Average...
I can't deal with being average. In anything.
I couldn't sleep last night.
I started trying to figure out why I'm such a perfectionist - which is something I've tried before, and made some progress at, but recent therapy sessions have pointed out some factors I hadn't considered before.
I started filling pages and pages of my tiny writing, scrawling out the things that made me what I am.
It's a time line, it started early on in my life, but it's so interconnected that it's no longer linear; the reasons overlap. The reasons reinforce each other. There is no changing it. I will always be this way.
It's so much a part of me, you might as well ask me to amputate a limb, as ask me to stop trying for perfection.
I cannot do it. I will not do it.
It is who I am.
And waiting for that letter is driving me mad...
Friday, March 26, 2010
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
neutral
Right now
I am perfectly,
wonderfully
balanced.
The self-destructive part of me, ever present,
is a perfect match
for the drunk part of me, which I'm afraid of indulging too often.
I am neutral.
And so
I will gently fall asleep,
instead of self-destructing
instead of over-drinking.
And I will forget
everything
for a few blissful hours.
I am perfectly,
wonderfully
balanced.
The self-destructive part of me, ever present,
is a perfect match
for the drunk part of me, which I'm afraid of indulging too often.
I am neutral.
And so
I will gently fall asleep,
instead of self-destructing
instead of over-drinking.
And I will forget
everything
for a few blissful hours.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
waiting on the verge of panic
I've been away for awhile, up and down, up and down.
I'm waiting for a letter in the mail, one that may or may not come. I've been waiting for 23 days and it's wearing me down.
It's a letter, but it's more. Reassurance that I can still do something right, reassurance that other people believe in my abilities even if I don't.
And still more. The freedom to leave home whenever I feel like I can't live there anymore. The freedom to start a new life away from the past, a life where I can work on fixing myself without the constant daily reminders of why I'm broken to begin with.
But the letter hasn't come yet, may not come ever, and the longer it takes, the easier it is to believe that I have failed.
I'm waiting for a letter in the mail, one that may or may not come. I've been waiting for 23 days and it's wearing me down.
It's a letter, but it's more. Reassurance that I can still do something right, reassurance that other people believe in my abilities even if I don't.
And still more. The freedom to leave home whenever I feel like I can't live there anymore. The freedom to start a new life away from the past, a life where I can work on fixing myself without the constant daily reminders of why I'm broken to begin with.
But the letter hasn't come yet, may not come ever, and the longer it takes, the easier it is to believe that I have failed.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
love and trauma
So last post...I started talking about my first really serious relationship. It wasn't my first relationship. I'll probably write about them all eventually...but here's a quick summary:
I had a "boyfriend" / playmate when I was in grade 2, and although that hardly counts as a "relationship", we did call each other boyfriend and girlfriend, we did kiss (on the cheek), we spent Valentine's day together and we gave each other small gifts. I am actually very grateful that I had this relationship before I was molested. It gave me a reference point to compare with my later relationships. At age 7, I was comfortable holding hands and kissing on the cheek; at age 13, I was not. Obviously something had changed.
I had a boyfriend when I was 13, that lasted about 2 months. We met on vacation in the summer and lived in different cities; after the summer, we drifted apart. I didn't mind drifting apart; I hadn't really been comfortable with him and was just starting to realize that I had some issues to work through around relationships.
I met a boy with beautiful eyes over a staring contest when I was 15. We dated for about 6 months, but he was too intense and wanted to kiss me too soon and basically scared me away.
I dated a friend of a friend for about 5 months when I was 16. I felt more comfortable with him. I was able to tell him about being molested when I was younger, and he understood that he needed to be careful and go slow with me. Although I did feel like running at the beginning of that relationship, I was able to kiss him eventually, and able to actually enjoy it. I was just starting to wonder whether I wanted to take the big step of saying "I love you" when he stopped returning my phone calls. Apparently he had found a new girl and didn't feel it was necessary to inform me. It hurt at the time, but I don't regret the relationship and now we're friends.
Up to this point, I had a childhood sweetheart and three relationships where I struggled with my feeling of wanting to run away.
And then I started my first serious relationship about a month before I turned 18. I think this was the first time I was really "ready" for a relationship.
There was a lot of good and a lot of bad in that relationship. It healed some parts of me and wounded others. I left him 5 years ago, almost to the day. I don't know why the memories feel so fresh this year. I think it might be because I'm starting to realize how much of my past I've dissociated and fragmented, and I'm trying to resolve the painful memories instead of just burying them, and I never actually resolved the bad parts of that relationship. In fact, the point where I went numb and couldn't feel anything anymore in the relationship was probably when PTSD set in. And so I never dealt with those memories.
My team does know about it, but not the whole story, not yet. There's just so much of it to tell, and there are other things I'm trying to work through at the same time. I'm talking to my main doctor (Dr. Z) on Friday, and looking forward to sorting some of this out. I'm pretty sure I'll cry...but that's not necessarily a bad thing. I always feel better after I cry in therapy.
Interesting tidbit from last week's therapy session: I told Dr. Z about my new doctor (Dr. F), and how she told me that I have symptoms of PTSD and that had taken me by surprise. Dr. Z asked what surprised me about it, and I told her I hadn't really considered my life as being traumatic. She asked how I would define a traumatic event. I didn't have a hard answer for that, but when I thought of 'trauma', I thought of something more violent and sudden, like a car crash where someone dies or surviving a tornado or something. So she pulled out her copy of "Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders" and read the definition they use for a "traumatic event":
a traumatic event is a situation where both of the following occurred:
I hadn't thought about my life in those terms before, but everything she said made sense, and I'm starting to recognize some of the things I do now that are rooted in those past experiences. Friday's session should be...interesting...
I had a "boyfriend" / playmate when I was in grade 2, and although that hardly counts as a "relationship", we did call each other boyfriend and girlfriend, we did kiss (on the cheek), we spent Valentine's day together and we gave each other small gifts. I am actually very grateful that I had this relationship before I was molested. It gave me a reference point to compare with my later relationships. At age 7, I was comfortable holding hands and kissing on the cheek; at age 13, I was not. Obviously something had changed.
I had a boyfriend when I was 13, that lasted about 2 months. We met on vacation in the summer and lived in different cities; after the summer, we drifted apart. I didn't mind drifting apart; I hadn't really been comfortable with him and was just starting to realize that I had some issues to work through around relationships.
I met a boy with beautiful eyes over a staring contest when I was 15. We dated for about 6 months, but he was too intense and wanted to kiss me too soon and basically scared me away.
I dated a friend of a friend for about 5 months when I was 16. I felt more comfortable with him. I was able to tell him about being molested when I was younger, and he understood that he needed to be careful and go slow with me. Although I did feel like running at the beginning of that relationship, I was able to kiss him eventually, and able to actually enjoy it. I was just starting to wonder whether I wanted to take the big step of saying "I love you" when he stopped returning my phone calls. Apparently he had found a new girl and didn't feel it was necessary to inform me. It hurt at the time, but I don't regret the relationship and now we're friends.
Up to this point, I had a childhood sweetheart and three relationships where I struggled with my feeling of wanting to run away.
And then I started my first serious relationship about a month before I turned 18. I think this was the first time I was really "ready" for a relationship.
There was a lot of good and a lot of bad in that relationship. It healed some parts of me and wounded others. I left him 5 years ago, almost to the day. I don't know why the memories feel so fresh this year. I think it might be because I'm starting to realize how much of my past I've dissociated and fragmented, and I'm trying to resolve the painful memories instead of just burying them, and I never actually resolved the bad parts of that relationship. In fact, the point where I went numb and couldn't feel anything anymore in the relationship was probably when PTSD set in. And so I never dealt with those memories.
My team does know about it, but not the whole story, not yet. There's just so much of it to tell, and there are other things I'm trying to work through at the same time. I'm talking to my main doctor (Dr. Z) on Friday, and looking forward to sorting some of this out. I'm pretty sure I'll cry...but that's not necessarily a bad thing. I always feel better after I cry in therapy.
Interesting tidbit from last week's therapy session: I told Dr. Z about my new doctor (Dr. F), and how she told me that I have symptoms of PTSD and that had taken me by surprise. Dr. Z asked what surprised me about it, and I told her I hadn't really considered my life as being traumatic. She asked how I would define a traumatic event. I didn't have a hard answer for that, but when I thought of 'trauma', I thought of something more violent and sudden, like a car crash where someone dies or surviving a tornado or something. So she pulled out her copy of "Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders" and read the definition they use for a "traumatic event":
a traumatic event is a situation where both of the following occurred:
- The person experienced, witnessed, or was confronted with an event where there was the threat of or actual death or serious injury. The event may also have involved a threat to the person's physical well-being or the physical well-being of another person.
- The person responded to the event with strong feelings of fear, helplessness or horror.
I hadn't thought about my life in those terms before, but everything she said made sense, and I'm starting to recognize some of the things I do now that are rooted in those past experiences. Friday's session should be...interesting...
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
the trick is to keep breathing
March 17, 2004. I was celebrating St. Patrick's Day with friends. My boyfriend at the time was in another city, where he went to university, celebrating with his friends.
He started drinking very early that day. He got so drunk that he woke up in the campus observation room; his friends had brought him there, worried about his health. He left the observation room semi-sober and continued drinking. As he drank, he got angry at himself. He cut. He'd never done that before.
March 18, 2004. He called me. Apologized for not calling the night before. Told me what happened. Told me he didn't know what led him to that. Told me it had scared him.
His words chilled me. I had hurt myself only once before that, two years earlier, out of sheer hopelessness and desperation. I knew the mental anguish it took to get to that point. I wanted to fix everything for him. I didn't know how.
St. Patrick's Day has been a little rough on me ever since then. It always reminds me of that conversation with him; of the sharp contrast between what we had together before that day, and what we slowly lost in the year afterward.
I met him about six months after recovering from major depressive disorder. I had learned to be happy again. I trusted that there was good in the world again. He was the first boy I ever felt entirely safe with. I loved him, intensely. I felt everything intensely. We talked about getting married, decided we would wait until we graduated university. The future with him seemed so certain.
Then that conversation, and things changed. He drank more, even knowing what it did to his mood, even knowing that he would likely wake up the next morning with new scars. He became suicidal. He would disappear for days without telling me, without telling his housemates, leaving me wondering where he was and if he was okay. I worried constantly. I hated the miles that kept us apart.
He was diagnosed with bipolar disorder, but refused to take his medication - he liked his manic phases and wanted to keep them. He wasn't honest with his doctors, eventually stopped seeing them. Which left me as the only one who knew it all, the only one he leaned on for support. It was more than I could handle; I started breaking down.
Months passed. I was always on edge. I had nightmares. My hair started falling out from the stress. I went days without eating.
More months passed. I stopped feeling. I was numb. I couldn't cry, I couldn't laugh, I couldn't even feel love for him anymore. But I was afraid of leaving him, in case that drove him to kill himself.
A full year passed. I realized I had to leave. For once, I had to put my own needs first. This was no longer the relationship it once was; it would never be that relationship again. It was tearing me apart, and I had to leave before I had been broken into pieces too small to be saved.
And so I left. He didn't kill himself. And I'm in a better relationship now. It was all for the best.
But I still have nightmares. I still don't take care of myself. I still don't eat properly. I still don't fully trust the future. I still assume anything good is only temporary.
I can feel again, but everything feels muted, like my emotions are being played in black and white instead of full colour. Sometimes I want to feel everything again; most of the time the thought of it scares me.
He started drinking very early that day. He got so drunk that he woke up in the campus observation room; his friends had brought him there, worried about his health. He left the observation room semi-sober and continued drinking. As he drank, he got angry at himself. He cut. He'd never done that before.
March 18, 2004. He called me. Apologized for not calling the night before. Told me what happened. Told me he didn't know what led him to that. Told me it had scared him.
His words chilled me. I had hurt myself only once before that, two years earlier, out of sheer hopelessness and desperation. I knew the mental anguish it took to get to that point. I wanted to fix everything for him. I didn't know how.
St. Patrick's Day has been a little rough on me ever since then. It always reminds me of that conversation with him; of the sharp contrast between what we had together before that day, and what we slowly lost in the year afterward.
I met him about six months after recovering from major depressive disorder. I had learned to be happy again. I trusted that there was good in the world again. He was the first boy I ever felt entirely safe with. I loved him, intensely. I felt everything intensely. We talked about getting married, decided we would wait until we graduated university. The future with him seemed so certain.
Then that conversation, and things changed. He drank more, even knowing what it did to his mood, even knowing that he would likely wake up the next morning with new scars. He became suicidal. He would disappear for days without telling me, without telling his housemates, leaving me wondering where he was and if he was okay. I worried constantly. I hated the miles that kept us apart.
He was diagnosed with bipolar disorder, but refused to take his medication - he liked his manic phases and wanted to keep them. He wasn't honest with his doctors, eventually stopped seeing them. Which left me as the only one who knew it all, the only one he leaned on for support. It was more than I could handle; I started breaking down.
Months passed. I was always on edge. I had nightmares. My hair started falling out from the stress. I went days without eating.
More months passed. I stopped feeling. I was numb. I couldn't cry, I couldn't laugh, I couldn't even feel love for him anymore. But I was afraid of leaving him, in case that drove him to kill himself.
A full year passed. I realized I had to leave. For once, I had to put my own needs first. This was no longer the relationship it once was; it would never be that relationship again. It was tearing me apart, and I had to leave before I had been broken into pieces too small to be saved.
And so I left. He didn't kill himself. And I'm in a better relationship now. It was all for the best.
But I still have nightmares. I still don't take care of myself. I still don't eat properly. I still don't fully trust the future. I still assume anything good is only temporary.
I can feel again, but everything feels muted, like my emotions are being played in black and white instead of full colour. Sometimes I want to feel everything again; most of the time the thought of it scares me.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
yoga 1, panic 0
Thursday was an upsetting day.
I can't really go into details with what upset me, but it made me feel insecure about my financial security for the next couple of years, and it also made me feel like a failure. I started to panic. I started to feel like I wasn't good enough, that I'd screwed everything up. And my mind circled in on itself like vultures circling their dying prey. I felt awful.
I wanted to go home and hurt myself. But I didn't.
Instead, I went to yoga.
I had made plans, before the upsetting thing happened, to go to two yoga classes on Thursday with some friends. Once I was upset, I really didn't feel like going, but I didn't want to cancel with my friends, so I went to yoga anyway.
After the first class, I felt a little better, but still jittery. After the second class, I felt calm. I didn't want to hurt myself anymore. I felt good, actually, good. And very, very glad that I'd stuck with my plan to go to yoga.
I'm new to yoga - those two classes are the third and fourth time I've gone, ever. But I think this is the start of a good thing. I know that when I'm stressed out and in a panic, I deal with it badly and usually self-destructively. And I know I want to change that. I usually don't care, at the time, about how I deal with feeling bad, but afterward I usually regret what I've done. Not so much for my own sake, but because it makes people I care about sad and worried. Which makes me panic again; it's a bad cycle.
But yoga isn't self-destructive; far from it. It's definitely a healthier way of dealing with bad feelings, panic and stress. It might be the key to breaking that bad cycle.
I saw one of my doctors yesterday morning, and told her about what happened to upset me so much on Thursday. She said it was a confusing situation and it seemed like someone else had made a bad decision that wasn't fair to me. At the same time, she said she could understand how easy it was for me to misinterpret it as being my fault, and that it was important for me to keep a logical perspective on it. My first instinct is to feel like a failure; if I take a logical approach, I can see that I'm not.
Then she said, "you seem pretty calm about it today." So I told her how I went to yoga and essentially chose that over hurting myself. She said that was a really good step on my part. Then we talked about yoga and what style of yoga might help me best.
I found a yoga studio not far from school. They have a lot of classes, and they offer the option of either paying for classes in packages or buying an 'unlimited' pass. I think, once this school term is over in May, I'll sign up for an unlimited pass. That way, if I start to panic or start wanting to hurt myself, I can go and drop in on the next available yoga class. I think that flexibility will really help.
I can't really go into details with what upset me, but it made me feel insecure about my financial security for the next couple of years, and it also made me feel like a failure. I started to panic. I started to feel like I wasn't good enough, that I'd screwed everything up. And my mind circled in on itself like vultures circling their dying prey. I felt awful.
I wanted to go home and hurt myself. But I didn't.
Instead, I went to yoga.
I had made plans, before the upsetting thing happened, to go to two yoga classes on Thursday with some friends. Once I was upset, I really didn't feel like going, but I didn't want to cancel with my friends, so I went to yoga anyway.
After the first class, I felt a little better, but still jittery. After the second class, I felt calm. I didn't want to hurt myself anymore. I felt good, actually, good. And very, very glad that I'd stuck with my plan to go to yoga.
I'm new to yoga - those two classes are the third and fourth time I've gone, ever. But I think this is the start of a good thing. I know that when I'm stressed out and in a panic, I deal with it badly and usually self-destructively. And I know I want to change that. I usually don't care, at the time, about how I deal with feeling bad, but afterward I usually regret what I've done. Not so much for my own sake, but because it makes people I care about sad and worried. Which makes me panic again; it's a bad cycle.
But yoga isn't self-destructive; far from it. It's definitely a healthier way of dealing with bad feelings, panic and stress. It might be the key to breaking that bad cycle.
I saw one of my doctors yesterday morning, and told her about what happened to upset me so much on Thursday. She said it was a confusing situation and it seemed like someone else had made a bad decision that wasn't fair to me. At the same time, she said she could understand how easy it was for me to misinterpret it as being my fault, and that it was important for me to keep a logical perspective on it. My first instinct is to feel like a failure; if I take a logical approach, I can see that I'm not.
Then she said, "you seem pretty calm about it today." So I told her how I went to yoga and essentially chose that over hurting myself. She said that was a really good step on my part. Then we talked about yoga and what style of yoga might help me best.
I found a yoga studio not far from school. They have a lot of classes, and they offer the option of either paying for classes in packages or buying an 'unlimited' pass. I think, once this school term is over in May, I'll sign up for an unlimited pass. That way, if I start to panic or start wanting to hurt myself, I can go and drop in on the next available yoga class. I think that flexibility will really help.
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