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.