Who is this girl?

My name, my age, and my social security number. Of those things you can be quite sure. Oh maybe a few things more like my parentage, and my height and such. But who is this girl, really?

It came to my attention recently that my appearance changes with my mood. Not slight shifts in my mood. Not even from my 'normal' depression to those rare (and all to few and far between) moments of Normal. Drastic changes in my mood, however, come with a change of appearance. Of course this is only based on one and now two times this has happened. The first time was my last year of school. It was also a year, all melodrama aside, I almost did not finish, one I almost did not make it through.

For any real in-depth information regarding that Year From Hell you can look at my old blog, Thoughts and Musings of a Girl... Interrupted, if you would like.. For now I will try and be as brief as possible (which considering how long winded I tend to be might not be very, *blush*).

Before that year I was what I call Regionally Conservative (as I try my best to keep identifying information from my blogs I cannot tell you what region that is but I will give you that it is west coast USA). There's not a whole lot else to say about that. Actually a lot of my cloths tended to come from Old Navy. I wore very little (if any) make up, my jewelry was minimal, and body art (save for a piercing in each ear lobe) was nonexistent. I did dye my hair from it's original color but nothing outrageous. Color palate wise I did tend more toward dark colors though for no conscious reason I could ever put my finger on.

Fast forward to that last year of school. By then I had already added another piercing (nothing crazy for a young woman) and one tattoo (easily covered if I felt so inclined, and meaningful in several ways so that I would not regret it later). One more tattoo, another piercing in each lobe and one in my tongue, some fire engine red in my hair, black nail polish, rather less conventional clothing, and heavy make up... there exists one photo from that period literally my own mother said she would not have recognized me had she not known any better..

These few years since I have toned it down a little. The fire engine red is gone from my hair. So is the tongue ring (there's a bit of a story behind that... maybe I'll tell it one of these days. I rather regret taking it out to be honest) and I am once again back to wearing little to no makeup (too much of a hassle).

But I'm headed back down to the depths of the Pit again and I once again find myself wanting to change my appearance. I want to drastically change my hair and add more color to it (another unconventional color along the lines of the fire engine red I loved so much before). But really what with the 'big change' last time, the fact that I never really did revert back to my original Regional Conservative style from before and what I am leaning toward right now... I wonder, was the Regional Conservative girl really me?

Lately I am wondering if we children (those in my immediate family) had no choice but to grow up in to the adults we have become, style and all... even if that is not truly who we are. We grew up in what I have always referred to as a 'large town' and were really rather sheltered. Mom is conservative and dad is a controlling, abusive ass who has definite opinions about how his children should look (just telling it like it is, folks).

I am in my late 20s and I have really no idea who I am. Why not? This is ridiculous. I only know that I do not think I am who everyone else believes me to be.

Once a couple friends were over and one noted that it was a little funny (not his word but it has been a few years and I cannot remember exactly what he said) that I had a pair of Romeos on the same shoe shelf as several pairs of Converse. At the time I told him that of course it was not; after all, here I was with two distinctly different styles of shoes both of which I routinely wore.

If you still read my blogs friend... You were right.

"My true self remains hidden
In the depths
Where even now
I am crying
For I am lost "

~from The Masks I Wear, by girlinterrupted83
(OK so I took it out of context and from my own poem... but that bit works here *shrug*

How

How am I supposed to talk about different feelings when for the most part I only experience them as Good or Bad? How am I supposed to tell you about intensity when it rarely ever varies. They treat me with the Roosevelt attitude of 'Walk softly and carry a big stick'. They feel quiet, almost, but boy do they pack a wallop.

And how do I convey to you how hard all of this is for me? How I honestly want to tell you important things but so often find them stuck at my throat (anyone know the ASL sign for 'stuck'? It's very appropriate here, I suggest you click on the link)). How utterly humiliated all this makes me feel? How the ambivalence drives be absolutely crazy sometimes?

And how the hell do I live another 50-60 years with all this crap?

Once Again into the Pit

Was it this gradual last time? I think it might have been. If I recall correctly I actually felt as if I had both plunged to the depths of the Pit and yet at the same time found myself there almost without even realizing what was happening to me along the way.

That's a little how it feels right now. I'm not entirely there yet but I know that is the direction I am heading. Not to somewhere on a cliff just below the edge, more at the top than anywhere else; this time I am starting down and the only place to end up is rock bottom.

I've only done this once before. Oh I flirt with the edge of the Pit. Most of the time it is where I reside. But only once have I reached the depths to which I know I am headed now. And though I prayed to God it would not happen again it seems those prayers, for one reason or another, have fallen on deaf ears.

So once again into the Pit I go. I've told more than one person that I am certain, should I ever find myself in the place I was my last year of school, that I will not make it out a second time... after all, I barely made it the first time. I really had hoped to never find myself here again, to learn whether or not my dark premonition would come true.

I guess we shall see.

Fine. Give up on me. And blame it all on me while you're at it.

A good handful of over the counter pain meds (not Tylenol, don't worry) and a good long, deep cut, and maybe I'll be OK.

For You

Some years ago I wrote a poem by the same title. The tone of this post, I think, will be rather different. It is me pouring out what I cannot say otherwise; what I cannot get others to understand; what no one will hear.

You, dear ones, are why I am still here. It is you who love and care for me that are the reason for my continued existence. For some time now I have been unable to come up with anything that makes me want to stay. Not even the love I have for you. But knowing the hurt that my death would cause (especially suicide)... that is why I am still here.

I wish I was not.

I'm sorry, loved ones, but that is the honest truth. I pray regularly that God would please erase me from this world; body, soul, and memory. I pray He would make it as if I had never existed. That way no one would be hurt... and I would be free. I have told Him on more than one occasion that, if given the choice, I think I would have opted not to be created in the first place. Not if I knew what was coming. Not if I had known I would spend so much of my time in misery, wishing for death, or just an end, but being unable to help myself along... Because of you.

It is For You that I stay. But I am sorry, treasured ones, it is not something I want to do. I wish most strongly to quiet this earth, this life, once and for all. I have no future. I have no hope.

But I love you all and do not want to hurt you in that way.

And so I stay.

For you.

Shadows - SO very true

"I know about shadows. You just want to be careful they don't grow teeth. Because they can. Then, sometimes when you reach for the light-switch to make them go away, you discover the power's out."

Duma Key by Stephen King (C)2008 by Stephen King

Thoughts Prompted by Frustration ( and a therapist who doesn't know what to do with me)

I'm not even going to try and write 'well'. Stream of consciousness is all you get. Because to be totally honest I'm not sure my thoughts are 'together' enough to 'write well'. For instance, I am not even sure where to start...

Had one of my 'bi-monthly' therapy sessions yesterday. It sucked. Big time. He kept repeating himself for one thing. The same mantra over and over. 'I want to help but you're not giving me anything to work with. You won't come up with any goals.' Blah-blah-blah. Of course the fact that this guy just really doesn't know what to do with a borderline has nothing to do with it. It's all my fault. You want to know how I know that? Yesterday he asked me if I had been doing any cutting. I've been seeing him since sometime mid-May. I can count on one hand how many times he's asked me about cutting behavior. He knows I'm a cutter. Hell, he even saw the scars on my arms one of the times I overdosed and went to the ER. And some weeks ago I went to the ER for stitches. He knew this. He was there (damn hospital called mental health). Did he ask at the next session if I had done any more cutting? Nope. Nothing. Oh no that's not completely true. He did ask how the one was healing. He remained ignorant of the fact that I had another on my left bicep that should have been stitched. I taped it shut instead. I'm pretty good at that actually. So that's how I know.

Last session I had eluded to what is more than likely a diagnosable eating disorder. I didn't tell him much. As I told him yesterday, I'm not done. I want to lose at least another 30 pounds. Anyway yesterday he mentions that if he knew what it was I had been hedging around that might give us something to work on (remember it's all my fault that we're not getting anywhere). I told him that I'd let him know if he guessed correctly but that I did not want to tell him outright. As I've thought about it since I've come up with a couple more reasons for this than the 'I'm not done yet' reason I gave him. To start, as I've told him, I do not like to hear everything. I know it doesn't make a lot of sense but it's the truth. I realized this when another therapist (one I saw while I was at University) was looking at some of my drawings and started to read the description of one (on the back) out loud. No idea. Well, OK, I've got the beginning of a guess but I'm not going to get into it now. The other is similar to one of the reasons I gave him yesterday (I told him I know this stuff isn't kosher but that doesn't help). I'm ashamed. I know better than this, you know? We learned about this stuff in health class in Junior High, in High School, at University. We learned it in several of my psych classes. I would like to say that I just don't care but the shame I feel about it is probably a sign that that isn't true. Also I don't want to talk about it. Again I think this has something to do with the fact that I know better. Having to talk about all that crap, look at it, analyze it, would make me feel so stupid. I KNOW BETTER!!! It gets better still as I've noticed that induced vomiting has become somewhat like the cutting. I have actually found myself thinking 'I want to throw up' very much like I would think 'I want to cut'. I'm not sure but I don't think that's a good sign.

He wouldn't guess. I was the one who pointed out that my behavior at that moment was very borderline (I was asking him why, if he knew I was borderline, he expected anything different than what he was getting. It was during this exchange that I actually had it confirmed by someone that I am in fact borderline. I have the idea that it's not something they like to tell you. To be honest the straightforward affirmation sort of sucked.). He then pointed out specifics. And so he wouldn't give in. He wouldn't guess. If he had guessed correctly I would have felt a little better about him; I would have thought that me might have some small idea of what to do with me. But that's borderline. And so he wouldn't guess.

I found myself experiencing two different emotions regarding his refusal to guess at what it was I was not telling him. The first actually surprised me. I was somewhat relieved, almost glad, that he would not give in to such behavior; that he would not guess. No idea where that came from but it is what it is. The second was more what I expected. I was angry. I had a couple reasons why I did not want to tell him outright (and as I have said I have since come up with a few more). He was getting on me for not having any goals or anything like that, telling me that if I would tell him what it was then there might be something to work on. Also saying things like 'Maybe you're not getting any benefit from therapy' 'Not everyone does well in therapy', etc which honestly had me close to tears a couple times (fine, kick me out, give up on me you jerk). Here I am giving him an opportunity to learn what it is I am withholding (I was pointing him in the right direction; I honestly think he would have guessed if he had wanted to. Hell he might even know and just not be telling me... if he didn't figure it out in the end he's got to be extremely dense) and he won't guess! And yet he keeps at me with this shit.

I dissociated a bit during the session. Just a quick mention because, if anyone reads this and happens to have any knowledge of dissociation maybe you could help me out. Does it sometimes come with any sort of visual distortion? I can't quite describe it, colors and light around the outline of things became at the same time brighter and blurrier. This isn't the first time I've experienced that during a minor dissociative laps. *shrug* Je ne sais pas (I don't know).