I don’t trust easily.
First of all, there are people who pretend to care, only to get more ammunition to hurt you.
Worse, there are people who do care, but yet don’t get it; people who have the best intentions, who want to help, who want me to be happy, and yet they don’t really understand or know me well enough, and so their efforts miss the target, or — worse — hurt instead of helping — like the two local therapists I tried before going back to Joe.
Sometimes the more I try to explain what I’m dealing with, the stranger the looks I get, and I feel ridiculous, dangerous, or shockingly deformed; or else the other person thinks they get it but I can tell they really don’t.
And I can’t blame these people. They really care. They’re not trying to hurt me, and they’re not deliberately misunderstanding me. It’s just ordinary human failure.
And so it can be difficult to figure out what to do with the anger I feel about it. What do you do with anger that has no legitimate object?
I often turn it inward, thinking people must be right that I’m difficult, that I love having problems, that I make my own life more miserable than it needs to be, that I overreact, that if I just did this or that I’d be fine, and so on.
Joe (and others) want me to have some physical outlet for anger. He chops wood. Other people buy thrift store dishes and break them. I got a huge heavy serious punching bag through Freecycle — I don’t have boxing gloves, but I could kick it or beat on it with a baseball bat.
But I haven’t yet. It feels too much like fighting, like violence, and that’s not permissible. Even though it doesn’t hurt the bag. It’s how it affects me that I worry about — whether I hit a bag or a person, I’m still hitting, with anger, with violence, and that’s too scary.
Speaking of fear, and anger, I’m still upset by what happened a few weeks ago that made me take a break from writing much here; it had to do with Denise, the psychiatric nurse practitioner. The way it was handled was terrible for me — it felt antagonistic, and it also felt like dangerously misinformed concern that could lead to interventions that could hurt me.
I hadn’t seen her since then until yesterday, and I was a little surprised at how seeing her again triggered that fear and defensiveness again. I had a very difficult time answering her questions. Afraid that if I answered wrong I’d be put away or that Amy would be taken from me, or that I would be given a medicine I don’t really need or want. (Actually she did prescribe Risperdal for me; I looked it up and it’s normally used as an anti-psychotic for people with schizophrenia, and it works by disrupting communication between nerve cells in the brain — sounds appealing, doesn’t it?)
So — yesterday’s appointments brought out some pretty intense emotions and thoughts. And I still feel in general like I can’t trust anyone at all to know what’s best for me, not even myself, not even God. And so I feel alone, and scared — scared to publish this post, scared to ask anyone for any help, scared to let anyone know what I’m feeling and thinking, scared of how people will react, scared of what might be behind people’s concern.
If you are concerned, and feel the need to tell me so, please just encourage me and reassure me. It’s okay if you’re scared or shocked or disappointed or annoyed, but please don’t tell me so just yet; I am too reactive right now to handle your reaction to me. Don’t tell me what to do. What I’m dealing with is intense, but I’m safe and Amy and Mark are safe, and we’re managing it okay.
By the way, I had a string of little panics last night trying to go to sleep. We decided I should try taking the Zoloft in the mornings, and I guess I got sleep anxiety again. I think I finally got to sleep around midnight, woke around 5, slept a little here and there until about 8.