Feelings... Whoah oh oh oh... Feelings

 Feelings....

On the very night my mom died, I was watching a documentary about Darrell Hammond, and there was a line he said which truly resonated with me, something to the effect of how he was expected/demanded to participate in his own abuse (by his mother) by remaining silent. Oh how familiar that statement is.

Yesterday I read another line by someone else in regards to narcissistic parents not allowing us to articulate thoughts or feelings,nor let us have the freedom to have an interior life. And again, my mind was blown. 

I knew at a very early age, not to trust my mother. I had been menstruating for two years in secret because I knew she would tell everyone my private business the first chance she got when she found out--AND I WAS CORRECT.

I never allowed myself to write in a diary or a journal--and I would receive plenty of new journals as gifts. I never allowed myself to write in a journal, as I knew I wasn't even entitled to my private thoughts, and I didn't trust that my inner-most thoughts would remain private. 

So it's no wonder I struggle in therapeutic settings trying to identify what I am feeling and expand on that. I went nearly a half century of my life suffering in silence, an unwilling participant in the abuse cycle, remaining silent--keeping my thoughts, worries, feelings all to myself because the adults in my life (particularly my mother, my primary care giver) were incapable of listening and absorbing all that, and certainly lacked the ability to provide any guidance on how to handle my emotions in a healthy, constructive way.

For the last two years, my emotions have pretty much run amok. I've been feeling every possible negative feeling all at once and have been in a constant state of being overwhelmed and outraged. And the only thing that has helped even a little bit has been a breathing meditation I've been trying to do on a regular basis. This guided breathing meditation has helped me at least ORGANIZE those emotions--not process them, but at least organize them so that I am not feeling all of them all at once. 

To be honest, I doubt I'll ever be able to process them. That would require vulnerability I am unable to muster up. A half century of this bullshit has proven to me that vulnerability only = more pain. And I'd rather feel nothing at all, than feel one more moment of pain.

Progress Takes Many Forms

Even choosing to discontinue therapy can be progress. Progress in-so-far as I don't want to waste one more moment with a therapist who doesn't specialize in the issues with which I need help: schema therapy (with associated self esteem issues); rumination therapy; narcissistic abuse recovery; and grief therapy.

For eleven weeks I've spun my wheels in a futile attempt to gain anything beneficial from my therapist Stephen, who insisted being despondent was a choice, and telling me to put a positive spin on things, and to try to "trap and release" the negative intrusive thoughts WITHOUT TELLING ME HOW TO DO THAT.  Because, HELLO! I am talking to a therapist for tools or strategies to do exactly that, stop the negative intrusive thoughts!

To be blunt, I've gotten more out of doing this guided breathing meditation which my acupuncturist suggested to me (three years ago--but hey, it takes me a while before I do anything). I am two weeks into doing it (and haven't done it consistently every day for the second week, mind you) and already it has quieted the physical/physiological part, wherein I was suffering debilitating, persistent, daily sobbing jags which weren't cathartic and left me emotionally and physically spent.

So, last night the first thing I did was left a vm for a neuropsychologist with whom I spoke about 7-10 days ago asking info about becoming a new patient. I left a vm for more information, as she's out of network and I'd have to pay out of pocket. And the last thing I did before leaving my office for the day was contacting the office of the psychology practice where my therapist works, and simply stated I wanted to discontinue sessions.

So now I wait for the doc to call me in return. And if the stars don't line up with this doc, there is always a narcissistic abuse life coach I will probably contact in regards to private coaching sessions. I just want to move forward and stay afloat.

Another Update, 4/19/2022

Yet another month slips by; and yet, full of activity.

Let's see, I'm now three months into taking Wellbutrin, and three months into yet another round of talk/psychotherapy with yet another therapist, and to be honest, neither have been much help. I have gotten more benefit out of doing a guided breathing meditation--and full disclosure that was two weeks ago I started that, and I haven't been consistent in the last five days, but be that as it may, I still got more benefit out of it than Rx or therapy. 

I am technically ELEVEN weeks into therapy, and for the last four sessions I have asked myself "why are we doing this? It isn't helpful."

For someone such as myself, who has endured easily a half century of narcissistic abuse (as well as the resulting byproducts of self esteem issues, rumination, learned helplessness, and anxiety attacks), a good starting point of therapy that would be USEFUL *IS NOT* telling me to re-frame things in a positive spin or try to catch & release the negative thoughts--AS IF I have not tried doing so.

I have identified BOTH, what I don't want as well as what I *DO* want from therapy, and right now, the current therapist is what I do not want. What I *DO* want is schema therapy, grief therapy, as well as to be evaluated for other issues that haven't been identified thus far (perhaps autism? attention deficit disorder, etc), because, to be honest and fair, I cannot fix what's broke unless or until we identify what exactly it is that's in need of repair and/or attention. Telling me it's a choice to be depressed or anxious isn't helpful in the least bit.

And in other news...

I fell down yet another rabbit hole regarding the results of my last lab report, which then necessitated my nephrologist to re-run all those tests, plus run additional tests to rule out anything that might have caused the "weirdness" in the dodgey lab tests from Quest. For a while there it was upsetting to think I might have cold agglutination disease or autoimmune hemolytic anemia. In the end, Quest didn't maintain proper temperature when they spun out my blood sample or half assed something else, which caused "RBC agglutination present" on my last lab report--something I've never seen on any of my labs.

On an upnote, my BP was good (I popped a GABA 20 minutes before the appointment to cut down on the "white coat syndrome" anxiety), and I was told my proteinuria has improved. I don't know how to interpret the lab reports on this, as it's about ratios rather than the numbers alone; however, my numbers have gone from 1400-1600 down to about 400. I need to find out around what date did the numbers start to improve--I was remiss in asking during the appointment, as I was too fixated on the agglutination issue, and of course, my Word document with eight bullet points, talking points for the doc, and he even added additional points of discussion. Good appointment all in all.

So now for the main event, and talk about "burying the lede!" I am going to get one of my hips replaced come mid-summer. Hopefully the latest variant or mutation of COVID won't be surging or the surge will be over by then. Last thing I want to do is get my hip replaced, then come home with COVID.

I am looking forward to the potential of my pain decreasing, my mobility increasing, my sleep improving, and by extension of all three, I am hoping my mood will improve as well.

Maharajah went away on business, and while he was away, I reverted back to a habit I had in "The Beforetimes," where I'd work on household projects, and take advantage of not having an anxious audience while I tear apart the condo in doing so.

The last time I had household projects was in October 2019. I painted our bedroom. I left the cans of paint and drop cloth where they were, thinking "I'll finish up tomorrow." After nearly three years, those cans of paint and drop cloth have remained where they sat. I rearranged the bedroom an did a nice deep cleaning of the room, as well as puttered about with a lot of little projects, so little that they aren't noticeable at a casual glance. I took hot baths, I slept pretty good. And soon enough he was home.

He came home last Friday night, and he has been isolating in the spare bedroom. Last night was "day 3," and he took an at home COVID test, which came back negative. But I don't trust the tests--especially since the Omicron has about 37 different variations to the spike protein and that's what the tests TEST, the presence of the spike protein. So he'll test again tomorrow night, and if the test comes back negative again, I guess I'll have to acquiesce and trust the result.

The last two years have been so detrimental to my physical and emotional health. It's undone easily 10 years of hard work. The pandemic, mom dying, and seeing just how truly awful too many people are, has really made me regress to a time in my life when I was terrified and distrustful of everyone--including people I formerly loved and or respected. 

I feel as if I were starting from "Square One" all over again. 

On top of all this, I am just barely beyond being a hermit. In some ways I feel as if time, life, and experiences are passing me by. I'm jealous and resentful of the cognitive dissonance people have in going on vacations, getting on airplanes, and eating indoors. I feel such a sense of abandonment that is sadly too familiar to me. 

I've reverted back to persistent, debilitating, daily sobbing jags as a result of everything I listed above (oh, plus menopause), and nothing has helped--see the first paragraph about Rx and therapy. That guided breathing meditation has been the only thing to interrupt the physiological shit which has kept me sobbing--sobbing the kind of primal sobs one sobs for a beloved friend or family member dying--only for me, my sobs aren't for grief over my mom dying, my sobs are for the death of the life I once had. 

The notion of things ever returning to "normal" again is so outside my ability to conceive or believe it. 

I'm amazed I was able to peck all this out without breaking down into an ocean of tears, but the only thing I *DO* believe in these days is the power of the guided breathing meditation. 

It took me ten years to sort out all my emotional garbage, put each item into a pile of its own, fold each item in half, then fourths, then eighths, and tuck that shit into a recess in my psyche where I don't access it every moment of every day.

The pandemic, mom dying, and just seeing an abundance of "Human's inhumanity to their fellow humans," and it caused all that hard work to just explode forth from its storage space in my psyche--and after two years of profound despair, I am now setting about putting everything back in order again. 

The work continues.