Living a life sentence
It's well after midnight. I should be asleep. I sit here looking around my room. I will tell people who come over for the first time that my house is like a cross between a bachelor's pad and Ripley's Believe it or not. I tell them they could spend days in here and still not see everything. I have quite a collection of unique things that seem to reflect who I am.
Sitting in my bed, I look around. In one corner hangs 3x5 flags for Argentina and Florida, a shout out to my mission. Closer up the wall, dance photos from my last few years in Charleston. A blank spot on the wall still awaits copies of my dance pictures when I was growing up. My Philadelphia Eagles memorabilia takes over half a wall and on another half, plaques and educational degrees. There's more, yet you get the idea.
It all screams "accomplished" and "successful" and a whole list of positive an motivating words. It would be interesting to let a stranger come look through my house and then give their thoughts on what I might be like just based on what they saw. That will never happen, especially since I don't let people I know in my house very often.
Of all the "light" that shows through the photos, trinkets, and more, there is still a darkness in there. I am quickly reminded of it as I start working on a narrative of my stay in the hospital back in 2000. Tami thinks it will help me with the anger. It is slow going and my memories are more feelings than events anymore. I have tried hard to forget a lot of it, yet as hard as I try, it still remains - reminding me often that most things on these walls are just smoke and mirrors. Moments in time that tried to cover up the bad person, the one who failed, the one who was not strong enough.
I am continually reminded in my head "if they knew the truth, you would be all alone." I know it is a myth...or at least I really hope so. I still have not made peace with my week in the hospital psych ward. Although I have started to try and tell myself that it was just trying to get help, there is that part of me that is not ready to let go of "you were bad, and that was your punishment." Working on the narrative only riles up that piece that I have done well keeping quiet lately.
It's all part of that double standard thing. I would never judge someone for being an inpatient. It's not my place. Everyone has their own demons. For me, though, I am ashamed of it. I find no joy in it being a part of my life. I find moments to laugh about part of it in hopes of making the sting a little less. The whole experience hovers over me like a dark cloud, reminding me continually that I couldn't make it.
I have a career. I have an education. I own my house. I have two cars - ok, so one doesn't run, yet I have it. For the most part, my health is good. I should be enjoying every day of life. I am slowly learning how. Even with it all, things that were not handed to me, things I worked and sacrificed for, I continue to struggle with allowing myself to feel I deserve any of it.
I fight with feeling I am less. Less of a person, less than everyone else. Less deserving, less worthy, less worthy of love. Even being at a place in my life now where I can logically place the pieces that prove I am not, being less still prevails. It has to be frustrating to my therapists to see me continually falling backwards into the thought pattern. I know it has to be because it is frustrating for me.
Tess has this one behavior where she will refuse to go through a doorway or cross over a divider. I recently got to thinking about it and I concluded that somewhere in her past, she had to wear one of those shock collars they have for the invisible fences. It might also explain the bare spot on her neck. Here is the thing - there is no collar anymore as there is no electric fence, yet she still remembers and reacts. Even in a safe environment, possibly the safest she has ever been in, she still remembers and reacts.
I still remember. Whether it was the correct information or not that was engrained into my memory, it is still there. I still react. Surrounded by good, I still fear it will all go away. Going into the hospital was my punishment for not being mentally strong. Living with the shame and disgrace has been my punishment for giving in and voluntarily admitting myself. There were no winners from that experience, everyone involved lost something.
Hopefully, working through the narrative will help put it in a different perspective. Maybe there can be some healing for the person who came out of there.
Sitting in my bed, I look around. In one corner hangs 3x5 flags for Argentina and Florida, a shout out to my mission. Closer up the wall, dance photos from my last few years in Charleston. A blank spot on the wall still awaits copies of my dance pictures when I was growing up. My Philadelphia Eagles memorabilia takes over half a wall and on another half, plaques and educational degrees. There's more, yet you get the idea.
It all screams "accomplished" and "successful" and a whole list of positive an motivating words. It would be interesting to let a stranger come look through my house and then give their thoughts on what I might be like just based on what they saw. That will never happen, especially since I don't let people I know in my house very often.
Of all the "light" that shows through the photos, trinkets, and more, there is still a darkness in there. I am quickly reminded of it as I start working on a narrative of my stay in the hospital back in 2000. Tami thinks it will help me with the anger. It is slow going and my memories are more feelings than events anymore. I have tried hard to forget a lot of it, yet as hard as I try, it still remains - reminding me often that most things on these walls are just smoke and mirrors. Moments in time that tried to cover up the bad person, the one who failed, the one who was not strong enough.
I am continually reminded in my head "if they knew the truth, you would be all alone." I know it is a myth...or at least I really hope so. I still have not made peace with my week in the hospital psych ward. Although I have started to try and tell myself that it was just trying to get help, there is that part of me that is not ready to let go of "you were bad, and that was your punishment." Working on the narrative only riles up that piece that I have done well keeping quiet lately.
It's all part of that double standard thing. I would never judge someone for being an inpatient. It's not my place. Everyone has their own demons. For me, though, I am ashamed of it. I find no joy in it being a part of my life. I find moments to laugh about part of it in hopes of making the sting a little less. The whole experience hovers over me like a dark cloud, reminding me continually that I couldn't make it.
I have a career. I have an education. I own my house. I have two cars - ok, so one doesn't run, yet I have it. For the most part, my health is good. I should be enjoying every day of life. I am slowly learning how. Even with it all, things that were not handed to me, things I worked and sacrificed for, I continue to struggle with allowing myself to feel I deserve any of it.
I fight with feeling I am less. Less of a person, less than everyone else. Less deserving, less worthy, less worthy of love. Even being at a place in my life now where I can logically place the pieces that prove I am not, being less still prevails. It has to be frustrating to my therapists to see me continually falling backwards into the thought pattern. I know it has to be because it is frustrating for me.
Tess has this one behavior where she will refuse to go through a doorway or cross over a divider. I recently got to thinking about it and I concluded that somewhere in her past, she had to wear one of those shock collars they have for the invisible fences. It might also explain the bare spot on her neck. Here is the thing - there is no collar anymore as there is no electric fence, yet she still remembers and reacts. Even in a safe environment, possibly the safest she has ever been in, she still remembers and reacts.
I still remember. Whether it was the correct information or not that was engrained into my memory, it is still there. I still react. Surrounded by good, I still fear it will all go away. Going into the hospital was my punishment for not being mentally strong. Living with the shame and disgrace has been my punishment for giving in and voluntarily admitting myself. There were no winners from that experience, everyone involved lost something.
Hopefully, working through the narrative will help put it in a different perspective. Maybe there can be some healing for the person who came out of there.