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.