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.
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
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.
'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.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
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*
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*
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
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.
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.
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