Deep Down To My Core Archive

The History Of My Faith

Posted August 26, 2015 By kmarrs

I was brought up in a Presbyterian home with a mom that went to church every Sunday and sang in the choir since she was 5. I honestly don’t know my dad’s religious affiliation but I know 3 things for sure: 1) He doesn’t go to church ever. 2) His mom is a Jehovah’s Witness. 3) He is not.

Growing up until I was in about middle school, maybe early high school, I never really questioned religion or faith. I just assumed church was a place everyone but my dad went, and God was something everyone believed in. It wasn’t until my teenage years that I learned it was an option to question and/or not believe. I immediately became an atheist because religion requires blind faith and that’s not something I’m comfortable with. As an adult I’ve learned that’s because of my mental health. Also, science is a thing and I thought I had to believe in one or the other, but never both.

I stayed an atheist, wandering towards agnostic, until I was in my late teens or early 20’s, at which point I really started to look into paganism and Buddhism. The two don’t have to be mutually exclusive. The one recognizes the Mother Earth as a powerful force, the other helps you find inner peace during your time on Mother Earth.

Somewhere in my early to mid 20’s I finally admitted that yes I do admit there is for sure something bigger than me out there, and no I have no idea what to define it as, but organized religion has some serious problems. I was comfortable with that, while exploring Buddhism as more of a way of life, and less of a religion.

Then when I was in my very early 30’s my younger sister was diagnosed with a failing liver and it started to fail her much faster than the doctors anticipated. Within 6 months she went from it being a problem, to her only having 90 days to live. That’s when the prayer warriors came out of the woodwork. For all intents and purposes my sister should probably be dead. She wasn’t even fully eligible for the needed transplant until about a month after her 90 days were up. But the prayer warriors prayed and prayed, the doctors saw something in her, and she made the list in time. The prayer warriors kicked it up a notch and started prayer not just for a donor, but for the donor’s family. Someone would have to lose their life for my sister to extend hers. Even then she had a meld score of 40 and was days if not hours from death when she got her new liver.

During all that trauma I made a pact with God, the details of which you can read about in my intro post. After he saved her, and I do believe it wasn’t just science, I could no longer deny a belief in a named high power. Despite this belief, I still don’t claim a named religion. Frankly, I don’t proclaim to know which one is “right” where the rest are wrong. From there I’d just pick the most peaceful, only they have all done horrible things in the name of their God and for their religion. I will say I like the idea of Christ, but I struggle with the water to wine, walking on water, and Resurrection. Sorry, but science.

So I’m left with a contentment that there is most probably possibly probably a higher power. I’m comfortable with the thought he’s the one who said bang, creating the universe. I think it’s logical that those first 7 days were in god years and therefore a lot more like billions of Earth years per Bible day. I refuse to name my spirituality.

All this left me thinking over the power of prayer. I mean, I had prayed before, even in my questioning years, but never with much belief, and I never stopped to listen to see if I’d been heard. But this past spring time after time a call for prayer went out and it was answered. So maybe I too can be heard, if I pause to listen back?

I present to you: Dear God, It’s Me Karen

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Five Days, Four Nights

Posted August 19, 2015 By kmarrs

This is going to come out very disjointed and just won’t flow.  I’m sorry, but that’s just how I am at this time with this topic.

I spent most of the last couple of weeks in July fantasizing about taking a few bottles worth of pills.  It wasn’t just a, “I wish I was dead,” but a full on plan.

When I tried to hospitalize myself in March, the hospital I went to was so sure it was just the stress of my sister’s illness.  They refused to take my own illness seriously.  When she got her transplant, and that stress was over, but I didn’t magically get better, I, in fact, got worse.  For a while I thought it was just me needing more friendship in my life.  I made a new friend.  I chatted with the new friend.  I was ecstatic for like two days, and then the new friend excitement wore off and I still felt like I wanted to die.  Turns out I didn’t just need friends.

But being turned away last March left me with zero faith in the system.  I was “too smart to need hospitalization”.  Yeah, yeah.  I’m also smart enough to know exactly how to successfully kill myself.

So I called my meds doctor and I filled her in on how I was feeling, the extent to which I was suicidal, and why it was I was hesitant to go to the hospital.  I knew I needed help, but I also knew if I got turned away again I would go through with an attempt.  At that point, all hope I had would be gone.

She, of course, pointed out the differences between the present and March.  For starters, in March as horrible as I felt, I was wishing I was dead, not planning it.  I also decided it would be wise to pick another hospital.  This time I went to OSU instead of Mount Carmel East.  Why yes, I am breaking my policy and I’m naming names.

OSU actually apologized for MC’s mistake even though they had nothing to do with it.  They full on told me that MC made a bad decision.  In doing so they didn’t just validate me being there in the present, but they validated my needs back in March.

I spent about 8 hours in the ER before they made the final decision and got my room ready.  There was never really much doubt in them keeping me, outside of my paranoia at the system.

While still in the ER, the consulting Psychiatrist and I discussed what exactly the stay could do for me, besides keeping me safe.  I finally admitted to myself and the world that the Cymbalta, my miracle drug, just wasn’t working anymore.  We discussed alternative meds and I picked Zoloft because it would help with depression and my anxiety.  The very next morning I start Zoloft and they started weaning me off Cymbalta.  To say I was fast-tracked is an understatement.  In 4 days I was taken off 120MG of Cymbalta and put on 150MG of Zoloft.  My body handled it well.

It was Friday, July 31, 2015, that I was admitted, and I was released the following Tuesday.

And here is where I end this tale for now.  I, of course, did some writing while I was in there, and I’ll share that with you in bits and pieces over the next week or so.

Stay safe.

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Isolation Part 5

Posted August 12, 2015 By kmarrs

BPD and the Broken HeartIf it were just 1-2-12 people… But it’s not. It’s seemingly everyone. What is so wrong with me that I can’t make and keep friends? I mean, I know I’m hard to be around sometimes because of my mental health and fibro and such, but I work extra hard at being the most caring, kind, loving, compassionate, empathetic, and loyal person you could ever hope to meet. I’m the person that will help you hide a body, no questions asked. So what is so wrong with me that no one seemingly wants to be my friend?

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Isolation Part 4

Posted August 10, 2015 By kmarrs

BPD and the Broken HeartYou know what? No! I’m not so desperate that I need to campaign for a friend, which is basically what I feel like I’ve been doing for the past week. I am a kind, caring, compassionate, empathetic, loyal friend that will do literally anything for those I care about. If he has to think that over, then well, clearly he isn’t paying attention and isn’t worth my tears.

There have been a lot of tears.

He couldn’t have handled them anyway.

And now I’m down to, well, I will always have the lesbians. And a crippling amount of anxiety and introvertedness that will probably keep things that way for a long time to come.


To Be Continued

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Isolation Part 3

Posted August 7, 2015 By kmarrs

hope love and Borderline personality disorder (BPD)

Part 1

Part 2

Remember that best friend I made and then lost around the time Pat and I blew up the second time? I’m calling him Clyde to respect his need for privacy. We’re back in contact. It’d been a full week even of texting back and forward. (This was the same week of the good-bye to my almost lover, actually.) I put on the table that I wanted to be friends again. A fresh start. He’s thinking about it. I guess we’ll see what he says.

I know in my heart that I haven’t been the same since he swept in, and then exploded out of my life. He was the perfect best friend and now there is this bestfriend shaped hole in my heart, in my world, where only Clyde really fits. I can honestly say I love him to death. Not romantic love, he isn’t my almost lover. No one could replace my almost lover, but no one could ever replace Clyde either.

I’m also going to be honest and say that if we become friends again, I think it’s inevitable that we’ll sleep together. First I doubt that chemistry will disappear just because time passed. Also, for me, I’m… Once I connect with someone mentally and emotionally, like I have with Clyde, it’s only natural to me to sleep with them. That’s one reason my marriage is open to begin with. Mind you, this doesn’t happen for me with many people. I can still count on one hand the number of people I’ve slept with in my life, but Clyde… with him I’m not asexual. Never have been and I doubt I ever will be. I’ve never really learned how to tame down lust as I so rarely feel it. So yes, it’s inevitable I’ll sleep with Clyde if he’ll take me back as a friend. But he’ll be my best friend and while it may not be romantic, I do love him to death, so it’s ok.

To Be Continued

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Isolation Part 2

Posted August 5, 2015 By kmarrs

BPD Broken Heart Borderline Personality Disorder

Part 1

On July 17th 2015, I said goodbye to my almost lover. I went to his office with two goals in mind. First I gave him a copy of the children’s book I wrote, for him to give to his son. (Alphabet Antics can be found on Amazon.) I signed it and everything and told him to be sure to read it to the little guy often.

Then I said goodbye. At first he thought I was moving away. I assured him, I wasn’t but then pointed out that the branch he works at isn’t exactly close to my house and that my life wasn’t in that part of town anymore so that I wouldn’t be back.

I then confessed it was getting harder and harder to see him, that how I felt about him would never ever change, but that I couldn’t keep playing the “Maybe this visit he’ll realize he needs me in his life,” game. I know he cares about me. I know he wants me in his life. Just for whatever reason, he can’t find a place for me. And I can’t keep hoping that will change.

I restated both what I wanted and what I needed but that I understood it wasn’t happening and that I needed to walk away because I was getting hurt in the process of all this.

Of course I’m crying through all this, and he’s apologizing, he never meant to hurt me. I know that. I told him I knew that. I assured him I wouldn’t be sitting there if I thought he’d hurt me on purpose. He looked so broken watching me cry, hearing my words.

I then told him that I wasn’t going to say never contact me again. He knows how to get ahold of me, I even made sure. I did warn him though, that if he opens that door he needs to be prepared to walk through it; drinks once a month, right up to my husband has offered our bed. Anywhere in between. I just can’t keep visiting him at the branch and I can’t be the person he texts once in a blue moon. I either need him or I need to move on.

Then I told him goodbye and left.

And that may be the very last I’ll ever hear or see of my almost lover.

There aren’t adequate words in the English language for this pain.

Except maybe: Isolation

To Be Continued

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