desiderata310
VIP Member
I'm still trying to sort out what happened today. It was though in many ways all the forces I've been pushing against for so long suddenly yielded and I am left a little lost.
I should back up.
I woke from the same f*cking dream: S was there, in the doorway of the room again and I woke up with a start, and a gasp. Buddy came over, purred, rubbed against my hand and in the way that only Buddy can do, stuck his ass in my face. Thanks, Buddy. Whatever, it brought me back to reality and after my heart rate came down, I plodded downstairs to feed the cat and make the coffee.
I had originally thought of going to the pool this morning to get my (much needed) swim in but I was feeling uninspired and futzed around on the internet and tried, once again, to call my mom.
No answer.
Yesterday she had called several times about the bank. *rolls eyes* And also about the time that I broke and took a late lunch, I got three more calls: two rings each. Usually this means she is either pissed at me or too angsty to actually go through with a call and making me call her back. I betted on the latter and called her.
Nothing.
And again.
And again.
GODDAMN IT.
I tried to put the issue out of my mind and continued with my day. Called her later that night with the same results. So this morning after my mind had shaken off the terror of my unceremonious awakening, I attempted to call her again. NOTHING.
S.
f*ck.
He's been over there. He's hurt her.
She's old: she's fallen, hit her head, broke her hip, gotten in an accident. I was the last person she tried to call and was unsuccessful.
Maybe she was still just pissed with me.
I called Uncle Mike. No, he'd not spoken to her, nor had Aunt Stella. Uncle Mike promised to head over to her house and check on her.
By the time I had showered, dressed, and was riding under the bridge to work, I was convinced I was going to be getting the call that Uncle Mike had found mom on the floor dead in the house and I was going to have to deal with all the hell that comes with death: deal with the house, her dog and bird, the house, the grief. I was actually terrified that the only person that really remembers me as a kid was dead. The anxiety of the whole thing had me in such a lather I was ready to cry
Then the phone rang: MOM!
OH HOLY SHIT WOMAN YOU SCARED ME!
She'd lost her phone in the grass.
All day was like this: a build up to something I was sure was going to be a terror, only to have that very calm, gentle give of peace descend.
I don't know why or how I can look forward to and dread something both at the same time. Going to my therapy sessions twice a week I think are sometimes are the only saving grace I have. (damn you, Z) Even as I rode I could feel my anxiety rising. I never know how it's going to go. I was going in still suicidal - though not as bad and a damn site more calm than I was last week.
I was at a bit of a loss when we first started. I never know how to start things and sometimes hope he will just start asking ME questions but it doesn't work like that. I talked around the things I had done, to try to accomplish some more peace: changing my email, trying to change my phone number. We talked around a few little practical things.
We wound up back on my suicidal ideation. I talked a little bit more about the hospital. John is not a fan of mental hospitals much for the same reason that I am not: they are not really all that helpful. They are miserable places where, if you are smart, you learn to lie and say whatever you must say to get the hell out of there. I told him that I was actually more suicidal in the hospital and had indeed lied to get out.
We talked around this for a bit and he paused. He was hesitant to say all this and then told me that IF it becomes necessary for me to go in the hospital that he would NOT want me to go to the hospital here in town but rather since I had decent insurance, wanted me at the private hospital that was located about 2 hours away. He said he would even make sure to help make sure that it was all arranged for me.
I felt ill. The truth is, even after today, I know that it's still there. I'm terrified of my brain sometimes. I don't completely understand why I feel the way I do or why I feel this way so often. I know that I was relieved, embarrassed, terrified and saddened that it might come to that and that he might have to make those arrangements.
I asked him: "Am I crazy?"
No.
We talked for a bit about why I felt that I was. That's easy: I don't live my life like normal people do: I have problems with the fact that he sits between me and the door, I get angsty when people linger in my doorway and I insist that they either leave or sit down. I have nightmares. I feel fragile. I cry so easily. Always looking for ulterior motives. Never trusting people. I'm lonely and I can't make friends.
He was trying that age old response about what is "normal" but I know better and he knew it.
But PTSD is listed as a mental illness. This seemed to bother him. He talked about the effects this kind of thing had on physiology on brain chemistry. I wanted to argue that any mental illness is all about a chemical imbalance but I resisted. He talked about war veterans: do I blame the guy that just came back from Afghanistan for his hyper vigilance?
No
You're not different from that guy.
So if I'm not crazy, what AM I?
*
*
*
*
"Traumatized."
Traumatized... Traumatized... Traumatized...
It's not the first time I'd heard this and yet…
The wall started to fall away.
He saw the chink and dove for it.
I struggled to express what I was feeling: cheated but not in the angry sort of stomp your feet and hide in the corner and pout sort of way. I don't do that. I know better than that - I'm not a child. I know that doesn't get you anything except disdain.
I was incredibly and profoundly struck by what I felt. I had lost so much. There's no way I can ever get my youth back; the kids being little, I missed out on it. I was openly weeping now. I want a do-over on my life. I want people that wanted me. I want someone who loved me. ANYONE. Someone who did more than just supply me with a roof over my head and clothes on my back. Someone who actually valued me as someone who was dear to them. It had never really happened for me.
He said I am not responsible for everything that happened. I argued that I am. So many junctions where I could have made a difference. Talked about my mom telling me when I was 4 or 5 about the pictures they had taken of her face when dad beat her up and asking me should she leave him. I couldn't say. I didn't know. I think I even said no, don't leave. I don't know if I can admit that out loud.
Then he said something else that struck a chord:
You have a right to be here.
Pause.
I do?!
I have fought all my life to make a little space for me. I'm tired of it. I've elbowed my way through to make some space and I'm just exhausted. I fight with myself now. And that is more exhausting than anything else I've known. I'm tired of fighting that fight. I was unwanted. I was the child that shouldn't have been. Almost aborted because there was so much danger physically and psychologically. I was born to a mother who had lost so much and I guess, as John said, never bonded with me because there was the risk that I wouldn't make it.
You have a right to be here.
…"a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars"
Have you ever heard of Desiderata?
He had not.
I tried to recite some of it…
"Go placidly amid the noise and haste and remember what peace there may be in silence,
As far as possible, without surrender be on good terms with all people, even the dull and ignorant, they too have their story…"
We talked some more. I cried. I can't describe the feeling of loss. So much gone. So much I should have had and didn't. What now? If it isn't my fault, what do I do now? How do I reconcile this? I am not convinced. I've always been taught to take responsibility for what happens to you. Own it. It makes it easier and simpler to say "this was me: it's my fault" It stops the interrogation. It stops the blame game. It may start the punishment but it means that the pain is over quicker. Just take the blame and move on. Easier to carry it than assign it to someone else.
"Your assignment is to be gentle to yourself."
Easier said than done.
He seemed to think we had made a significant step forward. I guess that's true.
He thanked me for letting him accompany me on this journey.
I was a little taken aback by this. I'm sick. I need help. I'm crazy.
shut up brain.
He had called it self improvement.
Healing?
Damn it.
He pushed that touching envelope again. Extended his hand to shake mine.
It's true. I've made a choice to trust him. I FORCED myself to make eye contact during this session. I came here to get better, right? It scares the shit out of me. Invaded my personal space, in a closed room, him between me and the door, between me and safety, between me and freedom. He won't harm me. OK, deep breath: I shook his hand. Only a tiny bit of a tremor.
I wanted to crumple and cry again.
Small talk and out on the bike to scream to the wind.
What do I do now? I'm a little lost. There's nothing to fight against tonight.
I should back up.
I woke from the same f*cking dream: S was there, in the doorway of the room again and I woke up with a start, and a gasp. Buddy came over, purred, rubbed against my hand and in the way that only Buddy can do, stuck his ass in my face. Thanks, Buddy. Whatever, it brought me back to reality and after my heart rate came down, I plodded downstairs to feed the cat and make the coffee.
I had originally thought of going to the pool this morning to get my (much needed) swim in but I was feeling uninspired and futzed around on the internet and tried, once again, to call my mom.
No answer.
Yesterday she had called several times about the bank. *rolls eyes* And also about the time that I broke and took a late lunch, I got three more calls: two rings each. Usually this means she is either pissed at me or too angsty to actually go through with a call and making me call her back. I betted on the latter and called her.
Nothing.
And again.
And again.
GODDAMN IT.
I tried to put the issue out of my mind and continued with my day. Called her later that night with the same results. So this morning after my mind had shaken off the terror of my unceremonious awakening, I attempted to call her again. NOTHING.
S.
f*ck.
He's been over there. He's hurt her.
She's old: she's fallen, hit her head, broke her hip, gotten in an accident. I was the last person she tried to call and was unsuccessful.
Maybe she was still just pissed with me.
I called Uncle Mike. No, he'd not spoken to her, nor had Aunt Stella. Uncle Mike promised to head over to her house and check on her.
By the time I had showered, dressed, and was riding under the bridge to work, I was convinced I was going to be getting the call that Uncle Mike had found mom on the floor dead in the house and I was going to have to deal with all the hell that comes with death: deal with the house, her dog and bird, the house, the grief. I was actually terrified that the only person that really remembers me as a kid was dead. The anxiety of the whole thing had me in such a lather I was ready to cry
Then the phone rang: MOM!
OH HOLY SHIT WOMAN YOU SCARED ME!
She'd lost her phone in the grass.
All day was like this: a build up to something I was sure was going to be a terror, only to have that very calm, gentle give of peace descend.
I don't know why or how I can look forward to and dread something both at the same time. Going to my therapy sessions twice a week I think are sometimes are the only saving grace I have. (damn you, Z) Even as I rode I could feel my anxiety rising. I never know how it's going to go. I was going in still suicidal - though not as bad and a damn site more calm than I was last week.
I was at a bit of a loss when we first started. I never know how to start things and sometimes hope he will just start asking ME questions but it doesn't work like that. I talked around the things I had done, to try to accomplish some more peace: changing my email, trying to change my phone number. We talked around a few little practical things.
We wound up back on my suicidal ideation. I talked a little bit more about the hospital. John is not a fan of mental hospitals much for the same reason that I am not: they are not really all that helpful. They are miserable places where, if you are smart, you learn to lie and say whatever you must say to get the hell out of there. I told him that I was actually more suicidal in the hospital and had indeed lied to get out.
We talked around this for a bit and he paused. He was hesitant to say all this and then told me that IF it becomes necessary for me to go in the hospital that he would NOT want me to go to the hospital here in town but rather since I had decent insurance, wanted me at the private hospital that was located about 2 hours away. He said he would even make sure to help make sure that it was all arranged for me.
I felt ill. The truth is, even after today, I know that it's still there. I'm terrified of my brain sometimes. I don't completely understand why I feel the way I do or why I feel this way so often. I know that I was relieved, embarrassed, terrified and saddened that it might come to that and that he might have to make those arrangements.
I asked him: "Am I crazy?"
No.
We talked for a bit about why I felt that I was. That's easy: I don't live my life like normal people do: I have problems with the fact that he sits between me and the door, I get angsty when people linger in my doorway and I insist that they either leave or sit down. I have nightmares. I feel fragile. I cry so easily. Always looking for ulterior motives. Never trusting people. I'm lonely and I can't make friends.
He was trying that age old response about what is "normal" but I know better and he knew it.
But PTSD is listed as a mental illness. This seemed to bother him. He talked about the effects this kind of thing had on physiology on brain chemistry. I wanted to argue that any mental illness is all about a chemical imbalance but I resisted. He talked about war veterans: do I blame the guy that just came back from Afghanistan for his hyper vigilance?
No
You're not different from that guy.
So if I'm not crazy, what AM I?
*
*
*
*
"Traumatized."
Traumatized... Traumatized... Traumatized...
It's not the first time I'd heard this and yet…
The wall started to fall away.
He saw the chink and dove for it.
I struggled to express what I was feeling: cheated but not in the angry sort of stomp your feet and hide in the corner and pout sort of way. I don't do that. I know better than that - I'm not a child. I know that doesn't get you anything except disdain.
I was incredibly and profoundly struck by what I felt. I had lost so much. There's no way I can ever get my youth back; the kids being little, I missed out on it. I was openly weeping now. I want a do-over on my life. I want people that wanted me. I want someone who loved me. ANYONE. Someone who did more than just supply me with a roof over my head and clothes on my back. Someone who actually valued me as someone who was dear to them. It had never really happened for me.
He said I am not responsible for everything that happened. I argued that I am. So many junctions where I could have made a difference. Talked about my mom telling me when I was 4 or 5 about the pictures they had taken of her face when dad beat her up and asking me should she leave him. I couldn't say. I didn't know. I think I even said no, don't leave. I don't know if I can admit that out loud.
Then he said something else that struck a chord:
You have a right to be here.
Pause.
I do?!
I have fought all my life to make a little space for me. I'm tired of it. I've elbowed my way through to make some space and I'm just exhausted. I fight with myself now. And that is more exhausting than anything else I've known. I'm tired of fighting that fight. I was unwanted. I was the child that shouldn't have been. Almost aborted because there was so much danger physically and psychologically. I was born to a mother who had lost so much and I guess, as John said, never bonded with me because there was the risk that I wouldn't make it.
You have a right to be here.
…"a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars"
Have you ever heard of Desiderata?
He had not.
I tried to recite some of it…
"Go placidly amid the noise and haste and remember what peace there may be in silence,
As far as possible, without surrender be on good terms with all people, even the dull and ignorant, they too have their story…"
We talked some more. I cried. I can't describe the feeling of loss. So much gone. So much I should have had and didn't. What now? If it isn't my fault, what do I do now? How do I reconcile this? I am not convinced. I've always been taught to take responsibility for what happens to you. Own it. It makes it easier and simpler to say "this was me: it's my fault" It stops the interrogation. It stops the blame game. It may start the punishment but it means that the pain is over quicker. Just take the blame and move on. Easier to carry it than assign it to someone else.
"Your assignment is to be gentle to yourself."
Easier said than done.
He seemed to think we had made a significant step forward. I guess that's true.
He thanked me for letting him accompany me on this journey.
I was a little taken aback by this. I'm sick. I need help. I'm crazy.
shut up brain.
He had called it self improvement.
Healing?
Damn it.
He pushed that touching envelope again. Extended his hand to shake mine.
It's true. I've made a choice to trust him. I FORCED myself to make eye contact during this session. I came here to get better, right? It scares the shit out of me. Invaded my personal space, in a closed room, him between me and the door, between me and safety, between me and freedom. He won't harm me. OK, deep breath: I shook his hand. Only a tiny bit of a tremor.
I wanted to crumple and cry again.
Small talk and out on the bike to scream to the wind.
What do I do now? I'm a little lost. There's nothing to fight against tonight.
