Scattered pieces

When I was growing up, my father’s anger dictated the mood within the house.  The image of him sitting in his lounge chair, while the waves of silent anger came pouring off of him, is one of my consistent flashbacks.  The fear I feel when seeing that image, is immense.

Closely associated with my father sitting in his lounge chair, is him watching the rugby games which seemed to be broadcast every weekend.  During the broadcasts, everyone in the house had to be silent.  The only spoken words were demands for more beer, or food.

Then there was the rugby club.  Another of my constant flashbacks and a place associated with abuse, chaos and neglect.

All of the events associated with those flashbacks happened over 20 years ago.  They seem so far away, and yet so close.

One of the things keeping them close is the Rugby World Cup that is underway in New Zealand.  For more than a month, there have been daily reminders of rugby and it’s importance in the nations psyche – I wake up to rugby news on the radio; every third or fourth car has a different nations flags flying proudly from their windows; there are billboards on the side of the road; there is a supporters display covering half of a wall in the building that I work; rugby is prominently in the newspapers; it’s on every television channel (even the ones proudly advertising that they are NOT the home of rugby); it’s on the Internet… it.is.everywhere.  I can’t avoid it… believe me, I’ve tried.

Last night New Zealand won a place in the World Cup final.  Another week of heightened publicity before it’s all over.  I honestly don’t think I can cope.  I’ve become more withdrawn and stilted over the last few months.  The chaos this event has caused has been added to the other stress I’m experiencing, and it’s become more and more of a mess inside my head.

The constant refrain in my head is that I don’t need anyone… that I don’t need help… that the only option is to run away.  I know that thinking is dangerous, but it’s all I have.

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Some days, you just want the world to slow down… preferably stop.  It feels like you’re being swept along on a tidal wave of noise, anxiety and demands from others… but all you want to do is stand still and ask it to stop.  The thing is, it will never stop… our only hope is to change the way we deal with those feelings.

The past few months have been a fairly constant series of tidal waves, dragging me under and tossing me about.  This has come to some sort of head this week… my mother is visiting for her 70th birthday; the Rugby World Cup starts tonight (the hoopla associated with such an event has been intense); Winnie’s health is failing; and I was offered the position of team leader.  Being offered the job seems to have been the last straw.  As soon as the offer was made, an internal cacophony erupted… “Yes” … “No” … “$%^# NO” … “What?” … “YES” … “I’m scared“…

Possibly because there was so much confusion, I didn’t do an immediate people pleasing response of “Yes”.  They gave me the weekend to think it over, but it feels like I’m running on a mouse wheel, going nowhere.  I already struggle to cope with work, so why would I want to increase that stress?  My manager and current team leader say that I am ready for the move… but, am I?  Is someone who needs fairly major doses of sedatives before they can teach, really be able to lead a team?  I’m already showing physical signs of the stress, so would this push me over the edge?

It feels like I’m being pulled in all directions.  It feels like the only way out is through the old coping mechanisms.  To say “Yes” and take the punishment.  Be a good girl, and play the game.

You always have to play the game, no matter what.

I just want to be alone… alone and clean.  I feel so dirty and disgusting.

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Now playing: Christina Aguilera – Beautiful
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Of all the relationships in my life, my one with food is probably one of the most dysfunctional.  It started from when I was a baby, when I was defined as a “fussy eater”.  This warped over time into odd eating behaviours… when my mother used to get us ready for school, I remember we would have breakfast and a prepared lunch; but that only happened for the first couple of years of my schooling, and I was soon going to school without breakfast or lunch.  I don’t remember ever feeling hungry during these times, but I do remember the embarrassment when it was raining and we had to eat our lunch in the classroom… I always pretended that I’d forgotten my lunch.  It wasn’t that we were poor, and couldn’t afford food; I just didn’t know how to make lunch, and I wasn’t really interested.  The couple of times that I did make my lunch, I recall looking at it as an oddity, and as if it was some sort of foreign thing that had arrived out of the blue.  I never felt jealous of my friends who had lunches, only boredom as I waited for them to finish eating.

During my childhood, there were a couple of significant events involving food and my weight that strongly effected me:

1. My father commented that “at least she’s not fat like her mother and sister”.
2. My mother would compare myself and her friends daughters regarding our weight.  One time she pushed in my loose t-shirt, to show that I didn’t have a “fat stomach”.

These events dehumanised me, and made me think that if I was overweight, then no one would want to touch me.  That weight would act like a protective barrier against the world.  This thinking became strong during my teens, and I gained weight…  I no longer wanted people to touch me.  But what I didn’t expect, was the teasing and self-hatred that my weight caused.  This is what started the roller-coaster that my weight became – I would lose weight, and feel vulnerable to abuse; so gain weight, and feel disgusting and gross.

When I attended university, my weight issues came to a head.  I couldn’t afford food, and there were stressors which meant that some of my other self-injurious behaviours became out of control.  My weight dropped drastically.  It was the first time that the doctors started weighing me as a way of monitoring what was going on.  As I’d never owned any scales, this was the first time I’d been weighed since I was in school.  I remember being horrified at my weight… it was much too high.  I’ve never had an ideal weight in my mind, but what was being shown on the scale was way above what I thought it should be.  I remember the doctor talking about nutrition, and how I was showing signs of deficiencies.  I remember him talking about having to monitor my weight unless I got it back up to a healthy level.  All I wanted, was to run and hide.

When I finished university, by weight went back to the roller-coaster, mainly dipping when I was going out with someone.  In many ways, I considered eating to be an inconvenience.  People seemed obsessed with it, and I couldn’t understand the obsession.  At other times, I would be eating, and part way through a mouthful of food, become so disgusted with what was in my mouth that I didn’t know what to do with it.  Sometimes I would have to go and get rid of it, sometimes I was frozen in disgust.

During my marriage, food was a control issue… everything else in my life was so out of control, that I had to have some control somewhere.  The ex-husband was a big man, and a big eater.  He liked to think that he was a chef, but in reality, he was a glorified kitchen hand.  He preferred fatty, unhealthy foods.  That, in combination with the memories surrounding the times when my father was a butcher, were the final straw for my brain, and I could no long touch uncooked food.  It became difficult to touch any food, but uncooked meat, was especially difficult.  The feel of it on my skin was stomach churning.  This, combined with feeling that I didn’t deserve good nutrition, again led to more signs of malnutrition… oddly enough I was overweight at this time, but not eating food that had any nutritional value.

During the process of my divorce, the food issues ramped up again.  I soon couldn’t eat at all.  I was surviving on nutritional drinks, and trying to show a smiling face to the world.

Other forms of self-injury have co-existed with my food issues, and often if one of the other forms increases, then the food issues ease off.  It’s seemed like some sort of warped trade-off.  But now, it’s revolving solely around food.

Over the last few months, I’ve lost a fairly significant amount of weight.  But oddly enough, even though I weigh myself every day, with the hope of losing weight, a part of me doesn’t connect the dots between losing weight, and losing dress sizes.  So when I had to go and buy new clothing, there was a panic about going down in size… fears of the abuse starting again resurfaced, and ironically, drove a need for more food control.

I’ve never been diagnosed as having an eating disorder, so I feel a bit of a fake talking about this… but as someone recently told me, you don’t have to be diagnosed with something, in order to have a problem with it.  I have a problem, I’m just not sure how bad it is.

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Now playing: Fauré: Cantique De Jean Racine, Op. 11
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I get confused, between the then and now.

It’s easy to fall back on the familiar, because that is all I know.

They say I’m trouble, but all I’m doing is following the rules.

They say the rules have changed.

I’ve been tricked like that before.

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Now playing: ‪Chopin Nocturne Op.27 No.1
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I rarely remember my dreams, but there is one that I had approximately five years ago which I’ll always remember…

There are a group of young girls, dressed in white, escorted to a room by their mothers. One of the mothers is new to the ceremony, and is showing signs of nervousness.

Then the businessmen come in.

The girls are paraded in a circle in front of the men, while the mothers stand to the side, smiling encouragement to their daughters.  The businessmen take their pick of the girls… one of them being the new girl.  The businessmen and their chosen girls go to a hotel, where they are abused.

The mothers whose daughters were chosen, are smiling and congratulating each other… their daughters were good enough to be chosen.  But the new mother is having second thoughts… she wants to go up and rescue her daughter, but the other mothers hold her back.  Telling her of the honour and privilege it was for her daughter to be picked.

I don’t pretend to understand how to interpret dreams, but what I find interesting about this dream that it is focused on the mothers.  In particular, the betrayal of mothers towards their daughters.  They didn’t protect them, instead they actively facilitated their daughters abuse.

This is very much how parts of me feel towards my mother.  This sense of betrayal is the reason why I had so much trouble going to Wellington.  It’s not the city (I used to live here), but it’s the feelings induced by both of my parents being in the same city.  In particular, a fear that the mother will offer us up for abuse.

My rational mind knows that this will not happen, but these fears are old fears.  They’re not based on present day logic, but instead on the perceptions that I formed as a child. Perceptions based on what I wanted a mother to be, and do… one who protected and nourished.  But in reality, she was so consumed with keeping on top of all of the obvious issues, that the ones which were even superficially hidden, were over-looked.

If I look at this knowledge within the context of the dream, she is the new mother to the group who wasn’t fully involved in the process of abuse.  She tried to stop it, but was distracted by the screen of those around her.  The imagery of both my mother, and the one in the dream, is that of weakness.  Neither were observant, neither were thinking beyond the present moment, and they therefore found themselves in situations for which they were not capable of handling.

My mother never knowingly facilitated the abuse, but instead didn’t pick up on the signs.  At one time my mother said that she suspected that something was going on with one of my sister’s boyfriends.  But today, when I asked her, she said she had no idea about any of it.  Instead, anything that might have been considered a sign, was explained away as being “who you were”.

There’s an emptiness in hearing this.  It makes sense, in that I was trying my very best to be “perfect”.  But it also hurts, in that I was not noticed in any real way… my cover story was all that people saw – or maybe all they wanted to see.

I drove for over six hours to reach Wellington.  That was a long time to think about what was going to happen.  There were thoughts of suicide, rather than facing the certainty of abuse that parts thought they were going to be exposed to… thoughts of being able to do this visit, just like all of the visits from the mother… thoughts of what has happened in the past, and how out of control the present has become.

At one point of the drive the messages about the mother not being able to protect me were being repeated over and over… I countered this with the thought that I am capable of protecting myself now.  This was met with a sense of disbelief.  It’s always comforting to know that I have such little faith in my own abilities…  But realistically, I am capable of keeping myself safe from self injury.  I’ve done so before, and I can do it again.

I’m told that healing is all about looking at the present feelings, understanding their origins, accepting them as valid, and using various coping mechanisms to help them be tolerated.  Sounds easy, huh?  So far, this weekend has proven it to be anything but easy.

One moment at a time…
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Now playing: Adele – Rolling In The Deep
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It’s 2011.  That means that I can go to the city where the father lives.  I can stay for the weekend, and I can leave without being hurt.

That is what the adult part of me knows.  I know that he no longer wants to hurt me.  I know that I can go to a big city and stay there without him finding out.  I can go to the museums and the shops.  I can celebrate my birthday with my mother.  I can leave without him even being aware that I was there.  It’s 2011, and I have the ability to stay safe.

So why is there that little voice inside me asking questions in a terrified voice?  Asking whether the sister will tell him where we’re going to be.  Asking whether the aunt knows, and will tell him.  What if he comes into the city and sees us?  What if he touches us again?  What if the mother doesn’t protect us again?  What if we can’t escape?

What if…

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The theme for this months Expressive Arts Carnival is:

Through drawing, painting, photography or any other visual means, create an image about mechanisms you have used to cope when you thought you could not.

I admit it, I have a love/hate relationship with coping mechanisms.  I’m often told by mental health professionals that I know plenty of coping mechanisms…  I’m often told by the crisis lines to “go do your coping techniques”…  Both of these statements have a tendency to annoy me.  While they’re both true, I also see them as a cop out.  So I know plenty of coping mechanisms, does that mean I can’t learn any more?  Yes, doing various coping techniques help me when I’m feeling overwhelmed; but by the time I’ve called the crisis lines, I’ve usually been doing them for at least 12 hours straight and need some support beyond what the coping mechanisms can provide.  So while I see the need for coping mechanisms, I sometimes approach them with a sense of dread.

Even after all of these years, I still label the activities “coping mechanisms”, which can sometimes cause an odd tension.  I know that I need to do them in order to help keep me present and safe; but because of the connotations surrounding their use, it feels as if they are assigned a label, and trotted out on special occasions.  This is even for the techniques I have managed to build into my life as part of my routine and attempts to enrich my life.  One week I may go out and take photos because I feel like it; but the next week, taking photos becomes a coping technique which must be carried out in order to keep the crazy at bay.  Same activity, but totally different meanings.

It can be challenging to use coping techniques.  They can act as a distraction from the emotions which threaten to overwhelm, but they also encourage you to sit with the emotions without “checking out” through the use of the old, less healthy means of coping (self-injury, etc).  It can also be challenging finding ones which work… something that works one day, might not work another.  Even realising that you are worthy of using a healthy coping mechanism, instead of self-injuring, can be difficult.  There are times when no matter what I try, I’m still swept along with the old ways of coping… but I’ve found that the more I get angry at myself for that, the more anxiety there is the next time I begin to get overwhelmed.  That’s not to say that I accept that the self-injury has happened, I don’t; instead I try to learn from it.  The more I can learn about the triggers and the motivations, the more likely I am to recognise the warning signs, and try different coping mechanisms before it’s too late.

My entry for this months carnival is an indication of my attempts to learn about new ways of coping.  Last year, I underwent a psychiatric assessment to determine my level of impairment.  I don’t react well to any assessment, but this one was particularly difficult.  I wrote a history of my abuse… something that I’d never done before, and it caused a great deal of turmoil and confusion.

I knew beforehand that I might react badly to the assessment, so I made plans to try and help myself cope with it all.  I arranged for some time off work, asked my mother to stay, and organised a trip by the sea as a reward for getting through the assessment.  On one level, these arrangements made sense… I was unlikely to be able to function at work, so arrange some time off work, etc.  But, on another level, they were also attempts at self care and utilising positive coping mechanisms.  Trying to understand my limits, and working within them.

Not everything went as planned, and there was some serious bumps along the way.  Probably the most challenging time was when I went away for the trip.  What should have been a restful time at the beach, turned into a messy contradiction in terms of coping and safety.  At times, I could go for a walk along the beach and feel the sense of peace; but at times, I was swept away by the emotions which were stirred by the assessment.  After one particularly bad night, I forced myself to pick up my camera and go for a walk.  I walked for hours… something that is rare for me, as I usually need a purpose when going out.  During that walk, I took the photo below.  It’s not my best photo, but it represents a time when I was struggling so desperately to stay present and safe.  If I’d been more present, I would have chosen a different angle, and camera settings… but as it is, the photo shows my attempts to connect to the environment around me. It’s not perfect, but it stills works… especially if you squint a bit, and tilt your head to the right.

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Now playing: Natalie Merchant – Wonder
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I now realise that I want, or expect, my mothers reactions and feelings towards me to be black and white.  I want her to care, or not care… love, or not love… nothing in between. I don’t understand the ambiguity of her reactions to me.  I don’t understand how she can come up here when I ask her to support me; but then treat me with casual disregard in other ways.

I need her to be the bad guy, because then I have somewhere to direct my anger.  In many ways, she is a safe outlet for that anger (the anger for the father is too immense to go near).  I acknowledge some of the anger directed towards her is justified… she suspected that I was being hurt, but did nothing; and she can say the most cruel and thoughtless things.  But she doesn’t deserve to be the sole beneficiary of the anger that I direct outwards.

My mother was brought up in a house that was dysfunctional – Granddad had at least one affair, and brought a woman pregnant with his child into their house to live for awhile; and Nana had Parkinson’s Disease, so my mother had to take on extra responsibilities from a fairly early age.  Her marriage to my father was also dysfunctional.  She knew this fairly early on in the marriage; but in those days, you didn’t divorce.  Divorce would have been seen as a failure – when she was still married, Granddad told her that at least one of his daughters got it right.

So, she comes from a history of dysfunction.  She has superficially sought help for the issues that arise from that dysfunction; but didn’t see it as worthwhile, so never went too deep.  This means that her ability to change is minimal.  Over time, she has come to accept my mental health issues with a little more understanding… she’s now less likely to ask “when is this all going to be over”… this indicates that she can change, or at least lower her expectations of me.

In many ways, my relationship with my mother is all about my own failings.  This is the reason I react to her thoughtless words… I used to be the perfect daughter, and I no longer am.  I don’t have the ability to compartmentalise my reaction to her, as well I used to.  When she is around, I can usually do it… but I’m now aware of the consequences of bottling all of that hurt up and putting it away.  That’s not to say that I lash out at her, I don’t… I just shut down while she is around.  It’s a very compartmentalised way of interacting with her.  It may sound harsh, but it’s probably how we’ve always interacted, I just wasn’t aware of it.

It was Mother’s Day here yesterday.  I was in a dissociative fog for most of the day… I reached out to my mother, but it wasn’t a good interaction.  I was expecting a level of interaction that will never be.  I need to understand that.  I need to understand the ambiguity that comes from being human…  It’s not a personal insult when she cuts off our Skype call to talk on the phone to my brother, it’s just how she is.  She will never change, so I need to change my reactions to the hurt caused.

It’s this sort of relationship that makes me realise how far reaching the effect of any abuse can be.  My mother never had the skills to make the lives for her children better than her own… I don’t think she realised that there was anything better.  That’s probably the saddest part of this whole situation, my mother will never know anything better.  She escaped an abusive marriage, but never addressed the underlying issues which drew her to that abuse to begin with.  This is why healing is so important… learning to change the way we view the world.  That takes time, effort and perseverance…  some days, those qualities seem in very short supply.

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Now playing: Silverchair – Ana’s Song (Open Fire)
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