Still Delicate

Because I am starting a joint venture blog with my best friend this 2013, Affections of a Natural Fancy, I was in here spiffing up.  Soon reading through the ancient posts, the brokenness, the humiliation, the anger all got to me.  What gets me most is the faint glimmer of hope. In those days I felt FAITHLESS.
About a year ago, when we were preparing for the move back to HI, and I was trying to sum up those dark years in Washington, I was reading through my journal.  At the end of most every desperate entry I was shocked to find an even more desperate and barely legible, hopeless prayer.  I thought I hadn't prayed any prayers.  I had taken to sobbing and groaning.  One night while still in Washington, lying in bed with my husband, I rolled onto my stomach and pulled my legs in tightly underneath me for comfort.  My husband says my name and asks, "What are you doing?" I said, "I'm praying."  He said, "You don't pray!"  Disliking the fact he had religiously boxed me in, or OUT for that matter I said, "just not for two years!" and silently breathed a prayer to the one I hoped was there for me.
So this is what I'm thinking: is a prayer ever FAITHLESS?  The very act of praying (or groaning) is in its essence an act of hope, even despite the bemoaners lack of faith in the offering or it's destination.
But how did I pull through? Faith? No, I'm not that strong.
The sun kept coming up in the morning and I kept putting myself to back to bed...all day long...until the agony began to lessen, the grief and staggeringly vulnerable feeling began to ease.  And...voila! My nervous system was healed.  Just kidding.  Healing came to me, found me in bed, and slowly (sooo slowly!) continued its good work on me.  The truth is: I still require healing...everyday, and if I miss a day or two...ouch! I find I have to recover from nearly every stimulation...I'm still very...DELICATE, and may always be so.  Who cares?!  I am free from guilt and shame...and finally figured out how to grieve!

Not My Mistake?

You see, I have this blog called fatal mistake. Only it's not my mistake...or it's not only my mistake. I just don't own it as I used to...and I've no shame in sluffing it off either...not that I'm sluffing! Personal journal - January 2, 2012

Final Resolve

I met with my counseler one last time before leaving Washington. Fish and chips, at the fancy Burgerville in Salmon Creek.  Just days from my departure, I stole away from the chaos of the overseas move.
   The journey had taken her deep into her pain. . . .
   The season of tender grieving now released her to the hope of a new tomorrow.
These words, given me on a beautiful card, no longer hold the splendor of my first reading them. My eyes grew wide and filled with tears as I discovered how they so fitted my situation.
Some people do not believe in going deep into their pain. Indeed, it is painful.  Also, it is a very slippery slope!  We will more likely be there longer than we had planned.  And what if we never come out? What if? Really, what if I never came out!?
But you know what? For many there never is or was a "what if". I didn't choose the path leading into the formidable wasteland. Who could? I simply tired of fighting and fell upon it.  Fierce and finely intricate feelings bore me away to the shadowlands.    I grieved every grief I had subdued, avoided or made fun of the first time around.  And then miraculously, one day they let me go!  Now I am running free, and one day I will fly! You know, I've never tested my wings?!!
There are still those days of unbearable fragility.  They are like dreams of what used to be my everyday, painful, frightening, stormy, humbling and some times surprisingly raw, bitter and ugly.  I will always pay respects to MY HUMANITY but I will never again let guilt and self-loathing play its game on me!

The Other Side

Here I am back in Hawaii! But this time I am on the other side. My eyes feast everyday upon the huge green mountains.  They rise up all around Kailua. There is room for my thoughts to soar.  I am actually living in the exact place I want to live! My new life is shaping up to be quite do-able.  Completely on the other side!.. the other side of the impossibilities that were my life before.  On my thirty-fifth birthday, i found myself living where I want to live doing things I've dreamed and planned for myself to do!   So, is my life all rainbows and butterflies? Yep, pretty much.  At least right now anyway!
But how can this be? I thought I'd be wandering wounded for eons!  I have managed to find MY way. . . A way of living that works for me, not against me.  I hope to tell you all about it!

The Humiliation of the Crazies

I've come to this point in my healing at which I am wincing at some random memories of the strange things I have said and done while I was, for lack of a better word, crazy.  You know the type, they're all the sort of things normal people do all the time.  It's just that they have come to my memory all at once. . . like the dam is broken and they are all rushing at me because I am now coherent enough to think about them.  So here I am obsessing and feeling the humility.  Here is an example:
In 2009, we were living in this darling little old house.  The bus would stop directly in front of the house each morning to pick up the boys for school.  One morning, my kindergartner was not all put together when the bus arrived. My oldest walked out of the house, leaving the front door open while I was stuffing the little one into his coat. It was, of course,  very frustrating. He was fussing and I was rushing and being very pushy.  I helped him roughly with his back pack and turned him toward the door which was open wide with the bus driver looking directly into my house.  I'd say even into my eyes!  My heart sank, "They are going to think I am one of those crazy moms who can barely get through the week!"  My heart sank deeper, I remembered, "I am crazy!  I'm on medication, I'm in therapy, and I can barely make it through the week!"  I couldn't even begin to keep up with my children's needs, to say the least about homework, fundraisers, seasonal events, field trips, lunches and back packs!
What is so strange about this thought is how I ever came to separate myself from the "crazies".  Just months earlier I had been certain I would always take my stand with the lowly and broken.  They had become my people.  I could not stand church, but I felt at home at the mission.  I looked around and thought, "these people have found life to be as difficult and painful as I have."  They were my brothers and sisters and I thought I would never again consider myself above them. 
Well, I guess it was one thing to be crazy, and completely another to have someone see my misbehaving in my own home.  At this point I was certain that everyone at the boys school had figured it out. . . the office staff by now knew how disorganized we were, the librarian by how many books we lost or didn't bother to read and return, the teacher by all the missed homework and back packs crammed with old paper and lunches.  Yuck! The reading specialist certainly knew I was not "on it".  But even the bus driver, come on.
Anyhow, the strange, clumsy things my family and friends have witnessed are now resurfacing and I am mortified.  I was too sick at the time to care.  If I thought about it at all it was a quick, "Oh, that didn't go over well."  I am somehow beginning to wrap up this crazy time.  I'm coming to terms with what has been said and done in regard to my relationships.  I have perspective again and I'm trying to see it all for what it was and get over it.
I guess its frightening to look back and see what a precarious thing my life has been and how strange it all would seem to those I know and love.  I really figured everyone knew I was seriously sick. I was mistaken.  My brother and my sister didn't even know.  Did I tell them? Did I expect someone else to?  I felt so strange I would have thought you could tell every time I tried to put a sentence together.  Maybe that's it?  I think I must have barely talked at all.  And this inwardizing (is that a word?) probably left everyone to come to their own conclusions.  And boy, does my family, myself included, love CONCLUSIONS.  The sad thing is I felt judged and abandoned.  How could they make those terrible assumptions about me? They were not "in-the- know". Why weren't they helping me through this nightmare? They had no idea.  By the time they confronted me about my seemingly careless behavior, I had already suffered through the first year of recovery.  That was 2008, the year my nervous system went totally wacky and I began a long journey to healing.  It was a year of grieving and convalescence.  I bought myself flowers weekly and lay in bed with my covers mounded around me, gazing at them, just trying to breathe and trying so hard to be kind and compassionate to myself even though I was being so negligent of everything else.  I could put myself off no longer.
So now, I think I'll forgive myself for all that negligence and I'll forgive my friends and family for their various reactions to it.  It couldn't be helped.  And I am glad I made it, on my own.  I was the only one with the power to heal.  I needed to learn to take care of me.

Self-care

Today was the day of races in my head. Ideas chasing one another, competing for a win.  I've learned on days like this, nobody wins.  So I drop out of the race. . .  and read in bed.  That is of course, only for as long as I can.  Luckily, I do not live alone.  I have three little people running in and out of my day all day long.  What a blessing these interruptions are to me!  They never fail to bring me out of my head.   Though sometimes, they do set me spinning.  "Mommy, I'm hungry."  "Mommy, Charlote layed two eggs!" and my least favorite: "Mom, can we play video games?"   Bored or hungry children. . . a great reason to get out and do what needs doing.
My counselor, Pat Edmundson, from the very beginning affirmed a new truth I'd found.  Listen to your body; what does it need?  Another counselor, Mary Some-thing or other, had me wrap myself in an embrace, pat each arm gently and say, "I know I haven't been there for you in the past.  I'm here for you now.  What do you need?"  This is in stark contrast to my earlier m/o: "What should I do?"  I spent every day of 31 years asking myself, "What should I do?"  and trying so hard to do it. 
So now, "What do I need?" is my question. Yes, sometimes I still do whatever it is I should do.  But I no longer push myself along, demanding conformity .  And I remember to ask, "What do you need?  I'm really here for you, what do you need?" 
I've yet to fail to answer.  Something always comes to mind: a good cry, some down time, some tea, yoga, a warm bath, a meal, time to write, time to create, an hour or two of reading, a hug, a little silliness with the children, time to linger in the library, a chat with a trusted friend, or just something out of the ordinary routine.  Routine is helpful, but I am wary of it's power to make me conform to impossible circumstances.  A break in routine says, "See, you are still in charge!"

My FBI Agent

"All with a blur my life was changed,
and years of recovery have left me the same."
                                my personal journal march '08

This is how it hit me 14 years later.
My God what has happened to me?

Going along my way, I found a most helpful councilor at my most crucial point of desperation.  He was full of wisdom, compassionate, and knew infinitely more about my journey than anyone I had ever met.
We talked for weeks. So much I learned, so many life changing, life giving concepts.  I began to get free from the tangles my psyche was in.  But these are things I hope to share later.  About Doug: I new he worked for the FBI and the army, debriefing and counselling agents after grueling incidents.  "Good," I thought, "if any of what I am going through happens to be related to the accident, he can help me."
But there were so many things to talk about! I'm quite good at talking, so we just dove right in and I learned soooo much sooo fast, forgetting to tell him of the accident.
So many concepts learned in his office in Hawaii Kai brought instant freedom.  He taught me how to make choices, not decisions.  He awoken my very dormant sense of self-preservation.  I learned about shouldy thinking. He led me in the prayer: Dear God, please help me to stop shoulding all over myself!  And biggest of all, he taught me how to look on something without judgement.  I was feeling so free!
This went on for weeks until one night, as my husband and I were lying in bed, we felt IT coming.  It was as if all the pressures of my life's experiences, (the ones from which I'd managed to keep a bit of distance) were all rushing toward me at once.  Every fearful moment I 'd worked so hard to push back burst like a storm above me. It was a steadily descending pressure.
At this point I was in the bathroom holding tight to the towel bar, door shut. And there I felt the full force of fear and pain.  I was saying, "I'm going to die. I'm going to die. I'm going to die."  I was thinking, "I'm crying; no one dies of crying."  Yet the feeling of emanate death weighed heavily upon my whole being.  It was an episode unlike anything I'd ever experienced.  And it changed me, bodily. 
The next morning I called my FBI agent,  "uh. . . well, I had a crying episode last night unlike anything I've ever experienced . . even when I miscarried and. . when I had my accident."
"Accident?"
"Oh, well, I thought I'd mentioned it."
"No, I listen for things like that.  This is what I do. This changes everything. Can you come see me right now?"
"Yes, I think so. I'll call my husband."
An hour later in his basement office he asks, "Do you know what post-traumatic stress disorder is?"
"Uh. . . "
"It's a change that takes place instantly in the brain and body chemistry of a person who has gone through a life and death situation."
And so began my education in what the hell is wrong with me!?  Doug's definition is actually a bit debatable. But it made his point.  (Some think it is slowly onset as a trauma patient begins to recover.  I remember reading something like "three days to three weeks" if therapy is not provided.)
This new info came as a shock.  It felt like waking out of a fantasy.  I never wanted to believe such an experience could damage me in a lasting way.  So I didn't. . .  until now.  So I wrote in my journal that day:
All in a blur,
my life was changed,
and years or recovery,
have left me the same.
We hit it full force.  "Therapy" was not pretty at all!  I never knew why addicts or others did not make it through "therapy." And I judged them (I had very good judgement since I had been practicing every second of every day!)  Now I knew, I am no different.  If I were without prescriptions from my doctor, I would be reaching for something, somewhere, ANY- how!
Doug set me on the path toward recovery. He knew the terrain well and awakened all my senses to set them to the task of healing.  He had to jolt me into my reality. My life was not PG any longer (though it never was), and I soon found no longer was my language! I instinctively knew I needed my whits about me. No more child's play, no more pretence of innocence.  Off with my rose colored glasses! There was no more coping, no more holding it back. I came out fighting! 
Those first few months were very dark and very fearful, but I had a guide for this part of the journey.  Our "chance" meeting was a gift to me, broken, tired, frightened and fragile me.

Incapable

Here I sit, completely incapable of seeing any task through to completion.  I feel like a child on days like these. I know it will pass. I may have brains again tomorrow.  I will have brains again tomorrow! though I may still be a bit beside myself. 
Yesterday was poorly planned and therefore knocked me off my feet.  I took the children with me to a funeral, for which they could not sit still.  We stayed for the meal afterward which was entirely to stimulating with them and everyone else going in different directions.  Whew! That could have done it.  But we had more to do!  We were off to the boys school to meet their teachers and drop off school supplies, then stopped at the preschool to do the same for my daughter.  Hers was smaller and more fun.  Free shaved ice!  The mom in front of us pushed the pump of flavoring down and red spewed all over her daughter.  Why did that bring me comfort?
Anyhow, by the time we reached home, i felt hyper-vigilant and pooped, dying for my bed!  I went to the bathroom where I gathered my first clue: a dozen or more flies.  Hm. . the back door must have been left open.  I get to the kitchen and look at my blackberry pie.  I think, "who's been eating my pie?" and then "what's that terrible smell?"   My eyes widened to see berry pie and chicken poo tracked all over the kithcen counters!. .. my recipe notes, and my clean hand washed dishes.  We kept finding poo, I cleaned and hour, went to bed. The boys did the dishes.
I had anxiety in the night. I was recalling some of my stupidest moments and dreaming of embarrassing body functions.  I slept late and woke to find a Rode Island Red hen laying an egg in my king size quilt laying on the dryer.  I was standing there loading clothes into the wash, taking my time, looking for stains.  Catching a glimpse of her out of the corner of my eye, I jumped, picked her up and found a perfect warm brown egg.  (We also found two green eggs of Cream's.  Which meant that she had layed in the same spot on two other occasions.) Then it hit me, why the hens are always wanting in the house.  Several times daily we are shooing them away from the doorways.  They are just looking for a nice place to lay! So i set my odest about the task of spiffing up their nest box in the hen house. Don't know if it will help.  In fact, it sounds like one is in the kitchen right now!
Excepting the laundry, I've rested all day. I had a good nap.  But my mind is a very confusing place!  Days like today I try to find my sense of humor,  rest, and be kind to the children.  These are the only things that seem to help. . . and the only things I seem to be able to accomplish. 
My brain is on vacation!  I'll see it soon enough.  Then we'll be back in business . . . cleaning house, making meals, helping with the childrens' projects, planning outings and keeping the chickens out of the house!

craziness, doctors, medication and humility

    Just before the cork fell out of the bottom, I remember thinking, "How am I supposed to keep 80 nails trimmed?!"  Am I the only mother adding up the fingers and toes of her children? Oh, how it overwhelmed me! I should have known something was wrong.  Like the time I realized I had a problem of forgetting my daughter.  I'd walk into the room and there she'd be, a  little tiny bunddle, and I would think, "Oh yeah, there you are!"  I  had the sense to be sure to always put her somewhere she could be safe for any length of time.  It wasn't so much, "Where's Maile!Where, oh where, did I put her?"   More like, "Ohhh. . . yeah, there you are!" . . .  like my brain just forgot to think of her!!
Isn't that crazy? I don't see how my psychiatrist let me leave her office with out a prescription!
    She was the strangest psychiatrist (slight exaggeration), though I didn't know it.  She prescribed a book (a very good book, Feeling Good) and then we did some "talk therapy".   But she was a doctor, a psychiatrist, not a psychologist, not a very good one I'm sure. She failed to diagnose me.
I told her I felt scared but I wasn't.  I told her if I had to stand on a busy street corner all day, it would kill me.  I told her I'm not afraid of the elevator; I just don't like being in it!  So we did some cognitive-behavioral-therapy.  I could rid myself of negative feelings using the method described in Feeling Good.  But no matter what I did, I could not convince my body of the fact that I was not scared and alone. 
    I told her lots and lots of other stuff too. I think I even used the word "shell-shock".  And I know I mentioned my accident twice!  Somehow she failed to sift through all the thoughts in my crazy head and see PTSD.  I really needed a doctor, but she was acting more like a friend or counselor.  What was going on in my body?  Why couldn't I be in my own skin?  It was nearly impossible for me to stay present. I was developing all sorts of ways to withdrawl. I was so skiddish, you could have hurt me with your breath!  About this time my mother conferred with my doctor, who called my psych and said "We want her on something."  So began my the search for the right medication.
    I'm a granola eating health-nut.  I love vitamins and cooking with the freshest foods.  But at this point, I was bound to find something somewhere if I did not get the legal stuff from my doctor.   I was completely humbled.  All of a sudden I was not "too good" for all the things this world turns to for solace. All of the sudden I understood addiction.  I understood running away to a life on the streets.  "Oh, this is what happened to all those desperate souls, living crazy dangerous lives far from the ones who love them, on the streets of  EVERY major city in America."
    Why did empathy and compassion have to come at such a high price?
Eventually we left Hawaii.  I found a new psych.  The first time I met him I knew, "He understands!"  He knows what I know . . . about how impossible life can really be.

Privacy

I've been thinking about this blog, and about the kind of privacy I 'd like to have in my life. Many circumstances oppose my need for solitude, my husband's career, the # of children I have, the nature of my family.  And most of all, my fatal mistake. I hate how everyone in my world has peaked interest in me. I know people don't have hours to spend thinking about me. Thank goodness!
Still i feel angry and irritated to think of the privacy which I recently realized was so needed during the years I was 16, 17,18,19. I was not maturing in a safe cocoon (who does?) preparing to emerge as a butterfly.  Feels like I was poked and prodded, studied and fussed over.  So clueless, so clueless of what was really taking place and what it meant to the rest of my life. Clueless of how abnormal my development had become.
Oh, I have so much pity and compassion on myself when I look back to see the terribly frightened tender sixteen year old. . . and then I see what all the fussing was about, even the peaked interest.  In fact, my own interest is peaked!
So. Can this blog be for my own interest and exploration of myself and my experiences? Are there any precautions I can take to keep judgment and nosy people and critics out?  Do I have to give up privacy in order to get in touch with others who have been affected the way I  have.  Affected by trauma, fatality, guilt, bad press, ineffective doctors, well-meaning busy bodies, highly concerned loved ones, and confused friends . . . too much attention all together!!!
We'll just have to see. Blog by blog, day by day.  I can always shut up tight again later, right?
It took just a few moments for me to realize: No! I can't just shut up tight again, hide in my shell of shock. I'm finding my way forward and that's the way I want to go. I want to grow up. . . move past 17, 18, 19, and 20, past 25 and 30!
I may have to fight my way out, but I am going to emerge a mature, extraordinary, beautiful butterfly and then . . .  I'm going to test my wings!

someone

I killed someone, accidentally. That is how I say it. . . how it comes out.  I killed someone! I can't believe those three little words sit together in a cozy little sentence about my life!  I'd like to squeeze "accidentally" somewhere in the middle there. Though it's true, it doesn't fit.  There it is: subject/verb/object. . . and I add the qualifier.  With or without it, how can this be? I can barely believe it. And after all these years, why does it hurt so badly?
You know what is really hard? No one is only someone.  Everyone is John . . . is Nicole . . . is Leah.
I killed Nicoletta . . . strong, beautifully blossoming Nicoletta, and I did it accidentally.