Women, Food and God

About 6 weeks ago V and I had a discussion about therapy and how I thought it was going. I absolutely love V and really feel as though she was the answer to my prayers, even though it took me a long time to find her! In session she really challenges me to get out of my comfort zone, but is also really good about picking up on when it is becoming too much for me. There have been times where I have ignored my own signals and pushed myself too far, just to suffer the consequences later when I leave the safety of V's office. We discussed all these things, but the main thing we focused on is what I'm doing outside of sessions. I always felt I needed to push myself so hard and fast because I only had an hour a week with her. That hour goes by quickly and I hated feeling so unproductive outside of sessions (even though she argued that most of the work I have been doing has been outside of her office, not actually in it!). I asked if there was a way she could provide me with things to do in between sessions, mainly articles or books to read, but also things like journal topics or homework. That way I felt like I had a hand in my own therapy while I was outside her office and didn't feel like I was just sitting around waiting for the next hour.

It has proven to be a really good thing for me. It has given me a path and purpose every week rather than just counting down the days, hours and minutes until my next session. Most of my work so far has been in the writing form, which is something I have really come to enjoy over the past few years. I find it such an easy way for me to get out what is inside.

Two weeks ago V recommended the first book as something she thought would be helpful for me. It's called Women, Food and God by Geneen Roth. She was in the process of reading it and said that there were so many times she would read a passage and think to herself "This would be great for Lily to hear" or "This reminds me of Lily". I was a little hesitant when I heard the title because I have had such a huge wall up with my spirituality lately. I'm not sure what it is, but I know I don't want to talk about it. She still encouraged me to read it because there were many things in there that she thought would be helpful.

As I ventured out to return a book at the library I already had (The Red Pyramid, recommended by my kids and definitely not a therapy book! Haha!), I ventured in the non-fiction section to see if they had it. Sure enough, it was on the shelf staring right back at me. I grabbed it and went to the readers section to read a little bit of it to see what I thought. Before I knew it, I had read almost 75 pages and found myself chuckling and nodding at the things that she was writing about.

I don't have an ED, but I do have my struggles with food. After I was abused I used food to self-soothe. I went from 140 lbs my freshman year to 26o lbs when I graduated high school. Food was my escape. Fat was my safety. In November 2004, when I was a junior in college, something in me switched. I literally woke up on the day of November 29th and decided I was done being fat. By the time I graduated in May 2006 I had lost almost 100 lbs. I gained back what we teachers refer to as "The first year 15" but have comfortably stayed in the 173-185 range for 5+ years. That seems to be my body's comfort zone. I know if I worked out and didn't eat as much processed food I could get down to maybe 155, but right now I'm happy staying within this range.

That being said, you don't have to have an ED to connect to this book. You have to have had a bad day and gone to the pantry instead of feeling the stress or the pain. You have to have had times where you are bored and choose to eat because it's easy. I don't know of a single person who would not be able to connect to this book. It talks a little about trauma and how food is used as a means to avoid feelings, but it also talks about how you can learn to not let food control you which is something I struggle with. When I'm on the higher end of my aforementioned range, I restrict like crazy. No, you can't eat this. You are going to gain one more pound and be too fat. When I'm on the lower end, I overeat. You've got some wiggle room, go and eat that hamburger you want! Order that pizza! Don't workout!

She uses a type of no nonsense humor and her own struggles with weight as fuel for her thoughts in this book. I'm really enjoying it. I have my journal with me as I'm reading and am often stopping to write down tidbits that I find very profound or helpful. I've gone back to re-read the first few chapters again (it doesn't flow really well in my opinion, so it's harder for me to read and therefore commit to memory) but have already filled up a couple of pages just in those chapters alone.

I wanted to share this book with you all because I really do feel like it has a message that everyone can connect to. It's not preachy and really is more of a spiritual book rather than a "God" book. I'm looking forward to getting further into it and learning more about myself through what I eat!

What's The Worst That Could Happen?

I'm not sure if it is a personality trait of mine or whether it is a result of my trauma at an early age, but I tend to have an overactive, extremely imaginative "catastrophe brain". I always expect these horrible, extremely detrimental outcomes to things that almost never come to fruition. I know a lot of it has to do with my obsessive need for control and desire for preparedness, but I'm starting to wonder what purpose it is really serving me.

I had a very intense session with V on Thursday, which left me literally hurt. I could barely walk up the stairs to my apartment and every turn in bed racked my body. My normal outlet for my panic and anxiety have always been panic attacks. I can feel them building up inside me and when they erupt, it is not pretty. But lately my body has been venturing away from the "oh-my-gosh-I'm-going-to-die" panic attacks and routing that energy into my body. I have had horrible stomach pains the last few weeks during sessions, and Thursday that got completely bypassed and sent straight to my muscles. It felt like I had the flu x1000. I have never felt that much pain in my body before. I remember lying in bed thinking, "I wonder if this is what it feels like to have cancer." Even being still hurt. My whole body ached.

Thankfully I woke up Friday morning back to my pain-free self, but was left with the burden of trying to sort through all that was discussed with V. Part of it is still in the denial side of my brain. I talked about things that I have NEVER talked about with anyone. I can't believe I did it. So much so that my brain just isn't ready to call that reality yet. A few other things we discussed I don't think I can even write about here. Embarrassing... for me at least.

But one thing that we did discuss was how my overactive and imaginative brain is keeping me from having the things I want. It keeps me "in my head" too much. And when I'm in my head, I convince myself that everything is scary. That everything is going to hurt me. That I can only be safe if I'm alone. It keeps me stuck in my fear.

V said something to me during this conversation that provided me with an "a-ha moment"; something pretty rare with me.

She told me that the idea of something, whether it's an experience (having sex, being in a relationship) or a feeling (pain, fear) is almost always worse than the actual thing.

And especially with me and this dear sweet imaginative brain of mine, it's probably blown so out of proportion that it's not any wonder why I'm so afraid. I've had almost 15 years of convincing myself that these things are so huge and insurmountable that the idea itself has become it's own Mt. Everest.

So she asked me: "What's the worst that could happen?" and I laughed because I have all these horrible, improbable possibilities mapped out (and have had them for quite some time, I might add) for each of the things that have kept me frozen in fear for so long. I think she knew that I already had a response to her question, but we both knew it wasn't the answer she was looking for.

I was a little embarrassed to admit that I never really thought LOGICALLY about this. My mind has been stuck on irrational overdrive for so long (even though I am by nature, a very rational and logical person) that I never have really sat down to think about how reality is going to be completely different than what is in my mind. Can all these horrible things that I've conjured up in my mind still happen? Sure. But will they? Probably not.

I'm not a kid anymore. I know how to protect myself. I know how to listen to my instincts and trust their guidance. They've never really been wrong before (at least when it's counted). I have so much more power as an adult than I did when I was abused. I'm not going to ever be in that same situation again.

The fact that I can take all of that in and not fight against it tooth and nail is amazing to me. Not long ago I would have argued that because there was even a chance that something bad could happen meant that everything else didn't matter. But I'm taking it in. I'm pushing myself to be logical and really open my mind to the fact that even though I may still feel the things I did when I was a kid, that I'm not actually one anymore.

Can You See My Secret?

I had an interesting experience this weekend.

I am required to get a certain number of training hours outside of school each year to maintain my certificate. Most of them I get during the summer, but I normally don't knock them all out in the summer and have to take a Saturday to finish them all up. There wasn't a whole lot offered that really pertained to me, but I did see one that caught my eye titled "Addiction/Abuse". Of course it was to be centered on how to help students who are suffering or come from families who deal with that, but I thought it might be helpful.

Knowing that V has done trainings for my school district before, I figured she was leading this one too since it is right up her alley. I talked to her about it and sure enough, she was going to be the presenter for it. I asked her what she thought about me attending, and she said it would be totally fine. I did a little thinking about it before I signed up, but decided that since nothing else that was offered was really on target with what I needed professionally, that I could go see her presentation and learn things both professionally and personally.

We talked a little bit in my session Thursday about what to expect as far as how she would interact with me (basically she'd pretend she didn't know me, keep the eye contact at a minimum, etc) and an idea of what she'd be talking about to help prepare me for anything triggering. I left feeling a little nervous after hearing some of the things she was going to talk about, but knew it was because I heard it with my "therapy brain" and it would not be the same when I was hearing it with my "professional brain".

So Saturday I walked into the training and signed in, picked a spot to sit and immediately got so self conscious. I felt like I was hiding this huge secret and shouldn't be there. We went around and introduced ourselves and when she got to me, it was so strange knowing that we were both pretending not to know each other on purpose. She started her presentation and I was shocked to find that I was almost immediately withdrawing without even having anything triggering me. I struggled to focus on what she was talking about. I struggled even with looking up at the screen because it was too close to where she was standing.

I spent a lot of the presentation staring at the handouts, the ground, my table, my nails... anything to avoid making eye contact. I felt like I did for so long after I was abused. I couldn't look people in the eye for the longest time. It was like that simple act meant that everyone could see what had happened to me and what I thought. I haven't felt like that in a long time. Like I was hiding some secret that everyone could see on my face. And I was hiding a secret...

Not only that, but I felt like I was a fly on the wall watching V discuss all these things, many of which pertained to me and my life, with all these strangers. It felt like I was watching all these people learn about my deepest and darkest secrets thinking it was about random people, but I really knew it was about me. And hearing V speaking the words made it stir inside of me differently.

I never realized how much her voice is connected with feeling things for me. Any time I approach things that require me to feel anything, she's there supporting me, pushing me and talking to me. Her voice has become one of those things you don't even realize is so embedded in your brain. It's like how a smell triggers a certain memory, I found that her voice triggers certain feelings. It was all very overwhelming. I didn't really take much from the presentation because I had all of this swirling through my head.

V sent me an email today asking how I was after the presentation. She picked up on the fact that I was having a hard time and wanted to know if she could do anything to help. I basically told her what I wrote about here. I'll be interested to see what she says in response.

Weird weekend.

Mind Shift

Sorry for the absence! School is back in full swing and I have been very busy getting ready for it all!

My mind took a shift from "all about me" to "all about work" a couple of weeks ago and it has been hard for me to tap into my reflective side.

I'm still seeing V once a week, but right now school is the only thing on my mind. Once things settle in a little bit more, the "all about me" side will start to open itself back up.

I did have some rather disturbing dreams last night, though. Hoping those don't continue if I keep neglecting this other side of me.

What Went Right?

Part of my requirements every year as a teacher are to update my state required trainings, such as sexual harassment, CPR/first aid and reporting child abuse.

As I was completing these online, I started thinking about the video that was part of the child abuse training and my own experience.

My abuse took place over the summer between my 8th and 9th grade year, so any immediate changes in my behavior would have only been noticed by my parents and/or family. Since I started the school year with new teachers, they had no idea if my behavior was any different than my norm. I have distinct memories of struggling in school during my 9th grade year. I remember sleeping in class, not feeling motivated, even spending a lot of time in the nurse's office. Definitely not how I would normally act. But no one could know that. I remember writing about what happened that summer in English class, I think more about having to go the police station and court rather than specifics of the abuse, hoping that at least she would notice how much pain I was in... but nothing ever happened. She never said anything to me, the counselor never called me in. It was like disclosing and not being heard. It made me feel even worse than I already did. And I never forgot that.

But as I was watching this video, I was shocked by some of the statistics. Only one in ten children who are abused ever disclose to anyone. One in ten. Part of me understands why this number is so low because a lot of children are abused by their parents and they have that internal struggle of hating the abuse and wishing it would stop and loving their parents. To think of myself as that one person in a group of ten abused children who told someone is kind of crazy. Why was I able to tell when so many others can't? What in me is different?

I struggle with focusing on the things that went wrong and the things I can't/couldn't control in regards to my abuse. It causes me so much anxiety and hurt. In all honesty, I don't think I've ever taken a step back and thought to myself "What went right?" until I sat down an watched this video. Even though I experienced this trauma, there were things that kept it from being even more horrendous than it was. I've never given that any acknowledgement or weight in my mind... until today.

• I was educated by my parents to know that what happened to me wasn't normal/OK.
• I knew I needed to tell an adult, regardless of what I was told by him.
• I had a mother I trusted enough to tell what he did to me (not all of it, but enough to make it stop).
• My dad kicked him out of the house and made our home safe again.
• I had parents who never doubted what I said or made me think I was wrong for disclosing.
• I had parents who knew I needed more help than what they knew how to give me, so they put me in counseling. Unfortunately I couldn't talk about it and they thought this cleared them of any support required at home, so I never benefitted from it, but they tried.
• The justice system worked and punished him for his actions.
• My parents never treated me any different after they found out what happened. I was still who I was before.
• It never happened again.

To think that had I not said anything, I could have lived the rest of my life under the same roof as him, shuddering every time the door opened or every time the shower turned on, it's hard to swallow. I have never given myself any recognition or support for doing the thing that so many kids don't ever do...

I TOLD.

Crying

cry·ing/ˈkrī-iNG/

1.

to utter inarticulate sounds, especially of lamentation, grief, or suffering, usually with tears.

2.

to weep; shed tears, with or without sound.

This might as well be a 4-letter word in my world. I hate it. It's messy, it's noisy, it makes me feel so out of control. Thinking about how I look when crying makes me cringe.

I am much more partial to the way I think I look when I'm not crying. I'm put together. I'm in control. I'm not leaking from multiple orifices. To me, that emits an aura of strength.

Apparently I'm stuck in some sort of egocentric developmental stage because if you see it, it must be true right? Right.

I wish it were that simple. I have honed my craft of looking one way on the outside and feeling the complete opposite on the inside. I bet if you asked any one of my co-workers, family members (not immediate, like my mom), or even some friends they would describe me as someone who is confident, strong, and happy. Why wouldn't they think that? It's exactly what I put out there for people to see.

But even faking it all day doesn't change how I feel on the inside. Hurt. Angry. Resentful. Confused. Lonely. All the things that I hide within myself, that fuel my depression and anxiety, they are going to stay there regardless of what I make myself look like on the outside. So on the rare occasion that I allow myself to approach one of these topics in therapy, it's akin to walking up to a kennel full of Jack Russell terriers that have been locked up all day and trying to just let one out. I mean, one is all you can handle without losing control right? OK, maybe two, but you don't want all of them at once. So you walk up to the cage and they all start jumping all over each other, barging for the open space to get out. FREEDOM! I MUST ESCAPE! But all of a sudden you're now having to keep the door closed, you can't let them all escape at once, but you've got to wrangle the one or two you let out, keep them in check too.

This is how crying is for me. It's always a struggle. How much can you let out so that you're still in control, yet you're easing the load for what's left in? How can I maintain this incessant need to appear in control and strong, yet let my guard down enough to feel what I'm trying to let out? Or better yet, how can I get to a point where I don't care about what I look like when I'm crying and just let my body do what it needs to do to get the relief it so desperately wants?

Every single time I allow myself to cry that is not because of a death (my sweet kitty, my cousin, my grandparents, etc) it's always controlled. I'm always standing by the door, poised to slam it shut should anything appear to be approaching the "messy" stage. But all the while I'm (cleanly) crying and processing the reason for my tears, I always get this image in my head of what I really wish I could do. Scream, pound my fists, grasp my knees and rock back and forth, shake, curl up into a ball, cry so hard I'm gasping for air. The scenario varies but is always there.

I wish so bad that I could allow myself to feel what's inside of me, but something always holds me back. I don't want anyone to ever see me in that state. So broken and hurt. Because if I don't show it, it's not really there right? Right.

What Language Does Your Abuse Speak?

My session with V today has left me with a lot to ponder. I'm already an analytical person, but I've got so much going on in my head right now that I've written, erased and re-started this entry about 10 times already because I can't seem to organize my thoughts.

I am one really $*%)! complicated person. I mean I know no one is simple, but I swear with every passing day I find out things about myself that are contradictory or frustrating. Only I can manage to piss myself off without even trying.

Fear is keeping me from progressing in therapy right now. I'm so afraid that any topic I approach or old wound I open up is going to result in the same reactions I had the last time I tried. Crippling panic attacks, constant fear, cutting, no hope. I allowed myself to think about and confront things I had never even come close before, and I just about ended up in the hospital. It took me almost 3 months off of work to recover. But when I think back to those first three months with V, I feel like I accomplished something. Even though those months sucked and I would never want to feel like that again, I feel like it wasn't a waste of time or effort.

These last 4 months have felt so unproductive. I haven't pushed myself to really talk about or feel anything difficult, because this fear in the back of my mind is slamming that door closed every time I approach it. The logical side of me is screaming "WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU THINKING? DO YOU WANT TO FEEL THAT WAY AGAIN?!?!", yet I'm also battling with the undeniable fact that the only way I am going to be able to heal from and let go of these hurts I've been carrying around for so long is to talk about, process through and feel them.

I want to feel like I'm not wasting my time (and V's). I don't right now. I hate it.

I'm so frustrated with myself. I feel like I've lost faith in my entire existence. Like everything I do is futile. No matter how hard I work or how much I want something, I'm doomed. The world is going to spite me and give me the exact opposite.

I feel defeated.

And yet, to be even more contradictory, another part of me feels as though if I can eventually get to a place where I can let these walls down, that I will recover. It seems possible in every aspect of my life... except one.

Even though I sought out and have been going to therapy with the goal of recovering from my abuse, a big part of me doesn't believe it is possible. That no matter how hard I work or what I do, this will always be what defines me. I will never escape it. I will always be afraid. I will always be that 13 year old.

I mean, look at all I've been through over the past 9 months. I got to a point that I wanted to kill myself. I mean actually wanted to end my life. I had NO HOPE. And even going through all of that, I still feel like nothing has changed. I'm still just as afraid as I was then. Just as defined by my abuse as I was then. Why should I think it'll ever get better? I almost killed myself trying to make it better.

Then V said something to me that seemed so painfully simple and obvious, yet brought me almost immediate hope.

"Your abuse speaks a different language."

Don't worry, I'm going to clarify (as you are probably thinking the same thing I was: uhhh, what does that mean?). The little things I've been able to improve upon with V, like learning how to be in the moment, my relationship with my mom, coping with stressors in life without cutting, etc speak one language. Certain methods and approaches work very well in confronting those things, all the while challenging me, pushing me and allowing me to see success.

The "language" V used for those things was obviously not the right "language" for my abuse.

I left tonight feeling more hopeful than I have in a very long time. Maybe, just maybe, we can figure out what the right language is for my abuse. And maybe, just maybe, I can heal.

For The First Time In Months

I'm almost afraid to write this, lest I jinx myself.

For the first time in MONTHS I am feeling like myself. Not lost in the depths of depression or in the throes of anxiety, but dare I say, content.

For the first time since Christmas, I actually got together with my friends. I didn't cancel and stay locked in my apartment. I even had fun! I didn't feel scared to be out, or anxious to be surrounded by so many people. I didn't even want to leave like I so often do after about an hour. I am even going out to dinner tonight with another group of friends.

It's almost like the past 2 months didn't even happen and I'm just waking up from a bad dream. I am still very emotional about my dad and the situation regarding his health. He has been moved out of ICU and is out of the woods as far as death goes, but he is still having a hard time staying alert. He is only awake maybe 4 hours a day, and is often very withdrawn during that time. He recognizes people and has what the doctors call "automatic speech". Meaning he can talk to you easily using speech that is embedded in the brain from frequent usage; like hello, goodbye, please, thank you, etc. He has a harder time trying to construct longer sentences, but can if you don't overwhelm him.

I am so thankful that he is no longer in any danger of dying, but now I'm having to come to terms with all of this change. It may take years for him to fully return to where he was before all of this happened. He may be the same person, he may not. He may have deficits, he may not. Lots of unknowns. I started crying when I was driving the other day because I realized that when I flew out there in a few weeks that he wasn't going to pick me up at the airport like he always does. He wouldn't give me the huge hug and greet me with "Hi Punkin", like he always calls me. It's a lot to have to take in.

Given everything that's happened in the last couple of months, I am so grateful for where I am right now. It's nice to finally see the hard work I've been putting into my healing us finally paying off.

Ups and Downs

I feel like a broken record. My life is like one giant never-ending roller coaster. It goes up, up, up and lures me into a false sense of hope and security then speeds downhill at a rate that feels like it might kill me.

Last week was pretty stable. I went to IOP every day, talked about things that were on my mind, allowed myself to process the visit to California, and my continued fears regarding him and his health. All in all, I was feeling really well Friday when I left IOP. My mood improved even more when I found out my dad was taken off the ventilator and was awake for the first time in 3 weeks. I even got to talk to him on the phone for a few seconds. My aunt held the phone up to his ear while I told him I loved him. :)

Feeling so fueled by this great news, I had the energy to start doing things that I have been neglecting; namely cleaning. So I started cleaning my apartment all the while texting with my sister about getting together Saturday afternoon at the dog park. So I go into my bathroom to start scrubbing the tub and thought I heard my phone ringing, but with the water running I couldn't tell. When I turned the water off it was still ringing so I went to see who it was and it said "BLOCKED". Normally I don't pick up when I don't recognize the number, but I was worried it was my stepmom or aunt calling from the hospital so I went ahead and took the call. A guy was on the other end and this was the conversation:

Hey Lily.

Who is this?

What? You don't remember me? Come on Lily. I've seen you, you're looking good.

I hung up the phone and started freaking out. I had no idea who it could be or how he got my number. I saw that I had 5 missed calls, in the span of about 3 minutes and that he had left a message. I listened to it and then really started freaking out.

I saw you driving your black Lexus today. You're looking good. And you're in apartment 1509 right? Yeah, I can't wait for our little reunion. It'll be soon.

Oh. My. God. I was hysterical. I was shaking and crying. I ran to my front door and made sure the door was locked. I ran to my patio and locked that door too (which doesn't even make sense because I'm on the top floor and there's no way anyone can get in that way). I got my phone and called 911. I was expecting someone to beat down my door and chop me to little pieces. The switchboard took my information and said they'd be sending a cop my way. As soon as I hung up I started trying to call friends that lived near me because I knew I wasn't going to be staying at my apartment. After no luck getting ahold of the first couple, I tried calling my mom (which I knew would be futile because she let's her phone charge in the kitchen overnight). I knew I could just drive home (about 30 min away) without reaching her by phone but I needed someone to TALK to while I was waiting for the police to arrive. I finally got ahold of one of my friends who lives about 10 minutes away and asked her if I could stay at her apartment that night, to which she said yes, of course. I talked to her a bit but was still feeling very unsafe so I got off the phone with her and decided to call my sister to see if she and her boyfriend could come over so I wasn't alone. They live about 10 minutes away too and I had no idea how long it would take the cops to show up since it wasn't a time-sensitive emergency. I called her phone like 4 times, her boyfriends phone at least 2, and my cousin's phone (they hang out a lot together) but no one was picking up! I was a basket case! FINALLY she called me back a few minutes later and I explained to her what was going on and that I wanted her and her boyfriend to come over here so I wasn't alone.

She started laughing.

Lily, that was me! I thought you knew it was me. I mean, I used a voice changer but we were just texting each other so I thought you knew it was me. I can't believe you called the cops! We were just playing around. You never come over and hang out with us. We were just trying to include you.

OH. MY. GOD. I just lost it. I had finally gotten to a point that I wasn't shaking or crying and I just LOST IT. I have never wanted to kill anyone so much in my entire life. I yelled at her, which she probably couldn't understand because I was crying too but I just let her have it. Not 10 days ago did I confide in her that I hadn't been working because my PTSD was so bad that I had to seek intensive treatment and she goes and pulls this? I was just beside myself. I was so mad I could barely think. I hung up on her and just sat on my sofa and bawled. I was already full of fear, but to add anger, confusion, (relief that I wasn't in danger) among everything else... I felt like an idiot when the cops finally did show up and I had to explain to them that it was my psychotic sister who thought it would be funny to play a joke on me. Jesus. I was such a mess telling them this I'm sure they could tell how well she pulled off this "prank."

This whole situation completely affected my weekend. I am already having a tough time finding the energy to go out and do things. And an even harder time getting together with people. Aside from my family and doctors, I haven't seen anyone since New Years Eve. My desire to hide is overwhelming, but I was starting to feel more secure in leaving my "safe place" (home) to go see some good friends of mine that live about an hour away. But after Friday night, I didn't even leave my apartment for the entire weekend. In fact, I slept the majority of my weekend. I was so upset about what had happened that I allowed myself to shrink away even more.

I've continued to go to IOP, but the group has gotten so big (we had 9 people on Monday) that it is getting harder for me to have the opportunity to process what is weighing on me. We only have an hour that is designated for "open talk" and some of these women have no respect for other people's time. Today we were missing a few people, so the smaller group was easier to speak up in but I had to walk out at the end of our group. There are these two ladies that just have no idea how overbearing they are. They constantly interrupt each other and our IOP therapist when she is talking and it bugs me. Today, she focused on those two women and their issues, and it was a constant hour of listening to them talk on top her, not letting her finish her sentences, interrupting someone else, raising their voices so that they could be heard on top of someone else... it was just too much. My anxiety was through the roof listening to all of this that I was about to have a panic attack so I just walked out. They have no respect for other people and I refuse to be treated that way while I'm there.

I'm "graduating" IOP on Tuesday and I'm terrified. I'll be heading back to work full-time on Monday, March 7th and I just don't know how I'm going to fare. There are so many things at work that are huge triggers and I just don't know if I'm going to be able to shoulder it all and take care of myself. Only time will tell I guess...

It Can't Get Any Worse, Right?

So 2011 has pretty much sucked 100% since it started. It's one of those things that I silently think to myself "It can't get any worse" but then catch myself because I know that's not true. Every few weeks it seems I'm being dealt another situation to deal with in addition to the extreme burden I'm already carrying around. I am just now able to process the last two weeks enough to sit down and write about it.

My sister and I flew out to California on Saturday morning, as we couldn't get anything sooner because of the weather here. We arrived and took a cab to the hospital, greeted by my uncle. My dad had surgery late Friday night that lasted 10 hours, but was successful. It fixed his aneurysm and he was conscious and responding to commands once he woke up from anesthesia. We stopped in the cafeteria to eat when my aunt (who is a doctor) came running into the cafeteria and told us to come upstairs that my dad was no longer responding to commands or talking and she didn't like how things were looking. They were getting ready to rush him to CT and she wanted us to have the opportunity to see him, should anything happen.

It was horrible. He was restrained (because brain injuries often result in uncontrolled/involuntary aggression as a side effect to the trauma) and had tubes everywhere. As a result of the surgery, his whole head was bandaged and his right eye looked like someone had punched him. Apparently that is common because of how they had him situated when they did the surgery. Blood pools in that area and makes the patient look like they lost a street fight. My dad has never been sick aside from bronchitis every now and then, so this hit me like a ton of bricks. I grabbed his hand and asked him to open his eyes. He was only able to open one (as the other was swollen shut) but he looked right at me. I told him I loved him and that I wanted him to be strong.

That was the last time he was conscious. The result of the CT showed that he was having a common side effect of brain trauma and surgery, called vaso-spasming: a constriction of the blood vessels in the brain. If they constrict too much, they cause strokes and irreparable damage. Because of how quickly this came on and how much it caused him to decompensate, his doctors decided to put him in a medically induced coma and intubate him so his body would have time to heal without having to otherwise work so hard. I almost lost my father Saturday.

Sunday they were working on getting his blood pressure stable on the cocktail of medicines he was on while trying to treat the vaso-spasms. He had two procedures Sunday and was put on a ventilator. When I finally got to see him, I wanted to cry. They had to shave his beard in order to intubate him. I have NEVER seen my dad without a beard. He has had it since 1975, almost 10 years before I was born so I've seldom even seen pictures of him without it, unless he was a teenager. I know it was stupid, but I was so distraught.

Monday and Tuesday were pretty much the same. He was still unconscious and intubated, and my sister and I only got to see him for about 30 minutes each day. Our flight back was Tuesday and I was scared to leave. He hadn't really made any improvements since we got there and I was scared that he was going to get worse. When I went in there to say goodbye to him I just lost it. My aunt was in the room with me and just held me as I wept. The past 4 days had finally caught up with me and I couldn't hold it in any longer. She's got great bedside manner and knew exactly what to say to me to make me feel better. Knowing she was staying there with my stepmom for as long as necessary made me feel so much better as well.

My sister and I got back late Tuesday night, right in time for another ice storm. Everything was closed Wednesday so I couldn't return to IOP, but I did go Thursday. I can honestly say I was terrified to go because I didn't want to talk about the past week. I was about to fall apart and I knew it. But my IOP counselor prompted me to share with the group why I had been gone (I had been in contact with her so she already knew) and I just lost it. I cried and cried and felt like crap when I left. I was so drained and depressed that I couldn't get myself out of bed Friday to go to IOP, but a call from my aunt later that day raised my spirits.

They were slowly lifting my dad out of his coma to test his brain functions and he was moving his arms and legs and was able to show two fingers when the doctors asked him to. They kept him under extreme sedation for the rest of the weekend, but my aunt called me this morning saying that he's opening his eyes, responding to questions with nods (he still can't talk because he's still on a ventilator), moving arms and legs and following commands. They will probably take him off the ventilator tomorrow and if he keeps improving at this pace, they'll wean him off all the medications he's on and he could be out of the ICU by next Sunday!

He still has a long road ahead of him. They won't be able to tell how all of this affected his brain until he has some time to gain consciousness. He had a small stroke as a result of the vaso-spasming and the place it was located in his brain is responsible for mood and impulsiveness. Unfortunately those two are already affected with brain trauma, but adding a stroke in that area means that there is a good chance he may act different than he did before. It's likely that he will be able to walk without any problems (after some physical therapy to gain back the muscle mass he's lost/will lose after being bed-ridden for about a month) and talking might or might not be affected. It's all a waiting and patience game at this point, but it appears that he is no longer critical.

It has been a crazy couple of weeks, no doubt. I was glad to be back at home, even though I wanted to be there for my dad. I kept trying to tell myself that my dad would want me to be here, taking care of myself and trying to get better. That's the mantra I keep repeating to myself. I spent Friday to myself, resting and trying to work on my mood. I called a friend who lives a few hours away and asked him a favor. He used to be in the Army and when he was deployed overseas, I cared for his dog. The most sweet, lovable dog I have ever known. I asked him if I could come pick him up and have a little dog therapy time since these past few weeks have been so hard. I was delighted to hear that he would be glad to let me take him for a while! That helped lift my spirits, too. Finally things were going in the right direction and Friday night I was actually a little happy.

Cue catastrophe. My cat, who is pushing 20, came into the living room where I was watching TV, jumped on the sofa like she normally does, sat there for a second then started having a seizure. She has NEVER done that before and it was terrifying. She took a header off the couch onto the floor and started making these horrible noises while she was convulsing. It seemed to last forever, but after about 90 seconds she stopped. She laid there for a while then I tried to get her to stand up, which she did somewhat drunkily. After about 5 minutes she started walking and went straight to her food bowl and started eating. She was acting perfectly normal. Of course this was at like 11 at night, so there was nowhere I could take her to get her checked out. I woke up early Saturday and took her to my vet, who looked her over and took some blood. It should be back tomorrow. There's a possibility that this was caused from a thyroid problem, diabetes or liver issues. If all that comes back normal it may just be a fluke. Every time the vet sees her he comments how she is the healthiest cat he's ever seen at her age. Hopefully that will continue to be true. I don't know if I could handle losing her now.

Life is so overwhelming right now I almost can't even think about it all at once. That's why I waited so long to write here because I didn't want to trigger myself into having a panic attack. I'm doing my best to take it day by day, sometimes even hour by hour. Having my sweet little boy back definitely is helping. We went to the park today and enjoyed the fact that the sun was out for the first time in what feels like months. It was just what I needed. He's the best therapy I could ask for!

An Update On Treatment

Sorry I've been MIA for so long. Being in treatment every day doesn't leave me much energy to come home and write.

V decided last week that she wanted me to fully commit to working the program at IOP and that she would not continue to meet with me while I was in treatment. I flipped out. I was so upset I literally cried for 3 hours, but I understood why she was making this decision. I wasn't pushing myself to participate in treatment because I knew I could wait and talk to her.

Now that it has been over a week, knowing that my only chance to process/talk is at IOP, I have really been able to commit to the process and feel like I'm finally making some progress.

It is still really hard to talk about some things and fully trust the group, but I at least feel like it is starting to do some good.

I miss seeing V, but she'll be there for me when I transition out and get back to work. Right now it looks like that won't be until February 22nd at the earliest. That is still a lot of time for me to continue healing!

Worst. Week. Ever.

The past 7 days have been probably the worst of my life. I have been to hell and back.

Last Thursday I started becoming extremely suicidal. Thankfully I had an appointment with my psychiatrist that day and she put me on a mood stabilizer right then. I wasn't honest with her about all the thoughts I was having because I did not want her to admit me to the hospital. It got worse Friday and Saturday. I really wanted to die. I started feeling better on Sunday, but was still extremely depressed. I didn't go to IOP on Monday because the roads were too icy to drive, but I did meet with V Monday night. She and my psychiatrist both thought it would be a good idea for me to voluntarily admit myself to the hospital. I really didn't want to do that, but allowed myself to be persuaded to try it. V went with me Tuesday to check into the hospital and once they walked us into the unit I freaked out. Like literally lost it. They had to put me in a room to calm down. V did her best to convince me to stay, but I couldn't. I was terrified of being "locked" up there. I felt really bad for wasting her time, she was there with me for almost 2 hours, but I just couldn't stay there.

V asked me to commit to doing PHP since I didn't agree to staying at the hospital and she wanted me to get more intensive help than what IOP could offer. I didn't want to do PHP originally because it was a coed group but I went Wednesday to this new group. I hated it. I was surrounded by detoxing men and felt so out of place. I left and called my IOP therapist to see if I could come back.

I had to be re-assessed and re-admitted since I had been MIA for 3 days. By the time I got done filling out the paperwork again, the clinician came in and told me that the women's group (the IOP program I had started) was being dissolved because there weren't enough people. I started freaking out again. I had no idea what I was going to do. I left the center to go to my session with V. By the time I got to her office they called and said they had another admission and that IOP was back on for Thursday.

I was so afraid of my session with V. I was so ashamed of how I reacted at the hospital and I was afraid she was mad at me. I definitely wasn't expecting the conversation that we had, but looking back at a more stable place I can't say I'm surprised that we had this conversation.

V told me that she allowed herself to get too emotionally involved with everything going on with me. She told me that over the last 2 weeks she was making decisions more as a mother or friend than as my therapist. She said the maternal side of her kicked in and she allowed her judgement to be affected by her emotions and feelings. She was so worried about me killing myself that she put me and my needs above her own. She was frustrated with herself because she didn't realize she was doing that until she left the hospital feeling emotionally and physically drained from watching and helping me through my freakout. Her decisions had enabled me to continue running to her any time things got hard (which I was doing... e-mailing, calling, texting, sessions 3 or 4x a week) and not allowing myself to reach out to anyone else for help. I literally got to a point over these last few weeks where I could barely function without talking to her. And like her, I didn't realize it in the moment. I felt bad that I had put such a strain on our professional relationship because of everything, but at the same time I felt so loved and supported in hearing her say just how much she cared for me and did all these things because she wanted to make sure that I stayed safe. I made sure to tell her how much I appreciated everything she did for me and that had she not been there to support me, I really felt as though I would have killed myself.

We talked a little bit about how things needed to change, as far as my treatment in IOP, how I needed to step back from relying on her so much and allow myself to be open to the group and therapist and what they can offer me. She told me there are things she is going to do differently as well, pertaining to how accessible she is to me. Part of the reason I became so dependent on her and unable to do anything on my own is because I could call, email or text her at anytime and she'd always respond. That is something that is not going to happen anymore. Obviously in emergencies this doesn't apply, but if she is always there to put out my fires, I'll never be able to figure out how to apply what we talk about in sessions.

I was scared when we were having this conversation because the insecure part of me thought this meant that she was no longer going to treat me, but I knew that I was overreacting. V has always wanted nothing more to help me heal, and this is just another step in the process.

So I went to IOP yesterday with a different outlook on how it was going to help me. I did my best to push myself to be present in the moment, be vulnerable and allow myself to trust that the group and therapist were not going to judge me. It was hard. Very hard. I started to talk about my abuse and abuser, but was still too afraid to talk specifically about what happened. I wish I could have done more, but this is a process. I can't do it all in one day. I had kind of a rough afternoon, having a panic attack at the grocery store and then another at home. It's not surprising since I am opening up about these secrets, but it still sucks.

I woke up today ready to go back to IOP and push myself more. Unfortunately the admission that was supposed to start today to make our group "big enough" didn't show up so they cancelled it. The group therapist offered to transfer us to the other program at the center, but it's lead by a male and focuses on chemical dependency. That is not going to help me. So now I am on standby for treatment. If someone else signs up over the weekend, we'll have IOP on Monday and Tuesday, if not we won't meet again until Wednesday when the next admission starts. I'm frustrated because I am ready to be working now, and I have to wait around. Right now I still have paid days to use, but those are going to run out next week. There is a chance I will qualify for the sick leave bank from work where they will give me donated paid days to use. That would be great, but I would hate to waste them sitting at home.

This weekend is going to be rough. No sessions with V, I can't allow myself to contact her, all my friends will be at our church retreat which I planned to go to, but when I was going to be hospitalized I had them refund my money since I wasn't sure I was going to be able to go. I hate feeling so alone. I hope my depression doesn't deepen because of this weekend.

I Hate My Life

This depression is sucking everything out of me... I wish I had happier news to report, but I just feel like slipping away. God willing, he'll either take me out of my misery or make this medicine work faster because I don't know how much more I can handle.

I'm Not Dead

Well, these past few days have been so incredibly difficult, unpredictable and spirit crushing, but I didn't kill myself... so I guess that's good. It's not for lack of wanting to though. I start treatment full time on Monday. Yee haw.

Scared

Things have gotten bad enough that V had to escort me to the hospital this morning. I'm being admitted to the PHP program for women.

Lots of unknowns right now. How long I will have to take off of work, if I will qualify for paid leave, what treatment is going to be like, etc. I sure could use some prayers... Life is really scary right now.

Manipulative

Such a vile and nasty word in my book. Something I wouldn't ever think of myself, until this weekend.

I had a session with V on Saturday which I really enjoyed (yes I know that sounds strange). Over Thanksgiving break I was feeling very negative and "poor me" so I decided I needed to do something to remind myself just how blessed and lucky I am. Not to minimize anything I was feeling, but rather to keep myself from drowning in self-pity. I decided that I would make some digital scrapbooks to share with V of childhood, family, friends, college time and travel. It was so fun to go back and look at all the happy moments (because who takes a picture of something sad/not fun?) in my life. So often I tend to completely shrug off all the good things because I spend so much time in therapy trying to heal from the bad. We spent the whole hour going over important things, details, people, etc. I left feeling pretty good. I went home to take a nap because I hadn't been sleeping well at all and when I woke up I felt like crap. Like the bottom had been pulled out from underneath me. As the afternoon and evening wore on, my mood and thoughts got darker and darker. By 2 AM I decided that maybe I'd feel better if I e-mailed V just to let her know where I was at emotionally, sort of a release to just get it out.

I told her that I was having a very bad night, complete with some suicidal thoughts, wasn't able to sleep, etc. I made sure to tell her that I wasn't at a place where I was going to act on anything but just that I was having a hard time. I also mentioned that because I wasn't sleeping I decided to take a larger dose of my sleeping pills than I would normally. I finally was able to fall asleep, only to be woken up by my crazy aunt calling at 8AM asking for my mom's number. Geez. I checked my e-mail from my phone before I rolled back over to go to sleep and saw that V had e-mailed me back, wanting to know how I was and how I slept. At that point I wasn't done sleeping but the thought crossed my mind that if I didn't respond right away, maybe she'd think the worst. So I went back to sleep and woke up to a second e-mail at around 11AM. Basically saying the same thing, that she was thinking about me and wanted to know how I was doing. Feeling solace in the fact that she was thinking about me/worried about me, I decided to not respond again. By 5 she sent me an e-mail telling me she was getting worried that she hadn't heard from me and that if I didn't respond she was going to have to find another way to check in with me. Just being able to read that she was worried about me was enough to make me e-mail back at that point, but the next few exchanges of e-mails proceeded to scare me a bit. She said she was about an hour away from calling EMT's to come to my house and check on me. Good Lord. If she had done that I would have been absolutely HUMILIATED. Just thinking about it made me feel so shamed that my actions could have lead to that. Then I started feeling horrible that I intentionally manipulated her to get what I wanted out of the situation; knowing that someone cares/worries about me.

So when I went in to see her on Tuesday, I told her I didn't want to talk about this weekend, but figured I wouldn't get away with that. Overall she just wanted me to know how she perceived my e-mail Saturday night to explain why she chose to react the way she did/planned to react. Not having any history with me in this area, she said she didn't know if my e-mail was a way for me to deflect attention away from the fact that I was planning on killing myself or if I was sincere in what I said. Not being able to determine that, she had to do what she is sworn to do to protect me physically, which would have eventually involved "the authorities" if I had never responded back to her. Feeling so guilty I just tried to deflect the conversation away as much as I could. We moved onto talking about my "safe box" which I finally finished decorating and filling with the things that I wanted to put in it.

Inside were some statements about myself that I wrote 2 years ago for one of the first homework assignments I had with A. I didn't really read over them in depth, but just tossed them in there. So of course when V opened the box and started going through them, the first one she pulls out says "No one makes a big deal out of me. It makes me feel loved and important when people worry about me." God. Can we just light up the big flashing arrow and point it right on me? MANIPULATOR! *flash flash* I wanted to crawl in a hole. I felt like an absolute idiot, she probably saw right through me.

As we were wrapping up, she asked how I was feeling and I told her I still felt horrible about this weekend. I mentioned that I think I used this weekend as a way to test her, to see if she really would follow through on the fact that she says she cares. I also said I was worried that she was mad at me or that she thinks I'm ungrateful since I "snapped" at her about the EMT comment and told her how humiliating that would have been and how upset I was that she would even think about that. I told her I felt like all I did was waste her time this weekend and that made me feel awful. She looked at me and asked me "Did I say you wasted my time? Or that I thought you were ungrateful? Or that I was mad at you? Of course not, because that is your perception, but it is not true. I know I could tell you a million times it's not true and you still probably wouldn't believe me. I was just worried about you. No fine print attached."

*sigh* I left feeling like I had just run over a litter of puppies. I decided I would e-mail her and apologize (probably for the millionth time) and attempt to "come clean" so that I could try and put this behind me. Here's what I sent:

When I got home tonight, I re-read the communication from this weekend and can see even more so how my actions were a way to test the validity of your word, even though you have given me no indication to believe that you are anything but trustworthy and honest. The "ego" side of me is constantly whispering in my ear that you couldn't possibly care enough to do anything for me, outside of our interactions in your office or via e-mail. And it became clear to me that after you read that paper from my box (the one about not feeling important unless someone is worried about me) that our sequence of e-mails this weekend was a way for me to see if you'd follow through with what you have been saying. And boy did you surpass anything I ever could have imagined. My freakout was largely based on the "severity" (not the right word, but I can't think of anything else) of how you responded, but also the fact that you responded at all. I wasn't expecting anything aside from a "We'll talk about it Tuesday" or "Go the hospital if you can't stay safe" reply. I never really expected genuine concern.

It was never my intention to turn our communication into what it ended up being, I hope you know that. I honestly was just trying to get out these thoughts to hopefully ease my mind and also to let you know what was going on. It's much easier for me to start that conversation by writing out what I feel as opposed to speaking it out loud. I just can't imagine walking in your office and being like "So I thought about killing myself this weekend." Uh, no.

Any step back this weekend was as a result of my actions, not yours. If anything, I feel like you helped me trust you a little more, I just hope it wasn't at the expense of you being able to trust me less.

Finding Calm Among Chaos

I've been praying a lot lately. Praying for strength and guidance to do what the hard work ahead of me. Praying for humility to be able to ask for help when things get to be too much. Praying for faith. Above all, I want to know that God is there for me. That in the midst of all the chaos in my life, He will be there for me.

Today was hard. I ended up going in to see V even though I wasn't scheduled today. We talked a little bit about our last session (resulting in a panic attack with some things that she is bringing out of denial with me) and how I went home and coped with it. For me, coping is cutting and because I didn't do that last night it manifested itself in other ways. I didn't sleep well... and when I did, it was riddled with horrible dreams. V discussed the importance of me finding a way to relax so that my body doesn't hold onto all the bad feelings I am constantly processing. Somehow we got on the topic of ego, and how she thinks that mine has completely run away with me.

Everything that I process gets a negative spin put on it, regardless of whether or not it actually was negative to the objective viewer.

"They just did that because they felt obligated. They're only your friend because they want something from you. Why bother, it's not going to last. Asking for help just means you are weak."

The list goes on and on. And on and on. For whatever reason, somewhere down the line I decided that it was safer to view things negatively and it has spread like wildfire. V asked me to come up with some positive things about myself, to which I had almost nothing. Everything that popped in my head felt contrived and cliche. I told her I didn't really have anything that felt like it separated me from anyone else. Then she asked me to think of myself at 13 (pre-abuse) and describe positive things about myself. That was much easier. I had a whole list of things that V wrote down, all positive things that even put smiles on my face while recalling and remembering how happy I felt. From there she asked me to take each one of those things and try to connect it to me now. The few things that were constant were being active in church and enjoying service/volunteer work. She scribbled a few things on the paper then handed it to me.

Down the center of the paper was a line, splitting the two parts of me in half and on it were the words ABUSE, ADDICTION, DIVORCE.

"Look at those two parts, Lily. The person you are now is not who you really are. That line that is drawn down the middle are the things in your life that are not your fault. Even though I know you don't believe it, you are not to blame for your abuse. Your parents divorce was not caused by you or anything you did. Your dad's addiction is a disease, which again cannot be your fault. All of these things you did not cause, but you are holding onto the blame and punishing yourself for them. And all of that punishment has changed who you are. That list on the right (of who I am now) is a cover-up of who you really are. Who you are supposed to be. Who you are not allowing yourself to be."

I lost it. It took everything in my power not to weep. To feel like you are two different people is one thing, but to be given proof of that and to feel acknowledged, validated and understood all at the same time brought on this rush of emotion that I could not have prepared for. The little girl inside of me is screaming "Finally! Someone else knows I'm here! I can't be ignored now! She knows I'm here! She's going to get me out!" I just sat there and cried, trying to take in everything she said, all the crazy thoughts being thrown around and then trying to verbalize what I was feeling physically and emotionally once I calmed down. That didn't work too well. I don't have words for this. I tried to start, but the tears just took over again. All I was able to get out is that the tears I was crying were sad tears, genuine grief. I could feel it. Like I felt with my grandma. That tearing pain inside, the one you think will never go away.

After what seemed like hours of me just sitting there crying, V jumped right to the chase. The only way I am going to get a hold of who I really am is to go back to what I did at 13 and do what I know made me happy. Would I be willing to sign up for service projects? Sing in the choir again? Play? It seems so absurd. I'm in my 20's! I don't play! I haven't sung in choir since right before I was abused, then being the center of someone's attention like that became the worst thing I could ever think about doing!

V gave me a lot to think about. She even joked about how she sends me home with more to process and think about than anyone else. I took that as a compliment, maybe that means I'm working harder than everyone else? She suggested that because it was so nice outside, I don't go home and hide, but go to this park that is near her house. It has a huge lake and fountain, park benches, a walking trail, and fishing docks. I absolutely love the water and find solace in the sounds it makes. I left her office and drove straight there. The sun was beginning to fall behind the hills and houses, but the atmosphere was perfect. I just sat there and listened to the life around me. It helped clear my mind and control my emotions. Things suddenly felt less out of control, more doable. God answered my prayers and showed me that He is here, giving me the calm I want so desperately in the midst of all this chaos.

How Big Are Your Rocks?

V had me do this activity yesterday that I really enjoyed. One it let me learn a little more about her, and two it helped me pinpoint some of the specific things I am carrying around with me.

She handed me this backpack and told me to hold it out while she asked me a few questions. It was really heavy. I asked her what was in it, but she said I couldn't know yet. She asked me various questions, all fun/happy things. It was harder to concentrate on what she was asking the longer I stood there because the heavier the bag felt. Apparently that's exactly what is "supposed" to happen. The bag represents me, what was inside represents what I carry around. Everyone has their own bag, their own weights. The longer you hold onto them, the heavier they feel, even though the weight itself hasn't changed. People often do unhealthy things to temporarily forget their weights (maybe even convince themselves they completely got rid of them) but eventually they return to reality to find out that nothing changed. Quite possibly, these unhealthy things could have created new weights. V thinks my cutting has gotten to a place where it's starting to add weight. When I was younger, self injury was an unhealthy coping mechanism, but it got me through harder things that I had no clue how to deal with. At some point, however, it went from denial of my weights, to contributing to them.

We sat down, she opened the bag and pulled out a rock. It was painted with a word on it. SCARED. She told me that we were going to go through and pull out a rock, one by one, and discuss how big of a weight this was in our own bags. V doesn't strike me as anyone who gets scared a lot, but I was relieved to hear her say that she gets scared at night when her husband is gone and she's home with her kids, or when she's walking to her car alone at night. Thank God I'm not the only one who thinks this!

My first rock was WORRIED. This is a pretty big rock for me. I constantly have to (or attempt to) plan for escape routes and back-up plans when I am doing something outside of my normal activities. I can't ever be taken off guard or surprised. I never get to enjoy myself when I'm doing something different because I'm worried it'll take a turn I wasn't expecting.

V's next rock was ANGRY. First we talked a little bit about why anger is an appropriate emotion for anyone, but that the unhealthy side of it comes out in how people choose to respond to that emotion. She gave me two examples that make her angry. One that doesn't really weigh her down all that often, but she can't stand when she's not being heard. Meaning she is trying to explain or compromise on something, and another party is just not open to it or trying to understand. The second she says weighs on her more. She gets really mad when children get abused. In her line of work, especially working with children and families a bit more than adults, she sees this often and it makes her so angry.

My next rock was HURT. Physically I have been lucky. Never broken a bone. Up until May I had never even had to go to the hospital. Emotionally, that's a little different. I gave her an example that stood out in my mind. My dad was commuting back and forth from where my sister and I lived, and where he lived with his new wife, a good 10 hours away. He'd always come home for our visitations, but didn't live in the state any other time. When I was getting ready to graduate high school, I asked him if he was going to come and he told me no. High school graduations aren't that big of a deal. He'd come when I graduated college. That hurt. A lot. V asked me if I wanted to add anything about cutting with that rock, and I didn't. I don't view cutting as hurt. I view it as relief. She nodded and agreed.

V's next rock ended up weighing on me, a lot. It was GUILTY. I learned a lot about V through this rock, some of which I knew a little of already. V was a teen mom. She grew up in the city. Her parents immigrated from Mexico before she was born. She is Catholic and apparently they feel guilty about everything (she jokes). When she got pregnant at 17, she said telling her family was really hard. She is still married to her high school sweetheart, and their son is 14 now. They also now have a daughter who is 14 mo. old. She told me a few weeks ago about being a teen mom, which I couldn't believe. She volunteers for the advocacy center, leads trainings for other therapists on addiction and abuse, and works with our local school district to provide support for other teen moms. I have so much respect for her beating the odds and making something of herself, when most people would use it as an excuse. She said that when she had her son, something clicked in her. She was not going to be another statistic, especially being a minority. She wanted to be a good role model for her son. Her drive is amazing to me. Anyway, in her story she was telling me how other people tried to make her feel guilty. A girl called her and commented on how she couldn't believe the rumors were true, that SHE was the one who was pregnant. Her response to that girl: "What? So I had sex..."

The normalcy of that statement affected me greatly. It took me a while to recover and I know I missed out on what she said right after that. It pains me to think that most people are able to view sex as anything but a terrifying occurrence. It pains me to think that at 17, I could have been as blase about it, too. But instead, I'm in my 20's and can't even let a man touch me let alone go that far. There's no way she could have known something so little could affect me so greatly.

My next rock was CONFUSED. It took me a while to connect something with this, but I finally identified my spiritual side. We talked a bit about this, but she said we'd go more in depth when we had more time.

Her next rock was EMBARRASSED. Again, V seems someone who is very comfortable with who she is, but she told me a funny story about how she and her husband went out with some friends a few months ago and he congratulated them on being pregnant. They were not. LOL I couldn't help but laugh. I could tell she was still mortified!

My next rock was SAD. This has been a big weight for me lately with the deaths of my grandparents and Tayler, all in less than 2 years. I talked more about Tayler than my grandparents, because her death still affects me. I never have understood why. She was not the cousin I was closest to, but I feel like I lost a sister at times. It confuses me. V asked me some questions about her and was shocked to hear that she was 13. She looked at me and said "My God. How much horror can you take at the age of 13? For you it was abuse, for Tayler it was death. I wonder if her death affects you so much because of that. Or if part of you feels like you died at the age of 13 as well." We have talked a bit about how different I became after the abuse, so she might really be on the right track there.

The next rock she pulled was DIVORCE/ADDICTION. She handed that to me. Cheater, LOL. I identified that the divorce itself wasn't that big of a deal for me, since my life up until that point was mostly a one parent deal, but for me it was how my mom was affected by it and the parenting choices she made that made that rock a huge weight for me. As far as addiction, I know it contributes weight to my bag, but I am just coming out of denial about that so I couldn't really say much.

My turn was next, even though I had just gone. I had avoided picking up this rock that my hand touched next, but went ahead and pulled it out. ABUSE. Crap. I told her I didn't want to talk about that, but recanted and said I would at least acknowledge that it is a weight in my bag, and that it is not just sexual abuse, but emotional abuse and neglect as well.

Two rocks left. V pulls out JEALOUS. She tells me she sometimes gets jealous of people who have "easy" lives, those who don't know what suffering really is. That's understandable.

The last one for me, I pull it out and it says SECRETS. I laugh and tell her this game is rigged. She laughs and agrees. She knows what the rocks were and therefore, which ones to stay away from pulling herself. I look at the rock for a second and tell her this is probably the biggest one for me. It is connected to almost every other rock in my bag, which messes with my mind even more. My whole life has centered around the fact that I couldn't ever say or feel things in front of other people. So the other weights in my bag became secret too. Hide the weights. Pretend they aren't there.

I learned a lot about what I'm carrying around inside of me yesterday. Just acknowledging that was a huge step for me. I left V's office still reeling over her statement to the girl on the phone. I tried to sit and journal to see if that made me feel better, but ended up having a panic attack. I decided that I needed to e-mail V and let her know just how much I was affected by that (and those conversations in general) so that she would know and not accidentally trigger me that way again. As always, she was so gracious and understanding. I am so blessed to have found someone like V.

Don't Feed the Monster

The more I work with V, the more I am finding that God has lead me to her because she is so experienced in the fields that I need; trauma, first and foremost, and as I'm finding out, addiction. Partially for my own struggles with cutting that in my opinion are borderlining on addiction, but more for my family's addictions. I've never told anyone, but my dad is an alcoholic. I hesitate to even say that because my idea of what an alcoholic is is what you see on Cops; messy demeanor, stumbling over, slurring words, etc. That's not my dad. My dad is (and always has been) well kept, clean and high-functioning, so I never really thought there was a problem.

Today in our session, V and I began by talking about the cutting, since I had e-mailed her about it yesterday and she wanted an update on things. She is very realistic in her expectations with it, not expecting me to quit just because it's unhealthy, but rather she is trusting that I will make strides to include healthier choices for coping as they reveal themselves through my work with her. She will allow me to talk about it whenever I need and will make sure that she does not excuse or condone the behavior, since it is not healthy, but will not make me quit for her. I know that once I make the decision to quit, she will be so vital in me being able to do so. I'm just not there yet.

In part of our discussion with the cutting, she asked me if I use it as a mechanism to feel pain, and I told her it is basically the opposite. I cut to take my mind off the pain that I feel like I carry around all the time. The pain that is too great to acknowledge full on, so it backs me into a corner. She asked me the last time I fully acknowledged any feeling. I had to think hard about it and the only thing I could come up with in the past 5 years was my grandmother's death. The day after her funeral I was so overcome with grief and instead of holding it back, I let myself cry. And cry. And cry. I cried for 8 straight hours. That was really scary for me, for more than just the obvious reasons. I didn't think her death would affect me that much, so to be so shut down by that grief was very hard to accept. I have things that I know have affected me greatly that I haven't processed or felt completely. How in the world are those things going to affect me if I acknowledge them?

She asked me if I have ever acknowledged the abuse. Big fat no. She went on to say that not acknowledging those real feelings basically planted a "monster" inside of me (LOL, I told you she works with kids a lot, but this analogy really helped me to understand) that lived off of that expectation that I'd never pay attention to the real feelings and keep feeding it lies. The longer I neglected the real feelings and continued to feed it lie after lie, the bigger that monster came and the more it took over my life. And right now it's gotten to a point that I've built up so many walls to keep that monster in but it's gotten so big with all these lies that it is just consuming my mind (which is true). I feel like the abuse is the source of all of my issues and the sole reason for all of my problems. I've always felt like that and never understood why it seemed no one else (A mainly) felt that way, too.

We talked a bit more about why I chose to ignore what I was feeling and "feed the monster". My family was far from supportive. We were a put-on-a-happy-face type of family. Never let anyone see anything is wrong. So knowing that it wasn't OK to ever talk about things, I stuffed my feelings. And even now I am continuing to do that because I'm afraid of what acknowledging those feelings will do to my (already rocky) relationships with my family. What happens if I start processing things and it changes how I interact with my mom, or my sister, or my dad? I can't be the one who changes the dynamic. Don't rock the boat.

V had this smirk on her face when I was talking about all of this and I couldn't help but laugh. I've noticed she gets this look on her face when she has something pop into her head that she wants to tell me.

"You want to know what I thought of when you were telling me all of that?" she asks.

*laugh* "That's what I'm paying you for!"

*laugh*"That is a classic underlying theme for a child of an addict. Don't rock the boat. You're messing with our system. And even though your abuse rocked your world at 13 years old, I think that the fact that your foundation was laid with the unhealthy messages of a family of addicts set you up not only to be taken advantage of by your abuser, but to also not be able to cope with it. In my opinion, that has affected you more long term than you can even begin to understand. And it's my hope that we can begin to process and work through some of that."

The last few minutes of our session she pulled out her laptop and showed me a powerpoint that she uses when she leads trainings on these topics. She went through the slides that focused on the common feelings/rules/thoughts/beliefs of children of addicts. I said yes to about every one of them and was shocked.

I think V could even tell I was shocked. She looked at me and said, "Sweetie. You are a child of an addict. It is as clear to me as anything could ever be. Some people like the label, it gives it more of a realness. Others hate the label, they don't want anything to do with being seen as "this" or "that". How do you feel?"

In all honesty, I told her it scares me. I don't like feeling like I have this label of a child of an addict because it sounds so horrible. And in that awfulness it could make me think of my dad in a bad way. I don't want to think of him as bad. I love him. I've worked really hard to accept him for who he is, and throwing this into my mix is not something I planned.

Something she told me as we were closing up tonight I don't think I'll ever forget. She said "You don't have to think anything bad about him. You don't have to hate him. Hate the addiction."

The Reflection Doesn't Match

V works with a lot with children. Her office is covered with pictures, toys and games. At first I was a little worried about working with her as an adult because I wasn't sure how much she'd be able to help me (definitely not worried about that now!). As we get deeper into things, I'm finding out that the little girl inside of me that stopped growing and maturing as a result of the abuse is about to claw her way out.

On Saturday, V took me to a separate room that was wall to wall figurines. Little plastic ones that you get in doll houses, kids meals, cereal boxes, etc. There had to be at least 5,000 things to choose from. And then there was a sand tray. A place for you to arrange the ones you chose, forming a snapshot of something. I had heard of this form of play therapy before, but wasn't expecting to ever participate. When she told me what she wanted me to do I was immediately nervous. The adult side of me was off to the races in making sure I didn't set up any snapshot that I wasn't ready to talk about. I was 5 steps ahead at all times, not really following my intuition or instincts. Knowing that I couldn't possibly plan for all the interpretations she could come up with made me so scared. What if she saw something that I didn't think could be interpreted that way? For the most part her interpretation was exactly what I set it up to produce, but there were a few things that she noticed that were eye opening for me, if not even a little hard to hear. I left feeling like I had opened a door to something, but there was nothing there. At least, nothing visible.

The rest of my weekend was super busy (thankfully) and I didn't actually get to stop and have any time to myself til Sunday night. I was washing my face getting ready to go to bed and I looked up at myself in the mirror. Ugh. My first thought "Why do you look so old?" (I just turned 27, so believe me, I'm not). So I messed with my hair and tried to remove my eye make-up that I thought was contributing to the dark circles under my eyes. No luck. I took my wrinkle cream (yes, you read that right) and made sure to saturate my crows feet and laugh lines, not forgetting to get my chin, lest it sag down one day and make me a turkey neck. I am TERRIFIED of getting older. I am confused why I look so different than what I feel. I feel like when I look in the mirror I should see a younger version of myself looking back at me. My reflection doesn't match. And it wasn't until last night that I even made the connection.

That little girl inside of me, the one who quit growing at age 13, is starting to take over the adult side of me. Little by little she has gained ground. Enough ground to make it very hard not to acknowledge she's there or what she's trying to tell me, but not enough to take over. I still have the upper hand. I'm fighting it tooth and nail, but I can feel that I'm losing the fight. Over the past few months I have felt so much like I am just playing "dress up." That I literally am a 13 year old masquerading as an adult, doing and saying adult things but feeling as small and confused as a teenager. Wanting the things I never had as a kid; the freedom from responsibility, the naivete of any sexual immorality, the ability to live in the moment. Things that realistically I can't have, but WANT. God, this little girl wants this so bad.

Even V picked up on how much I squash that girl (based on some things from the sand tray) and decided that she needs to cater to that side of me today and help me learn how to do this as well. She went to Hobby Lobby and picked up all sorts of crafty stuff for me to create a box. On the outside I am decorating it so that it portrays the "adult me". What I let people see, my facade. On the inside will be the "little girl me". The one that no one ever sees. The one I never acknowledge. The one who has been stuck for the past 13 years.

I shared some journal writing with V tonight about my realization that I'm expecting a different reflection in the mirror and it's connection to that little girl inside of me. She was so respectful of my thoughts and has really given me the comfort to know that I can share just about anything with her without fear of judgement. I'm still a little worried about being left again, but I don't know if that will ever fully disappear.