Unloveable me

I am scared and alone. 

Tears stain my face, I wipe my nose on my sleeve.

My glassy eyes dart, desperately searching the room, in vain, for familiarity and soft eyes.

A warm buzz surrounds me, numbing my skin from the cold sterile, surface beneath me.

I feel light, yet weighted in restraint, 

like a helium balloon tied in servitude to an adoring child's wrist.

It grows dark. 

Terror dwells in my spine, and my body shakes to release its grasp, 

though I welcome even terror's touch.

I yearn to be held.

As if in response to my plea, I see arms reaching for me.
At first I am frightened, but cognizant that my fear is a product of my piggyback companion,
 I wonder if these arms may be able to help me.
To hold me.

I open my arms wide bracing for embrace...

The reaching arms meet resistance, colliding with a physical barrier, an impenetrable boundary.

The reaching arms do not retreat,
they remain caressing that which separates us, bated in hopes of uniting.

I know this will never be.

I am like a ship in a bottle. Stuck for eternity in the house of mirrors, in truth.

To get me out I must be broken, and once broken I am no longer that adored ship,
but rather a pile sticks heaped in
frustration.

With this realization I pull my knees to my chest, hold myself and drift off to sleep.

Sexual Substitute

Surviving sexual trauma is so hard. But what is the alternative? Not surviving? Though some days, I must admit, I wonder, perhaps even wish that I had died on one of those horrific satanic nights. Then I would not be this emotionally altered, dissociative, asexual deviant. But oh, the things and people I would have missed. Survival is better, most days.

Two nights ago, I am afraid I had a "dissociative episode" during intimate time with my husband. I "awoke" in the throws of passion with no recollection of how I got there.  We have not been sexually intimate in a long time as I am recovering from painful surgery involving my ass (dampens the mood, you see), so that in and of itself was odd. In the past, my husband and I have discussed that nighttime lovin' is a no-no because I usually awake scared, hypervigilant and basically re-traumatized, which is shitty for everyone. He has been very respectful of this fact, so when I "awoke" the other night I knew something strange had transpired, as I doubted that he would violate that trust. Plus, I was not scared or re-traumatized by the act, rather the circumstances, which left me terrified. On the contrary, I think I may have enjoyed myself, except....

Except I had no idea about the events leading up to our sexual reintroduction.

The next morning he was prancing around, happy as a lark, singing our praises from the previous night's escapades. I mustered the courage to ask him, "how did that happen?" He indicated that I was the initiator, and rightfully became a little defensive given the history. I reassured him that it was enjoyable and consensual. I am just not sure who consented.

In the past I have lost time during dissociative episodes, and recently even felt a "switch" from one day to the next. But what the fuck is this about? Do I have an inner sexual savant? Perhaps just a sexual substitute acting as protector? Was I just sleep sexing?

The saga continues...

Smell of Security

I love the smell of Amy's building. I do not know if I love the smell because of the safety and security that I feel  there (on a good day), or if I have always loved the smell and it is just one more reason that it is a good fit. It is impossible to adequately describe the smell. Clean with hint of spice. New carpet with a homey after-smell. Not stimulating. Just subtle and safe, an olfactory piece of heaven.

A Note to Myself About...Myself

I wrote this last week, but never posted it....

Dear (teenage-angsty) Me,
Today I found out that my master plan to return to work next week has been thwarted and replaced by a date yet to be determined. At first, I admit this was upsetting news. However, after discussing with my PT,  nurse case manager, friend, therapist, mom, boss, lymphedema treatment specialist, husband and yet another friend I realize that this is most likely a good decision. I have been through hell and am still recovering from major surgery. I had 18 months of excruciating pain and am still battling residual pain and numbness due to nerve compression, weakness, and lymphedema. I want my life back but waiting a few extra weeks to begin that journey, though overwhelming now, is really not a big freakin' deal. I could go on all day about all the reasons that taking it slow and cautious is the "smart choice," but you already know all that, so I will not belabor the point.
So it seems that I have arrived in a place of peace regarding the issue. I am content that taking care of myself now so that I can live the life I want to live soon (and that I deserve to take care of myself because it's not my fault). The wise, thoughtful adult Me has arrived at this decision. Please, hear me.
In the past I know you have been forced into the role of "defensive offender," but that role is not warranted now. We are safe. Safe from harm, injury, hurt and loss. In the past your tirades, phone calls, indigence and just plain sassiness have been so helpful, liberating, protective and even humorous, but you have earned a break, so pause in the contented moment. Resist the urge to make forceful phone calls and prove to the world what we are capable of, they know. There is no need to fight or prove anything. We are safe. Rest now.... for there is no telling what the future brings.
Sincerely, 
Me


Note: The last statement occurred after another "switch," very evident in retrospect, reading it a week later.

The Stress Contagion

Today I awoke feeling calm, peaceful and happy. I spent my day studying and catching up on things I needed to do, basking in the glow of pine scented candles saturated in the sounds of the season. Cozy on my couch, no one disturbing me.

No one except myself, in the sly disguise of stress.

My dog, Baloo was the chief offender in said stress. He is pushing boundaries in a desperate attempt to discover his true self. He has decided that after 2 years of living within the confines of his 3.5 acre yard, he is ready to see what else is out there (I'm sure the fact that his underground fence is not working has nothing to do with it, and no I am not projecting). This translates into his running away every time I let him out. Sometimes far away. So why don't I use a leash or leave him in? Because he thinks leashes are for walks and as a dog embodies outdoors, he cries at the door all day to go out.

Aye, there's the rub. Stress if he stays inside because he cries constantly and fights with the other dog-cat, and stress if he goes out because he runs away and I'm afraid the big dum-dum will get hurt. 

Even as I am typing this, the words that I often use with my 6 year old come into my head, "Is this a big problem or a little problem?" Though I know the sane (here I go with the crazy talk again) answer is "little problem," let me tell you it feels like a big fucking problem. Not because of the ramifications implied by the sad dog who wants to be free in the woods, but due to the wake of destruction left by repetitive stress.

After a full day of listening to pathetic whining and frantic calling for man's best friend, I felt one nerve short of a complete mental breakdown. My capacity to face reality, deal with life and maintain sanity was diminished. The stress itself was not killing me it was the opportunistic irritations capitalizing on my exposed vulnerability. I found it near impossible to reason with Emmett refusing to take a shower and felt completely defeated by the idea of completing my thesis, due in 13 months. Life seemed completely out of control. I tried to blog about it, I could not even do that.....AHHHHHHHH!!!!

Then I watched The Santa Clause with my kids and welcomed the arrival of perspective. God, I love Christmas.

Stress will kill you faster than any disease alone, either potentiating pre-existing "infections" or providing the opportunity for new ones to fester. It infiltrates the body and mind, destroys our defenses, compromises our healthy efforts. It works that way in medicine, psychology and all other disciplines. It is a know fact, stress kills. 

So here is an idea, don't get stressed. Avoid it like the plague. 

New superhero slogan: Defeat stress, live forever.

Thursday is the New Friday

TGIT.

Apparently CEO/COO of Me who coordinates my parts, moods and overall view of life has decided that Thursday is just a good day. Last Thursday I was just plain euphoric. Today, though not Nirvana was a good day. I felt positive, optimistic, yet realistic. I'll take it!

Yesterday I made a list of things I needed to talk to Amy about today, issues with sexuality, identity and integration. All sorts of really tough stuff that was weighing like lead in my soul. I have felt crippled with these intrusive ideas for almost a week. Woke up today, those items no longer seem so pressing. Relief. However temporary this feeling may be, I am going to relish every contented moment.

In my experience with PTSD and dissociation, I have never believed that I had discrete parts, more of different moods/emotions. I am coming to realize that these parts must be much more distinct than I gave them credit for. On Tuesday I felt scattered, rebellious, angsty, and child-like. Not to mention the fact that I was pretty sure I was a lesbian. Today I feel like fucking Betty Crocker. Go figure. 

I know I have a lot of work ahead of me, and the acquiescence of knowledge that there are "parts" and how that contributes to the complexity and gravity of my recovery is unfathomable to me right now. But I still feel hope. Hope that I can integrate the best of these parts to find peace for myself and offer solace to those around me.

Until that time, I'll take Thursdays. 

Break the Silence

Hiatus over.

Must get back to writing. In honesty, there is no one factor that has hindered my daily blogging, but yet a conglomeration of excuses, explanations and rationalizations.

I'm too tired, I don't feel well, I don't have enough time. The dog ate my computer. I was kidnapped by aliens and am still recovering from the anal probe.

All bullshit. All petty. Though some of these excuses may be true they are merely dissembling prattle, meant to distract everyone from what's really going on.

I am overwhelmed by difficult questions and uncomfortable emotions and am unable to be honest with myself about all this, nevermind putting it in writing. I am facing questions about my sexuality, my intimacy retardation, my mental health, food and my general self worth, among others. I feel broken, ugly and don't want to be exposed for the weak girl that I see within.

So bear with me. I will get there. I will begin tomorrow anew with the intention of being honest with myself and perhaps recording a glimpse of said moments to share. I want to share and I want to let others in, to be vulnerable. But wanting and doing are far more distant relatives than I imagined.

Until tomorrow...

I Walk the Line

As someone new to "taking care of myself," where is the line between self-nurturing and just plain selfish?

And does it matter if said healthy self-care is wrapped in a coating of guilt with a shame demi-glaze?

Here Today, Gone Tomorrow

Yesterday was a good day. No, it was a GREAT day.

For the first time in weeks,  I felt grounded, safe, and empowered with unfamiliar, unbridled courage. What a welcome change. I went to therapy (where I was more open than I have been in years), volunteered in Emmett's classroom, took a long walk basking in beautiful sunshine and good company, spent quality time with my children and had a brutally honest yet heartwarming conversation with my husband. The best part is that I stayed in the moment and actually enjoyed the beauty, positivity and self-affirming thoughts cradled in my best-day-ever.

I felt so good going to bed last night.

Then I woke up.

What a difference a day makes. Admittedly, I did not sleep well serenaded by my cacophonous bedfellow and haunted with vivid, disturbing dreams. My whole day followed suit.

I awoke feeling bitter, bordering on angry at the world.  Everything and everyone chafed my already raw interior. I dug out my mask and wore it all day, floored by this new "anger" emotion, unable to express my true self in the fear that I might actually act on the desperate desire to introduce my fist to the irritating faces within my reach. This sensitivity persisted throughout the day, and I sank deeper into my projected, protective facade. The lunchtime hours eluded me all together, as I gazed upon my grounding tools a mere arms length away, unmotivated to remain in this destitute moment. Not strong enough. Craving escape.

How can so much change in 8 hours? I have spent the majority of my adult life sleep deprived and never with such radical rebound. I do not even feel like a shadow of yesterday's me. Is it possible that I am comprised of actual distinct parts? That the dissociative process has reaped more damage than I can even appreciate? Is this is why I am so desperate to discover myself? To collect all the splinters of my original being? To integrate the many hats that shape my everyday life?

I don't know. But it scares the shit out of me.

Crazy, Table for 1...Ding!

The word crazy is crazy.

When used generally, crazy is a harmless, versatile term. It is used to describe inanimate objects like "crazy hair," or "crazy straw." Or to describe a good time, "that party was crazy." Coincidences are often coined crazy, as in "crazy meeting you here," or "how crazy is this?" These are innocent phrases with no negative connotation or inference. No one thinks that the straw suffers from a mental illness, or that the party was full of unstable people dancing in straightjackets. 

Unfortunately, crazy can also be used as an isolating and derogatory term and this line is often indistinct and left to interpretation. For example, when a person is referenced as "crazy," it may indicate mental illness but also may just be an expletive as above. Then there are the more blatant uses like "locked up with the crazies," or "mayor of crazytown," which obviously illustrate the subjects mental state.

I am a chronic "crazy" abuser. Today I have probably used this word well over 200 times. I like crazy, it's comfortable. It's that favorite old t-shirt that has been relegated as a night shirt, because you can't wear it publicly, but you love it and could never throw it out. It's a part of you. I woke up this morning, took my crazy pill, met up with my crazy friend, went to see Amy, where I talked about my crazy life. Then I settled down with my "crazy meal" and coffee to ponder Amy's suggestion to "super-size" my crazy and meet with her twice a week. Double the crazy face time. That is a whole lot of crazy. But, who am I kidding? If the shoe fits...

So why, when my husband jokingly says, "your crazy" do I feel like I have been kicked directly in the stomach? The answer is simple. Unless you are a tax-paying resident in "crazytown," you may not call me crazy. It's like calling black people the n-word. It's acceptable if they refer to each other that way within their community, but you best not say it. It's racist and disrespectful. Just like the word fat. I can call myself fat whenever I want, but you may not. That is just not OK. Again, the reason is simple. When an outsider (for lack of a better term) uses that terminology it feels real and very threatening. When I call myself crazy, I feel like me. When someone else does, I feel crazy. My defenses fly up with control of that term taken away from me, and I want to scream at the top of my lungs,

"Crazy? You ain't seen nothing yet! I got a whole bag a crazy over here with your name on it!"

So don't call me crazy, because honestly, I feel crazy enough without your help. And crazy, though often imbued with comedy and levity is a very scary prospect, even for self-proclaimed residents of "crazytown."

The Sanctuary of Absence

Fighting for my life.
My head throbs, my eyes narrow with pressure.
The world fading into murky obscurity.

Dull tones fill my ears with cotton, my shoulders sinking under the burden.

Teeth bared and clenched tight in primal fear and desperation.
Awaiting lift-off.
Every fiber taught with ascending numbness.
Pain amplified by complete lack of sensation.

Rising until my head rests unhindered in mid-air.
Ethereal.
Slowly slipping into the sanctity of safety.
Away from him. Away from them. Away from me.
Refuge.
Allowing me to catch my breath before I return to the ring.
Life waits on the ground.

Full of Something

This fullness is all too familiar. 

Uncomfortable in my own skin, pulled tight over my body ready to explode.

Born in emptiness, begging for satiation. Insulating in perfection.

Stuffing the void with illegitimate affection, the cancer seeps in, spreading. Swelling. 

So full.

Vanishing under the pressure of distended dependence, praying for salvation. 

Refusing to nourish the monster.

My prayers answered, deflated in hope. 

Enduring in distraction. 

Times up. 

This fullness is all too familiar.

Label Me Hypocrite

I am a living, breathing paradox. I am an enigma, wrapped in a conundrum with a chewy paradoxical center. Let me sum up. I like, perhaps even need (though I tell Emmett all he needs is air, water food and love) organization and order. I thrive in tidiness, luxuriate in lists, and see structure as my savior. I find comfort in the black and white, and tremble in gray. However, after a week filled with political propaganda, an evening chat with Emmett's first grade teacher, and healthy portion of self-reflection, I have come to an old conclusion about this "new" me. I HATE LABELS. Holy hypocrisy, Batman!

I have spent my adult life a registered democrat. But am I really? Do all my ideas really fall into that category? The answer is absolutely not. Fear not young padawan, I have not joined the dark side. There are other labels that more appropriately describe aspects of my political profile. On many issues I am considered Progressive, but every once in a while a have a mean Libertarian streak. Hell, some of my ideas are pretty far left, maybe I should carry the label or radical, extremist, or even Socialist. Better yet, I think I will abandon all political ties and align myself with the new and ever-popular Coffee Party. If the Tea Party can do it, why can't I?

Now Emmett, who has not yet declared a political alliance, is also dodging the labeling movement. Emmett is brilliant, but his gifted intelligence is flanked in sensitivity and a unique thought process. Couple that with the fact that he is a 6 year old boy, and welcome to chaos. Emmett lives in his mind and imagination, often distracted by his own thoughts, he is disorganized and speaks out of turn. He is sensitive in mind and body. He hates loud noises but is overwhelmed by silence. He does not do well in extreme temperatures, and his skin reacts to almost everything it touches. Songs with minor key chords make him cry. And he cries a lot. He feels all his emotions intensely and they almost always manifest in heartfelt tears. All of this makes being a 6 year old boy in public school very challenging, for him and I am sure at times for his teacher and classmates. Last week he was removed from the classroom 4 times in 3 days for inability to regain self-control and follow the rules. With the dawn of inclusion, schools have strived to make every student a part of the classroom, which I believe benefits everyone as long as it is not at the price of individual needs. Inclusion was implemented to stop stigmatization and segregation and embrace and utilize diversity. So why did my little man spend the first half of last week isolated, in another classroom feeling like a "bad kid?" Because the fine print of inclusion requires a label. If he was diagnosed with ADD or Autism (both have which have been brought up) he would have a diagnosis, an IEP and would remain in the classroom. No don't get me wrong, I will do whatever it takes to help my son and if he needs to be labeled and have an IEP, than that is what we will do. But he is six years old and this label will follow him for the rest of his life. That is heavy. Maybe Emmett does have ADD or is on the autism spectrum, but maybe he is just a gifted 6 year old boy, and has not reconciled the discrepancy between his intellectual and social abilities. Maybe I too, would have a hard time focusing and behaving if I could do division and fractions, and my math class was mastering counting to 9.

The truth is that labels themselves are a paradox. We need them to feel safe, precise and productive, but like many good things, they can be used for ill will. Stereotyping, stigmatization, discrimination. At therapy last week Amy asked me a direct question. "Meghan, are you dissociating again?" I looked at her and felt compelled to answer, but in the air of toxic repercussions, could not allow the response to escape my lips. I left Massachusetts in part to evade my past, start over, define a new me. I don't want to live in the shadows of mental illness branded by diagnostic criteria. PTSD, trauma, depression, anorexia. Broken. As a nurse I know how the world views "people like me." I see my colleagues reading charts before returning calls to sick patients, some actually saying out loud, "she has PTSD, it's probably in her head." And I say nothing. Sometimes I even agree. I am part of the stigmatization of myself, my friends. Here lies another paradox.

"Yes, I'm dissociating again. I need help." Next time I'll speak up to that colleague.

My Brain Hurts

This journey of self-realization is proving to be a doozy.

I have so much in my brain, but cohesive thought eludes me. I have sat here on the couch for over two hours with no words to express what I am feeling or thinking. Seems like a good time for haiku:

muddy thoughts swirl

thick with heavy sediment

settling in patience  

That is what my brain feels like. I want to spew all these partial thoughts, force them to congeal so I can pack them into small discrete packages. I love that. But it's not going to happen, not tonight. So tonight I take a big step for me. I am going to let things be unsettled, let my thoughts flow freely without desperately trying to control them. Ugh.

"God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, 

the courage to change the things I can, 

and the wisdom to know the difference."

...anytime now with that serenity....

A Journey of 1000 Miles...

Here is my single step.

My name is Meghan and I am an elusive con-woman.

How's that for dramatic? LOL. It feels wrong even typing that (LOL, that is). I am not a teenage girl or an avid texter, and I am most certainly not laughing out loud in the literal sense. But yet I wrote it. Without even realizing it I have demonstrated my purpose for beginning this blog. For the past 8 years I have been continuously portraying a state of LOL and :), when in actuality my feelings are quite dynamic and diverse.

I have spent so much time trying to prove I'm OK, acting "as if," starring as me in the role of the person I want to be, that something has been lost. A piece of me. A fucked up, broken piece of me, but a piece no less. And a piece big enough that when faced with the really big questions like, "who am I?," I feel unqualified to answer. Fact: shitty things happened to me, but the time has come to face these "things," deal with them so that I can move on, and in the process discover who I am...really.

This blog serves as a vehicle in my journey to recovery, self-discovery and mindful living in the present. It will be a long, painful and most likely messy journey. However, I also hope to find hope, joy and humor in my travels, because although I am not well acquainted with myself, I have a feeling I am hilarious :)