Get your own
 diary at DiaryLand.com! contact me older entries newest entry

3:25 p.m. - 02/15/03
doctor, doctor - give me the news !! i've got a bad case of lovin you...;)
Sleep is a many-splendoured thing. Last night was the first in over a week where I was able to fall back asleep upon waking up far too early. I dreamed about people from junior high I'll likely never see again. I dreamed about the eighth grade social worker who didn't manage to save me from my impending doom. I kept falling back asleep hoping for some resolution, but didn't find one. I still don't know what to think of her, or of myself then. I still don't know how to move on from things that never were. I've decided that's the hardest part of leaving Neverland. Not the relationships I've lost, but the ones that I never had. Those that I loved at one point stay firmly rooted in my heart, and I feel alright moving on from that. Those that were a part of my daily routine, but I never quite pushed hard enough to know- those kids who cracked up classes in which I didn't speak, etc- those are the ones I have a hard time letting go. It's the same with my memories of would-be saviors in the early illness days. It's not knowing where to put them in my memory. Not knowing if I want to remember them.

Other than the fact that it's terribly cold in here, things are alright at the moment. I have a small headache, but I've definitely come up some from the trenches of Thursday. Thursday was, in the simplest terms, a Very Bad Day. And when, in a string of not-so-good weeks something qualifies as a Very Bad Day, that's pretty disheartening. I spent most of the day not moving, trying not to breathe, not thinking. I spent the day not living, basically. And for the first time in months I missed a meal. I wasn't in myself enough to realize what was going on, except that of course I knew what was going on. What I mean to say is that I didn't decide to restrict; I just watched the hours pass without eating lunch. And then I ate dinner, and my body had this response of sheer *relief*- as if I could actually feel myself saying, "Oh, thank *God*- she's still feeding us. Thank God; I thought we were going back to saltines and broccoli for a minute there." Really not cool, but nonetheless I got back on track after one meal. And just after I'd eaten my mom came home for about a half an hour, and asked me how I was. She could tell the answer from interacting with me, but she asked anyway, and as soon as she had, I was ready to start bawling. I honestly didn't know what to do other than bawl, but of course, didn't feel like I could do that until she left. So she left, I sat down, I began talking, and the tears fell like hailstones once again. Is anyone else sick of this plot-line?

Generally speaking, though, if I can find a legitimate way to flip that emotional switch between depressive numbness and sobbing, I'll feel better for having sobbed. I'm still not aware of the entire impetus behind the episode, though it includes some combination of struggling so badly with so many things, feeling poorly and more so because I'm supposed to be fairly close to better now (after all, I must be completely well and able to take care of myself by my 18th birthday/ by graduation), the fact that I don't know what to do, and the reality that doing nothing makes me feel stuck. Stuck as in, back in middle school. As in depression and her relatives are my reality and life is simply interruption. I want life to be the norm, but stuck in the depression, I didn't feel that way. I don't feel that way now, even. I was/am feeling, very simply, like enough is enough. I'm annoying myself, I'm annoying other people, I need to quit playing these games.

Games. Because I would *ever* choose to feel that way. Aigh. I need a new head on so many levels.

As expected, though, I did feel a little less hopeless after crying. I curled up in a chair with would-be-scarf, hook, and bear, and watched random television. Mom came home, told me she had an appointment the next night (Friday), and that if I wanted her to try and schedule one for me before, after, or during her time, she'd try and do so. I eventually told her that I didn't want to take her time, but if the doctor had time before or after, I wouldn't mind seeing him. (Wouldn't mind = I almost paiged him while she was gone, but I didn't like myself enough to do so. I almost paiged him, but I'd seen him the day before, and there was nothing he could do anyway; blah blah blah.) She did so, and he did want to see me, though she didn't tell me until an hour before the appointment that he wanted to see us both during her time. I was really upset since I'd specifically told her not to do that, and since I've been really upset (and crabby from lack of sleep) anyway. When he came into the waiting room, though, he was really cheery- back to himself after the flu, I suppose. He sat down and explained that he had until around eight o'clock, which would give us each about 45 minutes. Then Mom pushed me to go first, and he and I had a 90-or-so minute session. Right. Mom made a point on the way home of visualizing the Valentine's date we were keeping him from attending, and then saying that it wasn't our fault. The third time she went into it, I told her that if she didn't want me to feel guilty, she should probably stop making it sound like I was.

Of course- Valentine's for me having consisted mainly of a card from Mistrandy and showering my brother with Spongebob cards- the holiday had sort of slipped my mind, and so worrying about that didn't interfere with my session. It was a really good session, actually. I felt far better yesterday than I had Thursday, with the exception of a couple hours I spent with my mom and brother prior to the appointment. I'd been beating myself up more than a little over my inability to get through more than one day without seeing him, but when we first sat down, he said, "I'm really glad to see you. I was thinking after Wednesday that I'd probably be talking to you or seeing you before our next appointment. And now that I think about it, we probably should have just planned on it." Considering the version of reality it my head predicted his response to be more along the lines of, "What do you need *now*, you pathetic little goon?" that helped dismantle the worry a bit. Eventually, I even cracked a joke about how quickly I'd needed to come back, and how at this rate, next week we'll be up to daily appointments. I'm still not entirely settled in that, though. I feel like the amount of therapy I'm in should be directly proportionate to how well I'm doing, and I should no question be doing better now than I was six months or a year ago. The last time I needed therapy twice a week I was seeing Harriet, and in order to get anything out of those session, I probably would have needed six. I don't like to think that I'm struggling more than I was because I feel like struggles are supposed to taper off into health. I don't want to think that there's a cycle of doing well, struggling, doing well, struggling that I'll continue to go through for a few years. If that's the case, I'm going to have to stop feeling weak just because I'm having a rough time. I'm going to have to learn to be ok with struggling. I need to do that anyway...

He wasn't happy to hear about the continuing insomnia and took measures to fix that right away. (Sesame Street's Count sure would get a kick out of me. "Six meds, ah ah ah." But this one is seriously temporary, and once I'm off it, I'm going to ask to go off the Buspar because I know he's cool with trying that. We're both pretty sure, it's about the same as swallowing a tic-tac every morning, in terms of anxiety. I don't like being on this many meds, especially ones that I don't need- like the Buspar- or that I swore I'd never take, like a sleeping med. I still don't want to need things like this. I still feel less good for needing them.) And then he asked what had happened Thursday, and I tried to explain how little I understand it. I told him that my head fell in, and I couldn't pick up the pieces. That I felt out of it all day, that I fucked up with eating for the first time in ages. He asked me to elaborate on what it means when my head falls in, and I ended up just stringing other images together. It's so impossible to explain. It's like spinning inside, when everything is still. Or being shut off inside when something in there should be spinning. It's like, an hour or two after I wake up, I consider what I need to actually do in the day, and suddenly all I want is more sleep and somewhere to hide. Normally, I get through it, at least enough to work around it, but days like Thursday, I can't find my way out.

We talked about how the "deadlines" (graduation and my birthday...how ironic, my birthday is a deadline)lingering in the air and how the pressure I'm putting on myself around them could heighten the intensity of whatever I'm experiencing now. Then he tried to figure out what it is I'm experiencing now, with which I couldn't help him much. I honestly don't know what's going on. I know that I feel awful, that I think way too much about way too many subjects, that I don't feel capable of getting it together, and that I'm freaking out, but I don't exactly know why. I told him I've been thinking a lot about identity, and freaking out because I don't know who I am and I'm not sure I want to know. He asked me if I'd ever found something out about myself that was traumatic, something I didn't want to be true, and I just fell silent, thinking about what it was like to be ten or twelve years old and me. I thought about the possibility that I squashed down information then, and that it's going to come up now, and I don't want it, too. (Now, I'm thinking about Stewert and how much I didn't want that to be a part of my story when I foudn out about it...) I didn't know how to explain that, so I told him that at least since Rogers- "the time in recovery before Rogers is kind of a blur"- knowing myself had always been good. The power of who I am has always been better than the control I have suffocating her, the quirks and traits of me are always more fun and more endearing to those around me then the the costumes I glue to myself. Ever since Rogers, that's been true. But before Rogers? - I don't know. I'm scared that there's something I kept quiet before Rogers that's going to bubble up now and take me over. I'm scared to see what I kept quiet as a kid, in case it's better off that way.

He asked me what happened at Rogers that made me start feeling better being myself, and I smiled and said that basically all I did at Rogers was learn how to feel better about myself. I told him we worked a lot on shame, on the idea that I was poison (apparently I hadn't told him that before, so we talked also about the concept that I was poison, and food was poison which helped my badness grow even bigger, and so secretly everyone wanted me to do what I was doing to counter that poison- if I was going to have the audacity to live at all- even though they had to say otherwise) and at essence dirty, unworthy, no good. I had my first trip to the Round World, via a ticket from Stacy...I worked a lot with everyone to learn to challenge the thoughts and find what was behind them, to see what they were they helped me avoid.

Of course, he asked me what I found out about the purpose of the shame, which stumped me a little. That's such a huge part of the work I've done, and there've been so many reasons at different times. I told him the one that came to mind, the main one- which is so often a part of the reason I go into shamed thinking: that I used it as an explanation. I didn't like to think that anything painful that had happened to me was without reason. I didn't want pain to be that random, that out of my control. I didn't want to have needs that weren't being met. And it was easier to believe that I was being brutalized because I deserved it, that my needs weren't meant because I wasn't meant to have them, etc- than it was to believe that I had no control over what happened or when it would happen again. He seemed to really understand that.

So, the more time I spent challenging those thoughts and opening up to who I was, in an environment where nearly every part of her was received with open arms, the stronger I felt in myself, and the more I could replace those thoughts with productive ones. I haven't felt like poison in a long, long time. I have moments, hours, days, perhaps, but I do not live in the Flat World anymore. Which is why all this pain lately- all this being down on myself and beating myself up- doesn't sit well. I hate eating disorders rather passionately. Why was I considering relapse?

He told me that he believed whatever was going on would make itself clear eventually, and we would be able to deal with it. In the meantime, the point was to keep me as ok as possible. He said it looked to him like labor. He believes that something really marvelous will come out of this, but in the meantime, it's hard to see me (or to be me) in such pain.

I don't like not knowing what's going on. I don't like not knowing how to deal with it. I don't like waiting for something I don't even want to know to make itself clear, and I told him so. He asked me what I thought the worst case scenario was. What is the worst thing I could be? What is the worst thing I could find out about someone? I fell silent, thinking about the difference between my standards for other people and my standards for myself. He talks about how accepting I am, but the way I treat myself, I might as well be living in N*land. However, when he rephrased the question he made it about someone else. What could I discover about a friend that would be the hardest to take in?

I thought for a little while, and decided it was "Violence." (Sexual violence.) I brought up the fact that I still can't really think too much about the fact that my brother abused my sister; I can't really deal with that. I told him that finding out that someone had done that, could do that, was probably my personal worst thing. He asked if it included finding out someone had been violated (the victim not the perpetrator) and I told him no. Finding that out is terribly painful but there's no way- for me- to blame the person who endured it. I'd be in terrible pain, but for the friend, not because of them.

So obviously, there's no way that we're going to uncover some lost memory of me committing sexual violence...And so he pointed out that even if we were to find out that I [insert Mary cringing and moving back into the couch as if to melt into the lather] "that you...right...or that you were violated" he would still think of me exactly as he does now. He said that. He said that it wouldn't change his view of me as it stands now, and that I didn't need to worry. His focus would still be how to help me through my pain, not how to handle me now that I was someone less than who I've been.

...I guess I'm really glad that I trust him more than Billy should have trusted me when I said that.

I told him that, when I think about it rationally, I really believe that whatever I find out about myself won't be as bad as I'm afraid. My experience has been so good, and I think this little tidbit of information will be just as ...ok...but I'm afraid of all the fears I'll have to work through before I know that truth. I know that the truth will be good, but I know from experience that those things that aren't true can feel as if they are. I'm scared of that intensity of pain. I know some of what I think about this possible-piece-of-information has nothing to do with reality, but all the same, it will feel real while we work through it. And it's *that* which scares me, not so much the information itself. I explained that to him, and he more than understood. He said we'll keep working to help me feel as safe as possible and to work through the fears of why I can't know this while we wait to find out just what it is, and that in the meantime, he feels compelled to say that he honestly does not think it will be anything but good. He didn't want to say that, he said, because he doesn't want me to feel pressure not to disappoint people since *I'm* scared that it will be bad, but all the same, he knows better. I smiled and told him that I was glad he thought it would be an ok thing. And he said, "Actually, I know that" - which made me laugh. I told him he could feel free, since he knows so much, to go ahead and find out what it is and why it's terrifying while he's at it. He told me we will know that, eventually.

According to him, it serves a purpose right now for me to not know fully what is going on. (Other than to make me feel completely crazy.) And I don't need to worry that I'll wake up aware because he simply doesn't believe that I'll receive any information before I can manage it. I quoted the Mother Teresa line, "I know God wouldn't give me anything I can't handle; I just wish he didn't trust me so much" - and we had a small laugh at the idea that I didn't want my own psyche to trust me with this. He said we'd keep working to make it feel as safe as possible. Methinks I need some psychic-epidural. ...I did tell him that seeing him more is helping, though. I told him that seven days is suddenly a very long time, and he told me that we would see each other Wednesday, and we could always arrange to see each other again in between that and the next Wednesday. "That's always an option," he said. I was unbelievably grateful to hear him say that, so of course I had to blow it off with some humor. I said, "Really? Does that mean you aren't going on any more vacations for awhile?" and he said, "No. Your Wednesday appointments are pretty solid for...well, the forseeable future." I said, "Oh. Because I'm thinking, if *I* were working with me, I would need a vacation." And well, he shook my hand and patted me into the waiting room, where I proceeded to blister my fingers crocheting (note to self: do not split strip after strip of yarn with your fingers!) and (gasp) actually like a song on the scary jazz station. I think it must have been Norah Jones. It's not possible it was anything else. This is, after all, the station that proclaimed Yanni, the most innovative composer of our time. Scariness.

So I am...within a temporary reprieve. A quiet Saturday with the house to myself and no school until Wednesday. Psychiatrists like this one are very, very good. Though I'm not sure psychiatrists "like" this one (who aren't this one) exist. *mew*

Did I mention he's a superhero?

chord

previous - next

about me - read my profile! read other Diar
yLand diaries! recommend my diary to a friend! Get
 your own fun + free diary at DiaryLand.com!