Being Christian and Queer-Revisited

I’ve examined in some of my posts how I’ve missed my church since my whole debacle began. As I’ve alluded to, two of my biggest stumbling blocks to returning is (a) being around a group of people [thanks to my borderline personality disorder-BPD] and (b) how to explain my continued absence since being involuntarily committed due to my suicide attempt seven weeks ago.

When I attended a previous church, also an Assemblies of God, it was inherently homophobic because it preached, as they say, the full gospel—meaning that the Bible is the word of God chapter and verse. I was new to my relationship with God, and under the pastor’s teaching (at this point I had not been hit with those legendary homophobic clobber verses) I watched my relation with God grow immeasurably: it was close and personal—something I had never experienced before. My heart and spirit was full. Having been raised as a Roman Catholic when I was a child and teenager, I never got this.

I am not a theologian, but as I began to read the Bible, when I got to Leviticus 20, I continued to read all those laws set forth by God. So many of these “laws” had since been dismissed as we migrated to modern times [e.g., verse 10: “If a man commits adultery with his neighbour’s wife, both the man and the woman who have committed adultery must be put to death.” (NLT)]. I read that with a grain of salt as today adulterers are merely given a pass for a divorce. So, when I got to verse 13 “If a man practices homosexuality, having sex with another man as with a woman, both men have committed a detestable act. They must both be put to death, for they are guilty of a capital offense.” (NLT) I took this verse equally with a grain of salt. I am a lesbian and did not feel compelled to fall upon my sword, as it were.

Then this particular preacher, one Sunday, spent his whole sermon on why homosexuality was the worst sin in the bible. I was truly taken aback by his statement. Aside from quoting the verse in Leviticus, he did not proffer any specific verses that backed up what he said. I was enraged. After the service, I challenged him. I asked him to refer to the specific scripture that said that (because I never read that despite reading through various translations). He wanted to avoid this conversation with me totally, but I countered with reminding him that he always said that the Bible would prove its own truth. Again, I challenged him to point out where in the Bible was that specifically quoted and he hemmed and hawed. I told him, according to the Bible in Revelations 21:8 “But the cowardly, unbelieving, abominable, murderers, sexually immoral, sorcerers, idolaters, and all liars shall have their part in the lake which burns with fire and brimstone, which is the second death.” (NKJV). Nowhere did it say that only the homosexuals would burn in this lake of fire, and even pointed out that the sexually immoral were not even listed first! He could not respond and just walked away and greeted other members.

Well, my identity as a lesbian was then outed and I was essentially shown the door unless I repented of my sins and turned from my evil ways—translation: become celibate. That only harkened back memories of the nightmares I had read on reparative therapy where there were retreats gays and lesbians could attend to be “cured” of their homosexuality (Exodus International comes to mind). Being a lesbian is who I am, not what I chose to be. I did not have something from which to be “cured.” I was incensed that there was this organisation whose primary focus was to brainwash these unsuspecting attendees.

As a result, I left this church. I also remember being angry with God for allowing His word to be selectively be taken out of context on this one particular verse. If the other verses throughout Leviticus had for the most part been dismissed as being a product of the times (e.g., not mixing clothes of mixed fabric and all of the dietary laws), why was this solitary verse being held accountable? As the times progressed and gay rights became the new poison pill upon which many political platforms were based (the new litmus test as abortion rights were before then), I saw how the war against gay rights was being funded and waged by so called Christian fundamentalists. Gay rights (or the lack thereof) were being slammed left and right from statehood amendments on same-sex marriages, employment discrimination (there are 29 states where it is legal to fire someone who is gay), to housing statutes, and economic parity through health insurance, not to even begin to mention how partners are treated when one of them is in the hospital and are denied visitation rights or not allowed to carry out the final wishes.

I became an ardent political activist lending my voice where it counted to fight these so-called arbitrary arguments. I live in the buckle of the Bible belt where churches are like gas stations—there is one on every corner. I had plenty of opportunities and venues to lend my voice to counter these fundamentalists. I still remember how I was treated in a discount chain store while wearing my equal rights t-shirt on the banner of the rainbow flag. I was bible-thumped from quite a few people (“shame on you,” “your kind will burn in hell,” etc.). I would not be reduced to their fanaticism and merely walked away from most of them. I was, however, trapped while standing in the cashier’s lane. The couple behind me started preaching to me to repent of my evil ways as all eyes were on me. You could hear a pin drop. At first I was not going to say anything (anything I could have said would only fall on deaf ears anyway), but the cashier smiled at me and said, “You aren’t going to let them get away with that crap, are you?” So I looked at this couple and calmly said that, while I respected that they had a right to their own opinion, this was one area that that we would have to agree to disagree—no rhetoric on my part. However, that did silence them.

During this intervening time, I met my then partner and I continued to wage my war. I was quite surprised to learn that she went to church. I asked her where could she possibly go without encountering what I had experienced and she told me all about the Metropolitan Community Church (MCC) that primarily caters to lesbian, gay, bi-sexual and transgendered persons (LGBT). Sorely missing my connection to God and the community of fellowship, I eagerly started attending with her. However, my spirit was not fed here. It was static and ritualistic and there didn’t seem to be any room for the Spirit to move. I continued to go with her for the duration of our partnership, but when that ended, I no longer attended.

I moved to a different area of town and laughingly I noticed there was a church right across the street from me. Being new to the neighbourhood, one of my neighbours left a beautiful potted plant on my front porch with a nice note welcoming me to the neighbourhood. This level of hospitality, I thought, had all gone the way of other pleasant Southern ways with everyone too busy with their jobs and lives. I walked over to thank her and we had a nice conversation. There was no doubt that I was a lesbian when we met from the bumper stickers on my car to the t-shirt I was wearing, but that did not seem to phase her. Then she cordially asked me if I attended a church (my warning signals were piqued at this point) and told her no and recounted my experience with my first pastor. She thought that story was horrible and invited me to attend their church’s fall picnic. When I reminder her that I was a lesbian, she didn’t care, said that her pastor was open-minded, and that I would not be judged. Therefore, I told her I would attend with full expectation to talk to the pastor at the outset and inform him that I was a lesbian. He didn’t seem to bat an eyelash and told me that I would be welcome at his church, but he did say this one thing, that he did preach the whole Bible and said that he did think homosexuality was a sin. But I was welcomed just the same as in “Whosoever….” We agreed to disagree and he told me that his congregation wouldn’t judge me.

At this point, I had missed my relationship with God, not because I had walked away in the intervening years, but I had missed hearing God’s word being preached and the fellowship of other believers. Being the butch that I am, when I dressed up for church I wore a coat and tie even amidst those that wore blue jeans and t-shirts. I liked his style of preaching and everything he said resonated deeply within me. I felt for the first time that I had found a church home. There were times after the services where the pastor and I would get involved in conversations about my homosexuality and he just smiled and told me that he always appreciated my honesty, and felt that I had contributed to his knowledge base as he had never had the chance to really get to know someone who was gay, and thought that our conversations were refreshing for him—a chance to learn something new. I respected him greatly and considered him a friend, a friendship that continued to grow over the three years that I have been attending.

Then something happened to me. While I was reading the Bible, I came across an important passage that became the cornerstone upon which I wanted to live my life. It was Romans 12:1-2: “(1) And so, dear brothers and sisters, I plead with you to give your bodies to God because of all he has done for you. Let them be a living and holy sacrifice—the kind he will find acceptable. This is truly the way to worship him. (2) Don’t copy the behaviour and customs of this world, but let God transform you into a new person by changing the way you think. Then you will learn to know God’s will for you, which is good and pleasing and perfect.” (NLT).

I thought long and hard what these verses meant to me. I came to the conclusion that I wanted my close personal relationship with God more than I needed my identity as a lesbian (however skewed that logic may seem to you). I felt by choosing to be celibate was my living sacrifice, and that turning my back on the gay community would be no longer conforming to customs of the world. This was a decision that did not come easily as it was fought with much prayer. Nevertheless, it was a decision that I felt at peace with at the time. I never denied that I was a lesbian, but like an ambassador without papers. I lived my life from that perspective for two years.

Well, politics raised its ugly head with what was up for grabs both in Congress and at the statewide level during this year. My hackles were raised again and my anger towards this massive inequality subjugating all LGBT persons to second-class citizens put me on fire. I became politically active again renewing my passion to see true justice served. I was truly saddened to see how forthright and mean-spirited the Christian fundamentalists had become since the previous elections, not to mention the incredible amounts of money they raised to fund their own political agenda (what ever happened to the separation of church and state?).

Unforeseen by me, my personal life became a disaster as my bipolar and borderline personality disorders (BP and BPD) reared their ugly head pushing me into a downward spiral that led me to my aforementioned attempted suicide. There was so much conflict swirling within me. When I was discharged from the hospital after 11 days, I couldn’t face going back to my church having done what I had. After my continued absence, what would have I told everyone, “Oh yeah, by the way, I tried to commit suicide.” I didn’t think that would go over well. I had a long talk with my pastor and told him of my renewed passion to fight for LGBT equality. In one post to this blog, where I bemoaned how miserable my life had become, someone commented “Even though you have turned away from Him - He still loves you and wants you back. Your dilemma is trying to hold on to both worlds. It's not possible. God wants you to choose to lay down your old life and allow Him to make you totally new. He has a peace waiting for you that you've never known (but are desperately seeking)- You've never known this peace because you've never fully turned your life over to Him.”

I couldn’t believe what I read. For the first time I was being judged, and I was accused that I had never fully turned my life over to God when that couldn’t have been further from the truth considered the sacrificial decision I had made only two years before. I was torn. Knowing what I did now, could I ever be welcomed back into that church under the circumstances of how I was living my life as a queer political activist. I was hurt because this church and its people meant so very much to me. I was filled with the Spirit at this church as I had never known before; the pastor’s teaching had always deeply affected me. A subsequent conversation with this person helped me understand the spirit it which the comment was made--not to judge, but wanting to reach out so desperately to me. Can I return and just let the chips fall where they may, or do I want to search for another church that is gay-affirming, not knowing if I would be filled and fed in the same way? My heart wants to return to this little church, but at what expense.©2009

How I Handled Yesterday

Knowing I was feeling very depressed yesterday (see post below), I was afraid to be alone in my house for fear that my suicide ideation would begin. I decided to be proactive during the day. I already know that my front porch does not offer me much solace as it once did, so I decided to try the backyard. I sat in my camp chair (very comfortable with two cup holders) in the full sun while listening to my iPod for the duration of the day until the sun went down. It was 61˚F/16˚C and absolutely beautiful. I was still very depressed, but not suicidal. When the sun went down, I went inside to bundle up and stayed outside until the stars cam out and watched the moon rise. I was out of my house and safe, and that is all that mattered.©2009

How My Family Treats Me on Thanksgiving

How my family treats me on Thanksgiving—I am not quite sure where to begin. Usually, the feast is held at my nieces’ house with everyone in attendance, some of whom (as in my mother and my sister, the mother of my niece) have to travel about four hours to attend. I myself just live two-and-a-half hours away.

However, several years ago I found out that I was not welcome at my niece’s house. I just happened to call my nephew (who lived in the same city as my niece) to wish him a happy Thanksgiving where he, in turn, ask me what I was planning to do. I replied that I had no plans and he asked me to come with him to my niece’s house where everyone in the family would be attending (he seemed surprised that I knew nothing about it—while I knew my mother and sister would be attending, no invitation ever came from my niece). I told my nephew that I did not receive an invitation, but he just replied that that was nonsense and everyone was going to be there and wasn’t I part of the family? He insisted to the point that I agreed to meet him at his house and go with him.

When I arrived, my niece answered the door and when she saw that I was with her brother, she was clearly not pleased, but couldn’t say anything in front of all of the others. During the course of the appetizer conversation, it became evident to me that I was certainly not welcome by anyone, and my mother looked rather displeased as she must have known that I was not specifically invited. Of course, no one came out and said anything, but clearly, I was uncomfortable at my reception and the duration of the day.

Later on, the following day I queried my mother (the patron saint of protocol) and sister and asked them what the problem was. I was totally clueless. My mother said I shouldn’t have gone since I did not receive an invitation (it sounded as if she knew more, but didn’t say anything). Then I asked my sister and she replied in kind. I asked whatever did I do anything to my niece to warrant such treatment, and the reply I received was that my sister didn’t really know, but that it was my niece’s prerogative and that I should respect it. I was hurt beyond compare, not just at my niece’s reaction, but also by the fact that both my mother and sister appeared to support my niece’s position. On one Thanksgiving, it was actually held at my mother’s house instead (and of course, my niece and her family would be there). Stung by everyone’s long-standing support of my niece and her decision to completely cut me out, I told my mother I would not be attending if she was going to be there and my mother, fearing a scene, thought that would be advisable.

Thanksgiving has always been an important holiday to me as it represented the one time that everyone would be there. Even when my son was a little boy and travelling would make it hard to travel to my mother’s house, I always made a big deal about Thanksgiving, as I wanted to make memories for my son. We always made an ordeal about it from the cooking of the meal to our special outing afterwards to his favourite park he liked to play. I always took many pictures and was pleased that I was started my own traditions with him. As he grew up, we began to travel to my Mom’s house (five hours away) to be with the rest of the family (long before my niece had her own family).

Well, this year the holiday celebration is to be at my nephew’s house instead. I held out hope that maybe I would finally be invited, but no call ever came. I just cried, as it only firmly cemented the fact that I really don’t have a family outside of my son, who now lives on the west coast and celebrates it with his birth father and his grandmother. I cannot afford to fly out to be with them, although I know I would be welcomed.

I did receive a message from a couple at church to join their family at Thanksgiving, but having not attended church for quite sometime, coupled by the fact that her extended family (whom I really don’t know) would be there would make me very uncomfortable. I am sure, out of respect to me, I would not be peppered by questions as to my continued absence from church, but being around a bunch of people, some of whom I do not know is too much for me to handle right now. Following in my mother’s footsteps on proper protocol, I called back, thankfully to have her daughter answer and I just told her to give her mom a message where I thanked her very much for the thoughtful invitation, but I would be unable to attend.

So here I sit, all alone on one of the most important days of the year only to be reminded that I am not wanted by my family.©2009

Appt with Psychiatrist #7

Following on the heels of my appt earlier with my GP, I gave my psychiatrist the results of the blood work and he was clearly pleased that my Thiamine (B1) levels were undetectable. Pleased because there was a solution. He did express concern that I had to begin treatment right away so I would not suffer any more brain damage if some of my cells had already started to die, a result of how long the B1 had been so low. Since it was not measured until November 12 and I had already begun showing the signs of ataxia well before that, (I had never sought any medical advice because I just thought I was getting clumsy), he said there might be some slight damage. However, if I don’t begin the B1 treatments immediately, there will be continued damage to my brain cells resulting in continued ataxia, possible permanent short-term memory loss and possible ocular involvement (I am already showing signs of saccadic movement in my eyes when I am reading—worst case scenario is to develop Wernicke-Korsakoff syndrome—some symptoms I am already showing). I told him that I gave all the information to my GP’s nurse so they can call in the prescription to my medical insurance prescription service (no local pharmacies carry it). That means at least ten days without treatment. If they choose not to call in the prescription, but write one for me to send in, that’s an additional five to seven days. Since today is Thanksgiving day, I probably will not hear back from my GP’s nurse until tomorrow or Monday, still more additional days until treatment can begin.©2009

Appt With My GP #2

Well, the results of the rest of the blood work has come in and what my psychiatrist and GP thought has been proven true. My Thiamine (B1) level was so low it was undetected—clearly the cause for my ataxia, which has grown worse since first diagnosed—my balance has worsened. My GP is looking for an injectable form where I can give myself the IM shots as I do with my B12. None of the local pharmacies carries it, but I did find out that my medical insurance prescription service could supply me with a 90-day supply that is not outrageous in price. I called my GP’s nurse back, gave her all the information with which to call in the prescription, and asked her to call me back with a confirmation that the order had been called in. I left the message around 1400, but I have yet to hear back from her. I don’t know how often I will need to give myself the B1 shots (I do the B12 once a month), so I will need those instructions as well.©2009

Outpatient Therapy, Day 15

I have skipped posting on these group sessions on a regular basis because there was nothing unique about them, or anything of substance. However, I had some good news to “share” with the group this time that allowed me to rate some good scribbles on my chart for a change. I was able to successfully demonstrate skills that deals with my isolation issues since my past weekend had me actually enjoying time spent with friends outside of my house. The key factor for me isn’t just being able to connect with people, it also has to do with getting me out of the house and exposing myself to conditions that actually force me to isolate (being in situations where there are lots of people). However, it was no small feat for me to have initiated those phone calls that resulted in those plans.

While there are still four more problem areas as outline in my treatment plan, I obviously have much more work to accomplish. My therapist still feels I am not ready to go back to work this coming Tuesday and will be putting in an extension for my FMLA for an additional two weeks. I am frustrated with this because, while my job is incredible stressful, I love what I do. She just firmly believes I am in no shape at this point to handle that level of stress.

The second half of the group was spent on anger management issues, something that directly applies to me. While I have been able to deploy some of the tools to combat my isolation issues, I have so many additional skills that I have been taught that I still cannot use. Therein lies my problem. Anger is a big one for me. When I become rage filled, that last thing to enter my mind is any of the tools.

I wonder how many more of these sessions I will have to attend. What once started out as a two-week requirement for discharge has now stretched into five weeks (the additional three were not under any requirements, but voluntary on my part).©2009

Momentum

This past weekend has been a banner one for me as far as decreasing my isolation and reaching out to my friends. Of course, you’ve read about my coffee date with K on Friday and my grocery trip with A on Saturday. Well, I discovered that I needed to go out once again, and to the mall no less where it was teeming with people. Mind you, I am not a mall rat; in fact, I cannot remember the last time I was there. However, there is one thing I need every year and can only find it when the independent vendors set up their kiosks at Christmas time. I use this huge grid calendar that I hang on the wall right inside my bedroom door. Each square is large enough to accommodate multiple entries and to write them in large letters so I can read them. Therefore, I called K and asked if she would mind taking me to the mall.

We were not sure at which end to park, so we picked one anchor store and went inside. The idea of walking all over the place to find this particular vendor was rather daunting to me. However, we spotted a mall security guard as soon as we got there. He did not know where it was, and upon spying a walking talkie radio, I suggested he call out and find out if anyone of the security guards knew where it was.

Now that we knew where to go, we started negotiating our way among the throngs of people, impatient kids running away from their parents, and a mass of strollers with shrieking babies. I hugged the interior wall for fear that someone would kick out my cane from underneath me. I was not handling the mass of people very well, but stuck to my guns as I looked at this adventure as a mission to complete. Having K there made all the difference as I could focus on her and keep up a running dialogue as we walked.

I espied our target and once acquired we headed directly there. I got my calendar and out we went. That said, I am still fairly sure I don’t want to return, at least by myself as the crowds were somewhat suffocating. However, I did accomplish my stated mission and nothing happened to me. A week ago you couldn’t have paid me to insert myself into that situation. K has been a valuable friend as she knows my boundaries and is more than willing to be there whenever I need her. Lesson learned: I can tolerate what I most fear, even if I have to have a friend walk me through the process. I am still not capable of doing these things alone; having someone with me allows me to concentrate on my continued conversation and ignore the people. I did not have a panic attack.

Afterwards, I invited her back to my house where we talked for about an hour before she had some things she needed to attend to. This is the first time I have let anyone into my home since that fated night. All in all, I feel as though I making progress as far as my isolation goes. Now I have something to talk about when I go to group later this morning.©2009

More Baby Steps

I have to start by saying that Friday afternoon, when I got home from going to Starbucks with K, I had an uneventful evening at home. I was not anywhere close to being suicidal as I sat in my house at home all alone and my depression did not seem to be as severe. I actually felt somewhat content. I am sure it all had to do with the fact that I got out of my house and went somewhere with an understanding friend where we just talked about normal stuff for two hours—what a difference 24 hours can make.

Well, I must be on the good vibrations roll this weekend. Friday, when I got home from coffee with K, I called my other friend A (who provided me with all those safety gadgets for walking late at night). Due to my limited mobility right now, I asked her if I could go grocery shopping with her the next time she went. She mentioned that she was planning to go Saturday around 1100 and she said she would be happy to take me along.

As it approached 1100, I began to feel the anxiety rising. I had not been inside a grocery store since I egged those patrol cars three weeks ago. I was not sure how I was going to deal with all of the people and noise. When A came to pick me up, I was somewhat calmer because I knew I could step outside the store if need be. It was good to see her again. I have never gone grocery shopping with a friend before. In addition, pushing the cart gave me more stability than my cane since I could hold onto it with both hands (no, and that is an emphatic no, I am not got to get a walker!). I was doing pretty well as we traipsed through the aisles until I forgot something and had to go all the way back to the beginning and retrieve it. I was alone, faced a slew of oncoming people, and had a mini-freak out session, sorta like a “deer-in-the-headlamps” experience. I just grabbed the cart, stood still and closed my eyes and took some deep breathes and just concentrating on standing outside in the sunshine. Well, it worked and I did not have to actually leave the store.

I found A and we were ready to check out. I was in a single file at the checkout lane, but I went first and gave some distance to the woman in front of me—talking with A helped keep my mind in the moment. The next thing I knew, we were back in her car riding home where she helped me carry in my groceries. I really enjoyed myself.

Between getting coffee with K on Friday, and spending time with A at the grocery store on Saturday, it represented the first two occasions when I got out of my house to do something with other people that also involved going to places where other people would be. It was not as bad as I thought it could be. Yesterday, after getting home from the grocery store, I felt content yet again. I had set a goal and followed through on it. The rest of the day went smoothly, and when nightfall came, the most fragile time for me when I am in my house all alone, it was not so daunting.

My severe depression seems to be abating somewhat. I don't think it's solely attributable to the Lexapro I just started taking; in fact, I think it has more to do with the decrease in my isolation.  I got 4 hours of uninterrupted sleep last night. I went to sleep at 2300 and rose at 0300, so it still makes for a long day ahead of me, but I felt rested when I awoke. So, today is Sunday, the day I used to go to church. Nevertheless, that is not going to happen today. I am still not ready to go, and I am not sure I want to anymore ever since I got that comment from Sharon on one of my previous posts. I have to ask myself, does everyone there judge me the same way? Do they all think that I am a fraud? I have to keep reminding myself that her comment only represents one opinion from one person and I do not have to accept it, but I cannot help but wonder if others feel the same way. No, I am not ready to face them and all their questions, aside from the fact that it will be a room filled with people (albeit a small number, but people nonetheless). Right now, I’m just please with my baby steps forward.©2009

A Big Step Forward

Waking up for the day at 0200 makes for a long day, to be sure. Sometimes it is when I am most prolific; this morning I just sat around, drank some hot tea and listened to music. I had a better day yesterday and it is good to feel this way.

I met one friend (K) for coffee at the Starbucks around the corner from my house (the same parking lot where I egged the patrol cars. Even though it is within walking distance from my house, ever since I have had to resort to using this cane, I asked if she could drop by my house and pick me up. We spent close to two hours just talking about everything in our lives. K showed me some text messages (that I do not remember sending on that ill-fated night. You could tell that I was getting progressively more drunk as some time passed; the texting in some cases was totally illegible. It was odd to see some evidence of the state of mind I was in during that whole crisis.

The time spent together was good for me. I got out of the house, which I desperately need to start doing, and I was able to spend time with an old friend whom I rejected quite despicably the night of that debacle. Although I sent her an email a week or so ago to apologize for my ugly actions, I had not seen K face-to-face since I had been committed. It was good to be able to talk with her. In one of my earlier emails to her, I established my boundaries and she totally understood my needs. She acknowledged that she did not quite understand all of what BPD encompasses, but knew, through reading my blog, the depths of what I have experienced. I was able to spend time with a good friend and did not wear my mask. It was not that scary. This has helped me open the door to more opportunities. And last night when I was alone in my house, it didn’t seem as ominous. I actually enjoyed a good evening at home by myself—something that would not have been able to say before this.

While it was hard to make that first phone call to invite K for coffee, and I was very anxious when she first came by, I was not sure what to expect. However, she put me at ease immediately. She came up to my door to help me down the front stairs and into her car (I hate that I have to move so slowly these days). We ordered our coffee, sat down and started talking as if no time had passed. I soon felt quite at ease. This was a break-through opportunity for me—one that I can continue to make, I hope. They told me in group that I just have to practice using these tools before I can become comfortable using them. About the only time I got uncomfortable was when this person chose to sit right next to us in a room filled with empty chairs and sofas. I could feel the anxiety rise, but kept it to myself not wanting to spoil the moment. I just mentally put up some blinders and avoided his presence. Thankfully he did not stay long (he did not even buy any coffee!).

So, yesterday marked a big step forward for me. And I am going to take that at face value and accept that progress for what it is.©2009

Appt with Psychiatrist Week 5

On Tuesday, after posting this entry I called my group therapist out of politeness (yet another quirk—I can be completely suicidal and yet stop to be polite…go figure!) to let her know I would not be attending yesterday’s session. This was after canceling my psychiatrist’s appt for today and my appt with my GP tomorrow. In that state of mind, I did not want to be around anyone who was going to parse my emotions. When she asked me why I wouldn’t be attending, I simply replied that I couldn’t deal with being around anyone. Then I sorta lost it on the phone despite my keen attempts to be stable. I ended up telling her what had been going through my mind on Monday night when I was quite suicidal and how reading a comment yesterday morning on this post before calling her upset me so greatly. She asked if I could read to her the comment and then my response to that comment. She tried to remind me that this comment only represented one person’s opinion—an opinion that she was allowed to have, but one I did not have to agree with, nor let it have power over me. We talked on the phone for about an hour (unheard of with most in this community). I also told her that I had canceled the other two appts as well. She asked me if I was still feeling suicidal and I had to tell her that I did not know. Then she asked me if I could make a commitment to her to remain safe. If I didn’t tell her what she wanted to hear, I knew she would call 911 because she said as much. Not wanting to go there, I told her what she wanted to hear. Then she asked me if I would be able to call her before she left the office later that afternoon and I said I would.

When I get in this state, I always sabotage myself. That’s why I canceled the other two appts. I simply no longer cared about wanting to get better. However, after talking with her, I rescheduled both appts.

Well, the rescheduled appt with my psychiatrist gave me a valid reason for missing Wednesday’s group that I wanted to do in the first place. When I went in to see him yesterday morning, I could not make eye contact with him. His primary concern is that the meds cocktail he has me on is not working to get me out of this severe depression. He decided to finally add an antidepressant to the mix and gave me a sample of Lexapro. Not wanting to trigger a manic phase, he only wants me to take 5mg once a day. I also told him of my financial problems since I incurred all these medical bills. I also found out Monday afternoon that my 16-year-old Honda with 250,000+ miles on it was not long for this world (power train and transmission—the same quote I got from three different auto shops). I simply cannot afford to buy another car, and the cost to repair my car was going to be four to five times the blue book value of the car, an amount I couldn’t afford anyway. He told me not to worry about the cost of the Lexapro, as he would keep me in samples for the time that I felt I needed it. That doesn’t even touch the $175 I just had to shell out on my other bipolar 90-day scripts.

I also convinced him that my balance was much better and that I thought he and Wallace had just been alarmists. I said that because I don’t them to make such a big deal of my continued imbalance. I received some of the results from that blood work that Dr Wallace had ordered.  The Magnesium, Phosphorus and Zinc were all within normal limits (albeit on the low side). Now we are just waiting on the Selenium and the most important one of all, the B1 which, in part, may be causing my ataxia (we already know that my B12 is on the low side of normal, so I’m back to giving myself the shots again once I mail off Dr Wallace’s scripts—and I don’t even know if I have the money for all of those). I am sure my B1 should come back too low to account for the ataxia; I just don’t want to think that it may be because of an organic process in my cerebellum. If my B1 is too low, I wonder if they make an IM version I can use to shoot myself in my thigh, or if it only comes in IV form (we already know that I can’t absorb it orally because of my bypass surgery). Dr Wallace also wants me to schedule a time when I can get the Infed, the iron infusion by IV, but when I did that before, it was approximately $1600 a pop. The doc said I might be able to participate in a clinical trial currently being offered so I could receive the Infed for free, but I’ve yet to hear a reply on that one. If I can’t qualify, I won’t be able to raise my Ferritin levels, already abnormally low, even though my hemoglobin is only just slightly lower that normal in comparison.

So here I sit Thursday morning with nothing to do. I don’t know what I am going to do with my car. At some point very soon, it will die on me. I just hope I’m not on some interstate when it does. When it does crap out on me I will truly be up a creek.©2009

Utter Contempt

This post was never meant to be. Late last night, with full resolve, I put into place my deeply rooted desire to carry out my intended plan so foolishly done with exacting ineptitude only five  weeks earlier. However, quite obviously, this did not transpire.

Instead, I have been up all night, in my castle without a drawbridge, inspecting and taking inventory of how fucking miserable my life really is. I am fuming, livid if you will that, I have been unable to carry forth my intent. I sat there looking at everything and just wailed at my utter, incompetent nature to go through this and curled up in fetal position and cried all this whole time, getting even more enraged at the stupid lack of action (spinelessness, my Achilles' heel) which only proliferated my feeling of being a total failure. Despite the fact that I actually carried out my intent 5 weeks ago, I am fuming that I was unable to go through this in view of the knowledge of the abject uselessness of my desolate life. I am quite numb at the moment, steeling myself from all other emotion. I cannot understand why the fuck I cannot go through with my actions now—so easily attainable such a short time before. I take back the feeling of being numb—I am enraged beyond all comparison. All I heard was this loud voice that kept yelling over, “Go ahead, kill yourself, I dare you to have the balls to do this, you inept asshole,” over and over, covering my ears and yelling at it to shut the fuck up as if covering my ears would make such a difference. I cannot believe, nor do I have the words, to describe the contempt in which I hold myself. My utter failure at my most piercing desire only proves to myself how stupid, miserable and useless I am.©2009

The Perfect Borderline Dream

This morning at 1145, I was out on my porch enjoying the beautiful sunshine when I found myself nodding off. I thought, shit I am not getting much sleep at night; I might as well try taking a nap. I went back to my dark bedroom and snuggled under the covers just so certain that I would finally get some sleep. After about three hours I was still awake (but still feeling very sleepy), so I just stayed there all cosy (such a different experience than at night). Then I *woke up* at 1715 (yay for me, I got some sleep). Almost immediately, I recalled this vivid dream (I always have vivid dreams, I just never remember them upon awakening—they are just fleeting images), and began sobbing. The emotions flooding through me were painfully piercing.

Evidently, I was a mother to this cute, precocious girl of about 6 who was very obese, yet happy as lark to my suggestion that we go out to our swimming pool. My husband (egad, is that Freudian or what) was played by John Travolta (I kid you not) and had disappeared on us yet again (this dream came complete with this woman’s memories). He was employed as a hit man and received his orders in the mail. Well, this little girl ran out to get the mail and I heard her shrieking. When she put her hand in the mailbox, a shard of glass had practically shredded her wrist at the site where most people slice their wrist (yet again, how Freudian) and was bleeding profusely. Then she goes limp in my arms. Somewhere there was this a strange man (a neighbour perhaps responding to her shrieking outside??) was standing there and I yelled to call 911 while I tried to staunch the bleeding without removing the glass. I remember feeling that it was all my husband’s fault because of the line of work he was in. All of a sudden, the dream flash-forwards to the ER while I am in there waiting, so sure she wasn’t going to make it. My “husband” magically appears running into the ER demanding to know what I had done to his daughter

OK, so here is the BPD breakdown and my reaction to the dream: 1) I hate myself because I am a horrible mother. I let this adorable child get as obese, so therefore I am a failure; 2) my “husband” abandons us at our time of need—rejected and abandoned yet again; 3) again I’m a horrible mother because I had no idea that my child had gone running out to the mailbox situated on a street curb nearby traffic that could have killed her if she had walked out into the street; 4) based on my “husband’s” reaction upon arrival to the ER, everything is my fault—more guilt and shame.

Give me a fucking break. If I am going to enjoy some sleep and have dreams, can’t they at least be dreams of escape from my wretched life?©2009

Appt With My GP

Ahh, Friday the 13th—ya gotta love it!

OK, yesterday I went to see my GP as a follow-up to all that fasting blood work. My psychiatrist actually called him at lunch before my 1615 appt to discuss his concerns about my apparent declining health. My psychiatrist told him that I flunked the Romberg test, so my GP performed some additional neurological tests on me. He confirmed that I have Ataxia, a neurological sign and symptom consisting of gross lack of coordination of muscle movements. There are many culprits, so I am choosing to ignore the more dreaded causes. There does appear to be an association with B-12 and B-1 (Thiamine) deficiencies, however.

On my lab results, my B-12 was within normal limits; however, not suspecting anything along these lines three weeks ago when my GP ordered the fasting blood work, he did not test for B-1. He decided to order more lab tests: Magnesium (serum), Phosphorous (serum), Basic Metabolic Profile (a repeat from the last one), Zinc, B-1, and Selenium. They are suspecting that the Ataxia may stem from a vitamin/mineral deficiency. The only problem is that my body does not absorb vitamins and minerals properly (I had gastric bypass surgery in 2003 which bypassed the ileum and a good portion of my jejunum, the two sections of the small intestine into which the stomach dumps). Most vitamins and minerals are absorbed in the jejunum, which may explain why I may have a serious deficiency. I can’t take vitamin pills; I’ve tried with no success with iron when I was severely anemic before resulting in an IV infusion of iron. Couple this with the fact that I am not eating anything (I lost 17 pounds since 21 October), thereby not gaining any nutrients from food; this can make for a nasty combination. It took three years for my ferritin (a protein that stores iron and releases it in a controlled fashion) levels to tumble down to 2 (normal is 20-200ng/mL for females) (and now it is down to 5), so maybe it has just taken longer for these vitamins and minerals to reach abnormally low levels. Sure beats the hell out of the idea that I may have some morphological problem in my cerebellum, a region of the brain that plays an important role in the integration of sensory perception, coordination and motor control. [gosh, I bet you didn’t think you’d be getting anatomy and physiology lessons on this blog :)].

I didn’t leave the GP’s office until 1800. He spent two hours with me. Now we wait for the results and these are specialized tests, which may take a couple of weeks on one or two, especially the Selenium (I hope that doesn’t translate into big $$$—I’ve enough medical bills as it is). These are so rarely ordered that the lab manager had to get out two huge reference books to look up what color top the test tubes had to have in order to collect the blood in the right test tube. And here she though she was wrapping it up for the evening when I was walked back to the lab! (I never seem to do anything half-assed). Meanwhile, I bought a cane this afternoon so I can walk without falling over. Yeah, that does a lot for my butch image…lol.©2009

Appt with Psychiatrist Week 4

The first thing we discussed was my weird reaction I had yesterday with Outpatient Therapy Day 9 (didn’t blog about it, as there was nothing new to report). When I woke up at 0200 I felt weak, my legs felt rubbery, and I was shaking all over. It was worse when I was standing, but even after sitting for a while, those effects returned when I’d stand again. At first, I thought my blood pressure was low, but it was normal. I was hoping it would pass by the time I had to drive for my group session, but it didn’t. I chose to drive anyway, but by the time I got to the location, it was worse. I couldn’t walk in a straight line and I stumbled a few times. I went right in and sat down and that helped a lot. The therapist thought it might be a reaction to my medication as I upped the Zyprexa to 40mg to aid my insomnia before going to sleep at midnight. I had my daily call to my psychiatrist later that day, so he dropped the Zyprexa back down to 20mg. This morning I did not have those same side effects.

Later, when I saw him, He had me go through a series of neurological exercises. The only one I didn’t do well on was the Romberg test where, while standing, you hold your hands out to your side, put your feet together and close your eyes. I couldn’t keep my balance. He is still wondering about my low B-12 values and a possibility that I may be low on Thiamine. I also see my regular doc this afternoon (God, I am so sick of having all these various appointments). We’ll be discussing the results of those lab tests I had drawn last week. I’m sure I’ll be told I have to go back to injecting myself with the B-12 shots monthly (cheaper to do it myself instead of paying for an office visit for the same thing). I wonder if you can test for Thiamine. If that’s low, I may be giving myself two shots for a while. My thighs will look like pincushions!

The only other change he made was to reduce my Geodon from 240mg at bedtime to 160mg.©2009

A Measure of Hope

I don’t where to start with this one, but in so many of my posts, I have demonstrated extreme rage towards my pastor. I have also invalidated another person with whom I’d grown very close to over the course of our friendship (she is the one who brought me those nifty tools to use to keep me safe at night during my midnight walks even while vilifying her).

As much as I have disparaged my pastor publically via this venue, there is something else I must do equally as public. I realized that I had to let go of all of the anger and hostility I have felt towards him. In addition, I have to come to understand how valuable my friendship is with him. I recognize that these emotions and thoughts regarding both of these individuals were irrational.

Today marks one month since I tried to commit suicide. This afternoon they came over to my house at my request. I needed to apologize to both of them for the unkind ways in which I treated them through my various posts. I realize now that their only motivation is one of compassion and concern. I didn’t see that in the midst of my turmoil. For the first time, I believed that it was possible for someone to care for me that much. I have to learn to accept that at face value—it is what it is. To know in my heart that their friendship and just as important, their acceptance of who I am while wrestling with BP and BPD, is a hard concept for me to accept. Nevertheless, I believed everything supportive and loving they said to me.

Having rejected everyone—by any means necessary—letting these two individuals back into my life brings me a measure of hope that I haven’t felt before. I discovered that I can use these tools to overcome at least one of my BPD hurdles.  Today I took off my mask, even if it was for a little while©2009

Individual Therapy #2

I met with my individual therapist yesterday right after group. My head is certainly having the time of its life! I didn’t think I would return after my first visit. However, this session went well. I’ve never done this before as far as dealing with a therapist one-on-one. Still not sure what to expect, but I liked the fact that I seem to get along with her fairly well. She’s upfront and direct—no bullshit. I’m not sure if I am going to chronicle these appointments as it appears that we are going to delve quite heavily into my personal life—more in detail than I want to publish. Suffice it to say that I think I can derive some benefit from this. At first I thought she was sold on DBT therapy (very similar to my group therapy sessions), but it appears not so much. I can’t take any more coping skills sessions than I am already exposed to through my group therapy. I like her (not so sure I can trust her yet; time will have to be the measuring stick on that one) and I feel I’ll be able to open up to her especially where my dysfunctional upbringing comes into play.

Oh, I did find out this morning that my medical disability has been extended through 30 November due to the paperwork my group therapist submitted. Evidently she doesn’t think I’m prepared to face going back to work tomorrow. I’m not being a deadbeat when I say this, but I don’t think I am ready yet to handle that additional stress right now.

Well, my plans for my midnight walks are quashed tonight. It has been raining like cats and dogs all day today. It’s absolutely miserably outside—chilly, dreary and wet.©2009

Outpatient Therapy, Day 8 and my Phone Check-in With My Psychiatrist

This group therapy is getting old. It’s the same thing everyday—too emotional for me, at least as far as some of the others in my small group. I know this sounds callous, but from the moment I sit down, I am just counting down those two hours of “sharing” before we have our break. Yesterday was no exception. There is one woman who, they decided a week or so ago, that she needed to be hospitalized again. It wasn’t an involuntary commitment—evidently she agreed to it. Well, her first day back into the outpatient program, all she did was cry while she was sharing but refused to go into any details. She said she was afraid they would put her back inside if she told the therapist what was really evoking this emotion. I have a handle on that one—I’m certainly not going to voice that I am intentionally suicidal (they gauge how “safe” you are as to how forward thinking you are regarding your actual plans to commit suicide). I can say that I was feeling suicidal the previous evening, but I have to show a coping skill I successfully used to avert that situation. I can say without a doubt that there are nights when I am suicidal and I go through the motions of preparing everything. If I were to say that I have the intent to follow through, that would land me right back inside the Big House. I don’t follow through, not yet, but at one point when will the intent be stronger than the want not to do it?

I can feel my depression getting worse even with my doc tweaking the cocktail. So far, nothing he has done has yielded any progress as far as my depression and insomnia go. I am living one day to the next with, at best, two hours of sleep. Oh, and get this, the results of my fasting blood work has come in. My psychiatrist always gets a copy from my regular doctor. He looked at the results while we were on our phone call check-in today (I’ve been on the phone everyday between my weekly appointments even over the weekends so he can adjust the meds, if needed, on the fly and spare me the expense of an office visit). Evidently, while my haemoglobin is 11 (low side of normal), my iron stores are pretty low. My ferritin level is only 5 (normal is 15-200 ng/mL for females). Ferritin is a protein that stores iron and releases it in a controlled fashion, in single cells and multi-celled animals. It is a buffer against iron deficiency and iron overload. The last time, approximately 6 years ago, my ferritin level was only 2. I tried taking vitamins high in iron, then iron pills to no avail. My body wasn’t absorbing the iron. I ended up having to take Infed (used to treat iron deficient anemia) administered IV. I had to have three separate infusions over a few weeks. That cost me one hell of a bundle. I can’t afford that now in view of all of my other medical bills recently incurred. In addition, ketones and protein are spilling into my urine. Ketones are produced in the body when fats, rather than glucose are used to produce energy, but my glucose is 94. Protein in the urine is a warning sign. It may indicate kidney damage or disease or it may be a transient elevation due to an infection, medication, vigorous exercise, or emotional or physical stress. Well, yeah, I am under a considerable amount of emotional stress. I don’t know the other results yet, but I see my regular doctor on the 12th. I am sick of doctors; I am sick of medical tests. I just want to be left alone.©2009

For Melanie—

Melanie, in your comment on my post below, you’ve touch upon a subject that concerns why I am beginning to have problems about the Bible…its translation. Full Gospel preachers will preach that it is the inherent word of God—that these words were divinely inspired. Yet, to whom were they inspired? Men of a far different cultural time than now. You cited a good example of sexism—women were treated as chattel (“an item of personal property that is not freehold land and is not intangible. Chattels are typically movable property). Women were not viewed as persons in their own right. This model had not changed until the 1920s with the 19th Amendment allowing women the right to vote. Up until then, men did not believe women had the wherewithal to have an opinion, much less speak in public. That is only the situation in the United States. Look at how many cultures (e.g., the Middle East) still actually treat their women as property. Anyway, I digress…

I also agree with your statements about Paul being sexist. Paul espoused the notion that men should stay single and devote their lives to God; however, if they could not remain single (subtle inference on my part here—if men could not do without sex), then be married, but it is much better to remain single (1 Cor 7:1). My interpretation: women were only good for one thing, satisfying men’s sexual urges (one caveat here, Paul also said the same for widows as well, though). Here’s my conundrum. I am a lesbian, therefore an abomination; however, if I choose to remain single (celibate), then it is better (so am I still an abomination?). So that forces me into a life where I will never have any relationships—a pretty sad state of affairs, don’t you think? Our current government has deemed that same-sex marriages are forbidden (under DOMA). If I could be legally married, then I would not be a fornicator, yet the noose around me is that I am still queer, so therefore still an abomination.

If the Bible is the divinely inspired word of God, then who is to say that by the time the words were captured on papyrus, the men so divinely inspired did not interpret it as they saw fit according to the times in which those words were inspired. I have already mentioned in my post below how we have since dispensed with certain passages as biblical rule, but to this day, no one will even suggest that homosexuality be dispensed with at the same time because through the ages, religious zealots have seen fit to propagate the belief that homosexuals are perverts (it’s become a strong-held belief, I believe, because people saw this as “different” from their own experiences, therefore immoral). Slavery was supported in the Bible. It is no longer allowed. Interracial marriages were not approved, but only recently have the courts deemed this as racist. No one wants to touch on the hot ticket of the day which has become the litmus test for all politicians, much like abortion was in previous political battles.

Your desire to read the true translations as you study other languages may prove interesting, especially as they may show wide differences across today’s various translations. In some churches, only the old King James version is considered THE Bible. I personally have found that the NIV is more homophobic across the board than others. Good luck with your studies and thank you for taking the time to share with me your thoughts.©2009

So Tell Me Again—Why Is It So Wrong To Be Queer?

(…continued from below -- damn if I can't get the text to align with the pics!)

Then there is my big issue of being able to reconcile being queer and Christian. I want so much to sing my heart out to the Lord during praise and worship and feed on God’s word. Nevertheless, the Bible tells me that I am an abomination before Him. Even when I drew closer to God and made the decision to be celibate, I still considered myself to be a lesbian. It’s not that I have any intentions or desires “convert” and become straight. I am just not wired that way. However, isn’t that just obeying the letter of the law and not the spirit?

Sure, there is a Metropolitan Community Church (catering primarily to the gay community) here in town, but that never fed me spiritually. Besides, my ex-partner attends there (also a small church—no way to avoid her). I’ve even attended a couple of major denomination churches that are gay affirming, but they didn’t feed my spiritual hunger either. My church feeds my heart and spirit. It’s the one to which I want to return.

I argue with God. Why is being queer a sin? I just don’t get it. Aside from the famed verse in Leviticus (Lev 20:13), the very same book also preaches the dietary laws and preaches against wearing clothes of mixed fabric. Why are the latter two no longer sins, but homosexuality still is? I really believed that the Bible is God’s word. You either accept it all or reject it all. If you believe in the Bible, you just can’t choose to accept only those passages you happen to believe in. But, that is exactly what is done. We no longer follow the dietary laws or the mixing of fabrics as being sinful, yet being queer still is. Why? Why? Why?

If it is such a huge sin, then why didn’t it make it in the top ten right alongside adulterers, thieves, liars, and murderers? Jesus never once mentioned it during His ministry, but did warn against adulterers, thieves, liars, and murderers. Why is being queer a sin?

Remaining celibate hasn’t really been an issue for me since I walked away from the only social network I ever had. My only social network after that became this one little church. No, I’ve never been judged openly; yet at the same time, I’ve never been able to have a conversation with anyone about my struggle with this issue except my pastor and one other person. I’m still an activist dyke fighting for LGBTQ equality in my own way (e.g., my entire Facebook page focuses on that). All of my “friends” rally around equal justice while there are those lobbying our government using their powerful muscle to promote their views that all gays are sinners and perverts out to destroy American family values. Hello…I’m an American.

I find it quite ironic that the recent hate crime law to include gays only made it because it was attached to a defense bill that the White House and Congress wanted so desperately to pass. Yet, another irony—it’s part of an amendment whose very nature supports Don’t Ask, Don’t tell. If the military only knew how many closeted lesbians and gay men are fighting for our country right now. Yes, there is another bill in Congress deliberating repealing DADT, but that is small potatoes compared to some very basic issues of inequality we face every single day. Because same-sex marriage is not sanctioned at the federal level (thanks to the Defense of Marriage Act), we don’t enjoy the same equal economic opportunities (e.g., insurance coverage for our partners, although some major companies do have diversity policies allowing for this, death benefits, etc.). Let’s not forget that we have no protection where housing and employment are concerned.

Back to the recent hate crimes law, what that made it more palliative had to do with the following provision: religious leaders are still given the permission to continue spewing their religious rhetoric with no consequences.

There is another bill up before this Congress, the Employment Non-Discrimination Act, but yet again, there is a provision that religious organizations are provided a special exception to this protection, similar to the principles of the Civil Rights Act. The right-wing Christian fundamentalists have their fingers in every pie. Imagine one of these fundies wearing a cotton-wool blend suit. If they are going to throw the Bible down our throats as the measuring stick for their causes, they can’t have it both ways.©2009

I Miss My Church

Gosh, today is absolutely beautiful outside. It’s 64˚. The sun is shining brightly with a piercing blue sky. I’m out here on my front porch just listening to the acorns pelt my roof and driveway (yeah, I know I should be out there sweeping them—they’re as dangerous as ball bearings as you try to walk among them. Here it is two weeks into November and only now the leaves are starting to turn.). There must be some truth about the sun’s effects on depression. I always feel more peaceful sitting out here, even with the noise of the steady traffic. If only I got suicidal during the daytime. The first couple of times I felt suicidal after I came home from the psych ward, I tried to retreat from inside my house to the porch, but the darkness was still around me. It’s a shame that my porch is only a safe haven for me during the day.

I’ve been out here most of the morning and afternoon. This morning I watched my church parking lot fill with cars. This whole issue about going back to church really has me confused. I want so badly to attend, but I still cannot deal with all of the people and the eventual greetings and questions. How I wish I could sneak in where no one would see me.

Even before my world came tumbling down around me one month ago, I had already begun to isolate. I’d still attend church, but I started planning my entrance just around the time praise & worship had begun. Most didn’t see me as the doors are on the side. They sat in front of the doors, so I wasn’t immediately noticed when I’d take my usual seat. Then I began the habit of leaving the building immediately after the service was over to avoid everyone. The last time I even sat further in the back to make the getaway a little faster.

There is a row of chairs right by the door I always use, but there are a couple of folks that sit there. I cannot sit next to anyone. If I sit back too far, it just takes that much longer to get away. No, I’m not ready to go back my church. So, here I sit on my porch watching my church to which I so much want to return.©2009 (continued above...)

Another Lonely Evening Comes to Pass

I’m sure where to start with this entry. The house is quiet; I don’t even want to listen to music (pause) no, I changed my mind. Just opened my iTunes and am now listening to Frank Sinatra’s September of My Years. Hmmm, maybe the theme is a little too appropriate.

How do you explain to someone that you don’t want to get better? Yes, I’m about as mental as one can be. But, it is my comfort zone; it is what I know best. I know how to operate under this cover of darkness. Oh, sure, you must be thinking, why would someone choose to struggle with being suicidal so many nights a week? I do not know what normal is. I do not remember what being happy feels like. Was I ever happy—ever? Even when I was somewhat balanced while on my meds before I quit taking them, all I remember at best was being numb. At least when I am manic, I feel energetic; I feel as if I can do anything. Now, all I experience is the crushing defeat of morbid depression. Even after three weeks, the meds haven’t kicked in at all. My doctor keeps upping a dosage of one and waits a while, then he’ll add to the cocktail (he is rather conservative about how many types of changes he makes at one time). Either way, I don’t feel any different.

I am supposed to try to add yet another med tonight as a temporary measure to break my cycle of persistent insomnia. He wants me to take 10mg of Zyprexa an hour before I take the rest of my bedtime meds, and if I am not asleep in an hour, to take another 10mg. Then I have to do another phone call check-in with him again tomorrow (the addition of Zyprexa was the topic of our phone check-in today). He already knows how I feel about Zyprexa; it became a deal-breaker for me when I discovered what a weight gainer this drug was. Not trying to be recalcitrant, I argued with him since he already knew how I felt about this drug, but he said he only wanted me to try it for one week to see if it would break my insomnia and give sleep a chance. I agreed to take it temporarily. We’ll see what happens tonight. (Now Frank is singing “It Was a Very Good Year.” I wish I could say the same).

(later) I decided that I had to leave the house. The walls were closing in on me. I already know where that will take me. The weather is perfect outside. I decided to grab my atlas and don my new toys and go for a walk. I decided to go up to the corner Starbucks (yeah, I remembered to opt for decaffeinated). That meant I had to deal with people. I had no idea how many there would be. However, the evening was too nice not to go out. I was too exhausted to go for a power walk; there is no apparent rage seething within me at the moment—a welcome change. Just a short walk up to the corner to get some fresh air was perfect.

Starbucks just had two customers that were engrossed with each other, tucked away in the corner. I doubt they even noticed me. I got to the counter and looked up to the menu. There were so many choices. The cashier was waiting for me to place my order. I couldn’t make up my mind. I froze as she just stared at me and asked, “What I get for you?” a second time. Finally, I made my choice and just wanted to get out of there as fast as I could. Once I hit the door and the cool night breezes swept my face, I felt I could finally breathe. It was good to know I still had my bearings. I promptly left the parking lot and headed home.©2009

Just what IS Borderline Personality Disorder

The following video, while not totally inclusive, has a good handle on the whats and whys of the disorder.  It's well worth the few minutes of listening time.


Personality Disorder:
Borderline Personality Disorder

Outpatient Therapy, Day 7, the Gift Bag at My Door, & My Attempt at “Radical Acceptance”

I do not have much to say about today’s session. The therapist is concerned that I am not eating except a small snack to take with my Geodon. She is also concerned about my insomnia. I did not have much to share. Not much had changed from Wednesday, but I was able to report that I was not having any suicidal ideation Thursday night. Very depressed, yes, but I was able to leave it at that. She pointedly asked me if I could remain safe through the weekend and I could only tell her that I have demonstrated successfully one tool, and that was all I could promise her. I also told her that my psychiatrist has requested me to call him for a check-in call on Saturday and Sunday. She seemed rather pleased with that.

In actuality, my blogging has actually helped me with the ideation Thursday night. I spent a good deal of time writing, reading others’ blogs, and keeping up with my LGBTQ-oriented Facebook account (OK, a translation for you straight folks: Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgendered, Queer/Questioning), along with my Twitter feeds.

Something weird happened at break. One of the folks in my small group came up to me and wanted to know why I ignored her after trying to say hi two times. I had to honestly tell her that I really had not noticed her (remember me; I am all about blinders around other people). She started crying and I did not what the hell to do as she did this in front of everyone. Then everyone stared at me. Well, I am sorry that I must have hurt her feelings (I can recognize that from classic BPD symptoms), but I am not responsible for her feelings, only my own. I felt, with everyone staring at me, that I at least had to apologize. I really didn’t want to have to interact with her at all, but what was I to do? It is not as if I go around intentionally trying to hurt someone, or be rude or uncaring. I just simply want to be left alone. Soon enough, break was over so I went inside where both groups join and found my seat on the far wall. I also asked the therapist if I could crack open the emergency door right beside me in case I had to leave the room (I do not want to make a spectacle of getting up and walking by everyone to leave through the normal door). She said that was fine (no alarm attached to the door)

I came home and found this gift bag by my front door inside my porch. Curiously, I picked it up and brought it inside. The attached note said, “For your walks around the neighbourhood…a few things I thought would come in handy.” It was signed from the only church member (outside of my pastor and his wife) that I had been relatively honest with about some things. Evidently she has been reading my blog and noticed my entries concerning with my dissociative states while walking or driving. Inside the bag was some pretty neat stuff. It contained an atlas with very detailed set of maps of my city along with a street index finder. I found my house (conveniently already marked with an icon as there is a large city fire department up at the corner. Nevertheless, I am going to put an X right where my house is anyway because with a past dissociation, the fire department’s presence did not mean anything to me. I’ve even post-noted my relevant pages). It also marks subdivisions and schools—things I pass by on a regular basis. In addition, there was a device with a red blinking LED visible to one km with a range of 180˚. It came with a strap and three batteries. I can attach this to myself to make me visible when I take my late-night walks. There was also an LED pen light with a magnifier lens that only weighs 38g and has a metal clip attachment. The last thing in the bag thrilled me to no end—a new tool. This seven-in-one tool is only 12cm long. Get this—it contains an LED light, compass, thermometer, clock, safety whistle, safety mirror and a 2X magnifier. It comes with a lanyard I can wear around my neck. Now I can be all decked out in LED!

OK, time for an honest reality check here—my perception vs. my reality. This person does want to be close to me—not because of the gifts, but because of the intentions behind them. I wrote her a long email thanking her (I did not feel prepared enough to actually talk with her at that point). In the same email, I told her everything. I even attached two documents on bipolar and borderline personality disorders to help her understand the effects these have on me. She responded with such a kind email; it gave me some contact with another person who now knew me the way I wanted her to know me—no pretence about anything. She let me know that she clearly knew what my boundaries were and that she was not going to be in my face, but essentially would let me make any contact. Fearing that I would lapse into my normative state of isolation, I told her that it was OK to call me, but if I felt I was not capable to talk, she could leave me a vm. I was OK with that, so after reading the email, I actually felt better prepared to call her. I am trying so very hard to reach out, but I can only take baby steps. I fear rejection; I fear abandonment.

Now, onto my next hurdle—trying to use “radical acceptance.” The principles are 1) solve the problem, or, 2) change how you feel about the problem, or 3) stay miserable, or 4) accept the problem. It takes away the “judgements” and removes the “shoulds.”

The hurdle—all of the anger and resentment I have felt toward my pastor for placing the 911 call and coming by the house to show the police my text message. My perception? That he was disappointed with me, angry because I did not call first and ask for prayer before I got in that state, and that he would think less of me. Therefore, I took a very deep breath and wrote down everything I wanted to say before I called him so I could focus and concentrate on what I really wanted to say.

I called his house and thankfully, he answered. I am not really sure what I would have said if his wife had picked up instead…I wasn’t prepared for that scenario. I told him who I was not knowing if he would recognize my voice. Then I told him I had something to say and would he listen to me without interrupting me until I was done. I asked him if he would meet me because there were some things that I needed to say to him alone, that we could meet in a public venue of his choosing as long as I would not be seen as making a spectacle of myself if I got emotional, and it had to be a place where I could smoke (damn these city ordinances banning smoking to even include many outside venues). We settled on standing in the church parking lot (right across the street from me) for this Tuesday at 1630. When I finished what I said, he asked if he could say a few things. I hesitated momentarily—this wasn’t a planned two-way conversation. I wanted to say what I had to say, set the time and place and get off the phone, but I ended up saying OK. He helped fill in some more of the blanks. Evidently there were already three or four police cruisers and the EMS there across the street in the church parking lot before he arrived (I had been told earlier by one of the first responder cops that they parked there with no lights flashing on purpose so as not to alert me in case it was a situation of “suicide by cop”). The cops asked him who he was and he explained that he had placed the 911 call as a result of my text message. They asked to see the text message, but they would not let him cross the street to my house at any point. He told me that the only reason why he came over was that he was very concerned and worried about me. He said he had tried to call me after receiving the text message and I did not answer. Again, the problem with my perception vs. reality.

Am I ready for this conversation? I do not know. I have to find a way to let this anger and resentment go. While it is by no means my only trigger, I have obsessed over this a lot—primarily because I have always respected him. He is a WYSIWYG (what you see is what you get for you non-computer geeks) kind of guy—shoots straight from the hip with no guile. From the very beginning, he has accepted the fact that I am a lesbian and never has judged me. I owe him the same respect.

Well, I still have two days to process this. I am also going to discuss during my group therapy session on Monday. I also have my second appointment with my individual therapist on Monday afternoon as well. My question is am I sufficiently prepared to handle this type of conversation at this point so soon after everything has happened? I need to protect myself and not set myself up for failure. I am trying so hard to reach a point in my life where everything is in balance, but I have to put my needs first—a concept that never existed in my “I don’t give a damn” mode.©2009