Boundaries. Say what?

My counselor and I have been talking boundaries the last couple of weeks. This is news to me as much as to you. The handout she gave me today sealed the deal.

The first indication of not setting boundaries is "telling all". Oh, how I do this. I have always done this, and I didn't know why. All or Nothing is a concept I am quite familiar with--in exercising, dieting, prayer and relationships. In conversations, I spill it all and think later. Feel guilt later; worry later; regret later. But isn't this what the receiving party wants?

I truly have felt I have no control. The deets come out faster than I can process and weigh consequences and options. I tell you all, everything, every last detail of any story that has any relevance to what we are talking about at the moment. Then I am vulnerable and you are free to comment and judge and gossip.

How clear the lack of boundaries are! At least I realize this, right? Is it this realization that will bring about boundaries? I see the blurry, non-existent boundaries. Where do I go from here?

Trial and Error

I've been seeing a psychiatrist who's been managing my medications for close to four months now.  I recently cut out Wellbutrin altogether and began an ADHD medication called Vyvanse.  I went to a specialist to get tested for ADD/ADHD and I scored, for lack of a better word, insanely high for ADHD.

Years ago, months ago, I never would have thought I would not only be referred to an ADHD specialist but would be diagnosed as such. It was a sort of bitter relief. It explains so much -- my erratic, disorganized, impulsive behavior; my inability to complete tasks, engage in conversations and actions...the list goes on.

I feel angry, too. Why didn't my mother think to get me tested for, hell, anything? Instead, she diagnosed and treated me as bad and selfish and lazy and the source of strife and disfunction in our family. That is a heavy cross to bear when you are in kindergarten.

How dare you. The ease in which I could have experienced school and relationships and extracurriculars--you took that away in yet another self-serving attempt at placing the blame on anyone but you. You blamed a child, your own child. You got high and used by men while I drowned in confusion and loneliness.

As a thirty-year-old, I realize I have been my own compass since childhood, and likely past the scope of my memory. But the map has changed. I now have others guiding me, loving me in new directions. Not the mother who cheated me, but counselors and doctors who are putting their life's education and work into helping me heal.

I don't expect miracles; I fully expect thirty more years of appointments and visits and tests to my mind and body. But these efforts mean others are trying, and it's the trying I missed the most.

Lead me, God and man.

My family is coming to visit this weekend. My family. Viewing my life, me, allowing myself to be seen through their eyes. My family.

And Mr. P. He's seen it all and been through it all, beside me, guiding me, hugging me even though I said I don't like hugs.

"When I say you've had enough, you've had enough."

When I get anxious, I drink. Family, an uncomfortable and uncharted togetherness brings upon anxiety. He knows this; he knows me.

I thank him. No defense. No combativeness. Just gratitude. He knows my weaknesses and understands my strengths. I just need to be led.

I have a man who leads me. Lord, strengthen me to be led.

...that which bring healing.

I am reading The Memory Palace by Mira Bartok. Her memories take shape as a.house or maybe a castle. Nevertheless, they take shape.

I feel close to Bartok. While she has a schizophrenic mother, I have an emotionally ill mother. Not to say that I am not an emotionally ill daughter, but I am here journaling while She is there staying mentally ill.

My memories are not as eloquent as Bartok's, but they are just as potent. Just as sharp and haunting. She is afraid of her mother and the affect she will have on her life, her job, her friends, her stability.

And while my mother has not called in the middle of the night, accusing my "associates" of rape and kidnapping, my mother has called my job and my school crying that she has not heard from me and that I do not call her about my whereabouts. "Call your mother," I hear. If you only knew. Is there a difference between a schizophrenic and a borderline?

Perhaps medically. But those affected by a mental illness, it's all the same. The same pain and fear and instability. The same inability to move forward and away without minimal guilt and shame from where you come from and where you could inevitably end up.

While my memories are not as eloquent and organized as Bartok's palace, they are memories nonetheless. And it's the memories which bring healing.

Selfish love, but love nonetheless.

A friend, a good friend, who talked with me during mock cigarette breaks at my first job straight out of college after my engagement to my college love went to shit, is having open-heart surgery next Wednesday. The selfish part is me texting her the moment I found out (thank you, effing Facebook) and telling her that I wanted to be there, for her and her husband, to pray and help in any way I could, and more importantly, just BE there.

She said her pastor and his family will be there with her husband. But I want to be there. Knowing her, and sharing life with her is a highlight of my life.

Another reality smack in the face reminding me that life is so, very temporary. You are here one day and gone tomorrow, on the operating table or the pavement after a car crash or a victim of a violent robbery or home invasion that would never happen to someone like you.

We have to be here for something. Something more than birth and pain and death. Right now, for me, it's laying in bed sobbing for the lack of control, the lack of understanding God's mystery which holds the life of a brilliant soul in His hands.

I feel selfish. I want to be there for her any way I can. But I don't want to take her place. I can't take her place. It's not in me. Her closing text tonight was, "God has given me peace about it all."

How can she do this? How can you do this, Friend? Fight. Refuse retreat. Push peace away. Stay here for me. For this world.

This is selfish love. But it's love and God says the greatest of all is love. So I'll love my friend, my rescuer, while You hold her next breath at Your discretion.

It is in Life We Prepare to Die.

I had an appointment with my psychiatrist today. We spent a good half hour talking about my symptoms -- depression , anxiety, lack of initiative. I had a moment, brief and in passing, that I thought #whitegirlproblems. Of course, I understand all races are affected with mental health diseases. Perhaps #middle-classproblems or #roofovermyheadandfoodinthefridge would be more accurate. I just had this moment that I thought, "What do I have to be sad about?"

Fast-forward a handful of hours later and I'm catching up on local news. I read about a fatal car accident that ends in 4 deaths, all of young adults between the ages of 19 and 29 years old. Twenty-nine - one year younger than I am now. One year.

What if I had one year to live? One year in oblivion of the fate I would soon meet. One year of staying in bed, insecure in my abilities with dwindling hope for my future, a future that would end abruptly with no more chances to love and forgive and breathe with every ounce of my soul. One year to pass up the chance to say "I'm sorry" to those who befriended me and slowly took a step back when I acted out in pain, or the chance to say "You were the light I remembered when I wanted to take my life" or "Jesus is the answer to our struggles".

Twenty-nine. Just one year. A death, a former acquaintance, a friend of sorts, a nice gentleman who talked to me about his faith and an upcoming sermon that he was giving in the church his father was a pastor in. He was nervous and had been preparing. He knew God would lead the way.

Did he leave the earth the same way? I remembered him as I read his name and birthplace and congregational ties, remembered our talks, few in number, but I  remembered.

What will I be remembered as? The symptoms on my medical chart? The worldly hurts and regrets that have cut me to my core? When will I live for Him? When will I simply live--wholly and silly with faults and bruises and battle scars? I've asked this same question. Year after year after year. If my name was listed in the paper tomorrow, what would the person reading it remember about me?

She was nervous and had been preparing. She knew God would lead the way.

Fury-some: Part Two

Part Two of Zailckas' Fury digs deeper into her feelings and thoughts surrounding her family, specifically how they view her, treat her, and talk to her.  At this point of the book, I'm still not seeing the stark parallel between Zailckas's anger and my own, but that's not to say some (okay, many) of her words in this section don't slap me silly in the face and leave me dazed.  Let's take a tour, shall we?

Homecoming feels like vinegar in the wound.  It's a reminder of my failures: failure of foresight; failure to survive abroad; failure to love and be loved (pg. 21).

Just driving into my hometown rustles up mud and muck better suited to be found in the tire grooves of my Corolla after trekking miles down a forgotten dirt road.  Guilt, embarrassment, loneliness -- the triplets that consume every organ in my body.  Even once I leave this town and head back to my "real" home, the home I'm trying to build with forgiveness and grace, my organs have been compromised and it will take an act of God, literally, before I can breathe again, or at least attempt to breathe, with ease and purpose.

Quoting Theognis:  We aren't shutting you out of the revel, and we aren't inviting you, either.  For you're a pain when you're present, and beloved when you're away (pg. 25).

 I can only speak for myself, but I think this mentality is why suicide seems like an appropriate option for some.  All I hear, and I mean all I hear from my family, is "we never see you", "you never come around", "don't forget about us".  And then when they do see me and I do come around and I don't forget about them, it's "clean up your mess", "we've realized this is just the way you are", "keep your dog outside", "we never see you".  Many times I've thought, why even bother?  And then this fleeting thought becomes my daily coping mechanism when it comes to dealing with my family...then with my friends....boyfriends, school work, hygiene.

I'm still fighting off the painful moments when I start to think, "They'll miss me when I'm gone.  Then they'll finally see what they are doing to me, how they should have appreciated if even just one of the times I visited them."  But this "why bother?" way of living, in an effort to "show them" the ways in which they hurt me only adds to my hurt and infects every other aspect of my life.  Such thoughts form unconsciously and I must consciously fight them off and tell myself, "X may say I'm a pain when I'm present" but I am beloved all of my days.

My childhood, as I remembered it, was not all tree-climbing, rope-skipping glee.  What I best remembered was a hard knot of dread that stayed with me until I discovered alcohol at fourteen.  I had at least one parent who might qualify, in my mind, as "evaluative" and rejecting."  The last part of the Spike 3's description, which also happened to be the worst part, fit me like a pair of well-worn sneakers:  When I did express anger, it came in "impulsive" or inappropriate" forms.  This, because it was so "poorly integrated. (pg. 35).

Where to begin.  Will "enough said" suffice?  First, my tree-climbing days ended when I fell out of one in my backyard and my jump rope was old and tattered and no fun to play with.  Plus it always got caught up under my Ked's, stupid rope, ending the "game" faster than "It's time for dinner!"  The rejecting parent is of course my mother.  But sad to say, so was my father.  He left when I was 2 or 3 and joined the armed services.  When he returned he had a bitch of a wife who called me "brat", a term which infuriated my mother far more than it did me, although I pretended it was the reason I was crying in order to gain sympathy from my mother, which was the only condition in which I could be free from her utter disgust directed at me.

Alcohol?  Check.  Impulsive, inappropriate expression of anger?  Check.  After tapping into this "brat memory" and the little-jump rope-who-couldn't, I sit here thinking, "Can you blame me?"  That kind of stress on a child is certain to distort healthy relationships with alcohol and emotions.  Insert first person, present tense.

My God, take care of Dwight.

oh my God.

These are the words that came out of my mouth, out of instinct and confusion, out of that kind of moment when you hear something that puts your life on pause.  I spent last night crying, telling myself my boyfriend needed to be with someone happy and social and not sad and angry all the time, someone other than me.  I told myself I'd like to not be here anymore, to not hurt those I love more than I already have, to not hurt inside any more than I already do.  My boyfriend kept trying to console me, asking me what was wrong, having no idea the thoughts going through my head.  This morning before he left for work, he asked me what was wrong.  I let it all out - I told him I think he needs someone else.  Someone better, someone happier, someone not so much like me.  He leaned down and hugged me, and said, "I've never thought that.  Ever, ever, ever.  I've never thought that."  He was so genuine, not like those times when you hear someone say, "Of course I don't think that" or "Of course I didn't say that".  He meant it.  I felt better leaving the house for work an hour or so later.  "I'm okay.  I'm gonna be okay."  I didn't apologize to God for thinking one of His creations would be better off dead. 

oh my God.

I'm getting off the elevator to go to my third appointment with my new psychiatrist.  I'm in my own head, rehearsing what I'm going to tell him, replaying all of the messed up, crossed wires that are in my head so he can fully understand what he's dealing with.  My phone lights up with a text message.  ":( Got an email that Dwight died yesterday morning.  Services will most likely be in Washington." 

oh my God.

Dwight.  A coworker and fellow member of the running group I was a part of in 2008.  An older gentleman who ran 20 miles with me on Thanksgiving of that year because I had missed my long run the previous weekend.  A man who gave me rides home after running and sweating in the heat, a man who had decided at 50 to start running marathons and got about 7 or 8 under his belt in just a few years.  I sent him a message on July 19th, not even two months ago, asking about his running, excitedly telling him I finally registered for a marathon.  He tells me he's not running anymore.  He was diagnosed with cancer.  He's lost his teeth and he had a feeding tube put in a week or so prior. 

oh my God.  I tell him I'm sorry I didn't keep in touch.  I tell him we should get together.  Coffee.  Tea.  Just sitting.  I miss him.  I want to tell him that he inspires me to run a marathon, to run marathon after marathon.  I want to tell him how often I think of our Thanksgiving trek through the park.  While families were gathering for turkey and dressing and pecan pie, he and I were running mile after mile while talking about God and how perfectly the trees and the lakes and everything in nature just fits.  I tell him we'll get together.  I tell myself we'll get together.

I've known he's been gone for an hour and I cannot stop crying, replaying our last "conversation" via text, our last conversation that truly was our last.  I've always procrastinated.  I can do it later.  There's always later.  There's always tomorrow.  My life got in the way of us getting together.  Now it's his death keeping us from coffee or tea or whatever it is that we were supposed to do.  There's no such things as always, another wise lesson Dwight has taught me. 

Lord, be with Dwight.  Guide him into your arms, into your kingdom, into his home that has been awaiting his arrival.  Please tell him I'm sorry that I didn't follow though with seeing him again, with being a true friend.  And Lord, I'm sorry I questioned this temporary life you have granted me so that I may smile and laugh and love and give before you welcome me home, on your terms.

Fury-less: Part One

I've thought of myself as having an anger problem for quite some time.  I get angry, easily, and don't express it in a healthy way.  That's an anger problem, right?  Well, what better way to find some healing answers than to read?  I began reading Koren Zailckas' memoir, Fury, a couple days ago.  Let me tell you, she reveals some very funny, off-the-wall, honest thoughts and moments, which makes her book not only educational but leads you to some inner soul searching with a light-hearted twist.

I immediately liked the book, but soon became disappointed.  I was expecting to open the book and read about my twin separated at birth.  Koren and I were supposed to come from the same family dysfunction.  Her anger issues were supposed to be the yin to my yang.  The more I read, though, the more similarities I saw between my experience with Fury and Mary Karr's Lit.  The why's and how's and when's are different for me and the author, but the source of the pain and its debilitating nature are far too alike.

"A bad girl has never been born," wrote Virginia Satir, the famed family therapist.  "Only persons with potentials are born.  Something in that human being has to be denied, projected, ignored or distorted for her to become some kind of bad, sick, stupid or crazy girl or woman. (pg.3)"

When I read the words of a world-renowned expert in black and white right in front of my face, words that tell me my brokenness and the difficulties I am trying so hard to overcome are products of situations and not my soul, I feel relieved of the heaviness that tells me I cannot progress.  Alternately, saying I've been "denied, projected, ignored or distorted" feels like I'm making excuses for my actions.

I couldn't connect with humanity until I stopped fighting my own (pg. 4).  

I am afraid to open up to people, to make friends, heck, to even make conversation.  My voice begins to quiver if I talk for too long.  Eye contact causes me to squint and cower my head.  I am ashamed.

The facts of my life still seemed largely beyond my control.  I felt steered (or rather, flung) through the world not by intention or foresight, but by some uncontrollable force (pg. 9).

Since the Big Bad Beach Breakup, I feel less like my life is beyond my control.  This isn't to say that I never find myself asking WTF, such as last week when everything that could go wrong did go wrong.  But after I moved back from the coast, after I had hit rock bottom once again because of choices I made, that was kind of the end for the "me" as I knew it.  I finally realized life is more difficult when you are neither here nor there (doesn't Dr. Seuss say this?).  Making calculated decisions, planning ahead, fighting the urge to run, facing problems head on, as crazy as it seems, is much, much easier.

In the heat of conflict, my family takes ample "breaks" but rarely returns to address the beef directly.  Our version of "cooling off" is best summed up by my sister, who prefers to "deal with" anger "alone."  Per protocol, we ignore each other for the rest of the day and never refer to the god-awful mess (pg. 11).

When I read this passage, I thought of a couple different things.  First, my mother.  Now, I don't know if Zailckas' family didn't react bat shit crazy before "cooling off" or if no one just ever did.  Because, that is certainly not my experience.  My mother would go crazy, absolute crazy, over the most minor of offenses.  The idea of "cooling off" before reacting sounds like heaven to me.  She would scream, curse and say the meanest things like how she was looking forward to the day I was 18 so she could finally do what she wants with her life, as if squeezing each of her children from her vajay was out of her control.  I would be grounded "for life" and she would rip the phone out of my bedroom wall and almost broke her back a few times dragging my television out of my room.

I didn't deserve luxuries. I didn't deserve dinner either.  She would cook and laugh with my sisters while I sat in silence in my bedroom.  I would wait for her permission to come tell me I could eat (this happened up until I moved out of the house at 18).  Her permission never came.  Sometimes bed time would come and I would just go to sleep, afraid what might happen if I went into the kitchen to make something to eat.  Sometimes she would put all of the food away and then come tell me I could come eat if I wanted to.  How embarrassed and ashamed I was pulling out the Tupperware containers, reheating the food and eating by myself with my head down.  It just depended on her mood as to what kind of careless, immature bitch she decided to be.

Now I think of my actions when I am angry (with my boyfriend because that's the only time I ever express it) and I'm more like Zailckas' family.  I am passive aggressive until the point I'm asked what's the matter, and then I freeze up.  I'm exactly like Koren's sister - I want to deal with my anger alone.  It would have been a death sentence had I expressed any emotions growing up, so why would it be anything different now?  I cannot put into words how I am feeling.  I cannot express my anger or frustration or whatever without screaming like my mother.  So I sit in my bedroom like I did as a child, praying the "god-awful mess" will just blow away before dinner time.

Maybe I'm repressing anger by indulging guilt in its place.  Or maybe I'm simply more comfortable with guilt than I am with rage (pg 13).

With every book I read on conditions such as this, I feel less guilty and ashamed about my life.  That's the good news.  The bad news is that "less" is a very open-ended word.  On a scale from 1 to 1000, I go from a guilt level of 900 to a guilt level of 899.  I am slowly becoming more comfortable being angry with my mother than feeling guilty for her actions.  For me, it's easier to take the blame and hold the guilt than it is to look at someone and say with conviction, "You are at fault."

Dreams. And not the good kind.

I have really bad dreams. Like really bad.

Just the other night I was tortured and raped.  I wake up yelling or kicking often.  I began dreaming of my mother nightly the beginning of this year as my sister's wedding approached.  Once the wedding was over in March, I stopped dreaming of her. In the dreams, we would be fighting, verbally and physically.  Her breath would smell and she would spit on me as she hurled insults, a replica of the real, live mother I used to know.  I was so relieved when these nightmares stopped.

But they didn't stop for long.

For the past 6 weeks I've been dreaming of her again.  The dreams always begin the same:  For some reason, there is a crisis in my life I have to move back home with her.  Living with her is the last and final option for me.  I never know what the crisis is; I just know that I end up back in her house, the house that was once supposed to be my home, but never felt like anything but hell.  In the dream it feels like hell, too.  And I think that's what makes these "bad dreams" actually "nightmares", "night terrors" even.  The feelings are so real, the events so real and similar if not spot on to things I really experienced growing up.  We fight and fight, and finally I've had enough and I start packing my bags.  I have so much stuff, in the garage, under the bed, in the closet.  Packing it all up as fast as possible and getting the hell out of there is such a heavy task.  I don't feel sad.  I feel angry.  Very angry.  She just stands there in silence and watches me pack my stuff.  Sometimes I wake up before I finish packing.  Sometimes my attempt to go pack is interrupted by a fight.  These are the times I wake up yelling and kicking.  I am yelling at her, kicking and punching trying to keep her away.

My dream last night had a very disturbing moment.  My sister, the one who just got married, said to me --in response to my not being able to live with our mother any longer--"Mom told me that you haven't really had enough and she's not ready to stop."  While dreaming, this comment, these words that my mother said, and said to my sister, was the biggest punch I'd taken yet.  And when I woke, I couldn't get this line out of my head.  Thinking about it now, I feel sad.  I am confused, unsure why such a powerful statement in a dream could translate into such strong feelings in real life.  And at the exact moment I understood what my sister was saying in my dream, I felt the connection to my real self, to my about-to-wake-up self.  It was like my dream self was talking to my real self, but without words.  Just feelings and silence in a realm that doesn't actually exist.

I've had an entire work day and have now begun my holiday weekend.  I am living.  This is real life.  But still, I am haunted by those words in an all-too-real unconscious world.  She's not ready to stop.  To stop blaming me for her mistakes.  To stop shaming me for my own.  And I don't mean my mother.  You haven't really had enough.  I've replaced my mother's insults.  I've replaced her blame and distorted reality.  I am my mother and I am parenting myself with the same bullshit she parented with.

Why haven't I really had enough?