I really have a problem with a label being put upon what I am at this moment when it comes to religious belief or spirituality, because I don't know. I think that when it comes to religion, I utterly reject it at this point, because it's always been an exercise in self-loathing to me. I thought that religious community would be the key to a sort of family and acceptance, but that was never the case. I got tired of not measuring up to man's standards. Seriously, screw you. You tell me I am not adequate enough, but I look at the Proverbs 31 woman, and I'm holding it down just like she did. Yet, I don't ascribe to your creeds, dress the way you do, speak the way you do or necessarily believe the way you do, and so you cast me out. Well...what's a girl to do? Move on, that's what.
And I honestly feel better having done so. I don't beat myself up anymore, because it's Sunday and I'm home sick in bed. I used to try to "make up for it" by studying on my own, but ultimately that was never adequate enough for any religious system I belonged to. When attendance was taken, I was marked absent, and that was that.
Not to mention, the past 8 years in this country, and what I have seen people do who profess to be Christians. I cannot accept the "no true Scotsman" argument anymore. Where is all the outrage at these so-called perpetrators? Where was the uprising from the religious community, each and every time Westboro showed it's proverbial behind again, or each time a pastor started talking out his neck about putting gay people inside an area with an electric fence, so they could all die off? Where was the outrage?
I'll tell you where it was. Swaying and moving to the upbeat music on Sunday. Or at Chik-fil-A.
Unh-uh. Not me. I don't want to be associated with America's brand of Christianity, this idea that if you are rich you are favored by God, and that those who are suffering somehow deserved it. That is NOT what Jesus said. Maybe if I ever get to escape this madhouse and move to Europe, I would find a more comfortable place for the faith of my fathers, something more progressive that leaves room for the worldviews of others. But not here. It doesn't exist here.
And let's not forget the admonitions that the reason why I have had the life I have is because I'm "not ready" for God's blessing. Seriously? Can you quanitfy that? Explain to me how I have only been ready for abuse, rejection, stains on my character and illness? Explain to me what I am doing wrong that is keeping me from being loved, accepted and healthy? Please? Also, back up your assertions biblically. Thank you.
For your information, yes I am ready for my blessings. I was born ready. I was born ready to be loved, to be treated with kindness and respect towards my person. Yes. And I find it insulting that anyone would try to insinuate otherwise. Seriously, vessel of clay, who are you to tell me?
I'm at a crossroads at this point. It's not like my petitions have varied over the years. I can honestly count them on one hand. They are simple. They are reasonable. I feel like I can do one of two things: walk down the path that concludes that no one is listening (nor has there ever been), or continue on the outside looking in down the other path filled with people who feel that the support systems they were born into were God-given. So I decided before I got here that I just wanted a sucky existence?
Yeah? No.
Thursday, January 17, 2013
It's a New Day
The temptation to stay in bed was strong this morning; I almost scrapped my self-imposed schedule and kept my dark curtains closed. :-) These thoughts were running through my head when Steven popped up a few hours before dawn wanting to party. He was in full-on giggle mode at bedtime last night. It's dark in the room, we're under the covers, and he's laughing like we're at a comedy show. Well in reality, his twitching was due to the fact that his diaper was wet, but he didn't seem to want to go back to sleep after I changed him. And I'm not the most cuddly person at that time of night. Seriously, leave me the hell alone...
But you can't really say that to your child, can you? So I wake up enough to be nice, bite my tongue, and pull him closer, because I know he needs the reassurance that my physical touch provides. His teacher said he was a bit clingy at school yesterday. I know that he senses the undercurrents of anxiety that surround him. My precious baby. Will we ever get out of this? Can I bring forth into reality the visions I have in my head of the kind of childhood I want him to have?
Steven's father smelled like alcohol when I went to get the baby from him this weekend. I have thrown down the gauntlet, and told him that I shall not let him see Steven again. I always told myself that I would not be "that type of woman" (it's amazing the things that I swore I would never do, that I find myself doing; note to self: stop that), that I would never keep a man from his kids. But after five years of counseling, cajoling, exhortations of unconditional acceptance, I can't do it anymore. I always thought that people really didn't enjoy being miserable (or that my mom was the only one who did). I was wrong. There truly are people who do not want to do the work required to be happy. It's amazing to me! As morose as this blog has been since October of 2010, I do want to be happy. The status quo is not acceptable, not by any means. And I know what I knew as a child; due to my circumstances, getting to that place called "happiness" would take more work than usual. It takes work for most everyone, but it was going to take an extreme effort for me, and those like me who struggle with depression.
Apparently my husband does not want to do that work. So be it. But he shall not drag my son down with him.
My biggest fear is that my husband's negligence due to his drinking, would equate to tragedy when it came to my son. I cannot and will not let that happen. Somehow, I will right this wrong. I have to be brave, only take a few minutes to sit down and cry. After that, time to get back up and keep moving.
I think that one of the things that bugs me the most is this feeling of not getting anything accomplished. Well, I'm back to list-making and schedules. I usually don't accomplish everything on my daily checklist (goodness, who does?), but at least I get some stuff done. And these days, I've decided that since I'm at the mercy of Social Security, I might as well continue my education...within and outside of the university.
I have my traditional classes, but since the library is right up the road, I'm trying to broaden my horizons (as well as unearth some old dreams). My daily schedule currently consists of school work, vocal exercises (when no one's home, I'm still shy about people hearing me after all this time), music theory, and languages when I'm done with that. The evening is spent puttering around and tending to Steven. He pretty much wants me to leave him alone with his iPad, but occasionally it becomes time to cuddle and wrestle. I love tickling him, he has the most adorable little giggle, and when you stop, he takes your hand and puts it back where you were tickling him, as if to say "do it again".
Last night he fed himself with a spoon. We are still working on that, but that is the first meal in over a year that he has fed himself, using an actual utensil. He was making progress around this time last year, but we lost that progress when we moved back in with his father. Speech, signs of self-sufficiency, all gone.
I can't do it anymore. He shouldn't have to. I told his father, that the reason why Steven clung to him is because instinct and need told him to. Steven doesn't yet have the capacity to analyze what his father does; at that age parents are deities. But I won't let my child be struck down by this one. Oh no.
Oh, what a ride I have ahead of me. But I have to keep going. I have to. No other choice. Sit down and cry for a second, get up and hustle. It's a new day.
But you can't really say that to your child, can you? So I wake up enough to be nice, bite my tongue, and pull him closer, because I know he needs the reassurance that my physical touch provides. His teacher said he was a bit clingy at school yesterday. I know that he senses the undercurrents of anxiety that surround him. My precious baby. Will we ever get out of this? Can I bring forth into reality the visions I have in my head of the kind of childhood I want him to have?
Steven's father smelled like alcohol when I went to get the baby from him this weekend. I have thrown down the gauntlet, and told him that I shall not let him see Steven again. I always told myself that I would not be "that type of woman" (it's amazing the things that I swore I would never do, that I find myself doing; note to self: stop that), that I would never keep a man from his kids. But after five years of counseling, cajoling, exhortations of unconditional acceptance, I can't do it anymore. I always thought that people really didn't enjoy being miserable (or that my mom was the only one who did). I was wrong. There truly are people who do not want to do the work required to be happy. It's amazing to me! As morose as this blog has been since October of 2010, I do want to be happy. The status quo is not acceptable, not by any means. And I know what I knew as a child; due to my circumstances, getting to that place called "happiness" would take more work than usual. It takes work for most everyone, but it was going to take an extreme effort for me, and those like me who struggle with depression.
Apparently my husband does not want to do that work. So be it. But he shall not drag my son down with him.
My biggest fear is that my husband's negligence due to his drinking, would equate to tragedy when it came to my son. I cannot and will not let that happen. Somehow, I will right this wrong. I have to be brave, only take a few minutes to sit down and cry. After that, time to get back up and keep moving.
I think that one of the things that bugs me the most is this feeling of not getting anything accomplished. Well, I'm back to list-making and schedules. I usually don't accomplish everything on my daily checklist (goodness, who does?), but at least I get some stuff done. And these days, I've decided that since I'm at the mercy of Social Security, I might as well continue my education...within and outside of the university.
I have my traditional classes, but since the library is right up the road, I'm trying to broaden my horizons (as well as unearth some old dreams). My daily schedule currently consists of school work, vocal exercises (when no one's home, I'm still shy about people hearing me after all this time), music theory, and languages when I'm done with that. The evening is spent puttering around and tending to Steven. He pretty much wants me to leave him alone with his iPad, but occasionally it becomes time to cuddle and wrestle. I love tickling him, he has the most adorable little giggle, and when you stop, he takes your hand and puts it back where you were tickling him, as if to say "do it again".
Last night he fed himself with a spoon. We are still working on that, but that is the first meal in over a year that he has fed himself, using an actual utensil. He was making progress around this time last year, but we lost that progress when we moved back in with his father. Speech, signs of self-sufficiency, all gone.
I can't do it anymore. He shouldn't have to. I told his father, that the reason why Steven clung to him is because instinct and need told him to. Steven doesn't yet have the capacity to analyze what his father does; at that age parents are deities. But I won't let my child be struck down by this one. Oh no.
Oh, what a ride I have ahead of me. But I have to keep going. I have to. No other choice. Sit down and cry for a second, get up and hustle. It's a new day.
Sunday, January 13, 2013
Surviving on Fumes of Hope
Most people are psyched about the New Year, and all of the resolutions that they have planned. While I have a slew of goals and plans (not to mention some significant early weight loss...nine pounds, whoohooo), I find myself feeling a lot more cautious than perhaps I have in past years.
I slept through the New Year like I normally do, I am definitely a grinch in that aspect. I found myself quite irritated one year when I accidentally fell asleep, only to have my phone go off at what seemed to be ten-minute intervals until dawn, from all the well-wishers in my life. I (think I) kindly let them know not to wish me happy new year until the following morning in future. That was back when I actually got to sleep late.
The holidays were hard. I struggled with things that I thought I had left far in my wake; I spent this year alone, and there was one point when I was tired in a way that you should not ever feel. This type of weariness takes people from this earth far too early; I lay in bed and stared at the bottle that could very well have taken me out of my son's life. While I often feel like he is the only person who would be impacted by my death, I know that is not true, and if I achieve only one goal this year, I want it to be that I will come out of this shell I have buried myself in. Because the loneliness is killing me, and even though the pain is intense, I cannot help but be ever aware of the child in my life who didn't ask to be here. A long time ago a little girl was brought into this world unwanted. She didn't ask to be here, either. Yet she was always treated as if this were a conscious choice that she made...and I am still living with those scars. Some days I just hang my head and think that I will never escape this, the wounds that stem from what it means to be raised with little to no love. I would give anything for my son not to be me; his formative years have already been messed up enough. So, I guess the bottom line is that I no longer live for myself. If what you can call what I am doing living.
Hopefully the end of this year will see me a divorced woman. If I learned anything last year, it was that perhaps my definitions of "what is supposed to be" are not as concrete as I thought they were. I married my son's father, in spite of his abusive ways, because my parents hurt me so badly by their divorce. I felt that they could have worked through their problems, for the sake of the children who needed them. Especially me. My parents finalized their divorce before they ever said a word to me, and left me with few explanations. The years that followed were filled with the sound of my father's absence, and the pain of my mother's rage.I thought that the worst thing I could ever do to Steven would be to give him a life in which he was being passed from one parent to the other. It turns out that his father and I fought so much that the poor child prefers us being apart. I cannot forgive myself for that.
I left Steve for the final time on what was his 41st birthday. The apartment reeked of alcohol, and I got tired of looking at this person who was not the person who initially pursued me. I mean, sure, people change...but this change was too much, far too drastic. I was tired of the dance of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. I had had enough, and that day as we left, Steven held on to my mother for dear life. I don't want my son to grow up scared. He's been resilient, but it's time for me to stop testing that.
I have learned some very bitter lessons about what it means to be the victim of domestic violence. I have learned that the justice system will grant your abuser parental rights until he or she does irreparable damage to the child or children you have in common, that a threat to YOU is not enough to warrant your abuser not having access to your kids. So guess what? Your abuser still has access to you, even if you take out a protective order. That order really, truly is only a piece of paper.
I have learned how much women judge. The women at Steven's school, the teachers, the admins. So many people staring at me, so many whispers. The penniless woman with the special needs child, who just couldn't seem to leave her husband. So many indignant, ignorant women who just do not understand that it's usually not a case of loving this monster you are with. Me, the only place I had to go is somewhere I do not want to be; homeless shelters have waiting lists here, and I have to place myself in a position to keep Steven's educational situation as stable as possible, no matter what it does to me. I cope by withdrawal and sarcasm. My reputation in my family is that of a person who does not like others at all, but I'm simply hurting too much right now to answer prodding questions.
I have tried to tell the women who judge me for going back twice that what happened to me could most definitely happen to them, that it's not as cut and dry as they seem to think. Domestic violence is not always a knock-down, drag-out fight with the kids either watching on the couch or cowering in their rooms, with their hands over their ears, trying to block out the screaming. The violence can be so surreptitious that when the woman flees, her children may not understand...which can lead to parental alienation. The abuser will use the anger of his children to further control his wife. It happens, and despite all the testimonies to this, the courts still turn a blind eye to what is happening. The court system is a minefield for the victim of domestic violence.
Shelters are ALWAYS full, so you will not be taken until you are bruised, beaten, or worse. The court system will say that most all evidence is "heresay", and that very few things short of physical injuries or you magically managing to record your abuser abusing you (how in the hell...seriously?) will stand up in court. It's not cut and dry. I dropped a protective order last year, because the judge denied the preliminary order (in spite of what was already on record), and my lawyer told me that the case was shaky. He also told me that if I were to lose the case, that this could be held against me when it came time to file for custody. I understand that he had an obligation to be truthful with me, but none of these things gave me the confidence he wanted me to have for this case. I was asked to involve a woman with less protection than I, to risk her safety and that of her four kids so that I could have a piece of paper that would most likely just ensure that if it were violated, I would not live to be able to testify to what happened. Somehow, throughout all the fear, throughout all of this, I was supposed to muster up some sense of indignation and just walk out with my child to nothing....because that was what we ended up with each time we have lost our home. No, I am not going back. I only went back for my child, love didn't enter the equation after the second time he lost his mind. When he started threatening to kill me in June of last year (three times when sober, so claims of alcoholism are obsolete as far as I am concerned), hatred started to build once the fear died down. Seriously, it's not as easy as many women seem to think. I'm glad they have such high self-esteem, but ALL of that will flee the first time that man hits them. It will. They just don't know it yet.
I look back and see the red flags I should have picked up, the situations that should have given me pause, and I grieve. But grief is something I can only indulge in for a moment when it comes to my failed marriage. I should never have said those vows in the first place. However, had I not given this man the time of day, I would not have my child...and as a result, I would not have my life. That boy is my heart with limbs attached to it, and though I spend most of my day tired and gruff, I know that he knows that I love him.
How am I supposed to make a life out of the ashes that surround me? I have no idea. Illness, lack of formal education, a career that has stalled. No home, no money, and only a gigantic spectre of fear in front of me when I contemplate my future. Something has to give, break, materialize...for my son's sake it has to. I cannot carry this child through life on nothing. And while that which I have been surviving on for so long (hope) is a beautiful thing for him to have on his own, it cannot provide a roof over his head, food on the table, or something to enjoy at Christmas. All of that is up to me.
I sit sometimes and wonder if my life in particular is a self-fulfilling prophecy, or if I have a particular gift of premonition. These days I try not to dwell on my fears much at all, because I sit in a situation where the fears of my youth have come true in a frightening way. I feared being the age that I am, with a life that I could not be proud of....alone. For while I am surrounded by people, no one reaches me. I live out my days inside my head, my imagination tucked around me, because at least my illusions cannot hurt me. I cover my eyes and shield my heart, for in here no one can touch me. But I know that if I ever wish to truly live...I have to come out.
I am terrified. But it is a new year, and so I will emerge, bit by bit. I just hope that this year does not bring more pain. Yes, I have a high tolerance for it, yes I am resilient, yes I am strong. But one day I will break. What then? What about my son? That's the one thing that haunts me night and day. No one around me has the capacity to care for my son like I do, because due to their dislike of me, they never bothered to learn. What would his life be like in a world full of people who never sought to learn how to even talk to him?
And I am undone. My son just came over, took me in his arms and held me. There is something in me that knows it's okay for your children to see you cry; how else will they know it is okay for them to show emotion? But my four-year-old non-verbal child should not be comforting me. Still, he did; he wrapped his arms around me and kissed my forehead, as the tears fell down my face. If I know no other deep love in this life, at least I have his. And in that I am blessed.
It is a new year.
I slept through the New Year like I normally do, I am definitely a grinch in that aspect. I found myself quite irritated one year when I accidentally fell asleep, only to have my phone go off at what seemed to be ten-minute intervals until dawn, from all the well-wishers in my life. I (think I) kindly let them know not to wish me happy new year until the following morning in future. That was back when I actually got to sleep late.
The holidays were hard. I struggled with things that I thought I had left far in my wake; I spent this year alone, and there was one point when I was tired in a way that you should not ever feel. This type of weariness takes people from this earth far too early; I lay in bed and stared at the bottle that could very well have taken me out of my son's life. While I often feel like he is the only person who would be impacted by my death, I know that is not true, and if I achieve only one goal this year, I want it to be that I will come out of this shell I have buried myself in. Because the loneliness is killing me, and even though the pain is intense, I cannot help but be ever aware of the child in my life who didn't ask to be here. A long time ago a little girl was brought into this world unwanted. She didn't ask to be here, either. Yet she was always treated as if this were a conscious choice that she made...and I am still living with those scars. Some days I just hang my head and think that I will never escape this, the wounds that stem from what it means to be raised with little to no love. I would give anything for my son not to be me; his formative years have already been messed up enough. So, I guess the bottom line is that I no longer live for myself. If what you can call what I am doing living.
Hopefully the end of this year will see me a divorced woman. If I learned anything last year, it was that perhaps my definitions of "what is supposed to be" are not as concrete as I thought they were. I married my son's father, in spite of his abusive ways, because my parents hurt me so badly by their divorce. I felt that they could have worked through their problems, for the sake of the children who needed them. Especially me. My parents finalized their divorce before they ever said a word to me, and left me with few explanations. The years that followed were filled with the sound of my father's absence, and the pain of my mother's rage.I thought that the worst thing I could ever do to Steven would be to give him a life in which he was being passed from one parent to the other. It turns out that his father and I fought so much that the poor child prefers us being apart. I cannot forgive myself for that.
I left Steve for the final time on what was his 41st birthday. The apartment reeked of alcohol, and I got tired of looking at this person who was not the person who initially pursued me. I mean, sure, people change...but this change was too much, far too drastic. I was tired of the dance of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. I had had enough, and that day as we left, Steven held on to my mother for dear life. I don't want my son to grow up scared. He's been resilient, but it's time for me to stop testing that.
I have learned some very bitter lessons about what it means to be the victim of domestic violence. I have learned that the justice system will grant your abuser parental rights until he or she does irreparable damage to the child or children you have in common, that a threat to YOU is not enough to warrant your abuser not having access to your kids. So guess what? Your abuser still has access to you, even if you take out a protective order. That order really, truly is only a piece of paper.
I have learned how much women judge. The women at Steven's school, the teachers, the admins. So many people staring at me, so many whispers. The penniless woman with the special needs child, who just couldn't seem to leave her husband. So many indignant, ignorant women who just do not understand that it's usually not a case of loving this monster you are with. Me, the only place I had to go is somewhere I do not want to be; homeless shelters have waiting lists here, and I have to place myself in a position to keep Steven's educational situation as stable as possible, no matter what it does to me. I cope by withdrawal and sarcasm. My reputation in my family is that of a person who does not like others at all, but I'm simply hurting too much right now to answer prodding questions.
I have tried to tell the women who judge me for going back twice that what happened to me could most definitely happen to them, that it's not as cut and dry as they seem to think. Domestic violence is not always a knock-down, drag-out fight with the kids either watching on the couch or cowering in their rooms, with their hands over their ears, trying to block out the screaming. The violence can be so surreptitious that when the woman flees, her children may not understand...which can lead to parental alienation. The abuser will use the anger of his children to further control his wife. It happens, and despite all the testimonies to this, the courts still turn a blind eye to what is happening. The court system is a minefield for the victim of domestic violence.
Shelters are ALWAYS full, so you will not be taken until you are bruised, beaten, or worse. The court system will say that most all evidence is "heresay", and that very few things short of physical injuries or you magically managing to record your abuser abusing you (how in the hell...seriously?) will stand up in court. It's not cut and dry. I dropped a protective order last year, because the judge denied the preliminary order (in spite of what was already on record), and my lawyer told me that the case was shaky. He also told me that if I were to lose the case, that this could be held against me when it came time to file for custody. I understand that he had an obligation to be truthful with me, but none of these things gave me the confidence he wanted me to have for this case. I was asked to involve a woman with less protection than I, to risk her safety and that of her four kids so that I could have a piece of paper that would most likely just ensure that if it were violated, I would not live to be able to testify to what happened. Somehow, throughout all the fear, throughout all of this, I was supposed to muster up some sense of indignation and just walk out with my child to nothing....because that was what we ended up with each time we have lost our home. No, I am not going back. I only went back for my child, love didn't enter the equation after the second time he lost his mind. When he started threatening to kill me in June of last year (three times when sober, so claims of alcoholism are obsolete as far as I am concerned), hatred started to build once the fear died down. Seriously, it's not as easy as many women seem to think. I'm glad they have such high self-esteem, but ALL of that will flee the first time that man hits them. It will. They just don't know it yet.
I look back and see the red flags I should have picked up, the situations that should have given me pause, and I grieve. But grief is something I can only indulge in for a moment when it comes to my failed marriage. I should never have said those vows in the first place. However, had I not given this man the time of day, I would not have my child...and as a result, I would not have my life. That boy is my heart with limbs attached to it, and though I spend most of my day tired and gruff, I know that he knows that I love him.
How am I supposed to make a life out of the ashes that surround me? I have no idea. Illness, lack of formal education, a career that has stalled. No home, no money, and only a gigantic spectre of fear in front of me when I contemplate my future. Something has to give, break, materialize...for my son's sake it has to. I cannot carry this child through life on nothing. And while that which I have been surviving on for so long (hope) is a beautiful thing for him to have on his own, it cannot provide a roof over his head, food on the table, or something to enjoy at Christmas. All of that is up to me.
I sit sometimes and wonder if my life in particular is a self-fulfilling prophecy, or if I have a particular gift of premonition. These days I try not to dwell on my fears much at all, because I sit in a situation where the fears of my youth have come true in a frightening way. I feared being the age that I am, with a life that I could not be proud of....alone. For while I am surrounded by people, no one reaches me. I live out my days inside my head, my imagination tucked around me, because at least my illusions cannot hurt me. I cover my eyes and shield my heart, for in here no one can touch me. But I know that if I ever wish to truly live...I have to come out.
I am terrified. But it is a new year, and so I will emerge, bit by bit. I just hope that this year does not bring more pain. Yes, I have a high tolerance for it, yes I am resilient, yes I am strong. But one day I will break. What then? What about my son? That's the one thing that haunts me night and day. No one around me has the capacity to care for my son like I do, because due to their dislike of me, they never bothered to learn. What would his life be like in a world full of people who never sought to learn how to even talk to him?
And I am undone. My son just came over, took me in his arms and held me. There is something in me that knows it's okay for your children to see you cry; how else will they know it is okay for them to show emotion? But my four-year-old non-verbal child should not be comforting me. Still, he did; he wrapped his arms around me and kissed my forehead, as the tears fell down my face. If I know no other deep love in this life, at least I have his. And in that I am blessed.
It is a new year.
Monday, November 19, 2012
Transparency
I wish that there was someone I could just sit down with in real life and tell just how scared I am. I try to be strong for the sake of Steven, but my fears just keep coming out in the form of frustrations he does not understand. He doesn't deserve them, either. I just feel so weak sometimes, and terribly frightened. No one is around enough to learn about what my son needs, so what happens when I'm gone?
I know that those around me would say that I speak of my mortality too much, but outside of my son, my life has not been one that I would say is worth living. I've had enough disappointment, abuse and pain. I have buried enough dreams. I have stifled enough tears. And I could care less about what people would have to say when I'm gone, because I'm here...and I don't hear you. Nor do I see you.
I think that the loneliness is the hardest part of this whole situation. During the weekday, when everone is gone, I sit here and think about the world passing by outside my window. It's a bit easier when I actually have somewhere to go, and something to do, but most days are not like that. And I feel judged by those who watch my "drama" unfold. It's like I have leprosy, too many issues, too many problems for anyone to want to come close.
In the past I have tried to hang onto my spirituality to keep afloat, but that part of my world has been rather empty as of late. I understand that rain falls on the just and the unjust, but I can't help feeling like I'm being punished for some mistake that I don't realize I've made. And I get irritated with the people who try to tell me that my situation is not all that bad. You are not here. I'm not saying that my problems are the worst in the world, but they are prolems, and they do burden me.
I must admit that deep inside of me lies the hope that one day, even if it's just one person (and that's all there ever is), someone will look and actually see me. And in spite of all my shortcomings, wish to stay around longer than a few minutes. Because I honestly feel like I will be crushed by this situation sometimes. Since it's not just me that depends upon me anymore, giving up is out of the question.
I'm only human, though. Has anyone ever thought about that?
I know that those around me would say that I speak of my mortality too much, but outside of my son, my life has not been one that I would say is worth living. I've had enough disappointment, abuse and pain. I have buried enough dreams. I have stifled enough tears. And I could care less about what people would have to say when I'm gone, because I'm here...and I don't hear you. Nor do I see you.
I think that the loneliness is the hardest part of this whole situation. During the weekday, when everone is gone, I sit here and think about the world passing by outside my window. It's a bit easier when I actually have somewhere to go, and something to do, but most days are not like that. And I feel judged by those who watch my "drama" unfold. It's like I have leprosy, too many issues, too many problems for anyone to want to come close.
In the past I have tried to hang onto my spirituality to keep afloat, but that part of my world has been rather empty as of late. I understand that rain falls on the just and the unjust, but I can't help feeling like I'm being punished for some mistake that I don't realize I've made. And I get irritated with the people who try to tell me that my situation is not all that bad. You are not here. I'm not saying that my problems are the worst in the world, but they are prolems, and they do burden me.
I must admit that deep inside of me lies the hope that one day, even if it's just one person (and that's all there ever is), someone will look and actually see me. And in spite of all my shortcomings, wish to stay around longer than a few minutes. Because I honestly feel like I will be crushed by this situation sometimes. Since it's not just me that depends upon me anymore, giving up is out of the question.
I'm only human, though. Has anyone ever thought about that?
Sunday, November 18, 2012
Apparently it's not all in my head.
For most of my life I have avoided crying in front of people. It wasn't something that my mother looked kindly upon, especially when she was beating me. But don't mention that to her, we're not supposed to talk about all of that. The subject of my parental limitations is definitely to be brought up, but the years of systematic abuse...no. I live amongst people who seem to think that goodness and wisdom come from age, rather than from lessons learned in a positive way. Oh well, I give up on trying to address that. It no longer matters to me whether or not these people acknowledge what I feel.
So it's been three weeks since my doctor told me to see a shrink (and that my current one must not have been doing a good job). Had I not cried in that office, I probably would not be on the verge of a legitimate diagnosis. What I do know is that the issue is an autoimmune disease. It seems that my body is destroying my red blood cells. I ache with every movement. It's no longer just "you're fat," or "you're depressed." Um, you're damn right I am! You would be too, if you felt like this!
I went from being just another hypochondriac to being "my dear" and "my friend". All of a sudden I'm treated with solicitousness. I don't know whether or not to be scared. I do know that what I'm about to learn is going to change my life. Especially as a parent. I just hope that I can be independent in spite of all of this. I'm going to try. I honestly believe that living alone (with the boy in tow) would be good for my health. If it is true that suppressed rage causes illness, then I need to separate myself, because I'm quite angry with the world around me. I might as well go on and admit it. I don't dwell on it a lot, but I am angry at the people who have used me as a target all these years, as well as those who have come to snap judgments based upon their own shallow nature. I will not stop holding both myself and those around me to a higher standard when it comes to how to treat people. I am a human being. Treat me like one. My pain, my illness doesn't lessen the fact that I bleed just like you when cut.
I fear for my boy. Who will care for him when I'm gone? Because I accept that I will not be an old lady. People always tell me not to speak that into existence, but I feel that this is just a form of denial, one that I wish those closest to me would not fall into. So far, only two people have actually sat and listened to my concerns or need to make plans. I will not be blindsided by this. While my prognosis might not be death within a few years, there is a good chance my son will be young when I go. Can I please go knowing he won't be alone and confused?
At least today I know that it's not just depression. The blood work says that a heart attack is imminent. It says that my disease is chronic, and it's destroying my body. It says that what I've been trying to get someone to see for years, is actually there. I haven't been lying. I'm not a drug seeker (though they do work...shoot me).
I am ill. And I didn't make it up. I just wish I had a support system nearby. The love of my family that is distant keeps me going on the darkest days, but it is very hard knowing how many people are right up the road, who don't pay me a single thought. It's like I'm not worth anything to them.
So it's been three weeks since my doctor told me to see a shrink (and that my current one must not have been doing a good job). Had I not cried in that office, I probably would not be on the verge of a legitimate diagnosis. What I do know is that the issue is an autoimmune disease. It seems that my body is destroying my red blood cells. I ache with every movement. It's no longer just "you're fat," or "you're depressed." Um, you're damn right I am! You would be too, if you felt like this!
I went from being just another hypochondriac to being "my dear" and "my friend". All of a sudden I'm treated with solicitousness. I don't know whether or not to be scared. I do know that what I'm about to learn is going to change my life. Especially as a parent. I just hope that I can be independent in spite of all of this. I'm going to try. I honestly believe that living alone (with the boy in tow) would be good for my health. If it is true that suppressed rage causes illness, then I need to separate myself, because I'm quite angry with the world around me. I might as well go on and admit it. I don't dwell on it a lot, but I am angry at the people who have used me as a target all these years, as well as those who have come to snap judgments based upon their own shallow nature. I will not stop holding both myself and those around me to a higher standard when it comes to how to treat people. I am a human being. Treat me like one. My pain, my illness doesn't lessen the fact that I bleed just like you when cut.
I fear for my boy. Who will care for him when I'm gone? Because I accept that I will not be an old lady. People always tell me not to speak that into existence, but I feel that this is just a form of denial, one that I wish those closest to me would not fall into. So far, only two people have actually sat and listened to my concerns or need to make plans. I will not be blindsided by this. While my prognosis might not be death within a few years, there is a good chance my son will be young when I go. Can I please go knowing he won't be alone and confused?
At least today I know that it's not just depression. The blood work says that a heart attack is imminent. It says that my disease is chronic, and it's destroying my body. It says that what I've been trying to get someone to see for years, is actually there. I haven't been lying. I'm not a drug seeker (though they do work...shoot me).
I am ill. And I didn't make it up. I just wish I had a support system nearby. The love of my family that is distant keeps me going on the darkest days, but it is very hard knowing how many people are right up the road, who don't pay me a single thought. It's like I'm not worth anything to them.
I'm tired of being ignored...
I often tell my therapist that one day I'm going to write a book. I no longer write in journals, because it just seems like I am doing little more than talk to myself. I only do it these days when I feel as if I'm going to explode.
I'm just baffled at the level of insensitivity that seems to pervade society these days. Are we that selfish? I try so hard not to be, but it's like I don't really exist anymore. From what I'm reading, it's a by-product of chronic illness; you lose the life you once had, you lose friends. Problem is, I feel like everyone walked out of my life, with the exception of those who make me even more ill by being around. It would be nice to have a friend come visit. But they're off living their lives. I don't mean to sound bitter, but I tried to be an asset to my friends before I got sick. You would think after all I've done, I would be worthy of some positive attention.
But no, I'm the drama queen. I attract trouble. Never mind the individuals around me with their own issues, who feel that it's okay to press them upon me. I want nothing more than to simply live a peaceful life, but I'm surrounded by adult children who don't want to deal with their past issues. Hopefully one day soon they won't be a part of my life anymore. I don't deserve to be abused by you, I don't care what happened to you. I have not taken my grief out on you, don't take yours out on me.
I don't get that, this idea that when you are having a bad day, or a difficult stretch in life, it's perfectly okay to walk around with a chip on your shoulder. Most of my life has been full of abuse. I didn't fight back, I internalized it all, and had to eventually un-learn all of the negative messages that were given to me. It was a long journey, it was terribly hard. I still flinch at times when I reach out, and it's like I'm totally ignored. But there is a peace that comes with not basing your self-worth upon the opinions of others. Sure, plenty of people in the world say they don't care what other people think, but if all of those "other people," their friends, family members and colleagues walked away, they would be crushed. I've had that happen to me, and I'm still here.
I'm tired of being ignored. I'm tired of being written off. I'm real. My story is real. My pain matters. Just because it's immense doesn't mean that I deserve to be left alone. I have yet another burden to bear, finally a diagnosis for what has been plaguing me for years. No support system for my son should I die, because there is none for me. Yet I still keep going. Wondering what will happen to my boy when I'm not here, because I cannot channge what will be.
And all because society is too fixated on pleasure to deal with the inevitability of pain. I am to be ignored because all I've ever known, with the exception of the joy that is my son, is pain.
I do not see how that is fair. And I hope that when I'm gone, judgment is heaped upon those who have been too busy having fun to notice me.
I'm just baffled at the level of insensitivity that seems to pervade society these days. Are we that selfish? I try so hard not to be, but it's like I don't really exist anymore. From what I'm reading, it's a by-product of chronic illness; you lose the life you once had, you lose friends. Problem is, I feel like everyone walked out of my life, with the exception of those who make me even more ill by being around. It would be nice to have a friend come visit. But they're off living their lives. I don't mean to sound bitter, but I tried to be an asset to my friends before I got sick. You would think after all I've done, I would be worthy of some positive attention.
But no, I'm the drama queen. I attract trouble. Never mind the individuals around me with their own issues, who feel that it's okay to press them upon me. I want nothing more than to simply live a peaceful life, but I'm surrounded by adult children who don't want to deal with their past issues. Hopefully one day soon they won't be a part of my life anymore. I don't deserve to be abused by you, I don't care what happened to you. I have not taken my grief out on you, don't take yours out on me.
I don't get that, this idea that when you are having a bad day, or a difficult stretch in life, it's perfectly okay to walk around with a chip on your shoulder. Most of my life has been full of abuse. I didn't fight back, I internalized it all, and had to eventually un-learn all of the negative messages that were given to me. It was a long journey, it was terribly hard. I still flinch at times when I reach out, and it's like I'm totally ignored. But there is a peace that comes with not basing your self-worth upon the opinions of others. Sure, plenty of people in the world say they don't care what other people think, but if all of those "other people," their friends, family members and colleagues walked away, they would be crushed. I've had that happen to me, and I'm still here.
I'm tired of being ignored. I'm tired of being written off. I'm real. My story is real. My pain matters. Just because it's immense doesn't mean that I deserve to be left alone. I have yet another burden to bear, finally a diagnosis for what has been plaguing me for years. No support system for my son should I die, because there is none for me. Yet I still keep going. Wondering what will happen to my boy when I'm not here, because I cannot channge what will be.
And all because society is too fixated on pleasure to deal with the inevitability of pain. I am to be ignored because all I've ever known, with the exception of the joy that is my son, is pain.
I do not see how that is fair. And I hope that when I'm gone, judgment is heaped upon those who have been too busy having fun to notice me.
Sunday, October 28, 2012
"It's all in your head."
They say that depression is anger turned inward.
Does this mean that I would be in optimum health right now, had I simply beat the crap out of the people who have abused and disenfranchised me during this roller coaster that is my life? Would I honestly be better off if I had opened my mouth and fought back? I have struggled not to act upon the desires to retaliate all my life, thinking that wasn't the way to go. You mean to tell me I'm sick because I just didn't "wild out"?
I look at my life, and I wonder why I even bother. Honestly, the only reason I am still alive, is because of my son. I don't want to leave him. His love is what keeps me from giving up, and I hope that as he gets older, I will not be a disappointment to him. He is truly one of the only things that I can put a smile on my face. Him, and dark political humor. I find the antics of teapublicans extremely amusing...except when they're on a mission to my uterus. If my yearly check up makes me uncomfortable, what the %*^&; do you think I want you up there for? GO AWAY!
Anyways...
For the past five years, I have not been feeling well. My head has ached constantly all this time. There has been no break in that pain. My joints ache intermittently. I catch every cold and flu that comes through the community each year. I have been diagnosed with silent seizures, which have been difficult to treat. I have lived through a stroke. Been hospitalized several times. Most days I do not leave the house, and I do not get out of bed, except to clean and cook. I can sleep for eight hours, and still wake up tired. The actual feelings of sadness over my condition do not surface often, but they're there now. Thanks Doc, for calling me a mental case. I appreciate it!
While these symptoms can be attributed to depression, the stroke cannot. Yes, your health declines due to stress. That is a proven fact. And goodness knows, I have seen a lot of stress and grief in my life. I've been forced to hold my true feelings about my experience inside, or write in a journal, because I was vehemently blocked from telling my truth. Most of the people who have hurt me don't even know they have. Either that, or they don't care. The idea that I was "crazy anyway" has caused many people to legitimize their treatment of me. My journals hold my hopes and fears, the feelings that I have longed to shout to the world all these years. And while some people paint me to be this belligerent, angry individual, they have not been responsible for their actions the way I long for them to be. No one has ever confronted them on the accusations leveled at me. Accusations of driving my father to his grave, being sick enough to solicit my stepfather for unspeakable things, doing drugs...just to name a few. I have never broken the law, I have always striven to be seen as a "good girl". I thought that perhaps this would make my detractors love me. Boy, was I wrong.
Still, while "depression hurts", chronic illness can cause depression as well. Depression is a beast I have been waging war against since I was a child. My short-term memory may be crap, but my long-term memory is fine. I know how I have felt both physically and mentally over the years (I kept a written record!), and prior to March of 2007, I did not feel the way I do now. I used to walk 4 miles a day, come home and do an hour of yoga, then slip on my point shoes to dance. I had an active social life, I sang. I lived. Emotions aside, if I had the status of health that I had back then, chasing my son would be no problem. I would not fear losing grip of his hand and not being able to catch him before he ran into the street the way I do. My body broke down five years ago, and I feel like I've been run around by physicians who can't explain to me why the stroke happened. Since they can't come up with an explanation, all of my symptoms are now "psychosomatic". And good lord, do not ever use a medical term with these arrogant people, they think that you are a hypochondriac. Whoops, another "big word", that us folks should avoid, who haven't been through medical school. No, I'm not a malingerer (there I go again). It's just that when all this started, you never explained in lay terms to me what words like "venous thrombosis", or "sub-arachnoid hemorrhage" meant. So I had to look them up. And they scared the shit out of me. And I use these words, because I don't want there to be any mistake with regards to what I'm feeling or what has happened.
And forgive me for this unrelenting pain in my head. I wish it upon them. Let's see how they move around, think, function. I'm sorry that the only thing that calms the pain once it flares every six weeks or more, are pain meds via IV. You don't have to whisper about me as I walk through the ER. You don't have to make jokes that you think I'm too dumb to understand.
Perhaps my current pain really is anger turned inward. I have tried to be polite, thinking that if I was, I would be treated with dignity. But now I see that many people are just selfish and cruel, and perhaps I need to let the other side of me out, and snap at a few people, show them that I'm not dumb, and not to be underestimated. Perhaps they will straighten up and fly right, and treat me like a human being.
But to just say that all of my experience has been due to depression, is unfair. I did not cause my depression. I didn't cook it up to get attention. I have been called "mental" all my life. This is the tool my abusers have used to cover up their deeds. It's called "gaslighting", look it up. It took me up until a few years ago to stop entertaining the thought that I really was a basket case, and all my memories were false. The thought of that possibility was really scary. But I put that behind me now. My memories are consistent and real. And I am not the cause of my depression.
But if my depression is the cause of my health problems, if my life has been stunted by these health problems, then I'm sorry, but that's really crappy. My whole life, and the plans that I made for it have been stunted by this illness. I have a graveyard of dreams in the back of my mind. I don't visit often anymore, but it's there. And yes, depression is an illness. My hopes, my dreams...all undone by my inability to heal from the maltreatment of others.
So at this juncture, it's "all in my head". And I don't know how to really react to that. I know I need to seek out a second opinion, but the medical community has really hurt me at this point. You label me as an addict because occasionally I need pain meds. I had no idea that receiving a pain injection once every six weeks to three months made you an addict. It must also be because I don't flinch when you stick a needle in me. Firstly, I think it's ridiculous for a grown person to be blubbering and fainting over a damn needle. Secondly, do you see tract marks? No. So I'm not an addict.
Oh, and the visits. It's not a life-threatening emergency, so I should just go home and sit in pain.
Had I done this for the past five years, maybe I would be taken seriously now. Instead of being labeled as just a mental patient.
I'm kind of blown right now.
Does this mean that I would be in optimum health right now, had I simply beat the crap out of the people who have abused and disenfranchised me during this roller coaster that is my life? Would I honestly be better off if I had opened my mouth and fought back? I have struggled not to act upon the desires to retaliate all my life, thinking that wasn't the way to go. You mean to tell me I'm sick because I just didn't "wild out"?
I look at my life, and I wonder why I even bother. Honestly, the only reason I am still alive, is because of my son. I don't want to leave him. His love is what keeps me from giving up, and I hope that as he gets older, I will not be a disappointment to him. He is truly one of the only things that I can put a smile on my face. Him, and dark political humor. I find the antics of teapublicans extremely amusing...except when they're on a mission to my uterus. If my yearly check up makes me uncomfortable, what the %*^&; do you think I want you up there for? GO AWAY!
Anyways...
For the past five years, I have not been feeling well. My head has ached constantly all this time. There has been no break in that pain. My joints ache intermittently. I catch every cold and flu that comes through the community each year. I have been diagnosed with silent seizures, which have been difficult to treat. I have lived through a stroke. Been hospitalized several times. Most days I do not leave the house, and I do not get out of bed, except to clean and cook. I can sleep for eight hours, and still wake up tired. The actual feelings of sadness over my condition do not surface often, but they're there now. Thanks Doc, for calling me a mental case. I appreciate it!
While these symptoms can be attributed to depression, the stroke cannot. Yes, your health declines due to stress. That is a proven fact. And goodness knows, I have seen a lot of stress and grief in my life. I've been forced to hold my true feelings about my experience inside, or write in a journal, because I was vehemently blocked from telling my truth. Most of the people who have hurt me don't even know they have. Either that, or they don't care. The idea that I was "crazy anyway" has caused many people to legitimize their treatment of me. My journals hold my hopes and fears, the feelings that I have longed to shout to the world all these years. And while some people paint me to be this belligerent, angry individual, they have not been responsible for their actions the way I long for them to be. No one has ever confronted them on the accusations leveled at me. Accusations of driving my father to his grave, being sick enough to solicit my stepfather for unspeakable things, doing drugs...just to name a few. I have never broken the law, I have always striven to be seen as a "good girl". I thought that perhaps this would make my detractors love me. Boy, was I wrong.
Still, while "depression hurts", chronic illness can cause depression as well. Depression is a beast I have been waging war against since I was a child. My short-term memory may be crap, but my long-term memory is fine. I know how I have felt both physically and mentally over the years (I kept a written record!), and prior to March of 2007, I did not feel the way I do now. I used to walk 4 miles a day, come home and do an hour of yoga, then slip on my point shoes to dance. I had an active social life, I sang. I lived. Emotions aside, if I had the status of health that I had back then, chasing my son would be no problem. I would not fear losing grip of his hand and not being able to catch him before he ran into the street the way I do. My body broke down five years ago, and I feel like I've been run around by physicians who can't explain to me why the stroke happened. Since they can't come up with an explanation, all of my symptoms are now "psychosomatic". And good lord, do not ever use a medical term with these arrogant people, they think that you are a hypochondriac. Whoops, another "big word", that us folks should avoid, who haven't been through medical school. No, I'm not a malingerer (there I go again). It's just that when all this started, you never explained in lay terms to me what words like "venous thrombosis", or "sub-arachnoid hemorrhage" meant. So I had to look them up. And they scared the shit out of me. And I use these words, because I don't want there to be any mistake with regards to what I'm feeling or what has happened.
And forgive me for this unrelenting pain in my head. I wish it upon them. Let's see how they move around, think, function. I'm sorry that the only thing that calms the pain once it flares every six weeks or more, are pain meds via IV. You don't have to whisper about me as I walk through the ER. You don't have to make jokes that you think I'm too dumb to understand.
Perhaps my current pain really is anger turned inward. I have tried to be polite, thinking that if I was, I would be treated with dignity. But now I see that many people are just selfish and cruel, and perhaps I need to let the other side of me out, and snap at a few people, show them that I'm not dumb, and not to be underestimated. Perhaps they will straighten up and fly right, and treat me like a human being.
But to just say that all of my experience has been due to depression, is unfair. I did not cause my depression. I didn't cook it up to get attention. I have been called "mental" all my life. This is the tool my abusers have used to cover up their deeds. It's called "gaslighting", look it up. It took me up until a few years ago to stop entertaining the thought that I really was a basket case, and all my memories were false. The thought of that possibility was really scary. But I put that behind me now. My memories are consistent and real. And I am not the cause of my depression.
But if my depression is the cause of my health problems, if my life has been stunted by these health problems, then I'm sorry, but that's really crappy. My whole life, and the plans that I made for it have been stunted by this illness. I have a graveyard of dreams in the back of my mind. I don't visit often anymore, but it's there. And yes, depression is an illness. My hopes, my dreams...all undone by my inability to heal from the maltreatment of others.
So at this juncture, it's "all in my head". And I don't know how to really react to that. I know I need to seek out a second opinion, but the medical community has really hurt me at this point. You label me as an addict because occasionally I need pain meds. I had no idea that receiving a pain injection once every six weeks to three months made you an addict. It must also be because I don't flinch when you stick a needle in me. Firstly, I think it's ridiculous for a grown person to be blubbering and fainting over a damn needle. Secondly, do you see tract marks? No. So I'm not an addict.
Oh, and the visits. It's not a life-threatening emergency, so I should just go home and sit in pain.
Had I done this for the past five years, maybe I would be taken seriously now. Instead of being labeled as just a mental patient.
I'm kind of blown right now.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)