do whatever the hell you want

i think i’m going to go to church today.

i haven’t been in a long time. i can come up with a gillion excuses, but none are really accurate or satisfactory. the truth of the matter is that i’ve been lazy: plain and simple.

i’ve been whingeing and whining because i’ve been stuck in this endless loop of applying for positions, not even getting a call or email on; praying for work, not getting any response from sending out my resumes; and apparently not answering the initial questions correctly on those pre-application screening thingies because i never quite make it to the actual application.

and i’ve been so angry at God about this.

I NEED A JOB, GOD! I’VE BEEN PRAYING AND PRAYING! YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO ASSUME FULL RESPONSIBILITY TO MEET MY NEEDS, DUDE! AND I NEED A JOB!

Last weekend, Dr. Charles Stanley spoke about this very topic and he reminded me of a few things.

He reminded me that God’s responsibility to to meet my needs is premised on my relationship with Christ; and that one cannot be living in disobedience to God and expect Him to meet our needs.

And those two principles really hit me with a sledge hammer (along with the principle that you can’t be lazy and expect God to meet your needs); because i have been neglecting my relationship with Christ and i have not been obedient to God in my thoughts and in my actions.

hence my determination to get my sorry butt to church this morning. it’s time to start putting some things right with God.

anniversary

one year ago today, i was admitted to hospital for self-injury. it was the first time i had ever been hospitalized and it was itself an overwhelming experience. i therefore found myself having to confront a serious self injury AND being admitted to a psychiatric facility simultaneously.

i remember knowing that my injuries were not significant; i didn’t need stitches. i did, however, know that i needed HELP. i knew that because i was unable to work…calling in sick day after day so that i could stare at the walls and engage in self injurious behavior. i remember feeling so hopeless and sad and wretched and nothing made any sense to me. my therapy was going nowhere and i had been trying med after med and nothing was working.

i had gone numb to everything.

i finally called my pdoc to tell him how much i was struggling, he advised me to go to hospital and he was going to get me into the best facility he could.

the next day, all i had to do was to get myself there.

that was a very difficult journey and i almost turned back. somehow i made it, though, and got myself admitted.

being admitted to hospital is a very exhausting process, and it took me better than three hours to go through it. by the time i made it to the borderline ward, it was time for bed. i barely had time to meet my roommate before lights out.

i was in the in-patient program for two weeks and the out-patient program for another two-weeks.

looking back on the experience, i have to wonder how i feel about it. a part of me is still worried about the stigma of having been hospitalized. but the greater part of me feels like i got a great deal of benefit from it.

while i wasn’t “cured,” from the experience; i did *finally* confront some major issues that had been exacerbating my already exhausted nerves. by confronting those issues in such a raw way, it cleared the path for me to make some radical changes.

i know that i still have a great deal of work to do, and i won’t lie and say that i haven’t had some serious set backs, but i can say that i have made some progress from where i was a year ago.

so i won’t be cracking out the bubbly (not on *these* meds) and throwing a big party, i can say that this is a happy-ish anniversary.

admitted

crying

relieved

crying

terrified

crying

exhausted

by

my

own

admission.

shamu in a tutu

i love ballet. ballet to me is something that is absolute freedom. it’s the one place where i feel competent and capable; creative yet disciplined; and despite the hardships that i had to overcome throughout my history in ballet, it sings to my soul.

with the bar exam finished, and with my new meds seeming to have me on an even keel, i decided to seek out an adult ballet class and start taking classes again. my first class was last thursday.

after a rough start, it was magnificent.

there’s a clique of four students in that class that made some nasty comments aimed at me before class that almost made me turn around and never go back. in murmurs just loud enough for me to hear, they questioned how i would ever get off the floor in jumps and called me “shamu in a tutu”.

and i was really hurt.

and i immediately took ownership in their words and allowed them to take complete control of my mind….

…and then i remembered my DBT:

I HAD TO TAKE HOLD OF MY MIND

i heard their words, and i observed the feelings that arose from them.
i feel insecure about my weight
i’m feeling embarrassed
my eyes are getting teary

and once i had done that, i was able to say to myself, “it’s okay. they have absolutely no power over me. i’ve studied ballet for longer than they have. i’ve paid my dues, i have just as much a right to be here as they do…and by god, i’m going to take this class!”

and i did and i held my own and i did it FOR ME and it felt DAMN GOOD.

a life worth living

I’ve started a new DBT course and my first assignment is to describe my own vision of what is a “life worth living.”

What would I like life to be?

The easy answers: I want to be happy. I want to know what love is. I want to know why I’m here; what is my purpose? It’s almost automatic to write those things, and I know that even that short list is quite daunting. Everyone of those things is a huge challenge in and of itself.

It sometimes feels like I can’t go any deeper than that, though. Saying that I want to be happy brings into focus the realization that I’m not happy and then I’m confronted with all the things that have and do contribute to my unhappiness. I don’t know that I’ve ever been in a truly loving relationship with a man…and simply writing that reminds me of all the times I’ve been so hurt. And when it comes to Purpose, life just seems so meaningless (aside from anxiety, worry and despair).

Currently, I’m battling some serious feelings of low self-worth and I’m a walking bundle of raw emotion. I’d like to change that.

I’d like to feel confident and capable of weathering the waves as they come. I’d like to be able to take on challenges (like the bar exam) without the experience nearly capsizing me and pushing me to the brink of sheer exhaustion so that I’m incapacitated by it.

I think that this is where mindfulness could really serve as an ally. Making it a priority could help address it, insofar as it could help me identify my needs and get them met while maintaining my participation and functioning.

And of course, the big one in DBT: I want to be able to accept myself and *know* that I am precisely where I’m supposed to be.

When it comes to dealing with my issues, I just don’t think I’m ready yet. I mean, I think that I need to get some mad skills in place before I start conjuring up the events of the past…even if it’s to simply identify them, acknowledge them and let them go. I honestly feel too fragile for even that. So I’m not even going to go there.

However, one of the really beneficial things to have come out of this exercise is that Dr. J provided me with some really great resources to help me on my search for meaning and purpose. She had me check out the “Meaning in Life Evaluation Scale” and Logotherapy, and so far, it’s been very interesting. It’s helping me sort through and identify some of my values and I feel like it’s pointing me in the right direction. And being that I’m swimming in confusion at the moment, the smallest twine shall lead me.

just breathe

inhale…exhale…inhale…exhale…

it’s so simple.

and so wretchedly difficult.

it would be easy to blame it on the altitude. i moved to colorado three months ago and i probably fully acclimated by week six, there are times when i still feel like i’m gasping at the ethers of everest.

but it’s not that.

it’s…it’s…it’s

i’m overwhelmed.

i FINALLY got out of the “wretched hive of scum and villainy” (i.e., new york city); and i’m no longer a loathsome tax attorney…

and now i’m in the beloved mountains and everyone tells me that the world is my oyster and it just-scares-the-living-shit-out-of-me-because-i-haven’t-got-a-fucking-clue-what-that-even-means-and-i-don’t-even-know-who-the-fuck-i-am-let-alone-what-i-want-so-how-the-hell-am-i-supposed-to-know-where-i’m-going-when-i-haven’t-got-the-first-fucking-clue-as-to-where-i-am?

the only thing that i do know right now is that i’m supposed to be studying for the colorado bar exam (which is a week away), and i’m so burned out that i can’t remember if the police need “reasonable suspicion” or “probable cause” for a stop & frisk (my bar review outline contradicts itself).

my saving grace has been the fact that my pdoc from new york has kept me under his care which has been enormously helpful (if there is a place where gold stars are kept, there are about fifty by his name); and i lucked out on therapists here in colorado. ironically, her last name starts with a J, so she’s Dr. J. she’s been keeping me on track, because i’ve been very tempted to indulge in some not so healthy coping mechanisms (if anyone reading this finds this to be a trigger, please SEEK HELP!!!)

i’ve been trying to meditate and focus on my breathing more. it’s strange, because every single time i (when i actually remember to) focus on my breathing, i’m taking these shallow, little breaths…almost as if i’m hyperventilating. so, i’ll stop and try to calm down and breathe…but then the panic over not dedicating every little second to studying takes over and i’m off again.

the guilt of sitting here typing this is almost overwhelming.

of course, i moved in with my mom while i studied for the bar. in hindsight…not the best choice. she’s been at me since day one. i almost want to fail this exam just to spite her. hopefully if i pass, it’ll shut her up for two minutes. i wish she could stop for a minute and think about someone other than herself. but i have to come to terms with the fact that this is, for someone with NPD, quite literally impossible.

my solace is that i am on the home stretch. a week and a half and the exam will be over. all i can do is my best. pass or no pass, at least it will be over.

the slip

slide
and that’s how you slip
down
you slip into it

the judgment
lapses
sways
retreats
to the stand

it is
not the girl who objects
who calls?
the wing cups & folds

all rise

isn’t that nice?
there.
that’s better.

flitting to the edge of the abyss
in three-quarter time

when the spider’s verdict is spoken
and the mirror has been broken
then all betrayal blossoms

she is put
up with

without a hearing

see, the strawman shambles
between
both of them now firing
the battlefield aflame, casting ominous shadows
putting everything in a different
light without warmth

reciprocal zugzwang

the war drums speak
and all sixty-four dance
racing to construct deltang’s triangle
the queen slips away

neglect
the breach that becomes liberation
tearing the bonds of the silk prison

the borderline
has been crossed
the defenses are fatigued

still
the guns and seek the cessation of antipathy

peace without surrender

never over
ever
again

you know
not this

it is
not the numbers that count
not the times, the calculations
the representations of varying positions

do you know?

it is
the frantic flight;
swinging from,
sliding down
the last strand of
the painstaking web of dysfunction.

it is
a subtle variance

it is
imperative defiance

it is
the gentle
closing of the door

it is

that’s how
there.
that’s better.

tough

Awhile ago, after running several errands after work one evening, I stopped about a block away from the subway station to smoke a cigarette before the evening commute.

A homeless black man approached me and asked me for a cigarette.

“I’m sorry. This is my last one.”

I was actually sorry.

He went on to ask me what I thought about President Obama.

I spoke with him. I gave him my opinion and asked for his.

He expressed his opinion and asked to shake my hand. I hesitated to present my hand, but I did. When I did so, he pulled me into an attempted hug and then licked my face.

I actually laughed while extricating myself from the embrace and almost ran to the subway stop.

By the time I got home, I was almost hyperventilating and felt filthy. I took a shower. Used almost a whole bottle of Hand Sanitizer on every inch of skin he touched, including along my face and mouth.

Fauuuugh.

Even now, my mind recoils with horror and disgust.

I was still feeling upset so I called my mom.

I don’t remember much about the conversation, but I do remember my mom saying something like, “Weeellll, you known honey, you were probably the first person who had spoken to and been nice to him all day…”

And I remember saying to my mom, “Regardless, that doesn’t give him the right to violate my personal space.”

“Oh, yeah, yeah, you’re right, he had no right to do that…”

I had the simultaneous realization that what I had said was right but it didn’t change the fact that I still felt so wrong.

I was wrong…about everything.

I shouldn’t have been smoking.
I shouldn’t have been standing on the street smoking a cigarette.
I shouldn’t have gone to Petco to buy my cat’s food.
I shouldn’t have been all the way over on the west side.
I shouldn’t have been alone.
I shouldn’t have been polite.
I shouldn’t have said anything.
I shouldn’t have just stood there.
I shouldn’t have agreed to shake his hand.
I shouldn’t have.
I just shouldn’t.

And like everything, I packed that bad feeling in a box and tossed it down the well.

Out of sight. Out of mind.

Only it’s leaking because it was pierced due to the stab of memory.

Friday, I got home to find my landlord standing on the front stoop of the building. I had to talk with him to complain about my neighbor’s two yappy dogs across the hall.

And suddenly, taps my arm launches into this major conversation telling me how much he doesn’t like that girl (tap), how much of a problem she is (tap), (tap, hold) how one time he saw on the video surveillance cameras that she her let her dogs pee on the floor in front of my door and that he made her get the cleaning supplies out of the basement and clean up that mess (tap) and how he doesn’t like that this girl who is so pretty (tap, hold) has gone out and gotten all those disgusting tattoos up and down her arms…

And as he’s telling me how much he doesn’t like those tattoos, he’s rubbing my arm.

So I just moved away and wished him a good evening and literally bolted into my apartment. And I didn’t really think about it; but I did. As the weekend progressed, the feeling that I just wasn’t comfortable in my own skin got more and more noticeable. By about now, I’m just upset that I can’t do anything.
And it’s not like I’m traumatized.

DISCLAIMER: I can differentiate between a violent assault and an invasion of personal space; and I am in no way, shape or form trying to equate my experience with that of a victim of a violent crime.

This morning, I called the former office manager of the building’s office who had worked with my landlord for five years.

Do you know what she said to me?

“You’re just such a warm person and people just feel so comfortable with you….You do. You’re just so welcoming…”

So it really is my fault.

That’s how I feel.

You can’t trust anyone.

You can’t even be polite, because it’s just a signal of vulnerability and there is always someone out there who will immediately exploit it you’ll regret it.

off the cushion

“what i’m left with is just me.”

and me is left in a really angsty place right now.

i’m taking all this medication to help get me out of bed in the morning. and for the love of god, i can’t get out of bed in the morning. i’m just sick of work. trying to survive in this wretched, open sewer called new york city. completely powerless to do anything about the horrifying environmental catastrophe in the gulf of mexico. unable to do a damn thing to punish the corporate prick-bastards-scum-i-can’t-even-think-of-a-word-nasty-enough-to-describe-them for their insatiable greed.

i am so angry.

i don’t know what to do.

i can’t laugh about it. i love The Daily Show. but, really, jon, it’s not funny anymore.

i am consumed by hatred.

i don’t want to spend anymore “time on the cushion.”

i can’t “just let it all gooooohhhhh….”

i get it. the “now” is the only reality. well, you know what? the “now” really sucks ass.

oh, man. and there’s Sensei. dammit. he’s telling me (for the upteenth time),

“you just got to let the child feel the way she feels.”

the mask

I found myself thinking a lot about my last relationship yesterday. My nose was itching all damn day (see, I have this stupid school girl superstition that when my nose itches, it means someone is thinking about me…and since I really want Brian to be thinking about me…well, my ego automatically jumped to thinking about him, and so on and so forth). Anyway. By the time 10:00 o’ clock rolled around last night, I was so consumed with thinking about our relationship, that the evening closed with some minor punishing behavior*.

Incidentally, I feel like I’m right back at square one filled with shame and irritation…and wondering what the hell just happened? I mean, has the last year been a complete waste of time? christ, this is getting ridiculous.

But all that aside, I acknowledge that there is a lot about our relationship that is still unresolved. Like most of my relationships with men, the instant that I started feeling vulnerable was the instant that I bolted.

aside: What’s my line?

Oh, right…*ahem* “It wasn’t him. It was me.”

But that’s not the truth. The truth of the matter was that it was a little bit about him. I mean, I never really quite understood what it was that he wanted from our relationship. Did he want a friend? a sister? (god forbid) a mother? a counselor? I had to wonder what the hell I was doing in that situation.

I don’t like feeling like that.

So I took a step back. And when I did, I realized just how many unresolved issues that I am trying to cope with…trying to cover up with a mask, if you will. The character behind that persona I used to interact with him (and just about everyone else I interact with both then and now) was (and is) just a facade. And I think that that identity is pretty damn cool. She’s smart, sassy, and totally in control**. Completely deserving of being worshiped as the goddess I made her out to be. And I’m now realizing that there was no way I could sustain it. When it falls away (as it inevitably does) I’m left with just…me I end up feeling like a failure.

The vanity in me hates feeling like a failure. I struggle with valuing the idea that I set myself an impossibly high standard with unreasonable expectations (or any expectations, for buddha’s sake). I really buy into all of that, and now I feel like an idiot. A wounded pride is a cut that goes deep with me.

When I look in the mirror, I see someone who is confused. and insecure. and worried. I have no idea what I want. I have no idea where I’m going. Hell, most of the time, I don’t even know what’s going on. So one of the things that I’m trying to commit to is the notion that I can trust myself (i.e., that person staring back at me in the mirror). Really? I’m asking myself to trust a person who betrays herself at just about every turn.

I’m pretty sure that I’m afraid of that person.

I’m afraid that I’m going to have to admit that I hate tax; that I really fucked myself over by going to law school; that I hate The Economist magazine; that I think that men are really stupid; that I can be really ugly about how much I despise the patriarchy; that I don’t have an original thought in my head; that I will never understand chemistry; that there is a part of me that secretly wishes to have no authority whatsoever because it’s easier not to have that responsibility.

That I’m sometimes so jealous of my sister, I cry.

That I hate my father’s wife so much because she’s mean to him; that I hate my father for letting her be mean to him; that I have to confront the possibility that my mother didn’t want me and that in all probability, she doesn’t like me.

I’m afraid that my memories of that are so sharp that I can cut myself with them.

That this blog entry is exactly like the blog entries that I’ve been writing for over a year now.

That I think gays and lesbians are disgusting; that I should be really ashamed for even thinking that; and because I think that, I am a really bad person.

And when I’m faced with all of that fear, I really want to cling to that old mask. And that I have to admit that when Brian told me that “he missed the ‘girl’ he once knew.” I meant it when replied, “yeah, I miss her too.”

*I’m fine. Just chill.
**which I have been brooding about as of late as well.