Despite the few little emotional things, our trip to Branson with my brother's family was a success.
We all arrived in Branson way earlier than originally planned, which allowed us to have the afternoon and evening together.
The kids decided they wanted to have chicken from the giant chicken place. After dinner, we headed to the Landing to walk around. For the end of May, it was incredibly cool but the kids enjoyed some snow cones while we watched the fountain and fire show.
Our condo was a large two-bedroom that had all the amenities and gave us access to the resort pools and hot tubs. The kids were super excited to hit the pool after we returned to the condo. Point Royale resort in Branson is top notch if you ever get a chance to stay. The property manager we rent from is super reasonable on rates too.
Saturday we headed to Silver Dollar City. The kids spent the first half of the day riding one roller coaster after another. We met back up for a BBQ lunch, giant strawberry pie and followed it all with a train ride. The kids took off for more rides while we wondered through the shops.
On the way back, my brother stopped at a nearby dam area where men were fly fishing for trout. They ran into a nice older man who promised to help my nephew learn to fly fish the next morning and guaranteed him he would catch a trout. A big promise for a kid who easily gets disappointed.
That evening, we headed to Mel's Hard Luck Diner for dinner. The burgers are huge and the wait staff all take turns singing. We split up after dinner. My brother took the kids mini golfing while my husband took the ladies shopping.
We all met back up at Cakes N Cream for some giant sized funnel cakes covered in ice cream and strawberries.
By the time we got back to the condo, everyone was exhausted. No swimming, we all went straight to bed. What a long day.
Sunday morning, my nephew and brother headed to the fishing hole. We checked on them several hours later and found them disappointed. The man hadn't shown up and they had not caught anything. Shortly after we left, the man showed up and my nephew started catching trout. He was a happy boy.
Meanwhile, we hit the landing one more time and Fuddruckers for lunch.
Later that afternoon, they all left and we took a nap. Whew! What a whirlwind weekend.
There's certainly more I could share. There was so much talking. It's hard to fit 6 years all in one weekend. Overall, it was a good weekend. Hopefully it will happen again. I think we have a tentative plan to go again in the fall.
Friday, May 31, 2013
Thursday, May 30, 2013
Count Down to Breakdown
Today is the first of 11 days that are going be very different for me and unlike any span of time I have had in the past 3+ years.
My primary support (aside from my husband) is leaving town on vacation. I do not begrudge her the time away at all, she deserves it. We often coordinate vacation times so that I don't have to go days and days without counseling or the support she gives.
I can't tell you what will happen this time, but I can tell you what has happened every time she's left town for the past 5 years. I absolutely breakdown. I absolutely revert back to total self dependence. By the time she gets back, I've convinced myself that I don't need any help from anybody and we usually spend weeks trying to develop a routine again.
This time is a little different than times past. There are usually times when she will call or email to check in on me. Even with that I fall apart. This time, those things won't happen.
I suppose a couple weeks or months from now, I will be able to look back at my posts and think wow that sucked but at least it's over...till next time.
Unfortunately, this really stirs up the internal need I have to push everyone away and be dependent on nobody. It makes me want to take care of myself completely and not need anyone.
Ugh...how many more days?
My primary support (aside from my husband) is leaving town on vacation. I do not begrudge her the time away at all, she deserves it. We often coordinate vacation times so that I don't have to go days and days without counseling or the support she gives.
I can't tell you what will happen this time, but I can tell you what has happened every time she's left town for the past 5 years. I absolutely breakdown. I absolutely revert back to total self dependence. By the time she gets back, I've convinced myself that I don't need any help from anybody and we usually spend weeks trying to develop a routine again.
This time is a little different than times past. There are usually times when she will call or email to check in on me. Even with that I fall apart. This time, those things won't happen.
I suppose a couple weeks or months from now, I will be able to look back at my posts and think wow that sucked but at least it's over...till next time.
Unfortunately, this really stirs up the internal need I have to push everyone away and be dependent on nobody. It makes me want to take care of myself completely and not need anyone.
Ugh...how many more days?
Wednesday, May 29, 2013
She's TOO Young
So unlike the last post, I am going to start off by saying this one is going to be judgemental. It maybe filled with disgust and a full blown eyes blazing red rant.
I had a very uncomfortable and unsolicited conversation with my brother's wife this weekend. I can't even tell you how it started because where it ended had me completely focused on what was said.
She told me it was probably about time for her to take my niece to get on birth control. My niece is 12. She is 12 years-old. TWELVE! She is a very immature 12 year-old.
When I asked if it was for health reasons, I was told NO. This is the explanation I got. "My mom never talked to me about that stuff. Your brother was having sex at her age and I don't want her to get stuck like I did. I didn't have any choices. I don't want her to have sex but I don't want her to end up like me."
WTF!!!!!!!!
So, teach your daughter the value of abstinence. Don't put your 12 year-old daughter in situations where she is faced with the decision to have sex.
Just because she had two kids by the time she was 17 doesn't mean her daughter has to follow in her footsteps.
I am positive that there is still a hole in my tongue and I still have steam seeping from my head. I was frankly pissed off that she would consider this as an option.
My brother started having sex at a young age because that's what he was taught. He was taught it was ok and normal. Both my brothers learned this.
I cannot claim to have held onto my virginity since it was stolen from me long before I knew what it was. However, as far as it had to do with me, I waited until I was 19 to have sex willingly for the first time. I was able separate what was forced on me and what I willingly did. There is no way I could have chosen to do that any sooner than I did.
I still cannot wrap my head around 12, 14, 16 or even 18 year-olds choosing to have sex. In fact, I didn't even get on birth control until I was 20.
If not for health reasons, why would you want to put a 12 year-old on birth control? If you want your child to not make the same mistakes you did, why wouldn't you try to teach them better? Teach them to not do what you did.
My niece and nephew are just entering puberty. They have so much growing up to do. They are still kids. I know they are going to grow up and there will be little anyone can say or do about it. This isn't about not wanting them to grow up. But it is about wanting them to have a fighting chance at holding onto their innocent minds and bodies for as long as possible.
The only thing I could say to this was...I think if my parents had put me on birth control at 12 I would have taken that as permission to be sexually active.
What else do you say when all you can do is restrain the physical anger that wants to jump out of you and take on the form of the Incredible Hulk?
I had a very uncomfortable and unsolicited conversation with my brother's wife this weekend. I can't even tell you how it started because where it ended had me completely focused on what was said.
She told me it was probably about time for her to take my niece to get on birth control. My niece is 12. She is 12 years-old. TWELVE! She is a very immature 12 year-old.
When I asked if it was for health reasons, I was told NO. This is the explanation I got. "My mom never talked to me about that stuff. Your brother was having sex at her age and I don't want her to get stuck like I did. I didn't have any choices. I don't want her to have sex but I don't want her to end up like me."
WTF!!!!!!!!
So, teach your daughter the value of abstinence. Don't put your 12 year-old daughter in situations where she is faced with the decision to have sex.
Just because she had two kids by the time she was 17 doesn't mean her daughter has to follow in her footsteps.
I am positive that there is still a hole in my tongue and I still have steam seeping from my head. I was frankly pissed off that she would consider this as an option.
My brother started having sex at a young age because that's what he was taught. He was taught it was ok and normal. Both my brothers learned this.
I cannot claim to have held onto my virginity since it was stolen from me long before I knew what it was. However, as far as it had to do with me, I waited until I was 19 to have sex willingly for the first time. I was able separate what was forced on me and what I willingly did. There is no way I could have chosen to do that any sooner than I did.
I still cannot wrap my head around 12, 14, 16 or even 18 year-olds choosing to have sex. In fact, I didn't even get on birth control until I was 20.
If not for health reasons, why would you want to put a 12 year-old on birth control? If you want your child to not make the same mistakes you did, why wouldn't you try to teach them better? Teach them to not do what you did.
My niece and nephew are just entering puberty. They have so much growing up to do. They are still kids. I know they are going to grow up and there will be little anyone can say or do about it. This isn't about not wanting them to grow up. But it is about wanting them to have a fighting chance at holding onto their innocent minds and bodies for as long as possible.
The only thing I could say to this was...I think if my parents had put me on birth control at 12 I would have taken that as permission to be sexually active.
What else do you say when all you can do is restrain the physical anger that wants to jump out of you and take on the form of the Incredible Hulk?
Tuesday, May 28, 2013
My Great Escape
This post will come across very judgemental, but truly is meant to be one about being thankful.
The weekend with some of my family made me realize how I take for granted my escape from my hometown.
My hometown is known for some of their more pure, Christian traits. They boast about it. Hold onto it as if they have it right and everyone else has it wrong. Each year they hold a biblical parade, which is unique and the oldest in the US. They have dozens of churches for the 2500 citizens with over 95% having church membership. Their town slogan is "Little town, bit heart." They have a progressive school district with much success in sports and academics.
It sounds like a great place to live, right?
You might even be thinking....Wow, this place has really evolved from the dysfunctional mess of the 70s, 80s, and 90s.
It probably started with a conversation about my cousin. Keep in mind, my brothers, cousins and many others did not come out unscathed. The deep depravity of my family was certainly not contained within the four walls of any of our homes.
The oldest of my female cousins has always been a bit difficult. She, like me, struggled with relationships and fertility and understanding how life worked. She has always been competitive and jealous of what others have (a trait that permeates my family). Prior to my husband, she destroyed nearly every relationship I began with a guy by sleeping with them. As soon as we set a date for our wedding, she got engaged and scheduled hers for a month earlier.
She may have been the first one of our generation to get married, but she was also the first to cheat on her spouse. A passed out drunken newlywed husband left her a hot mess and in bed with a relative of his. Evidently that behavior by both of them has tainted their entire marriage and has finally taken them to divorce court. Her husband takes care of their adopted child while she spends her nights at the local watering hole.
A couple of my other cousins and their wives are caught up in drugs and swinging. They have multiple children who they truly do not know which person is the father. Weekends are filled with parties where they drink themselves into oblivion and then swap partners with other town folk for a night of sex and immorality.
Like I said, it isn't contained just in my family. These also aren't the people from the less than 5% of unchurched people. The people involved in the sex swap are pastors, deacons, elders, teachers, officers, school administrators, business owners and so many more.
The immorality is not just found in weekend sex parties. It is found in the government and schools.
Last year, a business owner escaped charges for taking pictures of young boys in the pool changing room. I am not sure why, but it could have something to do with the amount of money he donates to the town.
More than one teacher has been arrested over the past couple years for having sex with or being indecent with students. One of them divorced his wife, married a former student and is now in jail for having sex with a different student.
A woman I know often posts on facebook about the wonderful kids she teaches in Sunday School. Days other than Sunday are usually full of posts about getting drunk and one-night stands.
There are so many more stories.
I am sure there are good people who have a strong moral compass in this town. I'm just not sure where they are.
It breaks my heart to know so many of these people are following in the footsteps of their parents. In school, they were filled with potential. Great athletes. Incredible talents. Amazing intelligence. They could have done many things. Instead, they stayed and fell into this trap of dysfunction.
But I, like a few others, got out. It took me 32 years, but I got out. Moving away wasn't enough. I had to completely divorce myself from it to break the bonds. It was so painful and hard. Despite how badly it needed to happen, it hurt me more than anyone else.
The first five years I could not see through the pain. I could not see what a good thing it was. I could not believe I had done the right thing. Sure, I accepted that breaking ties with my parents was right but I couldn't get there with everything else. But it was. It was the right thing. I could not see that I had escaped a long life of constantly being bound to these people and this place and the immorality and the dysfunction I was sure to perpetuate within my life. I could not see that the amount of pain in broken ties was minimal compared to the pain which would surely come if I never escaped the web.
It has taken me this long to accept that it took a lot of strength and power that was not of my own to escape the old life. It has never been easy and will continue to be painful. But, I have to embrace that it was the right thing for me. Even when it hurts the most, I have to remember that I am still much better off.
Any of those stories could have been me. I am by no means saying I am better than them, but I am saying I am thankful to have escaped. I am saying I am sad the others haven't found that strength. I am saying I have never been more mindful that I need to pray my nieces and nephews escape it too.
The weekend with some of my family made me realize how I take for granted my escape from my hometown.
My hometown is known for some of their more pure, Christian traits. They boast about it. Hold onto it as if they have it right and everyone else has it wrong. Each year they hold a biblical parade, which is unique and the oldest in the US. They have dozens of churches for the 2500 citizens with over 95% having church membership. Their town slogan is "Little town, bit heart." They have a progressive school district with much success in sports and academics.
It sounds like a great place to live, right?
You might even be thinking....Wow, this place has really evolved from the dysfunctional mess of the 70s, 80s, and 90s.
It probably started with a conversation about my cousin. Keep in mind, my brothers, cousins and many others did not come out unscathed. The deep depravity of my family was certainly not contained within the four walls of any of our homes.
The oldest of my female cousins has always been a bit difficult. She, like me, struggled with relationships and fertility and understanding how life worked. She has always been competitive and jealous of what others have (a trait that permeates my family). Prior to my husband, she destroyed nearly every relationship I began with a guy by sleeping with them. As soon as we set a date for our wedding, she got engaged and scheduled hers for a month earlier.
She may have been the first one of our generation to get married, but she was also the first to cheat on her spouse. A passed out drunken newlywed husband left her a hot mess and in bed with a relative of his. Evidently that behavior by both of them has tainted their entire marriage and has finally taken them to divorce court. Her husband takes care of their adopted child while she spends her nights at the local watering hole.
A couple of my other cousins and their wives are caught up in drugs and swinging. They have multiple children who they truly do not know which person is the father. Weekends are filled with parties where they drink themselves into oblivion and then swap partners with other town folk for a night of sex and immorality.
Like I said, it isn't contained just in my family. These also aren't the people from the less than 5% of unchurched people. The people involved in the sex swap are pastors, deacons, elders, teachers, officers, school administrators, business owners and so many more.
The immorality is not just found in weekend sex parties. It is found in the government and schools.
Last year, a business owner escaped charges for taking pictures of young boys in the pool changing room. I am not sure why, but it could have something to do with the amount of money he donates to the town.
More than one teacher has been arrested over the past couple years for having sex with or being indecent with students. One of them divorced his wife, married a former student and is now in jail for having sex with a different student.
A woman I know often posts on facebook about the wonderful kids she teaches in Sunday School. Days other than Sunday are usually full of posts about getting drunk and one-night stands.
There are so many more stories.
I am sure there are good people who have a strong moral compass in this town. I'm just not sure where they are.
It breaks my heart to know so many of these people are following in the footsteps of their parents. In school, they were filled with potential. Great athletes. Incredible talents. Amazing intelligence. They could have done many things. Instead, they stayed and fell into this trap of dysfunction.
But I, like a few others, got out. It took me 32 years, but I got out. Moving away wasn't enough. I had to completely divorce myself from it to break the bonds. It was so painful and hard. Despite how badly it needed to happen, it hurt me more than anyone else.
The first five years I could not see through the pain. I could not see what a good thing it was. I could not believe I had done the right thing. Sure, I accepted that breaking ties with my parents was right but I couldn't get there with everything else. But it was. It was the right thing. I could not see that I had escaped a long life of constantly being bound to these people and this place and the immorality and the dysfunction I was sure to perpetuate within my life. I could not see that the amount of pain in broken ties was minimal compared to the pain which would surely come if I never escaped the web.
It has taken me this long to accept that it took a lot of strength and power that was not of my own to escape the old life. It has never been easy and will continue to be painful. But, I have to embrace that it was the right thing for me. Even when it hurts the most, I have to remember that I am still much better off.
Any of those stories could have been me. I am by no means saying I am better than them, but I am saying I am thankful to have escaped. I am saying I am sad the others haven't found that strength. I am saying I have never been more mindful that I need to pray my nieces and nephews escape it too.
Friday, May 24, 2013
Happy Holiday
I am sitting here in a beautiful Branson condo with little more than family on my mind. Earlier I smashed my finger in a car door. My ankle is throbbing tonight. I have really not been getting along with my husband. Nothing physical nor emotional can tear my thoughts away from family, my family.
For once, I am not dwelling on or thinking of the past or the bad things, but I am fully living in the present. Really, that would be present as in gift.
My youngest brother and his family met us in Branson for the holiday weekend. Not just a once a year shuffling of children, but an actual vacation style trip. We are staying in a two bedroom condo. I feel a bit like a hen with her chicks all back in the nest. It is overwhelming to consider how big this is for me.
We have spent the evening having dinner, window shopping and enjoying one another. It has been far from perfect and yet it has been perfect for me. It's the first holiday I will be spending with family in 7 years.
So many nights I cried myself to sleep with the grief of knowing I had lost all connection to my family. Tonight, I could probably fall asleep with tearful joy.
This is the safest and healthiest contact I have with any family and it has taken 6 years to establish that. I will take it. I will hold onto it tightly and cherish every moment.
Now off to bed I must go. I have a full day ahead of amusement park and BBQ and ice cream and mini golf and swimming and whatever other activity we can possibly do.
For once, I am not dwelling on or thinking of the past or the bad things, but I am fully living in the present. Really, that would be present as in gift.
My youngest brother and his family met us in Branson for the holiday weekend. Not just a once a year shuffling of children, but an actual vacation style trip. We are staying in a two bedroom condo. I feel a bit like a hen with her chicks all back in the nest. It is overwhelming to consider how big this is for me.
We have spent the evening having dinner, window shopping and enjoying one another. It has been far from perfect and yet it has been perfect for me. It's the first holiday I will be spending with family in 7 years.
So many nights I cried myself to sleep with the grief of knowing I had lost all connection to my family. Tonight, I could probably fall asleep with tearful joy.
This is the safest and healthiest contact I have with any family and it has taken 6 years to establish that. I will take it. I will hold onto it tightly and cherish every moment.
Now off to bed I must go. I have a full day ahead of amusement park and BBQ and ice cream and mini golf and swimming and whatever other activity we can possibly do.
Wednesday, May 22, 2013
Tornado of 1990 Something
No doubt, I love sitting in a group of people who are sharing stories about their families or childhood. It is so awesome to hear the funny and the dysfunctional and even the trying.
As I often search my memory bank for something to share in those times all I hear are crickets. Big, fat, awkward, crickets chirping in place of anything that might be appropriate to share. There's so very, very little that would ever be appropriate to share in those times. So, I always feel a tad bit alone in a group of people.
Each time I hear people talking about tornadoes, which is a lot right now, I remember my own brush with one. Again, it would be totally inappropriate to share the story in it's entirety with a group of people. To leave out the worst parts of it would not allow all of the pieces to fit together in a way that made sense.
It is hard to remember the exact year, I just know I was in high school. I lived in a town full of fools, no surprise I am sure. Even though it was in the heart of Tornado Alley, they placed a firm belief in an old wives tale. It was said that a town with a fork in the river on the east side of town would never be touched by a tornado.
Because of this foolishness, it was rare for anyone to take a tornado warning or siren seriously. Rarely did we ever head to the basement for safety. In fact, most people set on their porches and watched storms pass by.
My parents had a police scanner, as did most people in the small town. It was a way to perpetuate town gossip, but I digress.
The night the tornado hit our small town was a windy, stormy night already. As was the norm of so many of nights, I had endured hours of being beaten and raped. I had barely gotten the energy to throw on a shirt, one that barely covered me. My dad had opened my window and blind before he left my room. Not out of kindness, but because he loved to torture me with things I didn't like.
Just a side note...the shirt I put on was a Bart Simpson one that said "I'm Bart Simpson, who the hell are you?" My mom thought it would be funny for me to wear that to school my freshman year to see if I would get in trouble. She succeeded. If anyone were to question my memory, I'd offer them a list of irrelevant details like this. I retain a gross amount of vivid details for years and years.
Amidst the roar of the winds and through my physical pain, the background noise of the scanner began to blare into existence. I still remember the first conscious moment I had of what was being said. "The son-of-a-bitch just jumped the river." The siren was already going off, yet we were all oblivious.
Everything from that point on seemed to happen in slow motion. I heard the roar, more than the wind. My blinds rattled as I heard my mom run to my brothers room, herding them down to the basement. As my dad ran past, he pulled my door shut. The pressure inside the room built as I heard neighbors running through the house to the basement. Our house was one of the few on the block with a basement.
For what seemed like hours, I tried to open my door. I could hear it coming. Since I had just been tortured for hours, I was fighting the wind and my own exhaustion. I barely got through the doorway as it slammed again behind me.
Ever the self-proclaimed hero, my dad had run outside to help a young lady into the house. We were all headed to the basement, even though I could see the disappointment in his face. I knew his looks. He was surprised I got myself out of the room and disappointed I would find my way to safety.
We watched out the small window of the basement as the tail of the tornado twisted down the street. It was early in the morning and we waited what seemed like forever for the all clear siren. One by one, we filed out of the basement to a dark and eerily calm world. It wouldn't be clear until daylight what damage had been done.
Our tornado was tiny compared to what you see on the news these days. The damage was minimal. No loss of life and only minor injuries. The property loss was small with a few camping trailers turned over, roof parts ripped off and broken windows.
I think the worst loss was the security the town people had in their urban legend.
Me, I lost nothing that night that I hadn't already lost years prior to that. The lack of caring my parents had for me, that was gone long before. That night was just a sad reminder that my life was meaningless to them, I was not worthy of being saved.
I can't go through tornado season, a severe thunderstorm, a newscast about tornado damage or a storm forecast without thinking about that night.
Not long after that night, the town was full of "I survived the ..... tornado." I never had one. Maybe because my shirt should read, "I survived a tornado and a whole crap load more in my crazy life."
As I often search my memory bank for something to share in those times all I hear are crickets. Big, fat, awkward, crickets chirping in place of anything that might be appropriate to share. There's so very, very little that would ever be appropriate to share in those times. So, I always feel a tad bit alone in a group of people.
Each time I hear people talking about tornadoes, which is a lot right now, I remember my own brush with one. Again, it would be totally inappropriate to share the story in it's entirety with a group of people. To leave out the worst parts of it would not allow all of the pieces to fit together in a way that made sense.
It is hard to remember the exact year, I just know I was in high school. I lived in a town full of fools, no surprise I am sure. Even though it was in the heart of Tornado Alley, they placed a firm belief in an old wives tale. It was said that a town with a fork in the river on the east side of town would never be touched by a tornado.
Because of this foolishness, it was rare for anyone to take a tornado warning or siren seriously. Rarely did we ever head to the basement for safety. In fact, most people set on their porches and watched storms pass by.
My parents had a police scanner, as did most people in the small town. It was a way to perpetuate town gossip, but I digress.
The night the tornado hit our small town was a windy, stormy night already. As was the norm of so many of nights, I had endured hours of being beaten and raped. I had barely gotten the energy to throw on a shirt, one that barely covered me. My dad had opened my window and blind before he left my room. Not out of kindness, but because he loved to torture me with things I didn't like.
Just a side note...the shirt I put on was a Bart Simpson one that said "I'm Bart Simpson, who the hell are you?" My mom thought it would be funny for me to wear that to school my freshman year to see if I would get in trouble. She succeeded. If anyone were to question my memory, I'd offer them a list of irrelevant details like this. I retain a gross amount of vivid details for years and years.
Amidst the roar of the winds and through my physical pain, the background noise of the scanner began to blare into existence. I still remember the first conscious moment I had of what was being said. "The son-of-a-bitch just jumped the river." The siren was already going off, yet we were all oblivious.
Everything from that point on seemed to happen in slow motion. I heard the roar, more than the wind. My blinds rattled as I heard my mom run to my brothers room, herding them down to the basement. As my dad ran past, he pulled my door shut. The pressure inside the room built as I heard neighbors running through the house to the basement. Our house was one of the few on the block with a basement.
For what seemed like hours, I tried to open my door. I could hear it coming. Since I had just been tortured for hours, I was fighting the wind and my own exhaustion. I barely got through the doorway as it slammed again behind me.
Ever the self-proclaimed hero, my dad had run outside to help a young lady into the house. We were all headed to the basement, even though I could see the disappointment in his face. I knew his looks. He was surprised I got myself out of the room and disappointed I would find my way to safety.
We watched out the small window of the basement as the tail of the tornado twisted down the street. It was early in the morning and we waited what seemed like forever for the all clear siren. One by one, we filed out of the basement to a dark and eerily calm world. It wouldn't be clear until daylight what damage had been done.
Our tornado was tiny compared to what you see on the news these days. The damage was minimal. No loss of life and only minor injuries. The property loss was small with a few camping trailers turned over, roof parts ripped off and broken windows.
I think the worst loss was the security the town people had in their urban legend.
Me, I lost nothing that night that I hadn't already lost years prior to that. The lack of caring my parents had for me, that was gone long before. That night was just a sad reminder that my life was meaningless to them, I was not worthy of being saved.
I can't go through tornado season, a severe thunderstorm, a newscast about tornado damage or a storm forecast without thinking about that night.
Not long after that night, the town was full of "I survived the ..... tornado." I never had one. Maybe because my shirt should read, "I survived a tornado and a whole crap load more in my crazy life."
Monday, May 20, 2013
Insecurity Monster
Now that the upstairs of our house is done, it is time to tackle the basement. My husband started the process last weekend by bringing up a Rubbermaid container and cleaning it out. Inside the tub were varies items from the the past, more his past than mine.
He found his junior college diploma, old Boeing paraphernalia, newspapers from his time as a sports photographer, and a couple photos from the first month we dated.
We met January 1994, so these photos are nearly 20 years old. Honestly, I didn't recognize the teenager on the 8x10.
I was so small. My hair was terrible. My face was so skinny that I look sick. The worst part of it was that I was so ugly. I was physically ugly. In all fairness, the photo was taken less than a month after I stopped living on a combo of illegal drugs. I had lost 80 lbs in 6 months because I drank, took drugs, never ate and rarely slept. It wasn't the weight loss that made me ugly, it was just me.
What I remember about that time was how often my boyfriend (future husband) complimented me on how I looked. Whether we snuggled on a couch together or on the truck tailgate, he always pulled me close, kissed my forehead and told me I was pretty.
Here we are now nearly 20 years later and so much has changed. I certainly don't look like that ugly teenager anymore, but I do feel the ugliness.
I have so many other issues that I don't usually think about appearance. It is rare for me to feel insecure about my looks, but it does creep in once in a while. I'm definitely going through some of that right now.
For the past three weeks or so, I have tracked my calories and watched what I have eaten. I have been careful to not surpass my daily calorie count except for special days. While it has been slow and hard sometimes, I have lost 11 lbs to date. What's sad is that I have to lose 20 lbs or more for anyone to notice, especially my husband.
It is really hard to continue pushing yourself on a diet when there is no encouragement. The encouragement motivates you to keep pushing yourself even when you don't want to. I know, I know...you should want to do it for yourself and I totally do. It's just that encouragement makes it easier.
Is there anything worse for your self-esteem than feeling fat and ugly at the same time? I think not!
We watched "This is 40" last night. I laughed and cried. It is supposed to be a comedy, but it is so real. I think getting away from those endearing dating days is something we all eventually do. But, why do we have to?
Do we really just drift so far apart and let so much of life get in the way that we can't still see the beauty in the person we married? This year will mark our 15th wedding anniversary. There isn't a lot we don't do around each other and not a lot left to the imagination.
One scene of the movie was the couple having a serious conversation while the man is farting through the whole thing without missing a beat. He blames it on the mattress while the wife is talking through the gagging. Ladies...I'm sure most of you have experienced something similar. Life just gets that way after a while. But does it really have to?
I contend that it does not. I just don't know how to stop it. I've fallen into that sad, pathetic housewife whose self-esteem floats on the bottom of the barrel.
That picture was a slap in the face for me. How could he call that ugly teenager beautiful when he barely knew me? How can he know me so well now and yet go years without so much as a compliment? Have I gotten even uglier as I've aged? Does he know me so well that the most beautiful part of me was the mystery?
I'm not sure what the root of the problem or the solution is for us. What I do know is that if you haven't complimented your spouse lately, STOP what you are doing right now and go do it. Whether you know it or not, your spouse wants to be encouraged and loved and complimented just like they were before marriage and life and kids and jobs and homes and so much more came along.
He found his junior college diploma, old Boeing paraphernalia, newspapers from his time as a sports photographer, and a couple photos from the first month we dated.
We met January 1994, so these photos are nearly 20 years old. Honestly, I didn't recognize the teenager on the 8x10.
I was so small. My hair was terrible. My face was so skinny that I look sick. The worst part of it was that I was so ugly. I was physically ugly. In all fairness, the photo was taken less than a month after I stopped living on a combo of illegal drugs. I had lost 80 lbs in 6 months because I drank, took drugs, never ate and rarely slept. It wasn't the weight loss that made me ugly, it was just me.
What I remember about that time was how often my boyfriend (future husband) complimented me on how I looked. Whether we snuggled on a couch together or on the truck tailgate, he always pulled me close, kissed my forehead and told me I was pretty.
Here we are now nearly 20 years later and so much has changed. I certainly don't look like that ugly teenager anymore, but I do feel the ugliness.
I have so many other issues that I don't usually think about appearance. It is rare for me to feel insecure about my looks, but it does creep in once in a while. I'm definitely going through some of that right now.
For the past three weeks or so, I have tracked my calories and watched what I have eaten. I have been careful to not surpass my daily calorie count except for special days. While it has been slow and hard sometimes, I have lost 11 lbs to date. What's sad is that I have to lose 20 lbs or more for anyone to notice, especially my husband.
It is really hard to continue pushing yourself on a diet when there is no encouragement. The encouragement motivates you to keep pushing yourself even when you don't want to. I know, I know...you should want to do it for yourself and I totally do. It's just that encouragement makes it easier.
Is there anything worse for your self-esteem than feeling fat and ugly at the same time? I think not!
We watched "This is 40" last night. I laughed and cried. It is supposed to be a comedy, but it is so real. I think getting away from those endearing dating days is something we all eventually do. But, why do we have to?
Do we really just drift so far apart and let so much of life get in the way that we can't still see the beauty in the person we married? This year will mark our 15th wedding anniversary. There isn't a lot we don't do around each other and not a lot left to the imagination.
One scene of the movie was the couple having a serious conversation while the man is farting through the whole thing without missing a beat. He blames it on the mattress while the wife is talking through the gagging. Ladies...I'm sure most of you have experienced something similar. Life just gets that way after a while. But does it really have to?
I contend that it does not. I just don't know how to stop it. I've fallen into that sad, pathetic housewife whose self-esteem floats on the bottom of the barrel.
That picture was a slap in the face for me. How could he call that ugly teenager beautiful when he barely knew me? How can he know me so well now and yet go years without so much as a compliment? Have I gotten even uglier as I've aged? Does he know me so well that the most beautiful part of me was the mystery?
I'm not sure what the root of the problem or the solution is for us. What I do know is that if you haven't complimented your spouse lately, STOP what you are doing right now and go do it. Whether you know it or not, your spouse wants to be encouraged and loved and complimented just like they were before marriage and life and kids and jobs and homes and so much more came along.
Wednesday, May 15, 2013
No Margin for Failure
As I have said on occasion, things are about to get very real. If you don't want to read through my pain tonight, then this is your chance to head on out.
I did something tonight that I haven't done in over two years. I tried to go to an evening bible study. It has been two years because of the incredible amount of pain I went through during the last several times I attended.
A few times, I disappeared for hours before anyone knew I was missing. It is all part of my disorder. Mostly, I had a very dysfunctional person who made those times very difficult and painful for me.
I had been thinking for a while that it might be time to try again. In fact, I had someone say to me in the past week that "time heals everything" and suggested I try again.
With great trepidation, I decided to try. It was a colossal failure. People came in, sat beside me. I felt as though the room was getting smaller. I was in complete sensory overwhelm with the voices and people. I couldn't handle it, I walked out before it ever started.
I understand that most people are going to consider the effort a success, especially since it was the first time in two years. I don't. It was a failure. I failed to make it through even five minutes of something I used to love doing.
I didn't have a choice but to leave. There was nobody there who would have understood my anxiety. Nobody. In a room full of people, I was completely alone.
The failure. The overwhelm. The crushing memories.
Honestly, I came home and crawled into bed. Why? Because I want so badly to stop this horrible pain I feel. I am doing my very best to not resort to cutting myself.
I know that is going to sound absolutely crazy to most people. However, the pain I feel is so deep and so overwhelming that I want to replace it with physical pain. That is what cutting does for me. It gives me a physical pain to feel instead of this emotional pain that I am so tired of feeling.
I have already tried a scalding hot bath with no relief. The hurt is still there. Night after night after night of this is wearing on me and wearing me out. I don't want to cut myself, but I don't want to be in emotional pain even more.
The rest of the night will be a fight. I'll fight the urge (NEED) to cut until I finally fall asleep or I start thinking of the bigger picture. The bigger picture always leads me down a road of hopelessness. I hate this and this is my life. This is how the majority of my nights go, tonight just started earlier.
I did something tonight that I haven't done in over two years. I tried to go to an evening bible study. It has been two years because of the incredible amount of pain I went through during the last several times I attended.
A few times, I disappeared for hours before anyone knew I was missing. It is all part of my disorder. Mostly, I had a very dysfunctional person who made those times very difficult and painful for me.
I had been thinking for a while that it might be time to try again. In fact, I had someone say to me in the past week that "time heals everything" and suggested I try again.
With great trepidation, I decided to try. It was a colossal failure. People came in, sat beside me. I felt as though the room was getting smaller. I was in complete sensory overwhelm with the voices and people. I couldn't handle it, I walked out before it ever started.
I understand that most people are going to consider the effort a success, especially since it was the first time in two years. I don't. It was a failure. I failed to make it through even five minutes of something I used to love doing.
I didn't have a choice but to leave. There was nobody there who would have understood my anxiety. Nobody. In a room full of people, I was completely alone.
The failure. The overwhelm. The crushing memories.
Honestly, I came home and crawled into bed. Why? Because I want so badly to stop this horrible pain I feel. I am doing my very best to not resort to cutting myself.
I know that is going to sound absolutely crazy to most people. However, the pain I feel is so deep and so overwhelming that I want to replace it with physical pain. That is what cutting does for me. It gives me a physical pain to feel instead of this emotional pain that I am so tired of feeling.
I have already tried a scalding hot bath with no relief. The hurt is still there. Night after night after night of this is wearing on me and wearing me out. I don't want to cut myself, but I don't want to be in emotional pain even more.
The rest of the night will be a fight. I'll fight the urge (NEED) to cut until I finally fall asleep or I start thinking of the bigger picture. The bigger picture always leads me down a road of hopelessness. I hate this and this is my life. This is how the majority of my nights go, tonight just started earlier.
Monday, May 13, 2013
Sins of the father are where it all begins....
I don't usually do this, but I am going to share a story with you that is not mine. It is a convoluted story that is going to be hard to follow for some of you. Even though it isn't my story, it is going to help explain a post I am planning to post soon.
This ordeal (and believe me, it's an ordeal!) with the murder of the young man I used to babysit has stirred up a lot of memories for me. Not only that, but it has brought a flood of info from back home that I don't want or need. Small town drama is something I left behind years ago and I cringe at the mere thought of it.
Not that I am trying to set up some kind of stereotype, but I babysat for a whole block of welfare moms. There was a certain level of trashy-ness. Most were single moms, a couple were married. The single and married ones caravaned to the bar on Friday and Saturday nights. They would often straggle home with a variety of shady characters and rarely the same ones week to week.
One of the moms would come get me and then the last one home would take me home, provided they weren't passed out by the time they hit the doorway. There were plenty of times I walked the 14 blocks home at 3 am.
There was a married couple who often were the last ones home, leaving the husband to take me home. The couple had 4 children all under 7 years old, the youngest was just a baby. The two oldest boys were fathered by two different dads who were not involved in their lives. The two youngest were a boy and girl fathered by the current husband.
On several occasions, the ride home I got from the husband included being molested and raped. Yes, I had abusers outside of my family. The danger in having abusers outside the family is that the abuse is so normalized in the home that you fail to see it as wrong.
Looking back, I know that the sexual abuse was not limited to just me. I saw behavior in everyone of the four children that would have indicated many levels of abuse.
In my late 20s, I heard from friends that this man had been put in prison. He had been found guilty of molesting several children. Obviously he had more victims than what anyone knew. A few years ago, I came across his obituary. He had died within months of his release from prison. I remember feeling a sense of relief.
This weekend, I learned that his youngest son is now serving time in prison. Earlier this year, he was arrested for stealing drugs from another man. I'd just like to say....who in the world reports stolen illegal drugs! Anyway, during his arrest, he was not told why he was being arrested. When the police began to question him, he confessed to molesting multiple children. That wasn't even what he had been charged with and it is unlikely he'd have gotten busted for that. In fact, it is unlikely he'd have served any time for stealing illegal drugs.
So, this young man whose dad served time for molesting is now serving time for the same crime.
The reality of this is that the young man was likely molested by his own dad. He grew up in a dysfunctional home where abuse was the norm. He lived a rough life. I know this will sound strange to most, but it is unlikely anyone ever told him that it was wrong to sexually abuse children. He truly became a product of his environment. He became who his dad taught him to be.
Although it does not excuse his behavior, you can certainly understand where it originated.
When a child lives in unfathomable circumstances, they have limited choice in how they cope. Please understand, I am not talking about living with parents who yell a lot or an alcoholic dad who gets mean. I am talking about living in constant turmoil and torture. I am talking about the situations where the abuse happens in consistent patterns, includes sexual, physical and mental or surviving potentially deadly circumstances. That is what I lived through, so that is the only kind of abusive background I can speak about fairly.
Children do NOT escape those families unscathed. It just does NOT happen. Probably the most common way to cope is to repress until they are old enough and then self medicate with drugs and alcohol and failed relationships, while coping with various bouts of depression, anxiety and PTSD. Some cope by conforming to the ways of the abusers, which was the case for this young man. In some cases, much less common, the child develops ways to cope with the violence against them. Their coping mechanism is the key to their survival, but is truly a mental illness which will hinder them as an adult.
That is where I fall. Over the next few weeks, I hope to share more with you about who I am and why I am the way I am. It is a big step for me to be transparent about something so personal. As I embrace the idea of not hiding who I am, I must also acknowledge that I too am a product of where I began.
This ordeal (and believe me, it's an ordeal!) with the murder of the young man I used to babysit has stirred up a lot of memories for me. Not only that, but it has brought a flood of info from back home that I don't want or need. Small town drama is something I left behind years ago and I cringe at the mere thought of it.
Not that I am trying to set up some kind of stereotype, but I babysat for a whole block of welfare moms. There was a certain level of trashy-ness. Most were single moms, a couple were married. The single and married ones caravaned to the bar on Friday and Saturday nights. They would often straggle home with a variety of shady characters and rarely the same ones week to week.
One of the moms would come get me and then the last one home would take me home, provided they weren't passed out by the time they hit the doorway. There were plenty of times I walked the 14 blocks home at 3 am.
There was a married couple who often were the last ones home, leaving the husband to take me home. The couple had 4 children all under 7 years old, the youngest was just a baby. The two oldest boys were fathered by two different dads who were not involved in their lives. The two youngest were a boy and girl fathered by the current husband.
On several occasions, the ride home I got from the husband included being molested and raped. Yes, I had abusers outside of my family. The danger in having abusers outside the family is that the abuse is so normalized in the home that you fail to see it as wrong.
Looking back, I know that the sexual abuse was not limited to just me. I saw behavior in everyone of the four children that would have indicated many levels of abuse.
In my late 20s, I heard from friends that this man had been put in prison. He had been found guilty of molesting several children. Obviously he had more victims than what anyone knew. A few years ago, I came across his obituary. He had died within months of his release from prison. I remember feeling a sense of relief.
This weekend, I learned that his youngest son is now serving time in prison. Earlier this year, he was arrested for stealing drugs from another man. I'd just like to say....who in the world reports stolen illegal drugs! Anyway, during his arrest, he was not told why he was being arrested. When the police began to question him, he confessed to molesting multiple children. That wasn't even what he had been charged with and it is unlikely he'd have gotten busted for that. In fact, it is unlikely he'd have served any time for stealing illegal drugs.
So, this young man whose dad served time for molesting is now serving time for the same crime.
The reality of this is that the young man was likely molested by his own dad. He grew up in a dysfunctional home where abuse was the norm. He lived a rough life. I know this will sound strange to most, but it is unlikely anyone ever told him that it was wrong to sexually abuse children. He truly became a product of his environment. He became who his dad taught him to be.
Although it does not excuse his behavior, you can certainly understand where it originated.
When a child lives in unfathomable circumstances, they have limited choice in how they cope. Please understand, I am not talking about living with parents who yell a lot or an alcoholic dad who gets mean. I am talking about living in constant turmoil and torture. I am talking about the situations where the abuse happens in consistent patterns, includes sexual, physical and mental or surviving potentially deadly circumstances. That is what I lived through, so that is the only kind of abusive background I can speak about fairly.
Children do NOT escape those families unscathed. It just does NOT happen. Probably the most common way to cope is to repress until they are old enough and then self medicate with drugs and alcohol and failed relationships, while coping with various bouts of depression, anxiety and PTSD. Some cope by conforming to the ways of the abusers, which was the case for this young man. In some cases, much less common, the child develops ways to cope with the violence against them. Their coping mechanism is the key to their survival, but is truly a mental illness which will hinder them as an adult.
That is where I fall. Over the next few weeks, I hope to share more with you about who I am and why I am the way I am. It is a big step for me to be transparent about something so personal. As I embrace the idea of not hiding who I am, I must also acknowledge that I too am a product of where I began.
Don't Ignore the Signs
“But in the end one needs more courage to live than to kill himself.”
― Albert Camus
Honestly, sometimes I don't have that much courage to live. However, I have failed to have the courage to die during those times of desperation. There are times when it isn't a lack of courage but something far bigger than me which keeps me alive.
I found myself in an awkward, yet enlightening, conversation this week that made me think through this all again. Not necessarily how the fate of my life teeters on destruction, but how others react to suicide and suicidal thinking.
One thing is clear, those who have never been in such despair, such anguish, well....they really don't understand. It is unfathomable to them because they have never been in the shoes of those who have contemplated suicide or followed through.
Some of the ladies who were talking knew a young man who recently committed suicide. The overwhelming consensus was that most could not really understand it. In fact of all the women in the conversation, only two people said they got what suicide was about. Both admitted that they had at times been so low that they considered it. They both said they reached out for help, which turned their lives around or saved their lives.
A public public figure recently lost his son to suicide. This quote came from a press release in the days following the loss. "He had a brilliant intellect and a gift for sensing who was most in pain or most uncomfortable in a room. He'd then make a bee-line to that person to engage and encourage them," he continued. "But only those closest knew that he struggled from birth with mental illness, dark holes of depression, and even suicidal thoughts. In spite of America's best doctors, meds, counselors, and prayers for healing, the torture of mental illness never subsided."
I love the gut-wrenching truth of this.
Those in pain often do have a sense about others who are in pain. They can often see what your average person cannot. They often find strength to encourage others even when while they are slipping away.
Only those closest... Oh how true this is. Only the closest ever know and even sometimes they don't. There is rarely anyone who knows just how bad things are for me until the time has passed. I don't reach out to anyone because the few times I have ended in total disaster and loss of trust.
Despite all the best help possible, this young man still lost the fight. Believe me, struggling with a mental illness is an everyday fight. It is torture. Unfortunately, I have one of those illnesses that will be life-long. In fact, my illness has such a high morbidity rate that it is nearly impossible for me to purchase life insurance. While it isn't a death sentence, it is a life sentence.
Over the past few months, I have shared quite openly with anyone who has asked that I am so depressed I constantly want to die. Through text, email, phone call, facebook, I have very honestly shared my suicidal thinking. Never did I share that as a way to shock anyone. I was being honest! Since January, I have shared that very open and frankly with over a dozen people, maybe double that by now. Only 1 person has ever followed up with me or asked any questions about me getting help. Not one person contacted my husband nor made sure I was ok the next day. That's a hard one to swallow.
I share that with you again, only as a plea. Not necessarily a plea for me, I know I'll survive until I don't. But, I share this as a plea for anyone around you. I know I have shared something similar to this before now, but please hear me out again.
If someone says to you that they want to die, do NOT ignore it. Step outside of your average life for a moment. Step outside of your world where most days the worst thing that happens to you is that they don't fix your latte correctly. If someone is sharing with you that they are in such despair that they are considering suicide, you have an obligation to not ignore it. Contact that person the next day. Contact their spouse. Contact their neighbor. That person is obviously stuck in a life which is out of control and possibly so far out of control that they will die.
Please know that I do believe suicide is a choice made by the person doing it and nobody can bare any guilt over that. However, you have to know that someone sharing that deep, darkness with you quite possibly is their one and only attempt to ask for help. Don't ignore it!
― Albert Camus
Honestly, sometimes I don't have that much courage to live. However, I have failed to have the courage to die during those times of desperation. There are times when it isn't a lack of courage but something far bigger than me which keeps me alive.
I found myself in an awkward, yet enlightening, conversation this week that made me think through this all again. Not necessarily how the fate of my life teeters on destruction, but how others react to suicide and suicidal thinking.
One thing is clear, those who have never been in such despair, such anguish, well....they really don't understand. It is unfathomable to them because they have never been in the shoes of those who have contemplated suicide or followed through.
Some of the ladies who were talking knew a young man who recently committed suicide. The overwhelming consensus was that most could not really understand it. In fact of all the women in the conversation, only two people said they got what suicide was about. Both admitted that they had at times been so low that they considered it. They both said they reached out for help, which turned their lives around or saved their lives.
A public public figure recently lost his son to suicide. This quote came from a press release in the days following the loss. "He had a brilliant intellect and a gift for sensing who was most in pain or most uncomfortable in a room. He'd then make a bee-line to that person to engage and encourage them," he continued. "But only those closest knew that he struggled from birth with mental illness, dark holes of depression, and even suicidal thoughts. In spite of America's best doctors, meds, counselors, and prayers for healing, the torture of mental illness never subsided."
I love the gut-wrenching truth of this.
Those in pain often do have a sense about others who are in pain. They can often see what your average person cannot. They often find strength to encourage others even when while they are slipping away.
Only those closest... Oh how true this is. Only the closest ever know and even sometimes they don't. There is rarely anyone who knows just how bad things are for me until the time has passed. I don't reach out to anyone because the few times I have ended in total disaster and loss of trust.
Despite all the best help possible, this young man still lost the fight. Believe me, struggling with a mental illness is an everyday fight. It is torture. Unfortunately, I have one of those illnesses that will be life-long. In fact, my illness has such a high morbidity rate that it is nearly impossible for me to purchase life insurance. While it isn't a death sentence, it is a life sentence.
Over the past few months, I have shared quite openly with anyone who has asked that I am so depressed I constantly want to die. Through text, email, phone call, facebook, I have very honestly shared my suicidal thinking. Never did I share that as a way to shock anyone. I was being honest! Since January, I have shared that very open and frankly with over a dozen people, maybe double that by now. Only 1 person has ever followed up with me or asked any questions about me getting help. Not one person contacted my husband nor made sure I was ok the next day. That's a hard one to swallow.
I share that with you again, only as a plea. Not necessarily a plea for me, I know I'll survive until I don't. But, I share this as a plea for anyone around you. I know I have shared something similar to this before now, but please hear me out again.
If someone says to you that they want to die, do NOT ignore it. Step outside of your average life for a moment. Step outside of your world where most days the worst thing that happens to you is that they don't fix your latte correctly. If someone is sharing with you that they are in such despair that they are considering suicide, you have an obligation to not ignore it. Contact that person the next day. Contact their spouse. Contact their neighbor. That person is obviously stuck in a life which is out of control and possibly so far out of control that they will die.
Please know that I do believe suicide is a choice made by the person doing it and nobody can bare any guilt over that. However, you have to know that someone sharing that deep, darkness with you quite possibly is their one and only attempt to ask for help. Don't ignore it!
Sunday, May 12, 2013
Waiting for Fall
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.
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.
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.
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