50 Shades for 50 Voices
23 May 2012 Leave a Comment
At any given time my mind is like a giant ping pong tournament with one table and multiple balls. I tried to capture everything I thought in a fifteen minute period. Themes, not stream of consciousness. And I am in NO WAY suicidal.
Some thoughts/feelings from today
- I can’t believe nobody has come out publicly against 50 Shades.
- I feel like everyone is staring at me and knows my own 50 shades of fucked up secret
- In response to a friend relaying a story about how he witnessed a woman getting a “treatment” on a cross at a club: Instant revulsion at the word “treatment.” It reminded me of my grandmother threatening “the treatment” if we stepped out of line.
- What was the treatment?
How was she going to deliver it at 5’2” and 85 lbs. soaking wet? - 5’2” is really big when you’re five.
- I should really just kill myself.
- Maybe I have borderline personality disorder and this is as good as things are going to get.
- I’d slit my wrists but I’m pretty sure I’d only get one done – I’m right handed and hopeless with my left. Not only would my left hand be sticky and weaker but I’d probably be in pain.
- I had a dream about my dad being addicted to sniffing women’s underwear and putting himself in bankruptcy with it. I bailed him out. Weird.
- My credit score went up. I kinda feel like a grownup.
- There are times lately when I feel attracted to everything with a pulse.
- Do people not take care of me because I don’t let them or do I pick people who are incapable of taking care of me?
- If I ever go back to feeling the way I did when I was mixed up in my own 50 shades world I WILL kill myself. I absolutely cannot do that again.
- I think I might be smart enough to get a doctorate.
- Maybe if I stay really really busy I can shut the music off in my head and stop the crazy thoughts when I drive and just find some productive chaos.
- I still have the instinctual pull to have sex with people I’m grateful to for treating me like a decent human being. I should really do something about that.
- Today I entertained the thought that my boss’s boss was angry with me and I didn’t freak out – I was sound in my knowledge that I did what I was supposed to do and I didn’t allow myself to give into the assumption that her grumpy mood was magically because of me.
- I won some jewelry today and it made me feel pretty.
And so it goes
17 May 2012 Leave a Comment
As always, I do my best thinking, or “communicating” with myself in the car, get home with the intention to write, and then go blank. There’s a metaphor in there but I’m too tired to dig too deep J
Things have been going pretty well for a change. I’m feeling really well medicated. My combo of 120 mg of Cymbalta and 6 mg of Abilify seems to be really making a difference. I don’t feel numb – I’d say I can feel a pretty full range of emotions. I don’t get terribly depressed. And for whatever reason bumping me up on the Cymbalta seems to have gotten me over the hump of sexual side effects. My libido may not be what it once was, but when I do feel like being intimate with my husband I can do so without feeling frustrated and useless.
One of the most magical things is the sharp decrease in anxiety. I went from needing Klonopin 4-5 times a week to MAYBE once a week. I’m also sleeping without a sleep aid. I’m having more dreams, but that’s not always a bad thing. I have realized however that it takes a lot of coffee to keep me going during the day. Where I used to feel jumpy after more than a cup (10 oz) I now drink four times that. But it’s not motivation that’s lacking – I sometimes just get so tired.
Part of me is concerned that this isn’t really about medication but rather a part of my personality system that maybe doesn’t carry the depression as profoundly has come out to play. If that is the case then I don’t want to be screwed if that part decides to go back into hiding. I’m not really sure how all this works.
One of the thoughts I was having in the car on the way home is that part of me is scared to let my therapist know that I’m starting to latch on and embrace the idea of a complex personality system. (I had to resist putting that in quotes.) Actually there’s a part of me that’s downright excited about it – like I finally have an explanation for what I knew deep down but couldn’t seem to put into words for other people. Like that there are times that I’m here, but I’m not.
When things were pretty bad with my mom I think I was actively dissociating. My clue to this is that whenever I would walk into my house I would lose my keys. Ok, everyone looses their keys. But it got to the point with me where my whole family refused to help me look, and would get really angry at me. It happened every time and would sometimes take hours to locate them. I would be a crying mess beaten down by my mother and father’s recriminations by the time I found them. But not only would I not be able to locate my keys but I would not be able to remember coming in the house – not be able to “retrace” my steps. It would make me panic.
My therapist at the time related it to the trauma of living with an alcoholic – never knowing what to expect when I walked in the door my mind would be focused on anticipating what horror would be waiting up the steps, so my putting down the keys wouldn’t register. Now I wonder if someone else, someone more able to handle the trauma, was walking in the door.
When I drive I’m acutely aware that there are other parts to my head. I hear them talk to me, or sing, and sometimes I puzzle things out with them. I sort of feel like a component of healing is going to be learning how to communicate with them and convince them that I am capable of “driving the car.” (Oh yeah, here’s that metaphor!)
But back to being afraid for a minute? What am I afraid of? I guess deep down I’m afraid that if I admit out loud that I am this way, my therapist will be forced to proverbially lock me up and throw away the key. I will magically become incapacitated and have to go on disability and never have a job again where I have to communicate with the world in any honest or meaningful/skillful way. As if someone is going to find out that I’ve only been pretending to be a healthy individual.
This past weekend was mother’s day, and of course that was a bit difficult. I struggled for a bit with whether or not to plant flowers at her grave site. I eventually played out a scenario in my head that I could live with and let it go at that. I imagined myself planting and talking to her. “Well mom, I don’t know what to say. I’m grateful you decided to have me, because my life today is pretty wonderful. While I do have issues and problems, I have a wonderful husband, two great brothers, a father I get along with, two beautiful dogs, a home, and a fantastic job with meaning. I’m grateful you didn’t take that away too.”
And so it goes.
Why I hate Facebook
27 Mar 2012 1 Comment
I have a large family. My maternal grandmother was one of 9. I have many aunts, uncles and cousins, I’ve never felt that I fit in, have been accepted, or really loved by them. I also thought that I had accepted that this was through no fault of my own, and that from the time I was little other members of my family set up a dynamic that would keep my branch isolated.
Facebook gave me a sense of false security I think. I slowly started to add family members to my friends list, and felt like I was being brought into their world. What I forgot is that facebook is not a door – it’s a window that you peek through, voyeuristically. Just as the television is not speaking to you (no, really it isn’t) the posters on facebook, for the most part, are not taking into account that you specifically are reading their post. There is a nebulous sense of the masses we call “friends” but I think it rarely gets drilled down to the individual, and the impact on that person.
And so it is that I come to find out that two of my cousins are making confirmation and my branch of the family is not invited. And how I come to find out that a cousin I considered particularly close to me is flying up for the event and making plans to see another cousin of mine – one that I had no idea she was so close to.
I’m reminded by the song below – that the injury is not intentional or personal, and that I’d have been happier not knowing. It is another reason to consider unplugging.
The middle- Jimmy Eat World.
Hey,
Don’t write yourself off yet.
It’s only in your head you feel left out,
Or looked down on.
Just try your best,
Try everything you can.
And don’t you worry what they tell themselves
When you’re away.
[Chorus]
It just takes some time,
Little girl, you’re in the middle of the ride.
Everything, everything will be just fine,
Everything, everything will be alright. (alright)
Hey,
You know they’re all the same.
You know you’re doing better on your own, (on your own)
So don’t buy in.
Live right now.
Yeah, just be yourself.
It doesn’t matter if it’s good enough (good enough)
For someone else.
[Chorus x2]
Hey, don’t write yourself off yet.
It’s only in your head you feel left out, (feel left out)
Or looked down on.
Just do your best, (just do your best)
Do everything you can. (do everything you can)
And don’t you worry what their bitter hearts (bitter hearts)
Are gonna say.
How WIll I know (If she really loved me…)
14 Feb 2012 Leave a Comment
Ok so this Whitney Houston thing has me wrecked. Not because of Whitney. Not really anyway. I mean, I was born in 1977 and I have some really fabulous Whitney memories. I remember I wanted her skin color because to me it was just so beautiful and flawless. She was the first audio cassette I owned – ok I got hers and Lionel Richie on the same day 
I remember sitting across from my grandmother and singing “One Moment in Time” and really believing Nana when she said I sang it better than Whitney.
I’m sure I will do a post on my views on addiction at some point, given that in my own right I struggle with addiction, but suffice it to say that what really angers me is when people act like the only addicts in the world worth caring about are dead celebrities. My mother was an addict. Do you know how many times I was scared that she would drown in the bathtub? My mother was 47 when she died and we live maybe 45 minutes from where Whitney grew up. Is her addiction more important than my mother’s?
This is a confusing time for me because I am simultaneously dealing with the idea of my mother as abuser. The same little girl afraid of her mother drowning was the one who’s wrist she grabbed tight while she masturbated in the bathtub. The same little girl checking for breath when she passed out was the same one who had to make it through the fog of cigarette smoke to deliver a fresh beer. God, I can still smell that scent – sweat, sex, stale beer and cigarettes. My stomach turns just thinking about it. That distance from the door to the tub seems to be ten miles. At one time I knew exactly how many tiles there were in that bathroom. I would watch the paths of the condensation drops on the cans of Meister Brau. Although my mother died in 2001 she remains fixed in my memory much as my memory of Whitney Houston – big hair, big shoulders, bright makeup – and a dead look behind the eyes.
One of the thoughts that comforted me in the months after my mother’s death was that she chose to go – to release me.
“Bittersweet memories
that is all I’m taking with me.
So, goodbye.
Please, don’t cry.
We both know I’m not what you, you need.”
Ok so this Whit…
14 Feb 2012 3 Comments
Ok so this Whitney Houston thing has me wrecked. Not because of Whitney. Not really anyway. I mean, I was born in 1977 and I have some really fabulous Whitney memories. I remember I wanted her skin color because to me it was just so beautiful and flawless. She was the first audio cassette I owned – ok I got hers and Lionel Richie on the same day I remember sitting across from my grandmother and singing “One Moment in Time” and really believing Nana when she said I sang it better than Whitney.
I’m sure I will do a post on my views on addiction at some point, given that in my own right I struggle with addiction, but suffice it to say that what really angers me is when people act like the only addicts in the world worth caring about are dead celebrities. My mother was an addict. Do you know how many times I was scared that she would drown in the bathtub? My mother was 47 when she died and we live maybe 45 minutes from where Whitney grew up. Is her addiction more important than my mother’s?
This is a confusing time for me because I am simultaneously dealing with the idea of my mother as abuser. The same little girl afraid of her mother drowning was the one who’s wrist she grabbed tight while she masturbated in the bathtub. The same little girl checking for breath when she passed out was the same one who had to make it through the fog of cigarette smoke to deliver a fresh beer. God, I can still smell that scent – sweat, sex, stale beer and cigarettes. My stomach turns just thinking about it. That distance from the door to the tub seems to be ten miles. At one time I knew exactly how many tiles there were in that bathroom. I would watch the paths of the condensation drops on the cans of Meister Brau. Although my mother died in 2001 she remains fixed in my memory much as my memory of Whitney Houston – big hair, big shoulders, bright makeup – and a dead look behind the eyes.
One of the thoughts that comforted me in the months after my mother’s death was that she chose to go – to release me.
“Bittersweet memories
that is all I’m taking with me.
So, goodbye.
Please, don’t cry.
We both know I’m not what you, you need.”
I want to decide between survival and bliss.
18 Jan 2012 3 Comments
This is a song that has meant a great deal to me over the years. As I evolve, so does the meaning of the song for me. I could probably write a doctoral dissertation on it:
“Precious Illusions” – Alanis Morisette
In the exact same way they never did..
I’ll be happy right?
When your healing powers kick in
You’ll complete me right?
Then my life can finally begin
I’ll be worthy right?
Only when you realize the gem I am?
But this won’t work now the way it once did
And I won’t keep it up even though I would love to
Once I know who I’m not then I’ll know who I am
But I know I won’t keep on playing the victim
These precious illusions in my head did not let me down
When I was defenseless
And parting with them is like parting with invisible best friends
This ring will help me yet as will you knight in shining armor
This pill will help me yet as will these boys gone through like water
But this won’t work as well as the way it once did
Cuz I want to decide between survival and bliss
And though I know who I’m not I still don’t know who I am
But I know I won’t keep on playing the victim
These precious illusions in my head did not let me down when I was a kid
And parting with them is like parting with a childhood best friend
I’ve spent so long firmly looking outside me
I’ve spent so much time living in survival mode
This won’t work now the way it once did
Cuz I want to deside between servival and bliss
Now I know who I’m not
I still don’t know who I am
But I know I won’t keep on playing the victom
These precious illusions in my head did not let me down
When I was defenseless
And parting with them is like parting with invisible best friends
These precious illusions in my head did not let me down
When I was a kid
And parting with them is like parting with childhood best friends
- The child who was told over and over that men only want to have sex and that I’m so pretty I won’t stand a chance and horrible things will happen to me.
- The young girl who bounced on her neighbor’s lap in exchange for candy or chips.
- The young woman afraid her heterosexual urges and the young woman confused by her lesbian urges.
- The young woman struggling to hide terrible and painful family secrets – seeking to always keep people at an arm’s length.
- The child afraid of how her mother will react when she is called pretty.
- The toddler who hoarded food for some as of yet unknown reason.
- The defiant overweight teenager who refused to let her mother control what she ate too.
- The indignant young adult who “deserved” that sweet.
- The approval seeking daughter who wanted to please daddy with the great meals she could make.
- The depressed, checked out 20 something who still has no idea how she got out of bed and functioned, let alone gained 150 lbs in 3 years.
- The 13 year old who overheard her parents arguing “You’re the reason she’s overweight – NO! YOU’RE the reason,”
- The insecure part of me who tests her father’s (and any man’s) love by whether or not he accepts her “as is” (The “as is” litmus test is a big one)
- The morbidly obese woman who wonders if anyone really cares.
- The para-suicidal who is too afraid to kill herself but would rather die suddenly of a heart attack than by some slow painful death like cancer.
- The food addict.
I’m sure there are many more that I can and will think of, but in some ways that’s not the point. That list represents survival. Survival in an emotionally and physically oppressing and frightening world. I WANT to choose bliss. I want to be me, whomever that turns out to be. In order to do that I have to figure out the difference between reality and precious illusions I have to thank the illusions and let them go. Thank them for serving me well. Thank them for keeping me alive.
Someone at OA explained to me once – “You come to a meeting and whether it sticks right now or not, you’re changed forever. You can’t un-know what you know.”
This won’t work now the way it once did.
Gobble gobble
24 Nov 2011 1 Comment
I realized today that there was a significant part of me that had hoped I would be able to exorcise my demons and then never come back to this website – never need to think or feel in anyway the way I have as a child. I guess that was naive.
I hate holidays. I hate the tension, the necessity that everything be perfect, and everyone be happy with me. The inevitable failure and the feelings of worthlessness and guilt that I somehow ruined everyone’s holiday.
As an adult I know the error of that pattern of thinking, but I’m not all adult, now am I?
So this morning I wake up early and come downstairs to give my husband some peace. I consider waking him up for sex – but realize I don’t want it and I don’t feel like putting on a show – there will be time later. I take care of the dog. I make a cup of coffee and curl up to watch some tv. Working 60 hours a week is rough and I’m glad to have some alone time.
The trouble doesn’t start until my husband wakes up – very late – and wants to take the dog to the park. I know him. He can’t do it and be back in time for me and my family plans. But I can’t just tell him I need him to stay because I feel like I’m being mean to the dog. I let him go but not without stomping my feet and letting him know I’m pissed. Pissed that he’s so inconsiderate and careless of time.
Then I go to cook the cauliflower. I’ve made my self in charge of one thing this year, rather than the whole kit and kaboodle. I figure it’s kinder to myself – more manageable. I ask my husband to buy the supplies.
On the way to the kitchen I grab my Ipod, which has no charge. I blame my husband for having used it last and not anticipating my need.
Then I see it – the cauliflower sitting on the counter where it has not been refrigerated. Where my husband has left it out to spoil.
I wish I could say I handled this well, Instead my head went a million different directions about what a horrible selfish evil little man my husband is, how he loves the dog more than me, how I never get any help from anyone. I call him to yell at him. I get his machine. I call him back. He offers to come back and I tell him there’s nothing he can do and hang up on him.
All the while another part of my personality system is taking over and calculating alternatives – searching the internet for broccoli recipes and pulling broccoli out of the freezer. Charging the Ipod. But I am running around my house slamming things, yelling and crying.
It is cauliflower. The only one who likes it is me. The only one who did not get what they want and acts like a spoiled brat is me. I tell myself I only get to eat it once a year, but I am 34 years old. I can have cauliflower whenever I damn well please. This is not a disaster of epic proportions. My husband did not sabotage me – cauliflower is not refrigerated in the store so why should it be in my house?
I know enough about CBT to know I need to pull back, calm down, correct the distorted thinking. My mother is dead. She will not hate me, abuse me, or freeze me out. My family prefers broccoli.
I will be ok.
I don’t wanna
08 Aug 2011 1 Comment
So much has been going on and swirling in my head…don’t even know where to start talking. I think when I get like this and I can’t articulate what I’m feeling I just go into “doing” mode. I’ve noticed that I want to “do” everyone around me. Maybe it’s a way to express control…I mean from when I was little I was shown that sex was the ultimate tool of power and control.
I’ve been tired a lot lately, and scared a lot. Money is tighter than it has ever been and I feel desperate. My husband is depressed because of his job situation, and my family is going through some stuff right now. I don’t feel like I have anyone to talk to.
All I hear in my head is choruses of “I don’t wanna.” That about sums it up.
Playing dress up
02 Aug 2011 3 Comments
One of the legacies of my abuse is that I feel uncomfortable with crowds. I can’t suss out the danger, and I always feel like people are staring at me. I hate going into new situations. A complicating factor is that I’m very overweight, and therefore very self conscious.
I have a wedding coming up on my husband’s side, and I am a mess. They are a different religion than me, they are very wealthy, and I feel like an outcast. I feel like no matter what I do my dress will not be right, my gift will not be enough, and I will feel ill at ease. Not only that, but they have the stigma of the f word – FAMILY. What’s more dangerous than that?
Normally I ooze discomfort and people stay away. It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy.
I’m going to try something different this time. Since I figure the decks are already stacked against me, I’m going to try and have fun. I’m going to pick out a dress I feel fabulous in and I’m going to give what I can afford and not a penny more. I’m going to wear comfortable shoes so I can dance. I’m going to try to pull out the parts of my personality that my friends and loved ones adore and my colleagues respect.
Does anyone have any suggestions for keeping the scared ones comforted?
