Memories & Lyrics

…I’m standing at the window, looking out at the beautiful Spring colours. How do I know they’re beautiful? From memory, because everything in my world is black and white, various shades of grey, but never, never colour. The sun sets on the beautiful scenery and I can’t see it. I’m being chased in my mind by the black dogs, and then I’m cynically laughing at the irony. My best friend is my black dog…

…Sitting on the couch, I’m staring at a spot on the wall. We have visitors. I’m sunk so deep in depression, I forget who is here right now. I can’t relate to time anymore because I’m constantly in hell. All I’m aware of is that there has been a stream of visitors in the house for a long time now. They all hug me and feed me and bring me their love and support, and I can’t get out of my fucking head to even thank them properly. I’m a horrible, horrible person…

…I’m sitting in the car waiting for my husband. It happens to be the parking lot next to the place we met, a dark and dingy pool hall. I’m staring at the sign and right below, the bench where we sat together nervously before deciding to walk home together for the first time. I miss those happier times, but I feel like our marriage is doomed sometimes. My depression ruins everything I pass by. I feel as though if I walked by a flowerbed, they would all just wilt from all the pain radiating from me. I look up at the next building over. The address is 331. His number is 33, mine is 31. We always combine them. 331 is us. I’m getting this inkling that some force is trying to give me hope, if only it would sink in…

…I watch TV, I play computer games, I read, as a last resort, I get stoned off my ass, but I can’t forget about him. My dad. I need to start serious therapy, I need to get past this shit, because I can’t survive this purgatory for much longer. And all the time I think of him, this song plays over and over in my mind, it’s the anthem to our entire relationship:

I’m tired of being what you want me to be
Feeling so faithless lost under the surface
Don’t know what you’re expecting of me
Put under the pressure of walking in your shoes
Every step that I take is another mistake to you

I’ve become so numb I can’t feel you there
Become so tired so much more aware
I’m becoming this all I want to do
Is be more like me and be less like you

Can’t you see that you’re smothering me
Holding too tightly afraid to lose control
Cause everything that you thought I would be
Has fallen apart right in front of you
Every step that I take is another mistake to you
And every second I waste is more than I can take

And I know
I may end up failing too
But I know
You were just like me with someone disappointed in you

…I’ve been in this little white room in emergency for so long, I don’t know how much longer I can stand it without having a full out panic attack. By the time my therapist comes in, I’m hiding in a corner, crying and keeping my eyes constantly on the door, shaking and terrified. She sits in front of me in a chair and as we talk, I feel myself start to relax. She asks about my black eye. I debate for a moment on whether I should tell her that I slipped and banged my face on my bedside table (this is what I’ve been telling everyone else) or whether I should tell her the truth. The words escape from my lips, and I am as shocked as she: I hit myself in the face repeatedly with a hammer. I was insane with pain and anguish and needed a release, but every time I SI’d my husband would get so angry, so I had to do something that I could pull off as an accident. I noticed a scratch there and improvised. There. It’s out. She thinks it’s a good idea for me to wait for the psychiatrist, just in case he can rearrange my meds to help me more. The doctors and nurses come and go, checking out my eye. It’s fine, which I already know. I’m not stupid enough to break bones. I have a good knowledge of anatomy and injuries and I can hurt myself to cause maximum pain without really injuring myself. I guess I’ve become kind of good at this. Hours are going by, every time my therapist has to leave (which is frequently) I start to panic again. I count the bricks in the wall. I count the letters in the titles of the posters on the wall, but I can’t stop the panic, it’s overwhelming me. I pull out my keys and run one as hard as I can across one of the burns on my arm, enough to make it flow blood, but not so much blood that I can’t clean it up with the small squares of sandpaper that they call tissue in the hospital. It’s not enough. I pick up the receiver of the phone on the table and beat myself repeatedly on the occipital bone (the one I hit originally to get my shiner). Occasionally, my Therapist comes in, and every time she enters the door, I see this angel. I see my savior. I’m nearly at the end of my tether, emotionally and mentally exhausted by the time Dr. Quack enters my tiny white prison, followed by two students – this is a teaching hospital. Over the next 20 minutes he tears the pathetic brace I had built to hold myself together with his terrible words: I am a bad person for telling my husband about my sexual abuse because it’s so hard on him. I should never tell him what I’m going through, and if I don’t start up my sex life again, we are doomed. Self harm makes me unpretty, I need to use more socially accepted ways of dealing with things. I shouldn’t be thinking about my dad at all, just forgive him. He made a mistake, he didn’t know what he was doing was wrong, and I can’t forget, but I must forgive him and move on with my life. I mention a punching bag and he encourages me to use it to work off my fat. I’m in such shock, all I know to do is get him out of here. I tell him what he wants to hear so he’ll get the fuck out. I’m reeling, I’m about to fall, and this time I’m going to fall hard. And then my angel comes in. She can’t believe what Dr. Quack said. She cries with me as his repeated words tear from my throat amid sobs. And then she leads me gently back to myself, and I feel it, I know that she is the only one who can save me…

…I’m listening to sad songs by myself, and I even though I’ve been listening to this song for years, I finally get it. It’s as though it was written to help me:

Spend all your time waiting
for that second chance
for a break that would make it okay
there’s always one reason
to feel not good enough
and it’s hard at the end of the day
I need some distraction
oh beautiful release
memory seeps from my veins
let me be empty
and weightless and maybe
I’ll find some peace tonight

in the arms of an angel
fly away from here
from this dark cold hotel room
and the endlessness that you fear
you are pulled from the wreckage
of your silent reverie
you’re in the arms of the angel
may you find some comfort there

so tired of the straight line
and everywhere you turn
there’s vultures and thieves at your back
and the storm keeps on twisting
you keep on building the lie
that you make up for all that you lack
it don’t make no difference
escaping one last time
it’s easier to believe in this sweet madness oh
this glorious sadness that brings me to my knees

…It’s morning, I’m in bed. I’m caught in that place between sleep and consciousness. I can already feel the pain returning. Why won’t it ever stop? I can’t take it for much longer. It’s eating away at me, and someday there will be nothing left. I can see the back of my eyelids now and I’m so afraid. I’m so afraid that I’m going to wake up and live…

* Lyric Credits: Numb, Linkin Park & Angel, Sarah McLachlan, respectively.

Numbed

For the last few days, I’ve been in a drugged stupor, struggling just to make my body move and get through the day. The good thing is that this leaves a lot less time for me to focus on the fucked up thoughts floating around my brain. The drugs are like a blanket that covers my depression, anxiety, fears and phobias just enough for me to function. I look at myself in the mirror and all I see is a perfectly normal looking 24 year old, with flushed cheeks and punk hair and I don’t understand how I can look so normal when I’m so fucked up inside. But if you look deep into my eyes, past the slim layer of vacancy, you can see the turmoil that lies within.

My meds were upped again last week after I arrived to see my GP in dark clothes, hiding behind sunglasses, tears streaming out the bottom of them, shaking and clutching a small leather bag full of stones that were supposed to be giving me positive energy. When he left the room for a few minutes, he left the door of the room open and this intense fear washed over me like a wave and I panicked. I was sobbing, shaking and rocking in the corner when he came back and it took several minutes for me to calm down enough to even speak to him.

For me, there’s no more positive energy that can make me better until I get to the other side of the years of abuse. The things that used to always bring me out of a depression – my Husband’s arms wrapped tight around me, my Son’s baby giggles – they don’t penetrate anymore. Or maybe they do, and it’s just that I’ve left my body and fallen into this dark pit in my mind…so far down, and the only part of me getting this loving contact is the shell of who I used to be. I take my meds and I become this numb person who walks the world, head down and missing most of what is out there. I hate this feeling too, but for now, it’s a relief from the constant pain. The drugs take the edge off just enough to keep me from crying all the time. When it’s time to take my next dose, I know because I’m already starting to crash. The pain is already returning.

Before I went to see my Dr, before my meds were increased, I was stuck in this mental purgatory every night. I would lie on the carpet sobbing my heart out and self harming for hours after my Husband went to bed. I hurt so much, I wanted to overdose. Not to kill myself. Just enough to knock myself out for a couple of days so that never ending fucking pain would stop, just for a little while. But every time I thought of reaching for that bottle, I thought of my Son. I would pull up my favourite picture of him on the computer and stare at it and tell myself that if I fuck up that way, I’ll be hospitalized. I won’t be able to see my baby whenever I want, and that to me, would be worse than death. So I never took the pills. That didn’t erase the need to escape though.

Now I sit around, dopey, listening to songs about lost love by Sarah McLachlan and stoner music by Sublime. I read Prozac Nation and identify so much with the author that I feel like this time, I really am that far gone. I can identify with the deepest, darkest feelings of a woman who went through such hell, that her account of her struggles with depression became a national bestselling book. People don’t read books about people who are just sort of depressed. They want the raw, gut wrenching, gritty realness of it. The worst possible case. They try to understand, try to identify, but most people wouldn’t be able to. Like so many things in life, you can’t truly understand unless you’ve actually gone through it yourself. The last time I read it (when I went through my first depressive episode), I was overwhelmed by the brutal nature of the pain she was going through and I couldn’t identify. My ability now to identify so completely with her scares me.

Tomorrow I start psychotherapy with my therapist. Tomorrow we begin the plunge into my deep, dark, disturbing childhood. I’m glad to be dealing with it, but I know at the same time that things are only going to get worse before they get better. That’s what everyone keeps telling me, but don’t they understand that I’m already at worse? What comes after that? Can I make it through it? That incessant spirit that usually resides within me has been extinguished like a small lit candle in a windstorm by all the overwhelming pain, grief, guilt, and whatever other fucked up feelings I have every minute of every day. Deep down, I know that this is the hardest test of character I’ve ever had to and probably will ever have to face. I’m so scared. So alone. Stripped and naked in the dark, pathetically trying to beat back the black dogs of depression. But they’re coming for me. They’ve caught the sent of blood, and they’re coming. And I don’t know what to do to stop them.

Fear

I’m scared. For no reason and for every reason. I don’t understand. Yesterday the sun was shining…two blue jays fluttered past my window and as I looked out, a fresh breeze swept the sweet smell of freshly mown grass into the room and I was happy. It was the first time in forever since I smiled when I was by myself.

But now. It’s gone. Whatever sunny, happy, shiny feelings I had yesterday seem to be fading at an exponential rate. My arm bleeds. I’ve ravaged my wounds again, spread them all open in pain and grief. I’ve branded. I hate myself for it, but I hated myself before I did it too, so what does it matter?

My dad. I saw his picture today. I was going through some old boxes and there was this picture of my Mom and dad and their dog Charlie in a portrait. It surprised me, and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about him again. I was doing so well, not thinking of him, and now I’m stuck there again. I’ve been down this road. I thought I was past it, moved on and ready for the next challenge, but I find that my mind plays me like a house full of mirrors, until I don’t know which thoughts are real and which are only what could be.

I miss him. I worry about him. I still love him. And I deeply, deeply, deeply hate myself for that. I hate him for what he’s done to me, for what I have to go through now, and for what? I keep having this memory replay in my mind. I’m young and in trouble. My dad is sitting on a chair waiting for me. He tells me to come to him. To pull down my pants. To lie across his lap. Then he’s spanking me. Hitting me so hard that I cry out in pain. Eventually, I learn to stop crying. I bite my lip. But the fear is still deeply implanted…The whole ceremony of it. Sick. So why did I type in his name on facebook today just to see if he was still there? Why do I fucking care after what he did to me. It’s been long enough already, please, just let me go. Whatever it is that you have over me, please, just let that fade away to nothing.

I’m here again. Cold and alone with my thoughts and his ghost. Haunted. Hunted. I can never escape. I can’t do this. I’m not strong enough. I’m not brave enough. I’m not smart enough. How can anyone be expected to deal with this overload of emotional and psychological and physical damage at once and remain sane? I don’t believe in myself anymore. I feel like a failure. I haven’t been able to pull myself together after all this time. My family needs me, and I can’t help them. Never ending time unwinds and I remain a shell. A shell who looks like a person I used to be. It fools my loved ones, but when they are gone, in the long, dark loneliness of night, I feel it. All the pain the shell has bottled up inside. And it is killing me slowly, softly, subtly under the surface.

Showered in Success

As you may already know, I have a phobia of the shower. This was one of the places that my dad abused me when I was little and for a long time now, whenever I get near the shower, or think about having one, I panic. Even baths can be traumatic, see here.

Yesterday evening, hubby asked earlier on if I was interested in attempting a shower. He said we’d do it my way and he only wanted to help me in any way he could. I asked him to stay in the bathroom with me, but to stay fully clothed and be prepared to help me if I needed it. Before I got in the shower, I said over and over inside my head “This is MY bathroom. This is MY shower. You CANNOT hurt me here.” All in all, it wasn’t that bad – as long as my eyes were open. As soon as I closed my eyes to rinse my hair, my imagination came into play and I was sure he would be right there, naked and waiting for me when I opened me eyes. I was almost sick. I began to panic. I opened my eyes, despite my face full of soap. Of course he wasn’t there, but my eyes burned like hell for a while. I asked hubby to promise he would protect me, while I had to keep my eyes closed. Just a silly formality, but it comforted me. Of course he said he would. I felt a bit more comfortable after that. So really, my shower was a success! I have some more to work on, but at least I can have one. I’m sick of baths.

Tonight, or early this morning I should say, after weeks of sweeping my hair from my eyes, I’d finally had enough. I went into the bathroom and cut my hair in front of the mirror. I’ve only done this once before, and it turned out much better and much easier this time. Then I remembered I had some colour pulse semi-permanent hair dye, plum colour. It only took 30 minutes to set, so I did that too. In the process, I had to shower off, which I did all by myself, thank you very much, although it was quite creepy seeing all the purple water everywhere. I’m glad I didn’t get red. ;0) I’m now sporting a funky purple fauxhawk.

So now the sun has risen, not even my dog will get up yet, and I am all alone and wide awake. Not even the birds are singing for it’s raining. Maybe I’ll just stay up and take a nap this afternoon. My parents are coming this evening to help watch Munchkin while hubby goes to pool, so that should be fun. We have lots of catching up to do, even though we’ve been seeing so much of each other recently.

To my family in the Woods…I love you and will see you soon. Send me an e-mail when you get the chance. Maybe we can just chat back and forth about this and that like the good old days…

Remnants from the Dustbin

Usually, when I sit down to write a post, I have some idea in my mind of the direction my writing will be taking. Most of my posts are neat, complete little packages, which can be read by themselves, or grouped together with the rest of the posts to tell, what is ultimately, my story. This time however, I feel compelled to warn you as a reader that I have no idea at all about what I should or might want to write about. This post may wander all over the map as far as subjects go, but I’ll try to keep it as concise and flowing as possible, for your sake(s), if not my own.

I’ll start with the highlight of my day, when I got to see a raccoon family of four bed down in a tree right near our balcony. I went outside to watch them, and none of them seemed to mind my being there. Seeing raccoons again reminded me of my Grandparents, who used to feed a few strays some dog kibble until one day they found themselves with no more lawn, and around 30 hungry raccoons clambering to be fed. These days, it’s a different animal, same story for them, they now are the proud supporters of a large herd of deer and some wild turkeys to boot, also fed on their front lawn…their back lawn…their driveway…who really owns that place, that’s the real question

On to new topics…I’ve been blogging for about a year now, and have had several blogs, some describing my own life, and some the antics of my son. I never seemed however, to have the staying power to keep on writing. While I turned out some fantastic writing, most of it was forced and over-edited, without that natural flow of words that comes with the freedom of thought as we put our fingers to keys. In the end, all of these attempted blogs fizzled out. I took some time off from writing. I wasn’t ready to deal with the world, let alone write each day, feeling as though it was chore of some sort. Since I’ve started therapy, I’ve been encouraged to write and express myself, which I found impossible to do for a long, long time. And then one day, bam! The words just started to flow out of me. I guess I was finally ready to share. The things I love most about this blog are a) It’s anonymous, b) I can write about any subject I choose, without having the feeling that I have to pander to my audience (mostly family) and c) It has proven to be very therapeutic and has helped me to discover and come to more understandings about my situation, than I ever thought possible. Cheers to WordPress for hosting and powering this blog.

P.s Happy 4:20 ;0)

Family Therapy

Today my Parents came to my therapy session with me. They suggested this to me a few weeks ago, in the hopes that it would help my therapist understand me better, and possibly help them find more ways to help me. Aren’t they great?

The session was a success. I believe my therapist was able to gain some good information about me as a child, that I had not been able to provide. It’s very difficult to provide someone with insight into a time you hardly remember and when the snippets you do remember come with childish thoughts of the young.

Afterwards, we walked a few blocks to a favourite coffee place. I was nervous being out in the streets, which were busy, but the sun was shining, and I had my Parents at my side so I was OK. We sat and had great conversation while we sipped our various beverages, before they dropped me off at home and we parted ways.

Tonight, I’m feeling pretty bad. After therapy, I usually do. Not bad because therapy was bad, but because I have to explore those dark places and bad things that happened to me, and it always leaves me feeling weak, exhausted and overwhelmed.

All I can do is just keep putting one foot in front of the other. One day I will look up and see that the sun is shining, my family is at my side, and I no longer hide in the shadows with the Black Dogs at my heels.

Encouraging Words (Quote)

Thanks to my Mom for pointing out this great quote to me:

“Although the world is full of suffering, it is full also of the overcoming of it. “

~Helen Keller

Help In Dark Times

“When you come to the end of all that you know, you must believe in one of two things: that there will be earth upon which to stand, or that you will be given wings to fly.”

~Unknown

Comfortably Numb

After last week’s traumatic events, my anxiety medications were both upped in dosage to get me through this weekend and the coming week.  While I’m extremely relieved that they’ve taken away the worst of my anxiety, and for the most part, my urges to self harm, I feel…dopey.  All the time.  I feel as though I’m stumbling through the day half awake.  Half the time, I can’t remember if I’ve taken my pills.  I have yet to decide whether this is a good or a bad thing, but for now, I’m just thankful for the lack of nightmares.  A few hours of peace each night go a long way to making me stronger.  In the meantime, I might as well sit back on my over medicated ass and enjoy the vapor trails and pretty colours.

P.s While I was comfortably numb today, I deleted my dad.  No more phone numbers, no longer in my contacts, every single e-mail between us gone.  No more reminders.  And you know what?  I felt good for the rest of the day.  However, we’ll wait and see what tomorrow brings.  I’m guessing a wave of guilt that will nearly drown me.  I know I’ve made the right decision though.