RealMental

Yesterday I went on a crying spree that lasted off and on all day. I cried about everything- my dysfunctional family, my imperfect house, my swollen feet, the passing of my grandmother. Each time I cried it was catastrophic, my heart crushed in equal proportion regardless of the catalyst.

Whenever my sorrow over incomplete baseboards hurts me as deeply as a deceased relative, I’m engaging in what I like to call “La Fiesta Loco”. I’d love to blame it on hormones, but the fact is that I suffer from these little episodes more often than I’d like to admit. Everything hurts. The mental anguish is unbearable. I’m unable to put anything into perspective or engage in rational thought.

My experience has been that with my medication these wonderfully attractive episodes are not a daily or even weekly event. I am more able to tell myself that I’ve ventured into Crazyville and I’ll find my way home soon enough. Most importantly, I usually don’t feel any burning hatred towards myself for having a defective brain or the need to harm myself as a result.

(On a side note, have you noticed how when you go to your doctor or therapist and they ask if you’ve been feeling suicidal and you say “yes”, their next question is “do you have a plan?”? What kind of question is that? No dude, I was just sitting around watching Saved By the Bell reruns and it suddenly occurred to me to end it all but then Slater’s ex showed up in town and Jessie was all pissed and I forgot all about decorating the wall with my frontal lobe. No biggie.)

I am the self-pity queen. That’s not to say that when I have a day like yesterday my feelings aren’t valid or important, it’s just that when I start feeling some clarity it’s vitally important that I put things in perspective. Is my house lacking baseboards because God hates me and I’m doomed to a lifetime of misery and suffering or have I neglected to call the baseboards guy because I enjoy putting things off until the last conceivable minute? Did my grandmother die just to break my heart or because she was 82 years old, sick, and ready to go? Are my feet swollen because I’m the most unsexy human alive or because I’ve been blessed enough to to have a little baby growing inside me?

My life is amazing even when my brain is unable to process this fact and it’s so important for me to assume a position of humility as soon as I’m able. Perspective. It rules.

i never knew why i did it. i just did it. i had to do it. At the time, I was unable to make the association that when I did it, it released the pain. physical pain numbs a person. instead of a big gaping wound of pain in the belly, it was compacted into one area. i call that tangible pain.

each morning walking down the steep hill to the bus stop was excruciating and hurt every step of the way. something inside of my would ask, “why are you doing this?”

i never had an answer.

i engaged in a ritual of peeling skin from the bottom of my feet. it took a few days for it to grow back before i could repeat the process. in the meantime, i had my fingers to damage along with the calloused skin on my palms.

writing about it now, it seems dark and scary. at the time, it was my dirty little secret and i had no idea why i was doing it.

it would be several years later before the pieces started coming into focus for me. pain was the “go to” sensation.

for the most part, i’ve said goodbye to those rituals. i use “for the most part” because i’ve learned that self harm is some kind of shape shifter virus, which forces me to be vigilant.

in order to get to the solution, i had to go back to the root of the problem. therapy can be similar to a plunge into hell. it wasn’t a pretty site and has taken years to sort the pieces that will continue for my time here. i am better, I am getting better.