Crucified

Not with nails, not to a cross, but I am crucified nonetheless. The little scratch I made with the utility knife is a tardis - much bigger on the inside than on the outside. Inside that little, pathetic cut is myself, stabbing at my arm repetitively, digging out chunks of flesh, screaming. I am treating myself "cruelly," causing pain and suffering. I am hurting myself. I engage in sadistic self-torture because I feel shame and the result is more shame. SHAME on me. Heaped upon me. Burying me with its heaviness. I wish I could dig out of this shame but it is a tardis - much bigger inside.

I wish I had not given the drugs to my therapist. I wish they were on the counter where they have been sitting for months, calling me seductively but quietly, with class and tact. "Eat me, and float for 12 hours, on a couch of soft nothing." Now they are miles away, on his counter, screaming at me with vehement, white trash rage "you fucking BITCH! You left us and now instead of floating with us we sit in the dark, unconsumed, while your FUCKING rage consumes you! SHAME!" Instead I take the psychiatrically condoned anti-psychotic tranquilizer that I won't float upon, rather I will be smothered with. It is oppressive, not fun, which is why I can take it. But FUCK the doctors, I took a non-sanctioned lovely pill I got from a pharmacy from India, fair and square right off the internet. Does that make me a drug addict? Is this a slip? Did I just stab my sobriety in the back? Is it so wrong for one of my selves to take one pill to calm me down, while another one of my selves takes a pill to keep me awake? 

Maybe "crucify" isn't the right word. Maybe "sabotage" is more fitting.

It's been a hard fucking day, people. I dare anyone who has never been sadistically tortured by another to attempt to understand (i.e. crawl into the head of) someone who has been sadistically tortured by another. 

The mind itself is a tardis, transporting its soul to the past to relive, relive, relive. 

Jesus was crucified. For my sins, apparently, and the sins of the bad people of the world, so that we wouldn't have to die. But I want to die. I am sick of crucification and I can't seem to stop the shame and the rage and triggering that gets me to this place. I am dangerous like this, so much more dangerous than when I am simply "depressed." I am alive when I am like this, so much more alive than when I am depressed. I am lethal when I am like this, alive and deadly. I could jump off the cross and save myself, I suppose, but my purpose is a tardis, so big inside that I cannot see it from my vantage point here on the precipice of shame. I crucify myself, so that the little one inside can live without the heaviness of the sins of the bad people of the world. I rage so that I can feel alive, and even if the rage ends in my suicide then at least for awhile I felt alive. I bet right before Jesus died he felt the most alive. 

Faith in the Face of Rape

"Oh god!" It's the classic outcry of orgasm....and that's not a fluke. Sex is spiritual. Rape kills a part of your soul.

I can see the rapist's face when I was a teenager and I can feel him inside me and I can smell his dirty couch. How do I retain any sense of faith in the face of rape?

My mind wanders backwards in time to that place that is shadow and perception. I'm too young, maybe 3, to make much sense of anything. As I write this I become aroused and sick to my stomach at the same time. I don't know what the face of this rapist looks like. I have seen a picture of him, with me on his lap, but his face is blank. Yet I survived so I must have had some kind of little girl faith. Why would I not curl up and die? Why would I create these selves to protect me if I didn't have some kind of fundamental belief in things I could not at the time see (like 'hope' and 'goodness' and 'safety')? What was I saving myself for if not to redeem some small piece of my soul?

Maybe I have faith because I cannot see his face.

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.