I have really been trying not to bad-mouth my husband too much. It seems counterproductive when we are trying to work things out and get along. However, sometimes I just need to vent, and this is one of those times.
Regarding physical touch as a display of affection: I do not have any opposition to it, as long as I am actually touched affectionately every once in a while. By affectionate I mean the kind of touch that is not intended to be for the purpose of sexually arousing me or to lead to intercourse. I mean a hug for the sake of hugging, a kiss for the sake of kissing.
I have had such a difficult time explaining this concept to my husband. We have even discussed it in marriage counseling, and I feel that we have made no real progress in this regard.
Given the aftermath form our last intimate encounter, you can be sure that I have no interest in any further engagements in the near future. So when he became very "affectionate" this morning, I simply became angrier with every touch. It was clear he wanted sex, and all his touches had the sole purpose of convincing my body to agree. I felt cheap and humiliated. I longed for a loving caress, a protective hug, a tender kiss.
What I find most frustrating is that I have asked for these things, but he says that he does not understand the difference between the two. He cannot separate these two emotions the way that I do.
...and I want to scream in anger, because I don't believe him, I want to scream because initially he had made an effort to understand, and now I feel that we are back to where we were when we first started counseling. The novelty (or threat of divorce) has worn off and nothing has really changed. THIS MAKES ME WANT TO SCREAM!!
Why do changes only happen when I am in fighting mode, and the minute I relax things return to the old ways? It is well known in science that a person cannot live in a "fight or flight" mode. This has been the culprit for the symptoms of chronic stress that people experience. I feel like in this marriage I only have two modes: "fight or flight" or "shut up and don't say anything" - neither one is good for my insides.
Wasn't the counseling supposed to fix this?
Like I said, I just had to vent.
Saturday, March 30, 2013
Wednesday, March 27, 2013
These Feelings Again
These feelings creep up on me ever so insidiously. I first notice the thoughts that I push away, like swatting away a pesky mosquito. Initially, they come sporadically but slowly increase in frequency...I hardly notice. Then come the images. I see myself in flashes cutting, one quick slice across my wrist, and then I look away. I ignore, I suppress, I cannot possibly be thinking this.
Today I said, "No, I will not cut; I do not need to cut". Next week, I will be on vacation with my children in the warmth of a salty, sunny beach. I will feel renewed and healed. I have no need to cut.
My next thought is, "Where did this come from? What was the trigger?" Wasn't I just laughing? Right. That was the other day.
Today was the day that I had sex with my husband once again against my will. It's not that he physically forced me or anything to that effect. It's just that "yes" seemed like the lesser of two evils...somehow.
Do you ever say yes when you don't really want to?
I do.
...and it sends me spinning in an angry tornado, touching down on sickening memories on its disturbing path through my delicate state of mind.
I suppose I just have to say no when I don't want to...easier said than done. On these occasions, I turn into a ten year old girl who is too shocked by what is happening to even consider saying no.
...and I feel dirty for saying yes.
Today I said, "No, I will not cut; I do not need to cut". Next week, I will be on vacation with my children in the warmth of a salty, sunny beach. I will feel renewed and healed. I have no need to cut.
My next thought is, "Where did this come from? What was the trigger?" Wasn't I just laughing? Right. That was the other day.
Today was the day that I had sex with my husband once again against my will. It's not that he physically forced me or anything to that effect. It's just that "yes" seemed like the lesser of two evils...somehow.
Do you ever say yes when you don't really want to?
I do.
...and it sends me spinning in an angry tornado, touching down on sickening memories on its disturbing path through my delicate state of mind.
I suppose I just have to say no when I don't want to...easier said than done. On these occasions, I turn into a ten year old girl who is too shocked by what is happening to even consider saying no.
...and I feel dirty for saying yes.
Monday, March 25, 2013
She With Laryngitis Laughs the Loudest
Well, my sister and her family left this morning. What a wonderful time we had laughing together!
My cousin, who lives in town, also had her sister visiting this weekend. We all got together, and our cheeks hurt from laughing and smiling for each other's cameras.
We drank tea; we drank wine; we told stories about our mother and about being children - our cousins in our native country and my sister and I in the United States.
The men watched basketball, and the women were sisters. We shared so much, but mostly we laughed. I have had laryngitis during the past three days, but even with my squeaky voice, I think I laughed the loudest!
I needed that laugh; I wanted that laugh. I wanted to go off into a separate room and speak in a language that only we understood about a time that only we knew...and laugh hard about it.
...And so we did. We laughed about hard times and the way life lessons were learned. We laughed about our body shapes and "the way God made us". We laughed about men and about being wives, an we agreed that we all love being mothers.
The laughter was healing, restorative, invigorating. It brought to life a carefree part of me that I rarely see as an adult.
Laughing can do that. It can lift me out of total darkness or calm my agitated moods. I can honestly say that I seek it out. I gravitate towards people who make me laugh. There are blogs that I enjoy simply because they elicit a good laugh from me (or at least a joyful smile).
So if laughing is "jogging for the soul", as one reader described it in a comment on the previous post, I certainly got a good workout this weekend! And as any experienced runner will tell you, it sure does feel good afterwards :)
My cousin, who lives in town, also had her sister visiting this weekend. We all got together, and our cheeks hurt from laughing and smiling for each other's cameras.
We drank tea; we drank wine; we told stories about our mother and about being children - our cousins in our native country and my sister and I in the United States.
The men watched basketball, and the women were sisters. We shared so much, but mostly we laughed. I have had laryngitis during the past three days, but even with my squeaky voice, I think I laughed the loudest!
I needed that laugh; I wanted that laugh. I wanted to go off into a separate room and speak in a language that only we understood about a time that only we knew...and laugh hard about it.
...And so we did. We laughed about hard times and the way life lessons were learned. We laughed about our body shapes and "the way God made us". We laughed about men and about being wives, an we agreed that we all love being mothers.
The laughter was healing, restorative, invigorating. It brought to life a carefree part of me that I rarely see as an adult.
Laughing can do that. It can lift me out of total darkness or calm my agitated moods. I can honestly say that I seek it out. I gravitate towards people who make me laugh. There are blogs that I enjoy simply because they elicit a good laugh from me (or at least a joyful smile).
So if laughing is "jogging for the soul", as one reader described it in a comment on the previous post, I certainly got a good workout this weekend! And as any experienced runner will tell you, it sure does feel good afterwards :)
Friday, March 22, 2013
Off Laughing!
I'll be gone from the blog for a few days.
This weekend my sister, my soul mate, is visiting with her family. We will be busy laughing and telling stories, while our kids catch up on each other's lives and accomplishments. We will have tea and drink wine together and share secrets like we did when we were roommates, before he said I should have my own room. We will hug and talk about our mother, then call her together and laugh again.
For her, I will give up my guest room, so I will not have a private place to write. I will rest, instead of staying up until early morning writing, and I will return sometime next week full of thoughts, feelings and opinions wanting to burst out into words.
Until then, be well :)
This weekend my sister, my soul mate, is visiting with her family. We will be busy laughing and telling stories, while our kids catch up on each other's lives and accomplishments. We will have tea and drink wine together and share secrets like we did when we were roommates, before he said I should have my own room. We will hug and talk about our mother, then call her together and laugh again.
For her, I will give up my guest room, so I will not have a private place to write. I will rest, instead of staying up until early morning writing, and I will return sometime next week full of thoughts, feelings and opinions wanting to burst out into words.
Until then, be well :)
Thursday, March 21, 2013
What's So Sad About Smart?
What happened today?
Let me begin with a little background information:
About two months ago, we learned that our older daughter was invited to attend a special program at an elementary school about thirty minutes away from our home. In order to participate, she would have to leave her current school and complete the fourth and fifth grades at this other school.
Only the top three percent of students in our school district are invited to attend this program. In order to qualify for admittance, students must score in the 97th percentile or higher on a specific test of cognitive ability administered to all third graders during November and December.
It is quite an honor and an achievement to be proud of to be chosen for this program...and our girl was chosen.
So what happened today?
After much deliberation and attending several meetings, open houses, and tours, my husband and I decided that the new school would be the best place for our daughter. Academically, this special program offers learning at a level that our beloved Montessori school cannot provide. She has, in essence, "tested out" of her current school.
Today was the day that I had set aside for enrolling her at the new school. I dropped both my daughters off at the Montessori school, chatted with my younger daughter's teacher, then headed to my minivan...that's where it all broke down. As I took to the road that would take me to the next town over (and our new school), the tears started to fall. They came hard and fast and uncontrollably.
I sobbed during the entire drive to the school. I could not understand where these unexpected tears where coming from, nor could I stop them. I cried for the loss of our Montessori school, the cradle where she learned to read and to solve conflicts peacefully. I cried for leaving behind the warmest place that I have ever been a part of and for wondering who would embrace my child in the love that these beautiful people have? I cried for leaving behind her very first teacher, who is now my baby's first teacher and my friend, a couple of years sooner than we were prepared to do.
My iPod played on "shuffle" during this tearful drive. As I pulled into a parking spot at my destination, an old Beatles song started to play. I decided to save it for my drive back. I turned off the radio and pulled myself together long enough to enter the building looking like a proud mother and to enroll my child in her new school.
Thirty minutes later, in the shelter of my van, I gave myself permission to fall apart. I turned the radio back on and wept all the way back home, while one of my favorite Beatles songs played and spoke my heart.
Let me begin with a little background information:
About two months ago, we learned that our older daughter was invited to attend a special program at an elementary school about thirty minutes away from our home. In order to participate, she would have to leave her current school and complete the fourth and fifth grades at this other school.
Only the top three percent of students in our school district are invited to attend this program. In order to qualify for admittance, students must score in the 97th percentile or higher on a specific test of cognitive ability administered to all third graders during November and December.
It is quite an honor and an achievement to be proud of to be chosen for this program...and our girl was chosen.
So what happened today?
After much deliberation and attending several meetings, open houses, and tours, my husband and I decided that the new school would be the best place for our daughter. Academically, this special program offers learning at a level that our beloved Montessori school cannot provide. She has, in essence, "tested out" of her current school.
Today was the day that I had set aside for enrolling her at the new school. I dropped both my daughters off at the Montessori school, chatted with my younger daughter's teacher, then headed to my minivan...that's where it all broke down. As I took to the road that would take me to the next town over (and our new school), the tears started to fall. They came hard and fast and uncontrollably.
I sobbed during the entire drive to the school. I could not understand where these unexpected tears where coming from, nor could I stop them. I cried for the loss of our Montessori school, the cradle where she learned to read and to solve conflicts peacefully. I cried for leaving behind the warmest place that I have ever been a part of and for wondering who would embrace my child in the love that these beautiful people have? I cried for leaving behind her very first teacher, who is now my baby's first teacher and my friend, a couple of years sooner than we were prepared to do.
My iPod played on "shuffle" during this tearful drive. As I pulled into a parking spot at my destination, an old Beatles song started to play. I decided to save it for my drive back. I turned off the radio and pulled myself together long enough to enter the building looking like a proud mother and to enroll my child in her new school.
Thirty minutes later, in the shelter of my van, I gave myself permission to fall apart. I turned the radio back on and wept all the way back home, while one of my favorite Beatles songs played and spoke my heart.
In My Life
The Beatles
Words by Lennon/McCartney
There are places I remember
All my life, though some have changed
Some forever not for better
Some have gone and some remain
All these places have their moments
With lovers and friends I still can recall
Some are dead and some are living
In my life I've loved them all
But of all these friends and lovers
There is no one compares with you
And these memories lose their meaning
When I think of love as something new
Though I know I'll never lose affection
For people and things that went before
I know I'll often stop and think about them
In my life I love you more
Though I know I'll never lose affection
For people and things that went before
I know I'll often stop and think about them
In my life I love you more
In my life I love you more
Sunday, March 17, 2013
I Gave It Up for Lent
Cutting - the taboo word that I have been reluctant to bring up for about the last week and a half.
Although I have not actually cut in over five years, it is fighting the urge to cut that has brought me to my knees and that I struggle with on a regular basis. For three to four weeks before my first EMDR session, I had been fighting the urge to cut my wrists every single day.
When Lent began, my family asked me what I was giving up for Lent. I told my husband that I would pray instead of "giving up something". I told my older daughter that I had not quite decided yet. Really, in my head I was saying with some amount of sarcasm, "I'm giving up cutting for Lent!"
And why not give up cutting for Lent? Recently, during the Anointing of the Sick Mass (sometimes it's just strange to be Catholic), the priest urged those who desired healing to come forward for prayer and anointing. He said that we might want healing from (among other things) "doing something dangerous". So there I was - naked in church, feeling like Roberta Flack in "Killing Me Softly"..."I felt he found my letters and read each one out loud." But still, I did not come forward. I continued to fight the daily battle that rose with every sun to which I awoke.
...Until about a week and a half ago when I had my first EMDR session. During that first day, I felt much pain and anger, and my desire to cut was, to say the least, overwhelming.
...And then it was gone. The next day I did not want to cut, nor have I wanted to ever since. I am not 100% certain that the EMDR did it. It seems too "magical" for me to believe, but nonetheless here I am, urge free since the first session.
This week my daughter asked me if I have lost any weight during Lent. My husband, an avid coffee with creamer and soft drink consumer, has given up all beverages except water for Lent. He has consequently lost a few pounds during the last few weeks. When I told my daughter that I have not lost any weight, she answered somewhat disappointed, "Then you didn't give up anything for Lent." I replied softly, "Sometimes the things that we give up are not things that we eat."
Easter will be here in a couple of weeks, marking the end of Lent. Maybe the clock will strike twelve, the fairy dust will wear off, and I will start to cut again.
...Or maybe EMDR really heals.
Although I have not actually cut in over five years, it is fighting the urge to cut that has brought me to my knees and that I struggle with on a regular basis. For three to four weeks before my first EMDR session, I had been fighting the urge to cut my wrists every single day.
When Lent began, my family asked me what I was giving up for Lent. I told my husband that I would pray instead of "giving up something". I told my older daughter that I had not quite decided yet. Really, in my head I was saying with some amount of sarcasm, "I'm giving up cutting for Lent!"
And why not give up cutting for Lent? Recently, during the Anointing of the Sick Mass (sometimes it's just strange to be Catholic), the priest urged those who desired healing to come forward for prayer and anointing. He said that we might want healing from (among other things) "doing something dangerous". So there I was - naked in church, feeling like Roberta Flack in "Killing Me Softly"..."I felt he found my letters and read each one out loud." But still, I did not come forward. I continued to fight the daily battle that rose with every sun to which I awoke.
...Until about a week and a half ago when I had my first EMDR session. During that first day, I felt much pain and anger, and my desire to cut was, to say the least, overwhelming.
...And then it was gone. The next day I did not want to cut, nor have I wanted to ever since. I am not 100% certain that the EMDR did it. It seems too "magical" for me to believe, but nonetheless here I am, urge free since the first session.
This week my daughter asked me if I have lost any weight during Lent. My husband, an avid coffee with creamer and soft drink consumer, has given up all beverages except water for Lent. He has consequently lost a few pounds during the last few weeks. When I told my daughter that I have not lost any weight, she answered somewhat disappointed, "Then you didn't give up anything for Lent." I replied softly, "Sometimes the things that we give up are not things that we eat."
Easter will be here in a couple of weeks, marking the end of Lent. Maybe the clock will strike twelve, the fairy dust will wear off, and I will start to cut again.
...Or maybe EMDR really heals.
Thursday, March 14, 2013
Connections: Hiding
The first few days after EMDR last week, I wanted to sleep. My brain seemed so tired. This week, I want to hide. I keep wanting to curl up as tight as possible and hide my face in my hands. I keep wanting to cover every surface of my skin with something soft, warm and concealing.
This past Tuesday at work, several times throughout the evening I felt the need to go in the bathroom and crouch in the corner with my head in my hands. I felt surprisingly safe and comfortable that way. I would remain in this position for several minutes, until I felt strong enough to face the public again. I did not cry, and I was not anxious; it was just about hiding.
I have no doubt that these feelings are connected to the times when, as a child, I wanted to hide from my stepfather. I locked my bedroom door, but he would pick the lock. I wore the most impossible pajamas and hid under the covers, but he always found his way.
That was then. He can't find me now.
Crouching in a corner in the bathroom might appear "crazy", but for me it was simply self-care. Knowing that no one would unlock the bathroom door and find me was comforting. Shutting out the world for just a few minutes was restorative. In this manner, I was able to function throughout the evening.
This past Tuesday at work, several times throughout the evening I felt the need to go in the bathroom and crouch in the corner with my head in my hands. I felt surprisingly safe and comfortable that way. I would remain in this position for several minutes, until I felt strong enough to face the public again. I did not cry, and I was not anxious; it was just about hiding.
I have no doubt that these feelings are connected to the times when, as a child, I wanted to hide from my stepfather. I locked my bedroom door, but he would pick the lock. I wore the most impossible pajamas and hid under the covers, but he always found his way.
That was then. He can't find me now.
Crouching in a corner in the bathroom might appear "crazy", but for me it was simply self-care. Knowing that no one would unlock the bathroom door and find me was comforting. Shutting out the world for just a few minutes was restorative. In this manner, I was able to function throughout the evening.
Wednesday, March 13, 2013
Tears
I cried today.
The tears began as I wrote about my mother. They showed up unannounced, and I had to push them back because I was in public. Imagine that, I could finally cry but I had to hold back.
So I wrote and turned my head to cry, knowing that I was more alone in this busy cafe than I would have been at home. Then I drove to work and cried freely during the long drive. The music played loudly, and I cried - in anger, in sadness and in confusion.
During EMDR, the lines from a popular song kept going through my head: "I cant' look out the window, I can't look at this place..." (from "Stars", Grace Potter). The "window" was the train window, and "this place" was the collection of shocking images that I was seeing on that ride.
I played that song during my drive and cried in anger. How could he? There is no describing that anger, so I banged my fists and let the tears come, and I sang and cried. The anger turned to sadness and then to confusion.
The confusion was the worst. It is just a feeling of helplessness for not understanding. I could not understand why or how he could engage in such brutal behavior. The more I searched for an explanation, the less I saw one, because there isn't one...but a child does not know this, so I kept asking why and no one had an answer. I cried at the futility of my search.
The pain was visceral, the sadness wrenching.
The tears were painful, but I felt human.
The tears began as I wrote about my mother. They showed up unannounced, and I had to push them back because I was in public. Imagine that, I could finally cry but I had to hold back.
So I wrote and turned my head to cry, knowing that I was more alone in this busy cafe than I would have been at home. Then I drove to work and cried freely during the long drive. The music played loudly, and I cried - in anger, in sadness and in confusion.
During EMDR, the lines from a popular song kept going through my head: "I cant' look out the window, I can't look at this place..." (from "Stars", Grace Potter). The "window" was the train window, and "this place" was the collection of shocking images that I was seeing on that ride.
I played that song during my drive and cried in anger. How could he? There is no describing that anger, so I banged my fists and let the tears come, and I sang and cried. The anger turned to sadness and then to confusion.
The confusion was the worst. It is just a feeling of helplessness for not understanding. I could not understand why or how he could engage in such brutal behavior. The more I searched for an explanation, the less I saw one, because there isn't one...but a child does not know this, so I kept asking why and no one had an answer. I cried at the futility of my search.
The pain was visceral, the sadness wrenching.
The tears were painful, but I felt human.
Tuesday, March 12, 2013
I Love You Mom
OMG! I can't hide deep enough! I can't get a large enough coat. Oh thank God for these sunglasses. I hide my face in my hands. Nobody look please...nobody look. I want to curl up within myself. I want to hide every surface of my body. I want nothing exposed. The air burns my skin!
I just left another EMDR session. It was exhausting. I could not always speak, but I knew what I was feeling. It was anger, it was pain, it was sadness. I went back to that time as a teenager when things were not so good with my mother, when I tried to kill myself. I couldn't say this in therapy today. I was so afraid. I was so afraid of that time. I'm afraid that if I say it, I will feel it again.
But I was there. I was the teenage girl who wanted to die, because she did not understand where all the sadness, pain and anger was coming from. She thought that if he was gone, she should be happy again.
I was also the child who wanted to be with my mother. I kept wondering where she was. Where were you Mom? Dammit! Where were you? Couldn't you wake up? He was gone from your bed, Mom. Where did you think he went? Did he tell you he was going to get a drink of water? How long does that take? How long was he gone? I don't even know. It felt like my entire childhood to me.
You must have known that he was gone. You must have been afraid also. What would have happened if you would have gotten out of bed and gone to look for him? You would have found him with me in my room. You may have screamed at him and gotten him off of me (I wish you would have). But then, he may have killed us all. I know you were afraid. You were probably trying to protect all your children...but you missed one. You didn't mean to...but you missed one.
I love you Mom, and I forgive you. I know that you also told me not to ever say anything to anyone, but this has been really fucking me up. Do you get, Mom, that I have to say something? It just keeps happening over and over, if I don't say something!
Remember, I love you more than anything, Mom. I just have to get cleaned up from this mess.
Te quiero.
I just left another EMDR session. It was exhausting. I could not always speak, but I knew what I was feeling. It was anger, it was pain, it was sadness. I went back to that time as a teenager when things were not so good with my mother, when I tried to kill myself. I couldn't say this in therapy today. I was so afraid. I was so afraid of that time. I'm afraid that if I say it, I will feel it again.
But I was there. I was the teenage girl who wanted to die, because she did not understand where all the sadness, pain and anger was coming from. She thought that if he was gone, she should be happy again.
I was also the child who wanted to be with my mother. I kept wondering where she was. Where were you Mom? Dammit! Where were you? Couldn't you wake up? He was gone from your bed, Mom. Where did you think he went? Did he tell you he was going to get a drink of water? How long does that take? How long was he gone? I don't even know. It felt like my entire childhood to me.
You must have known that he was gone. You must have been afraid also. What would have happened if you would have gotten out of bed and gone to look for him? You would have found him with me in my room. You may have screamed at him and gotten him off of me (I wish you would have). But then, he may have killed us all. I know you were afraid. You were probably trying to protect all your children...but you missed one. You didn't mean to...but you missed one.
I love you Mom, and I forgive you. I know that you also told me not to ever say anything to anyone, but this has been really fucking me up. Do you get, Mom, that I have to say something? It just keeps happening over and over, if I don't say something!
Remember, I love you more than anything, Mom. I just have to get cleaned up from this mess.
Te quiero.
Monday, March 11, 2013
Downtime
"Downtime" is when no one expects anything of me. It is that time when I am free to do without interruptions and without questions.
Some time ago (maybe a year, maybe longer), I moved out of our master bedroom. It may have started when my husband had the flu, and I did not want to become ill myself. Then, it might have been because he tossed and turned too much during the night, and I could only get a full night's sleep if I slept alone. Then, it was because I could not stand to be near him.
I have become accustomed to this delicious time at night, when everyone goes to bed, and I close the door behind me...alone, finally, in my son's old room. Nobody expects me to turn out the lights at a certain time, or to return to bed and keep them company. No one expects anything of me. This is the time when I can write to my heart's delight without restraints (other than my body's sleep requirements). No one is asking, "What are you doing?" or "What are you reading?" There are no questions asked. There are no explanations to be made.
How can I ever give this up?
It seems as though my husband and I have been getting along lately...or maybe it's just the Mighty Cocaine High. At any rate, he has often proposed the idea of us sleeping in the same room again. I would seem natural that I would join him again. But where would my beloved private time go? There is no other way by which I am getting that. When would I write? The writing keeps me from becoming completely unraveled. It gets me through to the next day, or the next moment. How can I ever give that up?
How could I ever give up my downtime?
Some time ago (maybe a year, maybe longer), I moved out of our master bedroom. It may have started when my husband had the flu, and I did not want to become ill myself. Then, it might have been because he tossed and turned too much during the night, and I could only get a full night's sleep if I slept alone. Then, it was because I could not stand to be near him.
I have become accustomed to this delicious time at night, when everyone goes to bed, and I close the door behind me...alone, finally, in my son's old room. Nobody expects me to turn out the lights at a certain time, or to return to bed and keep them company. No one expects anything of me. This is the time when I can write to my heart's delight without restraints (other than my body's sleep requirements). No one is asking, "What are you doing?" or "What are you reading?" There are no questions asked. There are no explanations to be made.
How can I ever give this up?
It seems as though my husband and I have been getting along lately...or maybe it's just the Mighty Cocaine High. At any rate, he has often proposed the idea of us sleeping in the same room again. I would seem natural that I would join him again. But where would my beloved private time go? There is no other way by which I am getting that. When would I write? The writing keeps me from becoming completely unraveled. It gets me through to the next day, or the next moment. How can I ever give that up?
How could I ever give up my downtime?
Thursday, March 7, 2013
After the Storm
After the rage came exhaustion. After the storm on Tuesday, I wanted to sleep and not be awakened. Opening my eyes and facing life was painful, and if I had to be awake, I wanted to hide under a cloak. When reality became unbearable, I drank wine to tone it down.
When I tried to write last night, I was overcome by fatigue and, in fact, fell asleep at the computer. I believe I may be afraid to write again, and sleep is the ultimate escape.
My last post was so raw. I had never written so explicitly about my childhood. I "told"...I certainly told, and now I feel afraid.
When I tried to write last night, I was overcome by fatigue and, in fact, fell asleep at the computer. I believe I may be afraid to write again, and sleep is the ultimate escape.
My last post was so raw. I had never written so explicitly about my childhood. I "told"...I certainly told, and now I feel afraid.
Tuesday, March 5, 2013
The First Train Ride
This was EMDR today:
At times I wanted to run out of the office like a bat out of hell! It was a train ride alright...through a mess of emotions! And I promised not to cut?!!! Well that just adds stress! "One day at a time, sweet Jesus", like the old song says.
The hardest part was just saying the words. If I I did not have to utter them, if I could just think the thoughts, I would have been OK. For me, saying the words was like getting off the train. If I could just think the thoughts and not say the words, then I was still on the safe train.
When I could finally speak the forbidden words, "He got his semen all over me" came out as, "He got me all dirty". But he got his semen all over me! I wanted to scream it out! Except that he said I couldn't tell. I can't tell! I can't tell! I can't open my mouth to speak, but I want to scream!
He got his semen all over my small untouched body, and I had to get up and quietly wash. Everyone else was sleeping, and I was so tired. I'm sure I had school.
When I remember, I can still smell him and feel his taste in my mouth. I want to gag, and cry, and scream, and cut...cut...cut...cut...cut all the memories away, cut all the pain away. And I want to do it over and over until the anger is tamed.
Will it ever be tamed?
I am flushed, and my heart is racing, but the penny must remain "heads" up...somehow.
At times I wanted to run out of the office like a bat out of hell! It was a train ride alright...through a mess of emotions! And I promised not to cut?!!! Well that just adds stress! "One day at a time, sweet Jesus", like the old song says.
The hardest part was just saying the words. If I I did not have to utter them, if I could just think the thoughts, I would have been OK. For me, saying the words was like getting off the train. If I could just think the thoughts and not say the words, then I was still on the safe train.
When I could finally speak the forbidden words, "He got his semen all over me" came out as, "He got me all dirty". But he got his semen all over me! I wanted to scream it out! Except that he said I couldn't tell. I can't tell! I can't tell! I can't open my mouth to speak, but I want to scream!
He got his semen all over my small untouched body, and I had to get up and quietly wash. Everyone else was sleeping, and I was so tired. I'm sure I had school.
When I remember, I can still smell him and feel his taste in my mouth. I want to gag, and cry, and scream, and cut...cut...cut...cut...cut all the memories away, cut all the pain away. And I want to do it over and over until the anger is tamed.
Will it ever be tamed?
I am flushed, and my heart is racing, but the penny must remain "heads" up...somehow.
Monday, March 4, 2013
EMDR Again?
As frightening as EMDR seems to me, I believe it is time to try again this week.
I ask myself, "Why do I want to put myself through this apparent torture?" It's clear that I don't want to remember. It would be like walking on a tightrope not knowing if the net below would really catch me if I fell. It would be like jumping off an airplane with only the promise that my parachute will open.
Yet, in spite of these fears, there are reasons to proceed:
I need to stop. I don't feel safe.
I ask myself, "Why do I want to put myself through this apparent torture?" It's clear that I don't want to remember. It would be like walking on a tightrope not knowing if the net below would really catch me if I fell. It would be like jumping off an airplane with only the promise that my parachute will open.
Yet, in spite of these fears, there are reasons to proceed:
- Being present is just not possible.
- I always want to cut.
- ANGER, ANGER, ANGER!
- Sadness, sadness, sadness...
I need to stop. I don't feel safe.
Saturday, March 2, 2013
Get Out of Your Funk and Call Your Mother
"Get out of your funk, and call your mother!"
This is what I had to tell myself when my sister informed me that our mother was feeling particularly down and could use some encouragement from her children. I had not called her in longer than I felt good about and immediately felt guilty for my self-absorption. I have been fighting my own battles of late, and this is not always the best time to call my mother.
...But she needed me, and as I recall from times past, some of the best "medicine" for my depression and overall crappy moods has been reaching out and helping others. I discovered this a little bit over ten years ago when I was immersed in deep depression. I was cutting regularly and was sometimes suicidal. Only two reasons coaxed me out of bed: my obligation to show up at work, and my need to be a mother to my son.
He was then at the age when community service hours needed to be logged, and I needed to discover, provide the transportation to and often participate in the events that would satisfy this hungry log.
One cold dark night we had the opportunity to serve dinner to homeless families at a local soup kitchen. The assignment required that I look beyond my own pain and my own despair long enough to minister to someone else's brokenness or just plain misfortune. For my son I said yes.
Very few times have I been changed by an event like I was during that evening. What I learned was that my will to live could be restored, not so much by feeling more fortunate than others, but by feeling like I did something to make a concrete difference in somebody's life.
Today I called my mother. She sounded happy to hear from me, and I was certainly glad to hear her voice. She told me that her spirits had been low and that it was good that I called. We chatted about nonsense (as usual) and told each other of our plans for Friday night and for the weekend. We connected and lifted each other out of our respective purgatories by allowing the other to feel fundamentally useful and needed.
Sometime during our conversation she related that my father (a man she has been divorced form for practically my entire life) has been withdrawn and despondent, refusing visits or phone calls. She suggested that I try to call him and offer him a kind word of hope and that she would do the same.
Wouldn't you know it...she rises from her own depths to shine a light on another.
Maybe I learned it from her.
This is what I had to tell myself when my sister informed me that our mother was feeling particularly down and could use some encouragement from her children. I had not called her in longer than I felt good about and immediately felt guilty for my self-absorption. I have been fighting my own battles of late, and this is not always the best time to call my mother.
...But she needed me, and as I recall from times past, some of the best "medicine" for my depression and overall crappy moods has been reaching out and helping others. I discovered this a little bit over ten years ago when I was immersed in deep depression. I was cutting regularly and was sometimes suicidal. Only two reasons coaxed me out of bed: my obligation to show up at work, and my need to be a mother to my son.
He was then at the age when community service hours needed to be logged, and I needed to discover, provide the transportation to and often participate in the events that would satisfy this hungry log.
One cold dark night we had the opportunity to serve dinner to homeless families at a local soup kitchen. The assignment required that I look beyond my own pain and my own despair long enough to minister to someone else's brokenness or just plain misfortune. For my son I said yes.
Very few times have I been changed by an event like I was during that evening. What I learned was that my will to live could be restored, not so much by feeling more fortunate than others, but by feeling like I did something to make a concrete difference in somebody's life.
Today I called my mother. She sounded happy to hear from me, and I was certainly glad to hear her voice. She told me that her spirits had been low and that it was good that I called. We chatted about nonsense (as usual) and told each other of our plans for Friday night and for the weekend. We connected and lifted each other out of our respective purgatories by allowing the other to feel fundamentally useful and needed.
Sometime during our conversation she related that my father (a man she has been divorced form for practically my entire life) has been withdrawn and despondent, refusing visits or phone calls. She suggested that I try to call him and offer him a kind word of hope and that she would do the same.
Wouldn't you know it...she rises from her own depths to shine a light on another.
Maybe I learned it from her.
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