First of all, there are those of you who I know love me in some small way, and who will feel the need to bolster my spirits and make me feel better. I love you for it, but I do not want it. There is no feeling better about this particular subject. I am not feeling sorry for myself, and I am not begging for your attention. This is my blog, and it is where I lay it all out, whatever “it” may be. Period. This is here for my own sanity, for my own need to type my way through these feelings before the overwhelm me and send me into a fit of depression. I will not be watching what I type for editing purposes, nor will I be re-reading what I write. I will probably cry my way through the whole thing in the first place, so re-reading it will not do me any good.
Those of you who have asked me in the last few months, “How can you always be so nice/good/happy/whatever,” will have your answer: I am not. I am grumpy, lazy, and unsociable. I do not like people. I do not like “fun.” I am a party pooper. I may have a huge heart, I may love unconditionally, and I may always do things for others before doing them for myself … but that does not excuse who I am underneath: a bitch. I know it, and soon you, too, will know it.
I have mentioned before, either on social websites or here on my blog, that if it were not for BFF, Tween would not be in extracurricular activities. This is partially due to the fact that my work schedules always seem to conflict with getting her to practices and meetings and whatever else is going on with those activities. As a single mother, it was always overwhelming just THINKING about it, much less putting it into action. It is also partially due to the fact that I am an almost-recluse. I LIKE being at home. I LIKE not talking to people. I LIKE not having people drop by unexpectedly. I DO NOT LIKE SURPRISES (unless they are something I have previously mentioned wanting or wanting to do … and even then, I prefer you warn me rather than spring it on me). I prefer to live in my own little bubble of my own creation, and enjoy my own quiet activities by myself. When I got married years ago, I explained that to my then-husband, and let him know that if we had children, HE would need to be the socialization parent. HE would need to take them places, help them assimilate into the world … because I would not be capable. I know the reasons. I have been to counseling. I have been medicated. I have dealt with this my entire life. I am really REALLY good at masking it - most of the time.
My friends used to call me the “bitch” of the group. It was true. (Ok - it **is** true, tho I have become nicer about asking and have learned to always say it with a smile.) It was NOT because i just like to be mean an ornery. It is because when I am with people, I need to have them behave a certain way … and if they are not doing their jobs (wait staff, park attendant, customer service rep of whatever sort), or if they are being obnoxiously loud (friends), or if they bring along guests who were not invited-and who I was not aware were going to be present (acquaintences who do not know me well enough), I start to feel claustrophobic. The world starts closing in on me. My eyes go dark, like there is no light in the room for me to see by. My heart races, I start to sweat. I would be the one to snap at people to behave themselves, I would be the one to tell the wait staff when someone’s order was not correct if they were too timid to speak up for themselves (if I am paying for someone else to cook my meal, I do expect it to be correct … if I didn’t mind it being effed up, I would have made it myself to begin with!). I was always the one who would yell at someone else for bullying us or moving into our space, or for whatever reason. I didn’t mind being this person - I just hated when they would ‘lovingly’ say, “you’re such a bitch. I love how you can always handle the situation!”
Being a bitch does not make me cold or unfeeling. It does not mean that I LIKE being mean. I do not like myself when I behave that way, but unless I want to be a zombie (medicated with Prozac), my feelings will be felt - and heard, regardless of what I do or do not want. I have mentioned before, my face reads like an open book. If I am not happy, no matter how hard I try to pretend it is okay, unless I let my feelings out in some way (go into the bathroom and cry, call my best friend and rant, whatever), everyone around me can read it on my face. I have learned to manage it by doing those things, or by going to my car and locking the door and screaming at the top of my lungs for five seconds (that always feels GREAT). Yes, you are starting to get the picture: I am a freak of nature, a bitch, possiby a manic-depressive psychopath. Who knows. Yes, I should be medicated. Unless I get to the point where i feel like I will hurt someone, I will not medicate. I do not like feeling like a zombie. How do i know? I’ll tell that story really quickly.
In 2000, I moved from Cali to FL with the Navy. I had wanted to be closer to family, so I was thrilled. Mother Nature welcomed me home with a humongous thunder and lightning show and a fantastic rainstorm. I literally got out of my UHaul and kissed the ground. Yes, literally. If we’d been more prepared, I am sure my friend would have taken pictures. She had no idea what i was doing, but she did get out and dance in the rain with me for a few moments (we didn’t let the kids do it, because even I am not dumb enough to let them get sick). My parents pressured me into buying a home. I wanted to buy a cute little house a French couple was selling, but my parents pressured me into buying a NEW home. If you knew my stepdad, you would know that you do not say no to him, even as an adult. Until the last 2-3 years, my sister and I found ourselves STILL doing what he said, even when we did not necessarily think he was right. Anyway … the house was great, I loved it. I bought furniture, I decorated, I had picturs on the walls, I did everything a homeowner is supposed to do.
And then there was the fire. We calmly and collectively (we being my BFF and I - she was visiting with her 2 children at the time) did what we needed to do: kids to safety, CHECK; animals safe, CHECK; use the fire extinguisher to do what we can, CHECK. As soon as the safety issues were handled, I felt the panic setting in. I had to call my parents, who I was sure would lecture me and make me feel even stupider than I already did. I had to call the insurance company, get someone to board up my house, get someone to take over duty for me (I was in the Navy, and naturally on duty that weekend). I stood, staring at my daughter, my best friend, and her two children, and broke down. She panicked for a few moments, because I had been so calm, she didn’t expect my reaction. I had handled everything necessary, and now I had NO IDEA WHAT TO DO. I could feel the walls closing in around me, I wanted to scream at people to quit looking at me and to not touch me and when my daughter started crying, I wanted to scream at her to shut the hell up. (Don’t worry, I didn’t.)
Then, I knew. I needed medication. I could NOT go back to being the mom who was always on the verge of spanking her daughter (I did not actually ever spank her, I just always felt the urge to … it was how I was disciplined, it was my instinct to do so to my child). I could not go back to being the mom who was always screaming at her child for doing child-like things. I could not go back to being the parent I was before … the one who wanted to send her child to her mother to raise because she felt like she was not a good enough mother.
I had overcome a lot in the four years since my daughter had been born. I had taught myself not to strike out and hit - always my first instinct, because I could not let anyone else have control over me. I had learned not to scream at everything, because kids needed to be kids. I was still a strict mother - and luckily my child was a quiet one. We worked well together. When she was 17 months old, when she had gotten into a snack she was supposed to save til after dinner, I started to yell at her. I stopped myself, told her to go to her room for a time-out while i went to mine for a mommy-time-out. When we came out of our respective time-outs to talk about her sneaking into things, she said, “I’m proud of you Mommy.” It broke my heart, melted my heart, and made me cry and hug her all at once. She was proud of ME for not yelling at her. What had I done to my poor child?
I still yell. I am a loud person, by nature (yes, boys … in every sense ;)). I yell, I get my point across, I am done. I laugh loudly, even. I am just … loud. I do not like it. I am. Anyway .. when the fire destroyed my sanctuary, I felt all of the old pressures, the old feelings, and the old reactions welling up inside of me. I knew - KNEW - if I did not do something proactive, I would hurt my child. I would regret it instantly, I would not want to have done it in the first place, but I would do it. Abuse IS a cycle. It DOES affect you for the rest of your life. I did not want my child to live with the terror I lived with growing up. I did not want her to wake up every single morning and wish she had died. I did not want her to have to wake up after being abused, and wonder if she really was dead since the pain hadn’t set in yet, then wish she could kill herself when the pain came flooding back. I did not want her to have to go to school and make excuses, lie to social workers to get them to go away, or lie to friends to make them thinks he was uninterested in doing things with them when the truth was she was unable. I wanted the cycle to stop with ME. I would be the last one abused in our line. I could not control what any of my siblings did (although I knew my sister did not want kids because she too was afraid of continuing the cycle of abuse), but I would not continue it.
As I stood there, and all of these thoughts and feelings flooded me, as the terror set in, and as I watched my best friend watching me, not knowing what to say or do, I told her I had to go see a doctor. I needed medicine. I needed help, I could not stop it on my own anymore. The monsters were clawing their way out, and I was terrified I could not stop them.
My best friend had watched me be abused throughout high school and until I turned 18. I knew she would not let my daughter stay with me if she felt like i was going to do something to hurt her. I knew my daughter had an instant ally, someone to protect her if I did not. My best friend is the most wonderful person in the world. She is the most selfless, the most understanding, and the most comforting person anyone could ever meet. She is effervescent and beautiful: she shines light on everyone. Her smile will literally light up a room. Her personality brightens the darkest corners, and her beauty makes everything come together in a perfect package of love. If I could choose to be anyone in the world, it would be her. And once again, she was there for me. She took a week off of her two jobs, set up camp in a hotel room with me (she lived 5 hours away), and helped me through the first week.
I set up an appointment with the doctor immediately. I went around my command to do it, then came back and told them when it was done. I did not give options, I was going whether they wanted to write me up or not. When I went to the first appoitnment first thing Monday morning (the fire was Saturday afternoon), there was a questionairre I was required to fill out. Has this happened, has that happened, has the other happened. Every kind of abuse mentioned was a part of my past. Everything but the sexual was handed out by my stepfather … the sexual abuse was handed out by the first boyfriend I was sexually active with, when we were 18. Trauma? Yep, had that too. Deaths? Yep, that too. In fact, just nine months prior, my 16-yr old brother had died (that story was in a previous blog). Mental health diagnoses? Yep - I was diagnosed as clinically depressed when I was 14, but my stepfather said it was a “crock of bull.” I never got the help I needed because
1) I was afraid of litarally being killed if I gave away the “family secrets,” which included abuse of my mother, my abuse, and abuse of my younger brother. My sister, thankfully, escaped the abuse. I did not resent her for it: I was just happy to have one less person to worry about every day.
2) My stepfather thought I was telling lies to the psychologist (I was: I was lying about the sometimes-daily abuse), and that she was making excuses for me because she felt sorry for me.
3) My stepfather did not believe in ’shrinks’ of any sort, for any reason.
When the doctor finally met with me, and I handed him the form, I started laughing as he started furiously scribbling notes all over his notepad. We were only 15 minutes into the session, and he had three pages of notes. He looked up, startled, and I said, “Will you prescribe the medication, so I can keep from continuing this cycle?” He asked me why I was laughing. I told him I found it hilarious how huge his eyes would get when I answered his questions. He told me I looked so calm and sure of myself sitting there (I had long ago learned good posture could belie a lifetime of abuse), he did not expect to find me battling my tears back as I relayed information. He asked why I had not gone into counseling before. I told him that I had always seen it as a sign of weakness, because that is what my stepfather had told me … and I was terrified of showing him ANY signs of weakness.
He asked me how my stepfather and I got along now, and why i spent so much time with him and my mother if things were so bad. I explained tha they were a package deal: to see mom, I had to see my stepdad. Besides, his heart was always - ALWAYS - in the right place, even when his methods were absolutely horrendous. I knew he loved me, even if he was incapable of showing normal emotion. And our weekend visits went just fine, as long as I came up with a dirty car and let him lecture me about it for 20 minutes before he went outside to spend 5 hours cleaning it. And then I would pretend ignorance about some political happening or another so he would spend another hour the next day lecturing me, “informing” me, and “teaching” me before I had to drive home. I did not get anything out of the lectures, but they made him feel better. His opinion never changed mine (I was often of the same mind already … I would just play dumb), but he felt better if he could get me to “agree” to something while I was there. What did i get out of it? Hours of visiting with my mother. A few good meals. Time with my sister.
(Before you ask … yes, i had tried showing up and being ‘me’ … but when I am strong and independent around him, he feels the need to crush me, so we end up fighting and it is two days of misery instead of half a day of boredom and a day and a half of love. No really, I promise. Even my mom caught onto my game after a while, and would help me play it.)
So … my psychiatrist prescribed Prozac after a five-hour initial appointment (yes, it should have only been an hour … he wanted to make sure I really knew what I thought I knew about myself and my problem sources and my methods of coping with those problems). He also mandated that i see a psychologist four times a week for the first two weeks, at which point they would re-group and determine the next step. The psychologist and I went through test after test and homework assignment after homework assigment .. until she told the psychiatrist that i had a pretty good handle on my issues, but that to deal with the underlying issues would be to open a new bag of worms i was not yet ready to deal with. I told you: i know myself.
Prozac was GREAT at first. My best friend and i discovered we really COULD be around each other for more than three days without screaming and fighting. My daughter learned that mommy could be something more than an emotional mess. I learned that patience could be rewarded.
After a month, i was no longer crying at Hallmark commercials. Nor was I crying when I watched a sad movie. After two months, I realized I was not crying when my friend died. My very close friend. What. The. Fuck. I had become a calm, unaffected robot. This was not good.
I went back to the doctor. We gradually weaned the Prozac to a lower dose. No change. Now I was so robotic that I had no interest in anything. Including my daughter. I stopped the Prozac cold-turkey.
Funnily enough, despite Prozac supposedly being a short-term type drug, the no-crazy-lunatic-crying-and-screaming-over-every-little-thing effects lasted a really looong time. As in, years. It seems once i got a grip on my hormones or my brain chemicals, or whatever … I was able to keep a grip.
What does ALL OF THIS have to do with why I was upset today, and why I started to write this blog? I realized, once again, that I wish Tween had a different mother. One who was willing to run her here and there and everywhere. One who would not get upset at a change in venue or a change in schedule. One who can handle being away from the house four nights a week PLUS most of the day Saturday so she can play softball AND give up another night of the week for Girl Scouts too. One who does not tire of people so easily, who can make friends with other softball moms, who can socialize at functions and not get annoyed at the constant husband-bashing that goes on. One who can be “normal” around other people, rather than standing off to the side, by herself.
I was REALLY looking forward to an evening alone with Tween. I had it all planned out. I would pick her up from the bus stop, I would continue to do a little work on the computer for a friend. She would sit with me and we’d watch a show. We’d paint some things I had picked up for her room. We’d eat a yummy dinner. We’d stay up too late, sleep in tomorrow morning, and wake up and get ready for softball. We would prepare lunch for my BFF, her kids, Tween, and I, and meet BFF at the designated spot to feed the kids and head out to Tween & Lil B’s softball game. And then we’d come home and do some more of the same before going to Church with “the family” (BFF’s family, of course, who I have adopted as my own *L*).
Instead, I went to BFF’s house to pick up Tween (she rides the bus there, since that is what she’ll have to do when I am working), and go in to say hi to BFF, who quietly reminds me that there is a Girl Scout Meeting tonight. I tried to hold it in, but I could feel the meltdown coming. I am tired. I am sick of people. I do not want to be around ANYONE tonight. I told BFF I was likely going to pull Tween from scouts since she’s doing the softball thing and I really just need “a night. One night. Is that REALLY so MUCH TO ASK?”
I love my BFF. She saw it coming. She said not to worry, she would pick up Tween, I just lived around the corner. She’d drop her off after, and give me the info I need. It was okay, I could relax. (BFF’s hubby caught me as I was driving away with Tween and asked me to leave her there b/c he planned on us being there for dinner & he was making pizza. He understood I had work to do, but Tween could stay. I really REALLY love them. They have no idea how much they mean to me, even though I try to tell them all the time.)
The thing is, it isn’t okay. I should be able to handle this. I am not even working full time right now. I had a painting job that paid the rent. This research job will pay one of my bills. Something else will likely give me the rest of what I need to pay my bills this week. I am sure I’ll be okay there. The problem is me. I want Tween to have a parent that likes doing these things. Enjoys going to games and practices and meetings and campouts and this and that and five million others. I DO NOT ENJOY IT. I hate camping. HATE IT. I have been, because it is the right thing to do. Usually i let BFF go with the kids, and I watch her others. I hate having to figure out how to get to practices and games and this and that and the other. (Side note: I do not like going and pretending to be nice to these people who sit and bitch about their husbands not doing this or not doing that, or bitch about their jobs, or bitch about this or bitch about that. Try to steer the conversation onto something positive, and they bitch about me. *shrugs* I bitch too … but to my best friend. Not the whole ballpark. I bitch to y’all. You have the option of ignoring or reading. I am not perfect … but should you be bashing ALL men because your husband doesn’t do exactly what you want when you want and how you want it? If you have been married 4 times, who is the common denominator? *ahem* sorry, side rant over.)
I want to be the kind of mother Tween deserves, because she is a GREAT kid. She’s not brilliant, but she works hard to maintain a’s and b’s, and gets more upset than me when she gets c’s. She brings me soup when I am sick, and asks me if I want cookies and milk before she goes to bed. She is loving and sweet and innocent and beautiful and wonderful.
And all I could do tonight was sit here and cry while she enjoyed an evening with my best friend, her husband, and their children … because I was too overwhelmed to take her to her fucking gifl scout meeting.
I am a bitch. I probably need to go back on Prozac for a few months, at least … but now I do not have health insurance, nor do I have a job to pay for the appointment myself. Bottom line, though, is I am a lazy, selfish, bitch. And she deserves better. Tomorrow, I will continue to try to do better … but no matter how much I overcome, this feeling of needing to be by myself will not go away, and nothing I will do will make me into the parent she deserves to have.
