THAT WOMAN IS ME

Daughter 1 bounces on the trampoline outside. Daughter 2 has her head buried in her latest fairy book upstairs. A man prepares a family meal in the kitchen, and a woman sits alone at her laptop, door closed, wondering what will possibly happen when she taps into her mind and starts to write.

That woman is me.

Today has been beyond awful. Yesterday was fairly similar but today has been worse. My head throbs. The mockingbird in my head sings, just like Maya Angelou’s caged bird, or is it her caged bird who flies rather than sings? I’m too tired and absent minded to remember.

Trigger central. Un-sunset un-shiny boulevard. Balloons blow astray in the breeze of a gale and promptly get rained on. Drip drop…..drop.

LOWER. Much lower goes the pressure.

Still her veins pump dark red mixture around her system. She is living, whilst dead.

Faster, then s l o w e r.

Never up. Usually down.

Plummeting towards ‘something’, hovering a few inches off the ground of ‘nothing’.

Nothing is a thing. But so is plenty.

I’ve certainly had plenty of dissociated emptiness. It’s a symptom. Two psychiatric red flags blur together in unison. BPD emptiness meets dissociated separated disconnected nothingness.

Hovering is better than dropping.

Floating is better than dying.

What is better? Confronting… or protecting?

Abstract notions jotted down that make sense only to me.

I don’t want all of you to know everything every single day.

Sometimes important topics are best left skirted around.

I DO want my mental health team to have answered my cries for help. They didn’t.

Do they think I can deal with this past shit unaided and alone these days?

Because I write articles and do media interviews and volunteer for charity?

They’re wrong. I can’t.

I think they believe ‘if I say I can’t, it means I could, but I [wilfully] won’t.’

Wrong again.

I CAN’T.

What is the use in taking positive steps to empower yourself when people don’t answer your messages and genuine requests for support?

Maybe I should forget the professionals and access my ‘informal means of support’ which is psychologist speak for “mates”.

Answer? I have, all day. I have written and messaged and posted and emoted and expressed and then repressed and supressed and then cried ALL DAY.

Who is that woman who cries real tears and claims she’s is breaking down?

Oh shit, that woman is me.

I wish it were someone else.

Just like I wished it was someone else those times when I was a vulnerable school girl who was raped like a floppy, pliable but frozen-in-fear defenceless ragdoll.

I wish that girl was not me.

Just like today I wish I was NOT that woman, who is me.

I don’t want to be ‘her’ anymore and get caught up in her characteristic ‘her-ness’. It’s enough to give you a hern(ia) or double bypass.

I don’t want to associated with people who remind me of the woman named ‘her’.

Every direction I turn, a door closes shut, sometimes squishing and trapping my bony fingers.

I feel as weak as a bird today ; a bird who is malnourished, diseased, exhausted and flea bitten. My wings are matted. There must be oil clogging them up? My throat is tight. My spindly legs will surely collapse under my wasted away weight. My eyes are tired from darting around from threatening object to threatening object. My heart is beating in it’s unsteady rhythm. That is enough to make anyone panic.

If am not the woman who is me, I am perhaps the strangest bird of all.

I croak. I don’t make a sweet song. I don’t fly. I wobble. I don’t wake people up in the morning with my cock-a-doodle-do. I don’t adorn the cardboard on your cereal box. I am not that bird. I am the strange bird.

I find the world too big for me. I find human people too oversized and scary. Keep them away from me and let me survey their movements at all times. It’s safer that way.

Safer when you’re the strange bird.

She rang. She finally rang. The kindly nurse who I don’t see anymore but was on duty. She heard the strange bird sing and she responded.

She told me it’s ok for my wings to not flap and my feathers to be a bit matted for now.

She says I have risen from far worse from this. “Think about how you were two years ago”, she reminded me with conviction.

True. I am not down there. I am also not where I was 6 weeks ago though.

It is hard for me to not feel like a failure.

I’m the worlds best at apologising for things which I don’t really need to apologise for as much.

‘I live therefore I apologise’ goes the mantra of every downtrodden woman or man who was once abused.

“Once abused by another, forever an abuser of ourselves”.

….That’s how the pattern seems to go for childhood trauma badasses like me and you.

Thanks nurse for your comfort. On Wednesday I get comfort face-to-face, dans le therapy maison.

The strange bird can cry.

The grown woman can grieve, crying out the strange baby bird’s tears.

I’ll look after her well. I have to, because….

that woman is me.

18cb868df56d683ea87c351dc67f8cfe

summerSHINES©

 

 

Advertisements

17 thoughts on “THAT WOMAN IS ME

  1. hugs summer, I want you to know I hear you. Its not easy. Trauma does shitty things to us. We can only try our best. Your doing that. Keep trying, you will prevail the abusers fuckers that they are wont win! xo

    Liked by 2 people

  2. Life is messy and all over the place. It is fluid, as are you. Remember to accept yourself for who you are today, and know that you are not the same person you were yesterday, nor will you be the same person tomorrow. ❤

    Liked by 1 person

  3. I could have written this myself. Sometimes I feel like BPD is just ME and and I am the only woman in the world who goes through the “insanity” of it. Thank you for being so honest. You made one more person feel less alone in the world. ❤

    Liked by 1 person

  4. You are such a brilliant support to me. Saying I write well is the best compliment for me (apart from I’m a nice person 😊). I don’t think I’m more honest than you though. Your heartfelt posts are extremely beautiful to read xxx

    Like

  5. I’m so glad you related to it, not that I want you to feel bloody awful obvs, but that you ‘got it’ and what I said. You writing this message helps me feel less alone too. It is pretty insane. A life of utter chaos. We are strong to deal with what we deal with ❤💪

    Liked by 1 person

  6. You are beautiful in all your infinite complexity. The body carries so much from trauma that is far beyond the capacity of a mind to fathom and those tough tough days when the body hurts and feels like it will never rise again can be SO HARD to accept and love. Give you inner child a big hug and tell her you hear her pain, she is not alone, you will always be there for her and yourself, if you can, that is the only thing that really helps me on the tough days. And I am sorry others let you down, that’s hard. <3

    Liked by 1 person

CHAT TO ME [I am human] ;)

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s