How Am I Doing On My New Medication?

I was diagnosed with Bipolar II on October 30, 2014.  Within a week I was on a mood stabilizer.  My primary reason for this post is to examine how that's working for me. 

However, that's not the only major change recently, so I offer this background on my health and meds.  While I have no way of knowing for sure what treatment caused what effect, my gut tells me.  So I will tell you what my gut says (knowing I could be completely incorrect).

Each morning I take:

• A multivitamin for women over fifty - even though I am forty-five, because the complete hysterectomy and oophorectomy I had last year put me into instant menopause
• Vitamin D - because I don't get nearly enough sunshine and it can help with depression, especially during the winter (which it feels like we didn't even have here in Utah, oh well)
• Estrogen - because I am in menopause an estimated ten years early and my doctor wants to protect my bones and I don't like the idea of breaking a hip when I fall
• Gabapentin - which is often prescribed for anxiety, but that's not why I take it; sometimes my skin hurts for no reason, and gabapentin can help with neuropathic pain; I've been on it since April of 2014, I think;  does it work?  I'm not sure; my skin was hurting a lot over the last week; it feels like a first degree burn, but there is no discoloration and I haven't been burned; I'm going to talk to the doctor about getting off this one at my next physical
• Lamictal - the mood stabilizer I've been on since the first week of November, 2014; the reason for this post

Each afternoon I take:

• Gabapentin
• Vitamin D
• Omeprazole - a proton pump inhibitor that I take for gastroesophageal reflux disease (GERD); otherwise I often have stomach acid that comes up my throat and makes it so I have a chronic cough, chronic sore throat, chronic hoarse voice, and so I can't sleep; without this medication it will often wake me with a burning in my throat that can't be soothed

Each evening I take:

• Gabapentin
• Melatonin - because I don't sleep well, like at all; I need all the help I can get, but everything else I've tried leaves me super groggy the next day; and melatonin is what our bodies naturally produce to induce sleep
• Armour Thyroid - which is pig thyroid glands "dried and powdered for therapeutic use" (according to Wikipedia); I take this because I have hypothyroidism, which means my thyroid doesn't do it's job very well anymore; I used to take a synthetic thyroid medication but never felt better on it; I found out about this through a thyroid health group on facebook; I had to fight my doctor for it because it isn't as consistent a dose as synthetic, but I have felt better on it; I started this in April of 2014

(I also have Xanax that I take for occasional anxiety and Meclizine that I take for occasional dizziness and nausea associated with my headaches.)

So as you can see, I have gone through many health changes over the last year.  How would I compare where I am now to where I was a year ago?  I am better.  Much better.

I do not have the constant, intense pelvic pain I had before my hysterectomy.  I have more energy on the new thyroid meds, although still subpar for sure; I can get out of bed and do things more often than before.  I don't go through intense PMDD/PMS every month; my moods are more in flow with what's actually happening in my life instead of attacking me out of nowhere.

But, most significantly, I haven't had any episodes of severe depression since I started the mood stabilizer.  I was initially put on it to control the hypomanic episodes that can come because of Bipolar II.  Those were hard to give up.  They were days of extra energy, lots of extra energy, when I didn't need sleep and could get lots done - all the stuff I didn't have the energy to do most days.  When I first met with my psychiatrist I asked her why I would want to give those up when they're so great.  She told me they cause brain damage.  Oh.  Okay.  I'll give them up.

As I researched Lamictal I read that it can often have the side effect of also helping depression.  I held a tiny spark of hope that this would happen, but not much.  I've tried so many meds for depression over the years and had so much therapy, but none of it took away the depression for good.  The meds didn't work at all or made me suicidal.  And the therapy could sometimes get me through a tough moment if my appointment happened to hit during an episode.  But usually the black dog (as depression is referred to by those who suffer) would just come out of nowhere and pin me to the ground.  And I just tried to survive until he let me up again.  I couldn't fight him off.  I just had to wait until he was done with me and moved on.

Since I have been on the Lamictal I have not been pinned to the ground by the black dog.  Not once.  He's chewed on my leg on several occasions, but I haven't gone completely dark at all.  There was one time when I'd say he knocked me to the ground pretty hard, but that was situational, and I recovered from it much more quickly than I normally would have.

So here's the deal.  And I hate to say it for fear of jinxing it.  But I believe the Lamictal is helping with my depression.  For real.  And it's kind of amazing.

Just as my psychiatrist said it should work, I have ups and downs, but they aren't as high or as deep as they were before.

And there's still a part of me waiting for it to come back and hit me in the head.  I've sometimes gone through long periods without depression before, only to be dragged down again; what if this is just one of those?  Depression has been a part of my life since I was a teenager.  The idea that it could finally be under control is something that's difficult for me to wrap my brain around.  I feel like it's an "I feel better so far, but we'll see how it plays out" thing.

And there's a part of me that doesn't want it to completely work.  Depression is part of my self-definition.  It's part of who I am.  If it works, I will have to learn to be me all over again.

Self-Harm and the Words That Made Me Want to Stop

***This post contains material that could potentially be triggering for anyone with a history of self-harm.  Please do not continue if you aren't safe right now.***

I purposely and knowingly hurt myself for the first time on December 14, 2006.  I used a broken plastic spoon to scratch three deep lines into my forearm.  Later that night I burned myself with a candle.  And it felt good.

There is no way for someone like me to explain this to someone like you if you haven't been there.

My brain says it shouldn't feel good.  My brain says it's not something that's okay to do.  And my brain knows it will bother the people around me.

But it does feel good.  And it doesn't feel like a big deal.  And in that moment of darkness, I don't care how others feel about it.

At least that's the way it's been.  In the past.  It's been a little over eight years since I first did it.  And while I understood it wasn't a healthy coping mechanism and I should probably stop, I have never wanted to stop.  Not once.

I tried to want to.  I wanted to want to.  But I just didn't.  I didn't want to give it up.  And, honestly, I just wasn't fully converted to the idea that it was important for me to give it up.

Last October (2014) I burned myself.  I mean, I really burned myself.  And it ended my relationship with my therapist.  Which led to me seeing a new therapist.

As my new therapist and I got to know each other I told him about how many therapists I'd seen over the years.  There have been many in my life.  I go for a while without seeing anyone and then, when I know the issue I'm dealing with is too big for me alone, I pray and ask God which therapist is the right one to help me through this moment.

This is the point when my new therapist asked me what I was seeing him for.  What was he supposed to help me with, whether I wanted to do it or not?

And, boy, wasn't that final qualifier just the clincher for me?  Didn't that phrase tell me I was with exactly the person I needed to see?

I looked him in the eye and told him he and I were to heal the self-harm problem I have.  That I didn't want to give it up.  But that I would work on it with him because I believed God wanted me to.

And I didn't see how I was ever going to want to give it up.

I have been seeing him about every two weeks since early November.  We've taken various approaches.  We've found things that I believe will help me and a few that didn't really fit.

And then, on February 17, he said something in passing that was a game changer for me.  I don't remember the exact words.  He was talking about helping me get more tools in my toolbox so I don't pass the trauma on.

And that was the moment.  I heard in my head and wrote on my paper, "When I self-harm, I pass the trauma on."

I am causing trauma to my children.

And that was the slap I needed.  I am in therapy to heal for them.  I am working so hard to make their world better.  To find the answers they will need in the future by doing the work myself.  And to end a long line of dysfunction.  My goal was to make the trauma stop with me.  I had hoped that I would be its last victim.

But when I hurt myself, it hurts them.  And that's just absolutely not okay with me.

So I'm done.

I can't promise I won't engage in any other unhealthy behaviors as I continue to work my way through my incredibly tangled past.  But I will never, ever purposely hurt myself again.

And that's a promise!

I Broke My Therapist and Got a New Diagnosis

Warning:  This post contains possible triggers for self-harm.  If you are not safe, please don't continue.

The new diagnosis is Bipolar II and doesn't really have anything to do with me breaking my therapist.  It's something that's been tossed around as a possibility a couple of times in the past.  I think we're calling it semi-definite now.  Enough that I'm trying a new medication for it.  We'll see if that does anything to change my life.

But the real reason for this post is the whole breaking-my-therapist thing.

Let me start off by saying how much I adore my therapist, Dan.  A lot.  He's amazing and has helped me so much over the years.  He's seen me through some very difficult stuff and walked me through the dark corners of my life that I didn't want to go into.  I would recommend him to anyone.  Well, almost anyone.  Anyone who needs help but doesn't have a problem with self-harm.

You see, along with being a hero, my therapist is a person.  Just a regular human being.  With issues.  I know.  Therapists aren't supposed to have issues, huh?  But they do.  And he does.  And self-harm is the one I triggered.

For anyone who doesn't know me well or hasn't read my blog much, self-harm and I are old friends.  She's helped me get through some really heavy times.  (Not sure why I called self-harm female, but let's just run with it.)  Generally I'm a scratcher.  I use a broken plastic spoon to scratch myself (usually my arms) until I get through several layers of skin and it welts up and bleeds and stings really good.  I say good because to me, in those moments, it feels good.  Don't ask me why.  It doesn't make sense in my logical brain.  It just does.

I'm not good at knowing what will set it off.  It just happens.  I go months without doing it and then WHAM!  Out of nowhere I'm slicing my arms open.

Only this time I maybe should have seen it coming.  I've been fighting a nasty depression (with a couple days of hypomania thrown in, just for fun).  I went quite dark a few days.  Started isolating myself.  Quit getting dressed or leaving the house.  Stopped communicating with people.  Not a happy place.

I don't know what the straw was -- you know, the one that broke the camel's back.  But something happened and I knew I was going to hurt myself.  And being in that dark place when it started coming on, the idea of asking for help didn't occur to me.

But this time I didn't need to scratch.  I needed to burn.  See, it's like getting an itch.  And it's a peculiar itch.  An itch that will only be well scratched with the proper technique.  Sometimes that's the spoon.  Once in a while it calls for the curling iron.

Almost before I knew it I had a nice, big, second-degree burn on my arm.  Ugh.  I'd gone so long without doing it.  I'd been able to wear short sleeves without worrying about traumatizing my kids or others.  And then BAM!  All down the toilet.  Dang it!

Yes, it felt better in the moment.  Yes, it took away the itch.  Was it worth it?  I don't know the answer to that yet.

But then I had a therapy session.  Therapy only works if I'm honest with my therapist.  So I told him and showed him.  He wasn't happy, but we were functioning.  We were even making some progress.  Until near the end of the session.  When I, in the interest of honesty and knowing it was something I should tell him, told him I was thinking of using a blade.

And it triggered him.  And he lost his therapist brain for a bit.  And he called me a coward.

I completely shut down therapeutically.  I refused to look at him.  I started crying a lot.  I told him I was done and wanted to leave.

He could tell things had gone off the rails and tried to fix them a little, but it wasn't going to happen.  He asked when my next appointment was (because now he was very worried about me; it's never a good sign when you leave a therapy appointment in a more fragile state than when you entered).  When I told him it was in two weeks he said that was too long.  He looked at his schedule for the next week to see where he could squeeze me in.  It was packed full.  But he had an opening for the next day.  Would I take that one?  Whatever, just get me out of here.

I called my husband and told him what had happened.  He could hear how bad I was.  He tried to talk me through it.  I said I was safe (therapy code word for not-going-to-hurt-myself).  I said I was just going to go home and go to bed.  Maybe watch some Angel or Buffy the Vampire Slayer.  He offered to come home.  I said he didn't need to. 

Apparently he didn't believe me, because he showed up a couple hours later (he has a two hour commute).  I needed him more than I thought and spent the rest of the night next to him.  Then he took the next day off work so he could come to my therapy session with me.

I don't often want outside help.  My husband is many things, but my strength is not usually one of them.  This time it was.  I needed him to be my buffer with my therapist.  Also not a good sign.

Usually when I take my husband to therapy with me it's because he's having a problem (we see the same therapist) or we're having a marital problem (which still usually means he's having a problem).  So as we sat down in the therapist's office he asked if there was a marital problem.  I said that we were fine.  He asked if Bill was there as support.  I said yes.  Then I looked him in the eye for the first time since he'd called me a coward and through my tears said, "I don't feel emotionally safe with you."

I chokingly explained what had happened the day before, thinking that maybe he didn't understand what he'd said or didn't mean it that way.  He said, "Yep.  I did."  Then he went on to defend it with the idea of challenging a patient.  Using the relationship between patient and therapist to push the patient into something healthier.  He said self-harm was a deal breaker for him.  It was his Achilles heal.  He said sometimes people forget that therapists are people, too, and have their own issues.  This was his.  If I couldn't commit to not do it anymore maybe it would be a good idea for him to refer me to someone else.

I've been seeing him off and on for over eight years.  The idea of starting over, of having to explain everything - my whole life story - again to someone new, was not appealing.  Was exhausting to just think about.  But I was pretty sure I couldn't work with a therapist that I knew saw me as a coward.  Someone I wouldn't feel comfortable telling when I self-harmed.  And I knew I couldn't say I was done.

I told him I needed to think about it and let my husband spend the next forty minutes asking about Bipolar II (really, just to get our money's worth; I had made the decision).  Then my husband ran out of questions.  It was time.

My therapist apologized for using such a "harsh" word.  I looked him in the eye again and said, "It wasn't harsh.  It was demeaning."  He just nodded.

We all sat in silence for a minute or two.

Then I looked him in the eye and told him I needed him to refer me to someone else.  I told him I've never not seen him as a person.  I never thought he didn't have issues.  But I have my own issues and I can't carry his, too.  I have to carry the issues of too many people in my life.  I can't carry his.

So he said he would refer me out.  He said his feelings weren't hurt.  He said I could come back if I ever needed to.  I understood completely why he reacted the way he did (I know what it's like to be triggered).  We patched things up amazingly well and respectfully.  I left with a recommendation from him (Jason) and a promise from me that I would get medication for Bipolar II ASAP.  And with a heart that was breaking, because even though I knew it was the right decision I was so sad about leaving him.

My husband and I left his office and I immediately set appointments with the new guy.

Lest I leave you with a bad feeling about my therapist, there is more.

He called me later that night to check on me and make sure I was okay.  I was.  I was actually doing great.  Much better than I'd been in days.  Because I'd done something very brave and very hard to stay true to my own needs.  I was riding a bit of a high from that.  He also said that what I'd said, about not carrying his issues, had stuck with him.  He'd been thinking about that a lot and would continue to do so.

Then he called me a few days later to apologize.  He said not only had he handled the first appointment horribly, inappropriately, but he'd botched the second one, too.  He said it's never okay to call someone names.  He acknowledged that he'd not been in his therapist mind at the time.  He said he'd spoken to some colleagues about it and understood a bit better.  He said to force me to transition to a new therapist while in the midst of a deep depression was completely wrong of him.  He said he knew that he'd shut me down when I needed to be heard.  And he was so sorry about that.

Then he said he'd also talked to his colleagues about his issue.  He said he understood self-harm better and how to see it as a symptom and to treat it as such.  He said he thought we'd done great work together over the years and still could.  He said he thought he could work with me, that he liked working with me, and wondered if there was any way we could repair the relationship.  Would I be interested in coming back?  Seeing him again?

I thought about it for a few seconds, but the decision was easy.  Because just moments before he'd called me I'd gotten out of a session with my new therapist.

I thanked him for his apology and gladly accepted it.  I told him we had done lots of good work together.  And then I told him I'd just met with Jason and wanted to try that course for a while.

He said he understood and that I would always be welcome back.  I told him it was nice to know I had a parachute, should I need one.

Will I go back?  Honestly, I think eventually I probably will.  I want to see what this new therapist has to offer.  Maybe he can help me kick the self-harm thing for good.  Maybe he can help me want to.  He thinks he can.

But I don't imagine he can possibly solve all the problems that keep me crazy.  My life is not simple and shows no signs of letting up any time soon.  I imagine I will work with him, get better for a while, leave therapy and try to make it on my own, and eventually crash and burn again (I mean that like a plane going down not depression and self-harm).  And when I do I will look for that comfortable place.  That worn pair of pants.  Because Dan and I still fit.

Going to War

There is a memory.  A memory that holds more power over me than anything else ever has.  A memory that has been there for as long as I can remember.  And beyond.  A memory that taunts me.  A memory that hides.  A memory that I sense but don't see.

It is strong.  It is elusive.  It is haunting.

And I am going to battle against it.

Most of the time, it lies hidden.  Tightly protected in its cage.  Just out of my reach.

But right now it is exposed.  And right now I am strong.  And right now I have an army behind me.

I am frightened.  But I am going to war.

Keep a Happy Thought for Me?

I am still hurting.  A lot.  The depression and anxiety are still bad.  My patience is almost non-existent.

I am going to the doctor on Monday and the therapist on Thursday.  I'm really hoping for some relief and/or direction by the end of the week.  I'm kind of at the edge of what I can take.

Keep a happy thought for me?

A Little Lighter

My world is a little lighter today.

I finally got to a place that I was able to practice some self-care.  It was like trying to walk while dragging heavy weights with each leg, but I did it.  And I feel a little better.

I scheduled some appointments with my therapist.  I spoke with him on the phone.  We are okay.  The relief I felt after scheduling and speaking with him for just a couple of minutes was amazing.  It matters that I have him in my corner.

I've been able to avoid most of my unhealthy coping mechanisms throughout the PTSD event and the depression.  I'm proud of myself for that.

I'm finding peace within myself.  A little at a time.

The storm isn't over, but the winds have died down for now.  I'll take it.

Still Not Good, But a Different Kind of Bad

Funny thing about PTSD.  It tends to make everything else in my life seem unimportant.  That's a good thing when the problems I was having with my therapist no longer matter and I'm ready to get back to work.  It's not such a good thing when I forget about the house payment.

The PTSD is not quite as bad.  I am still cramping a lot.  I am still touch-averse.  The nerves in my system are still on hyper-alert.  But I am able to think a little more clearly.  And, as of now, it doesn't look like he will become a bigger part of my life after all.  There is less fear.

But when the PTSD lets up, all those other things start to be problems again.

The depression is still in full force.  I'm having to force myself to eat and sleep.  It takes a monumental effort to leave the house.  But I was able to perform a couple acts of service this last week.  I've been able to play my flute a bit.  And I even went to book club.  Small victories.

My body seems to be in rebellion as well.  Whatever virus it is that causes my fatigue has flared.  I could easily sleep twenty hours a day (it's a different tired than the depression tired).  Accomplishing any one thing, even just writing a blog post, saps me of all energy and sends me back to bed.  I do a load of dishes; I have to lie down.  I straighten the living room; I have to lie down.  I practice my flute; I have to lie down.  Not being able to do anything doesn't particularly help with the depression.

My headache has been awful, too.  Severe pain.  Blurry vision.  Dizziness.  Nausea.  And an inability to process thoughts or find the words (simple words) to communicate.

I haven't gone back to therapy yet.  I'm still figuring out our insurance options.  But I will soon.

I'm worried about everything:  money, each individual aspect of each of my children's futures, all the ways I've failed to prepare them, everything that needs to be done today, everything that needs to be done tomorrow, everything that should have been done yesterday, everything that should have been done last week, everything that should have been done years ago, my daughter's health, my husband's health, my health, the safety of each family member every second that they aren't with me, my friends' difficulties, my parents' difficulties, all the ways I'm failing my parents, all the ways I'm failing my friends, what I should be doing right now, how much to stay on top of my kids' school work and how much to let life teach them, and any other little thing that crosses my path.

I'm still avoiding people.  I don't want to do anything.  It's even tough for me to make myself go to my son's football games (which are my favorite things in the whole world).  Octoboween doesn't even have the same appeal as usual.

I'm trying to do things anyway.  I do enjoy the football games once I get there.  I am doing an Octoboween count down on facebook to try to psych myself up for it because I believe it can bring me joy -- eventually.  I'm trying to fake it 'til I make it.  I'm trying to convince my body and mind to get back to work.

But I just want to crawl into bed and cry and let the world go on without me.  Is that really too much to ask?

Trying to Find the Words

** If you are an abuse survivor, this post could contain possible triggers.  Please make sure you are safe before reading it.  Also, this is a very heavy and adult post.  Listen to your heart and do not continue if you know this won't be okay for you. **


Words are important to me.  I sometimes take a little longer to speak because I am trying to find just the right word.  Not one that's close, but one that conveys a multitude of meanings all at once, one that conveys truth and feeling and exactitude.  Just the right word.

But sometimes I don't have the word.  If I could communicate telepathically, I could make you understand.  But there just isn't a word for it and nothing else really does the job.

This is what happened when I tried to explain to someone what triggered a PTSD event for me this week.  I didn't have the words.

A little history, somewhat vague, to help set the stage.

There are dark things in my past.  There was abuse and assault.  Over many years I was hunted.  And too often I was caught.  I wasn't killed physically, but pieces of me were destroyed.  I was changed.

I was changed in a way I believe many others who were abused are also changed.  But I can't speak for them.  I speak only for what is true in my life.

I was prey.  In many situations.  And, yes, there were times I feared for my life.  Other times I just feared for the inner me, the part that was being attacked.  What happened to my body didn't matter.  What happened to my core did.

Because I was prey, I was on constant alert (an alert that is never silent, even now).  I learned to read the emotions of everyone in the room.  To sense even the tiniest shift if something changed.  Long before anyone else knew.  Because I had to in order to protect myself.  It was necessary to stay alive.

But it goes beyond just reading emotions.  And this is where I lose words.

Some people have a . . . something to them.  A color/flavor/spirit.  Each of those is somewhat close, but none of them are accurate.  I would say aura, but it isn't visible.  A presence?  A feeling?  An emotional radiation?  None of these are right either.

As a child I often swam in a lake.  I would be swimming along, in the warmth, and hit a cold spot.  Out of the blue all the warmth was gone.  It's kind of like that.

And this last week a person crossed my path whose . . . whatever it is . . . triggered my PTSD.  This person's color/flavor/whatever is darkness.  This person carries evil with him.  Willingly.  The cold spot that he wears is that of a predator.  Even with all the abusive situations I've been in over the years and all the people I've known and all the horror I've experienced and witnessed, I've never felt like I was in the presence of evil.  Until him.  And he knows it and uses it to control.

He is not a close part of my life, but there is potential that our paths will continue to cross.  I am trying to strengthen myself and gather support so he can't wound me again.

I hate that it only took the mention of him to make me feel weak and powerless.  And scared.

He triggered one of my most difficult memories.  One that I haven't fully processed and healed in therapy.  One of a very early sexual assault.  One that causes me severe physical symptoms.  So since he crossed my path, I have been having very painful uterine cramps.  Nonstop.  Whether I am thinking about it or not.  Sometimes so bad that I have trouble standing up.  My anxiety is high.  I am snapping more at my family.  My nerves feel like they are on fire and I cringe if anyone tries to touch me.  Even when I am completely safe, there is fear.  Like the rabbit whose ears prick up when he senses danger.  I will not relax until the danger is gone.

I was not ready to go back to therapy.  My therapist and I have some things to work out.  I wanted to do more processing on my own on that stuff before I went back.  But I may have to put all that aside and go back to therapy anyway.  I may not have a choice.  I'm having trouble functioning.  I'm having trouble getting every day things done.  I need help.

He's Got Me Unsettled

A couple of months ago I decided I was ready for a break from therapy.  These have been a couple of really tough months.  And even though I've had moments when I wished I had my therapist to draw strength from, for the most part I was happy with my decision.

I have faced incredibly difficult things without him these last two months.  Ugly times between my husband and myself.  My parents pushing boundaries I've established to keep myself emotionally safe.  My husband's unemployment.  My depression.  The loss of a friendship.  A personal struggle with self-definition.

And I've done well.  I held my boundaries.  I practiced forgiveness and humility.  I communicated openly and honestly.

I've been doing just fine without therapy.

But something happened Friday that's got me unsettled.

My dad was going to be out of town and asked if I could take my mom to her therapy appointment.  I thought about this and decided I was okay with it; it didn't cross my boundaries.  I agreed.  But as I thought about it I realized something.  There was a possibility I would run into my therapist because he works in the same office as my mom's therapist.

I wasn't sure how I felt about this.  Did I want to see him or avoid him?  Did it matter either way?  Would he even say anything if he saw me?  Would it be uncomfortable?  I just didn't know.

Well, I took her.  She went in and I waited in the lobby.  Therapist after therapist came out and claimed their clients.  It was almost half past the hour by this point.  Maybe he wasn't there that day after all and all my worrying would have been for naught.

And then he opened the door to the lobby.

I was listening to an audio book and playing a game on the ipad.  I was just going to let it be.  I knew he was there but didn't look up.

I heard a slight sound.  Then another.  With my audio book playing in my ears it wasn't clear.  But soon I realized he was calling my name.  I turned off my book and looked up at him.  He smiled and waved and said hello.  I returned his wave and hello and looked back down at my game.

His client was waiting, had been waiting for an extra long time, so I expected that was the end of it.  Then I sensed him approaching.

I took out my headphones and looked up to see him extending a hand to me.  As he shook my hand he said, "I just wanted you to know I'm still here if you need me."  All I could muster was, "Okay.  Thanks."

And then he was gone.

And I've been unsettled ever since.

Our last session was not a good one.  I don't know if he understands this the way I understand it.  I don't know if he thinks I quit coming because he challenged me to do something difficult and I am hiding from it.  He could very easily think that because of what happened in our session, but it's not the truth.  Not even close.  If he knows me at all, he should know that I don't run from difficult things.  There was so much more in the reason I quit seeing him.

I've been asking myself why I'm unsettled.  Why am I suddenly questioning my decision to quit therapy?  Do I want to go back once Bill gets established in his new job and we have good insurance again?  What's got me so stuck in my head about this?

Is it because there was no closure, because I didn't go back and tell him what the problem was and why I didn't want to see him anymore?  Is it because I am struggling right now and really could use a trained professional to talk to?  Is it because therapy had become an addiction for me and seeing him was like getting a tiny taste of my old, familiar drug?  Is it because no matter how much I tried to say he was just my therapist, I really see him as a friend and I miss him?  Or is it just because I'm lost and floundering for direction?

I don't know.  But I've got some time to chew on it for a while as I try to figure things out.  My husband starts work next Monday and won't get paid for a while after that.  It will take us some time to figure out what our insurance situation is.  I've got at least that long to postpone the decision.

Oh, so much to think about.

Taking a Break From Therapy

It's time.  I've felt like it was time for a while now.  The initial issue that brought me back to therapy this time is not an issue now.  But I worried that I would have a crisis and not have any way to get in to see my therapist.  I worried that one crisis would be enough to make my life spiral out of my control.  Again.

So week after week, appointment after appointment, I kept scheduling.  My therapist is scheduled a month or two out and I didn't dare let a gap happen. 

It's not like I don't have plenty of issues to work on.  It's not like we haven't gotten good work done.  But the things I have to work on aren't emergencies.  Right now, they aren't even urgent.  I'm feeling strong.  I've got a good support system in place.  I'm getting better at communicating when I'm not okay. 

And over the last few months, when I've had a crisis, it's usually been between sessions and I dealt with it before I got back in anyway.  We ended up reviewing it in therapy, but not really facing it -- because I'd already done that before I got there.

Honestly, I've been feeling like I was using therapy as a crutch.  A crutch is good when you're really wounded, but when it keeps you from making progress in healing, from standing on both feet when you're capable, it's no longer a good thing.

So it was fear of being alone during a crisis, a feeling that I needed backup, someone to protect me, that kept me scheduling.

But my therapist isn't my big brother.  He isn't my dad.  He isn't even my friend.  He is the person I pay to help me see thinking errors and choose more wisely.  It's easy to get confused about that relationship -- especially when I go frequently without interruption. 

It's easy for therapy to just become a part of my schedule.  Just what I do Mondays at 9:00am.  And to get swept up in continuing it because scheduling becomes part of the process.

Even though I've been feeling like it was time for a break for a while, I didn't act on it.  Partly due to that fear, but also because I didn't feel like I had a good reason.  I couldn't explain why. 

Well, that's dumb.  I don't have to explain why.  It's my life and my money and my time; I get to choose how I spend it.  And I don't have to have a good reason.

It took a few episodes of not seeing eye to eye with my therapist, being offended and/or angered by what he said, and another bad session to hit me in the head and wake me up.

When I need therapy again, really need it, I will probably go back to him.  He is a good man who knows my story.  He's good at what he does.  And I think we will work better together after a break.

But it's time.  It's time to get some distance from my therapist so I can get the relationship clear in my head again (and he can, too).  It's time to figure out what I want to do instead of being swept along by the process.  It's time to get back to protecting myself, because that's MY job.

Why I Go to Therapy (and write about it)

Sometimes I get the perfect question at the perfect time.  This is one of those times.

Today I received an anonymous comment with a question.  I wanted to reply immediately with a long, detailed email; but since it was anonymous I couldn't.  I thought about responding via the comment section, but that didn't feel right either.

Normally, I would ask someone's permission before ever using their words.  In this case, I hope it's okay that I forgo that.  The question was structured beautifully and I don't think it contains any information that would reveal who the questioner is.  But the question is important.

"Miss Robin,

My partner and I are struggling with the realization that there may be a hidden traumatic event in my partner's past.  We hope not, but we both agree that there is anger, which comes from hurt that is being directed at the opposite sex in general and at me most in particular.

My partner is very afraid of the possibility that something very bad is there, but is probably more afraid to find out that there is nothing other than verbal and emotional abuse.  That would maybe be worse because then why so much negative energy attached to it.

The biggest concern is that my partner doesn't believe that anyone he/she knows has been helped in any lasting way by therapy, in fact it usually seems to only get worse by opening those deep wounds.

This session of yours makes one wonder.  Can you help by offering your best reasons as to why a person should be willing to subject themselves to such intensive introspection and the resultant pain?"

I can't begin to express how honored I am to receive this question.  Any time someone is willing to open their heart and share their fears, I am in awe.  It is such a difficult thing.  This question moved me to tears.

First, let me say emotional and verbal abuse are very serious things.  They are incredibly damaging to the soul, often more so than being hit.  If you are anywhere near my age or older, you were probably raised with the "sticks and stones" mentality.  Generation after generation perpetuated this lie.  Words can hurt you.  We are finally getting to a point as a society that we recognize this.  This is why things like online bullying can now be prosecuted.  But if you are like me, no one in your life ever tried to help you heal from verbal assaults.  In fact, you may have even been told by your abuser (as I was), "There's no such thing as emotional abuse."  This is a lie.  The sticks and stones mentality is another way to punish the victim for being hurt, as if it's their fault.

I'm so sorry you and your partner are struggling (because we struggle together).  I don't know if there's a traumatic event buried.  I don't know how to tell you to find out.  I'm not a therapist or trained in any of this.  But I do consider myself somewhat of an expert at going to therapy, so I'll answer that.

Traumatic events are like slivers.  We can try to pretend they aren't there, they may or may not work themselves out, but usually we have to remove them in order to heal.  We can ignore them for a while, but something will happen that causes us to bump one and it will hurt.  Especially if it was serious and it's now infected.  We knew it should be taken care of but thought we could tough it out.  Or we didn't want to make a big deal out of it.  Or we didn't want to seem weak.

The only thing I regret about therapy is not starting sooner.

I was scared.  I was fairly certain after one session the therapist would tell me I was making a big deal out of nothing and didn't need to come back.  I was embarrassed.  I felt like a failure.  And I was terrified that if I opened up and let go of the white knuckle hold I had on things I would fall apart.  I'd accidentally opened things up once or twice before and it was horrific.  I couldn't shut it down and it controlled me for days, weeks, or longer.  I was afraid I'd find some horrible memory and I'd have to confront someone about it and it would get ugly.  I was afraid of being weak.  I was afraid of needing someone else.  I was afraid of trusting someone else.  I was afraid of feeling again, because then I'd be vulnerable.

But that's not what happened.  The therapist listened and validated me.  I felt safe in a way I hadn't ever felt before.  My feelings were honored. 

Working with a trained therapist is different than talking with a friend about a problem.  When I start to get to an unsafe place, a friend will hug me and cry with me but doesn't know how to stop the avalanche of emotions that's pulling me under.  A therapist does.  He can talk me through it.  He can teach me how to find my own way through it.  It's kind of like walking through a dark house when you're scared but having a cop with a gun and night-vision goggles as your guide. 

It is hard to open up.  And it's still scary for me sometimes.  But I have never regretted it.  Not once.  I have regretted telling someone else in my life, someone I thought was safe who turned out not to be.  But never have I regretted sharing anything with my therapist.

Traumatic experiences mess us up because our brains don't know how to process awful things that happen, especially if we were children when they happened.  Through therapy a memory can be brought out, looked at, re-framed, and put away neatly.  I know it doesn't make sense that just talking to someone can make things better, but when it's the right someone who knows what they're doing it works.  I promise.

Does your partner need therapy?  Do you?  I don't know.  What I do know is that it's been wonderful for me.  Without therapy I would no longer be married.  Without therapy my husband could very well be in jail due to ramifications of his rage.  And without therapy I would live in constant fear and stress.

I am stronger.  I am gentler.  And I have much more peace in my soul.  I feel more complete.  I feel more content.  I believe in myself.  My heart is lighter and more open.  My life is easier because I went to therapy.

Even after my last session, when things went badly, I highly recommend therapy.  My therapist is just a person.  And as with any relationship, sometimes there are communication problems that cause pain.  The key is whether or not you can work through it.  We are.  The amount of calm I felt after his phone call amazed me.  No matter how often I am healed through a therapy session it still amazes me.

Listen to your heart.  If you are religious, pray.  And listen.  You will know if therapy is a good choice for you (your partner must decide for him/herself).  Chances are life has caused you to doubt your own intuition, but your heart knows.

If you go and don't connect well with your therapist, I suggest trying someone else.  One bad experience doesn't mean therapy won't work.  It might just mean you didn't fit with that person.  There are lots of therapists out there.  You need one you feel comfortable with, because therapy is an emotionally intimate thing.  Don't think one session will fix it all.  It takes time. 

And if it doesn't feel right, you don't need to continue.  I have a friend who says therapy didn't work for her.  She had to work it all out with God.  I think of myself as a pretty spiritual person with a good relationship with God and I couldn't do it that way.  I needed therapy.

I hope this answers your question satisfactorily.  Please feel free to ask more.  And thank you so much for being brave enough to offer the question.  I am honored.

A Possibility of Healing

This post is a follow up to yesterday's post, A Bad Therapy Session.

Yesterday I wrote about the pain.  About the trauma of a bad session.  About trying to decide what to do next.  About being unsure of whether or not I could continue to work with my present therapist.

What I didn't say was how badly I wanted to continue with him.  I wanted everything to be better.  I knew that we could work through things.  But I was absolutely not okay with spending another $100 to make it all better.  I was not okay with paying for another session so we could work through his mistake.

I wondered if I was just being stubborn.  After thinking about it a while and realizing the only way I could go back was if he agreed to work through it without it costing me anything, I wondered if I was being self-righteous and unfair.  But I don't think I was.

I was saying that my time matters.  That I deserve to get what I pay for.  That we are equals.  That just because I come to him for help it doesn't mean I have to gratefully accept whatever pittance he decides to grace me with.  I was saying I matter.

So that was my decision.  After lots of thought and prayer, I knew that was the only condition under which I could go back to work with him and still honor myself.

I expected him to call in response to my letter.  I didn't know what I'd do if the time came for my next appointment and I hadn't heard from him.  Luckily, I didn't have to find out.

He called today.

My phone rang.  I looked at the number and knew it was him.  I'd been expecting this but still wasn't ready.  I couldn't talk to him until I knew where he stood.  I just wasn't okay enough.  I wasn't even sure I could get any words out if I tried.  So I let the call go to voicemail.

He thanked me for my letter.  He thanked me for being open and forthright.  (There was even a note of what a great therapeutic accomplishment it was for me.)  He said he was sorry for "blowing" our last session (his word).  He said sometimes this happens.  When it does, he likes to offer a do-over.  Another session, as soon as possible, without charge.  He said he understood I wasn't sure if I was going to come back.  He said he would like me to.  He said he could make time this week to see me if I wanted to give it another try.  He asked that I call him back to see if we could set up a time.

After listening to his voicemail, I cried.  Kind of a lot.  He'd said exactly what I was hoping for.  He was the person I thought he was.  He honored the importance of my feelings.  He made me feel of value -- like an equal.

Even still, I couldn't call him right away.  I couldn't speak yet.  It was about 45 minutes before I could call, which made it a little after 5:00.  I knew there was a chance he'd be gone for the day and I'd get his voicemail.  I was even kind of hoping to.  I wasn't sure I could converse.  And I did get his voicemail.

As I listened to his outgoing message, I felt a bit of relief.  I could just leave a simple message and that would be that.  Only it wasn't that easy.  I began to speak and got choked up.  I pushed through the tears to say what I needed to say.  I told him he'd said the only thing that would have convinced me to try again.  I told him I could try.  I asked him to call me back with scheduling options.

It's not all better, but it's a start.  And it's not starting over.  Which I just don't think I could have done right now.

But for the first time in over a week, I feel like there's a possibility of healing.  Like maybe the healing has begun.

A Bad Therapy Session

It happens.  Sometimes a therapy session is just a waste of time.  Sometimes this is my fault.  Sometimes it's my therapist's fault.  Sometimes it's a mix.

But this time it was bad.  This time it was wounding.

I usually see him every two weeks.  This time, due to a scheduling problem, it was a month between visits.  I'm sure this contributed.

My last visit was rough.  My PTSD had been triggered.  I finally revealed to him an incredibly difficult memory from my past -- the memory that's held more power over me than anything else.  Ever.  One I only have vague images of.  One that's left painful muscle memories.  One I've been cautioned not to share openly because it could be dangerous for me.  One that causes me to feel like a small child and to cramp terribly.

It was a very intense session for me.  He listened and validated me.  He helped get me through the worst of the PTSD.  We formed a plan for working through it.  He assured me that I could heal from this even without the entire memory.  I left that session hopeful.

Over the course of the next month my PTSD was triggered two more times; my husband went through two anger cycles; I went through a deep, week-long depression; and I had a two-hour conversation with my mom which triggered that memory again.  That dark and painful and frightening memory.

I spent a few days cramping badly, my uterus and my back, almost like labor.  Constant.  No relief from anything I took.  And I knew it was directly related to this memory.

I knew I had a session coming up.  I knew we were going to work on it and I would feel better afterward.  I held on.

But the session didn't help.  I gave him a quick recap of the month and told him I was ready to work.  I needed to work so the pain would go away.  And he went a different direction.  He wanted to focus on something else.  It's not that he was trying to avoid what I wanted to talk about.  It's that he didn't remember.  I tried to redirect it a couple of times, but since he didn't remember that memory I had revealed last time, he thought he knew best what we should work on.

Sometimes I am strong and when he goes off on a tangent or chit chats too much I can pull it back where I need it to be.  This time I couldn't.  Like I said, this memory makes me feel like a little girl.  I am hesitant and scared and timid.  All I can do is politely go along.

When we had about ten minutes left, he asked what direction we should go next.  I reminded him of what had happened last time.  And I could tell he immediately realized his mistake.   And it was too late to do any work on it.  In reminding him about it, I had reopened it.  I was raw and crying.  He tried to salvage things.  He tried to give me something to work on before our next session.  And I did my best to reign in my emotions.  Our time was up.  I had to leave the office.  And I was trying not to make him feel bad.

But I was not okay.  I made it out of the office and twenty yards down the hall to the bathroom before I crumpled to the floor sobbing.  I got it under control enough to leave the bathroom and practically ran to my car, hoping no one would notice my red eyes and shaky breathing and ask if I was okay.  Once in my car the sobbing returned, stronger.  I sobbed in a way I have only done once or twice since I was a child.  Gut wrenching sobs.  Devastated cries from deep within me.

Over the next few days there was a lot of crying.  And there was still the intense physical pain.  But worse than that all my old, unhealthy coping mechanisms reasserted themselves.  Things I thought were in my past.  Things I thought I'd overcome.  Things I thought no longer had any power over me.  They suddenly slammed me to the ground and repeatedly kicked me.

My husband and I went out a few days later.  As we drove I told him about the session.  After approximately 10 minutes of yelling and swearing, I had to admit I was angry.  And it wasn't getting any better.  So when I got home I wrote my therapist a letter. 

I told him what the experience was like from my side.  I told him how difficult it is to know I only have one hour every two weeks.  I told him how hard I prepare for that hour so I can use it wisely.  I told him it costs me $100 every session because our insurance doesn't pay for it.  I told him it's a real sacrifice to pay that, but when it's necessary and helpful I am okay with it.  I told him I felt like he'd stolen from my family that day.  I told him that session wounded me because at such a vulnerable time he didn't listen to me.  And I wasn't strong enough to fight him if he wouldn't listen to me.  I told him I wasn't sure if I'd be able to come back.  I wasn't sure I'd be able to work on this with him after all.  I'm not sure he's a safe person for me anymore.

And then I took the letter to his office and gave it to the lady at the front desk.

I have not heard from him.

I have a little over a week until my next appointment.  I'm examining my options.  I've spent a lot of time trying to decide if I will go back.  I know he sees lots of patients.  I know it was a month in between visits.  I know he's human and makes mistakes, like we all do.  And I can forgive those things. 

But forgiving them doesn't take away the wound.  If you hit me with a rock and then apologize, I will forgive you.  But the bruise will remain.  It will take time to heal.  And any time I see you with a rock in the future I will worry about whether or not you're going to hurt me.

Unfortunately, our session was the rock.

**********

If you read this post, please read A Possibility of Healing for the resolution.

PTSD and Me

I have a guest post up over at Real Intent about what my life is like with PTSD.  Please pop over and read it.  It's important.

Any Man of Mine

For the first thirty-five years or so of my life I let other people do most of the choosing for me.  They dictated the kind of person I should be.  They told me the things I should like.  They told me what behavior was appropriate and what wasn't.  And I fell into line. 

The reasons why are numerous.  I wish I'd realized earlier that I had choices.

It was around age 35 that I first went to therapy.  Again, the reasons why are numerous.  It was a life saver in a very real sense.  And it was there that I learned I can choose.  If I don't like something about my life I can choose to change it.  I can choose things that make me happy even if the people around me don't like it.  It was a rebirth.  I was deciding who I was for the first time.

It was an incredibly empowering time.  But there were still difficulties.  I had to learn and develop ways to get through those difficult times.  Those people who'd had control over me for so long didn't give that up easily.  My tendency to surrender to their will and be bullied into submission didn't go away after one session -- not even after many sessions. 

New habits and thinking patterns are hard.  It takes time and a lot of work to change who you are, whether you like who you were or not.  And, unfortunately, I couldn't convince my therapist to travel everywhere with me and give me the little nudges I needed in the tough moments.  The moments in between sessions were killers.

That was kind of the long way to tell you about my Power Songs.  I found various things that kept me empowered between sessions, and my Power Songs were some of the best.  Three cds of very personal songs that helped me remember what I wanted and why I was working so hard and that it would all be worth it.

One of those songs was Shania Twain's "Any Man of Mine."  It felt very empowering.  It felt full of self-determination.  It was all about teaching people how you want to be treated, which is a big deal in therapy.

My husband mostly loved my Power Songs.  He (eventually) supported the changes I wanted to make and the new person I was becoming.  He would sing with me when I played my Power Songs.  Except that song.  He hated it.

I assumed it was because it was country.  I'm a fan; he's not.  But when I asked him why he said something along the lines of, "Have you listened to how it talks about men?"

I'm gonna tell you all the truth.  How it talked about men hadn't ever crossed my mind.  Those first stages of therapy were incredibly selfish times.  They had to be.  But it meant that I was so worried about how I was treated that I didn't consider how he was treated.

The song basically says a woman can behave any way she wants and the man better shut up and love it and behave the way she wants.  He better tow the line.

It's often what our society teaches.  It's what my mother modeled.  I believe it's a leftover from the feminist movement of the seventies.  It's the old story of the oppressed rising up and oppressing their oppressors.

But it's not healthy.  It's not good for us as women either.  It's just bullying in a different form.

Learning to treat each other with respect has been a steep, uphill climb for both of us.  Neither of us was taught this growing up.  It wasn't modeled in our homes.  Sarcasm and emotional manipulation and bullying are the languages we learned.  Teaching him how I wanted to be treated was only half of the solution.  Learning how he wanted to be treated was equally important. 

Over time I've learned that the most empowering relationship, the most healthy relationship, is one of mutual respect.  One that makes each person feel valued.  One that's not all about me or all about him but about us.  As a unit and individually.  We matter.

What are My Options When My Husband is Mean?

I get this question over and over on my other blog.  The post that gets hit the most by internet searches is My Husband is Mean to Me and the Kids.  Women who are struggling search the internet and find my blog.  They are in ugly situations and don't know what to do.

They read what I wrote.  They understand too well because it fits their lives.  They ask me what to do.

And I have no idea how to answer them.

When I was in the middle of it, I didn't know what to do.  And I didn't dare talk to anyone about it to try to get answers.  I didn't think anyone would believe me.  I was afraid it would make my husband angry.  I thought it was a sign that I wasn't good enough.  I didn't try enough.  I was a quitter.

I don't believe those things now.  I'm better and he's better and I wish that for everyone who reads my blog and feels a kinship.  But I don't know how to make it happen for you.  And it's not the only correct outcome.

My husband had a breakthrough moment.  Then we both had a lot of therapy.  He got better.  He got worse.  I got better.  I got worse.  We even separated for a while.  And after years of hard work by both of us we are good.  Almost all the time.  But I don't believe most abusive relationships will work out like this.

And I remember feeling like I didn't have options.  I was trapped.  I couldn't support myself and the kids without him.  If we divorced, he would have the kids some of the time on his own and I wouldn't be there to protect them.  What if I was wrong and things weren't as bad as I thought they were?  What if he was right and I was blowing things out of proportion and it destroyed our marriage?  What if I ruined his life because I didn't work hard enough at our marriage?  How could I handle the embarrassment of a divorce?  How badly would I damage my children if we divorced?  How badly was I damaging my children by staying?  If I divorced him, he could choose to make my life a living hell.

I was so scared of taking the route of divorce.  I didn't want to be with him.  I prayed he would leave me.  On really bad days I prayed he would die.  Anything to relieve my suffering and protect my children.  Without me having to take that horrible step I didn't want to take.  There were too many things I couldn't predict and control.  That's what made it so scary.  And after so many years of abuse, I didn't believe in myself anymore.  I didn't believe I could make it.

I didn't know my options.  I know them better now.  But I don't know all the options.

I know that I can leave without explaining myself.  I know I can call the police and have him removed from the home if he is threatening us or in a rage.  I know I can get a restraining order against him.  I know I can get therapy and become healthy myself even if he chooses to never change.  I know I can talk about it to others.  I know I can tell him how I want to be treated.  And I know I have to be willing to stand behind my words if none of this changes him.  Because he won't change unless he wants to -- no one will, no matter how much someone else wants them to.

I'm asking for help now.  These women cry out to me.  Often, they post anonymously so I can't even respond to them.  But I'd like them to have answers.  I like them to see options.  I'm asking for help from anyone who reads this and knows something.  If you've had experience with an abusive marriage, and know options, please share them.  Any info is welcome.  Therapists, lawyers, religious leaders, police officers, and those who've been there.  Please comment and share what you know.  Please share this with others who may know and ask them to help.

Please comment with respect.  Please don't judge or preach.  Please don't tell these women what to do, just help them see options.  Each woman needs to listen to her heart and choose for herself.  I recommend lots of prayer if you're a believer.  I recommend therapy if you possibly can.  I recommend writing if you don't dare talk to anyone yet.

Please try to believe in yourself again.  You do have options.

My Own Misbehavior

I wish I could say my husband was the only one who was abusive in our relationship.  With all my heart I wish I could say that.  But it's just not true.

Growing up I never fought back.  My abusers were always bigger and stronger and more powerful than me.  I didn't think there was anyone who could protect me.  I learned not to cry because it only angered my abusers more.  My best weapons of survival were to hide or acquiesce.  I did my best to stay out of sight.  When I couldn't do that I just tried to be quiet and do what they wanted me to do.  I became excellent at reading the emotions in the room so I could sometimes head off an attack by changing my behavior or leaving.

I promised myself I would never stay with a man who was abusive.  If he hit me, I was gone.  Physical abuse is easy to recognize and prove.  When I was pregnant with our first child my husband and I got into a heated argument.  I stepped in front of him to keep him from storming away.  He shoved me out of the way hard enough that I fell to the ground.  I let him go.  When things cooled off I told him if he ever did anything like that again I would leave.  He never did.

Physical abuse is a quick blow (or several).  Emotional abuse is slow torture.  It isn't usually evident to others.  But it eats your soul.

I had been unhappy with the way my husband treated me and the kids for a long time, but I didn't call it abuse.  I didn't recognize it for what it was.  Mostly because it was so familiar.  It was how I'd grown up.  I remember the moment I knew.  It was when I heard myself telling the children, "Please be as good as you can so daddy won't get mad."

What a horrific moment.  What an awful responsibility to dump on a child.  A responsibility that was in no way theirs.  That's when I started to search for a better way. 

Instead of trying to placate him I began standing up to him.  In the only way I knew how.  I yelled.  I demanded.  I criticized and name called.  I threatened.  I demeaned and mocked and shamed.  I'd only seen my mom stand up to my dad a few times and this was how she did it.  It was what my emotions were shouting at me to do.  My heart said protect the children, so I stood between them and the raging lion.  With a whip and a chair.

It would be years before I knew a better way.  And after he started to change it was a long time before I saw how awful I had been to him.  In defense or not, my actions had been emotionally abusive as well.  Neither of us knew how to deal with these things in an emotionally healthy way.

One or both of us has been in therapy now off and on for about six years.  We have generations of unhealthy behavior to unlearn.  We both have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder which means sometimes we are triggered and find ourselves back in those moments when we were powerless and terrified.  We are still working to get healthy and strong.  We still mess up.  We are still sometimes unkind to each other.  We still often see the other as an enemy and forget we're on the same team.

But we are so much better than we used to be.  I am proud of us for all the hard work and progress.  There are so many horrible things we experienced as children that we were able to protect our own kids from.  So many emotional battles we've fought so they won't have to.

We're cleaning up the line as best we can.  Breaking the chains that bound us.

An Abusive Husband, part three

For the first part of my husband's story and why we are sharing it read this.
For the second part of our story read this.

Today I offer the final part of the story:  what happened when he saw the truth.

I WAS AN ABUSIVE HUSBAND.  REALLY?  (PART THREE)

I started to work with a friend from an old job.  He is a very sensitive and caring man who understands women (and no he isn't gay).  But when I would talk to him at work and tell him how nuts my wife was he would always tell me where I was wrong.  He was very good at it because he can talk both male and female.  He had been through a lot of therapy, too.

Robin and I were about done with marriage and I was sick of all the accusations of being abusive.  I still loved her and didn't want to divorce but she just wasn't getting it.  Then one day we had a meeting, just her and me.  I was finally to the point where I really wanted to understand what she was trying to say.  I don't know if she explained it to me better that time or I finally listened but I got it.  It was the yelling, putting down and getting even that was the abuse.  The seething hatred when I was angry.  The fact that everyone at home was walking on egg shells around me so they wouldn't trigger another outburst from the angry man.

Holy cow, what an eye opener that was.  I love these people and they all feel like I hate them.  They walk on egg shells around me.  My wife and kids.  It was a shot to my heart.

But how to fix it, for now I see just what a bastard I am.  Anger was my nature.  I couldn't control it.  It would explode in me and I had to yell or I would be violent (I never was but it was because I could yell at those I was angry with).  I also knew that my OCD triggered my anger and how was I going to fix that?

That's when I started therapy (or thereabouts).  We found Dr. Dan.  Robin, bless her, saw my horror when I finally understood and we decided to work together to beat this thing.  I was ready.

It was really hard.  I had to learn how to control my anger.  I had to face issues from my past that I wanted to leave alone.  I had to trust Dr. Dan.  (Don't think that wasn't hard.)  I had to learn how to be a real man.  A real husband and father.  I don't always win in my daily fight to control my anger or my OCD, but I win most days.  I've learned that you can change.  You can control anger.  I'm to the point now where I hardly ever get angry anymore.  It's been a long road and I've had a lot of help.

The most important thing I've learned in this whole process is that you have to accept the fact that you are wrong.  Be humble enough to be told you're being a jerk and realize you are but you can change.  Your wife isn't trying to control you.  She loves you and is trying to help you reach your potential.

Thanks for helping me be a better man, Robin.

I Hate Money

I hate money with a visceral hatred from the deepest darkest place in my soul.  If you mention the word money to me there is a place in my stomach that clenches and I want to throw up.  I hate money so much.

Money has been many things in my life.  Money has been power that someone else had and used against me.  Money has been a way for someone to control me.  Money has been a substitute for love when money was all my parents had to offer.  Money has been an elusive prize that teases and dances, taking one step closer and then running away.  Money has been an avalanche that threatens the life of me and my family.  Money is my enemy.

And I don't think this is the relationship I am supposed to have with money.  It's not the way I want to feel and think about money.  I am so sick of money controlling my life.

I grew up in a home where I don't remember ever not having enough money to meet our needs and then some.  It's possible my parents had financial struggles, but if they did I never knew about it.  My parents never talked about money.  Except when they fought.

My mom grew up very poor.  My dad didn't.  My mom likes to shop.  A lot.  To the point of an addiction.  My dad has money and spends it when he wants to, but I don't know how he feels or what he thinks about it.  Except I know he thinks she spends too much.  It doesn't stop him from giving it to her; it just gives him something to be angry about.  I have heard him complain and yell about money more times in my life than anything else.  I'm pretty sure money is his God.  And a way to control people.  He gives.  It seems generous at the time.  Then he calls in the favors you didn't know you owed; you didn't know you were agreeing to an undefined contract.  And the only thing my mom ever taught me about money is that my dad has plenty and doesn't give her enough.

He's good with money, but he didn't teach me anything about it.  Except that spending it is bad and smart people know how to manage their finances and if you can't be self-sufficient financially then something is wrong with you that you should be ashamed of.

Yeah, my feelings about my parents and money are kind of intense.

And then there's my marriage.  We've had our share of financial arguments.  We don't have the same approach to money.  And I'm pretty sure neither of us would claim to be really good with money.  But we're grown ups so we're expected to know how to do this.

We've been married twenty-two years.  My husband has been the breadwinner the whole time.  I worked a bit but just because I wanted to.  (My health no longer allows me to work.)  And in this twenty-two years my husband has been laid off or fired ten times.  The longest we went without any income was seven months.  We've been on food stamps.  Our children have been on government insurance and received free school lunches.  In fact, the government paid entirely for the pregnancy and delivery of one of our children.  We've gone to our church for food, clothes, and help with our mortgage payment and bills.  We've lived off our food storage and sold many things of value just to meet our obligations.  We no longer have food storage or savings.  We used these up and haven't been able to rebuild them.

And because of this history, because of the many times we had our electricity shut off because we couldn't pay the bill, I am scared.  Whenever we get paid I want to put the money away just in case.  I have trouble paying bills because I'm afraid that will be our last income.  What if I pay the bills and then he gets laid off?  Then I don't have any money and my family is threatened again.

We've had well-paying jobs (I say we even though they were his jobs) and poor-paying jobs.  We've had more than enough financially and not nearly enough financially.  We've happily worked together on budgeting and spending and fought like crazy about money.  We've tracked our money together and spent behind each other's backs.  And for most of our marriage I have been in charge of the money.  Which meant that even though he earned the money I felt the pressure to handle it well.

I am a smart girl.  I am good at math and organization.  But I still really struggle with money.  And it is still a source of shame for me.

But this thing has been a burr under my saddle for long enough.  I'm ready to kick this monkey off my back.  I'm ready to acknowledge that I don't know what I'm doing.  That I've been trying to figure this out for years and am still not getting it.  That I have serious psychological issues that I need to address.

I'm ready for the battle.  And I'm going to win.

Trust the Forward Path

I will never be the same.  I want my old life back.  If only I could go back in time and do it differently.

It's so easy to find ourselves wanting things to be the way they used to be.  Especially when things are tough or we're insecure about who we are right this moment.  Why do we do that?  Why do we want to go backwards?

This is a forward life.  Time only moves one direction.  There is no going back.  Even if you can change your decision you haven't really gone back and undone anything.  Because you are different.  You have learned something from that experience.  Even if all you learned was regret.

Years ago my marriage was abusive.  I'd lived with it for years and told no one.  If anyone suspected it, they never said anything to me.  And then one day all my life experiences combined to make me see it and face it.  I finally told someone.  I finally decided to change it.

And my world fell apart.

Things got ugly.  Really ugly.  Suddenly my husband was accusing me of having an affair, threatening divorce, and even sleeping somewhere else.  As I melted down and became lost in my misery I said, "I wish I could go back and just leave things the way they were."

But I couldn't.  Because the truth had been told and because I knew too much.  Living with it in ignorance and hidden is quite a different thing than knowingly and openly letting it continue.

Lots of therapy for both of us later, my marriage is good.  We've both learned so much.  We've grown.  We've changed.  We are better individually and together.  Because we didn't go backwards.

Sometimes when I am feeling sorry for myself because I don't feel well, I long for the days of my youth.  I remember all the energy I had.  I remember all I could do.  I remember how fun and bright I was.  I wish I could be that me again.

And then I remember how shallow I was before.  How I knew a lot of facts but wasn't very wise.  How I had lots of friends but no one I could tell my deepest secrets to.  How I wasn't sure enough of who I was to open my heart and trust.

Life changes us.  Sometimes we focus on what we don't have in this moment.  Who we aren't.  And we don't see who we are or who we are becoming.

My life has gone through lots of yuck.  Sometimes I have cursed the path I've found myself on.  But always -- always -- I have found myself somewhere better.  Someone better.

It's comfortable to be who we are.  The us we know.  It's scary to become someone else.  But each person we are is meant to be temporary.  If we remain that person for too long, the glory wears off.  The shiny us becomes dull. 

I have been reminding myself of this often recently.  Trust the forward path; it's never let you down before.

So I'm done sitting in one place longing for who I was.  I'm stepping into who I will be.