Grey

Hello faithful readers. Today marked my return to the so-called “real world”. I have only cried a couple of times in the last two weeks on thinking of returning to The Red Tape Factory, but today on the way here I started crying at the thought of crawling back onto the microscope slide – even before I turned on the radio and heard:
“…she feels like kicking out all the windows and setting fire to this life…*”

Once I was actually there I was calm, and happy to see some of those familiar, truly beloved faces. Fortunately, the ones I dreaded seeing were not in evidence, leaving me a quiet first day back in which to wheeze in peace. The second I stepped in the door I could smell the ‘sickie-funk’, and within minutes I had to hit the inhalers (for only the second time this month). The migraine started within five minutes and I had no choice but to open the doors to let the fresh air in. (HOORAY for spring and Midrin!)

So many things have occurred to me over this last month. It’s hard to convince one’s self and those close to you that it’s a good thing, though, when all this thought has left me sadder than ever. I’m sure that the chemical re-alignment of my system has a lot to do with that too. I’ve been on so many mood-altering psychoactive chemicals (all of which I’d kicked either before or during this time off) for so long that it took the better part of the month to realize which feelings were mine and which were –ic’s, -il’s, -ol’s, and –ine’s. One of the hardest realizations I’ve had to come to is that one particular prescription – the one I’ve been on the longest, 21 years – has been protecting me from a huge amount of pain. Everything that happened to me during those first fifteen years - truly the worst and hardest part of my life - and then all the things that happened after that (a lot of it pretty terrible, too) has always seemed a bit distant. The only time I’ve ever really come close to feeling the weight of all that pain was when I was in River Oaks, and had people around me who were trained to help me cope with it. They also took me off of all my prescriptions, and basically forced me to look at the past and all of the hurt and anger. Other than that small amount of time when I was completely unmedicated, as well as sober, all of my memories have always seemed as if they’d happened to someone else. I know that this is part of the whole ‘DID’ experience, but even when that ceased to be my problem, the cushion of meds and self-prescribed palliatives kept me at an emotional distance, even when I was talking deeply and seriously to people I trusted.
Now, I’ve come to a place in my life where my age and mind-frame combined with a mostly clear head (21 years is a long time) is causing me to have a fairly shocking emotional awakening. I didn’t make the choice to be chemical free for this reason. I mainly decided that for my health, and for some additional clarity regarding my depression, that this would be the best thing to do. My doc agreed. We have tried so many different drugs in the last year that I had no idea what was really going on in my head. When I asked if I could get off of the drugs and start with a clean slate, since this month off was supposed to be all about my health anyway, he agreed – as long as I kept him posted and was sure to be aware of any changes – especially drastic ones. Luckily, there’s been nothing serious. My depression has been no worse than “normal”, and thank god, the hallucinations have stopped. So far, that is truly the worst side effect I’ve ever had***. The doc said that he didn’t think it was a result of the last head-med, but I’m pretty sure that it was. Either way, the “acid cats & people” and weird (-er than usual) noises have taken a hiatus. In a way though, I’d almost rather have that than this bizarre emotional clarity.
For so long, all the things I’ve talked about to my friends and loves ones – the mental, emotional and sexual abuse; the neglect; the abandonment – have been sort of ‘not quite real’. This added to my self doubt, especially in the face of my mother and other family members suggesting (or even swearing) that it was all fiction. I knew it was real, and my brother confirmed it to the family during my stay in River Oaks, but it didn’t feel real, and that led me to wonder at times if I wasn’t really making it up, for some horrible, !#$%’d up reason. Needless to say, that added to my misery (not to mention my dependence on these prescriptions), and made me feel even more hopeless and lost. I have said to myself and to others many times over the years as I was telling these horror stories: “I know it doesn’t sound possible. It’s hard to believe myself sometimes…” My husband – and probably others as well - never could accept it as the truth, not because they thought I would lie about it, but because it’s hard for some people to accept that such things can happen. I suppose it worked on me that way too.
Now, however, it seems that I am beginning to be able to truly feel the pain and anger that I’ve been cushioning myself against all these years. When I think about the things that happened, I feel sad, I cry, I feel angry. I am finding that so many things in my day-to-day life are related to these memories, even if I am consciously unaware of it.
The first really strange realization came when Chris and I were looking in a friends’ very well-stocked fridge. They had lots of good “special groceries” (prosciutto, gnocchi, capers, leeks, etc.) as well as all the basics, including potatoes. For some reason we were talking about this to another friend later and I said that I felt that I deprived Chris because I never have potatoes. He looked thoughtful for a second and then said “Weird. You don’t! You never have potatoes!” He knows I like to eat them, and they’re a cheap, versatile, filling staple, but they are never in my fridge. I buy and cook yams fairly often, and I buy them when my friends request my famous potato salad, but otherwise, my house is potato-free. When Chris asked why, I realized I didn’t know.
The conversation went on to something more interesting, and they forgot about it, but I didn’t. I don’t like it when I don’t understand something seemingly basic about myself, and so I’ll retreat to the inner layers of the Onion Girl** and search until I find an answer. When we got in the car I told Chris that I knew why, and I went on to tell him about one of the worst periods of my generally horrible childhood, and about my grudge against the storage and preparation of potatoes. I won’t bore you all with the details, but I will say that I was six or seven (no older, for sure) and my sibling were even younger, and if you’ve ever had to dig and wash potatoes seemingly endlessly, especially as a punishment, or a way to keep you locked out of the house, then you know that it’s a job that no small child should be forced to do. I also had bad mnemonic connections with the place where we stored the potatoes, but I definitely don’t won’t to go there right now.
Strange, I know, and I’m sure that some people might say it was silly, but I suppose you had to be there – and yet I’m honestly glad that you weren’t. I wish I hadn’t been, and that’s the truth.
How “funny” though, that something so small and yet so intrinsic to your daily life can be hidden from you. And how strange that you could have such pain, and have no name or face for it, until your brain “unfreezes” and someone asks you the right question one day.

So, needless to say, I’m dealing with a lot of “new” pain right now. Things that I’ve said out loud a dozen times that never hurt me, now bring tears at just the thought. I’m finding hidden, unspoken anger at every turn, too. I wanted to believe that all those years of therapy and the time in River Oaks – not to mention all the exploration I’ve done since - had brought all of it out into the light, but I think that, basically, I just built a window. Not that that’s anything to sneeze at (ew! Get the Windex!), but all the same, it’s hard to realize that I’m almost just starting again. I have to tell myself that, at least I am not still that little girl, crying in the dark, confused, hopeless, terrified, lost. But I have to tell you, she’s still there, and those feelings have never gone away. I am beginning to realize that I may never be able to forgive my parents – either of them – or any of the people who knew what was happening and didn’t do anything to help us. I’m beginning to realize that nothing or no one were what they seemed when I was little. I’m beginning to realize that there is a huge difference between people who were loved and cared for as children and people who weren’t, and that some terrible handicaps are completely invisible, and so very difficult for those handicapped, as well as the rest of the world to deal with . I’m beginning to realize that no one I know – with the exceptions of my siblings, possibly – can truly understand me, and that will be another kind of handicap that I will always have to deal with. And worst of all, I am beginning to realize that I will probably have to deal with this pain, and the specialized loneliness that it brings for the rest of my life – and that this is just the beginning…

Sorry. The truth hurts. I can only hope it hurts all of you less than it hurts me, and whether any of us like it, I will talk more about this later. I need to, I’m grateful that I have a “safe” (and inexpensive/guilt-free) way to do it, and I’m especially grateful that so many people love and trust me, despite the fact that I am such damaged goods.

Much love,
-s

*Grey Street - Dave Matthews
Oh, look at how she listens, She says nothing of what she thinks... she just goes stumbling through her memories staring out onto grey street. But she thinks hey, how did I come to this?I dreamed myself a thousand times around the world but I can't get out of this place. There's an emptiness inside herand she'd do anything to fill it in but all the colors mix together to grey and it breaks her heart. How she wishes it was different. She prays to God most every night and though she swears he doesn't listen, there's still a hope in her he might. She says, I pray, but they fall on deaf ears. Am I supposed to take it on myself to get out of this place? There's an loneliness inside her and she'd do anything to fill it in and though it's red blood bleeding from her now it feels like cold blue ice in her heart when all the colors mix together to grey and it breaks her heart. There's a stranger speaks outside her door, says take what you can from your dreams, make them as real as anything. Oh, with it, take the work out of the courage. And she says please, there's a crazy man, he's creeping outside my door. I live on the corner of grey street and the end of the world. There's an emptiness inside her and she'd do anything to fill it in and though it's red blood bleeding from her now it's more like cold blue ice in her heart. She feels like kicking out all the windows and setting fire to this life. It could change every thing about her using colors, bold and bright, but all the colors mix together to grey and it breaks her heart.
**Crowgirl calls me Onion Girl sometimes, even prior to the "ogres have layers" and "state of the onion" stuff. If you've ever read the story, you'll know why.
***ugh, other than horrible codeine sickness, but we won’t go there… puuuuuuuuuuke!