Zero, Nothingness, Suicide, and Buddhism

I have struggled with "suicidal ideology" for years. And years. My therapist has never said my suicidal thoughts and wishes and fantasies were delusional, but I think they are. I just have never been able to formulate a logical and convincing argument against suicide. All the pablum usually offered up by self-help and programs and Oprah sound nice, but never touch the deep truth that I believe suicide would end my suffering. Tonight I realized that suicide is a "flat earth" option - a delusion.

If someone believes that the earth is flat, they might ask "will I fall off the edge of the earth if I reach the end? Or will I run into a wall of sorts?" The questions themselves are silly to those of us who believe the earth is round, but to a flat earth believer the questions are valid. So it is with suicide. My belief that that suicide will end my suffering is based on a grasping notion of both "self" and "finality." I grasp at this idea that "I" suffer and that death will bring an end, but that's silly. "I" only exist in this moment and this moment ends. Then this moment ends. Then this moment ends. My suffering is endlessly ending.... The delusion is that I believe in both a self and an ending. But that is flat earth thinking. Perhaps the earth is round.

Zero is nothing is round. I had an algebra teacher that spent an hour once discussing the concept of zero as an assumption and as such was proof that God existed. Buddhism, in my limited understanding, is all about nothingness but not at all about God. Wouldn't it be ironic if nothing was proof of God?

Today: Lights

We strung lights up in our "park." We turned on the Christmas tree lights. We lit up the flashing Santa. We turned on the lights that lead through the woods to the sauna. I lit candles. As I stared at the candles, I felt happy and satisfied, peaceful, content. I thought the candles were quite beautiful and I was thankful for my home and for such a lovely day. I wondered why.

I took a rather large dose of my medicine earlier. Not more than prescribed, I just missed one dose during the day so I took it along with the other dose all at once. I wonder if that made me feel so good. Anti-psychotic medication perhaps brings me closer to God.

I had an emotional melt-down last night. It was unusual. Luke and I were lying in bed watching tv. In a matter of minutes the sounds of the tv became excruciatingly loud, the smell of my husband became overwhelmingly musky, the light in the room was ice cold blue and pierced my skull. I rolled over, panting, not sure what was happening and felt the one familiar thing - paralysis. I put my hands over my ears and closed my eyes tightly. I buried my nose in my pillow. I found my voice at last and screamed and screamed and screamed. My husband reached out to touch me and I screamed "Don't touch me!" in a crazed kind of voice. I couldn't bear touch - not with the light and the smell and the sounds.

I don't know how long I screamed. Luke said it wasn't long. Did I enjoy the lights so much today because I screamed through them last night?

"What If" History

I am a history teacher. As such, I hear the phrase “what if” many times a year. I used to tell the students “it’s pointless to play ‘what if’ history.” I used to steer the conversation to what actually happened. Something changed this year. As a class, we play ‘what if’ history a lot. What if the invading Europeans and Native Americans worked together to figure out how to peacefully co-exist? What if John Brown had been successful in his attempt to free the slaves, one plantation at a time? What if women were valued as equal partners in the world? What if we figured out a way to share the abundance of food our world produces so that no one anywhere went hungry? I used to always say that we study history to learn from the mistakes of the past so as not to make them again. Now I say we study history to understand the dynamics of cause and effect so that we can make choices today that will produce the effects we long for. We study history so that we can understand how we came to be where we are today, with huge national debt, continued racism, and poverty…as well as the high standard of living that enables us to enact measures to protect the environment, the freedoms of speech that allows us to question and protest and support what we feel passionately about, and the leisure time to blog and check facebook.

I’ve begun to play ‘what if’ history with myself, as well. So often I hear people with dissociative disorders say that they would not trade their life for one without parts. I used to say that as well. I used to say that the trauma of my past has made me who I am today and that I like who I am. I remember a woman in the hospital once get passionately irate about the term dissociative “disorder” because she did not feel it was a “disorder” at all – it was a logical and helpful way to cope with an illogical and painful trauma. All I could think was that she was sitting in a mental hospital, stripped of her rights, shoeless. If the “disorder” was so awesome, why wasn’t she out doing something she enjoyed???? Surely if someone is so fucking happy with how they turned out after being sexually and/or physically abused then they would be out fucking 3 year olds and making them eat dog shit so that they, too, could have “dissociation.” Obviously, mental illness is called an “illness” because it causes some kind of suffering. A disorder is called such because it puts the individual or society at risk in some way, it’s out of order, abnormal, pathological. It sure isn’t fun.

So I play “what if.” What if I had not been raped? What if I had been molested, but my parents found out and got me help right away? What if I had not been molested? What if I had grown up in a secure, functional, stable home environment and my intelligence and creativity had been nurtured and I never, ever, ever was sadistically tortured during the crucial childhood developmental stages, or ever? I bet I would have been happier.

What has trauma and the resulting pathological dissociation taken from me? Would I trade who I am today for someone who could have sex and enjoy it? Would I trade who I am today for someone who never spent weeks or months trying to convince themselves not to commit suicide? How about someone who could work a full work week, visit friends over the weekend, get their house cleaned, take walks, read books, listen to and play music, get a Master’s degree, a black belt, worship god with a clean conscience, bake cookies, and not worry about getting too exhausted and spinning into an emotional mess or having a psychotic break? Would I willingly erase the burn scars and knife cut scars on my arms if I could? How about never having to feel like I need to burn or cut myself in the first place? I would. I would trade who I am today for someone who functioned more within the “normal” parameters of American society. I not only grieve that there is a negative social stigma to being abnormal, I grieve that I am abnormal.

But “what if” history is only useful if it leads to an understanding of today and to choices that bring desired effects. “What if” history is fiction, and I am living in non-fiction. So I have to accept that I am who I am and move forward. Accepting who I am does not mean embracing the abnormal/disorder/illness and telling myself the lie that I would have it no other way. I would like it some other way. That’s why I’m working so fucking hard to have a “more” normal life. I am deeply sad that I will never erase the scars. I am deeply sad that what happened to me has made me who I am. I am crushed that the “I am” who could have been was murdered by trauma and you and the world and I will never know her. The choices I make today are not so that I can be some fictional “what if” person that is normal. The choices I make today are so that I can suffer less with who I am. And that is sad.        

I need help.

I started crying in the car this morning on the way t work. I was imagining a conversation I might have with my boss, a conversation about how I was planning on capitalizing on my skill set and minimizing the weak parts.It was a conversation about how I, as a great teacher, could continue to be a great teacher in the face of debilitating mental illness. I could use the energy of the interns, the newness of the mobile computer labs, the excitement of the kids, and my creative mind to restructure my day. I have interesting classes, during which students think, develop new beliefs, and grow in understanding of the past and the present and their place in the moment. I'm a good teacher. I became a teacher because school was so safe with its routine. I was liked and respected as someone who was smart. Sometimes I didn't like the teachers, but mostly I did.
They helped me interact normally, understand what normal adult/child relationships were, and said nice things about me.

Learning was fun. I loved it. But when school got in the way of drinking and getting high, sometimes I didn't go. I also got angry. So I determined I would become a teacher and my time with students would be my contribution to young people trapped everywhere but in school. Not to many suicides happen in school. School tends to be safe. So I became a damn fine teacher.

If there was a flat-earther talking to me and he said "does the earth have an edge or does it go on and on forever?" You would say, it has neither an edge nor does it go on and on forever. The flat-earther would not be able to comprehend what he earth was....if it didn't have an edge and it didn't go on forever.
But you could help him understand over time.

Sitting in therapy, we discussed the plan for the next month or so, We're going to tackle some issues. I may or may not be stable enough to continue a life. The gist of what my therapist wants is for the deep shame and destructive forces to step back. I got a little angry and said "Don't you think I would change that if I could?"
and the therapist said "you can't change it." And I angrily asked "So if it can't be done what's the fucking point?" The therapist said "I'll help you."

So I'm a flat-earther and if the earth doesn't have an edge and if it doesn't go on forever.....what?

My mom is getting surgery and that has risks. Someday she'll die and all the shit that shames and destroys me will come to the funeral. It will pour out in rivers of snot and tears. I don't know if I will be able to contain the destruction at that time. If mother dies I know if I can continue to be respectful and kind and genuine with students anymore - My life's goal is to provide a safe place for kids in danger, and a little tension relief too. If she dies I may fall apart and the overwhelming power she has on my soul will not be buried with her, it will be the cloud that has encompassed me.

Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Transference, and Loss of Bladder Control

Just a little background in the form of a timeline:

Sept. 16 - After a short argument with my husband, I was overwhelmed with terror and panic and peed my pants all over the kitchen floor.

Sept. 24 - In a therapy session, toward the end, I became panicked with a feeling of being trapped and left prior to usual "end of therapy" rituals. We had been discussing my feelings of being trapped during my argument with my husband....I think.

When I got home from therapy, "I" wrote this:

I can't understand the directions to the student's house where I have to do homebound instruction tomorrow.

I can't remember what we talked about right before I left therapy.

I don't know how to organize my lessons on the SmartBoard - it's new technology and I've used it every day since the school year began but now it doesn't make sense.

I deleted an important memo on my tablet and I don't know how or when I did. I just know it's gone.

I can't remember why I've held on this long. I can't remember why I chose life in the past.

I don't understand how to back off the intensity when the intensity is nuclear melt-down.

I pissed my pants. ON THE FUCKING KITCHEN FLOOR.

I need a haircut, but every day is hellishly long and weekends are a nightmare of trying to sleep, do school work, clean the house, and not go fucking insane.

I hate all of my clothes.

I didn't recognize my face in the mirror today. It was so puffy and fat. And the lips were weird.

I don't understand shy I'm not actually trapped if I can't control myself, the people around me, and the feeling of being trapped.

I don't understand how I'm supposed to work on getting better if I don't have the energy to stay up past 8PM.

I don't remember most of today.

If I feel so unsafe that I want to kill myself, then I really am actually unsafe.

If I wet myself, then I really shouldn't be in charge of kids all day.

I had a lot of trouble taking attendance today, because the kids were unrecognizable and the names unfamiliar.

I feel like I should know a lot of things I don't know, and so I fake it.

People don't get that sometimes I cry so hard my whole body hurts, and that even though I act normal, I piss my pants.

I am powerless in the face of overwhelming terror and panic. I see what I'm doing but can't control it. I could hear the urine hit the floor, even though I was also screaming, and I couldn't stop doing either.

I get really dizzy when I try to understand that I don't need to feel ashamed.

All I have to do is work 8 hours a day and I can't - at least I can't and feel ok. I am exhausted.

There's no reason for me to be so exhausted, yet I am.

There's no reason for me to be so afraid, yet I am.

There's no reason for me to be depressed, yet I am.

There's no reason for me to panic and feel terrified, yet I peed my fucking pants in terror.

I have trouble breathing.

My muscles hurt because I tense, and release, and tense, and release, and tense, and repeat forever.

I fucking hate my life - yet shouldn't because I have a pretty nice life.

I can't stop seeing me blowing my head off.

If I try to stop seeing me blowing my head off, I then see me hanging from the garage ceiling.

I forgot why people love me.

I forgot what I love about people.

I wish I could hold Danny's future baby, but I don't deserve to love.

I shouldn't have had a family- I should have killed myself back when I first became obsessed with suicide at age 12.

I hate. I fucking. Hate.

Sept. 25 - Oct. 5 - I went to work, I went to sleep, I went to work, I went to sleep, I went to work....you get the idea.

And now, today, I have a thought forming. I was thinking about the post about my little dog and how it's obvious I am feeling things about myself through my pets. I also am annoyed that one strategy my therapist was discussing with me was how to get up and leave a situation when I became aware that it was triggering. And how that seemed impossible as I become paralyzed with terror when triggered and I feel trapped. And how I was feeling trapped in his office, and overwhelmed. And then I left. The annoying part is that I play-act in therapy the skills I need to transfer into my life, i.e. walking away when overwhelmed. It annoys me because I know I practice this kind of shit in therapy all the time - my therapist being a stand-in for all sorts of people in my life now and in the past. It annoys me because I walked out, truly angry and overwhelmed, and yet it's FUCKING THERAPY. It's not real. And he suggested it.

So, for weeks really, I've wanted to end my therapy, enact the righteous "walk away" skill. The thought is seductive and terrifying, empowering and ridiculous. I couldn't survive without therapy.

It hit me this morning that yet once again my preoccupation with therapy is simply a stand-in for the real issue - the real issue being that I couldn't leave my abuser as a child of 2 because my abuser was my caregiver at that time. And then, my real caregiver came and got me and did everything "wrong" and I still couldn't leave. And my husband is now my caregiver and I can't live without him. And my therapist is my lifeline to not blowing my head off and I want to leave therapy but I can't because then I'd die.

I guess I became a history teacher because history repeats itself and in learning about history a person can make better decisions in the present to avoid the mistakes of the past. But life is a paradox, and as I try to resolve the deep issues of a 2 year old getting sadistically tortured by her caregiver, I relive the situation over and over and over because there is NO FUCKING RESOLUTION.  A 2 year old CAN'T leave her caregiver, she CAN'T walk away, she CAN'T cope with the overwhelming sensations and feelings and CAN'T cognitively interpret the situation. Of course she pissed herself.

I can't leave the man I love who helps me live, I can't leave therapy, and I can't cope with the overwhelming feelings left over from the overwhelming and impossible-to-interpret situation I keep reliving in various ways. I can't understand it. I can't walk away, because it's locked inside in the form of a vague and undefined shadow that disappears with every light and every darkness. Shadows don't exist in the light, and they don't exist in the darkness, either.

In the hospital we received a kind of therapy in which we set up a scenario and acted out the scenario both as ourselves and as some "other" in the scenario. I set up a scenario in which a little girl played on the living room floor (me) and I as an adult that knew what was coming next took the girl away from the horrible living room chair before the man entered the room. Someone else played the little girl, and someone else was supposed to play the man. I say "supposed to play the man" because in the scenario, the man never entered the room. Every time the therapist had the man take a step toward the door I dissociated. The therapist was really good at his job, because the signs of me dissociating were so subtle I didn't realize it was happening at all - I just knew he would stop the man from entering for some reason over and over. I finally realized that he was watching me closely, and when he said to the man "step forward toward the doorway" I got foggy. So, the scenario was all about the little girl playing and the adult me stepping in to lead her away. It is what I wish could have happened. I wish I could take her hand and help her walk away. But it was just a dumb fucking scenario played out in a dumb group therapy room in a dumb fucking psychiatric hospital. In reality, the man came in, sat on the chair, and the same Chain of Events that I still replay in my mind 43 years later actually happened. The little girl didn't walk away because she fucking can't.

So how am I supposed to walk away from a triggering fight with my husband who I love and who takes care of me? How am I supposed to continue therapy when it has become the thing that terrifies me? And keeps me alive? Like the issue of sexual abuse of a child....a never ending Chain of Events that replays over and over and I can never take her hand and lead her out because that's not what happened.

I can back off the intensity of the shame of peeing on the floor as a 46 year old woman. I can do that. Because peeing your pants in the face of terror makes sense to a 46 year old woman. But I can't take the little girl's hand and help her walk away because that's impossible. And she will never understand what happened, because she's fucking 2 years old.

Sensory Integration

Epiphany in the sauna! Rae and Sarah do a lot of communicating in there, and Rae was telling Sarah how much she appreciated her work with Doug and just her insistence that something needed to be done to figure out a bit of a solution to the the work stress problem. Having 15 minutes of lights out, very quiet time in the middle of the day to breathe and look out the window and feel and watch the stream go by with so many leaves in it, floating and moving, relaxing.....is going to make a huge, positive difference in System Management.

The epiphany was that sensory integration and emotional integration are very, very intimately connected.

Sarah gets easily overwhelmed by both emotions and sensory input. Too much sensory input, and all the energy of the system has to go into overdrive to make sense of it all, as well as determine what input can be dismissed and what input must be addressed and what input is pleasant, dangerous, tolerable, etc. If Sarah has access to too much sensory input, she gets frustrated because everyone else in the system can, for the most part, integrate it quickly and efficiently and move on. She can't. Also, if any of the inputs are potentially dangerous Sarah's frustration quickly becomes rage and then not only is she overwhelmed, the whole system is overwhelmed. To make matters more complicated, if any event has happened (and by event we mean anything from a comment of a co-worker in passing, to a joke over heard, to a touch, to a triggering word...anything) that might potentially be dangerous, Sarah's energy is spent dealing with the overwhelming fear and shame and panic and rage which easily spills into the rest of the system and then the rest of the system has to work to function appropriately under the looming shadow of threat and chaos and disaster.

We don't quite understand this intimate connection of sensory and emotional integration yet, we just know that it's very important to explore both the connection and the role sense plays in the functioning of the system. Dealing with sensory integration does not seem scary or overwhelming, it seems exciting and doable and brings hope to everyone - even Sarah. In fact, suddenly, the system is quite motivated to seek weekly, controlled input and professional help in the form of massage one week, followed by acupuncture another (the dude does some great reiki and burns incense and plays soft music and there is candlelight), followed by the goofy chiro the next week.....

I dreamed last night about this. I dreamed I went to my psychiatrist with this epiphany and explained it to him. He was distant and withdrawn, with dark circles under his eyes. After trying unsuccessfully to connect with him, I asked him if something was wrong. He said "yes" and proceeded to rape me. He couldn't get an erection, so he did it with his fingers, while choking and hitting me in the face.

Fluff Balls, Death, Shame, and Forgiveness

Laying in bed, thinking about my kids, I began to feel stuff. So I continued, since my therapist said I need to feel stuff sometimes. I had fond memories of their childhoods, and fond memories of recent times, and hopeful feelings about their futures. I cried a little, thinking of how close we were and how warm it feels to be close to them. My thoughts moved to family in general, and how I love my family. Dad came to mind, and I missed him and felt sad about his death. I cried some more, all mixed up with loving feelings, sad feelings, and close feelings. Then I thought about Luke and his plans to meet his brother next summer. It's a huge thought, because not only is Luke going to meet a brother he didn't know he had, but he is the one who planned the visit. Here's the hugest part - he will also be seeing his dad who lives a block down from his brother.... a dad he hasn't seen since he was 6. I wondered, as I lay there, if my dad's death so recently was a catalyst for this. Luke had a lot of feelings himself during the days surrounding the funeral. Suddenly, I was overcome with shame as I realized that there were two sides to the story of my resentment harbored from funeral day. I realized that not only was Luke not "there" for me on that day, but I wasn't "there" for him either and he was in his own kind of turmoil. I suppose such a realization might not seem momentous, but for me it was. In a flash I had empathy, understanding, regret, forgiveness, and then FEAR and SHAME. I saw the panic coming, and for a moment even thought that I should try to stop the emotional overload, but then it was upon me and I was drowning under it and I cried and screamed. Luke came into my room and held my hand. I couldn't verbalize what had happened. I still don't understand why it turned to fear and shame and I panicked.

Switch gears with me.

Shortly after my dad died, my little dog of 16 years died. He was an emotional basket case, for the most part. He was nervous all the time. I loved him dearly and enabled his maladjustment. I felt sorry for him. I did not ever expect him to overcome his deep emotional issues (most certainly from abuse - he has always been afraid of men and was abandoned as a pup.) That's how some parts of me perceive other parts of me. With pity.

I have a German Shepherd as well, who came to me only a few years ago. She is stoic and smart and nosy. She and the little dog never bonded closely and remained aloof. I have never quite figured her out, but I know I expect a lot of her. I never planned to love her, she was supposed to be an outside guard dog. She currently is snoring on my couch, and I do love her. I don't feel sorry for her, but rather proud of her as she has moved from home to home which is particularly hard on a Shepherd and yet has bonded with our family and is content. She has overcome much, excelled in her capacity as "dog," and in her declining years continues to do her jobs for me - protecting, grounding, and keeping me company. That's how parts of me feel about parts of me. Proud, with high expectations.

Recently, a new little fluff ball joined the family. He is boisterous, cheerful, wanting to please, smart, funny, adorable, and joyous. He is also resilient. I am amazed at his resiliency. I see it when he is denied something he wants.... he asks, he asks again, he goes for it, and then he accepts the outcome and moves on. He does this all the time. He is intensely interested in a bone, for instance, that the Shep has. I won't let him take it, and in moments he rolls over on his back, runs for a doggie toy, and plays. We spent weeks together this summer, getting to know each other and bonding. When I had to return to work, he stayed with the Shep all day in the entryway of the house. When I got home, he was cheerful, energetic, and loving. He adapted to the routine with little stress. He's so cute and lovable and good natured I am constantly amazed.

At one point I became distraught over a belief that I could never measure up to what this little guy deserved in life. This belief brought on shame. I tried to trace the path of this shame. It's unclear, but goes something like this:

1.He is sweet and innocent and accepting and curious and wonderful.
2. I will never be able to give him the care and love he deserves.
3. What if he doesn't get the care and love he deserves?
4. How could anyone hurt such a sweet little thing?
5. No one is hurting him.
6. He's obviously not hurting because he is so full of joy.
7. He's so full of joy, how can I ever give him the care and love he deserves?
8. I don't deserve such sweetness.
9. He deserves so much more than I can give him.
10. Is he hurting? How would I know?

This is how some parts of me perceive some parts of me. It makes my stomach hurt and it makes me dizzy. I don't understand it, so I have to turn it off.

Opportunity Cost

Sitting in an economics class, listening to passionate discourse about the role of cost-benefit analysis and opportunity cost in forming economic policy, noticing the salt and pepper beard's motion and the sexy laugh lines around his eyes. I turn my head ever so slightly to move my gaze out the window and start performing my own little cost-benefit exercise quietly in my mind. Prowler gave a cold and accurate summation of his opportunity cost analysis regarding suicide to Dr. Sudak once. She was discussing some health action or another, I can't remember exactly what, and said "If it helps, do it! I mean, the alternative  right now might be suicide and what good does that do anybody!?" I think she meant it to be a rhetorical question, but that kind of assumption is only made by people untouched by suicide. Prowler looked her straight in the eyes and said "What good? Suicide is ultimately an effective way to end the pain."

But other respected professionals argue the opportunity cost analysis to be more three-dimensional, and we, as a system, get that. So what are the benefits of suicide?
1. effectively end pain and suffering
2.
3.

I can't think of any others. What are the costs of suicide?
1. The years unlived, which might have been meaningful but most definitely would have included pain.
2.
3.

I once did an activity with my students, trying to get them to understand economic opportunity cost analysis. I had a tray of "prizes" and asked for 10 volunteers to come up in front of the class. I started at the front of the line and held out the tray and told them each in turn to choose a prize, any prize, no strings attached. The prizes were jolly ranchers, mechanical pencils, stickers, post-it notes, and extra credit coupons. You could watch the students' faces quickly calculate the cost-benefit of the items, especially as the tray got to them and their choices might have changed due to the first students' choices. Every now and then a student would exclaim "Darn! I wanted that!" as the last jolly rancher was chosen, or "I got what I wanted!" if the pencil they wanted remained. Once all students had a prize, I asked the first student, who chose a jolly rancher, what the cost of the jolly rancher was to them.

 "Nothing."

I dug deeper. "Jolly Ranchers are free?"

"Well, no, maybe a couple cents."

"So, you paid a couple cents for that?"

"No! I didn't pay anything. It was free."

"Anyone have a different idea of what the Jolly Rancher cost Johnny?" I asked the class. No one had any ideas. They were engaged....I do this kind of thing a lot, ask questions and they try to figure out the 'right' answer and so often I have a little surprise at the end of it all. It's a fun and effective way to teach a concept, almost a kind of game, and they like it.

"So," I ask Johnny, "why did you pick the Jolly Rancher and not the mechanical pencil? Sue was fourth in line and she grabbed the pencil and was happy about it."

Johnny had a quick answer. "I don't need a mechanical pencil. I don't need anything in the tray, but I wanted a Jolly Rancher so I took it."

"Sue, why did you take the mechanical pencil?"

"I just lost mine this morning. And I like pink. I hate Jolly Ranchers and I have an "A" in this class so the extra credit was pointless."

"What did the pencil cost you, Sue?"

"Nothing. It was free. You gave it to me."

Someone from the class blurts (I'm ok with "participatory blurts") "The pencil cost the other stuff in the tray."

Bingo! That's the concept. I went on to explain that the cost of the Jolly Rancher to Johnny was the post-it notes, or the mechanical pencil, or the extra credit points. He made a choice based on his needs and wants. His opportunity cost was different from Sue's, who also made a choice based on needs and wants. Sue needed something different than Johnny, and so her cost-benefit analysis was based on that.

What does this have to do with suicide? Suicide is a deeply personal decision, and as such most likely confounds the individual who has no need for it or who has a life framework from which to operate that doesn't include suicide as a choice 'in the tray of prizes' so to speak. But suicide is in my tray. It's got a neon sign over it, with red arrows flashing on it. The other choices are dim comparatively. I can't think of why I would need or want extra years....The cost of suicide is unclear. Perhaps there is meaning in the future, perhaps some laughs, some children's lives improved as they enjoy a class....I'm glad my family and friends find me worthy of life, find some benefit in being around me, but that is their choice. The cost of suicide to me, personally, is years unlived and those years may or may not be meaningful/joyful/peaceful. The benefit of suicide is most succinctly stated by Prowler, an effective end to suffering. It's beautiful in its simplicity, and as far as I'm concerned unarguable. The other choices in the prize tray have held promise over the years - psychological treatment, psychiatric treatment, Buddhism, sex, drugs, dissociation. But either their effectiveness has waned or their cost has become too high. When Sue lost her pencil, getting another one was her dominant need. When I suffer psychological pain, ending the suffering is mine.

The psychiatrist I spoke with during a recent hospitalization once said "Take pictures of yourself happy. Take video of yourself having fun and laughing. Watch them when you are suicidal. Depression sucks a person in and they feel that suffering has always been and always will be. But despite how it feels, it's not true. I hate to see a depressed person kill themself when relief is a day away." I guess he was trying to add 'hope' to the prize tray. What's the cost of hope? Endless suffering.....endless suffering is the cost of hope.

Trust

A doctor stands over a trauma patient, unsure of what the exact wounds are. They have been covered in layers of bandages, scabs, scars, and dried blood. To know how to heal the patient, the doctor has to remove bandages, move limbs, ask questions. It's a nearly impossible task, as he doesn't know for sure which bandages will come off easily and which ones will tear away vital scabs causing bleeding, possible fatal bleeding. The patient, sometimes conscious, sometimes not, can only effectively answer a part of the time. Other questions are lost in the pain of old wounds made fresh, broken limbs moved so that the nerves are all pinched, and terror in the face of death.

I'm trying to answer your questions. Your words are the touches of the doctor, and almost every word hurts. I'm so raw even your glance feels like a stab in my soul. It feels like a violation.

I hear your explanation to those around me, the explanation about how Luke didn't mean to tear open the wounds. I hear you explain that the intention is not to violate or abandon. What difference does it make, what his intention is, if it feels like violation and abandonment? The guy who carried the trauma patient into the ER to the doctor didn't mean to hurt the patient, but in his amateur handling he caused so much more pain, opened old wounds, it might as well have been the original trauma. So what difference does his intention make to the suffering of the patient?

You discuss hope, share a vision of what tomorrow might feel like, and next week, possibly next month. You ask me to trust you in so many words. I do. We all do, except LA. What you're asking feels like a violation to her. In order to heal, that bandage has to be taken off and it causes bleeding just to move the bandage, just to touch the bandage. Your words are the doctor's touch, and LA is the patient. The bleeding might be fatal. It feels that way. To her, it seems there are only two choices - violation or abandonment. She cannot make the choice so we make it for her - we will always choose violation and we always have. Your words feel like violation. To trust you feels like you're violating us. I don't know how our action (to trust) can feel like you're taking an action (violation).

I hate that I trust you.

Stuck Gate

There's a gate swinging back and forth. When is it open, when is it shut? I hate when it gets stuck, stops swinging. I fucking hate it. It's like that when the System is tired. We're emotional conjoined twins/triplets/whatever, and when we have energy we're balanced. The gate is swinging. We have time to check in. We have time to feel things. We all have time to "be" and with a swinging gate Rae and Sarah and Amanda and Prowler and L.A. all have a sense of what each other is going through - like the breeze created by a swinging gate and the breeze that keeps it swinging. Stress triggers a physical meltdown - fibromyalgia? And we get tired. The gate stops swinging because all the wind, all the air, all the energy is channeled to Rae so that "the System" can function. But it's not "the System" that is functioning, it's Rae. Imagine conjoined twins, sharing blood. If "one" of the twins starts getting most of the blood because that twin needs it to complete some kind of task, well, the other twin is going to get weak. But they share the fucking blood! So in the end, both twins are weak. That kind of system isn't going to work well if both don't get what they need, no matter how much more useful the one is. You can't starve a conjoined twin and expect the other to live.

So Rae gets depressed when the gate stops swinging and she has to do all the work. You'd think she's like it, but she doesn't. She doesn't because as she uses up all that energy to complete the tasks at hand, the rest of the System is dying. As the rest of the System dies, so does she. She knows how to behave, for fuck's sake, but without Sarah and Amanda and L.A. it's fake and thin and stupid and breathless. It's a hot, oppressive, summer day without air. Without the swinging gate, it's worthless.

If we can't un-stick the gate, life isn't worth living. I don't kill myself because who knows if the Buddhists are right with their reincarnation bull shit, or if the Catholics are right about suicides going to hell. I hope the fucking atheists are right, that after death there is nothing. If we can't un-stick the gate, it doesn't matter if I am seeking death to find relief or change or some such nonsense. If we can't, the System is dead. If the gate doesn't swing, it's pointless for Rae to smile and work, she'll suffocate anyway. Suffocation makes for desperation. Desperate people do desperate things. Suicide is an act of desperation. I'd roll those fucking dice and hope the atheists are right not because I want some kind of change. So fuck you for thinking that. I'd roll those fucking dice because I'm suffocating anyway, the System is dying. Slow, painful, suffocation, conjoined twins watching each other die, a stuck gate......it's worth speeding up the process and risk hell or reincarnation. It's worth it because the atheists might be right.

Weeds

Creeping Charlie is taking over my yard. I hate it. Luke hates the Dandelions and calls them Damndelions. I just read about 50 different ways to eradicate these weeds from the yard so that grass could grow. It doesn't seem like there is a clear answer for staunching the flow.....Likewise with my mental state. It's fraught with negative emotions, self-deprecating thoughts, and sparsely populated with the Kentucky Blue Grass of peace, acceptance, and calm. I can't find a quick fix herbicide that will kill off the Creeping Charlie. I don't mind the Damndelions, but I know they drive Luke bananas so I wouldn't mind killing them off too. But I'm chemical sensitive, so the herbicides that exist might cause more harm than good. I read about a more natural method, testing the soil and adding lime and organic fertilizer, re-seeding, and providing the nutrients and conditions that the healthy, desirable grasses need. Apparently the weeds will get choked out in the process. My shrink would probably appreciate this method most.

But he pissed off Sarah. Not uncommon these days, for Sarah to be pissed. It seems like everyone has pissed her off. She's in such a state of high arousal, hypervigilance, and danger-awareness that trust in just about everyone has diminished. The shrink used some phrases like "we all need Luke" and "leaving and staying in a hotel right now doesn't seem like a good solution." Add that to "Luke really worked hard in here" and the message Sarah got was this.....

"You can't take care of yourself so you have to depend on Luke to take care of you. He really is the normal one in the relationship, and you and your emotions and behaviors are bad and wrong, so you have to stay there in your home. You shouldn't feel as hurt and as angry as you do because you've done sooooo much more to hurt him and he's been so good about it, you owe it to him to stay and give him some space and try to meet his needs for a change." The feelings that accompany this message include a feeling of being trapped, ashamed, and afraid. Since these feelings are intolerable if they escape Sarah's room, they get transformed into rage should they be tapped. They are Creeping Charlie on steroids.

The System has discussed this, and there is some question (in varying degrees) as to the accuracy of the message Sarah got. But no one inside can quite explain it to her, and really, everyone kind of buys into the basic premise of the message anyway.  Fear and anger choke out the Blue Grass.

Luke and Rae are trapped in a cycle of triggering behaviors. For example, Luke was showing some of his carpentry work to Rae, and Rae, knowledgeable in the methods of stroking the male ego and crafty with words, praised the hard work and the preciseness of the job. She wondered about how to best finish the project so that it looked as polished on the outside as it was on the inside. Luke is notorious for creating a fantastic product, stable and functional, but rough around the edges. Rae excels at outer polish. It's actually an excellent combination. Luke heard this message...

"Your work sucks."

Rae wanted to discuss how to finish the project, and truly discuss it.... Luke stopped communicating. It was all subtle, of course, but Rae felt the wall almost immediately so Sarah took over and said "it's like talking to a brick wall" and walked away. Luke wanted to defend his communication process, but Rae said "you're angry and so am I. I don't want to talk about this." But no one disengaged. The System had the following feelings as Luke ping-ponged between his own feelings of defensiveness, hurt, anger, and fear....

-anger, fear, rage, hopelessness, shame, terror, defensiveness.....

I swear I wasn't mean. I was mad. I swear I didn't rage, but I was mad. I swear I said only things that were true, but I was mad. Luke said "I'm not talking about this with you." Then proceeded to share his feelings. When I responded (with a relatively appropriate response) he said "I'm not going to talk about this with you." So I left the room. He then struck up a conversation about WHY he didn't want to talk about it with me. So I pointed out how he was not disengaging. So then he tried to talk again. I knew what was going to happen.... no matter what I said, he would said it was wrong. No matter what feeling I shared, he would explain why I shouldn't feel that way. No matter where in the house I went, even my room, he would pace and huff and puff and stand in the doorway, and say repeatedly "I'm here for you if you need me." The pressure would be on, non-stop, and there would be no escape. And the Shrink's words echoed in our head "leaving is not a good idea. You need him." I felt like a tiny piece of Kentucky Blue Grass, surrounded by acres and acres of Creeping Charlie, and thistle. Huge, pokey, dangerous thistle.

I KNOW I'm off balance, I KNOW I have emotional problems....but I resent feeling like the whole world acknowledges Luke's stability and functionality and niceness and wonderfulness while I am perceived as a bitch, a life-sucking wacko, a psychiatric train wreck, and a non-contributing member of the marriage. I sense the world wondering why HE is putting up with ME.

Such feelings and thoughts make suicide such a reasonable option. Only if I kill myself, Luke will have to change his lifestyle dramatically. My income keeps us living a relatively decent life financially. There is no way he could afford to live like we do on his income. I know that is a dumb thing to even bring up, but I DO contribute. I work my ass off every day to keep my job to keep us financially secure.

No one eradicates Creeping Charlie. Careful, methodical, annual maintenance will keep it under control, but it's never gone. Personally, I think Dandelions are pretty. Herbicides could kill the rose bushes, the peonies, the lilies... it could seep into the ground and poison our well. What's the point? What's the point of working so damn hard to control a fucking weed that will never go away? How can a tiny little blade of grass survive the weeds, the thistle, the herbicides, the re-seeding? What if the Shrink wants to get rid of the little blade of grass, too? Can a few dandelions stick around, despite the fact Luke hates them? What if both Luke and the Shrink just want to plow it all under? I feel like I'm being plowed under. I don't know who is plowing. Everyone is plowing. I'm even plowing. The world is plowing. I should be eradicated.

Push and Pull

Emotionally unavailable. Unpredictable. Providing food. Providing entertaining and fun activities. Evening caresses and snuggling and comfort. I draw towards and desire some, and withdraw from (hurt – confused – angry) some. The pattern repeats. Repeats. Repeats from childhood to now. At the end of my childhood I coped by drinking alcohol daily and then leaving, with a backpack of essentials, out into the world where I was promptly raped and then involved in the same pattern of abuse, neglect, and nurture all mixed up in a Dysfunctional Salad. Here it is again.

I can see that the extreme disconnect Luke has between his intellectual knowledge and his emotions/behaviors is a result most likely of all the feelings stirred up by my father’s death. He cared about my father. He cares about me. But all the care in the world cannot cover up the pain he must have felt as a  6 year old, abandoned by his daddy, and thrust into years of Dysfunctional Salad where nothing was ever talked about……where disconnect was the coping strategy. And then, when he was in his early 20’s, his mother died a painful death from cancer and the family coped by withdrawing from each other and themselves. In the 24 years we have lived together he has spoken of her death twice. He has spoken of her maybe a handful of times. He never speaks of his daddy.

I was hurt by his rage toward me at my father’s funeral. I withdrew and disconnected myself. I spiraled into my own madness, my own disconnect, and began to feel everything as if magnified x1,000,000,000. I knocked on his Man Cave door and sometimes he came out to talk, sometimes he came out to scream at me, and sometimes he simply never heard the knock. I asked if he would come out twice a day, for 15 minutes and he agreed. It didn’t happen. I asked if he would see a therapist (for both my own personal gain and out of fear and love for him). It didn’t happen. He keeps asking me what he can do for me, and if I request something he says he will do it, but doesn’t. He cries. He is shut down. He is unaware that his behavior is erratic and it hurts, omg it hurts.

I cried for hours two nights ago, only because he is so withdrawn from me I am lost and on my own and afraid to navigate this “episode.” I cried because I don’t want him to come into my bed at night and caress and snuggle with me, yet I do want him to come into my bed at night and caress and snuggle with me. It is the only love I can feel and it hurts and comforts me both. I am incapable of telling him not to come into my bed. Incapable because I don’t want to hurt him, incapable because I cannot resolve the push and pull of my own desires.

I am not angry with him because he can’t meet my needs in this turbulent and vulnerable time. I am angry with him because he won’t do anything about it. I am afraid of his denial. I am angry with myself because when he says “I will take care of you” I believe him and then am crushed so mightily when he doesn’t. I am afraid I can’t do this by myself. I want to leave him because I am afraid that he has tipped the balance too far for me to recover except by myself. I am afraid to leave him because that is what he is most afraid of, abandonment, and I do not want to damage him anymore. I love the caresses and I hate that he is caressing me. I am afraid I will kill myself. I am sad that he is not with me, even when he is next to me. I miss him.