I am doing my absolute best to not focus on all that is lost today and on what is good. I have even tried to be mad at random things, but that's not working either. The tears consume me as I just let me heart sit in the heaviness of life.
Commercials, email, facebook, blogs, stores....they are all focused on today and the love that most people naturally feel. I can't escape it.
Cleaning out my email earlier, I came across a quite extensive back and forth written conversation I had with a Christian man a few years ago. To summarize, he was firm in his belief that I needed to honor my father and mother as the bible says. I stood firm in my belief that the bible does not say to honor evil, which is what my parents are without question.
My mom (notice, I would NEVER call her a mother as that would indicate she deserved some measure of respect) is not worthy of being honored. In fact, Matthew 18:6 is far more adequate for my parents. "But if you cause one of these little ones who trusts in me to fall into sin, it
would be better for you to have a large millstone tied around your neck and be
drowned in the depths of the sea."
She doesn't deserve honor, but she doesn't deserve my tears either. My heavy heart, grieving tears are far too precious for her either. When I was young, crying was usually a sentence for more punishment. My parents couldn't stand crying. Like hitting us more would really make us stop crying any faster!
Frankly, these tears are for me. They are for what I've missed. They are for the days the past couple weeks that I've been in excruciating pain and didn't have my mom to call for comfort. They are for days like today when all the miscarriages weigh so heavily on me and I have no mom to encourage me. They are for all the beauty I have in my life that I have no mom to share it with.
Thankfully there aren't too many of these big days during the year. Thankfully, there's only one more and then I get a reprieve until fall.
Sunday, May 12, 2013
Saturday, May 11, 2013
Not Technically
I have been on this roller coaster lately that has tossed my fragile heart around like a rag doll. No kidding, I've cried like a baby watching tv shows or over silly things.
At first, I blamed it on my husband traveling. However, it wasn't as bad a normal. I had a couple dear friends that made it so much easier this time.
Then I realized it is all about Mother's Day, but not the usual way.
Everything has changed this year. But that's not even it. We made a trip back to visit my mother-in-law. It was awkward and miserable and completely not enjoyable whatsoever. It is probably one of the few remaining days we can celebrate her when she actually has some clue we are related to her.
I still have no mother to celebrate. But that's not even it. I have long come to the realization that God did not give me a mother to be celebrated. I am just one of those people. You know, the one whose mother is only deserving of a garage sale, coffee-stained, cracked mug that says "World's Worst Mom."
While I headed painfully into the card isle with my husband last night, a woman asked me why Hallmark didn't make "Mom-to-be" cards. My response, "I'm sure they do, they have a card for everything!" A few seconds later, I pointed her to the right area. Happy to help!
As I scanned the cards, I found so many. From Mother to Daughter. From Husband to Wife. Mother to be. Like a Mother. From Son to Mother. To Sister from Brother. Religious. Funny. Singing. Sappy. Sparkles. Plain. Money holder. Yes, it was ALL there....almost.
You know what is missing? Almost a Mother. There is no card to acknowledge a woman who has tried and failed by no fault of her own. Nothing to commiserate the countless mornings of puking only to never hear a babies cry. Evidently, the only thing that makes you a mother is actually delivering a live baby who gets a name and thrives for at least a certain amount of time. Going through all of the hope and promise of motherhood only to lose it all leaves nothing to be celebrated.
Yes, that is exactly what has been so hard this week. For all that I have been through, all that I have done to become a mother, all of the failures....it's meaningless to the rest of the world.
At first, I blamed it on my husband traveling. However, it wasn't as bad a normal. I had a couple dear friends that made it so much easier this time.
Then I realized it is all about Mother's Day, but not the usual way.
Everything has changed this year. But that's not even it. We made a trip back to visit my mother-in-law. It was awkward and miserable and completely not enjoyable whatsoever. It is probably one of the few remaining days we can celebrate her when she actually has some clue we are related to her.
I still have no mother to celebrate. But that's not even it. I have long come to the realization that God did not give me a mother to be celebrated. I am just one of those people. You know, the one whose mother is only deserving of a garage sale, coffee-stained, cracked mug that says "World's Worst Mom."
While I headed painfully into the card isle with my husband last night, a woman asked me why Hallmark didn't make "Mom-to-be" cards. My response, "I'm sure they do, they have a card for everything!" A few seconds later, I pointed her to the right area. Happy to help!
As I scanned the cards, I found so many. From Mother to Daughter. From Husband to Wife. Mother to be. Like a Mother. From Son to Mother. To Sister from Brother. Religious. Funny. Singing. Sappy. Sparkles. Plain. Money holder. Yes, it was ALL there....almost.
You know what is missing? Almost a Mother. There is no card to acknowledge a woman who has tried and failed by no fault of her own. Nothing to commiserate the countless mornings of puking only to never hear a babies cry. Evidently, the only thing that makes you a mother is actually delivering a live baby who gets a name and thrives for at least a certain amount of time. Going through all of the hope and promise of motherhood only to lose it all leaves nothing to be celebrated.
Yes, that is exactly what has been so hard this week. For all that I have been through, all that I have done to become a mother, all of the failures....it's meaningless to the rest of the world.
Thursday, May 9, 2013
Reunion Tears
There have been 26 seasons of Survivor and I have watched them all. Toward the end of each season, they have a show where they bring in family members of the remaining players. After a month away from their loved ones, you get a first hand look at these very emotional reunions.
Each time this happens, I sit and cry along with each of them. It's emotional to watch so much love. Families who love each other and miss each other. It is beyond what I can comprehend.
Tonight as I watch, there is a scrolling news flash for a missing child. This child's mother was murdered along with two men this week. For two days, I have watched this story unfold and read today's press release with a bit of disbelief.
I had seen rumblings on facebook earlier in the day from friends back home that one of those murdered was a young man I used to babysit. Within a couple hours, it was confirmed.
For the second time in two years, a young person I had once babysit was brutally killed in a senseless act of violence. Two years ago, it was a young lady whose husband murdered her and left three beautiful little girls without any parents.
I don't know the details of what happened to this young man. Honestly, it doesn't matter now what he did or didn't do or if he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.
What matters and what is heartbreaking is that his family, who loved him dearly, is left to grieve this horrific violence.
It hurts. So young. So much life to live. I don't know what they became as they matured into adulthood. I only remember who they were as children, innocent children. They laughed and played. They cried and sang. They were everything that this hard, evil world had not yet made them.
Much like the Survivor reunions, I watched them multiple times run to their parents arms, consumed by love and care. It is difficult to believe that can no longer happen for them.
My heart breaks for the mother, the brother, the sister. My heart aches for the children who lost their daddy.
Like with everything that is consumed in evil, I don't understand. I HATE it. I often wonder where God was in their lives.
Each time this happens, I sit and cry along with each of them. It's emotional to watch so much love. Families who love each other and miss each other. It is beyond what I can comprehend.
Tonight as I watch, there is a scrolling news flash for a missing child. This child's mother was murdered along with two men this week. For two days, I have watched this story unfold and read today's press release with a bit of disbelief.
I had seen rumblings on facebook earlier in the day from friends back home that one of those murdered was a young man I used to babysit. Within a couple hours, it was confirmed.
For the second time in two years, a young person I had once babysit was brutally killed in a senseless act of violence. Two years ago, it was a young lady whose husband murdered her and left three beautiful little girls without any parents.
I don't know the details of what happened to this young man. Honestly, it doesn't matter now what he did or didn't do or if he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.
What matters and what is heartbreaking is that his family, who loved him dearly, is left to grieve this horrific violence.
It hurts. So young. So much life to live. I don't know what they became as they matured into adulthood. I only remember who they were as children, innocent children. They laughed and played. They cried and sang. They were everything that this hard, evil world had not yet made them.
Much like the Survivor reunions, I watched them multiple times run to their parents arms, consumed by love and care. It is difficult to believe that can no longer happen for them.
My heart breaks for the mother, the brother, the sister. My heart aches for the children who lost their daddy.
Like with everything that is consumed in evil, I don't understand. I HATE it. I often wonder where God was in their lives.
Wednesday, May 8, 2013
Media Fury
As I sit watching the evening news, I rejoice with many others around the country knowing three young ladies are now reunited with their families after being held captive for 10 years. I remember having the same joyous feelings each time I have seen this type of rescue/reunion play out in the media.
Of course, I have an absolute desire to see anyone living in captivity be freed. There is no bigger picture of freedom for me than those which come when someone is no longer bound by an abuser.
As it always happens, the media doesn't stay in the joy of the moment. They immediately go to the graphic details and the hardcore questions.
The graphic nature of what they report is so difficult to see and hear. As someone who has been abused, hearing about a young girl being held captive and raped in a dark basement send chills down my spine. Sometimes, I think the media coverage gets a bit too in depth. Why? Is it that necessary for the general population to know each mortifying detail?
Then the questions and theorizing....
This is where I tend to get furious! With all of these cases over the past 10 years, I know you've heard it. You may have even asked it.
Why didn't they try to get away sooner?
Oh my word! I tell you this question in any form makes my blood boil. Anyone that lets this question enter their thinking or slip from their mouth obviously shares the ignorance of the media. (I use the term ignorance as a description of not knowing.) Anyone who wonders this has no clue what it is like to be held captive.
Granted, I was not abducted by a stranger and held against my will. No, I was held captive in my own home and abused by parents and others. Yes, I was locked in a basement for hours, days, and weeks at a time. I was bound in the house and garage, not allowed to move for days at a time. Different and yet much the same.
Frankly, I wish I could say this to each person I hear asking this question. Let me break this down for anyone who wonders the same thing.
Do not ever under estimate the power an abuser or abductor has over their victim. I NEVER believed in brain-washing until I realized that I had been. The perpetrator knows what they are doing before they ever do it. There is an evil that courses through their veins and is far beyond what we can understand. What they do and say is often calculated.
They use fear and dependence to their advantage. When you are left in a dark basement for a week or tied to a garage door for days, (especially as a child) you are 100% dependant on the person who put you there. You depend on them for your basic needs. You learn what that person expects from you and are driven by fear to fully comply.
While it might be hard to believe, it is true. That very real control the person has over you is easily the reason why my abuse lasted long into my adult life.
You live in this warped, altered world where you begin to live with the worst as if it is the best. That dependency can even give you a sense of security. While living through the abuse, it becomes the normal and everything outside of that becomes the abnormal. You know what to expect in that dark basement and begin to look forward to contact, even though it is horrific abuse. You begin to see the abuser as more of a savior than the devil. To disobey, leave, run, or buck the system in anyway at all would leave you completely exposed to the unknown. Please know this isn't immediate, but develops in long-term situations.
It is true that the dependency can severely warp how you feel about the abuser. I haven't lived with my parents for 20 years and I have spent the last 6 years in fairly consistent counseling. I know my parents are terrible. I have written many things in this blog that clearly outline their evil ways. I have accepted that all they have done is wrong. However, I still get a little bristly when I hear someone else comment about my parents.
I haven't ever shared that with anyone because I often need the reminder from people I consider healthy influences in my life. I need to hear them say what kind of person my dad is so that I do not forget. I need to be reminded that what I lived through was not normal. But still today, I tend to get a little defensive (only internally) when I hear it.
With all that said, I do believe these cases you see in the media are a bit tainted by misinformation. In all likelihood, these people are escaping when they truly believe they can get away. The right time, the right moment.
I believed I took that step when I was 18. I moved all my things while my parents were at work and did not tell anyone for weeks where I was living. The circumstances were a little different for me. I didn't have a loving family to run home to, instead I had an evil one I was running away from. One that followed me for a long, long time.
Like I said, it was similar but different. If this is something you hear or even think while watching media coverage of the young ladies rescued this week, I really do hope you'll consider what I have shared. I hope if you hear this kind of thing from family members or around the water cooler, you'll help educate them.
Of course, I have an absolute desire to see anyone living in captivity be freed. There is no bigger picture of freedom for me than those which come when someone is no longer bound by an abuser.
As it always happens, the media doesn't stay in the joy of the moment. They immediately go to the graphic details and the hardcore questions.
The graphic nature of what they report is so difficult to see and hear. As someone who has been abused, hearing about a young girl being held captive and raped in a dark basement send chills down my spine. Sometimes, I think the media coverage gets a bit too in depth. Why? Is it that necessary for the general population to know each mortifying detail?
Then the questions and theorizing....
This is where I tend to get furious! With all of these cases over the past 10 years, I know you've heard it. You may have even asked it.
Why didn't they try to get away sooner?
Oh my word! I tell you this question in any form makes my blood boil. Anyone that lets this question enter their thinking or slip from their mouth obviously shares the ignorance of the media. (I use the term ignorance as a description of not knowing.) Anyone who wonders this has no clue what it is like to be held captive.
Granted, I was not abducted by a stranger and held against my will. No, I was held captive in my own home and abused by parents and others. Yes, I was locked in a basement for hours, days, and weeks at a time. I was bound in the house and garage, not allowed to move for days at a time. Different and yet much the same.
Frankly, I wish I could say this to each person I hear asking this question. Let me break this down for anyone who wonders the same thing.
Do not ever under estimate the power an abuser or abductor has over their victim. I NEVER believed in brain-washing until I realized that I had been. The perpetrator knows what they are doing before they ever do it. There is an evil that courses through their veins and is far beyond what we can understand. What they do and say is often calculated.
They use fear and dependence to their advantage. When you are left in a dark basement for a week or tied to a garage door for days, (especially as a child) you are 100% dependant on the person who put you there. You depend on them for your basic needs. You learn what that person expects from you and are driven by fear to fully comply.
While it might be hard to believe, it is true. That very real control the person has over you is easily the reason why my abuse lasted long into my adult life.
You live in this warped, altered world where you begin to live with the worst as if it is the best. That dependency can even give you a sense of security. While living through the abuse, it becomes the normal and everything outside of that becomes the abnormal. You know what to expect in that dark basement and begin to look forward to contact, even though it is horrific abuse. You begin to see the abuser as more of a savior than the devil. To disobey, leave, run, or buck the system in anyway at all would leave you completely exposed to the unknown. Please know this isn't immediate, but develops in long-term situations.
It is true that the dependency can severely warp how you feel about the abuser. I haven't lived with my parents for 20 years and I have spent the last 6 years in fairly consistent counseling. I know my parents are terrible. I have written many things in this blog that clearly outline their evil ways. I have accepted that all they have done is wrong. However, I still get a little bristly when I hear someone else comment about my parents.
I haven't ever shared that with anyone because I often need the reminder from people I consider healthy influences in my life. I need to hear them say what kind of person my dad is so that I do not forget. I need to be reminded that what I lived through was not normal. But still today, I tend to get a little defensive (only internally) when I hear it.
With all that said, I do believe these cases you see in the media are a bit tainted by misinformation. In all likelihood, these people are escaping when they truly believe they can get away. The right time, the right moment.
I believed I took that step when I was 18. I moved all my things while my parents were at work and did not tell anyone for weeks where I was living. The circumstances were a little different for me. I didn't have a loving family to run home to, instead I had an evil one I was running away from. One that followed me for a long, long time.
Like I said, it was similar but different. If this is something you hear or even think while watching media coverage of the young ladies rescued this week, I really do hope you'll consider what I have shared. I hope if you hear this kind of thing from family members or around the water cooler, you'll help educate them.
Tuesday, May 7, 2013
Living a PTSD Infested Life
So here I sit in a quiet room alone at church. A room far in the back that resembles nothing of a typical church scene. I've only been able to compose myself in the last 90 seconds after crying and being in a full blown panic.
After being heavily persuaded to try bible study this morning, I reluctantly came to the church with the anticipation of miserably sitting through the two hour class. I don't blame the person who brought me, I know and she knows that I often need a giant shove in the healthiest direction.
As I walked up to the room, heard the study already in progress, I froze. My body felt as if it were turning to stone. All sound was replaced by something that resembled a tractor engine. My mind went blank and I suddenly felt as though the walls were closing in on me. I could feel my heart racing as I headed for the nearest door.
I realize that is a very abnormal response to a bible study. It wasn't the group. It wasn't the style. It wasn't really the specific content. It is my very real, very uncontrolled physical response to church. This is why I choose not to even try.
What's sad is that I have been down this road before. This is my common response to PTSD triggers. To move beyond them and overcome them, it takes doing them repeatedly regardless of how bad it feels. I had something similar happen with my own kitchen a few years ago. It took a period of time being in there and being uncomfortable. I would cry and hyperventilate and talk through it with myself. It was rough, but I did it.
Church is a little different animal. I don't want people to see me cry or panic. They wouldn't understand it because they don't understand me. They would not get it because I'm panicking over something they love and have no trauma associated with.
I don't need to go through all the reasons why again, but I have lots of trauma associated with church...both in childhood and in the very recent past. People don't know, don't understand PTSD (or the other issues I haven't shared), so they aren't going to understand this uncontrollable response.
Honestly, I hate it. I want to work through it. It is THE biggest stumbling block in my spiritual growth. It's actually a huge roadblock for several of areas I need to heal and grow in at this time. But, I don't see a way around or through it right now.
It is sad to me that my prayer before stepping foot in the church is just to be able to go in or at least tolerate whatever activity.
After being heavily persuaded to try bible study this morning, I reluctantly came to the church with the anticipation of miserably sitting through the two hour class. I don't blame the person who brought me, I know and she knows that I often need a giant shove in the healthiest direction.
As I walked up to the room, heard the study already in progress, I froze. My body felt as if it were turning to stone. All sound was replaced by something that resembled a tractor engine. My mind went blank and I suddenly felt as though the walls were closing in on me. I could feel my heart racing as I headed for the nearest door.
I realize that is a very abnormal response to a bible study. It wasn't the group. It wasn't the style. It wasn't really the specific content. It is my very real, very uncontrolled physical response to church. This is why I choose not to even try.
What's sad is that I have been down this road before. This is my common response to PTSD triggers. To move beyond them and overcome them, it takes doing them repeatedly regardless of how bad it feels. I had something similar happen with my own kitchen a few years ago. It took a period of time being in there and being uncomfortable. I would cry and hyperventilate and talk through it with myself. It was rough, but I did it.
Church is a little different animal. I don't want people to see me cry or panic. They wouldn't understand it because they don't understand me. They would not get it because I'm panicking over something they love and have no trauma associated with.
I don't need to go through all the reasons why again, but I have lots of trauma associated with church...both in childhood and in the very recent past. People don't know, don't understand PTSD (or the other issues I haven't shared), so they aren't going to understand this uncontrollable response.
Honestly, I hate it. I want to work through it. It is THE biggest stumbling block in my spiritual growth. It's actually a huge roadblock for several of areas I need to heal and grow in at this time. But, I don't see a way around or through it right now.
It is sad to me that my prayer before stepping foot in the church is just to be able to go in or at least tolerate whatever activity.
Monday, May 6, 2013
Faces
It has certainly been a crazy week. Mother Nature seems to be sharing my mood swings, providing us 3" of snow in the first week of May.
This week, one of the icky weeks between my birthday and Mother's Day, I am spending alone. My husband is once again traveling. Bad timing, but I suppose there never is a good time for him to travel. I know myself well enough to admit that creeping up on Mother's Day often sends me into a death spiral.
Yes, my birthday and Mother's Day barely two weeks apart does seem to be God's cruel joke. The remnants of birthday pain are still lingering, regardless of my desire for them to leave.
One of the things that popped into my head and has made itself at home this year is a memory of one of my pre-teen birthdays. It wasn't so much a suppressed memory as one I just didn't think of much.
I believe I was in 2nd or 3rd grade when my dad brought home a paper sack full of Beta video tapes on my birthday. On the lined labels, the titles were handwritten. Faces of Death 1, Faces of Death 2, and so on. I believe there were 7 total.
This was my gift. If you aren't familiar (and most people aren't because they aren't quite that sick), Faces of Death is a series from the 1970s. It is a documentary style of death and brutality. Whether by accident or on purpose, deaths of humans and animals are recorded and shown in compilation while being narrated.
One after one, my dad made me sit and watch. I remember being mortified at first. But after 6 or 7 90-minute videos, I had built an immunity to it. So much so, that death had never really bothered me much. I was so young, I think it was my only way to cope with all that I had seen. Think about how you would react to seeing video of an autopsy or a death happening or animals being beaten to death or a live execution. How would process that as an adult? As a child, I had limited ability to do anything other than become conditioned by it and see it is normal.
This seriously warped me. When I was 16, I watched a man climb a metal ladder that was placed in a water puddle to cut limbs off an electric line. You probably see where this is going. My cousins and I watched as a green glow followed the man to the ground. Relatives tried to revive him, but he was gone. My cousins cried, I laughed. It was my conditioned response. Thinking about the whole thing, I can still remember the smell and the sounds. It was terrible and so was my response.
Today I was thinking about those videos and just how jacked up it was that my dad made me watch them. I started to wonder if I was still that warped, still that cold. I went in search of them online and quickly found them on youtube.
I skipped the talking parts and watched about 4 full minutes of the video. I was physically sick to my stomach. Horrified. Scarred. I absolutely remembered each of the things I saw, but I felt completely different this time.
Ok, Ok, Ok. I know what you must be thinking....WHY? Why would you go watch something like that? Especially while your husband is out of town and you are already incredibly depressed???
Ok, so the timing was really, REALLY bad. But I had to know. I had to know how or if those things would even affect me today. It did. I couldn't watch without feeling. I couldn't watch without being absolutely mortified.
I am positive I will pay a price for this little mistake, but maybe that is ok. Maybe it is a good thing to know I can't watch the same sick things that my dad can. Maybe it is really ok for me to know I now have limits. Maybe it is absolutely a sign of growth that I can no longer sit for hours and watch that filth without having some serious emotion about it.
The benefits might even reach a little further. I know I have been severely depressed and anxious lately and still am. However, I have not had much "stuff" from the past creep up on me. At least not enough to make me feel as though therapy or counseling was needed. In fact, I've been set on a decreasing or stopping all of it. If I didn't have any issues to work through (at least none that were bothering me enough), then why waste every one's time right? (I know, that's not what everyone else thinks but it was certainly what I was thinking.) These videos have most definitely reminded me that I still have a lot of issues to work through.
Ugh, now I have to go try to sleep in a house alone with that evil floating in my head.
I'd like to leave you with this....don't even think about watching these videos. They are evil. You can't unsee them. Trust me, you will not easily recover from any portion of these videos. Not even 30 seconds is safe....Just don't do it!
This week, one of the icky weeks between my birthday and Mother's Day, I am spending alone. My husband is once again traveling. Bad timing, but I suppose there never is a good time for him to travel. I know myself well enough to admit that creeping up on Mother's Day often sends me into a death spiral.
Yes, my birthday and Mother's Day barely two weeks apart does seem to be God's cruel joke. The remnants of birthday pain are still lingering, regardless of my desire for them to leave.
One of the things that popped into my head and has made itself at home this year is a memory of one of my pre-teen birthdays. It wasn't so much a suppressed memory as one I just didn't think of much.
I believe I was in 2nd or 3rd grade when my dad brought home a paper sack full of Beta video tapes on my birthday. On the lined labels, the titles were handwritten. Faces of Death 1, Faces of Death 2, and so on. I believe there were 7 total.
This was my gift. If you aren't familiar (and most people aren't because they aren't quite that sick), Faces of Death is a series from the 1970s. It is a documentary style of death and brutality. Whether by accident or on purpose, deaths of humans and animals are recorded and shown in compilation while being narrated.
One after one, my dad made me sit and watch. I remember being mortified at first. But after 6 or 7 90-minute videos, I had built an immunity to it. So much so, that death had never really bothered me much. I was so young, I think it was my only way to cope with all that I had seen. Think about how you would react to seeing video of an autopsy or a death happening or animals being beaten to death or a live execution. How would process that as an adult? As a child, I had limited ability to do anything other than become conditioned by it and see it is normal.
This seriously warped me. When I was 16, I watched a man climb a metal ladder that was placed in a water puddle to cut limbs off an electric line. You probably see where this is going. My cousins and I watched as a green glow followed the man to the ground. Relatives tried to revive him, but he was gone. My cousins cried, I laughed. It was my conditioned response. Thinking about the whole thing, I can still remember the smell and the sounds. It was terrible and so was my response.
Today I was thinking about those videos and just how jacked up it was that my dad made me watch them. I started to wonder if I was still that warped, still that cold. I went in search of them online and quickly found them on youtube.
I skipped the talking parts and watched about 4 full minutes of the video. I was physically sick to my stomach. Horrified. Scarred. I absolutely remembered each of the things I saw, but I felt completely different this time.
Ok, Ok, Ok. I know what you must be thinking....WHY? Why would you go watch something like that? Especially while your husband is out of town and you are already incredibly depressed???
Ok, so the timing was really, REALLY bad. But I had to know. I had to know how or if those things would even affect me today. It did. I couldn't watch without feeling. I couldn't watch without being absolutely mortified.
I am positive I will pay a price for this little mistake, but maybe that is ok. Maybe it is a good thing to know I can't watch the same sick things that my dad can. Maybe it is really ok for me to know I now have limits. Maybe it is absolutely a sign of growth that I can no longer sit for hours and watch that filth without having some serious emotion about it.
The benefits might even reach a little further. I know I have been severely depressed and anxious lately and still am. However, I have not had much "stuff" from the past creep up on me. At least not enough to make me feel as though therapy or counseling was needed. In fact, I've been set on a decreasing or stopping all of it. If I didn't have any issues to work through (at least none that were bothering me enough), then why waste every one's time right? (I know, that's not what everyone else thinks but it was certainly what I was thinking.) These videos have most definitely reminded me that I still have a lot of issues to work through.
Ugh, now I have to go try to sleep in a house alone with that evil floating in my head.
I'd like to leave you with this....don't even think about watching these videos. They are evil. You can't unsee them. Trust me, you will not easily recover from any portion of these videos. Not even 30 seconds is safe....Just don't do it!
Sunday, April 28, 2013
Birthday Weekend Wrap Up
I would like to share with everyone and remind myself that I can/do embrace what is good and right in life even in the midst of pain.
Thankfully, I was able to step outside the terrible funk I have been in for months to enjoy my birthday. Here is the top 10 of my birthday weekend...
1. The weather. Friday was a cold, rainy day, so you might be wondering why it would make the top 10. Wellllll....the weather prevented the young man who was working on our bathroom from doing his regular job, thereby giving him the day to finish his job here. It may have taken us 15 years, but we now have a beautiful bathroom.
2. A relaxing day. Thanks to a friend, Friday started with a visit to Latteland for a Basket-of-Apples Latte and some time with gardening magazines. After strolling through some of my favorite stores like Nell Hills, Urban Crafts and Land of Paws, we had lunch at the Cafe. They serve a coconut crusted chicken salad that is delectable and I was able to try their meatloaf soup.
3. Happy Birthdays! Between facebook, email and text message, I received dozens of well wishes from friends. Since I have spent a good deal of the past four months in isolation, it was a great reminder that I do have friends.
4. Dinner with friends. When I made plans with another couple last week, I had no idea the day we chose was my birthday. It worked out so perfectly though because I can't imagine having it any other way. An evening visiting, laughing and eating, how could it not be perfect. It was a treat to celebrate my birthday was such good friends.
5. Dinner. This was deserving of a place all of it's own. We traveled about 45 minutes north of here to a place called Justus Drugstore. It was food unlike I have ever tasted and I definitely pushed outside my normal food comfort zone. While we waited for our table, I had an old-fashioned lemon-lime soda. It was the best soda I have ever tasted and was just the start of something special. The pictures do not do justice to the meal we had.
While we waited for our appetizer, we each got a small, one bite complimentary starter. It was a piece of sausage on a crustini, covered in a raspberry foam with pine needles. Our appetizer was called the Farmer's Platter. Clockwise, goose, pork tongue and beef carpaccio, persimmon seed spiced rabbit terrine, herbed cheese with celery and sauteed onions, crispy lattice potato chips, pickled onions and green beans, crustini with sauteed kale and herbs with roasted marrow, sauteed mushrooms, sausage and asparagus wrapped in bacon. Everything but the rabbit was very flavorful.
I ordered the Nestled Egg salad. It is curled endive leaves sprinkled with carrot caviar and chunks of fried pork tongue dressed with honey Dijon and a lightly crusted parboiled egg. Each course came with instructions, where I was told to cut up the egg and mix into the salad. It was amazing. The flavors worked so well together. My husband had the Maytag Blue cheese salad that came with a blue cheese, black pepper ice cream. It was equally interesting.
The top picture is mine. I had the short ribs. There were several pieces of melt-in-your-mouth short ribs laying on a bed of smoked honey sweet potato puree and a mix of pear chunks, pickled brussel sprout leaves, orange pickled cherries and broccoli rabe. A M A Z I N G! The lower picture is what my husband had, Pork 2 ways. It was also delicious.
Since I love rice pudding, I chose the green tea Jasmine rice pudding for dessert. The warm pudding was coated in a mildly sweet crispy coating and served on a pear puree with pears, crispy rice and lemongrass ice cream. Absolutely perfect! My husband had carrot cake beignets with candied walnuts and carrot caviar. Before leaving, we received a palate cleanser toast glass of a sparkling ginger mint drink.
I highly recommend this place if you are wanting to be adventurous and are celebrating a special occasion. The outside looks like a dive, but the inside is quite unique. It seats only 40 people in the dining room and the kitchen area is completely open.
6. Relaxing day with the husband. Saturday I got to spend the entire day just relaxing with my husband. We don't get a lot of days like that. The rain made it a perfect day to stroll through some stores and take a long afternoon nap. It was the perfect post birthday celebration.
7. Gift from the husband. My husband does an awesome job with gifts. He does his absolute best to get exactly what I want. He didn't disappoint at all. I had asked for a potato ricer, odd request I know. He had such a hard time find the one I wanted and we happened upon one while strolling through stores Saturday. This bad boy is going to help me get super gourmet in the kitchen now.
8. Pie. I told my husband Saturday that I just couldn't end my birthday weekend without having cake or ice cream. Much to my surprise, he took me out late Saturday evening for dessert. We had pie. Lots of yummy chocolate cream pie. No pictures because I had my fork in it the minute the plate hit the table.
9. Lunch with friends. Today I had brunch with three of the most fabulous young ladies I know. I have been so fortunate to get to know each of them a little better over the past two years by planning events with them. I have such respect for each of them and cherish their friendship. I'm thankful to have wrapped up my birthday celebrations with them.
10. Projects. Despite my exhaustion, I found some energy and time to work on some projects. The big one right now is making over an old card table that was given to me. It has been so much fun and is going to be super cute when I have it all done.
There you have it, my birthday weekend wrap up. I had a very blessed three days full of friends, food and rest.
Thankfully, I was able to step outside the terrible funk I have been in for months to enjoy my birthday. Here is the top 10 of my birthday weekend...
1. The weather. Friday was a cold, rainy day, so you might be wondering why it would make the top 10. Wellllll....the weather prevented the young man who was working on our bathroom from doing his regular job, thereby giving him the day to finish his job here. It may have taken us 15 years, but we now have a beautiful bathroom.
3. Happy Birthdays! Between facebook, email and text message, I received dozens of well wishes from friends. Since I have spent a good deal of the past four months in isolation, it was a great reminder that I do have friends.
4. Dinner with friends. When I made plans with another couple last week, I had no idea the day we chose was my birthday. It worked out so perfectly though because I can't imagine having it any other way. An evening visiting, laughing and eating, how could it not be perfect. It was a treat to celebrate my birthday was such good friends.
5. Dinner. This was deserving of a place all of it's own. We traveled about 45 minutes north of here to a place called Justus Drugstore. It was food unlike I have ever tasted and I definitely pushed outside my normal food comfort zone. While we waited for our table, I had an old-fashioned lemon-lime soda. It was the best soda I have ever tasted and was just the start of something special. The pictures do not do justice to the meal we had.
I highly recommend this place if you are wanting to be adventurous and are celebrating a special occasion. The outside looks like a dive, but the inside is quite unique. It seats only 40 people in the dining room and the kitchen area is completely open.
6. Relaxing day with the husband. Saturday I got to spend the entire day just relaxing with my husband. We don't get a lot of days like that. The rain made it a perfect day to stroll through some stores and take a long afternoon nap. It was the perfect post birthday celebration.
7. Gift from the husband. My husband does an awesome job with gifts. He does his absolute best to get exactly what I want. He didn't disappoint at all. I had asked for a potato ricer, odd request I know. He had such a hard time find the one I wanted and we happened upon one while strolling through stores Saturday. This bad boy is going to help me get super gourmet in the kitchen now.
8. Pie. I told my husband Saturday that I just couldn't end my birthday weekend without having cake or ice cream. Much to my surprise, he took me out late Saturday evening for dessert. We had pie. Lots of yummy chocolate cream pie. No pictures because I had my fork in it the minute the plate hit the table.
9. Lunch with friends. Today I had brunch with three of the most fabulous young ladies I know. I have been so fortunate to get to know each of them a little better over the past two years by planning events with them. I have such respect for each of them and cherish their friendship. I'm thankful to have wrapped up my birthday celebrations with them.
10. Projects. Despite my exhaustion, I found some energy and time to work on some projects. The big one right now is making over an old card table that was given to me. It has been so much fun and is going to be super cute when I have it all done.
Tuesday, April 23, 2013
Strengthened Faith in the most unlikely way
So, so easily during this time of year my thinking sways quickly to "I wish I'd never been born." "Why was I born?" "The world and the people in it would have been so much better off had I never been born."
Sad, but true. Fairly so, I blame my parents. Through many conversations with my mom (and not during any heat of the moment arguing), she very frankly let me know she never wanted me. She, on multiple occasions, told me that she was forced to have children so that my dad would be able to "do what he wanted" to them.
I spent years and years angry about my birth. I think that's why it is so easy to slip into that same thinking now. That paired with the fact my family doesn't care makes it even more difficult.
The depression; the birthday...I'm going to make an educated guess that I don't need to go into much detail about the long, sleepless nights filled with suicidal thinking. You get it, it's a BAD time right now.
Talking through this with someone yesterday, I realized something. In a very real, profound way, being incredibly suicidal has increased my faith. It maybe an obscure thought for some of you, but it is true.
What I am about to say maybe disturbing, but I have to be honest for anyone to understand. Mostly, I have to be honest for myself. So that when I look back at this, I can see exactly what God has done.
Nights are bad. Lately, I haven't been sleeping more than 1-2 hours a night. I had gotten my average up to 5-6. Depression and sleep deprivation do not mix well. In fact, they feed off each other and become cyclical.
Many, many nights the depression leads to suicidal thinking. Sadly, the internet is a dangerous place for anyone who is suicidal. There is an endless supply of deadly directions and recipes made with everyday household items. I know. I've been there. Searched. Planned. Attempted.
During that process, there comes a pivotal point. It is that moment when I know to go one step further is going to have permanent consequences. Many of those moments are spent sitting in bed next to my husband as he sleeps.
I look at him, knowing that next step is ultimately going to break his heart. In that moment, it is nearly impossible to rationalize anything. I think his pain would be temporary, until he learns he is better off. I think my pain is far too much to go on, not believing it will ever get any better. At that moment I can't entertain the idea that my pain is temporary and his would last forever.
There is a profound reality in that moment. At that moment, I have absolutely no ability to control my actions. I have lost ability to reason through it or think in any other way. In that moment, my life is literally not in my hands.
Many nights end like this. At least 4-5 nights a week and sometimes every night in a given week. It is a chronic problem. But, sitting her typing this out you obviously know I have made it through each and every one of them.
For each night that has ended with that moment, there has been a morning I have woke up knowing I survived my own self-destruction.
Each one of those mornings, I know it was ONLY God who saved me from myself. I can be sure of that. I can be sure that in those final moments when I have lost control, God has not.
Honestly, I am not sure what happens after that last moment and those last thoughts. I only know that I wake up the next morning.
Please don't think that I live these nights to test God's faithfulness, I don't. I honestly do wake up thankful, knowing I have been spared from myself. If I had the ability to not go through this cycle, I would stop it immediately. I would much rather be learning the attributes of God through a much safer, controlled means.
I do try my best to remember in the darkest moments that I was saved from the last darkest moment...it's just not always that easy. So, I have to allow my faith in God to grow with this. As odd as it seems, this is the way my faith is being strengthened right now.
Sad, but true. Fairly so, I blame my parents. Through many conversations with my mom (and not during any heat of the moment arguing), she very frankly let me know she never wanted me. She, on multiple occasions, told me that she was forced to have children so that my dad would be able to "do what he wanted" to them.
I spent years and years angry about my birth. I think that's why it is so easy to slip into that same thinking now. That paired with the fact my family doesn't care makes it even more difficult.
The depression; the birthday...I'm going to make an educated guess that I don't need to go into much detail about the long, sleepless nights filled with suicidal thinking. You get it, it's a BAD time right now.
Talking through this with someone yesterday, I realized something. In a very real, profound way, being incredibly suicidal has increased my faith. It maybe an obscure thought for some of you, but it is true.
What I am about to say maybe disturbing, but I have to be honest for anyone to understand. Mostly, I have to be honest for myself. So that when I look back at this, I can see exactly what God has done.
Nights are bad. Lately, I haven't been sleeping more than 1-2 hours a night. I had gotten my average up to 5-6. Depression and sleep deprivation do not mix well. In fact, they feed off each other and become cyclical.
Many, many nights the depression leads to suicidal thinking. Sadly, the internet is a dangerous place for anyone who is suicidal. There is an endless supply of deadly directions and recipes made with everyday household items. I know. I've been there. Searched. Planned. Attempted.
During that process, there comes a pivotal point. It is that moment when I know to go one step further is going to have permanent consequences. Many of those moments are spent sitting in bed next to my husband as he sleeps.
I look at him, knowing that next step is ultimately going to break his heart. In that moment, it is nearly impossible to rationalize anything. I think his pain would be temporary, until he learns he is better off. I think my pain is far too much to go on, not believing it will ever get any better. At that moment I can't entertain the idea that my pain is temporary and his would last forever.
There is a profound reality in that moment. At that moment, I have absolutely no ability to control my actions. I have lost ability to reason through it or think in any other way. In that moment, my life is literally not in my hands.
Many nights end like this. At least 4-5 nights a week and sometimes every night in a given week. It is a chronic problem. But, sitting her typing this out you obviously know I have made it through each and every one of them.
For each night that has ended with that moment, there has been a morning I have woke up knowing I survived my own self-destruction.
Each one of those mornings, I know it was ONLY God who saved me from myself. I can be sure of that. I can be sure that in those final moments when I have lost control, God has not.
Honestly, I am not sure what happens after that last moment and those last thoughts. I only know that I wake up the next morning.
Please don't think that I live these nights to test God's faithfulness, I don't. I honestly do wake up thankful, knowing I have been spared from myself. If I had the ability to not go through this cycle, I would stop it immediately. I would much rather be learning the attributes of God through a much safer, controlled means.
I do try my best to remember in the darkest moments that I was saved from the last darkest moment...it's just not always that easy. So, I have to allow my faith in God to grow with this. As odd as it seems, this is the way my faith is being strengthened right now.
Monday, April 22, 2013
Birthday Breakdown
The week of my birthday always makes me think of my grandparents and this year is no different. It is such a mix of emotions for me.
When thinking back on experiences with this particular set of grandparents, I cannot deny that I do have some fond memories. I always have to mention that they were still highly dysfunctional. There was a long list of terrible things which happened in their house, including molestation. As terrible as they were, they were the best of what I had.
Birthdays were celebrated by my grandparents, especially my grandma. You can read about some of that in a post from last year by clicking here.
I think it is a healthy desire to want to be celebrated on your birthday. It is a monumental day. The day you took your first breath. The day your life began. (yea, yea I know life starts at conception but this day is just as important to the continuation of life) It is a day each year to remember you came into existence because it was meant to be.
Since my grandma died in 1998, nobody in my family has celebrated my birthday. I used to get an occasional card from my mom, but that stopped as soon as I started going to church. You would think that after all this time, it wouldn't be so painful but that just isn't the case.
It is such a mixed bag to try to hold onto what was good when the bad clouded it all. I am positive before the end of the week, I will have a full blown, crying breakdown where I miss my grandma. She was awful. She was a foul-mouthed (you know it's bad when I point that finger), granny who loved pornography, immorality and causing great turmoil within her family. But, I'll remember the birthday cakes, gifts, celebration of my life and it'll knock me down into a puddle of grief.
My goodness, it would probably be equally as painful to actually have contact with my family on my birthday after this long and I would be very suspect of it anyway. As I always do, I will wonder if they even think about it. I would have to guess not...
When thinking back on experiences with this particular set of grandparents, I cannot deny that I do have some fond memories. I always have to mention that they were still highly dysfunctional. There was a long list of terrible things which happened in their house, including molestation. As terrible as they were, they were the best of what I had.
Birthdays were celebrated by my grandparents, especially my grandma. You can read about some of that in a post from last year by clicking here.
I think it is a healthy desire to want to be celebrated on your birthday. It is a monumental day. The day you took your first breath. The day your life began. (yea, yea I know life starts at conception but this day is just as important to the continuation of life) It is a day each year to remember you came into existence because it was meant to be.
Since my grandma died in 1998, nobody in my family has celebrated my birthday. I used to get an occasional card from my mom, but that stopped as soon as I started going to church. You would think that after all this time, it wouldn't be so painful but that just isn't the case.
It is such a mixed bag to try to hold onto what was good when the bad clouded it all. I am positive before the end of the week, I will have a full blown, crying breakdown where I miss my grandma. She was awful. She was a foul-mouthed (you know it's bad when I point that finger), granny who loved pornography, immorality and causing great turmoil within her family. But, I'll remember the birthday cakes, gifts, celebration of my life and it'll knock me down into a puddle of grief.
My goodness, it would probably be equally as painful to actually have contact with my family on my birthday after this long and I would be very suspect of it anyway. As I always do, I will wonder if they even think about it. I would have to guess not...
Friday, April 19, 2013
Aging with Humor and Love
It has been a while since I've shared my experiences with my favorite senior couple.
The funk I have been in has caused me to neglect them a bit, which I hate. That is pure selfishness on my part too. I hate it because I always feel better after spending time with them. Not because of anything I do for them, but for what they do for me.
In case you have missed my posts before, I love this couple dearly. It is the closest thing I have ever experienced that could ever be comparable to having a healthy relationship with family and I am incredibly thankful for it.
Tonight we were privileged to celebrate "Mama's" birthday with the family. We celebrated her husband's birthday a couple months ago, which was equally as wonderful.
As we sat around the table listening to the stories of travels, teaching and life, I found myself in the middle of a big belly laugh...only one of the first in months.
This reminded me of one of the very first things I learned from this couple and had obviously forgotten the past few months. With love, there is nothing that is insurmountable and humor keeps life in a healthy balance.
It was refreshing for me to be among a family who shares so much love for one another, reminding me what a healthy family looks like.
Probably the bigger thing I was reminded of was the love I have for this couple and the love they offer in return. I have never, EVER, been treated like "just one of the family" in the way this couple treats me. I never thought I would ever feel that.
Anyone who knows me would tell you that I'm not much of a hugger. However, a couple sweet hugs from such a wonderful woman tonight did so much to soothe my aching heart.
The funk I have been in has caused me to neglect them a bit, which I hate. That is pure selfishness on my part too. I hate it because I always feel better after spending time with them. Not because of anything I do for them, but for what they do for me.
In case you have missed my posts before, I love this couple dearly. It is the closest thing I have ever experienced that could ever be comparable to having a healthy relationship with family and I am incredibly thankful for it.
Tonight we were privileged to celebrate "Mama's" birthday with the family. We celebrated her husband's birthday a couple months ago, which was equally as wonderful.
As we sat around the table listening to the stories of travels, teaching and life, I found myself in the middle of a big belly laugh...only one of the first in months.
This reminded me of one of the very first things I learned from this couple and had obviously forgotten the past few months. With love, there is nothing that is insurmountable and humor keeps life in a healthy balance.
It was refreshing for me to be among a family who shares so much love for one another, reminding me what a healthy family looks like.
Probably the bigger thing I was reminded of was the love I have for this couple and the love they offer in return. I have never, EVER, been treated like "just one of the family" in the way this couple treats me. I never thought I would ever feel that.
Anyone who knows me would tell you that I'm not much of a hugger. However, a couple sweet hugs from such a wonderful woman tonight did so much to soothe my aching heart.
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
Time Flies
We have passed the middle of April already. How did that happen? I'm not really ready.
I know once Easter hits, then I have my birthday and mother's day and father's day and so on. Like any other year, I try to not think about it and I usually fail. But this year, it snuck up on me.
As I looked at the calendar to make dinner plans with another couple, I realized it's next week. Ugh! The dreaded day is next week.
The past few years haven't been so bad. I don't have family to celebrate my birthday, obviously. But, for the past 3-4 years, I've had groups of friends gather for dinner or coffee. It has helped to ease the birthday blow.
Sadly, I don't have that this year. Living for several months in seclusion and not being active on social media has left me with such a teeny, tiny social circle.
My husband, as much as I love him, is missing the creative birthday celebration gene.
So, my goal is to just get through the next nine days with as little wishing-I'd-never-been-born as possible. When next Friday comes, I will do my absolute best to not focus on the fact that nobody in my family acknowledges the day my life began. It will be hard, but I will try.
I can't promise this is the last I will have to say about it either. I have spent the past several months in a depression like I've never known. The lack of family, absent love from family....it all has potential to make life even more difficult to face.
It is far too easy to ask the same question every year. Why am I not worth being loved by the very people who created me?
I know once Easter hits, then I have my birthday and mother's day and father's day and so on. Like any other year, I try to not think about it and I usually fail. But this year, it snuck up on me.
As I looked at the calendar to make dinner plans with another couple, I realized it's next week. Ugh! The dreaded day is next week.
The past few years haven't been so bad. I don't have family to celebrate my birthday, obviously. But, for the past 3-4 years, I've had groups of friends gather for dinner or coffee. It has helped to ease the birthday blow.
Sadly, I don't have that this year. Living for several months in seclusion and not being active on social media has left me with such a teeny, tiny social circle.
My husband, as much as I love him, is missing the creative birthday celebration gene.
So, my goal is to just get through the next nine days with as little wishing-I'd-never-been-born as possible. When next Friday comes, I will do my absolute best to not focus on the fact that nobody in my family acknowledges the day my life began. It will be hard, but I will try.
I can't promise this is the last I will have to say about it either. I have spent the past several months in a depression like I've never known. The lack of family, absent love from family....it all has potential to make life even more difficult to face.
It is far too easy to ask the same question every year. Why am I not worth being loved by the very people who created me?
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
I know who I am...
....but not many people do. In fact, only 2-3 people do know me.
Over the past several months, that has become painfully clear to me.
While there are several reasons why I have chosen to isolate myself, one of the most prevalent is that I am in hiding.
As a general rule, the general population doesn't really know me or what my life is like. Even those who know me better than most, really don't know what my life is like. I am not overlooking the fact that everyone has struggles. Struggling is not unique to just me. However, I do have a fairly uncommon diagnosis which makes my like very different from everyone around me.
My particular illness (not how I like to think of it, but medically speaking is an illness) is suspected to be found in less than 1% of the world's entire population. Statistics vary from .0001% to .999999%, with a majority of those going completely undiagnosed. It is safe to say that not very many people would have any clue what it is like to have or live with someone with my illness.
In fact, it is so uncommon that even those who know find it difficult to understand. Honestly, my husband struggles to understand and adapt. So of course there is fear that openly sharing with the general population could create some backlash of misunderstanding and ignorance.
But how much pain is it creating in me to keep who I am so hidden?
To know me, understand me and even walk through any of life with me, you really need to have some knowledge of my diagnosis and life. I have tried to have deeper relationships with people without them knowing, but it never works.
As cliche as it may sound, my diagnosis does not define me. However, it must be respected and accepted just as any other characteristic which makes me who I am. To purposely overlook this particular area of my life is to minimize my strength, intelligence and perseverance. These are things I have had to learn over the past three years to do within myself.
I know those close to me are fearful of me being hurt by the misunderstanding and ignorance. Yes, I know that can and will happen. But will it hurt more than the isolation?
It took me over 32 years to finally admit that I had been abused. It has taken even longer and very small, baby steps for me to share with anyone that I was not just abused as a child but the abuse lasted well into my 30's. I still cannot be positive that it has completely stopped.
The golden rule of abuse is to keep it hidden, locked away from the world. It is a rule instilled so deeply in you and enforced by even more abuse. A rule so steadfast within you that to finally break it even in the safest place possible feels like a shameful violation of everything you believe.
Right now, I am living by that same rule only in a very different way. I have no choice but to keep hidden who I am and what my life is like because of fear. There is a different reason for the fear, but it is fear just the same.
It is so frustrating to have to hide something so big in my life and often reduces me to abuse flashbacks.
This is one of my stumbling blocks for church too. My condition/illness/diagnosis (whatever you want to call it) causes me to act in somewhat obscure ways in large groups of people and especially in church.
For instance, I cannot go to an evening bible study or choir practice or most events where I would sit for extended periods of time. Why? Because the later the day gets, the harder it is for me to suppress the symptoms. Why is that a problem? Because the people sitting around me do not know what is happening and do not understand why I do not know who they are or why I disappear half way through.
That is just one example of many. All in a place where everyone should be able to come just as they are. Broken. Sick. A church should be a safe place to be who you are. I am sure that is true....for everybody but me. That is a painful reality that I live. I have to stay home when there might be a chance that others could see the real me.
This is just simply unfair to me!
Each time someone says to me they are praying for me because of my depression, I graciously thank them. Inside, I'm crying..."It's not just everyday depression!" It's not. It isn't JUST depression. It isn't JUST anxiety. It isn't JUST PTSD. It's not bipolar. I just want to say what IT is. I just want people to understand and accept me regardless of IT.
I want to be able to not live such an isolated life when IT is the driving force in all facets of my life.
I don't want to live ashamed of who I am any more. I want to be released from the golden rule. I want be free from fear. I need help.
Over the past several months, that has become painfully clear to me.
While there are several reasons why I have chosen to isolate myself, one of the most prevalent is that I am in hiding.
As a general rule, the general population doesn't really know me or what my life is like. Even those who know me better than most, really don't know what my life is like. I am not overlooking the fact that everyone has struggles. Struggling is not unique to just me. However, I do have a fairly uncommon diagnosis which makes my like very different from everyone around me.
My particular illness (not how I like to think of it, but medically speaking is an illness) is suspected to be found in less than 1% of the world's entire population. Statistics vary from .0001% to .999999%, with a majority of those going completely undiagnosed. It is safe to say that not very many people would have any clue what it is like to have or live with someone with my illness.
In fact, it is so uncommon that even those who know find it difficult to understand. Honestly, my husband struggles to understand and adapt. So of course there is fear that openly sharing with the general population could create some backlash of misunderstanding and ignorance.
But how much pain is it creating in me to keep who I am so hidden?
To know me, understand me and even walk through any of life with me, you really need to have some knowledge of my diagnosis and life. I have tried to have deeper relationships with people without them knowing, but it never works.
As cliche as it may sound, my diagnosis does not define me. However, it must be respected and accepted just as any other characteristic which makes me who I am. To purposely overlook this particular area of my life is to minimize my strength, intelligence and perseverance. These are things I have had to learn over the past three years to do within myself.
I know those close to me are fearful of me being hurt by the misunderstanding and ignorance. Yes, I know that can and will happen. But will it hurt more than the isolation?
It took me over 32 years to finally admit that I had been abused. It has taken even longer and very small, baby steps for me to share with anyone that I was not just abused as a child but the abuse lasted well into my 30's. I still cannot be positive that it has completely stopped.
The golden rule of abuse is to keep it hidden, locked away from the world. It is a rule instilled so deeply in you and enforced by even more abuse. A rule so steadfast within you that to finally break it even in the safest place possible feels like a shameful violation of everything you believe.
Right now, I am living by that same rule only in a very different way. I have no choice but to keep hidden who I am and what my life is like because of fear. There is a different reason for the fear, but it is fear just the same.
It is so frustrating to have to hide something so big in my life and often reduces me to abuse flashbacks.
This is one of my stumbling blocks for church too. My condition/illness/diagnosis (whatever you want to call it) causes me to act in somewhat obscure ways in large groups of people and especially in church.
For instance, I cannot go to an evening bible study or choir practice or most events where I would sit for extended periods of time. Why? Because the later the day gets, the harder it is for me to suppress the symptoms. Why is that a problem? Because the people sitting around me do not know what is happening and do not understand why I do not know who they are or why I disappear half way through.
That is just one example of many. All in a place where everyone should be able to come just as they are. Broken. Sick. A church should be a safe place to be who you are. I am sure that is true....for everybody but me. That is a painful reality that I live. I have to stay home when there might be a chance that others could see the real me.
This is just simply unfair to me!
Each time someone says to me they are praying for me because of my depression, I graciously thank them. Inside, I'm crying..."It's not just everyday depression!" It's not. It isn't JUST depression. It isn't JUST anxiety. It isn't JUST PTSD. It's not bipolar. I just want to say what IT is. I just want people to understand and accept me regardless of IT.
I want to be able to not live such an isolated life when IT is the driving force in all facets of my life.
I don't want to live ashamed of who I am any more. I want to be released from the golden rule. I want be free from fear. I need help.
Sunday, April 14, 2013
Pictures from Home
Facebook is a bittersweet place for me these days. I don't get on any social media much right now. I'm too tender for anything that comes across as judgemental or hateful or happy for that matter. There is something painful in seeing others happy while you are uncontrollably miserable.
I do follow one brother, sister-in-law, nephew, niece, a couple aunts and cousins on facebook. For the most part, it is my only connection to any of them. We don't talk on the phone, don't text or email. Honestly, we don't do much more than coexist in cyberspace with each other.
While I choose to lay out the good, bad and ugly of life on my blog, some of my family chooses to put it on facebook. Most of the ugly is a digressed pool of name-calling, public bawling-out mess with whomever they are upset with at the moment.
Occasionally, I catch a photo of one of my parents. That usually stirs up a much deserved negative response in me, naturally. Over the past month, I have caught several pictures of my dad holding/firing guns.
Wow. Even typing that out gives me chills.
That is an image that I just don't need to see or think about at all. Every time I have been near my dad with a gun in his hand, it has been pointed and fired at me.
More times than I can count or probably remember, I have had a gun pointed at me, held to my head, fired at me or been threatened and tortured. It absolutely leaves me breathless (and not in a good way) to see him holding.
A few weeks ago, I saw him standing over my niece with one in his hands. He was teaching her how to shoot, but the image was startling. As innocent as it must have looked to 99.99999% of the general population, it was disturbing.
To think, when I was my niece's age, I already had a healthy respect for guns used as weapons against me and would have not ever thought of shooting one for fun. By the time I was her age, I had a scar from a bullet grazing past my leg during a torture session.
As people debate the rights of gun owners, I find myself falling on both sides of the argument. As someone with a mental illness, I can tell you that I should not be allowed to own a gun. But, I want my husband, as my protector, to be able to own a gun.
The problem with every single law that could ever be passed is that people like my dad would legally be able to own a gun. Someone who shot at his own daughter. Someone who held a gun to a small child's head in order to force whatever kind of abuse on them. That is someone who should never be able to own a gun legally, but who would slip through every kind of law except a full ban (which I do not support).
I love being able to see pictures of my niece and nephew, but days like today leave me feeling sick, stuck and make my PTSD more real than I'd like.
I do follow one brother, sister-in-law, nephew, niece, a couple aunts and cousins on facebook. For the most part, it is my only connection to any of them. We don't talk on the phone, don't text or email. Honestly, we don't do much more than coexist in cyberspace with each other.
While I choose to lay out the good, bad and ugly of life on my blog, some of my family chooses to put it on facebook. Most of the ugly is a digressed pool of name-calling, public bawling-out mess with whomever they are upset with at the moment.
Occasionally, I catch a photo of one of my parents. That usually stirs up a much deserved negative response in me, naturally. Over the past month, I have caught several pictures of my dad holding/firing guns.
Wow. Even typing that out gives me chills.
That is an image that I just don't need to see or think about at all. Every time I have been near my dad with a gun in his hand, it has been pointed and fired at me.
More times than I can count or probably remember, I have had a gun pointed at me, held to my head, fired at me or been threatened and tortured. It absolutely leaves me breathless (and not in a good way) to see him holding.
A few weeks ago, I saw him standing over my niece with one in his hands. He was teaching her how to shoot, but the image was startling. As innocent as it must have looked to 99.99999% of the general population, it was disturbing.
To think, when I was my niece's age, I already had a healthy respect for guns used as weapons against me and would have not ever thought of shooting one for fun. By the time I was her age, I had a scar from a bullet grazing past my leg during a torture session.
As people debate the rights of gun owners, I find myself falling on both sides of the argument. As someone with a mental illness, I can tell you that I should not be allowed to own a gun. But, I want my husband, as my protector, to be able to own a gun.
The problem with every single law that could ever be passed is that people like my dad would legally be able to own a gun. Someone who shot at his own daughter. Someone who held a gun to a small child's head in order to force whatever kind of abuse on them. That is someone who should never be able to own a gun legally, but who would slip through every kind of law except a full ban (which I do not support).
I love being able to see pictures of my niece and nephew, but days like today leave me feeling sick, stuck and make my PTSD more real than I'd like.
Tuesday, April 9, 2013
Deep Conversations
Most days go by without me craving much human interaction. I know, day after day after day of that would probably drive most normal people crazy. While they are extremely few, I do accept most every invitation to go out for lunch or grocery shopping. If I didn't have that interaction, I'd have none.
Today is a little different though. Since I woke up, I have been craving conversation. Like an overnight case of indigestion, it might pass....but maybe not. Maybe it is an stirring deep inside me that has felt dead for the past several months....but maybe not.
It is very unusual for me to crave conversation and to desire anything more than surface conversation at that. But, I am now. I want and need to have deep, thoughtful conversation. The kind where you sit down and talk about hard things for an hour. The kind that is thought-provoking and understanding. The kind that pushes you to want to put the darkness aside inside of grasp hold of it for dear life.
The phone rang earlier. It rarely does. Elbow deep in painting didn't stop me from answering. The content is irrelevant to this topic, but I realized something about myself. I can't have good conversation on the phone. Not that I didn't know that about myself, I did. This was a didn't perspective for me.
During my first week at the eye clinic many years ago, one of the doctors told me that I had a wonderful phone voice. He said that it was soft, calming and welcoming. (Not sure all of that was complimentary, looking back at it now.) He told me that if I would make a conscious effort to smile the minute I answered the phone, there wouldn't be anything I couldn't accomplish over the phone.
His theory was right. It didn't matter if it was business or personal, I found that smiling while I talked on the phone made me a more pleasant person even in the most difficult conversations. I cannot tell you how many times a hopeless situation was resolved and for really no obvious reason except my demeanor stayed positive and calm, which I blame on the smile. There was definitely truth in the smiling phone call being the happy phone call.
The problem is that it has become habit. I can literally be planted in the deepest, darkest emotional hole and answer the phone with a smile. A smile and happy voice doesn't ever lead to honest conversation for me. It's so hard for me to divulge any details of my own messiness anyway. With the happy, calm voice, the person on the other end would never have a clue of the despair I was feeling at that moment.
I think it is safe to say I am not craving a phone conversation. It is definitely a more personal conversation.
It is very hard for me to admit that I am craving that deep kind of conversation, especially one where I share anything personal about myself. So many times those kind of conversations lead to painful conclusions for me.
Let's face it, us humans...well we take a Bob the Builder approach to everything and want to fix all that we can. That is not what I want or need, but often what I get. So often I get books, suggestions that worked for someone else, scripture, or various other quick fixes for all my burdens. Don't get me wrong, every suggestion is worthy of consideration.
The problem is that most people want to throw whatever solution at the problem and run. I don't think I have ever had anyone bring a sincere suggestion to me and offer to wade through the mess with me. Some people don't even throw a solution at me, they just run. I don't blame them, I probably would too. My mess is massive most of the time. I get why I go it alone a lot.
Go it alone, I do. I do have a very persistent counselor who does her best. But right now, I'm craving a different set of ears. I'm craving a different perspective.
You would think that I could probably have that deep conversation with my husband, but you would be wrong. I am going to get painfully honest right now. I have said before, my husband works three jobs. He is not home much, rarely available physically. By the time he gets home at night, he is exhausted.
What I haven't shared with you is that on top of everything else right now, we are floundering as a couple too. That's just honest. I am not pointing a finger at him either.
My husband has his own issues and is obviously overworked. Most days I feel as though we are two single people who just live with each other. There is no conversation, deep or otherwise. Just because we don't have kids doesn't mean that we are any closer than any other couple.
We don't do "date" nights. Occasionally, we go to dinner. That is usually a time of sitting face to face, surfing on the cell phones, unable to have conversations because they all lead to arguments. Again, not pointing a finger at all but explaining that deep conversation isn't plentiful in this house.
I would seriously wish this craving away, except it is the only normal thing I've felt in months. It is the only healthy desire I've had. But, I am sure the hopelessness will soon wash it away as quickly as it came.
Today is a little different though. Since I woke up, I have been craving conversation. Like an overnight case of indigestion, it might pass....but maybe not. Maybe it is an stirring deep inside me that has felt dead for the past several months....but maybe not.
It is very unusual for me to crave conversation and to desire anything more than surface conversation at that. But, I am now. I want and need to have deep, thoughtful conversation. The kind where you sit down and talk about hard things for an hour. The kind that is thought-provoking and understanding. The kind that pushes you to want to put the darkness aside inside of grasp hold of it for dear life.
The phone rang earlier. It rarely does. Elbow deep in painting didn't stop me from answering. The content is irrelevant to this topic, but I realized something about myself. I can't have good conversation on the phone. Not that I didn't know that about myself, I did. This was a didn't perspective for me.
During my first week at the eye clinic many years ago, one of the doctors told me that I had a wonderful phone voice. He said that it was soft, calming and welcoming. (Not sure all of that was complimentary, looking back at it now.) He told me that if I would make a conscious effort to smile the minute I answered the phone, there wouldn't be anything I couldn't accomplish over the phone.
His theory was right. It didn't matter if it was business or personal, I found that smiling while I talked on the phone made me a more pleasant person even in the most difficult conversations. I cannot tell you how many times a hopeless situation was resolved and for really no obvious reason except my demeanor stayed positive and calm, which I blame on the smile. There was definitely truth in the smiling phone call being the happy phone call.
The problem is that it has become habit. I can literally be planted in the deepest, darkest emotional hole and answer the phone with a smile. A smile and happy voice doesn't ever lead to honest conversation for me. It's so hard for me to divulge any details of my own messiness anyway. With the happy, calm voice, the person on the other end would never have a clue of the despair I was feeling at that moment.
I think it is safe to say I am not craving a phone conversation. It is definitely a more personal conversation.
It is very hard for me to admit that I am craving that deep kind of conversation, especially one where I share anything personal about myself. So many times those kind of conversations lead to painful conclusions for me.
Let's face it, us humans...well we take a Bob the Builder approach to everything and want to fix all that we can. That is not what I want or need, but often what I get. So often I get books, suggestions that worked for someone else, scripture, or various other quick fixes for all my burdens. Don't get me wrong, every suggestion is worthy of consideration.
The problem is that most people want to throw whatever solution at the problem and run. I don't think I have ever had anyone bring a sincere suggestion to me and offer to wade through the mess with me. Some people don't even throw a solution at me, they just run. I don't blame them, I probably would too. My mess is massive most of the time. I get why I go it alone a lot.
Go it alone, I do. I do have a very persistent counselor who does her best. But right now, I'm craving a different set of ears. I'm craving a different perspective.
You would think that I could probably have that deep conversation with my husband, but you would be wrong. I am going to get painfully honest right now. I have said before, my husband works three jobs. He is not home much, rarely available physically. By the time he gets home at night, he is exhausted.
What I haven't shared with you is that on top of everything else right now, we are floundering as a couple too. That's just honest. I am not pointing a finger at him either.
My husband has his own issues and is obviously overworked. Most days I feel as though we are two single people who just live with each other. There is no conversation, deep or otherwise. Just because we don't have kids doesn't mean that we are any closer than any other couple.
We don't do "date" nights. Occasionally, we go to dinner. That is usually a time of sitting face to face, surfing on the cell phones, unable to have conversations because they all lead to arguments. Again, not pointing a finger at all but explaining that deep conversation isn't plentiful in this house.
I would seriously wish this craving away, except it is the only normal thing I've felt in months. It is the only healthy desire I've had. But, I am sure the hopelessness will soon wash it away as quickly as it came.
Sunday, April 7, 2013
Are YOU part of the problem or the solution?
“You know all that sympathy that you feel for an abused child who suffers without a good mom or dad to love and care for them? Well, they don't stay children forever. No one magically becomes an adult the day they turn eighteen. Some people grow up sooner, many grow up later. Some never really do. But just remember that some people in this world are older versions of those same kids we cry for.”
― Ashly Lorenzana
This isn't meant to be a post about abuse as much as informative thoughts and very specifically about expectations.
To be absolutely clear, I'm not sharing this for empathy but so that anyone who would like to know more can. I have found that it is difficult for those who did not grow up in abusive homes to understand some of the quirks of those who did.
If you could, think for a moment about a blind person. Having met a few blind people, I know that most of them do not want to be seen for their blindness but for who they are. However, their blindness does come with some merit and attention. To understand them, befriend them, you must have some knowledge of how they have adapted to the blindness. I would ask that you try to look at the following information as a better understanding of the adapting.
The quote above is so incredibly true, so true it hurts. There are things that happen in an abusive home which take years and years and years to change. For me, growing up only meant I had more years of challenges to overcome as my abuse continued far into my adult years.
There is a vast pool of issues or quirks I could pick apart and try to explain. Expectations seem to be one that keeps coming up for me. More specifically, unmet expectations continue to knock me over.
In my childhood, there were two kinds of expectations and neither were good. There was the known. I knew I was going to be abused. I would be tortured. I would be hungry and tired. I would not be loved.
Then there was the unknown. This is where glimpses of hope were dashed by unmet expectations. The excitement over a birthday or holiday, which ended in abuse. A promise of a gift or reprieve, only to be later tortured and humiliated. An idea that someone, teacher, social worker, police officer, would somehow read the obvious signs, something that never happened.
It was the unknown, unmet expectations that hurt the worst. When you are a kid having adults not follow through on what they should or could do solidifies an entire set of beliefs. You are not worth caring for. You are not worth protecting. You have no value. You deserve the worst. Nobody loves you. You are not wanted.
Those are strong messages. They are messages which will stay with you for years to come. I am convinced change only occurs when these messages are balanced with positive ones and a progression of met expectations (realistic of course). I would also like to point out that you do not have to be from a highly dysfunctional home for this to be true.
As an adult, I do believe there is a greater ability to offer grace and forgiveness in unmet expectations. But, have you ever considered how your actions may effect those who have not overcome those messages?
While this is not a jab at anyone in particular, I must say that I deal with this a lot. I will admit, it usually comes in small ways and most often when I am hurting or incredibly sensitive.
It comes in the form of someone saying they will call to check on me, but doesn't; says they will email me with information or to see how I'm doing, but doesn't; makes a promise to get more involved, but doesn't; says they will visit or help with basic things, but doesn't; makes a plan to be somewhere at a specific time, but cancels or is late.
Do you ever do those things? I do. Life gets busy or desire wanes and I fail to do what I have said I would. I do my best not to because I know the other side of it. When I do those things, I am usually apologetic. When you do those things, do you apologize? Do you ever consider how those things will be taken by the person on the other side? Do you do it so often that you don't consider the other person? Those are all questions to ponder, knowing we all do it. We do it by choice and by circumstance.
These things happen to me nearly everyday. I have matured enough to give grace where needed, but it is a struggle. I am being completely honest here. A couple people doing this in one day will kick up those old messages and send me straight into a spiral.
I have noticed the older I get, the less people are apologetic about anything. A friend once told me that if something happens completely out of your control, then you owe nobody an apology. I simply think this is false. When other people are involved, I think it is common courtesy to offer an apology. In these small things, I would offer another idea to consider. Circumstances may prevent you from following through with the small things in life, you and the next person and the next person. I would offer you the idea that perhaps you are just one of many people who've had to let the person down. Abusive background or not, I would always err on the side of common courtesy.
Maybe you know the person's background, maybe you don't. Maybe you know the messages the person is getting with a missed phone call or broken promise or canceled lunch, but maybe you don't.
I can tell you this is an area of difficulty for anyone from a dysfunctional home or abusive past. I am not asking you to change circumstances. I'm not the apology police here. What I am asking is for you to consider some of the people in your life (close and surface). Do you have an understanding of how they have adapted to what they learned as a child? What messages are you reinforcing in them with your actions or lack of?
The ability to change those messages lies in each one us. I challenge you to examine yourself. Do you reinforce the "You are loved" or "You are unwanted" in those around you?
― Ashly Lorenzana
This isn't meant to be a post about abuse as much as informative thoughts and very specifically about expectations.
To be absolutely clear, I'm not sharing this for empathy but so that anyone who would like to know more can. I have found that it is difficult for those who did not grow up in abusive homes to understand some of the quirks of those who did.
If you could, think for a moment about a blind person. Having met a few blind people, I know that most of them do not want to be seen for their blindness but for who they are. However, their blindness does come with some merit and attention. To understand them, befriend them, you must have some knowledge of how they have adapted to the blindness. I would ask that you try to look at the following information as a better understanding of the adapting.
The quote above is so incredibly true, so true it hurts. There are things that happen in an abusive home which take years and years and years to change. For me, growing up only meant I had more years of challenges to overcome as my abuse continued far into my adult years.
There is a vast pool of issues or quirks I could pick apart and try to explain. Expectations seem to be one that keeps coming up for me. More specifically, unmet expectations continue to knock me over.
In my childhood, there were two kinds of expectations and neither were good. There was the known. I knew I was going to be abused. I would be tortured. I would be hungry and tired. I would not be loved.
Then there was the unknown. This is where glimpses of hope were dashed by unmet expectations. The excitement over a birthday or holiday, which ended in abuse. A promise of a gift or reprieve, only to be later tortured and humiliated. An idea that someone, teacher, social worker, police officer, would somehow read the obvious signs, something that never happened.
It was the unknown, unmet expectations that hurt the worst. When you are a kid having adults not follow through on what they should or could do solidifies an entire set of beliefs. You are not worth caring for. You are not worth protecting. You have no value. You deserve the worst. Nobody loves you. You are not wanted.
Those are strong messages. They are messages which will stay with you for years to come. I am convinced change only occurs when these messages are balanced with positive ones and a progression of met expectations (realistic of course). I would also like to point out that you do not have to be from a highly dysfunctional home for this to be true.
As an adult, I do believe there is a greater ability to offer grace and forgiveness in unmet expectations. But, have you ever considered how your actions may effect those who have not overcome those messages?
While this is not a jab at anyone in particular, I must say that I deal with this a lot. I will admit, it usually comes in small ways and most often when I am hurting or incredibly sensitive.
It comes in the form of someone saying they will call to check on me, but doesn't; says they will email me with information or to see how I'm doing, but doesn't; makes a promise to get more involved, but doesn't; says they will visit or help with basic things, but doesn't; makes a plan to be somewhere at a specific time, but cancels or is late.
Do you ever do those things? I do. Life gets busy or desire wanes and I fail to do what I have said I would. I do my best not to because I know the other side of it. When I do those things, I am usually apologetic. When you do those things, do you apologize? Do you ever consider how those things will be taken by the person on the other side? Do you do it so often that you don't consider the other person? Those are all questions to ponder, knowing we all do it. We do it by choice and by circumstance.
These things happen to me nearly everyday. I have matured enough to give grace where needed, but it is a struggle. I am being completely honest here. A couple people doing this in one day will kick up those old messages and send me straight into a spiral.
I have noticed the older I get, the less people are apologetic about anything. A friend once told me that if something happens completely out of your control, then you owe nobody an apology. I simply think this is false. When other people are involved, I think it is common courtesy to offer an apology. In these small things, I would offer another idea to consider. Circumstances may prevent you from following through with the small things in life, you and the next person and the next person. I would offer you the idea that perhaps you are just one of many people who've had to let the person down. Abusive background or not, I would always err on the side of common courtesy.
Maybe you know the person's background, maybe you don't. Maybe you know the messages the person is getting with a missed phone call or broken promise or canceled lunch, but maybe you don't.
I can tell you this is an area of difficulty for anyone from a dysfunctional home or abusive past. I am not asking you to change circumstances. I'm not the apology police here. What I am asking is for you to consider some of the people in your life (close and surface). Do you have an understanding of how they have adapted to what they learned as a child? What messages are you reinforcing in them with your actions or lack of?
The ability to change those messages lies in each one us. I challenge you to examine yourself. Do you reinforce the "You are loved" or "You are unwanted" in those around you?
Sunday, March 31, 2013
Recluse
Since January, I've had my keys and have been able to drive. Of course, I haven't driven much because I don't leave the house that often. My freedom to drive has come to an end for now along with a huge realization.
I ran some necessary errands last week, but could feel my anxiety rising. To help dissipate some of the anxiety, I decided to head into a store and walk around. That was probably the first time I had been in a store by myself for over a month. I wasn't kidding when I said I rarely leave the house.
After picking up a couple items I headed to check out. By that time, I was on the verge of a full blown anxiety attack. My heart was racing. I couldn't breathe. My body was shaking and the walls of the store felt as though they were quickly closing in on me. I don't think I heard a word the lady said as I checked out. With sweat pouring off of me, I headed to the car.
Thankfully, I had a moment of clarity when I could call my husband and let him know what was happening. I don't remember much about the trip home, even though I talked to my husband most of the five minute drive.
Understandably, my husband nabbed my keys the minute he walked in the door. Being in that state driving can only be described as comparable to driving under the influence. I maybe upset about it, but I know it is best for everyone else that I not drive. Even though I have little to no regard for my own well-being right now, I'd hate it if I hurt anyone else.
My realization came after knowing how my anxiety went from high to hyper speed while I was in the store. I could not handle being alone in a store by myself. I know, it's irrational. My two months of not leaving the house much has pulled me into a social regression. I no longer just want to stay home, but I'm afraid to leave the house.
I used to be able to go just about anywhere with anyone and do just fine. Now, my anxiety spikes if I go to the store with a friend or hardware store with my husband. I don't even have to go, it spikes at the very thought. Truly, I think I'm becoming a recluse.
The sad part is that I have to rely on others to leave the house. I know getting through something like this is going to take exposure and learning that stores or crowds are nothing to fear. But, that just won't happen. So few people know the problems and the ones who do aren't insistent enough to bust through my fear and resistance.
I really don't need another problem to contend with right now, I have enough already!
I ran some necessary errands last week, but could feel my anxiety rising. To help dissipate some of the anxiety, I decided to head into a store and walk around. That was probably the first time I had been in a store by myself for over a month. I wasn't kidding when I said I rarely leave the house.
After picking up a couple items I headed to check out. By that time, I was on the verge of a full blown anxiety attack. My heart was racing. I couldn't breathe. My body was shaking and the walls of the store felt as though they were quickly closing in on me. I don't think I heard a word the lady said as I checked out. With sweat pouring off of me, I headed to the car.
Thankfully, I had a moment of clarity when I could call my husband and let him know what was happening. I don't remember much about the trip home, even though I talked to my husband most of the five minute drive.
Understandably, my husband nabbed my keys the minute he walked in the door. Being in that state driving can only be described as comparable to driving under the influence. I maybe upset about it, but I know it is best for everyone else that I not drive. Even though I have little to no regard for my own well-being right now, I'd hate it if I hurt anyone else.
My realization came after knowing how my anxiety went from high to hyper speed while I was in the store. I could not handle being alone in a store by myself. I know, it's irrational. My two months of not leaving the house much has pulled me into a social regression. I no longer just want to stay home, but I'm afraid to leave the house.
I used to be able to go just about anywhere with anyone and do just fine. Now, my anxiety spikes if I go to the store with a friend or hardware store with my husband. I don't even have to go, it spikes at the very thought. Truly, I think I'm becoming a recluse.
The sad part is that I have to rely on others to leave the house. I know getting through something like this is going to take exposure and learning that stores or crowds are nothing to fear. But, that just won't happen. So few people know the problems and the ones who do aren't insistent enough to bust through my fear and resistance.
I really don't need another problem to contend with right now, I have enough already!
Saturday, March 30, 2013
Easter
As I tried to bite at my husband through the phone this morning, I could feel the anger coursing through me. Yes, I was mad at him but he probably didn't quite deserve the nastiness that was spewing from me.
Believe it or not, January to March is usually a break for me from the emotional highs and lows. Easter is the beginning of a couple difficult months for me. Easter, Birthday, Mother's Day, Father's Day and various family summer holidays.
People are so quick to tell me to focus on Jesus during Easter. Not so easy. In fact, holidays like Easter are probably the most difficult time for me to do this. Probably what I know better than most is that I've only got 5 years of Jesus being something good as compared to 32 years of Jesus being something bad.
Many, many, many years ago, I survived a punishment for going to church on Easter Sunday that could have easily been the death of me.
I invite you to read the post I wrote last year. Easter Dress
I'll probably repost this every year until I am able to focus on Jesus throughout Easter instead of being thrown into flashbacks of that awful, dreadful ordeal.
Believe it or not, January to March is usually a break for me from the emotional highs and lows. Easter is the beginning of a couple difficult months for me. Easter, Birthday, Mother's Day, Father's Day and various family summer holidays.
People are so quick to tell me to focus on Jesus during Easter. Not so easy. In fact, holidays like Easter are probably the most difficult time for me to do this. Probably what I know better than most is that I've only got 5 years of Jesus being something good as compared to 32 years of Jesus being something bad.
Many, many, many years ago, I survived a punishment for going to church on Easter Sunday that could have easily been the death of me.
I invite you to read the post I wrote last year. Easter Dress
I'll probably repost this every year until I am able to focus on Jesus throughout Easter instead of being thrown into flashbacks of that awful, dreadful ordeal.
Wednesday, March 27, 2013
It can always be worse...
Regardless of how bad things get for me, I never overlook the fact that things could always be worse. However, I do find myself asking often how come they can't get better.
Adding insult to injury seems to be the theme of my life lately. That's not the theme of some self-made, self-sustained pity party, but truth.
Time is running out on the bathtub. As we discussed this last night, we had a couple other blows take us by surprise and give us a virtual kick in the gut.
I finally got our taxes done. Nobody likes doing taxes, I know I'm not alone in that. We do the cheapest possible filing, which just isn't cheap when you have a home and home business. Thanks to Obama's fancy tax breaks to stimulate the economy last year, our usual minimal refund is no more. I've never been so happy to just break even and not have to pay in to the IRS. But it was a shock to learn we'd not have our usual refund.
We also learned that one of the income resources we depend on each month is not coming in for March and probably not for April with no promise of back pay. Ouch! That's a serious chunk of our livelihood. A house payment and all utilities. Ugh!
I went to bed last night reminding myself...this could always be worse. This could always be worse. This. Could. Always. Be. Worse.
At 7:30 this morning I woke up to a loud crash coming from the bathroom. Tile falling off the wall and crashing to the bottom of the tub. It was taunting me. Those stinkin' tile continued to taunt me all through my shower. Pop off, shove them back against the wall and repeat.
Oh my goodness! I know it could be worse. But maybe, just maybe, if the environmental stuff would get just a tiny bit better then maybe I would get a tiny bit better.
Adding insult to injury seems to be the theme of my life lately. That's not the theme of some self-made, self-sustained pity party, but truth.
Time is running out on the bathtub. As we discussed this last night, we had a couple other blows take us by surprise and give us a virtual kick in the gut.
I finally got our taxes done. Nobody likes doing taxes, I know I'm not alone in that. We do the cheapest possible filing, which just isn't cheap when you have a home and home business. Thanks to Obama's fancy tax breaks to stimulate the economy last year, our usual minimal refund is no more. I've never been so happy to just break even and not have to pay in to the IRS. But it was a shock to learn we'd not have our usual refund.
We also learned that one of the income resources we depend on each month is not coming in for March and probably not for April with no promise of back pay. Ouch! That's a serious chunk of our livelihood. A house payment and all utilities. Ugh!
I went to bed last night reminding myself...this could always be worse. This could always be worse. This. Could. Always. Be. Worse.
At 7:30 this morning I woke up to a loud crash coming from the bathroom. Tile falling off the wall and crashing to the bottom of the tub. It was taunting me. Those stinkin' tile continued to taunt me all through my shower. Pop off, shove them back against the wall and repeat.
Oh my goodness! I know it could be worse. But maybe, just maybe, if the environmental stuff would get just a tiny bit better then maybe I would get a tiny bit better.
Tuesday, March 26, 2013
Car in the Garage
Sometimes it's hard to be completely honest and somethings are just easier than others to admit. Even as I've poured the darkest parts of my heart into words, there's been deeper darkness still. I think that hidden depth of despair is what I hold back.
Surely if anyone knew the deepest darkness, they'd lock me away and throw away the key. As hard as it might be, I'm going to share a part of that.
I had a moment of insane grief. When doesn't matter, but I turned the radio on just before pulling the car into the garage. Christian music was playing.
I instantly began thinking about how much I had once loved music and loved singing. Music was one of my few momentary escapes as a child. Music was where I developed enough confidence to get through high school.
As a child, I memorized happy songs that I sung to myself mentally as terrible things were happening to me. Chaos and pain were replaced at crucial moments as I sang to myself louder than everything around me.
During high school, a music teacher caught me singing to myself in a foyer when I thought nobody was listening. I was naturally soft spoken and kept to myself. Most people probably never heard a word from me. The teacher said singing was my voice and he said I had the "voice of an angel." It was his confidence in me which raised my own confidence. From there I sang in the school choir and even sang in front of crowds. In fact, I sang every chance I got.
With somewhat of a dashed confidence, I joined the church choir at the same time I joined the church. I faithfully made practices and happily sang on Sunday mornings for almost two years. But the whole time, my confidence and joy in singing was gradually being sucked away from me.
As time went on, each week became a struggle for me. The person sitting next to me was overly critical of my singing. I didn't sing loud enough. I didn't hit the right notes. One thing after another, she criticized me. She wore me down and broke me until I finally had to quit.
I've not really let anyone hear me sing since then either. In fact, the moment I open my mouth to sing along with music on the radio it's a fight to not hear her criticisms playing on repeat in my head.
I'm still not sure why she was so critical of me or why she went all out to suck the joy of singing away from me. She scared me away from the one place in the church where I wanted to be.
Singing made me happy, helped me cope, connected me to the church. I don't have that now and I think it adds to the darkness. That's a lot to lose. I grieve that loss and know that I can't recover from it.
The stolen joy, the overwhelming grief...that was all I could think about when I pulled my car in the garage and shut the door. The music was louder than the engine and my pain was greater than any sense of what I was doing.
I'm not sure how long I sat there, but it was obviously not long enough to do any permanent damage or I wouldn't be writing this now.
I have been told I am going through a major depressive episode. Yes, it would seem as though I am.
Surely if anyone knew the deepest darkness, they'd lock me away and throw away the key. As hard as it might be, I'm going to share a part of that.
I had a moment of insane grief. When doesn't matter, but I turned the radio on just before pulling the car into the garage. Christian music was playing.
I instantly began thinking about how much I had once loved music and loved singing. Music was one of my few momentary escapes as a child. Music was where I developed enough confidence to get through high school.
As a child, I memorized happy songs that I sung to myself mentally as terrible things were happening to me. Chaos and pain were replaced at crucial moments as I sang to myself louder than everything around me.
During high school, a music teacher caught me singing to myself in a foyer when I thought nobody was listening. I was naturally soft spoken and kept to myself. Most people probably never heard a word from me. The teacher said singing was my voice and he said I had the "voice of an angel." It was his confidence in me which raised my own confidence. From there I sang in the school choir and even sang in front of crowds. In fact, I sang every chance I got.
With somewhat of a dashed confidence, I joined the church choir at the same time I joined the church. I faithfully made practices and happily sang on Sunday mornings for almost two years. But the whole time, my confidence and joy in singing was gradually being sucked away from me.
As time went on, each week became a struggle for me. The person sitting next to me was overly critical of my singing. I didn't sing loud enough. I didn't hit the right notes. One thing after another, she criticized me. She wore me down and broke me until I finally had to quit.
I've not really let anyone hear me sing since then either. In fact, the moment I open my mouth to sing along with music on the radio it's a fight to not hear her criticisms playing on repeat in my head.
I'm still not sure why she was so critical of me or why she went all out to suck the joy of singing away from me. She scared me away from the one place in the church where I wanted to be.
Singing made me happy, helped me cope, connected me to the church. I don't have that now and I think it adds to the darkness. That's a lot to lose. I grieve that loss and know that I can't recover from it.
The stolen joy, the overwhelming grief...that was all I could think about when I pulled my car in the garage and shut the door. The music was louder than the engine and my pain was greater than any sense of what I was doing.
I'm not sure how long I sat there, but it was obviously not long enough to do any permanent damage or I wouldn't be writing this now.
I have been told I am going through a major depressive episode. Yes, it would seem as though I am.
Monday, March 25, 2013
Gymnast I Am Not
I sit here tonight in pain. Yes, the pain that continues to loom over me but also in physical pain. It almost seems unfair to have both at the same time.
My lower back pain is easily off the charts tonight and I'm barely able to bend over. Silly me, I had an opportunity to see the chiropractor and didn't. I took a friend to see him, but was so focused on her that I forgot about my own pain.
Someone asked me today if I had a back injury that caused my back problems. That was a harder question to answer than I realized.
How do you explain to someone in an honest way something that is so difficult?
I remember the day I found out that I would always have lower back problems. I was in my early 20's and had a work injury which led to a required x-ray of my back. The doctor asked me in all seriousness how long I had been away from the gym. He was insistent that I had previously been a gymnast.
Ha! With the exception of some failed cartwheels in junior high, this young lady was the furthest thing from graceful enough to pull off being a gymnast.
He explained to me that my lower back and pelvis were full of hairline fractures. At the time, he said he had only seen that many fractures in gymnasts who notoriously twist and flip their bodies in unnatural ways.
I am positive that my back was twisted and flipped in unnatural ways. Years and years and years of being beaten, kicked, pushed down stairs and tortured had left me with a permanent back injury.
At the time, I felt no pain from the fractures but he assured me I would eventually. So true that was. I've been treated by a chiropractor for 14 years. It takes little to no effort for my lower back to become twisted or my pelvis to slip, causing excruciating pain.
The older I have gotten, the more the back problems cause pain in my shoulders, legs and hips. It's hard to accept yet another thing that is forever changed because of my past. I'm overcome by anger at the thought. I think it's ok to be angry when you realize your past leaves you in so much physical and emotional pain that you can't move.
My lower back pain is easily off the charts tonight and I'm barely able to bend over. Silly me, I had an opportunity to see the chiropractor and didn't. I took a friend to see him, but was so focused on her that I forgot about my own pain.
Someone asked me today if I had a back injury that caused my back problems. That was a harder question to answer than I realized.
How do you explain to someone in an honest way something that is so difficult?
I remember the day I found out that I would always have lower back problems. I was in my early 20's and had a work injury which led to a required x-ray of my back. The doctor asked me in all seriousness how long I had been away from the gym. He was insistent that I had previously been a gymnast.
Ha! With the exception of some failed cartwheels in junior high, this young lady was the furthest thing from graceful enough to pull off being a gymnast.
He explained to me that my lower back and pelvis were full of hairline fractures. At the time, he said he had only seen that many fractures in gymnasts who notoriously twist and flip their bodies in unnatural ways.
I am positive that my back was twisted and flipped in unnatural ways. Years and years and years of being beaten, kicked, pushed down stairs and tortured had left me with a permanent back injury.
At the time, I felt no pain from the fractures but he assured me I would eventually. So true that was. I've been treated by a chiropractor for 14 years. It takes little to no effort for my lower back to become twisted or my pelvis to slip, causing excruciating pain.
The older I have gotten, the more the back problems cause pain in my shoulders, legs and hips. It's hard to accept yet another thing that is forever changed because of my past. I'm overcome by anger at the thought. I think it's ok to be angry when you realize your past leaves you in so much physical and emotional pain that you can't move.
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