Don't ask me why I watch shows that seem specifically designed to piss me off, ala Dr. Phil & Judge Judy

When I watch a show like Dr. Phil (which: see title) and I see him talking to a person whose behavior is abusive - maybe physically, maybe verbally, maybe emotionally: doesn't matter - and they reach the point in the conversation where Dr. Phil thinks he has broken through to the 'truth' of the matter, that he is making the abuser SEE that they are abusive and that it is unacceptable, and the whole audience sort of breathes a sigh of relief like 'finally: this guy gets what he's doing, he SEES it, and that's going to be good enough," it makes me ... livid? Shake my head? Wonder how a 'clinically trained psychologist' can be taken in by such blatant pandering? All of the above?  Yes: all of the above.

Which is my way of saying I have had yet another 3 1/2 hour 'conversation' with my dad about unacceptable behavior. Mine, to his line of thinking; His, to the rest of the world's.

It seems that my short answers and 'pulling faces' is unappreciated by him - to which I responded "too bad." Short answers and resting bitch face are my least offensive options for interacting with you on a daily basis - a thing that is required because you have gone back on your word yet again and haven't left yet. My tightly drawn mouth is a direct result of having to bite my tongue against the things I'd like to say to you, the names I'd like to call you, the disrespect that the bullied part of me wants to heap back onto you in any effort to expel it. (And which I control not for your sake, but for mine, so that I do not become the bully I hate in others.)

"I'm not even sorry for the faces" I said, at the conclusion of our 'talk': "They're the closest thing to self-control I've got towards you, at the moment. And you're just going to have to deal with that."

That was after three and a half hours of frustrating round-and-round, never-ending saga that anyone of my siblings could basically repeat to you right now, if I called them up, despite not having been at this latest one.

It is, in fact, our family's own special version of the ouroboros - the snake eating its tail, for infinity - He is emotionally distant/abusive/threatening, screws up, calls people names, explodes (usually in a huge, terrifying and abusive way)... there is a 'calming down' period, which is to say a living in denial period where people avoid all mention of the latest incident, then eventually, he is 'forced' (by someone's behavior - not going to lie, usually mine) to 'discuss' it, to 'apologize', to seemingly take responsibility while at the same exact time explaining away his bad behavior by a) becoming the victim rather than the perpetrator (which is how he ALWAYS feels, guaranteed: "I was trapped; you don't understand; I grew up with X...") and b) blaming the actual victims ("Those meds that she's on make her unreasonable"; "Nobody appreciates the shit I do do, everybody only talks about how I screw up" - Well, when you're version of doing stuff is 'making sure there is a roof over our heads' and your version of screwing shit up is 'kicking people I supposedly love out of the roof I am putting over their heads' then, yeah: You kinda have to expect that.)

And round and round and round and round (literally ad nauseam) it goes.

Yesterday's discussion started with my 'bad attitude' which - I am pleased to say - I did not once apologize for. It's not a bad attitude to have boundaries, and to react when they're constantly disregarded (parrots the Adult Child of Alcoholics and Psychology Major, in an effort to actually feel that way, instead of just saying it all the time). It's not a bad attitude to be unwilling to risk being hurt again by a person whose only predictable responses are to lash out at the people around him, particularly when he knows he has a temper (but takes no steps to address it, because "I'm 65 years old" a refrain I have literally been listening to since he was 45 years old) and has a drinking problem (but doesn't see it as one or care to curtail it). It's not a bet I am willing to continue anteing up for - and I said that straight out.

I also told him that he's in denial about the way he actually lives as opposed to the person he thinks he is.

•  He thinks he's the person who shows up for people, always no matter what. He's actually the person who made the summer my grandmother was dying 3000% worse by picking fights with my mother and sister, threw my sister out of the house the night of her wake and then didn't even come to the funeral. That's who he actually is. 
• He thinks he's the guy who didn't abuse his children because he never made us go hungry or put us to work at the age of 9 (as he was forced to do when his father abandoned his family). And that's partially true - we've always had food on our table, even when it was tuna, white bread and deviled ham. And while we may not always have been grateful for that (I guarantee that I was never grateful for either tuna or deviled ham), I also don't think he deserves a trophy or cookies or a special award for meeting the bare minimum standard for decency.  I told him that while he may not have been the guy who left, he certainly was abusive. IS abusive. He's actually the guy who told me I was a "cold hearted bitch, just like my mother" and just recently explained that, had it not been for the "burden of me and my 'disability'"(which he put in goddamn air quotes), he and my mother would not be breaking up. He's actually the guy who made me* afraid to EVER make a mistake because who knew how out of proportion the punishment would be; the guy who doesn't know how old his children or grandchildren are; who thinks his relationships are fine even though he puts no effort into them at all.   
• He thinks he's the guy who puts every single dime he earns into other people's needs. He's actually the guy who went out and bought himself a new TV-set for the basement because he "didn't appreciate the cold shoulder" my mother was giving him in the den (even while dodging calls for the past-due mortgage), who goes out and blows ??? money on drinks and food every night, who asked the daughter he "physically can't stand" (and is on a highly resctricted income) for loans so that we could keep the electricity on for Christmas (and won't explain how the money slotted for that bill just disappeared).

I pointed out all of these inconsistencies last night, and at times - like the Dr. Phil guest - he seemed shocked into silence. Into agreement: "I know I'm an asshole" he would say, as if it were news to me. And then, five minutes later there would be the "But what you don't understand is...." and I would sigh and shut it down.

 "It's not that I don't understand. It's not even that I don't care - although at this point I would LIKE not to care - it's that it's not excusable. YOUR PROBLEMS ARE NOT SO MUCH WORSE THAN EVERYBODY ELSE'S. YOUR ISSUES DO NOT ENTITLE YOU TO ACT LIKE AN ASSHOLE TO OTHER PEOPLE - ESPECIALLY PEOPLE YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO CARE ABOUT. YOUR LIFE IS NOT THAT MUCH MORE STRESSFUL THAN ANYONE ELSE'S, AND THE FACT THAT YOU CONTINUE TO MAKE EXCUSES FOR YOUR BEHAVIOR IS WHY I REFUSE TO INTERACT WITH YOU."

Which I had to say at least 15 different times and at least 15 different ways. And in the end it was still "I don't like you being mad at me" and "We at least need to be civil."

No: I am not civil to people who speak to me in abusive ways. No: I am not civil to people who speak to my mother (sister, brother, friend, stranger on the street, lady on the telephone, aardvark in the zoo) in abusive ways.

No: I do not placate bullies any more. Because I have done so: too many times to count. And it's ridiculous to pretend that that does not play into his cajoling routine, that that is not, in fact, a vital element in our tail-swallowing-snake-swallowing-tail loop.  But the fact is that I am determined not to do that anymore, and no amount of bullying on his part (or on the part of my other family members, who continue to make me feel like the unreasonable, bitchy, judgemental one) is going to change that.

I have a right to build boundaries, and have them respected. "It's not fair that you won't at least be civil to me, when I keep asking if you need things or cooking or..."

"No: It's not fair that you continue to ask me questions when I've told you to leave me alone. It's not fair that you use my illnesses (and inability to sometimes preform a task like cooking) as a ransom if I don't behave the way you want me to. It's not fair that I have constant anxiety whenever you are in the house, that I'm always waiting for the next big blow up - those are things that are not fair. Me telling you to show respect to the limitations I've place on our relationship? Is beyond fair. Me, not responding in kind when I have any number of names I could - in all FACTUAL honesty - call you? Is beyond fair. You're getting more from me right now - with all the looks and bitten tongues - then I feel you are entitled to already, so you need to just leave me alone, and let it be."

So: +10,000 points for me, for sticking to the script (and yes, you know I write the script for this sort of thing in my head - if not on paper - at least a million times) and not giving in even when he tried to make me feel uncaring and cold.

But -10,000 points because I know he will do absolutely nothing with anything we talked about yesterday, and I'm just going to have to keep having this conversation until we can finally move out.









*One of the hardest things I do in these 'discussions' is stick to "me statements" because I can't speak for the experiences of all of my siblings with 100% accuracy. But I know damn well that 3/5 of us would say he's been abusive. And the other two would describe abuse while saying "he did it for our own good", which... speaks for itself, in my opinion.

    My Grandmother's birthday is this month.  This week now.  Sometimes, when someone dies, the anniversary of their birth or death just sneaks up on you, or (if you're lucky) right by you. As someone who's lost (I was going to say a 'fair' number, but 'fair' doesn't enter into the conversation when you're talking about death, so I'll stick with) more than one person I loved, I've lived through loss long enough to know that it (mostly) does fade enough so that some years a birthday or death day will come and all I'll feel is that tug of longing, that twinge of regret that I no longer have that person in my daily life.
    But firsts?  Firsts of anything are ripe old bitches - and I know that I have been not been doing particularly well with my grieving process in the first place, this time around.
    Mostly I feel like everybody else moved on, and I'm still stuck in last summer, holding the hands of a woman whose face I'm trying to carve into my memory as I watch my face fade from hers. 
   I can't explain how powerfully & profoundly that experience has changed me, and yet - nothing else has changed! She's still not here, and I still am: stuck in my bed, in this house, in this life that I don't want or recognize, but lacking the ideas, strength (physically & mentally), and just plain energy to do anything about it. 
    And now her birthday is coming up, and I'm hyper-aware of it.  As in, I usually have no idea what the actual date is, unless I have a doctor's appointment in the near future, but ever since July 1, the calendar has been mocking me.  It's been a constant, in my face, reminder that JULY IS HER BIRTHDAY and HER BIRTHDAY IS COMING, PREPARE TO CRY. The date has been getting closer and closer, and my mood has been getting darker and darker. 
    I think about how, for most people, Friday will have no meaning at all... even in our family, Grandmother's actual birth date was always one of those "Is it the 17th form 1919 or the 19th from 1917 or maybe it's the 21st?" kind of deals. (My family is bad at dates. Also time. Also lots of other things that matter to me a lot, which you can see would be kind of frustrating.) And for me, Friday is a huge, looming, taunting thing that I'm trying desperately to avoid, knowing it's going to come and suffocate me anyways. 
    Because, as I said, I'm no amateur at this whole grieving thing (even if it feels like I am, every. single. time.), I've done my best to keep occupied, knowing that distraction is one of my best coping skills.  I've tried making plans for the actual date - my best friend is in New York, all my siblings are working, Mom says she is up for anything, but lately it's all she can do to not melt into a puddle every time she ventures out into the hot - and I think I've wrangled myself into a kiddo sleepover, finally, but - like everything else this summer - it's complicated too.  No Longer Youngest Nephew (soon to be by the power of two, come to think of it) is 13 now, and .... while he's up for games and stuff, it's as if when his voice cracked, his preferences for spending time with me did also. It's not that he doesn't love me, or that we can't still have a good time together every now and then, but he'd rather be with aunts who drive cars to New Hampshire where he can hang out with his older cousins, or aunts and uncles who let him watch R rated movies and take him to hockey games.  The largely sedentary Auntie NTE is no longer first (or even, honestly, second or third- which would be sitting at home playing video games) choice and, wow does that sting.
    Still, I'll be glad to have them here on Friday, to give me something other than my own gloom to focus on. And - even though I know it is, in part, because of the overwhelming upcoming birthday - Holy Jupiter has this month (/season/past 9 months) been full of gloom for me. Let me just mention this one other thing, real quick, that kind of explains why I've been avoiding this space and writing in general for the last little (ok long) while:
     Along with the gloom, which I recognize as both a normal part of grieving and a truly hideous part of grief, I've also been experiencing something a little bit more troubling, because it dabbles its feet in the "how close are we to the edge of depression here, really" pond, and that's terrifying to me.  It's something that has been growing since before she died, when I felt like it was just me and UJ in the trenches and everybody else was sending care packages every now and then, but had no idea what it was truly like to be waging war against a disease that made you a stranger to the person you loved so much.  And it blossomed once we lost her, and then my sister & her husband were forced to move out, and my mom's depression spiralled downwards, and everybody I knew was fighting their own ridiculously hard battle, and asking for my help, sure, but you can't tell people how alone you feel when they're crying on your shoulder.  And somehow, even though I've tried reaching out, I am left, once again, feeling forgotten and outlived.
     Which is not the kind of thing you can say to your pregnant baby sister, or your other baby sister who moved to the middle of nowhere again, or your other baby sister who you're so fucking proud of you could burst, but miss more than air sometimes - but it's how I feel.  And even though I know that my family is not, in fact, "leaving me behind" (and also that it's not their responsibility to make me feel better about feeling left out, really), but it's kind of hard not to feel that way when you've experienced it so often, just by virtue of being the sick one. First with my high school friends, then when all my college friends started getting jobs and getting married, then when they all had their first round of kids, then their second (and some are now on their third), and this may sound weird, and horrible and selfish, but it recently just occurred to me that this is the first time that I have been the only one living at home, and it makes me feel (ancient and weak and useless and pathetic) a whole boatload of things that I know I am not, but still am feeling. 

And, oh my god, so fucking lonely.
   
   Which is why tumblr has been great, because: So many spoonies! and some of them are old like me! (Because holy jebus, the teenagers.  Talk about feeling ancient.) So, less lonely: here I come.  And a lot of them feel left behind too.  So I don't feel so ridiculous about both loving the sight of my sister's gorgeous baby bump (Seriously? She's one of those adorable pregnant people who glow so much they nearly sparkle.) and still being so sad that it isn't me.  One of my other sisters recently lost a ton of weight by eating healthy and doing an exercise program, and I was so glad for her, and at the same time, I kind of wanted to punch her in the face. Because I've eaten nothing but cardboard for a year, and I've eaten 3/4 fruits and vegetables for the last 2 years, and I still can't stand up without wanting to die.  I miss moving my body and feeling good about it and not resenting everything it took away from me.  I miss trusting it.  (That's one of her big things, this hippie-crunchy sister of mine, "trust your body, it knows what it needs" which is almost so naive as to be cute, except for how my body apparently knows that it needs to lay on the floor a lot and never move, and make me feel like I'm constantly being crushed by the air? my clothes? gravity? So yeah: hilarious.  And rage inducing.) 
    So, yeah: it's been a rough couple of months - not without its rays of sunshine, of course.   In the forms of a family wedding and house guests who like to chat; a baby shower in the making; a couple of kids who grow like weeds having birthdays; a trip to the movies; a birthday trip out for me that included chocolate fondue and a book signing (which - heaven, right?); and even little things like a couple of really good books (a new JK Rowling under a pseudonym? Must acquire immediately!); coming up on finishing a really large (3+years) project; starting some new crafty things; making sisters laugh when they feel like they never will again; a pining Robb Stark (I'll post a picture this week); and learning how to apply makeup correctly for the first time in my life, via Youtube videos.
   
  But this is going to be a hard week, and I'm going to need as much sunshine as possible to make it through, so if you have any, please feel free to share in the comments.  Hope your weeks/months are going a little bit cheery-er, and even if they're not, at least you know you're not alone.  {God everything I'm writing today is like a therapy session: I'm sorry internet.  (I'm not really sorry - it felt kind of good to acknowledge that shit.)}

Blueberry Pie & Twizzlers aren't much of a housewarming present, but it's all I"ve got

My sister and brother-in-law are moving out today, and I am not ok with that.  We've lived apart before and would have to again eventually, at some point anyways, so it's not that so much as how and when it's happening that is so heartbreaking.  It is, in all actuality, going to turn out to be a positive thing for her, for them: it's a thousand percent in their favor that they would move out of some place that is unhealthy & stressful for them, especially at time where they need things to be as stress free as possible.  I'm three thousand percent behind them, and will continue to try to find ways to make things as stress-free as I can, even if it means hounding my B-I-L for updates bc I know my sister doesn't like to be pestered (He doesn't mind). 

The problem is that I just can't seem to get past the fact that it's so stressful and unhealthy for them (and me) for No. Damn. Reason. Except that people feel like being assholes.  Well, one person in particular, really.  Who is so busy playing the victim in his own mind that he can't seem to grasp the fact that hurting other people is the reason no one wants to talk to him.  Because he's "being nice now."  Like any of us trust that.

----------- 

I have avoided talking to the two sisters who grew up with our parents but don't live here, mostly because, since they don't live here, I usually have to hear about a thousand excuses from them about how his behavior isn't really that bad and I should have some compassion for him.  And it's not even that I don't have compassion for him: it's that he's trampled it all, as well as pretty much every other feeling I have for him, consistently over a long period of time. 

The sisters who don't live here seem to forget a) how much they both hated living here when they did - so much so that one left for 'vacation' full well knowing she wasn't coming back but kept it a secret till she was there so she wouldn't have to tell him in person, and the other moved out as soon as she could manage it.  Three times;  and b) exactly how he behaves when you are in his life on a regular basis.  I suppose if you only have to see him at birthdays, barbecues and/or holidays, or listen to him complain that you never call him anymore once every 5 months or so, then he'd be a lot easier to take.  I don't doubt that that is true; I hope it proves true - for his sake as much as mine and SisterJ's.

 It's my opinion that he just can't give up feeling like he's supposed to be the boss, even though we're grown adults (not to mention that he wasn't really the boss in our family, he just thought he was because he was stricter).  And since he can't be the boss in the way that he thinks he should be - i.e. being able to dictate your 'attitude' or demand the respect he thinks he is 'owed' - he tries to bully people instead. 

And, for a long time, we've let him. 

That isn't to say one or the other of us - or a group of us - haven't stood up for ourselves at different points, or demanded changes in our relationships... it's just that when you stop being vigilant about your boundaries, certain people (maybe all people? I don't really know) will notice that you're no longer guarding things that 'do not cross' lines as closely as you once were and will begin to inch their way back over again. 

And I can't keep letting that happen.

So we've got to figure out a different way to interact with each other, and two things will need to happen (from my perspective) before I could even attempt that.  First, he'd have to take real responsibility for his actions - meaning he has to stop thinking it's ok, just because he's stressed out at work, or with other people, to take that out on somebody and start to make changes in his own behavior.  And second, I'd have to figure out how to let go of some of my own anger and figure out how change my behavior so that he can't cross those boundaries anymore: to just accept the fact that he doesn't have to be happy about it, I'm going to do what I need to do regardless. (This is more difficult than you'd imagine when you live in his house.  And are financially dependent upon him.)  

And since I can't make him do the things I think he needs to do, I'm focusing on that second part there.  I'm definitely not on-board with forgiving, just yet.  Don't know when I could possibly get on-board with that.  But trying to figure out how I can live away from here, how I can turn myself into one of the sisters who just sees him every couple of months and deals with that in a more healthy manner?  That's what I'm trying to work on right now.

And I know, eventually, it'll be what SisterJ works herself around to, too.  She's too big-hearted (even though she'd like to say she's heartless) to not want to figure it out: that's why she's so hurt right now, because she didn't do anything to screw it up in the first place, but it still blew up in her face.  So, yeah, I know her leaving is a good thing. 

A necessary thing. 

And, like I said, in the long run, I have no doubt they'll be much happier there... it's just I don't want to be so far away from her when I know she needs me, and it's not as easy for me as it is for other people to just 'pop' in on her at her new place.  (Obstacles, oh how I hate your ever living guts.  Chronic Illness-related Obstacles: goes double for you.) 

But it sucks donkey balls, and I can't help being pissed off at him for it.  He's just going to have to get over that.

Hi Again

I know it's been a couple of weeks ~ I'll claim the first two do to just complete exhaustion, and the last two because things are pretty fucked up here, and I'd hoped to come back and be able to say "Thank you so much for your kind thoughts" and then move on to happier things.  But I don't seem to have any happier things, right now.  Which is not just to say that I'm f'ed up (although I am): there's a whole bunch of family shit that's gone down that's beyond messed up, and somewhere between my grief and the situation and everybody else's grief and confusion and all of our individual issues, it feels like my family is basically coming apart at the seams.  Not that those stitches were all that tight two months ago, but they just sort of burst the week of my grandmother's funeral, and I'm at a complete loss as to how to pull them back together again. 

I don't even know where I am or what I'm doing,  at this point, besides making it through the next fucking minute without falling apart.  And I'm not always doing a bang up job on that, to be honest.  I'm back at our house, but it's not home - it really never was, only maybe I was better at pretending before I watched my grandmother die and realized that I need to do more than mark my time here.  I can't seem to talk to anybody without causing a secondhand fight, can't seem to get anybody to listen to me at all, can't seem to connect with the people who've offered to help, even when I want to (and I don't always want to: it seems like too much explaining, mostly).  I feel like exploding just about every minute of every day, or, I feel completely absent and numb - it's one or the other, seems like.  

My dad threw my sister and brother-in-law out of the house, the night before my grandmother's funeral.  Nobody told me what the hell was going on, because, I don't know they thought I would be too upset to notice that people weren't talking to each other?  I don't know.  So I got the lowlights third and fourth hand, then when I tried to talk to people, it was a disaster and didn't make anything any clearer for them or for me. 

My mom left my dad, then came back, but only because she didn't have anywhere else to go, and then, later, because she wouldn't leave my sister and brother-in-law in the house with just him.  This was all in the days immediately after we had just buried my grandmother, so I will admit that I did not have all cylinders going.  I mostly wanted (still want) to curl up in a ball and ignore everything, because it takes so much energy, and I am plum out. 

My dad says the stress of being targeted at work (and, yes, he is being targeted at work) made him snap and... a whole load of bullshit that basically means it's not his fault, but maybe yes, he might admit that he was wrong and 'an asshole' (What he won't cop to, is that this happens All The Damn Time, and nobody feels safe around him/trusts him anymore because he's a bully).  My sister & brother-in-law immediately started looking for a new place, because, hell: who wants to live like that?  They've been thrown out twice in the matter of a year for Doing. Nothing. Wrong.  And let's be clear - they didn't do shit, he just took it out on them.  I told my mother while I was still at Grandmother's house, that I didn't want to be here either... that I would be looking for a new place as soon as I could. {Of course, that was because I forgot that I couldn't place emotional well-being above money, health and other issues without there being major sacrifices of money and health and other things, but I'm still determined to do it}  My mother told him she was leaving too, although it would be better for everybody if HE just left.  He refused/refuses to leave.

So today my sister and brother-in-law are signing a lease for their new place, at the worst possible time for them bc my sister is trying to wean off her meds so that they can get pregnant, and she could really use some backup (which is just when you should be forced to move away from people who can back you up).  She's hurt and mad at my mom for her response to this whole ball of bullshit, which I can't seem to talk to either of them about, because their both freezing me out when it comes to that.  She might even be mad at me, and since she's the one who reads this blog I'm only going to say that I hope she's not, because I feel like I'm on her side, but if she is, I hope she'll tell me so I can try to fix it.

My dad and I had a whole discussion about how mad I am at him the other day, and how it's his fault that SisterJ & B-I-L are moving and that I'm looking for a place, and that Mom is probably looking for a place too, and when my mom asked him what he got out of it he told her that he "has a big heart but doesn't use it."  Which was said once, in the midst of a three hour discussion about how badly he is screwing things up and all the things he is ruining by his behavior, and how hard it's going to be once he realizes how badly he's damaged people he's supposed to care about and how I'm too old for this shit and I'm just not sticking around anymore to watch him bully people (or to be bullied) and how he's being completely selfish, but that's what we all expect him to be at this point, so that we don't even talk to him about our shit anymore and a huge rant about how he's a total hypocrite and totally ignores the people in our family and expects us to be there for him and how he never fucking listens ... anyways.  What he took out of all of that was me saying he had a big heart, which just proves my point about him never listening, and that I really need to get the hell out of here.

Mom and I have talked - or sort of talked - about what she's going to do: she says she's going and she's done, and all of that.  But I don't know: she still seems undecided to me, and I don't know how much of that is the fact that she's changing her meds, and she's still grieving for my grandmother, too, and she seems to be leaning waaay closer to the numb side of things than I am.  Of course, complicating all of that is the fact that she's my PCA, and she does a lot more for me than the hours the state provides for her, which is pretty simple when you're living in the same house, but a hell of a lot more complicated once I find somewhere else to live.

Which doesn't even mention that moving changes everything for me, financially - I have to notify the SSI people, and Mass Health (my insurance) and the PCA program, and everybody does a whole new evaluation and yippee: more energy I don't have.  Plus, I can't afford any place to actually live on what my SSI is currently, so I have to apply for housing stipends, which means that the already complicated task of finding accessible housing (and granted, I can use non-100%accessible bathrooms, which puts me a step above other househunters with disabilities) all that much more complicated, because now I have to look for accessible housing that takes waivers/stipends from the government.  It's so much fun so far!

But here's the thing, as every fucking thing seems to crumble around me (which you could tell only by the fact that I've cursed like five times in this post, when I usually don't ever), I learned a lot about myself this summer, being with Grandmother during those five months.  I learned that I can handle a lot more shit than I thought I could, even if I have to breakdown in tears when nobody is looking.  And even if I shouldn't have to handle any of this, because it's all ridiculous and I don't want to have to deal with it, because it's hard: even though it's ridiculous and hard and stressful and I Don't Want To, I'm going to be able to do it.   I'm going to drag myself and my family through it, and eventually we'll all come out the other side, having met the challenge.

Being a grown-up sure does suck, you guys.  

A tree that looks at God all day, And lifts her leafy arms to pray*

I started this post a week and half ago.  Here's what I wrote last Sunday, immediately after a moment of Grace ~

In the middle of transitioning her from her wheelchair to her bed after this morning's bathroom break, she suddenly stopped what we were doing, looked at me and said "Goodbye dear."  I wanted to hurry her along, get her safely in bed, so I started to joke, would normally joke "where are we going?" because lately she'll say just about anything at anytime, but something about her tone was different, so I looked up from what I was doing.  I looked right at her, and she was there.  She was in there, somehow, in the midst of enough drugs to be hot air balloon-high, she was lucid enough to offer me this.  "Have a good life", she told me, reaching for a kiss.  "And no matter what, no slander from you, no slander from me.  We'll just be happy for the life that we had these three months."  I swallowed back my tears and said "Yes ma'am. Never: I love you."  "And sometimes say a prayer for me."  "Always," I said.  It was all I could say, even if I could have managed more (and there was so much more I wanted to say: I have nothing but good things to say about you, forever.  I'm not going to let these last few months smear your memory, and I know in your heart you know how much I love you.  I'll miss you.  Don't go.) she had closed her eyes again, and you could see the cloud was back. 

Now this is not miraculous, you might say, but you would be wrong: for days, in the rare moments that she hasn't been completely knocked out, we've been talking about eating butterflies and dinner parties that happened in 1969; she's been (her version of) cursing out my Uncle and I for holding her prisoner here, when she just has to "go or I'll scream"; she's been in near coma-levels of sleep for the most part, waking only when her anxiety or pain levels break through what the meds can control.  She hasn't really been lucid in over a week, hasn't been aware like she was for those three minutes, in weeks to months, really.  So those three minutes?  More miraculous than any other I've been lucky enough to live through.   

Tiny miracles: I'll take them. 

Especially now ~

 My grandmother, a great lady, wonderful mother, open-hearted, strong-willed, surprisingly versatile woman, passed away on Saturday afternoon.  She had been having some trouble breathing earlier that afternoon, so I adjusted her oxygen, gave her her medicine, offered her a weak smile: "Don't give me that fake smile", she whispered in her all of the sudden raspy voice, "You look exhausted."  "So do you," I said "Get some rest."  And then she went to sleep and I laid down on the couch maybe 5 yards away. 

A half an hour later, my uncle went in the room and called out to me: "She's not breathing; I think she's gone."  Her hands were cold, but the rest of her was still warm, that's how recently she had passed.  Within a half an hour from the time I had been holding her hand, getting scolded, giving her a kiss.  She went quietly - I never heard even the tiniest gasp - a peaceful end after all these months of drama and unrest. 
 
 Thank you all for all your support these past months: I can't express just how much it means to me.   For listening to all the ranting about dementia and how much I hate it; about the pressure and the heartache and the loneliness.  I know it's been a dark blog as of late, because I had very little else to talk about, and I appreciate all of you who said even the smallest words of encouragement - I needed them more than I could say.

I don't really know what happens now: I'm feeling such a mixture of relief and sadness and numbness that I can barely get the simplest of tasks accomplished... I know that'll wear off as the days go on.  Her memorial is Thursday & the funeral on Friday, and I'm trying to get everything organized for all of that: it's good to have things to focus on... a project to complete.  I'm going to do that for now, and think about how lucky I have been to have her in my life, for as long as I did, even through these last hellish months.  To have held her hand right before she left this world, well, that's not something I'll ever forget. 

*Trees Joyce Kilmer: a line from Grandmother's favorite poem. 

Another hellish day, but at least I have someone to talk to

 Earlier today, my uncle passed away from cancer - only the exact timing of it was a surprise, but it's still been... I don't even know, just horrible.  And my grandmother, who does not know, obviously knows something is up and is tantruming right and left, while my uncle, who's grieving the loss of his 5th brother in the past decade or so, has about zero patience left over for her, so ... it's been a challenge. The far away cousin I am closest to messaged me and said "Sending my love - hope you are all ok", and this well... this is what came out. 

Honestly, Two Shoes?  It's a goddamn mess here.

  Like, you know how I don't really curse, and all my truck driver-mouthed sisters make fun of me?  Well if they could hear the inside of my brain right now, they'd be so proud.  (And shocked, because I happen to have an extensive foreign vocabulary :) )

I don't really know anything, except that he had the last rites this morning, Katie called to see if Gmother or UJ would like to try to talk to him via the speaker phone, and gmother is in 1967 or somewhere, trying to find her "lost boys" so I just gave the phone to UJ and left him with some privacy.  He was going to try to drive down, but she called back less than 1/2 hour later and said he was gone.  She sounded... well: you and I both have intimate experience with how she sounded, and I just wanted to crawl through the phone and tell her .... I don't know what, except how much I'm so damn sorry.  And then we called the social worker, and the priest, who both said: don't tell grandmother, at least not today. 

Today was a bad day to begin with, and if we tried to tell her, well: we'd be the cruel monsters she sometimes thinks UJ is when he tells her any of the other true things about her boys.  We always go with the "they're safe, they're where they need to be" track that the hospice tells us to follow, but some days she knows that's not true, she knows so many of them are gone, but to her they are both gone and still little boys, and so she is not buying what we're selling, and maybe it's the phone constantly ringing or my face, or UJ's posture, but she ain't buying it today.  She knows something is off, and so down the wormhole we go, trying to anticipate what bomb will go off in her mind next.  Today the refrigerator was smoking, UJ had abandoned her, the lost boys purposely ran away because she isn't a part of this family anymore... just: she's not herself. 

And I promised myself that I would wait, and vent on you when your vacation was over, because ... well, VACATION. And I don't want to see her like this, and I hate having to tell other people that she's like this, because she'd be fucking pissed.  I mean: you know.  You know.

 So I figured, well, I'll just be avoid-ish and vague and hope that things get better (because I've been doing - shocker - a hell of a lot of research, and I think/hope I can figure out at least ways to make this a little less hellish for all of us) and by the time we talked next, it'd be calmer and less horrible, and Grandmother wouldn't curse at me or ask me to call 911 to find invisible children, but ... things keep going wrong, and here we are, and now she's lost a real boy, and I can't tell her, and my heart is just broken for all of us. 

It's a heart broken day, and they're not all like this: I promise.  Some days she's herself and I get to hear stories about how my father was told by some idiot down the street to stop climbing a tree in the park and came back with "It's not your tree, so mind your business."  and even though grandmother expects me to be shocked by that, and be on the adult's side, I think he was right, and secretly smile. 
Some days we spend all night emptying drawers and refilling them, looking for some small part of her life that she can't describe to me, but she knows is there somewhere... so we search.  That's one of the rare times I feel like I'm actually accomplishing something here: because UJ does not have the patience for those hours of searching, let me tell you, and I don't mind if we go through the drawer 19 times (has he never built with blocks and a 18 month old before: dump and fill, dump and fill)

And other days are like today, which is worse than normal because a)obviously, Uncle Kevin and b)during my research I found out that the meds the doc has given us for her anxiety might actually be making other symptoms worse, so we can't use it anymore.  So let's have the MOST ANXIOUS DAY EVER (for all three of us) and no calming down meds for grandmother, and neither uj or I can drink. (Send me special brownies ;) ~ we already stress ate 3 dozen cookies since yesterday morning.)  So, hence: I am sorry to ruin your vacation. 

But I can picture you reading this, and listening to me, and it does my heart good just to have it said (because I've been wanting to call, but honestly, getting on the phone in private here is harder than getting home to shower - and I haven't done that in over a week, so that shows that), to know that, even though it'll break your heart too (and I'm so damn sorry that I have to be the one to do that), I can feel you, loving us, from far away.  I'm going to take all those hugs, and send some back to you, and NOT erase the whole damn thing, because you're on vacation, even though I feel kind of like I should.  Cuz I love you, and I really appreciate the shoulder, and I need it a lot today. 

Hugs to your boys, I suppose I'll be seeing you soon, although ... i don't know how that's going to work because well... i haven't thought that far ahead yet.  But anyways... I love  you.  Thanks for listening .  Miss you much, Love, Me

She always liked the Snoopy one

I've been trying for weeks to write coherently about where I am and what I'm doing.  And all I keep coming back to is this: I am living on my grandmother's couch, from which I can see my grandmother's hospital bed at all times.  I am making three breakfasts a day, when necessary, and sleeping in 10- 25 minute bursts (finally, a practical use for my painsomnia!) and talking about what happened 75 years ago as if it were happening right now.  And I am doing all of those things because my grandmother is dying.

Or she's not.  (It depends on the day, really.)

And it's happening both too quickly and too slowly; too tenderly and too angrily; too neatly and too messily.  And the rest of my life right now makes about as much sense as that previous sentence. 

---

About two months ago, I started to get more worried than usual about my grandmother, because during our weekly visits and phone calls, she was saying things that made very little sense, her voice would get whispery or slurred, she'd go off on tangents about subjects we'd not been discussing, and, eventually she stopped being up for visits, and was ending our phone calls rather abruptly  ~ sometimes in the middle of a sentence, she'd say "Well, give my love to everyone: talk to you next week", and hang up the phone.  Now she's never been particularly skilled at using the phone (especially the newfangled cordless 'doohickey' my uncle installed for her a few years back), so this was strange, but not completely out of character.  When I'd ask my uncle how she was, he'd say things that sort of glossed over my concerns - not addressing them so much as giving me a blanket "oh, it's been a bad day/week" and moving past it. 

But enough things were happening that I was majorly concerned, so when he started ignoring my calls 3 times out of 5, and she stopped being available for even the slightest phone call, I decided it was serendipitous that the upstairs bathroom needed re-tiling at the exact moment that I needed to get into the house, and asked my uncle for refuge from the smells, hoping it would get my foot in the door here.   I got that far in, and - aside from Tuesdays with the kids and a shower at home, and my own doctor's appointments - I haven't left since.

Because she wasn't just not feeling well: she was decidedly different.  Failing.  Stumbling over sharp edges and corners in conversations that should have gone smoothly.  Sleeping all hours of the day, and getting her days and nights confused.  Asking for dinner at 6:45 in the morning, demanding to know why we were starving her, even though she'd just eaten at midnight. 

Her confusion is a live wire of a thing: you never know which Grandmother is going to wake up.  The one who remembers who you are and how she used to lay you down to sleep on a quilt in the den while your mother went to school, or the one who thinks this place, the house she's lived in for 50 years and raised 9 children in, is a hotel or a hospital that you work in and that she'd like to check out of thank you very much.  She could take a nap at noon and wake up around three, ready to sweep the porch and sit out in her rocker.  Or she could stay awake till 4 in the morning, moaning because you've just told her that four of her sons are dead and she thinks it just happened right now. 

"Humor her as much as possible" the hospice people say: If she tells you she sees her dead sister bustling around in her socks and assigning chores, play along if you can.  If she thinks she's the charge nurse and is waiting for doctor's orders, let her wait till she gets tired and moves on.  That's all good in theory, but in practice, it's having her call you a traitor because you knew that her brothers weren't really dead and you've been letting them hide here all this time and now won't bring them out to her.  It's her giving you a dead-eyed stare for 30 minutes because she's sure that you've allowed her "little boys" to be sent away without her consent.  It's handing her her purse 4 times in an hour, and helping her count and recount the same $197 dollars in cash she's had in there since May.  It's eating steak and baked potatoes at 11:30 a m because she insists it's time for dinner.

Some of those things are doable, and others - because even in her confusion, she's no dope - are not.  If she tells you she say a dog in the kitchen last night, and you play along, she wants to know who is feeding the dog, and where it is staying right now, and who allowed a dog in her kitchen in the first place, and aren't you allergic to dogs?  And here is where my poor lying skills are put to the test, and where she sees through all my attempts to talk around the subject, and where, inevitably, one of us will wind up upset. 

At first, my uncle assumed that this was a complication of one of the medications she was given for her fall down the stairs - she is particularly sensitive to pain meds, and the oxycodone made her hallucinate enough that the doctor took her off it immediately - but now she's been off those meds for months, and she is not improving.  And we're remembering little things: like that fall down the stairs - what was she doing up, getting ready for church at 3:30 in the morning in the first place?  Like all the conversations we've had to repeat because she didn't remember what we were talking about at all.  Like how she seemed to forget that her son and nephew had both died last year, and we'd all assumed that it was just how she was grieving this time - that, having so much heaviness to bear, her brain had decided to remember it only when necessary, and to spare her most of the time.  How even last year, maybe two years ago, our visits were getting shorter, and she was going less places, and sleeping more, and participating less, and all of the little things that seemed like just "oh my goodness she's going to be 95 years old, if she wants to go slower, cut her a break!" and now seem like "how did we miss that?" 

I think he still assumes that the "confusion" will clear up, at least some - I'm the only one using the word dementia, and when I brought it up the first time, I might as well have punched myself in the face, for the look he gave me.  But we both know - this is not normal, this is not getting better, this is not going away. 

The hospice people were called in when her aftercare for the fall ran out: she still wasn't able to shower by herself or even get up the stairs very much, and her congestive heart failure was progressing to the point where she needed oxygen some of the time.  So the hospice people came in, and keep coming in to help us, but they aren't here to stop anything from happening - just to make it easier on her - and us, I suppose - as it happens. 

Her bed's been in the downstairs dining room since the fall (and by fall I mean both the tumble down the stairs and the season which it occurred), but now it's a hospital bed, and the room still has the look of a temporary, make-do space.  Her clothes - the housecoats she wears everyday - are stacked on chairs and on the buffet, she doesn't have even a drawer down here she can call her own.  I want to have things brought down, things she can recognize as part of her room, pictures or a bedside table, or something,  but she still thinks she'll make it back upstairs, and my uncle sides with her (and is the only one of the three of us who can climb the stairs), so I am outnumbered. 

I know I'm making some progress with him - he's started telling his brothers and sisters more of the truth when they call.  Grandmother is good at pretending - on the phone or when the doctor/nurse/hospice person is here - that she's holding it together pretty well.  And sometimes she is.  But those times are getting fewer, and the times when she is not are getting more severe, and to say anything else at this point is straight out lying.

I've been avoiding cousins calls for weeks now, knowing that I have to say the truth, and not wanting the words to have to come out of my mouth.  My brother knows now, my sisters: telling them was impossible - what do I say?  She is not doing well, except for when she is fine.  She needs the oxygen every day now, but sometimes it makes things so much better you wonder if it isn't fairy dust.  Other times the cannula might as well be blocked, for all the good it does as you sit and watch her chest heave, hoping she catches the next breath.  How do you explain that things are routine and desperate all at the same time?  How do you get them to see that it is urgent, but not critical today, and that that may change by the time we finish our conversation?

I put such a look of fear on my brother's face, and I know that I feel it as well - The end is coming, and I can't stop it but at the same time, it's just an ordinary Tuesday here, with Grandmother lamenting the state of her curtains ("they never got washed for Christmas, and here it's Easter all ready" "No Grandmother: it's the 4th of July"  "That's what I said: didn't I?" "Yes ma'am") and hoping that mail might be interesting.   Nothing out of the ordinary, really, except for everything. 

When I say that it's happening "too quickly and too slowly", I mean she would hate this, if she knew.  She does hate it, when she realizes.  Sometimes she has clarity, and those times are the worst, because she knows that she isn't clear the rest of the times - that her days are blanks and holes and that during those blanks and holes she may say things she doesn't mean. 

"I hope you know how much I love you," she'll say when she's clear, as if to make up for all the times she'll forget who I am tomorrow, all the misunderstandings we'll have before she's clear again.  She was never one to say that, not really: we all knew she loved us, but it wasn't her way to come out and say it.  So it means all the more that she does it now.  And I do know, I do. 

 But I don't know what to do, because most of the time I'm just sitting here.  Doing the laundry and talking about the time her uncle was killed on the ferry to Staten Island, marking time.  We make it through another day, and I write a big X on the calendar, because she's sure to ask me 17 times tomorrow what the date is, and if it's not marked off we'll have to argue about it, and above all, I'm trying to keep the peace.  When she gets upset, her breathing gets worse, and she gets more confused, and it certainly isn't worth that worry, to remember the date.

I can watch her heart beat in her neck - the vein there bulges some, and it makes the skin expand like a bullfrog's sometimes when she's breathing too hard.  Sometimes her whole chest caves in on a breath, and I hold mine while I wait for it to re inflate.  Enough beats, enough bulges, and we make it through to another X, and I wonder what I'm doing here, when she seems OK, really: tired, sure & confused, but maybe I'm making too much of it.  Maybe I'm worrying everybody and throwing off our whole summer plans and lives and she'll just keep ticking, just keep making it through the days.

 It's not a waste, me being here, because I'm spending time with her, which has always been one of my favorite things, but is now also a strain at times;  and I sit and listen to her worries - and oh boy does she have worries, she might be 89% worries at this point; and I make sure she doesn't tangle herself up in the sheets when she gets up to go to the bathroom 16 times during the night, but sometimes it feels like I've put everything on hold until the next horrible thing happens, and that's a terrible feeling.
Like I'm waiting for her to get worse, because I know she's not going to get better, and I wonder if she thinks that's why I'm here, because she can feel how worried I am sometimes, can read it on my face.

"Why are you so sad?" She'll ask me.  When she asks me with my name, I can smile, and say "not sad, just tired", and have it be the truth.  But sometimes she'll ask as if my being sad is part of some plot against her, or just another sign that she's dead and nobody told her, or yet another example of how we are all hiding things from her, and then I don't have the poker face to pull it off. And I hope I'm not making it worse, feeling sad, when she needs me to bring peace,  so I suck it back in, and hope it doesn't leak out so much.

I feel like a float in the Macy's parade, I've got so much sucked in.  Because today is Wednesday, July fourth and it's only 9:30 in the morning, and so far she's had a sandwich at 2:30, cookies and milk at 6:00, heard the doorbell ringing at 6:15. And we've talked about a non-existent trip to New York that nobody is making, the time in the 70s that she walked down to listen to the Pops with my two oldest cousins and they all danced in the street on the way home, and at least twice she's told me how to wash the windows when we take the curtains down today. 

You know, at the end of those parades, a long time ago, they used to just cut the strings and let the floats drift away.  I'm not sure I want to be around when the time comes to let all the sadness out, and floating away sounds heavenly right about now.  But I'm here.  And I'm sticking.  And it sucks, and I wish I could write about it in a way that made logical sense, but it doesn't make logical sense, so we're stuck with this, pouring a little bit of the sadness and worry and stress out onto this page, so I can face going back in there and talking about the goddamn curtains again while I try not to count her pulse or monitor her breathing. 

Insomnia, Devil: same difference.

You guys?  This insomnia is so massive that I'm almost impressed.  I feel like this is just another example of how my chronic illnesses are combining in a manner created to drive me over the edge.  It's like they all fit together just so - not interlocking and meshing like a nice puzzle, but all jagged edges and hard corners and raw spaces that rub up against one another till they bruise and bleed.

 This one requires that I exercise; that one makes exercising without passing out a near impossibility. 

This one says carefully plan meals & eat healthy; that one says have no energy for cooking, no brain for the math required, and a nausea so lasting you might as well be living on board a rolling ship. 

This one says wow, you're super-emotional and could really use a hug; that one says a hug will cause you more pain than ripping off your own fingernails. 

This one says be super exhausted for every minute of every day forever; that one says, and also don't even think about sleeping.

They just all mesh so nicely together, don't they?

What with all of the insomnia, especially since I had been making small, tiny, minute improvements in my sleep over the course of the past few months, and a pain flare up that came out of nowhere (hello, ridiculous barometer: I'm wondering if you are not a main culprit here), I am beginning to feel like I can not handle things.  Easy things like getting out of bed and washing off an apple to eat it (instead I find myself sitting in the kitchen staring aimlessly into space and wondering what the hell I went out there for), harder things (go ahead and ask me when I last showered: I dare you), and impossible things (lunch tomorrow with Grandmother and some cousins I haven't seen in three years? Never going to happen!)  - they're all just sort of accumulating in a little pile over here, that I'm labeling "Hell no, but thanks for asking!"

It's hard to explain what the combination of CFS & Insomnia is really like - one of those 'you have to be there' kind of things, I guess.  Because everybody can't sleep sometimes - a sleepless night now and then is just a part of life - and so people think they get it.  But they don't.  It's like being underwater, like drowning, almost.  You know you need to push up towards the surface and get air, take a breath - get more than 5 minutes of sleep at a time - but you don't have the energy too push off in the right direction and your arms and legs won't work together for some reason, and your brain says helpful things like "now is a good time to panic, only do it as slowly as possible, if you please", and you wind up just floating away again, hoping the air - the SLEEP - will come and get you on its own.  Parents of newborn babies come the closest to understanding it, I think - the sheer levels of exhaustion you can reach, which you didn't even know existed until right this moment.  At least, that's what they tell me.

 The other day, after about 37.5 hours with no sleep, and with my FM pain level reaching "i will claw my face off now" proportions, & having tried every 'sleepytime' trick in my repertoire, I was just laying on my bed, curled up as best I could, waiting.  And every minute that ticked by made me more angry, made me feel totally out of control, made me want to track down every single doctor who'd told me to 'set a sleep clock' or 'try sleeping with the windows open' or how exercise would make my pain go away and stab them somewhere vital.  Not that I would, but it seemed like a good idea, just so that I could say something equally meaningless like "try not to get stabbed, because then it won't hurt so much."    It's just ridiculous, the things you hear when doctors have no freaking clue what your disease is/means/feels like. 

Anyways, to avoid a similar fate tonight, and because I hope some people are still reading here, even if only occasionally, here I am at 3 am typing away, hoping that my words make sense (and being eternally grateful for spell check, because holy jebus, if you could see some of these errors).  I'm trying not to be angry that the rest of you are sleeping peacefully in your beds, but not angry is about all I can manage: don't be jealous is definitely asking too much of myself.  But being green eyed is understandable, I think, given the circumstances.  Next, I'm going to go attempt to bake cookies, because if there's anything an exhausted insomniac should do at 3 in the morning, it's play with fire, while attempting to make an edible food-type product, completely unsupervised. 

Well, when I put it that way, it doesn't sound like the wisest decision I could make, so maybe I'll just open another book instead.  Or order something off of the internet.  Those sound like good options, right?  Aw, what do you care? You're probably snoring away anyways, you lucky bastards.  Well, I promise not to hate you too much, if you'll come back soon. 

Well, that was fun

So yesterday, my dad called the cops on my sister, her husband, my mother & I.

He called the cops, and told them we were "verbally assaulting him in his own home."

By which he meant, we were telling the fucking truth, in our own homes.

The cop pretty much shrugged his shoulders when he got there - we had done nothing actionable, and it was, in fact his behavior that was out of bounds: I know I never uttered a single curse, and neither did my sister.  My mom did, but that was just repeating what he'd said about her, so that doesn't really count.  And my brother in law, who is the (I can't emphasize this enough, honestly) most peaceful person ever (like, I've seen him mad may three times in the past 5 years, and even when he's mad, he's still pretty calm) had to go outside and stand in the cold to keep himself from ... I don't even know what.

I know what I wanted to do, which was rage and vomit and punch his face in and break the goddamn wine bottle into a million tiny little pieces and cry and curl up into a ball and pack all my shit immediately and move into the cardboard box that is my only other option and scream in his face and drag him to a psychiatrist and tie him into a chair & force him to watch every episode of Intervention ever.  (For the record, I did at least two of those things, but they weren't the fun ones.)

The cops told us "families fight" and told him "if you're an asshole when you drink" (Oh crap, I guess I did curse: I specifically told the cops that he was an asshole when he drinks, but it still doesn't count because I didn't curse at him), "then don't do that anymore."  He did not get the outcome he wanted, (which was them making us leave, I guess), and then kept saying how embarrassing it was that it had happened.

 It didn't just happen: You called the cops because we weren't backing down (again) about your ridiculous, abusive behavior.  You were the one who reacted like an ass because someone dared to question you about your drinking.  You were the one who went on the attack.  I wasn't embarrassed at all, to be honest.  A little let down that I couldn't say "Listen, if he opens his mouth again, I'm going to do something that is worth going to jail for" or "Honestly?  He told my mother to go fuck herself, my sister that she was a pill popping control freak, and me that I was a useless piece of shit: please, just take him with you."

I know I've talked about his drinking here before - about my issues with being lucky enough to be blessed with three alcoholic parents, in particular, so if you've been around, you know it's a problem.*  I probably don't talk about it as much as I should, because - no matter that I have no fault in it, and there's nothing I can do to stop it - it feels shameful, it feels like I should keep it quiet.  And, to be honest, it's a little embarrassing because I can't just move out and put myself in a better environment: I am dependent upon my family, financially. 

I also try not to say things that hurt people's feelings here, even though they don't read it. (And hopefully never will.)  But the truth is the truth, and I'm sick of pretending that this is not a life or death, you are ruining our family type of deal.

The fight last night was vicious.  He has this ability to take out the sharpest arrow in his arsenal, hone it to its finest point, and hit your most vulnerable spot dead center.  Tell my mom she's a drunk (although saying "you're a worse alcoholic than I am" probably doesn't make the point you were hoping for);  tell my sister that she "moved in and took over", because you know she's overly sensitive about having to live at home; tell me that I "contribute nothing but a bunch of dirty dishes", because you know it wounds me that I can't do things around the house to help out.  Make sure you dip all those arrows in as much vile poison as they can hold, before you send them.  That's his way.

And then, THEN, he rants and raves about how he has no place in this family, how he wants to be left the fuck alone, how there are no relationships left for him with us, and how that's all our fault.

It probably is my fault that I don't want to give you more ammunition to use against me.  Probably is my fault that I can't feel safe enough in my own home to come out to the kitchen if I know you're out there drinking.  Definitely is my fault that I've been locking myself in my room at night, because I don't want to be around you, because I know if I go out there I'm not going to be able to hold my tongue, and you're not going to be able to hold your temper, and we wind up right back where we are now: You got to yell and scream and curse and stab at people with your insults, and the rest of us get to wander around dazed and betrayed, stunned that we let ourselves get hurt again.  Yeah: that all seems like my fault.

It's definitely my mom's fault if she's "a cold, unfeeling bitch", because everybody wants to be close to someone who makes them feel like shit.  It's my sister's fault that she's not willing to "forget about what happened before", even though it was traumatizing to everyone (including you), and you made promises that you never kept.  It's definitely my brother-in-law's fault that he had to start shoving all his belongings in an empty laundry basket because god forbid someone should treat him or his wife with love, courtesy or respect, even though they do so much for you.

The thing is, I know, in his mind, that he's the victim in all this.   I know that because he stated it very clearly, over and over and over again last night: he was not going to be fucking apologizing for anything he said, if anything he was owed the apology from us.  Because we started it, we attacked him, and all he was doing was "cooking, drinking and minding his own fucking business."  Never mind that that business included doing the thing you promised us you wouldn't do: we don't have the "right" to hold you accountable for that.  Never mind that once someone did call you on your bullshit you started yelling, calling people names, threatening them, using your place as "the moneymaker" to try to bully us into shutting up, trying to throw us out of the house.   That's all acceptable behavior, right?

He didn't go to work today (he "didn't sleep well"), and now he's wandering around upstairs pouting, probably/I'm 99.99% sure.  That's too damn bad: I don't have any answers for you - you want a place in this family you better figure out a way to fix things, because I am D O N E trying to figure it out for you.  Yeah: I love you.  Yeah: I'll miss you if you have to go.  But you can't stay like this.  Or I can't... One of us is going to have to make some real fucking changes.  And, as far as I can tell, only one of us has done anything wrong.

And it sure as hell isn't me.

Sticking up for myself, my sister, my mother and my family?  Not wrong.
Calling your behavior abusive when it is?  Not wrong. (And not "verbal assault" either, asshole.)
Dumping your precious wine down the sink?  Probably a little bit wrong, but only because I lost my cool there: should've stayed calmer.  The dumping part I'm ok with, because Fuck That Shit.
Ignoring you now, even though I know you're just waiting for me to say something, anything, so you can either walk right in or stomp all over me again?  Not wrong.

Let me make this 300000% clear - to myself, and to the sister who needs to hear it, and just happens to read my blog - WE DID NOTHING WRONG.  It is not ok to say the things he said, no matter if we started the argument - we didn't say anything out of bounds to him, but he certainly did to us.  His bullying is NOT OUR FAULT.  THE END.

Of course, it feels like it could be our fault.  Her fault for saying something in the first place, she says; my fault for not just walking away and letting it drop, I think.  But that's just some textbook Over Developed Sense of Responsibility right there.  Over time, everything feels like our fault - when people are happy, when they're not, how they act because of their mood - all of that is not in our control, but it feels like it should be.

Example: Last night's big blow out (which follows our last really big blow out by only 6 months, with about 3 less major ones in between) came immediately following his vacation, last week.  That's 9 days of holding your breath, tiptoeing around, hiding yourself in your room (or at work, or in the cellar, or at someone else's house: Hell I even stayed later at the HOSPITAL so I wouldn't have to come home) so that you don't accidentally say something to set him off.  He, of course, doesn't see it like that, but the rest of us do.  If I'm going to keep a fight from happening I either have to a)pretend that I'm fine with the drinking and drunk him and all that comes along with that (overly affectionate fakeness, pushing food on you repeatedly, an inability to take no for an answer about anything) or b) not be in the same room with him.  I chose, for as much as I was able, option b.  For nine days.  My sister and her husband ate with him more, choosing lite option A and a huge dose of option B (cellar time ALL NIGHT LONG).  And my mom, well she usually can't get away with B, and even though she doesn't do a good job of pretending (i.e: we can all tell she's pissed off at him), he doesn't really notice, so that's the way our week went.

It was only after all that shit that my sister came home from work yesterday and called him on his drinking (A bit of an explanation first: following last ginormous traumatizing fight, he swore off drinking.  That lasted a week.  Since then he has told us that he won't drink at all.  Then he changed it to "I won't drink when I'm cooking" Then it was "I won't have more than 1 glass/2 glasses/3 glasses a night"  Last night he was at 2.5 glasses when she walked in).  And then spent the rest of the night crying, saying she shouldn't have started anything.

She didn't start it, and I want her to get that.  (Hi.  I know you get it, but you don't feel it.  That's ok, too, but just so you know: I know this wasn't your fault.)  He can lay the blame at our feet - hers for daring to say something, mine for not shutting my mouth when he wanted me to, my mom's for not sticking up for him "while I was being assaulted" - but we all know the truth about where it goes.  This is his fault, and that's all there is too it.

Another sister and I were talking recently, about babies. About how much we want them and don't have them, and are scared it may never happen for us.  (Which, let's not talk about that right now) And she said something about never letting her kids sleep over, out of fear of what his moods would be like, and it sort of killed me (because I love my niece and nephews so much and would hate not to be able to spend time with any of them), and at the same time I understood perfectly.  I want a baby more than anything, but I would never bring it into this house the way it is right now.  Never.

So don't give me all this shit about how you just can just "cook, and drink, and mind my own fucking business",  because it is my business.  Because I love you, and because I love them, and because, god damn it I'm trying really fucking hard to love myself.  And I can't love a person who lets other people walk all over them - or her family.  So, I know you're going to do as you please (who knows it better than me**), but it's not going to be crushing me anymore.  It's not going to be hurling abuse at the people I love anymore.  And if that means that I've lost two fathers to alcohol, I'm going to say that that really sucks.  And I'm going to be horribly sad.  But I'm not going to lose myself just so you can be a happy drunk.

 



*And I'd just like to say that my Mom, whose own issues with alcohol have been pretty intense and troubling, has been sober for almost four months now, and I couldn't be prouder of her.  Yes, it was a decision she made based on medical necessity, but I think every addict's decision to get sober is medically necessary, and she's working really hard on it, which is amazing. 

**My biological father slipped into his alcoholism sometime before I 9, and our relationship was rocky from that point on.  Eventually, 11 years ago this July, it took his life.

I've been writing letters

Some actually got sent (mostly advocacy ones), and some are just rolling around in my brain, and some I typed up just to get them to stop rolling around in my brain - with no plan of ever sending them.  But there might be a couple of letter posts in a row, here, just so you know.  To start us off, here are two that go together -

Dear Therapist Who Apparently Has No Compassion/Home Health Aide Who is Too Rough/Nurse Who is Rolling Your Eyes Right Now,

     I know my grandmother is stubborn - it's kind of a point of pride, in our family, that we are all 'strong willed,' but nobody as much as she.  I know that, at 94, it is sometimes hard for her to adapt to new situations as quickly as you all would like her to.   But I think it also would behoove you to remember that she's not stupid, that she did, somehow survive for these past 94 years, doing the best she could.  This is a woman who has lived through a lot - 2 World Wars, technically!  A major car accident! Being a nurse on the maternity ward when losing mothers and babies was seen as the cost of doing business!  She has raised nine children, one with Down's Syndrome, and helped raise at least one of her grandchildren.  She lost her mother when she was a child, her father almost 40 years ago, all of her 5 siblings, half of her children as adults, and her spouse.  She's a tough lady, is what I'm saying, and she's hurting.  Physically and emotionally. 

So, maybe you take your time going through today's exercises with her, or cut her some slack for not doing them when she had the stomach flu?  Maybe you take her word for it when she says that something feels different, not just assume it's just something she never noticed before. No: she won't always follow directions blindly, which might be easier for you, but wouldn't be for her.  It's pretty reasonable for her to ask questions about something she knows very little about, so maybe rolling your eyes isn't the best response.  Also?

Could you look up from your god damn schedule/paperwork/planned assignment for today just for a minute and recognize that what you want to do and what she needs are not always the same thing?  She's not inside your little laptop - she's sitting right in front of you, and she's scared (though she'd never tell you that) and she's pissed (which you might have gleaned) and she's frustrated (because '8 weeks should be long enough!') and she's hurting (because she fell down the stairs.  And broke her arm.  And had five screws put in.  And is ninety four frigging years old!)  

So let's try out that bedside manner you're supposed to have in there somewhere, and give empathy a shot for a little bit.  It won't hurt you, I promise.  And it'll make things a whole lot easier on her.  

Trying not to hate you right now,

NTE


Dear Every Other Person We Have Worked with in the Past 8 Weeks,

     I appreciate your patience and your kindness and your understanding with my grandmother.  I know she has not always been the best patient, but thank you for realizing that it is for valid reasons, and that she's doing the best she can, even when all that is is refusing to do what you want her to do.  She really is recovering incredibly well, and I know it is, in large part, due to your help.  She knows it too, and I think, has shown you all how grateful she is (even though she is also telling you how frustrating it is to need your help).  Many of you have commented on her spirit, and how gutsy she is: I agree.  Some of you have noticed when she is feeling a little low, and have tried to listen to what she needs - even if all that is is listening, or cutting her toenails, or remembering to wipe your feet before you come into her house when it's raining out, and I could not appreciate it more.  She's a special lady, my grandmother, and it's nice to know you all think so too.  

With my very sincere thanks,

NTE

I'm a little bit behind today because, in addition to other fascinating developments, my mom was admitted to the hospital last night.  It's only a semi-big deal, because she was admitted because of really low potassium levels, after a week and a half of not really eating.  So, dehydration plus, basically.  The plus is: what caused the nausea that made it impossible for her to eat for almost two weeks? Originally, we thought she had the same bug I had, but since mine turned out to be my gallbladder, it's hard to imagine that that would be contagious. 

Then she figured that it was switching from one dose of meds to a larger dose, which is still the leading theory, but because they're not sure, they spent the day ruling things (like her gallbladder!) out, just in case.  And she still there tonight because of another 'just in case': her EKG was slightly abnormal, and the potassium is not as high as they'd like it, so one more night of observation it is. 

It's frightening, even though I know she's in there for a minor issue, to see your mom laying in a hospital bed.  And she was in great spirits - mostly like her normal self, just hooked up to an IV and the oxygen cannula (she's got breathing issues that come from smoking for 35 years, so that's why the oxygen stuff).  It definitely gives you an odd twist to your gut - My mom, while not exceptionally healthy, has managed to not be admitted to the hospital since she delivered her last child - the child who'll be turning twenty six years old come January.  That's a pretty good streak, and there definitely feels like something's wrong to have it broken. 

The thing is, my dad deals with that odd twist of the gut in all the wrong ways: I know that he has some pretty poor coping mechanisms  - we've talked about his issues with alcohol before, for example -  but one of the worst is his ability to catastrophize (I think that's a word, but spell check says no: my psychology background says yes.)   It's just ridiculous: since coming home at nine o'clock last night, I have heard about three 'they were so young' deaths; the time when he was a teenager and his grandmother had a stroke and he came home to an empty apartment; and how the neighbor down the street caught MRSA while he was in the hospital for a routine surgery.  He told me about his friend's sister-in-law who won the lottery - $60 million - eleven months ago, and then dropped dead last week.

And I know - I know  - that he doesn't mean to be annoying, and that his mind is going there because he's worried, but for god's sake - stop putting those images in MY brain!!  And the thing is, he doesn't understand boundaries. So I can say, while he's telling this first story about an 18 year old who got hit by a bus, survived and then was killed by an infection in the hospital, that I don't want to hear about these things right now.  That tragedies are not exactly what I need to be focusing on at this particular moment in time.  That he is stressing me the fuck out.

And he'll stop.  Sometimes in the middle of the story, most of the times he finishes it and then says "Ok, I get ya."

But then 20 minutes later, he's back at my door, armed with a little bit of small talk - how was dinner? is the music too loud?  do you know how to make quiche? - and somehow it gets from there to tale of a 45 year old wife and mother who was smothered in her sleep by a guy she met online.  And when I tell him, more forcefully now, that I need him to shut up and keep that crap to himself, he'll make a serious face, and say things like "Well, it's life; that's life, and you have to remember that." Or when I interrupt him and tell him to knock it off, he'll nod and say "Dad's stupid; he's a guy; what do you want from me?" (I don't even know what that means). 

Worst of all, he's talking about how horrible his life will be without mom, and how miserable he is that she's just not here right now.  Meanwhile, I can't even get into how many issues they have with each other, or how I'm not certain, most of the time, that they even want to exist on the same planet as each other, but whatever: Sure, your relationship is AWESOME, super, Perfect!!!  So there's a bit of denial there, (a bit: ha!) , and then there's the fact that he wants to play Who'll Be Worse Off when my mom dies. 

A) NO - I don't want to talk about that. 
B) It's stupid to be thinking about this right now, when she's in for dehydration, which is something they can easily fix, and yes, it's worrisome, but (I can't type the rest of that sentence about how it's not serious without it feeling jinxy, but pretend I wrote that, ok?)
C) WTF?  Why is this necessary?  ALL OF OUR LIVES WILL BE HORRID WHEN THIS HAPPENS so why are we even asking this question???
D) Why are we asking it right now, when B) and we're already nervous about the damn thing?
E) Why are you an asshole?  Really - why?

Then he started talking about how she's his wife and that relationship is so vital to him, he won't know how to go on.  (I . Can't. Even. )   And she's "just" my mother, and yes, it would be difficult for me, especially me, since I'm so dependent on her, but she's his wife, and that's a whole nother level that I just wouldn't understand.

And then I punched him in the face.

No: Unfortunately I did not.  But I shut him off damn quick, because HELL NO.  At first, while he was spouting off that last bit, he looked at me, sort of waiting for me to be all "Oh, yes, of course: you will have it much worse than me", and then he saw my face, and he stopped talking post haste.  I could see that he wanted to be all explain-y and start justifying what he was saying - because it's a goddamn contest to see who's suffering more? - and I just said "We are Done. Talking. About. This. Now." and he thought twice about whatever it was he was going to say. 

Which is good, because otherwise, I probably would have punched him, and then neither of my hands would have been workable for typing out this post, but that's another story, and tomorrow's another (NaBloPoMo) day.  In the meantime, we could use some positive vibes over here, if you've got any to spare.  Between cancers and gallbladders and hospitalizations and arguments and tension and just getting through the day, I say a few stray happiness vibes are just about due in our neck of the woods.


Good night, bloggy world: Let's all hope tomorrow's a better day. 

 

Game On.

Here it is November First, all over again. And for the first time in five years, I have given very little thought to participating in NaBloPoMo, where you agree to post at least one blog entry for every day of the month. I am seriously doubting my ability to complete the entire challenge, not because of something big and world changing, but because of a million different little things. I talked about it some in this post, already, but I'm still finding it difficult to put words to paper (or, more likely, computer screen) in a way that seems legible and laudable. I mean, I can just say random things for thirty days in a row, I'm sure, but I don't particularly want to do that: I think this blog and I are past the point of just posting to have a post up. (At least, I hope we are.)

No, I want what I say here to matter, and that's half the problem right there - it matters so much that it grows and grows in my mind until I can't write anything, because what can I say that's going to be new or different or interesting or worthwhile? And while I have tons of things I think it'd be great to write about, more often then not, they get all stopped up in my head together, and I spend an entire hour trying to untie them enough to type them out, only to wind up with a mess of nonsense that's definitely not publishable.

So I'm not making any promises on my ability to complete the month, but I am going to commit to sitting my butt down and trying to get the words to come out in a way that makes sense, for three reasons. First, I need to follow through with something - I feel like I'm letting too many bits and pieces of who I am slip through my fingers. Second, we all know that having all of this stuff log-jammed up in my brain is not doing me any good, and it'd be great to get some new perspectives on some of this stuff. And lastly, I always feel such a sense of pride and accomplishment when I complete NaBloPoMo, and I'd hate to either lose that feeling or break my streak.

I could use all the good feelings I can get, at this point. So I'm here to kick of November on the right foot, and cross my fingers that it goes as well as it can. Tomorrow we can talk about all the ways it is sucking so far, but for today, November: let's do this!

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.

Anger.

It's a simple word, but a complex emotion. Something familiar to everybody, but still absolutely unique to each individual. And, I realized quite recently, that it is the main obstacle I've been facing (for the last however long) when it comes to writing anything of substance in this space.

Sure, there's been the holiday havoc, and the shingles before that, and the family members' health crises and the three months away from my own home before that, and about a million other, tiny in comparison, issues that keep cropping up, but I've written through that kind of stuff before - I even sort of wrote through it this time. But more often then not, five years, and a gazillion stories and shared emotions into this blogging thing, lately every time I opened the little Blogger tab on my computer, I would find myself struck - and stuck - with all the things I couldn't say.

All the things I have been so angry about that I can't talk about in person - either because I can't figure out how to say them or because nobody actually hears them no matter how loudly I say it - just sort of clumped up in my brain, letting little drips and drops through here and there, but bottling up most of what could actually be said. And the thing about it was, that I didn't even realize it was anger that was keeping the words from coming until I started to let some of it out. I knew there was something: a wall, a block, a barrier between me and the world - even here in this virtual world - but I couldn't figure out where the wall had come from, or how to take it down.

And I still haven't figured it all out, but over the past few weeks something has been made abundantly clear to me (and probably to those people in my life who are paying any attention at all): I am pissed off.

I am pissed off about so many little things, and so many huge things, and just So. Many. Things. And it has shut me down.

It has turned off the flow of words from my brain to my fingers, so that when I come here to write something, all I can think to say is "Things here are busy/crazy/overwhelming, check back later." But I'm not satisfied with that, so I wind up writing nothing and hoping that you all haven't wandered away due to my inattention.

It's shut down my patience, which I'm supposed to have an unending supply of, because that's what people expect of me - To the extent that on Christmas Day I had to lock myself in my room and cry for ten minutes before I could come out and face people again because they were getting on my nerves so much. And the things they were doing would not ordinarily bother me that much, so I know it wasn't just that they were being assholes (even though they kind of were).

It's shut down my ability to put up with crap: I feel unable to take people's shit anymore, and want them to know and to see it as truth that I Am Done. Even the kids are getting a whole lot more of "does this look like my serious face or my joking face? Because I am not joking and you're going to want to stop it right now." I feel like all of my boundaries have been trampled over and over again so I'm left, walking the lines, retrenching, protecting myself - even if that means being overly sensitive and shooting anyone who comes within sight, deservedly or not.

It's closed of my sense of empathy and sympathy - particularly with myself: I am so upset with myself for being upset that I go around feeling like a heartless bitch and expecting people to treat me as if I am that. (Even though I know I'm not.)

It has also shut down my ability to express emotions with any clarity, in case you couldn't tell from that last paragraph. I keep thinking things like "I'm sad; but why?" or "I am feeling such rage right now, and it is out of proportion to the situation we are in, but I can't tell you why I'm feeling it." And it pisses me off even more when someone says something about it ("You seem tired/upset/not your usual cheery self." No, really: gee thanks.)

'So,' you might ask, if you have made it this far into this unending rant about... everything, 'NTE, why are you so angry?' And that's just the thing - I'm angry about so many things, only a quarter of which I can put an actual label on.

I'm angry with passive-aggressive commentary from my family, the kind that I'm just supposed to shrug off and pretend doesn't hurt me, and I'm angry with myself for making those same kind of remarks to them. I'm angry with my illnesses and doctors and the frustrating lack of ANYTHING that I've been confronted with, yet again, this winter. I'm angry with the ableist/racist/sexist/---ist discussions that take place around me, and that I'm not supposed to get angry at them, because that makes me "holier-than-thou." I'm angry at what a shit year 2010 turned out to be, and all the ridiculous drama that 2011 is already holding for us. I'm angry that I'm not doing more about all the things I know only I can take care of, and I'm angry at people who aren't taking the actions only they can do to fix things. I'm angry that there are situations I can't control, and yet I spend all my time trying to control them. I'm angry about things that shouldn't even enter into my life, on other people's behalf. I'm angry that no one seems to notice I am angry. I'm angry about the fact that nobody else is as angry as (I feel) they should be.

I'm angry with myself, with my body, with my family, with my doctors, with the Internet, with the world. I'm angry at my thoughts and feelings, and the fact that they buzz around in my head and heart and stomach incessantly, but when I try to get them down on paper, they become harder to grasp then vapor.

I'm just angry. Mad, frustrated, ranting, coiled, incensed, enraged, inflamed. All of those. And it's painful to be this angry, and to be keeping it all inside.

So when I finally (and I do mean FINALLY, because I have been feeling this way since, at least September, when my Grandmother had her stroke & I wound up semi-homeless again & my doctor told me that my shingles were stress-related hives instead of Listening To Me)... When I finally realized that this emotion that was bottling everything else up, that was clouding all my other emotions and dulling them to the point where I wasn't even feeling them sometimes, was anger, I decided to let it fly. I'm not keeping it to myself anymore. I'm trying not to aim it indiscriminately or disproportionately, but I'm not keeping it all bound up inside of me anymore.

Which may or may not bode entirely well for this blog and what it might become over the next little while, but I'll tell you one thing it definitely will be -

More honest.

Because part of the reason I haven't been writing all that much is because who wants to hear the ranting of an angry woman, especially if she doesn't even know what she's angry about? Would I keep reading a blog like that? I don't know for sure, and I can't answer it for you either. But I think I would, because it's true. And that's all I ever require in whatever I'm reading... that it come from a true place. And that's all I should require from what I'm writing too.

So if mad is what I'm feeling, mad may be what you get. But at least it'll still be the truth.

Welcome to 2011, everybody, let's hope it gets better from here, and if it doesn't, come join me in being righteously angry... because the only way through it is through it.*


*I can't remember which AA or Al-anon or substance abuse program pamphlet I got that from, and a Google search only shows up random religious theologies, which I know is not where I got it, but it still applies. Or, if you prefer: "If you're going through hell, keep going." Winston Churchill