The Vicious Flower

Today during my third group, I was able to come to a very enlightening discovery about myself.

For 45 minutes, we worked on our vicious flowers..

My intrusive belief was, “Isolation is better than seeking help.” Many of petals explained how isolating was a form of self harm in its own, etc. Then, at the the end of the exercise, the therapist called on each person to say aloud to the group one truth about themselves that they have been ignoring. When it was my turn, the following words fell from my lips:

I am worthy and deserving of recovery.

I kind of caught myself by surprise with this one. Wow…I’m worthy of happiness. I deserve peace. The entire day of processing had revolved around my own feelings of inadequacy; many times I have felt that I am the world’s punching bag. I don’t actually deserve happiness, but other people’s happiness depends on me.

Never have I really sat there and thought to recover my own self.

I’m doing better today. The suicidal thoughts have been pretty consistent lately. However, today I allowed myself to just feel shitty. If I didn’t feel like smiling, it was okay. And fuck, the groups are SO supportive. The amount of love and reach I have experienced over the past 4 days is absolutely incredible.

I do notice that I feel very split a lot of the time, and even my speech seems to not be able to keep up with my lips. This should go away, though.

On a last note, I am stressing over my disability insurance. I’m stressing about finances.

Advertisements

Tegretol and Ideation

Back to PHP I went.

I don’t even know where to begin with an update. It went well. I don’t remember driving to group. I signed in, had a little assessment, went to 3 groups. It was nice to be back. The therapist and social worker remembered me and welcomed me back. Everyone was just as sweet as they were when I left. New patients walk around freely, as I feel like a senior in high school; I know how everything works, which vending machine to avoid for the exploding sodas, so on and so forth.

I saw my therapist yesterday as well before she took off for a couple of weeks. I’ve gotta to say, she is the BEST therapist I’ve ever worked with. I’m so very fortunate to have her in my life. Completely. I don’t know how I would have come to the realizations that I have without her.

So, that was yesterday.

Today was a brand new day. I went to group, felt fuzzy like I had the day before. I met with my doctor. She asked me the usual questions, then mentioned something very serious: She said with the work that I’m doing now with my therapist, it may be an option for me in the near future to check in as inpatient, or even a resident. I think she is taking my opiate addiction and running with it a little… and my alcohol use. I don’t necessarily believe that I need inpatient treatment. I think I’m functioning, but I do need a little care I suppose.

She told me she is concerned about my eating habits. I guess I used to be concerned as well?

She also wants me to think about Tegretol. Has anyone used Tegretol? Did it help? It would be used (for me) to treat not only my bipolar disorder, but curb alcohol cravings. She also mentioned Vistaril, which I am interested in taking. I read up a little on Tegretol and it makes me a little nervous. I would rather take Lithium because I know for a fact it helps my swings and mood. However, she’s worried about my alcohol binging. I think I can control my binges with groups, etc.

Am I doing okay? I don’t know. I feel that I’m slipping. I feel apathetic. I feel… kind of lost, fuzzy, split, compartmentalized at times. I don’t feel all “myself” a lot. I’m scared of being alone because honestly, I’m very triggered to self harm. At least I’m being truthful with myself. I really, really, really want to harm myself and cut.

I feel very disconnected from my system.. very much like Rogue; she is isolated. Actually, I feel very much like Rogue.

I’ve met some really awesome people already. I’m glad to be getting help again. I hope that I can accept it. I feel very, undeserving and very sad right now. I feel a little bit like I’m wasting space.

It’ll be okay though.

Thank you for listening. You all have been such a great support system. I know we limited to letters on a screen, but honestly, I feel very loved here on WordPress.

Checking In, Checking Out- Back to PHP I Go

From the lobby into the evaluation room. Picking at my sweater… takes my blood pressure. I check out.

I’m sitting on the chair. She pushes her bracelets further up her arm. “Victoria? I asked you if you are suicidal currently?” I nod yes, but say no. She scribbles something down.

I’ve answered these questions hundreds of times before. Yes, I was traumatized. I was raped, beaten, father killed himself… well, no, see my mom abandoned me and I just met her 3 years ago- well, I didn’t really meet her.. Yes, I’ve attempted suicide. I suddenly feel that I’m on top of building.

“And how did your family members commit suicide?”

I check out again. I start feeling panicky. I smile, slightly shake my head and say, “I like your necklace.”

She responds, “Thank you. How long were you abused in the Church?” My lips go numb. I wasn’t talking about a church. I ask her, “Which church?”

She looks confused. “You had just told me that you had been physically abused in the Church of Scientology. How long did that last would you say?”

I check out again.

“Do you dissociate often?”

My heart is racing and my eyes are burning with tears that have refused to unfasten themselves. We talk more about medication compliance, self-harm. She asks me if I have an appetite. I stare down at my wrists…

“Last time you used heroin?”

Before I knew it, I was out in a flash. I just now heard from the hospital and my insurance has granted me 4 days of partial hospitalization for now. Hopefully, they will give me more once they witness my basketcasery.

I’m on the verge of a panic attack as it seems right now.

Princess of Wales

I had a small nervous breakdown yesterday while at work. It seemed that the flashbacks came on unexpectedly. I was unable to hold onto myself. The walls begun to cave in and I was left pushing the trap away from my body. Unfortunately, the way I currently know how to protect myself is through self harm.

I numbingly hacked away at my thighs, my hips, my stomach, my ribs, some of my wrist and throat. All the while, I was not feeling anything- no pain. Just absurdity at one point. 250 scrapes, scratches, and welts.

(The night before that, I had experienced my first full-force panic attack. I thought I was going to either have a heart attack or stroke. My chest tightened, my body went numb, my eyes went black and I couldn’t breathe. I could barely stand.)

Without going into too much detail, I’m constantly recalling fractions and filaments of my molestation. Now the images are unfamiliar and very, very fucking frightening. Fingers pushing through until I see red. Pressure. “Don’t resist. It hurts more when you resist.”

My ever-wonderful girlfriend took us to a beginner’s pottery class last night. She is well-seasoned in the clay craft. I am not. However, I had tons of fun and it got my mind off of the inevitable suffering that is my mind.

I have another therapy appointment on Thursday. I feel that I have been shooting down the rabbit hole with such ferocity lately. My mind has decided to split into more unattainable pieces. I know that the only way out is through. I’m just having a really, ridiculously difficult time sitting with the pain. A large part of me wishes that I could package this all up again and tuck it away some place that I wouldn’t find it again.

Then, I wonder why I had spun out of control last year to begin with. I remember the day where my girlfriend plucked me from my bathtub, naked and partly lost in psychosis. I remember the several days where I would stay home from work; I’d pull the curtains shut, drink, shoot, crush and inhale until I was floating in my own delirium. I would lie curled on the tear-soaked carpet for hours, staring so intensely into the wall ahead of me, I swear I’ve drilled a hole in it.

When I Kissed the Cement

Last night was difficult. I’m not even sure if I ever fell asleep. My body is tired, my eyes burn, I feel slightly off balance.

I sat out on my back porch steps watching the rain fall. I was on the phone with my girlfriend, sobbing, rocking myself back and forth. Just hours before, I was standing in the drizzle, talking to God like I always did, begging Him to please make it go away. I bent down to the floor and kissed the warm cement repeatedly, waiting to feel absolution.

I haven’t been this despondent since February.

I texted my therapist telling her I felt suicidal and I’m too scared to admit myself into a hospital. I don’t even know if that would be the right move. I keep waiting for this to go away. Tomorrow, it’ll be better again. I’ll be happy and cheery, this mess will be behind me. Yet tomorrow has shown its face over and over again. I’m not getting better.

I feel as if I’ve contracted an illness and all I can do is rest, try to recover. I know I’m not alone, but I feel like I am.

Perhaps going back to group would behoove my mental crises. I have no idea.

Last night was really painful.

Bedrooms and Bipolar Flicks

As I sat in the movie theater, the lights above me darkened and the noise began to dull. Somewhere from behind my eyes, tears pushed themselves and hurdled onto my unsuspecting lap. Surrounded by an audience of 40 people or so, how could I feel so alone?

The familiar “movie feeling” has infected my every thought again. Nothing feels real, and when it does, it passes by me so quickly that I barely have time to enjoy it.

I am depressed. 

Hello, friend, with your dark cape and roots. Have you packed a bag? If so, you know where the sofa is. Would you care for sugar in your tea as well? No? That’s right…you like it bitter. I’ll be over here…well, you know where to find me…

At first, I thought that the episode was the usual two day bug. It’s been 22 days since I looked out the hotel window from the 22nd floor and really wondered if I would die on impact.

Wow. 22 days. It feels like it’s only been about a week. I’m looking at my calendar right now in disbelief. Almost a month. It’s scary. Actually, terrifying, usually. I lose myself. But what’s really terrifying is when I stop being terrified. Instead, I feel nothing. Instead, death no longer frightens me.

What a fucked up illness. There’s not even a “problem.” There’s nothing to solve. You ride it, or it rides you. Unfortunately, we’re too tired to strap on our riding boots, so we become the buck.

I want to be held. All night, never to be let go. And if I wake up crying, fuck it, let me lie there and cry it out. Hold on to me so I don’t have to hold on to myself. Because I can’t.

What a maudlin rant. Excuse me, bloggees and bloggers.

This weekend, my girlfriend’s friend came in from out of state, I did have a great time with them both. I thoroughly enjoyed the laughs and meals we all shared together. The weather has been very out of character for California. We are experiencing humid thunderstorms and heavy rain. It’s my favorite weather, minus the suffocating humidity floating in the air. It’s nice for a while, though.

Tonight we watched Infinitely Polar Bear in the theater. It was a GREAT movie. I don’t normally give reviews of any kind on my blog, but this is worth a watch. It’s about a manic depressive father who is basically raising two daughters on his own because his wife and mother of his children decides to pursue her education. I’ll post the trailer so you can check it out…

It was interesting to watch the translation of an adult living with bipolar disorder. The movie made me think of my own future as a parent- something I think of frequently.

The system has kept quiet and have retreated to their respective bedrooms. Or, maybe I’ve retreated to mine and I’m just unaware of them. Dee leaves me notes every now and then. Allie is taking care of Senka. Rogue is sad and isn’t doing so well.

This is what the hallways looks like:

1989c_40hallway-contThis is what the common room looks like:

1989c_37blue-room-reverse

In other news, my girlfriend has cut my hair short! I like it.

Waste Basket- Triggers

My thoughts this morning as I lay crumpled in tears next to my sleepy girlfriend: (not for the faint of heart. suicide, drugs, self mutilation)

1. I wonder what was going through my father’s mind as he injected himself one last time with his lethal opiate cocktail. I wonder what he was thinking when he wrote his last letter, his farewell memo. Did he see my face, my brother’s, or sister’s? Did he really think the world would shine brighter without him in it? I wish I could remember what he smelled like, how his arm muscles felt when he picked me up, or how his face wrinkled when he smiled. I wish I could remember his voice. Remember, Dad, when you wrote me my first birthday card? How you said you’d always be there for me and I was your little sweetheart?

2. My grandfather. His Alzheimer’s took over. He had always been my dad; taught me how to ride a bike, how to build with nails and wood, how to weld metal, how to dance Cumbia and Salsa. He taught me about music like Glenn Miller, Arite Shaw, Frank Sinatra. He showed me my culture, the language, the passion. When the family first found out that I had been cutting and had become suicidal, he looked at me with a heavy heart and said, “What happened to my little girl? You used to follow me around like a puppy. Now, you barely even say goodnight to me.” I had hit that teen angst, and I was sucked into solitude. It had hurt him that I had become apathetic and unresponsive. Fast forward a few years when his memory was being eaten alive. I called my grandparents house. He answered with a shaky voice, “Mija, when are you coming back?” I had moved out of the house at that point. I was impatient on the phone… “Soon, Tata, soon…” The regrets I bare now are unbearable.

3. Am I a selfish person? Like my father? My grandfather, in his own and old way was begging to see me before he forgot my face. I was so wrapped up in my own selfish little world. Why couldn’t I have looked past my irrelevant bubble to see his human desperation?

4. I must have felt what my dad felt the moment he boiled his tar. Years ago, I too sat in my bedroom, saturated with benzos. I relived it this morning whilst thinking of it. I had clutched these bottles of pills in my hands, thoroughly weighing the pros and cons of my suicide. In the past, it had hurt to realize there were more pros. This time, however, something terrible had shifted within me and I felt peace. Everything would be okay. I hope to never lose myself again to the irreparable ideation. What a terrifying place to be… no longer able to feel emotion, ready to pull the trigger, to jump, to inject, to inhale, to swallow and hang.

5. I want drugs. Anything I can snort. I want to sift through all the drawers here and find as many hydrocodones and I can. Crush, snort, repeat.

6. Will I ever meet my mom? Do I even care anymore? I’m embarrassed to admit to anyone that nearly every time I call her, she sounds high. Sometimes it doesn’t even register to her that she’s talking to me. I call her on my way home from work, she blames it on her exhaustion. Until I hear her husband in the background, “Come back baby, one more hit.” I stay on the phone, pushing back tears. I just want her to talk to me. I just want to tell her about my day. Mom, I’m having a hard time, please for fucks sakes, can you please just listen to my problems for once? Even if you don’t care? I hang the phone up, left to my own thoughts, feelings, fear. I go home, panicked because I’m home alone. I’m drawn to the bathroom cabinet like a moth to a flame. I fill the bathroom sink up with water, take out a razor blade, and hold my wrist under the faucet. This is not the answer…. put the blade away. I crawl under my sheets, text my girlfriend and cry.

7. How much more of this can I hold on to? I’ve lived my entire life with the magnificent ability to control my emotions, to eat them like air. Down they go to lie. I am beginning to feel sick and one by one, they come bellowing out from my stomach. I feel too humiliated to ask for help. “It’s always something, isn’t it? You should be better by now. Come on, we’re all going through something.” I’m just sad. I’m sad about Father’s Day, I’m sad that my mom can’t even hold a sober conversation with me, I’m sad that I’m sad.

8. Okay, Lazarus, that’s enough emotion for you now. Suck it back down

down

down

down

The Steel Baby

I woke up from a semi heart-wrenching dream this morning. I was a little girl, playing in a living room. It wasn’t a familiar room to me.

(I must have manufactured it from memories my mother had told me about: She said when my dad committed suicide, she had returned to the apartment and his walls were covered with pictures of me.)

There I sat, on the carpet. My dad walked in the door. He looked tired, rugged, worn out. I clutched onto a stuffed animal he had given me- Topaz the wolf. I had been coloring pictures for him to decorate his fridge with.

There was an uncomfortable silence. With a small voice, I asked, “Dad, why aren’t you here anymore?”

Through a foreign gaze, he replied, “I’ll show you why.”

He grabbed my arm, pulled out a pouch, and sat next to me on the floor. He pushed a heroin needle into my vein. The stuffed animal fell from my grasp and I collapsed into the dirt-footed carpet. I opened my eyes wide and stared at the ceiling fan beating overhead. Foomp, foomp, foomp…

“Relax,” he whispered, “You’ll sleep in a moment.”

Foomp, foomp, foomp.

We died. All of a sudden, I was looking down from the ceiling fan, onto our bodies. My stuffed animal just inches away from my fingertips, his gun and needle centimeters from his reach. Sirens.

Happy Father’s Day.

Tell Me You’ve Gotten My Charts All Wrong

I came to a nervous realization last night. I preface this with a disclaimer- I’m not self diagnosing, nor am I trying to evaluate my own mind because lord knows I am not qualified. However, after researching DID, some key points and symptoms began standing out to me. The ground beneath me shook.

“…Other symptoms include voices heard, self alteration, derealization, depersonalization, flashbacks, trance, identity confusion, and awareness of other states. They also experience… voices arguing, voices commenting, thought withdrawal, thought insertion, made impulses, made feelings and made actions. Finally, these individuals with struggle with auditory hallucinations, which are not psychotic, but the symptoms imitate psychotic symptoms…”

The obvious question that immediately entered my mind was: What if I was misdiagnosed with Schizoaffective Disorder? I suppose that doesn’t necessarily cover the paranoia, the visual hallucinations… it was just a thought. I have an appointment with a new doctor on July 1st.

A couple of hours before I fell asleep, the all-too-familiar suicidal thoughts began pervading my mind. However, this time, I didn’t feel that I MYSELF was suicidal. Yet, I still had the feelings. I’m unsure how to describe it.

Actually, early yesterday, I felt as if I was fighting myself just to stay here.

While we were sleeping, my girlfriend said that Senka kept coming out. I can’t remember if I’ve ever mentioned Senka on this blog or not. I’ll write about her later. She’s 5. That’s about all I know.

I’m going to talk to my therapist about seeing her more frequently. I feel as if I am on the threshold of making some kind of progress or breakthrough…

Surgeon- DID Awareness

Did I do alright?

Dissociative. From the ropes,
strand by strand I fray and fetter
the subtle parts of me that seem sentient.
I am your marionette, your effegial host.
Take notes the ways my eyes dart and split.
I am your enigma. The study paper you’ve spent
midnights and 4 AMs over, thumbing through
highlighted pages and smudged out marks.
You seek the answers from the text,
unknowing that the soul is in the spine.

Identity- the hardcover, the publishing company.
In which year were we created? All of us.
The dealer, the child, the God, the citizen,
the nympho and murderess, the innocuous adolescent.
Existing hand in hand in hand
running, barely escaping thresholds of time
by the clutches of stale memories.
Will you burn us together, then?
What does it feel like?

Disorder. Have we known our lives without it?
We have been sleeping since the day they
came home, families with red eyes and an
abandoned apartment key. Heavy hearts,
Consciousness, you have betrayed the child of death,
the daughter left survived by nothing but slim steel
and 5 sheets of a regretful memoir.
I am prone to the parasitic hunger of
evanescence- in which my only hope for survival
is us,
we,
them.

We are not sick.
We are the surgeons of
a wounded spirit. Scalpel-
her heart is bleeding heavy.
Let us take over; you are delirious from the attack.
When you awaken, you will be aggregate.