The rare sound of rain falling on the roof may threaten to break the physical silence surrounding me, but not the hush in my heart.
There is a whiff of soup from the stove, a tick of the clock and a variety of dog licking, sniffing and snoring noises all around me. My head is filled with the chatter of voices, young and old. But inside me, I hang onto the silence I have created to hold back the pain.
When I wrote my last post about January 22, I thought that was all I needed to get through this year. A little journaling and I should have been just fine. I mean that's what they teach you in counseling. Put it somewhere so you don't have to carry it with you.
I get an A for effort, right? I have shared the experience in counseling and written about it. But, the long-term effects are tearing me apart and maybe more today than ever before.
A person might think that something which happened 33 years ago shouldn't effect me the way it does. Maybe in theory that would be the case had it been the first and only instead of the first of hundreds or thousands.
Outside of this one way conversation here in blogosphere, nobody really knows the pain I am in today. I am not placing blame on anyone, except maybe myself.
I have allowed myself to become a bit of a hermit the past couple weeks. My socialization has dwindled to face to face contact with the bare minimum of people and for minimal amounts of time. I am able to smile and make myself look as normal as possible.
My husband is understandably preoccupied, making him less of risk to my finely tuned plan to keep everyone at bay.
I have learned that even with my counselor, who I saw today, I am a master of avoidance. She pushes when necessary, but sometimes in the wrong direction. Again, I am not placing fault with anyone, especially her. She would gladly let me verbally vomit all of my pain. But I've gone that route and it didn't work...remember the pain is worse this year than in years past.
The biggest fault in my master plan of avoidance is that I have left myself completely alone. That is a dangerous place to be when you are me. That is when the clock begins to tick louder as the minutes of my life flutter away.
It is when the silence that once surrounded my heart turns into chaos and I begin to search for the thing that will make me feel better the fastest. Then comes the moment I knew would come. The moment when I realize how desperate I am because of the solitude I willingly created for myself.
I have been here before. Those times are when I realize everything I protected myself from is exactly what I need to survive the pain that is about to envelope me.
Those are the times when I send a text message or call someone who I believe will understand exactly where I am, but the phone goes to voicemail or they don't pick up the text until the next day.
Maybe it is predictable for me to end up here...alone. I certainly set myself up for it, so I guess I deserve to be here. Reliving that day, 33 years ago, as if it were happening right in front of me. Physical and emotional pain as real as the moment was then. Overwhelmed by the destruction of my life that can be traced back to that day. My heart broken over everything that was lost that day. Living with the fear that there will never be any restoration of my stolen soul. Not knowing if it will ever be possible to out live the pain.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Saturday, January 21, 2012
You Want to Know...
...but you don't!
It seems like forever ago we started to notice problems with my mother-in-law. In reality, it was just November. Just a short two months ago, my husband and his siblings started to notice oddities in their mom's behavior. Two months!
Only three weeks ago, we sat down with his parents to push them into getting to the bottom of the memory problems. We did that only after there was a noticeable difference from November to December.
When you look at the big picture, that's a really short amount of time. But when we talked to them, we both were passionate about her getting the help she needed. I think in our hearts, we were hoping for some medical excuse for the memory loss.
His mom used every possible medical reason for her memory loss, even though each one was less viable than the last. A few weeks of visiting one specialist after another, she was assured that her memory problem was not from leg problems, back pain, varicose veins, neck pains or blood clots.
This week, she received a solid diagnosis of dementia. Nothing specific, such as Alzheimer's...just dementia. Early onset and aggressive progression.
That is a lot to soak in when you consider just a few short months ago, she was still the active, family hub who was still working on occasion.
Even though we knew what was coming, I don't think anyone was really ready to hear it. But, even that is hard to tell when most of my husband's family are natural introverts who internalize everything.
I have been asked by a couple close friends how I am doing with the news. The obvious answer is I'm fine. I mean she isn't my mom.
Maybe that isn't entirely true. For as many problems as I have had with her over the past 18 years, she has been a part of my life. Outside of my family and my husband, nobody has been a part of my life quite that long.
I've had many people who came into my life and were around a lot less longer...it was a devastating loss when some of those people exited my life.
Honestly, my heart is aching for my husband, his family, my mother-in-law and myself. It is heartbreaking to know the best days have already passed and the worst is still ahead.
There is a hint of guilt that goes along with all of this too. We pushed so hard for her to get to the bottom of her problem and the bottom was her being handed a death sentence. It's hard to accept that.
I know, you might think that is too harsh of a statement but I'm a realist. There is no cure. There are meds that can slow the progression, but they won't fix it. The fast progression from November to December is a possible indication of how quickly she could decline. With my medical knowledge, I fully understand what to expect.
But even a realist can be angry. A realist can still be angry when they have confirmation of what they already knew.
It seems like forever ago we started to notice problems with my mother-in-law. In reality, it was just November. Just a short two months ago, my husband and his siblings started to notice oddities in their mom's behavior. Two months!
Only three weeks ago, we sat down with his parents to push them into getting to the bottom of the memory problems. We did that only after there was a noticeable difference from November to December.
When you look at the big picture, that's a really short amount of time. But when we talked to them, we both were passionate about her getting the help she needed. I think in our hearts, we were hoping for some medical excuse for the memory loss.
His mom used every possible medical reason for her memory loss, even though each one was less viable than the last. A few weeks of visiting one specialist after another, she was assured that her memory problem was not from leg problems, back pain, varicose veins, neck pains or blood clots.
This week, she received a solid diagnosis of dementia. Nothing specific, such as Alzheimer's...just dementia. Early onset and aggressive progression.
That is a lot to soak in when you consider just a few short months ago, she was still the active, family hub who was still working on occasion.
Even though we knew what was coming, I don't think anyone was really ready to hear it. But, even that is hard to tell when most of my husband's family are natural introverts who internalize everything.
I have been asked by a couple close friends how I am doing with the news. The obvious answer is I'm fine. I mean she isn't my mom.
Maybe that isn't entirely true. For as many problems as I have had with her over the past 18 years, she has been a part of my life. Outside of my family and my husband, nobody has been a part of my life quite that long.
I've had many people who came into my life and were around a lot less longer...it was a devastating loss when some of those people exited my life.
Honestly, my heart is aching for my husband, his family, my mother-in-law and myself. It is heartbreaking to know the best days have already passed and the worst is still ahead.
There is a hint of guilt that goes along with all of this too. We pushed so hard for her to get to the bottom of her problem and the bottom was her being handed a death sentence. It's hard to accept that.
I know, you might think that is too harsh of a statement but I'm a realist. There is no cure. There are meds that can slow the progression, but they won't fix it. The fast progression from November to December is a possible indication of how quickly she could decline. With my medical knowledge, I fully understand what to expect.
But even a realist can be angry. A realist can still be angry when they have confirmation of what they already knew.
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Where's the life jacket?
Why is it that when you feel like you are about to drown, the life jacket is just too far to reach?
It seems like my life is a lot that way right now. I still struggle to understand or believe in prayer. So while I wade through that life around me is crumbling apart. And ya know what? When you dont' think prayer is useful, it leaves you with nothing to hang onto.
Not that my life was all put together before, because it wasn't. In fact, my life tends to swirl in the pit most days (actually nights, but that's another story). But it seems the past month has brought a new challenge each week.
One that I've been open with in this forum is the current concerns with my mother-in-laws health. She failed the verbal tests and all medical tests indicated no cause for the memory loss. Last week, she had an MRI to compare with one done last year.
She got the results of the MRI comparison today. She has cerebral atrophy with more on the left than the right. There are several diseases which could cause the atrophy, but the most probable is Alzheimer's. She exhibits many of the symptoms of Alzheimer's and failed the verbal tests for this particular type of dementia.
On Friday, she will have a consultation with a Neurologist and we hope to know more.
The flood of emotions are beginning for my husband. He's angry, REALLY angry. He loves his mom dearly, so I understand his anger. I also know he feels like he has missed the past five years with her because he has been taking care of me.
I'm not sure I'm ready for all of this. I don't have my life jacket, it's still too far away to reach. I'm not emotionally able to take on one more thing. I'm not at all capable to handling my own stress and my stressed, emotional husband. I'm not just being selfish, I'm being honest.
As much as I wanted her to find out what was wrong with her, I wasn't ready for that to happen. Bottom line...I'm not close enough to God to be able to go through this with my husband.
There are dynamics to this that I can't understand and make me of little help to my husband. I don't know what it's like to love a parent and I certainly haven't been in a health crisis with a loved parent.
I get worried about my husband, but now I'm really worried about him. He works in a high stress job. He works three jobs. He has a house that is still undone that he works so hard on when he has a free minute. He beats himself up over everything. He has to take care of me. Now he has this on his plate. He does have a small support system, but nowhere near what he will need.
How do I trust he will be ok when I don't even trust that I will be ok? Ack! I wish I had more faith right now. I really do. At least then I'd know that the life jacket was within reach for both of us.
It seems like my life is a lot that way right now. I still struggle to understand or believe in prayer. So while I wade through that life around me is crumbling apart. And ya know what? When you dont' think prayer is useful, it leaves you with nothing to hang onto.
Not that my life was all put together before, because it wasn't. In fact, my life tends to swirl in the pit most days (actually nights, but that's another story). But it seems the past month has brought a new challenge each week.
One that I've been open with in this forum is the current concerns with my mother-in-laws health. She failed the verbal tests and all medical tests indicated no cause for the memory loss. Last week, she had an MRI to compare with one done last year.
She got the results of the MRI comparison today. She has cerebral atrophy with more on the left than the right. There are several diseases which could cause the atrophy, but the most probable is Alzheimer's. She exhibits many of the symptoms of Alzheimer's and failed the verbal tests for this particular type of dementia.
On Friday, she will have a consultation with a Neurologist and we hope to know more.
The flood of emotions are beginning for my husband. He's angry, REALLY angry. He loves his mom dearly, so I understand his anger. I also know he feels like he has missed the past five years with her because he has been taking care of me.
I'm not sure I'm ready for all of this. I don't have my life jacket, it's still too far away to reach. I'm not emotionally able to take on one more thing. I'm not at all capable to handling my own stress and my stressed, emotional husband. I'm not just being selfish, I'm being honest.
As much as I wanted her to find out what was wrong with her, I wasn't ready for that to happen. Bottom line...I'm not close enough to God to be able to go through this with my husband.
There are dynamics to this that I can't understand and make me of little help to my husband. I don't know what it's like to love a parent and I certainly haven't been in a health crisis with a loved parent.
I get worried about my husband, but now I'm really worried about him. He works in a high stress job. He works three jobs. He has a house that is still undone that he works so hard on when he has a free minute. He beats himself up over everything. He has to take care of me. Now he has this on his plate. He does have a small support system, but nowhere near what he will need.
How do I trust he will be ok when I don't even trust that I will be ok? Ack! I wish I had more faith right now. I really do. At least then I'd know that the life jacket was within reach for both of us.
Monday, January 16, 2012
Thirty-three...33
My baby brother is going to be 33 in just a few days. I can't believe it. I'm sure my lack of communication with him has made me lose track of the years, but I am acutely aware of the his birthday every year.
Being only 14 months old when my first brother was born, I was too young to really understand what was going on. I only know what I was told by my grandma. Having a new baby brother at 14 months old pushed me out of diapers and off a binkie or bottle before he was born. My grandma said I was walking by the time I was nine months old, so potty training me at just over a year old was ok. I wonder if I was ever allowed to progress normally.
At three years old, I was much more aware of my impending new sibling. That was back before you learned what the sex of the baby was earlier than birth. I don't know that I had a preference of brother or sister, but I knew I was getting something and I was excited.
My baby brother came into the world on the cold, snowy morning of January 22, 1979. I don't have any memory of how I was as a big sister until he was a few years old.
When he was still a baby in a diaper, I colored him purple with a magic marker. It was magic alright, it turned my cute little brother into a purple little monster. When I was a little older, I thought it was fun to trick him into eating cat food. It might sound like I was mean, but I really wasn't. I was just a kid, sorta. I actually loved my brother both very much and did my best to take care of them.
Every year on his birthday, I found myself being very angry. I'm sure the adults in my life probably thought I was a jealous sibling because the baby of the family was getting the most attention. That might have been an accurate assumption had I grown up in a typical family, but I didn't.
It took me many years, but I did come to understand why his birthday made me so angry. Sibling rivalry would have been a better reason, but sadly it wasn't.
My parents and grandma headed to the hospital late the night of January 21, 1979, leaving my other brother and myself with my grandpa. We were both tucked into bed with my grandpa before grandma walked out of the room. My brother was asleep and I was restless with excitement after my grandma told me that my mom was having a baby.
What would happen next would feel as though it lasted a lifetime. As I lay looking out the large bay window at the head of the bed, I saw the snow blowing. The wind whistled through the crack that ran from corner to corner. With my finger, I traced around the window and across the crack. I could feel the cold bite of winter as the wind howled. The window became my whole world for the moment so that I could escape what was happening to me.
Years later when I was remembering exactly what happened to me, it was as if I remembered it looking down on the scene. It was like watching a movie, a really bad one. The little girl was just a nameless little girl and what was happening was surreal. Yes, this was my first memory of being sexually abused.
It was my first memory of abuse from any adult. My grandma consistently gave accounts of abuse by my dad as young as when I was cutting teeth, telling details of a time she saw him throw me across a room. So, I have every reason to believe that my story of abuse started younger than three years old. But this was my first memory and it was with my grandpa. Sadly, it would be only the first of hundreds, if not thousands of memories of abuse.
This is also my first indication that at three years old, I was already developing a sophisticated defense system to escape my abuse. I would go somewhere else mentally to avoid the reality of abuse. It's a system I am tied to today, a system that controls my life.
As January 22 is quickly approaching again, I know I don't have unidentified anger. Maybe the anger this year is looking back at the past 33 years and knowing the stronghold abusers had and still have on my life. I long for the day when January 22 is just a day when I think fondly of my baby brother being born. Oh how I wish I could do that now.
Being only 14 months old when my first brother was born, I was too young to really understand what was going on. I only know what I was told by my grandma. Having a new baby brother at 14 months old pushed me out of diapers and off a binkie or bottle before he was born. My grandma said I was walking by the time I was nine months old, so potty training me at just over a year old was ok. I wonder if I was ever allowed to progress normally.
At three years old, I was much more aware of my impending new sibling. That was back before you learned what the sex of the baby was earlier than birth. I don't know that I had a preference of brother or sister, but I knew I was getting something and I was excited.
My baby brother came into the world on the cold, snowy morning of January 22, 1979. I don't have any memory of how I was as a big sister until he was a few years old.
When he was still a baby in a diaper, I colored him purple with a magic marker. It was magic alright, it turned my cute little brother into a purple little monster. When I was a little older, I thought it was fun to trick him into eating cat food. It might sound like I was mean, but I really wasn't. I was just a kid, sorta. I actually loved my brother both very much and did my best to take care of them.
Every year on his birthday, I found myself being very angry. I'm sure the adults in my life probably thought I was a jealous sibling because the baby of the family was getting the most attention. That might have been an accurate assumption had I grown up in a typical family, but I didn't.
It took me many years, but I did come to understand why his birthday made me so angry. Sibling rivalry would have been a better reason, but sadly it wasn't.
My parents and grandma headed to the hospital late the night of January 21, 1979, leaving my other brother and myself with my grandpa. We were both tucked into bed with my grandpa before grandma walked out of the room. My brother was asleep and I was restless with excitement after my grandma told me that my mom was having a baby.
What would happen next would feel as though it lasted a lifetime. As I lay looking out the large bay window at the head of the bed, I saw the snow blowing. The wind whistled through the crack that ran from corner to corner. With my finger, I traced around the window and across the crack. I could feel the cold bite of winter as the wind howled. The window became my whole world for the moment so that I could escape what was happening to me.
Years later when I was remembering exactly what happened to me, it was as if I remembered it looking down on the scene. It was like watching a movie, a really bad one. The little girl was just a nameless little girl and what was happening was surreal. Yes, this was my first memory of being sexually abused.
It was my first memory of abuse from any adult. My grandma consistently gave accounts of abuse by my dad as young as when I was cutting teeth, telling details of a time she saw him throw me across a room. So, I have every reason to believe that my story of abuse started younger than three years old. But this was my first memory and it was with my grandpa. Sadly, it would be only the first of hundreds, if not thousands of memories of abuse.
This is also my first indication that at three years old, I was already developing a sophisticated defense system to escape my abuse. I would go somewhere else mentally to avoid the reality of abuse. It's a system I am tied to today, a system that controls my life.
As January 22 is quickly approaching again, I know I don't have unidentified anger. Maybe the anger this year is looking back at the past 33 years and knowing the stronghold abusers had and still have on my life. I long for the day when January 22 is just a day when I think fondly of my baby brother being born. Oh how I wish I could do that now.
Thursday, January 12, 2012
Soaps
Or as they were known in my family "Stories"...
As I sit here mindlessly listening to the last episode ever of some random soap opera, I'm reminded of so many things. I don't think anyone in my family watched this particular soap opera, but aren't they all the same? I'd like to stay it's nostalgic, but that would be giving my dysfunctional family far too much credit.
(As a disclaimer, especially for my husband, I do not watch soap operas and this is the first time I have ever seen this one. It literally was on the station I had been watching and I can't find the remote. My husband can also attest to everything you are about to read.)
For as long as I can remember, all the women in my family watched...well were addicted to soap operas. All My Children, Days of Our Lives, Ryan's Hope, Another World, just to name a few of them. The invention of the video recorders allowed them to perpetuate that addiction even further. I mean how great it is to be able to virtually watch two an hour for a 3-4 hour stretch in the day. Yep, that seems right. Six to eight hours a day.
Over the past several years, it seems like the soap world is dwindling. I am positive that if my grandma hadn't died 13 years ago, this would have killed her. I wish that were a joke.
My grandma planned her entire day around her stories. She couldn't be away from home between 11 am and 3 pm during any weekday. She planned doctors visits, cleaning, shopping, and meals around them. If there was a chance her morning plans wouldn't allow her to be home and eat lunch by 11 am, she would postpone them. If she had a full morning, she would get up at 3 am so that she was safely planted on her love seat by the kick-off.
What is even funnier about her rigid schedule is that she would often fall asleep during them. I mean good grief, she'd been up for hours! I think that's why Friday's were especially important. Everyone knows that all the exciting stuff happens on Fridays to keep you in suspense through the weekend. And really, isn't it all about the climax when it comes to soaps?
You might think that rigid schedule would be enough for one person, but NO. It gets even better....um....I mean worse.
It wasn't just a schedule thing for her. It wasn't just a show for her. My grandma lived as if these people, these actors, were real life people who were allowing their lives to be displayed on tv. My grandma died long before reality tv was wildly popular, so it isn't like she could get it confused.
When my grandpa would return home for the day, he would always sit at the table for dinner and quietly listen to my grandma talk about her day. Since I lived with them for a few years, I got to witness this first hand.
Yes, my grandpa would sit silently as my grandma shared the excitement of her day. She would often lead off with Bo and Hope's adventures and end with some moving story about Cass or talk endlessly about how she didn't know how they were going to get Marlena to not be possessed.
Keep in mind, she didn't talk about these things as if they weren't real. They were very real to her. A hugely unemotional person would cry if someone was fighting for their life or died. It didn't seem to phase her that the funeral she was watching lasted for a week or two.
Monsters, demons, devil possessions....she embraced them all. She never seemed to be shocked by the number of times someone returned from the dead or how many times someone magically spawned a twin or even triplet. It wasn't unnatural to her that a baby born last year was now a vengeful teenager this year.
She took it all in as if it were real. I am not sure why she was this way. It isn't like she lived in filth or with abuse. On the surface, she had nothing to escape from.
My great-grandma was a paranoid schizophrenic. I sometimes wonder if this wasn't carried down to my grandma and her irrational belief in soap operas was part of a hidden or undiagnosed illness.
Personally, I'm not upset to see the soap opera fade away. But I have to wonder exactly how my grandma would have reacted...or maybe I don't want to know.
As I sit here mindlessly listening to the last episode ever of some random soap opera, I'm reminded of so many things. I don't think anyone in my family watched this particular soap opera, but aren't they all the same? I'd like to stay it's nostalgic, but that would be giving my dysfunctional family far too much credit.
(As a disclaimer, especially for my husband, I do not watch soap operas and this is the first time I have ever seen this one. It literally was on the station I had been watching and I can't find the remote. My husband can also attest to everything you are about to read.)
For as long as I can remember, all the women in my family watched...well were addicted to soap operas. All My Children, Days of Our Lives, Ryan's Hope, Another World, just to name a few of them. The invention of the video recorders allowed them to perpetuate that addiction even further. I mean how great it is to be able to virtually watch two an hour for a 3-4 hour stretch in the day. Yep, that seems right. Six to eight hours a day.
Over the past several years, it seems like the soap world is dwindling. I am positive that if my grandma hadn't died 13 years ago, this would have killed her. I wish that were a joke.
My grandma planned her entire day around her stories. She couldn't be away from home between 11 am and 3 pm during any weekday. She planned doctors visits, cleaning, shopping, and meals around them. If there was a chance her morning plans wouldn't allow her to be home and eat lunch by 11 am, she would postpone them. If she had a full morning, she would get up at 3 am so that she was safely planted on her love seat by the kick-off.
What is even funnier about her rigid schedule is that she would often fall asleep during them. I mean good grief, she'd been up for hours! I think that's why Friday's were especially important. Everyone knows that all the exciting stuff happens on Fridays to keep you in suspense through the weekend. And really, isn't it all about the climax when it comes to soaps?
You might think that rigid schedule would be enough for one person, but NO. It gets even better....um....I mean worse.
It wasn't just a schedule thing for her. It wasn't just a show for her. My grandma lived as if these people, these actors, were real life people who were allowing their lives to be displayed on tv. My grandma died long before reality tv was wildly popular, so it isn't like she could get it confused.
When my grandpa would return home for the day, he would always sit at the table for dinner and quietly listen to my grandma talk about her day. Since I lived with them for a few years, I got to witness this first hand.
Yes, my grandpa would sit silently as my grandma shared the excitement of her day. She would often lead off with Bo and Hope's adventures and end with some moving story about Cass or talk endlessly about how she didn't know how they were going to get Marlena to not be possessed.
Keep in mind, she didn't talk about these things as if they weren't real. They were very real to her. A hugely unemotional person would cry if someone was fighting for their life or died. It didn't seem to phase her that the funeral she was watching lasted for a week or two.
Monsters, demons, devil possessions....she embraced them all. She never seemed to be shocked by the number of times someone returned from the dead or how many times someone magically spawned a twin or even triplet. It wasn't unnatural to her that a baby born last year was now a vengeful teenager this year.
She took it all in as if it were real. I am not sure why she was this way. It isn't like she lived in filth or with abuse. On the surface, she had nothing to escape from.
My great-grandma was a paranoid schizophrenic. I sometimes wonder if this wasn't carried down to my grandma and her irrational belief in soap operas was part of a hidden or undiagnosed illness.
Personally, I'm not upset to see the soap opera fade away. But I have to wonder exactly how my grandma would have reacted...or maybe I don't want to know.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Do I really matter?
Do you remember when you were little and all you wanted was to be a grown up? Sure, we all had our different reasons. Maybe some of you wanted to not have to eat peas or wanted to be able to stay up later. Possibly it was something more exciting like you wanted to drive a fast car or be able to go on dates. Maybe you just wanted to remove yourself from a bad family life.
Whatever the motivation, I think that everything points back to the same core reason. Without thought of responsibility or all the other struggles that being a grown up comes with naturally, I think at the core, we all wanted to be able to be taken seriously while meeting our most pressing need or desire. We want to matter and we want our needs to matter too.
It is amazing to me that today, I find myself still striving to get to that point. Obviously, it didn't come with a magical age or specific life status.
I remember my first full-time day job after leaving college. I worked with developmentally disabled adults. In this job, I was the youngest at 19 years old. I was younger than all the clients and the other employees. When I was hired, there seemed to be no hesitation from management. My assumption was that they saw a mature young woman who was entirely capable of doing the job. Boy was I WRONG! It didn't take long to learn that I was hired because I was flexible with no family, had the physical strength needed to do the job and they didn't necessarily get a huge amount of people who wanted this job.
It also didn't take long for me to see that my place was at the bottom. Regardless of what I thought or wanted, I was always at the bottom. Whether it was for a promotion or problem solving, I was bluntly told that I was too young or I just "hadn't been around long enough" to know. And to me, those things are like saying, "you aren't good enough yet."
As a young person, those things are tough to hear. Even looking back, I can honestly say that those assumptions about me were only about half true. It is hard to determine now how things would have gone if I had a chance to improve or gotten any guidance at all.
That seemed to happen a lot in the jobs I had, even up to my last one. With the exception of that first big-kid job, the issue of immaturity or age never caused me to leave a job. Believe it or not, I persevered through the entire list of hit and miss problems I had because of my age.
For me, I don't even think that age is the absolute answer to the problem. It's more of a feeling.
Growing up, I was made to never feel good enough about anything. I could do everything I was asked and it would never be enough. I could do things perfectly and it would never be done right. That wasn't just a feeling. There were actual punishments for not doing things perfectly or doing enough.
It wasn't uncommon for me to be woke up at 3 am by a belt slapping across my chest. Being drug by my hair and beaten all the way to the kitchen, I would inevitably see what spurred the anger in my dad. I had either forgotten to empty the dishwater in the sink or there would be a dirty cup on the counter. Not all that awful for a kid who was 12 and trying to do well in school while practically raising two brothers. But, it definitely set me up hang onto those ideas that I could never be good enough or be taken seriously or that I mattered at all.
As I sit here today, I am feeling much the same. Sometimes I wish nobody around me knew the issues I have. I think people look at my issues and not at me, almost the same way people look at kids.
Believe me, I don't have a super high opinion of myself. With my past business experience, I can say that I'm comfortable in a lot of areas and feel I could contribute in so many areas...especially at church.
But it seems like no matter what I try or volunteer for, the answer is always the same. Verbally or non-verbally, I get told I'm not good enough or I haven't been around long enough.
I volunteered several times to help cook meals and got turned away by being told there was enough help. I have volunteered to be on committees and rejected every time. The one time I was able to be on a committee, I had to step down because I was told I didn't know what I was doing. Well the truth was I didn't. I got put on a committee where I had no experience and it wasn't a good fit for me. I volunteer in the church office where I sit mindlessly for hours on end each week because I have nothing to do. That wouldn't be so bad if I didn't hear people complaining all the time that there was too much to do.
By the way, if you think I'm complaining about the church, I'm not. However, I am looking at my experience and wondering if all of the things that have happened are a sign that I am truly not good enough. Even as a grown-up, I can't get people to take me seriously. My issues have caused people to have a lack of respect for me and my experience.
I think the bottom line to my rant...it's difficult, if not impossible, to believe you matter to God when you don't seem to matter to God's people. And that my friends is a story that began a long time ago for me.
Whatever the motivation, I think that everything points back to the same core reason. Without thought of responsibility or all the other struggles that being a grown up comes with naturally, I think at the core, we all wanted to be able to be taken seriously while meeting our most pressing need or desire. We want to matter and we want our needs to matter too.
It is amazing to me that today, I find myself still striving to get to that point. Obviously, it didn't come with a magical age or specific life status.
I remember my first full-time day job after leaving college. I worked with developmentally disabled adults. In this job, I was the youngest at 19 years old. I was younger than all the clients and the other employees. When I was hired, there seemed to be no hesitation from management. My assumption was that they saw a mature young woman who was entirely capable of doing the job. Boy was I WRONG! It didn't take long to learn that I was hired because I was flexible with no family, had the physical strength needed to do the job and they didn't necessarily get a huge amount of people who wanted this job.
It also didn't take long for me to see that my place was at the bottom. Regardless of what I thought or wanted, I was always at the bottom. Whether it was for a promotion or problem solving, I was bluntly told that I was too young or I just "hadn't been around long enough" to know. And to me, those things are like saying, "you aren't good enough yet."
As a young person, those things are tough to hear. Even looking back, I can honestly say that those assumptions about me were only about half true. It is hard to determine now how things would have gone if I had a chance to improve or gotten any guidance at all.
That seemed to happen a lot in the jobs I had, even up to my last one. With the exception of that first big-kid job, the issue of immaturity or age never caused me to leave a job. Believe it or not, I persevered through the entire list of hit and miss problems I had because of my age.
For me, I don't even think that age is the absolute answer to the problem. It's more of a feeling.
Growing up, I was made to never feel good enough about anything. I could do everything I was asked and it would never be enough. I could do things perfectly and it would never be done right. That wasn't just a feeling. There were actual punishments for not doing things perfectly or doing enough.
It wasn't uncommon for me to be woke up at 3 am by a belt slapping across my chest. Being drug by my hair and beaten all the way to the kitchen, I would inevitably see what spurred the anger in my dad. I had either forgotten to empty the dishwater in the sink or there would be a dirty cup on the counter. Not all that awful for a kid who was 12 and trying to do well in school while practically raising two brothers. But, it definitely set me up hang onto those ideas that I could never be good enough or be taken seriously or that I mattered at all.
As I sit here today, I am feeling much the same. Sometimes I wish nobody around me knew the issues I have. I think people look at my issues and not at me, almost the same way people look at kids.
Believe me, I don't have a super high opinion of myself. With my past business experience, I can say that I'm comfortable in a lot of areas and feel I could contribute in so many areas...especially at church.
But it seems like no matter what I try or volunteer for, the answer is always the same. Verbally or non-verbally, I get told I'm not good enough or I haven't been around long enough.
I volunteered several times to help cook meals and got turned away by being told there was enough help. I have volunteered to be on committees and rejected every time. The one time I was able to be on a committee, I had to step down because I was told I didn't know what I was doing. Well the truth was I didn't. I got put on a committee where I had no experience and it wasn't a good fit for me. I volunteer in the church office where I sit mindlessly for hours on end each week because I have nothing to do. That wouldn't be so bad if I didn't hear people complaining all the time that there was too much to do.
By the way, if you think I'm complaining about the church, I'm not. However, I am looking at my experience and wondering if all of the things that have happened are a sign that I am truly not good enough. Even as a grown-up, I can't get people to take me seriously. My issues have caused people to have a lack of respect for me and my experience.
I think the bottom line to my rant...it's difficult, if not impossible, to believe you matter to God when you don't seem to matter to God's people. And that my friends is a story that began a long time ago for me.
Monday, January 9, 2012
Moving Along
I tease my husband that I had to take a blogging break to give him time to catch up. The real reason is that my mind has been a whirling mess of thoughts for the past month. It's difficult, if not impossible, to pluck one of those things out of the swift winds to focus on and write about.
The pit of holiday depression sucked me and I have stayed there. Not by choice, but for reasons beyond my understanding at this time. So, I try to focus on what I can and while I climb back out one, tiny inch at a time.
Today, we finally saw a little movement in one of the issues we have been facing.
As I shared last month, my mother-in-law has been having some problems with her memory. At Christmas, we had the opportunity to spend a couple days with her. During that time, we were able to see first hand how "forgetful" she was and how much effort she was putting into covering up her problem.
Several times she would forget conversations we had 30 minutes prior. She struggled to call people by name. She repeated several steps in fixing dinner, making it easy to see she had no memory of having just completed simple acts 10 minutes before.
We took time to talk very purposefully to her and my father-in-law before packing up to leave. She admitted that her memory wasn't as sharp as it used to be. It wasn't until then that I was able to get her to admit and not make excuses for not knowing who I was when I called her a week earlier. She couldn't deny it, nor the dozen other examples she gave us.
However, she was certain that her memory issues were directly related to having varicose veins removed 1-2 years ago. She also seemed very content with the solution my husband's sister gave her, a bottle of ginkgo. Had I mentioned that Kent's siblings have been what seemed like a "head in the sand" type of approach to this problem?
She did visit the doctor who removes the veins a few days after we talked to her. Thankfully, that doctor was very honest with her. He told her that her vein removal had nothing to do with it and referred her back to her PCP.
Her PCP did blood work and checked for possible blood flow problems. All were negative for anything that might cause her problem. Things were moving along, but still with no sense of urgency and with two people who aren't super great with talking to doctors.
Today was her follow up with the PCP. We learned this evening that Kent's sister has finally taken a more proactive role in the doctor's appointments. Finally!!!! She is the only sibling who lives close to their parents.
She shared with my husband that their mom had failed the verbal testing for Alzheimer's. I think that was the key to opening the eyes and ears of the family. Today's visit appears to have realigned the thinking of the majority of the family.
The next step will be to do a new MRI and then compare with the one she had a few years back.
It's scary to think about what we might be facing. However, there is a sense of relief.
Even if I can't seem to remove myself from the pit that I'm in, at least I can see something in life is moving along. What looked really impossible a couple weeks ago is finally showing some progress. Now...if only I could see progress like that in everything.
The pit of holiday depression sucked me and I have stayed there. Not by choice, but for reasons beyond my understanding at this time. So, I try to focus on what I can and while I climb back out one, tiny inch at a time.
Today, we finally saw a little movement in one of the issues we have been facing.
As I shared last month, my mother-in-law has been having some problems with her memory. At Christmas, we had the opportunity to spend a couple days with her. During that time, we were able to see first hand how "forgetful" she was and how much effort she was putting into covering up her problem.
Several times she would forget conversations we had 30 minutes prior. She struggled to call people by name. She repeated several steps in fixing dinner, making it easy to see she had no memory of having just completed simple acts 10 minutes before.
We took time to talk very purposefully to her and my father-in-law before packing up to leave. She admitted that her memory wasn't as sharp as it used to be. It wasn't until then that I was able to get her to admit and not make excuses for not knowing who I was when I called her a week earlier. She couldn't deny it, nor the dozen other examples she gave us.
However, she was certain that her memory issues were directly related to having varicose veins removed 1-2 years ago. She also seemed very content with the solution my husband's sister gave her, a bottle of ginkgo. Had I mentioned that Kent's siblings have been what seemed like a "head in the sand" type of approach to this problem?
She did visit the doctor who removes the veins a few days after we talked to her. Thankfully, that doctor was very honest with her. He told her that her vein removal had nothing to do with it and referred her back to her PCP.
Her PCP did blood work and checked for possible blood flow problems. All were negative for anything that might cause her problem. Things were moving along, but still with no sense of urgency and with two people who aren't super great with talking to doctors.
Today was her follow up with the PCP. We learned this evening that Kent's sister has finally taken a more proactive role in the doctor's appointments. Finally!!!! She is the only sibling who lives close to their parents.
She shared with my husband that their mom had failed the verbal testing for Alzheimer's. I think that was the key to opening the eyes and ears of the family. Today's visit appears to have realigned the thinking of the majority of the family.
The next step will be to do a new MRI and then compare with the one she had a few years back.
It's scary to think about what we might be facing. However, there is a sense of relief.
Even if I can't seem to remove myself from the pit that I'm in, at least I can see something in life is moving along. What looked really impossible a couple weeks ago is finally showing some progress. Now...if only I could see progress like that in everything.
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