This was my first attempt at journaling. At the end of a session, my therapist offhandedly mentioned that it would be a good idea for me to start keeping a journal. So this is what I ended up writing, somewhat condensed and edited for clarity & anonymity:
I guess I'm officially in "therapy", with all the horrid introspection and "soul-baring" that entails. And Randy suggested a journal today. Of course I balked, immediately thinking:
- My mother would disapprove of the subject matter being put into writing.
- It will fall into the wrong hands, which would be any hands but mine.
- Yuck. Why are therapists so obsessed with journaling?
- Who wants to write down this garbage anyway?
- What am I supposed to write?
- When do I get to burn the horrid journal?
I question the wisdom and the therapeutic value of writing any of the above.
Although I did have some brief fun imagining my version of the chair thing. Instead of the suggested eloquent, poignant, conciliatory words I read in an at times annoying book, I kept imagining myself shrieking curses and screaming, "I should have killed you when I had the chance!" Which of course I would never actually shriek and scream in real life...and I can't believe I just wrote.
My mother is right. Nothing good is coming of this. Although it is amusing.
So I guess I have PTSD. Which is also oddly amusing at the same time that it is annoying. And I don't get to tell funny stories like my old Vietnam vet friend about shooting up the backyard and having my grandfather ask me, "So, did you get them?" Mine is the less fun version. But at least no I'm not, depending on the day, thinking I'm normal...or crazy.
So (let's start every paragraph that way and then I can mock my own grammar and include enough distractions to render any journaling attempts completely therapeutically worthless) in true Annie fashion, I dove headfirst into my homework assignment of "google PTSD and let me know what you think". I listed all the symptoms from the Mayo Clinic site and made notes about which ones did and/or still do apply. then I downloaded a PTSD book to my Kindle and raced through it, taking some more notes.
And freaked out.
Aside: wish I'd been this driven in college.
Back to now: note-taking became desperate scrawled questions. The memories smacked me upside the head. Couldn't sleep. Could barely eat. It was like way back then. All twitchy. A wreck. Amazingly, though, I could hug Sheldon and it felt good.
But I felt crazy. Hurt. Angry. And like the strides I thought I'd made all these years were nothing, just treading water. Felt like an idiot for not being over it. Felt hopeless. But also dared sense a tiny spark of hope, that maybe things could maybe just maybe some day get better. Maybe.
But the road there scares me. A lot.
So there I sat, feeling drained and exhausted and scared and filled with dread and with my guts churning, in Randy's office, which suddenly seemed way too small, like it shrunk since my last visit. His chair was definitely NOT at a safe distance. I was going to take the other chair, instead of my usual seat on the couch, but I was too exhausted to ponder the significance of that and decide.
I'd been rehearsing what to say. I'd even considered taking my daughter's lead and writing it all out, but I couldn't. Way too hard. In my rehearsals, I always got stuck at the beginning, at my role in it. I kept practicing the words, hoping they'd get easier. They didn't. In my rehearsals, I got all emotional and usually ended up weeping, "No. No. No." and "Make it stop!" and "Why? Why? Why?" in a rather hysterical fashion.
But there, in the office, I wasn't hit with a train load of pain and emotion. Sure, it was hard. Especially when the words just wouldn't come out and I kept trying to approach saying it from different angles. I almost felt like saying, "Can't you figure it out without me having to say it?" But I thought it might be better to speak it myself. Somehow the ordeal of telling what I think is all I know...at least what I could bear to tell about it...was not as horrific as I'd feared. I was almost disappointed.
Afterwards, I went home and fell asleep.
Randy recommended two books for me. When I checked them out on Amazon, it turned out they were about childhood sexual abuse. Somehow I must not have communicated how old I was when it happened. Maybe it's because no sane adult would act like such an idiot. Or maybe it's something I babbled today about being so little, when what I meant was that I was so...well, scrawny. I think I need to clarify that.
Yesterday when I was going hysterically crazy, weeping all collapsed in a heap on the shower floor, which was after my earlier breakdown, I sent an urgent prayer request text (with "Don't ask") to one friend and an email to another friend, the one who had recommended Randy. I told her I liked him until his homework assignment turned me into a complete nutcase.
She responded with, among other things, "While it is sometimes easier and more comfortable to keep your soul locked in the darkness of denial, eventually it tend to bite you in the butt, as you are experiencing."
Oh yeah.
But this afternoon, I felt actually good. So much so that I joked back via email, "I'm sure I'm completely cured and will live happily ever after. Especially since I'm a Christian and supposedly have no reason for worry. Or stress."
Then I asked her about journaling: "I think it's supposed to be some sort of deep, torturous self-examination, full of painful truth and deep insights that we will explore in future session. Mine was actually funny in parts. Apparently I'm doomed to lifelong insanity and denial."
In the meantime, my guy friend sweetly offered in his texted reply, "Need me to fly out there and beat the shit outta anyone?"
Good friends are wonderful.
And so I was actually...happy. Relieved not to be locked in crazymaking painful anguish. And all was peachy keen and goodness and light and sunshine and roses until suddenly, for no obvious reason, a cloud of heaviness and sorrow cast its shadow over me. And I knew that today I had a few hours of respite. Hopefully I won't descend back into complete nutcase-ness.
I have this ache in the middle of my chest. A nervous sort of ache. Or maybe more anxious and worried. Sad too. Thought I should write that. Seems like the introspective get-in-touch-with-my-feelings stuff that would be appropriate.
Maybe I'm just dreading trying to sleep.
For someone who was going to refuse to do any journaling, I sure wrote a lot (even more than what's here!) over the course of one day. I don't think I read any of this to my therapist. At the most, I may have read a paragraph or two.
It's interesting to read this and see how far I've come since then. For one thing, I got to the point where I can actually write the word "rape". For another, I am no longer filled with such a degree of self-blame and self-loathing.
At the same time, my journal entries don't see quite as amusing these days. I'm not sure what that means.
