I've had about 30 hours of sleep in the last 36 (thank you Nyquil). The few hours I've been up, I've been lost. I took the Nyquil after deciding last night that I was going to commit suicide but then, using a tactic I've used before, told myself I would wait until tomorrow and if I still felt the same, I would do it then. As I lay down, restless, anxious, angry, hurt....I fantasized about ways to do it. I have a lot of pills I can take. I sometimes hoard them...."just in case." But I know from experience, that overdosing doesn't really work and best scenario you end up with smiley shoes on the fourth floor of some cold, God-forsaken hospital for three days until you say the right things to get out. So I thought of other ways, in addition to the pills. I thought of the order in which I would take the pills. I thought of ways to build a "tent" for carbon monoxide poisoning. Perhaps a bag over my head, too. I would close the bedroom door. Trevor would never know. Nobody would find me until I was gone. Maybe I'd use my old, illegal, beat up car and drive somewhere and hide. But then I thought maybe the cops would see me and pull me over. Then I'd really be screwed. I even tried to figure out ways I could smuggle in my meds in case I did get arrested but that wouldn't work either: The meds would need time to kick in, plus they'd find me before I could die. I fantasized about using a big black sharpie to write "DNR" all over my arms and chest and even my forehead. I figured I'd probably have to do it on paper and then trace it since doing it in the mirror could prove difficult.
Every purpose I had to live, is leaving or dying. My fault for putting purposes on people, instead of myself, most would say.
But most wouldn't know I am no purpose. I have no purpose. I know, I know....and I've heard it all. My existence alone, changes the world. Yada...yada...yada...
Appeasement does not work for me.
All the work I've done on myself has been so honest and intentional.
But for naught.
I still have my pills hidden. (I hid them in case my therapist instructed my friend to hide them from me). I still have not gotten them out. I still haven't entirely changed my mind.
I have therapy tomorrow.
I have almost nothing to say.
I am so numb. So, so numb.
Voiceless, wordless, needless.
Nothing. Obviously.
Showing posts with label suicide. Show all posts
Showing posts with label suicide. Show all posts
Monday, December 15, 2014
Thursday, October 11, 2012
Cutting and Self-Harm
My name is Cristina D. Johnson.
This isn't an easy blog to write... it's full of stuff that nobody wants to talk/hear about: Self-harm.
I attempted suicide more than once in my life but more recently, in October (?) of last year and then March of this year. Tried overdosing. I'm not the only person who does this, who has my disorders.
Yesterday was a bad day for me. I was overwhelmed and buried, flooded and confused.
Yesterday was Gary's birthday. I cried most of the day.
That wasn't the worst, though...knowing he's celebrating his birthday with his new girlfriend and all the old friends I once knew. (I did call and leave him a voice mail, wishing him a tearful happy birthday).
I also went and got my driver's license renewed, and I got fuel for the house - for heat. Now, this might not seem like a big deal, but to me, it was shameful that it was a big deal. Like whoopy-doo...you managed to do something pretty much anyone in the world could do? I was ashamed for feeling I'd accomplished something. "I feel so stupid," I remarked to Bill in a text, but I couldn't elaborate on it. I just felt so stupid. Celebrate getting your license? You idiot...
I was also overwhelmed by increasing evidence of my DID. I'd apparently spoken to Bill on the phone and spoke in the voice of a child...whispering...saying "Shh! he's coming! Here he comes! Shh!"
This really threw me because I didn't remember it but when I put it together with all the other DID stuff that's happened, the mounting evidence that I suffer from this affliction makes me sick. Sick. I don't want to be that fucked up! No no no! But, alas I must admit I dissociate. A lot. In fact, I was with Michelle when I actually remembered that I'd gotten my driver's license yesterday.
There were a few other things but the worst came when I thought about going to court tomorrow. I began to panic, and I mean PANIC. What if they take me to jail? They'll take Trevor away! OH MY GOD!
I was inconsolable. I was making plans. I called Cindy, I called Bill I told Cindy where there's money so she could buy Bill a plane ticket home. "Please, please don't let them take my baby," I cried desperately. The feeling that was flooding me is indescribable. Trevor....Trevor is what keeps me going every day. He has no idea the strength he gives me. I don't lean on him, mind you. I know the harmful effects of that, but I look at him, and I watch him and I know he needs me and it keeps me straight, although there are nights when I can't be a "mom" and - because Trevor is so, so smart and we're so attuned to one another, he knows that it's a bad night for mom. He's autistic - supposedly incapable of feeling emotions - but with me, he gets it.
We've talked about our disorders. For many years I never told him anything but one day, he asked me about the cuts on my arms and I explained to him that it's part of my disorder (anyone with any experience with an autistic child, knows you can't bullshit them and just coming straight out with the truth [to their capacity] is the best way). He asked a few more questions. I don't feel he has a complete grasp on my disorders, but he understands more than any teenager you'll meet.
I don't know what happened but I cut last night... somehow it serves so many purposes. I emailed my therapist, told her I'd cut. I actually said, "I am emailing you to tell you that I cut tonight. The reason I'm emailing you is because I don't want to talk about it."
Incest survivors, particularly, are prone to self-harm and self-injury. It could be in the form of bulimia, hair-pulling, cutting, overdosing, alcohol abuse, or any other kind of self-destructive, self-effacing, self-abusive means.
There's all kinds of literature out there about it but I'm just gonna tell you straight out: It relieves pain. It releases a rage you're afraid to feel. To see blood or vomit helps you know you're alive - you're a living person, not a shell.
In reference to cutting, I've actually read that - in the schools nowadays - it's the new "anorexia" for teenage girls. Many girls cut.
But most cut in hidden places. I have one friend who cuts on her inner thighs. I've known them to cut on their ankles, their upper arms, their stomachs. Anywhere....anywhere, just to bleed.
Me, I've always cut my wrists. I had a short bout with bulimia and I was a hair-puller in my 20's.
There's another reason people do this: It's a scream for help. It's a way of saying, "I have this pain inside me and it's eating me alive but I can't show it to you or tell you about it." And they won't. They won't tell you about it.
Today, in therapy - though I had said I didn't want to talk about it - it was the elephant in the room. I know - because of the many moments of awkward silence, that she was giving me room, just in case I brought it up.
And I did.
There's practically no worse feeling than waking up with a couple gashes in your arms (one of them really needs stitches but you can't go to the emergency room for stitches on your wrist because most doctors don't understand that it's not a suicide attempt) and then knowing you scared the shit out of everyone who matters to you.
You feel like a loser, a failure, a mistake, hopeless, omg what's wrong with me?
Yet, there's also this strange fascination and even a sense of pride... you want everyone to see....but you want nobody to see.
Oh God if I could stand in the middle of the world on a huge podium and shout, LOOK! LOOK AT MY WOUNDS!! and somehow, magically, everyone would understand it's not a manipulative way of getting pity; it's not "for show" (as I've been accused of by my ex); it's not to show off how you've hurt yourself.
If I could show everyone these wounds and these scars, and somehow give a voice to them...let the wounds and scars talk for themselves... oh how I wish people would/could learn.
Gratefully, those closest to me (Cindy, Bill, Hannah, Howie) understand (and understood last night) that calling the police or ambulance is the worst mistake in the world. They understood I was overwhelmed. They know (a couple of them because they, too, experience this insurmountable pain and rage), that it's a temporary release.
I just want to note here, that I would never let Trevor see me cut and he does not know it happened, just in case anyone's wondering. He was safe in bed, asleep.
Self-injury is punishment for the "bad" that we are, because we did things. We performed fellatio on our fathers or cousins or uncles. We "allowed" ourselves to be raped. We created our own misfortunes and we must be punished. It's so, so, so much easier for me to turn my anger on myself, than it is to be angry at the father who beat, humiliated, tormented, molested and abused me (and my brother). Being angry at him is just unheard of.
In therapy today, I finally broke down and cried.
"Why do I do this?"
"What?"
I couldn't respond. She gave me a minute as I held my wounded wrist (covered by a long-sleeved shirt) to my face, wiping my tears, staring out the window.
"Why I cut. Why do I hurt people I love? Why do I cut and then tell everyone? Why do I cut?" I asked.
Very gently, very calmly, she responded, "If all your scars and your wounds could tell me their story, what would they say?"
Oh dear God what a great question.... and one I must mull over. It was frightening to even answer it to her.
Cutters are not losers. They're not idiots or manipulators. They know exactly what they're doing, even if they don't always understand why.
Next time you see a slit wrist, just know it has a story to tell.
This isn't an easy blog to write... it's full of stuff that nobody wants to talk/hear about: Self-harm.
I attempted suicide more than once in my life but more recently, in October (?) of last year and then March of this year. Tried overdosing. I'm not the only person who does this, who has my disorders.
Yesterday was a bad day for me. I was overwhelmed and buried, flooded and confused.
Yesterday was Gary's birthday. I cried most of the day.
That wasn't the worst, though...knowing he's celebrating his birthday with his new girlfriend and all the old friends I once knew. (I did call and leave him a voice mail, wishing him a tearful happy birthday).
I also went and got my driver's license renewed, and I got fuel for the house - for heat. Now, this might not seem like a big deal, but to me, it was shameful that it was a big deal. Like whoopy-doo...you managed to do something pretty much anyone in the world could do? I was ashamed for feeling I'd accomplished something. "I feel so stupid," I remarked to Bill in a text, but I couldn't elaborate on it. I just felt so stupid. Celebrate getting your license? You idiot...
I was also overwhelmed by increasing evidence of my DID. I'd apparently spoken to Bill on the phone and spoke in the voice of a child...whispering...saying "Shh! he's coming! Here he comes! Shh!"
This really threw me because I didn't remember it but when I put it together with all the other DID stuff that's happened, the mounting evidence that I suffer from this affliction makes me sick. Sick. I don't want to be that fucked up! No no no! But, alas I must admit I dissociate. A lot. In fact, I was with Michelle when I actually remembered that I'd gotten my driver's license yesterday.
There were a few other things but the worst came when I thought about going to court tomorrow. I began to panic, and I mean PANIC. What if they take me to jail? They'll take Trevor away! OH MY GOD!
I was inconsolable. I was making plans. I called Cindy, I called Bill I told Cindy where there's money so she could buy Bill a plane ticket home. "Please, please don't let them take my baby," I cried desperately. The feeling that was flooding me is indescribable. Trevor....Trevor is what keeps me going every day. He has no idea the strength he gives me. I don't lean on him, mind you. I know the harmful effects of that, but I look at him, and I watch him and I know he needs me and it keeps me straight, although there are nights when I can't be a "mom" and - because Trevor is so, so smart and we're so attuned to one another, he knows that it's a bad night for mom. He's autistic - supposedly incapable of feeling emotions - but with me, he gets it.
We've talked about our disorders. For many years I never told him anything but one day, he asked me about the cuts on my arms and I explained to him that it's part of my disorder (anyone with any experience with an autistic child, knows you can't bullshit them and just coming straight out with the truth [to their capacity] is the best way). He asked a few more questions. I don't feel he has a complete grasp on my disorders, but he understands more than any teenager you'll meet.
I don't know what happened but I cut last night... somehow it serves so many purposes. I emailed my therapist, told her I'd cut. I actually said, "I am emailing you to tell you that I cut tonight. The reason I'm emailing you is because I don't want to talk about it."
Incest survivors, particularly, are prone to self-harm and self-injury. It could be in the form of bulimia, hair-pulling, cutting, overdosing, alcohol abuse, or any other kind of self-destructive, self-effacing, self-abusive means.
There's all kinds of literature out there about it but I'm just gonna tell you straight out: It relieves pain. It releases a rage you're afraid to feel. To see blood or vomit helps you know you're alive - you're a living person, not a shell.
In reference to cutting, I've actually read that - in the schools nowadays - it's the new "anorexia" for teenage girls. Many girls cut.
But most cut in hidden places. I have one friend who cuts on her inner thighs. I've known them to cut on their ankles, their upper arms, their stomachs. Anywhere....anywhere, just to bleed.
Me, I've always cut my wrists. I had a short bout with bulimia and I was a hair-puller in my 20's.
There's another reason people do this: It's a scream for help. It's a way of saying, "I have this pain inside me and it's eating me alive but I can't show it to you or tell you about it." And they won't. They won't tell you about it.
Today, in therapy - though I had said I didn't want to talk about it - it was the elephant in the room. I know - because of the many moments of awkward silence, that she was giving me room, just in case I brought it up.
And I did.
There's practically no worse feeling than waking up with a couple gashes in your arms (one of them really needs stitches but you can't go to the emergency room for stitches on your wrist because most doctors don't understand that it's not a suicide attempt) and then knowing you scared the shit out of everyone who matters to you.
You feel like a loser, a failure, a mistake, hopeless, omg what's wrong with me?
Yet, there's also this strange fascination and even a sense of pride... you want everyone to see....but you want nobody to see.
Oh God if I could stand in the middle of the world on a huge podium and shout, LOOK! LOOK AT MY WOUNDS!! and somehow, magically, everyone would understand it's not a manipulative way of getting pity; it's not "for show" (as I've been accused of by my ex); it's not to show off how you've hurt yourself.
If I could show everyone these wounds and these scars, and somehow give a voice to them...let the wounds and scars talk for themselves... oh how I wish people would/could learn.
Gratefully, those closest to me (Cindy, Bill, Hannah, Howie) understand (and understood last night) that calling the police or ambulance is the worst mistake in the world. They understood I was overwhelmed. They know (a couple of them because they, too, experience this insurmountable pain and rage), that it's a temporary release.
I just want to note here, that I would never let Trevor see me cut and he does not know it happened, just in case anyone's wondering. He was safe in bed, asleep.
Self-injury is punishment for the "bad" that we are, because we did things. We performed fellatio on our fathers or cousins or uncles. We "allowed" ourselves to be raped. We created our own misfortunes and we must be punished. It's so, so, so much easier for me to turn my anger on myself, than it is to be angry at the father who beat, humiliated, tormented, molested and abused me (and my brother). Being angry at him is just unheard of.
In therapy today, I finally broke down and cried.
"Why do I do this?"
"What?"
I couldn't respond. She gave me a minute as I held my wounded wrist (covered by a long-sleeved shirt) to my face, wiping my tears, staring out the window.
"Why I cut. Why do I hurt people I love? Why do I cut and then tell everyone? Why do I cut?" I asked.
Very gently, very calmly, she responded, "If all your scars and your wounds could tell me their story, what would they say?"
Oh dear God what a great question.... and one I must mull over. It was frightening to even answer it to her.
Cutters are not losers. They're not idiots or manipulators. They know exactly what they're doing, even if they don't always understand why.
Next time you see a slit wrist, just know it has a story to tell.
Tuesday, October 9, 2012
Honesty in Therapy
My name is Cristina D. Johnson.
Most people with my diagnoses (PTSD/DID) and/or history (Complex Trauma), have a tendency to jump from therapist to therapist. They get to the "meat" of the issues or start touching on something sensitive - or their therapist will - and they hit the road. No f'n way man, I ain't goin' there.
It hurts to be honest. It's terrifying and - I say terrifying because I can't think of any stronger words - to say to a therapist, "Yep you're right and that hurts because it's true."
That happened to me during my last visit. She did something that stirred up the mud and muck inside. She reached deep, deep, deep inside where I won't look, can't look, and at the time, I didn't tell her. Couldn't tell her. I believe I told someone else, at least a little - I don't remember who - but I couldn't tell her. It was an unfamiliar, frightening maternal thing. I've never gotten to know my mother - never wanted to - and want nothing to do with her. I've also always maintained that I don't care about her, don't love her, and never needed her.
I canceled my session with her on Sunday night. Sunday night was suffering with suicide ideation - bad. I wanted a gun...Swore I would buy one. I went to bed, woke up emotionally and mentally hungover. As if there were this huge grey cloud over me, surrounding me. I was still shaken, still hurt.
I was told some things by my son (again), how I need to stop taking my meds and "get over it," among other things. I finally shut his phone off. He hasn't paid the bill and he's 25...shouldn't even be on my plan.
Anyway all kinds of things happened, and my last session was part of it. It stayed with me and I've held it, like trying to hold your breath as long as you can. It's stayed with me and I see her tonight because she called me and rescheduled for today at 5:30. She warned me before that she's a "nag" and won't let her trauma patients go that easy. There were other parts of it. One big one being an issue between Bill and I and I was feeling trapped and controlled. That set me off, big time and just brought out my fighter. Not pretty. And at the same time, figuring why the hell should I be alive? I was a mess.
Now I feel afraid to talk to her - afraid of what to say... I don't want to feel what I felt during our last session and I don't know how to broach the subject...or if I even should. Not yet, anyway. Not ready.
Most people with my diagnoses (PTSD/DID) and/or history (Complex Trauma), have a tendency to jump from therapist to therapist. They get to the "meat" of the issues or start touching on something sensitive - or their therapist will - and they hit the road. No f'n way man, I ain't goin' there.
It hurts to be honest. It's terrifying and - I say terrifying because I can't think of any stronger words - to say to a therapist, "Yep you're right and that hurts because it's true."
That happened to me during my last visit. She did something that stirred up the mud and muck inside. She reached deep, deep, deep inside where I won't look, can't look, and at the time, I didn't tell her. Couldn't tell her. I believe I told someone else, at least a little - I don't remember who - but I couldn't tell her. It was an unfamiliar, frightening maternal thing. I've never gotten to know my mother - never wanted to - and want nothing to do with her. I've also always maintained that I don't care about her, don't love her, and never needed her.
I canceled my session with her on Sunday night. Sunday night was suffering with suicide ideation - bad. I wanted a gun...Swore I would buy one. I went to bed, woke up emotionally and mentally hungover. As if there were this huge grey cloud over me, surrounding me. I was still shaken, still hurt.
I was told some things by my son (again), how I need to stop taking my meds and "get over it," among other things. I finally shut his phone off. He hasn't paid the bill and he's 25...shouldn't even be on my plan.
Anyway all kinds of things happened, and my last session was part of it. It stayed with me and I've held it, like trying to hold your breath as long as you can. It's stayed with me and I see her tonight because she called me and rescheduled for today at 5:30. She warned me before that she's a "nag" and won't let her trauma patients go that easy. There were other parts of it. One big one being an issue between Bill and I and I was feeling trapped and controlled. That set me off, big time and just brought out my fighter. Not pretty. And at the same time, figuring why the hell should I be alive? I was a mess.
Now I feel afraid to talk to her - afraid of what to say... I don't want to feel what I felt during our last session and I don't know how to broach the subject...or if I even should. Not yet, anyway. Not ready.
Friday, October 5, 2012
The Elephant
My name is Cristina D. Johnson.
My blood runs cold tonight.
I was abandoned last night. Probably not literally, but in the end, at least for me, it was abandonment because once you say those words, they're spoken, and they reach down into a place that says, "See? You're a burden! You're trouble! Nothing but trouble!" which consequently pulls up that part of me that says, "Okay...seeya buddy. Never want to hear from you again."
I am irrational. I know. I am paranoid to go anywhere in my car smoking, afraid my landlady will happen by and see it (I told her I don't smoke). My basement door was unlocked this morning....FROM THE INSIDE.
So someone was in "my home" this morning, while I was asleep in bed. Fuck it.
The elephant in the room crushes me... I know what it is, and I know how it feels, but I cannot articulate it. I am not stupid. I am not useless. I am trustworthy.
Tiny images - like from little shards of a broken mirror - flash in my mind. Myself, giving me memories, little specks of time that I have consciously forgotten but I cannot see them, they flash so quickly.
That is what it is like. DID.
In the middle of a phone conversation and all the sudden, a flash....a flash of a shirt or something you can't quite identify but feel to the marrow of your bone, as if you're there - wherever "there" is - experiencing whatever that shard of pain is connected to.
And it's gone. Like a snap of the finger. So quickly, that if you don't interrupt the conversation and say, "Wait! I just saw something in my mind!" it disappears.
The emotional pain is overwhelming but it's so fleeting that it mercifully leaves in an instant. Same for the physical sensations that come with them.
Tiny little windows....into who I was, when I couldn't be there. When I couldn't withstand whatever was happening. That's what many children do. Escape into their minds. Out of their bodies so they don't feel the physical and emotional and mental torment of their experience. That's what creates "parts" or "alters" or "fragments".
These "parts" and "fragments" (there's a bit of a difference. Parts hold whole experiences, while fragments may hold only the emotion or the environment or the physical pain, et cetera) later come along in life and, as your psyche strengthens, these things are given to you as tormented gifts. Shadowy missing parts that you've blocked out.
Rage comes out for me a lot but because rage is an uncomfortable feeling, I swallow it back down, most of the time. Tonight, it's just suicide. This desire to not be alive. This deep-down belief that I don't deserve to be here...I don't belong here... The tears that would stain this page, were it made of paper, are filled with despair, yet I feel nothing for myself. As I said, my blood runs cold. I am bitterly angry at myself, disgusted with myself. What is wrong with you?
Feeling there is nobody to talk to... especially about the elephant in the room.
My blood runs cold tonight.
I was abandoned last night. Probably not literally, but in the end, at least for me, it was abandonment because once you say those words, they're spoken, and they reach down into a place that says, "See? You're a burden! You're trouble! Nothing but trouble!" which consequently pulls up that part of me that says, "Okay...seeya buddy. Never want to hear from you again."
I am irrational. I know. I am paranoid to go anywhere in my car smoking, afraid my landlady will happen by and see it (I told her I don't smoke). My basement door was unlocked this morning....FROM THE INSIDE.
So someone was in "my home" this morning, while I was asleep in bed. Fuck it.
The elephant in the room crushes me... I know what it is, and I know how it feels, but I cannot articulate it. I am not stupid. I am not useless. I am trustworthy.
Tiny images - like from little shards of a broken mirror - flash in my mind. Myself, giving me memories, little specks of time that I have consciously forgotten but I cannot see them, they flash so quickly.
That is what it is like. DID.
In the middle of a phone conversation and all the sudden, a flash....a flash of a shirt or something you can't quite identify but feel to the marrow of your bone, as if you're there - wherever "there" is - experiencing whatever that shard of pain is connected to.
And it's gone. Like a snap of the finger. So quickly, that if you don't interrupt the conversation and say, "Wait! I just saw something in my mind!" it disappears.
The emotional pain is overwhelming but it's so fleeting that it mercifully leaves in an instant. Same for the physical sensations that come with them.
Tiny little windows....into who I was, when I couldn't be there. When I couldn't withstand whatever was happening. That's what many children do. Escape into their minds. Out of their bodies so they don't feel the physical and emotional and mental torment of their experience. That's what creates "parts" or "alters" or "fragments".
These "parts" and "fragments" (there's a bit of a difference. Parts hold whole experiences, while fragments may hold only the emotion or the environment or the physical pain, et cetera) later come along in life and, as your psyche strengthens, these things are given to you as tormented gifts. Shadowy missing parts that you've blocked out.
Rage comes out for me a lot but because rage is an uncomfortable feeling, I swallow it back down, most of the time. Tonight, it's just suicide. This desire to not be alive. This deep-down belief that I don't deserve to be here...I don't belong here... The tears that would stain this page, were it made of paper, are filled with despair, yet I feel nothing for myself. As I said, my blood runs cold. I am bitterly angry at myself, disgusted with myself. What is wrong with you?
Feeling there is nobody to talk to... especially about the elephant in the room.
Monday, October 1, 2012
Confused in the Kitchen
My name is Cristina D. Johnson and this is just a run-down of how I'm feeling right now.
I'm feeling exceptionally depressed tonight. Thankfully it's not accompanied by that dastardly suicidal ideation curse.
I feel inept, to help someone who is dear to me. She needs so much support and help and needs to believe that people love her, but I feel like a failure in that regard. All I have are texts and occasional phone calls to comfort her through a situation most people would never know. A situation even I don't know and cannot comprehend. There is absolutely no consoling her and there's nothing more I can do, although I've sworn to do all I can... is that enough?
My son attacked me last night. Bad. I had to turn off my phone, I was so distraught. I burnt Trevor's dinner but was able to play it off, thankfully, and he ate every bite. It was my special treat to him for being so helpful and understanding while I was sick.The dinner was ruined - for me, at least inside - although I managed to keep a smile on for him. He deserved it. He's a super child and even though he never says it, he loves me.
Relationships are burying me, as well as my schedule. I was standing in my kitchen tonight, just vacuumed the living room, and I was suddenly lost. I realized the date. I started getting flooded with overwhelm....when do I have to do what? I am confused. I stood there utterly confused and that made me feel ashamed. "Normal people don't do this. Get over it," I scolded myself. A residual effect, I'm sure, of my son telling me I was throwing a pity party for myself. He was taught that by people who don't know pain and he ran with it. Oh God if he only knew....if he only knew what it's like to stand there in the kitchen, alone, afraid...afraid to do anything...and not even able to keep track of the things you have to do. Like you're missing part of your brain. Like there's something wrong with you! You should be FINE! Get over it! Get over it!
Yeah this is a real fucking picnic, son.
And relationships....
I miss Bill desperately, yet I also know his absence helps me because it forces me to not be distracted from the agony (AGONY) of my ordeal with Gary. Today, yesterday, the day before...I cried...I cry almost daily, realizing things...looking back on things. Not just things Gary did, but things I did as well...but mostly how, in the end, I was just garbage which told me a whole lot, about the entire relationship. I was so blind. I was so stupid. I neglected to protect Trevor and the few times I tried, I was shot down for it. But God forbid I rock the boat, right? (No pun intended). I still wear the ring he gave me. I don't know what to do with it. I also have the pet pillow he bought me - a pink unicorn. "Here. It's the antithesis of everything you've ever believed about yourself," he said to me. I took this as a sign that he was with me, was trying to help me, wanted to go through this with me.....would not leave me.
What do I do with these things? The pictures? I wonder what he did with all the pictures. Oh we had so much fun that day, taking pictures...I have the envelope with what's left of them in it. Plus I have two framed pictures. Two 8x10's. What do I do with them?
I also wear the ring of a man who terrifies me. He's tall, powerful, and frightening. I have had it for years. I took it off for awhile, but put it back on about a year ago. Our relationship went sour....he's my adoptive father. Back then (about five years ago), things got really bad and he became a huge trigger for me. Now he and my adoptive mother are back in my life, although he, not so much. More my adoptive mother, Cindy, who's been like an angel...more than I could ever ask for in a mother.
And Bill....
God.
Nobody who knows us and our relationship would ever say anything BUT that we are soul mates. But I'm so terrified - still so wounded from the brutality of my last relationship - that I don't trust myself. For five years, Bill waited for me. Our relationship was always pure, always loving. He has been with me through everything, done everything. And now he works a thousand miles away, to help me and Trevor (and himself), but mostly me because of his growing understanding of how important stability is to me - something I repeatedly told Gary, but which went entirely ignored. Now I have this wonderful, faithful, loyal, honest man who adores me, helping me, believing in me and encouraging me....learning so he can help me and I am terrified. What if the same thing happens, as what happened with Gary? I didn't expect it from Gary, but it happened. I don't know.... I just don't know. I know that now - tonight - I am lonely and I miss Bill.
I got a lot done the past few weeks. Things have been moving forward with the help of Bill and Cindy yet somehow, tonight, something has a hold on me...like a shadow or a ghost and I just can't shake it.
Tony...My Tony. This is the thirty-thousandth time he's broken my heart.
Probably won't be the last, either.
Hopefully tomorrow will be better.
I'm feeling exceptionally depressed tonight. Thankfully it's not accompanied by that dastardly suicidal ideation curse.
I feel inept, to help someone who is dear to me. She needs so much support and help and needs to believe that people love her, but I feel like a failure in that regard. All I have are texts and occasional phone calls to comfort her through a situation most people would never know. A situation even I don't know and cannot comprehend. There is absolutely no consoling her and there's nothing more I can do, although I've sworn to do all I can... is that enough?
My son attacked me last night. Bad. I had to turn off my phone, I was so distraught. I burnt Trevor's dinner but was able to play it off, thankfully, and he ate every bite. It was my special treat to him for being so helpful and understanding while I was sick.The dinner was ruined - for me, at least inside - although I managed to keep a smile on for him. He deserved it. He's a super child and even though he never says it, he loves me.
Relationships are burying me, as well as my schedule. I was standing in my kitchen tonight, just vacuumed the living room, and I was suddenly lost. I realized the date. I started getting flooded with overwhelm....when do I have to do what? I am confused. I stood there utterly confused and that made me feel ashamed. "Normal people don't do this. Get over it," I scolded myself. A residual effect, I'm sure, of my son telling me I was throwing a pity party for myself. He was taught that by people who don't know pain and he ran with it. Oh God if he only knew....if he only knew what it's like to stand there in the kitchen, alone, afraid...afraid to do anything...and not even able to keep track of the things you have to do. Like you're missing part of your brain. Like there's something wrong with you! You should be FINE! Get over it! Get over it!
Yeah this is a real fucking picnic, son.
And relationships....
I miss Bill desperately, yet I also know his absence helps me because it forces me to not be distracted from the agony (AGONY) of my ordeal with Gary. Today, yesterday, the day before...I cried...I cry almost daily, realizing things...looking back on things. Not just things Gary did, but things I did as well...but mostly how, in the end, I was just garbage which told me a whole lot, about the entire relationship. I was so blind. I was so stupid. I neglected to protect Trevor and the few times I tried, I was shot down for it. But God forbid I rock the boat, right? (No pun intended). I still wear the ring he gave me. I don't know what to do with it. I also have the pet pillow he bought me - a pink unicorn. "Here. It's the antithesis of everything you've ever believed about yourself," he said to me. I took this as a sign that he was with me, was trying to help me, wanted to go through this with me.....would not leave me.
What do I do with these things? The pictures? I wonder what he did with all the pictures. Oh we had so much fun that day, taking pictures...I have the envelope with what's left of them in it. Plus I have two framed pictures. Two 8x10's. What do I do with them?
I also wear the ring of a man who terrifies me. He's tall, powerful, and frightening. I have had it for years. I took it off for awhile, but put it back on about a year ago. Our relationship went sour....he's my adoptive father. Back then (about five years ago), things got really bad and he became a huge trigger for me. Now he and my adoptive mother are back in my life, although he, not so much. More my adoptive mother, Cindy, who's been like an angel...more than I could ever ask for in a mother.
And Bill....
God.
Nobody who knows us and our relationship would ever say anything BUT that we are soul mates. But I'm so terrified - still so wounded from the brutality of my last relationship - that I don't trust myself. For five years, Bill waited for me. Our relationship was always pure, always loving. He has been with me through everything, done everything. And now he works a thousand miles away, to help me and Trevor (and himself), but mostly me because of his growing understanding of how important stability is to me - something I repeatedly told Gary, but which went entirely ignored. Now I have this wonderful, faithful, loyal, honest man who adores me, helping me, believing in me and encouraging me....learning so he can help me and I am terrified. What if the same thing happens, as what happened with Gary? I didn't expect it from Gary, but it happened. I don't know.... I just don't know. I know that now - tonight - I am lonely and I miss Bill.
I got a lot done the past few weeks. Things have been moving forward with the help of Bill and Cindy yet somehow, tonight, something has a hold on me...like a shadow or a ghost and I just can't shake it.
Tony...My Tony. This is the thirty-thousandth time he's broken my heart.
Probably won't be the last, either.
Hopefully tomorrow will be better.
Monday, August 27, 2012
Character Flaws
My Name is Cristina D. Johnson.
Had therapy today - she made me cry. The discussion was about me asking the question, how come all of "our friends" see what he's done (or know what he was doing) and they still just want to hang out with him, and haven't even reached out to me?
"I don't understand," I lamented.
"What would understanding, do for you?" she asked.
This is a question I took in and really thought on.
"That's a very profound question," I answered, as my eyes began to tear up. It brought up such immense pain, that I stuttered out the answer after a few moments of silent tears.
"Understanding why....would help me to know I'm not ugly or dirty or unworthy," I choked out.
Why? Why didn't anyone check on me? This has plagued me for months. I wondered, how could people want to be with someone who was so hurtful, so insensitive to me - their "friend" - in desperate need of help and compassion. How could they all abandon me in favor of someone who did such detrimental things to me at such a critical time? Why?
I couldn't understand it and it's hurt me.
"Has it occurred to you that it's not you, but them?" she asked.
No...it hadn't because of all the things he said about me. People just took his word for it and I know the picture painted of me would look like a painting dropped in mud. It hadn't occurred to me that the problem may be theirs.
"Relationships end," she said matter-of-factly.
I hadn't thought of that.
"Clearly [he] didn't have the tenacity to help you through the pain you're going through," she said, adding, "and maybe those 'friends' don't either. That's their problem - it's not your problem. It doesn't mean there's something wrong with you," she said. "Perhaps it's just part of their character flaws."
"Two suicide attempts is hard for some people to take," she said. Which I acknowledge, but have made as many apologies as possible for.
She remarked on Bill and Cindy and Hannah, saying how these are the kinds of people I need in my life: supportive, understanding, compassionate, patient.
"Bill is the kind of guy you need," she said. "He obviously truly wants to see you healthy and independent and he's proven it."
This, too, made me cry and I admitted to her that I - for a brief moment the other day, after blogging about him - allowed myself to believe I deserve to be treated the way he treats me; with kindness and consideration and respect and genuine love.
I have an event coming up. We talked about it briefly....I am a little nervous about it. She suggested, "So don't do it?"
"I already said yes," I responded.
"So why not back out? You've done it before with [Dee] and with Tony. Why not now?"
I began to cry again.
"Because if I step outside of my box, and my comfort zone [of conformity and complacency], then people will leave."
"So you're afraid if you step out of your box, people will leave you?"
Yes. If I don't do what I'm supposed to do, people will leave me.
What a terrible way to live...a terrible way to believe.
And that's how I've always been.
Had therapy today - she made me cry. The discussion was about me asking the question, how come all of "our friends" see what he's done (or know what he was doing) and they still just want to hang out with him, and haven't even reached out to me?
"I don't understand," I lamented.
"What would understanding, do for you?" she asked.
This is a question I took in and really thought on.
"That's a very profound question," I answered, as my eyes began to tear up. It brought up such immense pain, that I stuttered out the answer after a few moments of silent tears.
"Understanding why....would help me to know I'm not ugly or dirty or unworthy," I choked out.
Why? Why didn't anyone check on me? This has plagued me for months. I wondered, how could people want to be with someone who was so hurtful, so insensitive to me - their "friend" - in desperate need of help and compassion. How could they all abandon me in favor of someone who did such detrimental things to me at such a critical time? Why?
I couldn't understand it and it's hurt me.
"Has it occurred to you that it's not you, but them?" she asked.
No...it hadn't because of all the things he said about me. People just took his word for it and I know the picture painted of me would look like a painting dropped in mud. It hadn't occurred to me that the problem may be theirs.
"Relationships end," she said matter-of-factly.
I hadn't thought of that.
"Clearly [he] didn't have the tenacity to help you through the pain you're going through," she said, adding, "and maybe those 'friends' don't either. That's their problem - it's not your problem. It doesn't mean there's something wrong with you," she said. "Perhaps it's just part of their character flaws."
"Two suicide attempts is hard for some people to take," she said. Which I acknowledge, but have made as many apologies as possible for.
She remarked on Bill and Cindy and Hannah, saying how these are the kinds of people I need in my life: supportive, understanding, compassionate, patient.
"Bill is the kind of guy you need," she said. "He obviously truly wants to see you healthy and independent and he's proven it."
This, too, made me cry and I admitted to her that I - for a brief moment the other day, after blogging about him - allowed myself to believe I deserve to be treated the way he treats me; with kindness and consideration and respect and genuine love.
I have an event coming up. We talked about it briefly....I am a little nervous about it. She suggested, "So don't do it?"
"I already said yes," I responded.
"So why not back out? You've done it before with [Dee] and with Tony. Why not now?"
I began to cry again.
"Because if I step outside of my box, and my comfort zone [of conformity and complacency], then people will leave."
"So you're afraid if you step out of your box, people will leave you?"
Yes. If I don't do what I'm supposed to do, people will leave me.
What a terrible way to live...a terrible way to believe.
And that's how I've always been.
Saturday, August 25, 2012
Mixed Up
I don't even know how to start this blog. I've been through the wringer the past three months and it's just so tiring and exhaustive. I mean, when does it stop?
In May, when I was at my lowest possible point (which one would have to be, to attempt suicide), I was abandoned by the one person who swore they would always be there. I was having flashbacks and panic attacks daily. I was having black-outs and I was in therapy, working so hard to figure out how my past was affecting my present.
As anyone with any knowledge of or experience in PTSD knows, a perceived threat, elicits a strong response that is rooted in the pain or fear of the past. It's lightning quick. It's processed through the amygdala in the brain as a threat and the PTSD sufferer responds accordingly. For me, the responses varied usually either rage or pain but always rooted in fear.
After I was gossiped about and people were told my private business I was so humiliated and I became terrified to go anywhere. Even to the store. Even to the mailbox. And I needed a friend so bad. Ironically, I kept turning to him and he kept triggering, knowing he was doing it...knowing it was killing me.
In a PTSD crisis, every emotion is amplified and I begged and begged for compassion, but got none. I have PTSD mostly as a result of abuse from men - many men - and he quickly became an enormous trigger for me because he would say or do something nice, but then he would say or do something cruel - the same mixed messages my father gave me when he would vacillate between beatings and punishments, and molestation. I tried explaining this to him in an effort to - again - beg him to stop, but to no avail.
I got to the point where I was gagging every time I heard his footsteps, because I was so triggered. Eventually it escalated to vomiting, just from the overwhelm. At that time, I had nobody. Nobody I trusted. The only person who said she was my friend, was going out with him so I had no reason to trust her. And none of "our friends" ever once called or messaged me to see if I was okay. Yesterday, I deleted most of them from my friend's list, trying to feel safe, trying to eliminate any connection to this person who hurt me so badly.
People come and go in your life - I know many have in mine - and this is my story and when people come and go in my life, they become a part of my story. When they inject themselves - in either good or bad ways - they are a part of my story.
For the past month, I have been blessed to have my best friend in the world - Bill - come help me. Although I have others - Cindy, Hannah, Howie, Ron (in the background) - who help as much as they can, Bill came and nursed me through some pretty horrific breakdowns. This is what I needed from the beginning - from "him" - someone who would help me and genuinely care about what I was going through. Someone willing to hold my hair when I vomited from sheer nerves. Someone who would wipe my tears or give me kleenex; someone who would take me places - anywhere - just randomly, to get me out of the house; someone who truly cared.
Bill has been a God send and has proven to be my absolute best friend, my right arm, my shoulder to cry on. He's been awakened in the middle of the night by crying and gagging and never once complained. Just asked if I was okay, turned on the light, lit me a cigarette and rubbed my back while I went through my painful attacks. Not a single time when I trembled went by, that he didn't hold me until the trembling subsided.
All of these symptoms have been exacerbated by the cruelty of others. And I am not claiming to be an angel, but I will say I tried my best - tried to make people understand, only to be misunderstood and judged. I'm not surprised by this.
Anyway, Bill left today........
He left for Illinois. This on top of a very difficult evening wherein I was forced to contact the police over all the BS going on.
Last night was supposed to be a sort of farewell party for Bill - although it certainly was no picnic. I cried a lot, shook a lot, plus had an anxiety attack in the middle of it all over other things going on. Couldn't eat the food we made. Just couldn't stomach it.
The thought of losing my best friend, the thought of not having someone here to help me through my attacks, frightens the shit out of me and I can't see what the future looks like.
One thing I have learned, though, is that Bill was always my best friend. Even through my relationship with "him" Bill was there - always. And when he got here, it was as if no time had passed at all. Same old Bill. Genuine, authentic, loving, giving, caring. He gave more to me in this past month, than I've gotten in the past five years from everyone I met and knew for the past five years, combined. In one month, he showed me more attention, affection, compassion and concern than anyone, ever.
I believe some people are simply incapable of that kind of depth. I've met them. I've lived among them. In a way, I suppose it's good that I had my own ...call it judgment, ratified. I learned that all the things I feared about the "thems" in the world, are true. And then some.
And I also learned who and what a true friend is. Anyone who knows him, is fortunate. He is the epitome of a good man, good friend, and good human being.
We both sobbed as he left today, even though eventually he'll be back. But one thing I know is this: Bill will always be my best friend. I miss him terribly.
In May, when I was at my lowest possible point (which one would have to be, to attempt suicide), I was abandoned by the one person who swore they would always be there. I was having flashbacks and panic attacks daily. I was having black-outs and I was in therapy, working so hard to figure out how my past was affecting my present.
As anyone with any knowledge of or experience in PTSD knows, a perceived threat, elicits a strong response that is rooted in the pain or fear of the past. It's lightning quick. It's processed through the amygdala in the brain as a threat and the PTSD sufferer responds accordingly. For me, the responses varied usually either rage or pain but always rooted in fear.
After I was gossiped about and people were told my private business I was so humiliated and I became terrified to go anywhere. Even to the store. Even to the mailbox. And I needed a friend so bad. Ironically, I kept turning to him and he kept triggering, knowing he was doing it...knowing it was killing me.
In a PTSD crisis, every emotion is amplified and I begged and begged for compassion, but got none. I have PTSD mostly as a result of abuse from men - many men - and he quickly became an enormous trigger for me because he would say or do something nice, but then he would say or do something cruel - the same mixed messages my father gave me when he would vacillate between beatings and punishments, and molestation. I tried explaining this to him in an effort to - again - beg him to stop, but to no avail.
I got to the point where I was gagging every time I heard his footsteps, because I was so triggered. Eventually it escalated to vomiting, just from the overwhelm. At that time, I had nobody. Nobody I trusted. The only person who said she was my friend, was going out with him so I had no reason to trust her. And none of "our friends" ever once called or messaged me to see if I was okay. Yesterday, I deleted most of them from my friend's list, trying to feel safe, trying to eliminate any connection to this person who hurt me so badly.
People come and go in your life - I know many have in mine - and this is my story and when people come and go in my life, they become a part of my story. When they inject themselves - in either good or bad ways - they are a part of my story.
For the past month, I have been blessed to have my best friend in the world - Bill - come help me. Although I have others - Cindy, Hannah, Howie, Ron (in the background) - who help as much as they can, Bill came and nursed me through some pretty horrific breakdowns. This is what I needed from the beginning - from "him" - someone who would help me and genuinely care about what I was going through. Someone willing to hold my hair when I vomited from sheer nerves. Someone who would wipe my tears or give me kleenex; someone who would take me places - anywhere - just randomly, to get me out of the house; someone who truly cared.
Bill has been a God send and has proven to be my absolute best friend, my right arm, my shoulder to cry on. He's been awakened in the middle of the night by crying and gagging and never once complained. Just asked if I was okay, turned on the light, lit me a cigarette and rubbed my back while I went through my painful attacks. Not a single time when I trembled went by, that he didn't hold me until the trembling subsided.
All of these symptoms have been exacerbated by the cruelty of others. And I am not claiming to be an angel, but I will say I tried my best - tried to make people understand, only to be misunderstood and judged. I'm not surprised by this.
Anyway, Bill left today........
He left for Illinois. This on top of a very difficult evening wherein I was forced to contact the police over all the BS going on.
Last night was supposed to be a sort of farewell party for Bill - although it certainly was no picnic. I cried a lot, shook a lot, plus had an anxiety attack in the middle of it all over other things going on. Couldn't eat the food we made. Just couldn't stomach it.
The thought of losing my best friend, the thought of not having someone here to help me through my attacks, frightens the shit out of me and I can't see what the future looks like.
One thing I have learned, though, is that Bill was always my best friend. Even through my relationship with "him" Bill was there - always. And when he got here, it was as if no time had passed at all. Same old Bill. Genuine, authentic, loving, giving, caring. He gave more to me in this past month, than I've gotten in the past five years from everyone I met and knew for the past five years, combined. In one month, he showed me more attention, affection, compassion and concern than anyone, ever.
I believe some people are simply incapable of that kind of depth. I've met them. I've lived among them. In a way, I suppose it's good that I had my own ...call it judgment, ratified. I learned that all the things I feared about the "thems" in the world, are true. And then some.
And I also learned who and what a true friend is. Anyone who knows him, is fortunate. He is the epitome of a good man, good friend, and good human being.
We both sobbed as he left today, even though eventually he'll be back. But one thing I know is this: Bill will always be my best friend. I miss him terribly.
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
It's All About Image
My name is Cristina D. Johnson
This is an angry blog. Just a forewarning.
Woke up this morning with text messages from "him" - bouncing back and forth between being nice and being an ass. I was immediately triggered.
I have never, ever in my entire life had a single human being trigger me as instantaneously as he does.
I know why that is, too.
For about eight weeks, we were still living together. We would bounce back and forth between deciding whether or not to work it out, or whether or not splitting was the best choice. He would say, "You're the one who said you were done," never realizing he made it impossible for me to stay.
Then...he would go out. Not only would he go out, but he would tell people my private business. I was horrified beyond belief. I couldn't believe he would betray my trust - my deepest trust - in such a way. But he was very clever about it. He "told just a few people" (which means anyone, really) knowing damned good and well that these towns talk - everyone talks. Never using any common sense or decency, always without regard for my own dignity.
Oh God how it hurt. I've been writing my entire life and I can't think of a single word (or set of words) that can adequately describe the pain I was going through. The lies he told me - how he misled me about the wedding and instead took my "friend" "L" (who, incidentally is apparently not much of a friend since she hasn't even once contacted me to see how I'm doing. Instead she hangs out on his boat or goes out with him). He made me feel like the lowest form of life by telling me lies, and then going behind my back. He blew things out of proportion, made himself look like a super hero and divulged everything from my issues to my financial situation to people whose business it was none of, nor was it his right to do so. Especially to an incest survivor. OH MY GOD the things I'd shared!! I was beyond terrified. And nobody checked on me. They just took his word for it - poor, poor him. The victim, the savior. Oh he made himself look like the real hero and me...well I was just nothing. As I always had been.
I attempted suicide. I was in crisis. It's not uncommon for people with my disorders. Neither is a lot of stuff - cutting, binging, drinking, drugs, etc. but the triggering...Dear God, every night he would trigger me, telling me he was going out, knowing it would trigger me and then carelessly walking away.
(Definition: Anything that brings about a symptom of PTSD. For example, a news story about the Iraq War may cause a veteran with PTSD to have thoughts and memories about the war. Triggers may include people, places, sounds, words, and/or smells. Source: http://ptsd.about.com/od/glossary/g/triggerdef.htm)
That about sums it up.
Being abandoned, being cheated on, being lied to, being talked about behind my back and then being told - when I asked - no, begged - him to please stop talking about me.
"You're just trying to control who I talk to and what I say," he would respond angrily. "It's my life."
"No, it's my information and my private business that I'm asking you not to share."
"It's none of your goddamn business who I talk to or what I say," he said one night.
He would say and do things, knowing they were going to trigger me and when the panic attacks came on, he would causally walk away, go out to his van, and go party - pretending his life was perfect as I sat alone in the house, mortified, horrified, embarrassed to be seen by anyone.
That was one of the most insidious aspects of his telling people (and of him telling me that people were talking about me): He never would tell me who he told what, and who said what so I was there, like a nothing. I had no importance, ever. I was nothing....just something to gossip about and he being him, would do all he could to protect his image. Because, after all, it's all about image.
He's not the person people think he is. He went out and made himself out to be a victim - which, in a way, he was; a secondary victim of my abuse and at times of my own verbal abuse.
When he would trigger me, I would become irrationally angry. Actually, it was profound pain that was misplaced (being triggered brings back feelings, memories, sensations, etc. from your past) and the only way I knew to react was by anger because that's what happens when you grow up on the streets: you fight.
I was also living in complete disbelief. How could someone who said they loved me, do this to me? How could he? I wasn't unreasonable - I was trying to get out as soon as I possibly could because it hurt to be there - but I asked him to please, please just wait until I'm gone before you start going out. Please.
Nope.
So it got to the point where even hearing his footsteps or his early-morning coughing was sending shockwaves through my body. I was uncontrollably triggered and stuck.
"You can go out if you want," he would say, never considering how mortified I was that he told everyone my personal business. He even told people he fixed my car for me, never divulging the fact that it was OUR car and it broke down because of OUR use and should have been fixed at least a year ago. It just so happened to be in my name. So he made sure he looked good. Made sure everyone knew how much he loved me.
We can see that now, can't we? As he takes his new gf out on his fancy boat (which he cannot afford)? Yeah he loved me alright.
No....if love bit him twice in the ass he wouldn't know what it was.
Because, for him, when love gets complicated, it's too much.
So then he starts accusing me of being violent. Violent because I would grab the front of his shirt and cry and plead and beg, "Why are you leaving me? You said you wouldn't leave me! Why are you giving up on me!? You said you never would leave me!" ...this, is violence, for which he would call the cops on me if I ever did it again. (another huge trigger of mine, btw, being a child of the system - and a trigger he's well aware of).
In this morning's text messages, he flipped back and forth between being nice and being not-so-nice, even with a veiled threat about how if [my blog] begins to effect him, he'll handle it then.
Well, here I am - being real. Spread out wide open, everyone knows my secrets and my sins. Everyone knows my shame, now, because I chose to tell it - not because someone with no morals or sense of loyalty decided to spread it around. Because for me, it's no longer all about image.
It's about being real - and I'm being real.
Nothing in my blog is a lie, distortion or exaggeration.
I was so thrown off today just by his text messages this morning that the entire day was a trigger until I was exhausted.
I laid down and fell asleep, only to have a nightmare about him. Him and his brother.
They were being so cruel in my dream - heartless, cruel, vicious.
Control. Image.
It's all about that, isn't it?
Image?
What a fool I was to fall into that trap - to drown myself in this pool of high fa-looting, the-world-is-my-oyster, pretending to be someone and something I wasn't. And why? To live up to his expectations?
Well, who the hell is HE? A cheater, a liar, a fake? And *I* was trying to live up to HIS expectations?
But when the going got tough and I needed him more than anything in the world, he fled - to another woman (which he admitted to, but now denies) and is now seeing, (surely just coincidence).
Then...out of nowhere, came friends and supporters - people who aren't so obsessed with their image. People who've either been there or understand or want to help or want to be friends with me or want to help me.
I discovered in this process - this process of coming out and telling my truth and being real- who my friends truly are. Painfully, I also learned who, among those I've known for five years now, are not.
I could go on and talk about the REAL person I know - the reality of his life but he has to live with himself. He must be exhausted - just like I was - holding up such a fake facade, living up to others' expectations, trying to be something he isn't.
But unlike him - I have empathy. I pity him, despite the fact that he is the single most biggest trigger of any person ever in my life. I have never, ever been triggered by anyone as much as him - mostly because of the deliberate and intentional pain he put me through. Mr. Perfect. Mr. Wonderful. Oh but if people only knew the truth...
This is the end of my angry blog and I must say that in the past five years I've met two amazing people - R & R - father and daughter. Dad R is so authentic and lovely, wonderful and fantastic and daughter R is the same. To them I say: I miss you. I always authentically loved you both.
This is an angry blog. Just a forewarning.
Woke up this morning with text messages from "him" - bouncing back and forth between being nice and being an ass. I was immediately triggered.
I have never, ever in my entire life had a single human being trigger me as instantaneously as he does.
I know why that is, too.
For about eight weeks, we were still living together. We would bounce back and forth between deciding whether or not to work it out, or whether or not splitting was the best choice. He would say, "You're the one who said you were done," never realizing he made it impossible for me to stay.
Then...he would go out. Not only would he go out, but he would tell people my private business. I was horrified beyond belief. I couldn't believe he would betray my trust - my deepest trust - in such a way. But he was very clever about it. He "told just a few people" (which means anyone, really) knowing damned good and well that these towns talk - everyone talks. Never using any common sense or decency, always without regard for my own dignity.
Oh God how it hurt. I've been writing my entire life and I can't think of a single word (or set of words) that can adequately describe the pain I was going through. The lies he told me - how he misled me about the wedding and instead took my "friend" "L" (who, incidentally is apparently not much of a friend since she hasn't even once contacted me to see how I'm doing. Instead she hangs out on his boat or goes out with him). He made me feel like the lowest form of life by telling me lies, and then going behind my back. He blew things out of proportion, made himself look like a super hero and divulged everything from my issues to my financial situation to people whose business it was none of, nor was it his right to do so. Especially to an incest survivor. OH MY GOD the things I'd shared!! I was beyond terrified. And nobody checked on me. They just took his word for it - poor, poor him. The victim, the savior. Oh he made himself look like the real hero and me...well I was just nothing. As I always had been.
I attempted suicide. I was in crisis. It's not uncommon for people with my disorders. Neither is a lot of stuff - cutting, binging, drinking, drugs, etc. but the triggering...Dear God, every night he would trigger me, telling me he was going out, knowing it would trigger me and then carelessly walking away.
(Definition: Anything that brings about a symptom of PTSD. For example, a news story about the Iraq War may cause a veteran with PTSD to have thoughts and memories about the war. Triggers may include people, places, sounds, words, and/or smells. Source: http://ptsd.about.com/od/glossary/g/triggerdef.htm)
That about sums it up.
Being abandoned, being cheated on, being lied to, being talked about behind my back and then being told - when I asked - no, begged - him to please stop talking about me.
"You're just trying to control who I talk to and what I say," he would respond angrily. "It's my life."
"No, it's my information and my private business that I'm asking you not to share."
"It's none of your goddamn business who I talk to or what I say," he said one night.
He would say and do things, knowing they were going to trigger me and when the panic attacks came on, he would causally walk away, go out to his van, and go party - pretending his life was perfect as I sat alone in the house, mortified, horrified, embarrassed to be seen by anyone.
That was one of the most insidious aspects of his telling people (and of him telling me that people were talking about me): He never would tell me who he told what, and who said what so I was there, like a nothing. I had no importance, ever. I was nothing....just something to gossip about and he being him, would do all he could to protect his image. Because, after all, it's all about image.
He's not the person people think he is. He went out and made himself out to be a victim - which, in a way, he was; a secondary victim of my abuse and at times of my own verbal abuse.
When he would trigger me, I would become irrationally angry. Actually, it was profound pain that was misplaced (being triggered brings back feelings, memories, sensations, etc. from your past) and the only way I knew to react was by anger because that's what happens when you grow up on the streets: you fight.
I was also living in complete disbelief. How could someone who said they loved me, do this to me? How could he? I wasn't unreasonable - I was trying to get out as soon as I possibly could because it hurt to be there - but I asked him to please, please just wait until I'm gone before you start going out. Please.
Nope.
So it got to the point where even hearing his footsteps or his early-morning coughing was sending shockwaves through my body. I was uncontrollably triggered and stuck.
"You can go out if you want," he would say, never considering how mortified I was that he told everyone my personal business. He even told people he fixed my car for me, never divulging the fact that it was OUR car and it broke down because of OUR use and should have been fixed at least a year ago. It just so happened to be in my name. So he made sure he looked good. Made sure everyone knew how much he loved me.
We can see that now, can't we? As he takes his new gf out on his fancy boat (which he cannot afford)? Yeah he loved me alright.
No....if love bit him twice in the ass he wouldn't know what it was.
Because, for him, when love gets complicated, it's too much.
So then he starts accusing me of being violent. Violent because I would grab the front of his shirt and cry and plead and beg, "Why are you leaving me? You said you wouldn't leave me! Why are you giving up on me!? You said you never would leave me!" ...this, is violence, for which he would call the cops on me if I ever did it again. (another huge trigger of mine, btw, being a child of the system - and a trigger he's well aware of).
In this morning's text messages, he flipped back and forth between being nice and being not-so-nice, even with a veiled threat about how if [my blog] begins to effect him, he'll handle it then.
Well, here I am - being real. Spread out wide open, everyone knows my secrets and my sins. Everyone knows my shame, now, because I chose to tell it - not because someone with no morals or sense of loyalty decided to spread it around. Because for me, it's no longer all about image.
It's about being real - and I'm being real.
Nothing in my blog is a lie, distortion or exaggeration.
I was so thrown off today just by his text messages this morning that the entire day was a trigger until I was exhausted.
I laid down and fell asleep, only to have a nightmare about him. Him and his brother.
They were being so cruel in my dream - heartless, cruel, vicious.
Control. Image.
It's all about that, isn't it?
Image?
What a fool I was to fall into that trap - to drown myself in this pool of high fa-looting, the-world-is-my-oyster, pretending to be someone and something I wasn't. And why? To live up to his expectations?
Well, who the hell is HE? A cheater, a liar, a fake? And *I* was trying to live up to HIS expectations?
But when the going got tough and I needed him more than anything in the world, he fled - to another woman (which he admitted to, but now denies) and is now seeing, (surely just coincidence).
Then...out of nowhere, came friends and supporters - people who aren't so obsessed with their image. People who've either been there or understand or want to help or want to be friends with me or want to help me.
I discovered in this process - this process of coming out and telling my truth and being real- who my friends truly are. Painfully, I also learned who, among those I've known for five years now, are not.
I could go on and talk about the REAL person I know - the reality of his life but he has to live with himself. He must be exhausted - just like I was - holding up such a fake facade, living up to others' expectations, trying to be something he isn't.
But unlike him - I have empathy. I pity him, despite the fact that he is the single most biggest trigger of any person ever in my life. I have never, ever been triggered by anyone as much as him - mostly because of the deliberate and intentional pain he put me through. Mr. Perfect. Mr. Wonderful. Oh but if people only knew the truth...
This is the end of my angry blog and I must say that in the past five years I've met two amazing people - R & R - father and daughter. Dad R is so authentic and lovely, wonderful and fantastic and daughter R is the same. To them I say: I miss you. I always authentically loved you both.
Friday, June 22, 2012
Almost Suicide
"Almost Suicide"...suicide ideation..It happened to me last night. Only, there's way more to it than that.
Last night, I was experiencing this. I was triggered - I know I was triggered because I don't remember half of it now - but I know it was my ex boyfriend who triggered me. An argument ensued. I'm reading over some of the text messages sent. He said I was sleeping in "HIS bed" - which is actually a sleeper sofa in my room. But I think that was only part of the trigger. The big trigger was going out. I was planning on possibly going out with a friend to a place me and my ex often went to, to sing karaoke. When I told him this, he said he wouldn't go. I think this was the biggest trigger.
After my flashback the other day, the big flashing red neon sign in my life is "SHAME!"; since that flashback, I can't even brush my teeth without gagging. I put my partial (tooth) in and gag every time. I take my meds, and almost vomit (actually did vomit this morning).
So feeling like he was ashamed to be seen with me in public (he's said as much), triggered me further and I was out of control. I know- from the texts- he said I hit and yelled at him, but I defended myself saying I'd shoved him. It's not uncommon for him to blow things WAY out of proportion. He always, always exaggerates. I couldn't tell you what happened but I do remember leaving. I took all my pills with me, so desperately broken-hearted that he would go to "our place" and piss on it like that. So hurt. In one text, I said "Go out to your precious bars and, like always, pretend I don't exist. Because I don't."
Anyway at some point I sent him a threatening text message about suicide.Something about drink all your happy drinks with "our friends" (your friends) I'll be dead - something like that.
We talked about this weeks ago - about how a person can be talked down, how I can be talked down, and need to be. This is what you do with someone who feels they can't take anymore. You show love, concern and you talk to them. Yes it takes time, but that's what you do.You're gentle and kind and you just care. Just talk to them. I know this from both my own experiences, and experiences I've had with others.
People suffering from suicide ideation do not want to die; they want a reason or reasons not to die. Mostly, I believe they just need to feel loved, like they matter. It takes a lot of emotion - authentic emotion - to do that. It takes time. It takes attention - honest attention.
So last night, I reached out to a friend of mine but my texts weren't going through to her, for some reason.
Meanwhile, my ex calls the police. Smart move, asshole. Make me feel MORE shame. Create a circus - have friggin state trooper cars surrounding me, picking at my stuff, asking me questions, as I sat parked by the water. They didn't even want to let me take my car home (insisted I go home - the last place in the WORLD I wanted to be). Humiliating. I told them I was not going to be trapped in that house without my car. Told them they were welcome to follow me home.
So I came home, he left. Went out to his precious bar, as if his work was done. He called the cops. I told him he was a coward and even used the "P" word and yelled at him for forgetting our talk - that I'd told him I could be talked down. He forgot. Not only did he forget, but he did the stupidest thing he could've done.
As if - AS IF - I would EVER tell the cops (or anyone with the power to lock me up) that I'm suicidal? People with suicide ideation aren't STUPID, they're HURTING and they're AFRAID and they're most likely TRIGGERED.
I told the cops everything they wanted to hear. How do I know what they needed to hear? Because I was raised in the system and I know all the right things to say. That's how. And if - IF - they had taken me to a crisis center, I'd have done the same thing there - I'd have told them all the right things. Just because I'm depressed, triggered and hurting, doesn't mean I'm stupid.
But my trust in my ex is gone. It was already broken, now it's completely gone. I see him as an emotional coward, unwilling or unintelligent or both, to talk me through a crisis, despite my telling him that's what he should do, if it ever happened again. But he's so wrapped up in himself and his "stuff" ....I never mattered. That hurts. I am still bitterly angry as I write this. So deeply hurt. So deeply wounded. I didn't matter enough for him to listen. I didn't matter enough for him to talk to me. I'm sleeping on "his" bed (the sofa sleeper) - as if I'm just some stranger who hasn't spent the past five years with him, supporting him, caring about him. Instead, he had to call the cops - have someone else take care of his problem.
Don't do this to people who you love, who are going through suicide ideation - in fact, you don't even have to love them; just care enough about another human being to take time out of your life to talk to them - they just need to matter, just need to be heard. The worst thing you could do is call the cops or a hospital and have them locked up. That just compounds the shame they're already feeling.
Last night, I was experiencing this. I was triggered - I know I was triggered because I don't remember half of it now - but I know it was my ex boyfriend who triggered me. An argument ensued. I'm reading over some of the text messages sent. He said I was sleeping in "HIS bed" - which is actually a sleeper sofa in my room. But I think that was only part of the trigger. The big trigger was going out. I was planning on possibly going out with a friend to a place me and my ex often went to, to sing karaoke. When I told him this, he said he wouldn't go. I think this was the biggest trigger.
After my flashback the other day, the big flashing red neon sign in my life is "SHAME!"; since that flashback, I can't even brush my teeth without gagging. I put my partial (tooth) in and gag every time. I take my meds, and almost vomit (actually did vomit this morning).
So feeling like he was ashamed to be seen with me in public (he's said as much), triggered me further and I was out of control. I know- from the texts- he said I hit and yelled at him, but I defended myself saying I'd shoved him. It's not uncommon for him to blow things WAY out of proportion. He always, always exaggerates. I couldn't tell you what happened but I do remember leaving. I took all my pills with me, so desperately broken-hearted that he would go to "our place" and piss on it like that. So hurt. In one text, I said "Go out to your precious bars and, like always, pretend I don't exist. Because I don't."
Anyway at some point I sent him a threatening text message about suicide.Something about drink all your happy drinks with "our friends" (your friends) I'll be dead - something like that.
We talked about this weeks ago - about how a person can be talked down, how I can be talked down, and need to be. This is what you do with someone who feels they can't take anymore. You show love, concern and you talk to them. Yes it takes time, but that's what you do.You're gentle and kind and you just care. Just talk to them. I know this from both my own experiences, and experiences I've had with others.
People suffering from suicide ideation do not want to die; they want a reason or reasons not to die. Mostly, I believe they just need to feel loved, like they matter. It takes a lot of emotion - authentic emotion - to do that. It takes time. It takes attention - honest attention.
So last night, I reached out to a friend of mine but my texts weren't going through to her, for some reason.
Meanwhile, my ex calls the police. Smart move, asshole. Make me feel MORE shame. Create a circus - have friggin state trooper cars surrounding me, picking at my stuff, asking me questions, as I sat parked by the water. They didn't even want to let me take my car home (insisted I go home - the last place in the WORLD I wanted to be). Humiliating. I told them I was not going to be trapped in that house without my car. Told them they were welcome to follow me home.
So I came home, he left. Went out to his precious bar, as if his work was done. He called the cops. I told him he was a coward and even used the "P" word and yelled at him for forgetting our talk - that I'd told him I could be talked down. He forgot. Not only did he forget, but he did the stupidest thing he could've done.
As if - AS IF - I would EVER tell the cops (or anyone with the power to lock me up) that I'm suicidal? People with suicide ideation aren't STUPID, they're HURTING and they're AFRAID and they're most likely TRIGGERED.
I told the cops everything they wanted to hear. How do I know what they needed to hear? Because I was raised in the system and I know all the right things to say. That's how. And if - IF - they had taken me to a crisis center, I'd have done the same thing there - I'd have told them all the right things. Just because I'm depressed, triggered and hurting, doesn't mean I'm stupid.
But my trust in my ex is gone. It was already broken, now it's completely gone. I see him as an emotional coward, unwilling or unintelligent or both, to talk me through a crisis, despite my telling him that's what he should do, if it ever happened again. But he's so wrapped up in himself and his "stuff" ....I never mattered. That hurts. I am still bitterly angry as I write this. So deeply hurt. So deeply wounded. I didn't matter enough for him to listen. I didn't matter enough for him to talk to me. I'm sleeping on "his" bed (the sofa sleeper) - as if I'm just some stranger who hasn't spent the past five years with him, supporting him, caring about him. Instead, he had to call the cops - have someone else take care of his problem.
Don't do this to people who you love, who are going through suicide ideation - in fact, you don't even have to love them; just care enough about another human being to take time out of your life to talk to them - they just need to matter, just need to be heard. The worst thing you could do is call the cops or a hospital and have them locked up. That just compounds the shame they're already feeling.
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