Last night I was laying in bed reading another silly Anita Shreve novel. This one is set in New Hampshire, specifically the part of New Hampshire that I lived in for over a year. The story centers around the towns that crisscross the New Hampshire/Vermont border from the middle of the state upwards. The action in the novel occurs during a very cold, snowy winter in the hills. There are driveways that people can't get up, even in ambulances, and the ice is an omnipresent character in the story.
I laid there and thought, "Now New Hampshire is a perfect place to be very, very sad." All that snow, ice and freezing temperatures seem to encourage long periods of introspection and depression. People close their doors and hole up in their houses. The lack of friendliness in the town's people only personifies the belief that you either, "Live Free or Die" in that state. Independence is cherished and any sign of public weakness should be crushed out immediately like a cigarette butt.
It really is the kind of place where you could go quietly insane and no one would notice. The neighbors might find you once the ground thaws and the snow melts, but it would be too late by then.
Then I started thinking of all the places where I was unbelievably miserable. The places where I experienced chest tightening anxiety attacks and self-hatred so extreme that I rarely got out of bed. Places where, at times, I functioned only on a life-preserving level. Certainly, Lebanon, New Hampshire tops the list, but it's closely followed by McCall, Idaho - Telmen, Zavkhan, Mongolia - Oxford, England - Philadelphia, Pennsylvania - Friendswood, Texas.
Wherever you go - there you are. Unlike the airlines, your being never loses your baggage.
My baggage is a slightly different from other divorced/single parents that I've met. My baggage doesn't have needs. My baggage doesn't call me to tell me that it needs money or emotional support. I don't have to respond to my baggage and I can go weeks pretending it doesn't exist. My baggage can't keep me from seeing my son because it's in a bad mood (really, we all know that depression and it's twin, anxiety, are rarely in good moods. That's contrary to their nature). It can keep me from enjoying my time with Zac and from appreciating the joy and beauty around me, but I don't have to ask it to file a joint tax return or for extra time on the weekend to be with my son.
The flip side of this coin is that no one claims Zac and I as "family". There is no former partner that I can call that will stop everything to support us, even if they don't love me anymore. It's Zac and I. I make all the decisions, even though I yearn to be in a family of my own making.
I want someone to say that they will always love me - no, love us - regardless of the mistakes I make.
Showing posts with label Losing my mind. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Losing my mind. Show all posts
Monday, February 19, 2007
Thursday, February 15, 2007
2/15
Occasionally, it's incredibly obvious to me that I have a couple people in my life that do nothing but make me doubt myself. Slowly but surely, I'm trying to find the courage to stand up for myself and say, "No, I'm sorry. I deserve to be treated better than that." It's difficult for me because I so readily believe all of the negative things that I hear reflected back.
Take for instance an e-mail that I got yesterday. It came from a man that I've never met in person and have been communicating with, off and on, for the last six months or so. He asked if we could meet. I told him no because I was dating West Virginia and I'm really not a good enough liar to try and keep secrets from someone that I care about. He responded with this:
"Ha....you're a woman that values honesty and integrity. I'm sure. What you really are is an emotional wreck whose vulnerability gets you into relational trouble on a dangerously consistent basis.
But I understand. No (redacted) for me. Hope you enjoyed the breakfast.."
Now, normally I completely and whole-heartedly own up to the fact that I've had emotional problems in the past and continue to struggle with depression and anxiety. However, having a virtual stranger call me an "emotional wreck" is something that I am not prepared to accept, mutherfucka. I guess we can all see why I've never agreed to meet him. What does he think? That being mean to me will convince me that he's the man of my dreams? *scoff*
When I told West Virigina that story last night after dinner, he just shook his head and asked why someone would say such a horrible thing. I wondered the same. He pulled me close and told me that everyone in the past that had left me for someone else, lied to me, or consisently put me down for either over-thinking or over-feeling (and it's interesting that people feel I can do both simultaneously), did me a favor. They did a favor by leaving and giving me the opportunity to reach my full potential without their baggage. They did me a favor, he said, by letting me meet someone that can appreciate every part of me and can see how much I have to offer.
Those words were such a nice way to end Valentine's Day.
Take for instance an e-mail that I got yesterday. It came from a man that I've never met in person and have been communicating with, off and on, for the last six months or so. He asked if we could meet. I told him no because I was dating West Virginia and I'm really not a good enough liar to try and keep secrets from someone that I care about. He responded with this:
"Ha....you're a woman that values honesty and integrity. I'm sure. What you really are is an emotional wreck whose vulnerability gets you into relational trouble on a dangerously consistent basis.
But I understand. No (redacted) for me. Hope you enjoyed the breakfast.."
Now, normally I completely and whole-heartedly own up to the fact that I've had emotional problems in the past and continue to struggle with depression and anxiety. However, having a virtual stranger call me an "emotional wreck" is something that I am not prepared to accept, mutherfucka. I guess we can all see why I've never agreed to meet him. What does he think? That being mean to me will convince me that he's the man of my dreams? *scoff*
When I told West Virigina that story last night after dinner, he just shook his head and asked why someone would say such a horrible thing. I wondered the same. He pulled me close and told me that everyone in the past that had left me for someone else, lied to me, or consisently put me down for either over-thinking or over-feeling (and it's interesting that people feel I can do both simultaneously), did me a favor. They did a favor by leaving and giving me the opportunity to reach my full potential without their baggage. They did me a favor, he said, by letting me meet someone that can appreciate every part of me and can see how much I have to offer.
Those words were such a nice way to end Valentine's Day.
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
1/30-2
Sometimes I like to look at people, on television or on the street, even the people at the grocery store or working as a bank teller, and I like to imagine the details of their life. I wonder if they go home to someone special. If there is someone there to hold their hand, to smile when they look at them, to make them laugh.
Then I wonder if their parents loved them and told them how special and unique they were. I wonder if their hearts ache and if they watch television at night and feel lonely.
It's always nights that are the hardest. It's nighttime that makes me want to crawl out of my skin. My heart pounds and I start to feel so scared. So scared by absolute phrases that bounce around in my head and the convey absolute futility. Phrases like start with a pronoun and words like "always," "never" and "forever".
I'll always be alone.
I never believe that I am a strong enough to stand up for myself.
You will never understand.
He always hurts me because I let him.
She has stopped talking to me forever.
I hurt, always and I can't make it stop.
I wish I had an uplifting post in me tonight. I just don't right now. Forever is a long time and there is nothing as certain as always and never. Part of me knows that. Sometimes, the part that makes me so scared doesn't.
Then I wonder if their parents loved them and told them how special and unique they were. I wonder if their hearts ache and if they watch television at night and feel lonely.
It's always nights that are the hardest. It's nighttime that makes me want to crawl out of my skin. My heart pounds and I start to feel so scared. So scared by absolute phrases that bounce around in my head and the convey absolute futility. Phrases like start with a pronoun and words like "always," "never" and "forever".
I'll always be alone.
I never believe that I am a strong enough to stand up for myself.
You will never understand.
He always hurts me because I let him.
She has stopped talking to me forever.
I hurt, always and I can't make it stop.
I wish I had an uplifting post in me tonight. I just don't right now. Forever is a long time and there is nothing as certain as always and never. Part of me knows that. Sometimes, the part that makes me so scared doesn't.
1/30
A long explanation to a little question:
Since I was first officially diagnosed with depression in late 2003, I have seen both psychiatrists and psychologists.
I've told the story of post-Peace Corps time before (severe depression, some post traumatic stress anxiety, brief hospitalization and then intensive out-patient treatment), but I don't usually tell the story of how I got there. In early October winter was about to hit full force in Mongolia. It had already snowed twice and I was sitting in my ger in Telmen (a small village in the Altai Mountains in the Westernish region of the country) and I knew that I couldn't continue living like I was. I had stopped taking care of myself. Stopped trying to get water, stopped chopping wood, started letting my best friend's family take care of me. Some days, I didn't stop crying. The one year relationship that I had been in had recently ended and I couldn't muster up any reason to continue putting one foot in front of each other.
I broke.
I went into the capital, Ulaanbaatar, and talked to a very kind Peace Corps Medical Officer from China, who made me dinner and told me that I was young and resilient. She didn't understand why all of the volunteers fought so hard to stay in a country where they were so obviously struggling on a daily basis. She said that life was long and that I would have many, many more opportunities to volunteer and many more adventures. I couldn't comprehend anything that she was saying. All I felt like was a giant failure and a fool. She convinced me that I should go to America for counseling and medication. I was told that if my treatment went well, that I could go back to my village and continue the work that I had started over the last 18 months.
On the plane ride, in the business class section, the head Medical Officer that traveled with me told me that I wouldn't be coming back to Mongolia with Peace Corps. He said that I was considered a risk to myself and others - an unacceptable risk to the U.S. government. When I landed in Washington D.C., I found out that I wouldn't be staying in a hotel. They forced me to check myself into a nearby hospital, in a locked and controlled Psychiatric Unit.
I spent six of my longest days there. I tried to re-adjust to hearing English spoken all around me by watching daytime television and countless movies. I didn't sleep and barely ate. My anxiety was the highest it has ever been and all the rounded spoons and bolted light fixtures made me want to cram something into my eye socket, just to prove that I could. They gave me an EKG and a chest X-ray, saying that it was standard procedure, even though I didn't have any physical problems with my heart or lungs. I was crying so hard when they took me down to be x-rayed (after cautioning me that if I tried to escape, they would call the police) that a nurse cruelly informed me that: "If you can't manage your emotions, we will sedate you." They gave me both an external and internal ultrasound (hello long tube with a camera and a condom!) for some bleeding and pain in my uterus. I had constant headaches and the tell-tale dry mouth associated with starting an anti-depressant.
After discharging me from the hospital, I spent three weeks going to daily therapy sessions with a psychiatrist in Bethesda, Maryland. At the end of our time, he ultimately did recommend me for further Peace Corps service. The Powers-That-Be, however, said that I had lied on my pre-service medical questionaire about previous problems with depression. They told me that if I didn't accept a "medical discharge", that they would possibly pursue legal action against me. I had to drop my fight to go back to my village and it was told to me in hushed tones that I should keep quiet about the deal I was offered. I was never able to say good bye to the people that I had grown so close to.
With a medical termination, I was able to apply for a Worker's Compensation Claim through the government. Basically, I was classified as a "federal employee injured on the job". My claim was accepted, with the restriction that I could only seek psychological counseling from a Ph.D. psychologist or medical psychiatrist. I began seeing a therapist in New Hampshire, who helped me through some of my worst times. She helped me see that even though I had to leave unexpectedly, that I stayed longer than most people would have and had given 18 months of my time and heart to improving the lives of others, even if just a little.
Fast forward four years to present day. I still have a lot of guilt and shame. I don't wake up anymore wondering what country I'm in and how I got there. I don't have as many panic attacks during movies or while reading books. I don't think that I'm in immediate danger all the time, like I used to. I got pregnant, had a child, moved to Texas, the rest...well, you all basically know the rest.
So, yesterday I talked to a psychiatrist who agreed that I was most likely having an interaction between the two medications that I'm on (my seasonal birth control and Z*oloft). She agreed that in addition to therapy, a psychiatrist should oversee my medication managment (to use the correct buzz phrase) as part of an integrated treatment plan. She's supposed to call me today to verify her schedule and finalize our appointment time. Yes, though, you were all right in that it is VERY DIFFICULT to find a psychiatrist that will (A) accept new patients (B) do more than just prescribe pills and leave the 'talking cure' to a therapist and (C) accept Worker's Compensation insurance.
I've been down a long road. This is a curve along the way, not a cliff that my car is creening towards. I can see that. For once, I can actually see that and that feels good.
Since I was first officially diagnosed with depression in late 2003, I have seen both psychiatrists and psychologists.
I've told the story of post-Peace Corps time before (severe depression, some post traumatic stress anxiety, brief hospitalization and then intensive out-patient treatment), but I don't usually tell the story of how I got there. In early October winter was about to hit full force in Mongolia. It had already snowed twice and I was sitting in my ger in Telmen (a small village in the Altai Mountains in the Westernish region of the country) and I knew that I couldn't continue living like I was. I had stopped taking care of myself. Stopped trying to get water, stopped chopping wood, started letting my best friend's family take care of me. Some days, I didn't stop crying. The one year relationship that I had been in had recently ended and I couldn't muster up any reason to continue putting one foot in front of each other.
I broke.
I went into the capital, Ulaanbaatar, and talked to a very kind Peace Corps Medical Officer from China, who made me dinner and told me that I was young and resilient. She didn't understand why all of the volunteers fought so hard to stay in a country where they were so obviously struggling on a daily basis. She said that life was long and that I would have many, many more opportunities to volunteer and many more adventures. I couldn't comprehend anything that she was saying. All I felt like was a giant failure and a fool. She convinced me that I should go to America for counseling and medication. I was told that if my treatment went well, that I could go back to my village and continue the work that I had started over the last 18 months.
On the plane ride, in the business class section, the head Medical Officer that traveled with me told me that I wouldn't be coming back to Mongolia with Peace Corps. He said that I was considered a risk to myself and others - an unacceptable risk to the U.S. government. When I landed in Washington D.C., I found out that I wouldn't be staying in a hotel. They forced me to check myself into a nearby hospital, in a locked and controlled Psychiatric Unit.
I spent six of my longest days there. I tried to re-adjust to hearing English spoken all around me by watching daytime television and countless movies. I didn't sleep and barely ate. My anxiety was the highest it has ever been and all the rounded spoons and bolted light fixtures made me want to cram something into my eye socket, just to prove that I could. They gave me an EKG and a chest X-ray, saying that it was standard procedure, even though I didn't have any physical problems with my heart or lungs. I was crying so hard when they took me down to be x-rayed (after cautioning me that if I tried to escape, they would call the police) that a nurse cruelly informed me that: "If you can't manage your emotions, we will sedate you." They gave me both an external and internal ultrasound (hello long tube with a camera and a condom!) for some bleeding and pain in my uterus. I had constant headaches and the tell-tale dry mouth associated with starting an anti-depressant.
After discharging me from the hospital, I spent three weeks going to daily therapy sessions with a psychiatrist in Bethesda, Maryland. At the end of our time, he ultimately did recommend me for further Peace Corps service. The Powers-That-Be, however, said that I had lied on my pre-service medical questionaire about previous problems with depression. They told me that if I didn't accept a "medical discharge", that they would possibly pursue legal action against me. I had to drop my fight to go back to my village and it was told to me in hushed tones that I should keep quiet about the deal I was offered. I was never able to say good bye to the people that I had grown so close to.
With a medical termination, I was able to apply for a Worker's Compensation Claim through the government. Basically, I was classified as a "federal employee injured on the job". My claim was accepted, with the restriction that I could only seek psychological counseling from a Ph.D. psychologist or medical psychiatrist. I began seeing a therapist in New Hampshire, who helped me through some of my worst times. She helped me see that even though I had to leave unexpectedly, that I stayed longer than most people would have and had given 18 months of my time and heart to improving the lives of others, even if just a little.
Fast forward four years to present day. I still have a lot of guilt and shame. I don't wake up anymore wondering what country I'm in and how I got there. I don't have as many panic attacks during movies or while reading books. I don't think that I'm in immediate danger all the time, like I used to. I got pregnant, had a child, moved to Texas, the rest...well, you all basically know the rest.
So, yesterday I talked to a psychiatrist who agreed that I was most likely having an interaction between the two medications that I'm on (my seasonal birth control and Z*oloft). She agreed that in addition to therapy, a psychiatrist should oversee my medication managment (to use the correct buzz phrase) as part of an integrated treatment plan. She's supposed to call me today to verify her schedule and finalize our appointment time. Yes, though, you were all right in that it is VERY DIFFICULT to find a psychiatrist that will (A) accept new patients (B) do more than just prescribe pills and leave the 'talking cure' to a therapist and (C) accept Worker's Compensation insurance.
I've been down a long road. This is a curve along the way, not a cliff that my car is creening towards. I can see that. For once, I can actually see that and that feels good.
Sunday, January 28, 2007
1/28
This weekend, I realized that I have no coping skills left. Everything (and nothing) makes me cry and hollows me out. A song on the radio, a memory, a look, a phone call. I've lost all sense of perspective and ability to say, "Well, these things happen."
Do they really just happen? Are there people out there that can say things like that (and mean it)?
Zac was at my parents' house all weekend. My Dad picked him up from daycare on Friday and cursed his way through rush hour traffic. It took him almost two hours to get less than 25 miles. It took him so long that I once again question whether I should move down south to brave the daily commute to and from downtown Houston.
On Saturday, I had a five hour strategic planning meeting for an organization that I volunteer with. It was an incredibly long meeting that left me drained and not sure that I could even make it home before falling asleep. I fell asleep almost instantly and woke up 4 hours later, still childless and even more disconcerted.
I went shopping and found a skirt on the clearance rack at Anthropologie. It was so short that I'm not sure I could even wear it out by myself in public. I found a top on clearance at Macy's and congratulated myself for the fine clearance shopping and financial acumen. I went home and got dressed, then waited. I waited until 10:30pm and even started putting on my makeup and zipped my knee high boots up the side of my calf. At 11pm, I took everything off, knowing that I had to stop waiting and too afraid to go out by myself. I cried and went to bed.
On Sunday, I couldn't stop crying. I don't know what I'm doing wrong, what happened. A second friend called me and told me that he doesn't want to be friends with me anymore. I lost it. I feel so rejected and so disgusting.
I haven't cried this much since Zac was born. It's been almost every day for the last two weeks. I don't even really want to publish this post, but I feel better after writing it. Zac is in bed, asleep, so peaceful and happy. I, on the other hand, am losing my mind.
Edited to note: The friend that I was supposed to go out with on Saturday night was in contact with me this morning. I found out that he had to go to the hospital Saturday night for difficulties breathing. He apologized profusely for not contacting me sooner and for making me cry. Honestly, I just wish that someone from his family had called me so I could have been there to help him and his kids. It's the kind of thing that always goes through my mind when someone doesn't follow through with something that they say they are going to...that wandering thought, "I wonder if something happened..." It's awful when it really is something that happened.
Do they really just happen? Are there people out there that can say things like that (and mean it)?
Zac was at my parents' house all weekend. My Dad picked him up from daycare on Friday and cursed his way through rush hour traffic. It took him almost two hours to get less than 25 miles. It took him so long that I once again question whether I should move down south to brave the daily commute to and from downtown Houston.
On Saturday, I had a five hour strategic planning meeting for an organization that I volunteer with. It was an incredibly long meeting that left me drained and not sure that I could even make it home before falling asleep. I fell asleep almost instantly and woke up 4 hours later, still childless and even more disconcerted.
I went shopping and found a skirt on the clearance rack at Anthropologie. It was so short that I'm not sure I could even wear it out by myself in public. I found a top on clearance at Macy's and congratulated myself for the fine clearance shopping and financial acumen. I went home and got dressed, then waited. I waited until 10:30pm and even started putting on my makeup and zipped my knee high boots up the side of my calf. At 11pm, I took everything off, knowing that I had to stop waiting and too afraid to go out by myself. I cried and went to bed.
On Sunday, I couldn't stop crying. I don't know what I'm doing wrong, what happened. A second friend called me and told me that he doesn't want to be friends with me anymore. I lost it. I feel so rejected and so disgusting.
I haven't cried this much since Zac was born. It's been almost every day for the last two weeks. I don't even really want to publish this post, but I feel better after writing it. Zac is in bed, asleep, so peaceful and happy. I, on the other hand, am losing my mind.
Edited to note: The friend that I was supposed to go out with on Saturday night was in contact with me this morning. I found out that he had to go to the hospital Saturday night for difficulties breathing. He apologized profusely for not contacting me sooner and for making me cry. Honestly, I just wish that someone from his family had called me so I could have been there to help him and his kids. It's the kind of thing that always goes through my mind when someone doesn't follow through with something that they say they are going to...that wandering thought, "I wonder if something happened..." It's awful when it really is something that happened.
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
1/23
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAhhhhhhhhHHHHHHHHHHH
ggggggggggggggggggRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR
____________________
That really does feel better.
It's like I'm living in my own trainwreck. For those of you wondering about yesterday's comment section, he's not talking about getting back together with me romantically. He's talking about waiting for me to be his friend (remember? I was taking space). He's seeing someone right now and told me that she is the most important person to him. "As," he said, "you were when we were dating." I found that out when I had a panic attack last night and I called him. He asked if I could wait 30 minutes because he had to call her back. I couldn't.
When we spoke a little later he told me that he's frustrated because I complicate his life. He wants to move on: be friends, date others, laugh, and enjoy each other's company. He asked that I take more time to resolve my anger because I'm not ready to be his friend.
______________________
Thank you, Anne, for listening to me last night and caring for me.
ggggggggggggggggggRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR
____________________
That really does feel better.
It's like I'm living in my own trainwreck. For those of you wondering about yesterday's comment section, he's not talking about getting back together with me romantically. He's talking about waiting for me to be his friend (remember? I was taking space). He's seeing someone right now and told me that she is the most important person to him. "As," he said, "you were when we were dating." I found that out when I had a panic attack last night and I called him. He asked if I could wait 30 minutes because he had to call her back. I couldn't.
When we spoke a little later he told me that he's frustrated because I complicate his life. He wants to move on: be friends, date others, laugh, and enjoy each other's company. He asked that I take more time to resolve my anger because I'm not ready to be his friend.
______________________
Thank you, Anne, for listening to me last night and caring for me.
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
1/17
"And there ain't no talkin to this man...
He's been tryin to tell me so
It took awhile to understand
the beauty of just letting go
Cause it would take an acrobat, I already tried all that
I'm gonna let him fly,"
Patty Griffin, "Let Him Fly"
Yesterday I stopped communicating with Mr. Tugboat. I cried and cried when I sent him the message that I wouldn't be able to talk to him for a while - that I was too angry, hurt, and upset to do anything beyond taking care of myself and Zac.
The amazing thing was that once I sent him that message, I felt so much better. I didn't have to worry about hiding my anger from him or trying not to make the snide remarks that come out of my mouth before I even realize their potential for pain. I gave myself permission to be angry and, oh damn, it felt so good.
I've spent a better part of my life hiding from anger. I always thought that "nice" girls/women/people/caring individuals didn't get mad at people. I thought that if someone made you angry, that the best thing to do was to go on like nothing happened until the anger passed. And the anger always passes, right? That's the crutch of the whole system of denial: the belief that anger can pass. I found passive aggressive ways of making people regret hurting me. I hurt them back with my words and my cold actions.
My therapist in New Hampshire once told me that depression is a form of anger directed at yourself. Usually in the course of treating someone for depression, they find the some of the sources of their anger, let it out, and eventually forgive. Suddenly, I felt lighter and began working towards happiness.
Old patterns are hard to break, though. I was talking to MNS last night about triggers, or things that can set off any kind of emotion, action, thought, or behavior. In my case, my trigger caused a depressive episode. Mr. Tugboats behavior and actions towards me triggered the worst kind of self-loathing that quickly tumbled into full-blown, "I don't want to get out of bed and see any kind of humanity and, Oh God, why am I having another anxiety attack?" depression.
Mr. Tugboat moved on, with Ramona (and thank you, again, MNS, for being like me and immediately thinking of Miss Quimby instead of these guys who put out a song with the lyrics, "Sweet sweet little Ramona, she always wants to come over, Sweet sweet little Ramona, I think I'll try and phone her")
*pardon me while I gag for just one moment......Ok, that's better*
So, just as I had been keeping our relationship a secret from the Internet, he had been keeping it a secret from the women that he was dating. A day after he was with me, he met Ramona. He was with Ramona. Now he's dating Ramona. He said that he wanted to be friends and didn't understand why I was hurt so much. He answered her phone call the morning after, while I was still in his apartment and I had to listen to him talk to her. "After all," he reasoned, "you said that we were going to be just friends. You've moved on (I hadn't). I did the same thing (clearly). I think we should all try to hang out together. I think you would really like her."
Really, Mr. Tugboat? You think so, huh?
He's been tryin to tell me so
It took awhile to understand
the beauty of just letting go
Cause it would take an acrobat, I already tried all that
I'm gonna let him fly,"
Patty Griffin, "Let Him Fly"
Yesterday I stopped communicating with Mr. Tugboat. I cried and cried when I sent him the message that I wouldn't be able to talk to him for a while - that I was too angry, hurt, and upset to do anything beyond taking care of myself and Zac.
The amazing thing was that once I sent him that message, I felt so much better. I didn't have to worry about hiding my anger from him or trying not to make the snide remarks that come out of my mouth before I even realize their potential for pain. I gave myself permission to be angry and, oh damn, it felt so good.
I've spent a better part of my life hiding from anger. I always thought that "nice" girls/women/people/caring individuals didn't get mad at people. I thought that if someone made you angry, that the best thing to do was to go on like nothing happened until the anger passed. And the anger always passes, right? That's the crutch of the whole system of denial: the belief that anger can pass. I found passive aggressive ways of making people regret hurting me. I hurt them back with my words and my cold actions.
My therapist in New Hampshire once told me that depression is a form of anger directed at yourself. Usually in the course of treating someone for depression, they find the some of the sources of their anger, let it out, and eventually forgive. Suddenly, I felt lighter and began working towards happiness.
Old patterns are hard to break, though. I was talking to MNS last night about triggers, or things that can set off any kind of emotion, action, thought, or behavior. In my case, my trigger caused a depressive episode. Mr. Tugboats behavior and actions towards me triggered the worst kind of self-loathing that quickly tumbled into full-blown, "I don't want to get out of bed and see any kind of humanity and, Oh God, why am I having another anxiety attack?" depression.
Mr. Tugboat moved on, with Ramona (and thank you, again, MNS, for being like me and immediately thinking of Miss Quimby instead of these guys who put out a song with the lyrics, "Sweet sweet little Ramona, she always wants to come over, Sweet sweet little Ramona, I think I'll try and phone her")
*pardon me while I gag for just one moment......Ok, that's better*
So, just as I had been keeping our relationship a secret from the Internet, he had been keeping it a secret from the women that he was dating. A day after he was with me, he met Ramona. He was with Ramona. Now he's dating Ramona. He said that he wanted to be friends and didn't understand why I was hurt so much. He answered her phone call the morning after, while I was still in his apartment and I had to listen to him talk to her. "After all," he reasoned, "you said that we were going to be just friends. You've moved on (I hadn't). I did the same thing (clearly). I think we should all try to hang out together. I think you would really like her."
Really, Mr. Tugboat? You think so, huh?
Enter stage left: my insecurities of being a stupid, pathetic idiot that constantly gets used by the people I care for (who don't return my feelings). I felt like I had fallen for the biggest emotional con of all times.
I did everything for him that I could think of doing: listen to him talk about his soon-to-be-ex-wife for hours and everything she ever did to him, helped him work through the pain of her finding a new boyfriend, dealing with the frustration of her not letting him spend time with his son, and getting an emergency babysitter for Zac so I could help him move into his new apartment when his other friends didn't show up. I even found him the lawyer that is litigating his divorce for less than $500. The lawyer used to work with me and took on Mr. Tugboat's case as a personal favor for me.
A friend should do those things for another friend. It's just that we were more than friends. To have him start dating someone else after everything I had done for him made me feel used and angry.
In fact, I'm still angry, just able to handle it a little better.
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
1/16
I apologize for all of you that got late night phone calls from me last night. I had a headache and couldn't sleep. Then I started crying.
Tears are my Achilles heal. Some people cry and feel better. I cry and feel like I'm staring down rabbit hole. I'm so scared that I'm going to fall into the hole and never find my way back out. I apologize constantly if I'm on the phone with someone while I'm crying, even though I know that the only thing more annoying is someone who apologizes while drunk. Don't even get me started on drunk crying. I've done that recently and it's the worst because I can't stop it. The tears just keep coming then, in embarassingly strong heaves and whimpers.
Do me a favor: if you know me on here, or even if you only know me from here, e-mail me. and let me know who the insomniacs or the, "I don't mind being woken up at 1am" folks are.
It's not easy for me to ask for support.
NSP
notsopregnantintexas@yahoo.com
Tears are my Achilles heal. Some people cry and feel better. I cry and feel like I'm staring down rabbit hole. I'm so scared that I'm going to fall into the hole and never find my way back out. I apologize constantly if I'm on the phone with someone while I'm crying, even though I know that the only thing more annoying is someone who apologizes while drunk. Don't even get me started on drunk crying. I've done that recently and it's the worst because I can't stop it. The tears just keep coming then, in embarassingly strong heaves and whimpers.
Do me a favor: if you know me on here, or even if you only know me from here, e-mail me. and let me know who the insomniacs or the, "I don't mind being woken up at 1am" folks are.
It's not easy for me to ask for support.
NSP
notsopregnantintexas@yahoo.com
Friday, December 15, 2006
12/15
My spirits sunk lower and lower as I walked around the giant mall in Houston. There were so many people with enormous bags and pointy-toed shoes. I felt dowdy, unattractive, and above all, unfashionable. It made me wish that I hadn't gotten out of bed this morning.
As it gets closer and closer to my birthday, an imaginary lead weight starts dragging me down with each approaching day. It's not even turning another year older that necessarily does this to me, it's just that it has always been this way. Even years that were supposed to be momentous, my birthday has always been an anti-climatic let down.
Let's not even get into what it's like having a birthday that is eight days before Christmas. Everyone is filled with holiday cheer and I'm an afterthought at best, which is ok. Family members send me money and I end up walking around the mall with the large crowds of other shoppers, except that instead of embracing the season of giving, I'm shopping for myself.
I ended up in the lingerie department of Nordstrom's. There is a special place in my heart for Seattle's flagship, high-end department store. Large chunks of my adolescence were spent waiting for the Nordstrom's anniversary sale in July. Today, however, the over-helpful, yet uber-tasteful, saleswomen just didn't seem to be understanding the crux of my mid-December emotional problems.
They kept coming up to me, numbly fingering the 100% silk pajamas that I will never be able to afford and asking, "Is there a particular size that I can help you find?" I would just shake my head and push my stroller onto another rack. They stopped making the "single Mom needs a hug because she's feeling sorry for herself" size sometime during the Carter administration.
Another woman approached me looking at pushup bras, matching lacy boyshorts, and camisoles. She inquired as to what, exactly, I was looking for.
I couldn't answer that question. If I had though, my answer would have been something like, "I'm looking for a piece of lingerie that will make me feel sexy and attractive. You see? I just got dumped right before my birthday and I'm feeling so low, as I historically do right before my birthday, that I'm mistakenly thinking that some underwire and lace will make me feel better. I've realized my error during the last twenty seconds and I'm now just going to take my screaming child out of the store and order a pizza. Thank you and good bye. Oh - and Happy Holidays"
As it gets closer and closer to my birthday, an imaginary lead weight starts dragging me down with each approaching day. It's not even turning another year older that necessarily does this to me, it's just that it has always been this way. Even years that were supposed to be momentous, my birthday has always been an anti-climatic let down.
Let's not even get into what it's like having a birthday that is eight days before Christmas. Everyone is filled with holiday cheer and I'm an afterthought at best, which is ok. Family members send me money and I end up walking around the mall with the large crowds of other shoppers, except that instead of embracing the season of giving, I'm shopping for myself.
I ended up in the lingerie department of Nordstrom's. There is a special place in my heart for Seattle's flagship, high-end department store. Large chunks of my adolescence were spent waiting for the Nordstrom's anniversary sale in July. Today, however, the over-helpful, yet uber-tasteful, saleswomen just didn't seem to be understanding the crux of my mid-December emotional problems.
They kept coming up to me, numbly fingering the 100% silk pajamas that I will never be able to afford and asking, "Is there a particular size that I can help you find?" I would just shake my head and push my stroller onto another rack. They stopped making the "single Mom needs a hug because she's feeling sorry for herself" size sometime during the Carter administration.
Another woman approached me looking at pushup bras, matching lacy boyshorts, and camisoles. She inquired as to what, exactly, I was looking for.
I couldn't answer that question. If I had though, my answer would have been something like, "I'm looking for a piece of lingerie that will make me feel sexy and attractive. You see? I just got dumped right before my birthday and I'm feeling so low, as I historically do right before my birthday, that I'm mistakenly thinking that some underwire and lace will make me feel better. I've realized my error during the last twenty seconds and I'm now just going to take my screaming child out of the store and order a pizza. Thank you and good bye. Oh - and Happy Holidays"
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
12/12
I've complained about everything from a rash on my face, to Zac's illnesses, to my lack of money and willpower to lose weight on this blog. I don't set out to be negative every morning when I sit down to my computer to type these words, it seems to stem partly from my social isolation in this city and my frustrations with being a young parent of an even younger child.
Part of it is the nature of the beast - my blog would drive you absolutely fucking insane if every day I wrote about how great and wonderful my life is. I'm pretty sure that I wouldn't even read it, but by only venting my frustrations and anger I'm sacrificing some measure of truth about my life. Many days I simply exist and try my hardest to make it to the next day. Then there are days, hours, minutes when something clicks inside and I realized:
If love is a decision, then happiness must also be a choice. (December 7th entry on the link).
I choose today to be happy. I spent time with Mr. Tugboat last night and in between the barbed insults that I threw his way periodically, there was a moment when I looked at him and realized how happy he and I could have been as romantic partners. It was surprising to be presented with a singular moment of contentment, all giftwrapped and tied in a bow for mutual consumption. The hard work comes now from redefining that happiness and joy within the boundaries of friendship.
It made me wonder, though, how many other moments like that I pass up.
At my lowest point last week, I called the FOB. Actually, it took two phone calls of me screaming, "Call me as soon as you can!" for him to call me back. I was so tired of being puked on, worrying about where Zac was going to go during the day if I couldn't take time off from work and how I was going to afford to keep my grossly underutilized memberships to the gym and Weight Watchers. I was so tired of worrying about saving for retirement, for a down payment on a house, and paying off my massive student loan debt. I felt fat and unattractive my skin, carrying around the weight that I've gained back. I just wanted to give all of that stress to someone else and say: "Here is a broken heart. You can fix it. It just fell apart."
He can't fix it. No one can fix it for me. The stress that I carry around, that ages me prematurely, weighs me down and keeps me from being the most perfect version of myself. The decision to release at least some of this ballast has to come from me.
Today, I've decided to let it go.
Part of it is the nature of the beast - my blog would drive you absolutely fucking insane if every day I wrote about how great and wonderful my life is. I'm pretty sure that I wouldn't even read it, but by only venting my frustrations and anger I'm sacrificing some measure of truth about my life. Many days I simply exist and try my hardest to make it to the next day. Then there are days, hours, minutes when something clicks inside and I realized:
If love is a decision, then happiness must also be a choice. (December 7th entry on the link).
I choose today to be happy. I spent time with Mr. Tugboat last night and in between the barbed insults that I threw his way periodically, there was a moment when I looked at him and realized how happy he and I could have been as romantic partners. It was surprising to be presented with a singular moment of contentment, all giftwrapped and tied in a bow for mutual consumption. The hard work comes now from redefining that happiness and joy within the boundaries of friendship.
It made me wonder, though, how many other moments like that I pass up.
At my lowest point last week, I called the FOB. Actually, it took two phone calls of me screaming, "Call me as soon as you can!" for him to call me back. I was so tired of being puked on, worrying about where Zac was going to go during the day if I couldn't take time off from work and how I was going to afford to keep my grossly underutilized memberships to the gym and Weight Watchers. I was so tired of worrying about saving for retirement, for a down payment on a house, and paying off my massive student loan debt. I felt fat and unattractive my skin, carrying around the weight that I've gained back. I just wanted to give all of that stress to someone else and say: "Here is a broken heart. You can fix it. It just fell apart."
He can't fix it. No one can fix it for me. The stress that I carry around, that ages me prematurely, weighs me down and keeps me from being the most perfect version of myself. The decision to release at least some of this ballast has to come from me.
Today, I've decided to let it go.
Thursday, November 09, 2006
11/09
When people ask me about single parenting, I usually tell them my 90% theory. 90% of the time, I love parenting by myself. 90% of the days, I look into Zac's face, see him reach out for me, and melt into a pile of single parent mush on the floor. 90% of the time, I'll sneak into his room at night - just to make sure that he hasn't kicked off the thin blanket that I use to cover his feet in his crib and that he's not laying on one of the books I let him "read" before he falls asleep. I love my son and the connection I have with him as his primary caregiver.
Then there are the 10% days.
Last night, Zac cried non-stop from 5pm - 7pm. I couldn't figure out what was wrong with him or why he was crying. So many times lately, that's the case. I hold him - he cries. I put him down- he cries. I hide on the stairs where he can't see me - he cries. Then I cry.
I used to never cry (and I blame my therapist for my renewed connection to something called 'human emotions'. Bastard. It's hard to really buy into the whole 90% theory while trying to clean the catbox, do the dishes, make dinner, and pacify a screaming child.)
I'm starting to feel like I can't do it anymore. People tell me, "It will get so much better as he gets older," or, "This too shall pass," and I can rationally understand that, it's just that my heart tells me that I've been alone, as a parent, for the past 27 months. I'm tired. I keep searching to find what I need, but I'm not sure how to keep putting one foot in front of each other. On nights like last night, I feel like Zac and I are in the exact same place: we know that we need something, we just can't figure out what it is.
The contract employer is really pushing me hard to reach these tight deadlines, but I can't even think about opening my laptop until Zac is in bed asleep around 8pm. Last night he didn't go to sleep until 8:45pm and I passed out around 9:30pm. I'm just so tired all the time and even though I know that it isn't true, it feels like everything that I do for Zac is wrong. If I could get inside his head and decode those screams, to figure out why he's not eating dinner anymore or doesn't want to play with any of his toys, I would.
When he woke up this morning at 6am, he screamed all the way through my shower, getting dressed, and walking out the door. He was still screaming when I dropped him off at daycare.
This is life at 10%.
Then there are the 10% days.
Last night, Zac cried non-stop from 5pm - 7pm. I couldn't figure out what was wrong with him or why he was crying. So many times lately, that's the case. I hold him - he cries. I put him down- he cries. I hide on the stairs where he can't see me - he cries. Then I cry.
I used to never cry (and I blame my therapist for my renewed connection to something called 'human emotions'. Bastard. It's hard to really buy into the whole 90% theory while trying to clean the catbox, do the dishes, make dinner, and pacify a screaming child.)
I'm starting to feel like I can't do it anymore. People tell me, "It will get so much better as he gets older," or, "This too shall pass," and I can rationally understand that, it's just that my heart tells me that I've been alone, as a parent, for the past 27 months. I'm tired. I keep searching to find what I need, but I'm not sure how to keep putting one foot in front of each other. On nights like last night, I feel like Zac and I are in the exact same place: we know that we need something, we just can't figure out what it is.
The contract employer is really pushing me hard to reach these tight deadlines, but I can't even think about opening my laptop until Zac is in bed asleep around 8pm. Last night he didn't go to sleep until 8:45pm and I passed out around 9:30pm. I'm just so tired all the time and even though I know that it isn't true, it feels like everything that I do for Zac is wrong. If I could get inside his head and decode those screams, to figure out why he's not eating dinner anymore or doesn't want to play with any of his toys, I would.
When he woke up this morning at 6am, he screamed all the way through my shower, getting dressed, and walking out the door. He was still screaming when I dropped him off at daycare.
This is life at 10%.
Saturday, November 04, 2006
11/4
Time(s) that Zac woke me up this morning: 12:30am, 3am (when he fell off the bed), and 6:30am (when he decided to wake up for the day)
Number of things that I've been hit with this morning: 2
Hours that I wished Zac would lay down for a nap: 3
Amount that the vet. charged me for an annual exam and procedure for Honey: $395
Number of times that I've freaked out about money in the past two days: 5
_______
I feel like it might be a long weekend.
Number of things that I've been hit with this morning: 2
Hours that I wished Zac would lay down for a nap: 3
Amount that the vet. charged me for an annual exam and procedure for Honey: $395
Number of times that I've freaked out about money in the past two days: 5
_______
I feel like it might be a long weekend.
Saturday, October 28, 2006
10/28
Things that I've learned over the past week:
1) Never, ever, under any circumstances beyond self-flaggelation, take a laxative after spending the evening drinking beer. You will wake up every two hours with the worst pain you have ever felt outside of child birth and spend the rest of the next day pooping.
2) It's not that I thought that I couldn't cry anymore (after all, I sobbed when I ripped the passenger side mirror off my car in my parking garage), it's just that I thought I was more numb than I actually am. I've been on Z*oloft for three years now (since I returned from Mongolia). I cried almost everyday when I was pregnant. Immediately following Zac's birth, I cried at least three times a day until the horrendous hormonal change and intense fear tapered off, then the tears only came once or twice a month. Lately, I haven't cried at all, even when I've wanted to (don't ask - sometimes I just want to get it out, ya know?).
3) Within ten minutes of sitting across from my new therapist, I was sobbing in his office.
4) Literally sobbing and apologizing, then crying some more because I'm apologizing for having emotions in front of a stranger, which is ridiculous. If anything, I think that I should start releasing more of my emotions in front of strangers. At least they can't fight back.
5) If I was being "sensitive to myself", I would say that, "Therapy allows me the emotional space to cry," which makes me want to vomit alittle. Now I know why I don't say things like that. I prefer to say, "Therapists make me cry," because it puts the blame on them.
6) Leaving my apartment for four days to go and stay with my parents, without planning ahead or even thinking that I would be gone that long, makes my apartment stink up with a combination of banana peels, rotten diapers and soured milk. I opened the door and understood where the phrase, "the smell of death," came from. I can replicate that smell with four days of neglect.
7) Zac turns a frightening shade of green when he has an upset stomach and his temperature reaches 104 degrees. It also turns out that an oral thermometer can go up my kid's bumhole when an after-hours nurse forces me to put it there. My Mom just kept saying, "I'm going to have to buy another thermometer."
1) Never, ever, under any circumstances beyond self-flaggelation, take a laxative after spending the evening drinking beer. You will wake up every two hours with the worst pain you have ever felt outside of child birth and spend the rest of the next day pooping.
2) It's not that I thought that I couldn't cry anymore (after all, I sobbed when I ripped the passenger side mirror off my car in my parking garage), it's just that I thought I was more numb than I actually am. I've been on Z*oloft for three years now (since I returned from Mongolia). I cried almost everyday when I was pregnant. Immediately following Zac's birth, I cried at least three times a day until the horrendous hormonal change and intense fear tapered off, then the tears only came once or twice a month. Lately, I haven't cried at all, even when I've wanted to (don't ask - sometimes I just want to get it out, ya know?).
3) Within ten minutes of sitting across from my new therapist, I was sobbing in his office.
4) Literally sobbing and apologizing, then crying some more because I'm apologizing for having emotions in front of a stranger, which is ridiculous. If anything, I think that I should start releasing more of my emotions in front of strangers. At least they can't fight back.
5) If I was being "sensitive to myself", I would say that, "Therapy allows me the emotional space to cry," which makes me want to vomit alittle. Now I know why I don't say things like that. I prefer to say, "Therapists make me cry," because it puts the blame on them.
6) Leaving my apartment for four days to go and stay with my parents, without planning ahead or even thinking that I would be gone that long, makes my apartment stink up with a combination of banana peels, rotten diapers and soured milk. I opened the door and understood where the phrase, "the smell of death," came from. I can replicate that smell with four days of neglect.
7) Zac turns a frightening shade of green when he has an upset stomach and his temperature reaches 104 degrees. It also turns out that an oral thermometer can go up my kid's bumhole when an after-hours nurse forces me to put it there. My Mom just kept saying, "I'm going to have to buy another thermometer."
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
10/18
Who needs reflection and contemplation when jumping to fast conclusions and rash action is waaaaaay more fun? I mean, really. I'm not saying that I'm not upset by having a crazy ex-wife invade my privacy and feeling of safety for myself and Zac, I'm just saying that I feel more centered about it now. I see the changes that I made as part of a larger life decision to live more cautiously and not open myself and my family up to the possibility of violence, as much as I had been.
I was given a book by the Director of Victim Services at my organization called, "The Gift of Fear," by Gavin de Becker. The basic premise is that we all hold the most powerful tool to recognize, react, and respond to danger: our intuition. His book tries to give his readers the confidence to listen to their intuition, gut feelings, premonitions, or whatever else you want to call it. de Becker reasons that it's all the same thing. It's your subconciousness that tells your consciousness, "Listen to me and we have a chance of getting out of this situation. Ignore me and we might be ok, it might turn out to be just fine, but I'm sending out warning flags that maybe it won't be."
There is a story early on in the book that shook me. A woman named Kelly was coming home from the grocery store when her bag split, causing her groceries to roll down the stairs of her apartment building. A man picked up her fallen cans and told her that he would help carry the groceries the rest of the way. Kelly couldn't understand at the time, but something told her that it wasn't right for the man to be in the stairway of her apartment. He seemed like a nice, middle-class, friendly guy, though. He asked to take the bag of groceries so she could open the door to ther apartment. She was now actively worried, but thought that the man was just trying to be a good samaritan, and he chided her about letting her "pride and vanity" rule her life, by not accepting his offer for help.
He raped her for three hours inside her apartment.
After he was finished, he got up, got dressed, closed her bedroom window, and told her that he was going to leave if she laid still. He left the room and she could hear him moving around the kitchen. She knew that she was going to die if she stayed in her bedroom. She ran out her front door and into a neighbor's apartment. She couldn't explain how she knew that he was going to kill her. She said, "It was just a feeling".
De Becker argues that it was more than that. Why would the rapist need to close the window after the attack if he was really going to let her live? Why would he be looking for something in the kitchen if he was planning on leaving? He says that Kelly recognized that there was a disconnect between his words and his actions. Leaving the situation immediately saved her life because she listened.
It's hard for me to look back on my dating (mis)adventures and not see how I fit into this pattern. I've let manipulators tell me that I should trust them, when they haven't earned the trust. I've gone out with men that I didn't feel good about because I couldn't think of a good enough reason why I should tell them no. I've even continued a date that I wanted to end because I believed someone when they told me that they wouldn't say or do a behavior that offended me (or made me worry, or gave me a bad feeling, or made me want to jump out of a speeding car at 60 mph).
There are so many times, not even recently, but throughout my life, that I've said yes when I wanted to say no. My reasons are ridiculous. They're something along the lines of: "I don't want to be called/thought of as a bitch. I am being paranoid. Nothing is wrong. I need to open up and learn to trust people more. I'll just do it this once and then tell him no next time. She's a friend and she needs me, I should do this for her, even though it makes me uncomfortable. If you tell her no now, she'll never invite you again to hang out with her."
All the things I tell myself to minimize (if not diminish and demolish) my internal warning system. Identifying as a woman does affect me as well. I can't let fear rule my life and my decisions, but I need to get my head out my ass. The leading cause of death for women at their place of work is homicide. Each year, more women are admitted to the emergency room for attacks by someone they know than rapes, muggings, and car accidents - combined.
So, it's not just about the crazy ex-wife, it's about me learning how to listen to what I'm saying.
I was given a book by the Director of Victim Services at my organization called, "The Gift of Fear," by Gavin de Becker. The basic premise is that we all hold the most powerful tool to recognize, react, and respond to danger: our intuition. His book tries to give his readers the confidence to listen to their intuition, gut feelings, premonitions, or whatever else you want to call it. de Becker reasons that it's all the same thing. It's your subconciousness that tells your consciousness, "Listen to me and we have a chance of getting out of this situation. Ignore me and we might be ok, it might turn out to be just fine, but I'm sending out warning flags that maybe it won't be."
There is a story early on in the book that shook me. A woman named Kelly was coming home from the grocery store when her bag split, causing her groceries to roll down the stairs of her apartment building. A man picked up her fallen cans and told her that he would help carry the groceries the rest of the way. Kelly couldn't understand at the time, but something told her that it wasn't right for the man to be in the stairway of her apartment. He seemed like a nice, middle-class, friendly guy, though. He asked to take the bag of groceries so she could open the door to ther apartment. She was now actively worried, but thought that the man was just trying to be a good samaritan, and he chided her about letting her "pride and vanity" rule her life, by not accepting his offer for help.
He raped her for three hours inside her apartment.
After he was finished, he got up, got dressed, closed her bedroom window, and told her that he was going to leave if she laid still. He left the room and she could hear him moving around the kitchen. She knew that she was going to die if she stayed in her bedroom. She ran out her front door and into a neighbor's apartment. She couldn't explain how she knew that he was going to kill her. She said, "It was just a feeling".
De Becker argues that it was more than that. Why would the rapist need to close the window after the attack if he was really going to let her live? Why would he be looking for something in the kitchen if he was planning on leaving? He says that Kelly recognized that there was a disconnect between his words and his actions. Leaving the situation immediately saved her life because she listened.
It's hard for me to look back on my dating (mis)adventures and not see how I fit into this pattern. I've let manipulators tell me that I should trust them, when they haven't earned the trust. I've gone out with men that I didn't feel good about because I couldn't think of a good enough reason why I should tell them no. I've even continued a date that I wanted to end because I believed someone when they told me that they wouldn't say or do a behavior that offended me (or made me worry, or gave me a bad feeling, or made me want to jump out of a speeding car at 60 mph).
There are so many times, not even recently, but throughout my life, that I've said yes when I wanted to say no. My reasons are ridiculous. They're something along the lines of: "I don't want to be called/thought of as a bitch. I am being paranoid. Nothing is wrong. I need to open up and learn to trust people more. I'll just do it this once and then tell him no next time. She's a friend and she needs me, I should do this for her, even though it makes me uncomfortable. If you tell her no now, she'll never invite you again to hang out with her."
All the things I tell myself to minimize (if not diminish and demolish) my internal warning system. Identifying as a woman does affect me as well. I can't let fear rule my life and my decisions, but I need to get my head out my ass. The leading cause of death for women at their place of work is homicide. Each year, more women are admitted to the emergency room for attacks by someone they know than rapes, muggings, and car accidents - combined.
So, it's not just about the crazy ex-wife, it's about me learning how to listen to what I'm saying.
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
10/04
Well, the polls have closed for this morning and 99% of all men that I've dated in the past year think that I'm confusing. I know this because - well - the bastards told me so!
Let's review the reasons that I'm a bad potential mate, shall we? All of the excuses are listed in italics under the reasons.
1) I don't know what I want/ I'm high-maintenance
- I claim to want to date casually, yet then I start to "get serious"
- I claim to want to date seriously, then I go out on dates with more than one person
- I always need to be told that I'm pretty, smart, funny, and enjoyable to be around (show me the person - I'll leave gender aside for the moment - I mean the person that doesn't like to hear that!)
2) I have forgotten what it's like to be in a "real relationship"
- Single motherhood has made me bitter towards men (this is a personal favorite of mine because they seem to forget that I'm raising a little man. I have more daily contact with a baby jo-jo than I know what to do with! Bitter towards men? Hell, you can't be bitter while wiping poop from the underside of a pair of balls. You just can't. I dare you to try.)
- I have a martyr complex and think that I should do everything by myself (ok, that one is true)
- I have too much baggage from being left by the FOB (I always feel that I should mention that I left the FOB and not the other way around. He just abadoned any and all thought of being a father)
3) I'm too young/ I've never been married
- You can't know how much it sucks to be married until you've done it once (or twice in some circumstances) (This is for some reason considered a negative trait of mine. I don't get it).
- I've never lived with someone (true again)
So, just in case you are all wondering what is going on, I had a talk with R. last night. The romance had started to fade from our dating relationship and I felt less than desirable and adored. He and I had agreed to go slow, see where things went, hang out, get to know each other - all of those things that people tell each other when they don't want to be alone, but they don't want to commit to each other.
I saw where it went and I liked spending time with him. I actually wanted to spend MORE time with him, providing that he could start doing the little things for me that he used to do. I shouldn't have to ask someone I'm dating if they find me attractive or if they like spending time with me. I don't care how non-communicative (which R. isn't) a person is, I'm a firm believer that for a relationship to work, you need to TELL or SHOW the person on a regular basis that they rock your casbah.
Maybe I am high-maintenance.
Let's review the reasons that I'm a bad potential mate, shall we? All of the excuses are listed in italics under the reasons.
1) I don't know what I want/ I'm high-maintenance
- I claim to want to date casually, yet then I start to "get serious"
- I claim to want to date seriously, then I go out on dates with more than one person
- I always need to be told that I'm pretty, smart, funny, and enjoyable to be around (show me the person - I'll leave gender aside for the moment - I mean the person that doesn't like to hear that!)
2) I have forgotten what it's like to be in a "real relationship"
- Single motherhood has made me bitter towards men (this is a personal favorite of mine because they seem to forget that I'm raising a little man. I have more daily contact with a baby jo-jo than I know what to do with! Bitter towards men? Hell, you can't be bitter while wiping poop from the underside of a pair of balls. You just can't. I dare you to try.)
- I have a martyr complex and think that I should do everything by myself (ok, that one is true)
- I have too much baggage from being left by the FOB (I always feel that I should mention that I left the FOB and not the other way around. He just abadoned any and all thought of being a father)
3) I'm too young/ I've never been married
- You can't know how much it sucks to be married until you've done it once (or twice in some circumstances) (This is for some reason considered a negative trait of mine. I don't get it).
- I've never lived with someone (true again)
So, just in case you are all wondering what is going on, I had a talk with R. last night. The romance had started to fade from our dating relationship and I felt less than desirable and adored. He and I had agreed to go slow, see where things went, hang out, get to know each other - all of those things that people tell each other when they don't want to be alone, but they don't want to commit to each other.
I saw where it went and I liked spending time with him. I actually wanted to spend MORE time with him, providing that he could start doing the little things for me that he used to do. I shouldn't have to ask someone I'm dating if they find me attractive or if they like spending time with me. I don't care how non-communicative (which R. isn't) a person is, I'm a firm believer that for a relationship to work, you need to TELL or SHOW the person on a regular basis that they rock your casbah.
Maybe I am high-maintenance.
Monday, August 14, 2006
8/14
I've been slowly losing my mind for the past two weeks, which might explain why I haven't been blogging as much. I got a call on Thursday morning from the daycare saying that Z. had broken out in a full body rash. They wanted him to be picked up - pronto. I arrived a little before lunch time and the kids at the refugee camp were spread out on the floor, looking like they had been left in the exact positions they had fallen. Zac was in the lone crib in the room, designated for the one baby that hasn't started walking yet. That's my son - the non-walker, in the crib. He was laying on his stomach, hands and feet curled into his body, staring vacantly out between the bars of his crib. He looked miserable.
The only place I could get him into the doctor was down in south Houston, where my parents live. On the way down, my air conditioner decided that since I had a kid in the car with a fever higher than the temperature outside, (Z = 102, Houston = 97) it would be a good time to stop working. By the time I got him to the doctor's office, it looked like he was about to burst into flames. The sweat was rolling down his body, off his hair. My Mom tried to distract him with pieces from a wooden puzzle. It worked for a little while, until the doctor started pulling on his ears and looking in his throat.
Apparently, babies can get rashes when they have viral infections. I had no idea that this was the case. Baby immune systems are so foreign to me. If I had broken out in a full body rash at the end of being sick, I would be in the hospital - either because I needed to or just to make me feel better that I wasn't dying. There was a scary moment when the Doctor asked if I was up-to-date on Zac's MMR immunization (measles, mumps, and rubella). I'm not. We're one month behind, which left me to agonize, "MY PARENTAL NEGLECT GAVE MY BABY THE MEASLES!!!" Turns out, it didn't, and Z. is getting his immunization this Friday.
So, Z. spent the weekend with Grandma and Grandpa, who are also both sick. Fun was had by all, I assure you. I spent 2 1/2 hours at the Saturn dealership, waiting for an 'estimate'. Finally, after I complianed long enough, they called the repairs into the warranty folks and I got a rental car and left.
Sucks, sucks, sucks.
Car is fixed now and Zac's internal temperature is back below the boiling point for mercury.
For P., the supplier of all great oneies, a poop story:
Just to round out my insanity, the great Houdini pulled a good one on me this morning. He woke up in a great mood, sitting in his crib, playing with the stuffed rabbit that the FOB's Mom had given him for Easter. I picked him up and went to change him on the changing table. Looked around. Realized that the ointment for his very, very sore butt was downstairs in the living room, which was the last place I had tried to lasso him into a diaper and some clothes.
I put Zac on the floor, sans diaper, went downstairs, grabbed the ointment, came back upstairs. I was gone for less than 60 seconds. I open the door to his room and see him sitting next to a giant pile of yellow and green poop. He was just sitting there so sweetly that it took me a second to realize that the poop had actually come from him. Large, firm turds were scattered around, like he had been crawling and pooping at the same time, and then sat down next to it, looking guilty. I cleaned it up, diapered his poopy ass, and realized that I may never be sane again.
The only place I could get him into the doctor was down in south Houston, where my parents live. On the way down, my air conditioner decided that since I had a kid in the car with a fever higher than the temperature outside, (Z = 102, Houston = 97) it would be a good time to stop working. By the time I got him to the doctor's office, it looked like he was about to burst into flames. The sweat was rolling down his body, off his hair. My Mom tried to distract him with pieces from a wooden puzzle. It worked for a little while, until the doctor started pulling on his ears and looking in his throat.
Apparently, babies can get rashes when they have viral infections. I had no idea that this was the case. Baby immune systems are so foreign to me. If I had broken out in a full body rash at the end of being sick, I would be in the hospital - either because I needed to or just to make me feel better that I wasn't dying. There was a scary moment when the Doctor asked if I was up-to-date on Zac's MMR immunization (measles, mumps, and rubella). I'm not. We're one month behind, which left me to agonize, "MY PARENTAL NEGLECT GAVE MY BABY THE MEASLES!!!" Turns out, it didn't, and Z. is getting his immunization this Friday.
So, Z. spent the weekend with Grandma and Grandpa, who are also both sick. Fun was had by all, I assure you. I spent 2 1/2 hours at the Saturn dealership, waiting for an 'estimate'. Finally, after I complianed long enough, they called the repairs into the warranty folks and I got a rental car and left.
Sucks, sucks, sucks.
Car is fixed now and Zac's internal temperature is back below the boiling point for mercury.
For P., the supplier of all great oneies, a poop story:
Just to round out my insanity, the great Houdini pulled a good one on me this morning. He woke up in a great mood, sitting in his crib, playing with the stuffed rabbit that the FOB's Mom had given him for Easter. I picked him up and went to change him on the changing table. Looked around. Realized that the ointment for his very, very sore butt was downstairs in the living room, which was the last place I had tried to lasso him into a diaper and some clothes.
I put Zac on the floor, sans diaper, went downstairs, grabbed the ointment, came back upstairs. I was gone for less than 60 seconds. I open the door to his room and see him sitting next to a giant pile of yellow and green poop. He was just sitting there so sweetly that it took me a second to realize that the poop had actually come from him. Large, firm turds were scattered around, like he had been crawling and pooping at the same time, and then sat down next to it, looking guilty. I cleaned it up, diapered his poopy ass, and realized that I may never be sane again.
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
8/09
This morning sometime, I definitely started questioning some of my choices regarding how I live my life. It isn't anything that I can put my finger on, it's just that at the end of most days, I'm not sure how I'm going to make it through another.
I can hear my Mom's voice in my head telling me that I need to establish a routine and everything will be better once things settle down. My life is in a giant transition now: three more days at my old job, one week of vacation, and then starting my new employment. Nothing that I thought was solid is actually what I thought. It's like stepping off the sidewalk onto the ground, only to find out that an unseen hand has switched out the ground for something else. The announcer in the background whispers to the unseen audience in a conspiratorial tone of voice: "Now ladies and gentlemen, let's watch what happens as Ms. Not-so-Pregnant goes about what she believes is an average, ordinary day. Little does she know that we've secretly replaced every solid surface with marshmallow fluff. Let's see what happens!" Some days, the ground has turned to Jello, which is nice because I can bounce back up. Some days, it's a cloud, or worse, a gaping precipice that leaves me free-falling until the next morning.
Zac was sick yesterday with a high fever and I was home from work taking care of him. Last night, or rather this morning, the combination of illness and separation anxiety led him to only fall asleep on my chest. Anytime that I tried to put him back in his crib, or at least move him off my chest, the effort was met with pitiful howling. I laid there, rubbing his back, thinking about the last time I had listened to someone's heart beat, been comforted by a presence, or laid my worries down in another's arms as he snored softly.
I can hear my Mom's voice in my head telling me that I need to establish a routine and everything will be better once things settle down. My life is in a giant transition now: three more days at my old job, one week of vacation, and then starting my new employment. Nothing that I thought was solid is actually what I thought. It's like stepping off the sidewalk onto the ground, only to find out that an unseen hand has switched out the ground for something else. The announcer in the background whispers to the unseen audience in a conspiratorial tone of voice: "Now ladies and gentlemen, let's watch what happens as Ms. Not-so-Pregnant goes about what she believes is an average, ordinary day. Little does she know that we've secretly replaced every solid surface with marshmallow fluff. Let's see what happens!" Some days, the ground has turned to Jello, which is nice because I can bounce back up. Some days, it's a cloud, or worse, a gaping precipice that leaves me free-falling until the next morning.
Zac was sick yesterday with a high fever and I was home from work taking care of him. Last night, or rather this morning, the combination of illness and separation anxiety led him to only fall asleep on my chest. Anytime that I tried to put him back in his crib, or at least move him off my chest, the effort was met with pitiful howling. I laid there, rubbing his back, thinking about the last time I had listened to someone's heart beat, been comforted by a presence, or laid my worries down in another's arms as he snored softly.
Thursday, May 25, 2006
5/25
I'm not sure what was more surprising to people: that I felt those feelings yesterday, or that I wrote about them. It was definately an "airing your dirty laundry moment in public" kind of post, one that I would have been discouraged to write if I had to ask permission for these kinds of things. Fortunately, the Internet (the most socialist, egalitarian forms of mass media) means that everyone gets to say what they think, whenever they want. Beautiful, no?
I've always had these feelings of self-hatred and blame. Let's not forget that I was hospitalized for a major depression at one point, shall we? The depression that was primarily caused by my feelings of failure and lack of self-worth. I'm just starting to get better about telling people (ok, so they are anonymous people and my family, who is forced to read about how I feel from a blog post) about these feelings. Baby steps are still steps.
I was also vague in my last post about the details of what happened yesterday. Maybe it was out of self-protection, or as My New Shoes likes to say, "Maybe I just like to be secretive". Here are some of the details:
I've always had these feelings of self-hatred and blame. Let's not forget that I was hospitalized for a major depression at one point, shall we? The depression that was primarily caused by my feelings of failure and lack of self-worth. I'm just starting to get better about telling people (ok, so they are anonymous people and my family, who is forced to read about how I feel from a blog post) about these feelings. Baby steps are still steps.
I was also vague in my last post about the details of what happened yesterday. Maybe it was out of self-protection, or as My New Shoes likes to say, "Maybe I just like to be secretive". Here are some of the details:
- I asked for financial help from a family member that I don't see frequently, but who I have a good relationship with. I didn't ask my Mom, Dad, or Aunt Jen for money because they have already helped me so much with raising Zac that it didn't feel right. They tend to get the, "OMG, my car just crashed into a highway median and I think I smell gasoline. Can you come and pick me up?" kind of phone calls.
- My boss and I just talked about the perceived lack of respect from my coworkers and supervisors. In my mind, you can either underpay me or disrespect me - doing both is a quick way to make me leave and find a job where I can get one of my professional needs met. I have yet to find a job that provides both adequate pay and a decent level of respect.
- Still single. Still sucks.
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
5/24
Mantra for the day, "I am not a bad person. I am not a bad person. I am not a bad person."
I have that sinking feeling in my stomach. You know the one. The one that makes you want to jump out of your skin and scream. Occasionally, this feeling paralyzes me to my office chair (it's interesting to note that this feeling usually coincides with work). I can't move for fear of making the feeling worse.
I am not a bad person. I am not a bad person.
I went in to talk to my boss about several comments that were made to me yesterday. Basically, I get reminded at least once or twice a week that I am not director or a supervisor and my worth to the organization is directly contingent upon that. When I started this job, they had reorganized the position so I now directly report to a director, instead of the executive. I am always going into talk to my boss about things. I'm too sensitive. I expect too much. God, I'm only 25, but I feel like I deserve so much more because I have a college degree and a brain. I'm ridiculous.
I am not a bad person. I am not a bad person. I will not get fired for asking not to be treated like an administrative assistant. Yes, there are a lot of grant writers who could do my job (not to mention trained monkeys). I am not a bad person. I am a valuable employee. They might fire me, but that doesn't make me a bad person.
I asked for financial help yesterday. Help was promised with the understanding that I should never ask for help again. It was also told to me that I should feel bad for asking for help. I had overextended myself, which makes me, understandably feel bad. Or at least it should.
I go back and forth between thinking, "I am a miserable excuse for an adult," and, "I'm a burden on my friends and family," to thinking, "Everyone needs help sometimes. It's going to be ok." with the constant thought in the back of my mind that screams, "Life shouldn't be this hard!"
The worst thought crossed my mind as I was trying to go to sleep last night: one day, Zac will feel like this and there is nothing I can do to stop that. One day, he will question every decision he has ever made and doubt his self-worth. No amount of parenting can change that. The little baby that loves nothing more than kisses from his mama and golf balls will turn into an adult.
I am not a bad person. I am not a bad person. I am not a bad person.
I have that sinking feeling in my stomach. You know the one. The one that makes you want to jump out of your skin and scream. Occasionally, this feeling paralyzes me to my office chair (it's interesting to note that this feeling usually coincides with work). I can't move for fear of making the feeling worse.
I am not a bad person. I am not a bad person.
I went in to talk to my boss about several comments that were made to me yesterday. Basically, I get reminded at least once or twice a week that I am not director or a supervisor and my worth to the organization is directly contingent upon that. When I started this job, they had reorganized the position so I now directly report to a director, instead of the executive. I am always going into talk to my boss about things. I'm too sensitive. I expect too much. God, I'm only 25, but I feel like I deserve so much more because I have a college degree and a brain. I'm ridiculous.
I am not a bad person. I am not a bad person. I will not get fired for asking not to be treated like an administrative assistant. Yes, there are a lot of grant writers who could do my job (not to mention trained monkeys). I am not a bad person. I am a valuable employee. They might fire me, but that doesn't make me a bad person.
I asked for financial help yesterday. Help was promised with the understanding that I should never ask for help again. It was also told to me that I should feel bad for asking for help. I had overextended myself, which makes me, understandably feel bad. Or at least it should.
I go back and forth between thinking, "I am a miserable excuse for an adult," and, "I'm a burden on my friends and family," to thinking, "Everyone needs help sometimes. It's going to be ok." with the constant thought in the back of my mind that screams, "Life shouldn't be this hard!"
The worst thought crossed my mind as I was trying to go to sleep last night: one day, Zac will feel like this and there is nothing I can do to stop that. One day, he will question every decision he has ever made and doubt his self-worth. No amount of parenting can change that. The little baby that loves nothing more than kisses from his mama and golf balls will turn into an adult.
I am not a bad person. I am not a bad person. I am not a bad person.
Thursday, April 20, 2006
4-20
I haven't gone A-WOL, I'm just tired. Tired of being tired. Tired of the stress. Tired of trying to do everything right and in the end doing nothing right. Tired of going to the g-d grocery store eight times in the past week because I've forgotten a light bulb four times, even though I had a list, which I forgot in the car. I'm tired of forgetting things.
Today, well today I dropped my son off at daycare without his diaper bag. He got a lukewarm yogurt, a bottle with some formula, and last night's pjs in case he pees on himself. That is what I dropped him off with this morning. That is what he gets to sustain him for the next ten hours (edited to reflect that while I may be a crappy mother with a huge guilt complex, I'm not CPS-worthy. The daycare facility is on a low-income, food program, which means that they provide baby food and formula.)
I got to work late, after stressing in the car. I will have to leave work late, at 6pm, and pray that I can get over to the really expensive-far away-but at least nice and safe daycare facility before they close at 6:30pm.
No amount of caffeine or blogging is going to make today much better.
Today, well today I dropped my son off at daycare without his diaper bag. He got a lukewarm yogurt, a bottle with some formula, and last night's pjs in case he pees on himself. That is what I dropped him off with this morning. That is what he gets to sustain him for the next ten hours (edited to reflect that while I may be a crappy mother with a huge guilt complex, I'm not CPS-worthy. The daycare facility is on a low-income, food program, which means that they provide baby food and formula.)
I got to work late, after stressing in the car. I will have to leave work late, at 6pm, and pray that I can get over to the really expensive-far away-but at least nice and safe daycare facility before they close at 6:30pm.
No amount of caffeine or blogging is going to make today much better.
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