Thursday, March 31, 2011

September 1998

*Written in 2005 with the help of Reese and Stephanie, this is an account of the the events that led to The Crew being seen and recognized. Diagnosis wouldn't be official for several months.*

"bitch."

There is is again. Every time I walk past a mirror, the words fly out of my mouth. I can't seem to stop it. I've learned to avert my eyes in the living room and to concentrate my focus so I do not have to glance at my reflection in the mirrored wall behind the tv. It's easier now there's an entertainment center there. Most of the wall is covered and I don't have to deal with the jolt of seeing my own face each time I pass through the room.

I dropped the three girls at school and came back home less than an hour ago. It's a quiet fall morning and the sun is streaming through the living room skylight. Daniel is happily watching Blue's Clues and playing with his Hot Wheels. John is napping in his crib. Laundry is done. The house is tidy and all is quiet until two pm when we leave to pick up the girls from school.

I pick up a book but cannot concentrate. There are four or five crochet projects in various stages of completion but I can't be bothered. There are no pressing chores, no large jobs I can bury myself in and fear crawls up my back to whisper what ifs in my ear. I have to drown out the noise.

I've taken to calling Pat every day. We talk about when we both lived in Virginia and about her son. It's amazing that he was a student at the school when I volunteered there but we never met until we both lived in South Carolina.

We talk about how things have gone downhill since John had Pertussis as a newborn. We talk about my history and the years in and out of hospitals... and we talk about my growing desperation. We don't talk about the fact I am coming to rely on hearing her voice on the other end of the phone. I don't tell her that as long as we talk, I can ignore the sense I'm being swallowed in darkness again. I don't tell her I am collecting razor blades for the first time in nine years. I don't tell her about any of this but she can hear it anyway. Maybe not the specifics but she knows I'm sinking fast and reaching out. She's encouraging counseling or medication again and I fight her. I've been down that road and crashed too many times. Please, Pat, just let's talk.

I don't call today. Daniel wants me to play cars with him. I sit on the floor in the kitchen and try but it's as if my imagination has died. I cannot grasp his simple game nor even participate in the lively discussion his car wants to carry on with mine. From nowhere, helpless rage floods me and I begin to shake with the effort not to yell at my son. All he wants is time with Mommy and I can't give it to him. He doesn't deserve this.

The tears are there behind my eyes but they haven't fallen in more than a year. Sitting on the floor with my little boy, I'm lost and the darkness rolls in again.

At two o'clock I sit up as if an alarm has gone off. I've been sprawled on my bed for I don't know how long. It's time to get the girls. The house is quiet save the sound of the television. Is John awake? Has he been in his crib this whole time? Did they get lunch? I don't even know how long I've been in here. I start singing before I go into the bathroom to brush my hair. Maybe it will stop the condemning words from escaping my lips as I stand in front of the mirror.

John comes toddling into the room dragging his security blanket behind him and I realize I must have taken him from his crib at some point. His diaper is clean but I don't remember changing it. I'd like to believe that I've done more than tend to their basic physical needs but know once again, they've been left to entertain themselves while Mommy spent the day in a daze.

As I'm getting the boys settled in their car seats, I promise myself I'll stay out of the bedroom and with the kids this afternoon. All three girls will have homework and they'll need supervision. I can't just disappear until dinner and expect them to fend for themselves... but even as I think it I know, it won't be long before the normal sounds of home... the sounds that usually are like music to me will overwhelm me and I'll spend what's left of the day hiding in my room.

I don't know how much longer this can continue.



Fall 1994 Entry 6

This entry was written a few days after firing Dr. M. J***** was my closest friend.

J***** said that I have to believe that I am a good enough reason to go through all this. I can't do it for the kids or Charlie or any other reason. If I am not doing it for myself, if I can't convince myself that am worthy of something better, I'll never achieve it. She's right.

The problem right now is that I can't see enough good in myself to believe it. Lord, I wish you would tell me why all of this had to happen. I know I will never have the answer but I want it anyway. Why couldn't I receive love and patience and care from the people I loved? Why couldn't I be protected? If what you say about me is true, then why can't I believe it? Is it as simple as making a choice to believe? I want to believe that I am worthy of your love, that I am worthy of joy. I can't get past my mistakes. I can't get past all the stupid stuff I do and all the problems I carry around.

Father, it hurts so much. I have been fighting it for so long. I punish myself for my mistakes by refusing to allow myself peace. I don't want to forgive myself for the things I do because I don't want to take responsibility for myself and my problems. I know I am making mistakes in the way I respond to just about everything but I want it to be excused and accepted because I don't know anything else. I want to be loved and accepted the way I am without having to change. That doesn't sound right. I mean I want to change, I just don't want to have to look at myself to do it. I don't know how to look at myself honestly without my hate for myself growing stronger. People tell me my life's circumstances are responsible for the way I see myself and my life but I was raised to believe it was my fault. Everything is always my fault. I don't know where to draw the line between what is mine to deal with and what isn't.

Every mistake I make is proof to me that what I was taught is true. Making mistakes makes you bad. Making mistakes is unforgivable. I can't let myself or anyone forgive me because I don't deserve it. If the world won't give me the hate I deserve, then I will.

God, oh Father, I don't want to look at myself. Please show me what I need to see. I have no one but you who can give me the answers I need. I know you can show me the truth. Please Lord, show me the truth. Show me the way out of this prison. Light a candle in the darkness. Please show me. Lord I need to see you in me. I need to find my way. Lord please show me the way.

I choose. What do I choose? I choose to believe you. I am worthy of your love. I deserve peace and joy. I don't have to hate myself. I don't have to punish myself. I don't have to hurt this way. But, oh God, I do hurt. I do hate. Show me how to love and let you love me.


Fall 1994 Entry 5

Just a note to mention this entry doesn't indicate there had been an attempt at suicide during this time. It was referring to the half dozen or so sincere efforts made in the past. It's also worth noting this was one of those times when The Crew were not entirely silent, inside or out. So much of these 5 entries sounds like Stephanie, it's almost eerie, especially with the occasional references to myself in the third person... because I can remember hunching over the computer pounding out these entries.

Just give it up. Fuck! I wish it was so easy. I am so sick of everything. Why the fuck didn't I just die? Why can't I throw it all away and die now? I hate living so much right now. I hate living!!!!!!!! I want to scream at the top of my lungs. I hate living! God, I hate you more and more each day. When will this end?

I know it's up to me but I don't know what I'm supposed to do. How do I let it go? How do I do this?

I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!Marisa, you are without a doubt, the biggest piece of shit to ever walk this earth. What is your fucking problem? Why can't you stop being such a fuck?

Oh God, it just keeps getting worse and worse. I can't hold on anymore. If I don't find a way out, I don't now what's going to happen. Oh God, help me. I can't hold on anymore. Oh please make it stop. I am such a stupid fuck. I can't do anything right. There is no way out. Oh God, what do I do? God, help me please. Fuck! I can't do this anymore! I can't hold on. What am I supposed to do? God, I want to die. Oh, polease help me. Please, oh God, what do I do? What am I supposed to do? What will make it stop?


Wednesday, March 30, 2011

Fall 1994 Entry 4

I'm not sure if I should be proud of myself or not. For the last three days I have successfully convinced everyone around me that things are fine. No one that I am aware of has the slightest clue of that is really going on. I can't tell if that is a good or a bad thing. If I do eventually blow up, which is what usually happens, people will be taken by surprise. On the other hand, if they can see the stress, they will all be walking on eggshells around me knowing I'm about to freak. Which is worse?

I have to say thought that after three days of pretending, I am getting really sick of it. What I would like to do is scream and curse for a while. For God's sake, why does this have to be so hard? I was able to escape for all of about three house last night and then it all came back. What the hell am I supposed to do? What is next? I can't keep up this game. Even if I keep it all under wraps until next week, what good will it do? It will all just start over then. I will drag it all up only to take it back home again.

Okay, so I have to get to a point of trusting God with it all. How? How do I get to that point? I do not want to hear that it is as simple as just making a decision, though it probably is.

Why can't someone explain it in a way I can understand and accept? I guess because that's not possible. I am so sick and tired of this shit! I want it over, dammit! When its it ever going to end? Let's see, is that self-pity I am feeling? Yes, I do believe it is. Well, I guess that makes me a miserable little shit. What is my fucking problem? I swear I can't do anything right. Even if I can it doesn't matter a bit because I don't believe it. I am a fuck up. I fuck up everything. Those goddamned labels that come screaming at me with every thought and every word I speak. I can't react right to anything. I can't feel anything right. I can't see anything right. I am fed up with the lie that I am anything other than what I believe, yet at the same time I desperately want to believe it.

I am such a fuck!


Fall 1994 Entry 3

I don't buy the lie that God will actually change anything. My life is my life. My memories are mine. They are the only things in my life that are constant. Now you tell me God wants them too. I don't believe that if I let God "change" my memories that the emotion will automatically change too. Even if that is true, what makes you think I want to give them up? They are what define me. I am what I feel. Dammit! I have never in my life been allowed to express what I feel without condemnation. Now you tel me that it is okay to express my feelings but that God is first going to change everything so that what I feel now won't be there to express. Where is the fucking justice in that? I don't want God to change my anger. I want to be angry. I am angry but I will never be allowed to let it out. If I five it to God, He's going to change it into something it is not. I want my anger and if I give it to God, I want it intact. Don't change what I feel! I have a right to feel it. If you change it, you take away my right to it. You tell me it is my right to feel what I do but that it's not good enough got you to accept it as it is. You can have wrath of your own but you can't accept mine without changing it first. If you love me as you say you do then why can't you let me show my anger in all its hideous glory? Why do you have to change it to make it acceptable? It's just another set of impossible fucking rules.

Why, why, why? There is no point in getting upset about the unfairness of it all. Who ever said life was fair? Well, I'm pissed anyway.





Fall 1994 Entry 2

I'm tired of this whole mess. Right now I would love to say, fuck it all. I promised myself on the way home I would do this without rules. Say whatever I want, without worrying if it makes any sense or if it's written properly. Who gives a fuck? It's not like it's being graded. Whose correction am I afraid of? Other than my own, of course.

I was so angry on the way home today. I'm so tired of having to drag all of this shit up, look at it then take it all back home with me. What's the fucking point behind circling our wagons? The whole concept seems pretty fucking stupid to me. It seems to imply that there is some kind of togetherness. Bullshit. Togetherness my ass. Who has to take all of this shit home? It doesn't get left in that damn office. Circling wagons is a way of providing protection from some outside danger. First of all, the danger is on the inside. My inside to be specific. What the fuck do you think you are protecting me from? When I go home, my shit comes with me. You don't take it with you.

I'm so sick and tired of hearing how you know everything. So you've been doing this for more than twenty years. So the fuck what? I know there is not a fucking thing I can say or do that you have not seen or heard. Is that simple fact alone supposed to give me confidence in you? Hell, I've been a piece of shit longer than that. I've been doing what I do all my miserable fucking life.

That I am not unique is an established fact. Being constantly reminded of that fact does nothing to make me feel better. Being a miserable fuck-up is my greatest talent and I can't even do that well. It's all been done, it's all been said and it has all been felt before. Just another invalidation of Marisa.

I want someone to play by my rules, dammit! I have spent my whole life living by someone else's rules. What good has it done me? While God's rules are all nice and good, living by them done nothing to ease my pain. So far, trying to do it His way has only made things worse. I am not willing to buy the lie that all this agony will ever be worth it.

What the fuck is it going to take? I am in this goddamned box and there is no fucking way out. We know my way won't work. The problem is, my way stands in the way of everything else. I have to get past the walls to get past the walls. How the hell do I do that? How the hell do I get past my own shit to deal with the rest?

I can't get angry because I have no acceptable way to express it. I can't act on my anger because it puts me in trouble or danger or both. I can't verbalize my anger because even trying brings on the desire to act on it. I don't buy the lie that talking about it will relieve the desire to act.






Tuesday, March 29, 2011

Fall 1994 Entry 1

An MS Word journal kept during a brief period of counseling in late 1994. The depressive cycle had come around again. The "wall" between myself and my alters had been up for 3 1/2 years. This is the only writing prior to 1998 that had not been destroyed. The following 6 entries were written over the course of about 2 weeks.


I guess I have avoided this long enough. After last week I really did not want to do this anymore. There are so many things that I am trying to avoid. Sometimes I think I know what they are and other times I have no clue. I've spent so much time in a panic and I want it to stop. Sometimes I think I know how to make it stop and other times I have no idea.

I'm so tired of feeling like this. I know there is something blocking it but I don't know what.

I think I am afraid of this being too easy. I can't believe that as much as I want to feel better, I am willing to stay as I am, just because I don't know anything else. I have been this way, thought this way, had these problems for so many years, I am actually willing to stay this way because it is comfortable.