Shooshing my lips up

Why did I repeatedly say STOOPID stuff today? Here's to hoping that friends are forgiving and that I don't eat feet again tomorrow. I can be such a turd and I was today. It wasn't even mood based - just plain old dumb talk. Repeatedly.

Glarg.

No more talking during the day. And to think that I also said 'tots approps'. I am too old to be kewl.

It's a whole new (my) world

So much has happened in the last fourteen months. Death came calling for several loved ones, new life came for friends as well as my brother and his (new) wife, the entire family dynamic changed quickly, I said goodbye to the Dyls and hello to Lug, most of my friendships seem to be quieting down, I graduated from skool, my job changed significantly, I went to Ecuador, I came back from Ecuador with a broken heart, and I've begun to take care of myself and am working on finding my voice.

I said goodbye to Charlotte, Orv, Julian, and Monica last summer. We mourned Michaela's loss on campus - and though I didn't know her, her loss was tangible. Monica's death broke my heart.

I met Joey T-H and fell quite in love with the wee one - though he's never really been wee, having debuted at over 11#. On that same day, my brother married his love. In April, my sister in law gave birth to Noah, my lovely little smoosh.

On March 12, I walked out of the classroom for the very last time. The long, ugly road was finally at its end for me. I did well in my classes, but I learned more about my values and goals than anything else and I'm beginning to embrace the courage to stick to those values, even when others vocally disagree.

In winter quarter, my boss was gone. I became part of the interim leadership team and my experience of work has changed dramatically. I have much more confidence and feel as if I'm a significant part of the team. It's a weird experience, since the former boss was very supportive and always tried to empower and support me - but the result was for me to feel isolated and suffocated. She's a good person in many ways and I wish I could have experienced a more healthy side of her.

Dyls died at the end of March. I didn't get to give her any official goodbye loves, but I had seen her a few days before the end. I love that dog so much and will never forget how fun she was to flop around with for lo these many years. A month or so later, Lug came on the scene. He is perhaps the third most delightful dog I have ever known. A bloodhound mutt, he may seem large by our standards but in reality he is a kitten sized pup who can fit on any lap for a snuggle. And by fit, I mean overwhelm. I love him.


The rest of the info is going to have to wait. Ecuador, the return from Ecuador, and self care are a bit daunting right now. Suffice it to say that I had a therapy appointment today (first ever!) and I am hopeful. I'm never hopeful. I'll be broke soon, but that's okay.

Continuing to survive

I guess that is the most honest way to label what I'm up to this past week. I'm gasping for life and slowly getting enough to keep going. I missed work yesterday because I couldn't move. Today I was there but I didn't do much. I have a large project due in 23 hours that I have not yet begun to work on. I didn't call my friend to talk about how to handle this depression because I didn't want to sob my way through a conversation.

I did email my doctor awhile ago, asking to be put back on antidepressants. I figure dreaming of death and suicide for two weeks straight and not being able to stop the sadness, being broken at the core is good enough reason. It helped before, maybe it can help again. I hate the fact that I feel I have to justify why I need medical help.

Really I want to lay on my bed and scream into a pillow until my throat won't utter another sound. I want to holler out this pain. I want someone to hold me while I weep out the sadness. I want strong arms around me to keep me safe from myself while I cry it out. I'm not a danger to myself physically - I won't suicide or cut or burn or any of the other things. But this endless sadness wounds me just the same. It is as if someone is in there, squeezing my heart like a sponge. My eyes are tired and red from the tears. My bones are weary. My back is tired. Everything just hurts and it's not letting up.

I've been through this before. I will survive it somehow. I may be weaker and worse for the wear but I will make it through to a more peaceful time. My boss told me to be gentle with myself. Sound words, but they seem so far away. For now, it's just a veil of tears. With the occasional breath.

Dead weight

I wish I could go 20 minutes without crying.

I think that much of this is tied to my family. I love my family but they stress me out. And now that we are in a couple of weeks of big family time (2 birthdays and mother's day), the expectations of time are greater. And last year's birthday for me was SUCH a disaster, I'm just on edge. There is already plenty of anxiety about the 35 for me next week. I just want to curl up and hide. Or at least hibernate for a few months in the home with the beastly creatures. They are my refuge in this world. I know that makes me a bad Christian (along with a million other things) but I often need something tangible and my cats are my lifeline.

I'm tired of being alone. I'm tired of having no one to call without interrupting someone else's life. I'm tired of making plans with others only to have them cancel or change, leaving me in the lurch. I'm tired of people expecting that the single woman will fit into their schedule. I'm tired of behaving poorly and of sabotaging myself. I'm tired of the swirling cycle. I'm tired of being sad. I'm tired of being self conscious. I'm tired of being fat. I'm tired of exercising without toning up or losing weight. I'm tired of being humiliated for being myself. I'm just tired of life. I'm 35 next week and statistically speaking, I should expect to live until around 80. I simply cannot fathom another 45 years on this planet. That is the reality of my reality. I have no desire to live, yet I cannot die.

Growling

I tend to find that when I get grouchy and irritable for no reasonable reason, that I am in some sort of physical pain that I have been ignoring. I'm in pain frequently and I often ignore it. I don't know why.

This week has been challenging, to type the least. Credit card fraud, dental work, dental bill in the stratosphere, grandmother dying, work imbalanced, no rhythm to life, etc.

I'm discovering that grieving my grandmother's mental and physical decline over the past year and a half has not reduced the amount of grief at the time of her impending death. Grief does not accrue on account. It will be relieved sorrow when she passes, as her condition now is so heartbreakingly sad. I really really don't want to get dementia.

My Nun comes home in two weeks. I pray we can match schedules though I know her family takes precedence.

I'm too tired to cry anymore this week.

The rape

Eight plus years ago, I was drugged and raped by a stranger. I was out for New Year's with a friend at our haunt and at 8:45 pm, I began to feel physically strange. I thought this was odd, as I had just had dinner and was nursing a second cocktail - I was not buzzed, let alone drunk. I felt weird enough that I took my wallet and keys from my purse and stashed them in my jeans. It was the last time I saw the purse and the last time I saw 1998.

When I came to, at roughly 5am, a stranger was having sex with me. I did not know him. I did not know where I was. He was not using a condom. I was not on birth control. I thought it was my fault. I said nothing. He finished and kissed me. I did nothing. I didn't know what to do or how to respond or if I was safe or anything.

He was nice enough to me. I soon figured out I was in no physical danger, though I still had no idea where I was or who he was. He was talking about the previous night - I had apparently become the world's biggest flirt when I blacked out, as I was all over him and we were the new happy couple of 1999. I apparently drank more than ten different shots of different liquors while with him. I fell several times, ripping my jeans and shirt, bloodying up my body and my clothes. I had to be carried to a cab. So he could bring me home to have sex with me. Which he apparently did more than once before I 'woke' from my blackout.

I got home later on that day. After he took me to breakfast. I didn't even know his name and I was too embarrassed to ask him. He had given me a sweatshirt to wear and I had thrown out my bloodied shirt.

Later on, I contacted my friend. She had also blacked out and had come to while driving down a major highway in a car with four men she didn't recognize. She bailed at a red light and hailed a cab. Fortunately she had enough money to get home. She thought it was cool that I got "lucky" with some dude.

I didn't go to the hospital. Because I wasn't raped. I called my doctor on the following Monday and she accused me of lying, saying she had never heard of such a thing. She just thought I drank too much and gave it up. Nevertheless, I went in for a pregnancy and blood test. I didn't want to be pregnant but I figured I would have picked up an STD as punishment for my being so irresponsible. I wondered how long it was for HIV to show up in one's system.

I went to church and wept through vespers. I sobbed in my priest's office, spilling out the story, feeling guilty that I was burdening him with more than he was used to hearing, more than he was pastorally prepared to deal with at the time. Really - how do you tell someone you've been raped without them losing their breath? Even when you aren't using the 'r' word? Because I had *a* drink, I asked for it. Or so went the loop in my head. He said that he would pray I was not pregnant. I had already beaten him to that prayer.

I gave him permission to talk with our parish's other priest who worked in the medical field. The next time he saw me, he suggested I report a rape to the police, even if I didn't want to press charges at the time, they would have a record. I said no, that it was all my fault.

When friends and family asked how my New Year's was, I responded that it wasn't all that great. Just ho-hum.

My doctor called me at the end of the week to say that my blood tested positive for PCP. I think my reaction convinced her that I wasn't lying. I was not pregnant, but since implantation can take up to 5 days, I still wasn't in the clear about that. I had no STDs she could determine. I would need to be retested again in a couple of months.

The guy called me daily for awhile. I took the first couple of calls and then stopped answering the phone. I was weirded out by the constant attention and by his celebration of 'us' as a couple, of how he said that New Year's would be a great anniversary and one easy to remember, of how he cared so much for me. And while I wasn't yet acknowledging the reality of what had happened that night, I knew it wasn't right. So I stopped answering the phone and started hiding at home with the blinds closed. I guess we broke up.

A few months later, I was at the same place with some girlfriends, having Saturday morning breakfast. We were nearly done when he walked in with some friends. I immediately felt sick to my stomach. My face lost all color and I could not look up. My instinctual reaction to him was fear. I told my friends what happened and they sheltered me out of the restaurant so I was not seen. That reaction - that visceral fear and shame - freaked me out beyond belief. Whatever coping I was doing by not acknowledging the reality of being raped, my subconscious and my body knew.

Even so, I still didn't use the word. It was only a few months ago, eight years after the rape that I called it what it was.

It's sad that I am still so covered in shame that I feel guilty acknowledging that I was drugged and raped. I would hate for my family to find out. I still want to post a couple of sentences that excuse him his behavior, since I know it wasn't him who drugged me (I know who it was, though I don't know him by name). But he still carried me home and did sex to me. I was not capable of consent and I did not offer consent by being out on New Year's Eve.

I lost a lot of me that weekend. I don't know if it would have been better if I had bruises I could not hide or if it had been a violent attack. God forbid such a thing ever happen, but I occasionally wonder if it would have been easier to address - to allow others to 'see' the horror.

I'm a mess these days and I think a significant part of that has to do with the unresolved consequences of being drugged and raped. Why am I not worthy of the healing? Why was I not worth enough to pursue legal justice at the time? Why am I continuing to wrap myself in shame?


Most Holy Theotokos, Joy of all Who Sorrow, have mercy on me.

Tears

I spend a lot of time crying these days. I cry every day. I'm not even as depressed as I was last week. There's just a lot of sadness in my known world these days. If I could get paid for crying, I'd be sitting on a pretty pile of money. I'm amazed at how much energy crying takes out of me. My eyes are heavy and dry. My head hurts. I'm tired.

Pascha is less than three weeks away. I have not even begun to pray this Lent. I cling to the words of St. John Chrysostom's Paschal homily that beckon all to the feast, no matter how long we have labored. And I pray that some of my tears may turn to tears of repentance rather than the prevailing self oriented sadness.

My capstone is done. And I'm getting prescription glasses next week. I found small, light frames that are the most engaging color of red. Some colors give my heart a tweak and this red is one of them. I think they look stoopit on me, but the blurred vision and constant headaches necessitate a new course of eye-action. And they are pretty. I love the red. See - not all is lost.

An Inconvenient Bout

of depression, that is.

I simply do not have time right now to deal with depression and yet here I am crying again. I am too busy, I have less than two weeks to finish my capstone and I have yet to have finished the IRS paperwork for the club. The walls are closing in. I am beginning to panic about the paper and have been freaking already about the presentation. I was sick yesterday so I don't feel comfortable taking a writing day this week, but we'll see. And then there are the tears. My old friends, faithful in their visits. I'm not suiciding (and by that I mean daydreaming about it constantly) and I hope that God keeps me out of that cesspool. I know I need to do something about this again but I don't want to do meds again. I don't trust my doctor with my mental health and meds are her route. And yet I don't have time right now to re-orient my life and figure out the natural treatments that would help me. I hate being around people and I'm being something of a royal beetch to my friends because I just want to be left alone. So now I'm piling up offenses in their directions which you know, helps with the guilt and all. Church is painful and I'm nothing but distracted and empty when I'm there. I know I need to be faithful but I don't have the energy to repent right now. I stand on the hill of my life and look around, seeing nothing but failure. I don't know how to fix it right now. So I'm sucking in a big breath and hoping to survive myself for the next two weeks.