A Heart Wrapped in Barbed Wire

Hi everyone. I know that I get people who believe in Christ and those who don’t on this blog, some people of different faiths to my own, some agnostics, some atheists. I also know that the majority of the people who read this blog have mental health problems of their own. I am sorry if my posts about my faith make you feel uncomfortable or make you feel like you can’t comment. But I can’t separate my mental health from my Christian beliefs so my posts are often intertwined with both subjects. I hope that doesn’t frighten you off. Please feel free to comment however you like.

Last week I was plagued almost constantly by thoughts of how despicably weak I am for allowing the step-daughter to make me so upset, so anxious. I kept thinking of people who have to face real trials and stand up to them so much better than I do. I knew this line of thinking was flawed, and I could argue against myself quite effectively, but it didn’t make the thoughts go away.

Then I went to church yesterday. And once again my Pastor preached a sermon that just blew me away. I actually managed to find a pen and some scraps of paper in my bag to take notes! He was preaching on love. Specifically he was preaching on this passage:

For this reason I kneel before the Father, from whom his whole family in heaven and on earth derives its name. I pray that out of his glorious riches he may strengthen you with power through his Spirit in your inner being, so that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith. And I pray that you, being rooted and established in love, may have power, together with all the saints, to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ, and to know this love that surpasses knowledge—that you may be filled to the measure of all the fullness of God.

Now to him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to his power that is at work within us, to him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, for ever and ever! Amen.

Ephesians 3:14-21

Once again, I’m not going to repeat his sermon here. Even though I did take notes, I still have a lot of thinking to do about it. But this – my faith should be rooted and established in love – wow, that got me thinking. Not rooted in my own fallen, selfish, fickle love for God, but in God’s wonderful, self-sacrificial, unconditional, never-failing love for me.

A the end of his sermon the Pastor said that he felt it on his heart that some people should be prayed for about this subject. Now, I hate being prayed for. It feels like a letting down of all my barriers, which actually is what it is. But I felt his gaze (whether real or imagined) burning into me, even though I had my eyes firmly on my knees by this point.

So at the end of the service I sat there looking grumpy for a little while, talked to a couple of people and really just eeked it out for as long as I could before finally giving in. I went to the back of the church and saw this lovely woman that I have spoken to a couple of times before. She is an older lady and exceptionally gentle. I gave her the bare outlines of my experiences over the past few months, told her of the thoughts going round my head and then promptly burst into tears. I realised that although I am (slowly and painfully) learning to love someone who gives no love back, yet I just can’t seem to wrap my tiny brain around the fact that God loves me. God loves me and therefore I have no need to beat myself up so completely all the time.

She was wonderful. She gave me a tissue and a long hug. Other people saw me crying but they just calmly got on with their business. She prayed for me. She was so intuitive. She could sense what I needed without me having to tell her. She helped me to see the prayers in images instead of sentences, because she could sense that my thoughts are so scattered, so fragmented that I couldn’t keep track of the prayers. Images of a heart wrapped and trapped in barbed wire, of my Saviour cutting through that barbed wire.

She asked me if I have ever been filled with the Holy Spirit and I answered no because I truthfully don’t think I have. I have been a Christian for 14 years and I don’t think I have ever been filled with the Holy Spirit. She was so kind and said that it is nothing to be ashamed about, she was the same as me when she was younger, and she thinks many people are. So she prayed for me to be filled with the Holy Spirit. (I want to note for the record that I do know that there is a difference between the permanent indwelling of the Spirit, and being filled with the Spirit. Or at least I think there is.)

She encouraged me to pray out loud. I struggled with that one. I haven’t prayed out loud for about six years. But she walked me through it and I managed to talk to Jesus. Just a few halting sentences. She smiled and hugged me again, saying well done.

She prayed that I would be covered in the blood of Christ, that I would be protected from Satan’s arrows. She encouraged me to pray for this every morning. She also encouraged me to repeat to myself out loud every day that I am a child of God and very precious to Him.

I am not sure how I feel about all this just yet. I don’t feel any different. Possibly a little calmer. I am spending today doing some reading to try and reflect further on what happened and what was said, prayed and preached. For now I just wanted to record, however briefly, what happened. And to thank God for how He is using His children to help and guide me.

Learning to Love

My last post got quite a few hits.

At the weekend, when I was at church, I suddenly got the idea into my head that I wanted to send the step-daughter and her children some flowers for Christmas. Don’t ask me why, it’s not because I’m an amazingly loving person, or because I want to suck up to her or even because I want to restore our relationship. The idea just came into my head and I decided to do it.

Then the next day I got the nasty text from her. My immediate thought was, "what the hell was I thinking?" But two people have so far given me advice to send the sodding flowers anyway. Nope, I thought. No way.

But I can’t get it out of my head. I’m torn. Let’s face it people, I’m a Christian, love people and all that. Regardless of how they treat you. So yesterday I found myself looking at flowers. I could have ordered the damn things then and there and get them delivered to her on Christmas Eve. She would probably shred them, think I’m doing it in another attempt to brainwash everyone. Because that’s the sort of wicked person I am.

But I can’t get it out of my head. Have I said that already? I wish I could send her a punch in the post instead, or maybe some poison ivy. See people, I’m not a loving person. I want her to get what she deserves. But there I was debating whether or not to send her flowers.

Grrrr.

I have now decided to send the flowers. Some people don’t get why I would want to do that. They think I should send flowers to someone who would actually appreciate them. They think I should avoid all contact with her because she is bad for my mental health. And I can’t say I disagree with them. At all. But I’m going to send them anyway. I am doing it because I feel it is the right thing to do, I would be disappointed in myself if I didn’t do it, and because I will not let her make me into a person who can’t give love because I have been hurt.

But I will not send them to arrive to her on Christmas Eve. After all, taking previous experiences into account, I could get a horrible reaction and that could send me into another tailspin and utterly ruin my Christmas. So I’ll get them sent to her for the 21st, by which time I will be up in Edinburgh with my wonderful family to support and distract me.

I have to do this. I feel that it is the Holy Spirit who has prompted me. You know, the Holy Spirit. He’s not someone who generally makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside like a lot of wishy washy Christians describe Him. When I feel His prompting I usually feel extremely uncomfortable. I can do my best to ignore the promptings but they don’t go away until I face up to them and decide to do what’s best.

This week I have been very anxious, angry, upset… dealing with withdrawal from Cymbalta (that’s just a whole barrel of laughs)… attempting to concentrate on my essay… I saw my psychiatrist again today and he is leaving my medication mix alone for the present because he doesn’t think I can take any more changes. He thinks my high levels of anxiety are making my mood episodes worse but he’s taking it very slowly in dealing with it. I am happy with this decision. He also says I can go back to work in January. So now the real work begins. Can I send the flowers without obsessing over it? Obsessing over how she may react? Can I relax over the Christmas period and just enjoy the holiday with my family? Can I focus on working on my essay? Can I go back to work and cope? Just cope. No breakdowns. Because I won’t be seeing the psychiatrist again until the beginning of February unless things go topsy turvy again.

Can I learn to love even when I get nothing in return?

Swallowing

Just when I thought I was starting to get a grip. Why does crap have to come at you just when you think you’re on the road to recovery? Once again I tried to protect my husband and once again I was punished for it. The step-daughter sent me a horrifically nasty text about half an hour ago, one that made my entire body shake uncontrollably, my heart pound so quickly I thought I was going to be sick and tears stream down my face.

I can’t respond of course. What good would it do? Standing up for myself never works, it just brings more abuse down on my head. I can’t even delete our “mutual friends” on Facebook, because it’s not their fault. I have to swallow it. I always have to swallow it. I’ve been swallowing it for two months and that is what is driving me to distraction. Swallow the anger, the hurt, the grief. I even have to swallow the need to protect my husband. I should have swallowed that desire in the first place and then this would never have happened.

You know, before tonight, I was actually going to send her some flowers for Christmas. I wanted to show the love of Christ, even though she has hurt me so badly I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to forgive her, assuming she can ever take her head out of her arse long enough to realise she needs forgiveness. What was I thinking? What is it about me that makes me want to give and give and give even to those who repeatedly hurt me?

How do I swallow this now? How do I sleep tonight, knowing that this bullying may never end, knowing that my husband may have lost his daughter permanently, through no fault of his own? How do I gather my thoughts enough to write my essay? How do I get better again so that I can go back to work? My mental illness is hard enough to deal with without all this crap. And she doesn’t even know what mental state I’m in right now, and if she did know she wouldn’t care, she’d most likely think I was making it up. She’s said that to me before.

Every time something like this happens it leaves me with two overwhelming urges – to punch a wall so hard I break my knuckles, and to be violently sick. Instead, I’ll take some Valium, an antihistamine, lie down in my bed and stare at the ceiling for a while, before eventually going to sleep only to relive all of this in my dreams.

Creating Order

I’m not at work and I know it’s a good thing that I’m not at work. But it feels weird not being there, especially when I’m calm like I am today (relatively anyway). I miss the little community of my colleagues. But I don’t miss the constant confusion, which makes the confusion in my head worse. I don’t miss the pressure.

My boss phoned me today. She’s been away and only found out yesterday about my little breakdown. She was reassuring me that I can still go the the work Christmas lunch (yay!) and she was gently probing me to find out what’s gone wrong. What could I say? I was as honest as I could be. I went a little too high,  which got progressively worse each week, and so the crashes got progressively worse each week. I crashed so badly that my psychiatrist has told me that I’m in a state of crisis and need to look after myself first. Work has to come very definitely second. That’s hard for me to admit, as I always want to reassure everybody that I’m absolutely fine and will be back on my feet in no time.

I went to my class at uni (also my workplace) on Tuesday and loved it as usual. I got all excited about one little sentence for crying out loud. But it was such a simple sentence, beautifully expressed, packed full of meaning and written in a way that just can’t be adequately translated into English. That one little sentence pushed me straight into hypomania. I am such a geek!

During the lecture more and more ideas kept tumbling into my mind about the essay I’m attempting to write. I say attempting because I have ideas, lots of ideas, and I have a good grasp of the Arabic language… but it’s hard for me to structure anything right now, it’s hard for me to get those ideas to make sense to anybody but me. So yesterday I typed. I typed and typed and typed. And now I’m going back to do more.

Somehow I have to learn how to control my mood episodes, at least to a certain extent. I can’t help that the classes trigger me, maybe they will always do that. But I think that if I can produce something from the ideas that the classes inspire in me then maybe that will be one way to get a handle on this. If I can’t get a handle on it then more med changes will be coming my way. And I’m already dealing with the withdrawal from the last set of changes.

Paradox

I went to church this morning, and I can now possibly see why the psychiatrist doesn’t think it’s good for me to be at work. Being around people makes me all fast and zippy. I talked so fast I actually made myself feel quite sick!

It’s easier for me to write. When I talk I can see the uncertainty in people’s eyes. If they weren’t so polite they’d back away from me. But I had so many thoughts during the service, I have to try and get them out.

Our Pastor, when he preaches, he hits me right in my heart, or my head, or between my eyes, or something like that anyway. Today he was preaching from Ephesians 1:15-23. What a great passage. I’m not going to repeat his sermon here, apart from anything else, I couldn’t possibly remember everything he said, my memory is rubbish. I really should start taking notes. I’ve been meaning to do that for a while.

Jesus. Raised from the dead, seated in the heavenly realms, above all rule and authority, above every title. God put all things under his feet. Jesus is head over everything. Jesus is supreme over everything. There is not one square inch in this world that doesn’t come under Jesus’ authority. Wow. As I sang some of the songs today I felt tears well up in my eyes. I felt grief because my husband’s family are lost to me, his grandchildren are lost to me, at least for now, possibly for always. I felt such grief. I love them so much. But Jesus is supreme over all this.

I am constantly nervous. Hubby’s family has been taken away from me, my job has been temporarily taken away from me – what if they take it from me permanently? What if they fire me because I’m too mental to work there? The university is paying for my Masters degree – what if they take that away from me? What if they decide it’s too much for me? I can’t lose that MA, it’s my lifeline. Jesus is supreme over this. Jesus is supreme over my future, he knows exactly what will happen, he has it all under control. My eyes filled up with tears again.

The power that raised Jesus from the dead is now at work in all of those who love him. That awesome power is at work in me. At this point images came flooding into my mind. I suddenly realised how scattered my thoughts have become. I usually think of myself as a terrible Christian, but sometimes, just sometimes, I feel alive, charged with energy, with electricity. I can do anything. I have ideas, my mind can make connections, I see the world in a way that others don’t see it. I have difficulty separating hypomania from my belief in this passage and others like it. My psychiatrist asked me on Friday if I ever feel special, more special than other people, and all those other questions. If I had answered with a quotation from this passage he might have had me hospitalised then and there.

And then all of a sudden these feelings are taken away from me and I can’t feel close to God at all. Someone at church today said that we are called to “be Christ in the place where he has put us”. My thought? That’s all very well, but Christ didn’t have a mental illness (contrary to what certain atheists might say about him).

Strange thoughts. Strange thoughts. They look all nice and linear here. They are not all nice and linear in my head. These thoughts come to me all at the same time, often in images and not in words, or in words but with no grammar. It gets tangled. I am tangled. But. See? There is a big but here. I can sing the songs in church again. I still believe. My faith has not been destroyed. My faith is getting stronger. It’s odd, I always thought that as my faith got stronger so would my mental health. But it’s not working out that way. My faith is getting stronger but my mental health is deteriorating. A strange paradox to be in. Surely, if my faith is strong then I should not be anxious or depressed? Right? Wrong. I have this thorn in my side that refuses to leave.

But yet I will sing to my God.

Why are you downcast, O my soul?
       Why so disturbed within me?
       Put your hope in God,
       for I will yet praise him,
       my Saviour and my God.

From Psalm 42 and Psalm 43

State of Crisis. Really?

So apparently I’m too mental to be allowed to go back to work. Isn’t that great? Oh, the days of wishing I didn’t have to go into work… And now that it’s happened I’m feeling, to be honest, just a teensy bit pissed off.

Long story short: No more anti-depressants for me. I take my 1000mg Sodium Valproate all in one hit in the mornings instead of twice daily, Valium has been prescribed (woo!) and if none of this works then a nice little antipsychotic will be added into the mix.

All seems a bit much for a simple case of Cyclothymia.

According to my psychiatrist, I am in a state of crisis. And the more I argue against this the more in a state of crisis I am. Hmmm.

I think I may have fallen into the trap that others have fallen into before me. Mental illness isn’t “real” illness therefore I don’t deserve time off work. I am a burden on my colleagues, they’re going to fire me any day now, etcetera, etcetera, ad nauseum. Yes, I’ve been dealing with depression for a while now, but I have a valid reason for that, the step-daughter. Therefore it’s not a Bipolar related depression because they come and go as they please. This has a valid reason, people! OK, so I may not have dealt with it too well, but I would have pulled myself together sooner or later. And yes, I still get hyper and zippy and all those other loopy feelings at times, usually after my university lectures, but really, who wouldn’t get a little bit excited about studying the language of the Qur’an in minute detail? And yes, sometimes my mood crashes and does this weird mind-racing, imagining myself washing down shit-loads of pills with a couple of bottles of wine thing, but it’s not like I’m going to act on it. I’m far too sensible for that. I am the queen of controlling my impulses. I’ve been doing it all my life.

Meh.

Crazy?

I crashed. Mood went weird. Thoughts went round and round and round and just didn’t stop. They didn’t even stop when I was asleep, I kept waking up, dreaming, more waking up. I felt so exhausted.

I just wanted it all to stop. I didn’t actually do anything. I just fantasised a little bit. Daydreamed about taking lots and lots of pills. Then I could go to sleep and wake up a few days later feeling all better again.

But of course it wouldn’t happen like that, would it? It would actually resolve itself into a nice little scenario containing some spectacular vomiting and possibly worse. Possibly lots worse. And it would definitely result in me hurting my husband.

So I called the psychiatrist again like he told me to. And what was his first reaction? Can you guess? To have me admitted to hospital. He changed his mind in the end. I persuaded him somehow that I’m not as crazy as my rapid speech and pill popping fantasies implied. Instead he advised me to take the rest of the week off work sick and go in to see him. He’s squeezing me in on Friday morning. He has also called the local psychiatric unit in a hospital and warned them about me. Just in case. How reassuring.

How do I feel about this? Not sure right now. I just want to get better so I can begin to pick up the pieces of my life.

Sense

The wonderful zippy world of Karita. After a couple of months of gradually deepening depression everything suddenly switched on Tuesday. One minute I thought I was going to cry and the next I couldn’t stop laughing, running, bouncing, talking… I called my psychiatrist. I like this one. He pays attention, which is a welcome change.

Unfortunately, his advice was to take an antihistamine during the day to slow me down, which I did. And it did slow me down. Slowed me down so much my speech was slurred and I nearly missed my stop on the way home from work because I fell asleep on the train. Happy days.

So no more antihistamines. Instead I’m practicing the age-old method of deep breathing and forcing myself to pause between words so I don’t trip up over myself. I went to a meeting at my church last night and we had to vote on new leaders. I went, I voted and then I left before the rest of the meeting got going. I was finding it so hard just to sit still, I felt the urge to get up and pace around the church, which would have freaked people out. So I figured it was time for me to leave.

I’ve been on my own in the office this morning and me and the radio have had some lovely conversations.

I thought I could write a nice long rambling post today but actually I’m having trouble stringing a sentence together. I have words in my head but they can’t seem to attach themselves to anything.

Words words zippy bouncy step-daughter bitch love hate emotions blurry multi-coloured essays lecturers work administration boredom angel faith crisis singing radio wild unhinged cigarettes how do you like it how do you like it where do we go from here what to do now silly celebrities spinning round and round and round is there any sense where is the sense I can’t find it where is it no sense no sense round and round get ready tonight there may be wine dancing must slow down speeding up

Mild

There are thoughts. Lots of thoughts. Lots of words. Lots of feelings. But not much sense. Perhaps I’ve been holding onto them for too long. I gave up even trying to make sense of them, I just decided to wait it out, wait for time to heal or the medications to do their job.

I find myself trapped in a circle that I found myself trapped in a few months ago. Thinking the same thoughts. I find myself staring at the screen, unable to type. I can still function, I can still work, I can still pretend that nothing is wrong. I can even pretend to myself that nothing is wrong. Don’t really believe myself though.

What to type? What to type? I have the urge to spit out some of my thoughts. But I warn you, they may not make much sense.

In a homegroup meeting as we were studying the Bible I was my usual self and blurted out some thoughts, seeming to make others uncomfortable. Wishing I could pull my words back, why did you say that? Then the tears started falling and I couldn’t hold them back. I had to leave the room. I was reassured that they love me, that they know me, that I don’t scare them. But I think I do, even if it’s just a little bit. What will Karita say next?

I go to church and I panic. I go to work and I panic. I study and I panic. I talk to people, email people and I panic. So I hide from the world. I don’t panic when I’m hiding so I must be OK, right? I’m fine. Fine fine OK fine. Really I am.

But then, listening to yesterday’s sermon at church, I realised that I am back where I was six months ago. This was the pattern: Karita goes mad, mood up, mood down, mood up, mood down. Karita decides that God does not exist, because she can’t see him or feel him when she’s depressed, she can only see him or feel him when she’s hypomanic. Therefore, God is clearly a figment of Karita’s hypomanic brain. Karita then decides that God does exist but that she is very angry with him so decides not to speak to him for a while. Karita then decides that she should be speaking to God, but can’t, therefore she is a really rubbish Christian who should go and live under a rock.

This time around I have skipped the God does not exist phase. And I didn’t really get angry with him. I just stopped talking to him. Depression always pulls me away from God. But you see, when I achieved stability in the summer I thought to myself that I had learned so much in the year of crappy mental loopiness. I learned more about myself and God. And I decided that while I was stable I would reflect on this and make my faith stronger so that the next time depression hit, I would not be pulled away from God. And here I am, pulled away from God, sitting in church thinking about how rubbish I am and how I should go and live under a rock.

I have learned nothing. I’m slipping, I know I’m slipping, and I can’t seem to gather up the courage to do anything about it. Or even to face it. I talked to hubby a bit yesterday and even then I was full of the usual drivel, Oh don’t worry about me, I’m sure it will pass soon… and I mean, it might, you know? Maybe I’m getting my head all twisted up over nothing. It’s only Cyclothymia, it’s mild.

Tangled

So many thoughts. Too many thoughts. I have retreated into an age-old coping mechanism – watching endless episodes of Angel on DVD. I don’t write here so regularly anymore. I should. Maybe it would help to get the thoughts out, maybe I could process them better then.

Things got worse with the step-daughter.

This resulted in me almost having a panic attack at church on Sunday evening – while I was at the front singing. Excellent. At least it was almost.

I have got three days off work now, doing some stuff at home, on the sofa in my dressing-gown, making the DVD player work for its board and lodging.

I wonder how far she can push me. This situation has thrown me months back in my recovery. Breaking down in tears at work, having to leave the office because I can’t catch my breath. What more?

I can’t untangle the thoughts.

Is Grace Sufficient?

Being an adult isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

All this crap with the step-daughter has made me not only depressed but also on edge. I can’t deal with criticism at all. I have all this pent up aggression which I’m trying to just let go of, and while I am letting go of it I need people to just be gentle with me. But my boss doesn’t seem to know the meaning of the word gentle.

I dealt with a difficult situation at work last week and was proud of myself for doing well, staying calm and polite but firm, and my boss still found something to criticise. I burst into tears. How embarrassing. It’s not the first time we’ve clashed. Twice before I have snapped at her and apologised both times. We have talked about how to work together better, have gone into what my triggers are and how we can avoid tantrums and so on. But I realised last week that I’m not strong enough to cope with workplace conflicts right now. My ability to cope with it is just non-existent.

So I went to Human Resources. I mean, my boss made me cry and then the following day pretended like it never happened. Now, if I make someone cry, even inadvertently, I apologise and rectify the situation. I have come to the conclusion that she simply doesn’t know how to handle me and is freaking out about the whole Bipolar thing. So I had a little chat with HR and the woman I spoke to is Bipolar! You can’t make this stuff up. She advised me to do things by the book. For my own protection. She has seen this sort of thing before, someone gets a bad feeling but doesn’t act on it and a few months later the whole thing blows up big time. So I’m being referred to Occupational Health (something I have resisted before) and we will talk about how to make my workplace a healthy environment for me, etc. The woman from HR was diagnosed with Bipolar 3 years ago and understands, so I trust her advice. She said that she wants me to be protected and she is concerned about the situation. She thinks I shouldn’t have to be dealing with workplace conflicts that result from ignorance about mental illnesses, at the same time as trying to fight my way out of a depression.

I had a chat with my boss the  next day and asked for us to talk it through, with someone from HR to mediate. She actually thought it was a good idea! But then, she loves procedures and systems… She still made me feel like it’s all my fault, even though she could clearly see that my hands were shaking badly. Oh well, I made it clear that I don’t want her to be uncomfortable in her dealings with me, and kept it quiet that the real reason I’m doing this is to protect myself.

Hubby and I visited my family this weekend and my Mum was preaching at church on Sunday. Her sermon was very thought-provoking. One verse she quoted has been reverberated around my head ever since:

2 Corinthians 12:9

But he said to me, "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness." Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me.

I don’t have to do this by myself. Paul, who wrote this, referred to the thorn in his side. He pleased with God to take it away from him. And the above was God’s response. I can’t see God or feel God when I’m depressed. I can’t seem to find him. It feels like I’m dealing with everything on my own and messing everything up. I just feel like I can’t do this anymore. It’s to hard. But I know that God is still with me and He will help me if I rely on Him. So I’m going to write this verse on a piece of card and stick it to my computer screen at work.

Suck it up, Princess

So the step-daughter deleted and blocked me on Facebook, and did the same thing to every member of my family, including my teenage sisters. Now she can wallow in bitter self-pity for as long as she likes without any of us seeing. I’ve been cut out completely, I can’t see her children, it’s like I never existed. Ah well, such is life.

I’m depressed. I mean, I can laugh, I can joke, but don’t ask me to have any enthusiasm for anything right now because my brain appears to be unable to fake that. I’m faking everything else though. Oh yes, I’m fine… nope, I don’t care what she thinks of me… Isn’t church/work/studying great?… On and on. Getting a bit tired of telling everyone I feel fine though. I keep dropping out of things because I can’t face plastering another smile onto my face and pretending that this has all washed over me, the bullying means nothing to me because I’m strong. Strong strong strong. Yep, that’s Karita. She’s strong. Copes very well with shit like this. It’s weird, isn’t it, that the more you are screaming on the inside the more people seem to think you’re “looking well”. Oh Karita, you’re looking so much better than you were a few months ago, you look really happy.

My Dad made me laugh last night and I thought to myself that I did suddenly feel better. I woke up this morning thinking I felt better. But you know, I don’t. It’s all an act. Last week my Mum said, don’t let this knock you, Karita. Of course I won’t, Mum! I’ve come too far for that. Haha. I fake my way through my days at work and then I go home and watch telly all evening before finally flopping into bed before beginning the whole charade again the following day.

And the strange thing is, I don’t even really care what the step-daughter thinks of me. I have zero respect for her, after all. But I have worked so hard at this relationship for two and a half years. And now it’s all gone. I find myself staring into space, just going back over the same old crap over and over again, the same refrain banging uselessly against my head, “I hate her”. But I don’t think I do hate her, I’m just struggling to accept the fact that I’m out of their lives. After letting my life revolve around hers for so long I’m not entirely sure how to adapt to the sudden vacancy.

How nice it must be in her world, a world where you can blame everybody else for your own unhappiness, a world where you never have to take responsibility for your actions, a world where you can lash out at your nearest and dearest and then accuse them of being selfish. I, however, know that I can’t blame her for my depression, for my obsessive thoughts. I am responsible for my own actions, my own thoughts. I can continue to obsess over her, play the same tired old scene over in my head over and over again, or I can just suck it up. Now, would anybody like to tell me how to do that?

When the going gets tough?

Things have got bad. Really bad. So many specifics that I just can’t go into. Getting this off my chest whilst attempting to remain vague will be a challenge, but if I can’t write about my life here then where can I?

It’s the step-daughter. Of course it is. It always is. Things got bad a few months ago and we’re dealing with the fallout now. Hubby and I stayed at her house last night. For reasons I can’t go into. While we were there she started criticising her dad (he wasn’t in the room at the time). I told her very gently that I know she’s going through a rough time but I can’t listen to her saying bad things about him. She lost it with me, shouting, banging things around. I must be psychic or something because I just knew something like that would happen. I was agitated all day yesterday because I knew she’d overstep the line.

We went to bed as soon as it happened and left when we woke up this morning. I didn’t see her. She has been abusive towards me before. I have always removed myself from the situation. I couldn’t do that last night. We had to stay there.

Hubby went round to see her this afternoon. Asked her if she wanted us to be there again tonight. I was prepared to do it. But apparently I am self-involved, make everything about myself and I wind her up when I’m in her house. This from the most self-involved person I have ever met. It’s classic transference. I stand by what I did. She can piss on me all she likes but she will not piss on him. Not after everything he’s done for her.

I am just struggling to take in the sheer selfishness of it all. She lost it with me about six months or so ago, and I honestly did absolutely nothing to provoke it. I left. Later on she told hubby that she knew she was in the wrong and said she would apologise to me. She never did. I have never made her feel bad about that. After a few weeks I went back to her and have been there to support her ever since. I got some money for my birthday and spent all of it and more taking her and all her children out for dinner at a really nice restaurant. We spend our weekends with her. We have spent Christmas with her for the last two years and been thoroughly miserable because of it. I keep my mouth shut no matter how much she irritates me. We always put her first. I have spent the last two and a half years just doing whatever I can so that she knows she’s loved.

We listened to her drivel on about herself for five solid hours last night. She didn’t let up once. I listened and comforted and hugged. I gave her one of my tablets to help her sleep. I reassured her that things will get better. Then I very gently and calmly set my boundaries and she didn’t like it one little bit.

I won’t be spending any more time with her.

Now, of course, the problem for me is, what is love? I told myself I would love her no matter what. But I actually think I hate her. I have never hated anyone before. Not my step-brother who was physically abusive to my Mum. Not my ex-boyfriend who treated me extremely badly. But now? How do I deal with this? I can work on forgiveness, but it will take time. I can’t keep putting myself back into this situation, no matter how loyal my personality makes me. But how do I deal with this? Somebody please tell me, how do I deal with this?

Letting it Wash Over

Rambling post with not much in the way of structure coming up…

I was up in Newcastle this weekend for my Grandma’s 80th birthday party. I love being with my family, I don’t see them that often. They’re all mad (or rather, eccentric) and I fit in very well. We went to a restaurant on Saturday night, there were a lot of us, it was very loud and chaotic. I got overwhelmed when the waiters were calling out the names of what people had ordered, and my Dad noticed. He also struggles with that sort of situation.

However, he laughed at me and said that it was odd that that sort of chaos overwhelms me, but the chaos that the family generates doesn’t. In fact, I am often the instigator of that particular brand of chaos. I told him, “but you see, I understand Smith (not our real name) chaos”. I fit with them.

Hubby and I stayed with my Grandma over the weekend and she talked. A lot. She didn’t actually stop! We were looking at the family tree and she was describing how bonkers the family has always been. That’s how my Dad describes me: “Karita, you’re plain old, stark, raving bonkers! That’s why we love you.”

I’ll stick the rest behind the wall.

Unfortunately I’m in the midst of a depression. I’ve got so much to do and so little motivation to do it. I just want to hide away in bed.

My GP put me on antibiotics and an inhaler last week, and all the drugs pumping through my system are making me feel quite sick. Still, if I an get rid of the chest infection then I won’t mind.

She also increased the dosage of the Cymbalta to 40 mg. It will most likely go up to 60mg next time.

I had ideas of what to write but I can’t seem to make my brain work. All that’s going round my head is how much I have to do, what a busy week this is, and why, oh why did depression have to come now, when I enrol at uni this week and start classes next week?