heaven in my hurricane

This is a photograph of my brain. No cabbages, no obvious lesions, but as I have just the scans and no report, we'll have to wait and see. I have an appointment with Dr A on Monday, and the radiology clinic have faxed the report to him. During the MRI there were no audible screams of horror, or ironic chuckling, but due to my muffler-headphones and the extreme noise of the blasted machine I would probably not have heard them anyway. Nobody told me that the MRI machine would sound like putting your head in a washer/dryer. If I hadn't had a headache for the previous 3 months I would definitely have come out with one lol. It was also the most claustrophobic, anxiety-inducing experience I've had in some time... I think it's similar to my opinion of childbirth -- no-one tells you quite how horrifying it is because then no-one would ever go through it!

One of the reasons I found it so difficult was the choice of location. Seven years ago Mr Ex and I endured 6 months of stressful, painful, embarrassing, intrusive and ultimately unsuccessful fertility treatment in that very same hospital. Before yesterday's scan I had coffee in the same coffee shop where Mr Ex and I sometimes sat after various tests, phrases like "hostile mucus" and "deceased sperm" running through our heads. After my scan I used the same bathroom I sat and cried in after one or another sad meeting in which our treatment nurse Janet, or an offsider, shared the inevitable bad news of another failure. It brought back so many memories I thought I'd forgotten, or driven away with my determination to be sexily un-child-ed. But the soul doesn't forget, and the cellular memory pushed me hard in the back towards the edge yesterday...

Glad it's over. I'm not surprised my brain showed a lack of obviously-fatal tumour-shaped objects. I should be so lucky. I told my friend Michelle that I was possibly one of the few patients they had in the clinic who would have been disappointed to be NOT dying. Having a terminal illness would just put an end to all this irritating and exhausting business of living and trying and working on being well. I know, I know, I know. It's not funny. We've all lost people we love, good and special people, to tumours, cancers, lesions...But I'd be lying if I denied that a sick and twisted part of me has always hoped that there would be a denouement to my life that would render me worthwhile and purposeful.

Sadly, unless the report tells me something I couldn't find by comparing my MRI scans to Google Images of "brain lesions", it seems I must continue to find purpose in living rather than dignity in dying.

I spent some time with my oldest friend Samantha today, and her baby daughter Sierra (whom I call my niece). Here she is in all her cuddlesome glory:

Even jaded old me had to admit that life seemed to have more oomph to it when she was nearby, even though I'm sadly not the slightest bit clucky or maternal. I really have made peace with being child-free (I refuse to say child-less as if I am less of a person, less of a woman because my body won't work in certain ways). I'm thrilled and blessed to consider Sam's three kids as my nephews and niece, and perhaps one day my perennial bachelor brother will settle down and make me a genuine blood aunty! Sometimes I wonder if being a mother would have made a difference, would have somehow filled part of the gaping hole in my heart. Being back in that hospital this week certainly made me wonder at the paths we take in life, and those that we're forced down through circumstance. In the end, though, I guess where we end up is where we're supposed to be. How would Jon Kabat-Zinn describe it - "Wherever you go, there you are?" Yep, ain't that the kicker.

(NB: Today's title from P!nk "The One That Got Away")

til you lost me there in the open road*

Mr Ex came over yesterday, to have his weekly custody visit with The Dog. I'd planned to bring up the D.I.V.O.R.C.E. last week, but he played the Deadbeat Dad and didn't show for the visit. I knew Dr A would chew me out if I saw him this week having still not broached the D-subject with Mr Ex so I bit the bullet and said, ever-so-casually "So, I've been finding out about how to start divorce proceedings".

I swear, he was surprised.

We've lived apart for well over a year, and except for a handful of social gatherings the only time we've spent together is when he picks up or drops off The Dog. He's never mentioned reconciling, apart from immediately after I told him to move out, and has made no effort to win me back in any traditional (or, indeed, visible) ways. But he seemed shocked that I would actually download and print out paperwork to officially end this thing. Weird. Although, having said that, I became hollow and teary after he left. Even though I don't want to be in any kind of relationship with anyone, and certainly think it's best for me & Mr Ex to not be married, I was struck by the inevitable wave of sorrow that true endings bring. For a long, long time our marriage was good, and for almost all the eleven years we've been together our relationship/friendship has been rock solid. We just aren't meant to be married.

This has been a truly tough week. My friend Michelle, my only regular-contact friend, has decided she doesn't want to continue bowling in our team, and as bowling is my only social outlet/hobby, it's kind of devastating. I'm trying to decide whether to find another team, but given that I have only ever bowled with Michelle, I think most of my enjoyment in bowling has been in spending time with her. I understand her reasons, and most of the time I manage to not take it personally, but it's just one more hit in a week when the hits just keep coming. Dr A rang me just now to reschedule today's appointment to Wednesday, and had I told him even one of the things I've dealt with over the last 2 weeks he would not have rescheduled. I told him everything was fine, showed some High-Functionin' Flair, and now have to struggle along. I knew he would only ask me to reschedule if someone was in a major crisis, so how could I be petty? There are a great many folk worse off than me, even if I am having a tough week lol. I think I am going to have a bath, make a cup of tea and read my new book. It's not a permanent replacement for therapy, but it's okay by me.

(*today's post title is from Tori Amos' A Sorta Fairytale)

How It Starts

The last couple of days have been less than stellar. You know how it goes... you start to feel stronger and more able to cope with life's logistics. You spend some time (in my case, ably "advised" by parents) going over the financial train wreck once known as Your Budget. It's never a cheerful prospect, and for someone separated from her bread-winner husband just on 12 months (a bread-winner who is gleefully gorging on all his own damn bread now thank you very much), it really hurts. When we split, the two main debts Mr Ex and I had were split down the middle, with me taking on the $23,000 personal loan and him taking on the $19,000 car loan. Then, in those early heady days of post-marriage possibility, I was still working fulltime. I was living with my parents, splitting rent and bills, but still with a solid support base if and when required. He was moving out on his own, and the decision to do so had been thrust upon him, so I cut him some financial slack. He doesn't pay child support for the three animals we have, I have paid for his private health insurance since the split, and a couple of weeks ago he flew across the country on vacation paid for by his family. Bitter much? Ha!

Now, a year and a breakdown later, the repayments on the loan are about 1/3 of my total earnings. I've had to cancel my health insurance and gym membership. I can't declare bankruptcy without the loan defaulting to Mr Ex, which would painfully and permanently put an end to the amicable divorce. On top of this, Mr Ex's sister generously gave him her as-new laptop computer, so he "gave" me back the rental PC we had signed up for, along with the $100 a month payment. I found out that the rental contract can't be cancelled and to buy it out will cost $1500 (more than a new PC is worth), so I am stuck paying the $100 a month til Feb 2010.

I don't know why I'm even re-living this, or sharing it. I suppose this is a space for venting, and I do need to vent about the roiling fury that simmers in my stomach when I think about my finances, which are currently sitting on death row with no hope for a pardon. I got myself into this, don't get me wrong. I know that the BPD-fuelled spending, and general lack of budgeting, over the last 10 years have created a pit of debt that I deserve to inhabit. It's just that my day-to-day living is so damn pathetic and dismal (compared to the whirlwind of fancypants mania spending), and this New Deal budget my folks and I have worked out basically means I have to not buy coffee, lunch, magazines or food - ever. And the one outing I have per week, tenpin bowling, is in serious danger of being taken away. I literally can barely afford to survive. My food and rent and bills are subsidised by my family, only slightly but enough to make me feel unworthy and invalid. Ah, the catch cry of the Borderline...

I am trying to stay focused on the reasons for the belt-tightening, which are that I am dealing with a serious mental illness and therefore am only able to work part-time. The fact that I have a great job, and can function pretty well there, are things to be proud of. So what if I have to live like a pauper for the next five years? One day I will be free and clear of this stupid personal loan, and free of other debts because I won't qualify for any credit until hell freezes over. I am trying to focus on the things that don't need money, the important parts of my life that I love and adore which don't cost a cent (thanks Michelle!).

It scared me, this week, to feel derailed again and to lose the early glow of great-job-happiness. My favourite saying at the moment is "there is no recovery without relapse", and these less-than-stellar times will test my mental health. Today, my day off, I watched Buffy and slept. In a way, this was kind of the last straw. I had to get the Buffy videos out of the local library as my DVD-by-mail monthly rental plan is another casualty of the New Deal. Luckily, my ancient VCR still works...

Layered, As An Onion

Sometimes it feels like I am shuffling deck chairs on the Titanic (as they say). Or maybe I'm building a particularly precarious matchstick bridge over this raging torrent I call the River Crazy. As I posted yesterday, I constantly question the point of planning, of having ideas and making choices. What if, what if, what if. Nonetheless, I went to an interview yesterday for a job so exqusitively perfect for me it should be framed and hung on the wall in order for it never to tarnish or disappoint. Three days a week - exactly what I think will work best for me financially and logistically. With a not-for-profit organisation, specialising in literacy. Great team of women, laidback office, interesting and varied work. There were 6 of us on the shortlist, and I will find out one way or another by the middle of next week. Don't you just love that expression "one way or another"... such an innocuous way to describe the beginning or the end, the heaven or the hell of things.

Mr Ex took me to the interview, as he is on holidays and a genuinely decent bloke. The office is located a fair way away, but for 3 days a week I can manage the bus trips. Having a lift there and back for the interview was terrific, and we spent a bit of time together afterwards. In a few days it will be one year since I decided I had to put the dying marriage out of its misery, in order to salvage some happiness for Mr Ex (and maybe, myself). I can see he is more himself again, and that rips at me more than anything. I always believed I was a person who added to situations, to people, rather than took away. But although Mr Ex will say I was everything to him, and brought so much to his life, I would be an idiot to not recognise the path I took him on was nothing he would have chosen or imagined for himself. Still, I made the hard choice for both of us when he was too stuck and too afraid to make it, and every piece of serenity he's gained since then reassures me that it was the right thing. For a while, I wondered if he would fight to get me back, or try to convince me we should try again. But a year later, it hurts me to look him full in the face and realise he is scared that I will ask for another chance.

I blamed so many issues for my marriage problems, and told myself I was leaving to pursue a lot of different things for myself. I have achieved none of them, and now I realise that I was telling myself stories of an exciting and passionate life full of truth in order to disguise the facts... I knew a breakdown was coming, and I could not survive it for both of us. I had to know that Mr Ex was relinquished of responsibility this time, so that I could avoid the crippling guilt and the temptation to fake my way out of it. He was, and is, my best friend, even if we were never ideal marriage partners, the friendship is still there. And this year I have been overwhelmingly relieved that his involvement with this breakdown was limited, and that he could get on with his life without the mental wife hiding in the closet.

Being alone is also the only way I will be able to fight my way back from this illness, knowing myself and my behaviour as well as I do. There are so many layers to my Crazy, like an onion I peel back one only to find another and another. There are scary times ahead, as I start to realise some of the truth at the centre of the layers. But this time I can't just put the layers back together hoping no-one will notice the weeping cracks. This is one time when it HAS to be all or nothing.

True Confessions of A Shopaholic

I'm Lil and I'm a shopaholic. Not one of the cute and stylish shopaholics like you see in the movies. It's rare to find me with anything designer, and being a 250 pound-plus woman means that teetering high heel shoes are not something I would ever buy. But nonetheless, one of my main binge impulses is to overspend. I may never have owned a pair of Jimmy Choos but I have in the past owned 7 pairs of Crocs in one season. In every colour and style imaginable. Now, even I know there are very limited occasions when it's appropriate to wear Crocs...

One of the difficulties I've had in getting an official diagnosis of Borderline Personality Disorder is what I perceive to be the "inanity" of my impulses. Rather than starve or binge/purge, I like to eat. Too much. Too often. With detrimental effect on my health. Rather than sleep with a different man each night, I like to go shopping. Too much, Too often. With detrimental effect on my credit rating. Rather than cut myself, I like to pluck my eyebrows. Too much. Too often. With detrimental effect on my facial expressions LOL. I know intellectually that having the impulse control problem is the illness, not WHAT I do with the impulse. I'm not "less" BPD because I abuse carbs instead of cocaine. It's the fact that I use or abuse anything in an attempt to regulate my emotions or subvert unpleasant feelings.

Sometimes I think my personal choices make it hard to differentiate between "benign" behaviours and "dangerous" behaviours - after all, everybody has to buy things and everybody needs to eat food. But I've always known that what a non-BPD considered shopping or eating did not compare to the sheer volume and velocity of my consumption of both. The food thing is for another day, another post (and probably my other blog). But in the last few days I've found the spending demon to be rearing its ugly head again, and hopefully it will help me to blog it out! Although I've been pretty much housebound, since Wednesday I've managed to spend $200 or thereabouts - Ebay has a LOT to answer for. CDs, DVDs, clothes, shoes, electrical goods, books, books, books...these are my passions and Ebay means I don't even have to shower or dress or leave the house.

My Ebay addiction started in 2003 when I was severely agoraphobic and could barely leave the house. I was out of work for 18 months, supported by Mr Ex, and as a comfort I started obsessively collecting memorabilia from one of my favourite TV shows. These purchases (sometimes $300 a week on crazy things like magazine clippings, yoyos, photos, props from the show) were in addition to my existing credit card and store card debt, and in conjunction with me and Mr Ex having spent $30,000 profit we made selling our house (mostly on an overseas trip). Stupid, reckless decisions - I take the blame entirely as Mr Ex was floundering, dealing with an increasingly mental wife whose only joy was in buying junk and eating (hence the weight gain of 60 pounds during this time).

Eventually I started on Zoloft, had some great counselling and EFT and returned to work. Unfortunately, I worked in Australia's most fabulous department store so the shopping was not curtailed - my next obsession was Barbies (I worked in the toy section), but I also bought a lot of linen, clothing, perfume, jewellery, CDs, and yep books. I spent almost all of what I earned, and as well had spare time to browse other stores in the mall and spent a huge amount of money on junkfood ($30-40 some days). Mr Ex and I had to get a consolidation loan to close out all our store cards and credit cards (I think I maxed out at 6, Mr Ex had a few of his own - and this while we were both barely earning minimum wage). It didn't help, as soon as we had them paid out by the loan we put the limits up again and went on three interstate trips we couldn't afford. You see, it's not just buying things, with me it's general misuse of money. I feel joyous and happy and briefly "okay" when I'm spending money, and holidays are even better because they fill the "obsession" gap as well - planning them becomes my focus and I obsessively research and plan every detail.

Fast forward to now, and my credit rating is so bad I have been knocked back for even the smallest of credit card limits. I can't qualify for a new mobile phone contract unless I switch to prepaid. I have to have one of those VISA Debit cards, which is attached to my savings account - so if there's no money, there's no buying. It's a smart idea, and one that is just what I deserve after the binges I've had, but crikey it's embarrassing. Other people my age have assets (cars, houses, bikes, stereos, tvs), whereas I have a PC that I rent and people's secondhand electronic castoffs. I don't have the excuse of alcohol or drugs having consumed all my money. I don't have kids I'm putting through private school. I don't have ANYTHING to show for all those thousands and thousands of dollars I spent (and some I stole to spend, but that's not for discussion here). The food went to my hips, and then took $18,000 of my superannuation (retirement fund) in weight loss surgery to shed. The books have been read and reread (and sometimes exchanged for others), the TV show memorabilia is hidden in boxes (yes, plural) in my closet so I don't have to face the shame. These days, after binges I re-sell what I can on Ebay. And if I feel I can't distract myself from shopping/spending binges I try and go to thrift stores and dollar stores.

So there you have it. My name is Lil and I just LOVE to shop, in person or online. I love the rush, I crave the feelings of bags heavy in my hands, I love the smell of new stuff. I love the potential that each new "thing" has for developing my latest image or obsession. Combined with a new "hyperattachment"/crush, and the desire to be like them, or have them love me, shopping is the ultimate high. But, like all impulses, the rush is fleeting and afterwards I'm left with the horrible darkness again, except with the added feelings of guilt, fear (of being bankrupt, creditors, etc) and the realisation that I will never wear or use a large percentage of what I've bought. So this is why I know that ordering a few things on Ebay is not just that. I have to be vigilant, and watch out for warning signs - especially when I can recognise my mood is low and my stressors are high. Which is now.