The Day After

So, got all brave this weekend, and went to a party full of people I didn't know.  Please understand, when I say brave, I mean, this took every ounce of courage I had.  I lied furiously about being excited.  I was terrified (especially given some of the extenuating circumstances going on), but if I never push my limits, I never grow.  As a socially phobic introvert, you've got to understand that I'd generally rather perform my own anesthesia-free appendectomy than do something like that. It's an act of love and extreme trust in my friends when I do.  Excursions where I know people and am going to new places can work, provided I have a momma duck.  I will follow and cling to that person pretty much the whole time.  Literally, some form of physical touch is nearly constantly required.  It's how I stay grounded.  Leave me alone for more than about 10 minutes, and it's a pretty quick downhill slide to badness.  No place to escape to where I feel safe breaking down enough to let the stress go?  Extra bad.

Yes, I "face" it generally really well.  People have no idea how hard it is for me to survive group dynamics.  I haven't put myself in this situation in a Very Long Time, and I was reminded of why this weekend.  I'm still absolutely livid that I let myself get to that point where I had to dig my nails in my arm to keep from some gloriously hysterical weeping.  Could I handle this situation better next time?  Very probably.  It's not all new and overwhelming.  Once I get past the first time or two, I can usually manage.

I did great at the party while I was drunk and hopped up on Xanax, but the second I got too sober, and the Xanax was the only thing left in my system, I crashed.  I even had fun, but for me, the absolute humiliation that comes with that kind of loss of control is...personally unforgivable and overshadows everything else.  Most people there didn't notice, I think.  Honestly, if they did, well, fuck that.  The one person who did notice is the last person I wanted that to happen in front of, and that made it so much worse.

I don't judge other people for being upset/offended/worried or whatever about my attacks.  But I judge me for being weak in front of them.  My attacks aren't me any more.  They're so, so rare.  But I still hate them as much, if not more than I ever did.  They intrude.  They splash their hateful reminders about how shattered I used to be all over me.  High on the list of things I never want to be is that utterly, helplessly crazy.  It's funny, people will tell me that it's not my fault...but since medication never worked, and training my emotions did...  I just want to be normal.  That's really all.

My therapist tells me we do what we have to do to survive.  I know for Borderlines, untreated anyway, it's all survival, all the time.  I sometimes sift back through my memories to try to figure out who the hell started this, and why I ended up so horribly broken, but there's nothing that comes to mind, given how old I was when I started being Borderline.

I'm not sure this really had a point, other than for me to remember this next time I decide to go out.  I need to be much, much more clear about what I need when I do things like this, and have a better backup plan.

Chinese dolls, boxed in boxes...

I've been sitting on this post for a while.  I just have been busy and lazy, and really, had no good excuse.  I was trying to explain to someone the other day (trying seems to be the keyword for 99% of the shit that happens when I try to explain the inner workings of my brain) how I manage to keep from being overwhelmed by things that upset me.

Every painful event I experience gets felt intensely at the moment it happens, and then it's allowed a chance to run its course quickly.  If I still hurt as strongly the first day as the third or so, I pull out an empty mental box, stuff all of the emotion related to it in that box, label it, and tuck it away.  I just don't think about it or process it, or I never let myself heal.  I can sit and beat myself up about every fraction of every possibility of everything that might have been done differently.  If I just...  If I only...  Maybe if...  If I was stronger...  If I was better...  It's amazing how much I can blame myself for.

When I have a strong moment, or forget to watch how much I drink, I can take one off the shelf, open it up, and let the emotions come streaming back out, and feel it all over again like it was the moment it happened.  My goal isn't to deal with it, so much as it is to process it until the pain is manageable.  I've found that after 15-20 rounds of taking things out of their boxes, they become deal-able.  I can start to logic through them instead of just feeling the intense agony of it.

I could probably go to my therapist, and tear through a lot of it a few sessions, but I've become proud of my ability to deal on my own.  I'm pretty sure this is some version of compartmentalizing, but really, I like the boxes idea a little better.  A good visual explanation for a girl who's not really visually oriented in her mind.  Go figure.

And suddenly, this rambling, and pointless post got to the point in my head.  I need to write out Jack's story.  I've mostly forgiven myself, but I want to write it down, so I can have it saved somewhere, and take the last of it out of my head.

Well, that was silly.

Your worry feels like agony to me.

Today at my Listening Circle facilitators' meeting, we did our obligatory check-in.  Everyone went around.  I think I had something planned to say, but what came out was the story about how about three weeks ago, I picked up a razor blade for the first time in six years, and cut myself 45 times before I realized that it wasn't going to make things any better.  When I got done, to punish myself for cutting, I washed the cuts out with salt water.  That was closer to the pain I needed, but still, neither gave me the relief I needed.

Before this happened, I'd spent the two days before uncontrollably sobbing any time I was alone.  My situation was agonizing, and there was no end in sight.  I needed it to stop, and none of my techniques were working.  Maybe I forgot how to do them after so long, or I wasn't doing them with the right intent...I just don't know.  It was horrible.

I had to tell someone in the group who offered support that I just wasn't good at reaching out.  There's two reasons.  One is that I Do Not Trust people to be around me when I'm that vulnerable.  I love my friends, I trust them with a lot of things, but there have been too many people in my past who have proved to me that when I'm vulnerable around them, all I'm doing is giving them something to use against me later.

The more important reason is that the worry that kind of honesty generates is exhausting.  It's bad enough carrying around the worry I feel for myself when that happens.  It's oppressive.  But when I tell someone else, they get this look, their tone changes to something I hear as concern or pity, and then it's like the weight of that worry comes crashing down.  Now not only do I have to worry about me, I have to worry about them worrying about me.  I feel terrible.  I feel like I then have to spend months proving that I'm really okay.  I can't stand the tone and the look.  I worry enough that I'm breaking, but when someone else seems concerned like that, I get this sense that it's worse than I thought.  I'm broken, and they're worrying I'm going to do something else, something worse.  I don't want to have to prove that I'm okay to anyone.  I know I'll make it through this.  I don't need that doubt weighing on me.  I don't need pity.  I'm not weak, but I feel that way when I tell people.

I did reach out to one person, so that I knew I wasn't going to hide away and never deal with it.  He handled it exactly perfectly.  He's the first person I've ever talked to about it, other than my therapist, who didn't just make me feel worse for telling.

I know people mean well.  I'm not heartless...but I also know how it makes me feel, so I don't speak.  I don't speak so I don't have to worry about you, and myself.  I don't speak so I don't have to worry that I'm worse than I imagined.  I don't speak so that I don't have to be angry about feeling burdened with someone else's worry.

I wish there was a way to make this easier for everyone.

Aside:  Yes, I will be fine.  I've reached out to my therapist.  No, my son is in no danger.  I'll voluntarily commit myself if I have to to protect him.  He's my biggest priority, and I put him and his mental health above my own.