i'm as fucking cliche as they come

if it's not freud and your father, it's something fucking else.  let's talk transference this week, shall we?  so, i'm back in therapy.  fucking swell.  to catch y'all up to speed (it's y'all. not ya'll.  you all. not ... what the fuck would ya'll be short for? ya all?  okay, in the south maybe that's actually relevant with a drawl.), it's emotions emotions emotions.  at least, that's how i'm seeing it.

where are mine? why am i afraid of them? why do i have a hard time accepting other people's toward me? when do mine come out? where? how? why? in what amounts?  why aren't my mind (thinking) and body (emotions) linked?  why did i just start to grab my head there?

anyway ... in the short time i've been back in therapy, i've started to think about these things a lot -- but started to feel a lot because of them, too.  i'm hearing my therapist's questions in my head (i *do* want to change and i want answers -- my good student side convinces me it's because i need to impress him or i'm doing this for him or i need to please him, look good for him, something _____ him.  it's directed outward, for sure.) and i'm searching for answers.

meanwhile, all these opportunities keep being put in my path.  people "randomly" telling me what they think of me -- complimenting me on my fashion, telling me they admire something about my personality, etc. etc.  giving me another chance to stop and actually try and listen and open myself up to what they are giving me -- not just intellectually, but emotionally as well.  it's hard.

and then wednesday night, i get thrown another piece of my emotionally strained pie.  a very quick exchange of heated words with a friend in front of a small group of other friends leaves me FURIOUS. fucking FURIOUS. the things i have floating around in my head to say back are ringing with rage, when i can grab words -- mostly, i am shellshocked with emotions and can barely think.  this is one of my best friends in the world, mind you, and i can't believe this is happening.  THIS is what strong emotions are like.  

at one point, my therapist asked me if i was hesitant to be involved with my emotions because of my bipolar. at the time, i was sort of offended at the suggestion.  god, what did he think, i was some fucking out of control wackjob?  did he think i was completely off the handle, rapid cycling like a freak?  i somewhat summarily dismissed the concept out of hand.  however, i should have known better -- any time something gets at me like that, there's usually something to it. 


i have VERY VERY strong emotions, people.  i know you have seen me be passionate about this or that. i know that's part of my character. i am glad for my love of things and my ability to fight for things when it's called for.  and i also think part of all of it is my "old soulness."  i think my sensitivity to psychic energies and feeling situations around me all play into my emotional scene.  but, let's face it.  i'm coming to find out that yes, i can flip on a dime.  and yes, my emotions come hard and fast sometimes. and yes, they are what my high school friend used to call "deep and wide." they're extensive. they're huge. they're of monstrous proportions.  i don't know that other people feel the way i do. i don't know that other people go the places i do.  think the things i do.  it's fucking scary, honestly.


now, i'm not wont to get into details, because let's face it.  i'm not killing myself, i'm not killing anyone else. i've never even come close. i'm a fucking pacifist.  but, the FEELINGS that accompany some of these situations are fucking hardcore. serious insane rage -- coming from that exchange of words.  rage.  hateful fucking over the top rage.  i wanted to smash, punch, rage, kick, freakthefuckout on something or someone.  but i didn't. i just didn't.  and it's like ... what the motherfuck? what did i sign up for here?  did i really say i wanted to change? deal with emotions? get into this shit really deep?


cause i wanted to leave the therapist a voicemail (here's the transference part, kids) and give him holy hell. i still kind of want to go in there on monday and rip his fucking face off.  nice, hey? it's not his fault. he didn't do anything.  he's just sitting there, doing his deal, trying to help me out.  he's just probably working his ass off for nothing and trying to make a difference in this world.  but i wanted to leave him a horrible message on wednesday night and tell him what a fuck i thought he was. how dare he lead me here and leave me stuck with nothing against all of this. leave me wondering what to do with all this denial and suppressing rage, motherfucker.


and even as i'm having this fucking daymare about leaving this wretched message -- of which would have been at least 50% choked out of ragged breath and bitter sobs -- i am knowing what a fucking cliche it is to be pissed off at your therapist for nothing.  for being mad and angry and afraid and never ever ever having the time or the energy or the wherewithal to do these emotions with any sort of normal concentration or dose or release and now being left with some crazy ass amalgam of improvisation and desperate need and forced reaction when even the slightest bit of pressure is put upon me.  it's like having a structure that has held up in whatever sort of condition for whatever amount of time, but the second a slight crack is exposed, it starts to fall apart in short order.


all i can think is: i never signed up for this. i never signed up to be manic-depressive or grow up in that house. never signed up to be an alcoholic.  never signed up to be codependent. never signed up to have a precocious fucking head that runs all the fucking time. never signed up to feel everyone's fucking pain.  never signed up to be psychic and intuitive. never signed up to be so fucking alone.  how the fuck did i get myself here? how did i manage to find myself here at this stage in the game?  for fuck's sake!? and he has to listen to me and he can't tell anyone else and he seems smart enough and so i want to tell him what a fucking fuck he is.


10 bucks says come monday i won't.  i don't know what i'll do. something has to give, though.  because i can't stand feeling like this.  i guess i fucking go back to this ridiculous self-obsessive, diary, journal, blog.  where i make an ass out of myself and try to talk it out.  at least i don't have anyone else to bring down with me this time. 

and they wonder why ...

hey guys, thanks for giving me the encouragement to keep writing. that's great ... i think that it was just what i needed right now. i'd been neglecting the blog for quite some time and i think there was some some weird thing that i should tone it down due to looking for a job or wanting to transfer jobs or something. i don't know. i think writing here on a regular basis keeps me motivated -- keeps me a better writer -- keeps me better informed on the world, on me, on life.  keeps me better connected.  thanks for the encouragement.

still struggling with this days/nights getting mixed up thing. it's 2:13 and i already took my meds but i'm really not tired.  i just took another 1/2 a seroquel. i keep forgetting i need to take a whole 100mg these days.  therapist wasn't that jazzed that i cut my 100mgs in 1/2 and use as needed.  not the use as needed part (i always forget if that's PRN or PCN -- it's PRN), but the fact that i'm cutting them in half.  i've been doing it for years with no problems and doc knew i was doing it before, so i don't see an issue with it, but i forget i'm new there and i can't really blame him.  i appreciate where he's coming from, at least.  


when friends of mine decide to wean themselves off meds or otherwise generally fuck around with their meds without telling doc first, i generally give them 'the talk' he gave me.  but the thing is -- my old doc who knew me very well knew i was doing this -- it's not like i came up with this genius plan on my own, you know?  anyway, it's weird, you know? one of the things that i have in the bathroom (this has a point, hang on here) is this book "inspiration -- your ultimate calling" or something like that by dr. wayne dyer.  i figure i'll start putting books like that in the bathroom so i'll eventually get them read. it's not like i am a long-term shitter, but even a minute here or there is worth something over the long haul.


anyway, he's like a lot of people (conversations with god, etc.) in that he believes we chose our path here on earth -- that we all do, even when it appears hard or fucked up.  when we choose alcoholic parents or addiction or ... manic-depression, for instance.  and i'm finding that i definitely chose it, because i'm using it all the time to help people who also "suffer" from the illness as well.  i get to use my experience strength and hope in recovering from it and being stabilized in it and taking meds and all of that in sponsoring people and talking to people about all sorts of things -- even people who just struggle with depression.  i think nearly all of my sponsees have had manic-depression and i've talked with other friends about it or depression or friends they know or what-have-you.  it's really fascinating, and the more it happens, the more i know this is definitely part of my path that i am supposed to turn to good.


well, here we go a-blogging again, hey?  welcome back, everyone.  welcome back.

it's the same old story again

(started on 11.7.09)

it's the question we've heard a million times here at the smussyolay: why am i doing this?  i am back in therapy again, and like has happened a million times before, what i think i'm going to talk about on any given day, ends up being the last thing that gets brought up or gets ignored or never even comes to mind.  i remember leaving off the time before with us about ready to get to my drug and alcohol history and somehow we ended up talking about the blog and having my shit on the internet and "why do you do it, what do you get out of it, what's the purpose of it all" sort of conversation.

it's the conversation and set of questions i've asked myself here a million times: how much is too much, why am i doing this, should i take it down, is it all ego, have i said too much, is this about a dialogue, or a diary or delving into demons?  why is this here? what is the purpose? you have all been around to hear me muse about these things time and time and time again, ad fucking nauseam.  i never seem to be able to come up with a convincing answer; one that suits me enough to tear it down or to really feel entirely comfortable enough to feel like i can stand upon these words with complete reckless abandon and not feel wary about a potential employer happening upon them without regret.


so, he asked and i was left to wonder again what the answer/s to that question really were.  and as is likely to happen in the world of therapy, it spawned new and more exciting avenues of thought and discussion.  suddenly, we were discussing how hard it is for me to accept compliments and what it would mean if i were to actually receive what it was people were giving me and to hear what it was they were saying about/to me and what it would mean if i were to accept their praise or their love.  what would that mean? he said, and once again, i had no answer.  i was truly flabbergasted.  my defense mechanisms of humor and quick wit were taken from me and i was rendered hopelessly speechless; left with my emotions, which were paralyzing and leaving me unable to speak, writhing in my physical space.

continued here at 4:14 am 11.15.09


we're working it out ... i feel weird, it's like we're getting to things so quickly.  getting to this idea that i keep people at a distance by not accepting their thoughts, their words, their communications about me.  by brushing them off somehow, changing the subject.  by not having to feel.  it went a little further the other day, back to the same old story of how my head and my body/heart/emotions aren't connected.  how when one is working (usually my head), i'm not very much in touch with my emotions.  when my emotions are on, my head is turned off. i don't think very well, if at all. my memory switch gets turned to the "off" switch.  i don't know how to connect the two together at this point.  


we talked  -- he talked on this point -- about how i could integrate the two together.  about having strong emotions and being able to process them. about how to think about them and still feel them and then be able to do both during the event or after the event.  it is striking to me that even sitting there in that chair, that when i really started to contemplate it all, i got panicky. i felt myself getting uncomfortable and started to lose my thinking.  i started to lose my rational thought.  he would be telling me things and i literally lost the ability to make sense of them.  it was like i was acting stupid, but i really wasn't acting. it was as if i no longer could understand english, because all the blood that my brain needed for comprehension was now being used somewhere else.


he's kind.  he seems so young, my therapist -- my person in his last year of training or however it goes.  part of me wants to show him that i am not trying to be difficult here -- that i really am trying to absorb this stuff and trying to figure out a way to change.  i went home this last time and my back was really hurting (my whole body has been a mass of tension and pain for weeks now) and i laid on the floor to try and relieve it.  i stretched and moved and did what i could.  i laid there, contemplating what we had talked about. and i thought about emotions and what i was feeling.  and i went through anger and sadness. and then it hit me ... it was fear. it was always about fear. it's always about fear. and then, i started to let go and cry. lying on my back on the livingroom floor, i sat there with my hands over my eyes and cried.


about how i've been afraid for so long. since i was a little girl and i wasn't sure if my father was going to live, but i just wouldn't let that show. i couldn't. i wasn't confident there'd be anyone there to help me through it or be there for me or let me be okay with being scared.  so, i just went on about my business and took care of it myself.  i remember my therapist saying that i had developed a 'sophisticated' defense mechanism, and i remember other people saying that before as well.  and i just thought that it was all well and good and lovely but how tiring it was and how much i just wish i could not have to walk around in so much unconscious fear.



continued here at 2:18 am 11.18.09

because of a weird scheduling thing, i ended up at therapy on thu and this monday -- a short period of time between sessions.  as i was watching 'away we go' with john krasinski and maya rudolph (god, i love both of those actors), i was reminded of something that my spiritual advisor, billy, said to me once.  he remarked that he could see that i often saw myself as outside of myself.  that i saw myself as part of a movie or a character in a play.  that instead of being inside of my body or my emotions, i related to the world as a director or as watching it from the outside.  i certainly related to this, because i often feel this way. i get the 'wide angle lens' view and i *do* hear the soundtrack of my life and i see things as perfect scenes in movies and i see things from a directorial point of view.

cool, in a way, but it also means i'm not quite experiencing the event myself.  one of the things we're getting right to in therapy (which is sort of interesting; i thought there'd be a lot of 'recap' time to get my therapist up to speed, and for whatever reason, it seems like we're getting right to the heart of the matter right away, which is really good and really scary at the same time) is the old idea that my head and my heart aren't connected.  that i process everything on an intellectual level.  i think that's *one* of the reasons i've always been so eager to do this blog.  it allows me to process events and get them sorted out -- in an intellectual way. writing is definitely a left-brained activity.  it allows for some sort of feedback; but in a very safe and distanced sort of way.  i don't have to hear you or face you when you give it to me.  it also allows me to sort of put it out there with no real emotional ties.  they're there, but it's definitely distancing.  from the emotions and from me and you.

anyway, something that hit me when i was watching the movie was that i often cry and feel very strong emotions watching film/art/hearing music.  but it's a way for me to empathize with characters.  i can very quickly 'feel' what they're feeling.  i can get into movies and situations in them very easily.  and i realize it's a 'safe' way to feel emotions and be cathartic and let them be my emotions filtered through other 'people.'  they're my emotions and fears and hopes and dreams and loss and grief put on through another person.  and then i can feel them very, very deeply and let them go.  i can experience them somehow. i don't know why that's okay somehow.  cause they are still very strong.  but for some reason, i think it's okay, because i know they have an end.  they can't last longer than the movie, and generally there will be some sort of resolution.  and often a decent one at that.

it's been really interesting going through this process.  i still feel hesitancy when i'm in session with my therapist. i still feel the old need to please him somehow. i still feel resistance to share myself entirely with him. it's a raging battle -- be open and honest -- firstly, because that's who i genuinely am, secondly, because i want to change and thirdly, because i want to please this person and on the other hand, resistance to show too much of my hand, because you don't do that.  that's how you get hurt.  that's how people get at you.  that's how people turn.

i just want to make this easy on myself -- give him the link - tell him to read the smussyolay.  somehow, i don't think that's how this all works.  oh well.  i know i want to change and i want better for myself.  but i'm just so much more damn articulate in writing.  right?

Road Trip Extravaganza -- Part Three

NSFW language

Road Trip Extravaganza -- Part Two

NSFW language ...

Road Trip Extravaganza -- Part One

NSFW language .... enjoy at your own risk (or with headphones)