Frustrating Therapy

Ever leave therapy more frustrated than when you got there?  That was my session yesterday.  I’ve had a great deal of frustration lately, and the therapy session was more like a rant session for both the therapist and me.  Simply talking about frustration is never helpful to me.  I have to actually *work* in order to feel satisfied with the session.  Nothing got done, and thinking about frustrating events only brought back the anger I was feeling at the time.  Lovely.

So what’s the point of this post?  I’m glad you asked.  The point is to decipher the whole therapy process.  It is, after all, important work.  My concept is going in, stating a problem or maladaptive thought/behaviour, and deciding on a plan.  The next step is activating that plan.  I get very annoyed when life gets in the way of therapy, though.  I couldn’t work on the drawing  because my thoughts were all caught up in the minor annoyances.  My brain was almost manic.  I flitted from topic to topic so quickly that nothing got resolved.

My plan was to go in and keep working on the drawing.  The therapist did ask me about that, but she picked up immediately on the idea that I was completely avoiding the topic.  And that’s the problem– I wasn’t *intentionally* avoiding the topic.  I just couldn’t get my mind centred enough to discuss anything of value.  Rant sessions are fine from time to time, but I expect even those to serve a purpose.  I left therapy frustrated, annoyed, and attempting not to let any of that cross over in my demeanour.

Here’s to next session.  😐


Broken Things

It seems like everything in my life is broken these days.  The latest bit?  My bloody car.  She isn’t dead yet, but I think she’s slipping that way.  A bit ago, the radio stopped working.  Actually, it stopped and started spectacularly for most of a week before drifting in to a more soundless existence.  Radios are peripheral to the actual car.  Inconvenient, yes, but still perfectly drive-able.

Next came the windscreen.  This is the third my car has had in the past year and a half.  The first was, to use the term the glass people taught me, sandblasted.  Tiny little specks had penetrated the glass, making it very difficult to see in light.  Once the new windscreen was in place, I could see perfectly.  For a month or so.  I used wipers by the brand of Rain-X, and they left a film on the windscreen, making it almost impossible to see in rain.  The product is supposed to make glass repel rain.  I had no idea it was even *in* the bloody wipers and no idea that, once you stop using the product, it almost ruins the windscreen.

Enter windscreen three.

This one has been beautiful.  It’s been so clear that it appeared relatively invisible.  Then, *it* developed a film on the inside.  I’m told that this is due to a slight problem with a heater core.  Nothing to worry about yet, and a microfibre towel wipes down the film just fine.  Once the windscreen developed a film on the outside, though, I was ready to make my car accidentally go up in a glorious blaze.

A clay bar took the film off of the outside of the windscreen, and, again, it was crystal clear.  Except in the rain.  As long as you don’t actually *use* the wipers, it’s actually relatively clear.  However, rain does require wipers, and wipers leave a very cloudy shadow.  With car lights shining in, I quite literally have to pull over and wait for the rain to slow.  As it turns out, the wipers don’t need replacing– the wiper *arms* need replacing.  And they cost twice as much as the actual wiper blades.  And three out of four local shops cannot order them.  And I can barely afford to buy one, labour not included.  This leaves me relatively unable to drive in the rain at night.  Not that I’d ever need to.

Bloody cars.

Bipolar Disorder Sucks

to use an American phrase that sometimes says it perfectly.

I’m having trouble.  Today, I’m hypo-manic but rapid cycling all the same.  I can’t slow down my thoughts, which are racing from intense anger to deep sadness.  My hands are literally shaking from the energy, and I can’t deal with even the slightest of changes without going right in to a tizzy.  Good thing my routine is staying stable, she says sarcastically.

I just started a new work schedule.  I like my job and will always be grateful to have a paycheck.  However, the merge of our company and another has a great deal of my job mixed.  I do *not* like working for the other department.  We had very little training and are constantly being told by the director of that programme that we are horrible at our jobs, my coworkers and me.  I’d be much better if they’d bloody train me as opposed to giving me a twenty page model and telling me to read it.  Not helpful.

A major change like that affects my ability to tolerate small changes well.  My best friend is going on a well-deserved holiday.  In years past, I would have assumed he’d go away, realise he could do so much better than me, and walk straight out of my life when he returned home.  Now, I know with absolute certainty that things will carry on as normal once he returns.

The schedule shifts, though.  We miss a weekend together, and this time our Friday night will be cut an hour short.  Neither of those are big changes, but with the bipolar symptoms raising and the issues with work, the small changes become a big deal.  One of my insiders feels that our visiting with my best friend on Friday nights keeps him awake beyond his comfort level.  No matter how often we assure her otherwise, she holds the belief.  She’s taking this leaving an hour earlier bit as proof.

I’d phone the shrink, but she would immediately put me in the crisis unit.  She told me she would do that the next time I got unstable because the symptoms shift so quickly.  Unfortunately, that means I’m not willing to phone her this early.  I’ve started Zyprexa– the prn med– and am hoping I caught things early enough that there won’t be a progression.  I’m not hallucinating, which is a great sign.  In retrospect (as usual), I see symptoms that I should have picked up on earlier, but I’ve definitely started Zyprexa earlier than I did during the debacle over the summer.

I really hate bipolar disorder and the way it affects my life.  My job suffers, my friends are affected, and my general health gets bunged up.  I think a change in meds is necessary, as well as a commitment on my behalf to keep a more regular schedule.  Anti-psychotics are awful in terms of side effects and long-term risks.  If taking the Zyprexa keeps me from becoming truly psychotic, though, the risks will just have to be taken.

An All-about Rant

Permit me what will definitely be a rant and what might actually be a whine.

2011 has *not* been a good year, to understate tremendously.  My daughter’s memorial service was held exactly one week in to the year, and the grief issues have been fairly constant since. In April, we lost our house and most of what we owned to the flooding, literally weeks of rain, and tornadoes that popped through the area.   Part way through the year, I hit that nasty bit of suicidal programming and tried to end my life.  Things calmed down.  Therapist quit, and everyone went in to a tizzy.  Calmed down from that, and more grief issues started.  Then flashback.  Then SI.  Then just general annoyance.  Imagine my non-surprise, then, when I woke up this morning to find that the mild sore throat I’ve had all week had turned in to something like nails being shoved down my throat. [insert crude SRA joke].

As the morning churned by, my throat continued to burn, and swallowing became next to impossible.  The clammy sweats and fever alerted me that I should probably give in and go to the doctor.  Being thorough, the doctor decided on blood work and a throat culture.  I officially have strep throat.

This is no big deal at all; strep is simply a bacteria that makes things unpleasant for a bit before being scuttled off by antibiotics.  For some reason, though, it has annoyed me.  I rarely get sick.  When I do, oddly, it’s almost always strep.  A couple of years ago I thought I would die from coughing.  All will be well.  My body has just decided to crap out for a bit.  With all of the stress I’ve had, this highlights the mind-body connection quite obviously.

Here’s to cough drops, amoxicillin, and hot tea!


I’ve been thinking quite alot lately about terms used to refer to people with DID. The most common, of course, is ‘multiple.’ Being called that makes my skin crawl, though, so I’ve spent some time trying to figure out the cause of such an extreme reaction. Disclaimer: This is my opinion about my experience as someone with DID. It’s not meant as an insult to others with this disorder, nor is it meant to classify others. It is strictly about how I view that label as it applies to me.

In my mind, the fact that I have DID is my biggest flaw. It’s proof that I could not handle my own life, that I wasn’t strong enough to cope with the world around me. I feel like a silly little child who ran away in her mind to escape things she did not want to do, see, or feel. In essence, that’s what the condition is about. I can look at others who have DID as brave and strong people who did what they needed to do in order to survive. For myself, though, I simply see a raging child. I don’t want to be different. I’d like to think I have my life together, not that a group of alters are holding it together for me.

My best friend and brother-of-choice live their lives well. Both have had their struggles, but they’ve handled them all along without breaking in to fragments of personalities. They’ve made it to adulthood whole and have faced their issues head-on, by themselves, without the help of alternate selves. I admire their resilience.

So, yes, the label ‘multiple,’ when it’s applied to me really bothers me. I’d like to be one person living her life well and in control. By accepting this label of ‘multiple,’ I feel like I’m giving in to a weakness, allowing alters to run my life and face my issues rather than dealing with them myself. It’s frustrating and makes me so angry. I want to feel whole, but for now, I realise that I am broken.


Perfect one-syllable response sometimes.  I have been so exhausted lately, physically and mentally.  In spite of the need for money, I took off from work today.  That almost never happens.  I’m just too tired to think clearly tonight.  My therapist, who I’ve been seeing for two years, just realised that I come to therapy to deal with grief and trauma, not to deal with bipolar symptoms.  Frighteningly quick, she is.  Another stunning realisation she had is that I’m afraid to talk to her about memories.  If it took us two years to get this far, I’m wondering how actually getting to the memories will be.  There is, of course, an interesting bit about talking to this therapist– one of the administrators actually belongs to the cult my family belonged to.  They’ve been honest, though; they did tell me straightaway that my file would be read.

So, therapy work will proceed.  I’m starting with grief issues.  Chances are, my sister’s and mother’s suicides were related to abuse they suffered, but there is no overt SRA involvement in those deaths.  My father’s and brother’s deaths are written off as ‘accidents.’  I really do need to face grief issues, and since the therapist and I can discuss them with little to no mention of SRA, it’s a good place for us to start.  We’ve done some grief work before, but we didn’t get in to it deeply.  The excavation will start a week from Wednesday.  I can monitor the therapist’s responses as well as the cult activity to see just how deeply we should go.  Should get interesting, to say the least.

But back to ‘meh.’  An actual realisation I came to is that, even though life can’t stop, it is pausing in spite of my better efforts.  I decided not to finish my school programme.  Rather, I’m just working more hours at my job and dealing with therapy issues.  That was the best decision for me at this time.  It takes so much energy for me to keep it together on any given day that I really haven’t got the resources for school.  Maybe in the future.  Maybe not.


Swings and Roundabouts

It’s an English phrase meaning each advantage of a situation comes with a disadvantage.  To me, it’s feeling like a very appropriate description of bipolar disorder.  My moods are swinging in pendulum fashion, and my thoughts are going round and round in incoherent flashes.  I’ve missed work, which leads to financial issues, and my ability to concentrate is gone, which leads to school issues.  Self-sabotage, once again, is a term that might apply.  Still, I really feel like this is bipolar disorder rearing its ugly head in response to tremendous stress.  One of the plates might have to fall, and that plate will be school.  But, I can’t think about that right now.  It will make the swings wider and the roundabouts more narrow.  I’ve just about had it with this disorder.  Too bad a snap of the fingers won’t make it go away.  I have a call in to the therapist.  That’s a first.  I never phone the clinic for extra assistance.  My moods are absolutely mad at the moment, though, and I’m just looking for someone to help me even things out.


Just last week, my therapist and I were talking about how things are difficult but I’ve not gone in to a tail spin.  In response, apparently, I’ve started feeling suicidal.  This happens when it seems like everything that can go wrong does.  In this case, it’s that one small thing after another has gone wrong whilst I’m attempting to deal with a rather large problem.  The final bit today was an exam.  I’m repeating a class that did not go well last semester, partially due to my own actions and partially due to a horrible professor.  Today was our first major exam, and it did not go well.  That brought my mind to the possibility of doing poorly in this class again, which would count me out of the course of study I’m working through at the moment.  From there, of course, the future career plans fall apart, and from there the entire future looks uncertain.  Where does my mind go from that avalanche?  Suicide.

Having lost my mother and sister to suicide is a paradox.  On one hand, I know how it feels to survive that loss.  On the other hand, I know the stress that leads to the decision.  I just feel like giving in, and I feel guilty because of that.  My FOC deserve better.  Still, I’ve lost control of my life and am wondering if getting that control back is possible, or if it’s even worth it, really.  Will things just keeping falling apart when they start to get together?  I know that, in the past, I’ve stood in my own way repeatedly.  The honest truth is I am *trying* to move forward this time.  I’m not standing in my way, nor am I playing the victim role.  I’ve been *trying* to push ahead.  Overwhelm is getting me, though, and I’m starting to shut down.  It’s rather difficult to focus as hard as I need to, so I keep getting further overwhelmed.  Add that to SRA issues related to current events, and the party gets even more crowded.  It’s that vicious cycle bit that pops up in psychology all the time.  I lose focus and slip behind in school and work.  The balance was tolerable for the first two weeks of the semester, but now I’ve bunged it all up again.

Everything is just so out of control at the moment, and I feel like letting go of it all.  Someone once told me that suicide happens when pain outweighs coping mechanisms.  I understand that so well right now, but I’m trying to convince myself that keeping going is worth it.  It’s just tiring, and even though I really don’t know what’s on the other side of this, sometimes it seems preferable to just slip in to that nothingness.

Money and Such

Just finished budgeting and am now completely overwhelmed. I’m short about $200 in total next month, which means I can’t make my car payment. After that, I have a $56 margin. Tried to get more hours for work, but all of the sub hours have been taken. I’m feeling a bit pouty now, and rather worried about how to ‘make ends meet’ as the saying goes. Pardon the whining, ranting sort of post. Just wanted to let the Universe know I am appreciative of the little gifts it has brought this year. And tell it to sod off. Stupid cosmos.

Long, Dark Nights

I don’t want to believe in SRA.  Nope.  Never happened.  This funny looking scar on my arm happened when I fell on a pyramid-shaped toy that happened to be rather hot.

Here’s the problem with that logic– it doesn’t change what happened to me or all of the other SRA survivors out there.  Neither our attempts at disbelief nor the disbelief of those who haven’t experienced it first hand changes even a minute of what happened to me and what is still happening to others.  As I said in this post I don’t feel the need to defend myself.  After all, I’ve faced much worse than criticism.

Consider that a blanket message to everyone.  I will discuss SRA via email or on this blog, but respect *must*  be given on all sides at all times.  And I will not argue the point of whether SRA exists.  If you are not interested in, are upset by, or have some twisted need to harass people who *have* dealt with SRA, feel free not to read this blog.