Tag Archives: postaday

To my sister Cate …

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Cate,

I don’t know how to start this except to say that I miss you. I’m sorry we’re not close anymore. I know my PTSD scares you. Well, it also scares me as well. I know it stressed you out the last time I visited you two years ago, and I became anxious and shaky at your house. That must have made you feel bad, and responsible for my being triggered. But, it was not your fault, not at all. I asked Cindy, my therapist, why I got so triggered because I love visiting you and the kids. I was very happy to be there. Her theory is that sometimes I get triggered around you because you are a reminder of my trauma because you were there, you were present. We were in the trauma together. I would give anything not to get triggered around you, anything.

I know it freaked you out seeing me crying in the guest room. I have no words for why I felt such despair when I was visiting you. All I can say is that it is not a reflection of how I feel about you. It is not a reflection of the fact that I love spending time with you and the kids. It does not reflect the fact that I love you.

You prefer not talking about all of this. I understand that. I’ve tried to engage you in a conversation about this, and every time I attempt to do so you insist there isn’t a problem. But, of course there’s a problem, as you haven’t had me visit since that last visit 2 years ago. I used to visit twice a year. I don’t think it’s an accident or an oversight that you have not asked me back since then. I understand your reluctance. I just wish that we could have a conversation about this.

I miss how you would text me human resources questions. It was actually flattering that my big corporate executive sister would compare her HR’s assessment of issues with my assessment of the same issues. I loved that you would call or text me to get my opinion on the latest HR issue in your division.

I also miss how everyone thinks we look alike, but you and I are convinced that we don’t look alike. So we roll our eyes at each other when people say, “Oh, sisters! You guys so look so alike.” Remember the time we did summer theatre and we were sick of everyone saying we looked alike so we dressed exactly alike for a rehearsal when we were working backstage? And, remember how it drove everyone crazy because we were constantly mistaken for the other through out the rehearsal? The director just shook his head and asked us, “What is this? Guess who I am day?” We just laughed at him. Mr. B was such a jerk. I’m glad we gave him a headache that day.

I hope some day we can reconnect. But, if not, I still love you.

Love,

Beatriz

a cheese sandwich

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Muenster!

I met with my therapist today, and we mutually agreed that I would not immediately transition to the psychiatrist. I was a freaky mess even just talking about it, crying and shaking. Her theory is that I have a lot of transition going on right now, and right now is not a good time to abruptly go from seeing her to the psychiatrist in the span of one week. I’ve been seeing her for 6 years, and I’ve accomplished a great deal with her in that time. There were many times when I felt she was the only one in the world who cared about me, and there were times that the only thing in the crevices of my mind that kept me from going too far in my suicidal ideation was the fact that I did not want to leave her with the burden of my suicide, especially with all the help she had given me.

So, I’ll transition in a few weeks to the psychiatrist. It feels like the right way to do this.

In other news, the new office space at work feels like a scene from Hoarders. There are boxes and loose papers everywhere around us. The previous owner of my desk must have had a fondness for jam sandwiches, or something with jam. I went to open a desk drawer today and found the handles sticky with old jam. I nearly retched. I cleaned the outside of one drawer before the heebies set in again. I stayed far away from that nasty desk today.

So, I knew I needed to try to be good to myself after my session given the way I was feeling. I went grocery store shopping for dinner, and I found myself being drawn to Muenster cheese and sandwich bread. I decided I would have a cheese sandwich for dinner, and it oddly put a smile on my face.

Muenster cheese reminds me of my grandma, Mama Titi. She was called Titi because my cousin Steve pronounced her first name, Beatriz, as Titi. Mama Titi would get a big block of Muenster cheese on a regular basis as a government commodity. She would make me quesadillas with that cheese, and, sometimes, it was the best food I’d had all week. The gooey quesadillas on fresh soft tortillas were a great big hearty hug for a sad and hungry girl.

This past winter I went to the residential center at McLean Hospital for three weeks. For lunch they provided a stocked pantry and refrigerator from which you could make your own lunch. I was so freaked out being around so many strange people that I did not want to linger in that kitchen. So, my lunch was a cheese sandwich because it was the quickest and easiest thing to make. After the third day at McLean, I was no longer too scared to linger in the kitchen. But by then the cheese sandwich had become a source of comfort for me. It remained a regular part of my lunch rotation the entire time I was there.

At McLean I started to feel hopeful again. With my grandmother I felt hope and comfort, and so it goes for the cheese sandwiches that remind me of both of them.

Am I the vase or the lamp?

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I have this theory about myself that vacillates between seeing myself as a lamp or a vase. Sometimes, yesterday being a good example, I see myself as the vase that hit the ground so hard when it broke that it splintered into all sorts of jagged and powdery pieces that it can’t be put together again. It can’t even be glued back together. No matter how much you try to glue the powdery parts together they fall out and plop onto the table with glue and an even bigger mess than before. It’s a fruitless venture even to try.

Then there are other days when I see myself as my favorite Arizona orange lamp that the mover broke when he moved me into my apartment. He felt so bad about it that he taped it back together with blue painting tape. It was pretty simple to do because it broke into two large pieces. I was annoyed at first, and I planned to get rid of it because it was broken. But over time it grew on me, and now I rather like it with the the streaks of blue tape. On better days I see myself as that broken orange lamp. Broken, but healing, and, in the process, better for it.

I want more broken lamp days, and less powdery vase days.