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.

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.

Now That I know Its Name, I Can Overcome It, Right?

God Bless my psychologist for telling me, over and over, that he believed there was a physical reason for my tiredness and to go to a doctor relentlessly, 4 times a year. My Tiredness, my Nemesis, the Enemy....I have discovered after years of trying to cope with mental illness that when I am not as tired I have fewer/less severe symptoms. So, I sleep a lot. My entire life is structured so that my sleep is protected. It is the single most important factor in my health, possibly second to my sobriety but not necessarily. Now I have the results of a sleep study that tell me the exact NAME of my Tiredness - Narcolepsy!

Narcolepsy. Possibly caused by genetics and trauma or virus or bad luck. Narcolepsy. Causes excessive tiredness, hallucinations, and cataplexy (loss of muscle control - especially during intense emotion.) Narcolepsy. It is the reason I wake up 59.6 times per hour all night long. Narcolepsy. I know Its name and WebMd has given me all sorts of information so I should be able to overcome It, right? Yet here I sit, crying, because it's only 5:38 P.M. and I'm exhausted and I didn't even work today and tomorrow my family is coming over so I need to clean the house and I can't, I can't, I can't because I'm too tired. Tiredness, I know your fucking name and it is Narcolepsy and Fuck You.

Why is it okay for me to be angry I have narcolepsy, okay for me to share with people that I have narcolepsy, but not okay for me to share that I have DID? Why can I say to a close co-worker that I have hallucinations due to narcolepsy, but no way in hell should I ever disclose that I have hallucinations due to PTSD? Can I tell people now that if I am overwhelmed with emotion I piss myself, because one symptom of narcolepsy is cataplexy (loss of muscle control)....or it could be an emotional flashback due to childhood sexual abuse. I'm angry at No-One because I have narcolepsy, and angry at myself that I have mental illness.

But now that I know I have Narcolepsy, I can surely use the secrets revealed to me through the internet to combat and overcome. Only the treatment is what I already have - a prescription for stimulants. And at 5:38 P.M. I shouldn't take more stimulants because I need to go to bed at a decent hour and get my sleep (interrupted every fucking minute by Narcolepsy). So nothing has changed and all the Knowing in the world doesn't help me get out of my chair and clean the bathroom for guests. No, now that I know Its Name, I CAN'T fucking overcome It. It still makes me tired.

PTSD and DID and the internal Game of Thrones

Political intrigue as each tries to control the realm. Sexual intrigue as each use their bodies to create new alliances or express lusty desires. Twisted actions follow twisted thoughts follow twisted childhoods. Flashes of gore capture attention and punctuate the pure rawness of the landscape. If you watch Game of Thrones, you know of what I speak. If you have DID, you probably do too. If you have PTSD, it's all too familiar - no matter the trauma.

Trauma. My mind is broken by trauma. The Landscape of my memories is trapped in a variety of seasons with little to no security and absolutely no promise of a stable future. Aren't memories the stuff that makes a person? What is the relationship between memory and personality? If memory is stored with fluctuating borders, than it only makes sense that personality will fluctuate as well. Like the royalty in Game of Thrones, the people in my system fight for control of my mind, sharing memories at times and then walling them off. My personality shifts as their control shifts.

Right now, I have a dark prince rising to control my entire mind. He has blood red eyes and will sacrifice anyone to reach his goal. He has the anger and the drive of someone who has been traumatized, without the memory of the trauma. He is PTSD, he recognizes the other identities without compassion for them, and his game is to claim the Throne. THE Throne - the center of control, the memories, the limbic system, nervous system, rational thought. I don't know what he thinks will happen to the emotion. He doesn't want the emotion. Perhaps he seeks to destroy the emotion so that it is no longer a stumbling block to preserving the realm.

War is beginning.

"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.        

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.