I had to go see my psychiatrist for an emergency appointment the other day. This was the first time I'd ever tried to see her without a scheduled appointment; I wasn't sure she'd see me at all. At first it seemed like she wouldn't see me, as two hours passed after I made my shaky, tear-filled phonecall to her office and still no one had called me back as they'd promised. I was completely honest about my reasons for needing to see her so urgently. I told the receptionist that one of my friends had died and that I was having a complete and utter meltdown. Her tone of voice never changed-it was professional-when she explained that Dr. H was with a patient and she'd have to talk to her and get back to me as soon as was possible. I hung up the phone wondering if I'd wasted my time. What made it even harder to deal with was the fact that I'd sat patiently by the phone all morning, waiting for the time to come whereupon their office would open so I could call. And then they tell me someone will get back to me. And then I sit, and I wait for the call. All the while, I'm going more and more out of my mind. I was really not doing well at all that day, in fact I'd been doing poorly for a thousand days by that point in time.
We're not entirely certain when the event happened, but my psychiatrist and I have used my journal, this blog, and my Tweets and text messages to get an idea of a timeline. My doctor believes that my friend Bill died sometime around June 4. The blog entry made on June 5 was written in a dissociated state; my doctor believes he died sometime between the evening of June 4 and the morning of June 5, as that's when I seemed to completely lose my mind. I don't remember these things. I don't remember when Bill died. I don't remember freaking out, but there's evidence right here in this blog. I don't know how much time passed between my freakout and my emergency psych appointment...I just know that someone pushed me to make the call to my doctor, and eventually I did. I thought I could handle Bill's death, I really thought I was OK. But I was very far from OK. The first thing I had to deal with was the terrible, overbearing guilt I felt. I felt guilty because I'd been meaning to email Bill, and catch up with him, see how he was doing. I kept putting it off. I'd emailed him a few months earlier, and found out he had been sick, but I had no idea just how bad it was. And so I procrastinated. And now it is too late. I will never be able to email Bill again. That's hard to believe, hard to accept. I've known him since I was 17 years old and first moved to the city to go to college. He lived downstairs in my apartment building and we became friends. We even dated briefly, but it was his best friend who became my long-term boyfriend. Which means I was around Bill all the time. I was good friends with his girlfriend, and the four of us went out all the time, and took trips to Florida or to New Orleans together. I had a lot of wild and crazy times with Bill. He was quite a character. A punk rocker with a mohawk and a motorcycle jacket. He loved tattoos, hot rods, and whiskey. He looked all rough and tough but he had a sensitive side which he worked hard to keep hidden. The only reason I even know about it is because as I said earlier, we dated briefly. It didn't last long, and it ended with me shoving him naked out of my apartment and throwing his clothes out the door after him. That makes me laugh even as the tears well up in my eyes thinking about it. Oh, Bill. I can't believe you're dead. Making this all the more difficult is the fact that there will be no funeral, as per Bill's wishes. He wasn't a religious guy and I'm not surprised he requested cremation with no service. But that puts me in a position in which I'm unable to say goodbye in any formal way. There won't be a grave I can visit. I can't place flowers at the site of an accident. Nothing. He's just...gone.
When I finally got the call from my shrink's office, they told me to come right then at that very moment. So I ran out the door as is, hair unkempt, no makeup, tear-streaked face. I don't remember driving there but I do remember that once I got to the office, the receptionist was very kind and asked me if I'd like to sit in a private room (there were several people in the waiting room). And so it happened that I was able to sit secluded and cry without embarrassment until my doctor was able to squeeze me in and talk to me. I don't remember everything about the session itself. I told her I was missing a lot of time and we did some investigation work using my journals and cell phone. She had told me at the last session to get a calendar and begin writing everything down, so that I might be able to keep track of my days and nights without losing so much time. So I'd been doing that, I'd been writing things down...and then there was a gap. Just suddenly, all the information cuts off. I have no idea where I was or what I was doing during that chunk of time, and we've come to gather that it's about 15 hours. She told me that she believes I was in a dissociated state this entire time. I'm missing 15 hours. You have no idea how disconcerting that is unless you've experienced it. It's like a drunken blackout, only there is no alcohol involved and you're not hungover afterwards. Also, you don't pass out. I was conscious during those 15 hours, and I have a feeling I never left my house. But anything else? It's just a blank. My psychiatrist and I determined that we could never truly know what happened during that time period, and so far no one has come forward with any sort of damning evidence against me for some horrible stunt I pulled while I was blacked out, so I'm going to assume that I didn't get into any trouble. If I had to take a stab at a guess, I'd say I was crying. Possibly curled up in a fetal position on the bed.
“When
you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in
truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.” ~Kahlil
Gibran
Showing posts with label crying. Show all posts
Showing posts with label crying. Show all posts
Saturday, June 9, 2012
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
Someone Else's Tears
It's happening again. Right now. I've just come to, or "just woke up" or something. I feel like I've been gone, away from my physical form, and just returned, but my body hasn't moved. (I don't think.) Anyway, the point is that I have just regained consciousness or regained my sense of time or something, something has changed, and I find that I'm crying. Tears are pouring down my face. I don't have any recollection of when I began to cry or why. I don't know if this is important, or whether my doctor will find it interesting or helpful, but I wanted to make a note of it.
Sunday, February 26, 2012
Therapy Trainwreck
We have been having a very difficult time lately but can't concentrate long enough to blog about it, which is the homework assignment given to us by our psychiatrist on Friday. She asked me at our last session to start keeping a diary and bring it in to our sessions; instead, I brought an old diary from 2004, which was written in various states of consciousness, often while we were dissociating. There was so much I wanted to tell her, to read to her from the diary, to explain to her-but I just couldn't stop crying long enough to get the words out, and I didn't have the energy to talk to her anyway.
It was all I could do just to get to the appointment. On the way there, in the car, I pounded on the steering wheel and screamed and yelled curse words, tears streaming down my cheeks. I was shaking and hyperventilating and my heart felt like it was going to burst out of my chest. I took 1 mg Xanax- thankfully there was part of a bottle of water still in the cup holder from a couple of days earlier. It was difficult to see through my tears as I drove to my doctor's office. Not only that, but once I got close-within a few blocks-I got confused and forgot which way to go and I took a wrong turn...sigh...I got lost on the way to a psychiatrist's office which I've been visiting regularly for 2 years. I figured this would make us late but as it turned out there was another patient ahead of us.
Whew~what a relief to get to her office safely, to park the car, to look around frantically and find no other people in the parking lot. I cursed out loud to no one. I took another drink of water and looked at myself in the visor mirror. I was a wreck, an absolute mess. My hair was all wind-blown and I had sweat pouring down my face, mixing with the tears pouring from my eyes...I was wearing black sunglasses but you could still see the tears running down my cheeks. My bangs were sweaty and stuck to our forehead. I had on no makeup, not even lipstick, and the sunlight accentuated each blemish, scar, and bump on our face. My cheeks were flushed red from crying and I was huffing and puffing and I looked like I might explode or something. I searched the car desperately for a napkin or tissue, to wipe my forehead and face, but I found nothing, so I pulled my shirt up and used it to dry my eyes and cheeks and forehead. I didn't have a brush with me, so I finger-styled my hair and longed for a hat. Thought about taking another Xanax, but can't remember now if I did or not. I was quite unsteady on my feet as I got out of the car and walked to the door.
Inside, I found a couple sitting in my usual spot (the corner) so I was upset about that on top of already having to hold my breath to keep from crying. I watched my hands trembling as I tried to sign my name but for a minute I was unable to remember how to write it. I had to think really hard, and even then it seemed foreign to me as I wrote out my first and last names; I don't think I used my typical handwriting-it looked unfamiliar to me. I sat down and took out my phone to Tweet. (I Tweet when I'm nervous or upset.) Pretty much immediately I started having a serious freakout, but luckily at that moment the doctor called for the couple in the corner, and realizing I had some precious time to spare, I somehow found a voice with which to squeak out to the receptionist, "Do I have time to go smoke a cigarette?" That's funny because I quit smoking 2 years ago, although we have been known to cheat now and then. At that time, Friday morning, I would've given just about anything to smoke a cigarette, but we had none. She told us the doctor would be a few minutes, so I practically sprinted out of the office.
I got into my car and locked the doors, looking around me, all paranoid. I suppose I could've turned on some music but at the time it was so loud in my head that I couldn't stand any more noise around me. The noise on the inside was louder than the noise on the outside, and it was nearly unbearable. I did the only thing I knew to do to quiet the voices, the yelling, my screams--I dug around in the car until I found a small stash, and I smoked a couple of hits of marijuana. Sometimes it really is the only thing that will help calm me down. So I took a couple of tokes-not enough to get me stoned, just enough to take the edge off- and tried to talk myself down from this state of panic and sense of being overwhelmed. I wasn't sure I'd be able to make it through a therapy session, and I pondered driving away, but part of us knew that we desperately needed to see the psychiatrist and so we stayed. Didn't get out of our car until we saw the couple from before come out of the office.
The doctor was waiting for me inside, and as soon as she told me to sit down, I collapsed into a chair and started sobbing. There was just too much to tell her, too many thoughts, too many feelings, I had too many questions for her and didn't even know where to start. I was having trouble getting words out at all, so she paged the receptionist and asked her to bring me a glass of water. With it in my hand, I took another 1.5 mg Xanax. Tried to take slow, deep breaths and finally, after what seemed a really long time, I was able to speak. I couldn't sort my thoughts and found it quite difficult to express myself with words. Pictures would have been better--I'll have to remember to take a sketchbook and pencil next week. Every time it seemed I was going to get my point across, I'd forget what I was talking about and start stammering, searching for the end of a sentence which no longer made sense to me. God it was frustrating! And the tears kept interfering, and the gasping for breath...
It's a terribly inconvenient time for me to be this depressed. Mom doesn't know; well, she knows we're blue and not eating and wearing my pj's a lot. But she has no idea that I've given up on my personal care altogether. I'm not eating or drinking anything but caffeine and alcohol. I'm self-harming. Two weeks ago I was binging and purging, now I'm just purging. I don't have enough energy to shower or get dressed. I haven't washed my hair in over a week, probably longer. I don't know, and frankly, I don't care right now. It's hard to care about shit like flossing your teeth when you're searching for a reason to exist, just one more day. I told her I'd been sleeping for about 15 hours a day, sometimes more.
I can NOT do this right now--my mother needs me. She's very sick-she has shingles-and is physically suffering a great deal; she cries out in pain often, and it tears at my heart. I can do nothing to help her, and the doctor tells us she could be sick with these shingles for 3 weeks. Sigh. I just don't have time to be depressed right now! There's so much work to be done at home and in therapy.
I told my psych, Dr. H, that I absolutely had to see her more than every other week. I tried to explain to her that I was too sick to be left alone for 2 weeks at a time. I tried to tell her that there were different people all living in my head, and that some of them were very ill and needed intense psychiatric care. I tried to briefly explain about the K's, and how I desperately needed the "strong one" to come out and take control of my life. I can't understand why she hasn't come to my rescue this time, like she has before. Usually when things get really bad, when there is just more stress than I can handle, then she comes out and takes over my life and sees to it that everything gets done, everything gets taken care of. She's the Smart One. She's quite productive and can multitask and is very capable of handling stressful situations. She needs to be here taking care of Mom, and taking care of K. She'd fix things. I just don't know how to force her out; I haven't learned how to control things like that yet. I don't have any control over who comes out of my mind when, but usually, say in a social situation, the right K will automatically appear and handle things until she's no longer needed. And no one ever notices that there are different K's because generally, no one sees different K's, just the one that they know. Each friend knows their own version of K.
But I've gotten way off topic. I was talking about my therapy session. I can't remember everything that we talked about, I mainly just remember getting very upset and worrying that she was going to put us in a hospital. I tried to tell her that in the 2 years we'd been seeing her, we'd not had the courage to be honest with her about what was in our head. I'm always afraid that if they find out how sick K really is, they'll lock her away. That, and the fact that I just do NOT trust people, makes it difficult to open up and be honest in therapy. I fear my thoughts and feelings. If they scare me, I figure they'll scare the doctor too. And I don't want another label, I want an accurate diagnosis. But she told me at one point during the session that it would take more than a couple of sessions to make a clear diagnosis; since I've only just now started to talk to her, really, we had a way to go to get to proper diagnosis and treatment.
One more thing I just remembered.... she asked me if I remembered any abuse from my childhood. I told her I couldn't remember the actual abuse (I've blocked those memories) but I had little clips of memories of things which seem suspicious or not normal. So I told her about the 3 or 4 things that I recall from childhood that I find to be inappropriate memories for a little kid She asked me again to write in my diary and bring it with me next week. Incidentally, I guess I got my point across about needing to see her more frequently--I saw her Friday morning and she wants to see me again Monday afternoon. That's as quickly as is possible. (She also gave me a prescription for yet another medication. Abilify.) Or maybe I just scared her and she's keeping a close eye on me lest I become suicidal. So far, that's not been a problem. Self-harm is not at all the same as suicidal actions. I can't kill myself right now-not only is it bad karma, but my mother needs me to take care of her. I have too much to do to die right now.
It was all I could do just to get to the appointment. On the way there, in the car, I pounded on the steering wheel and screamed and yelled curse words, tears streaming down my cheeks. I was shaking and hyperventilating and my heart felt like it was going to burst out of my chest. I took 1 mg Xanax- thankfully there was part of a bottle of water still in the cup holder from a couple of days earlier. It was difficult to see through my tears as I drove to my doctor's office. Not only that, but once I got close-within a few blocks-I got confused and forgot which way to go and I took a wrong turn...sigh...I got lost on the way to a psychiatrist's office which I've been visiting regularly for 2 years. I figured this would make us late but as it turned out there was another patient ahead of us.
Whew~what a relief to get to her office safely, to park the car, to look around frantically and find no other people in the parking lot. I cursed out loud to no one. I took another drink of water and looked at myself in the visor mirror. I was a wreck, an absolute mess. My hair was all wind-blown and I had sweat pouring down my face, mixing with the tears pouring from my eyes...I was wearing black sunglasses but you could still see the tears running down my cheeks. My bangs were sweaty and stuck to our forehead. I had on no makeup, not even lipstick, and the sunlight accentuated each blemish, scar, and bump on our face. My cheeks were flushed red from crying and I was huffing and puffing and I looked like I might explode or something. I searched the car desperately for a napkin or tissue, to wipe my forehead and face, but I found nothing, so I pulled my shirt up and used it to dry my eyes and cheeks and forehead. I didn't have a brush with me, so I finger-styled my hair and longed for a hat. Thought about taking another Xanax, but can't remember now if I did or not. I was quite unsteady on my feet as I got out of the car and walked to the door.
Inside, I found a couple sitting in my usual spot (the corner) so I was upset about that on top of already having to hold my breath to keep from crying. I watched my hands trembling as I tried to sign my name but for a minute I was unable to remember how to write it. I had to think really hard, and even then it seemed foreign to me as I wrote out my first and last names; I don't think I used my typical handwriting-it looked unfamiliar to me. I sat down and took out my phone to Tweet. (I Tweet when I'm nervous or upset.) Pretty much immediately I started having a serious freakout, but luckily at that moment the doctor called for the couple in the corner, and realizing I had some precious time to spare, I somehow found a voice with which to squeak out to the receptionist, "Do I have time to go smoke a cigarette?" That's funny because I quit smoking 2 years ago, although we have been known to cheat now and then. At that time, Friday morning, I would've given just about anything to smoke a cigarette, but we had none. She told us the doctor would be a few minutes, so I practically sprinted out of the office.
I got into my car and locked the doors, looking around me, all paranoid. I suppose I could've turned on some music but at the time it was so loud in my head that I couldn't stand any more noise around me. The noise on the inside was louder than the noise on the outside, and it was nearly unbearable. I did the only thing I knew to do to quiet the voices, the yelling, my screams--I dug around in the car until I found a small stash, and I smoked a couple of hits of marijuana. Sometimes it really is the only thing that will help calm me down. So I took a couple of tokes-not enough to get me stoned, just enough to take the edge off- and tried to talk myself down from this state of panic and sense of being overwhelmed. I wasn't sure I'd be able to make it through a therapy session, and I pondered driving away, but part of us knew that we desperately needed to see the psychiatrist and so we stayed. Didn't get out of our car until we saw the couple from before come out of the office.
The doctor was waiting for me inside, and as soon as she told me to sit down, I collapsed into a chair and started sobbing. There was just too much to tell her, too many thoughts, too many feelings, I had too many questions for her and didn't even know where to start. I was having trouble getting words out at all, so she paged the receptionist and asked her to bring me a glass of water. With it in my hand, I took another 1.5 mg Xanax. Tried to take slow, deep breaths and finally, after what seemed a really long time, I was able to speak. I couldn't sort my thoughts and found it quite difficult to express myself with words. Pictures would have been better--I'll have to remember to take a sketchbook and pencil next week. Every time it seemed I was going to get my point across, I'd forget what I was talking about and start stammering, searching for the end of a sentence which no longer made sense to me. God it was frustrating! And the tears kept interfering, and the gasping for breath...
It's a terribly inconvenient time for me to be this depressed. Mom doesn't know; well, she knows we're blue and not eating and wearing my pj's a lot. But she has no idea that I've given up on my personal care altogether. I'm not eating or drinking anything but caffeine and alcohol. I'm self-harming. Two weeks ago I was binging and purging, now I'm just purging. I don't have enough energy to shower or get dressed. I haven't washed my hair in over a week, probably longer. I don't know, and frankly, I don't care right now. It's hard to care about shit like flossing your teeth when you're searching for a reason to exist, just one more day. I told her I'd been sleeping for about 15 hours a day, sometimes more.
I can NOT do this right now--my mother needs me. She's very sick-she has shingles-and is physically suffering a great deal; she cries out in pain often, and it tears at my heart. I can do nothing to help her, and the doctor tells us she could be sick with these shingles for 3 weeks. Sigh. I just don't have time to be depressed right now! There's so much work to be done at home and in therapy.
I told my psych, Dr. H, that I absolutely had to see her more than every other week. I tried to explain to her that I was too sick to be left alone for 2 weeks at a time. I tried to tell her that there were different people all living in my head, and that some of them were very ill and needed intense psychiatric care. I tried to briefly explain about the K's, and how I desperately needed the "strong one" to come out and take control of my life. I can't understand why she hasn't come to my rescue this time, like she has before. Usually when things get really bad, when there is just more stress than I can handle, then she comes out and takes over my life and sees to it that everything gets done, everything gets taken care of. She's the Smart One. She's quite productive and can multitask and is very capable of handling stressful situations. She needs to be here taking care of Mom, and taking care of K. She'd fix things. I just don't know how to force her out; I haven't learned how to control things like that yet. I don't have any control over who comes out of my mind when, but usually, say in a social situation, the right K will automatically appear and handle things until she's no longer needed. And no one ever notices that there are different K's because generally, no one sees different K's, just the one that they know. Each friend knows their own version of K.
But I've gotten way off topic. I was talking about my therapy session. I can't remember everything that we talked about, I mainly just remember getting very upset and worrying that she was going to put us in a hospital. I tried to tell her that in the 2 years we'd been seeing her, we'd not had the courage to be honest with her about what was in our head. I'm always afraid that if they find out how sick K really is, they'll lock her away. That, and the fact that I just do NOT trust people, makes it difficult to open up and be honest in therapy. I fear my thoughts and feelings. If they scare me, I figure they'll scare the doctor too. And I don't want another label, I want an accurate diagnosis. But she told me at one point during the session that it would take more than a couple of sessions to make a clear diagnosis; since I've only just now started to talk to her, really, we had a way to go to get to proper diagnosis and treatment.
One more thing I just remembered.... she asked me if I remembered any abuse from my childhood. I told her I couldn't remember the actual abuse (I've blocked those memories) but I had little clips of memories of things which seem suspicious or not normal. So I told her about the 3 or 4 things that I recall from childhood that I find to be inappropriate memories for a little kid She asked me again to write in my diary and bring it with me next week. Incidentally, I guess I got my point across about needing to see her more frequently--I saw her Friday morning and she wants to see me again Monday afternoon. That's as quickly as is possible. (She also gave me a prescription for yet another medication. Abilify.) Or maybe I just scared her and she's keeping a close eye on me lest I become suicidal. So far, that's not been a problem. Self-harm is not at all the same as suicidal actions. I can't kill myself right now-not only is it bad karma, but my mother needs me to take care of her. I have too much to do to die right now.
Monday, January 2, 2012
Regrets: Old and New
Still in bed and wish to stay here for as long as possible this morning. Yesterday was horrific, at least what I can remember of it. I checked my Facebook page, my Twitter, my phone....all signs point to some lost time and dissociation. Don't know who wrote that last blog entry. Was having a very schizo day all around. That's not necessarily literal, that's just what I say when we're having a mentally trying day. Which is most days. Depends on who we are that day. Yesterday we were weak and pathetic. Lots of crying, I remember that. Plus, a look in the mirror reveals raccoon eyes and mascara trails down my cheeks so it's easy to figure out. I cried about something that happened 10 years ago, more so than I'd cried when it actually happened. I cried about not getting a marshmallow Santa in my stocking. I cried about my Daddy. (It's not long until the anniversary of his death, and both I and my mother get very depressed around this time of year.) Yes, depression on top of the holiday blues...it's not fun.
How do I explain to you what happened to me? I don't even know myself. I feel so traumatized though. I can't remember what was the initial trigger or even if there was one; I just know I was in a different place all day long. But the end of the day brought a slap in the face. Mom wanted to watch a video of the family Christmas party from 1994 and of course we couldn't say no, so for the first time since my daddy died, I got to see him again. When I heard his voice I began to sob. I was always Daddy's little girl. I miss him more than I could ever express in words. After he died, I had a(nother) breakdown and went to a dark place. I did a series of paintings called "Doctors Are Sick". I can't remember how many paintings there were exactly, but I very distinctly remember that they were done in a style I'd never used before, as though someone new were painting. Those were the most important pieces of art I've ever done, because they represented pure emotion. For the first time in my life, I had painted without restraint. I sobbed uncontrollably as I created these canvasses, often times lying the painting on the floor and using my hands to manipulate the paint. These paintings were dark and gloomy and all had a hospital/medical theme, as my father had been sick for several years before he finally died and I spent an enormous amount of time in doctors' offices and hospitals. I poured all of my grief onto those pieces of canvas, all my pain. I was quite proud of them actually, but only because I knew they were pure. Pure feelings. No gimmicks. No trends. No technique. I was painting for no one but myself. For a while I kept them hidden, but one day someone came over and saw them. I don't remember how everything came about, but in October of that year-I wish I could remember what year that was-my paintings were hung in a show at a gothic/industrial/fetish event. The event coordinator liked the paintings because they were so dark. Almost all of them were done in black, gray, and hospital green. One of them was a doctor, crucified on a cross made of money, atop a mountain of pill bottles. Here's another one, called "Pinned-On Smile":
Several of the paintings contained hypodermic needles, and I didn't know what the significance of that was until I had a dream one night and remembered that at one point, the hospice nurse gave us the option of putting my father into a drug-induced coma so that he wouldn't suffer so much pain. I realized after waking from the dream that I had a lot of issues with the fact that I helped decide to give my father that shot. It's as though I helped kill my Daddy. So there are lots of needles in the paintings.
I suppose I might've sold them to a heroin addict or perhaps a drug rehab center. But the paintings succumbed to a tragic end; the event coordinator never got back with me about them. She had them in her possession and I was supposed to meet her to pick them up. Well, before that happened, she moved to another state. She claimed to have left the paintings with her former boyfriend, who lived in the same city I did. Well, before I could retrieve my art from him, he fucking died! I never saw my paintings again. I have a few photos of some of them, that's all I have left. At least my sister got to see them; she appreciated them more than anyone else could've and they moved her to tears, so in the end I have that. Plus, just getting all that suffering out of me and putting it someplace else was very liberating. Bonus:paintings don't leave scars!
We really need to see our shrink but have to wait another week or so. I can't remember when my appointment is but it's sometime in the near future. Not soon enough however. The self-injury has gotten worse than it's been in years. I haven't used a knife since the mid-90's, so I keep telling myself that I've gotten better, but to look at my skin proves otherwise. The other day my mother saw me in a dress and started to cry when she looked at my legs. I'd forgotten how bad they looked until that moment. I ran away from her and made a mental note to keep my skin covered up until all my wounds have healed. Luckily, it's winter now so it's not suspicious to wear lots of clothing. Come Summer, I'm fucked, as these current wounds are already showing signs of terrible scarring. But I'm better! I didn't use a razor blade! I used tweezers and a nail file and scissors and my fingernails. That's an improvement, isn't it?
God I am such a NON techie. I got a new phone for Christmas, and I don't know how to use it yet, and I totally humiliated myself yesterday by sending someone unknown either a Tweet or a text; I have no idea what it said or how I did it, I just saw the words "Message Sent" and completely freaked out. It was too late to take it back. Plus, since there's been a 2 hour wait at the wireless store, I've not had my old phone data transferred to my new phone, so I don't know who anyone is who calls or texts me, as their names are not currently stored in my phone. My solution has been to not answer the phone. People who know me really well (that's hilarious-as if somebody actually knows me really well) aren't shocked when that happens; I often go off the radar for days at a time. It's hard to believe, but most of my real life friends don't even know about our illness. I'm an excellent actress. Well, most of the time.
Yesterday I just couldn't hold it together. It took everything I had to be the Good Daughter and not let Mom know how bad things were. I kept slipping off to my room to escape, or finding tasks to do in other rooms, so that nobody in the house would see that we were struggling. Unfortunately, by the time my husband and I were alone at the end of the day, I was totally exhausted from trying to be "sane" all day and night and I just melted into a puddle right in front of him. He's never seen me like this. We're still newlyweds. I told him about all these things before we got married (of course) but he's never actually experienced me being another me. I have the K that he knows and loves inside of me but she wasn't around yesterday. Not sure where she was. The voices were so loud I guess they drove her away. My biggest fear is that we will drive our husband away, just like all the other people in my life. I'm worried about K. She's having a rough time right now, and she can't talk to anyone about it. There is no one she can trust. I tried to be honest with my husband (who really does need a name!) about the thoughts in my head, but it only succeeded in scaring him. I don't want him to be afraid. How can I make him forget everything he saw and heard last night? What if he never looks at me the same way again?!? He's already laid eyes on my self-inflicted wounds; I try to hide them at all times but there's no hiding my FACE, which I've been obsessively picking at. Both my arms and legs are covered in bloody scabs. I am fucking disgusting. We want The Old K back, the chick who's 23 and talented and thin and pretty and smart and funny and sexy and popular and who always looks put together. Where the fuck did she go?
How do I explain to you what happened to me? I don't even know myself. I feel so traumatized though. I can't remember what was the initial trigger or even if there was one; I just know I was in a different place all day long. But the end of the day brought a slap in the face. Mom wanted to watch a video of the family Christmas party from 1994 and of course we couldn't say no, so for the first time since my daddy died, I got to see him again. When I heard his voice I began to sob. I was always Daddy's little girl. I miss him more than I could ever express in words. After he died, I had a(nother) breakdown and went to a dark place. I did a series of paintings called "Doctors Are Sick". I can't remember how many paintings there were exactly, but I very distinctly remember that they were done in a style I'd never used before, as though someone new were painting. Those were the most important pieces of art I've ever done, because they represented pure emotion. For the first time in my life, I had painted without restraint. I sobbed uncontrollably as I created these canvasses, often times lying the painting on the floor and using my hands to manipulate the paint. These paintings were dark and gloomy and all had a hospital/medical theme, as my father had been sick for several years before he finally died and I spent an enormous amount of time in doctors' offices and hospitals. I poured all of my grief onto those pieces of canvas, all my pain. I was quite proud of them actually, but only because I knew they were pure. Pure feelings. No gimmicks. No trends. No technique. I was painting for no one but myself. For a while I kept them hidden, but one day someone came over and saw them. I don't remember how everything came about, but in October of that year-I wish I could remember what year that was-my paintings were hung in a show at a gothic/industrial/fetish event. The event coordinator liked the paintings because they were so dark. Almost all of them were done in black, gray, and hospital green. One of them was a doctor, crucified on a cross made of money, atop a mountain of pill bottles. Here's another one, called "Pinned-On Smile":
Several of the paintings contained hypodermic needles, and I didn't know what the significance of that was until I had a dream one night and remembered that at one point, the hospice nurse gave us the option of putting my father into a drug-induced coma so that he wouldn't suffer so much pain. I realized after waking from the dream that I had a lot of issues with the fact that I helped decide to give my father that shot. It's as though I helped kill my Daddy. So there are lots of needles in the paintings.
I suppose I might've sold them to a heroin addict or perhaps a drug rehab center. But the paintings succumbed to a tragic end; the event coordinator never got back with me about them. She had them in her possession and I was supposed to meet her to pick them up. Well, before that happened, she moved to another state. She claimed to have left the paintings with her former boyfriend, who lived in the same city I did. Well, before I could retrieve my art from him, he fucking died! I never saw my paintings again. I have a few photos of some of them, that's all I have left. At least my sister got to see them; she appreciated them more than anyone else could've and they moved her to tears, so in the end I have that. Plus, just getting all that suffering out of me and putting it someplace else was very liberating. Bonus:paintings don't leave scars!
We really need to see our shrink but have to wait another week or so. I can't remember when my appointment is but it's sometime in the near future. Not soon enough however. The self-injury has gotten worse than it's been in years. I haven't used a knife since the mid-90's, so I keep telling myself that I've gotten better, but to look at my skin proves otherwise. The other day my mother saw me in a dress and started to cry when she looked at my legs. I'd forgotten how bad they looked until that moment. I ran away from her and made a mental note to keep my skin covered up until all my wounds have healed. Luckily, it's winter now so it's not suspicious to wear lots of clothing. Come Summer, I'm fucked, as these current wounds are already showing signs of terrible scarring. But I'm better! I didn't use a razor blade! I used tweezers and a nail file and scissors and my fingernails. That's an improvement, isn't it?
God I am such a NON techie. I got a new phone for Christmas, and I don't know how to use it yet, and I totally humiliated myself yesterday by sending someone unknown either a Tweet or a text; I have no idea what it said or how I did it, I just saw the words "Message Sent" and completely freaked out. It was too late to take it back. Plus, since there's been a 2 hour wait at the wireless store, I've not had my old phone data transferred to my new phone, so I don't know who anyone is who calls or texts me, as their names are not currently stored in my phone. My solution has been to not answer the phone. People who know me really well (that's hilarious-as if somebody actually knows me really well) aren't shocked when that happens; I often go off the radar for days at a time. It's hard to believe, but most of my real life friends don't even know about our illness. I'm an excellent actress. Well, most of the time.
Yesterday I just couldn't hold it together. It took everything I had to be the Good Daughter and not let Mom know how bad things were. I kept slipping off to my room to escape, or finding tasks to do in other rooms, so that nobody in the house would see that we were struggling. Unfortunately, by the time my husband and I were alone at the end of the day, I was totally exhausted from trying to be "sane" all day and night and I just melted into a puddle right in front of him. He's never seen me like this. We're still newlyweds. I told him about all these things before we got married (of course) but he's never actually experienced me being another me. I have the K that he knows and loves inside of me but she wasn't around yesterday. Not sure where she was. The voices were so loud I guess they drove her away. My biggest fear is that we will drive our husband away, just like all the other people in my life. I'm worried about K. She's having a rough time right now, and she can't talk to anyone about it. There is no one she can trust. I tried to be honest with my husband (who really does need a name!) about the thoughts in my head, but it only succeeded in scaring him. I don't want him to be afraid. How can I make him forget everything he saw and heard last night? What if he never looks at me the same way again?!? He's already laid eyes on my self-inflicted wounds; I try to hide them at all times but there's no hiding my FACE, which I've been obsessively picking at. Both my arms and legs are covered in bloody scabs. I am fucking disgusting. We want The Old K back, the chick who's 23 and talented and thin and pretty and smart and funny and sexy and popular and who always looks put together. Where the fuck did she go?
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