slythwolf: Some unlucky soul has an incomplete Pai Sho set. (Default)
"Just because I need help doesn't mean I'm weak."

And I didn't know how to tell her that that is one of those things that is true, that I know is true, for everyone else, but here inside where the fear lives it isn't true for me.

No of course needing help doesn't make you weak, asking for help makes you strong.

But here inside where the fear lives, it whispers, and what it whispers is, "If you can't do it by yourself you are nothing."

I wonder why that is. Why is that what I think about myself? Where does it come from? Gut says "mom", but I can't reason it out. Is it me saying "Mom I don't know how to do this can you help me" and her sighing exasperation saying "Here, just let me do it," and this being her definition my whole life of "Becky you manipulate other people into doing your work for you"?

Manipulate. Even when I was two, three years old they were calling it manipulate, any fool can see from the records it was my frustration coming through, knowing at two, three years old that I physically could not do these things, I will just wait for Mom to dress me because I can try but it just ain't gonna happen.

Kids are smart. Kids can tell when they're expected to be able to do something and they can't do it.

Didn't want to do "my share" of the picking up because I couldn't do it, not all of it, not and not get hurt. Having this invisible disability so invisible that the woman who drove me those fifty-five miles to the Shriner clinic even thought I was making some of it up. It wasn't laziness. Some of it was ADHD and some of it was physical pain.

In the fear is also anger. The anger has been leashed so long, can't be angry at Mom because she's my mom, raised me, loves me, wants the best for me--which is both true and not true--leashed so long it turns on me instead. Blaming my own self, victim-blaming.

I have to, have to do something different or explode.

Well. I have been doing some different things. If I can get the good medication I can keep up the good habits it lets me form. The fear is quiet when I'm working on something and getting somewhere. It's when I stop, when I hesitate, that it starts to speak up. Whisper in my ear.

I have to get to bed. It's late and I have had a shot of rum. But I am stuck in that cycle of the meds having worn off and me in front of the computer and multi-chapter fanfic just spread out before me as far as the eye can see. Which quiets the fear for a while. But feeds it, so it comes back stronger, armed with "you sat up reading fanfic all night could have been sleeping didn't do anything productive giant waste of time no discipline what the hell is wrong with you".

Which isn't even true. Went to my appointment today, got Nigel to agree to organize his crap, got a new bookshelf, made my phone calls. Showed up to raid on time.

It lies, it lies, it tells me I haven't done anything but it's lying.
slythwolf: Some unlucky soul has an incomplete Pai Sho set. (Default)
When I was five years old, I was the most organized child on the fucking planet. Everything I owned was perfectly put away, everything I did was in order, my bed got made every day, when I got out my crayons I laid them out by color and put each one back in its place when I picked up another.

It has recently become clear to me that this was because I had no other responsibilities.

And people will say, oh well, you don't have a job and you're not in school so you don't have any other responsibilities now, but that simply isn't true.

Here are the responsibilities I have every day:

I have to decide when to get up. I have to decide when to go to bed.

I have to decide when to eat, decide what to eat, and prepare or purchase it.

I have to remember to shower and brush my teeth.

I have to choose my clothing and dress myself.

I have to manage my time and schedule my activities; no one tells me when it's time to play and when it's time to do chores and when it's time to go to grandma's house.

I have to answer the telephone. (For someone with phone anxiety this is NO SMALL THING LET ME TELL YOU.)

Everyone has these responsibilities--all legally competent adults, that is. And that's fine, you know, these are things that need to be done and it certainly isn't anyone else's responsibility to do them for me but.

I do not do all these things every day. It's too much, I'm too scattered. Some of it is my depression but some of it is my simple inability to manage time. I have no idea how long an hour is. I have no idea how long it takes me to do anything.

When I was in college, the one semester when I passed all my classes (or maybe it was all but one; I can't remember), I was:

- not working
- taking only 9 credit hours
- medicated for my depression and anxiety

It is abundantly clear to me that I was never able and may never be able to go to school full-time. Not successfully. It is not too much for most people. It is too much for me.

I am seeing it now, the feeling that I had when I would decide not to go to all my classes, it wasn't just the fear (although yes some of it was definitely the fear), it was seeing this enormous block of time every day completely taken up by classes and getting just totally overwhelmed and going, no, this is too much for one day.

It's not even the amount of time, necessarily; it's that--I don't want to go more than one place in a day, not on a regular basis. Let me go and do one thing. That's enough.

This is why I was not in any extracurricular activities for any length of time.

When I was in elementary school, I began to lose my ability to stay organized. There was too much going on. It only got worse as I got older.

In high school my teachers all knew I was so smart, they gave me special treatment; I got cut slack for things that other kids wouldn't have, and it saved my ass on a daily fucking basis. I cannot even remember most of it happening but when I was going through my school records for my therapist a couple years ago, it became apparent that every semester, in at least half my classes, there were little notes from my mother to my teachers, which went like this:

Dear So-and-So,

Here are all [slythwolf]'s assignments from this semester. It turned out they were in her math folder. She thought, when she couldn't find them, that she must have already turned them in.

They would give me half credit for this stuff, sometimes even full credit. I got As in these classes. Because they knew how smart I was. Because they knew my learning the information was totally divorced from my doing the homework.

This is a rule of thumb: if I can finish an assignment in class while the professor is explaining it, I will remember to finish it and turn it in. Otherwise, I will forget to turn it in, lose it, or forget to do it at all.

Asking me to learn something is one thing; that's easy. You want to take up my time with more stuff to do? I have to structure it myself and remember where I put it? Listen, buddy, you're lucky I showed up to school on time this morning.

And when I moved out of my parents' house, and my entire daily routine became my responsibliity, I could no longer even do that. Perpetually late everywhere everywhere because without someone to remind me when it's time to get ready, I don't allow myself enough time to get there.

If I am not late, I am ridiculously early. That usually happens with things I am very very excited about. Like being ready for Homecoming about four hours before it was supposed to start. No sense of time.

So I have figured this out: I can do one thing at a time. One thing as defined by me. I can focus on keeping the apartment decent, or I can focus on keeping myself alive and clean, or I can focus on finding a job.

And this is what sucks about it, because I have to keep myself clean and presentable and in decent shape or I am not going to find a job. That's why I am trying to work on getting into a routine, so it's no longer something I have to think about. But the trouble I have is that there are people in my life who feel that it is their duty to "help" me focus on job-hunting by nagging at me every time they think I'm not getting anywhere fast enough.

It's too much. This is what people without ADHD do not understand: too much for me is a lot less than it is for you. My brain can't handle it. Too much to process. Shut down.
slythwolf: Some unlucky soul has an incomplete Pai Sho set. (Default)
When I was a little girl, my mother used to talk about flying. She had done a lot of it; she had been a lot of places I didn't think I would ever get to see. And a lot of them I haven't. And she would talk about the way it felt, the plane taking off, the earth falling away, and I thought it sounded wonderful but I also thought I would never be able to do it because I was always afraid of heights.

I would learn, later, that it's different in a plane, for me, that the fear I have is one of falling and if I feel secure enough I'm not afraid.

My mother used to talk about flying like it was the best thing in the whole world, and she used to say someday she would retire and learn to fly and buy her own little pontoon plane so she could bring the mail to little isolated towns in Alaska.

I used to tell her, someday, when I'm rich--we all thought I'd be rich, you know, there was an awful lot of talk about "writing my own ticket" and how much everybody in the world would want to hire me with how smart I am--someday, I'd say, when I'm rich, I'll pay for your lessons and buy you your plane.

I'm never going to be rich. Circumstances have conspired against me and I have watched, over the years, my dreams falling away like the earth from an airplane; I was going to go to MIT but then I wound up at MSU, and then I was on academic probation and then academic recess and then I was at Ferris and I didn't know what I was going to do, and I thought okay at least I can still get a bachelor's but then time wore on and it became an associate's, and then there was the year my mother didn't get the information to me in time and I couldn't get any financial aid so I had to take a year off, and when I came back, well, it just became clear I wasn't going to finish, and now I'm hopeful that if I try hard enough and take it small enough baby steps at a time I might be confident enough in myself, maybe, next year, to work for minimum wage again.

I'm never going to be rich. I'm never going to buy my mother her plane or pay for her flying lessons.

But a couple of years ago, right around her birthday, someone posted a notice on the bulletin board at my work (back when I still had a job). The notice said, flying lessons. It said, first lesson free. It said, take a coupon.

I took a coupon. I gave it to my mother for her birthday. It was the only thing I could afford to give her. I think that must have been the year she'd kicked me out of the house, and I couldn't afford to pay for rent and food at the same time.

And she said thank you. And I said, you know, because I always said I would get you your flying lessons. And she said, yeah.

But she never went for the lesson.

It's still raw in me, this wound, festering as it always has, growing in my flesh for these twenty-seven years, knowing no matter what I do or how I try I will never be good enough for her. Still wanting it, even though I know I can never have it, even though I know it isn't worth it, even though I know her to have been and still be abusive, manipulative, that she will never just love me for what I am, that she rejects me because she doesn't know any other way.

Wanting my mother to love me unconditionally. Knowing she can't. Trying, therefore, to meet her conditions. Knowing they are impossible.

I gave her flying lessons, the best way I was able. I kept my promise. She has never kept hers to me.

She promised that I would skate through college so easily it would make my head spin. That one I shouldn't hold against her, I know, because it wasn't under her control, but still I say she shouldn't have promised it knowing it wasn't in her power to deliver.

She promised that when I was ten years old the family would go to Alaska to visit my uncle. That never happened. Then she said, I will keep my promise, I will take my girls to Alaska, and this was supposed to happen this past summer, and that didn't happen either.

She promised she would pay for me to go to school. She promised she would live in a van down by the river--her exact words--if that was what it took to make sure I could go to the school of my choice, until I was finished. When the promise was made, there were no conditions about "if I looked to her to be trying hard enough" or "a timely manner". And she broke that one, and I think that's what broke me. Haven't been myself since she said I was to drop out of school and get a full-time job or get the hell out of her house--since she told me in so many words that she didn't think I could do it.

How many times did she promise never to hurt me? I don't remember. Apparently her hurting me in "punishment" didn't count because I have lost track of the number of times she smacked me in the mouth because I said something she didn't like.

Ah, god, I tried so hard, I still am trying so hard. Trying, trying. Nobody can see me trying because the trying is happening inside my head. Following the rules, doing what I'm told, waiting and hoping for the reward I was promised. At the heart of it, the shape it takes is this: I am a good girl. I have always been a good girl. Why am I being punished? I've been good.


Dec. 5th, 2009 02:30 pm
slythwolf: Some unlucky soul has an incomplete Pai Sho set. (Default)

This is where I am right now. This is another way of understanding the room.

I had this entry half-written a moment ago and I accidentally exited the program like an idiot I am trying not to call myself an idiot and trying not to beat myself up over it because everyone makes mistakes.

Mistakes are okay. But I lost so much of what I was saying I don't know if I can remember it all I don't know if I can get it back it's okay if I don't get it all back, it's okay if I don't post the whole thought process I went through. I did go through that process and what I learned from it is still in me. It was still helpful.

I am making some food to eat while I write this because it's easier to make that kind of silly mistake, the kind that sets me back for the rest of the day week month year when I'm hungry.

I came to this realization last night when I was rereading part of Darkness Bright. This part of it really requires a SPOILER WARNING so I had better put it under a cut. )

But so this is the thing. I have forged this chain for myself. It is a chain of excuses that I use to keep from confronting the fear.

In the post I accidentally deleted I spent a few paragraphs figuring out that I don't want to confront the fear because my mother taught me it was never okay to be afraid, except in the face of a physical threat.

My mother's attitude was that emotions are imaginary. My mother's attitude was that emotional pain is oversensitivity. My mother's attitude was that if there is nothing actually in the physical world trying to hurt you, you're fine. And my mother's response to my fear and emotional pain was to tell me I couldn't have a hug until I was willing to be reasonable.

So I built the room, I forged the chain, so I could say I can't instead of I'm afraid.

The longer I stay in the room and clutch the chain tight around me, the more the fear grows. It feeds on itself and grows larger. Because now, in addition to failure and success and whatever else I am/was originally afraid of, I have to be afraid of the fear too.

"Nothing to fear but fear itself." Oh, only.

One of my therapists told me she observed me having a lot of trouble naming my emotions. It's true. I have a huge amount of trouble admitting that I feel whatever way, and when someone asks me, how does that make you feel, I spend fifteen minutes desperately justifying my right to feel that way before they can finally drag it out of me: hurt. Sad. Angry. Afraid.

I have no difficulty showing them. I have extreme difficulty hiding them. That is the "oversensitive" that started it all.

No it didn't. No. I have to tell myself: it's okay that I have emotions. It's okay that I express them. It is not the fault of my sensitivity that my mother thought it was wrong.


What started it all: her intolerance of my right to feel.

"Don't let it get to you" was her favorite thing to say. It has taken me these twenty-seven years to realize that that is victim-blaming.

The framework I have for "negative" emotions is that they are inconveniences and I should not trouble other people with them. So I spend a lot of time not telling anyone about the feelings I have. My doctor asks me am I anxious or depressed and I tell her no, no, everything is fine, I'm happy, I just need to get organized and everything will fall into place.

I don't tell her I am terrified of trying, or that I have no expectation of ever being able to get organized.

Which is strange, when I think about it, because I was the most organized child in the history of the world.

This is the chain: it will take too long, it will be too hard, someone else will have to come and do it for me help me, if I can just get someone else to fix it for me this one time I will never let it get this bad again.

Usually I wind up letting it get worse every time.

Because the size of the problem is not what's overwhelming me. It doesn't matter how many dishes I let pile up in the sink; I know it will only take me a few hours to deal with them. It doesn't matter if there are only a few; I still won't do it. It's not the size of the problem or the shape of the problem or the time it will take. It's the fear.

I tell myself "I will do it but not right now" to keep from telling myself "I will never do this thing."

It isn't never. It doesn't have to be. But it feels like never.

This is the thing: oftentimes, if I can't think of a way to explain why I'm not doing it, if I have to just admit to myself that I'm afraid and I have no other excuse, I will do the thing. That is why, for instance, I passed my speech class. Why I went to the doctor on Monday. (Yes, I spent all day Monday going back and forth and not wanting being afraid to go to the doctor. Yes, I went anyway because I could not come up with any excuse not to go.)

The chain is so I don't have to do things I am afraid of. If I can't find a link in the chain that will work as an excuse, I will go and do the thing. But as soon as I think of an excuse, there's no way I will do it.

"This is an excuse," I have to learn to say to myself. "I am holding onto the chain because I don't want to face my fear."

And so, last night, reading that passage of Darkness Bright, I thought about Chains, I saw the card in my mind, and I went and got my deck and dealt the Celtic Cross.

Helpful forces surround you, the cards said to me. If you reach out your hand you can take what you need. Everything you are searching for is available if you but see it. If you would just keep walking down the path it would lead somewhere.

And I reached for the penultimate card, the card representing the results of my actions, what I am doing to the situation, to myself. I placed my hand on the back of the card and before I turned it over I knew: it was Chains.

I turned over the card. There it was. Chains. The image at the top of this post. And I said aloud, "Yeah, I knew that already. That's what I'm asking about, remember?"

And I sat for a while and I contemplated chains, and the post I was going to make today.

Then I turned over the final card, the road ahead of me and where it is leading.

The Three of Wands. Planning, teamwork, the pulling together of different elements and forces to accomplish a goal, not haphazardly but with a careful strategy. Each element complements the others. I can't do this alone. I can't do it haphazardly. I need a strategy, a balanced approach that doesn't rely only on thought or only on action.

Because that is what has been happening, my whole life. I say "I don't understand how to make myself do this thing" and I spend all my time trying to think it through; my mother (and others) says "You just do it" but that doesn't work because I don't know what to just do.

I need to find someone to help me with figuring out the plan, and I need support in carrying out the action.

But I can't afford therapy is an excuse to stay in the room. There are other ways to find someone to help. Even talking to Nigel and to people on the internet has helped. And Nigel and I can be a team about this too.

I have to tell my father. I have to tell him so he doesn't set me back by saying, when are you going to apply to jobs. Because I will eventually need someone to ask me that but it is too far ahead on the list of baby steps. Right now I need someone to be happy with me that I showered two days in a row.

Hey! Hey! I showered two days in a row! I got dressed and put in some earrings and ate a decent meal! I fed the hamsters, and I made this post, and yesterday I worked out!

Depression is whispering, you will forget to shower tomorrow, you will forget to work out on Monday, you couldn't find the mousse to do your hair, this is not a trend, don't get too comfortable, don't get too proud of yourself.

I am not going to listen. I am going to put clean sheets on the bed instead. Then I am going to read.
slythwolf: Some unlucky soul has an incomplete Pai Sho set. (Default)
Dear Wolfie,

I'm hiding from it again. I can feel myself curling in and trying to pretend that none of it is happening, that nothing matters and I don't feel this way. To say, oh, I just won't deal with it today, I can't handle it right now.

I have to practice handling it or I will never be able to.

The fear consumes me. It dictates every single thing I do. I have to find out what it comes from and what it wants before I can make it go away.

Pretending I'm not afraid by hiding does not work. It is nonsensical. Hiding is what you do when you're afraid.

I need to find little pieces of it to handle one baby step at a time.

It's like being a tiny child hiding in the corner with her hands over her head because everything is terrifying. Why is everything terrifying?

I can't decide if saying "I need to be gentle with myself, take care of myself, allow myself to feel how I feel" is productive and a good step on the way to not blaming myself for all of this OR if it's me copping out and hiding again, using it as an excuse not to do anything that might actually help.

Or if that's just me feeling guilty for giving myself love.

Is it that I'm afraid I don't deserve love? That the love I have from Nigel and from my friends and the tenuous little spark at the back of my soul saying "it's okay to be me" is all going to crack up like shot glass and crash down onto the floor and I will be alone, alone, in the darkened room, with my hands curled over my stringy hair, cold bare toes pressed against the floor curled up in the corner in my dirty nightgown wondering where did the light come from and why is it gone, was it real in the first place, who shot in the window I thought was looking out onto a peaceful landscape and where is the next shot coming from.

Because the window wasn't real. The window was imaginary. That people care about and love me only because they don't know I'm not worth it, and this is why I lie about how much I have accomplished because if I disappoint them they will take the love away.

If I disappoint them they will take the love away.

It's my mother.

Is this what it's all bound up with, all of it from top to bottom, did my mother teach me when I was very small that you are only loved if you are doing a good enough job, and knowing I can never be perfect I try to present the appearance of it--frantically running in circles like a hamster on a very small wheel never getting anywhere because I just have to keep up the appearance of movement when she happens to look knowing I have no idea how to get out of the cage or what the world is like outside or which direction to run to make her happy, not knowing what it takes to make myself happy or what that even is because the best I have managed as long as I can remember is fleeting moments of comfort/escape.

And maybe this is why I can't write anything with an actual plot because I only know how to greedily drink in the stories of others never never creating my own I'm alone in the little room wondering what's outside too afraid to cross the threshold because any step toward the door is poison the floor between littered with layers on layers of shattered glass every time the window breaks there's more and the floor is sloping back toward the corner the glass slowly sliding closer can't get as far as I used to fleeting little chances to peek outside the room I used to be able to see through the crack under the door if I crawled across just a little ways but the glass, the glass is sliding toward me, more and more all the time, I keep rebuilding the window and it just keeps breaking, no room left now beyond just the little I need to sit in my ball and cry.

In the room, when I am not looking out the imaginary window, I am always crying. Sometimes I don't remember why.

Someone always comes along and breaks the window. Most of the time I don't see who it was. I think sometimes it's me.

Can't see out except for the imaginary window. Can't get to the door. One is real and the other is false. One is close enough to touch to rain shattered glass down on my terrified head and the other is farther and farther away all the time how can this room be so small and the door be so far away. And people break the window and say why don't you get up and get out of this room and go do something, the door is right there. They don't see the pieces of broken glass. I tell them there is broken glass on the floor and I have no shoes and they tell me there are shoes on my feet and the floor is clean.

I build the window and paint a picture of what's outside it and it breaks. The window is imaginary. While it is broken I can see that there is just more wall there in the frame behind the glass. It is not a way out. I put it there so I could look at it and pretend I'm not in the room. If I don't pretend I'm not in the room I will have to get up and drag my unprotected skin over the broken glass and claw my way out and I can't, I can't. And this is circular logic because the glass comes from the window. So there is a reason I am in the room to begin with and why I wanted to hide there that has nothing to do with the window. It has to do with what's outside the door. What's outside the door is reality. There is something in reality that scared me enough to send me into the room.

I am afraid of applying to jobs because they are outside the door. I don't think they are the reason I am in the room but I would have to claw my way over broken glass to get to them and--

--and this is what is outside the door that scares me so badly is what if it's not worth it. What if I claw my way out and do everything I'm supposed to do and I just fail and fail and fail and at last I have to come back into the room again.

This has happened before. I left the room to go to college--no. No, I left the room to go to Australia. It was hard and scary and I spent the week before the plane left crying and freaking out and saying I didn't think I wanted to go, I had a bad feeling about it I always have a bad feeling about everything but I decided it would be worth it to have done it and I clawed my way out there was less glass on the floor then and I got on the plane and I went.

And it was scary and there were parts of it that were horrible I was the last one up Cook's Look and I felt so stupid and weak and useless but I did it but at least I did make it to the top and I was out of the room for a while, I made new friends and had some fun and started to feel safe outside the room and I went to college thinking I could do it I couldn't do it.

I couldn't do it.

College was scary from the beginning and I ran back to the door and dove into the corner of the room.

Over the course of my third semester I clawed my way out again but it was too late, I had spent too much time hiding in the corner and all that laborious crawling over the glass took too much time for me to go to class and a big hand from the sky came down just as I reached the door holding a notice of Academic Recess and shoved me back into the room.

I think.

I think I have been inside the room ever since I think maybe even when I was outside the room I was still in it.

I think I was starting to crawl out again while I was working at Meijer, three years knowing I could hold down a job and get raises and pay some of my own bills made me feel like maybe it was okay to come out of the room and it looked like Meijer was holding the door open for me but then they slammed it and the window shattered again.

I am afraid of applying to jobs because it took me three years to think maybe I could get out of the room and feel safe in a job and they broke it and--

the last time before that it took me a semester to crawl out of the room and I was smacked down

it took me two years to be able to start trying again

it has only been three years since the last time the door was slammed in my face

I should stop doing this math because it is going to lead me to the conclusion that I will not be able to get anywhere for another ten years so I should just give up now

The window is in the wall of the room but it is also behind my eyes.

The broken glass is on the floor but it is also in my mind.

The door is everywhere, everywhere. Always out of reach.

I need to:

- stop building the window and painting the picture, it is a waste of time, it will only break
- start picking up the glass, but not until I have let go of the window or it will still be an endless cycle
- get to where I can face just crawling over it the last way because there's no way I can see it all to pick it up
- keep trying, trying, trying to find something on the other side of the door that will make it all worth it
- stop beating myself up for being afraid because it is a waste of time and energy and also it just puts more glass on the floor

maybe realize that since the door is everywhere I can turn around and it's right behind me maybe I can sneak out of the room for little bitty bits just long enough to do one thing every day just to be able to say hug to myself I got something done never tell anyone else they will just build up expectations that only makes me curl back up in the corner

There cannot be any pressure. I cannot set any deadlines. The thing about deadlines is that I always know I can't meet them. The thing about expectations is that I always know they are impossible.

I "know" I can do these things but I know I cannot. Yes as an intellectual exercise people can meet deadlines people can live up to expectations but not me.

Where it comes from, and why the room is getting deeper: everyone always told me all these great expectations they had for me (first woman President) (Nobel Prize) (Grand Unified Theory) (great American novel) (cure cancer) (world peace) but I didn't even meet the little basic stepping stones along the way (pick a major) (pass my classes) (graduate from college) (get a full-time job) (support myself) (keep myself clean).

And there is an awfully loud voice in my mind shouting "OH MY GOD YOU CAN'T EVEN FACE SHOWERING EVERY DAY YOU PATHETIC CREATURE HOW COULD YOU EVER THINK YOU COULD AMOUNT TO ANYTHING" and I "know" it the voice is lying but I know the voice is telling the truth.

I am trying to turn the whole thing around, reframe it, "I have never done anything" into "I can do anything in the world because I am starting with a clean slate". It is difficult to wipe the slate clean when I keep forgetting and writing on it all the things I have ever failed at.

It is a pretty big slate.

That is absolutely the wrong thing to say to myself. I have not actually failed at that many things. I see a lot of things as huge monumental failures that are really just little mistakes.

I am using them as excuses.

I am using them all as excuses not to crawl over the glass.

Okay. Convincing myself that in the big picture I am worthwhile is too big a step. It feels too much like building that same imaginary window.

I will not build the window. I am in the room; this is where I am. I am where I am because I choose to be here.

I have always chosen to stay in the room. I have chosen not to fight. The hand that came out of the sky to push me back in was not Michigan State University. It was me. I have chosen to stay in the room because I believe that is where I deserve to be.

I break the window because I believe I do not deserve to live in a happy fantasy.

I strew the floor with broken glass because I believe I do not deserve to escape from the room freely.

I believe I do not deserve to live happy in the real world because I cannot handle it.

The room is not safe. I pretend it's safe because it's easier to stay still and do nothing. The room is more dangerous than the real world.

I "know" all this. But I know that reality is too scary to negotiate.

I am afraid to try and fail. I have no frame of reference for trying and succeeding. The only times I have succeeded have been when I knew it was going to be so easy that there would not be any trying involved. When I couldn't help succeeding. Sometimes I think it will be like that and it turns out to be really fucking hard and I press my back into the corner even harder.

Some things that are difficult for other people I take for granted as being ridiculously easy.

Many things that other people take for granted as being ridiculously easy I find impossible.

Nothing is impossible.

I do not know how long it will take. I do not know how many times I will try and fail, how many times I will give up and have to spend days weeks months years doing nothing before I decide to try again, how steep the floor will be and how bloody my hands and knees and how heavy the door when I finally get there and how many more doors there will be outside it.

I will make it out of this room.

I love you, and that is real and not the window-picture; stay strong,


I break the window because I believe I do not deserve to live in a happy fantasy.

Epiphany: This is not true. I was mistaken.

I break the window even though I know it will cause me pain because deep down I know that the happy fantasy is not good for me, that no matter how long it takes or how much it hurts I have to get up and get out of the room.


slythwolf: Some unlucky soul has an incomplete Pai Sho set. (Default)

October 2012



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