The day I made my mother cry

Bonding has completely backfired.

Not sure how soon I’ll venture out again to try and connect with a person.

My mom and I had been drifting lately and we both finally acknowledged this. Decided that we would take a trip to the local IKEA together. Technically I needed the space of her van anyhow, to fit a desk I wanted to purchase. I merely drive a sedan.

We are reconnecting well. Chatting about life (both of ours) and possible job opportunities (for me).

She tells me about her recent Reiki+ treatment from a family friend. I call it “Reiki plus” because our friend Margaret does a mix of what is needed for trusted patients. For example, with me she tends towards some cranial sacral and light massage work for my migraines/muscle pain in addition to classic Reiki work. She is licensed for all of the techniques she uses and would never do anything a patient disliked. Plus, she’s an old family friend.

Mom says it went well, but Margaret couldn’t help her much with the spiritual side of things. My mom thinks she’s going deaf to her spirit guides. Margaret has helped her in the past. I’m at a loss at what to say.
Though I have my own version of “guides/spirits” that I do sometimes seek out, mostly I shut them out because it’s hard to open myself to them without cocking-up my DID structure and causing spiraling/time loss and such. It’s hard to explain.

But this isn’t where I completely screw up.

It’s later, when I offer to play a song for my mom that has lately helped me stop from completely giving myself over to dark thoughts and suicidal thoughts.

It’s called “Fight Song” by Rachel Platten

I plug the aux cord in and hit play…

As the last notes drift away, I realize I’ve been a bit zoned out and glance over at my mom.

She’s crying.

I blink and frantically try to remember the last couple minutes. Did I do something wrong? Then I think about the song. Maybe it’s just because it’s emotional.

“I’m sorry. It’s an emotional song I guess.” I offer lamely.

“No. It’s just…” She pauses, trying to compose herself. Even though it’s my father who doesn’t allow crying at all; with my mom and her side of the family, it’s still not truly a comfortable act to show other people. “It’s just…I don’t have any fight left.” Another sobs escapes. “And I don’t know how to get away. I don’t want to be where I am right now. This is a nice song, but I don’t have fight left.”

I’m quiet.

I want to say magical words to comfort her. My own mother.

But I am my father’s daughter and someone crying and exposing their deep feelings makes me starkly uncomfortable. My mind feels crackly- like an old candy wrapper.

“I don’t really have fight left either. The song just lets me pretend.” I confess. Mom glances at me. “I think if I play it enough then all the stagnant things in my life making my whole self dark and blue and depressed will break lose. So far though…it’s just a song.”

Mom starts tearing up again. I watch dispassionately.

And distantly I wonder if I’m the semi-sociopath my father is.

I do feel bad for making her cry, I do.

But my vision feels like a tunnel and my mouth a cave and I can’t climb over the rockslide blocking the entrance.

I add this day to the box of reasons why I shouldn’t be a daughter at all.

Rotten week

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.

I can hope, right?

Birthday

This past Monday was my birthday.

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.

Lies to my mother

It would be beautiful to say that my mother and I have always been close…

But that isn’t the case.

I know that childlike part of me didn’t understand why she couldn’t save me from the trips to the alley. Didn’t understand that she truly had no idea and had so much on her plate striking out as a single mom. That if she had known, obviously it wouldn’t have continued.

But I didn’t tell her.

I wanted my mother to be Super Woman. To read my mind and see all the horror, know all the pain. All the moments I couldn’t speak of. I wanted to see her fury strike out against Him and her love carry me far away from the dirty gravel behind the garage.

I wanted her to see the spell on my mouth. The invisible glue that sealed my lips the moment I thought of saying anything. I wanted her to take one look and gasp in horror. In comprehension.

But my mask was strong. It was impermeable. My box was strong. It held all it needed to. Nothing overflowed. Nothing got past.

It went like this for longer than I care to describe in true numeric fashion. In the child’s mind, it was a lifetime. A lifetime of secrets, of masks, of boxes. A lifetime of playing hide and seek.

Then we moved.

This is a rare picture of me smiling. It was taken in front of the new house. Far from the alley and the garage of horror. Far away.

Super Woman had, in her own unknowing way, come through. I was free.

But the shackles left their scars. Their marks.

And smiles like this were still rare. And blame lasts a lot longer than you’d think.

It wasn’t until well into high school that I tentatively tried to reach out. To turn a rickety relationship into a bond. And it wasn’t easy.

And I will never forget the look on her face when I finally broke the seal on the box and peeled off the mask for a moment. When I found that long buried courage and told her.

And even then, I looked around to make sure demons wouldn’t crawl through the walls and report my words.

(lies lies lies- He said- no one will ever believe)

But all I was confronted with was the expression of my mother as a part of her withered in horror. In remorse. In blame.

And in that moment, I knew without a doubt- that I never truly blamed her at all.

Child Therapy and Parent Labels

A local domestic violence shelter/prevention group is doing some great things with education and child development right now.

Artemis Center of Dayton, Ohio was already a great place for victims of domestic violence and their children.  But their Spring newsletter has shown me how they take that extra step.

I have to applaud them first and foremost for their website.
Go ahead, Visit it briefly.  You see that option?  That safety net they so graciously offer you?  They understand.  They know the fear you have; the constantly looking over your shoulder.  They don’t even want to judge you.  They want to offer you an easy out.  It’s okay to escape.  This website is safe.

Today I’m more interested in their most recent newsletter however; as outlined on page 5 is what they are doing with children’s therapy.
(PDF version of the newsletter)

I find it interesting that they use the words “Mom” and “Father” to refer to “Keri’s” parents.
Word usage is a powerful thing and it was the first thing that struck me when I skimmed the article.  I then read it more thoroughly and determined it is Keri’s mother (mom) who is attempting to try the hardest with her daughter.  She wants to offer that structure that young children need almost as much as love.

It’s amazing how quickly the two parents are labeled in my mind as “good” and “bad” with that simple distinction of labels.
And I realize I do it myself.  I refer to my dad as “father” in this blog frequently.  It’s sort of interesting considering in real life, I usually refer to him as “Dad”.  To his face is only “Dad”.  He would assume I’d been replaced by aliens if I ever called him “Father” (he considers too “rich girl”) or “Daddy” (this too “daddy spoiled girl”; something he dislikes).

But on this safe space, far away from his prying eyes, I refer to him mostly at “father”.

And Mom is mom.  She has always been Mom and I expect she will always be Mom.  I don’t remember ever calling her anything else; both to her face and in passing reference to her.

I think it’s interesting what terms we use for parents and what connotations they represent.  Something safe or unsafe.

And Artemis Center here, whether unintentionally or not, has led me to understand who the villain is in Keri’s story.

But the important thing is the story.  And the happy ending it is heading towards.  Through therapy and understanding, Keri is able to get what she needs to grow up with a good home and good development.

It’s great to see in a world where many are doing it so wrong; someone has stepped up to make sure it is done right.

Overload

I knew work was heading this way.  I knew a possible breakdown was just on the horizon.  Currently I’m at my desk in the office with a hot chocolate (plus a shot of cappuccino) and an ice pack on the back of my neck.

Seems dumb, I know.  Only thing I can think of to try and ground me and keep me from having a breakdown.  Sensation helps keep my mind from going mental, so I thought the combination of hot and cold might keep me together for at least the next two hours (the extra caffeine can’t hurt).

I’m being hit in two different ways.

First of all; files being thrown at me and threats being dangled about audits and probationary period (not me, my contract- but basically the same thing).  I absolutely have to get shit done and done fast if I don’t want to be jobless in less than a month.

But then my supervisor pulls me into a one-on-one meeting this morning to go over an elaborate plan to elevate me and give me more responsibility and all the new things that will be expected of me.  The good part is more hours and a raise, but I don’t know.  I just don’t know.

My mother has asked if I’ll come back and work for her as a paralegal for her firm.  She’s said she’s pretty sure she can promise me full-time hours.  It’s so very tempting…

But I do love so much about this job.

Just not right now.  And not today.

This moment, I just want to go into a corner (or the bathroom), curl up, and cry.

I’m not sure how much longer I can handle this without letting my coworkers see me cracking.  I can’t let that happen.  I have to remain sane in the eyes of others.

The Home on the Corner Lot

When is a house truly a home?
___________________________________________________

Once upon a time there was a house…

(No, not that house.)

This house was lovely, and beautiful to the young girl.  Many thought it was a bit run down.  Her father thought that it was too large for a mother and two small children.  He said it would be expensive to heat and keep cool.

It was on a corner lot and had the biggest yard on the block.  The play area/jungle gym in the backyard seemed tiny in such a big yard, but the girl loved it.  It was neat that a park was at the end of her block, but that didn’t compare to one in her own yard.  Plus, there was a park right next to her father’s house.  Old news.

She got to pick her room.  She picked the one that had two huge windows overlooking the front street.  She could keep an eye on the comings and goings of everyone.

There was an alley in the back, with a carport.  The alley was the part that gave her the most pause.  It reminded her of the bad parts of the previous house.  It reminded her that people could sneak in.  People could take her to a secret place behind the garage (but it was a garage- not a shed) and tell her not to make any noise or bad-bad-bad things would happen to her. To her mother. To her baby brother.

But no one ever came through the alley.  The girl shied away from it for weeks.  She met the neighbors.  There was a girl two doors down her own age.  That had never happened before.  The neighbor’s name was Brittany (“that’s Brittany with an a-n, not an n-e” she would say).
Brittany was fearless.  She roamed the streets of that neighborhood without a care.  And soon, the girl went with her.  They went to the park.  They went by the church that had a huge empty parking lot (good for skating in).  They went down the alley.

And the girl learned that the alley wasn’t a monster that bit; breath stinking, eyes sparking, teeth sharply glinting.  That monster had been left far behind.

This new house was wonderful.

She got to watch Grey grow from grinning baby into a timid, sensitive toddler.  She held her birthday there for two years in a row (father was miffed).  She told the walls her secrets, fed the carpet her tears.  But the roof also got the echo of her laughter and the stairs happily took her excited, pounding feet.

She grew up there.

Sure, there were other places.  There was Father’s two houses (the walls got whispers and the carpets were dry- no yelling or crying in his presence).  There were piles of schools.  There were friends and relatives houses.  But they hardly mattered.  They didn’t course through her veins like a sweet melody.  The trees there didn’t welcome her with bowing branches, waving leaves.

She watched her mother find someone new.  She watched her tentatively move into his house.  She noticed how her mother did not move many belongings.  Next to no furniture.  She noticed how her home on the corner lot was kept.  Guarded.  Hoarded.

As it should be.

Her home on the corner lot was there for her when the locks were changed at her father’s house.  Her father did not want her.  It was high school graduation day and the girl thought she would have no where to go.

The home sang it’s reprise and she remembered.  The walls expanded.  She no longer had a simple corner bedroom.  The rooms were her’s.  She reveled in it.

But not for long.

Then the shadow that was Katherine injected her poison into the very foundation.  The girl had to work.  Go to school.  She was not there a lot.  Katherine claimed to want to take care of the house.

It was a lie.

The house suffered.  And it broke the girl’s heart.  She frantically tried to keep her imprint on the big, old, beautiful structure.  She wasn’t strong enough.  And Katherine smelled it, repulsed.

The house still loved her unconditionally.  When she curled into it’s tattered recesses, broken-hearted, the house swept her in softly.  Carefully.  It tucked her into it’s soul.

She thought that might not be the worse way to go.  A home always there for her.  It was better than all the things and people that were not.

When she took the pills the first time, the walls seemed to sing and bend and whisper sweet nothings.

She merely slept after the concert put on for her though.  She was never good at understanding pills and dosage and 6 or 7 seemed like a lot.

The second time the walls and ceiling hummed mournfully.  They did not sing.  The windows gaped and shattered in her mind.  The doors spit fire.  She ran down to the deep, dark bottom of the house.  The dank basement.  It was silent there.  It was cool.  She painted lines of red onto her arms and chest with the sharp black paintbrush (knife) while her heart skittered, scattered, then debated on beating with slow, languid pulses.

It was the house that called to that sober part of her.  It was the house that sang softly that this was not the way to go.  The home on the corner lot was flattered by the love showed with this ultimate sacrifice, but it knew there would be other houses.  It knew there would be those that could heal her.  It knew there would be those that would miss her.  Those that could not shoulder the pain of her loss.

The home on the corner lot could.

She lived.

The house was lost to foreclosure (she did not blame her mother- she couldn’t have saved it either).

She still dreams of the corner bedroom.  The spacious kitchen.  The sparkling sunroom.  The enormous backyard.  Many of her dreams take place in that house, even though she hasn’t set foot in it in years.  She dreams of Zoe running up and down the stairs, though her canine lifeguard has never laid eyes upon the property.

Her first lifeguard.

Someday, perhaps, she might be able to give her heart and soul to another house.  Make another home.

For now she is content with her semi-gypsy life and constant moving.

Plus, she needs a place that sings.

A terrible Google map version of the house. Looks a wreck in this, of course. I wish I had something that would do it true justice…

Puppies Outside Adventure

I don’t have much to say today, so instead I leave you with a sprinkling of pictures from the puppies’ adventure outside this past weekend.

The strange looking little pointy-eared terrier mix in the background of this one is my mother’s older dog Tippy.  She was very good with the puppies.
Zoe did not give two shits about my mother’s two older dogs (the other is camera shy).  I thought it was a nice safe introduction to non-family dogs for the puppies.

They’re doing very well lately.  Personalities are starting to finally emerge.

Also, a note, there was a miscount initially.  They are all boys except for a single lone female.  She’s the smallest brindle/brown one.

A Lesson in Feelings

This whole past weekend has been a lesson in how I really feeling about various things.

Let’s go by topic to keep things simple and readable for your lovely persons.

Housing
Well, the rental app didn’t get approve.  The letter of explanation they supposedly wrote and attached to our email was corrupted when we got it and now we can’t get them to give us a straight answer.  But this makes Mom and I just think there’s something fishy going on.  Whatever.  There will be other opportunities.  I was surprised at how easily I shrugged this off, though I suppose it’s because of other things I’ve had to worry about this weekend.

The Past
After the last post where Daria got triggered by Mom writing our childhood address, things got worse before they got better.  I volunteered Friday at an event near that horrible old house, and afterwards while driving back home, someone hijacked the body to drive past that place.
We were all startled to discover that the house was not torn down by McD’s.  It was right behind their dumpsters.  The backyard.  The tiny garage/shed with the slate blue paint.
Stupid Memory Lane.  I lost almost 2 hours that night.  I’m not sure if it was all spent just parked by that house, rocking back and forth in misery or if we went somewhere else.  I only remember a glimpse of the house, then I was back home letting Zoe outside, 2 hours after I’d left the event (only a 20 minute drive away).
I hope the dark thoughts are behind us.

Army
We almost broke up Saturday night.  Technically we did break up for about 40 minutes.
He was supposed to do something with me Saturday, and I didn’t hear from him until 8 or 9pm.  When I asked for an explanation, it was that he was “sleeping”.  Then he asked “Are you mad?”.
Hell yes, I was mad.  I told him too.  And I explained that he needed to see it from my perspective.  This is the third time he’d flaked on me in two weeks.  I didn’t feel important at all.  Then he made some vague sort of promise to “make it up to me”.
I told him I wasn’t sure if I could do it anymore.  Be with him if he was just going to be all flakey and make vague promises.  To which he replied “I’ll just leave you alone then”.
I was floored.
And what surprised me more was my utter sadness over the whole thing.  I literally sobbed for a good half hour, trying to talk to Texas about the matter.
I didn’t realize that I was in that deep.  I’ve never cared before.  When we parted ways a couple months ago, I didn’t bat an eyelash.
What’s different now?
Anyway, he texted me back about 40 minutes later and asked that I explain further because he thought our relationship was too important to just forget about.  I poured my heart out- well, sort of.  I always hold back a bit. Especially lately.  He then said he really didn’t want to lose me and that he cared too much about me.  And then Sunday, he took me out for lunch, ice cream, on a walk, and to the dog park with Zoe.  It was great.  We talked and it was…amazing.  I’m terrified about this whole thing.  I’m not sure if I can put myself on the line like that again.  I haven’t even tried since Katherine.  I don’t know…

Germany
She emailed me again.  It was a hurtful email.  I can’t even get into here because I’ll just start crying again.  Basically, she doesn’t want to be friends if I can’t admit that I’m a “manipulative, compulsive liar” and seek therapy for it.  I was nothing but honest about the situation with Jeff.  I didn’t paint a pretty picture with me as some hurting damsel.  I stated plainly that he was the wronged party and I regretted it.  But she said because I spoke so “flat-toned and simply” that I must be looking for “validation” about being the wronged party.  I don’t understand.  My heart hurts over this whole matter.  This is my best friend for over a decade.  She’s always been there for me.  Always.
Why this?  Why does she have such blinders when it comes to Jeff?  I’m not asking for her to “take my side”.  I don’t want that at all.  I don’t want sides.  I’ve said that from the beginning.  I don’t even want to talk about the situation at all.
I just want to be able to talk to my friend.
I am heartbroken.

New House!

I went and looked at the possible rental I will be moving into.

I think I’m in love.

It has gorgeous hardwood floors, a decent sized backyard (that Zoe will love!), a big front porch and a deck in the back.  There is a pretty kitchen (not huge, but not too tiny) with pretty mock-granite counter tops and new appliances. It has two bedrooms on the main floor, a huge basement (Grey called dibs on- ahh, teenage boys), and a large upstairs that is all one big room, with it’s own second bathroom.

And Mom has said the upstairs is all mine.

I’m trying not to just start imagining what I’m going to do with it, but it’s hard.  I want to just start doodling and looking up cheap and crafty decorating ideas.

I’m so excited.

Please cross your fingers for you me!!