Sleep. Wherefore art thou?
After a very trying and exhausting day I fell in bed at 10:30. I fell asleep
but woke up at 12:30. Here we go again. I got up at 4 after turning this way
and that way, and having intense spells of sweating and feeling so incredibly
hot that even sitting under the fan with a wide open window didn’t help. I understand
it to be adrenaline. My current quack doc thinks I'm a drug addict looking for
sleeping pills and he does not believe in them. What the hell does that even mean. I don't believe in doctors not helping people. Who is right?
A number of years ago, a really good psychiatrist took the time to listen. He did all kinds of tests including measuring the amount of adrenaline in my body. The results, as he relayed them to me. “It’s not that you have trouble sleeping, it’s that you can’t. Your body is making too much adrenaline.”
So there I am. Someone who knew the situation, understood, and was really trying to help. Then I moved. Now I am a suicide threatening drug addict and offered me antihistamines. Isn’t it funny how different people see you. People who should know better.
I am really decompensating fast. I have calls all over the area. I started Monday. Not a single one returned. Like I said, they really take this seriously. Not so much I would say. My life is disposable. I’m too much trouble and seriously do not matter to the people who say they care. They make lovely posters and ads about Mental Health Awareness. Then you go, and there is none. Nada.
I don’t know why I can’t put this away or stop what is going on. I do wish I could. I fight it every day. And now I am tired. I do not have the strength or the will. That does not mean suicide. It can simply mean not being here. Turning off, tuning out. Shutting down. Off. Retreat to the blackness and darkness of my little box in my head. It resembles a coffin and is dark like a coffin. Nothing gets in. I fear that place. I am alive and dead at the same time.
Death. A big part of my life. We were always dying. Dying of fear. Dying of the pain of the razor strap cutting our skin. Dying of shame as we stood naked in front of everyone while they shamed and beat you more. Fear of dying. Wanting to die. Wondering is this was the day, the moment, the second that mama would lose control and actually cross that line, that we were not merely close to, we were standing on it with our toes over the line. There was not much hope.
It got to a point where I could not hear the word. I could not watch TV, read or go anywhere or do anything for fear I would read, see, or hear the word. It was 1977. The event that triggered it had nothing to do with me. There was just a lot of talk about it and that word got stuck with my memories and fear of death. I could not sleep with out a light on.
When I heard or saw the word, it was instant panic. Back then I had no idea what the heck was going on. I heard the word and I froze like the proverbial deer in the headlights. I can’t breathe or take a breathe. Breathing can break the spell of the moment where you are still alive. Then my heart starts fluttering, and then the pounding starts, slow at first then faster. The sweating starts and I want to run so fast because something so horrible is about to happen and I can’t stop it. And it was just a word.
Death word does not have that power over me any longer in the physical sense, but it’s not gone. It is placed in another black place in my head, and as my thoughts spin on high speed, I see the place it is keep and my mind and eyes glaze over and I pretend I don’t see it or hear it. But I do. It is like being up in the ceiling in the corner when being beaten and telling your child bran, they can’t see you here and you can’t feel it. As I wrote that a well of grief and the horror of that pain well up and I cannot cry. If I cried during the beating, it started over from the beginning. If I moved, it started over. If I put my hand on my butt, it started over, if I slid off her lap, it started over. Sometimes it went on all day. Over and over and over and over. Naked. In front of her and that man who will rename nameless, and my siblings. All 5 siblings. Naked.
I go out in the world and I am still naked. And I feel the pain. And I don’t cry. And my brain says don’t think, don’t feel. Just don’t. So I live one more day in this terror filled mind of mine and try to clothe myself to hide my shame but people always see it. I even try to cut if off.
And the doctor screams at me. He has become mama. There is no safe place for me to go.
A number of years ago, a really good psychiatrist took the time to listen. He did all kinds of tests including measuring the amount of adrenaline in my body. The results, as he relayed them to me. “It’s not that you have trouble sleeping, it’s that you can’t. Your body is making too much adrenaline.”
So there I am. Someone who knew the situation, understood, and was really trying to help. Then I moved. Now I am a suicide threatening drug addict and offered me antihistamines. Isn’t it funny how different people see you. People who should know better.
I am really decompensating fast. I have calls all over the area. I started Monday. Not a single one returned. Like I said, they really take this seriously. Not so much I would say. My life is disposable. I’m too much trouble and seriously do not matter to the people who say they care. They make lovely posters and ads about Mental Health Awareness. Then you go, and there is none. Nada.
I don’t know why I can’t put this away or stop what is going on. I do wish I could. I fight it every day. And now I am tired. I do not have the strength or the will. That does not mean suicide. It can simply mean not being here. Turning off, tuning out. Shutting down. Off. Retreat to the blackness and darkness of my little box in my head. It resembles a coffin and is dark like a coffin. Nothing gets in. I fear that place. I am alive and dead at the same time.
Death. A big part of my life. We were always dying. Dying of fear. Dying of the pain of the razor strap cutting our skin. Dying of shame as we stood naked in front of everyone while they shamed and beat you more. Fear of dying. Wanting to die. Wondering is this was the day, the moment, the second that mama would lose control and actually cross that line, that we were not merely close to, we were standing on it with our toes over the line. There was not much hope.
It got to a point where I could not hear the word. I could not watch TV, read or go anywhere or do anything for fear I would read, see, or hear the word. It was 1977. The event that triggered it had nothing to do with me. There was just a lot of talk about it and that word got stuck with my memories and fear of death. I could not sleep with out a light on.
When I heard or saw the word, it was instant panic. Back then I had no idea what the heck was going on. I heard the word and I froze like the proverbial deer in the headlights. I can’t breathe or take a breathe. Breathing can break the spell of the moment where you are still alive. Then my heart starts fluttering, and then the pounding starts, slow at first then faster. The sweating starts and I want to run so fast because something so horrible is about to happen and I can’t stop it. And it was just a word.
Death word does not have that power over me any longer in the physical sense, but it’s not gone. It is placed in another black place in my head, and as my thoughts spin on high speed, I see the place it is keep and my mind and eyes glaze over and I pretend I don’t see it or hear it. But I do. It is like being up in the ceiling in the corner when being beaten and telling your child bran, they can’t see you here and you can’t feel it. As I wrote that a well of grief and the horror of that pain well up and I cannot cry. If I cried during the beating, it started over from the beginning. If I moved, it started over. If I put my hand on my butt, it started over, if I slid off her lap, it started over. Sometimes it went on all day. Over and over and over and over. Naked. In front of her and that man who will rename nameless, and my siblings. All 5 siblings. Naked.
I go out in the world and I am still naked. And I feel the pain. And I don’t cry. And my brain says don’t think, don’t feel. Just don’t. So I live one more day in this terror filled mind of mine and try to clothe myself to hide my shame but people always see it. I even try to cut if off.
And the doctor screams at me. He has become mama. There is no safe place for me to go.
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