Dr. D wanted me to think about the dream from May 22, 2017 that we discussed in our session. I went back and highlighted words for us to discuss in our next session. This dream brought up quite a bit.
In the dream I got off an elevator and walked down the hallway to my apartment. As I did I saw a man leaving my apartment with a big box. He'd robbed me. He didn't try to hide his face. He left the door open. The thief took my cat Mary Jane. He took every piece of art I have including off the walls. He took all the stamps I handmade and my tea collection. When I saw that all my art was gone I laid on the bed and cried. He stole my blankets and pillows and left the bed with just a red sheet. He took everything, and got away with it.
Dr. D asked what I think the dream means. I told him it's exactly how I feel right now, robbed and at times powerless. The red sheets are interesting though. It's a power color, primarily positive for me. Even when a person is stripped and knocked down it doesn't mean they are without hope. However, in the dream, I was devastated and felt targeted. The man stole all my art. That hurt so badly. By stealing my art, he stole my voice. The theft felt personal. The brazen, unmasked robber took my comfort and security and he got away with it. (cue mother issues).
Writing about victimization makes me wonder if I feel like a victim in my day-to-day life or powerless? Do I feel exposed, without security? ...continue reading →
Content: Brother's suicide, anger, powerlessness, the complexities of death
The day didn't pass without painting. I tried to focus on something other than life issues and lay color on paper. It felt good to do so.
I'd been sipping Chamomile Bloom to keep myself calm which meant I wasn't in hysterics at the time of my appointment. We talked about my brother quite a bit and about how hard this has been to lose him. In the last 5 years this is the second suicide I've dealt with and the third of my lifetime. My brother's suicide, his death is unbelievably hard.
I said that I understand he was just human. I understand that he had a breaking point but I wonder if he thought for just a second about the students he left behind, about the suffering of anyone else? And yet I know when my pain levels rise too high I can no longer say I'm safe. I don't think about how others will respond. I don't think, I can't think. I only want to get out of my skin. So I can't say I'm without understanding of being on one's last bit of rope. I do understand. I also understand the complete betrayal one feels standing on the other end of death. It's complicated.
He asked if I think about my sister a lot. Yes, every day..but not every second of every day. I have given her all the space she needs from me. I have no updates on her though. I am still committed to an emotional divorce so I can heal from .....so I can heal. It's hard to walk away from a fantasy. I'm not going to get the sister I need and I have to walk away even when life is threatened. I can't swoop in and try to save her bc I'll be sucked back in to being her emotional punching bag and sucked back in to believing that somehow I can win her approval and we can be sisters and friends. That isn't true. It's a fantasy and I have to let it go, even when things get scary with her.
For a self imposed insomniac, the night is early at half past ten. It still has a chance to end well if I get this off my chest and get back to watching old movies while eating over buttered popcorn.
The thing is, I can't stop crying when I hear stringed instruments. I've always loved the cello, it's my favorite with the violin next. I just wonder, am I going to cry every time I hear the violin? I want right now to say that this is pure grief, but I'm angry. I'm angry that strings make me cry instead of proud that he played so well. I'm angry that my brother taking his life means not even music is the same.
I realized something, every suicide I hear about brings up my brother. Chris Cornell was a total and complete shock. I didn't even read an article about it until the other day. I couldn't look at it. For right now, I can't read blogs that touch on this subject. I am far too maxed. It doesn't mean I don't care or that bloggers should change their subject matter. It's just that I can't do it. It's the same as not being able to read blogs about mother / daughter sexual abuse. It doesn't mean I don't care, it means I don't have the strength to offer. I'm really sorry.
May is the one year mark of the death of my brother and mother. I found out in June of 2016 but they died in May. This is another reason I'll be playing it really close to the vest. I feel so .... thin.....fragile.
Through this whole issue of grief, I will be many things. I'll be a minute to minute survivor. I'll be angry, grieved, at peace, wordy, creative, exhausted and a million other things. I wish I could say that things will go back to settled but they won't. It's impossible for me to fathom normal with that baby gone. I can't imagine normal but I can hope for settled with less gut wrenching pain.
There is no update on the eviction threat or my sister. There's a temporary resolution to lack of transportation to see my therapist.
As always, I think of my sister every single day, just not every single second of every day.
I realize I focus on my brother's death more than my mother's. It reminds me very much of being a child who felt it was too dangerous to be angry with the abuser so she chose the safest route of blame and anger.
I can't touch my mother's dramatic exit without trembling. At least there are words to describe how I feel about my brother. I wasn't prepared for the changes his death would make in my life, but I'm not short on words, not by far. I could easily fill the heart of a violin telling him how it feels to be left this way. ...continue reading →
I'm sorry I didn't sit down and study or answer the phone or write a letter that needs to get out. I'm sorry I didn't do the laundry or get a shower. I had a long lavender bath last night but I planned one for today.
I've been running from anger, depression and from physical pain.
I wasn't supposed to be the one to take calls yesterday but I did. I feel useful when I'm able to talk to someone who has chronic pain and just be there with them through it.
I sit here wanting to type more but I keep putting my hands to cover my race as I rock back and forth with anxiety. I'm walking the path to depression. My body hurts because it's ill but it also hurts because I can't stand that he's gone. I can't stand it. I can't seem to get my sister out of my head and I can't stop thinking of the mistakes I made so I ran.
I told Dr. D that I realize I don't trust as fluidly since my brother died.
There is a sense of betrayal by him because of committing suicide.
I vomited out my heart the day he died.
We talked about getting some old violin so I can write him letters and put notes in there about things I remember we did together, about when he discovered he was HIV positive and when he picked up and left the state, did his thing with music, went to Spain, went back home to New York and died. There's a lot I'd like to write and put inside the heart of those strings.
My favorite instrument is the cello. I'm a strings girl. He was a violinist.
I want to tell him I was at his recital when he was 15. He gave it at the Children's Museum here in Indy.
I want to tell him I'm proud of him for not accepting that a man with large hands can't play the violin. He grew to 6'5. When he began to struggle he hired a man to help him learn to play at his size. He loved the violin and he was bound and determined to play and play well.
There's a blog magazine I read called What's your grief?. It helps me process some of what I feel in a more tangible way. Recently I saw an entry called 64 Things I Wish Someone Had Told Me About Griefand immediately honed in on number thirty, “The last 24 hours of their lives will replay in your mind” and 36, “You lose yourself, your identity, meaning, purpose, values, your trust”.
I knew I'd go all over the emotional scale with grief. I knew I'd be in disbelief. I knew I'd sit shocked and trip over myself. I knew I'd bargain, that the world would look different, that I'd have memories so real it felt like I was standing there with him again. I knew these things, but I didn't know my ability to trust would be tested. I wasn't expecting that. I wasn't expecting to feel betrayed by the entire world for having the audacity to continue on without him. I was offended. How could you? How could you possibly keep spinning as if nothing happened? It's an insult.
The timing of this crisis with my sister is one that has been brought to my attention more than once, but I reject the idea that I should see this upset as anything other than coincidence. She hates me, she's not going to manipulate a person she hates by saying she's going to kill herself. She's not reacting to the entries I wrote about letting her go. I reject the idea that she feels anything at all for me so that she would act out because I said I no longer hope in ghosts. People can say what they want, the timing of this is coincidental, but my stand is firm and decisive.
I sent her a letter to go under her door. Her apartment is the last place anyone saw her or heard from her. I sent the letter because I had to. How could I not? When I realized I could possibly contact her I sent a letter through a friend of a friend.
My every waking thought is her but that's not how it was two weeks ago. Two weeks ago I felt ready to walk away emotionally. I felt ready to move forward and let the past stay the way they created it. But today, she's all I think about. She's all I think about.
Content: Spiritual abuse. Emotional and psychological abuse, homelessness, covert sexual abuse
Mother taught me that if I do the little things right I'll do the big things right. She taught me that a strong foundation must be laid but that all foundations start with a grain of sand. Their grains packed together to support materials much stronger than a grain of sand standing alone. To build up a solid foundation we must do the small things right.
My mother taught me that I have no foundation and that my presence was like a sledgehammer against her house.
My mother taught me a scripture that says, "By my God I can climb a wall" and a scripture that says, "If a tree gets cut down it will sprout again."
My mother placed walls around me I felt I could never escape. Inside those walls she did her best to root out willfulness, individualism and hope.
My mother taught me that I can only trust her and that I don't have the intelligence to live without her. She said I'd never survive out here in the world, that she alone could protect me.
She said to tell her if anyone ever touched me wrong. It was her hands around my mouth, my neck. She touched every aspect of me and left me ruptured.
My dear mother, my poor mother is food for worms. How undignified. I hate that.