Writing, Therapy, and Flashbacks

I don’t feel like conspiring to write brilliantly.  I don’t want to care that the creativity has gone out of me like a candle in the wind.  I think I shall never write again because we are not in the blackouts of depression, despair, or constant self-damnation to write from the heart and soul again.

There’s a website I’m linking here called Writing Forward that has creative writing prompts, but I haven’t been doing them.  Maybe because I’m lazy, maybe because there’s no audience to which to write, maybe the prompts just don’t speak to me like writing about the dark side of life.  

But if I can’t write about things other than me and World War III, then what kind of writer am I?

Maybe I’m afraid.  Writing never comes easily anymore, and I think I’m afraid of failure.  Insert failure/success cliches.  

I bought a book for $4.00 full of creative writing exercises that I hope will inspire me. Perhaps this is a ghost I will always be pursuing.

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So we met with Therapist 2x this week instead of the usual once-a-week session.  I think as a group we were in a better mood and there wasn’t such a self-imposed hurry or demand to get everything said and covered we could because we know there’s another session coming soon.  So I think we were more relaxed.  Today we exchanged first bumps, which is somewhat innocuous on the human “touch” scale.  

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We had a flashback tonight.  I’m scared to think about it, but we can not let fear dictate which insiders we help and which ones we don’t .  What if the girl in the flashback is fleeing towards us? Are we going to close our minds to her and the help she needs?

I don’t know what you expect me to say.  

Nothing really.  I just think we need to be open to sights, sounds, and feelings and not abandon insiders.  Why so angry?

B L O C K

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I'm sad. a teardrop falls in my hand.

Whispers Heard as Screams

I'm going on record declaring this complete bull shit.

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I don't know what to say really.  I don't know what to feel either.

Maybe I am really okay, and it didn't hurt as badly as it seems.  Or, maybe I'm covering up the greatest pain we've ever known throughout the gift of numbness.

I'm sure I am being dramatic.  It's true; I'm not crying.  No, I'm not overly anxious.  Surely there is nothing wrong.

I mean, what damage has been done? 

Maybe the lack of feelings are because the damage is more intellectual, more cerebral.  Emotionally it's no big deal, but in my head and my thoughts I know I have been betrayed by others, and I have also betrayed myself, and by extension . . . .  Shhh.  The wind whispers:  dirty, unclean, contaminated.

You may address me as "Whore."

I may never whisper again. 

I know why you whisper, and I am sorry.  I know who you are, little one.  You are someone who doesn't want to be here anymore.  I don't blame you.  But why don't you want to be here? 

People will see my dirtiness.  Some put on an act that they enjoy it.  Maybe that is why she is confused.  What she knows and what she feels are at war with one another, and I am collateral damage.  Someone is always sacrificed. 

I sense you staring into space.  Where are you going in your mind?

Escape while I can.  Things are calm for now, but soon it will either be complete anxiety or a crushing depression that will descend upon you, and I can't survive another blow tonight.

Did you take over with Daniel?

I took over afterwards when no one else would, just like back then.

A curvy woman

The drama of this past weekend has subsided a little.

I met with Dietician today and explained to her how I felt I couldn’t trust her because she was making me fat. When she weighed me, my weight had maintained over the past month, so she may not be making me as fat as I feel she is.

An area we talked about was the subject of curves on a woman. I said to her I felt I was gaining weight primarily in my hips and thighs and she asked me what was wrong with having curves. When she asked this of me I sensed a great stirring inside my system. Then I heard a voice cry, “We don’t want curves!” I immediately recognized this voice when I heard her and when she gave me images of an eleven year old girl playing at the house of someone that would hurt her.

This is one of the members/alter/part that has the eating disorder. I am so frightened of her and what she has to tell me that I hardly want to think of it.

I don't know what to do with this.

I am beside myself. I'm at a real loss for words. I'm not going to turn this into a blog on eating disorders, but since it's so much a part of my recovery I have to include the topic as we document our journey and recovery.

Sometimes it takes my breath away. I was fine this evening, almost happy. I was enjoying the five tulips that are daring to grow among the many weeds in my yard. I started to prepare my dinner and the wave of fear came over me. Not fear but terror. I weighed and measured every morsel of food on my plate. I totaled the calories to make sure I was safe. Then I sat down to eat my salad, veggie burger, potato chips and yogurt.

I only have one specific fear food: peanut butter. Other than that, I can just about eat anything if it's small enough and in my meal plan. But there's one type of food that scares me more than anything and that's food that is white and creamy. Anything white and creamy turns me crazy. (this post is fucking with my mind and not coming out right)

So what I'm trying to say is that I saved my yogurt for last. I didn't look at it. I thought I had picked up the blueberry yogurt that is purple in color. When I pulled back the top, I saw it was stark white and creamy. I think to myself: I can do this. I've come this far with dinner; let me finish it like a good girl.

I take bite one of the white and creamy yogurt. It gives me an unexpected startle. I've "woken" someone up. I trudge on and take bite two. Flashback. One of my perps comes at me. I feel eleven years old and I can't breathe. I'm choking, choking, choking.

(damn this post. i don't know why it's being written.)

Titleless, wordless, thoughtless, pointless, just less

Once again, I sit down with nothing to write about. I don't know why I've gotten so fussy about sitting down to the computer with a prepared speech to type in; nevertheless, it would be nice, knowing others are reading this, to have some organization of thoughts. In closer thinking, this delimma about having nothing or not knowing what to write mimics my daily living. My thoughts are more often than not disorganized and disarrayed. I saw my T. today and in mid-sentence I couldn't remember what we were discussing. It happens constantly with my husband, D. So all I can try to do is be gentle with myself, give the reader credit that they will stick with me through the process, and if not, that it is important for me to continue blogging so as to document my journey.

My journal is no different. I reserve that for the "secrets"; the things that aren't really for public consumption. But I haven't been writing in it lately. Facing the journal is really disturbing because it brings everybody out. My members often want to come out and write and then they get adamant and loud and purposeful and they overtake me. I try asking them to step back, talk one at a time. Sometimes I'm successful, other times I can't hang in there with it and I end up downing the tranqs. In addition, the journal makes me feel like a failure. I feel like I should great big epiphanies and the babal facets of life aren't what the members should be writing about. They should be journaling their memories and their experiences. I feel like a lot of times what they write is inconsequential. But who am I to judge and decide what is important and should be written? I'm not the censor.

I guess it comes down to (sorry, I know I've said it before, so I don't mean to whine) having a lot of success in residential treatment and that now that I'm home it has gone to hell. I remember a lot of the skills I was taught, but I'm not finding them useful. In R.T. the littles were starting to tell their stories; now, they've just kind of shut down. I can't get anyone to really talk to me. I get these images that they send up. Nothing of the abuse, but they are images that I don't remember like how a balmy summer night felt riding my bike or fishing in the grandparent's lake or the big Barbie dream house at the end of the bed. Those images, feelings, and senses they give me and it drives me bloody mad. I don't understand the point.

I tell myself they have to let their story be told at their pace but their pace seemed a lot faster in res. tx. I feel like I'm going no where, and, ironically, I want to get better. We keep sabatoging ourselves, but deep down we want to get better.

Do people get better, or do they fool themselves into getting better? When I was working out this morning I was thinking about what I would write in the blog. I was determined it would be absolutely positive and there would be nothing that sounded whiny or self-pitiable in it. We have parts that want to get better. This is no way to live. What will we do, what lengths will we go to, what are we willing to give up to make it happen?

Something for us to think about for tomorrows post. Yeah! We already have a topic in mind. Go, us!!!!