Scattered pieces

The last two days have been kind of rough.

Heading into Thursday, I was feeling good and had managed to pull myself onto some sort of steady ground.  That all fell apart late Thursday afternoon, when I got an email from the other team leader, calling into question the quality of my work.  That email sent me plunging back into self-doubt, self-hatred and all the other associated negative thinking.  My cynical friend told me to forget it; but it was such a back-stabbing insult that I couldn’t brush it off.  To make it worse, my own team leader wasn’t around to reality check the content of the email, and I didn’t want to run to the manager about it.  This spun me out to the point where I knew I wasn’t safe to drive home.  I stayed on at work for a couple of hours, before driving home and losing most of the evening to the dissociation.

Then, on Friday morning during my drive to work, we went past a “hurt” cat in the middle of the road.  I always dread this sort of thing; not only does it stir up the system because an innocent animal has been hurt, but it’s a trigger for some of the younger ones.  Like a deer caught in headlights, we can never look away… we started reciting “it’s just a jumper that fell out of a car”, hoping that this will change how we see the cat… it doesn’t.  This means we now have adult parts smarting from the insult to our work, and young ones upset that an innocent cat has been hurt.

So we’re now driving down the road reciting out loud “it’s just hurt, it’s ok, it’ll get up soon and the people who love it will come get it and take care of it”.  There was also a promise that we wouldn’t drive home that way, just in case it hadn’t been moved.

Work on Friday is mostly a blank… I know we had a morning tea for the two new people, and that the manager made a triple layer banana and pineapple cake (which did a rather spectacular topple over during the cutting process).  I also know I played around with the iPhone app kooaba, as we’re looking at new ways to try to deliver information through technology such as QR codes and visual recognition apps.  This was fun because we were going around the library, taking random photos of books, CDs and DVDs to see what information kooaba would return.

Then it came to the drive home… all the way up the street where we should have turned off to avoid going by the stretch of road where the cat had been hurt, we were consciously thinking of turning.  Then there was this little mind fit, and we were suddenly past the turn off.  I could hear the panic, but there was also this firm voice telling me to stop being so silly, that there will be nothing there, and it will all be fine.

Thankfully the cat was no longer there, but that didn’t matter, the panic had set in.  We were switching all over the place and I could feel our throat closing up.  Little Michelle came forward full force, meaning that we couldn’t really drive, talk and only barely functioned enough to get home in one piece.  Because we live in a high fenced section, no one saw us getting out of the car shaking like a leaf and stuttering about it hurting.

We got inside, fed Winnie, turned on all the lights, curled up in the corner of the lounge and tried to ease the shaking.  I had no real sense of what was happening, but there were obviously body memories.  The throat was closed off, and no matter how hard I tried, I could barely stutter.  I managed to take some anxiety medication and send the following email to Allison…

turn all the lights on an hide
turn all the lights on an hide
turn all the lights on an hide
turn all the lights on an hide
turn all the lights on an hide
turn all the lights on an hide
turn all the lights on an hide

hide got to hide
he’ll find us

I think we finally went to bed at about 8am (it was naturally light by then) and slept for a couple of hours.

Saturday had been good… we’d talked to a friend and took some pictures of the stuffed toy we got for the young ones as their reward for going through the divorce proceedings…

This made me think that tonight was going to be easier… the fear seemed to have eased.  But it’s now 1am Sunday and all the lights are on again.  Little Michelle is ok as long as all the lights are on.  We’re also ok as long as we don’t even think about going to bed.

One of the big problems with this scenario, is that it opens us up to further dissociation and self injury.  We’re so switchy and shaky…

—————-
Now playing: Missy Higgins – Where I Stood
via FoxyTunes

This came in the mail today…

WE ARE FREE OF HIM!

Some don’t trust this piece of paper, they still expect him to come around the corner at any moment… But legally, we are no longer associated with him in any way (except for the Protection Order).

Ok… so, the big stuff… the stuff I’ve been studiously avoiding for the last probably two to three weeks… maybe even that last couple of months.  I can’t analyse or reflect on them yet, but I need to write them down so that they lessen their hold over me.

Probably the most obvious, is the therapeutic rupture with Liz.  It destabilised me.  It re-enforced all the old messages about me being too difficult to cope with, and made me feel as if I would never heal.  I still don’t think that the new therapist will cope…  She says she’s one of the top therapists in the small city where we live; but then, Bob was one of the top clinical psychologists, and that didn’t turn out well.  We’re still not sure if ACC will fund us to see her; so until funding is established, we’re seeing her fortnightly.  I know that isn’t often enough, but we can’t afford weekly therapy.

Once you get past the obvious of therapy, there’s the other given… work.  We recently had a change to our union negotiated employment agreement.  The new agreement meant that we ended up with a negative sick leave balance.  We’d used up so much sick leave in the short time we’ve been there, that we’d used the equivalent of an extra years allowance.  This basically meant that we were going to have to go for over a year, with any sick leave being unpaid.  There’s no way we could afford that.  Our union is incredibly weak and unable to fight for the rights of the worker – if you wonder why I’m in such a weak union, librarians are traditionally left wing, socialists who believe in unions, and so there’s a great deal of pressure to join.

So, ignoring the union, we researched the law and questioned work on the validity of the negative balance, when according the the Holidays Act, each employee must have five days paid sick leave per year.  We sent through an email outlining the law, and asking what that meant in regards to our negative balance.  This resulted in a meeting with HR (hence the entry about the panic attack).  The meeting was mercifully quick and resulted in HR apologising to me for any distress caused.  They also gave me five sick days immediately, and another five in six months time.

We had been expecting a written warning about our excessive sick leave.  During the negotiations, our employer had been talking about “sick leave abusers”.  When we saw that negative balance, we immediately knew that we were one of the people being targeted.  We doubted all of the work we’ve been doing.  We don’t feel as if we’ve been performing to an even half descent standard lately.  So again, all our fears and inadequacies were thrown into the spot light.

The other obvious stress has been the divorce.  We got the papers served on the ex-husband, and immediately started to get hang up phone calls.  They were at odds times of the day and lasted for a week, ending only when we picked up the phone once and asked who was there.  This led to all sorts of flashbacks and activation of parts who used to deal with the ex-husband.

Which probably leads into the other issue I’ve been facing… increasing amounts and severity of self injury.  It’s been a really tough few weeks, lots of lost time and negative coping mechanisms being used.  I know I’m going to have to tell the new therapist about this, but it’s so shame inducing that I don’t know how.  I keep thinking that I should be “strong enough” or “healed enough” not to do those old coping mechanisms… but yet fall back into them when the going gets really bad.

Then there’s the last big thing which feels so awful and… just yuck.  I’m friends with the younger of my two brothers on FaceBook.  A few months ago, a photo was added to his profile.  It’s not an awful photo, it’s actually a really good one, which shows his body language as I remember it.  The thing that sends the system into chaos however, is that the lower half of his face is almost exactly the same as the fathers.  The mouth is the same… as is the chin.  It drives some in the system crazy.  My brother is now the age that the father would have been when we were in our early teens.  As I write this, I feel the dissociation coming.  I know this is a huge trigger.  I know that sometimes one of us looks at this photo of our brother as a punishment.

Far out… that’s all I can write… sorry, I know this doesn’t make much sense.  But I needed to get it out in some way.

In all the craziness, I’m reminded of the lines from Hymn to Her…

She will always carry on
Something is lost
But something is found

—————-
Now playing: The Pretenders – Hymn To Her
via FoxyTunes

To put the last week into context, it would help if I explained a little about the past month…  Probably 3 or 4 weeks ago, one of the young ones became convinced that she was an abuser.  We were part of peer sexual abuse from the ages of 3-10 or 12; and some of that included, what she considered to be, causing abuse towards other innocent children.  This was mentioned in session with Liz, but she dismissed it as learned behaviour from adults that was usual for a child with my history.  Our intellectual response to Liz was to agree, it made sense… but not to the young one, as she has no memory of being hurt by adults, only her peers and some teenagers.  This meant that the young one decided that we needed to die for hurting others – people often say that child abusers should be killed, so what made her any different?

Her belief that she was an abuser, was re-enforced by a recent newspaper article that stated children as young as 5 were being picked up by the police as sexual offenders…  Add on top of this, the on-going anxiety about having to go for an ACC assessment; the memories stirred up by the dissolution of the marriage; and hating our current job.  It all added up to a overwhelming mass of conflicting messages and emotions.  The end result was a suicide plan which was to take place yesterday.  On the way to this date, we ended up in the Police Station last weekend…  Sophie called the crisis line and said we were suicidal, which resulted in the Police being called out, and us ending up in a Police holding cell/interview room being assessed by a Police psychiatrist.  He was a very nice psychiatrist, and again tried to convince the young one that she wasn’t abusive, but she had the newspaper article as proof that she was evil…  To make it worse, she now had further proof of her evilness – she had been picked up by the Police…

Last Monday, we went into therapy with Liz needing to work through this belief about us being abusers and the suicide plans for the coming weekend.  Instead, Liz introduced DBT skills.  This isn’t anything against DBT, but it was like throwing a bucket of water on a forest fire… too little, too late.  Liz tried art therapy to try and get us to see that life was worth living, but she kept on hitting a brick wall because she was skirting around the issue and we needed to hit it face on.  Liz’ attempts were frustrating us both, to the point where she said “Do you want to stop therapy”.  She has said this to us on several occasions before, and each time we got the feeling that she was testing us, but this time it was the last straw…  we said “Yes” and left the office.

I know this could be seen as us lashing out with an emotional reaction, and it was in many ways.  But, there was also a feeling that Liz didn’t know what to do to help us.  This was confirmed on Wednesday when we went back for a meeting to see if the relationship could be salvaged.  Our position was that those words and actions made us feel rejected and as if we were too difficult to deal with.  Liz tried to assure us that this wasn’t the case and that she had been there for us.  But her actions and our expectations didn’t meet… that’s not to say that we were expecting 24/7 assistance from her; but many of our reasonable calls for assistance, were met with Liz passing us off onto the Crisis Team or ACC.

So, we’re no longer seeing Liz…

Due to the visit to the Police Station, the Mental Health Crisis Team have again become involved in our care.  This resulted in us having an emergency psychiatric appointment on Friday, where a very intense psychiatrist upped one of our meds and introduced another.  We’re very sensitive to medication – something I forgot to warn the psychiatrist about; so when we had the first night time dose of the new medication, we got about three hours of quite intense akathisia in the legs.  The next day we tried the daytime strength of the med and got about 3 hours of needing to rip our arms up, increased dissociation and anxiety.  The Crisis Team nurse tried to convince us that this was not tied to the medication in any way, and that we just needed to go for a walk…

So this brings us to today… the day after the young one had vowed to take an overdose.  Why are we still here?  Well, it turns out that the reason the suicide plans weren’t followed through was because of needing to fix our car.  I know it sounds silly, but all the motions were set in place for the suicide – house was cleaned, papers put into order and the final thing was to get a warrant of fitness for the car, but it failed.  Because we had to get it fixed, we ate into our savings which the young one had decided was enough for our funeral.  So now the suicide plans are put off until we can save more money for the funeral – she doesn’t want to leave any debt for others to be inconvenienced by.  I know that this is a tenuous reason to stay alive, but I’m hoping it will last us long enough to find some avenue for assistance.

So where to from here?  Well, I’m not really sure.  I see the Crisis Team psychiatrist again on Tuesday.  I was told by Liz that my ACC funding has run out, so the chances of finding a therapist who will accept a dissociative client through ACC is pretty slim.  I’m still waiting for the ACC assessment to determine what assistance I should be getting, and I just got the papers that I have to serve on the ex-husband’s parents to end the marriage.  So I’m in a fairly precarious situation and can’t really see a way out at the moment.  I’m not in any immediate danger – the fear of debt will keep the young one from acting on her plans for probably another few paydays… That gives me about a month to come up with something that will convince her that she’s not the most evil, disgusting thing on this Earth…

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Now playing: Green Day – Wake Me Up When September Ends
via FoxyTunes

It’s become obvious that I’ve been withdrawing from everything lately.  It always starts slowly… I’ll sit at my desk, rather than go out with the others for breaks at work; I’ll leave the car out with the intention of going to take photos, but end up putting it away a few hours later because I’m “too tired” or it’s now “too dark” to take photos.  I wasn’t really sure why I’ve been withdrawing, or rather, which particular stressor was causing the withdrawal.  I only knew that is was happening.  Yesterday, I moved one step closer to eliminating one stressor – the dissolution of my marriage.  The laws in New Zealand require you to have been separated from your partner for two years before you can dissolve the marriage (get a divorce).  That milestone was up on 14 February of this year.  So we took the papers to the Family Court to start the official process… it was an interesting trip which caused the activation of ones that hadn’t been present for quite some time.

We took two hours off work to take the papers to court, thinking that would be plenty of time for the fairly simple matter of handing over some papers and paying a fee… how wrong was I!

It started off well… we went into the Family Court reception and were served by the nice lady who took our Protection Order application nearly two years ago.  She checked the forms, notarized them where it was appropriate and double checked that none of our personal details appeared on the forms to protect us from any contact from the husband.  Then we asked some seemingly innocent questions about what would happen next… in particular asking about how he was to be notified of the dissolution when we didn’t know where he lived…  This is where the smooth operation came to a screaming halt.

“What do you mean you don’t know where he lives?”  The slightly stunned clerk asked…
“Well, we actively try to avoid knowing anything about him because of the Protection Order.”
“So, what’s this address here…” as she points to the address we’ve listed.
“That’s his lawyers address.”  We reply, thinking it makes perfect sense to serve the papers to his lawyer.
“You can’t serve the papers to his lawyer, it has to be him in person.”
“But… I have no idea where he is.”
“You need to try and find him.”

At this point, the clerk confers with another worker about the situation and asks what my options are…  Meanwhile we’re dissociating, spinning and trying to keep it together despite the internal chaos… we can’t find him… don’t make us have to find him… don’t make us talk to him or his family again…

After a rather convoluted discussion, the clerk comes back to tell us that we have to try and find him through any means necessary; but if we can’t, we can fill in another form to say that the papers can be served on his parents…  But we still need someone to serve them… Someone over 18 to serve the papers to them in person…  Someone would have to go to his parents house, knock on the door and give the papers to them…

This news brought another round of dissociation and internal noise… we can’t go to the witch’s house… she hates us… she’ll yell at us… please don’t make us!

Thankfully another woman yelled out that we could pay someone from the court where they live to serve the papers on our behalf…

This just left the problem of trying to find him!  So off to the public library we went, looking for electoral roles…  We walked there thinking it would be quicker than taking the car, but on the way there was all sorts of activation by different parts… Can we buy a toy?  Oh look, a sale!  Can we go see that movie?  That’s a pretty dress. The desire to get sidetracked was immense… there was so much panic about trying to find the husband.  With each comment, suggestion or pull, M tried to assure each one that we would go back later, but that we really needed to find the husband to make us all safe.

We found that the husband hadn’t changed his details official details from when he lived with us.  We tried telephone directories and the Internet, but couldn’t find him.

There was another round of attempted distractions on the way back to court, but M deflected each one.  When we returned to court, we filled in even more paperwork to say that we’d tried to find the husband.  All the while, the internal noise was getting louder and louder.

It was only when we were driving away that the noise quietened.  So much so, that by the time we got to a toy store, to keep the promise of buying something later, all the young ones had gone quiet.

On the surface, I can see the noise and chaos was an indication of our stress about the situation.  But, I think it goes deeper than that.  It was about our fear of having to do anything to do with him, fearing possibly having to see him again, fear that he will react when he gets the papers…  It’s also about dissolving the marriage, and therefore admitting we made a mistake in getting married… it’s an indication of our failure.

I still feel the anxiety, disconnection and withdrawal from life… I don’t quite know how to ease that.  I’ve tried making an appointment with my psychiatrist to get a review of my medication, but need ACC approval and funding before I can go – which means it could be several months before I get in to see him.  This week, I’m wanting to quit therapy…  I cancelled Jo and have come close to cancelling Liz several times.  Everything about therapy annoys me at the moment – trying to talk, all of Liz’s responses, her making us draw when we retreat and can’t talk…

We found this photo called Just Red by Burning Image… it’s a good representation of how we’re feeling…

A couple of weeks ago, when we were heading into the anniversary surrounding the last attack by the now ex-husband; Liz asked me if I missed him, and if I wanted him back in my life.  As an adult, I immediately said “No, I don’t want anything more to do with him”.  If you look at it from a dispassionate, adult point of view, it makes total sense to want nothing to do with him – he was sexually, physically and psychologically abusive.  It’s not a good thing to be abused, so therefore it’s not good to be in that relationship as it existed.  This makes intellectual, and common sense!

Today, I realised the answer isn’t that simple.  The dynamics surrounding being a battered partner come into play – he didn’t hurt me THAT badly… it was only when I did something wrong… it was really all my own fault… other people said we picked on him…  Suddenly the waters start to get muddied.  Parts of me excused, allowed and encouraged his abuse.  There was a comfort in the pain he inflicted, it was familiar to us and therefore gave a sense of certainty about what to expect.  He was also very good at inflicting pain… he knew the right insult to throw, when to be nice, when to inflict the worst of the sexual abuse.  In this respect, the relationship was a perfect storm.

He was immature in many ways, and that immaturity showed through in ways that were unexpected.  He could be incredibly gentle with the very young ones.  He could also make us laugh -  I really miss laughing with someone.  So it wasn’t all bad…  This all adds to the feeling that the relationship is being blown out of proportion…

But today, I realised what I really miss, is his violence.  He was a dangerous man – over six foot tall, solid build and trained as a security guard.  His violent rages could be spectacular – holes were punched in doors, walls and objects.  His level of sexual perversion meant that I was often re-creating abuse from the past.  But most importantly, he tried to kill me!  He put his hands around my neck and squeezed until I couldn’t breathe.  He had a power over our life that some of us miss.  We’ve failed at committing suicide several times, but he came close to killing us… he could take that suicidal failure out of our control…  He could kill us… This is what some of us are missing – the ability to have the choice about whether we are alive or dead taken out of our hands.  This is also what we were looking for with some of our self-injury… that dangerous situation where things will get out of control, and we’ll be killed.

We’ve constantly struggled with suicidal ideation, but I never realised the depth of the feelings.  We don’t want the ex-husband back to work on a happy marriage, we want him back to kill us.

This makes me wonder how often we goaded him on… how often we started the arguments… how often we poked at him, knowing it would cause a reaction…  Even after the last attack, I’m aware that Frank came forward to goad the ex-husband – “Come on, come on, pick on someone your own size”.  Frank was slapping at the ex-husband while saying this… I’m not sure if he was defending us, or trying to continue the fight.

I’m not sure where I go with this realisation.  I consider it serious and have contacted Liz to let her know what is happening.  But really, what the heck do I do with this?  Is my wish for death so great that I will try everything possible to ensure I succeed?  Do I wish for a miserable existence, with an abusive man?  If this is the case, I know there are many men who would be willing to abuse me…

Sometimes I shake my head with the realisation of how screwed up I am…

These are two lines from the song I will not let you down by Don McGlashan.  This song has been going through my head all day, just little snippets…

You must try to believe
That I will be coming through
…
I have carried my cross at each step
Upon my neck for you
…
There’s a tear in my eye
And an ocean of swallowed pride
…
Ties that comfort
Ties that bind
…
And I will not let you down
I will not let you down
That’s for sure
…
I will not let you down
I will not let you down
Any more

Today, these snippets mean a great deal to me.  I’ve just finished one of the worst weekends I’ve had regarding self-injury since before the ex-husband left.  I’ve done many things which I’m not proud of, or can even fathom.  I’m still shaking and trying to work through what happened.  But the lines “Ties that comfort, Ties that bind” got me thinking… wondering about how much I hold onto this self-injury, destructiveness and my mental health diagnoses.

The weekend of self-destruction started on Friday when I was triggered by a couple of incidences which lead to me to repeat the old patterns of needing to please people – in particular the ex-husband.  It didn’t matter that he is no longer present in my life, it was all about finding ways to repeat old behaviours and coping mechanisms.  But why did I do this?  The threat of him appearing in my life was minimal to non-existent.  I no longer want him in my life, yet he fills my flashbacks.  These flashbacks and the stress caused by the memories of him, have lead to me not being able to function at work, meant I’ve had to take an increasing amounts of medication and resulted in me losing huge chunks of time.  But I wonder how much of this I have brought on myself?  There is a certain comfort in being able to explain away my behaviour to his influence and abuse…  What if I’m using all of this as a convenient excuse to get away with inappropriate behaviours?

I read a comment recently from a fellow survivor, they said that they can’t stand those who aren’t actively working on their issues… Those that use the past as an excuse, rather than a cause for healing.  This sort of argument has always worried me – whose to say that I am doing enough in this healing journey?  What if I am wallowing in self-pity and excuses?  Whose yardstick am I being measured against?  What does the yardstick even look like?  It’s the sort of argument that I’ve heard several times, but it does my head in.  I’ve been judged all my life, now I’m healing and I’m still being judged?  When does the judging end?

Another comment that hit close to the bone, was a good friend saying to me that I wasn’t sounding like the survivor he knew.  He’s right (you usually are Paul), I wasn’t a survivor over the weekend… I was a battered victim… like an addict looking for their next fix of self-harm.  All adult knowledge of consequences went out the window.  At times I could hold it together, but these were short lived.  The nights were especially difficult… looking for the ex-husband in each shadow… looking for ways to hurt myself and undermine all the work that I had been doing.  It wasn’t a deliberate attempt by any one within the system to cause harm, it was me coping in the only way I knew…  But what if the only way I knew was perpetuating that tie that binds me to this place of being a victim?  I know the role of being a victim… there’s a comfort in fulfilling a role I know well… so how tied am I to it?  How much of my energy is spent in ensuring I stay there?  I’d like to say that it’s not a great deal, but I just don’t know.

I know that I’m bound to the past in many ways… flashbacks and other PTSD symptoms indicate that.  My healing is aimed at breaking these binds.  This weekend, I failed.  I failed myself, the dissociative system and the people around me who count on me to be a survivor.  My trust in those around me and myself has been seriously shaken.  I’ve come out of this weekend distrustful and scared of people again.  I hate that this has happened.  I hate that I’ve put a great dent in my healing.  I’ve come out questioning everything about my motivations and what I am doing…  Is this healing really working?  Why am I doing this?

I know these are all questions that I need to ask Liz… but I fear she will give me an answer that is meant to soothe, rather than be truthful.  I fear that I have become comfortable in the role of a victim and that those ties are keeping me in this place.  I worry that being a victim has become my identity and way of life… I know that my life is so restricted by the different triggers that I sometimes can’t see past it.  I know that some of the things Liz suggests to change in my life, I can’t do… or I explain that I’ve already tried them and failed.  I’m not very good at giving things a second go, if I fail once, then I’ve often failed forever… especially when it comes to my healing work.  I cut myself very little slack in that area… is that another sign that I’m tied to being a victim?  I just don’t know anymore…

—————-
Now playing: Cat Stevens – Where Do The Children Play?
via FoxyTunes

A good friend recently mentioned that she felt like she was going to fall, and fall deeply.  Part of her was expecting, and almost wanting the fall to happen.  Thankfully, her fall hasn’t happened, and I hope it doesn’t; but what she describes is a feeling I know all to well.  It’s like standing on an edge, waiting for that last push to send you over into a mental health free-fall.  The scary bit about standing there, is that you have an awareness about where you are.  You know that one more negative thing is going to push you over, and part of you wishes that it would come so that it’s over with; but another part of you hopes that you can still claw your way back to safer ground.  It becomes a tug of war between different parts of you…  This alone is so tiring that it can be enough to tip you over…

I know I’m also moving closer to the edge.  The stressors in my life have kicked into high gear and I can feel the pressure building.  At the moment, I’m far enough away to know that I’m in danger without being too close to it.  A part of me niggles that I’m thinking myself into moving towards the edge – why do I think of my ex-husband, why worry about the ACC assessments etc.  But the rational part of my brain knows that I’m experiencing PTSD flashbacks and my worry is justified based on past assessments.  This is the beginning of the tug of war that intensifies over time.  Soon other issues will come in to muddy the waters – denial, and a need for validation have already started to appear.  All of this increases my anxiety levels.  I’ve experienced this often enough in the last few years to notice the pattern…  It becomes like a dance, to and fro… ever closer to the edge…

The problem becomes, how do you stop the dance?  If I called a crisis line, they would take me through the individual stressors I am facing and encourage me to break them down into solvable chunks.  This would work for some of the issues I’m facing, but they can’t help with the PTSD symptoms.  I saw Jo today, and she was recommending trying to ground in the present, and while I agree with her reasoning, I also know that I can be very grounded in 2010 and still keep on dancing towards the edge.  Some of the grounding work can make the situation worse – repeating “it’s the 26th of January, 2010 and they are just memories” can morph into a denial statement about the memories all being made up.  The most effective way of keeping the anxiety at bay is to consciously breathe deeply – this also tends to by one of the first things I forget to do.  Like many survivors who experience anxiety, I have a form of hyperventilation syndrome, with my breathing being short and shallow.  It takes a conscious effort to alter my breathing pattern to a healthier depth and pace.  Changing my breathing will temporarily ease the anxiety, but often this isn’t enough to stop the dance towards the edge.  I’m not always sure what moves me away from the edge, I think this time it will be the formal dissolution of my marriage and completing the ACC assessment.  If this is the case, I’ve got about another three weeks of doing the dance around the edge.  I don’t think I’ll fall, but a part of me thinks I will…  A part of me wants to fall, because they think that this is what I deserve…

And so the dance continues…

—————-
Now playing: The Feelers – Stand Up
via FoxyTunes

I took this photo awhile ago now, but today it means something to us… We call it “Journey”…

Journey

.

When we look at this picture today it means many different things to us -

• Journey into the light from the dark – a journey of hope
• Journey of danger as a child is lead away to disappear with the man beside him
• Journey of death, with this light at the end of the tunnel being what you see upon your death
• Journey of innocence as the child plays happily beside the safe man
• Journey through the holding pens, ready for death at the meat market.  People before these two have left their last messages on the walls, only for it to be covered up like graffiti…  If you look at the image large size on black, you can see the hand marks made on the ceiling as a last attempt to leave something behind

This jumble of messages is how we are at the moment, a messy jumble of thoughts, both good and bad.  We’re not sure where our journey is taking us, but at the moment it feels like things are shifting internally.  I’m not sure of the reason – maybe it’s returning to work, maybe it’s the two year anniversary of the attempt on our life by our then husband, maybe it’s our healing work…  I’m not sure, but I wish we were more settled and safer.

I’ve mentioned previously that I exhibit avoidance behaviours – this is especially true of my relationship with therapists.  We respect Liz and her abilities, but we don’t particularly like her and some of us actively hate her.  So any notion of becoming attached to her in any way, feels alien and odd.  Up until now, I’ve been dubious as to whether any sort of attachment or reliance is necessary – surely we can learn and heal without these silly emotional concepts getting in the way…  Well, apparently not.  Apparently, at some stage you have to trust your therapists strength to carry some of the burden.  We’ve reached that point and it’s terrifying beyond words…  What if Liz can’t cope?  What if she isn’t there like we need her to be?  What if she looks at the problems we’re bringing, and says it’s too much… that we’re too damaged?

I have an emergency session with Liz this afternoon to try and work on a safety plan.  I didn’t cope well with the ex-husband’s birthday and I need help.  My heart sinks as I write those words.  I don’t want to need help.  I don’t want to appear less than perfect.  I sure don’t want to rely on anyone else for that help.  People have a habit of being human and making mistakes or not following through on the things they say… What if Liz turns out to be very normal in her mistake making abilities and lets us down when we really need someone, how are we meant to work through that?  Carol is the last therapist who let us down when we needed her.  She had us sectioned under the Mental Health Act because of a misunderstanding.  This one mistake nearly destroyed Sophie and changed the system significantly.  We can’t risk something like that again.

So, I’m going into this session on tenterhooks.  I know I need help, but I’m not sure what help I need.  I do know that we hate needing to ask.