I have a chip on my shoulder. I know this. The problem is getting rid of it. I have a hard time admitting that I need help and often accepting it. It didn't used to be that way, though.
I moved out on my own at 17, the summer before senior year in highschool. I needed a lot of help then and I took it when I got the offers. I had been living with the only foster parent that wasn't shocked by my behaviors. She was an amazing lady that grew up rough in her time as well. She was a wayward girl in L.A. growing up, had done drugs in the '70's and had been a groupy that had some fun, i.e. she slept with the Roger Daltrey of 'The Who'. Nothing I did shocked her. She had a VERY nice home complete with rescue animals. She actually had a little room built in the back yard completely enclosed with 5 sided fencing. Inside this room that was completely heated and cooled, was a pack of cats. She had six or seven of them in there, with their own radio and lights she left on all day. She was a truly neat person that I had the privilege of having pass through my life. Nothing fazed her.
A pretty shocking day in our lives was the day that DSHS called a meeting with us and my mom. This wasn't really unusual, we had them periodically. But when we got there they announced that it was time to reconcile our family. Collectively our jaws dropped. Ok. I know that none of us expected it but on top of that I don't think that any of us wanted it. I finally lived in a home, after 16 years of hell, where someone WANTED me to be there, set firm but reasonable boundaries and loved me even when they drew a hard line and punished me. I know she was disappointed in me when I did wrong but she never made me feel like she was angry with me. And it was a breath of fresh air. To this day when she visits this state she asks for me at Fred Meyer and checks up on how I'm doing. She lets me know that she's proud of me because she knows from my history and her own life experience how hard it is for me to live a structured life.
When I moved home with my mom we clashed, as was normal. She didn't want to let me out of her sight and although I lied and found ways to get out of her house it felt like returning to hell. She didn't know how to deal with me after 3 years of being the mom I visited on occasion and I didn't know how to deal with her after being in a home where I fit so well. We didn't like it, in fact it seemed like a long few months. What eventually happened was that she agreed I could leave home as long as I checked in and as long as I attended school when it started. So I took myself, my bike and the puppy we had the last falling out over and went to Matoon.
I had friends that took their campers there and I thought it would be a good place to sleep.
The first day I was out there I met a couple on the run. She was underage and he was too old to be her boyfriend hence ending up in Ellensburg on the run. They had a tent and they invited me to stay with them. It was fun, they showed me how to clean up in bathrooms, how to steal St. Ides and get drunk. We met a few people along the way. I enjoyed it.
Eventually out there I ran into an older friend that used to own a music store in town living there with his gypsy band. When I say gypsy, I mean that they traveled in his motor home, lived in tents around it and played belly dancing music at fairs for a troupe of belly dancers. There were 3 of them and I lived in a tent with one. I was 17, thought I was wordly and I was willing to do whatever. The man that owned the motor home sold pot to make his living and I helped him with that. There were usually branches hanging around the ceiling of his trailer, drying. The only time I smoked opium was with them, they had picked it in Yellowstone and saved it. I didn't notice that it did much, though.
The motor home man was a grumpy old fucker and he tended to make us all a little miserable. His big problem was that his shitty personality interfered with getting women and he wanted me to recruit them for him. I tried but he sucked as a human being and that made it a mission impossible. So for about a month and a half I lived at the wonderful Matoon. One thing that really stands out to me was one time the girl from that original couple came and found me. She was afraid, her older boyfriend was losing it on her and he was big guy. He was threatening to hurt her. I remember standing up to him, knowing it was the right thing to do, telling him he would have to get through me to get to her. I was 17, skinny from lack of eating and 5'2". I really have no idea what I thought I could do to protect her but it's an instinct I feel like I've always had. I went to the gypsies for help and the response I got was that it was 'their' business. That they didn't want to get involved. I had 3 able bodied adult males and out of us all the only person that wanted to help was me. I still don't understand that.
One day when i had ridden my bike into town to hang out at The Four Winds I ran into my best friend's ex. I didn't care much for him before but this time something clicked. We smoked pot in an alley and he offered to let me stay at his place. It was a good offer. I had been living in the woods with these men long enough, was tired of having rules put on me by someone that also expected me to bring them food. So I went. That first night was amazing. I knew that there was something between us but all that really happened was we slept on a couch together. But as the night of uncomfortable couch sharing wore on, we kissed. It was sometime after the sun started rising, we were half asleep, cuddling from lack of space and we kissed. I fell, immediately.
That summer was incredibly hedonistic. Everything was about sensory fulfillment. We moved so many random people into that house that we hardly knew. It was genuine hippy commune living. A few people I will likely never see again, one woman I keep in touch with on Facebook and adore from a distance, one person is a man that helped me in the worst of my eventual drug use and maintain contact with to this day. One person I met there is dead, murdered by a close friend and remembered as well as celebrated by many people he may not even know he touched that deeply.
In that house I conceived my first child, which I lost shortly after we moved out. I met the first people I ever knew that traded food stamps for weed, fell in what I thought was love for the first time, took showers with multiple other women in a non sexual way. It was a very adventurous summer. I spent the bulk of that summer checking in with my mom but refusing to tell her where I lived. I let her know I was still alive and in return she let me have my freedom. When I told her I was pregnant, however, that was another story. She threatened to call the police, threatened to press charges against this 23 year old man. So I lied and said that I had lied. Said I wasn't pregnant, just wanted to see what she would say. Later, when I miscarried I probably needed my mother but I couldn't call her, because I had said it was all a hoax. I was pretty alone when I miscarried. He was relieved and I was devastated. I had named 'her' Elora Anastasia. Elora means "sun ray, shining light" and Anastasia meant "Resurrection". I picked Elora and he had chosen Anastasia. By the time I had miscarried though it had all already fallen apart.
We had been evicted from the low income housing apartment because there were too many of us there. We were living with a woman we had met through a tweeker we knew. They had decided that I was a killjoy (I was) because I was moody. Truth be told I had quit smoking pot as soon as I found out I was pregnant and I resented the lifestyle of those around me for continuing as usual. The day I started to miscarry I remember well. I was in class and felt what seemed like a rubberband snapping in my uterus. It was very noticable and made me nervous immediately. Later that night I had cramps, I knew what was happening. I may have only been seventeen but the horrible feeling I got from it was that of a mother. I knew my child was in danger, knew something was wrong. We went to the ER and they saw nothing during the ultrasound, we had to do a blood test to even confirm I was pregnant. They had me come back the next day to do another blood test for comparison.
That day was a long day. It's hard to explain the immediate bond a woman feels the moment her mind wraps around the fact that she's pregnant. The moment the realization set in I WAS a mother. I began to have dreams for my baby, set out to find a name worthy of this child that I absolutely knew was going to be a girl. I made life changes to make sure she would be healthy. I felt so close to her. And the blood test results came back. My HCG level was dropping. She was gone. They were in fact surprised that I caught the pregnancy in the first place, it was so early. They said it would seem like a normal period and then would be done. but it felt like failure. I felt like I knew this little person, had carried her in my young body and tried so hard to do the best for her. And I had failed. I think that every woman that miscarries feels this way, feels like she hurt her baby, caused it to die. The 'what ifs' run rampant. We find every angle we can to hold ourselves explicitly responsible. But the truth is that in his family there are mental retardation s. Many of these children are never born as a natural defense against defects. This was possibly a case of that. But I took it hard.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Friday, March 25, 2011
Conflicted interests.
I am two very different things. I'm an isolationist and I am a social butterfly/people pleaser. This is a very awkward combination to be stuck with. I think it comes down to nature versus nurture. The natural me is very social and outgoing, very self confident. The side of me that reacts to the nurturing I received tends to isolate and stay distant from people.It's probably a driving force behind my feeling insane most of the time. The part of me that is the 'real me' wants to hug people, wants to be loved. The part of me that adapted to life wants to stay a careful distance away from people, steps back physically when people step towards me.
I'm trying to find a way to balance these two sides of me. It's hard, though, when the life I want to believe in is a purists ideal; when people love you it's concrete and forever. But what I grew up with was the realization that nothing is forever, nothing is real. One misstep and everything is gone. While that is true in some extreme cases I know the reality is that it isn't how things really are. Shades of gray are hard to interpret when everything was so black and white growing up.
It's funny how writing this all down, exposing myself to a general audience is forcing me to deal with things I have thought I dealt with so long ago. But really I've been hoarding all of my issues and memories, keeping them private as a way to justify not accepting the world as it is. The one long term relationship I ever had was a big part of my hurt. We were both twenty somethings that kind of got forced to stay together because of my pregnancy. All the years of therapy I had really only taught me how to verbalize what had happened to me without feeling it, it tricked me into thinking I was cured. But I wasn't cured. I was just calloused. When me and my ex fought it was dirty, no holds barred. He has a past of hurt and disappointment as well, he has his reasons to run from life, which I realize now but at the time I didn't see that. I confided in him my past, one of the few times I had gone into detail or really trusted anyone with it. Because I loved him, I thought he would understand.
Instead he used it as ammo when we struggled through our dysfunctional relationship. The worst thing that anyone ever said to me came from his mouth during one of our many fights. It was so bad that it was as damaging as what my father did to me. He said that I must have liked getting 'fucked' by my father because I became a slut. That taught me a few things. One was that I had been right to never trust anyone with the details of my past. The other was that people would think what happened to me was parallel to being my fault.
I may never have been successful at committing to relationships prior to being with him but I think that and that alone was a nail in the coffin of really trying again. I know now that I shouldn't be ashamed of these things, that I lived a life reactive to the lessons that I had learned but he convinced me that the only way I could be with anyone was to not relate the story of my past. And the part of me that believes in a black and white reality learned that I could never be with anyone. Because no one would love someone like me if they knew everything.
What I am learning now is that if people love you then they love you even more when you tell them your history. Because when people love you they understand when you reveal the facts. I'm lucky. I have a lot of people that love me, not out of obligation but rather because they accept me in spite of my flaws. Because they know my intentions and see them beyond my reactions. I feel like the best thing I have done for myself in this life so far (besides having my kids) has been to expose my secrets in this blog. I've removed the barriers that keep me from everyone. I WANT to be an open book, secrets aren't my strong suite. Secrets have been the worst part of most terrible things I have experienced. I hate secrets. Whenever I have a secret I know I'm not living my life right.
Sometimes the past creeps up on me and I can't do anything to protect myself but push everyone away. I get angry and suspicious. I close myself off and stay at home. I let a few people become my lifelines, my connection to the world. It isn't fair to these people, they take on roles beyond simply a friend. They become therapists and parental figures. And that isn't fair to them. I'm trying to find a way to avoid this sick pattern, but it's hard. I'm finding this blog therapeutic because it gives me chance to talk about all of this, face it, without having it feel overly confrontational. And it helps. Because after people read this they either love me or they don't. I don't want to hide my secrets, never have wanted to. I just want to be me and eventually a better me. So thank you for being a part of this.
I'm trying to find a way to balance these two sides of me. It's hard, though, when the life I want to believe in is a purists ideal; when people love you it's concrete and forever. But what I grew up with was the realization that nothing is forever, nothing is real. One misstep and everything is gone. While that is true in some extreme cases I know the reality is that it isn't how things really are. Shades of gray are hard to interpret when everything was so black and white growing up.
It's funny how writing this all down, exposing myself to a general audience is forcing me to deal with things I have thought I dealt with so long ago. But really I've been hoarding all of my issues and memories, keeping them private as a way to justify not accepting the world as it is. The one long term relationship I ever had was a big part of my hurt. We were both twenty somethings that kind of got forced to stay together because of my pregnancy. All the years of therapy I had really only taught me how to verbalize what had happened to me without feeling it, it tricked me into thinking I was cured. But I wasn't cured. I was just calloused. When me and my ex fought it was dirty, no holds barred. He has a past of hurt and disappointment as well, he has his reasons to run from life, which I realize now but at the time I didn't see that. I confided in him my past, one of the few times I had gone into detail or really trusted anyone with it. Because I loved him, I thought he would understand.
Instead he used it as ammo when we struggled through our dysfunctional relationship. The worst thing that anyone ever said to me came from his mouth during one of our many fights. It was so bad that it was as damaging as what my father did to me. He said that I must have liked getting 'fucked' by my father because I became a slut. That taught me a few things. One was that I had been right to never trust anyone with the details of my past. The other was that people would think what happened to me was parallel to being my fault.
I may never have been successful at committing to relationships prior to being with him but I think that and that alone was a nail in the coffin of really trying again. I know now that I shouldn't be ashamed of these things, that I lived a life reactive to the lessons that I had learned but he convinced me that the only way I could be with anyone was to not relate the story of my past. And the part of me that believes in a black and white reality learned that I could never be with anyone. Because no one would love someone like me if they knew everything.
What I am learning now is that if people love you then they love you even more when you tell them your history. Because when people love you they understand when you reveal the facts. I'm lucky. I have a lot of people that love me, not out of obligation but rather because they accept me in spite of my flaws. Because they know my intentions and see them beyond my reactions. I feel like the best thing I have done for myself in this life so far (besides having my kids) has been to expose my secrets in this blog. I've removed the barriers that keep me from everyone. I WANT to be an open book, secrets aren't my strong suite. Secrets have been the worst part of most terrible things I have experienced. I hate secrets. Whenever I have a secret I know I'm not living my life right.
Sometimes the past creeps up on me and I can't do anything to protect myself but push everyone away. I get angry and suspicious. I close myself off and stay at home. I let a few people become my lifelines, my connection to the world. It isn't fair to these people, they take on roles beyond simply a friend. They become therapists and parental figures. And that isn't fair to them. I'm trying to find a way to avoid this sick pattern, but it's hard. I'm finding this blog therapeutic because it gives me chance to talk about all of this, face it, without having it feel overly confrontational. And it helps. Because after people read this they either love me or they don't. I don't want to hide my secrets, never have wanted to. I just want to be me and eventually a better me. So thank you for being a part of this.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
The Rain.
The rain always reminds me of Napa, California. The last year that I lived in Napa as a kid was during the flood of '86. It was a pretty crazy flood and I remember witnessing none of it. But I do remember the sound and the smell of rain. It reminds me of being small and not afraid, not safe but unaware of how unsafe I was. You always think that your life is the standard that most people's lives are modeled after until you begin to witness firsthand that it isn't so. So for a few years, until I went to Headstart and then kindergarten I lived a normal life. It may not be anyone else' version of normal, but until I knew better it was mine. And so I was happy.
The sound of rain makes me nostalgic for that feeling. Of my mother singing to us, of sneaking into the neighbor's backyard to play with their puppies, or camping in our backyard in a tent with a flashlight and a tube of cookie dough with my sisters. Being in the country visiting my grandparents and getting a foxtail stuck in my ear. I think they had to take me to a vet get it out. Climbing a tree in the backyard only to realize that I was afraid of heights. I was so afraid that all I could do was stay still until my grandma climbed up to get me out. She refused to ever babysit me again, poor lady. There are so many tiny memory clips that run through my mind, of grilled cheese sandwiches we got up early and made so we could give our parents breakfast in bed. Eating peach Quaker Oatmeal and mimicking the commercial saying "Peachy Keen!" as I grinned like I thought the actress did.
There is SO much there that I played over and over again in the years after I was separated from them for good. I hung on to these memories so I would never be alone because I knew at one time someone loved me like that and one day we would be together again. The scene with the song 'Somewhere Out There' from "An American Tale" was a song I loved because it was so similar to how I felt with my memories. The scene from "Dumbo" when the mother cradled Dumbo in her trunk through the bars of her cell as she sang to him always made me ache because I knew what that situation felt like. I felt like I lived in a strange limbo after I was with my adoptive mother. I had a new family but I had a heart full of the family I felt like I had been stolen from. There was a lot of frustration in the relationship with my adopted mother stemming from the loyalties I had for my biological family. She was supportive of my love for them at first but I think she had the expectation that it would fade. And it didn't.
I can see now how it must have been painful for her to compete with the memory of a woman that couldn't take care of me, didn't protect me. But even now as I picture my biological mom with short, curly brown hair and a face that looks so much like mine it makes me long for her. Not her now, but what she was then. My safe place. When I was a teenager and life continued to get more and more complicated I would close my eyes and imagine I was small and in her arms. I would drink Sleepy Time tea because she used to give that to us a bedtime. The smell of that tea makes me feel a fragile kind of peacefulness.
The last time I saw V (biological mom) was right before we moved to Ellensburg when I was 13. We met at Chuck E. Cheese. My 16 year old sister Heather and her were saying goodbye to me. Heather was 3 months pregnant with my nephew Dylan and she was excited. It was surreal, I didn't really know them, they had become almost god-like to me in the 7 years since I had been placed with my adoptive mom. Her hair had turned gray and I felt that same craving for them but barely recognized them. And then it was goodbye for the next 5 years.
I think missing them only became worse, only got stronger. As the life with my mom went downhill I idealized their memories even more. It was a means to survive, a reason to have hope and keep pushing because I knew that as soon as I was 18 I would return to my 'real' life and they would be there with open arms awaiting for their prodigal daughter to return home. So I wrote. For years and years I filled notebooks with poems and then songs. Everything came out of me and on paper it became something tangible and real to keep me company. I sang. I found that when I felt trapped in a situation I could sing or close my eyes and 'play' music in my head. Words and music became an insulation for me against the world. I knew from the first time I remember singing in kindergarten thinking that this was it, this was what I was going to do with my life. I was going to be a singer. And through the rest of my life growing up that was what I worked towards. Writing songs, performing in talent shows and choirs. I think that was the only thing that got me though all of those years.
It was a shock to me the first time I realized that it might not happen. My whole life was based on this dream and it hit me when I was strung out, thinking I was going to be a junky for the rest of my life. It was such a radical concept to me that it actually took the air out my lungs. I don't know when I laid it to rest completely, got over the fact that that dream wasn't one that I was going to live out but at some point I did. Now when I think about it, it's with a kind of disconnect and really no feeling of loss. It really did get me through most of my childhood and in to adulthood. I'd say that it was a very well lived dream based on that alone.
The sound of rain makes me nostalgic for that feeling. Of my mother singing to us, of sneaking into the neighbor's backyard to play with their puppies, or camping in our backyard in a tent with a flashlight and a tube of cookie dough with my sisters. Being in the country visiting my grandparents and getting a foxtail stuck in my ear. I think they had to take me to a vet get it out. Climbing a tree in the backyard only to realize that I was afraid of heights. I was so afraid that all I could do was stay still until my grandma climbed up to get me out. She refused to ever babysit me again, poor lady. There are so many tiny memory clips that run through my mind, of grilled cheese sandwiches we got up early and made so we could give our parents breakfast in bed. Eating peach Quaker Oatmeal and mimicking the commercial saying "Peachy Keen!" as I grinned like I thought the actress did.
There is SO much there that I played over and over again in the years after I was separated from them for good. I hung on to these memories so I would never be alone because I knew at one time someone loved me like that and one day we would be together again. The scene with the song 'Somewhere Out There' from "An American Tale" was a song I loved because it was so similar to how I felt with my memories. The scene from "Dumbo" when the mother cradled Dumbo in her trunk through the bars of her cell as she sang to him always made me ache because I knew what that situation felt like. I felt like I lived in a strange limbo after I was with my adoptive mother. I had a new family but I had a heart full of the family I felt like I had been stolen from. There was a lot of frustration in the relationship with my adopted mother stemming from the loyalties I had for my biological family. She was supportive of my love for them at first but I think she had the expectation that it would fade. And it didn't.
I can see now how it must have been painful for her to compete with the memory of a woman that couldn't take care of me, didn't protect me. But even now as I picture my biological mom with short, curly brown hair and a face that looks so much like mine it makes me long for her. Not her now, but what she was then. My safe place. When I was a teenager and life continued to get more and more complicated I would close my eyes and imagine I was small and in her arms. I would drink Sleepy Time tea because she used to give that to us a bedtime. The smell of that tea makes me feel a fragile kind of peacefulness.
The last time I saw V (biological mom) was right before we moved to Ellensburg when I was 13. We met at Chuck E. Cheese. My 16 year old sister Heather and her were saying goodbye to me. Heather was 3 months pregnant with my nephew Dylan and she was excited. It was surreal, I didn't really know them, they had become almost god-like to me in the 7 years since I had been placed with my adoptive mom. Her hair had turned gray and I felt that same craving for them but barely recognized them. And then it was goodbye for the next 5 years.
I think missing them only became worse, only got stronger. As the life with my mom went downhill I idealized their memories even more. It was a means to survive, a reason to have hope and keep pushing because I knew that as soon as I was 18 I would return to my 'real' life and they would be there with open arms awaiting for their prodigal daughter to return home. So I wrote. For years and years I filled notebooks with poems and then songs. Everything came out of me and on paper it became something tangible and real to keep me company. I sang. I found that when I felt trapped in a situation I could sing or close my eyes and 'play' music in my head. Words and music became an insulation for me against the world. I knew from the first time I remember singing in kindergarten thinking that this was it, this was what I was going to do with my life. I was going to be a singer. And through the rest of my life growing up that was what I worked towards. Writing songs, performing in talent shows and choirs. I think that was the only thing that got me though all of those years.
It was a shock to me the first time I realized that it might not happen. My whole life was based on this dream and it hit me when I was strung out, thinking I was going to be a junky for the rest of my life. It was such a radical concept to me that it actually took the air out my lungs. I don't know when I laid it to rest completely, got over the fact that that dream wasn't one that I was going to live out but at some point I did. Now when I think about it, it's with a kind of disconnect and really no feeling of loss. It really did get me through most of my childhood and in to adulthood. I'd say that it was a very well lived dream based on that alone.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
This Birthday I will be 31.
This year I will be 31 but I feel just as confused, frustrated and in over my head as did when I was a kid. Only now, when things go wrong it's my fault. I have two beautiful boys that love me because they know no better, because I'm the only mom they've got. As I exist here selfishly running from my ghosts they sit patiently and wait for mom to be okay. And that's not right. I remember growing up thinking that adults were insane, selfish people that got all of the choices and none of the repercussions. I remember wanting to be dead. Suicide was an idealized thought that developed in my mind over the years and attempts manifested on occasion. The first time I remember was when I was 13 or 14. I took a lot of over the counter pills and remember the feeling of disappointment when nothing happened. I remember crying in the kitchen of my mom's house as I washed dishes, as the lyrics of a Duran Duran song wailed
"Words playing me deja-vu like a radio tune I swear I've heard before
Chills is it something real or the magic I'm feeding off your fingers
Can't ever keep from falling apart at the seams
Can't I believe you're taking my heart to pieces
Lost in a snow filled sky we'll make it alright to come undone now
We'll try to stay blind to the hope and fear outside
Hey child stay wilder than the wind and blow me in to cry"
And all I could think was "Let me out!!!!"
I don't think anyone ever knew about the times I tried to do myself in. I was careful, never spoke about it or someone might stop me. The next time I remember was when I was 14 at the group home, I was coming off of Prozac cold turkey and it was rough. I stole a butter knife with a slightly serrated edge and went on a walk. I think it was around the time they found out I was bulimic. I went to the park across the street and sat under a tree, then sawed away. I wasn't into pain, it was all action with purpose. I sawed at my wrist making sure to saw downwards and across the veins, sobbing, because I wanted nothing more than to end all of this hurt. I wanted to be free.
The next time I remember was when I was 17 and in the only decent home I ever lived in. I got into her medicine cabinet and got her cold medicine, took it all with a feeling of relief. It was all going to end now. I don't believe in heaven (though I DO believe in ghosts, hypocrisy much?) and I was ecstatic that the pain and frustration was going to end. But I woke up the next morning. I was so disappointed.
Even now I see it as an easy out, a pressure release when I am over whelmed. When I was on meth the only thing that kept me from doing myself in was the image of my family telling my nephews why they would never see me again. I couldn't do that to them. But honestly when things get bad even now, I consider it. I look for that easy out, consider that easy out because I'm not sure about my strength.
"Words playing me deja-vu like a radio tune I swear I've heard before
Chills is it something real or the magic I'm feeding off your fingers
Can't ever keep from falling apart at the seams
Can't I believe you're taking my heart to pieces
Lost in a snow filled sky we'll make it alright to come undone now
We'll try to stay blind to the hope and fear outside
Hey child stay wilder than the wind and blow me in to cry"
And all I could think was "Let me out!!!!"
I don't think anyone ever knew about the times I tried to do myself in. I was careful, never spoke about it or someone might stop me. The next time I remember was when I was 14 at the group home, I was coming off of Prozac cold turkey and it was rough. I stole a butter knife with a slightly serrated edge and went on a walk. I think it was around the time they found out I was bulimic. I went to the park across the street and sat under a tree, then sawed away. I wasn't into pain, it was all action with purpose. I sawed at my wrist making sure to saw downwards and across the veins, sobbing, because I wanted nothing more than to end all of this hurt. I wanted to be free.
The next time I remember was when I was 17 and in the only decent home I ever lived in. I got into her medicine cabinet and got her cold medicine, took it all with a feeling of relief. It was all going to end now. I don't believe in heaven (though I DO believe in ghosts, hypocrisy much?) and I was ecstatic that the pain and frustration was going to end. But I woke up the next morning. I was so disappointed.
Even now I see it as an easy out, a pressure release when I am over whelmed. When I was on meth the only thing that kept me from doing myself in was the image of my family telling my nephews why they would never see me again. I couldn't do that to them. But honestly when things get bad even now, I consider it. I look for that easy out, consider that easy out because I'm not sure about my strength.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Current state. As of today, since it changes constantly.
Today I'm a human being, someone with many flaws and many weaknesses I haven't wanted to pardon myself for. I have been a hard critic, self loathing, miserable. And recently something amazing happened. I thought of myself, of my problems and I felt empathy. It's been easy up until now to look at the child I was and feel compassion but for the adult I am I haven't cut any slack. I may have been a great defense attorney for myself all of these years but I've never rewarded myself with the understanding that I would have given to anyone else that I love. Then one day I thought "You are this way for a reason". And it clicked. I was human, my flaws were forgivable. Wow. That's a HUGE fuckin' relief. The way I've lived is as a neurotic people pleaser, with concrete loyalties and a self righteous streak that has crippled me. I've been slowly training myself to be more objective. I feel like a kid that's learning the art of socialization and it hasn't been easy. In fact sometimes it just plainly and simply hurts. The thing about me is that I get short sighted when it comes to people that I care about---I get a superman complex. I can fix it! I can fight it! I can save them! But how the fuck can I save anyone else when I can't even save myself? When I am constantly beating myself down for real and fictitious failures in my life?
I'm an asshole, that much I will admit. I'm a dirty, old, pissed off man stuck in a 30 year old woman's body. But I'm also a few other things. I'm child-like, I have a streak in me that lets me engage other people in ridiculousness and I think it carries people sometimes. I have a huge heart, all I need is a good sob story to get my mind going and my body moving on ways to help. I'm such a fucked up mess that has enough life experience that I can relate to a lot of people because in a lot of different cases because I have really, truly been there. I don't harshly judge the people I love because I love them and I offer that pretty openly. There isn't much I wouldn't do for the people I love. In fact there isn't much I wouldn't do for people I loathe if they come at me from the right angle. I often put my own inconvenience to the wayside to help people if the situation seems dire enough, as long as they seem sincere. And I will also admit: I am one HELL of a cheerleader. I genuinely want good people to succeed, whether I know them well or not. I'm a good person to tell your problems to because generally it will never go any further and I can offer decent advice. Because I care. And I will never pussy-foot around the truth just because you are my friend. I will tell you what I honestly think because I think that when you really love people you take the risk of making them mad if the point I make might drive them to improve their life.
So there it is. I'm admitting I'm a decent human being. And this is new to me. I've made a lot of mistakes and have hurt people when I really would have rather not. But I can't change any of this now. I can only try to be a better person. So I guess the state I am in is forgiving myself. I am only human and much of this I've had to learn on my own, the harder way. I'm doing ok. Because I'm growing.
I'm an asshole, that much I will admit. I'm a dirty, old, pissed off man stuck in a 30 year old woman's body. But I'm also a few other things. I'm child-like, I have a streak in me that lets me engage other people in ridiculousness and I think it carries people sometimes. I have a huge heart, all I need is a good sob story to get my mind going and my body moving on ways to help. I'm such a fucked up mess that has enough life experience that I can relate to a lot of people because in a lot of different cases because I have really, truly been there. I don't harshly judge the people I love because I love them and I offer that pretty openly. There isn't much I wouldn't do for the people I love. In fact there isn't much I wouldn't do for people I loathe if they come at me from the right angle. I often put my own inconvenience to the wayside to help people if the situation seems dire enough, as long as they seem sincere. And I will also admit: I am one HELL of a cheerleader. I genuinely want good people to succeed, whether I know them well or not. I'm a good person to tell your problems to because generally it will never go any further and I can offer decent advice. Because I care. And I will never pussy-foot around the truth just because you are my friend. I will tell you what I honestly think because I think that when you really love people you take the risk of making them mad if the point I make might drive them to improve their life.
So there it is. I'm admitting I'm a decent human being. And this is new to me. I've made a lot of mistakes and have hurt people when I really would have rather not. But I can't change any of this now. I can only try to be a better person. So I guess the state I am in is forgiving myself. I am only human and much of this I've had to learn on my own, the harder way. I'm doing ok. Because I'm growing.
Friday, March 18, 2011
It happened.
I've had so many moments that have left me standing, shocked and rocked, thinking "If I could only change just that ONE moment, that ONE decision". But I can't. Admittedly most of them fade away, the pain dulls and the memory gets much less sharply edged. But some moments hang around forever, highlighted by a song that plays on the radio, in a face that I see, in a person that I run into from time to time. They never fade, never burn out--always raging away in my memory, waiting to be triggered and resurrected in to full form. When people say they are haunted by a memory it's a very literal use of the word.
I don't have many things that I regret with that much conviction or that much commitment. But some things I do. The things I've done to hurt my self, which most things are, don't phase me. I don't look back and think "I wish I could take that back." Those things were relevant to me at those times in my life. They didn't fulfill me, didn't make me happy or proud necessarily but they do make me myself, so that makes them relevant. The things that stab me with regret are the problems I've caused for other people. Because I can't absorb that shock, can't heal that hurt. The biggest weakness I have is my immaturity. It hinders me daily, is evident in my black and white perception and in my live in the moment reality. There's more to life than feeling good but I forget that daily. My goal seems to be to feel good. Or more realistically to just not feel bad. There's more to life than this. I have a huge guilty conscience, probably from not being believed when I've told the truth for a lot of my life, maybe just from my low level of self worth.
The person that I TRY to be is very honest (even with myself), very ethical, very brave and unwavering. In some ways I am that person, I always want to do the 'right' thing. I tell people what I really think because it's the only way to communicate and come to see eye to eye. I don't like to assume that I am always right and talking is the only way to walk towards discovering this. The person that I perceive that I am is awkward, overbearing, self righteous, impulsive, oversensitive and brash. I'm trying to learn to be humble, have temperance. And finally it's happening. The negativity I cast out at the world to keep it all away is leaving me.
I relaxed today, really and truly for the first time in as long as I can remember. I feel a lot of guilt today, don't get me wrong but today I'm not running. I'm not chasing away the memories and thoughts that hold me accountable for the choices I've made. When I say 'today' I really mean this actual day. Getting on antidepressants has improved my life immensely in so many ways and facing my life is one of them. I still have a hard time getting out of bed most days but my inner voice that is honest with me has gotten louder. And I've let some of my walls down, I'm feeling pain instead of rage. It's uncomfortable to say the least but it's real and very valid. Instead of Syndea the warrior I'm feeling like Syndea the person and that makes the world a less hostile environment for me. Shades of gray are starting to appear and the barrier that kept me from most people is starting to thin.
Does it feel good? No. In some ways it is more hurt than I anticipated. Is it a good for me? Yes. This proves a few points: Feeling good isn't always good for me or those around me. People are people, forgive their flaws. My anger only drains me and very rarely anyone else. You get what you give; put out negativity and rudeness and it will only be returned. I've stopped carrying around these burdens, my grudge against the world was a self constructed prison and I'm done committing myself to this term.
Here's the thing I'm working towards: I don't want to pass my misery on to my kids. I don't want them to be jaded on mankind before they even get a chance to experience it. I've put enough on to them, given them enough weight to pull through this life. The pain I've suffered has all been passed on to me from unhappy adults acting out on their bad lives and I don't wish that on my boys. I feel like a failure as a parent daily. I want them to know they are a priority and not a chore but I don't think I'm doing it well. Nothing hurt like it does when it's hurting your kid, nothing feels important like it does when it's important to your kid. I don't want to be that hurt to them, don't want to be that important thing that failed. i need to fix these things NOW.
I don't have many things that I regret with that much conviction or that much commitment. But some things I do. The things I've done to hurt my self, which most things are, don't phase me. I don't look back and think "I wish I could take that back." Those things were relevant to me at those times in my life. They didn't fulfill me, didn't make me happy or proud necessarily but they do make me myself, so that makes them relevant. The things that stab me with regret are the problems I've caused for other people. Because I can't absorb that shock, can't heal that hurt. The biggest weakness I have is my immaturity. It hinders me daily, is evident in my black and white perception and in my live in the moment reality. There's more to life than feeling good but I forget that daily. My goal seems to be to feel good. Or more realistically to just not feel bad. There's more to life than this. I have a huge guilty conscience, probably from not being believed when I've told the truth for a lot of my life, maybe just from my low level of self worth.
The person that I TRY to be is very honest (even with myself), very ethical, very brave and unwavering. In some ways I am that person, I always want to do the 'right' thing. I tell people what I really think because it's the only way to communicate and come to see eye to eye. I don't like to assume that I am always right and talking is the only way to walk towards discovering this. The person that I perceive that I am is awkward, overbearing, self righteous, impulsive, oversensitive and brash. I'm trying to learn to be humble, have temperance. And finally it's happening. The negativity I cast out at the world to keep it all away is leaving me.
I relaxed today, really and truly for the first time in as long as I can remember. I feel a lot of guilt today, don't get me wrong but today I'm not running. I'm not chasing away the memories and thoughts that hold me accountable for the choices I've made. When I say 'today' I really mean this actual day. Getting on antidepressants has improved my life immensely in so many ways and facing my life is one of them. I still have a hard time getting out of bed most days but my inner voice that is honest with me has gotten louder. And I've let some of my walls down, I'm feeling pain instead of rage. It's uncomfortable to say the least but it's real and very valid. Instead of Syndea the warrior I'm feeling like Syndea the person and that makes the world a less hostile environment for me. Shades of gray are starting to appear and the barrier that kept me from most people is starting to thin.
Does it feel good? No. In some ways it is more hurt than I anticipated. Is it a good for me? Yes. This proves a few points: Feeling good isn't always good for me or those around me. People are people, forgive their flaws. My anger only drains me and very rarely anyone else. You get what you give; put out negativity and rudeness and it will only be returned. I've stopped carrying around these burdens, my grudge against the world was a self constructed prison and I'm done committing myself to this term.
Here's the thing I'm working towards: I don't want to pass my misery on to my kids. I don't want them to be jaded on mankind before they even get a chance to experience it. I've put enough on to them, given them enough weight to pull through this life. The pain I've suffered has all been passed on to me from unhappy adults acting out on their bad lives and I don't wish that on my boys. I feel like a failure as a parent daily. I want them to know they are a priority and not a chore but I don't think I'm doing it well. Nothing hurt like it does when it's hurting your kid, nothing feels important like it does when it's important to your kid. I don't want to be that hurt to them, don't want to be that important thing that failed. i need to fix these things NOW.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Today my baby is 4.
Today my youngest baby is four. I'm elated, over the moon with excitement about the meager birthday he's had today. Being a mom was a natural wish that I had before I had children. I craved motherhood in the naive way that lonely, dysfunctional females typically do. In my sick little mind I thought that having a baby would cure my loneliness, make me forever linked to another being's soul. And I would be loved.
The way that my oldest son came to be wasn't ideal. I blame cheap beer and feeling lonely on the longest relationship I ever had. Most of my relationships were very short and anxiety ridden, it's hard to commit when you don't believe that anyone could truly love you. I'm slowly changing that belief but I have a ways to go before I really believe it. My approach is still to push people away because if they love me they will fight for it. Problem is that I can't recognize when it's been proven. There's no way for anyone to win.
I had lost my job in Santa Rosa due to drinking, no one wants to have a shaky alcoholic employed as the body piercer at their shop and I was a 22 year old drunk. I would drink a 12 pack every night, without fail, because when I drank that much it was the only time I didn't feel pain. It wasn't rewarding, I did humiliating things and slept with questionable people all in the name of numbness. Numb was a great feeling. Numb is the closest thing I have found to peace to this day. One day it led to my dismissal from a job I loved and I felt the only escape from this was to come 'home' to Ellenburg. I had gotten the number for an old friend that was crazy as hell but reliable for a place to stay and she welcomed me back. My plan was to come 'home' and make enough money to get back on my feet and return to California. California is the place my heart feels most comforted by, a place I really feel like I belong. I'm comfortable being a 'freak', someone that stands out by blending into the colorful and diverse Bay Area scene. I like being in a place with hookers, junkies and punks. I like feeling not extraordinary in my diversity.
When I lost my job I took out my facial piercings, drank enough booze to deaden my grief and sucked it up. I thought I would be back soon. What I didn't count on was ending up pregnant. Don't get me wrong, I wanted a baby---but I wanted a family, too. There was this huge part of me that thought I could replace the family I never had but always wanted with a family of my own. And I settled.
When I got to Ellensburg there was a guy I had known living in the trailer park (yeah, I said trailer park) that I had once flirted with and I knew we would be a couple. I thought that at the ripe old age of 22 if I couldn't make it with him then there was no one. So I tried. There were so many red flags, so many warnings but when you haven't experienced or believed in good things than you settle for what you get. What I wanted was love, but I was his rebound. I forever heard of the ghost of his meth crazed ex, someone he loved and loathed. I would never be enough because of her but because of her, his massive feelings of inadequacy kept me around. I had so many reasons to run during our relationship but my 'bulldog' personality kept me persistent, sure that my 'love' would keep us strong. It was a bad relationship, we got drunk and fought, made up and started over. I fell for his honey moon period sweet talk and he kept me around, I'm sure, because of my submissiveness to him.
And one day I knew. It wasn't a great time to find out--I left to visit Cali for a week and he slept with my room mate and a junky. Every time I called him from California he was unavailable. When I came back we broke up. But we were tossed back together when my room mate threw me out because of their affair. I had no place to go but he took me in. And eventually, one day, I felt funny. I walked to my work after drinking a few beers, as per the norm, but the smell of bacon made me puke. That was unusual. I thought about the cramps I had for a few days and started asking the other waitresses about pregnancy symptoms. I called a regular and asked him to bring me a pregnancy test. He brought it, I took it. I was fucking pregnant. I was pregnant. Oh my god, I was pregnant. Pregnant. Fuck.
I didn't tell him. I just didn't drink that first night, which was unusual. I remember him putting his hands over my nose and mouth, cutting off air as he told me this was what he had always wanted, me not drinking, but it was too late for us. I was so afraid.
I didn't tell him I was pregnant until the growing pains drove me to explain that the reason I wanted the password to his computer was to look up symptoms of a miscarriage. I was sure I was losing our child. He begged and pleaded, asked me to have an abortion, told me that he would pay for me to get artificially inseminated but PLEASE don't fulfill his family curse by having this baby. According to him his second born would signal his death. His father had died when he was a baby and me having this baby would kill him. I was his death sentence.
Needless to say, he didn't die.
The way that my oldest son came to be wasn't ideal. I blame cheap beer and feeling lonely on the longest relationship I ever had. Most of my relationships were very short and anxiety ridden, it's hard to commit when you don't believe that anyone could truly love you. I'm slowly changing that belief but I have a ways to go before I really believe it. My approach is still to push people away because if they love me they will fight for it. Problem is that I can't recognize when it's been proven. There's no way for anyone to win.
I had lost my job in Santa Rosa due to drinking, no one wants to have a shaky alcoholic employed as the body piercer at their shop and I was a 22 year old drunk. I would drink a 12 pack every night, without fail, because when I drank that much it was the only time I didn't feel pain. It wasn't rewarding, I did humiliating things and slept with questionable people all in the name of numbness. Numb was a great feeling. Numb is the closest thing I have found to peace to this day. One day it led to my dismissal from a job I loved and I felt the only escape from this was to come 'home' to Ellenburg. I had gotten the number for an old friend that was crazy as hell but reliable for a place to stay and she welcomed me back. My plan was to come 'home' and make enough money to get back on my feet and return to California. California is the place my heart feels most comforted by, a place I really feel like I belong. I'm comfortable being a 'freak', someone that stands out by blending into the colorful and diverse Bay Area scene. I like being in a place with hookers, junkies and punks. I like feeling not extraordinary in my diversity.
When I lost my job I took out my facial piercings, drank enough booze to deaden my grief and sucked it up. I thought I would be back soon. What I didn't count on was ending up pregnant. Don't get me wrong, I wanted a baby---but I wanted a family, too. There was this huge part of me that thought I could replace the family I never had but always wanted with a family of my own. And I settled.
When I got to Ellensburg there was a guy I had known living in the trailer park (yeah, I said trailer park) that I had once flirted with and I knew we would be a couple. I thought that at the ripe old age of 22 if I couldn't make it with him then there was no one. So I tried. There were so many red flags, so many warnings but when you haven't experienced or believed in good things than you settle for what you get. What I wanted was love, but I was his rebound. I forever heard of the ghost of his meth crazed ex, someone he loved and loathed. I would never be enough because of her but because of her, his massive feelings of inadequacy kept me around. I had so many reasons to run during our relationship but my 'bulldog' personality kept me persistent, sure that my 'love' would keep us strong. It was a bad relationship, we got drunk and fought, made up and started over. I fell for his honey moon period sweet talk and he kept me around, I'm sure, because of my submissiveness to him.
And one day I knew. It wasn't a great time to find out--I left to visit Cali for a week and he slept with my room mate and a junky. Every time I called him from California he was unavailable. When I came back we broke up. But we were tossed back together when my room mate threw me out because of their affair. I had no place to go but he took me in. And eventually, one day, I felt funny. I walked to my work after drinking a few beers, as per the norm, but the smell of bacon made me puke. That was unusual. I thought about the cramps I had for a few days and started asking the other waitresses about pregnancy symptoms. I called a regular and asked him to bring me a pregnancy test. He brought it, I took it. I was fucking pregnant. I was pregnant. Oh my god, I was pregnant. Pregnant. Fuck.
I didn't tell him. I just didn't drink that first night, which was unusual. I remember him putting his hands over my nose and mouth, cutting off air as he told me this was what he had always wanted, me not drinking, but it was too late for us. I was so afraid.
I didn't tell him I was pregnant until the growing pains drove me to explain that the reason I wanted the password to his computer was to look up symptoms of a miscarriage. I was sure I was losing our child. He begged and pleaded, asked me to have an abortion, told me that he would pay for me to get artificially inseminated but PLEASE don't fulfill his family curse by having this baby. According to him his second born would signal his death. His father had died when he was a baby and me having this baby would kill him. I was his death sentence.
Needless to say, he didn't die.
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