The Holiday

After I crashed huge last week, Hubby was having a harder and harder time managing to keep his emotions in check. It came to a boiling point on Monday evening, so we decided that we both needed a small break. Hub went to stay with some family for a few days while my Mom came to help me and help with Munchkin.

Yesterday was one of the best days I’ve had in a long time. The entire atmosphere of the place has changed, everyone’s much more relaxed. Although today I’m having a bad day, I’m managing not too badly, and most important of all, I haven’t self harmed in two days now.

Oh how I wish I could be happy about this. I wish I could be happy about all of this, but I’m not. As my Therapist says, it’s like I’m getting screwed twice. My meds allow me to function, and I’ve been exhausting every bit of my personal strength to try to accomplish every day tasks, but because of the depression and the numbness from the pills, I feel no joy in my accomplishments.

People keep telling me that it is enough that I am going through the motions and even if I don’t feel good about it yet, it will ultimately help me in the long run, but on bad days like today, I just wish I could tell people to screw off. If you’ve ever forced yourself, in a really bad state to do something that you used to be able to do without thinking, on auto-pilot, and you’ve returned from it shaking, sweating through your shirt, and with no feeling of triumph, then you’d never say “It’s going to be better in the long run”. I don’t care about the long run. I’m trapped in my head, in this hell, in the now. There is no more light at the end of the tunnel. I am alone in the dark. Depression has narrowed my view of the world to the size of a peephole. No more big picture. Just immediate and never ending pain.

I only hope I have the strength to get through this. I don’t know how long this will last, but it’s wearing me down. I doubt myself all the time. I know it’s the disease, I know it’s the depression, but that doesn’t MEAN anything to me. It’s still what it is. I still have to deal with it. I don’t care what causes it, no one should have to live through this hell; To live in a world that they once found beautiful and can now only see as tainted.

When I laugh, I feel fake. It’s not the wild abandoned laughter that is naturally my own. It’s a hollow laugh, a forced smile. But I’m well practiced at this, and sometimes to protect the ones we love, we have to show them the best of ourselves. Even if it is an act. If anyone who cared about me knew half of the thoughts in my head, half of the pain, the side effects of all the pills I take, the self harming…they would be horrified. Just as I am all the time. I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy. And so I keep quiet, I try to smile and laugh, I make myself go through the motions. All this means to me is that I haven’t given up yet.

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.

Natural High

As I type this, I’m huffing and puffing, red cheeked and out of breath, my heart is racing, my body is aching from head to toe, I’m drenched in sweat, shuddering with fright, the Seroquil has my body almost asleep as my anxiety fights it, and my mind is in this semi-lucid euphoric state that’s penetrated with fear. Panic is starting to take over…BUT

I just walked my dog. Fuckin’ eh.

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.

My Odyssey

Over the past several nights I’ve found myself unable to sleep and so trying to entertain myself in any way possible until I can finally pass out on the couch. I’ve taken up reading Homer’s Odyssey, and find that although I’ve read it thrice before, it is taking on much more meaning to me this time. Perhaps because I am going through my own sort of Odyssey as well. A journey full of twists and turns, my fate decided sometimes by myself, and sometimes by the Gods, where only bravery and quick wits will win in the end.

A lot of times lately, I haven’t felt up to the task. I feel lost, as though I’ll never find myself again. My family again. We aren’t what we used to be. This whole thing – this whole depression thing and everything that comes with it is screwing up my life for a second time, and all I can do is sit here and watch it fall apart around me. I’ve tried so hard to fix things, but now it’s unraveling too fast for me to keep up with and I’m so scared that I’ll lose it all.

There is no more comfort. Only pain and less pain. I weep all the time now. I weep because I am weak and afraid, and as far as I can be from the person everyone seems to think I am. I don’t know that person any more. I’ve lost her. I won’t ever get that person back. She’s changed forever. I need to accept this new woman who has suffered so much and do my best to move on with my life as fast as I can.

In the meantime, will my life hang in for me?

Leaving A Life Behind

I am 18 years old again. I live on the farm. By now I have begun to rebel, and am no longer helping with the farm work. I hardly spend any time with my horse anymore. Instead, I focus on rugby, my friends at school, and any time I can get away from the farm…

***

I’m away for the weekend, coincidentally in the city I now live in, visiting my parents. We’re having dinner in some restaurant downtown and I proclaim that I’m moving in with them in two weeks to which they agree. We are all determined, but disconcerted…

***

I’m afraid. There is a constant thrill of fear in my chest. I have only a week and a half before I’m leaving the farm and I haven’t told my dad. I have to tell him, to wait any longer would be unfair. I work up the courage to. I don’t even remember what he said to me. I don’t think he believed me…

***

One week to go. My best friend won’t talk to me anymore. She’s been moved around to different schools all her life and has lost so many friends. We were going to be different, best friends forever, and now I was leaving her to live 4 hours away. It broke my heart….

***

I tell my coaches that I won’t be playing rugby or hockey anymore because I’m moving. They’re all sad to see me go, but understanding because most of them know at least a part of the atrocity that is my home situation. I’m in love with my teams. They have been my source of self esteem, of growth as a person, of pride, of friendship…for years now. I KNOW these people so well…I’ve worked so hard…I’m finally captain of the rugby team, I’ve worked so hard to earn it. All to be lost soon because I can’t live another minute on that farm….

***

I tell Her. Antichrist. She makes some nasty comment that bounces off of me because I don’t care anymore. I’m leaving, and I don’t have to be afraid anymore. Or do I? Is it possible that she may do something to me in the week before I leave? Now I’m living in even more fear than usual. My dad hasn’t even talked about it since I told him…

***

It’s the night before I leave…I’m in bed early, just waiting for the morning. I hear a knock at the door and A enters. She comes and sits on the edge of my bed as I move away from her, repulsed and scared of her. Her speech is long and eloquent. Her main point is to tell me that she believes I have depression. She is disgusted with the way I’m leaving, but that’s right. I’m leaving in the morning. She’s closing the door behind her, and I’m hugging Stitch, terrified in the dark, awake until dawn…

***

I’m mucking out stalls on the morning I leave. My stepsister comes down to the barn to say goodbye. “How could you do this to you dad. You’re killing him by doing this. Goodbye.” she says coldly and leaves. I eventually turn and continue mucking, tears falling silently to the shavings…

***

I’m in my room and I find a note on my desk from my dad. It says he can’t bear to be there when I leave and that he’s gone to work. What a selfish coward…

***

My Mom is pulling up in the van at last. We’re loading things into it. A watches as I walk by with a fan from my bedroom. “I don’t fucking think so, that fan doesn’t belong to you” she says. I put it down and pack the rest of my things. I ask Mom if I can drive. I want it to be ME who leaves this place. I’m pulling down the driveway and everything is surreal…

***

I’ve been driving for about 15 minutes now. We’re in the next town and I’m pulling over because I’m crying. And then my Mom is holding me and I’m crying my heart out. I’m crying with joy for saving myself, and I’m crying with grief for giving up the people and the things that I love. I’m crying for my dog and my horse who I’m leaving behind. But I have just accomplished the bravest thing I’ve ever done in my life…

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…

Whatever it takes…

Today was another bad one. I did however, whenever I felt the need to self harm, force myself to go to bed, cuddle under the covers and cry and tell my teddy bear all about everything. Stitch has been my faithful companion since birth. Now tattered and more delicate, he still lives on my bed. I was thinking today…imagine if he could somehow come to life. The things he would be able to tell us. That bear has seen a lot of things, many of them bad. He has always been my source of comfort, and while I know that Stitch is just a teddy bear, just an inanimate object, that bear is an entity to me. Maybe not a person, but I have poured so much of my soul into him over the years, there must be something special about him.

The bad news however, is that I ran out of Seroquil (I take 2 pills every night before bed), and the pharmacy couldn’t advance me any because there was a mistake on the computer saying the prescription was canceled. No way. I’ve been on this stuff for months, they don’t cut you off, they wean you off, but this is an addictive drug, and so the pharmacist just couldn’t give me any, despite my history. I just need to survive tonight without it, and I can get it fixed tomorrow. If the anxiety gets really bad, I may take an extra dose of Clonazepam, but only if I absolutely need it. I’m also planning to take two Gravol, which should knock me out in a manner similar to the Seroquil.

Last night was the best so far out of the past few days, so maybe I’m coming out of this. I hit bottom, and I have a long way to climb up. I’m so tired. Tired of being afraid all the time. Tired of the sucking feeling in my chest. Tired of the pain in my heart. Tired of the chaos inside my mind. I can’t keep things straight anymore at all. Last night, after taking my pills, I watched the latest Harry Potter film, The Order Of The Phoenix (yeah, I know, it fits, right?). I found it distracted me well and I was able to escape to their world for a few hours, at the end of which I could hardly keep my eyes open…which meant no self harm last night.

I saw a prevue for a movie we have available to rent off the TV. It’s The Seeker: The Dark Is Rising, a flashy looking, adventuresome, Indie film, which IMDB gives a whopping 4.6. But for me, it may be just what I need to distract myself from my pain until I can sleep.

From this post, you may deduce that I’m a different person that the one who wrote the last two, or that perhaps I have more than one personality, but the truth of it is, I was inspired today. Not just a little inspired. A lot inspired:

Today my baby boy’s face glowed when he saw me. He clumsily stumbled across his playpen and kissed me. He made the weight lift. He made my heart glow. He made me swell with the kind of love that conquers all.

Now I’m trying so hard not to self harm. So hard. I’ll do whatever it takes to get through this. For myself, and for the amazing people who are a part of this battle with me.

To those people: Fear not. Even when times seem at their darkest, just remember how my spirit always shines, and that I have amazing courage. No matter what knocks me down and out in life, I’ll always get up.

If this is what making progress feels like, then my world is upside down.

* I feel I owe You a Warning: This post contains Self Injury details and Mature subject matter. Please don’t read it, if this would disturb you.

Today has been worse than yesterday. Although I haven’t felt in the least compelled to write all day, I’m forcing myself to DO SOMETHING. Good news: I didn’t SI last night. Not by choice though. With the dosage of Seroquil that I take at night, I have only about an hour before I’m falling asleep sitting, in the middle of typing, or playing a game, or doing a puzzle, or…self harming. Seriously, this drug knocks me right out. I wanted to self harm last night, but by the time I got to it, I could hardly keep my eyes open. As a result, I was a mess today, and M having an equally bad day only added fuel to the flames. I held off until early evening before I exploded. M and I had an argument, stomped away from each other. He went to the kitchen to crash and bang anything he could, I went to the bedroom, closed the door and headed straight for M’s late Father’s knife collection. The Bowie knife that started it all (the first tool I used to SI myself, but have not used since) came back into play. I’ll only say that it’s on my arm, next to all the burns. I don’t want to get into the severity of it. I was afraid to tell M, eventually did, it’s very noticeable. He said, “Oh, that’s not bad at all.” This is the worst thing he could have said to me at the moment. I had just expressed my pain and anguish and grief and confusion and anxiety as well as I could with an almost dull blade. And he made it sound as if it was nothing. I know he never meant anything by it. He was probably trying not to react to it to help me, but it didn’t matter at that point. The next chance I got, I was sobbing once more in the bedroom, pulling out the knife and bloody towel and cutting again and again and again, that stupid dull blade making me push so damn hard. Apparently I was meant to really work for this one. Really mean it. Lots of blood, I let it stream down my arm. I was faint, but that soon passed. Then I was cutting my stomach, but the dull blade only left a few scratches. I wept and wept, then I pulled it together, cleaned up, and went back out as if nothing had happened. M and I made up, I’m still a wreck, and he still gets angry the odd time, but we salvaged our night somewhat, while somehow cooperating to have a very fun play session with Munchkin. I would do anything for him, and I will not let him suffer because of things his father and I are going through. He is the most beautiful, sweet person I’ve ever met, and I will do everything to get better and to be a better Mom for him. God, please just let this constant anguish end. I know that somehow I’m making progress, but I feel as though I have been half trapped inside one of Dante’s circles of hell.