Paranoia is a right bitch. It doesn't matter how successful or awesome I am, there is a constant stream of uncertain thoughts in my mind causing me to fear I'm on the verge of losing my relationships or my job.
My job gives me many opportunities to travel; when I'm away from home, I'm plagued by fears and uncertainties. Am I forcing my partner to shoulder too many responsibilities? Does he hate me for jetting all over the country and leaving him home with the child? Will he cheat on me because I've abandoned him for days on end, alone and sexually unfulfilled? Is this fair to him, to my daughter?
He admits that it's hard, but concedes that we are in an adjustment phase. This is all new to both of us, especially where he's the one at home keeping the hearth warm and bellies full. I do all I can before I leave for travels, I prep food and pack the freezer full of ready to cook meals that are from scratch and wholesome. I make sure all laundry is washed, dried, and mostly put away. I clean the house top to bottom so it's one less thing he has to deal with outside of daily sweeping and such. It never feels like it's enough though. I worry endlessly that I'm abandoning the ones I love for a job that I love almost as much as them. I feel overwhelmed by guilt and shame that I'm a woman leaving the home to contribute to her family, yet in so many ways I'm causing more stress and strain on our unit.
Finding a balance between the home life and work away from home life has been draining and taxes me mentally and spiritually. I *think* I'm doing the right thing and I think I'm doing it as well as can be expected, but I often sit there alone in my hotel room and wring my internal hands and worry about how unfair I'm being to them all. I miss them and missing them makes me work up imaginary tales in my mind of death, dismemberment, and pain. I can't stop it entirely and I fe
When I'm not traveling for work, I'm based out of my spare bedroom/home office in the basement. Between emails, spreadsheets, and phone calls I wash laundry or vacuum the house. In those brief breaks between work-related tasks I am overcome with fear that I'll lose my job. I'm terrified I've somehow pissed off my coworkers and they secretly hate me and think I'm lazy and shamming when I'm out of the office.
Thursday, March 9, 2017
Saturday, July 30, 2016
Agoraphobia
When someone says they suffer from agoraphobia, most images that come to mind is the pasty fleshed hairless man or overweight woman lurking in the depths of a parental basement. In reality, most agoraphobic individuals are fairly active and enjoy time in specific "safe" zones outside of their homes.
For me, my car is a safe zone. If I'm in my car, I generally feel in control and can go most places with no issues as long as I'm driving. If I am not driving, I turn into a nervous wreck, grasping at handles, bracing on the dash, and snapping out orders to whoever was stupid enough to get behind the wheel when I'm a passenger.
Of course my home is an obvious safe place for me. It's my home! If I weren't comfortable there I think there'd be some issues. I will admit that when I've lost control over the condition of my home, or have been away for a period of time due to work travels, a bit of that comfort level is diminished until I can regain the upper hand on the state of my house.
The workplace is a mixed bag. There are elements of my job that are unpleasant, specifically certain coworkers who are infrequent visitors to my office. If I am with certain coworkers or flying solo in the office, my productivity levels are at a premium and I'm very relaxed and confident. However, once those uncertain entities enter my work sphere, I am on edge, production levels reduce, and I have to take frequent breaks to recenter myself through breathing exercises and mental reassurance.
Nature is another mixed bag. As long as I'm relatively familiar with my surroundings or I have a companion (furry or otherwise) I generally feel confident in exploring new places or opportunities. Unfortunately for me, I am often 100% solo on my excursions and am finding that while I enjoy hiking overall, I do not particularly enjoy hiking alone. My anxiety is heightened because I'm constantly scanning for perceived threats and dangers to me. Being a female gives me certain disadvantages in that I can become a victim, especially in isolated forests or trails.
For me, control over my surroundings and situation is key to controlling my agoraphobia.
For me, my car is a safe zone. If I'm in my car, I generally feel in control and can go most places with no issues as long as I'm driving. If I am not driving, I turn into a nervous wreck, grasping at handles, bracing on the dash, and snapping out orders to whoever was stupid enough to get behind the wheel when I'm a passenger.
Of course my home is an obvious safe place for me. It's my home! If I weren't comfortable there I think there'd be some issues. I will admit that when I've lost control over the condition of my home, or have been away for a period of time due to work travels, a bit of that comfort level is diminished until I can regain the upper hand on the state of my house.
The workplace is a mixed bag. There are elements of my job that are unpleasant, specifically certain coworkers who are infrequent visitors to my office. If I am with certain coworkers or flying solo in the office, my productivity levels are at a premium and I'm very relaxed and confident. However, once those uncertain entities enter my work sphere, I am on edge, production levels reduce, and I have to take frequent breaks to recenter myself through breathing exercises and mental reassurance.
Nature is another mixed bag. As long as I'm relatively familiar with my surroundings or I have a companion (furry or otherwise) I generally feel confident in exploring new places or opportunities. Unfortunately for me, I am often 100% solo on my excursions and am finding that while I enjoy hiking overall, I do not particularly enjoy hiking alone. My anxiety is heightened because I'm constantly scanning for perceived threats and dangers to me. Being a female gives me certain disadvantages in that I can become a victim, especially in isolated forests or trails.
For me, control over my surroundings and situation is key to controlling my agoraphobia.
Sunday, April 17, 2016
Religious Upbringing 1
Up to my mother's death, my family was not particularly religious. I vaguely recall attending a synagogue/temple a few times and observing some Jewish holidays but mostly we just spent our time together as a dysfunctional family and lived what I was told was a sinful life.
After my mom died, my father was "saved" and began to call himself a "born again Jew." We began to attend a small baptist church and I have nothing but fond memories of the community. It was such a great congregation with an amazingly caring pastor who was so genuine. His wife and many of the other women in the church became surrogate mothers to my sister and me and their children became extensions of my family. It was great...but I never felt right.
Almost everyone is familiar with the song Jesus Loves Me, but at the age of seven I just couldn't bring myself to sing the words. I loved singing and I sang all the other songs, was part of the church choir, but when it came to standing in front of the church and singing That Song, I'd just mouth the words and remain silent. I couldn't believe that Jesus loved me, I just couldn't. How could he love me when my mother was dead? But I went through the motions, prayed for salvation, was baptized, and tried so hard to believe. I'm not sure if it was the desire to please my father, my church family, or just a desperate attempt to find some solace in faith, but I tried for years. Of course the kindness and nurturing I received in that church made it easier to believe in the kindness and love of Christ, but it never felt right.
Then one day we stopped attending the church. I don't know why, but we just stopped going and lost contact with most of the friends we'd made. I recall my father "church shopping" somewhat, but it's vague and confusing. I remember going to a hotel room for a service, but it was so odd and bizarre with people yelling and falling on the floor. There was a lot of shouting. We went to see many big name preachers like R.W. Shambach (who was known to me as the Screaming Preacher) at convention centers and it was just so odd to see faith healing in person.
Around the time my dad met my step mother he began attending a non-denominational church. I'm not sure if she introduced him to the church or if it was a step he took on his own, but we went from a traditional baptist service of Sunday school, hymns, and children's church to one of praise and worship, a short service for the family, and then children's church/youth group. I was 11 at the time and sort of bordered on the line of children's/youth group, and when we first attended the church I went with my sister to children's church a few times before my father forced me to begin youth group.
My youth services moved away from a fun environment with crafts and songs to one of a more mature pursuit of a walk with the lord. It was such a drastic change from what I'd grown up with to that point. I was told that my view of christianity was wrong, they called it "merit badge christianity" given the once saved, always saved view of the baptist church doctrine. Suddenly I was faced with the potential of sin and how it could utterly destroy me. Asking for forgiveness before bedtime in my evening prayer was no longer sufficient, I must constantly beg for forgiveness and realize my sinful nature that must be purged. I was a creature of sin, unclean, tainted, and the only way to achieve salvation was to seek a life of submission to the lord and a hand in hand walk with him.
It was confusing to say the least.
After my mom died, my father was "saved" and began to call himself a "born again Jew." We began to attend a small baptist church and I have nothing but fond memories of the community. It was such a great congregation with an amazingly caring pastor who was so genuine. His wife and many of the other women in the church became surrogate mothers to my sister and me and their children became extensions of my family. It was great...but I never felt right.
Almost everyone is familiar with the song Jesus Loves Me, but at the age of seven I just couldn't bring myself to sing the words. I loved singing and I sang all the other songs, was part of the church choir, but when it came to standing in front of the church and singing That Song, I'd just mouth the words and remain silent. I couldn't believe that Jesus loved me, I just couldn't. How could he love me when my mother was dead? But I went through the motions, prayed for salvation, was baptized, and tried so hard to believe. I'm not sure if it was the desire to please my father, my church family, or just a desperate attempt to find some solace in faith, but I tried for years. Of course the kindness and nurturing I received in that church made it easier to believe in the kindness and love of Christ, but it never felt right.
Then one day we stopped attending the church. I don't know why, but we just stopped going and lost contact with most of the friends we'd made. I recall my father "church shopping" somewhat, but it's vague and confusing. I remember going to a hotel room for a service, but it was so odd and bizarre with people yelling and falling on the floor. There was a lot of shouting. We went to see many big name preachers like R.W. Shambach (who was known to me as the Screaming Preacher) at convention centers and it was just so odd to see faith healing in person.
Around the time my dad met my step mother he began attending a non-denominational church. I'm not sure if she introduced him to the church or if it was a step he took on his own, but we went from a traditional baptist service of Sunday school, hymns, and children's church to one of praise and worship, a short service for the family, and then children's church/youth group. I was 11 at the time and sort of bordered on the line of children's/youth group, and when we first attended the church I went with my sister to children's church a few times before my father forced me to begin youth group.
My youth services moved away from a fun environment with crafts and songs to one of a more mature pursuit of a walk with the lord. It was such a drastic change from what I'd grown up with to that point. I was told that my view of christianity was wrong, they called it "merit badge christianity" given the once saved, always saved view of the baptist church doctrine. Suddenly I was faced with the potential of sin and how it could utterly destroy me. Asking for forgiveness before bedtime in my evening prayer was no longer sufficient, I must constantly beg for forgiveness and realize my sinful nature that must be purged. I was a creature of sin, unclean, tainted, and the only way to achieve salvation was to seek a life of submission to the lord and a hand in hand walk with him.
It was confusing to say the least.
Monday, November 9, 2015
In Memorium
Thirty years ago I came home from Pizza Hut, ran into the house to show my mother my Book It! pin, and saw her purple dress hanging on the chair in the dining room. I stood by my dad as he read a note on the table and my sister went looking for our mom. I don't remember why I went into the garage, but it was the place she was last when we left, doing another load of endless laundry. I remember walking through the kitchen, into the garage, and turning right to see my sister standing in the middle of the garage looking up at something hanging from the rafters. She was just standing there and I walked to join her to gaze upon what was so fascinating.
Sometimes I can remember what my mother looked like hanging from Laddie's leash attached to the rafter. She'd looped the hook part through the hand hold but, I can't recall how she hooked it around the rafter before she put her head through it and stepped off my father's workbench. Sometimes I see her tongue, swollen out of her mouth, very rarely I see her face.
Most of the time I just have a vague recollection of feet suspended in the air.
My memories of my mother's suicide are disjointed, blocked by my mind in order to protect myself. I genuinely wish I could recall all of the details so that the day could retain clarity in my mind, but instead I have sudden recollections and then they're gone again. I do remember sitting on my neighbor's porch swing, an elderly couple with white hair, the lady's arm around me, rocking the swing back and forth.
I remember my dad holding my mother in the air shouting "no, Kim NO!" and then she was down on the ground.
I recall paramedics, a neck brace, the thought that they were going to fix her and make everything better again. It would be okay.
The Last Unicorn
The Secret of Nimh
Janice Sowers house, the ever present piles of laundry on every surface, my father and sister gone to my mother's funeral which I refused to attend. Space Mouse, a little toy I saw at Publix that Janice bought me while I was in her care. I called him Space Mouse because the little felt piece of cheese he held reminded me of a floppy disk I'd once seen and since he was holding a floppy disk, he must be from outer space.
A snatch of Thanksgiving dinner at the mother of family friend's house, Jaws on the TV.
Scared.
Nothing.
I remember nothing of that time following my mother's death until one day, still not back to school, I'm sitting on my bed decked out in Strawberry Shortcake's finest just staring out the window at the tree swing. My father comes in and sits next to me on the bed, I lean into him as his weight shifts me closer. He puts his arm around me and we sit like that as I stare at my swing swaying in the breeze.
"You can cry."
I cried.
I cried for the first time since my mother died. Big great gulping sobs of loss and sorrow, fear and bewilderment. I was so scared. So alone. We had been so close, a little carbon copy of the woman whose feet were dangling forever in the garage, in my mind.
Thirty years.
I've been a mother longer than my mother mothered me. I consider that a success in my warped way of thinking. All my life I've set mental goals: make it to the age my mother was when she killed herself and I'll be okay. Then it was make it to Scott's sixth Thanksgiving and I'll be okay, Mimi's sixth Thanksgiving.
The kids are 10 and 8 respectively and I'm still not okay. I'll forever be haunted by the loss of my mother, by my own mental demons. Passed on by her? Fostered by her actions? Aided by my abusive childhood? I'll never know.
I got my first tattoo when I was 18. My father told me to get straight As in my senior year and he'd take me to get my first tattoo. I did it and I got my tattoo, an iris in the small of my back, now known as a tramp stamp, but then...not many people got tattoos and it wasn't a common placement. My dad encouraged the spot as it would not be seen by others and I could have a professional career while hiding my ink.
An iris, so special to me....my middle name. It means Rainbow. My first name means Counselor. I'm a counselor to or of rainbows and it's served me well and true.
Tattoos were secretive to me, something to hide and only show to those you trusted. A hidden oddness about yourself, something that reflected your individuality to the select, chosen few. Up until recently, all of my tattoos are easily hidden by shirts and slacks, I'll have no problem finding secure employment with my tattoos.
On my 36th birthday I got my first visible tattoo, a semi colon on my wrist. I've been committed twice in my life and have battled with depression and other mental health issues since my early 20s, earlier than that honestly, but my early 20s was when I decided to take on my demons and seek help. While the semi colon tattoo has quickly become trendy and almost trite, to me it's an outwardly visible sign of my struggle and when I'm having a rough mental health day I frequently find myself stroking it with my right thumb. It's become a soother, a worry stone almost in this short time it's been marked on my skin.
Tattoos are meaningful for me. Save for the semi colon tattoo, all of my ink has taken years of consideration and thought. Over ten years ago I began planning a memorial tattoo for my mother, but I could never cement anything that made me feel that click inside. I'd always wanted something from The Last Unicorn or The Secret of Nimh since those two movies were on more or less constant replay while my dad and sister traveled to my mother's funeral. But nothing from them felt right.
In 2006 I started to learn how to apply henna to skin. I found the process soothing, calming, and centering even in the midst of a miserable marriage. My favorite symbol to draw was the lotus and I never truly understood why. As years passed I read up on the lotus and its meaning in various religions and everything about it resonated with me.
As I approach the thirtieth anniversary of my mother's suicide I cannot say that I am healed. I can say that I forgive, that I understand, and that I have learned lessons that have developed me in strength and character. It's a blemish on my life, but from the muck and dirt I was born into and raised, I have risen from those roots like the lotus flower and bloom, renewed with every day. Though I may close up with each sunset, as the night passes and dawn breaks I will push forth and open my petals to embrace the sun with open arms. I am the embodiment of the lotus and my beauty and spirit shines from the waters of life in which I reside.
My memorial tattoo is visible. I am marked by the tragedy of my mother's feet dangling in the air. I am marked forever by the scars on my arms and thighs, the scars on my heart. I chose the placement of this tattoo because it is one of the more painful areas to have ink applied. The pain I felt during the process was minimal, in fact it was one of the least painful tattoos I've gotten on my body. Most of the time I was being inked I had a smile of serene joy on my face because it was another step towards healing as I channeled the pain of that tattoo into releasing the pain I was holding onto from my past. To be honest, that superficial hurt couldn't hold a candle to the emotional pain of my mother's death, the physical pain of my father's abuse, or the mental pain my ex husband inflicted upon me so maybe that's why it wasn't so bad. I walked out of the studio with a sense of purity, and a beautiful lotus etched into my flesh through pain just as my sense of self was forged out of this life of pain.
I am a creature of steel and grace, beautiful yet delicately frail. Strong and permanent. This tattoo symbolizes all that I have faced and all I have become. I will proudly bear this mark on my flesh until the day I die. I will tell all who ask that it is in memory of my mother who lost the battles I fight daily. It is a mark of my strength, my dignity, and my perseverance of spirit.
It is my light, shining forth from my breast for the world to see.
Sometimes I can remember what my mother looked like hanging from Laddie's leash attached to the rafter. She'd looped the hook part through the hand hold but, I can't recall how she hooked it around the rafter before she put her head through it and stepped off my father's workbench. Sometimes I see her tongue, swollen out of her mouth, very rarely I see her face.
Most of the time I just have a vague recollection of feet suspended in the air.
My memories of my mother's suicide are disjointed, blocked by my mind in order to protect myself. I genuinely wish I could recall all of the details so that the day could retain clarity in my mind, but instead I have sudden recollections and then they're gone again. I do remember sitting on my neighbor's porch swing, an elderly couple with white hair, the lady's arm around me, rocking the swing back and forth.
I remember my dad holding my mother in the air shouting "no, Kim NO!" and then she was down on the ground.
I recall paramedics, a neck brace, the thought that they were going to fix her and make everything better again. It would be okay.
The Last Unicorn
The Secret of Nimh
Janice Sowers house, the ever present piles of laundry on every surface, my father and sister gone to my mother's funeral which I refused to attend. Space Mouse, a little toy I saw at Publix that Janice bought me while I was in her care. I called him Space Mouse because the little felt piece of cheese he held reminded me of a floppy disk I'd once seen and since he was holding a floppy disk, he must be from outer space.
A snatch of Thanksgiving dinner at the mother of family friend's house, Jaws on the TV.
Scared.
Nothing.
I remember nothing of that time following my mother's death until one day, still not back to school, I'm sitting on my bed decked out in Strawberry Shortcake's finest just staring out the window at the tree swing. My father comes in and sits next to me on the bed, I lean into him as his weight shifts me closer. He puts his arm around me and we sit like that as I stare at my swing swaying in the breeze.
"You can cry."
I cried.
I cried for the first time since my mother died. Big great gulping sobs of loss and sorrow, fear and bewilderment. I was so scared. So alone. We had been so close, a little carbon copy of the woman whose feet were dangling forever in the garage, in my mind.
Thirty years.
I've been a mother longer than my mother mothered me. I consider that a success in my warped way of thinking. All my life I've set mental goals: make it to the age my mother was when she killed herself and I'll be okay. Then it was make it to Scott's sixth Thanksgiving and I'll be okay, Mimi's sixth Thanksgiving.
The kids are 10 and 8 respectively and I'm still not okay. I'll forever be haunted by the loss of my mother, by my own mental demons. Passed on by her? Fostered by her actions? Aided by my abusive childhood? I'll never know.
I got my first tattoo when I was 18. My father told me to get straight As in my senior year and he'd take me to get my first tattoo. I did it and I got my tattoo, an iris in the small of my back, now known as a tramp stamp, but then...not many people got tattoos and it wasn't a common placement. My dad encouraged the spot as it would not be seen by others and I could have a professional career while hiding my ink.
An iris, so special to me....my middle name. It means Rainbow. My first name means Counselor. I'm a counselor to or of rainbows and it's served me well and true.
Tattoos were secretive to me, something to hide and only show to those you trusted. A hidden oddness about yourself, something that reflected your individuality to the select, chosen few. Up until recently, all of my tattoos are easily hidden by shirts and slacks, I'll have no problem finding secure employment with my tattoos.
On my 36th birthday I got my first visible tattoo, a semi colon on my wrist. I've been committed twice in my life and have battled with depression and other mental health issues since my early 20s, earlier than that honestly, but my early 20s was when I decided to take on my demons and seek help. While the semi colon tattoo has quickly become trendy and almost trite, to me it's an outwardly visible sign of my struggle and when I'm having a rough mental health day I frequently find myself stroking it with my right thumb. It's become a soother, a worry stone almost in this short time it's been marked on my skin.
Tattoos are meaningful for me. Save for the semi colon tattoo, all of my ink has taken years of consideration and thought. Over ten years ago I began planning a memorial tattoo for my mother, but I could never cement anything that made me feel that click inside. I'd always wanted something from The Last Unicorn or The Secret of Nimh since those two movies were on more or less constant replay while my dad and sister traveled to my mother's funeral. But nothing from them felt right.
In 2006 I started to learn how to apply henna to skin. I found the process soothing, calming, and centering even in the midst of a miserable marriage. My favorite symbol to draw was the lotus and I never truly understood why. As years passed I read up on the lotus and its meaning in various religions and everything about it resonated with me.
As I approach the thirtieth anniversary of my mother's suicide I cannot say that I am healed. I can say that I forgive, that I understand, and that I have learned lessons that have developed me in strength and character. It's a blemish on my life, but from the muck and dirt I was born into and raised, I have risen from those roots like the lotus flower and bloom, renewed with every day. Though I may close up with each sunset, as the night passes and dawn breaks I will push forth and open my petals to embrace the sun with open arms. I am the embodiment of the lotus and my beauty and spirit shines from the waters of life in which I reside.
My memorial tattoo is visible. I am marked by the tragedy of my mother's feet dangling in the air. I am marked forever by the scars on my arms and thighs, the scars on my heart. I chose the placement of this tattoo because it is one of the more painful areas to have ink applied. The pain I felt during the process was minimal, in fact it was one of the least painful tattoos I've gotten on my body. Most of the time I was being inked I had a smile of serene joy on my face because it was another step towards healing as I channeled the pain of that tattoo into releasing the pain I was holding onto from my past. To be honest, that superficial hurt couldn't hold a candle to the emotional pain of my mother's death, the physical pain of my father's abuse, or the mental pain my ex husband inflicted upon me so maybe that's why it wasn't so bad. I walked out of the studio with a sense of purity, and a beautiful lotus etched into my flesh through pain just as my sense of self was forged out of this life of pain.
I am a creature of steel and grace, beautiful yet delicately frail. Strong and permanent. This tattoo symbolizes all that I have faced and all I have become. I will proudly bear this mark on my flesh until the day I die. I will tell all who ask that it is in memory of my mother who lost the battles I fight daily. It is a mark of my strength, my dignity, and my perseverance of spirit.
It is my light, shining forth from my breast for the world to see.
Med Free Again
I so rarely update this blog, but that's part of why I started it. I didn't want this to become a venting space to spew all the horrid bullshit in my brain, but one that I update periodically when I feel a compulsion to share my journey and experiences.
The last entry I'd posted was about going back on ant-psychotic medications, Saphris to be specific, but it didn't last long. I tried so hard to make it work, but the side effects never went away and it began to affect my life drastically. I'll leave it at that, no need to go into the actual details such as how I became a slack-jawed drooling moron.
Life is pretty positive right now, which is surprising for me. I ended up dropping all medications almost two years ago, mostly because I just couldn't afford it. Weaning off the Lamictal was HARD, I cannot put it into words how hard it was to wean off of it after years of use. I did it. I didn't kill anyone and no one killed me, but if one of those things had happened, well it wouldn't have been much of a surprise. That's how hard it was.
I did not like myself when I was weaning off.
It took about three months to stabilize myself and I cannot begin to voice the gratitude I feel for my man because while he was mostly supportive, it was a frustrating period of time for him while I processed and adjusted. I did break down and revisit my p-doc shortly after I'd fully weaned off and got a refill, but when I took the meds I began to get blinding headaches that would put me in bed for days. The pain was unbearable and indescribable, like a kaleidoscope of technicolor agony needling into my brain, eyes, and teeth. Even my teeth hurt, they felt like they were trying to explode out of my head and I was absolutely certain they were rotting and about to fall out.
Thankfully my teeth are still intact and I dropped the meds after a week-long migraine binge. It was horrible.
I cannot say that I'm 100% in fact I'd honestly say that most days I'm probably running at about 60% mental function, but I'm not suicidal most of the time and I've found a new balance. Educating myself has been the most important part of dealing with my mental health issues. I have voraciously devoured every study, every article, and every speck of information I come across that relates to Borderline Personality Disorder. As I've learned about the disorder, I've learned that I can recognize my disordered thinking as it happens and begin to pull myself off the path of going full blown crazy pants.
One of my biggest struggles I battle with is splitting. With BPD, I see things in terms of black and white. The end. I can see the grey, but the grey rarely makes sense to me and while I can see how others can accept or embrace grey terms, for me, absolutely not, no way, not acceptable ever. Writing this out can make me seem so balanced and such, but it isn't that simple. For me it adds an element of stress to every relationship I'm in because if a person in my life makes a grey or black decision I instantly file them into the "black" category. They are a bad person and not worthy of my love or affection.
I don't do this with just the big things, I do it with little things too. In my home life, a clean home is a manifestation of my mind. If my house is chaotic, my mind is chaotic. I've explained this many times to those who live with me, so when they leave socks laying around or live like pigs I take this as a direct insult to me and the things that are vital to my happiness. They instantly go into the "black" category.
Because I force myself to have a heightened awareness of my disordered thinking I am now, for the most part, capable of separating myself from the rage and frustration I feel when the house is in disarray. Instead of screaming and freaking out, I remove myself from the affected room (or rooms, or house at times), count to 5 million if that's what it takes, and realize that it isn't intentional and I am beginning to split. The children and man in my life are not deliberately trying to make me crazy by being messy, they're just messy and I have to remind them to please help so that I can be stable and happy in our home.
That one is probably the one I struggle with the most and I often fail. Just yesterday I had an epic freak out on my children because while I was doing my best to finish unpacking from our move and clear out those last few stubborn boxes, they were playing and had lied to me about their rooms being clean.
Ah...honesty. The other key factor that causes me to split. I won't touch on that one right now, it's a big one I'm dealing with in regards to the children as they go through their developmentally appropriate kid stuff. Suffice to say, splitting has been at the fore in my life lately.
So yeah, I'm med free. It's a struggle. I sometimes wish that I could reach for a bottle of pills to ease my journey in life because it really is so much easier when I have assistance, but as of this moment, I'm doing okay and when you're mentally ill, sometimes okay is actually great.
I still struggle with all the things I've struggled with in the past. I still feel Depression hovering over me and I've slipped into her embrace a few times lately, but with this job and the kids, I just don't have time. I can't drop my game face for long or else it will seriously impact the others in my life who depend on me, and at this moment I guess that's all I need to drive me forward and onward. It isn't perfect and for one who strives for perfection it's sometimes an insult to myself that I can't work through this 100%, but I don't know. I have moments of lucidity where I'm capable of being satisfied with where I am and who I am. They're rare and fleeting, but when those moments come I am truly happy.
The last entry I'd posted was about going back on ant-psychotic medications, Saphris to be specific, but it didn't last long. I tried so hard to make it work, but the side effects never went away and it began to affect my life drastically. I'll leave it at that, no need to go into the actual details such as how I became a slack-jawed drooling moron.
Life is pretty positive right now, which is surprising for me. I ended up dropping all medications almost two years ago, mostly because I just couldn't afford it. Weaning off the Lamictal was HARD, I cannot put it into words how hard it was to wean off of it after years of use. I did it. I didn't kill anyone and no one killed me, but if one of those things had happened, well it wouldn't have been much of a surprise. That's how hard it was.
I did not like myself when I was weaning off.
It took about three months to stabilize myself and I cannot begin to voice the gratitude I feel for my man because while he was mostly supportive, it was a frustrating period of time for him while I processed and adjusted. I did break down and revisit my p-doc shortly after I'd fully weaned off and got a refill, but when I took the meds I began to get blinding headaches that would put me in bed for days. The pain was unbearable and indescribable, like a kaleidoscope of technicolor agony needling into my brain, eyes, and teeth. Even my teeth hurt, they felt like they were trying to explode out of my head and I was absolutely certain they were rotting and about to fall out.
Thankfully my teeth are still intact and I dropped the meds after a week-long migraine binge. It was horrible.
I cannot say that I'm 100% in fact I'd honestly say that most days I'm probably running at about 60% mental function, but I'm not suicidal most of the time and I've found a new balance. Educating myself has been the most important part of dealing with my mental health issues. I have voraciously devoured every study, every article, and every speck of information I come across that relates to Borderline Personality Disorder. As I've learned about the disorder, I've learned that I can recognize my disordered thinking as it happens and begin to pull myself off the path of going full blown crazy pants.
One of my biggest struggles I battle with is splitting. With BPD, I see things in terms of black and white. The end. I can see the grey, but the grey rarely makes sense to me and while I can see how others can accept or embrace grey terms, for me, absolutely not, no way, not acceptable ever. Writing this out can make me seem so balanced and such, but it isn't that simple. For me it adds an element of stress to every relationship I'm in because if a person in my life makes a grey or black decision I instantly file them into the "black" category. They are a bad person and not worthy of my love or affection.
I don't do this with just the big things, I do it with little things too. In my home life, a clean home is a manifestation of my mind. If my house is chaotic, my mind is chaotic. I've explained this many times to those who live with me, so when they leave socks laying around or live like pigs I take this as a direct insult to me and the things that are vital to my happiness. They instantly go into the "black" category.
Because I force myself to have a heightened awareness of my disordered thinking I am now, for the most part, capable of separating myself from the rage and frustration I feel when the house is in disarray. Instead of screaming and freaking out, I remove myself from the affected room (or rooms, or house at times), count to 5 million if that's what it takes, and realize that it isn't intentional and I am beginning to split. The children and man in my life are not deliberately trying to make me crazy by being messy, they're just messy and I have to remind them to please help so that I can be stable and happy in our home.
That one is probably the one I struggle with the most and I often fail. Just yesterday I had an epic freak out on my children because while I was doing my best to finish unpacking from our move and clear out those last few stubborn boxes, they were playing and had lied to me about their rooms being clean.
Ah...honesty. The other key factor that causes me to split. I won't touch on that one right now, it's a big one I'm dealing with in regards to the children as they go through their developmentally appropriate kid stuff. Suffice to say, splitting has been at the fore in my life lately.
So yeah, I'm med free. It's a struggle. I sometimes wish that I could reach for a bottle of pills to ease my journey in life because it really is so much easier when I have assistance, but as of this moment, I'm doing okay and when you're mentally ill, sometimes okay is actually great.
I still struggle with all the things I've struggled with in the past. I still feel Depression hovering over me and I've slipped into her embrace a few times lately, but with this job and the kids, I just don't have time. I can't drop my game face for long or else it will seriously impact the others in my life who depend on me, and at this moment I guess that's all I need to drive me forward and onward. It isn't perfect and for one who strives for perfection it's sometimes an insult to myself that I can't work through this 100%, but I don't know. I have moments of lucidity where I'm capable of being satisfied with where I am and who I am. They're rare and fleeting, but when those moments come I am truly happy.
Wednesday, August 19, 2015
Sorry
All my life I've apologized, for what? I'm honestly not sure, but regardless of the situation I would immediately apologize. It's not just me, I see it everywhere I go. When I say "excuse me" as I maneuver around shoppers in a crowded store, they always apologize.
The person apologizing? Always a woman.
Why do we women apologize so much? Why does it seem "sorry" is an anthem for our gender? Are we such an imposition on others? Is our presence so offensive?
I look back to my past to see if I can find the roots of my obsession with apologizing, but I cannot find the source. I honestly cannot figure out why I am so forthcoming with admissions of failings and offense when I have not failed or offended.
When I decided to make a conscience effort to decrease my apologies, I was astounded by the sheer volume of attempts to make concessions for wrongs undone. I apologize at least once in a conversation, usually multiple times. I even frequently apologize before beginning to talk, not for interrupting, but just for daring to speak in turn.
I sincerely wish that there was a way for me to find the source of my speaking habits so I can turn to it and begin to root it out with focused effort, but it is so ingrained and such a part of me for such a great period of time, that I honestly believe I'll never figure out just where to point my finger and say "ah ha! There you are you pesky little starting point of my apology career! To the therapy couch we go!"
I don't understand my obsession with saying sorry. I'm a pleasant person and usually offer enjoyable companionship and company, but I frequently apologize, as if my conversation is an affront to others. While I do soap box from time to time and I'm highly opinionated, time has taught me the concept of time and place, so I no longer begin to spout out on my soap box topics at inappropriate times. Still, even just talking about mundane topics like the weather, I'll find myself apologizing intermittently throughout the conversation.
I could be commenting on the beautiful weather and sunshine and still find a way to apologize since sunny weather can lead to sunburns, headaches, heat injury, etc...it's as if I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop and I'm apologizing beforehand just to get a leg up on the offense I'm sure I'll commit or utter inadvertently.
It's pathetic. I offend myself when I apologize to others. Why am I sorry? I'm a valuable person whose words hold worth and intelligent thought. If I feel I'm so offensive to others, why do I invest in these relationships where I feel I must constantly lay down a litany of self effacement to others.
And again, it's not just me. I see this habit in so many women I encounter on a daily basis. As I mentioned before, even just saying "excuse me" elicits an immediate apology when that woman wasn't even in the wrong.
We have to stop this. We have to stop feeling sorry for existing, for having opinions and daring to voice them. We have to stop apologizing for every little thing that isn't even in our control.
Perhaps my awareness of "sorry" began at a very young age. After my mother's suicide, people always apologized when they were informed. "Oh Monica, I'm SO SORRY!"
Yeah dude, me too. Kind of sucks having a tragically dead mother. Your apology does nothing to help soothe this wound. So yeah, please don't say that again.
When we're faced with a situation over which we have no control, but feel regret or sorrow, we often blurt out an unthoughtful apology. To remove sorry from our nonstop vernacular, we have to focus on our words before they leave our mouths.
Doing this has been immeasurably difficult. As I mentioned, when I made a conscious effort to remove sorry from my vocabulary, I hadn't realized just how often I said it. Stopping this word has proven to be one of the hardest habits I've tried to break, including smoking. It was easier for me to stop smoking after a seven year, pack and a half a day habit, than it has been for me to stop saying sorry.
It's required me to think even more before I speak. It's often left me...speechless. Because what do you say to someone who has experienced a tragedy in their lives? You are genuinely sorry for them, but that does nothing to help or heal. I have begun to realize that even just the kindest words like "I'm thinking of you, is there anything I can do?" goes much further than an apologetic utterance.
As for apologizing for speaking, thinking, or even daring to exist, I don't know. It's a hard habit to break because up until recently I wasn't even aware it existed. My partner yelled at me one day because he was so fed up with my constant stream of sorry that were in almost every sentence I uttered.
He was offended because he values me and finds my conversation of value and worth. I should not apologize for speaking, perhaps for speaking out of turn, as I'm frequently wont to do, but not for just talking in a conversational manner. Certainly not for having a formed opinion. But I do it.
I'm now trying to convey this message that we don't need to apologize in every way I can. When someone at the store apologizes to me I now ask them "why are you sorry?" which frequently elicits a blank stare or gaping mouth. I hope that by attracting attention to these needless apologies, I'll begin to help other women root it out of their daily routine.
In one instance, a woman actually replied to my question with an "I honestly don't know!" and we talked for a brief moment about why we apologize so much. She seemed to be in complete agreement that we women apologize too frequently.
The person apologizing? Always a woman.
Why do we women apologize so much? Why does it seem "sorry" is an anthem for our gender? Are we such an imposition on others? Is our presence so offensive?
I look back to my past to see if I can find the roots of my obsession with apologizing, but I cannot find the source. I honestly cannot figure out why I am so forthcoming with admissions of failings and offense when I have not failed or offended.
When I decided to make a conscience effort to decrease my apologies, I was astounded by the sheer volume of attempts to make concessions for wrongs undone. I apologize at least once in a conversation, usually multiple times. I even frequently apologize before beginning to talk, not for interrupting, but just for daring to speak in turn.
I sincerely wish that there was a way for me to find the source of my speaking habits so I can turn to it and begin to root it out with focused effort, but it is so ingrained and such a part of me for such a great period of time, that I honestly believe I'll never figure out just where to point my finger and say "ah ha! There you are you pesky little starting point of my apology career! To the therapy couch we go!"
I don't understand my obsession with saying sorry. I'm a pleasant person and usually offer enjoyable companionship and company, but I frequently apologize, as if my conversation is an affront to others. While I do soap box from time to time and I'm highly opinionated, time has taught me the concept of time and place, so I no longer begin to spout out on my soap box topics at inappropriate times. Still, even just talking about mundane topics like the weather, I'll find myself apologizing intermittently throughout the conversation.
I could be commenting on the beautiful weather and sunshine and still find a way to apologize since sunny weather can lead to sunburns, headaches, heat injury, etc...it's as if I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop and I'm apologizing beforehand just to get a leg up on the offense I'm sure I'll commit or utter inadvertently.
It's pathetic. I offend myself when I apologize to others. Why am I sorry? I'm a valuable person whose words hold worth and intelligent thought. If I feel I'm so offensive to others, why do I invest in these relationships where I feel I must constantly lay down a litany of self effacement to others.
And again, it's not just me. I see this habit in so many women I encounter on a daily basis. As I mentioned before, even just saying "excuse me" elicits an immediate apology when that woman wasn't even in the wrong.
We have to stop this. We have to stop feeling sorry for existing, for having opinions and daring to voice them. We have to stop apologizing for every little thing that isn't even in our control.
Perhaps my awareness of "sorry" began at a very young age. After my mother's suicide, people always apologized when they were informed. "Oh Monica, I'm SO SORRY!"
Yeah dude, me too. Kind of sucks having a tragically dead mother. Your apology does nothing to help soothe this wound. So yeah, please don't say that again.
When we're faced with a situation over which we have no control, but feel regret or sorrow, we often blurt out an unthoughtful apology. To remove sorry from our nonstop vernacular, we have to focus on our words before they leave our mouths.
Doing this has been immeasurably difficult. As I mentioned, when I made a conscious effort to remove sorry from my vocabulary, I hadn't realized just how often I said it. Stopping this word has proven to be one of the hardest habits I've tried to break, including smoking. It was easier for me to stop smoking after a seven year, pack and a half a day habit, than it has been for me to stop saying sorry.
It's required me to think even more before I speak. It's often left me...speechless. Because what do you say to someone who has experienced a tragedy in their lives? You are genuinely sorry for them, but that does nothing to help or heal. I have begun to realize that even just the kindest words like "I'm thinking of you, is there anything I can do?" goes much further than an apologetic utterance.
As for apologizing for speaking, thinking, or even daring to exist, I don't know. It's a hard habit to break because up until recently I wasn't even aware it existed. My partner yelled at me one day because he was so fed up with my constant stream of sorry that were in almost every sentence I uttered.
He was offended because he values me and finds my conversation of value and worth. I should not apologize for speaking, perhaps for speaking out of turn, as I'm frequently wont to do, but not for just talking in a conversational manner. Certainly not for having a formed opinion. But I do it.
I'm now trying to convey this message that we don't need to apologize in every way I can. When someone at the store apologizes to me I now ask them "why are you sorry?" which frequently elicits a blank stare or gaping mouth. I hope that by attracting attention to these needless apologies, I'll begin to help other women root it out of their daily routine.
In one instance, a woman actually replied to my question with an "I honestly don't know!" and we talked for a brief moment about why we apologize so much. She seemed to be in complete agreement that we women apologize too frequently.
Saturday, June 20, 2015
PTSD When You Never Saw Battle
I hate admitting I have PTSD. Today it seems it's thrown around so nonchalantly by anyone who has experienced any level of stress in their lives. It feels like the term has been cheapened and is now a disorder that makes people roll their eyes when you claim to be affected by it. When some think of PTSD they think of battlefield gore, loss of comrades, and other horrid experiences. So when I admit I have PTSD, I sometimes feel that *I* am one of those people cheapening it, because I've only seen a few dead bodies, but none blown apart by battle or dying in my arms. I have it despite all my rationalizations, I do have it and I think it can go take a long walk off a short pier because it sucks.
A musing on one of my roots and how triggers can be caused at the most inconvenient and unsuspecting times:
I took two of my girls shopping at IKEA. Man and I, mostly Man, built bunk beds with a trundle so the girls can have beds and not have to deal with air mattresses during visitation weekend (Man has two awesome girls and they deserve awesome comfort when they're here). Man's oldest daughter had never been to IKEA before so it was a literal wonderland of decorating and furnishing as we walked through the tiny apartments and living areas set up to show just how stylish their furniture can be.
As we circulated through the living areas we came to one that had a little rolling storage cart with many thin drawers, I didn't even notice it until Man's girl pulled it out and called me over to share in the marvel of just how organized she could be with limited space. As soon as I saw the cart I managed to calmly tell her it's awesome, but a bit of a pain to build before moving away as quickly and calmly as possible. I was so thankful we were by the couches because I had to sit down immediately as my legs wouldn't support me. I sat on the couch shaking, trying to center myself with breathing exercises, and attempting to look normal when I was probably white as a ghost and obviously disturbed. I couldn't stop shaking.
I felt stupid because seeing a little rolling cart with many drawers to organize my chaos caused such a reaction, but it wasn't stupid. No, not at all.
My ex and I had purchased that exact same cart many years before. He had visions of organizing art supplies, hobby projects, or something of that sort and I was fully supportive since I was sick and tired of hobby detritus vomiting all over the living room in a choking hazard wasteland. When we got home with our loot from the shopping excursion, we set to building our flat packed furnishings with verve. About six bookcases in, I had to take a break because assembling IKEA furniture is frustrating, but building it with my ex made it doubly so. He has no patience and his frustrated outbursts can be terrifying.
While I sat reading in the living room chair he continued onto the rolling drawer cart, figuring it was small and should be easy to build. He was using a small ax, the kind you use to chop kindling and such, a hatchet perhaps would be a better term. One side of the ax was blunted to work as a hammer and it was much more efficient at hammering than our cheap hammer, so he was using that instead.
He got the body of cart assembled on his own with much swearing and cursing, but he got it together. As he started to put the drawers together they resisted his efforts in every imaginable way. The final straw was when the bottom of a drawer did not fit properly into it's groove. In less than a second he went from frustrated to infuriated, picked up the ax, and began to beat the sharp side into the cart. Because the cart was on wheels, it rolled closer towards me with every blow of the ax.
I looked up in shock to see his face mangled and distorted with rage, it was actually purple. For one moment I wondered if he was going to have a heart attack right then and there before it registered that this very angry, enraged man was lifting an ax and advancing towards me as the cart came closer.
I froze. I couldn't think of a way to escape. I was miserable, but I didn't want to die, not that way. I watched in silent, frozen horror as the cart rolled closer and closer in jolting bursts with each smash and my husband came closer and closer to me with that look on his face and blank expression in his eyes.
He wasn't there anymore. The man I loved was gone and there was a monster in his place. As the cart bumped into the front of my chair I unfroze and attempted to protect myself from the next blow that would surely be directed towards me. I curled into a ball, covered my head with my arms, and shrieked in terror.
There was never another blow. I peeked out of my arms and saw my husband standing there, a blank look on his face as he stared at me, then as if a curtain was pulled open in his mind I saw it there, for a brief moment: horror. He was horrified at what he had done, at the fear he had caused me to feel. For one moment he had clarity of what he'd done and what he was doing. Then it closed again and he started laughing.
He thought it was absolutely hilarious that I'd ever think he'd hurt me, it was just that piece of shit cart he had to teach a lesson.
So as I recall that story, I feel a little less foolish about being overcome by panic and fear in an IKEA full of happy people searching for the ideal furnishings for their home. I just wish there was a way to explain it to others without going into such nitty gritty details or feeling as if telling them my PTSD caught me by surprise makes them roll their eyes and think I'm stupid. I'm not.
A musing on one of my roots and how triggers can be caused at the most inconvenient and unsuspecting times:
I took two of my girls shopping at IKEA. Man and I, mostly Man, built bunk beds with a trundle so the girls can have beds and not have to deal with air mattresses during visitation weekend (Man has two awesome girls and they deserve awesome comfort when they're here). Man's oldest daughter had never been to IKEA before so it was a literal wonderland of decorating and furnishing as we walked through the tiny apartments and living areas set up to show just how stylish their furniture can be.
As we circulated through the living areas we came to one that had a little rolling storage cart with many thin drawers, I didn't even notice it until Man's girl pulled it out and called me over to share in the marvel of just how organized she could be with limited space. As soon as I saw the cart I managed to calmly tell her it's awesome, but a bit of a pain to build before moving away as quickly and calmly as possible. I was so thankful we were by the couches because I had to sit down immediately as my legs wouldn't support me. I sat on the couch shaking, trying to center myself with breathing exercises, and attempting to look normal when I was probably white as a ghost and obviously disturbed. I couldn't stop shaking.
I felt stupid because seeing a little rolling cart with many drawers to organize my chaos caused such a reaction, but it wasn't stupid. No, not at all.
My ex and I had purchased that exact same cart many years before. He had visions of organizing art supplies, hobby projects, or something of that sort and I was fully supportive since I was sick and tired of hobby detritus vomiting all over the living room in a choking hazard wasteland. When we got home with our loot from the shopping excursion, we set to building our flat packed furnishings with verve. About six bookcases in, I had to take a break because assembling IKEA furniture is frustrating, but building it with my ex made it doubly so. He has no patience and his frustrated outbursts can be terrifying.
While I sat reading in the living room chair he continued onto the rolling drawer cart, figuring it was small and should be easy to build. He was using a small ax, the kind you use to chop kindling and such, a hatchet perhaps would be a better term. One side of the ax was blunted to work as a hammer and it was much more efficient at hammering than our cheap hammer, so he was using that instead.
He got the body of cart assembled on his own with much swearing and cursing, but he got it together. As he started to put the drawers together they resisted his efforts in every imaginable way. The final straw was when the bottom of a drawer did not fit properly into it's groove. In less than a second he went from frustrated to infuriated, picked up the ax, and began to beat the sharp side into the cart. Because the cart was on wheels, it rolled closer towards me with every blow of the ax.
I looked up in shock to see his face mangled and distorted with rage, it was actually purple. For one moment I wondered if he was going to have a heart attack right then and there before it registered that this very angry, enraged man was lifting an ax and advancing towards me as the cart came closer.
I froze. I couldn't think of a way to escape. I was miserable, but I didn't want to die, not that way. I watched in silent, frozen horror as the cart rolled closer and closer in jolting bursts with each smash and my husband came closer and closer to me with that look on his face and blank expression in his eyes.
He wasn't there anymore. The man I loved was gone and there was a monster in his place. As the cart bumped into the front of my chair I unfroze and attempted to protect myself from the next blow that would surely be directed towards me. I curled into a ball, covered my head with my arms, and shrieked in terror.
There was never another blow. I peeked out of my arms and saw my husband standing there, a blank look on his face as he stared at me, then as if a curtain was pulled open in his mind I saw it there, for a brief moment: horror. He was horrified at what he had done, at the fear he had caused me to feel. For one moment he had clarity of what he'd done and what he was doing. Then it closed again and he started laughing.
He thought it was absolutely hilarious that I'd ever think he'd hurt me, it was just that piece of shit cart he had to teach a lesson.
So as I recall that story, I feel a little less foolish about being overcome by panic and fear in an IKEA full of happy people searching for the ideal furnishings for their home. I just wish there was a way to explain it to others without going into such nitty gritty details or feeling as if telling them my PTSD caught me by surprise makes them roll their eyes and think I'm stupid. I'm not.
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