Monthly Archives: February 2012

Nothing to say

I haven’t posted anything lately because I literally have nothing to say. My brain just is a complete blank. This is the first time this has happened since I started this blog in mid December. When I started the blog, I did worry that I would run out of things to say, and somehow I found things to say – on an almost daily basis – for over two months. Now I feel I have literally run quite dry. I’m guessing this maybe is what writers block feels like? I’m not sure. But it’s like my brain has been emptied and there’s just nothing left to share.

Something to report: my rage has been getting the best of me this last week. Okay I guess that’s really all I feel like saying about that. Pretty pathetic, huh?

I see Bean tomorrow. We’re going to talk about my rage. Not R’s rage but my own rage. I’m not sure what to think or expect. I’m too tired to feel anything about it I suppose.

Well, the few readers that I have, please don’t give up on me just yet. I’ll be back writing, and soon I hope. Til then, maybe I’ll try and just enjoy this little lull without heaping unnecessary pressure on myself to create something out of nothing. And I just don’t have the energy to do that at this point.


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Pissy and irritable

I’m feeling pissy and irritable for no reason whatsoever. Ugh what is wrong with me.

I’m so tired. I’m so tired of feeling like every day is so hard and so draining. And I’m so tired of feeling like I’m constantly complaining all the time (ahem//what are you doing now?!).

Sometimes I’m just tired of being around myself. I think I want a break from myself honestly. But… We know that will never happen lol. I’m stuck with myself for good it seems.

Maybe I’m just bored with my life. Dissatisfied. Wanting more. Wanting more than just to work and come home and watch tv and sleep. Because that feels like my life. Oh and therapy. Can’t forget therapy. The relationship where I pay for someone to listen to me for an hour, but who ultimately could care less. Yes that.

Can you tell I’m in a pissy mood?

I don’t even want to go to therapy today. What’s the point. It’s not like she gives a shit anyway. A big fat waste of money if you ask me. Maybe I need a break from therapy. Who knows.

How does one acquire motivation when it seems to be completely lacking? How does one extricate oneself from the vortex of bitterness and complacency in which one finds itself? I don’t want to be an unhappy person, I really don’t. And yet sometimes it feels destined, inevitable. Can someone please wake up the happy, motivated me please? Please??


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Small successes

I went for a walk today around the reservoir near my apartment. Well, more specifically, a jog. I jogged around the whole thing! I was shocked and surprised that I was able to jog the entire distance – a whole three miles! I didn’t think I’d be able to do it, especially with all my back problems over the past several years. This is the first time I’ve done anything like this since then and, well, it feels nothing short of a miracle! I will celebrate the small successes :). Whoop!!


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Pushing myself

Sometimes I push myself so hard I don’t know how or when to stop. I’ve spent the last couple hours cleaning. I began to feel foggy and overwhelmed. And rather than taking a break I pushed harder. When I realized I should take a break, I started to but then noticed the hair balls and dust collected in the corners and felt a compulsion to clean. Keep cleaning. Must keep cleaning. At what cost? At the cost of my inner well being. I started getting angry and agitated. I was pushing chairs over and throwing the broom down in my haste to get every last particle of dust on the floor. It became my angry mission. But not in a good way.

I’m finally taking a break. After I snapped at my partner and yelled at her for looking at me. For looking at me. For watching me as I was sweeping frantically. She responded in a patient, kind tone, “I was just going to tell you what an awesome job you’re doing.” How do I deserve that? After snapping at her. I don’t…

But I’m going to try to go easy on myself. Cleaning is a daunting task for anyone, and considering how easily I get overwhelmed by things, I think I’ve done a fairly good job. I just need to learn to go slow, to take breaks, to do it in moderation rather than pushing myself to the point of breaking. Although pushing myself until it’s horribly painful is something I’ve always been good at. It’s hard to unlearn engrained habits I suppose. But I’m gonna try my darnedest.

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A difficult session – part 2



Here are some things that Bean told me about myself and my memory in relationship to my mom:

~She told me that since my mom doesn’t have the ability to remember things in a sequential (or chronological) way, that I wouldn’t have learned that either.

~I asked Bean, if my memories weren’t “encoded” properly, will I never be able to remember them or access them? She said that it’s not that they aren’t stored in my brain, it’s just they are stored in a different way, in a part of my brain that I don’t have access to. And she said, yes, it is possible to access those memories. It will just take some time and patience.

~She said that most people don’t remember the exact details of events, but they remember the gist of events and the overall feeling, as well as the chronology. They are able to integrate and store memories in a way that it becomes part of the overall narrative. She said that I never developed the ability to construct my own narrative, since I had no one to show me, since my mom didn’t do that. And she said that a big part of therapy is helping to construct a narrative.

~Bean said that our narratives are formed in relation to other people, not in a vacuum. And that if my mom was zoned out a lot, which she was, and if she was dissociative, which she was, and if she couldn’t put events together in a chronological way, that I wouldn’t develop the ability to create a fluid narrative of my life. And that’s how it feels. It feels like my life is fragmented, in pieces, rather than one fluid narrative. I have memories, but it’s so hard to figure out when they happened, or in what order. That’s actually what a huge part of this blog is about – to document what is occurring for me, the ins and outs of my life, physically, emotionally, psychologically, everything, so that I have something to go back to and reference and say, oh right, that’s how it happened. And what an invaluable gift that is.


Fast-forward to:   dum dum dummm…. END OF SESSION. [cue a horror movie scream]


Like always, I didn’t want to leave. I began retreating inside my mind, and wasn’t able to speak or engage with Bean at all.

Bean: Did this state come on because it is the end of the session?

I nod, my eyes glued to the floor.

BeanWell, I have an idea. Maybe we can start off next session at this point. The point where we are now. What do you think about that idea?

I sit, silent.


BeanYou know, I think we can plan to have a longer session at some point. You know, maybe like a three hour session – like the rapid resolution doctor does. I think it could be very effective to do that every once in a while, as needed. But unfortunately we can’t do that right now. Your body is telling us that its had enough.

*By the way, at some point near the end of session, I had mentioned that I was getting a really bad headache. She commented by saying that was my body’s way of saying it has had enough.*

BeanOkay [Brandic], I’m going to ask you to come back into the room. Can you do that?

I half nod, half shake my head. I’m a mess. I can’t look at her, I can’t speak, I can’t bring myself back. I am lost. I have no anchor. I am floating away. She wants me to leave. She doesn’t want me here anymore. It’s the ultimate rejection. I can’t come back. I just can’t.

She stands up.


Bean: Okay, well it’s time to go.


No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no I’m screaming in my head. I’m not ready yet! I don’t WANT to leave! Why are you making me leave! Why don’t you care about me?!


I stand and walk stone-faced to the door. I cross my arms to contain everything that’s going on inside, and I walk as fast as I can to her front door. I open the front door, and as I do so, she says, “Okay bye!” and then giggles. I’m guessing the giggle was out of discomfort, but it still made me extremely uncomfortable. How can she be cheerful and upbeat when I’m in the midst of my own personal hell. It’s what my mom used to do. And it’s not okay. I’m not okay. Can’t you see that?

I practically run to my car, anger spewing from every pore.

My emotional mind is telling me she doesn’t care. She just wanted me gone. She doesn’t care about me at all. I’m just another client. The hour was up, and it was time for me to leave. Period. My rational mind is telling me that she really does care, she’s just trying to maintain boundaries. She had even mentioned something about “sticking to the hour time so that I can feel safe and contained” or something like that. That her reasons for having me leave so abruptly on the hour were for my own benefit, not hers. And yet, despite however right my rational mind seems to be, my emotional mind always seems to win out. She doesn’t care. She doesn’t want me there. I could just vanish from this earth and she wouldn’t even care, or mind, or notice. That deep down, she hates me. Wishes I didn’t exist. That I make her life more miserable, harder somehow.

Wow, am I projecting feelings about my own mother onto her, or what?!


The adventures in the therapeutic world of Brandic.


Tune in for our next adventure! Coming soon!!

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A difficult session

I had an extremely hard session with Bean yesterday. Even though I wasn’t feeling well, we ended up diving into a lot of stuff. And her conclusions were unexpected to say the least.

I had told her about the conversation I had with my mom about M, the older guy who sexually abused me when I was 12 and 13 (and who was also emotionally abusive). My mom and I had talked this past weekend about it. I called her because I had lots of questions. Things that didn’t make sense to me.

Here were some of the things I “knew” going into the conversation that didn’t seem to fit together:

~ My mom had always told me that her and my dad had met M once, didn’t like him, and told me I was not to see him anymore. And yet… I remember him being in our house. In my room. With the door shut. With my parents home. Go figure.

~ A few years ago, my mom told me about a time where I had apparently asked for permission to go over to M’s house. She didn’t feel comfortable with it and had wanted to speak to an adult who would be there. According to my mom, I had told her his mom didn’t speak English so she couldn’t talk to her (she spoke only Spanish). Apparently she let me go, despite her gut feeling, and when I came back she said that I got under the covers and moaned for three days and wouldn’t come out. When I’ve questioned her before about it, asking her why she didn’t do anything at that time, her response has been that she tried talking to me but that I would yell at her to go away. So she did. And then she said after those three days, I got up and acted “totally fine” so she decided not to worry about it. Ah the power of a dissociative mind. Push it down and away. Now, just for the record, I have no recollection of any of this, and was shocked and appalled when she told me this story several years ago. I had no idea I had ever wanted to go to his house, I had no idea I ever did (if that’s where in fact we went), and I have no memory of staying in bed for days moaning. It’s all very strange.

I had some questions for my mom that I’ve been trying to figure out. Did she meet him before this event occurred? Afterward? And why had he been in my room that one time. If they met him and didn’t want me seeing him, then he wouldn’t be allowed in my house, right? Let alone my room?

So I called her to get clarification on these things.

She doesn’t know the sequence of events to any of it. She couldn’t tell me if me going to his house was before or after meeting him. She verified that he had been in my room once, and that she’d been very uncomfortable with it and had made us come out. She doesn’t remember whether that was before or after meeting him.

She did say that if she were to guess, that we were probably “together” about a year. (Well, might I add, that she knew of. I know for a fact that it went on for at least two years.) How she had managed to let it last that long without taking action is beyond me. She also verified that she thinks I was 12 when I met him. That that sounded about right.

So I told Bean all of this.

Her response was that it sounds like my mom has just as bad a memory as I do. I agreed. That sounded about right. My mom has an awful memory.

Then I began talking about my memory in a more general way. About how little of my life I can actually remember. I told her about how I was once engaged to a guy, but I couldn’t tell you the details about it. Couldn’t tell you how we met, or how we got engaged. Couldn’t tell you a single thing we did together. Couldn’t tell you how or why we broke up.

I told her about one of the few memories I have of him.

Me: We were in my room and he was crying and crying and crying and sobbing and sobbing and sobbing, and asking me, “Please hold me, please hold me, please hold me.” And I got up and left. I just couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t. He kept saying he just needed to be held and comforted and I just couldn’t do it. I got up and left.

Bean: Okay, do you notice how you said things in groups of threes? He was ‘crying and crying and crying,’ and ‘sobbing and sobbing and sobbing’ and ‘he said, “please hold me, please hold me, please hold me.”‘

I just stared at her, feeling a bit uncomfortable.

She continued:

Bean: Try saying, “he was crying and sobbing and he asked me to hold him.”

I felt a really strange sensation start to rise up within me.

Me: I really think that I really don’t want to do that.

Bean: Is it because it feels scary, or because it feels manipulative.

Me: Because it feels scary.

She looked surprised, and encouraged me to again to say it without the repetition. I wouldn’t do it. She decided to explain what she was thinking.

Bean: What you’re doing when you start repeating things like that, is you are actually putting yourself into a trace. You are putting yourself into a hypnotic state, and you most likely would not have remembered telling me about that experience. Because when you are in that state, memories don’t get encoded properly.

She was beginning to lose me, and I was starting to feel overwhelmed. Was this why I had so few memories? Because I was in a trance state at the time?

I realize I sometimes do get caught up in talking, especially when I am telling a story. But… Is that a bad thing? Does that mean I’m not connecting to the present? I know my mom tends to talk and talk and not ever have an actual back and forth conversation. Does my mom do that too? Is that what she means?

She told me that when we say something three times, it’s likely we’re going into that self-hypnotic state. That just freaked me out. I didn’t want to know about. Or, I didn’t want to know that I do that.

Okay I’m starting to feel overwhelmed thinking about this stuff so I’m gonna take a break. Will go back and talk more about how the session ended later when my head is less foggy and I’m feeling less overwhelmed.

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A miracle

I want to share with you a miracle that happened this morning. When I woke up this morning, I felt calm. That’s it. That’s the miracle. And it was an amazing and wonderful feeling.

Every morning, pretty much without fail, when the alarm goes off the screaming in my head starts, and I am flooded with terror. The thought of getting out of bed is not only overwhelming, it is unbearable. I wrap myself up even tighter in my covers and delay the inevitable for as long as possible. Finally, when I can’t afford to stay in bed one more minute, I painfully peel the covers back and thrust my body out of the bed despite the shrieks and protests in my mind. The entire morning is spent trying to reassure myself that I’m okay, that I am safe. My partner can hardly say a word to me in the mornings because it usually results in me shrieking, running and hiding, or both.

But not this morning. This morning, when the alarm went off, my mind was quiet. Things actually felt okay. I felt like I was actually able to breathe normally. My heart was beating at its regular speed. I was calm. I was calm.

Every week when I see my therapist, she asks me if my mornings have gotten any better. Every week I tell her, no still hard. I always wondered why she asked, because I didn’t see it changing in the foreseeable future. This has been going on for… well… at least a year.

But it did. It finally changed. I don’t know if this was a one time deal, or a longer lasting change. I don’t know, but I’ll take it. I was actually able to have an adult conversation with my partner this morning, and that is rare if not nonexistent.

So I am feeling a bit up this morning. A celebration of sorts.


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