That pretty much sums up my mental state at the moment
Have you ever walked on a frozen lake? Well, if you have you’ve done something I haven’t (it’s WATER guys, unless you have a messianic complex it’s not for walking on. BAD idea. BAD!). Anyway, pretend for a second I have and know exactly what it feels like.
Well, I feel like that ice as just cracked and there are lots and lots and lots of little cracks under my feet. And not so little cracks. And more cracks keep coming.
I don’t know what’ll happen if that ice shatters. Maybe I’ll come up screaming in rage that I got my feet wet. Maybe I’ll sink under the ice and have a whole load of badness.
In short, I feel… fragile.
It’s kind of built up. The triggeriness that is the news and net right now re GBLTQ suicide is hitting me horrendously hard in a way that not much has for a very long time, I keep getting ambushed by recollections and generally freaking out Beloved.
And part of that is that it’s coming on top of badness that’s already had my defences low. I’ve spent too much energy and patience sorting out work – and continuing to fight that as it is something that STILL has to be fought and each of the SPs are playing their own damn form of cluelessness. The badness has frayed my temper and lead to a couple of truly epic confrontations with Uncle-That-I-Hate and I’ve gone from agonisingly explaining why his shit annoys me (to him and all the relatives who defend/endorse/encourage his shit) to just telling him to shut it and stay the hell away from me because I’m DONE with his vile self. And then the family flocks around squawking about disrespect and rudeness – this man lost every last shred of respect I had for him when I was 19 and he has done NOTHING but dig himself deeper in the 10 years since then. I don’t care how close knit our huge and ridiculous family is, I’m sick to the back teeth of nursing burns as I rebuild the bridges he keeps setting fire to. And that’s on a good day – I cannot do this now.
Which is something of a mantra now with me. I’ve been waking up with those words coming to mind first thing. I wake up and think “I can’t do this.” Because there’s so many cracks in that ice and more are coming than I can fill them.
And slap bang among it was my birthday that brought up it’s accompanying feeling of pathetic weakness – because it’s all so weak. 29 now, 29 – nearly 30 and all grown up, right? So I’m supposed to be past this, I’m supposed to have dealt with this and – gah, it’s the same old same old I’ve said before. I’m irrationally ashamed of not being “over” my past. Of not being strong enough, mature enough, adult enough to not just say “pish posh, I’m not going to let a few bad memories bother me. And of course silly people say silly things – but I am Adult Sparky and Rise Above such Nonsense”.
Which all comes together to make all the nasty triggers hit like trains with no defence at all – and reminds me that my coping mechanisms are really shitty – if you can call “suppress it and pretend it never happened” a coping mechanism? I’m beginning to think it’s more like ignoring a bill until it’s sent in red ink, or until the bailiffs come round. You get by for a while but eventually you’ll pay for it.
And then we have the social thing. Because it was my bday and I’ve been living in hermitland because of work and Beloved kept reminding me that I do have a social life and I do actually have clothes beyond “lounging robe” and “suit for work” and he’d like to see me in them occasionally.
And I went through a complete conniption fit because it was another “could not do this” moment. After the week before with the usual badnesses I just didn’t want to risk it – didn’t want to risk leaving the house,. Didn’t want to risk the tourists in the gay bars, didn’t want to risk the gang if thugs who like to prowl around, shouting things when they’re sober, throwing things when they’re not. I feared another crack something chronic.
Thankfully Beloved and my friends organised as some kind of giant cushion. I don’t think I saw anyone else all night, I was allowed to hunker down, I’m sure they even had scouts out checking my route before I went anywhere. I don’t think I even got to use the bathroom alone. Which is kinda creepy and touching and hermit brain’s a bit freaked but it meant that I actually went out the door without having a single spork all night. Not one!
On the one hand I’m really really touched that my friends are attentive, understanding and generally wonderful in this way that they’re willing to spend all night handling me with kids gloves, making sure the night is good for me and spending all night, even while drinking, drunk and riotous, making sure I had a buffer zone between me and any potetnail shitness
On the other hand, I’m kind of freaked that EITHER my mental fragility is so damned obvious that everyone could see it and realise their intervention was necessary OR that Beloved has told everyone that I am 3 steps away from having the screaming meemies in a corner. I understand that he’s concerned – gods I know he’s concerned and even worried in a very over the top way given the way he’s been very very very carefully watching me and managing me, but I’m not 100% happy with the idea of him telling friends “come to Sparky’s birthday bash, but be careful, Sparky’s cracked”.
But then, I trust his judgement (well, in some cases) and he’s had years of unfortunate experience in handling my crashes, my damage and my general messed up mind with skill, delicacy and infinite patience. He likely knows my damage better than I know myself by this point (though I can’t seem to find even a damn aspirin in the house any more. The medicine cabinet is empty – damn, either I’m being waaay flakier than I imagined or Beloved has overreacting perfected to an art form) – especially in terms of what I need since my normal “coping strategy” is to ignore it and hope it goes away. So if he is deciding that I need to be managed like a delicate porcelain figure in an earthquake zone surrounded by rampaging rhinoceros on crack then perhaps I should
So… epic whine is epic, y/y? I’m all kinds of fugly and trying to put the headspace back together again all the while hating myself for the fugly. It’s fugly all round. And Beloved is a saint for navigating the stormy waters of the fugly and helping me put the pieces together rather than just throwing up his hands and yelling “it’s broken, I cannae do it cap’n!” which I’d probably have done years ago in his shoes.