Bleed it out

Another post about things I rarely talk about...

It is coming up on Nina's 13th birthday. It also happens to be mom's birthday too. It is a day of joy because I love my mom but it is also a day of deep sorrow. I do talk about losing a child because I want people to know that I understand that kind of pain. That they know they aren't alone. I think a lot about that day and the days following it. I was in the hospital for quite a while and almost died. Everyone seems to focus on Nina and her passing. How that affects me and how it affects everyone in my family. This is understandable but it still hurts. Death profoundly affects the living and I'm no exception. There's a lot to unpack from the experience and I feel like I've just begun the journey.

What seems to be occupying my thoughts lately is almost bleeding to death. I have nightmares about it somewhat often. It is odd that I think about ending it all but at the same time I'm traumatized by almost dying. I think it is more about the experience than the end result. I also think it is a constant source of pain because I've never really consciously acknowledged it. It was just something that happened during a shit show where I wasn't the focus. Trauma is wierd and also indiscriminate. Just because no one acknowledges it, doesn't mean it does not exist. 

I suppose by telling at least part of the story, I can make peace with it. 

It begins on what started out as a normal day. I felt a bit off but I ignored it because pregnancy was a bitch and I had felt off pretty much the entire time. Then I started to bleed, a lot. We rushed to the hospital where I was assured things were fine until they weren't. I was just feeling the first signs of shock from loss of blood when I was told Nina had died. I said something smart assed because I was dying too. 

I was in and out of consciousness so I don't remember much. I was also on a ton of pain killers and couldn't really think. What I do remember is lying alone in a room that was freezing cold and way too bright. Stripped naked and drifting in between the comfort of blackness and the unspeakable pain of convulsions that I had no control over. I felt my very essence slip further and further away. I was frightened, genuinely. Overdosing, cutting, even staring down a train wasn't nearly that scary.

I spent several days in the hospital. I was in extreme pain but so knocked out that I didn't really care. The nurses were kind in that tiptoe around the truth sort of way. I saw things that weren't there, heard things that weren't there. I felt like I was already dead and just experiencing some latant after image. 

I healed, physically anyway. Then I was ushered into the unpleasant business of dealing with Nina's final affairs. Sadly a great deal of paperwork and bullshit for a life that barely existed. Everyone focused on that. I never felt like anyone really acknowledged me. I felt guilty for asking anyone to. It wasn't about me. 

Maybe, at least partially, it should have been. 

The Things I Can Say

I preface this rather deep and dark post with a cute picture because it helps ground me in the present. It also is rediculously adorable and hopefully softens the difficulty of what I'm going to say. It works for me at least. 

I mentioned before that things felt like a broken bone set in a cast. This hurts like a motherfucker but it is at least healing now. For the longest time, it was a gaping wound threatening to bleed out. Of course, I developed bandaids and kept it mostly together. On the outside, I appear to be a strong person capable of handling a lot of turmoil. I suppose I have to give myself credit as I have been through a lot. Some of it was my own bad decisions. Some of it was just a shit roll of the dice. I talk about a lot of it:

I talk about my daughter passing away, the struggles I have because I almost died too and all the pain that I feel around that. What I don't talk about is the guilt I feel. The feelings of betrayal to her because she was an accident. The brief moments that I wish she didn't exist. The struggle of feeling like my mind killed her and feeling like I should have died too as punishment. Feeling like her father would have been better off with her alive and how I should have taken on death to save her. Of being both incredibly sad she isn't alive but glad because she's not a 13 year old girl in this fucked up world. 

I talk about dealing with the courts over my son and all the bullshit of the legal system. How even the best intentions turn into a shit show. What I don't talk about is the guilt, again. About being glad mom is taking care of him. About how I really will never feel like a mother. About how I'm incapable of that kind of attachment. About dreading the conversation I'll have to have with him to explain why I had to put him up for adoption. About how it wasn't just the court and child services that fueled my decisions. 

I talk about addiction. About how alcohol controlled my life at various points and how I lost myself to drugs. I also talk about the fun I had partying. How it was one big adventure into madness and apathy. What I don't talk about is how far down the rabbit hole I went. The days and nights spent alone being high and/or drunk and how I just wanted to die. The people I got involved with. The living in a world of thugs, lowlifes, and people that would murder me if it would serve them somehow. The selling my body for a fix. The gangs. The constant fear of the police. 

I talk about that one time I tried to kill myself. The events leading up to it. All the bullshit I went through being hospitalized. The piss poor way I was handled (by others and myself) after the fact. What I don't talk about is the fact that THE time wasn't the first time I tried. The fact that it wasn't the last time I made a serious attempt. How often I have dreams about sticking a gun in my mouth, sobbing as I taste the metal. How I hate sleeping because of how often these dreams occur. 

I cut myself as early as 7th grade. I struggled with cutting all through high school. I hid it behind a mask of quiet strength. People knew I'm sure but they never talked about it. Then I dove deep into drinking. When I was in Virginia, I got locked up for a week because my roommate told the authorities that I had made a serious attempt on my life. I tell people she was lying. That she had some sort of vendetta against me (she did but that wasn't the point). Truth is that I really did try to kill myself. More than once. For some reason, nothing worked. I'm glad now, but I really was pissed about it at the time. Of course, I had to get locked up in an absolute shit hospital and endured sexual abuse from a doctor, drugs with horrible side effects and the absolute fear of being housed with very ill and dangerous people. Then I was unceremoniously kicked out with no after care plan. Then I dated a 15 year old (she was in college and I was only 18) Even in the middle of it, I felt like a creep. I still do. 

I came home to a shit show and didn't do anything to change it. I didn't know what to change or how to go about it it. Then it all became too much and I very nearly died. Again. Hospital trip round two. As I have written about before, it didn't help much. Since, I've tried a few times to end it all. I lie to people and say it was never serious. In all honesty, that's just because it didn't work. I dodged the train at the last second. I puked before the pills could take hold (so many fucking times). I didn't jump because I had an appointment, a phone call, a class. 

Why am I putting this out there now? I'm tired of running from this. I'm tired of hiding it from myself. I'm hoping that seeing my story will help someone believe that they aren't alone. That healing can happen even though the struggle remains. That love begins with honesty to yourself. 

To love me, I have to accept me and accept my past. Then, maybe, I can begin to heal. 

Equinox

Today is the autumn equinox. It is a special day for a lot of reasons. I try to celebrate the change seasons and connect with the special energy of the day. After a tough but productive conversation, this pigeon landed on me. I feel like it was a sign of better things on the horizon. I'm hoping that the world in general is going to begin to heal. Maybe this is just a sign of personal healing. I can hope for better things for all of us, though. 

Today is painful too. I recently lost someone I know to a demon I could have easily lost myself to. I'm thinking about my dear friend who I lost long ago to the same demon. I'm constantly exposed to things that trigger my ptsd. In a few days, it will be the day of Nina's birth and death. I nearly died. I wanted to die, if I'm being honest. The following years were brutal and a struggle. Eventually, I turned it around. I did have help and I am so grateful for that. I'm still healing, though.

The hurt feels like less of an open wound and more of a broken bone set in a cast. It hurts like a motherfucker and it is kind of itchy too. With everything going on, I suppose I can't be too hard on myself but I still feel guilt over a lot of things. I wish I could confess them all...but I'm not there yet. 

Today is blessed. I have to focus on that and the healing journey that always begins with the change of seasons. 

Used to it?

I've been to this place many times. I'm not sure why I started visiting. I do know back in 2011I took a picture of the empty street at night. The view is calming while at the same time disturbing to the core. I go up here to think about a future without myself in it. I fantasize about jumping, about the brief moment of clarity and that instant yet agonizing stop at the end. 

Suicide is my constant companion. I fight with the impulse every single waking moment and a lot of times in my sleep. I can't remember the last time I had a dream about something other than dying. I'm kind of used to the constant howl inside my head but lately it's gotten...worse? Maybe it was just less noticeable before. I swear I had dreams of better things, beautiful things.

I've been trying to occupy myself with music and art. Problem is that I'm pouring all of my hurt and frustration into my work and it is serving as a magnifying lens for everything bothering me. I'm constantly reminded of the pain inside my head. I suppose I always have used art as an outlet. Problem is lately it seems like the more I try to quantify my emotional state, the less it seems anyone is able to understand it. Fuck, I don't think I understand it.

I'm fighting an enemy I don't understand. I'm feeling things but I don't know what things I'm feeling. All I know is that it mostly just hurts. Joy is painful and I'm not sure why. Has it always been like this? Am I just noticing it now that my mind isn't clouded with drugs and trauma? 

Speaking of drugs, it's odd that even when my mind is gone, suicide is still there. I'm not sure if it's the same thing, though. Maybe it is and it isn't. Another way it seems like I'm living in a paradox. 

Maybe this is me reaching out for help. Maybe this is just another message of awareness. I don't know that I'd be able to even talk about this with anyone. I write about it because in a brief, fleeting moment, I can actually make sense of it. 

I still have no idea what I'm feeling. 

Traumatic Stress

 

    I've heard life described as a war we are constantly fighting. Lately, this seems especially true. It seems like humanity has been hanging out on the precipice of crisis for a long while.  It started out with the threat of World War Three.  Then several fire seasons (one of which I'm currently stuck in the middle of).  On top of everything, there's a virus out there that people know very little about.  It's causing economic strife and the uncertainty alone is enough to drive even the most stable people mad. And then, AND THEN there's the civil unrest caused by the utter bullshit way people are being treated all over the world.The current state of things alone is enough to give people PTSD. 

    Then there's people who already have PTSD.  I've mentioned before that PTSD isn't just a thing combat veterans get, although those who do suffer from it have all been through some sort of combat, just not through war as most people know it. Loss, chronic abuse, situational hardship, near death experiences and a whole dumpster fire load of other things can contribute to causing PTSD.  To say that everything going on right now is exacerbating my condition is a very large and profound understatement.  

    The nightmares are almost non-stop. I am so tired but at the same time I really don't want to sleep because the darkness follows me no matter what I do.  Cannabis helps quite a bit, probably more than I realize.  Still there isn't really a cure for it. For a while, I was learning how to manage it and making progress at identifying what triggers a reaction and how to avoid situations that might make things more difficult.  Now, there isn't really a way to avoid much of anything as the entire fucking planet is one huge trigger.  I am constantly finding myself in a state of panic and fear.  Anger is up there too. 

    Recently, I've noticed that I slip into a sense of numbness to everything. Shit happening doesn't really trigger anything than a notion of "yes, and?" Then something so profoundly infuriating and wrong happens and the anger and sadness come flooding back.  It is as if the universe is saying "Oh you think you're used to hot water? Let's add some boiling oil!" I don't like being angry.  Sadness I am used to. I've been sad about something on some level most of my life.  It's a feeling I can ignore (although that in and of itself is sad.)  The anger thing is new.  I don't like being angry.  It is such a foreign feeling. Something alien to my already alien mind. 

    Usually, treating PTSD involves finding out the causes of various emotions even though emotions tend to just be.  There is usually something that kick starts an emotion into gear, though.  What is making me angry is painfully obvious.  Injustice, and complete and total lack of compassion are what come to mind primarily. As much as I wish it to be, there is no way I am going to eliminate anger from my consciousness.  I wonder how I managed to live this long and not really feel profound and deep anger.  Maybe I'm more patient and calm than I give myself credit for. If I'm feeling such a sense of disturbing anger at things, I can't imagine how other people are feeling.  Yet another thought that makes me incredibly sad. 

    The problem with all this is that the war isn't ending any time soon.  This is the very start of something that could last generations.  This is something my son and his children and grandchildren are going to be cleaning up. I'm not outliving this. I suppose there is merit in trying to keep going as long as possible but at the same time I'm really starting to get worn down.  My life has value, so I've been told. People tell me that I contribute positively to their lives and to the world in general. I feel like I'm aiming a water pistol at a volcano, though.  

    It feels good working on healing from past trauma but at the same time it feels useless as the world keeps piling more trauma on to the dumpster fire.  I guess I can learn how to handle it better and possibly help others handle it better. Maybe just talking about my experiences is enough to be helpful. 

Validation

Today, I had a talk with my therapist. It's the usual Tuesday thing and has been for a while. We haven't spoken in person in months and I will admit that the phone thing is getting old. She has this way of picking up on subtle vocal inflection, though. No one I've ever talked to in a professional capacity has been able to read me quite this well. It helps, I'm sure, that I'm not guarded while speaking with her. Then again, she's got this way of getting me to let go of my defenses. I'm paradoxically an oversharing type and an extremely reserved type. I'll ride the too much information express but only with certain things. Of course, my art just hangs out and is open to interpretation. There are things, though, that I never discuss.

With my therapist, nothing is off the table. I mentioned today that a lot of my problem is that I carry a lot of tension in my brain. Imagine the tension in your shoulders after a stressful time. Now imagine that feeling in your brain. Not your head like a headache, but deep down in the folds of your brain. Talking with her eases the tension just a little bit. It's a sweet sweet taste of relief. I get this relief from some drugs too but it's always accompanied by confusion and I never can really work through anything. It's just the sugary rush of release without any nutritional value. Of course there's nothing wrong with liking candy, you just can't live on it. 

My therapist is incredibly good at her job. She's perceptive in an amazing way. She's also good at making me feel valid. This is something that I struggle with. It doesn't help that I've been invalidated quite a bit. It also doesn't help that I'm really great at invalidating myself. I confessed that I'm honestly not sure why people like me. I intellectually accept that people do, as there is overwhelming evidence supporting the assertion. I still don't understand why. I'm likely my own worst critic. I've been told I'm my own worst critic. 

More than anything else though, what is helping me is hearing a professional of the mind tell me that I'm making progress. That there is a genuine emergence of confidence and healing in my voice. That I matter and that my life has meaning and value. I've been superficially shined on before by therapists and counselors, which isn't helpful. How are you supposed to believe in yourself when people are just blowing smoke? I've also been reduced to a diagnosis and told that I had to "cure" this, that or thereother. 

When it comes right down to it, I'm not seeking treatment for a disorder. My fundamental perception of the universe isn't a disease. What I am seeking, finally, is healing. I'm seeking identity. I'm seeking love and acceptance from myself. I'm seeking a relief from trauma and the formation of new nural pathways. I can't do this alone. I'm beyond grateful that I've found someone who knows what's up and has my back. 

When shit approaches something closer to normalcy, I'm giving the woman a sincere hug. 

Late at Night

I am feeling emotional in a totally undefineable way. I can feel so deeply and profoundly but I can't put a name to it or even really describe it. I suppose there is value in trying. It is a journey rather than a destination. 

Sadness is definitely in the mix. There's also an exhausted sense of dejection mixed with the feeling of a boot pressing down on the very pit of my soul. At the same time, I feel joy. There are things that are so beautiful and so wonderful, the thought of them almost make me weep with happiness. Everything is a swirling mass of raw emotion with no language attached. 

I suppose this is partly what has been itching my subconscious. My dreams have been imageless, yet broody. I feel an emotional reaction but there is absolutely no context. It would be easier if I could attach images to what I was feeling. If there was a narrative to play back and analyze. 

Maybe the narrative is just an interpretation. Maybe it would cloud the true message. Maybe my brain has absolutely no idea how to interpret what I'm feeling. Maybe that is okay. 

I'm feeling so lost in the midst of profound clarity. Caught in a hall of mirrors staring at reflections of reflections. Nothing is real yet everything is painfully real. 

I wish I had better words. 

Somewhat Confessional

 

        Today I climbed up to essentially the top of town. The walk up was a nice way to get out some pent up energy and helped clear my mind a bit.  I thought about what I would write and now that I'm sitting here, I realize I didn't figure out much. I'm still trying to wrap my head around the gig I had on Saturday.  It was an absolutely beautiful service and a true celebration of life.  I'm overjoyed that even though the event was sad, I helped people feel better.  Music truly is magical and I am honored that people think that I do it justice.  DJs are trusted to provide the soundtrack to people's memories. To me, that feels like a huge responsibility, one I take very seriously. Sure, there's a lot of fucking around and I'm the first one to insert something smart assed in the mix but there is always a time and a place. 

    As a kid, I was always taught that everything had a time and a place and that you succeed in life sometimes just by being at the right place at the right time. There's an art to being able to read the proverbial room and know when to show up and where. I feel though, sometimes, that it happens on a subconscious level.  Call it instinct, gut feeling, vibes, whatever, but it really does feel like it comes from someplace outside of my conscious awareness. 

    It is odd.  I feel like I have such a deep and profound connection to the soul of the universe.  I feel as if I have touched the chaos of the divine being. There is a oneness I share with existence and time and that I hold everything that was, is and ever will be within myself. At the same time, nothing really makes a whole lot of sense.  I am bound by this meat brain and it's incredibly limited software. Sometimes, this manifests as suicidal thoughts.  I can't endure another moment of not being able to grasp what I can feel is so painfully obvious.  I understand suicide, not because I know what drives people to it exactly, but because I know how easily the mind gets to that point. 

    I almost took myself out.  I have no idea what conspired to save me but I did live. For the longest time, I didn't want to talk about it.  It was in the past, it was a manifestation of something stupid, I am "over" it, it wasn't that big of a deal.  Truth is, it is a point of trauma that has stuck with me.  I need to talk about it and process what almost killing myself did to me.  I need to contemplate the what if. I need to remind myself of all the absolutely beautiful things I have experienced because I didn't die by my own hand. 

    I guess a good start is to put the facts of the event out there.  It was the year I turned 19.  I was in a relationship with a girl I had met at college while at the same time dating another girl locally. For this I feel like a total asshole, which was honestly a contributing factor if I'm being totally truthful. I really have no idea why I kept on with the local girl.  She made my life hell and I was constantly wondering if I had any value in her eyes.  I was obsessed with the attention, though. The hot was satisfying enough to endure the cold at least to me.  My perception was definitely skewed by inexperience. 

    I was living at home and working for the state.  Home life was strained, as I had dropped out of military school and my family was sorely disappointed.  I was disappointed in myself but for the wrong reasons. The job was miserable and not at all what I saw myself doing as a career but it was money.  I was living out of various cheap shit motels for four days out of the week and only socializing with my gruff co-worker (this guy made talking to rocks seem interesting) and phone calls to my girlfriend which were limited because at the time, long distance calling actually cost money. 

    It was the last week of August.  It was hot as hell and the hotel I was staying in was absolute shit. I spent the last little bit of cash I had on a calling card from some sketchy convenience store. I dialed one of the few numbers I had memorized.  I remember being surprised the girlfriend actually picked up.  Usually it was her mother who picked up the phone. I don't remember the exact details of the conversation.  The gist though, was that she didn't want to be together any more because she wasn't sure if she was actually a lesbian. That our entire relationship had been an experiment that she wasn't really happy with. 

    My entire identity was called into question.  At the time, I wasn't exactly sure I was a lesbian (I wasn't) but I knew I was more than just some sort of experimental fling.  I had spent an entire year in college being told that everything that made me who I am was evil, wrong and something to be shunned. My entire self-worth was tied up in two women, one who realistically should not have been my emotional support (totally not fair at all to her) and the other who really didn't love me, she just liked the idea of being with me because it pissed off the religious establishment. When it became more of a hassle than what it was worth, she dropped me like a hot rock. 

    I remember her asking me if I was okay with things.  I lied.  I said expected it, and that I knew it wasn't going to last.  I hung up with a half-hearted "see you around." I didn't sleep that night.  I stared at the stained ceiling, formulating a plan of action.  I wished I would die right then and there but I knew that wouldn't happen. The next day, I spent the drive home in silence. My co-worker noted that I was silent even for me.  I collected my paycheck and cashed it at some bullshit casino. I bought a 50 count bottle of Tylenol PM and stashed it in my glove box.  I don't recall if I spoke to my parents.  I do know I did go home at some point to grab my car but if I talked to them before things went down, I'm not sure. 

    I drove up into the hills where I spent a lot of my youth.  It is a magical area and also a place where you could disappear and no one would know.  I ate the entire bottle of pills while blasting Cranberries - Zombie as loud as my sound system would go. I remember laughing and sobbing at the same time. I remember thinking "What the fuck did I just do?" As I felt the pills take hold, I thought that if I was going to die, she should fucking know about it.  I drove off the hill in a haze and ended up at her church. I don't know why I knew she would be there.  It wasn't a normal church day.  

    Next thing I knew I was puking on her shoes.  Everything became sort of a blacked out blur at that point.  I woke up in the hospital as my stomach was getting pumped and I have this vague recollection of a doctor telling me that I was probably going to die anyway.  I'm fairly sure I said "Well...fuck me." and then I was gone again.  There was a brief moment of clarity where my brother called me a "fucking idiot." 

    I fully regained consciousness in the behavioral health unit.  The head psychiatrist was a fat, balding guy that diagnosed me with being "female and emotional" and we did yoga every day.  I managed to be helpful by talking to other patients and developing a rapport just by listening. I tend to do that.  I had a session scheduled with an outpatient therapist but that fell through.  I briefly was on an anti-depressant medication but that didn't do anything good. The topic was avoided by just about everyone.  No one was interested in hearing about it and I wasn't interested in talking about it.  The wound never went away.  The trauma of being in the hospital never went away.  The sensation of death never went away. 

    I have nightmares about feeling myself fading out of existence.  Nightmares about how much stomach pumping actually hurts. Nightmares of people just not giving a fuck that I almost died. Avoiding it isn't helping. 

    Telling this story is the first step towards healing. 

Meditation to a Groove

Music has literally saved my life. Music is the first thing I remember. I'm convinced that I started my love affair with music while I was still in the womb. It helps that mom is just as in love with music as I am and that I was exposed to music even before I was born. There's something to be said about music being in a person's DNA too. Both my parents are musical people as well as my grandparents as far as I know. When I was younger, music was an escape from the chaos that makes up my existence. I had the usual pressures of childhood to contend with. Bullying, trying to navigate through school while being "different" and all that crap. I also had to deal with being pathologised and being whispered about behind closed doors. Even though I didn't fully understand the scope of this, it still hurt. Music made the hurt a lot more tolerable and for a few minutes at a time, I could just lose myself in a song and not really think about anything else.

Through high school, I shared my love of music with others and connected to people deeply through mutual musical interests. I developed a love of the art of the mixtape (mix CD if you want to be technical) and that's where I think I got the DJing bug although I didn't know it at the time. Eventually, music became digital and I had access to a medium that I had never thought was possible. Digital music is amazing. You can have enough songs as not to repeat one for a year in a small physical space. I don't think anything is really lost with digital music for the most part and the advantage of easy access usually outweighs quality issues.


Throughout the years, many people have suggested meditation as a way to stay grounded. Traditional meditation techniques don't really work well for me. My brain just isn't wired that way. What I have figured out is a way to meditate through music. At first, it involved just listening to a mix of music and allowing my mind to go blank. That still works surprisingly well. Throughout the years, as mixing music has gotten easier through practice, I've managed to get into that meditative head space while mixing music. It is quite therapeutic. I've noticed even if I am at my lowest point, a good mix session can bring me out of it. It is interesting recording these sessions too, as I can play them back and work through any emotion I might have been feeling at the time.


Sometimes I forget that I've trained my brain in this way. I have to keep telling myself that I have this awesome relationship with music for a reason. Yes, it's absolutely wonderful and amazing that people enjoy the music I mix but that isn't why I do it primarily. I have to routinely let my brain escape and mix for the pleasure of mixing, not just do it for scripted shows. Don't get me wrong, my podcast is really fun to do but if I just confine myself to that format, some of the therapy in it is lost.


Here's to meditation to a groove. Hopefully it helps others as much as it helps me.

The S Word

I read something the other day that said that suicide is killing more young people than the virus. Suicide has always been a problem, especially amongst people who suffer from PTSD. In recent times, people are starting to at least acknowledge that it's something that anyone can suffer from, not just those exposed to combat. I suppose that trauma is a type of combat, just as much as combat is a type of trauma.

I've always had vague thoughts about killing myself. These thoughts are especially strong when I'm feeling like nothing is worth it and that no one cares about me. I know intellectually these things are not true but with everyone so caught up in the right now, it is incredibly hard to feel acknowledged. It's also difficult to see purpose in my life. Everything is chaotic and everyone is scrambling to find a place. It is both comforting and painful knowing that I'm not alone.

The paradox of the situation is that as long as I'm thinking about killing myself, I won't do it. The second it becomes impulse is when I should worry. It's pushing the limit, I'll admit. I'd ask myself why now but the answer is pretty fucking obvious. I feel like I was close to healing. That I was finally closing up some old wounds. In some ways, this is still true. On the other hand, the deepest cuts are the ones making me bleed out. 

I don't know if anyone can save me. There are people that will certainly try. I'm going to ask for some reassurance and try not to feel guilty about it. Hopefully it will help.