Scattered pieces

Today, I ventured outside for the first time in months.  Yes, I’ve been going to work, and doing the bare necessities in the way of chores; but I haven’t been outside for anything other than that for a long time.  It was also the first time I’d picked up my camera in months.  These are some of the photos I took…

Duckling

Ducklings

Waxeye

Lion fountain

They mean different things to me… from the cuteness of the ducklings, through to the almost desperate stance of the lion.

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Now playing: Brooke Fraser – Lifeline
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I remember sitting on the mat, near the front, and to the left of Mrs B.  It was the first day of the new school year, and I’d just been moved into “The Unit” – two classrooms joined into one, in the middle of the junior primary school.  Possibly because it was the first day of school, everything seemed so noisy.  Other children were talking to their friends they hadn’t seen since school got out the year before.  A couple of boys were running around the large room, while one of the younger teachers was loudly telling them off.  But, I looked straight ahead, blocking out everything as I looked at Mrs B. talking.

Mrs B. started to called out the role.  My name wasn’t on it.  I continued sitting there, frozen in fear… confused as to what this meant.  I thought that if I stayed quiet enough, no one would notice that I wasn’t meant to be there.  What was one more child to a teacher, anyway?  I didn’t like the look of the other teachers, they were younger and didn’t have the kind eyes of Mrs B.  So I sat there, trying to sink into the mat.  Then, the inevitable happened… a boy from the group I was meant to be in, came looking for the me.  In a daze, I followed him to the group I was meant to be in.  I didn’t look over my shoulder, I’d learned not to look back…

I sat with the rest of the class that I was assigned to be in, dazed and unsure.  I didn’t like this new teacher, she was the one who had been yelling at the boys.  Her face was full of harsh lines, nothing like the softness of Mrs B.  She told me to sit at the front… possibly so that I wouldn’t escape from her again.  That is all that I remember of that teacher… her harsh face and voice.

Throughout the year, the classes intermingled to some extent.  If you needed something, you were to go to your assigned teacher first, but could ask one of the others, if yours wasn’t available.  My main memory of this class, besides the noise, was the writing we were asked to do.  This was the first time we were asked to use our imagination to write a story.  We were to then take our story to a teacher to have it checked.  I hated having my work checked… my spelling has never been stunning, and creativity was never my strong suit.  On one occasion, I took my story to be checked by Mrs B.  She read it through, and showed me how each of my sentences started with the same word.  She suggested that I go and re-write it so that it wasn’t all the same.  I remember being crushed by her criticism, because I liked Mrs B., I wanted everything I showed her to be perfect… I saw perfection as the only way that anyone would like me.

I don’t remember how long it took me to re-write my story, but I was one of the last to go and get it re-checked.  I felt numb as I approached Mrs B. a second time.  I bit down on the inside of my mouth as she read my story.  I stood silently, waiting.  When she raised her arm, I flinched… I remained like stone as she draped her arm around my shoulders, pulled me up against the side of her body, and hugged me.  It was only as she started praising me, that I relaxed… I still remember her voice telling me that she knew I could do it.  She gave me one last gentle squeeze, before releasing me and writing an A on my paper.

As I walked back to my desk, I was beaming… I’d finally done something right.

These are the main memories I have of the first teacher who showed me kindness.  Other teachers since Mrs B. have shown me kindness, but I’ll always remember that hug.  I don’t know if she hugged other children, I imagine she did…  I don’t know if she realised the importance of that hug for me, I doubt it.  I imagine that for Mrs B., it was something she did as a reward for good work… for me, it was about being touched in a safe way, acceptance and kindness.

Thank you Mrs B.  Thank you for showing an awkward child that there was such a thing as safety in this world.

The Expressive Arts Carnival this month is to provide three words, and a hex colour code to contribute towards a healing word cloud.  My three words are: safety, acceptance and kindness.  I chose purple as the colour for my words, because for me, it represents protection and safety.

Thank you Paul… I needed the reminder that healing doesn’t always have to be painful.

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Now playing: Counting Crows – Rain King
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As a child, it was often up to me to take on the responsibility of the destructive play of my siblings… if something got damaged while the four of us were playing, the others decided that, because I was the favourite, the father would be less angry if I took the blame.  This sort of blame game became so advanced, that I would often come home from school to find myself responsible for another broken vase, letting the chooks out, etc.  Because I was so much younger than the others, I took on the responsibility that the others gave me without question – I had little choice.

This scenario set me up for taking punishments which weren’t mine to take.  It also meant that when I really did something wrong, I thought the world was going to end, because I’d been punished for things I didn’t do, so how bad was the punishment going to be for the things that I did do?  I tried in very childish ways to cover up for any of my mistakes, and tried so very hard not to make any to begin with.  But, mistakes were inevitable.  My father is narcissistic, so often the mistakes were beyond my comprehension… spending too long with a friends family (“Do you like them more than your own family?”), reading too many books (“So you think you’re better than the rest of us, do you?”), and so on.

It seemed as if the goal posts which determined my mistakes, and what I was responsible for, kept changing.

This has lead to what has been described as one of my more annoying traits… the tendency to apologise for everything and anything.  I apologise like it’s my responsibility that someone else is having a bad day, and taking it out on you; when someone else makes a bad decision; that you got an B instead of an A for that assignment… you get the idea.  I realise that this is my co-dependency issues coming to the surface again… I’ll do anything to placate someone and ease a tense situation.  I don’t intellectually believe that I am responsible for these problems; but I believe emotionally that if I don’t apologise, something bad will happen.  The more I care about you, or the more I’m scared of you, the more I will apologise.

I’m not sure if it is associated with this trait, but I often don’t remember apologies from others.  I can be sure that someone else hasn’t apologised, to then find an email where they clearly state they’re sorry for a misunderstanding.  As I write this, I wonder if I don’t remember others apologies, because I don’t want to be in the role of a person doling out the punishment for the wrongs others have done.  I vividly remember my father saying that he didn’t want to punish me, but he had to because it was the only way that I’d learn.  I could be saying sorry, but it didn’t matter, the punishment had to be done.  So now, it’s almost as if I’m scared that by accepting an apology, I’ll be responsible for that person being hurt in some way, just as my father was “forced” to punish when he didn’t want to… so I block out the apology to avoid the consequences.

I often block out the misunderstanding as well, but not always.  This can create a situation where parts of me are feeling (rightly) agrieved about a situation; and while an apology has been forthcoming from the other person involved, other parts of the system have blocked the apology as an old self protection coping mechanism.  The knowledge that I can block out an apology leads to a situation where I doubt my own experiences and feelings.  I’m never sure whether I have a right to be upset about something, or whether it was sorted through at the time of the incident.  As a result, I tend to stamp down my feelings and keep on going.

As I heal, I’m finding that the stamping down isn’t as effective.  There is more tension around the issue of being hurt by others and apologies in general.  I get confused about when I should be offended, and when I deserve an apology.  It’s a whole other kettle of fish actually acting on any of those feelings…  I often miss the mark, and ask about a situation which I don’t fully remember, and has been worked through.  I’d like to think that it’s progress that I took the risk of asking… but in reality it makes me feel like a failure for not having the full picture.  I’ve learned to only do this with people that I trust, and are the least likely to be offended if I don’t remember the whole incident… like learning all things new, I’ve still got my training wheels on, and one of them is a bit loose.  Until I can fix the training wheel and get more confidence about what apologies mean to me, I’ll keep on apologising at the drop of a hat, and question those that let me land on a soft cushion when I get it wrong.

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Now playing: The Fray – How To Save A Life
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There has been another major Earthquake in Christchurch.  This one has claimed lives.  The city is in ruins.

I don’t understand.

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Now playing: Enya – May It Be
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I’m struggling.

I honestly don’t know what else to say, besides those two words.  I could try to tell you the reasons, but they are just a jumble in my head.  I try to make sense of the jumble, but all I get are disjointed Polyvore sets…

First this…

Then, within an hour, this…

The text in the second set is from the poem Evening song of the Thoughtful Child by Katherine Mansfield.

So yes, I’m struggling.

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Now playing: Green Day – Good Riddance (Time Of Your Life)
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Ever notice how easy it is to lose track of the days, weeks, months… years?  At times it scares me.  I know that the mother visited for three weeks.  I know that when she was here, we had several lunches at The Coffee Club; went to two 3D movies (I think Tangled was one of them); I brought her a new camera; and we went to a nearby town where I purchased a small gift for a friend.  The only reason I know all of that, is I have the bank statements to follow my trail.  I’ve no idea what happened on the days when I might have used cash – that’s one of the reasons I never carry cash on me.

According to my computer, it’s now 10.22am on Wednesday, 12th of January.  Isn’t that strange?  What happened to December and the previous 11 days of January?  I really don’t remember – I have some vague, disjointed images of that time, but not many.

I know friends have been struggling.  I know there have been bereavements, Christenings, excited moments over hope for new life, humour in odd things… yes, I remember more about the lives of the people I consider friends, than I do my own.  I don’t know if that is a dissociative feature, or just some weird thing that happens just to me; but sometimes it does my head in.  Sometimes, it acts as an anchor in my own life.  I use the theory that I can’t be insane, or totally stupid, if I can remember a conversation that was important to someone else.

This time loss, is one of the reasons why I have the next four days off work.  I’m sinking.  Well actually, I sunk a little while ago, and I’ve only just realised it…  I always was a bit slow on the uptake.

On Monday I went to work and said that I needed the rest of the week off.  My team leader and manager were supportive; so here I am, in the kiddie pool of life, getting my balance back.

I spent Tuesday sleeping… I went from getting 1-3 hours of sleep per night, to sleeping 8 hours straight, and then sleeping on and off for the rest of the day.

Today, I’m going to go take photos.  My aim… to reconnect with the moment.  I’ve lost too many moments lately.

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Now playing: Missy Higgins – Where I Stood
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This week all of the managers at work are either on leave, or at a conference. That leaves me in charge.  This means:

1. I have to move over into the main building to work from the manager’s office.
2. I have to supervise people who have suddenly been released from the iron-fist regime of their dictator team leader.
3. People are expecting me to deal with things that the team leaders were unwilling, or unable to address.
4. I have to work with my back to the door, and that door is made of glass.

I think Allie from Hyperbole and a Half describes the feeling quite well -

Image from This is Why I’ll Never be an Adult

I’ve hit my “one more…” thing.  The inner tension is incredible.  So far, I’ve had to deal with one staff member who hasn’t turned up for work without an explanation; and a part-timer who has more interest in FaceBook, than her work.

I am not a manager.  I am not going to cope with this.  I am afraid, very afraid.

Then…

I am a manager.  I can do this.  I called the person who didn’t turn up and left a message on their phone.  I emailed their team leader and manager to tell them what had happened.  I called HR to find out if she had leave booked, but had failed to write it in the diary.  I mentioned to the staff person more interested in Facebook than work, that her time needed to be spent on the job.  This is easy.

I need to find a middle ground between these two extremes.  If I do either, it will kick into gear all of my other dysfunctional behaviour.  I can’t let that happen.

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It’s always interesting looking at other countries politics from the outside… you have the distance and impartiality to look on it with a mix of humour and confusion that comes from not really understanding the issues, or their impact.  I obtain all of my political knowledge about America from the mainstream online media, so it was rather amusing to see the coverage of The Rally to Restore Sanity and/or Fear.  It appears as if most of the mainstream media was attempting to spin this rally as a political maneuver, and it could be argued that it was.  But for me, the big message was directed towards the media and the agitators to stop the divisiveness and encourage reasoned presentation of the issues.

Looking at some of the signs that were carried at the rally, they speak volumes… “If you keep shouting like that, you’ll get big muscles all over your face” … “And take it off CAPS LOCK” … “Even my sign chooses not to yell” …

It can be easy to yell the loudest and longest, but where does that get us?
It can be easy not to say anything, but where does that get us?

As a survivor, I struggle finding the middle ground between these two – that sweet spot of “sanity” that Jon Stewart is advocating for.  I delay speaking up, because I don’t want to bother anyone, or there’s too many negative messages about asking for help.  This silence causes things to build-up, and I explode in a rush of dysfunctional behaviour.

I’ve yet to find that reasoned, assertive voice that advocates for my own well-being.  Until I find this voice, I’m going to struggle in a system that requires you to fight for your basic rights.

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Last night, through wizardry of the programming kind, this blog was moved to a new domain – scatteredpieces.org I am assured by said wielder of wizardry, that you will still get this update through your RSS feeds.  But it will mean that those of you still interested in reading my ramblings, may have to update your RSS feeds, and your email address book to castorgirl@scatteredpieces.org

I am still in the process of testing all the links etc to see if any are broken, so please be patient, and feel free to report any issue you find to the email address above.

There  has been a great deal happening over the last two weeks, much of it lost in a haze of too much work and not enough sleep.  In addition, last week Cloudie passed away.  Cloudie was my neighbour during my childhood, she would work in her garden and not reject my attempts to join her.  Her funeral is tomorrow in my home town, I won’t be going down for it, as it will be too triggering and is a private funeral.  Instead, I’m hoping to take the afternoon off work and go take photos in the local gardens.

On the good news front, I have confirmation from ACC that are going to continue to support my therapy.  When I see the people around New Zealand that have struggled, and failed to get continued assistance, this places me in a position of gratitude and guilt.

At the end of the week, my team leader arrives back from her holiday.  Hopefully then, I can breathe and catch-up on life.

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Now playing: Osmo Vänskä & Minnesota Orchestra – Symphony No. 3 in E Flat Major, Op. 55, “Eroica”: I. Allegro con Brio
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It’s been a hard few weeks… I’m struggling to make sense of this world and my role within it. At the moment it seems a pointless and never ending downward spiral. I’ve been told that I haven’t hit the bottom yet; but if this isn’t it, I don’t want to know what the bottom is going to look like.

Tomorrow is the funeral for our work mate… I still can’t believe she is gone. A former work mate came into work yesterday and told me of her final hours… the pain, screaming and finally, the coma. Within the context of our consistent suicidal issues, I’m finding it difficult to reconcile her pain and passing. Surely if this was a just world, we would be the one being buried tomorrow. We have no hopes or dreams… no plans for the future…

In the midst of this self-pity and confusion, we turn to music for comfort… In particular, Sarah McLachlan’s Angel… It soothes and has special meaning for us…

Paul over a MindParts said in his latest posting… “Perhaps I am meant to heal. Perhaps I am meant to live.” I used to have an idea of what “healing” and “living” would look like, but now I’m not so sure… I’m not sure of anything anymore…

Reading this over, I realise that it’s about as pointless as the post we deleted earlier today.  But there is a drive to post something here today, I don’t know why.  I’ll turn comments off, as I see this as self absorbed and pathetic…

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Now playing: Sarah McLachlan – Angel
via FoxyTunes

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