I want to cut. I don’t know why, but I do. It feels like I’m having an affair with this desire. Why? I’m hovering at my desk, behind my husbands back. We went out for New Year’s Eve and stayed in a hotel. I took my exacto knife, though I didn’t use it. I want to. I don’t know why. I’ve been drinking more, perhaps that’s it. Then, why do I drink? I don’t know why. My meds are out, but I’m still here. My heart beats faster, a secret feeling – this desire. Why? Why? My mood is even, maybe that’s what’s scaring me. It feels uncomfortable, not right, not me. My son is on vacation now, 2,000 miles away. Our arguing is often a trigger because I can’t let go, let him fly. I’ve emailed the last psychiatrist I had – asking for prescriptions. I think I may really need those meds before I fall off the fence of this … contemplation. I really want to cut, it satisfies. It helps me hold in words, thoughts, fears of life I can’t identify. I’m contemplating, examining … where can I cut and it not be seen? I want relief, not attention for it. I’ve learned that I can’t get attention the way I always crave. No deep embrace or touching my face. In love. The love is there, but expression has changed. We’ve gotten older together. It was never your style, though I wanted it so. I want to cut, for more reasons than one. But none of it matters. People just don’t understand. How can I smile and make it all seem so nice? But once distractions are gone, and I’m left to contemplate, I wonder what old age will be like and I see a blank slate. Many times, my husband has asked what I’ll do when our son has gone, into adulthood and away from our home. What will I worry about and fight? I think he’s afraid that he’s next. I really want to cut. A pressure valve of emotions to help keep them hidden. To look normal and happy, I need a distraction. To cut would do it … I could work it for days. Deeper and deeper, like the one behind my knee. I’ve no reason to feel this way, yet I do. It has become my normal. I don’t know how to be truly honest in my feelings and actions. I always live trying to meet expectations. Right this moment, I’m not unhappy or mad (that I know of) yet I still want to cut. For relief from what?
It’s been pouring out for the last few days. Today, even the dog is smart enough to not or eat or drink as much as usual so that she doesn’t have to go out in it to relieve herself – and she’s only 5 months old!
This morning, my emotions were pouring out also. I was just commenting that I haven’t fought with my 16 year old son for days (G*D, he’s as stubborn as I am!) The blame for moving him away from friends and his girlfriend (that he didn’t have when we decided to move, bought the house or for 9 months thereafter before the move!) – the guilt for causing (or feeling I do) such misery in my son – the lack of control as he grows up and ,ichmmmm, independent. I feel like I’m a horrible mother, I know I’m not but I feel like I am. But I do the best I can and I love him with all my heart! So we fought/ argued. All I wanted to do was curl up in a ball and disappear, then cut, then burn and then throw myself through my bedroom window. I didn’t, but I wanted to, badly.
I feel like a black plague. Like slime oozing out and over everything in my path, turning sunshine into storms. I know this is not reality, but is psyche influencing the way I see my world and my interaction with it. I went back to bed thinking of pills, razors, burning and escaping emotional pain. What stops me? Would it make anything better for my son and husband? I don’t know. If I knew it would … but I don’t and so I’m still here and still hoping to make forward progress. Still hoping to find peace within myself. Still hoping that life can be lived full of joy – without self inflicting injuries to seal away outside pain, cauterizing my emotions.
Except for John the Aussie (as a regular) and an occasional other, no one seems to read my blogs any more. It doesn’t matter if I’ve been a regular reader of theirs- and commentar also, I’ve tried to write in different modes that might be more interesting. I’ve tried increasing the tags for my blogs, but still it seems that no one is really all that interested. Thank you, John, for continuing to check in on me. Some days I feel on top of the world and as normal as can be. But when I look at what isn’t happening, I again feel like the lost child that stays hidden in the background. I’m not complaining – it’s just an observation. I guess it’s an ok place to be for me. A good place to observe others, even if no one notices you. A lot can be learned from observing others. I see how lucky I am in the true picture of life. I may have my moments or even days of emotional dis-regulation, self harm, depression anxiety etc, but I know I am loved (even in the midst of arguing) and lovable. I know my depression will come and go and I will have days where I feel joy and thoroughly like almost every aspect of my life. So no one wants to read my blog. There’s not a Da#n thing I can do about that. I will write or not write, as the mood suites me. Is that posting or blogging suicide? Only time will tell.
I just realized I haven’t written in about a week. I have been busy reading other blogs, playing with my puppy (3 months old), making new friends here through swimming class. TODAY, my outlook is good. I’ve had periods of sadness, anger, anxiety … the gamut that usually torment me … but not for sustained periods. The blogs of others, especially Jaen Wirefly’s (You Know You’re Borderline When …) posts on mindfulness and Gypsy’s (Through my eyes: Adventures in Boreline Land) reminder to think positively. Others have shared progress going on in their lives (Mandi) and just shared some humorous anecdotes about their family and children (John the Aussie). There are others and you’ve all kept me moving forward!
My husband now is employed, almost full time, although still no benefits, so that takes some of the worry off. He is not pressuring me to go back to work yet. I want to, but don’t feel the time is right just now. Making friends and building that support network, here in a new environment, is what I need to do first. The people in our community are very friendly and welcoming. I’m putting forth the effort to make friends, which I never really did before. I’m struggling with parenting a 16 year old boy – who is a great kid, but is still a 16 year old boy with all that that entails. Thank God I’m not a single parent!
Having more than a day or two in a row without the yuk is kind of scary, but good. I’ve been having days with short periods of distress that I’ve been able to stay with and not succumb to. I appreciate the good days and know the bad days won’t last forever. But I know this “thing” won’t ever leave me for good also, and that’s somewhat distressing – but is what it is and not an excuse to check out. I do have a son to set an example for.
Lately I’ve doubted myself a lot. Quite a lot. I’ve doubted my ability to be a decent wife and a competent mother. I’ve wondered if my husband and son would be better off if I left. All I seem to bring to our lives is chaos, anger and arguments. My emotions then plummet into turmoil and depression, self doubt, questioning any value I offer to anyone by my presence. I feel as if I make every day, every situation worse. I no longer know what to say or do that will have a positive effect for myself or those I care about, so I’m afraid of each interaction – no matter how small it may be.
To overcome uncertainty is utterly good.
Commentary:Uncertainty here refers to doubting yourself or the existence of basic goodness. When you don’t punish or condemn yourself, when you relax and appreciate your body and mind, you begin to contact basic goodness in yourself. So it is extremely important to be willing to open yourself to yourself.
As human beings, we have a working basis within us that allows us to uplift our state of existence and cheer up fully. Because we have a mind and body, we can comprehend this world. Existence is wonderful and precious. We don’ know how long we will live. While we have our life. why not make use of it? Before we even make use of it, why don’t we appreciate it?
This morning began before the dawn. Sprinklers rained down upon lawn and plants before the first light. I took my son to begin his first day in a new school. I guess that means we really have moved and this is our new home. I hope the day goes well for him. I remember when I moved to a new school at the start of sixth grade; I threw up on the bus every morning for a week. Even my sister would not sit with me. It did not go well.
When I returned from taking him to school, I made a cup of coffee and went to sit in the garden, as the sprinklers were done with their morning rain. This is a time I really enjoy! Flocks of tiny gray birds emerge and fly from shrub to shrub drinking up the fresh drops of water dripping from the leaves. Hummingbirds begin their daylong chase/dance with each other. Zipping in spiraling maneuvers like stunt pilots in the sky, sometimes hovering high in the air like tiny crosses before diving straight down. Occasionally, one will pause right before me if I happen to be near the hummingbird feeder, checking me out for safety before going to take a sip. Flycatchers sit at the bird feeder enjoying the shelled sunflower seeds, pecking at the side of the feeder for them to come out faster. Goldfinches try to take turns with a morning bath in the bubbling center of the water fountain, sometimes shoving each other out of the way in their impatience.
As the sun rises higher, the activity in the garden slows down. The Leaves dry off and the flocks fly on. The feeder still has its visitors, though not so many during the heat of the day. The fountain seems to keep busy all day long, as birds, like children, splash in the water to cool off and while away the time.
I’m reblogging this because my comment on it, and the response I got, actually helped me feel better. A relapse doesn’t seem as bad as a disorder continuing on into yet another decade of your life. It’s just a relapse due to stress and triggers and will subside as the stress subsides. AND I am finding that to be true now as my husband has joined me, our house has sold, our belongings are here with us, and life is slowwwwllllly normalizing. My symptoms are decreasing – not gone, but decreasing. So I’d like to thank Amy for her response to my comment and share her post through re-blogging it. =)
A short story I wrote years ago that reflected my not fitting in:
Adventures of the Feather in an Uncertain World
By: Catherine (aka, Hawkruh)
I wrote this the last time I went to a family reunion. I felt loved by everyone, but didn’t feel like I fit in any more. I was on the outside looking in.
INTRO: Have you ever seen a bird with a feather out of place? Jutting out at an angle away from the smooth coat formed by the rest of its feathers, the single feather appears in need of plucking. Trying to smooth it back into the others is futile. It may blend in for a short while before the tension in its attachment becomes too strong and its direction changes, out of place again. For the sake of writing a story, pretend that I am that feather, and the coat of feathers is my family.
For years and years, the feather tried to twist its shaft so that it would blend in with the other feathers. With each attempt, the other feathers would look at it and wonder at its gyrations. I was actually quite comical to them to watch the various ways the feather would try to get it to fit in. But it puzzled them as well. You see, the feather didn’t understand why it was so different and felt out of place, confused, and angry because of it. It wasn’t trying to be a distraction from the beauty of the bird. Yet, it felt it was and became ashamed that it hadn’t been able to find a way to fit in. Other than the feather, it was a beautiful bird with luxurious plumage of various colors and lengths. The other feathers all found their place, whether long and slender, short and broad, of vibrant hues or a subdued gray. The bird was full of love, proud of itself and all that it had seen and done. As the single feather twisted itself, trying to change, it became more of an irritation to the bird. Where the feather’s attempts had been amusing for a time, the bird was now tired of it and wanted the feather to stop distracting the bird as it went about its business.
With a sad sigh and a heavy heart, the feather stopped trying to fit in. It feared that if it continued, the bird would pluck it out in exasperation and toss it to the wind. If that were to happen, the feather would float alone, at the mercy of the wind, time, and gravity with an unknown fate.
So, the feather tried to stop fitting in. But it was hard, very hard. And sometimes the feather found itself twisted, again trying to change. Occasionally, when twisting and turning, the bird would peck at the feather and threaten to pluck it out. The feather would quickly stop and be very still, afraid of where it would end up if that were to happen. While still, the feather would look at the other feathers and see how well they complimented each other. They blended together and covered the bird with shimmering color, creating protection for the bird through their unity. The feather longed to have a purpose as important as theirs.
Time went by. Some days, the feather was content, even happy. The sun shone, and the bird flew on gentle breezes across the land. When it rained, the bird took shelter wherever it could; a flowering bush, a protective branch, and once, with a group of other birds, which seemed to speak the same language. The last time that a group of the birds too shelter together, the feather listened closely as the birds chattered about where they had come from and their hopes for the future.
There was talk of flying together – safety in numbers – as the weather started cooling and the days grew shorter. The feather hoped that the bird would join the others in their flight. It all sounded like a great adventure! It continued to worry about not fitting in with the bird’s other feathers, but thought it might be able to forget about it if the flight got exciting. And then, one cool morning, there was no need for words as the birds rose as one and began their flight towards warmer places that would have enough food and shelter for them all. The feather shook with excitement, and a little fear, for what lay ahead.
As the bird rose high into the air with the others, the feather knew that its life would soon change forever. The birds flew, rising and dipping, turning and twisting. It seemed impossible that the flock was hundreds of birds and not just one. the movements were so well coordinated. Quickly, they were higher than the feather had ever been. The wind and force of the upward motion were very strong; pulling the feather until it had no control of itself and fearing it would be pulled loose and left behind as the flock flew south. That fear caused the feather to cling as tightly as ever it had to the bird. Where they were headed was unknown, a mystery; causing fear to swell in the feather. But to be completely alone, left behind and without the unity of the other feathers and birds, would be a sure death.
The birds flew south for day. Each morning, they would rise in flight as if on command, though none was given. Each night, they would land and find shelter and food in a field. And as the birds rose into the sky, each morning, the strong winds again woke fear in the feather. Somehow, it managed to maintain its connection with the bird, although the fear never truly went away. Each night brought relief because the feather kept thinking that the field they had landed in might be their final destination.
Eventually, a morning came when the birds did not take flight, but continued to eat and talk to each other through the day. The feather was happy and even found that there were days when it forgot how different it was from the other feathers. Those days were like golden seeds to the bird because all was well.
Days passed uncounted, but enjoyed. Eventually, the days started getting longer and warmer. The feather had been noticing other flocks of birds in the air. They all seemed to be flying in the direction the bird had come from. Once again, the feather found itself confused and feeling different from the others. Unsure of itself, it again began its gyrations, attempting to blend in with the others. It was actually more difficult than it had been earlier in the feather’s life. The feather’s shape had changed and it was also stiffer now. The twisting and turning that it had done before with temporary success was virtually impossible now. The tension of twisting was so great that as soon as it started to relax, it sprang back to its previous position, protruding at an angle away from the head of the bird.
Exhausted and discouraged, the feather gave up trying to fit in with the other feathers and shifted its focus to the lengthening days and increased activity in the sky. And then on morning, as had happened before the birds had flown here, birds again gathered in the area that the feather’s bird was. When the flock had gathered and rested for a few days, it again race as one being and climbed high into the air. Fly and roost, fly and roost, the flock traveled to the north. When, again, a morning came when the flock did not take to the sky, the feather knew it was home for a time.
Day by day, the flock grew smaller as birds flew to nearby areas, usually in pairs. The feather’s bird was still part of a larger group. The feather wondered how the birds decided to stay with the group or to pair up and move off. Once again, the feather was confused by the events going on around it. It quieted itself. No longer did it try and make itself like the other feathers. That had become too difficult as well as not working. The feather became quiet. It couldn’t fit in, and it also didn’t want to draw attention to itself. In its stillness, the feather felt the warmth of the sun and the gentle brush of a breeze, opening itself to absorb it all. The warm breeze helped it to feel strong and confident.
As the flock grew smaller, the feather noticed that the bird was acting differently around the remaining birds. With some, it was aggressive and tried to get them to leave. With other birds, it seemed to show off by walking proudly and trying to get their attention. When the bird was around these birds, the feather felt a tingle running up its shaft. This feeling made it want to pull away from the other feathers and to stand as straight and tall as it could. It actually wanted to be different and for the other birds to look at it because of how uniquely different it was.
Finally, the bird was chosen by one of the other birds that gave it a lot of attention, even as the others drifted away in pairs. As the two birds came together, the feather understood its difference and was glad about it. It had been the key to gaining the other bird’s attention. The feather’s angle and length showed that it was stronger than all of the other feathers on all of the other birds. It was because of this strength that the other bird had chosen the feather’s bird. The feather was happy with a deep contentment. To be so different from the other feathers, to not fit in, had been a gift that the feather was able to give the bird. To fit in, as it had tried so hard to do, would have left the bird alone when all the others had found a match. Realizing this, the feather quivered, held itself up as straight and tall as it could, spread itself to catch the breeze, and was happy.
The feather’s happiness continued until one day when the bird became angry at the feather and plucked it out, tossing it into a mud puddle. The feather was confused by the bird’s action. It wanted to be back with the bird, to return to that was impossible once it had been plucked. The feather lay in the puddle until the water had dried up. Now, covered in dirt, the feather felt invisible as it blended in with the ground. A tremendous sadness filled the feather, as it believed that it would remain on the ground until passers-by had trampled it into dust.
Many people traveled the path that the feather lay in. Some did step on it, causing bruising and rough it up a bit. It felt that its fears had been justified and were coming to be, and it wilted even further. Its days of purpose were gone. So, too, was the fear and excitement of clinging tightly to the bird as it flew high into the sky with the other birds as they traveled.
One day, a light rainfall started and fell continuously through the day. The tiny drops fell on the feather gently. Those that fell around it were not even large enough to make a sound or puddle as they hit the ground.
A woman walked down the path with her eyes downcast in sadness. She was thinking of her sleepless child who was having bad dreams that woke him the moment he fell asleep. As her lowered eyes followed the path, she saw the feather. The gentle rain had washed away the dirt and its unusual beauty and color now showed. Seeing the feather, the woman remembered the dream catcher that had hung above her bed as a child. Her mother had placed it there when she was having bad dreams and not sleeping. The woman had completely forgotten her own trouble with sleeping until seeing the feather. It was the colors of the feather that was so startling to her. The blues in it were the same color as her mother’s eyes.
Picking up the feather, the woman said a quiet thank you and shed a single tear in gratitude for the gift of the feather. As the tear slid down her cheek, it glistened in the emerging sunlight and looked like a diamond as it fell to where the feather had lain in the path.
The woman created a simple, but beautiful dream catcher. Hanging from its center was the feather.
Note: If you’re not familiar with dream catchers, know this, a dream catcher is a circle made from a slender branch or vine. A sinuous strand is woven across it, looking like a spider web. The web catches the bad dreams, however, the good dreams are able to slide down the feather to the sleeping person below. The feather dangled and drifted as a gentle feather wind blew. Securely attached, yet lithe and purposeful, it felt fulfilled.
Here is an attempt to write, jogged by a post by Jensinewell “Walking Through Doors” and how we often forget what we were looking for once we have changed environments. My comment to her post was that I have to stop walking through doors because I can’t remember anything. She suggested staying in one room to see if my memory improved, but which room?
The Memory Room
My mind is full of memories:
lessons learned, taught, memorized, forgotten.
Snapshots of my childhood
reality or stories told too often?
Years pass and memories layer like shingles on a roof.
Protection that gets added to, even as it decays over time.
Corners chip, debris erodes, layers buried.
Some are lost in storms, unnoticed for the moment, ’til needed.
A damaged section causes grief and needs attending to.
But where is it?
That Memory, that shingle
that has been
The Memory Room is there to fill in all the gaps;
from the grocery item you didn’t write down,
and forgot as soon as you walked out of the house,
to the exam question that you studied so hard for,
and lost the answer to as soon as you started the exam.
When list making or studying is done in the Memory Room,
those memories are never forgotten.
They are written write into your long term memory
as if they were your genetic makeup.
So take care what you choose to learn in there!
But there is yet a deeper side to the Memory Room
for memories of the past.
Sit in the room and be still, but not alone,
and all of your past will come back to you –
you cannot pick and choose.
Oh, that you could.
For that is what I fear –
that there will be something
I don’t want to see,
or possible worse,
nothing at all.
I really feel I should be writing a new post by now, but I’ve been too depressed. I’m working on a poem/piece of writing about a room that helps you recover memories, but it’s not done. I’m trying to keep up with everyone’s blogs as best I can. It helps to read them. I’ve things I want to say, but don’t want to keep being a downer. It’s frustrating that this disorder that was suppose to dissipate in my 40’s has not only NOT done that, but has flared up and gotten worse than it’s been in years. There’s things I’m afraid to say to anyone, here or off the internet. So they stay in my head.