In continuation of my blog on 12/23----
In regards to clinical "mood disorders", as I was talking about before, it has been assumed several times in the past that I may have a form of bipolar disorder, based on seasonal changes and that I seem to be more unstable during the winter months, especially since we've been here up north.
While the seasons may be a small component of my shifty moods (I am 100% certain of this), Pam mentioned something during our last session that caught my attention.
When a person witnesses or undergoes a trauma, they are not allowed the time or the opportunity to feel. By definition, trauma, is any life threatening or perceived life threatening event where the victim's control is taken away from them. Therefore the witness, having no control over the situation, shuts down their personal feelings in order to survive the situation. A woman who is being raped is probably not feeling much else at the moment except how she is going to escape, endure, or live through what is being done to her. The pain and fear of what she is suffering is too great at the time; so she "shuts down" and goes into survival mode. A victim of a natural disaster is not busy feeling sad that their home is being destroyed or that their loved ones may not be safe. They are pumped full of adrenaline focused on how they are going to survive the next 30 seconds of that tornado; and then they are going to function with physical strength to dig out survivors from rubble.
My husband's personal account of combat is that he wasn't afraid, sad, angry when the bullets were pinging off his Humvee in Iraq as his team was being ambushed by insurgents. He claims he felt nothing at all. Instead, he was hyperalert for danger and focused on what he needed to do physically and mentally in order to survive and to protect his comrades. He wasn't feeling anything when he pulled bodies out of the downed helicopter. He wasn't feeling anything when he spent 12 hours hiding behind a burm and providing cover fire for his teammates who were getting killed right in front of him.
I was the same as a child. I didn't feel anything---or at least I don't recall. I remember being hyperalert myself, always looking tactically for danger; and like an animal, relying on my senses to track threat or doom. If I had stopped to feel, I would not have been able to survive. If I had stopped to cry or tell someone how scared I was, I would not have been able to dodge my mother's blows. If I had felt the pain of her words, I would not have had my wits about me to plan my escape.
I would not have been able to function if I had stopped to feel anything while my husband was at war. Or when I saw that plane hit the Pentagon on 9/11.
If I had felt anything, I would have been distracted as to what to do....plan my next move...provide saftey.....seek shelter.....endure the next round of abuse.....whatever it was that was taking away my control.
It is only later, after the event is long passed. Sometimes years later.....that the witness begins to feel the sorrow, grief, anger, etc. over what they endured. The problem is, their perceptions of the present are still mingled with the past, that they have lost the ability to tell the difference between the two environments.
This is why my husband jumps three feet when there is a sudden loud noise via the telephone or an explosion on a t.v. program. This is why he walks out of the room and goes into the bathroom red eyed during anything pertaining to war is on t.v. This is why he still looks at the ground when he walks around outside, in our own safe neighborhood.
Even though he is safe now, he is feeling the fear of war. Still lookiing for IED's in the road. Terrified, however unrealistically, that he will meet his demise. Terrified that someone at the friggin' mall is plotting to kill him.
And that is why, as someone who underwent continuous and long term trauma, still feels abandoned and frightened when Greg is late for work. Or when someone dosen't like me. Or when I see my mother's picture.
They are called "trigger events". Even though it is not real today, the trauma victim perceives many everyday occurances as threats or danger. This is because when we were undergoing that trauma, we didn't take that time to feel.
But we feel it now. Skewed and distorted feelings; but feelings nonetheless.
Pam observed that I am highly reactive to my external environment, as a result of my own traumatic experiences. The hypervigilance never returned to a normal level; and therefore, I see my entire life with the same eyes as I saw it then, when I had no control. But my brain also knows ...at least in part....that my present situation is safe enough to allow for feelings.
Yet it dosen't know how to differenciate between then and now. Therefore, everything, good and bad and inbetween is processed the same way as it was when I was a child undergoing trauma.
I am reactive instead of proactive.
And when we are reacting to our environment with distorted thought patterns and long buried feelings, we continue the pattern of having no control. We live as if we have no say in what happens. We feel like we really are just victims of circumstances. So we continue to feel miserable and frightened and helpless and terrified and angry because no matter how much we try, we cannot just say, "okay, this dosen't bother me anymore."
If we are always reacting to stimulus, we can very easily be perceived as being highly "moody", shifting from periods of elation (adrenaline) to devastating depression (fear and grief), based on what is happening around us.
And let me make a note of it here: I get it. Never has anyone explained this post traumatic phenomenon better than she did. She went on to explain in my case, my trauma was over the course of many years...my formative years...and not only did I shut down my feelings, I creatively (and thankfully!) formed seperate compartments or personalities. Some call them alters. The famous Cybil, I believe, had over 90 distinct personalities. Each with their own names and perceptions of the world. Some were children, senior citizens, even men.
For privacy's sake, I have a designated few that I consider my trusted sources list who I can discuss these issues with as far as my compartments go. The dissociative issues are very difficult for people to understand, and I am not comfortable at this time to discuss this issue in more detail past this. If you are reading and have questions, please email me privately. Thank you. :)
I asked Pam the obvious question: how does a person stop reacting to this stimulus---or at the very least, begin to differenciate the present from the trauma? How does a person begin to feel their feelings in a healthy way without fear of going absolutely insane?
According to Pam, we start by creating a more stable internal environment. Since I had no control as an abused child, I was never afforded the opportunity to form a sense of self. Underneath the alters and compartments, lies a True Self that was never recognized; because she wouldn't have been able to survive.
If this sounds confusing, basically what Pam is saying (and I am beginning to see what she means, slowly), is that we go back over a long process of perhaps years and recreate what was never there in the first place: saftey.
It is through saftey and acceptance and support that the True Self can emerge. The True Self is also known in some theraputic environments as the Inner Child. I prefer True Self---so I will refer to her as such in the future.
Together, Pam, Dr. Price, Greg, and those on my trusted list, will discover who she is.
The goal of trauma therapy is to integrate the compartments/alters, and allow the True Self to dominate, like "normal" (I know that term is subjective) people. By raising the True Self in the way children need to be raised, an environment is created internally so that outside stimulus does not define "who" I am. I will gain a sense of control by having a solid sense of self.
Confusing, I know. But the good thing is, I understand it. LOL.
My first exercise, given last week, was to make a list of the internal "rules" I live with presently. These are the rules that I follow on a daily basis, and form my compartments and how we cope on a daily basis. Some of the rules are healthy. Some are devastating, so I came to find out after I made the list.
I came up with 65 rules that I abide by in order to be a 'good human being'. As I wrote them, I was shocked at how much these rules stifle my ability to be a whole person, and how they make it almost impossible for me to grow as a person. They keep me stuck. They keep me in pain. And they keep me safe from the fear of risk taking.
Today, Pam and I are going to begin to review this list and decide together why some of these rules may not be realistic and/or healthy. For example: Rule #25: I must always consider someone else's opinion before my own, and refrain from expressing myself if those opinions differ.
I can see, sorta kinda, that this rule may not be healthy. Pam and I will slowly discuss how this rule may be stifling my True Self.
Rule #4: I must never be fat. This one is gonna be kinda hard to figure out; because it is a rule I break all of the time. I already am fat, and feel the shame of being so every day 24/7.
Eventually, with support, I will change the rules to suit my True Self instead rather than suit the survivalist instinct I presentlly live with.
I have to close this blog for now...I bought this new "healthy" oatmeal with cranberries and I am starving! LOL.
Thanks for reading.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Thursday, December 24, 2009
A Gift To Myself
I have broken a 13 year-old Christmas tradition in my household. The decision to travel a different path this year was gut wrenching, anxiety provoking, and I even felt a little guilty wondering if my kids would hate me for the rest of their lives.
I decided to buy cookies instead of bake them.
I know.
Every year except this one, I slave away in the kitchen on Christmas Eve baking dozens upon dozens of cookies. Thumbprints, chocolate chip, pecan sandies, peanut butter, sugar cutouts, rum balls, coconut macaroons, cherry bars, pecan bars, and whatever the hell else has caught my attention in my many cookbooks stacked a mile high in the dining room. And though I have to brag about my skills as a baker, (I'm really good), this entire day in the kitchen standing in front of a hot ass oven, covered in flour, washing dishes as I go---while Greg and the kids sit around playing PS3 and/or napping----can be stressful and oftentimes irritating. After being on my feet for 12 hours in front of a hot oven smelling nothing but sugar and butter, all I want to do at the end of the day is sit on the sofa and pout, because no amount of "thanks mom!" is suffice.
On Christmas Day, I spend most of the day cooking a huge fancy dinner of honey glazed ham, au gratin potatoes, blueberry bread, and whatever the hell else the family has requested. I set the table with my fine china and crystal, and we eat this glorious meal together.
All of this baking and cooking is done following weeks of shopping, wrapping, shipping, decorating, crocheting as well as my everyday tasks like budgeting, housework, raising kids, schoolwork, etc.
You get the point.
Basically, my holiday is spent working my ass off because that's what I'm supposed to do. Traditional "good woman" behavior (remember my blog the other day?).
But yesterday, as Greg and I were on the way to Walmart to shop for last minute baking supplies, I had an epiphany in the parking lot. It was pouring ice and sleet, the wind was cutting into my face, and I felt absolutely miserable and overwhelmed by all that was left to do.
So I stopped in the middle of the road, looked at Greg, and said,
"Fuck it. I don't feel like baking this year."
Expecting to be regarded as a woman gone insane, Greg said, "Cool. Let's just keep it simple then."
And that was that.
No biggie.
Instead of cookies, ham and the fine china, I will be throwing a batch of nachos in the oven, a veggie tray, and a bunch of chips and pretzels. We'll drink Pepsi. We'll eat store bought cookies.
On paper plates.
Paper plates. I know!
By the time we got home, I realized I was free. All the shopping was done. Gifts made. Shipping on the way. We have no money, but what's new? The house is a mess, but seriously, I'm too tired to care. And now no baking to weigh down my holiday.
I was free!
So I left the kids with Greg, hopped in the truck and drove myself to the craft store where I spent the entire evening browsing around and daydreaming about all of the new projects I would like to start. I had such a clear head that I wound up picking up a reaaaaalllllly neat gift for Bailey (hopefully she'll hate it and just give it to me) which is a plastic case full of gorgeous beads, jewelry pieces, wire and cutters to make jewelry. I even noticed that Homespun yarn was on sale for 3.99 a skein---so I bought enough to make myself a prayer shawl as a birthday gift.
Lisa, I'm gonna try. I may be emailing you for help.
I bought some beautiful mint green Simply Soft yarn for an afghan as well.
By the time I had finished shopping, my head was spinning with creative ideas and project plans. It was glorious....giving myself the gift of time. Time to do what is important. Time to do whatever it is that feels right for me. Without all the pressures of things I think I have to do, I had time to do things I want to do.
So I drove home the long way, carefully considering the amount of ice falling from the sky, and looked at all of the houses and businesses adorned with lights, and how the ice on the tree branches made them sparkle. Everything here is white---my first white christmas---and for the first time since I've been here I realized how absolutely gorgeous it is.
By the time I got home, it was late. My kids asked me when I planned to start baking, and I reluctantly told them I had a different plan for this year----party foods and paper plates. They both cheered and celebrated not having to wash dishes this year; and went on to play PS3 like nothing in the world was wrong.
Because nothing was wrong. There is nothing wrong with keeping it simple. There is nothing wrong with me if I don't feel like slaving away. The only thing wrong is that I ever thought I had to do all that stuff to begin with.
I can do anything I want to do, as long as it feels right for me. Though this may seem obvious to someone else, it huge for me:
I get to write my own rules.
My life is my choice.
So this Christmas Eve morning (it's noon, now, I think), I am still in my pajamas and sipping coffee. The house is a disaster and the oven is off. Instead we have donuts and milk; and for lunch we might throw together some submarine sandwiches---I don't know. Dosen't matter. The kids have hugged me all morning and told me how much they love me. Greg called me from work and told me to save him some nachos 'cause he'll be home late. An afghan from a friend is around my shoulders, reminding me of what's really important. I have four crochet projects ready to start; all of which I am so excited about. Tonight I will light my candles and spend some time being quiet, reflecting on this gift that I have given myself:
This gift of freedom. To allow myself to do what feels best for me. To make my own choices.
And not what I think I should do as a result of fear instilled in me so long ago when I was a child.
So hold up your eggnog, your Pepsi or whatever it is you're drinking; and toast with me:
Cheers to being whatever and whomever it is that you want to be....to whatever feels right. Those who truly love you will appreciate how much happier you are.
I decided to buy cookies instead of bake them.
I know.
Every year except this one, I slave away in the kitchen on Christmas Eve baking dozens upon dozens of cookies. Thumbprints, chocolate chip, pecan sandies, peanut butter, sugar cutouts, rum balls, coconut macaroons, cherry bars, pecan bars, and whatever the hell else has caught my attention in my many cookbooks stacked a mile high in the dining room. And though I have to brag about my skills as a baker, (I'm really good), this entire day in the kitchen standing in front of a hot ass oven, covered in flour, washing dishes as I go---while Greg and the kids sit around playing PS3 and/or napping----can be stressful and oftentimes irritating. After being on my feet for 12 hours in front of a hot oven smelling nothing but sugar and butter, all I want to do at the end of the day is sit on the sofa and pout, because no amount of "thanks mom!" is suffice.
On Christmas Day, I spend most of the day cooking a huge fancy dinner of honey glazed ham, au gratin potatoes, blueberry bread, and whatever the hell else the family has requested. I set the table with my fine china and crystal, and we eat this glorious meal together.
All of this baking and cooking is done following weeks of shopping, wrapping, shipping, decorating, crocheting as well as my everyday tasks like budgeting, housework, raising kids, schoolwork, etc.
You get the point.
Basically, my holiday is spent working my ass off because that's what I'm supposed to do. Traditional "good woman" behavior (remember my blog the other day?).
But yesterday, as Greg and I were on the way to Walmart to shop for last minute baking supplies, I had an epiphany in the parking lot. It was pouring ice and sleet, the wind was cutting into my face, and I felt absolutely miserable and overwhelmed by all that was left to do.
So I stopped in the middle of the road, looked at Greg, and said,
"Fuck it. I don't feel like baking this year."
Expecting to be regarded as a woman gone insane, Greg said, "Cool. Let's just keep it simple then."
And that was that.
No biggie.
Instead of cookies, ham and the fine china, I will be throwing a batch of nachos in the oven, a veggie tray, and a bunch of chips and pretzels. We'll drink Pepsi. We'll eat store bought cookies.
On paper plates.
Paper plates. I know!
By the time we got home, I realized I was free. All the shopping was done. Gifts made. Shipping on the way. We have no money, but what's new? The house is a mess, but seriously, I'm too tired to care. And now no baking to weigh down my holiday.
I was free!
So I left the kids with Greg, hopped in the truck and drove myself to the craft store where I spent the entire evening browsing around and daydreaming about all of the new projects I would like to start. I had such a clear head that I wound up picking up a reaaaaalllllly neat gift for Bailey (hopefully she'll hate it and just give it to me) which is a plastic case full of gorgeous beads, jewelry pieces, wire and cutters to make jewelry. I even noticed that Homespun yarn was on sale for 3.99 a skein---so I bought enough to make myself a prayer shawl as a birthday gift.
Lisa, I'm gonna try. I may be emailing you for help.
I bought some beautiful mint green Simply Soft yarn for an afghan as well.
By the time I had finished shopping, my head was spinning with creative ideas and project plans. It was glorious....giving myself the gift of time. Time to do what is important. Time to do whatever it is that feels right for me. Without all the pressures of things I think I have to do, I had time to do things I want to do.
So I drove home the long way, carefully considering the amount of ice falling from the sky, and looked at all of the houses and businesses adorned with lights, and how the ice on the tree branches made them sparkle. Everything here is white---my first white christmas---and for the first time since I've been here I realized how absolutely gorgeous it is.
By the time I got home, it was late. My kids asked me when I planned to start baking, and I reluctantly told them I had a different plan for this year----party foods and paper plates. They both cheered and celebrated not having to wash dishes this year; and went on to play PS3 like nothing in the world was wrong.
Because nothing was wrong. There is nothing wrong with keeping it simple. There is nothing wrong with me if I don't feel like slaving away. The only thing wrong is that I ever thought I had to do all that stuff to begin with.
I can do anything I want to do, as long as it feels right for me. Though this may seem obvious to someone else, it huge for me:
I get to write my own rules.
My life is my choice.
So this Christmas Eve morning (it's noon, now, I think), I am still in my pajamas and sipping coffee. The house is a disaster and the oven is off. Instead we have donuts and milk; and for lunch we might throw together some submarine sandwiches---I don't know. Dosen't matter. The kids have hugged me all morning and told me how much they love me. Greg called me from work and told me to save him some nachos 'cause he'll be home late. An afghan from a friend is around my shoulders, reminding me of what's really important. I have four crochet projects ready to start; all of which I am so excited about. Tonight I will light my candles and spend some time being quiet, reflecting on this gift that I have given myself:
This gift of freedom. To allow myself to do what feels best for me. To make my own choices.
And not what I think I should do as a result of fear instilled in me so long ago when I was a child.
So hold up your eggnog, your Pepsi or whatever it is you're drinking; and toast with me:
Cheers to being whatever and whomever it is that you want to be....to whatever feels right. Those who truly love you will appreciate how much happier you are.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
My weekly session with Pam was not a pleasant one. For one, Greg and I were supposed to meet with her together, but he missed the appointment due to what he says, "time slipping by" him. His recruits are entering the final week of boot camp, and there is much to be done in preparation for their upcoming graduation. While I understand the whole "work is crazy" thing, I have been feeling lately like those recruits are more important to him than his own family. He didn't even call to say he would not be able to make the appointment!
I think he literally forgot about it and just dosen't want to admit it; which drives home the point that those damn recruits are taking first place in his life over me.
Have I ever mentioned that I am a jealous bitch?
After royally chewing him out over the phone and hanging up on him, he came home late last night with a dozen roses in his hand accompanied by a heartfelt declaration of how sorry he was. "I really fucked up, and I promise I will be there during your next appointment".
How can I be mad at a teary eyed guy in uniform, flowers in hand, and basically offering to do anything I wish him to do?
Anyway, Pam and I wound up having a typical session just the two of us. Obviously I told her how upset I was that Greg hadn't arrived, as well as how depressed and anxious I have been feeling this week for reasons I cannot talk about---because I don't know what they are. Apparently I was speaking frantically, because she told me to close my eyes, take a few deep breaths, and talk about the very first thing that popped in my mind.
"I am not important to anyone anymore", I said.
So we talked about those feelings. My 35th birthday is just two days away. My children are demonstrating their independance and strong sense of self more and more everyday, which are clues that they don't need me in the ways they used to. Instead of sitting and cuddling with me, they are on the phone, writing letters to their friends, closing the doors to their bedrooms because they need privacy, amongst all sorts of little clues that they do not need (or want) "mommy" up their asses 24/7. It used to be that the three of us were so close and so attached---we did everything together! Now, I cannot even coax them to help me pick up the living room and load the dishwasher without them complaining that they have "other" things to do. So not only are they most positively showing signs of teenagehood, but they are not helping me around the house, which leaves feeling lonely and overwhelmed with work, work, and more work.
And while Greg and I share a love that cannot be broken, the dynamics of our relationship have shifted. I was very young when we married....just 19, and a new sailor in the Navy. My eyes were wide open and excited, like a kid in a candy store, at the prospect of the world being as big as it was. Everything was new and uncharted. Since I had come from such an abusive upbringing, the world looked a lot bigger and shinier because I had been so neglected and unloved all of my formative years. Greg was a bit older than I--24 years old---and he had much more experience than I. He too had come from a broken home--the son of an alcoholic father and a narcissistic mother---but dealt with that pain in much different ways that I did my own. While I was excited and naive about the world and the prospect of making my own tracks in it, Greg was more cool and relaxed and willing to "take things as they come". I wanted to conquer everything; and he wanted to sit back and watch me do it.
It was a perfect joining of souls.
We remained like that for years. I was the go-getter in all things. The caretaker. The goal setter. The organizer. The voice of reason, encouragement, support and strength. I set the tone. And Greg, with his cool as a cucumber disposition, happily sat back and said, "of course you can do it!" whenever I needed a boost in my quest to rule the world. He never stood in my way, and he never expressed one ill word toward my aggressive approach towards adulthood. On the flip side, I refused to criticize or critique his belief that remaining on the sidelines of life was the best way for him to maintain himself.
But then things changed. He decided that he wanted to leave our cozy little bubble of predictable existance and go to war in Iraq. Without me. Without my consent. Without my blessing. Without my input at all. All of a sudden, right before my eyes, Greg became a man who wanted to be a part of something bigger than what he and I had created within our family and home. Perhaps my mistake was loving and accepting him too much; because I didn't say a word. I didn't ask him not to do it. I didn't tell him how scared I was, or how much I needed him to maintain the sense of saftey we had so carefully crafted together for so many years. By the time I realized these things, it was too late. He was already gone.
Back then, I thought my fear of him leaving was for obvious reasons: that he would die in combat. Of course I was afraid of that; but only recently have I discovered what my other (and more powerful but covert) sources of fear were. I was afraid of him leaving me alone to conquer the world by myself. Without him, I did not know who I was standing alone. Without him there to tell me it was okay, that I was okay, I did not believe that I was at all "okay". The truth is, I never really learned that I was "okay" at all. I needed Greg to do it for me.
As sick as this sounds, in many ways, Greg had played the role of the father I never had. And when he decided to go to war, to do something without me, I felt betrayed and abandoned in the exact same way I felt when my biological father dropped me on a doorstep, never to be heard again. My father destroyed my sense of saftey, and any feeling that I had of being a worthy lovable person.
My crime was that I had held Greg in this same position. And when he left, I felt those old wounds all over again, like they had been split open.
And even though it has been years since his return from war, life hasn't been the same. I love my husband, but he came home a changed man. He is highly decorated for his efforts in the war, and his career took off like a skyrocket since then. As the provider for the family, he is desperately trying to advance in paygrade before retirement, and meet the additional criteria requested of him to deserve that paygrade. In order to do this, he spends a lot of time at work----and a lot less time with me, which leaves me to my own devices.
Greg found a life outside of our relationship. He grew up.
I, however, did not. I have remained stuck in the my need for a father (and mother, presumably) figure who revolves around taking care of and encouraging me in anything I wish to do. I have remained stuck in my need to be around Greg all of the time to feel good about myself.
And I am grieving the loss of what we had.....even though it wasn't very healthy to begin with.
So as I approach the age of 35, the growing of my children and their need for independance outside of me, and the sense of self that my husband has developed as he continues to evolve as a person---I have painfully realized these past couple of years that I have not grown.
Because without someone else to love and shape and mold....without someone to live through....I really have no clue who I am outside of these people who have been such a wonderful distraction to a very basic question:
Who am I?
The most simple and obvious solution to my problems of lonliness and abandonment issues is to go out there and find myself a life. Participate in things I enjoy. Think about myself first. Set personal goals. Make more friends. Socialize more. Etc. Etc.
I cannot tell you how many times I have heard this from people: "Stacy it's time you start thinking about yourself! Get a job. Take a class. Start a career. Volunteer."
It goes on and on and on.
And at risk for sounding whiny, my response to this superficial feedback from these people is:
I don't know how.
And...
I'm terrified to figure out how.
Obviously this comes up in therapy, and it came up yesterday. Pam made an observation about me that I have never heard before, and it has me quite uneasy. In fact, I am taking my panic medication to cope today.
Any therapist or psychiatrist that I have ever seen--and there have been several---have always told me that I have some kind of "mood disorder" of varying degrees. When we talk about mood disorders, it is not a simple case of being "moody" in the context that a woman might claim she undergoes during menstruation. A mood disorder is a constant state of shifting mood and perception. For example: a person who has bipolar illness may experience weeks or months literally feeling on top of the world, and display behavior indicating that he/she is invincible. They feel soooo good they have little need for sleep, talk a mile and minute, make grandiose and often risky career moves, and sometimes partake in dangerous behavior such as chemical/substance abuse, spending sprees, unsafe sex, etc. Sometimes this "manic state", if left untreated, will result in psychosis.
But then, for no apparent reason, the person will "crash" into a debilitating depression. And I'm not talking about a bad day or a low mood. Bipolar depression is devastating and dangerous. This same person who was on top of the world last week may now be unable to get out of bed because they feel worthless and literally hopeless. More often than not, the bipolar patient ideates suicide; and is at high risk for completing it.
Interestingly, some patients can suffer what's called "ultra-radian cycling", which means they can shift from manic to depressed in a matter of days; and more rarely---hours.
There has been question for years whether or not I suffer from bipolar disorder. It is a difficult diagnosis to make, and takes years of observation of the patient to make that determination. I have never experienced a "manic state", such as what I have (closeley to the DSM describes). However, like normal people I suspect, I have experienced periods of time where I feel reasonably "good" and that my issues seem far away and don't affect me very strongly. I have experienced, however, deep depression. I have been suicidal; and as a teenager I attempted it.
These shifts in my moods are usually not abrupt. My reasonably good mood lasts for months; and I will slowly over the course of weeks, slip into the depression. Once that depression sets in, it feels like my life should be over. Everything is hopeless. What is the point of living, I will ask myself.
Whether that is a bipolar disorder treatable with medication, I do not know. I do not seem to respond very well to the prescribed treatments; because I still find myself switching from reasonably good to absolute shit regardless of whatever substance I am am prescribed.
(This is why I wrote about the seasonal issues, and wondering if that is a component of my mood issues the other day)
Anyway, as I was saying, regarding my moods, Pam made an observation about me that I had never taken notice before. And I will summarize as best as my understanding allows me to.
And goddammit, Greg just walked in the door for our trip to the grocery store...so I have to close this entry for now. Don't you love how that works? Just as I'm getting to the point of it all. lol.
I'll continue this entry later. Thanks for reading.
I think he literally forgot about it and just dosen't want to admit it; which drives home the point that those damn recruits are taking first place in his life over me.
Have I ever mentioned that I am a jealous bitch?
After royally chewing him out over the phone and hanging up on him, he came home late last night with a dozen roses in his hand accompanied by a heartfelt declaration of how sorry he was. "I really fucked up, and I promise I will be there during your next appointment".
How can I be mad at a teary eyed guy in uniform, flowers in hand, and basically offering to do anything I wish him to do?
Anyway, Pam and I wound up having a typical session just the two of us. Obviously I told her how upset I was that Greg hadn't arrived, as well as how depressed and anxious I have been feeling this week for reasons I cannot talk about---because I don't know what they are. Apparently I was speaking frantically, because she told me to close my eyes, take a few deep breaths, and talk about the very first thing that popped in my mind.
"I am not important to anyone anymore", I said.
So we talked about those feelings. My 35th birthday is just two days away. My children are demonstrating their independance and strong sense of self more and more everyday, which are clues that they don't need me in the ways they used to. Instead of sitting and cuddling with me, they are on the phone, writing letters to their friends, closing the doors to their bedrooms because they need privacy, amongst all sorts of little clues that they do not need (or want) "mommy" up their asses 24/7. It used to be that the three of us were so close and so attached---we did everything together! Now, I cannot even coax them to help me pick up the living room and load the dishwasher without them complaining that they have "other" things to do. So not only are they most positively showing signs of teenagehood, but they are not helping me around the house, which leaves feeling lonely and overwhelmed with work, work, and more work.
And while Greg and I share a love that cannot be broken, the dynamics of our relationship have shifted. I was very young when we married....just 19, and a new sailor in the Navy. My eyes were wide open and excited, like a kid in a candy store, at the prospect of the world being as big as it was. Everything was new and uncharted. Since I had come from such an abusive upbringing, the world looked a lot bigger and shinier because I had been so neglected and unloved all of my formative years. Greg was a bit older than I--24 years old---and he had much more experience than I. He too had come from a broken home--the son of an alcoholic father and a narcissistic mother---but dealt with that pain in much different ways that I did my own. While I was excited and naive about the world and the prospect of making my own tracks in it, Greg was more cool and relaxed and willing to "take things as they come". I wanted to conquer everything; and he wanted to sit back and watch me do it.
It was a perfect joining of souls.
We remained like that for years. I was the go-getter in all things. The caretaker. The goal setter. The organizer. The voice of reason, encouragement, support and strength. I set the tone. And Greg, with his cool as a cucumber disposition, happily sat back and said, "of course you can do it!" whenever I needed a boost in my quest to rule the world. He never stood in my way, and he never expressed one ill word toward my aggressive approach towards adulthood. On the flip side, I refused to criticize or critique his belief that remaining on the sidelines of life was the best way for him to maintain himself.
But then things changed. He decided that he wanted to leave our cozy little bubble of predictable existance and go to war in Iraq. Without me. Without my consent. Without my blessing. Without my input at all. All of a sudden, right before my eyes, Greg became a man who wanted to be a part of something bigger than what he and I had created within our family and home. Perhaps my mistake was loving and accepting him too much; because I didn't say a word. I didn't ask him not to do it. I didn't tell him how scared I was, or how much I needed him to maintain the sense of saftey we had so carefully crafted together for so many years. By the time I realized these things, it was too late. He was already gone.
Back then, I thought my fear of him leaving was for obvious reasons: that he would die in combat. Of course I was afraid of that; but only recently have I discovered what my other (and more powerful but covert) sources of fear were. I was afraid of him leaving me alone to conquer the world by myself. Without him, I did not know who I was standing alone. Without him there to tell me it was okay, that I was okay, I did not believe that I was at all "okay". The truth is, I never really learned that I was "okay" at all. I needed Greg to do it for me.
As sick as this sounds, in many ways, Greg had played the role of the father I never had. And when he decided to go to war, to do something without me, I felt betrayed and abandoned in the exact same way I felt when my biological father dropped me on a doorstep, never to be heard again. My father destroyed my sense of saftey, and any feeling that I had of being a worthy lovable person.
My crime was that I had held Greg in this same position. And when he left, I felt those old wounds all over again, like they had been split open.
And even though it has been years since his return from war, life hasn't been the same. I love my husband, but he came home a changed man. He is highly decorated for his efforts in the war, and his career took off like a skyrocket since then. As the provider for the family, he is desperately trying to advance in paygrade before retirement, and meet the additional criteria requested of him to deserve that paygrade. In order to do this, he spends a lot of time at work----and a lot less time with me, which leaves me to my own devices.
Greg found a life outside of our relationship. He grew up.
I, however, did not. I have remained stuck in the my need for a father (and mother, presumably) figure who revolves around taking care of and encouraging me in anything I wish to do. I have remained stuck in my need to be around Greg all of the time to feel good about myself.
And I am grieving the loss of what we had.....even though it wasn't very healthy to begin with.
So as I approach the age of 35, the growing of my children and their need for independance outside of me, and the sense of self that my husband has developed as he continues to evolve as a person---I have painfully realized these past couple of years that I have not grown.
Because without someone else to love and shape and mold....without someone to live through....I really have no clue who I am outside of these people who have been such a wonderful distraction to a very basic question:
Who am I?
The most simple and obvious solution to my problems of lonliness and abandonment issues is to go out there and find myself a life. Participate in things I enjoy. Think about myself first. Set personal goals. Make more friends. Socialize more. Etc. Etc.
I cannot tell you how many times I have heard this from people: "Stacy it's time you start thinking about yourself! Get a job. Take a class. Start a career. Volunteer."
It goes on and on and on.
And at risk for sounding whiny, my response to this superficial feedback from these people is:
I don't know how.
And...
I'm terrified to figure out how.
Obviously this comes up in therapy, and it came up yesterday. Pam made an observation about me that I have never heard before, and it has me quite uneasy. In fact, I am taking my panic medication to cope today.
Any therapist or psychiatrist that I have ever seen--and there have been several---have always told me that I have some kind of "mood disorder" of varying degrees. When we talk about mood disorders, it is not a simple case of being "moody" in the context that a woman might claim she undergoes during menstruation. A mood disorder is a constant state of shifting mood and perception. For example: a person who has bipolar illness may experience weeks or months literally feeling on top of the world, and display behavior indicating that he/she is invincible. They feel soooo good they have little need for sleep, talk a mile and minute, make grandiose and often risky career moves, and sometimes partake in dangerous behavior such as chemical/substance abuse, spending sprees, unsafe sex, etc. Sometimes this "manic state", if left untreated, will result in psychosis.
But then, for no apparent reason, the person will "crash" into a debilitating depression. And I'm not talking about a bad day or a low mood. Bipolar depression is devastating and dangerous. This same person who was on top of the world last week may now be unable to get out of bed because they feel worthless and literally hopeless. More often than not, the bipolar patient ideates suicide; and is at high risk for completing it.
Interestingly, some patients can suffer what's called "ultra-radian cycling", which means they can shift from manic to depressed in a matter of days; and more rarely---hours.
There has been question for years whether or not I suffer from bipolar disorder. It is a difficult diagnosis to make, and takes years of observation of the patient to make that determination. I have never experienced a "manic state", such as what I have (closeley to the DSM describes). However, like normal people I suspect, I have experienced periods of time where I feel reasonably "good" and that my issues seem far away and don't affect me very strongly. I have experienced, however, deep depression. I have been suicidal; and as a teenager I attempted it.
These shifts in my moods are usually not abrupt. My reasonably good mood lasts for months; and I will slowly over the course of weeks, slip into the depression. Once that depression sets in, it feels like my life should be over. Everything is hopeless. What is the point of living, I will ask myself.
Whether that is a bipolar disorder treatable with medication, I do not know. I do not seem to respond very well to the prescribed treatments; because I still find myself switching from reasonably good to absolute shit regardless of whatever substance I am am prescribed.
(This is why I wrote about the seasonal issues, and wondering if that is a component of my mood issues the other day)
Anyway, as I was saying, regarding my moods, Pam made an observation about me that I had never taken notice before. And I will summarize as best as my understanding allows me to.
And goddammit, Greg just walked in the door for our trip to the grocery store...so I have to close this entry for now. Don't you love how that works? Just as I'm getting to the point of it all. lol.
I'll continue this entry later. Thanks for reading.
Monday, December 21, 2009
Prior to September of this year, I had been taking an antidepressant called Effexor XR; and I had been taking it for several years---about four, I think. Though there's no such thing as a "miracle drug", I have to say that Effexor wiped out 85% of my anxiety and depression symptoms from the very first dose I swallowed. Having suffered crippling anxiety and episodic depression all of my life, I had tried several different medication and combinations aka "cocktails" throughout the years; and none of them did much for me other than give me a variety of side effects that were worse than what I was already suffering from. Wellbutrin hyped me up so much I didn't sleep for a week, lost 20 pounds--and the combination of both insomnia and lack of food made me believe I could fly. Celexa gave me visual problems and heart palpitations. Zoloft just made me so goddamn stupid that I couldn't spell my own name. Those wonderful benzos like Valium and Xanax worked so well for my anxiety that I began to have anxiety attacks because I was afraid of becoming addicted. Mood stabalizers: Lithium gave me a rash. Depakote began to elevate my liver enzymes. Lamictal was too risky because of my sulfa allergies. Topomax made my ears ring. The antispychotics, also known to stabalize and level moods are so frightening that I only tried one: Geodon. Geodon is a wonderful and helpful medication, and I would've remained on it except it made my blood sugar so high I became pre-diabetic.
Effexor, however, was like I wasn't taking anything. I just felt immediately better. Not perfect. Not in a happy drugged haze. Just better. I felt like I was myself again; and though the anxiety and depression remained a struggle, I felt like I was able to use my own cognitive skills to manage the symptoms myself, rather than become overwhelmed by them. My panic attacks disappeared, and my debilitating depressive episodes vanished. I still had periodic episodes, of course, but it's like the medication put the brakes on whatever it is that sends me over the edge.
So for many years, I felt as close to human as I ever had.
Unfortunately, I was on the highest recommended dose; and after four years, it began to feel like it wasn't helping. When we moved here to Great Lakes, I began to (as I've talked about in prior entries) feel the anxiety and depression return with a vengence. My doctor and I both concluded that the Effexor was not working as well for me anymore; and it was also having an undesireable effect on my blood pressure which is a common side effect and nothing surprising, seen as I had been struggling with high blood pressure for the duration of my time on the drug.
As I said, I switched four months ago to Cymbalta, a new medication that is chemically similiar to Effexor. It has gotten a lot of hype from people who have physical symptoms of depression and anxiety such as muscle tension, headaches and IBS---all of which are manifestations of my own emotional issues.
I do not know if it is really helping me as much as I would like it to. I honestly don't. Sometimes I feel "okay"; but then right out of the blue I will be hit with a week or two where I feel like absolute shit that dosen't want to get out bed and/or having anxiety so bad that I am too afraid to leave the house. For example, recently, I have been feeling quite depressed. Lack of energy. No motivation. I want to sleep all the time but I can't sleep when I try. My muscles ache and I have gastrointestinal upet (IBS) symptoms that are worse than they've ever been. I feel lonely and bored and overwhelmed by the simplest of tasks.
I have told my doc this, and she told me that a medication called Abilify has been studied and proven to help your current antidepressants work better. About three weeks ago, she gave me a script for a very small 5 mg dose and informed me to take it just once in the morning, as it is known to be quite energizing.
I took the damn med for two days and I felt so weird I could stand it. I was sleepy, but jumpy at the same time. I felt like my thinking was slooooow, but my body wanted to keep moving around.
So I quit taking it and decided to rough it out on my own.
I've continued to feel like shit, and the doc will not be back in the office until after Christmas. So yesterday I decided to give the Abilify another shot; because from what I've read, people are having good results from this med. Instead of taking the whole 5 mg, I cut it in half and just took the 2.5 ish mg in the morning.
I felt a little slow....I even needed a nap. But by yesterday evening I was feeling so much more chipper that I actually sat with my family and watched Christmas movies with a bit of interest. My stomachache disappeared and I even caught myself laughing a few times at a couple of things my kids were saying.
I felt a little bit better. Whether or not that is the Abilify doing anything I do not know. But I tolerated the side effects (slowed thinking---like a brain fog) without too much trouble; so I took another dose this morning.
I am painfully aware that medication is not the answer to all of my problems. I may be dealing with a boost in anxiety/depression because of some issues in therapy, the Christmas season (which is so intimidating to me), as well as what Greg believes is a really nasty dose of the winter blues.
There is an illness called Seasonal Affective Disorder that I have only recently learned about. It is a form of bipolar illness, and it is caused by the varying amounts of sunlight due to the changes in seasons. Generally people who live further north suffer from it. As the days grow shorter, the brain does not receive enough sunlight (through the eyes) to produce "feel good" chemicals; hence, a type of "hibernation" results.
Also known as the winter blues.
And then when the days grow longer, patients find themselves feeling better during the late spring/summer months.
I TOTALLY THINK I have this illness. I really do. Looking back over my medical history, I discovered a few weeks ago that I have never had an 'episode' of depession/anxiety during the summer months. Ever. I lived in San Diego for seven years, and I not once had any problems. We moved to Wash D.C. in 2000, and the first October there I was in the E.R. with panic attacks and suicidal thoughts---and the start of my first medication. I was so fucking miserable there. After that we, moved further south to Virginia Beach, where we purchased a home full of windows. Though it got cold there, it was sunny and light much of the time. I did have an E.R. trips and a period of depression, but that was in...you guessed it---November of 2006. And then again in November 2007, when Greg was deployed in Iraq. But my doctor's notes were always positive during the summer months; and our six years in Virginia Beach were fairly uneventful as far as any "major" issue.
Then we moved here in February of this year---and holy shit within two weeks of being here I thought I should just jump off a bridge and end it all. As I've already posted, I wound up in the hospital by late August which is when I switched my meds.
And let me tell you, I have never been this far up north since I was a child. I was born in Northwest Indiana, but grew up in St. Louis; so I have no memory of being here. But I honest to goddess cannot believe how fucking depressing it is here. I am not shitting you when I say the sun does not come out. I cannot recall the last time we had a sunny day. And when we do, it's only just a few hours of dim light. Greg and I were at Walmart last week...at 3 p.m., and it was already so dark outside we had to put the headlights on during the drive.
Are you fucking serious?
Who lives like this without going insane?
I miss the warm early mornings on my porch swing, the beach, the sun streaming through my windows until 8 p.m. every day. I miss my little gazebo in the backyard where I could stay outside 9 months of the year and read and stitch. I miss my flower garden. I miss digging in the friggin' dirt! I miss the light.
I could cry.
I mentioned all of this to my doc, who is convinced that Seasonal Affective may be a contributing factor to my episodic problems, and may be the reason why doctors in the past have told me I have bipolar disorder. She told me that maybe I DO have bipolar---but on the seasonal level. This may explain why meds are not so much help to me, because once the summer comes around, I don't need them anymore.
She prescribed me the Abilify, and told me there are these types of lamps that can be purchased for the home. Not UV lamps, but they are specifically for people with seasonal affective disorder. They emit some kind of light that enters through the eyes. I guess you sit near them for 30 minutes upon waking, and then 30 minutes again at dusk (which lengthens "your" day), and they are proven to help!
At first I laughed and thought how retarded that sounds; but then I was researching them. I am almost convinced that I would like to try one for myself. You can buy them in all different sizes ranging from a tiny little desk one to a big panel that stands on the floor. The problem is, they are ultra expensive. The cheapest one I found is 200 bucks, and that is for a small one. The larger paneled ones are up to 500-700 bucks.
I hate taking meds.....and I am tired of "trying" new ones (there is another one called Pristique that is almost identical to Effexor that doc says we can "try"). I am comfortable with continuing the Abilify if it helps; but I am wondering if sitting exposed to one of these special lights might be better and healthier for me. It can't hurt anything.
So my question is, does anyone have any experience or knowledge with Seasonal Affective Disorder, and/or these theraputic lamps? I want to make a well researched purchase if it's gonna cost this much money!
Effexor, however, was like I wasn't taking anything. I just felt immediately better. Not perfect. Not in a happy drugged haze. Just better. I felt like I was myself again; and though the anxiety and depression remained a struggle, I felt like I was able to use my own cognitive skills to manage the symptoms myself, rather than become overwhelmed by them. My panic attacks disappeared, and my debilitating depressive episodes vanished. I still had periodic episodes, of course, but it's like the medication put the brakes on whatever it is that sends me over the edge.
So for many years, I felt as close to human as I ever had.
Unfortunately, I was on the highest recommended dose; and after four years, it began to feel like it wasn't helping. When we moved here to Great Lakes, I began to (as I've talked about in prior entries) feel the anxiety and depression return with a vengence. My doctor and I both concluded that the Effexor was not working as well for me anymore; and it was also having an undesireable effect on my blood pressure which is a common side effect and nothing surprising, seen as I had been struggling with high blood pressure for the duration of my time on the drug.
As I said, I switched four months ago to Cymbalta, a new medication that is chemically similiar to Effexor. It has gotten a lot of hype from people who have physical symptoms of depression and anxiety such as muscle tension, headaches and IBS---all of which are manifestations of my own emotional issues.
I do not know if it is really helping me as much as I would like it to. I honestly don't. Sometimes I feel "okay"; but then right out of the blue I will be hit with a week or two where I feel like absolute shit that dosen't want to get out bed and/or having anxiety so bad that I am too afraid to leave the house. For example, recently, I have been feeling quite depressed. Lack of energy. No motivation. I want to sleep all the time but I can't sleep when I try. My muscles ache and I have gastrointestinal upet (IBS) symptoms that are worse than they've ever been. I feel lonely and bored and overwhelmed by the simplest of tasks.
I have told my doc this, and she told me that a medication called Abilify has been studied and proven to help your current antidepressants work better. About three weeks ago, she gave me a script for a very small 5 mg dose and informed me to take it just once in the morning, as it is known to be quite energizing.
I took the damn med for two days and I felt so weird I could stand it. I was sleepy, but jumpy at the same time. I felt like my thinking was slooooow, but my body wanted to keep moving around.
So I quit taking it and decided to rough it out on my own.
I've continued to feel like shit, and the doc will not be back in the office until after Christmas. So yesterday I decided to give the Abilify another shot; because from what I've read, people are having good results from this med. Instead of taking the whole 5 mg, I cut it in half and just took the 2.5 ish mg in the morning.
I felt a little slow....I even needed a nap. But by yesterday evening I was feeling so much more chipper that I actually sat with my family and watched Christmas movies with a bit of interest. My stomachache disappeared and I even caught myself laughing a few times at a couple of things my kids were saying.
I felt a little bit better. Whether or not that is the Abilify doing anything I do not know. But I tolerated the side effects (slowed thinking---like a brain fog) without too much trouble; so I took another dose this morning.
I am painfully aware that medication is not the answer to all of my problems. I may be dealing with a boost in anxiety/depression because of some issues in therapy, the Christmas season (which is so intimidating to me), as well as what Greg believes is a really nasty dose of the winter blues.
There is an illness called Seasonal Affective Disorder that I have only recently learned about. It is a form of bipolar illness, and it is caused by the varying amounts of sunlight due to the changes in seasons. Generally people who live further north suffer from it. As the days grow shorter, the brain does not receive enough sunlight (through the eyes) to produce "feel good" chemicals; hence, a type of "hibernation" results.
Also known as the winter blues.
And then when the days grow longer, patients find themselves feeling better during the late spring/summer months.
I TOTALLY THINK I have this illness. I really do. Looking back over my medical history, I discovered a few weeks ago that I have never had an 'episode' of depession/anxiety during the summer months. Ever. I lived in San Diego for seven years, and I not once had any problems. We moved to Wash D.C. in 2000, and the first October there I was in the E.R. with panic attacks and suicidal thoughts---and the start of my first medication. I was so fucking miserable there. After that we, moved further south to Virginia Beach, where we purchased a home full of windows. Though it got cold there, it was sunny and light much of the time. I did have an E.R. trips and a period of depression, but that was in...you guessed it---November of 2006. And then again in November 2007, when Greg was deployed in Iraq. But my doctor's notes were always positive during the summer months; and our six years in Virginia Beach were fairly uneventful as far as any "major" issue.
Then we moved here in February of this year---and holy shit within two weeks of being here I thought I should just jump off a bridge and end it all. As I've already posted, I wound up in the hospital by late August which is when I switched my meds.
And let me tell you, I have never been this far up north since I was a child. I was born in Northwest Indiana, but grew up in St. Louis; so I have no memory of being here. But I honest to goddess cannot believe how fucking depressing it is here. I am not shitting you when I say the sun does not come out. I cannot recall the last time we had a sunny day. And when we do, it's only just a few hours of dim light. Greg and I were at Walmart last week...at 3 p.m., and it was already so dark outside we had to put the headlights on during the drive.
Are you fucking serious?
Who lives like this without going insane?
I miss the warm early mornings on my porch swing, the beach, the sun streaming through my windows until 8 p.m. every day. I miss my little gazebo in the backyard where I could stay outside 9 months of the year and read and stitch. I miss my flower garden. I miss digging in the friggin' dirt! I miss the light.
I could cry.
I mentioned all of this to my doc, who is convinced that Seasonal Affective may be a contributing factor to my episodic problems, and may be the reason why doctors in the past have told me I have bipolar disorder. She told me that maybe I DO have bipolar---but on the seasonal level. This may explain why meds are not so much help to me, because once the summer comes around, I don't need them anymore.
She prescribed me the Abilify, and told me there are these types of lamps that can be purchased for the home. Not UV lamps, but they are specifically for people with seasonal affective disorder. They emit some kind of light that enters through the eyes. I guess you sit near them for 30 minutes upon waking, and then 30 minutes again at dusk (which lengthens "your" day), and they are proven to help!
At first I laughed and thought how retarded that sounds; but then I was researching them. I am almost convinced that I would like to try one for myself. You can buy them in all different sizes ranging from a tiny little desk one to a big panel that stands on the floor. The problem is, they are ultra expensive. The cheapest one I found is 200 bucks, and that is for a small one. The larger paneled ones are up to 500-700 bucks.
I hate taking meds.....and I am tired of "trying" new ones (there is another one called Pristique that is almost identical to Effexor that doc says we can "try"). I am comfortable with continuing the Abilify if it helps; but I am wondering if sitting exposed to one of these special lights might be better and healthier for me. It can't hurt anything.
So my question is, does anyone have any experience or knowledge with Seasonal Affective Disorder, and/or these theraputic lamps? I want to make a well researched purchase if it's gonna cost this much money!
Friday, December 18, 2009
The Girl With Green Boots
A friend of mine and I were talking yesterday about jealous boyfriends and husbands. Or, more specifically, whether or not our significant others get jealous if we mention other men via Hollywood crushes, old boyfriends, admirers of the opposite sex--that kind of thing.
And this got me thinking. About the jealousy factor in my own marriage.
I will be the first to admit that I am the most jealous bitch on the face of the planet. I learned this about myself several years ago while Greg and I were strolling around the mall. We were window shopping, and while both of us should have been looking in the same direction, one of us was covertly checking out a female standing about 20 feet away. She was young, tall, boyishly thin but in that sexy way, wore low waisted jeans and some tight black t-shirt accesorized by silver hooped earrings and perfect red lipstick. Her funky short hair (black) was the perfect.
She was gorgeous. Absolutley agonizingly sickeningly gorgeous.
Yet it wasn't me gazing at her instead of the shop window. I only learned of her appearance after I caught my husband looking at her from underneath downcast eyeballs. When I turned my head to figure out what had caught his attention, it was then that I saw this perfect vampy creature had my husband's full attention.
I just stood there and let him look, mostly to see how long it would take before he started drooling or panting. At first I forced myself to feign (to myself) amusement, and recite little one-liners in my head like, "no matter how much he looks at her, he's still going to bed with me" or "she might be pretty, but that's probably because she hasn't pushed out two 9 pound babies of her womb" or "I read in Cosmo magazine that men don't really like thin women; in reality they like them with a little more meat on their bones."
and my personal favorite,
"He's only looking at her because he realizes how good he has it with me."
Yeah. Right.
Just as quickly as I filtered through these bullshit coping skill excuses, I became irate. Punching Greg in the shoulder and telling him to knock it off, he snapped back into reality and looked at me as if I had just lost my mind. He wholeheartedly denied looking at her and claimed he had no idea what I was talking about. He even used that tone of voice---you know---the one that tries to intimate that you are just imagining things.
Finally just one hair shy of me making a public scene by raising my voice, he admits that, yes, he was indeed looking at this girl. This creature of perfection.
"I was just looking at her shoes", he says with resignation.
Almost believing him (almost), I turned around for another peek at her. Sure as shit, she was wearing an awful bright green shade of pointed-toe boots. Funny that I, Seer Of All, had not noticed them before.
"You see?", he says. "She's wearing ugly shoes....that's all I was looking at."
He's goooood.
But I know the truth. He was scoping a hot chick; and while I am sure it wasn't his first gazing episode, it was the first time I had ever witnessed my man doing it. And it hurt.
For days afterward, I evaluated my own appearance with a fine tooth comb. Everything right down to the little hairs on my big toe, seemed disgusting and ugly and just so very wrong. I forgot how many times a day Greg told me I was beautiful and sexy, and how many compliments he gave me on a number of things. All I could think about was those 30 seconds that he was looking at her. Thirty seconds that she stole from me.
Just by standing there looking perfect, she took away something precious from my very naive and inexperienced soul: the wholehearted belief that my husband would never desire another but me.
I had become jealous!
Mind you, I was very young then and a mother of two babies just 16 months apart. I was insecure and immature and nowhere close to understanding the workings of a male mind. I figured that if I changed my appearance, maybe my husband would stop looking at other females altogether. Forever.
I started with my hair color. As I was leaving for the store to choose a box, I asked Greg what color hair does he prefer on women? Blondes? Brunettes? Redheads? Fully expecting an answer (I was expecting redheads), his answer was the biggest Freudian slip I have ever heard:
*waving his hand casually* "Oh, I like all women.", he says.
Let's just say that 12 years later, I still blow him shit about that one.
Over the years, Greg has gazed upon many women. And each time he does it, I admit I would like the claw their eyes out and cut off his penis. It dosen't hurt any less today than it did back then, but my understanding of male mind and animal instinct has helped lessen the blow. I am still jealous, just less threatened, I guess.
Greg's fantasy girls are mainly Hollywood now. Natalie Portman, Winona Ryder, Pink, Milla Jovovich are some of his favorites. He's got that video "SheWolf" by Shakira on his computer; and he and Korbin like to spend "man time" watching it and drooling like idiots.
Does it bother me? Sure it does. I would have to go in and tinker with my DNA to look like those babes. I am short and petite---and even when the scale says I don't weigh much---I am never look thin. When the scale says I weight a lot, I just look squarish and soft. My hair is turning gray and thinning a bit; I have spider veins and cellulite; and I have a spare tire around my middle scattered with stretch marks. While I may have what some call a "pretty face", I have dark circles and bags and red splotches if unaided by some miracle foundation. I hate fashion. I hate to shop long enough to even try to look put together.
But despite my less than hottie appearance, I also am more in tune with reality than I used to be. Winona isn't raising his kids. Milla and Natalie are busy making movies; I'm fairly certain they won't be dropping by to listen to him bitch about work and rub his feet after a long day. Shakira sure as hell isn't washing the skid marks out of his underwear.
And so I let him look. Let him fantasize or dream or whatever the hell it is he does. I guess that's what happens after years of being with the same person. I guess I just accept it. We are all attracted to the ideal. I believe it is human nature to be transfixed by what we know we cannot have; and overlook what is right in front of us.
Because let's face it, when I'm not busy being a jealous bitch or keeping tabs on whatever hottie Greg is googling over, I'm drooling too. It's funny, but when I was first married, I was so transfixed by my husband that I could not fathom the idea of looking at another man. I didn't want to. Didn't need to. In my eyes, I had the sexiest and hottest guy alive. He was mine. And I dared not look the other way; otherwise I might lose the perfect picture I was already gazing upon.
But that was because it was all new. A brand new toy. A vacation without a return trip home.
Of course, that newness wore off. He has stinky breath in the morning. A couple of back hairs. Holes in his socks. Dandruff. The way he holds his fork started to irritate the shit out of me. He takes longer in the bathroom than any of his Hollywood babes spend in their dressing rooms. Sometimes in the middle of the night, he'll pass gas so foul that I have to remind myself I'm sleeping next to a human. He watches T.V. while I'm talking to him. He drives like a crazed asshole.
I could go on, but you get my drift. Reality set in. And with that, so did my own desire to gaze upon perfection once more. Like him, I began to find myself attracted to male figures that represented what I cannot have, because it is thrilling!
I am a Hollywood Horny. Rarely do men in the "real world" appeal to me, because I still find my husband the most attractive man in my life. But on the movie screen, it's a different story. I do not want Robert Pattinson the actor---I want Edward the vampire. I want Jacob the werewolf---not Taylor Lautner the 17 year old boy (I dunno, even that image has it's perks though). I want Achilles and Hector from "Troy".
Okay, maybe I want Orlando Bloom. He's delicious.
And I recant on my saying that there are no "real world" men that I am attracted to. There was, once upon a time, a pharmacist that I would sooooo look forward to seeing whenever I needed a med refill. He had a French accent and the most glorious turquoise eyes I have ever seen. Black shiny hair and a little mustache.
But I didn't want to be involved with the guy. I just wanted him to wear his lab coat and do me in the back of the medicine shelves.
A fantasy. My ideal. The daydreams that remind me of how much of a woman I am.
Should Greg be jealous? No. I love him and desire him still, however reality based that desire may be. He knows of my crush on the French pharmacist; hell, he'd even stand there and chuckle while I stammered over my words talking to the guy. Greg rolls his eyes lovingly as I continue to yammer on about Edward and Jacob and my desire to be fought over by two mythical creatures that don't exist.
It's what makes us human---being excited by what we cannot have and coming back to what we do have rejeuvanated and inspired.
So I guess it is safe to say that my jealous years have come to an end; partly due to maturity, but mainly due to the fact that I get it now. We have fantasies; and just because we're looking, dosen't mean we're intending. That perfect skinny girl with the green boots....she is a thing of the past, and in ways I suppose I am thankful for her for opening up that part of my being that needed to learn what it means to have desires and fantasies. Whatever it was about her that caught my husband's eyes (I'm sure it wasn't her goddamn boots. Idiot.), helped me to focus my own gaze when I, too, am needing an escape from the mundane.
So my gift to you today, is the encouragement to revel in your fantasies and your ideals. To cling to your image of perfection. To daydream about whomever it is that you cannot have. For it is what we cannot have, and what does not truly exist, that reminds us to look at what is already right in front of us with fresh eyes and a more vibrant perspective....
And much hotter sex!
And this got me thinking. About the jealousy factor in my own marriage.
I will be the first to admit that I am the most jealous bitch on the face of the planet. I learned this about myself several years ago while Greg and I were strolling around the mall. We were window shopping, and while both of us should have been looking in the same direction, one of us was covertly checking out a female standing about 20 feet away. She was young, tall, boyishly thin but in that sexy way, wore low waisted jeans and some tight black t-shirt accesorized by silver hooped earrings and perfect red lipstick. Her funky short hair (black) was the perfect.
She was gorgeous. Absolutley agonizingly sickeningly gorgeous.
Yet it wasn't me gazing at her instead of the shop window. I only learned of her appearance after I caught my husband looking at her from underneath downcast eyeballs. When I turned my head to figure out what had caught his attention, it was then that I saw this perfect vampy creature had my husband's full attention.
I just stood there and let him look, mostly to see how long it would take before he started drooling or panting. At first I forced myself to feign (to myself) amusement, and recite little one-liners in my head like, "no matter how much he looks at her, he's still going to bed with me" or "she might be pretty, but that's probably because she hasn't pushed out two 9 pound babies of her womb" or "I read in Cosmo magazine that men don't really like thin women; in reality they like them with a little more meat on their bones."
and my personal favorite,
"He's only looking at her because he realizes how good he has it with me."
Yeah. Right.
Just as quickly as I filtered through these bullshit coping skill excuses, I became irate. Punching Greg in the shoulder and telling him to knock it off, he snapped back into reality and looked at me as if I had just lost my mind. He wholeheartedly denied looking at her and claimed he had no idea what I was talking about. He even used that tone of voice---you know---the one that tries to intimate that you are just imagining things.
Finally just one hair shy of me making a public scene by raising my voice, he admits that, yes, he was indeed looking at this girl. This creature of perfection.
"I was just looking at her shoes", he says with resignation.
Almost believing him (almost), I turned around for another peek at her. Sure as shit, she was wearing an awful bright green shade of pointed-toe boots. Funny that I, Seer Of All, had not noticed them before.
"You see?", he says. "She's wearing ugly shoes....that's all I was looking at."
He's goooood.
But I know the truth. He was scoping a hot chick; and while I am sure it wasn't his first gazing episode, it was the first time I had ever witnessed my man doing it. And it hurt.
For days afterward, I evaluated my own appearance with a fine tooth comb. Everything right down to the little hairs on my big toe, seemed disgusting and ugly and just so very wrong. I forgot how many times a day Greg told me I was beautiful and sexy, and how many compliments he gave me on a number of things. All I could think about was those 30 seconds that he was looking at her. Thirty seconds that she stole from me.
Just by standing there looking perfect, she took away something precious from my very naive and inexperienced soul: the wholehearted belief that my husband would never desire another but me.
I had become jealous!
Mind you, I was very young then and a mother of two babies just 16 months apart. I was insecure and immature and nowhere close to understanding the workings of a male mind. I figured that if I changed my appearance, maybe my husband would stop looking at other females altogether. Forever.
I started with my hair color. As I was leaving for the store to choose a box, I asked Greg what color hair does he prefer on women? Blondes? Brunettes? Redheads? Fully expecting an answer (I was expecting redheads), his answer was the biggest Freudian slip I have ever heard:
*waving his hand casually* "Oh, I like all women.", he says.
Let's just say that 12 years later, I still blow him shit about that one.
Over the years, Greg has gazed upon many women. And each time he does it, I admit I would like the claw their eyes out and cut off his penis. It dosen't hurt any less today than it did back then, but my understanding of male mind and animal instinct has helped lessen the blow. I am still jealous, just less threatened, I guess.
Greg's fantasy girls are mainly Hollywood now. Natalie Portman, Winona Ryder, Pink, Milla Jovovich are some of his favorites. He's got that video "SheWolf" by Shakira on his computer; and he and Korbin like to spend "man time" watching it and drooling like idiots.
Does it bother me? Sure it does. I would have to go in and tinker with my DNA to look like those babes. I am short and petite---and even when the scale says I don't weigh much---I am never look thin. When the scale says I weight a lot, I just look squarish and soft. My hair is turning gray and thinning a bit; I have spider veins and cellulite; and I have a spare tire around my middle scattered with stretch marks. While I may have what some call a "pretty face", I have dark circles and bags and red splotches if unaided by some miracle foundation. I hate fashion. I hate to shop long enough to even try to look put together.
But despite my less than hottie appearance, I also am more in tune with reality than I used to be. Winona isn't raising his kids. Milla and Natalie are busy making movies; I'm fairly certain they won't be dropping by to listen to him bitch about work and rub his feet after a long day. Shakira sure as hell isn't washing the skid marks out of his underwear.
And so I let him look. Let him fantasize or dream or whatever the hell it is he does. I guess that's what happens after years of being with the same person. I guess I just accept it. We are all attracted to the ideal. I believe it is human nature to be transfixed by what we know we cannot have; and overlook what is right in front of us.
Because let's face it, when I'm not busy being a jealous bitch or keeping tabs on whatever hottie Greg is googling over, I'm drooling too. It's funny, but when I was first married, I was so transfixed by my husband that I could not fathom the idea of looking at another man. I didn't want to. Didn't need to. In my eyes, I had the sexiest and hottest guy alive. He was mine. And I dared not look the other way; otherwise I might lose the perfect picture I was already gazing upon.
But that was because it was all new. A brand new toy. A vacation without a return trip home.
Of course, that newness wore off. He has stinky breath in the morning. A couple of back hairs. Holes in his socks. Dandruff. The way he holds his fork started to irritate the shit out of me. He takes longer in the bathroom than any of his Hollywood babes spend in their dressing rooms. Sometimes in the middle of the night, he'll pass gas so foul that I have to remind myself I'm sleeping next to a human. He watches T.V. while I'm talking to him. He drives like a crazed asshole.
I could go on, but you get my drift. Reality set in. And with that, so did my own desire to gaze upon perfection once more. Like him, I began to find myself attracted to male figures that represented what I cannot have, because it is thrilling!
I am a Hollywood Horny. Rarely do men in the "real world" appeal to me, because I still find my husband the most attractive man in my life. But on the movie screen, it's a different story. I do not want Robert Pattinson the actor---I want Edward the vampire. I want Jacob the werewolf---not Taylor Lautner the 17 year old boy (I dunno, even that image has it's perks though). I want Achilles and Hector from "Troy".
Okay, maybe I want Orlando Bloom. He's delicious.
And I recant on my saying that there are no "real world" men that I am attracted to. There was, once upon a time, a pharmacist that I would sooooo look forward to seeing whenever I needed a med refill. He had a French accent and the most glorious turquoise eyes I have ever seen. Black shiny hair and a little mustache.
But I didn't want to be involved with the guy. I just wanted him to wear his lab coat and do me in the back of the medicine shelves.
A fantasy. My ideal. The daydreams that remind me of how much of a woman I am.
Should Greg be jealous? No. I love him and desire him still, however reality based that desire may be. He knows of my crush on the French pharmacist; hell, he'd even stand there and chuckle while I stammered over my words talking to the guy. Greg rolls his eyes lovingly as I continue to yammer on about Edward and Jacob and my desire to be fought over by two mythical creatures that don't exist.
It's what makes us human---being excited by what we cannot have and coming back to what we do have rejeuvanated and inspired.
So I guess it is safe to say that my jealous years have come to an end; partly due to maturity, but mainly due to the fact that I get it now. We have fantasies; and just because we're looking, dosen't mean we're intending. That perfect skinny girl with the green boots....she is a thing of the past, and in ways I suppose I am thankful for her for opening up that part of my being that needed to learn what it means to have desires and fantasies. Whatever it was about her that caught my husband's eyes (I'm sure it wasn't her goddamn boots. Idiot.), helped me to focus my own gaze when I, too, am needing an escape from the mundane.
So my gift to you today, is the encouragement to revel in your fantasies and your ideals. To cling to your image of perfection. To daydream about whomever it is that you cannot have. For it is what we cannot have, and what does not truly exist, that reminds us to look at what is already right in front of us with fresh eyes and a more vibrant perspective....
And much hotter sex!
Thursday, December 17, 2009
50 Book Challenge
One day while surfing around on Crochetville, I noticed several of the members have a "Book Challenge" notation in their signature. Apparently there is a thingy going on around the web where you read 50 books in a year and then post (somewhere) what you've read and your critique. I thought it a pretty cool idea to see what other people are reading in addition to motivating myself to read more. Though I'm an avid reader, I haven't been reading as much this year as I normally do, or would like to. I had planned to start my running tally this spring/summer; but well, the only thing I wound up reading was administrative forms in the hospital during my little "vacation".
And after that, I spent a great deal of time----too much time, in retrospect----delving into recommended theraputic reading and research, trying to diagnose myself and all that went wrong in my head as well as finding the cure for a broken heart.
Like those answers are even in a text anyway!
I picked up my novel reading in October, and have read quite a few books since. So for me, my challenge will start as of October 1, 2009-October 1, 2010. Typically I am into historical romance and legal thrillers, latley I have been drawn to the horror/suspense/psychological genre of books. You will see many of those in my list today.
Here is what I've read thus far: (Each book will be rated anywhere from * (being absolute shit) to *****(being I'd crawl through a desert without water to read it again).
1. "His Father's Son" (Bentley Little)
I've read a few of this author's books and have never been all that impressed. This book was no exception. It wasn't suspenseful, and the ending was predictable. The book aims at getting the reader to understand what goes through the mind of someone who is trying to live up to their parent's expectations post mortem, with deadly consequences.
Rating: **
2. "The Terror" (Dan Simmons)
This book was on the bestseller list, and for the life of me I don't know why. It is about an arctic expedition gone horribly wrong, survival against the elements and against an evil force, yada yada yada. It was long, difficult to keep the pace, and at times confusing as the plot switches from past to present all too often.
Rating: *
3. "Urge To Kill" (John Lutz)
Supposedly right up there with Stephen King in matters of horror, I found this book to be so unmemorable I cannot really summarize anything noteworthy.
Rating: *
4. "Sweetheart" (Chelsea Cain)
A surprisingly good read....smooth and easy. The "bad guy" in this book happens to be a gorgeous woman who kills her lovers in grotesque fashions that you have to read yourself to grasp. The detective responsible for catching and imprisoning her is also in love with her, in a sick and twisted fashion that only the author does a good job at describing. The sex is fantastic!
Rating: ****
5. "Reality" (Peter Kingsley)
A new-age philosophical analysis of the "I think, therefore, I am" theory. The author tries to convince us that if what we think is reality, than EVERYTHING we think is reality. If everything we think is reality, than there is really no purpose in thinking at all; hence, true reality lies in the nothingness that lies within each of us. Using ancient shamanic practices as "proof" that the Phoenicians did practice meditation to gain knowledge of the Underworld, the author tries to further convince us that 'reality' lies with the dead. The only way to hear the dead is to not think.
Yeah. I got a headache too.
Rating: ** (I give the extra star for the author's effort to convince us of his theory's in Plain English. At least he tried.)
6. "Afraid" (Jack Kilborn)
His debut novel, and probably one of the best horror novels I have ever read. I won't summarize because I urge anyone who likes horror/suspense to pick this one up. Gore fans won't be disappointed....my stomach turned a few times and that's pretty hard to do!
Rating: ****
7. "Enter Evil" (Linda Ladd)
Sucked!
Rating: *
8. "Wideacre" (Phillipa Gregory) I picked this up on a whim because I enjoyed the "Other Boelyn Girl" so much I hoped the sex and trash would be just as good in this book. It was! The Wideacre story is independant of the Tudor stories by this author; and the heroine in this book is so honest in her dysfunction that I couldn't help but be awestruck at how she is a piece of what we, as women, think and feel at some point in our lives in order to gain what we desire in a world that often seems to favor men. This book is my recommendation for the entire year....it is an excellent read! Sex, betrayal, murder, incest, romance, and the ultimate bad boy.....what could be better? (Lisa if you are reading this blog, I will send you my copy if you want it. I think you'd love it!)
Rating: *****
9. "Toxic Parents" (Dr. Susan Forward) An oldie but goodie in the theraputic self-help genre. A review of the habits and self defeating behaviors we learn from a variety of dysfunctional "types" of parents ranging from substance abuse, overprotectiveness, abuse and incest. An eye-opening read for me. Obviously not for everyone.
Rating: ***
10. "Turning Angel" (Greg Iles)
Why haven't I ever read this author before??? A legal thriller resulting from an affair between a teacher and a high school student who turns up dead in a small town where politics and racial divide dictate (and impede) the justice system. I will definitley be reading more of this author, and this is my second recommendation.
Rating: ****
Currently Reading:
"Paths Of Glory" (Jeffrey Archer)
I am only into the first few chapters. This is a fictional tale based on a true story of George Mallory's climb up Mt. Everest, and the discovery of his body just 600 feet from the summit in 1999---no one really knows if he ever made it to the top. So far, the storytelling is beautiful and humerous. I don't think I'll be disappointed.
And after that, I spent a great deal of time----too much time, in retrospect----delving into recommended theraputic reading and research, trying to diagnose myself and all that went wrong in my head as well as finding the cure for a broken heart.
Like those answers are even in a text anyway!
I picked up my novel reading in October, and have read quite a few books since. So for me, my challenge will start as of October 1, 2009-October 1, 2010. Typically I am into historical romance and legal thrillers, latley I have been drawn to the horror/suspense/psychological genre of books. You will see many of those in my list today.
Here is what I've read thus far: (Each book will be rated anywhere from * (being absolute shit) to *****(being I'd crawl through a desert without water to read it again).
1. "His Father's Son" (Bentley Little)
I've read a few of this author's books and have never been all that impressed. This book was no exception. It wasn't suspenseful, and the ending was predictable. The book aims at getting the reader to understand what goes through the mind of someone who is trying to live up to their parent's expectations post mortem, with deadly consequences.
Rating: **
2. "The Terror" (Dan Simmons)
This book was on the bestseller list, and for the life of me I don't know why. It is about an arctic expedition gone horribly wrong, survival against the elements and against an evil force, yada yada yada. It was long, difficult to keep the pace, and at times confusing as the plot switches from past to present all too often.
Rating: *
3. "Urge To Kill" (John Lutz)
Supposedly right up there with Stephen King in matters of horror, I found this book to be so unmemorable I cannot really summarize anything noteworthy.
Rating: *
4. "Sweetheart" (Chelsea Cain)
A surprisingly good read....smooth and easy. The "bad guy" in this book happens to be a gorgeous woman who kills her lovers in grotesque fashions that you have to read yourself to grasp. The detective responsible for catching and imprisoning her is also in love with her, in a sick and twisted fashion that only the author does a good job at describing. The sex is fantastic!
Rating: ****
5. "Reality" (Peter Kingsley)
A new-age philosophical analysis of the "I think, therefore, I am" theory. The author tries to convince us that if what we think is reality, than EVERYTHING we think is reality. If everything we think is reality, than there is really no purpose in thinking at all; hence, true reality lies in the nothingness that lies within each of us. Using ancient shamanic practices as "proof" that the Phoenicians did practice meditation to gain knowledge of the Underworld, the author tries to further convince us that 'reality' lies with the dead. The only way to hear the dead is to not think.
Yeah. I got a headache too.
Rating: ** (I give the extra star for the author's effort to convince us of his theory's in Plain English. At least he tried.)
6. "Afraid" (Jack Kilborn)
His debut novel, and probably one of the best horror novels I have ever read. I won't summarize because I urge anyone who likes horror/suspense to pick this one up. Gore fans won't be disappointed....my stomach turned a few times and that's pretty hard to do!
Rating: ****
7. "Enter Evil" (Linda Ladd)
Sucked!
Rating: *
8. "Wideacre" (Phillipa Gregory) I picked this up on a whim because I enjoyed the "Other Boelyn Girl" so much I hoped the sex and trash would be just as good in this book. It was! The Wideacre story is independant of the Tudor stories by this author; and the heroine in this book is so honest in her dysfunction that I couldn't help but be awestruck at how she is a piece of what we, as women, think and feel at some point in our lives in order to gain what we desire in a world that often seems to favor men. This book is my recommendation for the entire year....it is an excellent read! Sex, betrayal, murder, incest, romance, and the ultimate bad boy.....what could be better? (Lisa if you are reading this blog, I will send you my copy if you want it. I think you'd love it!)
Rating: *****
9. "Toxic Parents" (Dr. Susan Forward) An oldie but goodie in the theraputic self-help genre. A review of the habits and self defeating behaviors we learn from a variety of dysfunctional "types" of parents ranging from substance abuse, overprotectiveness, abuse and incest. An eye-opening read for me. Obviously not for everyone.
Rating: ***
10. "Turning Angel" (Greg Iles)
Why haven't I ever read this author before??? A legal thriller resulting from an affair between a teacher and a high school student who turns up dead in a small town where politics and racial divide dictate (and impede) the justice system. I will definitley be reading more of this author, and this is my second recommendation.
Rating: ****
Currently Reading:
"Paths Of Glory" (Jeffrey Archer)
I am only into the first few chapters. This is a fictional tale based on a true story of George Mallory's climb up Mt. Everest, and the discovery of his body just 600 feet from the summit in 1999---no one really knows if he ever made it to the top. So far, the storytelling is beautiful and humerous. I don't think I'll be disappointed.
Tap Dancing
My grandmother has had a rough life, to say the least. For all her 77 years on this Earth, I do not recall a time where I have ever seen her do anything for herself; nor have I personally ever witnessed her stop, take a breath, and release whatever it is that compels her to keep doing for someone else, be it caretaking, working, providing, listening or financially funding. She often jokes that if there is such a thing as reincarnation, she is coming back as a nun, for she does not know the meaning of giving to one's self.
And I understand where she gets it. Her mother came to the States from Hungry, married a Polish immigrant; and together my great-grandparents tried to make a life together in industrial northwest Indiana. They bore nine children, the first eight being boys; and the last, my grandmother---the youngest and only girl---was immediately cursed simply by being born female, based on old eastern European culture. When my grandmother was just six years old, her father had a terrible accident as he fell a great distance in the steel mill, crushing the side of his skull. Back then, they did not have the medical advancements capable of offering a recovery. Instead, they "patched him up" and sent him home. When he began to see and hear things, behave aggressively and speak senselessly, it was assumed that he had gone 'crazy' rather than assuming these symptoms were a result of severe brain injury. Common for those times, he was institutionalized and my great grandmother was forced to work and raise her nine childen on nothing more than a meager income and a few farm animals.
As the only girl, my grandmother was not educated past the sixth grade. Instead, she was forced to help her mother care for the house, the cooking, the animals, and the welfare of her eight older brothers, who all received educations as well as worked to contribute to the household income. Grandma tells me that as a girl growing up, she could get away with nothing, because she always had her brothers chasing after her telling her to get home! Work needed to be done! A poor, chubby girl with little opportunity for friends or the thrill of boyfriends, was literally forced to be a caretaker from the beginning of her life.
Sometimes Gram tells me that her mother was very stern, and did not show much love or affection--and definitely not much appreciation. The boys were the most important because they were providers, especially during the Great Depression and the years that followed. It felt to her as if the boys were more important, and often she was left feeling resentful and unloved.
But then Gram tells me about her mother, and how diligently this woman worked herself to provide for the family. As I am learning myself, this portion of the country suffers brutal winters, and my great grandmother would walk several miles back and forth every day, for an income of change doing laundry for a small business.
I can hardly stand walking through the parking lot at the mall when it is this cold, much less miles. Every single day.
And then coming home to cook whatever parts of the animals were available.....parts I cannot fathom eating even if I were starving. Cleaning. Paying the bills. And still maintaing what my Grandmother says is an "incredible sense of safety and family".
"I always knew my mother loved me", Grandma says, "because she worked like a dog and was treated like a dog just so she could keep food on the table for us".
Grandma grew up and fell in love with my grandfather, a young and insanely handsome airman in the Air Force...also the child of Polish immigrants. Together they married and began their life stationed in Germany, followed shortly by the birth of their first child, Tommy. Since money was short (isn't it always in the military?) they prided themselves on buying a trailer. A home on wheels they could take wherever the air force demanded they would be. I have several pictures of both my grandparents....young and gorgeous and happy....standing in front of their little tiny metal trailer as if they had just bought a million dollar home.
Just weeks later, Tommy died of "complications". Several miscarriages were soon to follow.
When my mother was born, she was the apple of Grandpa's eye. His Little Princess. His Perfect Baby Girl. And when my Uncle Mike was born a couple of years later, something wasn't right with his health. After taking him to the doctor, they were informed that Mike had Cerebral Palsy.
Grandma has told me this story a thousand times; but I never tire of hearing it. She tells me that she was devastated upon learning of Mike's condition, and was terrified as to how in the world she would care for someone who would need so very much more than a "normal child". As a devout Catholic, she wandered through the park one day, sat on a bench, and sobbed...angry with God for doing this to her. She was overwhelmed, terrified, and tired.....her whole life had been so hard! Like so many of us at one point or another, she had reached her limit of hardship.
It just so happened that the priest from her church strolled by in the very same park. He had no idea why Gram was crying, or even where she had been for several weeks. Gram was so angry with God she had not been attending Sunday mass. The priest sat down and listened to Gram's turmoil, and heard her pleas for help. He expressed understanding and concern for her plight; but gently laid down some otherwise gruff counsel:
"Agnes, I cannot tell you how to feel. And I cannot tell you why you are in this situation. I certainly cannot tell you why you have been given this child who has so many needs. But I can tell you that God only gives special hurdles to those He knows can handle them. He gave Mike to you because He knew you, and only you, were fit for the job."
Grandma, as she has always done, lifted her chin and went on to love her children just as much as any woman loves her children.
She went on with life and did the best she could.
I presume years later when her mother---the woman who instilled this sense of hard work and sacrafice---broke her hip and was forced into a nursing home---that my grandmother must have felt a tremendous sense of guilt because she, herself, was not capable of caring for her mother. Great Grandma was a heavy woman and had special needs moving around and such; therefore, a nursing home suited those needs best.
My grandmother has been a caretaker ever since I have known her all my 35 years. She gives and gives and gives and receives nothing in return---hardly a thanks! Rarely an acknowledgement. And no matter how much I try to express my opinion that she should think about herself for a change, this woman assures me that she is not made up of the stuff that is self-serving. God expects us to be there for another human being, for that is our way to heaven.
Of course, Gram and my religious opinions are different (and undiscussed!); but often I wonder if my own sense of self has been developed by spending so much time with her over the years. She is my best girlfriend, the mother figure I did not have with my own mother, my mentor, my confidant and the keeper of all of my secrets. As much as I differ from her in opinion, I do think on many levels I define my worth by how much work I can do caretaking, providing, servicing, etc.
According to Gram: "A good woman" does many things
She cooks, cleans, budgets, plans retirements, raises the children, asks for nothing, dosen't get angry, forgives the same sin a thousand times, repents when she cannot forgive, gives charitably, expects nothing, physically works to stay in shape so her man will always come home and desire her, mends by hand, attends church every Sunday, and walks away instead of exchanging ill words.
Basically, I translate this into a "Good Woman takes it in the ass".
But I never tell her this, of course. She'd kill me.
It is only recently that I have discovered the need to define myself outside of my grandmother. Though she is so important to me, I have realized that I do not need to be her in order to be that "Good Woman". I am not only worth what I can give, as my friend Lisa told me today. While some women may read this and call me crazy for even speculating on this, it is difficult for me to find that sense of self when I have only been praised by how hard I work or how much I give or how well I keep my temper to myself.
Today, for example, is one of those days I am wondering if I am really worth anything at all. It is nearly 2 in the afternoon, and I am still in my pajamas, because I have spent the entire day sitting in this recliner chatting with my girlfriend and writing this blog. My house, currently, is a disaster; and truthfully I don't see that improving anytime soon because I don't phsycially feel all that well. Plus, there are craft projects and movies that are screaming at me to participate in creating and watching. I also have a book I would like to finish tonight.
I don't even know what I am making for dinner. I may even order something in for the second night in a row. My Christmas shopping isn't finished. My hair is a mess. There is a mountain of laundry at the top of the stairs that I'm stepping over and totally ignoring.
Because I just don't feel like doing it.
If I told Gram that, she would go to church and light a candle for my soul's salvation.
Because I am not a "Good Woman".
What Gram dosen't realize is that I remember a part of her life's story that she dosen't think is very important. However, it is my favorite part----the part I keep in my back pocket for self esteem back-up.
My great grandmother spent several years in a nursing home. She was so angry for being put there, that, according to Gram, she didn't speak to a soul for years. She quit talking! The woman was that stubborn, and that pissed off, that she quit talking to her own children. She even quit talking to my own mother, her own grandaughter!
And then I was born on Christmas Day of 1974. When I was old enough to be taken out, Gram thought it would be good for Great Gram's to see me....a new baby.
And when they placed me in her arms, for the first time in the five years, this old, angry, bitter woman who worked herself to near death all of her life, did something no one thought she would ever do.
I was the only thing to make her smile.
Though she never did speak to anyone, I was continuously brought back to the nursing home for visits for several years. I have vague memory of visiting her.....going up and giving her a hug in the group room. I would wear my red tapdancing shoes, and would dance around in circles like some little Shirley Temple. I remember all of those old folks laughing and smiling at me.
Most of all, I remember Great Gramma Benko laughing too.
And I was the only one who could do that....make her smile.
By just being me.
A "Good Woman" isn't defined by her work, her giving, her caretaking, her abilities, whatever. What IS a "Good Woman" exactly? Can one even be defined? Do we have to walk 5 miles in subzero temps to be a person worthy of love and attention? Do we have to repent every sinful thought in order to be loved in God's(s), Goddess's, eyes? Do we have to perform some noteworthy task---become someone memorable in books or history---become selfless martyrs---for someone to deem us special?
Would my grandmothers still be loved by me even if they were not hardworking individuals?
Of course I would. I love them because they simply are.
And so today I choose to seperate myself, lovingly, from my grandmother. She is who she is, and I love her. But I am who I am---whomever that is---and I too, deserve to be loved and cherished simply because I am.
And I thank my Great Grandmother for the gift of her smile---the purest and most precious evidence that nothing more than my birth was reason to feel joy.
I am worthy and lovable because I was born.
My Christmas gift to you today cannot be smelled through cinnamon or viewed by candlelight. It must be felt. I wish for you to look at your true nature---not what you do or provide or give---but who are you in the deepest reaches of you---separate of what you were taught or how you were molded and influenced.
and know that I am smiling as you dance for whatever reasons you wish to dance for.
And I understand where she gets it. Her mother came to the States from Hungry, married a Polish immigrant; and together my great-grandparents tried to make a life together in industrial northwest Indiana. They bore nine children, the first eight being boys; and the last, my grandmother---the youngest and only girl---was immediately cursed simply by being born female, based on old eastern European culture. When my grandmother was just six years old, her father had a terrible accident as he fell a great distance in the steel mill, crushing the side of his skull. Back then, they did not have the medical advancements capable of offering a recovery. Instead, they "patched him up" and sent him home. When he began to see and hear things, behave aggressively and speak senselessly, it was assumed that he had gone 'crazy' rather than assuming these symptoms were a result of severe brain injury. Common for those times, he was institutionalized and my great grandmother was forced to work and raise her nine childen on nothing more than a meager income and a few farm animals.
As the only girl, my grandmother was not educated past the sixth grade. Instead, she was forced to help her mother care for the house, the cooking, the animals, and the welfare of her eight older brothers, who all received educations as well as worked to contribute to the household income. Grandma tells me that as a girl growing up, she could get away with nothing, because she always had her brothers chasing after her telling her to get home! Work needed to be done! A poor, chubby girl with little opportunity for friends or the thrill of boyfriends, was literally forced to be a caretaker from the beginning of her life.
Sometimes Gram tells me that her mother was very stern, and did not show much love or affection--and definitely not much appreciation. The boys were the most important because they were providers, especially during the Great Depression and the years that followed. It felt to her as if the boys were more important, and often she was left feeling resentful and unloved.
But then Gram tells me about her mother, and how diligently this woman worked herself to provide for the family. As I am learning myself, this portion of the country suffers brutal winters, and my great grandmother would walk several miles back and forth every day, for an income of change doing laundry for a small business.
I can hardly stand walking through the parking lot at the mall when it is this cold, much less miles. Every single day.
And then coming home to cook whatever parts of the animals were available.....parts I cannot fathom eating even if I were starving. Cleaning. Paying the bills. And still maintaing what my Grandmother says is an "incredible sense of safety and family".
"I always knew my mother loved me", Grandma says, "because she worked like a dog and was treated like a dog just so she could keep food on the table for us".
Grandma grew up and fell in love with my grandfather, a young and insanely handsome airman in the Air Force...also the child of Polish immigrants. Together they married and began their life stationed in Germany, followed shortly by the birth of their first child, Tommy. Since money was short (isn't it always in the military?) they prided themselves on buying a trailer. A home on wheels they could take wherever the air force demanded they would be. I have several pictures of both my grandparents....young and gorgeous and happy....standing in front of their little tiny metal trailer as if they had just bought a million dollar home.
Just weeks later, Tommy died of "complications". Several miscarriages were soon to follow.
When my mother was born, she was the apple of Grandpa's eye. His Little Princess. His Perfect Baby Girl. And when my Uncle Mike was born a couple of years later, something wasn't right with his health. After taking him to the doctor, they were informed that Mike had Cerebral Palsy.
Grandma has told me this story a thousand times; but I never tire of hearing it. She tells me that she was devastated upon learning of Mike's condition, and was terrified as to how in the world she would care for someone who would need so very much more than a "normal child". As a devout Catholic, she wandered through the park one day, sat on a bench, and sobbed...angry with God for doing this to her. She was overwhelmed, terrified, and tired.....her whole life had been so hard! Like so many of us at one point or another, she had reached her limit of hardship.
It just so happened that the priest from her church strolled by in the very same park. He had no idea why Gram was crying, or even where she had been for several weeks. Gram was so angry with God she had not been attending Sunday mass. The priest sat down and listened to Gram's turmoil, and heard her pleas for help. He expressed understanding and concern for her plight; but gently laid down some otherwise gruff counsel:
"Agnes, I cannot tell you how to feel. And I cannot tell you why you are in this situation. I certainly cannot tell you why you have been given this child who has so many needs. But I can tell you that God only gives special hurdles to those He knows can handle them. He gave Mike to you because He knew you, and only you, were fit for the job."
Grandma, as she has always done, lifted her chin and went on to love her children just as much as any woman loves her children.
She went on with life and did the best she could.
I presume years later when her mother---the woman who instilled this sense of hard work and sacrafice---broke her hip and was forced into a nursing home---that my grandmother must have felt a tremendous sense of guilt because she, herself, was not capable of caring for her mother. Great Grandma was a heavy woman and had special needs moving around and such; therefore, a nursing home suited those needs best.
My grandmother has been a caretaker ever since I have known her all my 35 years. She gives and gives and gives and receives nothing in return---hardly a thanks! Rarely an acknowledgement. And no matter how much I try to express my opinion that she should think about herself for a change, this woman assures me that she is not made up of the stuff that is self-serving. God expects us to be there for another human being, for that is our way to heaven.
Of course, Gram and my religious opinions are different (and undiscussed!); but often I wonder if my own sense of self has been developed by spending so much time with her over the years. She is my best girlfriend, the mother figure I did not have with my own mother, my mentor, my confidant and the keeper of all of my secrets. As much as I differ from her in opinion, I do think on many levels I define my worth by how much work I can do caretaking, providing, servicing, etc.
According to Gram: "A good woman" does many things
She cooks, cleans, budgets, plans retirements, raises the children, asks for nothing, dosen't get angry, forgives the same sin a thousand times, repents when she cannot forgive, gives charitably, expects nothing, physically works to stay in shape so her man will always come home and desire her, mends by hand, attends church every Sunday, and walks away instead of exchanging ill words.
Basically, I translate this into a "Good Woman takes it in the ass".
But I never tell her this, of course. She'd kill me.
It is only recently that I have discovered the need to define myself outside of my grandmother. Though she is so important to me, I have realized that I do not need to be her in order to be that "Good Woman". I am not only worth what I can give, as my friend Lisa told me today. While some women may read this and call me crazy for even speculating on this, it is difficult for me to find that sense of self when I have only been praised by how hard I work or how much I give or how well I keep my temper to myself.
Today, for example, is one of those days I am wondering if I am really worth anything at all. It is nearly 2 in the afternoon, and I am still in my pajamas, because I have spent the entire day sitting in this recliner chatting with my girlfriend and writing this blog. My house, currently, is a disaster; and truthfully I don't see that improving anytime soon because I don't phsycially feel all that well. Plus, there are craft projects and movies that are screaming at me to participate in creating and watching. I also have a book I would like to finish tonight.
I don't even know what I am making for dinner. I may even order something in for the second night in a row. My Christmas shopping isn't finished. My hair is a mess. There is a mountain of laundry at the top of the stairs that I'm stepping over and totally ignoring.
Because I just don't feel like doing it.
If I told Gram that, she would go to church and light a candle for my soul's salvation.
Because I am not a "Good Woman".
What Gram dosen't realize is that I remember a part of her life's story that she dosen't think is very important. However, it is my favorite part----the part I keep in my back pocket for self esteem back-up.
My great grandmother spent several years in a nursing home. She was so angry for being put there, that, according to Gram, she didn't speak to a soul for years. She quit talking! The woman was that stubborn, and that pissed off, that she quit talking to her own children. She even quit talking to my own mother, her own grandaughter!
And then I was born on Christmas Day of 1974. When I was old enough to be taken out, Gram thought it would be good for Great Gram's to see me....a new baby.
And when they placed me in her arms, for the first time in the five years, this old, angry, bitter woman who worked herself to near death all of her life, did something no one thought she would ever do.
I was the only thing to make her smile.
Though she never did speak to anyone, I was continuously brought back to the nursing home for visits for several years. I have vague memory of visiting her.....going up and giving her a hug in the group room. I would wear my red tapdancing shoes, and would dance around in circles like some little Shirley Temple. I remember all of those old folks laughing and smiling at me.
Most of all, I remember Great Gramma Benko laughing too.
And I was the only one who could do that....make her smile.
By just being me.
A "Good Woman" isn't defined by her work, her giving, her caretaking, her abilities, whatever. What IS a "Good Woman" exactly? Can one even be defined? Do we have to walk 5 miles in subzero temps to be a person worthy of love and attention? Do we have to repent every sinful thought in order to be loved in God's(s), Goddess's, eyes? Do we have to perform some noteworthy task---become someone memorable in books or history---become selfless martyrs---for someone to deem us special?
Would my grandmothers still be loved by me even if they were not hardworking individuals?
Of course I would. I love them because they simply are.
And so today I choose to seperate myself, lovingly, from my grandmother. She is who she is, and I love her. But I am who I am---whomever that is---and I too, deserve to be loved and cherished simply because I am.
And I thank my Great Grandmother for the gift of her smile---the purest and most precious evidence that nothing more than my birth was reason to feel joy.
I am worthy and lovable because I was born.
My Christmas gift to you today cannot be smelled through cinnamon or viewed by candlelight. It must be felt. I wish for you to look at your true nature---not what you do or provide or give---but who are you in the deepest reaches of you---separate of what you were taught or how you were molded and influenced.
and know that I am smiling as you dance for whatever reasons you wish to dance for.
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