Why a Spoon, Cousin?

The shrink wasn't happy to hear that the urge to hurt never really goes away and becomes quite intense rather often. He was glad that I haven't been doing anything about it, but said that it would be better if they weren't there. Tell me something I don't know, Doc. At any rate, he gave me homework for the week. During the times when they get so very strong, I am supposed to write down what thoughts and feelings are associated with it. Today has been a rather bad day and I am drowning in them right now so here goes...

Plain and simple, I hate myself. Everything I am and everything I do... So many things that I've done. I can't take them back. I can't make them go away. Pictures and sounds and stories seem to linger in the background of my mind and they won't go away. And then I think back on the day and all the ways that I screwed up, that I hurt people. I hurt them and I want to hurt me. Maybe if the blood drains from me, it will drain away the evil. If I burn away the skin, will it count as credit for time served in hell? All the pain I give to others I should be feeling for myself. All sins of my past should be laid bare on my skin for everyone to see.

These are the thoughts that circle through my mind. Endless repetitions of my past and my present swarming about my head, telling me I should pay for all that I've done. Mocking me for everything that I don't know how to do right and all the things that I know and didn't do anyway. Writing them down seems to make them more intense as if by giving them words I am making them more than someone else's memories.

Is this what he wants me to write down? Is he going to ask me what I wrote? Does he want to know this stuff? Is he going to ask for more details? Oh god - it hurts!

"Why a spoon, cousin?"
"Because it's dull. It'll hurt more!"
(Robin Hood Prince of Thieves)

I Want to Run

I want to run. Well, actually, I want to jog. I keep coming back to the movie What Women Want where they are working on the Nike Women's Division account. The ad they come up with just appeals to something inside me. I want to do that! But I have to say, this urge puzzles me. Why on Earth do *I* have the desire to run? I have intensely bad knees and asthma. I wonder what is behind this. Is it metaphorical? Am I trying to run away from something? Do I want to hurt myself, as either punishment to myself or to get out of doing things with a "poor me" excuse? Am I trying to prove to myself that I can do something beyond my current reach? Am I trying to set myself up for failure? Or is it nothing more complicated than the feeling I get when I think about it: how freeing it would be to put on a pair of tennis shoes and take to the open road? In thinking about it, this is the same feeling I used to get (and later, to crave) when I would get into my car with a full tank of gas and nowhere to be... freedom.

Of course, I also dream of learning to rock climb. This is just as irrational (or more) than running. As previously mentioned, I have horrible knees. More than that, though, I am afraid of heights. But I love the idea of it, the power it implies. The power to scale walls with only small handholds and a rope. Again here, I am wondering about what is behind the scenes. Again - is this metaphorical for a desire to scale my own infamous wall? A longing to try something I have no chance of succeeding at? Am I hoping to fall and kill myself? Trying to prove I can beat fear? On the other hand, wanting to learn to rock climb doesn't have the same feeling associated with it that running does. It's more vague and "wouldn't it be cool" than a true longing to do it. So maybe the two aren't really related.

"Nike. No games. Just sports." (What Women Want)

I Wish I Could Tell You

There are so many things that I simply never say. Sometimes I consciously hold them back, even going so far as to physically bite my tongue. Many things never get all the way to the word stage, even in my mind. They hover on the edges as colors, images, or emotions. The thing is, conscious or not, I can't say these things to the people they are about. I don't think I can say most of them even to people they are NOT about. I'm not certain I can say them even into an overwhelming silence. I think I'm going to try.

I don't know why I can't say those words to you that you wanted me to say. I don't know why they make me want to run and hide. I don't want you to think I'm not trying or specifically trying to avoid you. I want to do as you ask. I want to please you more than you know. In fact, I think about you too often. What would you think about the way I handled this? What would you say if you saw me the way I really am? Do you know that I analyze everything you say, everything you do, and everything you don't? Do you know how frustrated I get at your seeming perfection? You have it all figured out and I want that, more than I can say in words. I want to study you, understand you, take your mind and your past and your memories apart until I can find out how you became who you are. I want to do this so that maybe I can do it too. I want to know what you know; I want to help like you help; I want to do what you do. I feel so far beneath you that I worry about taking up your time. I feel that I don't exist before I enter your office or after I leave it. This is not a secret. What is, is that I wish I did. I wish I was important, different, worthy of notice. And yet I am relieved that I am not. And I am terrified of these feelings for fear they are inappropriate, for fear it will sound like a cliched case of patient falling for therapist. It isn't like that. I'm not in love with you. I am in awe of you...

I love you. I'm sure you know that. But I fear you. I am afraid of disappointing you, which I always seem to do. I crave your approval but don't believe it when I get it. I fear your temper but know it is earned. I hate your one-sided, self-involved views of everything. I hate your irrational reactions to the strangest things. I honestly feel that your physical problems are manifestations of your psychological issues - not that they aren't real but that you have created them. This not only includes but is especially true of the side-effects you report to every medication that might be able to help you. I don't think you want to feel better and that is why you have stopped trying. I don't trust you anymore. And now I have also finally realized that your love is now, and always has been, conditional.

I can't imagine my life without you. I don't want to imagine it. But sometimes I wonder if we are only together because I was afraid to let you go. You love me, you believe in me, you encourage me, you reassure me, and you make me feel good. I know I could never find that anywhere else and, frankly even if I could, I don't want to. But do you know that I don't feel the way I act more often than not? I can't tell you what I'm really thinking and feeling. I don't want to hurt you and I don't want you to hurt me. And sometimes, when I try to let go and trust you and tell you what is going on... I just can't do it and I don't know why. I do love you and I still find the safest place in the world is that spot where your shoulder meets your chest. And yet I fear you. Out of a perceived need to justify this fear, I play up the things you do that frighten me and downplay the things you do to support me. I do you an injustice without consciously meaning to. And you don't even know it. Would you still love me if you did?

I used to think that if I didn't watch your daughter, you would throw me away like a childish hobby you outgrew. Then I thought I had to do right by your daughter to prove myself as a person and as a mother. I have also felt that by watching your daughter, the stress it caused provided tangible justification for my feeling so fragile and overwhelmed. The thought has occurred to me that I could make amends for my past through doing right by her. When I was in the hospital, and they wanted me to say I would stop watching her, I felt betrayed and unheard and when I came home, I fought to keep her. Sometimes I think of her as one of my own. Sometimes I hope that I will become someone important to her - that someone will look up to me that doesn't have to. But lately, I wish I didn't have the responsibility of it. Not because I want to do other things, but because I want to hide from the world in the safe shadows of sleep and I can't do that with her here. I think she is good for me. I don't think I'm good for her. But I love her - it swells up my heart to think about her. I want to be good enough for her. And by being good enough for her, I hope to be good enough for you.

I don't understand you. I don't deserve the time and attention that you show me. I appreciate it, more than I know how to tell you. But I don't know why you put up with me. I have so little to offer. I want to impress you, to make you proud of me. I want to be worthy of your friendship. And I want to share in the confidence you seem to have in me. I trust you, though I can't explain it exactly. You know more about me than anyone in the entire world - possibly even more than I myself know. And yet at the same time that I trust you, I fear you. I don't understand you and I'm always afraid, somewhere in the back of my mind, often in a vague wordless way, that I can't possibly deliver whatever it is you want from me. And you continue to push me to the edges of my comfort zone and slightly beyond it. But I will keep stretching to meet your expectations, to the best of my abilities. I want to make you proud. I want to be worth everything you do for me.

I know what I need to do to be better. I'm afraid to do it. I'm afraid that I'll fail. I'm afraid that I'll succeed. I don't know how to keep what I like while changing what I don't. Sometimes, I have faith in myself and I think that I am capable of doing everything I want to do. But I am beyond terrified to admit that I feel that way. I think I am afraid that I will believe good things about myself only to find out that I am completely wrong. Better to think the worst and suspect otherwise than think the best and be knocked back into place. Besides, what if I admit that I think I can be more than I am and people expect it of me, then I am unable to deliver? The disappointment would be unbearable. Best to keep my aspirations to myself and have only myself to disappoint.

I'm Not Posting

It seems it has been forever since I posted an entry and the last one I posted wasn't finished. I'm not really sure why this is as generally I find it very helpful to unload here. In fact, though, I'm not really sure what my problem is in general. I have been going to farther lengths than usual to shut people out - including myself. I spent 30 of my 45 minutes of therapy this morning discussing cooking accidents with my shrink to avoid speaking of anything meaningful. (It didn't work. He cornered me eventually with: "Are we talking about this to avoid something else?" Gee, doc - ya think? LOL) But I did find out that at one time he was as dangerous in the kitchen as I am. He has exploded a ham - I think that takes special training! And he even caught the house on fire to the point of calling the fire department. I am somewhat pacified that he is not entirely perfect, though not completely because this was a minimum of 8 years ago.

I suppose I should give a status report, since it has been so long...

Mother is still not voluntarily speaking to me, although when I totally freaked out of Hubby Saturday night, he called her and she talked me down. I miss my Mom, my friend. Apparently there is not only no chance of reconciliation between her and Baby-Mommy, she is doing everything in her power to make a vicious point of this. As for her and I... well, friends fight. They say horrid things to each other then they apologize, make up and keep being friends. I have apologized. I have sucked up. I have grovelled. I have ignored. And still she won't make up. I am beginning to think things will never be the same between us, all because I love my temper so badly ONE TIME. (And people wonder why I am so adamant about not expressing anger, let alone losing my temper...)

In the world of Baby and Baby-Mommy, Baby-Mommy's man finally found a job. He will be working 40+ hours a week and this is great for him and for Baby-Mommy but it put me in an awkward position. I simply cannot watch Baby 45+ hours a week - I CAN'T do it. If I could do that, I could get a job and we wouldn't be in this financial disaster. SO....... I told Baby-Mommy that. I have to have my Wednesdays off - they are booked solid with scheduled appointments/activities. And I have to have another day off too. So, Baby will go to day-care 2 days a week: Wednesdays and Thursdays. I feel just awful about sending her to daycare but I CAN'T kill myself over this schedule and I am already so close to the FUCK-IT! point that I don't dare try to push too hard. Yay me for standing up for myself!

As for my own children... Kid-2 and Kid-3 are grounded beyond anything they have ever experienced. They got involved in a game of "Dares" (Truth or Dare without the Truth option) that became unbelievably inappropriate. I can't put it down here - it's too upsetting to me, even though I have been told by both my guardian angel and my shrink that this is "normal" kid behavior. Whatever. Every time I talk about it, I freak out. The shrink was not overly impressed that I checked out on him this morning. He wasn't surprised, just not impressed. Surprisingly enough, he kept me partially grounded by reminding me of the image of him exploding hams and catching kitchens on fire. Needless to say, the kids are grounded.

I did a major thing with my writing. I wrote a "short" story about the birth of Ginny. It ended up 11528 words long!! It is a truly crappy story but I WROTE IT! I was quite proud to have gotten it down. I think I may burn it. Maybe that will make it go away... In other writing news, I am supposed to be writing a story for the "February Challenge" and I am failing miserably at it. It is "due" by Friday and I have written probably 1000 words but deleted every single one of them. I am on my 4th story idea and I honestly wonder if I will get it done. Some moderator I am...

I am wandering back into the "if I tell myself nothing happened, then nothing happened" style of coping with the things mulling about my head. Of all the things I've tried over the years, I still think it has been the most effective. I know that my guardian angel and my shrink both don't like this method, but it seems to hurt the least. I can't quite get people to understand that I DON'T LIKE PAIN. If there is a way to avoid it, I WANT TO AVOID IT. I don't want to think about my trigger words and the things that make them upsetting to me. Therefore, I officially declare: I AM FINE. Whatever happened in the past is in the past and I refuse to give it any more time, thought or energy. If I don't think about it, it can't hurt me. I am who I am now, not who I was at any time before now. The past has no power over me. So whatever may or may not have been there DOESN'T MATTER.

"Whatever!" aka WWIII

Enough is enough and I have (finally) had enough. I give up. If Mother wants to be mad, she can do it alone. I'm done with the eggshells and tiptoeing and groveling. I can only go so far before she has to meet me on the way. I don't have to let her hurt me, to let her psych me into hurting myself..

Oops. I guess I ought to put in some backstory here. *cue flashback music*

Okay, a few weeks ago, Baby-Mommy finalized plans for her apartment. They were due to move out the last week of February. Mother cried at the news and cried everytime she thought about it for the next week. Everyone knew it was for the best, it was a necessary step, but Mother still felt abandonned and like Baby-Mommy wouldn't want to be around her if she didn't need her to support her and her daughter.

Now bear in mind that Mother quit taking all her psych meds some months ago. And she has chronic poor-baby syndrome (that is, she is always sick or injured, a manifestation of her mind but real nonetheless). Her current thing is a lack of sleep. She can't get to sleep and she can't stay asleep and as a result she is tired and grumpy and over-sensitive anyways. (More on chronic poor-baby syndrome - and my own affliction with it - later.)

So the weekend following Mother's week of mourning, she goes around slamming things and not speaking to people and stomping and generally being "in a mood". Well, Baby-Mommy has somehow managed to never encounter a prolonged Mom-Mood and tends to be totally clueless about others in general so she had absolutely no clue as to wtf was happening. In speaking to Daddy, her trigger this time was Baby-Mommy's alarm clock. She had her man-du-jour overnight and, as Mother won't allow them in her room, they stayed downstairs. But Baby-Mommy neglected to turn off her alarm clock and it woke up Mother. (Remember she is already suffering horribly from insomnia.) She became infuriated and expressed it by going into a mood - all weekend.

In fact, the mood didn't go away. Tension became tangible, even over the phone. On Tuesday morning, Baby-Mommy called me from her cell phone first thing. She had an epiphany about her man-du-jour and wanted my opinion. We talked for 10 or 15 minutes then hung up.

This story is nowhere near complete. And it is important. But life keeps rushing by and other things keep happening. So I am going to move on and come back to this if and when I get a chance.

More Notes on Writing

I am temporarily stalled on my novel. I picked up the new Stephen King book, "Duma Key" and not only is it very good, it has sent me back into my typical SK funk. I read some of his descriptions and look at the way he repeats the same events for effect and I am awed by him. I realize I can never come anywhere close to that and I stop writing for a while. I'll get back to it, but probably not while I'm reading the book.

On the other hand, I am currently tackling a rather difficult short story. I think I am afraid of it. It is supposed to be about a little girl going on a ride in a semi truck with her favorite uncle. Sounds simple enough, right? Except I know what the story is really about. I am well over 1500 words into the story and he hasn't even asked her if she wants to go yet. I honestly can't tell if I am dragging my feel on getting to the story because I'm frightened of it or if, like I am telling myself, I am trying to give enough backstory to make the little girl's behavior make sense. At any rate, this is going to need a chainsaw for the rewrite.

And I am still terrified of the details of the story. Unfortunately, I know how the story goes, all the pictures and the sounds and even the smells. But I don't like them and this is going to be no easy task. I may end up skipping the details. They wouldn't make for a good read anyways... right?

Random Thoughts

I have scars. I have ones that you can see and that don't bother me a bit, like the 4 inch lines on my shins from knee surgeries. And I have ones you can see that I do my best to hide, like the large scary-looking one on my left arm. Then there are the ones that you can't see unless somehow you stumble across them AND know my reactions well enough to know you've hit on something, like my trigger words where I will suddenly look away and frequently lose track of the conversation for a minute. In time, some of these scars will fade. Some won't. I wonder if there is a way to encourage them to no longer bother me...

I have lost 30-35 pounds since last spring. This is a major accomplishment for me. Not only have I lost weight, I have gained muscle and regained a little bit of my shape. I wore a size 22-24 pants last Mother's Day. Last week I bought a pair of size 16 jeans and didn't have any trouble wearing them at all. My goal is to get down to 135 pounds. I still have a long ways to go. Even at 135 pounds, I will still be fat, but at least not disgustingly so.

I have been watching the new HBO series In Treatment about a psychotherapist, Paul, 5 of his patients and his own shrink. So far, I am intensely interested. The characters are a bit stereotypical and slightly over played but I love the nuances of it. I also love watching Paul venting to his own therapist and wondering how realistic it is. Little pieces of each of the characters ring true for me, except possibly Alex who has a little too much self-confidence for me to entirely empathize with. Some of the questions I asked myself watching the 5 episodes: does "erotic transference" really happen that often? (from Day 1, Laura) Does the cryo-thing with Alex really exist? Don't you have to have parental consent to treat a minor? (from Day 3: Sophie) Did he really think Jake and Amy should have an, yeah... or was he just trying to shock them into thinking rationally? (from Day 4: Jake and Amy) Are shrinks really as messed up as everyone else? Aren't they supposed to be the ones who have it all figured out, even if they've been through hell, aren't they the ones who came out the other side? (from the intro to Day 3, and parts of Day 5: Paul) And the one that made me cringe: Paul said, "If patients really knew what I thought, they would run for the hills." One other note: Gabriel Byrne, despite his age, can be quite sexy and i LOVE the Irish brogue that slips through. WOW... *wink*

Did you notice, when I was putting out the questions from that show, that I obviously stuck around for Day 3: Jake and Amy despite the topic being exceedingly uncomfortable? I was very grateful to be watching it alone and I missed part of it, but kept watching. I am proud of myself. *grin*

I am also getting pretty close to some memories that I have been avoiding for a very VERY long time. This is not very fun. I am up to 1400 words and I haven't even gotten to the meat of it. I am terrified of the meat of the story. How much detail should I put into this? How much detail am I ABLE to put into this? Can I write this story without vomitting?

Ugh. Meds kicking in...

Th-th-th-tha-tha-that's all folks!