And it wasn't even all that long ago. Yet I remember it as if it were a dream. It just doesn't feel real.
I have proof. Journal entries and scars. Charts, health and counseling, that make note of it many times over. And memories, I have the memories. Dark. Though dream-like the memories are befittingly dark. It was, after all, dark time.
It's not that I wanted to die. I just didn't want to be alive anymore. I assure you, such a statement makes sense. However, I am glad you don't understand it. Because to understand would require experiencing such a time and that, my friends, is something I would not wish on anyone, not even my worst enemy.
But as I was saying, it's not that I wanted to die, I just didn't want to be alive anymore. I wish I could explain it. I... Was done... I didn't want to subsist. *sigh* It's so indescribable. The nothingness that consumes your soul. Emptiness that clouds your eyes. It's a point where you don't even feel the depression anymore, a point where the anxiety has faded away and you are truely left with... Nothing. Ugh, you'll never understand. And thank God for that but... I wish I could describe it adequately...
Maybe then I would understand it myself.
*sigh* There was a point to this blog... I'm not sure what it was...
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Monday, August 11, 2008
Who endured for me? OR What's in it for Me?
Who sated for me? I'm drunk, I'll admit that right now. I had my last therapy session, at least my last session with the guy that I've seen for the last year, and the last one I know I have for sure. I also had my last meds appointment today, again, at least my last with the guy ice been seeing for a while. All of my lasts at the University Health and Counseling center happened today.
I feel awful. Now, since I've been depressed for something around 12 years (give or take) Awful and I are familier with eachother, very familier.
What in the world is my point? I was thinking tonight, and praying (though God and I haven't been all that close for the last year or so) and wondering, asking: what is the point of all this? This whole mess that is my life. And, if there is a point then it must be for someone else... I exist purely because I am needed to further some other purpose, one that has nothing to do with me, with the struggle I go through daily... And I asked "Who did this for me?" who sacrificed for me? Who lived though everything within them begged for death, to no longer exist? And then it hit me: my mother. She won't tell me a lot of what happened during my childhood, of what my dad out her through... I remember one night we left home... We went to Target in hopes of getting a frozen drink we loved (an Icee)-the weren't open)... We really went because it wasn't safe to stay in our house. I remember dad beating me, mom standing there saying 'Brian, Brian' quietly. I remember what affected ME, what happened to ME. She won't tell me what else happened... What caused her to stay despite the fact that her husband abused her children, out eight beat one(me, the stupid one)... But there was something, I know there was. Because my belief that your child is the most important thing in th world... That came from her... She stayed, she endured who knows what (though I believe it was about the same abuse that I endured), for us... For my older sister, my twin brother and I. Who sacrificed for me? Who lived through hell so that I could make it in this world..? My mother.
I feel awful. Now, since I've been depressed for something around 12 years (give or take) Awful and I are familier with eachother, very familier.
What in the world is my point? I was thinking tonight, and praying (though God and I haven't been all that close for the last year or so) and wondering, asking: what is the point of all this? This whole mess that is my life. And, if there is a point then it must be for someone else... I exist purely because I am needed to further some other purpose, one that has nothing to do with me, with the struggle I go through daily... And I asked "Who did this for me?" who sacrificed for me? Who lived though everything within them begged for death, to no longer exist? And then it hit me: my mother. She won't tell me a lot of what happened during my childhood, of what my dad out her through... I remember one night we left home... We went to Target in hopes of getting a frozen drink we loved (an Icee)-the weren't open)... We really went because it wasn't safe to stay in our house. I remember dad beating me, mom standing there saying 'Brian, Brian' quietly. I remember what affected ME, what happened to ME. She won't tell me what else happened... What caused her to stay despite the fact that her husband abused her children, out eight beat one(me, the stupid one)... But there was something, I know there was. Because my belief that your child is the most important thing in th world... That came from her... She stayed, she endured who knows what (though I believe it was about the same abuse that I endured), for us... For my older sister, my twin brother and I. Who sacrificed for me? Who lived through hell so that I could make it in this world..? My mother.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
The Choice
To give up would be so easy
To give in to the images
To hand control over to the urges
To heed the thoughts that spin in my head
To depart
To continue on would be taxing
To push forward through the pain
To advance, heedless of the pull to surrender
To persist in spite of seemingly overwhelming odds
To linger
The choice
To forsake this earthly body
Or tarry a moment longer
Hoping for a better tomorrow
To give in to the images
To hand control over to the urges
To heed the thoughts that spin in my head
To depart
To continue on would be taxing
To push forward through the pain
To advance, heedless of the pull to surrender
To persist in spite of seemingly overwhelming odds
To linger
The choice
To forsake this earthly body
Or tarry a moment longer
Hoping for a better tomorrow
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Three Days Grace: It's Never Too Late
Heard this on the radio yesterday... just the last bit of the chorus, sounded like something that would 'speak to me', if you'll allow me to use a cliche, so found it on Youtube.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Of Fraternal Twins and Physical Abuse
As a child I quickly learned the difference between identical and fraternal twins(once I knew what twins were, lol). My mom insisted that my brother and I develop our own personalities and were not just known as 'the twins'. So much so that no one was allowed to refer to us as such. One day my brother and I came home from preschool and asked our mother what twins were. It turns out one of the teachers had refereed to us as such and we didn't know what in the world she was talking about! I think my mom went a bit over board but my brother and I do have very distinct personalities, which is more than I can say for some twins I know.
But I digress. Being a fraternal twin, especially one of a set of each (a girl and a boy) can be difficult as a child. As I said, I knew much earlier in life than other kids the difference between fraternal twins and identical twins (right down to the fact that one involves two seperate eggs and the other involves just one, that splits). This was out of necessity as my brother and I often ran into the child who (understandably so) did not understand the difference, and further more did not believe that we were twins. More than once I went home crying because, despite my best efforts to explain, one (or more) of my classmates did not believe that my brother and I were twins.
As I got older most people became aware of the difference and the possibility of having a set of twins of different genders (though you may be suprised how often I still have to explain the difference -though usually it is now more explaining why we don't look alike, and not so much why we are not the same gender- to not only my peers but also those older, and supposedly wiser, individuals). As such it became less of an issue with me, something that no longer really bothered me. That change did not, however, mean the end of my problems with the fraternal/identical twin issue.
You may be asking yourself "Well, what else is there?". Let me tell you.
Now, while I will be the first to tell you that being a twin is not all that the rest of you think it is, it has always been a part of me, and to some extent will always be something I value. Therefore it has become a point of contention with me that, when people think of or talk about twins it is always identical twins, or at least twins of the same gender. It is like fraternal twins, especially those of us who belong to a set of different gendered fraternal twins, don't really exist. Even the scientific community pays us very little mind (though this is more understandable as identical twins, because of their identical genetic makeup make it much easier to study such things as how certain disorders may be inhereited). As such I will admit to just a little bit of bitterness when twins are discussed and once again identical and same gender fraternal twins are all that is considered (NOTE: I continue to make a distinction between identical and same gender fraternal twins because most same gender fraternal twins are often mistaken as identical twins because of a strong resembilance when in fact reletaviely few twins are actually genetically identical).
By now you are probably wondering about my title and what the hell the difference between identical and fraternal twins has to do with physical abuse. Simply put, they are connected because I have similar problems with both topics.
Abuse. Say the word, read it, hear it on the radio or on television and most people immediatly come up with sexual abuse. I would like to take this opportunity to reasure you all that I do not believe sexual abuse to be less harmful than any of the rest of of the population. I DO however, believe it to be no MORE harmful than physical, emotional, and psychological abuse, a view that is not often shared by others.
I was physically (and psychologically/emotionaly) abused as a child. To some extent all of us children were, my brother and sister to a much lesser extent (both in severity and frequency). My theory as to the difference here is that they were less confrontational children than I (though I sometimes joke that their survival instincts -or to use Freud, their life instincts- were much stronger than mine). I am a rare individual in that I can't remember a time I ever believed the abuse was my fault. I always seemed to know that it was my dads responsibility and that, though I had behaved in a way that may have been inappropriate such treatment was never warrented (once when I was in my early to mid teens and he tried to apologise -the kind of "I'm sorry, but..." apologies that I hate- for an 'episode of abuse' I went so far as to interrupet him with "No, there is no 'but'. It doesn't matter what has happened, there is no excuse, no one deserves that", something that actually left him speechless and, I think, contributed greatly to the fact that he did not beat me again for several years -though the psychological and emotional abuse continued-). I think in part that is what got me into so much trouble. While I was a sarchastic child and prone to talking back, I also had a sense of when something was wrong and that included my dads treatment of me... which often lead to me sticking up for myself, something my dad probably saw as 'talking back', which ultimatly lead to some sort of trouble. It doesn't help that I was a rather obstinant, often stubborn (and sometimes stupid) child. For example, during the same 'episode of abuse' that lead to my dads failed (and unaccepted) apology there was some phrase, something he wanted me to say or admit to that when I finally did, he stopped hitting me and went back to his seat (this was actually on the way home from a Good Friday service... he actually pulled over to the side of the road and came into the back seat to beat me-)where, before he started back on the road he turned around and said "Now that wasn't so hard was it?" to which I replied through tears and with a good glare "I LIED!!"... Needless to say the beating recommenced directly after my defiant reply.
The abuse I suffered (and to some extent am still likely to become victim of again later in life as he hasnt stopped... the most recent episode was only two Christmases ago) was no less real, no less damaging, and hurt no less than sexual abuse. And yet it seems that sexual abuse is all you hear about. Worse still I have heared more than once that sexul abuse is the WORST form of abuse. As I have said, I believe that all abuse is equally harmful to the person that suffered it.
And so I will continue this fight. Should I? Some would say no. Others would give an emphatic 'Yes!'. Regardless of the opinion of others, I WILL continue. I can do no less... it hurts too much to do otherwise.
But I digress. Being a fraternal twin, especially one of a set of each (a girl and a boy) can be difficult as a child. As I said, I knew much earlier in life than other kids the difference between fraternal twins and identical twins (right down to the fact that one involves two seperate eggs and the other involves just one, that splits). This was out of necessity as my brother and I often ran into the child who (understandably so) did not understand the difference, and further more did not believe that we were twins. More than once I went home crying because, despite my best efforts to explain, one (or more) of my classmates did not believe that my brother and I were twins.
As I got older most people became aware of the difference and the possibility of having a set of twins of different genders (though you may be suprised how often I still have to explain the difference -though usually it is now more explaining why we don't look alike, and not so much why we are not the same gender- to not only my peers but also those older, and supposedly wiser, individuals). As such it became less of an issue with me, something that no longer really bothered me. That change did not, however, mean the end of my problems with the fraternal/identical twin issue.
You may be asking yourself "Well, what else is there?". Let me tell you.
Now, while I will be the first to tell you that being a twin is not all that the rest of you think it is, it has always been a part of me, and to some extent will always be something I value. Therefore it has become a point of contention with me that, when people think of or talk about twins it is always identical twins, or at least twins of the same gender. It is like fraternal twins, especially those of us who belong to a set of different gendered fraternal twins, don't really exist. Even the scientific community pays us very little mind (though this is more understandable as identical twins, because of their identical genetic makeup make it much easier to study such things as how certain disorders may be inhereited). As such I will admit to just a little bit of bitterness when twins are discussed and once again identical and same gender fraternal twins are all that is considered (NOTE: I continue to make a distinction between identical and same gender fraternal twins because most same gender fraternal twins are often mistaken as identical twins because of a strong resembilance when in fact reletaviely few twins are actually genetically identical).
By now you are probably wondering about my title and what the hell the difference between identical and fraternal twins has to do with physical abuse. Simply put, they are connected because I have similar problems with both topics.
Abuse. Say the word, read it, hear it on the radio or on television and most people immediatly come up with sexual abuse. I would like to take this opportunity to reasure you all that I do not believe sexual abuse to be less harmful than any of the rest of of the population. I DO however, believe it to be no MORE harmful than physical, emotional, and psychological abuse, a view that is not often shared by others.
I was physically (and psychologically/emotionaly) abused as a child. To some extent all of us children were, my brother and sister to a much lesser extent (both in severity and frequency). My theory as to the difference here is that they were less confrontational children than I (though I sometimes joke that their survival instincts -or to use Freud, their life instincts- were much stronger than mine). I am a rare individual in that I can't remember a time I ever believed the abuse was my fault. I always seemed to know that it was my dads responsibility and that, though I had behaved in a way that may have been inappropriate such treatment was never warrented (once when I was in my early to mid teens and he tried to apologise -the kind of "I'm sorry, but..." apologies that I hate- for an 'episode of abuse' I went so far as to interrupet him with "No, there is no 'but'. It doesn't matter what has happened, there is no excuse, no one deserves that", something that actually left him speechless and, I think, contributed greatly to the fact that he did not beat me again for several years -though the psychological and emotional abuse continued-). I think in part that is what got me into so much trouble. While I was a sarchastic child and prone to talking back, I also had a sense of when something was wrong and that included my dads treatment of me... which often lead to me sticking up for myself, something my dad probably saw as 'talking back', which ultimatly lead to some sort of trouble. It doesn't help that I was a rather obstinant, often stubborn (and sometimes stupid) child. For example, during the same 'episode of abuse' that lead to my dads failed (and unaccepted) apology there was some phrase, something he wanted me to say or admit to that when I finally did, he stopped hitting me and went back to his seat (this was actually on the way home from a Good Friday service... he actually pulled over to the side of the road and came into the back seat to beat me-)where, before he started back on the road he turned around and said "Now that wasn't so hard was it?" to which I replied through tears and with a good glare "I LIED!!"... Needless to say the beating recommenced directly after my defiant reply.
The abuse I suffered (and to some extent am still likely to become victim of again later in life as he hasnt stopped... the most recent episode was only two Christmases ago) was no less real, no less damaging, and hurt no less than sexual abuse. And yet it seems that sexual abuse is all you hear about. Worse still I have heared more than once that sexul abuse is the WORST form of abuse. As I have said, I believe that all abuse is equally harmful to the person that suffered it.
And so I will continue this fight. Should I? Some would say no. Others would give an emphatic 'Yes!'. Regardless of the opinion of others, I WILL continue. I can do no less... it hurts too much to do otherwise.
Monday, July 7, 2008
Too Much of a Good Thing?
I know, I complain a lot about the help I recieve. It's not that it's bad or anything, it's just that... I guess I'm still humiliated on some level, though I would never tell my therapist that. More than that though, it just continues to take me places I'd rather not go... which I know is the point... but sometimes I wonder if it can do more harm than good some days.
I hate being asked how I'm feeling at that moment, what I'm thinking, can I elaborate on something. Mostly, if it has anything to do with feelings, especially how I'm feeling at that moment, I'd rather not discuss it.
He (my therapist) did a lot of that today. In a fifty minute session he 'checked in' at lest half a dozen times. He also applied a common strategy as far as therapy goes (we learned it in my helping interview class winter term) and matched my tone, and, to a larger extent, my affect. Good strategy, ment to make the client feel at ease... and it's usually pretty effective... however the quiet, patient, 'soft' tone and demeanor is also something I just don't handle very well (weird I know... I blame my impatient, abusive dad for at least part of that)... I ALMOST asked him to knock it off (stopped myself just in time... after all he's only doing his job).
OK, therapy, whatever, that's not a lot, I'll agree with you.
Add the meds appointments where I've also got to go through similar (though thankfully less detailed) discussions as to how I'm feeling, how has my cutting been, my drinking...
Add to THAT the case worker who is pretty much like a therapist only this guy even asks me if I've got enough to eat (and if I'm eating enough... yes, and no *shrug*). Last weeks appointment included discussion about my depression (how long, etc) cutting (how often, how deep, what I use :-s, etc).
OK, what am I complaning about, there are lots of people who want help but are unable to get it, and here I am with what I consider to be an overabundance...
*shrug* I'm stupid I suppose (or at least a little silly). I hate it, I can't stand it... I feel humiliated. I know it's unreasonable... Y'all have 'hear' me say more than once that I am aware of my double standard when comparing myself to others... that I lack the patience and understanding that I naturally extend to others. I've got a BA in psychology for crying out loud!!! You'd think I'd get it together. And intelectually I know all that good stuff... It's just the rest of me that has a hard time coming to terms with it.
Pointless blog, but it almost feels better to have written it. Almost.
I hate being asked how I'm feeling at that moment, what I'm thinking, can I elaborate on something. Mostly, if it has anything to do with feelings, especially how I'm feeling at that moment, I'd rather not discuss it.
He (my therapist) did a lot of that today. In a fifty minute session he 'checked in' at lest half a dozen times. He also applied a common strategy as far as therapy goes (we learned it in my helping interview class winter term) and matched my tone, and, to a larger extent, my affect. Good strategy, ment to make the client feel at ease... and it's usually pretty effective... however the quiet, patient, 'soft' tone and demeanor is also something I just don't handle very well (weird I know... I blame my impatient, abusive dad for at least part of that)... I ALMOST asked him to knock it off (stopped myself just in time... after all he's only doing his job).
OK, therapy, whatever, that's not a lot, I'll agree with you.
Add the meds appointments where I've also got to go through similar (though thankfully less detailed) discussions as to how I'm feeling, how has my cutting been, my drinking...
Add to THAT the case worker who is pretty much like a therapist only this guy even asks me if I've got enough to eat (and if I'm eating enough... yes, and no *shrug*). Last weeks appointment included discussion about my depression (how long, etc) cutting (how often, how deep, what I use :-s, etc).
OK, what am I complaning about, there are lots of people who want help but are unable to get it, and here I am with what I consider to be an overabundance...
*shrug* I'm stupid I suppose (or at least a little silly). I hate it, I can't stand it... I feel humiliated. I know it's unreasonable... Y'all have 'hear' me say more than once that I am aware of my double standard when comparing myself to others... that I lack the patience and understanding that I naturally extend to others. I've got a BA in psychology for crying out loud!!! You'd think I'd get it together. And intelectually I know all that good stuff... It's just the rest of me that has a hard time coming to terms with it.
Pointless blog, but it almost feels better to have written it. Almost.
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Feelings and Death
Reflecting on my graduation party (last night). Family and friends came. I hugged people, smiled, and laughed. I allowed my five year old little cousin to hang all over me (it seemed I was her favorite person that afternoon... as I left she jumped -literally- into my arms and as I set her down she did not let go of my neck until she kissed my cheek). Outwardly I appeared to be enjoying myself. I appeared happy. But I felt... nothing.
Should I have? Should I have actually FELT my apparent enjoyment and happiness?
I honestly don't understand this 'feelings' thing... I don't know when I'm missing out on a 'feelings opportunity' I do know that feeling nothing in regards to my little cousins attention (especially that last hug and kiss) was odd as, when I am able to actually able to feel and identify something (usually happiness and/or enjoyment) it is with little ones.
Anyway, the thought struck me that this... lack of feelings, for lack of a better term, may be a big part of why the thought of death does not bother me... That only occasional feelings and emotions make it easier to take it or leave it as far as life is concerned. Why that would be I am not exactly sure... but I really think that it is a good possibility.
*shrug* Ah, well, who knows. Anyway maybe I'm not really as different as I think. Maybe others don't experience feelings/emotions as often as I think they do. I don't know. I don't think I really understand... And I'm not sure I ever will...
I hate this.
Should I have? Should I have actually FELT my apparent enjoyment and happiness?
I honestly don't understand this 'feelings' thing... I don't know when I'm missing out on a 'feelings opportunity' I do know that feeling nothing in regards to my little cousins attention (especially that last hug and kiss) was odd as, when I am able to actually able to feel and identify something (usually happiness and/or enjoyment) it is with little ones.
Anyway, the thought struck me that this... lack of feelings, for lack of a better term, may be a big part of why the thought of death does not bother me... That only occasional feelings and emotions make it easier to take it or leave it as far as life is concerned. Why that would be I am not exactly sure... but I really think that it is a good possibility.
*shrug* Ah, well, who knows. Anyway maybe I'm not really as different as I think. Maybe others don't experience feelings/emotions as often as I think they do. I don't know. I don't think I really understand... And I'm not sure I ever will...
I hate this.
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