RealMental

Brain waves scrambling at lightening speeds, stomach feeling like there is an egg frying in it; bubbling, popping, greasy, and hot.

There is no way to prepare yourself for all of life’s gunshots. Situations that have your heart wrapped up like a Vietnamese summer roll, nice and tight.

My recourse, my comfort has been to write, and asking others for help. I’m not good with the asking for help part, never have been. So far, I haven’t asked anyone for help but I know I am supposed to.

There are some things that not one person can help with, putting me in the boat of “beyond human aid”. I know that boat, and I know where to take it when I’m floating in it.

I remember the old adage, “tie a knot and hang on” and wonder if it came about from a person attempting to hang themselves. Or, how about “this too shall pass”? That’s a given, days will pass whether we like it or not.

It doesn’t remove the need to actually process the emotions that come up during times of darkness. The way of the Buddha, to embrace the feelings we have, no matter their internal temperature. Trying to remember to accept my life for what it is, rather than how I think it should be. Sure, that’s easy enough right?

Right, it is really that simple.

Find the gratitude, it’s always present right underneath the clouds.

Be here now.

Love.

Give.

Live.

Move forward, careful not to peek too much into the past.

Heal.

Love.

Write.

I find myself in the middle of an unknown patch of life, and I instinctively know I am not safe.

One of them asks aloud, “is this really happening”?

Another one answers, “no, it’s just another psychotic moment she’s having”.

I respond with, “I cannot be sure”.

The faces around me are familiar.

Their smiles are not.

Are those jagged teeth I see behind their veiled, semi-friendly smiles?

I begin to wonder how quickly my flesh will be ripped apart, once again and fed to the monsters.

“Not again”, one of the voices whispers.

“You may as well go ahead and prepare yourself, it’s really happening. Again.”

“Oh God, please not again”.

The walls slide up as if out of nowhere and enclose me. I hear them chanting as they dance around the outside of the wall.

“The time is now”, they chant over and over.

The time is now.

I had therapy this week and, it was intense. One of those sessions in which you regress and experience deep emotions that are under lock and key.

My therapist is very good at stopping me when I hit one of those points and encouraging me to feel and experience the moment. My preference is to just glide right by those icky bits.

I always wonder why I resist this, getting to the other side of the pool of tears? I still resist that process over and over when I know it is what helps get me safely to shore.

This particular trip, brought about by me beginning to cry about a memory. Then I told him there was a voice in my head screaming.

I told him, there is a voice telling me to shut up and quit being a baby.

He asked, “who’s voice is it”?

I said, “mine own” or, “maybe not mine, maybe hers”.

He said, “yes, I am guessing it is her voice you are hearing. Why shouldn’t you cry when you feel pain?”

Because it is a waste of time and nothing gets solved by crying.

While in the zone of regression, I cannot make eye contact with my therapist. If I do, I will lose sight of the process and the little one will go back into hiding.

I begin to sob, painful, deep sobs. I ask aloud, “why did you hate me so much, why do you hurt me?” I was just a little kid that had no idea what was going on or what I’d done to cause your rejection of me. She hurt me.

There are people that always ask why it is necessary to re-experience your history. This is the reason it is important, to release those trapped emotions that you were not allowed to experience at the time the damage was inflicted. My guess is that our brains go into defense mode in order to move past the experience not realizing that they get trapped in there.

My biggest reason for doing this kind of work is to set that pain free. I do not regress in ever session, I’m not sure I could handle it, the payoff is usually an insight that allows me to connect the dots.

It drains me emotionally for the rest of the day, I compare it to a car accident with internal bruises.

Second Chances was the name of his CD, the one in which he put a bunch of songs he wrote together, found a musician, and went into the studio to lay it down. The sad thing was that the musician and the studio were small time and they took a lot of his hard-earned money acquired by working two and three jobs for most of his life.

The music got airplay locally for a few months. I’ll never forget the first time I heard his song on the local country radio station. I was ecstatic and tried to call him, I was getting ready to go to work. He was a very humble man, but I knew that deep inside there was a little boy in there jumping up and down with excitement. I knew his dream was to be published as a songwriter, later in life he began to refer to himself as the scribe.

He only made it to the eighth grade, having to help his parents on the farm. They never had much in the way of possessions, but his memories were of a very idealistic childhood of farming and fishing. He was a simple man; kind and loving, always willing to listen to a person who needed a shoulder to cry on.

With his gentle nature, people were drawn to him and he always made time for people. Despite his lack of standard education, he was a very wise and intelligent man. A man of few words, but each one with a purpose to carry you along a little farther than where you were when you met him.

Shortly after the studio experience, he and my mom went to Nashville to “shop” the CD. To hear them describe it, they went door to door to every publishing place there, in addition to those smoke filled Nashville honky tonks. I’m not sure I’d ever seen him happier than for those few years, he lived on the hope of “making something of himself”.

The ending to the studio story is heartbreaking, I liken it to the stock market crash when folks were throwing themselves out of windows in tall buildings. Before it was over, he was nominated for an award. I remember him picking out his suit, new boots and a new western hat. He was a cowboy through and through. My dad took me along because my mom wasn’t in the best of health.

Walking into that fancy hotel in Nashville, I felt like a princess proud to be on the arm of my dad, nothing less than a saint. He beamed the whole night.

Nothing came of that awards show, and the hammer came down soon after that. The hammer of his dream being put in a coffin. The studio, and the musician were not really up for the challenge to take it as far as they could. I’ve since learned that some places like this studio have a habit of taking the money from the simple people with a dream.

He died on February 1st, 2006 from congestive heart failure. He’d been diagnosed with small cell lungcancer, emphysema, copd and leukemia. He’d had the leukemia for a few years at that point, but it seemed to lie in wait not causing him too many problems. I smile inwardly that it took four diseases that he knew about and one he didn’t, to kill him.

That was how the scribe was, he never gave up and he always managed to walk through everything in his life with courage and a smile. It took me a long time to come to peace with the fact that he just couldn’t go on any longer.

One of our last times together, he was sobbing due to the pain he was in and the side effects of chemotherapy. I hugged him really tight and i told him that if he needed to go, that it would be ok.

There are days that I miss him so much my insides ache, then there are the days when I *see* him and *feel* him with me. He will always live on inside of me, and of my children as I pass on the wisdom of the scribe.

This morning, I really did not wish to rise when the alarm clock beckoned me to do so.

I did anyway, as I do every time I have to answer to it in the morning. I mean, the seriousness in which I must awake to that alarm clock would blow your ability to believe in anything good ever again. A story that I cannot reveal in this post, the importance of that fucking alarm clock.

Once I actually get up in the morning, I’m on fire. I make coffee, send the puppy outside and feed the cats while I’m in the garage, come back in, begin picking out the boys’ clothes for school and calling his name gently to arouse him from his slumber. I swing by the TV in our bedroom, turn it on to help wake him up and go to pack his lunch.

Back to the kitchen to be sure the coffee is going as it is supposed to (sometimes it doesn’t and that’s fatal), then back to the boy. Rubbing his back, giving him kisses on his head to coax him into waking him up. I am careful to be gentle with him. Knowing, every morning the reason I am so gentle (maybe too gentle) is that as a child we were not aroused gently. We were screamed at, threatened, and terrified.

She couldn’t help it, she was so overwhelmed with three children and no husband to help out, or for that matter pay her child support. He left her without any money, while he went and bought new Harley Davidson motorcycles, boats, cars, alcohol and drugs. She had no other choice but to breed into us her hatred of him, and his selfishness. When you are scared, you do very unnecessary things.

You project your issues onto your children, without even realizing it. Sometimes not until they are adults do you see your anger, your resentments, your pride, your ego coming out of them. Rather than pass along that nice family trait of making mornings a living hell for those in my home, I try to be gentle. Not so much with myself.

Old habits are hard to let go of, after all we are made from our little crazy gremlins that we carry around in our heads. It took me years to realize what was happening to me in the mornings.
Before I even had children, I would berate myself for the minimum of an hour (the time it took me to get ready and out of the house to work). It wasn’t until I heard a man telling his story many years ago and he described the morning madness.

He described it like this; “it would wait for me all night on the bed frame”. as soon as I would awake it would say, “you’re awake! I’ve been waiting for you”. He goes on, “within five minutes my brain would have me broke, homeless, and jobless”.

I remember the moment my ears first heard this man speak, something in me said, “YES!” This is exactly what happens to me.

On this particular morning, as I was twittering around I realized that I had forgotten to do something. My heart started pumping so hard I could almost hear it and my brain was saying “OH NO! OH NO! OH NO!” over and over again. My son heard me say aloud, “OH MY GOD” so he asked what was the matter and I told him I’d forgotten to do something and it was due today.

It was “homework” from school to help out his teachers, just cutting out shapes to create a project or a book. I ran into the garage (thinking that if I do it while smoking I’ll get done faster) and began clippingout the seahorses and clams.

My brain starts to process what my physical body is doing. And it dawns on me why my son is so afraid of “getting into trouble” at school. So far, he’s not been a behavior problem and people have always mentioned what a good kid he is. This was his first year in a “real school” kindergarten and I’ve noticed that he strives to not get into trouble, so much that I wondered if it was healthy.

I can hear myself saying to other people, “I have no idea why he is so terrified to get into trouble. I almost wish he would get into trouble in order to understand it isn’t the end of the world.”

It wasn’t until this very moment, on this very morning that I realized he could have picked this up from me.

Here I was, in a panic that I’d forgotten to do this, my brain was having a field day with the insults. It was just in that tiny moment that I realized that I have an issue with getting into trouble.

It may sound like a small discovery, but I assure you it is not. I never cease to be amazed with how much we can hide from ourselves, how certain thinking habits and behaviors are justified for so many years solely on the fact they were “grandfathered in”.

Despite this story, I have put a lot of effort into recognizing when those tapes begin to tell me how badly I suck at everything. I speak above them, telling them they have no place anymore, they no longer serve me.

Those thoughts will never permanently leave, but I believe the more I bring them out into the light, the less power they have over me, and the unknown factor of passing them down to my children.

Over the past two weeks, I’ve received a new round of Doctor’s appointments and physical exams. This post relates to the Hormone Therapy Seminar that I attended over a month ago. I had good intentions to jump right into it and get tested, but I put it off. A very bad habit of mine, to put these “things” last as Doctor visits tend to mess up my schedule and doesn’t give me the feeling of having accomplished anything.

As I typed that, it sounded silly. I know that taking care of your person is an important accomplishment. Perhaps it doesn’t contribute to the family unit or for the betterment of humanity. Whatever.

The first appointment would be an hour with the Hormone lady (one who conducted the seminar), and then a consultation with the general practitioner in the same office to perform a blood letting and schedule a physical. I was sent home with a saliva test kit to be completed on 5.19.08 and then mailed away to the scientists for results.

The first follow-up appointment confirmed that I do indeed have a thyroid malfunction, a slight cholesterol issue that can be corrected with the right diet and exercise. Other than that, I am very healthy. This is always surprising to me, that I am physically healthy. I left with a prescription for armour thyroid, and another appointment.

Two days later, I go back for the four vials of blood letting for food allergy testing. Once those results are in, they’ll call me for another appointment.

I’m not sure how I feel about the thyroid issue, part of me wants to be glad that there is a scientific explanation for lots and lots of very odd behavior that I’ve had over the past year. It’s not like I enjoyed thinking I was just a huge waste of space, that I just wasn’t trying hard enough.

It will eventually sink in, part of me is relieved that I have a physical issue that is the culprit for not being able to “just snap out of it”.

Having this knowledge, I was able to follow the physical reaction my body had from a simple phone call from our lawyer to schedule an appointment for Tuesday. We have a court hearing scheduled for Wednesday, but the docket isn’t anything huge (compared to the major issue we are anticipating). The way my body reacted, you would have thought I was about to be murdered.

It started with heart palpitations, trembling, heart racing, and sweating. Panic attack, right? Then I got weak in the knees, all my energy sucked right out of me. (Originally, I’d had big plans for the day that consisted of getting stuff done.) My thinking got fuzzy, everything around me got bigger and I got smaller. Even email became too much of a task for me to perform.

This has been going on for months. Months, maybe even a year or two with a gradual increase in weird, unexplained symptoms. I’ve wondered why I couldn’t keep some things straight, often confused about certain details, and unable to show up anywhere on time. I’ve made so many apologies for just being out of it to friends and family, I have wondered how long it would take for them to just give up on me.

I am trying not to put too much into this one physical issue, it is important for me to take responsibility. In fact, I lean on the “too rigid” side too much of the time.

I’ll have two more follow-up appointments for the food allergy and the hormone tests, I’m hoping that if there are any issues, it’ll be easily controlled or regulated. I have a small piece of hope that the spinning of my wheels over the past couple of years will allow me to find my own balance. I’ve been missing my balance, tending to self harm (mentally) instead of wondering if maybe something were physically wrong with me.

I sure hope the thyroid kicks back in quickly. I have stuff to do.

My meeting tonight was about forgiveness and the other side of it, resentment.

I’ve been taught in recovery that if I resent someone, in order to release the resentment I must pray for that person. Even if I do not mean it, which sounds a little like “god bless that stupid cow”.

Praying for another person that I resented was very foreign to me in the beginning and I hated it. Sometimes even now my resentments seem justified enough so that I can sit out on that whole praying thing. And then I’m reminded that I will be the one who suffers.

I have learned that a good way to not get a resentment in the first place, is to not have any expectations of other people or situations. Better yet, to not get attached to an outcome for any situation.

As a recovering alcoholic, resentment is my number one offender. If I hold on to a resentment, it makes me sick inside and could eventually lead back to active addiction. Because of this, it is extremely important to me to always try and keep my side of the street honorable. (I’d like for you to believe this is due to me being a good person, but in reality, it’s a matter of life and death for me.)

As the topic was carried around the room, and each person added their pieces I began to have a very clear thought about resentments.

People build their lives around the resentments and their anger. Resentments keep you from being your true self, they suffocate you, and somewhere buried in there they comfort you. (Note: using “you” in this context figuratively.)

It dawned on me that part of who I am is made up of my resentments. The thought of them actually being a comfort to me, I wondered why I would choose to hang on to them.

All I could come up with was, “they are MINE goddammit”. They have served me.

As I continued to listen to people share, I pondered this aspect of resentments, and created an exercise for myself to do later. The exercise would be to treat my resentment as a pair of lenses. I
would put the glasses of resentment on, and take note of the things I saw or experienced. Not just feelings, but actual scenes that I’ve created in my own head that feed the resentment monster.

My hope is that by seeing these more clearly through the resentment glasses, I may be able to let them go on a new level and gain more insight. And, to let go of those layers that no longer serve me in a positive way.