Here in Queensland, we're once again having some pretty wild weather, but January is definitely the month for it, so it's at least not entirely unexpected. Two years ago, the majority of the state was under water -- including our capital, Brisbane -- due to extreme flooding, and although the pollies are assuring us all that we are not facing that situation again this year, things aren't looking good.
We've an ex-tropical cyclone heading down Queensland and into NSW, and in addition to the usual havok that causes, we're actually having mini tornados appear along the coast. Yesterday, several mini tornados hit the Bundaberg area, and really that's why I'm writing my post today.
You see, when I was a kid, my dad took us kids camping on Mon Repos beach in Bundaberg (before they closed it off as a turtle sanctuary). Shortly after that, he bought a block of land in a small town known as Burnett Heads, which is about half an hour north of Bundaberg. At first he just had a tin shed on the land, but eventually he and his wife had a house built so we could all stay there on holidays, which we did so often that I have a lot of nice childhood memories of the area.
Yesterday, 2 of the 5 (or it might even have been 6) mini tornados to hit the region occured in Burnett Heads. Since I don't have contact with my father, I haven't heard whethr his holiday home was one of those destroyed/damaged or whether he was up there and is one of the injured people.
And part of me hopes so. Part of me thinks, that's karma!
It's a pretty small part, to be fair, and there's a much larger part of me that feels guilty for even thinking that way, let alone how unfair that would be for karma -- after all, what about all the other Bundy citizens who didn't deserve it? But I'd be lying by omission if I didn't admit to those thoughts.
I'm shaken by the idea that only two years after the massive destruction the floods caused, Queenslanders are in for another rough time. I'm shaken that places I know and love are suffering such damage, and that this extreme weather is so close to 'home'. In all, I think there have been 6 or 7 confirmed mini tornados over the past 24 hours, and one of them was only about half an hour away, though we were lucky not to see any damage from it here.
Mostly, I'm stirred up about my own past and my thoughts, and I feel pretty alone in it.
Showing posts with label guilt. Show all posts
Showing posts with label guilt. Show all posts
Sunday, January 27, 2013
Sunday, December 30, 2012
From a Once-Ghost to a Now-Ghost
My support worker suggested that I might find it helpful to write a letter to my 12 year old self whose mother sent her to live with her (abusive) father after a fight.
Everything in the letter below is true and accurate as my perception of the events (and I'm fairly sure, true and accurate as to the facts as well), although I did take slight creative licence on the ages as I won't actually be 30 for another two weeks. My niece, though, really is 12, and does shout the same thing I told my mother.
This is, at this stage, still a first draft. I promised my support worker I wouldn't edit the original minus small rearrangements until after she had read it, and I find that after such an emotional outpour, I'm reluctant to reread and edit just yet. I wanted to share it, anyway, though.
You are twelve years old, a ghost and a memory, but that doesn't stop you being here with me. You view me as a wisp, an ethereal image hazy with what might be but I can see that you are a stamp of yesterday as indelible as octopus ink. You are in my eyes, and under them, in the depths of who I am. You will be changed, soon, by a moment that falls heavy around your shoulders even as it darts away.
When it happens, you will know that nothing will ever be the same, but you won't know how much this moment will become part of you. You won't know that for another 15 years, when you will revisit this moment in the hospital, undressing yourself and folding the adult part of you on the chair for later. Nakedly you will tell the nurse how it feels to be vulnerable and left to his mercy.
You will remember what you shouted, and you will remember slamming the door. You will remember the first time you ever heard her swear was that day, and she was calling you a bitch. You will remember the terror you felt when you realised she was calling your father, and you will remember begging her not to send you away. You will remember that you heard your little brother plead your case, and though you won't remember her reply, you will remember the tight way she speaks, and the sinking of that balloon of hope in your chest as she gets on the phone and tells him to come and get his daughter.
Unaccountably, you will remember the day when you were small and one of your brothers had placed a sandwich into the VCR. You will remember another phone call, to the Police (or so you still believe), and the certainty with which she tells you all that they are coming to fingerprint and take away the guilty party. You remember knowing it wasn't you, deducing it was one of your brothers and not knowing which. You remember you begged them each separately to confess, that you would not be torn through the middle; two magnetic poles no longer touching. Years later, when you remember that other moment, you will remember this one, and you will also remember that picture in your mind, of a small face peering out the back of a terrifyingly large vehicle. In your dreams, that face will be yours.
You won't remember whether it all happened slowly, as if you are stuck in time; or if the inevitability of it all sped you through to its conclusion. You won't remember what this fight was even about, but you'll remember that you didn't mean what you shouted and you both knew it.
You will remember her giving you a bag and telling you to pack your things, and you'll remember only that you sat stiffly in the car, cradling your stereo, and that you cried the whole way to your father's.
Years from now, you will remember, also, some of the aftermath as well, like the day your mother tells you she has antidepressants now. By the time you are 14, you will know this is your fault, and she will confirm it.
By then, you won't remember whether you gave any thought to the friends you left behind, but you will discover that when you return, most of them will remember you. Some of them will reclaim you, but Kylie, with whom you shared a birth month and with whom you were close, will never forgive you for leaving her behind. You won't mind because you aren't the same girl anymore, but you will regret the bullying that follows as she gradually steps up the levels of violence.
Still, you will survive and you will believe you are mainly unscathed. You will believe for many years that your mother is the good one. You will believe that all of this will disappear, fade into the background of who you are. You will believe that it is all your fault.
You will believe it, but it won't be true.
You are twelve years old. Twelve. You don't know it now, but when you are 30, you will have a 12 year old niece, and you will see in her the same streak of independence you had at her age. You will hear her shout those same words to her father, to her mother, to her grandmother... to you. You will see past them and know that they are words that come from a place of anger, but mostly from a place of hurt and confusion.
You will know that if anyone tries to send her away, it will not be her fault, and it will not be a reflection on the value of that 12 year old girl trying to make her way in a world that is often confusing and scary. You will know beyond any doubt that she is beautiful and amazing and wonderful, and that even when she makes mistakes, she is still all of those things.
You will know that no matter what the world throws at her, she will always have value. At 30, you will begin making connections between that 12 year old and the you that was 12. You will write yourself this letter, and in the writing, you will begin to let go of the shadow that has followed you for 18 years, because you will begin to see that at 12, you are still a child. At 12, you are a child who cannot be responsible for the actions of an adult. You are not the cause of your mother's illness, and though you may have exacerbated it without knowing or intending that, it is still not your fault.
You are twelve years old, a ghost and a memory, but that doesn't stop you being here with me. You have been changed by this moment, and you will be changed by many more that are to come, until you become the 30 year old writing this letter. You will look in the mirror one day and though your hair is greying and your skin wrinkles like unironed sheets, you will see, still, the stamp of who you were; the stamp of moments; lived, loved and regretted; all over the solidity of who you are.
Everything in the letter below is true and accurate as my perception of the events (and I'm fairly sure, true and accurate as to the facts as well), although I did take slight creative licence on the ages as I won't actually be 30 for another two weeks. My niece, though, really is 12, and does shout the same thing I told my mother.
This is, at this stage, still a first draft. I promised my support worker I wouldn't edit the original minus small rearrangements until after she had read it, and I find that after such an emotional outpour, I'm reluctant to reread and edit just yet. I wanted to share it, anyway, though.
You are twelve years old, a ghost and a memory, but that doesn't stop you being here with me. You view me as a wisp, an ethereal image hazy with what might be but I can see that you are a stamp of yesterday as indelible as octopus ink. You are in my eyes, and under them, in the depths of who I am. You will be changed, soon, by a moment that falls heavy around your shoulders even as it darts away.
When it happens, you will know that nothing will ever be the same, but you won't know how much this moment will become part of you. You won't know that for another 15 years, when you will revisit this moment in the hospital, undressing yourself and folding the adult part of you on the chair for later. Nakedly you will tell the nurse how it feels to be vulnerable and left to his mercy.
You will remember what you shouted, and you will remember slamming the door. You will remember the first time you ever heard her swear was that day, and she was calling you a bitch. You will remember the terror you felt when you realised she was calling your father, and you will remember begging her not to send you away. You will remember that you heard your little brother plead your case, and though you won't remember her reply, you will remember the tight way she speaks, and the sinking of that balloon of hope in your chest as she gets on the phone and tells him to come and get his daughter.
Unaccountably, you will remember the day when you were small and one of your brothers had placed a sandwich into the VCR. You will remember another phone call, to the Police (or so you still believe), and the certainty with which she tells you all that they are coming to fingerprint and take away the guilty party. You remember knowing it wasn't you, deducing it was one of your brothers and not knowing which. You remember you begged them each separately to confess, that you would not be torn through the middle; two magnetic poles no longer touching. Years later, when you remember that other moment, you will remember this one, and you will also remember that picture in your mind, of a small face peering out the back of a terrifyingly large vehicle. In your dreams, that face will be yours.
You won't remember whether it all happened slowly, as if you are stuck in time; or if the inevitability of it all sped you through to its conclusion. You won't remember what this fight was even about, but you'll remember that you didn't mean what you shouted and you both knew it.
You will remember her giving you a bag and telling you to pack your things, and you'll remember only that you sat stiffly in the car, cradling your stereo, and that you cried the whole way to your father's.
Years from now, you will remember, also, some of the aftermath as well, like the day your mother tells you she has antidepressants now. By the time you are 14, you will know this is your fault, and she will confirm it.
By then, you won't remember whether you gave any thought to the friends you left behind, but you will discover that when you return, most of them will remember you. Some of them will reclaim you, but Kylie, with whom you shared a birth month and with whom you were close, will never forgive you for leaving her behind. You won't mind because you aren't the same girl anymore, but you will regret the bullying that follows as she gradually steps up the levels of violence.
Still, you will survive and you will believe you are mainly unscathed. You will believe for many years that your mother is the good one. You will believe that all of this will disappear, fade into the background of who you are. You will believe that it is all your fault.
You will believe it, but it won't be true.
You are twelve years old. Twelve. You don't know it now, but when you are 30, you will have a 12 year old niece, and you will see in her the same streak of independence you had at her age. You will hear her shout those same words to her father, to her mother, to her grandmother... to you. You will see past them and know that they are words that come from a place of anger, but mostly from a place of hurt and confusion.
You will know that if anyone tries to send her away, it will not be her fault, and it will not be a reflection on the value of that 12 year old girl trying to make her way in a world that is often confusing and scary. You will know beyond any doubt that she is beautiful and amazing and wonderful, and that even when she makes mistakes, she is still all of those things.
You will know that no matter what the world throws at her, she will always have value. At 30, you will begin making connections between that 12 year old and the you that was 12. You will write yourself this letter, and in the writing, you will begin to let go of the shadow that has followed you for 18 years, because you will begin to see that at 12, you are still a child. At 12, you are a child who cannot be responsible for the actions of an adult. You are not the cause of your mother's illness, and though you may have exacerbated it without knowing or intending that, it is still not your fault.
You are twelve years old, a ghost and a memory, but that doesn't stop you being here with me. You have been changed by this moment, and you will be changed by many more that are to come, until you become the 30 year old writing this letter. You will look in the mirror one day and though your hair is greying and your skin wrinkles like unironed sheets, you will see, still, the stamp of who you were; the stamp of moments; lived, loved and regretted; all over the solidity of who you are.
Saturday, May 26, 2012
On Invisibility & Responsibility
Apologies for the very late Sanguine Saturday post -- I wanted to complete this one first, and it has taken me this long to get it done.
Over the past little while I've been exploring the concept of invisiblity (in the symbolic, rather than literal, sense). What is it that makes some people more visible than others; and how much of that belongs on which side of the equation?
For myself, I've felt fairly unwelcome and invisible in several layers of my life recently. I suppose unwelcome isn't necessarily the right word, but certainly invisible is accurate. I've had times where I've wondered if I actually even still exist; if I dreamed my half of a conversation or if perhaps I simply forgot to say what I thought I'd said.
At first I told myself I was being silly. I told myself I was blowing things out of proportion and overreacting. I had, afterall, just come back after a bit of time away -- and before I went away, I often felt unwanted (possibly due to things in my own head). However as time went on, I began to speak about it a little with one or two other people -- people who had noticed the ways I had seemingly faded, and gave me confirmation that it wasn't all in my head.
Reassured that this wasn't entirely a case of borderline 'paranoia' or personal misconception due to insecurity etc, I began to explore why it might be so. What is it that I am doing that is leading to this response? IS it something I'm doing? I asked a few people in a general sort of way and I gave thought to their responses, however as they were responding in general terms (my own fault, as I'd asked in that capacity!) it was difficult to see what to apply to my situation and what not to.
Many theories have bounced around inside my head. Some combine both parties; others are concerned mainly with others' impressions/beliefs about me or focus on my failings. None of them have made me happier or bought me closer to a resolution. I wanted to talk to the people concerned directly, particularly the ones who matter most to me, but it's not the sort of thing I want to bring up in a Facebook message, and I haven't managed to catch them when I've been around online in order to really speak about it -- especially since I'd rather speak to as many people at once than deal with going through it individually.
Instead, I continue to theorise, to remind myself that there are people who do consistently choose to have me in their lives (in whatever capacity is possible at the moment) and to remind myself that these people wouldn't make that choice if I were fundamentally flawed to such a degree that I am not worthy of any friendship/caring/love.
And so... I bring this to you, dear blog friends. Have you ever felt this way? If you did, how did you handle the situation? How did other people respond to your management of same? And/or, what do you think makes some people more invisible than others and how much of the 'blame'/'responsibility' for that lies where?
Over the past little while I've been exploring the concept of invisiblity (in the symbolic, rather than literal, sense). What is it that makes some people more visible than others; and how much of that belongs on which side of the equation?
For myself, I've felt fairly unwelcome and invisible in several layers of my life recently. I suppose unwelcome isn't necessarily the right word, but certainly invisible is accurate. I've had times where I've wondered if I actually even still exist; if I dreamed my half of a conversation or if perhaps I simply forgot to say what I thought I'd said.
At first I told myself I was being silly. I told myself I was blowing things out of proportion and overreacting. I had, afterall, just come back after a bit of time away -- and before I went away, I often felt unwanted (possibly due to things in my own head). However as time went on, I began to speak about it a little with one or two other people -- people who had noticed the ways I had seemingly faded, and gave me confirmation that it wasn't all in my head.
Reassured that this wasn't entirely a case of borderline 'paranoia' or personal misconception due to insecurity etc, I began to explore why it might be so. What is it that I am doing that is leading to this response? IS it something I'm doing? I asked a few people in a general sort of way and I gave thought to their responses, however as they were responding in general terms (my own fault, as I'd asked in that capacity!) it was difficult to see what to apply to my situation and what not to.
Many theories have bounced around inside my head. Some combine both parties; others are concerned mainly with others' impressions/beliefs about me or focus on my failings. None of them have made me happier or bought me closer to a resolution. I wanted to talk to the people concerned directly, particularly the ones who matter most to me, but it's not the sort of thing I want to bring up in a Facebook message, and I haven't managed to catch them when I've been around online in order to really speak about it -- especially since I'd rather speak to as many people at once than deal with going through it individually.
Instead, I continue to theorise, to remind myself that there are people who do consistently choose to have me in their lives (in whatever capacity is possible at the moment) and to remind myself that these people wouldn't make that choice if I were fundamentally flawed to such a degree that I am not worthy of any friendship/caring/love.
And so... I bring this to you, dear blog friends. Have you ever felt this way? If you did, how did you handle the situation? How did other people respond to your management of same? And/or, what do you think makes some people more invisible than others and how much of the 'blame'/'responsibility' for that lies where?
Sunday, December 4, 2011
Tsunami (Otherwise known as "Where I'm At")
Some of you may know/remember that November is often a difficult month for me, and despite last year's improvement, this year was something of a set-back. I don't know how obvious it's been (either here or elsewhere), but my mental health has been declining for quite some time. There were several things feeding it, including another visit with my father, but the result is that for particularly the last several months, I've been very unwell.
I've been increasingly paranoid, guilty and ashamed, and withdrawing/guarding my comments, because my thoughts lead me to believe I'm unwanted anyway -- every comment or lack of comment has looked like a closed door; I've been losing large chunks of time and not even realising it; the hallucinations that are part of either my depression or the BPD, and indeed my entire sense of reality, have all gradually spiralled out of control; and all my efforts to right the roller coaster have only confused the issues more.
As a result of all this, after what had been I think around 3 years, I was admitted to the hospital's psychiatric unit for just over a week. I suppose I think that if I had just worked harder at being well, if I had tried harder, this wouldn't have happened. I find myself feeling deeply ashamed to have been admitted back there when I know that I don't think badly of anyone else who is admitted.
The upshot of all this is that my medication and my diagnosis have both been changed, and that there is talk of more intensive support being available, especially since the program I've been seeing my private psychologist (Sonia) under has now ended, leaving me with four sessions until next year (quite a drop since I had been seeing her 2 to 3 times a week). I'm not certain exactly what that support will entail but there was mention of a case manager to help organise some sort of housing, a public psychiatrist once a month or so and someone from the Mobile Intensive Treatment team to see a couple of times a week.
In the meantime, what I do know is that I've been put back onto Avanza (mirtazapine) - though how long that will last (as its sedating effects are already beginning to wear off) remains to be seen - and my diagnosis has been officially changed to also include Dissociative Identities Disorder. I must admit, it feels quite surreal to have that on my record after spending 12 years knowing but undiagnosed. I'm still sorting through how I feel about it, that's for sure.
There's been a lot of upheaval. There's still a lot of upheaval. I'm doing better than I was prior to my admission, but I'm still very unwell and struggling with many of the same issues I was having difficulty with before I went into hospital.
I've been increasingly paranoid, guilty and ashamed, and withdrawing/guarding my comments, because my thoughts lead me to believe I'm unwanted anyway -- every comment or lack of comment has looked like a closed door; I've been losing large chunks of time and not even realising it; the hallucinations that are part of either my depression or the BPD, and indeed my entire sense of reality, have all gradually spiralled out of control; and all my efforts to right the roller coaster have only confused the issues more.
As a result of all this, after what had been I think around 3 years, I was admitted to the hospital's psychiatric unit for just over a week. I suppose I think that if I had just worked harder at being well, if I had tried harder, this wouldn't have happened. I find myself feeling deeply ashamed to have been admitted back there when I know that I don't think badly of anyone else who is admitted.
The upshot of all this is that my medication and my diagnosis have both been changed, and that there is talk of more intensive support being available, especially since the program I've been seeing my private psychologist (Sonia) under has now ended, leaving me with four sessions until next year (quite a drop since I had been seeing her 2 to 3 times a week). I'm not certain exactly what that support will entail but there was mention of a case manager to help organise some sort of housing, a public psychiatrist once a month or so and someone from the Mobile Intensive Treatment team to see a couple of times a week.
In the meantime, what I do know is that I've been put back onto Avanza (mirtazapine) - though how long that will last (as its sedating effects are already beginning to wear off) remains to be seen - and my diagnosis has been officially changed to also include Dissociative Identities Disorder. I must admit, it feels quite surreal to have that on my record after spending 12 years knowing but undiagnosed. I'm still sorting through how I feel about it, that's for sure.
There's been a lot of upheaval. There's still a lot of upheaval. I'm doing better than I was prior to my admission, but I'm still very unwell and struggling with many of the same issues I was having difficulty with before I went into hospital.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Alcohol Recovery: On Being Selfish & Feeling Guilty
As we sat and worked together on my relapse prevention plan, Michele and I discussed various aspects of what I would be facing on my trip in terms of alcohol stressors. I identified some of the major ones quite easily - I, for example, expected a large portion of my friends would be drinking when we went to the pub, and that this, in turn, would prove difficult for me.
We hashed out strategies like leaving the room, taking a short walk, even just going to the bathroom. We talked about saying no. And Michele made a suggestion, I don't even remember what exactly it was, but I balked. She wanted me to be selfish. Now, don't get me wrong. I can be selfish. I'm pretty good at being selfish -- when it's unintentional. What I struggle with is the idea of deliberately setting out to be selfish (or even, to a degree, getting my needs/wishes/desires met or recognised).
So... I balked. We discussed it, I still wasn't comfortable with it. We didn't write it down as a strategy because we knew I was too uncomfortable with it to use it. And then a situation came up that it sort of got used rather by accident.
Sat around the table after dinner, everyone began discussing where we'd go next - whether we'd have a drink or go our separate ways (which, admittedly, wasn't entirely all that separate). A few people expressed an interest in going for an alcoholic drink and my best friend turned to me to ask how I felt about that plan.
Now, bear in mind, please, that by this stage I'd been around someone who was drinking almost every day for almost a week. The night previous I'd had to bail on my friends because I couldn't handle the pub atmosphere. I was very aware in that moment that if I went to a pub with my friends, I would not have been able and willing to stop myself ordering a drink. My reserves were at a minimum - beer looked good.
I admitted that if "they" were to go to a pub, I wouldn't be joining them. Not really my style, I'm better at tagging along and forcing myself to just cope with it until I can't anymore - better that than what transpired...
Because my friends decided that they wouldn't go to a pub. They wouldn't go for an alcoholic drink and we would instead go to Starbucks. (Which turned out to be closed, adding more difficulty and more guilt.)
And it was the sweetest, most lovely gesture. And I can't even put in words how much I struggled with that. Because now everybody was accommodating to my wishes, to my selfishness. And that's exactly how I felt - selfish.
They wouldn't need to, if only I could drink responsibly.
They wouldn't need to, if only I could be a grown up.
They wouldn't need to, if only I could suck it up.
They wouldn't need to, if only I could act like a normal, sane person.
They wouldn't need to, if only I wasn't such a screw up.
They wouldn't need to, if only I wasn't so weak.
If only, if only, if only.
I could carry the if onlys on but there's no point in rehashing all of them, because they're not separately relevant. There are a thousand reasons I was uncomfortable with everyone changing their plans to accommodate me - and while in some ways, all of them matter -- in the ways that count right now, none of them do except that I felt so selfish.
I felt, too, that I had forced my friends into the position where they had to choose between spending time with me and doing what they wanted, and that's something I'm very uncomfortable with, as a whole. (And it takes very little evaluating to see that this is probably where a part of my difficulty in making decisions that involve other people in any way comes from.)
In the time since that night, I've done some work on teasing out the stuff behind that, and one of the things I found was that (in addition to and separate from my belief that I as a person don't deserve concessions because my worth is less than others - which is a whole separate thing that after years still needs serious work) I believe that since this is my own fault, I have no right to concessions for it. If, for example, my knee was causing a problem and everybody wanted to climb Mount Everest, and I were to say "I'm not capable of that, let's hike Mount Gravatt instead" and people changed their plans to accommodate that, I would be far less uncomfortable...
But my knee is not the problem. My alcoholism is. My desperate need/wish/desire (I'm not sure which one best fits the way I feel about it though I know need is not physically accurate) to drink something that is going to destroy me if I don't force myself to stay away from it is the problem. And that's my own fault, my responsibility. How dare I put someone in the position to choose between something they enjoy and me?
And if they choose me, how can I allow myself to not feel guilty about that when I feel like they've chosen the raw end of the stick.
I am, as is probably obvious in this post, still struggling with how to find my balance and peace in this issue. Recovery is hard, and everything is still so tangled together.
Challenges and Cheerleading:
It's okay for people to choose me over drinking.
It's okay to say I'm not going to do something, even if that's what everyone else wants to do.
No matter what lies I tell myself, I am actually no longer capable of having "just one drink".
It's not worth the cost to drink.
Take care of yourselves until next time, and may we all find our own small fences along the way.
We hashed out strategies like leaving the room, taking a short walk, even just going to the bathroom. We talked about saying no. And Michele made a suggestion, I don't even remember what exactly it was, but I balked. She wanted me to be selfish. Now, don't get me wrong. I can be selfish. I'm pretty good at being selfish -- when it's unintentional. What I struggle with is the idea of deliberately setting out to be selfish (or even, to a degree, getting my needs/wishes/desires met or recognised).
So... I balked. We discussed it, I still wasn't comfortable with it. We didn't write it down as a strategy because we knew I was too uncomfortable with it to use it. And then a situation came up that it sort of got used rather by accident.
Sat around the table after dinner, everyone began discussing where we'd go next - whether we'd have a drink or go our separate ways (which, admittedly, wasn't entirely all that separate). A few people expressed an interest in going for an alcoholic drink and my best friend turned to me to ask how I felt about that plan.
Now, bear in mind, please, that by this stage I'd been around someone who was drinking almost every day for almost a week. The night previous I'd had to bail on my friends because I couldn't handle the pub atmosphere. I was very aware in that moment that if I went to a pub with my friends, I would not have been able and willing to stop myself ordering a drink. My reserves were at a minimum - beer looked good.
I admitted that if "they" were to go to a pub, I wouldn't be joining them. Not really my style, I'm better at tagging along and forcing myself to just cope with it until I can't anymore - better that than what transpired...
Because my friends decided that they wouldn't go to a pub. They wouldn't go for an alcoholic drink and we would instead go to Starbucks. (Which turned out to be closed, adding more difficulty and more guilt.)
And it was the sweetest, most lovely gesture. And I can't even put in words how much I struggled with that. Because now everybody was accommodating to my wishes, to my selfishness. And that's exactly how I felt - selfish.
They wouldn't need to, if only I could drink responsibly.
They wouldn't need to, if only I could be a grown up.
They wouldn't need to, if only I could suck it up.
They wouldn't need to, if only I could act like a normal, sane person.
They wouldn't need to, if only I wasn't such a screw up.
They wouldn't need to, if only I wasn't so weak.
If only, if only, if only.
I could carry the if onlys on but there's no point in rehashing all of them, because they're not separately relevant. There are a thousand reasons I was uncomfortable with everyone changing their plans to accommodate me - and while in some ways, all of them matter -- in the ways that count right now, none of them do except that I felt so selfish.
I felt, too, that I had forced my friends into the position where they had to choose between spending time with me and doing what they wanted, and that's something I'm very uncomfortable with, as a whole. (And it takes very little evaluating to see that this is probably where a part of my difficulty in making decisions that involve other people in any way comes from.)
In the time since that night, I've done some work on teasing out the stuff behind that, and one of the things I found was that (in addition to and separate from my belief that I as a person don't deserve concessions because my worth is less than others - which is a whole separate thing that after years still needs serious work) I believe that since this is my own fault, I have no right to concessions for it. If, for example, my knee was causing a problem and everybody wanted to climb Mount Everest, and I were to say "I'm not capable of that, let's hike Mount Gravatt instead" and people changed their plans to accommodate that, I would be far less uncomfortable...
But my knee is not the problem. My alcoholism is. My desperate need/wish/desire (I'm not sure which one best fits the way I feel about it though I know need is not physically accurate) to drink something that is going to destroy me if I don't force myself to stay away from it is the problem. And that's my own fault, my responsibility. How dare I put someone in the position to choose between something they enjoy and me?
And if they choose me, how can I allow myself to not feel guilty about that when I feel like they've chosen the raw end of the stick.
I am, as is probably obvious in this post, still struggling with how to find my balance and peace in this issue. Recovery is hard, and everything is still so tangled together.
Challenges and Cheerleading:
It's okay for people to choose me over drinking.
It's okay to say I'm not going to do something, even if that's what everyone else wants to do.
No matter what lies I tell myself, I am actually no longer capable of having "just one drink".
It's not worth the cost to drink.
Take care of yourselves until next time, and may we all find our own small fences along the way.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
Black & White Can Be Sneaky
Sometimes unexpected discoveries pop up right in the middle of something else. Today my alcohol counsellor and I were discussing some of the things going on in my life at the moment, and in the midst of explaining my concerns over something nice someone had done for me, I came out with something very similar to "I'm worried because she annoys me sometimes, but she has done this really lovely thing for me. Now that she's done this, I'll feel guilty if I get annoyed."
Instead of agreeing with me, or testing me with what skills I can use to deal with the guilt, my counsellor looked at me for a moment and asked me what kind of thinking I was using. As she reminded me of what I know about thinking styles/patterns and how some are helpful & others aren't, the cacaphony of thoughts in my head ran something like:
Does this mean she thinks it's an unhelpful thought pattern? Why is it unhelpful? Of course I'll feel guilty if I get annoyed - I should! If someone does something nice to or for me, I owe them. Having any negative feeling around/about that person is clearly a sign that I'm not grateful enough. It would be extremely rude of me to be ungrateful after such a lovely thing was done for me. Knowing that doing that will make me a Bad Person makes these thoughts helpful because now I know I have to banish all traces of annoyance and override them with the more appropriate response of gratitude.
"I think it's helpful thinking," I answered her, and went on to repeat my thoughts on the matter. My counsellor paused and I could feel her gaze centre on me.
"Did you know," she began, "that if what you just said to me were true, we would ALL be in trouble? Even me!" I laughed and she added some more thoughts. "You've just told me that because someone has done something nice for you, feeling annoyed would make you a bad person and that if you feel annoyed it would mean that you are not grateful. Do you recognise anything about this thinking?"
Suddenly, it hits me. This is all-or-nothing thinking!
And it's been sneaking in and camping out unnoticed in a lot of places lately.
I don't know why it is, but for some reason, this style of black&white thinking still doesn't show up on my radar. I've got better, I think, at recognising that style in general, but it continues to elude me when it pertains to interpersonal skills.
I can't seem to find a better way to end this, but it's late and I need to start finishing up for the night. See you all later for Sanguine Saturday!
Cheerleading/challenges:
This is a good step and I can build on it.
It's okay to not be perfect.
Being offered something (or given something, or making a mistake, or loving somebody, or...) doesn't mean I have to give away all my rights.
Just because I can find a way to justify something as helpful doesn't mean it is.
Take care of yourselves until next time, and may we all find our own small fences along the way.
Instead of agreeing with me, or testing me with what skills I can use to deal with the guilt, my counsellor looked at me for a moment and asked me what kind of thinking I was using. As she reminded me of what I know about thinking styles/patterns and how some are helpful & others aren't, the cacaphony of thoughts in my head ran something like:
Does this mean she thinks it's an unhelpful thought pattern? Why is it unhelpful? Of course I'll feel guilty if I get annoyed - I should! If someone does something nice to or for me, I owe them. Having any negative feeling around/about that person is clearly a sign that I'm not grateful enough. It would be extremely rude of me to be ungrateful after such a lovely thing was done for me. Knowing that doing that will make me a Bad Person makes these thoughts helpful because now I know I have to banish all traces of annoyance and override them with the more appropriate response of gratitude.
"I think it's helpful thinking," I answered her, and went on to repeat my thoughts on the matter. My counsellor paused and I could feel her gaze centre on me.
"Did you know," she began, "that if what you just said to me were true, we would ALL be in trouble? Even me!" I laughed and she added some more thoughts. "You've just told me that because someone has done something nice for you, feeling annoyed would make you a bad person and that if you feel annoyed it would mean that you are not grateful. Do you recognise anything about this thinking?"
Suddenly, it hits me. This is all-or-nothing thinking!
And it's been sneaking in and camping out unnoticed in a lot of places lately.
I don't know why it is, but for some reason, this style of black&white thinking still doesn't show up on my radar. I've got better, I think, at recognising that style in general, but it continues to elude me when it pertains to interpersonal skills.
I can't seem to find a better way to end this, but it's late and I need to start finishing up for the night. See you all later for Sanguine Saturday!
Cheerleading/challenges:
This is a good step and I can build on it.
It's okay to not be perfect.
Being offered something (or given something, or making a mistake, or loving somebody, or...) doesn't mean I have to give away all my rights.
Just because I can find a way to justify something as helpful doesn't mean it is.
Take care of yourselves until next time, and may we all find our own small fences along the way.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
I Guess Sometimes Running Isn't The Answer
Here I am, doing the same thing I have always done, hoping for a better outcome without changing the direction of the flooding tide. There are heavy decisions hanging over my head that I am avoiding in hopes that they will make themselves; if I wait long enough, they might... but having them hanging is not making each day easier.
Avoidance. Escape. I want them; I feel as though I need them.
I know that avoidance as a coping mechanism almost all of the time falls short of "helpful" or "healthy"; and yet... It has been more than a week since I sat at my stepmother's table and shared a meal with them. I have tried to push away the thoughts, the emotions, the ideas. I have worked to build ladders against the walls of paranoia so that I can pretend they don't exist. I have built dams and wells and thrown into them the sadness, the guilt, the fear, the anger, the shame, the disgust. They continue to bubble up, bubble out and flood my brain the way the Brisbane river flooded Southbank last week. I have alternately reached out and retreated; struck out and struck in; fought and loved and hidden. And what I have done more than anything else is run. In any way I can, I have taken off running and not stopped until that panicked feeling went down a little again.
I need to find a way to control this crisis, because this became one far too quickly and far too strongly. I am in serious distress and I need to level it out enough that my skills have some impact.
I've been thinking about this all day, and I think I know how I'm going to do that. I think I know the right way to handle this, but I'm not absolutely sure. I might make it worse - but at least I will have tried... and if I don't do anything, it's still going to keep getting worse on its own.
Don't get me wrong; as much as I have avoided, I have also been trying to do what I need to, in tiny ways. I wrote a journal; I wasted about four thousand words avoiding and then I wrote a thousand words about the visit. I have mentioned that I'm struggling. And tiny ways at trying this are great, but they're not enough. if I want to keep my head above water, I need to make bigger steps.
I need to actually stop running. I need to start looking at this for what it was, and that's going to mean learning how to accept it. It's going to mean talking about it and writing about it and actually being honest about it. It's going to be uncomfortable.
But how do I voice this tangle of emotions? How do I extricate myself from the guilt, shame and disgust long enough to allow any of the other emotions a look in; or for long enough to allow anyone else in? I need to figure it out and soon.
I need to trust in my own beliefs, I need to trust in my own self; I need to let go enough to trust in the pockets of safety that there are here where the waters aren't so rough and I can rest a little.
When you are swept off your feet and carried away on the tide, how do you regain your equilibrium?
Avoidance. Escape. I want them; I feel as though I need them.
I know that avoidance as a coping mechanism almost all of the time falls short of "helpful" or "healthy"; and yet... It has been more than a week since I sat at my stepmother's table and shared a meal with them. I have tried to push away the thoughts, the emotions, the ideas. I have worked to build ladders against the walls of paranoia so that I can pretend they don't exist. I have built dams and wells and thrown into them the sadness, the guilt, the fear, the anger, the shame, the disgust. They continue to bubble up, bubble out and flood my brain the way the Brisbane river flooded Southbank last week. I have alternately reached out and retreated; struck out and struck in; fought and loved and hidden. And what I have done more than anything else is run. In any way I can, I have taken off running and not stopped until that panicked feeling went down a little again.
I need to find a way to control this crisis, because this became one far too quickly and far too strongly. I am in serious distress and I need to level it out enough that my skills have some impact.
I've been thinking about this all day, and I think I know how I'm going to do that. I think I know the right way to handle this, but I'm not absolutely sure. I might make it worse - but at least I will have tried... and if I don't do anything, it's still going to keep getting worse on its own.
Don't get me wrong; as much as I have avoided, I have also been trying to do what I need to, in tiny ways. I wrote a journal; I wasted about four thousand words avoiding and then I wrote a thousand words about the visit. I have mentioned that I'm struggling. And tiny ways at trying this are great, but they're not enough. if I want to keep my head above water, I need to make bigger steps.
I need to actually stop running. I need to start looking at this for what it was, and that's going to mean learning how to accept it. It's going to mean talking about it and writing about it and actually being honest about it. It's going to be uncomfortable.
But how do I voice this tangle of emotions? How do I extricate myself from the guilt, shame and disgust long enough to allow any of the other emotions a look in; or for long enough to allow anyone else in? I need to figure it out and soon.
I need to trust in my own beliefs, I need to trust in my own self; I need to let go enough to trust in the pockets of safety that there are here where the waters aren't so rough and I can rest a little.
When you are swept off your feet and carried away on the tide, how do you regain your equilibrium?
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Conquering The Need To Please
Anybody who knows me at all, knows that I am, possibly above all other things, a people-pleaser. As a child, it was a necessary part of my survival - as an adult, it was, I believed, the only way I would ever be liked, let alone loved. So for a long time all of my value came from having others like me, from doing and being everything everyone else wanted me to be. I was a chameleon and I wore whatever skin I thought the other person wanted to see.
If (I thought) you wanted someone to listen, that's what I'd do. If (I thought) you wanted comfort, that's what I'd give. If (I thought) you wanted advice, I'd offer it. If (I thought) you wanted to hear you were wonderful, that's what I'd say. Everything came second to that need to please - everything. I would stay up all night to support an acquaintance; give money away to anybody who asked, if they said they needed it; drop everything for everyone.
And it worked. I had a knack for it. I was good at being what everyone else wanted me to be - too good. Somewhere in all of that, I lost who I was. I lost who I wanted me to be. I lost my substance, and all that was left was the need to please everybody else. And I was fine with that because, you see, most people did like me... to a point.
People loved that I would do anything for them. They valued that I would value them so much... but they, for the most part, didn't have a lot of respect for me. Why should they, when I so clearly had no respect for myself?
2008 was the beginning of a turning point. In 2008 I came face to face with the concept that although most (real life) people "liked" me, nobody actually particularly cared about or for me. I was everybody's friend, but nobody counted me as theirs; as far as they were concerned, I was a hanger-on, an amiable and pleasant caricature, but I was not and had never been, any more than that.
Even after I recognised that, though, I didn't connect the dots. I couldn't understand how everybody could like me so much and not actually like me. (If you're confused, perhaps thinking of it as the difference between an acquaintance and a friend may help.)
And even when I did connect the dots, when I finally made the link, I was too afraid to do anything about it. My entire worth as a person hung on whether others liked me; if I started trying to worry about how I felt about things, everyone would see that there was nothing worth liking in me. So I didn't change much. By this stage I'd agreed to do DBT because that was (I thought) what my case manager had wanted for me. I stayed because (I thought) that was what the group coordinator had wanted.
I dropped everything when (I thought) somebody wanted me to or believed they needed me to. Even as I recognised the re-emergence of my self, my needs, my wants... I put them aside for others. And generally not selectively, either; there was a level of hierarchy, but for the most part, anyone who (I thought) wanted something, got it.
And then... something changed. I don't know if it was gradual, sneaking up on me, or if it was fairly sudden, but I do know that something has changed.
I've started to speak out. I don't just tell people what (I think) they want to hear, these days. I tell the truth as I see it - I try to be compassionate and diplomatic about it, but I'm still learning how to balance that with being true to myself. I'm still learning what it means to have a self to be true to.
I'm interested in helping people, in offering more than a virtual snuggle; I want to challenge people because we cannot grow without challenge. I'm not interested in walking on eggshells for the rest of my life. I'm not interested anymore in putting aside everything I need, everything I want, everything I am, to please somebody else.
Unsurprisingly, I'm less liked now.
Surprisingly, I don't mind nearly as much as I thought I would. It still hurts a lot, and it's very hard, still, to say no to my desire to please someone else. I don't always choose to do it, even when I know I 'should'. It's a learning curve, and this is just the beginning of another journey.
I used to think the world would end if I upset others, if I put myself first, if I failed to please someone...
Let me tell you, the world hasn't ended.
Yes, I'm less 'popular' now, but I feel, in some ways, like I am much more loved. People I truly admire -- people who are imperfect but never give up; who are good, kind, thoughtful people who have learned or are learning to respect themselves and put themselves first sometimes; who understand the value of change and challenge; who aren't afraid to give and take -- have noticed the change in me, in a good way. I feel like I have earned something much more valuable to me than mass outward approval - I feel that I have earned, dare I say it?, the respect of people I look up to. And I have earned something else, somehow, too, because I discovered something when I realised how much I have changed.
Not only would I would much rather have the respect and love of five* of those people than be universally liked; I'd rather respect myself than be universally liked, too.
*(I just wanted to put a number here and since I prefer numbers to be in multiples of 5...)
Cheer-leading / Challenge Statements:
It's okay to be proud of myself.
I don't have to be perfect.
I'm an okay person, and choosing to look after myself and my needs first doesn't change that.
I'm not responsible for other peoples' emotions.
Take care of yourselves until next time, and may we all find our own small fences along the way.
If (I thought) you wanted someone to listen, that's what I'd do. If (I thought) you wanted comfort, that's what I'd give. If (I thought) you wanted advice, I'd offer it. If (I thought) you wanted to hear you were wonderful, that's what I'd say. Everything came second to that need to please - everything. I would stay up all night to support an acquaintance; give money away to anybody who asked, if they said they needed it; drop everything for everyone.
And it worked. I had a knack for it. I was good at being what everyone else wanted me to be - too good. Somewhere in all of that, I lost who I was. I lost who I wanted me to be. I lost my substance, and all that was left was the need to please everybody else. And I was fine with that because, you see, most people did like me... to a point.
People loved that I would do anything for them. They valued that I would value them so much... but they, for the most part, didn't have a lot of respect for me. Why should they, when I so clearly had no respect for myself?
2008 was the beginning of a turning point. In 2008 I came face to face with the concept that although most (real life) people "liked" me, nobody actually particularly cared about or for me. I was everybody's friend, but nobody counted me as theirs; as far as they were concerned, I was a hanger-on, an amiable and pleasant caricature, but I was not and had never been, any more than that.
Even after I recognised that, though, I didn't connect the dots. I couldn't understand how everybody could like me so much and not actually like me. (If you're confused, perhaps thinking of it as the difference between an acquaintance and a friend may help.)
And even when I did connect the dots, when I finally made the link, I was too afraid to do anything about it. My entire worth as a person hung on whether others liked me; if I started trying to worry about how I felt about things, everyone would see that there was nothing worth liking in me. So I didn't change much. By this stage I'd agreed to do DBT because that was (I thought) what my case manager had wanted for me. I stayed because (I thought) that was what the group coordinator had wanted.
I dropped everything when (I thought) somebody wanted me to or believed they needed me to. Even as I recognised the re-emergence of my self, my needs, my wants... I put them aside for others. And generally not selectively, either; there was a level of hierarchy, but for the most part, anyone who (I thought) wanted something, got it.
And then... something changed. I don't know if it was gradual, sneaking up on me, or if it was fairly sudden, but I do know that something has changed.
I've started to speak out. I don't just tell people what (I think) they want to hear, these days. I tell the truth as I see it - I try to be compassionate and diplomatic about it, but I'm still learning how to balance that with being true to myself. I'm still learning what it means to have a self to be true to.
I'm interested in helping people, in offering more than a virtual snuggle; I want to challenge people because we cannot grow without challenge. I'm not interested in walking on eggshells for the rest of my life. I'm not interested anymore in putting aside everything I need, everything I want, everything I am, to please somebody else.
Unsurprisingly, I'm less liked now.
Surprisingly, I don't mind nearly as much as I thought I would. It still hurts a lot, and it's very hard, still, to say no to my desire to please someone else. I don't always choose to do it, even when I know I 'should'. It's a learning curve, and this is just the beginning of another journey.
I used to think the world would end if I upset others, if I put myself first, if I failed to please someone...
Let me tell you, the world hasn't ended.
Yes, I'm less 'popular' now, but I feel, in some ways, like I am much more loved. People I truly admire -- people who are imperfect but never give up; who are good, kind, thoughtful people who have learned or are learning to respect themselves and put themselves first sometimes; who understand the value of change and challenge; who aren't afraid to give and take -- have noticed the change in me, in a good way. I feel like I have earned something much more valuable to me than mass outward approval - I feel that I have earned, dare I say it?, the respect of people I look up to. And I have earned something else, somehow, too, because I discovered something when I realised how much I have changed.
Not only would I would much rather have the respect and love of five* of those people than be universally liked; I'd rather respect myself than be universally liked, too.
*(I just wanted to put a number here and since I prefer numbers to be in multiples of 5...)
Cheer-leading / Challenge Statements:
It's okay to be proud of myself.
I don't have to be perfect.
I'm an okay person, and choosing to look after myself and my needs first doesn't change that.
I'm not responsible for other peoples' emotions.
Take care of yourselves until next time, and may we all find our own small fences along the way.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Learning Experiences: Lies and Omissions
Lately, life seems to be throwing a whole bunch of pretty big learning experiences my way. They're not always pleasant; in truth, most of them have been very unpleasant; but viewing them as learning experiences makes it easier to bear the uncomfortableness.
I've had the opportunity to learn about life, people, and most of all, to learn about myself. Today I'd like to explore something I started to write yesterday...
Is it ever acceptable and okay to lie? Certainly a large part of me doesn't think so, but my instinctive reaction isn't always in accordance with that. Case in point, this morning. I got up and got myself ready at the dawn of stupid o'clock, ready for my morning appointment. As I was leaving, my mother saw me. Once I had confirmed to her that I was headed to the hospital, my mother followed it up with, "done it again then, I take it?"
I won't go into all of the thoughts and feelings a comment like that brings up for me (that would be a post all on its own, I think); but I will say that before I'd even properly taken in the question, before I'd even properly understood what she was asking, the word "no" was already on my lips.
I ask myself again, "is it ever acceptable and okay to lie?", and this time I begin to speculate about abusive situations. What do I really believe? Is it okay to lie if you're going to be abused if you don't? Is it okay to lie if telling the truth endangers your life? I'm still not sure.
I read The Kite Runner not so long ago, and one particular paragraph from that has truly stuck with me:
"There is only one sin, only one. And that is theft. Every other sin is a variation of theft....When you kill a man, you steal a life. You steal his wife's right to a husband, rob his children of a father. When you tell a lie, you steal someone's right to the truth. When you cheat, you steal the right to fairness."
I don't feel okay about lying to my mother. Technically I told her the truth; I had my appointment when I did because that was when the OTs would be working. I also omitted a large portion of the truth - I had "done it again", (although it was three weeks ago). I didn't lie for gain; I lied for my emotional well-being and her protection... but that doesn't make it right. Is stealing someone's right to the truth really any better than stealing someone's right to be safe? I still don't know.
So now I ask you, is it ever acceptable or okay to lie? How much (if any) omission makes something a lie?
I've had the opportunity to learn about life, people, and most of all, to learn about myself. Today I'd like to explore something I started to write yesterday...
Is it ever acceptable and okay to lie? Certainly a large part of me doesn't think so, but my instinctive reaction isn't always in accordance with that. Case in point, this morning. I got up and got myself ready at the dawn of stupid o'clock, ready for my morning appointment. As I was leaving, my mother saw me. Once I had confirmed to her that I was headed to the hospital, my mother followed it up with, "done it again then, I take it?"
I won't go into all of the thoughts and feelings a comment like that brings up for me (that would be a post all on its own, I think); but I will say that before I'd even properly taken in the question, before I'd even properly understood what she was asking, the word "no" was already on my lips.
I ask myself again, "is it ever acceptable and okay to lie?", and this time I begin to speculate about abusive situations. What do I really believe? Is it okay to lie if you're going to be abused if you don't? Is it okay to lie if telling the truth endangers your life? I'm still not sure.
I read The Kite Runner not so long ago, and one particular paragraph from that has truly stuck with me:
"There is only one sin, only one. And that is theft. Every other sin is a variation of theft....When you kill a man, you steal a life. You steal his wife's right to a husband, rob his children of a father. When you tell a lie, you steal someone's right to the truth. When you cheat, you steal the right to fairness."
I don't feel okay about lying to my mother. Technically I told her the truth; I had my appointment when I did because that was when the OTs would be working. I also omitted a large portion of the truth - I had "done it again", (although it was three weeks ago). I didn't lie for gain; I lied for my emotional well-being and her protection... but that doesn't make it right. Is stealing someone's right to the truth really any better than stealing someone's right to be safe? I still don't know.
So now I ask you, is it ever acceptable or okay to lie? How much (if any) omission makes something a lie?
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Father's Day Phone Call
Nightmares are, for me, a regular thing. Generally, assuming I sleep, I have at least one nightmare every day. Every so often, a nightmare will be particularly powerful, and it will leave me feeling off kilter (or worse) for the entire day. Last night, I had a nightmare like that, and it has served only to highlight the fact that I really need to sort my head out about my father.
My father's birthday falls right on the tail end of August, and I made the decision not to call him and wish him a happy one. I challenged my guilt and refused to bow down to it, but when Father's Day came around a week later, I didn't keep it up. I gave in to my fears, to my guilt, to my desire to be viewed as a "good" person-- a good daughter.
I think, above all, that's what I wanted. I want(ed) my mother and father to be pleased with me, to be pleased and proud and to tell me I was good. Silly, isn't it? Rationally and logically I am aware that neither of those was going to happen.
In fact, what happened is that my father and I discussed my move. (Since my stepsister found my old Facebook account and messaged me about the impending move, I knew he would already know.) I expected he wouldn't be pleased. I expected to hear how irresponsible I am and so forth, and I expected anger at the fact that I am moving so far away -- far enough that I will finally (I hope) be safe from him. What threw me was the hurt in his voice.
I've heard other survivors say that hearing their person sound afraid or hurt in that way was quite healing for them - it helped them see their attacker as human and infallible; it gave them a sense of power over the person who had hurt them. I didn't feel any of that - I felt, I bet you can't guess! - guilt. Deep, burning guilt.
I had hurt my daddy's feelings so deeply that it showed in his very voice. How dare I? Who am I to hurt my father that way?
And more than that, I felt deep guilt/shame for feeling guilty over hurting him, because, after everything, shouldn't I be glad about it? (And if I'm not, then maybe it provides more evidence that I deserved it, that it was all my fault.)
I have struggled daily with both lots of this guilt ever since, though I have tried to challenge the thoughts and use my skills to handle this situation and these emotions. I have tried as much as I can to take myself out of the situation ("what if [acquaintance] felt this way?"). Unfortunately my counsellor has hurt her back and has been unavailable since before Father's Day, so I haven't been able to discuss it properly, but I have been trying very hard to keep this from becoming an implosion.
I believe in the power of words, the power of visibilised thoughts, so in the absence of Carol, here are some challenges and the like to the situation/emotions.
Who am I to hurt my father? What about who was he to hurt his daughter? I may have hurt his feelings by planning to move, but I might not feel the need to move so far away if he was a safe person to have in my life! At least I can say that my actions (moving) weren't done with intent to hurt him. I wonder if he can say the same?
As for the second half...
Feeling guilt for hurting someone's feelings just indicates that I'm compassionate - it definitely doesn't mean that I deserved what happened to me as a child. And how I 'should' feel is however I do feel!
Challenges/cheer-leading statements:
I am not a bad person.
It's okay to do things that are for my health and well-being, even if those things do upset others.
I'm not responsible for another person's emotional health.
All emotions are okay and valid, even the ones I don't like.
Take care of yourselves until next time, and may we all find our own small fences along the way.
My father's birthday falls right on the tail end of August, and I made the decision not to call him and wish him a happy one. I challenged my guilt and refused to bow down to it, but when Father's Day came around a week later, I didn't keep it up. I gave in to my fears, to my guilt, to my desire to be viewed as a "good" person-- a good daughter.
I think, above all, that's what I wanted. I want(ed) my mother and father to be pleased with me, to be pleased and proud and to tell me I was good. Silly, isn't it? Rationally and logically I am aware that neither of those was going to happen.
In fact, what happened is that my father and I discussed my move. (Since my stepsister found my old Facebook account and messaged me about the impending move, I knew he would already know.) I expected he wouldn't be pleased. I expected to hear how irresponsible I am and so forth, and I expected anger at the fact that I am moving so far away -- far enough that I will finally (I hope) be safe from him. What threw me was the hurt in his voice.
I've heard other survivors say that hearing their person sound afraid or hurt in that way was quite healing for them - it helped them see their attacker as human and infallible; it gave them a sense of power over the person who had hurt them. I didn't feel any of that - I felt, I bet you can't guess! - guilt. Deep, burning guilt.
I had hurt my daddy's feelings so deeply that it showed in his very voice. How dare I? Who am I to hurt my father that way?
And more than that, I felt deep guilt/shame for feeling guilty over hurting him, because, after everything, shouldn't I be glad about it? (And if I'm not, then maybe it provides more evidence that I deserved it, that it was all my fault.)
I have struggled daily with both lots of this guilt ever since, though I have tried to challenge the thoughts and use my skills to handle this situation and these emotions. I have tried as much as I can to take myself out of the situation ("what if [acquaintance] felt this way?"). Unfortunately my counsellor has hurt her back and has been unavailable since before Father's Day, so I haven't been able to discuss it properly, but I have been trying very hard to keep this from becoming an implosion.
I believe in the power of words, the power of visibilised thoughts, so in the absence of Carol, here are some challenges and the like to the situation/emotions.
Who am I to hurt my father? What about who was he to hurt his daughter? I may have hurt his feelings by planning to move, but I might not feel the need to move so far away if he was a safe person to have in my life! At least I can say that my actions (moving) weren't done with intent to hurt him. I wonder if he can say the same?
As for the second half...
Feeling guilt for hurting someone's feelings just indicates that I'm compassionate - it definitely doesn't mean that I deserved what happened to me as a child. And how I 'should' feel is however I do feel!
Challenges/cheer-leading statements:
I am not a bad person.
It's okay to do things that are for my health and well-being, even if those things do upset others.
I'm not responsible for another person's emotional health.
All emotions are okay and valid, even the ones I don't like.
Take care of yourselves until next time, and may we all find our own small fences along the way.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Musings from Hospital
There are a lot of misconceptions people have about Borderline Personality Disorder, and unfortunately, many of these stereotyped images and misconceptions are just as active in the psychiatric care community as they are in the general population. One of these, the idea that someone with BPD is a shameless manipulator who doesn't feel guilt, forms the basis of a piece I wrote in the hospital.
You see, my first day, the day they gave me the graft, I had a rough few hours. As I came to, my body began to go into convulsive shakes from the anaesthesia. I could hear the woman asking me for my pain level, administering something, then telling me, "just breathe deeply, the shakes will stop soon," and I was trying so hard, but my body just kept shaking and shaking. Barely conscious, I was frightened, and the shaking was aggravating the pain from the graft. By the time I was wheeled into the 23 hour ward, I was in tears from the pain, and I was terrified. I'm someone who deals best with small spaces: I was in a huge, open room - given no privacy curtains, and every other patient in there at that time was male. To make matters worse, I discovered that the paper underwear they'd given me to wear had been cut off me.
I lay there, crying, for an hour before anyone thought to come to me. I asked again for pain relief, then I asked to have my bear returned. I was told I wasn't allowed my phone on the ward, that I was on the 23 hour ward and would be going home tomorrow. And then I was left. And during that time, I heard the nurses talking about me. At one stage, I heard them divvying up the patients, calling dibs on this patient or that, until someone chimed, "well, SOMEONE has to have the self harmer...!"
After another two hours, the nice lady I had seen down at the clinic came to me. She checked on me, let me know what was going on. I asked if I could please have the curtains closed, she explained why it wasn't possible but that she would let the other nurses know I was concerned about the lack of privacy. She did everything in her power to put me more at ease, and it worked. It's amazing what a little kindness, a little bit of humanity, can do. After that, I must admit, every nurse that I have dealt with, bar one scary lady here on the burns ward, has been absolutely wonderful.
I hear you asking, "How does that tie into misconceptions and guilt?", and the answer is quite simple. Those first nurses made assumptions about me based on the little bit of information on my chart. They decided that as a self harmer, I wanted all of this attention. I was only crying so that they'd give me attention - so they decided to combat it by ignoring me completely. I'm sure they had the best of intentions, but by ignoring me, all they did was exacerbate the situation. As for guilt... I'm fairly sure they "bought into" the stereotype that I was incapable of guilt for my actions. After all, I only wanted attention - why would I feel guilty? Why indeed?
Lying here in the burns ward, I am filled with guilt, with shame, with a deep sense of loathing for this person I am. In the bed beside me is a man whose tractor exploded while he was mowing. Has to hop to the bathroom. Across from him is a young fellow whose feet and legs are so badly burnt he uses a wheelchair to get around, and beside him is a man who struggles to eat, with an arm bandaged all the way to his fingers. And me? I have a couple of small grafts from burns that I did to myself. What on earth gives me the right to lay here, in this bed, surrounded by these people?
WISE mind reminds me that what gives me the right to medical treatment is the code of human rights. It doesn't matter that my wound is self inflicted; it matters only that as a human being I deserve treatment as much as any other human being... and yet...
And yet, and yet, and yet. The rationalisations of minimalisation and self hatred. Can I see the girl in the hospital bed through new eyes? See her as a person? I can at least try.
She looks tired. Not ready to sleep, just tired deep inside herself. She has books, toys, papers; scattered neatly around and she's writing on a pad, using a pencil. She lifts her arm to wipe a hand over her eyes, surprised to find moisture there, then winces slightly as her other arm goes to scratch her leg, aggravating pain that had been mainly dormant. She seems surprised often, always at little evidences of humanity in herself. Her eyes look sad, now that no one is watching; sad and old and tired, but she seems almost small in the bed. Her hand is bruised where they tried (and failed) to insert the anaesthetic needle and there's still a cord stuck in her inner elbow. It annoys her and she fiddles with it unconsciously between bouts of writing. She's restless, agitated, but she doesn't want to bother anyone. She knows, unlike the others here, she doesn't deserve this good treatment. She's no right to ask for anything.
No. I can't get enough distance to feel much compassion, still. Choices have consequences, these are mine.
Perhaps guilt is like a puppy. I've trained it to stand at my side; so many times I've worn it that it thinks, now, it's rightful place is on my shoulders like a shawl.
It is both easier and harder to think in here. It is both easier and harder to breathe.
I could have chosen to use my interpersonal skills, that first morning. I didn't: I couldn't see past the guilt, the shame, the pain. There'll be other chances to use those skills. I'll do better, on my next opportunity.
Cheer-leading statements for in the hospital:
The human rights charter applies to me. I have as much right to medical treatment as anyone else.
Just because I am a person who uses self harm to cope does not make me less of a person. I deserve to be treated with basic respect.
I do not need to drink. I do not need to self harm. I can choose not to engage in those behaviours.
It is not weak to be afraid. It is not weak to accept treatment. It is not weak to allow others to help me when I need it. It's not weak to admit when I'm in pain.
It's okay to allow myself compassion.
You see, my first day, the day they gave me the graft, I had a rough few hours. As I came to, my body began to go into convulsive shakes from the anaesthesia. I could hear the woman asking me for my pain level, administering something, then telling me, "just breathe deeply, the shakes will stop soon," and I was trying so hard, but my body just kept shaking and shaking. Barely conscious, I was frightened, and the shaking was aggravating the pain from the graft. By the time I was wheeled into the 23 hour ward, I was in tears from the pain, and I was terrified. I'm someone who deals best with small spaces: I was in a huge, open room - given no privacy curtains, and every other patient in there at that time was male. To make matters worse, I discovered that the paper underwear they'd given me to wear had been cut off me.
I lay there, crying, for an hour before anyone thought to come to me. I asked again for pain relief, then I asked to have my bear returned. I was told I wasn't allowed my phone on the ward, that I was on the 23 hour ward and would be going home tomorrow. And then I was left. And during that time, I heard the nurses talking about me. At one stage, I heard them divvying up the patients, calling dibs on this patient or that, until someone chimed, "well, SOMEONE has to have the self harmer...!"
After another two hours, the nice lady I had seen down at the clinic came to me. She checked on me, let me know what was going on. I asked if I could please have the curtains closed, she explained why it wasn't possible but that she would let the other nurses know I was concerned about the lack of privacy. She did everything in her power to put me more at ease, and it worked. It's amazing what a little kindness, a little bit of humanity, can do. After that, I must admit, every nurse that I have dealt with, bar one scary lady here on the burns ward, has been absolutely wonderful.
I hear you asking, "How does that tie into misconceptions and guilt?", and the answer is quite simple. Those first nurses made assumptions about me based on the little bit of information on my chart. They decided that as a self harmer, I wanted all of this attention. I was only crying so that they'd give me attention - so they decided to combat it by ignoring me completely. I'm sure they had the best of intentions, but by ignoring me, all they did was exacerbate the situation. As for guilt... I'm fairly sure they "bought into" the stereotype that I was incapable of guilt for my actions. After all, I only wanted attention - why would I feel guilty? Why indeed?
Lying here in the burns ward, I am filled with guilt, with shame, with a deep sense of loathing for this person I am. In the bed beside me is a man whose tractor exploded while he was mowing. Has to hop to the bathroom. Across from him is a young fellow whose feet and legs are so badly burnt he uses a wheelchair to get around, and beside him is a man who struggles to eat, with an arm bandaged all the way to his fingers. And me? I have a couple of small grafts from burns that I did to myself. What on earth gives me the right to lay here, in this bed, surrounded by these people?
WISE mind reminds me that what gives me the right to medical treatment is the code of human rights. It doesn't matter that my wound is self inflicted; it matters only that as a human being I deserve treatment as much as any other human being... and yet...
And yet, and yet, and yet. The rationalisations of minimalisation and self hatred. Can I see the girl in the hospital bed through new eyes? See her as a person? I can at least try.
She looks tired. Not ready to sleep, just tired deep inside herself. She has books, toys, papers; scattered neatly around and she's writing on a pad, using a pencil. She lifts her arm to wipe a hand over her eyes, surprised to find moisture there, then winces slightly as her other arm goes to scratch her leg, aggravating pain that had been mainly dormant. She seems surprised often, always at little evidences of humanity in herself. Her eyes look sad, now that no one is watching; sad and old and tired, but she seems almost small in the bed. Her hand is bruised where they tried (and failed) to insert the anaesthetic needle and there's still a cord stuck in her inner elbow. It annoys her and she fiddles with it unconsciously between bouts of writing. She's restless, agitated, but she doesn't want to bother anyone. She knows, unlike the others here, she doesn't deserve this good treatment. She's no right to ask for anything.
No. I can't get enough distance to feel much compassion, still. Choices have consequences, these are mine.
Perhaps guilt is like a puppy. I've trained it to stand at my side; so many times I've worn it that it thinks, now, it's rightful place is on my shoulders like a shawl.
It is both easier and harder to think in here. It is both easier and harder to breathe.
I could have chosen to use my interpersonal skills, that first morning. I didn't: I couldn't see past the guilt, the shame, the pain. There'll be other chances to use those skills. I'll do better, on my next opportunity.
Cheer-leading statements for in the hospital:
The human rights charter applies to me. I have as much right to medical treatment as anyone else.
Just because I am a person who uses self harm to cope does not make me less of a person. I deserve to be treated with basic respect.
I do not need to drink. I do not need to self harm. I can choose not to engage in those behaviours.
It is not weak to be afraid. It is not weak to accept treatment. It is not weak to allow others to help me when I need it. It's not weak to admit when I'm in pain.
It's okay to allow myself compassion.
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