss the welcoming…  we need to get more involved,  and hang out more down there.  It’s comfortable.

I also actually like the therapist.  She was caring and not as judgemental as the last few women I had met with. She also did not have her own agenda for the session,  even though it was pretty much just completing an assessment. She let me talk on about what I needed to get out,  and she appropriately focused on some of the more pressing issues.  I gave her a release to speak with both D and Dr C. I see D again tomorrow after volunteering.  I will get him releases too… it’s a bit weird seeing 2 therapists,  but I’m hoping it will help me through the weeks until I can drag my butt out of this rut…


i want to hide

shame, embarrassment, guilt, shame… i wish no one knew. i wish it was a secret kept only by myself. when I think of how many people know, i want to shrivel and die…


the power of addictions – what a fascinating dragon

I do not currently self injure, but the urges are there.  I know the consequences would (emotionally) kill me if I picked it up again… but I want to do it again SO badly.  I think about it most of the day, and most of my energy is spent on fighting the urges. I smile on the outside, but that one thought floats around my neurons and synapses.  I know people say you have to stop for yourself, or it will not work (like drugs, alcohol or smoking), but the external consequences have kept me from doing it for a year and a half.  I know that I would lose my marriage (or in the very least seriously damage it), and potentially lose my freedom by once again being hospitalized… but some days I think (just for a fraction of a second) that it would all be worth it just to feel that way again (the relief).  So many people just don’t get this (tho I am guessing other people who self injure and anyone fighting any other addiction would get it).  It’s not that my relationship is devalued in any way, or that I would even want to endanger it.  It’s just that the “high” from the si would feel so good.  That moment of amazing just gnaws at me… I want it again, and have not found any other way to produce it.  It makes my anxiety go away, and my thoughts stop racing, and it gives me a really good feeling, up until the second the regret and shame kick in.  If I could find something that did all that without the regret and shame, I would take it in a heartbeat.  I would do it every day because that part feels so wonderful.  Its powers are great… but so is the crash afterwards.  And that part sucks…

There are days I wish it were socially acceptable to cut.  I wish I wouldn’t have to fight the urges.  I wish I could just do it… but that’s an addiction for you.