Hiding Out

So I’ve been kind of hiding out for the past month or so.  Which is why I haven’t posted anything.  I started to wonder if writing any of this stuff down was important at all.  So I guess I just kind of lost my momentum.  I began to ask myself a lot of “why” questions.  And once I started doing that it was downhill from there.

Since about February I’ve had a really sharp increase of intrusive thoughts and images.  Then my nana died.  Then my therapist was out of town for 3 weeks.  Then I started a second round of exposure therapy to try and address the uptick in the intrusive stuff. It’s been a slice of hell.

Exposure therapy involves the retelling of trauma on a consistent basis, until the trauma can become part of your story.  It is incredibly painful and for me very shame-evoking.  In the space of a month I’ve gotten through re-telling 2 times.  That means that in the space of 8 sessions (520 minutes) I’ve been able to get through the story only 2 times.  I get hung up on everything.  The words, or lack of words, the feelings, the sensations, the speed at which I’m telling the story, the fact that someone else is in the room – pretty much anything freaks me out and I just want to stop.

In a month I’ve re-told the story 2 times, listened to a recording of it at home 3 times and wrote it down 1 time.  I’m impatient, angry, and frustrated with myself, my progress, and sometimes my therapist.

But I guess it hasn’t all been awful.  In the span of a week 4 separate people in 4 separate conversations have told me I should try stand-up or improv.  Which makes me feel like I might be slowly gaining my mojo back.  Stand-up does appeal to me, but I have pretty bad stage fright – but who knows, maybe someday I’ll be able to use all the funny stories and anecdotes I write down.

I had a decent weekend, well it was a mixed bag really.  The comedy festival happened and I went to see a bunch of shows on Friday and Saturday.  I had a good time and laughed a lot.  Then I woke up on Sunday morning and couldn’t get out of bed.  I was completely paralyzed.  I was so sad, and so very angry.  I didn’t want to go watch people who were being even partially creatively fulfilled.  I hated them that day.  I was jealous and mean spirited and feeling just ugly about the world in general.  So I stayed in bed until it passed.  It was a hard day.

That’s about all for now.

-L

Fuck This Day

I’m exhausted, but I can’t sleep.

I thought I was prepared for these days, but I’m not.

The tug-o-war of my feelings keeps jerking me around.  Side to side, sometimes so hard it feels like my neck is actually snapping back and forth.

She was born January 30th, 1918.  In Casper Wyoming there was a blizzard, and she was being born right during the thick of it.  The doctor that delivered her was drunk and nearly killed her.  If it wasn’t for her grandmother, that had been a midwife in the old country, she would have died.  Then the influenza pandemic of 1918 began.  Killing babies and the elderly in the first wave.  In total that year the pandemic killed anywhere from 3 to 6% of the world’s population at the time.  Roughly 50 to 100 million people.  More than the Black Death.

But she survived.  For 94 years she lived.  She married when she was 20 years old.  They were deeply in love and 5 years later they had their first son, while he was away in the Navy during the war.  She raised him alone, with a little help from family.  I can’t help but think of how terrified she must have been.  Thankfully he returned a few years later, and shortly after that they had their daughter – my mother.

She loved to camp and be in the outdoors.  The family traveled extensively in a motor-home/camper when she wasn’t working as a secretary for her husband’s instrument repair shop.

Her children were raised without incident.  For 20 more years they had a happy life, with the normal ups and downs that one would expect for the time. Her children married and 2 healthy grand children were born.

Then tragedy struck when her husband had an aneurism.  He survived, but remained in tremendous pain.  She would lie awake nights knowing he was out in the living room, hunched in pain and softly moaning.  He didn’t want to keep her up all night.  Her daughter was pregnant for the first time, and she was overjoyed.  But 8 or so months into the pregnancy her husband fell ill again.  He needed his leg amputated.  The doctor botched it.  He got gangrene and slowly began to die.

Her third grandchild was born in December, and her husband got to see her.  3 and a half short painful weeks later, he died.  The love of her life was dead, and she was all alone – in the house he had had built for her.

She carried on, bound and determined to be there for her family.  When her daughter divorced, she took her and her two children in.  She cared for them and walked them to school.  Made them cookies in the evening and pancakes on the weekend.  She let her house serve as the place where custody was exchanged.  Her grandchildren would cry.  Small and confused by the situation.  She would make sure she was always there with a hug, a joke, or a silly story when things got tough.

She built forts with them between tables and chairs, under green and blue and yellow striped blankets.  She showed them slide shows, and told funny stories to go around each picture – tales of relatives they had never known and places they had never been, but she made it a point to make them feel like they had been there.  Right there with her all those years.

She taught them to play poker, when they were very young.  She taught them to lose with grace, and bet big when the occasion would arise.  She scrimped and saved for 10 years and took them to Disneyland.  The most magical place on earth for children.  She bought them overpriced stuffed characters – things she couldn’t afford, but made them smile.

She wanted to make the holidays as special as she could.  She would start baking the last week of October every year, to make sure she had enough time to bake everyone’s favorite cookies and candies for Christmas.  By the time she was in her late 60s she was making 18 kinds of cookies every year.  One or two kinds special for each person.

When she was 83 she suffered a major stroke.  She had already outlived most of her friends and her younger brother.  She went to physical therapy.  When she came home, she practiced her handwriting every day for an hour, to regain the penmanship she had been so proud of (she was told that being a lefty she would have ugly handwriting and she scoffed).  A year later she broke her hip.  Then her son died.

The family shattered into a million pieces that day.  She was heartbroken, though she tried to tap into the stoic Norsky deep inside.  But she learned that life was short.  There were things she hadn’t said to her son, that she wished she had.

Her youngest granddaughter that was taking care of her, heard some of the first pieces of beauty that came out of her mouth.  Things she had tried to show but never said.  She told her granddaughter that she loved her.  She had never said the words out loud to her.  Written it in many birthday cards.  Never aloud.  Never without being prompted.

She slowly started to share hurts she had been carrying for years.  Things her parents had done, that wounded her deep inside.  Slights.  Neglect.  Apathy.  Favoritism.  Every month would bring a new story.  Some filled with pain.  Some filled with joy.

She slowly lost her eyesight.  Then her hearing.  But she would still call people to her hospital bed, in the middle of her living room – in the home she loved so dearly.  She would pull them close, and crack a joke.  She would slowly pass a bread-bag tie to them, with all the seriousness of a spy carrying out a black-op.

She loved her family so much.  Especially her daughter, who lived with her and took care of her – so she didn’t have to die in the arms of strangers.

She was determined to die in her own home, in her sleep, with her family nearby.  It was her greatest wish, after years spent living alone – that she wouldn’t pass on without someone there.  But her instinct to live pushed past her will.  She begged to die.  Praying to God every night to take her, so she could be with her husband and son – whom she missed so much.

Her sister, seven years her junior died.  She was sorrowful.  Confused.  Unsure of what she had left to do in this life.  Why had she outlived everyone she shared her earliest memories with?

She doesn’t have to worry now.  She doesn’t have to be confused anymore.  She doesn’t have to suffer.  It’s over now.

My Nana was born January 30th, 1918.  In Casper Wyoming there was a blizzard, and she was being born right during the thick of it.  The doctor that delivered her was drunk and nearly killed her.

And I will be forever grateful that she didn’t.

There is a part of me that died with you, yesterday morning at 3:30am.  A void that will never be filled.  Every good memory I have, is because of you.  I am grateful that you no longer have to suffer.  So unspeakably, overwhelmingly grateful.  Your anguish kept me up so many nights, praying to a god I hoped was listening.

I love you so desperately.  It was like you were the only one who understood that I needed someone to be stable.  Someone that would let me cry and let me be angry, let me be sad – the way my parents never would.  You saw me, when no one else did.  When I was invisible to everyone who was supposed to care, when I was vulnerable and hiding – you would see me.

I thought I was ready for you to go – but I was wrong.  And it is that part of me that says Fuck This Day.

Fuck This Fucking Day.

The Invisible Hand

For the most part, there is a reason for everything. No matter how much we may not want to accept the cause of our misfortune and shake our fist at the sky – there are reasons.

Many times I find myself doing things that, on the surface, don’t make any sense. I suppose it’s the easier (read: self-destructive and critical) thing to do, to just assume I’m spiraling out of control. To blame my inherent weakness. My many, many, many shortcomings. And yes, sometimes these flaws are to blame.

But time spent in therapy has taught me to look deeper than my self-blame. Self-blame being my go-to reaction. For some they may not be able to accept responsibility and may blame others. Like my 2^nd grade music teacher taught me: “Laura, we are all snowflakes.”

My therapist said something that shifted the entire way that I look at myself during my worst moments. In the times when I’m pummeling myself for one misstep or another, when I’m engaging every single negative thing that waltzes through my head, when I’m scratching holes in my leg, or when I’m so anxious I can’t sit still – a moment of calm eventually comes. One sentence has replaced my mantra of “you’re crazy – you’re losing it”.

“Everything you’re doing makes sense given what you’ve experienced in your life.”

That one sentence can cause my breathing to slow. My mind to clear. I can regain my objectivity. I have had experiences in my life that quietly crept in and changed everything.  They’ve changed the way that I look at things, the way my body moves, the way I breathe.  We’ve all had these kinds of experiences.  I call it The Invisible Hand. I try to take this knowledge, that what I’m doing makes sense, and use it as my secret squirrel decoder ring, to learn my motivations for some of my most destructive behaviors.

Recently I’ve been thinking about how I feel about my body, my physical self. It’s my least favorite topic, but given that the self harm I subject myself to is on the uptick – I thought I should probably look closer no matter how uncomfortable.

The hurtful truth that I’ve discovered is that my abusers have been the only men in my life that ever told me I was beautiful. Those that find me beautiful will ultimately end up hurting me to my core. If I am ugly, I am safe. If no one desires me, I won’t have to endure anything more. This is the Invisible Hand that has guided me all these years.

So I punish this body I have been given, because it’s dangerous. It’s caused me pain. It’s caused me discomfort. I tear holes in my skin. I overeat. I don’t go to the doctor. I can barely force myself to wear a jacket when it’s cold outside.

I’m not sure how this information will change me. My wish is that perhaps in my worst moments compassion will eventually come me. That I can look at myself in the mirror and be understanding, compassionate…and perhaps someday even loving.

The Joys of PTSD

So last Wednesday I was on my way to work.  At the stop while waiting for this train there was this older guy, he got my hackles up.  Fairly nondescript guy… probably in his late 50’s or early 60’s. Or maybe in his 70’s, old people are like children to me – I don’t know how the fuck old they are.  Anyways, alarm bells were faintly signaling in my head, but I tried to push them away.  Like Bob says “I feel good, I feel fine, I feel wonderful.”  I get on the train and he thankfully doesn’t get on right behind me and I breathe a sigh of relief.  It’s standing room only, but there are only a few of us standing.  Plenty of room.

By the next stop this dude is about 25 feet away from me.  I do not make eye contact, instead I stare out the window.  Watching his reflection as I do so.

Next stop he is standing 10 feet from me.  And this is when I smell him.

It wasn’t a bad hygiene smell.  It was a stale old man smell.  Faintly mixed with cologne.  Old Spice.  My heart is racing like a fucking greyhound and I’m having a hard time breathing.

There is bile in the back of my throat.  His smell stings my eyes and they begin to water.  My stomach begins to churn.  Just like it’s doing now as I type this 6 days later.  My throat closes up.  I know I have to get off this train.  I start to cry panicking.  Am I going to be able to get off this train before I throw up?  I want to run from this guy, but my feet are firmly planted, as if nailed, where I’m standing.  I try to hold my breath, but I can’t.  I dig my nails into my palms as hard as I can.  I draw blood, but the pain doesn’t work to jolt me out of where I am.

This is it, I’m going to be the person that throws up on the train.  I ride this train every morning.  My head is swimming.  My body is shuddering slightly, and then, like a gift, the doors open and I’m smacked in the face with the cold morning air.

I bolt out of the train before the doors close.  I throw up violently on the platform.  My knees are weak and my head is throbbing.  I have a meeting at work.  I can’t be late.

I chew a piece of gum and wait for the next train to come.

Not Your Monkey

I don’t feel funny anymore.  Being funny is one of my greatest qualities, huge chunks of my identity are wrapped up in it.

Now it’s difficult to access.  Days and weeks can go by and I won’t have made anyone laugh and it makes me feel retched.  The thing I liked most about myself, slowly slipping away.

I know that there are seasons in everyone’s life, but if this season of suck-ass seriousness lasts much longer – I quit.  I start to write, and I can write pages and pages of insightful blather but no funny is to be had.   The lake of OhmygodLauraYouaresofunny has dried up.  No comedy gold in the mine.  It sucks.  Why would anyone like me if I can’t make them laugh?  That’s the reason I have friends anyways, they keep me around because I’m funny.

If the draught keeps up I’ll surely be fired and replaced by someone quicker, wittier, and kick-ass.

Then the anger comes.

Why the fuck to I have to be funny right now?

I’m not your goddamned monkey.

Suck it.

A Multitude of Closets

I’m in a multitude of closets.  Stepping out of one usually brings brief relief and then the realization that I’ve stepped into another.

One of my nightmares is a long corridor lined with closets of all different kinds.  I walk down the hallway and my heart is pounding out of my chest, anticipating the danger around every door.  I’m having a meltdown of nuclear proportions about the sounds I hear in the hallway.  The danger that awaits me behind every door.

Mental illness is a difficult closet to come out of.  Most are outed by force and not by choice.  I wound up in the hospital psychiatric ward.  The depths that I had sank to, the demons I was struggling with could no longer be hidden from view.  Most in my life knew I was unhappy, but they saw just the tippy top of the iceberg.  My struggles, my pain, and my despair went so much deeper than what anyone thought.  I had pulled the ole bait and switch.  I showed them one person, and when the door was closed I was another.

I’ve had mixed reactions when revealing my mental illness with friends and family.  I’d say probably 1 out of 5 can handle it.  The other 4 want distance or to change the subject, should it ever come up.

Just be like you were before.
Oh, you mean when I was lying to everyone?
Yes!  You seemed so much happier then.

The danger that we feel about revealing our conditions is not imagined.  It’s real.  Judgment is inevitable.  There will be perceptions that we are weak, mentally inferior people.  People that cause others annoyance and heartache.  Selfish people who live in their own heads who just can’t grow up and get it together.  People that are unpredictable, loose canons roaming around in the “normal” person’s life.  Some will question whether we are fit to do our jobs, be loving parents or partners.

It probably wouldn’t be so bad if we didn’t have those same questions.

I’ve lost friends and people I’ve loved because of my illness, because of opening up about it and asking for help.

I’ve also made some beautiful amazing friends and had weird and bizarre life changing experiences.

My name is Laura.  I have double depression and PTSD.  I struggle with suicide, self injury, binge drinking, dissociation, and in most aspects of my life I am completely paralyzed by shame.

I am real.  I have value to add to the world.  I am worthy of proper treatment and love.  I have love to give.

And I have mental illness.