Like a Boss.

Boyfriend.  He does not yet have a name here.  I don't want to name him here just yet.  Let's call him "William."  After my grandfather and my uncle, who are two of the most warm-hearted and loving people you'll ever know, with just a splash of wicked humor and a lot of reserved spunk.

He listens to me recount the events of my life, and most often shakes his head in disbelief.  "Jesus, what did they do to you?  You've overcome so much."

In my broken moments, and in the moments when I couldn't see clear of this path, I didn't understand how he could hear these stories and not see me as weak and broken.  He has always seen me as strong, smart, and resilient.  I was not able to see what he saw.

I was only able to see the wounded little girl, cowering in the corner from life, and everyone in it.  I was only able to see the hurt and the abuse and the loneliness.  I was only able to see someone weak and sad, broken by a lifetime of abuse and injustice.

And in this past year with him, I have begun to see what he sees.  Someone who didn't submit to defeat, no matter how gross it got.  Someone who fought, every step of the way.  Someone who continually took steps, no matter how small or frightening, to do what needed to be done to survive, overcome, and prevail.

And I have.

I have cut ties with the people who hurt me.  I have refused to allow anyone to stay if the couldn't treat me with respect and dignity.  I have forgiven, moved forward, and refused to allow a lifetime of cruelty turn me into a hateful, vengeful, or otherwise unpleasant, unhappy person.

If that's not strength, I don't know what is.

And I am so in love with the man who came into my life, and showed me these truths about myself.  Who loved me at my weakest, and hung around long enough to see me at my strongest.  

Petition for Dissolution of Marriage

I read thru the papers in their entirety several times before they were served.  I know what they say.  Getting hard copies in the mail today was a blow to the chest I did not expect.

"Petition for dissolution of marriage."
It feels so cold, and formal.  So sterile.  It feels like such a small, sharp phrase, and completely inadequate in describing the heartbreak of a divorce, or the twenty years I spent with him, both good and bad.

Two babies.  The death of beloved family members.  Vacations.  Inside jokes.  Heated arguments.  Lazy days, curled in a ball on the couch.  Violent disagreements.  All of that is over now.  Reduced to a stack of papers less than an inch thick.  Reduced to a few short meetings in a parking lot to exchange our daughter.  Reduced to a few more signatures, and a notarized stamp before the final deed is done.   

I did the right thing for all of us.  I was struggling.  He was struggling.  Our children were struggling.  This is better.  I am aware.

And my heart still contracts when I stop and consider the magnitude of what's happened in the past year.  Sometimes I look around and think I might still wake up, and find it's all been a nightmare.  That I will roll over at night, and he will be there, and he will wrap me up in his arms, and we will love each other the way we were supposed to.  Without the anger.  The fear.  The hate.

Instead, a pile of cold, emotionless papers occupies what used to be his side of the bed.
It's very real.

I am very glad.  This is nearly over, and it's a relief.  I can begin to focus on my therapy and my recovery.  I can surround myself with nothing but support and love.  I can begin to further build my neglected friendships, and find my way in the world the way I was meant.  This is a very, very positive change.

But in moments like these, my heart still breaks.  If only...


And because this is a depressing post, here is a picture of a cute critter.  He has a corm.

Porn Zoo

Some asshole followed me out of the grocery store today, and said "shakin' it, aren't ya?"

Dude.  Fucking stop that.  It's not flattering.  I don't giggle.  I get scared.  Because someone who makes sexual comments to a stranger is obviously not playing with a full deck, and I don't know whether you want to ask me out or rape me or make a lampshade out of my ample ass.

Which, by the way WAS, in fact, shakin'.  I'm fat.  Fat jiggles.  And even if it didn't, I have every right to make it jiggle without being made to feel like an exhibit in the porn zoo.

Is there a porn zoo?  There should be.

There.  I've solved the problem.  Porn zoos.   Enclosures where people come for the sole purpose of being ogled and cat-called.  Where we can press our asses to the glass just like the chimps, and you can snap pictures, high-five your bros, and post facebook updates about the hot-ass specimen in the "tramp" enclosure who jiggled her titties just for you.
Yes, that's the answer.  Take your creepy cat calls to the porn zoo, where they belong.  

Then women wouldn't have to be skeeved out by your weird behavior at the fucking grocery store.  Douche bag.

I live in a small town.  It's entirely possible that this asshole is someone I know, and if not, it's likely that we know the same people.  If you know a tall, bearded butthole with a ponytail down his back, tell him to keep it in his pants.  Or go to the porn zoo, and beat his chest with the rest of the gorillas.  

Heavy

Possible triggers.  Read with caution.  

I am safe.  I love you.  

The weight is physically oppressive.  A heaviness that settles over my bones, making even the slightest movements a burden.  The racing thoughts have stopped completely, and left vacancy and darkness in their place.  Everything is still.  I am still.  I wish to remain still.
I am pessimism personified.  Every dreadful possibility now becomes immediate reality within the swirl of smoke that's filled my skull.  There is swill.  There is rot.  There is stagnation and filth. Every thought dark and disastrous.
My divorce will destroy me.
My children will resent me.
My family will tire of me.
My boyfriend will desert me.
I am helpless.
I am useless.
I deserve all of this.

Events present and past converge in the here and now, to confirm my fears.  They didn't love me.  They didn't protect me.  They didn't come to me.  Because this misery, this despair, this unquenchable torment is what I deserve.  This heartache, and nothing more.

And it's heavy.  My breathing is shallow.  Even the effort of drawing a breath seems colossal and fruitless.  I give in to it, and silently hope to suffocate under the weight of the sadness.

My veins feel full and sticky.  Clogged with the years of filth and sorrow that have been ignored, brushed aside, suppressed.  My blood feels old and tired.  I want to open my veins and tug out the threads and the barbs and the thickness.  Bleed out the old and make way for something fresh.  Drain the sickness.  Start again with new blood.

All this therapy and all this effort now seem like just another cruel trick; filling me with hope and promise of a new way of being, only to come crashing down around me in shards of failure, when I am reminded of just how deep I can sink.

Tomorrow is still there, and I will go on.  A little weaker, and a little less hopeful for any kind of recovery.  
I am still too stubborn, and too frightened to give up.
I miss him.

Ahead of the curve

I shed tears in my therapy session yesterday.
This is not a new thing for me, but for some reason, figuring out the dynamics between myself and this new doctor has been a process.  I did not feel immediately comfortable.  I did not feel good about sharing the strange and intimate details of my life with him.  Every time I'd confess something new, I'd cringe.  I'd feel ashamed.  I feared judgement.
Over the weeks, I have slowly come to see him as a loving, dorky grandfather.  I've become familiar with his vocal quirks, his high-waist pants, and the awkward way he sometimes swears, in what seems like an adorable effort to relate to me.  I like him.  And I feel liked in return.

My week has been rough.  
There are financial struggles.  Big ones.  
There are divorce-related disagreements.  Shitty, hurtful ones.
There are PTSD symptoms that are getting much worse, instead of better.
There are house-related repairs that desperately need attention, and I can't do it.  My sink has been plugged for two weeks, and I am still not sure how to fix it.
I've been dealing with fibromyalgia BS, and haven't felt well all week.
And my boyfriend was here for a visit, and had to go back home...that's the worst.

I showed up for DBT group on Thursday, and didn't look at anyone.  Just sat there, disengaged, crying, and writing in my notebook.
When I arrived for my therapy appointment the next morning, my doctor asked immediately about my apparent sadness in group.
And I cried.
My anxiety, and crippling fear of leaving my house.
The accusations and hurtful, mixed messages from my ex husband.
The painful and cumbersome distance that separates me from the man I love.
And I just cried.  

We talked about how I had been dealing with those situations when they have arisen, and I said I'd just been trying to stick to the facts, state my case, and stay on topic.  Repeating myself when necessary.  I have tried to avoid judgments and assumptions.  I have tried to take steps, little ones if necessary, toward solving the problems, instead of wallowing.
And I still felt shitty.
I still feel afraid to leave my house, worrying I'll run into someone unpleasant, who likes to hurt me.
I still feel heartbroken when my boyfriend leaves, and spend the next two days stumbling around like a confused newborn calf separated from its mother.
I still don't know how to fix that goddamn sink, or what to do about the stagnant water festering in the pipes.
I feel shitty.  Damn shitty.

And he just looked at me, contemplating.  Curious.
"Krystal..."
He frowned, thoughtful, and shifted his glasses to his head.  "How do you know how to do all of this?"

My face stuck, and I wasn't sure how to react.  "How to do all of what?"

He looked at his notes and then back at me.
"These are skills we teach for conflict resolution.  Staying on topic.  The Broken Record...repeating yourself calmly.  Taking actions to solve problems.  Where did you learn these things?"

"I didn't.  I mean, I haven't."

He just looked at me, blinking.  And I realized that this man wasn't sure what to say to me, or how to say it.  Because everything he planned to teach me, I was already doing.  I was ahead of the curve.

"I guess...I suppose I'm better at this than I thought," I said.

My homework for the week is to keep track of every time I don't let my fear and anxiety get the better of me.  To note when I feel that fear, and move forward despite it.  To note when I live my life the way I fucking well want to, instead of caving to anxiety over what someone will think about it.  To go out and buy a tube of goddamn cookie dough, and to hell with what anyone thinks of it. Because I am allowed to do those things.  Because it is my life to live.  Because I no longer have to answer to anyone else for my lifestyle choices.
Ever, ever again.

I have to give myself more credit.
I might have no education, but I'm smart.
I might have a truckload of mental illnesses, but I don't have to be a slave to them.
I'm a good person, and I'm allowed to remember that about myself.

And I can do it.  I'm already ahead of the curve.
And no matter how hard anyone else ever works to prove otherwise, I will never ever forget that about myself.

How to talk to a suicidal person

Maybe a better title is "how to talk to a suicidal me."  I know this is different for everyone.  And this is a work in progress.
Take care of yourselves <3  


 Listen. 
And if I have nothing to say, talk. Keep talking. 
Show me that I am not an irritation or a burden. 
Show me that talking with me is a thing you want to be doing, and not a thing you feel obligated to do. 

Remain calm. Getting angry with me will make it worse. 
Understand that this isn't intentional on my part...I sincerely do not want to feel this way. Validate. 
Understand that reaching out to another person in these desperate moments is very hard. I will feel like an annoyance. Show me that I'm not.

Don't tell me to think of the children. It's not as if I've forgotten about them. It's insulting. 

Don't try to fix my problems. Tell me you will be there to help me while I fix them. If you have legitimate solutions you believe may work for a particular issue, tell me later. In the depths of suicidal ideation, I will merely argue, and tell you why your solutions won't work. I'm not an asshole. I just legitimately can't help it. 

Please don't tell me that "suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem." First, this problem is not temporary. This is a life-long mental illness. I have literally contemplated suicide multiple times a week since I was nine. Second, the idea of a permanent solution to this life-long issue sounds like bliss. I understand the spirit behind such a phrase, but it is both useless and invalidating. And in a suicidal frame of mind, a permanent solution is exactly what I want. 
Talk to me until you are sure I'm safe. Until you hear my voice change back to normal. Until I'm no longer crying. Until I'm able to talk about regular, every day things without steering the conversation back to the glorification of my demise. Please don't let the conversation end until you're sure I am calm and safe. If you're not sure, ask.

 If you love me, tell me. Tell me what you love about me. Talk to me about your favorite memories of us together. Tell me what I'm doing right. Tell me what you'd miss about me. 

Check in. Show me you understand that my problem is real, and not some sort of character flaw that I could fix if I tried hard enough. Knowing someone is thinking of me, and cares what happens to me is huge.

 It's likely that I've hurt myself. Self harm is not at all a functional coping mechanism, and I am aware of this. It is however, the only thing in these moments that helps to alleviate the extreme and reactive feeling inside me. It's ok to ask me. Please ask me. Have you hurt yourself? Is it a deep wound? Has the bleeding stopped? How many cuts? These are neutral questions that express your concern and ensure my immediate safety, without being accusatory or judgmental. I accept and understand that you don't understand. Please do the same for me, because I don't understand it either. 

Check in with each other. Knowing that I have a strong, reliable support system, and that they aren't squeamish about this subject, or me, is helpful. 

Unless we have previously agreed, please do not ask about my medication. "Did you take your pills today" is extremely invalidating. It suggests "you wouldn't feel like this if you'd taken your meds." This is extremely upsetting and will only make it worse. Pills will not "turn it off." If you want to talk about medication, pick a better moment.

I will add to this as needed...

How it happens...

EXTREME TRIGGER WARNING  

This post contains detailed descriptions of episodes of anger and self harm related to Borderline Personality Disorder.  A short, but graphic example of the thought processes and actions that accompany my specific episodes.  There are no photographs or videos attached, just text.  
Please keep yourselves safe.  I am doing the same.  <3  












How it happens...


Something small.  Some perceived injustice that lights the flame.  
Or maybe something big and blatant.  Maybe some asshole whose sole focus it seems is to upset me...I do know those people.  People who intentionally push, knowing full well the outcome.  
And then it happens.  
I am angry.  But not anger.  Fury.  Fire.  Daggers.  I am sharp.  I am burning.  
My anger is irrational and unnecessary, and I am aware.  Knowing this causes it to fester, to swell inside me, until I am consumed by it.  
A permanent scowl has spread itself across my face.  I know I look scary.  I'm too angry to care.  
I reach out.  "I'm having some symptoms."  People are compassionate.  I appreciate it.  But people have their own lives to live, and they can't always be here, physically, with me.  I hate it.  I resent it.  I resent them.  

I replay scenes of injustice and abuse in my head.  The cruel words spoken.  The slaps across the face.  The rape.  The utter lack of love and concern in even my darkest moments.  My life, as a whole, with all the good canceled out, and only the bad, the cruel to fill the void.  My mind is stuck here.  I hate everyone who ever wronged me.  Fuck all of them.  Each and every single last useless one of them.  I hope they die.  
I seethe.  
It grows.  

I rip my knife across my thigh, and hope the bleeding is heavy.  It's better when it's heavy.  When it runs in little trails down to my knee, looking vicious and dangerous despite the fact that it's only 10 or 12 superficial cuts.  I scrape the blood with my knife and gather it into large, organized pools, making room for more.  There must be more.  There is a spark of relief as I photograph the wounds.  And then it passes.  I am in my hole again.  

If someone were to cross me in this moment, I would spiral.  I would disconnect.  I would throw things.  Punch walls.  Slam doors.   Scream.  Swear.  I hate them.  Deep.  The anger is in my bones, and no superficial flesh-wound will release it.  I need to be alone, but the solitude feeds the fire, and it grows.  I photograph my face, dark and swollen.  Stained with tears.  I compare the pictures to the ones of my happier faces.  Polished and pretty, a sparkle in my eyes.  It's not the same person.  I am some sort of monstrous duality.  I don't recognize me.  

There are noises.  Clanging, ringing, mumbling voices.  Random words that echo loudly between my ears, making it hard to concentrate.  Similar to the experience of getting an annoying song stuck in one's head, I hear phrases or words or sounds.

"SANCTION.  SANCTUARY.  SECRETARY.  TERRA COTTA."
Clang clang zip.  Beep.  "FORNICATE  DILATE."  Buzz buzz.  

I sit, sometimes for hours, just staring.  I listen to music,  hoping to drown out the noise inside, hoping to find some sort of melodic vibration to calm the beast inside.  I watch old, familiar movies, hoping to capture the memory of a happier time and grab onto it with both hands.  It always slips away.
I eat until I'm sick.  Or sometimes, not at all.  Not for days.  I smoke until I'm queasy.  

I paint.  I write.  I smash things up in the garage.  I walk around my neighborhood, sweating and certainly looking like an angry elephant, stomping unintentionally with each step.  I take Xanax to dull it out.  What will happen when they're gone...I'm afraid, for that day is rapidly approaching.  There are no refills, and I will be on my own.  With this...thing.  

I come to terms with the fact that there is no way out of this, and I must simply wait.  Feel the anger and the sadness and the misery until it fades, and I can breathe again.  

And then I do.  The relief creeps in slowly, tip-toeing around the violent spikes jutting out in all directions.  Wisps of calm, floating in like fog and caressing and dissolving each sharp emotion, until there is room for peace.  My jaw relaxes, my shoulders sink, and there I am again.  The person everyone knows, and loves.  The person who smiles and means it.  The person...not the diagnosis.  

There is no easy answer.  And so I ride the storm, and wait.