Saturday, October 30, 2010

Where is my sister?

It's Friday morning and I've been awake for entirely too long.  I'm sitting in bed, underneath my down blanket because it's freezing in my apartment.  I noticed that I am wearing one gray sock and a black sock.  It reminds me of an inside joke my sister and I used to have.  I don't remember why it was funny, but thinking about it still makes me giggle.  I laugh out loud and then suddenly I'm angry.  Thinking about this joke and the other inside jokes we used to have makes me angry.  It makes me angry at my sister for being schizophrenic.  I'm angry because part of me feels like she's faking it.  She's just pretending.  This isn't real!  Stop it!  Just freaking stop it and be my sister again!  Please!  I need you to be normal!  I need you to be healthy!  I need to hear you laugh.  I need to see your smile.  I need YOU in my life.  Where are you?  Why did you leave me?

My black lab has somehow managed to position himself so that his entire body is leaning against me with his head pushed under my shoulder.  His breathe is hot and tickles my neck, giving me goosebumps every time he exhales, but I don't have the heart to wake him and make him move.  He looks so cozy, peaceful and happy to be near me.  I am happy to feel this loved.  There is nothing quite like the love of an overly needy 80lb dog.  I wish my sister had a dog.  

I really want to sleep but I can't because I have therapy in a couple of hours and I know I'll wake up angry.  Naps are always a disaster for me.  I can go to sleep in the best mood of my life and wake up unable to tolerate anyone.  Everything is annoying.  Everything is stupid.  I hate everyone.  The rain is stupid. The sunshine is stupid.  Socks are stupid!  I hate everything!  I try not to take naps, for the sake of my relationships.

I got about two hours of sleep and woke up at six to take my sister to the airport.  I woke up to find my sister still awake, all packed and ready.  Was she anxious to leave?  She made a quick run to the coffee shop across the street and got her beloved breve iced coffee and a coffee with steamed soy just for me.  I was dying for coffee, but I didn't ask.  She just got it for me anyway.  That was sweet.  My sister is such a sweet, sensitive person.  It breaks my heart to think that.  I'd much prefer she was a horrible person at her core.  At least then her disease would be easier to accept.  I could make more sense of it.  But it's not ever going to be easy to accept that my baby sister is terrified people are stalking her, stealing her intellectual property, and poisoning her to keep her quiet.  I'll never accept that sometimes inanimate objects shout insults at her or that she will always question and fear my motives for everything I have ever done for her--or will ever do for her.  Underneath it all, she's a really good person, with a huge heart.  She's also incredibly gullible.  Her "friends" always take advantage of that.  She will buy them anything, do anything for them if they ask or if she thinks it will make them happy.  She doesn't really have friends--just people who like handouts.  She doesn't deserve this kind of life.  I hate her schizophrenia.  

I want to say this has been a good visit despite the level of anxiety her presence induces, but I'm not really sure it was.  My sister has a really hard time socializing.  She's much more comfortable sitting in a room by herself obsessing over music videos of songs she believes she's written.  When you talk to her, you shouldn't expect a response or acknowledgment that she's heard you.  I usually have to repeat a question three or four times before I get any kind of answer from her.  It's impossible to have a conversation with her unless it's something she is really passionate about, like her stolen music or something she finds annoying.  Most of our time was spent in silence except for my constant attempts at conversation.  I have to fill the silence.  Silence allows for thinking and thinking makes me anxious.  I have to get her to talk to me.  After a while I usually resort to, "What'cha thinking about?"  To which I get a groan, an eye roll, and a "Nothing, just spacing out."  My gf finds her antisocial behavior and poor hygiene rude and annoying, and I used to too.  Now I know this is beyond my sister's control.  She didn't choose to be this way.  She's not trying to be rude or difficult.  Her brain keeps her too preoccupied for conversation and self care.  

She was originally scheduled to visit for Halloween, but she decided to come for my birthday instead.  I was very touched that she bought me a gift--a grayish-blue beaded necklace that is supposed to bring good energy.  She's really into mystical energy new age stuff right now.  The necklace is not my style, but I love it.  I love it because it came from her.  My baby sister, who used to hate me, put thought and effort into a gift for me.  I wanted to cry when she handed me that square brown box.

She really is so sweet.  She's always been a little moody but also incredibly goofy and funny.  We would joke around, put on short one act comedy scenes then fall to the floor laughing at ourselves.  Our lives may have been difficult and we may have been struggling but we had each other.  Even when she hated me, we could still laugh together.  We always had this special bond that was there since she was an infant.  I miss my sister.  I miss that connection we used to have.  I miss connecting with her.  I miss her and I don't think I will ever get her back.  Is it better for her to live her life paranoid and delusional or is it better for her to just to exist in her body without really living?  Where is my sister?  I want her to have feelings and passion even if that means she hates me.  I want her to live!  I want her to thrive not just survive.  I want her back dammit.

When I dropped her off at the airport I hugged her.  I squeezed her hard.  Maybe I could squeeze away some of her torment.  Maybe if I hugged her hard enough she will get better.  Maybe she would believe me when I tell her I love her and that I'm not trying to hurt her.  I hugged her and my voice cracked when I told her how much I love her and that I will always be here for her.  She said nothing.  I know she doesn't believe me but she hugged me back.  It was like hugging a stranger--a stranger in my sister's body.  Her eyes are empty when I pull away.  Those brown eyes make me sad.  No spark.  No twinkle.  Nothing.  I stood by my car for a moment and watched her walk through the sliding glass doors, dressed in her new skirt she bought from Banana Republic.  I had to laugh at the sheer volume of cat hair stuck to her sweater.  No one leaves my house without an extra coating of feline stuck to their clothes.  She carried a plaid vintage suitcase in one hand, her iced coffee in the other and a computer bag slung over shoulder as she disappeared into the agitated swarm of busy travelers.  As she walked away I felt relieved.  Then I felt disgusting.  Relieved?  I'm not supposed to feel relieved that my sister is going away, to a different state than me... to people who take advantage of her and make her feel bad about herself.  I'm a horrible person.

Monday, October 25, 2010

Love and Schizophrenia

Right now I'm sitting on one side of my broccoli green sofa at home.  It's supposed to be a neutral green color but really it's impossible to match anything to it.  It is one of the few things I let my girlfriend pick out.  I hate it.  I can't wait until we have to get another one...or really I can't wait until I have enough money to buy another one.  On the other side of this dead moss colored sofa sits my sister.  We both have computers in our laps and a cheesy horror flick running on the television. Neither of us is paying attention to the film, but I think we are both grateful for the distraction.  The movie provides us with an excuse not to socialize.  We don't have to talk to each other because, well-- we are watching a movie.

Part of me wishes she would fall asleep so I could stare at her.  Creepy, I know.  I want to stare at her until I understand her.  I want to know what goes on in her brain.  I want to know what she thinks about me.  I worry about every single word I say or every movement I make around her.  What is she thinking?  My sister has schizophrenia so I have reason to worry.  She believes celebrities are stalking her, poisoning her, and stealing her poetry to turn into hit songs on the radio.  Any song she likes on the radio, she wrote it....even if it came out before she was born.  I want to know how her brain works.  I want to know why she thinks these things.  I want to understand her brain, partly because I'm fascinated by the disease, partly because I want to help her, and partly because I'm scared to death that this disease is in my near future. 

My sister and I don't have a very close relationship.  We hardly know each other really.  We were close as young children.  I was her big sister, her protector, her playmate.  She followed me around like a puppy.  I changed her diapers, fed her, and took care of her when we weren't in foster care.  We were split up in foster care and then she moved back to the middle east when I was 11.  I only saw her once after she moved away.  The photo booth pictures are from that visit with her.  I was 16 in those photos.  I didn't see her again until she was 15 and I was 19.  I became her legal guardian so she could come back to the US and finish high school.  Her father put her on a plane and then sent me an email with her flight information.  I didn't really have much of a choice in becoming a parent of a teenager while I was still a teenager myself.  To say I failed as her parent is putting it lightly.  I tried to be a good sister/guardian for her.  I set limits, helped her with school, cooked for her, drove her to activities and tried to give her some structure, but how does a 19 year old sophomore in college parent a 15 year old girl?  I worked full time and had a full course load at school but for a while I made it work.  This was my chance at a family--my REAL family.  I didn't want to ruin it.  I was willing to do all it took to make it work.

My sister did not want a parent.  She wanted a friend, someone to party with, to drive her to parties.  She would sneak out, meet boys, do drugs, and skip school.  I never did these things as a teenager.  I tried everything.  I tried to win her love by driving her to friends houses and letting her smoke pot with them.  I even tried it with her.  When I set limits she hated me.  I didn't want my sister to hate me.  When I didn't set limits I was worried she would hate me in the future because I let her ruin her life.  She was not a normal teenager.  She was suspicious of everything I did.  If I forgot to throw out some bad food in the fridge, she believed I was saving it to make her eat it later to make her sick so she couldn't go out.  When people in cars glanced at us sitting at the bus stop she believed they were thinking disgusting things about us or that the same person was driving by over and over again, keeping track of us.  This isn't normal behavior and it scared me to death but I didn't have health insurance and couldn't convince her to go to the doctor.

Eventually I called CPS to help me.  I was worried she would get hurt or ruin her life with drugs.  It thought at least she would have health care and some adults to help her get her life together.  I hated myself for sending my sister into the same system that ruined my life.  I failed.  I couldn't even take care of my own sister.  My own sister hated me. Since then our relationship has been a love-hate relationship.  I love her, she hates me...except for when she needs money or rescuing.  When she found our mother, they bonded quickly.  They had something in common.  They bonded over how much they hate me.  They both wrote me emails to tell me so.

She is so impossible to read.  I have no idea what goes on in her brain.  I want so badly to please her and take care of her.  She touches every insecure nerve in my body.  I feel like I might explode from anxiety when she's around.  I try so hard to connect with her.  She spends most of her time with a flat affect--except for brief moments when she thinks I am funny and then she does something goofy in return.  There's my sister!  We connect and laugh for a brief moment.  I live for those moments when she is around.  I live for those real moments of connection with her.  

Most of the time I look at her and I want to cry, except I can't cry.  I want to cry for her--for the relationship I will never have with her.  I want to cry because I feel so guilty.  Guilty that I failed her.  Guilty that I couldn't save her.  Guilty that I can't do more for her.  Guilty about the negative thoughts that lie beneath the surface of my love for her.  Guilty because I know she can't help it.  I feel guilty and I'm terrified.  I'm terrified of what the future holds for her.  I'm terrified that this disease waits for me.  I'm terrified that if I get sick, no one will take care of her.  She will be totally alone.  She will never have a normal life.  She has never had a normal life.  She will always be suspicious of me.  She will never love me, never trust me.  I want to fix her.  I want to love her schizophrenia away.  I want to take away her constant fears and anxiety.  I hate myself because I can't.  I hate myself for not saving my baby sister.  I hate myself for not being able to fix this. 

I hate myself for surviving foster care when my brothers and sisters did not.  All of my siblings are mentally ill.  All of them are unable to hold down jobs, keep a lease on an apartment, or finish school.  My brother is in and out of prison.  He's violent and scary and I no longer have contact with him because I'm terrified of him.  I truly believe he will hurt someone someday.  He has been discussed all over the Internet and on conservative talk radio.  He hates me too.  I tried to take care of him once and he ended up emptying my bank account and opening credit cards in my name and charging them up.  My sweet, caring, sensitive little brother was replaced by this scary violent man.  Where did my baby brother go?  Where did my best friend go?  I miss him. 

Why did I survive while they did not?  How am I able to hold down a job, finish school, and keep a relationship?  WHY?  It's not fair!  I don't deserve a normal life when they can't have one.  I don't deserve to live while they suffer.  Maybe my guilt is premature.  I fear that my functional life is beginning to end.  I fear I will eventually plummet into severe mental illness.  Maybe I already have.  I seem to really be drowning right now.  I'm not sure how much longer I can stay afloat.  Maybe this is my fate and fighting it is futile.  Maybe I am already crazy.

Sunday, October 24, 2010

My CASA

CASA:
Court Appointed Special Advocate: An adult volunteer, assigned by the court to study and protect the best interests of a youth in a civil or criminal abuse or neglect case. The CASA and the youth should talk on an ongoing basis. The CASA is your voice in the courtroom.
I don't feel this definition of a CASA is really fair.  My CASA was so much more than that.  Maybe I was just lucky and got a CASA that went way above and beyond.  Maybe there is a CASA and then there was Eileen McDuff. I know she went above and beyond for me--for us.  She is the reason I am here today.  She is the reason I'm not totally insane.  She is the reason I can speak today.  She is the reason I am alive. 

I met Eileen when I was 9 years old...or maybe I was 8.  I'm not sure.  I remember the first time I met her.  She came to my foster parents house, about 45 minutes outside of town, through cotton fields and vast nothingness just to meet me.  She could have waited to meet me at my next court date, but she didn't.  She drove up the driveway in her white car.  I used to love to race cars up the driveway so I took off after her little white car.  When she got out of the car and knew my name I began to worry that maybe I was moving again and maybe this woman was going to be the one taking me away.  "Nice to meet you, I'm Eileen.  I'm your CASA, do you know what a CASA is?"  I just stared at her and didn't respond.  "Well a CASA is someone who goes to court and tells the judge what you want.  I'm here to do whatever you want."  I don't think I really knew what she was talking about but I remember that I liked her voice and her smile.  I liked the way she smelled...I liked her perfume.  It made her fancy... she was like a fancy grandma. 

From that day on Eileen was a constant in my life--The ONLY constant in my life.  She was the one that made sure I got to visit my siblings, that I had birthday celebrations, that photos were taken of all of us. She told me I was intelligent and beautiful and worthy of love and success. She believed in me, encouraged me, and helped me succeed in everything from playing the violin, to graduating the top of my class in high school, to going to college. I owe everything I am and have to her.

Eileen encouraged me and stuck by me even when I was less than grateful.  She encouraged me to do well in school when others told me it was not worth the effort.  She opened a bank account and added money every time I got A's.  She gave me this account when i graduated from high school.  I had $2500 in it.  I couldn't believe someone would do this for me.  She also gave me a Tiffany's bracelet, but the money and the gifts didn't matter to me.  The fact that she came to my high school graduation and watched me become an adult meant the world to me.  This woman drove two hours one way, a week after having heart surgery, sat in bleachers and watched me graduate from high school.  I couldn't believe someone would do that for me.

She always encouraged me.  She always cheered for me.  I was so sad my Freshman year of high school when I had a huge performance in which I gave a violin solo in the orchestra and a solo dance performance in the same show and nobody came to watch me.  Not one person was in the audience for me.  There usually wasn't anyone in the audience for me.  This was normal, but this time it really hurt.  This time my group home was supposed to come and watch me but they didn't because one of the girls got arrested.  As I began my sad walk out of the school building there was Eileen waiting for me just outside of the auditorium with a giant bouquet of flowers.  No one had ever given me flowers before.  She saw the whole thing.  She was there for me, cheering.

Eileen was the reason I have any photographs of my childhood.  When I was 16 she contacted my biological aunt and found photos for me.  Before this I had never seen a photo of myself before the age of 10.  I think most people take photographs for granted.  When you don't have any photographs of your childhood it's as if it never existed--you never existed.  You can't go back when you're 70 and look at your photos.  You can't show your children or grandchildren what you used to look like.  You forget what you looked like.

I always yearned to be included on the wall of family photos in my foster homes.  Usually these photos were on the wall in the hallway, but sometimes they were in the living room, or along the stairs.  I would always stare at the family photos and wish I could see myself up there too.  I was never included in family photos as a child.  I remember going to a photographer with my foster family once.  They were all posing for the photos in their matching black and white outfits.  I sat in my pink shirt and watched the family get their pictures taken.  I wanted to cry.  If any foster parents or future foster parents are reading this, never do this to a foster child.  Eileen found out about my foster parents photo shoot and the next time I saw her my siblings and I had our picture taken. 

Because of Eileen I had sibling visits.  Before Eileen, I never saw my brothers and sisters.  She would arrange family visits and drive my siblings out to see me.  I lived in a small town about 45 minutes outside of the nearest big city in Arizona.  I hardly ever saw my siblings or my case worker for that matter.  Eileen changed that.  She drove them out to see me.  We had potato sack races and sour candy eating contests and posed for photographs.

She was a constant supportive adult in my life, but I did see her less and less as all my siblings were adopted and moved away.  I think she was no longer our Casa, but she was still supportive of me and visited me when she could.  I'm not sure I would be here today if I had not had her.  When I was 12, mute, anorexic and suicidal she told me she would be sad and miss me if I were gone.  I know that sounds simple, but no one else told me that.  She would call me on the phone when I was mute and say "I know you can't talk to me right now but I wanted to call and tell you I'm thinking about you."  What would I be today if I didn't have Eileen back then?  Would I still be mute?  Would I be as mentally ill as my siblings?  Would I be alive?  I'm really not sure but the very first words I spoke after a year of silence were for Eileen. 

Eileen didn't go away when I turned 18.  I called her all the time when I moved away and went to college.  We would get coffee or lunch whenever I was in town.  She would send me cards and gifts on holidays and birthdays.  I wear a necklace around my neck today.  It's a simple silver Celtic triskele symbol.  I will never take it off.  It is the last thing she ever gave me.  Eileen McDuff saved my life but her own life was cut short.  She died of bone cancer when I was in college.

She called me one day and I was so happy she called because I wanted to tell her about a film I had just made.  She listened to me ramble on and on before she told me her news.  She told me she had bone cancer and it was really bad.  She told me she wasn't going to be around very much longer.  "I just want you to know how special you have been to me in my life.  I want you to know what a difference you made in my life.  I love you very much and I am so proud of you."  I couldn't say anything.  I felt like she was sucking the air out of my lungs.  This couldn't be happening.  She can't leave me.  Say something!  Anything!  But I didn't.  I just listened.  "I also want you to know that I know you are gay and that it doesn't matter to me.  I love you and I'm so happy you have love in your life."

Those were pretty much the last words she ever said to me.  I tried to call a few days later to tell her that I was going to take a leave from school and come down to see her, but when I called her husband answered and I heard her screaming and crying in the background.  This woman was the strongest woman I have ever met in my life.  I never saw her cry except with joy.  I heard her pain and I panicked.  I wrote her a long email telling her what she meant to me and that she saved my life, but I don't think she was able read it.  Her husband said he read it to her but I don't know if she was able to hear it.  I never drove down to see her.  I was too scared of what I would see.  I abandoned her.  I left her before she could leave me.  I regret that I didn't drive back to Arizona to hug her one last time.  I never told her what she meant to me--what she still means to me.  She saved my life.  I never told her that.  I never told her that I love her.   I miss her so very much.

I love you Eileen.  Thank you for everything.

Tuesday, October 19, 2010

Gays and Foster Care

I've been reading a lot today, but perhaps my choice of material is not the best for me.  I've been reading about gay kids in foster care and about gay foster parents.  The people who are against gay foster parents piss me off so much.  There is no eloquent way to put how I feel about them.  Obviously those apposed to homosexuals being foster parents have no idea the plight foster children face.  They have absolutely no idea what it's like to be shuffled around from home to home never feeling safe--never belonging.  Or maybe they just don't really care about anything unless it fits with THEIR agenda and their ideas of a Utopian world.    

As a child growing up in foster care I would have given ANYTHING for a home, a family, someone to love me.  I prayed for it every single night.  I still have a letter I wrote to Santa when I was 8 years old asking for a family.  I didn't really believe in Santa as a child, but I wrote to him anyway in case he might be real.  It's kind of like the atheist who prays to God before their flight takes off.  In my eight year old penmanship I told Santa I had been a very good girl and that all I wanted for Christmas was a family and a forever home.  I did not ask Santa for a heterosexual set of parents.  I did not ask Santa to make sure this family had a mom and a dad.  I would have been so thrilled to have one parent love me, but two would have been the best gift in the world.  Gender and sexuality did not matter to me.  I just wanted a home.  I just wanted to be loved.  I just wanted to be safe.  I am sure that there are some foster children that would not want to be with gay parents but I think the vast majority of foster children don't care. 

I know my blog makes me seem as if I am a very troubled woman, but in reality I'm pretty put together.  I support myself, I put myself through college and am going to go to graduate school.  I have friends.  I have a life.  Yes, I am struggling right now.  I'm struggling to find my place in this world.  I'm struggling to place my childhood somewhere.  I have PTSD, take an anti depressant, need pills to sleep, and I am in therapy, but I am a pretty decent human being.  I also happen to be in a lesbian relationship.  I have been with my girlfriend for five years.  We would make great parents when I am emotionally ready to care for a child.  We have a lot of love to give and someday that love will go to a foster child.  To say that because I am with a woman means that I am more likely to molest a child makes me sick.  Do the people who say this actually believe this?

Perhaps they only mean gay men are more likely to rape little boys.  We all know that's far worse in today's world than a straight man molesting a girl child.  For some reason the sexuality of little boys is far more precious than little girls.  I don't agree with this or understand it.  Why is it worse for a man to rape a little boy than a little girl?  No one will actually admit to this, but we all know that is what society believes.  What about all the heterosexual men who molest and rape little girls?  Why is no one up in arms over straight men adopting children?  Did you know that 75 percent of children in foster care are molested while in foster care?  75%!!!!!!!  Read about it here   Homosexuals are not pedophiles.  Pedophiles are pedophiles.  It's wrong for adults to subject children to sex, gay or straight, man or woman.  It is wrong to deny foster children the opportunity of a loving home because of sexuality.  They are hurting the children by denying gay people the right to love a child.  They are hurting our society!  There is tons of research and data out today that shows that children of gay parents are no more likely to be gay and they are developmentally normal compared to children of heterosexual parents.  Most gay parents are becoming parents by choice and because of this they are prepared to be parents.  Most gay parents are not parents by accident.  Most gay parents are parents because they want to be.  Being a foster parent or adopting from foster care is not easy.  Foster parents and adoptive parents, especially those of older children are heroes.

I read that only 10 percent of foster parents surveyed said they would be willing to take in a gay child.  That breaks my heart.  Do they know how hard it is to be a gay child or teen in foster care?  Not only are gay kids bullied at school, but when you are living in a group home, it is not safe to be gay at home either.  When I was 13, and still mute for a while, I was living in a group home.  I didn't really think about my sexuality much until I was 18.  I just assumed I was straight.  I liked boys.  I had boyfriends.  My best friend kissed me when I was 18.  It wasn't until that moment that I realized I could like girls too!

When I was 13 I was a bit of a tomboy.  I liked sports.  I liked track jackets and basketball shoes.  I hated makeup and dresses.  The girls in my group home told me I was a lesbian and would constantly taunt me.  They would ask me if things they did turned me on.  I had no idea what they even meant by that.  They would tell me that they would smother me at night if they ever caught me looking at them.  They would warn new girls that they should lock the bathroom door or I might try to come look at them while they were in the shower because I was gay.  I had no idea what gay was, but there must have been something "gay" about me because the girls were relentless in their bullying.  While I was a tomboy--I had and still have long hair, I looked like a girl and acted like a girl.  I WAS a little girl!  I cannot imagine how horrible it would be if I was a boy or if I had been a more masculine girl.  Even the group homes have rules about being gay.  They don't explicitly say you can't be gay, but I had to sign a contract when I was 12 years old at one of my group homes that said I would not date someone of my own gender while in the group home.  Seriously!  I was 12 years old!  Gay children are not safe in group homes.  Gay children deserve foster homes too. 

Thinking about this makes me want to take in a gay teen.  I totally would if I felt I was emotionally capable of being a good parent right now.  I'm not.  Right now I have to focus on me.  Right now I have to figure out who I am and where I am going before I try to share my life with a child.  I just wish the world was a safer place for everyone.  No one deserves to be hated for who they are.  No one deserves to be forced to deny their feelings and happiness.  No one should feel ashamed about who they love.  Love is special.  Love is precious.  Sexuality is normal.  Sexuality is natural.  Sexuality is fluid.  You should celebrate your sexuality.  You should celebrate love.  You should celebrate who you are

Monday, October 18, 2010

Worthless



I need to preface this blog by saying that I don't want to hurt feelings.  The problem is mine.  The people who do the things for me that I'm about to write about are amazing people and I care very deeply about them.  The fact that they do them means a lot to me.  It really does!  I am the one that is fucked up.  I am the one that can't handle good things in my life.  I am the one that doesn't deserve you.


Wow....sad.



Urbandictionary.com

1. orphan

1.(adj) Lacking in quality;Bad; Not deserving of love and affection. 
2. (n.) A child exhibiting these qualities.

Saturday, October 16, 2010

My mother

I actually wrote this the night before I got the most recent email from my mother.  Is she psychic?

Rated R for RAW.


Friday, October 15, 2010

Feelings

Intellectually I know my mother is wrong. Intellectually I know it's all crap. My heart doesn't know intellect or rationality. My heart doesn't listen to me.  This blog isn't about intellect or rationality.  This blog is about my heart.

The way I protect myself in life is by not having feelings or by only having muted feelings--good or bad.  I don't feel things.  Feelings hurt.  Feelings are scary.  Feelings suck!  It takes quite a lot to make me cry, even get my eyes to water.  Today in therapy I sobbed.  My therapist also fought back tears, I think.  I guess that makes me feel like maybe she kind of cares about me.  Maybe.  Or maybe it was like watching a sad movie or reading a sad book.  The scene is sad and that makes you cry but you don't really care about the people involved. 

I cried because this is the first time my mother ever admitted to me that she doesn't love me.  It's the first time I realized that she has never loved me.  She couldn't love me.  I always told myself that she loves me but she's too sick to be able to show it right now or the right way.  I always believed that underneath her hatred was her love for me.  I was very very wrong.

She's right.  I'm unlovable.  The person who created my life, who gave me half of herself can't love me.  How in this world can I expect anyone else to be able to love me?  Maybe there is something wrong with me.  I came out wrong.  I came out unlovable.

When I was a child my mother would beat me and lock me in closets--sometimes for days.  When she took me out of the closet she would hug me, rock me, tell me she was sorry and that she loved me.  I think I preferred that to this email.  That was less painful.  That made more sense to me.  I thought she loved me then.  I thought she loved me even though I was bad.  She loved enough to teach me how not to be so unlovable.

She's right--no one did love me.  No one.  From the age of zero to eighteen I lived in 42 homes, shelters, and institutions.  42!  forty-freaking-two!!!  26 of those were foster families.  19 of those were foster families after the age of eight.  10 of those were potential adoptive families.  3 families said they would adopt me but then decided they couldn't love me.  Zero of those families kept me.  Nobody wanted me.  Nobody wants me.  I tried so hard to be lovable.  I really did.  I was quiet.  I helped around the house.  I got good grades.  I was athletic.  I tried so hard to be what everybody wanted.  I wanted so badly for someone to love me.  I wanted so badly to have a family.  I wanted a family more than I wanted anything.  I would have done anything for someone--anyone to call my very own.  No one wanted to call me their own and they always threw me away--I mean pretty much literally.  I always had to pack up my stuff and put it in garbage bags when I moved.  I was garbage.   


No matter how old I get, I still want my mom.  I still want my mom to love me.  I still want a mommy.  I still want a family.  I still want to be lovable.  No matter how many years I spend in therapy, that's never going to happen for me.

Thursday, October 14, 2010

Emails from my mother

I just got this email from my mother.  It's ironic--I just wrote a very lengthy post about her last night that I'm not ready to make public just yet.  Part of me is scared of posting this email because it touches on some very personal issues.  I just don't know what to do with these emails she sends to me  anymore so I thought I'd open it up to everyone else.  I've tried blocking her and changing my email addresses.  It doesn't work.  She always finds me and she gets around being blocked by creating new email addresses.  How can someone who brought me into this world hate me so much?  I know what I should and should not feel intellectually.  I just wish it were up to my brain and not my heart. 
MY CHURCH GROUP WAS TALKING ABOUT REGRETS AND MISTAKES IN ARE LIVES AND THIS GOT ME TO THINKING ABOUT YOU KIDS AND HOW YOU GROWED UP.  IT MAKES ME SAD THAT I LOST YOU KIDS.  I AM SAD THAT WE CANT BE A FAMILY.  I WAS ALSO THINKING ABOUT YOU AND THE WAY YOU ARE.  THIS IS MY FAULT TO IT IS MY FAULT THE WAY YOU TURNED OUT.  I DIDNT LOVE YOU ENOUGH.  I TRIED SO HARD TO FEEL LOVE FOR YOU.  WHEN YOU WAS BORN THE NURSE PUT YOU IN MY ARMS.  YOU WAS BLUE BECAUSE THE CORD WAS AROUND YOUR NECK.  i LOOKED AT YOU FOR A REALLY LONG TIMEE.  I WAS SAPPOSED TO FEEL LOVE FOR YOU AND I DIDNT.  I NOW THIS IS TERIBLE BUT I WISHED THE CORD HAD STRANGLED YOU.  IT WAS DIFFERENT WITH YOUR BROTHERS AND SISTERS I LOVED THEM RIGHT THE MOMENT I SAW THEM.  FROM THE START I HAD TROUBLE WITH YOU.  I COULDNT BEAR TO THINK ABOUT YOU ON MY NIPPLE SO I BOTTLE FED YOU BUT YOU WAS ALLERGIC TO EVERYTHING.  YOU HAD SEIZURES AND WAYS ALWAYS SICK.  YOU WAS ALWAYS SICK.  YOUR BROTHERS AND SISTERS WERE BEAUTIFUL BABYS BUT YOU WERE STRANGE AND WIERD LOOKING.  I KEPT ASKING THE DOCTORS IF THEY GAVE ME THE WRONG BABY BECAUSE I JUST NEW THIS CRETURE DIDN'T COME FROM ME.  i TRIED TO LOVE YOU WHEN YOU WAS OLDER TO BUT YOU MADE IT IMPOSABLE.  YOU WAS SO NEEDY ALWAYS IN MY FACE.  WHEN YOUR HAIR GROWED IN BLOND.  I JUST NEW YOU WASNT MINE.  HOW CAN YOU LOVE A CHILD THAT YOU NOW IS EVIL.  HOW CAN YOU LOVE A CHILD THAT DESTROYED YOUR LIFE AND DOES EVERYTHING IN HER POWER TO MAKE YOUR LIFE MISERABLE?  YOU MAKE EVERYONES LIVES MISERABLE.  WHEN YOU WAS SLEEPING WITH MY HUSBAND I COULDNT EVEN LOOK AT YOU.  WHAT KIND OF MOTHER BRINGS UP SUCH A WHORE AT SUCH A YOUNG AGE?  WHAT DID I DO WRONG?  MY BIGGEST REGRET AND MISTAKE IS BRINGING YOU INTO THIS WORLD BECAUSE I SEE HOW MANY LIVES YOU HAVE RUINED.  BECAUSE OF YOU YOUR BROTHERS AND SISTERS GREW UP IN FOSTER CARE AND NOW LOOK AT ALL THE PROBLEMS THEY HAVE.  WE WOULD STILL BE A FAMILY TODAY IF YOU WAS NEVER BORN.  LOOK AT ALL THE FOSTER HOMES YOUS BEEN IN.  NO ONE COULD HANDLE YOU AND NO ONE COULD LOVE YOU BECAUSE ITS IMPOSABLE.  YOUR BROTHERS AND SISTERS GOT HOMES WITH PEOPLE TO LOVE THEM BUT NO ONE COULD LOVE YOU.  I WISHED IT WAS JUST ME THAT COULDLNT LOVE YOU BUT NO ONE ELSE COULD EITHER.  THERE IS JUST SOMETHING VERY WRONG INSIDE YOU HONEY.  I WORRY ABOUT YOU ALL THE TIME.  SOMETHING INSIDE YOU IS JUST EVIL AND WRONG AND I DONT NOW HOW TO FIX IT.  WHATEVER HAPPENED TO YOUR FOSTER DAD THAT YOU HAD AN AFAIR WITH.  DID YOU RUIN HIS MARAGE AND FAMILY LIKE YOU DID TO MINE?  IF YOU WAS SO INOCENT WHY WOULD YOU SEDUSE AND SLEEP WITH A GROWN MAN?  HOW LONG DID YOU DO THIS BEFORE YOU GOT CAUGHT?  HOW LONG BEFORE THEY KICKED YOU OUT BECAUSE THEY SAW WHAT I SEE IN YOU.   IM NOT TRYING TO HURT YOUR FEELINGS BY SAYING THIS.  IM JUST TRYING TO GET YOU TO CHANGE AND BE A BETTER PERSON.  MABYE IF I HAD LOVED YOU MORE YOU WOULD BE A GOOD PERSON.  I PRAY TO GOD THAT YOU NEVER ADOPT NO KIDS.  I NOW YOU CANT HAVE YOUR OWN NO MORE WHICH IS GOOD.   GOD WORKS IN MISTERIOUS WAYS.  I JUST WANT THE SICKE TO STOP.  I DONT WANT NO MORE PAIN IN THIS WORLD.  YOU NEED TO SEEK SOME MENTAL HELP.  GO TO COUNSLING OR SOMETHING.  DO WHATEVER YOU CAN TO MAKE YOURSELF A GOOD PERON.  MAYBE SOMEONE WILL BE ALE TO LOVE YOU.  I WANT THIS FOR YOU.  MAYBE WE CAN BE A FAMILY WHEN YOU GET HELP. MOM

Wednesday, October 13, 2010

Love

“Love is giving someone the power to destroy you, and trusting them not to.” 

While looking up definitions on urbandictionary.com I decided to type in love and see what I'd find.  I was surprised to find this definition mixed in with the overly cheesy and overly cynical.  This definition is perfect.

Love to me is so unbelievably complicated.  I don’t even know if I truly understand what it is to love someone or to be loved back.  Actually, I know I don’t understand.  Love is something I yearn for, but it is also something I fear and despise.

Love hurts.  It’s always hurt.  I’ve never known a love that wasn’t painful.  I’ve never known a love that didn’t take giant slices of flesh off my heart and then squeeze lemon juice over the wound.  Love is something that causes pain.  I’m not alone in this.  I know.  Love hurts everyone. 

Love is something you learn as a child.  Or maybe love is something you are born knowing how to do, but if it isn’t nourished, it dies.  Maybe this is what happened to me.   Maybe my ability to love and be loved died. Perhaps it’s just on life support.  I hope it's on life support.  

I have such a hard time relating to people, attaching to people--Loving people.  Sometimes I cant love even when I think someone is wonderful.  I just can’t.  Sometimes I love someone too much too fast and I give them too much of myself--before either of us is ready.  I scare people away this way, but perhaps that is what I wanted all along.   

I don’t trust people who  tell me they love me.  Perhaps this is because I’ve always believed myself unlovable.  When people tell me they love me, my initial reaction is anger and then fear that they want something from me.  Love isn’t free.

This isn’t to say I don’t love.  I do.  I know I do.  I love my dog more than anything in this world.  I know this because I look at him and I have this desire to kiss him, even after I’ve watched him roll himself in manure.  I would be destroyed if something were to happen to him. 

I love my girlfriend too, in a much different way of course.  I would not kiss her if she rolled around in manure.  That would freak me out.  I love her for so many reasons but one of them is because I believe her when she says she loves me.  It’s taken me five years to know this.  It’s taken me five years to believe it.  Five years of her constantly telling me she loves me.  She’s extremely patient.  I’m extremely lucky.  Even though I know intellectually all of this is true, I still feel unsure sometimes.  I still wonder why she is with me.  Why she puts up with me and all of my crazy.  I still don’t believe this love is forever.  Love is temporary.  It always has been.  For some reason I’ve allowed her to climb my wall.  She’ll never get on the other side, but I let her look over and sit on the edge. 

It is safe to love a dog-- an animal, because they can’t choose to leave me.  They need me for their basic survival.  Perhaps this is why I have so many animals.  It’s safe to love animals.  With people it’s different.  People are unpredictable.  People are selfish.  People inflict pain.  I love people too, but my love for people is guarded.  It’s not so resilient.  With people I’m more unsure, more confused--more terrified.  The way I show my love for people is by doing things for them.  I give them things because I can’t say the words.  I labor for them.  I buy them things.   I give them myself.  I give them my time and energy.  It’s just who I am.  It's just what I do.  Sometimes I think this makes people uncomfortable.  So--I must be able to love them.  Some part of me must feel love for them--somewhere, but for some reason I don’t really have access to these feelings.  I try to access them because I desperately want to know what that feeling is like. When I try I become flooded with all kinds of emotions.  All of these feelings are too much input for my brain and it shuts back down.  Why am I not able to access my emotions?  Does this make me a sociopath?

Sunday, October 10, 2010

blog title

I have absolutely no idea what to title my blog.  I keep changing it because nothing seems right.  I'm open to suggestions if anyone has any ideas. 

Saturday, October 9, 2010

Private Moments

Whenever I see a cute family out in public, a parent chasing after a child screaming with delight, a father carrying a child on his shoulders, a mother and father walking both holding the hand of their child, or a crying child comforted lovingly by a parent I feel compelled to watch. I want to capture this moment on film so I can study it later and not feel like a freak spying on someone else's private moments. Maybe I can learn from it. Maybe I can heal from it. I imagine how these scenes could fit in a cute movie or maybe even a sad drama on Lifetime. I wonder if they will remember this moment like I will. I wonder if it's as precious to them as it is to me? I wonder if they realize what an amazing gift that moment in their lives really is.

Through my mother I have five siblings, two brothers and three sisters.  One of my sisters, B. passed away when I was 7 or 8.  She was a toddler and I don't have any photos of her or many memories of her.  My youngest sister was born when my mother was in prison.  The photo to the left is one of the very few ever taken with all of us together.  That little baby is now 17 years old.  She was adopted, her name and her family moved away to Nebraska, never keeping in contact with any of us.

   There were only four of us left.  Then my youngest brother and my sister moved back to the middle east with their father because their father somehow won the case to take them back even though he was charged with every kind of child abuse.  Somehow my mother goes to prison but he gets to take his biological children away from their siblings, their country and back to the middle east.  So that just left my brother and me in foster care....The two originals of my mother.  The two bastards from my mother.  
My brother was adopted.  He had a lovely family with a mom, a dad, and two giant fat dogs.  The dogs were so fat their backs were square.  They were like walking coffee tables.  My brother was adopted but he became extremely violent.  His family tried to love him.  I believe they really did but ultimately my brother spent the better part of his childhood and teen years in a mental health treatment center.  So really people wanted my brother but they couldn't help my brother.  
That just leaves me.  The only one of us never to be adopted.  My biological mother tells me that it's impossible to love me.  I'm unlovable.  Maybe she's right.   My therapist says that it's not my limitations that prevented people from loving me, but their limitations.  How can I believe that when it happened over and over again?  There can't be something wrong with everyone else but me.  Clearly the problem lies in me. 

I had a few foster parents say they would adopt me.  People always told me that their love for me was unconditional, but it never was.  Love always has conditions.  Always.  One family became foster parents just for me when I was 15.  I met the foster mother when I was 12 and mute.  They were going to adopt me when I was 18, they promised.  I only lived with them for seven months!  They spent all the time and energy becoming foster parents just to take me in and then only kept me for seven months.  Seven months is a long time if you compare it to the majority of homes I lived in, but seven months is also ridiculously sad.  They learned in just seven months that they didn't want me after all.

This rant and pity party is inspired by my littlest sister finding me on facebook a few months ago and my interactions with her.  I'm not sure how to handle it.  She's always had a family, an amazing family at that.  She's had a great life and I'm very happy about that.  I'm also happy that she searched for us but I don't know how to interact with her.  She doesn't seem to want to do more than just spy on us on facebook.  Her lack of interaction with me makes me feel like I have something to prove to her... my worthiness to be her sister.   Am I worthy?  Probably not.  Her lack of response to my attempts to connect leave me feeling unwanted, rejected, and sad.
   
removed photo for privacy
 
She posted a photo of her family on facebook today.  My sister is the oldest child with the red flower in her hair.  I have such mixed feelings about this photo.  On one hand I'm so happy that my sister had a great life and has a great family filled with lots of love.  On the other hand....WHY weren't the rest of us good enough to be a part of that huge family, all adopted from foster care?  Why would they take seven other children out of foster care but leave us behind?

I wish I could watch some of her family movies so I can see her grow up.  I can feel like I was a part of her life and family.  I want to see some of those sweet private moments she got to share with her mom and dad.  I want to watch her life story on cable television.  Perhaps this desire is just a selfish one.  A selfish desire to try to live vicariously through my baby sister that I never go to know.  What is it like to grow up feeling wanted, safe, and loved?  I wonder what kind of person I would be today if I had what she had growing up?  Would I be different?  Would I be a better human being?

Thursday, October 7, 2010

I need more

I need something more in therapy but I'm not sure what that something is.  I asked my therapist how therapy is supposed to help me exactly and she said that through my relationship with her I will learn to have relationships with other people and I will learn to let myself have feelings and learn to recognize those feelings.  I will become more connected with what's happening inside my head.  I don't understand this.  I don't think traditional therapy works for me.  It's been five months and I have not had any progress whatsoever.  I've been going to her twice a week for FIVE MONTHS!  Shouldn't I feel different by now?  Even just a little bit? 

I don't think traditional therapy works for me.  I can't open myself up to a relationship I know is temporary.  I can barely have relationships that don't have time limits stamped on them.  Even with the relationships I currently have I don't fully attach.  I'm always ready for them to be over and I won't be sad when they are.  Usually I'm the first one to leave.  I detach first.

I can't let myself be vulnerable with someone I know nothing about, someone I know is going away.  Someone I know doesn't care about me.  I need a more mutual relationship.  I need someone I know won't go away when it gets difficult.  I need someone that I care about-- that I can let myself care about.  I need someone that actually cares about me in return.  Maybe therapy isn't the answer for me, but what other options do I have?  What will fix me?  I'm so tired and I'm totally losing hope.  I can't go on like this forever.  I pretty much reached my limit a year before I even sought out therapy.  Therapy has made it worse not better.  I just have this desire to runaway.  Where would I go?  I can't runaway because I am the problem.  The problem is inside my own head.  I'm at maximum capacity and the thought of continuing this way scares me to death.

Wednesday, October 6, 2010

sick

Perhaps my long walk in the rain was a bad idea.  My throat has that annoying but all too familiar extremely dry feeling that won't go away no matter what I do.  This is how it always starts for me.  I'm sick.  I hate being sick.  Being sick with insomnia is not fun at all.  I can't sleep to escape the discomfort. 

Is it wrong that part of me is a tiny bit excited that I may be too sick to go to therapy?  I wonder if my therapist will think I'm lying?

I'm feeling anxiety about my last entry.  I shared too much but I don't have the heart to delete it. Then it feels like I'm ashamed of it.  Part of me is ashamed of it.  Part of me is angry about it.  Part of me is proud of it.  Sometimes I just get in these strange moods and I post things because I forget that this is public and anyone can read it.  When I go back and read what I wrote earlier, I panic.  How many people read this already?  Then I check my stats and panic some more.  Four people in Spain?  OMG!  Why on Earth did I share that.  OMG!  But I've decided to leave this because maybe it can help someone else.  Maybe someone else needs to read it just like I needed to write it.

Tuesday, October 5, 2010

It was raining

It's pouring outside. No, it's more than pouring.  It's gushing.  It's gushing outside and it feels like a gift, a gift just for me.  Like Mother nature knows I needed it.  I needed a release.  I need to cry, but I can't, so she's doing it for me.  It feels like every time I reach my limit, when I'm ready to drive my car off Pacific Coast Highway into the ocean, it rains.  It's a reminder that I'm still here.  I'm still connected to this Earth, that dying won't save me.  There are still reasons for me to go on, even tiny ones, like the rain.  I know how cheesy that sounds.

I was having such a crappy day.  I got a ticket for turning right at a "no turn on red" intersection, but I swear the light was green.  My anxiety is building because Tuesday is already over which means I only have one more day until I have therapy again.  I don't want to go to therapy again.  I've been having these irrational fears that I'm pregnant.  It's totally not possible because A.  I'm with a woman. B.  I was left infertile after a procedure I had to help friends have a baby.  and C, I haven't slept with a man.  It's like I'm expecting the next messiah or something.  I've been obsessing about it for weeks so I finally bought a pregnancy test and took it.  Negative of course.  Am I losing my mind?

I feel stunted in life.  I feel like I'm not where I should be, emotionally, educationally, financially or any other way.  I still feel like a little kid.  My body kept growing but my mind stopped at 12 or  maybe younger.  I went mute when I was 12.  I didn't speak for a year.  Most people thought I was doing it on purpose, and I think I probably was in the beginning.  After a while it's like I lost the ability all together.  I couldn't speak even when I wanted to.

I tried to kill myself when I was 11, almost 12...Maybe I was 12 already.  I'm not sure.  My foster mother read my journal and then interrogated me.  She slapped me.  "How can you write something so horrible?  How can you do something so disgusting?"  To this day, I still have no idea what she meant by those words.  Was she angry at my words or my actions?  She said she was calling my case worker and slammed my door.  I knew I had messed up my chance at a family.  I knew this was it.  I crawled out the window and I ran away.  I was in the middle of nowhere Arizona.  I was literally in a town that only had a gas station and a pizza place ran outside of someone's house.  The nearest grocery store was a 45 minute drive away so I'm not sure where I thought i was going.  All I know was that I wanted out of there.  I knew they were going to take me away, maybe put me in jail...Beat me with bamboo sticks like they did to that man in the middle east.
Me:  a week or two before she read my journal

I didn't go very far.  I ran to my elementary school and slept on the soccer field.  My foster parents found me the next night, trying to hitch hike my way to anywhere...to anyone that would love me.  My foster father jumped out of the truck and grabbed my arm, pulling it behind my back.  He grabbed me so hard I thought my arm might break.  I knew... He didn't have to say anything.  Talking would be a very bad idea.  That night, after I thought everyone was asleep, I took every single pill I could find in the house, prescription or not.  I must have taken 200 pills.  I don't know what happened after I took them because the next thing I know I was restrained to a bed with a tube down my nose that carried a black liquid into my body.  Charcoal maybe?  After that I stopped talking.  I stopped eating.  I stopped living.  I no longer had a home.  I messed up again.  I proved myself unlovable again.  I just wanted to sink into that bed so no one could see me anymore.  I wanted to be invisible.  I wanted to disappear. No... I wanted not to be.  I didn't speak for a year after that but when i finally did... it was raining.

Monday, October 4, 2010

I'm only happy when it rains

There is something about the rain that just makes me happy.  I get super excited and can't wait to go outside.  Maybe it's left over from my days of playing in the warm Arizona monsoon storms as a child.  Nothing could be more fun than running outside in whatever I was wearing to play in the rain and mini rivers formed by the storm.  I didn't care about getting wet.  I relished it.  Sometimes I would even jump in the puddles and lay down just to show off to my friends.  I was fearless.  The rain makes me fearless.  The water makes me feel alive and free. Rain usually makes people run away and seek shelter...Most adults anyway.  Not me.  I seek the rain.  Maybe that's why I like the rain so much.  It was my escape.  A place I knew no one would follow me.  A place I could be alone and safe...a place I could be myself.  I could be anything I wanted while it rained.  I could do anything I wanted.  I could run like a maniac in the street screaming and no one would think differently of me.  "Oh, she just loves the rain.  How cute."  I would run and I would scream and I would splash, and the rain would wash away my pain.   And it was fun.

Can't sleep. Again.

This is stolen from Hyperbole and a Half again.  I really love her blog.  I feel like I am one of her cartoons sometimes.  :-)
 



Allie Brosh is a genius!

Sunday, October 3, 2010

Drifting away

I wrote my therapist an email to say that I feel like I hurt her feelings on Friday and that I'm sorry if I did.  She responded a few hours later with:  "Don't worry-- I'm charging you extra for the session. Looking forward to talking more about it with you next week."  That cracked me up.  I guess she didn't give away my time slots after I said I wasn't coming back.  It would be so much easier to quit therapy if I didn't like her.  At least I think I like her.  I guess I like her but I don't trust her.  I don't want to go back.  It's too hard and there hasn't been any progress in five months.  Maybe I'm too damaged to be fixed. 

Her response makes me wonder.  Does that mean I did hurt her feelings?  I guess I did.  Now I have to worry about it for a week before I see her again, which makes going back even harder.  Therapy twice a week is way too much, but also not enough.  I don't know what I need or want anymore.  I promised a few people that I would go back to therapy so now I have to.  

I saw a movie Saturday night with my gf.  We saw, "The Town."  It was okay, if you like violent movies about bank robbers with morally ambiguous characters.  I freaked out in the middle of the movie because there was a scene where two characters beat someone with bats and a sledge hammer.  It took my mind somewhere.  I don't know where...I kind of just floated away for a while and when I came back my heart was pounding, I was sweating and I couldn't breathe.  My hands wouldn't stop shaking.  I do that in therapy sometimes too.  I have a hard time not floating off into space....spacing out.  Once it happened when I was taking a very important exam.  I lost about twenty minutes of time just spacing out for no reason.  Where do I go?  I have no idea.  How do I stop it?  I missed about fifteen minutes of the movie.  What the hell?  This is NOT okay!

Saturday, October 2, 2010

Is it really Saturday?

I've been laying in bed all day, drifting to sleep for a few minutes every so often.  My girlfriend thinks I must feel refreshed after sleeping all this time.  She doesn't realize that I haven't really been sleeping.

My dreams have been severe lately.  They wake me up all night long.  Sometimes I think if I just lay here long enough I will pass out.  Out of sheer boredom.  Sometimes I do.  My dreams linger, the images float above my head in my half sleep state.  Go away!  I don't want to see this stuff anymore.  The images stand their ground and now I'm angry and determined to fall asleep.  I will not let them win!

My therapy session yesterday was horrible.  I told my therapist I wasn't sure I was going to come back, that I'm not sure she can relate to me.  Her demeanor changed.  Did I make her feel bad?  I hope not.

I told her about something that happened because of me in the Middle East and she kept trying to make me the victim in the the story.  I guess she believes a child could never do something so cruel.  But I did!  I want her to see that and help me change that part of me.  "If I can be so cruel at such a young age what does that mean about me today?"  I need to change that part of me.  The part of me nobody wants.  I cried in therapy.  I never cry.  Not in five months of therapy.  I felt the pressure building.  I tilted my head back  to prevent any leakage.  It didn't work. I took a drink from my water bottle.  It didn't work.  The pressure was still building.  I was worried I might explode.  A giant tear fell from my eye and into my lap.  It didn't even run down my cheek.  More followed.  I was silent after that. My therapist said, "I know this is hard but I'm so here for you."  Sweet.  Not really true, but still very sweet.  I don't know if I'm going to go back.  Part of me is too ashamed.  I'm not sure why.  My tears maybe?  Part of me is too angry.  It's been five months and I still feel like I'm falling apart.  Fix me already!  I'm too tired to continue this way!

I need a new brain.  A brain that doesn't stay awake for three days at a time.  I need a new brain with a properly functioning hippocampus.

Friday, October 1, 2010

UP

When does sleep deprivation become lethal?  I'm on my third night of NO sleep.  Zero hours.  Nothing.
UPDATE:  I passed out right after writing this blog and slept for six hours. :-)