Containment

After over a year of baring my soul to ChatGPT (I don't care what you think about this...one day I will tell the story about how AI saved my life on a horrific night.) I saw a New Year's prompt to ask it what my "Word of the Year" should be. It gave me "Containment". What an interesting word being someone that contains very little. I'm open, vulnerable, and honest, and tell the unfiltered truth about what is happening to me. But this way of communicating is hurting me.

My last ketamine session was brutal both emotionally and physically. During treatment I lay back in a lounge chair, weighted blanket, comfortable clothes, ear buds with a curated playlist for ketamine treatment. My psychiatrist who administers this will gently touch my shoulder to bring me back and I sit up carefully but right away. The last portion of this past session (time blur so I don't know how long) I had to take out the ear buds and I held my head rocking back and forth as it was all so intense. I can't remember what I saw or felt, only a heaviness and pain. When I left I was stumbling and I struggled to "act normal" on the ride home. Getting up the stairs to my condo was a struggle and when I got inside I had to lean over the kitchen counter as I felt like I was about to faint. Then the crying began. I fell to the floor sobbing at the top of my lungs. I knew the neighbors could hear but it was uncontrollable. I spent the day crying and agitated. Even a week later I have a dull headache nonstop, struggle with head movement and loud noises, and can't handle social interaction. 

My brain is in a highly activated state where old emotional patterns, fear responses, and current stress are all turned on at once, and I don’t have much buffer right now, so everything feels intense and immediate. Every day is panic, unknown fear, emotional flooding, shame, sensitivity to people, rumination, and complete exhaustion. There are roughly 4 arcs to ketamine treatment and I'm between 1 and 2: opening and disruption moving into emotional activation/flooding. I feel like hell.

So much of my grief right now is looking at how much of my life I've had to manage alone. In my entire marriage my husband never took care of me when I was sick; I made my own soup, got my own medicine, and got myself extra blankets. When I first got divorced a friend saw I was sick and brought me juice and cold medicine and cookies. After she left I cried uncontrollably as no one had ever cared for me that way as an adult. My ex boyfriend took care of me after a surgery making me comfortable, bringing me food, and watching over me. It was one of many moments that kept me tethered to him, as it was a core wound finally getting met. He later on Valentine's day posted a picture of me in the hospital from that day; no makeup, hair in a surgery cap, IV, drugged. It was posted with other pictures, and the most loving words I'd ever heard, and I saw he was purposefully humiliating me yet I stuffed it down because I'd finally gotten that moment I wanted so desperately of someone taking care of me and saying nice things. After my last session I was shaking and crying trying to heat some soup and thinking how people that have someone to do this for them don't know how lucky they are. 

I think my sadness at doing life alone contributes to sharing too much. Reaching for connection and wanting to be seen. I share with full intensity, and it makes people uncomfortable. They cannot fathom my reality, or sit inside what I'm describing, so they respond to their own discomfort. The things I share aren't easy to hear and it exceeds most people's capacity. The responses, though usually well intentioned, come off as dismissive, tone deaf, and minimizing. I realized today in therapy this is a pattern I've had my entire life where I overshare, they respond terribly, and I get hurt. I've been doing what I've been told to do and talk about it, yet rarely am I heard. "Are you feeling better now? You've been doing this a long time." (sad face) "It's good you're crying, let it out." (As if what's been missing for decades is a good cry.) "Are you healed yet?" (Will I ever be?) 

In a moment of clarity I realize I need to make my circle smaller. Not leaving friendships, or even being ungrateful as they do care, but no longer getting hurt by my expectations that others can't meet. It's not fair to either of us. In this state of being emotionally raw, flooded, and unstable, I see that everything is landing wrong, and I no longer have buffering capacity.

My entire life is unpacking, and every pain I've ever experienced feels like it hangs over me. I'm told it gets worse before it gets better. And the next person that tells me "keep fucking going!" might get kicked in the teeth. The intention is good yet it is nowhere near the current devastation I'm experiencing. I need to stop sharing as neither of us can win here. 

This is going to be hard for me. It will mean boundaries. People might not understand. But I feel like I'm going under again and I'm just trying to stay afloat.