Thursday 3/31/22 Ugh

 Tomorrow is April. Time seems to be flying by, but also feels like it's at a standstill. It's weird. I'm looking forward to warmer weather and sunshine. I want to do more hiking and walks this summer, horseback riding and lounging outside. I'd really like to. I want to be more active, lose more weight (I've hit a plateau). I want to make memories. 

But my brain hates me.

I've been so numb lately. So blah in everything I do. There's no passion in me. Hell, there's nothing in me - I'm an empty husk. I can play it off that I'm okay, for the most part. I'd say most people can't tell that I'm struggling. But my fuse is getting shorter. I'm getting more irritable and down. But still so empty. I keep feeling like if I could just cry - get it all out - I'd feel so much better. But I can't. I physically can't cry. There's nothing there. No emotion. I've tried forcing it to no avail. Because there is nothing there. I'm so numb and empty and blah. Anhedonia and apathy are my playmates from hell. And I hate this. So. Fucking. Much. 

I woke up this morning feeling pretty low. I had no motivation for anything. I didn't want to leave bed. What's the point? But I did. I took Ayden to school, had breakfast, then went back to bed. For an hour. I had to force myself to get up and shower. But I did. And I went downstairs and painted a little bit. But I didn't enjoy it. And I think my work shows that. So I stopped. I had lunch, did laundry, and now I'm writing all of this. I'm so tired of feeling nothing. I'm so tired of faking emotions. I'm so tired of everything. Why do I have to go through this? All. The. Time. All. My. Life. I'm sick of it. I'm seriously considering calling in sick to work tomorrow, just so I don't have to pretend. Because nothing brings me joy or happiness or satisfaction or contentment or anything. I feel nothing or I feel irritable. What a way to live. 

I keep thinking I should be grateful that I'm not deep in a bad depression. That I'm not fighting suicidal thoughts (though I still have them from time to time). But somehow . . . this almost feels worse. I'm so tired of pretending. Everyone expects me to be okay. And I think that people would be tired of it if they knew the truth. I mean, I'm tired of it, why wouldn't they be?

So I'm floating along, trying to keep my head above water. It's not easy. Nothing is easy. Ever. I hate this. So. Much. And while I teared up writing this, I can't fucking cry.

Wednesday 3/23/22 HORSES!

 So guys, I woke up in a bad mood this morning. Cranky, down, yucky. Just not in a good place. Even knowing I was going to spend time with horses today. It was very annoying and I couldn't seem to shake it. I spent some time drawing this morning (horses, of course), and just felt very blah and down. I had an early lunch and drove out to the barn where I was meeting Nancy (long time acquaintance and friend - she was my "person" when I went through equine facilitated psychotherapy myself). Well, she owns her own equine facilitated psychotherapy practice now and invited me out to see the horses and chat.

I got to the barn right before noon and as I stepped out of my truck and breathed deep . . . it's like I was transported to a better place. There's something about the smell of horses, hay, and manure that just make a girl feel at home. I didn't realize how much I missed that smell until I was there. I walked inside and found Nancy. We talked and loved on horses for over an hour. It wasn't ideal, though, because the weather was crap (cold and incredibly windy out). We made the best of it. She showed me around the indoor stalls and arena, we went outside (we didn't stay outside long because of the wind), and she invited me to come and volunteer with her organization! Guys - I'm so excited! And honored that she wants me to volunteer (she said herself she's picky about who she has as volunteers). So far I'll be doing Thursday mornings in June, working with some tweens. There's no riding - just working with the kids as they navigate horsemanship, learning about themselves in the process. Eeeeeek! 

For a long time I've thought about getting into the mental health field. I've looked for per diem day shifts at the local inpatient mental health facilities (to no avail) and had even considered diving in full time into mental health. I've had these thoughts for years (I've even toyed with the idea of going back to school to be a psychiatric nurse practitioner). So how wonderful is it that I get to help Nancy out with kids fighting anxiety or depression?! SO wonderful! And I get to do it with HORSES! I'm hoping this is a great opportunity for me. Maybe - just maybe - I can eventually get my PATH certification and do this as a side job . . . ahh, the dreams I have. 

Anyway, here's Titan, a very good boy who loved scritches from me and was very interested in me.

I almost forgot how soft horse's noses are! It's like heaven! I can't wait to be around them more again!

Thursday 3/17/22 Therapy

 Happy St Patty's Day! If you celebrate that, I guess. I don't. It's just another day for me. 

Anyway, I had therapy today and boy was it a hoot! Not really. That was sarcasm. It was difficult. Why? Because we jumped right into TRAUMA WORK. Ugh. Something that I thought we'd done in the past - which we have, a little - but now we're revisiting it because Mike thinks it will be helpful for me. 

It's interesting, because I've been reading a book on trauma (I mentioned it in my post 2 weeks ago). Trauma in dealing with my alcoholic mother and growing up in an alcoholic home, with neglect and instability. But what Mike brought up first was my rape. My rape that happened 23 or 24 years ago. Why the rape? Well, I always bring my artwork in to show Mike and he commented today that he's never seen me draw a male figure. Which I haven't. I don't. He asked why. The reason is that I don't necessarily find the male body attractive like I do the female body (no, I'm not gay). I've never drawn the male body and therefor wouldn't be very skilled at doing so. And if I'm doing art that's representing myself, it will always be female (duh!). He asked if I was afraid of what the male body represented and I was all what? *cock head to side as if trying to understand* He said that since I was raped by a man that maybe the male body (drawing it, at least) subconsciously reminds me of that. Again I was like, what? He then asked if I had ever had a flashback to that day. Which the answer is yes, yes I have. It doesn't happen often (rarely), but I have. So he said that we needed to talk about it. 

So we did. I've compartmentalized the event and shoved it far back into the recesses of my mind. When it comes up I don't deal with it - I push it away. I figured this was a good thing. But Mike (and the trauma book I'm reading) said I need to acknowledge the trauma, feel it, and work through it. Which sounds awful if you ask me. But we talked about it. And I felt sick to my stomach. And I felt anger and fear and humiliation. And then Mike centered me and grounded me back in the here and now. Remembering the rape is almost dreamlike for me. It's fuzzy around the edges. But we brought it back into focus which was pretty horrible. But then I got to move on. 

Mike then asked me about other memories, childhood memories. If they were dreamlike as well or if some were more concrete. I told him about when I was in 5th grade I got to leave school on Friday's to go to Bemis Art School. I rode a bus there. And I remember sitting with my head against the window, looking out at the road, wondering why I wasn't happy like all the other kids were. Why did I struggle? Why did I feel so bad? Mike had me do a visualization exercise. I had to imagine that I had 10 year old me sitting in my lap. He had me "hug" her and say to her what I would say to 10 year old me who was in that situation. And it felt so weird and so uncomfortable and I was self conscious. But, to my surprise, I welled up with emotion and started to cry. I started to cry, people. I haven't been able to cry for months. And I cried, "holding" this 10 year old me in my lap. Mike gave me a few minutes and then had me take some deep breaths. He had me "pull" 10 year old me into my heart and hold her there. To keep her safe and to realize that she's a part of me. I don't need to compartmentalize her and push her away. I can feel her, support her, and let her go. 

So yeah. Trauma work. It's hard. It's full of icky feels. And it's something I get to do for a while. I'm not really looking forward to it. At all. But, maybe it will help with my depression. 

In other news, nothing much else is going on. I'm painting horses, working, napping. Not much else. I have bad days and I have blah days. Blah is about as good as it gets. Blah is not fun. I don't feel much joy or happiness or contentment (not really any). Which sucks. I'm just floating along through life, trying to keep my head above water. The only thing I'm looking forward to is volunteering at the riding center (my orientation is April 2nd). Being with horses is good. They are my zen. 

Here. Have a horse to look at. This post was depressing.

Wednesday 3/9/22 Down

 I'm feeling pretty crappy today. Down, depressed, and blah. I woke up feeling this way. I felt this way yesterday. I'm hoping I don't feel this way tomorrow. 

I think I know part of the reason I'm feeling depressed - because I feel guilty. I feel guilty because I bought a 16 week workout plan to try something different to get in shape (it was $67 - so it's not like it broke the bank, but still). So why does that make me feel guilty? Because it was an impulse buy. And I keep impulse buying things. Like protein powder. I have 6 months worth of protein powder (or more). Or supplements. I keep trying different supplements. Or vitamin water. I keep impulse buying things that I don't really need (now, I use protein powder every day, along with the vitamin water . . . but I don't need so much of it). It's a problem. A real problem. Jeremy has pointed this out to me numerous times. And I know it's a problem. Little purchases add up. I need to stop. But it's like I can't. It's like my brain is being hijacked. I buy because I think it'll make me feel better. I get a little dopamine rush when I purchase something, and then another little rush when the item comes in the mail. It is, quite frankly, like an addiction. One that I need to stop. 

Why am I like this? Why do I have to be this way?? I hate it about myself. And I beat myself up over it and that makes me feel worse. Then what happens? I buy something to try and make myself feel better and the cycle starts again. I see this happening. I know it's happening. And I can't seem to stop it. I don't know how to stop it. I guess I'm going to start asking Jeremy every time before I buy something. Ask permission almost. Because then maybe he can talk some sense into me. Though I'm embarrassed to have to do that. Which makes me feel worse. I hate this. So. Much. I hate that I'm like this. Weak. 

In other news, I'm going to be volunteering at the riding center again. It's now called Stable Strides (it used to be Pikes Peak Therapeutic Riding Center). So I'm going to be volunteering, working with kids with disabilities and playing with horses. I'm very much looking forward to it. Mainly the playing with horses part, if I'm honest. But it'll be good for me. Of course, much to Jeremy's dismay, I'll need to buy a couple of volunteer shirts to wear on the days that I'm there. And I'd like a hoodie for the chilly days (there I go, spending more money). My orientation is on April 2nd (I need to go through orientation again because it's been 6 years since I volunteered there). 

I also decided on a design for my next tattoo, the one to cover my self harm scars - it'll be Chance, my therapy horse. He was my special boy and I think that he'll be perfect to cover my scars. I did a quick painting of how I want it to look - grey scale with just a hint of color on Chance's halter and the cherry blossoms. 

Here's the original photo:

I don't know when I'll be able to get it done, however. I just got a new tattoo last week, and we're having to rebuild our deck. So it may be awhile. That's okay though - I can wait. Maybe a little impatiently, but I can wait. 

And I need to stop buying things in order for me to be able to get it. That's a stipulation I'm putting on myself. If I want my new tattoo I can't impulse buy stuff. And I need to check with Jeremy before I buy anything. Two stipulations. That I must follow. 

Anyway, I guess that's all. I hate myself right now and I feel like crap. 

Thursday 3/3/22 Yeah . . .

 So today my mood is crap and I don't know why. There's no reason for it to be crap, but it is, and I'm over it. Last night I was looking forward to today because I was going to draw and paint and read and it was going to be good. And then I woke up. And it wasn't good. I did 4 drawings of horses - which seems like a lot - but that's all I did. No painting. No motivation. No desire. So I decided to scan all my recent paintings into the computer. All, like, 30 of them. And then I posted 20 to Etsy. Which took up a great deal of time. I didn't want to do it but it needed to be done and it was something to keep me busy and from napping. Then, I sat outside for 20 minutes - it's 70 degrees here today in Colorado. But it did nothing for my mood. And now, now I'm writing. 

I've been reading a book on complex PTSD for adults who grew up in a neglectful or abusive home. Several years ago when I went to Boston to see a bipolar specialist (Dr. Brian Schulman), he stated that he thought I had CPTSD due to growing up in an alcoholic home. And from being a nurse. But mostly from growing up in a neglectful, alcoholic home. So I ordered this book and have been reading it. And it's interesting because it describes my behavior quite well. I want to write about it but my thoughts are all jumbled up. I don't think I can get them out coherently. But this book really got me thinking. 

See, my mom and dad both were alcoholics. They divorced when I was very young - maybe when I was 5 years old or so (I'm not entirely sure). My brother and I lived with my mom during the week and would see our dad on the weekends. Already, without alcohol involved, that creates instability. Then throw in my mom drinking every night - often to the point of passing out. My brother and I were left to fend for ourselves. For as much as I can remember, my dad didn't drink when we were around. He did during the week, but not on the weekends when he had us. My step mom has told me how I was always a ball of tightly wound stress when they would pick us up. And how by the time we were being dropped off back with my mom I had started to unwind. Only to become a tightly wound up ball of stress again. 

Living with an alcoholic is not fun. Especially when it's a parent who's supposed to love and care for you and does the opposite. Not that my mom didn't love us - I'm sure she does and did in her own way - but she most definitely neglected us. She chose alcohol - again and again - over her own children. She was not very loving. Ever. She did - and still does - show her affection through money. She would buy us little things, or say she was going to buy us something, as a way of "showing her love". 

My brother and I were raised by the TV and video games. We were latchkey kids. Now don't get me wrong - I know my mom worked hard to provide for us. Being a single mother isn't easy by any stretch of the word, I get that. But she was either physically absent (at work), or mentally absent (drunk). Being home with her was worse than being alone. Me, being the oldest, often had to take care of her. Make dinner, get her, myself and my brother to bed. Clean up. My brother and I begged her daily to stop drinking. We would find her vodka (vodka and Kool Aid was her drink of choice - still is) and pour it down the drain. She'd have cups of alcohol hidden all over the house that my brother and I would find and get rid of. Only to have her buy more the next day and the process would start all over again. Sometimes, she'd blame her drinking on our dad. Sometimes, she'd blame the drinking on us. It was always a guessing game as to which "mom" we were going to get on a given night. Would it be "fun drunk" mom, who would want to play games and dance and sing (which my brother and I found embarrassing and annoying). Or would it be "sad drunk" mom who cried about everything in her life and blamed us for her misfortune. Or possibly "angry drunk" mom (which needs no explanation). 

As we grew older we came to hope that she would just pass out and leave us alone. It was much easier to deal with. When we were younger, it was terrifying. We didn't understand what was going on other than our mom was on the floor and wouldn't wake up. We were repeatedly traumatized by this until we finally grew numb to it and realized that her being passed out meant we weren't going to be harassed or yelled at. 

Because of this, I became a nervous perfectionist. I thought that if I got good enough grades maybe she'd stop drinking. If I could do this or that good enough, be a perfect daughter, then maybe she'd stop drinking. I was a high achiever in school. Worked full time starting when I was 16 and still was a straight A student. I was shy and withdrawn, anxious and depressed. I had no friends. I thought I didn't deserve them and was too embarrassed to bring anyone over to our house lest they see my mom drunk. My brother just kind of gave up. He became a slacker and low achiever. He got in trouble and developed anger issues. 

To this day I'm still a perfectionist. I don't think I'm good enough. I have imposter syndrome. I don't have many "real" friends. I'm an introvert. I'm a people pleaser and put myself last. I'm always shocked to know that someone likes or (gasp) respects me. I'm still a high achiever. I feel selfish if I do things for myself. I have bipolar disorder and deal with depression and anxiety on the daily.

My brother is still a slacker. He's never had a steady job. He has anger issues, anxiety and depression and spends his days playing video games and smoking pot. We're polar opposites. The one thing we have in common is that we can't stand our mother. 

I wish I had a dollar for every time we confronted our mom about her drinking. I'd have a decent sized nest egg. She'd either tell us she didn't drink/wasn't drinking (lies) or that she promised she would quit (more lies). She started drinking before I was born and hasn't stopped since. Her drinking is why my dad left her. 

I guess I should be happy that we were never physically abused. However, I think the emotional abuse and neglect were worse. Because it went on unseen by anyone. I don't know. But reading this book helped me realize that emotional abuse and neglect can be worse than physical abuse. 

Wow. What a downer of a post. But I needed to get some of this out. I know what I'll be talking about in therapy in a couple of weeks.