Rest, Isolation, or Both?

Sometimes I wonder if there is fine line between isolation and just wanting to rest. There might be for me. I ran two flu clinics today, with a few hours in between each. I went home, wrote and rested after the first clinic. The second clinic was in the same town where my nephew and my sister-in-law live. I haven't seen them in way too long and actually want to see them, see how they're doing and chat with my nephew's mother. My second clinic would be over around dinner time, and if I texted her early and asked her to meet me for dinner I know she would more than likely agree. I didn't. I decided to wait until after the clinic and see how I felt afterward. Would I have the energy? I knew that I wanted to see them and talking with her would probably be uplifting.

I finished my clinic and decided against contacting them. I am tired. I am drained. I also stopped at a café to write and get caffeine before going home. And also because I may be afraid to go home. It may be that I just want to dive into bed and cover myself completely...gone and away for the evening.

Maybe I should have called her. The thing is that if they were to walk into this café right here right now, I would be so happy to see them. I would be elated, and we would talk and laugh and have a great evening. Then I would go home and rest, feeling so much better about it all.

That is probably what I need tonight...but I don't have the energy to make the call...or the text...or any move. I have seen other people do this. I have reached out to friends and offered my companionship and conversation whenever they need it. I have found out months later that they struggled through a tough time and never called me...they went through it alone...isolated. They didn't have it in them to make the call, but if I would have called they would have shared. I know how they felt. Sometimes you need to reach out, but everything feels way too heavy.

Write Anything

Sometimes I feel like I have to write something...anything...to get the crazies out of my head. This is me today writing anything just to get the rage out of my head. These are the times when I don't know exactly what the topic is. I don't know what it is that is knifing me...or I don't want to say...or I don't want to know.

But this time I feel a rage, a fire. I guess it's more than one thing, and maybe one thing brought it all to boiling. I want to scream, and cry and bang my head...and then I want to hide within the covers. And I want everything to be fine...or I want to be a child...but a different child...with a different childhood. The one where I am safe and everything is taken care of.

Ouch. Ugggh. That hurts so much.

The Sad Flags

I see the sad flags flying again...half-staff...again. And I look at them and cry...again. Because, again, it doesn't matter. All I think is that it doesn't matter. This country will not change. These things are sad to us...but not shocking.

I heard on NPR that Australia tightened their gun control laws, because they were shocked and outraged when thirty-five people were killed during a mass shooting. We kill fifty-eight, and we're not shocked. We kill twenty six-year old children, and it is not enough. There but for the grace of God go ours.

Seth Meyers opened his Late Show the Monday after the latest mass shooting in Las Vegas thanking and commending the first responders and blood donors who acted so selflessly and courageously after the shooting. He said that the worst in humanity is usually followed by the best in humanity...which is usually followed by no action.

I could not have said it better myself. How could this comedian have expressed so succinctly to the nation exactly what I was feeling and thinking? He said that when our Congress tells us that this is not the time to talk about gun control laws, they are telling us that we are never going to talk about it. And that if we are never going to talk about it, then they should at least be honest with us and let us know that this is just the way it's going to be from now on...which is exactly how I feel about it. It was as though my thoughts and my heart were coming out on Bluetooth through the television.

I'm not sure if I feel sad or angry about our latest Par-for-the-Course. I do know that I feel hopeless. This is the one issue that I have learned will never change no matter how hard we fight...no matter how many we kill. The NRA (I mean) Congress tells us that our guns are our identity and that is more important than people's actual lives. This December will mark the fifth year that twenty families in Newtown, Connecticut will not celebrate Christmas with the child they lost. I wonder how this has affected their identity. How can anyone forget that?

I am angry...and there's nothing sadder than feeling anger without hope.

Sleep for Healing

It occurred to me that I needed to sleep more than I needed to write. It occurred to me when I dozed off every time I started on the keyboard that I couldn't handle the subject matter. It occurred to me that my brain may have been telling me this...so I listened...and I didn't force things...and I didn't write.

I slept...and with sleep came forgetting. I forgot the feelings, the thoughts and the memories. I don't know if this was bad or good, but sleep seemed to be my savior. Even now, it's hard to leave that weightless space in the morning when fingers of light are pulling me out of my slumber.

When dreaming I'm guided to another world
Time and time again
At sunrise I fight to stay asleep
'Cause I don't want to leave the comfort of this place
'Cause there's a hunger, a longing to escape
From the life I live when I'm awake

(from Higher, Creed)

On the Edge of Pain

It was difficult for me to open my eyes to a new day this morning. It felt like the old pain was back, and I wanted to protect myself from the grip of it all...in sleep, in bed where nothing hurts.

I don't want to fall down the rabbit hole, although it feels as if I'm teeter-tottering just on the edge of it. There is no way that I'm going down there. "It's just a memory", he keeps saying to me. So I will myself out of bed, onto this blog and into the world of my children and my work.

Where do I Put the Anger?

I don't know if the raging anger or the infinite sadness was the hardest for me to manage today at EMDR. I clenched my fists around the blanket on my lap...because where was all that anger supposed to go? Not back inside of me.

And then there was the paralyzing sadness. It was hard to even speak the words...that I felt suicidal...but only in the memory. And it made me so afraid that I would carry that feeling home and not know how to handle it.

Don't Tell Anyone

Maybe it was her "Don't tell anyone" request that triggered everything. And even though I understood and agreed with her reasons and her consequences, the words still traveled back in time and yanked me along with a rubber arm that just wouldn't snap no matter how much I resisted.

There I was again. He said, "Don't tell anyone", and I was reduced to shriveling fear. I froze, and I cowered and looked at him with smallness in my face...and made sure that no one found out.

Rest

I've spent the past few days being a Mom and letting my brain rest...not thinking about or feeling anything...getting enough sleep. I felt that it was time to rest. Mostly I've wanted to sleep, feeling like I can't get enough of it.

There is such pleasure and such comfort in closing my eyes and sinking my head back into a thousand pillows, covering myself in soft warmth and falling out of reality. In sleep I am protected from my thoughts, my fears, my memories and all my perceived inadequacies.

Newspapers on the Floor

Scenes from EMDR

I saw the newspapers on the floor, and it was me...running away. I was so sad. A teenage girl can't sleep on newspapers on the floor outside a movie theater. What was I thinking? But I know why I had wanted to run. And where was Mom? I really needed her. She was looking for me, I know. But why was she so angry?

Dry Heaves

Scenes from EMDR

At one point, I found myself in a place so intolerably dark and fearsome that I could not continue. I turned away from that window and held my gut and my heart so as to keep them from spilling out. I wanted to curl up into myself. I shook and felt as if I were crying...but there were no tears...nothing...dry heaves. A watershed would have been a welcome release.

Floating Out of EMDR

I felt like I floated out of my EMDR session today. I floated down the stairs, gliding a hand down the rail, as much for support as for orientation. I traced the curving end of the rail with my palm for assurance that I was at the bottom. There was nothing wrong with my eyesight, it's just that I couldn't trust what I was seeing...not just yet.

I slipped into the second floor bathroom before taking on the next set of stairs. I didn't look in the mirror. I was afraid of whom I would see. Not before I had sunk to the floor and held myself and told myself that I was safe...that I was here...that I was OK. Then I inhaled and exhaled, and looked in the mirror to see me...mother of three...pharmacist...adult.

And I ran down the next flight of stairs into my van the cocoon.

I'm Still Here

I'm still here...still writing. I don't want to stop now that I've started. I want to keep purging and vomiting and looking at the truth in the face. That's hard...but so is trying to get through a night without cutting.

I went back to counseling today...and it was good. I laughed, I needed to. I needed to know that I am so much more than the mess I was last week...still feeling the shame. I thought I would be, but I found I wasn't ready to fully address the shit that led me to cutting. Maybe a little superficially. I still couldn't look at my therapist...still feeling the shame. Except once, I deliberately made eye contact with him, because I needed to feel the connection. Sometimes I feel like I need to be rescued from the grim world into which I slip when I look away. Eye contact with him is my rescue.

I can't say that I'm out of the woods yet...but the leaves are thinning and letting in a little light. "I love you", says me to the teenage girl.

Writing, Threats and EMDR

Tomorrow I go back to counseling. I think I'm better today than I was last week. I could probably still drag a blade across my thigh, given the opportunity. I might even go through a bucket of ice cubes tonight. But I have written a lot more during the last five days than I have in the last year. And THAT was helpful.

Writing always helps me to see things more clearly. It doesn't always or necessarily offer a solution, but it helps me to categorize thoughts and feelings and maybe draw a map to what I can do to make things better. I don't actually have a map yet, but I'm considering EMDR for tomorrow...or the next time maybe...depending.

So where will I start with EMDR? And why EMDR? My therapist suggested EMDR about threats. This seems to be what triggered this episode for me. What threats? That's the scary part. Remembering them...recognizing them...acknowledging them.

"Don't tell anyone", it's those words. "No le digas a nadie". " Si se lo dices a alguien, la policia me va ha meter preso, y ha ustedes lo van a llevar a otro lugar." He made it sound like we would all be raised in foster care...if I told anyone. He made me feel like it would be my fault and my wrongdoing if he were arrested because I talked.

I wish I could have talked to that girl. What if I could have told her that nothing bad would happen to her or to her Mom or to her siblings? What if I could have convinced her that she was absolutely right in feeling like sending him to jail was what needed to be done. It was the right thing to do. What if I would have done that? Spoken up then. Would things have been different? We were all so afraid of him.

Is There a Cure?

In times like these, I wonder what healing looks like. In mental health, there doesn't seem to be such thing as "cured"...at least not for me. I know I've come a long way. I have to remember that when I am feeling such failure and setback. The thing is that I want to reach a point where I don't actually have the urge to drag a blade across my skin.

Sure, the ice helps...it doesn't injure me. But I can hold an ice cube against my wrist until it melts into a puddle and take the pain as punishment. When will I stop punishing myself? What will it take? More EMDR? Prayer? Both?

So much Ice

Holy shit so much ice tonight. I won't cut because I'm afraid that I won't go back to therapy if I do. I would be too ashamed...and I think he would be mad at me.

Dreaming about Mom

I dreamt about my mother last night. I was participating in some kind of educational program for girls/women It was of short-term duration, such as a weekend or something like that. We (the students) were all very excited about this opportunity, and the atmosphere was high-spirited, giddy and chatty. The grounds were gorgeous, and I felt special to be involved in such and event.

We were walking as a group to have lunch. It would be outdoors on one of the grounds' many beautiful sites. A woman who seemed to be an organizer (but not an instructor) approached me and let me know that there was a girl who was interested in learning some things about us and the program...ask us some questions. I told her that we would be happy to have her join us for lunch and that she should jut follow us to where we were going and sit with us.

She did not understand what I was saying, and I stepped out of the line to explain things better to her. My group moved on without me, and I saw that my Mom and my youngest daughter had come to join me for lunch. I was ecstatic but had now lost my group and didn't know exactly where to go. I told them we should move in the direction that they went and try to find them so that we could all have lunch together.

The ground was very bumpy, and my Mom fell out of her wheelchair twice while we were pushing her. She became very quiet, and I could tell that she was sad and embarrassed that this had happened...despite my consolation. I looked and looked but never found my group. As much as I was happy to see my Mom, I felt crushed to have missed out on the opportunity to learn and eat with the other women.

I woke up feeling depressed and lethargic. I knew I had to write. Today, I will throw myself into my work and try not to think or feel...except about pharmacy. I understand why people do this. It certainly is better than alcohol. I'll see how I feel tonight and probably write again.

Tonight is Self-Care

I took care of myself tonight. I didn't cut or numb my wrists with ice. I didn't think about my shame or my hurt. Instead I listened to a meditation app while I floated in a hot bath of oils and salts. It was heavenly. Every step that I took towards self-care was deliberate, because every cell of me would have gravitated towards self-hate. It was well worth it.

When Fear Leads to Cutting

It's hard to believe that I wrote what I wrote last night. Yet, I know that I did...and that I needed to. I needed to purge...to vomit...as ugly as that may be.

Things are a little clearer this morning. I slept so well and so much last night - eight full uninterrupted hours! I didn't even know that my brain could still do that! But it can, and it did, and I am hoping that today I can explore a little more into what the hell is driving me batty. Why do I insist on punishing myself?

In therapy, we talked about fear. My fear. I am afraid of my stepfather's threats from so long ago. I am afraid of seeing him again. I am afraid of his family. I am afraid that they would hurt us. I am afraid to even say all this.

So why does all this fear lead me to hurt myself? Why do I feel somehow deserving of punishment? I have forced myself to eat, because I know that allowing myself to feel hungry and weak is part of the punishment. I have deliberately taken myself to bed, because denying myself a good night's rest is part of the punishment. But what have I done to deserve all this punishment?

I have talked. I have spoken up...used my voice when he told me not to tell. And all the time that I didn't tell, I was his accomplice. I was his other woman. I was his secret. And for this, I want to cut myself to pieces. I want to slice through my skin feeling the sharpness of the intense sting until...until what? Until I feel like I've paid? Until I've purged? Until I'm satisfied? The problem is that that feeling doesn't come from cutting. As much as I seek it, it doesn't seem to come, and I only want to keep cutting thinking that the next cut will bring me to that place of acceptance and satisfaction. I don't stop until I call or see my therapist for help.

He suggested EMDR again. I think I might agree.

All I Want to do is Hurt

My mind and my wrists are both numb...one from the alcohol and the other from the ice. How long can I do this? All night long.

I told my therapist that I wouldn't hurt myself this weekend...just ice. But, shit, it's going to take a boatload of ice to get through this. All I want to do is hurt...in a sick kind of way. To feel the sharp sting of the blade carving tracks in my skin. But I substitute the ice instead, and hold it indefinitely against my wrist letting the numbing pain draw out the rage, the fear, the hurt and the tears.

Mostly, though, I don't want to hurt anymore.

When Writing is the Only Option

Three days ago, the tears hovered between my lids and my eyelashes...on the verge...like a glass filled just so above the rim to make a lip without spilling. Yesterday, I couldn't summon the tears. They had somehow dried out with the surge of emotions that I was not able to make sense of. I was not able to make coherent.

So I cut.

Never a proud moment for me. Today I feel the shame and disappointment that inevitably follows this violent act...and the overwhelming sensation that I am not finished...that there is more left...that I didn't quite get it all out of my system.

And I know that I can't continue doing this. I know that I have committed to staying safe this weekend. So I write. In a desperate and agonizing manner, I return to this blog to write anonymously and, I pray, privately.