** Caution: Could be triggering **
My therapist asked me about relationships last week, and specifically who my role models were for good relationships.
Me: “I don’t think I have any.”
My therapist: “Really? No relationships you admire or want to emulate?”
Me: “No.”
Therapist: “Will you think about that for next time?”
So here I am, thinking about it.
It came up because a friend has asked me to babysit for her and I said to my therapist that I couldn’t remember a time when my parents went out together and left me with a babysitter. Really? Yea, really. I can remember two weddings they went to – one I had a babysitter, and the other I got to stay home by myself (I was 17) – but they never went out together. Never just them, as a couple.
I remember Mum leaving me at home with Dad one night. I was about 6 or 7, I think. She left me a book, and told me she’d read it with me when she came home. I spent the evening standing at the window crying for her to come home. It took me another few years to actually read that book.
I can’t remember my parents ever showing each other any affection. No holding hands, not even a “hello” kiss at the end of the day. Mostly my mother and I were home before my father, and we would lie in wait, anxious to see what mood he was in. Usually it wasn’t good. And even when it was I used to wonder how long it would last, tap dancing around in the hope that I wouldn’t set off his foul temper.
I think I was about 20 before I was conscious of seeing other married couples holding hands. I remember thinking “wow, they must still love each other.” See I grew up thinking that you probably fell in love with someone in the beginning, then that faded and you just “put up with” each other for the rest of eternity. I didn’t realise love could be an enduring thing.
I also thought that being in a relationship meant having someone lord it over you, night and day. I learned that as a child, and had it reinforced in my last (only) adult relationship. It wasn’t until I watched some of my friends (older friends as well as those my own age) that I realised people could be equal partners in a relationship.
It wasn’t until my friends started getting married that I realised all couples have troubled times, but that doesn’t mean they shout at each other, or hit each other, or anything like that. It took my friends to show me that people could disagree about things but work it through, and still love each other at the end of the day.
I look at older couples now (even ones that are not that much older than I am) and admire their gazes, or their holding of hands, or a gentle touch here or there. I admire the relationships where people know each other so intimately they can finish each other’s sentences. I even admire much simpler things, like relationships where the couples can speak to each other without venom on their tongues.
I long for all of that, but I’m also afraid that I won’t know what to do if I ever get there. I just don’t understand how relationships are supposed to work.
I’m reminded of a friend of mine who grew up in the 1950s. She tells tales of growing up Catholic, knowing there were people in her street who didn’t go to church on Sundays, but she just didn’t understand what they did instead. It’s kind of like that for me: I know there are good relationships out there – I just don’t understand what they look like.
Despite my sweetness and light lately, I realised something important this week: my name is a huge trigger for me (my proper name, not my nickname on this blog).
I’d been puzzling for a while why I hate it so much when people say my name, or even when I see it written in an email or something. And why I inject hatred and anger into those emails, even where there is none.
My therapist thinks it’s because when I hear (or see) my name, I ascribe my father’s voice to it – his harsh tone, his accent, the gravel in his voice, everything.
I’ve thought of changing my name, but that doesn’t seem like such a smart thing to do. Actually, a total pain in the proverbial when you consider all the stuff you’d have to change, and the documents you’d have to carry around to prove you really are who you say you are – banking, health insurance, driver’s license, etc etc etc.
My therapist says this might just be a phase, and may be it will pass. I hope so. It’s really hard living in a world where your name makes you wig out whenever you hear it, or see it in print.
I rarely get anything remotely interesting from search terms, but a couple of good ones cropped up lately:
- Psychiatrists are condescending – Yes, they are. Or were in my case, at least. Actually in my case he was a patronising sh1thead, but let’s not be negative.
- Inappropriate behaviour married boss – If the people who searched for this are still reading – get the hell away from this person as fast as you can. Run. Run now. Don’t look back.
- Plastic jogging suit – Why someone is searching for one of these is beyond me. Imagine yourself cloaked in stiff plastic, somewhat resembling an old tarp, but less comfortable. And running in it. Bleuch.
- My fish is falling apart – Hmmm, you got me there.
A number of you have remarked on how wonderful my post on “10 good things about falling apart” was, and how it might be helpful to others, particularly those starting out on their “healing journeys”. Thank you, I’m really quite flattered.
This post is to any newbies out there, and also to those of us who have been hanging in with this stuff for longer than we really care to remember.
I can’t quite believe I wrote the list of “10 good things”. I can’t believe that those changes happened, nor that I can see them.
When I started out on this healing jig, I thought the hell that surrounded me would never end. Hell, I didn’t even know it was a “healing”. Things got a helluva lot worse before they even looked like getting any better. Everything was dark and messy and frightening. I felt so utterly broken. I couldn’t see how those things would improve… let alone that I would get any “better” in a whole person kind of way.
But things did improve. They really did.
Trust me on this, because I’m not a sunshine and light kind of person. I don’t do cringe worthy, eye rolling affirmations to the mirror (vomit) and I’m certainly no Pollyanna.
But things do get better.
Unfortunately I can’t give you a timeframe on that. It’s different for each of us. You just gotta hang in there – day by day, hour by hour – even minute by minute if that’s what it takes. And believe me, some days, that’s exactly what it takes.
But just when you think you can’t do it anymore – really can’t do it – some light from somewhere shines in and helps you put one foot in front of the other again.
I’d love to tell you everything’s a bed of roses now, but it’s not. Some days are still hard. I still get triggered and flashbacky and weird out. But mostly – mostly – I can handle those things better now than I could before. And even when I’m struggling, I can at least say “this too shall pass”.
I’m reminded of a quote I’ve used before, which I’m going to requote, because it’s so apt:
“Pain is temporary. It may last a minute, or an hour, or a day, or a year, but eventually it will subside and something else will take its place. If I quit, however, it lasts forever.” – Lance Armstrong
So even with all the cr@p I’ve been through, I wouldn’t go back to where I was. In a way I’m glad I’ve been through this hell because now I have my “10 good things”. I honestly don’t believe I’d have those now if it weren’t for the ride beforehand.
So, to all of you out there on your own healing journeys, hang in there. It gets easier, and it’s worth it. It really is.
I’ve had a good week. For a few reasons.
- Paul is hosting another Blog Carnival this month, in which my post on “10 good things about falling apart” features.
Twelve months ago I never would have thought I’d be good enough to participate in such a Carnival, let alone write the post that I wrote and actually believe the progress that I have made. Yay for me, I say! There are some really great entries in the Carnival, so I encourage you to check it out. - My mother stayed with me this week. Quite unexpectedly, this wasn’t the usual recipe for disaster. Mostly I enjoyed her company, and she was able to help me with a few things I hadn’t been able to do myself, plus we were able to get out and do a few things which were fun. She also seemed to have a better handle on her caustic tongue. And even when she didn’t I was able to let things wash over me. For the most part, anyway. To her credit, she even said a few nice things – like telling me a new top I was wearing looked “nice”, that some of the photos I took were “good” and that seeing a dietician was a “good idea”. This might not sound like a big deal, but for her, it is. She’s the type of mother for whom nothing is ever good enough. When I was a kid and I brought home 90% on a test, she’d ask where the other 10% was. No need to say this had a lasting and fairly damaging effect on my self esteem (though my father’s mockery was always much more insidious).
- It seems that therapy is working more of its magic, as I continue to make progress in ways I would never have believed. Things that I’ve wanted to do for a long time, but couldn’t even contemplate a year ago, are now becoming possible. Things like travel (or at least planning to travel), volunteering (at least planning to volunteer) … and even some goals for the year (beyond “get out of bed every day”). In amongst my goals are two things I have been too scared to do for over a decade. They look pretty silly when I write them down, but here goes… before the year is out, I want to wear a dress and some heels. Yep, you read me right – I want to look like a G I R L !!!
My therapist asked me this question last week (also blogged about by Onion Girl here). I figure the stars must be aligned, so here are my thoughts on “success”.
My natural tendency is to define it in much the same way my mother would – money, job title, nice car, nice house, money, qualifications … did I mention money? All my life this is what success has meant to me. All my life I’ve pursued those things. Done what’s expected in the pursuit of all that is money Holy.
But somehow, things seem to have shifted. Success is no longer about those things to me. Sure, some of them are nice to have, and I’d rather have things like money and a car that works than not have them. But now, success is evolving. Now it’s more about people and relationships and helping others. And love. And pursuing things that make me happy.
I started crying when talking about this in therapy.
The Wonder Therapist said: “You don’t look very happy about this?”
Me: “I am. I’m just sad it’s taken me this long. I’m nearly 40 and I’ve been doing what’s expected of me all my life. Finally I’m seeing what I want and what is important to me. And that none of the things I thought mattered really do. I’m happy, but I’m also sad.”
So, anyway, I’m curious – how do you define success?
This won’t be news to those of you with PTSD, but … flashbacks suck. They suck you in like a port key in the books and movies about the boy wizard. They leave you feeling like you’ve been hit by a truck – wrung out emotionally and physically exhausted.
I got whacked the other day, by a conversation with my therapist about fish. It took me a couple of days to feel “normal” again … or as normal as you get when sh1t like this follows you around all the time.
I also found a nice article that helped … helped stop me spiralling completely out of control again. It’s about depression, but there’s no reason it couldn’t be about PTSD or any one of a hundred other diagnoses.
So in a bid to help me feel good again I’m stealing borrowing the author’s technique and creating my own list of “10 good things about falling apart.” I say “falling apart” because that’s what happened to me. I fell apart and life as I knew it hasn’t really been seen since.
So, also David Letterman style, here are my “10 good things about falling apart”:
10. Finding creativity again. I’ve freed myself enough to start being creative again, with writing and with photography.
9. Making new friends. I have met a wonderful group of friends online who make me laugh, make me cry and give me endless support. Thank you
8. Learning to be gentle with myself and learning to look after me. This is still quite foreign but I’m learning. Like when the flashbacks hit I try to take care and not flagellate myself for being a freak. Small steps, but at least they are steps.
7. Learning to listen to my body. This is also still quite foreign but I’m trying. Like listening to my body’s calls for rest during this period of post-op recovery. Thankfully my body’s giving me clues – like breaking out into a sweat, or feeling faint, or pain … and I am actually resting. Alien, I know, but true.
6. Finding hope.
5. Improving my relationships with “human” friends. I mean the “real life” ones. My relationships are much more open. At a basic level, I’m more likely to tell people how I am, rather than cover it up with my ubiquitous “I’m fine”. I guess because I’m no longer scared they will find out the thing/s I’ve been hiding from so long. It’s not because I’ve shared those things with my friends, but because my therapist has held them for – and with – me.
4. Being less judgemental. I used to be a master cynic and a master judge of everyone and everything. Not long after starting therapy I noticed this start to dissipate. It’s now almost gone. I now no longer enjoy being cynical or judgemental, and I no longer need it. It makes me uncomfortable and even sometimes makes me reach out (mentally if not physically) with kindness. Which leads nicely to the next “good thing”…
3. Becoming more compassionate. I am more likely to be touched by human kindness, and human frailty. I see the plight of others, and I want to help. I genuinely want to help and no longer think everyone in the world is out to get me.
2. Becoming more confident in who I am. This is also still a work in progress – they all are really – but I’m learning who I am and becoming more confident in that person. I am even starting to believe – I mean really believe – that I am a good person. I’ve even wore skirts!!!
And, my number one good thing about falling apart:
1. Believing I deserve to be happy. Sounds silly, right? Who doesn’t deserve to be happy? Well, me… or that’s what I thought before I “fell apart”. I thought happiness was something only “lucky” people got in life. I didn’t think it could be mine, and I certainly didn’t think I deserved it. But I do now.
** Caution: Could be triggering **
I don’t eat fish. I hate fish. I know it’s good for you. Omega 3s and all that. But I hate it.
It’s smelly. Slimey. Wriggly. Sticky. Squooshy.
Fish have beady eyes that look at you, even when they’re dead.
Fish have smelly, sticky blood that gets into everything. Scales that stick to you. The knife that’s long and got a big wavy blade. The yellow handle that always smells fishy. And fish have lots of bones. Tiny ones that hurt.
And when you cook it, it smells worse.
That smell gets into everything. Not just the kitchen, but the hallways and other rooms. It gets into the soft furnishings and the paintwork. It gets stuck in your throat and it takes forever to go away. It gets on the hands and it NEVER gets off them.
My father loves fish. And he used to love fishing. Big hands. Sticky and smelly with fish.
I am 7 or 8 (who can tell?). I don’t want the fish. It’s yucky. There’s potato, too. And carrots. He picks up the fish and forces me to eat it. Fish flesh and bones. All mushed up. The smell. The big hands. Smelly hands.
So, no, I don’t eat fish anymore. I don’t care how many Omega 3s it’s got.
I’ve written a few times about the Food Thing (starting here, with lots more here). In a bid to start addressing this, I saw a dietician this week. My therapist wants to tackle it physically as well as psychologically. I didn’t want to go, but I did. My therapist thinks this is great progress. I’m not so sure.
Unfortunately I wasn’t able to be honest with the dietician about my f***ed up relationship with food. She said and did a couple of things that made me clam up and retreat. My walls went up… BIG TIME.
So the person who went to the dietician’s appointment was a different version of me: a not-quite-honest version; the person who fronts banks and the like; the person who deals with things totally objectively as if she’s talking about another person.
Certainly not the person who writes this blog. And certainly not the person who has been so brutally honest with you, and with her therapist, about the Food Thing.
If I had DID I might describe this person as “Management”. She steps in sometimes when the “real” me can’t deal with things. I haven’t seen her for a long time, though – not since I started therapy. It was quite odd to see her again.
My therapist is just about having kittens that I was able to talk to someone about the Food Thing – and its close cousins the Weight Thing and the Body Image Thing – even if I wasn’t honest. Not entirely. The other me stepped in and spoke objectively about things I eat, but wasn’t entirely honest about the binge eating and other stupid behaviours.
The whole experience was kinda triggering. Being weighed. Talking about weight. Talking about foods (some of which are triggering as well). To her credit the dietician suggested a couple of easy things that I’ll try, but none of it was fun – I cried all the way home and then pigged out on chocolate when I got here – but the therapist thinks it’s great progress.
From my perspective my biggest achievement was in not wigging out when I had to drive through the tunnel that runs under the river here (the bridge at the other end was another matter, but that’s another story for another time).
As most of you know, I had major surgery a few weeks ago. This was the first time in a very long time that I’ve been in hospital – either as a patient or as a visitor – and I haven’t stolen something.
That’s right. Confession time: I have kleptomania in hospitals.
I have a rare collection of hospital cutlery, soaps, moisturisers, scissors, tape, water jugs, pillow cases, heat packs…. almost anything I could lay my hands on.
Why? Who knows. What I do know is the anxiety that usually overwhelms me in hospitals that is momentarily calmed by a bit of thieving.
My therapist thinks it’s about having the “opportunity”. I know she’s the Wonder Therapist, but this time I think she’s wrong. I think it’s about a search for safety.
I can remember the first time I tried to hurt myself. I think I was about 10 or 12, or somewhere around there. I tried to break my hand so that I’d get a few days in hospital – respite from the hell at home.
So I think the kleptomania is about a search for safety. Lifting a token of safety from the safest of environments to take with me and keep me safe when at home.
I didn’t feel a need to do that this time. I don’t know why. More of the magic of therapy, perhaps?
