Posted on by histrionicabutterfly · 2 Comments

Going Home

I’ve travelled far, a-wandering
I was not woolgathering
I was untethered, flying but unfeathered

I’ve given so, sincerely
I was not expecting
I was beseeching, despite the bleeding

I’ve borne it all, unconsciously
I was not indomitable
I was brokenly bearing, regal and lame

I’ve known you from the inside, dear
I was not your rival, love
I was ever your champion, and shall ever be

I’ve trysted with death, lingering
I was not infatuated
I was betrothed, but broke its bonds

I’m heading back now, the way i came
I was never one of them
I am the light, and shan’t bide their darkness

I’ve paid the price of entry, perchance
I was not aware there was a bounty
I was weary beauty, dropping coins like crumbs

I’ve set the wood alight
I was not the hearth, nay
I was the fire, and i burn

Posted on by histrionicabutterfly · 3 Comments

Elephants, Snakes, and Bears

Anxiety.
I haz it.
I don’t have a diagnosis, but i could probably get one. I figure what i’ve already got on my plate as a diagnosed bipolar/multiple is enough. Long ago i decided that i was just gonna deal with how my brain works, and not get bogged down with labels.

One thing that helped me come to that decision was the mental health care system in my area. I’d only dealt with social workers, therapists, and church counselors until i catapulted into my first full blown mania in my 30s. Then i was in and out of psych wards and a mental hospital, and put under the care of psychologists and psychiatrists, various and sundry. What i experienced wasn’t particularly helpful or pleasant. The diagnoses and medications would change depending on what doc was in charge that day. I’ve been called borderline, schizophrenic, narcissistic, chronically depressed (but no mania), hypochondriacal, even antisocial (the most patently ridiculous of them all).

The other thing that cemented my decision to at least try some less conventional treatments was aaaall the freaking druuuugs, man.* I’ve been summarily yanked off of medications that one should be weaned from. I’ve been placed on meds that have dangerous interactions with other meds i was currently on. I’ve had doctors treat the diagnosis that they gave me, with medications that are clearly meant for another diagnosis. One psychiatrist had me on 6 different medications, 3 of which were only for treating the side effects caused by the other 3.
And he wanted to put me on a seventh.

I went from a psych ward to a mental hospital, only to have the doctor in charge there change my diagnosis (and of course my meds), and treat me with a therapy that is directly contraindicated for how my brain really works. If you’ve been in and out of the system too, you might be like me and now do a lot of reading and research and vetting sources. I’ve had to learn to advocate for myself – i was getting regularly psychically concussed from all the pingponging done by the pros in the field. I was sick and tired and getting crazier rather than better.

I went to my family doctor, and she agreed to help me get off the meds i was on and find someone else to help me. I was using up the shelf life of my organs for no good results. The next drug being pushed on me was one that is notoriously zombifying. Why would i take it if none of the 20 others i’d tried had helped me at all?

I found my current therapist (Ms T) during this period. She specialises in treating multiples. As none of the doctors would touch the DID diagnosis with a 10′ pole (some spent time and energy lecturing me on the terrible mistake it had been to put it in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders), and they hadn’t helped me manage living with Bipolar Disorder… Well, i was desperate, close to a more permanent sort of commitment to a care facility, and she would come to me at my house because i couldn’t leave it.
Kind of a no-brainer.

The DID controversy persists to this day. During the first few years of my work with Ms T, i still had to go to hospital for mental health care frequently. I knew the problems i was dealing with were a direct result of my dissociative issues, but i would only refer to being bipolar. I’d mentioned DID twice, and that’s all it took for me to learn not to bother. I could see their eyes glaze over and feel their emotional distancing.

All this to say, yeah, i’m anxiety-girl. It’s a bigger issue than dissociation right now. I’ve got a piano on my chest, and an elephant is bashing away at the keys with its trunk. Sometimes my heart feels like it’s being squeezed by an invisible hand, and sometimes it skips beats and feels as if it may tear out of my ribs, opening me up like poor old Kane on the Nostradamus. It can beat so fast it seems as if i must surely be having a heart attack. I can hear the blood rushing in my ears. My fingers get numb and tingly. I feel electric needles prickling at my breast, all the way through to the soft flesh near my shoulder blades.

I’m scared for my husband to go to work, and i’m scared for our once a week grocery trips. This Saturday, while i was waiting for him to catch up to me with the cart, i was gripped by an anxiety attack so bad i had to set my items down on the floor in front of at least a dozen people in line. I walked on rubbery legs to go sit on the grass at the far end of the parking lot, to run through my calming techniques for when i’m in the grips of it. He came and sat beside me, and asked What’s wrong?
I hissed at him and asked, What do you think?

Cluing in, he began running through all the reasons why i shouldn’t be worried, why it’ll all be okay. He’s done it before, bless his heart, and he might well do it again. The Copperhead living in my mouth struck before he could get on to statistics and Health Authority admonishments.

“ANXIETY IS NOT RATIONAL!!”
I asked him if he thought i wasn’t intelligent and informed. I asked him if he hadn’t been listening when we conversed on the subject of our current pandemic situation. I asked him if he remembered when i’ve told him that my anxiety doesn’t care about skepticism or experts or the scientific method or statistical data.
(I was snappish, but not verbally abusive, if you follow my blog and were wondering.)

The man knows when to slow his roll, and he did. He became gentle and soft. He smiled, said he was sorry, and asked how he could help. I told him that i don’t always know, but i do know that telling me he’s here and he cares is probably going to be a good place to start.
I bristle if someone starts asking me if i’m doing any of the things they may have heard help cope with anxiety. And don’t try logic, because my anxiety doesn’t respond to logic. Tell me you’re willing to help if i ask, but let me ask. Let me ask for help running through the 5-4-3-2-1 method. Let me ask for help with my yogic breathing. Let me ask for you to hold me or only my hand or place yours in the small of my back. Don’t ask questions – just tell me you’re here, and then be silent and mindful and as calm as you can manage.

I’m not going to write about the thoughts and feelings i was wrestling with, because i know a lot of us are, and i know i don’t need to bring them to mind again. You’ve got your worries and i’ve got mine and we’re all under enough stress. Let’s not poke the bear, eh? It starts bellowing and then that elephant will roll in with its cursed piano.
We both have trunks, but mine isn’t my shnozz. It’s my brain and there are all kinds of toys, treasures, tools, and yes, tricks in there.

It doesn’t matter what anyone else calls those little tricks and trip-ups. This is me and this is how my brain works.
It’s as simple as that.
Heh.

I’m not going to diagnose anyone else’s brain stuffs.
I’m not going to tell anyone else how it looks when you’ve been given a mental health diagnosis.
But i am going to reiterate, in case anyone else struggling with anxiety and panic in these strange and stressful times can relate:

My anxiety is not rational.

Hang in there as best you can. I’m doing the same. It’s messy AF, but i’m getting the job done.

Love and Peace,
~H~

*I’m not antidrug. I’m 100% for taking medications when and where a doctor and their patient make the decision to do so. I wouldn’t hesitate to take a medication suggested by the health care professionals i have on my team now. They know me, they know my lifestyle, what i’m capable of, and what my goals are – and i trust them all.

Posted on by histrionicabutterfly · 3 Comments

Oh Look, Stars

Peter Pan:
Jack, Maggie, all you have to do is think one happy thought, and you’ll fly like me.

Maggie:
Mommy.

~ Hook (1991)

What does one do when they get insight about something that they don’t have the time or energy to act on?
I’ve got all i can handle and then some – no more. But why else am i continuing this work, in spite of the world doing us dirty, if not for these moments? Epiphanies are a gift for the hardworking seeker. An ointment for the wounded wanderer. A Turkish coffee on a Monday morning. Like a birthday sparkler, it illuminates but briefly. Its magnesium flash leaves an imprint behind my psychic lids; i shall write of it before it fades.

My therapist (whom i now call Ms T) pointed out that my #1, most developed and powerful alter, was born out of my brain as a child. This means, despite her purpose in being created and how she presents, she is a child herself. As are all my Bits N’ Pieces.
They’re a child’s idea of what a grownup should be, but they aren’t adults. They’re children created in a child’s mind.
A revelation.

I carried that with me after our therapy session ended. It was all i could think about for hours. It flooded me with compassion for my system – something i’ve struggled with over the years i’ve been consciously interacting with them. It’s been a challenge to know them, and then to foster trust in them, so that i might take my proper place as Chief Cook and Bottle Washer™ of this whole shebang.
My crazy kaleidoscope of a brain.

While i was deep in thought and processing what i’d learned, my son checked in with me.
He’s grown and has been through more than i’d wish for him.
I’m thinking about how my people are kids, and it softens my heart. I see them in a way i hadn’t, heretofore. My son approaches me, looking for connection.

I’ve known for most of my children’s lives that i struggle with affection. I love them so much, but the abuse made me avoid touch.
I only figured that out through therapy, in retrospect.

So my youngest son is approaching me for physical contact. A hug. He’s my huggy bear. My older 2 weren’t as touchy. I don’t know if it’s the way they are or the way i made them. I will accept responsibility for whatever they discern…
The thing is, he’s always been affectionate with me, and has helped me overcome my fear of touch with his innocent, open, and consistent reaching out to me for connection.

I knew it was my job to meet him where he was at. This latest round of therapy has taught me how important that is to a child’s development. I’m learning that connection is everything. Whether good or bad develops from it is not the lesson for me. My children will be, regardless of my influence, who they choose to be. It doesn’t matter if their choices are conscious and informed or not. I don’t know if it’s fair or not, either.
I’m just here –in all my glorious imperfection– to help where i can. That involves acknowledging my flaws and shortcomings.

My mother never said sorry to me, not one time.
Years ago i figured out how much an apology would’ve meant to me.
I’d have let it all go in an instant. I just wanted her to love me. I’d have forgiven her anything and everything.
It dawned on me, and i saw how children need to connect as much as they need to eat. More, even.
And then i saw my greatest failing as a parent.

I was unable to meet my children in their most vulnerable place. The place inside them where they needed my touch: loving touch, comforting touch, supportive touch, playful touch, healing touch. I couldn’t touch my children often enough, or deeply enough, or meaningfully enough. And i wonder what that’s done to them. I think on their personalities, and i must consider that their common threads may be because they needed more touch from me than i gave them. None of them are an open-book type – just like me. They are all intensely private and somewhat introverted – like me. They’re guarded, they have a somewhat negative view of humans, they aren’t terribly surprised by the darker sides of human nature, they all enjoy gallows humour, they bond with only a very select few.
Just like me.

Look, i’m not saying these qualities are good or bad ones.
I’m also not saying i was a terrible parent. I neglected them in ways, and i failed them utterly in others. I think most parents do to some degree. None of us are perfect. I think our job as parents is to be good enough. That’s it; we’re all flawed humans who bring our baggage into all our relationships. I know that i did my best. Unfortunately, i’m not sure my best was good enough.
That’s for my children to judge though, not me.

The thing is, as i learn and grow and heal from the terror i lived through as a child, i would be remiss if i didn’t also cast a critical eye on my own parenting. I’m still their mom and will always be, even when we are separated by death. I will be as good a mom as i can be, and as i become more this/less that and just a better and more useful human, so too will that include my role as mother.
As i put myself back together after being torn apart by my own parents, my capacity to fulfill that role for my precious boys will expand, and i will fill all the new spaces inside me with love and light.

I may not have been a terrible mom, but i will be a better and better mom until the day i cease to be anything but a memory.

That now includes being physically available to them, whenever they want it from me. Not just hugs, but physical warmth. Consoling and soothing touch. Play, too.
I may be late addressing the need, but my hope is that it’s not too late.
I will be physically available to meet them where they’re at, and i will provide motherly connection.

Connection with my children.
I have the time and energy for that, FOR THEM, no matter what.

So I know I’m not alone
When I’m here on my own
Isn’t that a wonder?
When you’re alone
You’re not alone
Not really alone

~ John Williams, When You’re Alone (Hook)

Posted on by histrionicabutterfly

Wrung Out

I’m crying everyone’s tears
I have already paid for all
my future sins
There’s nothing anyone
can say to take this away
It’s just another day
and nothing’s any good
I’m the king of sorrow
~ King of Sorrow, Sade

I’m suddenly empty inside. Numb. I’m angry and sad and i want to crawl under the covers and eat/drink/drug myself into a coma. I want to be on the outside like i am on the inside. Empty, cavernous, echoing. There are tears on the inside, but they flow slowly down the sheer rockface of my organs and guts. Erosion too slow to be of any note. I remain hard and implacable here.

Whispers flutter up from the deep of me, like little birds that fly into the garage and can’t escape. The door is open, but their panic blinds them. The ceiling is not the sky and they flap around in the corners, their tiny fluffy chests heaving. When i try to help them, say gently shoo them with a broom, it only gets worse. I’ve learned to leave them be, and they’ll eventually make their way out on their own.

I wonder if that’s the answer for the ones caught inside me. I try to focus in on them. I try to find mercy inside me, or grace, but all i can muster is a detached kind of concern. It’s like when an ambulance races by on the highway – i hope the people involved will be okay, but i don’t know them and can’t help them, so that’s as far as i go with it. My casual wishing fades with the sound of the siren.
This is not dissociation – this is emotional flatness.
This isn’t me in any of my iterations.

I am HistrionicaButterfly. Intense, dramatic, passionate. Full of thought and art and creation. I talk i make i hold i care i trytrytry. But i’m sitting here made of stone on the inside. I’ve become a damp cave, with little light and less warmth.

I’m looking at the entirety of my childhood, and i’m wrung out. All the emotions are still there –the various and varying levels of anger and sadness and pain– bits of beak and feather flapping about in a tizzy. I watch from a hard distance. I feel mostly meh, although i sense danger is close by.
I’m standing on ice, and if it cracks, i’ll plunge into the glacial waters of fear that flow through me. Rivers that have carved deeply into me. They rush over me and overflow my banks in their season.

I don’t know if i’m relieved or grateful or if i feel anything at all about it.
I’m dispassionate, and this is not me.
This is the work and i’m doing it.
I check in and stay in it and ask questions and address needs.
I use the tools i have and try new ones too.
I make small adjustments. I get quiet and listen some more.
And then i do more and other things. I give my body what it’s asking for, and i care for the broken off bits of me that bounce around in my head.

I try to stay anchored in the real world. I sleep, i eat, i shower, i cook and clean. I have mundane conversations with those who live here with me. I play mindless games and watch silly programs to distract me from the thing that is happening inside me. I’m turning into a zombie. I do what’s in front me; i keep moving forward. One shuffling foot in front of the other. Neither careless nor carefree. A Borg cut off from The Collective. I wander around inside my Cube with purpose, but minus something that once tethered me. What gravity have i lost?

What me is this, this colourless, tepid thing?

Keep flying for you
Keep flying I’m falling falling
And I’m falling falling
And I’m falling falling
I’ve given you all that I have
I show you how I want to live
How could I love you more
~ No Ordinary Love, Sade

Posted on by histrionicabutterfly · 1 Comment

Dosing

 Trying not to do too much, but it’s harder than i thought it’d be. My mood is lighter, too. What strange alchemy is this, brain? I’m usually sad and anxious all the time.

You and I are underdosed and we’re ready to fall
Raised to be stupid, taught to be nothin’ at all
~ Marilyn Manson, I Don’t Like The Drugs

I’ve been slowly and carefully experimenting with CBD and THC edibles over the last year or so.* I have a drug history, and my history with marijuana is that i have a low tolerance for its effects, unfortunately including paranoia. So while i’ve been hearing for years from many sources that it might provide me some relief with, pain, with insomnia, and with anxiety, i’ve been hesitant to try. I hadn’t had any for, i don’t know, maybe 6yrs (?) This last bout of therapy though –lemme tell ya, man– it’s been a tough go. It’s increased my fibromyalgia symptoms, and my anxiety has become nearly unmanageable.

I’m an ex-smoker for over 20yrs, and i don’t want to test my success by returning to something one smokes. Even vaping seems like too much of a risk. Edibles it is, then. I started low and slow. I’ve experimented enough that i know i still don’t like to take much. As soon as i feel stoned, i’m paranoid. I can ride it through, because i’m excellent at talking myself through stuff, but i already have to do that enough, mmkay? I’m working with very low doses. I prefer Sativa THC, because it doesn’t weigh down my body, and i can get things done. The Indica helps me sleep better, and the heaviness in my limbs is welcome at bedtime. I was given some tinctures to sample, and have discovered that Sativa drops taken therapeutically during the day can help with my anxiety. If i wake from a dream during the night, i struggle to get back to sleep – Indica drops seem somewhat successful here.

I’ve been skeptical about CBD, but i’ve had better results when the gummie contains both, rather than just the THC. I was gifted with a sample of straight CBD capsules, and after conversations with some who have both knowledge and experience, plus a bunch of reading, yesterday morning i took one. It’s a high dose, close to as much as i’d ever take of the THC, but i had my hubby home to keep an eye on me.

The first thing that happened was i wanted to sleep. That’s not a common reaction, but as a bipolar multiple, that’s not uncommon for me. Sometimes, stimulants make me tired and depressants get me wired. I thought it might be because my anxiety was markedly less, which has been so intense over these last few weeks (i know i’m not alone in this) that my sleep has been for shit. My fibro pain level had dropped, which might also be a result of the relief it was giving me in the anxiety department.

My pain was much easier to manage for the rest of the day. Today it still seems lower than usual, although i can feel it creeping back up to regular levels. I’m not sleeping well, or nearly enough, but still… For most of the day i didn’t feel like i was one twist of the elastic away from a snap.
I’ve felt that way most days for months and months and months.

So is it the drugs? Is it the not-a-drugs? Is it in my head? Is it all this work i’ve done and i’m just having a breakthrough that coincides with my CBD capsule?
Don’t know. I’m just sayin’.
I don’t know if it’s helping for sure, or not.
I’m definitely not promoting the use of cannabinoids, whether from marijuana or hemp. I just share my journey and what i’m doing and if it’s working or not.

The previous was written over the long weekend.
I took another capsule yesterday morning. I woke up in a typical amount of fibro pain. I’d slept, but it was only decent relatively speaking. My anxiety and pain dropped much lower as it had the last time. I was in a foul mood, but it was about other stuff; my anxiety didn’t make the problem worse, and my body pain didn’t make it harder to handle. I’ll take that. Purchased some more CBD-only edibles to continue testing.

I thought about whether or not to post about this, but in the end, i’m about telling it like it is on this blog. As it stands, i’m not convinced it’s helping at all, let alone helping enough to justify the cost. I will be continuing to experiment and track my results as best i can for the foreseeable future.
I won’t be using tags in this post, because i’m not selling anything, and i’m not interested in buying, either. And i won’t be anyone’s spokesperson. I won’t accept anyone else’s products. I won’t be giving any reviews of anyone’s products.
And NO, no one has my permission to use any of what i write in my blog, unless you’ve specifically asked me and i’ve specifically said yes to you, and to what words, specifically.
K?
Kk.

Omg, i want choco Frosted Flakes so much right now…

I don’t like the drugs but the drugs like me

*Legal in my country, just so ya know.

Posted on by histrionicabutterfly · 2 Comments

The Drop

I’ve got the key to my castle in the air, but whether I can unlock the door remains to be seen.
~ Louisa May Alcott, Little Women

After my dear Ms T (i talk about my therapist so much, let’s give her a name) checks in with my current state, she goes over how i was switched and hung up on her during our last phone session. She asks me who i thought it might be that swatted the Little who was talking to her away, and then yelled at her and hung up.
She doesn’t usually ask me who was in the face in my absence.

For one, i often have no idea, and for another, none of us are inclined to give their names. We do so exceedingly rarely, and it tends to be delivered with not a little hostility. Even when i’m talking with my husband, who knows them all, i’ll use their role/job, rather than their names. It makes something twist up inside me to use their proper names. Like guitar feedback – and not the cool Jesus-and-Mary-Chain kind. It’s more like when your 12yr old is jamming with his friends in your garage.

I tell her i don’t know.
She asks me if i’d be willing to share with her what popped into my head when she asked me. I told her, but no name, only her role. I won’t be sharing either here, but i will say she is the #1 in the system: most developed, most power, most functional… most like me.

What followed is a bit on the hazy side, which is what happens when Ms T hits on something close to someone in my system. What i mean is, i tend to stay on track with my therapy sessions unless someone else who lives in my brain is triggered. If that happens, i feel myself getting pulled back, and i know someone is trying to pass me along the way, to get in the face. It’s like in a scary movie when the woman finally realises it’s the person she’s with, that she’s trusted the most, that’s killing everyone. When the camera pulls back for a long and wide shot – who knows, maybe i’m even wearing the same expression of dawning horror. /jk

It’s one way to describe how it initially feels during all the levels of dissociation that occur for me, as a multiple. First, there’s the initial receding, and then the numb and floaty feeling that comes with basic dissociation. I’m in a dopey, dreamy state here. Then there’s what i call sliding, where i’m not quite switched, but parts of my system are in the face, and i’m watching what’s happening without being able to affect my own actions. It’s a little like being the new baby at a family gathering – i get tossed around a bit. A full switch is where i can feel a violent pull back. It’d be like if the ocean of space inside my brain where all of them manifest were a pregnant woman. I feel a hard tug, right where my baby’s joined to me. I can share this weird analogy because my first son shot out of me like a football. The doctors weren’t anticipating a first timer to be done in 4hrs, so they were on the other side of the room, talking.

My doc said, OMG, the baby’s head is crowning! and ran over to catch. She did, but the fact that the umbilical cord was wrapped around my son’s neck and shoulders might have helped. I felt a pull on the inside so hard and strange; i could almost hear the boi-yoi-YOING! sound. Like if we were joined by a bungee cord.
You’re welcome for that image.
I’m saying switching comes from the baby-feeding belly-tube of my momma-brain.
K, i’m done. RLY.
Heh.

Back to my hazy recollection of my therapist and i discussing who flicked the wee one away and took her place.
I’ve been working on cutting down on the amount of time between her questions and my answers. There’s pressure to keep my mouth shut from many directions, but i have enough power to push up against it harder than before, i think. Like the football player in training pushing that sled just a little further each time.
I have a leftover impression of pressing myself to speak the answer as soon as i have it.
I’m not a fan of speaking without thought. It’s been my personal experience (so, not necessarily yours) that that can lead to a lack of proper skepticism. I’ve also seen the practise used overwhelmingly by those to whom i’d never go for help/healing.
I’m referring to practitioners of pop psychology (subjective), and to the religious (objective), and i mean no offense.
This is just life as me, making the best choices i can based on who i am, my life experiences, and what i want.
Your mileage will vary.

Having some trouble getting to my point today.
There’s a bit of a kerfuffle going on in this old noggin since that session 4days ago.
I’ll stop writing cute analogies, and just write what i know. It’ll be choppy, without my typical smooth transitions.
You may snort here.

This part of my system we talked about is basically my Number One. She’s task-driven, intimidating, sarcastic, grouchy, gruff and take charge. She’s the most protective over me, and when pushed, her words are nothing short of caustic. As i’ve written about though, she and i have both retired our ninjamouth ways. Still, i would have described her as one tough customer.

And then Ms T asks if it’s occurred to me that she’s probably somewhere around 6yrs old.
I remember it feeling a bit like looking down at a glass floor when you’re standing in a tower. It felt like i was going to slide back further (fall), but i didn’t.
I looked down and i saw HER, and i saw that she is a child.
And then it was like a drop tower at an amusement park.
I saw that they are all children, regardless of the age they affect.
They were all born when i was very small; how could they be anything but? They’re reflections of whatever age they claim to be; merely a manifestation of what i thought a rebellious teenager or provocative twentysomething or kind uncle or hardworking mother would be like.

I’m the only real grownup who lives in my brain.
All of the rest of me are children.

I am not afraid of storms, for I am learning how to sail my ship.

Happy Sunday,
~H~

Posted on by histrionicabutterfly

Toes In The Grass

The sadness i embrace is ever present
so very deep
It eeks from my bones and suffuses my flesh with its chill marrow
traveling the rivers of my body, bobbing along in my blood
Morose and resigned
stopping my heart over, and over again
I gasp in pain, wanting to run from it
to drown it in wine
I want to return to the Land of the Dead, where i’ve dwelt all my life
I’ve felt this sadness already, and the pain
But no
Not like this
That was all the voices crying out in my brain, wanting to be heard
to be seen, to be known
That was brain pain.

Now my body cries out from the acres of death where it dwells
No more to be a dead thing encased in living flesh
a golem from the past
I send out tendrils of warmth and light from the Upper Room
They float down the stairs and illuminate the spaces that were once flat blackness
a nice enough place
Needs a bit of work
The rooms are crumbling, although they’ve never been lived in
Like Chinese malls.

Too old to not yet have lived in this body
I was born in a riptide, barely keeping my head above the water
Mindlessly, mechanically,
moving my way through the rushing of the water
Fighting the current that never stopped
sucking at me
One day i grew strong
and broke free of my prison
Building a boat out of hope, i sailed the vast sea of my mind
I charted its waters until i grew bored
Letting the wind and the waves plot my course
I thought i’d found peace
But mystery beckoned me from the shores
The smell of the air promised fresh adventures
I jumped off the bow
and swam for the shore
Dolphin-slicing expertly through the currents.

I stand up on the beach and look round
The sand is not much warmer than the water
Perhaps the green i can see ahead is as warm as it looks
I walk slowly up towards it
When i crest the embankment i stop
My feet step into the grass
It’s warm, it’s wonderful, and i scrunch my toes into its
Toes
I have toes
I look down and see my feet
Feet!
—
And i gasp myself awake
Only not awake
Not dreaming
My window has crashed inward from the storm raging outside
I’ve been struck alive by a bolt of lightning
What was dead now lives
The tendrils of warm light coming down from the attic illuminate the first floor of my house
I’m sitting in an old chair that’s never entertained a guest
Life is pain, and i ache to find it so
I shudder with the power of the pain that fills me
The sobs that shake me
like water from a paintbrush
The light moves past me, fluttering and waving along
Curious to explore other rooms
Every step, every movement,
Every moment brings pain
But i follow
I follow the light.

Posted on by histrionicabutterfly · 3 Comments

It Can Wait

I’m eating birthday cake for breakfast. My babe braved the store to get me one, even though i told him not to bother. It’s triple layer, with chocolate and vanilla cake, mocha frosting and that cherry jam stuff between the layers, dark and white chocolate ganache, plus blueberries, blackberries, raspberries, strawberries, AND some mocha chocolate leaves… So decadent. So yummy.

Because of my gastric bypass, this is my fourth go at it. I can only eat a small amount of something this rich at a time. One of the possible side effects of the surgery is called Dumping Syndrome. It occurs when food, especially sugar, moves too fast from the stomach to the duodenum—the first part of the small intestine—in the upper gastrointestinal tract. What follows when dumping happens is 20mins of heck if i’ve overeaten, or eaten too much dairy or meat. When it’s sugar though, it’s hell. It’s not great (and it’s not what it sounds like it is), but i’ll tell you what, it sure has helped me keep the size of my stomach to that of a lemon. I had my surgery nearly 20yrs ago, and i’ve seen many of my friends who had the surgery too, regain their weight. Some stretch their stomachs, and others do it by grazing all day. I could, and in fact did, regain some of my weight. Some by grazing, and some by boozing my way through a 2+yr mania. I’m happy to share that of the weight i put back on, i have a quarter left to lose.

NOTE: I don’t talk numbers much, because i don’t find it useful. Just know it’s a healthy weight. I’ll go back to my doctor when that happens, and we’ll figure out if that’s where i should be, or if less is required. (As people age, their weight requirement lowers.)

So yeah. Cake for brekkie. A bit left for lunch too, i should think.

**********

Since my country enforced self-isolation, i’ve been conducting all my therapy sessions over the phone. I don’t like video calls at all, i find them creepy. We talk every week now, because i’m in crisis. Not sure how long we can sustain it, what with work slowing down for my husband. Hopefully things will get better, sooner rather than later. Every 2wks wasn’t enough, my anxiety is critical, and i’m tits-deep in the hardest therapy i’ve ever done.

She checks in with how i’m feeling at the moment, and i tell her i was doing okay, but talking to her amps things up in my brain. She asks if i remember our last session, and i have to admit that i don’t. She said one of the Littles was talking to her, the one she calls Peanut. (My system is loathe to give their names, so i don’t know who was talking to her. I don’t suppose it matters, because i don’t share their names, either. Heh.) My Little was sharing how hurt and scared she was, when someone else popped into the face, told my therapist NO! and promptly hung up on her. Her calls back weren’t answered.

What followed were lost days. This pains me to write, but this place of mine is for truth. I don’t describe the sexual abuse. I keep back details of my adult life to protect friends and family. Plus, there are some bits that are simply private – they have no bearing on my story or my journey through mental illness (bipolar) and neuroatypicality* (DID).

I fairly ran down the rabbit hole this time. I don’t know how bad things got, but once i emerged i could barely lift my head. I see a broken wooden tv tray, my bedroom is a complete disaster, and when i hobble to the bathroom i immediately see that i’m covered in bruises. I also quickly discover that something’s wrong with the middle finger of my right hand. At this point, i’m gonna guess it’s broken, but the hospital will have to wait awhile. I don’t know how wise that is, but i do know there ain’t no way, no how, anybody’s gettin’ me to go there.

Once i began feeling a bit better, i made another decision.
When i come back to the face after losing time, i want to know what happened. I trust my husband with this task, but anyone else who interacted with me, as long as i consider them safe, is welcome to share their thoughts and feelings.

Not this time.

I’d know if i was violent with someone, or if i was verbally abusive. These are strictly out of bounds for me or my system. But still, something is wrong. I can feel it, simmering around up there in my cranium. I also sense that it’s more than i can handle at the moment. I check with my husband, and ask if it can wait. He smiles in the gentlest way, and says, Of course.
This both confirms my suspicions, and ups my anxiety. Greeeeat. /s
I trust him implicitly though, and know it will be okay.

What you don’t know won’t hurt you, is an old idiom that many a cranky commentator has had a crack at. Margaret Atwood, my second favourite author, once called it a “dubious maxim”. I see both sides of things. I’m the kind of person who always wants to know. I’m endlessly curious about everything. Over the years, i’ve pulled back my curiosity about other people. I prefer to let them decide what to tell me and and then let their behaviour tell me the rest. As for myself – i want to know EVERYTHING.

Just not right now.
This one’s gonna hurt.
I’m only a few days out of the hole.
I need to be stronger; to have a lot less on my plate before i try to digest whatever it is.

More on my phone-shrinking will follow soon… **

Love and Peace,
~H~

*I don’t consider my multiplicity to be an illness. My brain just processes information and social cues differently. I want to be clear that i don’t know if that fits according to the psychological community. I’m not on the autism spectrum. However, as it is a neologism, i’d like to submit my challenge that it does apply to me. I don’t believe the way i think is sick; merely different on a grand enough scale that i qualify for the term. I also know that bipolar is considered neuroatypical, and while it might be, i see it more as an illness.
Yeah, that might be ironic. Or is it?
I just gotta be me.

**I’m keeping things stripped down and as simple as possible right now. This could be a longer piece, but i’m chopping it into 2, so i can focus on my therapy homework. I talk about it in most of my recent pieces, if you’re curious and new to my blog.

Posted on by histrionicabutterfly · 4 Comments

Noping

I’ll be keeping this brief and kinda point form.

Adding back in structure didn’t work. My anxiety has me in a chokehold and i can’t stop this therapy. So i’m going to ground.

I’ve done it before, when things got so beyond my control i knew i had to cut my life back to bare minimum.

I can’t leave the house at this current time, like most of you, but i wouldn’t if i could.

Socialising, just my BFF, and even then, if it feels like too much to do anything more than the occasional text – she understands.

Zero news or social media.
We PVR everything and skip ALL commercials. I may have to cut out some of the darker fare that i usually enjoy watching. If it turns out it triggers anxiety, it’s getting noped.

I love cooking, but all the fancy stuff is getting noped. None of my typical careful concern for a balanced meal. I’ll be working with frozen and prepared foods as much as possible, and leftovers will be on the menu whenever there are any.

Personal hygiene is stripped to bare minimum.
Skincare will be a quick wipe and some cream (i have a near-Korean level regime).
Showering: when i stink, jump under the spray for 5mins with bar soap. Shaving is a nope. Exfoliating, nope.
Curly Curl Method is a hard nope. Regular shampoo/conditioner when needed.
All the extra lady things like mini-mani/pedis are also noped.

My new uniform will be comfy pajamas. No more stressing over what to wear and what looks cute and what style will i choose today and trying on item after item that turns my bedroom into a disaster area. Just… nope.

All notifications are turned off on my phone except for my husband, my 2 sons at home, and my therapist.

Housekeeping will be just enough so i don’t get triggered by the mess (my mother’s house was a pigsty).

Blogging will get done, but only when i feel like it, and only as much as i want to do. No shoulding myself to write out of some imagined obligation to my readers. I am going to focus on myself – 100%
The world will keep turning without me.
Other people can manage fine without my help.
I can’t change what’s happening, and frankly, i don’t want to know about it.
I simply cannot handle it.
I don’t need anyone to agree or even understand.
This is my life and i’m noping the fuck out of just about everyone and everything.
Not to put too fine a point on it, but it has become a matter of my survival.

I fell down a hole so hard and fast last week that it came close to ruining me.
No details, but know that i am okay.
A lot of my Facebook friends are regular readers, but i won’t be sharing my blog posts over there. If you’re subscribed, you’ll know. If you check in on the regular, you’ll know.

I have turned my eye inward to the point where i have no room for anything else.
And for the first time in my life, i feel no guilt or shame about it – at all.

This is my birthday present to me.
Happy birfday, H.

Had a (phone) sesh with my therapist today.
Maybe i’ll write about that next
… Or maybe i won’t. *wink*

Posted on by histrionicabutterfly

Weights and Measures

Let proportion be found not only in numbers and measures, but also in sounds, weights, times, and positions, and what ever force there is.
~ Leonardo da Vinci

Anxiety is ever-present these days, but i’m learning ways to manage it and soften its intensity. On the weekend my sons and husband were home, so it lessened on its own, but Sunday afternoon it began amping back up, as i anticipated them returning to work. I have 1 son who works in a restaurant, and it’s so slow that he’s home until things change. I’m fine with that, and it’s also nice to have a pair of eyes on me at this time. Yes, sometimes my sons babysit me. I don’t know if it’s right or fair, but they’re both grown men. They have (admittedly too much) experience in dealing with my mental illness and multiplicity. I’m not abusive, i’m just not quite myself.

My husband and other son who lives here (i have one in his 30s with his own family) both have high risk jobs, and i’m twisted up every day they’re away from me. I’m 75% hermit anyway, so as i tell my friends, This is my jam, man. No biggie. The source of my stress are my loved ones who’re out there. I’m having trouble not obsessing about losing them.
But i haven’t done all this personal work to lose my shit now.
I’ve got a toolbox, and it’s chock-full.

First thing i did is i cut out most social media and all news.
I have apps for my social media that help me curate what i see, and i’ve unfollowed any of my friends that tend to post a lot of news and politics.
I’ve let my friends know i’m available for texts and PMs, and i post stuff on my own social media, to maintain contact.
My husband knows what news i’d want to hear and what i wouldn’t, so he keeps me informed.

Another thing i do is share everything that’s going on in my head. I pick an appropriate audience, but i spew. I do it all day. I call my husband, i talk to my boys, i have a group of trusted online friends that i check in with daily, and i blog. I’ve found over the years that sharing my thoughts and feelings is a good way for me to live my life in general. It is particularly helpful though, during painful and/or stressful times.

This current therapy that i’m doing has me dialing back my activity level. I’m trying to slow everything down so that i can focus in on my physical body. I’m trying to learn how to listen to its needs and wants, and its desire for comfort and care. By doing this, i hope to build a healthy connection between my thoughts, my emotions, and my physical sensations, which were separated from each other due to childhood abuse. This work is a priority, it would be difficult to stop it, and it takes most of my focus and energy every single day.

But, pandemic…

I can’t stop the anxiety, and after talking it through with my therapist, i think i can manage both.

So i’ve been checking in with myself every day. I don’t just blog, i write stuff every day that i don’t share. I journal, and i have written conversations with my system. It helps me to see the words, and to hear them, and to share them. I do it all. Multi-pronged approach to a multi-level problem. I’m a multifaceted multiple.
That might be redundant. Heh.

My new tweak today is to add a bit more structure. I’ve been giving myself some space to NOT accomplish everything i think i need to in order to be a good wife and mother. Sometimes i don’t cook. Sometimes i don’t shower. Sometimes the vacuuming or the laundry get left undone.
But my anxiousness is so big.
My heart keeps squeezing too tightly, and i get these zings through my chest that feel like electricity.
My reflex is to dissociate. To pull away from it all. To numb myself.
How do i stay present AND keep it together?

I’m adding back in some regimens/routines to see if it helps. It’s a way of checking out without checking out. I’m not dissociating, but i’m engaging in a chore that i’ve done so many times i could do it blindfolded, so it distances me a little, but not too much.
Does that make sense?
If it helps, it stays, if it doesn’t, whatever. I’ll just keep trying.
I twitch, i tweak, i try.

I’m doing all the other things that are tried and true in my life.
I eat healthy, but make room for indulgences.
I get outside, but i put the FitBit down until things are smaller and quieter.
I wear, use, and otherwise employ things that loved ones have given me. I’m wearing a shirt my BFF gave me. I’m cuddling a stuffie i got from a friend. I’m cooking with a spice sent to me by another.
I shnuggle our pets. I hug my kids. I have my husband in a death grip in our bed at night. I’m not very touchy, but he’s my person, my place, my centre, and as much of my body as can touch him as we lay together, is happening.
Poor guy. I’m going through menopause and we sleep in a disco waterbed that’s cranked to boiling… Sweat soup in the morning.*
Hey, it wouldn’t be my blog without some TMI, amirite?

I’m careful what i watch. I know what not to watch, because i know myself so well.
I take a few minutes in my room whenever i need to, to breathe, to connect with my body, to process whatever’s happened since the last time i sat there.
I sit and reinforce boundaries as they come up, and i say No. A LOT.

I don’t know what’s coming. I don’t know how bad things are going to get.
The truth though, is that i never have, and i never will.
I’m doing the best i can with what i have.
That elephant on my chest is okay. I know why he’s there. Plus, he’s super cute, and i mean, who doesn’t love elephants?
And maybe, i’ll find the feather that helps him fly.

Love and Peace,
~H~

*Y’all don’t even know how bad he has it. The waterbed is cranked because the heat helps with my fibromyalgia. I also deal regularly with insomnia, and i have a fan going for white noise, and also because menopause. So i make him all sweaty, and then i make him freezing cold.
Did i mention that i always have my window open, even if it’s blizzarding?
Yeah, he’s the best. I know it.