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
LINK TO READ: HOT SLICE OF CRAZY PIE
Showing posts with label nightmares. Show all posts
Showing posts with label nightmares. Show all posts
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
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
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
Friday, January 22, 2010
I am so tired just trying to 'survive' ~ I don't have the energy to 'live'
When I was a child I just focused on surviving. Now I am sick of working so hard to survive…when do I get to just live? Not ‘relive’ ~ live.
How do you find the balance? How do you let yourself feel and not become overwhelmed? How do you listen to the hurt ones and not blame them, feel too much, and become incapacitated by them?
Both Wednesday and Thursday nights I found myself so overwhelmed with the pain that I was lying on the bathroom floor in a full-fledged panic attack; alternating between shaking uncontrollably and hitting my head on the floor, to pacing the floor considering ways to kill myself. In that moment, anything, including death, is better than living like that night after night. Major crazybrain freak outs both nights!
I feel so far away from myself. Each morning, after a night of dissociative fear and destruction, I try to put myself back together again. But each time I break apart, it gets harder and harder to fit the pieces back together again. Somewhere in the midst of these nightmares I lost my soul. I am not connected to this soulless body ~ it is merely a carrier for my traumatized brain. I feel tangled inside a mind I cannot escape.
Every night so many voices, so much confusion. His face before me, his hands on my body, his breath breathing on my neck. She takes a step back to avoid contact with him. She cries out. He advances toward her. She takes another step back, retreats further into the dark abyss waiting for another to help with the pain. Hopeless. She reaches out faintly while being overtaken by the memories boiling over. Step back! Get back! Step back! Get away! Over and over, night after night. Shame. The unspoken pain and shame. What happens when it truly becomes so overwhelming that it does kill me?
This is not good. Every single night I fight for a reason to live. Every night a coin is tossed ~ one night I'm going to lose the toss. Why does my body continue to scream at me? Why is it so hard? Why is there no end in sight? When will it get better? I am so tired *surviving* ~ I don't have any energy left to *live*!
How do you find the balance? How do you let yourself feel and not become overwhelmed? How do you listen to the hurt ones and not blame them, feel too much, and become incapacitated by them?
Both Wednesday and Thursday nights I found myself so overwhelmed with the pain that I was lying on the bathroom floor in a full-fledged panic attack; alternating between shaking uncontrollably and hitting my head on the floor, to pacing the floor considering ways to kill myself. In that moment, anything, including death, is better than living like that night after night. Major crazybrain freak outs both nights!
I feel so far away from myself. Each morning, after a night of dissociative fear and destruction, I try to put myself back together again. But each time I break apart, it gets harder and harder to fit the pieces back together again. Somewhere in the midst of these nightmares I lost my soul. I am not connected to this soulless body ~ it is merely a carrier for my traumatized brain. I feel tangled inside a mind I cannot escape.
Every night so many voices, so much confusion. His face before me, his hands on my body, his breath breathing on my neck. She takes a step back to avoid contact with him. She cries out. He advances toward her. She takes another step back, retreats further into the dark abyss waiting for another to help with the pain. Hopeless. She reaches out faintly while being overtaken by the memories boiling over. Step back! Get back! Step back! Get away! Over and over, night after night. Shame. The unspoken pain and shame. What happens when it truly becomes so overwhelming that it does kill me?
This is not good. Every single night I fight for a reason to live. Every night a coin is tossed ~ one night I'm going to lose the toss. Why does my body continue to scream at me? Why is it so hard? Why is there no end in sight? When will it get better? I am so tired *surviving* ~ I don't have any energy left to *live*!
Friday, January 8, 2010
“What do you think the cleaning lady was trying to tell you by leaving all the laundry in the middle of the floor, G?”
Well, let me think a minute, hus…Um…maybe that I’m lazy and way behind in household chores? I don’t know! That I’m a fat lazy depressed pig and haven’t done the laundry in a couple of weeks so it wouldn’t all fit in the laundry room? Somethin’ like that, oh great and powerful man of mine? But don’t worry, I’ll start on it as soon as everyone goes to bed tonight. If I can remember what year it is, who I am, and find the laundry, that is...which I doubt!
The cleaning lady came today and she did something different. A couple of things actually. Instead of just collecting the laundry and putting it in the laundry room she piled all the baskets of dirty clothes/sheets/towels in the family room. Maybe since I haven’t done laundry in awhile and there was way more than usual…I don’t know why! She also “staged” some of my son’s stuffed animals in his room (very cute ~ did she used to work for a cruiseline?) And I think she’s using some new cleaning products because my stomach is kinda jacked up from the chemical smell (course it could be me, ms. Ultra-sensitive nose woman).
The hus is in rare form tonight, which is super great, since I slept about 20 minutes last night…plagued by freakin’ nightmares again! And when he gets in these “moods” he thinks everything that comes to his mind is funny and should be shared with me. He also thinks he has a great singing voice, but that’s not really the point I’m trying to make. So after he humorously made the comment about the laundry pile up in the family room, he went on to another topic…and then another…and then another…until he was cracking himself up.
F'N A! I wish every day was Friday!
Pass the pancakes and onions!...
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
She hides on the basement step...she is too scared to talk now
Some nights she hides on the basement stairs. She hides on the basement stairs because this house feels too big, too open, and much too scary. There are too many big rooms, too many windows and doors, the ceiling is too high. She doesn’t like this house. She used to hide in other places but now she hides on the 4th basement step because he won’t find her there. There were no stairs, no basement then. So that’s where she hides now…in the dark, huddled in her blue blanket on the 4th step that leads down into the basement - that’s a place that feels safe for her right now. It’s warm there and it feels small when she hides on the step with her back against one wall and the other wall at her toes. She plays skee ball and UNO on her IPOD there, hiding under her blue blanket, in the dark, on that 4th basement step. Sometimes she listens to the music that the therapist gave her – and she tries to remember that eventually the night will end, and then she will be okay again.
She went to bed scared last night, instead of spending hours hiding in the stairs, she went to bed scared last night. She surrounded herself with pillows and blankets but it didn’t help. She woke up from nightmares huddled in the very top corner of the bed, shaking and scared, hugging her knees tight to her chest. She remembers the nightmares but she won’t talk about them. She’s too scared so she won’t talk now. Last week was too scary and now she won’t talk to the therapist. She won’t and she isn’t allowed. But she is too scared to sleep tonight. She’ll hide instead, on the basement steps, huddled in a blue blanket, shaking and scared.
She went to bed scared last night, instead of spending hours hiding in the stairs, she went to bed scared last night. She surrounded herself with pillows and blankets but it didn’t help. She woke up from nightmares huddled in the very top corner of the bed, shaking and scared, hugging her knees tight to her chest. She remembers the nightmares but she won’t talk about them. She’s too scared so she won’t talk now. Last week was too scary and now she won’t talk to the therapist. She won’t and she isn’t allowed. But she is too scared to sleep tonight. She’ll hide instead, on the basement steps, huddled in a blue blanket, shaking and scared.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
She still can't breathe...she is alive ~ but she is not living....
I had a very expensive 'chat' this afternoon with someone I used to be able to connect with, someone whom I used to trust and depend on to help me during the times I cannot breathe. This afternoon, the therapist and I talked about the hus's Christmas party, my new blackberry, my concern about my daughter refusing to eat her salad on Sunday night, work, volunteer work...nothing I wouldn't talk about to a co-worker, or my friend, the starbucks barista in the morning ~ even she recognizes when I'm tired and asks if I want a tripleshot on those days.
I told the therapist I feel like I'm starting over now, with the "therapeutic relationship". That my perception of her turning from a warm, accepting, caring therapist into a Marsha Pod Person was so extreme that I'm way to freaked to trust her now. I don't think she understands that there is a difference between "thinking" about hurting myself and actually following through with those thoughts ~ she says she does ~ but I'm expressing MY perceptions on the past situations ~ and that's all I have to go on. She says she did not drink the Marsha kool-aid ~ but I have *mindfullness* and *MeaningMaking* and *Distract yourself and have some tea* emails from her that challenge that ~ should she liken to see them....and in fact, I told her today, I would have rather been freakin' hospitalized than endure the TRAUMA of DBT week after week after week - which only made my SI and SUI behavior worse!
My friend Lynn stepped into a therapeutic minefield earlier this week and is now wondering if it's better to just try to fumble through all of it alone, without the help of a 'trusted professional'. Lynn's thoughts on therapy and "help" ~ and I have often thought the same thing. I mean, really, we are alone, aren't we? At least that's how I feel ~ that's just the nature of the life of a trauma survivor (and I use the term survivor loosely). Maybe there really is just "too much" trauma for anyone to help sometimes. Hell ~ the therapist can't even remember to email when she says she will....why the hell should I trust that if I am, in fact, stepping out onto the ledge of no return that she will actually be there? I can't.
For weeks now, I could not feel further apart, emotionally, from the therapist. She could be sitting in a different room all-together ~ for the lack of connection I feel. And it isn't her, it's me. I can't find my way back. I am not suicidal. And it's been a long, long time since I've found myself sitting on the bathroom floor in a pool of blood. But I am not "good"...I am far from good. But I can't talk to the therapist about it any more than I could have talked to the host body then...there's no one left.
It is all inside of me, poisoning me, making me even more hopeless and bitter and angry. And my previous outlet of being able to communicate, safely, to the therapist, is gone. And I feel *hopeless*. I'm alive. I get up every morning, I get my kids dressed, check homework, get them to school, get myself to work, get dinner ready, do the laundry...I am a productive member of society! But I am not breathing. I am alive but I am not living. I am not suicidal but I often think about the ages of my children and count the years until I no longer have an obligation to be here.
I feel alone in this all the time now...hopeless...and it is poisoning me ~ weakening me, killing me slowly. I won't talk to anyone else and I can't figure out a way to let the therapist back in...because now I am afraid of her. I think I am too traumatized to help. Maybe this is as good as it gets....that's really disheartening to accept ~ but I think maybe it's true. Maybe the demons are just too big to fight.
I step on a landmine every single night. Alone...by myself...just like then....there is no help. No reason to reach out because no one is there. Hopeless. I'll never let anyone else in. No way! I think I'm done too, Lynn...I think I'm done too....
Please excuse me while I retire to the bathroom floor and bury my head in the toilet because I feel sick and defeated~ I am alive ~ but I am not living.
I told the therapist I feel like I'm starting over now, with the "therapeutic relationship". That my perception of her turning from a warm, accepting, caring therapist into a Marsha Pod Person was so extreme that I'm way to freaked to trust her now. I don't think she understands that there is a difference between "thinking" about hurting myself and actually following through with those thoughts ~ she says she does ~ but I'm expressing MY perceptions on the past situations ~ and that's all I have to go on. She says she did not drink the Marsha kool-aid ~ but I have *mindfullness* and *MeaningMaking* and *Distract yourself and have some tea* emails from her that challenge that ~ should she liken to see them....and in fact, I told her today, I would have rather been freakin' hospitalized than endure the TRAUMA of DBT week after week after week - which only made my SI and SUI behavior worse!
My friend Lynn stepped into a therapeutic minefield earlier this week and is now wondering if it's better to just try to fumble through all of it alone, without the help of a 'trusted professional'. Lynn's thoughts on therapy and "help" ~ and I have often thought the same thing. I mean, really, we are alone, aren't we? At least that's how I feel ~ that's just the nature of the life of a trauma survivor (and I use the term survivor loosely). Maybe there really is just "too much" trauma for anyone to help sometimes. Hell ~ the therapist can't even remember to email when she says she will....why the hell should I trust that if I am, in fact, stepping out onto the ledge of no return that she will actually be there? I can't.
For weeks now, I could not feel further apart, emotionally, from the therapist. She could be sitting in a different room all-together ~ for the lack of connection I feel. And it isn't her, it's me. I can't find my way back. I am not suicidal. And it's been a long, long time since I've found myself sitting on the bathroom floor in a pool of blood. But I am not "good"...I am far from good. But I can't talk to the therapist about it any more than I could have talked to the host body then...there's no one left.
It is all inside of me, poisoning me, making me even more hopeless and bitter and angry. And my previous outlet of being able to communicate, safely, to the therapist, is gone. And I feel *hopeless*. I'm alive. I get up every morning, I get my kids dressed, check homework, get them to school, get myself to work, get dinner ready, do the laundry...I am a productive member of society! But I am not breathing. I am alive but I am not living. I am not suicidal but I often think about the ages of my children and count the years until I no longer have an obligation to be here.
I feel alone in this all the time now...hopeless...and it is poisoning me ~ weakening me, killing me slowly. I won't talk to anyone else and I can't figure out a way to let the therapist back in...because now I am afraid of her. I think I am too traumatized to help. Maybe this is as good as it gets....that's really disheartening to accept ~ but I think maybe it's true. Maybe the demons are just too big to fight.
I step on a landmine every single night. Alone...by myself...just like then....there is no help. No reason to reach out because no one is there. Hopeless. I'll never let anyone else in. No way! I think I'm done too, Lynn...I think I'm done too....
Please excuse me while I retire to the bathroom floor and bury my head in the toilet because I feel sick and defeated~ I am alive ~ but I am not living.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Nightmares buy one get 3 free last night, or, perhaps on "blue light special"?
Last night I thought I would try to go to bed early to maybe try to get some sleep...I have no idea why I even continue to try to go down that path as it always ends in disaster. But I tried it again! I went to bed around 11:30 and tried to sleep. I was already in that beginning stage of panic ~ the one where your heart is beating fast and loud and it's difficult to breathe...but I was still determined to sleep.
I woke up in a full-blown anxiety attack; shaking, sweaty and cold, unable to breathe...threw up and then stumbled downstairs for water and ativan - didn't help...so I took a shower...didn't help...so I finally gave up, made some hot tea and watched TV until dawn....
The nightmares were chilling and frightening. In the first one, I was with a friend of mine watching fireworks and suddenly there was this creepy man walking down the street (it looked like we were in a subdivision of houses) and this old woman wearing a dingy housecoat that was nearly worn sheer, turned to us and told us that she thought we left the lights on in our car. The man was still walking toward us and we could see headlights behind this big wooden gate - but we couldn't get back there - it was locked. The woman had disappeared and there was no one else to ask for help - so we just kept pulling at the lock trying to get it open. Through the cracks in the gate, we could see the headlights fading as though the battery was dying in the car. I was trying not to panic - knowing if I did - my friend would panic too. So I just kept telling her, "We'll be okay. I promise - we'll be okay..." She started shaking and was crying, and I just kept repeating, "We will be okay...I promise...we'll be okay...."
I don't know if we were 'okay' or not - because I woke up.
I woke up in a full-blown anxiety attack; shaking, sweaty and cold, unable to breathe...threw up and then stumbled downstairs for water and ativan - didn't help...so I took a shower...didn't help...so I finally gave up, made some hot tea and watched TV until dawn....
The nightmares were chilling and frightening. In the first one, I was with a friend of mine watching fireworks and suddenly there was this creepy man walking down the street (it looked like we were in a subdivision of houses) and this old woman wearing a dingy housecoat that was nearly worn sheer, turned to us and told us that she thought we left the lights on in our car. The man was still walking toward us and we could see headlights behind this big wooden gate - but we couldn't get back there - it was locked. The woman had disappeared and there was no one else to ask for help - so we just kept pulling at the lock trying to get it open. Through the cracks in the gate, we could see the headlights fading as though the battery was dying in the car. I was trying not to panic - knowing if I did - my friend would panic too. So I just kept telling her, "We'll be okay. I promise - we'll be okay..." She started shaking and was crying, and I just kept repeating, "We will be okay...I promise...we'll be okay...."
I don't know if we were 'okay' or not - because I woke up.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Fortress around my heart
Each night the little girl builds a fortress of pillows and blankets to protect herself from the irrational fear and the very real nightmares that overtake her in the darkness. She forgot to build that fortress on Sunday night...and left the extra pillows on the floor and the bear she sleeps with downstairs in a chair. The above facts were brought to my attention last night as the hus was heading upstairs to bed. As typical, he exits the man-cave and stands with his hand on the banister and a foot on the first step and announces that he is going to bed (as though I'm unable to see him?). Then he says, as he says every night, "Come hold me?"...knowing that I will say, "Sure, I'll be right up." but 'right' really represents several hours... Last night there was a slight deviation to our nightly verbal exchange as he said, "Last night you didn't build your fortress and I don't know what was going on but I woke up at 2:30am and I had like 6 inches of space in the bed because you were so close to me." Hum...I guess I took the "come hold me" phrase seriously on Sunday night.
I don't know why the deviation from my normal set up...but I do know that there is this desperate little girl inside of me who longs to be held, but other, more 'grown-up' parts inside of me who know we're supposed to be beyond that now and it will never be - nor will they ever allow that to happen.
I also know that a lot of the time it's difficult for the hus to understand where I am and what's going on with me...I can't even begin to explain it to him when I often don't know myself. So I tend to air on the side of "quietness" in my communication with him too. In other words, I don't often take off the mask in front of him, or ask him for help. Part of me feels bad for him ~ I recognize that's it's difficult to have a relationship with someone with my history, and I can be more than a handfull (understatement...understatement...) and it is't easy for anyone to stick with 'us' through the bad times...the really bad times. I get that - and not just with him.
That's why I pull away instead. It's difficult enough for me to deal with all the different and conflicting parts of me - how can I expect anyone else to do it with me? The one who aches for reasurrance and care, the one who sabatages any attempts to act like a sophistated adult with her fears and desperate and confusing needs. The one who aches with the desire to be loved, saved, *fixed* ~ on a neverending search for something to make her feel whole, safe, "unraped". The sophisticated adult~ the professional cold grown woman who hides her insecurity by pretending to be self-confident...some even call her 'stuck-up'. The party girl who can only react to situations with humor and laughter even in the most inappropriate times. The little girl who desperately wants to be held safely by someone who will not hurt her.
How can anyone else get through to all of that? I can't do it and believe me, I've tried.
Today, the sophisticated adult is holding steady at the helm...on 'therapy' day, that typically means she will act as though everything is great with the world, even though inside, everyone else is screaming and suffocating under the weight of the fear...sadnes...anger...shame... hoplessness. And it is virtually impossible to break through that exterior because she holds the key to lock others out...particularly the therapist because she needs no one, and that holds double for someone who told the 5 year old to "deal with it" because she is busy...and "make another choice since it's after 10 and the closed sign is out"...after being there way after 10 for the little girl for 2 years.
And then, late tonight, when the wind howls, and the snow begins to fall, and the coldness seeps inside of this body and weaves it's way up my spine, the desperation will begin, followed by the crying...then the overwhelming fear and hopelessness that will be unrelenting and she will be inconsolable until she cries herself into a restless sleep and wakes up tomorrow with a migraine and swollen red eyes.
You might be thinking, "Grace, if you KNOW that's what's going to happen then can't you stop it? Can't you *make a different choice* and let the therapist try to help you this afternoon?"
I don't know why it all seems so out of my control - I can watch it play out but I cannot intervene or stop it. I wish I could...she won't let me use the key either to unlock the door.
I don't know why the deviation from my normal set up...but I do know that there is this desperate little girl inside of me who longs to be held, but other, more 'grown-up' parts inside of me who know we're supposed to be beyond that now and it will never be - nor will they ever allow that to happen.
I also know that a lot of the time it's difficult for the hus to understand where I am and what's going on with me...I can't even begin to explain it to him when I often don't know myself. So I tend to air on the side of "quietness" in my communication with him too. In other words, I don't often take off the mask in front of him, or ask him for help. Part of me feels bad for him ~ I recognize that's it's difficult to have a relationship with someone with my history, and I can be more than a handfull (understatement...understatement...) and it is't easy for anyone to stick with 'us' through the bad times...the really bad times. I get that - and not just with him.
That's why I pull away instead. It's difficult enough for me to deal with all the different and conflicting parts of me - how can I expect anyone else to do it with me? The one who aches for reasurrance and care, the one who sabatages any attempts to act like a sophistated adult with her fears and desperate and confusing needs. The one who aches with the desire to be loved, saved, *fixed* ~ on a neverending search for something to make her feel whole, safe, "unraped". The sophisticated adult~ the professional cold grown woman who hides her insecurity by pretending to be self-confident...some even call her 'stuck-up'. The party girl who can only react to situations with humor and laughter even in the most inappropriate times. The little girl who desperately wants to be held safely by someone who will not hurt her.
How can anyone else get through to all of that? I can't do it and believe me, I've tried.
Today, the sophisticated adult is holding steady at the helm...on 'therapy' day, that typically means she will act as though everything is great with the world, even though inside, everyone else is screaming and suffocating under the weight of the fear...sadnes...anger...shame... hoplessness. And it is virtually impossible to break through that exterior because she holds the key to lock others out...particularly the therapist because she needs no one, and that holds double for someone who told the 5 year old to "deal with it" because she is busy...and "make another choice since it's after 10 and the closed sign is out"...after being there way after 10 for the little girl for 2 years.
And then, late tonight, when the wind howls, and the snow begins to fall, and the coldness seeps inside of this body and weaves it's way up my spine, the desperation will begin, followed by the crying...then the overwhelming fear and hopelessness that will be unrelenting and she will be inconsolable until she cries herself into a restless sleep and wakes up tomorrow with a migraine and swollen red eyes.
You might be thinking, "Grace, if you KNOW that's what's going to happen then can't you stop it? Can't you *make a different choice* and let the therapist try to help you this afternoon?"
I don't know why it all seems so out of my control - I can watch it play out but I cannot intervene or stop it. I wish I could...she won't let me use the key either to unlock the door.
Monday, August 17, 2009
God bless that child with the dirty face...she leaves the light on...
I walk around in the darkness at night.
I sit in the darkness at night.
I do this so I can stay hidden.
DT asks, "Hidden from what, Grace? Hidden from people outside the house or inside the house?"
Grace whispers, "Both."
Sometimes at night I wake up from a nightmare so sick to my stomach that I have to run to the bathroom to vomit. On my way back to bed, I pass the doorway that leads into the hall. DD's bathroom is at the end of the hallway. There's a plug-in air-freshener with a light right outside her bathroom. The bathroom door is open. I often see someone standing there. Sometimes I run back to bed and hide under the covers, sometimes I walk back and take another look to see if there's really someone there. But I never step out of my room. Fear keeps me from investigating further.
Bad things happen in the dark and yet there is no way to stay hidden in the light.
I'm caught in this paradoxical conundrum of which is less frightening: darkness or light.
DT says I should keep a light on.
I say I can only hide in the darkness.
DT says I don't need to hide now.
I say I do and DT does not know because she is not here with me when it's dark.
Tonight, DT says, "as they say in the Motel 6 commercials, "we'll leave the light on..."...if you get my gist."
Tonight, Grace says, "Motel 6? Gawd...can't I at least stay at the Courtyard or the Hampton? It's not like I'm asking for the Regent Beverly Wilshire on Rodeo Drive...but Motel 6?" I don't think they even paid there light bill this month!
And between you and me (ok, I've already said this to DT) that woman is cheap...
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
After 3 days of extreme turbulence, the captain has now turned off the fasten seatbelt sign...
Dear Therapist:
As I sit tonight trying to prepare for tomorrow’s session, I seriously need to know how to make it stop. See – I’m kind of a black/white girl…an all/nothing girl…a fix it now/or tumble into hell girl…but you already know that. I can change so quickly I don’t know who I am from one minute to the next. And something ridiculously trivial can set me off – and something big may not bother me at all. Yesterday was a horrible day…angry all day long – like the top of my head could blow off “angry” – like the anger that leads to irrational behavior and I can’t be here anymore anger.
And of course I didn’t sleep well. SHOCKER! Last weekend I thought, “perhaps DT may be right and I should keep a dream journal”. So I have been – but I’m not exactly sure what to do with the words on paper that represent my dreams. If that makes any sense at all. This morning, I woke up at 437am from another nightmare. One of those awful nightmares where you wake up and you have no idea if you’re 5 or 35 (ever have those?) and I woke up in physical pain. Like bad physical pain – chest constricted, hips hurt, cramps, and then to make matters worse, I went to the bathroom and there was blood! Yes –bleeding (not horrible – but enough!). WTH is that about? I have a DREAM and I’m bleeding? How the hell does one thing correlate to the other? Obviously it makes no sense! Like anything does these days. And really all my questions, at this point, are rhetorical – and I don’t expect an answer. And you know I can’t talk about sex or bleeding or any of that shit in your office face to face – which makes no sense at all –considering I’ve worked w/you for over 3 years AND you pretty much know more about me than anyone else. (just to let you know I’m trying to keep it PG right now – and have had to back-space out the “F” word several times already!). And I don’t even think I could bring IN the dream stuff and read it, or even have YOU read it, there, in your office. So…again, not sure what to do with it. Save it for later I suppose.
So the nightmare, and the physical consequences of the nightmare, led me to not want to get out of bed, so I didn’t. Which led to not showering (although I did think about that one…but ‘thinking’ was really standing in the middle of the bathroom tossing around the thought of drowning myself in the bathtub – then chucking the idea because someone would find me naked – and that would be embarrassing) which led to not eating or drinking for the day– because I couldn’t…see one thing leads to another.
Yes, I “realize” from a rational perspective (which, BTW, has just come over me within the past 30 minutes) that I am “punishing” myself in a ridiculous way since (rationally) it isn’t my fault. Which is why I wanted to come to your office today – because I guess, somehow, as freaking much as I HATE to even admit it – it still *whisper* feels safe to me. And (again – HATE to say this TOO!!!) when I feel panicked and like I’m going to lose it – dizzy, tunnel vision – about to puke – your voice can sometimes prevent me from toppling over the edge. Yes, I should be able to do that myself, but guess what? Can’t most of the time! And yes, I am scared out of my mind that something terrible, permanent, is going to happen to me while you’re away. There… I said it – it’s out there – and maybe that has played a part in the whole ‘out of control angry girl’…fear (?) But it does still does go on every night for me– whether you’re “here” or “not here”.
I swear this is the first I’ve actually felt in control of myself in like 3 days!!!! It’s like being on a flight and having turbulence for 3 hours, and suddenly, the flight is smooth and the captain turns off the seat belt sign – and you let out your breath and relax, while also staying on guard- because you have no idea how long it will last. (That’s the best way I can describe it).
But seriously, I cannot ‘reason’ with the critical one – she is the internalized voice of my father and she is not to be fucked with – she is to be obeyed. If she isn’t obeyed, believe me, there would be dire consequences. I’m sorry I flipped out about your suggestion, I realize now that you were just trying to help me. But seriously, DT, I don’t care what anyone says, that’s like offering a Spongebob band-aid to someone who’s been shot in the chest at point blank range. I need to know what to do to stop the bleeding - and it can’t be a load of hand-holding, daisy picking, eco-friendly, non-preservative eating BS! And, again, I will not take advice from the flying nun who has NO idea what it is like to be abused and unloved by her PARENTS!
And I’m telling you now, that my father should be thankful he’s dead – and I hope there’s a special place in the pit of hell for satanic, child-abusing, cowards like him! And, as for the host body…she had better be on her knees, praying, that I never release my wrath on her! Because the venom I could spew from my mouth, the unfathomable horrors I would make HER relive!!! She’d better pray I stay 1200 miles away! Or she’ll be sorry! And I don’t give a sh** what *happened* to her in the first 7 years of her life – that does NOT make it okay!!! She was supposed to be my MOTHER and she FAILED miserably at that job! So take the “F” from my forehead and shove it up HER ass! I will NOT forgive them. EVER! I will always HATE them! Forever!!!! I hate them! And someday she’ll be rotting in hell right next to him!
I’m sorry angry girl has chapped your ass this week.
~ Gracie
P.S. I don’t care of you live happily ever after – but please don’t move to the mountains with no cell/internet reception. That wasn’t me who said that.
P.S.S. I can buy my own Spongebob band-aids…that wasn’t me either.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Gracie,
Tomorrow, I will listen and try to understand the pain that you endure each night, if that is what you want to bring to session. I want you to also understand that we need to function as a "team" as you fight through the emotional and physical pain. I cannot do it for you (yes, I know you know this), and I am not "leaving you" for good (be it a vacation or otherwise)....so, I think it only fair that you continue to make every effort to do the same (ie. SI/SIB). We can talk tomorrow about how best to to help "get you through" the next week. I know you are fighting it with all your strength and you are exhausted. I know that you are attending to not only your family responsibilities, but also the many conflicting "parts" inside of you. This is a h*** of a lot of work. I too, need to attend to my family relationships (out of state) and I know that the reasonable part of you understands this. Let’s see if we can create some agreement of safety and maybe self care when we meet tomorrow.
Thank you for also sharing the "rational" appreciative part of you this evening in combination with the other, just as valid feelings and thoughts this evening.
Hang in there dear. See you tomorrow at noon
Dear Therapist
Tomorrow, I will listen and try to understand the pain that you endure each night, if that is what you want to bring to session. I want you to also understand that we need to function as a "team" as you fight through the emotional and physical pain. I cannot do it for you (yes, I know you know this), and I am not "leaving you" for good (be it a vacation or otherwise)....so, I think it only fair that you continue to make every effort to do the same (ie. SI/SIB). We can talk tomorrow about how best to to help "get you through" the next week. I know you are fighting it with all your strength and you are exhausted. I know that you are attending to not only your family responsibilities, but also the many conflicting "parts" inside of you. This is a h*** of a lot of work. I too, need to attend to my family relationships (out of state) and I know that the reasonable part of you understands this. Let’s see if we can create some agreement of safety and maybe self care when we meet tomorrow.
Thank you for also sharing the "rational" appreciative part of you this evening in combination with the other, just as valid feelings and thoughts this evening.
Hang in there dear. See you tomorrow at noon
Dear Therapist
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
I NEED SLEEP!
I can't fall asleep OR stay asleep OR avoid the nightmares.... and I can't knock the angry wench from her post!
This morning I emailed a good friend of mine who works with me:
Grace: "Dear Friend, Please talk me into coming to work today."
Dear Friend: "Grace, what's wrong?"
Grace: "Tired- run down- no sleep- depressed- old...
Shall I continue? :-)"
Dear Friend: "I got the jest of it. I think you should come in because if you are depressed, home is not the place to be. "
Grace reluctantly gets dressed and heads to the office...
1 hour later:
Dear Friend emails: "Grace, are you in the office?"
Grace: "Yes, I'm here"
Feel better? No.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Is your bedroom your sanctuary?
Your bedroom, your bed…your sanctuary! You! You’re an adult now! You’re no longer a child. This is your bed. You’re safe here.
I recently repainted and bought all new bedding for my bedroom. I love it! One wall is a deep chocolate brown and the others are tan. I wanted white bedding with accent pillows in tan, gold, burgundy, brown…. and now I have it. And it is fabulous! The goose down comforter is made of Egyptian cotton and filled with down so thick and yet so light it cradles softly around me when I lie down. I surround myself in down pillows until I feel like I’m cradled in a cocoon. It’s welcoming and alluring and when dear husband lies down in bed, he’s out in 2 minutes, tops! It looks safe and warm…inviting…and yet I still fear sleep. Why? Nightmares plague me more nights than not, making me feel possessed as they pummel me with their fury. Sometimes I wake up from one of these dreams and the bitter rage is so overwhelming I find myself perilously close to vomiting.
The following nightmare woke me at 314am…
I am standing at the top of the stairs- hiding quietly from him. My eyes are closed and my back is pressed against the wall, as if I am trying to become part of the wall. I open my eyes, strangely relaxed and calm, my breathing even. I think to myself, I can't fight him, can't beat him at his games. I just have to survive; just for a while, and then disappear to a place where he can't reach me in any way that matters.
I can hear him- he’s running up the stairs, hands outstretched, but not in welcome. Something in me clicks into place, and I begin to scream. Not the hysterical high-pitched screams of a frightened young woman, but bawling out at the top of my lungs: "I have the right to say no! I have the right not to be touched if I don't want to be!" I jump away from him, run down the stairs and tear through the door.
"I have the right to say no! I have the right not to be touched if I don't want to be!" I keep repeating this over and over as I run, hoping that anyone who hears me will understand that a line has been crossed, and praying that this attempt to threaten me will finally make me safe, vindicated. I enter a church and run down the aisles, past the assembled congregation, who begin to murmur among themselves as they realize what must have happened. I reach the vestibule, where people are slowly filing out from their various activities. I turn around and glance at the door. There are two men in religious dress who have obviously been told not to let me leave. They are smiling and saying goodbye to the other churchgoers as they leave, but as they see me approaching, the senior one turns to his junior and gently shakes his head. They shut the door and brace themselves to block me. Once again, I shout at them: "I have the right not to be touched if I don't want to be!" A look of understanding crosses their faces and they step aside. I understand, these two men will not risk my father's wrath by opening the door for me, but they will disobey him passively and let me get away.
As I reach the street and begin to run into town, I know he is behind me. I can hear his footsteps; feel his angry eyes boring a hole inside of me. I run as fast as I can, repeating my mantra all the while. I zigzag through neighborhood streets, trying to confuse him, trying to think, without slowing down, of how I can lose him.
I spot the town sheriff; he is dressed in the Hollywood stereotypical small-town Midwestern way – a middle aged, white, overweight good old boy with a gun. He hears me yelling and quickly takes in the situation. My father is closing in on me, my legs are tired and my lungs are burning. He is gaining; he can almost touch me now! I think to myself, if he gets his hands on me this time, it will be all over. I have crossed the line, he will kill me.
I am now side-by-side with the sheriff, standing in the road beside his parked squad car, and I scream at him: "Help me!!"
I have stopped running and I stare at the sheriff, waiting to see what he will do. If the sheriff doesn't help me, I’m done for anyway. For a split second, my father stops also. Then he advances toward me, sure that the sheriff will side with him. But the sheriff can see the madness in his eyes and he knows what he has to do.
“Stop right there", he says, and raises his gun. My father continues to move toward me, the hatred in his eyes staring deep inside me. I know if he gets close enough to touch me, he will kill me. I look back and forth between the sheriff and this mad man, wondering if the sheriff will shoot him before he kills me. He is so close to me, I can feel his breath in my face- his hands are reaching out to grab my neck. I realize he is going to kill me and suddenly a strange calmness enters me- I have accepted my fate. If he kills me, I will no longer have to endure him or my mother. I feel relaxed and calm, I’m okay with the fate I have been handed.
A gunshot pulls me back from my thoughts, and when I open my eyes, I see him, lying on the ground, blood surrounding his body. His eyes are still open and they look like they can still see me. I begin to cry and the sheriff moves toward me as if he is going to take me into his arms to comfort me. I pull away-unable to stand the thought of someone that close me. I turn and begin to run, thinking to myself, if he catches me, he will kill me. I can never stop running.
When can I stop running?
I'm so tired...I just want to stop running...
I recently repainted and bought all new bedding for my bedroom. I love it! One wall is a deep chocolate brown and the others are tan. I wanted white bedding with accent pillows in tan, gold, burgundy, brown…. and now I have it. And it is fabulous! The goose down comforter is made of Egyptian cotton and filled with down so thick and yet so light it cradles softly around me when I lie down. I surround myself in down pillows until I feel like I’m cradled in a cocoon. It’s welcoming and alluring and when dear husband lies down in bed, he’s out in 2 minutes, tops! It looks safe and warm…inviting…and yet I still fear sleep. Why? Nightmares plague me more nights than not, making me feel possessed as they pummel me with their fury. Sometimes I wake up from one of these dreams and the bitter rage is so overwhelming I find myself perilously close to vomiting.
The following nightmare woke me at 314am…
I am standing at the top of the stairs- hiding quietly from him. My eyes are closed and my back is pressed against the wall, as if I am trying to become part of the wall. I open my eyes, strangely relaxed and calm, my breathing even. I think to myself, I can't fight him, can't beat him at his games. I just have to survive; just for a while, and then disappear to a place where he can't reach me in any way that matters.
I can hear him- he’s running up the stairs, hands outstretched, but not in welcome. Something in me clicks into place, and I begin to scream. Not the hysterical high-pitched screams of a frightened young woman, but bawling out at the top of my lungs: "I have the right to say no! I have the right not to be touched if I don't want to be!" I jump away from him, run down the stairs and tear through the door.
"I have the right to say no! I have the right not to be touched if I don't want to be!" I keep repeating this over and over as I run, hoping that anyone who hears me will understand that a line has been crossed, and praying that this attempt to threaten me will finally make me safe, vindicated. I enter a church and run down the aisles, past the assembled congregation, who begin to murmur among themselves as they realize what must have happened. I reach the vestibule, where people are slowly filing out from their various activities. I turn around and glance at the door. There are two men in religious dress who have obviously been told not to let me leave. They are smiling and saying goodbye to the other churchgoers as they leave, but as they see me approaching, the senior one turns to his junior and gently shakes his head. They shut the door and brace themselves to block me. Once again, I shout at them: "I have the right not to be touched if I don't want to be!" A look of understanding crosses their faces and they step aside. I understand, these two men will not risk my father's wrath by opening the door for me, but they will disobey him passively and let me get away.
As I reach the street and begin to run into town, I know he is behind me. I can hear his footsteps; feel his angry eyes boring a hole inside of me. I run as fast as I can, repeating my mantra all the while. I zigzag through neighborhood streets, trying to confuse him, trying to think, without slowing down, of how I can lose him.
I spot the town sheriff; he is dressed in the Hollywood stereotypical small-town Midwestern way – a middle aged, white, overweight good old boy with a gun. He hears me yelling and quickly takes in the situation. My father is closing in on me, my legs are tired and my lungs are burning. He is gaining; he can almost touch me now! I think to myself, if he gets his hands on me this time, it will be all over. I have crossed the line, he will kill me.
I am now side-by-side with the sheriff, standing in the road beside his parked squad car, and I scream at him: "Help me!!"
I have stopped running and I stare at the sheriff, waiting to see what he will do. If the sheriff doesn't help me, I’m done for anyway. For a split second, my father stops also. Then he advances toward me, sure that the sheriff will side with him. But the sheriff can see the madness in his eyes and he knows what he has to do.
“Stop right there", he says, and raises his gun. My father continues to move toward me, the hatred in his eyes staring deep inside me. I know if he gets close enough to touch me, he will kill me. I look back and forth between the sheriff and this mad man, wondering if the sheriff will shoot him before he kills me. He is so close to me, I can feel his breath in my face- his hands are reaching out to grab my neck. I realize he is going to kill me and suddenly a strange calmness enters me- I have accepted my fate. If he kills me, I will no longer have to endure him or my mother. I feel relaxed and calm, I’m okay with the fate I have been handed.
A gunshot pulls me back from my thoughts, and when I open my eyes, I see him, lying on the ground, blood surrounding his body. His eyes are still open and they look like they can still see me. I begin to cry and the sheriff moves toward me as if he is going to take me into his arms to comfort me. I pull away-unable to stand the thought of someone that close me. I turn and begin to run, thinking to myself, if he catches me, he will kill me. I can never stop running.
When can I stop running?
I'm so tired...I just want to stop running...
Thursday, May 28, 2009
*SHAKING GRACE* WHAT THE HELL IS YOUR PROBLEM?
Pull up a chair and I'll tell you as best I can. I hope you have some time, though, because the story isn't short and sweet. I have always been a 10 words, or less, kinda gal, but life isn't really about 10 words or less, is it?
The demons inside my head continue to scream for release. Eventually, they will tear me to pieces~ there is nothing I, or anyone else, can do about that. The nightmares are horrendous, the shame unspeakable. My jaw aches, my head hurts, I am constantly screaming and slamming stuff around, cursing myself out...I'm surprised I haven't been carted off to the loony bin.
I'm really not well. The all-consuming parts of me have drown out the logical adult Grace and she is no where to be found. If I could only identify where they reside in my body, I could cut them out. I'm not afraid of the physical pain, physical pain is nothing compared to the pain inside of my head, inside of my mind & body.
Yesterday, I walked out of my T appointment 20 minutes early. I just got up and walked out. I sat in my car and pondered my next move, drove directly to the liquor store and bought a bottle of vodka, but I didn't drink it then. Not in the middle of the day, I went back to work instead...pretended like everything was great. Yes, folks, Grace is back in the building. "Living the Dream" as always.
You may be wondering why I walked out of DT's office 20 minutes early. I walked out because I'm so tired of struggling, in hell, every single night and she isn't here. Now, before you comment or roll your eyes, please understand that 'adult logical' Grace understands this is not a realistic expectation, and in fact, a quite selfish, and childish frame of thought. To put some color around these feelings, these selfish desires, these constant struggles....let me say this. For 2 years, DT sent me daily emails, checked on me when I was in "crisis", she was "THERE". No one had ever done that for me before. Why would they? I didn't matter - I was nothing. But she made me believe that I did matter.
But all that ended when she got a boyfriend and no longer had time to do it. Now, again, from an adult, logical, standpoint, I know this sounds absolutely insane (of course...I think I am insane...so....) but in 'our' minds, when we are in crisis, and feel unable to deal with it without hurting ourselves, or contemplating ending life...DT is suddenly the 'real' mother, the mother who never answered Grace's cries. The mother who was drunk and passed out while HER husband raped Grace night after night after night. The mother who was NEVER there - the mother who showed Grace that she was a bad, terrible little girl who did not deserve care or love. And Grace grew to accept that. OK - just a fact, file it away with every other 'fact'...Grace is 5'3", blond hair, blue eyes...all facts. And the fact is, that every single night, DT becomes that mother. Because he comes back at night, and Grace can feel him, and hear him, and smell him...and she calls out for DT and DT isn't there...so Grace pictures DT passed out drunk, not caring what happens to this frightened little girl. Why doesn't she care? Because Grace doesn't matter.
And this constant daily struggle has exhausted me! And I can't do it anymore! DT won't be there, she now has a life, she isn't available. And logically that makes sense, but from a child's perspective, it makes no sense at all. And this plays out every single night. I am so tired, I am so weary...and it just feels like she doesn't care. And I can't fight all of the little girls.
So, if I'm going to do it alone, I have to try to do it alone. If I make it, I make it - if I don't...then it will be no one's fault but mine. I'm done wasting DT's time. I'm finished with the constant struggle between her and I. I could see how tired she was yesterday...how weary from fighting with me, and I felt really bad. And the only thing I can do for her is to walk away. She has tried to help me, but I am a stubborn, bad, selfish little girl, and she can't help me. And she's really a good person, so it isn't fair for me to keep telling her that I hate her because she isn't there for me.
I have rope burns on my hands from trying to hang on. I don't know to stop it, I don't know how to live with it and I am WAY too tired to fight it right now....
So I will be *alone*. It's the only way I won't hurt anyone else. DT doesn't deserve my hate, she really is a good person. I am bad, I deserve the hate and the pain. Not her. Me.
The demons inside my head continue to scream for release. Eventually, they will tear me to pieces~ there is nothing I, or anyone else, can do about that. The nightmares are horrendous, the shame unspeakable. My jaw aches, my head hurts, I am constantly screaming and slamming stuff around, cursing myself out...I'm surprised I haven't been carted off to the loony bin.
I'm really not well. The all-consuming parts of me have drown out the logical adult Grace and she is no where to be found. If I could only identify where they reside in my body, I could cut them out. I'm not afraid of the physical pain, physical pain is nothing compared to the pain inside of my head, inside of my mind & body.
Yesterday, I walked out of my T appointment 20 minutes early. I just got up and walked out. I sat in my car and pondered my next move, drove directly to the liquor store and bought a bottle of vodka, but I didn't drink it then. Not in the middle of the day, I went back to work instead...pretended like everything was great. Yes, folks, Grace is back in the building. "Living the Dream" as always.
You may be wondering why I walked out of DT's office 20 minutes early. I walked out because I'm so tired of struggling, in hell, every single night and she isn't here. Now, before you comment or roll your eyes, please understand that 'adult logical' Grace understands this is not a realistic expectation, and in fact, a quite selfish, and childish frame of thought. To put some color around these feelings, these selfish desires, these constant struggles....let me say this. For 2 years, DT sent me daily emails, checked on me when I was in "crisis", she was "THERE". No one had ever done that for me before. Why would they? I didn't matter - I was nothing. But she made me believe that I did matter.
But all that ended when she got a boyfriend and no longer had time to do it. Now, again, from an adult, logical, standpoint, I know this sounds absolutely insane (of course...I think I am insane...so....) but in 'our' minds, when we are in crisis, and feel unable to deal with it without hurting ourselves, or contemplating ending life...DT is suddenly the 'real' mother, the mother who never answered Grace's cries. The mother who was drunk and passed out while HER husband raped Grace night after night after night. The mother who was NEVER there - the mother who showed Grace that she was a bad, terrible little girl who did not deserve care or love. And Grace grew to accept that. OK - just a fact, file it away with every other 'fact'...Grace is 5'3", blond hair, blue eyes...all facts. And the fact is, that every single night, DT becomes that mother. Because he comes back at night, and Grace can feel him, and hear him, and smell him...and she calls out for DT and DT isn't there...so Grace pictures DT passed out drunk, not caring what happens to this frightened little girl. Why doesn't she care? Because Grace doesn't matter.
And this constant daily struggle has exhausted me! And I can't do it anymore! DT won't be there, she now has a life, she isn't available. And logically that makes sense, but from a child's perspective, it makes no sense at all. And this plays out every single night. I am so tired, I am so weary...and it just feels like she doesn't care. And I can't fight all of the little girls.
So, if I'm going to do it alone, I have to try to do it alone. If I make it, I make it - if I don't...then it will be no one's fault but mine. I'm done wasting DT's time. I'm finished with the constant struggle between her and I. I could see how tired she was yesterday...how weary from fighting with me, and I felt really bad. And the only thing I can do for her is to walk away. She has tried to help me, but I am a stubborn, bad, selfish little girl, and she can't help me. And she's really a good person, so it isn't fair for me to keep telling her that I hate her because she isn't there for me.
I have rope burns on my hands from trying to hang on. I don't know to stop it, I don't know how to live with it and I am WAY too tired to fight it right now....
So I will be *alone*. It's the only way I won't hurt anyone else. DT doesn't deserve my hate, she really is a good person. I am bad, I deserve the hate and the pain. Not her. Me.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
In my dream, I called her, but she didn't answer
NIGHTMARE LAST NIGHT!
I arrived to dear therapist’s office early so I decided to walk around outside.
The weather was warm and the sun was shining, warming my skin as I walked. I was heading West~staring at the snow capped mountains. I was walking down a dirt path and I suddenly found myself tangled in a bush. I was trying to untangle myself; my clothes and purse were caught in the thorns…my shirt was ripping with each tug, and my skin was bleeding. I looked up -there was a man and a woman- they were dirty- maybe 40 years old. She had on an old dress- it looked like it used to be white but it was so filthy it was difficult to tell for sure. She wore an apron, tied at the waist – her hands were sitting squarely on her hips. She glared at me but did not speak. The man had on a pair of grubby ripped up jeans, a white t-shirt. He was average height with long red hair full of tangles. He began to follow me. As I broke free from the bush he began to follow me – I was walking East now, toward her office. I quickened my pace, but He was right behind me, he was talking to me- making sexual gestures, trying to touch me. Digging in my purse without I managed to find my phone. I called dear therapist’s phone- she didn't answer. I woke up at 425 am this morning, I had my hand to my cheek as though I really did call her.
He was going to hurt me.
I was scared.
I needed her.
But she didn't answer.
She didn't care~she doesn't care...
I arrived to dear therapist’s office early so I decided to walk around outside.
The weather was warm and the sun was shining, warming my skin as I walked. I was heading West~staring at the snow capped mountains. I was walking down a dirt path and I suddenly found myself tangled in a bush. I was trying to untangle myself; my clothes and purse were caught in the thorns…my shirt was ripping with each tug, and my skin was bleeding. I looked up -there was a man and a woman- they were dirty- maybe 40 years old. She had on an old dress- it looked like it used to be white but it was so filthy it was difficult to tell for sure. She wore an apron, tied at the waist – her hands were sitting squarely on her hips. She glared at me but did not speak. The man had on a pair of grubby ripped up jeans, a white t-shirt. He was average height with long red hair full of tangles. He began to follow me. As I broke free from the bush he began to follow me – I was walking East now, toward her office. I quickened my pace, but He was right behind me, he was talking to me- making sexual gestures, trying to touch me. Digging in my purse without I managed to find my phone. I called dear therapist’s phone- she didn't answer. I woke up at 425 am this morning, I had my hand to my cheek as though I really did call her.
He was going to hurt me.
I was scared.
I needed her.
But she didn't answer.
She didn't care~she doesn't care...
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