"Heads" is crying, "tails" is cutting. This is not a toss, this is a choice.
Tonight I choose "heads".
Although I may not be able to cry, tonight I choose not to cut. Maybe the tears will come later. Who would have thought tears would be so desired, yet so difficult to summon?
I cannot cry for myself, for my own sadness. I simply sink into the black hole of this sorrow until I feel like I will vanish.
I wish I could cry.
I sob at movies, I cry through songs, and I weep for other people's pain...but not for me.
I can't even imagine what it would be like if I cried for all that pain, for all those wrongs. Would I ever be able to stop? Would it be like when I watched The Prince of Tides? I could not stop. Would I then walk around fragile and vulnerable because I cried?
I fear the tears - the loss of control. And what about the little girl in me? Would she drown in the watershed?
On the other hand, I wish I could cry if instead of sinking and vanishing I cried. I wish I could cry if instead of cutting I cried...and it felt as satisfying.
But even in the absence of tears, tonight I lay the penny on my wrist "heads" up.
I choose "heads".
Thursday, February 28, 2013
Wednesday, February 27, 2013
Father Figure
You told me that you sometimes feel protective paternal feelings towards me. (You know who you are, kind man about my father's age). I told you that this was hard to hear, and I could talk about it no further.
Why was it so hard?
It was hard to hear that a man in that role would not abandon me or hurt me. My own father preferred the company of a myriad of other women to that of my mother and his children. My stepfather wanted to have sex with me...the damn sick fuck!
In my life, there are no men like you. When you say something like that, I can't even internalize it. I understand that good fathers feel that way towards their daughters, but not towards me. No one feels like that towards me.
I am overwhelmed by the tenderness of your words, and I cannot deny that I have at times wished you were my dad.
Why was it so hard?
It was hard to hear that a man in that role would not abandon me or hurt me. My own father preferred the company of a myriad of other women to that of my mother and his children. My stepfather wanted to have sex with me...the damn sick fuck!
In my life, there are no men like you. When you say something like that, I can't even internalize it. I understand that good fathers feel that way towards their daughters, but not towards me. No one feels like that towards me.
I am overwhelmed by the tenderness of your words, and I cannot deny that I have at times wished you were my dad.
Saturday, February 23, 2013
Girls' Night In
Yesterday's cold, gray, drizzly rain called for a bowl of popcorn and several cups of hot chocolate.
After a frantic morning trying to figure out who would take my kids to school (there was a 3 hour delayed start due to inclement weather) and an overall exhausting week, I was ready to pick up my daughters and head home for a cozy "Girls' Night In".
I decided that the best way to kick off this special evening would be with a nice warm bubble bath. I visualized myself relaxing in my whirlpool tub while they splashed and played in their bathtub in their own bathroom.
...They had a different idea. "Let's all take a bath together in your bathtub, Mom!", they excitedly suggested. When I tried to dissuade them, they returned with, "But we just want to be with you, Mom." I was reminded of the times when, as a child, I never wanted to leave my mother's side, and I easily capitulated.
The three of us piled into one giant bubble bath. My youngest brought in her collection of dolphins and seals and held her own personal Seaquarium show. My older daughter rubbed each of my tired feet. I, in turn, rubbed (tickled) hers. Then, in a gesture born of her own empathy and selflessness, she took my hand in hers and rubbed away the aches and tension of an incredibly intense week. I gave her each of my hands to work on, my wrists completely exposed to her...and there was not a single cut to hide or be ashamed of.
Every agonizing struggle that I endured this week in resisting the urge to cut was worth it to be able to spend this moment with my daughter.
Thank God I did not cut this week.
After a frantic morning trying to figure out who would take my kids to school (there was a 3 hour delayed start due to inclement weather) and an overall exhausting week, I was ready to pick up my daughters and head home for a cozy "Girls' Night In".
I decided that the best way to kick off this special evening would be with a nice warm bubble bath. I visualized myself relaxing in my whirlpool tub while they splashed and played in their bathtub in their own bathroom.
...They had a different idea. "Let's all take a bath together in your bathtub, Mom!", they excitedly suggested. When I tried to dissuade them, they returned with, "But we just want to be with you, Mom." I was reminded of the times when, as a child, I never wanted to leave my mother's side, and I easily capitulated.
The three of us piled into one giant bubble bath. My youngest brought in her collection of dolphins and seals and held her own personal Seaquarium show. My older daughter rubbed each of my tired feet. I, in turn, rubbed (tickled) hers. Then, in a gesture born of her own empathy and selflessness, she took my hand in hers and rubbed away the aches and tension of an incredibly intense week. I gave her each of my hands to work on, my wrists completely exposed to her...and there was not a single cut to hide or be ashamed of.
Every agonizing struggle that I endured this week in resisting the urge to cut was worth it to be able to spend this moment with my daughter.
Thank God I did not cut this week.
Friday, February 22, 2013
Carrying On
Written February 21, 2013
Today was rough, although I was grateful for the bright sunny day so that I could put my sunglasses on and hide.
Had I been home alone, I would have been cutting. Today I lost the strength to fight. I simply got tired, and I wanted nothing more than sweet relief by the blade across my wrist. I wanted my husband gone so that I could indulge in my private madness and fascination with sharp knives.
But alas, he remained by my side, inadvertently becoming my protector against my own rage. I kept my hands busy, I accomplished a project, and then I went to work to fight my demons in public. I had the presence of mind not to bring a blade with me.
It had been a long time since my emotions interfered with my concentration at work. Today was that day again. I came very close to launching an item across the room torpedo style, before I realized that no one would know that I was just fighting my own self-destructive urges, that my anger was not directed at them. Instead, I gently placed the item back on the shelf where it belonged and carried on.
Carrying on meant solving problems and helping people while thoughts of when and where I would be one with my blade constantly attacked me..."just one cut", I begged.
...But I knew better, I knew I just had to find a way to refrain, so, against every desire I was feeling at that moment, I texted some friends and invited them to lunch at my house this weekend.
It's harder to entertain when I am worried about hiding my wrists. It's better if I just don't touch them, and I will not.
This weekend I will enjoy my friends and cook another warming meal. I will once again become lost in the preparation of this meal and perhaps I will once again inhabit that safe haven that is my mother's arms and my mother's kitchen.
Today was rough, although I was grateful for the bright sunny day so that I could put my sunglasses on and hide.
Had I been home alone, I would have been cutting. Today I lost the strength to fight. I simply got tired, and I wanted nothing more than sweet relief by the blade across my wrist. I wanted my husband gone so that I could indulge in my private madness and fascination with sharp knives.
But alas, he remained by my side, inadvertently becoming my protector against my own rage. I kept my hands busy, I accomplished a project, and then I went to work to fight my demons in public. I had the presence of mind not to bring a blade with me.
It had been a long time since my emotions interfered with my concentration at work. Today was that day again. I came very close to launching an item across the room torpedo style, before I realized that no one would know that I was just fighting my own self-destructive urges, that my anger was not directed at them. Instead, I gently placed the item back on the shelf where it belonged and carried on.
Carrying on meant solving problems and helping people while thoughts of when and where I would be one with my blade constantly attacked me..."just one cut", I begged.
...But I knew better, I knew I just had to find a way to refrain, so, against every desire I was feeling at that moment, I texted some friends and invited them to lunch at my house this weekend.
It's harder to entertain when I am worried about hiding my wrists. It's better if I just don't touch them, and I will not.
This weekend I will enjoy my friends and cook another warming meal. I will once again become lost in the preparation of this meal and perhaps I will once again inhabit that safe haven that is my mother's arms and my mother's kitchen.
Wednesday, February 20, 2013
Blade in Hand
We started EMDR therapy yesterday, and I anticipate this is going to be difficult for me.
I am having a hard time just getting the memories out. It's not that I can't remember. The thoughts are in my head, but the words cannot come out. I feel that I will open my mouth to speak and nothing will come out.
So I blog.
These memories are seriously scary. Yesterday's memory about my mother's injury made me so sad that I found myself at home in the bathroom, blade in hand, completely surrendered to my desire to self-medicate through self-injury...only to be saved by an "inopportune" phone call (or the hand of God).
Because, in my case, idle hands...want to cut, I occupied myself that afternoon making a good old fashioned home-cooked meal for my family - like my mother did. She was famous for her good cooking (and still is)! Except for the fact that it seemed like everything I touched was sharp (knife, lid of an open can,etc.), I was able to completely lose myself in the preparation of that meal.
This morning I continued to think about my mother, and I wanted to be a child playing volleyball on the beach with her again. I found myself making Cream of Wheat for my children for breakfast. This was one of our favorite breakfast meals as kids growing up. It was always special when she made it. We did not call it Cream of Wheat. In our house it was arinita (ah-ree-nee-tah). This is the Spanish term for that comforting porridge, the word my mother used when she was a child.
When I cooked it this morning, I stirred that pot constantly, never leaving it to so much as wash a spoon. I became lost in the swirl of the creamy mixture and fell, like Alice in Wonderland, into a vortex of time...back into a happy morning with Mom when she made us arinita.
After serving my children, I consumed my portion soaking in its warmth and the warmth of my mother, and for that moment I felt safe and whole again.
I am having a hard time just getting the memories out. It's not that I can't remember. The thoughts are in my head, but the words cannot come out. I feel that I will open my mouth to speak and nothing will come out.
So I blog.
These memories are seriously scary. Yesterday's memory about my mother's injury made me so sad that I found myself at home in the bathroom, blade in hand, completely surrendered to my desire to self-medicate through self-injury...only to be saved by an "inopportune" phone call (or the hand of God).
Because, in my case, idle hands...want to cut, I occupied myself that afternoon making a good old fashioned home-cooked meal for my family - like my mother did. She was famous for her good cooking (and still is)! Except for the fact that it seemed like everything I touched was sharp (knife, lid of an open can,etc.), I was able to completely lose myself in the preparation of that meal.
This morning I continued to think about my mother, and I wanted to be a child playing volleyball on the beach with her again. I found myself making Cream of Wheat for my children for breakfast. This was one of our favorite breakfast meals as kids growing up. It was always special when she made it. We did not call it Cream of Wheat. In our house it was arinita (ah-ree-nee-tah). This is the Spanish term for that comforting porridge, the word my mother used when she was a child.
When I cooked it this morning, I stirred that pot constantly, never leaving it to so much as wash a spoon. I became lost in the swirl of the creamy mixture and fell, like Alice in Wonderland, into a vortex of time...back into a happy morning with Mom when she made us arinita.
After serving my children, I consumed my portion soaking in its warmth and the warmth of my mother, and for that moment I felt safe and whole again.
Tuesday, February 19, 2013
My Mother's Health Condition
During today's session with my therapist, he asked me to remind him of my mother's health condition. The question almost brought me to tears. As a matter of fact, I cried on the way home.
"My mother is in a wheelchair", I said, pausing to consider explaining to the intern how she came to be in that wheelchair. I opted to proceed with the happy beach story that I had been telling as part of the EMDR therapy we began today. I could not offer that explanation because stepfather stories just were not leaving my lips this morning.
This is how my mother came to be a paraplegic. On a hot summer day years ago, my stepfather shot her and my grandmother because my mother wanted a divorce. She was tired of living in an abusive marriage. He killed my grandmother and left my mother paraplegic. He then fled and has never been found.
I was 16 when this happened. This should be on the list of Things That Should not Have Happened. I just could not bring myself to say it this morning. The words simply could not come out. The memory hurts to the point of tears. I wish I could have said that, but I truly had no voice for those words, only for the happy beach story...and that's the one I told.
"My mother is in a wheelchair", I said, pausing to consider explaining to the intern how she came to be in that wheelchair. I opted to proceed with the happy beach story that I had been telling as part of the EMDR therapy we began today. I could not offer that explanation because stepfather stories just were not leaving my lips this morning.
This is how my mother came to be a paraplegic. On a hot summer day years ago, my stepfather shot her and my grandmother because my mother wanted a divorce. She was tired of living in an abusive marriage. He killed my grandmother and left my mother paraplegic. He then fled and has never been found.
I was 16 when this happened. This should be on the list of Things That Should not Have Happened. I just could not bring myself to say it this morning. The words simply could not come out. The memory hurts to the point of tears. I wish I could have said that, but I truly had no voice for those words, only for the happy beach story...and that's the one I told.
Tuesday, February 12, 2013
Actually, I CAN Do That
A friend of mine invited me to run a 5K with her, and I take liberties calling her my friend. Really, she is my daughter's teacher. We ran a 5K together with our kids a couple of months ago.
The race will be in September (at the beginning of the school year) and out of state. Participating would require a long drive and an overnight stay. I was honored by the invitation, but my first reaction was, "Oh no, I can't do that."
Actually, I can do that. Although I am currently in no physical condition to run any race, I have more than enough time between now and September to get in tip top shape. Also, the race falls on a weekend when my husband is off from work. This means he would be able to stay with the children while I make the trip with my friend. She and I could drive together and even room together in order to share the expenses.
So why won't I allow myself?
What are the reasons that keep me from enjoying this amazing experience with other women? These are a few that I can think of:
I know these reasons seem illogical, but they are real to me. They are honestly the hurdles that keep me tripping on my way to felicity.
I want to run this race with my friend...after I conquer these hurdles...one by one.
The race will be in September (at the beginning of the school year) and out of state. Participating would require a long drive and an overnight stay. I was honored by the invitation, but my first reaction was, "Oh no, I can't do that."
Actually, I can do that. Although I am currently in no physical condition to run any race, I have more than enough time between now and September to get in tip top shape. Also, the race falls on a weekend when my husband is off from work. This means he would be able to stay with the children while I make the trip with my friend. She and I could drive together and even room together in order to share the expenses.
So why won't I allow myself?
What are the reasons that keep me from enjoying this amazing experience with other women? These are a few that I can think of:
- My family comes before me, and I cannot leave the children home alone with Dad for an entire weekend. I cannot abandon them like that.
- I am not important enough to take a weekend free of parenting duties in order to enjoy the company of other women and participate in an event that will bring me a sense of monumental accomplishment and immense pride.
- I am afraid my husband will agree to help with the kids, even encourage me, only to lay a guilt trip on me upon my return.
- I am afraid the race will fall on a weekend when there is something important going on for the kids, and either they will not be able to participate, or they will participate and I will miss it.
- Participating in women only events is something other women do...not me. I don't have enough courage or self-love to do that.
I know these reasons seem illogical, but they are real to me. They are honestly the hurdles that keep me tripping on my way to felicity.
I want to run this race with my friend...after I conquer these hurdles...one by one.
Friday, February 8, 2013
Being Present
Somewhere along the line, it became too much to ask of me to be mentally and emotionally present during intimacy with my husband.
Intercourse with my husband is 100% of the time initiated by him. It is not that I am not willing and able; it's more that I was raised not to be the one to ask. There are times when I am not willing but still oblige (for a variety of reasons, some listed on this post). These are the times when I escape in order to keep the flashbacks at bay. These are the times when I forgive myself for leaving.
There are other times when he is patient and kind, and I join him voluntarily with every intention of enjoying him the way he enjoys me.Yet, I don't. Unwillingly, I find myself planning menus, making lists and checking childrens' homework in my head. As much as I try to bring myself back, I am anything but present.
These are the times when I cannot forgive myself as easily. I feel the guilt of lying and pretending and think that I should be better. I should be able to stay and feel the way he feels and to honestly participate.
Is this too much to ask?
Does anybody else feel the same way?
Intercourse with my husband is 100% of the time initiated by him. It is not that I am not willing and able; it's more that I was raised not to be the one to ask. There are times when I am not willing but still oblige (for a variety of reasons, some listed on this post). These are the times when I escape in order to keep the flashbacks at bay. These are the times when I forgive myself for leaving.
There are other times when he is patient and kind, and I join him voluntarily with every intention of enjoying him the way he enjoys me.Yet, I don't. Unwillingly, I find myself planning menus, making lists and checking childrens' homework in my head. As much as I try to bring myself back, I am anything but present.
These are the times when I cannot forgive myself as easily. I feel the guilt of lying and pretending and think that I should be better. I should be able to stay and feel the way he feels and to honestly participate.
Is this too much to ask?
Does anybody else feel the same way?
Wednesday, February 6, 2013
Cutting
Cutting comes and goes for me. I have not cut in over 5 years. That is a very long time for a person with this disease.
Cutting has returned to me. I have been able to resist, but the urges keep coming back. I sit on my bed touching and feeling my wrists, looking at them. I do not dare have a blade in the same room as I am.
This is how I have managed.
But I imagine the sting of the slice. I can almost feel it...bringing me to life.
I can almost feel it...bringing me some calm.
But I will not do it.
I have a good long clean record,
And tonight, I will not damage it. I will not damage myself.
I don't deserve that kind of treatment.
I am the center of my family, the center of my home.
I am needed whole and present.
Tonight, I will rest.
Cutting has returned to me. I have been able to resist, but the urges keep coming back. I sit on my bed touching and feeling my wrists, looking at them. I do not dare have a blade in the same room as I am.
This is how I have managed.
But I imagine the sting of the slice. I can almost feel it...bringing me to life.
I can almost feel it...bringing me some calm.
But I will not do it.
I have a good long clean record,
And tonight, I will not damage it. I will not damage myself.
I don't deserve that kind of treatment.
I am the center of my family, the center of my home.
I am needed whole and present.
Tonight, I will rest.
Monday, February 4, 2013
50 Fingers and 50 Toes
This weekend I hosted a sleepover party for my older daughter. It was our first...I did not know exactly what to expect. As a matter of fact, I felt a little bit too relaxed for what other more experienced parents were saying. One mother wished me luck. Another one said, "Better you than me!" Still I carried on. I had a loose plan and all the supplies necessary to implement it. I believed I could...so I did!
The evening went very well. I served pizza, I served cake. They talked, they laughed, they broke open the pinata! They sat around my kitchen table as I painted 50 fingers and 50 toes and imagined we were in a real nail salon.
Movie time came, and we all got comfy and cozy in front of the fireplace. I thought I had succeeded. I thought we had waited long enough to start the movie and they would all just fall asleep during the movie...NOT.
Bedtime was he hardest part of the party!! No one slept! They all got out of their sleeping bags, roamed around, played dress up, yelled, screamed, woke me up at 3 AM, and eventually passed out at 4 AM!
OMG!
But you learn things from having little girls spend the night at your house. You learn about their little fears and their little soft spots. You learn that an 8 year old girl can feel uncomfortable sitting next to a lit candle. The fire scares her, so you blow it out. You learn that some 8-year-olds still suck their thumbs...in private, when it's bedtime. You learn that the Raggedy Ann doll up on the shelf freaks her out, so you remove it...and you leave a light on in the room for her if you're going to close the door. You learn to be more gentle with one of them, because her feelings are hurt easily.
These are the sweet and brave little girls who go to school with and play with my daughter. You never see these parts of them during the day. They just carry on normally in front of people. If they spend the night at your house, you have the privilege of seeing another beautiful side of them.
The evening went very well. I served pizza, I served cake. They talked, they laughed, they broke open the pinata! They sat around my kitchen table as I painted 50 fingers and 50 toes and imagined we were in a real nail salon.
Movie time came, and we all got comfy and cozy in front of the fireplace. I thought I had succeeded. I thought we had waited long enough to start the movie and they would all just fall asleep during the movie...NOT.
Bedtime was he hardest part of the party!! No one slept! They all got out of their sleeping bags, roamed around, played dress up, yelled, screamed, woke me up at 3 AM, and eventually passed out at 4 AM!
OMG!
But you learn things from having little girls spend the night at your house. You learn about their little fears and their little soft spots. You learn that an 8 year old girl can feel uncomfortable sitting next to a lit candle. The fire scares her, so you blow it out. You learn that some 8-year-olds still suck their thumbs...in private, when it's bedtime. You learn that the Raggedy Ann doll up on the shelf freaks her out, so you remove it...and you leave a light on in the room for her if you're going to close the door. You learn to be more gentle with one of them, because her feelings are hurt easily.
These are the sweet and brave little girls who go to school with and play with my daughter. You never see these parts of them during the day. They just carry on normally in front of people. If they spend the night at your house, you have the privilege of seeing another beautiful side of them.
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