Doing a little room re-organization around here - which is to say, in my quest to keep from being buried underneath piles of stuff, I asked for help & people moved my room around. It actually looks much larger and more open (the wheelchair and going around large pieces of furniture are not good combinations. Ask any piece of furniture I've ever gone around), and, while it's not perfect, it's a lot closer than it was before. Of course, move one thing, find another 19 projects that have to be completed, and since we (they) moved every stick of furniture in the room around, you can multiply that by about 300 to get the picture of how much work was unearthed.
In the course of clearing out today's boxes, I found the microrecorder I used way back when I was in college. Originally, I bought it to take notes, but I quickly realized that I wound up transcribing all my notes anyways, because I needed to read them to understand them better, and so I stopped using the recorder in class. Instead, it became a way of recording the fights the PUS and Nana were getting into, the aftermath discussions we were holding downstairs in my room, and basically a lot of Nana saying that she wasn't going to put up with this shit anymore, and they were going to be out on their asses. And by 'a lot', I mean at least 7 years worth of it - just snippets of conversations about the latest brouhaha and her insistence that my former uncle and his family would soon be out of her will, her house and her life.
Listening to all of that again was like flicking a stress switch in my brain - I remember, so exactly remember, the feeling of impotence, sitting there, listening to her, knowing that nothing was ever going to change. Until it did. Until she wasn't there anymore to listen to, and I was left with all these tapes where I could hear her voice, but not her spirit - listen to little pieces of her soul get carved away all over again. I fast forwarded my way through a few of them, just so I could label them and not come across them accidentally again. ( I know I should toss them. I even started to. I think one day I will, but it wasn't today. Because it's still her voice.)
I wouldn't have even bothered with the fast forwarding, except I knew that I taped other things during the course of those years - a brainstorming session for a story I was writing here, a research paper's theories there - and I found those too. (And Oh God: does anybody like the sound of their voice, because I absolutely HATE mine: I sound like a snotty little kid all the time, and I don't know how anyone ever talks to me!)
But then I came across something I had forgotten - the thing that made my day, and made all the trips down twisted paths of memory lane worth it: A recording of No Longer Youngest Nephew, when he was just a little baby, probably 15 months old - practicing singing "Happy Birthday" for his mama. His baby voice is both foreign and familiar - It's not him anymore, but wow do I remember when he sounded like that. I can picture his little chunky self sitting in his high chair, talking about "cake" and "mama" and trying to sing along with us while we prompted him. It's startling, really, how clear memories can be - especially ones that were tucked away somewhere, waiting for someone, or something, to sift through and unearth them.
(This would be a great time for me to have a wav. file or whatever of the recording, but the only way I could think of getting it on here was running my webcam, and then setting it up that way. But a) then you would hear my annoying voice and b) I didn't get a chance to even think about doing that, so you're going to have to take my word that he's adorable. Then and now.)
Showing posts with label Childhood Trauma. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Childhood Trauma. Show all posts
Monday, November 07, 2011
Saturday, July 02, 2011
Constant vigilance
Am imagining myself in Italy with Nathan Fillion, instead of lying here in bed, with a headache the size of that leaning tower he's probably posing next to right now. (Nathan Fillion is actually too cool to pose as if he and the tower are both tipping over, I'm sure, it was just the largest thing my poor tired brain could think of.) I actually had a pretty eventful day - wedding crafting with my mom and sisters, which went relatively well.
When it comes to my sisters - to any of my family, really - "relatively" is the operative word. Members of my family have long accused me of being "overly sensitive", and I probably am, but I feel like I am certainly not alone in that personality trait - none of us is particularly immune to the barbs and arrows that are routinely slung around here. Only, for the most part, I feel like they are all only sensitive to what's coming at them, not at what they're dishing out, while I have to be on high alert for everybody's issues. (Hello: I'm an adult child of three alcoholics: I like to try to stave off any emotional conflict before it completely & disastrously explodes - Pleased to meet you!)
But I am apparently the only one who is on hyper-vigilant putting-out-fires-before-they-flame-up duty, because it often feels like every time I tune into a conversation, I see somebody standing there, dropping another match.
It's like they can't see each other's tender spots - or when they do see them, they underestimate the impact on that person when they poke at them. When they're doing it it's "just teasing/joking/making an observation", but if it's done to them, then it's a deliberate insult.
I know people do bite their tongues, which makes me grateful that they have some internal sensors, but I don't feel like anybody else is as tuned into trouble as I have to be. Nobody else seems to see that looking to SisterJ for what comes next is probably putting more pressure on her than she needs/wants, or that continuously laughing at Mum's attempts to cut straight leaves her more embarrassed than amused. Perhaps there's more than a kernel of truth in these things, or in the fact that SisterCh would rather play with her her music list than make a decision, but when people keep poking the same spot over and over, I find myself waiting for the inevitable to occur, and for some to go just one joke too far.
And Lord only knows what happens then.
Part of my apprehension is, of course, this newly formed/found peace between SisterJ and SisterCh, which (it seems to me as a semi-outsider) is being constantly strained and tested by the multitude and magnitude of wedding STUFF TO BE DONE, and while I know it is not my responsibility to try to police their interactions, I keep finding myself doing exactly that. (And then writing super long, run-on sentences about it!) I hear myself re-interpreting something one of them just said to the other, trying to soften a verbal blow that I hope was unintentional, or have to physically stop myself from following after them when they leave a room together, worrying about what might happen once they are out of earshot. It's unreasonable, and I know it, but I haven't figured out how to stop feeling it yet.
They're actually doing a lot better than I'd have imagined, but the potential for danger and chaos is frightening to me, and I know that it's kicking my control freak tendencies into high gear, leading people to tell me how bitchy I'm being, which, when you are really only trying to help, feels pretty awesome, let me tell you. So then I try to dial it back, and wind up seeming uncaring to somebody else. Balance: I need it. (You can't control other people, I keep telling myself. But knowing it and following through on it are two different things.)
What's really evident to me now, though, is how much it hurt when they were fighting - not just them, but me too, - and how powerless I felt during that whole thing. I don't want to feel that way again, so I am trying to throw myself on all the grenades I see now, before they blow us apart again. Of course, this is a stupid strategy, because A) maybe those aren't grenades to anybody else besides me, B) constantly watching for grenades is exhausting, as is trying to diffuse them before they blow up, and C) everybody involved is an adult, and I'm never going to be able to predict or control their behavior, so it's useless even to try.
I am well aware of all those points, and it helps, some, to calm me down when we get to spend a day like to day where there were three separate bouts of laughter-induced tears, two semi-completed projects, and a whole room full of very stubborn people who each gave the day their absolute all, but I have a feeling that this relationship repairing stuff is going to take a lot longer than I want to be on guard duty for, and am going to try to work on that.
When it comes to my sisters - to any of my family, really - "relatively" is the operative word. Members of my family have long accused me of being "overly sensitive", and I probably am, but I feel like I am certainly not alone in that personality trait - none of us is particularly immune to the barbs and arrows that are routinely slung around here. Only, for the most part, I feel like they are all only sensitive to what's coming at them, not at what they're dishing out, while I have to be on high alert for everybody's issues. (Hello: I'm an adult child of three alcoholics: I like to try to stave off any emotional conflict before it completely & disastrously explodes - Pleased to meet you!)
But I am apparently the only one who is on hyper-vigilant putting-out-fires-before-they-flame-up duty, because it often feels like every time I tune into a conversation, I see somebody standing there, dropping another match.
It's like they can't see each other's tender spots - or when they do see them, they underestimate the impact on that person when they poke at them. When they're doing it it's "just teasing/joking/making an observation", but if it's done to them, then it's a deliberate insult.
I know people do bite their tongues, which makes me grateful that they have some internal sensors, but I don't feel like anybody else is as tuned into trouble as I have to be. Nobody else seems to see that looking to SisterJ for what comes next is probably putting more pressure on her than she needs/wants, or that continuously laughing at Mum's attempts to cut straight leaves her more embarrassed than amused. Perhaps there's more than a kernel of truth in these things, or in the fact that SisterCh would rather play with her her music list than make a decision, but when people keep poking the same spot over and over, I find myself waiting for the inevitable to occur, and for some to go just one joke too far.
And Lord only knows what happens then.
Part of my apprehension is, of course, this newly formed/found peace between SisterJ and SisterCh, which (it seems to me as a semi-outsider) is being constantly strained and tested by the multitude and magnitude of wedding STUFF TO BE DONE, and while I know it is not my responsibility to try to police their interactions, I keep finding myself doing exactly that. (And then writing super long, run-on sentences about it!) I hear myself re-interpreting something one of them just said to the other, trying to soften a verbal blow that I hope was unintentional, or have to physically stop myself from following after them when they leave a room together, worrying about what might happen once they are out of earshot. It's unreasonable, and I know it, but I haven't figured out how to stop feeling it yet.
They're actually doing a lot better than I'd have imagined, but the potential for danger and chaos is frightening to me, and I know that it's kicking my control freak tendencies into high gear, leading people to tell me how bitchy I'm being, which, when you are really only trying to help, feels pretty awesome, let me tell you. So then I try to dial it back, and wind up seeming uncaring to somebody else. Balance: I need it. (You can't control other people, I keep telling myself. But knowing it and following through on it are two different things.)
What's really evident to me now, though, is how much it hurt when they were fighting - not just them, but me too, - and how powerless I felt during that whole thing. I don't want to feel that way again, so I am trying to throw myself on all the grenades I see now, before they blow us apart again. Of course, this is a stupid strategy, because A) maybe those aren't grenades to anybody else besides me, B) constantly watching for grenades is exhausting, as is trying to diffuse them before they blow up, and C) everybody involved is an adult, and I'm never going to be able to predict or control their behavior, so it's useless even to try.
I am well aware of all those points, and it helps, some, to calm me down when we get to spend a day like to day where there were three separate bouts of laughter-induced tears, two semi-completed projects, and a whole room full of very stubborn people who each gave the day their absolute all, but I have a feeling that this relationship repairing stuff is going to take a lot longer than I want to be on guard duty for, and am going to try to work on that.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
"...the family disease of alcoholism... made us 'co-victims', those who take on the characteristics of the disease without ever taking a drink"*
Day 14: A letter to a hero who has let you down
I wasn't going to write this letter, but ... I didn't feel that I could skip it, since I'm trying to hold myself accountable for things. And then I thought, well, write about Obama, and how he's disappointed you as president (true), but there was no getting around the fact that if I wrote that letter (which I have composed many times in my head), it would just be a cop out: Obama is a great person, and while I want him to be an extraordinary leader, I've never considered him a hero of mine.
Instead, I decided to go exactly where I didn't want to go, and be glad to get it said here, where (almost) nobody who knows the people involved would read it. There are things I should have said that need saying, people in my life who I wish could've remained untarnished heroes to me.
The fact that growing older means seeing another side to things doesn't always mean you forget how it felt when you were younger. I don't even think it should. It's important that I remember that I once was a little girl who loved her daddy, and whose daddy hurt her very badly. A young woman who trusted that her big brother was smart enough to not stomp on her heart, and who was (unfortunately) proven wrong. A daughter who cared enough about her parents to tell them that they were ruining their relationships with everyone around them, even if those warnings were met with harshness and hurt. A friend who tried to point her friends in the right direction, but wound up watching as they stumbled the other way instead.
However, I'm going to preemptively apologize to you, the actual readers of this letter: It started off as one thing and sort of snowballed into something else. Instead of the one person I had intended to write the letter to, I wound up with a whole lot of heroes who had let me down, and they sort of made themselves known as I was going along. So the tense changes, and apparent contradictions, and utter... incomprehensibility of some portions of this letter are my own fault, but I chose to leave them in, because they meant something to me. I'm sorry if that makes it more difficult for all of you.
Dear ___________,
Let me start with this - perhaps, I understand better now, as an adult, the urge to slip into oblivion. The urge to just be numb, and not feel the pain that is life. I can understand that, and at the same time condemn you for doing it.
I can see now that there are things you may have done or that happened to you in your life that you would rather forget, however momentarily. I can even, with hindsight, see that it was those things, and not me, or my lack of something, that made you turn to the substance of your choice, no matter how it felt at the time.
But I can't ever forget that you made that choice, those choices. That you are continuing to make that choice, regardless of what I say or how I feel. That your choice took you away from me, or that it is putting space between us. An unending space, a gulf that I can't imagine ever being able to bridge or span or ford. And that I can't make you see that your choices are harmful to you and to those around you.
When I was a kid, you were ... everything. Two everythings. Three everythings. Four everythngs. All the people a little girl looks up to, the people who are supposed to do their best to look out for her, that she's supposed to be able to count on. And that four of my everythings would make the same choices, would, one by one, abandon me in a way that was heart-freezingly painful, would pick a substance over me (no matter that that isn't what you think/thought you were doing: it is what happened from my point of view) has been soul crushing.
I don't think I've made that clear enough in person, when I've had the chance, so here, let me repeat it (Yes, in the safety of this space that you will never read it, but at least it will be said): You crushed me.
You each did it individually, and that can not be overlooked, but the group of you together? Each making your own individual choices to turn away from our family and towards something ... else. Well, what that does to a girl, to a young woman, to a woman, you'll just never know.
Did you know it would end us? Did you know that it would ruin everything we had? If you had known, could you have chosen differently? How is it possible that, given all the examples, given the example of each other, you didn't know how badly it would hurt - not just me, but you, and all of us?
If a hero is someone you can look up to, there are still a lot of ways in which you all are heroic to me - your service, your support, your love, your example, your hearts, your willing hands, your quick minds - but it is that one way in which you have let me down that I have talked about today. I could sing your praises in a million different ways, but for today, just for this letter, I wanted you to know just how badly you let me down.
But I still love/d you, tarnish and all.
Love, NTE
*Adult Children of Alcoholics, World Service Organization, Inc.
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Day 01 Something you hate about yourself.
Day 02 Something you love about yourself.
Day 03 Something you have to forgive yourself for.
Day 04 Something you have to forgive someone for.
Day 05 Something you hope to do in your life.
Day 06 Something you hope you never have to do.
Day 07 Someone who has made your life worth living for.
Day 08 Someone who made your life hell, or treated you like shit.
Day 09 Someone you didn’t want to let go, but just drifted.
Day 10 Someone you need to let go, or wish you didn’t know.
Day 11 Something people seem to compliment you the most on.
Day 12 Something you never get compliments on.
Day 13 A band or artist that has gotten you through some tough ass days. (write a letter.)
Day 14 A hero that has let you down. (letter)
Day 15 Something or someone you couldn’t live without, because you’ve tried living without it.
Day 16 Someone or something you definitely could live without.
Day 17 A book you’ve read that changed your views on something.
Day 18 Your views on gay marriage.
Day 19 What do you think of religion? Or what do you think of politics?
Day 20 Your views on drugs and alcohol.
Day 21 (scenario) Your best friend is in a car accident and you two got into a fight an hour before. What do you do?
Day 22 Something you wish you hadn’t done in your life.
Day 23 Something you wish you had done in your life.
Day 24 Make a playlist to someone, and explain why you chose all the songs. (Just post the titles and artists and letter)
Day 25 The reason you believe you’re still alive today.
Day 26 Have you ever thought about giving up on life? If so, when and why?
Day 27 What’s the best thing going for you right now?
Day 28 What if you were pregnant or got someone pregnant, what would you do?
Day 29 Something you hope to change about yourself. And why.
Day 30 A letter to yourself, tell yourself EVERYTHING you love about yourself
I wasn't going to write this letter, but ... I didn't feel that I could skip it, since I'm trying to hold myself accountable for things. And then I thought, well, write about Obama, and how he's disappointed you as president (true), but there was no getting around the fact that if I wrote that letter (which I have composed many times in my head), it would just be a cop out: Obama is a great person, and while I want him to be an extraordinary leader, I've never considered him a hero of mine.
Instead, I decided to go exactly where I didn't want to go, and be glad to get it said here, where (almost) nobody who knows the people involved would read it. There are things I should have said that need saying, people in my life who I wish could've remained untarnished heroes to me.
The fact that growing older means seeing another side to things doesn't always mean you forget how it felt when you were younger. I don't even think it should. It's important that I remember that I once was a little girl who loved her daddy, and whose daddy hurt her very badly. A young woman who trusted that her big brother was smart enough to not stomp on her heart, and who was (unfortunately) proven wrong. A daughter who cared enough about her parents to tell them that they were ruining their relationships with everyone around them, even if those warnings were met with harshness and hurt. A friend who tried to point her friends in the right direction, but wound up watching as they stumbled the other way instead.
However, I'm going to preemptively apologize to you, the actual readers of this letter: It started off as one thing and sort of snowballed into something else. Instead of the one person I had intended to write the letter to, I wound up with a whole lot of heroes who had let me down, and they sort of made themselves known as I was going along. So the tense changes, and apparent contradictions, and utter... incomprehensibility of some portions of this letter are my own fault, but I chose to leave them in, because they meant something to me. I'm sorry if that makes it more difficult for all of you.
Dear ___________,
Let me start with this - perhaps, I understand better now, as an adult, the urge to slip into oblivion. The urge to just be numb, and not feel the pain that is life. I can understand that, and at the same time condemn you for doing it.
I can see now that there are things you may have done or that happened to you in your life that you would rather forget, however momentarily. I can even, with hindsight, see that it was those things, and not me, or my lack of something, that made you turn to the substance of your choice, no matter how it felt at the time.
But I can't ever forget that you made that choice, those choices. That you are continuing to make that choice, regardless of what I say or how I feel. That your choice took you away from me, or that it is putting space between us. An unending space, a gulf that I can't imagine ever being able to bridge or span or ford. And that I can't make you see that your choices are harmful to you and to those around you.
When I was a kid, you were ... everything. Two everythings. Three everythings. Four everythngs. All the people a little girl looks up to, the people who are supposed to do their best to look out for her, that she's supposed to be able to count on. And that four of my everythings would make the same choices, would, one by one, abandon me in a way that was heart-freezingly painful, would pick a substance over me (no matter that that isn't what you think/thought you were doing: it is what happened from my point of view) has been soul crushing.
I don't think I've made that clear enough in person, when I've had the chance, so here, let me repeat it (Yes, in the safety of this space that you will never read it, but at least it will be said): You crushed me.
You each did it individually, and that can not be overlooked, but the group of you together? Each making your own individual choices to turn away from our family and towards something ... else. Well, what that does to a girl, to a young woman, to a woman, you'll just never know.
Did you know it would end us? Did you know that it would ruin everything we had? If you had known, could you have chosen differently? How is it possible that, given all the examples, given the example of each other, you didn't know how badly it would hurt - not just me, but you, and all of us?
If a hero is someone you can look up to, there are still a lot of ways in which you all are heroic to me - your service, your support, your love, your example, your hearts, your willing hands, your quick minds - but it is that one way in which you have let me down that I have talked about today. I could sing your praises in a million different ways, but for today, just for this letter, I wanted you to know just how badly you let me down.
But I still love/d you, tarnish and all.
Love, NTE
*Adult Children of Alcoholics, World Service Organization, Inc.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Day 01 Something you hate about yourself.
Day 02 Something you love about yourself.
Day 03 Something you have to forgive yourself for.
Day 04 Something you have to forgive someone for.
Day 05 Something you hope to do in your life.
Day 06 Something you hope you never have to do.
Day 07 Someone who has made your life worth living for.
Day 08 Someone who made your life hell, or treated you like shit.
Day 09 Someone you didn’t want to let go, but just drifted.
Day 10 Someone you need to let go, or wish you didn’t know.
Day 11 Something people seem to compliment you the most on.
Day 12 Something you never get compliments on.
Day 13 A band or artist that has gotten you through some tough ass days. (write a letter.)
Day 14 A hero that has let you down. (letter)
Day 15 Something or someone you couldn’t live without, because you’ve tried living without it.
Day 16 Someone or something you definitely could live without.
Day 17 A book you’ve read that changed your views on something.
Day 18 Your views on gay marriage.
Day 19 What do you think of religion? Or what do you think of politics?
Day 20 Your views on drugs and alcohol.
Day 21 (scenario) Your best friend is in a car accident and you two got into a fight an hour before. What do you do?
Day 22 Something you wish you hadn’t done in your life.
Day 23 Something you wish you had done in your life.
Day 24 Make a playlist to someone, and explain why you chose all the songs. (Just post the titles and artists and letter)
Day 25 The reason you believe you’re still alive today.
Day 26 Have you ever thought about giving up on life? If so, when and why?
Day 27 What’s the best thing going for you right now?
Day 28 What if you were pregnant or got someone pregnant, what would you do?
Day 29 Something you hope to change about yourself. And why.
Day 30 A letter to yourself, tell yourself EVERYTHING you love about yourself
Monday, November 08, 2010
Ching-wah TSAO duh liou mahng
Day 08: Name someone who has made your life hell, or treated you like shit
You can click any of these links if you're interested in reading about the people who have done me the most wrong - my own personal demons, the PeopleUpStairs (AKA PUS). I don't recommend it because it's depressing, frustrating, and rage-inducing. (That last one really sums it up, IMO.)
TL;DR: These people are awful and horrendous, and hurray! Not In My Life ANYMORE!
Instead of dwelling in my past misery, please to enjoy these fabulous andcompletely not at all related links:
That wordy and wonderful ode to the people who have done me wrong is brought to you by BlueSwami's hate letter generator. You can click and create your own, if you'd like.
Also of interest, (if you happen to be a geek) are these inventive Chinese curses and their pronunciations, should you choose to learn them. If you'll excuse me, I have to go practice saying the title to this post, just to have it in my back pocket.
PS: If you've never seen Firefly, and it's follow-up movie Serenity, I tell you that you MUST.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Day 01 Something you hate about yourself.
Day 02 Something you love about yourself.
Day 03 Something you have to forgive yourself for.
Day 04 Something you have to forgive someone for.
Day 05 Something you hope to do in your life.
Day 06 Something you hope you never have to do.
Day 07 Someone who has made your life worth living for.
Day 08 Someone who made your life hell, or treated you like shit.
Day 09 Someone you didn’t want to let go, but just drifted.
Day 10 Someone you need to let go, or wish you didn’t know.
Day 11 Something people seem to compliment you the most on.
Day 12 Something you never get compliments on.
Day 13 A band or artist that has gotten you through some tough ass days. (write a letter.)
Day 14 A hero that has let you down. (letter)
Day 15 Something or someone you couldn’t live without, because you’ve tried living without it.
Day 16 Someone or something you definitely could live without.
Day 17 A book you’ve read that changed your views on something.
Day 18 Your views on gay marriage.
Day 19 What do you think of religion? Or what do you think of politics?
Day 20 Your views on drugs and alcohol.
Day 21 (scenario) Your best friend is in a car accident and you two got into a fight an hour before. What do you do?
Day 22 Something you wish you hadn’t done in your life.
Day 23 Something you wish you had done in your life.
Day 24 Make a playlist to someone, and explain why you chose all the songs. (Just post the titles and artists and letter)
Day 25 The reason you believe you’re still alive today.
Day 26 Have you ever thought about giving up on life? If so, when and why?
Day 27 What’s the best thing going for you right now?
Day 28 What if you were pregnant or got someone pregnant, what would you do?
Day 29 Something you hope to change about yourself. And why.
Day 30 A letter to yourself, tell yourself EVERYTHING you love about yourself
You can click any of these links if you're interested in reading about the people who have done me the most wrong - my own personal demons, the PeopleUpStairs (AKA PUS). I don't recommend it because it's depressing, frustrating, and rage-inducing. (That last one really sums it up, IMO.)
TL;DR: These people are awful and horrendous, and hurray! Not In My Life ANYMORE!
Instead of dwelling in my past misery, please to enjoy these fabulous and
You jaundiced jumped up, vercordiously pusillanimous piffle. Upon reading this, you are probably muttering something like "Ho ho, sour grapes." You have a point. But my rejoinder, vinegar face, is what hope did those grapes ever have while you live and breathe?
How can you be so blindly unaware of the loathing and revulsion you engender wherever you go? I have had fantasies about attacking you with a machete, but I dare not.
Have you any idea how truly offensive you are, have you any idea at all? Do you know what an idea is? Sorry. Unfair question. You have singlehandedly, completely, enthusiastically, maniacally, with gusto and lip smacking delight, stovered any advancements made in the human condition over the last six million years. Congratulations. You must be so proud. If you once had any redeeming quality, it has been strangled and garrotted by your other brutish traits.
Why is it everytime I think of you I think of pus? Sea slugs are scum sucking invertebrae. Land slugs are slimy mollusc-brained cabbage eaters. But you are just PUS.
If everything in this world has some purpose, some grand plan behind its existence, then yours surely is to show everything else, whether it be a slops bucket in a fried chicken stand, or the gunk behind the fridge, how fortunate it is not to be you. This letter has come to end. But it is to my eternal disappointment, my bitter regret, that you have not.
That wordy and wonderful ode to the people who have done me wrong is brought to you by BlueSwami's hate letter generator. You can click and create your own, if you'd like.
Also of interest, (if you happen to be a geek) are these inventive Chinese curses and their pronunciations, should you choose to learn them. If you'll excuse me, I have to go practice saying the title to this post, just to have it in my back pocket.
PS: If you've never seen Firefly, and it's follow-up movie Serenity, I tell you that you MUST.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Day 01 Something you hate about yourself.
Day 02 Something you love about yourself.
Day 03 Something you have to forgive yourself for.
Day 04 Something you have to forgive someone for.
Day 05 Something you hope to do in your life.
Day 06 Something you hope you never have to do.
Day 07 Someone who has made your life worth living for.
Day 08 Someone who made your life hell, or treated you like shit.
Day 09 Someone you didn’t want to let go, but just drifted.
Day 10 Someone you need to let go, or wish you didn’t know.
Day 11 Something people seem to compliment you the most on.
Day 12 Something you never get compliments on.
Day 13 A band or artist that has gotten you through some tough ass days. (write a letter.)
Day 14 A hero that has let you down. (letter)
Day 15 Something or someone you couldn’t live without, because you’ve tried living without it.
Day 16 Someone or something you definitely could live without.
Day 17 A book you’ve read that changed your views on something.
Day 18 Your views on gay marriage.
Day 19 What do you think of religion? Or what do you think of politics?
Day 20 Your views on drugs and alcohol.
Day 21 (scenario) Your best friend is in a car accident and you two got into a fight an hour before. What do you do?
Day 22 Something you wish you hadn’t done in your life.
Day 23 Something you wish you had done in your life.
Day 24 Make a playlist to someone, and explain why you chose all the songs. (Just post the titles and artists and letter)
Day 25 The reason you believe you’re still alive today.
Day 26 Have you ever thought about giving up on life? If so, when and why?
Day 27 What’s the best thing going for you right now?
Day 28 What if you were pregnant or got someone pregnant, what would you do?
Day 29 Something you hope to change about yourself. And why.
Day 30 A letter to yourself, tell yourself EVERYTHING you love about yourself
Thursday, September 02, 2010
Happy Holiday I Never Heard of Before
True Story: Sometime in the early nineties, when 90210 was in its heyday, and I was in the 7th grade, my best friend and I convinced my mom to take us to a local mall where Ian Zearing and Luke Perry were going to be appearing.
To this day, I have no idea why we did this: Because it was on the radio? Because some of our friends were totally rabid Luke Perry fans? Because it seemed like this huge deal at the time? I am honestly not sure - neither she nor I were huge fans of those particular actors, (although I did have a crush on Jason Priestly in his pre-90210, Teen Angel and later Sister Kate days) even though we liked them well enough, and neither one of us remembers being particularly enthusiastic about the show as a whole. We weren't super fans or mega fans, or anything more than "I know all about Brendan and Kelly, think Brenda should get back with Dylan, and don't care about Donna and David" followers. We watched the show, but in the pre-everybody has their own TV in their room days, weren't guaranteed to even catch it every week, and it wasn't that big of a deal because everybody in school would be talking about it the next day anyways. All I can come up with was that some of our friends were going, so we wanted to go too.
So we talked my mom into getting up at 7:30 on a Saturday morning (no easy feat) to drive us the 6 minutes to get to the mall. (I was not allowed to take the bus back then. You too can roll your eyes over the injustice of it all with my 12 year old self if you'd like.) When we got there, it was packed. Shockingly, worse than any Christmas shopping day ever, overly packed. There must have been hundreds teenage/tween girls there, and they didn't even let us inside the mall.
Instead they rounded us all up on the outside concourse, behind the mall, around a little lake - which up till then I hadn't even known existed - with a path that was cut directly from the Charles River. I remember standing there shivering, although I can't recall exactly what season we were in - Cold. That's about it. Covers everything from November to April in Cambridge, so I can't narrow it down. Just that it was cold and brittle, and that teenage girls who had taken all morning to get their hair just. right. in anticipation of meeting the dreamy Luke Perry had their hopes crumpled when the wind whipped around and gave everybody the same "I've just lived through a cyclone" hairdo.
My mom had her coffee, smoked her cigarettes and muttered under her breath about how she let herself get talked into these things. My friend and I, unable to find any of the other girls who'd sworn they would be there in the midst of the huge crowd, mostly shifted from one foot to the other trying to keep warm, talking about nothing in particular and dreaming of hot chocolate and donuts when this was all through. I don't even remember being excited. Just cold. And bored. And not particularly happy about this waiting outside nonsense.
And then there was an announcement, and the lady from the mall must have said something about them coming, because there was a huge cheer. We didn't hear what she said, but the excitement in the crowd amped up a lot, and I know my friend was starting to feel it, because she started to do this tense little hop. Other girls started to pop up a little bit too, trying to see over the crowd, and for some reason, this made me feel anxious as well. Something was coming. Somebody was coming, and it was somebody famous. And that started to get a little bit exciting.
We waited like that for a few minutes, things getting louder and more intense, until finally we heard a boat's engine coming in from the river. From where we were standing, I could see the water pretty clearly - everyone had assumed they'd be in the mall, so those of us in the back actually wound up having the best few when we all had to turn around.
And now girls were screaming, and there was a lot of noise, and the boat was zooming around the little waterway (pond? maybe.) and the two actors were on the boat waving grandly. Smiling, waving, on their parts; cheering, screaming and clapping from the crowd. I have to admit, the noise was slightly overwhelming. I do not remember contributing to the noise really, but I must have: I was big on fitting in, so I can't imagine I just stood there and made a "Why the hell are we all making so much noise?" face, even if that's what I was feeling. I probably cheered and clapped, and I do remember hugging my best friend back when she was so excited that she hugged me.
And then Luke Perry took a megaphone, thanked everyone for coming and said what great fans we were. And Ian Zearing had his turn and said something very similar. And then the boat went around the little waterway again, and it zipped back out on to the river, two actors waving as they left, hundreds of girls standing there cheering.
The entire experience had lasted ten minutes, tops.
Now, I had not really even been all that excited. I had not even particularly wanted to meet the actors. But I can remember being more than a little bit pissed that all they did was zoom around the water twice, say "Thanks for coming" and then zoom off again. I know I wondered what the hell I had gotten out of bed early for. And I definitely remember being more than a little upset that they never even let us in the mall (I wanted hot chocolate!) Other girls, girls who'd brought posters or hats or t-shirts for them to sign were probably more than a little upset, and I don't really blame them: I'm pretty sure we had all been told that there would be a signing, so I can imagine more than one tweenage girl left with a broken heart. (Probably through no fault of the actors themselves, but rather some bad public relations, but still.)
So that is my one and only "I've met a celebrity" story, and it contains no actual meeting, and makes me sound like one of the Twihards who pass out at the mall when a certain sparkly vampire (or rather, the actor playing him) shows up. In reality, my brush with celebrity was cold, disappointing (no hot chocolate!), short and rather unimpressive.
But still: It did give me a story to tell on 9-02-10 Day. :)
To this day, I have no idea why we did this: Because it was on the radio? Because some of our friends were totally rabid Luke Perry fans? Because it seemed like this huge deal at the time? I am honestly not sure - neither she nor I were huge fans of those particular actors, (although I did have a crush on Jason Priestly in his pre-90210, Teen Angel and later Sister Kate days) even though we liked them well enough, and neither one of us remembers being particularly enthusiastic about the show as a whole. We weren't super fans or mega fans, or anything more than "I know all about Brendan and Kelly, think Brenda should get back with Dylan, and don't care about Donna and David" followers. We watched the show, but in the pre-everybody has their own TV in their room days, weren't guaranteed to even catch it every week, and it wasn't that big of a deal because everybody in school would be talking about it the next day anyways. All I can come up with was that some of our friends were going, so we wanted to go too.
So we talked my mom into getting up at 7:30 on a Saturday morning (no easy feat) to drive us the 6 minutes to get to the mall. (I was not allowed to take the bus back then. You too can roll your eyes over the injustice of it all with my 12 year old self if you'd like.) When we got there, it was packed. Shockingly, worse than any Christmas shopping day ever, overly packed. There must have been hundreds teenage/tween girls there, and they didn't even let us inside the mall.
Instead they rounded us all up on the outside concourse, behind the mall, around a little lake - which up till then I hadn't even known existed - with a path that was cut directly from the Charles River. I remember standing there shivering, although I can't recall exactly what season we were in - Cold. That's about it. Covers everything from November to April in Cambridge, so I can't narrow it down. Just that it was cold and brittle, and that teenage girls who had taken all morning to get their hair just. right. in anticipation of meeting the dreamy Luke Perry had their hopes crumpled when the wind whipped around and gave everybody the same "I've just lived through a cyclone" hairdo.
My mom had her coffee, smoked her cigarettes and muttered under her breath about how she let herself get talked into these things. My friend and I, unable to find any of the other girls who'd sworn they would be there in the midst of the huge crowd, mostly shifted from one foot to the other trying to keep warm, talking about nothing in particular and dreaming of hot chocolate and donuts when this was all through. I don't even remember being excited. Just cold. And bored. And not particularly happy about this waiting outside nonsense.
And then there was an announcement, and the lady from the mall must have said something about them coming, because there was a huge cheer. We didn't hear what she said, but the excitement in the crowd amped up a lot, and I know my friend was starting to feel it, because she started to do this tense little hop. Other girls started to pop up a little bit too, trying to see over the crowd, and for some reason, this made me feel anxious as well. Something was coming. Somebody was coming, and it was somebody famous. And that started to get a little bit exciting.
We waited like that for a few minutes, things getting louder and more intense, until finally we heard a boat's engine coming in from the river. From where we were standing, I could see the water pretty clearly - everyone had assumed they'd be in the mall, so those of us in the back actually wound up having the best few when we all had to turn around.
And now girls were screaming, and there was a lot of noise, and the boat was zooming around the little waterway (pond? maybe.) and the two actors were on the boat waving grandly. Smiling, waving, on their parts; cheering, screaming and clapping from the crowd. I have to admit, the noise was slightly overwhelming. I do not remember contributing to the noise really, but I must have: I was big on fitting in, so I can't imagine I just stood there and made a "Why the hell are we all making so much noise?" face, even if that's what I was feeling. I probably cheered and clapped, and I do remember hugging my best friend back when she was so excited that she hugged me.
And then Luke Perry took a megaphone, thanked everyone for coming and said what great fans we were. And Ian Zearing had his turn and said something very similar. And then the boat went around the little waterway again, and it zipped back out on to the river, two actors waving as they left, hundreds of girls standing there cheering.
The entire experience had lasted ten minutes, tops.
Now, I had not really even been all that excited. I had not even particularly wanted to meet the actors. But I can remember being more than a little bit pissed that all they did was zoom around the water twice, say "Thanks for coming" and then zoom off again. I know I wondered what the hell I had gotten out of bed early for. And I definitely remember being more than a little upset that they never even let us in the mall (I wanted hot chocolate!) Other girls, girls who'd brought posters or hats or t-shirts for them to sign were probably more than a little upset, and I don't really blame them: I'm pretty sure we had all been told that there would be a signing, so I can imagine more than one tweenage girl left with a broken heart. (Probably through no fault of the actors themselves, but rather some bad public relations, but still.)
So that is my one and only "I've met a celebrity" story, and it contains no actual meeting, and makes me sound like one of the Twihards who pass out at the mall when a certain sparkly vampire (or rather, the actor playing him) shows up. In reality, my brush with celebrity was cold, disappointing (no hot chocolate!), short and rather unimpressive.
But still: It did give me a story to tell on 9-02-10 Day. :)
Wednesday, September 02, 2009
Being the guy (or in my case, the girl)
Lately I've been thinking of people's impressions of me, and my impressions of them, and how we all look at things so differently.
I stumbled across - in a completely random way - a person I know IRL's blog. And there was some stuff on there that I didn't know, that she hadn't shared, that I couldn't grasp through the random e-mails we exchange every six months. And I felt like the worst person alive.
As if I just will never be able to care about the people in my life the way they need me to care about them - the physical caring, the being there when things are falling to shit, the person who comes at the moment's notice. And, of course, that's who I most want to be.
There's a West Wing quote that I had up on my header for a long time, and it's just about the only quote I get right every time without having to look it up. That's because it was me they were talking about. The President says to Josh Lyman (a leader among men): "You want to know the difference between you and me? I want to be the guy. You want to be the guy the guy counts on."
I want to be the girl everyone counts on, and more often than not, I fall way, way short.
Reading this person's blog only really brought it home to me that for every birthday card I send or job interview I remember, for every "how are things there" e-mail I send or picture I make an extra copy of, there's a million everyday mishaps, disasters and heartbreaks that people can't turn to me for.
That because I suck at picking up the phone, and because I'm so often sick and wrapped up in what's wrong with me, and because it's such a god-damn struggle for me to drag myself through most of my days that I barely have enough energy to turn the damn television on and shut my brain off, that I am missing out on people's lives. The people I love's lives.
And that's somehow worse to me than the fact that I am missing out on my own life a lot of the time.
Which brings me to something else I've been reading lately that made me look at who I am a little bit differently. Facebook.
No, it's not the god-awful pictures my sisters choose to post or the fact that I rarely have anything interesting enough to post as a status update ("Am sore. And tired. And not sleeping, yet again." Yawn.): It's the status updates of some old friends who, not so much tracked me down as happened upon & friended me. These were the group of friends that, at one time, I felt closer to than my own family.
From ages 3-15 I was a dancer, and from 12-15, a dance instructor, at a local, neighborhood dance studio. It was a place where I felt comfortable, where I felt like I could be myself, where I felt accepted for the awkwardly geeky, musical loving, knows she wants to be a teacher even though she's twelve me that most of my world considered strange and annoying.
I danced non-stop during the week: three weekdays, every Saturday morning, practicing at home, rehearsing at other girls' houses, saving up for competitions and conventions and trying to make my body realize that it was made to jump higher, stretch further, move more gracefully. I was hardly ever uncomfortable there because I knew I could dance: I was long and not-exactly lean (the boobs, man, they grew early), and I couldn't jump the way some of the other girls could, and my ankles (after I broke and fractured them enough times) wouldn't let me en pointe any longer, but I was queen of kicks, and I could point my toe longer, stretch my legs straighter than most of the other girls, and I loved that I could fold my body in halves and thirds and back again.
When I joined the dance company, I knew I'd made it, that I was one of the best. When I was asked to be an aide, and then an instructor, I was beyond thrilled. I wore my purple leotard (the studio color) with pride and I took my responsibility as a teacher seriously: I showed up on my days off to help with other classes, to wash the glass mirrors, to set up for special events. I took vacations with the other teachers, babysat for the studio owner's kids, went to pool parties and on sleepovers. We formed a group of girls that I would practice with, that would watch old routines with me to help choreograph new ones, and I made what I thought were four true friends.
And then I got really, really sick. Those first three weeks, I couldn't roll out of bed for anything - not school, not dance, not food - and I called in sick and they all covered my classes without argument, hoping I'd feel better soon, being as upset as I was that I'd missed a meet. The owner told me not to worry, that my spot would be there when I recuperated.
Only I never did.
After that first month (October, if you're wondering), which the doctors think now was my 'initial infectious agent' (most likely mono), I lost a lot of weight, I lost a lot of ground with my schoolwork, I lost the sympathy and understanding of my family and teachers, and I lost a lot of friends.
Including my dancing friends. Who tried - for a while, they sent me cards and called to find out how I was doing. They told all my students how much I missed them, and told me how much the students missed me. They would ask my sister how I was feeling, tap my cousin for any new info.
Eventually I dragged myself back to the studio, only to lay on the mats, unable to breathe or move. I would pass out mid-pirouette, I would have to leave class to throw up (in the bathroom right next to the classroom, where everyone could hear), I would make it through the warm up and be too exhausted to actually dance. My vertigo got worse, the POTS got worse, and I know now that I actually made everything else worse because I ignored every.single.signal my body was giving me in order to keep dancing.
I didn't know that then. I didn't know what any of these things were - I had the CFS label, but none of the doctors could tell me what the hell that meant. None of them had any idea how long it could last, and more than half of them thought that I should just keep 'pushing' myself, because exercise makes you strong and giving in makes you weak. (Douchebags.)
The girls I was closest to were vaguely supportive - they kept me company on the mats while they changed their shoes for the next class - but they didn't understand it any better than I did. Part of it was the rumors that were going around about me - drugs, pregnancy, eating disorders - and I think now, looking back, that a lot of them were afraid - if I could get so sick, what was to stop it from happening to them? So they moved away from me - stopped calling to check in, stopped sending notes home with my sisters, just stopped - until we were so far apart that I couldn't figure out how to bridge the gap, and because I had so little energy, I didn't have any extra to try harder.
By June, I was out of school almost full time, but I was still pushing it at the studio. I was determined to be in the recital - after missing more classes than I can count, sitting and cheering from the sidelines at 2 competitions, paying for 3 conventions and having to sit them out as well. My mom had bought a costume for me - only one, instead of my regular 7 or 8 - and I was damn well going to dance. On stage. In it. And I did.
I nearly killed myself doing it - I laid down in the wings as I came off the stage, and had to be dragged/carried to the back room. Where I laid down for the rest of the show. At one point someone told the owner I'd had a heart attack and she came racing over to check on me. Good times. - But I did it. By then, it was mostly too late - the four girls I was closest with had moved on, bonded with my replacement over sleepovers and strategy meetings, and I was just the girl who couldn't dance anymore.
When September came around, I went so far as to register for classes, to drive out to the studio on the appointed day, only to sit in the car and break down, knowing that there was no possible way I could make it through the class. Mom was pretty pissed that I'd made her drive me out there, if I knew I was going to be able to do it, but here's the thing: Until I sat there, looking through the giant window at all of my friends at the barre bending and stretching and - fuck it - standing up? I didn't know. I couldn't let myself know. So we drove away, and I never went back.
And I've always been pretty hurt by how the other girls handled me getting sick - at what I felt (ok, still kind of feel) as their desertion. Because the only thing that had changed was that I got sick, and I couldn't help that. So, I've always looked back at those girls, most of them, with this mixture of pain and regret, with the sting of "they didn't care enough about me to stay close."
So having some of them friend me on Facebook has been an interesting experience. It's helped me realize that, yes: their abandonment of me was not ok, but I sort of abandoned them too - I just didn't have the energy to fight for our relationships, and so I just never came back. I never called any of them after that day I broke down in the car ~ I waited for them to call me, and was hurt when it never happened. But I could've done some of the lifting - made phone calls or sent letters (this was before I had e-mail, people: can you imagine??) - or just tried. But I didn't, because I was hurt and I was hurting, and I was sick and it seemed like no one cared.
And yes, I'm jealous now, that so many of them are still living the lives we'd planned for ourselves way back when - still dancing, still friends, still teaching, all mommies - but it's only because I want it for myself too, not because I don't want them to have it. I can wish them well when they open day cares and click the "like" button when they talk about how exhausting this week's dance class was. I can look at their photos of recitals that came after I left and be sad that I wasn't there, but still comment that they looked like they were having fun. I can congratulate them on their weddings and babies and engagements, and if I still feel a twinge of disappointment that we weren't able to do it all together, well, that's human.
But it the two experiences together - seeing how I can still feel joy for the people I felt have let me down so badly and seeing how badly I feel for letting the people I love down - have made me think a lot.
Not that I've come up with any answers, which is the least you deserve for making it through such a long winded post that really probably only makes sense to me.
But I haven't got any.
Just that I want to do better, to be better, but I don't know how to manage it. Which basically sums up every other single post I've ever written, so there you go.
I stumbled across - in a completely random way - a person I know IRL's blog. And there was some stuff on there that I didn't know, that she hadn't shared, that I couldn't grasp through the random e-mails we exchange every six months. And I felt like the worst person alive.
As if I just will never be able to care about the people in my life the way they need me to care about them - the physical caring, the being there when things are falling to shit, the person who comes at the moment's notice. And, of course, that's who I most want to be.
There's a West Wing quote that I had up on my header for a long time, and it's just about the only quote I get right every time without having to look it up. That's because it was me they were talking about. The President says to Josh Lyman (a leader among men): "You want to know the difference between you and me? I want to be the guy. You want to be the guy the guy counts on."
I want to be the girl everyone counts on, and more often than not, I fall way, way short.
Reading this person's blog only really brought it home to me that for every birthday card I send or job interview I remember, for every "how are things there" e-mail I send or picture I make an extra copy of, there's a million everyday mishaps, disasters and heartbreaks that people can't turn to me for.
That because I suck at picking up the phone, and because I'm so often sick and wrapped up in what's wrong with me, and because it's such a god-damn struggle for me to drag myself through most of my days that I barely have enough energy to turn the damn television on and shut my brain off, that I am missing out on people's lives. The people I love's lives.
And that's somehow worse to me than the fact that I am missing out on my own life a lot of the time.
Which brings me to something else I've been reading lately that made me look at who I am a little bit differently. Facebook.
No, it's not the god-awful pictures my sisters choose to post or the fact that I rarely have anything interesting enough to post as a status update ("Am sore. And tired. And not sleeping, yet again." Yawn.): It's the status updates of some old friends who, not so much tracked me down as happened upon & friended me. These were the group of friends that, at one time, I felt closer to than my own family.
From ages 3-15 I was a dancer, and from 12-15, a dance instructor, at a local, neighborhood dance studio. It was a place where I felt comfortable, where I felt like I could be myself, where I felt accepted for the awkwardly geeky, musical loving, knows she wants to be a teacher even though she's twelve me that most of my world considered strange and annoying.
I danced non-stop during the week: three weekdays, every Saturday morning, practicing at home, rehearsing at other girls' houses, saving up for competitions and conventions and trying to make my body realize that it was made to jump higher, stretch further, move more gracefully. I was hardly ever uncomfortable there because I knew I could dance: I was long and not-exactly lean (the boobs, man, they grew early), and I couldn't jump the way some of the other girls could, and my ankles (after I broke and fractured them enough times) wouldn't let me en pointe any longer, but I was queen of kicks, and I could point my toe longer, stretch my legs straighter than most of the other girls, and I loved that I could fold my body in halves and thirds and back again.
When I joined the dance company, I knew I'd made it, that I was one of the best. When I was asked to be an aide, and then an instructor, I was beyond thrilled. I wore my purple leotard (the studio color) with pride and I took my responsibility as a teacher seriously: I showed up on my days off to help with other classes, to wash the glass mirrors, to set up for special events. I took vacations with the other teachers, babysat for the studio owner's kids, went to pool parties and on sleepovers. We formed a group of girls that I would practice with, that would watch old routines with me to help choreograph new ones, and I made what I thought were four true friends.
And then I got really, really sick. Those first three weeks, I couldn't roll out of bed for anything - not school, not dance, not food - and I called in sick and they all covered my classes without argument, hoping I'd feel better soon, being as upset as I was that I'd missed a meet. The owner told me not to worry, that my spot would be there when I recuperated.
Only I never did.
After that first month (October, if you're wondering), which the doctors think now was my 'initial infectious agent' (most likely mono), I lost a lot of weight, I lost a lot of ground with my schoolwork, I lost the sympathy and understanding of my family and teachers, and I lost a lot of friends.
Including my dancing friends. Who tried - for a while, they sent me cards and called to find out how I was doing. They told all my students how much I missed them, and told me how much the students missed me. They would ask my sister how I was feeling, tap my cousin for any new info.
Eventually I dragged myself back to the studio, only to lay on the mats, unable to breathe or move. I would pass out mid-pirouette, I would have to leave class to throw up (in the bathroom right next to the classroom, where everyone could hear), I would make it through the warm up and be too exhausted to actually dance. My vertigo got worse, the POTS got worse, and I know now that I actually made everything else worse because I ignored every.single.signal my body was giving me in order to keep dancing.
I didn't know that then. I didn't know what any of these things were - I had the CFS label, but none of the doctors could tell me what the hell that meant. None of them had any idea how long it could last, and more than half of them thought that I should just keep 'pushing' myself, because exercise makes you strong and giving in makes you weak. (Douchebags.)
The girls I was closest to were vaguely supportive - they kept me company on the mats while they changed their shoes for the next class - but they didn't understand it any better than I did. Part of it was the rumors that were going around about me - drugs, pregnancy, eating disorders - and I think now, looking back, that a lot of them were afraid - if I could get so sick, what was to stop it from happening to them? So they moved away from me - stopped calling to check in, stopped sending notes home with my sisters, just stopped - until we were so far apart that I couldn't figure out how to bridge the gap, and because I had so little energy, I didn't have any extra to try harder.
By June, I was out of school almost full time, but I was still pushing it at the studio. I was determined to be in the recital - after missing more classes than I can count, sitting and cheering from the sidelines at 2 competitions, paying for 3 conventions and having to sit them out as well. My mom had bought a costume for me - only one, instead of my regular 7 or 8 - and I was damn well going to dance. On stage. In it. And I did.
I nearly killed myself doing it - I laid down in the wings as I came off the stage, and had to be dragged/carried to the back room. Where I laid down for the rest of the show. At one point someone told the owner I'd had a heart attack and she came racing over to check on me. Good times. - But I did it. By then, it was mostly too late - the four girls I was closest with had moved on, bonded with my replacement over sleepovers and strategy meetings, and I was just the girl who couldn't dance anymore.
When September came around, I went so far as to register for classes, to drive out to the studio on the appointed day, only to sit in the car and break down, knowing that there was no possible way I could make it through the class. Mom was pretty pissed that I'd made her drive me out there, if I knew I was going to be able to do it, but here's the thing: Until I sat there, looking through the giant window at all of my friends at the barre bending and stretching and - fuck it - standing up? I didn't know. I couldn't let myself know. So we drove away, and I never went back.
And I've always been pretty hurt by how the other girls handled me getting sick - at what I felt (ok, still kind of feel) as their desertion. Because the only thing that had changed was that I got sick, and I couldn't help that. So, I've always looked back at those girls, most of them, with this mixture of pain and regret, with the sting of "they didn't care enough about me to stay close."
So having some of them friend me on Facebook has been an interesting experience. It's helped me realize that, yes: their abandonment of me was not ok, but I sort of abandoned them too - I just didn't have the energy to fight for our relationships, and so I just never came back. I never called any of them after that day I broke down in the car ~ I waited for them to call me, and was hurt when it never happened. But I could've done some of the lifting - made phone calls or sent letters (this was before I had e-mail, people: can you imagine??) - or just tried. But I didn't, because I was hurt and I was hurting, and I was sick and it seemed like no one cared.
And yes, I'm jealous now, that so many of them are still living the lives we'd planned for ourselves way back when - still dancing, still friends, still teaching, all mommies - but it's only because I want it for myself too, not because I don't want them to have it. I can wish them well when they open day cares and click the "like" button when they talk about how exhausting this week's dance class was. I can look at their photos of recitals that came after I left and be sad that I wasn't there, but still comment that they looked like they were having fun. I can congratulate them on their weddings and babies and engagements, and if I still feel a twinge of disappointment that we weren't able to do it all together, well, that's human.
But it the two experiences together - seeing how I can still feel joy for the people I felt have let me down so badly and seeing how badly I feel for letting the people I love down - have made me think a lot.
Not that I've come up with any answers, which is the least you deserve for making it through such a long winded post that really probably only makes sense to me.
But I haven't got any.
Just that I want to do better, to be better, but I don't know how to manage it. Which basically sums up every other single post I've ever written, so there you go.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009
Speaking of fools...
**** Hey Sister of Mine - This is probably not a post you want to read, unless you feel like crying or being pumped full of rage. It's about the PUS. Feel free to skip. (This goes for anybody, of course, but my sister especially). I'd rather not write it, to be honest, but it's probably a wiser option than waiting till one of them comes by and kicking them in the face. Which is what I feel like doing. So; writing it is. ****
The PUS are just about all moved out now, with just their part of the cellar and what the realtor calls 'a few odds and ends' left upstairs to take with them. I can not fully explain how amazing it feels to be in this house and not be afraid of having to leave because of something they've done that will make me more ill. Or how it brings me peace to be able to take Lil Girl outside to draw with sidewalk chalk and not have to worry about someone pulling into the driveway and shooting us dirty looks, or worse, attempting to talk to me. It is bittersweet, to the extreme, to have this house be almost the way it always should have been - ours.
Only Nana is missing.
And she has been on heavy on my mind lately as we move into this final month of our residence here, how could she not be?
Her best friend came over to visit us yesterday. Because she's afraid that we'll move too far for her to come again, the visit was full of unnecessary goodbyes, (as we aren't moving anymore than 30 minutes away no matter what) but she also spent a good deal of time rehashing old hurts: cursing the PUS for all they did to Nana, cursing Nana for putting up with it, wishing she'd been able to convince her to do something about it. It was like listening to my own soul talking, especially when she said
"If we could've found a way, she'd probably still be alive today."
To outsiders, this statement makes no sense, I'm sure. An overreaction, perhaps, or wishful thinking to the extreme. But to me, it is a mere fact --> my grandmother, no spring chicken when she died at 84, would most likely have had a longer (and most definitely a happier) life if she hadn't had to battle everyday for just the air she breathed.
Stress, we all know, is aging. It's detrimental to your body on a cellular level. It hurts physically and emotionally. And my Nana lived in a soul crushingly stressful environment. It wasn't even just stress, it wasn't ordinary familial tension - she lived in a place where she was abused, everyday.
It takes a lot for me to write that. To know that it is true and to know that there were choices we all made - choices that I made - that enabled that abuse to continue.
I hope that in all my life, I will never do anything that I could regret more than not doing what I know was right. I hope that I would be strong enough, now, to know that having her mad at me for calling the cops - over and over again, if necessary - would be preferable to not having her at all.
"She wasn't beaten to death," you might say, "She died of cancer." And you would be right. She did. She did die of cancer, but she also died because her environment was toxic; because her son and his 'family' poisoned her everyday.
By ignoring her. By making her feel worthless and stupid and vile. By treating her as if she were little more than a bank - a bank where loans never had to be repaid and interest was never charged and you could insult the clerks at will. By hurting her heart and allowing their children to say that she wasn't their grandmother, or that they'd never really loved her. By screaming at her and calling her hideous names. By not caring for her when she was so obviously sick, and not caring enough to let anyone else have the chance to care for her either. By bullying her into believing all the wretched things they said about her (or us), and threatening her if she dared to stand up for herself (or us). By treating her as though she was invisible - by showing her that her opinion meant so little it didn't deserve to be heard, that her presence meant so little it wasn't even worth noting. By making it so that no one else could stand to come to her house, since it meant being in their presence, since it meant having to sit by seething while she was belittled or being belittled themselves.
(I would say here, in order to keep myself from becoming completely enraged, all over again, and because I am listening to the Harry Potter books on cassette tape, that she was Dobby, and they never gave her so much as a sock. If that makes sense to you, I think we should be friends:) )
They poisoned her, as sure as if they'd been feeding her arsenic, and 22 years worth is a lot of arsenic to swallow. It's a long time, and a lot of damage, and if every day you're living on a battlefield, using all your strength and energy to fight off poisons, you don't have any extra resources when you need them.
And that's really what happened to her - she just didn't have the resources she needed for that next battle, and it happened to be against a foe she couldn't best.
I'm not saying she wouldn't have had cancer. I'm not even saying she would have survived the cancer, really. I'm just saying that she would've had a better shot at doing so if she didn't have to also survive her 'son' and the rest of the PUS.
You may disagree, and I haven't written it before because, well... it sounds so stupid written down like that, even to me. But they wore her down, they wore down her spirit and her energy and her self, and when she got sick, she needed all those things and didn't have them. So yeah: I think that the damage they've done is immeasurable. And I am damn glad to see them go.
But today, alone in the house, as I heard the footsteps of Hippobeast PUS (the daughter - who's 22 now & who was one of Nana's frequent tormentors) thump on the back steps, I had a moment of "What's to stop me?"
My anger was so clear and sharp and focused that if I were capable of climbing the stairs, Ithinkknow, in that moment, I absolutely would have. I wanted to yell at her. To tell her how evil I think she really is; to tell her the truth.
We haven't talked in over 12 years, and I assume that she thinks I am as horrific as I think she is, but in that moment I just wanted to be able to look her in the face and say: "Listen, you need to hear this from somebody, and it sure as shit ain't going to be your fucked up parents that tell you because they're even more delusional than you are. So hear this clearly, and know that it is true - YOU are wrong.
All those things you did, at first because your parents did them, and then later just because you could? The hateful things you said and the punishing ways you acted? Were wrong. Were evil and hurtful and poisonous and led directly to the dissolution of our 'family' and to Nana's death. And you can never make that better.
I can't go back and do the right thing - I can't go back and call the cops when I should've or actually send that letter to the lawyer the way I wanted to, and that will always haunt me. But you can't go back either, you can't undue the harm you did, the hurt you've caused, and I can't let you leave this house without letting you know that I hope it haunts you. Because it should."
It's probably good that I can't climb the stairs, because even as I was thinking about how great it would be to deliver this truth to her in person, I didn't, for a second, imagine that she would just sit there and let me say all of that to her. And that would've pissed me off even more, and things would most likely have escalated. (Although, seriously? Giving her the chance to punch me might have been worth any increase in pain because you know I would've called the cops then, friends.)
And by the time she plodded her way back down the stairs, I had calmed down enough to return to my Harry Potter and plot about how to 'accidentally' aim a Cruciatus Curse at them all instead, but the wanting is still there. Because I know that they still think they didn't do anything wrong.
That they will never think they did anything wrong - that they were the victims of a family that turned their backs on them, as opposed to the perpetrators that caused a family to be shattered.
And that's not okay with me. But I'm just going to have to let it go.
So, even though we still don't know where we'll be, I am definitely looking forward to thirty days from today, when I won't have to see them again. Or hear their false voices again, or suffer under their hands ever again.
And then? I shall have to settle for the Obliteration Charm instead, wiping them from my life once and for all.
The PUS are just about all moved out now, with just their part of the cellar and what the realtor calls 'a few odds and ends' left upstairs to take with them. I can not fully explain how amazing it feels to be in this house and not be afraid of having to leave because of something they've done that will make me more ill. Or how it brings me peace to be able to take Lil Girl outside to draw with sidewalk chalk and not have to worry about someone pulling into the driveway and shooting us dirty looks, or worse, attempting to talk to me. It is bittersweet, to the extreme, to have this house be almost the way it always should have been - ours.
Only Nana is missing.
And she has been on heavy on my mind lately as we move into this final month of our residence here, how could she not be?
Her best friend came over to visit us yesterday. Because she's afraid that we'll move too far for her to come again, the visit was full of unnecessary goodbyes, (as we aren't moving anymore than 30 minutes away no matter what) but she also spent a good deal of time rehashing old hurts: cursing the PUS for all they did to Nana, cursing Nana for putting up with it, wishing she'd been able to convince her to do something about it. It was like listening to my own soul talking, especially when she said
"If we could've found a way, she'd probably still be alive today."
To outsiders, this statement makes no sense, I'm sure. An overreaction, perhaps, or wishful thinking to the extreme. But to me, it is a mere fact --> my grandmother, no spring chicken when she died at 84, would most likely have had a longer (and most definitely a happier) life if she hadn't had to battle everyday for just the air she breathed.
Stress, we all know, is aging. It's detrimental to your body on a cellular level. It hurts physically and emotionally. And my Nana lived in a soul crushingly stressful environment. It wasn't even just stress, it wasn't ordinary familial tension - she lived in a place where she was abused, everyday.
It takes a lot for me to write that. To know that it is true and to know that there were choices we all made - choices that I made - that enabled that abuse to continue.
I hope that in all my life, I will never do anything that I could regret more than not doing what I know was right. I hope that I would be strong enough, now, to know that having her mad at me for calling the cops - over and over again, if necessary - would be preferable to not having her at all.
"She wasn't beaten to death," you might say, "She died of cancer." And you would be right. She did. She did die of cancer, but she also died because her environment was toxic; because her son and his 'family' poisoned her everyday.
By ignoring her. By making her feel worthless and stupid and vile. By treating her as if she were little more than a bank - a bank where loans never had to be repaid and interest was never charged and you could insult the clerks at will. By hurting her heart and allowing their children to say that she wasn't their grandmother, or that they'd never really loved her. By screaming at her and calling her hideous names. By not caring for her when she was so obviously sick, and not caring enough to let anyone else have the chance to care for her either. By bullying her into believing all the wretched things they said about her (or us), and threatening her if she dared to stand up for herself (or us). By treating her as though she was invisible - by showing her that her opinion meant so little it didn't deserve to be heard, that her presence meant so little it wasn't even worth noting. By making it so that no one else could stand to come to her house, since it meant being in their presence, since it meant having to sit by seething while she was belittled or being belittled themselves.
(I would say here, in order to keep myself from becoming completely enraged, all over again, and because I am listening to the Harry Potter books on cassette tape, that she was Dobby, and they never gave her so much as a sock. If that makes sense to you, I think we should be friends:) )
They poisoned her, as sure as if they'd been feeding her arsenic, and 22 years worth is a lot of arsenic to swallow. It's a long time, and a lot of damage, and if every day you're living on a battlefield, using all your strength and energy to fight off poisons, you don't have any extra resources when you need them.
And that's really what happened to her - she just didn't have the resources she needed for that next battle, and it happened to be against a foe she couldn't best.
I'm not saying she wouldn't have had cancer. I'm not even saying she would have survived the cancer, really. I'm just saying that she would've had a better shot at doing so if she didn't have to also survive her 'son' and the rest of the PUS.
You may disagree, and I haven't written it before because, well... it sounds so stupid written down like that, even to me. But they wore her down, they wore down her spirit and her energy and her self, and when she got sick, she needed all those things and didn't have them. So yeah: I think that the damage they've done is immeasurable. And I am damn glad to see them go.
But today, alone in the house, as I heard the footsteps of Hippobeast PUS (the daughter - who's 22 now & who was one of Nana's frequent tormentors) thump on the back steps, I had a moment of "What's to stop me?"
My anger was so clear and sharp and focused that if I were capable of climbing the stairs, I
We haven't talked in over 12 years, and I assume that she thinks I am as horrific as I think she is, but in that moment I just wanted to be able to look her in the face and say: "Listen, you need to hear this from somebody, and it sure as shit ain't going to be your fucked up parents that tell you because they're even more delusional than you are. So hear this clearly, and know that it is true - YOU are wrong.
All those things you did, at first because your parents did them, and then later just because you could? The hateful things you said and the punishing ways you acted? Were wrong. Were evil and hurtful and poisonous and led directly to the dissolution of our 'family' and to Nana's death. And you can never make that better.
I can't go back and do the right thing - I can't go back and call the cops when I should've or actually send that letter to the lawyer the way I wanted to, and that will always haunt me. But you can't go back either, you can't undue the harm you did, the hurt you've caused, and I can't let you leave this house without letting you know that I hope it haunts you. Because it should."
It's probably good that I can't climb the stairs, because even as I was thinking about how great it would be to deliver this truth to her in person, I didn't, for a second, imagine that she would just sit there and let me say all of that to her. And that would've pissed me off even more, and things would most likely have escalated. (Although, seriously? Giving her the chance to punch me might have been worth any increase in pain because you know I would've called the cops then, friends.)
And by the time she plodded her way back down the stairs, I had calmed down enough to return to my Harry Potter and plot about how to 'accidentally' aim a Cruciatus Curse at them all instead, but the wanting is still there. Because I know that they still think they didn't do anything wrong.
That they will never think they did anything wrong - that they were the victims of a family that turned their backs on them, as opposed to the perpetrators that caused a family to be shattered.
And that's not okay with me. But I'm just going to have to let it go.
So, even though we still don't know where we'll be, I am definitely looking forward to thirty days from today, when I won't have to see them again. Or hear their false voices again, or suffer under their hands ever again.
And then? I shall have to settle for the Obliteration Charm instead, wiping them from my life once and for all.
Saturday, September 08, 2007
Why is it so hard
(for me in particular, but I'm guessing for a lot of you too)
.... to make good decisions?
.... to do the things we know we should?
.... to keep track of time (how the heck did it get to be Saturday night already)?
.... to get past hurt feelings?
.... to get organized?
.... to figure out TiVo? (Probably the manual would be helpful, but SisterJ lost it)
.... to stop taking responsibility for other peoples' issues?
.... to believe in myself?
.... to tie a bow so that it looks like they do on TV?
.... to get the fricken answers I need?
.... help other people see themselves as clearly as I see them?
.... to have some sort of filter that protects me from being overwhelmed?
.... to recognize - and then STAY WITHIN - my limits?
.... to just be honest and stop holding things back?
.... to stop being afraid?
Crap, I'm in a mood tonight. Fighting with SisterCh over her feelings for Loser Boyfriend, who she was "totally over" less than a week ago, and now ... not so much. Loser Boyfriend who was verbally abusive (and I'm pretty sure physically, too). Loser Boyfriend who made her miserable. Who she turned into a completely different person in order to be with. Since they broke up, she's come back into herself - laughing, honest, kind, cranky, selfish, sweet; all by turns. Herself. And now, he wants her back. He's changed. She's changed. Maybe they can work it out.
It makes me want to throw up.
I don't understand that there were good times. I don't understand how wonderful the good times were. I'm a "person without a heart," because I can't see that her memories of good times matter to her enough for her consider going back to him, to consider breaking up with the boy she's started dating (who is 'different' and 'not him').
I guess I must be a cold, heartless bitch, because I don't care how many 'good times' you have, if you also have to put up with him throwing furniture or calling you a whore. I guess the fact that I've been sick and "never had a man in my life" (God, do sisters know where to stick the knives!) does mean that I don't know anything about relationships, because I don't think that it's reasonable for him to put his fist through the wall and tell you he's changed because he's "made an appointment to talk to someone." I guess the fact that he isolates you from your family - example: NOW - because we "just don't understand!!" is not a clear DANGER DANGER DANGER sign.
I guess I really am just plain clueless.
Sorry for the random rant: nothing I can say to anybody here, as SisterCh told me in confidence about all of this. Oh, they know we're fighting - I'm a ball of tension when fighting with someone - but I can't just scream: "She's making the WORST decisions of her life because she's scared. And lonely. And she wants something that never really was any good in the first place!!!"
Thanks for the ears.
And any advice would be gratefully received.
.... to make good decisions?
.... to do the things we know we should?
.... to keep track of time (how the heck did it get to be Saturday night already)?
.... to get past hurt feelings?
.... to get organized?
.... to figure out TiVo? (Probably the manual would be helpful, but SisterJ lost it)
.... to stop taking responsibility for other peoples' issues?
.... to believe in myself?
.... to tie a bow so that it looks like they do on TV?
.... to get the fricken answers I need?
.... help other people see themselves as clearly as I see them?
.... to have some sort of filter that protects me from being overwhelmed?
.... to recognize - and then STAY WITHIN - my limits?
.... to just be honest and stop holding things back?
.... to stop being afraid?
Crap, I'm in a mood tonight. Fighting with SisterCh over her feelings for Loser Boyfriend, who she was "totally over" less than a week ago, and now ... not so much. Loser Boyfriend who was verbally abusive (and I'm pretty sure physically, too). Loser Boyfriend who made her miserable. Who she turned into a completely different person in order to be with. Since they broke up, she's come back into herself - laughing, honest, kind, cranky, selfish, sweet; all by turns. Herself. And now, he wants her back. He's changed. She's changed. Maybe they can work it out.
It makes me want to throw up.
I don't understand that there were good times. I don't understand how wonderful the good times were. I'm a "person without a heart," because I can't see that her memories of good times matter to her enough for her consider going back to him, to consider breaking up with the boy she's started dating (who is 'different' and 'not him').
I guess I must be a cold, heartless bitch, because I don't care how many 'good times' you have, if you also have to put up with him throwing furniture or calling you a whore. I guess the fact that I've been sick and "never had a man in my life" (God, do sisters know where to stick the knives!) does mean that I don't know anything about relationships, because I don't think that it's reasonable for him to put his fist through the wall and tell you he's changed because he's "made an appointment to talk to someone." I guess the fact that he isolates you from your family - example: NOW - because we "just don't understand!!" is not a clear DANGER DANGER DANGER sign.
I guess I really am just plain clueless.
Sorry for the random rant: nothing I can say to anybody here, as SisterCh told me in confidence about all of this. Oh, they know we're fighting - I'm a ball of tension when fighting with someone - but I can't just scream: "She's making the WORST decisions of her life because she's scared. And lonely. And she wants something that never really was any good in the first place!!!"
Thanks for the ears.
And any advice would be gratefully received.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
I swear to you, people
I just can't keep up lately.
So, since I love you and you are all kind enough to keep coming back here, but I can't get up enough energy for a whole talk-y kind of post, have some bullets.
The end. (Except - Yeah, I meant to find a Theme Thursday picture, but couldn't think of anything to fit fly... if I come up with it tonight, I'll post it then. Hopefully.)
So, since I love you and you are all kind enough to keep coming back here, but I can't get up enough energy for a whole talk-y kind of post, have some bullets.
- I got a new bookcase! And it is purty. Mum & I put it together ourselves (well, I read the directions, which is an important part of the putting together, thank you very much.) I'm still in the process of getting books into it. With no kiddos next week - their parents are taking them to the Cape on vacation - I'll hopefully get more accomplished.
- My summer cold melted (almost literally) right into another major sinus infection - my 5th (?) since coming off my prophylactic antibiotics. I think it's time to rethink that decision.
- Baby Girl is picking up words faster than we can put them down: yesterday she just mimicked my (fabulous) cow impression. "Mooooooooooooooo" and she kept doing it all day. She also learned 'baby' and 'ball' in sign language, and remembered airplane from last week, even though I didn't think she was paying any attention last week. (We use both, and that's a post I've been meaning to write, too. Added to the pile.) Don't be fooled - our 15 month old vocabulary still consists of mostly grunts, pointing, nodding, odd little chirps and an occasional 'ssssssssss,' but she's learning fast.
- A few weeks ago, on a rare beautiful and not too hot day, I had my window open and a man was jogging by. Men jog by all the time, but my first little out-of-the-corner-of-my-eye glance at this guy gave me a kind of zap - I thought he was my father. My father, not my dad. The one who died (oh my gosh, has it been) 8 years ago. On second & third much closer looks, he still bore a striking resemblance to my father - short, compact build, but muscular; facial hair in that (completely uncomplimentary) Fu Manchu-ish style; face pulled tight - almost grimacing - with that 'I'm focusing here!' look - but there were plenty of differences: Their coloring was similar, but my father's skin seemed permanently tanned - rougher, more leathery, perhaps from his time on the decks of Navy ships, whereas this guy's tan seemed new and shiny; My father would probably have a bald spot by now, as his hair was thinning when he died, but I couldn't picture him with both the facial hair and the shiny spot on the back of his head (surely, one of would have been able to talk him out of that...); and my father never ran in anything other than his fatigues. Ever.
My relationship with my father was - is - complicated and painful and wonderful (although those are the hardest times for me to remember), and the jolt I got from seeing this guy whiz by was too painful for me to think that all the years he's been gone have changed that. But it did make me look at the calendar, did remind me that his anniversary would be the next day, did make me pick up the phone and call my grandmother, help take her mind off of it for a little while.
So, thanks, random Jogger Guy.
- We're supposed to have thunderstorms tonight - already, I can feel the air changing a bit - but I just don't feel up to taking a shower yet. Sadly, if I don't get to it tonight, there's always waiting till tomorrow. (Although I really, really need to wash my hair.... maybe I can get enough energy for just that?)
- Random crazy dream from last night's 22 whole minutes - interrupted, of course - of sleep: talking to my Nana about the PUS, trying to get her to see reason, only we're arguing, screaming at each other, her totally ignoring what I have to say. And, of course, we're having this fight in the bra department at a store in the local mall. And as I'm screaming, the bra lady has to shout over me, "We don't carry bras that big in the store!!!" Nice. I wonder if the bridesmaid's dress shopping wasn't a little bit traumatic after all? (Seriously, my dress only comes in one size bigger than the one I am wearing. I think I wouldn't mind being bigger if I got to eat whatever I felt like, but since so much of my weight seems to be stuck on b/c of meds, I'm really not happy about it....)
The end. (Except - Yeah, I meant to find a Theme Thursday picture, but couldn't think of anything to fit fly... if I come up with it tonight, I'll post it then. Hopefully.)
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
This post over at Beauty Offensive reminded me of a conversation I had to have with Sister J recently. (I'm sorry: I know some of you are still a bit confused about which sister is which and whatnot, but I can't find my taskbar - with the family tree post - yet. I have done something to screw it up. I'm workin' on it. In the meantime, Sister J is 24 yrs old, recently engaged and moved in with her fiance, the sister directly below me in our prestigious line.)
Following the whole "Suck it up" debacle, I had some... intense anger issues. Specifically directed toward my family. And the fact that they were - possibly, at this point - talking, behind my back, about the fact that I was "exaggerating my illness." We've talked about it here, but I think you can all imagine how painful it was for me to think that they were all discussing this amongst themselves.
But I didn't know for sure: All I had was Soon-to-be Sister-In-Law's not so wonderfully rambling e-mail. This was not exactly proof. And I found myself in a peculiar situation:
I wanted to know if it was true; but if it was true, I didn't want to know.
I really spent a while debating with myself because I wasn't sure how I would handle it if they were all thinking I was overstating my realities of living with chronic illness.
I have been sick for 13 years... which means I was a teenager when I first got sick. And - after the initial worry - when my health just kept deteriorating and the doctors had no clue what the hell was going on, many of my family members had a lot of doubts. Whether it was because I was young, or because CFIDS/FM wasn't really known, or because it was so sudden & dramatic, or .. whyever really: there was a lot of disbelief. Some of the things that were said to me, & done to me, & said about me during those first three years or so, were incredibly painful. I was mocked. I was made to do things that were physically impossible (for sick-me), and then punished if I didn't complete them. I was doubted and taunted and picked on. Some family members thought I was a druggie, or pregnant (although how they could keep thinking that 13 months later, I don't exactly know), or hiding something, or faking. Just plain faking.
To be fair, my sibilings - the worst offenders - were thirteen years younger then too - making the oldest two, 18, and the youngest three, 12, 9, and 7. To a 9-yr-old, the idea of an illness doesn't always matter; Not being the center of attention anymore, does.
I already know what it feels like to have to defend your existence to the people who are supposed to love you unconditionally (ha!), and it's horrid. It's difficult and demeaning and so incredibly hurtful. And I didn't want to have to do it again. So, I put it off.
And, I put it off. And I fumed, and pouted, and was generally disagreeable (in my own subtle way). Eventually, though, I knew I had to find out.
Sister J and I were home alone one day, and I decided that she would be my best bet to have this discussion with for three reasons: 1) We've grown a lot closer in recent years & I felt comfortable enough to bring it up; 2)She's honest - to a fault, to the point of rudeness, to the extreme; and 3)I knew I would probably cry, and since she's an easy-crier too, she would still listen to what I was saying.
I started the conversation by skimming over S-T-B S-I-L's e-mail, and what it said, and how I was upset by it. She was also furious, intially, & disbelieving. She was supportive and pissed and all the things only a sister can be when somebody messes with their sister.
But when I asked her if it was true that the family discusses me, and pretty much has come to the conclusion that I'm a big faker, she got kind of quiet.
And I got really angry. And when I get angry, (or upset, or emotional in anyway,) I tend to cry.
So I rolled myself over to the window, let the tears fall silently, and listened to what she had to say.
She said that nobody thought I was faking, but that maybe, sometimes there were doubts about the intensity of certain symptoms, or how long they lasted. Or that sometimes they talked about how I could probably do more than I was doing, or that I was sort of just passively not taking all the steps necessary to get better. Because it's been thirteen years already, and I'm obviously not better (and have in fact gotten worse over the course of the past 7 or so), so there must be more I could be doing, but wasn't.
Which is basically what Soon-to-be Sister-in-law said as well, and to which, I must again reply: Fuck that!
I'm sorry: I don't use language like that often, but there couldn't be a better place. And I literally said it to her that day, in tears, trying not to throw-up.
And then I said that there was no one more aware of the fact that it had been 13 years and I still wasn't better. There also wasn't anyone more aware of the fact that I have been doing every single thing the doctors have told me to do (and a million other things in between)for the past 13 years. And I may have ranted on a bit here about how if they ever asked questions, or came to my doctor's appointments, or did research on their own, they would know that my diseases are CHRONIC and largely untreatable (to date).
I also said that if there were any exaggeration on my part, it would be that I downplay how horribly I really feel in order to make it through the day. Because if I let my body dictate what gets accomplished, then I would not move more than three inches in any direction on any given day. (I may also have sworn some more. But not alot, because I was too busy crying. Which I HATE... that's a whole nother post.)
BUT ---> and here's the part that actually fits in with that Beauty Offensive post <---- then we started to calm down and listen to each other. And she started to cry, too, as she was telling me that basically, it's easier for her (for them) to think that it's somehow my fault: To think that there's something more I could be doing, but just haven't done yet.
Because if they don't think that, then it's true: I really have these horrible diseases, and they aren't getting better. And they aren't going away. And then they have to mourn the sister that they want to have - the sister who can walk down the aisle as maid-of-honor rather than roll down; the sister who isn't stuck living with our parents at 28; the sister who is the world's best auntie and mother; the sister who is happy and healthy and not held back - and deal instead with the sister they really have - who, she insisted, is not a bad person. She's just a sick person, and that's not how they want me to be. (Um... can I give a big fat "DITTO" here?)
And as much as I would have liked to have told her to stuff it, I understood what she was saying. Because I was there too: I had to accept the fact that these diseases are a part of me, and there were/are times when I didn't. So I could understand how it would easier for them to just blame me... because then, I could fix it.
And I told her that. And then I told her this:
"I can't fix it. I can do everything I'm supposed to do, everything there is in the world to do, to get better - that's my responsibility. But I'm still not guaranteed to get better. Because hasn't worked so far. And no amount of positive thinking or pulling myself up by the bootstraps, or voodoo or praying is going work for me. Because I am SICK. And you just can't talk yourself out of SICK.
"I am sick," I told her. "And you are making it harder for me. Because I can't lean on you, I can't depend on you, I can't feel loved and whole and safe with my family, if they don't believe in me.
And that's not fair.
It may be easier for you all to blame me, but it makes it harder on me. It makes me less able to do the things I have to do everyday, because I know that there's no one completely on my side.
I need you on my side. We can both hate this situation, these diseases, my genes, the lack of funding and research: we can sit all day and hate those things together.
But you can't doubt that I am doing everything in my power to get better. You can't think that I'm exaggerating, or milking it, or sitting by passively, because if you believe those things, you aren't paying attention.
You aren't being supportive. You aren't being the family I need. "
And she agreed.
AGREED, people.
So, then we cried some more, and hugged ("Hug it out, Bitches!"), and talked some more. She promised no more smack talk about me being sick (sisters always smack talk about something, it just can't be about that), and that she'd pass on what we talked about, and how she feels about it now.
And it was a hard conversation to have, but I'm glad we had it.
I'm glad I can be sure of her, and that she's sure of me.
Following the whole "Suck it up" debacle, I had some... intense anger issues. Specifically directed toward my family. And the fact that they were - possibly, at this point - talking, behind my back, about the fact that I was "exaggerating my illness." We've talked about it here, but I think you can all imagine how painful it was for me to think that they were all discussing this amongst themselves.
But I didn't know for sure: All I had was Soon-to-be Sister-In-Law's not so wonderfully rambling e-mail. This was not exactly proof. And I found myself in a peculiar situation:
I wanted to know if it was true; but if it was true, I didn't want to know.
I really spent a while debating with myself because I wasn't sure how I would handle it if they were all thinking I was overstating my realities of living with chronic illness.
I have been sick for 13 years... which means I was a teenager when I first got sick. And - after the initial worry - when my health just kept deteriorating and the doctors had no clue what the hell was going on, many of my family members had a lot of doubts. Whether it was because I was young, or because CFIDS/FM wasn't really known, or because it was so sudden & dramatic, or .. whyever really: there was a lot of disbelief. Some of the things that were said to me, & done to me, & said about me during those first three years or so, were incredibly painful. I was mocked. I was made to do things that were physically impossible (for sick-me), and then punished if I didn't complete them. I was doubted and taunted and picked on. Some family members thought I was a druggie, or pregnant (although how they could keep thinking that 13 months later, I don't exactly know), or hiding something, or faking. Just plain faking.
To be fair, my sibilings - the worst offenders - were thirteen years younger then too - making the oldest two, 18, and the youngest three, 12, 9, and 7. To a 9-yr-old, the idea of an illness doesn't always matter; Not being the center of attention anymore, does.
I already know what it feels like to have to defend your existence to the people who are supposed to love you unconditionally (ha!), and it's horrid. It's difficult and demeaning and so incredibly hurtful. And I didn't want to have to do it again. So, I put it off.
And, I put it off. And I fumed, and pouted, and was generally disagreeable (in my own subtle way). Eventually, though, I knew I had to find out.
Sister J and I were home alone one day, and I decided that she would be my best bet to have this discussion with for three reasons: 1) We've grown a lot closer in recent years & I felt comfortable enough to bring it up; 2)She's honest - to a fault, to the point of rudeness, to the extreme; and 3)I knew I would probably cry, and since she's an easy-crier too, she would still listen to what I was saying.
I started the conversation by skimming over S-T-B S-I-L's e-mail, and what it said, and how I was upset by it. She was also furious, intially, & disbelieving. She was supportive and pissed and all the things only a sister can be when somebody messes with their sister.
But when I asked her if it was true that the family discusses me, and pretty much has come to the conclusion that I'm a big faker, she got kind of quiet.
And I got really angry. And when I get angry, (or upset, or emotional in anyway,) I tend to cry.
So I rolled myself over to the window, let the tears fall silently, and listened to what she had to say.
She said that nobody thought I was faking, but that maybe, sometimes there were doubts about the intensity of certain symptoms, or how long they lasted. Or that sometimes they talked about how I could probably do more than I was doing, or that I was sort of just passively not taking all the steps necessary to get better. Because it's been thirteen years already, and I'm obviously not better (and have in fact gotten worse over the course of the past 7 or so), so there must be more I could be doing, but wasn't.
Which is basically what Soon-to-be Sister-in-law said as well, and to which, I must again reply: Fuck that!
I'm sorry: I don't use language like that often, but there couldn't be a better place. And I literally said it to her that day, in tears, trying not to throw-up.
And then I said that there was no one more aware of the fact that it had been 13 years and I still wasn't better. There also wasn't anyone more aware of the fact that I have been doing every single thing the doctors have told me to do (and a million other things in between)for the past 13 years. And I may have ranted on a bit here about how if they ever asked questions, or came to my doctor's appointments, or did research on their own, they would know that my diseases are CHRONIC and largely untreatable (to date).
I also said that if there were any exaggeration on my part, it would be that I downplay how horribly I really feel in order to make it through the day. Because if I let my body dictate what gets accomplished, then I would not move more than three inches in any direction on any given day. (I may also have sworn some more. But not alot, because I was too busy crying. Which I HATE... that's a whole nother post.)
BUT ---> and here's the part that actually fits in with that Beauty Offensive post <---- then we started to calm down and listen to each other. And she started to cry, too, as she was telling me that basically, it's easier for her (for them) to think that it's somehow my fault: To think that there's something more I could be doing, but just haven't done yet.
Because if they don't think that, then it's true: I really have these horrible diseases, and they aren't getting better. And they aren't going away. And then they have to mourn the sister that they want to have - the sister who can walk down the aisle as maid-of-honor rather than roll down; the sister who isn't stuck living with our parents at 28; the sister who is the world's best auntie and mother; the sister who is happy and healthy and not held back - and deal instead with the sister they really have - who, she insisted, is not a bad person. She's just a sick person, and that's not how they want me to be. (Um... can I give a big fat "DITTO" here?)
And as much as I would have liked to have told her to stuff it, I understood what she was saying. Because I was there too: I had to accept the fact that these diseases are a part of me, and there were/are times when I didn't. So I could understand how it would easier for them to just blame me... because then, I could fix it.
And I told her that. And then I told her this:
"I can't fix it. I can do everything I'm supposed to do, everything there is in the world to do, to get better - that's my responsibility. But I'm still not guaranteed to get better. Because hasn't worked so far. And no amount of positive thinking or pulling myself up by the bootstraps, or voodoo or praying is going work for me. Because I am SICK. And you just can't talk yourself out of SICK.
"I am sick," I told her. "And you are making it harder for me. Because I can't lean on you, I can't depend on you, I can't feel loved and whole and safe with my family, if they don't believe in me.
And that's not fair.
It may be easier for you all to blame me, but it makes it harder on me. It makes me less able to do the things I have to do everyday, because I know that there's no one completely on my side.
I need you on my side. We can both hate this situation, these diseases, my genes, the lack of funding and research: we can sit all day and hate those things together.
But you can't doubt that I am doing everything in my power to get better. You can't think that I'm exaggerating, or milking it, or sitting by passively, because if you believe those things, you aren't paying attention.
You aren't being supportive. You aren't being the family I need. "
And she agreed.
AGREED, people.
So, then we cried some more, and hugged ("Hug it out, Bitches!"), and talked some more. She promised no more smack talk about me being sick (sisters always smack talk about something, it just can't be about that), and that she'd pass on what we talked about, and how she feels about it now.
And it was a hard conversation to have, but I'm glad we had it.
I'm glad I can be sure of her, and that she's sure of me.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Ok, people...
I realize I've been a little content-light lately, but now I want to talk to you about something very important.
The abundance of scary, supposedly "cute" Easter objects. I dare not call them animals, as they are too, too scary to be in the animal family. They may masquarade as animals, but we all know the truth.
Consider this evidence, culled from our local Target store just today:
"Attack of the Killer Chocolate Bunnies"
Of course, complemented only by -
"The freakish, mutant frog who will EAT YOUR CHILDREN if you put him in their Easter baskets."
Why, oh why all the scary-faux animals? We must protect the children - look at this poor child....
The trauma!
The abundance of scary, supposedly "cute" Easter objects. I dare not call them animals, as they are too, too scary to be in the animal family. They may masquarade as animals, but we all know the truth.
Consider this evidence, culled from our local Target store just today:
"Attack of the Killer Chocolate Bunnies"
Of course, complemented only by -
"The freakish, mutant frog who will EAT YOUR CHILDREN if you put him in their Easter baskets."
Why, oh why all the scary-faux animals? We must protect the children - look at this poor child....
The trauma!
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