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.

Daddy Issues and the Bride

Watching a scene from an otherwise hilarious movie, I broke down in tears.  It was the wedding scene...specifically the one when the proud and sometimes tearful father walks the beautiful and beaming bride down the aisle. They look at each, and it is undeniably their moment.

You would think that by now I would have gotten over my dad not walking me down the aisle at my wedding. You would think that by now I wouldn't give a shit about what did or did not happen on that fateful day. I am, after all, running back up the aisle and exiting the church.

But I give a shit. I can't watch another virtuous bride take her father's steady arm to be guided down that uncertain path to the rest of her life without remembering how much it hurt that he simply didn't come. That I offered to pay for his tuxedo and his airfare as long as he just agreed to come. He never said no, but he never said yes. He just strung me along saying that maybe he would, until it inevitably turned into I can't. There was no real reason...he just never made up his mind to say yes.

How could a man not want to walk his daughter down the aisle? It is the fundamental question that I still can't answer. If you have done hardly anything right by your daughter and she allows you one more opportunity to show up, how could you possibly turn it down?

No way I was going to let him ruin my wedding day. I decided that I would walk alone. I had, after all, come this far without him. I could certainly walk a few more steps alone. I believe this is one of the best decisions I have made, and I think I was beautiful.

And so why now? Why still? Why do I still miss his arm supporting mine?

Exhausted and Ashamed

There is no beginning or end to what I need to write about. In fact, there is no "about"...I just need to write. It's been so long that I feel bottled up. The longer that I don't touch base with what's going on in my head, the further away I get...the more I isolate, the less I want to talk...or write...or see anyone.

This is me going down, exhausted and ashamed...looking for punishment, wanting to cut. I think about it, read about it. I breathe it in and out. I want to be left alone to my sick thoughts and my blades.

This is me asking for help because I should...not because I want to.

The Girl Who Says Yes

In EMDR today I saw the girl who says yes. I looked at her, and I hated her. I was disgusted with her, and she looked back at me ashamed. I wish I could have done something...she was so sad. But I was afraid...that I'll always be the girl who says yes.

Bold and Brave

Bold and brave is how I would describe myself in EMDR today. It's not that I welcomed the memories; I was actually very afraid of them...but I didn't turn away from them. I faced them. When I found myself in my stepfather's van, I looked for the curtains. Where were we? Where did he do it? I want to remember, because there is power in remembering...in knowing what he did.

Cathartic Poetry

Sometimes writing is like food...can't go on without it. For me, these days, it's been back to the poetry...that old secret code of mine. It's how I started writing as a teen. I thought that if I wrote in cryptic poems, no one would know what I was writing about...and it worked.

Now, I've returned to the poems. They are so cathartic...I can get so much shit out in one little poem. And I'm not afraid to write them because, what the hell, no one knows what the fuck I'm writing about.

I wrote another one this morning...and now I feel like I can breathe.