Sunday, January 30, 2011

Baggage

This profile change is inspired by a foster father who interrogated me about my history to make sure I wasn't a threat to him or his reputation.  Once he was satisfied, he told me to "check my baggage at the door."  I'm not really sure what kind of person knowingly takes in a teenage foster child with a difficult history (that their wife met at a children's psychiatric hospital) and expects them not to come with any baggage, but that's really beside that point.  The point is I cannot check my baggage at the door.  I carry it around day and night, strapped to my body.  It weighs me down and shields me from the cold.  It has become way too heavy and suffocating.  I can't breathe under here!  I can't carry it all by myself anymore.  It's time for me unpack and sort through some of what I've been carrying for more than two decades.

Someone asked me why I blog.  I started this blog to help myself start unpacking.  To begin my journey towards health and happiness.  To help me process what's in my head.  To actually express my feelings.  I'm not able to do that in real life.  Verbally expressing how I feel is extremely hard for me.  Most of my time in therapy is spent trying to slow my thoughts and lower my anxiety enough to speak to my therapist.  It's been almost 9 months of therapy now and I still haven't gotten very far.  I haven't told her very much.  I cannot even figure out what feeling I'm feeling when asked, but I can do it if I'm writing about it.  I don't have to think so much when I write things out.  I might not be the best writer, but that's okay with me.  I'm writing this blog for me.  I am writing to know myself.  I am writing to show myself.

I also blog because it helps me to know other people are reading.  My words are not wasted.  My pain is not wasted.  Other people can connect with what I've written if they want to.  I can share my story.  I can be known.  I desperately want someone to know the real me.  For my whole life I feel like I've been so many different people, but never really ME.  I've never let anyone know who I really am.  I'm not sure if I even know who I really am, but the desire to be known has become so strong that it has overtaken the shame of my life, my story, and my feelings.

I'm actually feeling much better at the moment, but it keeps changing by the minute.  I'm not sure this new medication is good for me or not.  One minute I feel euphoric, almost high and the next I feel complete and utter despair.  This new medication hasn't really made me less depressed.  It's really just made my feelings more intense, good and bad.  The feelings don't really feel like MY feelings though.  It feels like I"m feeling them for someone else, if that even makes any sense.  I do seem to be spending less time in bed these last couple of days so that is good.  I hope the medication levels out eventually because living like this isn't really going to be possible for very long.  I still find myself going to bed and hoping not to wake up in the morning, but my sense of hopelessness seems to be a little less....hopeless.  I don't know why I am here or what I contribute to the world, but hopefully I figure it out soon.  Hopefully I find something inside me that's worth living.  I want to be worthy I just don't know how.

Thursday, January 27, 2011

"All the way around the world and back"

I'm not doing so well today.  I tried to fake it yesterday and today in therapy.  I was doing a pretty good job--I think.  I thought faking it was working.  I thought I was feeling a little bit better--just a little.  When I think maybe I'm starting to feel a little better the person that gave birth to me writes me a set of emails.  Now before anyone scolds me for not doing enough to cut contact, I really don't know what else to do.  I've switched email addresses so many times, and she often emails me through fake profiles on facebook.  I guess I could continue to switch my email address but it gets so confusing and so frustrating because she always finds a way.

Her first email was sent on Wednesday:

Wednesday, January 26, 2011

"NO"

Is my mom coming back for me?--NO
Can I see my mom?--NO
Will you be my mom?--NO
Will you be my dad?--NO
Will you love me?--NO
Can I stay here?--NO
Can I stay at my school?--NO
Can I see my siblings?--NO
Will you protect me?--NO
Will you love me?--NO
Will you be my family?--NO
Do you want me?--NO
Does anyone want me?--NO
Will anyone ever want me?--NO
Am I a good kid?--NO
Will I ever be adopted?--NO
Will I ever have someone in my life?--NO
Does my life matter?  Do I matter?--NO
Do my dreams matter?--NO
Will I ever be successful in life?--NO
Am I worth anything?--NO

Foster children are used to being told "NO." I never got a home.  I was never wanted.  All I ever wanted was love and family and all I ever got was, "NO."  Aging out of foster care is HARD and SCARY.  It's like being thrown into the sea without a raft or a life vest or anyone to swim along with you.  Sure a few foster children will float to safety.  A few will survive, but most will not.  Most foster children who age out Sink, get eaten by sharks or drown.  Look at the statistics.  Aged out foster children end up homeless, in prison, living in poverty.  Only 2 percent will go to college.  Even less will graduate.  Do you know why aged out children do so poorly?

BECAUSE THEY DON'T HAVE A FAMILY.  They don't have a support system.  They don't have someone looking out for them.  They don't have someone that loves them.  They have been told no their whole lives.  They have been told over and over again that they are unlovable and unwanted.  Those who have never been without a family will never understand what it's like to never have had one.  It's so hard to grow up without that bond.  Without love.  Without permanency and stability.  It's so hard to grow up without a family.  It's so hard to feel unwanted.  It damages you for life.  Foster children don't stop needing love and family just because they turned 18.  They don't stop needing parents and guidance.  18 is not some magical age when you become an adult.  It's just a legal age.  It means nothing.  How many 18 year-olds do you know that are really mature enough to take care of themselves without any help or support from family?  Some age out even younger.  I got my first apartment when I was 17 through the independent living program.  I failed miserably.  It is impossible to go to high school, go to work, and then go home to a tiny little studio apartment all by yourself when you are 17 years old.  I didn't really have many friends, so I spent most of my free time all alone inside that tiny little apartment, furnished with only a twin bed and a tv.

Growing up the way I have, and the way too many other foster children are currently growing up has HUGE consequences, not just for the child, but for society.  Foster children don't often learn the tools they need to survive and thrive and become productive members in society.  I am considered a "foster care success" by many but look at me!  Seriously look at this blog.  I'm in my twenties, and I am still barely surviving.  I don't have a life plan.  I don't have any money saved.  I'm drowning in student loan debt.  I am barely surviving but I'm better off than most aged out kids.  I am one of the few that went to college, that has a job with insurance.  I don't fit the statistics but I'm still dying inside.  I'm barely surviving.  I don't really want to survive anymore.  I'm tried of fighting and pretending to be okay when I'm really not.  I am damaged and I fear I will always be damaged.  There is no hope for me anymore.  My life is what it is.  I'm too broken to be fixed.  It's too late for me, but it's not too late for kids still in foster care.  It's not too late for you to make a difference in their lives.  It's not too late to prevent kids from turning out like me.

Foster children are used to having their hearts stomped on by the people they love and want to love them.  It's true that a lot of foster children have issues, but these issues are not without cause.  Foster children are not bad children.  Foster children are scared, abused, traumatized children that need someone to love them.  They need someone to say YES to them.  They need someone to stick up for them.  They need someone to love them and protect them.  All foster children need is love.  That is ALL they need.  I know some of you are going to say that they need a lot of other things too, but really all those other things come with LOVE.  When someone loves a child, they will do whatever it takes to make sure that child can heal, and grow, and thrive.  When someone loves a child, they have already given that child more than a lifetime of professional care and medication could ever give them.  Foster children need to hear yes more often.  Foster children are worthy of you.  Foster children are worthy of a family, no matter what issues they come with.  Foster children are little people who need your help.  It doesn't matter who you are.  It doesn't matter if you are single, married, gay, straight, old, young, rich, poor, middle class--you can help a foster child.  You can save a life.  You can prevent a child from turning out like me.  You can heal a little broken heart before it's too late. You can make a difference.  You can be a super hero.

Tuesday, January 25, 2011

In a Bind

Today I saw my psychiatrist.  She called me last week after my therapist called her because my therapist was “deeply concerned about me.”  My psychiatrist doesn’t do therapy, she just writes prescriptions.  It’s all about the meds.  Today she wanted to know about my drawings.  I guess my therapist told her about them.  If you’ve ever seen my drawings you’d know why describing them is not an easy task.  I wasn’t able to describe them so now I have to bring them in when I see her in two weeks.  Crap.  I am panicking and trying to draw kitty cats and rainbows but I can’t draw pretty things.  I can only draw sad, scary, depressing things.  We talked about why I look so nervous and about my foster mother.    I told her, “I feel like everyone is looking for evidence that I need to be in a hospital and not really what is best for me.”  My doctor said, “Look, I’m not psychic, if you say you’re not going to hurt yourself, I have to take your word for it.  You are here because you want help, right?  Are you going to hurt yourself?”  She asked in her South African accent.  I shook my head no.  She asked me, “Are you sure?”   I said I was.  I feel like I lied and I hate lying.  I should have told her that I think about death all the time, that right now it’s all I can think about, but I knew that would be stupid and to be honest my tiny little South African doctor is a little scary.  She is very nice but my anxiety is out of control when I sit in her office.  I don’t know what it is about her that terrifies me.  Perhaps it’s because I know she’s watching and analyzing ever move I make.  Judging me.  Everything means something to her.  I bite the left side of my bottom lip and rub my face with my hands a lot.  Nervous tics I guess.  Normally I don’t think about it much except for when I am sitting in front of her.  When I am in front of her I notice every single time I do one of those things.  My brain yells at me.  “Stop doing that, you look crazy!”  Then I suddenly stop and she seems to notice.  She writes a note down in my file.  “Oh great, now I look like I’m trying not to look crazy.” 

My doctor gave me samples of a medication to add on top of my current antidepressant.  It’s one of those medications there are a ton of commercials for and the list of side effects in those commercials creeps me out.  I’m not even sure the meds help me at all.  My girlfriend says she can see a difference but I honestly can’t.  I don’t feel any different with the medication.  This new medication will take three weeks before I feel anything.  How do I know that it’s the medication making a difference and it’s not just that I’m feeling better on my own?  I don’t want to be on drugs for the rest of my life.  Will I ever be able to come off them or will my brain stop making the hormones it needs to feel good?  I’m afraid to argue right now because everything I do is under scrutiny so I took the meds and made an appointment to see her in two weeks. 

Right now I am in a bit of a bind.  I so desperately want help because I know it’s not normal to think about ending your life all day long nor does it feel good.  I desperately want this sharp, deep, ache in my heart to lessen.  I don’t think I’ll ever get it to go away but it would be nice if I can bring the pain down to a tolerable level.  I need it to come down to a tolerable level because I cannot continue to live this way.  It hurts so much that death feels like a relief.


I have therapy on Wednesday and I’m already nervous about that session.  I wrote my therapist on Friday with links about my childhood hospital.  I wrote:

“Dear L,

Even if you think it is what is best for me, it isn't.  A hospital cannot make me feel better.  I know you have to worry about yourself, but you shouldn't because there is no one in my life to go after your license.  I don't have any family to do that to you.  No one would want to anyway.  I don't need a hospital but I'm so terrified that you're going to send me to one anyway.  I'm worried about what is going to happen when you and Dr. M talk so I am writing this just in case that happens before I see you again.”

This was her response:

“I just wanted to acknowledge that I received your email and hear your concerns. We can definitely talk more about them when we see each other. If I speak with Dr. M before then, I'll disclose to you the details of our conversation at our next session.”

Perhaps I didn’t do myself any favors with this email.  I should have said nothing.  I should have just waited.  My therapist made me promise to send her an email this weekend telling her how I am.  I should have just waited for that email.  I tried to be funny with the next email I sent on Sunday.  I wrote:

“Dear L,

All better now. 

--Campbell

Alright, so maybe I’m not that funny, but I’m okay.”

I wrote this because a friend and I thought it would be so funny.  I can’t remember why I thought it would be funny now.  Her benign response made me feel a little stupid.  She wrote:  

 “Thanks for checking in with me. I'm glad you're okay. See you Wednesday.”

Anyway, I’m not sure where I am going with any of this.  I guess the point is I don’t really know how to act anymore.  If I am honest and truthful and show my feelings there are potentially very serious consequences.  Being honest is risky right now.  If I hold everything together and pretend like I am fine there are equally as big risks and then I’m not helping myself at all.  My therapist is right.  I do think about ending my life.  I do have a plan.  The plan was only for comfort but I find myself thinking about it more and more.  I have even bought an essential item for the plan.  I am not planning on doing anything but I can’t get the thought out of my head.  It’s extremely seductive.  It’s looking better and better every day.  I just want some relief.  If your leg is infected and causing you an extraordinary amount of pain and the pain and infection is spreading, you’d cut off your leg, right?  That’s what I want to do.  The problem is my pain is in my heart and my brain.  I cannot cut those off without ending my entire existence.  I really just want to kill the part of me that hurts, but right now all of me hurts.  Every single part of my body, my heart, and my brain hurts.  My life hurts.  My life is hurting me and I just can’t do it anymore.  I want to tell my therapist.  I want her to help me, but what good will that do for me in the long run?  A hospital will NOT make me feel better.  I know this.  A hospital cannot help me.  A hospital will make me worse.  I know they can only hold me for three days because I will not go willingly, but I also know what once I am in the hospital I might shut down completely which means they can keep me longer.  This is what happens to me when things are beyond my control and I freak out.  I cannot speak.  I cannot eat.  I cannot do anything but pretend to sleep.  This is what I will do in the hospital because strangers scare me.  Hospitals scare me.  The possibility that someone can hold me down and shove things in my mouth scares me.  Having no control over my own life scares me.  I will not be able to talk to a strange therapist.   It took me six months to talk to the one I have now.  I will not be able to talk in group therapy.  It’s just not something I can do.  I might not be the most self-aware person on this planet, but I know this about myself. 

So where do I go from here?  How do I get the help I need without messing up my life even more?  I have to walk a very fine line at the moment.  Trying to say the right things and make the right moves instead of being honest is already exhausting and I haven’t even begun doing it yet.  I’m so nervous about therapy on Wednesday.  I plan on doing my hair and dressing nice.  I want to look put together.  I want to look nice so that she will think I am better.  That part is easy.  I already know what I am going to wear.  I’m going to wear my favorite blue shirt with a black undershirt, my newest jeans, and my nice boots.  I will also do something with my hair.  All of that is easy.  The hard part is finding the right things to say.  How do I make myself seem like I am better, but not “too better?”  How do I keep my freedom and get the help I need?

Sunday, January 23, 2011

Mistake

Just a warning, this blog entry will probably make you want to stop reading my blog.


Saturday, January 22, 2011

Sorry Subscribers

Wow it sucks getting six unsubscribe notices in one freaking day.  I'm trying not to care but it kind of hurts a little.  I guess my last few entries were not appreciated.  I understand actually.  I can't tolerate myself very well either.  I'm sorry that my last post made so many people go away.  I'm very good at that.  I'm great at driving people away.  I don't even have to try.  It's a natural talent of mine,  :-)

I removed them so they won't offend anyone else.  I also removed my subscription option.  

Thursday, January 20, 2011

I went to therapy

I went to therapy today.  I didn't quit even though every part of my soul is telling me not to go back.  I've decided not to listen to myself.  I'm going back tomorrow.  I'm still so angry and hurt.  I feel so betrayed, but quitting isn't the best for me either I guess.  I used to like my therapist.  Now I don't know how I feel about her.  I shared some of my drawings with her today.  I pencil sketch, but I can only draw when I'm upset so most of my drawings are pretty dark and depressing.  Most people can't handle them.  I've gotten in trouble for them many times.  I showed them to my therapist hoping she could read them.  I was hoping they would tell her what I cannot.  Instead she talked about how great they are, how expressive.  That wasn't exactly what I was hoping she would take from them.  I was hoping she could see my heart in them.  I was hoping they would give her a peek inside my brain. 

I feel like my whole world is falling apart.  I just want it to stop.  I want it all to stop.  I have a plan, but I don't think that's a bad thing.  It's just a plan and ONLY a plan.  The only thing that makes me feel better sometimes is knowing that I have it.  I know it's there if I need it.  I don’t have to feel this way forever.  I know that I can go to sleep and never wake up.  I know I can stop hurting.  I know a way to feel better.  I will finally be okay.  It makes me feel better to know I have an escape if I need it.  Why is this a bad thing?  Why do people even care?  It’s not like I contribute anything to this world.  It’s not like I make any difference whatsoever.  All I do is take up space, too much space at that, and oxygen.  I am a waste of natural resources.  I am a waste of life.  The world would be a better place and a little less populated without me in it.  I’m not supposed to be here anyway.  My life was a mistake.  My birth was a mistake.  No one ever wanted me.  I'm the biggest fuck up that ever lived.  Literally.  I'm a great pretender but I contribute so very little to this world.  No one wants me here, so why do they care if I decide to leave?  It's just a plan.  It's a safety net.  It's just there to make me fee better.  It doesn't mean I'm actually going to put it into action.  As weird as that sounds, the plan helps keep me alive.  It helps me go on just a little bit longer.  It's saving my life.

Wednesday, January 19, 2011

Therapy

I went to therapy today despite my intense desire not to.  It was beyond uncomfortable.  I was firm and short with my therapist.  I think the change startled her.  I'm usually so quiet she has to turn off all the things that make noise in the office to hear me.  She said, "Well here is where I am coming from..."  and I interrupted her by saying, "I really don't care where you are coming from."  She said, "I can see that."  She said that she was worried about me and she wanted to talk to someone else on my treatment plan to make sure I was on the best course of treatment.  She wanted support from my treatment team.  It was more about her needs than mine I guess.

"Do you know how hard it is for me to trust people?"  I asked.  "And now I'm worse off than before because I still feel the same way but now I don't have a therapist and my doctor thinks I should go to the emergency room."  She looked really sad and said, "I know it's so hard for you to trust people.  I'm hoping you can see that I made a mistake but I care about you and I want you to be safe."  She talked about me coming back to see if we can repair the "rupture" in our relationship.  Rupture?  It's more than a rupture for me.  It was a freaking explosion.

At this point I don't know what I want to do.  I promised I would go back tomorrow and talk about it more.  I feel so screwed.  I'm screwed if I quit therapy because I refuse to start over with another therapist.  It took me six months to share anything substantial with my therapist.  I'm screwed if I go because I don't trust my therapist anymore.  My life seriously sucks.  How am I supposed to talk to my therapist now?  I know I can't be honest because she will try to put me in a hospital.  Lying feels like crap too.  OMG.  I am going back to bed.

Tuesday, January 18, 2011

Cheat Sheet for life

I am scheduled to see my therapist three times this week.  It was my idea.  I asked for the third day because whatever I am doing isn’t working.  I don’t know what else to do.  I’ve never felt this way, well not in a very long time anyway.  I still can’t get out of bed and when I finally make myself all I can think about is going back to bed.  I still can’t quiet these thoughts in my head.  I can’t make myself want to live.  My therapist called me yesterday to “check in” and let me know that she’s available to talk between sessions if I need to.  I have so many mixed feelings about that.  It makes me feel cared about but it makes me feel so weak and crazy.  It freaks my girlfriend out because she thinks my therapist is worried about me, so my girlfriend feels like she should worry about me more than she already does.  I didn’t call her back.  Every possible message I could think to leave her felt like a lie.  It felt like a lie to say that I’m okay and it felt like a lie to say that I’m not.  Instead I wrote her an email saying “I got your message.  I don’t need to talk between sessions but thanks for the offer.”

Right now I’m working extremely hard to keep this little roller coaster in my head from moving too fast.  To keep it on the track.  It’s so exhausting.  My whole body is exhausted.  I have to shut down the less important parts of me so the energy can be spent on basic necessities.  So the energy can be spent on getting me out of this fucking bed but so far it hasn’t worked.   Right now the roller coaster is going full steam on a downhill slope.  It is out of control and I don’t know how to put the brakes on as I plummet further and further into the abyss.   I’m trying to hold on to the safely rail.  I’m holding on so tight that the palms of my hands are bleeding.  I’m so afraid I’m going to fall.  That I’m going to fall in front of the charging coaster.  That I’m going to crash and be damaged for life.  I’m so afraid of getting off this train.  What happens when it stops?  If falling hurts this much, what’s going to happen when I hit the bottom?  What’s at the bottom?  Will I ever get back up again?    

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about who I am.  Who I’ve been these last twenty something years.  I had so many goals when I was a kid.  I really thought I was going to be someone special when I grew up.  I thought my life would get better when I grew up.  I thought I would get better.  I thought I would finally start wanting to live.  Life would finally be in my control and I wouldn’t hurt anymore.   That never happened, or maybe it’s worse than that.  Maybe I’ve been the problem all along.   I am the reason my heart hurts so much.  I am the reason no one ever wanted me.  I’m a huge fucking failure at life.  I’m not special.  I’m not successful.  I’ve failed or given up on everything I have ever tried in life.  EVERYTHING.

I feel like my life has hit a brick wall going 130 miles an hour.  There are so many questions about what went wrong.  Where I went wrong.  I took a wrong turn somewhere but I can’t retrace my steps to find the right path this time.  I’m so lost.  I’m lost and I’m afraid no one will ever find me.    

I’ve lost a part of myself for good. That part of my heart is closed down. Under construction. No one can touch, no one can see, feeling anything here is not permitted.  I find myself yearning for an intimate connection with someone that understands me.  Someone who has been there too.  I have friends and a wonderful girlfriend, but I have just never allowed myself to be vulnerable with someone else.  I feel like none of the people in my life can ever truly get it.  No one understands how much I hate myself for where I have been.  No one can truly know what it’s like to live like I have.  Still I yearn for that someone that can truly know me.  Someone I could let in all the way, that could break my heart, but would never dare.  Someone whose heart is as broken as mine.  I’m too damaged for that.  My heart is too hard to get to.  It’s behind walls, and fences, and gates and window bars.  There is no one in this world willing to work through all of that.  I’m not worth all of that.

But beyond all of that, I just want to want to live.  I think about death too much.  Those thoughts hurt.  Those thoughts comfort.  Now I’ve written it for everyone to see.  I think about it all the time, at the most random and inappropriate moments.  I just don’t want to hurt anymore.  I know there are people out there who are thinking that I need to just get over myself.  They are tired of reading my depressive crap on this blog.  Trust me; I’m so tired of writing it.  This is not what this blog was supposed to be.  This is not where I thought I was going to be when I started writing it.  Therapy opened up my chest and poked around my heart leaving me exposed and vulnerable and then my foster mom came back into my life only to leave again.  She peeled off a scab from a huge infected wound that never really healed and now I feel like I did way back then plus some.  I’m tired of feeling it.  I’m so tired.  I’m so exhausted, but I can’t ever stop to rest.  I know there are people in this world who have had it so much worse than me.  I know that compared to many I am very lucky.  I know this and maybe it’s selfish of me to feel so broken.  It’s selfish of me to dwell and wallow in my own self-pity.  I can’t help it.  They are stronger than me because I barely survived my childhood.  I’m barely surviving my adulthood and nothing all that bad has happened to me since I became an adult.  Nothing that can compare to my childhood anyway.  I’m so fucking wounded and I’m so tired of nursing my wounds.  I’m so tired.  Doesn’t anyone understand?  I’m so fucking exhausted that simple things like breathing is hard and painful. 

So many memories are trapped in a rusty metal box I call my mind.  I live here or I’m imprisoned here.  It’s really hard to tell the difference at this point.  Through my own life, my own drama, my own angst, I have stayed in that little box.  It’s my home.  It’s my dark place and my safe place.  I live here. I hide here.  It’s scary and it’s comfortable.  It’s killing me but I don’t know how to climb out and let go.  How do I stop hurting?  I feel like life is one huge exam and I’m getting all the answers wrong.  I’m failing.  Right now I could really use a cheat sheet or at least a tutor.  Will anyone please share their answers with me?



Thursday, January 13, 2011

Words

Last night a couple of friends came over to eat dinner and play board games because they needed cheering up after receiving horrible news from their vet after recently losing another one of their pets.  I’m really not a board games kind of person, but my gf loves board games.  She gets extremely competitive.  It’s fun to watch her struggle to be a good sport when things aren’t going her way.  It’s pretty adorable.  Most board games are not my thing at all, but I really like the people and one of the games was actually a lot of fun.   I tried really hard to have fun.  I tried really hard not to be a downer.   One friend I’ve known for five years and her gf I’ve known for just over a year but I consider them both great friends.  My friends are amazing girls and it’s usually pretty hard to feel sad when they are around.   Usually their faces make me feel better.  Usually I don’t have to pretend that I’m having a good time.  Last night I felt like a fraud and then I felt guilty.  I felt like a fraud laughing and, teasing, and telling jokes.  It was so draining to be who I used to be.  It was so draining to be who my friends expect me to be.  It was so draining to be a normal person.  Eventually I did have a little bit of fun.  It’s so hard not to when you have such great company, but even still, all I really wanted to do was take a really hot shower for an insanely long time.  I just wanted to be somewhere I didn’t have to pretend to be a good person.   I just wanted to pretend I was sleeping.  That’s all I’ve been doing lately – pretending to sleep.  Sometimes I actually do sleep, but never at night and never for very long.  I can’t tolerate the dreaming.  I can’t calm down enough to pass out.   I've spent most of this week in bed yet I've hardly slept at all.  I lie in bed and think.  That's all I do.  Maybe I think too much.  Occasionally I drift to sleep only to be awakened by some crazy dream.  I think about all the things I could be doing instead, but nothing is remotely worth leaving the safety and comfort of my bed.

Saturday, January 8, 2011

Flooded and empty

It’s hard for someone like me to have faith that things happen for a reason. I’m having a hard time accepting the road my life has traveled ends anywhere fabulous, or at least somewhere decent. My road is pointless and full of potholes. A dead end. It goes nowhere. It’s a circular I can’t get off. I go around and around, never getting anywhere.

I have to make my heart stop worrying. Stop feeling so much. I feel too much and I don’t feel enough. And it hurts to feel this much. It hurts to feel this much and feel so empty. Thoughts flood my brain like a tsunami. The current is too fast for me to stay on my feet. I keep clinging to random ideas that pass me, hoping to keep my head above the water. Hoping to find a boat or some land to stand on. Hoping to find safety. But it never comes and I am left floating without a life vest. It feels like the words in my head are playing my body like an instrument; strumming hard on my heart strings, tendons and ligaments, tapping my mind like a drum. Everything is so heavy on my chest. Restricting my breath. It’s so hard to breathe. Are my lungs still working? Is my heart still pumping?

It is like my mind is consumed with one of those “find the pictures” images where you have to find an image within an image. Only the images are based on my life. I analyze each picture over and over. I analyze every detail and subtle difference in every picture in hopes of finding all the answers or at least a clue. It’s all pointless really. Someone ripped out the answer page.

I guess I have to stop thinking I can change things, situations or people in my life. Things are what they are. People never change. I will never change. My life will always be this. Just this. Why can’t I accept that? This is all there is for me. I have to find a way to just accept it. But I can’t. I need more. I need…something else. I feel like a pilot light. I don't work unless there's a spark. And right now, there's no spark. I’m using all my fuel and never making a flame. Such a waste. My life is such a waste. Life has become a game that I no longer care to win. I don’t have any more strategies. I don’t have any more ideas. I don’t want to play anymore.

WHY

It doesn't matter what your religion is.  It doesn't matter what your politics are.  It doesn't matter how much you dislike someone.  It doesn't matter.  None of it matters.  How can people do this to other people?  What is happening to the United States?  To the world?  Why are we so angry?  Why are we so violent?

I'm upset about the mass murder that just happened in my home town of Tucson, Arizona.  Why do people do this to other people?  Who cares what the politics involved are.  Nothing is worth murder.  What about the families of the people involved?  Why?  I can't understand what would motivate someone to do this.  What would motivate someone to commit mass murder?

I'm so sad about the world we live in.  Why are people so violent?  Why are people so savage?  We think we are better and smarter than all other creatures in the world but really we aren't.  We trash our planet.  We ruin our environment.  We hurt our children.  We terrorize and murder each other.  People are horrible disgusting creatures.

Friday, January 7, 2011

Is this the beginning?

Therapy isn't working.  Medication isn't working.  I still feel like I'm slowly dying.  I'm disappearing and in my place is this monster.  I've become a puddle of flesh.  A lump on the bed.  When I said this in therapy, my therapist said that she's not helping me and how that must be so disappointing.  I said it has nothing to do with her.  I'm the one who has to change myself.  I'm supposed to talk in therapy and I don't.  I don't know what to talk about.  I don't know how to help myself.  She said that she has something to do with it.  That the way we interact matters.  This scared me.  "Are you going to transfer me to someone else."  I asked.  "Do you want me to transfer you to someone else?"  I said. "No!"  She said, "I had no plans on transferring you.  I was planning on keeping you."  Weird choice of words.  Did she do that on purpose or was that a Freudian slip?

Today my therapist told me to call her if I need her between sessions.  I think I worried her on Thursday and today.  The offer was weird and not something I will ever do except to cancel our session or something like that.  I would never want to contact her on her own time.  That's her time.  I pay for one hour twice a week.  I don't deserve more than I pay for nor would I ever take it.  "Why would I do that?"  She responded with, "So I can be there with you and you won't be as alone or isolated (emotionally)."  Then I said, "I'll still be alone even if I call you."  She agreed that I was right, but still wants me to call her so she can be there for me.  I guess it's sweet, but I don't think it's a sincere offer and I guess the prospect that it might be freaks me out a little.
We had been talking about my intrusive thoughts.  It doesn't matter where I am or what I am doing, sometimes I get sucked into this world in my head of unpleasant thoughts, feelings, memories, and I forget where I really am.  When I finally come back to earth, it freaks me out a little bit that I'm here and not there.  It makes me feel crazy.  I'm no longer having a good time, but I have to pretend like I'm having a good time because I don't want to freak anyone else out.  I don't want other people to know just how crazy I am.  Then I get angry at myself for not being able to control it.  This has happened to me since I was pretty young, but lately it has gotten worse.  Lately I'm not able to pull myself back as quickly.  I really think I'm losing it.  I'm not sure it's worth it to fight it anymore.  Isn't mental illness inevitable for me anyway?  Fighting it is just futile.  I should just accept that I'm crazy.  I should just accept that I will always be crazy and that it will never get any better.  Medication doesn't help.  Therapy doesn't help.  I'm always going to feel like this.  I'm always going to feel like I'm dying.  Always.  I'm always going to be such a fucked up, self-pitying loser.  I thought life was going to get better when I grew up but it didn't.   

She asked me if I ever have thoughts of hurting myself or suicide.  That's one loaded question.  She should have just asked, "would you like me to lock you up?"  I said, "no."  And she asked me if I was just saying that.  I didn't answer.  "Let me rephrase that.  Would you tell me if you were having those thoughts?"  I said, "no."  She asked me why and I told her because she could make my life even harder.  She said, "because I would try to protect you and the steps to get there are pretty hard and scary."  I didn't answer.  I wasn't sure if it was a question or not.  She said she would like to know if I was having those kinds of thoughts because she cares.  Cares?  About what?  Me?  Her career?  The money?  Telling your therapist of those kinds of thoughts is the same as committing yourself.  That is not something I think I need.  It's not something I think will help me.  It's not something I want and I know it will make it nearly impossible for me to adopt a child in the future.  I think it would make becoming a therapist nearly impossible as well, if that's what I really want to do.  I can't imagine calling into work in that scenario.  "Hey, I can't come to work today because I've been committed."  I will not call into work crazy.  Not going to happen.  Besides it's pretty clear that I'm horrible at attempting suicide.  I failed twice with pills, and when I was 15 I tried to shoot myself in the head with my foster parents gun, but missed because my wrist was too weak for the kickback.  Before all of you freak--Don't worry.  I'm not suicidal.

I just feel like I'm wasting my time trying to fix myself.  I'm damaged goods.  I'm irreparably broken.  I should just accept that this is what life has for me.  This is as good as it gets for me.  I should stop dwelling on my crap and move on.  I need to stop feeling sorry for myself.  Who cares what happened when I was a child.  It's over now.  I'm not a child anymore.  I should just move on and get over it already.  I loathe that I still think about it.  I loathe that I can still smell, taste, hear, feel things that were years ago!  So freaking long ago.  Get over it already.  Is this the beginning of schizophrenia?  Is this the beginning of the end for me?  I still have a while before I pass the normal onset of schizophrenia.  The chances of becoming schizophrenic are still pretty high for me until I reach 30, and even then I'm not in the clear.  What if I am something worse than schizophrenic?  What if I am like my biological mother or brother?  What if I become like every single biological family member related to my mother?  What if I live my life using and abusing other people?  What if I become like my mother--home bound and all alone in my 40's?  My mother has no one in life.  She is only in her 40's, but she has no teeth, is morbidly obese, and is in a wheel chair.  She lost all her teeth and now has seizures because of years of hardcore drug use.  She never leaves her apartment except to buy grocery and cigarettes.  She does nothing except play Farmville, try to scam people, and write me emails to remind me that she hates me.  Is that my future?  Is that who I really am?  I can't bear the thought of that.  I cannot live with that.

Wednesday, January 5, 2011

Struggling

There are so many people in this world who don’t want me. There are so many people in this world who constantly break my heart. My biological mother writes me emails and in the past she sent me handwritten letters in the mail. Her letters are only written to tell me how much she hates me. She writes to let me know that she doesn’t love me. She writes to hurt me. Former foster parents contact me occasionally. It’s so hard to hear from them. It’s so hard to hear from people who didn’t want me as a child. It’s so hard to hear from people who wanted to be my family at one time and then changed their mind. My former foster mother, Maggie, has been sending me emails and text messages. Her most recent emails have left me struggling to make sense of it all. Why would she throw me away as a child, then come back into my life telling me how much she loves me and that she still thinks of me as her child and then tell me not to contact her anymore when I ask for answers? Why do people keep doing this to me? When I think I’ve gotten it all under control and I’ve gotten over something I fall apart all over again. How do I manage to screw things up so easily in life? How do I manage to push everyone away without even trying? I wish I knew what was wrong with me so I could fix it.

Sometimes I wish I could just sleep forever. I wish I could just go to bed and never wake up. I can’t sleep at night, even with the help of sleeping pills, but I can’t get out of bed during the day. I don’t actually sleep much during the day either but I can’t make myself get out of bed unless there is something I have to do. Nothing seems worth the effort. I didn’t leave my apartment at all today except to take my dogs out. I walked my dogs and went back to bed, then only got up to walk the dogs again. Before my girlfriend came home from work, I got up and changed my clothes so it didn’t look like I spent the day in bed. Sometimes having a job with such a strange schedule isn’t good for my mental health. It’s hard to pretend that life is great when you have nothing to do.

I’m not sure keeping this blog is good for me either. I can’t decide what I want to share on this thing. I can’t decide what is over sharing. I want to pretend that I don’t care what people think about me, but I do. Blogging boundaries are hard to establish and follow. I want to be interesting but then I mostly want to write for myself. I try to only write for myself, but then I get myself in trouble by posting things I’m not really ready for the world to know about me.

I keep waiting for my life to start. I’m waiting to stop struggling. I know it’s up to me to make my life better. I know it’s up to me to stop struggling, but I just can’t seem to do it. I don’t know how to do it. I know I am the one who makes my own life hell. I am the one who chooses to be depressed. I am the one who chooses to dwell. I am the one who chooses to carry everything around all the time. I want to put down all those things that shouldn’t bother me anymore. It all happened so long ago. Why can’t I just get over them already? I want to stop carrying around so much all the time, but at this point I think those things are stuck on my shoulders. Those things have grown into my flesh. They’ve become part of me. Getting rid of anything has become so painful and so scary. I’m afraid to let go. Even though they hurt, they also protect me. They have been my armor. I will feel naked without them. Maybe it’s become impossible to let them go. Maybe they have become part of me forever. Maybe I’ll never stop struggling.

One of my biggest fears in life is falling into severe mental illness. I don’t want to become my mother. I don’t want to become my sister or brother. Is that my future? Am I destined to become my biological mother? Am I destined to lose my sense of reality? Will my heart always be this broken?

Tuesday, January 4, 2011

an open letter to my former mother

Dear Maggie,

I had only been on this earth for 8 years when I met you at Casa De Los NiƱo’s, a children’s shelter in Tucson, Arizona. You watched me play outside for a while. I remember I was wearing my favorite outfit, a pair of baggy pink pants, and a short shirt that showed my belly a little bit when I raised my arms. You watched me play soccer with the other kids. I was always good at running. There weren’t very many kids my size that could catch me so I almost always won. I pretended that I didn’t notice you watching me, but I did, and I liked having an audience witness my victory.


Monday, January 3, 2011

Fuuuuuuck

Went to my new DBT class section tonight called Emotion Regulation.  There are four new women, all around my age and younger which I like.  However, the girl next to me smelled like a very specific type of sweet smelling beer (but I am not even sure if she really did or if it was only in my head) and at break everyone went for a smoke.  When they came back all I could smell was sweet malty beer and cig. smoke.  During the class we talked about shame and when we start to learn it as children.  We talked a lot about family tonight but I don't know why.  I kind of always tune that stuff out.  We talked about kids learning when its not okay to be naked.  We talked about how society teaches us to feel shame about sex.  We were asked to remember being 8 or 9 in our families and even how back then shame was a huge emotion.  And I don't remember why this sentence was talked about but this exact sentence was repeated twice in class:  "If I love him, it must be okay."  During break one woman kept talking about how her friends husband has beem "secretly fucking her," and how she feels really ashamed but she thinks she deserves to feel like a "whore."
Seriously????  Wtf?  It feels like this class was just here to make me feel like slitting my jugular veins, very slowly and one at a time.  I was so proud of myself for going and now I wish I hadn't because I can't even drive home yet.  I've been in my car crying for like an hour.  I'm like fucking stuck here because all of my senses keep getting hijacked.  My whole fucking body hurts.  Why the fuck was I born? Seriously.  Fuck!
Proud of me for not cutting?  Don't be.  I've discovered my lock key is pretty sharp if you push hard enough.

Sunday, January 2, 2011

Temptation



Why do I do this to myself?  I must love to torture myself.  Either that or I'm incredibly stupid.  Probably a little of both.  Every single time I do it, I always find something that upsets me, so why do I constantly look at my youngest sister's facebook page?  Tonight I went to her page and saw that her adopted mom just joined facebook.  I clicked on her adopted mom's page and found that she is friends with my biological mother.  For some reason this hurts.  I don't know why I care, but oh my god, it hurts.  It hurts so much my heart raced for a few moments.  I just need a couple more people to friend each other and it's like a whole network of people who didn't want to be my family.  I'm so pathetic.  I have to find a way to disconnect because I know this isn't healthy but I can't resist the temptation.

I have no right to be upset because I asked for it by going to her page.  I should have stayed away.  I should have listened to the little voice in my head telling me it was a bad idea.  I don't even know why this upsets me so much.  I don't want it to.  Why does everything affect me so much more than it should?  When will I stop being so freaking sensitive....so damaged?

I am the problem in my life.  I am the one that keeps hurting myself.  I am the one who breaks my own heart.  I am the one who can't get over the past.  I am the one who has always pushed people away.  I am the one who is unlovable once people see who I really am.  I am the one who is pathetic.  I am a waste.  I've wasted my life being sad and damaged.  I'm too damage.  I'm too needy.  I'm too pathetic.  Therapy hasn't helped me at all and I don't think it ever will.  It's a joke that I keep going because therapy can't make you a better person.  All of my woulds are self inflicted.  I write about all how unjust my life has been but really most of it is my own doing.  I really wish I could just fall asleep and dream forever, except most of my dreams are nightmares, but at least those are just dreams.  Dreams have real monsters.  In real life the only monster I have to fear is myself.