Lego Buggers (Comedy for a Better Mood)

Today, things are looking up. I’m still exhausted from beginning a rigorous training schedule for running this week (and from driving all over creation, and from going to my various volunteer jobs, and from trying to find a paying job, and from all of my emotions), and I’m still, well, emotional. But I felt more stable today. 

I started the day off with a late morning and a 4.5 miler, partially on the beach. I ice-bathed in the ocean and headed home to read over lunch. I’m currently ploughing through one of my favorite psych authors’, Kay Redfield Jamison’s, Night Falls Fast: Understanding Suicide. I bought the book last summer but didn’t have time to finish it. I know it sounds weird that I’d be reading what is essentially a metanalysis of the clinical literature on suicide, but as a future psychiatrist these things really interest me (and, to be clear, have precious little to do with me). After reading a bit, I headed to my volunteer job at the ER and had a relatively low-key shift. Favorite case of the night? A little boy came in because he had a Lego stuck up his nose. He didn’t seem bothered by said Lego, but his mom was freaking out. Kids are so funny. 

I’m still feeling more triggered than usual, and my anxiety is still high (i.e. my boyfriend’s driving home from Georgia right now, and when he didn’t answer my text, my mind automatically decided he had crashed). It’s weird, but I think some of my triggered-ness is coming from the fact that B.P.’s mom relapsed with alcohol. As much as I realize how fucked up she is right now, there’s a part of me - the “sick” part of me - that’s asking, “If she can indulge in her vice and get all of this attention and be pacified, then why can’t I?” 

But the “well” part of me is a helluva lot louder than the “sick” part of me these days. As much as I write about anxiety and urges, the fact remains that I’m incredibly stable compared to what I used to be. I broke down twice in this academic year. In high school, I would have a severe anxiety episode every week with little fail. Next Thursday marks 19 months in serious, serious recovery for me, and the progress I’ve made is incredible. I know now when to ask for help. I rationalize things automatically. I identify my feelings. I sit with my feelings. My anxiety is still high, but it’s managed for the most part. I can handle myself in ways that I never thought would be possible. My life has gone from chaotic to very mundane, and I’m glad for that. I don’t want to write romantic poetry about crimson as I did when I was fifteen. 

So right now, things aren’t the best they’ve ever been. But I know how to manage this. Tomorrow, my boyfriend will hopefully be able to spend the day with me, and maybe I’ll cry with him. Tomorrow, I’ll run another couple of miles. I’ll read more of my book. I’ll drive back north for my sister’s high school graduation on Sunday. I have a plan; I have things to look forward to. As long as I find things to propel me forward, these terribly negative feelings are tolerable, and I can find reasons to resist self harm. Fuck you, cutting. I have a strapless dress to wear on Sunday, and there sure as hell won’t be marks on my arms. 

4 hours ago  /  4 notes

wherefeathersfall asked: I saw your post about cutting quoting 'Spinning.' You should know, you're beautiful.

Thanks! I LOVE Jack’s Mannequin. I’ve been listening to them since I was a freshman (or sophomore?) in high school, and they’ve followed me through college and, so far, beyond. Things are looking better today!

4 hours ago  /  0 notes

Anonymous asked: Is your sister a comfort? Can you talk to her?

No. We don’t have that kind of relationship. She’s younger; I’ve been raised as her “role model.” But things are looking up today. Emotions turn around.

4 hours ago  /  0 notes

I Missed You, XC

Tonight S.M. and I ran a 5K that is part of a weekly XC running series in New Jersey. Though my time sucked compared to what I normally run (because I’m completely and utterly un-trained at the moment), the race was a lot of fun and the endorphins helped to kind of pull me out of the funk I’ve been in for the past two days. I’m proud to say that I still have my super speedy kick at the end. I caught two girls in the last 400m of the race, and they looked completely surprised when a six-foot crazy woman almost plowed them over en route to the finish line. I love XC. I love racing. I love going out for blood and picking other racers off one by one. I love testing my limits and running as hard as I can so that I’m on my knees at the finish. I have to remember that even when I don’t want to run, running is essential to keeping me happy and balanced. There’s going to be more races this summer - and workouts and steady states, of course. 

After the race, S.M. and I headed to a bar to get dinner and drinks. She just celebrated her 21st birthday, so this was our first grown-up drink together. We ordered nachos in tandem with the drinks, and I, ever averse to spicy food, made a face a couple of times. I wish I had any tolerance for spicy things, but being half Irish and half Polish kind of killed that for me. I was really happy to spend time with S.M. We hadn’t seen each other since graduation, and I missed running with her and getting to hear about her life. My only disappointment was that she fell behind me in the race. She totally had the ability to stay with me. 

Apart from the race, today was my first day back on the psych unit on which I interned last summer. I’m volunteering there two days a week to get out of the house, and the staff seemed happy that I was back. I missed the patients and was glad to see a lot of familiar faces (I worked with low-functioning, long-term inpatients). But I was also excited to meet new patients - and to already face the challenges that come with new patients. I’m incredibly comfortable working with psychiatric patients, and being back on the unit only reaffirms the fact that it is these patients in which I have both an emotional and intellectual interest. I can’t imagine myself doing anything other than treating mental maladies. 

All considered, I had an extremely positive day that helped distract me from my anxiety a bit. I still find myself obsessing about cutting, though, and am trying to grapple with wanting/hating cuts. I’m also concerned about my relationship with W. I had let slip to her that I had cut in college, and she responded as she would have when I was a student and she was my guidance counselor. Though I’m sure she isn’t dwelling on that conversation we had in March (or was it April?), I can’t help but wonder where this leaves us now. Is she a confidante in a friend sense? Does she play a present role in my recovery as well as a past one? Should I bring up these things again to follow up on the conversation in April, or do I not mention them unless they need to be mentioned? How do I deal with this unsteady feeling I have about our relationship and the shifting power dynamic (to something more equal and reciprocal) therein? 

I’m also worried about B.P (amongst other things, like the increasing import of my contamination fears and finding a job). Today marked ten months together for us, but instead of feeling secure, he spent the evening angry and hurt because his mother had once again begun drinking. We discovered that she had drank some of his rum over the weekend, and she was supposed to be in her intensive outpatient program tonight but instead was, I guess, drinking. I empathize with B.P. so deeply and feel bad that the good things in his life (i.e. being in a ten month relationship with me) are darkened by his mother’s alcoholism. I know it is so hard to keep yourself healthy when a parent is not healthy (I had - and still have -  to deal with my own father’s alcohol abuse and my mother’s severe anxiety and obsessions) and I only hope that B.P. reaches out when he needs to (not only when he thinks people are available) and keeps himself afloat without resorting to negative behaviors like self harm. 

It’s really strange to be in a relationship with someone who understands self harm. And it’s even stranger that we’ve both been triggered at the same time these past few days. I know we both have a tendency to hold back on disclosing our problems based on the other’s mood, but I think we both have to learn that mutual support when we’re both going through shit (or even when it’s only one of us) is more valuable than no support. I worry about B.P. because he (as compared to me) has a very small support network. I wish he’d trust himself more to open up and not be so concerned with appearances. 

It’s late now and the job search stands to resume tomorrow. Hopefully I’ll have some resolution soon regarding that particular stressor. But in the meantime - I’ll run. Fuck you, cutting. Thank God for XC. 

2 days ago  /  0 notes

I’m dealing with high levels of anxiety right now and I’m triggered constantly. Fuck you, cutting. I hope this doesn’t turn into one of my “episodes.”

3 days ago  /  1 note

seebeautyinthedarkness asked: you probably already know this, but stress can stop your period.

Thanks so much for writing! I finally got it - and yes, it was stress. 

4 days ago  /  0 notes

Learning to Jump the Wake

I rarely have posts that deal overtly with cutting anymore. Instead, my posts are often tangentially related to my recovery. They’re about how getting better has allowed me to enjoy people and sex and a day on the bay wakeboarding with my boyfriend. They’re about how quitting cutting has been one of the best decisions I’ve ever made, and how even on the bad days I have a lot of hope - hope that the urges will pass, hope that everything will turn out alright, hope that by the end of the summer, I’ll be able to jump the entire wake without falling short.  

But tonight, I want to deal with cutting and recovery explicitly. The past weeks have been a whirlwind experience for me. Finals, birthday, graduation, job search, and a pregnancy scare all packed into twenty-eight days. I’ve kept my head above water by always moving so as not to actually feel the brunt of the anxiety. I haven’t had a moment alone to myself to think about the anxiety that’s come with these past few weeks. It’s been running from one house to the other, from one friend to another, from one volunteer job to another. I’ve felt anxious, written short posts, and then moved on. And that worked for the most part. 

I’m finally alone tonight. No friends, family, or boyfriend around. Just me and my shore house; just me and the sounds of the humming air conditioning and shrieking sea gulls; just me and the dull roar of the commercial fishing boats as they fire their motors for the night. I’ve stopped running for a moment. And I’m sad. 

I’m sad and I’m anxious. I looked at my skin today and realized that over the past weeks, I’ve picked it to pieces. My face, shoulders, back, arms, stomach, thighs, even crotch are all dotted with red, raised bumps, scars, round scabs. The picking has escalated to a point where I’m doing it in public and not giving a shit, no matter how embarrassing it is. It is soothing; it helps keep the anxiety at bay. I can’t say how much time I spend picking each day. I fall into a trance when I do it. I look forward to doing it. At times, I do it unconsciously. It has, once again, become an unconscious coping mechanism, less destructive and emotionally detrimental than cutting, but annoying and embarrassing all the same. My skin is disgusting as of late, and tonight was the first time that I really recognized how effectively I’ve been burying the majority of my anxiety. 

The fact that I’ve been burying my anxiety doesn’t mean that I’ve been blocking it, though. I felt all of the anxiety associated with the pregnancy scare; I feel anxiety through frequent urges to cut. But that is deflected anxiety. The pregnancy scare was, in part, my unconscious transferring of anxiety in my life (i.e. not having a job) onto something with a more immediate resolution. The job thing will not be worked out on any predictable timeline; the pregnancy would be determined within the week. It seems that while I can control how I physically respond to anxiety, my unconscious response can sometimes take over to “protect” me from more severe anxiety. In my mind, worrying about a late period was easier than worrying about where I’m going to live and what kind of job I’m going to have. 

The simple solution, obviously, would be to train myself to reduce my baseline anxiety - to stop worrying about everything. But the problem is that I’m a fundamentally anxious person. My baseline anxiety will always be higher than average. That principle is written in my DNA. My grandmother is anxious, my mom is anxious, my sister is anxious, and I’m anxious. It’s how we are. I haven’t figured out how to reduce my baseline anxiety (I am perpetually worried about one thing or another, and when something gets resolved, my mind moves on to something else), but I have adjusted my response to anxiety. Sometimes, I think that’s all that I can do. 

But there still remains the problem of self harm. I’m not cutting, but when my anxiety increases, I often romanticize it and use thoughts of it to calm myself down. In reality, there’s nothing wrong with this - my anxiety remains manageable and I don’t harm myself - but in the past, thinking like this has often led me down a slippery slope to actually self harming. When I start thinking about how good cutting feels and how I liked the look of cuts, it then becomes that much easier for me to cut myself again. When my brain accepts the “good” side of cutting at higher and higher degrees, relapse becomes more likely. 

And I don’t want to relapse. Well, I think I don’t, anyway. I like being hopeful. I like dealing with anxiety the best I can. I like leaving this behind. But when I have these thoughts about cuts marching up my forearms and am caught up in the romantic eroticism of the cuts - of creating them, of caring for them, of their aesthetics - I get tricked - would it be that bad if I cut? can I cut once, tonight, since no one’s here? will someone hold me if I cut? These are dangerous questions, and I rationalize them as best I can. But I still am triggered, and I’m tired. I know recovery is worth it. I know I don’t want these cuts on my body. I know I don’t want to tell anyone that I cut again. But then again, there are times that I don’t know these things. 

These thoughts bring me back to another reality: that I am still burdened with the details of my story, that only I know about what happened when I cut and how disgusted yet comforted I am by the fact that I’ve done these things to myself. I was thinking tonight that I want to tell R. the story of when I cut over the winter and of when I cut just before I started recovery. I want to tell my story out loud. I want to see the emotions it unlocks for me - typing is one thing; actually saying the words out loud is another. But at the same time, I’m worried. If I tell her this story, I know I will be triggered in session. I know I might just shut down emotionally. I know that retelling the story would be both beneficial and detrimental - beneficial because it allows me to figure out what aspects of the tale I have trouble with, and detrimental because by telling the story, I will relive it probably to a point of almost feeling as if I’m cutting myself. The problem with the latter is that if I relive the story in a positive light, I also positively reinforce cutting for myself by emotionally remembering its positive aspects while only perhaps intellectually remembering its negative aspects (emotional negativity can only be felt in retrospect in regards to the time I cut before starting recovery).  

So after sitting with all of this, triggered and convincing myself again and again that I shouldn’t go find something sharp and make a few tiny incisions on my wrist, I’m sad. I’m still proud that I’ve come this far and that I have the opportunity to examine all of this through writing and by talking with my supports, but I’m sad that so much of my life has now been focused on this. Recovery improves so much, but I still have a sense of loss. What were other nineteen-year-olds doing when I was in therapy during my second year of college? What do other twenty-one year olds think about before they go to bed if they don’t think about running razors across their skin? How many hours do I spend tearing my skin to pieces? These are the questions that make me sad. These, and the anxiety that I’ve accidentally ignored, are what make me sad - are what make me scared of things I wouldn’t normally be scared of, are what startle me, are what make everything “contaminated,” are what make me cry without apparent explanation. 

This is what recovery looks like. There are a lot of feelings. A lot of hard looks at oneself.  A general upward trend toward improvement and satisfaction with steps backward interspersed. A lot of hope with a lot of fear. Fuck you, cutting. One day I’ll make it over that entire wake. 

4 days ago  /  2 notes

Lots to write, but I’m tired. Just glad that I got to catch the first wave of the season today! (Yay surfing!) Fuck you, cutting. Write tomorrow.

5 days ago  /  2 notes

Moving On

This week has been stressful, to say the least. I’ve learned (once again) to NEVER Google your symptoms; from Googling “cramps but no period,” I was told that a) I’m pregnant, b) I have ovarian cancer, and c) I have polycystic ovarian syndrome. All not helpful. All things that I probably don’t have. B.P. and I bought another round of pregnancy tests today, and I peed on the stick while he anxiously waited outside. After two anxiety-ridden minutes, the screen read, “Not Pregnant,” confirming that my lack-of-period is most likely due to stress and is not the first sign that a baby is on the way. Though I’m still somewhat anxious about not having a period, the negative test lightened the load significantly and I feel like I’ll finally sleep well tonight and will finally get the chance to enjoy this perfect Memorial Day Weekend weather. 

So that’s good news. 

The bad news is that my dad’s been drinking a lot. Every night, without fail. Always at least one bottle of wine. It doesn’t bother me when he’s a funny, passive drunk, but in the past he’s had an edge to him when intoxicated. He’s said some shitty things to me, and though I’ve forgiven him, it does scare me that his drunken moods could again turn, and I would have to deal with all of the insults. As much as I know they’re not what he really thinks of me and that they’re instead grounded in circumstantial (mis)perceptions, I just don’t want to hear that he drinks because I’m an awful daughter again. I’m sure no one can blame me. 

But though my dad’s drinking and I missed my period and I still don’t have a job, I’m relatively content. I think I’m just a more stable person since I’ve begun recovering and that I roll with the punches life throws at me a lot better. I get frustrated, sad, anxious, and triggered, but not nearly to the degree that I used to. I’m calmer, more measured, more rational. My emotions aren’t over-exaggerated. I’m less reliant on other people to “check” me. I’m less likely to romanticize negative emotions; I’ve come to learn that intense anxiety and sadness are neither poetic nor endearing. 

I have almost 19 months in recovery now, and how far I’ve come is really remarkable. I have so much under control (mostly) now - self harm, anxiety, sadness. I would say more, but it’s late and I’m tired. Fuck you, cutting. Moving on is so real. 

6 days ago  /  2 notes