Attempting to Heal: Day 1

I'm a self-harmer, but I go through phases where I stop and let my wounds heal.  These periods have, in the past, lasted from a few days to a few years.  I'm ashamed to say I haven't had clear, uninjured skin in a year now. So I've decided to take action, before it's summer and I want to wear something that reveals skin.  I am just starting on a healing program for my Dermatillomania (or CSP- Compulsive Skin Picking). (See blog post Evolution of my Self-Mutilation: Part II to learn more about this condition) My calves are currently covered in angry, deep, red wounds. Bloody and scabby and rather large-about 3 inches long and 2 inches wide.  It all started as a small, pink rash. But I started scratching.  Soon I had scratched all the skin off, and before long I had bloody holes in my legs, all over. I mean a dozen or so wounds, maybe more.  I'm not sure how long it's taken me to get to this point; I remember that my legs looked bad back in February. I got brave at my last therapy session and showed my doctor my legs. I decided at the last minute to do that; some part of me, inside, decided it was time to break my silence.  So I showed Dr. H my shins.  She said, "Oh my goodness!" and then suggested a few products for me to try.  I got a prescription for a steroid cream, and I'm using Neosporin antibacterial cream and hydrocortisone.  I put the Neosporin on first, then the steroid, then I cover the whole leg with hydrocortisone to prevent itching. Some of the more serious wounds need bandaging.  I'm also using these 3 creams on my arms, as they're affected by my CSP as well.  So today is Day #1...sortof.  I've been using the medicines I got for several days now, but today is the first day I haven't picked or scratched or ripped off a scab.  Of course, the day isn't over yet.  But I'm really determined to get my skin cleared up and smooth and healed and scab-free by the time sleeveless weather gets here.  I don't know what I'll do if I'm unable to wear shorts or a dress this Summer.  This healing plan MUST work.  Now I've done it before, many times, but as I said earlier, the latest bout of skin picking has been constant and severe for the past year.  It's directly related to stress; when things get serious or difficult, I have to turn to something I can control. So I self-inflict wounds to my body.  Yes, I'm a cutter, but even more so now am I a picker.  It takes a lot of stress and negativity to get me to actually cut now with a razor.  But the skin-picking, well that's something I just cannot control.  I lose time whenever I go into the bathroom, and I'll often emerge hours later, covered in bleeding sores.  Everytime I enter a bathroom, there's a risk I will self-harm.  If I have no access to any implements,  that is, razor blades or scissors or tweezers, then I'll use whatever I can find. An earring post.  A nail from out of the wall.  A bobby pin. Safety pins are a favorite; when I was younger I took great pleasure in sticking safety pins through parts of my body-ears, lips, hands.  Sometimes I'd get a needle, thread it, and sew words into my arms.  There's just no telling what I'm liable to do to my skin.  My Body Dysmorphic Disorder makes it impossible for me to see myself in the mirror the way other people see me, so while I've always been told that I'm very attractive, I just can't see it. I'm obsessed with my skin, particularly on my face, but all over really.  I can find any flaw, no matter how tiny, and within a few moments, I can have it large and red and angry and bleeding.  But for some reason, in my mind, when I pick at something imperfect on my skin, then I'm helping make it go away.  Logically, I know that by picking it I'm making it look worse.  But I just can't think that way. I just think "Must remove flaws" and I'll do whatever it takes to dig out a perceived blemish. 

Dermatillomania is a condition which causes tremendous shame, and it's difficult to write about the subject.  However, I really, really am going to try and make an honest attempt at getting my life back on track and healing all my body wounds.  Plus. I've been asked to model again and I can't possibly do it unless I get my face cleared up at the very least.  So I'm doing it.  I'm going to layer the three creams onto my scabby sores throughout the day and night, every chance I think about it.  Dr. H told me that if I keep the area moist, I'll be less likely to pick. So I'm going to try it.  Giving me even more incentive to quit mutilating my skin is my desire to shave my legs.  I'm unable to shave or wax while I have these large open wounds on my legs.  It's just too risky. So I have to admit that my legs are awfully hairy at the moment, at least where the wounds are located.  I can't wait to clear up all these sores, for all my scabs to fall off (on their own, not by me pulling them off), and for new skin to start coming in and renewing my complexion.  Yes, there will be scars, some of these will be my worst ones ever...but many of the scars will fade (I have a scar-fading program I follow too) and by the time I'm invited to a pool party, I should be mostly "normal", or at least I can appear that way through the use of waterproof body makeup on the most prominent scars.  Other scars should fade to something pink and/or shiny by July.  Yes, my body is covered in scars. All over my body. In unexpected places.  But I can't help that-I've been a compulsive skin picker since 4th grade.  Dermatillomania is an impulse-control disorder which is also akin to substance abuse. It's been a lifelong struggle for me.  Hopefully, today is the beginning of a new upswing in my daily life.  I'm hoping to replace my habits of picking with habits of treating the wounds and bandaging them.  I'm determined to wear a short dress this Summer. Day 1 has been a success. Let's see how Day 2 goes...

The Evolution of My Self-Mutilation, Part II

(This is going to be a very difficult post to write; I've never confessed these things to anyone. I'm completely humiliated and ashamed and embarrassed to death to admit these things out loud, but I feel it's important to speak out. Perhaps I can help someone else.)

In the first half of this post (The Evolution of My Self-Mutilation: Part I), I described how I began cutting at the age of 13.  I was always very careful with my routine, never daring to nick an artery or something that could cause a trip to the hospital, as that would reveal my secret.  I was a cutter throughout my teens and into my 20's, but then I took a break for several years and didn't cut. I turned to tattoos and body piercings as a substitute.  I told myself I was better, that I'd outgrown such behavior. That was a lie. I started cutting again on my 30th birthday.  But this post isn't about cutting, it's about self-injury, which comes in many forms.  I didn't need a razor blade to harm myself.  In fact, the self-injury actually began many years before I picked up a knife and made my first cuts.  This post is about my main form of self-mutilation.

I've suffered in silence since the age of 9 from a disorder whose name I never knew until two months ago.  This particular disorder is actually visible to others, in a tangible, physical way, or at least its symptoms are; it's much harder to hide than say Bipolar Disorder.  It's something I've misunderstood and been ashamed of and hidden from family and friends, and my doctors as well, all these years, for almost my entire life. Dermatillomania is an impulse control disorder characterized by the repeated urge to pick at one's own skin, often ending in bloody wounds and causing tissue damage severe enough to leave scars.  The urge to pick-or scratch, bite, tweeze, or squeeze- is similar to an obsessive compulsive disorder, but for some people the condition is more akin to substance abuse; I haven't yet figured out which one of those two groups I am in.  The activity causes great anticipation in me before I engage in the behavior (as with substance abuse), and while I'm doing it I feel a tremendous sense of anxiety relief (as with OCD).  Plus, 79% of patients, including myself,  report feeling a pleasurable sensation while picking.

My first memories of picking at my skin were in 4th grade, and it was on my face of all places.  There was no way to hide it. I can remember staring into the mirror and seeing all these flaws on my face, all sorts of imperfections.  Well, we, the K's, cannot tolerate imperfections, especially when we can alter the appearance of the flaw and hopefully remove it altogether. (This thinking stems from my Body Dysmorphic Disorder) So I began to squeeze any little bump I thought I saw on my face.  Then I mashed some pores on my nose that seemed dirty.  This led to my scratching at a mole on the side of my cheek. And so on and so forth...worse and worse every day. One day I was feeling sick at school and the teacher sent me to the nurse, and she looked at my face and decided I had chicken pox and so I got to go home that day.  I was too embarrassed to tell her that I'd created those angry red spots myself.  To this day,I find the subject completely humiliating and I hesitate to write about these things here, but when I started this blog, I said I was going to be honest, and so here we go.

How did my parents not notice?  Well, they did notice, but I pretended that it was just acne.  Puberty came early for me and so it wasn't hard for them to believe the lie.  As the years went on, I honed my skills and began using implements, not just my fingernails, to pick.  Tweezers were, and still are, my "weapon of choice", but at different times I have used scissors, nail files, needles, safety pins, and nail clippers, plus weird little things here and there, such as a paper clip or a thumb tack.  Anything I can use to remove the perceived imperfection, which apparently only I could see.  That's the thing which kills me, the fact that no one else can see all those blackheads on my face, or all those pimples, enlarged pores, scars, or ingrown hairs.  That was what I saw when I looked in the mirror.  I saw something flawed, something ugly.  I started wearing my hair in my face, but then in junior high I discovered that I could have just as much fun-yes, FUN-picking at the skin on my arms as I could my face, and no one would be able to see it.  That was a real turning point for me, when I moved from my face down to my body.  It was easy to wear long-sleeves and keep my skin covered, and since I quit picking at my face, my skin cleared up and I actually had a very nice complexion.  It's ironic, that everybody in 4th grade thought I had acne and teased me, but once I was in high school and everybody else had acne, I had smooth skin. (We never teased anyone with acne-one of the K's wants me to tell you that.) I'm not sure if my skin-picking was a precursor for my cutting. I just know that my cutting and my skin-picking coincided beginning in 7th grade and lasting until I was in my 20's.  I'd cut and cut, then take great pleasure in picking at the scabs from the cutting. I loved seeing how many times I could make the same wound bleed.  We'd go through phases of terrible picking, and then we'd stop for awhile, and let our skin heal.  Often we'd just move to a different part of our body to pick while the first area healed; the cutting was random and could occur anywhere on us. Try to imagine how horrible this looked-my body covered in rows of razor blade cuts on my thighs and upper arms, and then surrounding the cuts were open wounds, all shapes and sizes, all over my body from the chest down.  The only part of my body that didn't get cut or picked at was my hands, but even they were subject to abuse-I bit my fingernails down to the quick, I tore at my cuticles, and I chewed the skin all around my nails, resulting in horribly ugly hands which I mostly kept in my pockets.  It wasn't until my mid-20's that I was able to control chewing on my hands, and my nails finally grew out and I kept them manicured and no one would ever guess that I'd been a nail-biter for so long.  That was the same time I gave up my cutting and skin-picking for several years, and I actually had nice skin with no bloody wounds or scabs. I was modeling then, so it was important to keep my compulsions in check, but God it was hard to do.  I was only able to maintain this smooth, clear skin for those few years in my mid-20's; I was cutting and picking again by the time I turned 30.  And this time, I had a new favorite area to pick at-my lips.  Yes, I'd bite and tug at and peel the skin from my lips until they were raw and bloody. To this day, I cannot keep my fingers away from my bottom lip. It's a compulsion which my husband tries to help me control; if he sees me chewing on my lips he'll tell me to stop.  He also polices me when I shave my legs or pluck my eyebrows, as he knows how these activities can easily trigger me and lead to my either cutting or picking.

                                          
I have these episodes in which I lose time and stop thinking about anything other than the imperfections on my skin.  I can go into the bathroom, and won't emerge for hours, literally.  Some days, I have shorter picking sessions scattered throughout the day and night, but a lot of times I go into my bathroom, lock the door, and get lost in the mirror.  I have lost entire days like this (when I lived alone of course) and I always feel the same way when it's over=baffled.  I usually don't remember what I was doing, and I can't believe I was in the bathroom for such a long period of time.  I will look down at my body and be shocked to find bleeding, open wounds scattered all over my arms, shoulders, legs, chest, and sometimes even my breasts.  God this is embarrassing.  But I want you to understand that this compulsion is something that certain people deal with. This is a real disorder.

Approximately 2% of the population has this disorder.  It's considered a similar condition to and is often comorbid with Trichotillomania, where persons pull out their hair, and is as difficult to treat. Thank God I don't pull out my hair.  Treatment for Dermatillomania include Cognitive Behavioral Therapy and prescriptions for SSRI's.  I do take medication which helps me, but I've never sought therapy for my disorder because I'm just too ashamed and embarrassed to admit to my psych doctor that I have this problem.  She knows I self-harm, she just doesn't know to what extent.  Dermatillomania causes intense feelings of guilt, shame, and embarrassment, and this increases the likelihood of self-injury. Suicide attempts occur in approximately 12% of patients with this condition.

 And I have to interject this now--The Kellie is really very angry that we are divulging this information to anyone, let alone The Public. The Kellie has a diva's reputation to uphold.  The Kellie is NOT a compulsive picker.  She has soft, smooth porcelain skin which she works hard to maintain.  She can't look at us when we're covered in sores and scabs; she is disgusted by us.  I'm fairly certain that anyone would find us disgusting.  I mean, this is a really gross habit.  No, not habit, compulsion.  I am powerless to stop this behavior.  In fact, I usually don't even realize I'm doing the picking.  I lose time, a lot of it, and I become absorbed in the activity, and it's as though someone else is driving the car, so to speak, and I don't have true awareness of this...not really.  I see the aftermath.  I see the bleeding, gaping holes in my flesh, the peeling skin, the nasty scabs, and of course the scars.

Recently, as in two weeks ago, I had to go see a medical doctor because the self-harm had gotten so out of hand that my wounded legs would NOT heal, and I feared I was getting infected.  I was totally humiliated to show him the dozen or so large (3 inch x 2 inch) sores on my calves.  They were all bloody and scabby and it was obvious I'd been picking at them as early as that very morning.  He was very understanding and did not embarrass me.  He gave me a steroid cream and said it should clear up my skin in 3 weeks.  So far, I've got the same large wounds, only now they're all dry and cracked and peeling.  It is my belief that the scars from these particular self-inflicted wounds will be the worst ones I've ever acquired, and will probably result in me never again being able to wear shorts or dresses. Sigh. (Last Summer I wore short dresses and told everyone the sores on my legs were just mosquito bites, but that excuse won't cut it this year)

I don't want to make myself ugly, really I don't.  But this is my fate.  I've gotten much better about the cutting, and only do it in times of extreme stress, but the picking is harder to control. I can stick my hand in my sleeve and pick at my arm right in front of someone and they'd never know. And I do.  Thankfully it's Winter now, so it doesn't seem odd that I'm all covered up.  But I worry about Spring and Summer...I have a whole new group of friends now that I've gotten married, and I do NOT want any of them to find out about this.  My big fear is being invited to a pool party. I can stop picking long enough to heal for special events (I wore a sleeveless wedding dress) but I can't stop altogether and it's impossible to predict when some skin might be visible.  I worry constantly about my secret being exposed.  Sometimes, I'm still asked to model, and whether or not I take the job has to do with which areas of my body will be seen.  I had to turn down 2 jobs in the past few months because my arms were too scabby.  I don't know if this condition will ever be under control. I fear that I'll have to deal with this for the rest of my life.  Man, that's a hell of a lot of scars.

Looking For Part II of the Self-Mutilation Post?

This post is supposed to be the second part of our last blog post, The Evolution of My Self-Mutilation-Part I.  In fact, I have already written and edited Part II.  I just can't bring myself to publish it.  I'm too ashamed and embarrassed for anyone to find out the secrets contained within that post.  I mean, I've written about some stuff since I began this blog in late December that made K feel really self-conscious, like posts about my dissociation or my hallucinations or our eating disorder.  The latest post, about self-harm, was hard to write, because thinking about cutting naturally made us want to cut.  I didn't get too graphic to prevent triggering-both others' and my own. I've had a number of people read "Evolution of Self-Mutilation",  but so far no one has left a comment or sent me a message so I have no clue what people are thinking or feeling after they've read it.  What if I offended someone?  My cutting is not so severe as some people's, I mean I've never almost bled to death or been hospitalized for a wound.  Does that mean my self-harm is less real, or less emotionally charged?  It certainly seems real enough to me, and I have decades' worth of scars as evidence.  So it seems I'm coming to accept my compulsion to injure myself, and perhaps now that I've talked about it, I'll feel less humiliated about it.  So.  Now the big questions is, what about Part II of the blog post?  Why can't we publish it?  What am I so deathly afraid of?  Well, for one thing, the second part of the SH post is much different from the first part.  Part II contains secrets I've kept since childhood, secrets I've told no one, ever, not family or friends or even a psychiatrist.  I've seen so many psych docs, yet I never said a word about this particular issue, which I've dealt with on a daily basis for what feels like an eternity.  I felt, and feel, so much shame that it's just impossible to imagine admitting the activity out loud, even to strangers whose faces I cannot see.  So I don't know whether I'll be able to publish "The Evolution of My Self-Mutilation-Part II".  It could take some time to work up my courage.  It might require encouragement from other people, or at least from other K's.  It might get posted tomorrow, or maybe never.  It was the hardest thing I've ever written, so I will definitely not delete it...I just don't know what to do with it. I was thinking that by writing all of those terrible things down, it would ease the humiliation. Instead, it brings me nothing but shame, anxiety, and self-loathing.  I disgust myself.

The Evolution of My Self-Mutilation, Part I

I don't know what the trigger was, or what initially drew me to it. All I can remember is that sometime around the age of 13, I began cutting.  It was my secret.  I wasn't doing it because I was suicidal-I didn't want to die (well, sometimes I did, but that's a whole different story)-I just wanted to feel the pain and see the blood. Cutting is totally different than suicidal actions.  I certainly wasn't doing it for attention, as I've actually heard some therapists say about the practice of self-injury. (OOH that makes us mad!) I didn't want attention, I wanted everyone to just leave me the hell alone. I was careful to cut in places that other people wouldn't be able to see, like my thighs and my upper arms.  Sometimes I used a knife, sometimes a razor blade, sometimes scissors, once or twice even a piece of broken glass.  It didn't matter to me.  What mattered was the physical act of hurting myself, of disfiguring myself, of punishing myself.  I had different reasons for the cutting at different times, but the compulsion was always the same: to draw blood.  Cutting was a release of all the pent-up anger and anxiety that I was suffering through not only as a hormone-driven teenager, but also as an unmedicated psych patient who was majorly depressed as well as manic and at times even psychotic. I was a wreck. I took everything out on my body. I chewed my fingernails down to bloody stubs when I was in school and couldn't hurt myself as I'd have liked. I stole a scalpel from the Biology lab and it became a favorite cutting utensil. By the time I was 15 I was carving words into my forearms.  I was terribly depressed as a teenager and the cutting was a way to relieve some of the agony of living.  The pain on the inside was so great, that the only way I could handle it was by experiencing pain on the outside.  So I cut, my arms and my thighs, inside my arms and calves.  Perfect rows of cuts, spaced evenly, all the same length. I'm even OCD when I'm in self-injure mode. The cuts had to be PERFECT, and I'd spend exorbitant amounts of time making each cut perfectly align with the ones beside it.  Sometimes, I'd use a needle or nail scissors and draw swirly patterns on my arms and I loved watching as the blood ran down my arms, mixing with each other, the patterns and blood resembling roses on my arm.  I felt better about the pain in my head and heart when I could feel the pain on my body.

 And speaking of that, I should explain that better.  When I'm doing any type of self-harming behavior, I get so caught up in what I'm doing that I am in a whole other world.  I guess what I'm talking about is dissociation, but I'm not sure it happens every time.  Sometimes, I can't feel the pain as I'm not in my body. Sometimes I'm a K who either is strong enough to endure the pain, or else I actually get psyched about it and enjoy it. (One or two of the K's is into BDSM). And of course, many times I don't remember the self-injury at all, I just find the bloody mess left behind. That, and the scars.

  So many scars.  I lie about how they came to be on my skin.  I have told the same story for many years, about how I was in a terrible car accident (true) and how all those little scars on my arms came from a broken windshield and pieces of metal showering down on me. (Truth? Some of them are cigarette burns, others are from needles/sharp objects)  Or I'll explain the round scars by saying that I had horrible acne in my teens.  Or I will just act like my skin has always been that way, and that those aren't scars, they're birthmarks.  Or something like that.  (sigh)  So many lies. At least I'm very pale-skinned, so the scars show less than they would on someone with darker skin.  After so many years though, it became impossible to come up with a sufficient lie and so we just started wearing long-sleeves at all times. And long pants or dresses.  We avoided the beach or pools-no way in hell could I bare that much skin-and I'm sad to say that I missed out on a lot of good times throughout my life because of my embarrassment and shame due to the results of cutting.  At other times we'd let all our wounds heal, and it was during those times, in our early 20's, when our skin was pale and smooth, that we did artists' modeling.  Since K is an artist and was an art major, she had lots of friends who approached her to model for photography class or sculpture.  For several years K modeled for art classes.  Now during this period in my life, I gave up the self-injury altogether. Naturally I couldn't cut while I was posing, sometimes nude, for artists, so I began getting pierced. For those of you reading this who cut, please do not be offended by my likening body piercing with cutting; I understand there's a huge difference, I'm just saying that for me the two interchanged nicely.  I found body piercing to be a natural replacement for cutting.  I mean, I still got to experience the pain, which I longed for and even needed, plus I was tearing into my flesh, stabbing sharp metal needles into my skin, causing bleeding and wounds and a pain which would linger until it had healed up.  Now some of my piercings, in addition to my compulsive need to scar my body, were also decorative (such as my navel or nose); other piercings I got strictly for the pain.  For those, I'd leave the jewelry in for a couple of days and then take it out and let the piercing heal. (Example=both sides of my labia) It should come as no surprise then that I have a number of tattoos as well; again, it just seemed to me to be another form of self-mutilation, only I was paying someone else to hurt me.  I insisted on designing all my own tattoos, and each one has a special symbolism behind it.  I get tattooed when something life-altering happens; I get pierced when I'm in extreme emotional pain. I have six tattoos, including a large black piece which covers my stomach and wraps around my navel.  I've been pierced 34 times, including a corset piercing which was 12 piercings done all in one sitting, up my back (then I was laced up with satin ribbon; it was for a photo shoot)  The most painful piercing, by far, was my urethra, and I had it done twice. Is this too much information?  I'm just talking about my wounds, wasn't that the point of this blog post?  Forgive me for rambling on about my body modifications.  But it was my psychiatrist who told me that tattoos and piercings are the "grown-up" version of my cutting and self-harm.  One other thing I found to be especially fulfilling and painful was getting branded with blessed cone incense, three at once in an inverted triangle on my lower back.  A Buddhist performed the ritual and placed the incense cones on my back and then just let them burn all the way down until they went out by themselves. Yes, it hurt.  And I'd love to do it again, on top of the same scars. So I guess the only question left to ask now is, Do I ever still cut, like with a razor blade? The answer, unfortunately, is yes, but it's not nearly as bad as it once was. The stress would have to be over the top and unbearable to make me cut with razors again.  I'm well-medicated and have a husband who keeps an eye (he times my bathroom visits) on me and besides, I can always just go get inked or pierced.  And I always have that special scar on my left wrist as a reminder of darker days.

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.

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?

It's Gonna Be A Long Year...

Spent damn near 3 fucking hours writing one big paragraph about how we're having a terribly difficult day and then that bitch wouldn't let me post it! The need to bleed is upon us...


Christmas got packed away today. Holiday Blues will linger until February.

Ate my first meal of 2012.  Threw up my first meal of 2012.  Didn't eat again.


Fuck this day.  We're going to take a bunch of pills and go to sleep.  Glorious sleep.

One more thing. Death is all around me.  Everybody's dead.