therapy, dbt skills

another tough therapy session.  My inner critic was brought up.  T was wondering what role it plays in my battle with feeling worthy of God’s love, and ability to receive God’s love.

So it came out that IC (inner critic) is always there, beating me down whenever I try to move forward in my life in any context.

Then a very interesting and scary thing happened, something that hasn’t happened like this before.  T seemed to recognize that IC is more than just thoughts.  He asked me if they were  my  thoughts or were another voice.  They are my thoughts.  I became very uncomfortable, physically tense to the point of shaking, unable to relax.  T asked me when IC first showed up.  I suddenly felt very tired, confused and couldn’t think. I wondered if I was losing it…wondered what in the hell was happening. Wondered if I would be able to get back into myself. And my perception is off.  Maybe I’ve been playing with Bryce too much, but the text on this page feels like it’s bubbling out and banking to the right.

I said how IC will beat me down with abusive remarks until I stop doing whatever it is that has provoked it’s response…whether that be reaching out and sharing my heart with someone, sharing homework in DBT, showing t what I’ve written, seriously considering college or a job….and that I feel a sense of betrayal when this happens.

When t asked me to elaborate, my mind simply shut down.  I felt confused, giggly and just plain weird.  I began thinking of IC as a separate entity within my  self.   I would comment only half jokingly that I was possessed, remark that I’m speaking of this as if it were a separate entity and that I found that really weird. But I remember feeling this way (strange, confused, tired, foggy, giggly) before, but not with the same intensity.  I voiced all of this to t and he remarked that whatever IC is, it does not want him to ask me these questions and dig around for answers.

IC gets especially powerful if I’ve had the audacity to actually believe something positive, for example thinking that I looked good that day, and then I see a picture taken that day that is really ugly and repulsive. I feel betrayed, I feel ashamed to be alive and IC reminds me over and over again that I cannot trust my judgement and keeps me in that shamed state, makes me feel ashamed to be seen in public, like I’m the Gorgon or something, tells me that I should die.  Or playing guitar with the worship team.  I make a mistake.  IC tells me that I’m fooling myself, I’m not talented and those who say I am are liars, I shouldn’t even be in the team, why would God want to use me, that it’s very presumptuous and absurd to even think that. And it never shuts up.  Not while I’m engaged in life at least. It could be anything, really, those are just some examples of how it’s happened before.

I don’t remember when this began, but I know it wasn’t always there. I don’t remember it being there as a young kid.  I remember it being there in high school. I don’t know about junior high/middle school.  I have thought of this inner critic as having much power over me for a long time. I remember thinking many times before that if I, for example, expose myself in some way that I will pay.  (By that I mean go to AA and share something or ask someone to exchange phone numbers or go to school or whatever. It could be anything. )

Writing this out provokes the same physical response as it did in session, anxiety, muscle tension and shaking and this sense of a tidal wave of emotion threatening to engulf me, of being out of control. Yet I want to enter into this weird state of being. Part of me wonders if I’m playing with fire but I don’t care. And part of me thinks that my inner critic will keep me safe.

T pointedly told me that he wants me to tell my pdoc that I’m having intrusive thoughts.  He reiterated it as I was leaving. I really don’t want to tell pdoc this.  Pdoc isn’t exactly a tactful person.  I don’t want to have to explain myself to him. And I went off the Effexor without his knowledge. I can just see pdoc asking me pushy questions about those thoughts and me being unable to answer his questions and being blown off.

When I got home, I noticed that I felt small.  I wanted to hide, to curl up in a ball and hide, and I don’t know why.

3-26-09

So it’s a few days later and I’ve been feeling ashamed.  I feel ashamed to go back to therapy.  I feel anxious.  I want to tell therapist that I’m full of shit and that this is all bullshit and that I’m not worth his time.  I’m not going to get better because  there is nothing wrong with me, it’s just ME.  I’m a lazy piece of shit and not worthy of DBT, therapy, medication, whatever.  I feel like I’ve done something wrong, that I’ve been caught or found out and that I’m a fraud. I feel like I can never rest in healing because I’ll be found out, it’ll come out that I’m not legitimate. I can never reveal what’s inside because it’s not worthy, that what’s inside is only worthy of condemnation, banishment.

I can sense something just under the surface and I feel a lot of anxiety when I focus on it.  My heart pounds, chest gets tight, feel that grinding in my gut.  So I try to push it away.

I almost cried in the bookstore today.  I thought of Ruby. I had to bite my tongue really hard to stop the tears.  I don’t know if anniversaries as old as this are relevant or not, but this it the time of year that the sexual abuse began.  But that is ancient history.

I thought that I had missed my psychiatrist appointment but I had the wrong date written down.  Felt kind of stupid calling the office telling them that I’d have to reschedule only to find out that my appointment isn’t for another month…oops.

I have been urge surfing.  I had a strong urge today to just drive, to keep driving until there was no where to drive anymore. I had this urge while driving so it was strong.  I’ve done this before, just up and left and drove for hours. But I didn’t do it.  I have had urges to use.  I’ve had urges to dive into that vat of emotion.  Every damn night I have urges to take more seroquel than I’ve been taking because it can knock me into oblivion and the escape is nice. But I have not caved.

I don’t know about alternate rebellion.  I feel like this will only make me feel like a bigger fraud right now.

And for something positive, I’ve been laughing my ass off reading the LOLCat Bible!  1Samuel 5 and 6 are particularly hilarious, as is the banishment from the garden of Eden, Moses and the burning bush, the plagues in Egypt,  Balaam’s Ass and the LOLCat Creed. So what skill is this?

But when Jesus saw it, he was much displeased, and said unto them, Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of God.

I asked my daughters how their experiences at church affected them.  Although not surprised, I was saddened and filled with righteous indignation against the church when I read their response.

I think my church experience has affected me in a pretty negative way, and I have basically no desire to go back to those times. Not that I’ve left spirituality or anything, I just see christianity as one big hypocrisy and that’s even wrecked my idea of Jesus. I don’t know how to explain…..

And honestly, when I think back to that song “Jesus, Lover of my Soul,” it brings me back to some youth group retreat where we were indoctrinated with fear and self-loathing, and no one wanted to talk to me.

D

Reading this arouses tremendous anger in my spirit.  R thinks back on our church years with resentment and pain as well.   They both have come to a place of peace with their Spirituality, D through theology courses at her liberal, catholic college, and R through dialogue with various people and listening to her own spirit.

… I’ve come to a place of peace, I think after taking a lot of theology classes at college from people who I feel like are much more, umm… reasonable. Honestly, as geeky as it sounds, learning from the liberal nuns at college helped me to not hate christianity.

However, Christian pop music still brings me there lol.

D

Here is how R came to her peace with God:

…I had a moment of reckoning with my ‘god’ (which was not really mine, but someone else’s perception) when I was 14. Every now and then it comes back to me, which is why I’m a deist…

I had a discussion with a pretty right wing, conservative, christian (from the cult church that lucas goes to) and she was open to discussion and could back up a lot of her stuff (but it was still very disputable). She asked me something about how I find God in life.

(She assumed that I would come to some “A ha” moment and realize that God is all around in talking to her)

We were walking near a lake at sunset – probably the most ’spiritual’ setting that I know for myself. I told her, “I see God in the sunset, and the sunrise – in the hills and in the fields. I hear God when I hear children laughing, birds in the morning, and crickets in the evening. I smell God in the rain, in the spring when the snow is melting, and in the decay of fall. I touch him when I hold those that I love.” I was not a Christian at that point. (Because I converted back, sorta, though not entirely, when I dated “L” (ex-boyfriend).  Ann (the Christian Friend) was part of the “L” plot to convert me – though she was a good friend as well.

I feel such remorse that I didn’t listen to my gut and keep my daughters away from that destructive atmosphere.  Early on, I remember feeling very uneasy at services when altar calls were accompanied by people being slain in the spirit.  I remember not wanting my kids to witness that, thinking that it would scare them, thinking that nothing about God, Jesus and Church should scare anyone, let alone little kids.

When the girls were young, 3 and 5 years old, they were involved in Sunday School. At the time, WOTC was on a Warrior for Christ kick and this is what was taught even to those young ones.  Again, I felt really uncomfortable with this teaching but felt that my discomfort was sinful, that the church knew what they were doing so I turned a deaf ear to my inner wisdom.

The girls remember being taught that they were part of the Army of God.  They remember thinking that this army was literal, not figurative.  One Sunday, all the kids in Sunday School marched into the congregation, some holding banners, to the tune of “Mighty Warrior”

Mighty Warrior, dressed for battle. Holy Lord of All is He.
Commander in Chief, bring us to attention.
Lead us into battle to crush the enemy.

Satan has no authority in this place,
He has no authority here.
For this habitation was fashioned for the Lords presence,
No authority here.

I kept them out of Sunday School after that.  I just couldn’t let that burden fall on my very young girls.  The image of all of those young children being trained up to be Warriors of Christ seemed obscene and so very sad.

What absolutely amazes me is that the leadership, youth and adult, thought at that time anyway, that they were in the will of God.  They were absolutely certain that they really had to train these little ones up to be warriors and that the burden that must have put on those little kids was the will of God.  It didn’t even cross their mind that this burden was not appropriate for little, impressionable children to bear. On the contrary, they felt that children should be trained to be warriors as early as possible.

Their experiences at Living Waters was worse.  Old enough for Youth Group, they felt assaulted by shame and guilt ridden teachings.  They felt pressured to conform and speak in tongues and  they didn’t fit in, they didn’t toe the line, they were ostracized.

I think all of the youth, aside from my girls, were from the same area and went to the same schools, so they were close. They did not want to let my daughters in to their clique.

When I finally realized this, I stopped making them go.

The hypocrisy astounds me.  The preachers would preach the parable of the lost sheep:

luke 15:3-7 He told them this parable.
“Which of you men, if you had one hundred sheep, and lost one of them, wouldn’t leave the ninety-nine in the wilderness, and go after the one that was lost, until he found it?  When he has found it, he carries it on his shoulders, rejoicing.  When he comes home, he calls together his friends and his neighbors, saying to them, ‘Rejoice with me, for I have found my sheep which was lost!’ I tell you that even so there will be more joy in heaven over one sinner who repents, than over ninety-nine righteous people who need no repentance.” (web)

with such compassion, such certainty that they would never allow one of theirs to wander in the wilderness while my daughters were lost and hurting, not allowed in the fold for whatever reason, right before their very eyes.  But they did not see their lost sheep, for they were busy rejoicing  over their 99 righteous.

“Whoever causes one of these little ones who believe to stumble, it would be better for him if, with a heavy millstone hung around his neck, he had been cast into the sea.  Mark 9:42

When I spoke with my sister, who was in a positon of leadership and who’s son was in the same youth group, about  my daughters who were being left out, no one would talk to them, etc, she blew me off, saying that her son didn’t have a problem with it, the implication being that the trouble was with my girls and not with the group.

My daughters did not learn the love of Christ at that church.  They learned the pain of being an outcast.  They learned rejection and fear and shame, all while the love of Jesus was being proclaimed and their self righteous proclamation that the love of Christ would be found with them. This makes me very, very angry.

And I ignored that still small voice that screamed foul and instead submitted to the teachings of this church. I held out hope that they would find acceptance and love in the church, but it wasn’t to be.

How can I forgive myself for being a part of this, for exposing them to this pain at the hands of the church, the one place where they should have found unconditional love and acceptance?

DBT: when the rubber meets the road

I just lost it with DH (which stands for dick head in this instance). The Asshole kept talking over me and trying to intimidate me with his voice, you know, making it sound deep and stern and scary. After interrupting and arguing with me,  He used this stupid voice and attitude to “thank” me for cleaning up HIS mess.

Pissed me off. So I leaned in to him and bellowed “I don’t accept it” at him as loud as I could. Then I walked away.

Asshole went outside for a smoke. When he came back in, I told him don’t try to talk over me again. And I walked away. Asshole.

It felt good to do that. Really good. I hope the asshole got the message. But it wasn’t an “effective” behavior in DBT speak. What is effective isn’t always what feels good. I would imagine that the effective thing to do in that situation would have been to walk away, because asshole wasn’t in a listening kind of mood. In fact, asshole was in an intimidating kind of mood and not interested in hearing anyone else.

It’s hard to do the skills and be effective when you are interacting with someone who has no interest in being “effective.” It’s hard for me to do the skills when I’m being disrespected. I want to retaliate when that happens.

Being effective isn’t what comes to mind when in that situation. Trouble with this is it’s not nearly as rewarding as bellowing in his face was at that time.

trying to make sense of this mess

In therapy tonight, I brought a copy of my last post and had my t read it.  I’m not entirely sure what he thought of it.  He thanked me for sharing it with him and assured me that he had no intention of saving me. (I hope he meant this purely in the Christian sense, I must admit that I have a fantasy that I will be saved by someone….) What I wrote probably didn’t make any sense.  I had hoped that he would get a better understanding of the cost of losing my faith, that it had far reaching ramifications, and is a wound that needs to be healed.

Whenever I put myself out there and share my heart, I feel exposed.  So now my thoughts are filled with self denigrating commentary about what I wrote.

I’m trying to shut that critical voice up so I can process our session.  T was trying to convey Christ’s suffering on the cross and that is our calling.  He spoke of John of the Cross and his dark night of the soul, how mountain top experiences can become an idol.  I countered with Jesus proclaiming that His yoke is easy, His burden light.

T then went on to question what exactly prompted me to make the leap from questioning and doubt to loss of faith.  I don’t remember anymore.

But there is an idea that is slowly taking shape and I would really love to try and develop this idea into something coherent.

I remember praying over and over again for God to change me, to make me whole, to purge all  that I judged as unworthy from my being.  Because nothing good could possibly come from me. I hated who I was.  I had blamed myself for all that was wrong in my life, and condemned who I was as unworthy of love and forgiveness and begged for God to change me into someone worthy.  I was the judge of worth and I did not pass.

And this is even hard to write out, it goes against my very being to even consider it.  But here goes:

Maybe God didn’t answer my prayer because He didn’t see me in the same light.  Perhaps God created me with this particular temperament, with this way of thinking and reasoning, with this doubt and skepticism, with this temper and sensitivity as a part of his perfect creation. That perhaps God has a higher purpose for those traits, that they didn’t need so much purging and removal but rather refinement and discipline.

The idea that I could be acceptable in Gods sight was absurd and rejected out of hand.  When I cried out to God to change me, that I hated what and who I was, it was a prayer that God would not grant.  I interpreted the silence as God’s rejection of me, and eventually as proof of non-existence.

The idea that I could be worthy is so filled with pain and sorrow that I can’t make myself believe it. In fact I fight against the notion. But why does the idea that God might see me as good and worthy of his love hurt so much?  So I have to get as far away from that idea as I can, because the ocean of pain this idea brings threatens to drown me. This notion of Divine Love feels both terrible and terrifying and hurts so much that I’m afraid it will literally consume me, that it will be unbearable.

And on the flip side, my ever present inner critic is telling me what a stupid, gullible ass I am.  That there really is nothing good in me, that I am being very presumptuous to think that God could possibly have a higher purpose for me and my self imposed suffering.  IF there is a god.

As revival mania took over our church, services degenerated into emotional masturbation sessions, stoked by the repetitive singing of choruses and speaking in tongues and strange repetitive body movements like retarded Whirling Dervishes, such as the chicken ladies who liked to jerk their bodies like chickens when they walked, Revival Rita who rocked in her chair, arms bent at the elbow and sort of moving up and down like pistons on an engine,  Karate Joe who would do “karate chops in the Spirit,” and Turtle Man who would sort of pull his head into his neck and giggle uncontrollably to name just a few. I admit that I laughed AT them and enjoyed the show most of the time.  It got old really fast, though.  This wasn’t feeding my spirit.  It was bullshit.  I felt like the boy who proclaimed that the Emperor Who Wore No Clothes really WAS naked.

Church became a farce.  Somewhere in the midst of revival madness I lost my mind and was hospitalized. My faith was rocked to the core, and I was mad.  I wanted answers and looked for them in Church and was disgusted with what I saw. I had just been through hell and couldn’t find my way back, had lost my mind, was just out of the nut hut and wanted to kill myself and there was Karate Joe, chopping away in the Spirit. And the revival minister could only find it in his heart to preach on tithing and offerings, reminding his revved up, chicken walking, karate chopping followers of what happened to Ananias and Sapphira when they held back from giving god his due.

I came to believe that Church was a popularity contest and I lost yet again.  That answers to prayer, tangible answers seemed to belong to a certain vocal group in the form of generous gifts from anonymous members of the congregation, while my prayers for grocery and gas money fell on deaf ears. Not that I saw God as The Divine Piggy Bank, but it seemed to come up a lot in church. I could not accept that the divine freak show that was Sunday Service was representative of any kind of Heaven that I wanted to be a part of.

So between this particular church culture, the charismatic, revival/laughter movement, fundamentalist atmosphere combined with my particular baggage equaled spiritual disaster. I expected to find the Body of Christ when I went to church, not understanding that this Body, the Church whom Christ loves as His bride, consists of imperfect men and women.

Wounds of the Spirit

Never Shall I Forget

Never shall I forget that night, the first night in camp, that turned my life into one long night seven times sealed.
Never shall I forget that smoke.
Never shall I forget the small faces of the children whose bodies I saw transformed into smoke under a silent sky.
Never shall I forget those flames that consumed my faith for ever.
Never shall I forget the nocturnal silence that deprived me for all eternity of the desire to live.
Never shall I forget those moments that murdered my God and my soul and turned my dreams to ashes.
Never shall I forget those things, even were I condemned to live
as long as God Himself.
Never.

Elie Wiesel

I cannot fathom the horrors that Elie Wiesel and the multitude of others endured during the Holocaust.

I was doing some much needed cleaning today and came across an old notebook in which I had copied this poem by Elie Wiesel.  I really hesitated to include it in this post; my experiences do not even come close to the suffering of the victims of the Holocaust.

My suffering has been minuscule compared to that. I’m unsure if I should use this poem as an example of the void that the loss of faith, the murder of God has left in my life.

Last session, my t wanted me to read a book in the the Martyrs Song series .  I chose the second book in the series, When Heaven Weeps. This book begins with a very graphic depiction of the cruelty of war, of persecution and brutality and enduring faith.  As I read, my heart was in my throat and I cried.

When the symbolism in the story bore witness to God’s presence amid the gratuitous, brutal beating of the innocent, I had to stop reading and suppress deep pain and mourning for the loss of my God, the loss of hope. I cried but I couldn’t tear myself away.   I yearned for the presence of God in my life and I mourned the death of my faith all over again.

Since therapy last week, I’ve had the song, Jesus, Lover Of My Soul stuck in my head.  I find myself humming it, singing the lyrics that I remember, (and then my mind starts in on that stupid McDonald’s fillet-o-fish commercial with the singing fish: Give me back my fillet-o-fish’ give me one now…)

Last night as I was reading this book, one of the main characters in the story, Ivena, was humming the tune of Jesus Lover Of My Soul.

Coincidence?  Since my book is a Kindle edition, I don’t have quick, easy access to the publishing date.  I have been out of the Christian music scene for 12 years now.  I have no idea if that song is still popular or used regularly as a worship song in churches anymore.

Like many others, music touches my soul.  Music can stoke the flames of darkness or light, music carries my spirit on its wings.  When I became a Christian, I used to play my guitar for hours at a time, often as an unspoken prayer and communion with what I thought was God.

I began playing guitar 30 years ago, it defines me in many ways. It had been a constant source of joy and gives my life meaning. I stopped playing my guitar when I lost my faith. I’ve tried to play every now and then but the notes  fall off my fingers and onto the floor, muted, empty, void of meaning, void of spirit.  My spirit is dead and leaves my music cold, lifeless, empty.

Last week, I played my guitar one night for 2 hours straight.  My spirit had come alive and found release after many, many years of silence.

I don’t know where this is leading me, if anywhere.  Frankly I tend to think that I would be on God’s shit list if there is any truth to the Bible.  You know, the parts about millstones tied around ones neck, blaspheming the Holy Spirit and all that. In my rage and feelings of betrayal when my God was murdered, I’ve lashed out in anger and railed against Him many, many times, to many, many people.

DBT and therapy tomorrow.  I’m not sure what, if anything, I’ll tell him about all of this.  I don’t want any pressure from him or anyone else about being “saved.” But I know that this wound needs to be healed so I can move on.

struggles

Therapy has been difficult.  I’ve been dealing with ancient wounds.  Making progress is slow, I really don’t want to face the pain so I shut down.  T is trying to move me forward and backward at the same time it seems.

T brought up the subject of hope yesterday.  I don’t have a good relationship with hope.  T kept pressing me as to why I reject the notion of hope.  It has to do with my loss of faith.  The loss of hope and the loss of faith went hand in hand.

Then we began talking about religion.  I’m not sure I’m comfortable talking religion with him.  He is a Christian, a charismatic Christian at that.  I think he works with youth at his church.

He asked me how I lost faith and I went into it a little.  I think he understands that it wasn’t an intellectual decision on my part, in other words, I wasn’t looking at apologetics with a critical eye, trying to reconcile my basis for belief intellectually.  I’m not that smart.  I simply came to realize that Christianity did not work, not for me at any rate.

When I told t that I bought the line that God was the answer to my problems, t acted as if that was unreasonable.  That floored me.  He seemed incredulous that I would expect God to intervene in my life and be the catalyst for positive change.  I challenged him on that, but he held his ground.  I want to discuss this with him next time.

I became a born again Christian at a very dark time in my life.  My marriage was in trouble, there was physical and emotional abuse and we fought all the time.  I had 2 young girls under the age of 4 who were (and still are) precious to me.  I was isolated and alone and sinking into depression.  I could see no options for my future and lived under a profound sense of futility.

One night, as I was channel surfing I came across the Catholic channel, EWTN, and saw a little old nun with great big glasses wearing a brown habit, hopping mad and ranting about the movie, “The Last Temptation of Christ.” It was Mother Angelica I later found out.  I admit, I stopped to watch purely because I got a kick out of seeing a nun rip into someone like she was doing.  My only experience with nuns thus far had been seeing them walk in town when I went to visit my cousin during the summer.  I was fascinated with them, they wore full habits and carried an aura of holiness about them. Mother Angelica busted every stereotype that I held about nuns that night.

So I would periodically tune into EWTN to see who Mother Angelica was going to rip into next.  At some point, I began to listen to what she had to say.  I began to crave this peace that passes understanding that she spoke of, the love of Christ in our hearts and forgiveness.

She spoke of forgiveness one night, stating that through Christ’s sacrifice on the cross , our sins are forgiven, they are erased, gone forever. I had been carrying around a burden of guilt from past and present sin in my life. It sunk in that forgiveness is final.  It’s a done deal.  Sins are no more when we accept Jesus as our savior.

It sunk into my soul.  I was forgiven.  I bought a Bible and read it.  I watched various preachers on TV.  I heard the message from many sources that God is the answer.  I began to believe that God would be my answer.  He would deliver me from this life, from the hopelessness and isolation, from my sinful past, He would be my redemption.

I have always had a hard time fitting in. Friendship has always been elusive to me. I longed for a feeling of fellowship, of being part of a community. I prayed to God to change me, to transform the awkward, ugly, lonely, bitchy, clueless, hateful, spiteful person that I was into a Godly woman.   I began to go to church, expecting to be welcomed with open arms, with the hope that I would find a home, so to speak.

I longed to feel accepted, to find fellowship.  This wasn’t a mere longing for friends. It was a plea to be set free from the loneliness and isolation that had punctuated my life.  I had dug myself into a hole that I couldn’t get out of.  I really thought that God would answer my prayer.  I felt hope and staked my life on it, because I really was dying inside.

I tried for a few years to find peace and happiness, knowing that it would be found in God through Jesus Christ.  I prayed.  I repented.  I read the Bible. I went to church.  I became active in church.  I still felt so unclean, so different from everyone else. I didn’t speak the language, I didn’t dress the part.

I struggled.  I was depressed. When I sought counsel from peers and pastors, I was told that I was trying too hard, that I wasn’t trying hard enough, I was told to “let go and let God” whatever that is supposed to mean.  I had demons cast out of me, demons of rebellion, of depression, of whatever demon was fashionable at the moment.  By the way, I never felt any different when the demons were supposedly cast out.  I just felt stupid.

I prayed harder, read my Bible, listened to Christian music and read Christian books.  Despite all that, I remained isolated, filled with self hatred.

Two more children and a few years later, I broke.  I fell apart.  I found myself in the psych ward.

Where was God now? I was duped. I could no longer talk a walk that I wasn’t living. I was not a successful Christian, it simply did not work in my life the way that it worked in the lives of others. I lost faith. I lost hope. I carried a mantle of shame and guilt.  I lived in a state of hopelessness, a place of desolation and despair, emptiness and anxiety, a place of endings, never beginnings.

Even though I was now on antidepressants and mood stabilizers, I continued to fall.  The depression that followed was profound and severe.  Big chunks of time are missing, I have no memory of my youngest son’s first steps, his first words. I was easily overwhelmed with even the simplest of household tasks. I was afraid to be alone with my boys, who were 1 and 3 years old at the time. Making dinner was too much for my fractured mind.  It wasn’t until almost a year later that I began to crawl out of that hell.

It’s been many years since then.  I bear the scars from that fight.  Latching on to hope again just seems masochistic to me.  I don’t see the point of opening myself up to another fall.  I don’t think I would survive it.

I’ve been obsessed with the Caylee Anthony and Haleigh Cummings case lately. I’ve been lurking around WebSleuth’s forums, and find them to be very interesting to say the least. One of my favorite forums on WebSleuths is the forensic astrology forum.

My mind has been blown away by the information that the experienced astrologers have gleaned from the various charts of the people involved in the cases. This forum has piqued my interest in astrology. I really want to learn this art.

Astrology is a lot more involved and complicated than I initially thought it would be. It has a language all its own. I’m just beginning to understand the Houses, planets and placements within the charts, astrological signs and their meanings in general and as applied to the various planetary placements, the house placements, the transits…..it’s so much to learn.

Lately I’ve been intrigued with Black Moon Lilith. With the stuff that I’m facing in therapy, it seems as if BML is bringing those issues to light within my life at this time. I really would like to learn how her natal placement in my chart affects my life overall. In particular, I wonder if my natal chart shows indications of what happened in my past, and if BML was present, with hard aspects at that time.

Another aspect that has me fascinated and horrified at the same time is the fixed star, Algol. Algol is found in the constellation Perseus. Perseus, the Hero, slayed Medusa by severing her head. Perseus is holding the severed head of Medusa in the constellation, and Algol is said to be either Medusa’s head or eye, and is the most evil star in the sky.

Algol is an eclipsing, binary star that blinks for 2 hours every 68 hour, 49 minutes. Reading that was freaky. The eye of Medusa blinks for 2 hours, every 68 hour, 49 minutes like clockwork. It is said that this most evil star was present during some of the bloodiest times in the history of mankind. So naturally, I’m wondering what affect Algol has in my chart. A morbid curiosity, I suppose.

I have Chiron, the wounded healer, in Pisces in the 9th house, in my natal chart. Chiron represents what I understand to be an existential wound in the natal chart.

What really fascinated me is that my particular Chiron placement could be interpreted to mean a wounding in the area of spirituality and religion. A very deep wound at that. I lost my faith about 12 years ago. This was a very, very deep wound that rocked my world. This is a wound that is still healing.

I have so many questions about astrology that I want answers to but my knowledge is so limited right now, it’s frustrating.

DBT and therapy this week. Back in Core Mindfulness Skills. Homework is taking a situation and analyzing it, breaking our reactions down into rational mind, wise mind and emotion mind. We repeat mindfulness skills between each module.

DBT threw me for a loop last week. Lots of new people both to DBT and the group were there. One was my daughters best friend in middle school. I wanted to leave. When she knew me, I was in a bad spot. I wasn’t very nice. Seeing her there called up those bad times, called up guilt and shame.

My t seemed impatient with me. He seemed angry. I wonder if he’s giving up on me? I wonder if I’m giving up on me. It is apparent to me that I need to deal with my past once and for all. This is so hard. So many painful emotions are just under the surface and I don’t want to feel them. I would rather keep them locked away in a box forever, but my t says that if I don’t face this, I willremain imprisoned and isolated.

So tonight I found the last bits of some Vyvanse and I took them. I really love the high that I get from them. I like being numb, being hyper-focused, not caring. I’m going to allow the addict in me to enjoy this tonight. I will face this more honestly tomorrow.

I played my guitar for a few hours tonight. I loved it. My fingernails are at the perfect length for picking, I expressed a part of me that has gone mute these last few years. It felt good. I will pay tomorrow, my callouses aren’t as tough as they used to be, my hand and arm muscles aren’t strong and are shaking.

I discovered a yarn that I absolutely LOVE! The brand is Noro and it has the most vivid, wonderful color combinations. I’m making a Noro Striped Scarf right now, it’s exciting to see what color will come next. My daughter wants me to knit her a shawl, so I think I’ll use someNoro for that as well.

this is your butt on Effexor

…I guess I should say, it’s MY butt on Effexor…

Vanity or sanity….vanity or sanity…..what to do, what to do…

So the Effexor experiment was going well until the weight gain,  the migraines,  the absolute lack of energy or drive to do just about anything.  I’m done with it.  I’m weaning myself off.  Down to 37.5mg now, I’ll try to go cold turkey from here maybe next week.

Therapy has been hard.  I had to bring in pictures of me at a certain age last week.  Those pictures brought with them a mountain of shame and anger and pain.  My t has opened Pandora’s Box and I’m not so sure that he can contain what’s inside.

I thought that I had that portion of my life packed away so safely that no one could find it.  I thought that I for some reason had escaped the impact of the events of those years.  But those damn pictures dredged it all up.

There is an ocean of feelings and images and thoughts inside but I have no words to begin to describe what is going on. And yet I have this pressing need to express it, but I have no outlet.

There are no words.