Six Years Later...

 To say it’s been a while is an understatement. It’s been six long years since I’ve visited these pages. Six long years since I’ve written. Anything, basically. I didn’t quit writing exactly. I just put it away. The same way I put away my art, my photography, and my love of reading books. I don’t think it was on purpose. I got busy with other things. For four of those years I worked almost non stop. Days, nights, and weekends. I’m not sure anyone even noticed. Whatever time that was left I most likely spent doing laundry and all the other mundane jobs in life that no one else cares to do. I kept as busy as I could, partly to escape reality, and partly because I didn’t really have a choice. Each of those years, as well as the ones before and the ones that followed were sprinkled with lies and mini betrayals. Spaced perfectly, though probably not purposefully, so each impact would be slightly more painful than the last. A couple of those years were also filled with dealing with my SA’s mother and her failing health, and then her passing, and her affairs. It’s difficult to watch someone slowly dying over such a long period of time. Especially someone who was so sad, surrounded by other people telling her it was all her fault. 2019 was spent mourning the loss of someone who never really existed and has not passed. It was eye opening as well as traumatic and I definitely have not worked through it all yet. Then 2020 arrived to kick us all in the ass. That, too, was eye opening in far too many ways to wrap my brain around right now. It’s was a collective trauma experienced by every person in the world, in their own way. It’s was ugly, and hateful, and it tore people apart. It’s was also a time of reflection, that for some, shined the light on what is really important, and brought some of those people together. And for others, it highlighted how very unimportant they are. Even within their own lives. 

And six years later, here I am, back to the very place I first found my voice. 2021 seems a good year to find it again. It has a lot more to say. I’m rusty and it may take me a while to find the words I need in order to tell the stories, but it’s time. It also feels like it’s time to dig out all of the other things I’ve put away. The things I love and the things that always brought me happiness. So, that’s it. Here I Am. Back in the saddle again, and looking forward to finding my safe space again.

Hope, who is glad this dreaded first post is over. Again. 

The last three months. Sort of.

I've taken quite a long break from writing. Not because I haven't had anything to write about, but because all I seem to have to write about is shit. I get tired of not having any joy to post. I get tired of reliving the things that cause pain. Before starting this I just re-read through some of my last posts and there is a very clear theme that's been hanging over me like a dark cloud. Death and being forgotten. This most definitely isn't the theme of my choosing, and yet, here it is, in black and white. I have such a fucking headache right now. Between the heat, the pollen, and tears I would love nothing more than to go to bed for a week. But I can't. So I'll write, once again, in an attempt to make sense of everything that just doesn't make sense to me.

Since my last blog entry I've had many relationship ups and downs, went back on daily anxiety meds in an attempt to lower my blood pressure (seems to be working okay) and, well, reduce the ridiculous amount of daily anxiety I live with. I had a major panic attack, which spawned a sort of "coming out" FB post about the realities of living with anxiety. From that post I made several new contacts and online relationships with people that I wouldn't have thought dealt with the same issues as me. It also helped to get reunited with an old friend. We'd been talking for six years on social media.  In fact six years ago our lives were so much alike it almost seemed like were destined to become close friends. Over the past six years our lives continued on paths that were also very much a mirror image of the others. "OMG...are we twins?" Is what she would always say. We talked periodically and always said the famous "We have to get together sometime." But sometime never seemed to come. It was never the right time. Our lives played a roll in this. Our anxiety played a roll in this as well. After my post, however, we wrote back and forth almost all night and decided not to just say it anymore...we needed to get together and talk. And finally we did, back in February. We talked for hours about everything. Our lives, our children, our relationships, our anxiety, our fear of death, our need to have order and plans to feel calm and safe. We joked about reloading the dishwasher and how much anxiety we feel in the middle of a mess. We talked about how very few people understand and how one of the most important thing people like us need is for someone to understand. We talked about how we only lived 5 minutes from each other and if either of us needed help or support that we would call the other any time, day or night. And we also joked about not waiting another six years to get together again. It was a really good night. I don't have very many people in my circle.  People who know this hard, dark side of me and actually understand it and have felt it themselves. After that night I knew I had just added one more person to my circle. One more friend who would understand the challenges of daily life and why things for other people that seem so easy, are not easy for us. I felt so good walking away from that conversation. I think she did too.

We talked a few more times but never got the chance to get together again.  On April 22nd she passed away. To say that this crushed me, is an understatement. It sent me into a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions that are just now starting to slow down.  I felt the loss for her daughters, her boyfriend, her family and friends. I felt my own loss, as it was too soon. We had just started and we were going to help each other. And then I felt the loss for her. The loss of her life, I thought about how we had talked about death and how that was one of the main causes of anxiety in both of our lives. I thought about how she could have died. There still hasn't been any confirmed information but the last thing she looked up on her phone was symptoms of a heart attack in woman. I've thought things like...did she think she was just having a panic attack? Is that why she didn't wake anyone up? Was she afraid of being dismissed. And if she did think that at first, why didn't she call? I've thought a million things...like what the hell went wrong here? This shouldn't have happened. Did she just not want to bother anyone? And then I felt guilt.  A tremendous amount of guilt, for still being alive. I'm not sure if that even makes sense, but in my mind back in Feb there were two blonde women sitting and talking over dinner and drinks. Both with similar lives, both with similar issues. Both with so much in common.  Who got to decide which one of those blonde women had to die? During this whole processing period I've even thought the opposite. That maybe it wasn't that she "had" to die. Maybe she "got" to die. Maybe it was time for her struggle to end. God, I hope her struggle has ended. I'm not religious and hardly spiritual, I've always been the kind of person who needs facts and proof. The mystery of death is hard for me to place in a nice neat casket. I just don't know and I can't have a true belief if I just don't know, I can only hope.

In any case, it's been an internally rough few weeks. There has been more death in my life over the past year than ever before. People I care about. It's felt like the more I fear it, the more it keeps happening. I've been able to talk with a few people about this and it has helped somewhat. We all feel this loss on a very deep level, I think.

Yesterday was Mother's Day I couldn't help but think of Laura all day. I thought of her girls. I thought of her mother. I thought of everyone just wishing for one more chance. For one more day. I spent most of the day alone as Rick was working and Jack was with Jason. The day before we had taken his mother out to breakfast, so I decided to do something for me, which I very rarely do. Normally I would spend the day working, but this year I said fuck it and went shopping. It was actually a pretty nice day alone except I waited all day long for someone close to me to wish me a Happy Mother's Day. Someone I live with. Someone I gave birth to. Someone I made a child with. The only person to send me a personal message in the morning was a friend who I don't think has missed a mothers day wish since I first got separated from Jack's father. It was nice and yet it made me cry. It made me cry because when I heard the text come through, I knew it would be him. I knew it wouldn't be from any of the people that I wished it would be from. It's hard and it's so confusing to me. I feel like I'm doing something so wrong that everyone else deserves the words, but not me. I can't even begin to describe how much it hurts to know your ex (who is supposed to be guideing your son) just completely blew you off and your boyfriend who wished his mother and ex wife a Happy Mothers Day, couldn't say the words to you. All day I waited. If there is a lesson here I don't know what it is.  Life is short, I guess. It can end at anytime.  That is a lesson that I think maybe everyone else needs to learn.  I know it well. Maybe the lesson I need to learn is to stop waiting.

Hope, who in the end decided to take the wishes, lunch and friendship that were sent my way and enjoy the day as best I could.  You can't always get what you want, but if you try sometimes, you get what you need.

And when one of us is gone, and one of us is left to carry on...

Another year has passed and it's Feb 8th again. The anniversary of my (birth) mothers death. It always hits me hard that each year goes by faster than the last. That with each year, her face, her eyes, her voice, and her smell get so much further away from me. And yet, each passing year, is also a reminder of how quickly my own life is passing and how much closer I am getting to being just a photo and a memory that my own son might one day pull out once a year.

I can already see the winced faces and hear the "Oh, don't say that!" from various people in my life. But the fact is, it's true. The cycle of life is a very real thing that none of us get a free pass on. I just turned 43. My mother died at 32. Time isn't a guarantee. This is hard to think about, let alone accept. If you have an anxiety disorder or know someone who does, you know this very topic is a huge source and trigger.  So much of my anxiety revolves around this fact and this particular unknown. 

Maybe that's why I don't want people to tell me not to say what is true, just because it's uncomfortable. Not saying it, thinking it, or feeling it doesn't make it any less true. To that, they might say, "well no, but you shouldn't DWELL on it." Dwell. It's a funny word. You shouldn't dwell on it. You shouldn't focus on it. You certainly shouldn't obsess about it. Maybe that's true. But what about, finally, once and for all accepting it? Would that be okay? And in order to accept it don't you have to think about it? At least a little?

Yes. You do. So here I am, thinking about it and writing about it and daring to say that my mothers death at such a young age has affected me, and still ,to this day, at the ripe old age of 43 I'm still that scared little girl, so sad that she is gone forever, and so scared that it's going to happen to me. 

I don't want it to happen to me. Who does, right? But given my condition I think it's time I find a way to be okay with it. And the only way I can think of to do that is to acknowledge it. To stop pretending that we're all going to live forever and that's it's not okay to talk about the fact that we're not. And then I can acknowledge that despite my fate, despite the fate of everyone, I am still here now. I'm still here with some issues and problems, but I'm also still here with dreams and ideas and a whole long list of things I still want to do. I can try to accept the fact that all of this will be over one day so long as I also try to make sure I'm having the most authentic and enjoyable journey that I can possibly have for me. My journey won't look like yours or his or hers and it really is time that I realize that and start to believe that it's okay. That, of course, requires a lot of letting go. Letting go of ideals, and old ideas, and thought patterns that were never even mine in the first place. It requires forgetting who I thought I was supposed to be and who I thought other people wanted me to be and remembering who I really am. What I really like and don't like. What makes me comfortable and what doesn't. Accepting anything is work and it doesn't have to be done all at once, but it does have to start somewhere.

Right now, today, it starts here.
I love you, mommy.

Torn

Okay, so maybe that's a little drastic, but you get the point.  This one line could pretty much sum up my entire life and the way I've felt since I can remember being able to feel. To be more accurate and little less violent, it started out more like.....I hate everyone or nobody loves me. This was, of course, when I was four or five, and I challenge anyone to find a child an alcoholic who didn't cry themselves to sleep to the tune of nobody loves me.

The sentiment still rings true, however It's still very black and white. Polar opposites.  My two main emotions/feelings/beliefs when dealing with conflict of any kind.  When being let down, or hurt, or lied to. When being ignored, overlooked, or dismissed. I will either believe you don't love me or I will believe that I fucking hate you. I will believe it with my whole heart. Or, I would, if a heart had the ability to believe anything. I will believe it with my whole brain. Why do you think that is? I'm only asking because I don't know for sure. Is it because of my brain and the black and white thinking being part of my biological make up? Or is it simply because when I was a little girl people fucked me up and I never learned how to think any other way? I don't know those answers. I just know that this is beyond a shadow of a doubt, the way it is.

I've often joked that "I hate people."  And when I say joke, what I really mean is, I've often said it jokingly so it would appear to be a joke, when in reality, I think I fucking hate people. Not all people of course. And not all the time, although there are some people I do hate all the time.  Is that awful? It is, isn't it?  I sounds awful.  Hate sounds awful. Maybe it's not really HATE.  Maybe it's more like dislike, or can't deal with, or don't understand. That sounds better, I think.  There are most definitely people who LOVE people.  They just adore everyone and they'll say it as often as they can for anyone who will listen. "I just LOVE people. I'm a people person."  I am not one of them. I'm not made from the gene pool. I think it's great that someone could love everyone, but I can't.  I've only truly loved a handful of people so far.

I don't know where I'm going with this to be honest. I guess maybe I'm just being honest. I'm still dealing with some shit that has almost put me in a permanent state of  "I don't give a fuck".  I do think that is a real state of being.  It exists and some people are lucky enough to get to live there.  I'm also angry.  One way to be sure that I'm angry is to count how many time I use the word FUCK. If it's more than twice, I'm most likely angry. Maybe this is good. Maybe it means I'm coming out the well finally, and this is how I do it.

I have a lot of decisions to make, or at least I feel like I do,  Smart decisions that enhance my well being instead of kicking my well being in the balls. (My well being is obviously male)  I feel like I have been in a state of limbo and I don't ever fair well in that state. The black and white thinking, remember. I'm fairly certain I'm still not in a decision making frame of mind. If you're not sure why, just refer to this entire post.

Anyway. I feel a little less angry after getting to type Fuck so much.  It really is nice release.

Prozac Nation

It's been a while since I've had the energy to visit this place.  I always find myself back here though. I'm not sure if that's good or bad.

A lot has happened since the Thanksgiving incident. The mystery behind said incident wasn't much of a mystery at all. Just a classic case of being forgotten. There was no apology, of course. No, "oh shit!  I don't know how we could have forgotten to invite you!  I'm sorry. " I find that when people screw up they prefer to just forget it and wish that you would too. I pretty much have, but the next incident that occurred, which caused me to forget it, was much worse. Roughly a month later, we lost a family member, David.  David, technically was not "family" by blood or even marriage, but he was my aunts boyfriend for about 15 years, and held as much, if not more, weight as any family member I've ever had.  It was completely unexpected.  I hadn't even known he had been sick or in the hospital until I finally spoke with my aunt a week before Christmas.  I called her on Saturday that weekend and she said she was back at the hospital and he wasn't doing well. The next day I had two missed calls one right after the other, and I knew.  That night was spent at his house with all of the people we spent summer camping trips and cookouts with year after year. It was a difficult night. It was a difficult Christmas and a difficult couple of weeks after that.

Dealing with death isn't something I know how to do. Maybe no one does. I tend to stuff it down as deep as possible, but even then I know that it has happened.  This was the second loss of someone close in the same year and both shook me to my core. Not just the loss, but both deaths caused me to question everything in my life, and question my own mortality. I'm told this is normal. What probably isn't normal is that it also made me want to pack my bags and run.  Run away from everything and everyone that I know. As far as I could get. I didn't. Mostly because, right now, I can't.

In anticipation of the New Year, I tried to really figure out what I could do to make things better. To make myself better. To make my life better.  I tried to really figure out what it was that I needed.  I thought I had. I thought I knew.  The first couple of weeks were even okay. Sort of.

These second two are going to be a struggle.  It's already started.  I'm not sure if it's PMDD or if it's the aftermath of a shitty Holiday Season or if it's AS, or Bi-polar disorder, or just your normal run of the mill bout of Depression.  I can't name it.  All I can do is feel it.  I tried hard to turn tragedy into something positive.  I've even tried to be social and connect with people. Either the timing is off or I just don't get a response. The people that haven't responded to me are slowly being crossed off my list, and my world just keeps shrinking. I don't even know if that is a good thing or a bad thing.  It just is.

I'm not feeling a whole lot of anxiety right now, which leads me to believe that this is probably some sort of depression. Depression is almost the opposite of Anxiety.  It brings a sense of relief.  You stop being afraid of things like dying because living becomes so hard. Also unlike Anxiety, which tends to bring agitation, Depression brings anger. ANGER. The dark, mean kind. The, I fucking hate you kind.

This will probably pass. It always has in the past. But right now, it truly feels like hell. It feels like being at the bottom of a well. There is nothing around you but darkness. There is no way out. It's cold and lonely. You keep thinking someone will come and you'll hear them yell down to you that they are there and they're going to help you out. But they don't come. They don't even know you are down there and there's no way for you to tell them. Even if they did come, you'd probably just yell at them. Tell them to go away because you don't want them or need them. In fact, right now, you fucking hate them. Or if you didn't yell, you would just stay perfectly quiet until they gave up and walked away. It doesn't make any sense, but I don't think it's supposed to.  Nothing makes a whole lot of sense when you're in the well.

From here I just push through when I have to, or sit still and wait when I can.  There is very little I can do, short of deciding to take anti-depressants again. I can't stop it. I can't even shorten it.  I can't snap out of it, or cheer up, or think positive. I can't just think of something else, or get out my own head. I know all of this, and while knowing it doesn't make it any less painful, it does help in a way. It helps because part of the desperation comes from trying to do all of those things that you can't do. You think you should be able to. People tell you you should be able to. And when you can't, you feel hopeless. Lost forever in the darkness with no end. Knowing and accepting the fact that you have to wait and that you don't have the power over this does help. A little.

Hope, who is still learning..

Thanksgiving

It sucks to be excluded. Everyone who has ever been excluded knows this.  People who have never been excluded know nothing about it. They are normally the ones doing the excluding.  I could be generalizing, but for the most part, generally, this is pretty much true.

Yesterday was Thanksgiving and I probably would have posted then, if the power hadn't have been out. Thanksgiving is all about being thankful and family and probably being thankful for family.  I did my best,  I swear I did. The first winter storm brought along a power outage that started at 2pm the day before,  and pretty much made the whole experience stressful.  No heat. No water. No cooking dinner. No lights. You get the idea. We had a brief period of the power coming back on.  Just enough time to get the turkey in the oven and cook for an hour. We finally gave up and went out to eat at a local restaurant, just the three of us. That part was nice but for the most part it was an experience I'd rather forget, and yet the loss of power wasn't the most disappointing.

The disappointing part was watching, via social media (because there was nothing else to do but browse my phone apps), everyone getting ready to spend the Holiday with their friends and family, while we had been waiting right up until the last minute and never got an invite from mine. I've spend many Thanksgivings with them since my divorce and had gotten to feel as though I was maybe a "part" of that. In fact, we had gotten an invite from my BF's uncle and turned it down. At the time I actually thought that I would like to spend it with my family this year. Just thinking that now makes me feel stupid and something else that I can't even fully describe.  Embarrassed maybe. Embarrassed for myself. For assuming. For letting myself think that I was a part of something. The feeling almost makes me want to throw up.

By afternoon when the power hadn't come on we were told "We could come over if we had no power."  That also made me want to throw up.  Thank you? I don't know what I'm supposed to say to that. How am I supposed to feel? Like a charity case.

Being excluded sucks. Plain an simple. It's happened too many times in my life to even count.  There are many reasons for being excluded, although I don't know why it was this time, and I can't stop myself from ruminating over it. It could be that we are not a "part" of the family. It could be because they don't like me/us.  It could be because they heard about the therapy or the AS.  It could be because the last time they were around my son, he talked their ears off. Maybe they don't like my BF. It could also be that they forgot. I've been overlooked more times than not and then blamed for it because I'm too quiet. It could be for any reason or any combination of reasons, none of which I will ever really know. All I do know is that it sucks. You try to reason with yourself or make excuses. You tell yourself you really didn't want to go anyway, because being around too many people is exhausting. You tell yourself it's for the best because, honestly, you really were just hoping for a quiet day for the three of you. You tell yourself you don't really care, or that you shouldn't really care. And then you ruminate some more, because it sucks, and because you do care. Because even though you know you don't fit, you still want to belong somewhere. Because even though your son may prefer to be alone more often than not, you still want him to grown up with some sort of "family" and memories. Because even though you have the option of saying no, and can, and should sometimes, you still want to be asked. Because being excluded and overlooked makes you feel irrelevant, even in your own life. It reinforces all of the horrible things you believe about yourself, that you know you're not supposed to think or believe.

And what do you do in a situation like this?  Do you just keep quiet?  Do you just write a blog post in an attempt to stop the racing thoughts and questions?  Do you say something?  Is it even acceptable to ask why we didn't get an invite this year, because honestly that is what my first instinct to do was, but I'm all too often asking or saying things that I shouldn't or that people don't want me to.  I really don't even know.

I know I shouldn't let this bother me. I've been independent, on my own, and alone for so many years now that I'm okay with it and I can do it well. I've also been excluded enough to realize that when it happens it's usually because it's not where you were meant to be.  My rational side knows this and will most likely take over after I'm done feeling hurt, angry, foolish and broken.

Someday, I'm sure,  I will be thankful for the lesson, even if I don't know exactly what it is today.

Meltdown

So today I'm having trouble with everything.  Fucking winter is on it's way and that in itself is enough to make life more difficult to deal with.  My normal state of being is a state of stress. This is constant that never seems to let up, no matter how I try to get to an easier place.  More schedule changes have the next two months looking like hell. Not MY schedule changes, mind you.  Everyone else's.  I'm sick of the trickle down effect.  I know I'm supposed to just accept change, but that's never going to happen.  None of the major recent changes in my life, and work schedule have had anything to do with me, and it's really pissing me off.  How is everyone else's life more important than mine?  How is everyone else's work more important?  Why am I always having to remind people that "I have to work." ?  Jesus Christ.  If I don't, we don't survive.  The bills don't get paid and we don't get to eat. How is that not important?  I sometimes think, everyone thinks I just pull money out of my ass and I can magically do everything, without ever having any down time, or ever getting to enjoy my life. That is not the case. Not even close. I'm seriously about ready to explode from be saddled with the majority of the responsibility for so fucking long.  For some insane reason I have the urge to throw everything in the house outside.  In the cold and the rain.  Irrational thoughts. I'm aware of that, but that doesn't keep them from finding their way in.  I don't deal with my emotions well.  That's obvious. All I know is I'm pissed off and I want to DO something. Throwing everything outside seems like a better option than banging my head against a wall. Right?  I actually did this as a child, when I lived with my birth mother.  When something would piss me off, all the check-out aisle toys I owned went out the window of our second floor studio apartment.  As much sense as it doesn't make, it did seem to make me feel better. But I'm a grown up now.  I still don't know how to deal with these "feelings" so I'm writing everything down in a rambling fashion without a second thought to what the fuck I'm saying.  That, in a sense, is throwing all my shit out the window, isn't it?

I can't waste too  much time here dumping my shit, because I obviously am not going to have too much time to fill orders at the busiest time of the year.  I'm not sure what I can do to bring myself to a better place.  Normal people know what to do. I don't know how to make my heart stop racing, and to make my muscles loosen their grip.  This is what unexpected change does to me. Each and every fucking time.  I start to see no option but to separate myself from everyone.  To take complete and total control over my own life.  This will make my life small. People will say I'm a control freak.  I'm not.  I don't care what you do so long as it doesn't affect me. I'm rigid. I'm never going to NOT be rigid. 42 years on this earth has taught me that. I just need to find a way to not just exist in a world that's constantly changing, late, irresponsible, forgetful, messy, chaotic, and loud, but I need find a way to be happy here. To not live in a constant state of stress. Right now, in this moment, I can honestly say, I don't know how to do that.  That all of the baby steps I've been taking have been wiped clean and I'm back to square one.

Why I can't just...

It's been a while since I've posted anything here, in part because I've just been busy, and in part because I've started writing elsewhere.  I'm back today because I have more to say on a subject that originated here.

I've spend my whole life looking for answers and reasons, not only to things that happen in the world around me, but answers and reasons for why I am the way I am.  There were always people that thought that was a waste of time.  They were usually the first people to say, "there's nothing wrong with you." in one breath and then point out how I was flawed in the next. It's been confusing to have people tell me what my "problem" was and then insist there was no real problem. Only I know how I feel and I've known forever that something was different. That I didn't see, or feel, or experience life in exactly the same way. I've tried very hard over the years to do what I was "supposed to do". To act like I was "supposed to" act. But that's all it ever really was. An act. I've made some very important life choices that revolved around this acting. Things I can't ever change or take back. I do have regrets. And I know I'm not "supposed to", but I do.

On Friday morning, I got what is as close to an answer as I will probably ever come.  It didn't come as a complete surprise as it was what I have believed to be true for almost two years now, but at the same time it made it real. After a year and a half of therapy, that started and focused mostly on my anxiety, my doctor, in his words "is pretty sure I lie somewhere on the Spectrum". "All of the pieces fit."  I knew this, of course. At least that the pieces fit. I felt it so strongly, but when I tried to get honest feedback from people in my life, their response made me doubt myself. Perhaps it was a mistake to share my thoughts with anyone. To put too much weight in what other people think. Perhaps they thought that it may be true, but didn't give me a truthful answer, so as not to "worry" me further. Whatever the case may be, on Friday morning, there it was. Confirmation?  Validation? Ironically, at that very moment it was somewhat anti-climatic. There was a small part of me that felt like a child again saying..."see? I was telling you the truth and you didn't believe me!"  But for the most part it put me in a daze. I felt a little numb and couldn't fully process the information. On one hand I felt like this is important.  This is really fucking important. But what could I do?  In reality it is only important to me.

For the past few days I've just sat with it. After all it was only a statement, right? There is a part of me that is still doubting myself. Doubting my doctor, even. What if he's wrong?  And I then I think, he's not wrong. I know this. With every fiber in my being I know, and I have known. So how can it be that I'm having difficulty wrapping my brain around something that I already know?  Acceptance. Just because I've felt this for so long doesn't mean that I have fully accepted it. There was always that little doubt, always that tiny bit of hope that I would still wake up one day and be something different. Somebody different. And I don't say that because I hate myself, I say it because a part of me just kept thinking it. I say it because so many things are a struggle and I just have always wished that they weren't. I say it because I've had a lifetime of hearing..."Why can't you just....", "Why don't you just...", "When will you just..."

I'm not entirely sure what I should be feeling right now. I do feel validation. I do. There is a certain freedom and relief in that feeling.  Asperger Syndrome. Autism.  Most people know of it, but not about it.  Most people will never care to learn. So nothing changes. It will only matter to me. Aside from validation, I guess I feel a little sad. Like I've missed something very important in life and I wish I had a do over. I can't really explain that feeling or why I have it. And then there's the anger, which is nothing new. I've been angry for a very, very long time. When no one understands you, it seems to be the go-to emotion.

I haven't shared this with very many people. Only a couple in my life, and a group I belong to, filled with like-minded strangers. Strangers are always more supportive.  They have nothing to gain or lose.

From here, the therapy will continue and testing will start. Answers and reason are important, but so is knowing what to do with them.

Hope, who came home Friday afternoon, to see that Jerry Seinfeld had shared some information of his own. This came as no surprise either. I hope that the world doesn't chew him to bits because he shared what he believes to be true on a public forum. You never know how these things will go. The media is already having a field day with it.

Being Jack's Mom

Summer is here in New England, and it's hot and sticky. Given our recent move and no longer having a lake in my backyard it's not nearly as enjoyable as it has been. Change. Yuck. Another change this year is no summer childcare. None. Zip. Zilch. Every year until now I've had some sort of "paid help" whether it be school camp, a baby sitter or day camp at the lake. It was nice because it gave me a break and some time to work uninterupted and it also got Jack out of the house and with "other people", which everyone has always stressed the importance of.  This year it's the two of us, here, mostly in this house. It's going okay so far and I'm quickly realizing that the "nice" part of having childcare was for my benefit only. Don't get me wrong, I'd take someone up on the offer in a heartbeat. I still enjoy getting time to just be me, without mom duties 24/7, but he's over the moon with most of it.

Life is busy for us, even at the slower pace we like to move. I try to wear many hats in the summer, but between being a doll artist, a housekeeper, a cook, a house renovator, a girlfriend, a daughter, a friend, and a woman, the largest part of me is still mostly Jack's Mom. 

I've struggled with that, probably since the day he was born. Not because I didn't want him or love him, but mostly because I realized I wasn't made for this. I was completely out of my element, and that mothers instinct thing was lost on me, at least for a very long time. Some woman are definitely cut out for the job of motherhood and I have absolutely nothing in common with them. The struggle was made even harder by not having the same type of child rearing experiences as these "other" moms.  All of our "stuff" was different. Not necessarily bad. Just different. I had an amazingly polite 2 year old who said please and thank you, but for life of me I couldn't get him to wave, or play with other kids, or even acknowledge me half the time. "Our" struggles were different, and our time table and milestones were different too. I didn't fully know that then, so I kept reading the books and trying to figure out what I was doing wrong. It wasn't an easy road in the beginning, even though I was sure I had an amazing kid. I fought against what was, in order to try to get us to what we should be. I listened to a lot of the wrong people. 

I know, now, that wasn't what I should have been doing. Hindsight. 

Over the last year and half I have learned so much. About myself, about my son, and about accepting what is. Although no one has an official diagnosis of Asperger Syndrome, living "as if" has changed things drastically for both of us. It's still a process of living and learning and making a few mistakes, but  everything that was so confusing way back in the beginning now makes perfect sense. That's not to say that we don't still have our struggles. We do. Almost daily. But we can manage them and solve problems and do whatever it is that we need to, regardless of how typical or normal it may seem to anyone else. 

Today was a pretty "typical" day with Jack, and inside each "typical" day with Jack are amazing little gifts...

We started off by sleeping in, which is a new novelty for both of us. The latest he's ever up is 5:30am, with 4am being the earliest. Sleeping until 8am is a gift in itself and I thank and bow down to those budding hormones. Our plan for part of the day (because we like to have a plan) was to organize his room to better display his Legos (because sorting and organizing and creating order is fun.)  He was excited to do it so we headed to the store to pick up a new Lego bin. We've gotten into the routine of him heading straight to the Lego aisle, while I do a quick shop and then meet him there. 

This is what I found when I arrived I the toy section. 

I asked him what he was doing as I watched him move box after box. "I'm putting everything where it goes."  And there you have it. Sorting, organizing and creating order. Even in Walmart. Some people might be seeing a red OCD flag. It's possible. But what I saw is a kid doing what he likes to do. He was having fun. 

Once he was done we headed out with a small new lego set in tow, simply because he didn't even ask to get it. That in itself is worth $7 to me. 

On our way home I stopped for coffee and he wanted to stay in the car, which I normally allow so long as where not in the ghetto. When I came out the set he had gotten was opened and already built. A time waster he is not. On the ride home he talked about the Lego set and how he was going to put the stickers on and how he would play with it when we got back. I asked him if he was getting bored with vacation yet.

Jack: "No. I love summer." 

Me: "But we're not really doing anything or going anywhere. "

Jack: "That's what I like. Staying home." 

Me: "So you wouldn't want to go to a camp and play with your friends? You don't get bored not playing with anyone?" 

Jack: "No. I like being independent and doing my own thing."

Me: "What about when the kids are around? Would you still rather play alone?"

Jack: "yeah. Sometimes. When I'm playing Legos I like to play alone. And if I'm playing Basketball I'd rather play with Tori because when I play with Ryan there are so many rules and it's confusing and I just like to keep it simple."

Me: "Well, you're definitely a kid who knows what he likes. I used to like to play alone in my room too, but Grandma would usually make me go outside to play with the other kids."

Jack: (shocked) "Why would she DO that?"

Me: "I don't know I guess they just thought it was better for me."

Jack: "How is it better if you don't want to do it??"

Pause...

Jack: "You know, you probably would have gotten grounded, but you COULD have said...No, I don't have to! I know my rights!"

Wish he had been around all those years ago to advocate for me....

A little while later he said, "When summer is over I won't be that happy to go to school, but you will because you'll get to be alone for six hours a day!"

Yeah. He gets it. And what is amazing is he gets it a way that he knows it has nothing to do with him, just like his desire to play with his Legos alone has nothing to do with anyone else.

Once we got home I started lunch and within minutes he was in the kitchen fighting back the tears. Apparently the stickers to the Legos were proving, once again, to be a major pain on the ass. The lack of fingernails and poor fine motor skills has made this task a difficult one for him. I tell him to ask for help but he rarely does. 

For a perfectionist, this sticker is just plain shit now. It will never do. In his frustration, he asked if he could write a letter to Lego. I told him, sure, that would probably be a good idea and he could take his anger out on the paper.  This one is him taking his anger out on the paper...

This one is the letter. In messy/mad handwriting. 

It says: Dear Lego, Make all the stickers print ons NOW!! I don't want any more stickers. In fact lots of people all over the world may not want stickers. Please make that happen! Loads of people have trouble putting them on, getting them in a good position, and it's FRUSTRATING!

Not a very polite letter and he refused to sign his name. Later tonight I have to find out where we can send it because he's had enough. :)

It didn't take too long for all to be well again, and we went on to spend two hours organizing his room.

I don't think we can fit another lego book or set in there. That doesn't matter though, because we will. Somehow, we will. 

And this is how it usually goes with us. This is a pretty typical day minus all the other stuff I didn't include. It's days like these that make me realize that, even though I'm still sure I wasn't cut out for motherhood, I was supposed to be Jack's Mom, whether I was ready or not. And for that I'm grateful. 

Hope, who is mostly grateful, because, seriously, mothering those " normal" kids would have sent me over the edge. 

Catching up.

After a nice solid month of being MIA, I'm back. Im sure my tens of readers missed the hell out of me. I didn't intend to be gone so long, but, you know, once I make a real serious commitment to something, well, I usually bail. It's kind of my thing. 

So I did start documenting my PMDD symptoms on this fabulous little app called iPeriod. It was helpful. At least until I forgot to keep documenting, but then it was helpful again when a week ago I started wondering when I last had a period. Sure enough I was on day 38 of my cycle. For those of you that don't know what that means ( men ), I was 10 days late. Hmmm. I've only been that late a handful of times and each handful contained a pregnancy. That didn't seem possible as my BF had the boys snipped, so unless I was blacking out and screwing random fertile men, I assumed that wasn't it. I was right. Aunt "Flo" finally arrived with a vengeance. Bitch. Not only did she bring her own kind of pain but she added to my Sciatica. Why. We still don't know. So, long story short. No change of life babies, and most definitely a blip in the hormone scale. It's over now, so let's move on.

What I did on my summer vacation: I worked really, really, really hard. 

We really did take a little vacation. Four days in Newport, RI with kids. I almost didn't. I came really close to saying No. Instead, I voiced my concerns, which, is never a good idea. No matter how many psychiatrists tell you it is, trust me, it's not. It lead no where good. In the end I decided to go and to put into practice some of the coping strategies I've been learning over the past year in therapy. I coped like a rock star. For the most part. I kept feeling myself going off track and I kept pulling myself back. On purpose. I did a lot of breathing. I did a lot of not worrying about things that were not, nor will they ever be " my problem". I even allowed myself to say "no" to something when by the last night both Jack and I were exhausted. Not because we had been crazy busy but because we had just spend every waking hour of the past three days with people. That's not something everyone can understand. I get that, but I also don't care anymore. Just trust me when I say I need time away and if I don't get it I will start to have thoughts of tying you up and locking you in the basement. I was pretty proud of that. Finding my balls, and saying "No, I think we'll stay in tonight." 

So all went well, mostly, until the last day, which also happened to be wash the linens and clean up day. The details aren't as important as the very evident lack of communication that is very much still the elephant in the room. 

Eh. Who cares. Rome wasn't built in a day.

Once we returned home I took a solid week to not give a shit about anything. It was nice. When stress started to creep in I told it to piss off. When the anxious thoughts started squawking I told them to shut the fuck up. It was good. 

It was sort of good. I feel a little calmer. A little more in control. I haven't made the decision to jump on the daily med train. Yet. I'm still battling that out, mostly right before I fall asleep, and then again, as soon as I wake up. I think I feel a little calmer because I stopped caring a little, if that makes sense. It sounds a little shitty, but it doesn't feel that shitty. If you don't understand me, I don't care. If you don't like me, I don't care. If you don't want to communicate with me, I don't care. If you want to be a shitty mother, I don't care. If you don't want to marry me, I don't care. If you think I'm an idiot, I don't care. If you resent me, because you have to pay me child support, I don't care. If you don't enjoy spending time with me, I don't care. If you talk about me, I don't care. 

Not caring about any of this feels good. Selfishly good. I don't know if that's wrong or right. It does come with a cost I think. But doesn't everything.

Next on the agenda...figure out a place and time to write with no interruptions, because I've been interrupted at least seven times during this post. 

Hope, who is well aware that all the people that "do" care, aren't going to be happy that I don't. 

One pill makes you larger and one pill makes you small

"You're just like a pill. Instead of making me better, you keep making me ill."

Decisions. I kind of hate them. I paid a visit to my regular doctor, ironically for a med check. A med check regarding the meds I'm not even taking. We discussed my "symptoms" aka feelings/behavior. That, the timing of said behavior and the fact that my tits feel like someone is cutting them with razor blades when touched for a week out of every month, lead her to the same conclusion. PMDD. Not to be confused with PMS, which is also very real and a pain in the ass. So great. We've got some answers. Doesn't completely explain my craziness away but it certainly helps to understand some of it. We talked about what I can do to help myself, most of which I completely agree with, but will most likely struggle to do. We talked about how I don't really want to take medicine, and we talked about how I don't really want to feel like this anymore either. In the end I left with another prescription. For Prozac. I left without being really sure if I would take it or not. My only experience with anyone that has taken Prozac is with my grandmothers sister. Her doctor prescribed it to her after her husband passed away. She took it for a while. And then she got in her car, pulled out of her driveway, drove to the top of the hill on her street, turned around, hit the gas, and drove her car straight into the big oak tree in her own front yard. There's no concrete proof that is was Prozac that caused her to take her life, but still, the incident left an imprint in my brain.

Suicide stories aside, I also have an anxiety disorder, which tends to make me ... Uh anxious? I worry. One of the things I worry about is starting or takings new medicine. I don't think my worries are entirely irrational, however, as I don't tend to react to any medicine or substance in a typical way. Despite my reservations, I had pretty much decided, after therapy today, that I would give it a try. This weekend...so I wouldn't be alone in case I started frothing at the mouth or suddenly wanted to jump off a bridge. All I had to do was just take it and go about my business. Pill, swallow, done. So long as I didn't read the possible side effects. I went the pharmacy, picked up the bottle, which is not as cheap as the others, and drove home. Don't read the possible side effects. Don't. Don't fucking do it! Okay, maybe just the common ones. Just to be prepared. You have to know what to expect. Wait! No! Don't do it!!! No. No. No! 

And then, of course, I did it. I read that pamphlet. That whole entire fucking pamphlet. Which wasn't easy at all because I need reading glasses now and I haven't been able to find them since the move. So, yeah. That was a mistake. 

Now I've pretty much decided not to take them. Pretty much. Maybe. Ugh. 

I just don't know. I want a wrong or right answer and there isn't one. 

For now I'm just going to marinate in it. Maybe when the crazy starts to rear it's ugly head I will change my mind. Maybe when I feel lost and desperate again, desperate to stop it all, I'll grab that bottle  with little thought or care about all the other bad things that could possibly happen. Maybe I'll only care about the bad things happening at that very moment. 

I guess we'll see. The wait won't be long. I figure I have about another good week left. 

Hope, who is going to try to enjoy the weekend and wait until Monday to brace herself for the ride. 

Failure to communicate

I had a visit with my doctor today and brought up the subject of PMDD. While he conceded that, yes, that could very well be the case and the anger I feel over things that might simply cause another to feel slightly annoyed, could be exasperated by the symptoms, he urged me not to dismiss the things that are actually going on in my life. Fine. I get it. While it would be nice to have one simple answer to all of my problems, nothing is ever simple. And by ignoring a problem we don't solve a problem. We only create more problems. I fucking get it. I'm not one to shy away from trying to fix something that is wrong. I'm not Irish. Not even a little bit.

Only there is no solving this problem. Once again, like a stupid fucking idiot, I used my voice. This is never a good thing. One because it causes that fucking sound to come out of his mouth. That sound of disgust. It's like a fucking knife in my back. I hate it. I can't even begin to describe how much I hate it. It ruins everything right then and there. Anything that I could have said in a normal rational way is out the window. And then the show begins. Nothing is ever solved.

I tried. That is the best I can do. I'm not happy with the way things are. I'm just not and it doesn't matter if it's two weeks before my period or during. Everything has changed so much from the way it used to be, and yes, I KNOW things change. I'm so fucking sick of hearing that. What if I didn't want it to? What if that is the kind of relationship I needed and not this? What if the house and the laundry and the shopping and the dishes and the waiting for the man to come home isn't what I fucking want? What if I want someone I can talk to who won't let out a sound of disgust? What if I want to discuss a book I read or a movie we saw. What if I want to be able to say what you did hurt me...without watching the eye rolls. Fuck that. And no I don't think I'm losing my mind right now, I just think I'm fucking pissed.

I've always had this ridiculous need to "fix things". I think that stems from the whole Alcoholic parent thing and feeling like it's your fault and blah, blah, blah. But really, why?  Can't something break and just be broken. Why do I struggle so much with accepting that? Why do I invest so much in something that no one else is concerned with? If it's broken, toss it out. Walk away and don't look back.

Christ. I'm like that fucking little kid that no one wants to play with, only I don't know that no one wants to play with me. I don't get it. So I just keep coming around.

I'm starting to think the whole relationship concept is a piece of shit. Is it even real? It starts with something that's purely instinctual on most occasions. It's start with lust. Lust. Infatuation. Perhaps a little obsession. Maybe some addiction. But when those things fade away, and they always fade away, ( I know. I've been married twice. ) what are you left with? The person you thought you knew better than anyone becomes a stranger. I'd like to say this is just my observation alone, but the divorce rates speak for themselves.

Maybe we are not made to be with one person forever. Maybe that isn't the way to true happiness. How could it be if we aren't happy?

Loving someone isn't always enough. We all have needs that have to be met in order for us to find some level of contentment. I realize it's unfair and unrealistic to expect one person to meet all of those needs, but don't they have to meet some? A few? Or do we meet our own needs with complete disregard to how our partners think or feel?

I don't know. I thought I knew once. I thought I had found the best thing ever. The person who was perfect for me, despite being my opposite. Or was that the lust and infatuation and obsession? Probably. All of that is changing now though. It has been over the past few years, no matter how hard I have tried make it stop. The addiction was the hardest part to get over. I'm not even sure I'm over it. Would I still be here if I were?

Hope, who wishes she could just forget.

Going off the rails...

This blog is completely one sided. By reading just a few of the posts (never mind all of them) it's easy to get the impression that I am completely miserable. That there is never a reprieve from the anxiety or the anger or the struggle. That's not true. I don't share everything here. I just dump my shit here. Believe it or not, and I'm sure it's hard to believe, there are times when I am happy. There are days when I do enjoy life and I even laugh. Ask my friends. Both of them will tell you.

But I don't share those times. I've been criticized in the past for not writing anything happy, and the truth is, I don't. At least not very often. One reason for this could simply be that the urge to write comes when it comes. I can't control it anymore than I can control when I struggle with life and when I don't. Another reason, I'm sure, is that when I am happy, I'm off enjoying my life, instead of reflecting and dwelling. When the helplessness and the anxiety and the anger are gone, the last thing I want to do is the activity I normally do when they are present. And in all honesty, if I were to write both sides, your heads would be spinning as fast as my own with the drastic and sudden change in my mood and my outlook. If what is here now doesn't make me appear crazy, the Jekyll and Hyde posts surely would. Having said that, it may just be what I need to do.

These past weeks have been especially challenging. If I try to explain it away I can say things like, I've been under a lot of stress, there have been a lot of changes, and I'm simply tired and worn out. This makes sense. The move was stressful. I'm still having conflicting emotions about being here because there was nothing in me that wanted to make the move in the first place. I can't put everything away because there is simply no room to put everything away. For someone who is in desperate need of order this is a huge struggle and it's interfering with my daily life. I'm not adjusting well to working here. The light is different and nothing looks the same. It's hard. This I mostly blame on my neurology. It is what it is. Whatever it is. I'm pushing to "get over it", but I'm stuck in the middle, like a needle on a broken record.

But there are other things too. Like the anger. The intense frustration with everyone around me and the deep and frantic desire to either remove them from my life or remove myself from theirs. The paranoia. The belief that no one will ever be faithful to me and that I'm being lied to. The emptiness. The times when I can't do what I love because I can't even feel what I love anymore. The discontentment. When I don't want you to touch me or be around me, but at the same time I fucking hate you for ignoring me and leaving me alone. And the sadness and helplessness. That feeling that this will never change and I will always feel empty and no matter what I try will never help. These things can't be blamed entirely on neurology. I know this because it's not a constant feeling or desire. It comes and it goes. Just like the tide and just as quickly. These things are part of something else and I only share them from my own point of view when I am deep in the throes of it all. When it is all consuming, I come here and I spit out my anger, and it's always someone else's fault. Always. I'm not sure I was fully aware of that until last Saturday night. I've been aware of the shifting and the back and forth, and of experiencing happiness which was quickly followed by the fear of "how long will this last?" That, I have been aware of for quite some time, and in reading through old writings from when I was a teenager it was present then as well. There have been times when I feared that perhaps I was bi-polar. I haven't shared that thought or fear with anyone. Not even my doctor. It's one thing to call yourself crazy. It's something else entirely to be labeled as such. We don't mind being a little crazy, we just don't want to be "cocktail of medication every day for the rest of your life" crazy.

So what happened to give me that moment of clarity? Earlier in the week I could feel my frustrations building. With my life, with the move, with my relationship. It wasn't anything drastic that was happening it was all the little things. I had to pick up dirty laundry. Plans kept changing last minute. My boyfriend was distracted by the television and wasn't hearing anything I said. The kids kept slamming the door. The noise. etc...Things that are annoying. Things that might make someone "take a break" for a while. I did take a break upstairs in my room and looked up apartments for rent. Later I sat outside alone for a while. When I came in, everyone else went outside. I felt completely alone and  like I needed an escape all at once...like a caged rat and a piece of the furniture all at the same time. I could feel the anger building and honestly I hated everyone at that point. I left to go to the food store because I could think of nothing else to do and when I got there I had no idea what to buy. I felt like I wasn't even really there, like I was controlling myself like you would  a character in a video game, just making myself go down the aisles and place random items in the cart. There was nothing left inside of me, if that makes any sense, and I'm fully aware that it may not. Somewhere on the ride home, during a phone call that I wasn't paying attention to, I decided I needed to leave my boyfriend. That we weren't going anywhere and that although we were happy once, we could never be happy again. I had made up my mind. He can stay here and rent this house because I don't even want to be here anyway. ?Saturday night there was a play at his kids school. He had repeatedly asked me during the day if Jack and I wanted to go. I never answered him. I couldn't answer him. How can I go to a play when my whole life is falling apart!? How could I possibly deal with all of that and not dive head first into a panic attack? (keep in mind, now, I've decided...decided...that I have to leave him and he has no idea that these thoughts are in my head and if only he would have picked up his dirty socks and so on...are you getting the picture?) In the end he and the kids went because I managed, through the invisible hands around my throat, to get some words out that somehow communicated that I couldn't go. The thought that crossed my mind the minute he said he would take the kids and I could be alone, was not the moment of clarity. In fact it was the exact opposite.

Thank god I will be alone, and maybe I will die while they are gone.

That is what I thought.

Maybe I will die.

If I try to explain that thought now I just attempt to rationalize, only there wasn't anything rational about it. I simply felt in that moment, that somehow, if it happened, it would bring relief. I didn't necessarily think, I should do something to make myself die. But this completely worn out and empty part of me...hoped. What happened instead was that the minute they drove off I felt the invisible hands remove themselves from my throat and relief came. All on it's own and unexpectedly.  I came over to my computer where I'm sitting right now, and blogged about the anxiety side of things and not going to events that my son wants me to go to, leaving out the other messy details. Somehow it was enough to clear away some of the debris that was cluttering my thoughts and it was like I came rushing back into reality. Back to the here and now. And immediately I thought...what the fuck is wrong with me!?!  It was like I'd been hit by a truck. This isn't right. This isn't normal. This is making it so hard to live. My neurology, of course, took over and my need to know kicked into full gear. This is where it lead me.

Living with PMDD- A partner's perspective

This is me. This happens. There is a brief break. And like clockwork, this happens again. This may have ruined all of my relationships. This could ruin every relationship in my life. At least until menopause...

As I've stated, all of my experiences are documented from my point of view only. This one comes from the partner in the relationship and as I read it I could hear my own partners voice reciting the very same words.

I started keeping a log so I can clearly see how I feel and what's happening on each day of my monthly cycle. When is the anxiety worse? When do I have panic attacks? What days do I have my suitcase packed and one foot out the door? When do I feel helpless or full of hope? What days do I hate everyone? What days do I actually believe my dreams can still come true?

Yesterday was the first day I actually felt energetic and got things done. I even cooked.

Last night I got my period.

Avoidance.

"You're not going? Why aren't you going to go?" He asks. The very same question I remember asking my own mother time and time again.

"It's just not my thing." I say. Something he always tells me when there's something he doesn't want to do. Something I think he can relate to and hopefully accept without further questioning. Because, really, how can I tell him all the reasons why? How can I tell anyone, so that they would understand?

How can I say I've just had enough today? And this week. And this month. That too many things have changed in too short a time and my whole world is out of order. That the slamming door and the loud TV and the constant motion of the day have filled me up. That I don't feel what other people feel. That as much as I may long to be a part of something, to be included and to belong, that I simply don't, and I feel more alone than ever in a room full of strangers. How can I explain that already my thoughts are racing faster than my brain can keep up, but I can barely form a sentence? Choosing the right words is nearly impossible. How do I describe the darkness? The emptiness? The fear? That sitting in a row with no escape is suffocating and keeping my eyes where they ought to be requires more work than I am able to do. That the sound of clapping would be so amplified right now I would surely jump out of my seat. That the unknown isn't something I can face tonight no matter how weak or pathetic it may make me seem. How do I explain that the panic is lingering and past experience has taught me that it's just around the corner? That when I get dizzy and have nothing to hold on to, when my heart starts racing and the pains shoots up the left side of my head and that icy cold feeling of death rushes into my chest, that I can't be in a room full of people. That I'd rather be home, alone, where I can cry, and shake, and make deals with the devil.

How could I explain any of this without sounding like a lunatic? I can't. So I don't. Instead, I force a smile, and tell my almost ten year old that... It's just not my thing.

And as much as I may have longed for understanding my entire life, I truly hope to god that this is something he never, ever understands.

Hope.

The next move.

It's always hard to know how to start up again after a long blogging break. Blog. It's a Funny word. For some reason, right now, it sounds funny. Blog, blog,blog,

Anyway. I could go into the long details of the last month or so, but I couldn't do it with feeling. Simply because I'm not feeling now what I was feeling then. Now I'm only feeling what I feel now. But more on that later.

Instead I'll take the long story short approach. We moved. Too short? Okay after a shit load of stress, we moved. Stress that included giving our notice and then finding out my aunt was having second thoughts about renting. Stress that included only having a month to organize and complete the packing and emptying out of not one but two houses, along with a partial renovation which included the ripping out of old stinky 30 year old carpets and the purchase and installation of new stinky carpets. Stress that included finding the mold in the house that I had said was there from the beginning. Stress that also included our final rent cost being increased not once but twice from where we thought it would be. ( The whole reason behind the move to begin with). There's more but I'll leave it at that for now. I've never done so much work in a short period of time and I can say with all honesty I will never do it again. When all is said and done I'm betting that the "savings" this move was supposed to generate will be negligible. But, it's too late now. Always go with your gut people. When you don't, well, you end up here. 

In any case, I'm trying to make the best of it and moving forward as best I can. Which, by the way, is slowly. I'm moving very slowly. 

As for what I'm feeling now, drained would probably be an accurate description. I'm tired. So tired in fact, that I'm also fed up. With everything. With everyone. I find myself fighting for things I'm not even sure I want anymore. If you have to fight too much, it makes you wonder if it's even worth it. All that time spent begging someone to pay attention to you, could be spent with someone who actually pays attention to you. See? I'm learning! So what do I want? I want to be heard. I want my life to slim down. I want the people in it to be the ones I can relate to. I want to be able to take time away from work and stress so I can enjoy the things I enjoy. That's really about it.  And as simple as that seems, it just hasn't been that simple at all. 

I'm trying to stop kicking myself in the ass because it doesn't do any good. The "You knew better!" thoughts only further increase my anxiety. I'm trying not to care too much, because that usually sends me straight into panic. And I'm trying to find some joy. I've even fought for it a little. 

My next move is to rewind. All the way back to when I knew what the fuck I was doing. Or at least I thought I did. I'm not really all that sad, so that's good. But I'm certainly in self preservation mode. I think I'm ready to be selfish again. I think I'm ready to give up on caring about what anyone else thinks again. I think I'm ready to stop looking for understanding, and I'm ready to only speak my truth. All of these things, by default, usually help to slim down a life. Instead of continually wishing I was someone else or I could be different I'm now saying " fuck it." Some will understand that. Some won't. And that's how we learn where we belong. 

I really am tired. 

Hope, who is just a bit unplugged at the moment. 

Death, Anxiety, and Panic.

It's been a rough week all the way around. A friend who was more than a friend, but more like family, and who played a key part in helping me put my own life together after my separation and relocation to Central Mass, lost her own life this past weekend. It's almost impossible to believe that this is real. That this really happened, and that Stacy is gone forever. But it is real and it keeps hitting me over and over again. My heart is breaking for my family who also lost a friend, a love, and a mother. My heart is breaking for her family who lost a daughter and a sister. For all of her many friends, old and new.

I'm working on a memorial post for her, but this isn't it. I haven't been able to sit through more than 20 minutes without breaking down each time. I'm try to truthfully honor her and tell my story of her and why she was so special. I will get there. 

As the two people that read my blog might know, I've been working hard at trying to manage my anxiety disorder. 8 months of ongoing therapy, writing, breathing, meditation, (the eating right and exercising are coming, I promise). I've also been trying to change my thinking. All without medication. Until today. After three panic episodes in three days, today I caved. I tried and I even asked for help. I feel like I've been mocked or laughed at, or just out and out ignored. I also feel like I've failed myself. I know there is a lot going on emotionally and in life itself and I should just accept that for right now I need the extra help, but it still feels like a failure. One that no one really cares about but me. It's a harsh reminder that we are really alone in our battles.

I've spent the week in tears. I've cried for everyone that loved Stacy. I've cried for Stacy. I've cried for the emptiness and the void I feel.  I've cried during the day and in the middle of the night. I've cried because whenever I start to talk, no one hears me and immediately start talking over me. I've cried because I'm still the last to know. I cried when a stupid alcoholic character on my show suffered an aneurysm and ended up in coma, because that is what happened to my mother. Panic attack number one. I cried last night at my boyfriends reaction when I sarcastically asked him if he could tear himself away from the game on his phone. Yes, I was sarcastic, but in all fairness he's been playing it non stop all week. A week that I needed someone to talk to that didn't have to constantly say "what?" to my every word. His reaction was to put the phone down, throw his hands in the air and say. "There!  It's down! I'm done!"  Maybe that's not a big deal. I don't care. It feels like a big deal. It feels like shit. Like I'm so fucking annoying for wanting any of his undivided attention. Like I have no right to feel rejected when I'm constantly having to repeat myself because he's so preoccupied he never hears what I say the first time. I told him I was annoyed, because I needed someone to hug me, I needed to be with someone, and I needed help making a grocery list because I couldn't even think straight. He immediately grabbed the paper and starting making the list. No hug. No conversation. No being with me. We all make our choices and we make them for a reason.

If you suffer from anxiety at all, you will know that this isn't helpful. In fact it is the opposite of helpful, and instead of getting what I needed I was sent into full blown panic mode. It wasn't until then that I was allowed a hug. When it was already too late. When it was already happening and I couldn't stop my head from shaking and the sadness melted into fear of a stroke.  After the adrenaline had worked it's way through me and I was able to start coming down, I felt like I've been hit by a truck. My muscles are still tight and sore. My head hurts and my brain feels numb.

I woke up this morning feeling raw. On edge and already in fight or flight.  A few more exchanges of words and I was right back in the thick of it. I feel like I'm banging my head against a brick wall. I say I need ...."blah". He say's well I'm not going to give you "blah..." because you're mad at me.  This immediately makes it worse, which he doesn't understand, or refuses to understand or just doesn't give a fuck to understand. Relax. I want you to calm down. No fucking shit. That is never going to happen when I out and out ask for something so small as hug and he looks at me as if he hates me with every bone in his body. It's more than reminiscent of my own mothers mantra "I will only love you if you become someone else."

When I'm in the middle of a full blown Anxiety or Panic attack, I can't see anything but the fear, and the racing thoughts. I can't see yesterday. I can't see tomorrow. In that moment I want only for it to go away. I will do anything for it to go away, and even death (one the primary fears of the anxiety sufferer), at times, has seemed like a welcome relief. When it's over those feelings and thoughts pass, but the fear of another remains. The reality that this is never going away magically on it's own and my only hope is to manage it, sets in. I then become obsessed with getting rid of all the things in my life that are triggers., because it's hard enough from one day to the next without having someone almost seem to be purposely trying to break you. I don't know if it's on purpose, but I do know that the eye rolls, the insensitivity, the not listening, the not hearing, the not talking to me, and the letting me cry alone for hours without even a second thought...all of those things are like poison to my mind. Poison to my life. It wasn't always like this. He would say it's because I wasn't always like this. But I was. I've been like this forever. His reaction to me used to be different. It used to be caring. Or at the very least it seemed to be. Now it's utter annoyance. That is what's changed.

I get it. It's not easy knowing what to do. I'm trying to make that easier by telling him. It's not easy living with me. I tend to feel things, and get hurt, to be anxious, and overly worried, and have this ridiculous desire to talk sometimes when I feel like this. I tend to get pissed when I feel like I'm being ignored and I've tried time after time to get someones attention. I want to scream and pull my hair out, and punch walls and kick doors and I try in all the wrong ways to get what I think I need.

The reality of the situation, though, is maybe I just don't need any of this. Maybe I've done my best. Maybe I've tried my best. You can't force someone to react in the way that you want. You can't beg. You can't change anybody. They change. That's for sure, but it's never anyone else's doing but their own. Maybe there is a lesson.  That if you ask for love and it's not immediately given without hesitation then it isn't really love after all. 

It's been a tough week. Every emotion I've ever felt is making it's way to the surface and I've gone from just needing my partner to be present and hear me when I talk to him, to feeling like that will never be possible. That he will never understand the in and outs of someone like me. That I will forever be here sitting alone in a separate room sharing my pain, and fear, and thoughts and feelings with a machine. With a blog.

Something has to change, because this isn't working for me.  I will never in my life again, ask more than once for some kind of physical or emotional support.

Hope, who, by the way, would never be a dick to someone if they were already having a shitty time of it. 

99 Problems #4...Stinky Stuff

After the seriousness and stress of my last post, I figured I'd lighten it up a bit this time. A bit. Not too much though. I am feeling less of a weight on my shoulders thanks to my BF who took all the kids last night and left me with a few glorious, calm and quiet hours to myself. I said he saved my life. More accurately, he was probably just trying to save his. In any case. It worked. Just a wee bit of time to breath and engage in my (special) interest and I feel 10 times better. The urge to run is fading and the urge to duct tape everyone to chairs in the basement is completely gone. See?  Just listen to me and do what I say, and all will be well with the world. I've noticed he is trying. And trying is A Okay with me. 

So today, I figured I'd continue on with my 99 problem journey.  One of my alone activities last night included reading  The Girl with the Curly Hair. I've been following her on Facebook for the better part of a year and in my desperate state of mind as of late, I figured I would buy her book. I, of course, ended up buying three, because I can't ever do anything half assed. I can identify with almost everything, and even though some of the things I identify with aren't necessary good...it still feels good. It's incredibly calming and brings an abundance of relief to read her words, nod in agreement, think how much sense it makes and then breathe. Really breathe. A deep cleansing breath of... thank god somebody gets it. 

The problem of the day isn't too deep, although, watch. I bet I can change that. It's a sensory problem, which I've only recently been able to identify as being triggers to my anxiety/panic attacks. My problem #4.....

Not just the smell of perfume, but really, the smell of anything. Anything I don't like anyway. I don't wear perfume. I used to years ago, because, I was supposed to. Because my mother did. Because people said it smelled soooo good. I've never liked it. My BF wears cologne and if he gets too close, every morning I'm coughing and waving him away. It's not just that it smells. I honestly think the main problem is that I can taste it. I can taste all of it. Cologne. In. My. Mouth. Ugh. By the evening, however, enough has worn off during the day that I can find it somewhat pleasant. I'm like this with most things that people use to make themselves smell nice. Hair products are the same.  I hardly even used to use them with long hair. Now that I've cut my  hair I have to and it's torture. All day long I feel like I'm eating gel and hairspray. If I do it too many days in a row I'll start to get headaches.  I've started taking days off and putting my hair in this scarf like headband, so people probably think I'm undergoing chemo.

Cleaners, laundry detergent, air fresheners...it's all the same. As a child, my mother made me go to the grocery store with her. I hated it for many reasons, but one of the worst parts of the whole experience was going down the laundry detergent aisle. I would avoid it at all costs. "I can taste it!" I would say. "You're not eating it, Hope. You can't taste it." She would counter. She was wrong. I could taste it. I still can. My guess is it has something to do with my senses being crossed. My mother always used Gain Detergent. It was one of the worst. I could taste it for days.  I now use all unscented detergents. No dyes. No perfumes. My BF's ex uses Gain. I've never been in her laundry room, but I know by the taste I get in my mouth, when her kids walk through the door.

The smells created when cooking can have the same effect. I taste it. If it's something I like to taste it's not so bad. If it's something I don't like to taste, I get to, whether I eat it or not. If it's spicy my eyes will burn. 

Body odor? Bad breath? Don't get me started, and believe me, I know I'm not immune to either. I can't take it when I stink either. I cannot sit next to someone who stinks. I will move.  I've been known to just come out and say..."ewww. you smell." It's not considered appropriate or polite, but I'm sorry, I stand by that truth, simply because if I was sending off an offensive odor and for some reason was not aware, I would hope to god someone would tell me. It's like the spinach in the teeth, or the booger in the nose. Don't be a dick and let me walk around like that all day. Seriously. Don't be a dick.

So as you can see, smells are an issue, but that is not to say that I don't like any smells. I love the smell of baked goods, fruity shampoos, my hemp hand lotion, freshly brewed coffee, newly cut grass or flowers, and beer. I'm sure it's no accident that these all happen to be things I can consume, including the grass and flowers. I'm sure there are others, I just can't think of them now. 

Only 95 more to go!

Hope, who just thought of one exception to the edible/smell rule and that is gasoline. I do still kind of love the smell of gasoline. 

Me. Bitching.

I've been reading Writing Down the Bones by Natalie Goldberg. I now have love for her and I'm finding the book to be extremely helpful in my writing pursuits. One of the things she stresses in the book is to write. Obviously. But to write every day. Something. Anything. Even if it's shit. And lets be honest, most of it is. She stresses the importance of filling a notebook every month. Just to get it in. To get it done. Well. I started out really well, but now it's the 20th and I have about 8 pages filled. Why? Life. It's sucking me dry. This isn't news, I know.

I have all of these great topics and ideas and I'm dying to get to it but I can't. Not only because of lack of time, but more because so fucking much is pissing me off right now that I need to dump it before I can focus on anything else. So here I am. It's fitting as this is where I bitch. I have to warn you, this entry is probably going to suck. But I don't care, because I'm drinking. happy face with tongue sticking out.

I don't make a habit of drinking and blogging, but maybe I should. So far it feels pretty good, but then again, I just downed a whole drink in five minutes. I just recently spent some time with family. The blood kind. The only family members that do not drink or aren't addicted to coke or heroin are those in recovery. It's sad, pathetic, and disgusting, but I get it. I so get it. So tonight, rather than expending more energy trying not to be one of them, I'm just going with it. Truth is, I am one of them. I think I fight harder not to lose control, but in the end, when it's needed, I take my medicine. Sad, but that's not what I wanted to talk about.

Just had to refill. If I do that two more times, this blog will become about how everything is great!!! In fact, I'm already starting to wonder why I'm really here. Okay. So, it's school vacation week. It's hard to believe that is the only reason I feel like jumping off a cliff, and it's not, but it's not helping. I'm trying to work, I'm behind on everything and at the same time I'm trying to keep my child occupied and prevent him from sinking deeper and deeper into his own world. It's not working. While he is awesome and funny and an all around great kid, without structure and a routine and someone forcing him into the real world he will sink deeper and deeper into his own. Aside from the non stop singing (only show tunes/movie themes) it's nearly impossible to get him to do or talk about anything other than what he is playing in his mind. Because he's not really playing so you can see him playing. It's hard to explain... but basically he just has something (mostly lego guys) in his hands and he spins around in circles and he makes noises. I will say something to him,...anything... like it's time to get ready to leave or ask him what he wants for lunch...and he will say.."I think it's time to ask yourself what you believe in" or "Great. I think I got it,. but tell me the whole thing again just in case because I wasn't listening." or "I solemnly swear I am up to no good."  Nothing that has anything to do with what I'm saying to him. In fact, he's not really saying anything. Those are all movie quotes. And while it's sometimes funny and sometimes cute, and yes, I know I do it too, far too often, a full week of it is too much to handle. But I can't stop it and I can't shake him until he comes back to reality and I can't yell and I can't just go hide so I don't have to hear it anymore. As I'm saying this, I'm thinking to myself, wow the mom's with two fighting kids really do have it worse than I do and now I'm feeling guilty for not being able to deal with a child who's oddities and ocd tendencies drive me up the wall when he's home for a week. But still, they do, and I know why. It's because they conflict with mine. It's quite possible I'm driving him just as batty and that is why he's spending so much time in la la land. But in any case. School. Soon. Very soon.

The rest of it is all lumped together into what I like to refer to as The Weight of the World. I feel it. On my shoulders. Constantly. The weight of having to earn enough (extra) money so we can eat and have heat and pay all of our bills. The weight of having to work sometimes 7 days a week in order to accomplish this and watch everyone else lie around while I do it. The weight of having to buy the food and plan the meals and cook the meals. The weight of having to take care of everything in the home, the laundry, the dishes, and the cleaning (that's a joke), while trying to work a more than full time job in only the part time hours I'm allotted. The weight of being the primary caregiver for my son and losing 6 precious nights of me time per month that I definitely used to recharge. I've spent that last few years fighting and asking for help with some of this, and when I do I feel like I get attitude. Just plain ass bullshit attitude. I feel the weight of still being the "other woman" because that is how it is. I'm not The Woman. The primary woman. I still come second to what the ex wife wants and needs and I know he would disagree with this but it's true. Why else wouldn't he have made The Woman by now? On top of this, we're supposed to be making a move. Soon. Like in 2 and half months. Beside all the the shit we have here that needs to get packed up, we are moving into a house that needs work top to bottom. I have no reason to believe that anyone but me will be doing all of this because history has told me...that no one but ME will be doing all this. Does this make sense? I hope it makes sense or else I just want to jump of a fucking bridge for nothing. (I know I said cliff before. I'm changing it up.) When I voice my feelings, my frustration, my dissatisfaction with the way things are...well...basically that is just me starting a fight. Me ruining the day. Me attacking. Me blaming. Nothing ever changes. In fact, I think that with each time I do voice my feelings I make things worse.

So. I'm stuck. I'm fucked. One more drink and I'll also be drunk. Good thing is...I'm almost drunk.

There. Bitch session complete. Maybe this will free up some space to actually dive into something with more life. Something with less of a dead end.

Hope, who is becoming no fun to be around and who doesn't even care to be around much anymore anyway.