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Sun, Jul. 22nd, 2012, 12:43 am
Today's Check-In (Saturday): Meditations & Revelatiions

My OCD had me stuck this morning. I had a slowtime schedule and a regular recovery schedule and my brain couldn't decide which to do, thus locking me into inactivity. Finally managed to veer toward my normal routine again, at least until my surgery. Many, many revelations today, some of which I haven't mentally or emotionally processed yet.

Comprehensive List of Tasks
    grooming = basic yes, but Saturday I'm supposed to a little extra something for myself and I didn't)
  • meal = I finally made the pie. Had to throw out some of the old fruit and substitute, in fact I think there are more plums and nectarines in this peach pie than peaches. I did not, however, make a healthy meal for myself nor did I eat one. In fact, I haven't really eaten all day except for a few cookies with my coffee this morning. 1/3 points
  • Spanish = I started lesson 15, but didn't do Saturday's scheduled extra Spanish, on account the cookies from breakfast put me in sugar coma. Had to nap. 1/4 points
  • Meditation = Now this I did do for once.
  • HUG = Yup, also had to wish the bartender happy birthday. Apparently, I can go into a bar and drink only water.

Medication = yes
Sober (no drinking/drugs/cutting) = fail, I was cutting, or more specifically bleeding. While my honestly compels me to count this as a fail, I am not counting this as a negative thing. Normally when I cut, it is in self-hatred, but this was an act of healing. After all the revelations, I just had this sensation as if my body was full of poisons and not getting rid of them fast enough. So I bled the joints in my fingers and toes like the acupuncturist once did, using my finger stick (everything sterile, wiped with alcohol before and saline after). Then I also used it on my calves, which always hurt. I felt instantly feverish and head-achey, that's when I did some meditation and both sensations went away. Then I felt a bit better; I really think it helped and may do this a few more times in the days to come, plus some headstands to drain my legs.

No Compulsions = success, I'm torn with this new medication. On the one hand, it seems to effectively wipe out much of my compulsive urge. On the other hand, it both saps my motivation and does something wonky to my sleep. I'm still sleeping deeply (in fact, it knocks me quite out), but I have weird dreams, often about sleeping, and I don't seem to be healing in my sleep anymore. I wake up in pain, feeling awful, when usually my mornings are the only times the pain is manageable. A few times I've gotten up several hours early just to take a pain med and go back to sleep.
Extras = no extras today

TOTAL SCORE =  6.75/13 = 52% not a goal-reaching day but at least I managed to do the one thing I usually let slide (my meditation)

Today's Revelations

My legs are getting worse, not better. There was still a tiny kernel of doubt, the vague hope that over time my body would be able to heal itself. When I was bloodletting, some of the sticks didn't hurt, in fact, I couldn't really feel them. You'd think as much as my legs hurt all the time, it should hurt more, but in patches it felt like I was being poked through a heavy pair of jeans. This effectively means the nerve damage is slowly spreading, and probably explains why sometimes my knees stiffen and don't want to bend.

"Forgiving is not the same as forgetting." There's a whole series of mixed-up, intertwined revelations here. It all started a few days ago, my father is on vacation with his fiance and they've been posting pics on Facebook showing him doing all these activities with this little girl of about ten (I think she's the grandkid, or maybe a niece, I forget). Today they were building sandcastles and picking up shells. Instantly I felt a surge of bitter, vile jealousy.

"Jealousy is not about love, it's about loss." I've always thought it was more about possessiveness, but I think the 'experts' are wrong. I can possess a thing and still want to share it. I can feel jealous without feeling like the thing/person/circumstance I'm jealous about belongs to me. Love is giving. In a perfect, loving world I should feel as if I have gained something, an extended family brought in by my father's new relationship. But in reality (and we all know I'm brutal with honesty when it comes to myself) I feel jealous, and more than that, I feel bitter. It just brought to mind that empty hole in my childhood, and I'm angry by an unfair comparison i.e. he can treat a stranger's little girl better than he ever treated his own daughter.

Nevermind that my father then and my father now are simply too different people. Even though he is a good seventy percent changed, I can still see the angry, bitter, shell-shocked alcoholic trapped in a loveless nightmare of a marriage. My father hasn't changed that much. He still gets irritated over little things, and as my therapist pointed out, much of that involves loud noise or sudden, startling actions, a classic sign of PTSD. Sure, he's yelling about something else entirely, but in the background usually one of those two are present and it heightens his anger/reaction.

I'm jealous that people do things I can't, which is certainly not about possession so much as its opposite -- loss. "I owned that once; I could do that once." And I'm angry beyond all reason when people around me use drugs, or drink, or dance, or talk about any of the things I used to do (like rockclimbing). I think I'm still waiting for life to be fair, for there to be some universal justice to the world. My eyes are too open to believe in karma. I know too many bad people who have everything and too many good people who get nothing. Life isn't run by karma, it's run by statistical probabilities and median curves. Someone has to get snake-eyes, and this turn of the dice it was me.

It's time, past time, to let go of my father and whatever dream he had for me. I spent all of my childhood, and much of my adulthood, trying to put forth the good face and make him proud of me. It always backfired, because things back then simply weren't right. Maybe OlderSis can hold in that kind of hurt and pretend it isn't there, but I never could. It ate away at me then as it does now. What has he to be proud of, anyway? A disabled daughter who can no longer work, who may spend the rest of her life in therapy trying to work the emotional torture of her childhood into something she can live with; a recovering addict who still cuts herself like an emo teenager.

The one 'truism' I detest most, and so does my therapist, is "what doesn't kill you makes you stronger." Actually, it doesn't. She says she's seen more people broken by excess pain than anything else. It doesn't make you stronger; it just breaks you down. Whenever I hear someone say that phrase I want to slap them silly. Obviously they've just touched the iceberg of real pain. I've been through so much it literally broke my brain, shattered my personality into fragmented pieces, and though I might with time be able to put those parts back together, you will always be able to see the seams. I am no stronger. In fact, I am weaker. My mental illness opened my eyes but took my power. I am wiser, not tougher. We are all strong, each and every one of us, just some of us are forced to realize it sooner than others. You are stronger than I, although you may be unaware of it. The phrase should really be "what doesn't kill you, will open your eyes."

I can never let go of the hurt done to me. People are always saying let the past be the past, etc. I can't. Because my past has shaped me -- even more, the hurt itself has shaped me. It happened so young that it became an intrinsic part of my personality. If I let it go, I lose me. And sure, one could argue I would be much better off not carrying around all that painful baggage, but I wouldn't be me anymore. I'd be someone else, maybe a happier, healthier someone else, but still someone else entirely. It is too ingrained, too much a part of me to ever let go. Somehow, I will have to learn to live with this, knowing that there is a part of me that is always yearning towards death. I don't even yearn toward an end to pain, but an end to feeling itself, the Buddhist nirvana, the snuffing of the candle. My only sense of peace comes from knowing that I am not even a dust speck on the infinite, and eventually my presence will be entirely cleansed and washed away with no imprint left behind.

My father has never apologized.

Even if he did, he would have no logical reason to expect my forgiveness. Surely I understand, and with understanding I have come to a measure of forgiveness. But I can't forget. The pain built me from the ground up. And my choices are thus: I can attempt to forget the past, and thus forget myself, or I can attempt to forgive totally. The problem is, to completely forgive I have to acknowledge it completely, I have to say to myself, "this person hurt me, this person showed me exactly everything I needed to know about being unwanted and unloved," and, even though he is different now, I think in order to love myself I'm going to have to put some real, emotional distance between us.

I can no longer look to him for guidance. I can no longer seek help or an empathic ear anywhere in that direction. It doesn't matter if he is proud of me or not. Nothing he thinks or feels about me can have any impact, any longer. I'm glad he has this new family. I hope it makes him happy. I hope he makes them happy. But for me to be happy, I'm going to have to embrace the hurt fully, and I can't do that and still look him in the eye and not see the man who told me almost daily he wished I had never been born, that they had sold me as planned, who called me a whore when I was raped and told me I deserved it, who wanted nothing to do with me while I lay strapped to a hospital bed after yet another suicide attempt, who, when I ran away and left my diary open, exposing all my deepest fears and pains, upon my return laughed at it and said, "yeah, your sister had all that fake crap in her diary too."

I forgive, because I know. I know what it's like to have PTSD so bad that another person's misfortune is something you only laugh about on the surface and don't feel anything below. The pain my father inflicted upon me is the same thing that leads me to understand just how much pain he was in when my parents were still married. I know he didn't do it on purpose. And in the end, it doesn't matter. I can forgive, but I can't forget, and to move on would be to lose me. And if I am to keep me, and find some measure of self-worth, self-pride, self-love... then I have to love me enough to let him go.

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