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
Guide on the side
One of my first jobs in libraries, was working as a reference librarian in a small public library. It was a fascinating job, as nearly every patron came in with a different information need. There is one man whom I will always remember… he was probably in his mid to late 50′s, and very intelligent. He approached me with confidence and told me what information he needed… “Where are your books on how to build an aviary”… taking him at his word, I showed him to the aviary construction books. As he was enjoyable to talk to, and unfamiliar with the inner workings of the library; I walked with him over to the books. As we walked over, we started talking. After a fairly short, informal discussion, I found out that he’d never owned birds before, and was looking at different aviary designs so that he would know which birds to put together, and how to care for them. I immediately knew that he didn’t need aviary designs yet… he needed bird care books, which are in a totally different section of the library.
When I talked about this incident with my manager, his immediate response was “don’t blame the customer… no matter how intelligent they are, they don’t know how to navigate our systems, or to identify what their real information need is”.
Later, when I was working in a tertiary library; I worked closely with many highly respected academics. Despite their skills within their own area of expertise; they would regularly ask me to come in and teach their students how to find information, and for help with their own research. One academic called librarians a “guide on the side”… that is, we were there to guide the user through the maze of information retrieval and management. We help the user to gain skills so that they too can learn how to retrieve information… and therefore become a “lifelong learner”. This academic was vocal that her expertise was in academia, and mine was in information seeking… she saw them as complementary, rather than conflicting, skill sets.
Why I mention all of this seemingly irrelevant waffle; is that I realise that I place absolutely no value in Allison (or any therapists) ability to be a “guide on the side” during my healing process. I don’t trust their skill, intelligence, or abilities. This, despite researching their qualifications, seeing their skills in action, and being nearly six years into therapy. Part of this is because I have seen a couple of therapists whom I didn’t respect their intelligence… basically, I could destroy them in an argument. But a greater part of the problem, is my need for control. I don’t trust anyone else to tell me what to do – that got me into too much trouble when I was young; and, more importantly, my ability to escape into my head was my saving grace as a child. It’s where no one could touch me, and where I could control what happened. It became my coping mechanism… I entered school and realised that intellectualisation was something to be valued… suddenly there was something I could do that would get me approval on a grade sheet… My imagination, coping and intellect became something that I could control, and now a therapist wants to come in and mess with that? No way was that going to happen!
Then, last week, I had a Twitter conversation which helped me to rethink how I was viewing Allison, and all therapists… I made the leap from thinking of therapy as this thing that happened “to” people, to being an interaction that I could relate to… I put it into context of the intelligent gentleman who came and asked me about how to build an aviary. Something clicked internally, and I could see that I was walking into Allison’s office as that man… I came in wanting to “have a life worth living”, and I was walking over to the “life” section of the library; but what I really needed, were the sections about self soothing, nutrition, boundaries, physical health, etc. Without all of those basics, the “life” that I built would always be hollow and meaningless. I would always be falling back into dysfunction, and struggling to find meaning in what I was doing.
What does this mean? Well, Allison has said several times that it’s her job to guide me through the healing process… my response has been to roll my eyes, and go do some more research… difficult, me? Never! Yes, this is the sort of thing that the poor woman puts up with every week. I now know, that what I have to do is ease back on that control, and put some trust in her skills. I need to realise that she is my “guide on the side” in healing… I can, and will, still question everything; but I need to listen, and have more patience.
Sounds pretty simple for a sarcastic, control freak… right?
A special thanks to my Twitter buddies who helped me realise this… probably without even knowing what you were doing!
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Now playing: Taylor Swift ft. The Civil Wars – Safe and sound
via FoxyTunes
Falling
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
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
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?
Amazing Grace
It’s considered to be one of the most recognisable songs in the English-speaking world. It’s also the only song that is almost guaranteed to make me cry.
If you’re not familiar with the origins of Amazing Grace, it was written by John Newton, an English poet and clergyman, and is a song of forgiveness and redemption. It is considered to be a Christian hymn, and is sometimes played at funerals, often by a solo bagpiper. John Newton was involved in the slave trade; but on a particularly rough voyage, he began his spiritual journey. Amazing Grace was written for a New Years Day service in 1773; and has been known to be sung to over 20 different melodies, as it is unknown if the there was any music to accompany it on début. It’s now most closely associated with the tune “New Britain”, and can be sung acapella, with music, or as an instrumental.
What I find interesting about this song, is that despite it’s Christian overtones, I still strongly identify with it. I don’t believe that I will ever be forgiven for what I have done, or that I will ever be redeemed; instead, for me, the song is about grief. It’s about pain and releasing that pain. It’s about death.
There are many versions of the song available… some of the more popular ones on YouTube are by the Celtic Women, Elvis Presley, British Airways Pipe Band and Hayley Westernra (a fellow kiwi). One of my favourite vocal versions is by LeAnn Rimes…
I’m unsure about the reasons why I am seeking this song out at the moment. I’m still in a very bad place, and this is one of the songs that I want played at my funeral – another is by ABBA, just to make people laugh. So am I adding to the pit that I am in by listening to this, or am I releasing the grief and pain that I feel? I’m not really sure.
There are so many thoughts floating through my head, that it’s difficult to make sense of them. I know that I’m sucked dry. I’ve been running on empty for about four months now, and it doesn’t look as if it’s going to improve any time soon. I know my safety is a huge issue, and I was expecting Allison to send me to hospital last week… instead there was a misunderstanding, and I shut down. Any glimmers of trust that were starting to be built, have gone.
I’m trying not to be reactionary, but it’s difficult. After the session on Friday, I created this Polyvore set…
What’s interesting, is that the rabbit is looking in a mirror… is the set saying that Allison was at fault, I was, or we both were? Is this about me seeing the reflection of my dysfunctional behaviour, and not liking it? Or is it a cute graphic about no one being perfect, no matter how hard we try? I wish I knew…
Confused religion
Please note that this entry might trigger due to the issues of child abuse and religion being discussed.
Over two years ago, I wrote the post Religion and Karma. In it, I shared some of my confusion around religious concepts. Since I wrote that piece, my confusion has, if anything, deepened. Conflicted and distorted messages about religion, and my self worth, have driven much of my dysfunction over the last two months. I have been bombarded with messages about being evil and not worthy of being here, or of this healing journey.
To give a bit of background as to where much of the distortions come from, my father is Roman Catholic and attended a Catholic school. It was a strict (or traditional) school, with his left handedness being beaten out of him, and intimacy a taboo subject. In contrast, my mother based her religious affiliations on which church had the best outdoor basketball (netball) team – Baptist won. When they married, my mother converted to Catholicism and regularly attended church. My siblings, and myself, were all christened, and my brothers confirmed. The families pathway through Catholicism ended after my mother had me. She was advised that if she had any more children, she would probably die in childbirth. When the church heard of my mothers decision to use birth control, she was asked not to return. As she was the driving force behind our going to church, this meant that none of the family returned.
This is what I now know of the families leaving the fold. But, as I was growing up, my brothers told me that we were asked not to return to church because I screamed too much during the service. Being a sensitive and trusting child, I took those stories, and internalised them. I became convinced that I was the reason that the whole family was going to go to Hell for eternal damnation.
Later, I had several encounters with religion… My sister attended an extremely devout and divisive youth group… I attended religious camps during the school holidays; where, along with John 3:16, we were taught Matthew 25:46 – my sensitivity meant that I took both as signs that I was a sinner… I later joined Rally (similar to Girl Guides), which had a strong religious basis. It was here that things became very confused, as I was old enough to be aware of the messages and expectations, but failed to live up to them. I was told that I needed to pray for God to come into my heart, and I would know that this had occurred when I felt a warmth and peace. Well, I was so disconnected by this stage, that there was no way I was going to feel any warmth in my heart, or anywhere else. This was the final blow, and I turned my back on any further attempts to connect to a higher power.
Throughout all of this, I was being abused. Some of the abusers used phrasing with religious connotations as part of the abuse. I now realise that this had nothing to do with me, but I still internalised it at the time, and took it as further proof as to why God had turned his back on me. I was evil and a sinner. I was beyond salvation.
One of the system, W, has great problems with anything religious. I had never really understood why this trigger was so big, when I had never been abused by a religious figure. Then, last Thursday, Allison asked W what her role was within the system… her answer “to pray”. To pray for forgiveness. To pray for help.
When I was eight, I was abused by some teenagers in the school grounds. The location of the event is significant, because on the rise, about 50 metres away, was a church. About 3 metres away from the structure I was being abused in, there was a thoroughfare for pedestrians and cyclists. It wasn’t busy, but there were usually some people walking by. As I was being abused, W was created within my mind to pray to the church on the hill… to the God she had heard about… she prayed for help from the people walking by… she prayed for salvation from what was happening. When no one answered those prayers, she saw it as proof that we were evil, and therefore not worthy of God’s help.
I was never really exposed to the positive side of any religion. It was all doom and gloom… damnation… selfishness, and selfish acts. My God was a very fearful, vengeful one, and he wasn’t pleased with me.
As I learned about God, I was getting hurt, as were millions of others in the world. That didn’t seem fair, or just. I never liked the overly simple explanation of free will. I still don’t understand how such evil can be in this world. Then, if you have evil, then surely there must be a counter balance to that; and what is that counter, if not a God?
As you can see, I’m still very confused. I initially made this private because I don’t know if I can handle comments on this issue. But, after a couple of people read what I wrote, I realised that maybe I need others reading this in order to challenge my thinking around all of this. I still don’t know what I need to help me understand all of the distorted and confused messages in my head, but this post was one step in trying to sort it through. I don’t know how much help Allison is going to be on this, as when she was questioned last week, there was a sense that she wasn’t firm in her beliefs, so therefore can’t be believed.
I do know that they seriously effect my self worth. The messages about not being worthy of being here, are tied to the messages about religion.
I finish this post, not knowing why I wrote it, let alone published it on the blog. Maybe to show you how bad I really am.
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Now playing: Sarah McLachlan – Angel
via FoxyTunes
