My stepsister had her baby within mere days of my grandfather passing away. And both of those things happened within days of my miscarriage anniversary. Also my health has been super bad lately. Yay autoimmune disorders.
I don’t really feel like discussing or whining or seeming as depressed as I am. So here are some pics commemorating this month so far.
My grandfather and me when I was young.
An awful painting I did for a friend’s wine and painting party.
Today I have to attend my stepsister’s baby shower.
The one living in the house I was kicked out of for becoming pregnant. The one getting every bit of assistance, gifts, and advice because she isn’t having the father step forward. Not that I’m saying mothers can’t do it “alone”. Just that I got treated like a plague despite having a supportive partner and a plan of action. Not enough for the Daughter of My Father though.
Perhaps she gets more because I’ve always gotten less and should know better.
They keep saying “another accident” but the way this one is being handled breaks my heart into a thousand pieces.
This morning I sobbed four times while wrapping the gifts. I was able to part with two generic Carter’s outfits from the box I bury in my closet (and take out regularly anyway- just so I don’t forget her). Nothing personalized and definitely nothing handmade goes into the gift bag.
They’re mine. Not for others.
This pain is still some of the rawest feelings I’ve ever experienced.
Other guests just keep saying I look tired. Okay. Sure.
Two Ativan and a couple Zoloft with ephedrine probably does make me look tired.
I never knew what a trigger seeing someone I love with dementia and Alzheimer’s would be.
I traveled to Chicago (my hometown) this past three day weekend to help my father and aunt with sorting through my grandparents’ house. We just moved them to a care facility due to their debilitating dementia, Alzheimer’s, and self-care ability.
There wasn’t just the pain and stress of going through their house, the only stable home I’ve ever known; but also visiting them at the facility. They barely recognized me. Had no idea I am well past college and own my own house now.
The memory struggle hit me like a punch to the gut.
The weekend fractured and I have whole chunks missing. I’m back home now trying not to lose myself to the terror of losing my memory more and more. The crippling fright is more overwhelming than it’s been in years. Maybe ever. I’ve never seen the struggle of memory reconstruction from “the other side”.
I love my grandparents with my whole heart. But I seized in panic every single time we pulled into the facility’s parking lot. The first visit I could barely carry a conversation. The other visits are a hazy blur due to the disassociation/blackouts/switching/lost time.
I’ve discovered a trigger than I have practically no coping technique for. Besides being a shaking mess in my bed with Zoe.
I’d rather kill myself than have that much constant trouble with my memory.
And it terrifies me to think that I might already be more than halfway there.
My grandma when she was younger- she has an affinity for masks too.
My parents just before their marriage. They’re younger than me now in this shot.
Above are a couple of the old pictures I found while cleaning that give me a slight smile.
I don’t have the strength for a long entry, even though there is much I could say on this topic.
This week is a bad one.
1.) The wake of Mother’s Day. A holiday I haven’t dealt with well for a couple years now. Add to that my stepfather being extra-dick to my mom while we tried to bond and it was an extra-rotten day.
2.) My best friend is finally visiting the U.S. from all Germany. But she’s on the other side of the country. To be fair, her mom bought the plane ticket (that’s where her mother’s family lives). But it’s rough having her closer and yet still so far. Almost a full five years since I was last able to hug her.
3.) My stepsister announced her pregnancy. Accidental. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. But she’s flipping a bit on how to deal. And where to go. It’s shockingly familiar to me. And yet, my father is welcoming her with open arms. That’s a whole fucking different story than when it was me. I do wish her the best, but dealing with my family’s fluffy treatment of her compared to the brick walls I got is extremely difficult.
4.) Still haven’t found a job. Not handling that well.
5.) My brother, Grey’s, constant parties and having friends over while not actually helping me clean/maintain the household is starting to raise my anxiety to unmanageable levels. I’ve basically been holed in my room for 3 days now, slipping out briefly only to let the dog out.
6.) Food and I are not getting along. Grey keeps asking me about grocery shopping (because he doesn’t want to put forth his own money of course…) and I keep telling him later. It’s gotten to the point that he’s bringing himself home food from work since our kitchen is pretty much bare. But I like it bare. It makes the restricting easier. I wish he would recognize the signs and just go shopping himself. Gods know I’m not going to tell him.
7.) I’m supposed to drive across the state on Saturday to visit an old friend I haven’t seen in years (we’re both depressed about Germany not coming to Ohio). I’m both stressed and looking forward to it. Hoping I don’t make an idiot of myself. I also somehow need to get my ass in gear by Friday night because I promised to bring a baked dessert. Fuck.
8.) I would like to sleep until fall please. Thanks.
I’m not trying to list complaints in hopes for some pats on the back or anything. I just need to try and purge it, so to speak. Listing them sometimes helps. Perhaps I can focus on other things now.
No magical number or anything. Just a general “you’re getting older” sort of day. I felt very adult by the fact that I actually scheduled a doctor’s appointment for that day. It was a bit stressful for me and my system, but I don’t really want to discuss that right now.
The main gift from my mother was a simple DVD.
It turned out to be a compilation of all these family video clips from when I was a toddler. From before we moved to Ohio. For some reason I cannot entirely comprehend, I was terrified to watch this DVD. I let it sit.
With the freshly filled script of Ativan, I finally brought myself to watch it the other day.
It was a roller coaster of emotion. As expected, I suppose.
I’m going to list my main observations in a list to sort them out better.
1.) I have not always been shy. Through various clips I am very outspoken and interact joyfully with all relatives and friends of my family. This was surprising to see.
2.) There are multiple Christmas clips (from two or three years’ worth of holidays) and though I don’t recognize the event itself, there are gifts/toys that I recognize. There are gifts that Armes especially exclaims over from deep inside my brain. It gives me a smile and yet deeply wounds me at the same time.
3.) My paternal grandmother is featured prominently in many of these clips. She passed when I was 8. I do not remember her unless I really think about it. I remember how she used to collect the Beanie Baby toys McDonalds had for a time. She wasn’t a fan of fast food, but she collected as many as she could just for me because I loved stuffed animals (and Beanie Babies). I remember that she would use any excuse to send me a package in the mail. I used to even get “First Day of School” packages with little gifts.
It’s hard to remember the funeral. But I do remember that for months afterwards, I talked about how her “ghost” watched me and tried to protect me. Dad tried to logically explain how that wasn’t possible until he’d had enough and told me to “cut it out”. I stopped talking about her altogether. I remember that many years later, when we moved to our new house (his current house) and the basement seemed to be creepy and weird to my friends, I told them I wasn’t afraid because “Grandma watched out for me”. I don’t think I even entirely knew what I meant.
It was shocking to see her face on the screen. And yet…her face is not unfamiliar to me. I can’t explain it well.
4.) My father only briefly appears in two clips.
5.) There are clips at the beginning where my mother seems to be recording “for” my father (because he is deployed with the military at the time) and tries to get me to talk to him. My toddler-literal-mind doesn’t understand though. At one point she asks me to “say bye-bye to Daddy on the camera” and I say “Bye Camera!”.
6.) The first clip to feature my father, (more than halfway through the 80 minute DVD) he is putting together a child’s desk for me. I ask him who broke the desk (it’s laid out in many pieces on the floor). He patiently explains that it isn’t broken, just taken apart and he’s putting it back together. He shows me the instructions with pictures. I study it intently for a good 45 seconds. I cannot place this interaction emotionally in my brain. I don’t know how to feel. I feel like I should know how to feel.
7.) The second clip is my birthday. Dad is icing my cake. Not Mom, as I would have expected. It is another moment I don’t know how to feel. I don’t know how to connect this father on film with the one I know who seems so distant and anti-child.
8.) Though my father is not in the clip, there is a clip of me talking to him on the phone. I am very serious in my discussion (though I can barely understand what toddler-me is saying). I am upset when Mom tells me I have to say goodbye and hangup soon.
9.) I want to watch this again so I can catch more details and try to not be so switchy during the whole thing. But I can’t bring myself yet. Perhaps in another week or two.
Obviously the theme for us American bloggers these past couple days seems to be Mother’s Day.
I hate Mother’s Day.
I didn’t used to.
Unlike some of my lovely blog-friends who have had awful experiences with moms growing up and have a complete to dodge and duck the holiday for their whole life- I have a great mom.
I can say nothing too bad about her. Her flakiness can be obnoxious, but her love and support more than makes up for it. She is wonderful and I thanked her profusely yesterday. For about two hours. That was all I could handle.
Since October of 2011, I cannot handle Mother’s Day. I hate it. I hate that everyone in public assumes that a female in her mid-twenties must be given well wishes because of course she has children.
Of course.
I wonder sometimes what would happen if when someone came up and said “Happy Mother’s Day!” to me I just answered, “My baby died two years ago. And technically, by the guidelines and definition of motherhood, I’m not even a mother.”
I have that deep down urge to just make people feel like shit.
But it’s an empty urge.
I don’t wish to make others uncomfortable. Mostly because I don’t wish to share my pain. I don’t wish to show my scars.
I don’t why I’m so badly triggered. So badly. Badbadbadbad.
The message Grandma sent me is bad. I know that. But why should it affect me so much? I don’t know why I feel as if it’s a possibility of a parent dying. I think there’s a whole chunk of memory about my paternal grandparents I’m forgetting.
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I just got told that my grandfather is possibly dying. Possibly. This is after my birthday card from them last week stated he was in the hospital with “heart trouble”. The message (via Facebook) said that he’s been released from the hospital but that they “don’t think he’s going to last much longer”.
What?
What the hell does that mean? What am I supposed to do with that? Why would you tell me like that? Why in a fucking Facebook message? This is the man I spent a huge chunk of my childhood with. The only adult male in my family I love with my heart AND soul.
I knew there was a reason Chicago’s been calling to me. I need to go. I need to be there.
But I can’t. Stupid work. Stupid puppies. Stupid money. Stupid everything.
I just want to be there. I just want to go. Gogogogogogo.
I hate my life. I hate my responsibilities. I hate this. I hate hate hate it.
I think as a whole, my blog paints me as this little sagging girl who is constantly struggling and rarely is able to do anything in life.
This is absolutely not the fact.
I care about my identity as someone having DID, an eating disorder, depression, etc. But this does not define me. This past week has been a hard one and I’m worried I’m losing my true identity.
If this post bores you, feel free to move on. This is more for me to remind myself Who I Am.
If you knew me in real life, I would bet $100 that you would have no idea of my inner/deeper issues at all. You would think I was absolutely a normal Midwesterner, post-college, just getting her toes wet in the corporate world.
I have a decent amount of friends. Granted, most of them are just surface friends, but I can easily find someone to hang out with if I feel so inclined.
I’m the woman who loves going out to dinner with friends and family.
I’m the woman who will plan an elaborate shopping trip with some girlfriends, complete with a montage of goofy outfits in the dressing room.
I’m the woman who will devour at least 3 books a week with gusto.
I’m the woman who will challenge anyone in the room to do a shot of gin without making a face. I always win. (I can’t manage with whiskey though- Army creams me on that challenge)
I’m the woman a friend will call at 2am because they’re in some sort of pickle and need a ride/a shoulder/help bailing.
I’m the woman who impresses her bosses with her ability to increase productivity and multitask without losing accuracy.
I am a daughter and a sister wholeheartedly devoted to my mother and brothers (my father not so much) at any moment.
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I love long car rides, especially by myself. I will take the long way if possible for every destination.
The greatest compliment to me is on my baking. I’ll take that over my looks, personality, or intellect any day (which is probably a bad thing…haha)
My favorite place to go on a date (or hangout with friends) is to a stand-up comedy show. I cannot get enough of humor- as many brands as possible.
I love watching TV shows in long stretches, at least 5 episodes at a time. This means I really only watch shows through Netflix or the actual DVD. Not on standard television.
I am clumsy as hell. Seriously. I am even clumsier when tipsy or tired.
I love animals. I adore cats. But my heart belongs to dogs.
I can’t stand coffee, but I cannot get enough of hot apple cider. I’ll settle for hot chocolate when I go to coffee shops with friends.
I hate the color yellow.
I’ve only recently discovered hot bubble baths and I’ve fallen in love with them.
I can drink hot sauce like a soda.
I research law and Revised Codes in my spare times. For the hell of it.
I am not an affectionate person. Unless I’m alone with my partner. Then I’m pretty much glued to them. I am not affectionate with friends or family at all. I was raised not to be.
I make jewelry to calm myself. I don’t usually wear much of it- I tend to give it away.
I have big celeb-crushes on Eliza Dushku, Charisma Carpenter, and Jennifer Lawrence. Yes, there was a theme there before Jennifer Lawrence. My crushes on male celebs aren’t as crazy, but I do adore Thomas Jane and Joseph Gordon-Levitt.
I tend to favor books that are sad and make me feel lost after completing. I don’t know why. I think it’s the masochistic side of me. The most recent one I finished is “Looking For Alaska” (which I highly recommend).
My hands are always cold. My feet are also always cold. However, this does not mean I will wear a jacket.
I hate socks with the fiery passion of a thousand hells.
Though I fear heights, one of the best experiences that I’ve ever had is when Germany and I went on a hot air balloon ride (my dad used to do balloon chasing as a side gig).
A picture I took of another balloon that was below us.
I’m not sure where my heart is at the moment. I feel hollow and empty and uncaring. I know my last post made it seem like I was struggling with the whole “fuck Army” thing, but I’m not. It makes me feel pretty bitchy and heartless to not even dwell on him once I’ve formally decided we’re through.Â
I really haven’t been able to find it within myself to really care a lot about life on any sort of deeper level in a long time.
I think I may have left my heart somewhere.
My theory is either Chicago or Kentucky.
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Chicago is my home town, where the majority of my family is, where I spent all my summers and holidays up until two years ago. I love this place more than I think most of me realizes.
I miss the museums, I miss the stores, I miss the plays, I miss the food, I miss the people. I even miss the train a little bit.
I lean my forehead against the cool window and watch the lights of buildings flash past in the night. It’s late- one of the last trains back to my grandparents’ house. The day was long but enjoyable. Germany sits in the seat across from me. The cramped nature of the train has our knees brushing, but we’ve been friends long enough that it doesn’t faze us. She grins at me.She isn’t normally so into exploring a city at random, but we managed to find a bit of everything that we’d both enjoy. Tomorrow we plan on going to Six Flags, where she will be the first person to get me to ride a roller coaster and enjoy it. I know I am always safe with Germany. And happy. She makes my heart full. We make a pact to be friends forever.
I never thought distance would feel so far.
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But Kentucky… Kentucky is the complete opposite. I have no family down their. Except Katherine’s. Her whole family is from Kentucky. They became my family for 5 years when we would drive down their at least once a month, if not every other weekend.
There’s no culture really, no shopping (Wal-mart doesn’t count), no trains (for people), no plays.
But the food is homemade, mostly from scratch, and amazing. It’s where I had my first illicit taste of alcohol. It’s where I learned to just hear nature breath.
I got to wake up and walk outside to this every single day I was down there.
Everyone was so sweet to me, despite me being a “Yankee”. It was supposed to become my second home.
She tried to get me to drive the four wheeler, but since I’d never even tried a car, I refused in terror. I watched her zip across the backyard towards the rising hills that made up a good portion of her grandparents’ land. Her grandpa laughed next to me. “It’s not that dangerous. Just looks that way. She isn’t actually going that much faster than a car on a road.” Katherine zips back around and pauses next to me. She gives me an enticing smile. “Come on. Get on. You can trust me.” I hesitate a moment, but then my eyes meet her’s and she’s right. I do trust her. With anything. With everything. There is nothing like whipping up and down the hills of Kentucky, wind swirling, dodging branches, and arms wrapped around the person you love.
The first time I saw a therapist it was under duress.
I was seventeen years old and a senior in high school.
I ate an average of maybe four times a week. Sometimes less. My grades slipped whole letters, going from the normal A’s to C’s and even a D (unheard of for me).
This all followed on the tail of Uniballer dumping me for Texas mere weeks before. Part of it was the stupid emo-teenage loss of a boy.
The other part was the loss of a best friend.
And even bigger: no one gave a shit. No one noticed me falling apart. Not my parents, my teachers, not even my other best friend, Germany.
It was Katherine who brought it to the attention of my mother. Mom took a mental step back and realized just how much weight I’d lost. She called my favorite teacher (the subject was German) and asked how I was doing.
It looked bad.
She tried to talk to my father about the idea of me talking to a professional. He balked, as he doesn’t “believe in psychology” and said I just needed to suck it up. In a rare moment, my mom put her foot down.
The therapist’s name was Joy. I rolled my eyes when she told me. I didn’t want to talk at first. The voices (I wasn’t aware of what the DID was at this point) told me not to trust anyone with feelings or secrets.
Slowly she got me to open up a bit. I told her about the betrayal of my ex and friends. Joy was the first person I confided in about my attraction to Katherine, which terrified me as I was so sure I was straight. Being seventeen, I still blindly thought love had to be firmly defined.
Then we got on an even bigger subject. My father. I went on about his emotional distance, his firm rules, his apathy. I talked about how he reminded me constantly that I had to move out and go to college.
Her response?
“This is all because he loves you. He loves you so much. I think you’re just having trouble seeing it.”
The internal whiplash was physically painful. The voices swirled and buzzed in anger.
I stopped seeing her pretty soon after that (I had turned eighteen, so it was my choice).
It was Katherine who got me to start eating more regularly.
And it was a long time before I tried to trust a therapist again.
pen, paper, and crazy 