10:35 p.m. - 01/06/03
she's got a light around her : and everywhere she goes : a million dreams of love surround her *
Goodness. With notes like those, I may have to write more poetry. You're all lovely. I do have some other ideas, actually, for things I want to write, so maybe I'm not an entirely lost cause in the genre. And I muddled around in it today, semi-journaling in my lyrical little way. It was nice, to not care about what I was writing. To not simply be journaling, but not be working at a poem. To just write. Mmm, writing.
And it's nice to sign my works as Mary Brave. Oh, dear, that's lovely. One of these days, I'll come up with the courage to ask Sarah to change the information with the company and at the website to say my name is Mary Brave. I especially hate the Lastname presence in my otherwise kickass bio. I wrote it with Brave, but edited it before sending. Oh, it's nice to know who I am, buried as she is these days. She's there, and excavating's such an art.
It's far too cold in this house. My jacket/sweatshirt/thing is uncomfortable, so I took it off, but now I'm cold. Mom sat in here for awhile rubbing her hands together, gaining heat from the friction. I don't understand why this doesn't push us to turn up the heat or light a fire. Well, I understand why it doesn't push me to do so: there isn't a heater in this room, and if I light a fire so late, I'll be in trouble. At least, I guess I will. It's so hard to know sometimes. I was thinking again today about the odd grass-is-greener respect I have for rules and (just) punishment. I'd gotten in trouble for where I was eating (which happens every so often) and because I was struggling with depression and anxiety in that moment and I was eating something challenging, I had a strong desire to do what I would have done in the olden days: drop the barely-begun pizza slice on the counter and storm off. I wanted that kind of power- the kind that says, "You don't want me to eat here? How about I just don't eat anywhere?" It's infuriating to me because these rules were never taught, never explained. People say to me, "Wow, you can eat in your room?" (for instance)..."I was never allowed to eat in my room." Well, I was. I was somedays. I was allowed with some foods. I was allowed during certain seasons. I hate the lack of consistency. Why do adults assume that children don't need the logic explained? Why do people assume their logic is universal?
I was thinking last night (in my sink-nook, talking with the Invisibles) that my desire not to have a child has nothing to do with not having this inexpressible love for one. I have this inexpressible love that wants a child to share it with. I have this desperate desire to hold a humanling, to rock them, to surround them with absolute fondness and adoration (and consistency.) I have no desire to discipline a child, to survive their adolescent rebellion, or their terrible twos. I have no faith in my ability to stand strong through that. In large part, I also feel that love is not enough. I feel like love can be motivation to do the work in a relationship- the at times, painful, difficult, intense-as-all-get-out work. And to make that kind of a commitment with a person who can't make it themselves seems wrong for me. It doesn't jive. So I guess I'm destined to be surrogate family.
I also believe in what I did not know until this conversation yesternight- that the love I have, the yearning crazy love, has to do with wanting to heal what was done, despite such good intentions, to me. In therapy jargon: I want to give this sort of love to my "inner child." I want to love a humanling the way I can't quite love my little self. So for now, I must turn this energy inward and see what grows of it. Maybe someday I'll be a mommy. Maybe someday, I'll be a rabbit. One never knows, does one?
That last line's a Heather quote. Ah, Heather. I did a couple of my to-do e-mails, and I heard Brooke's going to room with another girl from our class. I feel so distant from that world right now. I think I feel like I'm lagging, like I'm not where I'm supposed to be, even though I know better. I feel terribly distant from Neverland right now, and despite all the horror there, that distance doesn't feel like a good thing. I'm strong, though. I'll keep e-mailing until I'm able to express it. I'll keep connecting until I have the courage to work it through. I won't just run. I can't with them. I simply can't.
But yes, reading her e-mail was just another moment lately when it's hard to breathe. The doc suggests it's a sort of emotional claustrophobia rather than the anxiety that usually takes my breath away. D!@#$%^, we concur, is literally suffocating me. Thrilling, yes? I'm honestly amazed it took this long, though I guess my "I must leave" outbursts over the past year were signs of gradual meltdown. He asked tonight if there's a bus station in D!@#$%^ (negative), which had me wondering if that would be good or bad. Good now, as I could make my way into the city solo. Bad a year ago because I might have actually acted on my plans to run for it. They were rather serious at one point, despite my upstanding intellect. I swear desperation lowers my quantifiable iq.
But, yes, we talked tonight, in his office, the dark seeping in through the windows. There was an air of last year with Harriet, not in seeing him, but in the time itself. Monday evenings, in the winter when even five o'clock comes darkly, were her time. And I've been listening to music from that time period (Ks Choice, Tracy Bonham) lately, which further imprinted the memory. For the drive itself, I switched to albums I didn't have then: my new Melissa Ferrick (which is lovely; it's so nice to have a Melissa Ferrick that never brings up memories of being sick) and the second disc of So Much Shouting, So Much Laughter. Ooh! and speaking of music, there's a rumor the next Ani CD is called Evolve. I'm totally thrilled. Darwin lives.
Anyway, Mother and I sat in the toxic waiting room, trying to scare off the smooth jazz with cat hisses and talking about the doctor, who we didn't realize was not with someone, and could very well have been listening with a cup at his door. Of course, if I told him that theory, I'd be on paranoia medication, on top of everything else. So I didn't. He came out eventually, and told us he was sorry for Saturday, and I realized my voice didn't work, and my eyes didn't work, and my body was last year's body, and all of this scared me because I Really Need To Talk, but he picked up on it and took me into the office where I could breathe a little better. A few minutes into the session, I had the brilliant (and rather sad) idea to take off my glasses, and I unconsciously blur my vision often to help myself feel safe. (I blur my focus; if I can't see, it isn't real.) I took off my glasses, so the room blurred a bit, and we talked while I fidgeted with the frames. I did gain a little voice back, though, so I don't mind what it took. Although, I'm glad I could put them on. They're little miracles, these glasses. Magic.
I swear he reads this diary. He combs it and plans his sessions accordingly; I swear. No one could possibly read me so well. I didn't even have to say, "I need to talk about suffocation and D!@#$%^ and home this week. I need to take a break from the other stuff" and he was there. "So last week, we were talking about how much you need to know you aren't alone in this...but actually, you are alone quite a bit. You're isolated, and you fight so much of this on your own." Dude? Either he's a closet chordchild fan, or he has ESP. I swear those are the only explanations.
We talked about the isolation, about how different it is from any other time in my life. I've felt isolated in the past- desperatley so- but always the sort of loneliness that takes place in a crowded room. I've felt alone; I've never *been* alone. And I'm not now, either (I realize)...but in my tangible world, I am. I saw my brother tonight for about a minute, and he did one of his oh-so-great hugs (where he puts his arm so that it stretches across my back, cups his hand around my arm, and pulls me closer to him; it's like being compressed back into myself, like he puts me back together)...I verbally thanked him for it later. In part by my decision, he's basically the only person who hugs me now. I elbow Mum and Pop away...So, yes, tangibly alone. Tangibly isolated. Two days a week with the papa-man, one day a week with the doc, seven (work)days with the mommy-tom. Problems.
He asked about driving, and I said once again that I'm terrified, and that despite this, I've brought it up with John and intended to bring it up with Joe. I couldn't handle learning from my parents at this point. Despite the fact that I've asked, the process terrifies me. I'd need to retake the test for my permit (my old one is expired and from a different state) and I'd probably have to go to the evil DMV, both of which terrify me. Then there's the prospect of actually driving. He didn't realize that I've actually driven, so we talked about that. About early morning panic attacks in the ice. About crying in the backseat when my turn was over, shaking quietly. About heart pounding, breath gone, can't swallow, can't quit shaking, palm-sweaty days in the car. I realized on the way home he needs to know about Charlie also. That was the same month I started driving and drove for the last time. That was the month that headlights on dark country roads became enough to make me sick inside. That was the month I promised myself that if I had to walk uphill in the snow for miles, I would never get in a stranger's car again. I need him to know.
We started to talk about the impossibility that I've come back to so often. The lesser of two evils impossibility. I can't survive in D!@#$%; I can't possibly take any steps to leave it. I'm desperate to escape this fall; I want to hide in my room. I have so few opportunities to take the steps I need to, the steps that will prepare me to leave, and yet I don't take the ones I do have because I'm terrified. I'm beyond terrified. It isn't a "face your fear" situation. It's- every time I've ever done these things, I've felt like I was dying. Literally. Panic attacks must be very similar to heart attacks. I don't know the exact amount of time a person can survive without oxygen, but in a panic attack, gasping for air that leaves you light-headed and unsteady...you know. You know that you aren't getting the air you need to stay alive. It isn't fear. It's terror.
It's a disease, I guess, a part of one. And so we started talking medication. Medication as a course of treatment, not as a life choice. It isn't something like the Effexor, that I may need to take for the rest of my life. It's finding the right dose to start doing some of the smaller things that scare me, until I've experienced it without panic, and I no longer need meds. It's the same way I learned to be in school again, to take tests again, to go outside. I've done it before, and even though I'm terrified, I have the added armor of knowing I was then also. And I told him a lot about my phobias that I haven't before. I told him about how I never leave a store without thinking the alarm is going to go off and horrific violence is going to ensue. I told him I never check out purchases because I won't have enough money. (I can pay for them, but I do it through someone else. I can't do it myself.) I told him things I'm terribly embarrassed of...I can't walk up to a cashier? Come on! But I can't. A year ago, I couldn't order in a restaurant. I couldn't walk alone.
It's a weird process, dismantling phobias. I think it involves facing them head-on, and facing them behind the scenes. He has the same theory I do- that we don't back away from mistakes because we'll learn as much from why an attempt doesn't work as we will from a success. If I try something and am too terrified to go through with it, we'll learn from that fear...which is why we're a good team. I'm seeing him at my normal time again Wednesday (we had a nice moment of agreement that mornings- as in ten, not as in six- are very good things) and were going to brainstorm some terrifying situations. In the meantime, I'm also going to try to except the offers I usually discard- like, "you wanna go to the store?"- because I don't feel it's worth the fear. Pop the pills I haven't taken in maybe a month and go. The alprazolam and the propranolol work. Thus, I should take them. I might try going off the Buspar eventually, too. Because it hardly works for anyone, and I highly doubt it works for me, but I've been on it so long, I can't really tell. And at the moment, experimenting with a lower dose would cause anxiety of its own.
It was good, I guess. Productive. I felt like we're going to be active about this, and I know we need to, even though I'm scared. The best part is, I feel- at least slightly- like we're going to be active about this. I've had so many of these phobias so long, and I've tried to fight them on my own and can't. Or can at great cost. This isn't about making me normal at any cost. This is about experiencing success often enough that I can trust myself in everyday situations. This is about learning how to take care of myself practically, along with the emotional ways I'm already learning. It's such complicated work. Let's learn to eat while we nurture the broken little girl while we're not cutting while we're working at phobias while we're warding off depression while we're fighting shame while we're on and on and on. One is almost forced to quote certain Avril Lavigne songs.
But that would signify a far more desperate disease.
Soon, I want to talk about thoughts I've been having on relationships. And feelings I've been having toward advice. I want to talk about things I'll probably forget because I remember my thoughts through the events they occurred during- and when I was just thinking, the best epiphanies can go undocumented. I must learn better than this. I must be proud of how much I've already learned.
I have posters on my walls- Tori, Albert Einstein, glorious posters- and I hung up my Tracy scarf. I like it, even though the wall is unfinished. I like it, even though it's not my room. Even here, I deserve the best I can make of it. Especially here, I need reminders that there is another world, and I will make it out of here.
Let's go, don't let go, let's go.
chord
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