I can guess at why I’m in and out of my head right now with a lot of dissociation going on. There’s a lot going on in therapy, a lot of anxiety and a few days of high pain. I want to get around to read other blogs but it doesn’t happen. I start off doing one task then end up doing something completely different only to realize I left the other project sitting. I feel like I’m floating but I also feel very guarded, weary of being hurt emotionally so I want to keep emotional distance. I can almost see the wall between me and others.
I have to remember that despite jumping from task to task, I am still productive. I reminded myself of this a few minutes ago. Before this sentence I got up to turn on the heat which lead to me in the kitchen to warm up dinner. I would rather be more organized in thought and behavior. I would rather not drift about but, I should not dismiss the fact that I am functioning; fragmented but functioning.
I’m still drawing, still sketching but I haven’t scanned art yet. Jane is doing well and is back to her normal self. All the frogs are good, one shrimp got eaten in the firebelly toad tank. I’m going to take advantage of the dollar per gallon sale at Petco April 2nd, 2007 and upgrade the firebelly toad enclosure. At Petsmart one of the employees told me about an African snail that needs a home. I said no. That was hard!
I updated the Featured Art Gallery page. This month’s feature will have a color theme. Color is important in my therapy process. Since Sundrip is about the art and artist trying to thrive it only makes sense I’d have an Art Therapy Gallery and speak openly about the role art has in my healing.
She’s Green – Redbubble
The last feature spoke of the color blue and it’s meaning. This feature will focus on the color orange.
Orange in art therapy or art created as therapy symbolizes fleeting courage, self doubt, ambiguity. What I mean is, I’m faced with conflicting emotions or I am going to take action but I’m not quite secure in my steps.
Orange is a color that slides back and forth between red and yellow. Red in my art therapy stands for empowerment and positive self esteem. The other side of that is yellow which is for shame and all acts of depravity. When those two collide there’s a struggle to stabilize and sort out how I see myself and my situation.
I recently started reading from a website called What’s Your Grief? I need a lot of the articles right now as I struggle with my brother and mother….. I hope every February and March from here on won’t hurt this much.
In an article about Sentimentality & Holding Onto Items the writer talked about dolls that her mother purchased each year for her. Being a doll collector my interest was piqued. For me, each doll I collected had some connection to a part of me that was lost to abuse and neglect. I knew on some level that I was trying to regain these things but it took years before I could look at the dolls and say, she has this quality in her dress and facial features that reminds me of this particular moment of loss.
Last night’s dreams were of drowning and stabbing murders. A boat wrecked and about 50 to 60 people were along the shore scattered and too hurt to pull themselves the rest of the way to safety.
Then the scene changed to two women being lead in the dark to the dock. They were lead by a woman I’m going to call Peggy just so it’ll make sense. Peggy owned a boarding house. She rented rooms to single women and couples. It was an old ranch type house in the middle of nowhere, nothing but fields and dirt roads. The house was full.
The video is a quickly thrown together sound bite with several art pieces that fit the topic. Death of my brother as well as sexual abuse, suicidal ideation and self harm (cutting) are discussed along side art stills. Close to the end of the video one photo of a box of crayons is seen for several seconds, then the video ends. That crayon photograph marks a detailed discussion of first being abused.
Life without Crayons
No coloring books
No cousin to first touch as I held gray
to fill in a cat who chased
but never caught the mouse.
No crayons would mean no dowel rods on my three year old body because
liberties were taken.
Life without crayons would never ask if
dowel rods broke before my mind had to.
Life did change that day. She saw me differently. Whatever she didn’t beat out of me that day made her violently mad until I left home.
I woke today around 6 am. I watched a video on my tablet about King Hezekiah. Love that video. I held the tablet in one hand while Mary Jane placed herself in front of it and on my chest. I started listening only. She moved to my cheek and neck, stretched out and took her place to sleep. I couldn’t deny that closeness, body pain or not I loved every single second of it.
We laid there for a while with her sleeping. Right now she’s taken her regular spot behind me when I’m on the computer. The girl is the best companion I could have. 🙂 She has her days where its clear she doesn’t feel well because of the dental stuff but there are also times when she’s her normal cuddly self who will later get into trouble and thoroughly love it.
I talked to Snow about how I’m still feeling. It has to be hard to hear me say I want to cut my arms to shreds, cut my thighs to shreds, just cut and keep cutting. I’m angry and I’m pretty tired.
People ask all the time, “How are you?” I say, I’m trying to manage. No hugs are shared. At that time I may not be in so much pain I can’t be touched but I still decline a hug. the truth is, i’m not okay. hardly ever am i okay.
as i write this i do so with my eyes closed so as not to see the words and judge them harshly before i can finish my sentence. i’m just letting it go, nothing to stop me, not even myself. at the end i’ll correct spelling and that’s all.
i was told that February is suicide awareness month. how strange to think of my existence in the last few months boiling into February with pain i didn’t think i’d live through. i honestly didn’t think my body was able to live through it, and if it did would i actually have the …the whatever, to lift myself of the bed and go back to life as usual? this isn’t usual, nor is it survivable. it feels as though it chips away at me, like i’m being eaten alive by fire ants. i’m watching them chew on nerve endings and there’s nothing i can do about it. that’s the easy part of this disease and its progression. the hard part is when the pain calms down and i look back at torn flesh and know i’m going to do it again and again and again. no, i’m not ok. i’m not ok at all.
i feel so broken, exhausted, shredded. i need a mental vacation, somewhere out of my body and its inferno. that thought plagues me, i have to escape this.
they say when a person says they want to commit suicide that it’s a cry for help, that they don’t really want to die. that’s true. i cried as loudly as possible. i’m not okay. help me. i’m not okay.
February is nearly over and i’m still here. i nearly didn’t survive it. had it not been for answers to my calls for help i may not have been here to look people in the face and say, i’m fine.
what a ride this has been in a body with no armor traversing through emotional warfare. the disease let my body live but left my mind to rot. (eyes open at this point)
i took the diagnosis of CRSD very hard. i’d never heard of it. it made sense to me once it was explained. but i promised myself i wouldn’t look up information on it. i promised i wouldn’t study it because i want to be able to give the doctor a report from me and be able to say 100%, this is from me. I didn’t read it somewhere. I’m paranoid about not being believed.
Dream ….I had a small, round stamp pad of red ink with a clear plastic domed lid. This one little ink pad was viciously sought after by my mother. She drove across town to take me to her house. The hallway was long and narrow with the top half of the wall painted light peach and the bottom half vertical wooden planks. We fought all over the house. She fought for control of the ink pad in the restroom but I was able to get away. We fought over it in the bedroom with my sister watching. She didn’t understand why I didn’t just give her the ink pad.
My sister gave the mother everything she owned. The mother wanted my ink pad for one reason only, to say she owned everything and controlled everything about me. I held on tight. In the hallway she stood on top of me and held me down with one foot on my stomach and the other on my hand with the ink pad. There was laughter and fear. I couldn’t move. She had her disgusting feet on me. I hated her feet, man I hated her feet. In real life my sister used to massage them in the evening for a dollar. I’d rather eat glass. I’d done it a few times and absolutely hated it…and her….everything about touching her made my skin crawl. I even hated the way she smelled. Everyone has a personal body smell, I hated hers. I hated her eyes, her hands, her. One finger touching me may as well have been an acid burn.
There’s this ‘thing’ people do who need you back in their toxic world after there’s a break. I figured Betty would do it and told Dr. D she would. Dr. D and I go over entries in sessions because I tend to process quite a bit outside of therapy, but I told him, she’s going to try to give me a gift, it’ll be either something I really need or something I’ve been wanting.
It’s funny, with my guard up I know what to expect. She will most certainly fulfill each and every aspect of her ‘malfunction’ because that’s what people with her ‘major malfunction’ do.
Today she showed up talkin’ ’bout, I have miniatures for your dollhouse. Oh,oh no you don’t. No ya don’t. …..I didn’t accept them, and won’t. She said, I’ve been looking around for a kitchen chair for you. I said, remember, you have no control over this household. No additions, no subtraction.