written sometime in November 2005

My mind is full of splintered shards and I can't pull together a thought strong enough to survive the senseless violence. And how long until this starts killing me or has that already begun. And how many times will I promise to change and somehow revert to this again.

It's counterproductive and illogical and even still it's a cycle I can't seem to break out of.

And all the symbols of endings were less than symbolic after all, when none of them hold more than a day. I still can't decide whether or not to tell you, tell anyone, I probably won't, but you might grab this from my hand, I might grab it back and shred it and feed it to the oncoming train. And I wish that symbol had been enough, I wish breaking a string - either of them - had been enough, except I've forgotten what nourishment is and blood makes such a lovely ink and I'm a lost cause.

And so I'll vow another empty promise, if there's no difference and I've nothing left to lose then I may as well: by a week and two days I'll somehow pull a shard together and sleep enough and eat enough and maybe I'll look healthy again. Look or be? I'm doubting the possibility of either. I may as well aim low. There's no landing among the stars here, there's only self-destruction and running from it.

And this is why no one should love me, you're asking for pain, it's better to let me smash and scatter myself until the pieces lie forgotten.

written sometime in 2010

Sometimes I still hate me.

Sometimes I still want to cut.

Sometimes I still feel like I'm fundamentally flawed, too flawed and too damaged to ever be happy, to ever make anyone else happy.

Sometimes I still think the only way to redeem my existence is to destroy it, to burn myself out trying to make something better.

Sometimes I still hate the feel of my own heartbeat, hate the sense of space I occupy, wish I could tear off my skin and disappear.

worth saving

I may have mentioned, awhile back, that I was starting a group therapy program for women recovering from trauma.

Next Tuesday is the last day of that.

And there's a lot going on in my head.

I was skeptical, before I started the group, that I would really get much out of it. At that point, I figured I was doing pretty good. I'd (mostly) stopped throwing up and I'd (mostly) stopped hurting myself. I wasn't crying as easily. I was concentrating fairly well.

Basically, I felt as good as I had in recent, and not-so-recent, memory. So I thought, "I'm better. Surely I don't need something like this."

But I tried it anyway. I'd been on the waiting list for so long, it just seemed like something I should at least try after all that time.

And it was a lot harder than I thought it would be, at times. I have a tendency to just get quiet when I'm feeling upset, and ignoring whatever it is I'm feeling. I tried that the second session. And I got called on it; the facilitators asked what I was thinking, what I was feeling. And my first reaction, in my mind, was something along the lines of "Just leave me alone, you're not helping, I can't start crying, I can't."But I did start crying. And it wasn't so bad, once I did, even though I absolutely hated it at the time.

One of the main things I've learned, the past few weeks, is that it's okay to acknowledge when I don't feel okay. I still have trouble with it sometimes - I'm stubborn; I think if I ignore it, it will go away; and I think I don't deserve to take a break and calm myself down. But I'm working on it. It's hard, but I'm working on it. I'm starting to realize that this stuff just doesn't go away if you ignore it - it festers, it poisons, it eventually comes out, no matter what you do. And maybe more importantly, I've started to feel like I deserve to deal with the stuff that's bothering me.

It was amazing and heartbreaking, to be in a room with those other women, with each of us feeling like we weren't worth saving. But we didn't feel that way about each other; we each thought the others were worth saving. So in the end, you are the only one in the room who thinks you aren't worth saving. Which makes you wonder if maybe they're right and you're wrong, after all.

And I've also realized that, if I'm honest with myself, I'm still not okay.

On Saturday, an old man at a store grabbed my arm, then starting shaking and mumbling something I couldn't quite hear. I froze. When he let go, maybe 10 seconds later, I was angry at myself for having froze - I froze when I was eight, and I've never quite forgiven myself for it. Then I was angry at the man. Then I was angry at me again. Then when I got home, I was scared and shaking and angry and didn't eat anything for the rest of the day.

It's been a few months since I've made myself throw up, but the impulse still comes fairly frequently. And it's not all that unusual for me to just stop eating when I'm upset, which isn't exactly healthy. And food still scares me, in general. There are certain things I just won't touch, and I won't go grocery shopping alone.

And I still have self-destructive tendencies. I try to fight the urges - and the fact that I've thrown out my old razorblades helps - but candles are everywhere at home, and burn marks are too generic looking, too easy to pass of as something else. And even if I'm not home, and I'm upset, my nails are long and sharp.

...obviously I still have issues.

I've been worse than this - much worse - but I'm starting to realize that maybe I can be better than this too.

So although this group ends on Tuesday, I'm going to keep with the trauma therapy. The hospital I'm going to has a really amazing trauma therapy department, with different groups developed for different stages of recovery. There's another group program, that's much more intensive - 4 hours a day, 4 days a week, for 8 weeks. I would have to take time off school for it, which means I'd have to get a medical note and formally interrupt my scholarship for (likely) a full term. There's also a six month waiting list, so the earliest I could do this would be the fall term.

Doing this group would mean fully admitting that I'm not okay. And that scares me a bit. But it also makes me hopeful. For the first time, I feel like I'm starting to really address the root of my problems, instead of ignoring them or just dealing with them at a superficial level. I still have a long way to go, especially if all the groups have six-month waiting lists, but I'm starting to see a path I can follow to get better.

I told my boyfriend about wanting to do this group, and he was amazingly supportive.

I'm especially thankful that I talked to him before I talked to Mom about it. She wasn't so supportive. She's convinced it will set my career back. She said "Won't it seem odd that it took you two months longer to do a PhD? Would anyone want to hire you?" I explained that there's a range of finishing times for PhD's - anywhere from 4 to 7 years - so it wouldn't be evident from my resume. We talked some more. She still seemed against it. And that made me upset; and all the urges that come with me being upset cropped up again, as if trying to reinforce in my mind exactly how badly I need to keep trying to get better.

I've thought more about that conversation with Mom, and I realized that, much as I love her and value her opinion, she doesn't always know best. Her way of dealing with everything in her life - her own traumatic childhood, the dysfunctional family I was raised in, her health problems - has been to downplay it and basically pretend that everything was / is / will be okay. I always admired her for that, actually. But sometimes I can't help but wonder if pretending is really such a good idea. If she hadn't pretended her childhood wasn't really that bad, maybe she would have gotten counseling for it herself, and not grown up to be something of a co-dependent martyr. If she hadn't pretended Dad wasn't such a shitty husband and father, maybe she would have left him years ago, and maybe my brother and I would have fewer childhood emotional scars. If she hadn't ignored all the stress she ever felt, and had maybe dealt with some of it instead, maybe her physical health would have been better.

Speculating on all of that doesn't change anything now, I know.

But I also know I don't want to be like her, with all her buried emotions and pain and problems. So even if she doesn't approve, I'm going to do what I need to do to get better.

things i don't say out loud

Early morning Tuesday. Well, fairly early morning. Walking with a lab mate, from yoga class to get coffee. Peaceful.Then...

The girl walking with me says "I hate the world."

"No you don't," I reply. "You just said you want to get an extra-large coffee. So you don't hate coffee. And the world has coffee, so you don't hate the world."

"No, but I hate the rest of the world."

We pass a car. An SUV actually. Not all that glamorous, and much more than a single student needs for transportation.

"I want this car. It's so nice. Why don't I have a car? It's not fair."

"Well, if you don't have a car, you also don't have car insurance, or car repair bills, and you don't have to pay for gas."

"Yeah that's true. But I want a car."

We pass another car.

"Or this one. It's not fair. I hate everything in the world. I want a car."

At this point, she reminds me of a spoiled two-year-old, whining for a new toy, instead of a 20-something researcher. It's hard for me to keep from rolling my eyes.

"Well, if you want a car, plan for it and you'll get one some day. Probably one prettier than those."

"Yeah I guess."

"I'm not used to being the positive one in our conversations."

And she more or less stopped whining then. Thankfully. She'd already spoiled my after-yoga peacefulness.

I'm not good at realizing when I'm feeling emotions - I usually bury them without even realizing I'm doing it - so it took me awhile, but this actually made me really, really angry. It's not the first time she's gone all melodramatic over something I view as pretty trivial.

Like whining about her lack of a hair tie (for 10 minutes) while I'm on my way to see my Mom in the hospital.

Okay, fine, you don't have a hair tie (at the moment) and you don't own a car (at the moment).

Big fucking deal. You can fix those problems.

It doesn't matter how badly I want it, or what I do, I can't fix Mom. Ever. I have a car, sure, but I use it to drive her to the hospital.

And you don't give me any sympathy whatsoever when I'm upset about things that are harder to fix than your problems. I try talking about how stressful it's been, having a Mom I love to death and who's been seriously ill since I was seven years old. Most of my life. Most of her life. And all you said was "Oh well, life's not fair, you know."

Yes, actually, I do fucking know.

You want a car? I'll give you mine. Just give me your kidneys and lungs so I can give them to Mom.

Seriously, grow up. Even I don't hate the world, and I've got more reason to than you.

when does someone become a "grown up"?

My lab mates and I had an interesting talk at lunch today. One asked another, "What do you want to do when you grow up?" The reply was "When I grow up? I thought I was already grown up."

And there starting the wondering aloud and musing and trying to define what a "grown up" really is. Despite being in their twenties and living on their own, most of the people around me didn't really consider themselves to be grown up. Maybe because we're all still technically "students"? Does that automatically mean we aren't adults?

It was a strange discussion. I was mainly quiet. I had my own points of view, but it was hard to talk about them with people who didn't know much about my past.

Someone offered, "You're a grown up when you willingly and seriously take on responsibility for another person. Like having children, and taking care of them properly."

Which made me wonder - what about taking care of parents? It wasn't something I "willingly" took on, exactly. I do, willingly, look after them. Especially Mom. But it's not something that was ever really a choice for me.People choose to have children (well, usually). I didn't choose for my parents to be disabled.

But maybe mine's a bit of an unusual situation.

Another said, "You're a grown up when you have a responsibility to the world. When you do something important, when you contribute."

I did reply to that one. I pointed out there are lots of people who fancy themselves adults, and who don't contribute anything responsibly to the world. And there are lots of people who do contribute to the world, and who aren't of legal age yet.

Another: "I don't really consider myself an adult. I still feel like I can pretty well do whatever I want."

To me, doing what you want is part of being grown up. No one viewed as a child, or teenager even, gets to do whatever they want.

It's past lunch now, and I'm still thinking about it. I do consider myself an adult now. Usually. I'm not sure when the transition point came.

Maybe when I moved out of my parents' house? Not just because it would mean I would be responsible for my own rent, car insurance, bills, groceries, etc. But because it was a decision I made responsibly, knowing that it was what I needed to do.

But then, I've made other decisions like that. Responsible, well-thought out decisions. Like breaking up with someone I loved, because he was toxic and unwilling to do anything to improve the situation.

Even though I usually consider myself an adult, there are times when I'm so frightened and panicked, I feel like a child again. And then it's even more important to remind myself that I'm an adult. Because an adult has more resources than a child. An adult has had time to grow, to become more capable, to be able to take care of herself. An adult feels safer in the world than a child does.

I've been told I grew up too quickly.

Mainly, I've been told that by people who also say I'm mature or responsible or whatever for my age. But saying I grew up too quickly seems at odds with the way I've felt for most of my life. If an adult has more resources, feels more in control, feels safer, then I was late to feel like an adult.

Maybe I was in some sort of age limbo. I had a short childhood; I didn't have a lot of times when I felt carefree and innocent. But I haven't felt in control or competent most of my life either.

I think the important thing, is that I feel like an adult (more often than not), now. It doesn't matter when or how I got here.

the hazards of icing

I baked a birthday cake for someone last night. Four-layered, double chocolate. It got loads of compliments today. The person I baked it for told the newer people in the lab that my baking was "famous".

There was a time, not all that long ago, when baking would inevitably turn into a form of self-punishment. Only about half of what I started baking would ever make it to the person I was baking for; I would end up eating the rest, whether still as batter and icing or actually in baked form, and then I would end up throwing it up. It was totally impulsive and uncontrollable. Some part of me would clue in to what was happening, and realize it was crazy and pointless, and that part of me would want to stop...but it was like that part was distant, locked up somewhere inside, an observer unable to interfere with what she saw.

But that didn't happen last night. Last night I baked like a normal person. Actually, not quite - a normal person probably would have tasted the batter before it went into the oven, would have tasted the icing before putting it on the cake, possibly would have licked the mixing spoon clean. I didn't; I avoided the spoons and bowls as if they were coated with poison; but that's still much better than what I used to do.

And then I had a slice of cake with everyone else today. No big deal. Just a normal slice of cake.

It still amazes me, how such normal, seemingly small things feel like such accomplishments. But I'm proud of them all the same.