There is a Ukrainian orphanage not far from the site of the debris from Malaysian Airlines MH 17. This week the staff have had to send away 200 plus children from the orphanage to somewhere the children "could heal". Last Thursday as the children were playing in the fields next to the orphanage, bodies started to rain down around them. Not just bodies but body parts. Can you imagine that? For the life of me I can't imagine bodies falling from the sky around me. I am thankful that I can't imagine it. But these children will always know.
In all the horrific news this past week, this story really struck me. Firstly the innocence of children being caught up in the wars happening on our planet. But more so because these children live in an orphanage and by that sheer fact it is reasonable to assume that they have already suffered more trauma than any person should. And now to have to be sent away from their 'home' so that they can heal from more trauma just seems so wrong to me. These children deserve the protection of adults, yet it is adults who are making these wars.
Another news story and children were playing hide and seek on the beachfront of Gaza when missiles launched in hatred rained down on the children, both killing some and injuring others. Again, children who should be safe.
There has been so much tragedy, affecting thousands of innocent people. And it continues. What scares me perhaps most is that this becomes common place. That we somehow become comfortable with the bloodshed. Of course those affected personally, those who have lost loved ones, they will never become comfortable with it. But what about the rest of us? Do we just become used to this? Please god, no!
If my counting is correct, there have been three planes down this past week. Three planes too many. A quick search on the net today tells me that something like 15 planes have been shot down since the 1980s. I admit I don't remember any of them. When the tragedy of MH17 is foremost in our minds this week, it is hard to imagine that we could forget. But we will. We will move on and there will be some other tragedy in the news.
I believe that we owe it to the children to remember. To say this is wrong, and to keep saying it until it is heard. It is one thing to say that Ukraine and Gaza are so far away. "What can we do?" "It was not our playing fields where bodies rained down on innocence." That is so true, but it could easily have been our children, our people.
I do not believe that war is the answer in any of these situations. Bloodshed of innocent people is just wrong. And if we don't start saying it more, then no one is going to hear.
I feel heartbroken by what is happening in our world. I can't bear to watch news reports. Like reports of lines of hearses in The Netherlands yesterday waiting to take bodies away for identification. Recently I haven't been able to cry, even though there have been plenty of things to cry about. Simply there have been no tears. But now I cry.
It would be easier to not watch the footage. It would be easier to say "it's too hard to watch" but I think I owe it to the victims to watch. More so, I think I owe it to the victims to speak out and say that this is wrong. There has to be another way. I believe that way is peace. And if we, the relatively unaffected, don't say so then who will?
Caution: This post contains a (small) mention of self harm and eating disorders. Read at your discretion.
Today my family are gathering together. No special reason, except that it is a rare opportunity when we are all in the same place at the same time. My memory is a little hazy but I'm guessing that it is about 18 months since we have been altogether. Of course, one important person will be missing. My father who died over three years ago is a very big absence in the room. Perhaps especially because Dad was always my reason for being part of the family. Now I feel a little lost without him there.
Family gatherings are something I find hard. I have fallen near the tree yet I struggle to find a place for myself amongst that basket of apples. I don't fit. Perhaps I should say I don't feel I fit. Actually I have never felt I belonged there. I guess, that I have felt an outsider in so much of life, and the family context is just one more.
In the past I have tried very hard to get my family to reject me. I grew up with this notion of unconditional love, which I didn't believe really existed and also didn't really understand. I spent years doing and being something that I expected my family would reject. I would prove that this unconditional love thing was a hoax. To my surprise, they didn't reject me. Perhaps they didn't like what I did always, but they never rejected me. I admit I was surprised. I was sure I could prove them out, but I never did. For some reason, largely beyond my understanding, they kept on loving me.
I'm not at all sure that they necessarily like me, or actually ever liked me, but that is a different thing than love.
I don't fit. I'm not sure that I fit anywhere in this planet (except maybe surrounded by another family of stuffed animals) and so when I am in a group (whether it is my family or any other) I feel out of place.
While my siblings were creating marriages and families (very lovable families at that), I was creating a canvas across my body of places I had dragged the razor blade, not to mention destroying my own marriage.
When they were building careers, I was focussed on starving myself and plans for death.
When they were building lives, I was gradually destroying mine.
Admittedly I am not in that destruction phase now, but I know it still hovers not far from the distance. That's just what chronic mental illness does.
When their children are growing up (fast), I am by choice, alone. I don't know how to be anything else, nor do I think I want to.
My life has turned out (so far) very different from my family. Practically, I have no idea what to talk about with them. My interests, let alone my goals are so very different. But more than that, I just feel like I have no right to belong. My achievement for life is to still be living today, and while that is big for me, I know it is not easily comprehended by others. Nor is it something to talk about around the dinner table while the children play. It's a conversation stopper rather than anything else. I just don't know how to fit into the conversation in the room.
I'm more comfortable outside with my good canine friend Duncan. He will no doubt be locked in his kennel today, to protect unfamiliar children and Grandma who risks being knocked over in his exuberance and friendliness. Frankly I would almost be happier out in the kennel with Duncan. He's not worried about social niceties, careers and school reports. He's not worried about having conversation.
But it's not like that, is it? I can't hang out in the kennel, and to be honest sometimes Duncan's kennel needs some 'housekeeping'.
It's another time when I have to be with the people, yet I feel so out of place.
My family are good people and I know they love me. I want, and need them in my life. I'm still not convinced that it's unconditional love but I've stopped trying to prove that. I'm not sure that humans are capable of unconditional love, but maybe that's another topic.
I know my family have suffered in a different way, during the years of my destruction. But they seem to have little understanding of my life of chronic illness, both mental and physical. We are two types of apples, from the one tree. I want to be with my family today, but yet again I have no idea of how to be with them. Somehow Duncan is so much easier.
Here's a bit of free advice. Well, anything here is free but this is worth taking if you're not too strong in the 'wise' department. Don't under any circumstances say "that's nice, dear" to anyone unless you're absolutely sure that 'that' is actually 'nice'. If you say it just to be 'nice' but haven't checked whether it is actually nice, haven't even heard what was actually said, or just making conversation… you're getting yourself into hot water. Being told "that's nice, dear" is not at all nice when 'that' is anything but nice.
What does 'that's nice, dear' mean anyway? Nothing. It's simply something to say when you can be bothered saying something real. In other words, it's not worth saying, so don't say it.
And just while we're at it, forget about ever saying "I told you so". That might seem obvious but I heard that one this week.
It's been a trying week in Cate's world. A little too much of 'Cate versus Cate's mind'. A few 'that's nice,dear's didn't go down too well, especially followed up by "I told you so". They never do, but this week I just wasn't in the mood for meaningless words. I would rather have had silence. Actually I always prefer silence. Silence in a wonderful thing… until you start thinking too much.
I know that it is often said that we should let go of the things we have no control over. But that is so hard. I have so much in my life right now over which I have no control, and actually letting some of them go is not an option. I'm the first to admit that I could let go of some of those things, the problem is that I don't want to. Yes, mindfulness would work… if I wanted it to. That might sound crazy but I'm one of those people who likes to have worked everything out in my mind before I let it go. I want to understand the puzzle, understand what I could or couldn't have done differently. I want to know that others in the situation are okay, and even if I have no control over that, I still want to work it all out in my mind so I can get some peace. If I simply let it all go, my mind might be easier in some respects but I feel like I don't have closure.
For a moment, let's go back to my last post, Claiming My Voice Back. It wasn't the easiest to write, let alone press 'publish'. Once I had though, I began to feel pretty good. I had done it! It had taken me a year (minimum), but I had finally done it. That felt good. But then I started thinking, because in that situation of my atrociously awful internet relationship there are a whole heap of unanswered questions, which ultimately I have to simply let go. I'm never going to be able to know for sure. I know that, yet my mind that wants to 'work everything out' wants the answers anyway. So by the next day my mind was spinning wildly. And frankly, it was making me emotionally sick.
It's a bit like when you know you want some more ice cream, but you know you'll explode if you eat anymore. You give in to one side of your brain, and end up later feeling sorry. I did this to myself. I made myself emotionally sick , yet I couldn't stop trying to piece together the puzzle.
The other issue in 'the things Cate can't control' discussion, is those things that I might not be able to control, yet backing away isn't an option. Just sometimes we have to stay in the situation anyway. Those times are hard. I'm not sure if I'm sitting waiting for the train wreck in front of my eyes or just watching the sun go down. The one thing I know is that I can't back away or for that matter, turn my back. It's really hard to handle those situations. Much as I like having control in my life, I realise that I can't have control over everything (damn it!) and I have no control over the lives of those I love. I simply have to watch.
With all these things going on this week, I'm starting to think I need some help. The atrociously awful internet relationship has had a huge impact on my life in so many ways, and while I have dealt with so much of that in the past year, I am still find it incredibly hard to trust people. Anyone. Fairly intense paranoia would be a good description and I can feel myself pulling away from humankind. I realised this week I might just need some help with this. Maybe I can't do it on my own. So I'm thinking about whether to go back to therapy for a while.
I've done a lot of therapy in the past and I don't think I need anything long-term, but I am starting to realise that I can't do this alone. It is too big. Too much went terribly wrong and it's finally dawned on me that it is too much for this one woman.
When something bad happens in my life, I can use it as an excuse to destroy me… or I can get back up, tend the wounds and keep going.
If more therapy is what I need to be able to keep going, then I will find a way to make that happen.
"Another page turns on the calendar, April now, not March.
I am spinning the silk threads of my story, weaving the fabric of my world… I spun out of control. Eating was hard. Breathing was hard. Living was hardest.
I wanted to swallow the bitter seeds of forgetfulness… Somehow, I dragged myself out of the dark and asked for help.
I haven't shared this journey on this blog, mostly because until now I didn't think it was my story to tell. I posted Grieving For My Red Balloon about a year ago, but that is as far as I went. It was a very carefully constructed attempt to say "help, I'm hurting" while strangely enough trying to avoid stepping on anyone's toes. Was I kidding? Avoiding trampled toes? It was far too late for that. But then I was still being manipulated… into silence. That was all part of the game.
I'm healing now and part of that includes claiming this as my story. It doesn't belong to anyone else because I'm the one who lived it. I'm the one who was played with like a toy. I was a game. Manipulated, abused, lied to and cheated on. It's my story and I'm choosing finally to share it with you because I can.
Take your pick. You could say that I have been kissed by all three. I could go with the words of the song. If a man can be a rose (and why not?), then that is exactly how he seemed. He was a beautiful person with a very loving heart. Caring, understanding of me and my world, he promised he would never play games with my heart. He challenged my thinking and he supported my growth as a person. He wasn't perfect, like any of us but he was a person right for me.
But later I'd know that I'd met a 'monster'. His term, not mine. Personally I don't like calling human beings monsters, regardless of what they might or might not have done. But I'm using the term here simply because he used the term of himself. I regularly told him that to me he was no monster. Actually he still isn't (in my mind).
Eventually, what I only knew is that I had kissed a person with a mental illness. For that matter, so had he. No harm in that. Is there?
Back in 2012 Blogger (boy) meets Blogger (girl) in comments section of a Third Blogger's Post.
Each blogger liked the other's comments and so a friendship developed, followed quickly by a romance. I should add here that we were many miles apart, me in New Zealand and him on the other side of the world. Neither of us were looking for any kind of relationship, let alone one on the internet. Surprise!
Hang on a minute. That's how it seemed. We were both very happy and eventually we spent some time together ( I went to visit him) and after that we were planning on a life together. And this wasn't an impulsive thing, it was all carefully considered.
It was what we both wanted. I was his 'soulmate'. That's what he said, regularly. I've never been too sure on the whole 'soulmate' terminology but if there was such a thing, then this was him. He was the 'one' for me. I was never more sure of anything. My gut instinct told me that this was right.
Then one day he announced to me via the internet waves that we treasured so greatly, that he was "too sick to be in a relationship". Time out was what he wanted. My compassionate heart sprung into action and understood completely. I thought it was a break (that's what he said) and that we still had a very bright future ahead of us (together!). Yes, it would hurt but it seemed like the best thing for a apparently very depressed man.
Just days later though, he announced to his Facebook friends (including me at that point) that he had a new 'soulmate'. He was in love with another woman (any mention of me was completely gone). And they were very happy together. To add to it, she was married. That didn't seem to be an issue though. Two relationships gone with one hit.
The short version of the rest of the nightmare is that as well as cheating on me, he had lied. Actually he had lied the whole way through the year long relationship. Everything was a lie. He had manipulated me for his own deceitful purposes. He had abused me in more ways than I care to count.
I discovered that his diagnosed mental illness was not Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD) as he had always said, but was Antisocial Personality Disorder (that's right… sociopath/psychopath).
It all hurt like hell. I felt deranged and paranoid. I no longer knew what the truth was. I didn't know what to believe. Just how he wanted it. Perhaps worst at that time was that I couldn't go bang on his door to find out what the heck was happening. I eventually learnt many things. Others I simply pieced together. And yet others, I will simply never know. One of those big revelations was the reason why he would never have visited me in New Zealand. It boiled down simply to the fact that he is a convicted criminal and wouldn't have been allowed into my country. He had never admitted that.
So that's the very brief story of the last two years of my life. I fell in love with a man who simply didn't exist. Oh sure, there was a man, complete with body, but aside from the body, everything was fake. Everything he said to me was simply a story, all part of the game he was playing. The extent his lies would go to was simply limited by his acting abilities. And even before anything went wrong, I knew he would make an excellent actor.
Of course all this hurt. I cried and screamed and yelled and felt so empty, used and abused. Now days I'm moving on, but it hasn't been easy. It was far from easy and very traumatic. I'm still working on recovering, but I refuse to be held back by this anymore. When I think about all that I have been through the fact of loving someone who really didn't exist is perhaps the hardest. I had no desire for the true person revealed. That person I felt angry towards and then sad for. Incapable of a real relationship. But I still loved the person I thought I knew. How do you grieve for someone who wasn't ever there?
Yeah, I guess I was kissed by a monster (his words, not mine).
Does it seem a little strange that I'm sharing this now, particularly when I've said so little in the last year? I have realised that by staying silent, I am allowing myself to be manipulated further. I need to speak up to claim back control on my life. I have only shared the barest detail. There has been so much more, but that detail is not important. I am simply saying this is my story to tell to whom I chose. It's not done in malice but rather in claiming back my voice and with it some peace for myself.
It doesn't take much, and more often than not, it's something quite innocent. There is no intent to harm or frighten me, but yet something takes me back to live trauma all over again. In spite of the time gone past, the hours in therapy, the healing and forgiveness… it can be the most innocent thing and it feels like I'm right back there again.
A smile from the 'wrong" shape of lips.
A chance comment (which probably had nothing to do with me).
A television/movie segment that springs from nowhere.
Watching something happen in the street.
A part (or even just an observer) of a conversation.
There's so many more things that can trigger that emotional response in me that take straight back to the scene of the trauma. It happened to me yesterday. Little warning but bang, and I was scared and I was frightened. I was 'back there' with the person who had perpetrated my trauma. I was re-living it all over again, although I am clear that this was never the intention of the person that triggered me. Actually they had no idea.
Thankfully I was at home (on my computer actually) and could retreat to my safe place (in my bed with heavy covers over me and my teddy bear by my side). Safe, where I know there is nothing of which to be frightened. I can feel it physically and emotionally. I know this routine well. Thankfully a few words from a very dear friend also encouraged both that sense of safety but also affirmed that what I was feeling was valid. Perhaps the most important aspect for me in that particular situation.
Eventually my safe place worked and I could feel okay about coming out from there. But I was shattered for the rest of the day. If you'll excuse another earthquake metaphor, it was like the remainder of a day after a large quake. Shaken, bruised and wondering what the hell would come next. Wandering around the house, starring at damage, not quite sure what to do now.
I know this well, and you will too if you have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). I've learnt the routine that works for me (eventually) and I know I simply have to get away from the trigger, and get to a safe place (for me). But you know, what gets me everytime (after many years of this) is how the trauma keeps coming back. How frightening it is… everytime. That's apparently the burden of PTSD. While I know the triggers don't affect me quite so often, it seems to come back full force, every time they do. Not to mention how for some of us we seem to collect more trauma as we go. That is so not fair.
I'm okay today. Just being cautious of screens I look at and people I see. I know it's a random thing. No one meant be any harm. It was just my brain travelling back, and ouch, sometimes that hurts.
Forgiveness is one of those things that I have struggled with all my life. I'm still struggling with it, but I sense that finally I am making some progress.
As a Preacher's Kid it is understandable that the things I learnt about in my growing up years, were always flavoured with Christianity. I don't have a problem with that, although I admit it helped trip me up a few times in my attempt to understand this difficult issue. Just about everything I learnt growing up was flavoured with Christianity, so why should this be any different?
What I remember most was the 'forgive and forget' line. So I'm supposed to say that what s/he did to me is okay and then I had to forget it? Yeah right! (a popular Kiwi expression best consumed with a bottle of beer) That never made any sense from being subjected of minor bullying in the playground to much greater hurts as I grew older. I just came the conclusion many times that I simply wasn't a good Christian. Actually that was a common conclusion for me on so many issues.
As I grew older, the issue of forgiveness became more problematic, not simply because the hurts grew larger and had a much greater impact on my life, but because my belief that it was my fault I couldn't work out the forgiveness thing became even greater.
Perhaps the biggest thing I learnt wrong was that giving forgiveness was about saying what the person had done to me was okay. Because it very much wasn't okay.
Unfortunately (because it meant a whole lot of hurt happened, most of which I have been unable to mention here) this past year has seen the issue of forgiveness become critical in my life. By now I had read enough on the topic to know that if I couldn't forgive the person who caused the hurt, then it would eventually destroy me. That's not just something I read in a book, but rather something I realised for a fact as I reacted to the hurt inflicted. It was destroying me. The hurt was so bad that if I couldn't move on from it, then it was me who would be destroyed. I'm still working on the process, but forgiving the person eventually became something that simply made sense. And it separated me from the hurt.
It wasn't okay what had been done to me, and it never would be. I am very unlikely to forget what was done, and actually that's a good thing because it will hopefully help me avoid similar hurts in the future. The issue I'm still struggling with is that of forgiving myself, but then that is a whole other post.
I should add that I've tried the boredom technique he suggests. It's very long and very slow… but eventually I got there with the help of a very good therapist. The therapist was gracious enough to never mention how long it took. It must have been painfully slow for him.
Some words of wisdom bounced up onto my Twitter feed a few days ago. Words worth taking notice of.
To put these words in context, Sir Mason Durie is a now retired psychiatrist and professor of Maori Studies in New Zealand. He is well known for his leading roles in reform and issues of Maori health and Mental Health Services here. I admit that when he speaks, I listen. He knows what he is talking about and more importantly he seems to care about his patient.
We all know the experience of being labelled with illnesses, both physical and mental. Those labels tend to carry with them some assumptions and stigma. When I go to see a new health professional, regardless of whether it is my physical or mental health that is at question, I go with some trepidation. Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD) carries with it some terrible assumptions about the person to which the label has been applied. I tend to go in armed for battle. I have to convince this person that the assumptions about BPD are not who I am. Of course, if I go in too ready to fight for my right to be accepted in spite of BPD, I know only too well that I will then be labelled resistant and argumentative.
Sometimes I just can't win. There are times I go in with resignation on my mind. It's going to be too hard to fight and so I just have to accept that because I have BPD this health professional has already jumped to conclusions of who and what I am. And of course, sometimes I am simply too unwell to fight.
But why should I have to go into a doctor's office with labels and battles? How do they really assist the doctor to treat me? I can accept that it's convenient to think of me, the patient, in terms of half a dozen (perhaps more if I'm really facing the truth) labels. It's quick. It's easy. Labels are faster than sentences of pain expressed. So I can see from their perspective it might be simpler. But do those labels really help me to be treated appropriately? I don't think so.
The fact that I have BPD does not make me the same as another who has BPD. Actually there are over 250 variations of BPD before we start talking about severity and coexisting problems. The fact that some psychiatrist along the way diagnosed me with BPD, doesn't tell any doctor anything about how to treat me. Any doctor can say what is the matter with me but only if they are prepared to listen to me will they know what matters to me.
How BPD affects my life?
And the all important, how they can help me to live a fulfilling life?
I know that a doctor having the time, let alone the inclination, to ask me, to listen to me, is a bit of a sad joke considering the workloads of health professionals. A doctor listened to me the other day, and because of it, he was running behind on his schedule for the rest of the morning. He had to choose. Did he listen and help with what mattered to me? Or did he keep everyone else on time? I appreciate that he chose to listen to me, to hear what matters to me, but I accept that probably no one else in his waiting room appreciated their extra wait.
Yet I'm sure there has to be a way that this can work. If a doctor, or any health professional, approaches me with an attitude of what is important to me, then I have to get better treatment than if my needs and desires are just assumed on the basis of a label.
My labels don't tell anyone who I am. They don't even tell me who I am. If I use the example of BPD again, reading the list of what makes up a person with BPD will not tell me, or anyone who I am, what my needs are or how best I should be treated. Having BPD says virtually nothing about me, except give a convenient label.
What matters to me is that someone will listen and hear what I have to say.
What matters to me is that I get taken seriously, and not just dismissed as just another patient.
What matters to me is that they care to ask how this illness affects me.
What matters to me is that someone cares enough to find out who I really am.
When I think about it, I have seen dozens of doctors over the years. I couldn't count. But there is only one doctor (a General Practitioner) I can think of who repeatedly took the time to find out what mattered to me. By doing that, he helped me. Maybe I wasn't cured, but maybe I lived. That's what mattered to me.