Ice Cubes? Really??

Saw my "new" therapist today. This was our second visit. I knew - during our initial phone conversation when we set up our first appointment - that she was not right for me. She became "concerned" when I told her I get afraid and overwhelmed when I meet new people/doctors/social workers/etc. and that I would take a clonazepam before I came.

So you're concerned about me taking an anxiety medication for...anxiety?

Strike one.

When I met her, there just was no chemistry and I knew - by the way she talked and approached certain things - that she was not the caliber of help I need.

I had recently had a meltdown, in the bathroom. I collapsed on the floor, sobbing, angry, flooded, lost, confused, overwhelmd and I reached in the drawer and pulled out a razor and compulsively began slashing at my legs (this was about four weeks ago).

My (new) therapist, upon hearing my telling of this meltdown, suggested the next time I want to cut or self-harm, to try using an ice cube.

Great idea! I'll make sure and store some in the bathroom drawer!

Today she told me I need more intensive treatment than they can offer and she is going to see what she can find for me. Outpatient. I told her I won't do inpatient. I have my reasons, and there are many.

Vomited again this morning while brushing my teeth. Cannot adequately define the grotesqueness of this. She asked me why I think that happens.

!?!?!

Seriously?

Jesus.

I also told her I take offense to the term "Mental Illness." I do not have a "Mental Illness," but a Mental Disorder, with a bunch of sub-disorders (if you will) as a result of complex, repeated childhood trauma. I am not mentally sick (which is what an illness is). I am mentally debilitated at the moment due to circumstances beyond my control and for which my brain has developed coping and survival mechanisms out of sheer need and necessity for survival. I'd hardly classify that as a "mental illness."

Anyway that's just me ranting.

I'm being pulled in so many different directions that I can't find myself. That's what I told her and she understood that.

She told me I should do what I have to do, to take care of me.

That's a tough one.

Jarda

The first time I met him, he wore a fancy suit. Not like a tuxedo, but one of those top-of-the-line suits that you know are tailored to fit. He was clean and confident.

He came in to speak to me after they did an intake evaluation at the PHP in Middletown. They want to know all about whether or not you drink or do drugs or have appetite problems, constipation, diarrhea, headaches and of course a family history of mental illness. They check you basic vitals: blood pressure, temperature, heart rate, respirations.

I pretty much lied the whole way through. Didn't want to be there. Was scared to death. I hate hospitals. I hate groups.

And I hate psychiatrists.

I tested him - as I test everyone - immediately. He came in with his suit and clipboard and sat down, said my name.

"How are you feeling today?"

"I'm in a fucking PHP. How do you think I feel?"

He laughed. But not a vicious laugh. More like a "touche'" kind of laugh.

He crossed his legs as he sat across from me. Asked me questions. I answered them all.

He asked what work I did. I told him I was a journalist.

"You must be very intelligent then," he said.

"Yes I am," I responded without hesitation. "And I don't like you."

He gave me that same soft laugh.

"I am a nice guy. You will see. I would love to see some of your clippings," he said.

Hah. Test number one.

In the days that followed, it never came up again. He failed. He said he wanted to see but never asked again.

But one day, as I remained closed, distant and removed from this stupid group program, he came and pulled me from the group, as he does with various "patients," throughout the week.

He took me to his office.

From wrist to elbow, my arms were slashed. Healing, but still slashed. I made no attempt to hide them. Everyone had seen them by now.

"How are you doing?" he asked.

"Fine."

"Tell me, Cristina," he said with his beautiful Jamaican accent, "Why did you cut your arms?"

"To show Gary and Tony how hurt I was."

He dug and wouldn't stop. He kept pushing.And for every question he had, I had a quick response.

Until the end when he said:

"So who, really, were you trying to show your pain to?"

I felt myself curl up inside. I can think of those old "firecrackers" they used to make called "the snake." You light them up and they curl and twist into a charred piece of nothing. Ash.

I curled up like that inside. I whispered, "Mom and Daddy."

He told me about the mountain I must climb. He asked me, "What is the easiest part of climbing a mountain?"

"The beginning," I answered.

"True," he said. "What else?"

"The end," I shot back, regaining my composure.

"You have a huge mountain to climb. You are at the bottom. You want to run up it, get it over with."

I sat halfheartedly listening but by this time, had gained some sense of respect for the man who had - through all my belligerence aimed right at him - remained calm, steady and assured.

"What is the hardest part of climbing a mountain?" he asked.

"The middle."

"Ahh," he said with that lulling accent. "You are very intelligent.

He moved from his seat at his desk and sat down at the round table in the room, close to me. His expression changed. His demeanor changed. He softened.

"You are going to get to the middle of your mountain, Cristina, and you are going to want to go back down. You are going to want to give up. What do you do?"

"Stop. Rest."

"Yes. Exactly," he said.

Then he stood and I stood and he said: "You have a very large mountain to climb, filled with pain."

I was rattled inside.

He gestured to my arms and he said, "And that is a lot of pain."

He's the only one ever, ever in my life, who seemed to see into me. He seemed to understand. I had been wrong about him. (I did confess to him, my "test" that I'd put him through. I don't recall his response but it was very viable).

I called him the other day. Begging to speak with him. But I hung up before he came to the phone. I didn't know what to say.

I am afraid.

I am lonely.

I feel so abandoned and confused.

Dr. Carl Jarda.

I wish I could see you.

Wanting to cut

My name is Cristina Johnson.

I can't stop rocking. i am surrounded by things...things... things...

The dresser is Broyhill. As is the nightstand. Top-of-the-line, I suppose.

Snowball, the polydactyl cat, sits on my dresser, staring at me Behind her is a mirror and dangling necklaces and bracelets that I never asked for and, which, never suited me.

I am not suited for jewelry.

I've talked to several people tonight, trying to ground myself. I came here - to my writing refuge -hoping to relieve myself of this need for self-punishment, but so far, it hasn't worked.

Howie, Bill, Cindy, Hannah........ well, not Bill, reallyk. He's tired. He works a lot.
I cut myself a lot. I injure myself a lot. But I am careful about it. I protect my youngest son from it.l

He doesn't want to know any more than what he asks and that works for me. In fact, if I try or wanted to explain to him about my past he doesn't want to hear it. Same as my daughter.

Perhaps that is right.

It is unfortunate that my oldest knows so much.

Tonight I want to cut so badly. So badly.

People wonder why. They can't fathom why one would cut themselves, harm themselves, starve or binge themselves.

It serves so many purposes.

To be alive. To see your own blood, means you're alive. To suffer, means you're alive. To hurt yourself, means you are alive.

Even if, inside (or, perhaps because inside) you feel dead.

Proof that you're alive...............

To Show or Not to Show? (warning: Graphic)

My name is Cristina Johnson.

Michelle - my therapist - works independently at Sound Counseling Center. She's a bubbly, energetic person whose energy is often contagious making it sometimes downright impossible to be melancholy while in her presence. She has deep blue eyes and long, thick, gorgeous brown hair. She's a voluptuous woman who almost seems to bounce, rather than walk, and I've never had a session with her, where she didn't pull her feet beneath her in her chair, and listen to me (or speak to me) intently. Her laugh comes easily, as does her empathy. She's very good at matching your energy.

Walking into Michelle's office is a waiting room just outside the therapy room. Everything in her office, I would guess, is from Pier 1 Imports and it's very Zenish - which I like. It suits my personality and is very comforting.

In the session room, are two contemporary sofas - cream-colored - sitting kitty-cornered from each other. Behind one is a large plant and a lamp. Where the two ends would meet, Michelle's black leather chair sits, so that she can see you, whichever couch you choose to sit on. I always sit on the one across from her - the one that keep us separated by the contemporary black coffee table. She always has a candle burning and there's always a blanket available, plus a weighted blanket - often used to comfort people in therapy (she's offered it to me a number of times but I always decline).

Today, was a hard day. I was scared to go in and truth be told, I had two beers before I went, plus a klonopin. I was nervous because I wasn't sure if I should show her my wrist. I was concerned for a couple of reasons: First and above all, I did not want to be locked up. This is such a huge issue for me that it's be at least three other blogs alone. Even the Sidran Institute - an organization dedicated to trauma - has articles about the re-traumatization of trauma victims through hospitalization.

So I was very afraid that I would be locked up if I showed her my wound.

Secondly, I felt all the familiar feelings that come with self-injury: shame, guilt, anger and I didn't know how to talk about them.

Third, I didn't actually remember the cutting - just the moments before and after. How do you tell someone that?

And finally, I was afraid because it'd been unimproved since I cut it so I was concerned I might need to go to a doctor...which was why I thought about showing it to her. To ask her advice. I was encouraged to do this by both Bill and Cindy.

I sat down in my usual spot, across from her. She sat in her black leather chair, pulled her feet up and asked, "So how's it going?"

"Okay," I said...not really sure what to say. "Last night was a rough night,"I admitted, honestly.

"Why's that?" she asked.

I told her I was very depressed last night, thinking about Gary's ring. Gary has a class ring, although he didn't graduate. He has always worn it since I met him and, I told her, there were about three times he'd taken it off and me - like a childish school girl - would put it on my finger and pretend it was an engagement ring. I would also marvel at how big it was because I have always had a very strange fascination with men's hands. I attribute this fascination to my father who played beautiful music but could also kill you - all with the same powerful hands. It amazes me that a man's hand can be either gentle or kill you.

"Interesting," she said. "What else?"

I looked down at the ground. My feet were rocking back and forth, toe-to-heal and back, and my body was rocking with them. I told her I was afraid to say.

Silence.

"Bill and Cindy think  I need to show you my arm," I finally uttered, and added with unnatural speed, "because I don't know if I should see a doctor or not but I don't want to be locked up." It sounded like a run-on sentence when I said it.

She said some things but the moment she said, "I can't promise you that," my mind went blank. I became very hot. I was so hot and frightened and I said, "I think I need to go."

She leaned forward in her chair and gently said, "I think it would be a good time for you to stay."

Being the pleaser...not wanting to let anyone down... I sat back, despite my urgent need to bolt.

"It's entirely up to you, whether you want to show me or not," she said gently. "You don't have to."

I took a breath. Very (very) quickly lifted my arm so it reached half-way across the coffee table, quickly lifted my sleeve and gave her a glimpse of the cut before pulling my long sleeve back over it and holding it in my lap.

I began to cry, she asked why I was crying.

"I feel anger and shame and pain."

"Explain those to me," she said.

"Anger because last night, as I was looking at it [the cut] part of me was angry because I didn't do it 'right' or I did it 'the wrong way'," I confessed, terrified.

"What is the wrong way?" she asked.

"I don't know. It was just some fleeting part of me that kept criticizing that I didn't 'do it right'," I repeated.

"Okay. And the shame?" she asked.

This was when I cried the most. "I don't want you to give up on me," I whimpered. I sounded like a child. I was embarrassed and my shoulders started shaking.

"Oh Cristina," she said. "Look at me."

Of course, I couldn't look at her. Couldn't bear it. She said it again, "Look at me," she said, and as I managed to lift my head to look out the window next to her, she said, "I won't give up on you. It's not in my DNA."

She let that settle and then she asked, "Can I come look a little closer? Do you mind if I come sit by you?"

I nodded.

She came over and I tentatively pulled up my sleeve. She took my hand gingerly. Sighed an empathetic sigh.

"I'm sorry you're in so much pain," she said, softly. Tears rolled down my face. I couldn't speak.

She brought her other hand up to gently squeeze my shoulder. This made a part of me scream inside, "DON'T BE KIND TO ME!!!! STOP IT!!"

It hurt more to have her be that kind - to touch me despite my wound - and say those words, than anything else.

I just nodded, refusing to acknowledge any such pain.

Then my cell phone rang - I forgot to put it on mute - interrupting the session. She went back to her chair while I explained how to make pork chops to my daughter, which lightened the mood quite a bit.

"Well," she said, as I hung up the phone, "It's worse than I thought it would be, but it's not as bad as I've seen," adding, "That's not a double-dog dare!"

"But," she explained, "I don't know what your doctor would do - I don't know what doctors are trained to do in such situations so I can't promise that he wouldn't call someone. I don't know how medical doctors are trained as far as self-inflicted injury."

But she told me it didn't look infected, asked how I was caring for it...told me she's sure it needed stitches at first but now it's too late.

I explained it all. She seemed satisfied and since she didn't know what my doctor would do, I decided to continue doing what I'm doing.

Sunday, I went to the laundromat with my wrist bandaged. It was hot - especially doing laundry - and there were about a dozen people there. Not one didn't stare, nor did anyone show any curiosity. I find this both interesting and perplexing. I've spoken to people when I saw scars, and my friend, Hannah, and I discussed it.

"Awkward," she expressed.

"Depends on how you approach them," I suggested. "Whether with judgment or empathy."

Secretly, though the scars are embarrassing and ugly, everyone wants to share their story - they just think nobody wants to listen and they don't want to burden anyone. Typically, at least. There's such shame involved in it...so much shame.