10:20 a.m. - 03/15/03
things that make my head hurt.
So, I didn't kill the last entry. Well, actually the *real* last entry, I did kill (accidentally) but it was never posted so you wouldn't have known anyway. The most recently posted entry (before this), the poem that wasn't a poem, still exists. It's just private now. Because it feels private and not like something I want people to look at as a poem. It's more along the lines of what I wrote in early January (one year, three months ago) than the lines of Paradox, Alarm, etc...The ability to make this choice is one of many reasons gold membership rocks. I'm such a lucky duckle.
I'm not sure how deeply I want to go into what's been going on, as I'm almost ok this morning, and don't want to ruffle that before I see the doc tonight. The past few days have been hugely difficult and painful. I actually went into the ed a bit, which will give you a little bit of an idea, only because it's been so long since I did anything with that. A better way would be to describe how I've been emotionally, as that's more real than handing over symptoms, and hopefully less triggering for anyone reading this.
Wednesday, I had an appointment with the Superdoc, during which we discussed my need to escape D!@#$%^, as well as the barriers which keep me from doing so, (such as anxiety/phobias) and he asked if there was anything else tying me to this place (D!@#$%^) and I told him no. I came home and broke down a bit and realized that the answer was yes. When he asked, I had considered it in terms of what is here- in terms of this house which I hate, and my parents who act crazily, and this 20-mile-radius of nothingness (which...I hate.) When I got home, I started to think more about what I might "lose" in stepping forward, in going out into my own life, and that really, really scared me. I don't like the idea of not being sick, although I've also gotten to the point where I don't like the idea of not being in recovery. But to be considered entirely healthy, to have the responsibilities that come with that, to have the life that my anxiety makes me believe would be expected, terrifies me. I have a concept similar to that I had when I began to fight the eating disorder aspect of this: that if I get healthy I'll be entirely alone. And if anything, it's *more* strongly fortified now- with the loss of Rogers and the continued lack of emotional support outside of the psychiatric spectrum. I really don't mean to disqualify those people who are so good to me from such distances, but they know, too, (you know, too) what difference there is between someone who loves you a couple hundred miles away and someone who loves you *right here.* When I finally talked with the doc last night (after two unbelievable days, during which he was supposed to call, and didn't) I told him that I really don't believe I could have friends, or connection, or attachment in the "real world." I don't see any of that happening. It goes beyond the element of risk involved in seeking out relationships; I just honestly still believe that no one will want anything to do with me. It's not that I want the dependency of sickness; I don't. I know that my time at Rogers was best when I was well enough to enjoy it, and I know that part of what made it so grand to begin with was that they treated me the same (as me and as good) whether I was struggling or crusing along. But, I can't help being aware of the fact that I didn't have the chance to experience Rogers based on my own merit- or my "attachment gift" as Dr. R says- I went to Rogers because I was sick and left because I was better (read: better, not well.) And I do believe what I sometimes say- that Rogers was good because I was in recovery, that it wouldn't have been good if I were sick, and that I deserved help because of who I am, but that doesn't change the reason I *received* help. It doesn't change all of the mental baggage I acquired before I finally found my way into real help. I'm really scared to lose that. I told him Wednesday that the only hard thing to leave behind if I packed a bag today and headed (without anxiety) to the east coast would be him. And that's very, very true, for reasons beyond what I understood at the time. It isn't simply that I'm not better yet, and still need help, and wouldn't want to work with someone new at this point in the process...it's because he's the only person I'm connected to here, and I'm afraid the only person I'll ever be connected to again.
I told him (last night- confused yet?) that when I leave the house and someone *looks at me*, when my brother gives me one of his (really amazing hold-you-close, spin-you-around sorts of) hugs, I'm entirely floored. I don't know how to expect those things, those simple things, anymore. The cashier who smiles as she checks out your purchases, the girl in the waiting room who makes small talk with you- they astound me. Because I know that's impossible, and anything beyond that...more impossible. Impossibler.
So you'll understand that I haven't been feeling well. If I'm thinking that what I want (need) more than anything in the world is connection, and I can never find that again; the only place I *ever* found that was Rogers, and I can't go back to Rogers without getting sick, (which hell of all hells, I've been considering) - and actually- to get sick and go back would be really awful, and people who are supposed to be there wouldn't be, and the room I shared with Tracy'd stare me down...Oog. Non-goodness. Downright badness. I didn't really realize how bad at the point (Thursday) when I first called someone. I called Sara, who I had talked with at length on Wednesday, and who I figured I could vent with and be ok. She was eating dinner (which is good because if I probably shouldn't have vented all that to her anyway), and her mom gave me over-the-phone hugs and said Sara'd call later. When she did, she was worried of course (since we'd just talked), and I told her I was having a really bad night, because by that point I knew I was. I'd been in various regressive positions in my bedroom, bawling, for sometime, and had even called the infamous Exchange (system that paiges the doc, which usually involves really bitchy people asking me what my call is regarding and if it's *really* an emergency, etc) to have him call me. The girl who answered was uncharacteristically kind (and sincere-sounding), but some woman called back a few minutes later to say he couldn't call me, all the same. Actually, she said that he would call me back in three hours, when he was no longer tied up in hospital craziness, and I believed her, which is where things really started to get difficult. Because he didn't call. I waited, and Sara called, and told me that she loves me, and she's in my pocket, and we're going to make it, and take deep breaths, and call for anything ever, and I tried to squeeze out "ditto" and felt a little better by the end. We only talked, say, two minutes because as you've read, the doctor was supposed to call.
(I'm still not quite over the fact that he didn't. To state the blatantly obvious.)
Thursday night, waiting for him to call, was really not good. The night before it (Wednesday!) wasn't particularly awful, as the call with Sara interrupted my otherwise steady downward spiral. The cost of that beauty is the worry about her, the need for her, the good that she is comes with the price of her illness, which is obviously steal-my-breath scary, but she's still the best thing since Prismacolors. Actually, I reread the handful of diary entries I wrote at Rogers (all in the first few days) and she's the only resident I mention. I talk about her hair and her eyes and how striking she is, how badly I want to know her, even as I'm starting to...so, duh. She's my sister by something far better than blood.
But Thursday...Thursday, the woman who called back told me to take my meds, and I didn't. I just sat around waiting for him, crying, watching Daria, playing computer pinball, hating every minute that went by on the clock. I finally went to be around 11:30, and in the morning when I woke up, I called and left him a message, letting him know that (oh, god, don't make me say) I still needed to talk. I spent the day reading gothic shorts and finishing Frankenstein (identifying far too much with the pre-homicidal monster, who is entirely isolated from the world and wants so badly to enter it), and around 3 a friend of my mom's came over to help set up my mom's independent business legitimately (in case of audits, etc.) They were still working on this around five, when I started crying and asking why he hadn't called, and Mom decided to take the reigns and page him (which, sadly, is what she was supposed to do. I have to learn to say these things.) She was told he'd call at 7:30, and I said, "Great, if he actually does" - and then we waited...
He did call around 7:30, though. I didn't expect him to call at 7:30 because I know 7:30 means 8 or 8:30, (which is what made accepting that he wasn't calling Thursday so difficult.) He said, "You've had a rough few days," (after making sure I was in a private enough place where I could talk), and I said, "Yes" and he said, "I'm sorry I couldn't call before now; that makes it even harder" and I said, "Yes" and we waited to see where the rest of our words were.
The conversation coursed around fairly normally. A little bit of information here, a little more information there, some tears scattered in between. He theorizes, I tweak said theories based on what I feel/know, eventually we communicate. He said that it's perfectly legitimate, based on my experience, to believe that I'm never going to have any good attachment ever, that anyone in my position would feel that way. He suggested the mantra, "My fears and feelings are valid, but they aren't good indicators of reality at this time" (laugh all you want, lemmings!) and I asked how he knew that last part, and he said that the only way he could explain it, which "wasn't worth much," was that he knew based on *his* experience. He understands that his knowledge of me (basically what a rocking chica I am, and what a great friend I'd be) doesn't exactly soothe my fears, but he suggests not letting them navigate, just the same.
We're talking more tonight. He said, "I'll see you in 22 hours," and I said, "That's so sad!" and he said, "What? No! It doesn't have to be a bad thing," which was sweet. I like him, if you haven't noticed; he's good at what he does.
~
I have officially taken a beyond huge break from this entry to redesign the layout, and as you can see, it's a bit messed up. I think I like what it could be; it's just not right. The right margin lines need to go as far as the entry does, and the top one needs to be even with the line to the right of Melissa. For starters. If anyone who *actually* understands html would want to help with this, I'd be ever-so obliged...(Just don't be scared when you see *how many* tables are in the code.)
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