Breathe

Breathe. Just Breathe.

It was the unanimous broken prayer we all spoke in that Arizona desert. As we fought our respective battles- each of us falling down and into ourselves and into the world like bumper cars colliding- always, always colliding. We learned the text book reasons. We learned the statistics. We learned a new set of vocabulary that sounded more like a foreign language than our own. And we learned to breathe; just breathe.

December 9^th, 2003

“Today I ached with the need to be distant from myself. This hatred of the girl in the mirror overwhelms me and terrifies me. I don’t know where I am or what I want or what I need. And the pain- Oh God- the pain- It hurts- I hurt so much and all I want is to take a hit, to cut, to purge- to escape this god-awful crawling in my skin- this pain that I cannot bear- to erase from me all that is ugly, defiled, empty, fucked-up because it’s all here with me in this place, unsettled, suffocating- this dirt, dust, and rust. And here I am in the middle of the fucking desert- abandoned- left to overcome whatever this is and I hate it. I hate me. I hate this place and these people. But maybe what I hate the most is that I am lost and I don’t know if there is way back to myself- or if I even want to find a way back.”

I remember writing this- it had been 24 hours into treatment and I was on the intake ward for my first week. 24 hour round the clock staff- no privacy- no space- no method by which one could retreat. I have often wondered if that was the longest 24 hours of my life- I had been a frozen girl and I was thawing at a rapid pace- And it was brutal-

I cried inconsolably for hours at a time and I wouldn’t let anyone touch me- and I ignored anyone’s attempts to speak to me. I wanted to die- perhaps more so than any other time in my life. But I was exhausted and I was angry and I was frightened. And so I went through the mechanics of routine- stumbling one foot in front of the other- days that turned into nights- crying, screaming, silent- violent- combative- ashamed- undone-

And somehow the ice melted off my body, off of my mind and I came back to life. It was a peculiar feeling – rather like waking up from a coma- the whole world looks different- the sky, somehow bluer than your ever knew; the grass, somehow greener, and the sun, so much warmer. And then there is the moment when you look at yourself in the mirror and you no longer see the walking dead for in her place stands a real live girl and you can see her- you can see her so clearly because there is life in her eyes- And you cry for the weight of it all and you begin to fight-

And you begin to breathe; just breathe.

Words like sobriety, recovery, triggers, relapse, accountability, surrender, etc. These words become your new normal- and like a secret society you can now speak the language- And perhaps for a while it becomes a part of you and you keep a sacred vigilance for these things; Always on the lookout for them and for where they might pop up.

And you learn to keep time- to mark it on you like some kind of second hand tattoo.

You wonder when and if you will fall down on your face and screw it all up because that it what you do after all- you’re the one who screws up- This was set in stone the minute you were found out- And so you hold your breath and you lose sleep and you make deals with God while wondering if He even hears you anymore- and you just wish for once that someone would see you- really see you and see how hard you keep trying. But you realize that no one does and maybe one ever will and the fight seems to stall- to weaken but still, you fight.

It has been 7 years of this fight.

I have learned to smile- a train wreck with a smile.

I have learned to expect retreat and rejection.

And I have learned to speak- perhaps too much- too honest- too needy- too transparent.

It was never my original intent but I have become that person more and more.

I wonder if it for me it is the only way to stand my ground in this fight.

Because it doesn’t get easier; and it doesn’t go away. The things that were once so very attractive to me as a dead girl walking still call out to me even in my new normal. And yesterday, I learned just how loud that call can be.

My fingers itch to pull that trigger- to taste that brand of black magic- because I am in pain and I want that pain to stop- Once upon a time I was willing to whatever it took to silence that pain- But once upon a time was a long time ago and I am not sure that ‘whatever it takes’ is worth the cost anymore.

Breathe; Just Breathe.

“Hold on- hold on to yourself for this is going to hurt like hell.” –Sarah McLachlan.

And it does hurt and I am trying to remember how to breathe.

Just breathe.

Insomnia & ...

Sleep has forsaken me yet again…

I am beginning to wonder why I even bother with it these days.

The night is always the hardest part- the delicate high-wire act- so daring that it does not even contain a net below. But I suppose there is only a black hole beneath me anyway- a wide gaping black abyss waiting to swallow me up-

I am heavy laden tonight and tipping precariously on the edge on my high-wire.; My feet ache for the fall; My eyes ache for the soothing calm of black; My mind aches for the bliss of nothingness.

But tonight, there will be none of that.

I find little comfort in understanding what is actually taking place [text book PTSD]

DSM-IV-TR Criteria for PTSD

A.  The person has been exposed to a traumatic event in which both of the following were present:

1.    the person experienced, witnessed, or was confronted with an event or events that involved actual or threatened death or serious injury, or a threat to the physical integrity of self or others.

2.    the person’s response involved intense fear, helplessness, or horror.

[Yes to all of the above, thanks DSM]

B.  The traumatic event is persistently re-experienced in one (or more) of the following ways:

1.    recurrent and intrusive distressing recollections of the event, including images, thoughts, or perceptions

2.    recurrent distressing dreams of the event

3.    acting or feeling as if the traumatic event were recurring (includes a sense of reliving the experience, illusions, hallucinations, and dissociative flashback episodes, including those that occur on awakening or when intoxicated)

4.    intense psychological distress at exposure to internal or external cues that symbolize or resemble an aspect of the traumatic event

5.    physiological reactivity on exposure to internal or external cues that symbolize or resemble an aspect of the traumatic event

[Again-yes to all of the above…bloody annoying too…]

C.  Persistent avoidance of stimuli associated with the trauma and numbing of general responsiveness (not present before the trauma), as indicated by three (or more) of the following:

1.    efforts to avoid thoughts, feelings, or conversations associated with the trauma

2.    efforts to avoid activities, places, or people that arouse recollections of the trauma

3.    inability to recall an important aspect of the trauma

4.    markedly diminished interest or participation in significant activities

5.    feeling of detachment or estrangement from others

6.    restricted range of affect (e.g., unable to have loving feelings)

7.    sense of a foreshortened future (e.g., does not expect to have a career, marriage, children, or a normal life span)

[Personally, I have to say this is the best part (sarcasm) (ha)]

D.  Persistent symptoms of increased arousal (not present before the trauma), as indicated by two (or more) of the following:

1.    difficulty falling or staying asleep

2.    irritability or outbursts of anger

3.    difficulty concentrating

4.    hypervigilance

5.    exaggerated startle response

[Clearly this is a yes to all of the above yet again]

E.  Duration of the disturbance (symptoms in Criteria B, C, and D) is more than 1 month.

            [Well it hasn’t been a month but I’ve been on this roller coaster before…]

F.  The disturbance causes clinically significant distress or impairment in social, occupational, or other important areas of functioning.

            [No shit- was this actually necessary DSM??]

I was supposed to make a phone call today- I was supposed to send an email confirming that said phone call was made. I broke my promise. Call it fear. Call it cowardice. Call it classic avoidance. I stared at the numbers and rearranged them in my head until they were like a snow globe that had been shaken one too many times- it made me dizzy and nauseous and phobic of the words that would/could/should be spoken- And try as I might I could not convince  my fingers to dial the number…

And maybe when you grow up hiding in closets, locking doors, and listening for things that go bump in the night- when you grow up with the stark realization that you are not the Princess in the tower that gets rescued but merely the decoy- life has a way of sobering you beyond repair.

Once upon a time, I thought that I could learn to be brave- and maybe for the first few steps I tried- but I was a poor-man’s lion without any real courage and my escape from that place was too dear to repeat;  Because I swam through pills and bottles of alcohol and porcelain thrones and diminishing numbers on a scale and razor blades and white washed rooms- all to shut out the sound of my own voice- of my own screams- of my own bitter tears- And standing on this ledge again is like dancing with Pandora’s box-

All at once tempted to open it; And yet washed in the eerie feeling that the contents inside and the subsequent journey will leave me irrevocably broken.

And so it is that I am sitting here- wide awake against the night- sleep forsaken- Walking on a high-wire between these thoughts and their emotional push and pull- hoping to stay upright but wondering if it isn’t just a matter of time before I fall-

“I have to let this story go. It is with me all the time now, a terrible weight…” –Anita Shreve

A terrible weight indeed.

Notes On Wonderland....

It was just like chasing the white rabbit, twisting and turning and tumbling down and down and down until I was sipping tea with the Mad-Hatter and entertaining nonsensical conversations with the Cheshire cat…

And here I am, not quite a real girl yet- 67 scars etched into my skin, a permanent souvenir of my latest adventure in Wonderland- new meds, old meds, new characters in the story, familiar players, and a girl who at the end the day is still very much like a bewildered, wilted, poor-man’s Alice- still chasing a phantom white rabbit and running from the Queen of Hearts lest it be “off, off with her head.”

I wanted to believe that losing my job at OFL was not as bad as it was- I wanted to look in the mirror and see hope in my eyes- I wanted to get up in the morning and chase after all those beautiful things that I love but I could not- And I did not. Instead, I fell down- deep into myself- deep into despair- deep into the nether worlds of bipolar depression. At first, I could fake it- a smile here, a laugh there, make sure to act ‘normal.’- I didn’t want to be the fucked up mess that I’ve been so many times before- when does it end- that’s all I wanted to know- when does Alice make her way back to the real world- when does Alice become a real girl again? When do I become a real girl again?

It was always a battle lost- In retrospect I do understand that. But the understanding of it does not take away the sting or dry the tears that I keep crying. And in the aftermath of these last 2 hospitalizations, I am no closer to the end of Wonderland than where I started from. I wish that I could honestly say that it doesn’t matter that I have bipolar disorder- but it does matter. And the older I get, the more years that pass, and the repetitive detours I take through Wonderland only reinforce the fact that it does matter and it always will because my life will never register on the normalcy scale- and it hurts more than I ever speak, more than I ever wanted to admit.

So the question of the hour- perhaps the white rabbit that this Alice is still chasing after is- how do I make peace with this world- with this Wonderland existence and all the trappings’ that come with it? How do I tell myself that it will be okay- how do I begin to really believe that?- Because the curious world of Wonderland is full of paradoxes, stigmas, bitter endings, and broken dreams; This Alice knows that all too well and it is the worst pill of all to swallow-

………

Words & Concrete

Your words fell across the page

And marched off into outer space

And here I feel just like a stranger

And your words crash down around me

Like some kind of foreign language I don’t speak-

And twenty 'til the hour turns

The whole wide world on this street is sleeping

And I’d like to get into my car and drive until the sun comes up-

And it's no use pretending that it didn’t leave a scar

And I suppose I’ll wrap it all up inside the polished smile that I wear

And laugh it off with just another joke I tell

Because I’m a good girl deep down inside

At least I’m good at knowing my lines

And I promise I won’t bleed on your doorstep anymore

And I promise to keep my heart tucked away inside my sleeve

And I promise that the sky will be blue enough tomorrow

But tonight there’s only me

And the sound of saline and silence

And the weight of words that were better left unsaid

And a girl who thought that she should have known better than this-

And I’d like to get into my car and drive until the miles burn away the years

And I promise not take up your time anymore

With silly thoughts and silly things that you’d do better to ignore-

And I promise that I’ll learn my place

And I’ll recite my lines until I can speak them in my sleep

And maybe I should have known better than to rock this boat in the first place

And maybe I should have known better than to color outside the lines

And it’s getting colder as the darkness wraps itself around me

And your words are spinning in my head

And I promise that I’ll get better at not caring

And maybe one day this heart won’t keep hanging off my sleeve

And maybe just a little salt to sear the wounds

Just a little more black to even up the blue

And I suppose I’ll wrap it all up inside the polished that I wear

And laugh it off with another joke I tell

And all this time I thought I knew you better than this

And your words fell across the page

And marched off into outer space

And I feel like stupid girl again

Some kind of naïve disaster-

And I wish I could tell you that it didn’t hurt

But it feels like this time it’s going cut deeper

And it’s no use pretending that it’s not going to leave a mark

And I should have known better

And I should have known better

And I should have known better than to speak~

White Flag Burning

My sense of entitlement-

Disrespectful

Childish

Irresponsible

An embarrassment

Naïve

Selfish

Unforgiving

Miserable

Exhausting

Self-Centered

Etc., Etc., Etc.

……..

Her words were not all that original; she has said them many times before. Indeed for the last 3 months or so she has single handily waged her war of ugly words against me- every attack coming out of the blue so to speak.

Last night I think she won.

I have nothing left for her to break; I have no fight left.

I ache all over almost as if she had beaten me with her bare hands.

I almost wish that that were the case because in some strange way I could deal with that- I could make sense out of that-

But this, I cannot make sense of this. It lacks any kind of reason or understanding.

My whole life I have tried to be whatever it is that she wanted me to be- the perfect daughter-

But I am not perfect and my flaws are written all over me.

And even if I didn’t see them for myself, she never fails to remind of their presence.

And I don’t know how to stand up underneath the weight of it anymore.

I don’t know how to absorb her attacks and then accept her cardboard apologies and pretend that nothing happened- it’s too much.

And maybe if I draw the line in the sand now we might have a fighting chance one day of healing this brokenness.

I hope so.

But for now this is my white flag burning.

I am done with the war.

It was never my war anyway.

And it isn’t a war worth sacrificing myself for-

But it aches- my heart- my body- my soul.

And I wish that I could make sense of this- I wish that I could understand it even in the smallest of ways so that I could fight back- or at least fight for resolution.

But I’m tired now.

And I am broken.

So maybe all I have now is my white flag and no surrender in the terms that she would seek- maybe just a white flag burning.

"White Flag Burning" 

This is my white flag burning

This is the last bruise I’ll hide

This is the last bone broken

I’m tired of these conversations

Of the way my words are never right

And I know what you think of me

You never shut up

You never stop pushing that line

So take your last I’m sorry and soak it up in gasoline

I’ve got the match in my hands

And there’s nothing left to say-

My gratitude is lacking

And why the fuck can’t I just grow up

And why the fuck can’t I just be happy

And why am I stuck in my own mess

And where the hell is my life going

And let’s not forget about respect-

Well, this is my white flag burning

There’s no breath left inside

No more words to try and salvage this wreckage

No more make-believe moments to color in the lines

No more miserable attempts to try and try and try-

And I wish you well, I wish you well

All the things you want

I hope the sky is blue over your head

And the grass green beneath your feet

But I am not immune to you

And this is the last bruise that I’ll hide

And this is the last bone that you’ll break in me tonight

So take your apologies and soak them up in gasoline

I’ve got the match inside my hands

And this is my white flag burning

And I have no more words

And I love you

But I’m not immune to your sticks and stones

And I’m tired of the way everything I am is wrong-

And I hope that the sky over your head is blue

And the grass green beneath your feet

And I hope that the silence serves you well

And I hope that maybe in the rearview you’ll see something other than

What you think of me

And I know what you think of me

You never shut up, you never shut up

And you never stop pushing that line

But this is my white flag burning

This is my line in the sand

So take your words and your apologies

And bath them in gasoline

And let burn to the ground

And let them burn

And let them burn

Because this is the last bruise that I’ll hide

This is last bone broken

And all this time I was fighting for something

Guess I’m not sure what the hell I was ever really fighting for

Because I know what you think of me

And I don’t want to carry that weight anymore

And I love you

I hope the silence serves you well

Maybe I’ll send a postcard

Maybe I’ll send a postcard

And this is my white flag burning

And this is my white flag burning~

-jnq '11-

Spark

And last night found me driving down the 405

Chasing down the thoughts that keep collapsing in my mind

And on and on past the lanes of black and white

And deeper and deeper into the cold and steel of night

And I swallowed back the tears as I drove past your house

And circled back hoping to find a light on in the dark

Holding my pocket full of wishes, longing for a spark

But maybe I know better than this

And maybe I know how it is in the before and after

Pushing the pedal to the floor hoping to make some kind of escape-

And I just needed to say these things out loud

And I just needed to say these things out loud

But its closing time

And I don’t need a bottle anyway-

But I wonder if a liquid courage would work

And this pocket full of wishes is tearing at my skin

And I’d give anything to erase these years

Between the freeway lights and the places I fear

And I have memorized these lanes by heart

And I have driven up and down, down and up

And up and down again

Chasing after those things I’ve lost

And maybe just enough to feel like I’m not alone

And more than just a girl crying at the sound of familiar songs-

Holding my pocket full of wishes that I might find the place where I went wrong

Because the air is heavy with the words that have no safe place to land

And my feet are growing tired of the push

And the cold and steel of night is closing in

And these lanes of black and white are playing tricks inside my head-

And this pocket full of wishes; God let there be a spark

And just a few more hours until light eclipses the dark

And I have memorized these lanes by heart

And I have memorized these lanes by heart

And pushing the pedal to floor;

Oh God let there be a spark

And just a few more hours

Oh God let there be a spark~

Drop Everything and Run

He is sound asleep- two fingers in his mouth- calm- breathing deep and even; Brayden is my three-year-old buddy. He is my good friend’s son, a beautiful and precocious ball of energy, with a smile that will steal your heart away every time.

We are “soul-buddies” as my friend Hesenna says- because Brayden was born into this life with severe respiratory complications which will profoundly affect him throughout his entire life. The seasons will come and go like storms to be weathered; And when they descend upon him these storms will beat and beat and beat upon his body just like a boat against the rocks. The storms will shape his life story, they will shape the world that he sees and they will shape how he perceives himself.

As I sit on the couch watching Brayden sleep, I wonder if the years ahead will be kind to him; If he will be able to experience a life as full as any other ‘normal’ child; And even if he will live to see the mild stones that we are all taught to dream about- He has been sick for awhile now- this long and drawn out disease tearing at his little body. I marvel at the strength of his mother whom I know would move heaven and earth for her son-I cannot fathom the consummate burden that she feels for her child. I cannot imagine how heavy she must feel in her chest when she struggles with her own inability to ‘fix’ her son. I ache for her; and I ache for Brayden.

It has been an afternoon of circles-And I am humbled to be the one on whom she calls for help- it is a privilege beyond measure to come and allow her a few hours of that much needed rest that has alluded her of late. It is a rare thing to achieve in any kind of relationship- this ‘drop everything and run’ sort of deal. I often think that if we were to invest more of ourselves in these moments of subtle inconvenience or in moments that are messy and full of heavy laden emotions better left untouched- maybe if we all tried a little more to be present in these places where relationships are concerned- just maybe we’d all be better for it. Indeed, I hope that in my own life and in my relationships that I am better for it.

Brayden has bid his Jillian goodbye and I have been given strict orders to come back to see him tomorrow. And so any plans that my Saturday had will be put on hold- and I will ‘drop everything and run’ just so my Brayden knows how special he is and so my dear friend can be reminded how important she is, how important our friendship is- Because every now and then we all need someone to be strong for us, to walk with us through the storms, and to be willing to drop everything and run- This is the kind of girl I want to be in my friendships- this is the kind of person that I would want as a friend.

Final thought: “Your hope is not in vain.” (-Mike Erre)

And so I hope for us all this kind of world, a world where we are reminded that we are that important to someone that they truly would drop everything and run.