Scattered pieces

Got to run… Got to get away… Got to escape…

This is how my need to runaway always starts… those words, repeated over and over.  Sometimes they creep up on me slowly; but sometimes, they hit like the freight train.  On Sunday, they hit suddenly; although I should have been expecting them…  Last week, an inundation of triggers, meant that by Friday, I was a dissociated mess.  Through my own actions, and decisions, I set myself up on the road to self-destruction, and despite some last-minute reality checks, things became very messy…

On Sunday, I got that last little push that tipped me over the edge into a flip-book of flashbacks…  So, the chant began… Got to run… Got to get away… Got to escape…

This has often been the beginnings of an incident of self-injury, which I know just causes pain to be piled on top of existing pain.  I know the pull of self-injury well… it can be hypnotic and alluring… there’s a cold comfort in its familiarity.  But, instead of following that path, I took the words literally and escaped by going for a walk.

Considering my social anxieties, I’m not quite sure why I decided to do this… and initially, it seemed a huge mistake.  I walked past families preparing BBQ’s, causing flashbacks to summers of watching my father cooking at the family BBQ… past the barking dogs, which brought up images of the scars on my friends back from an attack by a stray Alsatian… It went on, with each new sight, smell and noise triggering a new flashback.

I walked faster, and faster… trying to outpace the thoughts and images in my head.  But the chanting in my head got louder and louder… Got to run… Got to get away… Got to escape…

Negative talk started to drown out the chant… I shouldn’t have eaten so much over the past week… I didn’t do enough at work… I’m just an attention seeking nightmare…

It went on and on… until, the words of WPT cut through all the noise.  He told me the story of a woman who heard some rattling behind her as she walked; so she walked faster, scared of the noise… She walked faster and faster, until she was running… all the while, the rattling noise became louder and louder.  As she scrambled up a hill, she met someone who told her to turn around… The noise was that of the skeleton of her past, tied to her ankle.  Until she turned, faced it, and cut it free; it would always be with her. **

This rather butchered part of a story, brought me back to reality…  I realised that this is what I was so desperately trying to do… I was trying to outrun the skeletons in my closet.  But, they were making their presence felt through flashbacks and anxiety.  Because they exist within me, I’m never going to outrun them… or inflict enough damage through self-injury to drown them out for long.  Until I turn to face them, and work through what happens in the present as a consequence of those skeletons; I’m never going to ease their hold over me…

The kicker is, that I know this.  I know that my self-injury is just another way to try to run… but turning around to face those skeletons is terrifying.  I’ve been able to do it at times, but never for long.  I get scared, confused and overwhelmed.  I can never seem to do it they way they say in the books, or even in the other blogs I read… It seems such an unobtainable goal.  How can something summarised in one chapter of a book, be so difficult, and take so long to do?

Of course, my annoyance with not being able to achieve this thing called “healing” is yet another sign of my need to distract and have control…

So, the skeletons of my past keep rattling…

** As a note: I know my recounting of the story isn’t accurate, and I’m not sure of its title; but I think it might be one of the short stories in the book Women who run with Wolves by Clarissa Pinkola Estés.

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Now playing: Missy Higgins – Ten Days
via FoxyTunes

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The theme for this months Expressive Arts Carnival is:

Through drawing, painting, or any other visual means, create an image that represents a major obstacle facing you now.

My first reaction when reading the directive for this month’s carnival, was to write the letters “ME” on a page, and send it in.  It feels more and more as if I am my own worst enemy; or probably more accurately, my thinking is.

My disordered thinking is evident in all areas of my life, but is particularly problematic at work – where I’m doing the job of about two people, but reluctant to make waves by saying that I’m swamped; within therapy – where I hold up any negative interaction as a reason to further beat myself up mentally, and use as a gateway to more self-injury; and finally with my relationship with food – where small things like being told that I must have three meals a day in order to have the antibiotics I was prescribed last week, caused a major panic.

I know that all of these factors are inter-related symptoms of an underlying cause… the problem is, that the symptoms are screaming so loudly, that it’s difficult to see, or hear the motivations behind it all.  It is for this reason, that I’ve chosen this abstract photo of a red canna lily to represent both the scream of the symptoms, and the underlying motivations.

This scream is my obstacle… and my path to healing.

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Now playing: Counting Crows – Rain King
via FoxyTunes

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When I returned from Wellington, I thought I was making my way out of the abyss.  Things seemed more settled, and my thinking clearer.

I was wrong.

During the past week I have reconnected with dysfunctional people from my past; and set-up emotional scenarios which mirror different aspects of my past.

I’m a train wreck.

I’m trying to live in the present, and failing.  The past has begun haunting me with a vengeance.

I would tell you how my week has been; but I don’t know, it’s a blank.  I see from my tweets that there was a problem over the weekend with a neighbour… my hair has been cut… I see from emails that I was concerned about friends… I had Christmas cards to put in the post today, so things were getting done… I was appearing normal.  But, I don’t remember it.  There’s jumbled glimpses of other things… putting on trackies when I was getting cold talking to a friend on the phone Friday night… It’s Monday, right? That means I need to get the rubbish ready to put out tomorrow… Panic in the mall on Saturday… I hate Allison… Take the team at work to afternoon tea on Thursday, but tell them they can go downtown for an hour if they want – one small way I can make up for them not getting a bonus… I don’t trust anyone…  Why is our work Christmas function in a sports bar?

Just a mess of thought fragments being tossed around my head.

I was scrolling through my YouTube playlists, and came across this piece which calmed me briefly…

If I’m falling, I wonder where I’ll land?

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Now playing: Arvo Part – Spiegel Im Spiegel
via FoxyTunes

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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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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
via FoxyTunes

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I’ve talked briefly about Allison’s encouragement of a formal safety contract (see Becoming unstuck); well, something happened about a month ago which forced the issue, and a safety contract was written.  It has been covering one week at a time and listing the two actions which are considered to be the most dangerous, the reward for keeping the contract, and the consequences of breaking the contract.  It is kept simple, and driven by me as a way to try and maximise the chances of success.  This week, there was huge resistance to making the contract for an entire week for several reasons… but mainly because there is a big rugby game being played here tomorrow.  My reservations weren’t about wanting to break the contract and self-injure; but instead, there was a fear that I would break it, and in so doing, break a promise.  The idea of potentially breaking a promise created huge amounts of tension… like lies, broken promises is not allowed.

Allison listened to my fears about shortening the contract, but said that part of the reason to have the contract, is to see what happens when it is broken.  That sounded reasonable, so with little thought, and despite the warnings, the contract for the week was sent through to Allison.

The backlash was severe, and immediate.  I had again ignored the warning signs, and instead of listening, I rode roughshod over the concerns.

I’ve done this before, and it’s never pretty.  In my head, I counter all the concerns with very adult logic… “It will be alright, there’s only three days difference.  What’s the big deal?”  Implied within that line of thinking is the thought… “Just get over it”.  It’s a sign of my intolerance, as well as my inability to accept what is happening in the present, and what happened in the past.  It’s telling different ones that their opinion doesn’t matter, and that their feelings are meaningless.  It’s another way in which I try to express my need for control…

Whenever I’ve tried to impose any form of unilateral control in the past, there has been an outright rebellion.  The control tends to be harsh, and the responding consequences are just as harsh.  This time was no exception. I have no one else to blame, but myself.  I should have listened.  I should have paid attention.

The problem is now that the contract has been broken, there is a reaction to breaking a promise to Allison.  Ones within the system don’t want to see her again, for fear of what she will do and say.  Others see the breaking of the contract as an invitation to push the self harm to new levels – the contract is already been broken after all, so may as well make the most of it, right?  I know that the feelings driving this line of thought are the worthlessness and shame arising from the self harm, but it’s still confusing.

My head is a mess.  I’m struggling to stay present.

As I write this, I hear the background chatter… the taunts, the derisive comments, the hatred, the self-hatred, but most of all… fear.

The rugby game hasn’t even started.  The tourists haven’t arrived.  That will happen tonight and tomorrow… how ironic that the big game should happen on a Friday night, which has always been one of my most difficult nights to get through.

Did I mention that my head is a mess?

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The other night, I was locked up in the Police holding cells.  I wasn’t under arrest… I was being assessed under the Mental Health Act. I’m still struggling to see how this is an appropriate way to respond to someone with mental health issues.

The events leading up to my detainment are fairly complex, but the event which triggered the Police involvement was when I abruptly ended a call to the crisis team.  I know that wasn’t the wisest thing to do, and even though I said “goodbye”, the end of the call was abrupt.  This hasn’t been an issue in the past, but for some reason, this time they contacted the Police.

A unit was sent to my house to “assess me”.  As I had stamped everything back down after talking to the crisis team, I felt sure that this would be nothing more than a formality… I was wrong.  The two Police who turned up, said that I didn’t appear happy; so they suggested that they take me back to the station for an assessment by one of the local crisis team.  As I knew that this “suggestion” was not really a suggestion, I went along with them.

This is when things started to get really weird… I was sitting in the back of the police car with the female officer, and she read me my rights – my criminal rights… you know those ones they recite to people in handcuffs in television programs… the ones where I have the right to remain silent, and everything that you say or do can, and will, be taken down and used in a court of law… those rights.

I sat there rather stunned, but agreed that I understood my rights.  She assured me that I wasn’t under arrest, but that assurance came too late… my mind raced to when my father used to take me to the police station with him for the raffle draws, and specifically the time when the policeman put me in the cells to show me what happened to “bad girls”.

When we got to the Police station, things became surreal… I was processed – my property inventoried; my jacket taken (because it had ties); my shoes and earrings removed.  I asked to keep my phone because of my anxieties, but that request was denied.

I was then taken from the intake area to the desk, where I stood within the red square on the floor, and was questioned about my criminal past (or lack thereof).  Thankfully I was wearing jeans which are about two sizes too big, so I could drag the excess material down and stand on that, rather than the cold concrete floor.

Then one of the worst things I have ever experienced… I was taken to a holding cell.  The sound that the door made as they locked me in was incredible.

I sat on the stainless steel bench, shivering uncontrollably, trying to keep it together.  I tried to focus on a spot on the floor of the cell and stay present.  The internal noise was incredible… screaming… yelling that this is what you get for telling the secrets… voices saying to shut up… urges to self-injure… everything came in a rush.

When the crisis team came to assess me, he joined me in the cell.  A man I didn’t know sitting between me and the door, in a small, locked cell.

He asked all of the usual questions, and I reassured him in all the usual ways.  All I wanted to do was go home… that became my goal.  Anything to leave that cell.

He agreed that I could go home.

I know that the crisis team, and the police need to be aware of the safety of their staff… but how is this an appropriate way to handle someone with mental health issues?  At no point was I violent.  I never raised my voice.  I never even looked any of them in they eye.  I was compliant and answered all of their questions.  So why was I put in a locked cell which is usually used for criminal suspects?  I don’t understand.

I remember asking if I was under arrest when they were processing my property.  The policewoman said that I wasn’t… but yet, I was being treated like a criminal.

All I did wrong, was ask for help.  Don’t worry, I won’t be doing that again.

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Now playing: Audioslave – Doesn’t Remind Me
via FoxyTunes

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Don’t look down, just keep on walking the tightrope…

People want to cut the rope, and knock you off balance by throwing more things at you to juggle.  At the moment I don’t seem t have any option, other than to keep taking them on board, and adding them to my act.  Because it is all just an act.  If the rope gets cut, then so be it.  No great loss.

Reminds me of a PostSecret I came across recently -

I only know how to be a supporting character… helping them solve their problems, while giving nothing away of my own struggles.

One day I might be strong enough to send in my own secret; until then, I’ll keep on identify with others.

Edit: Please note that this is about a situation at work.  I’ve become a dumping ground for the different factions at work who can’t play nicely with each other in the sand pit.  It’s doing my head in.

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