jumbled, confusing, pre-verbal stuff

Some days, the sensations in my body make me want to rip my insides up so I could stop feeling them.

We talked a bit about memories and sensations and interpreting pre-verbal stuff. She said that sometimes the pre-verbal is all a jumbled mess, and sometimes it’s interpreted by what we can later connect to it, even if its not accurate to the moment.

I told her sometimes it feels like I’m one of those plastic dolls whose legs pop off if you twist them back enough… I know it can’t possibly be an accurate memory because I have both my legs still. She pointed out that it may have simply felt as if my legs would rip off, but I had no other reference for it at the time, so my brain made the connection to those toys, and kept it because it’s the “best explanation”…

We also talked about how there’s still this internal pressure/compulsion to talk about some of the flashbacks sometimes, but it tends to get caught up when I walk in to her building. I no longer have words for it, and the connection to it leaves, so I struggle to bring it up… We talked around that for a bit, and got a tiny bit in one direction, but then time was up.

Some days I wish I could bring her home with me in my pocket so I could pull her out and talk when the strong drive was present… it only still feels ok to talk when it’s almost impossible to do so. I guess there’s a measure of safety in the impossibility of it.

The insomnia amplifier (and safe spaces).

Have you ever noticed how everything experienced through insomnia is amplified?

It’s not only the after effects in the following days, but also everything experienced in the middle of the night while I’m lying awake.

Tonight, the cat food smell is bothering me. It’s turning my stomach, and it’s the only thing I can smell… but do you think I’d make a move to throw it out into the kitchen trash? Nope. Because making such large movements would not only “wake me up more”, but it would also wake the animals up, who would then get restless… at least, that’s my excuse. I really just don’t feel like crawling out of bed when I have a mere 30 minutes left here anyway. It would have been 2 hours if I simply did it when it started bothering me, but it was easier to smash my face into the pillow than it was to move the trash. Now I’m regretting it…

It’s not only smell that gets amplified when I can’t sleep. It’s any sound or extra light. It’s textures and temperatures and thoughts…

I could text any number of friends who also deal with insomnia, but that would require a conversation, and I’m not sure I’m up for that just now.

It is also in the middle of the night when, before I think too much about the ramifications, I feel like I might want to talk more about the things my body remembers… before my brain kicks in and I worry about reactions and fall-out, before the shame and secrecy set it, I sometimes think it might be healing to talk about the sexual abuse stuff with someone other than just Dr C… it might be validating to have some honest and uncensored conversations about it.

Then my brain kicks in. I think about what might happen, who might react & how they might react… I think of all the invalidation and scrutiny I would get for it, and the lost relationships… and it no longer seems worth it.

I prefer anonymity. I prefer the safety-net of confidentiality… and my heart sinks a little. I feel defective. Even just thinking of talking more openly about it makes me feel like a bad person. The guilt and shame hit hard.

On the one hand, I know it wasn’t my fault; I know the guilt and shame shouldn’t be mine (but they are). I know they should belong to the person (people) who did those things… I know this, but I also can’t fully accept it.

What if I’m remembering wrong? What if I’m exaggerating? What if I’m really just doing this for attention? What if I’m just that horrible, spiteful child the voice in my head says I am? What if I’m just plain wrong?

The ramifications for the named people wouldn’t be huge, but they’d be there. The ramifications for me would likely be worse. If I mentioned someone, and they didn’t actually do anything, I’d lose friends and family (it’s not like I have proof. It’s just my word against their’s, and I have a history of mental health issues, so… gotta love stigma). I’d be branded a liar & attention-seeking by those closest to me. I’ve already gotten that label from some people, but they are not really people that matter to me; providers I’ve seen only once or twice, family or friends I choose to no longer have contact with…

It’s just easier to talk around it in anonymous circles, or to keep conversations in the safety of the therapy office. That might change some day, but right now, it’s all I can manage. The fear doesn’t exactly stop me from longing to connect more authentically with others, but it stops the actuality of it happening…

I miss the csa group Dr C ran. It was more structured, but we still had chances to connect around the experiences of having gone through what we did, and many of us having dissociation around it… it was a safe place to be vulnerable, and we seemed to share understandings around it all… I don’t really know how the group would work in the long run though. Part of the safety came from the structure and the limited time commitment… but some days I really wish I could sit again in a room of people who understood the struggle without having to search so hard to explain it; and to know it’s safe to give voice to some of the memories.

Me at 20 (assignment for a self – discovery workshop)

The assignment was to find a metaphorical image of ourselves at a selected age. I had originally picked the number 27 because she first had us just pick a number, without telling us what the number was for.

At 27, I was internally severely depressed, suicidal, and a general mess, but presented as very together to the outside world. I worked almost 80 hours a week. I was a manager at a group home. I had my external shit together… I would land in the hospital for a week, get discharged, and head back to work the day of discharge, or the following day. I worked full-time while attending intensive outpatient treatment around my work schedule… I can’t count anymore how many times I was asked how I could manage that so seemingly easily…

The perfect picture for that would be an ad for the exorcism movie (a b&w photo with a girl sitting in a room alone, her head facing the wrong direction, and the words “there’s a fate worse than death”… I kinda regret not bringing it now…

So yeah, that felt like a bit heavy, and a bit much to bring to this workshop.

The second age I picked was 20 simply because L picked that one. The image for it is an ad for The Good Place…

It’s perfect for me at 20. There were a few bumps, but I was generally unaware. My internal systems did a good job of convincing me everything was fine. I was oblivious except for a few things not going great (hugely depressed, but no real clue why. Trying to work on it in therapy and constantly getting the question “was there anything else?” Because the interventions that should have worked just didn’t…). So yeah, that works well for 20.

Medical marijuana

I don’t understand why marijuana is still mostly illegal in the U.S… (well, ok. I can probably tease it out: cash flow, and maintaining the power structure).

Anyway, I’ve been exploring the wonders of the herb in dealing with chronic pain and ptsd (legally, in my home state). It’s pretty useful for so many things. It’s quelling my anxiety. It’s dulling the pain. It keeps flashbacks from breaking through. It stops overwhelming flashbacks in their tracks. It’s lifting my depression. It’s allowing me to get quality sleep at night, even if I have to get up to take the dogs out in the middle of the night… 

And my only side effects so far? Uncontrollable laughter if I take too much (I’m still figuring out the best dosing), slight paranoia (again, if I take too much), some flakiness (isn’t that the same with most psych drugs?), and relaxation. Hmm… such shitty side effects (<– sarcasm, in case you were wondering).

I was hoping it was going to allow me an easier time in talking freely with Dr C about some of the ickier past things, but the remaining effects from the previous night didn’t allow for enough dis-inhibition… I was able to bring up that I wanted to talk about it, and that I wasn’t sure what part of it I needed to talk about, but I still had trouble actually translating what the kid wanted to tell her… we tried something different around it, and it might have worked had session not been over… 

Oh, the pot also dulls the effects of triggers… there was a scene in Nashville that would have normally been very triggering (Juliet recovers some sexual abuse memories). I was able to listen to it,  and all it pulled up was a vague recognition that something along those lines occurred in my history. There was no overwhelming flashbacks, no unbearable physical sensations… I’d say that’s a huge win. 

Hopefully, I’ll get to a point where I can integrate the crap that hits me at times… maybe I’ll even be able to return to “functioning human being” eventually. That would be nice. 

Here’s to hoping out government continues to move towards legalizing marijuana at the federal level. 

Flashbacks (**trigger**)

I was laying in bed, trying to avoid waking up, when a memory of duckboy hit me out of nowhere. 

**trigger** I could feel his hand holding my wrists above my head. I could feel his crushing weight on top of my body. I could feel his fumbling hand. I could feel his slimey, sloppy kiss, his grinding body… and everything else he did that time. **trigger**

It was all condensed into about a minute or less, but my body is still tingling. There are still echos of the memory…

He used to insist it wasn’t sexual because we had our clothes on. I only resisted so many times before giving in. It was always easier to get it over with than to try to squirm away from under his almost 300lb frame…

For the longest time (we’re talking almost 20 years), I was adamant on only calling it “very insistent”. Whomever was hearing it tried to rephrase it as assault, and I would correct them. I refused to put that label on what he did (partially for his sake, partially for mine)… I had flashbacks at the time, but I wouldn’t remember them after they passed (or even understand that I had one). It wasn’t until my long bout of hospitalizations, where medical records contained notes of me crying and trying to explain the memories, that I finally realized something more than just the memories of my parents fighting was bothering me… Dr C was the first person who heard me admit that what duckboy did might have been rape. I was still terrified to tell her any details, but at the same time, I started desperately trying to write down what I remembered in the flashbacks while they were happening. I knew if I didn’t write in the moment, I’d forget it again as soon as it faded. 

The first time I wrote it out, I was journaling on my phone. It was the early days of smartphones though, before apps saved what you were doing should you be interrupted. A call buzzed in and erased everything I had tried to write down… I took that as a sign that no one needed to know the details. I also switched to trying to capture it on paper. I was anxious someone would find it, read it, and know the things I had done, but i really wanted to be able to read whatever it was I kept remembering and forgetting… It was maybe a year later before I tried to bring up the content of my flashbacks again in treatment. 

—————————-

I was hoping writing about the flashback this morning would help it fade faster (it sometimes works that way), but I’m still feeling echos of memories. I guess my body wants to make me listen. Stuff had been stirring all week, but none of it had been this explicit; there were no real defined cognitive memories, just body sensations. Now, even the echos have snippets of whole memories attached to them… I guess its good group was cancelled and I was able to get individual instead. I don’t want to have to keep sitting with this all weekend. 

More stupid triggers

Met with the aprn today. I knew she’d be intense, but I wasn’t expecting the plethora of triggers that would come my way. 

Aside of her abrupt and incredibly direct manner, she started to talk more about ect after I told her I was strongly against it. I started to run away inside myself, and was about to walk out when I stepped back and was able to ask her to stop talking about it. After she recovered from the interruption, she apologized and moved on. 

I had trouble grounding again, but managed by the time the hour was up. I stood to leave. She offered a handshake though I was already turned towards the door and on my way out. I turned to shake her hand more out of obligation than anything. I was expecting a quick one, but she held on to my hand with both of hers, continuing to shake even as I tried to pull mine away twice. She’s not a big woman, but she has quite a grip. My panic was rising when she finally let go.  I had group right afterwards though. I was able to feel safer in Dr C’s presence for the duration. 

I stayed distracted enough during group, but as soon as I left, the sensation of my hand being held grew louder. The memory of the aprn quickly got overlaid with a sense of bitch, and my whole body stated to feel like it was crawling. I wanted rip my skin off and my insides out… 

I really want to cancel the next appointment with her. I’m not sure the potential benefits of getting this generic test done are worth the intense triggers… correction; I know they are not. I just don’t have the courage to call her (or even text) to cancel the appointment. Maybe next week I’ll find the courage  (or I’ll suck up the no-show fee and just skip the appointment)…

I wish I could have communicated during the appointment that my impulsiveness only happens when I take psych meds. The whole mess of hospitalizations happened mainly while I was on meds (save the two instances after I moved back home). 

I also didn’t verbalize that my ptsd kicked up big-time after that move, and that, while home, the flashbacks were 24/7 and incredibly intense. They aren’t as bad up here, nor as pervasive, though they do happen…

I’m not sure I want to keep triggering them by continuing to see this aprn. I’m sure she’s probably a nice person, and good at her job, but… when I try to remember anything about the appointment, she’s replaced by bitch and the things bitch did. 

I’m really not interested in trying psychotropic meds again (even ones I’ve not tried… all three of them). 

I’ve been feeling pukey and exhausted since the appointment. I really wanted to sleep, even on the drive home. I got home ok, then back out to pick L up at work, but fell asleep while waiting the 7 minutes for her to get out. I slept about 2 hours. I’m not as tired now, but still feel gross. I’m thinking it’s related to the triggering. 

She had asked what was behind the ever-present suicidality. All I could think to say was that I’m so tired… I wish I knew how to qualify what it’s like to struggle through every day. The best I can do is keep journaling the days, but even that doesn’t do it justice… how do you explain carrying a hell no one else can truly understand (nor do you ever wish them to)…

Barbie gets a makeover; steps to an altered doll

Last week, I decided I wanted to turn an old barbie I had bought for mold-making purposes into an altered doll. It started because I’ve been struggling with some really graphic self harm thoughts. I was hoping expressing it on the doll would help alleviate them… it’s kinda working I guess. Either that, or the doll has me distracted enough to put the thoughts on the back-burner.

I had cut most of her hair off back when I thought of making a mold, so I decided to pluck out the rest of it to be able to sew in something else (it might be useful to note that hand-sewing doll hair is a pain, and painful. Even with a thimble to help push the needle through the plastic, my fingers are raw and sore from having to do it so many times… I’m not even half done yet!).

Anyway, I started with her hair change. I also removed her existing makeup. Painting a new face will be challenging, but I’m looking forward to that. I’ll have to thin even my high flow paint to avoid the brush lines visible with the white I had tried…

I’m planning on articulating her better as well. Currently, she’s only movable at the shoulders and hips. I’d like to bring a greater variety of motion to her other joints also. I did a quick YouTube search and found this video. It’s about articulating a Bratz doll, which is pretty much the same structure as Barbie, so I’m hoping it will work. I need to get my hands on some of the plastic molding stuff she’s talking about. I’m guessing I can find it online (amazon smile has been my best friend in finding random art supplies)…

I have ambitious plans for this doll. I want to figure out how to make it look like she’s pulling her own heart out. It seems that her body is hollow, so that should be easy enough… I just have to perfect my sculpting skills so I can make a heart I’m satisfied with. I’d also like to figure out some way to express dissociation. I’m not sure if I want to alter her head to accomplish that, or simply utilize facial expression…

There’s a measure of therapy involved in making this doll. It will be a blend of artistic expression and autobiographical depiction. I guess something along the lines of Hollywood creative nonfiction; the backbone of the story is true, but the details are exaggerated and embellished for dramatic effect…we’ll see how far I actually get with her. 

_____________________________

I’m going to put some YouTube videos below for reference. I haven’t tried them yet, but I want to know what to come back to later. I would normally do this in a “private” post so you don’t have to see my note-taking, but it might be useful to others if they are also interested in making dolls… and if any of you have experience, feel free to critique or offer up suggestions. 

• How to make resin eyes
• Intro to ball joined doll making by Aiden Thornguard
• Making a head out of paper clay by Amionsen
• Making realistic and fantasy eyes by LittleWindowsResin

They feel far away

It doesn’t feel real anymore, those “memories” that felt so real when I lived down south. The further I get away from having lived there, the less convinced I am that they were real…

Dr C says that it’s “normal” for trauma memories to be encapsulated & only accessible during certain conditions… I believe her because I trust her expertise, but at the same time, I doubt the validity of my own experience. Yes, if they are true, they explain a lot of seemingly random and unexplained things (like my strong negative reaction to male genitalia, my intense dislike of being touched unexpectedly, the weird body sensations that seemingly never leave, the huge gaps in my memory…). But…none of those memories feel real anymore. As out-of-touch with my earlier adult life as I felt while living at home again, that’s how out-of-touch I feel with what came up living “at home”. The only difference is that I had proof of my early adult life (a resume I could look back on, friends, my wife, journals to re-read, etc). I don’t have that for my life growing up. The only journals I still have are ones that talk about friendships and kid things. There’s nothing in the book I found that would corroborate the story in my head. There’s no person that could or would validate it. Bitch took my journals from middle and high school when she stayed in my room after I had moved to my aunt & uncle’s house down the street for my senior year in high school (they were already dead and the house had been sitting empty for a few years. Some vandalism happened. I jumped at the chance to get away from my parents’ constant battles and offered to “live” there). It started as only sleeping at their house, but eventually I spent more and more time there. At the point I left for college, I had been living at the house full time for several months. My mom moved in there shortly after I left for school; she needed an escape from my dad also… he was really abusive to her. I think she used the excuse that I had left my animals at the house and they needed tending, combined with the house needing the “security” of being occupied. My brother stayed with him in their house, but he had always been safer with G. There were a lot of double-standards flying around when I was little, from both sides (though it took me a lot longer to see some than others). My brother got away with a lot by my dad. He was held to much different standards by my mom & K. The same was true on the flip side; I got away a lot lighter with mom & K than I did with G… I realize now that so much of what I thought was normal growing up was actually really abusive. I had thought my brother escaped much of it, but in reality, he just caught it on another front. 

I’m connecting with some of those memories that came up while living down south simply by having talked more about growing up, but they still feel just barely out of reach. It feels like something I can just barely brush my finger tips against if I reach out really far. They don’t feel totally fake when I think about the specifics of growing up there, but they still don’t feel real either. Part of it is that I don’t want to delve into describing them too much here. What if they really are simply a sick, twisted story I tell myself. If I wrote about them, they would potentially be damaging to those others involved. Unlike the domestic violence incidents, I have no corroboration to them and they are not “public knowledge” within my circle… it feels irresponsible to write too much about them right now. Another part is simply that they are very disturbing to me. I’m afraid of thinking about them and accidentally flooding myself with trauma memories I can’t contain. They do enough of that unbidden, there’s no use inviting it outside of the safety of Dr C’s presence… 

They’ve faded again for the most part. It’s back to the faint tingles in my body, the echos of touches… these I can handle at this level for the time being. There’s no drive to cut the memories out of my body. They don’t trigger a desperation to be rid of them at the moment. They had in the past; it’s how I ultimately ended up at The Center in DC 5 years ago this past week. They had tripped me over into desperately doing anything to change the sensation in my body. I didn’t understand them at the time, I just knew when they got bad, I needed to cut the feel of duckboy out of my body… and in my dissociated state, I admitted to the doctors that there were other memories I was trying to cut out, but the only ones I consciously remembered then were the duckboy ones (it was a combination of disturbing and validating to go back and read that the concept of other sexual abuse had been brought up years before I “remembered” it down South. I have no memory of telling the doctors at the er, but apparently I did during more than one visit. And I didn’t read those files till after the memories surfaced with De; after I had switched to TL)… if I think too much about them, or let my brain wander towards those memories, they intensify and threaten to flood again. I can’t afford that right now…

Now I’m afraid to write any more and also afraid to put this down to try to sleep. They feel closer again, threatening again… I feel like I have to keep rambling to “hold the door” against them, but not rambling in a direction that helps them push forward. Maybe if I put this away and try some music I’ll be able to sleep for the hour or so before I have to wake up. I could ease some of the tension and just cut, but that would bring about a whole host of external consequences I really dislike. Better to sit with those urges instead of giving in. I’d break my “clean” steak also, and that would be frustrating to realize in the morning… yeah, better to try to listen to music and sleep a bit more.

train of thought crashes into a memory?

Was on the way home from a friend’s house. In the lane next to me there was a dog barking out the car window. I mentally noted how happy I was that this set of dogs doesn’t do anything like that… I thought how annoying it would be to have to drive with a dog that needed to pace back and forth between windows and bark at everything. I remembered an old dog who did not ride well in the car. She would do ok on short trips, and if the windows were open, but the long drive I took was a tough one. I remember her sounding like a squeaky door the whole way. I remembered who was with me on the drive. I remembered how annoyed he was with her, and some of the mean things he said… and then I started feeling things in my body. I had a brief flash of something specific, but it had to have been a mixed-up memory. The angle of the image I got was off… actually, it’s a near-impossible angle to get (at once laying down and sitting up)…

Can’t shake the creepy feeling since. Can’t shake the body memories.

It’s one of those times where it hit at a moderate level and has remained that way since. It’s bearable for the time being, but I hope it fades soon.

Write the saddest story you can in 4 words…

I saw this on fb…

“I loved you once…”

it can have so many endings:

…but then I remembered.

…and you betrayed me.

…then you used me.

…and I saw your true colors.

…you broke my heart.

…I still love you (and I don’t know why)…

Flashbacks (WIP)

This page has been one of the slowest yet. I’ve had the general idea for the top layer for over 2 weeks (though it went through at least 4 revisions before that. The original bg sketch was done back in June), but can’t seem to execute it the way I see it in my head. I totally screwed up the skeleton… now I’m waiting for it to dry before I can try it again.

Also, faces in profile are my toughest draw. They always look wrong, so I tend to just do a mass of hair covering where the face would be…

Here are some of the steps that I remembered to take pics of:

“50 shades” controversy, & the lasting effects of childhood trauma

So, after first writing this up almost a month ago, I have yet to put more effort into it. I had contacted a few people claiming to be connected to the BDSM community in an effort to get “honest” perspectives. Publically, they strongly supported the notion that the community is respectful and vigilant of “safety”. Privately however, some denounced the community as seedy and very unsafe. I was warned to “stay far away” from anything even remotely having to do with BDSM, including looking further into the different aspects of it. The few people I know personally and trust, and who also have some experience with the community express otherwise: that their experiences have been safe and respectful… This has me confused. I am more apt to believe the people I know in real life, so I guess I will go with that…

Cosmic Weirdness

So, JF returned my call. She remembered me, though not specifics around what I asked. She acknowledged that, though it was a long time ago, she would have remembered if that was something I had brought to her and we spent time on it. She did remember the DuckBoy stuff…
She also said it was “cosmic weirdness” that I left her a message because she had just been thinking of me on her way home yesterday. She was surprised to come in to find my voice mail this morning.
🙂

Still restless. Still not sure what to do with myself, but I might be shedding some happy tears ♡ there’s something to be said for speaking to someone who saw you at your worst and still thinks you are an ok person. Thank you JF.

:)…

finished that art journal page…

I started it about 2 weeks ago…

I ended up using the map pieces that were triggering. I kinda covered them a bit with semi-translucent tissue paper. It’s far from where that side of the page was supposed to go, but it’s miles above where it started.

 

beginning

middle

2

 

distractions happen

So… yeah. Didn’t talk about any of the stuff I had intended to talk about today.

She was asking questions about more background stuff, so the session was spent on that. All good info to have, and probably helpful in understanding things, but I had really hoped to at least broach the “neediness” topic. As it was, I got to throw it in as a request for next time (in hopes of keeping myself accountable, and letting her know I really wanted to talk about it). She added brainstorming about it to my homework (though at the moment I can’t remember what the original homework was. oops. I’m sure it will come back to me at some point).

I guess I’m not the only one who can get distracted in therapy.

She looked really sad at points as I was telling her stuff. Again, I’m not sure if it was the lighting or me interpreting things wrong, or she genuinely was sad, but I felt bad for telling her the stuff I told her. I don’t want to make her sad. That would suck. I just want to deal with my shit and move on. I don’t want to contribute to another person’s nightmares again… I guess with her being relatively new to the agency, I could hazard that she was not as prepared for dealing exclusively with trauma day in and day out. I will assume that the cumulative effect of the stories from her clients makes the sadness easier to touch. I also know that I have developed quite a bit of distance and detachment from the stuff I told her about today, so maybe it really is more sad than I think it would be. I still have this paranoid fear of breaking my therapists though, so maybe I need to check in with her around this. I don’t want to do the trauma work with her if it ends up helping to break her. It’s not a nice feeling knowing my monsters have branched out to haunt others as well. I’m on speaking terms with most of them. I can figure out how to quiet many of them relatively successfully. But I’ve also had more years of dealing with them…

On a completely unrelated note (but very much on my mind at the moment. apologies for the tmi to follow). I think I figured out why most woman hate bras: they buy them too tight. I recently purchased a bra in the size they measured me at. HUGE mistake. It’s SO TIGHT!!!! I thought it would be ok, though I normally go one size up from what the FOH person says. I was wrong. I can generally wear my bras all day (like 16 hours). This one I can barely manage 4 hours in. Ugh! Not great for top-heavy people… Time to put this one away and find one of the old ones I can still wear…

There’s finally hope for a sense of safety in the world

I’m not sure how to explain this without sounding like a scary psychopath, so please bear with me.

Earlier this morning, my dad (whom I no longer have contact with and who lives in another country) was Skyping with my mom. The topic of his oldest sister came up. He described some of the things she has been saying and doing lately that have caused even him to sever ties with her (she would probably qualify for a dx of psychopath. she was always horribly abusive to everyone in the family, but my dad was wrapped around her little finger for a lot of years)… Anyway, he was concerned about her behavior and current level of delusions. I chimed in that he should probably call social services on her and ask them to check up on her because what she was saying leads the family to believe she will seriously harm someone… He actually agreed (something he has never done before, but I guess even he is scared of her now).

The part that has me feeling shitty is my reaction to the thought of someone coming in, forcibly taking her away and forcibly medicating her: I’m elated. This is more than just happy, I’m ready to jump for joy and throw a party… I would love to be a fly on the wall if they actually do take her away, and I would be smiling from ear to ear as she screams that they are just trying to kill her (I think she’s got some dementia going on at this point, because she’s quite delusional). This reaction is so far from who I see myself as, that it really bothers me. But, she is the only person on the planet that elicits this kind of reaction. Literally anyone else I will argue that their background has brought them to where they are today, and I will feel bad for them. Pick any horrific serial killer or psychopath on the planet, and I will feel compassion for them (not saying they shouldn’t pay for their crimes or abuses, but that I can see how what they went through in life brought them to the point they are at and I feel bad for them). I can understand the same with bitch, but I don’t feel bad for her and I still really want her to suffer. I don’t care about her circumstances growing up, I don’t care about her trauma history, I don’t care about her mental illnesses. She fucked with too many people I do care about for me to even remotely feel any compassion for her at all. She was horribly abusive to everyone… I want to see her suffer for it.

While I would never act on some of the fantasies I hold about what I would like to see done to her, the level of pleasure I get from thinking about them scares me. I don’t like this aspect of myself (it makes me too much like her)… The more I think about what may happen to her if social services steps in and gets her out of society, the more relief I feel. I really want this to happen. I really want her not to be able to hurt anyone else any more. I would love to find out that they took her and have her on high levels of antipsychotics and sedatives. Finally, the world would feel kinda safe…

Does being so utterly happy about the thought of her locked up and heavily medicated make me as bad as her?

_______________________________________

Someone on a support forum helped me re-frame his pretty well. She pointed out that it sounded like I was looking for validation around the abuse. She hit the nail on the head. My whole life, the only 2 people who ever agreed that bitch was a horrid person were my mom and my aunt (the middle sister on my dad’s side). Everyone else bought into her charm and her “woe is me. they hate little, innocent me for no reason!”. She was really good at charming the pants off everyone while she beat you down behind their backs. Seeing her finally have to face some sort of consequences for her behavior would finally be external validation that we are not the crazy, abusive ones…

huge reality check

I just spent the better part of the day reviewing most of my medical files from social security. wow… I was (am?) really fucked-up. I’m seriously questioning 1) how I am still alive to this day, 2) why in the world my wife stayed with me, 3) if there’s ever a possibility of getting better for real… I mean, I can’t tell you how many times my records noted what a hopeless cause I was, and how I am destined to this struggle forever. And it wasn’t just one provider, it was almost all of them… I was hospitalized over 21 times (if my count is correct), 15 of which happened in the span of a year and a half. I’ve been tried on 30+ meds (with varying degrees of success or failure). I know some of the records are not consistent from page one to page two, but most of them concur on 3 major diagnoses (depression, bpd, ptsd), and my prognosis (utterly hopeless)…  I think I am the definition of a “lost cause”. I’m really glad I will be seeing TL tomorrow, though this wasn’t what I had in mind to talk to her about. I think it’s only fair to warn her how futile it all is though, so she doesn’t put much effort into this only to start pulling her hair out in a few weeks… wow… yeah. There’s still some records not included in their files, but it’s not much. The sad part is, I was dissociating for so much of that time. There are several hospitalizations I don’t recall ever occurring… now I’m sitting here a bit shell-shocked. I had known much of it was going to be bad, but didn’t realize quite how much of it, and quite how bad.

when we are taught that “no” means “yes” but “yes” also means “yes”… (TRIGGER WARNING)

…and there is no real “no.”

A friend posted this blog link on facebook tonight.  I had wanted to see Divergent anyway, but now I want to read the book before seeing the movie (I tend to find they skimp on messages in movies).  It got me thinking; not only are movies and tv glorifying sexual violence, but we are trained that being “hard to get” is a turn on, and no never actually means no.  This is more pronounced with people who grow up in chaotic and abusive situations.  

When I was discussing the concept of rape with a co-worker many years ago (she was working towards licensure as a therapist and in the process of completing her PsyD), she defined rape and assault as needing a decisive “no” with physical resistance.  At the time, I had not mentioned my experiences with Duckboy to anyone except my own therapist, but even to her only in the most vague terms.  I was taken aback by this friend’s rigid and adamant definition.  I tried to gently give “other” scenarios (my own experiences without divulging that it was myself I was speaking about, but hypothetical subtleties in situations), but she refuted it all.  She said if the woman was truly not wanting any contact, she would fight back and scream “no” until her voice was hoarse if she had to… “what if she says no, but he doesn’t pay attention? …what if she was trained to refuse once, but if he pushed the idea, she had to go along with it? …what if he laughed her “no” off and continued what he was aiming for? … what if he said she was leading him on, so had to do it? what if she was scared because he was so much bigger and stronger? what if he could hold both of her hands in his one and pin them above her head? what if the “no” caught in her throat as she was trying to say it but all that escaped was tears and shaking her head? What if…” To all this, her reply was that it did not meet the definition of rape, and was barely teetering towards assault.  That conversation was had early in my acceptance of what had happened (there’s something about being in a situation that makes it feel normal, especially when you have always been taught to go along with whatever the stronger/louder/older person says without argument).  Prior to this conversation, I had started talking to JF about what had happened with Duckboy, but this conversation had me ashamed for feeling that any of it was something that should not have happened.  I started telling JF that it wasn’t anything wrong; that Duckboy had just been “a little forceful about the sexual stuff, but it was ok…”  I think she had tried to get to the truth of it all, but I was too ashamed.  It was not only not ok to fight back, but it was not ok to be disturbed by any of it if I hadn’t fought tooth and nail to get away.  If he had no scars or bruises, I was consenting… I think it’s at about this time that the cutting had moved to my legs.  I don’t really remember doing it, but I do remember having the gyn ask what the words on my legs were (and later JF asking about them because I had flat-out denied the existence of the cuts that were most certainly visible to the gyn).  The gyn thought she read “slut” and “whore”, but she wasn’t sure about it so JF wanted to talk about it.  I told her I wasn’t sure what they said, and that I didn’t remember writing them (I honestly did not remember it. I think that was one of the many times I had “checked-out” and cut myself only to wake in the morning to new cuts)… I remember telling JF that I didn’t really know why that would even cross my mind.  When she asked if it related to Duckboy, I reiterated that he never did anything wrong; he was just a little forceful… I stopped talking about it shortly after that.  Words appeared in blood on my legs, but I refused to talk about it.  I was lost in the shame of feeling wronged when I “obviously” wasn’t. I started OD’ing on pills to help drown out my head (though only once was I “caught” and sent to the ER. One other time I was sent to the ER because the nurse thought I meant I had taken that many pills only 2 hours ago, not 14 hours ago), and to help ease the dissonance between what I felt, and what “society” (or at least a handful of “friends”) said was right or wrong.  Mind you, my therapist, the nurse I trusted, and the gyn all colluded on the idea that what they understood had happened was indeed “wrong”, but for some reason I didn’t listen to their opinions… I didn’t address any of the assault or abuse stuff again for almost 15 years, but it crept back to my awareness regularly in the form of body memories and flashbacks.  I remember the times I would close my eyes and “just get it over with” when a friend asked for “benefits” even though that was all purely consensual.  He attributed it all to my coming out later that year.  I never told him about Duckboy.  For years, I was adamant that what went on with Duckboy was all in my head in terms of “appropriateness.”  Even when the flashbacks interfered with my relationships (apparently I went pale and stopped breathing for a few seconds the first time my ex pulled out a realistic dildo. She had offered to stop, but I recovered my bearings and did my best to ignore the flashbacks taking over enough to convince her there was nothing wrong), I refused to acknowledge the damage done by Duckboy.  It was only after the millionth recommendation from the millionth hospital social worker that I sought sexual assault counseling this past summer.  Even when the body memories caused me to cut severely in an effort to rid myself of them, I refused to acknowledge a history of assault.  When asked about it, I attributed it to the body memories, but refused to give details or call it anything other than him being forceful.  There were the body memories that came before Duckboy, but I had no actual memories to pair them with, so they “didn’t count.”  You can’t really work on something you don’t remember except on a physical and emotional level… at least, I have no idea how to do it, and I thought it was all in my head (ok, so it is, but in a different way).  I know the basics of the situation from second-hand stories of what went on, but at the same time, my involvement is constantly denied after the first admission of occurrence.  I was too young to really remember, so I only have the stories they told me about it.  I know the guy served time for it.  I know he assaulted more than one kid at the parties. I know I was told I stopped going to bed when the other kids went because I would throw a tantrum at the parties.  It was before my brother was born, so I can assume I was younger than one and a half.  The only reason I even know anything happened was that I was told to alert my parents if the guy ever tried to contact me (after he was released… I might have been 12 or 14).  But all I have of that time are distorted nightmares and vague body memories. The stuff with Duckboy isn’t too concrete, but I remember more than I do of the earlier stuff.  I have explicit memories of what he did, and fears connected to specific events.  I react strongly and violently when touched without expecting it, especially by someone I don’t know and trust.  I have scared family friends with my reactions when they were only trying to be genuinely, harmlessly playful (things that are harmless to someone who has never been violated turn into assaults for someone with a history).  Triggers are rampant in medical settings because of the nature of medical exams.  Even when I trust my doctor, dissociation is almost inevitable.  I have yet to figure out if it’s more helpful to be alone with her, or have my wife there.  It gets confusing and full of flashbacks either way.  Speaking of doctors, I’m surprised more gyn’s are not more sensitive to assault histories.  I think they are almost as uncomfortable addressing the possibility of abuse (past or present) as we are divulging it.  It took me years to find Dr. F.  Before her, no one asked about any specifics beyond the existence of an assault history.  Dr. F actually sat down and talked before having me strip for the first time.  She checks in regularly and is always asking what helps to make it all easier.  I have not yet made any effort to find a gyn here because it’s so difficult to find someone that’s willing to take time and space to make things feel safe… Even at the hospital, when the doctors knew there was a history and those triggers had led me to the hospital, simply labeled me as “resistant” and “defiant” when I insisted on a female doctor for any exams.  There was more than one occasion when I was not given a choice to refuse the exam or ask for a female doctor. There were several “unwarranted” exams that I was not able to refuse.  Then they wondered why I “left” during the exam. They deemed me a danger to myself for dissociating in a very uncomfortable, vulnerable, and triggering situation… They replayed the old scenarios in new ways.  You would think that with a greater push for awareness and understanding of assault situations (and trauma in general) that they would work harder to keep from triggering people and re-victimizing them.  There’s still a lot of growth that needs to happen in that field…

Anyway, what was my original point?  Oh, the thoughts on the rape scene in Divergent… well, I guess I addressed it.  I’m glad that our kids are now being taught more often that “no” means no, and not a veiled “yes”.  I’m glad that we are educating everyone on the concept of respecting boundaries.  I’m glad that society is changing, albeit slowly.  It gives me hope that one day my future kids will know that they don’t have to do anything that feels so wrong. I will never tell kids not to fight for their right to refuse to do anything.  I will make sure they know they can always look to my wife and I for support around anything… and I will forever be vigilant for signs of abuse with the people I care about. No one deserves to be hurt.

Grief

No bombs were dropped by De in session today, though I did have a few panicked seconds when she started out a sentence with “my supervisor is all over me about…” (heart stalled and breath caught mid-exhale) “…asking you if we can keep your piece for further use” (resume breathing and pumping blood). I didn’t know what to say. I guess they really liked it. I asked if I could get back to her about it. De said that it will be displayed for the month of April, but that they would like to keep it to put up in the building. I’m not opposed to that, but I’m also really attached to the piece. I think if I leave it there, I will ask that my real name be used. Might as well get credit for it.  I also told De that I had been toying with asking for it back so I could tweak it because I had a million other ideas since I handed it in. She laughed and reminded me that was why I had given it to her when I did, so I wouldn’t mess with it and end up getting frustrated when it didn’t turn out how I pictured. She’s right, because I would over-work it and feel that I need to start all over again.  I don’t think I would have a fourth rendition in me before the beginning of April. It’s good I don’t have my hands on it anymore.
We spent the rest of the session talking about the pending move and how I will need to grieve the loss of the house and such, but that the overall result will be positive (the house does hold many negatives, as does this state. But it also was a “home base” for so long, a safety net if I need it. Hope I can get some sort of other safety net from it. I’m not going to hold my breath for that though).
I’m still adamant about not crying in front of others. She was trying to convince me that it would be ok, but all the judgements and fears around crying screamed in my head. I did tear up a few times with her today but refused to cry. I really don’t think I would have been able to stop if I had actually started. So I moved the conversation along (much like I keep my head moving all day and night so I don’t crack with tears). I had wanted to ask her to focus our work on the assaults and history with DuckBoy. I just didn’t find an appropriate way to slip it in to the flow. I needed more time to explain the rest of the week. I don’t think I expressed my distaste for loss in any meaningful way. I don’t think she gets how hard that is for me. I tend to stuff it all down, so it’s easy for people to miss the little hints. I just don’t do well with loss. A whole lot of loss is coming up real soon. It’s panicking me a bit, but I’m sure it will all be ok in the end (isn’t it always?). There’s always loss. There’s always change. Just gotta learn to go with it… don’t open your heart too much to prevent excessive pain with the withdrawal of whatever it was that you let worm its way inside.
The session flew by before I knew it. On the way out I asked if they had a shredder so I could get rid of the last pictures I found of DuckBoy yesterday. She suggested “making a moment of it” and that we could do it next week. I gave her the pictures to hold on to till then (I certainly don’t want them)…
(Strangely appropriate song just came on my playlist: Goodbye My Lover by James Blunt… covers the feel of all this.  It works for the house, the history, and everything else).
Is it weird that I miss my best friend from high school so much lately? I found some pics of her and of us the same time I found the DuckBoy pictures… one relationship I’d rather forget, and one I wish was still going. But I guess loss and grief are the themes of the moment (sadly there’s only the loss of DuckBoy for which I’m relieved, the other losses just hurt). I wish I had the gumption to track her down and show up at her door. I wish I had been a better friend. I wish I had fought harder when she ran away. But what do you do when a friend ceases wanting to be your friend? …I still have the mug she gave me for Christmas one year. It’s my favorite one. I really miss her.
The loss of this house means the loss of that last connection to a bunch of positive stuff. There will no longer be a safety net here… it sucks…

Can’t sleep

Can’t sleep with the music on. Can’t sleep with the music off. Trying my wife’s pillow because mine’s gotten sadly flat in the weeks since I bought it. Can’t sleep on this pillow either… my head is humming with everything and nothing all at once.
I had toyed with the idea of reaching out to De yesterday for support but landed on the “there’s nothing she can do so don’t bother her” side of the argument. I’m stuck again at not feeling like I can reach out to her for anything other than support around the sexual assault stuff (I couldn’t specify the sa for a good minute. I don’t like labeling that. I don’t like admitting it. If I don’t voice it, it goes away right? It was never real if no one knows about it…). The way she said some stuff 2 weeks ago has me translating what she said to “pathetic drama queen” in more ways than one. It has me thinking that I blow everything way out of proportion, that nothing was ever really that bad. It has me feeling like I just never learned how to deal with little upsets like my pen running out of ink, so I dramatized it to mean the world is ending.
I feel like I shouldn’t be upset about anything. I feel like I should know better. I never do anything to help myself, so I should shut up and stop complaining. There’s starving children in other parts of the world. I should be grateful for what I have. Not everyone’s parents buy them cars (not everyone’s father’s attach the same strings for the gift). Not everyone gets included in the will (not everyone’s father tries to exert immense control long after he hits the grave. I don’t want your stipulations, so do us all a favor and write me out). Not everyone has a roof over their head (that screams with memories and nightmares). It’s not lady-like to be selfish. It’s not appropriate to talk back (or explain). Nothing is good enough, but only because I’m a spoiled little child who let praise go to her head. I only experience all this for attention. I only ever want attention (to hide in the fibers of the carpet so I don’t catch anyone’s attention). Nothing is real.  There’s no black-hole in my chest. There’s no insomnia. There’s no hopelessness, it’s all something I say because I’m lazy and entitled…

Do you ever get hit with something that crumbles the carefully-crafted image you have of someone (because you desperately hoped they were better than they presented, so you choose to interpret their biting criticism as character-building)? Do you ever mourn the loss of the people you thought you grew up with when faced with their reality? Suddenly you have an almost empty corner where you originally had one filled with support and love? Nothing has changed except your understanding of the past, and even that’s sketchy at best.

While I appreciate De’s intention when telling me not to get so lost in trains of thought, it’s easier said than done. I’ve spent so long trying to ignore or run away from everything, then learning to face it, that I have a hard time deliberately trying to pay no mind to it all again. I’d like to understand things better, not just distract. I’d like to know what my arguments need to be when I’m fighting with the negatives, not just blindly deny them… in a way she’s supporting mom’s theory of “just ignore it, it will go away” but with different words.  She’s saying to just not go there. I don’t know how to do that. It never works in the long run anyway.

It’s almost 6:30am, and all I want to do is take something to sleep. I know it would knock me out for way too long though, and it would frustrate me. So I’m going to stop worrying and hope I can get at least 30 minutes in before the dogs start to shift and stir.

(I used to be good at this writing thing back before my brain walked out on me…)

Translations from the dark side

Why is it that something genuinely supportive and helpful comes off as condescending and invalidating? What lens do I put on that turns all the nice into hate? I know my stress is skyrocketing, and that the depression is creeping back in. I guess that’s the lens right there: depression. I had reached out to someone in hopes of finding support, but all I read from their response was how wrong I was doing things, how deliberately miserable I am, and how inadequate I am. In actuality, their response was uplifting, supportive, positive, and understanding.  My head instantly turned that positive into disparaging. Even as I recognize this, my head is battling itself. There’s the side that is berating me for being inadequate and stupid.  Then there’s the side of me that is taking the response at face value and trying to convince that other side that it’s reading into things. Depression will do that to you. Self – doubt and self – loathing become a way of life.
So my eyes will read “you’ve had so much success until now, you need to focus on that” and my brain will understand “you worthless piece of shit, you can’t even get recovery right. I told you you’d never amount to anything more that a useless waste of space. People tell you all the time to focus on the positive, but all you do is choose to be miserable. You’re a horrid person. You deserve everything you get and then some” (note here that a simple line of text has been translated into a tirade of the self…).

I’m writing this and the voice in my head is reminding me how stupid I have become. This is all stuff I should already know. It’s not supposed to be such a revelation… when I try to change the voice, it gets louder, then more sly when the loud doesn’t work.  It rationalizes the negative self-talk and starts whispering little doubts “you have been really off lately,” “you’re such a flake , the driving is getting bad,” “pretty soon you’ll be completely worthless in everything”… it makes the negative sound like logical conclusions. It plants seeds of doubt “everyone can see you’re crazy. It’s written all over you.  Why do you think you can’t get a job?” “Even if you did land one, they’d notice the crazy and find a reason to fire you if you don’t end up walking out first because you can’t take it”

We went to a volunteer meeting tonight at the nature center. We got hugs from people we hadn’t seen in a while, and all I could think was that they were pity hugs. Like they knew I was crazy and wanted to pat me on the head for making it out anyway but figured a hug would be less condescending… I know they are all about the hugs anyway, but my head screamed at me that they knew and just felt sorry for me.

Mental illness, self-doubt, and self loathing have a way of turning even the most positive interactions into something terrible. I wonder how much of my therapy is viewed this way.  I know the obvious ones, but what about the things that don’t necessarily hit my awareness? What about everyday encounters? What if everyone is really a wonderful person and it’s all just me that views them as hating me? I know I really dislike spending time with G. L pointed it out that my disdain for him was very evident earlier today.  I tried to be nicer when we got back home, but I have a lot of work to do on that front. He may be a perfectly wonderful person these days (ok, that’s an exaggeration. He may be at least tolerable), but I only see him through these angry glasses. Everything he says and does I interpret to be mean and hateful so I respond in kind. Then I feel bad for being an asshole. The cycle begins again. I’m once again battling the translation of simple words. I’m twisting what I’m saying to prove to myself how worthless and horrid I am. I just don’t know how to stop it.  There’s only so much arguing one can do with oneself before a splitting headache ensues. I think it’s once again time for sleep.

100-theme challenge 2014

I have participated in 100-theme challenges twice now, and I really liked some of what I produced because of them.  This year however, I wanted to put my own spin on things.  I wanted to come up with one myself.  A lot of my list can be interpreted in therapeutic ways (though admittedly, some were inspired by objects/events in the living room at the time of its creation), so I thought I would post it here in case anyone wants to participate.  The rules are simple: interpret the prompt however you see fit.  You can choose to post your work publicly somewhere, or keep it to yourself.  It can be in any form you wish as long as it can be considered creative in some way (drawing, painting, sculpting, writing, music, sounds, pictures, words, collages, performance, anything).  It’s really just supposed to give you topics you may not have thought of on your own to help spark creativity… I have liked the challenges in the past because I did things I never expected to do.  It forced me to take time out for creativity and story-telling.  Since I have been focusing more on my own art therapy of late, I figured this next one could be a way to help me express to De what I need to get out.  I will try to post anything I do of relevance.  I must warn you however, I go in spurts with these things.  Sometimes a whole bunch of work will show up at once, other times, there will be months without anything.  What I’m trying to say is: don’t hold your breathe for me to get the list finished in a timely manner.  I have had 2013’s list for the past year and only this past month have I started it…  I really liked that list though, so I will continue working on that one as well (rather than incorporate stuff from that list into this one).

Without further adieu, here’s my 2014 100-theme challenge:

1) candlelight

2) magnified

3) left standing

4) aftermath

5) breaking ground or ground breaking?

6) reaching out

7) trust

8) broken

9) in the daylight (everything is different)

10) rats in the walls

11) shattered

12) open to interpretation

13) flashbacks

14) heaviness

15) lighter than air

16) combustion

17) lights

18) hope/hopeless

19) under pressure

20) disclosure

21) history

22) presence

23) disappearing from…

24) gone away

25) at the dinner table

26) unbalanced

27) highlights

28) even snakes get the blues

29) enlightenment

30) despair

31) rave with me

32) the itch you can’t scratch

33) slippery slope

34) in my travels

35) it’s the end of the world

36) here there be dragons

37) firefight

38) spirals/spiraling

39) a blank canvas

40) just a thought

41) reflections

42) big trouble

43) happiness

44) wrath

45) associations

46) to the world

47) on the inside

48) truth in advertising

49) memory

50) deception

51) hollow

52) survival

53) turmoil

54) bad choices

55) comfort

56) falling (is like this)

57) open up

58) feety pajamas

59) what would you do?

60) superpowers

61) once upon a time

62) AWOL

63) hunger

64) the light’s gone out

65) running

66) awareness

67) transition

68) humility

69) conscience

70) memorable

71) convergence

72) destroy

73) buildings and bridges

74) the last time

75) vision

76) burning bridges

77) why

78) the first time

79) meditation

80) technology

81) walls

82) containment

83) distraction

84) anxiety

85) heart

86) it hurts like this

87) play it again

88) talk to me

89) open book

90) animals

91) brutality

92) nature

93) family

94) obsession

95) release

96) skeletons

97) peak performance

98) water

99) drowning

100) rescue

In case anyone is interested, the list I’m working on for 2013 is this (I think I have pieces to cover 7 of the topics… I’m seriously slacking!):

1. Break Away 2. Bites the Dust 3. Innocence 4. Drive 5. Sound of Settling 6. Mother Nature 7. No Time 8. Standing Still 9. Two Roads 10. Foreign 11. Breaking the Silence 12. Keeping a Secret 13. Blind Man’s Bluff 14. Waltzing 15. Traps 16. Mischief Managed 17. Lazy Days 18. Hot/Cold 19. Anyone Out There? 20. Seeing Red 21. Through the Fire 22. Between the Raindrops 23. Safety First 24. Puzzle 25. Gateway 26. Fantasia 27. Everyday Magic 28. Irregular Orbit 29. Change in the Weather 30. Nowhere and Nothing 31. Charge 32. Turn the Car Around 33. Colorless 34. Assassin 35. Daughters 36. Instant 37. Don’t Be a Hero 38. Born Without Time 39. Sound Effect 40. Little Bombs 41. Freak 42. American Boys 43. Clue 44. True Believers 45. Portable 46. Caption 47. So Close 48. Under the Red Hood 49. Dragon 50. Making History 51. Rivalry 52. Death 53. Excuses 54. Colors 55. Family 56. Music 57. Off Topic 58. Black and White 59. Memories 60. Song Title 61. Fighting Chance 62. Childhood 63. Shenanigans 64. Elements 65. First Time 66. Lost 67. Strangers 68. Insanity 69. Mirror 70. Silhouette 71. Zodiac 72. Dreams 73. Hope 74. Misunderstanding 75. Relationship 76. Stay Gold 77. Beauty 78. Alice in Wonderland 79. Runaway 80. Our Own World 81. Kiss 82. Little Things 83. Secret Admirer 84. Sweet Dreams 85. Past 86. Present 87. Future 88. Forgotten 89. Human 90. Silence 91. Breathe Again 92. Breaking the Rules 93. Fairy Tale 94. Death 95. Umbrella 96. Pattern 97. Season 98. Clothing 99. Animal 100. The Ones We Left Alive

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.