So I Wrote

Wishing I had something new.

I wish I had something new to write about. But I don't. I am still the same fucking person who can't fuck.

I've been to two meetings with a psychologist to evaluate if their firm could help me, and in that case who and how. Apparently they've decided to help me, but I'm on a waiting list. So sick of waiting lists.

The first time I met the psychologist, I noticed that she was a woman. Then, quite quickly after my first observation, I noticed she was a hugely pregnant woman. I felt like I was going to traumatize her unborn child with the stories I was about to utter in its presence. I still feel a bit guilty about it, really, but I suppose that is just misplaced emotion.

That first meeting (holy crap, I typoed that word to emeting. How philosophical is that shit? Damn.)  was a bit awkward from my end. She was fine. Better than fine. Obviously very good at her job as I started sobbing ten minutes into the appointment. Very embarassing. I couldn't stop crying for hours afterwards. I was very dehydrated.

What got me going was, as per usual, talking about my dad and how much I miss him. She listened very kindly to me explaining that my dad wasn't a bad man, he was a sad man who did bad things because he didn't know how to express himself any better.

I told her all about the alcohol, family dysfunction and blah-de-blarghhh. She listened kindly to that too. Afterwards, and for days, I felt furious with my mother. I still don't understand her role in the whole thing.

When I saw the therapist today she asked some more specific questions about the blah-de-blarghhhs. She commented on how I speak about horrible things and I don't show any emotion about it besides laughing. I told her that I'm aware that I don't. I think I laugh because the things I say sound so absurd. Absurd things make me laugh. My other feelings are walled off that it would take tremendous force, I think, to access them. Or some well asked questions, I suppose.

As proof that I really don't have anything new to say, the last chunk of therapy time was devoted to the massive amount of guilt I feel toward my husband because I am not a bangin' type of girl. I also feel angry, sorry, alone, lonely, misunderstood, mousey, very very very sorry and also sorry about it.

Really. Nothing new. Nothing to see here. Move along, move along.

Hand me those boxing gloves, all this bare-knuckle hurts.

I am so annoyed with myself right now. I worked so hard to get rid of my emetophobia and now I am just slapping it in the face by sitting here feeling anxious about the fact that I went outside yesterday.

Emetophobia is fucking sneaky. I've been telling myself that it's a chronic disorder that I always have to work to keep at bay, but somewhere along the line I started giving myself passes to skip things that brought me anxiety and the result of that is more anxiety.

I am so SO SO SO nervous about the fact that in a few weeks I will be having to go to work every day, five days a week for four weeks. This during the time when the noro-virus is at its peak in this country. And I will be caring for the elderly - showering them, dealing with their poops etc. And to top it off, it's not in my city! I have to commute! The overwhelming urge is to run, run, run away. Even though my fear of vomitting has been reduced significantly I still feel that 'outside' is a huge risk to take, and I don't know how other people cope.

I feel like I may need to call my CBT guy but I also feel that would be a huge failure on my part, and also last time I tried to contact him he ignored/forgot to call me back.

I feel trapped in a box and there's anxiety being poured in and there is no where for it to go but all around me.

I'm also making a really big effort to make friends, and it is out of my comfort zone. I feel extremely anxious and all wrong when I reveal vulnerabilities about myself. I feel like I will be labeled as a unstable weakling that is no fun and one should stay away from incase I snap.

TL;DR: aaaaaaaaaaargh. Blaaaaaaaargh? Gargh.

More spew. Sexual spew.

It seems I have fallen down a hole. Hurrah for downward spirals.

I have a mantra going in my head from the moment I wake up to the moment I fall asleep about all the things I do not do well, or could do better. Basically, I suck at everything. These thoughts are increasingly taking over my dreams aswell.

I guess at least I am good at falling down holes of depression? Is this something to be grateful for?

I feel so much pressure. I need to do more laundry, I need to eat less carbs. I need to go to the gym more. I need to study so. much. more. I need to work on myself. I need to harass the system until they give me a therapist and then plead with them to just try, please try to help me. I need to work on my marriage. I need to sell a piece of furniture. I need to gear myself up mentally for 4 weeks of travelling to work experience thingy. I need to be happier. I need to be more adventurous. I need to be more care-free and less laden with my past. I need to be able to act on my sexuality more. I need to get a job and more money. I need to have more friends. I need to be a better friend. I need to stop doing this to myself and I need to keep doing it.

I need to get out of bed. I don't have time for this shit.

I am so emo I can't stand myself. This feeling of my own skin being completely gross is so intense that I can't lay still, I can't take my mind of it. 

I called for a therapy appointment this week. I really didn't want to, but my husband made it very clear to me that I needed to. I hate begging for them to help me, it is embarassing and degrading and I never seem to get where I want. I am scared they will turn me away again. I am so scared someone new will tell me that my sexual trauma is too much for them and they need the resources for someone they can help. Please help me. Am I so broken that they can't even try? Why won't anyone try?

It is making me despair. This sexual thing is in my head every day. I feel that every day I am shrinking to less and less of a person because I can't often have sex without physical pain/flashbacks, and therefore don't like to have sex at all. A person who has sex and enjoys it is 100% of a person. I'm at about 25% right now and I keep sinking every day. It won't be long until I am a nothing.

I think about all the women my husband could be with and how adventurous and fulfilling their sex life together would be. Chairs, tables, walls, floors, stairs, pilates balls. Outside, inside. Upside down, standing, sitting, kneeling. Legs stretched into positions I cannot manage. Hours of sex. Phalluses everywhere. All of it in one marathon session. Marathon sessions every day. During which they manage deep philosophical discussions, in which she never gets sad because she is so happy all the goddamn time. And none of them ever need to flee directly after to the shower for ages and cut themselves to make themselves forget what they just remembered.

How stupid and emo do I feel about the cutting? So very stupid and emo. But if I regress during sex, it would only make sense that when I come back I pass through the ages when cutting multiple times a day was routine - so if there is a razor nearby it seems to be fair game at that point. The colour spreading across my skin is so calming to me, I've never experienced anything so instantly calming as self mutilation. But I do realize how... childish it is. But I don't know how else to cope. I don't want to comfort eat anymore, I don't want to shut down my emotions for days on end - I don't know how else to cope. I certainly don't want to talk to my husband how I feel in those moments.

Maybe I will realize that I will never be able to function normally with sex and what then? What then, internet? What if I can't be that wonderfully extroverted sexual being I know - I know! - my husband wants? How can I even bring this up to him without causing him to despair? What if the entirety of the life I want was taken away from me when I was eight and I can't retrieve it? What if the sexual trauma and the following sexual disorder will take my husband from me? What then, internet? What if I find out that my life already ended when I was eight years old and it has been completely futile living on since then because I am doomed to stay 25% of a person?

Because it's not only a sexual disorder my childhood gave to me. I am so fucked up in so many ways and the list repeats itself in my head constantly. Afraid, socially inept, self sabotaging, introverted, no communication skills, stiff, controlling, fat, abused, abandoned, witness, adult child of an alcoholic, bullied. Scared scared scared. I spent my early life living in fear and I've kept living the same way. Instead of being afraid of my father I became an emetophobe. Instead of letting people bully me, I became socially phobic and reclusive.

Instead of becoming stronger, I seem to have become more weak.

Not to mention whiney. Good God I can't believe they let me on the internet to defile it with long winding bohoo stories about how I feeeeeeeel.

One unfortunate event's consequences

My back is... eh... I'll give you the TL;DR version:

My back has an awesome knack for getting crooked and very inflamed in one spot. It halts everything because it's so painful. I end up sitting or laying down a lot. A lot meaning all the time. Movement is painful. Only thing that works to fix it is a chiropractor visit and lots of pills.

I couldn't afford either for 6 weeks. No gym. So I didn't have a reason to go outside. Well, I couldn't go outside because I could barely walk. So, I couldn't challenge my emetophobia every day. I need to do that to keep it at bay. The thoughts have been creeping in. Sloooowly but surely.

I'm not afraid like I used to be. I'm not obsessive in hand washing or checking my food. The only consistent fear has been going back to the gym now that my back is starting to improve. I guess it's a fairly easy target - I'm ashamed I got thrown off track AGAIN, I'm scared to see where my fitness level is at now (I suspect tear-status), and I'm so anxious that lifting weights or doing whatever cardio will aggravate the inflammation. It's like the anxiety is a cell with receptors for only other anxieties.  "You're so out of shape now!" becomes "the gym will make you vomit because you're so out of shape now."

The gym and my eating habits are very much linked in my head too. Barely a week after my back gave out I stopped eating well. I ate stuff that made me feel sick, bloated and anxious. So much sugar. I was nauseas for weeks. My stomach hurt for weeks. I was disgusted with myself for weeks. What the hell is that kind of behaviour about? Punishment? For what? Having a weak back that no amount of core exercises seems to improve?

I really do not like getting somewhere and then something happening (see: getting very ill and bed-bound for months, father dying, getting foot run over, becoming severely depressed because of foot, and repetitive painful flare ups of my back) and losing all that progress.

If I can't go to the gym everything about me starts going downhill. I need it to feel good, to make progress in other parts of my life. And to make me less whiney and to give me some hope at maybe developing some self-esteem. I need that self esteem. I motivate myself through guilt and shame. Effective as it is... Maybe there's a gentler way.

I'm scared and limited. Not as scared and limited as I was, but still scared and limited. If I don't stop myself I'll become increasingly scared and limited. I'm jealous of the motivation and will I had this time last year. It was harder then, but easier to get on with.

Damn, writing that really made me feel a lot better. Maybe I shall actually give this bloggy thing a really good go. Maybe I'll start taking pictures of everything I eat to post on here as an extra little bit of motivation. Though, it will probably be rather boring as I am very repetitive in what I eat.

But fuck it, it's my party and I'll cry if I want to.

I am a tea kettle.

The pressure I build on myself is really ridiculous. "Oh you can't write anything for your blog today because you feel all shitty and it's not going to be funny, and when did you even try to write anything funny last? You're lame."

Nobody reads this blog so, in theory, I can write whatever I like because nobody is going to read it anyway. Sometimes I pretend I am just writing to a friend and I don't even know if this friend even reads my blog.

Today I cleaned my kitchen. I cleaned my kitchen after I had dinner. I had dinner after I went to the store to get cream and coke light. And brie cheese and slim jims. Before I went to the store I was asleep. I slept all day because I couldn't see the point of getting up.

During cleaning my kitchen I watched Grey's Anatomy and pretended it was as good as actually studying medicine. Which I am supposed to be doing. For two days I've not studied at all and it's the only two days in the past two weeks that I haven't had a headache.  

Now, instead of studying I am waiting for megavideo to let me back in. Usually I use megavideo's time-outs to study. Then I use Grey's Anatomy to surpress the panic that I am not smart enough to study. And surpress the panic about the exam that's in a couple weeks.

I am also surpressing panic about how I have no money and so many bills. So many bills. I am surpressing panic about how I messed up on my diet and I am terrified, completely illogically terrified, that two days of less than stellar eating will cause me to gain 20 pounds. I am also failing at surpressing panic about how my nerve damaged foot will not stop hurting again, two years after the accident. It does not want to bend and it is swollen. I am worried about this. Without my foot I can't go on walks or to the gym and without those two my back hurts all the time. I am scared about all this. I am scared about how I may get emetophobic again as we go deeper into winter and deeper into the pitch black darkness that covers this country during winter. I am scared what going on anti-anxiety medication could do to me. I am scared what not going on anti-anxiety medication  would do to me.

As usual, I am doubting and scared and fumbling about. I wish I had the eye-on-the-prize motivation I had when I was in therapy for my emetophobia. Without that therapy I don't know where to go. So I'm stuck. Stuck in PTSD land, stuck in daddy-issues land, stuck in sex-is-so-difficult land, stuck in not-good-enough land. I don't know where to go and the pressure that I'm building inside myself is scary.