TRAPPED WITH BROKEN PIECES

Image result for a chameleon caught in a spider's web

I’m in an awful situation, a predicament in fact, that I cannot escape, no matter how hard I try. I am doomed to failure through my own success. Death would be a very welcome end for me. I fear the devil and going to hell, but I know that our God is a forgiving God and I know that I will surely confess my sins and will do so honestly and willingly. Apart from which, our God is an all-knowing God.

I am a chameleon … a woman of many disguises. I mould myself to be whoever you wish me to be. My being lives only in your imagination. I have no peace or harmony within my mind. I just have a very toxic brain and equally toxic thoughts. I am an imposter … Ellie, yes … but somehow, I appear to be a very skewed version of my very soul.

I am a master of disguise, a keeper of secrets, living a life of self-deception. I figured I knew my very essence, but I was just kidding myself. It would take a very experienced private investigator to fathom me out at my most raw and vulnerable, to expose the very core of me. I feel unclean and wretched … contaminated is a word I have used more times than I can count to describe myself.

I’m a shadow in a mirror. I am a stranger you may pass in the street. I am both the spider that spins the web and also the fly which is caught helplessly in the centre of it all. Jagged glass has nothing on me … come too near, and you will surely be wounded by the shards.

Therefore, approach if you wish but only with extreme caution and entirely at your own risk. I can damage hearts, not willingly or intentionally but inadvertently.

I am what I am, and I detest that fact with a passion so fierce that I could be the ignitor of the very flames of hell themselves. I am what I am … or am I??

I am broken but don't want to hurt you with my pieces

Translates as “I am broken but don’t want to hurt you with my pieces.”

 

 

THE THERAPIST (J.G.)

therapist and client

Having not having written regularly for some time due to family circumstances, I suddenly find myself writing again and recently this and the previous post (poem), both of which have a lot of meaning for me, are very serious topics.

As those of you who have known me for a while will be aware, I had, some years ago, an emotionally abusive and very damaging relationship with a therapist (who I am no longer with). This affected my mental health hugely and I was hospitalised for a while following this ending.

I still carry a lot of anger about this although I have tried to deal with it in my current counselling. I wrote this poem which I feel, is certainly ‘telling’ of what was happening during those years with her and why I am finding it hard to deal with my anger and find forgiveness as I, perhaps, as I should for my own benefit. 

I lie amongst the shadows

The new born of the old

Such innocence destroyed

Yet, none of this foretold

~~~

The tales we spun together

Which she led me to believe

Magnified reality

Their purpose to deceive

~~~

The I Ching books and Angel Cards

Were poetry in motion

* William Blake’s descriptions

Assured of my devotion

~~~

My identity was stolen

Soon a puppet on a string

I learned to tell more stories

And I wrote of everything

~~~

She pulled me to her bosom

She offered me affection

A love I thought forever

Then came the cruel rejection

~~~

I wonder where she came from

As she led me down the lane

Leaving me abruptly

In excruciating pain

  • The reference to William Blake refers to the fact that his book, ‘Songs of Innocence and Experience’ was the poetry book that JG gave me as the first of many gifts

It has taken me a great deal of courage to write this and I know much can be read into this poem so if you have any comments or views, I will happy to reply to them. Thank you for taking the time to read this, Ellie.

GETTING ON WITH MY LIFE (RANT)

mental and physical health

Why does everything have to be a battle? I think, sometimes, the world revolves around money, [as well as politics, religion and small-minded people who think they have a right to take innocent lives, but in the light of the very recent killings in Orlando, I don’t intend to go into that here].

On a much more personal (and perhaps selfish) note, I have spent the last three months fighting for funding to allow me to keep the basic disability care that I need every day. I appreciate that I am very fortunate to have any care at all when there are so many people without care, both in developed countries and even more so in third-world countries. You may ask why I don’t provide fully for myself financially – the answer being that I am not able to work because I am studying – and that is in order to get back to some useful work. I only wish I had a wealthy or affluent partner or family on tap but that is not the case.

Currently, the Social Care Department are now arguing with me as to whether I need my electric wheelchair as opposed to a manual one.  They are prepared to supply me with a standard wheelchair which, yes, would get me about in my home with some assistance needed but would be hopeless if I wanted to have more than an indoor or very limited lifestyle.

There would be no more getting into the town for food and shopping as well as going to University, where I am studying  for a degree in Psychology and Public Health so that I can go out [ironically, in my electric wheelchair] and operate both economically and productively in society. Other necessary journeys would also be curtailed and therefore, out of the question. Don’t they get it? My wheelchair is my legs. I feel it would make far more sense if I were able to live a life outside of my home where I can function, independently, realistically and be able to earn enough to enable me to buy my own electric wheelchair which would solve the problem altogether.

Can’t they see how short-sighted they are? If I can’t remain as independent as I currently am, it is very likely to impact on my mental health. I could require more care from mental health resources which would, in turn, affect my physical health. This would lessen my chances of returning to work. This would be more of a drain on the Government Health Department and cost them much more in the long term.

My mental health, that is my Emotional Intensity Disorder (EID), also known as Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD) is no secret from them, nor my friends and family or indeed my WordPress followers. It is a day-to-day struggle just to stay on an even keel as things are now and attempt to support myself. I live my life positively in general, and I wish for that status quo to remain. However, it does affect my life in a big way but, I neither feel sorry for myself nor expect the world to be handed to me on a plate. When it comes down to it, I just want to live a fulfilling and useful life and be of much use to my friends, family, society in general and the world as possible.

Currently, I now feel physically and mentally exhausted. Is it selfish, at this point, to say that, yes, I do also want to be as happy and content as I can possibly be for myself too?

Rant over.

168 HOURS AND A FRAIL OLD LADY

elderly woman hands

“168 hours”, she said. “There are 168 hours in a week, and I’m alone for 167 of them … every week”, she sobbed (and with just cause). It was her birthday yesterday. She was 85. She didn’t want her birthday – yet another birthday spent alone – “Yet another birthday, galloping faster and faster towards death”, quoted somewhat morbidly by my mother.

Nobody visited her that day, as any other day, as all of our family are spread over the globe and are unable to be there. I am the one who lives the nearest and I’m over 90 km away. I would more than willingly tackle the train and bus journey to see her but I cannot access her house in my wheelchair and she cannot leave it because she has agoraphobia. She has done for more years than I care to remember. It creates a very obvious physical barrier between us and means I can’t even give her a hug which constantly breaks my heart, and hers too.

She received a few well-meaning cards exclaiming, ‘happy birthday’, ‘have a wonderful day’- and it wasn’t – a wonderful day, that is, nor a happy birthday, for that matter. I’d sent a card but chosen it carefully not to have the joyous exclamations on it but simply ‘Mum – I want to tell you how much you’re loved’. It was a simple card with two silver butterflies which stood up when she opened the card. She liked that, she said.

Her health isn’t good although perhaps better than some 85-year-olds I know. But, psychologically she is not good at all. The Social Services will offer her nothing and a local senior’s charity have offered her one hour of companionship a week. Fine … except they didn’t show up when they promised. One hour – out of 168 but her hopes were dashed and any confidence she had left was crushed out of her as if a builder had trodden on her skull with a size twelve boot.

Each blow takes away another chunk of her will to live and she is slowly emotionally slipping away from me. She is so isolated and has no friends or visitors that even call to see how she is (or even whether she ‘is‘ at all). It is all so painfully frustrating and heartbreaking.

She shouldn’t be living alone but we cannot see any way out as she won’t and shouldn’t have to contemplate the thought of moving into a nursing home or the like with her mind as sharp as a new hat pin. “Nursing homes”, she said, “are awful places where men and women are seated around a room staring at a TV screen which is blaring out rubbish at top volume!” “I ought to know”, she says – she used to inspect them as part of her voluntary work in her early retirement days. “Some are better than others, of course”, I add.

I won’t go into the other, alternative options (including living with me, which we would both like, but I only have one small box room to offer her which wouldn’t even accommodate her necessities).  None of these are either possible or feasible. I phone her at least twice a day to see how she is and for a chat, sometimes for over an hour which is the very least I can do.

All she wants; all she needs (for crying out loud!), is companionship (and a hug), and believe it or not, in the whole of a large, bustling city, no-one is willing to offer that! Our senior citizens are emotionally cared for far better in the undeveloped, third-world countries than they are here in our so-called civilized, Western world! Emigrating is not a possibility!

 

 

 

SURVIVING THE STORM

storm waves crashing

My previous post spoke of how it feels to lose someone or many people, close to you; how the waves of grief come crashing down on you. It is talking about death in these instances. But what if the person you are grieving for is still alive but just out of your reach. This is also excruciatingly painful.

When the person is still alive but not in your life any longer, the pain and heartache are also almost unbearable as the waves still come crashing down on you time after time. These tidal surges continue as if they are beating against a ship, wrecked out at sea.

[In advance, I apologize for the length of this post. I wrote it for me. I wrote it because I needed to. I’ve needed to for a long, long time. Even if it is not read by anyone else, that does not matter. This is me … Ellie.]

I was talking to my therapist this morning. We spoke of my late night, yesterday. I was sitting, staring at my computer screen for hours, trawling the internet. I was searching for details of my previous therapist, *K, who I now, (after some years), recognize was emotionally and psychologically abusive to the point that I was totally in love with her, hung on her every word and believed each sentence she spoke. I was desperately searching for her name, her address, her photo, anything; a memory of this woman that I loved so much.

I travelled a round trip of two hours (at a cost to me to the point I was seriously in debt), on three mornings a week for eight years, to be with her. I was so emotionally dependent on her; I could barely breathe without her approval. All those years … all those wasted, damaging, life-threatening years. I don’t use the term ‘life-threatening’ lightly or as a casual, throwaway remark but because on one occasion when she was presumably cross with me for some reason I cannot remember, she actually said ‘Why you don’t go home and kill yourself’ and I tell the God’s honest truth here.

I attempted to take my life. I say cross as opposed to angry because the roles we took were of she, the strict, authoritarian parent, and I, the obedient child. She encouraged and nurtured this to the point where I loved and depended on her more than I did my own mother. There were hugs, kisses, gifts, cards etc. Every time she didn’t reply to a text or answer the phone (all of which were smashing the boundaries leaving nothing but a ship wrecked at sea), I punished my body in a self-destructive way because I assumed she didn’t ‘love’ me anymore and therefore, I envisaged that I had done something wrong; I had been the disobedient child. I actually took a blade to my skin, a bottle to my lips and dozens of pills to my throat on many an occasion.

It ended suddenly. It ended on the day of my father’s death when she questioned me as to why I was so upset and wasn’t I happy on this day, bearing in mind he had seriously abused me for all of my childhood? Nevertheless, he was still my father and somewhere amongst the hate, the terror, the disgust and the shame, he was still the only father I had and yes, I was upset that my father had died. In disgust and frustration, (because she had been insisting I relive the sexual abuse that took place all those years), she walked out on me and never came back. As well as losing my father that day, I lost my therapist, my guide, my mother, my friend and ally, my everything. I was devastated. I wanted to die along with the loss of her. I attempted this and woke, days later, in intensive care, but I survived and recovered slowly, at least physically but never, emotionally or psychologically.

Despite all this, four years later, I still miss her, pine for her affection, long to see her again. I love her. I hate her. I miss her, with those waves crashing down on me so often that I feel I will perish like a ship at sea. The pain of losing her is sometimes unbearable and I don’t want to be living and breathing on this Earth at those times.

shipwreck2

But … I am here. Despite everything, I am still here. Somehow, my time was not up yet. And although those waves still frequently come crashing in around my ears, I survive them, all be it bruised and battered emotionally. I recognize her for the controlling, sick, manipulative woman that she was and I hate her for what she did to me.

I love her. I miss her, I want to remember her face which has strangely faded from my memory. I search for her. I need her. I want her back … but do I? Do I, really? Do I want my life smashed against the side of the shipwrecked vessel, time and time again till I am worn away and engulfed by the sea?

NO! I don’t. Not anymore. I have come too far. I do not wish to turn back as often as I’m tempted to. I deserve better. I am stronger than that. I am here. I am me and will remain so until my true time comes. I am a survivor.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THIS WORLD IN WHICH WE LIVE

THIS POST IS TAKEN FROM MY SECONDARY BLOG WHICH I AM TAKING A BREAK FROM FOR A WHILE. IT INCLUDES (AT THE BOTTOM), A BEAUTIFUL POEM WRITTEN BY MY FRIEND, KATIE MARSH, WHICH I WANTED TO TRANSFER TO THIS, MY USUAL BLOG, TO GIVE IT CREDIT. SOME OF YOU WILL HAVE ALREADY READ IT BUT FOR THOSE OF YOU WHO HAVEN’T, I HOPE IT TOUCHES YOU AS IT DID ME X

gif - power of love - power of war

I don’t claim to be an expert or even a particularly knowledgeable person when it comes to the subject of Planet Earth. I failed geography, abysmally at school. However, I do care about what we are doing to our world and beyond. I care about all the people who have suffered and lost their lives, those who are still suffering and those who will suffer in the future whether it be by natural causes, illness, disasters, war, poverty or by any other means.

I care that we are destroying our planet; destroying our population; destroying our people, wildlife, and nature. I care that we are ravaged by war; that we are polluting our planet and the atmosphere. I care that a huge number of people are homeless, roaming the streets, roaming the deserts, the plains, the forests and the wilderness. I could continue further, but many of us know the facts already.

I am scared for all our futures; I’m scared for our children’s futures, our grandchildren’s futures and all future generations after that, if by then there is still a habitable planet to live on. The list goes on and on … and on … and on … and on … until infinity.

And the very recent and past atrocities have really brought home to me just how fragile our lives are. If only the power of love could overcome the power of war then maybe, just maybe we could experience peace in our time. Perhaps it would be a start.

A very close friend of mine, Katie, wrote these very moving words about the current situation that I wanted to share with you here….

The winds of Mother Nature are blowing on the Earth
Accepting all we’ve done to her since our sweet sacred birth.
There are babies curled in cradles unaware of hate and crime
Dreaming of their Mummies in the loving hands of Time.
Forgive us sweetest Mother for the ways that we’ve grown old
For independent streaks in us that turned our hearts too cold.
We’ve sinned so much we’re hurting and the pain is plain to see
That first we were so innocent on a gentle, rocking knee.
How love could turn to awful hate and safety turn to terror
Is based it seems on single thoughts that have their root in error.
Behind us and in front of us is such an awesome Love
That would have us in its gentlest hold in time with God above.
If only we could fall down flat and beg to stop the violence
Our hearts might cry sincerely out, then rest in hallowed silence.

©Katie Marsh 2015

SCREAMING THE INSIDE OUT

head screaming

I’ve seen my therapist today, and all sorts of thoughts are flooding my mind like a dam has burst inside my head. I just need to write out these thoughts to get them on paper rather than have them living rent-free in my head and taking up space for something more constructive.

This post isn’t going to be remotely witty or intellectual – it’s just me, Ellie – letting feelings out – trying to remember to breathe – breathing is crucial for survival – so is my writing. Please forgive me my self-indulgence.

I know my anger towards not only my recent assailant but also all my many other abusers in my life is currently turning inwards. I know that I am berating myself, belittling all the abuse I’ve been through and telling myself, “for goodness sake; pull yourself together!!” I have internal chatter running around my head. However, I am trying to fight these unhelpful and negative thoughts and attempting to replace them with more realistic and sensible ones.

I am beginning to recognize that over the years, I have well and truly had my boundaries smashed to pieces. With the downfall of those barriers and the lack of love shown to me in my life, is it any wonder I’m a sucker for affection. Is this what gets me into trouble? Am I too friendly? Do I give the wrong impression? Am I gullible? What the fuck am I doing so wrong?

(Excuse me why I quietly go and hide myself in a corner – and scream and shout and rant and rave! What? Do you mean I’ve done that already?)

I barely recognize my own emotions, and when I do, I give them no respect. “Why???”, I yell at the top of my voice! God – please let me off at the next stop.

“Calm down, Ellie; just calm it right down. Now, stop and … breathe …”. OK. I’m breathing. I’m shattered. I’m emotionally exhausted. I’m drained. I need sleep – restorative sleep; not nightmares running amuck inside my head – peaceful sleep – rest – quiet – repose – AND DON’T BLOODY WELL FORGET TO BREATHE!!

 

 

ASSAULT

crying woman drawing

Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse … they did. On Monday afternoon, I was sexually assaulted. I am still in a state of shock and wasn’t even able to contact the police until this morning. I don’t know where yesterday went – I’ve sort of lost a day somewhere. It keeps trying to sink into my brain, but something in me is desperately fighting it off. I’m feeling a thousand and more emotions all at once and desperately want to get out from inside my head. The reason that I am writing this, not because I wish to draw attention to myself but because my mind is not capable of dealing with all this without my skull exploding into microscopic particles, and my brain cells self-combusting irretrievably if I do not express myself.

It was approximately 2.30 pm when my window-cleaner called. He had been doing this monthly for at least twenty years, and he had always been a friendly man. He was called Bob, and I’d talked with him many a time over the period where my children were growing up and some of the many years when my mental health was bad. I’d always make him a cup of tea, and we’d chat, and then he went on to his next customer

When I became more physically challenged, I was no longer able to make him a drink so he’d come in with my permission to make his own tea. No problem there. He was amicable enough, and we talked about our offspring and lately he’d been talking to me about his young grandson, He proudly showed me photos of himself with his family and this little toddler.

This Monday, it was different. I’d let him in to make his tea, which he did, making me a coffee at the same time. He sat opposite my wheelchair, and we started chatting. He was complimentary about how well I coped and how I was always cheerful, no matter what. (I would almost pride myself at hiding my true feelings from people other than my family and close friends, and even with them, I’m excellent at glossing over the surface of what seem to be insurmountable problems).

Out of the blue, he suddenly lurched forwards, grabbed me and hurled me to the ground. I didn’t stand a chance of defending myself partly because of my disability, and I think, probably also because I was so shocked that I didn’t even scream. It was like watching myself in a slow-motion horror movie. As he assaulted me, I was as terrified as I had been on those numerous occasions that I had been the subject of child sexual abuse. After what seemed like forever, he was disturbed by my phone ringing. This interruption startled him enough into leaving me alone and completely stunned, and he rapidly headed out of the front door.

After that and yesterday? I don’t know where that time went or what I did. It was when I woke up this morning that I realised the enormity and horror of what I’d experienced. I felt muddled, confused and could hardly believe what had happened. I telephoned the police non-emergency number as if, I think, to kid myself that it was no big deal or was of no importance. When somebody finally answered my call, I found myself blurting everything out including how I was so caught up in the horrors of my son and daughter’s lives currently. It was all too overwhelming as I tried to explain myself, going over everything in fast-forward time. The police asked me for the precise details of the event, but I couldn’t be specific. I told them, crying and sobbing, what I had remembered. They reassured me that I’d taken the correct course of action by phoning them. They said, ‘could I get a friend or neighbour to come and sit with me’. I said there was only my next-door neighbour who was near enough but that she had gone out earlier so they just asked if I was able to phone my family and that a police officer would call to let me know what would happen next.

Well, here I am on Thursday morning. The assault happened on Monday, and I rang the police first thing yesterday morning. I waited for their phone call all day. Nothing – absolutely nothing. And today, so far, still nothing – no follow-up telephone call, no visit. I’m reluctant to phone them again because it is of course so trivial and no cause for concern in their eyes.

Yes, I am angry and upset but it seems plain that I’m making mountains out of molehills; that it is of no importance; that perhaps it’s my fault for letting him in. I hadn’t screamed; I hadn’t shouted; I didn’t even try to push him away; I had it coming, and it’ll teach me a lesson for the future.

My world is presently a dark, black hole in the ground and I am at the very bottom of it without a ladder. I don’t know how I’m going to get out of this space.

No – I don’t feel ‘sorry’ for myself; I don’t want pity; I’m just feeling so furious, vulnerable and very, very alone. 

I CAN’T PEOPLE TODAY

My head is completely fucked up today. I wanted to be kind today because that’s how I like to treat people and have been on the whole. I left my Carer a ‘Welcome to my humble abode’ message with a smiley face drawn on the wipe-clean noticeboard in the kitchen and then when she came I could do nothing other than make small talk. I went out this morning and smiled and said “good morning” and “have a nice day” to passers-by on my way to the shops. I decided to leave two sticky-notes saying ‘Hi! Have an awesome day! Love from a stranger xx’, one stuck on the wrapper of a loaf of bread in the supermarket round the corner and the other on a packet of babies disposable nappies in the chemist. My hope was to brighten someone’s day. Then I unintentionally held up a queue of people in a shop because I couldn’t turn my wheelchair round in the small place on the way out and then felt dreadful. I tried out a new cycle path in my wheelchair on the way back from the shops and managed to lose my way (not unusual for me). I looked around and surprisingly, I spotted my neighbours two children not far off (on their bikes) who are twelve and nine. I called out to them and said how silly I was to get lost and bless their hearts, they cycled all the way home with me so I popped out again and got them a Kit-Kat chocolate bar each to say thank you. I arrived home safe and well. I did these things because I wanted to make people happy and not because I want thanks or recognition,

And now, this evening, everything in my head has gone pear-shaped. I am full of self-hatred and anger. I ignored the telephone when it rung and pretended I wasn’t in when a salesman rang the doorbell. I hid as best I could which isn’t easy when your legs don’t work. Suddenly, I don’t want to see anyone; I don’t want to speak to anyone; I don’t want to be with anyone whereas normally I would crave these things. I’m a grumpy old cow this evening. My faith seems to have gone up in smoke. I don’t know what has happened to me today….I know that my moods alter drastically from one moment to the next sometimes and I know that can be caused by my mental health condition, Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD). But, somehow today, it feels more than that. I don’t want to be; I don’t want to think; I don’t want to talk; I can, thankfully, write today (after a fashion). I just “CAN’T PEOPLE TODAY”. I just can’t do it, be it, see it, hear it, say it, feel it. I don’t want to be part of the world or part of our war-torn, desperately unfair existence, I don’t want to be on this planet or in this universe. I just don’t want to be! ‘STOP THE WORLD, I WANNA GET OFF’. Get me out of here……………

i can't people today

I’m sorry, people x  😦

A TANGLE OF WORDS

learn me slowly

I am at a loss today. This isn’t going to be a clever piece of poetry or a blog as such; more a tangle of words because my head is muddied today. Love, compassion, charity, honesty and practising at least one random act of kindness every day are important to me. Friendship too….I have very few close friends but we know each other very well and that’s what matters. I also like my solitude; time to think, feel (not always desirable), dream, hope and more…

When I love, I love with passion in my soul; not a burning desire for sexual intimacy but more burning desire to understand other’s thoughts and feelings. My own, I trash! I’ve been told that I don’t give myself the respect that I give to others. I feel I am not deserving of that. I anger slowly with others, but rapidly and ferociously with myself.

I am confused; I am angry: I am hurting; I have had ‘the book’ thrown at me in this life that I do not desire today. I have been used and abused, beaten, yelled at, abandoned, trodden down, smashed to pieces but I bear no malice and I fear conflict with a very deep rooted fear.

Yet, I know that am, too, a survivor. I know that much although remembering it is not always simple and it is far too easy to slip into the victim role. I do not want to be there! I do not want to be that! I am a tough cookie, so they say.

But still I question, who am I though? Who am I really? I am a daughter who fears terribly the thought of one day soon, not being a daughter anymore because life gets snuffed out as is the order of nature. It is so unfair at times. I am a sister; I am an aunt; I am a mother (all be it unwanted by my children); I am a grandmother (all be it denied me). I am, however, forever blessed in that I am a daughter of God, my Father. I trust God; I’m just not sure I trust the rest of the world.

Am I making any sense? Am I being rational? I think not? Sometimes (like now) I seriously doubt my sanity…I feel so often that my life and my sanity are (in the words of Paul Simon, “Slip, Slidin’ Away”.

Sometimes I wish I was……..