Pandora's Box - Fear

My therapist has asked me to write about one of the emotions that has been holding me back. I fear that if I dig deeper I will find that I'm an imposter and that I'm really not bipolar. That I'm making things up.

I know I'm broken, but I fear that I will find that I'm more broken than I expected. That no one will ever see past my brokenness to love me.

I fear I will always be alone. Alone like when I was pregnant and fell violently ill. When I told my son's father that I was pregnant, he never touched me again. Not so much as a hug. 

Women's bodies are strong, but pregnancy is so mysterious and confusing. You inhabit a body that becomes quite foreign. There were times I thought I was miscarrying because I had no idea what was supposed to be normal. I needed someone to hold my hand, even if I wasn't going to be alright. I wanted someone to hold me. 

I was so lonely, sick, and frightened.

I had to drive myself to the ER three separate times because I was so violently ill. My ex couldn't be bothered to drive me. 

The first time I was admitted to the ER, a tube was shoved down my throat and the vacuum switch thrown. The nurse left the room. I was alone watching the blood that had pooled in my stomach come flying out into a container on the wall. The machine should have been switched off after 2 or 3 minutes, but the clock in front of me showed each painful minute that went by. When the nurse finally came back in 10 minutes later, I was hysterical. She offered me a sedative but I refused it afraid that I'd caused so much damage to my unborn child, he probably couldn't stand the extra stress on his system.


I was sent to the high risk maternity ward where I promptly forgotten. No breakfast or lunch was delivered to me because no one remembered I was there. No one remembered me. The buzzer was broken so I stumbled down the hall, dragging a long empty IV bag behind me. The doctor didn't come until the evening of the second day because no one had told him I had been admitted.

In those three days I was in the hospital my son's father visited me once for an hour before stealing a box of gloves so he could paint his model figurines.

I had the love and comfort of friends and family at that time, like I do now. But you can't curl up at night in your friend's bed. And I stopped seeking refuge from nightmares in my parent's bed by the time I was 7.

Jeremiah's first Christmas. All six pounds of him.

I want someone to love me, someone who wouldn't be repelled at hearing the words, "I'm pregnant." Someone to talk with, to laugh with me and at me. To argue with. Someone to say, "I love you and I want to be with you."

But I fear that I will never hear those words. I am afraid that my illness will prevent anyone from ever loving me.

I was robbed of a happy pregnancy. Yes, I was fortunate to have a great joy once my son was born. My life was forever changed. But that vast loneliness was so painful.

It sounds strange and a bit perverse, but on some level  my ex's repulsion of me was more painful than my rapist's obsession with me. At least he had the courtesy to stalk me for 4 years.
I fear that I will always be alone.
My fear isn't irrational. I was left alone once. I fear I will be left alone forever because I'm not fixed. 

5 Minutes

One friend I made through Band Back Together is Jana.  She lost her son her Charlie on the 24th day of his life, due to Late Onset Group B Strep.  Her story is heartbreaking and powerful.  She is a wonderful woman with strength I wish I had.

Each Sunday she poses a challenge to herself and others to free write for 5 minutes straight.  No filter, just whatever happens as your fingers dance across the keyboard.

I realized today, after the enormity of some news I've gotten, that I need to write through this confusion and pain every day.  Even if it is only five minutes.

Off to set the kitchen timer.

300 Seconds Inside My Brain
I think the bbq I ate for lunch was bad.  My stomach is rolling.

Maybe it's because of the news Jeremiah's shrink gave me the other day.  My son has Tourette Syndrome and GAD aka Generalized Anxiety Disorder.

WTF.

I'm still reelling. I knew things weren't going right back in November, so I started getting help for him.  I knew in the back of my head that he had issues, but when the doctor said these out loud it made it all the more real.

If one person asks me if my son curses uncontrollably i will PUNCH THEM IN THEIR STUPID FACE.

Will I get jail time for that?

I can't think straight.  I'm going a little crazy today.  Yesterday was terrible for him.  He stayed with a friend who was also watching two other kids.  They were girls.  Horrible, obnoxious, brats from the outer rings of Hell.  I think they could annoy Satan.

He was great while he was there, but the moment he got home, all hell broke loose for him.  All the pent up rage and frustration boiled over.  He punched his dummy.  He laid down on the bed and kicked.  Screamed into his pillow.  Threaten to punch himself in the head.

Today. It Sucked.

     "I see you like to color coordinate.  Does the carpet match the drapes?"


   "I like when women say whatever they want.  I might be married but I enjoy 'interesting" conversations."

  "Caroline, LinkedIn thinks you should connect with X (your rapist).

The P in PTSD is post.  As in after.  There is no time limit to how far removed this post situation might be.  It could be 14 years later when a deep-seated fear and hatred is triggered.

You don't expect an inappropriate remark to detonate a well of emotions that leaves you silently crying for 2 hours while you drive up and down I-95, while your child plays Angry Birds, fortunately unaware of the crazy train sitting in the driver's seat.

I don't put much effort into my looks.  Besides coloring my hair blue (which I realized today is nothing but an attempted security blanket), I don't style it very often.  I rarely wear make-up.  Now that the weather is warmer, I'm wearing long, flowy skirts that aren't all that flattering, but I feel comfortable in.

I don't set out with the intent on appearing like I'm sex on a stick.  I don't bathe in milk and honey.  I don't roll in pheromones.  At this point I would be a better spokesperson for The Cheesecake Factory than Abercrombie & Fitch.

Yet, I wind up in situations where complete strangers say the most inappropriate things to me.  And it terrifies me.  It makes me so angry and sad.  Like the only thing this person sees before them is a sexual object.

Once, I was nothing but a sexual object for someone, for 5 miserable months.  "You're incapable of having an intelligent conversation with me, but your body makes up for it."

I've admitted previously that I struggle with self-harm.  One of the reasons why self-harming is such a struggle for me to stop is because I secretly believe that the cuts, welts, and scars will be such a turn-off that if a person is really interested in me, it will be because of my sense of humor, my intelligence, or my inability to laugh silently.

For the love of God, I don't want strangers to assume that I'm comfortable with sexual innuendo because my bra cup overfloweth.

I'm so scared and so low right now that if acid were splashed in my face right now I'd probably be happy.  I feel like I'm 18 all over again, trying to believe that I am more than a hole for someone to fuck.  

I'm trying to tell myself that I'm not a bad person, that I wasn't asking for it then as much as I wasn't asking for it today.  And it's really hard to listen to it.

I can't get a hold of my therapist, so writing it out will have to do.  I haven't hurt myself in the last 2 hours, yea, so there's a win I suppose.

It's gotta be better tomorrow.  Or at least I'll fake it.  My little karate kid is going to test for his yellow belt and mommy's anxieties don't need to overshadow his big day. 

You Can Go Home, But You'll Sometimes Find Assholes There

Went back to my Alma Mater for homecoming yesterday.  It's been 9 years since I graduated, leaving behind the tiny college I called home for four years. Four long years of debates in the class room, thousands of hours procrastinating writing papers, and scrubbing toilets to pay for my tuition.

Got all dolled up in my Red Dress of Courage.  It has been 8 years since I saw many of these people, almost 7 years since I gave birth to my son.  I needed something to make me feel wonderful, proud of myself, and all the achievements I have made in the last 9 years of my life.  

Was asked by a former classmate if I enjoyed being raped. 

Was too shocked to come up with a good reply, but wish I had retorted, "Of course, why do you think I'm dressed like this?"

I noticed many nasty glances and pointed fingers but didn't care.  Was ignored by people who were my friends when I was engaged but who didn't even bother to call when my fiancee left me at the alter.

I went for me.  I went to prove that I could go back there and not be ashamed of who I am, of the path my life has taken.  I'm not ashamed of my blue hair, of my views on the world, of the fact that I write openly about my rape, struggles with depression and anxiety, or the fears that run around my head.

I went because I am so my bigger than all the nonsense that use to keep me down.

And for all that I say with a smile on my face, I might not be the best Catholic out there, but at least I'm not a hypocrite.  And I can live and strive to do better than that.  

All in my head

I went to an apple orchard this week. The weather was beautiful, the fruit was delicious, and The Kiddo couldn't stop laughing. I couldn't ask for a more picturesque setting. Yet underneath my happy exterior I was fighting to keep the voices that whisper mean things to me at bay.

 "You're quite pitiful and pathetic. Look at you, acting like child. What sort of 31 year old woman runs around on a playground, climbs trees, and dives into a ball pit? Do you see the other adults acting like you? The answer is no, dumbass."

When I hear these things, I feel like a fraud, a failure around adults. I don't have a strict 9-5 job, so my paycheck shifts around. I don't have my own place, I don't eat vegetables at every meal, and I take The Kiddo into cemeteries looking for weather-worn headstones. My days aren't planned out and neither is my grocery list.

I know I don't follow the norm, and some days I am fine with that. Most days I secretly hope that The Kiddo's friends will think he has a neat, adventuresome, somewhat quirky mom.

 But those voices can be so mean. I just want to be happy and love being me.

Why

I stopped writing a while back and it's taken me a good long while to figure out just why.  It's not that I didn't have anything to talk about.  Plenty has happened since April when I dropped off the radar: friends got married, I got a job, moved four states away, my friend died, babies died.  A lot has gone on.

Yet I have not written, which is one thing my shrink said I must do if I want to keep working on the things that dwell in my head.

I finally know why I stopped writing.  It's because I got scared.  I let the ugly voices convince me that if I were to write about the things that run around inside my head that it would scare everyone off.  I have grown convinced that if I lay bare the sad, angry, happy, silly, mixed-upness that is me that I will never find anyone who wants to be close to me.

Not to long ago, a friend announced that she was getting a divorce and that really upset me.  She battles with mental health demons and I know that must have been a stress point in her marriage.  My bizarre little brain tells me that even though I'm not involved with anyone, if in the future I do have a counterpart, he'll probably realize I am a bag of crazy and not want to deal with me in the long run.  Basically I've spent months being upset about a scenario that doesn't exist in this dimension.  I've been paralyzed about a future that is not there.

I know it doesn't help that the baggage that I still haul around occasionally falls off the luggage carousel and I have to re-pack the contents before I close them again.  I hate being reminded that my son's father left me because he was too weak.  I hate that his family packed me up on an auto train and shipped me away.  I hate all things that were said to me, implying that I was not fit to be a mother.

I hate that when my fiancee dumped me at the alter, claiming that I was not trustworthy and would probably have an affair, still angers me.  He came from a broken family, which saddens my heart.  He had problems that he was unable to see, but I still loved that foolish boy.  I know that I would not make the same mistakes and get involved with someone so damaged, but I am still afraid of trusting someone again. 

Like a child that hides under the blankets to avoid the scary monsters in the closet, I am afraid that if I poke my head above the covers I will discover there is no one who wants to be near me.  That I'm the crazy monster in the closet.

Trembling

My brain snapped when I was 18.

I'd come from a long line of anxiety and depression riddled family members; it was only natural that I would inherit the chemical gene and growing up in an environment where I could sense the prevailing anxiety and depression that loomed in the air shaped my natural temperament.  Yet I was a happy child with a fanciful imagination, but always tinged with sadness, fear, and self-doubt.


I probably could have gone my entire life not really being too effected by my chemical imbalance.  I would have had my happy days and my not so happy days.  I would have been able to chalk things up to PMS, lack of sleep, or poor diet. 


But then my brain snapped when I was 18. 


Raped.
Verbally Abused.
Stalked.
Humiliated.
Belittled.
Threatened.


One night I thought I was going to choke to death.


But I pushed it all away.  Convinced myself that I was to blame, that I should have stayed away, that it was really just a bad breakup.

For years my heart would race uncontrollably at times.  I would cry without understanding what had set me off.  I'd jump every time I saw men with dark crew-cut hair or glasses. I would scream if people, intentionally or accidentally, walked up behind me without my knowledge. 

I just shook it off; I'd tell myself that  I was a spaz, jumpy, just high strung.  The doctor's have a name for that.  


PTSD

 It was almost 12 years ago, but sometimes there is a trigger that my subconscious picks.  One moment I am fine, the next my hands begin to tremble, my pulse races, and my airways narrow making each breath a challenge. 


And it's so fucking frustrating!  


I internally berate myself: 
                    "It was over 12 years ago!  Get the fuck over it!  Are you putting on a 
                     show  for attention?  Why do you have to randomly make it apparent 
                     that you aren't fully functional?  Can't you knock it off?"


Intellectually, I know the mind stores memories very deep.  That these uncontrollable, unintentional, involuntary reactions are part of who I am, who I have become.  

I know that they are part of me, that they will always be lurking in the dark recesses of my conscious.  

But I know they are not going to rule my life.

So I sit here, trembling and fighting to take a deep breath, waiting for this storm to pass.  The calm will arrive eventually; I will be exhausted, needing to crawl into bed. 


Jesus told the storms to calm; please Lord send that peace my way.

Blood Is Thicker Than Water

It's one thing to fuck with me.  I can take shit that's been thrown at me.  Granted I might get really down, depressed, and feel plagued by demons of doubt, but I always bounce out of it.

But when it comes to my family, you don't fuck with them. We might have our problems with each other, we might speak ill of one another, but when it comes to someone attacking from the outside, you'd best be sure to run the other way. 

There is a world of shit that's coming down soon.

My Sacrifice

I have been trying to talk myself out of a panic attack since last night. So far, I've kept the crazy feelings down, but they are fighting to get to the surface.  I hate putting this down in binary code, because to me, I sound like a pathetic broken record.  I hate that I just can't "get over it" (as I've been told to do) some of the residual anger that festers in my soul.  I hate that after 6.5 years I still long to be back up in VA, not the state that I was raised in, but the state where I 'grew up.'
 
I know I am sick and run down from taking care of The Kiddo. I probably have walking pneumonia if not my chronic sinusitis acting up.  I***know***that in a day or two I should be doing better.  I'll have been seen by a doctor and hopefully given something I help me kick this illness to the curb.  I just ***feel***like crying.

I am excited about going to VA in 87 days (but who is counting) yet terrified of the feelings I am going to have to deal with. I miss living up there so much. I had to give it up when I had my son. It has been such a sacrifice.

One one hand, my family is here, we are surrounded by a great group of people from our Church, and the Kiddo is getting a great education. He's lacking for nothing.  I do not regret choosing the life of my son over my desires.  I love him so much and know that his life is responsible on so many levels for me getting my life together.

But I am so alone down here. There isn't anyone I know down here that I can talk to, that has SOME of the same interests as I do. I stick out like a sore thumb. I'm not going to apologize and hide who I am like I've done before, but I'm just so tired of doing it alone.  In this area, if you aren't a good ole' country gal or a pretentious country club groupie/doctor chaser, than that's it.  This town, cute and quaint as it may be, isn't big in diversity. 

One of my cousins said I should move to Asheville because there are so many artists. I'd probably feel right at home, though what I gather from Portlandia, I'd be happy there too.

I'm so tired of being lonely.

I'm still angry that my son's father cowed under the pressure we faced.  That his parents paid for me go away, but wouldn't help me when I was sick.  We weren't together when I conceived.  I had realized that our relationship as a couple was a toxic combo.  But we had been friends for years before we had ever become involved.  I'm so pissed that he couldn't stand on his own two feet and ran to his parents like a baby.  I'm so angry that I had to give up living in a place for me that felt like home. 

I'm so tired of carrying this anger and hurt around.  I hate that I hate living where I am.  I hate that I'm not happy here. I hate knowing that I would hate myself  if I took The Kiddo away from the only life he's know just to satisfy my selfish desires.

The Difference Between Wants and Needs Pt. 2

My darling Frister Kathy is engaged to be married.  Her man-to-be is so darling, I want to carry him around in a obscenely expensive purse like a toy poodle, much like (A Nite in)Paris Hilton is seen often doing.  Of couse, this can't really happen because he's almost 7 feet tall.  And I don't think he'd let me do that.  Plus, the most expensive purse I've ever bought cost me $30.   

This very joyous event has brought my wants in the department of ideal men to the forefront of my mind.  I mean, it's always hanging around in my subconscious, but now the ideals are pounding on the door.  Lest you think I am jealous of her, I can tell you that I am not.  She was the first person I called when I discovered that I was pregnant.  Her excitement almost cased her to drive off the road.  We've been through so many ups and downs.  One of the low points came when we had a HUGE blowup over the demise of my relationship with her friend; the next time we spoke was a year later and I thought she had come to stab me with a butterfly knife.*

So now that relationships/men/desires/needs, I figured I should hammer out a list.  Because the good Lord knows, I need a better winnowing process.

And damnitall, I NEED to write.  My brain has been mushy, my mental health checking it's coat at the door on and off, and my vocabulary is stilted, so if I set up another 30 day challeneg like my shrink had me do several months ago, I'll get back in the swing of things.

I (foolishly) signed up for NaNoWrMo, have the entire novel plot line written out, but have written 250 words.  My execution of said idea has fallen flat, not because the idea sucks, but because I am completely scared.  I know that the idea is great.  No one has written a story about this woman, from this approach, EVER.  It has the possibility to be something awesome, but it's my doubting voice, the only that mocks me which is holding me back.  I keep finding up new excuses to keep me from writing.  And I'm finally sick of it.

But, bringing this derailed train of thought back into the station, I'm going to start a running list of qualifications I am desiring in a potential mate.  Hell at this point, I'd be happy with dinner and coffee with a warm body, but since I am bound and determined not to go down wrong avenues again, I need to write a map for myself.

*Note: I had mono which enjoyed manifesting itself in hives.  When she walked into my dorm room unannounced, I was curled up (naked) under my extra-large-cheap-ass-king-sized-"feather"-comforter.  She was wearing her leather jacket and her don't-fuck-with-me face on.  There was snow on the ground and I distinctly remember thinking, how am I going to explain it to the Dean when I am seen running across campus in my Hanes Her Way cotton undies?   Obviously, she didn't stab me and the 250 student at school were spared the site of me sans clothes.

Nothing's Wrong, Unless You Count Ice Cream Cake as an Emergency

2:30 Saturday afternoon.

~Down in the dumps after receiving some disappointing news but decided I was going to rally myself and not get the waterworks on. 

 ~Loaded the Kiddo into the car, intending to purchase necessary groceries for the week, possibly picking up something fun/yummy/not entirely healthy for dinner.  Ice cream cake for dinner sounded really appealing.

$50 at the pump last night didn't fill the tank.  Anyone care to trade for a horse?

~Decided to make a stop at the post office to retrieve mail that had been stacking up for several days.  Pretty sure I'd have three different charities asking for money (I use to donate before I went broke), a bank statement reminding me of how little I have, a reminder that my car payment is going to suck another $312 away from me (didn't realize that I could have re-financed two years ago; not so much now that I'm kinda/sorta unemployed because some people don't believe writing is a job), and a catalog showcasing darling clothes obviously made of hand-spun gold.  Because who in their right mind would pay $53 for an undershirt?

~Hand the mailbox keys to the Kiddo and realize that I have dialed 9-1-1 on speakerphone when I hear the nasally operator, "911, what's your emergency?"
Shrieking "OH CRAP!" I frantically paw at buttons to turn off the phone.
"Crap is a BAD WORD!" the voice from the back scolds.  "You get a bad mark!"  Elated that his Momma will have more bad marks on the bad word/bad temper chart than he does, the Kiddo scampers out of the car.

~30 seconds later, the treacherous phone rings.  "Ma'am, this is the police.  We received a call from this phone indicating an emergency.  Are you alright?"
"Yes.  I am so sorry!  I didn't mean to call you!"
"Ma'am operating procedures state that we must make contact with you.  What is your location?"

At this point, my brain shuts off and I develop a Tourette-like babble.  "I'm not at my phone.  I mean, I'm not home, not phone.  I'm talking to you on my phone.  I'm over at the Post Office because I wanted to get my mail."

"Alright Ma'am.  We need you to stay there.  What type of car are you driving?"
"I'm in a small SUV by the Post Office, not my house!"
"Ma'am, what color is your car?"  At this point Officer McFriendly was probably expecting to find me all drunky-drunky.
"Blue!  It's a blue Honda. . ."
~The Kiddo returns, mail in hand, sighing as he re-buckles his car seat.  "Momma, we have a Hyundai."
"It's a Hyundai," I yell into the phone, only to realize that Office McFriendly has hung up and is parked alongside me.

Now here's the thing.  I haven't been on a date in over four years.  I would hope at some point in the (nearer rather than later) future to go on a date/find Mr. Right/get married/live happily ever after until one of us forgets to put the cap on the toothpaste.  And seeing as I work from home(!!!) I don't get my mingle on that often.  Meeting Officer McFriendly as awkward as it is seeing as I've stammered like an idiot might just be the start of a beautiful thing.

Except I'm wearing a stained shirt.  And my hair is clipped up in a manner only described as water-logged rats nest.  And my bottom lip is swollen because I bit a nickle sized crater into my mouth while I was ravenously chowing down on cold seafood salad. 

I tell myself that batting my eyes and a wonderful smile will go a long way to make up for the stammering and train-wreck that I must look like.
"Hi, I'm so sorry."
"That's okay Ma'am.  Just wanted to make sure that you were well."
"I'm fine.  Well, okay I guess.  Actually, I'm having a crappy day."
"CRAP IS A BAD WORD!  YOU GET ANOTHER BAD MARK!"

My life.  It rocks indeed.

I Make Plans, God Laughs

I'm easily distracted by shiny objects.

When I dropped 40 lbs of frozen Kumquat puree on my index finger on Day 2 of the self-imposed 2 month deadline, I realized I was irony's bitch.  Well, I actually thought of that after yelling F**k several times, almost barfing and passing out from the pain.

So much to my chagrin my posting may not be as consistent as I want it to be.

Shit.

I hate being thrown a curve ball so early in the game.  I need to keep remembering the positive ideas that I am finally believing to be in me.