As They Fade

I don't know why I am so hesitant to write this post, but this subject has been bothering me for the past few days.

...It's the scars on my wrist.

Right. The ones remaining from my self-inflicted cuts. It doesn't seem logical, I know, to be bothered by scars that I caused myself...but I am.

They will fade, I know, but not soon enough. In the meantime, they are there reminding me of something I did wrong...something shameful.

I have moved on from my last episode, but these scars will not allow me to forget. With each deliberate line I am reminded of the pain that caused it. In my mind's eye, I can still see the blade that carved it. I don't want to look at these scars, yet I am tired of hiding them.

Maybe I should have though of this before I cut...I suppose if I were thinking before I cut, I wouldn't cut. But who the hell is in their right mind when they take a blade to their own flesh? I wasn't thinking, I was just feeling...pretty badly. Clearly not lucid.

So I wear the band-aids, I wear the watch, as much for the sake of my family as for myself. I don't want to look; I just want to forgive and move on.

The Math Class

I decided to return to EMDR today...I survived for about ten minutes. I spent some time trying to will my hand to lift up and give the "stop" signal. My brain did not seem capable of communicating with my limb, no matter how many times I formed the words in my head. My hands just clung for dear life to the softness of my sweater. The more I tried to send the message, the harder I grabbed on.

What made me want to stop? The incredibly unbearable sadness. It hurt so much. The memory just hurt too much. Why would this particular memory invoke so much sadness? I have recalled it before... briefly but repeatedly.

I went to Catholic school during my middle school years, which means that the classes were very small...there was one class per grade. You knew everyone, everyone knew you, and you moved up with the same set of classmates. I was well known for being top-of-the-class smart.

Because the classes were so small, there was not a separate class for students who's cognitive ability went beyond what was in the regular curriculum. There was however, a teacher who pulled out a small group of students who had advanced enough in their math to start algebra early. I was in that group...and so was my best friend.

It hurts so much even to write this. I wish the tears would just fall, instead of stubbornly hanging there on the ledge unwilling to just fall off.

During this time, my stepfather's night visits were pretty regular. I don't know how long they lasted, but they were long enough to completely awaken me...and afterwards I had to get up and wash.

Ouch, my heart wants to break. I want to melt into the very substance of the earth and cease to exist.

I must have been tired the next day at school. I never realized it, but I must have just wanted to go back to sleep. During these special math classes, my best friend always understood the concepts well. I struggled, although I knew I was just as smart as she was. I must have been so tired. During class, I often thought about my stepfather...and the night before. I thought about how unfair it was that she understood all the concepts and that her father was such a gentle and doting dad. I struggled because mine kept me from sleeping at night and did not leave my thoughts in the morning. It was not fair.

Recently, I have not always been making the best decisions as far as my sleeping hours. My alarm clock goes off at 4:50 AM...no matter what. I have often found myself at 1:00 AM or 2:00 AM refusing to lay down to sleep. I wonder if this memory has any connection to this poor habit. If it does, I wonder how I can learn to treat myself better than this.

...all this from ten minutes of EMDR.

For What It's Worth

This week my husband and I celebrated our 14th wedding anniversary...for what it's worth. Given my feelings about this marriage during the past few weeks, I don't know if I should be using the word "celebrate"...but I am.

I don't know what happened after I wrote the post "No Exit". It's as if someone sent my husband an email that said, "Dude, your wife is unbelievably unhappy being married to you. Get a fucking clue and start treating her right. Get over yourself and start being more genuine and considerate. Quit thinking of yourself so much - think of her too...a lot more!"

This is exactly what has been happening. His behavior, and more importantly his attitude, has completely turned around. It is uncanny. He has been acting like he actually cares about me and truly cares about how I might be feeling after a stressful day at work or a particularly hectic day with the kids. I am gauging this by the little things that he has been doing to make my life a little easier: leaving a cup of hot water ready for my tea, sweeping the kitchen floor without bragging about it twenty times, going out to get pizza while I nap after a very tiring day...without waking me up. While these actions may seem normal for some people, they are not thoughts that have come naturally for my husband. It has always been about how much rest he can get and how many times he can brag about having done something to help out around the house...just to make sure that I give him credit for it.

Mind you, I am skeptical about all this. I am waiting for the proverbial next shoe to drop, for the balloon to pop, for the crash from the Mighty Cocaine High. In the meantime however, we "celebrated" our wedding anniversary. We took the kids to summer camp and drove ninety miles for a good Cuban restaurant. We strolled, we shopped, we leisurely conversed with shop tenders. When a young girl asked what our secret is, I replied, "There is no secret, it's just blood, sweat, and tears." He said, "A forgiving wife".

I asked myself if I am being hypocritical, considering all the toxic words that I had previously spilled. No, I am not. I want it to be this way. I want to be able to love this man. He does not allow me to express my love when he is playing mind games with me or hurting me emotionally. Nobody gets married thinking that they will one day be divorced. I didn't either. I want it to last forever, but I want it to be the way it has been this week. Is this possible? Am I asking for too much? Am I living in a fantasy world?

Strong Steel

Oh, baby, be strong for me

Baby, belong to me

Help me through...

 

...I may not win,

But I can't be thrown

Out here on my own

 

(from Out Here On My Own, Irene Cara)

When I was about fifteen years old, I started to stand up to my stepfather. For the first time in all of our relationship, I could "talk back" to him without fear of repercussions. For the first time, I understood that he also had a secret to keep and that divulging it could affect him negatively. I derived some power from that. Suddenly, I could say things to him that I had never been able to say before with a "what-have-I-got-to-loose" type of attitude. This new found strength did not spill over to every aspect of our relationship, but maybe it could have... with the right person on my side, with an advocate to help me extract that little bit of glistening steel and wield it in my favor. At fifteen, a girl needs an advocate.

But what about now? If I have an advocate now, could I still extract that steel? It was just a tiny part of my personality then, but could I reach in now and grow it...cultivate it? With this type of strength, would I be able to stand up to this monster so that he can no longer hurt me? I hurt myself because of him. If I could borrow this bold little piece of me and stand up to him now, could I win? Would I cease to allow him the power that he has had over me? Yes, I would.

So how do I go about this? With an advocate...one step at a time.

I would say that therapy was very positive today.

Enough?

I've been cutting for days. Cutting in my room, cutting in the powder room, at work in the back of my minivan. I feel like I've lost the strength to fight it, so I've given in. What was it this time? What was the trigger? Hell if I know. I wrote the post "Photograph" and then went straight to my box of blades. The pictures alone would not have triggered me. I know I was already struggling before that.

I did not cut right away. At first, I played with the blade and held it against my wrist, trying to convince myself otherwise. Before I knew it, I was pressing harder and harder and slicing. I didn't feel like I could stop.

I stopped writing and isolated myself. Yes, even after all your encouraging words, I have not reached out. Shame on me. I am lost in me again...drowning alone, and refusing to reach out for a lifesaver. Don't ask why.

Even as I write this post, I know that I will not publish it right away...I'm still hiding...and cutting.

Too angry and ashamed to press "Publish".

Photograph

This afternoon when I came home from work, I found an envelope from my mother in the mail. I opened it anticipating anything but what I found inside:

I gasped at her stunning beauty! It was a picture of my mother at 31 holding my little brother who had just turned one. She was flawless! My older daughter said, "You look just like her, Mom!" I responded, "Thank you sweetheart. That is such a compliment, as my mother is very beautiful." She exclaimed, "No, look! you really do look just like her!", while she held the picture next to my face as if to prove her point. Kids have a way of knowing exactly when your heart needs lifting.

The next picture took my breath away in a different manner. It was of my grandmother and my little brother taken just a month before my stepfather murdered her. She was seventy and full of life and joy. This may well have been the last picture my mother took of her. I was not prepared to see this photograph, and I was shocked at how quickly my tears flowed upon looking at it.

I cannot describe her smile, or what it meant to me, nor her joyful demeanor and the peace she carried with it. I just want to jump into the picture and be in her world again. I want to spend Spring Break at her home (just about twenty minutes from our own), under her protection where he would not come for me.

My mother sent these pictures, because she wanted her grandchildren to see who she was before the wheelchair. She wanted them to know that there was a time when she walked just like everyone else, and she wanted them to see the love in the smile and the eyes of their great-grandmother.

He took so much from us...even from my children.

No Exit

Boy do I feel shitty! Crappy....low...depressed...trapped...out of options. If I didn't have kids, I would kill myself. If it weren't summer time, I would cut myself. I apologize to those reading that this is such a hopeless post, but I have to write this as if no one were reading. I am having such a hard time describing, even to myself, the way that I'm feeling. I hope that writing it all out, sort of free association style, will help me gain some clarity as to what this cloudiness in my head and heart is.

I have to admit to myself that I chose the wrong person to marry, and yes, I am paying the consequences. I have two beautiful kids with this asshole, whose lives would be shattered if their parents separated. I cannot just walk away. Anyway, I do not want to share my children. Judging from the way our marital life is like, a divorce between us would not be an amicable, "fifty-fifty share alike" type of affair.

So I am trapped in this loveless life. Actually, thank God for the kids, they love both of their parents unconditionally. The strife has always been between Mom and Dad. I had the chance to leave many years ago, before the girls were born, We were separated for about a year...and then he convinced me to go back to him. What the fuck was I thinking? I had been the one to leave.

My husband does not physically abuse me nor has he ever (to my knowledge) been unfaithful to me. He adores his children and is a good father to them. So what's the problem? I should count my blessings and shut up, right? I'm sure there are women out there who wish that their man could have just those few qualities.

It's emotional pain that he inflicts. It's the motherfucking mind games and unpredictable behavior. It's knowing exactly what upsets me or fires me up, because I've made it a point to tell him in an effort to communicate my feelings and avoid guessing games, and doing precisely that thing and then sitting back and watching me fall apart at the seams. It's denying that this ever took place or that it was even his intention...so that then I just feel crazy.

So have you addressed all this in marriage counseling? You may ask. OF COURSE WE HAVE!! We have addressed it ad nauseam. I bring things up, shit gets denied, and NOTHING GETS RESOLVED. I am so tired of this pattern! I want to quit marriage counseling. There is no point for us. Yet, I feel like we have to still stay married. There doesn't seem to be a concrete enough reason to put the kids through a damn earthquake...other than the fact that I'm shriveling emotionally and that the displays of affection that they see between us are just pretend.

And what if everything he says about me is true? When I explain to him how his actions and his behaviors affect me, he swiftly flips the coin and says that I'm the one who acts that way. I don't usually believe him and think that he is just trying to hurt me, but what if it were true? What if I really do act that way? Do you see how this man just makes me feel crazy and overall the epitome of bad?! He says that he loves me, but how the hell can I believe that? I know that he loves his kids, and he does not treat them this way.

So this is how I find myself in this desperate state of mind. I feel there is no way out of this hell, except death. Even then he would win, because he would be left with my children all to himself. The only other way out that I see is cutting. It is temporary and does not solve the problem, but the sting of the slice offers escape and relief.

 

"so tired of the straight line
and everywhere you turn
there's vultures and thieves at your back
and the storm keeps on twisting
you keep on building the lies
that you make up for all that you lack
it don't make no difference
escaping one last time
it's easier to believe in this sweet madness oh
this glorious sadness that brings me to my knees"

 

(from Angel, Sarah McLachlan)

 

Reaching Out

My older daughter had piano recital today. Having been in such a low mood, I had difficulty getting excited about the event. In fact, the idea of it triggered tears. I know that part of it may be due to my decision to not continue with the same piano teacher next year. This was an emotionally charged decision that has taken me months to arrive at.

Nonetheless, I went through the motions. I dressed my girls. I did their hair up. I put on my high heels. Sometimes you just have to put one foot in front of the other and see where you end up.

As a way of reaching out, I invited some friends to my house for dinner after the recital. It took every ounce of strength that I had to make this move, but I knew that I needed to socialize with adults other than my husband.

I kept breaking into tears as I tidied up around my house in order to receive guests. The task seemed overwhelming, but at the same time I knew that I needed to see and talk to people. As it turned out, my friend's son had not been feeling well, and he stayed home with his father and his brother.

My friend visited with me. Her presence alone lifted my spirits. Our conversation brought me out of my darkness. I don't know if tomorrow I will be up or down. Tonight I was just glad that I reached out and somebody was there.

Here Come the Blues

The blues have been hovering, and I have been tearful. I cried over the state of my marriage for the fist time in...ever. I have rarely felt so hopeless about the prospect of repair. It is a lonely, sad place to be.

I am sad, and I have been avoiding writing...avoiding admitting...avoiding reality...avoiding falling.

Nothing else to say tonight.

You Raise Me Up

 When I am down and, oh my soul, so weary;
When troubles come and my heart burdened be;
Then, I am still and wait here in the silence,
Until you come and sit awhile with me.

You raise me up, so I can stand on mountains;
You raise me up, to walk on stormy seas;
I am strong, when I am on your shoulders;
You raise me up... To more than I can be.

 

(from You Raise Me Up, Josh Groban)

 



I believe that if you have a kind word or a compliment about someone, you should say it aloud and directly to them. There are far too many unkind words and overall meanness floating around in the world. This is what I believe and strive for, but not always what I do.

As I mentioned in my previous attempt at a post, yesterday's therapy session did not include EMDR. As a kind of break form the grueling sessions that EMDR tend to be, I shared some pictures and he shared some stories. The conversation migrated towards the topic of "Who's Shoulders Do You Stand on?" And to give credit where credit is due, this is the title of a post on a blog that my therapist writes.

Basically, we talked about how we got to be where we are now, how the choices that others before us made and the right circumstances at the right time have afforded us pleasures and successes that we enjoy now. This is not limited to professional or financial accomplishments. It also includes emotional well being and mental health.

This is what I wanted to tell him but somehow could not find the right words or even bring myself to articulate the overwhelming feelings of nothing more than absolute gratitude:

You raise me up...on your shoulders I stand. I have played this song in my car so many times on my way to therapy. Maybe it's corny, but what can I say? Josh Groban says it pretty clearly. Maybe I don't think you're supposed to say this kind of stuff to your therapist. I really don't know, but here it is. It's how I feel.

I happened upon your office because the one before you failed. She could not reach me. A male therapist is exactly what I was NOT looking for, but you came well recommended as an expert in helping women who had been sexually abused. I was broken and desperate, so I decided to try.

You could reach me, and slowly I began to trust you. There is something about your gentle fatherly manner that helps me relax in your presence. I trust you openly and completely, because you have never judged me. I have shared with you the ugliest of me and I have never felt judged or reprimanded by you.

When I have sat with you in my lowest moments, you have shared with me your wisdom, experience and expertise. Your words of constant encouragement raise me up. You give me strength to be more than I ever imagined I could be. Standing on your shoulders, I am able to speak up for myself. I am able to defend and protect myself in ways I was previously incapable of doing. From your shoulders, I can see, in the not so far distance, a world where healing is possible and memories are stories from the past, not nightmares in the present.

I don't know what my journey of healing would have been like if I had never moved into a town where I did not know anyone and sought help from the only place I knew to turn to - my employer's counseling referral office. I don't know what it would have been like if you had remained a college professor or dedicated your life to being a minister. I know that once I met you, it did not take me long to realize that you are the only person who I have ever felt could take me through this journey safely and completely. You are not aware of the times when I turned down employment in a fairer city, because I did not think I would find one like you elsewhere.

I agree with you. I also believe that we are meant to meet the people whom we meet. I am thankful that I met you.

I don't know if it is even healthy to feel this way, but there it is...I just needed to say it. Maybe I'm overly dependent. Maybe he is just a damn good therapist who truly cares and it shows. Either way, I feel blessed to have him in my life.

Tomorrow I Will Think Clearer

We had no EMDR today. Thank goodness. I am tired, and I needed a break.  EMDR on three and a half hours of sleep is probably not a good idea anyway.

I shared pictures; he shared stories. Maybe I will write about it tomorrow. Tonight, as I anticipated, I am exhausted. I will sleep deeply and soundly. There will be no triggering blogs to read nor nasty, scary visitors in my bed tonight.

Good night...tomorrow I will think clearer.

Please, Lay Me Down to Sleep

My son has safely arrived at his destination. I am alone in his room again...and I will not allow myself to fall asleep. I will not turn the light off. I will not lay down. I will not close my eyes. I know that I will be exhausted tomorrow, but I cannot bring myself to perform this simply function...GO TO BED!!!

I am so tired that I know I will be fast asleep five minutes after closing my eyes, but I will not do it. I am on guard. This sucks.

I want to dance with my blades...that dangerous, sick dance.

He isn't coming, I know. No one will open my door tonight, and no one will visit me in my bed. Yet, I am afraid and will not lay down to sleep.

Good God, what will it take?

The Winner and His Mom

I ran my first race with my son yesterday. There is a difference between running a race like you want to win it and running like you want to finish it. I ran like I wanted to survive the race!

We ran six laps in unforgiving sun and heat, running up the same killer hills over and over again. My 5 AM runner, ??something year old body is not accustomed to such savage conditions! ...but Lord knows that I had to endure, persevere and most of all finish.

Each time we completed a lap, we received a lei. Shortly after collecting my third lei, I heard the announcement behind me for the winner of the 5K...it was my son! My swift, agile, physically well-conditioned son had won the race! You better believe that Mama was proud!!!

...And what did he do to celebrate his glory? This humble child joined his withering mother and inspired her to finish her race with grace and dignity. He refilled my water bottle and ran the last two laps with me. I was so proud to be next to him...proud of his accomplishment and proud that he had come from me. Yes, folks, here pass the winner and his Mom!

This boy has saved me in ways he may never understand.

Won't Take Nothing But a Memory

I know they say you can't go home again.
I just had to come back one last time.
Ma'am I know you don't know me from Adam.
But these hand prints on the front steps are mine.
And up those stairs, in that little back bedroom
is where I did my homework and I learned to play guitar.
And I bet you didn't know under that live oak
my favorite dog is buried in the yard.

I thought if I could touch this place or feel it
this brokenness inside me might start healing.
Out here it's like I'm someone else,
I thought that maybe I could find myself
if I could just come in I swear I'll leave.
Won't take nothing but a memory
from the house that built me.
 

(from The House That Built Me, Miranda Lambert)

"The House that Built Me" is a beautiful, emotional song that is difficult to listen to without evoking nostalgic memories of one's own childhood. To watch Miranda Lambert perform it at a benefit concert for the victims of the May 20th tornado in Oklahoma was something of soul cleansing experience. When she broke into tears half way through the song, there could not have been a dry eye in the house. I know there wasn't at my house.

I had stopped watching, listening to or reading the news after the bombing at the Boston Marathon. After my downward spiral following the events during that week, I was afraid of any news. I chose to completely shelter myself from any such media.

I knew this could not go on indefinitely, but I figured I would emerge when I was ready.

I found out about the tragic tornado while I was watching The Voice...ready or not.  Still, I did not allow myself to grieve over this. I was too afraid of what could happen...until the night of the concert last week. I cried right along with Miranda for all those frightened children and all those vanished memories.

I wept...and wept...and wept.

...and I can listen to NPR again.