Wednesday, September 9, 2015

Confusing Change

I'm confused. I have a thing here, with some followers, readers every day, and a bit of my heart and soul offered up to the world to read. But this blog is closed off from each and every public aspect of myself in the flesh. This is my cyber flesh, I guess. The me that exists in a room in the physical mind of Rae rarely gets to inhabit the flesh that is The Body. Rae is not her real name. The Sarah that writes this blog and incorporates the thoughts of Rae and Amanda and Spider-Man and Prowler is only as public as this blog and my facebook page. Rae, she's public. She's a teacher, a friend, has a family, lives in the community....has a facebook page full of people that have seen her actual physical body. Rae has a blog now, with one reader. I'd like to devote my energy to writing with her, there, and become a part of the world in a more tangible way. I'd like my thoughts and feelings to weave themselves into the prose that gets typed out in a place that has a gmail that is attached to the Body that is in the public. I don't know why.

I'm afraid of this change. It makes me vulnerable. It makes all of us vulnerable. But I've learned that it is in vulnerability that we are connected and I. Want. To. Connect. 

So I may not write a lot here. And the blog that Rae writes, well, you have to be invited to read it. So I'm confused because to connect I have to invite people to read my new blog, but I'm terrified to invite anyone other than the one person I've invited. 

If you want to read my new blog, send me an email at sarahsmithetal@gmail.com.  

Sunday, March 22, 2015

Flashing

Flashing? Not like showing my naked body. More like showing you my naked mind. Also as in "flashback" I guess, but I'm not even sure. I just know it happened..... like this.....

He was petting the dog on my lap and his hand brushed my breast. I became upset, compounded, because it's stupid to get upset over my husband's hand brusing over my breast. Upset as I was, I went to my room to relax. I cried instead, and he didn't know so he went out to the garage to do man stuff. My brain kept saying "He touched me, then left. He touched me, then left." I argued with the intense feelings of molestation followed by abandonment, but feelings sometimes cannot be argued with. My mouth began to scream. Up from my chest came the sounds, animal-like, expressing the sadness and fear and confusion. As much as I tried to argue with those fucking feelings, they kept on coming and the argument only added additional confusion. In the middle of being lost in time and space and emotion and logic I saw clearly that what happened back then stripped me of a normal sexuality, stripped me of a normal marriage, stripped me of a normal emotional life. Sadness and fear and confusion multiplied. One part of my brain understood what was happening and another part was screaming from being raped and another part was kicking the shit out myself mentally for not getting a grip and another part was grieving for paradise lost. Lost. I got lost in the screams. I needed to pee and I was terrified of getting up out of my bed in my own fucking home to go pee because I wasn't sure I was in my home. My brain told me I was safe. It also explained that indeed I was touched without permission by a man who was supposed to love me and then that man left. That happened. When I was little and today. No amount of argument could stop the screaming and no amount of argument could get my entire self to understand that it was seriously no big deal today, not like it was a big fucking deal when I was little. I couldn't separate the two, not totally, like the two experiences shared neural pathways, crossed wires, black on red when it's supposed to be black on black and red on red and BOOM! the brain explodes in firey fucked up-ness.


Wednesday, December 10, 2014

Christmas Fire

I am cozy in my bed, Christmas lights twinkling, music....tears. They are neither tears of sadness nor are they tears of joy. These are tears of fire.

When someone has a "fire in their eyes" they are passionate about something - feelings are deep and strong and connected to their thoughts and beliefs so that they result in a visible soul as seen through the eyes. I am reminded of a story I heard, Hindu, maybe? A god was lonely, so she took the one large flame that was her soul and scattered it into many little fires on earth, which became living beings. I love that story.

My tears of fire are about life. I know that sometimes my feelings of deep emptiness and the beliefs that ride their shirttails subside into strong feelings of joy and appreciation and connection to the people I love. Those feelings of joy likewise subside and I am left empty. It is because of the emptiness that I recognize the joy. It is because of the joy that I recognize the emptiness. Without each, I might not know. Today I have a rare moment of both emptiness and joy - and I believe this is the fullness of life I am feeling. It's as if some kernel of fire deep within remembers the fullness of being one flame, and the emptiness of being only one.

This Christmas will be full of joy and empty. I can tell. There is a stronger than ever undercurrent of love in my family that resulted from the death of my nephew. It's as if the extinguishing of a flame has caused us to burn more intensely. Is fire like that? As we open presents, eat, and laugh together we will be so connected to each other, feeling the life we have so joyfully, life and love burning more intensely because we so recently felt the sorrow of death.

We've all lost fathers and mothers, Siblings, Children. The emptiness of loss and the sorrow in our tears can be remembered in our fullness of this Christmas celebration and the Joy we have. Our laughter and our love doesn't negate the sorrow or cheapen it. Our joy makes it possible to feel the emptiness and sorrow just as our sorrow makes it possible to feel the joy.

I miss you, nephew and dad.

Who do you miss?

Saturday, December 6, 2014

A White Lady, Ferguson, and Trauma

Wendi asked me what I thought of Ferguson. Well, she asked what my black friend thought of Ferguson.....but I'd rather he tell her what he thinks.....Once a person listens, even if they listen carefully, I'm afraid their own perspective colors the message. Since I'm white, I suppose my perspective would fuck up his message a lot.

So I told her what I thought. 

I started by telling her a phrase I learned from an Anishinaabe woman who was trying to help me be a better teacher - 'historical trauma.' She explained that the Anishanaabeg and other First Nations had been through a historical trauma, which hasn't yet healed. I thought of Black Americans, who also have experienced historical trauma and to this day face institutional racism. We haven't healed as a nation. I thought of my own trauma. 

I have, in the past, hit Luke. There have been times we fought, perhaps he pushed my buttons, and Prowler raged. Perhaps Luke came into my room without permission, perhaps he banged his fist on the table, perhaps he walked out of the house in anger - all things that will terrify me if I am emotionally vulnerable or tired or worse - both. I am flooded with shame about these incidences - I believe violence is abuse and I have abused him. I have wondered if ever he thought of calling the police. I would be arrested, charged with domestic abuse. It would be justified. Part of why I work so hard to get better - to heal - to learn to cope with rage and pain and terror - is so that I don't hurt him. I have learned that part of this healing involves accepting that I have raged, why I rage. Part of this healing has been Luke understanding dissociation, understanding why I rage in dissociation, what my buttons are, and how to support me when I need him. He has swallowed his anger many times, has walked away from my verbal abuse instead of getting sucked in, has accepted and loved and listened so that I no longer hit. I have learned other coping skills, I have felt the pain of my trauma in bits and pieces as I am able, My parts and even Prowler have recognized, even in the midst of rageful feelings, that Luke is not a threat despite the fact I feel deeply threatened. I could not have healed without him. I also don't shame myself as much for the rage. I understand it exists for a reason. My feelings are valid. It is only counter-productive to desconstruct these rageful events detail by detail to determine if the intense rage is justified or if Luke's anger is justified or 'who is at fault.' Now I understand that my rage is justified, even if to the outside world it might seem ridiculous for a married woman to rage at her husband for entering her room without permission. You see, I'm not really raging at Luke, I'm raging at the violation of our mutually agreed upon boundary - the rageful feelings an echo of the past violations to my body imposed by evil men. Trauma. 

Back to Ferguson. Was Michael Brown a criminal? Was Officer Wilson a racist? Was Officer Wilson justified in shooting Brown? This matters to those who love these men in a very personal way. I extend my condolences to the family of Michael Brown. As a white lady in a northern town, what also matters to me is the validity of the rage. I think it's possible that justice was served in this incident - perhaps Wilson was threatened and justified in shooting and the Grand Jury decided wisely. I also believe it's possible Wilson is guilty as hell of treating Michael Brown differently as a black youth, that justice wasn't served. I know for sure the rage of the Black American community is justified. I think, as a white lady, they rage because of the historical trauma that has been perpetuated upon their community starting with slavery and continuing with covert and overt racism right into today where in America there exists, without a doubt, institutionalized racism and white people, whether they will acknowledge it or not, have white privilege and are to varying degrees racist. 

I do not know for certain whether or not the Black American experience of rage is anything like the rage I feel. I don't know if I can accurately draw parallels between my personal trauma and the historical trauma of Black Americans. I am guessing. As a white lady, I'll not get caught up in trying to determine justice in this particular incident. I will, however, NOT judge and shame the protestors or the violence. What use in healing is that? I know that if Luke pointed out my verbal or physical abuse as evidence that I was somehow attempting to justify an inner criminal and if he didn't move on from my rages and if he didn't listen to me when I explained to him how he could possibly change his behavior to be more supportive and NOT push my buttons then I'd never have healed as much as I have. I learned to trust him, to some extent, and so now he has more leeway but there are certain things I need in order to trust him and some things I need in order to heal....Because he cares he does these things or avoids doing things whether they are 'fair' or not. I know he doesn't really understand some of it, and who can blame him? He's male and he's never experienced sexual trauma. And he's not me. So he cares and does what he can to be supportive and I do what I can to cope and heal. We have come a long. So that's what this white lady is going to try to do for her black friends, black students, and Black Americans. I will listen, I will understand what I can. I will not get in the way of protests even if they turn violent (though I don't condone violence- but I understand violence- I have sadly learned that violence serves a purpose- I have learned that there are other ways to cope- I have learned that shaming myself serves no purpose and hinders the healing). I will examine my own behaviors, my thoughts, my racism, my white privilege and  my society so that I can change what I can change as I can change it. 

Should the people of Ferguson burn down a store in protest? I suppose not, not any more than I should rage at my husband. Yet what purpose does my condemnation of their actions or condemnation of my own rage serve? Should violent protestors be arrested? Perhaps, as I should have been. (side note- I was once arrested for kicking an officer. He was in my home, trying to stop me from killing myself, and once I was handcuffed and the loaded gun taken from me I drop kicked him. I was in a rage, he was a threat. I was about to be sentenced, and an angel in the courtroom asked for a minute to interview me, I suppose because the facts of the case didn't make sense. Teacher? Suicidal? Assaulting an officer? Huh? I told her about my dissociation, my sexual trauma, my rage, the fact that the officer was trying to restrain me and I fought back ..... my sentence was stayed. The court had mercy. Was that justice?) So yeah, let our system do what it can to keep the peace. But it is high time the system recognize the institutionalized racism, the historical trauma, the validity of the rage. It is high time angels stop and listen. The burning of Ferguson is a message that needs to be heard, and though my white ears are open my white brain has trouble comprehending. I try to make up for that with a red heart - hoping to heal - because our hearts beat with Life and Life is universal and the trauma that broke my heart is a trauma upon my marriage and the trauma that breaks the heart of Black America is America's trauma and we all bleed red....whether we fully understand the wound or not. 

So those are my thoughts on Ferguson. 




Wednesday, December 3, 2014

The Power of Space

My room, my sauna, my body, my soul.....I strive to create boundaries and protect them, an effort to feel safe. I was angry the other night, rageful, and stood in my living room screaming at Luke for entering my room without permission - a space I hold sacred and 'permission' an attempt to create a boundary. This error of his the last in a night full of errors and exhaustion. This night the last in a month of stress related to the appearance of a family member moving in, who happens to look/act/smell like the man who defiled me as a toddler. This month the last in years of searching for safety. This rage the result.

I begged myself to stop raging. I asked why I was raging. I answered "I'm in danger, and there is no where to run to so I fight." I asked myself where the danger was. "Him." But we knew he wasn't dangerous. But my feelings told me he was. So I froze and cried and screamed.

I have progressed now, and I didn't pee my pants.

I forced myself to take a sauna last weekend and it was difficult - the family member/rapist look-alike had used that space. We tried to reason with each other inside the sauna but L.A. was terrified and no amount of reason would calm her. Our sauna, now devoid of the family member/rapist look-alike, he has moved out, can be ours once again. But since he used the sauna space I can barely make myself go into that space. This doesn't even make sense to me. I KNOW he has left. I KNOW he isn't the rapist. I KNOW I am safe....but even just saying this has caused my heart to beat faster and my head to hurt because I am not actually sure it is true though I cannot find a logical reason why it wouldn't be true.

It's like I don't have a concept of where my body ends and the physical space around me begins.....


Wednesday, October 22, 2014

Healing

To heal the wound I walk among the pines
Sometimes the wheat field
Each softly whispers.
When Winter comes
She weeps snow upon my cheeks,
Cold and fresh
Reminding me I am changed.

Saturday, September 27, 2014

Drugs

I feel the need to trace my drug history. 

To make things clear, severe depression and dissociation, perhaps even ptsd, have existed since early childhood.

I started drinking and using marijuana around '83 in an effort to self-medicate. 

Between '85 and '92 I tried all sorts of drugs, including meth (a lot) and acid (a few times).

Around '92 I moved into a more manageable alcoholism, with the addition of an SSRI.

With increased alcohol consumption, I really broke psychologically and was, I think, periodically psychotic to the point of stopping the alcohol use in 2001. Then came an increased dose of SSRI and off and on Risperdahl.

From about 2006, maybe, I experienced possible syptoms of narcolepsy. Extreme sleepiness.....as well as trying a drug typically used for bi polar and epilepsy....depakote. I also started another anti-psychotic whose name escapes me. I took them for 6 months and then stopped as I felt psychologically and physically TERRIBLE.

From 2007 or so until 2010 or so, I was off and on with seroquel, abilify, ambien and an SSRI. I started Nuvigil for the sleepiness. In 2012 or so I started Xyrem. Since 2012 I consistently take seroquel, ambien, Nuvigil, abilify, and Xyrem. 

The psychological problems are definitely persistent from childhood and are not caused by drug use. I have developed a host of coping skills for these problems. I question how much my use of street drugs and prescribed medication interfere presently with my ability to cope with my psychological problems. In essence, do the the drugs I take now keep me sick or help me cope? Have I permanently damaged my neurological functioning with street drugs and prescribed medication? Does it matter at my age? 

Monday, June 16, 2014

Life, Death, and In-between

I am grieving the loss of my nephew - a sudden, death of a young man. I am coming out of the deep darkness of a months long depression, a time when my own hold on life was precarious, and I pause to ponder the tragedy and gift that is humanity. He and I went a few times to some NA meetings, and had meaningful conversations before and after. I don't know yet if his death is related to chemicals, but I know we shared something in our personalities that revolves around using. He is gone, and I am here, and I don't know why some people 'make it' and others simply don't. Death has nothing to do with who deserves it, as I can point to many who deserve death and live long lives.

During my own depression I spent much time debating with myself whether or not death was a viable option. Logically it seemed like a reasonable choice. One of my doctors once said to me "sometimes medicine is a good choice, especially if it lessens the chance of suicide. Suicide certainly isn't of use." I looked her straight in the eye and said "suicide is an effective means to end the suffering." And I can't argue with that even when I feel good. But death affects the living. Death rips a hole in the fabric of a family. Death leaves a circle of friends incomplete. Death is the loss of a meaningful life, no matter whose life, no matter how the meaning is formed. So I grieve my nephew and watch his mother and father weep, his siblings weep, and feel an emptiness where his presence was in our lives.

I know the meaning of my own life in some contexts - mostly in relation to others. I do not understand the meaning of my life in relation to me. I know I used every coping skill I have developed over the past 30 years of therapy and perhaps I kept myself alive, with the help of all the supports in my life, but suffered nonetheless. And suffered deeply. So deeply I stand in amazement at me - and a little sadness - because I have worked so hard to create a meaningful life and the price I pay for being who I am is almost insane. My nephew suffered, I know from our talks, and his approach was to be simple and carefree. He lived a life of unrealistic hope and optimism, never working terribly hard to overcome his 'situation' and instead just played a lot of Xbox and drank. I think in a way I envy him that, as I contrast his coping with my own - unrealistic hopelessness that propels me into constant personal growth and change. He was loved deeply by all the same people that love me deeply. I wonder if he understood the meaning of his own life, or simply accepted, or lived in denial. I knew him well, but there are some aspects of our lives that others are never privy to.

No one will ever 'get' the suffering I experience, or the relief I feel when 'it' is over and I can laugh and think and live without impediment. No one will ever understand how deeply satisfying and pleasurable it is to walk in the woods those first weeks out of the shadow of depression. Our lives are so very personal, and the meaning we construct and the way we build that meaning and the very paths we walk so unique and individual.....yet there is something we share. I know we share it when we laugh together, or exchange an eye-to-eye look, or when there is death. Sometimes what we share is most poignant in it's absence.

Good-bye, nephew. I will plant flowers around the hole you left in the fabric of my life and every now and then when I hear an AC/DC song or run into a foolishly optimistic soul, I'll visit the hole and wonder about you.

Thursday, May 1, 2014

Raw

It seems to me no place is psychologically or physically safe. Anyone, anytime can say mean words that are razor blades to my heart, or leave me to cry so hard I lose touch with reality and only know being alone in terror. Anyone, anytime can rape me or kill me or cut me or touch my hand. Safety is a farce. I don't understand how people can live in this world, know this, and just set it aside while they love and play and work and create. I don't know how I have done it in the past. I don't know how I do it now - how I create a story with my words while I breathe in and out knowing I am not safe either inside or outside my flesh. I guess most people can set it aside, this terrible knowledge, because they either don't realize how much rape or complete abandonment hurts or if they do they have learned how to cope and know they will cope again. I lost myself in the aloneness of terror last night and it broke something in my soul. I'm left today with poignant memories of L.A. (myself) screaming in the darkness, knowing no one would come to help, and having no place to go and no skills to self soothe. I broke. I'm left with echoes of a conversation Prowler (myself) had with Rae (myself) and Sarah (myself) about survival. We were raging, about to be incredibly mean with our words, and Sarah begged Prowler to stop. Prowler asked if anyone knew how to survive without rage. Panicked, we tried to think of something. We reasoned  that if we weren't in physical danger, we would indeed survive without rage. But Prowler was wise and pointed out that suicide was a real possibility. So we reasoned that if we stopped the rage and went back to the aloneness and terror, eventually the body would tire and we would survive. Prowler was wise and said that any more terror and we would fragment even more. More fragmentation might be permanent or bring suicide. So we reasoned out that we could take 3 sleep aids, they were prescribed to be taken that way and although the med hangover would be difficult and uncomfortable the body would likely sleep. Prowler agreed. It worked and today I am afraid I truly already fragmented in a most horrible way - fragmentation with awareness. A number of times I have told my therapist, myself, my husband that I can NEVER go back to that alone terror place. It is psychologically dangerous. It is physically dangerous. My room is supposed to be a safe place where I can perhaps self soothe to avoid the alone terror. But no longer. It doesn't matter what the rules of the room are, rules are broken and forgotten and vague and up for interpretation and at best a false safety that can be breached by mean words and aloneness. Safety is a farce. My soul has been broken. My system, a facade of personal safety itself, has broken down so that I can see L.A. and Prowler and Sarah and Rae and ...... and I know who they are and I know what they feel and the "I" is ego - self- fragments of chemical and electrical brain function communicating across neural pathways to my destruction or salvation or simple survival. "Self" a facade, screaming in the darkness, alone and terrified, the only reality. Tell me, what is safe?

Tuesday, April 22, 2014

Detached (?) Observation

I don't know how to explain "crazy." I imagine it's a very individual experience, personal. I can tell you sort of what it's like. It's like every television in the world turned up to maximum volume inside your head, all with different shows and most of them horror shows. It's knowing you are in grave danger, but not knowing where the danger will come from or what kind of danger it will be - but you know in your heart there is danger and it's terrible and it's imminent. You know because you've been there before, the memory of it is just behind a cloud, and it felt exactly like now. It's a thunderstorm in your head - with lightening bolts crashing through your brain and you think you will certainly die this time but you don't, you hear the thunder and seconds later the lightening flashes again burning grey matter and it's a miracle you don't die from it, because it seems so unbearable. Crazy is emotional torture. It's grief/terror that tells your brain you will never recuperate and your soul believes it. I've heard that people can pass out from extreme physical pain. Crazy is so emotionally painful I pass out from it - dissociation. I had 3 good days recently - I only felt depressed some of the time and the rest of the day was relative contentment with maybe 2 pockets of happiness. On the evening of the third night I felt a migraine coming on - intense pressure screaming at the insides of my eyes and waves of nausea. I remember thinking that I would take a migraine any day rather than the same amount of time spent in crazy. Any time. In fact, being physically sick or hurt is laughable compared to crazy. I have felt some pain - a broken arm, surgery, migraines, child birth... the child birth was pretty painful and minimally comparable to crazy. Imagine painful child birth for months. That's what crazy feels like emotionally. I seriously don't know how I can take it, except that I know I actually can't hence the dissociation. What really fucks with me is that sometimes I'm in crazy and I KNOW the feelings are not based in reality. Sometimes I can literally scream at myself above the noise and my soul hears me and simultaneously I know I am in danger and I know I am safe. No amount of screaming at myself when I'm in crazy can turn down the television noise, end the thunderstorm, or birth the child. I am terrified of my own crazy, and I have explained it here in sensory terms. Crazy is partially sensory, but it is more how you would FEEL if these things were actually happening to you and you knew it. It doesn't physically feel like millions of televisions screaming in your head, crazy emotionally feels how you might feel if you had millions of televisions screaming in your head. Wouldn't you be scared? Confused? Disoriented? Imagine how you would emotionally feel if suddenly there was a thunderstorm in your brain, and you could hear and see the lightening blast your grey matter. How would you feel? Terrified? That's how crazy feels - like the most horrible, terrifying event you can imagine is actually happening, but you know it isn't, but your soul believes it is and your body and brain respond electrically and chemically to that knowledge and you FEEL like you would if it WAS happening because you BELIEVE it is, while KNOWING it isn't. And there's no way to stop it. And it lasts for months so that you forget you were ever happy. You forget how good spaghetti is. You forget how to sing along to the radio. You get so lost in crazy, you tell yourself to feel the warmth of the sun on your face because you know you love the feel of the sun on your face but you can't enjoy anything because the terror/grief is so awesome it eclipses every bit of possibility of actually feeling the sun on your face let alone enjoying it. I challenge you to try to enjoy the sun on your face the next time you have a million screaming horror shows playing in your mind at top volume and lightening scorching your brain.

Tuesday, April 15, 2014

Eating My Way to the Bottom

Imagine a huge ice cream sundae. Perhaps, if you know the ice cream parlor Bridgeman's, you know of the Lalapalooza Sundae. It's huge and I ate one once. I forget how many scoops of ice cream, but it doesn't even matter because once you are full and driven to continue eating you just simply eat. When I was eating my way to the bottom of that sundae, I lost my sense of taste. I lost my sense of fullness. I just ate because I wanted to be done. It's such a stupid thing to do, yet there are food challenges all over the nation and television shows and obesity. Just because something is stupid and meaningless doesn't mean it doesn't happen.

Depression has no bottom. Just as I think I see the bottom, assume there are only a few painful bites left, the depression expands as if it is eating me and my life and not the other way around. A profound experience unfolds as depression eats my soul; I find my soul is infinite. I'm not about to launch into a philosophical/spiritual discussion of the eternity of the soul. Fuck that. Whether or not I turn to dust, get reincarnated, or enter the pearly gates I find that while alive, life is eternal. As such, depression knows no bounds and the eternity of being eaten alive by this deadly psychological phenomenon is profound. I can only take so much and not take my own life.

But I don't. Instead, I stand on the edge of the bottom looking down farther while I fall until with breathtaking precision my body shuts out the pain and the drive to survive makes me take a few more bites. Empty, stupid, meaningless eating of life in a banquet that has no end. I long, desperately, for an end. I need an end.

Just one more thought. Insanity is sometimes defined as "doing the same thing over and over, expecting different results." I feel like each breath I take is just that - an exercise in insanity. Perhaps all of humanity is insane as we inhale, over and over, with the fullness of expectation only to exhale and there is emptiness. I don't know if this thought is dark or if it is beautiful.

Friday, April 4, 2014

Middle of the day, exhaustion sweeps over me, nap time. Close my eyes, think and feel at the same time, tears. I realized I am in the midst of a great depression, trying to wait it out like a swimmer in a riptide might tread water as they get sucked out to sea. I quit swimming for shore. I'd like to quit treading water but I can float in a salt free lake for as of yet undetermined amount of time so even if I quit randomly moving my legs and arms I'd still be breathing. The ocean is buoyant.

Perhaps I'll realize someday I'm sinking, just like today I realized I'm depressed. Perhaps someday I'll suck in some air and find my lungs filled with stinging sea water. I know what will happen, people don't just drown. They fight. They kick and they flail and they get themselves to the surface with every last ounce of energy they can possibly summon. I am a natural swimmer, and I can seriously float. Once, in South Carolina, I went out to the hotel pool and floated. Wendy came out to have a smoke and thought I had drowned, until she saw me breathing. She watched until she got bored, and I floated until I got bored. I think I fell asleep. Sinking isn't an option.

The thought is depressing.

I suppose this is why I drank. I still don't understand why I'm not drinking now. Alcohol is a nice lead weight tied to my soul and it would pull me down, down, down and I have no desire to use it. Buoyancy. Big, pint size screwdrivers, half vodka and half orange juice used to go down so easy. Right now, the thought of one is appealing but I lack the energy and the motivation to go get the damn vodka. It all sounds rather acidic, as well, and I think I would substitute 7-up for the orange juice. *body involuntarily remembers puking vodka screwdrivers*

I have a house full of pills, a garage full of guns, all locked up. Buoyancy.
I have friends and family to call, to hold me, to tell me they love me. Buoyancy.
I have doctors - a psychologist, a psychiatrist, a pulmonologist, a gp, a cardiologist - all of whom will do their utmost to better my health. Buoyancy.
I have a job I love to go back to, if only to burn out on and leave, but there it sits and waits. Buoyancy.
I have chihuahuas. Buoyancy.
I have a retirement plan, insurance, a savings, an IRA, a stellar credit score. Buoyancy.

I can't sink and all I want to do is sink because I am so tired of treading water. But even when I stop treading I float. It literally hurts my heart to breathe .... physically because my heart hurts and emotionally because my heart hurts. Yet breathe I do, and another, and another. Buoyancy. This is, no doubt and all irony, Hell.

Tuesday, March 11, 2014

Wild Child

It began with a trail in the woods. I walked the trail, exploring it, and chasing nothing but looking all the same. It became a labyrinth, and the trail became trails, and I walked them and groomed them until they were tame. Still, I found nothing and looked harder. I branched off into the woods, followed the white pine, and made a nest in the undergrowth. I caught a glimpse of that something I was not looking for, a Wild Child, who sensed me and ran deeper in. I'll branch off again, I suppose, and call her over. I'll build her a fort and knit her a doll. I'll make tea. Tea? To what end, this tea party with dolls in the wood? Wild Child perhaps ought not be tamed, cannot be tamed. Gregarious human nature with social rules and niceties, all to make safe the contact we require, has not been required yet these 47 years by Wild Child. Desired, maybe, not required, for she still runs barefoot in the woods and looks for nothing, having all she needs in wind, earth and rain.

What place have I in society?
What place has L.A.?

Sunday, January 26, 2014

Once I saw God's Face

Experiencing suffering that pushes humanity beyond its reasonable limits awakens the soul to reality. When humans experience this reality it's like seeing the face of God. No one really returns once they see the face of God. I know I didn't.  But I live, and because I live I have the opportunity (perhaps the responsibility) to know God. After all, I saw His face. He is a snowflake today, and the fur of my dog, and the kindnes of my husband when he brings me coffee. He is also the salt of my tears and the tremble in my hand. It is my right and it is my responsibility.... and it is my joy as well as my sadness to know Him in these things.

Monday, January 20, 2014

Angry Compassion

"Pain accompanies compassion" I said, and the sentence bounced around in my skull while a hot flash of anger surged through my body literally making my cheeks burn red. I needed to decelerate, but the concepts keep echoing so I also need to explore them.

I'm making a doll for L.A. It's an attempt at connecting with her and showing her some kindness. It's a compassionate act. It's not empathy, because I don't think I can handle feeling her pain. So how is compassion different from empathy? Empathy is feeling the suffering of others, and compassion is the active relative of empathy - it seeks to alleviate the suffering of others in a loving way. Ouch.

Compassion rises out of some very real and primal feelings. I have lacked compassion for myself, and in fact have startled myself on occasion with my callous disregard for my pain. For example, when watching a woman on tv fight off a would-be rapist, I felt disdain for her, thinking "why fuss so much? It's not like he's gonna kill you, it's just sex." Once (or many times) when feeling sad or frustrated because I am too tired to go out, I become outraged with myself for not having the strength to get beyond my petty issues like being forced to eat dog shit after swallowing cum as a toddler. Seriously. That's a distinct lack of compassion. And now suddenly I am faced with the possibility of having compassion upon myself and in fact cognitively recognize the importance of having compassion upon myself and I am outraged....I think because in order to feel the compassion and work to alleviate my own suffering I have to acknowledge the suffering and perhaps even feel it a little. Ouch.

But kicking myself in the ass and telling myself to get the fuck over it is simply ineffective.

Punishing myself for feeling is also ineffective.

Immersing myself in the pain in a muddled empathetic/pity laden decomposition of stability is also ineffective.

Compassion serves to alleviate suffering, and so there is an acknowledgement of suffering and thus I feel pain. The pain is so intense and so deep I ground myself with rage. I suppose this cycle will someday be ineffective, but for now it is the reality I have. My cheeks were burning in anger because I cannot yet feel the pain.

Tuesday, December 31, 2013

Revenge vs. Compassion

I watched a movie in which 4 teen boys were brutally sodomized. Two grew up thugs, 2 were relatively successful. They had a chance to exact revenge upon their perpetrators, and through an elaborate set up accomplished just that! At one point their plan hinged upon a priest who had befriended them in their youth lying under oath in a court of law. I adamantly expressed that I wanted him to. I felt strongly that he should. I was sure I would. Lying under oath is something that I didn't think I would ever do, but in the context of this movie I was sure, absolutely positive that I would. I figured God would WANT it for there to be true justice. And then I got angry, because I can never exact revenge upon my perpetrators. I felt rage because I am powerless. I have felt rage all my life, it seems. What do I get, when I cannot get revenge?

I thought of Mandela's quote, the thing about how he knew he had to leave the hatred and bitterness behind or he would remain in prison. Those boys in the movie, they succeeded in getting revenge but the thugs ended up dead shortly after and the other two led empty lives. The revenge did nothing to assuage the searing pain that is betrayal. I thought of my own betrayal, the little child with the searing emotional pain that was so intolerable she never walked through it to the other side. Would revenge mean anything to her?  For a moment I saw her - wrapped up in her pain - and I felt compassion. That is what I get in place of revenge, the opportunity to feel compassion. I don't hate the man who brutalized me, I feel more of a general hatred and if I try to push myself to find an object for that hate I become the object I hate. I have hated myself forever. I have been exacting revenge upon myself forever. I have never, ever forgiven that little child for not being able to stop the pain, for feeling that overwhelming betrayal, and for giving in to the terror. But today I felt compassion for her, because it became clear to me that a little child's capacity to cope with and make sense of astonishing betrayal is quite minimal. And this little child that was me did an amazing thing - she survived by dissociating. Furthermore, because of dissociation, I have crafted a life that gives me this opportunity - the opportunity to feel compassion.

Betrayal becomes a dark shadow in a person's life - and revenge does nothing to kill the shadow because a shadow is inseparable from the flesh. If you have a body, you will at times have a shadow. No amount of sex, booze, or self-hatred will dispense of the body's shadow. I suppose I could have lived in darkness all my life and never have to see the shadow, but how is that different from being a shadow? Today I looked at my shadow and realized that it is something with me and will always be with me as long as I am flesh and blood on this planet. I am okay with that. Sometimes I won't have to see the shadow, sometimes it will seem like it's all I am. But I know revenge won't get rid of it.

That leaves me with compassion. I have some for the little child. I remain indifferent to the perpetrator, and ambivalent to the other main figure in my life. But I can entertain the idea of compassion for both. I won't push myself too hard on that front. I will, however, practice compassion for self. Self is temporary, as it is, and so with limited time on this planet I might as well give my self credit for the incredible feat of survival. And there really is no reason to be afraid of my shadow - it is an echo of pain and terror too great to bear as a little girl but maybe not for a grown woman (in bits and pieces, when well rested, with tea and warm bed available, and a chihuahua to pet...)

If I don't let go of the bitterness and hatred, I will remain imprisoned by my shadow. I'd rather walk with my shadow, and tell the girls inside that it's okay to step into the sun every now and then.


Friday, December 13, 2013

It's unusual for me to be up at 3 am. My mind is spinning with deep thoughts on our political system (an aristocracy, run by wealthy elites who cater to their constituency,  the businesses. Dem and Rep alike, party identificatiin is meaningless and only feeds the beast. There is no lesser evil, no way to not throw your vote away. Unless you vote your conscience you are voting to keep the corporate politicians in place and human dignity will continue to erode.) But politics isn't the only rider on the carousel tonight. My mind is holding up the images of the nice guys at work, people I want to be friends with, people who are nice to me. I don't know how to navigate friendships with men and I've been crying because there are interesting people I work with, people I'd like to hang with, but with narcolepsy, dissociation, and trauma related anxiety I don't have the time and energy and skill set to make friends. One of the guys made a cd for me. I'm up in the middle of the night blogging about it because it made me cry. I fucking hate friends. I want friends. But there's more. I found an awesome pattern for knit dolls and I am obsessed with making one. It's important to me, LA, and Rae. Maybe to Prowler, too. I imagine the process, the outcome, the feel of the yarn and I cry some more. But more... I can't stop thinking about the class I started at school specifically to deal with minority issues. I am passionate about social justice. But what if I do great things at work and make a difference in someone's life and then end up in the psych ward cutting rows of shame into my arm and babbling about knit dollies? How much more damage will that do to the cause? Am I worthy or making a difference in some kid's life? And more tears come because I know I already have and it terrifies me. My boss and I we developing a plan to deal with some social justice issues at work. At the end she said "when we're done here we're going to have to write books" meaning we both had a lot to say and because of our jobs we are required to be very careful with our words. I told her when I retired I would be on the lecture circuit, speaking frankly about a lot of things. She said she would be in the audience. That makes me cry, too, and I'm tired of crying.

Saturday, November 2, 2013

The difference between mental illness and physical illness

Engaging in a stirring controversial argument on a forum is scary. I was doing that, and dropped out, as my feelings were getting hurt. Instead I’ll hide behind a fake fucking name on a blog where no one knows me except by my dirtiest little secrets. But I won’t shut up, because I have something to say.

Here’s the controversial questions: Is there a difference between physical and mental illness? Does the difference or lack of matter?

I struggled with DID and depression and PTSD to the point of hospitalization. These are mental illnesses. I was trained to believe that since mental illness was “in my head” I could somehow get them out of my head. My theory was that if I could understand WHY  I was depressed, multiple, and freaked out then I could deal with the emotions related to that WHY and “let go” and get better. In the psych ward it was explained to me in a way I could finally understand that the reason I was multiple, sad, and had emotional reactions proportionately out of whack was because as a two year old I was sexually traumatized over a 6 week time period during which time my brain became hard-wired to do this shit. I’m not sure I have all the medical facts straight, but it has something to do with my hypothalamus getting too much adrenaline at a crucial developmental phase in its actual physical development and in a sense became physically brain damaged. Therefore, when I am undergoing periods of ‘normal’ stress, my brain reacts ‘abnormally’ and I freak out. One psychiatrist described it as my ‘hypothalamus throwing a big party.’ That’s a physical thing, folks. And it will never go away. The brain damage will never repair. Finally I WAS able to ‘let go’ of my old ideas of how to heal and I began to put into practice the cognitive behavioral therapy I was learning about – how to recognize when my body was over stimulated, how to breathe so that I could calm my physical self down so that my emotional self would follow, how to wait out a panic without contributing to it, how to change my life so that my stress levels could remain in a safe zone, and on and on. Where’s the line between physical illness and mental illness???? It seems pretty blurry to me. Especially considering I can take medicines that also help with these mental problems. If medicines help, which seems like a physical thing, how can the issues be simply mental? Is it dumb to even try to separate the two?

A dear friend once said that a physical illness comes from a physical cause and a mental illness comes from an emotional cause, hence my emotions caused my trauma and therefore I have a mental illness. I pointed out that schizophrenia has a physical origin, but is considered a mental illness. She said she considers schizophrenia a physical illness….so……

There’s these hypothetical twins. Genetically identical. Separated at birth. One twin grows up in a great home and starts smoking at 15 and gets cancer at 40. Physical illness, right? The other twin gets molested a few times by a neighbor, but otherwise grows up in a great home. His PTSD causes lots of anxiety, stress, and physical changes in his body and he has a compromised immune system because of it. All those factors cause this twin to also get cancer. But the twins live in a society that treats illnesses that are mental differently than they treat illnesses that are physical. And the society has determined that cancer from smoking is a physical illness and cancer from stress is a mental illness. The twin with the physical illness goes to one hospital where people treat him nicely, compassionately, and he gets cards from his co-workers that say “get well soon!” and “we miss you!” That twin gets a benefit that raises all sorts of money for his treatment because there is an outpouring of community support. Everyone on his street wears cancer awareness ribbons for a month while he heals. His strength and courage is noted in a touching news story. His wife talks about how hard it is and everyone listens and helps her out with daily living. People show they care.

But the other twin, the one with cancer because of mental stress, well, he doesn’t tell anyone what is wrong because he is afraid he might lose his job. Most people kind of know what’s wrong, but no one says anything openly. When he goes to the hospital for treatment even the staff, jaded and overworked, treat him as if he is to blame for his problems. No one except his mom visits him and he gets not one single get well card. His illness is pretty hush-hush, because mental illness has a stigma. People all SAY that it wasn’t his fault. People all SAY there is no stigma, but the fact remains that he didn’t get any get well cards and NO ONE wants to talk about his cancer. His isolation and lack of support drive him to a deep depression. His wife, working hard to be his sole support and take care of the house and do all the chores gets teased because her husband doesn’t contribute. She carries the burden silently, because there is no other option. No one shows they care openly, they only look upon her with pity once in awhile and in quiet voices occasionally ask how she’s doing, but it’s pretty obvious they don’t really want to know. Her husband’s guilt over what his sickness is doing to her does not help the cancer treatment. Which twin is more likely to heal? Or doesn’t that matter to you?

This hypothetical story is not over dramatized for effect. In fact, I toned it down because unless you have been to a psych ward, unless you have suffered a lifetime of mental illness, you wouldn’t believe how shitty the reality of social stigma is.

I have narcolepsy, too. That’s a neurological disorder with a physical cause. It’s a physical illness. Do you know that because of narcolepsy, I don’t get deep sleep? I am chronically sleep deprived. It’s like how you might feel after staying awake for 2 nights in  a row, only I feel that way every day. I had psychologists tell me my tiredness was due to emotional factors. But I had one doctor who insisted I seek a physical cause, and I did. I currently take a medicine that knocks me the fuck out at night and I get deep sleep. My mental illnesses have subsided tremendously. Deep sleep has given me healing like no cognitive behavioral therapy could ever give me. My emotional symptoms have shrunk down to so minimal, I don’t think I’d qualify as mentally ill anymore. Treating a bona fide physical illness has made my mental illness completely manageable. Where’s the line between physical illness and mental illness in that scenario???? Does it matter? Maybe not to you, but it does to me. Because should I stop getting my medicine covered by insurance or should it stop working, I might go bat shit crazy again. Then, like the poor cancer twin who had to go to the mental illness hospital because his cancer was caused by emotional trauma, I will have to seek medical help from the mental health professionals that treat me differently than the physical health professionals. And they do. Believe me, they do. And so does society. And friends. And family. They all do. Because they maybe don’t get that the stigma really exists and really does matter. And it wouldn’t exist if people would realize that the line between physical and mental illness is non-existent. There’s no line, folks. There’s a really blurry gray zone if anything. As science progresses, that gray zone will probably disappear. When will the stigma?

So stop saying it doesn’t matter if it’s a physical illness or a mental illness. You’re perpetuating the myth that there are two separate and distinct kinds of illnesses, and as long as there is a distinction there will be stigma. And I fucking HATE going to the psych ward and not getting any get well cards. It fucking hurts.

Saturday, June 8, 2013

The Price You Pay for Laughter

I had fun today. No students were in the building, staff were all burned out with their end of year tasks, and I had just finished having a conversation with my friend about poop in an effort to distract myself from the urge to cry at my desk all out there in public. I was walking down the hall to ask the technology guy about our email system and I saw the teacher from across the hall standing over what looked like a gurney or a surgical table or something. He was rolling it back and forth, asking the few of us out there in the hall what we thought it was. I voted for mobile surgical table.  So then he says "hey, someone jump on here. Let's take it for a ride." We all laughed and blew him off. But he said it again, and I thought "what the hell?" He stabilized it while I climbed on (not easy) and off we went down the hall with me screaming "I'm flying! I'm flying!" Teachers appeared in their doorways the length of the hallway. It was really fun.

My friend encouraged me to go out after work with everyone, but I declined. It is so much fun to gather with teachers at the end of the year. Teachers have a lot of steam to blow off, and drinks and summer are a lethal combination. I had to decline. I have been going home every day and crying or screaming myself to sleep for a week. I'm exhausted. I knew that going out, even for an hour, would wear me out like I had partied for 3 days straight, snorting coke and doing shots and dancing. Even if I didn't drink. I declined because my grandchildren are coming to visit tomorrow from the city and staying for 3 weeks. I declined because I still have work to do to end the school year and so I need to pace myself with taking care of grandkids, doing household chores, and taking time for naps. I declined because as fun as it is to listen to the teachers make witty comments about each other, the students, and the admin, it is a great lot of emotional and intellectual work to stay distant enough that I don't over share yet intimate enough to be a part of the group. I declined because I am fragile and raw, and if someone says something to me that I decide to take as a dagger to my soul, I might fly into a rage and loose the respect of those I work with.

I decided to go home, walk the chihuahuas for a few minutes, clean off the kitchen counter, and start a load of laundry. I cried a fair bit. I know it's bad when I do minor shit like blow my nose into my tshirt because getting off the chair seems undoable. Eventually  I rose up to get tissue, but my legs hurt like a mother fucker. I'm tired. This tiredness is a soul crushing, made worse by the fact I was carted down the hallway at top speeds laughing and screaming and having fun.

Friday, May 17, 2013

narcolepsy

I have been seeing psychologists and psychiatrists for 31 years. I have been seeing medical doctors for 46 years. Yesterday, for the first time ever, one of them said to me "you will never really feel good. Treatment for narcolepsy is an attempt to get you functional. You will spend a lot of time educating your friends and coworkers about narcolepsy and why you feel tired all the time. People won't understand."

You could easily substitute "depression" for "narcolepsy" but doctors never tell you that you will never get better from that. Nor do doctors ever tell you to educate your co-workers about your mental illness. Mental illness is to be hidden, overcome, coped with, and for God's sake not talked about at work. Neurological disorders, however, can be.

Here I have been suffering mostly silently for 31 years....and now because I have a label for my suffering that is recognized as neurological it is okay to educate my co-workers.  Fuck you society and fuck your mental health sigmas.