Depression?

On Wednesday I had  my obligatory annual physical exam. The nurse took my vital signs and went through her series of customary questions in preparation for the physician's exam.

...Do you have headaches?
...history of this?
...history of that?
...Depression?

"I see someone about that", I replied, not wanting to discuss it any further.

"Do you feel like you don't enjoy the things you used to enjoy?", she continued.

"There is someone I see about that", I insisted (hint: We are done talking about this!!)

"In the last ten days, have you...?"

What the fuck?!!! In the last ten days, I have refused to go to sleep, so as to not have to find the morning again. In the last ten days, rising out of bed in the morning brings with it the acrid dread of being alive yet another day. In the last ten days, I have fought with the demons that tell me I must harm myself in order to feel relief from my now chronic pain.

During the past ten days, I have wanted to drive my van right off the road on the nights that I drive home from work alone and in darkness. I have scoped out sections of the road where I might just punch the accelerator and drive off the goddamn face of the earth.

Of course, I did not say these things to her.

"'Some days are good, some days are bad", I offered, "It depends what is going on in my life. It's mostly situational, and I'm seeing someone about it"

"So I should just answer no to this then?"

"Yes, you can just say no to that question."

...and don't ever ask me that again. I have this situation under control, and I don't really want to talk to you about it. I have never met you before. You are my physician's new nurse. What trust have you and I built? I have someone I trust, and I tried to tell you that I will only talk to him about this. Yes, I am living in a hole whose walls get taller and whose light gets dimmer. I walk the thin tightrope between life and death. Support from my family and blog readers and sitting with my therapist keep me from losing my balance and plunging to my death.

...but this is none of your business, and you should just have let it go.

Sleepovers and Fathers

There is a possibility that I may be oversensitive and overprotective of my daughters around men (specifically other kids' fathers). I simply don't know what is normal. I have no reference point. All I know is that a man who was not my father and who should have cared for me and protected me began to molest me when I was ten years old...my older daughter is now ten.

At this age there are many invitations to spend the night at friends' houses, and sleepover birthday parties are quite popular. We have one rule: You will not spend the night at anybody's house unless you have already been to that house for a play date. Basically, the first time you go to a friend's house will never be to spend the night. I will use drop-off and pick-up time at the play date to get a feeling for the family and the general environment of the house. Consequent to this rule, sleepovers have generally been limited to those friends whose families we have known for quite some time. I believe this is good sensible parenting, independent of my childhood trauma.

Today, my daughter had an invitation to one such sleepover birthday party. The birthday child is a girl who dances with my daughter and whom she met last summer at camp. We have never been to their house, and her mother and I chat very briefly as we are picking up the girls after dance class. Needless to say, when accepting the invitation, I had no problem letting her know that my daughter would be happy to join the others for all aspects of the celebration, but she would not be able to spend the night. The mother was quite understanding, and the plan was that I would meet her and the others at the nearby movie theater, they would watch a movie and then she and her husband would drive the six girls back to her house for the remainder of the party. At around 9:30 pm, I would pick up my daughter, before they started to settle for bed.

Everything went swimmingly. When I arrived at the house with my younger daughter, she and her husband were in the living room, while the girls were in a bedroom watching a movie. My youngest disappeared into the bedroom with the girls, while I chatted with the mother and played with the dogs...and sometime during all that, the father disappeared too. When I went in to gather my own girls, I found him in the room among all the girls.

This is where it gets confusing for me. The bedroom was set up with various beds and mattresses to accommodate the young overnight guests. Some girls may have already been in their pajamas. I saw him stepping over the mattresses so as to move from one side of the room to another. He may have gone in there just to get something, but I did not see him come out of the room.

"What is he doing in there?", was my first thought. Then, "I certainly made the right decision by not letting her spend the night here. This is not a house were she will be allowed to spend the night!"

I felt very uncomfortable with a man hanging out in a room of ten year old girls in their pajamas. I don't know if this is normal or my abuse talking. I have hosted sleepovers at my own house, and my husband has always made himself very scarce. He is sure to be present at dinner, the cake cutting and breakfast in the morning, but you will never see him anywhere near ten year old girls dressed in nightgowns and pajamas. But is there anything wrong with a father joining his daughter and her friends to watch a movie at her birthday party? I don't know. All I know is that I got that familiar feeling of panicky anger when I saw him in that bedroom with all those girls. My imagination was a runaway train, envisioning all kinds of creepy scenarios that might occur throughout the rest of the night. I was quick to get my girls together and leave the house.

Am I crazy? Oversensitive and overprotective? Was this man really just a harmless dad celebrating with his daughter? Am I right to act on just my gut feeling that something just doesn't feel right here?

The Priest Dream

I had a disturbing dream the other night. I dreamt that I went to see my priest again. I was trying to talk to him but was having a difficult time getting the words out. The next thing I knew, he was lying top of me, and I could not push him off me. I felt suffocated and betrayed. After his kind, gentle and compassionate manner during our last meeting, he became just one more man who hurt me and whom I could not trust.

I have never been one to interpret dreams...I usually just don't know what to make of them, but this seemed just too real for me. The fact is that I have been considering going to talk to my priest again, and that my husband has been particularly physical lately. I don't know how one became the other in my mind that night, but suddenly, I am not interested in seeing my priest at all.

I Can't Go Home

(This was hand written earlier this morning...when I did not happen to have my laptop with me.)

Trigger Warning: Self-Harm

"Please forgive me. I double-booked the pharmacy. Collect your millage and you may go home", I was told when I arrived at work today...but I can't go home.

I bought new blades yesterday at work...along with Bandaids. It must have been a sight - the pharmacist is on her dinner break, but first she must stop at the front counter to purchase a little box of blades along with some Bandaids to go with it. She will be having her dinner in the third row seat of her minivan...or whatever she does, if you can put two and two together.

I did not cut last night. During dinner, I emailed my therapist instead. It took almost all the strength that I had and a monstrous work load not to run into the bathroom with a blade in hand and slice my wrists. I craved the momentary numbness and electrical sensation in my brain that a crisp sharp cut would bring.

I did not cut in the solitary comfort of my room after I arrived home last night. I called my therapist during the drive instead.

Today is different. A morning home alone awaits me, and I can't do it. I simply do not trust myself...so I don't go home. I stop at a local bookstore, buy a journal and a cup of tea and write my guts out.

I could have a lovely day at home...if I did not feel so poorly about myself...if I didn't feel like cutting is what I deserve...if I didn't feel like trash...if I didn't feel like cutting a line across my wrist for every time that I have felt like a bad mother for wanting to break up my family. Likewise, I would cut a line across the other wrist for every time that I have felt that I allow my husband to disrespect me and force himself upon me simply by remaining in the relationship. I would have cuts all the way up both arms, and I would hurt...but then I would wear my pain on the outside. Then, I could touch the pain; it would be plain and visible, not this deep and hidden pain that wants to be touched but, alas, is so unreachable.

I can't go home, but I must.

The Puppies

I want to run away from my life today. About five minutes after settling into my therapist's office this morning, I wanted to bolt. I wanted to leave...to go somewhere far. I had tears and screams trapped inside my throat. I could not acknowledge them. The urge to cut, to punish and hurt myself haunts me again. Even this I could not speak, and I felt that I was losing myself. My body was sitting in his office, but I was leaving...quickly falling into my own bitter darkness, a place others cannot reach. But just before I slipped away, I called out in a seemingly strange but rather helpful way.

If I could just hold the Puppies, I thought, then I could speak. They seemed so far away...at the back of the table, not at the edge where I had previously left them. "My baby has been asking about the Puppies", a safe thing to say, "You know she named them", I added as I reached for the little stuffed creatures and held them...and I was able to speak.

"I want to cut..."

"I feel trapped...like a child..."

Holding those little Puppies on my lap, I could say these words and save myself from the fear, pain and solitude of that place in my soul where I am lost and unreachable.

A Safe Place

I sat in his waiting area on the third floor of the old house looking out the large window and inhaling the comfortable smell of books and wood...I was safe. He was in his office with another client. I didn't see him, I didn't need to. I just needed to be under his wing...safe...like a father.

After spending the day fighting my husband for my physical and emotional space, I ran to a safe harbor - my therapist's office. Here my physical boundaries are always respected. The word no coming from my lips can stop a train in it's tracks. Here I have the freedom to be vulnerable, knowing that my words will never return to hurt me. Here no one will hold me against my will.

Yesterday, my husband and I were home alone for a considerable amount of time. We could no longer put off our tax preparations and decided to take advantage of the time off together to take care of this task. I don't know how to explain what it feels like to have someone physically touching you at almost every turn you take. He blocked every way that I needed to pass, so that I either had to try to push through him or give him a kiss in order to pass. He kissed me constantly...even as I pushed him away. He held me...even as I tried to pull myself free. As I looked for important papers, he placed himself between my work and me...always touching me...his face always too close to mine.

When I pushed him away and told him that I don't want to be with him or near him, he insisted that I do love him. In fact, he told me to make love with him. "Not in a million years", was my reply. He demanded kisses from me, forced his lips upon mine. This went on for hours.

I felt trapped. Is there no law against this?  I wondered.  How can this be allowed? If an adult does this to a child, it is child abuse. If a husband does this to his wife, it is...what? I wanted help from someone, because my voice alone had no power. A million times "STOP!" had no effect. A million times "Get off me!" had no meaning. Why was l living through this hell again? I am no longer a child, and he is not my stepfather, yet it felt painfully similar.

I wanted to call the police...or my mother...or anyone to make him stop. I found myself confused between the present and the past...feeling the same despair, yet aware that as an adult I am responsible for defending myself. After having spent the morning doing so, I felt exhausted and defeated. This was when I called my therapist and asked if I may come by and sit in a safe place.

To Cry in Poetry

In the past, I wrote poetry. I wrote in this form, because I could hide behind the rhyme. The meaning was always hidden. Anyone reading would have to interpret deeply in order to know what I was feeling.

When I was about thirteen, fourteen and fifteen, I hid in my room writing these coded verses...spilling my pain out in free-form stanzas. I cried in poetry. This was my world, and no one was invited.

Once again, I want to return there. Somehow the pain has to find its way through the fear and out into words. I long for the verses of my youth...telling the truth so frankly and completely to those who could break through the symbols.

The Dragons

"It's important to name the dragons", said my therapist during a previous session.

The dragons...those are my fears...the monsters...those things that keep me paralyzed. Here they are, in no particular order:

1. I fear the custody battle.
2. I fear that my husband will find this blog.
3. I fear rocking this boat so violently that we would all drown and perish at the hands of the sea monster under the raging churning waters of a storm that may not pass...and it would all be my doing.
4. I fear the children may take his side.

I am terribly afraid of going through a custody battle. I fear that custody would be granted in the exact opposite manner of what I would want. In this marriage I could leave EVERYTHING...except my children. I am afraid that he would take advantage of this vulnerability if he were aware of it.

If my husband discovers my blog, then he may take the fears and vulnerabilities that I expose here and use them as a weapon against me. His aim would be to hurt.

Life will never be the same after a divorce, but what if it is not necessarily for the better? What if none of us ever recover? What if we are not OK?

I don't want to turn my children against my husband; they need to continue to love him as they always have. I also do not want them to turn against me. I do not know how they will react to the news that Mom does not want to live with Daddy anymore. They are too young for me to explain to them the truth about his behavior. All they see is his current display of "affection"...and my reluctance to reciprocate. They don't see the ugliness inside of him. They think that I'm always just angry at him. I am afraid that they will blame me for the pain that a separation will cause and that he will continue to emphasize that it was not his choice.

These are my dragons - named and exposed, not for the purpose of doing anything about them but just for the sake of naming them. I don't know what comes next. Perhaps just seeing these monsters on the page makes them less frightening. For now, I am simply paralyzed by them.

Where are the Other Bozos?

"We're all bozos on the bus,

so we might as well sit back and enjoy the ride."

- Wavy Gravy

I don't know exactly what to write about...just that I need to write. Do I still feel completely exposed writing in this blog? Yes. Yet I require the writing...and I long for the feedback and the support. Yes, I am afraid that my husband will purposely hack into my account and invade all my private thoughts and emotions.

Yet, I feel trapped in my fear. I am surrounded by it, isolating myself within the walls that grow increasingly taller and thicker. It is becoming ever more difficult to reach out, and I feel more and more alone. My family is preoccupied with a bigger problem than mine and although they continue to be attentive to my safety and well-being, I feel that I am only adding to the tremendous burden that has suddenly been laid upon all of us. I call to offer them support, avoiding any reference to my own situation and needs.

...but really, I just want to talk to someone. I want to sit down with someone who gets it and spill my heart out. I want to tell them about everything that scares me and everything that angers me and drives me. I want to hear from them that they feel or have felt the same way...and that things will work out. We will all eventually heal. I want to find the other bozos on the bus.

I suppose I should explain the last sentence. In one of the chapters of her book Broken Open, Elizabeth Lesser talks about the clown and social activist Wavy Gravy and some of his quotes. The one at the beginning of this post refers to the idea that we all, at some point in our lives, have felt the same insecurities and have shared the same imperfections, yet we walk around guarding and holding on to these hurts as if we are the only ones who have ever felt this way and everyone else must have a beautiful golden life. In reality, we are all bozos on the same bus, and as soon as we realize this, we can dispense with the pretenses and open up to the other bozos who may be able to share a part of journey with us.

I just want to know where that bus is, because in this small town where I live, I still feel like I'm the only passenger on this bus.

Thankful

I've got strange feelings tonight. I've been feeling kind of paranoid lately. Paranoid that someone will find this blog and know who I am...paranoid that my anonymity will be revealed and my deepest vulnerabilities will be exposed.

I hate my last post. I hate that I was in that dark place and that I wrote so graphically. I hate that anyone had to read that and see such a raw side of me.

I am glad that I did not hurt myself, and I am grateful for the comments and support that helped me get through the moment.

Thank you all.