I'm a little creeped out. Seems that my posts are being viewed. I suppose expecting them to not be viewed is counterproductive to posting a blog. This blog was basically just so that I could keep track of my activities to see if the WRAP program was worthwhile to do on my own. I got my answer. It's alright if I plan on basically living my life around doing the WRAP program all the time. Writing a daily page and a blog page took up a lot of time. I guess it kept me out of trouble and to a schedule but realistically I don't stay with schedules.
It's the holidays now. With Thanksgiving over and me on lithium again (CR informed me it's been maybe a year since I've not taken any lithium and close to two years that we haven't had a face to face meeting.) My does time past when my head is busy trying to survive stress.
I think the posts I've been doing are boring. Who cares, really? I know I'm not interested in going over them. I planned on looking at them and trying to collate any worthwhile data that would help me deal with my mental health. I had hoped to add anything that would help me deal with the past and the abuse and molestation that happened to me. I have always thought a time line of abuse and major events in my life would help me put together just how screwed up I am and was at the time of the happenings. I just can't concentrate. I think I need someone focused and organized who can keep me on topic and help me deal with therapy at the same time. A group (like the WRAP group,) is too loose and unfocused. I have a terrible time trusting any therapists after all the shit that happened with the kids and I and school. So where does that leave me? Rambling on...
My identity is not static. I see myself as hero, genius, outcast, black sheep, freak, misunderstood guru and many other things. Other people see me as a good mother, a lost soul maybe other things, I don't know. I tend not to believe anything positive people say about me. I feel it is a way to get me to like them or as a reward for being nice to them or as a reward for being friends. Every thing is done for a reason. Everything is suspicious. When I can believe someone it is rare basically because it doesn't last long. I question everything. Nothing is real in reality. The older I get the worse it gets. I become adept at seeing things as a means to an end. Everything has a reason.
I lied to a friend last night. Not because I had to. I could have told them the truth: I didn't contact them immediately about something they sent me because the things my mind told me were upsetting. I know better than to tell people the truth though when it comes to my mind dictating what should and shouldn't be done. And when my mind becomes confused because of the past and the present or because of this person and another person, I freeze. Better to lie than say, "I wanted to call you but I am caught in a mental whirl of believing that you think I am a pathetic victim and you need to give me things to make yourself feel better." See, I've had that done to me in the past by friends and relatives and even therapists. I don't care to be seen as a victim or a charity case. And that is normal.
But how far do I go? I forget who I've told about my past. I forget how much each person knows. I don't care if they know about the abuse. Or the molestation. Or the bullying. Or the belief that I was retarded. Or the alcoholism in the family. Or the mental illness. Everything I say is a story about someone else. Someone who evolved into me. I am not them. I am a shell. I am nothing. That doesn't bother me. I know who I am. I know that the general public doesn't like people like me. They lay the blame for everything bad about society at the door step of people who are not "successful", who are struggling to get by. Because if you are struggling that means that you are sinful or unacceptable or lazy or... It doesn't matter really what they label people like me as. They don't want to hear it. And I don't care to waste my time on people that have no time for me.
I get easily confused. I don't know why. It could be the constant stress. It could be the anxiety. It could be that my mind works to avoid itself everyday just to stay lucid. It takes a lot of energy to look normal when every moment you wake up you want to scream and you don't remember why. I am very very good at looking normal. I don't look people in the eyes unless I am having a one on one conversation with them and I feel safe enough to talk with them. I limit my outside contact to certain people at certain times. I spend time with my friends generally on a solo basis. At parties I either drink a lot so if I get blitzed people expect me to be incoherent or say unacceptable things or I hap from person to person unless I locate someone that I feel isn't getting anxious with me presence. Once I feel a certain anxiety level with someone I either go into safe mode (shut up and smile and nod,) or leave. If I locate someone like me who also is on that edge of social acceptability (meaning they may say heinous things and laugh and make sick jokes that others would be uncomfortable with,) I may actually spend the rest of the party with them or much of the time returning to them as I mingle with the crowd.
See, I wrote much without saying a great deal.
Okay. A little story, you decide if it's true...
I was sitting down at the breakfast table hunched over a bowl of corn flakes. This is unusual since I don't like breakfast and don't like to eat at the table when my Father is there. I wasn't looking at him because I know the rules: "Don't look a (crazy, desperate, homeless, screwed up) person in the eyes if you don't want them to talk to you." You never look at my Father with an open face. You always avoid his eyes or he will start in on his broken tape recorder stories. I know this makes me look like an unfeeling mean person. You don't live with him so you can shut the fuck up.
Anyway, I was scooping the flakes into my mouth, that cereal gets soggy fast so in order to eat it while it's crunchy you have to shovel it in fast. I had had a long night of it: bronchitis, sinusitis, ear ache, migraines and all made me so tired and yet I couldn't sleep. So I'm sitting across the table from him and he knows I am not going to look at him. He's demented but not stupid or totally out of it yet. Sad but that's how it is now.
He flicks at something on the place mat next to his own place mat, a picture of a map done in a very old style. I see everything, I just don't look directly at anything or that too is an invitation for him to talk to me. Occasionally I will make small talk with him or help him with something that won't lead to a series of useless actions that makes me want to scream. I may tell you about the remote control sometime. That is a screaming story. But he's flicking something. I assume he'll do something disgusting like pick up whatever is there and eat it. You never know what he'll do now. He scratches at the plastic laminated cover of the French photo of a beach. The sand is beige, the water an aqua to cerulean blue. I can see that the thing he is flicking at is a dead house fly. I become nervous. If he picks it up and eats it I'm afraid I'll feel sick. I hurry faster to eat my cereal. He pushes the fly as it has been loosened from the place mat now. I look up because I can see he is not looking at me. It is safe to look up. I'm still a little not sure that it is a fly but figure I really don't want to know.
With one last push he says to the air: "There's a crayfish on the beach."
It's the holidays now. With Thanksgiving over and me on lithium again (CR informed me it's been maybe a year since I've not taken any lithium and close to two years that we haven't had a face to face meeting.) My does time past when my head is busy trying to survive stress.
I think the posts I've been doing are boring. Who cares, really? I know I'm not interested in going over them. I planned on looking at them and trying to collate any worthwhile data that would help me deal with my mental health. I had hoped to add anything that would help me deal with the past and the abuse and molestation that happened to me. I have always thought a time line of abuse and major events in my life would help me put together just how screwed up I am and was at the time of the happenings. I just can't concentrate. I think I need someone focused and organized who can keep me on topic and help me deal with therapy at the same time. A group (like the WRAP group,) is too loose and unfocused. I have a terrible time trusting any therapists after all the shit that happened with the kids and I and school. So where does that leave me? Rambling on...
My identity is not static. I see myself as hero, genius, outcast, black sheep, freak, misunderstood guru and many other things. Other people see me as a good mother, a lost soul maybe other things, I don't know. I tend not to believe anything positive people say about me. I feel it is a way to get me to like them or as a reward for being nice to them or as a reward for being friends. Every thing is done for a reason. Everything is suspicious. When I can believe someone it is rare basically because it doesn't last long. I question everything. Nothing is real in reality. The older I get the worse it gets. I become adept at seeing things as a means to an end. Everything has a reason.
I lied to a friend last night. Not because I had to. I could have told them the truth: I didn't contact them immediately about something they sent me because the things my mind told me were upsetting. I know better than to tell people the truth though when it comes to my mind dictating what should and shouldn't be done. And when my mind becomes confused because of the past and the present or because of this person and another person, I freeze. Better to lie than say, "I wanted to call you but I am caught in a mental whirl of believing that you think I am a pathetic victim and you need to give me things to make yourself feel better." See, I've had that done to me in the past by friends and relatives and even therapists. I don't care to be seen as a victim or a charity case. And that is normal.
But how far do I go? I forget who I've told about my past. I forget how much each person knows. I don't care if they know about the abuse. Or the molestation. Or the bullying. Or the belief that I was retarded. Or the alcoholism in the family. Or the mental illness. Everything I say is a story about someone else. Someone who evolved into me. I am not them. I am a shell. I am nothing. That doesn't bother me. I know who I am. I know that the general public doesn't like people like me. They lay the blame for everything bad about society at the door step of people who are not "successful", who are struggling to get by. Because if you are struggling that means that you are sinful or unacceptable or lazy or... It doesn't matter really what they label people like me as. They don't want to hear it. And I don't care to waste my time on people that have no time for me.
I get easily confused. I don't know why. It could be the constant stress. It could be the anxiety. It could be that my mind works to avoid itself everyday just to stay lucid. It takes a lot of energy to look normal when every moment you wake up you want to scream and you don't remember why. I am very very good at looking normal. I don't look people in the eyes unless I am having a one on one conversation with them and I feel safe enough to talk with them. I limit my outside contact to certain people at certain times. I spend time with my friends generally on a solo basis. At parties I either drink a lot so if I get blitzed people expect me to be incoherent or say unacceptable things or I hap from person to person unless I locate someone that I feel isn't getting anxious with me presence. Once I feel a certain anxiety level with someone I either go into safe mode (shut up and smile and nod,) or leave. If I locate someone like me who also is on that edge of social acceptability (meaning they may say heinous things and laugh and make sick jokes that others would be uncomfortable with,) I may actually spend the rest of the party with them or much of the time returning to them as I mingle with the crowd.
See, I wrote much without saying a great deal.
Okay. A little story, you decide if it's true...
I was sitting down at the breakfast table hunched over a bowl of corn flakes. This is unusual since I don't like breakfast and don't like to eat at the table when my Father is there. I wasn't looking at him because I know the rules: "Don't look a (crazy, desperate, homeless, screwed up) person in the eyes if you don't want them to talk to you." You never look at my Father with an open face. You always avoid his eyes or he will start in on his broken tape recorder stories. I know this makes me look like an unfeeling mean person. You don't live with him so you can shut the fuck up.
Anyway, I was scooping the flakes into my mouth, that cereal gets soggy fast so in order to eat it while it's crunchy you have to shovel it in fast. I had had a long night of it: bronchitis, sinusitis, ear ache, migraines and all made me so tired and yet I couldn't sleep. So I'm sitting across the table from him and he knows I am not going to look at him. He's demented but not stupid or totally out of it yet. Sad but that's how it is now.
He flicks at something on the place mat next to his own place mat, a picture of a map done in a very old style. I see everything, I just don't look directly at anything or that too is an invitation for him to talk to me. Occasionally I will make small talk with him or help him with something that won't lead to a series of useless actions that makes me want to scream. I may tell you about the remote control sometime. That is a screaming story. But he's flicking something. I assume he'll do something disgusting like pick up whatever is there and eat it. You never know what he'll do now. He scratches at the plastic laminated cover of the French photo of a beach. The sand is beige, the water an aqua to cerulean blue. I can see that the thing he is flicking at is a dead house fly. I become nervous. If he picks it up and eats it I'm afraid I'll feel sick. I hurry faster to eat my cereal. He pushes the fly as it has been loosened from the place mat now. I look up because I can see he is not looking at me. It is safe to look up. I'm still a little not sure that it is a fly but figure I really don't want to know.
With one last push he says to the air: "There's a crayfish on the beach."
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