The fallout

In my last post, I sound as if I had “dealt” with the visit to my hometown… I was wrong.  What I’d done, is stuff it all in a rather large room in the back of my mind, and closed the door.  My main thought was that I’d gotten through the past two weekends, and that was all that mattered.  I had expected that once those weekends were over, then the anxiety and dissociation would magically disappear… because I wanted that so much, I started to live it.  The trip became a “good, healing experience”, and I couldn’t even remember the weekend of the conference… they became like another couple of headlines in the newspaper, nothing more.

On Thursday, the little fantasy that I had created for myself, came crashing down.  I saw Allison, and we talked about the trip.  She didn’t force anything, but it ripped open the door that I had firmly shut.  We talked about my family not recognising me as I got off the plane… my sister-in-law who talks about her abuse history as if it’s a badge that everyone has to see, and know about… the doubts created when places weren’t exactly as I remembered them…  The session was “intense” according to Allison’s parting words.  So intense, I had to sit in the car for over an hour, talking to a friend in order to ground myself and stop the shaking.

This was when the real fallout began… flashbacks; lost time; constant internal chatter about how bad I am; images of self-injury; and so on.  Intellectually, I decided that the main issue was the denial created when details of the pub weren’t exactly as I remembered; so decided to do some research.  The pub has a history page on their website.  When looking for old photos of the building, I found a photo of my father.  I also found out he’d been given awards for his input into the organisation.  Again, denial slammed into me… was I falsely accusing this man, who was respected in his community, of horrors that had never happened?  It didn’t matter that I wasn’t accusing him in court, or that I have no intention of doing so… all that mattered was whether it happened or not.  I’m used to the dance of denial… it’s one I’ve experienced throughout my life.  In some ways, it’s comforting to know that the denial and doubt touch every single aspect of my life… it’s not just the abuse that I doubt, but everything.  At times my life just seems to be a big question mark.

I realise that I’ve already glossed over the impact of seeing the photo of my father.  I remember seeing the photo as a child… one of my brothers is also in a photo nearby.  It’s disconcerting to see those two, who look so similar, so close.  To say that it’s disconcerting to see how much I look like my father, is an understatement.  I hate genetics.  I hate knowing how much I look like him.  That’s part of the reason I can’t look in the mirror… I see his face and the cross that he wore around his neck during my teens.  Yet another reason to hate how I look, and who I am.  When I see him in my reflection, I become him, and part of the things that he did – not just to me, but to the family, and community.  He is an alcoholic narcissist, and has left a trail of destruction behind him, fitting of such labels.

Sorry, I know this is becoming disjointed… I need to write it out.  I need to try to make sense of it.  But, I don’t know if that’s even possible anymore.

Thursday night, I decided to clean out my wardrobe.  During the clean out, I found jewellery that my father had given me, as well as the lingerie purchased for my wedding night…  I don’t know how these items had lasted so long.  But there they were… a cruel reminder of my doubts, pain and confusion.  If you’re wondering why I doubt the abuse from my father, yet still react to him… well, apparently I’ve always reacted to him.  My mother once told me that one of the factors which caused her to separate from my father, was talking to me in the kitchen when he arrived home… she said that as soon as I heard his car, I looked to confirm it was him, then my face changed, and I walked away to my room without finishing the conversation.

While my reaction to finding those items didn’t help ease any denial, it added another layer of stress and provided more fodder for flashbacks…

What does all of this mean?  Well, the short version is that I’m a mess… the long version is that I’m a total and utter mess.  I’m reacting to the slightest of triggers… unable to concentrate on anything for even moderate timeframes… want to go out and get totally drunk… the list goes on.  I’m trying to remember that the world keeps turning, and that means that this turmoil will pass… please, pass soon… please.

Visiting the past

This past weekend, I visited my hometown.  It’s the first time I’ve been back in over five years. Being back there was awful, healing, confusing, and so much more.  I’m still trying to make sense of it all, but need to write something down in order to start the reflective process, and ward off it being lost in the dissociation.

There were some beautiful moments, such as going down to the beach near sunset.  There was humour, with my mother, brother, and I talking about movies we’d seen… it soon became obvious that our respective approaches to movie going is very different!

But, there were also endless triggers…

On Sunday morning, my mother met my sister to go to church.  I had never connected it before, but this reminded me of when my father decided to “find God” when I was a teenager.  This was the final trigger that prompted me to visit places of importance from my past.  The main place I wanted to see was the bar associated with my father… the place where I have different memories that are so disjointed…

As I drove out to the bar, I passed a factory filled with bad memories… or rather, where the factory once stood.  There was a wave of relief to see that it was now totally different, filled with various industries and businesses.  I passed my old high, and middle schools… and again, so much had changed.  They were still recognisable, but it was obvious that 20+ years had passed since I walked across those fields.  Even though the suburb that was my home for so long has changed dramatically… new roads and malls; it still has the same feel.

Then the bar itself… The first thing that threw me, was that the entrance had changed.  I can now see where the extensions were added; but at the time, I was totally disoriented.  As the place was closed, I could walk around and peer through windows undisturbed. I started off by looking through the main entrance windows, and saw the short corridor that had the toilets going off each side…  That was enough to create a sense of panic, and an immediate free-fall into dissociation.

I walked around the building in a depersonalised state… looking at the different parts of the building and clinically ticking them all off on my internal check-list.  When I got around to the changing room entrance, things shifted… it was locked, and I was unable to see down the corridor.  I could tell each room based on the windows outside, but this wasn’t enough… I needed to see down that corridor.  But, it was impossible.

I looked into the main hall, and saw so many changes… some of them were about perspective (the hall looked so much smaller than I remembered); but other things such as the new carpet and different tables, were more tangible… But then, I saw the kitchen area, and it acted as a grounding moment.  I snapped back to some sort of awareness, and started taking pictures… I took pictures of all of the areas that I remembered, then wandered around the streets, trying to ground myself.

During my walk, I found this mural…

At the time, I called it “Don’t Speak”…  There seemed something fitting about the red being painted over the mouth.

After the bar, I visited my old elementary school, the kindergarten, and a couple of significant houses… Again, there were so many changes.  I found one of the houses, only to see that the wood shed was being pulled down.  Another now houses a charity; and while it still looked the same, the entrance was totally different… where there was once an opening in the fence for the driveway, framed mosaics are now hung on a continuous fence.

In so many ways, these changes were disorienting… But, there was still enough of the old elements present, to allow me to see the historical context.

I know that memory is not an exact thing… I know it can be influenced, and change over time… So, in many ways, going back to these places was meaningless.  But, it was also healing, in that many things were confirmed, and I could also see how time had changed the places which once housed so much pain for me.

As for the rest of the trip… well, it had its ups and downs… I had a panic attack in McDonald’s, and had to go for a walk to try to calm down… I did some dissociative shopping, and had to return some rather odd clothing choices…  I had a fun birthday evening with my brother and mother…

But, probably the most important thing happened on my last morning there…  My mother and I went to have a coffee, and started talking about my sister.  It seems she has moved past the idea that I had the best childhood known to mankind, and has instead started seeing things in a different way.  My mother relayed how much sorrow (guilt?) my sister feels for “abandoning” me when she moved out at the age of 16.  This seemingly simple admission stirred so many emotions… a feeling of validation, that I wasn’t imagining how bad it was growing up in that house…  compassion for my sister, who was burdening herself with responsibilities that aren’t hers to hold…  compassion for my mother, who was obviously now looking back on the damage done by the past…

There is nothing simple about a trip down memory lane… but, it can be healing.  It helped me to see that, although I live with the effects of those events every single day; the events were a long time ago.  That doesn’t make what happened right, nor does it allow me to forgive, or forget… but, it does mean that I can help ease those fears when I’m caught in the flashbacks…  If nothing else, that knowledge made the trip worthwhile.

—————-
Now playing: Taylor Swift – Safe & Sound
via FoxyTunes

Path to self-destruction

Every now and again, I stand back, and wonder what in the world I’m doing.  This is one of those times.

I’ve just made it through the first of the two stressful weekends that I have previously mentioned.  I don’t remember much about the past weekend… just the noise (a group of librarians is very noisy), the suffocating crowds, the alcohol, and the panic… the ever-present panic.

People laughed during my presentation, but apparently it was because I was funny… go figure!  I was even congratulated afterwards by my bullying ex-manager… although, I always wonder what her motives are for anything that she does, doubly so when it seems positive towards someone else.  Yes, paint me suspicious.  She did seem genuine though… it was a little unsettling, to say the least.

I tried so hard to stay safe… I went back to my room early, I went for a walk to take photos… I avoided obvious triggers.  But, by Saturday night, things were starting to crumble.  The drive to get hurt was incredible.  The pressure of presenting to a large group of influential people; trying to act sane; and having to eat dinner in front of others, was too much…  The only thing that kept me safe, was an inability to access methods of self-injury.

People have tried to tell me that getting through the weekend uninjured was an accomplishment.  So, why does it feel like a failure?  A part of me is very confused, and feels rejected by the lack of pain… in some warped way, it’s almost as if I wasn’t “good” enough to be hurt.  Allison tried to explain the theory behind the feelings to me, but that brought little comfort.  Instead, it has upped the stakes for the coming weekend…

This weekend, I’m returning to my home-town for my birthday.  There are positive plans, such as wanting to see the ocean, and taking photos of some of the parks around the city; but there are also plans to go to the rugby club, and school where I was abused.  I need to go alone to these places.  I need to see what they look like… are they as I remember them?  Have they changed?  Will being there trigger any memories?  Will I see any of the men who abused me?

I read that paragraph, and realise the insanity of it.  What do I hope to accomplish?  Nothing positive can come from it.  If they look the same, what will it prove?  I know that memory is influenced by a variety of factors, so it wouldn’t ease my denial, or magically resolve my questions… so, what is the point?

All I can think of, is that it is a futile bid for acceptance over the past.  But, it’s unlikely that the men who abused me will be willing to sit down and reminisce.  It’s not really a fit topic of discussion to have over drinks on a Saturday afternoon, is it?

Strangely, the part of me who wants to go back to the club, doesn’t want to see the abusers.  I want; no, need to see the building, that’s all.  I want to see the men’s toilets, the changing rooms, the downstairs bar, and the office.  The place must be empty.  If there were people there, it would make it too real.  It would give faces to the shadows, and that isn’t wanted.

There’s a clinical detachment in knowing their names, without seeing their faces.  A form of safety… denial.  I’m a librarian, I could find their pictures if I wanted… but, I destroyed all of my childhood pictures, so why would I want to see their faces?  Seeing their faces would be like having proof that I remembered them for something… that they mattered…

I know that so much of my thinking is a study in contrasts, as well as a dash of very young logic. It’s becoming a constant struggle to stay grounded in the present…  The past and present seem to be merging more often.  I’m losing more time.  The intellectual part of me is struggling with the infirmity of it all… there’s a need to get back on solid ground now, and ignore all of these diversions… The thing that is so confusing, is that I don’t know what is the diversion anymore… is it work, the dissociation, or the past?

I know I’ll be fine this weekend.  I know it will be a jolt to be back in my hometown, but I do have many good memories there…  It may feel like a path to destruction, but that’s my anxiety talking… I need to listen to it, understand, and acknowledge it; but also reality check it all.

—————-
Now playing: Brooke Fraser – Shadowfeet
via FoxyTunes

Anxiety vrs reality

One of the ways that anxiety manifests for me, is the fear created when I imagine the worst case scenario that could happen when facing a situation.  It feels all-encompassing.  There is no relief from its control.  This morning, all of my distraction techniques, grounding methods, and even my prescribed “emergency” medications haven’t helped ease its grip over me.

It feels like I’m in some invisible tug-of-war between reality, and anxiety related scenarios…  Anxiety is winning!

Here are some of the issues causing my anxiety…

Scenario 1:  My abusive ex-husband will be in town this weekend for a special event.

Reality tells me that he will obey the Protection Order that I have against him, and will not approach the house.

Anxiety shows me (in great detail), all of potential scenarios where he will come to the house… He might want to show the people he’s with, where he lived with the “fruit-loop”… He might want to see if I still live here…  He might be curious as to what the house now looks like…

Within my mind, the anxiety scenario becomes bigger, and badder.  I see him driving up and sitting outside in the car.  I see him standing at the door.  I hear the taunts that I know he can throw at me.  I see him in the house.  I see him hurting me.

My imagination weaves abuses from the past into the potential scenario, making them seem all to real.  It becomes more and more difficult to reality check what my imagination is creating; and anxiety hits in wave, after wave.

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Scenario 2:  Next month I have to present at a weekend conference in another town.  There will be several people going from work – including the co-worker who has sexually harassed me on a couple of occasions.  Everyone from work will be staying in the same hotel.

Reality tells me that my presentation will be fine – it’s a small conference, and the topic of my presentation is interesting.  The co-worker will not do anything to harass me at the conference.

Anxiety tells me that the presentation will be a total disaster.  The person following me in the program, is my former bullying boss, and she will take great delight in telling everyone how bad my talk was, before starting into her own presentation.  I will lose all of the respect that my former team leader has for me, and the audience will try, but fail, to smother their derisive laughter during my presentation.

It also tells me, that I’ll be harassed by my co-worker in a more direct way.  It will evolve from verbal harassment, to physical.  I won’t be able to stop it, and I’ll end up dissociating in a strange town with no access to my usual support network.  I’ll end up self-injuring, badly.

Again, my imagination weaves images that I’ve seen in the media, or my own experiences, into the scenario.  It becomes bigger, and badder than any known reality.

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Scenario 3:  I’m going back to my home-town for my birthday. 

Reality tells me that it’s only for a couple of days, and everything will be fine.  It might be a shock to return there, and possibly disorienting; but, it will be fine as long as I remember the skills I’ve picked up in distraction and grounding.  It’s all about staying in the present.

Anxiety tells me that I’ll be swamped with memories.  My mother will invade my space by going through my possessions – I have proof that she has done so during her latest visit.  I’ll be forced to interact with my sister, and my sister-in-law… both people I would rather avoid.  I’ll be overwhelmed, and end up self-injuring.

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I know that my fears are driving these anxiety scenarios… fear of failure, being hurt, humiliation, and being seen.  At times, I can step back from those fears, and reality check them; but, at the moment, they are all I see.  I was hoping that by writing this out, they might ease their grip over me… that I could intellectualise the scenarios, and put the fears into the boxes on the shelves in my mind.  If there was only one of the scenarios happening, I would try to feel the emotions, and ease them that way.  But, with all three, it feels too big…

The first scenario was talked about with Allison this week; but it was more a process of giving voice to the fears, rather than establishing any action plans.  I’m going into the weekend anxiety filled, and unable to remain grounded.  I’m experiencing derealisation, and panic attacks.  Yet, I’m sitting here at work, as if I’m fine…

I’ll be fine… I always am.

A breach of trust

I am an ACC Sensitive Claimant.  That means ACC, a government department, partially funds my therapy costs.  It also means that Allison has to regularly report on my progress, and sends requests for more funding.

When I first claimed for assistance under the ACC scheme, I was assured that the information provided to ACC would be kept confidential.  That the information didn’t go outside of the Sensitive Claims unit, and that only those people directly involved in my case, would access my file.

I struggle with trust issues, so needed this reassurance.

Those of you who have read my blog for any length of time, will be aware of the struggles that I have had with ACC.  They have mislaid emails that I’ve sent them – emails containing incredibly sensitive information.  They have sent me incorrect letters – one told me that my therapy support was being stopped, when it wasn’t.  They regularly change my case manager without letting Allison, or I, know.  There was a long struggle over my level of impairment.  What all of this has meant, is that my faith in ACCs ability to carry out their role, is pretty minimal.  I dread the reports for further funding that Allison has to do, as it usually means that I will be sent to yet another stranger for an assessment…

Despite the significant drawbacks associated with ACC, it is the only way that I can afford therapy.  This means, that it is the only way that I have been able to maintain a job, and keep being a (productive?) member of society.  It would be questionable as to whether I would still be here if it wasn’t for this assistance.  That may sound overly dramatic, but it’s possibly closer to the truth than I would care to admit.

So, I am thankful for the assistance I get; but, am also incredibly wary of the strings that are attached to that assistance.

A couple of weeks ago, those strings became entangled beyond recognition.  It came to light that ACC had sent the details of about 9000 clients, including those of some sensitive claimants, to an ACC client.  Yes, a fellow ACC client… not any sort of health professional, but a member of the public.

Before this incident, I knew of one other incident where a fellow claimants file had been sent to people unrelated to her case. So, this sort of breach doesn’t seem to be a one off error.

Since this incident became public:

• there have been reports that health professionals have received incorrect client files from ACC, and that some ACC claimants have received numerous letters apologising for breaches in privacy;
• ACC have responded by trying to contact those affected, establishing a privacy team, and apologising;
• the claimant who was mistakenly sent the file has been “outed“, accused of bribery, tried to explain the reasoning behind her actions, and apologised to a member of parliament;
• Nick Smith has been accused of using inappropriate judgement, and has resigned from his cabinet portfolios; and
• the media has revelled in the latest scandal, jumping from one juicy detail to the next.

While I can understand the chain of events, much of it seems to detract from some of the core issues that this incident has raised…

1. Why was there a document with ACC Sensitive Claims Unit client information on it, being circulated to anyone outside of the unit?
2. What is the purpose of such a document to begin with? The cynical part of me wonders if it’s about highlighting “problem” claimants, or pitting the units against each other.
3. How could the document be sent without basic security, such as password protection?
4. How often does this sort of breach happen?
5. What is being done to tighten privacy and security within ACC?
6. Why didn’t ACC act sooner on this breach?

But, the most important question for me, is…

7. Why should I ever trust ACC again?

ACC has files which contain some of my darkest, most shameful secrets.  How can I trust that the information won’t accidentally end up on the doorstep, in an email, or faxed; to someone who has nothing to do with my case?  I can’t.  ACC have proven that they cannot be trusted.

So, where does that leave me?  To be honest, I’m not sure.  As my ability to see Allison is dependant on ACC funding, and she must report any new information about my abuse, and it’s effects on me; she has been placed in a precarious position… I’m meant to be open and honest with her, yet if I am, that information will potentially go back to ACC.  How can I be open with Allison if she is reporting to an organisation that has proven to be untrustworthy?

There have been lots of stories about the privacy breach within the media, and many have waved the “isn’t it awful that sensitive claimant information was included” flag… but, what they don’t seem to grasp, is the devastation that this has on an already vulnerable group of people.  As sensitive claimants, our trust has already been violated in one of the most horrific ways possible, and to have that again shaken by the organisation that is meant to help, is destabilising.

I know ACC cannot be perfect, but they need to be responsible and accountable.

Protected: Balance, or lack thereof

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My dragonslippers

Four years ago, my abusive marriage ended.  I thought that the passing of four years was long enough, and that I would be “over it” by now… I was wrong.  Over the past couple of months I’ve been swept up into flashbacks, as well as experiencing anxiety and dissociation for no apparent reason.

The other day, I was feeling good, and thought that the storm had passed… but now, it’s back with a vengeance.

The good thing about the four years since the marriage was over, is that I can more clearly see how we reacted to each other to create the disaster that was the marriage.  It’s easy to say that I walked into the marriage because of old patterns… one therapist told me that I married a man just like my father, after all.  But that’s a nice square box to place the experience in… the reality is so much more complicated.  My childhood was my training for my marriage… it taught me how to ignore my own needs in favour of others, to consider myself worthless, and not expect to be treated with respect.  His training involved systematically having his self-confidence destroyed; suppressing his anger, to the point where it exploded without warning; and thinking that domination equated to power.

He needed control, but didn’t want it… and I didn’t want control, but needed it.

That one line is possibly the most accurate summary of the marriage.  How it presented was sometimes funny; but more often than not, painful.  Now that I’m a little further away from the situation, I can see the links between such things as his jealousy and my actions.  The best example that I can think of to describe this dynamic, is my fear of going outside – he once commented that one of our male neighbours always seemed to be going outside when I was; which was a huge red flag to me.  It meant that something was wrong, and that something needed to change, as anything that bothered my husband, meant danger.  I couldn’t stop my neighbour from going outside, but I could.  So began another layer of my social anxiety.

There are lots of little examples like that…

Reading this, people will wonder why I stayed with him for so long.  It’s a perfectly reasonable question… I lived in fear of him for eight years; he abused me regularly, and was constantly in trouble with his employers.  But that chaos echoed both of our pasts, so it seemed normal.  I didn’t go to work with visible bruises, and he acted almost childlike in public; so I would often be seen as the bossy one.  No one looking into the marriage would say that anything was wrong.

Probably the most obvious example of why I stayed within the marriage for so long, is shown by his reaction after his final attack on me…  The attack happened on a Sunday afternoon, and after his panicked phone call to my mother, he settled down as if nothing had happened.  When I went to get medical treatment the next day, he accompanied me into the examining room, where he laughed about the injuries and how he had caused them.  He repeated this laughter when he dropped my medical certificate into my workplace to say I wouldn’t be in for at least a week.  It wasn’t until later that day, when my brother arrived that any sort of reality started to creep into his awareness.  He hid the chair broken during the attack, and tried to pretend like nothing had happened… but my brother took him aside and said that he needed to move out for a while.

When my brother went home, and my mother arrived; there was a further dawning of awareness for him… he was always desperate for my mothers approval, and that was obviously missing.  Suddenly he couldn’t cope.  This is when the twisting of the story began in earnest.  Two nights in a row he took off in his car… on one night he threatened suicide, and on the other night he threatened suicide and then told that police that he was too scared to return the house.  This showed how he could act when faced with a situation he didn’t like.

On Valentine’s Day, he left me to return to his family.  It was then that his twisting of the truth became more obvious… suddenly there was no attack, but instead, I was making it all up.  I broke the chair and caused the injuries to myself.  This version of events is what he was going to defend the Protection Order with… thankfully, I had the medical report detailing the attack, and all of his documentation which included a letter to a former supervisor apologising for assaulting him…  When his lawyer saw the documentation, the Protection Order defence was withdrawn.

When I look at this incident, I can see why I doubted so much of what happened within the marriage.  I was dissociative, so often doubted my version of events anyway; but he encouraged me to doubt things by twisting them back onto me, and playing a totally different role in public.  This situation reminds me of a quote from the book Dragonslippers: This is what an abusive relationship looks like:

‘You know, it’s interesting…work…politics…. It’s really so easy to control other people. You just have to cause dysfunction. Once someone feels insecure, you can do anything you want with them.’

This was said by the abuser within Rosalind Penfold’s relationship.  I entered the relationship with my ex-husband already insecure… all he had to do, was to keep me in that place and he could do whatever he wanted.  That’s why my attending therapy was seen as such a threat, and why he enjoyed my dysfunction so much.

I’m glad that I’m now physically free of him… I just wish that I was psychologically free as well.

—————-
Now playing: Headless Chickens – George
via FoxyTunes

The walk

Got to run… Got to get away… Got to escape…

This is how my need to runaway always starts… those words, repeated over and over.  Sometimes they creep up on me slowly; but sometimes, they hit like the freight train.  On Sunday, they hit suddenly; although I should have been expecting them…  Last week, an inundation of triggers, meant that by Friday, I was a dissociated mess.  Through my own actions, and decisions, I set myself up on the road to self-destruction, and despite some last-minute reality checks, things became very messy…

On Sunday, I got that last little push that tipped me over the edge into a flip-book of flashbacks…  So, the chant began… Got to run… Got to get away… Got to escape…

This has often been the beginnings of an incident of self-injury, which I know just causes pain to be piled on top of existing pain.  I know the pull of self-injury well… it can be hypnotic and alluring… there’s a cold comfort in its familiarity.  But, instead of following that path, I took the words literally and escaped by going for a walk.

Considering my social anxieties, I’m not quite sure why I decided to do this… and initially, it seemed a huge mistake.  I walked past families preparing BBQ’s, causing flashbacks to summers of watching my father cooking at the family BBQ… past the barking dogs, which brought up images of the scars on my friends back from an attack by a stray Alsatian… It went on, with each new sight, smell and noise triggering a new flashback.

I walked faster, and faster… trying to outpace the thoughts and images in my head.  But the chanting in my head got louder and louder… Got to run… Got to get away… Got to escape…

Negative talk started to drown out the chant… I shouldn’t have eaten so much over the past week… I didn’t do enough at work… I’m just an attention seeking nightmare…

It went on and on… until, the words of WPT cut through all the noise.  He told me the story of a woman who heard some rattling behind her as she walked; so she walked faster, scared of the noise… She walked faster and faster, until she was running… all the while, the rattling noise became louder and louder.  As she scrambled up a hill, she met someone who told her to turn around… The noise was that of the skeleton of her past, tied to her ankle.  Until she turned, faced it, and cut it free; it would always be with her. **

This rather butchered part of a story, brought me back to reality…  I realised that this is what I was so desperately trying to do… I was trying to outrun the skeletons in my closet.  But, they were making their presence felt through flashbacks and anxiety.  Because they exist within me, I’m never going to outrun them… or inflict enough damage through self-injury to drown them out for long.  Until I turn to face them, and work through what happens in the present as a consequence of those skeletons; I’m never going to ease their hold over me…

The kicker is, that I know this.  I know that my self-injury is just another way to try to run… but turning around to face those skeletons is terrifying.  I’ve been able to do it at times, but never for long.  I get scared, confused and overwhelmed.  I can never seem to do it they way they say in the books, or even in the other blogs I read… It seems such an unobtainable goal.  How can something summarised in one chapter of a book, be so difficult, and take so long to do?

Of course, my annoyance with not being able to achieve this thing called “healing” is yet another sign of my need to distract and have control…

So, the skeletons of my past keep rattling…

** As a note: I know my recounting of the story isn’t accurate, and I’m not sure of its title; but I think it might be one of the short stories in the book Women who run with Wolves by Clarissa Pinkola Estés.

—————-
Now playing: Missy Higgins – Ten Days
via FoxyTunes

Expressive Arts Carnival: Obstacles

The theme for this months Expressive Arts Carnival is:

Through drawing, painting, or any other visual means, create an image that represents a major obstacle facing you now.

My first reaction when reading the directive for this month’s carnival, was to write the letters “ME” on a page, and send it in.  It feels more and more as if I am my own worst enemy; or probably more accurately, my thinking is.

My disordered thinking is evident in all areas of my life, but is particularly problematic at work – where I’m doing the job of about two people, but reluctant to make waves by saying that I’m swamped; within therapy – where I hold up any negative interaction as a reason to further beat myself up mentally, and use as a gateway to more self-injury; and finally with my relationship with food – where small things like being told that I must have three meals a day in order to have the antibiotics I was prescribed last week, caused a major panic.

I know that all of these factors are inter-related symptoms of an underlying cause… the problem is, that the symptoms are screaming so loudly, that it’s difficult to see, or hear the motivations behind it all.  It is for this reason, that I’ve chosen this abstract photo of a red canna lily to represent both the scream of the symptoms, and the underlying motivations.

This scream is my obstacle… and my path to healing.

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Now playing: Counting Crows – Rain King
via FoxyTunes

Falling

When I returned from Wellington, I thought I was making my way out of the abyss.  Things seemed more settled, and my thinking clearer.

I was wrong.

During the past week I have reconnected with dysfunctional people from my past; and set-up emotional scenarios which mirror different aspects of my past.

I’m a train wreck.

I’m trying to live in the present, and failing.  The past has begun haunting me with a vengeance.

I would tell you how my week has been; but I don’t know, it’s a blank.  I see from my tweets that there was a problem over the weekend with a neighbour… my hair has been cut… I see from emails that I was concerned about friends… I had Christmas cards to put in the post today, so things were getting done… I was appearing normal.  But, I don’t remember it.  There’s jumbled glimpses of other things… putting on trackies when I was getting cold talking to a friend on the phone Friday night… It’s Monday, right? That means I need to get the rubbish ready to put out tomorrow… Panic in the mall on Saturday… I hate Allison… Take the team at work to afternoon tea on Thursday, but tell them they can go downtown for an hour if they want – one small way I can make up for them not getting a bonus… I don’t trust anyone…  Why is our work Christmas function in a sports bar?

Just a mess of thought fragments being tossed around my head.

I was scrolling through my YouTube playlists, and came across this piece which calmed me briefly…

If I’m falling, I wonder where I’ll land?

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Now playing: Arvo Part – Spiegel Im Spiegel
via FoxyTunes