Regrets: Old and New
Still in bed and wish to stay here for as long as possible this morning. Yesterday was horrific, at least what I can remember of it. I checked my Facebook page, my Twitter, my phone….all signs point to some lost time and dissociation. Don’t know who wrote that last blog entry. Was having a very schizo day all around. That’s not necessarily literal, that’s just what I say when we’re having a mentally trying day. Which is most days. Depends on who we are that day. Yesterday we were weak and pathetic. Lots of crying, I remember that. Plus, a look in the mirror reveals raccoon eyes and mascara trails down my cheeks so it’s easy to figure out. I cried about something that happened 10 years ago, more so than I’d cried when it actually happened. I cried about not getting a marshmallow Santa in my stocking. I cried about my Daddy. (It’s not long until the anniversary of his death, and both I and my mother get very depressed around this time of year.) Yes, depression on top of the holiday blues…it’s not fun.
How do I explain to you what happened to me? I don’t even know myself. I feel so traumatized though. I can’t remember what was the initial trigger or even if there was one; I just know I was in a different place all day long. But the end of the day brought a slap in the face. Mom wanted to watch a video of the family Christmas party from 1994 and of course we couldn’t say no, so for the first time since my daddy died, I got to see him again. When I heard his voice I began to sob. I was always Daddy’s little girl. I miss him more than I could ever express in words. After he died, I had a(nother) breakdown and went to a dark place. I did a series of paintings called “Doctors Are Sick”. I can’t remember how many paintings there were exactly, but I very distinctly remember that they were done in a style I’d never used before, as though someone new were painting. Those were the most important pieces of art I’ve ever done, because they represented pure emotion. For the first time in my life, I had painted without restraint. I sobbed uncontrollably as I created these canvasses, often times lying the painting on the floor and using my hands to manipulate the paint. These paintings were dark and gloomy and all had a hospital/medical theme, as my father had been sick for several years before he finally died and I spent an enormous amount of time in doctors’ offices and hospitals. I poured all of my grief onto those pieces of canvas, all my pain. I was quite proud of them actually, but only because I knew they were pure. Pure feelings. No gimmicks. No trends. No technique. I was painting for no one but myself. For a while I kept them hidden, but one day someone came over and saw them. I don’t remember how everything came about, but in October of that year-I wish I could remember what year that was-my paintings were hung in a show at a gothic/industrial/fetish event. The event coordinator liked the paintings because they were so dark. Almost all of them were done in black, gray, and hospital green. One of them was a doctor, crucified on a cross made of money, atop a mountain of pill bottles. Here’s another one, called “Pinned-On Smile”:
Several of the paintings contained hypodermic needles, and I didn’t know what the significance of that was until I had a dream one night and remembered that at one point, the hospice nurse gave us the option of putting my father into a drug-induced coma so that he wouldn’t suffer so much pain. I realized after waking from the dream that I had a lot of issues with the fact that I helped decide to give my father that shot. It’s as though I helped kill my Daddy. So there are lots of needles in the paintings.
I suppose I might’ve sold them to a heroin addict or perhaps a drug rehab center. But the paintings succumbed to a tragic end; the event coordinator never got back with me about them. She had them in her possession and I was supposed to meet her to pick them up. Well, before that happened, she moved to another state. She claimed to have left the paintings with her former boyfriend, who lived in the same city I did. Well, before I could retrieve my art from him, he fucking died! I never saw my paintings again. I have a few photos of some of them, that’s all I have left. At least my sister got to see them; she appreciated them more than anyone else could’ve and they moved her to tears, so in the end I have that. Plus, just getting all that suffering out of me and putting it someplace else was very liberating. Bonus:paintings don’t leave scars!
We really need to see our shrink but have to wait another week or so. I can’t remember when my appointment is but it’s sometime in the near future. Not soon enough however. The self-injury has gotten worse than it’s been in years. I haven’t used a knife since the mid-90’s, so I keep telling myself that I’ve gotten better, but to look at my skin proves otherwise. The other day my mother saw me in a dress and started to cry when she looked at my legs. I’d forgotten how bad they looked until that moment. I ran away from her and made a mental note to keep my skin covered up until all my wounds have healed. Luckily, it’s winter now so it’s not suspicious to wear lots of clothing. Come Summer, I’m fucked, as these current wounds are already showing signs of terrible scarring. But I’m better! I didn’t use a razor blade! I used tweezers and a nail file and scissors and my fingernails. That’s an improvement, isn’t it?
God I am such a NON techie. I got a new phone for Christmas, and I don’t know how to use it yet, and I totally humiliated myself yesterday by sending someone unknown either a Tweet or a text; I have no idea what it said or how I did it, I just saw the words “Message Sent” and completely freaked out. It was too late to take it back. Plus, since there’s been a 2 hour wait at the wireless store, I’ve not had my old phone data transferred to my new phone, so I don’t know who anyone is who calls or texts me, as their names are not currently stored in my phone. My solution has been to not answer the phone. People who know me really well (that’s hilarious-as if somebody actually knows me really well) aren’t shocked when that happens; I often go off the radar for days at a time. It’s hard to believe, but most of my real life friends don’t even know about our illness. I’m an excellent actress. Well, most of the time.
Yesterday I just couldn’t hold it together. It took everything I had to be the Good Daughter and not let Mom know how bad things were. I kept slipping off to my room to escape, or finding tasks to do in other rooms, so that nobody in the house would see that we were struggling. Unfortunately, by the time my husband and I were alone at the end of the day, I was totally exhausted from trying to be “sane” all day and night and I just melted into a puddle right in front of him. He’s never seen me like this. We’re still newlyweds. I told him about all these things before we got married (of course) but he’s never actually experienced me being another me. I have the K that he knows and loves inside of me but she wasn’t around yesterday. Not sure where she was. The voices were so loud I guess they drove her away. My biggest fear is that we will drive our husband away, just like all the other people in my life. I’m worried about K. She’s having a rough time right now, and she can’t talk to anyone about it. There is no one she can trust. I tried to be honest with my husband (who really does need a name!) about the thoughts in my head, but it only succeeded in scaring him. I don’t want him to be afraid. How can I make him forget everything he saw and heard last night? What if he never looks at me the same way again?!? He’s already laid eyes on my self-inflicted wounds; I try to hide them at all times but there’s no hiding my FACE, which I’ve been obsessively picking at. Both my arms and legs are covered in bloody scabs. I am fucking disgusting. We want The Old K back, the chick who’s 23 and talented and thin and pretty and smart and funny and sexy and popular and who always looks put together. Where the fuck did she go?