Blahdeblah

  1. Lying on the couch waiting for sleep to take me. I am going to put my phone down and not pick it up until five am, time to get Cali up for school.

This new medication is not good. I’ve been weepy for two days, nauseous for a week. My therapist said she’d talk to the prescribing nurse and get me in to see her, and texted me to let me know I’m talking to her next week.

I know there’s no Magic Normality Pill, but I’m just so tired of going from sad to empty back to sad. Everyone around me has at least one really good day every now and again,  and I want that too. That’s all. I’m not asking for riches or beauty or epic love, just some okay days.

It hit me today that I’ve even stopped listening to music. No new songs, no old songs… I can’t remember the last time I cut on my mp3 player. I think the last song I listened to was when I played the Supernatural parody by Hillywood in Youtube. I don’t know if it counts since it’s a parody.

I don’t know why I’ve been so upset lately. Things have been okay. The kids are fine, Nathan has been helping me with my bills more since he’s working,  and except for today we’ve gotten along fine. It’s like my brain has short circuited and I lost the capacity for positive things. My therapist would call it “stinkin’ thinkin'” and remind me me to try to stop.

I want to look forward to something again. A book, an event, I don’t know. A new pair of socks. I feel like I’m drowning in a cold, black sea, salty with the stupid, cheesy tears. Every word out of my mouth sounds like a ridiculous emo song and I hate it.

Which makes me think of the very best comic I’ve seen about depression. You should read it.

And now is the time to hit post and put my phone away. Wish me luck…

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Genetic Disposition to Pariahism

I dreamed about him. I dreamed that things were as they are now, except I could see him. He was working. I could see by his expression that he missed me. I dreamed that we talked. When I woke I felt calm. Comforted. Then reality reasserted itself and I remembered. And it hurt.

I listened to mom talk for two hours tonight. She was talking about my brother’s dad and how she didn’t want him back and why would she want someone who never treated her right  and I could hear in her voice that it hurt. I realized, we are the same. We give our trust to men who hurt us. We love those who never let us belong. It’s this longing that will never be fulfilled, because they never let us in.

There’s a line in one of my favorite songs. The meaning isn’t even close to what it sounds to me. It’s about Louis Peltier and how he was wrongly imprisoned. Honestly, I don’t care what the real meaning is. It’s Crazy Life by Toad the Wet Sprocket.

Anyway, it don’t seem right, he’s in there while you’re on the outside.

To me, those words were from one outsider to another. How some people are welcomed and included, while for someone like mom, or me, we’re always left watching from a strictly kept distance.

Like how I’ve always been into games and writing and somehow I had always been left out while even ex-wives were welcomed in. And no matter how hard I tried to be agreeable and accepting and whatever they wanted, I was never a part of anything.

“Anyway it don’t seem right, he’s in there while youre on the outside…”

Do you hear it now?

Five A.M.

Another all-nighter.

It’s been a long day. So, I have school aged kids. And my youngest loves people. She loves hugging and playing and sharing clothes… and hats…

Someone contacted me and told me that we needed to check hair. And yep. Lice. So after everything else that has happened, I’ve been dealing with combing hair, treating hair, washing clothes and sheets. It’s probably one of the most annoying and humiliating things a mother has to deal with. It’s one of those few times I’m glad to be a hermit. At least it hasn’t spread far. The girls’ hair is okay now, I combed through it until bedtime. And my own hair smells like licorice and it’s making me sick but at least I’m not itching. This has happened before and I’m so frustrated with it. At least my cousin is helping me with my hair. I can’t do my own and Nate won’t do it. “Your hair is hard to do.” Yeah. I know. But dammit it has to be done.

Listening to Amanda Palmer reading from her book “The Art of Asking”. Her voice is reassuring and comforting in a way that I’ve missed. I remember lying in the back floorboard of cars as a kid and listening to my mom talk while the rumble under my head lulls me to sleep.

I know I have complained a lot about my mother. And she is a chore. But so am I and I think the biggest problem is we are both so overwhelmed by our own shit and she held hers in for so long she can’t keep it inside even if she wanted. I don’t know what changed her mind on Easter, but she’s taken some small moments of actually listening to me. And confiding things in me, which I’m not certain are truths or just her way of trying to relate with me.

I wonder sometimes, the more things she confides, if we are in some way cursed. That’s what this feels like sometimes. Like I was given a broken brain, or no skin over my emotions. Everything is immediate and raw, and maybe the things she does when she acts out stems from the same place my own raw rage and grief and fear comes from. I tell myself that I should be more understanding, even as she is torturing me with her anxieties and bitterness.

I probably won’t feel it tomorrow. But this morning, the connection is there.

Ask Me Anything

So the cover to this movie is so misleading. It has Britt Roberson, who I adore, wearing an oversized man’s suitshirt and tie, looking a little coy, with some sideshots of various men. It makes it look like a cute, funny movie. Probably with a great indie soundtrack.

Then we watched it.

It was painful to see. So many triggers. Horrible relationship choices, check. Childhood molestation, check. Bad father, check. Her therapist even advises her to write a letter to someone who hurt her in the past, which is what mine has said to me, as recent as yesterday.

Don’t get me wrong. Anything with Britt in it is awesome. But seeing her on the screen. Hearing the way she spoke, the things she said, the way she would dismiss something when it forced her to see herself and the mistakes she was making, the way those around her didn’t know how to handle her, saying things that would help with any normal person but to someone with BPD it’s the exact opposite..She even had a blog. It was upsetting and eye-opening and the soundtrack actually was pretty good.

My therapist listened when I told her that I really felt I have BPD. It’s the first time since.. well… the first time a therapist said it when I was 19, that anyone listened when I said it. She thinks it is probably co-existent with bi-polar, which basically means I’m probably a handful.

364 days. I hear the echoes of it in the back of my head. I don’t feel it in my skin anymore. The thought of it brings a sharp stab of bitter anger and I flinch mentally from it. Which might mean I’m healing. I’m afraid it’s just the start to a manic episode left over from all the crap that’s happened in April so far.I hate April. I wish I could hibernate through it.

No song tonight. I have no music in my head. Too much static.

*Ding* Level Up

I love achievements. I readily admit I’m an achievement whore. Every video game I play, I always play toward getting them. They’re like Pokemon, “gotta catch ’em all”.

It’s a lovely feeling. It’s like when you were in kindergarten and the teacher would put the star stickers OR, if you were lucky, the scratch and sniff stickers on your work. A cheevo popping is like that banana sticker on your spelling test. “GOOD JOB, YOU!”  it proclaims loudly.

I wish real life were that way.

“Ding! You just graduated!”

“Ding! You just had your first baby!”

Even the bad stuff wouldn’t be so awful if you were rewarded with that ole “Hey! You TOTALLY survived your first hangover!” or “Ding! You got dumped!” It would make Facebook messages so much better, you know? We could see past the bullshit comments of “#lovin’life” and “#screwyouRegina” or whatever. I think 4square was a wee bit close. “Ding! You are eating at Steak and Shake!” Or wherever. I don’t go out to eat, since that would require leaving my apartment.

Chris Hardwick, the adorable Nerdist, wrote a book in the early days of his geekpire, which is like an empire, but full of cosplayers and dudes in bowties and fezes (Whovians Represent!). The book was called The Nerdist Way, and it is basically taking the trials and tribulations of life and tricking your brain into turning everything into an RPG, giving yourself XP or leveling when you get past the milestones you set. I was given it as a gift from a friend of mine, and I haven’t finished it yet, but so far I adore it and am at the point where I am recommending it left and right. I might even eventually post my character sheet when I make it.

I actually felt… okay… the past two days. Like, for real okay. No misery. No missing pieces in my heart. Right now the shields are in place. I don’t know how long they’ll stay up, and I couldn’t by any means call myself happy, but I think they have finally found the right mg of depression meds to give me.

I almost lost that okay feeling earlier because my ex-husband was being a total FFDB. Okay, maybe not total, I am probably prejudiced against him by now, but he does this thing where when he feels like crap he is grouchy and hateful and there’s this black cloud of darkness that permeates around him and it makes me super-anxious because I’m hyper-vigilant about other people’s moods, and he often takes a condescending tone with me.

For example it’s “You THINK that’s what you said, but it isn’t.” No, motherfucker, that IS what I said. I hate it. And if he does something particularly douchy and I call him on it, he tells me that I’m overemotional and need to talk to my therapist because I’m crazy. I don’t think it’s crazy to not want to be screamed at in my own apartment by the man I divorced. I don’t think it’s crazy to get frustrated when I asked him three times what food he wanted to get when I made the grocery list and he said he wasn’t going to eat, and then he bought himself hummus and cheesebread, which wasn’t on the list and put me over what I have to pay my mother back when I get money on the first.  Oh and he ate three times since he returned with the groceries, despite shrieking “I’M NOT GOING TO EAT ANY G-D FOOD!”

But yes, I realize I get overly upset. I can’t handle normal differences in opinion some days, much less someone telling me I’m wrong or implying they are superior and I’m lesser because I have no emotional skin. If I perceive the message that someone thinks I am stupid, I really lose it. Like Marty McFly being called “chicken”. And he knows how to work me, twist me around and fluster me and get me to the point that I am weeping and I want to claw his eyes out.

I promise, I am not a violent person. And it’s something severe that could make me feel that way, because this medication has made everything inside me numb.

So anyway. Life needs Achievement pop-ups. It would make everyone so much more productive. There have been multiple psychological tests and papers and studies about achievement motivation. Also, as someone who is suffering from a disorder that forces me to need approval, it’s so satisfying to have some sort of acknowledgement that I am accomplishing things.

laundry

Even if it’s as mundane as sorting the laundry.

Oh, and check this out. My youngest daughter is a regular Cool-Hand Luke.

This video is all sorts of satisfying for those of us with even the mildest OCD.

Good… well… morning. I forgot to take my meds, so I am apparently not sleeping tonight. (I also recognize I may be in the beginning stages of a manic episode and am sort of glad I don’t have any money to binge-spend or the desire to make another horribly bad relationship decision.)

Laters.

Really going now. Um… bye. Or whatever.

blog, pt deux

This started out as a reply to an earlier comment, but it went three paragraphs long, so I figured… might as well make it another post. My blog and I’ll do what I want!!! >_<

It’s so sad, to lose the joy in writing for yourself. I used to ONLY write for myself. Though not because I was self-conscious, amazingly enough, but because it was something that was just mine.

My family wasn’t very intellectual or creative back then(my little brother has become an amazing artist), and part of the reason was there wasn’t that much I wanted to read at our little bitty library, and my allowance couldn’t keep up with the voraciousness of my reading habits. I used to make worlds that I loved, or fanfic when a show caught me in its pull.

It was the only thing I was confident about, I knew I was good and I wrote what made me happy and I didn’t care one whit if anyone else ever read it. I almost hate him for it, blaming him for making me share that when it ended up tainted. Or maybe I hate myself for being foolish, or letting it become tainted. It was my way to self-soothe, which is way better than cutting or promiscuity (though I have made stupid and reckless decisions about relationships) or drugs, though I would get pretty caught up, not eating or sleeping, while I was writing. My cousin Steven told me earlier that it was amazing that I never became an addict, and I wanted to disagree with him even if I couldn’t explain why I felt he was wrong, and now it finally occurs to me:

I am addicted to my fantasy worlds. My characters and stories and playing pretend, knowing it isn’t real, but something in the back of my head would say, “Wouldn’t it be amazing if just by creating these stories, in another reality they become real?”

Which is weird and I know it’s untrue, but I still liked to imagine that. On that note, yes, I have been playing Bioshock Infinite. But no, this is the way I’ve always thought. It’s kind of amazing to play, and knowing that this sort of thing actually comes to others’ minds.

What if there really were infinite other worlds, each one just a choice away from this one? Heads… or tails? Alive or dead? Left or right?

In my worst dissociative moments, I have convinced myself that I’m in the wrong reality. That something traumatic or just BIG has knocked me sideways and I slipped through some crack and I am living the wrong life. Because so much seems so WRONG.

Like, Nathan is not the man I married. John is not the man I thought I knew. My mom is not the woman she was when I was little… no one is, really.

I haven’t figured out yet if they’ve just changed that much or if I have been blind to everyone this whole time. I don’t know which hurts more: they’ve decayed that much, or that I was so stupid, or even that I’m trapped in the wrong life. They’re all horrible thoughts if you look at them. I’d like a fourth choice now please. Or at the very least, a way back to my real world.

I’ve also decided that I am going to link a song at the end of my blogs (and I may go retcon and edit my earlier ones and add a song to them… yep. I’m going to do that) because you can know so much about what someone is feeling by the songs in their head. So, without further ado- a song about the decaying nature of relationships by a woman with a beautiful voice and soul. The Bed Song by Amanda Palmer

Into Darkness

****TRIGGER WARNING****

Recently, as I’ve been paying attention to some of the BPD social community postings and message boards, I’ve noted that everyone gives a courtesy warning if there’s something that could possibly upset someone with your same issues. So I am going to follow this now.

The following blog contains upsetting emotional descriptives and triggers, such as terror of abandonment and extremely negative self esteem. I wouldn’t even post it, but I have tried to be honest when I write these, and this is something I could never say aloud in any circumstance, but I needed to say.

Into Darkness



In both the figurative and literal sense, if you think about it. Possibly I have it wrong.

I was watching the second Reboot!Trek and thinking about things that repeat and things that are different from reality to reality and I missed you again. Exactly as I always have, even when I was trying to convince myself to not be afraid of being abandoned, trying not to face the truth that all I have ever been is your dirty little secret because you were ashamed of me. My weight, being poor, being weird, being sick, being BPD and you would rather be with her than me because, really, who would have ever chosen me anyway?

Mandi and Stephen were here, curled up together on the couch, and my main thought was “Don’t let them see what your mind is doing so closed my eyes and templed my hands in front of my mouth and let the sorrow just hit me in wave after wave. Don’t break, don’t break dontbreakdontbrea-

I thought about writing, and how I can’t write anything without wondering if you’ll ever see it, and knowing you won’t because you would never look for me.

It’s like you’re dead. Or you’re Rory Williams and I’m Amy Pond looking at sunflowers and crying without even knowing she’s doing it over a soul mate who had fallen into the crack of the Universe and had never existed.

I’m sitting here now with my teeth gritted tight and my eyes are searing and I feel the tears on my cheeks and it’s a gasoline burning that scars all the way to the genetic code.

At the same time, I realize that the intensity of the hurt that I’m feeling isn’t natural. And that’s the worst thing of all. Betrayed by my broken brain. Tricked into believing in love when it normally would be, what, nothing? I had never even thought… I’m not a  brave person. I don’t take chances. The only time I have ever stood up for myself was getting my divorce, and even that has backfired because I am crippled by the misfiring neurons and imbalanced chemicals and I need someone to be on constant suicide watch because I don’t trust myself to stay alive. Not even actually committing suicide, because that would be an active movement toward something. All I am doing is slipping slowly downward. Down, down, swirling cold and clammy shadows of despair invading my soul and smothering it.

It’s been 341 days.

I remember the last time you walked out my doorway. I leaned my forehead against the screen and wanted you to stay. I told myself to not show the worry and hurt, but to look happy. Let you leave on a positive note, so you will want to always come back.

I told myself not to be stupid. I told myself that of course you’ll be back. That it isn’t the last time. I told myself it wouldn’t be the last time I saw you.

It rises inside me. It hurts. I close my eyes and swallow it down. I will continue to do this until it builds up too much and explodes.

Nothing takes it away. It is a constant. It is always there, the web of cracks in my soul. I hear the damage in my head, so loud and rolling it turns into static.

I will never not miss you. I tell myself I can survive that. Every moment. Every day.

And the really insanely awful thing is maybe-

No. Not maybe. I AM.

I am afraid to get better, because if it is just my BPD multiplying how I feel, the me that was me that had you becomes a lie, like the you that I thought you were that loved me. And I don’t want her to disappear, she’s all I have left now.

What if I wake up tomorrow and she’s not here?

Emotional state: Save Yourself by Sense Field

Scapegoat

My whole life has been a series of things being done to me, and then I just have to get over it. Or I actually have to pay for it myself. The mistake/punishment scale is fracked up, for sure.

For example, my father, otherwise known as the man who donated his DNA to bring me into existence, molested me as a kid. Little kid. Teensy tiny itty bitty kid. I don’t remember it, but my mother and my aunts have told me it happened. Actually, I wasn’t told until I spent two days with him when his dad died and I told mom I would like to get to know him, his wife who I suppose is my step-mother, and my half-brother. And she didn’t tell me, exactly. She had my aunt tell me. Which explained a lot about some of my over-the-top anxieties over relationships and sex, and why I was so afraid of men in general.

There’s more to that, but I’m not up to explaining more of that.

But see, my dad never paid for that. At least, not in any way that I understand, except my mom used that as an excuse to divorce him. She reminds me of that sometimes, that she got a divorce because he did those kinds of things, and also he was pretty awful to her in general. But there’s always this feeling of “I got my divorce because of you” vibe that I’m only partially making up in my own head because she’s bipolar so she spends most of her life blaming other people.

So she divorced him and ended up dating Bob and we moved to Surgoinsville away from all my family and she reminds me from time to time that she did that to get me away from my father, and then other times she laments that she had to move all the way down there and was mistreated and ignored by Bob and his family, and there’s that guilt again. If I hadn’t been molested, she wouldn’t have gotten divorced, she wouldn’t have moved us all the way down in the middle of nowhere, and she wouldn’t have lived with a man who treated her like nothing.

And this is not considering the fact that I was ALSO molested by two of my cousins when I was eight. I have never told her this. I don’t know if it was the shame of it happening to me, or if I couldn’t bear the expression I imagined she would have. I’ve told a few people about it. I told John about it. I told Nathan about it. A few friends I’ve admitted it to. No one in my family. I was eight… but I have always felt like it was my own fault. And it’s scarred me. Always. My fault. If I wasn’t so disgusting, then they wouldn’t have done that to me. And when I was told about my dad, well… if my own father saw that in me, if my own cousins… three people saw that in me. So it’s there, right? We are what others perceive, right? So I must me that.

It continues on to so many other instances. But the one that’s on my mind is my ex-husband. How every time he fucked up, it was my fault. He started taking pills because I was such a bitch so often. How if I’d not been such a wreck he could have handled life better. How from the very first moment we started dating I began pushing him away.

I miscarried in 2001, right after September 11. He was supposed to go into the Air Force before all that happened, even began the process, but changed his mind when I got pregnant. Ten months along, I started bleeding, and the ER said I was fine, but the next day when I went by myself to the doctor, the nurse practitioner did the ultrasound, not saying anything when I was chirping cheerfully about the baby on the screen, and then when she finished she handed me some tissue and told me the baby had stopped developing two weeks before. It hurt. So much. And I felt like my insides were poison. I could sense the dead child inside me, a cold, empty shell, that was sapping my soul from the inside out. I had to have a D and C. It took me a long time to seem to get over that. Some days… I still feel that. I wrote a poem about it. I don’t have it anymore, but it was one of the first ones I shared with the world.

My brain has never been right. It poisoned me. I felt worthless, because what kind of woman can’t carry a child? Things had always been volatile with Nathan and me, but that made our tenuous relationship collapse in on itself. We fought for a year, then he left me on Halloween to move in with his ex-girlfriend he had been seeing behind my back. Just called me and told me he wasn’t coming back. And I begged. I cried. I lost myself. And after about a month I started trying to pull myself back together, and he called and wanted to come back.

And I let him. Because what woman can’t carry a baby AND can’t keep a husband? A worthless one. I wasn’t allowed to be angry or hurt at him anymore about it. It was my fault anyway. If I hadn’t pushed him away, he wouldn’t have started seeing Rory again. If I wasn’t such a mess we would’ve been fine. My fault. My fault. My guilt.

It’s always that way with he and I. My fault. My mistakes. My guilt. I can’t be friends with John because he cheated on Kristi with me. My fault. So I lose my friend, and I can’t be at certain friendly gatherings because they might be there, so, even though I’ve known some of the mutual friends ten years longer than he, even though he made the choice to talk to me when he was with someone else, even though he told me he loved me and wanted to be with me, it’s my fault. My guilt. My punishment. Because what kind of woman would be a dirty mistress? He gets to go on with his life, and I get the punishment and stigma and blame. I can’t talk about it to anyone but one friend, because I brought it on myself. I should’ve known better. And yes, I should have.

I’ve spent my entire life wanting someone to treat me like I’m someone special. No. That’s not right. I’ve spent my whole life wanting someone to treat me like a real person. A woman. A human being entitled to feel her emotions and to be angry and to not be punished for just being me. For being scared of being abandoned, or mistreated, because when in my history have I ever been wrong in that? I’m the pariah. I’m the scapegoat. I’m the dirty mistress. I’m the bitch. I’m not a woman. I’m not loved, I’m a monster.

Memories by Within Temptation

Feh BROO Airy

I left the house. Just once. A friend’s son had a birthday. I went even though I was terrified he and she might be there and I can’t see that look on his face. Not yet. That look of mild disgust and shame that he had ever even pretended with me and that hint of relief that he won’t even try to hide because, let’s face it, if anything the last 316 days have told me, it is he doesn’t care. He never did. The person I loved was a fiction.

That’s an unsettling thing to realize about yourself. That you were so stupid you loved a make believe person. And the worst bit is that in another reality, that person is real and another you is happy.

And you’re this.

I haven’t slept in about 36 hours. I’m curled up on the loveseat watching the snow fall, and thinking about how reality is ruled by perception, and how sad it is to look back and realize that so much you believed in, about family, friends, self, the world, was as much a fiction as Santa Claus or Jack Skellington and what else is a lie you told yourself just to make yourself keep breathing?

My demons are all I have for company most nights, and their whispers linger even as the light chases it all away.

My Person, who is just as amazing as Christina Yang on Grey’s, told me that her boyfriend, who knew me from before, can see how different I am from how I used to be, and how sad it is, and that it’s obvious why it happened, and that he’s worried. Which puts me back and forth with the whole ridiculous “shame” issue that anyone notices me and what a disgusting creature I have become, to realizing what a blessing it is to have anyone at all care about me.

I’m finishing with a timid stab at something I used to do to former journals, which is add a song link to the end of this blog post. Rhett Miller, “As Close As I Came To Being Right”. I found it through the podcast Wits when they did their crossover with The Thrilling Adventure Hour. Rhett, the artist, was really well spoken and seemed so cool and funny and quirky, and then he sang that song, and the words just hurt so much and felt so True.

“I thought you were the wind
That went through this house again
I thought you were the moon
Lightening up these empty rooms
I thought you were the sun
Shining down on everyone but me
I thought you were the night
And that’s as close as I came to being right”

I’ve resigned to knowing that I will never not miss him, and that I might rebuild that wall using meds and therapy and trying to convince myself that I am better than that situation and he isn’t worth it, but behind it will still be the raw-edged wound of sorrow, and no matter how many times or how loudly I could proclaim he isn’t worth it, every cell of my being screams that I am lying to myself.

“I thought you were the night… and that’s as close as I came to being right…”.