Drowning for ya.

I should have known that trying to swim to shore, also meant the risk of sinking under, limbs exhausted.  Drowning.  Gosh, I started to go through life, not jumping in, not swimming toward warmth and safety... But then I do something totally crazy.  
Maybe it's crazy.
Maybe it's healthy.
I sometimes think I must feel myself losing my breath, and I just know I have to do it.  I feel I have to do it.  And so I do.  I do something totally nuts.  Is that crazy or okay?

You tried to lie, I can see that you don't need me
All of your words, they've been cursed with dishonesty.
Take it from the girl you claim to love, you're gonna get some bad karma
I'm the one who had to learn to build a heart made of armour
From the girl who made you soup and tied your shoes when you were hurting
You are not deserving, you are not deserving

PMDD:  Yeah, that makes me think I can't stay afloat and I think I can't keep pushing the water behind me.  I feel the water closing in on me, sucking me deep.  
But I don't want to give up.  
I haven't.  
You see, I'm still here.  I still write, and I still live, and I breathe.  Through it all, I'm fighting and kicking, so my head is above water... most of the time.  

I could see that you wanted me cold

You're so bold while you're watching me moan

You tried to hide, I can see that you don't see me

What do you gain by the names that you're calling me?

Take it from the girl you claim to love, you're gonna get some bad karma

I'm the one who had to learn to build a heart made of armour

From the girl who made you soup and tied your shoes when you were hurting

You are not deserving, you are not deserving

(Cause I'm drowning for ya)

What are marked traits of PMDD, though?  Are they:  "Frantic efforts to avoid being abandoned by friends and family.  Unstable personal relationships that alternate between idealization—“I’m so in love!”—and devaluation. Distorted and unstable self-image, which affects moods, values, opinions, goals and relationships. Impulsive behaviors that can have dangerous outcomes, such as excessive spending, unsafe sex, substance abuse or reckless driving."  

Doesn't it sound like that describes my behavior?  Doesn't that seem like it describes me?  Doesn't it seem like all that, (which is written above), defines the behaviors and feelings I have experienced these past years? Or, have I been depressed, and really unhappy, with breaks of sanity, and happiness, and action, and hopefulness?  Wasn't I moving... towards something else?  Trying to feel better?  If we do something that seems crazy to everyone else, does that make us crazy?  

Or what if one person understands that it's not crazy at all... that the accepting of unhappiness is most crazy, and jumping into the water--without knowing what will happen, and how far I'll have to swim-- is actually brave and wonderful?

I know.  I know inside myself.  And I know that I have fallen into wanting everyone to think I'm sane and happy and normal, so I end up making everything think I'm crazy:  The people who see me as happy and acting irrationally; and the people who see me as rational and sane but being irrational and crazy by not getting away from all that is unhealthy and makes me feel so very badly.  I am not crazy.  I'm not.

I could see that you wanted me cold

You're so bold while you're watching me moan

Holding out like you could pull me down

Cause I'm drowning for ya
(Cause I'm drowning for ya)
Cause I'm drowning for ya

The traits or symptoms I listed are actually a clinical description of the traits of Borderline Personality Disorder which my mother thought she should send me.  PMDD and my unhappiness have eluded her always, all these years, and she has always come up with some other thoughts about why I have felt the way I do or acted the way I do.  She thinks maybe that's the ticket, this month:  BPD.  Okay.  Thyroid results be damned.  Blood tests be damned.  Brain scans be damned, (Oh, that's another post).  Me telling her what is happening in my life and how I feel be damned.  Reality...  Be fucking damned.  

Can you follow me out to the water?

I can show you we're sinking deeper

Let me know

Cause I'm drowning for ya

I remember when I signed Stella up for swimming lessons when she was two or three, she decided she would get into the pool... Ever.  She sat on the concrete, against the chain link dense, as far from the water as possible.  "Want to just sit on the side of the pool and put your feet in, Stella."  (She shakes head, serious look on her little baby face, which meant:  "fuck no, I know what you assholes are up to.  I'll put my feet in, and you'll grab me and put me in that water."  That was her exact facial expression.  She watched moms dragging their children by their arms into the water, telling them to stop screaming, "you are going to learn to swim!  Get in the water right now!"  The teenage swim instructors were handed these screaming, terrified children, and forced to try to "teach a swimming lesson."

I was not that kind of mommy; I would never force her to get in the water if she was scared.  I mean, why make a poor little kid more horrified by the idea of "swimming," and also scared of water...  And also scared of their parent...  I knew she needed to trust me.  She watched the lessons very closely, with a furrowed brow. We pretended we were swimming, making the movements while sitting with our backs to the fence.  (4 years later she learned how to swim because she wanted to.  "I'm ready to learn to swim," she said.  She started swimming like a mermaid (she'd want me to say that instead of 'fish' because she loves mermaids).

You see?  No one should push anyone into the water.  You have to wait until they jump all on their own. You can't tell them why they should jump, or should never jump, or analyze all the reasons they won't jump or can't jump, or all the reasons they could jump, or all the things that could help them jump, or things that will totally protect them from jumping in the future...  Don't tell them all the reasons that cause disappointment for "everyone" because we did jump, or didn't jump, or how it was all such a failure, every single way, for every single reason.

Can you follow me out to the water?

I can show you we're sinking deeper

Let me know

Cause I'm drowning for ya

...Every single reason...  Guess the common treatment is for BPD... SSRIs and mood stabilizers...   I'm taking or have tried both.  No change.  Because I have PMDD.  Or something that affects my hormones or is deeply affected by my hormone fluctuations and totally fucks me up.  Something to do with my thyroid, for example...  (Another post, again, entirely).  

Can you follow me out to the water?

I can show you we're sinking deeper

Let me know

And the craziest person isn't you, or me at all.  They are the ones who tell you to jump, and give you the old, "I believe in you," speech, they aren't anywhere to be seen when waters get rough.  When they think they can handle PMDD, but they can't.  They tell you they understand, but then they let you sink.  Good people.  Good people can't be truly crazy.  Those who are selfish and self-centered are the craziest people I know.

Cause I'm drowning for ya

Can you follow me out to the water?

I can show you we're sinking deeper

Let me know

Cause I'm drowning for ya

Arms.

Truth or dreams.  Truth or dreams?
That isn't a question, is it?  We have to have truth, behind our dreams.  We can't have dreams, or hopes, based on something that is irrational and empty of substance.  We can't live for a dream, based on memories from the past.  No one should live that way.  It rips people apart.  It drives them mad.

Truth makes dreams come true.  Truth fills dreams up with color and happiness and beauty.  Hope has to be based on some truth, yeah?

I'm not sure if it's just the depression and craziness that runs in my family, or if it's PMDD, but I tried to sustain myself on memories.  I tried to sustain myself on feelings, and safety I felt in the past. Those safe places aren't there anymore.  I didn't find new ones.  I just kept clutching the comfort of the past in my hands, not bothering to open them up... and see they were empty... I was holding onto nothing.

Haven't you ever done that?  Held on for too long, and subsequently, you didn't let yourself move on, and accept truth?

I can still feel the safety of my grandparents' house when they were loving and living.  I can still smell it--Grampy's aftershave, and dinner cooking, and warmth and love.  I can feel the beautiful, ornate handle of the old wooden door in my hand (replaced by a crappy, cheap, generic, and ugly door by my brother and his wife when they lived in the house after Grampy died).  I can see my grampy in his chair, visible from the door, just as I walked in.  I can see his smile.  I would know nanny was in the kitchen making dinner, or she would be on the couch, closest to him.  

I remember even further back.  I remember figuring out how to open the door with two newborn baby car seats balanced on my wrists.  

I remember so long ago--charging through the door, without knocking, when I was a kid, and finding my nanny and grampy bustling about in their house.  They never looked surprised to see a grandchild suddenly appear in their kitchen.  They always said, "Joanna!" and hugged me.  

I want that to be the truth of now, not just the past.  I am so blessed, and happy that I even experienced all that love and joy.  That was my truth for most of my life, so far.

I guess the more damaged I felt with depression and PMDD, the more I wanted all the safety and happiness I had ever experienced in my life, to surround me and hold me tight all at once.
I want my mommy.  I'm so scared.  I'm so lost.
I told her that, a week or so ago.  She didn't know what to do. She told me about the medications that could work for me.  She told me about medicine and that she had to go.

But, see, I have accepted that fact: that my mommy is gone, somehow.  Somehow, I accepted it, and stopped hoping a long time ago... but, when I'm really scared, I can't help but cry for the mother I knew, and the mother I really need so desperately right now.

I miss my dad.  He farms all summer.  We have had spinach from the farm.  They are in corn season now.  Michael loves cucumbers.  Stella loves corn.  I love summer squash, and cucumbers, and fresh tomatoes and...  We'd have to go to the stand and get vegetables.  Not pay for them, obviously, but collect them like customers.  My parents live around the corner.  My father drives home from the farm every day.  I don't understand, sometimes, except that people do what they can to survive and sometimes that's all they've got.  I still feel sad.

I'm scared of how quickly time slips by, and the people we love slip away.  They aren't around the corner, or through a door, or talking to you daily over email, or chatting.  They are just gone.

I don't want to have to keep accepting the loss and the grieving, that seems to last so long when someone leaves.  I think after my grampy died, I stopped having the ability to let go completely.
I'm realizing that, now.
I stopped letting go, and started pulling harder and saying, "No, no!"
Oh, Gosh, even when there was no way to stop someone from leaving.  And even when I should have let them go.

You think I don't know I can't control other people?  I can't control life and death?  I can't control anything but my own self?  I'm a smart woman.  I know.  I know.
But that doesn't mean I always feel like I can live with it in a healthy way, or accept any of that truth when I am feeling so fucking sad, I think it will kill me.

I needed people to stay.  I needed people to not disappear.
I needed a truth to believe in.  And, I am trying to not need anyone.  I'm trying to ever let myself sink into the loveliness of someone listening, or caring about me.  I'm trying not to let myself get comfortable in the happiness of finding safety in a world that doesn't exist--not for long-- or in arms that will only temporarily wrap around me.  I don't want to relax into those arms, folded in half, listening to whispers of love and assurance, ever again.  I don't want to feel someone else making me feel safe.  I will stay rigid in any arms, and keep myself safe.

I was told I became a "side hugger." I don't allow hugs to comfort me.  I don't hug people unless it's my children.  I know I am scared.  I fear arms.  And yet when people tell me, "What is this?  That's not a hug?" I try to do better.  Be better.  I wanted to be a hugger, again.  I used to show my affections.  I know hugs can feel like heaven when we need them.  But I don't give them out.

And at one point I did.  I sank so deeply into them, I fell over.  Silly me.  I'm scared again.  Of arms holding me up.

Here's the truth:  I will forever be the safe arms wrapped around my children.  I will feel them snuggle against me, and fall asleep, breathing steadily, syncopated with my own breath and heartbeat.
I will be their truth.
I will keep them safe.
I will love them.
I won't disappear.
I won't let that happen.
They will never feel what I feel.
They will never feel this sad.
Never.

I'm not perfect. I hate making mistakes.

I will admit: I often write posts when I'm in a... certain mood...a particular emotional state, if you will.

Gosh darn it, if I ever do go back and read old posts and I see typos or glaring mistakes...
 I just want to punch myself in the face.
It's unacceptable.

I do go back and make corrections, and rework the writing, from past posts quite often.  I fix my mistakes.

Maybe...  Hmmm... I think about the things I wrote from a different perspective...
Or I just realize that what I wrote was too crazy, even if I was feeling it at the time.
I always want to fix things.  I want to fix all things and make all the things in life--my life--just right.  I want to, and try to with all my might, make everything how it should be, and what I want it to look like, and feel like.

I'm a fixer.  I'm a corrector.

Gosh, wasn't that my job?  It wasn't to fix or correct student work but to at least mark it up and help them learn how to fix it on their own.  I would write encouraging suggestions, or compliments, to balance the red marks, circling typos and misspelled words.  Ha.  Okay.  Yes, I would sometimes write, "Um...  Did you spell check this, or even read it before handing it in?  How about you do that, print it again, and give me that new copy.  We will recycle this one, so we don't waste paper."

Oh, snap.  Mean teacher.  Mean Mrs. Coleman...

But, for goodness sake...  I spent so many hours with essays spread all over a table in front of me, or on our queen sized bed at home, and I would read every word, and take great care and time with each piece of writing...  To get to a moment where I realized that the student didn't take any care at all...  I was not pleased.  They stopped that nonsense within the first month of my class.

When I read my own writing and see typos, I fix them, of course, but first I cringe... then I realize no one really reads this, or maybe they aren't noticing them, or they are reading it as a whole--seeing me, and my thoughts as a whole--and aren't hung up on... my mistakes.

I'm the one who is hung up.  I'm the one stuck on the mistakes.

And I wish I could fix every damn thing, not just in my writing, or in anyone's writing, but in life... in life.  In Life.

I have to stop that, huh?