Friday's Frolics Through Psychosis

…and dissociation.  Try saying the title quickly after a few jars.

***Triggers – Psychosis, Dissociation, Self-Harm, Sexual Abuse***

On Friday I went as mental as I have possibly ever been.  Some of it I remember, a lot of it I don’t, but whatever the case I was completely insane.

I am due to see NewVCB on Wednesday.  No doubt the stupid bint will feel vindicated that I went to the Nexus Institute against her guidance and have ended up finding myself in this psychotic mess.  However, in the wake of being abandoned by C at the end of August, I was meant to see her more frequently, and that pathological liar Mr Director-Person claimed that I would have extensive support from the CMHT.  Ha!  For the last three months, I have seen literally nobody on the NHS.  Had it not been for Paul and Nexus, I might well have offed myself thanks to their shoddy treatment of me.  I intend to impart this information and more general dissatisfaction to her.  She, and the stupid bureaucratic, targets-driven wankshafts that she works for are the ones at fault here – not me, and definitely not Paul.

Anyway.  Friday.  I was supposed to be going to my mother’s house to collect the absent felines, who had gone on holiday to her house the week before on the understanding that A and I had been going to London over said weekend.  I woke up from a pathetic hour’s half-sleep, which involved more of the same as that which has characterised my slumber (if it can be so-called) lately, and knew instantly knew that I couldn’t drive anywhere.  ‘They‘ were so loud.  They just wouldn’t shut up, and they were so persuasive.

YOU KNOW WHAT YOU ARE?  A BITCHWHORESLUTCUNTSLAG.  YOU’RE PATHETIC, YOU MAD CUNT.  A FEEBLE, HIDEOUS WENCH.  WHORE.

EVERYONE HATES YOU, YOU KNOW.  …WHAT?  NO, THEY DON’T ‘HANG AROUND’ BECAUSE THEY LIKE YOU.  THEY ‘HANG AROUND’ BECAUSE ONE DAY, THEY’RE GOING TO FUCK YOU RIGHT OVER.  AND WHEN THEY DO, WENCH, WE’LL BE THERE. WE’LL BE THERE, WATCHING AND LAUGHING.  AT YOU, AND YOUR SILLY LITTLE MISERY.

FUCKING CUNTWHOREBITCHSLAGFUCK.

I tried to ignore them, but when you have that kind of vicious commentary ricocheting around the room (or your head, I suppose) all the time, it’s hard to do anything other than bang your head off the wall in the futile hope it will temporarily silence them.  Instead, I lay there gazing helplessly at nothing in particular on the ceiling, and let their cacophony say what it liked.  In a feeble attempt at deferential pacification, I told them that I agreed with them, that I was indeed a vile, repugnant piece of shit, but they appeared to find this amusing rather than sating.

They do come in waves, however, which is a mercy – however temporarily.  When an episode like this is in full swing, they never go away entirely, but they do die down a little, making functional life almost possible.  I took the opportunity as soon as a quiet period came to phone my mother to tell her I wasn’t coming.

She sounded disappointed, but when I explained what was going on, she offered to come over and bring the cats with her.  This simple act of maternal kindness reduced me to tears.  I knocked back half a Zopiclone and went back to some semblance of sleep.

Eventually I forced myself to get up in readiness for my mother’s arrival.  I came downstairs, and found that the nebulous peripheral-vision shapes from the other day were hovering about at the window again.  I closed the blinds, but bloody ‘They once again’ jacked up the volume in response.  I compliantly fell on the sofa, hearing them, sucking in both them and their constant streams of insults.  Feeling each word like a physical attack. naturallyThe thing was, although they were at their strongest, they still didn’t try to get me to do myself in like when I first saw them.  In retrospect, I find that really strange.  This would have been their perfect opportunity to compel me into action, and they didn’t take it.  Is the nugget of which Paul once spoke somehow unconsciously fighting them?  Or is it simply that they couldn’t be arsed playing with suicide that day, and will get to that when they can be bothered?  I favour the latter as a profitable bet.

When my mother arrived I answered the door with visible caution.  Who knows what lurks out there, when they can be seen at the window these days?  She brought in the returning but indifferent cats and went to make a cup of tea.  She was in the kitchen for about 45 minutes, because apparently making a cup of tea involves cleaning the entire room in which the kettle (which was heard to boil five times during the time I was waiting for my hot beverage) resides.

‘They’ thought my mother’s typical mother-washing-ism was screechingly hilarious.  The lot of them – hundreds, possibly thousands of these cruel, malignant vociferations – were now laughing this strange, ethereal laugh.  Horrific, disturbing – but disgustingly hypnotic and even seductive at the same time.  I can’t describe it.  It was such a weird sensation.  The longer it went on, the more I felt like I was about to be sacrificed in the centre of an ampitheatre full of amused observers.  They were that loud.

Here is where my memories get hazy.  I remember sobbing pitifully on the sofa, rocking back and forth in a curled-up ball of utter insanity.  I remember vaguely thumping at the back of my head in an attempt to injure them, to get them to desist from their incessant bullying (this was stupidly unsuccessful and met with yet more laughter).  I don’t remember finally getting my mythical tea, but I do remember at one point looking down and seeing it in my hands.

I drank it silently whilst my mother potted about doing whatever potted about means.  However, I was overwhelmed by ‘They’ and by the crushing, mind-blowing depression that has permeated existence of late, and found myself weeping inconsolable tears at a non-insubstantial rate of decibels.  In between each pitiful sob was the utterance of a begging, “please stop,” a pathetic, fruitless plea to ‘They’ to at least give me a break.  Again, they greeted this with a response of delighted humour.  This was their goal.  To break me completely.  They were succeeding.

I spend a lot of my time on this blog criticising my mother for her ostriching behaviour and for accusing me of lies regarding Paedo.  I’m also deeply resentful of how I was treated by her as a teenager, but that’s a story for another day.  What you never hear, though, is the good side of things – and that’s despicably unfair.  She is a decent woman who loves me very much, and whom I love in return.  On Friday, she stroked and gently brushed my hair as I wept.  She handed me tissues apparently garnered from thin air.  She draped her arm gently round my shoulder as I rocked back and forth like the lunatic that I am.  I am grateful for these subtle but profound acts of love.  I don’t know how to express that thanks to her, because I am useless with the expression of…*searches for a term that is not hated*…em…this stuff.  Yeah.  But the gratitude is there, whether I can easily express it or not.

A and I were meant to be meeting friends that evening but as you might imagine I was not in a fit state to do anything of that ilk.  I sat and cried all afternoon with my mother, who said if we had been at her house (at the address where I am still registered for NHS ‘services’) she would have undoubtedly called a doctor.  In fact, she started trying to ask me were there any GP practices near to this (ie. A’s) house.  As if I was going to let her call one!  I might well get binned on fucking Wednesday at this rate (and, worryingly, this appointment with NewVCB is actually in the bin, rather than Outpatients or even the Day Hospital!), so I’m keeping all the freedom I can get, thank you very much.

I don’t remember many more specifics of the madness at that point.  I just recall that ‘They’ continued unabated until about 4pm – and then, as suddenly as they had arrived that morning, they duly disappeared. Naturally I was grateful – but what overwhelmed me then was a horrible, bone-piercing sadness.  For my mother, mainly, and that was compounded by an acute bout of guilt – for the hideous trauma she had endured, for my continual criticism of her, for not visiting her last week and for failing to use a little receptacle that she’d bought A and I a few years ago.  And for much more general inadequacy and regret that tends in her direction.

I cried to her that I was “sorry for being crap,” and she said that I wasn’t crap and that all she regretted was seeing me “so unwell.”  I tried to dry my eyes, but over and over again I was overwhelmed by my sense of being an inadequate daughter and, furthermore, a totally useless and pathetic individual in general.

Still, with her help I tried my eyes and eventually got changed and decreed that I, in fact, was going out as planned.  My mother said that I was absolutely unfit to be going anywhere, and she was right frankly, but I was very conscious of the fact that three of the attending personnel had made a long track from the Republic to meet us on this occasion, and I would have felt guilty rewarding their determination to get here with my gaping absence.

So I rang A and asked about the specific arrangements for meeting.  He too asked, having read my Twitter feed, if I was sane enough to be going.  I said that I was not, but that I was going anyway, on the proviso that if I needed to go back, we would straight away do so.  He agreed, and my mother gave me a lift to meet him.  I arrived in his presence about 6pm.

I smoked as I walked from the place where my mother dropped me off to the bar where A was waiting.  I proceeded to smoke several cigarettes that evening in frustration and disgusting helplessness.  I haven’t smoked for nearly four years; it was my new year’s resolution to quit in 2006/2007 and until very recently I had kept to it completely.  But as I said to the only other smoker in attendance that night, I will engage in almost anything that helps (however much like a placebo it is) to control the insanity, even if it is otherwise damaging. He agreed, but not being a mentalist was clearly uncomfortable with the conversation.  I hate that sense of discomfort anyway, but it’s particularly galling given that this bloke – and the rest of the party involved – all have their own disabilities, railing vehemently against any discrimination thereof.  At the mere mention of my mental health problems, though – a very real form of disability – they clam up and rush to change the subject. The hypocrisy frustrates me endlessly, but I didn’t have the energy to do anything about it on Friday.

Anyhow, the evening was fine, if unremarkable.  A and I left straight after dinner rather than join them for a drink, as we were to get up relatively early the next morning to see another friend.  And, as if leaving our friends catalysed some sort of insanity-related magic, the shit again hit the fan.

I only remember bits and pieces of what followed, so I shall let A take up the narrative reins.

It started when we returned to the house from what, to me at least, had seemed a rather enjoyable night out with some friends. Knowing that we would have an early start the following morning, we’d decided to say our goodbyes earlier than usual, as staying out with that crowd usually leads to the mother of all hangovers the next morning.

When we got back into the house, I went into the kitchen. When I returned from it, Pandora was mumbling something to herself. I couldn’t make it out and asked her what she was saying. Singing, it turns out. Here are the words she sang:

Who do you think you are kidding, Mr Hitler?
If you think old England’s done?

Over.  And over.  And over.

I am not exaggerating when I say that, no matter what I tried to do, no matter how I tried to snap her out of this loop, I was unable to do so. Thinking back on it, I’ve had a bit of programming experience in my life, and it now reminds me of a program that is running an infinite loop (bad practice, by the way) and I’m trying, and trying, and trying to force the program to quit, but it just won’t do it. Frightening.

Eventually, from out of nowhere, and after what seemed like 15 or 20 minutes, she snapped back to ‘normal’, just as though a switch had been thrown.

“What do you mean, stop? Stop what?”

“Stop singing that.”

“Singing? Singing what? How did we get back here?   Oh look, the cats are back!” She greeted the cats enthusiastically.  “How did they get back? I thought they were at my Mum’s.”  [This is very odd, because as noted above I remember Mum bringing them back with reasonable clarity].

They had been staying with Pandora’s Mum during the week, but she had brought them back during the afternoon. I told Pandora this.

“I don’t remember that.”

This was disturbing. I explained to her the day’s course of events, including the most recent bizarre turn, with the singing of those innocent-seeming but infernal lines. Lines, for those of you who don’t know, taken from the introductory music to a 1970s British TV comedy called Dad’s Army. What a random selection.

Anyway, Pandora appeared to be getting back to normal and went upstairs. I followed. I couldn’t have known it, but the insanity was not yet at an end.

Aurora manifested. I don’t know exactly how it happened, but Pandora/Aurora started crying. Pitifully crying. Painfully, loudly crying.

Understandably, I asked what was going on.

“It hurts. It hurts.”  Over and over, with each plaintive sob.

“What does?” I asked, already knowing the answer but awfully horrified.

“Paedo hurts.”

Confused, frightened, I told her that that was over now. It was many years ago, in the past.

That didn’t work. “I don’t understand,” she sobbed. Then, “Nobody likes me.  Why does nobody like me?”

“I like you,” I tried to reassure her.

“You don’t like me,” she sobbed.

I repeated myself.

“But you don’t like children.”

She had me there. I don’t. This is one point of view I do share with Pandora. I’ve never liked children. I find them an annoying intrusion for the most part. I really don’t know how parents put up with them, but have concluded that there must be something in most genes that is lacking in mine.  Human sympathy?

Anyway, Pandora/Aurora had a point, and I had to concede that. “But I do want to help you, and I do like the person you’ve become.”

That just confused her and, again, the answer was “I don’t understand.” Clearly, for Aurora, the future was an unknown, indeed an impossibility, like time travel.   Although part of her knew who I was, she didn’t connect that with her here and now. She was Aurora the child, and only marginally aware of Pandora the adult.

Believing that I was now stuck with Aurora, I thought I’d try to use the circumstance to learn what I could about what might have caused her to manifest, and about what had been causing Pandora to be so ‘mental’ all day.

“Can you tell me what happened to you?” I asked.

“What do you mean?” she responded.

“With Paedo,” I clarified.

“Someone saw it,” she whispered.

“What? Who?”

“Suzanne.”  [Paedo’s grand-daughter; mother to Sean and Marcus].

“What? How?”

“She saw it happening.”

I was horrified.  Suzanne was a child younger than Aurora at the time. If she saw it, then was she also a victim, and if not why was she there?  “Why didn’t she say something or do something?” I asked rather stupidly, incredulous as I was.

“She was scared.”

That was about all I could get Aurora to say, other than “It hurts” and “Nobody likes me.” It was very frightening, but then –

CLICK.

That switch again, and Pandora was back, Aurora gone.

“Why are you sitting here talking to me?” she queried, quite normally.  [He was sitting on the bath.  I was sitting on the lid of the toilet].

I explained. Needless to say, Pandora was horrified that “that stupid bitch” had once again taken control. I tried to tell her that I thought it was in some twisted way healthy to let this out, but she remained resentful that “that stupid bitch” had taken over her mind, for however short a time.

If I did not trust A implicitly, I would not have believed a word of this.  I remember sitting on top of the bog asking him why he was sitting there on the edge of the bath. It seemed bizarre that he would sit on the in such a position, especially whilst I languished pointlessly on the toilet seat.  I was simply incredulous at what he told me; the stupid bitch has never come out as demonstrably as that in the past, and I hope she never does again.

I remember that we went to bed, but that despite my Zopiclone intake, I couldn’t sleep.  To that end, I inexplicably downloaded a choral version of O Holy Night onto my iPhone and listened to it on loop for ages. What the fuck?  I am an atheist who detests Christmas.  Could you get any more inappropriate?

I got up at some point, presumably to go to the toilet or something.  When I got back into bed, I accidentally kicked A’s leg – which he’d damaged horribly during the week owing to falling nastily on the evil ice – and he cried out in pain.  I tried to comfort him and apologise, but he was in that weird place between consciousness and sleep, and I couldn’t really get through to him.  At least that meant the pain was probably superficial, though.  I came downstairs, relegated to sleeping on the sofa, and remember nothing more until the following afternoon other than that the cats slept curled up to me.

Regarding Suzanne, by the way; I think Aurora is being a little melodramatic (what a surprise!).  Suzanne once caught a brief glimpse of an incident behind the garage. It was not a full-on rape – ‘merely’ some inappropriate touching.  With a perhaps inappropriate level of nakedness on my part.  Eugh.  But she didn’t stand there and watch it all by any means; Paedo told her to go away, and she did.  And that was that.  No one ever spoke of it again, until, it seems, Friday.

The next day, as I dressed for leaving the house, I saw that someone – it could only have been me or Aurora, I suppose – had befriended a supposedly sharp-ish instrument.  It wasn’t my trusty scalpel, because that device actually cuts properly.  These cuts are crap cuts.

But what they are is numerous, and visibly varied.  Little of my body has been spared.  My arms are repellent to look upon.  My body is seared with angry red scrabs.

Most interestingly, and most disturbingly (depending on when you ask me, anyhow), my neck has been attacked.  The back, bottom and top have all been targeted, but there are also superficial attempts to destroy my neck’s arteries.

I know it’s hard to kill yourself by neck-exsanguination (or any other type of exsanguination for that matter, as I found out the hard way nearly a year ago), but it’s not impossible.  For a five year old, Aurora strikes me as harder than a Times crossword, childish whinging to A and Paul notwithstanding.  I wouldn’t trust the little bitch for half a nanosecond.

Can a historical being murder a current one?

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18 thoughts on “Friday's Frolics Through Psychosis

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  2. Pan, I am lost for words. Slightly sickened about how fascinating I find this, gobsmacked at how well you’ve written it, and horrified about how hard this is for you. Fuckety fuck fuck fuck. Please take care of yourself matey, I don’t want to offer unsolicited advice, but maybe you shouldn’t be alone right now if you can help it? Leaning on others is hard if you aren’t used to it, especially when you’re going through shit like this, but maybe you need to have someone watching out for you.

    Jo xxx

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  4. Shit. Gathered from twitter Friday was bad but not like this, glad you are safe, glad A and your Mum were around to support you. What a day eh?! I hope the ongoing work with Paul facilitates the processing of this pain to an extent where life is manageable, to say that it will get worse before it gets better is such a cliche, even though it is evidenced and you are aware of it. I am sure no individual can ever be truly prepared for the trickery their grey matter can subject them to. Holy shit. Hugs…

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  7. I’m so sorry you’re going through this extreme turbulence right now, so glad A is there for you, and that your mum is at least sometimes supportive for you. It was so odd, I started reading this post, read through the second paragraph (“I am due to see NewVCB…”) and thought – what misplaced anger! Not that it’s so misplaced; they’ve been unbelievably horrible to work with, obviously. But this should be about your mum, right? She’s the one who let you down, failed you, didn’t take care of you, didn’t help you after things happened. And then the next many paragraphs were about how wonderful your mum was. Surreal for me, as I saw you in some way (maybe not, or probably not, I know…) venting about her, using the NHS as proxy, then maybe feeling guilty about that and expressing appreciation for her. Sorry, I’m pretty wrapped in my own therapy, so fascinated by the possible interpretations of stuff, but I don’t know you much so have no idea; but this is what I was thinking as I read.

    I’m the one who wanted there to be something good in your relationship with your mom (sorry – I lapse back into my americanisms) and now I’m trying to see your anger at her when you’re expressing love. Obviously more of a statement about me, than about your relationship with your mum 🙂

    Is there anything I or anyone can do for you while you’re enduring this horrible tumult? Please just say, and take care.

    FT

    • It was so odd, I started reading this post, read through the second paragraph (“I am due to see NewVCB…”) and thought – what misplaced anger! Not that it’s so misplaced; they’ve been unbelievably horrible to work with, obviously. But this should be about your mum, right?

      I do see what you’re saying, but I think we’ll have to agree to disagree on this one. I don’t think I’ve ever hidden my anger with my mother on this blog, so it’s not like I’m transferring it on to anyone in my view. I think that the Trust have behaved beyond appallingly and should be utterly ashamed with themselves; I think that’s merely an accurate analysis of the situation, rather than some sort of projection. My anger towards them is, in my view, wholly righteous and justified.

      All that said, the mind is a funny thing, and from an analytical point of view anything’s possible – but I’d be more inclined to agree with this particular analysis if the Trust had been less ineffectual, and my anger towards Mum was less pronounced elsewhere. But I definitely agree that analysis and related theories are very, very interesting. And, in my experience, far more effective as a therapeutic modality than the trendy behaviourism that permeates most of today’s therapy. I will never stop hating CBT.

      Thanks re: the offer of help – I’m not sure there’s much anyone can do, but I appreciate the sentiment very much 🙂

      Hugs

      P x

      • The Trust have behaved inexcusably, first they refused support, then they withdrew support at precisely the time that you needed it. They then, after causing you so much pain, pretty much denied they had done anything wrong, or that you had been messed up by their actions. And yet you still need the tiny bit of support that they do provide, and they keep you hanging on with the practical stuff, like getting medication and whatnot.

        I think you have every right to be angry with them. They failed you. End of.

  8. Hi P,

    Speaking for myself, I’m not sorry all this is happening – though I don’t feel remotely malevolent about that. What I mean is I agree with A that there is some element of Aurora that needs to come out before you can have any peace of mind. I know you hate her; you don’t trust her or even believe in her existence on some level. After all, I expect you probably (like I do) think that it is mental that you of all people are mental, being quite intelligent… That old chestnut of “thinking” yourself better if you are so bright as you think you are… Gosh – if I’d been able to think myself better, I would have done that yonks ago and got on with my sorry life. Sadly, being bright doesn’t make it any easier to not be mental. Ga.

    Sounds to me like your therapy is finally beginning to peel off the layers of the onion that get in the way of you clearing your mind. It is odd to me that I find myself experiencing emotions and thoughts that I’ve never been conscious of before. Hideous actually. And all happening after therapy – not during it. I suppose these things work as a catalyst.

    Those shitewankers at your MHT have not been helping you: and this is close to the nub of my own frustration and exasperation with Mental Health Services currently. Utterly deficient. How can they monitor your meds or your moods effectively if you aren’t under weekly or monthly supervision? Surely they should have put something more robust in place while you were going into therapy for sexual abuse… Obviously, your lot only deal in bastard crisis management too – nothing preventative. I still think that this is because the MHT still don’t really believe that therapy does anything much – otherwise the quacks would take more of an active role while people are in therapy – especially for those of us experience PTSD and trauma-like flash backs… WTF – it isn’t rocket fucking science is it? How come, I, being mental, understand this – I don’t have a degree in psychology or psychiatry – and yet it is simple to me. Break a leg, get it set in plaster, then have physiotherapy. Break your mind, get diagnosed, take meds and…. nothing to support the medicinal therapy? Bonkers. Utterly shite.

    What I am sorry about is that the whole process is so painful for you. As if being abused isn’t enough – having to relive parts of it as a fully conscious adult is just unimaginably worse. I’m also sorry that your Mum has to see the result of this – but on the other hand, that is part of her job as a Mum. I’m in a very similar position to you in some respects. Mum allowed horrific emotional abuse to be directed at me and my sister after my father died. However, she also has moments of complete maternal “rightness” which I don’t always report on my posts. I feel unfair about this, but on the other hand, I have to remind myself that these acts of maternal love have been almost completely outweighed by the abuse that she allowed to occur over many years. So, in all, I don’t feel massively guilty when I bitch about her – even though I know it is wrong to do so. What I try to focus upon is that if she still loves me after all the shite I’ve been through over the years, then there must be hope that she can change for the better… I’m sure you are feeling grateful to your Mum at the moment, and hope that perhaps now she can see how horrificly this illness affects you. Normal, healthy and stable people just don’t behave like that. I hope that she can respond to this more in the future.

    Today being Monday means you are off to see Paul. I truly hope that this session helps you bring more of this stuff out – even though the experience dumps a great hundred weight of leaden mentalism on your shoulders at the moment. It will slide off gradually. These things always do.

    Big hugs and bravery from me to you, A and your Mum.

    X Clarissa X

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  11. Hey Pandora, i am just starting to follow your blog and am struggling to keep up with all the references etc but i am really keen to keep reading because you right so fantastically and beautifully – this post actually compelled me which doesnt happen much as i have the attention span of a gnat! I am slightly speachless and not sure what the hell i can say to do this post justice but please know i am thinking of you and you are a fantastic writer!
    xx

  12. Just wanted to say that from the point of view of being a “sane” person trying to deal with the “nutter” (my mum), she was always just my mum with added fuckedupness. She was convinced my dead father was still alive and that she would be forced to remarry. I wanted to reach in and rip out whatever it was that had got into her, because it WASN’T HER. When she went into remission we would discuss how she had been, and I felt as though we’d vanquished an invading army. Personally, I think it’s very brave of you to open your box with Paul’s help. As for A, I reckon he’s a bit of alright. 🙂

  13. I thought MY IBSC (ittybittyshittycommittee–a friend’s name for it) was bad!

    If you read the Millenium Trilogy or see the Girl Who… movies which are fairly accurate renditions of the books involved, you may think that Lisbeth got off light, compared to your *wonderful* (said with gritted teeth) childhood.

    I’m glad your mother was able to attempt to comfort you in a way that worked for you. That would have meant a lot to me.

    Early in my marriage, when we were living in Santa Cruz, my inlaws were out here for a visit when I was in a really bad nadir. I’d gone with them to the Monterey Bay Aquarium, which I find to be very peaceful most of the time, when the crowds aren’t too bad. I was desperately trying to hold on, to get some peace there. I was sitting outside in what passes for bleacher seating, on a cold day, and my well-meaning MiL starts in saying that I should just go get a “rest cure, or whatever it’s called these days” and get cheerful. I must have also been battling the usual insomnia (I get them in depressions, mostly, which then becomes a worsening spiral). I was barely holding on to civility at that point. Everything hurt, and here I was trying for some measure of peace while it was being shredded in front of me.

    When we were still in Santa Cruz, she did tell me ocassionally to go take a nap if I were that tired, only to have me respond that I would gladly do that were it possible for me to sleep!

    These days, living with us, she undertands much better, even though my depressions are fewer and lesser. There was a post on LiveJournal where a woman showed what it felt like, physically and emotionally, to be in a depressed cycle. There was a particular phrase or paragragh that resonated with me. I appended that to the bottom of her essay and sent it to her and to my pdoc, and recently, to my endocrinologist. I think they understand a bit better how depression manifests itself in one all over, now.

    I knoew reliving abuse is sometimes harder than the original abuse, but I hope dealing with it with Paul helps a lot. It would be ideal, I suppose, for Paedo to see his due consequences, but a girl can dream, can’t she?

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