Getting old.

Up, washed, and dressed. Ate breakfast. Didn't go back to bed. These are accomplishments, I remind myself. It wasn't long ago that I was considering soiling myself rather than getting out of bed. No, really, it was that bad. So, I guess I'm making some progress, but it's hard to tell, from moment to moment. I have to look back to see how far I've come. Looking back is hard, even if I'm just looking back a couple of weeks. I may be free of my mother's house, but it still feels as if spending time there infected me, somehow, with its miasma, and I am still working it out of my system. I was only there for six days, but it feels as if all of my past there were concentrated into those days and nights in the deepest cold of winter.

I keep dreaming of her house, of my grandmother's house (which has long-since been sold), of a reality in which I have never met my husband. I keep finding myself back there, trapped, with no way out and nothing to occupy myself. It doesn't matter that my mother is kind to me, now. I remember the screaming and yelling. I remember slamming the door in her face when she wouldn't leave me alone. All I ever wanted was to be left alone, and she never could. If she just would have backed off for a few moments and let me calm down, I wouldn't have broken that mirror. I wouldn't have screamed "I HATE YOU!" with tears streaming, through a futilely locked door that my father had the key for. I wouldn't have gotten spanked. I wouldn't have been terrified of my parents. All they would have had to do is leave me alone when I begged and pleaded.

I don't even remember what I did wrong, in most cases. I remember my father calling me a "smart mouth" for voicing my opinion or dissenting in any way, and that usually led to some kind of punishment. I hated standing in a corner. I was claustrophobic, and paranoid, and I remember I didn't like not being able to see what was happening behind me. Maybe it isn't the worst punishment ever, but to me, it felt like abuse. And if I don't even remember what I did wrong, it didn't teach me anything, did it?

My mother listened in on my phone calls. She rifled through my school stuff and read my diary. She would pull out things I had written and twist my words to make them fit her own paranoid fantasies. I was plotting against her, I was belittling her, I was spreading lies about her. Then, she would tell my father, and he would discipline me. This normally consisted of bare-assed spankings all the way up until my early teens, which I am now sure constitutes sexual abuse.

And then, there were the arguments they had with each other. They would argue loudly until the wee hours of the morning, when I had school the next day. I did my best to cover my ears, but there was also a strange sense of excitement involved. When they fought, it was like watching a violent storm come in. I would listen, sometimes, hoping to hear something that would change everything. Maybe they would finally get divorced. At the time, I mostly sided with my father, because he didn't hurt me as much as my mother did. At least, that's what I thought at the time. We were "buddies." But I knew I would end up staying with my mother if they split up. I didn't care, because as long as they weren't together in the same house, there would be some peace. I didn't care, because I would find somewhere else to go.

When I was ten or eleven, my mother took me to a psychologist. It had nothing to do with helping me, and everything to do with blaming my father for everything. She basically coached me on what to tell the psychologist to make it sound like my father was the sole abuser in the household. Of course, I went off-script. I told him how scared I was of both my parents, especially my mother. In the end, the psychologist asked to see my mother, and recommended that she go on medication. That didn't go over well. She stormed out of the office and threatened to call a lawyer. Her plan had failed. I don't remember what my punishment was for that incident, but it must have been pretty bad.

I used to go to my grandmother's house every Friday evening after school, and spend the night. My parents would pick me up the following Saturday morning. I have a lot of good memories of those Fridays with my grandparents. We would go to Metroparks and walk in the woods, get ice cream, and sometimes even go to the toy store. It was a reprieve from my parents' fighting. As fucked-up as my relationship with my grandmother was, I always trusted her far more than I ever trusted my mother. I told her things I would never tell my mother, to this day. My grandmother didn't judge me or threaten me. She treated me the way she should have treated my mother when she was young, but didn't. Yes, my mother got it from somewhere, and that somewhere was my grandparents. I know she was shamed and beaten and afforded no privacy. I feel for her, now, but I couldn't understand, then. (Oddly, my mother says she always trusted my great-grandmother more than she trusted my grandmother, so perhaps it's generational.)

Flash forward, now, to me staying with my mother as an adult. It was always between things- relationships, attempts at college, or jobs. Every time I would fail at something, I would end up back at my mother's. It was safe there, in terms of food and shelter, but it was anything but safe emotionally. Ah, but at least then, I had some friends in the area, and I could escape to the familiarity of the community college during the day. I never graduated, but that community college became my home. Going to classes gave me purpose. I had some money from financial aid that was mine alone, untouchable by my mother. I had some freedoms. It wasn't so bad, because I knew I had a way out. I always figured out a way to escape. With that in mind, I was able to let the memories, and whatever weird shit my mother pulled while I was there, roll off me. I was, in some ways, stronger for having to deal with her every day. I was also in my 20s and early 30s, still, and hadn't really started to feel "old" yet.

All of these memories are bubbling up like a badly-digested meal. Even if I'm not actually thinking about the specifics of past events, my brain can't seem to buffer the feelings surrounding them with the healing comfort of time. I do feel old, now, and it is terrifying to realize that if something happened to Matt, I would probably be back at my mother's again. If something happened to Matt, I would, in all likelihood, lose the will to live. That scares me, because my life should be more than one person. My life should be my own, and not contingent upon another's. It's not romantic. It's not cute. It's horrifying.

I have suffered, over the last few months, a slow loss of identity. I have gradually stopped doing things that I enjoy because of pain, both emotional and physical. It started before I began my withdrawal from Percocet. The period of withdrawal, followed by a traumatic week steeped in sickly memories, have deepened my depression to the point of suicidal ideation. As I've said before in this journal, I do follow a kind of protocol with those thoughts. I just accept that they're there, and that they can't hurt me, because they are just thoughts. I remind myself of things that are good and stable that I have to live for, and of all the people I would hurt if I took my own life.

But I am so goddamned tired. I've developed high blood pressure, which I believe is mostly a result of emotional stress. (It sure doesn't make a lot of sense that I would lose weight and raise my blood pressure.) Benzos aren't helping. I'm now taking a diuretic, but it doesn't seem to be helping. On top of that, I still have at least one kidney stone, which could just sit there, or start moving at any time. I'm on potassium to try to break it up. My back pain isn't getting any better, despite the injections. I feel like all I do is go to the doctor. I definitely feel older than my years, beginning and ending each day with a handful of pills.

How did I go from being a child to being an old woman in such a short time?

Choices.

It's Monday. I'm home, Matt's home, no one else is here. Everything is "normal." I think I'm starting to feel better, but I'm afraid to even say that, lest I backslide again. I have had a few moments today in which I felt panicky, but mostly, I've been calmer. I've had a chance to process some of the stuff that happened over the six days I stayed with my mother.

It was definitely a step in the wrong direction. I don't know why I thought it would be a good idea in the first place. Perhaps it was some misplaced want of familiarity, a hope that going "back to my roots" would re-awaken the old me. My stay there did none of that. Before I went to my mother's, I had been slowly starting to feel better. I'd gotten some of my appetite back, and I was pushing myself to go out and do things. I was still fighting severe anxiety most of the time, but I felt like I was making some progress.

At my mother's, I was traumatized the entire week. I felt traumatized throughout the weekend after, despite the presence of my girlfriend and her husband. I still feel traumatized today. I close my eyes, and I see my room at my mother's. I hear that damn clock chiming in the living room, the clock that she's had since I before I was born. (My first word was "clock," or rather, "gock," when I pointed to it as a baby.) I hate that clock.

My room was not as I had left it. My mother, a life-long hoarder, had moved in all sorts of clutter. My desk was covered with so many knick-knacks that I couldn't even put my computer on it. I tried not to look at the "shrine" my mother had created on my dresser, with pictures of me in elaborate frames surrounded by figurines and tchochkes I thought I'd gotten rid of years ago. (My mother always went through my trash before I had a chance to put it out.) I found myself unable to leave my bed for anything except food and the toilet, and even that took an enormous amount of effort. My mother, as I said, was kind to me throughout my stay, treating me as if I were sick with the flu or something like that. She would bring me food and water. We would talk, some. We didn't fight at all. She was being a decent human being. It didn't matter.

I couldn't shake the memories. I couldn't stop the feeling that I was going to be trapped there indefinitely, and with two feet of snow falling during my stay, it seemed I was imprisoned in a snowy fortress. I had a shirt that Matt had worn before he left, and I clung to it as if it were the last thing I had to remember him by. Even when he called me, it felt like I was talking to a ghost.

I almost never shut the TV off the entire week. It was the only reminder that there was actually a world outside my mother's house. Sometimes, this soothed me, but other times, it made me cry, because it seemed like I would never be part of that world again. I knew it was irrational. I knew that my fears had no basis in reality, at least my current reality. It didn't matter. At times, I was afraid to move, as if the mere action of sitting up in bed was going to throw me into a state of pure panic. I did a lot of lying in bed, staring at nothing.

I am not sure that having Kate and Paul stay with us for the weekend immediately following my incarceration was good timing. On one hand, they were both there for me. On the other hand, it was stressful, because there were now four people in the apartment instead of just two, and at that point, I really just wanted to spend time with Matt. But, they understood. Kate and Paul were both very patient with me, and didn't pressure me to go out and do anything. They just spent time with me and did things like remind me to eat. I think it took some of the pressure off Matt, which was good.

Yesterday, it was time for them to leave. They had assumed I would not be up to coming with them for the trip back to Stow. Just before they left, though, something yanked me out of bed, and I found the strength to come to the top of the stairs and say, "Hey, wait up." I pulled on some clothes, not really caring what I looked like. A five-hour road trip (2.5 down and 2.5 back) is a difficult proposition for me on the best of days, and this was not my best day, but I went anyway. I wanted a few more hours with my friends, even if it meant fighting the panic and depression and being physically uncomfortable in the car. It wasn't easy. The anxiety followed me throughout the entire trip. I'm still glad I went. I did not feel good during the trip. In fact, I felt like shit. I still felt better that I'd gone than if I'd stayed home alone, floundering in bed for five hours.

So here's the stark, naked truth: I have drug-resistant mental illness. I can't control my brain chemicals, and I have decided to accept that I can't control the anxiety, panic, or depression. What I can control are my choices. If I choose to face the monsters and do things anyway- things that are scary, things that might trigger me- then maybe, little by little, I can learn to live again. It is hard to make those choices. There is always something that seems easier. Staying in bed instead of getting up. Sitting on the couch playing with my phone all day instead of getting on my computer and writing. Knocking myself out with Benadryl instead of facing the day. Taking glucose tablets instead of eating when my sugar is low. Staying home instead of going food shopping. Taking a nap instead of helping Matt with the dishes. The easier choice is almost always the worse choice, and I am not always going to be successful in going with the harder, but better choice. More difficult, still, is not berating myself for taking the easy way out when I can't manage the better choice. If I do that, I will sap my own strength. I will sabotage myself.

So, next steps. I'm going to the doctor about my high blood pressure and my IBS, both of which have become a problem since I went off Percocet. Both are related to my increased anxiety and depression. I also have more analgesic injections scheduled for my back and my neck. Maybe if I can get treatment for some of my physical symptoms, I will feel stronger. Eventually, I want to find a place to take Tai Chi lessons. I think any sort of martial art discipline would do me a lot of good, physically and spiritually. Maybe I can get back into my vet assistant studies if my back feels better. Maybe I can start to go places on my own again, without Matt. You know, be a somewhat-functional human again. I sure hope so.

I thank the gods that I've found the strength just to make these tiny steps. I am surrounded by love, even if I can't feel it sometimes. I want for nothing. There is no material comfort I could wish for that I do not have. My life is good. All I want is to be able to enjoy it.

A week in Purgatory

I've often referred to time living with my mother as being in Purgatory. It's not quite Hell, but it certainly isn't heaven. Every time I have stayed with her for more than a day, in the past, had been because I failed at something- school, a relationship, a job, or life in general. My mother's house is filled with terrible memories of my childhood traumas, and of my failures as an adult. I had hoped this time would feel different. My relationship with my mother had improved over the past year or so. I wanted this time here to be a healing time, a time to reconnect with her and some of the few positive memories of my past. I knew I would have no responsibilities, and that she would take care of me. Unfortunately, it did not turn out like I hoped it would, and it wasn't my mother's fault. In fact, she has been nothing but kind to me for my entire stay.

But my brain could not wrap itself around the fact that it was temporary, that I was not going to be stuck here indefinitely, and that Matt was going to pick me up at the end of the week. And it sank in that most of my friends in the area had scattered to the wind, and those I had reached out to didn't care to visit because of the weather. Since I've been here, I haven't bathed or even changed clothes until this morning. Almost two feet of snow has fallen over the week. In this semi-rural area, it feels like I am isolated from everything. It will only be a matter of hours, now, before Matt comes to take me home, but it feels like days.

I would love to believe that once I get out of here, I will feel better, but I know better by now. This anxiety and depression follow me everywhere I go. Yes, it will be a comfort to be home with Matt and my kitties, but I know the illness will still be there, just as it's been for the last month. Even my anti-anxiety meds don't help. I don't know what to do anymore. I am desperate to feel better. I don't want to die, but I feel like I'm dying inside anyway.
Gods, please help me. It's not fair to me or anyone around me that I should be like this. I know Matt misses me, but I am sure a week away from my illness did him good. He's bringing Kate and Paul. I will be glad to see them, but I don't know how I am going to get through the weekend if they want to go out. There is always something around the corner to dread, isn't there? I want to stop thinking and feeling like this more than anything in the world. I am tired of writing about it. I am tired of living it. I am just tired.