Archive for September, 2012

It´s five a.m., I´m too tired to think of a title!

Posted in health, mental health, personal with tags , , , , on September 29, 2012 by theweirdphilosopher

I recently wrote that I dislike myself. Right now that´s not really the case, I´m just looking at myself through very therapeutic eyes. I´m experimenting with a change of perspective that is pretty extreme.

My phobia of vomiting is actually pretty much a fear of complete abandonment and isolation. It was very visible in my stream-of-consciousness entries. Or not so much a fear of it – it has already happened. I already feel completely abandoned and isolated. I used to think that I experience fear as nausea, but in fact, the emotion behind the nausea isn´t even necessarily fear. It is some kind of pain and terror that hollows out your chest and makes you feel like somebody has sucked all the oxygen out of the air.

I´m realizing now that my home will be sold and my family will move away and everything will change that this feeling might become a constant in my life. I guess you can´t have it 24/7 without collapsing and getting at least a moment of relief, but last weekend it lasted for about seven hours with me feeling sick from low blood sugar, but being unable to swallow anything at all I had no idea how to make it stop, ever. I was so out of it I didn´t even remember I have a blog, otherwise I might have written something.

I believe I always avoided this feeling with the help of some fake feeling of safety. I deformed myself however necessary in order to feel safe and comfortable at home. Now that bubble is going to burst and there will never be any return to it. Hm…whereas…I even feel like there might be a possibility, I merely have to subject myself to somebody else and run my life according to their ideas and wishes. I will probably even do that, and it´s not a very uplifting thought. I guess now is the time to become emotionally independent, but I wonder how to bear that loneliness and this terrorized feeling.

Here comes the therapeutic view into play. I´m starting to see myself as incredibly deficient. It is not the normal self-loathing, like “I´m just spoiled”. I see myself as disordered. It´s not my fault, but that´s actually even more scary. This deficit is bigger than me, it is ruling my life and it is largely outside of my own consciousness.

Wherein does it lie? I can´t live on my own. I cannot exist as a single individual. I cannot perceive myself as a single one individual. I can be alone, yes, but even if I am there are always the voices, or a million imaginary companions, or even personified personality parts of mine. I always need to feel like an extended part of somebody else. I need to belong to someone. Being responsible for myself, or, in a more positive connotation, being free is something I cannot handle, so I make myself unfree. Maybe my anxiety and my compulsions are rooted in this. They form a safe prison; the last resort to prevent me from drowning in chaos. Their rules are pointless and annoying, possibly embarrassing – but they are rules!

Well, looking at myself like this makes me a tad angry. It feels like I´m being looked down upon. I don´t want to have been so blind. I don´t want to have lived in such an illusion. Even though I´ve insisted for years that I am doing so, and even though I´ve always insisted I´m not alright, I don´t like it now that it´s real because I´m starting to understand what it implies. It implies that my view on everything is incredibly distorted. Particularly my view on myself.

On the other hand, my view seems to be remarkably clear. I felt like Dr. Stoneface was not telling me things because it was part of a strategy, and I was very likely right about this. And while right now I feel like I´m finally getting what “everybody else” knew all along about me, in fact I´m sitting here on my own in the middle of the night figuring all this out by myself. “Everybody else” has better things to do at 4:16 in the morning than thinking about what I might be thinking about, telepatically saying to me “told you so!”

I think this stubborn idea has to do with which parts of me I perceive as belonging to me and which I reject. The mental representation of Dr. Stoneface is part of me, it is having conversations with me I never had with Dr. Stoneface. Same with my parents, Irene and Athena. Same with the voices and the anxiety. But they don´t feel like they´re part of me. They feel like evil entities who share a head with me, relentlessly attacking me, but they definitely are not me.

The task is obvious: Integration. I need to explore and connect and build bridges until I feel that they are I. And then I need to stabilize that feeling, practice it until they never come at me like enemies again, because now we are one. And here is that bit of rage again, the refusal: I don´t want them to be part of me!

Many manuals for personality part integration treat this issue as if those were all natural parts of the patient´s personality. They really are him, but they have been shattered apart by trauma. In my eyes, though, what I have to integrate was forced on me. It´s not like I once was a whole person, then bad things happened and I fell apart, and what I have to integrate was there before and isn´t tainted by it. What I have to integrate taints me. I don´t want a person who made me feel worthless be a part of me, but if I don´t make their mental representations a part of me I can never control them! Unless I start believing that the thoughts coming from these phantoms are mine and that I am making them, I will not be able to stop them, but if I do so I´m letting the real persons off the hook! I am taking responsibility for a suffering they inflicted on me, because while they may have said or done certain things, the continuation in my mind, the constant commentary on my thoughts and feelings is my doing.

Then again, maybe not. Maybe my feelings about this are clouded by another such representation or voice telling me that it was always my fault, or that I was only too sensitive, or that I am seriously disordered and that my perception is screwed-up. Still, I´m starting to understand what a blessing it must be to be intact. What kind of a difference must it make to have grown up without having been burdened with so many negative images of yourself and disdainful messages about yourself that took up a life of their own which now needs integrating!

I don´t want to integrate the feeling that I´m a horrible or despicable person. Well, maybe, if that means it becomes a feeling. Right now it is always bullet-proof knowledge. When I feel ashamed or low about myself, it automatically means that I´m really despicable and that I should feel ashamed. I push these feelings away and dread them because I´m scared (and sure) they are “finally telling me the truth about myself”. Feelings are never just feelings. I always assume they say something about reality. Guilty feelings mean there is guilt, being ashamed means there is shame, fear means there is danger.

Regarding fear: I´ve always been wondering what I can hope for, knowing that absolute safety doesn´t exist. How, then, can I ever stop worrying? I guess a sense of confidence and security can come from knowing that you´re able to bear and manage feelings. Disdain isn´t so scary anymore when you know that you can cope with shame and come out of this unharmed after feeling a bit low for a while. Like: When you know that even if you make a fool of yourself in front of a mean person, that person won´t be in your head for the rest of your life. That person won´t be commenting on everything you think and do. You will remain intact.

This is something I don´t have, because I´m not intact in the first place. I have to be scared of so many things because I know that everything will leave imprints. I have to walk through life with my main concern being self-protection so I don´t pick up even more wounds. How do you change that, really?


A new look at my fire phobia

Posted in health, mental health, morbid, personal with tags , , , , , , on September 28, 2012 by theweirdphilosopher

I might be getting somewhere in terms of understanding my fire phobia. I´ve started to perform the damn thought rituals again almost two years ago. It is not as bad as it was twelve years ago. I don´t feel the same level of fear. My brain is more or less performing these rituals habitually. I feel that with a bit of self-discipline I can quit doing them and I´ve made first steps, simply because they´re annoying me and they´re probably just increasing my fear. So whenever I am in my house and I start to think about the possibility of a fire, instead of mentally shifting those evil thoughts outside, I think them on purpose. I don´t envision the place burning, that´s too much for now, but I think “fire, fire, fire, fire” for about thirty seconds and then, without looking outside, I return to my work. So far it´s easy, it´s mostly breaking a bad habit. But I´ve noticed that whenever I do this, I feel just that little twinge of guilt.

What do I feel guilty about? It´s like something inside of me is sad about my disregard. About my lack of belief that I could set this place ablaze with a single thought. Or maybe it´s more about me not caring enough to perform rituals that make sure this place is safe. Not performing the rituals is an uncaring act, but not because there will really definitely be a fire if I don´t. It´s more like it is not okay to let go. I must remain mentally preoccupied with this. Not worrying is an unloving act.

I´m also experiencing some guilty feelings about being relieved to leave this place. Even looking forward to taking care of my very own one. I feel guilty towards my old home. I realize that deep down I wanted to leave long ago; I always wanted to go somewhere and do something and be my own self. I feel guilty writing this even now, because the price is leaving this place behind. I feel unloving and uncaring and selfish. I always knew that if it weren´t for me we wouldn´t have kept it for so long at all. It was always my responsibility to make them keep it. Sometimes recently I was scared that I´d end up at a psychiatric hospital and they would sell everything in the meantime. I seriously don´t trust them, on that weird emotional level.

Now, I have not just always had a phobia of fire, I was also fascinated by it and wanted to see one. And I wonder if maybe, even though it´s too horrible to say it, I always wanted this place to burn down. Just to get it over with and no longer be afraid, but also to be freed of the responsibility. Now that I did say it I think it´s quite plausible, and maybe not even so condemnable.

I´ve always taken in and carried around everybody else´s clutter. Half of the things I wear are old clothes from my sister, mother or even my father´s ex-girlfriend. Not because my parents didn´t allow me to get new stuff! I often refused because I was already so burdened with all the other things! And much of my furniture I inherited from my sister as well! Again, I refused many potential new things! My parents are quite generous as long as I don´t come to them about stuff on my own initiative.

It´s quite obvious how all these things took up the place in which my own identity should have grown. My own likes and dislikes. I couldn´t afford those, because I felt compelled to keep whatever others “threatened” to throw away. Is it really such a surprise that sometimes and very, very secretly I yearned for a fire to cleanse me from all this and make room for something new, something me?

On a more abstract level, though: If my felt responsibility for this place and other peoples´ belongings is really my felt responsibility for my family, or my parents´marriage, or whatever – then my fascination for fire is the wish to be released from that responsibility and to start something of my own, while the fear of fire is the suppression of that wish due to its horrible consequences: Losing everything because everything is falling apart. So if all that´s true I basically sacrificed my well-being, growth, personality, potential development, hopes and wishes for my family? Wow. And here I am thinking I´m spoiled. On the outside, maybe.

But what does this mean for my difficulties pulling through any kind of project, or even getting started? My inability to do things I really want to do and stick to something that is in line with how my family sees me? With my constantly acting like a follower towards my friends? I´ve hated myself all my life for my lack of an identity, but there always was one. I am someone, just that this someone has horribly abused herself throughout her life in order to accomplish something that couldn´t be accomplished. Wasn´t even her responsibility. Tell me again I take no responsibility. I couldn´t take responsibility for my own life because I was too busy using magical thinking and compulsions trying to influence things I couldn´t influence. Trying to control a chaos and instability on which I had zero impact.

Just an up-to-date

Posted in health, mental health, personal with tags , , , on September 26, 2012 by theweirdphilosopher

I intensely dislike myself. Not in that anger-turned-inwards way, but in the sense that I feel like all the time while I insisted that my parents and therapists were horrible I´ve just been an angry, hurt child who is completely in denial regarding what hurts her. I feel like all I ever said and did was for other reasons than I thought it was. If I´ve been struggling all my life with my parents´difficulties, then I´ve absolutely wasted it. I´ve wasted all my skills and abilities on it. If I´ve been suffering, then I´ve been suffering for no other reason than my own stupidity and stubbornness because I was unable to get over something that happens to every second kid on the planet. And there I am, feeling like I have a mission or something important to say or something! Just how ludicrously naive must I have looked to all those therapists who knew exactly what had been the turning points of my life and waited for me to get ready to wake up to that? I feel like, under my tirades and essays and more or less clever thoughts, the feelings, drives and motivations are those of a stubborn and spoiled child with fantasies of omnipotence who still believes she´s the center of the universe.

I hate my ability to envision other peoples´view of me. I sometimes feel like I can hear (and see) them think! Even people who I haven´t seen in years!

A thing that occured to me while writing that first paragraph is that if I spend all my life suffering with and unwittingly mentally occupied with my parents´troubles then I haven´t lived my own life. I´ve been searching solutions for other peoples´problems instead of starting to walk into a direction of my own (and encounter whatever obstacles there are). I did things, yeah, sometimes even set goals and actually reached them, but it was never really important! All the importance, the feelings, were tied to something else. It was an advantage at times, allowed me to succeed because I rarely got really nervous. But it is also a fairly empty life.

What is it that´s so damn important? I mean – what role would I play in my parents relationship or in trying to hold the family together? I always thought I was kept out of everything, and I still feel like I´m the last person to learn about anything.

Maybe my naivety is something needed? Or my lack of independence? Me staying a child for such a long time, and being treated like one? I believe me being only eleven was one reason why my parents kept it all so friendly. They had a bad crisis when I was three, maybe I was what saved their marriage then. It´s just an assumption, but there might be something to it. After my father left there was a period of time when my mother was basically my best friend. And when I was 14 my father said something about me being 12. I´m still not sure if he was joking or if he was really getting my age wrong here. I´m telling you that man is straight from a sitcom.

There was a situation today which is so typical. The place into which I´ll move needs a new painting. I told them that I could ask some of my friends if they´d help me with it, and my parents told me no, they´d hire a professional, “it´s okay!” I wasn´t suggesting this to be selfless or to save them money, I simply wanted to conquer the place. I want it to be mine. My mother told me “there´ll be plenty to do, don´t worry!”, which made me feel so stupid in a way. I feel as if she had put me in my place. What´s so bad about me showing some initiative? Additionally, my mother typically moans that I should see more people! Sounds like an ideal solution, the painting job! But no, their money will make sure it is still somehow their place when I´m inhabiting it and they´re living at the other end of the country! By the way, the place is in a shape that makes my room look pretty (if my father ever tells me to clean up again I´ll laugh at him, he can´t take care of himself for shit and he´s more than two times my age!). My mother´s reaction to this: “I´ll need to clean it before I can let the cleaning lady in there!” I told her that maybe I would like to do it since I would feel more comfortable having made sure myself that the place is clean. Her reply: “Oh, you´ll get to do that often enough!”

What the hell is this all about? For once in my life I feel motivated to do something and even though I really don´t want to leave I´m doing my best to get attached to the new place, and she´s constantly shooting me down. Seriously, why? Her voice alone was enough to make me not want to clean up again ever in my life. If that place isn´t really my own, with me shaping it to my liking, then I will never feel motivated to take care of it later! Right now she is making sure I´ll be living in filth for the next couple of months or years, just because from now on cleaning up will feel like a punishment! Like “could you please keep the room in a shape that at least remotely honours the way we left it to you?” I will still be a kid who has to take care of a room that isn´t hers! Why does she deny me the opportunity to learn something? If she doesn´t like the painting job we do, then she can hire a professional when I move out! The walls will need a fresh painting then anyway, since most of my furniture is black!

I just thought about how Irene would react to this and I realize she´d more or less openly tell me I´m too weak. If our mother´s behavior can demotivate me like this then I´m too weak. I shouldn´t mind this. I shouldn´t care. I should understand her, and if that doesn´t help, understand her while looking down upon her just that little bit, let them have their way and how about I just earn money of my own so I don´t need them anymore?

Thankfully I´ve got some moral support from my girlfriend.




More about my long lost home

Posted in health, mental health, personal with tags , , on September 26, 2012 by theweirdphilosopher

It is almost official now that I will be moving out by the end of next month. I won´t be moving far away, just somewhere in the same area in a place we own, so I won´t have to worry about the rent while I finish my studies. I was feeling almost fine with it today, a bit giddy and excited, and now that I´m sitting at our kitchen table I´m hit by some terrible sadness.

I feel that sadness towards my old home, which is now definitely doomed. I could have put up a big fight and cried and shouted, like I did dozens of times when I was younger and my mother wanted us to leave. But I didn´t because ultimately it is so futile. The only way I could cling on to this place forever is if the rest of my family died now. I´m not even sure if I´d want to stay here forever, just maybe keep this place forever, right in the shape it´s in. This is oddly in line with how I feel like my development suddenly just stopped somewhere on the brink between childhood and teens, and how I was starting to yearn for something which felt very old and very familiar. For the place and time to which I sometimes return in the dreams I mentioned.

I´ve always tried to both develop and keep everything the way it is. There was always a yearning for developing, going somewhere, moving into some direction or arriving somewhere else. Maybe just the desire to build a permanent home somewhere else – and always knowing I wasn´t going to live in this home as a child. Whatever it is that I´m really holding on to is long gone and dead, as far away as my childhood friends and the things we did.

I´ve always felt obliged to stay here, keep things together, keep things the way they are, take care of them, and now that this place´s time is counted in weeks rather than in months all I´m left to say is: “I´m sorry. I couldn´t save you.”

Something inside of me is responding to this, with a terrified, abandoned cry, but it always knew I was going to betray it eventually. I will vainly punish myself by not enjoying anything, not really getting or going anywhere, and I will suffer severe anxiety attacks, the type that take the breath away because everything around, the seemingly familiar things in that half-ways familiar place will feel twisted and wrong. I will be left there like with some things saved from a burnt-out home, while my parents will live at the other end of the country. I´ll still be there, living somewhere nearby a ruin I couldn´t save, because I was the only one to whom it meant anything.

A weird thought just came to my mind, torch this place tonight with everything and everyone in here, no need to survive. The only way to stop your mother from insulting this place by abandoning it. Not that I would do it. It would just be ultimate closure. A worthwhile ending to this story, a valid answer to my misery. It is actually very similar to typical murder-suicide relationship tragedies, just that this is more like a child murdering herself and her family so she doesn´t become an orphan.

I hate my family, all of them, for just walking away. Not only now, but years ago. My sister went away a few years after my father did, and now my mother is leaving, too. And they all became more and more nasty in asking me why I didn´t want to leave, as well. They branded me as a loser or as the family problem for trying to hold on to what was once there, to something I lost without ever being properly notified of it. It goes as far as me being what makes good family relationships impossible because I refuse to move out and get along with my parents and be nice and pleasant when we all meet. And maybe they´re right! Maybe back then they all adapted to the new family situation and moved on and got ready for a fresh start and a new system, and I´m the only one who didn´t. Maybe everything could be wonderful if it wasn´t for me.

Sometimes I get those weird revenge fantasies of just disappearing, too. Disappearing without even leaving as much as a note, walking around without enjoying anything, doing only things which would upset or hurt my parents, and let them see how they like it. In a way, this is what I´ve been doing for the last ten years, just that I always did it directly under their nose. And it accomplished nothing. They were worried, they were “unhappy”, they were saying that “we really needed to do something about this”, but in fact nothing happened. Nothing changed about them. They didn´t suddenly become available. They never even talked to me together as a family. They talked behind my back, yes.

I cannot take how clichéd this is. I´m this messed-up just because my parents separated? Seriously? Well, no, because I was suffering from anxiety and stuff much earlier, see the laundry list. But that doesn´t matter. The thought that their break-up could even affect me that much is inacceptable. It shouldn´t have affected me at all, because it is none of my business. Now where ever that came from!

Now – how did I see my parents´ break-up until I reflected on it? It´s weird enough that although I´m a person who spends hours and days thinking about stuff, I never really thought about their break-up. It never occurred to me that it could affect me in any way, because for all I knew it was something between my father and mother. I had nothing to do with it. And maybe that´s the main thing: There was no acknowledgement whatsoever that it affected me, and the entire family. Normally kids are asked who they want to stay with – I wasn´t. There was no divorce, so there was no question. There wasn´t even any kind of talk for all I remember. Was it just unthinkable that I could have any feelings about this?

I didn´t have any feelings, indeed. I had anxiety attacks. The summer when my father moved out I was spending my days in the living room, watching TV, eating incredible amounts of candy. My parents were at work or working on moving his stuff, my sister was in her room or going out. Nobody cared about what I was doing, only that my mother got mad at me over the candy. I was starting to feel random bouts of nervousness in the evening, and I think I was rather jumpy, too. Later I was worrying about my pet dying, or the house burning down, or something happening to my mother, and in order to battle those worries I developed elaborate thought rituals.

I recently understood what that fear of losing someone is all about. I realized there is always a trace of anger mixed into that fear, a sense of betrayal, like if someone dies it is because they someone did it on purpose. And this lead me to understand what assumption lies below that fear: That those closest to me would rather die than come back to me.

In order to make them come back anyway, I have to use those thought rituals and try to influence them. I believe this is basically how it works. I don´t know if I had this before my parents separated. Maybe I´ll somehow find out one day.

I sit here in my room and it seems so innocent, so small, it needs to be protected, it needs us to stay. It needs me to protect it, but I can´t. There´s nothing I can do. I think that it shouldn´t hurt like this, then, but it does. Why do I have to feel this place´s pain at being abandoned when there is nothing I can do about it?

Paranoid when alone at home

Posted in health, mental health, morbid, personal with tags , , , , , on September 22, 2012 by theweirdphilosopher

Being all alone at home, I´m dead scared someone else is here. Some stranger, a housebreaker. That fear alone is not uncommon at all, I´ve just googled it and then stopped reading because they were driving themselves crazy over how tricky housebreakers are and about the amount of safety measures they apply, and comparing this to my place makes me feel very, very unsafe.

Something I found interesting is that some people actually don´t fear people who break in to steal stuff, but to attack them. I got the exact same thing. I believe anybody breaking in here would do so in order to terrorize me. I am listening intently in order to notice any revealing sounds in advance. I keep my phone next to me and if I absolutely have to leave my room I take it with me. Which is funny because if someone attacked me I doubt I´d even try to call for help. I´d just curl up into a ball and pretend I´m not there. I now this for a fact because I do it whenever I feel threatened. When a dog jumps at me, when a guy keeps on bothering me, and there was one occasion in a park some night when a drunk guy was staggering straight towards me and my girlfriend and I thought “fuck, that´s it”. I looked down and didn´t move and somehow I no longer really felt scared, although I certainly was scared. It turned out the guy hadn´t even seen us.

So, I´m also scared that somebody is watching me from the outside, waiting for me to go to bed. I cannot close the curtains, though, because I can´t sleep when it´s completely dark. And I can´t leave the light on all night, either, because that clashes with my fire phobia. Some kind of predicament, really! I´m scared, no matter what I do!

I just wonder, though, if on some level I´m pushing myself. Right now my fear of being in a completely dark room is much smaller than my fear of being watched. I can constantly feel that triumphant, cruel look on my body, I can hear his thoughts, thinking about how stupid I am. How I could protect myself if only I bothered. But I prefer to leave the curtains open, which will allow him to attack me, because if I kept them close he wouldn´t even know I´m here.

I think that´s what I dread most about the idea of being attacked in my own home. The attacker´s scorn. Him telling me what he has seen me doing. That´s why I get so particularly paranoid when I sing. It´s funny, the more I behave like I have every right to be in this place and do what I want, the less scared I am. While I was preparing dinner I kept the radio on, later I was listening to music in my room and singing along to it. Door was locked and curtains closed, and somehow that helped.

It´s weird, I´ve just been thinking about why I wouldn´t call for help, and I guess it´s shame. I don´t want the attacker to see how awfully scared I am or that I see him as a threat at all, that he has surprised me. And I´m absolutely sure no one would come to my aid anyway, which would be an additional humiliation. Could it be that my fear of housebreakers is a social fear? In many ways it looks like a fear of exposure.

There is also a very visceral element; the total terror of someone suddenly overpowering you. I´m scared most of that moment when somebody will jump at me and I´ll know that now it is really happening. I´m not even sure what that “it” is, because I don´t really think beyond that moment. But I have a vague idea. I´m scared of the attitude of that attacker. It will be impossible to talk to him or reach him. I won´t be able to make him see my perspective. I will pointlessly plead and be so scared that I don´t even care about the humiliation (not until afterwards if there is an afterwards). I will feel unable to breathe. So far, those are all well-known constants. And they are fairly realistic. It would probably really be just that bad. Unless I totally zoned out, which is a fairly likely possibility, too. I´d very much prefer that. Sometimes I do it just to cope with how creeped out I am, like: Okay, come for me, I´m not really there. I wish I could snap into that state already. In order to do so, however, I typically imagine a different kind of attacker. One who won´t jump at me, but just emerge a few steps away from me. He´ll talk to me to calm me down, telling me I simply have to do what he says and he will see me through this (whatever “this” is). The main difference really is that he can see my perspective. He knows exactly what I´m going through, and while he will not spare me in any other way, he won´t torture me emotionally. He will try to be kind.

This is such an incredibly common motif on this blog. The contrast between those two figures. The interesting thing is that this is never about avoiding the attack in the first place. Today is the first time that I even think about mentally conjuring up someone who protects me. Watching tons of strong, attractive footballers on a regular basis really helps my mental state. 😉

Huh. I think it makes sense that I should feel worthy of protection only now. Now I´m part of a club, so of course the club members will protect each other. Before that, the only way was cooperating with the attacker (or the cruel entities in my head which send me those mental pictures) so they would be kind enough to take into account my perspective. Just how fucked up is my self-esteem?

What if I was attacked and I wouldn´t get scared? It´s the fear and panic I´m most scared of, so what if I just didn´t feel them? What if I believed so thoroughly in my right to live that I believed I couldn´t be murdered? It would actually heighten my chances for survival, granted, because it might spook the attacker off. But that´s beside the point. What would it be like to try and control the fear? To try and act? For some reason that thought is even scarier. So maybe the blind panic is some kind of coping mechanism. Believing I´m completely helpless triggers dissociation which takes away the fear. I don´t even want to try to protect myself because that way I´d have to snap out of that spaced-out, fearless state. So the idea of being able to do something is more scary than the idea of being helpless. Very weird. Yeah, sometimes I wish the attacker would stop lurking and just get at me, so I can stop listening. So I can stop pretending I´m listening. I actually hope I wouldn´t hear anything until it´s too late, just like I hope that if there is ever a fire in my house I die and never even wake up.

I´ve made the experience that when I´m waiting for a ride at the fun park I´m always sort of nervous. It wouldn´t be fun if I wasn´t. And yet, as soon as I´m in the car and the safety belt straps me down to the seat, I become completely calm, and a bit spaced out. Very pleasantly spaced out. I´m not so scared that I welcome it as an emergency exit. It just feels good in itself. But again, this has to do with helplessness. As soon is there is definitely nothing I can do – I calm down.

The worst part here is really trying to listen for early warning signs.

Losing a long lost home

Posted in health, mental health, personal with tags , , , , on September 9, 2012 by theweirdphilosopher

So after days of wanting to ignore my phobia and even the fact that I´m not alright, here we go again: A nausea attack. At least I feel at home on this blog again…

Sometimes I think I´m just suffering from a stimulus overload, being online all day. I´m currently unemployed, I´m still a student but I got no classes, so I basically got nothing to do. Well, there are a lot of things I should do, but I have to structure and organize everything on my own, so instead I do nothing all day, surfing the Internet and having a guilty conscience. I feel like I´m a borderline welfare case and my room sure looks the part. How am I ever going to achieve anything when I can´t even take out the garbage?

Reading anything about what employers expect and what other students are doing or about what people my age should be doing puts me under sometimes more, sometimes less stress, but there is always a steady current of discomfort when I read about these things. A certain tension. Actually I´m never relaxed. I wonder to what extent this has to do with my situation and to what extent I´ve always been like this.

I´m also sad all the time because we´ll sell our place soon. The place where I grew up. Every time I walk into a room I wonder how many more times I will be doing this. When I walk through the park near our place I think that I see it in late summer for the last time (which is nonsense, I can always come here, but it´s not the same thing). And it´s the last time I see the tree in the garden in full leaves. This sadness is following me whatever I do. On the one hand I wish it was already over and I was living somewhere else, on the other hand that makes me feel guilty and I´m clinging on to this place.

I´m already scared of the winter. Since 2010, when my phobia kicked in again (coincidence?) I´m scared of winters. I feel like they will never pass. And the next summer only comes to pass. I feel safest in early spring because then I know it will be some time until it snows again. And yet I know that time will rush away and nothing will have changed, improved, happened. Not in the way I´d hoped for. I wish I knew what I´m hoping for, though…

I´m so angry at my family for selling this place. I know their doing it for a reason, and my anger probably doesn´t even have that much to do with what is happening NOW. I just feel so oddly betrayed. I feel like I´ve been waiting here, loving this place, caring about this place because I thought that would accomplish something. My mother moving to a new place, together with my father, and my sister being fine with it and being all on their side sort of proves that it accomplished nothing. I did it all in vain and now their are taking away from me what I´ve been clinging on to. I feel like I sacrificed something, but I sacrificed it in vain.

Maybe it has to do with how my father moved out when I was 11. I never counted as a divorce kid, as my parents never got a divorce. For all I can remember, which is admittedly less than nothing, I wasn´t even told why he was moving into that other place. I feel like I more or less didn´t exist in that time. I don´t even have any memories of the year before my father left. Not any memories from my family life, that is. I do remember school, I do remember friends, and, thanks to photographs, I have some limited memories of holidays. But what it was like at home back then? No idea. There´s just nothing there, really. Not even a vague impression.

I feel like I was non-existent at the time. I feel like I existed in kindergarten, elementary school, and then there´s a gap, and then I woke up being twelve years old. Or eleven years old, maybe. Maybe I was just living in a dream world. I cannot describe the disregard I feel I was met with. I was left out of everything, while my parents and sister negotiated the end of our family as we knew it. My mother claims she always told me the truth. Maybe I was simply unable to understand what she told me. Maybe her memory just once again works in her favor. I´ve no idea.

I feel unable to like myself, thinking of that time. Not because of anything specific. It just seems obvious to me that I cannot be liked. Like there is some blemish on me, the way you feel like you´re worthless when someone says to you “your parents don´t even love you!” I feel like they didn´t give me something other kids had, or like I just didn´t have it, and maybe it was only because of me. My sister seems to have it, after all.

I feel like they trusted her with the truth, with what was going on, while I wasn´t told anything. I was living somewhere in a dreamworld, I was being a child, and I got what I deserved for it. I should have been more mindful of their concerns, less egocentric, then maybe they could have told me.

Sometimes I wonder if I cling on to this place so much because I still somehow expect everything to go back to normal. Like: My family reuniting. And that my parents should do so in a different place, without me, in a constellation in which I have no place – that is, in a way, a second betrayal. It´s like spitting me in the face if I really stayed here and cared about this place for all those years because I wanted my old family life back. I don´t know if I did. If I remember anything about that time, it is that I was glad my father was leaving. This has even been confirmed from another source. But the way I resisted all changes to what the place looks like, and the way I reacted to the changes that were made – I feel like I´m trying to keep everything the way it was, or even return it to that state. I sometimes dream that I get old things back, forgotten things, or that suddenly things look the way they looked fifteen years ago. Those dreams, which are no daydreams, but random dreams at night, always fill me with some wild yearning, but also bliss, like: Finally! Finally everything is the way it should be and everything will be okay! Often, in those dreams I realize how fragile everything is, so I frantically start taking pictures, or I cling on to the old things I found but I can barely hold them and I know others will want to take them away from me because – whatever – I found them on some flea market and I can´t just take them. Maybe others want them, after all. Others who have no right to them. But that is something I cannot make anybody understand. That I need these things more than anybody else, and that you simply have to give them to me. Which makes me very angry and very desperate in those dreams.

Maybe I just am more sensitive than is good for me. More sensitive than is normal. Maybe I simply overreact to just about everything. Maybe I would have needed a whole lot of talks and hugs and comfort in order to get over my father leaving, and me being glad that he left shows things weren´t ideal even before that. I somehow doubt I got the comfort, because for all I remember I didn´t even get the talks. I don´t think I realized that my parents were actually separating until a few months afterwards. So what exactly was there to talk about? I never saw myself as a divorce kid. I didn´t seem to have the right to do so, as my parents were still seeing each other, with my father coming home for dinner regularly. In a way, the whole situation was incredibly ambiguous. It would have required even more talking that didn´t happen. I lost my family as I knew it, but the loss was covered up so well from me that I didn´t know how to mourn it. I don´t think I ever consciously assumed or deemed it likely that my father would move back in (I doubt I really desired it), but I wonder now if maybe part of me just never accepted that he had left. That the family life I had known was over. I was glad he was no longer around all the time so he couldn´t yell at me or anybody else. But I might not have been so happy about a lot of other consequences of his departure. Most of this is guesswork, really. I lack the memories. I can only examine what I feel like now, thinking of my parents´ “break-up”.

So they move back in together now, not really as a couple, but as friends. This is another key thing. Throughout my youth, I had parents who were just friends. Maybe even throughout my childhood, apart from the earliest years. Other kids had parents who were an actual couple. I guess this had a really odd influence on my expectation for relationships. I lacked any role models for relationships. For how boyfriends should treat me. I wonder if this somehow contibuted to the desaster with my second boyfriend. I recently thought about me and my girlfriend, and about how our future children will see us hug spontaneously, or kiss, and I thought how incredibly odd I´ll find that. And not because we´re both girls, but because we´ll be parents. And this had me realize that I can´t remember seeing my parents act that way. Spontaneous displays of affection seemed to be missing. It´s hard to see that which isn´t there, so this issue has been a huge blind spot for me all my life.

Maybe I should ask my mother if there were any such tender behaviors between them when I was younger, or if that stopped long before they separated. If she confirmed my impression… well, I don´t know what then, but somehow it might help. It seems terribly important right now.

I wonder if this is why I don´t get this whole sex thing. Why I´m having such a hard time relaxing and enjoying anything. Maybe I didn´t have any positive role models for relationships, trust and relaxation. If my parents were already having trouble (and they did when I was about three, as my mother told me), then of course the climate was not one of trust and friendliness, something that would make you relax. There would always be a little tension, and not so terribly much joy.

It´s a line of thought definitely worth following.




Why I´m not writing so much at the moment

Posted in personal, rants with tags , , , on September 8, 2012 by theweirdphilosopher

I cannot write a blog entry, not for the fucking life of me. So what the hell is keeping me away from this blog? It´s been my ultimate outlet for months.

I guess I´m just incredibly tired of myself. Or – well, no, not really. I´m somehow impatient with myself and the world. I don´t want to compose long, intelligent entries. I demand from myself that I go on exploring the winded workings of my psyche, and at the same time I feel sick and tired of doing what is demanded from me.

I don´t want to make myself miserable. That is, to be honest, a fairly new feeling. Most of the time I was digging into everything that could possibly hurt, reading things which I knew were going to hurt me – but now I don´t feel like it anymore. Why did I do it? On the one hand, there was hope. Hope that I would get somewhere. I probably did, but at the moment that hope is gone. Maybe I just arrived somewhere, who knows. Then, I´m simply an adrenaline junkie. Being angry helps me to not be depressed. Fighting is better than complete apathy. Or, as I read in some Dexter fanfic: “It´s always nice to feel something, you know?”

But I guess I´m just sick and tired of that hope. And not just the hope, but the demands that come with it. “You must improve. You must work on yourself.” Yeah, that´s what I´m really tired of. Working on myself. Working on things that happened to me so I will one day be more self-confident, more open, more whatever. Allegedly more happy. And so this blog felt like an enemy. Like I couldn´t write casual things here. Like the only part of myself that could go here was the anxious, self-defeating, scrutinzing Me. Which is obviously bollocks, as Pissed-off-Me has written here before. Plenty. The differences in mood probably don´t look half as dramatic as they feel.

Also, I have this other blog, but I feel odd writing there, too. The fact that it exists really just shows I feel that parts of me are so outlandish and inacceptable that I have to put them into the special interest department because no reader of my regular blog will want to hear about them. This is something I´m tired of as well. Who would have thought people would be interested in and accept my therapy story? So if I can post that, why do I have to shut away everything intimate elsewhere? Besides, the one time I wrote on this blog about my issues with sadism I did encounter acceptance.

I guess these problems might explain my current absence from this blog.