Betsy Phillips's Blog, page 6

Injury

One of the reasons I’m glad my therapist called this an assault is that it makes sense for me of why I’m still off-kilter even though I’m home and everything’s now fine.

I’m injured.

Take today, which was a good day. I put my afghan on display at the Frist Museum:

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I had the delightful experience of handing the afghan to my co-worker and watching his utter confusion when he realized I was handing it to him to take home to his wife.

Then I threw a three minute dance party for my coworker and she laughed so wonderfully that I thought my heart would burst.

And then I went straight into a two hour funk. I needed to ask my other coworker to help me with a thing and I just couldn’t do it. I had such anxiety about it.

I sent him part of what I needed and apologized and told him I had to go home, eat, and pet my dog and then try again to give him the rest.

I’m very thankful that I can just be completely nuts to my coworkers and they’re so kind and understanding. But Christ.

But as I was thinking about being bummed about how my anxiety has made me into a weirdo, I thought about that word, “assault.” Because what happens when you’re assaulted? You get injured.

It’s like when you sprain your ankle and you get so bored just resting it so you decide you can, I don’t know, dance all evening and at some point your ankle is just like “No, I was not ready for this much activity yet.”

And that’s where my brain is. I am feeling better. So much better.

But I’m not ready for this much activity yet. I still need to take it easy.

How It Continues to Go

I had coffee with S. yesterday. She said some wise things. Made me assure her I’d talk to my therapist about other things.

I told my therapist that I am mildly sympathetic to my parents’ perspective on my life–that I have no one and nothing and my life is small and boring and I am unhappy–because that’s what I show them.

I don’t want them to meet my friends. I don’t want them to be here for things that are important to me if they can’t be supportive. I’m convinced that there’s nothing good of mine they won’t ruin and I don’t want them to have access to my good things. To people I care about.

But also, a thing I said to S. that I hadn’t quite articulated to myself is that it really pisses me off that I’m broken right along lines they put in me–the belief that I’m unlovable because I’m fat, that no one will ever love me for various reasons, that people must just pity me and not really like me, etc. etc. etc. And then they’re pissed at me that I’m broken RIGHT WHERE THEY BROKE ME.

The things I’m responsible for? They work okay. I have good friends and an interesting life I like. I like my job. I feel very, very lucky in so many ways. I have built myself this good thing.

The stress fractures in my foundation aren’t because I’m “too” anything–too smart, too ambitious, too weird. They’re there from them.

And I feel like they’re angry both that I couldn’t survive them in one piece and that I’m surviving them.

How It Went

Well, I came back to my office, did the phone call I needed to do, then shut my door and listened to The Wall until it was just impractical to hide from people.

I told my therapist everything I could think to tell her. She said, “So, you were repeatedly assaulted. Repeatedly verbally assaulted. And then they wanted you to do nice things for them.”

She asked me if I had any food in my fridge.

She asked me if I was leaving the house.

She asked me if I was fantasizing about being dead.

She asked me if I tried to kill myself.

Was I doing drugs?

Was it interfering with my ability to go to work and function?

I asked her if psychologically defensive narcolepsy was a thing and she said not really, but most likely my brain had just shut down in order to protect me and, if it only happened once, I shouldn’t worry about it happening again.

I told her how I feel like my coping mechanism for dealing with my parents–just going with the flow, being a leaf upon the river of their ridiculousness–contributed to me feeling unreal the longer I hang around them.

She said that repeatedly having your boundaries disregarded will make you feel unreal. And I’ve been thinking so hard about that, how we are who we are because we can firmly say “This is where I start. This is where I end. These things are me. These things are not me.”

But if you can’t enforce those lines? If you can’t keep others from rushing in and taking over, then, fuck yeah, you start to feel unreal. You’re missing your outside edge.

I also talked to the youngest member of the League of Publishing Gentlemen about this, too, about how my strategy between Thanksgiving and Christmas had just been that I could deal if I was not in my right mind.

And he said, “So, you could handle it if you were someone else.”

Which, ouch, but yes.

So, yeah, I’m back in therapy.

Also, listening to a lot of Pink Floyd.

Oh, and I finished this afghan except for the tail-tucking.

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Where's My Bounce-Back?

I go to the therapist tomorrow. I’m most frustrated that I still feel like I need to talk to her, even though it’s been a week.

All the bad shit is over. Why do I still feel so shaky and anxious?

Never mind that the bad shit started in November and just now ended. I want to bounce back immediately. And yet, here I am, still being a doofus.

Lord

My goal is to return to Phoenix as a tourist, instead of a chaperone for two angry toddlers in 75 year old bodies.

It was not the worst, but easily in the bottom three quarters of the worst.

But I took my nephew–who now calls me Aunt Beppi–to the playground and there was an orange tree. I reached up and scratched my arm all up, because I didn’t know orange trees had thorns.

But that orange was the best orange I ever ate.

Keep Your Ass on the Other Side of the Fence

A little while ago we had a meeting with some people who weren’t on their best behavior. I thought it would be nice to have a necklace that conveyed a level of hostility that I could wear in future meetings with them.

I bought some barbed wire.

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Also, let’s try not to notice that I’m “crepe paper neck” years old now.

My Inner Responsible Dorky Sweetheart Who Doesn't Want Me to Suffer

Yesterday was objectively really good. In here, it was a disaster. I cried at my desk for a while. Then I went home early. Some other shit that’s going to be embarrassing today went down.

My goal was to be unconscious as quickly as possible. But I also walked the dog and answered work emails and sent reassuring texts to my coworkers so that no one would be inconvenienced by my losing my damn mind. Then I made sure I had a little something to eat, even though I wasn’t hungry. And I took my medicine. Then I tried to self-destruct, but I got tired and went to bed instead. But apparently I also set an alarm so I’d get up and let the dog out before our normal bedtime.

And this morning, I found a large glass of water on the sink that I must have left for myself.

I don’t know what to make of the fact that I have this inner responsible dorky sweetheart who doesn’t want me to suffer. I don’t know where or when I developed a part of me that is sweet to myself, but here she is.

Anyway, I made the therapy appointment. I got that done, too. At least. The Wednesday after I get back from Phoenix.

Continued Flowers

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Half the rows are complete! I either need 18 or 28 hexagons to finish. I think 28, because I don’t want to have the top be a long row and the bottom be a short row. I think I want two long rows.

God, I love this so much.

I sent an email to S. last night telling her that, if she doesn’t hear from me that I have a therapist’s appointment scheduled by the time I get back from Phoenix I need her to force me to do it.

Things at work are really great. My job is kind of morphing into my dream job. I still cried last night for reasons I can’t really articulate.

I’m so angry. And I’m kind of angry that this is my life. Like, I feel this kind of outrage that my coworkers are lovely and I like the shit out of them. I’m super pissed that I’m supposed to now go do this stuff I love to do.

It makes me feel insane. Things I know, objectively, I should be excited about and delighted by instead make me feel mad and over-burdened.

Which, truly, is why I need to be back in therapy.

I mean, y’all, I sent S. an email asking her to help me get this done. She sent me back an email saying “Yes, I will do this for you. Here’s my plan for how to get it done” and my very first thought was “Hey, back off. You don’t tell me what to do.” I didn’t write that to her, because I caught that it was a nuts response. But now I’m snapping at help I asked for?

WTF?

More Flowers

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I love this point, where I start to see it come together and I get a feel for how the finished afghan is going to look and I know I’m going to like it.

I’m flying with my folks to Phoenix next week. They haven’t been on a plane since I was a little girl, but now the Butcher lives out there and they want to learn to do it.

So, I told them I’d chaperone them.

I’m not sure if that’s wise or not, but it’s what I’m doing.

Flowers Spilling Over a Gray Background

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I have many favorite parts of this, but I’m completely digging my decision to put colored centers in some of the gray hexagons.