"One by one they fall, it always breaks me down...*"
Well, just when you think you might be starting to get a grip on things, it rains !#$% axle grease...
Wednesday night as Chris and I were driving back home from rehearsal something happened. Something broke, and I think it was me. I'm not sure exactly what triggered it. I was very tired, I'd had a couple of drinks, and the motion and sound of the car on the road, combined with the effect of the world spinning past my window has always inspired me or made me contemplative.
I started thinking about the rant I wanted to write the next day. I wanted to talk about how my childhood wasn't all bad, and so I started thinking back, trying to remember the good times. As I said yesterday, the problem with this new clarity is that it is that unusual "Sam-brand" clarity, that comes with smells, sounds, feelings - total recall, and the fact that the few good things that I could remember were surrounded by so much pain and misery that I was almost instantly crippled, first by recall, then by hysterical tears. I found that every good memory I could muster was either preceded or followed by (or entirely intertwined with) some bad connection - for example, the memory of my almost surreally wonderful fifth birthday was followed by the thought of every other thing that happened that year - and it was a very bad year, and yet still nothing compared to the horrors of my sixth year (there are a few funny stories from that year, but looking at them realistically, they were all centered around shocking cases of neglect, which I suppose in comparison to brutal mental and emotional abuse DOES seem pretty funny. Jesus Christ.) - and so it goes. Once I'd started down this grim memory lane, I couldn't stop. My mind dragged me through one horror after another, and instead of it being just a story memory, I found myself THERE again, remembering every sensation, smell, sound, and emotion. I tried to tell Chris how it felt to have this knowledge, this inescapable experience as an entire childhood (not just one or two or even ten - or even one hundred isolated events). And worse, how it feels to have seen your siblings, almost all younger than you, go through the same things.
I found that once I'd run out of tears and started dry-heaving, I first resorted to a sort of catatonic stupor, and then when my brain began to wake up, it immediately turned to its' oldest comfort - business. I began to think of a million things at once (fortunately - or un- my standard mode), a sketch I wanted to write, another I wanted to re-write, jewelry commissions I needed to do, etc. Of course one track of my million-track mind was also watching me do this, completely aware of my distraction technique, as well as all the other tracks - including the things I was trying so hard not to think about. Yes, I did think "Wow. I've got a pretty amazing brain..." but I also thought "Wow. This is scary..." And then I just went on to cope until I fell asleep. Things have been different since then. I feel like a human soap bubble. I feel like memory-wolves are stalking me. I feel totally lost and as if I am made up of nothing but pain. I can't sleep normally - I have to be in strange places, like the foot of the bed, the floor, or the couch, and I can't be under the covers. This is definitely an "easy flight" reaction - looking for someplace where I can feel safe, or escape easily. I feel tender all over, and I DEFINITELY don't want to be touched. Poor Chris.
And that's where it stands. I was finally able to talk about it in the light of day when I opened up in an e-mail to a close girlfriend (which, ironically enough, she never recieved) but I saved one draft of it, and she said it was ok to re-post some of it here.
None of you may care - and that's ok. I really can't blame you. But it helps me if I can spell/think it out. Something about the 'in-black-and-white' factor and the 'saying it out loud' factor makes it more real.
Here is the pertinent excerpt from my e to Andi.
"I've started to have total recall of my past, and it is kicking my ass. As much as I've always known what happened, I still didn't really remember it... Or I should say, I remembered it like a story that happened to someone else. All those years are finally starting to hit me like: "Shit. This all happened to ME." And it's !#$%ing me up very badly. I've realized a lot of pretty brutal things lately, past, present and future, and I'm truly stunned at how badly prepared I am to deal with all of it. I really get the feeling that I shouldn't be talking about it, if only because that makes me think about it even more, and I've also realized that it's something that can never be repaired. The part that can be repaired (hopefully) however, I think requires my talking about it, so I hope you will all bear with me. It's not the past that I need to talk about, but the overall fact that the only good memories I have for the first, say, 15-17 years of my life or so are (mostly) of hiding successfully, or of the few rare moments of charitable reprieve from the horrors. The times I've always thought of as the 'ok' times, are really just bridges where my memory was blank. I told Chris in the midst of a really bad breakdown last night that every moment of my childhood that I looked back on was like a flash from a bad horror movie. Even the "good" ones turned out, in the light of my adult, aware perspective on the bigger picture, to be sadder than any sane person could bear. Good thing I'm not sane, huh? *ha ha* :[
that's the problem, ultimately. I've realized that no sane person could take even SOME of the things I've experienced and live decently, much less ALL of it, and that the only reason I have is because I am just so !#$%ing strong. The problem is, I'm running out of strength. I've been sapped and sapped and sapped, and now I am finding that nothing can renew my strength fast enough. What's kept me from being another raving baglady or serious junkie has been my sheer force of will, and it's fading. I can feel it and see it everyday. I want to say that my love for my friends and their love for me is enough, but it isn't. Please don't take that the wrong way Andi, but I think if you really think about it, you can understand what I'm saying. Maybe if there were more connection, more time, more sharing, it would make a difference, but maybe it wouldn't. I don't know - and I certainly don't blame anyone but myself for any of that. I am responsible for the renewal of my spirit, and for how much love and goodness I soak up. I just didn't realize until very recently that I was running on patch-jobs and temporary charges. I think it's just that the horrible, terrible weight of the past has finally caught up with me.
The catch 22 situation with my health and my job is a huge factor too. I think my deep injuries have contributed seriously to my physical health problems, and that my health problems have contributed seriously to my inability to re-charge. Same goes with my job. Now I'm stressing over the fact that if I stay, I'll be sick and caged and miserable, and if I leave, I'll be broke and a burden and miserable.
There are no short, easy answers. I've had the best therapy; no one that I have ever known has worked harder and longer to defeat this kind of thing than I have. I've tried all the things that Buffy* (for example) might suggest, and the pure, simple fact of the matter is that there is more there than anyone, even my badass self, can handle.
I do know now that the reason I stay so busy, I work so hard, I create so prolifically, I burn midnight oil and two-ended candles like nobody's business (not to mention drink, smoke, flirt, etc.) is because it is all a distraction from this simple, brutal - and inescapable truth. The hard thing there is that my ability to distract myself from it (and indeed, my desire to do so, just because of the whole addiction/denial/putting-off-the-inevitable factor) is fading fast. I just don't know what I'm going to do Andi."
I'm really sorry that I can't be more hopeful right now, y'all. Believe me, I want to. And obviously, I haven't given up yet. I promise, you'll know beyond a shadow of a doubt when I have. I think my job right now is to just keep from exploding or breaking down, and try to figure out how I can re-charge my batteries. I know I can handle this, I have for 37 years already. But if I'm going to make it for another 37, I have to figure out how to renew my strength. If I can't, and soon, then it'll be all over but the crying - and anyone who might have the gall for saying I'm selfish to even say such a thing, needs to take a short stroll through my memories and then, before they apologize, they need to commend me on how I've even made it this long. 'Fact of the matter is, I've actually gotten to a place that I've never been to before, and that's a place where I just don't care. Nothing seems to be enough to give me hope right now, nothing seems to be able to shore up my will - not even the desire to keep those hateful, irresponsible, insane, selfish bastards who did this to me - to us - in the first place from WINNING. That's a very new place for me.
I've asked you all not to give up on me before, but now I have to say that if you do, I can't blame you. If you don't, I will be grateful, because I've discovered that I need more love than I ever thought I did; but ultimately, it may not make any difference, and I am more sorry about that than anyone.
MUCH everything,
-s
*from my favorite song by The Screaming Trees
**my very wise, level-headed sister-friend who is also a counselor.
Friday, April 01, 2005
Wednesday, March 30, 2005
-kinda' continued from yesterday's "Grey"...
Sometimes I fear that I’m just running around in circles. I know a lot of people in my family, and maybe even some of my friends think or wish that I would/could just let it all go, just forget the past and all the hurt and be happy. I know when I was about to go into therapy my mom said “Y’know, there’s this new kind of therapy where you just start from today and go forward, you just forget the past!” Then, when I’d been diagnosed and was about to enter River Oaks for treatment (following a breakdown I had on the trip home from my last visit to her house, “strangely” enough), she said, “It’s just a vitamin deficiency!” God, save me from that kind of guilt and desperation. If only our (humans’) faith and will was as strong as our denial sometimes…
Another family member told me fairly recently (last fall, I think) that my mom has “erased” me; that she says I don’t exist anymore. I know that the experiences that caused me so much pain and left permanent scars on my psyche, my body and my life don’t exist to her. She insists that those things never happened, that my memory is faulty, or that I am just lying to hurt her, and she is able to maintain that “truth” no matter what. In a way, I envy her the ability to make the things that hurt her and me just go away – including myself. I just have a hard time believing that it’s really possible. These things are such an intrinsic part of our lives. Whether we like it or not, they are a big part of what makes us who we are. I don’t know. Maybe she’s just stronger than me. Somehow though, that doesn’t ring true either. It may just be my perception – though I know that my friends, some of my family, the volunteers I lecture to at Steps to Hope, and the mental health professionals I’ve dealt with over the years say that I am the strong one, because I am brave enough to face the pain, the past and the truth. I think that when you don’t deal with the past, new pain comes from those old, untreated wounds. As much as the memories of the past hurt, none of that hurts as much as being a motherless child, or knowing that your mother says you don’t exist. That’s an injury that is new every day. Seeing my siblings struggling for sanity and healing in their own ways, knowing that they’ll be having their own struggles for the rest of their lives, and knowing that the damage our families did to us will always be an obstacle to our being a real family in our own rights. I struggle to be peaceful, and to try to wish people – even the people who hurt me – nothing but good, but I am who I am, and I think there will always be a part of me who wishes that I could just have one good go at beating my mother’s ass until I’m too tired to go on, and then when I’ve rested, resurrecting dad, grandpa and grandma and having a go at each of them until I feel better too. Yes, I know that it’s some pretty bad anger when you want to bring your loved ones back from the dead just to beat their asses, but hey, I’ve thought worse.
I can’t help but wonder what mom thinks about all of this. Can she really have forgotten everything that happened? Does she ever have dreams about it? Do everyday things ever trigger her memories of those times? Does she have panic attacks for “no reason”? Does she need “drugs” (prescribed or otherwise – the internet, reading, etc) to give her a cushion from the past? And I wonder about dad too. Did he feel guilt over the terrible things he did? He never hurt us, but he left us with people who did. He neglected us, let us slip through the cracks. For years, my feelings toward dad were untouchable. He was the good one, and that was that. But time and truth – and talking to my siblings about their feelings – told the real story. He could have done so much more for us. He could have taken us out of the hell that was our life with mother, and he could have taken better care of us when he had us. Sometimes I think that he chose death as just one more easy way out of his responsibility to us and to his mistakes in the past. One significant difference between him and mom is that I believe that dad loved us all. I think mom only ever cared for my oldest brother. In a way though, that almost hurts worse, because it’s easier to understand how someone who never loved you could hurt you. I’m sure mom believes that I think she’s the only villain in this sordid tale, but nothing could be further from the truth. As much as it hurts, I’m glad that I have a more realistic view of my other family members than I did when I was younger. I’d rather have pain and the truth than a false sense of happiness based on lies – and other people’s pain – any day (who’s the stronger one?). And it probably seems odd, but I can identify with mom’s perspective more than I can with any other adult (not siblings and cousins, I mean) in the family. I am more like her than I am any of the others, and I have spent more time thinking about the “why’s” and “how’s” of my relationship with her than any of the others. In a strange way, I feel more sympathy for her than for any of our other “grown-ups”. It’s sad and sickeningly ironic that none of this will ever matter.
One of the hardest things that I am going to have to learn to accept is that, ultimately, none of this will ever matter. With dad dead, and myself dead to mom, I have no choice but to try to stop wondering about their thoughts, feelings, reasons and deeds, and just accept that they were – and are – only able to love themselves and us so much. The end. As selfish as it may seem, I have no choice but to focus on my own raisons d’etre and try to heal without their help. That’s definitely nothing new, but that doesn’t change the fact that I will always miss them, or at least the dream of them. It would be so much easier if we could help each other, those of us who are left, but I know that’s no more than a dream either. It’s time to face up to the fact that I have been alone in this since I was born, and though my siblings suffered too, they were alone in their own way as well, and that, to some extent, we always will be. Chris loves me, his family loves me, and I love them, but there will always be a kind of wall. I won’t walk away from new friends and “family” because of this – that would be stupid, and that’s one thing I’m not – but I have to learn to love myself enough to fill in the empty spaces, because the fact of the matter is that no one else will ever be able to.
So many things are affected by the shadows of my past. The way I watch movies and listen to music; the reason I love the clothes and art and landscapes that I do; my dreams, my beliefs, and the way I judge people. I have noticed that I am harder on any of my friends who are parents than anyone in our circle. I am very quick to anger when I feel that a friend is being a neglectful parent, even if only in thought if not deed. I know that I have huge obstacles to overcome if I am ever going to be the person I want to be, and that makes me angry too. These days, it seems that it all comes down to a whole lot of anger. That sucks – but it still beats hopelessness. I just wish that I could make people see these things about me, so that they can understand my judgmental nature*, my temper, my “moodiness” and obsession with the past, and be patient with me while I am trying to grow and change.
God, I feel like THE eternal teenager. Ugh. :)
At the very least, I can lay my head down each night, knowing that I am not hiding from the pain and the truth (which, unfortunately, are the same thing sometimes), that I am trying to become a better person and hopefully make the world a better place in the meanwhile, and that I am not passing this madness on to another generation. I may be sad, I may be impossible to live with sometimes, impossible to love at others – and to quote Miss Celie: “I’m pore, I’m black, I may be ugly and can’t cook… But I’m here." – I’m here. And to quote the author, Ms. Walker: “Don't wait around for other people to be happy for you. Any happiness you get you've got to make yourself.” Amen!
I’ll leave you all with some more incredibly relevant quotes from this favorite author of mine, and a promise of more ponderings when I can handle it.
“Being happy is not the only happiness.”
“And so our mothers and grandmothers have, more often than not anonymously, handed on the creative spark, the seed of the flower they themselves never hoped to see -- or like a sealed letter they could not plainly read.”
“How simple a thing it seems to me that to know ourselves as we are, we must know our mothers names.”
“No person is your friend (or kin) who demands your silence, or denies your right to grow and be perceived as fully blossomed as you were intended.”
“I think we have to own the fears that we have of each other, and then, in some practical way, some daily way, figure out how to see people differently than the way we were brought up to.”
“The most important question in the world is, ‘Why is the child crying?’”
“For in the end, freedom is a personal and lonely battle; and one faces down fears of today so that those of tomorrow might be engaged.”
“The most common way people give up their power is by thinking they don't have any.”
“What the mind doesn't understand, it worships or fears.”
“Nobody is as powerful as we make them out to be.”
“Writing saved me from the sin and inconvenience of violence.”
“Life is better than death, I believe, if only because it is less boring, and because it has fresh peaches in it.” :) [Amen, sistah!]
“I try to teach my heart not to want things it can't have.”
“Expect nothing. Live frugally on surprise.”
Much love – and some peaches,
-s
*the tarot card for my birthday is in fact Judgement. Its’ meaning is:
“It is time for the seeker to look back and evaluate his or her life or a phase in life. [weee-eee-ee-ooooo!] This card represents closure and a sense of summing up what he or she has achieved during the phase that is ending. It is a card of powerful transformative energy [huzzah!]. It also signifies a time of rebirth, a cleansing of burdens and past mistakes, before moving on [!!!]. This is also the card of Karma – of reaping what we sow. One should be aware of how their actions effect others. To a great extent, it can represent awakening to the call of your destiny or an effort to understand your higher purpose. [whoah!] It also represents a judgment in a legal matter.
Reverse - Phobias, obsessions. Denying the truth of the matter. Procrastination. Using obstacles as an excuse for not changing. Stagnation. Divorce. Vain attempts to recapture youth or the past. Letting life pass you by. Failure to face facts. (freaky, eh?)
Sometimes I fear that I’m just running around in circles. I know a lot of people in my family, and maybe even some of my friends think or wish that I would/could just let it all go, just forget the past and all the hurt and be happy. I know when I was about to go into therapy my mom said “Y’know, there’s this new kind of therapy where you just start from today and go forward, you just forget the past!” Then, when I’d been diagnosed and was about to enter River Oaks for treatment (following a breakdown I had on the trip home from my last visit to her house, “strangely” enough), she said, “It’s just a vitamin deficiency!” God, save me from that kind of guilt and desperation. If only our (humans’) faith and will was as strong as our denial sometimes…
Another family member told me fairly recently (last fall, I think) that my mom has “erased” me; that she says I don’t exist anymore. I know that the experiences that caused me so much pain and left permanent scars on my psyche, my body and my life don’t exist to her. She insists that those things never happened, that my memory is faulty, or that I am just lying to hurt her, and she is able to maintain that “truth” no matter what. In a way, I envy her the ability to make the things that hurt her and me just go away – including myself. I just have a hard time believing that it’s really possible. These things are such an intrinsic part of our lives. Whether we like it or not, they are a big part of what makes us who we are. I don’t know. Maybe she’s just stronger than me. Somehow though, that doesn’t ring true either. It may just be my perception – though I know that my friends, some of my family, the volunteers I lecture to at Steps to Hope, and the mental health professionals I’ve dealt with over the years say that I am the strong one, because I am brave enough to face the pain, the past and the truth. I think that when you don’t deal with the past, new pain comes from those old, untreated wounds. As much as the memories of the past hurt, none of that hurts as much as being a motherless child, or knowing that your mother says you don’t exist. That’s an injury that is new every day. Seeing my siblings struggling for sanity and healing in their own ways, knowing that they’ll be having their own struggles for the rest of their lives, and knowing that the damage our families did to us will always be an obstacle to our being a real family in our own rights. I struggle to be peaceful, and to try to wish people – even the people who hurt me – nothing but good, but I am who I am, and I think there will always be a part of me who wishes that I could just have one good go at beating my mother’s ass until I’m too tired to go on, and then when I’ve rested, resurrecting dad, grandpa and grandma and having a go at each of them until I feel better too. Yes, I know that it’s some pretty bad anger when you want to bring your loved ones back from the dead just to beat their asses, but hey, I’ve thought worse.
I can’t help but wonder what mom thinks about all of this. Can she really have forgotten everything that happened? Does she ever have dreams about it? Do everyday things ever trigger her memories of those times? Does she have panic attacks for “no reason”? Does she need “drugs” (prescribed or otherwise – the internet, reading, etc) to give her a cushion from the past? And I wonder about dad too. Did he feel guilt over the terrible things he did? He never hurt us, but he left us with people who did. He neglected us, let us slip through the cracks. For years, my feelings toward dad were untouchable. He was the good one, and that was that. But time and truth – and talking to my siblings about their feelings – told the real story. He could have done so much more for us. He could have taken us out of the hell that was our life with mother, and he could have taken better care of us when he had us. Sometimes I think that he chose death as just one more easy way out of his responsibility to us and to his mistakes in the past. One significant difference between him and mom is that I believe that dad loved us all. I think mom only ever cared for my oldest brother. In a way though, that almost hurts worse, because it’s easier to understand how someone who never loved you could hurt you. I’m sure mom believes that I think she’s the only villain in this sordid tale, but nothing could be further from the truth. As much as it hurts, I’m glad that I have a more realistic view of my other family members than I did when I was younger. I’d rather have pain and the truth than a false sense of happiness based on lies – and other people’s pain – any day (who’s the stronger one?). And it probably seems odd, but I can identify with mom’s perspective more than I can with any other adult (not siblings and cousins, I mean) in the family. I am more like her than I am any of the others, and I have spent more time thinking about the “why’s” and “how’s” of my relationship with her than any of the others. In a strange way, I feel more sympathy for her than for any of our other “grown-ups”. It’s sad and sickeningly ironic that none of this will ever matter.
One of the hardest things that I am going to have to learn to accept is that, ultimately, none of this will ever matter. With dad dead, and myself dead to mom, I have no choice but to try to stop wondering about their thoughts, feelings, reasons and deeds, and just accept that they were – and are – only able to love themselves and us so much. The end. As selfish as it may seem, I have no choice but to focus on my own raisons d’etre and try to heal without their help. That’s definitely nothing new, but that doesn’t change the fact that I will always miss them, or at least the dream of them. It would be so much easier if we could help each other, those of us who are left, but I know that’s no more than a dream either. It’s time to face up to the fact that I have been alone in this since I was born, and though my siblings suffered too, they were alone in their own way as well, and that, to some extent, we always will be. Chris loves me, his family loves me, and I love them, but there will always be a kind of wall. I won’t walk away from new friends and “family” because of this – that would be stupid, and that’s one thing I’m not – but I have to learn to love myself enough to fill in the empty spaces, because the fact of the matter is that no one else will ever be able to.
So many things are affected by the shadows of my past. The way I watch movies and listen to music; the reason I love the clothes and art and landscapes that I do; my dreams, my beliefs, and the way I judge people. I have noticed that I am harder on any of my friends who are parents than anyone in our circle. I am very quick to anger when I feel that a friend is being a neglectful parent, even if only in thought if not deed. I know that I have huge obstacles to overcome if I am ever going to be the person I want to be, and that makes me angry too. These days, it seems that it all comes down to a whole lot of anger. That sucks – but it still beats hopelessness. I just wish that I could make people see these things about me, so that they can understand my judgmental nature*, my temper, my “moodiness” and obsession with the past, and be patient with me while I am trying to grow and change.
God, I feel like THE eternal teenager. Ugh. :)
At the very least, I can lay my head down each night, knowing that I am not hiding from the pain and the truth (which, unfortunately, are the same thing sometimes), that I am trying to become a better person and hopefully make the world a better place in the meanwhile, and that I am not passing this madness on to another generation. I may be sad, I may be impossible to live with sometimes, impossible to love at others – and to quote Miss Celie: “I’m pore, I’m black, I may be ugly and can’t cook… But I’m here." – I’m here. And to quote the author, Ms. Walker: “Don't wait around for other people to be happy for you. Any happiness you get you've got to make yourself.” Amen!
I’ll leave you all with some more incredibly relevant quotes from this favorite author of mine, and a promise of more ponderings when I can handle it.
“Being happy is not the only happiness.”
“And so our mothers and grandmothers have, more often than not anonymously, handed on the creative spark, the seed of the flower they themselves never hoped to see -- or like a sealed letter they could not plainly read.”
“How simple a thing it seems to me that to know ourselves as we are, we must know our mothers names.”
“No person is your friend (or kin) who demands your silence, or denies your right to grow and be perceived as fully blossomed as you were intended.”
“I think we have to own the fears that we have of each other, and then, in some practical way, some daily way, figure out how to see people differently than the way we were brought up to.”
“The most important question in the world is, ‘Why is the child crying?’”
“For in the end, freedom is a personal and lonely battle; and one faces down fears of today so that those of tomorrow might be engaged.”
“The most common way people give up their power is by thinking they don't have any.”
“What the mind doesn't understand, it worships or fears.”
“Nobody is as powerful as we make them out to be.”
“Writing saved me from the sin and inconvenience of violence.”
“Life is better than death, I believe, if only because it is less boring, and because it has fresh peaches in it.” :) [Amen, sistah!]
“I try to teach my heart not to want things it can't have.”
“Expect nothing. Live frugally on surprise.”
Much love – and some peaches,
-s
*the tarot card for my birthday is in fact Judgement. Its’ meaning is:
“It is time for the seeker to look back and evaluate his or her life or a phase in life. [weee-eee-ee-ooooo!] This card represents closure and a sense of summing up what he or she has achieved during the phase that is ending. It is a card of powerful transformative energy [huzzah!]. It also signifies a time of rebirth, a cleansing of burdens and past mistakes, before moving on [!!!]. This is also the card of Karma – of reaping what we sow. One should be aware of how their actions effect others. To a great extent, it can represent awakening to the call of your destiny or an effort to understand your higher purpose. [whoah!] It also represents a judgment in a legal matter.
Reverse - Phobias, obsessions. Denying the truth of the matter. Procrastination. Using obstacles as an excuse for not changing. Stagnation. Divorce. Vain attempts to recapture youth or the past. Letting life pass you by. Failure to face facts. (freaky, eh?)
Tuesday, March 29, 2005
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!
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!
