Monday, November 1, 2010

Quietly Ill

I think something is very wrong with me. Yes, logic and all the villagers and the people ‘IRL’ surrounding me tell me otherwise…And I am only one while you are many… Who to believe? Who to believe? I know who I WANT to believe – but I also know I am the only one living in my body – and I am the only one who knows how it feels to live in this body right now.

And the truth is I am dreadfully ill something like 20 hours a day – and even after being saturated in medications for a month to kill the bacteria in my body that isn’t supposed to be there…I am still not getting any better. And there is rarely a night that passes that I don’t have a serious thoughts of going to the hospital emergency room…and multiple times when I have gone.

‘The Docs’ want me to see yet another “specialist”… because they have no-clue-what-else-to-do – and I’m running out of brave.

But I also realize it does me no good to complain about it. Complaining doesn’t make me feel any better and it only leaves the people around me feeling helpless and sorry for me which then puts them into a position of wanting to either protect me or try to *fix* me and my ‘sickness’ and they can’t. They can physically wrap their bodies around mine, but their barriers offer little protection from the raging sickness that is on the inside of me; which leaves them frustrated and helpless when they are unable to to fix me.

So….I have been staying quiet –rather than complain – which is why I haven’t been around…

I knew you’d understand.

Wednesday, October 6, 2010


You don’t have to read this or comment. I just need to get this out.

Today I asked the doc for a printout of all my blood work…you know so I could pretend to be a doctor and obsess over all the numbers…I’m a numbers gal! Especially since the apparently my blood is as depressed as I am. It’s probably not a good idea for a hypochondriac to have the detail of her own blood work…which I knew even as the words were coming out of my mouth…as usual I could not stop them. I took the paper, looked at it, folded it, put it away…took it back out when I got into my car and looked at it again and quickly put it away, briefly thought about shredding it when I got home, but did not…because its ‘abnormal’…because I’m ‘abnormal’.

I’ve been sick so much of my life that it’s almost a joke. “Sickly”…chronic kidney infections, utis, strep, ear infections, fevers, colds, pneumonia, 5 miscarriages – 2 that were quite serious second trimester mc’s. Then all the other “stuff” stomach issues, insomnia, back pain, hip pain, headaches…. Really – it is a joke here at my house…the hus is, “You’re always sick!” Everyone stay away from mom – she’s sick again.” The 11 year old, “Make sure we have sierra mist and yellow gatorade cuz that’s what she likes to drink when she throws up.” The 8 year old draws me cards and pictures, “I love you…Hang in there…Feel better soon.” I swear I’m Beth from Little Women. Sometimes I think I should have died a long time ago, or that soon whatever it is in my body that makes me so sick will finally just kill me.

I KNOW it’s just the “raging” infection talking here (that’s probably who’s been talking for about the last week) but right now I don’t have much else.

And when I get sick, like really sick, like I am right now…I get scared. Like “child” scared. And when people start saying things like, “You need to take care of yourself, Grace.” Or worse, “Well, I’m not surprised your sick…you don’t take care of yourself.” A tornado of confusion and fear begins swirling around inside…of course we should be able to do something so simple. Of course you should judge a 39 year old woman with a master’s degree in finance who cannot do something so simple as to take care of her own body and prevent herself from getting sick, for heaven sake that is such a simple task…Gawd Grace you are such a stupid girl!! And we feel judged…judged and criticized and hopeless. And because of the judgment being passed – there is so much anger. It is RAGING inside of me, ripping me apart. (Again, I apologize for the incoherent psychotic trash talk ranting in the previous post).

But I am so tired of being judged because I cannot do that which I was never taught. And because of the criticism and the judgment I would rather die than reach out for help. (Not that anyone has offered to help) I would rather starve to death than beg for food. I can take care of myself! Obviously…I have proven that to be the case. I am thriving (in bacteria-as it is raging through my bloodstream).

I hurt…all over. I hurt from exhaustion after weeks of not being able to fall asleep until after 3 or 4am. I hurt from the physical wounds and the mental pain. I hurt. I hurt from thinking, ’it cannot get any worse than this Grace, so stay still, hold on tight, it won’t get worse’…but then it does.

Yes, the world still turns today– but my world stopped…My soul withered as demons took hold of my being and twisted it like a dirty wet rag. And God- right now I miss my gramma so much my chest literally aches from the void of her.

And I am still really, really sick.

Monday, October 4, 2010

Too tired to think of a clever title

The truth: I’m tired…and sick.. I’ve spent the majority of this week feeling truly awful but haven’t been able to actually “feel” truly awful because my boss (my dear sweet boss who I adore and respect) was in town on a project and I have worked no less than 14 hours a day every day…this week – until today, when I snuck out of the office after my last conference call ended at 3pm -but my first call started at 7am – so it’s not like it wasn’t a full day. I haven’t spent much time on the computer at all- well, that’s not exactly true, I’ve spent hours and hours on the computer but it’s been on spreadsheets analytical crap that is my work world and no time writing here –or reading any of my friends updates.

So – well, awesome – the pendulum has swung me right back here to this space tonight, so pull up a chair, couch, pillow…whatever – bring a glass of water, wine, milk, jose quervo (he’s still on my shit-list from the still not forgotten smashed foot incident but you may still partake – I won’t be offended) cuz apparently I’m in a mood tonight (or so I’ve been told).

Gosh, where to start…You totally missed my bitching and moaning about the physical shit that doesn’t seem to go away, right? Well, say no more! No more migraines – but now I have this constant pressure in the front of my head. It’s not a migraine…it’s literally like the front of my skull is being pushed from the inside out. Nothing alleviates the pain and it is there 24/7. (go on, Grace, that can’t be all…) No, that isn’t all…the hip pain – still there! And add to it a sharp pain in my left hip bone several times a day like someone taking a knife and stabbing me with it. Like suck in your breath – sharp pain. Major stomach issues…like redecorate the bathroom I’m bored issues- nuff said. I think I have a serious infection on a wound I don’t really remember inflicting. Wah, wah, wah, bitch, bitch, bitch, oh…I nearly forgot – moan!

Last week I broke in a way I’ve not broken before. The prior week I sent an email to my boss alerting him to my distress by simply saying, “I’m about done.” This week I said, in a professional way, “I quit.” Because I am too tired… I am tired of being strong. I am tired of smiling through the shit and doing more! With less! And doing it better! I’m tired of taking on the burdens and trying to sell it to the staff like it’s a fucking rainbow and building them up while it is k-i-l-l-i-n-g me. I’m tired of all of it! Tired-tired-tired! And what did bossy do Grace? He gave me a pep talk, reminded me of my successes, and how I “set the bar” and then he left for the store (probably to renew his xanax prescription) and then called me and offered to buy me starbucks…we’ll talk later. (? When hysterical female calms down and regains her senses and realizes what she is saying) I was talking to my friend L and I was telling her how I feel bad for bossy because he doesn’t look well. He looks so tired and just worn down…and then I laughed and told her that he was probably thinking the same thing about me. I do feel bad…he devotes so much of his life to his job and he’s so knowledgeable and compassionate and great to work with – and I don’t think he gets the respect he deserves. And L said, “It’s funny how you always have so much compassion for other people but none for yourself.” “Well,” I said back to L, giving her the Grace death glare, “That ‘s because I don’t really care about myself.” (Like she doesn’t already know that.) “Fine,” L said, “Then if you care so much about bossy, think about how your leaving will stress him out.” I just continued to give her the Grace death glare, but it doesn’t seem to have quite the impact it used to (note to self – work on new death stare). L continues, “I know you want to go off on me, so go ahead…” No, L…I’m way too tired…and it’s really not even important to me anymore. I don’t care enough to fight about it.

Ohmygod – I am not well….I can’t keep up…I plug one leak and another has sprung somewhere else – my crazybrain has never bled into my career before…it’s tiring. I’m forever waiting for a “better day”. Tomorrow I will feel better….Tomorrow will be a better day….What if tomorrow never comes? Like I said to bossy-m… I’m about done.

Sunday, September 12, 2010


I am currently hanging on to my sanity by the barest threads, doing everything in my power to ignore the tightness in my neck and the pain behind my eyes and my back and hips which are screaming at me as I TRY NOT TO FREAK OUT RIGHT NOW AFTER NO SLEEP FOR OVER 48 HOURS!!! Internal terror! And I. am. Going. Insane! I have a strong will. Yes, I am quite willful! I am sitting on the floor. And rocking. And my body is screaming. And I cannot get warm.

I am trying to slow my breathing. I am trying to calm myself down. I am trying to remember where I am. I am trying to figure out where I am. I am trying to know that I am safe. I am trying to keep myself safe. I am trying to keep myself safe. I am trying to keep myself alive. I am trying to stay alive. I am trying to keep breathing. I am trying to breathe.

But it is still this moment, right now, this frightful moment, and all I can do is just try to live through it.

I press a pillow to my face and scream.

Saturday, September 11, 2010

I can't cope

I’ve been fighting. Fighting, struggling, lashing out at the faceless, formless thing that chases me ever since I can remember. I’m so very angry now, tonight, all day, for two weeks – technically a lifetime…whatever. Angry and tired, I sit with my hands on my knees and my head bent, rocking…weak but wishing to be strong; held captive but wishing to be free; alone and afraid, wishing for comfort and courage.

I am sad as hell and I have no one in real life to talk to because no one cares or understands and whatever I know that it’s my “fault” that I don’t have the support system in place when I am in dire need of it…which would be now. I know that I suck. Got. It. I am a bit on the ‘not-lucid’ side tonight and a tad drunky so the shield that blocks the unbecoming *Grace you made me blush and gasp* at the same time…that shield…well, it seems to have disappeared with the last shot of vodka so I guess I don’t give a shit what anyone thinks of me or my lack of ladylike skills in prose or behavior. Come on, ya’ll, I grew up in a trailor park! Fuck was probably my first word!

Oh – I feel like I should put a disclaimer here…one that states WARNING: this post will contain a LOT of swearing and probably not make a lot of sense cuz the logical Grace left a while ago and will likely not be back till daybreak so you're stuck with me, the un-polished part.

There is a part inside who has been researching how to die…quickly and painlessly. Last Friday it was an overdose of medication (I won’t say what med it was because it is now in the past and I don’t need some well intended person yelling at me OH MY GOD THAT COULD KILL YOU in all caps - sometimes we are still in quite a fragile state. I write this because I feel like those of you who have been a part of this journey with me should know what’s going on. This is what’s going on: I do not feel better. I do not have a good support in place here. Shame. On. Us. We have not done a good job at getting this done. I have continued to pretend like everything is fine when there everything is so very *un-fine*. *not-fine*…so very opposite of fine.

I can’t cope with the frustration and invalidation tonight. I can’t cope with the screaming. I am not coping at all. I’ve tried. I can’t. I am struggling right now, tonight, to make it minute to minute. I’m not sure what I’m doing. I feel like I am fighting a losing battle and I have no coach. And I do not feel better.

Tuesday, September 7, 2010

Help me, I am dying

I internalized all the bad things they said to me. I hear them, I feel them. But I don’t feel the good. That’s it in a nutshell. I watch the “good” Grace from outside of this body and I don’t know her, I don’t see her as part of me. I have no idea who she is even though she is “me”. Instead I carry around this sense of ‘badness’ that was drilled into my head for so many years: You are bad. You will never be anything. You are worthless. You are an evil whore. You are unlovable. No one will ever care about you. And I see that as the “real” Grace. I believed those things and I built walls to keep people out so they would not see the “real” me…the badness.

But I still see that girl. She is five, eight, ten, twelve…they are still inside me, screaming in pain, yelling at me to help them and here I am 25 years later, standing here alone with all of these girls so wounded and afraid and I am unable to help them. All of this pain from recent years has shattered me, ghosts haunt me, and I realize just how much hurt I never let go of. Every night takes me back to the most painful times in that girl’s life and I see just how little I have recovered from the destruction they left behind – the wreckage that was supposed to be me! All of the pain, all of the baggage they put on me, forced me to carry, it is too heavy! And I am so tired.

I plead with them at night, “Please don’t be like this…” And it is so frustrating because I don’t know how to make them be any other way. Every night I feel like I am trapped behind this one-way mirror and I can see everyone but no one can see me. And I am screaming for help but no one hears me. No one sees me. No one will help me manage them and I have no idea how to do it on my own. I feel diminutive and insignificant in a way that feels simply dreadful and it makes me feel worthless. I feel a bit like I don’t exist. I watch and listen and look and I am pleading…please help me…please see me here…but they don’t.

I know that’s not true. I know that can’t be true. People care about me, people love me, want to be with me, offer me help, try to get me to talk to them, but no one really SEES me. No one sees beyond the obvious projection of who I *appear* to be and into my shattered heart and deep into my soul. No one really knows her and that is what makes it feel so extraordinarily lonely, that’s what pushes me over the edge of the cliff and into the darkness…falling, falling, falling…and there’s no one to catch me. Where is everybody? Where are you? I can’t see the bottom and it’s so black and cold and I’m so afraid… but I have to believe that there is someone down there in the darkness that is strong enough to catch me because I’m not strong enough to catch myself. Because I am not strong enough to say out loud, “Please take my hand and help me, I am dying.”

And of course now I am crying and can barely see the computer screen and my dog, Sammy, is pressing his face under my arm and putting his paw in my lap as he tries to get as close to me as possible. He loves me and he’s trying to tell me, “It’s going to be okay Grace, I promise, we’re gonna make it after all.”

I need to take a deep breath and know that it’s okay. Because it is. Because it has to be.

Even if only for 1 minute

I’m sitting here and the last thing I want to do is write. Oh, that’s not entirely true. I have wanted to write…but I haven’t been able to do it. I have been aching to talk about last Friday night but unable to find the words. I have been silent online. I know that. It was on purpose. I have come here several times today, and a few times yesterday, but my mind has been unable to take the myriad of fragmented thoughts and memories and put them down on paper in a way they will be able to be read and understood. My thoughts don’t form fluid complete sentences right now. They have no eloquence or beauty…perhaps they also lack the passion that was once at my fingertips – words begging to be written, screaming to be spoken out loud, even if only a whisper.

I am sitting here with my heart in my throat and I need to be here. I want to be here. I crave being a part of this community but at the same time I fear the judgment. I have felt so deeply absorbed in my own pain and yet wanting so desperately to express my thoughts and feelings here. Voices inside of me begging to be heard, to connect with someone who might possibly understand how it is I feel. I have poured my energy and channeled my anger into writing. The hurt, the sadness, the rage, the hurt, the shame, and my Lord, the unbearable pain…all made me write…and write…and write. I pour my heart, my soul, my very self out here and the sense of belonging and community here make me better. Even if only for a minute…

Sometimes it is just too heavy and I am having a hard time coping. With the crazyiness…with life. I move from wanting to change to giving up on myself constantly. I am not yet ready to explain what giving up feels like, but Friday night, I gave up. And I want you to give up on me too. I want you to be angry at me for giving up.

And yet I want you to care and I want your help. There is so very much to fix inside of my crazy-brain.

The path of "Madness"

THURS 8/31/10

I felt tired and empty and aching and in this struggle. Life is so damn painful sometimes and yet we still are supposed to stay here, people are still “counting” on us to put on a happy face and carry on with our head and chin rasied! NO! You must not deter from LIVING even in the face of Hurricane Earl and gale-force winds that tear through your body and blacken your soul.

I walk on this path where madness and insanity are the only stepping stones. And the voices get louder with each step I take. They speak in familiar tones telling me how much I am hated, loathed, despised, unlovable. And I know…I know how close I come…when my vision becomes wavy and the voices grow louder and the counting begins…Everyone hates you. You are worthless. No one cares. Not a soul in this world would miss you. So close…closer…closer…I can feel his breath in my ear and there is only one way to make him go away.

Yup. Thanks to the wine, loraz, and insanity, I’m speaking freely tonight! I got a lotta worthless shit to say and I’m spilling it here in the internet, so sit down, shut up, and listen (Hilarical!I just told an inaminate object to shut up!).

I am scared. Sometimes petrified! I work hard…so hard to just stay here, and it’s difficult at times. Like I use EVERYTHING in me to fight it. And I’m scared. What if I can’t? What if nothing I have will work? What if I succumb to the madness? The clock is ticking so loud in my ear and I am shaking and digging through this box of keys, frantically searching for the right one. And I know time is limited. I know that I have to find that key before the clock stops. What if I can’t find it?

Yesterday on my way home from work, there was an accident and the police had the road blocked, which forced me to drive on a kind of detour, weaving through some country roads, driving around the reservoir. The road isn’t really paved, so you have to drive fairly slow…and as I rounded the east side of the reservoir, the sun was reflecting off of the water as it began to descend behind the mountains and it was breathtaking. You know those people (maybe you’re one of them) who spends a lot of time in “nature” and you see beauty and you feel at peace? I saw beauty and I felt at peace for a brief moment. And I thought, this would be a good place to spend your last moments, right here, in this water, as the sun sets behind the mountains…peaceful.

Madness is just another ford for fucked up. Don’t you think? Gawd…I am a quite literally *mad*. I hate this – this rattling on and on until I fall off into the abyss. Tumbling into the darkness and not knowing where, or even if, I will land. I hate to think of everyone judging me. I think you hate me. I’m fairly certain it’s true. Weak. Mad. Insane. I hate me. Why wouldn’t you? I judge me…why shouldn’t you? Weak…Mad…Insane…

It is too much sometimes…never really feeling alive, so never really capable of dying to escape the cruel evil abusive people who tear and claw at me, skinning me, burning me, killing me slowly and And I hear his anger and I feel his hate. And I fight…I stay in survival mode and pretend everything is okay. But why? When I am certain not a soul would truly miss me.

Wednesday, August 25, 2010

What Now?

What now?

What now? by GracefullyGrowing featuring umbrellas

There are too many of them and I can't comfort them. I can't help them. I don't want them here. They feel too much.

Tuesday, August 24, 2010

*IT* has been named

So the therapist has named her back-up who will cover for her during her vacation. And *Grace wipes sweat from her brow* I can rest easy because I KNOW *IT*! I am bathed in relief! Because now I KNOW there ain’t no way I’m gonna get through the two weeks…well, that was before I came up with my own “back-up”….I shall elaborate.

THE BACK UP (fat ass Marsha ‘wannabe’ posing as a “therapist) When the therapist pulled the execution boundary card and insisted that I attend DBT classes, she “strongly” suggested I take these classes with this social worker/pseudo-therapist she works with at the hospital so the two of them could meet on a regular basis and discuss how they would like to torture me next. I did NOT take the classes w/therapist’s *friend* MWB (Marsha Wanna Be) and let tell you why.

But first, some background music… Hit it Barb! (memories, by Barbara Streisand)

In January 2008, I met with this DBTC for an “evaluation” (yes, an interview process to get into the “this is your last chance to shut up and behave class…what would happen if you don’t get in and it’s “your last hope”?) This chick is truly a Marsha pod person, only without the awesome brooch and barrette…but they obviously eat at the same buffet together since they’re both “mindfully” obese. Which, hey, whatever…my opinion on that is “Eat to please yourself, dress to please others.” In other words, eat all you can eat, in fact, pull up a chair and stick your face under the ice cream dispenser…but please don’t wear a mini-skirt when I have to look at your fat ass….cuz that’s just nasty! In fact, I’m still traumatized by seeing this woman’s pudgy thighs and crotch because she likes to wear mini-skirts and she doesn’t know how to keep her legs closed (hey- no judging on that one, cuz… ) And apparently she did not take Laura Linney’s advice – because Laura says, “You can’t be fat and mean. You can either be fat and jolly or a skinny bitch -it’s up to you.” Cuz this woman is a fat bitch!

So this MWB pod-*IT* drilled me for 20 minutes on my biological father … who is he, were my parents together when I was born, did he have “mental illness”…and on, and on, and on…and this was AFTER I completed her “questionnaire” and stated that I did not KNOW my bio-father, I had NEVER met him. In fact, I’m not really certain that my bio father is who the host body says he is…ain’t no *father’s* name on my birth certificate and she was a whore. WTF! For real! Then she told me that by hiding my SI from the hus that I was a liar and obviously didn’t care about my marriage. Awesome! Anything else? Yes, there was more….but I’ve blocked it out with the vision of her cellulite smothering me. Oh, except for the fact that she told me it was once job-ordered that she attend anger management classes. Which, thank you for your honesty…I’m assuming that was “pre-dbt”. She also told me that her DBT classes consisted of only “professionals”…and when I left her office, there was a woman with minimal teeth in the lobby, so I’m not sure what type of “professionals” MWB was referring too.

Shit…I hope MWB doesn’t *google* DBT-MINDFUCK* and find my blog post…she might be “offended”. Oh well…if she does, and she is “offended” then I guess she knows how I felt when she DRILLED ME FOR 20 MINUTES ABOUT MY BIOLOGICAL FATHER WHO I’VE NEVER MET AND CLEARLY DID NOT WANT ANYTHING TO DO WITH ME – AS HE DID COME AROUND (EVENTUALLY) TO MEET MY OLDER BROTHER). OH – but I am INTIMATELY accquainted with my stepfather who fucked me repeatedly for YEARS – should you like to talk about THAT! The fuck! Of course she’d have no idea I was speaking of her anyway…unless she should happen to read the whole post, remembers the *short skirt/flashing the blonde chick* incident and her initials are CLF. (Quid Pro Quo ~ CLF)

So this is the news that the therapist drops on me yesterday…and hello, I’d rather die than call that fat bitch! Which is exactly what I told the therapist And the therapist told me I was “judging” MWB and I told her the MWB judged me…so whatever! The therapist went on to tell me that maybe MWB was “testing” me. Testing me? Um…The F, therapist! What did that mean? “Testing me?” Really? Did she want to F**K me too – like he did?

I told the therapist “no-can-do” on the back-up. In fact, I was talking to my admin about this and she said thinks the therapist does shit like this on purpose to piss me off. Maybe so…but as I’ve already stated, there is no way in hell I’m calling that marshawannabecunny, nor will I be taking her business card “to make therapist feel better”. NFW! And I said as much to the therapist. So she would like to know my back-up plan. And yes, I do have one. I have purchased a trak-phone at Wal-Mart which I will mail to the host body and I can call her in distress…cuz that would be about as invalidating and unhelpful as calling the back-up MWB. Although, maybe MWB would be nice to me if I mailed her a chocolate fountain.

F**K – ya’ll…I seriously wanted this to be a humorous post…like one of those, “who is the last person you would want to talk to” kind of things…like, I can’t make this shit up…kinda posts. But it isn’t funny. Really, there’s nothing funny about it. Therapist thinks so little of my “well-being” that she assigns that bitch to be the back-up KNOWING goddamn well how I feel about contacting her? Oh-well…”it is what it is,..” and I’m not angry at the therapist. I’m angry at that stupid kid who will not be able to get through the 2 weeks w/o the therapist’s support. That’s who I’m angry with…but I’ll “deal with her”. In fact, that just makes things easier for me. Frankly, I don’t need a back up – and therapist knows goddamn well that I would never call some woman who suckles so often at the nun’s teet.

And when I die, please write cause of death as: SUFFOCATION FROM DBT CELLULITE AND LACK OF REAL CARING BY THE MHP COMMUNITY. Oh, well, fuck her…she wasn’t worth it anyway…she was born trash and she shall die trash. And therapist won’t know anyway because she’ll probably get eaten by a bear on vacation.

Yes, therapist, clearly, I am just that “SHALLOW”…but why would I think that my *leaving* would have a lasting affect on someone who obviously cares so little about me she assigns me a back-up therapist that I would rather chew my arm off of caught in a bear trap than call? Yeah, she’s real concerned….whatever. That’s like leaving your kid at a daycare run by Susan Smith! *Well sorry it was the best I could do…but pls know that in the unforseen event of your *accidental drowning* …I did care.* But I’m *shallow*.

I think I’m done here. No one gives a shit about my bullshit life (obviously) and I’ll be gone soon anyway…and I doubt anyone will even notice.

LINK TO READ:   *IT* has been named

Hot slice of crazy pie!

Life is not running smoothly at the moment. I feel alone, directionless and desperate. I am worn out, emotionally and physically. Sometimes the burden of “keeping myself safe” is too heavy. It is asking too much of me to “manage” all of follies, the nightmares, the triggers, the shame, the embarrassment, the rage – the internal voices who scream and cry and rage…all with no support. It is too much! And trying to avoid all of that shit is like avoiding breathing, which I wouldn’t mind doing right now. Something has to give. There is only so much one person can deal with day in and day out every single day and night! There is only so much!

I am not equipped to handle an entire Pie of Crazy


No safety Net

I am not sure who or where I am. It appears as though my gravitational pull toward si/sui is not something I am able to resist. The child’s safety net is gone and no one else can cope with that. I need an escape route because the urge to self-destruct is intensely powerful and everything is pointless and I am worthless and this is just way too hard. Once again shit is happening when I’m not here and I’m not around to stop it…left only to try to piece it all together when I return.



This post is set to self destruct in T-10Ds…as am I. I should also warn you that it this is a very insane crazybrain ranting that you should ignore altogether. I, on the other hand, cannot ignore it, since it is happening INSIDE OF ME! Oh how I wish it were not so…. I have been sitting here for 30 minutes methodically cutting vicodin and seroquel in half and listening to this fucking new-age relaxation music and I cannot relax. Go figure!

LINK TO READ: Boo-fing-hoo

Tremble weakly & collapse

I stayed up way way way too late last night trembling and crying and trying to hide.  When I finally collapsed into bed I was overwhelmed with fear and I started to wake up the hus but he was sleeping peacefully so I surrounded myself with 9 pillows and tried to fall into sleep. But it’s too much. I can’t hide. My body aches from the fear and the night sends a shiver through my curled up body and there are whispers in the room empty of regard........

LINK:  Tremble weakly and collapse

Saturday, August 21, 2010

Bad girls are not angels

LINK to new website:  Saving Grace

The grandparents adopted the host body when she was 8 years old. The host body’s bio father left her alcoholic bio mother with 6 kids and no income and the children were take away from her. Oh, the irony. That just hit me right this minute as I type this…that she was taken away from her mother when she was 8 years old and the host body and my bio father left my older brother and I alone in an apartment in Immokalee, Florida when we were 21 months and 6 months old, respectively, for 3 days while they were picking oranges and boozing it up. My brother and I were found by a catholic church member who happened to see my brother J hanging out of the 3rd floor apartment window. But we were not taken away from them. We were returned to them to continue to be tortured…which, I guess that means we weren’t even as important as her when we were babies. Hum…anyway, that’s not the point of this post so I’ll table that for now and possibly come back to it later.

When I was about 9 years old, 2 of the host body’s bio sisters *found* her. It was an exciting and confusing time around our joint during that time! I imagine it would be quite exciting to discover your siblings lost long ago…but I suppose it would be disappointing to discover your sibling was a raging alcoholic married to an abusive sadistic man (as was the case with the host body). The host body’s oldest sister, J, was a SAHM with 6 children, and her other sister was a nurse with 2 sons. J had 2 daughters and 4 sons and one of her daughters was my age. J’s youngest son had the same name as my younger brother, first and middle name, and I always thought that was so weird- that host body and J did not know each other and yet they chose the same name for their sons. Something else that seemed strange to me was that the host body’s sisters called her by a different name. Her name, as I’ve always known it, is Mary, and yet they called her Stella.

The host body’s sisters lived in a town about 2 hours away and we used to visit them often. The summer after J & W found the host body, the host body and ESF took my brothers and I to J’s house and left us there. I think for about a week – but I’m not exactly sure – it was a lot of “nights” – that I remember. J and her hus were nice people, they didn’t have a lot of money, but they made do with what they had. They lived in a small house at the end of a cul-de-sac- the house had only one bathroom and 3 small bedrooms. But J and her hus loved and provided for their children. I liked it there, but when we had been there for a few days I started to get concerned that the host body was going to leave us there forever. That she would never come back for us. You might perhaps be wondering why in the world I wanted them to come back for us since J and her hus didn’t hurt their children . The truth is – I’m not sure. Maybe I wanted to see my gramma again, I don’t know. But I remember feeling *homesick* and afraid. I thought, “She did it. She finally got rid of us!” Now we’ll never see them again. You would think I would have been happy, elated to be away from host body and ESF, but I wasn’t. Sometimes memories like this remind me that I wanted to be abused. I went back there, didn’t I?   They did come back for us.

It was about a year later that my mother’s sisters decided that “Stella” “Mary” – whatever…was not someone they wanted to keep in contact with…she was a raging alcoholic and they knew that ESF beat her on a regular basis (believe me when I say it was obvious). So they disappeared and we never saw them again. Not even her bio family wanted to be around her. After they disappeared, life went on as though they had never existed. Host body never talked about them again. Neither did ESF. My brothers and I were surely not going to mention them.

Life went on…the beatings and abuse continued…I was still his whore and she still hated me. Life went on then as it does now….slow and painful, with me begging for it to end. Praying to God to make it stop or kill me. A prayer I am still familiar with. A prayer I still pray every single night.

“Dear Mr. Jesus, if you can hear me please do not let him hurt me anymore, Mr. Jesus. Please come and take me away with you. I want to be an angel with soft fluffy white wings. Don’t you need an angel like me, Mr. Jesus? I’ll be good. I promise I’ll be a good angel.” Apparently, he didn’t. And it was because bad girls can’t be angels. Bad little girls have to stay with bad people and be punished for being bad.

She is still bad. Bad bad girl. That is why therapist doesn’t want to talk to her and why she is leaving and she doesn’t care that we are hurting. All because she is a bad bad girl. Bad girls don’t get to be angels. Bad girls get punished.

Thursday, August 19, 2010

Screams of Abandonment

Dreamed about the therapist all night last night, like one of those nights where you dream, wake up, fall back asleep and continue in the same dream. Obviously I know why I dreamed about the therapist…the “abandonment” threat level currently being *red* and all, but there were other people in the dreams, too. Some of them I think I get the significance of their presence, others I’m not so sure.

Dreams with the therapist in them are rare. From what I can remember, this is only the third time she’s appeared in my dreams. The first time was over 3 years ago and I was walking around the block by her office and a man started chasing me…I called the therapist and she didn’t answer her phone. The second dream with the therapist in it was just this past June where she just stood there watching the EST hurt me…and she did nothing.

In last night’s dream, I was young, but the therapist was the same age she is now. She looked the same, sounded the same, she was “therapist”. I was with the therapist and her BF (I call him Rocky…I don’t know him, but I know they like to rock-climb, so I’ve nicknamed him Rocky…hope she would not find that ‘offensive’…cuz it’s better than the fossil, imo). So anyway, therapist and Rocky were together and I was there, as was the host body, and there was also a young attractive black woman there.

I will step out of ‘dreamland’ for a moment to say something enormously embarrassing for me, and if it weren’t an important piece of the dream, I wouldn’t add this, but it is. The therapist and Rocky have been together a long while (from what I can tell) taken vacations together, and other things I do know but shall leave out for the protection of both her and I. As part of my *disorder*, I notice things, little things, differences in body language, clothing, a new hair-cut, something different in therapist’s office…I notice things. Like last Friday, I noticed that the therapist was wearing eye-liner. In over 4 years I’ve never seen therapist wear eye-liner. She’s like one of those “natural dove beauty” women. She doesn’t wear a lot of make-up…and she doesn’t need to. Of course when I said something about her spontaneous eye-liner application she said, “I knew you would notice that.” The 5 year old has horrible anxiety around abandonment issues. And she waits for the day therapist will say, “Well, that’s it. We’re through here.” Obviously a lot of this relates back to never having any stable adult in our life who didn’t abandon or abuse us…so we’re still waiting for the therapist to join the ranks of those from the past. Now, each week, the 5 year old looks for any *sign* that the therapist is going to kick her aside because she knows she doesn’t matter anyway. Seemingly trivial things that should be inconsequential can carry the weight of the world to the 5 year old and can lead to feelings of insecurity for her – which then lead to angry girl needing to punish the 5 year old for *needing* anyone. Then last week, irritable girl was complaining about the discomfort of therapist’s couch “it’s too squishy” and therapist said, “Well, soon I’ll bring my good leather couch in – it isn’t getting much use at home.” Another questionable flag: that’s because therapist doesn’t live at home – she lives with Rocky and so she doesn’t need her couch anymore? Now the 5 year old is sure the therapist is getting married and when she gets married she won’t need to work anymore and she will have her own family, and yes, there goes the 5 year old, right to the curbside with the rest of the unneeded garbage. So 5 year old searches every week for a ring. Get the fucked up picture? K – back to the dream then….

BACK TO THE DREAM: Therapist and Rocky are in the kitchen, his kitchen, (which was very small, btw – there was barely enough room for therapist and rocky to stand next to each other – and I was watching from the table but over what looked like a washing machine. Were any part of this humorous, I might add something like, “any more people in here and we’re going to need a lubricant”…but the dream wasn’t funny and I’m still sort of fucked up over the whole thing and it’s aftenroon here) …so little Grace notices the therapist is wearing a ring. Grace points out the ring and Rocky looks annoyed, like it ain’t any of the kid’s business and he (not so nicely) tells her so. Therapist self-consciously puts her right hand over her left, looks sadly at Grace, sighs, and says, “I’m sorry, Grace. I forgot to take off the ring.” What? Therapist tells Grace that she and Rocky have been married for months but she knew that because of her *issues* that Grace would feel like Therapist didn’t care if she knew so she consciously decided to take off the ring whenever she saw Grace but this time she forgot. She lied? Grace started to cry which made Rocky angry, and he bellowed, “Who is this stupid ugly brat anyway? She isn’t part of our life? Why is she even here?” Therapist didn’t say anything in response to Rocky’s questions or Grace’s tears; she seemed to be caught in the middle, unsure of what to say…so she stood there, next to Rocky, and she said nothing. And then they both turned away from Grace, and stood in the kitchen together, talking and laughing and drinking red wine. (Yes, red wine, I don’t know why).

Grace sat on her knees at the table, tears streaming down her face, and she watched therapist and Rocky laughing and loving and living…experiencing everything Grace was not allowed, is not allowed, will never know. Rocky made Therapist not care about Grace anymore. Rocky didn’t like Grace, she could tell by the way he looked at her. (I have no idea what Rocky looks like, IRL, but in my dream he was quite tall and thin, with dark brown, nearly black curly hair and brown eyes; eyes that met my gaze and showed nothing but disdain for me.)

The host body showed up and took Grace away from therapist and Rocky’s house. Host body grabbed Grace tightly by the wrist and yanked her out the door and down the street, and she told Grace she should never have been there in the first place. She told Grace that therapist doesn’t love her or care for her, that she is a burden. “Why can’t you see that Grace? She doesn’t care about you. No one cares about you! I let you stay here because I don’t have a choice, but I hate you too. You are unlovable and I wish you had never been born. So does therapist. So does Rocky. When are you going to see that?” She jerks Grace into the house and right inside the door, just past the shelf to the right, sitting at the kitchen table in a white pocket t-shirt smoking camel unfiltered cigarettes was the ESF. I was frozen there, staring at him. I don’t want to be here. He hurts me. She hates me. But now therapist hates me too. She didn’t even look at me she let her take me away. In my head I could still see Rocky and therapist in the kitchen, standing at the sink, drinking red wine and laughing – maybe doing the dishes (?) – and I tried to call her, in my head, I tried to call therapist, but she ignored me…and he was staring at me, through me, the host body no longer there. I stood there, holding onto the shelf that separates the kitchen from the living room, right inside the door…frozen stiff, unable to move, freezing cold watching him watch me. He picks up a glass filled with clear liquid (maybe vodka?) the glass had pictures of Fred Flinstone and family on it…it used to have grape jelly in it, that glass, now it has that stuff that smells like pure alcohol when he breathes it in my face. I want to move – but I can’t. My legs don’t belong to my body I cant feel them. Where did host body go? She isn’t here now…and he wont stop looking at me and I can’t move! He puts the glass back down, and the cigarette is dangling from his mouth as he puts his hands on the table to push himself up. I still can’t move. I am not breathing. I’m cold…frozen and wet…did I just pee down my leg? I think I did.

And that’s when I woke up- shaking and wet and nauseous. ..tears, real tears, no dream tears on my cheeks. Confusion as to where I was and who I was and how old I was and what really happened and what was a dream. And since I’ve already embarrassed the hell out of myself I should go on to say that I fucking peed the bed! Like for real! Not 5 year old Grace…but ME…in “adult” form, on my egyption cotton sheets! It sure as hell doesn’t get any better than that does it? This is truly *living the dream*!

After I went back to sleep…the dreams continued…

Grace was playing with the cute little black girl, walking in the woods, picking up sticks and talking. It was near dusk and no one else was around. They were young, 5 or 6 years old, and though they were alone, they were not afraid. Sad, but not afraid. The two girls walked until they came to a movie theater. An outside movie theater, but not a drive-in…there were seats made of logs to sit on. The girls sat down on a log and when Grace (I) looked down she noticed that neither of us had on shoes and both girls feet were dirty and cut. There was a movie playing on the big screen; a scary movie and there was a girl being chased by a car of men and she was running through the woods…but it was the woods Grace and her friend were just walking through (?) and the car sounded like it was behind them and not in the movie playing on the screen in front of them. The two girls were sitting close together and Grace’s friend sees something glimmering in the dirt. She bends down to pick it up and it’s a ring. It’s gold and its bent, like someone stepped on it – and the stone is square…it doesn’t look like a diamond, it’s kind of yellow. But I know that ring. That’s the therapist’s ring. Why is it here? I tell my friend that that ring is the therapist’s and see, look close on the side – there are her initials on it. It’s therapist’s ring alright. I begin to frantically look around for therapist because she must be here somewhere, here is her ring. She has to be here, why would she have left it behind? Why is it bent? Grace’s friend tells Grace that she shouldn’t even care about that stupid ring because therapist doesn’t care about her, if she did she wouldn’t have left her. “It’s okay, Grace. Mine left me too. That’s why we’re here, remember? We don’t need them. They don’t love us, they don’t care about us because we don’t matter, we never mattered. That’s why we’re here, remember?” That’s why we’re here? I’m confused. Where’s here and why did therapist leave her ring here? Friend (who I have now identified as friend S) takes Grace’s hand and they walk to the front of the movie screen where S points to the screen. I just noticed there’s no one else here, just S and me. Playing on the movie screen now are jumbled pictures of therapist and Rocky, esf and host body, lot of other men of various ages that I recognize, and other people I don’t recognize (maybe S’s T and abusers?). The audio is a man’s voice, deep and full of hate and anger…”You are bad. You are worthless. You mean nothing. You don’t matter. Worthess…bad…nothing… You are dead.” S still pointing to the screen, looks over at me, nods her head and mouths, we are dead…

This is why sleep is bad…dreams of abuse, abandonment, and death… I’m tired. Up and down all night…afraid, sick, dissociative…other embarrassing shit that I refuse to acknowledge right now! But it’s too much! Way to much! And I’m tired of struggling and trying to manage all of the emotional, psychological, and physical stuff going on…I’m not handling any of this now. I can’t do anymore. I’m too tired to talk about it, and I don’t think it really matters anyway. There’s no one to “talk” to anyway. Therapist is leaving anyway and I’m not allowed to talk to her before then so it no longer matters. Because I know I won’t be able to “contain” it or “distract” myself and stay safe while she’s gone. I continue to scream silently…no one listens, no one hears, no one helps, no one cares. And I understand it’s because I’m not worth it – so it just doesn’t matter anymore. Time keeps ticking away…the sun comes up, the sun goes down. I’m just waiting for it all to end. Why prolong the inevitable? I don’t expect an answer from anyone else – but I sure can’t think of a reason.

LINK to Grace new Website:  Screams of Abandonment

Grace has a plan

As I said yesterday I’ve been in a bit of a quandary about the therapist’s upcoming vacation. I did talk to her about how I took her phrase of, “Well maybe we shouldn’t talk until after I get back.” I told her it hurt my feelings and I didn’t really understand how that would be helpful after I had just told her that I am really not doing well right now, and I feel like I have very minimal support outside of her. I get that I need to have a support system in place, and that I can’t “rely” on the therapist for that support. But the problem is, most of my “support system” is in exactly the same position I am in and the support we’ll probably be able to provide is something to the effect of, “Yeah, I’m in the same boat. She knew I had no support when she left. Screw it! I can’t live like this anymore. You send me 20 percocet and I’ll send you 20 seroquel and we’ll skype and take them together watch the Vrigin Suicides and leave *quietly*.” Anyway, so I told her how I felt about what she said and she told me that she did say it, but that she said it out of a place of frustration because she feels helpless. And she was talking about phone support. And she said we should talk about developing a plan together for her absence.

I got to thinking about her feeling frustrated and helpless and then that trauma therapist’s voice starts chiming in, reminding me that I can’t tell the therapist I feel suicidal or depend on her to help me, because that’s considered *holding her hostage* and that’s not fair.” And then those other voices, you know the ones, the ones that tell me I am a manipulative bitch who should just straighten up or I’ll get something to really cry about . His voice, “You are worthless anyway. No one cares about you – you are bad and evil and you are worth nothing. Just a whore. That’s all you are. No one will ever love you.” and others….

And then I did some research on the internet, the whole, “How to get through the T vacation” (especially important when they take 4 or 5 a year!!!!! ) and I read an excerpt about a therapist who had a suicidal client when he was leaving for vacation and so he asked her to give him 30 minutes of lead time before jumping from a bridge so he could call the fire department and they could put out a net to catch her. When she seemed puzzled, he went on to say, “If you threaten me with something so outrageous as suicide and show such little ability to handle a MINOR stress like a 2 week absence…” And I realized that is exactly what our feelings mean to them. We make a big deal out of something so “MINOR” and we are just being ridiculous. So Grace, shut up and behave! Grow up, you are such a stupid whiny worthless piece of trash….bad…unlovable.

I felt much better about my decision to shut it all down after reading that we are all just *drama* making a big deal out of a *minor* situation. And obviously, that’s what I was doing by being HONEST about how I FEEL emotionally right now…and my honesty lead the therapist to feel frustrated and helpless. That’s not fair to her because she should be able to go and enjoy her FORTH WEEK OFF this year – and so I’m done talking about it.

She was really nice …offering to “come up with a plan” but what would be the point. What’s going to happen is going to happen and I can’t be all drama anymore over something so trivial…like hang-nail kinda pain. None of which is her problem. So get over it drama freak – you’re ruining the therapist’s vacation! Grown up Grace has a whole bucket full of shit that will shut the kid up…no worries! She won’t be able to whine and cry over such a trivial thing like the therapist’s 2 week vacation. (I hate that crying dependent shit that brat pulls anyway! I’m happy to take charge!)

Grace is going on vacation too! I know I’ll be fucked up and unable to concentrate or do anything really, so I’m going to take the time off of work, and just hole up here at the homestead – alone. That way I’m not *bothering* anyone else with my *minor* attachment disorder and childish *fears of abandonment*. It’ll be awesome! I’ll stock up on all of the things I will need so I don’t have to shower, get dressed, or leave the house.

Grace has a *plan*. Yay me.

LINK to Grace new Website:  Grace has a plan

Hi, it's me, Grace

And Just Me. No clichés…No humor…No pretending… Just Grace without the famous mask talking to you….and you know who you are, if you’re still *here*, and if you read this (however, if you read this and you even think it’s you, but it isn’t then it probably applies to you – so yeah, then I’m talking to *you* too)

Last night I cried for you…I cried for you and I cried for me…I cried for all of us. I cried for all of the hardship & pain you have had to endure in this life, and I cried at the unfairness of it all. I cried for all the kids and adults where were damaged beyond repair by the people who were supposed to love them the most.

I cried because you trusted me enough to reach out to me and I cried because I wasn’t sure what to do to help. It broke my heart to hear you say that no one loves you and to know that you really believe you are bad and unlovable. I know you’re scared and I know you hurt and I know that you think there is only one way out of the all-consuming pain. I know that the one person who has stood by you and believed in you is not there now and the fear is overwhelming now. I believe you when you say you can’t do it anymore. I know you feel that way. I know because I feel that way too.

I know about all of those things. What I don’t know is how to help you get through it. How to make it *okay* for you. For any of us.

I care about you. I love you. But I know that my voice is not nearly as loud as the critic inside of you. The one who has convinced you that you don’t matter and that you are bad and unlovable the world would be better off without you. I don’t know how to fight that voice either.

If I were with you right now I would sit with you and I would bandage your cuts for you. I would tell you in person that I care. I think of you and I cry for you and I wonder how you are doing. In fact, I’m wondering how you are doing right now. I don’t know if you are dead or alive. I don’t know if you made it through the night. I hope you did but I don’t know. That’s selfish of me to say – because I understand not wanting to, and the mere pain of actually “waking up” day after day.

I’m sorry if my suggestions last night seemed to you like putting a Barbie band-aid on a point blank shotgun wound to the chest. I’m sure it must have felt like that. Sometimes I wish I had a tourniquet instead. But I don’t. But at least I didn’t offer you any kool-aid, or tell you to hold an ice cube, or peel an orange , right? (cuz we know that shit don’t work for sure!)

I don’t know the way out of this, my friend. If I did, I would scream it from the rooftops. But I hope you know that even though I am absolutely 200% insane & totally unhelpful, I do care about you. And I thank you for inviting me into your life…and for leaving your footprint on mine.

LINK to Grace new Website:  Hi, it's me, Grace

I feel it too, every day

I know how it feels because I feel it too. I feel it all the time. And people who have never felt it…they don’t understand. Sometimes I hate those people for never feeling it, but I hate them because I wish I could be them. And it isn’t fair… no it sure isn’t. I have been trying to hold it back, and sometimes I’m successful, but it’s getting harder and harder. I know other people who are like me. They’ve tried the same drugs I’ve tried. They’ve been in therapy for years. They are brilliant and amazing women…and yet, like me, they are forever broken. Some of these women are feeling it now: that overwhelming desire to disappear, to just…make the pain stop. That horrible debilitating pain that never goes away. I know that pain well. And the thoughts that go along with it.

I once told a friend of mine that she was not allowed to kill herself, ever, ever, ever. Depression SUX! It does…Tonight I’m not going to say, “Don’t kill yourself. It’s incredibly selfish…and I will haunt you forever if you do it! I will be so angry and I will never forgive you.” That’s not helpful really, when you want to die. I’ve heard all of those words. I’ve heard, “It will get better. It won’t always feel like this.” I’ve been told, “You are intelligent and beautiful and have so much to live for. Think about all the people who love you!” And sometimes those words uttered are enough to “guilt” me into staying alive for another day. Stay alive for everyone else.

It doesn’t go away, I know that. I know how incredibly unfair it feels and I know how much it hurts. I know that there are times when it’s too overwhelming to even get out of bed, let alone out of the house. I know what it feels like to cry for hours at a time. I know what it feels like to obsess about “making it stop” and planning, and counting, and thinking, and writing… I know.

And it isn’t just the “depression”! It’s the headaches, and the nausea, the chronic pain, the lack of energy and hope. It’s the horrible anxiety and panic that build inside up inside of you and claw their way out of your throat. It’s that feeling like there is an elephant sitting on your chest and you can’t catch your breath. And the fear…my god the constant fear of never feeling safe! Sometimes my jaw aches from keeping my mouth clinched so tight because I’m afraid if I open my mouth I will start screaming and it will never stop. My body shakes involuntarily and it feels like there’s an electrical current running through every nerve ending– and if the panic hits you in public – that’s the worst because you feel like everyone is staring at you, their eyes are screaming, “MENTAL ILLNESS”.

It feels defeating. You fight and you fight and you can’t get out! You want the world to see how much pain you’re in…on your way out because it is so incredibly LONELY! And it feels like no one understands and no one will help you. And you feel worthless and like you’re just a burden to everyone you know. Useless heavy baggage. A waste. No one would miss you if you were just gone. It would actually be a relief! You should have never been born in the first place. You were never wanted, never loved. You’ve no idea how to love yourself…fuck, you’re not worthy of love…obviously, your own parents didn’t love you. So why not just make it stop!

It would be hypocritical of me to say, “Don’t kill yourself. Take that right off the table because it’s not an option.” And I’m tired of all the hypocrites I’ve met. So tired… I will tell you that I care about you more than I care about myself. That I can honestly say. But I can’t beg you to stay alive. I don’t want you to die, but it would make me the biggest hypocrite in the world (next to Nancy Pelosi) because I feel it too… S: I meant every word I said to you tonight. I KNOW those thoughts, those feelings…but I would have answered exactly the same way…”I understand why you abandoned me because I am bad and I don’t deserve love.” I suspect you know I understand…

It sucks! All of it sucks. It isn’t fair and it’s so fucking lonely! I can’t say “hang in there, it will get better.” Because I don’t know if it will. I don’t feel that hope for myself…. Not anymore. And I refuse to be a hypocrite and sell you something that may not exist.

I can say: Encourage each other! Be there for each other! You’re not alone…even though it feels like it. Is that enough…or do those words feel empty and meaningless to you? I can’t say….

LINK:  I feel it too, every day

“No,” I said, “I’m not ok.”

Yesterday in session when I told the therapist that I was nervous about her vacation because I depend on her for support right now, she’s a big life-line for me – and she said, “Well, maybe we shouldn’t talk until after my vacation.” And it really hurt my feelings because of course the neon sign starts flashing “ABANDONMENT”. And I was all, “WTH, that’s the answer? To not talk from now to then so I can get used to your being gone before you’re gone??” But maybe she’s right. Maybe this is one of those, “Grace, I’m doing this for your own good, things.” And maybe it’s best for her too, if we don’t talk, if she doesn’t know how I “feel”. Yes, the more that I think about it…the more I think it’s best. She doesn’t need to know how I *feel*. I can come up with my own *plan*. In fact, I already have one I can just it *dust off*. It doesn’t need to involve her at all. She should just enjoy her vacation and not be frustrated by the whiny DFW baby. I can take care of that kid! No problem!

I am in sort of a capricarious volatile state of mind right now. I know that I have no right to be upset with the therapist about leaving for vacation for 2 weeks. But I am… I’m overwhelmed to the point I am bursting at the seams. Boiling over…. And her answer is to not talk and hand me a business card of someone I’ve never even met, nor do I know her protocol, and when something happens, I can call her? I imagine that conversation might go something like this, “I can’t breathe…I just f’d the hus and it’s Friday and I can’t stop watching this scary movie and I can’t get him off of me. I can’t breathe…” in a 5 year old voice. Wonder what would happen then? Does Subbie T have “TraumaBrain” experience with dissoicative mentalists, dear therapist? Because you of all people should know how “difficult” I can be…

I am so lost right now. I have tried to believe that it won’t always be this way but I feel so depleted and hopeless. I cannot take care of myself right now. I want to be alone but when I’m alone, with no one to distract me, or talk to me, the piercing truth of my reality cuts into my heart and burns through my soul. I am so drained I cannot even think straight. My heart aches….this is the roughest patch I’ve hit and I can’t believe I’m still alive.

The pain I feel is unexplainable. I’m so tired and frustrated and I feel like it’s all just too complex to deal with. Too multifarious for me to understand…and the therapist would say, “It’s not, it’s so common and understandable, and you can do this…just keep on keeping on.” But she’s wrong. Clearly she doesn’t understand…I can assure you…I am dying more every day.

Oh, wait, I’m a “survivor”, right? I forgot. I have tried to collaborate my shattered thinking to form some rational simplicity from my emotional intricacy. I’ve tried to understand. But my mouth forms words my brain is unable to process. What I do understand is that the human mind and body shields a child from the horrible truth so the child can survive. She can survive but not realize how she has been shaped, altered, wounded, until she grows up to become a woman and it gets so bad that she feels like she’s nothing, nobody, worthless. I understand that because I had no idea how much he really shaped who I am today. I feel nameless, fragmented, unlovable because I cannot love myself. Both he and the host body cut me into pieces…so many pieces I don’t know which pieces belong to “me” and which belong to “them”. I cannot sort through them.

See, now I am afraid that the only way I see this working for me is to shut down completely. I really do not know how else to do it, the “feelings” are just too big and overwhelming for me right now and she’s going away for 2 weeks. I barely make it week to week, day to day, really. I do not have a good support system in place right now, and I can do a lot of damage in 2 weeks time. Right now, I have been seeing the therapist twice a week because I am having trouble managing from week to week. So much is happening inside of me and I don’t want to rely on her, I don’t want to “count on” her for support, but I have been lately. And she was very supportive and helpful recently…

I’m struck by how little my life has become. I am afraid and I can’t even tell anyone. Afraid and overhwelmed by what goes on inside my head and my body. So big, so real, so much stronger than what is outside of me. So sharp…I feel it, cutting me, stabbing me, with it’s serrated razor-sharp pieces. It’s painful…

LINK to Grace's new Website:  "No," I said, "I'm not ok."

She never stopped crying

She never stopped crying…and I am sick. Secrets too terrible to be spoken…every part of my mind and body are aching. His words mock me, constantly repeating in my mind. He is dead and I am still haunted, tortured , paralyzed with fear. My body is so sore and not just physically…poison is eating me from the inside out. It is so not okay to be me right now.

I exist in two places at once now. The hus has suddenly stumbled upon some newly found sexual energy and as I am spending most nights in a past filled with hell, he wants to spend most nights with me, in the present…like every night. And the problem is I can’t be there or here because the lines get blurred. I’m all over the place. And it usually doesn’t end well.

I spend half the day trying to escape the fb follies and then I spend the evening trying to fight off the anxiety about my current situation, now as an adult. So that’s how it goes, the day: wake up after a couple of hours of sleep, fight the follies all day (which typically means minimal concentration, lots of dissociation, headaches, nausea and vomiting, random crying) spend the late afternoon and evening consumed with anxiety about the possibility that the hus will want to have sex, if so – pray to either get through it without crying or get through it and not be there, spend the next several hours watching scary movies/crying/hurting/not being present. It is so not cool to be me.

Take last night, for instance. The hus is on vacation so he was up late. Grace’s anxiety was off the charts because that typically means he wants to have sex. Then try distraction which, in turn, lead to heading back to the past over a freakin’ lollipop! She never stops crying…

On minute I’m trying to use the big ‘distraction skills’ the next minute I’m falling…I cant breathe! I don’t know where I am. All I feel is pain. Pain that reaches all the way to my fingertips and makes my chest throb. And then I am angry. Then I hate myself, that kid, the past. Then comes the frustration at not being able to calm down…followed by the “I AM CRAZY” screaming, followed by the “bad thoughts” we don’t speak of. And I can’t make it stop.

How do you stop that? Oh! That’s right, distraction and “thought stopping”. Or a shitload of benzos and booze. One minute I’m watching Shirley Temple singing, “Good ship, lollipop” in her cute little 5 year old body, chubby cheeks and curly hair…singing in her short little dress and matching short shorts. The next minute I AM Shirley Temple…and my singing is interrupted by HIS voice, “Gracie, my sugar coated lollipop is ready for you…” WTF! I don’t want it! I want to go to sleep! “You make me do this…this candy is only for you.” And it hurts! But he won’t let me move.

I’m frozen. That fight or flight ‘theory’ is complete BS. I am frozen. I’m hurting. The pain is real..splitting me apart, screaming in my head…pain, confusion, shame….it’s real. I’m not good at this…I’m not dealing with any of this.

LINK to Grace's new Website:  She never stopped crying

Give ME you anger...NO!

That’s what the therapist said to me today. She told me that she would rather I be angry at her than myself. Whatever… I am NOT angry at her. It isn’t her fault that the 5 year old is screaming in fear and abandonment that she’s going on vacation. I’m not angry at the therapist, I’m angry at the parts of ME who depend on her and care about her and need her. That’s who I’m angry with….ME – for allowing someone else “in” our world…for allowing someone else to see some of our pain and past. Angry…angry…angry…for letting someone on the outside “in”. She didn’t do that…I did that. Therapist didn’t put a gun to our head and say, “Depend on me! Attach to me! Love me!” Nope…that was all that bratty kid who actually thought someone cared about her for once in her stupid life. Get over it brat! I’ll show you what “love” is!

But there’s no reason to be angry with the therapist about something I did.

Then she tells me that I have all the “choices” to meet my needs within my reach. That made me feel like a whiny little kid for telling her that I don’t feel safe and I don’t know how I’m going to get through the two weeks she’s gone. I also told her that I talk to her like twice a week now and how can I go two weeks with no support! Especially since she was just gone a week in July!!! And she said, “Well, maybe you shouldn’t talk to me then.” The fuck therapist!? Okay – therapist, maybe I shouldn’t! So much for being honest…

So now I will just tell her all is well…I got a whole treasure chest full up on “tools” – and a genie in a bottle too! Ready to grant my every wish! So we are g-o-o-d! Better than good…perfect! Perfect little Gracie! No worries. So now that we’ve established and taken inventory of my vast supply of “healthy choices” (and I’m not talking about those frozen meals that taste like cardboard…) I am g-o-o-d… t-o…g-o! What a relief! *Grace turns her frown upside-down*

I knew it wasn’t a good idea to actually be honest about my *feelings*. I’ll just shut up and behave until she leaves for yet another vacation (3rd one this year, btw, must be nice to be rich and carefree!)…then we shall throw a party!

Nope – this rage is all about ME! Excuse me for being so self-centered… ME~ME~ME! ALL OF ME

Ciao! I’m going to go pour myself a drink! I’m even MORE perfect (if that’s even possible) when I’m drinking! Martini anyone? Grace’s demon bartender makes the best martinis!

LINK to Grace's new Website:  Give ME your anger... NO!

Wonderland of despair sprinkled w/lunacy

I am totally going mad- crazy – insane… Not that you wake up one morning and you’ve tumbled into the wonderland of insanity…no! Sadly, it is a slow and painful process. Fortunately no one is around at night to watch the horror show of Grace as it plays out. Since contact with and assistance from a Demonologist seems unlikely, perhaps a stake through the heart would work. She’s joking…that would be a painful way to die. But nonetheless, the internal natives are restless.

I was supposed to do something with a friend today but then I couldn’t. I couldn’t. I finally texted her back this morning and apologized…I’m a terrible friend, I said. I’m terrible at a lot of things right now. I can’t seem to shake this horrible darkness. I can’t. Its applied for permanent residence and I’ve no idea how to evict it. And fuck you if you say “medication” or “mindfullness” is the answer. And the fucking suicidal thoughts and general feelings of doom are compounded by the fact that the therapist is going to be on vacation for two weeks

And this time I’m so depressed I can’t even be angry with her. I can’t say, “Don’t make this about your vacation, therapist…” because well, my reality is that it is about her vacation. It is about the fact that she’s going to be gone for two weeks and it is about the fact that I’ve really *radically accepted* that I’m not going to be able to get through it. Oh, I won’t run away before she leaves. I’ll go through the motions the next two weeks with her, play the therapeutic mind games of planning Grace’s social life so she can stay alive and “connected” while the therapist is out fucking rock climbing for two weeks AGAIN! I can scream and beg and cry and *cling* to her as though I am a child in fear of losing her mother forever (not that I really have any idea what that feels like…) But I suspect it feels something like I’m feeling now, only I’m an adult, not a child, and I’m insane and dissociative. Bad shit can happen. Shit a lot worse than throwing a temper tantrum in the middle of the floor.

And she and I can “plan” my life while she’s gone down to the minute… but the fact is that even when I make plans I cannot follow through with them because….listen carefully, I am too fucking depressed to do anything. I just don’t care about anything anymore. I see my *future* stretched out before me and it’s the same pattern as the past…long depressing periods of self hate and destruction followed by 10 minute of happiness and sense of accomplishing something. Really, there’s so little to look forward to- except more of the same. Endless years spent in isolation…cheery, eh?

What it all comes down too, really, is the overwhelming feelings of worthlessness. I wasnt worth anything to anyone or someone would have noticed, someone would have cared, helped me, seen me. But I just didn’t matter. Everything else and everyone else mattered and I didn’t matter. I still feel that way. Hence the overhwelming thoughts of sui. It’s hard to want to live when all you can see are the ways you don’t matter. And yes, I get that the therapist cares during that hour or two spent a week in the confines of the “safe space” she has tried so hard to create for me…but the reality is that I pay her to care. As my friend Harriet M. Welch says, it’s truly a one-way relationship. She wouldn’t give me a second thought were I just another statistic in a clinical handbook. The truth is I need her but she doesn’t need me and I’m tired of needing. The truth is the therapist will wave good-bye and not give a second thought about me and my feelings of worthlessness and wanting to die. And I’m not angry about it….that’s the way it is, the way it’s supposed to be in the big TR.

I don’t matter. Rationally I know that I do matter a little to a couple of people. And they want me around. But that doesn’t change the fact that deep inside of me, I don’t believe it. I know they would be better off without my depressed self in their lives. I’m too tired. It’s too overwhelming to know that I’ll just keep fighting the same fucking battle of trying to unsuccessfully convince myself that I’m worth anything at all for the rest of my pointless fucking life. No thanks….

Besides, I’m tired. I feel old. Mostly, I’m just waiting around to die, anyway. It’s unbearably sad. I see myself from the outside and I think – what a waste. What a beautiful girl. What an empty life she leads. Poor lonely thing, she’ll never know that thrill of living, of actually feeling alive. If only she could have mattered maybe it could have been different. But she didn’t…

LINK to Grace's Website:  Wonderland of despair sprinkled w/lunacy

Wasted away again in Margaritaville

I’m not searching for my lost shaker of salt though…I don’t really like salt. Awesome! None of you knew that about me, did you? It’s true, I never add salt to anything. I’m wondering what that says about me. Not the salt thing…but the fact that I share all this personal information here, but not something simple like, “Hi, I’m Grace, I like my margaritas frozen, but no salt. I don’t really like salt.” Oh, well, you know now….

Sometimes when you’re alone in the middle of the night, it’s okay to *distract* yourself by singing Jimmy Buffet and blending up some frozen margs….(TIP: if you close the pantry door and put a towel over the blender, you can barely hear it so it won’t wake anyone up when you decide to make margaritas @ 2am– you’re welcome).

I’m distracting myself from the razor calling my name – thanks Marsha for the *tools*. I’m doing everything I can tonight to not regress into a bawling 5 year old or a psychotically angry teenager. So if that means making frozen margaritas on the floor of the panty and singing Jimmy Buffet…well then “That’s the best I can do right now…”

I don’t know…sometimes I think I’ll just stop all of it. Therapy, talking, writing, reaching out at all, breathing…I mean, is there really a point in verbalizing your feelings of hopelessness and defeat when you’re just going to be dismissed or trivialized? Is it better to just shut up & pretend, to half-smile till you die, rather than reach out? As I’ve always said, why express needs that will never be met. Childish needs and fears that have no right to exist in my adult head.

Why…why…why…why in the world should I embarrass myself by speaking aloud all of this fear inside my head only to be told that it’s okay to have this need, or that need, but there’s no way for it to be met. I don’t get that. And it only makes me hate myself more for ”needing” anything in the first place. Ah, the sordid talk of self-hatred. But is that what this is about now? Maybe…but maybe not. Maybe it’s more like shamefully wallowing in self-pity on the pantry floor.

Jimmy Buffet is singing, “Some people claim that there’s a woman to blame, but I know, it’s my own damn fault.” It’s YOUR fault, Grace. No one else’s. How long are you going to hold this grudge against the host body, Grace? When will you realize that you can’t change the past…you can’t change how she feels about you now, Grace. You’ll never be loved – you’ll never have a mother. Too bad. Get over it. It is time to move on.”

I have completely misplaced my gratitude and love for life and I am searching for it….I am desperately searching for it here in the middle of the night…I am looking all around. I am reaching far down into the bottom of my gut, the base of my soul, the deepest place in my heart… God! This weakness! This weak depressed worthless woman! I can’t stand her! Give it up girl! Stop with the wretched self-pity, the craving for normalcy…just stop with the whining, “Why the hell don’t I get to be like everyone else?”. Just stop! I have been brought to my knees, shaken to the core. I have forgotten who I really am.

My whole life, my entire 39 years I have been straddling this teeter totter, pressing my feet back and forth, seeking the balance I have never been able to find… Gawd!! Dammit! I feel flushed and panicked and my head is spinning. I am screaming inside, “Please help me. Please come to me now and stay. Please stay with me in this place of darkness, this place of no hope or light.” (as if)

*Grace takes a break to wipe away the never-ending flow of tears, blow her nose, and blend another round of margaritas for one!* No salt… Cheers!

Feelings…feelings…feelings. They assault me like sniper fire, the bullets ricochet off of their unsuspecting target and slice open my thighs, my hip, my side…red, angry slashes. I have been hit again. I am walking around wounded, scarred, stunned. I’ve been told not to judge these feelings, or attach to them. They are neither good nor bad, Grace. Open the door to the pantry, Grace, and invite them in for expresso and scones…get to know them, no matter how hostile they seem. All of them? There’s not enough room here. The guilt, as pure and raw as sugar cane, comes to show me the terrible things I’ve done, the shameful places I’ve been, the faces of those I have harmed. The rage! It cannot be quelled or quieted. The overwhelming smothering rage hits me square in the chest after I have removed my bullet-proof vest. I feel the sharp shrapnel piercing my skin, reaching the very core of me. You self-righteousness woman…you selfish, bitter woman…

I can’t control it. I can’t think or reason my way out. I can’t figure out how to fix it, or breathe through it. I feel the blood draining out of me, warm and cold at the same time; the bitterness, the anger, the badness, it drains out of me and soaks into the soft cotton of my clothing. The patterns speak to me: You are weak, Grace. You are a lesser person, negative, selfish, dramatic, needy. How I loathe you, girl…

A knock on the door bringing yet another guest? Shame…welcome one of my oldest and best friends. Shame…she is always there for me…there is always room for her. She sits next to me and slides her warm calloused hand over my shoulder and down my chest… just as he used to do. Her hot breath hisses in my ear, “You are nothing without me. You cannot speak without me. You cannot breathe without me, write without me, feel without me. Without me you are neither interesting nor desirable. Without me by your side you cannot cope or deal with anything. You are mine and I am yours. You are nothing without me. I am your secret. This is our secret. I will keep you safe. I will keep your secrets.” My dearest friend. I offer her a drink and she begins to bandage my wounds…our secret, our secret. I lean into her, my oldest friend, and I let her hold me, even as she cruelly speaks my biggest failures aloud to me. She knows what I deserve. She is mine and I am hers.

Here we sit together and alone, my friend and I… Wasted away again in Margaritaville….she is searching for a sign of worth…strength…purpose…will…of anything that resembles life…but she didn’t find it.

LINK to Grace's new website:  Wasted away again in Margaritaville

Saturday, August 14, 2010

Nod if you can hear me…

I feel stunningly depressed…really, like rock bottom is above me now. You know that moment when you can “feel” and you have minimal recollection of what happened the night before and you try and try to quell the tidal wave of panic that is threatening to drown you and then you wish you were still in that place where you were unable to feel? Yeah, that’s where I’ve been today, well, it’s where I’ve been for awhile now.

I talked to the therapist last night – but I don’t remember what she said. I don’t remember her words or her tone or anything at all. I wish I could remember. I hope I didn’t make her mad. I have that deep feeling of despair in the pit of my stomach today. If you’ve ever suffered from depression and panic and free for all nights of dissociation and self-destruction where you only see flashes of information that sends chills you’re your spine…you know what I’m talking about.


I can't do this...

Therapist is leaving for vacation AGAIN…for 2 weeks this time. I had a huge panic attack on Wednesday night and called her all freaked out. (EMBARRASSING!) What are you afraid of, Grace? What are you afraid of? She was all therapisty and tried to calm me down in her calm therapeutic therapist voice. But it didn’t help the 5 year old. She is still paralyzed with fear. She cries all the time. And it isn’t getting any better.

LINK:  I can't do this...

Friday, August 6, 2010

Damn the bear trap that snagged me

I have been struggling the past few weeks. I hurt…like all over but I think it’s mostly in my head. I hurt from pain, and fear, and exhaustion. Somewhere along this path I seemed to have stepped into a bear trap. Not a humane kind either, but rather one with claws of steel that dig into your legs tearing through your flesh and sending waves of pain throughout your entire body. But that is all so irrational, you say. To you, maybe so but for me…I am afraid this will never pass.

LINK:  Damn the bear that snagged me

Thursday, August 5, 2010

She laughed until she cried

She laughed until she cried

Do you ever laugh at something that seems strikingly funny – and then suddenly you realize you’re no longer laughing, but rather crying, and what seemed so insanely funny a minute ago doesn’t seem funny at all now, and you feel incredibly sad and hopeless?

That happened to me today. The therapist has been throwing different techniques, ideas, suggestions at me to see what might stick. Which, knowing me, she will probably throw 100 different things and maybe 5 will Velcro to my skin and infiltrate into my crazybrain in a way I can incorporate it into my life in a helpful way. I know that…and she knows that.

Today we spent a lot of time talking about the somatic sensations that happen at night when the follies begin and she told me about a trauma therapist, J. Eric Gentry, PhD, and his suggestion that relaxing the muscles of the pelvic region will lead to self-regulation, which, as you can see from the excerpts below, this can pretty much lead to winning the lottery.

As I read through this alone, and then with a couple of trusty friends, humorous Grace began to show her face laughing and joking that the *pelvic* muscles can be the key to happiness. (Makes sense…they were always the key to someone’s happiness, just never mine) For real, I wish someone would have told me years ago that relaxing the vag muscles (the anti-kegal exercise) is like the holy grail! The paper goes on to say that many trauma survivors cannot feel these muscles and should this happen to you, you might perhaps seek the assistance of a professional massage therapist who can assist you in “locating and releasing your pelvic muscles.” Um what? Can I also get a Brazilian wax while I’m there? You mean if I relax my “pelvic floor” muscles I can handle criticism with grace? Like bossman could call with a complaint and I’d be all, “Hold on, I gotta relax the vag muscles so I don’t get defensive.” I always knew that men think with their dick a lot of times, but I had no idea that I could find peace just in my vagina! Who knew! And who knew that just relaxing your ass and vag you will feel safe and connected. AND! Bonus! I just need to get in touch with my “core” and “realax” the muscles “Down There” and I’ll Experience INTIMACY! OMG! I’ve always wondered what that was like!!! For real! And she went on and on and on…and we were all laughing like Humorous Grace was performing a stand up routine!

Then she called the therapist and inquired if this perhaps was meant for another, more “new agey” client, and the therapist insisted it was not, and that we could “work on this” in session. And Humorous Grace was all, “Um, if you think you and I are going to sit around and practice vaginal relaxation exercises, I’ll pass.” And the therapist was beginning to get annoyed so she was all like, “Grace, it was just a suggestion – you can take parts of it, or not, or store it somewhere and pick it back up later.” And Humorous Grace, clearly with un-relaxed vag and ass muscles was like, “Cool – T…shall I store it in the box of tampons?” and suddenly Humorous Grace disappeared and was replaced by hopeless Grace, and hopeless Grace said, “I don’t get it.” As her voice started to crack. Hopeless Grace cried tears of frustration because she really does not get it.

Hopeless Grace remains in charge tonight, and she doesn’t get it. She doesn’t get any of it. She is hurting and feeling like there is nothing left to be done. With each passing moment the distant flickering light that did represent hope grows dimmer and dimmer….

I don’t get it. I don’t FEEL anything. I don’t UNDERSTAND this. I am left without hope. That isn’t funny…

(excerpt from article)

If you keep your pelvic muscles released and relaxed for 30 seconds you will begin to notice the clear differences in yourself as you transition from sympathetic to parasympathetic dominance. You will first notice comfort in your body. As you release the tension and stress that you yourself have been generating you will become aware that your body is comfortable-no matter what is going on around you. If we are able to keep our pelvic muscles relaxed then we will be rewarded with a lessening of “stress” and the restoration of optimal functioning in our thinking and actions. With this self-regulation, we will be able to comfortably seek creative solutions to problems and situations that used to leave us baffled, exhausted, and frustrated.

By practicing the release and relaxation of these muscles, we can gradually shift from sympathetic to parasympathetic dominance. The rewards of this transformation include comfort in our bodies, maximal morot and cognitive functioning, ability to tolerate intimacy, self-regulation, internal vs external locus of control, ability to remain mission/principle driven, increased tolerance, increased effectiveness, and increased health of our body’s systems.

I see dead people

The past two weeks he has relentlessly haunted me day and night. There have been moments of excruciating mental and physical pain and it’s felt like I’ve moved into the Amityville house of horrors. There was one night in a panic I had thoughts of calling a Demonologist to come and exorcise my body.

I’m not fond of reliving the past. I do not wish to watch this horror film over and over and not only is it in 3-D, I can feel the actual physical sensations over and over again. There are times when I watch from outside my body, floating above that little girl, not feeling her pain, but seeing the pain in her eyes as she stares into mine pleading with me to help her. Other times I feel that I am her, trapped, in pain, unable to breathe. I hurt where she hurt, I feel what she felt, I see what she saw, I relive what she lived. I see the look of pleasure and power in his eyes as he made me into who he wanted me to be. It was a look of supremacy. Ownership. I was his.

The shame and humiliation of this continuous looping has left me battered and torn. I have tried to continue to live with an outward persona of a woman who is somewhat normal but that in itself has made me weary and vulnerable. I have done my best to get through each night but the scars within me feel like deep jagged cuts which are sealed off from the outside world, but remain a gaping wound visible only to me, and those within me.

I am doing the best I can right now. It will get better soon, right? Soon I won’t feel so small and frightened, right? I wish I had someone to sit with me tonight. Help me stay safe. I don’t feel safe.

He is dead but I still see him. I still feel him. I still hear him. I am dead. He is dead.

I see dead people.

Sunday, August 1, 2010


I have been partying at the flashback fun frolic for just about 2 weeks now. And contrary to what the nun thinks works best I have been unable to distract (dissociate) it all away. And when this happens, there’s no “mindfullness” or “bucket-slinging”…there’s only watching the clock and struggling to getting through each minute. I cannot sweep it under the rug or pretend it doesn’t exist. Unfortunately, neither have I been able to talk about it with my dear sweet therapist because there is always that little voice who questions the trustworthiness during times like these because it was during one of the most vulnerable moments of my life when I was held down and tortured to the point of retraumatization (metaphorically speaking) because of DBT.

Friday night the therapist did not throw DBT darts at me or invalidate or enrage me. Friday night the therapist told me that I was doing better because I wasn’t hurting myself, I wasn’t drinking it away, I wasn’t using other ways to dissociate myself from what I was feeling (which, is the anti-dbt – yes, folks, it is…).  She heard me when I said this is killing me and she didn’t tell me to shut up and the next day I woke up, still tired, still hurting, but with significantly decreased anger, and injury free.

LINK:  must-stop-the-nun

What if she never was...

Nothing will make it better. The shame clings to me like a slip filled with static. It moves with me – it molds to my very essence. It doesn’t go away. I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I am not normal. I carry all this anger and pain and this overwhelming shame. I fantasize about what it would be like if I didn’t exist. If I was never born. If I never existed he could not have hurt me. How lovely it would have been to have never been abused.

LINK:  What if she never was


I woke up this morning feeling like my insides have been completely ravaged and wasted of any good feelings and the desire to just give up and never come out of hiding again is strong. I am not in a good place right now. I am too tired to battle the demons in my head. I am broken! Broken! And broken Grace cannot deal with the constant headaches and nausea. She cannot handle the chronic pain with no relief. She’s broken. Shattered.

LINK:  Broken

Wednesday, July 28, 2010

Food glorious food

I realize I have control issues at times but this isn’t about “control”. This is about the fact that I am literally repulsed by food. The texture, the thought of food, looking at food….all of it. I have had some type of food aversion in one form or another for as long as I can remember. But now it is as extreme as I can remember since college. There was a point in college where I spent several months living on bagels and rocky road ice cream because that’s all I could eat.

I am not eating disordered right now. Do not suggest CBT, DBT, or any type of “cognitive restructuring” now. Do not suggest that eating is “simple” and I should just “make myself eat 3 meals a day.” It doesn’t work! This is not about control, or being thin, or punishing myself in some maladaptive way. This is about the bad shit I am not prepared to talk about that is constantly reeling through my head on a blue ray disc in 3-D, and the asshole ghost of the past who continues to haunt both my mind and my body. And now I can’t eat anything because the smell and the texture and even visual presentation of pretty much all foods is deplorable.

LINK:   Food glorious food

Careful the things you say

I haven’t been able to write for a few days. I tried but every time I would sit down to write – I became fearful of telling the truth. And pretending and posting some Sally Sunshine bullshit is just not an option for me here, so I just didn’t write at all.

Last week was a bad week. It started on a Sunday night and as the week wore on – my body hurt worse and worse, the nights grew more and more impossible – and there was nothing in my bag of ‘cope’ that was helping. I begged and pleaded and cried until I finally gave up and just crawled into a hole somewhere so deep inside of me, I was lost even to myself.

LINK:  Careful the things you say 

Monday, July 26, 2010

I need hope

I have been disengaged…from my family, my friends, from you, from myself. You have tried to be here for me. My friends IRL have tried to be here for me. At times, they have physically wrapped my body with theirs as a shield of protection from the outside world. But when the war is raging from the inside, their barriers between my body and the outside world offers little protection.

LINK:  I need hope