Ice is Better Than Steel

The ice maker was broken...or jammed...or something. I had to find a way to fix it, because the alternative was a sharp blade...and ice is better than steel.

I've come a long way.

Alone With My Sadness

In about thirty minutes, I have to be a mom. I will have to pull myself together and be the caring and attentive mother that my children need.

...but for now, I can just feel my sadness. I can just be downhearted and low. Behind my closed doors, I can be as gloomy as I feel without ruining anyone's joy. For now, I can close my eyes and feel hopelessness without having to find a way out of it. For now, I can sit on the floor and feel depression engulf me without having to do anything about it.

Back After Some Techncal Difficulties

So much for writing every day. It turns out that on Thanksgiving night, my internet, television and telephone service (I get them all through the same company) went out. After spending more hours than I care to on the cell phone with the cable company, it was determined that a technician would need to come out to fix the problem...next Wednesday night!

After I had succumbed to my involuntarily unplugged world, the internet mysteriously reappeared tonight! After I had already drunk a glass of port. I am not really in a condition to write. I am too sleepy from the wine and can't really formulate coherent thoughts. I just wanted to write...to string words together...to connect again.

Thanksgiving went better than expected. It turned out, company was what I needed.

My eyes are closing. I was not expecting to write tonight...but it sure feels good to be in my safe place again.

Are They Coming Now?

When my nephew's mother asked me what I was doing for Thanksgiving this year, I replied that I would probably cook and she and my nephew were certainly welcome. I make Thanksgiving dinner every year, so it was easy for me to say that. She said that if she didn't travel to see her mother, they would come over. Now, I am praying that she goes to see her mother.

Weeks ago, my next-door neighbor offered to come over with a bottle of wine when her daughter is in town for Thanksgiving. I happened to move next door to the parents of one of my son's close friends during high school. When she proposed this visit, I was quite open to it, as I wanted to spend time with the young lady as well as catch up a little bit with her mother. Today when I got home, she approached me to make concrete plans for this weekend. I almost panicked!

The truth is that I have a house full of boxes and am in no position to host or entertain anybody! Who in their right mind would ask somebody who moved less than two months ago to receive them in your home? The truth is that I would have preferred for my nephew's mother to have asked me to have Thanksgiving at her place...but really, I would rather she just go to see her mother, so I don't have to even try.

And my neighbor...oh my god...how do I even act normal? I haven't seen her kid since 2006. Seriously, what I wish is for these people to just scoop me up and tell me that it's OK to rest. I don't feel like I have anything to give to them right now.

Self-Care

I don't have much to say, but I decided that I would write every day until the next time that I see my therapist. It's not that I have a need to broadcast anything of importance or even to offload anything. It's just self-care. I have a need to write.

I'm going down, I know, and I won't see him until after Thanksgiving week - December 1st to be precise. Until then, I have to do the best that I can to keep myself afloat. The first thing I did was to call and make an appointment to see him. I needed to know that there was a specific date that I need to make it to. Having this appointment on the calendar lets me know that I need to hang on...but not indefinitely.

Next, I needed to figure out what would help me hang on until that date. In the past, writing has helped me get out of my head. I can scream, I can cry, I can get it all out of my head when I write. I also know that sometimes, in the past, I have been too depressed to even write. I have felt unable to reach out of my darkness, unable to put the hurting into words. I thought maybe if I just told myself to write every day, no matter how little or much I have to say, maybe even if I fell that low, I would still write, I would still reach out...just out of habit. It would just be part of going through the motions

I chose to write in this blog rather than in a private journal, because I also need to feel a connection. Once it begins, I tend to feed my depression with isolation. I don't want to do that. Writing in this blog means that sometimes people will read and leave comments. When they do, I know that I am not alone, and it feels like having a branch to hold on to.

So this is it, these are my steps toward self-care. I cannot believe that it is me writing this. I have come a long way. I have been here before, but like I wrote at the end of this post, I stand on different ground now.

What if I Popped a Pill?

As I doled out antidepressants of all types today at work (Zoloft for this one, Prozac for that one, Pristiq for him and Effexor for her), I considered...I entertained...I imagined that I could possibly also use one of these medications. There's even a super high dose one that you only have to take once a week!

I am tired and tired of fighting. It has been a turbulent couple of years, and it ain't even over yet.. I can use some help. Maybe, I just need something to get me through the rest of the fight, because I don't feel like I have the energy. Yet, by even admitting this, I feel defeated...as if making it without medication is winning some kind of fight...as if taking medication is losing. Yes, this is I, the pharmacist, the keeper of the drugs, the giver of the pills who feels this way.

I wondered today if life wouldn't be just a little bit easier if I took a little Zoloft, if I wouldn't have more energy with Prozac.

...or maybe I should just deal with my shit.

Insiduous Depression

Depression can really sneak up on you sometimes. Like when you are just trying to live your life, trying to keep up with the kids' schedules as well as your own. You are just doing all the musts and what-nots, and you talk to your kids. You respond to their questions, you give them directions...but they keep telling you that they can't hear you, they keep telling you to stop mumbling. You realize that you've been speaking at a level audible only to yourself and are keenly aware that you barely have the energy to project and repeat yourself. You're tired, you tell yourself, you should get more sleep...this has been going on for weeks.

Then, you drive fifty-five miles to a work location and realize that you've missed your exit and you're half and hour away from your destination. You will be late, and you want to cry. In fact, you try to cry, but you can't. You wonder where in the world your head was for twenty-five minutes!

You get to work...late...and are ready to burst into tears at any given moment. The entire shift, you want to leave...you want to sit somewhere quiet and private and cry it all out. You know it's coming, you feel yourself slowly falling...slipping, knowing you can't stop yourself...and you know that you're depressed.

Please, Nobody Read This

Tonight, I feel the need to bash myself, to harm myself, to punish and hate myself. I tried to counteract this with a cup of ice for my wrists and a warm bubble bath for the rest of my body.

Those worked to curb the urges, but the feelings still remain...so I'm writing...in order to understand.

For the first time in the history of this blog, I hope that no one reads this post, because I am going to be as candid as possible so that I can understand.

I can't unwrap myself from the from the feeling that I am bad, that I have done bad things, and that I should be punished. I am nauseated by the things I do in order to "keep the peace".

I don't always feel this way, but tonight I am feeling pretty dragging-in-the-gutter worthless. Somewhere out there, there is a higher part of my mind telling me that this is not true...of course it isn't true, but that's not the point. Right now, I can't reconcile that higher knowledge with the deep down gut slime that I feel inside.

Please, nobody read this.

I want to be on the floor hurting and punishing myself for being such a slime. Ughh. I'm not a slime, but why do I feel like one?

This isn't working. I still feel shitty, and tomorrow I will probably regret publishing this post. Please, nobody read this.

I Need to Talk

I've been sort of keeping it safe during therapy lately. I guess I've been afraid to have a really emotionally heavy session and then come home and feel like curling up into a ball. I have been overwhelmed with the responsibilities and work that my recent move has brought on, and I suppose I feel like I can't afford to come home and fall apart...so I keep it safe...but I need to talk.

Last night, as I struggled to fall asleep, I decided that I needed to at least write about the things that I need to talk about. Perhaps seeing the words on the screen, on the blog, will help me to stop hiding from them.

This is what I need to talk about:

1. My older brother is probably going to be in town for Christmas to visit his son. He will probably want to/expect to/assume he can stay at my house. I need help.
2. Why am I dragging my feet on replying to my lawyer's email? It's time.
3. Those damned fears. Just when I think I have them figured out, I get caught off guard by another trigger. This time it was the water. Normally, it's the darkness. It was daytime when I drove across the low bridge where the water came up incredibly close to the bridge. The lake was like glass that morning, and the view of the trees in their fall bloom was stunning...Yet, I panicked. Out of nowhere, I found myself tightly gripping the steering wheel and alternating between a flashback to a swampy place of my childhood and the gorgeous scenery where I truly was. In order to bring myself back as I drove across the bridge, I told myself to look at the gorgeous view. It was the kind that I would normally marvel at and take in. It's time for EMDR again.

I Can Never Go Back

He thought that we would stay married while living separately. I assured him that I had no plans of getting back together and intended to proceed with the divorce. Now he's back to not speaking to me...as if.

I can't even keep writing this post. It's exhausting. I'm just fighting the feeling that I've done something wrong. I haven't. I know that it would be wrong to ever go back with him again. It would be like walking into my death. So there is no other place to go, except to proceed with what I've already started.

I can never go back.

I Can't Believe Things Can be Good

I still have a hard time believing that good things can happen to me.

I have a hard time believing that it's OK for these good things to happen to me.

I have a hard time believing that the proverbial "other shoe" will not drop.

I have a hard time believing that things can be good without a price.

...I try to tell myself that I've already paid the price.

The Nitty-Gritty

Getting down to the nitty-gritty, what the hell shook my ground so much? An accumulation of things, one of which was my younger brother. I can't write about his situation, only about my response to it...and not all of it...just a little tonight to keep from hurting myself.

I hurt for him. I don't expect anyone reading this to understand why without know the background. I just need to start getting the words out...I never talk about this.

How is it that a pain so profound can keep me from even writing to him? It hurts to write...and it hurts not to. I want to cry all over a letter, open my sobbing heart to him, let him read the smeared handwriting...so he would know how I feel.

But doesn't he need me to be strong? He needs my support. He needs my encouraging words. I can do that too, but then I'd have to shut the pain up again...so I don't.

The Ice on my Wrists

Why the fuck does it feel so good?...the ice on my wrists. It's like a sedative. I breathe deep, close my eyes and feel the wave of calm wash across my brain...all while holding an ice cube on my wrist.

I drove and hour and a half to be sure to stay out of the house today. I shopped with my kids. It was a good distraction...didn't think about any of this all day.

...Until I was back in my town. The thoughts and the feelings returned. I grew agitated and desperate for some time alone.

I reached for the ice as soon as the kids were in bed...just ice.

I will not cut today.

Don't Show Me That Wrist

TRIGGER WARNING: SELF-HARM

I don't cut anymore. I know this...but I'm sitting with my blade...afraid to unwrap it and afraid not to.

I don't want to cut. I don't want to go there again. But I am drawn to this blade again.

...Another trigger today. A woman came asking for a recommendation for her poison oak rash. She had covered the area with a large bandage...like I had done in the past. It was the inside of her wrist...my favorite spot.

"Please, don't show me that wrist." I wanted to say. "Don't show me that bandage. Don't show me what's under it." But she had to show me. I had to see it in order to make a proper recommendation.

It wasn't the rash, it was the bandage...on precisely that area.

What the fuck? What is wrong with me? How can I go back there? I don't cut anymore, but the blade is so seductive...the sting of the cut so satisfying.

I know it's been rough returning from vacation...a lot rougher than usual. I haven't really been well since I returned, but I don't want to fall this low.

I need help.

No Air

I am back here again because there's no other way to get through these thoughts than by writing. I am suffocating again. I dreamed of my claustrophobia. I was in prison, and I couldn't breathe. I tried to move to a room with more air, but the second room was even stuffier. I woke up with a feeling of suffocation. I felt there wasn't enough air in my own room and anxiously waited for the air conditioner to turn on so that I could feel the comfort of moving air. I would not allow myself to fall asleep again, for fear of falling back into suffocation.

Today, I was afraid to take the elevator. However, I found the stairway was very warm, stuffy and confined. I wasn't sure where it would lead me. If I chose this way, I would have to deal with the fear of getting lost as well as that of enclosed spaces. The elevator would be just one floor. I opted for one floor on the elevator. At least I knew where it would leave me.

Sometimes I feel like my fears are taking over.

I Remembered

I can't bring myself to write about him, or write to him...my little brother. I think about him always...and always the same pain in my chest. I cannot write about what is happening with him. Only that I wear this basal pain like an undergarment, revealed only in the privacy of my solitude.

I traveled back to my native country, and I saw him everywhere...so many young men who reminded me of him. They looked like him, they talked like him, they moved like him, they danced like him...and I remembered. I remembered him as he was when he was like them.

He will never again be this man. He is too broken...but I remembered.

Rough Adjustment

I returned from the best vacation of my life feeling rested, relaxed and mostly proud of what I was able to accomplish with my two daughters (more on that later). I had one additional day off before I went back to work today.

It's been awful. I don't know what's wrong. Returning to work after a vacation has always been dreadful, but never this bad. The headaches began yesterday while I was multi-focusing on laundry, the children, and several small things that needed attention.

Today at work, the headaches were persistent, unresponsive to any amount of anti-inflammatory. Transitioning back to my work life seemed impossible. I suffered through the longest eight hours I have ever known and went home feeling more exhausted than before I left for vacation.

I did things tonight to take care of myself physically, but my mood is very low. I am afraid of depression.

I am sad for reasons that I can't put my finger on.

Daddy Issues?

Fathers' Day has always come and gone without fanfare in my life. As a child, I imagine we did the regular Fathers' Day thing with my stepfather...although I conveniently do not remember a single detail from any particular Fathers' Day while I was growing up. After my stepfather disappeared from our lives, then Fathers' Day became a day that brought me neither joy nor sorrow. I never gave it much thought.

When I was a single mother, My son and I spent Fathers' Day the way we would spend any other happy Sunday...either at the park or at the beach. My dad wasn't around, his dad wasn't around, so we didn't really talk about fathers.

After I got married, my son would give or make Fathers' Day cards for his new step-father, but that was the extent of the celebration. After my STBX and I had our first child together, then Fathers' Day began to take on personal meaning for me. I focused my energy on celebrating the father of my children without giving much thought to the absence of my own father. Really, I have never had a hard time with this day...

...until this year. About two weeks ago was the first Fathers' Day since my husband and I have separated. Everything was set up perfectly. The kids had gifts for him, two handmade, one store-bought. He was to have them for the weekend, so I managed to get the bag of gifts up to the girls' bedroom without him seeing them when I brought their weekend bags over. I was scheduled to work the entire weekend and was actually happy to be covering for a pharmacist who is a father, so that he could spend time with his kids.

I also recently opened a Facebook account (yes, for the first time EVER), and that's where everything went down.

Still new to the Facebook world, I found myself exploring and checking out what my Facebook friends were up to. So far, the majority of my Facebook friends are married women with children, and on Father's Day weekend most were posting saccharine accounts of what made their husbands the perfect guy and the best father ever.

I got hung up on the "perfect guy" thing...all this appreciation for this model man that somehow happened upon their lives...gag me with a spoon...

It's not that I want to be bitter and cynical. Really, I went into the weekend thinking that I would post some kind of positive message, a link to a pretty daddy song, something that had nothing to do with my own situation. But who was I kidding? The whole thing was my own situation...I just wasn't aware.

It was while talking with my therapist about it last week that I became aware of what I didn't know I was feeling. I realized that I am still mourning. As my therapist succinctly phrased it, everyone was at a cheerful party while I was at a funeral. I am still mourning the loss of my dream.

This is something that I have not really allowed myself to think about during the past year. In fact, when people ask me how I am doing, my response if often, "Life is so freaking good!" (or fu**ing good, depending on my familiarity with the asker)...and it is...but there are layers.

The thing is that I had a dream (I know, Martin Luther King did too), and this idyllic, grateful and fulfilled life that my women friends were portraying with their pictures and their words of praise and gratitude was indeed what I had envisioned for myself when I got married. My dream was there in Facebook pictures of happy daddies and helpful husbands with appreciative captions from grateful wives.

Ouch...it still hurts to remember it. It was like watching a movie of a life I'll never have. What I realized in my therapist's office last week is that what I am trying to come to terms with is knowing that I will be happy somehow, but not in the way that I once imagined. I am trying to come to terms with the fact that the type of comfortable family life that I imagined is not going to be mine. That dream is not for me. Yes, it hurts to know that something I held so precious is now dead. There is no going back. There is no chance that things will work out, This I know, and it is this absolute knowledge that hurts so profoundly.

I am not beating myself up for feeling this way. It is a pain that demands to be felt. It is a dream that was dead well before I left my husband, but one that still merits mourning. I am sad for the hopeful and ingenuous young woman who married with visions of a happy and close-knit family. I am sad in the same way that I am sad for the wife and mother who was instead emotionally abused in so many different little ways that it is impossible to add them all up and explain in an average conversation how they amount to breaking a person down.

I am still healing, and there is still sadness to be felt. I will not deny myself a single cleansing teardrop. I will feel it all.

Therapeutic Touch

Touch can be an issue if you have been sexually abused. I, myself, have varied degrees of tolerance to touch depending on numerous conditions.

Last Friday, I decided to indulge in the services of a professional massage. I have been hurting all over ALL the time. Retail pharmacy takes a beating on your hands, your neck, your back and, of course, your legs and feet. It's GOFAR season, so I have been training to run a 5K with my kids...on an injured foot! I hurt all the time. I ached for someone to touch me and make the pain go away.

I set up an appointment for after work, taking a chance and not even asking if the therapist would be a man or a woman. In the past, I had almost always requested that my massage therapist be a woman. It's not that I didn't care. I certainly was somewhat apprehensive about the possibility of receiving a massage from an unknown man, but something inside me told me that I would be OK. There was a grown woman inside me, a gentle mother, telling me that I was strong enough...that a professional massage from a professional man would not hurt me.

I walked into the spa with joy and confidence and was greeted by Mary Ann...my massage therapist :) Good thing I hadn't wasted time fretting.

When I walked into her beautiful and cozy escape of a room, I knew exactly what I wanted. I wanted to forget the world for an hour, to think of nothing and no one else but me (just for an hour). I wanted to relinquish my voluntary movements to someone who knew exactly how to manipulate every bone and every muscle in my body to counteract the repetitive pain and exhaustion that I have subjected it to.

I climbed into her toasted sheets and immediately felt cared for and safe. She touched me, and I wanted to sigh and exhale...like the feeling of your first cold drink after hours in the hot sun, or finally sitting down after a long day on your feet.


I surrendered and allowed her to heal me...my neck...my back...my arms. She made her way down my arms releasing...releasing...expelling stress and tension, eventually finding my wrists...my wrists whose cuts have healed beautifully and completely. I did not recoil when she touched my perfectly intact skin. For a change, I had nothing to hide or to be ashamed of. Her touch felt like a hug, like affirmation, like love. She had no idea the emotions that she was drawing from me. She had no idea how far I had come. "Do it again", I wanted to say.

It's Bedtime Again

It's bedtime again. Since my last EMDR session, it's been difficult to fall asleep. Unlike with previous EMDR sessions, this time I have been alright during the day. It is at bedtime that all the memories want to return.

Everything is fine until I lie down, turn out the lights and close my eyes. All the pictures come back. They roll by like the scenery outside the train window. I feel them. I inhale strength and exhale sighs in an effort to calm myself...and then, in my mind, I travel to my safe place - the only spot where I can sleep.

It's bedtime again, and I don't want to remember...so I don't go to bed.

It Will Never be OK

she took her power back ~

without permission
 

(Terri St. Cloud. "Her Power". Her White Tree)

I sometimes find myself inviting my STBX over to my house for a meal with the kids and me...not because I particularly want his company, but because the kids want to see him and still feel safe and warm when we all sit down for a meal together. I often find myself regretting my generosity. Sunday afternoon about three weeks ago was one of those times.

We had been to Mass together as a family, and things had been going relatively well, and I had a lot of food...so I invited him over for lunch, but made him aware that after lunch I would have chores to do and our older daughter would have homework to complete.

We had lunch...and then he wouldn't leave. I went upstairs to use my bathroom, and the kids went out to the backyard to play. He went upstairs and knocked on my bathroom door asking if I was alright. He was in my bedroom. WHAT??

When I came out, I found him sitting at the top of my stairs, blocking my way down. At this point, I realized that we were alone in the house and insisted that we go downstairs, as he continued to insist that I sit on the steps with him (there was only room for one, so the only way I could have done this would have been to straddle him...no way!).

When he finally got up and we made our way down the stairs, he continued to hug me and to want to kiss me, although I clearly wanted no part in that. After much prodding and insisting in my part, he eventually turned to leave...but not before adding, "Why do you want to hurt me?"

I simply responded that I was not trying to hurt him, but then realized that this was not enough...that it sounded too trite for the true and clear emotions that I felt when he touched me.

So I looked him frankly in the eyes and said, "I am not trying to hurt you. When someone does not want you to hug them, kiss them or touch them, it has nothing to do with wanting to hurt you, but everything to do with that person not wanting to get hurt. When you hug me, kiss me or touch me, it does not feel good. It always brings back bad memories, so when I don't want you to hug me, kiss me or touch me it is because I don't want to have those memories. It has nothing to do with wanting to hurt you."

"So it's just because of that one time?", he argued as if it had been such a small thing.

"No, that and everything else. That was just the last thing."

At this point, he began to argue that there were other good memories from our marriage. I agreed but explained that his hugging, kissing and touching never called upon these memories. His hugging, kissing and touching only brought me to a painful place. He must have felt as if he had broken through or something, because he continued to argue his point seemingly impervious to the fact that it was completely irrelevant to what I tried to make clear to him.

I felt my emotions simmering and knew I was near my boiling point. The more he continued to try to convince me to ignore my truth, the angrier I became...until I felt the need to look him square in the eyes and remind him.

"You raped me in my own bed!", I spelled out...then he got angry.

He began to deny things again. I never wavered. My gaze never unlocked from his.

"That wasn't rape!"

"Yes, it was. When someone says no to sex, and you proceed, it is rape."

"It wasn't sex."

"I asked you to stop and you never did."

"You're a liar! It's all a lie! Lie! Lie! Lie!"

...and on it went, with my eyes always locked on his, my words over his and his words over mine, like the argument scene from a drama film. I was convinced of the truth and realized that all he was trying to do was to erase my truth...obliterate it...smother my confidence with his aggressive words...as he had done in the past. It was not going to work this time.

I saw where this impasse was going and simply asked him to leave. He continued to call me a liar. I opened the door and pointed out, in case my words were inaudible in his raging head. He continued. He wasn't moving...and just before I once again got hooked on his rotten bait and melodically cursed him out, I remembered what my therapist had suggested in the past.

Get the fuck out of my house never left my lips. Instead, I clearly and evenly said, "If you don't leave, I am going to call the police."

It worked..."Yes, I'm leaving.", he finally said...and left (and returned for his phone...LOL).

I could not believe how satisfying and refreshing saying those words felt to me. You see, I wasn't screaming or crying or shaking when I said them. I felt completely in control, as if I had just asked my child to clean up her toys or she would lose privileges...and I knew I would follow through if I needed to.

The thing is that it will never be OK. No matter how much he tries to erase that awful night from history, it will never be OK that he took his pleasure with my body against my will. It will never be OK that he held my legs down and open, while I wept and remembered terrible things from my past. It will never be OK that he continued, while I tried to push him off me. It will never be OK that I said no, and he didn't stop.

There was Only One Way Home

I returned to EMDR today.

Over a month ago, I had had a panicky experience while driving over a bridge in the dark. It wasn't being on the bridge that incurred this sudden fear, it was looking at my GPS screen and seeing absolute nothingness around me. I couldn't tell where I was...there were no roads, no houses, not even trees...on the screen, it looked like wilderness...and it was completely dark (no street or road lights). I tightly grasped the steering wheel and drove in a panic, trying not to look at the GPS screen. It seemed like infinity before I reached a more developed area and began to calm down. It was an awful experience.

Today, my therapist and I decided to see where EMDR could take me with this...a very bad place, of course. It had not been the first time that feeling lost in the middle of uncharted territory had uprooted these fearful feelings in me, and each time this has occurred to me, the feelings have been akin to those of being stranded and lost in swampy terrain.

I don't know how old I was when my stepfather started taking me for rides in his van. I suppose the things he wanted to do with me where too much to be able to do discretely at home...so he took me in his van to a place that seemed like uncharted wilderness to me. I didn't know how he found this place. I just knew that I had no idea how to get back home.

These are the things that I saw during EMDR today. I saw him taking me for a ride in his van...I was lost in this uncharted wilderness. I felt that he had an enormous amount of power over me, because he was the only one who knew how to get me home.

I saw us arrive at this desolate location in the middle of the wild...and then I could not get past a certain area in his van. I could not let my memory take me to the back of his van...I knew what was coming, and I couldn't bring myself to remember that. I remembered the kissing and how kissing my STBX against my will reminds me so much of this time with my stepfather

I struggled with the memory that I couldn't let in. Eventually, however, I was able to realize one thing. I realized that my stepfather was the only one who could take me home during these trips...and that there was only one way home. I had to say yes to him. I had to agree...or I would never get home. I saw and I profoundly felt that what I had done with him wasn't my fault...even if I had said yes.

...There was only one way home.

After this, I was exhausted. We stopped EMDR. I caught my breath and my soul and went to the back of my own van. I wrapped myself up in soft blankets and fell asleep, as I told myself that there had only been one way home and it was not my fault. When I awoke, the first thing I told myself was to go to a good place...and I did. I am being very gentle with myself today.

Finding Unsoiled Beauty Again

trembling, she opened her heart,

quietly, she whispered,

'let's go.'

  

(Terri St. Cloud. "Let's Go". Her White Tree)

 

 

"Open your heart", he says, but it's not my true heart he means...it's my vagina. I find the words in the poem above simply beautiful...touching...personally meaningful...yet soiled by my husband's expression.

 

How do I find unsoiled beauty in my life again?

You've Come a Long Way, Baby

 

 By the grace of God

I picked myself back up

I put one foot in front of the other

And I looked in the mirror

And decided to stay

Wasn’t gonna let love take me out that way

 

(from By the grace of God, Katy Perry)

"Write about...Virginia Slims". This was the assignment given to me by my therapist a couple of weeks ago. It wasn't the cigarettes, of course, that he intended for me to write about...it was the slogan. Many years ago (when we were still advertising cigarettes), Virginia Slims marketed its slim and femininely sophisticated brown cigarette to women using the slogan "You've come a long way, baby" - words with which I can relate.

When I first started this blog, I had just returned to therapy after a five year hiatus. I would not necessarily say this had been the beginning of the journey, but for the sake of comparison on this post, I will use that time as a starting point.

I had been buried in silence, and I have felt my way out from under the mound of garbage taking the proverbial leap of faith, sometimes blindly. I have allowed my voice to emerge and see the brightness of the day. It started out as a very small voice, too minuscule for the words it had to carry. But every day I feel it growing stronger and louder...sometimes trembling with the message but audible and clear. I've come a long way.

I had been captive in the bondage of fear, but I have untied the knots, loosened the ropes and walked away from my isolated confinement. My legs were insecure at first, but I put one foot in front of the other and each step was more certain and firmer than the last. I now see myself as brave, and I believe it internally...courageous describes me like it's the color of my eyes. I've come a long way.

My pain had been dark and desperate. I was consumed with self destruction, finding relief from the oppressive emotional agony only through physical harm to my body. I fell low, sometimes seeing no other way but death, but my therapist held my hand and never let go. With his arm as leverage, I was able to pick myself up and inhale life. I am now living the moments I once thought impossible, and I am surrounded by light. I've come a long way.

It has been a long, arduous journey, and I know that I am still traveling. The road, however, does get grassier for me as I carry on. Along the way, I have picked up nourishment and strength that will sustain me through further arid patches. I stand on different ground now. I've come a long way.

Emotions in Music

Deny this emptiness, this hole that I'm inside
These tears, they tell their own story

 

You told me not to cry when you were gone
But the feeling's overwhelming, it's much too strong
Can I lay by your side, next to you, you
And make sure you're alright

 

(from Lay Me Down, Sam Smith)

 

He sings like I write - with gut wrenching emotion. That's what attracts me to his music. He is wide open and brutally honest with his voice. Listening to him sing is like touching his soul.

I have not had the opportunity to write in quite some time, but the emotions are still in there, I have longed to write, to express...but I couldn't. In place of the writing, I had been listening to music...a lot of it. Today, I found myself singing "Lay Me Down" along with Sam Smith. Like him, I offered all my emotions as I sang, leaving nothing behind...to the point of tears.

I knew that this time it wasn't the lyrics that I was identifying with. It was the pain that he expressed that somehow touched something untouchable inside of me. There are feelings that I have been afraid to feel, afraid to explore, and his voice went there and fingered the precise strings that freed my tears.

I am still afraid to write these things down but am glad that at least there is music.