I Don't Cut Anymore

I don't cut anymore...it's what I tell myself. I haven't done it in so long that I really want to believe it.

I don't cut...just a little ice sometimes...when I'm very agitated...or when the thoughts of it start to become concrete.

...like tonight...I didn't cut...I just iced my wrist until the numbness felt like electricity through my hand. I breathed deeply several times and felt myself calm down. It works...I don't know why, but it works.

I'm not exactly clear on why these thoughts returned to me tonight. It happened while I was feeling claustrophobic in my STBX's vehicle while on our way to see a Christmas light show with the kids. I had said that it felt a little chilly inside, so he turned the heat up some...but just a degree or so too high. My sinuses are congested from a cold, and it was difficult to breathe the dry warm air. I started to feel like I would suffocate...the same feeling I get when I feel trapped in a small or crowded space. I considered opening my window but imagined that he had the child safety locks on like he had in his previous vehicle. I didn't want to ask him to open the window for me, but I was afraid to push the button and find that the window would not open...that would have just put me in panic mode.

So I spent some time "talking myself down" - telling myself that there was plenty of air to breathe and that I was not trapped in the vehicle...and visualizing a blade across my wrist.

I do not cut anymore.

Checked Out

I would like to thank  those of you who have been reading and those of you who have been commenting. As always, I appreciate your support. I apologize for my absence. Ultimately, I realized that I needed to withdraw.

Things had gotten a bit too intense for a while, so I decided to take some time off - time off from work, from the carpool, from the role of Super Woman, and yes even from the blog. The week when I wrote my last post, I was truly trying to be every woman...and be amazing at it.

At work, I was secretly taking pride in being the one sent on jobs that normally it would take two people to do. I could orchestrate five different flu clinics in six days while still getting my children to two different locations on time in the morning, as well as dance and piano in the afternoon. I was doing it, and I was damn good at it!

I didn't skip a beat when my STBX had to take a position working 400 miles away and was no longer able to take the kids to school in the morning. I simply called on some friends and arranged for them to take the girls to school for me on the days that I could not...never mind that their houses are fifteen minutes apart from each other, and I have to leave my house about thirty minutes earlier in order to be on time. The fact that I'm doing it without him is another source of pride for me.

So at what point did the seams start to unravel? Was it when I forgot to bring the needles for the flu clinic and had to have someone deliver them to me? Or was it when I realized that my daughter had been complaining of feeling generally crappy, and I couldn't take time off to take her to the doctor? Even at a time when most people would come to a screeching halt (a needle stick), I continued until I was sure that my exit would be discreet and inconspicuous.

Even after the needle stick, I intended to run another clinic the next day. What the fuck?? Was I sick?? It was my daughter who made me stop...or it was my daughter whom I used to make myself  stop...because I couldn't bring myself to say that I could not give another vaccine, but I could say that I needed a day off to take my daughter to the doctor. After that, I did not return to work for a week...and that was for a short four-hour shift before I took off again to chaperone a three day field trip with my daughter in beautiful Colonial Williamsburg.

I checked out. It was necessary...and it was good. I took the kids to school myself and played stay at home mom. I didn't write, and I didn't read. I just lived simply without processing anything. In the interim, the needle stick nightmare woke up. By the grace of God, the woman whose needle I had been pricked with drove twenty-five miles after work on the same day of the clinic to have herself tested for all the blood-borne pathogens that we were concerned about. She tested negative for everything, and an ordeal that could have lasted over six months was over in two days for me. Many, many blessings to her.

I never cried, and I never got the opportunity to sit with my therapist...but I retreated and I breathed and I healed...and in that I take pride also.

The Show Must Go On, but When Do I Exhale?

Tuesday, November 11, 2014

I haven't known how to start writing again. The truth is that I have had a difficult time getting my thoughts and my sentences to make sense. Today I need to write, I need to communicate, and it just does not matter how it comes out.

I had a very stressful day today...and the worst part is that I insisted on holding myself together. I couldn't cry, I couldn't fall apart...it just wasn't the time.

The company I work for offers on site flu vaccination clinics at numerous locations such as churches and pretty much any place of employment. In my district, I have been called to run a great number of theses clinics. As a pharmacist, I do everything from gathering all the materials and supplies, taking care of all the paperwork and insurance information to, of course, administering the vaccine itself. While it seems like a lot of work, I always welcome the opportunity to work outside of the maddening retail pharmacy environment, away from telephones ringing and where I only have to take care of one patient at a time and answer questions from one person at a time. Today was one of those clinics.

Everything was flowing smoothly...until I got stuck by a needle. Really? I thought. Did this just really happen? I tried to deny it until I saw myself bleeding. After finishing up with the people who were already at my table, I excused myself and went to the bathroom to wash up and put on a bandage. I called my supervisor and continued to vaccinate. When a nurse called my cell phone to begin the post-exposure prophylaxis protocol, I continued to direct people to fill out their applications and have a seat at the table. It was insane...it felt insane, but I was more concerned about appearing unprofessional than about anything else, I didn't want them to know that anything had happened. I thought I would just take care of this situation privately and their flu clinic would continue without a hiccup.

I was embarrassed that it had happened in the first place. This was a 400-employee site, and I did not want to attract attention to myself because of this incident. Eventually, my company sent another pharmacist to take my place. I quietly informed their Human Resources manager of what had happened and escaped to the privacy of my van to complete my conversation with the nurse and receive instructions on where to go for HIV and hepatitis testing and whatever else the protocol required.

As I drove the thirty minutes to the specified location (a walk-in clinic near my home), I felt tears start to well up. I stopped them. I told myself no. I said it was not the time to fall apart. There was still too much to be done. I had a previously scheduled appointment with my therapist that afternoon, and I told myself that I would talk about it them. I could cry all I wanted in the comfort of his office.

I never made it to my therapist. I spent over two hours at this freezing cold walk-in clinic and had to cancel my appointment with him. I still haven't cried. I still feel stunned. I still haven't let myself just exhale. I'm still trying to keep it together. The truth is that I didn't want to come home and write about it. I just wanted to talk to him and cry.

Pulled by the Tides

I have read Pat Conroy's The Prince of Tides twice and have seen the movie as many times. I'm not sure what exactly draws me to this story, but I am attracted to it like some girls are attracted to "bad boys".

In this tragic story of abuse and family secrets, there is rape and violence, mental illness and suicide attempts, survivors and victims. It is a story that I should not be able to tolerate. My initiation was through the silver screen. I fell in love with Nick Nolte for the first time, and when he delivered his last lines at the end of the movie, "...in families, there are no crimes beyond forgiveness.", I broke down. I sat in my seat and sobbed violently into my hands, unable to move as the rest of the viewers abandoned the theater leaving me alone with my boyfriend.

I had just begun therapy for my sexual abuse...and for a form of self-harm that people still viewed as a suicide attempt. I believe it was the weight of the words that broke me...the thought of having to forgive the unforgivable, without truly understanding the full impact of the damage...caused by "family".

It would be almost ten years before I entered the pages of that book, tasting for the first time the melodic and intoxicating words of Pat Conroy. I could savor them and swallow them like velvety Merlot. There was no therapy during that time. I was recently married, and I wanted nothing more than to live a different life...as far away from my past as possible. Any memory that may have begun to surface was suppressed. I read the book for the sake of the story and the work and the art of the author.

Over ten years passed before I picked up the book again. This time, although I did not know it then, I was at the end of my marriage. I had been in therapy...for a long time. I was going through EMDR. I probably should not have read it then, but I was drawn to the story and once I stepped in, I could not turn around. It seemed the only way out was through it. I was sucked into the darkest aspects of the story as if they were a black hole whose pull I did not have the strength to resist. I identified with each character's pain and anguish and brokenness.

I was Savannah, whose demons visited her and stayed indefinitely, urging her to pick up her blades an hurt herself. I was also Tom, who had forever repressed any memory or emotion from his childhood, and was finally finding the courage to tell his story...the entire raw and gritty story. I was Lila saying enough is enough to her abusive marriage...and I was so many others.

I was engulfed by my darkness, brought to my knees by the tidal wave of my memories, and weighed down by the proximity of the characters' screaming torments to those of my own life. I crawled like a wounded warrior through to the very last chapter...to Tom Wingo's very last "...Lowenstein..." Only then did I decide that I could never read that book again...that it was, indeed, too much for me to handle.

...until now.

The title dropped in and hung suspended in front of me like a spider on a single thread. I have recently been enjoying the Audible app on my phone - audio books whenever and wherever I am...a non-stop mom's dream! Each download, however, comes at a bit of a hefty price. I am, therefore, judicious with my selections. The notice came via e-mail - 150 titles at about 85% off the regular price. I had to look!

I scrolled through the list, disinterested in and passing up most titles. I chose one about Frank Lloyd Wright, which looked interesting, and continued. Then I stopped...the words I saw stared at me. "The Prince of Tides by Pat Conroy, narrated by Frank Muller". They beckoned me, dared me, teased me. I can't handle that story, I told myself, ...don't even think about it.

...but the image of the words seemed to be burned in my retina. I saw them even with my eyes closed. I could not resist the pull. I told myself that I did not have to listen to it immediately. I could purchase the story now (at a fabulous price) and listen to it when I am ready...even if it is years from now.

...and so I did.

When the time came to listen to a new story, I thought I would choose the Frank Lloyd Wright story.

...but I didn't. Once again, I opened the doors to The Prince of Tides.

I am currently 31 hours into a 59 hour narration. I am chest deep into the marshes of the Low Country, pulled by the tides and hypnotized by the lyrical yet cutting use of the English language. I eat, sleep and drink Pat Conroy. His words have never been so alive and so palpable to me. This time around, I am relating to characters I had not related to before...but this time around, the demons remain in the story. They do not come out to beckon the ones from my own past. There is no darkness, no abyss. I am simply wrapped in the music of the story, and although some chords may awaken memories, they know their place in time and history. I can see them, but I don't feel them.

...I believe this is what EMDR does.

The Shameful Kisses

This is what is bothering me...that he asks, and I say no. He continues to ask...he doesn't give up. He doesn't just ask, he places his face in front of my face...his lips on mine. I finally say yes...just to get him to stop...just to get him to leave.

...but he doesn't stop, and he doesn't leave. He demands another kiss on the lips...and another one...and another one.

...and I oblige...just to get him off my back.

...I am sickened by the whole thing.

This is part of my shame.

Ashamed

There is a post that I have been working on for about a week. I cannot seem to finish it...actually, I cannot seem to start it. I desperately want to write about this topic, but I don't want to write the words. I don't want to see them. I don't want to admit any of it. I am ashamed. As far as I have come, I am ashamed to be hung up on this.

This is What Happened Next Door

My neighbor's yard is beautiful. There are no weeds in the lush green grass, and in the back, where the abundant sun begs for a swimming pool or an orchard of trees, they have created a kind of oasis garden - an island of soft leaves of various colors that surrounds a single inviting lounge chair reclined to the perfect degree. For her or for him? I've often wondered.

The front has fastidiously kept borders of blooms, greens and purples that delineate an adorable sitting area for two and the path to the entrance of what could be a magical and mysterious cottage in a garden.

From the outside, it seems the picture of perfection...the incarnation of Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young's "Our House". She cares for the flowers, while he cares for the lawn.

She died on Monday night. I had only met her once...on the day she had been jumping through her sprinkler with the seven-year-old from across the street. I thought she was a teenager. My daughters insisted that she looked terribly familiar and that we should find out who she is.

If I had not approached her that day, I would not have known that she taught  at the beloved Montessori school where my youngest still attends. I would not have known that last year she taught one of my older daughter's closest friends. She was my next-door neighbor.

On Monday night, my street was filled with emergency vehicles, including a trail of police cars that reached the intersection to the main road. This was not an ordinary call...something had gone wrong.

Suicide, says her partner, but the police suspect him and take him into custody. They questioned all the neighbors, trying to gather information for how to inform her family before Facebook beats them to it. Their red and blue lights danced through my windows and tightly closed blinds until well past 1:00 am.

"Are the disco lights gone?", asked my youngest as she opened her eyes the next morning. I was left with the burden of easing this news into my children's lives.

There are things that must be done after a tragedy like this happens in a home. After two days, a van with the word "Aftermath" on the side appeared. I wondered if they had cleaned up my grandmother's apartment after my stepfather shot her and my mother.

The family has been in and out all week...removing all kinds of belongings from the house. Someone mowed the lawn, and there is a solar light that illuminates the yard at night. From the outside, the house looks pristine and serene. No one would suspect the nightmare inside.

...there are so many houses like that.

I'll light the fire, you place the flowers
In the vase that you bought today
Staring at the fire for hours and hours
While I listen to you play your love songs
All night long for me, only for me

(from Our House, Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young)
 

In High Heels and Makeup and Mint Green

It was time for high heels and makeup again tonight. It is the kids' weekend with daddy, and he has taken them to the beach. I came home from work exhausted after a long week and a long drive during which I tried desperately not to nod off. When I was finally at home, I locked my door, closed the blinds, and took the nap that I had been needing since I left the OB/GYN on Wednesday. I iced my wrists and then slept with abandon.

Getting out of bed was a struggle when I woke, and I knew that the night had the potential to turn dark. I could not let that happen after everything I have been through, after all the progress that I've made, after having come so far. I willed myself out of bed, demanding that anything I do be done downstairs and out of the bed.

Getting out of the house was a must, so I found a theater to watch a movie...not just any theater, but one of those fancy ones where you can dine and drink while you watch the movie - the kind that I had always been curious about but an expense that my husband and I never seemed to be able to justify.

I wanted to feel good...and beautiful...and graceful...and elegant...and serene. I slipped on my favorite summer maxi dress, the one so long that even with my three and a half inch wedges, it drags just so. The one in the lovely mint color, reminiscent of the '70s, that drapes so perfectly over my body I can't help but feel like a beautiful siren as I feel the movement of the fabric over my skin.

I pulled my hair back into a slick and youthful pony tail and adorned it with a pretty silver butterfly barrette. I slid on a huge white ring, which I had picked up at the costume jewelry counter in one of those quaint antique shops my husband and I used to drop into during our good days. Lastly, I put on the whimsical elephant bracelet, in the same mint as the dress, that my youngest had picked out for me for my last birthday.

I put on my lipstick, turned my chin up and my shoulders back and stepped outside. I felt fabulous, radiant, happy! I floated through the theater lobby, as an attendant showed me to my seat.

I ordered the duck and the Riesling and settled back to enjoy the new experience. I was having such a great time that I cried (good tears). It had been so long since I have felt like I have been allowed to enjoy life so purely and so freely. I loved myself.

I know that I could have called some friends or my cousin to share this evening...but I was trying out the night. I had to do this by myself. I was trying out my new life, and I wanted to feel the pleasure of my own company even in places where others are usually accompanied.

Tonight, I felt like a star in my own movie, and it had nothing to do with the words or actions of others. It came from within me.

Sexual Abuse and the OB/GYN

I don't know how to begin this post, except by warning you (especially male readers) that it will probably contain way too much information. If you would prefer to never know what goes on during a pelvic exam, please stop reading now. I will write prettier things another day...but today I have to write this. It has really been troubling me.

Tomorrow I have an appointment with my OB/GYN. I have not seen him in approximately six years. There always seemed to be a reason - the kids had too many doctor visits, so I had no time to schedule my own, I was no longer taking oral contraceptives, I was not pregnant or giving birth to a baby. Scheduling this appointment was very low on the totem pole.

Years passed, and my youngest outgrew her chronic ear infections, both kids started school, and their well visits decreased from every few months to once a year. Still, I would not schedule the OB/GYN appointment. At this point I understood that I was avoiding this physician, but I did not understand why.

I had been seeing this same gynecologist since I moved to this town about thirteen years ago. I had never had any issues to speak of during my visits (barring the time when I adamantly refused to allow the nurse to take my blood pressure because I had fresh cuts on my wrists). The exam itself was uncomfortable for about five minutes, and then I was OK. I never thought about it before or after.

So why now? Why do I suddenly have an aversion to the pelvic exam? I scheduled tomorrow's appointment as part of an effort to take care of myself. It was on the same mental checklist as calling the hairdresser and the eye doctor - just another thing that I deserve to do for myself.

It wasn't until a few days ago that I realized how afraid I am of going through with this exam. In talking with my therapist about it today, I realized that I don't want to be touched in my pelvic, vaginal or breast areas...by anyone. If I were touched in these areas, I would feel violated.

I shudder when I visualize the way an exam with the OB/GYN normally proceeds. First, I would have to remove my own clothing and dress in a scant little robe that would allow the doctor easy access to my body - how vulnerable. Next, he would feel my breasts for lumps and whatnots, while I fervently remind myself that this is not my soon-to-be-ex reaching for my breasts against my will and desire.

Lastly, he would have me lie on my back with my feet up on stirrups and he would insert his hand inside of me. How utterly humiliating. It always hurts, I always gasp and hold my breath. I often feel like the little girl being held down by her stepfather. How am I supposed to walk into that office tomorrow and allow him to do these things to me?

Courage?

Be honest with him about the way I feel, suggested my therapist.

I am afraid that I will "freak out" in his examining room and not allow him to proceed with the exam. The day I refused to have my blood pressure taken, three different nurses came into the room to find out why I was having such a problem with it and to try to convince me otherwise. My doctor would not write me a prescription for my contraceptive without knowing my blood pressure. The more they asked and pressed, the more upset and withdrawn I became. I don't want to go through anything like that again.

So could I talk to him before the exam and apprise him of my fears? Probably not, but perhaps I could speak with the nurse and let her tell him. It may sound a bit childish, like asking mom to talk to dad about something you want, but it's where I am now. My voice is so much bigger than it used to be. Two years ago, I could not have imagined talking to anyone other than my therapist about this topic. Today, I am strong enough to discuss my trauma with another professional in order to alleviate some of my fears that may interfere with my receiving proper medical care.

I've come a long way...I'm going to be OK.

Mother's Love

Last week, I went to see my mother. I drove for two days with my daughters behind me...another girls' adventure...until I finally rested in her presence. This homecoming was not to the house where I grew up, but to the place where she lives...truly home.

The plan had been to stay with her, dine with her, retire with her, wake with her. I wanted to repose in her comfort. I had been so tired. My older brother, however, unknowingly stole that from me. He had married and moved back to our native country some years ago and had returned a month prior to my arrival to visit with and take care of my mother and our suddenly stranded young sister-in-law. My girls and I stayed in a hotel just a few minutes away.

Still, I enjoyed her. After breakfast at the hotel restaurant overlooking American Airline's landing runway, we went to her and I took my place in her small kitchen while my daughters entertained themselves with books, movies, Wii games, or making fun of their uncle. Our talks started small, as I helped myself to the plate of freshly cut mangos picked a few days ago from a friend's backyard or a ridiculously sweet orange purchased from the fruit cart that comes around the neighborhood about once a week.

Gradually, our conversation would move amoeba-like into larger topics...my new peace and freedom, my husband's reluctance to let go, my children's adjustment, her writing, my little brother's unspeakable pain. Afterwards, my girls and I would head out for our daily outing, sometimes with my older brother and his wife (who arrived a couple of days after we did) and sometimes just the three of us. In the evening we would return to find the apartment smelling of my childhood...every night a traditionally home-cooked dish from the cuisine of our country. I wanted to melt into her warmth...the aroma of her care, for this is how she loves. This is how she tends to those in need...she cooks.

I cleaned up after dinner, as I had done as a child, and our night turned into more conversation and board games with the children. Late into the night, I would reluctantly gather up the girls and make the eight minute drive to the hotel, all of us finally sinking into beds overstuffed with fluffy pillows hours past our bedtime.

...but it was vacation, and I drank my fill of mother's love.