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.