I Owe My Life...

It hit me the other day as I walked into my kitchen. I was going to make some tea and then sit with a blanket and watch the snow fall (no matter how bad I feel watching it snow can always bring a smile to my face even if that same smile cannot reach my heart). As I stepped from the carpeted floor of my living room to the vinyl floor of my kitchen it suddenly hit me that were it not for the events of this last April I may not be here and able to make any tea or watch this years snow fall. You see, I owe my life to someone... I only just realized that.

I am sure this person would not see it that way, at least, not exactly. TO be sure it is in the job description. As a matter of fact it is a legal issue as well as an ethical one. However as far as my realization goes that is neither here nor there. I am glad that I am no longer able to tell my therapist this as he is no longer in town and I am no longer eligible to use the University health and counseling center anyway (makes sense as I am no longer a student lol...)I would be mortified knowing as I do just how much a part of his job such action is and still feeling the way I do.

However...

I hate the memories of that time. I hate remembering just how awful I felt (though 'awful' does not even begin to cover it). I hate remembering that one April day in particular (though there were a few that week of a similar nature). I hate remembering the weeks that followed said April day, the humiliation I felt. All that, however, does not change what happened.

I do not remember what we had started talking about that session. I cannot for the life of me remember how it was we finally wound up talking about suicide. I remember he asked me a question which I was reluctant to answer though I do not remember the question itself. I remember that as I sat there uncertain as to hot to answer (or if I even wanted to answer) he let me know that he was not thinking of hospitalization. This was enough to put me at sufficient ease so that I continued on (something I would later regret). As with the beginning of the session, I do not remember what it was I continued on about, not specifically. My chart, which I have read, tells of two overdoses during the week previous, of cutting my wrist for the first time, of crossing lines and the inevitability (as I saw it) of my crossing more. It mentions my feeling that I had thus far lived a life of fulfilling my responsibilities and obligations and that there seemed to be no other point. I remember at one point he asked me a question, something along the lines of whether or not I had noticed a change in my affect. I remember telling him that perhaps I had become more sedate. It was after that question, after the answer which followed, that he let me know he was thinking of hospitalization.

It is at this point in my musings that I feel a sense of... not guilt exactly, just bad I guess, for the situation I put him in that day. You see after informing me that he was thinking of hospitalization (dear lord, I hate writing it, even now, so many months later) he seemed a little at a loss. Perhaps he was not so much at a loss as slightly overwhelmed (if that were the case it would make all the sense in the world as such times are bound to be stressful). He told me that he did not remember from his training all those months ago exactly what needed to be done and so left me for a few minutes to consult with a supervisor or two. Reflecting on our short exchange at that time I realized that, perhaps, I was the first of his clients he had had to do this with. To be honest the thought still makes me feel a little bad about it all but that cannot be helped. It is done and in the end it was for the best.

I have several times before described what followed. The MHP, the safety plan *ick*, the two additional 'crisis' appointments that week... Oh, how I hate thinking about it. I still believe what I told them then, that I had no intention of killing myself that day. I was in the right state of mind to do it though.

So how do I come to the conclusion that I owe him my life? TO be honest I am not entirely sure, it is only something of which i feel certain for a reason I cannot quite identify. I think that perhaps it is because it happened at a time when I found myself both willing and able to kill myself, a place I had never reached before. Yes I believe that is it. I also think that it may have made me more open to the possibility of going one day should I find myself at the point where I would actually do it (though I could not bring myself to actually take the first step despite finding myself believing int might be necessary several times -obviously it was not, though maybe it could have been helpful-).

And so I am here, able to make tea and watch the snow fall. Honestly I do not believe that I would be here were it not for the events of this past April. I cannot honestly say that I am always happy about it. That last major depressive episode has left me forever changed (something I plan on going into in a later blog post). I am afraid that I often do not see much point in continuing on with so many years stretched ahead of me, all void of any real meaning, any... well, just anything it seems. But I am not in the same place as I was. At times I feel like I am more able to handle times of extreme suicidal ideation and I believe that is due to the sequence of events started that day in April.

So to the man who will (hopefully) never read this: Thanks. Really.

Feelings: Can Someone Please Help Me Out?

I've talked about this before so please bear with me: I do not understand how much is actually, physically felt. I had a thought that contained the phrase 'I feel' when I realised (yet again) that I did not feel anything... it was just a thought, something I knew but there was no actual feeling attached to it. And so I am asking: would someone tell me their own experience please? Does it happen as often as I think ('it' being actually feeling a feeling)? Or is my experience actually normal (I have been told or at least lead to believe on numerous occasions that it is not)? Is most of what we talk about as feeling actually just knowledge of something? Or is it once again the fact that I am too analytical?

I just want to know. I know this is not the type of blog I normally write but no one will tell me...

What to Do...

with my confession? Well, not the confession exactly but the realization that cutting that vein was intentional. I mean, if I am truly honest with myself I can say that I knew it was intentional even as I was telling everyone it was an accident. But having written it down... *sigh* I just am not sure what to do with it. It is not like there is anyone to tell and besides it is probably not all that important at this time.

But with this admission... You see I tend to do things to prove to myself that I can do it, maybe later. I think by finally admitting to myself that it was intentional... I do not think I am scared exactly, of the knowledge... I am tearful but I can not tell you why, I cannot even hazard a guess I definitely cannot tell you exactly (and damn if I can actually cry, I mean, that would only be fair and so why would I be able to?).

*sigh* I do not know. Sorry for the useless post.

My Confession

In my blog entry of Tuesday, May 6, 2008 I mentioned that at the end of April I cut my wrist seriously enough to warrant a trip to the ER. In response to the inevitable
'Was this a suicide attempt?' question I called it 'an 'Oh shit' moment'; I was drunk and cutting and I accidentally went too deep. Despite the fact that I had cut a vein and that it needed to be tied off I managed (thank God) to avoid a hospital stay. I did not, however, avoid a safety plan but that did not last more than a day any way (it was supposed to last a week but I could not find the date the night it was given to me. Since neither my roommate/'babysitter' or I knew when the plan was to end I got my stuff back the next day).

The thing is, it was not an accident (huh, admitting it, even though it is to you all who are -mostly- unaware of my identity, made me teary there for a moment).

Was it a suicide attempt? No, at least, I do not think so. However, I knew I was going to hit it the vein, I could see it. And as I kept cutting it became obvious that hitting the vein was my intent (though maybe it was not obvious to me at the time).

Hitting that vein was not what I was setting out to do at the start. The wrist bleeds really well even if you do not hit a vein (I have been told that is the case any way and I had been pretty successful in the past). I wanted to bleed, pure and simple. The cut was actually not new that night but rather a cut I was going over again a few days after I had first cut it (remembering that it had bled well). I cut. I bled. I bled most satisfactorily really. After a time I told myself 'One more cut' (same spot just going deeper). After that cut I decided to allow myself one more cut. And one more after that. I am not sure when it was I noticed how close I was to cutting a vein. I am not sure how often I allowed myself 'one more cut'. I am sure that I did eventually notice the (later) offending vein and still I continued to cut. Just once more, just once more. I knew I would hit it if I kept going, I knew it, but I continued on none less. And to be completely honest I am not sure I would have stopped before I hit it. I think the reason I was allowing myself ‘one more cut’, the reason I did not stop was that I wanted to hit it.

Was I trying to kill myself? I do not think so, no. And yet my continuing to cut in spite of the knowledge that I would cut that vein if I did seems to say otherwise. However I promptly (and calmly) got a towel on my wrist and applied pressure, got myself clothed (I was in the bath), and called around until I found someone to take me to the hospital (I could have asked my roommate to take me as at the time I cut it she was still at the apartment but she was just leaving and… I did not want to tell her *shrug*) which suggests otherwise.

I do not know. I do not know what to do with this information. I am not sure I know how I feel about it. I just do not know.

But there it is.

I (almost?) Wish...

Is it terrible? I think it kind of is. With this Nothing in place of my future; without a job and a way to pay my bills... I almost(?) wish I was in the place I inhabited some months before... because if I could die then there would be no more worries. No more worry about not having a future, no more worry about finding work, no more worry about paying bills.

The problem is I am feeling good enough that I am not able to do anything toward that end; good enough that even the thoughts of it are just thoughts and have no real affect on me (other than to cause me to wish that they WOULD have an affect on me). I have thought to myself, in a detached way, that if I stopped taking my meds I could probably reach that point again. But (unfortunately?) I'm just a bit too responsible for that.

*sigh* I know that it is better to be in this spot than where I was before, intellectually I do... but that other part of me wondering, even in it's detached way... gosh, it's sick to think it, sick to wish for it, just plain sick... but I can't help it.

Sorry, rather a melancholy entry but 'tis where I am *shrug*

My Current State

I find my current state rather puzzling, not to mention depressing: I am no longer in such a place that death seems my only real option for escape from an empty future. That is to say I am no longer in such a place that I long to die, nor am I in the much worse place (in my opinion, and going off of how it feels to be in that place, not how it is practically) of longing for death and being unable to do anything much less take my own life (I know it sounds terrible and horrifying but it is what it is... or rather was what it was).

Anything would be preferable to being in such a state, right? Ah, if it were only that simple.

Now please do not misunderstand me. I am rather glad to be out of such a dark pit as that which I had previously inhabited. The problem is that my future is still empty. Not empty as much as nonexistent. There was a time in my life when I had a future; I could see what it was I wanted to do, I knew what I had to do to accomplish it, and what is more important, I had no doubt as to the fact that I was capable of reaching my goals.

Then it happened.

During fall and winter terms that year I continued to console myself with the fact that however bad my instructor was I loved the subject too much for him to ruin it for me. And to be perfectly honest I do not believe that he did. I do believe, however, that his behavior that year contributed in some way to the deep depression I found myself in by that spring term (though there was worse to come in the months to follow).

What followed I have written about a good handful of times in various ways on this blog. Out of all the major depressive episodes I have experienced in my life (truthfully this last one was my fifth, if you can believe it) it was by far the worst. Just thinking about it causes a sensation at the back of my throat, somewhat familiar, as if I would cry. It was during that year and a half, the year and a half of my life lost to me, that I lost my future. I cannot think how to describe it adequately. I can tell you that I truly believe that something in me died during that time. I felt it die then, I feel its absence even now. It was not the death of my future; it was the death of this part of myself which contributed to (caused?) the loss of my future. In my mind it was like a colorful street crowded with lively people going about their daily lives suddenly became empty, monotone, and so thick with fog the street and it's buildings are barely visible, even up close (my attempt to describe what I feel... I am trying to draw it, if I can manage it to my satisfaction I will post it here).

If you will allow me a small moment of childish petulance: It is not fair. I had hoped that, having clawed my way up from the depths, that the fog would dissipate or at least lessen somewhat. But it stays, as impenetrable as ever. What point is there in continuing when there is nothing to continue for? I find, having emerged from that pit, that still there is nothing. Only my location has changed. And I feel cheated, and hopeless.

To Judge Emotions Good or Bad? I think not...

I almost cried today. Even now, less than half an hour later I cannot remember what it was that I was thinking that should bring me to the brink of tears. Whatever it was I decided that it was not worth crying over. I blamed the sudden influx of tears on fatigue (though I slept until after ten o’clock this morning), hormones (sorry boys, a fact of life we women are reminded of monthly, almost like clock work), and my bodies’ readjustment to the medication it had been without for some two months. I reasoned, though, that tears were not warranted at such a time and that to cry would be silly and without point.

Silly and without point. Such a judgment brought to mind something my first therapist wrote in the termination summary of our work together (having interned at my University for the past school year he left after three months of our working together): “________ may see some emotions as bad or frightening...” I have written several times of my disdain of emotions and feelings. However, upon reflection I do not believe it is emotions and feelings themselves that I loath. Rather it is the discussion of how I myself relate to such things. I detest discussion of my own emotions and feelings because I am always left feeling as if there is something which I lack in this area, that I am deficient in some way. I know this is not what was meant by the afore mentioned quote or by any other observations made during the year I was involved in therapy. None the less it is how I often felt.

“________ may see some emotions as bad or frightening...” Bless him, the notes from the first three months of therapy are riddled with various forms of the word ‘frightening’ and I deplore such observations. I do not agree with such an interpretation of anything I may have said during the course of my therapy with this particular man, though having gotten to know some of his character during those three months I am not surprised nor do such statements cause me anger, but rather frustration at being misrepresented. I do not see any emotion as bad or frightening though I will admit to finding some less desirable than others. On the contrary I believe the experience of emotions to be largely (if not completely) beyond a persons control and therefore there is no reason to see them as negative especially in reference to the individual and their character. I do make a distinction between ‘positive’ and ‘negative’ emotions, a distinction I believe to be rather common sense and one easily agreed upon (and in fact I have found numerous references to such a distinction in various journals of psychological study). Rather it is the way a person may choose to express certain emotions that I find at times ‘bad’.

As a child I had an awful temper. The intensity with which I often expressed it is, to my mind, surprising for a child so young. The complete disregard I showed for others feelings, especially those of my twin brother, always so dear to me despite appearances, causes me even now
to experience some sadness. And though I often experienced guilt of a similar intensity after such violent outbursts of anger (God, will the memories which even now haunt me ever cease?) again and again my anger exploded. It is such violent expressions of anger that I hate and not the anger itself. I know personally of the lasting damage that can be caused by such virulent displays of anger. Be it anger directed by oneself toward another the reverse, or even the anger of another observed be it directed toward a particular person or animal or just exploded in a fit of rage it has the ability to leave a lasting impression, a scar which will not fade.


Emotions as bad or frightening? Whether they are good or bad is a distinction which I believe can not and should not be made, for they are emotions the experience of which is beyond our control. How we express emotions can be controlled and a judgment of good or bad can be made here. Such violent expressions of anger as those I was prone to as a child are inappropriate, damaging, and I believe, ‘bad’, though the emotion itself is neither good nor bad. The tears I left unshed this morning? A negative expression of emotion? I do not believe so, despite my reluctance to shed them. Such reluctance is due to the simple (and perhaps not so simple) fact that I do not like to cry. But that is something to be reflected upon at a later date perhaps.

A Pair of Slacks, a Sweater, and a Suite Case

First, a pair of slacks.
A sweater.
Black.
A long string of (fake) pearls.
Earrings, 5. All pearls? No, the roses, he’ll like the roses.
A pair of black flats.
All went in to the suite case.

The rose earrings. I bought those a few years ago. $14 for one pair of earrings! But I couldn’t leave them. Time and again I saw them and loved them.
The slacks. I bought those my freshman year at University. One of the local stores was leaving town and so having a sale. And after all, a pair of black slacks can be a very useful item.
The sweater, pearl necklace and earrings, and flats. Those I bought last December to wear to my cousins funeral.

As I folded my sweater and placed it carefully on top of my slacks (which were already in the suit case) I paused to feel something, though what it was I am not sure. Placing the pearls and earrings on top created a somber picture (though rather artistic, in a way). I wore this outfit less than a year ago, totally unaware that I would wear it again all too soon. Yet even as I packed I was unaware of just how soon ‘too soon’ really was.

I was packing to go home the next morning. To see him at least once more.
Some thirteen hours later I got a call. A message from my sister. “Call me when you can” or “Call me when you want” I can’t remember which. But I knew then. I’d go back to sleep and call her when I got up. After all, there was nothing I could do now. Two minutes later. Another call. A breathless voice. My dad. “L_____, he’s passed”.

He wasn’t supposed to die from it. People live for years with this leukemia without even knowing they have it and then live years more. “You’ll die with leukemia, you wont die from it”. It was supposed to be easy to treat. Some sort of oral chemo. But his white count wouldn’t stay down (and it was astronomical). They thought they’d try some IV chemo. But there was some sort of fluid build up. They wanted to wait it out.

Yesterday he was sitting up in bed, sharing a roast beef sandwich with Grandma. This morning he was dead.

The last time I saw my Grandpa was in June at my graduation from University. His voice was a little husky as my dad took our picture. He almost cried (and for Grandpa that is no small thing). He was proud of me. It’s a good memory.
And I’d trade it in an instant, if only I could have seen him one more time.

(written 10/24/2008)

The Plan

It was a pretty thorough plan. It had to be. After all, if I was going to hurt those I loved like this I needed to try and soften the blow as much as possible. Although many people would have told me what a selfish action my plan was (I’ll admit, I agree, to some extent) still I wanted to make it as easy as possible for those I loved and cared for, especially who would first be affected.


First of all I needed enough time. I figured a block of a few hours at least... I was going to use two methods, just to make sure it worked because if it didn’t... *schoff* I thought life was difficult then but it was nothing compared to what it would have been had I attempted and failed. The time wouldn't be too hard to find. My room mate had taken to going out a lot with friends (I’m assuming she had become tired of hanging around me).

I needed two notes, one to go on the outside of the bathroom door. Some time after all this, a friend and I would talk about the fact that those who don’t really want to succeed will talk about the act, let people know, even subtly, what they are planing. They’ll have the attempt planed so that they will be found. If they write a note it may well be positioned as to be found before they believe they will be dead. I, however, should I decide to follow through I knew better than to talk about it. I would have a note, two in fact, as I have said. I love my family and I want them to remember that. That would be the purpose of the first note. My apologies, what it was about them I appreciated, that I loved them. Instructions as to who needed to be informed that they may not think of such as the folks on the web site I frequent (I guess groups like them have been called ‘support communities’) a friend on my Messenger contacts who I met on that particular site but who no longer frequents it. There would be specific things that needed to be said to those folks as well.

The second note was to make the discovery easier for my roommate That I made sure in my plan that I would have sufficient time to complete it before being found made the notes very unlike those notes folks that want to be stopped leave. The one to go on the outside of the locked bathroom door was simply instructions to my roommate. Though the door would be locked it was just a flimsy lock you find in apartments. I didn’t want her to try and get in herself. It would first tell her to call some friends (specifically I would suggest some older -but still young- folks from her church) because she would need them. It would then tell her to call the police , 911, whatever (I suppose she could take her pick). The point simply that someone else needed to be the one to open that bathroom door. The second note would be in the bathroom with me. It would address certain people specifically (a good handful actually).

The first note. Thinking of what to write to everyone was hard, but not overly so. The hardest one to think about was my niece. She is just the cutest little thing in the whole world (you’d agree if you saw a picture, I guarantee it). I’m not sure I could love anyone more than I do my sweet girl. And though she and her parents live a few states away and I have only seen her a handful of times she loves her Auntie :). The last time they were up she stood there for a minute, her head cocked to one side, looking at me. Then she grinned and toddled over to me, plopped herself in my lap and me to cuddle and kiss her before we read the book she had brought with her. She followed me everywhere (and I mean everywhere, lol). It was my knees she wrapped her little arms around, my face she stared up into with those big, dark eyes, me who she ‘asked’ to pick her up when she just wasn’t sure of her Uncle Justie, a big tall man in a brown hat. She ‘helped’ me make tea for myself and Great Grandma (meaning I had only one hand to do anything with as she was sitting on my other arm... but do you think I cared? ;)). When Auntie was feeling lousy and therefore ‘picked on’ as everyone seemed to have an opinion on how she should make other Great Grandmas birthday cake (apparently my family believes that folks never made angel food cake before the electric mixer as evidently I needed to use that. I didn’t, We used a wooden spoon and it worked just fine thank you very much) she toddled in and again sat on my arm while we made the cake and put it in the oven. She ran to me when I would hunker down and hold out my arms. She would wiggle and giggle in my hands as I swung her into the air. I’d have to say she’s the best thing in my life (well her and now Aunties sweet boy as she now has a baby brother -she is just thrilled with him!-). It was the part I would write concerning her that was the hardest. She is still quite young, after all. Were I to disappear now she wouldn’t have any memories of me. I would write that my family needed to be the ones to make the decision as to whether or not she should know she had once had an Auntie. If they DID decide to tell her they needed to tell her that her Auntie had loved her more than anything in the world and that she was a big reason I stuck around as long as I did (lol just writing about it now is making me cry). Thinking of her was the hardest part.



But life had gotten to that point. The point where I was really wondering how selfish everyone else was in asking me (and folks in situations similar to mine) to stick around so they wouldn’t feel the pain of loss. Did they not understand how much pain I was in? How lost I felt? How much I felt I had already lost? The future I no longer seemed to have? I had gotten to the point where I now cared less how my suicide would affect them. It was a dangerous spot. Thankfully I got even worse than that Wait for it, it makes sense, I promise). Not only had I come to care less (not totally ‘not care’ just less) what it would do to those who loved and cared for me I got to the point where I couldn’t do much of anything, let alone end my own life I now no longer even had the energy or the will to do even that. I had truly hit bottom (it has been said that the two most dangerous times as far as suicide goes are the time right before you hit true bottom and the time just after you’ve hit bottom on your way back up) and let me tell you it is not a fun place to be even if it is safer in comparison.

I’m not at bottom any more. To be honest I am not entirely sure where I am at. I do know that I do not have a plan anymore. For one thing I live with myself now, the first plan would need a complete make over. And I don’t need it :), I don't need a plan. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t still plagued with periodic thoughts of suicide. But they’re nothing compared to what they had been. They’re not there multiple times a day, not even every day. Just, once in a blue moon. And they are not of the same quality as before. They don’t feel the same. While still there they have become, for the most part innocuous. And I like it that way.

Now, if only I could find a job and get caught up on my bills my life would be as close to Normal as it has ever been ;)

Apparently Everyone Knows Everything About Psychology… Except Me…

Now don’t get me wrong, I know there is so much more I could know myself, so much more education I could have. A masters in psychology (MA or MS), a doctorate (PhD or PsyD) (PsyD is just a more focused really study though don’t say that to individuals who have a PhD in psychology, they’re prone to arguing that point). And I, I only have my bachelors (BA, my University does not offer a BS in psychology).

Still, all things considered. my bachelors degree gives me a bit more knowledge about the things of psychology than the average Joe on the street. Now, I’m not bragging. There are folks out there with more schooling and therefore more knowledge in many areas of life than I have. But I chose to study psychology. So forgive me if I get a bit prickly when someone talks to me like they know everything and I know nothing.

I talked to my sister this morning. The first thing out of her mouth after I answered the phone with a “hello” was “Did you stop by Hollywood Video last night and get an application?” to which I responded with both her first AND middle names and followed her “What?” with something like “no, I was tired and forgot”. Now, what this has to do with psychology is this: eventually she asked me how I thought I was even going to be able to do a job if I got one seeing as how I’m so tired all the time and that’s all she hears from me “I just got up”, “I was taking a nap”, “I’m so tired”. My response? I’ve been without one of my meds for three weeks now, hopefully I’ll get some more some time soon and eventually get back on track (I’m having problems with insomnia at night, not fun, especially since I am usually one to go to sleep relatively early and wake at the crack of dawn). Besides, I’ve been tired all the time before and worked just fine, not that she would know (I was never very open about any of this mess until it became necessary). To this revelation I added a rider that I did not want her to discuss it with our mother, as they are prone to do.

At this time I am a little miffed at my mother whose ignorance and high-handedness is astounding. On her way out of town last spring after a visit she stopped by the house of a friend of mine (actually my campus minister and his wife) with the excuse of seeing their new baby (mom and baby weren’t in church that morning so she didn’t get to see her then). This past break between winter and spring terms I made the unfortunate (and idiotic) decision to share with a few of my younger cousins the fact that I cut (two of the kids have been getting involved with all sorts of good stuff and one of them wound up in the hospital from and OD which caused her to pass out and smack her head pretty good the day before I got into town). The idea was to get it through their heads that they aren’t the only ones behaving in a manner that isn’t healthy (the ‘you’re not alone’ thing, I don’t know) but that we all needed to find something better, something safer. Unfortunately I don’t think I thought it out well enough... Besides, as my mom was already suspicious that something was wrong with me (after all the piercings -yeah, two lobe piercings, a tongue piercing, and an upper ear piercing, woo-hoo-, the tattoos -all two of them, both easily hidden should they need to be, and my hair -a fun, different color and only part of it- are SO out of character... either that or I had a smothering home and didn’t have to chance to do those things growing up... I can imagine me dads reaction to some of it had I done something like adding some bright red to my hair in junior high... *shudder*). She was right, of course, but not about those things being out of character. I miss my red hair and I like my tattoos and my piercings. And there was a reason I was keeping it all from her. I know my mother. She over-reacts and is much more... ‘squishy’ (I have GOT to find a better word than that, seriously) where as I am more calm and when I”m not feeling up to par I usually want to be left alone.

So, my mother knew I cut and now, after telling me time and again that she didn’t want to stop and see the baby on her way out of town (“It’s weird”... uh, yeah, that’s why they suggested it... then there’s the fact that I kept assuring her it was NOT weird) she calls from the gas station (just a hop, ski[, and a jump from the freeway) and asks if I am SURE that it wouldn’t be weird and tells me she thinks she’ll stop by after all. And she thought I didn’t know the real reason.

Actually, to the best of my knowledge she is still unaware that, not only do I know but that I recently talked to my friend (and then ‘the other half’) about it. I needed to know how much she had told them. To be honest I didn’t have the nerve to ask anything specific. I asked if she really had stopped to see the baby and then responded to what he told me. I am still not sure that they know I cut but knowing my mother she wouldn’t have left that out. After all she told them I was drinking (the funny thing is that she probably had no idea how much -a lot, at times- I was drinking... problem is she and my aunts are a bunch of tea-totelers so any amount of drinking is cause for concern). She also told them that she thought that my study of psychology might not be the best thing, all things considered. *insert eye roll here*

For the love of all that is good and holy in this world! Seriously? Seriously?! (OK, one more ‘seriously’ and I’d become a Greys Anatomy quote) First of all I don’t really see the logic (and neither, I might add, does my friend who is currently at graduate school getting her masters in school psychology). Shouldn’t the fact that I know more about such things actually be helpful? Ah but see, apparently my mother thinks I am rather feeble minded, and for that matter, my sister agrees (by the way neither of them phrased it as such, that, my friends, would be my anger and some sarcasm seeping out)! My sister felt the need to tell me that she had read somewhere that the worst hypochondriacs (we won’t get in to the whole ‘person first’ thing here) are first year medical students. Hmm, OK, yes... Guess what? I heard that somewhere as well. And seeing as I possessed that little nugget or knowledge for some time BEFORE I started pursuing my BA I feel comfortable in saying ‘forewarned is forearmed’. Or as I am often fond of saying (and please don’t ask me why I have to count, it’s apparently just something I do) “ One, two, three: duh!” Then there’s the fact that, should you really want to you COULD conceivably find at least one disorder in the DSM-IV-TR that any given person has a tendency toward (like ‘boarder line tendencies, MDD tendencies) or you could just fall back on the good ol’ catch all that is present for most disorders, the ‘______ not otherwise specified’, the NOS category (such as schizophrenia, NOS. Keeping that in mind it’s probably not all that believable that, just because you meet one or two criteria required for the diagnosis of a disorder that you actually HAVE the disorder. Having said that I feel pretty confident in saying that I am at a pretty low risk for going ‘Oh my gosh!! I didn’t eat yesterday! I have bulimia!!!’ or some other such nonsense. Not to mention the fact that hypochondria itself has specific criteria that need to be met and I would be willing to bet that not every medical student that has ever felt a slight twinge in their chest and though ‘I’m having a heart attack’ has met, or for that matter, ever WILL meet enough of the criteria for a diagnosis of hypochondria.

Now there is a history behind all of this, this being my mothers wariness when it comes to pretty much all things that have to do with psychology, especially medication. I had a great aunt who had, from what I have heard, severe major depressive disorder. Now this was around the time when the use of psychoactive medication was relatively new and there wasn’t a lot known about it yet (to be honest there is still a lot to learn and some things we may never know exactly HOW they work, just that they do). It is for this reason, I believe, that this poor woman (and I am sure she was not the only one) had just about every medication in the book thrown at her, a lot of them all at once. Things got so bad (my family believes it was because of all the different medications) that when I was asking my mom about this aunt and she was describing it all to me it sounded (to me, any way) more like MDD with psychotic symptoms. Now whether or not it really was all the medications or truly MDD with psychotic symptoms (heck, maybe all the meds just made an existing disorder worse, I don’t know what she was actually diagnosed with and I’m pretty sure not many of my family members are either) I don’t know. I DO know that my family does not seem to realize that things HAVE improved since the early days, and hopefully are still improving. I’m also pretty sure that they will never really believe I know what the hell I am talking about.

Some time after learning that I cut and take medication (I still don’t know who told her that because I sure as hell didn’t. I want to talk about it with her as little as possible) she started talking to me about depression and medication like I had no idea about anything and that she knew it all (by they way, she isn’t all that keen on the idea that I take meds, thanks mom). However lets think about this for just a second here. I am the one that has lied with some sort of depression for something like 12 years. I am the one who has cut for two and a half (eight weeks free tomorrow, by the way :-)). In other words, I’ve had just a little first hand experience with this stuff. I am also a responsible consumer and once I finally allowed myself to be talked in to taking an antidepressant (and then two Ads) you can bet that I looked them up before I gave my final answer. Possible side affects, traditional dosage, even off label use (for instance, Wellbutrin is also used to help people lose weight and stop smoking and Seroquel, an antipsychotic, has been used to help folks sleep -I said no twice to it despite my trouble sleeping as APs can have some nasty, potentially permanent side affects... and since it turned out that once I was on Zoloft and Wellbutrin -a common paring if the SSRI (Zoloft) doesn’t quite cut it- for a while I finally made it back to normal sleep wise I am glad I said no). Now lets add to all this the fact that I am the one with the degree (yes, only a BA, but a degree none the less) in psychology... Probably, given all that, I know a little bit more about this stuff than either my mother or sister, or the rest of my family for that matter.

Sorry, quite the rant I see. I just wish they would butt out or at least acknowledge that I have even HALF a brain. Acknowledging that the evidence appears to point to the fact that I know something of what I’m talking about, maybe even more than they do... Well I don’t really think that will ever happen, but if it does you can bet I’ll be passed out on the floor from shock.

Who’s to Blame? OR “The Incident” and the Cause of it All... My fault?

In my last blog I talked about wanting to feel some anger about all of this, anger about ‘The Lost Year (and a half)’. That, while I tend to place the blame for my withdrawal squarely on my own shoulders I desire greatly to place it on the shoulders of another.

Now, I am not usually one to misplace blame onto another when it is clearly mine to claim. I don’t like to have to admit to responsibility myself (how many of us really like to accept blame for the things we have done?) but I will, especially if, at first, the blame is placed wrongly.

The blame for my isolation, however, that blame... I just don’t know who should shoulder it. I know that I do not want to be the one to bear its burden, and to be honest I am not sure it is my responsibility, my burden to carry. I would desperately like to be able to dump it onto the shoulders of another whom some might say is more responsible for it any way, however indirectly.

Let me explain.

Spring of 2007. It was probably about time for another major depressive episode. After all, it had been a year or more since the last one. As the academic year progressed I could feel something amiss. I wasn’t feeling in top form to begin with and then there was the added tension... I was vice president of our American Sign Language Club that year (to be honest, and yes I know this sounds petty but I really believe it is true, and, for the record, so have others, had we actually had a legitimate election as written in our bylaws I would have wound up as president). Unfortunately I wound up smack in the middle of the plans of our president and secretary (the idea had been that the gal that wound up as secretary would be VP, the two being close friends and rather clique-ish). Were I naturally a meek individual I probably would have made my life a little easier on myself and just let them steam roll right over me. However, as my friends will tell you, meek is not a word that one would use to describe me, especially when I feel I am being treated unfairly or walked over. Their attempts to leave me out of things I should, as VP, been involved in never got very far (I have never been one to shy away from confrontation, especially when an injustice is being done, to me or others) and my calling them on their efforts to shut me out were not well received.


Our club advisor and the only ASL instructor on campus was another source of tension. From the first day of class I felt uneasy about him. I am usually pretty good at reading people but with him all I could get was a vague sense of unease. I emailed my first year instructor hoping to get some information from him (the Deaf community is small compared to the hearing community and like other small communities everyone knows everyone else’ business). Unfortunately, while I was given some sort of an idea that there was good reason for my sense of unease I was told that I needed to form my own opinion. And so I waited. I continued to give the man the benefit of the doubt far beyond a reasonable time. He wasn’t a very good teacher... Well, he didn’t know he had the job until a few weeks before classes started, he didn’t have time to prepare. We didn’t seem to be learning much of anything, doing much of anything in class: he still didn’t have the books and materials he needed (after all, hadn’t I seen the empty shelf space in his office?). All these excuses... I seemed to have forgotten his telling me within the first few days of classes that he did not even want to teach second year sign.

And then there was the fact that he was just creepy. I can’t explain it, I wish I could. It was that faint disquiet which I could not identify at the beginning of the fall. I never could quell it, never managed to put it to rest.

Things did not improve as the year progressed, though I continued to hope that they would. What a waste of my second year of sign. Spring quarter came around and one of the first things my classmates and I noticed was the absence of one of the gals who had been in our class all year. I don’t know about other ASL classes, other programs, but I always felt that we managed to have our own little community. We all knew everyone else’ business. Gossip was rampant, but for the most part good humored. We were friends. And suddenly, as we were all so close to finishing all that there was left for us as far as ASL goes (the program at my University is only a two year program, much to my own disappointment), one term shy of finishing one of our community was gone and none of us knew why. We asked each other, wondered ‘aloud’ during class (‘aloud’ because one, immersion in a language is one of the fastest ways to learn it, and two, our instructor was Deaf and so voicing in class was considered very rude, especially when not accompanied by sign). We asked the instructor to be told that she would not be taking the final term with the rest of us. We were given on other explanation.

Another curious thing about those first days of the term was the absence of our instructors glasses. S you can imagine with a visual language being able to SEE your students makes it a lot easier to correct them, to teach effectively. When asked about it we were told that he had fallen asleep while watching TV and broken them accidentally (that’s another thing about this guy: he’s quite a liar and obviously thought we were stupid because he just kept right on ling).


April 13th of that year, while doing my homework for my ASL class (a bad student, it was somewhere around 23:00 :)) I was startled by a thunderous banging on the door of my apartment (my apartment which for all intents and purposes was dark as my room mate had gone to bed and I was only working by the light of my computer). I charged downstairs and opened the door to find my ASL instructor standing outside. He wanted to talk and was obviously distressed so I invited him in (stupid I know but I wasn’t really thinking in terms of teacher/student relations only that here was someone obviously distressed... and it was cold out). Thank God, he declined and so I grabbed a coat and some shoes and went out side to sit on the porch. It didn’t take too much conversation before I looked at him and said ‘You’re drunk’ to which he laughed and nodded. What followed was a typical conversation with a drunk. A lot of repetition, general confusion, bathroom breaks (on his part; I usually took the opportunity to go inside and get another layer of clothing, it really was rather cold) and probably way more than he wishes he had told me. There was talk of the real reason this gal had not came back to finish her second year and, wonder of wonders, it was his fault. They ran across each other in a local bar (did I mention this guy has a serious alcohol problem?), she was out with friends, he was out to get tanked. He bought her drinks and at the end of the night asked for a ride home. She, however, while agreeable first wanted to go to a friends and smoke some pot. They went, he bought the pot, and somehow an altercation between him and one of her guy friends resulted in his being beat up and his glasses breaking(my guess is that he was coming on to her, thank God she had friends to intervene).

Also during his drunken rambling he often talked of how he trusted me, I was his favorite/best student, etc. And like so many folks half in the bottle (though I am willing to bet he was closer to ALL the way in the bottle) there was a lot of ‘I love you’ thrown around (I much prefer happy drunks). A rather exasperating drunk, that is for sure. And it just gets better. I was told that on at least one occasion he told someone that he and I were dating! Apparently he was talking about something with some guy (he was drunk and leaving out quite a bit from his stories) at a local bar one night. Apparently he told this guy that he would have to ask his girlfriend ‘she’s hearing’ and then gave him MY name. To make things even better the guy apparently knew me ( I never did get his name, which is probably just as well as I would have been even more mortified than I already was). This night just kept getting better.

My attempts to get him to eat some bread to soak up some of the alcohol in his stomach were futile and my attempt to get him to at least drink some water in a vain attempt to stave off some of the massive hangover he was going to have the next morning only caused him to run back home (he lived in the same apartment complex as I did) and return with MORE beer which he then proceeded to drink on my front porch despite the fact that I told him he had had enough.

Sometime after his return with the alcohol we were approached by a neighbor of mine. TO be honest I didn’t know this guy from Adam and he seemed a little bit... ‘interesting’, shall we say. I was pretty sure he was either drunk, high, or with my luck, drunk AND high. The strange thing, not that the whole night wasn’t one strange thing after another, was not only did he not know me or the instructor, he didn’t sign either. He simply came over because he thought it looked cool. He also thought the instructor and I were dating (I’m sure that made him happy, good lord). And lucky me this kid had some alcohol with him as well! SO now I’ve got two guys on my front lawn drinking AND I get to interpret.

Like so many drunks he was also rather touchy. While we were alone on the porch he sat as close as I would let him, kept patting my leg, and twice his hand ‘accidentally’ brushed against my breast. I tried to keep a comfortable amount of space between us but it was not a large porch and there was only so much I could do. After the appearance of our inebriated friend he got even worse (the mind boggles, I know). I think I had to tell him something like two or three times to knock it off as he kept grabbing the poor guys crotch (I was also asked to inform him as many times that our new friend was not gay, poor kid). At one point we were in the yard, the guys were talking, I was interpreting (why in the world did I not leave?) and he began ‘slapping’ at my neighbor and I (not hard and not maliciously... just imagine a drunk). He again hit my poor neighbor in the groin area at least once. Me he hit on the groin and a breast before I managed to jump back and away. It really was rather brief and after I glared at him and told him angrily to stop he did.


Some time after and a few not so subtle efforts to see if the new guy had some pot (he kept saying he wanted to go smoke some pot which was one sign I did not have to interpret) he and my neighbor walked off toward his apartment and I was left to go upstairs, turn off my computer and try to get warm enough to go to sleep (I had already told him not to expect my homework the following day. He told me I didn’t even have to show up. I shouldn’t have. He didn’t.).

Big deal, right? After all he really didn’t do much of anything. As far as touching goes, as I said, it happened so fast, it was so brief (though despite his apologies I do not believe it was unintentional). Besides comparatively speaking it was nothing. Let me tell you all right now that if someone were telling me the same story I would be validating their feelings of anger, betrayal, and violation or whatever came up for them. I have often advised others that it does not matter whether or not someone has experienced something ‘worse’. Rather, I told them, it is the effect the incident has had on them that matters. I know this. I believe this, truly I do. And though to some extent I have come to the conclusion that it was ‘a big deal’... I don’t know if I can ever get past the fact that in comparison to things done to others... well big deal, get over it, right?

I want to be mad. I think I am, a little. I want to hate him (though I know hate is wrong). Most of all I want to blame him. Not necessarily for the episode of major depression itself but for its severity. I went down hill so fast after that and I have a hard time really believing it was only coincidence, though I keep telling myself it was. I used to drink every once in a while, and then only one or two drinks at a time. I can not tell you how many nights I spent in my apartment (often times alone as my room mate would go out with friends) drunk after a bottle or two of cheap wine, or eight or more shots of vodka (or other hard liquor). Though I had already been cutting for (coincidentally enough) almost a year to the day of ‘the Incident’ (a year and ten days to be exact) I began to cut more often, deeper, and on my arms, though I had swore to myself I would not cut there. I got to the point where I really didn’t care anymore. I think I felt like nothing really mattered. Heck, I had sex for the first (and only time), much to my shame (I wish I could take it back you have no idea). Funny, by the time it (the sex) actually happened I had decided I didn’t really want to but I didn’t really think it would be fair to the guy if I changed my mind (I was SO drunk and, once again, I just didn’t care about anything any more). I can’t explain any of it. Not the increase in alcohol consumption, the increase in the amount of cutting I did or its severity, the night I so desperately want to take back, heck even the tongue ring I got the following spring. Don’t get me wrong I’ve kept the tongue ring, I like it. But I wouldn’t have done it before. I was... numb. Something. I don’t know.

I want to blame him. I wish I could lay the blame directly on his shoulders. Maybe then I could get rid of the regret in regards to ‘the Lost Year (and a half)’. Certainly much of the blame for what happened after ‘the Incident’ lands squarely in my court (well OK, really I guess I am only certain of the blame as far as the sex goes) ... But the catalyst, what sent me spiraling down at a fine rate... I wish I could let go of that regret. I wish I could truly convince myself that it was his fault. But I’m not sure I can...

Regret

I don’t know about you all but usually, when I think of regret I think of something I have or have done that I should not have, or have not done that I should have. Either way I am feeling some sort of guilt for something which is my fault. When it comes right down to it though, regret is not something anyone I know enjoys. It usually brings with it some sort of shame or guilt and those are not feelings which are usually enjoyed.

I have found myself experiencing regret every time I turn around recently. The thing is, though... I’m not sure it is something I SHOULD be regretting. If anything I wish that I was feeling some anger about the whole thing. I want to place blame somewhere other than on my own shoulders. For all intents and purposes it should rest squarely on the shoulders of another... I think...

What in the world am I talking about? Why should the guilt not be mine? Who should shoulder it? And for that matter, shoulder what?

The more I participate in life the more I come to realize exactly what I missed this past year and a half when even while I was present I was not participating. When I finally stopped participating, full stop.

What did I miss? Opportunities with friends. Activities that just a year or so before I not only participated in but helped put on. Activities that I Had previously enjoyed, ‘Thanksgiving’ with my college church group (we had it early because everyone would be with family on the actual day), the Christmas party and caroling (I remember one year it was so icy we shuffled along holding tightly to one another, you know, so that if one of us went down everyone would go down ;)), an occasional trip to the closest ‘big’ city or the cute little Bavarian town a few hours north. Our annual camping and rafting trip, which actually had to become a camping and hiking trip due to an exceptionally high and cold river, a trip I only missed one other time while in school and that only because I had an awful cold and didn’t want to get anyone else sick (close quarters in those tents, you know). The church group itself... I had been on the leadership team for something like four years, lead worship for our Thursday night Bible studies for almost as long (if not as long)... I went only twice last school year. The campus ministers wife had a baby this past spring... I was there for a lot of her first pregnancy. I babysat their first quite often during his first few years of life... I missed that too, and others got to know him better, become closer, as I faded into the back of his young mind, my baby (well, I DID meet him the day after he was born and WAS a primary babysitter, after all). I drug myself to church most mornings during the academic year, but did not make it to Sunday morning Bible study and during the summer I made an appearance once or twice at the beginning, but that was it. Our church began a building project about the time I shut myself off from as much as the world as possible. I made ice once (you know, for the workers water and the like).


Basically, my increasing isolation caused me to miss out on... well, everything. And, at the time, I was alright with that. I didn’t care much about anything really, let alone some missed social opportunities. It took much less effort to lay in bed all day and stare unseeing at the ceiling or hide under my pillow and sleep the day through. I managed to make it to classes, most of the time... and work, with only a few ‘sick’ days. But there again, at least with school, I missed out. I had plans for that year, my last before receiving my bachelors. I needed to take the GRE and apply to graduate school. Find a professor who needed help doing research (good experience, you know, and graduate schools like that kind of thing). But I did none of that. Again, I slept a lot (spent quite a few fall mornings sleeping in my car between the one or two classes I decided to go to and my shift at the dining hall... until it was only the two classes and work and I very often only went to the first because, after all, two fifty minute classes is just too much, isn’t it?). I spent very little time doing my required school work; anything extra was out of the question. I took one class three times before finally managing to complete it (I never failed it... I DID, however, withdraw from it twice, and only managed to complete it, I believe, by an act of God and the grace of the instructor who bent over backward in her efforts to help me succeed).

The thing about all this that has probably made me feel the most regret (though missing all the fun times with my friends ranks pretty high on the list) is our church building project. Basically we tore down the sanctuary (half the church building) and built a larger one in its place. And while I am sure, because of building codes and what not, we had our fair share of professional help, the sanctuary was mostly built by the church members and those kind enough to volunteer (from the states down south to folks right in our own back yard that just called up -or showed up- and offered their help). However, I spent most of my time doing nothing, staring vacantly into space, feeling awful and really unable to do much of anything let alone spend hours on end with a bunch of people hanging sheet rock. I couldn’t spend this time with the people I care about working on the church building that we are now worshiping in. I couldn’t even help our church take that step toward doing more of Gods work (because a bigger facility means more room for visitors, more people hearing His word).


Ugh, I hate it! I hate that for a year and a half (give or take) I became all but useless. I hate that a year and a half of my life was taken from me! “But that’s how depression works” you tell me. I will be the first to agree with you there. Having had more than my fair share of major depressive episodes I am fully aware of how that monster works, how it sucks the life right out of you. And were I talking to someone else in the same situation I would be telling them the same thing. Because depression is the problem, not the individual. But I am a hypocrite. I truly believe everything I say about depression... when I am talking about someone else. I can not, however, make myself believe it when applied to myself. Why did I shut down? “It was the depression” you say. But I want to take responsibility for it. I do not know why. Maybe because none of my previous major depressive episodes were as bad as this last. I always continued to function. I made myself. I upheld my responsibilities, participated in fun activities with my friends, made like everything was fine. Sure I slept a lot more (or not nearly enough). Sometimes I didn’t eat all that much (sometimes I ate WAY too much). In some of the later episodes I was sure that others could see in my eyes the emptiness I felt, but they never did. However the episode manifested itself (insomnia or hypersomnia, eating too little or too much) I carried on. The fact that I allowed myself to be consumed by this last episode often feels to me to be inexcusable. I should have been able to keep on. But I did not. And while one part of me knows that it was not any failure on my part there continues to be a small part of me, a nagging little voice, trying to tell me otherwise, to make me feel regret for something beyond my control.

When Did I Become Lost? OR Have I Ever Really Known Myself?

I’m not sure when I first noticed something was different. I wrote a poem in 2004 which seems to suggest that I was aware of something different:
(excerpt from “The Masks I Wear, © 2004 TAMOAGI)

“My true self remains hidden
In the depths where even now
I am crying
For I am lost”

But to be perfectly honest I don’t remember realizing exactly how true those words were. Perhaps... perhaps they were not, not at that time. I believe I have sufficient knowledge in the area of psychology and enough experience with depression as far as my own life is concerned to tell you that I believe I became depressed somewhere around the ages of 13/14 years old. It is not uncommon for major depression to be preceded by dysthymic disorder and I believe I lived first with that for several years. And the thing about dysthymic disorder is that it is a perfect stepping stone for major depressive disorder, single episode. There has been some evidence suggesting that individuals whom start with dysthymic disorder and later acquire major depressive disorder are more likely than those whom have no history of dysthymic disorder to experience multiple major depressive episodes and have poorer interepisode recovery (DSM-IV-TR, American Psychological Association, 2000). Add to that the fact that I developed DD at a relatively early age (under 21 is considered early onset) and my future was already looking pretty bleak by the time I hit early adolescence. It gets even better though because the more MD episodes a person has makes them that much more likely to experience another one later on down the road. From what I can tell from journals I have kept over the years I think I just finished episode number four (by far the worst I have experienced)... that is as far as the DSM-IV-TR goes folks: individuals that have had three MD episodes have a 90% chance of having a fourth. What having four means they don’t say... Those statistics usually cause me to be thankful that I have some chemical help... hopefully that will allow me to stave off a fifth. Unfortunately I’ve ran out of one and so have been without it for almost three weeks now... I am hoping that I made it far enough out of the last episode to be ‘alright’ until I can get some more (don’t you just love American health care?).


But I digress. As I said, I am not sure that those words I wrote the spring of 2004 were completely true. I really do not know when I became lost, even to myself. Honestly I think I was lost much earlier than others may have noticed. Appearances can be deceiving, you know, and I have, for the most part (save for this most recent MD episode) become quite adept at keeping my problems from others (possibly I should have studied acting, rather than psychology ;)). I remember a time during one episode: I was at a meeting for my college church groups leadership team... I felt so hollow I was sure that it was obvious, positive that it was evident in my eyes. And yet, as I sat there it became clear to me that no one had noticed and to be honest I was at a loss as to explain how they had not. I was at the point where I no longer had the ability to even try to cover it up... and yet, I did. I smiled and laughed, participated in life and met my responsibilities: I went to classes and got relatively good grades. I went to work and remained productive, so much so that, in the absence of student supervisors (we had none, at the time) I was often left in charge. I went to church, led worship on Thursday nights for our churches college group (which included not only playing my guitar and singing but picking out the music as well and a little talk here and there between some songs, perhaps finding some scripture to be read between songs, things like that). I did all this running on empty. Taking a shower was so draining I more often than not climbed back into bed for a while afterward. I had no energy, I felt nothing save maybe for that horrible feeling of death while still alive (little did I know that it could be worse even than that) and an emptiness that I was sure was evident in my eyes. I suppose, really, it was around this time that I became truly lost. I had become too skilled at concealing how I was truly feeling. For all anyone else knew I was a happy and content individual; after all, they had no evidence to suggest otherwise. As I continued to maintain this facade I lost something, I’m pretty sure I lost myself. Why am I not absolutely sure? I don’t know. I suppose it has been so long I am not altogether sure I ever truly knew who I was. I started down this path at such an early age, I had no time to become anything. During the years that the formation of my personality should have been galloping along at a fine rate I was already hiding behind my masks. While my own story should have been taking shape I had already been playing a part that did not fit, that was not mine thus leaving my own part unfinished before it had even really begun. I was lost, before there was ever really anything to find.

Wow. Having come to this sad realization I wonder... is there any hope of knowing who I really am? Or will I forever be forced to play a part. I play it well and it’s really not a bad part; others, for the most part, seem to approve. However to me it feels empty and unreal and therefore dismaying.

"A Perpetual Twilight", An Attempt at an Explination

My intent was to explain my last blog, to put it in to 'plain English', as it were. Be aware, though, I am not sure that what is to follow will make much more sense than the nonsensical ramblings in the preceding blog. You have been warned.

It seemed to me that once I acknowledged that 'the Incident' which took place the previous spring with a former University instructor was, in fact, a 'big deal' (although to be quite honest I still find myself questioning EXACTLY how big a deal it was... and usually come to the conclusion that it still is nothing to write home about) I started feeling better (this last, longest, and worst episode of major depression actually began some time shortly after 'the Incident'). It seemed so gradual that I did not really notice it all that much. One day I just felt Normal. Those of you that experience normal on a regular basis (even your bad days are normal, at least compared to a life plagued by chronic major depression, believe me... Thankfully for you they just don't compare) probably do not understand. Your normal is... well... normal, and there for easily take for granted. You (probably unknowingly) just expect life to be that way. So you will just have to take my word for it. Normal is something to be treasured. And finally, after what seemed forever (to the point that I was honestly confounded at the realization that everyone else seemed to laugh so much more than I, to enjoy things more fully -or at all, for that matter-... as a matter of fact I thought THEY were the ones that were 'abnormal' if you can believe it) I was experiencing genuine enjoyment, laughing, smiling, and actually FEELING it. Life seemed to once again be possible, goals and dreams once lost to me, seemingly attainable once again. Life in and of itself seemed much less overwhelming. Not only could I say that I did not want to die (in a previous blog I wrote "It's not that I wanted to die, I just didn't want to be alive any more), I could also say that the idea of continuing to live no longer brought with it an awful, dismal feeling. I no longer felt 'done but stuck' meaning, as my therapist wrote in my chart, that no longer felt like I wanted to die but was 'unable or unwilling' to kill myself (which evidently caused the poor man a bit of confusion... but then again it caused me a bit of confusion as well and more than a little distress).

Normal. For days, weeks, longer than ever before... I began to think that maybe Normal would trade places with Out of Sorts, Lousy, Awful, and Beyond Awful, that they would become the infrequent visitors and Normal the (mostly) constant companion.

Just as gradually and yet seemingly very abruptly, Normal became tainted, distorted as if by a thick fog. The future never did take on the appearance of something truly attainable. Once again it was flooded with an impenetrable fog such that it no longer held any appeal. Rather, thoughts of that unknown future brought with them once again feelings I can only describe as those of dismay and melancholy. And even those words are wholly in accurate for they do not come close to doing the feeling justice. Now, I have been lead to believe that my ability to experience, describe, and talk about feelings and emotions is significantly less than what it should be, and this is, more than likely, pretty accurate. However, in this instance in particular I would argue that most people would be unable to describe this particular feeling accurately enough. Having said that, I hope there are very few (in comparison) who have the need to describe such a feeling. I very much desire that no one else need experience it, though I am not so naive to believe that I am the only one that finds myself in such a situation. I am all too aware that too many before me, too many of my contemporaries, and too many after me have or will experience it.

It has occurred to me that what has frustrated me most about this 'Perpetual Twilight' is that, comparatively speaking, I was allowed only a brief moment of pure Normalcy before it became tainted, stained by some unknown malevolent force. Also it is not the dysthymia I most often experience in between bouts of moderate to severe major depression. Though not exactly... well, no, that would be preferable to this because at least THAT I understand. THAT is less frustrating. TO live with the enjoyment of a moment, the genuine smiles and laughter that I can actually FEEL... only to be overwhelmed by that indescribable feeling when I think of a future that seems rather like it is just not worth it, a future that contains nothing more than a dark, damp, and choking fog... to have those moments of blissful Normalcy eclipsed by feelings which should by all rights stay with the depression, however brief they may be... to find it increasingly difficult not to cut... to once again begin to think of death not as something undesirable and to be feared but rather as something innocuous (and whats worse), something that would be a relief, a blissful end to this tumultuous life... to have Normal sullied in such a way! Can you imagine the frustration and anguish that comes when such dark thoughts and feelings suddenly mar your present experience of joy of all tings Normal? I honestly pray that you can not.

I want one or the other. God, give me the inky darkness of night or the golden warmth of daylight. Do not dangle one in front of me and allow my Normal, my moments of sincere smiles and real laughter to be tarnished so. Please, no more twilight. Let it be one or the other. Either would be preferable to biting into this perfect, warm, fresh apple only to discover a worm. Do you truly not understand?

A Perpetual Twilight

It’s very much like traveling to a new country, or one to which you had not been for many years making the memory no more tan a dream, veiled in a thick fog, distorted and unreal. Your first reaction is one of awe, wonder, and an excitement which fairly radiates from somewhere deep inside. Every turn you take, every sight your eager eyes capture to be filed away as a precious keepsake seems to you the most alluring, most mesmerizing, wonderful thing you have ever seen. My lord, until now you had been SO unaware of what you were missing! The mind reels at the thought that you never knew such a place existed. What is more you now see clearly from whence you came. The scales fall from your eyes and you realize how wretched that place you once inhabited truly was. You find yourself dumbfounded that you had once preferred that musty, stifling hole to what lay beyond (whatever that was you did not know), what is more, that you existed there so long.

Then, gradually, you begin to emerge from your state of euphoric reveling and notice that dusk has settled around you, enveloping everything in an eerie light casting amorphous shadows all around you. A rising Uncertainty begins to blot out the wonder and awe you s recently had enjoyed. As dusk gives way to twilight and twilight to the cold cloak of night your joy becomes eclipsed by something dark and familiar. Ambiguity. A dull, Lifelessness you were certain had been left in that dank hole leaving you free for the first time in what seemed an eternity. As the Uncertainty continues to slowly wash over you you cling to the hopefulness that had just recently bathed you in its warm glow. Its there, a former shadow of its former magnificence. There, in the dead of night (dead? You shudder as memories of a time in the not some distant past when you existed in such a state of living death begin to assault you, a time when you longed for a real death, knowing it would be a relief) you frantically search for any sign of twilight and the coming dawn but find none. You flip through the quickly faded memories of the Joy and Hopefulness you recently experienced. You find it here, fighting against the darkness that threatens to imprison it forever. You see its faint light along the horizon struggling in vain to prevent the black veil of Ambiguity, of that which came Before, from once again consuming you. The twilight before the dawn. And there you remain, a poor imitation of the Normal you believed you had finally achieved, a Normal now tainted by Uncertainty, Ambiguity. And… Something else… A Something which you are unable to name and therefore unable to gain control over regardless how long you wrestle with it. A perpetual twilight.
~
(to be continued at a later date... the explination comes)

It Seems So Surreal Now

And it wasn't even all that long ago. Yet I remember it as if it were a dream. It just doesn't feel real.

I have proof. Journal entries and scars. Charts, health and counseling, that make note of it many times over. And memories, I have the memories. Dark. Though dream-like the memories are befittingly dark. It was, after all, dark time.

It's not that I wanted to die. I just didn't want to be alive anymore. I assure you, such a statement makes sense. However, I am glad you don't understand it. Because to understand would require experiencing such a time and that, my friends, is something I would not wish on anyone, not even my worst enemy.

But as I was saying, it's not that I wanted to die, I just didn't want to be alive anymore. I wish I could explain it. I... Was done... I didn't want to subsist. *sigh* It's so indescribable. The nothingness that consumes your soul. Emptiness that clouds your eyes. It's a point where you don't even feel the depression anymore, a point where the anxiety has faded away and you are truely left with... Nothing. Ugh, you'll never understand. And thank God for that but... I wish I could describe it adequately...

Maybe then I would understand it myself.

*sigh* There was a point to this blog... I'm not sure what it was...

Who endured for me? OR What's in it for Me?

Who sated for me? I'm drunk, I'll admit that right now. I had my last therapy session, at least my last session with the guy that I've seen for the last year, and the last one I know I have for sure. I also had my last meds appointment today, again, at least my last with the guy ice been seeing for a while. All of my lasts at the University Health and Counseling center happened today.

I feel awful. Now, since I've been depressed for something around 12 years (give or take) Awful and I are familier with eachother, very familier.

What in the world is my point? I was thinking tonight, and praying (though God and I haven't been all that close for the last year or so) and wondering, asking: what is the point of all this? This whole mess that is my life. And, if there is a point then it must be for someone else... I exist purely because I am needed to further some other purpose, one that has nothing to do with me, with the struggle I go through daily... And I asked "Who did this for me?" who sacrificed for me? Who lived though everything within them begged for death, to no longer exist? And then it hit me: my mother. She won't tell me a lot of what happened during my childhood, of what my dad out her through... I remember one night we left home... We went to Target in hopes of getting a frozen drink we loved (an Icee)-the weren't open)... We really went because it wasn't safe to stay in our house. I remember dad beating me, mom standing there saying 'Brian, Brian' quietly. I remember what affected ME, what happened to ME. She won't tell me what else happened... What caused her to stay despite the fact that her husband abused her children, out eight beat one(me, the stupid one)... But there was something, I know there was. Because my belief that your child is the most important thing in th world... That came from her... She stayed, she endured who knows what (though I believe it was about the same abuse that I endured), for us... For my older sister, my twin brother and I. Who sacrificed for me? Who lived through hell so that I could make it in this world..? My mother.

The Choice

To give up would be so easy
To give in to the images
To hand control over to the urges
To heed the thoughts that spin in my head
To depart

To continue on would be taxing
To push forward through the pain
To advance, heedless of the pull to surrender
To persist in spite of seemingly overwhelming odds
To linger

The choice
To forsake this earthly body
Or tarry a moment longer
Hoping for a better tomorrow

Three Days Grace: It's Never Too Late

Heard this on the radio yesterday... just the last bit of the chorus, sounded like something that would 'speak to me', if you'll allow me to use a cliche, so found it on Youtube.

Of Fraternal Twins and Physical Abuse

As a child I quickly learned the difference between identical and fraternal twins(once I knew what twins were, lol). My mom insisted that my brother and I develop our own personalities and were not just known as 'the twins'. So much so that no one was allowed to refer to us as such. One day my brother and I came home from preschool and asked our mother what twins were. It turns out one of the teachers had refereed to us as such and we didn't know what in the world she was talking about! I think my mom went a bit over board but my brother and I do have very distinct personalities, which is more than I can say for some twins I know.

But I digress. Being a fraternal twin, especially one of a set of each (a girl and a boy) can be difficult as a child. As I said, I knew much earlier in life than other kids the difference between fraternal twins and identical twins (right down to the fact that one involves two seperate eggs and the other involves just one, that splits). This was out of necessity as my brother and I often ran into the child who (understandably so) did not understand the difference, and further more did not believe that we were twins. More than once I went home crying because, despite my best efforts to explain, one (or more) of my classmates did not believe that my brother and I were twins.

As I got older most people became aware of the difference and the possibility of having a set of twins of different genders (though you may be suprised how often I still have to explain the difference -though usually it is now more explaining why we don't look alike, and not so much why we are not the same gender- to not only my peers but also those older, and supposedly wiser, individuals). As such it became less of an issue with me, something that no longer really bothered me. That change did not, however, mean the end of my problems with the fraternal/identical twin issue.

You may be asking yourself "Well, what else is there?". Let me tell you.

Now, while I will be the first to tell you that being a twin is not all that the rest of you think it is, it has always been a part of me, and to some extent will always be something I value. Therefore it has become a point of contention with me that, when people think of or talk about twins it is always identical twins, or at least twins of the same gender. It is like fraternal twins, especially those of us who belong to a set of different gendered fraternal twins, don't really exist. Even the scientific community pays us very little mind (though this is more understandable as identical twins, because of their identical genetic makeup make it much easier to study such things as how certain disorders may be inhereited). As such I will admit to just a little bit of bitterness when twins are discussed and once again identical and same gender fraternal twins are all that is considered (NOTE: I continue to make a distinction between identical and same gender fraternal twins because most same gender fraternal twins are often mistaken as identical twins because of a strong resembilance when in fact reletaviely few twins are actually genetically identical).

By now you are probably wondering about my title and what the hell the difference between identical and fraternal twins has to do with physical abuse. Simply put, they are connected because I have similar problems with both topics.

Abuse. Say the word, read it, hear it on the radio or on television and most people immediatly come up with sexual abuse. I would like to take this opportunity to reasure you all that I do not believe sexual abuse to be less harmful than any of the rest of of the population. I DO however, believe it to be no MORE harmful than physical, emotional, and psychological abuse, a view that is not often shared by others.

I was physically (and psychologically/emotionaly) abused as a child. To some extent all of us children were, my brother and sister to a much lesser extent (both in severity and frequency). My theory as to the difference here is that they were less confrontational children than I (though I sometimes joke that their survival instincts -or to use Freud, their life instincts- were much stronger than mine). I am a rare individual in that I can't remember a time I ever believed the abuse was my fault. I always seemed to know that it was my dads responsibility and that, though I had behaved in a way that may have been inappropriate such treatment was never warrented (once when I was in my early to mid teens and he tried to apologise -the kind of "I'm sorry, but..." apologies that I hate- for an 'episode of abuse' I went so far as to interrupet him with "No, there is no 'but'. It doesn't matter what has happened, there is no excuse, no one deserves that", something that actually left him speechless and, I think, contributed greatly to the fact that he did not beat me again for several years -though the psychological and emotional abuse continued-). I think in part that is what got me into so much trouble. While I was a sarchastic child and prone to talking back, I also had a sense of when something was wrong and that included my dads treatment of me... which often lead to me sticking up for myself, something my dad probably saw as 'talking back', which ultimatly lead to some sort of trouble. It doesn't help that I was a rather obstinant, often stubborn (and sometimes stupid) child. For example, during the same 'episode of abuse' that lead to my dads failed (and unaccepted) apology there was some phrase, something he wanted me to say or admit to that when I finally did, he stopped hitting me and went back to his seat (this was actually on the way home from a Good Friday service... he actually pulled over to the side of the road and came into the back seat to beat me-)where, before he started back on the road he turned around and said "Now that wasn't so hard was it?" to which I replied through tears and with a good glare "I LIED!!"... Needless to say the beating recommenced directly after my defiant reply.

The abuse I suffered (and to some extent am still likely to become victim of again later in life as he hasnt stopped... the most recent episode was only two Christmases ago) was no less real, no less damaging, and hurt no less than sexual abuse. And yet it seems that sexual abuse is all you hear about. Worse still I have heared more than once that sexul abuse is the WORST form of abuse. As I have said, I believe that all abuse is equally harmful to the person that suffered it.

And so I will continue this fight. Should I? Some would say no. Others would give an emphatic 'Yes!'. Regardless of the opinion of others, I WILL continue. I can do no less... it hurts too much to do otherwise.

Too Much of a Good Thing?

I know, I complain a lot about the help I recieve. It's not that it's bad or anything, it's just that... I guess I'm still humiliated on some level, though I would never tell my therapist that. More than that though, it just continues to take me places I'd rather not go... which I know is the point... but sometimes I wonder if it can do more harm than good some days.

I hate being asked how I'm feeling at that moment, what I'm thinking, can I elaborate on something. Mostly, if it has anything to do with feelings, especially how I'm feeling at that moment, I'd rather not discuss it.
He (my therapist) did a lot of that today. In a fifty minute session he 'checked in' at lest half a dozen times. He also applied a common strategy as far as therapy goes (we learned it in my helping interview class winter term) and matched my tone, and, to a larger extent, my affect. Good strategy, ment to make the client feel at ease... and it's usually pretty effective... however the quiet, patient, 'soft' tone and demeanor is also something I just don't handle very well (weird I know... I blame my impatient, abusive dad for at least part of that)... I ALMOST asked him to knock it off (stopped myself just in time... after all he's only doing his job).

OK, therapy, whatever, that's not a lot, I'll agree with you.

Add the meds appointments where I've also got to go through similar (though thankfully less detailed) discussions as to how I'm feeling, how has my cutting been, my drinking...

Add to THAT the case worker who is pretty much like a therapist only this guy even asks me if I've got enough to eat (and if I'm eating enough... yes, and no *shrug*). Last weeks appointment included discussion about my depression (how long, etc) cutting (how often, how deep, what I use :-s, etc).

OK, what am I complaning about, there are lots of people who want help but are unable to get it, and here I am with what I consider to be an overabundance...

*shrug* I'm stupid I suppose (or at least a little silly). I hate it, I can't stand it... I feel humiliated. I know it's unreasonable... Y'all have 'hear' me say more than once that I am aware of my double standard when comparing myself to others... that I lack the patience and understanding that I naturally extend to others. I've got a BA in psychology for crying out loud!!! You'd think I'd get it together. And intelectually I know all that good stuff... It's just the rest of me that has a hard time coming to terms with it.

Pointless blog, but it almost feels better to have written it. Almost.

Feelings and Death

Reflecting on my graduation party (last night). Family and friends came. I hugged people, smiled, and laughed. I allowed my five year old little cousin to hang all over me (it seemed I was her favorite person that afternoon... as I left she jumped -literally- into my arms and as I set her down she did not let go of my neck until she kissed my cheek). Outwardly I appeared to be enjoying myself. I appeared happy. But I felt... nothing.

Should I have? Should I have actually FELT my apparent enjoyment and happiness?

I honestly don't understand this 'feelings' thing... I don't know when I'm missing out on a 'feelings opportunity' I do know that feeling nothing in regards to my little cousins attention (especially that last hug and kiss) was odd as, when I am able to actually able to feel and identify something (usually happiness and/or enjoyment) it is with little ones.

Anyway, the thought struck me that this... lack of feelings, for lack of a better term, may be a big part of why the thought of death does not bother me... That only occasional feelings and emotions make it easier to take it or leave it as far as life is concerned. Why that would be I am not exactly sure... but I really think that it is a good possibility.

*shrug* Ah, well, who knows. Anyway maybe I'm not really as different as I think. Maybe others don't experience feelings/emotions as often as I think they do. I don't know. I don't think I really understand... And I'm not sure I ever will...

I hate this.

My Double Standard OR Explaining Pathetic (for Shiv:-))

As double standards go it could definitely be worse. At least I don't hold everyone else to a higher standard than I do myself. As a matter of fact, the problem is I am not as understanding with myself as I am with others.

Let me explain.

Were I to read a blog post such as the last one I wrote, my response would be much like Shiv's. Someone dealing with all that and still coming out (mostly) in tact isn't pathetic. In fact they are to be lauded for their ability to survive it, supported and encouraged. Mental illness is not a character flaw or a personality defect, it is exactly that: an illness.

Unfortunately I can't seem to apply such thinking to my own... 'issues'. Instead I am pathetic or 'such an idiot' or 'so stupid' as I often mutter to myself. Maybe it's because I believe I lost control. I've been depressed for years, we're talking almost half my life. And I was able to function in my daily life, keep from others the fact that I felt awful. But as my last post stated, this last year was the year I lost control (and I can only think it is because I finally gave up). And the more people made aware of it, the more pathetic I feel.

It seems like everyone and their dog knows just how messed up I am any more.

Just about everyone at the uni health centre, at least three of the counsellors at the counselling centre (though, come to think of it, I got brought up at some meeting they all have -health and counselling sides- after me 'week from hell' which culminated in that trip to the ER and stitches on my wrist... So they all know), two folks at community mental health...
Everyone at work has seen my cuts/scars (short sleeves for work). And now, in order to get into this apartment before the place I'm living in now kicks me out, I'm technically 'homeless' and have a bloody caseworker! Better still? It turns out he graduated from the same uni in the same major and worked at the dining hall, all during the same time I was there!

Do you know how much information caseworkers get? Pretty much all of it. He doesn't know (yet?) that I'm on meds... Or that I cut... Or that I was almost admitted twice.
He does know I'm in therapy (fun times) and probably has a good idea that I'm allowed to keep my cat because I'm 'nuts' (as the apartment I am moving to doesn't allow pets unless they're 'therapy pets'... Hence the prescription for my cat).
Ugh, and they (caseworkers) ask all sorts of fun questions:
Do you have transportation? A job? These I can understand, sound like 'caseworker like' questions.
But:
Do you drink/smoke?
Yes, I drink a bit.
*searching look* Do you think you need help with that?
Are you getting enough to eat? Do you think you're getting enough nutritionally?
I eat like a college student, it's not great but I eat. -and here it's great that he worked the same place I do-
At work, you get something to eat there? No, they don't feed us.
*well controlled surprise on his part* They used to.
Yeah, I remember that, but they don't anymore.
Is M. still there? She was usually good about that.
Yeah, she's there and she let's us eat sometimes but since it's not allowed it depends on who's there (superior wise). (Come on, is it that important that I eat well as long as I'm eating? Quit asking about it!)
And then we get to health (physical/mental).
Do you have health insurance?
No.
It says you're in some sort of therapy/counselling...
Yes'ir
Where are you going for therapy?
On campus.
Are you seeing one of the grad students? No, one of the interns at *hand gesture as I'm too pathetic to say 'counselling centre' to this guy who can't be much older than me*
The counselling centre?
Yep.
(Come to think of it he knows about the meds because where I go for those was discussed too.)
Can you continue going there (uni health and counselling centre) after the summer ends? No.
Will you need help finding some place for therapy then?
*shrug* I'll cross that bridge when I get to it.
*searching look* What will you do?
I was kind of thinking about just not doing it. (I didn't tell him that I was thinking of dropping therapy and continuing meds -meaning I need to find a doctor- because I can't afford both).
How about money, about how much do you make a month?
*thinking, adding* About _____
Are you able to live of off _____?
*shrug* For the most part... The cat gets fed, rent gets paid.
Do you have any overdue bills?
I have two (forgot to mention the hospital bill from my ER visit). I'm working on it, I don't like being behind.
*nods*
They even give pretty much the same confidentiality speech as a therapist/psych/doctor might. Only his started with:
Is there anyone you think should be included in this?
*shaking my head no*
*searching look* (he was waiting for me to say my therapist) Alright, well everything we talk about here is confidential unless... (Which followed the basic 'danger to self or others' bit)...
*Me: All that fun stuff.

Yeah, it was all pretty much like that. And he's a nice guy, don't get me wrong (and learned his psychology stuff well). But he's just one other person to ask me how I'm doing, how I'm feeling, etc. Personal stuff (like how I'm eating, for crying out loud!) that I don't talk to folks about.
It's even worse that he thought he recognised me, and probably did since we were probably in the psych program at the same time and I know we had to have worked at the dining hall at the same time (because M. (supervisor) didn't start working there until after I did).

I don't know what in the world I did to deserve this sometimes crippling depression... But isn't that enough? Why add insult to injury?

A Year of Giving Up

Spring term.
A worrisome cut.
A doctors visit.
A 'crisis' counselling session.
Another doctors visit.
A summers worth of therapy.
Zoloft.
More therapy fall term.
Withdraw from a class.
Sporadically attend the other two.
Meds appointments.
Over doses.
Winter term. Therapy.
Academic and financial aid probation.
Withdraw from same class.
Attend other two slightly more often than last term.
Meds appointments.
Paxil.
Zoloft.
Stitches.
More over doses.
Spring term. Therapy
Financial aid probation.
Stitches.
Almost admitted to hospital.
Two additional therapy sessions that week.
Emergency room (same week). This ones more serious (hit a vein) . Stitches. Narrowly escape admittance.
Wellbutrin (in addition to the Zoloft).
So many meds appointments...
Have to graduate.
Continue in all classes, attend sporadically.
Try and find housing.
Job hunting.
Government housing.
Though still in apartment am technically homeless as I must be out by July 7th.
Lots of paper work.
Prescription for my cat(?).
Still more over doses.
Graduate, but just barely.
Summer. More therapy.
More over doses.
Meds appointments.
Work at old job, one last summer.
HopeSource.
Caseworker.
Pathetic.

All those years being in control of my depression. One year of giving up.

I once had plans, dreams, and goals.

I now have one day at a time, and a future that makes me wonder if there really is a point. No goals, no dreams, no plans or desires. No motivation, no will.

It took a long time to hit bottom. But I am there. It's a long way back up. And I am tired.

Thoughts and Observations on Feeling

I had another therapy session this afternoon. First in a week and a half. First since the disastrous one 11 days ago). Good lord, I wonder if it was as draining and hard on him as it was for me. :-( I almost cried and I am very much hoping he didn't hear it in my voice the time I came the closest. Chip, chip, chip... Sure, you'll get some emotions, some feelings if you keep on about them. If you keep bringing them up, always asking 'What is it like for you now?','What are you feeling now?','How does it feel to have said that?'... *shudder* Even writing those questions made me feel uncomfortable.

I hated talking about last session. I hated trying to explain I was mad without actually having to say it. Responding in the affirmative when he suggested that I had been hurt (I didn't actually say it myself). I felt ripped apart, bruised and battered along with a myriad of other things I can't identify or describe. Unfortunately I think it might have been a good thing. But God, I hated it, I really did.

Feelings? Who cares, I don't know what am I am missing. And if I am unaware of the fact that it exists for other people, that I am the exception rather than the rule...

To actually FEEL feelings... Is it strange that I had always been under the impression that a physical sensation attached to a feeling was not the norm, but rather something that didn't really happen all that often? I remember one time while I was in Junior High... I hugged my grandma, no special reason just, you know, what grandparents and grandkids do. And I felt something in my chest... I don't know how to describe it except to say that it felt good. I thought it was so cool, I didn't remember feeling anything like that before. A few days later I was at my best friends house and I was telling her mother about this exciting thing that I had experienced when I hugged my grandma and she gave me a funny... 'Yes... don't you always feel that?'.

Well, as I said I didn't remember feeling it before and so I probably thought the question was a little strange. I do remember being embarrassed a bit but not knowing why. I certainly didn't think on it long enough to wonder if everyone felt it much more often then I did.

Fast forward about ten years or so and I find myself medicated and talking for 50 minutes a week to someone I didn't know from Adam nine months ago.

With therapy always coming back to my 'feelings' it didn't take long before I realised that this disconnect my therapist was eluding to might have a part in that story of 10 years ago. That what was for me something novel and exciting, might actually be pretty common place for everyone. That this evident shying away from feelings that I have been told I do (with which I agree and believe me if you had been in my session today, experienced it from my point of view you'd agree too), somehow could be connected to that as well.

Does it matter? Should I miss something I wasn't all that aware of to begin with, now that it has been made known to me? 'Think about your feelings, sit with your feelings, identify you're feelings'... I'd rather not, thanks, especially not the bad ones: the anger, the hurt and pain, the impatience, the jealousy... I could keep going. Probably there are some on my list others wouldn't consider bad. *shrug* It is entirely possible they are not. I know I have a tendency to be hardest on myself, to be my own worst critic. Not a day goes by I don't berate myself for something. But such is my existence, such is MY normal, and I don't know how to fix it. 24 years is, after all, a lot to try and undo.