Wednesday, July 26, 2017
My brain is jumping around, and I'm trying to find a good starting point to branch off on. I have a million thoughts running around in this mind of mine, and I can't seem to find one to truly grasp and run with. I can't say my brain has felt quite this chaotic since starting on Lithium a few months ago.
Ahhh, Lithium. I guess we can start there. I was recently diagnosed with Rapid Cycling Bipolar II Disorder. Long story short, I cycle through happier than normal moods and depressive moods faster than most people, and the depressive moods can have a large impact on my personal relationships, overall productivity, and sense of worth. There is no cure for bipolar disorder, just treatment and maintenance. I was prescribed Lithium, a drug commonly used to treat my disorder. It's actually a naturally occurring salt, and it used to be sold on store selves until people started to overdose on it. You see, since it's a salt, you have to make sure you're staying hydrated while taking it, and you also have to use regular table salt on your food because your body can confuse Lithium for the regular stuff, hoard it, and cause you to overdose on it that way. No low salt diet for this gal! Lithium is supposed to help me stay more level, "normal" if you will, and for the most part it works... but not always.
I've been feeling pretty okay on Lithium. I'm on a fairly low dose, BARELY in the therapeutic range that medical professionals claim you should be in, but if I take any more than what I am currently on, I am no better than a zombie. I can fake my way through a work day, but once I get home the exhaustion overcomes me and I could pass out on the living room floor while my three year old, two year old, and 10 month old crawl over my snoring body. Not feeling like a steaming pile of shit is great, but not at the cost of being unable to function and care for my kids, so low dose it is. And it works. Until my period starts.
I haven't been taking Lithium very long, just for a few months, but long enough to notice that once my period roles around, I might as well not even be taking the Lithium, and I become very stressed and depressed. Lithium can't seem to combat the hormones my body releases during my period, and I'm left feeling so low I don't even want to get out of my bed. I simply want to pull the covers over me and pretend the world does not exist, and sleep for days because if I'm asleep, I don't have to deal with anything, anyone, or myself. I become easily irritable, get angry at the drop of a hat (and know I'm being unfair in my anger which causes me to feel like a horrible person, which in turn makes me angrier), dwell on every little thing in my life that I feel is unfair, and overall hate who I am and wonder why anyone puts up with me and wouldn't blame them for leaving me. It's got me wondering if maybe my psychiatrist doesn't need to also put me on another medication, or if we need to experiment with me upping my Lithium levels during my period. Because this person I am right now? She needs to go.
I have a lot of stressors in my life, I do. I don't think anyone can deny that. I have a LOT on my plate on the daily. Not only am I raising three very young boys of my own, I'm also raising two teenagers part of the time and coordinating between two households, trying to maintain the peace and get everyone to co-parent without undermining either house, plus working full-time, trying to avoid falling into crippling debt, keep my household from falling down around my ears, and do all the other million and one things that come with being an adult, a wife, and a mother. I need to be able to manage my stress, not have my stress manage me, which means I need treatments that work.
I also think I need to find more time to write. It's so incredibly hard to find the time without having to sacrifice something somewhere else, but I enjoy it. It makes me feel better. It helps reduce some of the chaos in my mind because I don't have all the words racing around up there looking for somewhere to go, constantly shouting at me until I acknowledge them. That may not make sense to a lot of you, but it will make perfect sense to some of you.
I feel a bit better having gotten this down. Thanks for reading.
Sunday, December 4, 2016
I think I was about 8 or 9 years old when I learned the truth about Santa Claus.
I was spending time with my father, running errands around town, when we stopped in at a Radio Shack. My dad struck up a conversation with the clerk, and he brought up the fact that he'd bought a kareoke machine from that location the previous year, how the family was liking it, etc. Now, I'd already had some suspicions about the legitimacy of Ol' Saint Nick, but my fathers casual conversation that day sealed the deal. We'd been told the karaoke machine came from Santa, now I knew the truth. When I confronted my dad once we'd returned to the car, all he could say was, "Don't tell your sisters."
Whether or not I'd tell my kids there is a Santa Claus never really crossed my mind until I became a parent. By the time I married my husband, my bonus kids pretty much already knew he didn't exist, so it wasn't something I had to deal with. Then I gave birth to my first child, and when that first Christmas rolled around, I realized that whether or not Santa existed in our home was a choice I was going to have to make someday, and that it was something I was going to need to really think about.
I don't recall feeling devastated when I found out about Santa. As I said, I'd already had my suspicions, and finding out the truth about the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy quickly followed. When I confided in my older sister, I learned she'd pretty much come to the same conclusions I'd had, and neither of us were too upset. I do vividly recall however how inconsolable my little sister was when she found out about the Easter Bunny. Why my mother chose to tell her in the middle of Kmart I've no idea, but the stares of passersby as she tried to calm my sisters heartbroken cries likely caused her to quickly regret that decision. The truth about Santa soon followed, accompanied by more heartache.
As my two year olds third Christmas quickly approaches, I've found myself contemplating more and more on whether or not I will tell my boys there is a Santa. When I mentioned to my father that I didn't think I would do things like Santa, the Easter Bunny, or the Tooth Fairy with my kids, I got a roll of the eyes and a shake of the head as a response. Guess I know his thoughts.
I spoke with my husband today and finally voiced what is in my heart. I don't want Santa for my sons. Why? The reason really boils down to this: I don't want to lie to my kids. I don't want the heartbreak they may suffer from finding a beloved idea is a work of fiction, and I don't want the betrayal they may feel knowing mommy and daddy intentionally told them something that wasn't true. There may be times in my life where lying to my kids may be my only option (though I certainly hope that is never the case), but this isn't one of those times. I am in no way judging any parents who choose to tell their children Santa exists, its just not something I feel I can do.
I didn't arrive at this decision lightly. I want my kids to enjoy the magic of the season and the wonder this time of year can bring. I want Christmas to be a time of love, laughter, and special moments, and I believe that can be accomplished without the assistance of Mr. Claus. I took into consideration my sisters heartbreak, my daughter telling me how upset and betrayed she felt upon learning the truth, and stories from friends about how their children reacted when they were told. I thought about how some kids get expensive gifts from the man in red, how some get clothes, and how some get "forgotten". I fought with myself, on the other handed, hemmed and hawed, and in the end kept coming back to the same conclusion. Sorry Santa, but ya gotta go.
My sons will be raised without Father Christmas, but they will also be raised to not ruin Santa for the children who do believe. I remember fighting as a child with a friend whose family didn't believe in Santa, vehemently insisting my parents wouldn't lie to me, as they just as passionately insisted he didn't exist, and there's no need for that. Just because he's not right for us, doesn't mean he's not right for someone else's home.
Santa won't be leaving any gifts under our tree this year, or any year. We will still sing songs about him, watch Santa themed movies, and maybe even take photos at the mall because I do think it's part of the fun. Just as dragons and faeries are fun to pretend, so is Santa. But he doesn't have to be real for us to have a merry Christmas.
Tuesday, August 2, 2016
Truth is, I'm not sure. At some point in the last three to four years, I've slowly turned more and more into a whiny, cantankerous witch, and I don't like it. I tell myself I don't like it, I tell myself I'm going to change, I try to be more positive for a few days, then something happens and there I go again, complaining like a two year old that was told I can't have a popsicle for lunch.
Granted, a LOT has happened to me in the last few years. I moved out of my fathers house and into a rental home (which my dad owns), got married and instantly became a mother to three kids, became pregnant with my first child (and have basically been pregnant non-stop since then with 6 month gaps between kids), bought my first car, had two of my step kids move back with their mom, lost multiple sources of income, and ultimately lost my job due to massive lay-offs, which has lead to us going on WIC and will likely eventually have to apply for food stamps because I cant seem to figure out how to support my household on $300 a month and still pay all our bills, and there's no point in trying to get another job because I've got three kids under three come September, and with the cost of childcare I'd have to earn above minimum wage and work full time, and my local economy can't offer a job like that. So, yeah, a lot.
With all that living and learning and losing and stressing in the last few years, I've also lost a lot of what made me... me. I used to sing, draw, take photos, write, go on spur of the moment adventures, do things just because, and tried to live life to the fullest. Now my life revolves around my husband and my kids, and the most exciting thing I do all day is play, "Guess what died in the sippy cup" and "Dear God, what's under the couch?!" and man, it's hard! I love my kids, wouldn't change having gotten married and becoming a mother for the world, but I have moments where I dream about what it would be like to have my "old life" back for just a moment, and then I deal with the guilt that inevitably comes with even thinking those thoughts.
Speaking of guilt, I never realized just how much GUILT comes with being a mother before I became one. It's ridiculous! You feel guilty for every little thing, even something as simple as taking a five minute shower by yourself can induce guilt because you're kids start crying as soon as they realize they can't "play in the water" with you. Heaven forbid you close the bathroom door to take a poo. The sounds coming from your kids of utter abandonment are enough to make you feel like you've committed an unforgivable sin. And now I'm writing this blog post one handed because my teething one year old needs me to hold him, and my two year old is using some toy as a "hungry monster" trying to eat my shirt, so I should probably take the hint and wrap this up.
The conclusion to all this is, well, I guess there isn't one. I'll try to be more positive and I'll inevitable find something new to whine about in a few days (if not this evening). It's been hard to find out who I am since I got married, because my entire sense of self has revolved around either my family or my job, and now I'm a stay at home mom and my days revolve around little Napoleons and I don't see that ending any time soon. My husband bless his heart tries to help me and wouldn't deny me a night out or a hobby, but that just revolves back to that whole "guilt" thing again. Is there a happy medium for me? Who knows, guess I'll have to keep trying to find out.
Thursday, March 24, 2016
― Aisha Mirza
“The past is behind us," said Boudicca,"but the difficulty there is we keep looking over our shoulders.”
― Michelle Franklin
I am a child of abuse.
There. I said it. I've touched on it over the years, mentioned it to friends here and there, but I've never actually said the words.
I often downplay the abuse in my mind, tell myself it was nothing compared to what others have experienced, that I shouldn't really talk about it, that it was "normal", that there's no point in bringing up the "sins" of the dead, etc.
But it affects every single day of my life. It affects how I view myself as a person, as a mother. It's the vicious voice in my head that tells me I'm not good enough. It is the voice of my mother, a person who should have protected me, not hurt me.
My mother... well, she had a lot of demons. She herself was the child of abuse. She was often verbally and emotionally abused, was beaten, and came from a broken home. She married very young in an effort to escape an abusive father (who likely came from a long line of abusers based on the stories I've heard of his childhood), only to end up in an unhappy first marriage that resulted in a divorce. She suffered a miscarriage during her life and buried another child. She also suffered from a multitude of health problems which required a variety of medications that slowly killed her in some ways while keeping her alive in others, and which ended up ultimately contributing to her sudden death.
None of the items above excuse my mother from the abuse she put myself and my sisters through (my brother has never spoken of any abuse, and he had left the home by the time I can remember the abuse starting, which is why he's not mentioned), but they have helped me work towards forgiving her over the years. I love her and in ways I miss her, and I no longer blame her for the things she said and did. I don't even blame my grandfather anymore, though I did for years after her death (and the comments he made about her RIGHT after we left the hospital where she'd been pronounced dead only fed that blame), but I still live with invisible scars. Forgiveness does not always equal healing.
A few instances of abuse from my childhood stick out quite vividly in my mind... The time I told her I wanted to go to a public school (I was home-schooled partly due to my mothers health issues) and how ANGRY she became. She called me names, recited a cruel rhyme of, "Fatty fatty two-by-four, can't get through the kitchen door" that she heard in her childhood and told me that is what I'd hear in school because of my weight, and verbally abused me throughout that day. My older sister (who often was a target of my mothers abuse) urged me to apologize, to tell our mother that I didn't mean it, that we make her a cup of tea as a peace offering and try to sooth her anger.
The time she'd gotten angry at me for some reason I can't recall, and said to me that she'd found items in my room that, "Shocked her as to the kind of person that I was.". That ate at me for the longest time until I finally had the nerve to ask her what she could have possibly found that caused her to be so repulsed by me. Her response? "Oh, I don't know. I likely just said it to hurt you.". My mother often said cruel things just for the sake of being cruel, and I can't ever recall a time where she apologized for it.
The time she slapped me because I "looked" at her wrong.
The time she screamed at and punished me because I didn't freeze some spaghetti sauce that I didn't know I was supposed to freeze.
The time I stood between her and my older sister as she held a belt, and she threatened to let our dogs out, and that it would be my fault because I made her do it.
The time she screamed at and said horrible things to me because I refused to give her a large bowl of ice cream, regardless that my reason was because she was diabetic and I felt I was contributing to what would be her eventual death by giving in to her commands (when she died I felt extreme guilt over not standing up to her more often when she'd ask me to do things that I knew would harm her. I felt like I'd killed her because I was too much of a coward to say no).
Getting yelled at because I didn't put the paper towel or toilet paper roll on the "right" way, or not folding the towels correctly.
The time I stood in the way when she was going to force my older sister to pick up dog poop with her bare hands and I managed to at least get her to be able to wear gloves when I couldn't make the punishment stop completely.
That my mother let me physically and emotionally abuse my older sister and let me think it was normal because I saw my mother do it, that I was encouraged to do it, that I didn't realize it was wrong until I overheard my aunt tell my mother that the way I treated my sister was wrong and my mother told her to butt out, and the guilt I feel over my actions to this day.
Why am I writing this? Why am I talking about this? Because. Because my childhood affects me every day. Because I live in fear that the abuse won't end with me. Because I contemplated suicide as a teenager because of it and the only thing that stopped me as I held that bottle of sleeping pills in my hand was the fear of going to hell. Because I'm terrified every time I become frustrated with my children that I will turn into my mother. Because I second guess myself constantly as a parent on whether I'm being fair or if I'm being cruel when it comes to punishment. Because the voice I hear that feeds my poor self esteem and fear of failure is my mothers and I don't know how to make it stop. Because I tell myself NOT to talk about it, that it doesn't matter, that I'm just whining and I should shut up. Because abuse is abuse, no matter it's shape or form.
The abuse I suffered as a child is something I have to live with and work through every day. It has shaped who I am as a person. The pain from abuse lingers long after the abuse has ended. Our words and actions leave lasting imprints on those around us, and we need to be mindful of this fact.
I am a child of abuse. I am a fighter. I am a survivor. I want a better life for my children, my family, and myself. I want the abuse to end with me. I never want my children to ever feel what I have felt. I don't want my brokenness to break them. I don't want history to repeat itself.
I want to be free.
Sunday, July 26, 2015
Monday, July 13, 2015
Sunday, July 12, 2015
Phineas and Ferb generally has two story lines going on at once. The first being that Phineas and Ferb are always inventing new ways to pass the summer days, which usually involves the construction of large and incredible devices. Their sister Candace is always unsuccessfully trying to bust them and expose their crazy inventions to their mother. She always fails at bringing their mother into the light because whatever happens to have been invented that day seems to magically disappear (either by destruction or relocation) right before mom arrives on the scene. The disappearance of their inventions ties into the secondary plot line, that of the never-ending fight between Perry, the crime fighting secret agent platypus (the pet of Phineas and Ferb, who have no clue he leads a double life), and the evil and inept Dr. Doofenshmirtz. Doofenshmirtz is constantly plotting to take over the Tri-State area (using various "evil" inventions, all ending with "inator") where all the characters live. Perry always foils Dr. Doofenshmirtz plans, during which their fights somehow cause any traces of Phineas and Ferbs antics to vanish before they can be exposed.
Have enough backstory to follow the rest of this post now? Yes? Good. Lets proceed.
I happen to be a person who can be very sensitive to the moods of those I'm close to, and last night my husband came home tired and annoyed from a long day at work. His mood rubbed off on me, and I began getting overly aggravated over everything. Now I was getting on my OWN nerves, and found myself wishing I could phone up Dr. Doofenshmirtz with a few "inator" ideas of my own. He could use them to take over the Tri-State area, and I could use them on my family! Win Win! My only requirement for the use of my ideas is that I get miniature versions to take home.
Number 1: "The Good Mood-inator"
A fairly simple and I feel self explanatory device. You simply take aim at someone who is in a bad mood, and ZAP!, they are suddenly in a good mood! Doof, buddy, just shoot the Tri-State area with this baby and with everyone now in a good mood, the thought of you taking over the Tri-State area will seem like a great one! It can't fail! I mean, it CAN should Perry decide to show up, but hey, that's your problem.
Number 2: "The Nap-inator"
How brilliant is this one, right? You can use it to put the entire Tri-State area to sleep, and I can use it to get my toddler to go down without a fuss! You take over as supreme ruler while everyone is catching some zzz's, and I can drink a cup of coffee in peace. Sounds good to me!
Number 3: "The Chore-inator"
Just think about how CLEAN your laboratory will be after you shoot Perry with a device that makes him helpless but to do chores! While he's busy cleaning up after your latest fight, you can devote all your focus onto taking over the Tri-State area without interruption! And I can use it on my teenagers so they'll finally start cleaning up after themselves on a regular basis.
Trust me Doofenshmirtz, with devices like these, you'll have no problem taking over.You'll win the hearts and minds of all the parents in entire Tri-State area, and that's most of the battle right there! So, what do you say, do we have a deal?
Honestly, I really could have used those first two devices while writing this blog post. It's taken me about 4 hours to write because I've had to stop to deal with a fussy toddler, clean up after a decimated roll, avoid explosive poop, and I've shouted, "No!" I don't know how many times. Honestly, I'm a bit parched. Can we add an "Instant Drink-inator" to this list?
~ Lady A