Sunday, December 27, 2009

Grace’s safety advisory system been elevated to *RED*

Please be aware of your surroundings at all times and do NOT leave your body unattended....but! I should capitalize that...BUT it is not always a choice. And lately, awareness and attendance to my body have not been a choice. I cannot stay in this body at night. It is uninhabitable. And I tell the therapist there is so much I can’t talk about. So many things that happened that I’m so ashamed of ~ things I cannot believe I did. And I don’t trust myself. I don’t like the huge blackness that surrounds me that continues to threaten me every night.

I don’t want to remember. I want to forget it all. All of it. Because at night, when the anguish and pain torment me to the point I consider taking a bottle of vicodin, and slitting my wrists in the bathtub, it scares me. So many things that remind me of back then terrorize me now, in my *present moment*. And I know I need help with it ~ but at the rate I’m able to communicate with the therapist about this stuff in 50 minutes a week, I will surely be dead before the torment stops. The therapist tells me to be patient, be patient…but it just keeps getting worse and one night my patience is going to run out and I will do something irreversible.  But still she says, be patient, she says she has respect and patience and she will *be here* when I'm ready to talk.  But I'm afraid to speak because the truth is too scary.  I offered to draw her a picture instead.  Her patience feels infinite and yet I still feel as though I am drowning and she is taking too much time blowing up the life raft. 

It has taken me nearly 4 years to find the ability to say the word sex in front of the therapist ~ and that doesn’t even begin the discussion of the *problems* I have with sex. And for the love of God, if she were to utter the word incest I would fly off into the corner of her office, above the bookshelf with the toys and I would never come back down.

I feel sick. And I feel worried. The food thing is torturing me again…and the puking is back with a vengeance. If I make it through my therapy appointment tomorrow without vomiting on her floor, it will be a festivus miracle! It’s that bad right now. I carry a toothbrush and toothpaste in my purse, and keep them in every bathroom of the house ~ I’ve spent a fortune on toothpaste this past month. I have not cut myself ~ but it’s been a struggle.

And I feel worried. And not just for me. My good friend is also struggling and I don’t know how to help her because I feel so lost too right now. I want to help her but I don’t know what to do. Just be right here, I guess. I wish I could tell her that it’s going to be *okay* ~ and I could say that, but I don’t know how long it will be before we make it to *okay* ~ and I don’t know if I have the energy make it that far. Right now I don’t have the energy to even get myself out of bed and dressed.  And I feel sick, and disgusting, and unlovable

The Grace Security threat level* has now been raised to *RED*. I am safe right this minute, but I don’t know how long I can stay that way…there is no way to tell.


  1. Hope you find the courage to share everything that is pressing in from the darkest parts of your humanity with your therapist...we always feel better mentally when what's tormenting us comes out regardless of how it makes us feel emotionally in the moment. Sending you thoughts of comfort...

  2. Drawing pictures is good. I made a photo collage and my therapist loves it. He's always taking it out and asking me questions about it. I'm sorry things are so bad for you right now, and unfortunately I don't know how to help either. But I'm always here in blogland, reading, and thinking about you.

  3. You can't be unlovable, Grace. You can't be because I love you.

    I hope we make it to okay, too.


  4. Harriet, you help. You help me every day...

    Lynn, I hope we make it to the land of "okay" too someday. I bet it's nice there...

  5. Exhale, The initial pain and realization of the wound hitting the air? That's the hard part. Dang! The REALLY hard part. Allowing someone else to see the gaping wound. Harder than I ever imagined....