trauma
A much needed return to therapy
I admit it.
I can barely handle going an entire week without a therapy session.
My wallet would certainly approve of one therapy session a week. But for right now, my life is still a little bit of a mess and I need more therapy than normal. And that’s okay.
I brought my list with me, but I ended up being able to remember most of what I wanted to discuss. We were able to tackle the most notable events of the past week. I saved a couple of topics for the next session, but they aren’t too serious so I can handle waiting a couple more days.
I told her about my experience on Black Friday that led to the panic attack and flashbacks. Even though it took hours, I managed to finally calm myself down completely. I told her how my coworkers reacted and responded to my needs. I guess I was fortunate in that way, because some people would not be understanding at all. It happens that there is another worker there with PTSD (combat-related), and people at work weren’t really knowledgeable about it. I used it as an opportunity to explain what PTSD is, what causes it, and what can happen, and I think that was helpful for all of us.
My therapist asked me if I had dissociated at all during the incident. I told her I didn’t think that I did, but I couldn’t be 100% sure because I was feeling so chaotic. She said I handled it well, that I knew what I needed to do so it wouldn’t get worse and I was able to assert my needs. I did tell her that I may have dissociated at work in the days prior. On Thursday, a few coworkers asked me if I was okay, because they said I was “out of it” and fumbling around the day before. I remember the earlier parts of my day just fine, and I remember walking to work and starting my shift. I don’t really remember anything specific after that, which makes me think that I did dissociate.
This prompted my therapist to ask if any of my coworkers know about the DID. I have one coworker that knows, only because he found my blog and read it. He doesn’t really know what DID is, and I haven’t made any wholehearted attempts to explain it to him or to anyone at work. My therapist reminded me that I was able to explain about PTSD and had positive results with that. I told her I found PTSD easier to explain than DID. I think that DID needs to be explained through a process. If you try to explain everything in one sitting, you are going to overwhelm a person. I feel like I would need to give out a few tidbits at a time and see how people react to them, and then go from there.
Disclosing and explaining DID is just not something I’m ready for yet. Oddly enough, one of the managers made a comment about her other personality coming out (which had a name) and made jokes about it the other day. I felt a little uncomfortable, but I tried to be understanding in that most people just don’t know about DID and how those comments could be offensive. With that being said, the only way they would know those comments could be offensive is if they knew the reality of DID. I just don’t want to be one of those people who are labelled as sensitive because they find everything offensive. I try to understand both sides, I really do. But I also recognize that, in my attempts at understanding, I am also perpetuating the lack of knowledge about DID by staying silent.
We moved on to discussing graduate school. I completed Monday night of last week and finalized my application that Tuesday night. I’m still stressing about how I am going to be able to handle everything, especially financially. I can use loans to help ease the financial burden, but it’s not going to be enough to live on. I will still have to work, and quite possibly get an extra job if I am cut back to part-time after the holidays. I’m pretty good at stretching a dollar. I can live on little food (one benefit of the bullshit I went through as a child), and have been managing quite well doing that. I’ve been selling some of my things for extra money. But I still know that realistically, I’m not that far away from financial hardship. It’s nearly impossible to get benefits or assistance when you are single and childless, so even if I wanted to go that route, I can’t. Maybe I just need to play the lottery.
Despite the chaos that I still see my life as being, my therapist thinks I have made so much progress, even in the last couple of months. She brought up possibly restarting the trauma-focused therapy, more specifically delving back into the mother-daughter sexual abuse…the same subject that led us to stop intense therapy more than two months ago. I wasn’t expecting her to bring it up. After thinking about it for a minute, I did agree that I was in a different place. I still don’t think I’ve made as much progress as she thinks I have, but I also know that my self-perception is a little distorted. I told her I would be okay with trying it and seeing how it affects me. If it sends me back to a bad place, then we can take another break. I don’t expect miracles. I don’t expect to be emotionless.
We’re starting next session.
This shit is hard.
Charlie and my (our?) misplaced anger
I have mentioned before that Charlie is the most vocal part of me. He is also the most angry. It’s difficult to deal with him sometimes, and I admit I haven’t been responding to him in the best ways.
I’ve been back and forth with Charlie these last few days. He doesn’t trust the two people in my life who I hold closest. He hates when I talk to them. He hates when I talk about them. He keeps telling me they are not safe. I told him that for now, they are my friends and I’m not just going to cut ties with them because that is what he wants.
I told my therapist in session today about Charlie’s hatred of these particular people. She said it makes a lot of sense and explains what has happened in some of our past sessions. When we engaged in in-depth conversation about one person in particular, I would dissociate. It happened a few times, and neither of us realized that she was the trigger until now. It was probably Charlie’s way of getting me to stop talking.
My therapist talked about communicating better with Charlie. I admitted that I felt that most of the time, I responded to Charlie in ways that my parents responded to me – with anger, hate, and disinterest. I fear that in some ways, I am turning into my parents, that I am repeating the cycle. It’s not just my words that bother me. I have outbursts of anger. I have had them for a long time, since my later years in high school. I would physically hit my boyfriend for no reason. I was fortunate enough in that he understood and didn’t react to my outbursts negatively. The other day, I hit a coworker hard in the arm. Once again, I don’t even know why I did it. He didn’t do anything to provoke it. He was simply walking past me. He laughed it off, but it bothered me.
I hate hurting other people, physically or emotionally. I feel like I have no control when I do it. My therapist asked me if anything happened right before I hit him. But I couldn’t remember anything that happened, or how I felt. I just did it. Then my therapist asked me if I’ve only ever hit men. I thought about it for a couple of minutes, and couldn’t think of any incident in which I hit a female. My victims have always been men. My therapist told me that part of it may very well be learned behavior, but a huge part is likely misplaced anger. When I realized all of my targets have been men, I couldn’t help but think I was somehow misplacing the anger I feel towards my father and putting it on these other men; since I can’t hit my father, I take it out on the closest thing to him.
I also wonder if this anger is coming from Charlie in some ways. I am usually very good at containing my physical anger urges, whereas Charlie is constantly angry and likes to make it known. Is he taking his anger out on these people as well? Is he angry at our father for what he has done? While I don’t know Charlie’s exact age, he is a younger teenager, which is around the time the physical abuse against me increased significantly. It would make sense that he is angry. We all have a reason to be angry. But we need to be able to control that anger, not act out on it. I’m going to have to dig a little deeper into this. Maybe Charlie will feel more comfortable talking to my therapist instead of me, since I’m not so great at communicating right now. I feel so sad for him in a way. He’s just as lost as I am.
My therapist also mentioned that in some ways, it sounds as if Charlie is trying to be my protector. I said “Well he’s not doing a very good job of it.” We both laughed, but I did understand what she meant. He tells me that people cannot be trusted. He doesn’t want me to open up to people. He may very well be trying to protect me, it’s just that his methods are not the best (we have something in common, I guess). But then again, he’s a teenager, and probably doesn’t know any other way. I am starting to think of Charlie in a new way now. Maybe he is my protector. Maybe we both need to listen better.
I’m working on it, Charlie.
Evil
I woke up this morning thinking about my mother.
That’s never a way I want to start my morning, but unfortunately I’ve been stuck in a place where her words have become heavily involved in my current self-perception. I’ve been trying to overcome the feelings of being inherently evil, but nothing has worked.
While in therapy Monday, I was discussing people who call their children names and how they might grow up to become that name; it was sparked by something I saw on social media, completely unrelated to me. As the conversation went on and I continued to color my butterfly (we’ve been coloring a lot to keep my hands busy) I said “that’s why I’m evil.” My mother said it so many times, that it came true. I remember feeling nauseated and not wanting to talk anymore. I don’t remember much after that.
My therapist has been trying to help me come up with statements I can use when I feel myself slipping into that self-blaming or evil mindset. I admittedly haven’t done much myself because I’ve been so drained physically and emotionally. But I need to. It’s so strange because on one level I know I’m a good person, but those beliefs get pushed away so easily by self-blame and the belief that I am, in fact, evil.
I thought about what my mother’s intentions were when she said those things to me as a child. Did she genuinely believe I was evil? Or was she telling me I was so I would think I deserved all of the shit she was doing to me? For a while, I believed her reasoning was because she knew I was evil. I never once considered that she used it as a way to manipulate me into accepting the abuse. If I had to decide between delusional or manipulative, my mother was definitely the latter.
Why is this even important? If she believed I was evil, it’s harder for me to believe the opposite. She must have known things I didn’t. If she manipulated me into believing a lie, I just need to remind myself that it was her manipulation and not the truth. I’m not quite sure which side of the fence I stand on. I’d like to be on the side of manipulation, but there’s also a part of me that believes my mother hated me for a reason, and I don’t know what that reason is.
I have a lot of questions that I know will never have answers. Some questions are more concrete. Is my father really my father? There are some genetic improbabilities that have put doubt in my mind for a while now. Is that why I’m evil? But then, what does that matter? That doesn’t excuse her behavior. Am I looking for answers or am I looking for excuses? Then there are the abstract questions. Am I evil? What is evil anyway? Why should I care?
11 weeks
I am 11 weeks free today.
I wish my mind could embrace that concept. Freedom. But there is still a huge disparity between what intellectually I know to be true and what my mind believes is going to happen. I still jump at every noise: every creak of the kitchen table, every knock at the door, every honk of a horn. It doesn’t matter where I am or what I’m doing; when it happens, I go into panic mode. My heart races, the nausea kicks in, the crying starts, and the intrusive thoughts flood my mind. It’s an exhausting way to live.
I also wish the people close to me would understand me better. It doesn’t matter where I am. I could be five miles away or five thousand miles away from my mother, but my brain will always be on constant alert. I’ll continue to have that fear, even when intellectually I know that it’s not possible that she’s here with me. I also wish some of my friends would stop being so critical. I had enough criticism in my old life. I don’t need criticism in my new life. It bothers me when people ignore every positive step I’ve taken and only point that time I took a sip of alcohol. Just because you don’t agree with a decision I’ve made, doesn’t mean it’s a bad decision. I find myself torn between keeping these people in my circle because my circle is already so small as it is, or ridding myself of them and becoming even more alone.
I’m physically and emotionally exhausted. Sometimes I feel like I’m running on autopilot, and I don’t know how I make it through the day. Something in me has gotten me out of bed each morning, allowed me to take a shower, gotten me dressed, and pushed me to get to work every morning. But I’m tired. As weird as it sounds, living in my old life wasn’t nearly as exhausting as this. I dealt with the abuse, but I always expected it. Now, even though I’m in a safe place, I am constantly on alert. It’s draining. The human body is not built to handle being under stress 24/7. I’m not superhuman. I can’t be expected to do this much longer. I’ve already been through enough. Sometimes I wonder if this life is really better, because in many ways, it feels worse.
But I’ll keep pushing forward. I don’t really have any other choice. I won’t get to finish telling my story. The world won’t know who my mother really is. I won’t be able to help others fight the good fight. So far, I’ve managed to have just over 450 people read at least part of my story. That’s more than I could have ever imagined. Four-hundred and fifty people now know part of my truth. That’s a powerful thing.
If I give up, my mother wins. I can’t have that. Not now.
The highs and lows of my Tuesday
Yesterday was such an emotional day for me.
I had very little sleep…two hours at most. I actually woke up for work at 4 AM and knew I wasn’t going to make it, so I went back to sleep and ended up taking a cab to work, just so I could get that little bit of extra time. I don’t know how I made it through the day, but I did.
I went to my job interview right after work and…I GOT THE JOB! It didn’t even take much effort on my part. I look great on paper and apparently I present myself well. I was hired in less than five minutes. I wanted to jump in the air and yell with excitement, but then I remembered that I’m still nursing a fractured foot and that probably wouldn’t be a good idea. Instead I decided to go to the mall and buy myself a treat to celebrate. I had time before the bus was coming anyway, and I hate standing around doing nothing.
I stopped at a pretzel stand to get a drink, and the woman at the counter asked me if I went to the gym there. I said no, but that I probably should go. Then she told me how she sees me walking by a lot and how much better I’ve been looking. I have lost some weight, but I didn’t think some random people at the mall would notice. I thanked her, and we engaged in conversation until another customer came by. It was nice talking. It was nice being noticed.
On the bus going home, there was a woman in her late thirties, asking the bus driver a few questions throughout the trip. It was her first time on a bus. She was so anxious, she didn’t want to do anything wrong. I remembered how I felt first being on a bus by myself. I thought I was the only one, but here was this woman, obviously older than I, having the same experience. When we got to the final stop and got off the bus, I told her “you did a good job.” It was so odd for me to talk to a stranger like that, but I did it. And then she thanked me told me about what happened that made her take the bus. Then she asked me my name, and she told me hers. We shook hands and wished each other a good day. It was nice.
When I finally managed to get home, I went to the bathroom to…go to the bathroom…and I just started crying. Not crying out of sadness. I was just overwhelmed with everything that was happening to me…everything I went through life being told would never happen. Here I am, living by myself, now working three jobs, managing to get to therapy at least twice a week, trying to make myself better in the best ways I know how. I’m doing it all on my own. But I’m doing it. My mother may have tried to raise a weak little girl, but I persevered. I do what I have to do to survive. I did it as a child, and now I’m doing it as an adult. The difference is that now, I have choices.
Despite all of the positives of my day, my night was shaken up as my PTSD kicked in. I was startled awake by what I thought was a knock. Before I could process anything, I started to panic. I thought for sure my mother had finally found me. She had gotten the police to help her. She was coming to kill me. I was done for. I started to cry and hid under the covers waiting for her to come get me. But she never came. Because she wasn’t there. No one was there.
Even though I am protected by distance, my mind still believes I am in danger. I check the locks ten times a night. I look out the windows to make sure she’s not outside. I still lock my bedroom door up even though I’m home alone. I watch every car passing by to make sure it’s not my family. I look over my shoulder constantly. The fear is still there no matter how far away my family is from me. The fear will always be there. She instilled in me since childhood that she knows everything that I do…she will always find out everything. And part of me still believes that.
A break
Don’t worry, I’m not taking a break from blogging.
I am, however, taking a bit of a break from trauma therapy. I’ll still be going to therapy as usual, but my therapist thinks it’s best to stop any trauma-related work for the time being.
I’ve been very off since my appointment on Monday. It’s been difficult to turn off that “evil child” mentality that was activated as old memories were rehashed and I experienced that flashback during Monday’s session. I’ve been extremely low and it’s been difficult to bring myself back up. I also ended up dissociating and injuring myself in the same way my mother injured me as a child. I re-enacted the same traumatic event. Why? I don’t understand it.
I didn’t even want to tell my therapist what happened. I didn’t even want to go to therapy today. But I went. And I was in so much pain just sitting there that my facial expressions started to give my secret away. She started asking if I was in pain and I tried to shut her out. But she was (and always is) persistent. Eventually I told her what I had done, and after a brief discussion, she came to the conclusion that it was best to take a break from the trauma for a while.
I felt like a therapy failure. I asked her, “doesn’t this mean I’m weak? I can’t even handle therapy.” She tried to convince me that it actually took strength to admit what I did and that these things take time. It’s not worth being re-traumatized. I lived through this shit for 25 years, I can’t expect to jump into recovery in just two months. I guess she is right, it was just not something I wanted to hear.
Everyone keeps telling me how strong I am, and how great I am doing. All I can think is how weak I am and how close I am to failing. A strong person doesn’t feel like dying on the inside. A strong person doesn’t hurt themselves because some part of them still feels like they are an evil child that needs to be punished. A strong person doesn’t need to take a break from trauma therapy. Where’s this strength people see? I’m having trouble finding it. Sometimes I feel like I am so close to drowning. I’m doing these things that people think are great, and I guess they are – but a part of me is dying, and nothing can stop that. I can do all the great things in the world, but that won’t change who I am and what happened to me.
My therapist brought up my strong part. I’ve talked briefly about her in therapy before, but not much. I believe she is the part that got me through my escape. My therapist started to ask me questions about that part and I shut down. I don’t really know enough about her. She doesn’t come out very often. My therapist mentioned if I was self-sabotaging myself by not letting that part out more or getting to know that part. I don’t know. I feel that Charlie runs the show and doesn’t really let anyone else have a say, so it’s difficult for me to really know any of my other parts. Maybe Charlie needs an Ativan. Or a timeout.
I don’t know where therapy will go from here. I’m just going to have to trust that it’s the right decision.
Dissociation, flashbacks, and suicidal thoughts all wrapped up into one day of therapy.
Today was supposed to be a good day.
I told myself I wasn’t going to dissociate today. I was going to be normal. I had an iced coffee before therapy, which calmed my nerves and made me less jittery (it also tends to make me sleepy – yes, I am not normal). It was going to be a good day.
Ha. Ha ha ha. Ha ha ha ha. Why did I think that was possible? I should have known better. I mean, therapy started out fine. I felt okay. I was comfortable talking about things that had come up over the weekend. I even brought up how i threw away my old house keys and how my mother used them to keep me under control. Then the conversation developed into how some mother-daughter sexual abusers tend to be pathological liars. Yep. My mother certainly fit that mold. And you always had to believe everything she said, no matter how wild it was, no matter how wrong it was. If you defied her truth, you were punished for it. Eventually I learned to just go along with whatever she said, even though intellectually I knew she was wrong (even at a young age). I think that’s where my brother and I differ. He never had the intelligence and know-better to realize her lies were really lies; that’s why he’s still brainwashed, and I’ve been able to take a different path. I told my therapist I sometimes see my intelligence as a bad thing, because I think understanding so much of what went on hurts more than just living in ignorance. Then she said if I wasn’t intelligent enough to have those realizations, I would have been brainwashed, and where would I be now? Still at home, still a victim. I guess she’s right.
My therapist asked me what things my mother would say that I knew weren’t true. I told her I didn’t want to think about that. I was trying to think about anyone else but my mother and her bullshit. But it wasn’t working. And the thoughts came. And then I remembered how she believed I was the devil’s child. I guess she treated me like one, too. And I remember reaching an age where I knew the devil couldn’t be my father. All this time she lied to me. But it’s like she believed it. She believed I was evil. But in reality, I was born from her. So evil breeds evil, doesn’t it?
And then I went off to dissociation land. I’m not sure for how long. It was Anna again. I guess my therapist convinced her to color instead of scratching her (my?) skin off (thankfully only minimal damage this time). She drew flowers and a yellow dog. My therapist asked me if I wanted to keep it, or have her keep it. I said she should keep it, since Anna likes her better. I realize now that was kind of a hurtful response towards Anna, but it’s how I felt at the time. I still feel disconnected with her. It’s something I am still working on.
Shortly after coming back to reality, I was hit with a flashback. Out of nowhere. Why? Why is this happening now? I pulled my hood over my face and tried to hide. My therapist had no idea what was going on. She sat next to me and tried to comfort me, but I was still hiding in my hood, trying not to cry, trying to find words, trying just to breathe. Finally she asked if I was having a flashback and I was able to tell her yes. I was trying to regulate my breathing so I wouldn’t throw myself into a panic. My therapist was breathing with me. Despite my efforts, that shit was still in my head. I didn’t know why. Why is my mother burning me? My therapist kept telling me it’s over now, she’s not going to do it again. In that moment, I was just waiting for her to come through the door and do it again. I’m a bad child. Here comes my punishment.
Sometimes I think I fail at therapy. What if it’s better to just keep all of these things suppressed so I don’t have to deal with them? What good is this doing? Therapy ran over two hours, and I missed the bus back home. So my therapist told me I could wait out in the waiting room until the bus. She gave me some water, some snacks, and a couple of books to read. My mind was still out of it, but I felt safe. Then when it got closer to the time I had to leave, I started to panic again. I didn’t want to go home and be alone with my thoughts. Being alone is dangerous. I went to say goodbye to my therapist and went to give her a hug, and had such mixed feelings. I literally went from “I can’t hug you anymore” to “Please don’t let go” within 20 seconds. My mind was racing and I didn’t really know what to do. She asked me what she could do to help me. I said I didn’t know. I said I didn’t want to leave. So she gave me another book to read and I went and sat back down.
I soon felt myself dissociating again. I didn’t have the energy to stop it. I was in a weird place, as if I had gone back to believing I was that evil child that needed to be punished. And something was telling me I needed to be punished. But yet part of me was aware of what was going on. Part of me knew that by going home, I was putting myself at risk. I knew I would do something dangerous. I was thinking of different ways I could seriously hurt or kill myself, all of which were fully accessible at home. So I did what I could to stay out and about. I even waited in the lobby for another two hours (once my therapist left), going in and out of dissociation (I only know because I saw the marks from me clawing at myself) before I left the building.
I left the house at 9:30 in the morning to get to therapy and didn’t get home until nearly 8 hours later. But it’s what I needed to do to stay safe. I’m not the most mentally stable right now, but I’m not where I was before. Some part of me fights endlessly to live, even when another part insists on my ultimate death. And here I am, stuck in the middle of the tug-of-war. This happens all of the time. I should be used to it by now. At least I managed to stay out of a hospital (for now). I do have to e-mail my therapist, though. She needs to make sure I am safe. Even though I tell her I’m fine, she knows when I’m really not fine. I just struggle with describing all the shit that goes through my head all of the time.
After nine weeks, she throws away the keys.
I’ve been free for nine weeks now.
I wish I could say my life is so much easier. While I am physically out of prison, emotionally, my mind is in a prison of its own. It’s a lot harder to escape that prison. I can’t just walk away like I did before. It doesn’t work that way. My mind still believes I am in danger. My mind still believes I am going to be hurt. It is something I can only hope will heal with time.
I threw out the keys to my old house today. I don’t even know why I had been holding on to them all this time. I took them out of my nightstand, held on to them for a few minutes, and then tossed them in the trash. I don’t need them anymore. I won’t ever be going back. I would rather die before subjecting myself to that ever again.
I couldn’t help but think how something as small as a set of keys helped my mother continue her control over me for years. I wasn’t even allowed to have any keys to the house until I was in my 20s. Even then, I never had every key. She’d always make up some nonsense excuse as to why I couldn’t have every key. I knew the real reason. If I didn’t have every key, that meant I couldn’t sneak out and get back in without her knowing. It was her way of keeping me contained. And it worked. I never left. The fear of her finding out was too real. It also didn’t help that she took up residence five feet away from the door…literally, she slept just feet away from the door. No one was ever getting past her unnoticed.
A mail key was another thing I never had the privilege of having. I was never given a key. I was never allowed to check the mail. The mail had to be inspected by her first. Oftentimes, I would be questioned about mail she deemed “suspicious” (from out-of-state, from a name she didn’t know, hand-written addresses, etc.). A friend from a few states away had mailed me something a few years ago, and my mother interrogated me about it. “Who is this person? When did you meet her? What does she do? What does she know about us? What did she send you? Why?” The questions seemed like they never ended. The interrogations would last over a span of several days. Eventually I got smart and had “suspicious” mail sent to my job instead. I could usually intercept it there and avoid any issues altogether. But even that was a hassle. I had to turn down a lot of opportunities for mail because I didn’t want to risk my mother finding out about it.
My mother didn’t want me sending out mail, either. If I wanted something mailed, I had to go through questioning first. I used to find ways to sneak around her. I remember in 8th grade, I asked a classmate to bring me a stamp so I could mail a letter to someone. I ran to the mailbox after school let out and dropped it in before anyone noticed. My plan failed though, because I didn’t think the person would write back to me. Sure enough, my mother opened that “suspicious” mail and all hell broke loose. I broke one of her major rules of talking outside of the family. I got the shit beaten out of me for days. I never had the desire to write another letter again. I should have known better. She always finds out.
It’s weird how I never really thought about all of this until today when I picked up those keys. For the longest time, it was just a part of my normal. I never really thought about how messed up shit really was. I wonder what drove me to break the rules when I was younger. There was so much fear there, and for good reason, yet a part of me still wanted a taste of freedom and went for it. I know I had that desire to break free later in life, but now I can relate some parts of my earlier life to having that same desire. I just wish it didn’t end up causing me more pain.
A few steps back, a few steps forward
Last night was weird for me.
I’m not even sure why it happened, but I started to feel unsafe and fearful. I knew it because I locked my bedroom door and kept checking it, and then I kept trying to barricade my door. There was no reason to. This time, I was semi-conscious of what I was doing, so I was able to stop myself from going overboard. I knew I needed to convince myself that I was safe and was where I belonged. I kept a small light on so I could see what was going on around me. I held my bear close to me. I searched through my bags to find my note card from the retreat I went on in April. I’m not sure if I’ve mentioned it before, but I carried that card with me every day up until a few weeks ago. It was written by the woman who, oddly enough, later became my therapist. Among some other things, it says:
You are deserving of a healthy, safe life. We are here to support you and believe in you. You are stronger than you believe.
I memorized those words. I’ve told myself those words. I deserve a healthy, safe life. I am safe. I deserve this. I’ve made the right choice. I must have read that card at least 50 times last night. It’s like I had to convince myself all over again that this was the right decision, and that I’m in a safe place and can’t be hurt again. It was exhausting. I still went through today with a general feeling of uneasiness. Now I am back to carrying around that note card, for now at least. I feel like I regressed a little, and I don’t even really have a reason for it.
On a more positive note, I did make some progress and went grocery shopping today. I told myself I was going to try at least one new food. I chose carrots. Adventurous, I know. That’s probably an easy way out for me considering I eat a lot of vegetables, but at least it’s a different color from what I usually eat. Aside from that, I stayed with my usual food choices. I did find those chocolate brownie vitamins my therapist informed me of and bought them. I also bought dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets. I may have gotten excited when I saw them, and even more excited that they were 40% off. I’m not sure if that was me, my inner child, or Anna wanting those nuggets, but I bought them regardless. And I’m going to enjoy the shit out of them along with my chocolate brownie vitamins and Cocoa Puffs.
Life Without Hurt 