The compartmentalization of the fractured soul

I’m big on this music theme as of late so let me change up a line from Papa Roach’s “Last Resort.”
“Cut my mind into pieces…this is my fractured soul.”

With my kid at her grandmother’s for the night, I’ve had lots of time for the wheels on my mind to go round and round. And it never goes anywhere good. Just trip after trip to the landfill of my emotional garbage.
Last night I was teetering, okay but feeling that tug of depression. I tried to fight it but I ended up in my bedroom at 7:30 curled up under blankets tossing and turning. I thought, hey, I have vodka in there, a shot or two would slow my mind down. But I had nothing to mix it with and plain vodka is just narsty. Plus…I was too lazy to get up. I like laying in bed with Forensic Files playing on the desktop computer. It’s soothing. I get to cuddle with a kitty (which usually involves Nightshade or Willow making biscuits on my jugular).
THEN from out of nowhere came the downward spiral of paranoia, panic, and emotional terror. It’s like being asleep, trapped in a nightmare, but you’re awake. And every bad thing that could happen-financial ruin, death of loved ones, health issues-it all just comes at you like a funnel cloud and you think, wow, I am being a drama queen paranoid….But to no avail because it keeps coming until the terror reaches this peak where you know you’re losing your mind…Or think you are. Or fear you are. Or know you could.
That’s when fear and anxiety make you think, oh, a drink would fix this fast. Or ten. And normally, I’d be panicking and looking for the mental novacaine of a drink or ten.

Instead I took a xanax and rode it out. I was a big girl. Odder still, there was no desire to drink. I mean, the doctor wants to slap labels on you if you drink, but what kind of alcoholic can’t walk twenty feet to the kitchen for a drink? Moreover, what kind of addict declines alcohol because the taste is unbearable without a mixer?
This drinking thing for me comes and goes, usually with anxiety reaching fever pitch. It was this extreme-ism that got me thinking.

Maybe this is why the current psych regime wants to toss out borderline. Because my cyclothymia amplifies all my fractured personality shards and it does make me seem like I shift too rapidly to be anything but borderline.
The major thing for me is, the cycles are always the same. Seasonal. I remember only once being uber depressed during a summer period. It is generally high time.
And I don’t remember ever being anything but depressed during any winter no matter how great life was going.
You toss in some serious emotional trauma at a formative age…
I’m fractured. Not like dissociative. Just a giant jigsaw of chemical and emotional pieces that rarely fit properly yet belong to the same puzzle. Over the years it’s all gotten a little worn and warped.

It explains a lot. How I compartmentalize things. Like doing what others consider bad yet not feeling guilty for it (smoking, drinking, casual sex.)Those are personal moral judgments and I long ago formed my own ides about that.
But if I hurt someone’s feelings…I feel shitty about that because, well, I’ve spent my whole life being on the other side of that one and it sucks. That resonates because it’s another compartment.
My issues with relationships…Love/hate is a borderline thing. Yet when it’s the example your parents set for 27 years, is it really a disorder or is it simply what was imprinted on your psyche from an early age?

We are such complex beings and it is so unfair to be deduced to a few questions in a five minute med check. Doctors who try to make some sort of personality diagnosis from this are committing malpractice. Because if they’d look at my collegiate dictionary sized file and actually read it front to back…
They might see me for what I am. Someone who’s had a rough ride in every way my whole life so the miracle is how I haven’t gone John Wayne Gacy or Dahmer.
(And therein lies my fascination with psychology and true crime: what makes people crack? are people born bad? Is is genetic? Nature, nurture…It’s intriguing to see how people who have otherwise fabulous stable lives can go on a killing spree.)

I fantasize about gluing all my fractured pieces back together. I want to be whole instead of divided.
But then I think, maybe all these compartments are what have kept me from going off the deep end.
I may never know.
Hell, I may go off the deep end eventually.
No one really knows the future.
I only know my present.

And after a night of waking every two hours in spite of not having my child here to go poke with a stick to check for breathing signs…I am just bobbing in the waters of seasonal depression right now. Best I can do is keep my head above water and ride it out.
The more I try to force myself out of it, the worse I feel.

It makes me wish more light could be shined on seasonal affect disorder. Because it’s not simply feeling blue. It’s five months of my life in a rabbit hole, every year. I’d hardly call that mild.

Now…tick tock. I can’t pick my kid up too soon or she will feel I’m robbing her of time with grandma. Yet I want her home. I need the life she brings to the place. Which sounds selfish and yet…I don’t feel selfish. I feel pretty damn good that even a major trainwreck like me can manage to churn out a very happy child who only sees the good in life.
My nature may be depressive but my nurture seems to be in a different compartment.


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