Life as a drunken waltz
It seems like I've been trying to write a lot of posts over the last few months that start with something like, "How should I start this?" or "Where to begin?" but all that seems to get published is posts like this. Quiet desperation, mostly.
I've been doing some counseling. Talk therapy, really. A lot of it. One, two, sometimes three times per week. I've done counseling before, years ago in college, but it never seemed to move beyond that get-this-shit-off-my-chest phase.
This seems to be different. Out of sheer luck I managed to find someone who I can really talk to, who I can really relate to, who can really understand where I'm at because she's been through these waters too. There are those moments when I look at myself sitting in a therapist's chair and wonder how I got to this point and how I'm going to live it down, but then I realize that even though I don't always deserve it, sometimes a chance to live things down is a good thing after all.
We talk about things: history, phone calls, fears, fathers, desperation. And even though I know I overthink everything, she still calls me on it and lately she's been laughing at me when I go on my flights of self-defeating logic. I'm learning not to be upset when she decides to close a session after 30 minutes because the conversation has run out. I'm learning to trust that she's got real concern for my well-being.
And it's helping. I still get angry when the people around me say that they love my therapist, but they're right. I get angry because they're right, because they can see something that I've never wanted to admit.
Most days I don't know if I'm going to make it. Some days I don't want to make it. Some days I'm just hanging on to spite the people who gave up on me. And some days I'm just waiting until I don't have to hang on anymore.
I didn't wind up in a hospital, though there were a lot of people pushing really hard in that direction, and they were probably right. But I cut some deals and now I'm going to acupuncture and seeing Chinese herbalists instead. Sometimes I laugh when I think that today I'm taking 20 herbal pills three times daily, all because I refused to take one little Zoloft every morning.
So I go in every Thursday and talk with an NCNM intern about my appetite, sleep, dreams, and various bodily functions. They inspect my body and make notes that say, "White coating on tongue" when they think I'm not looking. I lie down on the paper-covered bed and they poke my scalp and hands and feet and arms full of hair-thin needles. And I lie there in the dark smelling rosemary and roses, and I think and, lately, nod off for an hour or so. And when they come back they've got this or that herbal formula for me to try for a week or two, and they're all smiles and calm sure quietness, and it's not bad.
And I'm making progress a little at a time.
I'm still scared of what's coming. I worry that this progress might be a trick and that I might slip back into old patterns and hurt everyone again. I worry that I'm going to have to spend the rest of my life in therapy to keep all this under control.
And I worry about my relationship with G, about my relationship with this little girl. I worry when I see the writing on the street that says, "Don't let your youth go to waste" because I'm afraid that I already have. I'm afraid that I've wasted someone else's youth too.
I worry that I don't know how to make plans, or how to be excited enough by anything to get to the point of making plans. I worry because sometimes all I want to do is fall asleep remembering the past and disappear forever in that.
I worry that G is thinking of coming back to Portland again. I worry about what this means for our relationship. I worry about what it means for each of our relationships.
On Sunday I saw a cute young gay couple walking down the street, and I fell asleep that night wishing I had someone to wrap me up and run their fingers through my hair and keep me safe. I wonder if I'll ever be able to trust that closeness again. I wonder if I'll ever be able to share that quiet dark space with anyone ever again.
... but I'm making progress a little at a time. Tonight I'm going to buy supplies so B and I can clean and paint my new room tomorrow night. And then after work on Thursday I'll move my things in and spend my first night in the first place I've ever found completely on my own.
It's nothing spectacular, but it's mine, and that's enough for now.
Update: 06/02/2005 8:39am
"[N]othing spectacular" is not the correct phrase. "Stinking, filthy, and covered in cat piss" is much more appropriate.
Something's gotta change right fucking now or I'm GONE.
I've been doing some counseling. Talk therapy, really. A lot of it. One, two, sometimes three times per week. I've done counseling before, years ago in college, but it never seemed to move beyond that get-this-shit-off-my-chest phase.
This seems to be different. Out of sheer luck I managed to find someone who I can really talk to, who I can really relate to, who can really understand where I'm at because she's been through these waters too. There are those moments when I look at myself sitting in a therapist's chair and wonder how I got to this point and how I'm going to live it down, but then I realize that even though I don't always deserve it, sometimes a chance to live things down is a good thing after all.
We talk about things: history, phone calls, fears, fathers, desperation. And even though I know I overthink everything, she still calls me on it and lately she's been laughing at me when I go on my flights of self-defeating logic. I'm learning not to be upset when she decides to close a session after 30 minutes because the conversation has run out. I'm learning to trust that she's got real concern for my well-being.
And it's helping. I still get angry when the people around me say that they love my therapist, but they're right. I get angry because they're right, because they can see something that I've never wanted to admit.
Most days I don't know if I'm going to make it. Some days I don't want to make it. Some days I'm just hanging on to spite the people who gave up on me. And some days I'm just waiting until I don't have to hang on anymore.
I didn't wind up in a hospital, though there were a lot of people pushing really hard in that direction, and they were probably right. But I cut some deals and now I'm going to acupuncture and seeing Chinese herbalists instead. Sometimes I laugh when I think that today I'm taking 20 herbal pills three times daily, all because I refused to take one little Zoloft every morning.
So I go in every Thursday and talk with an NCNM intern about my appetite, sleep, dreams, and various bodily functions. They inspect my body and make notes that say, "White coating on tongue" when they think I'm not looking. I lie down on the paper-covered bed and they poke my scalp and hands and feet and arms full of hair-thin needles. And I lie there in the dark smelling rosemary and roses, and I think and, lately, nod off for an hour or so. And when they come back they've got this or that herbal formula for me to try for a week or two, and they're all smiles and calm sure quietness, and it's not bad.
And I'm making progress a little at a time.
I'm still scared of what's coming. I worry that this progress might be a trick and that I might slip back into old patterns and hurt everyone again. I worry that I'm going to have to spend the rest of my life in therapy to keep all this under control.
And I worry about my relationship with G, about my relationship with this little girl. I worry when I see the writing on the street that says, "Don't let your youth go to waste" because I'm afraid that I already have. I'm afraid that I've wasted someone else's youth too.
I worry that I don't know how to make plans, or how to be excited enough by anything to get to the point of making plans. I worry because sometimes all I want to do is fall asleep remembering the past and disappear forever in that.
I worry that G is thinking of coming back to Portland again. I worry about what this means for our relationship. I worry about what it means for each of our relationships.
On Sunday I saw a cute young gay couple walking down the street, and I fell asleep that night wishing I had someone to wrap me up and run their fingers through my hair and keep me safe. I wonder if I'll ever be able to trust that closeness again. I wonder if I'll ever be able to share that quiet dark space with anyone ever again.
... but I'm making progress a little at a time. Tonight I'm going to buy supplies so B and I can clean and paint my new room tomorrow night. And then after work on Thursday I'll move my things in and spend my first night in the first place I've ever found completely on my own.
It's nothing spectacular, but it's mine, and that's enough for now.
So wake up run your lips across your fingers till you find...
some scent of yourself that you can hold up high
to remind yourself that you didn't die
on a day that was so crappy whole and happy you're alive
You seem so bruised
and it's beautiful as it's reflecting off from you as it shines
You're in the bathroom carving holiday designs into yourself
hoping no one will find you but they found you
and they took you
and you somehow survived
So wake up and if the holidays don't hollow out your eyes
then press yourself against whatever
you find to be beautiful and trembling with life
because I'm so happy you didn't die
--JM
Update: 06/02/2005 8:39am
"[N]othing spectacular" is not the correct phrase. "Stinking, filthy, and covered in cat piss" is much more appropriate.
Something's gotta change right fucking now or I'm GONE.
posted by Fourbank at 6:35 PM
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