I don't talk to people

I'm not ready to actually write this up but I just thought I'd let the next topic out there. It's a revelation of sorts and I am still sorting through it.

Why?

I've got a few friends in town I needed to talk to about the year + that I 'checked out'. Well, really only two and seeing as how they are married (and how the answer I got from the one made me feel) I think only talking to one will do just fine.

He was my campus minister while I was in University and after I asked him about it it felt rather like a mistake. Certainly it was not a good idea. Not with how it has made me feel since. Because apparently I was just gone...

He told me that the year before it had seemed to him that I was only participating because I felt obligated to. This lead to them believing that when I stopped coming altogether that it was because I did not want to be there (as those of you who have kept up with my blog know -if there are any of you, lol- my last year at University I decided to no longer be on the leadership team of our University group at church. This included leading worship at our Uni nights.).

But why? Why in the world did he (they) think that? Why did they believe it? I had been so happily involved not only in our Uni group but the church in general. I was always there. For the longest time the only times I missed the group was when I was out of town. I talked to JAJ and his wife (but mostly him) about all sorts of things. I babysat their oldest (and for a few years their only) child all the time. I (thought) was a big part of what went on there. And I loved (still do, really) that family so much. How could he (they) believe that all of a sudden I decided I did not want to be involved any more. That when I started fading away and eventually stopped coming altogether it was simply a case of my not wanting to be involved anymore.

He is right about one thing. The year before my life fell down around my ears I did get to a point when I was participating mostly out of obligation. I had a responsibility to the group and so I went. But it was not because I woke up one day and decided I didn't want to be involved any more. I was already at a point that I wasn't doing very well and it was continuing to spread to more parts of my life, even the parts most important to me.

And that year? That year I spent much of my time hardly functioning. It was not that I did not want to go, to be a part of 'my group'. It was that I couldn't. I honestly couldn't bring myself to do anything more than necessary and even then I often skipped over the responsibilities I still had.

Now, to his (their) credit, I did not really say anything to them. But it's not exactly an easy subject. How do you tell someone who has never experienced anything like it that you are just too tired? That for some reason you really cannot do much more than lay in bed and stare vacantly at the ceiling, or hide under your pillow and stare vacantly at the wall (there's a lot of vacant staring), or simply just sleep the hours away? How do you tell someone you care about, who you believe cares about you, that you do not want to live any more. That not only do you not want to live but that you are very willing to take your own life as soon as the time is right. That you already have it planed, in detail: the notes you will leave (the note in the bathroom with me and another note on the door telling my roommate to call someone for support and then call 911), the time of day you will do it (after all, you will need enough time to actually die before the roommate comes home and stops you), how you will do it (a bottle of pills and then settle in the tub -fully clothed because I refused to be one of those folks found naked as the day they were born- so I don't make too big a mess and slit my wrists. I couldn't.

But why? Why didn't he check in? Why didn't he ask? Why didn't someone do something? My behaviour was clearly out of character... why did no one clue in? Why did one of the people I care most about, one of the people I felt closest to... why did he assume something so out of character for me... and not ask about it?

They left me alone to kill myself... And I came so close to doing just that... All the while they just assumed I wasn't there because I didn't want to be.

For the love of God, why did no one ask?! I love these people, I care about them so much... and I thought they felt the same... yet the did nothing!

'Relationships' Workbook Entry, II

I thought I'd break this up into two posts. After allm they are rather long.

So here's the rest of 'em.

• 
  The ‘last time’ after I thought he had grown and stopped it. It had been something like six years since the ‘Good Friday incident’. I was on Christmas break from University and my brother and I were 22. Dad had borrowed Grandpas truck to go and pick J_____ up from school. We (J____ and I) had made plans to see a movie with mom and her fiancé that night and dad and J____ were running late getting back to town. I was talking to J____ on his cell phone, keeping track of their progress. At one point mom told me to ask J_____ to ask dad if he could just drop him off at the house (the original plan had been for me to go to Grandma and Grandpas to pick him up). I should have known better than that. Mom had never wanted him to drop us off at the house the few times he felt like doing something with us. However, I asked J____ anyway. The laugh I heard from dad on the other end of the line should have clued me in to how the rest of the evening was going to go. Then again, I had been sure he was no longer that person. It didn’t even enter my mind. Needless to say he said no (siting the ‘no-dad-at-the-house policy mom had had before). Later J____ called to tell me they were almost to Grandma and Grandpas and so I got in my car and drove ‘up the hill’ as we put it. Again, I should have been prepared for what was to come when I saw dad waiting for me in the driveway waiting for me as I pulled up. He approached the car as I turned the ignition off and swung my legs out of the car. By this time he was standing in front of the opened car door blocking my exit. He looked down at me and said that he hoped I was planing on spending some time visiting. I laughed weakly at that and reminded him that he knew we did not have the time. He started screaming at me, telling me how much ‘those people’ (Grandma and Grandpa) had done for me (yeah, including teaching me how to really feel guilty about the smallest, most meaningless thing or telling me to ‘get the hell out of my house’) and on and on. At one point I considered using my cell phone to dial 911 but reconsidered after reminding myself of the other problems that would cause with that side of the family (and besides, what would he do later if I called the cops on him??). Eventually I managed to stand up and tried to get away from him. He used his body to block me all the while he was yelling in my face (at one point he asked me if I wanted to ‘feel like a Marine’). I told him quietly to leave me alone, to leave me be. He continued to yell at me and use his body to block my escape, sometimes pushing me with his body . . . He never actually used his hands. Funny, afterwards I would come to the conclusion that the yelling and pushing were worse than any time he had pinned me down and hit me (strange? Maybe but that is still how it feels, even thinking about it almost four years later). When I finally managed to get away, he grabbed the collar of my coat and yanked me around. It was the Navy pea coat my Uncle had given me, the one he had when he was in the service. Here’s something else funny for you: When he jerked me backward, I heard the coat rip (thank God it was just the lining). My only concern? Not that he was jerking me around but that he had just ripped my coat! (I do love that coat though, lol.) I never said I was always rational ;). He jerked me around a bit more, yelling and sometimes pushing me with his body. My brother said later that it was about this time he heard what was going on outside. He jumped up and said “Shit! Stay in here!” and ran out side leaving our grandparents in the living room wondering what in Gods green earth was going on. By the time J____ got outside dad had let me go (I think. Parts of the memory are pretty vague) and I was on my way into the house to give Grandma some makeup that my older sister had sent for her. As I passed J____ I tried to hold back the tears that were threatening to spill from my eyes. I said ‘J____ (actually I used a childhood nickname but I really am trying to keep this blog as anonymous as possible), please get in the car.’ From behind me I heard dad say in a mocking (and childish) voice ‘J____, please get in the car’. I looked over my shoulder, glared at him through the tears pooling in my eyes and said ‘Bite me’. By then I was almost to the kitchen. Dad lunged at me and I made it to a corner in the kitchen (actually it is a space between the counter and the refrigerator, really rather perfect for cowering in) before he could get me. It all happened so fast, I really can’t give you a lot of detail. Later I noticed that Grandma had been in the kitchen (stupid man could have knocked his own mother over!). I also looked up and saw J____ had managed to pin to the door frame between the kitchen and the dining room. As I stood from where I was huddled in my corner (I’ve huddled there before, you see, so it really is ‘my corner’) the only emotion I was aware of was one of sadness at seeing my dad pinned there by J____. Not much later I sat on the kitchen floor and cried in my Grandmas lap. Even then, after seeing what she did, she could only defend him. And I still cried in her lap. I couldn’t help it. I had to. Before we left the house my dad tried to apologize . . . and unfortunately this time I think I actually let him (what an ass! What makes him think an apology is good enough? And why in Gods Name did I let him? OK, well I think that can be blamed on the sort of numb state I was in at the time but for heaven sake . . . ) *blush*. On the drive back hone I told J___ not to tell mom what had happened. After al, I told him, she shouldn’t have to worry about it and besides, it would really only make her mad and ruin the rest of the night.
  
• All those times mom told me not to tell anyone what dad had done. She would tell me not to tell because then they would take me away and put me in a foster home where they would rape and beat me. It sounds horrid I know, and heaven knows why someone would say that to their child but I really do believe she thought it would be safer to have me there with her then with some other family (after all, I was never the easiest child to deal with).
  
• All those times dad beat me and mom only stood there repeating his name over and over again. Quietly, at that. I suppose he would have only turned on her if she had done more but still. I was the child after all.
  
• When, after the ‘Good Friday incident’ my sister told me that, by arguing with my dad I had asked for what I got (that she never experienced anything close to the same treatment didn’t register or matter I guess).
  
  2. Are there people from your past or present that you blame for not being there for you? Who are they and what do you blame them for?
  
• I think (no, really, I know, I just don’t want it to be) some friends from town (where I live at present). Either they did not notice or just chose not to do anything the entire time I slowly faded away. For a year and a half (give or take, probably ‘give’) I teetered on the brink . . . and they just let me. I was almost hospitalized twice and came very close to killing myself (if you’ve kept up with my blog you know how close) . . . and no one tried to get a hold of me to see if I was all right, to ask what was going on, to enquire as to why they no longer saw me out or why I did not participate in church activities anymore. I suppose it might sound unfair of me to have expected any of this from them but you have to understand that the likelihood that they would not notice was really very slim given how much I had been involved before. The years before I served on our college groups leadership team. I lead worship at our college night (sometimes even during a regular church if need be). I sang and played electric bass in the Sunday morning worship band. And I just stopped. Some of it was more gradual (I did not stop playing bass or singing completely until that next summer). Other things, like my participation in the college group just happened one day. I stopped going. My last year at University (when most of this took place) I only made it to our college night twice. For someone who usually only missed when she was just too sick to go that is a huge change. And it’s not like these folks are incapable of noticing such things. Toward the time I finally began doing better (though was not out of the woods yet) one of these friends and I, one of the two friends that make this hurt the most, were talking about another gal in the group. Apparently she was going to be moving into an apartment by herself and he was a little worried . . . about the same stuff that I had been dealing with (though mine was much more sever). They just let me fade away...
  
• My mom, some times, for staying with my dad, for not stopping him. And of course, my dad.

3. As you review these painful moments from your past, do you see ways in which they may be impacting your present? In what ways are they determining choices you are making when it comes to your relationships?

• I honestly don’t know. Sometimes I think my dad may be the reason I seem to get scared if a relationship seems to be getting too serious too fast. Other than that . . . *shrug* I don’t know.

4. Are you able to forgive whoever is involved in your painful memories? Are you able to release any resentment you may be holding onto? What might you need to do to take care of your ‘unfinished business’?

• Yeah, I think I can forgive those involved. I mean, it’s just stuff you need to eventually be able to get past, you know? But... I probably should tell some of these folks how this stuff has made me feel... however, I’m not sure that I can. I actually used the word ‘beat’ once (just recently actually) with my dad. He was saying how I was a hard one to raise because I was ‘spirited’ and had a strong personality; that it was hard to discipline me because of that and not ‘break’ my ‘spirit’ at the same time. He also said he thinks he did a pretty good job. After I told him that maybe he had been a bit sever (OK I can’t remember exactly what I said but that’s the idea anyway) he told me that I could not be allowed to just ‘run off at the mouth’ to which I said something like ‘Yes, but that doesn’t mean I needed to be beat’. His reply? He laughed and said ‘You were never really beat, kid’. And, once again, I let him get away with it (I maintain it was something I learned as a child)! I just said ‘Yeah, I know’ and the conversation continued. Ugh, I hate that I did that.
  I should also talk to some of my friends here (specifically the afore mentioned two) but I don’t want to make them feel bad or obligated or . . . something. *shrug* I don’t know. I know I should...

So, that's it. Nothing really all that interesting to others, I suppose, but there it is anyway.

Questions are taken directly out of the book 'Relationships' by Drs. Les & Leslie Parrott

Parrott, Les & Leslie (1998). Relationships. Grand Rapids, Michigan 49530: Zondervan Publishing House.

'Relationships' Workbook Entry

I’m reading this book on relationships (titled, 'oddly' enough 'Relationships' ;)). Thankfully it is about relationships in general and not just those of the romantic type because honestly, one like that would make no sense for me as I have not been in a relationship in just over two years. Anyway there’s a ‘workbook’ of sorts in the back of the book (no surprise there as the authors are a husband and wife who are a psychologist and marriage and family therapist respectively and you know how folks in the field of psychology like workbooks ;)). As I was working through the first bit from chapter one it hit me that it might be something worth putting on my blog. Heaven knows it was bringing up the same type of feelings that I often have which then compel me to write a blog entry. So here they are. Honest and sometimes (most of the time) painful answers.

Chapter one is called ‘The Compulsion for Completion’ and basically speaks to the need we all have to form relationships. Part of being able to form healthy relationships is understanding parts of your past that may cause difficulties in your present (my words, not theirs. They shouldn't have to take credit for my poor writing skills). Exercise two of the workbook is entitled ‘Healing your primal pain’ (it even sounds like a psychologist came up with it ;))

1. Reflect on your personal history and make note of any memories you have of feeling abandoned or neglected (even if they seem fairly insignificant).

• When I was fairly young (I don’t remember how young exactly) my mother, grandmother, brother and I were at a mall in one of the larger cities in the area. This mall held a particular interest for us as kids because there were several fountains in the middle of the building (and who doesn't like fountains when they are little?). My mother had gone in to a store while my Grandmother, brother, and I played around the fountains. I soon realized that I had become separated from Grandma and J_____ and made my way around the maze of fountains in an attempt to find them. When I could not I went to the front of the store my mother had went in to and sat on a bench to wait for her, knowing that she would see me when she came out. I do not remember really feeling scared, abandoned, or neglected but there must be some reason that memory has stuck with me so vividly.
  A good handful of memories like this involve my dad. They are as follows (though not necessarily in chronological order).
  
• The time I couldn't’t find my church shoes (sounds silly, right?). It sounds insignificant and heaven knows it was not the only time it happened. I was around 11 at the time (I can remember the dress I was wearing and the shoes I could not find...helps me locate the incident in time). I remember being in tears as I frantically dug through the mess at the bottom of my tiny closet. I remember that after dad slapped me one of my parents (I do not remember which) getting ice for my face. I do not remember why the ice was needed or why we didn’t go to church just because he had slapped me (I always thought maybe it was because I’d gotten so worked up and my face was flushed. I thought it was a weird reason not to go because if I just calmed down it would be gone by the time we got to the church. As it turns out (I recently asked my mom) the reason was not my flushed face but the hand print my dad had left on the side of my face (no real surprise there... I’ve always likened being bit by my dad to being hit in the face with a baseball). I suppose the ice was to stop any swelling that might occur and not going to church was because of the possibility that e may have left a longer lasting mark.
  
• Dad smacking heads with me when I wouldn’t stop talking. I don’t remember if I just wouldn’t shut up or if we had been arguing. I do remember that I was relatively young... and that we were on summer vacation in a swimming pool.
  
• Dad slapping all three of us kids one Easter morning. Poor J_____ didn’t even do anything; he was just the closest to dad. My sister and I had been arguing over Easter eggs. D_____ thought we should trade those we had found so she could have the ones she had dyed (which were a very vivid color because she had left them in the dye for so long). I did not want to trade because I thought hers were pretty.
  
• Dad chasing me around the B_____ street house (the first house I lived in). You could run in a circle through the kitchen (where it started, apparently with something mean I had said to J____), the living room, the dining room, and back to the kitchen. I don’t now how many circuits we made before he managed to grab the hood of my sweatshirt and pull me to the floor. Then he straddled me (I think my stomach but to be honest, as with other times he did this my memory is vague beyond what I describe here) and began to hit me, mostly in the face -I think- and maybe the upper body (like I said, vague). All the time he was right in my face, yelling.
  
• The first time he beat me at the house on W__________ road. I don’t remember what I had done but once again he caught me (I don’t think there was much chasing involved this time). He straddled me, hit me, and screamed in my face for some time (all the while my mother stood in the background quietly saying his name over and over). When he finished I crawled over to where the dog was and hugged him so hard he couldn’t breath (I didn’t realize how hard I was holding him until he coughed). I wore glasses at the time and at some point while he was hitting me they bent. When my sister and I walked to the eye doctor to have them fixed and the gal out front asked me how they had become bent D_____ and I looked at each other and then back at this woman who we had known for years. I lied. I don’t remember what I said, but I lied.
  
• The second time at the W_________ house. I can’t remember what we were arguing about. I think my sister had just graduate university. I know we were unloading her things from a U-haul. I remember I made it through the mud room, into the dining room and almost to the library before he caught me and put me to the floor again (this time on the tile between the dining room and the library). He followed the same MO, straddling me, hitting me about the face and upper body (I think anyway... I know my face was involved) and screamed in my face.
  
• The ‘Good Friday Incident’ (strange, I just noticed a pattern here... Easter. Hmm). I believe it was the spring before I turned 16. I had not been asked to play my ‘usual’ part in the Easter sunrise service and was hurt and upset. I was complaining on our way home from the Good Friday service and dad told me to stop (I do not remember what he said only that it just hurt even more). I told him to shut up (smart kid, huh?). He jerked the van over to the side of the road and came into the back seat. He sat on my lap and yelled in my face as he hit me. He wanted me to say something specific (I do not remember what). He kept yelling at me to say it. When I finally said it he stopped hitting me and returned to the drivers seat. He looked back at me and said ‘See, that wasn’t so hard was it?’. I glared at him through the tears streaming from my eyes and said ‘I lied!’. Needless to say that got me some more ‘road side beating’. After we got home that night my mom got busy preparing things to dye Easter eggs and the three of us kids went about our own business. I went to the computer to play solitaire. Dad approached me there and tried to apologize with ‘I’m sorry, but...’. I interrupted him there and told him that, no, there is no ‘but’. It does not matter what someone says or does you do not do that to people. Surprisingly enough he left it at that (I was a little amazed that he didn’t start in on me again but I was never one for thinking before I spoke, especially when I knew it was right).
  

lol it just hit me... this feels like something my last therapist was trying to get out of me for some time during our 'work' together. Poor guy, it didn't work too well then. But I was in a much worse place than I am now and I think that has made a difference.

More to come (and you thought it was long already ;))... I just ran out of time typing it up this morning.

Questions are taken directly out of the book 'Relationships' by Drs. Les & Leslie Parrott

Parrott, Les & Leslie (1998). Relationships. Grand Rapids, Michigan 49530: Zondervan Publishing House.

Seriously?

I had planed on continuing my previous blog this afternoon however, in light of last nights events I have decided to put that one on the back burner at least for the time being and write this one instead.

Due to the slump in the economy many people are finding themselves without jobs or at least with the very real possibility that they will not have work in the near future. My dad is one such person. While he still has a job at the moment there is a very good chance that the trucking company he works for now will not be able to keep him on in the near future. Knowing that he has decided to go back in to long hauling. He was hired on at a company my cousin has worked for in the past and had orientation the past two days in a town about a half hours drive from where I live. Knowing that he would be in the area for a few days he made plans to come up one night and spend some time with me. Not a bad thing really, I got a free meal out of it :). I also wound up in a conversation with my dad that just about left me speechless and did bring me close to tears (well, as close as I get anyway).

I've always been something of an out spoken person. As a child I was more likely to keep running my mouth than to shut up even when it got me in to trouble. I sometimes joke with people that even a dog learns if you kick it a couple times (not that I kick animals *shudders at the thought* it's just an expression) so what was wrong with me? Suffice it to say my mouth got me in to trouble more than once. My dads 'punishment' with all three of us children could be considered abusive (CPS would certainly have something to say about it -as a matter of fact my mom would tell me not to tell anyone or 'they' -CPS- would take me away and put me in a foster home where they would rape and beat me... she felt trapped, sure, but honestly, who says that to their kid?). And can my dad ever yell! I remember one time (physically he was just kind of pushing me around with his body and sometimes yanking me around by my coat -the navy issue pea coat my uncle gave me, no less-) one of the things he yelled in my face was 'Do you want to feel like a Marine?!'. All that said my tendency to not shut my mouth when it would be in my best interests earned me a lot more yelling and some more serious 'punishment' than my brother or sister. On more than one occasion my dad had me on the ground, straddling me, knocking me around (I suppose he was hitting me in the face but I honestly don't remember that much detail, much to the chagrin of a therapist I once had ;)) and yelling in my face.

I know it could have been worse. I also know that that fact aside it should not have been that way. I actually told him so once, the one time he apologised afterward (it -when the apology took place... the beating happened in the van on the way home from the Good Friday service- was Good Friday and I was playing solitaire on the computer while my mom got things ready to dye Easter eggs). I wasn't an entirely stupid kid ;)

Last night before my dad left to go back to his hotel we sat outside while he had a smoke before hitting the road. We talked about a few things (this and that we talked about so many different things that I cannot recall) and somehow ended up talking about me as a kid. And what came out of his mouth *shakes head* ... I really cannot believe it. I cannot even describe the conversation up the that point as well as I would like (at all, really). He told me that he saw I was a strong willed child and that while I could be stubborn he knew that I was also a kind child. He said he tried to parent in such a way as to reign me in and yet not break my spirit. He liked to think that he had been successful. (my dad does not talk like that though, I am just trying to get the idea across) Was he kidding me?! Maybe I became that way in spite of him but not because of him. I cannot even fully remember my response except that I did at one point remind him of the time he apologised and I told him that his behaviour had not been appropriate, was never appropriate. He responded by telling me that I could not be allowed to run off at the mouth. I told him that did not mean a beating was the appropriate way to fix that. He responded to that by telling me that I was never really beat. And you know what I said to that? 'I know'! What in the world was that?! Of course I was beat! Maybe not as badly as I could have been but for crying out loud! What in the world caused me to agree with him? Ugh. I am honestly disgusted with myself (though I have a good idea why I agreed and why I should not feel that way toward myself).

Not Quite ,&, God, It's His Fault So Why Am I The One Suffering?

*This post is in the beginig phase of writing. When I am done it may very well look vastly different than it does now. However for some reason I cannot explain I wanted to get what I have posted before I went to work. Please bare with me the poor writing style and all as I will be refining it as soon as I can*


I'm stuck. Caught in this state of Not Quite. Not Quite depressed. Not Quite Normal. Not Quite anything. Now in all honesty Not Quite is slightly preferable to the Pit. And Not Quite is, well, not quite *insert groan here* the same as that Dysthymic haze that more often than not enveloped me when I was not in the Pit. But Not Quite leaves me trapped in a place where I can still be haunted by ghosts of the past, plagued by problems I would rather not recall, relive, or experience again. Problems such as suicidal ideation (I love using that phrase :) Makes me feel smart, lol). I know that, having unlocked that particular door I have now become incapable of closing it. Death, for me, will always be an option, as much as I wish it were not. But that problem brings with it one particular Ghost, that man I blame for pushing me to that point. Because I truly believe that were it not for the actions of this one, sick, twisted (I'm trying to come up with a word that can describe just exactly how I feel about him but as yet I am at a loss) I would not have reached that point, the point where I realized that I could, in fact, take my own life. When it comes right down to it I even believe that, were it not for him, for what he did, that last major depressive episode would not have been nearly as bad as it was. I blame him for causing me to go so deeply down in to the Pit that I could not even function. And so it stands to reason that maybe he is at least partially responsible for where I am now, or more precisely, where I am not. That maybe he must take a portion the blame. I am not where I had hoped to be. I have lost my dream (I desperately wish I could grab hold of it once again). Not only have I lost that dream for the moment, should I find my way back to it I am not sure I would be able to accomplish it. I would love to go to graduate school. My GPA was such that I had decided that was one goal for my last year of university, to get it up so that I could go forward with that dream I held so dear (oh how I wish I could impress upon you how much I wanted this, how excited the thought of that future made me). I had already succeeded in getting it to a 3.0 (usually the minimum GPA graduate programs will accept) the spring before. This year I would take it up as high as I could. I would work hard at my classes, research with a professor, volunteer, do everything I could think of to give myself the best chance of getting in to the program I wanted. Instead I spent most of that year in bed sleeping or just staring vacantly at the wall or ceiling with literally no thought in my head (it's possible, really, I've experienced it). I skipped classes to sleep and often even when I was physically present in a class I was also only physically present. Try as I might I could not seem to pull myself together enough to pay attention to anything (and believe me, I tried hard).

I Survived

Had my doctors appointment today and, thankfully, survived it. This is more than likely because it was just to talk about my meds and apparently he knew nothing of my history (needless to say I only told him what I needed to).

Unfortunately I am supposed to go back in two weeks for a 'full exam' (ladies, you can sympathise I am sure). The only bright spot of that is that apparently the guy I saw today, nice as he was, will not be doing it as he is not actually my PCP.

Having said that I am going to take a moment to sound immature and silly.

Don't make me go to this... I don't want to :'(

Moment over. I know it's not a big deal and I'm being stupid. Thanks for bearing with me.

That's Not Really The Problem...

So I finally found a new Doctor... only a half an hour drive over a shit load of hills but I found one.

But...

That's not really the problem...

He's an intern which means he probably won't be there for too long (internship is something like
3 years I think and I am not sure how long he has been there already)... I'm not thrilled about that as it means that, should I stay in the area for a few more years at least I will have to find another doctor.

But...

That's not really the problem...

I looked him up on the clinics web site (being a resident I figured he was probably rather young). From the picture of him and the fact that undergraduate school is four years and med school is another four I'd guess he's only a few years older than me... probably younger than my older sister... That's a little weird.

But...

That's not really the problem.

Obviously, from the above bit, the doctor is a guy. That can come with it's own set of 'worries' (OK so I'm easily embarrassed, doctor or no...) but as women, especially those in helping professions -at least when I am the one they are dealing with- tend to 'bug' me (very descriptive, I know) it's not worrying me all that much... yet.

But..

That's not really the problem.

So what the hell 'really the problem'?

My scars. My history (specifically the last four years, more precisely the last two, and even more so, that year or so from about May 2007 through July or August 2008).

Those things, that's 'really the problem'.

My scars. I'm mortified about someone else seeing them. I'm ashamed and embarrassed. People tell you not to be, hell, I tell others not to be. I've had folks in the medical profession tell me the equivalent of 'you shouldn't be ashamed'... but what they are really saying is ' don't be ashamed, you're totally messed up, you can't help it'.

My 'history'. *shudder* I don't want to go into that either. I don't want to tell another person, another stranger, that I wanted to die. I don't want to talk about how bad it got. I don't want to have someone ask, wonder, how I'm feeling... not again.

That's 'really the problem'.

One Small Cut...

And apparently that's enough to ask 'Are you a cutter?' I looked at the girl sitting next to me (if I remember correctly she is something like 15 or 16 though I am not sure because I don't really know her... just some very chatty kid at the public library) and said 'I don't think that is an appropriate question to ask someone.' What else could I say? 'Yes, want to see the scars on my arms?'!! Her excuse: well, she's just outgoing, likes to meet new people... *rolls eyes* At the risk of sounding much older than my years, someone has got to teach these kids about proper social behavior (this is the same kid who sat there talking to me about her sunburn -I was trying to go about my business in peace- and then told me to touch it to see how hot it actually was). It shouldn't affect me this much, this way... I can't describe it, but it doesn't feel good...



Alright, done with the rant.

Is It Worth It?

I find that, as I begin to 'feel better', as my mood becomes 'normal', the need to write, to draw in order to express myself becomes less. That does not mean, however. that that need has completely disappeared. It is unfortunate, than, that while the need is still there my ability to express myself in those ways seems to have gone, or at least to have become much less apparent. The images are all but gone (happily, though, with the gradual disappearance of those useful images, those 'drawings' in my head waiting to be brought alive on paper, the other images that haunted me, of blood, razor blades, and suicide, have also become more and more infrequent), the words which seemed almost effortlessly to string themselves into poetry now only present themselves in a useless jumbled fashion. Even my ability to write a halfway decent blog entry has been severely diminished (as some of you have surely noticed).

These changes would not be worth mentioning were it not for the fact that I find myself still in need of those abilities, those ways of expressing myself. After all, they were, in some ways, my only means of expressing myself, of 'explaining' what went on inside this head of mine. Though my drawings and poetry may seem somewhat indirect (as indeed they often are) from there I was often able to explain things that would have otherwise remained locked inside the dark chasms of my mind, leaving me frustrated, tortured by these feelings, emotions, and experiences which I could not otherwise explain, not even to myself. Poems like 'My Child, My Beloved' (which came from my realization of exactly how far I had wandered from the One who cares the most for me) and 'The Choice' (written when I was moving ever closer to taking my own live, when there seemed nothing more to hold me on this celestial globe); drawings like 'Head/Heart'(illustrating what I believe is a disconnect between head knowledge and heart knowledge) and 'A Work In Progress' (a drawing for which the idea goes back, eight, nine, or 10 years, one that I cannot explain in words but instead must be felt by the viewer), these were the means by which I expressed myself, the ways in which I was able to best explain my experience, to myself as well as others. Without these I am left only with feelings and experiences that I cannot explain to others because I myself do not understand them.

It has been suggested that there is a link between creativity and mood disorders such as major depressive and bipolar disorders (). No surprise when we look at the lives of such people as Vincent van Gogh, Edgar Allen Poe, and Sylvia Plath. Taking my own experience into account I, for one, am inclined to agree.

I wonder... is it worth it..?

Borderline FUCKING Personality Disorder My ASS!!! -OR- They Didn't Listen

"She met the criterion for a major depressive disorder and has borderline personality traits." Axis II diagnosis, 799.99 ,deferred
"Per B____: Escalating borderline personality type behaviour." Axis II diagnosis, 301.83, borderline personality disorder.
"Primary axis II presentation." Axis II diagnosis: borderline personality behaviours noted.

They didn't really listen to me. Two different people from the same agency. I saw the first only once. He spent probably the longest amount of time talking to me. I saw the second one twice. After reading the records of those 'crisis calls' that I requested from Mental Health it was clear that, while she spent some time talking to me that after she consulted with the guy who came to the first 'crisis call' she had already made up her mind, she wasn't really listening, she wasn't hearing what i was saying.

It's just... I don't want to have a personality disorder (and btw, what the hell am I borderline between anyway???). And I honestly do not believe that I do. I cannot fully explain it right now (honestly I'm just too tired). Lets say I've got my fun little DSM IV (thanks Abnormal Psychology class, lol) and I just don't meet the criteria... at least, not enough of them to make mentioning it worth while. And I would bet money that these mental health professionals and I would disagree with the criteria we think I DO meet.

Sorry, this isn't a very good post... I hate that my writing has gone down hill... maybe I'll try explaining again, when I am not so tired.

Rejected

I got a call yesterday from the records office of the clinic I've been trying to get into for over a month now. It's in a town about 20 minutes away but none of the doctors offices in town are accepting new patients so this was my next best option. Unfortunately I missed the call as I was napping (I wasn't feeling very well yesterday and after getting up that morning found my way back to bed a few hours later and slept until 13:00). I listened to the message all the while knowing full well what I was going to hear. It was almost funny, the message reminded me of the 'thanks but no thanks' letters I've gotten while applying for work. Anyway it took me back to the letter I first got from them telling me they needed my file before they could say yea or nay to accepting me as a patient. The letter was worded something like "... accept or decline you as a patient". That's where the word 'Rejected' in my title came from. I remember thinking that the sentence was worded incorrectly, that it didn't flow right "accept or decline". It just struck me as more of a rejection. I suppose I thought of it this way: you can choose to accept or decline something that is being given to you, like a gift. You accept or reject something that is asked of you. I was not declined as a patient, I was rejected as a patient.

I was not really surprised to hear that I was not "accepted". I knew they had many files to go through and, after all, it would make much more sense to take on patients that are less of a "problem", a patient who did not have anything more than "regular everyday issues"; the cold, the flu, high blood pressure, etc. To take on a patient with my history would take more effort on the part of the clinician. There's more to worry about, more to ask after, more liability. But damn it how can you really make such a decision without talking to me? I've read my medical files, believe me, they are at times rather misrepresentative of who I actually am, what I am capable of handling, etc. And I'd like to ask what they think I am supposed to do. I'm going to run out of my medications. I've got two months left of one and four more of the other. I've got no one to tell that I've been inexplicably anxious recently, no one to tell me how much longer I'm going to have to put up with this anemia I brought upon myself, no one to tell me if I should be doing better at this point than I am (It's been a month since I last bled excessively, a month since I went to the ER to make sure I hadn't done something that needed more than just rest and frankly I am tired of waiting for the day when my heart rate doesn't go up 40 or 50 beats per minute after getting up and walking to the DVD player and back to the couch or when I get up in the morning and walk from my bed to the kitchen to feed the cat). Is it really too much to ask? Sure, the patient who is no more problem than a cold once in a while would be easier but which one of us can go without a doctor the longest?

Excuse me, I'm sorry. I'm so tired, so very tired. And it seems the only answer I get to anything lately is "too bad, so sad" or "thanks but no thanks". So I'm venting here, and sounding much less than my 25 years, I am sorry.

An Outburst

God, just make it stop!!
I can't stand it any more!!
I think of the future, of what might be... of having a job, going back to school or living till I'm in my 80s or 90s (OK so that doesn't happen all that often). It seems it doesn't really take much to get me thinking of suicide. Really. Something small, some feeling in my throat just... anything. I've said that I no longer see death the same, that I believe it will always be a viable option in my mind. I think because of this... Ugh, I don't know!!! It's always there!! I don't want it, ugh, I just want it to go away, to leave me the fuck alone!!!

I am Ruined OR Try as I Might... I Think I Hate Him...

I'm sure I would have had another one sooner or later. It seems I can't go too long before I’m plunged into another major depressive episode. My guess s that I was just at the edge of my next one when I met him. The intensity, though, the duration of it, and the aftermath... all that, I blame on him. And I... I think, maybe, that I hate him. I don't want to. Hate is so intense. It consumes a person. And Biblically its not right. I keep trying to tell myself that I don't actually hate him. But... I think that, as much as I don't want to... I do.

He was my second year American Sign Language instructor.

I cannot tell you where my interest in ASL came from. I taught myself to fingerspell when I was 8 years old (and drove my family crazy doing it all the time). I fell totally in love with the language when I took my first year of ASL while at University. It came naturally to me (I am pretty proud of the fact that I have been told by two Deaf individuals that I have a natural signing ability) and my instructor was great. he seemed genuinely interested in us as students and he made class fun. He was friendly and approachable and after I took a while to come out of my shell (it doesn't take long in an ASL class especially with a good teacher) he and I got on really well (seriously, I got away with everything short of murder in that class). Given my very positive experience during my first year of study it is not surprising that I was excited a the prospect of a second year.

I knew something wasn't right about him the first day of class. I don't know how I knew, I just did. Knowing how small the Deaf community is (and a few other cultural idiosyncrasies that applied) I emailed my first year instructor (who was no longer at the University) and asked if he knew anything about him. I told him something didn't add up but I couldn't put my finger on it. He wouldn't tell me much which was a bit odd as I had never in the past had a hard time getting information out of him, especially gossip, lol. He finally told me that this guy had worked at the University before but had been asked to leave. He wouldn't tell me anything else. He said he wanted to let me form my own opinion about him (once again, a little strange for him, lol).

My first real problem with this man was simply that he was a bad instructor. When he did bother to show up (which happened more and more infrequently as the school year progressed) he rarely had anything of consequence to teach. He spent the entire first quarter teaching us the same stuff we had learned last spring (which meant I spent the entire quarter wanting to scratch my own eyes out... not very conducive to signing). He told me this was because he had not yet received the materials he had ordered and (I suspect that he had not yet ordered them).

In spite of the persistent nagging feeling that all was not right as far as this man was concerned I tried to give him the benefit of the doubt. I attempted (with varying degrees of success) to be patient. I told myself that winter quarter would be better... then spring quarter. There were, unfortunately, only a few rather insignificant differences between fall quarter, and winter and spring quarters. We did get new material (which we went through at a snails pace). He started to show up rather infrequently (by spring quarter we were so fed up that we counted the days he had missed that quarter... I don't remember the exact number but I do know that if one of us as students had missed even close to that many days we would have been dropped from the course). And instead of lessening my sense of unease, if anything, continued to grow.

ASL club, for which I was VP that year, was another part of the story but seeing as how this post is already really long I will only talk bout our attempts at raising money that fall as it is needed for a part of the story later on.

Bake sales. We did a lot of them all school year. Almost every week actually. And every week only a handful of us involved in the club ever baked anything (four of us, to be exact). At one meeting I said that I was not willing to be one of the only ones baking as I could not afford to do it every week (we paid for the supplies out of pocket). The instructor (who was also 'advisor' for the club) informed us that he had brownie mix. Alight. The other officers and I looked at each other ad back at him blankly. 'And...' I signed, half jokingly. He said he would get it to one of us and we could bake it. After a bit of discussion he decided he would bring them to my apartment for the logical reason that we lived in the same University apartment complex. Stupid as I am I told him what apartment I lived in and assured him I would be there when he came by.

Fast forward to a night during early spring quarter at 11:00 pm. Our apartment was dark. My roommate ad gone to bed and I was in my room working on (ironically enough) my ASL homework. Out of nowhere I heard a thunderous pounding on the door of our apartment. I got down stairs as quickly as I could in the hopes that the sound would not wake my roommate. When I opened the door it was to find my instructor, noticeably intoxicated and visibly distressed. After a few words I asked him if he was drunk. He laughingly confirmed what I had already known. He stayed for nearly four hours (to this day I don't know why I let him) during which time he revealed to me the cause of his distress( a story I will not recount here as it is not mine and involved a fellow student). Additionally he told me that one night at a bar he was talking to someone and said something about asking his girlfriend. "She's hearing" he said, and proceeded to give them my name. He admitted that he had told this person tat I was his girlfriend twice that same night.

At one point during all of this I tried to get him to eat some bread (to soak up some of the alcohol) which he refused. I also offered him some water to try and lessen the hangover he would have in the morning. At that point he told me he was planning to go home but that he would be back. I thought he was going to get some of the bottled water he always drinks during class. Instead he came back with a backpack full of beer. I told him several times he had had enough but he continued to drink.

At some point during all this a guy who said he was my neighbor (though I had never seen him before) came up to us. He did not sign so I interpreted. At one point the instructor informed my neighbor that he wanted to smoke pot. He made this observation several times until my neighbor said that he did not have any, but he did have some 'resin'. The two drank some sort of liqueur that the neighbor had with him.

The instructor was very touchy (he had been all night and had already 'accidentally' grazed my breast with his hand) and hanging all over the guy. At that point the three of s were standing in front of my apartment. I was commenting t my neighbor on the differences between Deaf and hearing culture and the instructor was nodding his head vigorously. He then began to pat both of us up, hitting me on my chest and groin areas whereupon I jumped back and away and angrily told him to sop (he also groped the neighbor boy several times despite my telling him to stop). The evening finally ended with both men heading to the instructors apartment.

After 'the incident' I received several emails from the instructor all but one of which said that he was coming over (the one asked what I was doing and said he was 'just curious'... I didn't answer)... I told him not to.

I have tried several times to convince myself that it was no big deal. Never the less, I can't shake the feeling that his behavior that night, the weeks that followed (after a while he became angry with me and it was noticeable in our interactions), and probably the week sand months before only seemed to worsen the depression I had already begun to notice before everything came crashing down around my ears. I've argued this point here before. I began to cut on a more regular, almost daily basis and more severely. I bean drinking to get drunk and often did it aloe in my apartment while my roommate was out. I had sex for the first time (which I really did out of a feeling of 'obligation' as I had changed my mind but didn't think it was fair to the guy). As has already been described in previous posts my depression was worse than ever. I stopped socializing, following through with my responsibilities (though I had already given up a good many of those). I stopped attending classes like I should (even one taught by y favorite Psych professor whos classes I made a point of never skipping no matter how I felt) and called in sick several times to work (one time I actually asked to go home in the middle of a shift) preferring to sleep or, if not that, to stare vacantly at whatever surface was in front of me. I withdrew from one required course twice (I had to request a hardship withdrawal for the second one). It was only the grace f God an understanding instructor, a dedicated therapist, and probably the 'chemical help' I now take every day that got me through it so I could pass it the last quarter and graduate. Actually all of my instructors needed to be patient (and bless them, they were) because even when I did make it to class I very often stared vacantly ahead despite y efforts to focus on the task at hand. I began experiencing chronic suicidal ideation where the thought flitted through my mind several times a day. I actually made it to the point where there really was nothing left that could have kept me from killing myself. I was almost hospitalized twice in one week (once after cutting through a vein in my wrist that then had to be tied off). And when I finally, finally made it out of that darkest pit (I didn't stay out as long as I wanted but have not come close to where I was last) I was forever changed.

I cannot adequately explain how I have been changed. One thing is, I no longer see death the way I used to. It seems that now death will always be a viable option. Other than that I cannot get really specific. My world, my life, my dreams seem to have come crashing down around my ears in tiny little pieces and, try as I might, I cannot seem to mend them.

I want it all back: the dreams, my confidence, my life, the last two years or so, everything. I want to be alright. But...
I am ruined.

I lay most of the blame on his shoulders and despite wishing I did not... I think I hate him.

Perhaps a Strange Memory to Have Affect You...

but it does me none the less.

I am not sure how it even came to mind really. I know that I had just remembered a comment my older cousin made a few months ago '... but he's your dad'. It got me thinking about what that means to him compared to what it means to me.

My dad is not in any way the worst dad in the world, I know that. Certainly he was abusive both physically and verbally (toward me more than my sister and brother... pretty sure I was the only kid in the house subjected to his verbal abuse and I certainly got the worst of the physical abuse). He was not, however, as bad as he could have been. I have often told myself that, as far as abuse goes, mine was relatively minor. Now having said that I have also had to remind myself several times of something I tell others who try and minimize their experience: you should try not to compare yourself to others and say 'Oh, well 'so and so' had it so much worse what in the world am I whining about'. The fact of the matter is that if you are having problems dealing with it than it has had an affect on you and that is really all that matters.

Having said that (see, I can be logical when I want to) here's the memory. As I said after recalling what my cousin had said I began to think of the difference between what 'he's your dad' means to me and what it means to him. Somehow this caused me to recall a memory from my childhood. It is by far not the worst sounding memory that I have (and certainly cannot hold a candle to some others may have) and yet as I have reflected on others both voluntarily and during therapy (boy that was fun... have you ever had a therapist keep asking for information you just didn't have -or at least, have access to-?) I have never really had the same reaction to those as to this one.

I can't remember how old I was when this happened only that I was rather young (at least, as 'rather young' as one who is only 25 can get). I can tell you that it was Christmas eve. That year I had found one of those round tins with popcorn in them (you know the ones with caramel, cheese, and regular popcorn?) that I thought was so pretty... it was practically all I could talk about, one of the things I wanted the most that year. It showed a winter scene, probably somewhere in Alaska or northern Canada. It was night time and you could see the aurora borealis. There were lots of Arctic animals on it, reindeer, polar bears, wolves, that sort of thing. All I really wanted was the tin; didn't care much about the popcorn at all). I was really excited when my grandparents (my dads parents) gave it to me for Christmas... I had plans to keep the tin forever (as small children plan such things,lol... I actually did have it for years). At some time during the night (I am not sure if it was sometime right after I opened it or some time later that night) my dad looked at me and asked if he could have the tin after I was done with the popcorn. Something else I can't remember is exactly how I answered, my tone of voice, though I would guess that it was as incredulous as a child can get. I can remember that I told him no. His response (I can't tell you his tone of voice either) was to become rather upset, almost angry, and ask me why not. I remember being confused by his reaction even as I tried to explain to him why I had told him he could not have it. I do not remember exactly how I was feeling (other than confused) but if those feelings were the same as what I come up with when I remember it now I was confused and hurt. That's all I can come up with. I suppose even then I did not understand a father having such a reaction to his child, to something so silly.

As I grew older I came to realize that my dad really grew up; he has remained as ego centric and selfish as is expected out of teenagers (to those of you reading who may be teenagers, sorry, it just happens to be something within that stage of development that happens to be pretty standard). He has always been selfish and immature which in a way I think can account for much of his behavior (though I do not believe it in any way excuses that behavior). Still, this knowledge does nothing to soften the effect of such memories, I don't know why. I cannot fathom why this memory has more of an emotional effect on me than other, seemingly more traumatic, memories. I do know that I hate it, I hate thinking about it, I hate having even the ghost of the memory in my head. And I hate that it seems such a silly thing to be affected by.

Is 'Out of Your Mind' Really Such a Bad Thing?

For some reason the thought that I had already been 'out of my mind' ran through my head the other day (I am sure there was something that brought the thought to mind, something on TV, something I was reading... I cannot, however, remember what that might have been). I chuckled over this thought for a second before the thought hit me: is that really such a bad thing?

Let me explain.

I have several times told folks (moestly in a joking manner) that a persons mind is a dark and dangerous place. I suppose I am mostly talking about my own mind when I say this. Also I seem to have this conversation with folks with problems similar to my own so I suppose in that I am not far off. But as I got to thinking about it the other day it struck me that there was some possible truth to that statement and, as such, it may not be such a bad thing to be 'out of your mind'. Often, I believe, a big part of the distress I may be in is caused (or at least exacerbated) by spending too much time in my mind, too much time thinking things over, dwelling on things that I cannot change, berating myself for thoughts or feelings. That said, it seems to me that by spending more time 'out of my mind' I could possibly avoid a little bit of the distress that I usually find myself in.

Just a thought...

Forever Changed

I know what you're thinking: "Why in GODS name does she keep harping on this?!" After all, blog post after blog post centers around my last major depressive episode, for heaven sake find something new to write about, right? I would ask you to remember though, that one reason I have this blog is so that I have a place to 'talk' about things that, for one reason or another, I do not feel able/willing to talk about elsewhere. My last therapist seemed to think that one of my 'problems' was that I do not talk things out with others. I do not often go to friends and tell them what is wrong. I rarely tell someone how I am feeling (though a lot of that has to do with the fact that I don't know myself). What can I say? He's right, I don't do that. I could sit here and tell you some of my theories as to WHY I don't... but that can wait for another blog entry.

And so I write here. I write things I wish I could talk out with others. I write in the vain hope that it will help me figure something out, figure out what's wrong, figure out how to get my life back together, figure out if it is even POSSIBLE to get my life back together. I write because I need to.

So why do I insist on pounding this particular topic in to the ground? At this point I am trying to figure out how to deal with the aftermath of it. I am attempting to put 'it' into words in hopes that, by doing so, I will be able to understand myself. I have no idea what EXACTLY the hell I am trying to understand. I suppose that I am hoping that, by thinking about it, by writing it down, I will stumble upon that answer as well.

As I have said in previous blog entries this was not my first experience with major depression. It was, in fact, my fifth major depressive episode (though, lucky gal that I am, I had lived with dysthymia for some time before my first MD episode and have had the pleasure of living with it ever since, between MD episodes that is). Maybe I got cocky, I don't know. I can tell you that after a few episodes I came to believe that I had a pretty good idea how my depression presented itself. Sure it varied slightly but for the most part I knew what to expect. Better still (and maybe because of the fact that I thought they were so similar) I knew I could function through them. Even during the worst episode I was able to function well enough that no one seemed to notice anything amiss (to be honest at times even that surprised me as I was SURE the emptiness that I was feeling, the flatness, the 'Nothing', they exhaustion, everything was clearly visible in my eyes). What I didn't know was that it COULD get worse. MUCH worse.

I've described before that last, worst episode. I won't go in to detail here. That is not what this entry is for. For those of you who would rather not have to go back and find out what the hell exactly I am talking about let me see if I can sum it up for you (though it will not do it justice): Basically I quit functioning, at least, for the most part. I definitely stopped functioning well. I cannot tell you how much time I spent alone in my dark bedroom (I had put aluminum foil over the windows in the vain hope that I would be able to get more sleep... didn't know that soon I would be getting too much...) sleeping, 'hiding' under my pillow, or staring vacantly at the wall beside me, the ceiling above me. Then there was how I was feeling (if you're waiting for an explanation of that you're going to have to keep waiting... or go back and read some of my first blog posts... it's just too hard to even ATTEMPT to explain, probably because I just flat out can't do it, not as it should be anyway. No description does it justice). I'd never really been suicidal before. This time I hit three key points: the point where suicide actually became an option, the point where I could (and wanted so much) to do it, and the point where I was so far in the pit that I could no longer even kill myself (despite desiring it more than anything else).

That about covers THAT part. And now...

Forever changed.

*sigh* How do I explain this? It would help, I suppose, if I understood it myself. I suppose the best way I have been able to put it is this: It feels like I've been put through the wringer (you know, when they did laundry back in the day and would put the wet cloths through the wringer to get most of the water out before they hung them out to dry?) and I just will not ever be the same. That last episode took something from me though I'll be damned if I can figure out exactly what 'something' is. There was a time in my life when I felt capable, when there was no question whether or not what I had planned was something I could do. It was more of a knowledge, somewhere in the back of my mind, such that I didn't even think about it. It just 'was'. A time in my life when I knew (again, at the back of my mind) I could handle anything that was thrown my way. That time seems so long ago, another life time in fact. I had hoped to be in graduate school by now. The events of last year put that on hold, I had hoped, for only a short while. Now I am not sure I will ever get there and I am not exactly sure WHY I think that. I suppose it comes down to the fact that I just no longer feel capable of anything. I think of getting a job (I actually have a second interview this week for a job that I would actually like... I think.) and immediately feel something that I cannot really put words to other than to say that I feel incapable. I think the feeling comes from a fear that I will get to the same point I was last year, when I really WAS incapable of much of anything. I think... I think I'm afraid of going back there. I don't want to do it again, not if I can't make sure that I won't go back a third time (and there's only one way I can think of that would be a sure thing).

I'm not this person. I am capable. I am sure of myself. I am not afraid. At least, I wasn't this person. Now, well now I am forever changed.

Can a Person Make it Back?

I cross lines. That is to say, I often have something that I will not do (like cutting) and, after some time reminding myself that it is not an option (in the case of cutting my last feeble argument with myself was that, if I started to cut that would mean there really was something wrong) I find I have crossed it. This is how it was with suicide.

There was no line I needed to cross as far as suicidal ideation was concerned. That was something that I really could not controll. Several times a day the thought that I would like to be dead, that things would be better if I was, would flit through my mind. Distressing as those thoughts could be (depending on how alert I was to begin with) it was not something I could not live with.

I do not know how or when exactally I got to the point that I saw suicide as a viable option. Perhaps the continuious parade of suicide related thoughts made it impossible to tell when the shift happened. I just know that it did. Slowly I began to realize that I could kill myself. Not only that I could but that I desperatly wanted to. I became aware that I was no longer as concerned with the affect my suicide would have on those who loved me. Instead (as at least one of my previous posts shows) I began to turn the anti-suicide argument of 'It's so selfish' around. Was it not just as selfish of these people to ask me to live like this?

I had a detailed plan: where I would do it, how much time I would need, what the optimal time to do it would be (as in, when was my roommate going to be out the longest). I knew who I was going to include in the note I would write nad about what I would say (I would keep the note with me so I would not be found before it was finished), the note I would leave on the door for my roommate (in which I would tell her to call someone for support, then call the police, and most important of all do not try and come in the bathroom. Suddenly suicide was not just another fleeting thought that ran through my head but a viable option, one that was looking more and more 'appealing' the worse I felt.

I'm not at that place any more. I think I can (almost) honestly say that I do not even have those fleeting thoughts of suicide daily, much less several times a day.

But... I do not think I can go back to the way it was before, when it was only a thought flitting through my head. I just have this feeling that it will never be the same, that I will always, even if it is just in the back of my mind, see suicide as a viable option. Once having come to the conclusion that death, for me, is 'no big deal' (in my words to my last therapist... don't fess up to that by the way, they tend to freak out ;-))... I am not at all sure that I can go back.

"Those Thoughts ARE What's Wrong"

I posted a link to my last blog entry on a self harm awareness type page that I frequent. I wanted to share it there because more often than not folks respond to posts (especially if they know you) and I was feeling like I needed to hear something about what I wrote.

I got a PM from a guy thanking me for my honesty on what is a rater controversial topic (a PM that I greatly appreciated). And I heard from a few other friends offering general support and maybe some advice. One response stopped me in my tracks and plunged me into something like two minutes of deep thought (lol). My friend (we joke that we are 'Across the pond drinking buddies' as we (obviously) live on different contents and at one point were bothering drinking probably more than we should) said something about the thoughts (suidical ideation) hopefully fading in time to which I was forced to confess... I am not sure I want them to fade.

My first therapist asked me several times to call crisis line if I had any suicidal thoughts especially if I thought I might act on them. My response was always something like 'Why would I call when nothing is wrong? If I haven't done anything yet nothing is wrong so what is the point?' Finally he replied "Those thoughts are what's wrong".

I agree with him. If someone else were saying the same things to me that I have said in therapy in the past I would respond in the same way. My reasons for not wanting to call before can all pretty much be taken back to pride. I am mortified at the mere thought of having to deal with what would follow such a phone call.

This brings us to another problem which ties nicely in with the beginning of this blog. If I really wanted to kill myself it would make no sense to call someone who could then go about stopping me (or at least attempting to). Now these thoughts, this 'problem', are not as prevalent as they have been in the past. And sometimes I find myself wishing I were back in that place. I find myself thinking that if I just stopped taking my meds that perhaps, perhaps I could reach that place again, that dark, smothering place, where I could take my own life and thus put an end to 'it all' (whatever 'it all' is).

I'm medicated. And in some ways things are better. But only just. Not enough to give meaning to my life. Not enough to cause me to want to stick around any longer. Mostly what has gone is some of my will to kill myself. I cannot do it. But that has not stopped me from longing to quiet this earth forever... Mostly it has just taken away my ability to bring it about myself.

-NO TITLE-

(I just couldn't come up with one...)

Many churches across the nation set aside the third Sunday in January as Sanctity of Human Life Sunday. For the past few years that I have been with my current church (since coming to University, and then staying after graduation) this Sunday has focused on the pro-life topic in regards to (unnecessary) abortion (please allow me my views on the subject, I have my reasons, the same as you, and am not a fanatic... this post is not actually about abortion). This year the title of the sermon our preacher gave (something like Caring for Bruised Reeds) and the scripture reference out of Isaiah had me thinking even before I set my bass down and took my seat for the sermon. It turns out that this years sermon was directed as much toward the new doctor assisted suicide law here in Washington State as it was at abortion.

I like babies. Love them, in fact. And unfortunatly there are many unnecessary abortions in this country every year. Some folks simply use it as a method of birth control for how often they do it. They simply do not want children or children will not fit into their life style at the moment. I do think that in dire circumstances (such as when mom and/or babies life is in danger) it is warrented, though that does not make it any less tragic in my mind. But that is all I will say on that subject as it is not really the point of this blog post.

I live with what my last therapist called 'chronic' thoughts of suicide. Praise God, they are not nearly as bad as they were a few months ago (when they were more frequent -several times in a day-, more intense, and more 'urgent') but I still live with them most (if not every) days of the week, month, etc. Needless (in my mind, anyway) to say I had a rather hard time jumping on the bandwagon (so to speak) during that sermon this past Sunday. To be totally honest I had a hard time just sitting there listening to it. Never once when thinking about the 'sanctity of human life' did I take it farther than the plight of thousands upon thousands of unborn babies.

Now before y'all recall my past asperations of becoming a counselor and totally freak out let me remind you of something else I have said in the past. It's not that I am, you know, all for suicide, for killing oneself. I become just as concerned as the next person when someone else shows signs of possibly wanting to end their own life. But I can't take it from there to myself. And talking about it in the abstract I would have to say that I find it easier to understand why someone whould chose to end their life (for instance rather than continue on with a painful, terminal illness).

I guess my point is that I never considered that killing yourself would be that big an offense as far as God is concerned. And I am not sure that I 100% agree.

It just doesn't seem fair...

What to do with that I have no idea...

I Can't

It was my last year (finally) of University. I had given up my place as wroship leader at my church group because I knew my last year would be tough. I (unwisely) had waited until this year to tackle some of the 'worst' required classes in my major (psychology). I planned to find an instructor to help with their research. I was going to study for, take, and, if God loved me at all, pass the GRE. No one would have been suprised at hearing that my roommate saw me only occasionally.

But as it turns out, none of those things happened.

Instead I rarely attended my classes (especially that first quarter in the fall). Instead I spent much of my time sleeping (sometimes in my car on campus between an attempt at going to classes and work, very often back in bed after an attempt at going to said classes). When I did manage to drag myself to one or the other of them I very often was not 'present' enough to absorbe any of the material being presented. I attempted one of those 'required classes from hell' three times before I finally managed to complete it (the instructor was wonderful about it, bent over backward to get me through it including supporting my petition for a hardship withdrawal the second time I took the class).

I stopped going to my church group completely and sporadically attended services on Sundays. I eventually even stopped playing bass for Sunday services (made sense as I was not attending regularly).

I stopped going out much at all. I did not join my roommate when she went to parties with friends. I went out only when necessary. As a matter of fact, more often than not the only times she did me were when I was coming down from my room to take care of some sort of commitment I had or on my way up to my room (which was dark as I had put aluminum foil over the window in hopes it would help me sleep later in the day and not wake up at the crack of dawn) where I either hid under my pillow, slept, or stared vacantly at the ceiling or wall.

I wanted so badly to die.

In the aftermath of all this (what was the worst major depressive episode I have ever had... and it was number five) I feel... incapabul.

And I cannot tell anyone. I want to so much, but I am afraid of their reactions (from past experience I annticipate something that I just cannot handle). But I want to. I want to so that they will understand. I want to so they will stop minimizing all of this; my depression, the experience of this last episode (my sister interpreted 'last year really really really bit' as having to do with difficult classes and not getting the grades I wanted).

God, I wish I could. But... I just can't.

I've Come to a Conclusion

As I sat on a bed in the ER yesterday I came to a conclusion. After being asked three (or was it four) times yesterday whether or not the cut on the SIDE of my wrist was a suicide attempt (the answer is 'no' by the way; almost got myself in trouble though when the doc asked me that question because I laughed and started to say 'No, if it was a suicide attempt I would have done it correctly'... thankfully I caught myself just after 'No'.), and almost (if not) as many times if I had ever tried to kill myself I came to a conclusion: The cut I made on my wrist when I was drunk in April, the one that is in the correct spot, going the correct direction; the one that was deep enough to hit a vein that then needed to be tied off. That cut, though intentional (to some degree), was not a suicide attempt. Possibly I am trying to fool myself. Intellectually it seems TOTALLY wrong...

But that is my conclusion.