Building Resilience 101

I have a Very Important interview coming up soon, which could mean a big change in my career and lifestyle. Because of this, and many important deadlines at work, I've been ignoring this blog and ignoring the fact that, no, the psychiatrist has still not contacted me. Not the week she promised to, not even the same month. Were I not balanced and ready to jump into this Very Important opportunity, I would pursue this unreasonable delay.

But the reality is, it's not the right time to start medication. This month has been put to better use finding other ways to cope -- most especially, preparing for the Very Important interview.  I'm pleased to say I have been productive so far, and I've been recognising and coping with triggers for my anxiety. There are still far too many to make significant progress on my own, but I am moving forward.

Part of that moving forward means becoming more familiar with (rather than defending against) the deep shame I feel in response to the many years of bullying and neglect. It's woven into the most numb moments, as I slosh water everywhere, rushing through the bathroom, avoiding the mirrors, avoiding myself.

The answer is Slow. Slow everything down. Slow my breath. Slow the movement. Relax the muscle. Each one, one by one. Slow.

It takes time. Things take longer, far longer than ever before. And I realise, then, how I came to sacrifice so much of myself in the last 30 years, just to survive.

So, I'm changing the moments.

This morning I wrote "You are worth it" on the misty mirror. These affirmations would have never worked while my thoughts were so severed from my feelings. It's the right time now.

My phone buzzes -- the Track Your Happiness project is ready for my next survey. How do I feel on a scale of Bad to Good? For the last week, I wondered if the emptiness I felt was really all that empty. Could it be good? Could I really feel good?


These are exciting times, because, illness aside, this is the start we all need to form ourselves. This is what Psychotherapist Number 2 meant when she said just letting yourself feel what you feel, because it is feelings which form our understanding of who we are.

I want to name the feeling. I think I'm happy.

I'm still (very often) many other things. But for the first time, Good is more than fleeting. Good has taken root.

As expected following the integration of EP-Sad and EP-Happy, I feel the worst I've felt in years. Seriously ashamed, sometimes suicidal, but also good. A modest sort of good: like the first minute of relief from a migraine or in going outside after a major thunderstorm. Tired, wary, but relishing the newfound space to live.

We are approaching the anniversary of some pretty remarkable changes in my life. Reading old posts is scary and brings a different sort of shame, but mostly I feel like a little girl, jumping up and down, calling on everyone who ever loved her:

Are you proud of me? 

The Parent in me smiles, because she knows that what the Child really means is this:

I am proud of me. 

And the Adult sitting before you feels Good, because she believes, where she didn't before:

That pride is no longer yours to take.

How can I help you today?

At first she said she would call me tomorrow. No, actually -- "Sometime this week."

It's 5 pm on Friday and still no call. Maybe the team meeting was eventful. Maybe she is waiting on decisions made by other people. Maybe she forgot. Either way, it was out of my hands the moment I walked out of the clinic, so nothing has changed for me. (We are called patients after all...)

I would have rather had something to report. But in lieu of news, here is the formulation (of sorts) that I made for my New Patient appointment with the local psychiatry team registrar:

Eliza's self-made formulation of sorts

I hope that I get better at asking for help each time I meet with a new clinician, but in reality the reason I need help is because I'm not very good at explaining what is wrong. There's this Really Big gap in my brain where most kids learn how to be vulnerable with and trust in others... it covers things like how to translate that sicky stomachy feeling into "Mom, I'm scared" and how not to panic every time you desire something (or someone).

Talking to me and reading my blog now, it's easy to forget that not so long ago I nearly went psychotic trying to say I'm angry. 

I remember how it felt, in exquisite detail, to turn the feelings inside into words: shaping my mouth, pronouncing the sounds. I hope I will always remember the pain it took to create, for the first time, synapses and connections where there were none before. That level of terror is meant to disable us, but still I persevered. 

"Have you ever had medication?" She asked, her voice gentle and bright. 

I shook my head. 

The conversation continued. A few minutes later, we looked again at my timeline: multiple moves, a lifetime of depression and anxiety, dissociation, psychotic blips, and --

"You've really never had medication." Her expression was a mixture of disbelief and concern.

"Never." I watched her carefully. She looked at me a brief moment and then turned away. 

I think she expected me to protest. But instead I said that medication would give me some respite from the increasing anxiety and help me engage more in therapy. I asked how medication would help me, how I would know it was working, and how long I could expect to be on it. 

Now for the moment of protest. I gathered my defenses and met her eyes. "I don't think medication is the answer." It's not a long term solution. I faltered, filling with tears. "I need to improve my social skills or I will always be at risk." 

We both stared at my formulation. 

She agreed.

An unexpected eulogy

A friend broke up with me over text, which I suppose makes me 0 for 2.  And the typical borderline reaction was there, of course, as I sat burning in the sun and shame. Were I alone, maybe it would have grown, but instead, through the quiet broke the chirping voice of a coworker...

...Asking me about said friend, our mutual ex-colleague.

I paused. "That text was from her. Ex-colleague is happy and doing well."  I paused another long moment, observing my feelings. And then, in the closest to Emotional Ground Zero that I have ever been, I told my coworker the truth:  "She said she doesn't want to see me anymore." Something about the relationship being one of circumstance. And something more about how, on reflection, the intensity of it did her harm.

We both sat there in silence.

It was a hard day, even without this news. And it's easy to lose myself in the mess of emotions and memories that surface with this powerful trigger of rejection and loss. But I held onto the complexity of it, the pain and the longing. I still care about my friend. I believe her when she wishes me well. And I agree that our friendship was intense. I understand the desire to move on, and I respect her for establishing a boundary.

As usual, I am grateful for another precious opportunity to learn. For example, I now know how wishing someone well for the future means little when it follows a criticism of the past. A part of me (looking and sounding a lot like Psychotherapist Number 2, actually) did not hesitate to observe that a little appreciation would have made the loss a lot easier to bear. Will I remember, in the future, if I were ever in the same position?

I don't chase after the thoughts. I let the feelings sit.

I expect to feel sad for a while. But they don't consume me. I still feel other feelings. And soon enough, the feeling of rejection will fade. In less than a day, in fact, I have the perspective that I didn't experience this loss alone. My colleague was there. I shared it with her.

These details are easily missed; I suppose we take for granted the idea of shared experiences... that there will always be someone ready, available, and listening. I know that I am not as alone as I feel, and that a large proportion of that feeling (and that status) is down to me, living protectively in my own world, unable to see the presence and availability of others.

More and more, I abandon the glasses that got me this far. If I'm overwhelmed by an emotion, sometimes the answer is to start paying attention to a different emotion. In this case, gratitude.

I'm grateful to my friend. I wouldn't be where I was today without knowing her. I would have liked to continue to learn and grow, knowing her. I feel sad that I might have, in some way, contributed to her ill health. But mostly I accept that we both did, and continue to do, the best that we could and can. And I feel proud of that.

I feel proud of us both. And a bit sad to be sitting alone with this feeling, because it's a good one. So  join me. If you like!

One for the analysts

The fact that I didn't feel elated to be "simply depressed and anxious" isn't lost on me. I've progressed enough now in my self-directed therapy to separate my anger at the nurse's stigmatising generalisations from the precious lesson that some part of me wants to be very, very ill. Dead, even.

"You have to know yourself, don't you..."  Edna O'Shaugnessy smiled pleasantly around the table, letting the words settle. "...and we can never really know ourselves enough, I think." 

The nurse called me the opposite of attention-seeking, and I felt 13 again, undeserving of the truth. In our last moments, Psychotherapist Number One had laughed, saying most therapists wouldn't be able to handle me, that only she could handle me, and my mind still burns with this living memory.  It isn't just my parents, my bullies... 

There is something about me that brings this out in people.

There is something about me that can change it.

Me. Not a nurse, not a pill, not a therapist. And I'm sorry for anyone that has lost, even for a moment, their ability to see that.

My life will be very different when I learn how to be so authentic that I disagree when I want to disagree, rather than sit and leave silently. I would have boundaries, real palpable boundaries based on values of my choosing, that people could respond to and respect. Interactions would be less terrifying and more rewarding.

My actions would say -- You deserve the truth from me. You deserve to know me. -- rather than the punishing inavailability I currently operate from.

This is what our Couples Therapist enabled us to see, as she "held our relationship for us" these past few months. I had the idea in mind, but not the feeling, and now I am able to see in practice how it comes together and why it is so important to push back.

The world and the people in it are being shaped every day; that's just what we do. That's how we evolve personalities and identities. That's how we draw a line around our Selves.

Well, consider my line drawn. And all the better, because the pen is mine.

My first assessment with the psychiatric nurse

I was just assessed by a psychiatric nurse. Thanks to some research, I knew moderately what the assessment would cover. What I didn't know was how it would be covered. And I'm glad to say nothing I could have researched would have prepared me for this.

"This"  doesn't deserve to be written in a poetic way. Because it's not poetic. It's not art. It's not a script. It's an hour of my life: the interface between myself and a local psychiatric nurse.

My first impression was that she was stern and clinical. Her smile was hard-worn. Her presentation was pristine, well-cared-for, and almost too-cared-for. She was quite defensive. Protective, even, to the point where her words and behaviours, though scripted to reassure and elicit trust, lacked all empathy entirely.

And that's what I felt as I sat there. So I couldn't look at her. Not out of shame, but because I knew that she was the Gatekeeper and whether I liked it or not, she was right. I needed to trust her, even if she didn't deserve it.

I hope at least one person from mental health services is reading this and reflecting on that sentiment. She didn't deserve my trust.

And I didn't trust her.

Instead, I visualised my therapists, one and two. My GP. My husband. The teachers who were good to me. My colleagues. Myself. I looked at myself and talked to her. The questions were textbook. The asides were not.

I found myself playing the game "tell or not tell" with every answer. And for the most part I was authentic. I was vulnerable, honest, and, as she put it: "articulate and intelligent."

I cried and shook from anxiety throughout most of it, soothing myself by repetitively and systematically squeezing the end of each finger. Folding and unfolding my tissues. Rubbing down my arms and legs.

The result of this assessment?

I am simply depressed and anxious.

I am not autistic, because I have feelings. Because autistic people don't sit there and cry.

I am not borderline, because I am not attention-seeking. Because borderline people have victim complexes and are manipulative and self-harm.

My episodes of hallucinations were most likely psychotic depression. And, "they" can't help me unless I agree to take medication. Err, "consider" to take medication.

She was shocked to find out I wasn't on any. Suddenly, she leaned into me, with a curving, seductive smile. Her voice lowered, bright and husky, as she recommended this "fantastic drug" called Sertraline which works wonders.

My body became lifeless, as I fell further into my armour of terror and disbelief. Is this what peer pressure feels like? Does she even realise what she looks and sounds like?  My brain rattled with American anti-drug infomercials of the 1980s: I'm not a chicken; you're a turkey!


Just say no.

She leaned back, with a self-serving smile, as I nodded, passive and accepting. "You're clearly an intelligent girl."  Did my eyes narrow just then or was I still nodding complacently? I stared down at my hands.

There are so many things wrong with what she said, but what strikes me the most is how she said them: persuasively, as though I needed convincing. Her behaviour was unlike any therapist I ever met, because she's not a therapist. She's a psychiatric nurse. And I will try not to hold that against her, when I "consider" what medications the psychiatrist recommends at our meeting (yet unscheduled).

Wow.

I don't think she's wrong. I am chronically depressed and anxious, and I probably would benefit from medication.

I think, perhaps, that if I had received treatment for my depression and anxiety when the illnesses began (as a child), it would be that simple. But I'm 30 now, and medication cannot change the sometimes damaging, always complicated network of defences I've built up to cope.

So, I will see what the psychiatrist says, but moreover I will see how he says it. There is a world of difference between someone telling you that you need an anti-depressant and someone explaining how an anti-depressant will enable you to cope better with the daily stresses and engage in therapy.

This is absolutely a negotiation.

My body, my boundaries. A single pill will not become my only means of support in the world, and I refuse to be persuaded otherwise, especially when I am so vulnerable. I have much more powerful defences than a pill can provide, and if I need to use them, I will.

Like a true Narcissist, the nurse was surprised when I didn't express my delight at her gift of insight: I was not borderline or autistic. "Most people are happy about that." She shifted in her chair with a forced smile: her eyebrows furrowed, her eyes vigilantly observing me.

I felt ashamed. And, like the Narcissist I am terrified of being, immediately fought back with anger. I breathed. I soaked up my tears. I let her suspicious chuckles turn into silence.

And then I drew the line between us.

"Let me make one thing clear." I frowned at her like she was a naughty child. "I was isolated for most of my life." My eyes watered, my hands shook. "There is nothing that you could say that would soothe me. No label would change how I feel."

She withdrew from my boundary. The conversation lingered, and though I sat there, I was already gone. We stood. And then something remarkable happened.

I opened the door myself. I heard her say good bye. I left. I didn't look back.

Life without Love

She looked at me gently, fidgeting in her seat. Shuffling papers. Glancing at her screen.  Tilting her head.

"I put your referral through, err. Have you heard from them?"

My hand was already digging through my bag. A letter, neatly folded. I held it out. "I just received this today."

She takes it, and we both feel relieved to have something else to look at. "Oh, that's great. That's really good they have scheduled an appointment so soon. I.. I tried to explain everything. I mentioned about the DBT you were asking about. But, we'll see what they think first.." She continued to chatter.

I nodded, feeling more overwhelmed with each word. My wrists ached from the stretch of sitting on my hands. She paused to look at something on her PC. I stared at her photograph, a toddler, and remembered when we first met, several years ago: she initiated my infertility investigations and then promptly got pregnant. By the look of the picture, he's now two. I wondered why I felt so numb.

"How do you feel about the appointment?" Her question cut through me. Feel.

I took the paper and breathed. "Well," The prospective answers battled inside me.

She looked sad. Or was that a look of concern? "I know this is hard for you. I can see that you are anxious."

I'm anxious?

I did a quick body scan. Body still, eyes dry. But seeping slowly through was an awareness of her, reflecting me. I felt thick and lost in time, and she kept talking. I didn't listen.


----


I am weighed down with the realisation that I was an unwell child. The terror came out in my dreams, in my play, in my regular stomach aches, my autistic-flavoured panic attacks, my obsessions, my allergies, my asthma, my chronic illnesses, my delusions, my depression.

And no one did anything about it. So, I never knew they should have.

I cried myself to sleep most nights, losing myself in the plots and characters of others. Distraction became dissociation, and at some point I became numb to the pain. Numb to myself. Numb to the possibility that all of this could be different. My suffering was unnecessary. Help was out there.

And, moreover, I needed it.

I need it.

The logistics

I met with my GP this week to discuss how unwell I have been.

Ultimately, we have agreed I should meet with the local psychiatrist for assessment and support. I have very little understanding about what this means or what will happen from here. I don't really understand why the mental health system is so disjointed (from the perspective of the patient). I find it difficult to accept that GPs have so little knowledge about what services are available for their patients.

I am, however, glad to have a GP who responds quickly and considerately, who does not actively judge or doubt me, and who accepts my concerns and my decisions.

I did it.

"I'm grateful that they upheld my appeal and removed the written warning..." My body tensed against the wave of emotions, sending familiar pains through my neck. Tears found new paths down my cheeks, blinding me. "..But I need to know that you and Bossman agree with it. That, in light of the evidence, you believe the right decision was made." That I did everything I could. That I didn't deserve to be punished.

Kid-manager's face was already softened by an hour of frank, authentic conversation. "Of course, Eliza." He peered at me, thoughtful and sad. "I'm sorry for not saying this earlier...

"It was never a question. I always believed it."

Being Professional

Dear Directorman,

Here is your chance to do the Right Thing. You have responsibility. You have responsibility for me. Kid-manager refused it. Bossman abused it. And me? I'm breathless, waiting, hovering closer to madness than ever before.

You have no idea who you are talking to.

You are just playing a part handed to you by our collective Employer. And I am playing mine. The script was passed on from one human resource manager to another to another and eventually to us. You tick your boxes. You sign on the dotted line.

But it's more than the words. It's more than the motions. Or, rather, it would be if there was room at all for me to say what I want to say, instead of picking apart policies and procedures.

I want to say, Stop.

Stop.


Everyone, stop.

Stop this silly dance and look at me. Look at yourselves.

Stop.


I have been here before. I know how it ends. I have a lifetime of practice with this script, and I am tired of playing the same old role.

I WANT A NEW ROLE.

The Gauntlet Continues, Oh My God

Appealing against an excessively harsh decision made by my Narcissistic Bossman and Biased HR-Rep, based on an incomplete investigation by a helpless Kid-Manager?

It's like the chance I never wanted to re-live the traumas of my childhood.

Sigh.

Oh my God, Why are we so afraid?
We make it worse when we don't bleed.
There is no cure for our disease.
- sung by Jars of Clay

My eight auspicious symbols

1. Turtle (a portable bunker)
2. Water (life)
3. Sailboat (to fly through life)
4. Book & pen (to have a story)
5. Bandana (to wipe away the blood, sweat, and tears)
6. Whirlwind (to animate the dead)
7. Needle & thread (in case of emergencies)
8. Window (to see the world)


What are yours?

Lies, lies, lies

I am often crying on my commute to and from work, because I use that time to progress in my self-directed therapy.

I wonder what people think, if they catch a look at me in the mirror: my lips half-open in an aching sigh, my eyes fixed on the brake-lights before me, tears streaming down my face. My eyebrows are relaxed, softened by curiosity, rather than tense in anger, giving my sadness an attractive, childlike innocence.

The song changes. The light changes. I focus on my grumbling hunger and my tightening shoulders, a byproduct of somatisation. Relax. Let go. Be sad.

Today's car-therapy session was simple (and utterly coincidental to the current #ididnotreport trend on twitter). I didn't protest. I didn't disagree. I didn't fight. I didn't complain. The damage was already done. Every moment of rejection, every humiliating act, every last word.. I believed I deserved it all.

And today, I hovered at the brink of Me and the me that believes I deserved it all: the Bullymonster.

I let all of those lies in. And oh, the grief pours out today.

I grieved: my silence, my tacit acceptance of the ugliness they saw in me, my identification with their pain, being unable to contain the grief, projecting it onto my parents, pushing away my friends, punishing myself then. Isolating myself today.

I feel a 'basic shame.' That was my father's gift to me.

My mother's gift was much more complex but no less painful. She taught me how to look at the world through the side of my eyes.

To see things as they were, to look plainly at them, moreover, to see we were being seen: that was far too painful for them. And so I was born to a family blinded by shame. They clothed me in fantasy and fed me unrealistic expectations. I could only be seen if I stepped into that light. I could only be seen in that light. Their light.

It transformed me. It burnt pathways in my brain that doggedly persist today. For example, I am only just learning how to see people when I look at them. See THEM rather than the fantasy of them I've built in my mind. See THEM seeing ME, an unbearable thought. Even today. Especially today.

I am everything my parents wanted me to be. In truth, I outgrew their fantasies the moment I was born. I am more than the girl captured by their tiny light, and I am sad that they may never know. They may never open their eyes. They may never see me.

I will, though. I may not have the plasticity of an infant, but I am not made of stone. I am only one woman, somewhere between childhood and adulthood, and I did the best I could. I am doing the best I can, even if there is no one in my life capable of seeing it. I am capable of seeing it.

I am capable of seeing me.

I leave my car, walk to my door, keys in hand. My confidence falters as my foot hits the concrete. I think of that girl in the home movies, barely seven years old, painting eggs. She is calm, focused on her task, as her brother falls into chaos next to her. She isn't ignoring him, but she isn't responding either, as his frustration escalates to blame. I wonder whether she was dissociated, even then.

In the next scene, she turns towards the camera. It's Easter morning, and they are searching for eggs. She takes two in hand and gives them to her mother. For her brother, she said, because he can't reach the high ones. She isn't smug or attention-seeking. She is cheerful, matter-of-fact, kind. She doesn't wait for her mother's response (a bewildered Thank You). I wonder where she learned this sense of fairness, this unremarkable display of generosity. I wonder when she stopped paying attention to her Mother.

It is the same girl at her eighth birthday party, fixated on constructing her ice cream sundae, as the girls beside her chattered. It was obvious then how different, how delightfully autistic, she was, surrounded by a gaggle of giggling girls. There were shy ones, loud ones, silly ones, serious ones, and they danced a merry dance for her. I wonder whether they were in her mind at all.

This wasn't the girl I remembered being. But I recognise her, nevertheless.

The melody of a Narcissist

I am ashamed of my life.

It is a virus that infects everything I do. How precisely does one heal that? It's been years, and I've only gotten so far as facing it. The way forward is riskier. How do I handle this self-directed exposure therapy without burning myself? It is an intricate dance, but the only way to get rid of this inherited, unwanted Narcissistic defense is to be as ashamed as I feel.

Authentically ashamed.

Friday, September 12, 2003 4:49 AM
The World Over Tells Me: I shouldn't be this happy.

I'm alone, broke, and fat. I don't even have good skin.

So, what sort of twisted biology prevails, that I've managed to sneak into the world of self-satisfaction, just like that?

My choice.

I joked with a friend of mine a night ago that despite all of the above negative traits, I still manage to collect guys. That's not good for my ego, and it's certainly not good to reinforce aspects of myself that need to be changed -- muchless reinforce my social laziness.

Back when I was younger, and I first let people get to know me..... I had guys falling in love with me all the time. Doesn't that sound absurdly egotistical? Well, it's not to me. I'm quite detached from the whole proceedings, and I know exactly why they did. Well, I think I do.

I was a counselor. I was both a counselor and a friend. A friend and a mentor. A mentor and a superstar with words and emotions. So humble, so humble. ;-)

These were all young guys. Young in heart, young in experience. The poetic youth. And my body was good enough, apparently, to satisfy the rest of what my brilliant heart seemed to promise them.

The trouble is -- I was all of those things. A counselor, a mentor, a friend. Detached. And just as young. Just as poetic. Just as innocent.

It does amuse me that I have friends who long for companionship, and I'm the one that meets people. It bothers me, and maybe sometimes them, that nothing really has ever caught my eye long enough to poke me out of my predetermined social reclusion. What a waste of attention, no?

It's like I don't even know the rules, muchless respect them.
The more ugly I get, the more beautiful I apparently am.

I have been desperate to make my outside match my inside -- neglected, masculine, lonely -- and terrified that if I did not have this ugliness to cling to, the world would seal me in this narcissistic tomb built by my Parents. I was right. I am always more right than I am willing to accept.

Psychotherapist Number 1 chose to focus on the Narcissistic Defense. Psychotherapist Number 2 on the Vulnerability beneath it. But neither came anywhere near the shame. I had no words for it then: that paralysing pain.

I was, and still am, afraid others would reject me as much as I do.

Head up, eyes open

I sat there without expression. Me and my sad eyes. I stared at them with sad eyes, straight at them. They smiled at me, and I lost their faces in the crowd as the flashbacks flooded my brain.

The afternoon sun lit her hair on fire, blinding me. I looked from smile to smile. She shuffled her papers. "Do you have anything else to say?"

Stand up for myself? Not exactly a strongpoint for the chronically victimised, even with training by a Narcissistic Father. Surely the evidence is clear? I was genuinely ill. It didn't affect my job. So why am I now being so thoughtlessly punished?

Thoughtless. That hardly seems strong enough to describe Bossman's decision to issue me a written warning for my sick leave. My contract ends with my project this summer.. many months before my written warning expires. Didn't he realise that? Didn't he know what he was doing when he signed that letter? Signing away my job opportunities all because I was sick "too much" this year.

You know what else was "too much" in 2011?

Being so terrified that I would have yet another early miscarriage, I stopped having sex.
Coming too close to a psychotic breakdown due to unsafe therapy.
Having both of my managers fight over my time.
Resigning from a job I loved in order to have time to see my new therapist.
Damaging my neck from the tension, causing severe and chronic migraines.
Welcoming a colleague back from maternity leave.
Hearing two more colleagues announce their pregnancies. Did I mention there are only 10 of us?
Working obscenely hard at the hardest thing I've done. Therapy.
Facing the Nameless Dread that is my lack of Real Parents.
Separating from my husband.
Separating from my friends.
Starting a masters in psychoanalysis.
Asking for help from the mental health service and being rejected.
Facing the very real prospect of divorcing the only person in the world completely committed to me, with all of the despair that comes with abandonment depression: unbearable psychological pain and intense suicidal thoughts.
Facing my Family and their same old drama of abuse and neglect, not two weeks later, alone.
Falling seriously ill and unable to access treatment of any kind: physical or mental health.

And isn't dissociation wonderful? Through my custom filter, all Bossman sees is: two severe migraines, 1 ENT infection, 1 severe depression, and 1 flu. That's all he sees, and that is "too much" for him. I try to make it simpler: "Infertility," I say, "Marriage breaking down." His broke down recently, surely he of all people would understand?

Apparently, familiarity breeds contempt. My high level of absences has put pressure on the department. Unlike my three colleagues who went on maternity leave after accruing more sick leave than me during their pregnancies. My pregnant colleagues have these magic 'Get Out of Disciplinary Hearings Free' cards, thanks to the Equality Act. And I, I don't even get infertility leave, because there is no such thing. The line separating my unacceptable absences from their acceptable absences is a blue one. On a stick. Validated by blood tests, 9 months of waiting, and 1 screaming, hungry baby.

My work in therapy paid off. I sat there calmly, taking this rejection in stride. I've been here before, in the principal's office. 11 years old, quiet and calm, as they looked down on me.

"I expect more from you, Eliza." The words slap my face. It stings the same as it stung back then: being punished by the people who were supposed to protect me. People who were supposed to provide me a safe place to work. I was punished for taking time to recover.

I was being punished for taking time to recover.
I was being punished for taking time to recover.
I was being punished for taking time to recover. As a child. And today, an adult.

I sat there, trusting them. Trusting them despite having been there before. Despite having been let down before by the Adults In Charge. I trusted them. And I still want to trust someone, trust anyone to know what they did was wrong. What the principal did was wrong. What Bossman decided was wrong.

I did everything I could do. I did enough.

Here is 2011 from a different perspective. My own.

I left my unsafe therapy.
I compromised my work arrangements to make time for therapy.
I sought medical help for my neck injury and migraines which are now well-managed.
I became my colleague's little boy's new best friend at a work party.
I cried at the news of my second colleague's pregnancy, and we became closer.
I made an authentic connection with my mom and learned to accept the limitations of our relationship.
I took some time out from my relationship to figure out what I wanted.
I discovered what I wanted.
I stood up for myself by stepping back from an unhealthy situation.
I learned how much I love psychoanalysis.
I made new friends.
I faced my fears of abandonment and let go of my relationship completely.
I put everything I learned in 2011 to practice when I visited my Parents for christmas: successfully maintaining my boundaries and preventing the normally unavoidable dissociative response.

I did it. I did it all, still delivered my work objectives and then some.

I did it.
I did it.
I did it.
I did it. Without your knowledge. Without your help.
I did it.

And 2012 begins with more discouragement. But still, I stretch. I stretch and I bend and it burns, but I am still here. Undervalued. Underestimated. But learning now what it feels like to still value yourself, even when others don't. This feels a lot like being a Real Adult. The kind of Real Adult that stands up to bullies, says what needs to be said, even if people don't want to hear it. Someone with boundaries, healthy ones. The kind of boundaries that keep me safe, even others hurt me.

And yes, I was more than a little shocked to receive a written warning. I was hurt. I am hurt, and I did precisely the right thing about it. I said so. I said, "It hurts," and I hurt.

I am disappointed in Bossman. I am disappointed in HR Representative. I may very well be disappointed in Bossman's manager, Directorman.

It's unfair. It hurts. But the more I fight to be me, the less alone I feel.

There is a kindness growing in me that is shaping up to be a Person. I see her sometimes as my Therapist, cheering me on with a chuckle and a smile. If she could have helped, she would have -- if only to sit there, the way I learned to sit there for others. The way I now sit there for myself.

I helped myself.

Therapist's gift, reprised:

After a while you learn the subtle difference
Between holding a hand and chaining a soul,

And you learn that love doesn’t mean leaning
And company doesn’t mean security,

And you begin to learn that kisses aren’t contracts
And presents aren’t promises,

And you begin to accept your defeats
With your head up and your eyes open

With the grace of a woman, not the grief of a child,
And you learn to build all your roads on today,

Because tomorrow’s ground is too uncertain for plans,
And futures have a way of falling down in mid-flight.

After a while you learn
That even sunshine burns if you get too much.

So you plant your own garden and decorate your own soul,
Instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.

And you learn that you really can endure...
That you really are strong,

And you really do have worth.
And you learn and learn...

With every goodbye you learn.

Thank you again for these immeasurable gifts. My losses add up to my lifetime, and I came to you know nothing of Trust. But now I see that Trust isn't a thing, it's a process that emerges between two people over time, making room for each other. Trust is space between two people, and to Trust someone, you must give them room.

You said you were proud of me that day.

I'm proud of me, too.

She likes me for me

The things that we're afraid of
are gonna show us what we're made of
in the end

The words they didn't say

I had a disciplinary hearing this week because my sick leave surpassed trigger levels set by my employer. We talked about how my sick leave the year before was exemplary and how they expect next year to be the same. We talked around and around 2011 but no matter how much I 'owned' my shameful struggles, they refused to say the words. I mentioned my infertility, the marital difficulties, the separation, the miscarriages. They said if I got the flu jab I would not have been so poorly. Have I thought about pressuring my GP to investigate my migraines more? There are other medications. There are more tests.

I sat there in obedient silence, half-smile on my face. They smiled back. Aren't we all nice?

They were still smiling when they informed me about my written warning. Still smiling as they said any further sick leave would result in a second disciplinary hearing. Still smiling as they referred me to occupational health to discuss the merits of getting a flu jab. Still smiling as they said Kid-manager would need to refer me to occupational health following each sick leave, to ensure I'm safe to return to work.

I asked two very good questions:

- What could I have done differently (besides not get sick) to prevent a written warning?
Answer: Errm, [waffle, waffle] nothing? Only mitigating circumstances.

- What would fit the criteria of a 'mitigating circumstance'?
Answer: workplace injury, bereavement, long-term/palliative illness

I nodded solemnly. The door slammed on me as I left the meeting room alone. The tears trickled. True to my word, I let myself be sad. Sad because, as Drew says "We just can't catch a break, can we?" The weights have been piling on me since I was born, but most especially this year, and seriously what else can go wrong? We lose the house? Everyone is abducted by aliens and tortured?

They made the wrong decision. And I'm sad because they don't have the emotional intelligence to realise it. I'm sad because the world doesn't make it easy, colluding so much with our dissociative ways. My silence was handed to me on a platter with every word they didn't say.

It's easier to say Flu than Infertility.
It's easier to say Migraine than Mental Health.

Well, guess what, I want to say infertility. I want to grieve openly. I want to be sad. I want people to see my sadness, because it's a part of me. It's part of me. And I want this part of me connected to the other parts of me. The part, for example, that reduced her hours, increased her work responsibilities, started a new course, worked on herself and her relationship through therapy, and STILL MET HER WORK OBJECTIVES. YES, ME. Even the part of me that is binging to cope with the stress of it all. The part of me that longs for her family. The part that gets so easily lost in her fantasies. The part that sees you too clearly. The part that doesn't see you at all. All of these parts, mine. Me.

Lips quivering, I held my head so high the sun blinded me. When I got to my office, I locked the door, took the scarf in my hands and muffled my cry.

I immediately wrote my appeal, on the basis that grief due to infertility is functionally equivalent to grief due to death (if not worse) and should therefore be considered a mitigating circumstance.

Office-manager cried reading it. "I had no idea, Eliza. I didn't know. You've managed so well."

Kid-manager came to my office and apologised. "Are you okay? I didn't expect that decision at all." He looked genuinely sad. "I didn't know, you know, with the letter... the extent of it."

I felt sad. But I also felt good. I felt good about being treated with respect. I felt good about treating others with respect. I felt good about bearing bad news with such grace. I felt good about my sensible, well-written appeal. I felt good about remaining grounded the entire time. I felt good about containing my sadness.

"I'm impressed by the letter. Given how quickly you wrote it, I would've expected it to be less calm." Kid-manager looked at me in wonder, as I sat there, hands folded in my lap, listening patiently. Not dissociated. Not depressed. Just sad. Sad and still hopeful. Sad and still able to feel other things.

I sighed. "It doesn't feel good. It feels like a kick while I'm down, to be honest." I looked away. "But when you compare it to the other losses I've had this year, there is.. well." My mind flashed with grief, and the pain leaked through my lips. "There is no comparison."

I breathed the memories out. I breathed today in.

"Mostly, I'm worried about Colleague. It was hard for me and it will be 100x harder for her. She'll need support." I gazed at Kid-manager intently. He was always looking somewhere else. We talked some more. He left.

At the end of the day, I went to his office and said "Thank you." I paused, looking at his face transform. "For the help today." I meant it. I was never afraid of a written warning; I was afraid of my own shame. But I found none. Only compassion.

I expected worse from a Narcissistic Boss-man and an HR Professional. Kid-manager expected better. It was written all over him, that sadness turning inwards. Not enough. His eyes said he wasn't enough. "I don't think I was much help."

And my sadness grew to include his.

Let go.

Let go. by justeliza on polyvore.com

Share the Love

Share the Love by justeliza featuring party dresses

That thing people do...

You know, 'care' for each other?

I support others everyday. I'm big. I'm strong. I'm wise. But I need that support myself. I need someone bigger, stronger, wiser than myself.

I NEED THAT FOR MYSELF.

Polyvore Live and COVERGIRL Present Lauren Bagliore

Polyvore Live and COVERGIRL Present Lauren Bagliore by justeliza featuring an asymmetrical dress

Dear Silence

I am struggling.

I read recently that significant life events can cause people like myself (made vulnerable by chronic childhood traumas) to have psychological breakdowns such as severe depression, anxiety, or psychosis. Moving countries, getting married, buying a house, changing jobs, having a family, infertility, chronic illness, starting a masters, marriage separation... these are all of the significant life events I am currently trying to manage.

Thanks to my education (private and self), I have a lot of helpful knowledge about myself. I know, for example, that sometimes I experience unreasonable paranoia about others. It's unreasonable because the people in question will not actually hurt me. But it feels like they will. It feels like they will because I was systematically neglected and abused by other people, including my parents. I was a child and my brain grew in that environment. My sense of identity is torn between that reality and this new reality.

Sometimes I am dissociated from these memories. Sometimes I remember. And because I had no words for my pain as a child, I have no words for the pain today.

Remembering floods my brain, my new connections, and, because I didn't know what else to do, I let it. I let the despair, the fear, the nameless dread, soak into my new memories, my new relationships, until I fled them, like I fled myself.

This is my life. My mission, one I rarely want to sit with, accept, muchless observe. But the latter are my greatest weapons, and now I have one more: submission.

I submit.

I cannot cope with all of these significant life events. So I will simplify. Put on hold the things I can (school, marriage, having a family, changing jobs) and learn to cope with the responsibilities that I can't (owning a house, moving countries, chronic illness). I will say no to any further changes, unless they support me in this process.

I will take all the time I need to build my foundations. I will do this for me.

A trained person could speak.

I don't really know how to explain it, but the best metaphor I can think of is this:

The threads that tie me together are woven very loosely. So, when I'm pulled in different directions (And oh, I am pulled), it tears at me. It tears me into pieces.

I feel torn.

I'm grieving. I know this feeling. Tides out, sadness. Tides in, despair. I need to make room for these feelings that are oh-so-present, because they are not always oh-so-present. This is painful. This is opportunity.

I didn't go to class. I dug into the corner of my couch, avoiding the other me that showered, dressed in trendy new clothes, and styled her hair in vintage curls.

Torn.

And I don't speak. I don't complain until it's all so overwhelming that I overwhelm you. Except I know it will overwhelm you, so I don't complain. I use words that are easier to say. Words that are easier to hear. You are relieved. We sit calmly. I am unseen. Safe, unseen.

A trained eye could spot it. A trained ear could hear what wasn't said. A trained mouth would ask. A trained person could speak.

But I have been trained in silence.

Polyvore Live - Hot Gavaskar

Polyvore Live - Hot Gavaskar by justeliza featuring an ivory silk blouse

Polyvore Live - Darling Dana-Maxx

Polyvore Live - Darling Dana-Maxx by justeliza featuring diamond earrings

Urban Sunset @ JEWELMINT

Urban Sunset @ JEWELMINT by justeliza featuring printed scarves

Wetlands

Wetlands by justeliza featuring sunglasses

DREAM BIG

DREAM BIG by justeliza featuring leather pants

Three Dancing Princesses

Three Dancing Princesses by justeliza featuring a leather clutch

Nulligravida

Not a child
Not a mother
Not a life

Nulligravida by justeliza featuring a paisley shawl

Created for the January 2012 Expressive Arts Carnival. January's theme:

"Through drawing, painting, or any other visual means, create an image that represents a major obstacle facing you now. You can do this any way you wish. With your entry, please also include a couple of sentences saying what the process was like for you which will accompany your art."

Colour Army

Colour Army by justeliza featuring platform pumps

If not now, then when?

If not now, then when? by justeliza featuring lace leggings

Head in the Clouds

Head in the Clouds by justeliza featuring striped tops

Nowhere to go but him.

It was bedtime.

His light snores penetrated the Victorian plank floor. She thought of the cheque in the post, the leftovers sitting cold in the kitchen, and the way her parents looked right through her.



----------------

Can you write something under 100 words by Wednesday, 11 January?
Would you like a chance to help the charity One in Four?
Caroline Smailes invites us to submit writing inspired by the music of Youtube.

Me, I just like doing creative things with other people, for other people.

The Kissing Tree

The Kissing Tree by justeliza featuring zirconia earrings

A heart whose love is innocent.

A heart whose love is innocent. by justeliza featuring short mini skirts

Scarecrow

Scarecrow by justeliza featuring fringe scarves

Language of Love #6: Do not eat your partner's biscuits

I gave him biscuits, amongst many other goodies, on my return from visiting the US, and then finished the biscuit package while he slept today. It was lunchtime. It was the last straw. He looked at me in disappointment, his defeated voice tinged with vulnerability.

I looked at the empty biscuit container and burst into tears, rambling about being ill and didn't he say he didn't like them anyway? I'm sorry. I wept. I coughed. I cried. I'm sorry. I'll get you some more. I'm sorry.

He didn't move. Was he even looking? I choked on my tears; my chest, weakened from infection, burned with each whimpering cough for air. Closing my eyes and putting my hand to the bottom of my throat, I kept his stillness, his emptiness, in mind and immediately thought of my often expressionless mum. My husband has withdrawn from the world. My husband is not real. Am I real? This isn't real. I'm not real.

I opened my eyes, grounding myself with sight of him.

I stared at his emptiness. And I realised: I am lonely. I am the same lonely that sat in the back of my parents' Audi on the drive up to SuperCity last week, as my dad, my brother, and my mum relentlessly exchanged familiar attacks of criticism, blame, and controlling silence. I took it in, like I've always taken it in, transforming our shared psychological pain into a sickness even the most emotionally-disabled can acknowledge and name.

Except even wrecked with the flu, I was still the same lonely. Even knowing I was rendered helpless by viral infection, no, BECAUSE I was so helpless, my parents avoided me. I cried myself to sleep the first night. When I finally saw my husband on Skype, he looked at me with a defensive precision and said kindly that he hates to see me ill. My mum came in the room the next day. "I hate to see you ill." They are parrots of each other.

"I wish I could hug you." His face looked strained with sympathy.

"Can I hug you?" My mum reached out her hand, as though she was afraid to break me.

"No," I said, looking away. My helplessness is as contagious as the flu, and it pains me to see them broken by this poisonous mix of narcissism, fear, and compassion.

I must be strong. In the same ways, in all ways, I let them be helpless for me. I let them be silent. I let them avoid me. I make excuses for their vulnerability. I write scripts in my head, fantasies that tell the story differently. I soothe myself. I fix my own problems.

I let them be helpless.

I let me be lonely.

My husband finally speaks, struggling over short phrases. "I don't matter to you." His eyes tear up. "I don't feel loved." He turns away, playing on his iPad, as I sit there staring at him.

I let me be lonely, as I softly ask my husband what we can do to make this situation better. My emotions are all over my face, and maybe that is why he can't look at me. Like my mother could not look at me, when I stumbled downstairs to ask for soup for dinner. I'm taking care of myself. I am letting myself be helped. I am compromising. I am caring. I am opening myself to you. I am making room for you. Come in, come in.

I wait for his reply. He is silent. I am hopeful. Please God, give him strength to act. Please God, let me matter enough for him to want to fix this with me. He still doesn't speak. My voice is almost a whisper. "Will you think about it?" About ways to fix this. About ways to make you matter. Another long silence. He nods quietly and returns to his game.

I ask him whether he read the article about 'language of love' that I sent him while I was away. Maybe, he replies. I ask him about his type. I lean forward with interest. You, husband, are in my mind; your reply matters to me. I wait for him to ask me. But he couldn't break the silence, nor take his eyes away from the game. The silence grows into night.

I am lonely, I say wordlessly, watching him. I am lonely and I ate your biscuits to fill me up. But you didn't ask why. Not then, not now, and probably never. The reason doesn't matter to you. I don't matter to you.

You don't matter to you.

He leaves the room. I weep; I write.