Fall

The red front door hangs lazily open on this Sunday afternoon.  The sound of crickets and chirping birds fill the sky and a slight breeze ruffles the curtains on the kitchen window.  Ceiling fans circulate clean air around the rooms, a freshness that hasn't been present since early June.  The summer is starting to let the fall creep into its territory, and the air conditioner is thankful for a break.

Fall means good things.  It means apple picking where the best apples get eaten straight from the tree, warm and crisp with a dribble of juice running down your chin and hand.  It means pumpkin farms that have become too commercialized, no more simply picking out the perfect shade of pumpkin-orange on a perfectly round fruit, sipping a pumpkin latte while the kids run back and forth making their selections.  The farms are now filled with overpriced bouncy houses and corn mazes and silos filled with dried corn to dive into.  Fall means going back to school, a new pair of ballet shoes before lessons start again, firming down a routine that balances activities, homework, and family dinners.

But this fall, this fall brings terror.  It brings no school for me, employment that a rabbit couldn't live on, a host of uncertainties about the future, and the cloud of destruction that looms overhead.  It is filled with mornings of dropping the kids off in my mismatched pajamas, throwing on a nice cardigan as that it all that is really visible in the drop-off line.  It's skipping my morning iced-mocha in a rush to get back to my safe haven, my bed, my blanket, and a nap.  It's picking up the kids from school 7 hours later, avoiding chit-chatting with the other stay-at-home moms.  It's wondering how quickly I can get my brood to complete homework so that I can crawl back to my safety zone.

I am thankful for the cooler weather as it is easier to cover the destruction that is appearing on my arms.  Slices and cuts of frustration, of fear, of doubt, and of death.  My mind is a whirlwind of opposites; should I leave my family or commit suicide?  Is there a difference?  Should I attempt to get out of bed today and be productive, knowing the whole time I will be calling myself a failure?  Is it worth it to put the effort in to cleaning house or making dinner solely so that my husband will feel like he has less to worry about when it comes to me?

I pray for night, for the darkness that I can wrap up in like a knit blanket.  I can crawl into my bed and imagine what things could be, how it could happen, what it would be like, without the interruption of my little ones.  It is easier to slip into the master bathroom, withdraw my exacto knife from hiding, and take out the days frustration on my body.  It is easier to pretend that I am sleeping when my husband comes in, effectively cutting off communication.

I don't know that I want to get better, I don't honestly think that I can.  I think that my brain has become permantely dysfunctional and can only process sadness, pain, and disappointment.  Any other emotion that dares to cross the surface is quickly banished in punishment to the corner, scolded and told to leave me alone.  But depression, my greatest friend, is always allowed to lay with me, to get lost in an imaginary world, to keep me company.

Dark

The darkness sets in
Like a heavy comforter
That has been used over and over
And that you come to trust.

It is easier to be in the dark
Then to face things in the light
People, places, conversations
Questions that you don't want to answer.

Then there are the side effects
The tiredness, the next to nothing self-seteem
The desire to die
The elaborate plans that are drawn

I have never followed through, obviously
And wonder how much more
It will take until I fully break
And forget that I am afraid.

I want to scream

I want to scream.

I want to throw my head back and scream.

I want to throw my head back, stick my arms out the the side and scream.

With my fists clenched so hard that I break the skin and blood drips from my palms.

I want to scream. 

Not like a prissy girl who just saw a mouse scream.

I want it to come from deep in my gut.

I want it to slowly roll up my throat, gaining momentum as it gets closer to breaking the surface.

I want it to bring forth all the anger, the disappointment, the burning rage that I feel inside.

I want to scream.

I crave the release, of what it must feel like to be free of these unwanted emotions.

To close your eyes and be able to relax.

To not want to ram your car into another.

To not want to lay down on train tracks and wait for your head to be chopped off.

To not want to go into the city, buy a gun from a street corner, put it in your mouth, and pull the trigger.

I want to scream.

Haiku

A shell of a girl
An empty form without focus
Sits alone again

Tears cannot come now
They are all hidden away
Dried and cracked eyes left

The loud pounding heart
Drumming out of tune and form
Breaks the silent room

A sharp pull of knife
Across the whitest of flesh
Leaving streaks of red

Eyes closed to the pain
And repeating the event
Needs to feel something

The bottle of pills
Tempting to empty at once
Then to lay down, sleep

There will be no more
Anguish, Suffereing, Torment
Just the sound of silence

Rollercoaster of Life

I haven't written because I have been a terrible roller-coaster, more so than I let most people know about.  My mood swings, my inconsistency with taking medication, my suicidal thoughts; omnipresent.  I try and tell myself that things are fine, that I am doing okay, that if I lie to myself it will all be true.  It is not all true.  What is true: I fear that one day I will no longer be able to restrain myself from the blade, from the bottle of pills, from jumping off the bridge.  One day, I will just do it.  And then people will say, "I never saw that coming."  Inside I feel like I am screaming, and no one is really listening.  Or they are listening but they are playing the "it's all fine" game too....My body aches, it longs for peace and rest that it is just not getting.  My head hurts from the amount of thoughts it tries to process in a short period of time.  My heart grieves at what I fear I will miss and leave behind when I am gone.  When, not if, when. 
I watch this Twitter feed often, and see others pour out their souls about the sadness they are facing and how they no longer wish to feel the pain.  I am there with you, my friends.  I am feeling that, too.  I want to reach out and hold your hand and let you know that we can walk this path of pain together...and that together we can find a way to end the pain.

Smart

There are a lot of things that I am good at.  I can knit; I can sew.  I can make a mean meatloaf.  I can whine with the best of them.  I can read through course catalogs for colleges/universities and get a good idea of all the policies and procedures the first time through.  I can down a pint of Ben and Jerry's in no time flat.

But I have never done smart.

Smart was not me, growing up.  Smart was my older sister.  She seemed to effortlessly get A's and B's in school, and was always coming home on this honor roll or that.  Not so much for me.  I didn't like to study.  I didn't really like school, to be totally honest.  So, I didn't do well.  Not in high school, not my first time in college for my BSW.  Only by the skin of my teeth did I pass and graduate.

Then I started working in University settings.  First in Enrollment, then Academic Advising.  I started to appreciate "school".  I understood the learning process more.  The more I understood it, the more I appreciated.  I decided that I should go back to school, to get my Master's.

I am sure that there were some who thought that I wouldn't pass.  I am sure there are some who thought I wouldn't make it all the way through.  I am pretty sure one of them was me.  But I surprised myself; I did more than "good", I did honors good.  Graduated with a 3.78.  Holy Cow!

I was happy with my Master's; I thought it made me stand out on applications and that I was going to go far.  It did make me stand out, but in the past 7 years since I got it, I haven't gone far.  I wasn't doing what I really wanted to do, which was to teach at the University level and be a counselor in a practice.  I wanted to have a greater impact on the world.  I wanted to work with adolescents and young adults who were struggling and not making the best choices when it came to coping.  Because I have been there, and I know what the caring of one or two people can do.

But I thought I wasn't smart enough to do that.  To do that would mean to become a doctoral student, and I couldn't possibly do that.  Right?

With a lot of encouragement from about 5 people in my life, I decided to give it a shot.  I applied.  I sent in transcripts, written statements, letters of recommendation.  I crossed my fingers and waited.  I was called in for Interview Day, a day where you would be interviewed by 2 professors and learn more about the program.  I got a new dress, new shoes, new jewelry.  I wanted to "look" smart.

My first interview, the Professor went on and on about how wonderful my references were, how I had an impressive GPA, that my statement paper was well written.  I perked up.  She made me sound smart.  We talked.  I shared stories; she shared horror stories of her graduate work.  Then she did something that shocked me.  She started talking about things she and I could do, could work on, when I was a student.  She talked like I was already admitted.  I was thrown for a loop.  I was in shock, but I was also euphoric.  This lady, who I had never met before, thought I was smart.  Me.  Smart.

I didn't sleep last night, knowing that I would get a phone call today saying if I was or was not admitted.  I woke up at least every 45 minutes and would think about it for 20 before going back to sleep.  I was scared.  What would it mean if I was rejected?  What would it mean if I was accepted?  Torturous!   

Then today, as I was driving to work, my phone rang. I recognized the number.  It was the school.  I was worried.  My stomach did flip flops. 

"Hello?"

"Hi, Megan.  It's Dana from the Illinois School for Professional Psychology.  How are you?"

"Fine, how are you?"

"Great!  I wanted to call to congratulate you on your acceptance to the PsyD program...."

Tears.  Lots of tears.  I had to pull the car over tears.

They think I am smart.  They think I can handle this work, that I have what it takes.  They think that I will make a good doctor. 

A Doctor. 

Dr. Mueller. 

Dr. Megan Mueller.

Smart.  I can do this.  I can do smart.

NaNoWriMo

So, it's November, which is National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo).  The goal, if you haven't head about it, is to write 50,000 words in the month, essentially a novel.  I told myself that I was up to the challenge...HA!  It's Nov 13th and I am only at 6638 words.  That means I would have to write almost 2500 a day, every day, to finish on time.  Well, that's not going to happen.  But at least I tried, and I will continue to try to see if I can get even half way there.  50,000 words is a LOT of words, right?

I think that it's been so hard for me because I selected to write a novel based on what is going on in my life, and that's a little challenging.  It's hard enough for me to be honest with myself about what's going on in my life, let alone try to put it down on paper.  How do you talk about suicide and how many times you wish you could have completed it?  How do I accurately describe what it's like when I self-harm when it usually happens in a state of fog.  And am I really ready to share all the details, the very private parts of my life, with the world?

Sigh, it's a challenge.  I think I need to think about it some more and maybe try again next year.

In other news, the Interview Day for the PsyD program is tomorrow and I am so nervous.  I have been wanting to get into this program for so long, I don't know what will happen if I don't get in.  Well, I have a good idea of what will happen, but let's keep it positive for now!