Five A.M.

Another all-nighter.

It’s been a long day. So, I have school aged kids. And my youngest loves people. She loves hugging and playing and sharing clothes… and hats…

Someone contacted me and told me that we needed to check hair. And yep. Lice. So after everything else that has happened, I’ve been dealing with combing hair, treating hair, washing clothes and sheets. It’s probably one of the most annoying and humiliating things a mother has to deal with. It’s one of those few times I’m glad to be a hermit. At least it hasn’t spread far. The girls’ hair is okay now, I combed through it until bedtime. And my own hair smells like licorice and it’s making me sick but at least I’m not itching. This has happened before and I’m so frustrated with it. At least my cousin is helping me with my hair. I can’t do my own and Nate won’t do it. “Your hair is hard to do.” Yeah. I know. But dammit it has to be done.

Listening to Amanda Palmer reading from her book “The Art of Asking”. Her voice is reassuring and comforting in a way that I’ve missed. I remember lying in the back floorboard of cars as a kid and listening to my mom talk while the rumble under my head lulls me to sleep.

I know I have complained a lot about my mother. And she is a chore. But so am I and I think the biggest problem is we are both so overwhelmed by our own shit and she held hers in for so long she can’t keep it inside even if she wanted. I don’t know what changed her mind on Easter, but she’s taken some small moments of actually listening to me. And confiding things in me, which I’m not certain are truths or just her way of trying to relate with me.

I wonder sometimes, the more things she confides, if we are in some way cursed. That’s what this feels like sometimes. Like I was given a broken brain, or no skin over my emotions. Everything is immediate and raw, and maybe the things she does when she acts out stems from the same place my own raw rage and grief and fear comes from. I tell myself that I should be more understanding, even as she is torturing me with her anxieties and bitterness.

I probably won’t feel it tomorrow. But this morning, the connection is there.

Advertisements

April? Nope, Always a Fool

Trigger Warning************************************

Rage issues. Abandonment issues. Depersonalization. Loneliness. Feelings of inadequacy. Some very very low points.

Yesterday could only be described as hideous. I completely lost my shit. I no longer existed. For a while, there was this shrieking banshee in my place.

The following formula is a constant:

I need help with something and Nathan promises he will take care of it. He doesn’t. I ask my mother for help.

She agrees after about an hour of telling me that I never pay her back ever and all I do is take and I’d better not be lying. I tell her there shouldn’t be a problem, because there shouldn’t be.

Every day, multiple times, since that point, I will receive a call and/or a text reminding me that she really needs whatever I borrowed back. I say whatever but it is usually money for food.

The day comes and I am specific about what I want Nathan to pay. I give him a list. This day is the only day he hops up without trouble. He goes out.

My mother calls multiple times. I call Nathan looking for him to make sure he is going to pay her back immediately.

Now here is where the two things branch out.

Timeline A: He pays her back. She calls and expresses her awe that we didn’t screw her over, and then reminds me again of all the times I have screwed up and how it puts her out. Which is valid, because I screw everything up. But it’s like listening to a woodpecker, right outside your bedroom wall. Peckpeckpeckpeckpeck… And I think I can’t ask her anymore. I can do without. But then the girls will go without so give in and ask. Meanwhile he bitches and complains about having to pay her back and how she shouldn’t hold that over my head so much so I’m pretty much bombarded on both sides.

Timeline B: He gets home and he has not paid her back. And he no longer has the money. So now I’m a liar. And usually I call her and she starts yelling at me. Telling me all I do is lie and I don’t love her and I am an awful daughter and she gave up so much and brought herself down to take care of me and I’m a shitty parent and when I give in and she breaks me down she says I’m throwing a pity party. Or we fight and fight and fight and fight, and then Nathan gets in on it and reminds her of things she’s said that she swears she never said (she did, but it was during manic moments so she may not actually remember) and they scream and fight and I get upset at Nathan and he and I fight and then mom starts threatening to do things that I can’t even type and then he’s telling me how I said this and that and everything becomes a big mess and I go to bed.

Today when Timeline B started I just lost it. Complete nuclear meltdown. Screaming. I told him I despised him and I wish I never had to see him. I locked myself in the bathroom for fifteen minutes, and when I got out I yelled down and told him HE had to call mom and explain to her. And when he said he would in a little bit I screeched some more and he told me our friend Stephen was here. He has this thing about people knowing his business. He’s got this facade that I am mentally ill and he is trying so hard but all I do is bring him down and he doesn’t like it when I don’t hide how I’m feeling. In fact this time I told him I didn’t give a fuck if Jesus Christ had descended down from the Heavens and wanted me to be quiet.

I lost it so badly Stephen took me a side and talked, he tried to comfort me as best he could, but I think I scared him. I have always turned my annoyance inward when he or Mandi are around, but today I just let it all go like an explosion. I had to physically restrain myself from shattering dishes. Or hurting myself. I came close.

Especially when he actually did call mom and they did their thing where they are screaming back and forth and mom is calling me names and he actually screamed back and told her that I am the best and most honorable and honest person he’s ever known. Which sounds nice but when it’s him on the other end I don’t know what I’m talking about or remembering and I need to get more medication because I’m crazy. They’re just alike. I’m like a man because I married someone with my mother’s personality. They’re both bi-polar. They are neither one properly medicated. Mom only sees me as an extension of herself. I’m not her daughter. I’m not a person. I’m the one she vents at, and the one she can blame when her life goes sour because it’s always my fault. Nathan just uses me for a place besides his dad’s to stay. He doesn’t like me. I’m pretty sure he never really did.

There are people out there that have love. They have support. They have someone who actually looks forward to spending time with them. They are loved.

It’s almost been a year.

This is one of those nights that I really just wish everything was over. There’s no joy left. I can’t remember what it felt like. I can’t remember hope. I feel so alone. The people who were supposed to love me the most have all made me feel like I’m nothing. And maybe on the outside that sounds like a pity party. But I’m not exaggerating. This is what my heart feels.

One song isn’t going to cover it. It’s a plethora of hurt like an infection in my soul, rotting me from the inside out.

John. Because every time something like this happens it hits me that he left me here. He knew these things, and he still left me in it.

Nathan. How could someone try so hard to keep someone else down in the gutter? And I feel like running, so often. But I’m so weak. I still can barely leave the house. I feel so pathetic and worthless.

I can’t even. My mother. I finally messaged her and told her I can’t do this anymore. That she will get her money tomorrow (which was the beginning of it, she didn’t want to wait a day although she didn’t need it immediately.) I understand she was frustrated. I get it. But I can’t take it anymore. I can’t fight anymore. Cali has a phone now. If mom wants to see them or talk to them she can call Cali. They can stay the night with her whenever they or she wants. But I’m done.

I’m so tired. I’m so tired. I just want everything to stop. I want out of this life. I can’t live this way anymore. I can’t bear this over and over and over . But I can’t get away.

Scapegoat

My whole life has been a series of things being done to me, and then I just have to get over it. Or I actually have to pay for it myself. The mistake/punishment scale is fracked up, for sure.

For example, my father, otherwise known as the man who donated his DNA to bring me into existence, molested me as a kid. Little kid. Teensy tiny itty bitty kid. I don’t remember it, but my mother and my aunts have told me it happened. Actually, I wasn’t told until I spent two days with him when his dad died and I told mom I would like to get to know him, his wife who I suppose is my step-mother, and my half-brother. And she didn’t tell me, exactly. She had my aunt tell me. Which explained a lot about some of my over-the-top anxieties over relationships and sex, and why I was so afraid of men in general.

There’s more to that, but I’m not up to explaining more of that.

But see, my dad never paid for that. At least, not in any way that I understand, except my mom used that as an excuse to divorce him. She reminds me of that sometimes, that she got a divorce because he did those kinds of things, and also he was pretty awful to her in general. But there’s always this feeling of “I got my divorce because of you” vibe that I’m only partially making up in my own head because she’s bipolar so she spends most of her life blaming other people.

So she divorced him and ended up dating Bob and we moved to Surgoinsville away from all my family and she reminds me from time to time that she did that to get me away from my father, and then other times she laments that she had to move all the way down there and was mistreated and ignored by Bob and his family, and there’s that guilt again. If I hadn’t been molested, she wouldn’t have gotten divorced, she wouldn’t have moved us all the way down in the middle of nowhere, and she wouldn’t have lived with a man who treated her like nothing.

And this is not considering the fact that I was ALSO molested by two of my cousins when I was eight. I have never told her this. I don’t know if it was the shame of it happening to me, or if I couldn’t bear the expression I imagined she would have. I’ve told a few people about it. I told John about it. I told Nathan about it. A few friends I’ve admitted it to. No one in my family. I was eight… but I have always felt like it was my own fault. And it’s scarred me. Always. My fault. If I wasn’t so disgusting, then they wouldn’t have done that to me. And when I was told about my dad, well… if my own father saw that in me, if my own cousins… three people saw that in me. So it’s there, right? We are what others perceive, right? So I must me that.

It continues on to so many other instances. But the one that’s on my mind is my ex-husband. How every time he fucked up, it was my fault. He started taking pills because I was such a bitch so often. How if I’d not been such a wreck he could have handled life better. How from the very first moment we started dating I began pushing him away.

I miscarried in 2001, right after September 11. He was supposed to go into the Air Force before all that happened, even began the process, but changed his mind when I got pregnant. Ten months along, I started bleeding, and the ER said I was fine, but the next day when I went by myself to the doctor, the nurse practitioner did the ultrasound, not saying anything when I was chirping cheerfully about the baby on the screen, and then when she finished she handed me some tissue and told me the baby had stopped developing two weeks before. It hurt. So much. And I felt like my insides were poison. I could sense the dead child inside me, a cold, empty shell, that was sapping my soul from the inside out. I had to have a D and C. It took me a long time to seem to get over that. Some days… I still feel that. I wrote a poem about it. I don’t have it anymore, but it was one of the first ones I shared with the world.

My brain has never been right. It poisoned me. I felt worthless, because what kind of woman can’t carry a child? Things had always been volatile with Nathan and me, but that made our tenuous relationship collapse in on itself. We fought for a year, then he left me on Halloween to move in with his ex-girlfriend he had been seeing behind my back. Just called me and told me he wasn’t coming back. And I begged. I cried. I lost myself. And after about a month I started trying to pull myself back together, and he called and wanted to come back.

And I let him. Because what woman can’t carry a baby AND can’t keep a husband? A worthless one. I wasn’t allowed to be angry or hurt at him anymore about it. It was my fault anyway. If I hadn’t pushed him away, he wouldn’t have started seeing Rory again. If I wasn’t such a mess we would’ve been fine. My fault. My fault. My guilt.

It’s always that way with he and I. My fault. My mistakes. My guilt. I can’t be friends with John because he cheated on Kristi with me. My fault. So I lose my friend, and I can’t be at certain friendly gatherings because they might be there, so, even though I’ve known some of the mutual friends ten years longer than he, even though he made the choice to talk to me when he was with someone else, even though he told me he loved me and wanted to be with me, it’s my fault. My guilt. My punishment. Because what kind of woman would be a dirty mistress? He gets to go on with his life, and I get the punishment and stigma and blame. I can’t talk about it to anyone but one friend, because I brought it on myself. I should’ve known better. And yes, I should have.

I’ve spent my entire life wanting someone to treat me like I’m someone special. No. That’s not right. I’ve spent my whole life wanting someone to treat me like a real person. A woman. A human being entitled to feel her emotions and to be angry and to not be punished for just being me. For being scared of being abandoned, or mistreated, because when in my history have I ever been wrong in that? I’m the pariah. I’m the scapegoat. I’m the dirty mistress. I’m the bitch. I’m not a woman. I’m not loved, I’m a monster.

Memories by Within Temptation

How the Grinch Chopped Down the Christmas Tree

I have a really weird thing about Christmas trees.

Don’t get me wrong, I like them, but I hate decorating them. I am type-A and apoplectic and generally make it a miserable hideous trial instead of the joyful occasion it should be. I do my best to get out of it because for that time, I am The Tree Grinch.

It’s all because of my mother.

I love my mother. She was my sole parent growing up, with little bits of my brother’s dad here and there but even though I called him daddy from the fifth grade on (it was a conscious decision that I talked to my friends about and then mom and then him before I did. Overthinking overthinking wheeee) you could never say I had a father figure. But I digress, I was talking about my mom ruining a family custom that a lot of people love.

My mom is bi-polar, and, when I’m honest, has a very severe case of zero empathy. I’m sure I’ll go into more detail about that someday, but for now, trees. Trees, Amy, trees.

So we would get the tree out. And the huge boxes of ornaments falling apart. She had a pink and silver set and a red and gold set. She would decide which ones she wanted to put on, usually by how many glass baubles were left divided by what colors the intended room was in because mom is addicted to home interior and her hot glue gun.

Then we’d get the tree out and lay out all the branches in the color catagory of the branch tips, then put the tree together. Then she would either make me go back or go back herself and spend twenty minutes rearranging the branches to perfection.

Then the lights. Check them, then unwind them. Put them on the tree. Then redo it. Then make sure they’re all blinky or solid, and if not redo again. I realize it doesn’t sound that bad, it’s common sense, really, but it was a very serious thing.

Then the balls. They couldn’t be the same ones too close together. It usually took forty minutes to do that part. Then she’d get out the homemade ornaments my brother and I (then later the girls’ when we’d put up either her or my tree) and they had to be in certain places.

THEN the manger scenes. She had three of them, one clear glass with gold highlights, one painted ceramic, and one that was cloth (that one was always a kid favorite) and decide which one to put under the tree, one in the kitchen, and one on the coffee table. It changed depending on the decorations. By the way, I inherited two of those manger scenes 😀

While that doesn’t sound hideous, I know, imagine doing that every year. Every. Single. Year.

So this year, when I told the girls’ dad he could decorate the tree with the girls while I’m Christmas shopping tomorrow with mom (sigh…) he kinda laughed. “Yeah… that’ll probably be good.” Because he has witnessed, and often been the brunt of my bitchfits, poor guy.

Now, I’m not a total grouch. I love shopping. I adore cooking Christmas feasts for as many people as I can (last year it was ten people \o/) and I absolutely LOVE wrapping presents, even though I’m not very good at it.

I’m mostly just keeping my meds down and trying not to think about the hole in my heart, even though it is ragged and bleeding and will never stop. So I’m just focusing on the girls, and making sure they have a fantastic Christmas holiday.

My idea of a Christmas song is either this or this. Merry Christmas all!