The walk
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
PDF Expressive Arts Carnival: Obstacles
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
It happens?
Monkeytraps is one of my favourite mental health professional blogs. It’s about control, relationships, and monkeys… well less about monkeys, and more about control. Steve Hauptman (the author) writes some really interesting posts; so when I saw the latest one titled Just the world, I was curious as to what it was about. This was my sister’s birthday after all, the perfect day to be challenged slightly… However, there was no way I could have anticipated what actually happened…
Steve wrote about how each of us form this concept of what is a “just world”… one where good things happen to good people, and bad things happen to bad people. I admit, that I fall into this thinking, regarding myself and my past… I was abused because I was bad, evil, asked for it, provocative, a slut, a whore… the list goes on. I don’t judge others in this way; but for myself, I lay it on thick!
After describing this “just world” scenario, Steve gave the punch line… we buy into this concept of a “just world” because it gives the illusion of control. Talk about a kick in the gut…
All of my life I have strived to be perfect. I got as many A’s as I could, while panicking over every B and C; I played sport above my age grade; I was silent; I didn’t cry; I did everything within my power to be perfect… Because if they saw how perfect I really was, they would stop… They would leave me alone.
But I knew that they saw the evil in me. They saw how dirty and disgusting I was; so my focus of control changed. I no longer wanted them to stop, as I was beyond redemption. Instead, my only purpose, was to stop others from being hurt. As I grew up, I thought I had succeeded with this aim… I wasn’t aware of any whispers about other girls being taken to “those” places. My sister seemed troubled, but “fine”.
It wasn’t until I finally admitted to my mother what had happened about five years ago, that she said “was one of the boys J. Doe? Because I was talking to his mother the other week, and she was telling me about the historical sexual abuse charges he is facing”. At that point, my idea of a “just world” collapsed. I had failed. I hadn’t been enough for them to not hurt others; and I hadn’t spoken up so that others would have been spared. My illusion of control crumbled…
I was unable to see beyond this being my fault… my control… my fault…
I still can’t. I can’t accept, as Steve suggests, that there is no “just world”; but instead, the world is a place where justice is possible, and that shit happens. It can happen to good people, or bad. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t discriminate, it just happens.
But if that’s true; then maybe one day, a long, long time ago, I was maybe a good person? Maybe?
But bad things happen to bad people, so maybe I was bad all along. I came into this world screaming, and didn’t stop for six months. I was difficult and evil, even then.
Please let me have saved at least one person. Please. Please don’t let what they did to me, be for nothing. There had to be some purpose beyond their needs and wants? There does, doesn’t there? There must. That is why it’s easier for me to believe it was my fault, my evil, my badness attracting the inevitable karma of equal badness to balance out the universe.
Funny thing is… we used to say “shit happens” all the time growing up… “Shit happens, and then you get over it”.
As a note: I never think anyone else deserves bad things to happen to them. Please know that. I always turn it in on myself, but never hold that thinking for others. I’m always devastated to know of any pain to any other living thing.
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Now playing: The Verve Pipe – The Freshman
via FoxyTunes
Being
Everything we see, or experience leaves an impression on our being… is it positive or negative, and does it balance out over time?
As I’ve descended into the depths of suicidal ideation and intent over the last few months; these sorts of questions, have played on my mind. I questioned why I was here, what my purpose was, and how far I had fallen short of meeting any expectations – my own, and my perception of what others expected of me. I could say that I was caught in the thinking, but I wasn’t… I was still working, existing, and being “normal”. However, everything was very superficial, and in the moment. I had no concept of anything long-term, and all I felt was the confusing extremes of nothingness, or utter chaos.
Earlier this week, I had to go to Wellington for a conference. Not only was the conference in the city where my father lives, but it was going to force me to interact with a group of strangers for long periods of time without any downtime. This was the proverbial straw that broke the camels back; all of the emotions that I’d been bottling up from the different stressors over the last few months, came bubbling to the surface. In my rather typical fashion, I didn’t tell anyone what the problem was; instead, I descending into mute chaos, unable to even pin-point what was going on. All I knew, was that I had to go to Wellington, and that going to Wellington was going to be the place where I tried to destroy myself – either physically, or psychologically. There was so much rage at the thought of being in Wellington, that I was barely able to function.
Most people would have tried to avoid going to the conference. Most people would have tried to communicate with their therapist about what was causing the chaos, especially after asking for an emergency session because things were out of control. Not I. Nope. I sat there, almost mute. Allison tried to encourage me to talk. I shut down further. She tried different techniques to try to encourage me to open up, and I dismissed them. All I could do was scream internally, and not say a word until the very end of the session, when I mentioned that I wouldn’t be seeing her at the usual time because I was going to be in Wellington at a conference. A nice parting cry for help… too little, too late.
I went into the weekend, planning my own demise. It was going to be spectacular!
Possibly the only reason why those plans weren’t carried through, was that a friend I hadn’t talked to in a while contacted me. Thankfully, they know me well enough to understand my warped codes… my signals of distress… the warning signs that I was planning something very bad. They pushed through their own problems, and forced me to confront my own. They tried to be a voice of reason, when I wasn’t prepared to hear anyone, or anything. They listened to my rants about no one understanding… countering my rant with simple questions regarding how I was communicating. They know me all too well… I can walk out of a conversation sure that I had said A, B, and C; only to realise that I might have said A, B, and C… but it was buried amongst the rest of the alphabet in such a way that there is no way that anyone would be able to understand what I was really trying to say.
As part of this interaction, I wrote one of the most honest emails I’d written in a long time. I laid out how out of control things were, what had caused the chaos, and the reasons why I had been slowly withdrawing from everything for months. I tried to show how much I was failing at everything, and that I could see no reason to keep on going. I thought I laid it all out very nicely… my friends counter point was that I wasn’t a quitter, so why was I quitting now. It seemed a pretty weak argument. It didn’t change my plans for self-destruction. I flew to Wellington with everything set.
What I hadn’t counted on, was the quiet determination of my friend. There were texts to see how I was. Often arriving at a point when I was about to jump off the metaphorical cliff. Those seemingly simple acts kept that part of my brain that seems determined to heal, somewhere nearby.
I honestly don’t know how I made it through the conference. There were triggers everywhere… crowds, noise, alcohol, hotels… and one of the worst… a former team leader. A woman who seems to know exactly how to push my buttons in a way that will tear me apart without thought. This time around was no different. My colleagues and I met her outside our hotel, as she was waiting for someone to come and pick her up. She greeted us with a smile, and then said that she had recognised me because of the tattoo on my right shoulder-blade. As this tattoo is quite low, I said that I was surprised that she could see it… she said she could just see the top of it, and then grabbed my jacket and blouse, pulling them down to expose my back, and show everyone what she had seen. This invasion of my personal space was too much. I immediately dissociated, and lost the rest of the night… in one move, she had shown that my personal space was meaningless, and could be invaded at any moment without consent.
So now I sit, having made it through the conference in one piece, despite my best efforts. I’m left wondering where to next. I sent the email to my friend, to Allison as well. On Thursday we had a very difficult session. She admitted that she didn’t understand my code. I told her I was difficult, and that every other therapist I’ve seen has said the same thing. She read things in the email that she had no idea about. All I could do was mention how difficult I am to work with. I hide. I avoid. I cloak unbearable pain in pretty words and say them as if they were nothing. When she doesn’t understand, I take that to mean that the unbearable pain is indeed nothing. So, I withdraw even further.
Yes, I am difficult. I would hate to be the therapist that tries to help me heal. Part of me thinks that this is Allison’s way of easing me out the door. Another part of me thinks that the fear of that, is a good distraction from having to deal with the pain of what happened in Wellington, and what led up to it.
Time will tell. Time will tell if it really is worth the pain of being.
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Now playing: Counting Crows – Round Here
via FoxyTunes
Fragments
Fragments… just bits and pieces flying around inside my head.
That’s what the last week has been like. Nothing tangible to hold onto.
The only constant are feelings of disgust. I feel dirty, disgusting, sub-human… unclean. I don’t think the layers of filth can be, or will ever be, removed. It is part of me as surely as the colour of my eyes. It is a part of me, and I am a part of it.
I think I could handle it, if all of the fragments flying around my head were of horror. Horror has the ability to sweep you away in a dissociative haze of lost time. But when there are everyday scenes intermingled with the horror, it makes you pause. You pause and look. You turn the fragment around, inspecting it from all angles. You look into the heart of it, and only then do you see the horror. The unmitigated horror of seeing how brazen and normal the abuse was. In those everyday scenes, you see the range of emotions on the faces around you – discomfort, curiosity, embarrassment, and the knowing smiles. What they don’t know, is that they are being manipulated. This is part of their entrance exam into the Old Boys Club. They all pass. Even the ones who question the young girls presence in a place she shouldn’t be, with their joking protests quickly turning into silent observation.
It was the perfect scenario. There was no obvious abuse, but it was implied. Every person in the room probably knew that something was wrong, but there was nothing tangible that they could take to the authorities. It opened the door to silent consent, and they walked through. They became accessories; and in order to ease their own conscious, they will stay forever silent. They didn’t see anything, after all. Just a young girl with her father walking by the shower room. He might not have known that the team were in there. They’re both hearing impaired, after all.
It changed the way those men looked at me. Some of them turned away more quickly. Some saw through me more readily. Some smiled, and beckoned me over more often.
Then the memories of horror draw you into their grip. Grounding techniques are lost in the wave that overwhelms and batters your mind.
But still, you force the smile and talk inanities to the person asking about patron upload problems.
You pack up the box of horrors for another time. Stamp down the lid and push it backwards. You hope that you never have to look at the box again. But, you know you will. Not because of the memories in the box, but because of the emotions it evokes. There is anger at looking at the horror, and anger at looking away. In a world of no-wins, I walk the minefield of navigating the present, while trying to understand and heal from the past.
It’s all done in the hope of having a future. My father took me past the shower room in order to have a future that he wanted. I walked past that shower room because I had no concept of choice. Despite often losing my way, I do have choices now. I have choices based on experience, education and understanding. The only thing more soul-destroying than the abuse, is seeing how I seem to make choices which encourage, or perpetrate self-abuse.
I know that there should be a positive note to the end of this, but there isn’t. I sit here at work, looking at the huge pile of work that is expected of me. I feel the effects of the medical problems which I was told yesterday will require minor surgery. I feel the dissociation starting – the slight fuzziness at the back of my head which is creeping forward steadily. It’s difficult to find that positivity, when the layers of stress in the present, add to the layers of horror from the past. Your head becomes a maelstrom of emotions, and the only relief is dysfunctional coping.
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Now playing: Tracy Chapman – All that you have is your soul
via FoxyTunes
Asking for help
I’m told that asking for help is one of the strongest things that a person can do. There is a strength in the vulnerability that comes from admitting that you can’t do something by yourself. It’s an indication that you’re not perfect… not the self-sufficient island of invincibility that you’d like to think you are.
It stinks.
It hurts.
It feels impossible.
Over the last few months, I’ve had the urge to cut off my hands during therapy. I know that this is about wanting to reach out for help, and not being able to do so. It’s about punishing those parts of myself who want to reach out. It’s about not allowing weakness.
I learned early on in life that weakness was not acceptable, and made life difficult. Any sign of weakness could be used against me. If I was scared of something, then I could be taunted with it. If something hurt, then it could be prodded. I was confused by being hurt by people that, five minutes earlier, had been laughing and teasing me. All of this meant that I saw my only option as being to draw inward, and showing no outward sign of vulnerability. I was often called stuck-up while I was growing up, mainly because I did everything possible to keep myself separate from those around me. I didn’t think that I was better than anyone else, I just didn’t trust anyone (including myself); so my only protection was to withdraw and project a veneer of invincibility.
That veneer of invincibility is now being threatened. There’s a needy part of me wanting to reach out to others for help. But that is being resisted. I’m showing more signs of dysfunctional coping. I’ve withdrawn any meaningful communication with everyone. I’m having to take medication every morning, just to face the prospect of work. I’ve withdrawn as much contact with people as is possible. All I’m doing, is trying to fly under the radar.
This is the contradiction that I’m living with – needing to fly under the radar, which by definition, means being self-sufficient and invisible; and parts of me needing help.
One is seen by society as being strong; the other weak.
One has kept me alive for the last 30 odd years; the other is what led to so much pain in the past, that I don’t know if I can go there again.
Even if I wanted to ask for help, I don’t think that I know how to do so. The stumbling efforts that I’ve made towards asking for help, have been a disaster. I’ve sent emails which have been misread and caused more pain. I’ve called crisis lines, and not been able to communicate how badly I’m coping, or ended up in the Police holding cells. I’ve gone online to talk to friends, but ended up being unsafe instead. So I obviously don’t know how to ask for, or accept, help. I don’t know what positive help looks like, and I’ve lost all sense of safety.
But, I’m still turning up to work everyday. I’m still playing the game.
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Now playing: Adele – Rolling In The Deep
via FoxyTunes
The Shame Monster
It whispers in your ear
… Telling of faults you never imagined
It stands beside you
… It’s filth rubbing onto your bare skin
It looms over you
… Casting it’s shadow over everything you do
It becomes part of you
… Driving your every action and word
It is the Shame Monster
… It is you
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Now playing: The Verve Pipe -The Freshman
via FoxyTunes
At what point…
At what point did I become better than those around me at abusing this mind, body and soul?
When safety contracts fail
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?
