Post-Apocalypse

I'm just recently (as in an hour or so ago) recovering from a complete meltdown of sorts. Full on panic, dread, doom, numbness, dizziness, shortness of breath, tears, and the feeling of wanting to be out of my own skin. It's a feeling that is so hard to describe, so that anyone who has never experienced it, could actually get an idea as to what it is like. Saying it is awful isn't enough. Saying you start bargaining immediately to make it go away isn't enough. I will quit smoking. I will take better care of myself. I'll go back on Celexa. I'll do yoga. I'll meditate. I usually wind up being mad at myself. Angry that my brain is in control. Angry that I can't control my brain. Long story short. I took an Ativan and a long hot shower and it has subsided. Just like that. As quickly as it came. This particular attack wasn't unexpected. I'd been waiting for it. I knew it was coming and as I sit here now, feeling somewhat okay, I know there will be more.

The latest and the greatest in the Parental visit saga is that they are safe and sound now back in Las Vegas. As it should be. The whole two weeks was emotionally draining and extremely nerve wracking, and the night before they were leaving the Time Bomb that is mother went off. Boom. If you knew my mother you would know a few very basic things about her. You would know that she is loud. Not only loud but abrasive. Like an S.O.S. pad only less soapy. She talks a lot. She's a bit selfish and only knows how to "give" by using money. She is bossy and she contradicts herself constantly. Sometimes within minutes. I'm not sure why that is. I'm not sure why any of it is. But it is. I had learned over the years that it was safest to mostly sit back and shut up, but if you know anything about me, it's that I don't always do what is safest. I also tend to zoom in on the details, and if there is a contradiction, I will be drawn to it like a magnet.

On the day before they were leaving we had a phone conversation that was basically to set up a time for them to come over that night to say goodbye. (Originally they were planning on another Auction night but had decided not to go. I won't lie. The fact that visiting with us was an option and not a definite was a confirmation that felt like shit.) Anyway, I thought they could come over and visit with Jack after he got home school, then maybe we could order take out. NO. No? No we don't want to eat anymore food. Ever?? Weird. Anyway. Her first plan was they would come over after Jack did his homework around 4:00. Okay. BUT, they have to print out their boarding passes at exactly 5:00pm. Exactly?  Yes not a minute later. At this point it dawns on me, I need ink for my printer, so I say I will go out and get ink for my printer. NO. No? NO. We'll just come back here and print them. My mind is calculating, which sucks because I hate math...but...basically that means they will visit for a half hour. On the night before they leave. Breathe. I'm getting a little annoyed by this point. The refusal to eat with us. The insistence on printing the boarding passes, and I realize that if they had gone to the auction as originally planned there would have been no printing of the damn boarding passes until they had returned home. In my mind I'm thinking so why not just come and stay longer, you're going to have to eat at some point, and print them when you get back to my Aunts. Boom!  BOOM!!!

BOOOM!!!!!

She exploded. Like a stick of dynamite. Looking back, I think it was the fact that I pointed out the boarding pass situation. How she wouldn't have been able to print them if she had stuck to her original plans, so why is it so important that she do it now? (In my heart of hearts I think I know why. She didn't really want to come to my house and any excuse to shorten the trip was usable) In any case, she yelled and she screamed. I could barely get a word in edge wise. I'm sure my Aunt and my Father who had to have been close by listening were confused as to what the hell I might be yelling about on the other end of the line. Only I wasn't yelling. Except for once. To tell her to stop yelling at me and that I wasn't going to fight with her. I never raised my voice prior. I simply said something she didn't like. Something that exposed her motives. I hardly remember all the words she said during her tirade except when she accused me of being selfish and wanting everything to go my way. Irony? Or just plain sickness? I think I might have laughed then because it was so completely ridiculous I could hardly wrap my brain around it. She said a few more things that made about just as much sense  and then she handed the phone to my father. We both just sat there like...hey. Hey. Neither of us sure what to do with any of it. After about a minute she calmed down a little and said they would come over after they printed their boarding passes, so a little after five. After I hung up my head was literally spinning. What the fuck just happened?

As crazy and unpredictable as her outburst was, it was nothing I hadn't experienced in the past. I think that maybe I might have thought this kind of behavior was over. Done. That it used to happen, but it doesn't happen anymore. Needless to say, my brain linked on to the pattern, and the floodgates of my memory opened wide. It wasn't pretty and I'm still having a damn hard time shutting the door.

But as if that unwelcome drama wasn't enough... there is more. The icing on the cake so to speak. After winding down from the phone call I pretty much went about my day. Jack came home and did his homework. I told him Grandma and Grandpa were coming for one last visit tonight. He got excited and started picking out all the things he wanted to show them but forgot to show them the one time they came before. BF came home from work. Because I kept getting a very loud NO regarding eating with us, I ordered take out for us three only. And we waited. When are they coming? Are they here yet? Didn't they say a little after 5? 

At 6:30 I pick up my phone and call. My mother answers. Hello?  Hi. Are you guys coming?  NO. No we're not. We talked about it and we're not. Wait. What!?  My mind is a little bit blown by this point but I manage to ask the question. "Were you going to call me and let me know?"  To which she answered. "No, I wasn't."  I had to ask again."Okay. Wait. You decided you weren't coming to say goodbye and you weren't even going to call and let me know?"  No. No I wasn't.  She started saying something else here, but I simply said "Goodbye." and hung up. Then I kicked a bucket that was in my driveway clear across to other side.

Again, my head is spinning. My son is asking are they coming. No, they aren't coming. Why??  Did you call them? Call them again. Tell them I want them to. My hands are shaking as I send one last text message to my mother letting her know that her grandson had been waiting since he got home from school to see them and basically that was one shitty move on her part. How do I explain to my son why they aren't coming when I don't even fully understand it myself?  I now feel guilty. I feel like, because they don't want to spend time with me, I'm cheating him out of Grandparents. I dismiss this thought immediately. Fuck them. They should feel guilty. I tell him the truth. Not as harshly as I do here. I tell him that sometimes people don't do what they say they are going to do and we get disappointed. Sometimes we know the reason why, but somethimes we just don't.

That night was a sleepless one for me, with my own life movie playing on the screens behind my eyes. I wasn't dwelling. It was on automatic play. Like experiences attract like memories. They don't play like movies for everyone, but they do for me, and what I saw I didn't like.  It was a fact facing night of finally accepting that they (my mother in particular, because my dad does nothing on his own) aren't good for me. They are hazardous to my health. By the time I went to sleep I had convinced myself that there wouldn't be anymore contact. That I had to shut them out completely.  I'm not sure what I think now. I'm still processing.

The next morning I received a text message claiming to "just be getting your message now". There was an apology and an I don't know what happened.  A second message came through right after saying they'd like to see me, either at my aunts or at my house, and that they were leaving for the airport at 1pm. I didn't respond.  Instead, I shutdown, grabbed my new CD and headed out. I went to breakfast alone, I went shopping at few places, I drove around, got a coffee, had lunch, and was sure to return home after 1pm. It was actually a good anxiety free few hours.

Later that night I got a call and let it go to voice mail.  In listening to message, I felt like Alice in Wonderland. Nothing made sense. Her voice was small and quiet, almost childlike, and her words were soft, somewhat matter of fact, with a We Love You at the end. This message surely wasn't left by the same woman who just the day before couldn't have cared less.  I didn't call back. Instead I got angry again.

This afternoon I got an email from her. (This is where the above panic attack came in to play) I haven't even read it yet. Just seeing it in my inbox was enough to set me off. I definitely have no desire to speak to either of them right now. Maybe that will change. Or maybe I won't let myself get sucked in again, because it's too fucking much. I know she knows she was wrong. I know that's why she's playing all meek and mild and tossing out I love yous like they actually mean something. But it's not an excuse. It can't be an excuse anymore.  If someone attacks you physically, treats you like shit, and then tells you it's your fault, does a sorry make it okay? No, it doesn't. So it shouldn't be okay for someone to attack you like that verbally either.

This was a long ass post. I apologize. Mostly I wrote it for me. Also sorry for the all the bold and italics. And spelling?  I have a get out of jail free card for today.

Hope, who is going to get her money's worth out of therapy tomorrow.

What I did at Summer Camp.

One my goals in taking my Facebook hiatus was to find more time, and to use some of that time for more writing. Again, I'm not sure what it will amount to if anything and right now they're just little snippets of a whole picture.

This past week was Jack's Tennis Camp, which went a lot better than expected, and I'm proud to say he completed the week and can now hit a Tennis ball. Sort of. The beginning of the week, however, was tough and I give his father all the credit for pulling him through this one. He was patient, understanding, and stayed the whole three hours at a camp that was drop off and pick up. The Instructors also deserve some credit for recognizing his need for one on one instruction and some alone time practice. Once he knew what he was supposed to do and was allowed to do it, on his own, his comfort level increased dramatically and he was able to join the group and actually enjoy himself. It's amazing what a little understanding and adjustment can do.

The whole experience and the words that my son was saying at the beginning of the week sent me back thirty something years to my own experience with Camp, so I decided to write about it and share it here. It's been an experience that stuck with me and writing it out was not only therapeutic but also eye opening. Enjoy! Or not...

Summer Camp

One summer, back when I was seven, my then foster mother came up with the bright idea to send me to camp. It was the YMCA Day Camp and it was only for a week. At least I think it was only for a week. In any case, that was the length of time I went. I’m sure she must have been thinking something like, “Well, now I have a child. It’s summer time. What do you do with a child in the summer? I know! You send her to camp!”

Camp. A supposedly fun filled, noisy place where I could run and swim and play sports and be competitive and learn skills and socialize.  A perfectly logical choice for any normal little girl, I suppose. Only I wasn’t any normal little girl. People said I was shy, but it was more than that. I could barely run, and certainly not fast.  I could not swim. I didn’t and hadn’t ever in my life played a sport. I wasn’t the least bit competitive. I had no desire to learn these skills, and I lacked the ability and the voice to socialize with people I didn’t know. Surely someone else in my life must have known all of this besides me. I can almost hear them now. "It will help to bring her out of her shell..." This was a phrase I had heard often, and it made me wonder if they thought I was a turtle, or perhaps a clam. In my mind I saw the image of a large seashell strapped to my back so it looked as if I had wings. I liked the image and didn’t see any reason why they would want me to come out of that shell.

The truth was, I was perfectly happy in my “shell”. It was where I felt most comfortable and safe. There was no need to try to pry me out of it. The truth is, even today, at the age of forty-one it is still where I feel the most at ease. No amount of prying was ever going to turn me into anyone else. My shell is my home. Perhaps I am a turtle after all.

The first day of camp stands out more vividly than the rest. It started with a car ride to The Thunderbird Motel, which was where the bus would pick me up. I’m not sure if the word nervous can fully describe what I was feeling. I was nervous, that’s for sure, but it was more than that. My thoughts were racing, although they never dared to become actual words. And my thoughts were also pervasive. What will the bus look like? My school bus is yellow, but I rode a bus once that wasn’t yellow. When will it get here? Who will be on it? Kids on the yellow bus are mean, but there weren’t any kids on the other bus. Where will I sit? If it’s not a yellow bus I’ll have sit next to a strange man. How long will it take? I got sick on the other bus. If it’s not a yellow bus I’ll get sick on this bus. What if we get lost? What if I can’t find my way back?  Where do I go when we get there? Who will help me? What will they make me do? Will I be able to do it? I won’t be able to do it. They will be mad that I can’t swim. What will we play? When will we play? Where will I put my bag? When will I get there?  What if I can’t talk? They will get mad if I can’t talk. Will it be in the woods? How will I know what time it is? How will I know when to leave? How will I know the right bus?  And on and on it went. This, all before I even started my journey. I had no idea what to expect, and I needed to know what to expect. I also needed to know what was coming next and in the precise order it would come. I only had my past experience to rely on and believed if something happened once, it would happen, again and again and again. Life experience has since taught me that this isn’t necessarily true, however, I still can’t force my brain to believe it.

The bus ride ended up being the least of my worries, simply because I didn’t have to say anything to anyone. It was noisy, as all the other kids yelled rather than talked, but I managed to stare out the window and tune most of it out. The bus ride to and from would end up being the best part of the whole experience.

Once we arrived at the camp all of my racing thoughts and questions returned, along with my inability to speak above a whisper. “Speak up, Hope” was another commonly heard phrase, especially in School, in front a group, or with people I didn’t know.  I would try and try, but if I could get the words out at all, it was never above a whisper, and it hurt to try. It physically hurt. It’s only recently that I learned that there was an actual name for this. Selective Mutism. Eventually, this was something I grew out of. But even now my voice is the first thing to go when I’m extremely nervous. It’s as if I have a volume button the instantly turns down the moment I’m around unfamiliar people or places.

The Camp Counselors were lined up as we exited the bus, and although the process by which they determined which child belonged to which counselor is all a blur now, somehow, I ended up being assigned to one. To this day, I’m not completely certain I was ever even with the right group to begin with, as I was always the kid “left over”. The one without the partner, or the fifth wheel in a party of four. I was the quiet, blond haired, blue eyed, day dreamy little girl that completely went unnoticed.

Day one, for me, was a mess. It was complete and utter chaos and confusion, as we bounced from one noisy activity to the next. I was somewhat relieved when our first stop was to the locker room and I learned where to put my bag. I made a mental note of what building it was in and specifically what locker I had. I only had to count from the first locker to the left of the door. One, two ,three, four, five. Five. I had the fifth locker. If I knew nothing else, I knew where my bag was and how to get it.

The rest, however, when I remember it, resembles a dream. The kind of dream where nothing really makes sense and you’re always late, or running behind, and you’re trying your best to figure things out, but still have no idea what is going on. All of the other kids in my group seemed to have some kind of mental telepathy or super powers. They all knew what the others were doing without anyone ever having to speak the words. They all knew the rules to the games and how to hit the ball and in which direction to run. I knew none of this, and if anyone was explaining it, I certainly couldn’t make it out above the voices of chattering children. I remember trying to ask the counselor questions.  I remember standing by her side and waiting for her to notice that I was there. Most times she didn’t notice, and the times she did, she couldn’t hear me and would get annoyed. At least it seemed to me like she was getting annoyed. It seemed to me like I was doing everything wrong.

Lunch time that first day, was probably the longest half hour of my life. For reasons I will never comprehend, my foster mother, had completely missed the fact that she was supposed to pack me a lunch. A mistake that she would never make again, as I reminded her of it continuously for months after. While all the other children and counselors sat and ate their brown bagged lunches at the picnic tables scattered among the trees, I sat, alone. Eventually one of the adults noticed I had no lunch and gave me an orange. An orange that I couldn’t peel, as I had no finger nails. I did the best I could, but by this time lunch was almost over and I threw most of the orange in the trash.

Swimming came after lunch, which I thought was out of order because everyone always said to wait to go in the water after eating.  Because I didn’t actually know how to swim I was in the beginner group and I needed a partner. Most of the kids paired off immediately and the two girls I asked to be my partner decided to partner up themselves. The councilor ended up being my partner, which was fine with me because I figured she wouldn’t let me drown. I had fallen off a raft in an above ground pool at age five and was convinced that I had drowned once already. I wasn’t in a hurry to let that happen again.

The rest of the afternoon was filled with running races and mouthing the words to songs I didn’t know. The highlight of my day was heading back to the locker room, as I knew exactly where my bag was. One, two, three, four, five. The fifth locker. I was changed and ready before anyone else, wanting nothing more than to find my bus, where I could sit and stare out the window for the whole ride home. I remember I was in bed by 6pm that first night, out of complete exhaustion and overload. And I remember my foster mother commenting on how “All that fresh air must have tuckered her out.”  I had told her that I didn’t like it, and I remember thinking, why doesn’t she believe me?

The rest of the week, was much of the same, except that I had a lunch and could get out of having to talk by shoving food into my mouth. By the second to the last day a new girl, Linda, arrived, which gave me a partner finally, as all the others had pretty much stuck together. For some reason, she insisted on calling me Diana, and I let her. Linda and I were partners in swimming, the egg race and the three legged race. She was a bit bossy, but it made it easier to figure out what I was supposed to do. Linda and I didn’t sit together at lunch.

On the last day, as we were changing in the locker room, a pudgy little mean girl told me she hoped she would never see me again. I was completely shocked and was sure she was talking to someone else. I looked around me, but it became apparent that she was indeed talking to me. I’m not sure if it was because I knew it was the end of the last day, but somehow, I found my voice and told her “I was glad I never had to see her again.”  I wasn’t mean about it. In fact, I didn’t really even mean it as I had no idea who this girl was. Did she know me? Was she in my group? Did I know who was in my group? No. The truth was, I didn’t. I always knew where my group was because I had studied my counselors face and the length of her brown hair. I could recognize her and Linda. No one else. After spending an entire week with these kids I didn’t know any of them. I didn’t know what they looked like and I knew no ones name, except for the bossy little girl, that called me Diana.

Hope, who probably isn't really a turtle. 

Also, google drive can bite me.