My Niece
K was born the beginning of July, two months early. Her lungs weren't developed and she had to be on a ventilator. I promised her a few weeks ago that if she fought for her life, I would fight for mine. She's doing very well now. Her lungs are the right size, she's off the ventilator, is in a regular hospital bed, and doesn't need an IV any more. She's being fed her mom's milk through a tube down to her stomach. As soon as she learns to feed on her own, she can go home.
I visit her every day and hold her as long as I can. I never want to put her down. She's so little and precious. It's so peaceful. It's a little piece of heaven. I wish I could keep her to myself.
So what about my end of the promise? It's like I kicked K in the face. My counselor says I'm really kicking myself. She's right.
TOP
Little J9
Little J9 is the little kid I feel
inside myself. She's the part that hurts. She's the one who's
always afraid. She's the one who's scrared of Dad and her body.She wants and likes to be held. She wants to be loved. Holding her and crying with her is what fills the emptiness I feel inside.
The innocence of little K reminds me of Little J9, whom I'm kicking down right now. I told my counselor I threw Little J9 in a closet and locked the door. I'm running.
I'm sorry, Little J9. I just keep pushing you away.
She's wary of me because I kick her down a lot. I betray her by doing things I know I shouldn't, like cutting , masturbating , and looking at pornography . I don't want to see her. She's not screaming at me to get my attention. She's not bleeding to death before my eyes. I refuse to see it. I refuse to see her pain. I refuse to help her.
Once, when I was feeling down, I was crying and I tried to get Little J9 to come to me. I wanted to hold her but I couldn't get in that mind-set for some reason. It happens sometimes - well, a lot actually. Maybe I'm afraid. I don't know. But I fell asleep and had the coolest dream. Without speaking, Little J9 and I "talked" about/ through all our emotions/feelings, somehow communicating with each other about each, one by one, until it was reconciled and we were one. I don't know really how to explain it but it was cool. It felt so good to have her close to me.
Then we got to sex and I woke up because I couldn't handle it. (That's on my "Sex and my Body " page.)
On my bedroom wall I have about 20 pictures of Christ in chronological order, depicting His life. Next to those I have three pictures from when I was little. My first-grade picture is who I call Little J9. She's the closest on the wall to my head. When I masturbate (95% of which happens on my bed) I can't look at my wall.
TOP
Crying
I don't like crying, especially when I don't know what I'm crying about.
Sometimes I just cry. There's this incredible sadness there that weighs
heavily on my heart. I don't know what it is, really, or where it
came from.Crying was a bad thing growing up. It was weak. I wasn't allowed to show emotion. It's really hard now to give myself permission to cry. I always feel guilty.
I cry when I feel sorry for hurting Little J9.
The thing I hate the worst about crying is the way my whole body shakes - heaves really - with every agonizing sob. I writhe in my bed with the deepest anguish I've ever felt in my life. Yet even in all the pain I'm in, I can feel more lurking in the background. I can't feel it all at once; there's too much. I hate it. I feel better after crying, but there's so much more left. I cry forever, it seems, and there's still a universe of pain left. I knew when I started counseling (I don't like to call it therapy - hurts my pride or something) that I'd have to cry the pain out; it won't come out any other way. But I didn't know it would be this much. How much more crying do I have to do? Will I ever get to the end? How much longer do I have to endure this crap? Who knows, but I don't like it. I don't know how much more I can take. After all this time, there's too much left. Sometimes I just can't handle the pain and I feel like I'm falling apart. Part of me just wants to die . I want Heavenly Father to take me home.
Sometimes I want to cry but won't let myself, even when I'm alone. I'm too d___ stubborn for my own good sometimes. I want to cry. I want to desparately. Everything inside me is screaming to cry and yet I won't. S___.
What the hell are you doing, J9? I don't even know. I'm ripped apart inside. Everything's bleeding . And nobody sees it because I won't let them.
TOP
My Counselor and my Counseling
I've been seeing M since the end of February. She's number 10--my 11th try at counseling. I've been with her longer than any other counselor now. Four months was the longest before this. It's a record. We're doing some very good things. It's hard as hell and painful, but it's good.
I trust M more than all of my other counselors put together. In the beginning I was impressed with how well-adjusted she seemed. It was like nothing was a threat to her. I could say anything and she wouldn't take it personally. She understands that when I'm mad at her, I'm not really mad at her, I'm just taking it out on her. I've never felt that with any other counselor.
I'll never forget what she said in our very first session. She said she didn't expect me to trust her right away. No one else has ever told me that. I love her for it. I can't tell you what a huge relief it was.
Everything's different with M. But I give her a lot of credit when perhaps more should be mine. Most of the problems I had with other counselors were my fault and I didn't realize it. I'm trying very hard not to play games with M. I'm trying to be as honest as I can, no matter how scary it is. Things are working out a lot better. I've come a lot farther with M than with anyone else. I've never been able to communicate this effectively. It's kind of cool.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
I hate calling M my therapist. It kind of stings to think I have a therapist. Calling her my counselor doesn't sting as much, although I don't know the difference in my head. I don't like to call our sessions therapy, either. It's counseling, although I'm embarrassed to call it that with M. It seems like less of a word than therapy, like it's less sophisticated or something. I'm not sure if those in the therapy world have a preference (M calls it therapy).
I think "psychotherapy" is a dumb word. Maybe it just hits too close to home.
D___it, I don't need psychotherapy. It's hard enough thinking I need therapy. Calling it psychotherapy makes it worse. It makes me want to kill myself. I can't handle it. I hate myself for needing "psychotherapy," like it makes me some outcast, weirdo loser-freak. No one understands it. People think less of me for it. I think less of myself for it, probably because I fear Dad's judgment.
I'm supposed to be self-sufficient. Asking for help makes me weak. If I do ask for anyone's help, it should be the Lord's. And I shouldn't need anything except the Gospel. Only people with really big problems need therapy and Dad's daughter's not like that. He raised me better than that. My problems aren't big (or bad) enough and never should be. Because he raised me in the Gospel, having big problems means I'm not relying on God or the Spirit. It means I'm living in sin.
Dad would say therapy is a false god and that I rely on it instead of Heavenly Father.
Screw you, bastard.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -- - - -
A friend (JN) told me once that she had written out exactly what she did when she masturbated and had given the letter to her counselor. So I wrote out exactly what I did. When I told M, she asked if I was going to show/tell her. I said no, but I wanted to say yes. It has bothered me since. I wonder how serious she was. Can I really talk about it? I want to, but I'm scared of crossing lines. How much information is too much? How far is too far? I was always afraid to even mention masturbaton or sex with other counselors because I was afraid it would be arousing to them--and that scared the hell out of me. Why do I want to talk about it? So it's not so shameful or taboo?
Even with M I could barely say the words at first. It's getting easier, but some things are still pretty far out there. I can't say some things out loud yet. It's too much. With some things, just reading it is too much: too many feelings that I don't understand.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -- - - -
Something's been up with my counselor lately. Okay, it's not really her, it's me. Somehow she turned into Dad. I knew it could happen. She expected it. But I didn't see it. It happened too subtly. It started with a nagging in the back of my head, then a few weeks later I started to freak out without knowing why. M pointed it out and it took me back. How could it have sneaked up on me like this? My behavior makes sense now, though. I wrote in my journal that I need to let M be my dad for a while. It'll be safer this way.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -- - - -
Something else I've been thinking about lately is swearing. Growing up I didn't swear at all. It was unthinkable. I thought "heck" was a bad word, and I wasn't allowed to say "butt" or "crap." But in my rebel days after high school (by the world's standards I wasn't much of a rebel) I taught myself to swear. I did it because I knew Dad wouldn't like it, even though he never knew anything about it--nobody does.
I swear a lot now, especially when I'm by myself and also in my journal. I mention it because in my sessions with M, a lot of times I feel like swearing but won't let myself. I wonder what she thinks. On the one hand I don't want to offend her. On the other, I want to be able to express myself the way I want.
From the beginning, I was looking for her to somehow give me permission to swear. She did--sort of--by swearing herself--sort of. I don't remember now exactly when it was but I remember what she said and how I felt. We were on the phone (I think I was in Las Vegas). I don't remember how we got to this part of the conversation, but she said something about me being scared as hell. I couldn't believe it. She had just said hell. Granted, it's the mildest swear word in the book--some don't even consider it to be in there--but d___!
I could write a few paragraphs about those few seconds and my speculations. I did, actually, but it was too much and I erased it. The important part is that I about died right there, I was so excited. I could barely focus. I cannot fully describe what a punk-a__ thrill it was. Freedom! It was that same rebellious, intoxicating thrill I got from pulling dumb pranks on campus (a couple years ago), like dumping sand bags on the grass, throwing random notebooks in the trash, and deflating bike tires. After she said it, I was trying hard not to laugh in my excitement. I was giggling about it for days. I'd think about it and smile and get all excited--so excited I could barely hold still sometimes. It was like I wanted her to be a rebel so I could be, too. I don't know if she'll even remember it. I doubt that it was at all as significant to her as it was to me.
I smile as I write, partly because I remember the thrill, partly because it seems so ridiculous to be considered a rebel for saying "hell," and partly because she has no idea--I don't think. I've never mentioned anything about it. I wonder now what she thinks. :) I'm always afraid to ask.
Even after her "permission," though, I still wasn't sure I wanted to or could swear in there. There's always the fear that she'll react like Dad and look down on me for it.
Screw Dad. What do I really think M would do? Depends. I don't think she'd say anything. She says she doesn't care but I think she would if I threw the f-bomb at her all the time.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -- - - - -
M asks me what's at the end of therapy. What IS at the end of therapy? (That d___ word again. I hate that word.) Is there an end to therapy? Sometimes I don't know.
Thinking about goals is scary, not just in therapy but with everything. I have a general feeling of what I want but won't let myself really see it. I just kind of feel it in the background. I don't get hurt that way if I fail.
- forgive Dad (Mom?)
- know how to deal with or handle the pain
- not scared of (don't hate) my body or myself as a woman (this one's not as clear as the others)
- know what to do with my sexuality - Where does is belong?
- accept myself as human; love myself
I'm frustrated with M right now. It bothers me that I know nothing about her--or at least very little. Her name, the state she's from, her daughter's name, where she served her mission, and her age--that's pretty much it. Who am I talking to?
I was glad when she told me how old she was. (My guess was pretty darn close; I was a couple years off. I should tell her I thought she was 40, just to see what she'd say! :) I wanted to know where she fit according to my family. She's six years older than me, the same age as my brother S. He's my favorite; we're the most alike. It seems fitting.
For some reason I get a kick out of knowing how old she is. Maybe because she's the same age as S. I'll have to tell her.
I get a kick out of anything she tells me about herself. I'm not sure why or what it is exactly. Maybe because it helps me form a better picture of her. It's fun for me to get to know her but I also want to understand her. I want to be able to read her. My picture is slowly evolving. She's not up on a towering pedestal like a goddess any more. She's more of an Earth angel: above me yet right beside me. The first time I saw her toe ring it really threw me off. It makes more sense now.
When I found out she had served a mission, I wasn't surprised. I had suspected it. But when I found out for sure she was married I was scared as hell. I didn't want to know. The thought of her having sex-- oh s___. I still can't think about it. I don't know how to describe the intense, overwhelming fear. It's overpowering. I can't handle it.
But I still want to know more about her. What's her husband's name? What does he do? Where or how did they meet? Where's he from? How long have they been married and where did they get married?
How many kids are in her family (of origin)? How many boys/girls? Where does she fit in? How did she grow up (family life, if she moved, what her parents did/do, etc.)? Where did she go to college or what university? (I assume the same as me but I don't know.) What kind of degree does she have? Why did she choose to be a th-- I hate that word. Why did she choose to be a counselor? What about hobbies? Interests?
I feel guilty wanting to know these things, like it shouldn't matter, but they're questions I'd ask anybody I met off the street if I wanted to get to know them. I don't need her birth date, her Social Security number, her address, her home phone number (I looked it up once but there are at least a dozen numbers to choose from.) I don't need to know details about anything. Just basic background information would be nice.
But every time I try to go there-- I don't know what it is. I feel like-- what do I feel? She's always hesitant to tell me anything. She always wants to know why first, which makes me feel guilty for asking or wanting to know. Screw why. Does there have to be a why? Why is it such a bad thing to know anything about her?
I know I'm not there to talk about her; I'm there to talk about me. There's no way I'd spend an hour talking about her. No offense to her, but that's my time.
But I don't know anything about her. When I talk I don't know how much she understands because I have no idea where she's coming from. She accepts everything I tell her--she accepts me--but that's different. How much does she understand?
I guess it's good that she doesn't volunteer information. She'd be a crappy counselor if she talked about herself all the time. But part of me gets sick of talking about myself.
Perhaps the biggest reason it (not knowing anything about her) bothers me is that I can't read her; I don't understand her. I actually don't really care how much she understands me; I want to understand her. Somehow it helps me understand myself.
But whenever I want to know something about her, all I feel is her (Dad's?) disapproval. I shouldn't want or need to know about her. Am I making this more complicated than it has to be?
Maybe I'm interested in her because by giving her attention, I get attention. People like you when you like them first. Interesting. I'll have to think about that one some more. I don't think this is a way to manipulate her. I sure as hell hope not. I can't afford games . This is my life here.
No, I don't think it's a game. I do this with everybody. Why do I want to know about anyone else? New people in my ward? Neighbors? Friends? It's the same thing. So I shouldn't feel guilty about wanting to know about M. Maybe I'm just trying to be friendly or caring? Show that I care about her and her life?
Maybe this is what the scripture means when it talks about losing yourself to find yourself. I learn more about myself when I get involved in others' lives. Is this the same thing?
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -- - - - - -
I don't do my homework for me any more. I forget about it until the day before my appointment, or even the day of, then think briefly about what I was supposed to be thinking about all week, just so I'll have something to tell M, just so I can tell her I did it. I do it for her, not me. I don't want her to be disappointed in me; I don't want to let her down. Toward the beginning of my working with her, I didn't do my homework one week and she said she didn't like it when her clients didn't do their homework. She (jokingly?) told me not to come back the next week unless I had done my homework. D___, that stung. It still does. I'm sorry I'm not perfect, d___it. F___ you, b____. I don't need you.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -- - - - - -
I tend to do things to avoid what's really there: the anger and pain. So I'm taking it out on M. She said I could. We'll see if she really meant it. People can only take so much, even her.
Once, after a week when I had cut myself, we discussed the possibility of meeting for more than an hour at a time each week. She said to let her think about it and she'd let me know. I assumed she'd tell me the next week. No, I didn't assume it, she told me she would. But she forgot, of course. (She reminds me of my roommate sometimes.) That was several weeks ago. I'm afraid to bring it up in case she hasn't thought about it. I'm afraid to point out a mistake on her part (that would be finding fault, according to Dad). I'm afraid to know what she thinks.
Another thing she forgot: my birthday and how old I am. I told her at least five times (I counted) in the month or so before my birthday that it was coming. I told her a few times, too, how old I was and how old I was going to be. My age is important to me. My birthday is important to me. I gave her several chances. Nope. Bzzzzzz. Thanks for playin'. She didn't remember.
S___. I can't just be mad at her. Every time I think of something against her I think "No, I can't hate her. Look at these good things about her." I defend her and then I'm the bad one for hating her in the first place, for being mad, for not letting her be human and make mistakes, for not giving her the benefit of the doubt. And so I never get anywhere. My anger is never justified so I'm ashamed of or bad for being angry. Anger causes contention and "contention is of the devil." I hate that scripture (3 Ne. 11:27) because of Dad.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -- - - - - - -
I block things out a lot. It'll only be an hour after my appointment and I will have forgotten almost everything we talked about. I go numb. Sometimes the only evidence of what used to be there is my shaking body.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -- - - - -
8/13/02
I want to stop running. I made myself look at her, even though it was hard as hell. It took all of my energy to keep from looking away. I wish I could remember now what she said.
She wanted me to talk to Dad. I didn't want to. When she started to pull the chair out so I could "talk" to him, I panicked. I'm not sure what happened but I about died right there, seriously. I couldn't handle it. I've never been more scared in there. I need to talk it through with her.
TOP
The Games I Play
I've played a lot of games with counselors. That's probably why I went through so many. I didn't realize it until I started with M, though.
Sometimes I assume a roll and do everything to fill that role, even if it's not what I really feel or think. I don't realize I'm doing it until afterward, most of the time. I've caught myself a few times with M.
Sometimes I do things for attention. I like power and control. I like to manipulate. I got to be very good at manipulating Dad. I felt like s___ but I got away with a lot of things the other kids didn't. He was scared of me because I'm stubborn like my brother S.
When I'm mad I want to hurt and manipulate people. When I was first mad at M, I changed the content of my web page so she'd go to it expecting one thing and not get it. I wanted to take away something I had given her. I wanted to piss her off. I wanted to make her feel like s___, because I felt like s___. I wanted the negative attention.
It makes me realize why I sometimes don't do what I know is best for me, why I run,why I'm so d___ stubborn sometimes. I get more attention when I'm stubborn, even though it hurts me. I want to piss people off by not doing what they want. Helping myself is what my counselor would want. I want to piss her off by screwing up all the good we've been doing. I hurt myself to hurt her. It's the same d___ pattern as cutting . It's sabotage .
Or maybe it's because I know she'll be disappointed and I want the negative attention. Either way, it's negative attention: rebellion or disappointment.
Even as I write, I know that only I can give myself the attention I need. I don't want to think about that, though. I don't want to think that I already have the answer. I want to think the answer is coming from my counselor or anybody else so I don't have to claim it. I want it to be from someone else so I can avoid it out of spite. But whatever the reason, the only one I'm hurting is myself. D___it.
My counselor pointed something out to me a couple weeks ago that I thought was interesting. I create pain to avoid pain. I had never thought of it that way. It sucks. Why can't I just face it? Why do I run? Why do I let fear run my life?
TOP
Sabotage
Whenever something good happens, I freak out and sabotage it. A couple weeks ago I broke through some pretty powerful barriers with M and what did I do? Instead of going home and nurturing Little J9, that whole week I kicked her down and spit in her face, telling her to go to hell.
D___it, why do I do this?
TOP
Medication
Psychiatrists are dumb. I have little respect for their profession. All they do is prescribe drugs. Drugs don't fix anything.
I'm on three prescriptions: Wellbutrin (antidepressant), Neurontin (for anxiety), and Trazadone (to help me sleep). Five pills a day. It sucks. So I stopped taking them. I'm not completely stupid, though. I didn't want to tell my psychiatrist what I was doing so I asked a pharmacist about it. The Neurontin and Trazadone were fine to just stop, but the Wellbutrin had to be weened off. I went too fast, though, and had a mild seizure. No one knows that yet. I've been going on and off with the Wellbutrin.
M and my bishop both freaked out when I told them I wasn't taking my medication. My bishop tried to make me promise to start taking them again. F___ you.
I don't want to take pills any more. I'm not sure why I'm fighting it so badly, but I just don't want to take them any more.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
8/30/02
My psychiatrist said I could get off the Wellbutrin and see how I do. I'll be off it in about a week, then it'll take a couple more weeks for it to wear off.
I started taking the Neurontin again. It's the one for anxiety.
TOP