Friday, August 23, 2013
"There are things known and unknown, and in between are the doors of perception." ~Aldous Huxley
I remember once telling a young friend how much I value my alone time--and then I felt like a fraud because I was immediately visited by a vivid memory of wandering about my empty house during one of those "alone" times, feeling overwhelmed with longing and sadness to the point that I fell to my knees and whispered, "I'm lonely." After years of being able to connect deeply with only one person, my soul was dying. I believe it was then that I began cataloguing all the reasons I was not deserving of such depth and connection and I decided that, perhaps, people only connect with their spouses and everyone else in the world was incidental.
I began carefully guarding everything meaningful in my life, making certain I didn't share it in casual conversation. After all, if I was speaking with a person who would simply chat with me and then forget I existed, it was vital that they know nothing about me. Soon I had built a persona who was a brilliant conversationalist, genuinely interested in whomever I was speaking, while passionately guarding all the things that make me Samantha. I had in my repertoire, short personal anecdotes designed to make the other person laugh and relax while telling them nothing about who I really am, but which would keep the conversation moving while allowing my new acquaintance to feel that they were learning more about me, thus encouraging him or her to share more personal information of their own.
It was a defense mechanism. Learning all I could about people with whom I interacted allowed me to ascertain the level of safety I felt with them. It also put them at ease and ensured that they felt congenial toward me--I was interested in them, therefore I was their friend. However, knowing that they knew nothing concrete about who I really was also served to make me feel defensive and a bit condescending toward them. I felt little respect for people willing to talk nonstop about themselves, but unwilling to dig deeply or care enough about me to find out who I am. The loneliness I had felt previously ballooned into a nameless ache.
I immersed myself in projects that required no one else. I read everything I could find, practiced incessantly, worked constantly. I drew enjoyment from running and being aware of my environment. I noticed everything. I took classes to become the best mother I could be and spent time with my children. I played with recipes, planted flowers, wrote terrible poetry, became a brilliant business woman and successful teacher. And when the loneliness whispered at me, I ran from it, refusing to look at a problem that could not, in my mind, be resolved.
Finally, after years of running, someone caught up with me. He made his way deeply into my heart. It was dreadful. I didn't like it at all. My entire being rejected the way this person pushed at my boundaries, repeatedly trying to connect with me on different levels. And when I eventually gave up and allowed myself to bond in friendship, he grew out of our friendship, put it aside, and disappeared from my life in a rather ugly way. In the meantime, I had allowed myself to indulge in other relationships--real connections with real people who seemed as interested in me as I was in them. And it was still dreadful. And I still didn't like it.
I can list endlessly the reasons why relationships feel frustrating and unsafe. I can blame PTSD and not bonding with parents or family members. I can name people I know who also struggle with maintaining and understanding relationships. All this is unhelpful. I can't seem to move to a place where I accept that some relationships are temporary, and that's okay, and some last longer--also okay. I am always afraid.
I've never really thought of myself as a fearful person. I do things all the time that other people would avoid because they're intimidating or difficult. But in the area of interpersonal relationships, I live in fear.
A year after DJ moved out, I told Adam that I was pretty certain DJ didn't love me anymore--didn't even think about me anymore, really. I cited reasons. I had many. They seemed logical to me. I spoke of this dispassionately. I said it was regretful, but DJ was an adult. There was nothing I could do about it. I heard Adam sniffle. When I looked up at him he was weeping. He said I was wrong.
For days I wondered why my words had made Adam cry. Finally, I asked him. He told me it was hurtful to him that if, indeed, I felt DJ was becoming distant, I would allow that to happen without making an effort to find out why, or without trying to change the situation. He said DJ spoke of me often, admired me, loved me deeply, wished he had more time to spend with his family. He said it made him sad that I had difficulty understanding that I was loved and he didn't know how to fix that.
Many of my posts on this site, probably 80% of them, map my struggle as I try to understand people, love, and relationships. I talk frankly of my feelings and fears linked to those things. I discuss the agony I feel as I try to build and strengthen the relationships I've formed in the past eight years, even as I am afraid and insecure. I talk of boundaries, and relationship health, and trust--all of which are deeply important to me, but terribly difficult for me to maintain.
And I don't know if I will ever stop feeling fear. I don't know if I'll ever know how to accept love without question. I don't know if the times when I feel abandoned or ignored, fabricated by my subconscious, will stop feeling normal and expected. I don't know if I'll someday reach a point where I don't need frequent reassurance and expressions of love in order to continue facing the incessant fear present in each relationship in my life.
I don't know.
But I'm trying. I've been trying for eight years. It's been a miserable mixture of wonderful and terrifying and dreadful. And I'll keep trying as long as those involved will stay. Someday, though, I want to stop being afraid.
Wednesday, August 21, 2013
"A loving relationship is one in which the loved one is free to be himself." ~Leo F. Buscaglia
I used to believe that in each of my relationships there would come a time when I would need to "let go." This has may connotations:
1. Letting go of expectations while allowing hope and belief in each other to flourish.
2. Letting go of past hurts.
3. Letting go of negative beliefs and belief cycles so that trust can enter in.
4. Letting go of preconceived notions and learning to see what is real.
5. Letting go of the other person--meaning, releasing control and allowing the other person the freedom to go or stay as they see fit.
Anyone who knows me understands that accepting the above tenets will cause me stress, panic attacks, and insecurity. They also know how much I want to do it because in my head, those constitute healthy relationships and I want those desperately.
I'm rethinking this, however. I'm not sure those things are correct.
1. Expectations are part of relationships. Hope and belief are wonderful and should have a place, for sure, but a relationship without expectations becomes amorphous. For instance, I expect people who care about me to acknowledge me when they see me. I expect them to hug me and allow me to hug them back. I expect Darrin to want to make love with me. I expect anyone close to me to trust me enough to confide, and allow me to do the same. I expect to be loved. And I believe those things are reasonable and necessary. They provide intimacy and boundaries. I don't believe I need to let go of expectations in order to have a healthy relationship. I just need to be certain those expectations are logical within the scope of each relationship.
2. I'm not sure that past hurt goes away. I think I believe we learn to cope, the hurt becomes less present, and we find ways to address the needs that arise without using our past as an excuse or crutch for our behavior. And in some cases, I believe we eventually might feel empathy or understanding toward the person who hurt us--not always, but often in the case of those with whom we frequently interact and share love. Letting go infers that I can continue as if something did not happen, which is imprudent. We learn from mistakes--ours and others. We find ways to avoid repetition and we use the resulting knowledge and experience. The hurt is a part of our lives. It's more helpful to accept it as a pivotal point and build upon it, than to forget it happened.
3. I think rather than letting go of the negative beliefs and belief cycles, I need to learn to change them into more positive ones. I need to understand the roots of the beliefs that cripple me, look for the reality in those roots, see what is relevant and discard that which is not. I need to confront the beliefs that stem from dishonesty or from harmful experiences, see the reality in those beliefs and find the truth about myself--no matter what that truth might be. Mostly though, I need to stop relying on those negative beliefs when I feel alone or vulnerable. I need to build new beliefs built on new, positive experiences, and stemming from people who genuinely care for me. I'm not sure it's possible to "let go" of core beliefs. I do believe, however, that it's possible to see them as they are, identify the ones that are baseless, and find ways to help the beliefs morph into more constructive, positive, honest ones.
4. This one I agree with. Completely.
5. The jury is out on this. I suppose at this point in my life, I believe in allowing the person freedom to become whomever they will. I believe in encouraging relationships with other people--even when that means time with me will be compromised or diminished. I believe in supporting those additional relationships when they are healthy and bring joy to those I love. I'm very aware that relationships ebb and flow, and that some just ebb, eventually. Interest waxes and wanes. Close friendships are difficult to maintain. Best friends find other best friends. It's all part of being human and interacting with one another.
So perhaps, rather than "letting go", I feel instead that I must allow people who have relatinships with me to grow, change--to "become." My hope is that they'll become people who wish to remain in my life, that they'll share in the things I have to offer. I hope they'll tell me about their daily routines, share stories about their pasts, and find ways to spend time with me as I do the same for them. I know it won't always be so. In fact, most of the time it won't. But I hope it will.
"Hope is important because it can make the present moment less difficult to bear." ~Thich Nhat Hanh
1. Letting go of expectations while allowing hope and belief in each other to flourish.
2. Letting go of past hurts.
3. Letting go of negative beliefs and belief cycles so that trust can enter in.
4. Letting go of preconceived notions and learning to see what is real.
5. Letting go of the other person--meaning, releasing control and allowing the other person the freedom to go or stay as they see fit.
Anyone who knows me understands that accepting the above tenets will cause me stress, panic attacks, and insecurity. They also know how much I want to do it because in my head, those constitute healthy relationships and I want those desperately.
I'm rethinking this, however. I'm not sure those things are correct.
1. Expectations are part of relationships. Hope and belief are wonderful and should have a place, for sure, but a relationship without expectations becomes amorphous. For instance, I expect people who care about me to acknowledge me when they see me. I expect them to hug me and allow me to hug them back. I expect Darrin to want to make love with me. I expect anyone close to me to trust me enough to confide, and allow me to do the same. I expect to be loved. And I believe those things are reasonable and necessary. They provide intimacy and boundaries. I don't believe I need to let go of expectations in order to have a healthy relationship. I just need to be certain those expectations are logical within the scope of each relationship.
2. I'm not sure that past hurt goes away. I think I believe we learn to cope, the hurt becomes less present, and we find ways to address the needs that arise without using our past as an excuse or crutch for our behavior. And in some cases, I believe we eventually might feel empathy or understanding toward the person who hurt us--not always, but often in the case of those with whom we frequently interact and share love. Letting go infers that I can continue as if something did not happen, which is imprudent. We learn from mistakes--ours and others. We find ways to avoid repetition and we use the resulting knowledge and experience. The hurt is a part of our lives. It's more helpful to accept it as a pivotal point and build upon it, than to forget it happened.
3. I think rather than letting go of the negative beliefs and belief cycles, I need to learn to change them into more positive ones. I need to understand the roots of the beliefs that cripple me, look for the reality in those roots, see what is relevant and discard that which is not. I need to confront the beliefs that stem from dishonesty or from harmful experiences, see the reality in those beliefs and find the truth about myself--no matter what that truth might be. Mostly though, I need to stop relying on those negative beliefs when I feel alone or vulnerable. I need to build new beliefs built on new, positive experiences, and stemming from people who genuinely care for me. I'm not sure it's possible to "let go" of core beliefs. I do believe, however, that it's possible to see them as they are, identify the ones that are baseless, and find ways to help the beliefs morph into more constructive, positive, honest ones.
4. This one I agree with. Completely.
5. The jury is out on this. I suppose at this point in my life, I believe in allowing the person freedom to become whomever they will. I believe in encouraging relationships with other people--even when that means time with me will be compromised or diminished. I believe in supporting those additional relationships when they are healthy and bring joy to those I love. I'm very aware that relationships ebb and flow, and that some just ebb, eventually. Interest waxes and wanes. Close friendships are difficult to maintain. Best friends find other best friends. It's all part of being human and interacting with one another.
So perhaps, rather than "letting go", I feel instead that I must allow people who have relatinships with me to grow, change--to "become." My hope is that they'll become people who wish to remain in my life, that they'll share in the things I have to offer. I hope they'll tell me about their daily routines, share stories about their pasts, and find ways to spend time with me as I do the same for them. I know it won't always be so. In fact, most of the time it won't. But I hope it will.
"Hope is important because it can make the present moment less difficult to bear." ~Thich Nhat Hanh
Paying Tribute to Tolkien Boy on the Day of His Birth
I have been remiss in my birthday
tributes to important people in my life--partly because I've been missing
birthdays completely. However, because I'm awake, I believe I will take
time to acknowledge Tolkien Boy who was born on this day. I've known him
just shy of seven years now. These are things we have said during the time I
have known him:
9/8/2006
Tolkien Boy: I think you're charming. But I hardly know you
at all.
me: No. Very few people do.
9/20/06
me: Are you my mother?
Tolkien Boy: I am not your mother. I am a snort.
me: I love that book.
me: I love that book.
Tolkien Boy: So do I.
2/1/07
me: So, according to Tolkien Boy...
1. Even if life gets
in the way, it's not out of line for me to remind you that I miss you.
2. Friendships are
valuable enough to fight for--to make time for.
3. It's probably not
the best idea to encourage friends to disappear, just because I'm afraid they might.
4. You're not planning
to disappear, and neither am I.
Did I miss anything on my "TB says" list?
Tolkien Boy: 5. Tolkien Boy loves you a great, great
deal.
me: That's the best one.
10/15/08
me: When do you get to go barefoot?
Tolkien Boy: Nights after 10. Usually.
And Fridays and Saturdays.
me: That's not enough. I think you need more
barefoot time.
Tolkien Boy: I'll quit my job post haste. :)
4/19/09
me: I have a secret desire to be in a pie
fight someday.
Tolkien Boy: You'd look good in a pie fight.
me: I think I would last five minutes. Then I
would want a shower desperately.
Tolkien Boy: pie shower
me: Ick.
6/22/10
Tolkien Boy: Oh, well, I'm not trying to avoid the
question, just recognizing that I'm maundering
me: I know. I'm just reminding you that should
you wish to share the maundering, you have a captive audience.
Tolkien Boy: Hardly captive, but I appreciate it
me: You aren't the captor, you are the
captivator.
Tolkien Boy: lol I so love your turns of phrase
me: Very important. I should hate to be boring.
Tolkien Boy: I wonder if I am
me: Are you bored with you?
Tolkien Boy: no
me: Then I would say you are not.
2/14/11
me: Okay, but Tolkien Boy, for future reference,
don't start a conversation loving me madly and end by apologizing. Just leave
it at the loving part--okay?
Tolkien Boy: dude
me: Did you just call me "dude"?
Tolkien Boy.: I love you so much
words
me: Now you may apologize.
Tolkien Boy.: do not describe my loving
2/15/11
me: Tolkien Boy, are you sure you weren't
drinking last night?
Tolkien Boy.: You know, I wonder about that too. I took an
energy drink, and it really made me weird. It was a gift from a friend a while
ago--near my birthday. I'll have to look at it. Maybe it was
alcoholic. I thought it was caffeinated...she said she got it for me so I
could get all my diet cokes out of the way at the beginning of the day. It's
called something weird...loco or something like that
me: Four Loko?
Tolkien Boy: That sounds familiar. Is that a thing?
me: Four main ingredients:
Tolkien Boy: it tasted awfu. I only had half
the can and then tried to sleep
me: Alcohol, caffeine, taurine, guarana
Tolkien Boy: you're kidding
me: Nope
Tolkien Boy: oh my goodness
me: Up to 24 proof.
Tolkien Boy: wow
um
wow
processing this
huh
I guess that would
explain a lot, then
good grief
I thought it was just
an energy drink
me: Also explains why it didn't really put a
dent in that migraine.
It's been banned on
several college campuses. Produces unexplained injuries and blackouts.
Tolkien Boy: wow.I'm glad I only had half the can
wow
well
I guess I was drinking
huh
2/27/12
Tolkien Boy: I'm writing a poem.
me: What is your poem about?
Tolkien Boy: Hipsters
me: Why?
me: Why?
Tolkien Boy: It occurred to me that someone should.
me: Okay. What are hipsters? Actually, I
guess I'm asking this: There are many definitions of hipsters; which are
you using?
Tolkien Boy: The general fashion/attitude one. Would you like to hear it?
me: Yes.
Tolkien Boy: "Hipsters, terribles enfants ,
invented very ugly
pants."
me: Is that the end?
Tolkien Boy: Yup!
me: Well, all things considered, it might be
more than they deserve.
5/8/13
me: Does it look odd to you when you see
your reflection?
Tolkien Boy: Well, I'm never sure. Sometimes I seem quite
attractive, other times I look positively monstrous. I've never had a good
even attitude about my looks.
me: Well, if it helps at all, I rather love the
way you look. And I never see monstrous anything about you--interior or
exterior.
Tolkien Boy: That's very nice of you--thank you. I
worry about it too much sometimes. Fortunately, though, it's not an
obsession.
me: I'm glad you're not obsessed. And just so
you know, I don't say things to be nice. If I didn't actually feel that way, I
wouldn't say it. I'd say, "Wow, that sounds awful. I hope everything evens
out for you one day."
Tolkien Boy: lol
I would know what that meant, you know.
I would know what that meant, you know.
me: Yes. But I assume you prefer honesty.
Tolkien Boy: Only when it comes from perfectly charming
people. :)
me: Speaking of charming people, I saved a
message from you that you sent on my birthday in 2008 because
you sang me the birthday song. And I accidentally deleted it. Now I have
no more Birthday Song from Charming Tolkien Boy on my phone. It's sad. It
has been saved for almost five whole years.
Tolkien Boy: I can send you another.
me: I would like that. Then I can save it for
five more years.
Happy birthday, Tolkien Boy. We've had nearly seven years of continuous conversation--moments that have made me laugh out loud, and some that have made me cry a little. I would trade those moments for nothing in this world. You've blessed my life and I love you.
Tuesday, August 20, 2013
"The secret of life is honesty and fair dealing. If you can fake that, you've got it made." ~Groucho Marx
For years I've been saying to my online friends, "Real life comes first." Translation: If we're chatting and a friend comes to visit or a spouse needs personal attention, or some other interpersonal, face-to-face social opportunity arises, we need to end our conversation and tend to the people who are present in our lives. I'm not negating the importance of online friends. I'm just stressing that people need to be with people in real time. It's healthy. It offers things that cyberspace relationships cannot. It's real.
That doesn't mean that I don't want our conversation to continue or that I don't feel a bit lonely when the other person leaves. It just means I want the best for people I love, and spending time talking with me online when they could be with another person in real life, is not "best".
I realized last fall that my "in-person" people time was not as abundant as it should be. I began spending more time with Darrin and Adam, and inviting DJ to lunch more often. I spent as many weekends as possible with Tabitha, and I tried to connect with friends in Utah when I visited Tabitha, as well. I also began to make more friends in my hometown.
There were a couple of women who have repeatedly invited me to parties or lunch or just to take walks with them. I began accepting their invitations. And it was fun.
One of the women, Holly, seemed particularly interested in spending time with me. We talked often. She asked many questions about Tabitha and my boys. She wanted to know about my interests and ideas. And she was willing to share her personal information, as well. We spent quite a bit of time together. Darrin even consented to having date nights with my friend and her spouse.
This week Holly and I hit a snag. I've written about the difficulties with PTSD that cropped up over the past month. Granted, since I've eliminated the prescription culprit from my life, managing that particular monster has been much easier, but I still have moments that I don't handle things as gracefully as I would prefer.
Since I've spoken with Holly a great deal over the past year, she's aware of my stance on communicating boundaries and relationship needs. She knows I don't pick up on hints (which is sometimes because I miss them and other times because I choose not to notice they've been dropped). She understands that I'm more comfortable when someone tells me things with words, rather than hoping I'll draw a situation based conclusion. And one of the reasons I feel close to Holly is because she's been very careful to make certain I understand the nuances of our friendship--she spells things out for me. Often I've already figured things out, but it's a great relief when my conclusions are reiterated by her. She's very good about making sure I know we're on the same page.
I thought this happened because Holly was aware I have PTSD and wanted to make sure I was comfortable. It turns out that this is just part of her personality. She's a verbal person. I know this because I mentioned a couple of weeks ago that I was having difficulty managing PTSD symptoms. She looked at me quietly for a moment, then to my surprise, she changed the subject. I assumed she just didn't want to talk about me at that time, and didn't worry about it.
This weekend Holly asked if she could come talk to me. I was happy to have her visit. I enjoy being with her. But I was unprepared for her words. She told me she had personal experience with loved ones who had PTSD. The experiences were not positive. Holly has done a great deal of research about the disorder, seeking information of how to support and be of help to her loved ones. She let me know that trying to be a support person had left her feeling sad and helpless much of the time. She wished that she could make things better or that she could ease pain--but she couldn't.
Holly let me know that she's not ending our friendship, just drawing a boundary. She would like to spend time with me, talk with me, but she would prefer that I find support for times when PTSD is difficult, in other people. She feels ill-equipped to fill that role. She asked if I was okay with that. I said I was. People fill all sorts of roles in the lives of their friends. She's my "chat and go to lunch" friend. I told Holly I didn't need more support people for when PTSD was difficult. I had plenty of those in my life.
And that was a lie which was completely unfair because she had been honest with me. But I couldn't bring myself to say, "Well, I hoped you might be a person I could talk to when I felt sad, but I understand where you're coming from and it's okay." I knew if I said that she'd feel guilty and I might end up losing what friendship I have with her. I don't want that.
In addition to that, there is a part of me that feels very happy that she was honest, she told me something that was probably difficult for her to say, and she let me know exactly where I stand with her. She did this BEFORE I looked to her for support which is so much better than having someone in your life you believe can be of support, but who really isn't in a place, emotionally, where they can provide it. The result of this is that the person disappears when you desperately need a bit of reassurance. And Holly didn't skirt the issue. She knows people with PTSD can be needy. She let me know that my needs must be filled elsewhere.
Naturally, I feel some embarrassment and disappointment. No one likes to have someone they like and admire say, in essence, "You have the potential to be needy and when that happens, I'd like you to go elsewhere." It sucks. But it also lets me know exactly where I stand in our friendship. And it's what I need to hear. I don't have to guess. I don't feel uncertain or insecure. And I won't make a mistake and try to talk to her when I need someone to help me through a time when PTSD issues are overwhelming.
The timing of all this was very bad. My huge family was here this weekend. They were civil, even cordial, so it's not like I had a horrible experience with them. But I felt stressed, and hearing the words from Holly (while I absolutely appreciate her honesty), at the same time was not easy. But I'm beginning to believe that for me, good timing doesn't really exist, so it would be well for me to learn to roll with the punches.
I'm also understanding that it might be a good idea to figure out what I'm looking for when I seek out friends. I didn't realise until Holly bowed out, that I actually was looking for a friend to support me when I lacked strength to manage PTSD on my own. Probably it's best not to have that ulterior motive when I seek social interaction.
Still, I have to give myself props for attempting real life. I don't love looking for friends. It's sort of like dating with no end game involved, and I don't like it. But I'm doing it. Yay, me.
That doesn't mean that I don't want our conversation to continue or that I don't feel a bit lonely when the other person leaves. It just means I want the best for people I love, and spending time talking with me online when they could be with another person in real life, is not "best".
I realized last fall that my "in-person" people time was not as abundant as it should be. I began spending more time with Darrin and Adam, and inviting DJ to lunch more often. I spent as many weekends as possible with Tabitha, and I tried to connect with friends in Utah when I visited Tabitha, as well. I also began to make more friends in my hometown.
There were a couple of women who have repeatedly invited me to parties or lunch or just to take walks with them. I began accepting their invitations. And it was fun.
One of the women, Holly, seemed particularly interested in spending time with me. We talked often. She asked many questions about Tabitha and my boys. She wanted to know about my interests and ideas. And she was willing to share her personal information, as well. We spent quite a bit of time together. Darrin even consented to having date nights with my friend and her spouse.
This week Holly and I hit a snag. I've written about the difficulties with PTSD that cropped up over the past month. Granted, since I've eliminated the prescription culprit from my life, managing that particular monster has been much easier, but I still have moments that I don't handle things as gracefully as I would prefer.
Since I've spoken with Holly a great deal over the past year, she's aware of my stance on communicating boundaries and relationship needs. She knows I don't pick up on hints (which is sometimes because I miss them and other times because I choose not to notice they've been dropped). She understands that I'm more comfortable when someone tells me things with words, rather than hoping I'll draw a situation based conclusion. And one of the reasons I feel close to Holly is because she's been very careful to make certain I understand the nuances of our friendship--she spells things out for me. Often I've already figured things out, but it's a great relief when my conclusions are reiterated by her. She's very good about making sure I know we're on the same page.
I thought this happened because Holly was aware I have PTSD and wanted to make sure I was comfortable. It turns out that this is just part of her personality. She's a verbal person. I know this because I mentioned a couple of weeks ago that I was having difficulty managing PTSD symptoms. She looked at me quietly for a moment, then to my surprise, she changed the subject. I assumed she just didn't want to talk about me at that time, and didn't worry about it.
This weekend Holly asked if she could come talk to me. I was happy to have her visit. I enjoy being with her. But I was unprepared for her words. She told me she had personal experience with loved ones who had PTSD. The experiences were not positive. Holly has done a great deal of research about the disorder, seeking information of how to support and be of help to her loved ones. She let me know that trying to be a support person had left her feeling sad and helpless much of the time. She wished that she could make things better or that she could ease pain--but she couldn't.
Holly let me know that she's not ending our friendship, just drawing a boundary. She would like to spend time with me, talk with me, but she would prefer that I find support for times when PTSD is difficult, in other people. She feels ill-equipped to fill that role. She asked if I was okay with that. I said I was. People fill all sorts of roles in the lives of their friends. She's my "chat and go to lunch" friend. I told Holly I didn't need more support people for when PTSD was difficult. I had plenty of those in my life.
And that was a lie which was completely unfair because she had been honest with me. But I couldn't bring myself to say, "Well, I hoped you might be a person I could talk to when I felt sad, but I understand where you're coming from and it's okay." I knew if I said that she'd feel guilty and I might end up losing what friendship I have with her. I don't want that.
In addition to that, there is a part of me that feels very happy that she was honest, she told me something that was probably difficult for her to say, and she let me know exactly where I stand with her. She did this BEFORE I looked to her for support which is so much better than having someone in your life you believe can be of support, but who really isn't in a place, emotionally, where they can provide it. The result of this is that the person disappears when you desperately need a bit of reassurance. And Holly didn't skirt the issue. She knows people with PTSD can be needy. She let me know that my needs must be filled elsewhere.
Naturally, I feel some embarrassment and disappointment. No one likes to have someone they like and admire say, in essence, "You have the potential to be needy and when that happens, I'd like you to go elsewhere." It sucks. But it also lets me know exactly where I stand in our friendship. And it's what I need to hear. I don't have to guess. I don't feel uncertain or insecure. And I won't make a mistake and try to talk to her when I need someone to help me through a time when PTSD issues are overwhelming.
The timing of all this was very bad. My huge family was here this weekend. They were civil, even cordial, so it's not like I had a horrible experience with them. But I felt stressed, and hearing the words from Holly (while I absolutely appreciate her honesty), at the same time was not easy. But I'm beginning to believe that for me, good timing doesn't really exist, so it would be well for me to learn to roll with the punches.
I'm also understanding that it might be a good idea to figure out what I'm looking for when I seek out friends. I didn't realise until Holly bowed out, that I actually was looking for a friend to support me when I lacked strength to manage PTSD on my own. Probably it's best not to have that ulterior motive when I seek social interaction.
Still, I have to give myself props for attempting real life. I don't love looking for friends. It's sort of like dating with no end game involved, and I don't like it. But I'm doing it. Yay, me.
Thursday, August 15, 2013
"Thinking has its place, but at some point it becomes a means of avoiding our lives instead of living them." ~Philip Simmons
I'm not going to talk in depth about the things on my mind, but I want to put them here.
1. Flu shot reactions, wildly fluctuating blood pressure, and medication.
I noticed about a month ago that I was waking at night, around 2 a.m., with stomach distress. It was an odd burning sensation that circled the outside of my stomach, rather than nausea or heartburn. I don't know how else to describe is. The burning then morphed into a pinching sensation. It was very strange and kept me awake for hours. In addition to this, it was not uncommon for me to be walking and suddenly feel faint. This usually happened in the late afternoon and as one of my kids were often with me, it freaked them out. They kept nagging me to go to a doctor. If I sat down, drank some water or breathed deeply, the dizziness would usually pass within ten minutes and I felt fine.
Between the two above symptoms, however, I started feeling miserable, so I began a process of elimination to figure out what was causing them. I finally narrowed it down to the medication I was prescribed to regulate my blood pressure after the flu vaccine sent it careening wildly up and down. I stopped taking the medication. The next day I felt better--in every way. Four days later I felt like a new person. I scheduled a doctor visit last week to make sure I wasn't being stupid.
When I described my symptoms to my doctor, he told me that fewer than 1% of patients had similar side-effects (not a big surprise to me--medicine and I do not agree most of the time). I also mentioned that since I'd stopped the medication, my difficulty with PTSD had all but disappeared. My doctor did a double-take, apologized to me, and said that in the rush to stabilize my blood pressure (which was bouncing between 225/115 and 80/55), he had forgotten I have an "emotional disorder". Apparently, the prescribed drug is not a good fit for people who have PTSD, and has the effect of exaggerating symptoms, often to the point of causing suicidal depression. Awesome.
So Doctor checked my blood pressure, which is normal, and said, "I think you need to stay off meds for now. We'll monitor you. You might need medication for something after a decade or two, but your blood tests don't indicate a predisposition to...well...anything, really. You're probably the healthiest person I'll see this year."
So I went home, called Tolkien Boy, apologized for being a beast for the past seven months, explained what had happened and suggested that we still be friends. He said okay. Next week I'll apologize to my kids. Hopefully, they'll let me keep being their mother. Then I'll apologize to Darrin and ask if we can keep being married. Life with me is never boring, but sometimes it's less than delightful.
2. Living without being consumed by irrational thoughts and feelings.
As I've not done this for seven months, I have to admit that I'm not quite sure how to handle the LACK of stress. That sounds weird.
Part of the problem is that when I'm overwhelmed by PTSD symptoms, there are many negatives (fear, insecurity, emotional pain, being certain that something bad is going to happen or that I will be abandoned by those I love, feeling worthless, not wanting to live...), but paired with that is an intensity of feeling that includes love and attachment. In short, I feel a greater depth of love and connection, but those "connection" times keep being interrupted by the less positive symptoms. The disconnect causes an increase in irrational thought--but when someone reassures me or talks with me, I feel an even greater intensity of love and connection...You can see why this cycle is unhealthy and difficult to manage, right?
If you can't, probably you don't have PTSD or any related disorder, nor do you know anyone who lives with those conditions. Or you are inordinately logical and all this sounds like a bunch of hooey--and maybe it is.
Regardless, now that the meds that were causing the problems are gone, I'm left feeling level and lucid, which is wonderful, but also not particularly in love with anyone right now. I'm guessing that's because I'm emotionally exhausted, having ridden the emotional roller coaster of the past seven months and trying constantly to manage the ups and downs without losing my mind. But no matter the cause, I'm still not really excited about people, in general. This is not the PTSD symptom that makes me run away and hide, it's just a lack of delight when someone appears in my chat box or sends me a message through email or Facebook. And even though I still make phone calls and chat with people, I keep thinking that I really have nothing to say and feel no compulsion to connect with anyone. I feel like I need a huge break from affection of any kind--which also means that hugging--cuddling--any physical expression of love, does not appeal to me.
I've thought about trying to decide what all this means. I've wondered how to handle it diplomatically, since I live with four people who expect me to hug them and one who enjoys having sex with me. But to be honest, I spent a great deal of time during the past seven months thinking of how to manage the drug-induced turmoil inside of me, and quite frankly, I'm tired of thinking about how to be a normal person.
So if I lack enthusiasm when contacted, please don't take it personally. It's not you. It's me. I'm completely worn out, emotionally, and I just don't have the stamina to pretend to enjoy human interaction--which doesn't mean I don't want it (well, I would want it if I had the energy). It just means that I'll be so much more delightful after about two months of recovery.
And now I'm done thinking about this. I'm going to go run, sit in a jacuzzi and stretch my silly, spastic muscles, work online, make lesson plans, decide what treats to make for an upcoming party I'm obligated to attend, and read something beautifully written, non-emotional, and fun.
The End.
1. Flu shot reactions, wildly fluctuating blood pressure, and medication.
I noticed about a month ago that I was waking at night, around 2 a.m., with stomach distress. It was an odd burning sensation that circled the outside of my stomach, rather than nausea or heartburn. I don't know how else to describe is. The burning then morphed into a pinching sensation. It was very strange and kept me awake for hours. In addition to this, it was not uncommon for me to be walking and suddenly feel faint. This usually happened in the late afternoon and as one of my kids were often with me, it freaked them out. They kept nagging me to go to a doctor. If I sat down, drank some water or breathed deeply, the dizziness would usually pass within ten minutes and I felt fine.
Between the two above symptoms, however, I started feeling miserable, so I began a process of elimination to figure out what was causing them. I finally narrowed it down to the medication I was prescribed to regulate my blood pressure after the flu vaccine sent it careening wildly up and down. I stopped taking the medication. The next day I felt better--in every way. Four days later I felt like a new person. I scheduled a doctor visit last week to make sure I wasn't being stupid.
When I described my symptoms to my doctor, he told me that fewer than 1% of patients had similar side-effects (not a big surprise to me--medicine and I do not agree most of the time). I also mentioned that since I'd stopped the medication, my difficulty with PTSD had all but disappeared. My doctor did a double-take, apologized to me, and said that in the rush to stabilize my blood pressure (which was bouncing between 225/115 and 80/55), he had forgotten I have an "emotional disorder". Apparently, the prescribed drug is not a good fit for people who have PTSD, and has the effect of exaggerating symptoms, often to the point of causing suicidal depression. Awesome.
So Doctor checked my blood pressure, which is normal, and said, "I think you need to stay off meds for now. We'll monitor you. You might need medication for something after a decade or two, but your blood tests don't indicate a predisposition to...well...anything, really. You're probably the healthiest person I'll see this year."
So I went home, called Tolkien Boy, apologized for being a beast for the past seven months, explained what had happened and suggested that we still be friends. He said okay. Next week I'll apologize to my kids. Hopefully, they'll let me keep being their mother. Then I'll apologize to Darrin and ask if we can keep being married. Life with me is never boring, but sometimes it's less than delightful.
2. Living without being consumed by irrational thoughts and feelings.
As I've not done this for seven months, I have to admit that I'm not quite sure how to handle the LACK of stress. That sounds weird.
Part of the problem is that when I'm overwhelmed by PTSD symptoms, there are many negatives (fear, insecurity, emotional pain, being certain that something bad is going to happen or that I will be abandoned by those I love, feeling worthless, not wanting to live...), but paired with that is an intensity of feeling that includes love and attachment. In short, I feel a greater depth of love and connection, but those "connection" times keep being interrupted by the less positive symptoms. The disconnect causes an increase in irrational thought--but when someone reassures me or talks with me, I feel an even greater intensity of love and connection...You can see why this cycle is unhealthy and difficult to manage, right?
If you can't, probably you don't have PTSD or any related disorder, nor do you know anyone who lives with those conditions. Or you are inordinately logical and all this sounds like a bunch of hooey--and maybe it is.
Regardless, now that the meds that were causing the problems are gone, I'm left feeling level and lucid, which is wonderful, but also not particularly in love with anyone right now. I'm guessing that's because I'm emotionally exhausted, having ridden the emotional roller coaster of the past seven months and trying constantly to manage the ups and downs without losing my mind. But no matter the cause, I'm still not really excited about people, in general. This is not the PTSD symptom that makes me run away and hide, it's just a lack of delight when someone appears in my chat box or sends me a message through email or Facebook. And even though I still make phone calls and chat with people, I keep thinking that I really have nothing to say and feel no compulsion to connect with anyone. I feel like I need a huge break from affection of any kind--which also means that hugging--cuddling--any physical expression of love, does not appeal to me.
I've thought about trying to decide what all this means. I've wondered how to handle it diplomatically, since I live with four people who expect me to hug them and one who enjoys having sex with me. But to be honest, I spent a great deal of time during the past seven months thinking of how to manage the drug-induced turmoil inside of me, and quite frankly, I'm tired of thinking about how to be a normal person.
So if I lack enthusiasm when contacted, please don't take it personally. It's not you. It's me. I'm completely worn out, emotionally, and I just don't have the stamina to pretend to enjoy human interaction--which doesn't mean I don't want it (well, I would want it if I had the energy). It just means that I'll be so much more delightful after about two months of recovery.
And now I'm done thinking about this. I'm going to go run, sit in a jacuzzi and stretch my silly, spastic muscles, work online, make lesson plans, decide what treats to make for an upcoming party I'm obligated to attend, and read something beautifully written, non-emotional, and fun.
The End.
Thursday, August 8, 2013
"We learned a lot, and lost a lot of sleep." ~Mabel Smith
A few days ago Adam borrowed the scan/fax program on my computer for some documents he needed to send to school. When he closed the program he didn't leave my computer. Instead, I heard him say, "Uh...Mom...what IS this?"
"This" was a page I'd left open. Classwork from a Calc II class I've been taking this summer. And there were tabs from a genetics and a writing class I'd left open, as well. I explained that I get bored sometimes so I take online classes. Adam said, "Mom, this is what we've been talking about."
I had no idea what that meant, so he explained: "You do things, or things happen to you and you never tell anyone. Don't you think we should know you're taking online classes?"
I said, no. I had no reason to believe anyone would be interested in that. Besides, I'm a little embarrassed that I get bored and fill my time with geekdom, and I'm not excited to share that with my kids. Adam said, "Is this what you do when you can't sleep?"
He's not stupid. I suppose I could work then, but when everyone's sleeping and I can't, working seems to add insult to injury. I'd rather do something interesting that I enjoy. Adam said, "Genetics and creative writing I understand. Those are kind of cool. But--calculus?"
I like it. I always have. And I feel no compulsion to explain myself to my son who has the luxury of being able to sleep for hours at a time. So I didn't.
But here I am, doing my calculus assignments, reading about gene dominance, and thinking about what I'll write next, and beneath it all I'm wondering if I'll ever get to sleep tonight. So I think I might do something different. I have a book about fairies waiting for me to finish it.
"This" was a page I'd left open. Classwork from a Calc II class I've been taking this summer. And there were tabs from a genetics and a writing class I'd left open, as well. I explained that I get bored sometimes so I take online classes. Adam said, "Mom, this is what we've been talking about."
I had no idea what that meant, so he explained: "You do things, or things happen to you and you never tell anyone. Don't you think we should know you're taking online classes?"
I said, no. I had no reason to believe anyone would be interested in that. Besides, I'm a little embarrassed that I get bored and fill my time with geekdom, and I'm not excited to share that with my kids. Adam said, "Is this what you do when you can't sleep?"
He's not stupid. I suppose I could work then, but when everyone's sleeping and I can't, working seems to add insult to injury. I'd rather do something interesting that I enjoy. Adam said, "Genetics and creative writing I understand. Those are kind of cool. But--calculus?"
I like it. I always have. And I feel no compulsion to explain myself to my son who has the luxury of being able to sleep for hours at a time. So I didn't.
But here I am, doing my calculus assignments, reading about gene dominance, and thinking about what I'll write next, and beneath it all I'm wondering if I'll ever get to sleep tonight. So I think I might do something different. I have a book about fairies waiting for me to finish it.
Friday, August 2, 2013
Junk Mail
I have a bazillion different email addresses. And I have a perfectly logical explanation for why each exists. However, last year when my life became insane, I stopped deleting and organizing regularly, and one of my mailboxes became very, very full. This morning I had 7421 unread messages.
This particular email address is the one I give to people who regularly forward doomsday warnings, recipes, family newsletters, and funny sites. I don't really have time for those and I definitely don't want the emails clogging my work inbox. I call this my "junk" email address and try not to remember that it's the only one I give to my family members.
So today I spent time cleaning up. I am currently down to 4690 messages.
I realized, after spending an hour scanning them, that if the messages are a year old and I haven't read them and no one's followed up or tried to contact me about them, I don't need to scan--I can just delete them. After that wise thought, the clean-up process has become quick and easy. Unfortunately, this particular email system does not allow me to delete more than 100 messages at a time, so I might be doing this for awhile.
I think, when I've had time to sort through the things I've stored in my head, I will need to do the same thing with some baggage that's been hanging around for more than a year. That might take a little longer than clicking on a box and hitting delete, but the long-term benefits will be necessary and helpful.
Last year was traumatic. When I experience trauma, one of the most devastating effects is loss of self. I'm not talking about self-worth. I actually begin to lose my sense of who I am. I forget the things I can do. I don't sleep. I lose all that is magic.
The past 10 months I have spent trying to regain that sense of self. It hasn't been easy, and if you're close to me, probably it took a toll on our relationship. When I'm doing self-definition crap, usually it means I question everything and everyone and trust is non-existent. And I'm not finished. I've been regaining strength and vitality, remembering the things I love, and testing limits in relationships--now I'm ready to rebuild.
Letting go of things I no longer need, even when they've been helpful, is part of rebuilding. Recognizing losses will be a part of that, as will learning to value gains--which will be the last step. It's intimidating, and unlike my email purge, there are no shortcuts. But I need to do this and I need to do it now.
I chose not to plant my flower/herb/tomato garden again this year. The Big Guy didn't send any miracle flowers to bail me out this time, but I'm okay with that. There is something about walking by my front garden, noticing last year's old canes and dried debris that has not been cleared out, and telling myself it's okay--I needed to take a break--that feels calming and important. It also allows me to recognize that the opportunity to plant is not gone; it will come again next year and the year after that...
As with my garden, I'm allowing time for other things that I would normally take care of immediately. It feels reassuring to know that I don't have to hurry, and while some things might be late or not get done at all, it's more important for me to take care of my internal health right now.
The next three weeks will be busy as I prepare to teach my class and private students, and Darrin, the kids, and I try to coordinate schedules and cars and time together.
I suppose the purpose of this post is to allow me to record that I'm giving myself time to become Samantha again. I'm allowing myself to not be powerful and perfect all the time. I'm remembering that while I AM very strong, I'm also vulnerable in many ways. I have a great deal of energy, but sometimes I need to rest. I know many things, but the most important are yet to be learned. I love with abandon, but I need to learn how to trust those I love (a learning process from which I recoil repeatedly).
And after all that I've written, I find myself toying with the idea of buying all the clearance flowers I can find, cleaning out the dead stuff in my garden, and filling it with the flowers just because I miss them. Probably that means I'm sort of hopeless when it comes to learning life lessons that are good for me, but I prefer to believe it just means I love flowers.
This particular email address is the one I give to people who regularly forward doomsday warnings, recipes, family newsletters, and funny sites. I don't really have time for those and I definitely don't want the emails clogging my work inbox. I call this my "junk" email address and try not to remember that it's the only one I give to my family members.
So today I spent time cleaning up. I am currently down to 4690 messages.
I realized, after spending an hour scanning them, that if the messages are a year old and I haven't read them and no one's followed up or tried to contact me about them, I don't need to scan--I can just delete them. After that wise thought, the clean-up process has become quick and easy. Unfortunately, this particular email system does not allow me to delete more than 100 messages at a time, so I might be doing this for awhile.
I think, when I've had time to sort through the things I've stored in my head, I will need to do the same thing with some baggage that's been hanging around for more than a year. That might take a little longer than clicking on a box and hitting delete, but the long-term benefits will be necessary and helpful.
Last year was traumatic. When I experience trauma, one of the most devastating effects is loss of self. I'm not talking about self-worth. I actually begin to lose my sense of who I am. I forget the things I can do. I don't sleep. I lose all that is magic.
The past 10 months I have spent trying to regain that sense of self. It hasn't been easy, and if you're close to me, probably it took a toll on our relationship. When I'm doing self-definition crap, usually it means I question everything and everyone and trust is non-existent. And I'm not finished. I've been regaining strength and vitality, remembering the things I love, and testing limits in relationships--now I'm ready to rebuild.
Letting go of things I no longer need, even when they've been helpful, is part of rebuilding. Recognizing losses will be a part of that, as will learning to value gains--which will be the last step. It's intimidating, and unlike my email purge, there are no shortcuts. But I need to do this and I need to do it now.
I chose not to plant my flower/herb/tomato garden again this year. The Big Guy didn't send any miracle flowers to bail me out this time, but I'm okay with that. There is something about walking by my front garden, noticing last year's old canes and dried debris that has not been cleared out, and telling myself it's okay--I needed to take a break--that feels calming and important. It also allows me to recognize that the opportunity to plant is not gone; it will come again next year and the year after that...
As with my garden, I'm allowing time for other things that I would normally take care of immediately. It feels reassuring to know that I don't have to hurry, and while some things might be late or not get done at all, it's more important for me to take care of my internal health right now.
The next three weeks will be busy as I prepare to teach my class and private students, and Darrin, the kids, and I try to coordinate schedules and cars and time together.
I suppose the purpose of this post is to allow me to record that I'm giving myself time to become Samantha again. I'm allowing myself to not be powerful and perfect all the time. I'm remembering that while I AM very strong, I'm also vulnerable in many ways. I have a great deal of energy, but sometimes I need to rest. I know many things, but the most important are yet to be learned. I love with abandon, but I need to learn how to trust those I love (a learning process from which I recoil repeatedly).
And after all that I've written, I find myself toying with the idea of buying all the clearance flowers I can find, cleaning out the dead stuff in my garden, and filling it with the flowers just because I miss them. Probably that means I'm sort of hopeless when it comes to learning life lessons that are good for me, but I prefer to believe it just means I love flowers.
Monday, July 29, 2013
Sometimes the sunrise is pink.
I'm much better today than I was a year ago--in every way.
That being said, I still struggle throughout each day to stay on top of the emotions and other symptoms brought on by stress and PTSD. And I've not successfully been able to manage the nightmares that keep me from sleeping at night.
For awhile now I've had difficulty with nearly every relationship in my life--and I've lost closeness in some of my most important relationships. I think this is partially because I'm unpredictable, emotional, and moody. No one likes spending time with people like that.
I tried to mend some of the relationships with mediocre success--then I wallowed in self-pity while I missed the things that I could not mend. But I think I'm finished with that.
This weekend was very difficult. I realize as I write this that pretty much every weekend for many months, has been very difficult. And the days in between, too. But there were extenuating circumstances that made this particular weekend difficult.
I awoke this morning, exhausted and frustrated--definitely not ready for a day of wrangling with investment companies who made mistakes on tax documents for my client; and not ready to talk to student loan companies for another client; and really, really, not wanting to do the online work waiting for me.
As I waded through piles of paperwork for a client, called an attorney, met with the client, and made more telephone calls, I left 10% of my brain thinking about me. That 10% made some a decision.
I don't believe anyone would argue that my life has taken a turn into desperately trying circumstances over the past two years. That being said, I've spent a great deal of time being angry about this. I've ranted and wept and said it's not fair. And it didn't make me feel any better.
Today when I went to the gym I saw a blind man swimming. I'm not blind. He noticed my presence, smiled, and said, "I hope you're having a wonderful day." I thought for a moment; my body was in pain, my tendon was screaming at me, and I was dreading work. But I can see. I told him I was and wished him the same.
The decision made by the 10% of my brain which was thinking about me, was this: It's time for me to look for the good things.
I've lost closeness in some of my relationships. But I HAD those relationships and they were joyful and delightful and I learned a million things about love and trust and life while we were close.
I've lost financial security. But I've never been without a job or a way to get a job. I've gained new students, I'll be teaching at the university in the fall, I have my online job and finance/tax clients. I have debts that need to be paid--some have been sent to collection--but in time, I will pay them. I have a ruined credit rating, but I have nothing I need to buy right now that requires a pristine credit rating. I have all my needs met.
I'm still struggling with physical problems in my leg. But I can walk and run (on a limited basis) and I'm healthy in every other way. I've always been able to manage pain. This is something I can work through.
I'm not sleeping well at night, but my job allows me to take short naps during the day in a sunlit room which inhibits nightmares and allows me to continue working. And someday, if I'm able to access the tools I put in place a few years ago, I'll be able to manage the nightmares and sleep better at night.
I have difficulty maintaining friendships. But I think lots of people encounter this problem and I've decided not to blame PTSD--or just me--for this. Friendship is a two-way street. I can only take responsibility for me. Being my friend is not an easy thing. I ask uncomfortable questions, discuss topics that others might avoid, and I'm honest about what I'm feeling--even when what I feel is not what someone else might want to hear. But at least they don't have to guess. And I suppose it's a positive thing that I allow people to go when they're ready. Maybe. I mean, I try to talk things out, but if it's clear that I'm the only one talking, I understand when it's time to say good bye. I guess I'm saying, I really do try to accommodate the feelings and schedules of people I love, even when that means things don't work out as I might hope.
It's time for me to read more books about magic and adventure, play more pieces that make my heart sing along, invent recipies with beautiful food, smell more roses, take more walks, and drown myself in the sky. Circumstances, peopole, and PTSD aside, it's time for me to live in the Happy.
Thursday, July 25, 2013
Sometimes I don't like how I feel after a conversation.
I'm here tonight because I need to talk to myself. If you're not me, feel free to leave the conversation at any time.
I left a chat with Tolkien Boy tonight feeling deeply disturbed and sad. I need to figure this out.
A while ago TB told me that I was part of his life. He's said it before, but in my head it doesn't compute.
I need background here:
When I first met TB, I had no problem with spontaneously chatting with him at any time and about any thing. In my mind it didn't matter because, while I liked him a great deal, I knew that four years from then he might think of me occasionally, or phone me every couple or years, or send me a post card when he went to Great Britain, but I wouldn't really be in his life anymore so what I did while I WAS in his life had little significance.
But then four years went by and at some point he said something about "best friends", and continued our endless conversation, and visited me, and called me sometimes, and suddenly I had no frame of reference for what was happening because I don't do long-term relationships unless they're contractual.
So my response was to become freaked out in a very large way. I began to suspect that my presence was bothersome to him, that he tolerated me, but didn't really want to talk to me unless he was bored at work. And that feeling began to increase exponentially. I thought it was PTSD. I blamed it on PTSD. But maybe it was something else.
I talked with TB about what was happening. Because he's lovely and sweet, he reassured me again and again and again that he cares about me and enjoys spending time with me. It didn't help. I blamed PTSD. I don't think it was PTSD. I think it was something else.
Recently we talked about "being" in another person's life. I told him how difficult it was for me to understand that sometimes I'm thought of or spoken of by him. While I understand how truly uncomplimentary it is for me to believe TB has no connection with me unless I'm somehow present (because I think of him frequently--especially when I see something that reminds me of time we've spent together or something he cares about or just enjoys...you get the picture), it's still nearly impossible for me to think of myself as a key person in another's life. But I decided I needed to try to think differently and I needed to stop feeling like I was an intruder when I initiated a conversation or phone call, and I needed to be "in" TB's life, just as he is part of mine.
I did a number of things to try to revamp my thought patterns and TB responded in ways that were loving and validating, but my response was to become more and more stressed. I blamed a million other things (because I have a smorgasbord of stressful things to choose from right now), but those weren't what was causing my stress.
So then I tried to talk about it with TB tonight. That was sort of a disaster.
However, in the process of the conversation I recognized a few things:
1. I don't have context. I don't know how to have loving, close relationships with people outside of Darrin and my children. This is because, as a child, closeness and affection were rare, and they ceased completely after I turned seven. But I didn't stop loving my parents. I loved them so much it seemed to consume me--and this included the mother who abused me physically and emotionally. I loved her--deeply and with my whole soul. I remember when I was nine, lying in my bed one night, feeling how very much I loved my parents and wanting desperately to be held and told that I was loved in return. I finally ran downstairs, distraught and weeping, and nearly shouted at my parents, "Mom! Dad! I love you so much!" and then I hugged them. Their response, after the initial shock, was to return my hug rather embarrassedly, then remind me I needed to be in bed.
I wanted them to ask me to sit with them for a few minutes. I wanted them to tell me I was valued and special. I went to bed instead and cried very softly so that I wouldn't disturb anyone. What I learned from this was that my love is uncomfortable and embarrassing--and definitely not desirable. I learned that people will respond if I enthusiastically declare my love, but only because response is expected, not because it is felt. I learned I needed to keep my effusive show of affection under wraps and that I needed to never reveal how deeply I might love another person because they would find it uncomfortable and embarrassing.
2. I have internalized some things without realizing it. As part of my therapy, about four years ago, I was to talk with my mother. I was supposed to ask her how she felt towards me. I think Therapist, because he really does believe I'm awesome, believed my mother would help me understand that she loved me, she just wasn't good at expressing this, and that she was proud to have me as a daughter. However, the conversation took a turn for the bizarre when my mom let me know how glad she was to have me as a friend--she counted me as one of her closest friends--but she never really thought of me as her daughter.
I remember feeling devastated. I think my mom believed she was paying me a compliment. She had no idea how hurt I was. I was cordial and civil through the rest of our visit. After she left, I think I cried for days. I think this experience explains my animosity toward friends and friendship and my antagonism toward the institution, as a whole. Those are undeserved, but I have difficulty being grateful for friendship when I wish to be a daughter. I learned from this experience that my mom is happy to associate with me as long as no one knows I'm her offspring, that she's ashamed of me, somehow, and that she's comfortable with the limitations and boundaries of friendships when it comes to our relationship. I learned that I'm fun to be around, but I don't deserve familial intimacy. I learned that even my mother does not want more than a distant tie to me--so how can anyone else wish for closeness with me?
And so, as TB and I try out the "being in each other's lives" thing, all I can think about is that this is an impossibility. I'm not really loveable. I don't belong in my blood family, so belonging to people outside of that entity is not something I really comprehend. And trying to become something different is causing me a great deal of pain.
I suggested to TB that people like me should probably just be "apart" from other people. He asked me if that means I want to stop being a part of his life. I don't even know how to answer that question. Do I want that? No. If I did, I would never have tried the "being" in his life in the first place. I wouldn't be talking to him nearly every day for the past seven years. I wouldn't ask his opinions and advice. I wouldn't miss him. But I don't have any idea how to feel about this. It makes me hurt inside.
My head is saying, "Sam--this is a good, healthy relationship lots of people wish they had--and you have it. Why are you feeling pain about it?" And my heart answers, "I don't know."
I'm going to bed now. I can't figure this out at all.
I left a chat with Tolkien Boy tonight feeling deeply disturbed and sad. I need to figure this out.
A while ago TB told me that I was part of his life. He's said it before, but in my head it doesn't compute.
I need background here:
When I first met TB, I had no problem with spontaneously chatting with him at any time and about any thing. In my mind it didn't matter because, while I liked him a great deal, I knew that four years from then he might think of me occasionally, or phone me every couple or years, or send me a post card when he went to Great Britain, but I wouldn't really be in his life anymore so what I did while I WAS in his life had little significance.
But then four years went by and at some point he said something about "best friends", and continued our endless conversation, and visited me, and called me sometimes, and suddenly I had no frame of reference for what was happening because I don't do long-term relationships unless they're contractual.
So my response was to become freaked out in a very large way. I began to suspect that my presence was bothersome to him, that he tolerated me, but didn't really want to talk to me unless he was bored at work. And that feeling began to increase exponentially. I thought it was PTSD. I blamed it on PTSD. But maybe it was something else.
I talked with TB about what was happening. Because he's lovely and sweet, he reassured me again and again and again that he cares about me and enjoys spending time with me. It didn't help. I blamed PTSD. I don't think it was PTSD. I think it was something else.
Recently we talked about "being" in another person's life. I told him how difficult it was for me to understand that sometimes I'm thought of or spoken of by him. While I understand how truly uncomplimentary it is for me to believe TB has no connection with me unless I'm somehow present (because I think of him frequently--especially when I see something that reminds me of time we've spent together or something he cares about or just enjoys...you get the picture), it's still nearly impossible for me to think of myself as a key person in another's life. But I decided I needed to try to think differently and I needed to stop feeling like I was an intruder when I initiated a conversation or phone call, and I needed to be "in" TB's life, just as he is part of mine.
I did a number of things to try to revamp my thought patterns and TB responded in ways that were loving and validating, but my response was to become more and more stressed. I blamed a million other things (because I have a smorgasbord of stressful things to choose from right now), but those weren't what was causing my stress.
So then I tried to talk about it with TB tonight. That was sort of a disaster.
However, in the process of the conversation I recognized a few things:
1. I don't have context. I don't know how to have loving, close relationships with people outside of Darrin and my children. This is because, as a child, closeness and affection were rare, and they ceased completely after I turned seven. But I didn't stop loving my parents. I loved them so much it seemed to consume me--and this included the mother who abused me physically and emotionally. I loved her--deeply and with my whole soul. I remember when I was nine, lying in my bed one night, feeling how very much I loved my parents and wanting desperately to be held and told that I was loved in return. I finally ran downstairs, distraught and weeping, and nearly shouted at my parents, "Mom! Dad! I love you so much!" and then I hugged them. Their response, after the initial shock, was to return my hug rather embarrassedly, then remind me I needed to be in bed.
I wanted them to ask me to sit with them for a few minutes. I wanted them to tell me I was valued and special. I went to bed instead and cried very softly so that I wouldn't disturb anyone. What I learned from this was that my love is uncomfortable and embarrassing--and definitely not desirable. I learned that people will respond if I enthusiastically declare my love, but only because response is expected, not because it is felt. I learned I needed to keep my effusive show of affection under wraps and that I needed to never reveal how deeply I might love another person because they would find it uncomfortable and embarrassing.
2. I have internalized some things without realizing it. As part of my therapy, about four years ago, I was to talk with my mother. I was supposed to ask her how she felt towards me. I think Therapist, because he really does believe I'm awesome, believed my mother would help me understand that she loved me, she just wasn't good at expressing this, and that she was proud to have me as a daughter. However, the conversation took a turn for the bizarre when my mom let me know how glad she was to have me as a friend--she counted me as one of her closest friends--but she never really thought of me as her daughter.
I remember feeling devastated. I think my mom believed she was paying me a compliment. She had no idea how hurt I was. I was cordial and civil through the rest of our visit. After she left, I think I cried for days. I think this experience explains my animosity toward friends and friendship and my antagonism toward the institution, as a whole. Those are undeserved, but I have difficulty being grateful for friendship when I wish to be a daughter. I learned from this experience that my mom is happy to associate with me as long as no one knows I'm her offspring, that she's ashamed of me, somehow, and that she's comfortable with the limitations and boundaries of friendships when it comes to our relationship. I learned that I'm fun to be around, but I don't deserve familial intimacy. I learned that even my mother does not want more than a distant tie to me--so how can anyone else wish for closeness with me?
And so, as TB and I try out the "being in each other's lives" thing, all I can think about is that this is an impossibility. I'm not really loveable. I don't belong in my blood family, so belonging to people outside of that entity is not something I really comprehend. And trying to become something different is causing me a great deal of pain.
I suggested to TB that people like me should probably just be "apart" from other people. He asked me if that means I want to stop being a part of his life. I don't even know how to answer that question. Do I want that? No. If I did, I would never have tried the "being" in his life in the first place. I wouldn't be talking to him nearly every day for the past seven years. I wouldn't ask his opinions and advice. I wouldn't miss him. But I don't have any idea how to feel about this. It makes me hurt inside.
My head is saying, "Sam--this is a good, healthy relationship lots of people wish they had--and you have it. Why are you feeling pain about it?" And my heart answers, "I don't know."
I'm going to bed now. I can't figure this out at all.
Saturday, July 20, 2013
Thinking
I've been reading tiny articles sent my way from Google+, Linkedin, and Facebook, that tell me my mood/happiness/success/motivation/whatever are completely mine to own. And I believe that.
This is not a post in which I state that those articles are simplistic and misleading--even though they are. And it's not a post in which I decide to climb on the bandwagon and just get over everything that seems to be dragging me down.
I'm guessing, if you know me personally, you have not seen me sad very often. And if you have, I'm guessing that if we talked about it, I made you laugh. It is not natural for me to be gloomy or grouchy.
That being said, I also know that while we choose, to some extent, to linger in sadness or to do something different, there is value in allowing ourselves to process difficult experiences--and sometimes that means we won't be happy for a little while. So the "15 Things Happy People Do Differently" lists, don't really apply in those times.
I struggle often with the feeling that my life is not shareable--that it's filled with ugly events, the knowledge of which causes other people discomfort. I've lived with knowing members of my family do not believe the things I have told them--and that disbelief continued until my cousin, Jeff, corroborated my story by telling his own. That same disbelief is now leveled at my daughter as she allows others to know of her abuse experience at the hands of my brother. I understand disbelief. I felt pangs of it myself when I first heard the abuse story. I clung to disbelief as a means of survival, in regards to my own experiences, for many years.
Disbelief is one thing that keeps abuse and rape survivors in the victim mode and in the end it is irrelevant. It cannot erase events. Eventually the survivor moves forward, discarding those who cannot lend support, and clinging to those who will give support and accept it, as well, in times when their lives feel vulnerable.
I woke with the sun this morning--which is normal for me. Saturday = sleeping in for everyone in my family except me. For me, sleeping in = at least three days of insomnia. And I don't love sleeping anyway, so it seems silly to do it just because it seems to be a tradition for people who work nine to five, Monday through Friday.
Birds sing differently as the sun rises. This morning the sunrise was gorgeous and unusual. Rain was falling softly, but the sky was only partially cloudy. This happens often in July. I watched the sun color the rainclouds until they finally dispersed. The birdsong increased in volume as the clouds lifted, then became quiet background chatter.
I have much to do today; things I have left until I felt able to manage panic and PTSD problems. Today I can do those things. I've missed deadlines and put off clients, and I have yet to finish my syllabus and make the Power Point slides for my classes. Laundry is piled high and I'm pretty sure I didn't clean the kitchen last night before I went to bed.
But the point is, I'm finally ready to do those things.
However, I think I'm going to talk a walk first. It's a beautiful day. I plan to enjoy it.
This is not a post in which I state that those articles are simplistic and misleading--even though they are. And it's not a post in which I decide to climb on the bandwagon and just get over everything that seems to be dragging me down.
I'm guessing, if you know me personally, you have not seen me sad very often. And if you have, I'm guessing that if we talked about it, I made you laugh. It is not natural for me to be gloomy or grouchy.
That being said, I also know that while we choose, to some extent, to linger in sadness or to do something different, there is value in allowing ourselves to process difficult experiences--and sometimes that means we won't be happy for a little while. So the "15 Things Happy People Do Differently" lists, don't really apply in those times.
I struggle often with the feeling that my life is not shareable--that it's filled with ugly events, the knowledge of which causes other people discomfort. I've lived with knowing members of my family do not believe the things I have told them--and that disbelief continued until my cousin, Jeff, corroborated my story by telling his own. That same disbelief is now leveled at my daughter as she allows others to know of her abuse experience at the hands of my brother. I understand disbelief. I felt pangs of it myself when I first heard the abuse story. I clung to disbelief as a means of survival, in regards to my own experiences, for many years.
Disbelief is one thing that keeps abuse and rape survivors in the victim mode and in the end it is irrelevant. It cannot erase events. Eventually the survivor moves forward, discarding those who cannot lend support, and clinging to those who will give support and accept it, as well, in times when their lives feel vulnerable.
I woke with the sun this morning--which is normal for me. Saturday = sleeping in for everyone in my family except me. For me, sleeping in = at least three days of insomnia. And I don't love sleeping anyway, so it seems silly to do it just because it seems to be a tradition for people who work nine to five, Monday through Friday.
Birds sing differently as the sun rises. This morning the sunrise was gorgeous and unusual. Rain was falling softly, but the sky was only partially cloudy. This happens often in July. I watched the sun color the rainclouds until they finally dispersed. The birdsong increased in volume as the clouds lifted, then became quiet background chatter.
I have much to do today; things I have left until I felt able to manage panic and PTSD problems. Today I can do those things. I've missed deadlines and put off clients, and I have yet to finish my syllabus and make the Power Point slides for my classes. Laundry is piled high and I'm pretty sure I didn't clean the kitchen last night before I went to bed.
But the point is, I'm finally ready to do those things.
However, I think I'm going to talk a walk first. It's a beautiful day. I plan to enjoy it.
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