Tag Archives: self-injury

On Anger and Helplessness

When I talk about my anger, I feel like people see me as someone who goes off on people, physically or verbally.  I don’t do that–mine is all directed internally.  I want to scream at people and pick fights, but I don’t.  It all just turns in on myself and makes me feel worthless and hopeless and suicidal.  If I had a foolproof way of ending it, I would.  But I don’t want to risk screwing it up and being “saved,” only to be abandoned again as soon as they decide I’m “okay.”

I don’t want to get rid of all the anger, either.  It’s the only thing that’s kept me alive this long–it’s a way of marking that a lot of terrible things happened to me, but the fact that they happened doesn’t mean they’re okay or I deserved it.  For a long, long time, I thought I never felt anger.  Nothing beyond mild frustration on occasion.  But I was slowly killing myself with my self-harm and eating disorder, and if that’s not the personification of rage turned inward, I don’t know what is.  I really believe that finally being able to get angry at the people and events that had driven me to believe I needed to annihilate myself was what saved me.  I could finally see that what they’d done to me wasn’t okay, and I could turn around and say, “No, it’s you I’m angry at, not myself.”  I could choose to stop destroying myself because I finally understood.

But now it’s different.  Now it’s not me destroying myself, and I can’t choose to change what’s happening to me.  The decisions and circumstances are, for the most part, out of my hands.  So I can recognize that it’s unfair and wrong, I can see that I don’t deserve to have my needs go unmet…but I can’t change it.  So all I’m left with is rage and the familiar desire to destroy myself.  Only this time I don’t want to do it piecemeal; I just want to get it over with and be done.  I just can’t live like this.  No one can really live like this.

3 Comments

Filed under Uncategorized

Triggers

Sorry I’ve been absent.  I have been/still am really triggered, and I haven’t been able to read–blogs or anything else longer than a few sentences.  Still really struggling and not sure I’ll be able to write coherently.

See, Thursday we went to Boston for a post-election party.  I thought it was just going to be the party, an overnight at someone’s place in Boston, and then home.  Instead it turned into bar-hopping with the campaign staff.  If you’re thinking that sounds like fun, you’re wrong.  See, alcohol is a trigger for me because my father was often drunk when he abused me.  Between the UC and the meds, I can’t drink.  Well, everybody else is getting fucking wasted, and they just leave me sitting in a corner by myself for hours, not even talking to me.  I told my RFD that I’m not physically capable of running all around Boston, and it was raining to boot.  Usually he’s really considerate about my limitations, but that night, he really didn’t seem to give a shit.  Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe it was just that it was his last night with the rest of the campaign staff.  Whatever it was, he basically treated me like I didn’t matter–I got dragged to four different bars, and predictably, I eventually fell on a slick sidewalk at 1:30 in the morning and couldn’t get up for several minutes.  Oh, and for most of the time we were bar-hopping, our 20-year-old intern was just left sitting in his car because she couldn’t get into the bars.  I wanted to go sit with her instead, but my RFD made me stay because his phone was dead, and he needed my GPS to find our way back to where the car was parked.

In the second bar, while I was sitting alone in the corner, the only sober person, this drunk businessman in a nice suit comes over and starts hitting on me.  Then he grabbed my breast, and I just froze.  I just sat there and let him.  I have extensive martial arts experience, and even though I’m not physically capable of as much as I used to be, I could’ve gotten away from him.  If nothing else, I could’ve hit him with my cane.  But I didn’t do any of that.  I didn’t say no, I didn’t say stop.  I just sat there and let him do it.

Now I really hate myself.  It’s just like with my father.  I mean, okay, when I was a kid, there wasn’t really anything I could do about it.  Even as I got a little older, he had me believing that he’d kill me if I fought or if I told anyone, and I didn’t have the reasoning skills to realize he wouldn’t have gotten away with that–he’s really just not smart enough.  So back then, I had an excuse.  But I let it go on when I was old enough that I knew he wouldn’t kill me and I really could’ve stopped him.  I mean, I was 19 the last time he raped me.  There’s no excuse for that.  I just let him.  If I’d fought or said no, he probably would’ve stopped, but I never did.  So that’s on me.

Now I just want to tear myself to shreds.  I want to cut my breasts off–I never wanted them anyway, and if I did that, no one would want to touch me.  I’m also really struggling with sexual self-harm urges.  It’s something I used to do but haven’t in a long time.  But I can’t stop the flashbacks and the body memories, and it would put me back in control.  I know how fucked-up that is, but sometimes it’s the only thing that works.  If I do something worse that any of them ever did to me, then what they did can’t hurt me anymore.

And on top of everything else, my roommate is being horrible.  I came home to a gross apartment–mold in my microwave, a half-empty beer on the kitchen counter, an unflushed toilet, and sopping wet washcloths and a giant hairball in the bathtub.  I just pulled the washcloths and hairball out of the tub and dumped them on the bathroom floor, and this morning, she pitched a hissy fit over it, stomping around and slamming doors and shit.  (Another big trigger, on top of all the other triggers.)  I’m sorry, but you’re fucking 29 years old, and I’m not your goddamned maid.  I pay rent too.  I don’t mind messiness–books and papers and stuff sitting around is not a big deal, but I don’t want fucking mildew growing in my bathroom or mold growing in my kitchen.  In general, I don’t want things growing in my living space.  (Although right now growing some pot for myself sounds pretty ideal.)  How fucking hard is it to dump out the rest of your beer or to hang up your fucking washcloths?  But EVERY FUCKING DAY when I go to take a shower, there they are.  I don’t leave my shit for you to clean up, and you have the goddamn nerve to pitch a fit when I move your messes somewhere obvious as a reminder that maybe you should, you know, be a fucking adult and clean them the fuck up?  Bitch, get on the NOPE train to Fuckthatville.

My landlady is away for the weekend, but I’m thinking about talking to her about this when she gets back.  I’m hesitant to do that on the one hand, because I feel like we’re both adults and should handle our own problems.  But on the other hand, I’m so triggered by her screaming and slamming doors and stomping around that I literally CAN’T deal with it like an adult because I dissociate and switch, either to a terrified child or a really aggressive teenager (hence all the swearing in the last few paragraphs), neither of which is good for dealing with a tense situation.  Plus, if I do want to kick her out, I’m going to have to go through my landlady because Roommate is on the lease now.  I’m not even sure I legally CAN kick her out.  I just know I can’t deal with much more of this.  I’ve been taking photos of the grossness when it happens as documentation, but I’m not sure what the laws are.  I just know I can’t live like this.  I spend a lot of my time afraid to come out of my room when she’s home because I will snap if she starts yelling or bitching at me.  I just have so much other shit to deal with that I really cannot deal with hers on top of everything else.

19 Comments

Filed under Uncategorized

stupid

“Who’s ‘you’ when
your own body is
your biggest enemy?

“If her own body
can’t recognize
her, how can she?”
Two Girls Staring at the Ceiling, Lucy Frank

I want out of my body.  I didn’t ask for this to happen.  They tell me I didn’t do anything wrong to cause it, but I’m the only one who has to suffer the consequences.  I did not sign up for this shit.

I’m not sure how much more I can take.

And not only am I sick ALL THE GODDAMN TIME, everyone either pities me or thinks I’m faking.

Or they just act like I don’t even exist.  Tonight, a dinner before the wedding.  I knew almost no one.  My mother introduced her husband to everyone, but not me.  I guess I’m not important enough to introduce.  No one talked to me.  I was sitting next to a family friend who had a stroke, whose entire vocabulary is “yes,” “no,” and “damn.”  I’m pretty sure he said more than me.  My mother kept checking to see if he was okay…but not me.

There was also NOTHING on the menu I could eat.  So I just got to sit there and watch everybody else eat.  That and cry in the bathroom.

It’s like I don’t exist.  They’d probably all be happier if I didn’t.  I’m the fucked-up sister, the sick sister, the crazy sister, the crippled sister, the sister covered in ugly fucking scars, the sister with no social skills, the useless failure sister.

I want to slice myself up so I don’t have to feel all of this.  If I had a blade I would.  I could take apart my razor, but then I’d be hairy for the next 2 weeks.

But I don’t matter to anyone, and I can’t deal with the feelings.

I do have a bunch of food, so I guess I could binge and purge.  Because that’s a GREAT idea when my digestive system is already fucked up.  But I have to do SOMETHING.

I’m trying to convince myself I don’t need to do anything stupid but it’s not working.  I know some of it is hormones but that doesn’t help either.  I just can’t deal with this.  I never should’ve come.  My sister probably didn’t even really want me here, and I couldn’t really afford this trip.  I’m so fucking stupid.  What made me think any of them could ever love me?

17 Comments

Filed under Uncategorized

Trip Anxiety

I’m starting to get anxious about the trip.  I’m trying not to obsess over it, but it’s hard.

Mostly I’m stressing because B won’t be able to go with me.  When I thought about the trip, I’d planned it with him.  I’m afraid that without him, I’ll lapse back into the person I was seven years ago when I was last there instead of the person I am now.  He’s the only one who’s been around for that shift, and I’m afraid that being surrounded by people who haven’t really known me since then will drag me back.

The person I was when I left was miserable.  She hated herself and spent most of her time and energy trying to destroy herself.  She nearly killed herself so she wouldn’t have to feel anything but that self-hatred.  She couldn’t even consider that she might matter, that she might deserve to live and be safe and happy.  She was desperate for approval and love that only came if she was perfect, but she kept killing herself to try to win that love.  She was doing the best she could in that situation, but she was miserable.

Now, I’m so much better.  Yeah, I’m dealing with some pretty serious depression here lately, but not like it was before.  I don’t want to destroy myself anymore; I want to fix myself, even on the days that I don’t see any way of doing that.  When I imagined this trip, I imagined seeing all these relatives at the wedding.  Naturally, they’d ask what I’ve been up to.  I imagined telling my very Republican family, “Oh, I get Democrats elected.  My record is three for three, and I’m now working on getting a governor elected who defeated DOMA and defended buffer zones, and the first lesbian attorney general.  What have you been up to?”  (As I paraphrased it to my former therapist, “I work for the Democrats, so fuck all y’all.”)

Now, alone, I’m less certain I’ll be able to hang onto my present self.  I doubt I’ll slip all the way back into full-blown self-destruction, but it would be easy to start letting my family bully me and not stand up for myself.  That’s the pattern I’ve enacted with them my entire life, so it’s hard to pull the wheels out of those familiar ruts.

I’m worried people are going to be judgmental.  My bridesmaid dress is sleeveless, so a lot of my scars will be showing.  And I’m probably going to have to use my cane at the wedding, and I may even have to have a chair or something if I can’t stand up for long enough.  Certain family members have not been very understanding of my difficulties in the past.  One aunt called me up out of the blue about a year and a half after I moved to Massachusetts.  I hadn’t talked to her in 2 or 3 years, but she decided to call me and lecture me about how my problems were a choice and I was hurting the family.  And then there’s my grandfather, who I can easily imagine mocking me for needing to use the cane, or accusing me of faking it and being over-dramatic.

My youngest sister told me the other night that she’d already planned to run interference for me if people were being assholes.  I love that kid to death.  We also had a conversation about how I could just whack people across the shins with the cane to shut them up.  I mentioned wanting to find a way to electrify it so I could zap them if they were being assholes, but then I’m not sure the TSA would let me take it on the airplane.

And I don’t know what to expect when I go to Florida to help my mother.  Both my sisters say she’s a lot less crazy now that she’s remarried.  (Well, Middle Sister phrased it as “…now that she’s getting laid,” but you get the point.)  And most of the time I’m there, she’ll be at work, so I can knock out some chores and then go to the beach or kayak with the manatees.  So I think that should be manageable.

But I’m still afraid of losing myself when I go back to Birmingham.  I’m trying to calm myself down about it and convince myself that being aware of the potential for that problem will let me guard against it.  I’m trying not to let myself worry obsessively.  I’m trying to make plans to do fun stuff with people I like so I have an excuse not to spend much time with my extended family.  My sisters and I are getting matching tattoos, Little Sister and I are going to the zoo and the hands-on science museum where I used to work (possibly with Mother and Fake Stepdad, too), and Little Sister and I are going to hang out and smoke some pot.  (It’s medicinal!)  I’m going to get together with my best friend from high school, meet her daughter, cuddle with her kitties (she breeds and shows GORGEOUS Bengals), and do some yarn shopping.  I might get together with some other people, too.  So I have some good things going.  Hopefully it’ll make the trip okay.

12 Comments

Filed under Uncategorized

Feeling Unwanted

FO called me last night to see if I wanted to go to the opening of the new campaign office in our end of the state.  I thought it would be good to get out, and that’s something I could do mostly sitting down, so I said yes.  He said he’d call me in the morning and come pick me up.

He didn’t.

So now I feel pretty horrible.  I feel unwanted.  I feel like everyone hates me and wishes I’d just disappear or die so they wouldn’t have to deal with me anymore.  I feel like cutting.  I feel like purging.  I’m not quite suicidal, but I wish I could die.

And then I feel crazy for feeling this way.  I know I’m overreacting.  Probably something came up at the last minute, so he couldn’t pick me up or go.  And even if it were true that he didn’t want me around, that can’t possibly be true of everyone.  Hell, the vast majority of people in the world don’t know me, and it’s generally pretty hard to hate someone if you’re not even aware that they exist.  I know it’s crazy to go from “One person failed to give me a ride to an event” to “Everyone hates me and wishes I were dead.”  That’s a HUGE leap.  It’s even a big leap to go from “FO didn’t come get me for the office opening” to “FO hates me and doesn’t want to deal with me.”  He’s always been nice to me.  We’re not best friends or anything, but we’ve always been friendly.  So it’s probably not even true that he doesn’t like me.

But none of those rational arguments make me feel any better.  I still feel like everyone hates me and wants me to die, and I still feel like hurting myself to dull the feelings.  I still feel like I shouldn’t exist at all.

I think I’m going to take a nap instead because otherwise I probably will end up purging or cutting.

11 Comments

Filed under Uncategorized

I Hate Conflict

I know that probably strikes people who know me casually as a weird statement.  I love to fight with people.  I work in politics, which is about as adversarial as you can get.  I’ve been sworn at and threatened more than a few times, and I just laugh it off.  I have a strong background in martial arts, even though I’m no longer physically able to practice.

What I can’t deal with is interpersonal conflict.  I hate upsetting people and/or feeling like they’re angry at me.

There was a situation on Facebook earlier today.  It’s been several hours, and my heart is still racing.  I can’t calm myself down.

I have these two friends.  Sam and I have known each other for probably twelve years, maybe longer.  She has a mental illness and MS that causes difficulties typing (among other things), so she often types in shorthand.  Holly is a friend from college who also struggles with mental illness, and she often comments on my posts about invisible illness, since mental illness is also invisible and people struggling with it are often discriminated against.  Sam and Holly don’t know each other, but I would’ve assumed they could relate on the basis of those shared experiences, although to be fair I don’t know if Holly is aware of Sam’s MS.  But Sam has talked about it in comments on my posts that Holly has also commented on, so I vaguely assumed she knew.

Sam commented on one of my posts (unrelated to any physical or mental illness), and her comment was in shorthand; e.g., “4” instead of “for,” no capitalization.  Several hours later, Holly commented in response, saying postmodern English should be classified as a new language.  I read it as kind of bitchy–it was unrelated to the post or Sam’s comment, and in my reading sounded like it was mocking Sam. 

I said, “Sam uses shorthand because she has a disability that often makes it difficult to type.”

Holly’s response: “Okay, but I had to read it three times to understand it.”

“At the risk of sounding like an asshole…if you don’t like it, no one’s forcing you to read it.”

At that point, Holly private messaged me and said I did come off sounding like an asshole.  Fair enough–I’m pretty talented at that.  I told her I couldn’t find a more diplomatic way of saying it that still conveyed the point, and I repeated that Sam physically cannot type well most of the time.  Holly said she’d been trying to be humorous, and I said I was sorry, I had misinterpreted the tone, which is easy to do in text.  She said something to the effect of, “I won’t make you put up with me anymore,” which felt kind of passive-aggressive, but I tried to cut her some slack because I know what it’s like to genuinely feel like people don’t want to have to put up with me.  I said I had overreacted and didn’t mean to sound like I liked Sam better than her.  She said she’d lay off commenting for a few days, and I said I understood and left it at that.

But now I’m feeling a whole mess of tangled emotions.  I’m still angry because I feel like once I pointed out to Holly that Sam types the way she does because of a disability, she should’ve apologized, or at least stopped arguing the point.  Her original comment felt snide and judgmental to me.  I can accept that it was an attempt at humor, but that doesn’t mean it’s not still judgmental.  There’s this sort of educated elitism I see happening, and I’m not exempt from it–I’ll admit that I judge some people based on their [lack of] grammar, particularly if they’re habitual offenders.  But I’m also aware that there are a number of disabilities that can cause it.  People with dyslexia can struggle a lot with spelling and grammar.  People with various physical disabilities like MS or rheumatoid arthritis can have difficulty with the physical act of typing.  Dictation programs used by visually impaired people often switch homonyms homophone like you’re/your and there/their/they’re.  Hell, even iPhone’s Siri can come up with some weird transliterations–at a political even, my RFD dictated a text saying “All of the parking lot,” but what Siri came up with was, “I love the parking lot,” which confused the hell out of the guy he was texting.  (We joked that we should adopt that as a social media hashtag for the two western/central Mass regions.)  So it made me angry that Holly, who struggles with her own experience of invisible illness, would continue to argue the point after I told her that Sam’s way of typing was due to an illness rather than willful ignorance.

But it’s very possible that I overreacted.  I can see how “If you don’t like it, no one’s making you read it” could be hurtful, even though that wasn’t my intent.  I feel guilty for hurting Holly’s feelings and making her feel like I don’t like her.

Then I feel frustrated because I feel like I can’t tell Holly what my thoughts/feelings were or what I was trying to communicate.  I saw that I’d hurt her, and I figured that trying to defend or even explain my point of view would seem defensive and make her feel more hurt.  But how do I express my feelings?  Where can I say that it felt like she was mocking my friend for bending grammar to accommodate her disability?  When do I get to say that even though she was trying to be funny, it didn’t come across that way, and I jumped in because I didn’t want Sam to be hurt by her comment?  How do I explain that I felt defensive because I’ve been judged and had snide comments made about my disability?

I don’t know how to balance it all.  I hurt Holly because I was trying to keep Sam from feeling hurt, and I set my own feelings aside because I wanted to make Holly feel heard and mitigate the hurt I caused her.  I knew that an argument with Holly probably wouldn’t get her to see my point because who can see clearly when they’re already hurt?  That’s not Holly’s fault.  But how do I meet my own emotional needs?  I want to feel like my point of view is heard too.  I want Holly not to make comments that might hurt Sam, or anyone else with a disability.  I want to stop feeling like a terrible person for hurting Holly.  I want to feel like I’m not being a crazy, fucked-up drama queen for feeling upset by the whole situation.  And I do not know how to do any of that.

So now I’m struggling with urges to self-harm and to binge and purge.  Partly to punish myself/ease my guilt, but mostly to deaden the storm of uncomfortable feelings.  I know they’re not actually intolerable, but it sure as hell feels that way right now.  I’m trying to breathe normally and slow down my racing heart, with very limited success.  I really, really hate this.

11 Comments

Filed under Uncategorized

Something Is Wrong

I don’t know what it is, but I know something is wrong.  Deep inside, with other parts I’m barely aware of, probably.

I thought I’d managed to calm myself down after the panic attack.  I thought I’d be able to sleep–god knows I’m exhausted.  I barely slept last night, was on my feet all day, and then had a long panic attack.  I was almost asleep, in that in-between, twilight stage where you know you’re still awake, but you’re only slightly aware of it.  And then, out of nowhere:

What if my sister invites our father to her wedding?

And suddenly I was wide awake.  I tried not to be.  Tried to put myself back in that twilight state because if I can do that, I can usually get to sleep after a while.  But my mind was already racing.  Physically, I couldn’t get comfortable.  Most of the joints on the left side of my body are hurting, and I keep flip-flopping between too hot and too cold.  I can’t regulate my body or my mind.

I’m not afraid of him.  I know he wouldn’t dare to try to hurt me.  I’m not even convinced he’d be physically able to.  And if he tried, I know I could do way more damage to him than he could ever do to me–my years of martial arts training greatly increased my confidence in my ability to use my body as a defensive weapon if I need to.

I don’t even think I’m afraid of flashbacks and memories.  Maybe a bit, but not a lot.

Strangely, what I am afraid of, so afraid of that I can’t sleep now, is what everyone else will see.  I’m afraid they’ll think I’m rude if I don’t speak to him or acknowledge him.  I’m afraid everyone will see straight through the tension and know what he did to me.  I’m afraid they will judge me.  I’m afraid that however I choose to handle it will be wrong.

I’m probably stressing myself out over nothing.  My sister hasn’t said anything about inviting him.  We haven’t spoken about him in years.  Then again, that doesn’t mean she hasn’t been speaking to him or that she hasn’t or won’t invite him.  I mean, if I were getting married, I’d want my daddy to be there, and I think we both had to get really good at separating our daddy from the man who raped us and sold us and threatened to kill us.

My sister was the one who first disclosed the abuse.  I was 19 and in a state psychiatric hospital.  My mother and grandparents had gotten tired of my problems and sent me off to live with my father, and after a few months, he had me committed.  I remember my mother calling me at the hospital and telling me, “He’ll never hurt you again.”  I was so dissociated and so deep in denial that I honestly had no idea what she meant.  I had to ask who “he” was.  I think she must’ve gotten me released from the hospital, and then I was back living with her, 500 miles away from him.  I don’t have any memory of how that happened–there was a lot of trauma and dissociation happening during that hospitalization.

My mother pushed and pushed for a police investigation.  Nobody wanted it because my father was a cop, and they kept saying it was someone else’s jurisdiction because the abuse happened across at least 3 different states.  She never asked if I wanted the investigation.  I never considered whether I wanted it, honestly.  I was too dissociated after the trauma of the state hospital, and I let my mother do what she wanted because it was one of her rare Good Mother periods.  (Probably because she got to play the martyr, her favorite role: that poor woman who had no idea what terrible things her husband was doing to her daughters for 16 years.  But that’s a different post.)  The investigation was pretty much a joke; nothing ever came of it.

Several months later, my sister recanted her story.  That was hard for me because it was her disclosure that had let me begin to remember and acknowledge what he’d done to me, the reason I’d suffered so long, the reason I was never quite right.  I felt hurt, but I never got angry at her.  One day, she asked if I could drive her to the bank to make a deposit.  I caught a glimpse of the check: several hundred dollars from our father.  I don’t know if it was a one-time thing, although I suspect it was not.  I don’t know if she extorted him or if he offered to pay her off.  Really, I don’t even know that the money was at all connected to her recanting the abuse allegations.  I never even told her I’d seen the check.

It sounds unbelievable, but I don’t remember feeling anything about it then.  All I remember was curiosity about the arrangement–intellectual, but not emotional.  In the two years after the state hospital, I don’t remember feeling anything, so I blame dissociation.  Several years later, when I was discussing this with my therapist, she used the word “betrayal,” and I remember feeling surprised for a moment.  Until she said it, it had never occurred to me that someone in that situation might feel betrayed, although it made sense after she said it.  But I don’t think I ever felt that.  I remember telling my therapist that I hoped my sister had extorted him and that I hoped she still was.  I said she deserved as much money as she could get out of him–he could never pay off what he’d done to us, but she might as well get something useful out of the whole thing.  I even remember feeling a little envious that she’d thought of it and had the guts to go through with it.  Even if I’d thought if it, I would never have had the guts to actually do it.  Even now, I struggle to trust my memories, and extorting my father for what he did would require complete trust that my memories are real.  I’d also have to be unashamed enough to be willing to out him publicly if he didn’t pay, which I couldn’t do.  I know the shame belongs to him, but it’s so deep in me I don’t think I can ever root it out.  And I envy my sister a little because she could do what I wouldn’t have the balls to do.  She got her own piece of sideways justice, and I never will because I’m not brave enough.

I don’t even know how I got from the beginning of this post to here.  I think I’m half-dissociated.  I’m fighting urges to cut, to OD, even to go out and get drunk.  (And I’ve never been a drinker.)  I just feel like I can’t stand to be me right now, any of me, all of me.  I want out, and all the distractions in the world aren’t helping.  Seriously, I’ve read two entire novels tonight and watched 5 episodes of “Supernatural.”  Still can’t get away from this…this…I don’t even know.  This SELF.  I need an altered state of consciousness.  I can’t even name what it is I’m feeling right now, but I know it feels intolerable.  The physical pain is really not helping either.  Every time I move, my body screams at me.  Only the left side, though, for some weird reason.  My neck and shoulder, my lower back, my wrist, my hip, my ankle.  I don’t know what the hell that’s about.  Tylenol isn’t helping, and I’m out of opiates since the assholes at respite stole my last two oxycodone.  I keep considering buying pot, except I don’t know who to buy it from or have any money to pay for it.  I guess if I take enough Benadryl and gabapentin, I’ll get some sleep eventually.  I don’t know, though.  I’m feeling kind of out of control, and I’m worried that if I start, things could spiral.  I’m not suicidal, but sometimes that’s actually more dangerous for me because I do more and more damage to try to numb out and end up doing way more harm than I intended.  I don’t know what to do.  I don’t know how I feel.  I want somebody to save me but nobody can.

8 Comments

Filed under Uncategorized

Bad Night

Ended up cutting for the first time in I don’t even know how long. A very long time.

Called C, which just made me feel worse, but I couldn’t hang up or she’d call the cops on me. I couldn’t even explain to her why she was making me feel worse. She just makes me feel like she’s blaming me, like it’s my fault I’m in this place, like if I’d just try harder I could find some hope and feel better. She doesn’t mean to make me feel like that, but that’s how it is.

At least when I talk to A, I don’t feel worse. I don’t feel better, but right now nothing makes me feel better. (Well, her dog does. Her dog is fucking awesome.) But I didn’t feel like I could call A at 11:30 at night. She said I could call her if I didn’t feel safe, but it feels like a boundary violation to call her so late.

I just feel so alone and hopeless. I want somebody to save me, but I know that wouldn’t be enough because what I really want is for someone to go back in time and save child-me before she was so irreparably broken.

No one ever saved me. People could’ve, but they didn’t, and that grief is more than I can bear.

I look around and I just HATE people. Everyone who didn’t save me back when I could still be saved. Families that love their kids. People who have any measure of financial security. I look at these people and I hate them so much I want to hurt them. At least then I wouldn’t be alone with this unendurable pain.

5 Comments

Filed under Uncategorized

Blame

I’m so angry right now I can’t think straight.

A “friend” of mine who I was stupid enough to trust and tell how much I’m struggling has been on my case about going to the hospital.  I said being shamed and treated like I’m less than a person was not what I needed to get better, and she asked why I was so opposed to getting “help.”

So I told her.  I told her about how I’ve been yelled at for self-harming or being suicidal.  How a doctor refused to suture a cut that clearly needed it because he had “real patients who didn’t cause their own problems.”  How I’ve been strip-searched.  How I’ve been watched while showering and using the toilet.  How I’ve been forced to take medications that made me sicker.  How I’ve been threatened with restraints and worse “treatments” if I refused.  How my attempts to get help have been written off as “attention-seeking” and “manipulative.”

I told her about being in the state hospital.  I told her that one night, another patient came into my room, grabbed me by the throat, and hit me in the face over and over again.  Staff refused me any medical attention (I later found out the woman had broken my nose) and told me to “forget about it and move on because she didn’t know what she was doing.”  No attempt was made to protect me.  I told her that one of my roommates repeatedly sexually assaulted me, but I didn’t tell anyone because I knew they wouldn’t care and wouldn’t help me.

And this “friend” blamed me.

She said I should’ve reported any doctor who treated me poorly.  She said if I’d fought back against the woman who beat me up, she would’ve stopped.  She said I should’ve told someone I was being sexually assaulted and they would’ve stopped it.

She blamed me for all of it.

I’m trying to hang onto believing she’s wrong, believing I did the best I could to survive, believing it wasn’t my fault.  But I’m not doing very well.  Not hanging on very tight.

I want to hit her.  I want to beat the shit out of her.  But that turns almost instantly into wanting to slice myself to ribbons and then kill myself.  This is the hardest thing for me–I try so hard to stop blaming myself for all the traumas, but when someone I trust blames me, I fall apart.  I blocked her email and cell number, but her words keep replaying in my head.  I can’t stop that.

I’m really not okay right now.

18 Comments

Filed under Uncategorized

What the hell is WRONG with me?

I am really not okay tonight, and I have no idea why.

I’m incredibly agitated. I can’t settle down, and nothing holds my attention. I can’t sit still. I want to rip my skin off. I want to smash things, break windows, punch holes in the drywall.

I’m obsessing about self-harm because it’s the one thing I know would calm me down and make being conscious at least vaguely tolerable. I haven’t cut in, god, probably four years, but NOTHING else is working right now, and if I can’t get this under control, I’m probably going to do something truly goddamn crazy.

I haven’t taken my sleep meds because I don’t want to sleep. In the three hours of sleep I got last night, I woke up four times from nightmares. I don’t even remember what they were about–I just remember thinking they weren’t bad, so why the fuck was I so scared?

It is taking everything I have to keep from hyperventilating, and there is NO FUCKING REASON. Nothing happened. No triggers. I’m just fucking nuts, and all I can think about is slicing my arms up to make this stop. This never happens. I never get this crazy without knowing why. I think I am truly fucking losing it and I don’t know if I’m going to make it through this night.

12 Comments

Filed under Uncategorized