#95 Frustration!!!

It is beginning to dawn on me that I cannot tolerate frustration in all its myriad forms. My mother didn't teach me because she was unable to handle her own. If I got frustrated, she got physical with me.
While my brain is going round and round about how terrible a situation is, how rotten people are to me, and how it is all going to end in catastrophe the agitation grows bigger and bigger. I can’t interrupt the babble in my head to inject some reason. There are no volume or intensity controls up there. The on/off switch is in my body.
I know that if I inflict physical pain on myself, the frustration will instantly disappear.
Self-injury is the off switch.

#94 All My Own Fault!

Everything bad that has ever happened to me, I have filed under, "Rylee's Own Fault."
My mother built this filing cabinet for me before I could even talk. Everything went into it.
From my earliest days, a favourite phrase of my mother's was, "you made your bed now lie in it."
No matter what distress I was in, apparently I had brought it on myself.
No matter that I could not remember or understand what I had done exactly, I was solely responsible for my predicament.
All the shame, humiliation, helplessness, abuse, terror, suicidal panics, poor choices, self-injury are locked away as "Rylee's Own Fault."
Until now, it has been very difficult for me to work through the painful parts of my past because I was so well indoctrinated.
All I can think about is that it was my own stupid fault!

#93 Come Out, Come Out, Whoever You Are.

#92 Creativity

If your creative endeavours pay for food and shelter, then your art is likely to feel like work, at least some of the time. However, even though, I do not pay the rent with my paintings, for some reason, I allow my art-making to become hard work. I don’t enjoy the process as much as I would like to because I always have my eye on the end product.
It is work, because it supplies me with things that are nearly as important as food and shelter. If I do a good job, my art will bring me visibility, connection, admiration, and self-worth. The very things that I was starved for growing up might come my way. I barely enjoy making art anymore, because I am so hungry for the good feelings I might get if I can please people with the result.

#91 A Lifetime of Fear

People who felt safe in their childhoods never really lose that sense of trust in the world that their parents were able to provide for them but those of us who lived with coldness and recurring chaos never lose that fearfulness. It can be dialled down to a nagging worry or a kind of free floating anxiety. During stressful times it gets dialled up to full blown panic or real terror.

Every morning we wake up to the fact that nowhere is a safe place for us.
We go into the world battle ready. We go into the world alone because we have not learned to trust. We go into the world without the skills we need to negotiate with others and to navigate our journey.

We will do almost anything to escape the constant fear and what we do angers and frightens others. We are weighed down with psychiatric labels and get stuck in the system.

We are frightened. We are lost. We are alone.

#90 The Hiding Place

I have been an analyzer all my life. I've insisted on a logical explanation for everything that crossed my path. As long as I can remember I have been in my head trying to figure stuff out. Even though I seldom come up with definitive answers to the who(s) what(s), where(s), when(s) and why(s) of everything, the constant questioning serves to distract me from my feelings. The constant thinking has become my security blanket. It has turned out to be a safe place to hide.

#89 Flashbacks

I think everyone has some experience of flashbacks even if they don't use that word. We get a peculiarly clear memory of something that we were not thinking about or a rush of feeling comes from something we hear or smell. These can be pleasant or unpleasant.

Flashbacks arising out of long ago traumatic events are always horrific and shocking. Without prompting, my mind will produce snapshots of people or events from my past and my body is instantly flooded with fear. Something insignificant in the real world, or on television, will leave me swamped with panic or rage. These flashbacks can contain what seems to me to be new information but is probably just information newly released from where I buried it long ago.

The triggers vary and, unbidden, my body gives up a distressing memory or replays overwhelming emotions from the past. The present is gone and I am trapped inside an experience that I did not believe I could survive the first time around.

And here it has come back again.

#88 Stop the Labelling

Many years ago, a respected and powerful

psychiatrist discharged

(and dismissed) me from his hospital

by telling me that I was

(and presumably always would be)

"therapy resistant!"

It depressed, terrified and paralyzed me

for long time.

Fortunately, a few years later,

I connected with a more respectful

and skilled psychologist

who had the patience

to wait with me

until I was strong enough

to move forward.

#87 worrying about tomorrow

i
should put off
worrying
about tomorrow
until tomorrow
but
what would i do
today

if
i put off
worrying
about tomorrow
until tomorrow
my worries
would get
stacked too high
to get through
in one day

if
the stack gets
too high
it might
fall
and crush me
and i would
die

if
the stack gets
too high
i wouldn't have
time to eat or sleep

if
the stack gets
too high
the things
i'm worried about
won't be prevented
by my worrying
about them

so
i don't think
i should put off
worrying
about tomorrow
until tomorrow

after all

#86 Dear Abby

02 Feb 19??

Dear Abby,
Today I was diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder. I went to the library to read up on this psychiatric condition and I was very disturbed by what I learned. Apparently, people make money writing books about how to survive living with a Borderline.
Is it inevitable that everyone who gets to know me will eventually despise me?
signed
'worried in Border Country'

Dear 'Worried'
Yes, it is true, no one likes Borderline Personalities. Your only hope is to learn to keep a good distance between yourself and others. If you keep well away, you will be mostly invisible; but the closer you get to people, the more likely it is that they will find you insufferable.

Of course, you are already aware that your reactions to life are all out of proportion...
-your overly sensitive personality will confuse others;
-your need for control over the smallest details will annoy everyone;
-your difficulties with the simplest tasks will upset others;
-the choices you make to manage stress will confound everybody.

In other words, you will drive people crazy if you let them get close to you.
The best advice I can give is that you keep your distance from everyone. You cannot trust anyone to understand and empathize so you must never connect to anyone. Make every effort to remain alone with your illness and people will probably not hate you.

#85 Dissociation vs Anxiety

All I know of my life is alternating dissociation and anxiety.

If I was not dissociated, I was anxious;

if I was not anxious, I was dissociated.

I could always switch from one to the other as needed.

Not so much these days.

I can't or won't operate the switch and I am stuck,

very uncomfortably, in a constant state of fearfulness.

Nearly every sight, sound, or thought makes me afraid.

I definitely do not want to waste any more of my life

disconnected from myself and others

but living with rising panic has become daily nightmare.

#84 Not Fair!

My life was mislaid,
and my feelings were put on hold.
As my world got smaller and smaller,
my existence became irrelevant.

Decades went past,
scarcely noticed, barely remembered.

I met someone who could help me.
But my ability to trust
had been one
of the first things stolen.
Two steps forward, three steps back.

Panic. Pain. Terrifying black holes,
repair work needed.
Three steps forward, two steps back.

Rage. Pain. Hard work.
Connections made.
The little one begins to trust again.
She adds her voice to mine.
Three steps forward, one step back.

Now we are getting somewhere.
Much is learned. Much is understood.
I feel my life is expanding.

The missing ingredient now?
Time. “Time heals all wounds” my mother said.
But the White Rabbit said,
"Oh Dear! Oh Dear!
It is very, very late!"

It is indeed very, very late!
And I am so scared
that I have used up all of my allotted time.
I have just gotten into the game
and the clock is about to run out!

Not Fair! goddamn it, it’s just not fair.

#83 Too Late!

#82 Writing or Righting My Story?

Self-injury, in its various forms, makes my pain visible - in the past as well as the present. When there was no one there to care for me, I had to get through it on my own and each time I did, I was proud of myself. However, I was also angry that no one praised my strength and courage. No one noticed or seemed to care.

When I self injure, I am inflicting similar damage on my body and triumphing over it. The scars that I create, serve as a reminder of what went before. I want to show the world how I can survive anything. I want to prove that my survival is no random accident, that I am in control now and I will make it right!
As I re-play my painful childhood, my history is written on my body and I revive that child. I bring her back to consciousness. I say, “Well done, you do not need anyone anymore! You are in control of your survival. You are alive. It is all right now!”

I am not just writing my story, I am making it right.

#81 Writing My Story

My mother is dead.
My story is dead.
I am dead.

When my mother died, I was afraid that my story had died with her. My chances of a confession from her or some understanding of why she did this to me or an apology were gone forever.

Pain in my body is an echo of what was done to my body and it reassures me that I am not crazy and that my body did not die when I left it. If I ever feel safe enough to lift up the trap door and go downstairs again, my body is still there.

My body needed to keep the story alive. It needed to store the evidence and to show the scars. My mind carried the shame and humiliation but my body stored the memory. The scars from my self-injuries are a recording. Without my being aware of it, my body was writing my history...
Dear Diary; today my mother beat me black and blue and red all over. This is what it looked like.