So This Is Why We Dissociate

So I am zoned to the universe on DXM in a beautiful angry orange sunlight place.  And I'm Like lets do this. This is wh we sissocdiate.  we let it go . or soething . idosn know ifi can type fast enough to get this all down.  I am in the moment of NO.  NO orange beautiful blasting out.   i want it to be  world where there3 is no fuckin g need for NO, but that is not the world we live in.  Orange is the New Black F*cksgiving  That is it.  They captured it perfectly.  its amazimg.  piper says you CANT HAVE ME, YOU COULD NEVER HAVE ME. or something like that.  she screams it out in a total seemingly dissociative state and then confirms it by having sex with Vause when she gets out of SHU.  And then the audience gets all excited about a  love triangle, lesbian sex, blah , blah.  BUT THAT IS NOT THE FUCKING POINT

THE POINT IS, THAT YOU DON'T OWN ME.  YOU WILL NEVER OWN ME, AND YOU WILL NEVER WIN.  I AM ME.  I LOVE ME.  I CLAIM ME.  I CLAIM ME AND ALL ME NEEDS TO BE HAPPY., not too much stuff.  But enough to be FUCKING HAPPY.  So BASICALLLY, FUCK OFF, WORLD,  I AM GOING TO BE A GREEN VEGETARIAN POET WITH A DRUM AND A GUITAR AND A TRUCKLOAD OF MATH AND  BASIC CHEMISTRY KNOWLEDGE AND i AM GOING TO LIVE HOW I WANT TO LIVE.  WITH BEAUTIFUL PEOPLE GETTING OVER THEIR PAIN BY PAINTING AND DANCING AND SINGING AND RUNNING...... and yoga :)  and I want to live a healthy life creating stuff? (dont know what yet) helping people figure systems out, because I am incredibly good at that.  I can figure a system like nobody's business.  SO.  LET'S GET FIGURING!!!!

i love you jeanette.

Man, I got caught.

I am forcing myself to sit and write this.  This is like when J says she has to do things bit by bit, dragging herself inch by inch to do them.  This is that.  I don't want to write about this, mostly because I am not use to it, it is stretching, it is uncomfortable.  But it has to be done.  Now is the time.  It is time to write about stuff, when I am not fucked up.

I got caught on the phone last night with a new butterfly friend named E.  We were talking, doing the therapy story swap when she asked if I was high.  I immediately snapped as back to reality as I could, and said "there is absolutely nothing wrong with me."  So I lied.  Panic, then immediate shut down about that topic set in.  She let it go, so I guess she believed me, or she didn't and she just allowed me to lie.  But that is not OK.  She is also a trauma survivor and I cannot lie to her about reality.  It is absolutely unethical.  So I am going to tell her the truth today when we meet for the first time for dinner.  Yay, great.  I am a fucking asshole.

I've been mulling this over in my head every spare moment since it happened, and that's why I'm writing, because I need to process this BEFORE I talk to E, not WITH E.  I don't know her that well yet, and it would be innapropriate and unfair, and immediately fuck up our new friendship boundaries, and I don't want to do that.  So maybe I'm not the right friend for her right now.  And if she decides that, that would be fine, I have to be fine with it.  It does not mean I am a bad person, but just not healthy enough for her.  And I don't want to be perpetrating my crap on her.  It is not fair to her.

I'm also almost gleeful that somebody FINALLY fucking caught me.  I didn't know this, but I was waiting to be caught.  And this is where this stuff gets personal and vulnerable.  I think I am using DXM to test dissociation vs reality?  Like, if I can handle everything on DXM, then I can handle anything?  Or maybe, if I can handle life while on DXM, I can allow myself to dissociate in real life (in safe supportive setting)?  That's it.  I am so fucking afraid of appearing "crazy" or "out of control" or "not rational" that I have a major steel fucking door on anything that seemed irrational, which included allowing voices in my head telepathically telling me something.  So I shut that shit DOWN.  And I learned to concentrate.  CONCENTRATE. To the point of a laser beam.  So nothing could distract me.  And for the most part on the surface at least, nothing ever did distract me.  It worked.  Welcome physicist Civil Engineer.

But now through 3.5 fucking years of INTENSE fucking therapy with many different people, but mainly L, I have learned it is safe to let go.  If you learn when it's safe, when it's the right time.  Because it isn't always the right time.  But my problem was more that I NEVER let go, rather than letting go in the wrong places, which seems to be what is the problem for most other butterflies I've met.

And with DXM it is so easy to get to that open, creative sweet spot.  Without it I have to....  what .... I guess I have to concentrate, hah.  I have to let go.  I have to allow myself to be silly and make intuitive leaps that may not seem normal or rational.  And it is not being crazy.  It is being creatively co-consciously altered.  It is being a healthy butterfly.  Without drugs, and without being crazy.  It is NOT crazy.  People may look at me weird, but that's because they don't understand.  And I think that has been what I've been doing in therapy, learning exactly what dissociation is and isn't, completely and thoroughly, enough so that I could teach it to someone else.  And that someone else I was teaching was me. 



Wow.  OKay, so back to E. What is the gameplan?  What is enough and appropriate to tell her and what is a boundary violation to a new friendship?  OK. 1. Tell her she was right about me being high.  Validate reality.  2. Apologize that you lied to her, because you understand that invalidating a trauma survivors reality is extremely wrong.  3. Tell her you are working on it, and promise never to talk to her high again without telling her.  4. Tell her you are working on the problem, that you take it seriously, but it is not completely under control yet.  5. So, with this info if she thinks its not safe to be around me, I perfectly understand.  I am see-sawing trying to figure healthy out, and I'm going to even out eventually, I'm just not totally there yet.

If she wants to know what I think about it:
I think I can be a good friend to her.  I can watch my boundaries.  I will utmostly respect her path to getting better.  But I honestly don't know.  That's the truth, I don't know what's right.

What I don't need to tell her about:  why I do DXM.  My personal science experiment with DXM.  No talking about the creative sweet spot with her.  No talking about dissociation too much with her.  I can later, but not today.  We don't have enough intimacy yet.  We ARE NOT IN THERAPY together.  There is a difference, although right now I am having a hard time figuring out what that difference is.  She does not need to know every thought that is in your head.  You are not lying if you are not telling her every thought in your head.  That is not deceit.  That is technique.  Your insightlfulness can hurt people, including yourself, if wielded at the wrong time, just as if you were carrying around a sword, an epee.  Very useful tool, but you can't just slash it around like you've been doing.  Which is Ok, you are learning.   But really, you seem to have a talent that others either don't have or don't admit to having, and just like if you were an X-men, you have to learn to wield your power correctly.  Really, it is just like the laser beam eye guy.  Except you have to build your own glasses to control the beam yourself.  And you are.  Yay.  Cool, in this metaphor, L is Dr. X.  I'll have to tell her. :)

I'm doing therapy when I do DXM

That's pretty much it.  I am toooooooooooooooooooooooooooo scared of this shit in regular chemical land, so I go to DXM land to do it.  But it is becoming absurd.  Because I know what I'm doing, the curtain is pulled back, the wizard is revealed.   You use drugs to think about things you don't want to think about when your brain is normal.  You are afraid you will die, I guess?  Or that you won't get it right?  We have to

 I N T E G R A T E

Trauma world with the fucking real world.  Integrate Trauma world with real world. integrate trauma world with the real world.  then we would not need DXM, but we are being a little bit of a chickenshit and will not do this without the fucking drug.  you need to be fuckind dead fucking sober and call your mother out.  Not to her face.  But to yourself.  And mayber your therapist, and a friend.  Because DXM land is possible in the real world.  its called facing the truth.  Serioulsy, I think thats what we've been doing this whole time.  We've been fucking frankenstein manhattan projecting this shit, trying to chemically get our brain in the right frame, the right ecology to understand and believe these truths.  Because we are a scientist first, (slowly changing to scientist/poet, but whatever) we fucking experimented with ourselves to cushion the blow?  It's not that simple.  We were not capable of hearing it any other way, or else we would have done it that way.  This is the way we found.  It's  not perfect.  By a long fucking shot, thank you Gina,Brian, Michele, Jeanette, Chris, etc.  But it is a workable solution right now, and I guess thats why I'm not stopping.


WHOAH

Fuck. I am not stopping.   BECAUSE IT FUCKING WORKS. i can access things very much more easily than when i'm regular.  When I'm sober, to get in the same state I have to feel safe and free.  Hah.  So... That means that I have to be alone in the woods but knowing support is available, with sunlight and privacy, and no shame.  I have to be able to do or say or dance or speak or type or fart or whatever I need to do with no shame... 

Shhhhhhhhhhhhhiiiiiiiitttttt.  I just called myself out.  I don't need a big 3 fucking ring circus.  I need time, privacy, support, aloneness, nature, basic needs (ie food, shelter, in a nice way, etc), sunshine, growing things, water, and time.   And then more time to record what I just went through.  Record the thoughts.  Write them., sing them, dance them? :), whatever.  So. again. Support. Green beautiful nature. Aloneness. Privacy, no shame. Time. Share with someone, that's it!  Even if it's sharing with yourself.  Share it.  Shout it. Dance it Scream it.  It is the truth and it loves when it's spoken.  The evil is washed out when you say its name.   ......           ......           .....            ....     


That's fucking it.  That's all I need. How did it take this damn long to get here?  I'm joking but not? I had to take every step I took, but it's funny that in the end, it's so simple. 

OK, so I'm peaking on Dxm, and I want to go enjoy it and it's not good for writing anyway.  or maybe itis?  I want Brian to read all of this, if he could continue to be my therapist.  Otherwise I guess, theres not enough time.  It's all coming down tomorrow Yay.  Tellin him everything.

Bryan's Poem.

OK, we are high, that is a consideration.  We just fucking cyber stalked our therapist, but we didn't mean to.  We were trying to find his email to email him this stuff, and then well, internet addiction type of click, click, click, oh, he's been quoted on ABC!  Fuck. He's a good guy. I think. I don't want to get a crush on him. But I have a therapist crush on him, because fuck, how else does this shit work. Fuck I wish I had more time with him.  Maybe he'll take me on as a private client when the summers over.  But, wow, he's a keeper.  He knows what he's doing and he cares and he is intuitive and honest.

And I am soooooooooooo afraid of falling in love or whatever that state is with him, because when you are that open and honest with someone it's like its a sticky tentacle grasp that just happens.  You just fall for them.  And I know that it is not the right course and that it is not useful and that it is part of the therapy and all of that, and IT STILL FUCKING HAPPENS. aaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrggggggggghhhhhh.  And I think if I had more time with him, I could work on it.   But we don't.  Because I know he could handle me having a love feeling for him.

when you are that open and honest with someone it's a sticky tentacle grasp that just happens.  you just fall for them.  but it is OK.  this is part of the healing.  having him take my red wet bleeding heart and hold it and hold it and hold it and hold it.  and hold.  and hold.  so i can look at it, i can see it is OK, it is not gangrenous, it is not communicable, it is not green with pus, it is not going to infect anyone.  it is not going to infect him.  it is not going to infect me.  it is going to heal me.  and it is strong, but it will not kill me.  it will not kill him.  he will not blow up.  he can take my strong wet heart and hold it so i can look at it.  so i can study it.  so i can learn to love it.  and he is strong so he holds it.  and it drips blood down his hands.  but he has studied, he has friends, he has a therapist, he has a supervisor, he knows the boundary.  he knows it is not his blood.  he knows he can wash it off.  he knows he is helping to heal, not having a love affair, so he holds my heart.  and i look at it.  i study it.  and i see its strength.  and i am so scared of it. soo sooo sooooo scared of it.  ......................................................

.......................... so i keep trying to give it to him.  to put in his chest.  but he explains that he won't take it because he can't take it.  it is not his to take.  it is mine.  it is in his hands right now but it is mine to take back.

so i think.  and i watch the bleed on his skin.  and i watch him.  i watch him, i watch him.  i watch him.  i wait for his grimace.  his disgust.  the briefest flutter of an eyelid, the smallest unconscious curl of a lip.  and it doesn't come.  he is calm.  he has studied, he has friends, he has a supervisor, he knows the boundary, he has the strength.  he holds my bleeding heart.  it drips my blood down his hands.  he is calm.  he is kind.  he even smiles once, with my blood pooling on the floor, he still sees the point of living.  he shows me i can feel.  because he is feeling.  so i watch him.  i watch him.  i watch him.

and one day, i take my heart in my hands.  i watch him.  how do i do this?  i watched him, so i know.  i am calm.  i let it bleed on my hands.  i feel.  i let the blood pool on the floor.  the pain will not kill me.  it did not kill me the first time,  i lived then.  i made it then.  i can make it now.  oh, the pain.  pain.  pain.  but i am calm.  i feel it.  i cry.  i cry.  i cry.  i cry.  i cry.  then i am quiet.  then i laugh.  then i smile at him.  he smiles at me.  i made it.  i still want to give my heart to him but i keep it.  it is mine to keep. 

And I take it in.  I take me in.  I take my strong red wet beating heart back and put it in my chest.  And I smile.  I say "We made it."  He says, "I think we did."  And I shake his bloody hand with my bloody hand.  And we stand and we look at each other and we smile with our hearts in our chest. 

"Unsolicited Advice to Adolescent Girls with Crooked Teeth and Pink Hair...

I DID IT!!

So I saw him today.  We went for our 30 minutes.  He gave me a diagnosis of PTSD with Borderline traits.  Not Borderline.  Yay! Then I asked if I could talk to him for another 10 minutes. But, on to what happened next.

OK, actually first let's go over what happened during the first part.  I walked in, he did his frown again, and I asked him what that was.  He sort of wiffle-waffled, so I said "You did it last time too."  He said it was due to the fact that he was trying to remember what went on in last session.  I said "So, it doesn't mean you're trying to tell me something without telling me something?"  "No" he said. (He also said  later that doctors were human too, which I think he was relating to the whole frowning thing.)

So we got on with it.  He asked me a ton about my drug use.  I told him everything.  LSD, my one time with Crystal Meth, GHB, K (done with that chick with needles), Ecstasy, the little coke I did; fuck what else?  Hash, pot, DXM (of course), whippets, Xanax, alcohol (obviously), no heroin though.  I'm sure I'm forgetting some, but this is getting tedious.

Good gosh, I hope my family never reads this and figures out it's me.  Right now I'm the good kid who is not an addict and has her shit together.  Ha.

So next, he asked me a bit about my father.  When he died, how often I saw him. I told him about him hitting me when I was 13, and Uncle Sam's fuckery.  Then going to Uncle Sam's house the next night for dinner.  He asked about mom's shit and I told him about the walking home.  F asked about verbal abuse. I told him mom told me I was unlikable and mean.  Not stupid.  But fat, in a veiled way.  And gross.  And mean and unlovable.

F then told me he was abandoned, ignored, and not taken care of.  He said this on his own, I didn't ask.  But I love hearing it.  I mean I didn't love hearing that he was hurt.  But, I just want to relate to him.  I just wanted to take care of him. Pathological, I know.  But he is so attractive and fragile.  Fuuuck I like him.  Or at least what he has let me know about himself in session.

He tells me he thinks I have PTSD, not borderline.  Yay, again.  I don't know how to fix it though.  And he's just my meds check guy.  He basically told me that later.  Yeah, so later.

We get done about 10:45. Someone calls him on the phone to check to see if he's heading out to a meeting at 11 am.  He tells them to go on without him.  He then talks about how there's a merger going on and they are having many tedious meetings about it.  He doesn't want to go.  I think I volunteer that he can say I'm in crisis and not go.  He may have brought it up, I'm not sure.  But I say, if you have 10 minutes, I have something I'd like to talk about.  He assents.

So I say, "I don't think I can see you anymore because I like you".  He gets an "oh, I don't know what to do" look on his face. And he doesn't know what to do because he says NOTHING.  I blunder on saying I looked it up online and know it's transference, but online they say you should tell your doctor.

More later.

OK, I'm gonna do it. Talk about it, I mean. Not "do it."

OK, so I see him tomorrow for my second session this week.  And I've decided I'm going to do it.  I'm going to tell him about how I feel.  I don't know why, it probably isn't necessary, but I'm doing it anyway.  I don't care.

Or I have too many reasons, and don't know which is the most motivating:

• This lust is driving me crazy.
• When I left last time I wanted to go and drink, I was sooooooo keyed up.
• Maybe he'll sleep with me :)
• Maybe he'll drop me so he can date me and sleep with me later.
• It'll be fun to talk about- It'll be the closest I'll ever come to doing it with him.
• Yeah, that's def part of it, it'll be tantalizing and sexual to talk about
• I can wear a skirt tomorrow and not look weird because of my cast.  Which gives easy access to showing him my cuts.  Which are on my very upper thigh.  Which then will give him a glimpse of my super hot new underwear I bought for the occasion.  This would be extremely trashy and gross to do, so I will not do it (probably).  But damn, it's good masturbatory fodder.

I wonder if he would get hot knowing I get hot about him.  Man do I get hot for him.  I hate it.  I'm sick of it.

I just want to date someone hot and have sex with them.  Now.

But unfortunately Dr. F is hot.  And smart.  And a smart-ass.  And educated.  And accomplished.  And arrogant.  And fucked up.  All the things that are attractive to me.  He even has diametrically opposed political views to me, which also gets me hot. UGH.  I hate this, I really do.

I think I've finally gotten the courage to do this because I have a therapist.  So I have her to go to tomorrow to talk about it.  So if F freaks and drops me or is mean to me or whatever, I have her to go to and lick my wounds.

OK, need to try to go back to sleep.  Gotta look rested and beautiful for tomorrow :)

PS  Have begun talking to hot chick on OKCupid.  Maybe I can get it on with her.  There are no hot guys on OKCupid.  They are all arrogant and gross.

Yeah, I'm still infatuated, what else did you expect?

I am still infatuated, but the tenor and flavor of the infatuation is changing.  I don't really think it had gotten into my emotional (vs intellectual) core that if he fucked me he would be basically violating all of his professional ethics.  This of course would ruin his career, as he already has the drug issue on record.  Also, it would make him vastly less attractive, because who can be hot for a guy that has no ethics?  So, no sleeping with my shrink.

But perhaps more important to my mental health is realizing that I think I've been making this whole thing up.  If he were interested in me, he would be not blowing me off on Facebook.

So, he's having fun in session, talking about himself, perhaps to make himself feel cool, hip and young.  But damn I like him when he's trying to be cool, hip and young.  But I've got a suspicion that it has nothing to do with me.  Other than I'm a chump and let him talk.

I'm embarrassed that I have to process this so much, but I do.  So I will continue.  I am listening to "Across the Sea" by Weezer.  How appropriate.  "I could never touch you, I think it would be wrong."  The next best song would be Police's "Don't Stand so Close to Me."  Maybe I'll make a playlist of all the songs of fucked up forbidden lust.

I don't know what it is with F.  I truly don't think its transference, if only that we haven't had many in-depth conversations for me to attach to him.  But maybe it's projection.  Here's what I do know:

• He has told me intimate details about his rehab.  That he has to do a urine test every week.  That he was abused by his mother when he was young.  That he grew up Pentecostal and doesn't like it now.  That he has social phobia and took Ambien to help it.  That he uses drugs to get out of his own brain.
• Shoot, is that all?
• I want to keep asking him questions about himself, because it makes me love him more, and I feel that we are connecting that way.
• He is not returning any of my valid scheduling/business calls.
• He did not give me a diagnosis at the end of the last session.  I need to get it this time!
• I love the way he sits and walks.  Not really anything to do with me, but it turns me on.  He sort of struts, and sits with a strut.  Don't ask me how, but he does.
  
• I want him to date me.  I want him to drop me as a client and date me.
• I started cutting myself after this shit started. Well, I also started fucking a boyfriend and drinking heavily around this time as well.  So perhaps we should not blame this on F.  Having sex is probably the causative factor.  I haven't fucked the same person regularly for years, it's always been just random shit with random girls/guys.  But always safe.  I'm sure of that.  Tested and clean baby.
  
• I compliment him on things and he seems shocked but pleased.
• I am ugly and he would never want me in or out of the office.  If I met him at a club, he would look right over my head and into a real woman's eyes.
• I am not real.
• I want him to hug me and tell me everything is all right

I still want to have sex with my psychiatrist. But less so.

It's 5:29 AM on Sunday morning and I haven't slept.  This information will have to be reported to  Dr. F.  I almost don't want to tell him because that will make me look like a crazy person.  And no one is attracted to a crazy person.  Except maybe a shrink?  One can dream.

I didn't sleep last night, but then finally passed out around 9am and slept all day.  I then went for an hour walk/run which turned my back into steel cables.  I NEED to go to Bikram Yoga tomorrow, or will be hobbled for the next few days with the added bonus of tight muscle migraines.  Gotta love those.

I have been thinking about my infatuation with F (duh, what else do I do).  I am very embarrassed about the email I sent him through Facebook.  It was overly familiar with a sort of a frat boy slang.  I guess I was trying to be cute and not that serious.  But it comes off as needy and stalkerish.  In my opinion.  I sent it after we already talked about his Facebook page and how I had tried to add him. In session I said, "Hey Dr. F, I tried to add you as a friend on Facebook, did you see that?"  He replied something like, "Oh yeah, I thought I saw something about that."  And that was the end of the conversation.

Like an asshole, I wrote him a day or so later on Facebook (even though he hadn't added me), btw he hasn't added anyone, he has no Facebook friends, so I'm not taking it personally.  In session he was wearing a certain football team's shirt (I'm going to omit which one) and he had explained why he was a fan.  So here's my email:

Hey "Football team" fan, 

Come on dude, you definitely need to add me. I know, I know, you're not into the friend thing, I get it. Just giving you a hard time.

I'm a "type of politics", so at least we have that in common, if not your "other type of gross politics". I just had to come by so I could read their pages again. Seriously funny.

Have a good football day, 
(Name redacted for privacy)

 

Is that email horrifying or not?  The more I look at it, the less I shudder in horror. But it prob is still not great. Oh yeah, I also need to give myself a nome de plume.  Like the good stalker that I am, I went back by his page a few days ago and noticed he made it private.  As I mentioned before, this is a good idea.  But I am wondering how much of that has to do with my asinine email.  Oh well.

And we keep going.

I don't know what I'm supposed to do about F. I want to love him and keep this infatuation going. But I'm afraid it's an exercise in frustration. And I don't want it to be.

I want to have an affair with him. Fuck him in his office. Go over to him, grab his hair and pull his face to mine. I want us to start kissing with the serious energy that we've (I've) been holding back. I want him to unbuckle my belt and yank my jeans down around my hips. I want his hand under there and driving, driving, driving.* 

Screeeeech. Back to reality. I'm sitting 7 or so feet away from him in a damn office chair. ugh.

If he were a normal guy I met at the grocery store or the bar, I could do this. But no, I have to freaking meet him in the office. I know, I know, I wouldn't be so interested in him if I met him at the bar.

In fact, if I heard all the shit he's told me in the office at a bar, I would run screaming away to the bathroom (after I downed the drink he bought me.)

So yeah, he tells me all sorts of shit in the office. I have looked up what constitutes normal behavior (ie ethics) for shrinks, and he is definitely not following the program. He is the poster boy for self-disclosure.

Yay! That means he might go one more step.

When he tells me his private things, it makes me love him. I think that he's telling me because he trusts me and likes me and relates to me and etc. But I have a gnawing fear that that is not true. I fear he tells all his clients these things, and I'm nothing but one more sounding board.

He seems to think I'm funny. That's good I guess.

Why do I have to like him so much?  Why does he not like me so much?  Or does he? I can't tell.  And it's killing me.

*See "Drive" by Melissa Ferrick