Scattered pieces

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

—————-
Now playing: The Verve Pipe -The Freshman
via FoxyTunes

At what point did I become better than those around me at abusing this mind, body and soul?

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?

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

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

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

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

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

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

—————-
Now playing: Christina Aguilera – Beautiful
via FoxyTunes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—————-
Now playing: Fauré: Cantique De Jean Racine, Op. 11
via FoxyTunes

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.

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

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…

I get confused, between the then and now.

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

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

They say the rules have changed.

I’ve been tricked like that before.

—————-
Now playing: ‪Chopin Nocturne Op.27 No.1
via FoxyTunes

I rarely remember my dreams, but there is one that I had approximately five years ago which I’ll always remember…

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

Then the businessmen come in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One moment at a time…
—————-
Now playing: Adele – Rolling In The Deep
via FoxyTunes