10:00 p.m. - 11/14/03
i'll remember the suffering your love put you through..*
I'm going to try and just talk about myself here, so that I don't get too overwhelmed with the idea of other people. That may sound silly, since this is a journal, and what do I do here except write about myself... but I suppose that same problem I have with friends of mine conceptualizing other people I know based only on the stories I tell and the information I share exists here also. Not to mention the fact that every other time I've tried to talk about what's happened, my pulse has started to race, my body's gone weak; I've lost my breath and gotten dizzy. This is having taken my anxiety meds. It scares me to be so fragile. Or maybe not fragile, maybe just vulnerable. It scares me to be so affected, but I don't have a choice. I have a choice in how I act, but not in whether I'm attached to those I'm attached to (if a choice exists there, I'm not taking the alternative) and not in what is happening to them. Is. My Godd, I wish a few months could go by smoothly. I wish I had not spent the past day saying things like, "When we were going through this with Jenna" - as if that's the past. That tragedy is so last week. And things like losing Rogers, losing Tracy, my parents' divorce, and the death of my grandma? My Godd, that must be ages ago. Something about the speed at which pain propells itself into my life makes me feel like I'm expected to process it as quickly. Such impossible expectations are, as you may have guessed, not helpful. Sigh.

I'm pushing it away, trying not to type it. I don't like the idea of making it concrete, even so loosely as in an online journal, in cyberspace, where every word could be edited or deleted and no one would ever know. I had the same issue at the doctor's this evening. I asked him, You know that feeling of if I don't say it, it won't be real? Of course he did and said so. He asked if I'd told anyone. My mom. Only my mom. I came here to write it last night and couldn't. I typed something about how it isn't the sort of thing you just write, it isn't the sort of thing you just broadcast like this...and those two sentences, I guess, convinced me it wasn't right. It's not that I need to stay silent; I don't...I definitely need the option of talking. I just feel awkward being so public, I guess. At the same time, the idea of a private entry makes me feel isolated, which I know leads to bad things... and the idea of letting a few people know by e-mail (i.e. having to put it into words yet again) seems overwhelming also.

I think some of what happened the first week or so after Jenna was hospitalized, some of the support I received, is part of what has me wary also. I really needed support, and I'm really grateful to everyone who did and who has continued to hold onto me through it. I'm really grateful for everyone who agreed to do "whatever you do that's like praying/ hoping/ wishing/ loving" for a girl they didn't even know. But I realized in the process how important it was to me that it remain very clear that they didn't know. I needed each person to understand that, to not forget that, to remember that this girl who was just a few letters on a screen to them, just some anecdotes and pixels, the friend of a friend, or a fellow woman in suffering...was and is specific to me. Extremely specific. I know her voice and her face and her personality. Our souls are acquainted; I love her. I don't simply love, and by default, approach her with love. I know her and am drawn to love her, deeply. I've been afraid that if I write here, and people are so kind again, so supportive again, it will hurt almost as much as if they aren't. Because maybe they won't be able to remember that the name they know is a person to me, and the story they're reading is my reality. I forget it, in defense, at times. I distance myself. I take on a flat voice and state the facts, the way I did when I needed to call family from the hospital hallway outside my grandma's room. Memorize the basics, recite them, stay a step away from what is real, from the feelings. For that moment. And then a switch flips in my brain: This is not a story I'm writing or a play I'm performing; this is my life. These names are people and these people are family, and suddenly I can't comprehend how that name corresponds with that action. Go - two years back - and try and tell me what will happen to my friends. Tell me my heartbreak and see if I am able to believe it then. I can't believe it now. I'm not sure I wish to believe it. Life is so imperfect, and I want to change that. I want to give people the lives they deserve, for the incredible beings they are, rather than these tragic, challenging ones. A character on one of my choice tv shows said a couple weeks ago, "in my world, people are going to grow and learn things by eating ice cream and having lots of sex." And yes the second part of that freaks me out considerably, but I'm right with him on the sentiment. I know that we learn as well from pleasure as from pain. And frankly, I'd like a bit more of the former...

I talked to Sara yesterday for the first time in over a week. We've been talking every few days since Jenna was hospitalized, so a week was some time to have pass without either of us calling. Still, I was struggling - the spinning thoughts about what I was going to do with my life and the heightening agoraphobia (which the doctor thinks are related, actually) - and I knew she'd understand that. I assumed that if she weren't calling, she was probably struggling, too, and finding her support elsewhere. I was waiting until I felt better to call her. I didn't feel better yesterday, but I felt tremendously like talking, and somehow I didn't feel right calling anyone I could think of except Sara. Some of that made sense - people were at work or in school - but some of it was just...I don't know...me not broadening my social group or something. Anyway, I called her yesterday morning, thinking that maybe, despite the fact that we were both (probably) struggling, we could pick each other up a little. More importantly, I don't like to let too many days go by without letting her know I love her (something I wish could extend to the rest of my friends; I want to learn to make more calls more often). I was worried, too. That's not especially significant; I've often worried over her in the past, and my fears tend to be more toward the paranoid and less toward the telepathic. I hadn't heard from her, and I wanted to call and check in... I just wanted to call and connect.

...So. I dialed her cell and she answered, and I could tell from the way she intoned her words that something was bad. She didn't sound like she was in the middle of a really rough moment; she didn't sound overcome by her illness. She had more strength in her voice than that, but her words were wary. I asked if it was a bad time or if she simply didn't want to talk, but she said no both times. I asked how she was and she balked and flustered. She wanted to know how I was...was I safe? Was I struggling? Could I take a blow? I told her I was having a rough time, but I was safe. I told her that she didn't need to protect me; if I felt something (difficult) because of what she had to say, it would be mine to deal with and she could trust me to do that. She asked if she could trust me to set boundaries and other sorts of things, and I told her yes, definitely. I reminded her about the call we had when I was at the doctor's - when she first told me what had happened to Jenna. I reminded her how she'd said some of the same things then, mainly how she didn't want to hurt me, and assured her my response was the same: She wasn't the one hurting me. The reality of our lives and our illnesses causes great pain a good deal of the time. But it's the reality, the news, the information, the illness that hurts me. And I can make that distinction. On top of which, I don't believe Sara could hurt me badly enough that I'd stop loving her. I know that something could happen in our relationship - hypothetically, as it could in any relationship - that would make it necessary for me to not be with her (and I hope that never, ever happens and I don't think it will) but even hen, I don't think I could stop loving her. I don't think I would. So I told her that, too. I told her that even if she did hurt me somehow, I would still love her. And then we waited together while she caught her breath and I held mine. (I understood her need for air when I talked with the doctor today, and last night when I told my mom...I've been thrown between hyperventilation and barely breathing so quickly over the past two days that I'm amazed my system is managing as well as it is.) And she told me.

I told the doctor I don't like to say it, state it, as if she had a clear intention. Calling it a suicide attempt or saying (really...deep...breath) that she tried to kill herself doesn't seem right. Part of me just doesn't want to hear that, doesn't want to know that, wants to avoid it indefinitely. That same part won out for a long time and kept me from calling Tracy's death a suicide. I still believe that she was murdered by her eating disorder, which I mean very literally. But I think now, that if all of the suicides that occurred not because the essential person wanted to die, but because they were very sick and that sickness took control, the statistics would fall dramatically. Tracy died of her eating disorder, and Tracy's death was a suicide. I don't like either of those realities, but I especially dislike the second one. I find it especially difficult to say the second one because Tracy, well, would never have overdosed. And somehow it seems like an insult to her to say that she did what she did, without making it very clear what a part the illness played (both in her action and in her inability to rebound after she was hospitalized.) What happened with Sara...no...What Sara did (and that's where I have to let myself have changed; I have to face that this was a choice - a choice Jenna made, a choice Sara made, and that I'm hurt by and angry at them, if only to the slightest extent. I can't deny that this time) was very similar. She took a bunch of her medication. Within five minutes she came to the terrified realization that she didn't want to die and she called her mom. She went to the hospital and was in ICU for three days before being moved to the psych unit. She discharged just before I spoke with her; today is a week since that impossibly awful night...

In the time since yesterday morning, the pain and emotion directly toward her has surfaced...at first I couldn't imagine being upset with her...she's sick, and she's fragile, and she's so hard to be angry at. She said she felt she broke a contract we had. I don't think we really had a contract; we've just been in pursuit of life for a long time, and we both articulated the same feeling eventually, after Tracy died: that suicide was no longer an option. They were, for me, a few nights when it became one again, and I don't feel like she betrayed me...not now, at least. I wish she'd called someone. I wish she'd reached out. I wish she'd done something else, something good for herself. I feel, once again, like I've been gutted, like someone's taken a sword and cut from my throat, through my chest and stomach, down to my legs. This is the sort of experience that slices me open.

Since yesterday, a question's come up for me also. When we were talking, I didn't have much to say; I told her when I needed to hang up and just take my time, trying to make it clear that I still love her and would call her again soon. Now I have this huge Why? circling me, and I can't do much with it. More, of course, than if she'd succeeded. I can ask her, eventually, and maybe she will have some answer. I can ask her, at least, whether she knows or not. The doctor asked if I had any idea what led up to it; I told her the snippets of story I know. I know that she had a seriously vicious supervisor who privately harangued her and then told the higher-ups that everything was fine so that Sara couldn't transfer to a different department. I know that a few nights earlier she had a really difficult time, called Rogers (which is just another example of how different this time is...she reached out...she called Rogers...it's so different), and talked with a terrible RC who I'd personally like to see fired, although I've never met her. She endured a lot of cruelty from this woman, but eventually managed to say she needed to get off the phone in order to take care of herself. The morning afterward, we talked, and I guess my fury over this woman's actions helped solidify to Sara that what happened was not right. She already had that feeling, which is great. The RC had told her that she couldn't call anymore, which is absolute bullshit...I suggested she call that very morning, to certify for herself that she could do that. I told her what Brea, who no longer works there but made a valid point just the same, said to me once - that she considers talking with and supporting former residents who call in as much a part of her job as working with the people who are currently on the unit. We even talked about the option of complaining to the manager, as it was so very inappropriate. That number at Rogers is like a help-line; the staff have other work to do, but we *have* the number in order to seek help. That's the whole point of it. And this woman...Geesus. If it were possible to "make" someone relapse, she could have managed to push just about anyone into that. ...It hadn't been a banner week, but those few things were all I knew, really. She told me she'd felt torn Friday night; part of her wanted to do it and part of her didn't. She journalled for awhile, and as she journalled, she said, she sort of talked herself into taking the pills. That's all I know of what led up to it...save the last thing she told me before we I-love-you-d our way through a hang-up: ...that near the very end of the entry, one of the last things she wrote, was I love Mary. She didn't know if she should tell me that, she said, but she wanted me to understand, again, how important I was to her. I started crying. I told her I wanted her to know that...those words were something, they were important words...but I am *so glad* that they are not all I have left. I am so glad that I still have *her.* I needed her to know that. The most loving suicide note will never heal the loss.

This, of course, is most of what the doctor and I discussed. Everything else I told him felt awkward and wrong. I mentioned the incident at the library - with my agoraphobic anxiety skyrocketing - and my thoughts about the future and felt like a total heel. How dare I sit and discuss what I'm going to do with my life, or what happened at the library Wednesday, as if it's as important as these other things? How dare I...when my friends are... He said that was the fear exactly, that I'd articulated it exactly. I'm afraid that if I move forward I'm going to suffer some losses, and it isn't really true. There's no law that says I can't expand my life and keep what I have. There's no rule that says I can't keep my friends. There's no rule that says if I work to live my life, and my friends are each struggling to save their own, we'll be separated. And all that other bullshit I mentioned a few entries past - about who I'll be if I don't have a mental illness... it's poppycock. it's cockamamie. it's poppycockamamie. I'm trying to believe that. I know I need to hold onto the belief that I have the right and the responsibility to continue moving forward no matter what life presents to me. I'm grateful that I have such a long behavioral abstinence period under me (knock on wood) because I honestly feel (in this moment) like it would be really difficult for me to reenter this illness entirely. I can imagine slipping; I can't imagine not imagining that... but I can't see myself letting it go on and on, falling into it, and not catching myself, not forcing myself to grab onto something or reach for someone. I'm grateful because when something like this happens (and Lourde, do I hate that this situation actually has parallels; Godd, what I'd give to never know this pain) it seems like relapse is mandatory. I can't possibly continue taking care of myself; look what is happening! But at this point, when not taking care of myself is bizarre (though by no means unheard of), I manage to do so. I'm glad. I would have lost this fight several times over if I let the level of pain justify a corresponding level of sickness. It helps to have my history backing me up.

Anything to lean on. Anyone to fall asleep against. I don't want pity, really, and I don't want assessments of the situation...but I think I need someone to assure me that this is, indeed, beyond the normal scope of what a person's supposed to handle. I need someone to tell me that I have indeed suffered and continued through far more tragedies in the past year or two years than most people expect. I want someone to tell me that my worst nightmares are not supposed to show up as often as my mail. Maybe that's a stretch. But would it be too much to ask that I not have a new horrific reality to relay every time I enter a session? Could I please have some time to work through the realities that have happened thus far?

There's one other thing...or really, two. While Sara was in the hospital, she called Dave. Sara reaches out to Dave often; it's something that always impressed me, since I can't imagine calling and asking to speak with him. Apparently, Dave told her (another...really...deep...breath) that she needed to decide if she wanted to live or die, that she had everything she needed, everything she needed from Rogers, and that she needed to stop calling. Now, (in reverse order) considering what happened the week before with the Really Crappy RC, this was really scary. Why the sudden antipathy toward calling? I know (I know, I know, I know) that Sara and I are not the same person, and that with Dave, the fact that we are not the same person is a really big deal...because Dave speaks to people in a certain way and gives certain messages based on what he thinks they need. It's possible he feels that Sara needs some distance to learn to rely on herself and her supports outside of Rogers, or that their relationship is somehow interfering with her recovery, or a billion other things. After I talked to him a few weeks ago, I felt like I would never again have to be afraid that my connection to Rogers upset him. Now I'm questioning that. And I'm scared to go to him (even though I've felt really connected to him, I've wanted to talk with him - to say thank you just after the call - and now to say...we're in similar boats, what the hell is going on, and doesn't this suck?) because I don't know what would happen to me if I received the same message. The only way I can conceptualize it is imagining the removal of a vital organ by someone who punched through my skin and tore it out. I feel my stomach tightening and my chest... The center of my body wants to barricade itself. That must be where Rogers lies, with all its gifts and treasure. It's my center. It's entwined with my essence; the loss of it would be, on some level, fatal. Who I am right now would die. And I really, really don't think I'm meant to be anyone else.

So, remember what the doc said: keep in mind that I don't know the context of Dave's words, or even exactly what they were, and that they weren't said to me. (His other big point was to separate what I'm doing now from the future I want to envision and strive to reach. He says I can have both, but my anxiety will lessen if we lower the stakes by separating the here and now from that goal. He said to do things just for the good of them right now and not worry about taking steps so that I'll be able to do something in a year or two years. Stay in the moment, even if I'd really like a different one.) ...I probably need to contact Dave also, to express the thanks, the what the fuck?, and the question of whether his statement applies to me. I'm scared. And I feel weird talking about Dave to the doc, especially now that I'm *so* much more appreciative and less furious. I feel like when I say I'm feeling connected to Dave, like we're in similar boats in regard to what's happened to Tracy, Jenna, and Sara...I'm minimizing my connection to the doc. When I say, I want to talk to Dave, I feel like I'm asserting him as a better doctor, which I'm really, really not. I know the Superdoc knows that. I know that he understands that Dave is specific beyond his role on the therapeutic team, that we have a specific connection, and that I never sit around wishing I were seeing Dave instead. (Well, once or twice, when I was having a hard time being angry. Dave's easier to be angry at because he gives you practice; he's intentionally frustrating at times.) Anyway. I'm sure it's my own issue. Maybe I worry that people feel they can't live up to this other part of my life; they can't ever be as good as the Great and Powerful Rogers... Maybe it's the whole competition of experiences idea. It's late, and I'm not sure.

Oh, but the word "competition" reminded me. The doctor also talked today about how Sara's response to what happened with Jenna might have played a part in what happened Friday. Whatever the reason, it's made it that much more clear to me that I need to "diversify" my life. I need friends, I need fun, I need to be singing or something. I need a little less of life experience and a little more of just living. A potential solution to the occupation quandary finally occurred to me today. I could help people who are just living. Living is hard and people face really difficult things, even when they aren't sick. I could work with a group of people where the majority did not suffer from a mental illness, and I could still be helping them. I'd be using even more of what I've learned in my life because I would not be collapsed to the one facet of one illness I was working with...

I told the doctor about some of that today. About how I'm not sure I want to go to college and why. He stayed very open about the whole thing, happy to support me in college or out of it, not about to lead me in either direction, but after I rambled off the whole list of reasons it seems wrong right now, he asked me a question he's posed occasionally in the past, which always makes me smile a little, although I'm usually surprised to hear it: "Do you know how healthy that is?" Apparently, my logic makes a lot of sense. Who knew? At the same time, he pointed out that it's possible I wouldn't have to compromise myself so much as I think I would to attend a university. But for someone who went to med school, he certainly wasn't pushing a university at me. Which was a relief. I'd suggest someone tell my ten-year-old self that I'd spend the year after high school not in college and strongly considering postponing it further, just to see the shock on her face, if I weren't afraid she'd have a heart attack on the spot. It's easier to take in with the understanding of how different my path has been since sophomore year, or even since junior high. It's easier to understand how I ended up in such a different place. And to tell you the truth, I'm glad I did. I'm sticking to this life, though I'm no longer deluding myself that those who are sick and acting out of it have it easier than I do. I look at the mess of tragedies before me, and I'm overwhelmed. I'm terrified. But I like myself...I like who I've become and am becoming, and that helps make up for some of it. It helps me not lose faith entirely as I pick my way through these sharp-edged razor-topics.

There are helpful things (well, mostly people) after all. The second thing I couldn't bear to not mention: Rosie, who I so desperately admire and so randomly wrote...wrote back. She knows just how it is to worry about invading someone's life when they may want to have moved on from Rogers. Personally, she can't imagine ever letting go of her own connection to that place and those people. (Aiy! Sound like anyone you know?) And she wants to stay in touch, and I believe she will. She's doing well right now, and I'm so, so grateful. Rosie! I'm a lucky little duckle.

I'm a lucky little duckle who is not going into how long this entry has taken me to write. Oy. I feel like I'm writing at Atomgirl...though I have no idea what I filled those long entries with, now that illness bores me. Can pain really take up that much space? ...On second thought, I have no questions about pain right now. I don't want to learn anything new about iat. I just want to take the pain that I have and work with that; if I learn something in the process, fine. But no new pain, for just a little while, ok? Does that sound alright?

I'd like to have fully regained my balance before something (else) knocks me off my feet. ...Call me naive but I keep believing that at some point, the pain will lessen. I'll feel good more often than I won't. I'll live more fully than I am. I am living fully now, in some senses at least. There's more I want, but I have not removed myself from life as it is. And that's something. I think plenty of people would have walked out of this movie several tragedies ago.

to happy endings-
chord

�

previous - next

�