10:17 p.m. - 09/29/03
on yet another session.
[Sara, if you happen to come by and read this entry, please talk to me about it. actually, I wish you would talk to me before reading this. there are some things no sister should learn through an on-line journal.]
*
I've been a fairly good little writer-in-progress today. I've meant to do thirty minutes of non-chordchild writing a day, to make a habit of that. Free writing, nourish, caged, playwriting - whatever I feel up for in the moment, but for thirty minutes. Today I went way beyond that goal. I did a forty-five-minute free-write on Super Mario Brothers, and I wrote at nourish. A play is forming in my head. I thought it was a new play, but it's actually one I was thinking up a few weeks ago, already. I tried to force it, then, and it appeared to fall apart. Now it's creeping back in, not so much fallen apart, as waiting for me to get my act together and quit pushing so hard. So today was good in that regard; Natalie Goldberg would be proud. Then again, she'd probably point out that three days or even a week of actually hitting thirty minutes is better than hours-long bursts every few days. I don't know why I buy into that; other people seem to believe it because they appreciate discipline. I think I believe it because writing is good for me. I'm a writer and any day I make myself write, I remember that, and I feel more comfortable. It's not so much about writing every day so that I'm disciplined, as writing every day so that I'm myself. I hope. If it's about discipline, it won't work for me. It almost never does.
I haven't listened to "The Beauty of the Rain" in awhile. It's playing now, and it's still so gently gorgeous. Yeay.
...I didn't do much today before my appointment with the doctor at one. I woke up feeling all sick-to-my-sinuses and wanting more sleep, but I decided to get up for awhile and go back to sleep later, when my mom was running errands. Alas, when actually I tried to fall back asleep as planned, I couldn't manage it. I've had less trouble with insomnia lately, though (knock on wood) so I wasn't really exhausted. I just kept everything pretty low-key and went to see the doc, when that time came. We talked about the weekend's ups and downs, I told him I "called the girl", and that I had felt substantially depressed more than once over the two day period, and had identified it as a loneliness, an isolation from those I love, and that same need to return home. I told him I'd realized, this time at least, that it was up to me to determine what I could do to feel more at home, considering that I needed to stay where I was, and even if I didn't, I can't "go back home" because going back to Rogers wouldn't be right. It's not what I need, although I often want it badly, and - even more often - think I want it. I decided to try and keep up my end of contacts with Rogers folk and other Family members, to start making my room look like myself (I've decorated about 1/2 a wall, and that 1/2 a wall is is entirely dedicated to Rogers...it would probably frighten most people. It frightened me for a little while. Now, I think it's gorgeous. It's so accessible; it keeps that time and those people so close!), and to stay as much "myself" (post-Rogers) as possible. Not regress. He asked for an explanation of that one, and I told him that it meant specific things to me: risk more, be less shy, speak more openly, et cetera. He asked if that was the main difference, in my view, between the person I was when I left for Rogers and the person I am now. I think the main difference is actually that I went into Rogers literally thinking I was poison, very very much ashamed, and came out of Rogers usually able to at least *doubt* that reality, if not to dismiss it completely. I said that things like the overwhelming shyness and borderline mutism seemed to manifest from that shame; they were two illustrations of the thoughts I had about myself. I don't consider the change from shyness or silence the main change, but maintaining those strides helps me maintain the different belief behind them. Slipping back into withdrawal comes with slipping back into old thought-schemes. And when "old thought-schemes" are defined as "I'm irreparably contaminated, essentially evil, and destroying what is good solely through my existence" you may be surprised what lengths one will attempt to avoid reentering that track.
That brought us into history, so we talked history for awhile. He wants to know how on earth an incredible person like me (he said it, that directly, no subtle implications, just the words) ended up thinking I was poison, and I wish - to some extent - that I knew the answer. I don't, though, really. I know a lot of why; I know a great deal of how the shame served me, but as for how it began, I'm very unclear. I only remember being very shy, very perfectionistic, and very determined to never ever make a mistake (huge shame ensued when I did), from the beginning of my memory. And I remember general happiness that doesn't click with those behaviors. I loved my teachers, I loved school, I loved my best friend, I thought of myself as a really happy kid with a good life - meanwhile, I did and thought all these scary, controlling things to keep myself in line. Things I still think (and occasionally do. Sigh.) That's the part of my brain that the doc keeps "preaching" to; he described it today as a very rough aunt - the kind who takes care of you when your parents are away, keeps you clean, but scrubs too hard, and so forth. He called her Aunt Sue, which might have to change, because I know a good Sue, but it still made sense. That part of my brain seriously needs to shut up sometimes. Rather, it needs to be replaced with different speeches. But there is a slight loyalty to it - whether I'd notice it without the doctor's prompting, I can't be sure - that comes from the care it did take of me. Definitely rough, definitely harsh...but I survived. "Kind of like the fact that the eating disorder almost killed me, and it saved my life," I said.
"A paradox," he said, "very much like that." Then he wanted details on how the ed saved my life, initially, so I talked about the role it took, similar to the shame (they were very connected), the control I thought I had, the sense of logic, the ability to counter the poison and so forth. Most importantly, it was the crisis that finally drew my parents' attention, sad as I am to admit that. After all my years of pain, the presence of an eating disorder, even if it was less intense than other issues, flipped the switch that got me help. I hate knowing that. I hate it the way I hate that recovery isn't perfect. I don't want anyone to read it and think I condone the method, or that it was at all a good thing. It wasn't a good thing; it was a horrible thing. But nothing's that black and white, I suppose, and eventually I got help I really needed. I also picked up more pain along the way, came close to dying, and developed a disorder I'll probably never live completely without. Grah. I can't change my history, but there isn't a person in the world to whom I'd want to give it as a future.
He said I seemed more energized today, and he wondered whether that was a sign of good energy or anxiety. I told him I'd been anxious in the morning, felt good mostly while talking to him - because we were talking about past pains and things I've discussed so often I'm slightly less vulnerable to them - though he suggested my continuing need to refer to them as "things" and "stuff" might mean we weren't entirely done with the grief and rage. He said grief and rage are two of three responses to loss, and control is the third. He said every time he sees me sad or angry, he feels some of that sadness or anger, too, but he's also glad because these are tools I did not have before. I couldn't cry before, he said. I couldn't be angry. I may struggle now with the fact that I do so, but I *do so* all the same. I looked down a little, told him I was starting to feel unsteady as we talked about current things, and that - even though, generally speaking, hearing about new tools I've gathered or progress I've made would honestly thrill me - I didn't want a word of it today. All I had today was shame and guilt and sadness.
So, I told him. I told him Sara's not doing well. And I cried, cried, cried. I said, I don't understand, she went to Rogers, why can't she be ok now? I said, I want to kidnap her and have her come see you. I want to give her everything I have because...because... I lowered my head more. "I know this is bad. But...you know how Chas deserves a perfect life because she's an incredible person? Well, Sara's...Sara's wonderful. And she just," I choked, "deserves this...more than I do." And I bawled because I don't want to say that, I dont want to feel that, I don't want anything to do with those ideas. I bawled because I do believe this and because, no longer hating myself, I grieve for me, who doesn't just get to take what little she has and call it rightfully gained.
He said, "You feel guilty for the bed of roses you live in...?" and I tried to smile, shook my head. I told him I know how horrible this is, I really really do, but he didn't even let me finish. He said that living the way I do everyday, refusing to use tactics that I've decided against, despite how badly I need or want to use them, is hard. It's harder than being really, really sick.
"But," I said - for what is not the first time, "I'm not going to... My 'everyday' is hard, yes. But my 'everyday' is not going to kill me. Sara's...could..." I was shaking and the tears were spitting out around me.
"Is that the worst thing that could happen?" he asked, just like I knew he would. "Aren't some things harder to live through than they are to die from?" I cried. I wanted to hear this so badly, for myself, for the girl who can't have credit for all the work she does, and I cried because I didn't want to hear anything that challengs the black-and-white of, "You have to live. Death is not an option."
"The truth," I said finally, all barriers down, all beliefs folded, except the final, rawest truth, "is that I just...can't...lose her." I bawled. I'm starting to cry again now, just typing it. "I just can't lose her," I said, and sobbed.
"We hit some real dirt there," he said, and let me.
I'm so scared to lose her. She's my sister, and she holds me together even when I haven't talked to her in weeks. I've been through so much grief, and I still honestly believe that if I lost Sara, I'd be done. Finished. I could not feel that pain. I could not face that loss. I could not be ok without her. I could not make it and have her lose; I couldn't do it. I can't. I won't. I want to stop it somehow, but there's nothing I can do. She's trying everything she knows to do, and no one - not me, not her therapist, not her parents, not her self - has any idea if it's going to work. And I'm so fucking scared.
When I let myself be honest about everything I'm going through, it's easier to hand this over to Somebeing more equipped to handle it. But I still hold onto it, thinking maybe I'll come up with the solution, maybe I'll be able to pack her up in bubblewrap and keep everything ok.
The doctor said, "There's no such thing as exchanging, in life. There's no my pain for yours, my life for yours. The part of you that wants to control wants to believe that, but it isn't true."
"Yeah," I said. "I think that way all the time. My life for Tracy's, my life for my Grandma's, my life for Sara's." And even putting her name in a list with those I've lost I hated. Because I haven't lost her. She's still here, she's still fighting, she's still going to live. She's going to make it. I have to believe that, and I have to let myself cry over how terrifying it is not to know.
"I just want to kidnap her, and bring her here, and have her see you," I sniffed...
"She'd have to see Harriet first," he replied, with a very quiet smile. I laughed, wiping my eyes. "I continue to believe that Harriet played a huge part in your progress," he said.
"You're the only person I know with that theory," I said, laughing a little. "What about the outpatient program?"
"You know, we've *never* talked about the outpatient program. We've almost never talked about Harriet. There are some serious gaps in our mutual understanding of each other." I told him, I didn't think there were so many left - at least that I knew of - and he agreed.
"Unless you consider the fact that I know *nothing* about you," I added, and he laughed and said he'd have to go see Harriet before he could come see me. "I really don't think that's necessary," I said, giving him room to say there is that whole other half of the relationship, untouched. The way it needs to be, but still. There. I like and respect and appreciate this person who I know nothing about. I know him only through how he treats me, and even that proves to be a flawed system, it does cast him in an impressive light...
I sleep now.
chord
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