I wasn’t born when Kennedy announced that we were going to the moon. I had just turned five when we went.

No wonder I grew up believing anything was possible, in spite of having been sexually and emotionally and physically abused for years by then.

Amidst the PTSD wreckage left by that abuse, other traumas through the years, and untreated or improperly treated bipolar disorder, that idea stuck with me. Anything is possible if we dream hard enough, work smart enough, and persist..

Now it’s 40 years later and I’m sliding into middle age.  Anything must still be possible. We have a space station up there now. And a huge telescope. And the C-PTSD wreckage doesn’t eat me into small pieces daily any more. And the bipolar disorder doesn’t slam me around like a paper airplane in a wind tunnel any more. To me all those things are equally amazing and near miraculous.

I do understand now that perhaps literally it’s not true that anything is possible. But many, many things are. And mental illness doesn’t make that untrue.

But it caught up to me yesterday evening. And it was hammering me into tears and not wanting to live when I woke up. Don’t worry, though, I’ve learned over the years to tell it to go screw itself on the not wanting to live issue. I’ll still be alive for all of it, and when it’s passed too. I may not feel like being alive, but I will be nonetheless.

I don’t know if this is situational or chemical or both. Probably both.

I’ve been stuck on stupid painkillers for too long with this knee pain from that stupid car accident.  I’m guessing the painkillers are smacking against my chemically screwed up brain. That’s normal enough with bipolar. Not sure what to do about it though. Maybe if I wait until the pain actually makes me cry and writhe today that will help. Instead of waiting for merely horrible pain, that is.  Of course, depression makes pain more painful. Oh lucky me. sigh

And it is depressing in a normal sort of way to still be in rotten pain a month after a car accident. To have had a good bit of your holidays screwed over by it. And to feel frustrated because all you were doing at the time was be alive in the wrong place. I’m working on the DBT/CBT/positive self-talk bit to work on that end of it all. Reality looks damned bleak anyways, though.

And it is pretty normal to get depressed after getting the PTSD abuse potholes in your psyche stepped in a few times. The accident itself stepped in the PTSD pothole a good bit — not even safe now eh?  And the loverly idiotic ortho stepped smack in the abuse potholes with this callous remarks to “suck it up” about the pain.

Ok. So I have lots of rational/normal reasons to be depressed. So what? I hate it anyway. I hate waking up in tears and feeling like I don’t want to live any more. I hate the supreme effort of dragging myself out of bed and going through the motions of taking care of myself anyway. I hate crying on and off all day until there are no more tears because they’re just too much trouble.

I’ll do what I can do about it all and just live through the rest. I always do. I just need to remind myself that a few million times:  I’m always ok in the end.  And if my mind starts to try to eat me, I’ll call the pdoc. I do have more Zyprexa here if it turns into a true psychiatric emergency. And I have my supporters on notice, they’ll keep an eye on me too.  I’ll get by. Now I’ll go try to find things to distract the mentally ill idiot in my head that doesn’t want to be bothered with breathing. Bloody lead weight she is, but I can still shut her up and maybe I can distract her. 

The strangest curse of bipolar is also its most wonderful blessing: whatever mood it is I’m feeling will change, it may take a while, but it will change.

I woke up this morning thinking “Oh happy f***ing new year.”  Not an auspicious way to start out. I’ve been digging myself out of that since. I think I’m mostly on top of the pile now.

I have to say it doesn’t feel too great when ninety seconds into the new year you get abuse issues triggered by your mother’s weird friend deciding to try to kiss you a dozen times in celebration. I backed off though without getting 11 of those smooches and managed not to slap him, which was good. He’d just have been astounded and I would have felt ashamed of myself later for slapping him. But some loud man I hardly know trying to kiss me just did a number on my head for a while there.

Then I got to spend the next hour of the new year sitting with my knee on an ice pack because the cortisone rock apparently slipped through my knee joint to the back of my knee and lodged there.  OMG it felt like it was going to blow out the back of my knee. Still does, actually. And I was lonely and trying not to ruminate on that. So while waiting for my first New Year’s painkiller to set in so I could get to sleep, I worked on some jewelry. That was good!  So good I didn’t notice the time again til 4:30am. Whoops. I got to bed very late and tried not to obsess over the idea that getting my sleep schedule off might trigger a bipolar episode.  But at least the jewelry play was fun, eh?

I let myself sleep in an extra hour, which I almost never do.  But I was still out of sorts this morning.  After I ate and took stock of what’s been going on, I decided it was downright normal to feel out of sorts and a bit down today.  Then I decided I didn’t like it even if it was normal and I’d see what I could do to change it.

Some reality check. Some postive self talk — ok, the year is starting off kind of crappy, so it can only get better, look forward to that, and hey your car is fixed and looks great so, it’s getting better already. A couple of chocky chip cookies. Two, actually and amazingly. Chat with a good friend online. Phone call with a good friend here in town. And I feel like I’ve shoveled out of it mostly. Yay!  Skillz. Skillz. Skillz.

I just wasn’t up to feeling poopy all New Year’s Day.  I’ll finish that jewelry piece that I started last night too. After I finish icing my knee.

Happy New Year to all of you. Or at least a good shovel into an improving one

This dimwit doctor thing really ate at me all day long. I grabbed hold of every DBT skill I had and none of them worked for more than a couple of minutes and many didn’t help at all. I started having flashbacks to being abused as a child. All because one dimwit doctor tells me, “You’ll have to suck it up,” over my knee pain.

*possible trigger zone ahead
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I was chatting online with a good friend whose mother is having a really hard time dealing with her own abusive mother’s death.  My friend has been affected by all this too, as it was her grandmother who was so abusive.  My friend’s mother is wandering her way trying to heal, but keeps asking, “She was my mother, so I loved her. What else was I to do?”  She’s looking for an answer. It made me think, and I finally said this to her.

There is no answer. I feel like that about my father and my grandmother. Both of them abused me, but I love them anyway. I think the key is just to accept the paradox. The more I can accept that I both love and hate them, and that they were both monsters as well as sometimes very good to me, the better I feel.

There will never be a time that my abusive past has no effect on me at all. It’s too big, too entangled with the way I grew up and my whole life and psyche. I can work to minimize its effects, though, and have a good life anyway. And I’ve worked at making that so. Some days I do better than others. But I keep working my way back to better days in spite of the bad ones.

When I accept that and accept that all sorts of seemingly contradictory things about my abuse are true, the better my life is.  I guess I’ve come a long way this past year.

I’m glad I can sometimes help someone else, too. It makes it a little easier to swallow that I’ve had to deal with this crap all my life.

Unstable over at This is Uncensored Territory Baby keeps coming up with posts on therapeutic exercises that are so spot on.  This exercise is no different. A Declaration of Permission. Apparently it’s not secret now that I find these therapeutic, although I’m still chickening out on the letter to my m other one. LOL

First bits first.  Just what are the things that I can’t/don’t/won’t because I secretly feel I feel I can’t do because I’d explode or the world would end or whatever and why can’t/don’t/won’t I? Things I have unreal rules for myself about? (Hey BorderLife, sounds like, more on myths, eh? By gum, I think it is!)

Why can’t/don’t/won’t I….

… and I draw a complete blank.

Ok, let’s get simpler. WHAT can’t/don’t/won’t I????  Blank again.

[I had started this post, then stopped here in the draft for days. This morning I finally got it going, after last night being reassured by the fact that Unstable was having the same issues with it. It's good to hang together when the going is tough. Even out here in cyberland.]

Uh, why’s this so hard. I seem to think I can, do will do anything and everything and there are no things I feel I’d explode about or something similarly sinister and no rules about my conduct stuffed into my head.

Oh. Exercise.

The old “rule”… Moving around is dangerous and someone will come molest you or hurt you some way.

Immi, I give you permission to exercise without worrying that anyone will hurt you.

Anger.  And now it’s moving.

The old “rule”, the mental myth … Getting angry is dangerous. I might do something dangerous or explode, or someone might do something horrid to me if I get angry.

Immi, I give you permission to feel angry at anyone any time whether it’s reasonable or not, without being overwhelmed by the feeling.  
(I don’t give you permission to be violent with them, but have at all the anger you want sweet.)

The old “rule”, the mental myth … I have to fit in so they don’t notice me and do something abusive to me.

Immi, I give you permission to look any way you do without worrying what others will think.  Yes, that includes wearing Winnie the Pooh t’s with frightening jewelry if that’s what you want or doing your hair in the latest bedhead style.

The old “rule”, the mental myth … If someone compliements me they’ve noticed me and they’re lying to me or getting ready to do something abusive to me. The very rare times that isn’t so, it’s jinxing me so that I’ll get abused.

Immi, I give you permission to be complimented on anything about you without feeling it’s undeserved or you’re somehow being jinxed by it.

The old “rule”, the mental myth … I am horrible and don’t deserve to feel good because I’m so horrible.

Immi, I give you permission to feel good about yourself no matter what. Nuff said.

The old “rule”, the mental myth … I can’t say no because it’s bad and I’m horrible.

Immi, I give you permission to say no in any situation you need or want to say no.

The old “rule”, the mental myth … I deserve nothing good.

Immi, I give you permission to say yes to things you want to do, have,  and be.

The rules and myths we have to live by are so deeply buried they’re just part of life. When they get dug up and brought to light, thoughI think I’ll have to go find a permission slip pad and put these on the wall nearby. These days the myths are smaller and farther away than ever. I know they’re still engrained, though. All the things I learned by the time I  was 3 or 4 are, so it’ll take longer to un-engrain them and put new things in their place. Such is the lot of those with bpd, c-ptsd, or who just plain were abused as children, or maybe abused at all. It’s good to start un-entraining them and finding new things to live by, though. To get away from them even some is a great freedom.

Somewhere a few posts back I had a revelation about myself and why I blog under a nom de plume. I’d thought it had to do with being bipolar and some of the whacky stuff that brings into my life. I didn’t realize the glaring fact that in my real life virtually everyone knows I’m bipolar, and many of them know I periodically see bouncing orange balls that don’t exist. People I’ve worked with often know, because it came up naturally in conversation, even. Since I do happen to be an artist, people find it normal and often even some sort of badge of pride that I’m bipolar. Think Van Gogh, I guess. I’m lucky that way. So… if everyone knows that, why on earth reach for some anonymity?

*BANG* Right between the eyes.

The childhood sexual, emotional, and physical abuse.

*wilt into a heap on the floor*

Oh I do not want to admit that. I don’t want to admit that I feel like I have to hide myself because I was abused as a child. It wasn’t even my fault that I was abused as a kid. Yet my shame knows so few limits that I cringe timidly behind a pen name and every trick for blogging anonymously that I can bring to bear. I worry someone may out me.  I worry that my mother, who I both love and hate might find my blog here and see what I’ve written about her neglect that was a helpmate to my other abuses. I don’t want to look at or acknowledge any of it.

Useful to know. Hard to deal with.

Oh, and if you do happen to know what my real name is, keep your lips zipped still, please. I’ll get past it when it works for me.

Why am I one of the lucky ones?  Today I’m lucky because even though it hurts a lot to realize this, I can handle it. I don’t feel a need to do anything more drastic than write a blog post about it. That is a lucky, wonderful, and hard-earned thing.