When Things Get Worse

*Trigger warning for mild talk of self-inury.

Today has been…interesting.

I had class this morning, where I found out I got a 97 on my Kinesiology practical (yay!). I also got another grade yesterday (95), so now I’m just waiting on the third. Hopefully I’ll get that grade tomorrow and hopefully it will be within the same ballpark as the others.

Class went well. Fun stuff to learn and practice. Then I had to tutor for an hour, so my friend came and hung out with me so we could study together for Thursday’s exam.

Then…therapy.

I don’t remember getting there. I don’t remember leaving. I do, however, remember “coming to” at what was clearly a distressing moment near the end of session. I can  recall about 3-4 minutes of time, but the rest is a blurry mess.

I didn’t get home from therapy until much later than I normally would and when I realized I was home (and in my body again), I also realized there were new cuts on my left thigh.

Fuck.

I called the therapist and left a voicemail telling her what was happening and asked her to call me back. She did, but she could only talk for a few minutes. She asked what she could offer that might be helpful.

I asked if it made sense to her, based on whatever had happened in session, that someone would be cutting afterwards and she immediately said, “Yes.” I asked what she felt was going on and she said, “I think Julia is really struggling with whether or not she can or wants to trust me. There’s a lot of difficult stuff going on. She appeared to be fighting against another internal person who seemed to be yelling at her and possibly beating her. She kept saying she shouldn’t be there…she didn’t belong there…she shouldn’t say anything…she was sorry. She was very upset.”

That made sense to me based on what Julia has been sharing. But it’s awful and it also scares me. I can feel Julia’s suicidality getting stronger by the day. Her cutting makes me worry that she’s working up the courage to do more damage. It terrifies me to think that the angry internal parts are tormenting her to the point of breaking. I asked the therapist if she thought I did this…if she thought it was irresponsible of me to bring in the awful nightmare about Zooey when perhaps we weren’t ready to go there yet. She reassured me that I don’t need to think about it in terms of being anyone’s fault – she thinks it’s much bigger than that and part of a much bigger process that could eventually lead to a lot of progress.

Still. It makes me fear for my life.

I told the therapist this and explained that Wife is working tonight, so I’m home alone. She asked what would be helpful and I said I could call a friend or even just go sit in a coffee shop if I feel unsafe. She said she hoped I could come up with a solution, but if not, to call her back and we could brainstorm together. She clarified that she was not aiming to hospitalize me, but I think just saying it out loud was her way to acknowledge that this could get very serious very quickly.

I know that.

But it won’t. I’ll be okay. I made some tea and took my meds to try to stay calm. I have things Julia likes within arm’s reach. I have my computer on and nearby so anyone can get online and reach out. My phone is right next to me, available for any part to text or call someone. I don’t know who they’d call, but it’s an option if they want it.

My plan is to try to re-focus our attention on something else. So I’m going to publish this post and then crack open my textbook to do some studying. I’m hoping that by invoking Rachel’s laser-focused academic brain, it will help keep the rest of the system a little calmer.

If not, I will pick up the phone myself and call…someone. I don’t know who. Just not the fucking hospital.