Tuesday, March 31, 2009
I first met Lorna when we were both in labour in the hospital. She had her daughter two hours before I had my son, and that really set the tone for our friendship.
Being friends with Lorna was like going back to high school and having the most popular, pretty girl suddenly decide she wants you as a friend. You can't really understand why, you're not part of the popular set, but you're too flattered to really think it through and wonder if being friends with her is a good idea.
As the years passed we would get together every now and then, but it's not something I really enjoyed - Lorna was always so perfect in every way, and she loved to let me know it. She could be alternately interesting and wonderful, then turn patronizing and mean. Slowly our friendship dwindled until we stopped seeing one another altogether.
Then she phoned me out of the blue - she was interviewing for my old job and wanted the real scoop on my boss. I told her to steer clear and she did. A couple years later I was looking for a job close to home, so I phoned her and asked whether her place was hiring. She informed me that it wasn't at that time, and that I would not be paid well with my experience anyway. Then a few months later she called me and said there was an opening, and I should drop off my resume. I did so and was hired very quickly.
It was strange working with Lorna - again, she alternated between being my best buddy and trying to embarass me. I made more money than her because I had post-secondary education, which she did not. She let me know on more than one occassion that this urked her, even though she could easily have chosen to attain her designation as well. I remember failing an exam once and her asking me if I was ashamed. This was the type of person she was. She also had her little group of people she liked and if you didn't belong to this group, beware. She had a charm that made everyone want to be her friend, but there was a price to pay. She once told me "keep your friends close and your enemies closer".
She worked very closely with one of the bosses - it became very apparent after a while that they were having an affair (they were both married). Finally, they decided to leave the company and open their own place. After a few months they asked me to join them - I was wary but thought it could be a good move for me career wise. So I made the move. On my first day there I knew I was doomed - the boss (her now boyfriend) told me that he was not "kicking Lorna out of her office" (apparently there was only one office - I had no idea he would need to ask her to vacate it, this was just the terms of our agreement) nor did he have any work for me (yet this was the day we both agreed I would start). I was very upset and he could see it, so he quickly found some work and asked Lorna to move.
At one point on my first day I asked Lorna if there was a spare calendar I could have - she abruptly told me she was not my secretary and that I would have to find one myself but that the firm would not pay for it.
I struggled along for 5 months telling myself it would get better, and then my father-in-law had a heart attack. He was dying and I needed to be at the hospital. I phoned my boss and he was completely supportive and told me to take the next week off. I also had an exam to write which I had been studying months for - my husband urged me to write the exam even with all the upset that was going on. They day of the exam (3 days after my father-in-law passed away), Lorna phones me at home to ask why I wasn't at work and that piles of work were building up and that the boss was not happy about it. I immediately told Lorna I wanted to talk to the boss, and she said he was out of the office and would call me back. He called back 2 hours later and said that he completely supported that Lorna called me and what she said. I was speechless! When I asked him about the fact he and I agreed that it would be ok for me to be off for a while to help with the funeral arrangements and write the exam, he just kept repeating that he supported Lorna.
I knew my time was done there, and I came into the office and told him so. I finished there a week later and the boss at my old firm, which is upstairs in the same building, immediately offered me my old job back. I took it - that was 4 years ago and I couldn't be happier that I did. But here's the problem - whenever I see Lorna on the street, she pretends I don't exist. She came upstairs to our firm to drop off a piece of mail and I said hello and she gave me the most evil look. Later I received an email from her stating that "she knew who I really was and to not pretend otherwise".
Keep in mind I left there four years ago. The anger and bitterness that pours off this woman is unbelievable. I know she must be desperately unhappy to act this way. Recently I was crossing the street with my business partner and she was coming towards us - she looked up and said "hello Pat" to him and didn't acknowledge me at all.
This makes it quite uncomfortable every time I see her, which is often because we work in the same building. There is no way I want to be friends with her, but to just live in harmony would be welcome. Should I continue to say hello when I see her (which is what I have been doing, in spite of the fact she completely ignores me). I have no intention of talking to her about this, it just wouldn't work. She dislikes me to my very core because I chose to leave. I guess I'm the exception to her "keep your enemies closer" rule....it's a weird experience as an adult having someone act this way towards you.
Monday, March 30, 2009
I hate talking to you about money. The situation we are in is not my fault. I am thrifty and I don't go out an blow a whole lot of money on just any old thing. We have struggled our whole marriage with money issues. You always have to have the latest and greatest new techno gadget. Do you ever think of putting something I want before you getting a new phone? No. Which I know means that you will have that new phone you want and I will get nothing once again.
We make more money right now than we ever have in our married life. I know that we just moved into our apartment and are still getting back on our feet from you losing your job in Aug. So I know better than you give me credit for where we stand. However it is not my fault when you spend money, even if it is for something that we need like cat food, that you don't put it into the checkbook. I don't spend money without letting you know what I have spent. I know it sucks that this month my job has cut my hours. But it does not seem to get through your head that I was never guaranteed 40 hrs a week. I work for a temp agency. When business demands are down, I have to take a cut in hours. This job, even with less hours is still better than me working in retail, which is where all of my work experience is. So I am grateful that I was given a chance at working an office job. I am grateful to have a job that pays well more than the minimum wage.
So I will take back the stuff that I bought today for the kids to make Christmas presents for the family. Because I hate to hear you speak to me in that tone of voice that you have. Though you would say you don't have a harsh tone of voice, you never speak to me or the kids in a manner that you think is wrong. The minute I even get the slightest bit frustrated with one of the kids you make me feel like scum of the earth for being that way. So I will take back the stuff. I already have one thing for you for Christmas. I can't take it back because I didn't buy it. So you will still get a gift under the tree(well if we had a tree but we don't since that got left behind when you packed our stuff).(That is a whole other post). But another Christmas will go by and I know that there will be nothing under the tree for me from you or from the kids because if you think we don't have any money you can't come up with something creative, you just don't so anything.
I do hope that when your parents visit that they do give us some money. But even if they do I am still taking the stuff back.
-A very sad and frustrated wife
Thursday, March 26, 2009
I loved you.
I admit it now easily, casually, as if this fact should surprise no one. But it surprised me. Was I the only one who didn't know? When my mother, friends and co-workers prodded me and tried to understand what was going on between us, I denied then that I loved you. "He's amazing, but we're just friends" I said. Then to prove that things were platonic between us, I would date. Not much and not seriously but enough to keep the questions at bay. And yet, I was destroyed when you moved away. In the months leading up to your departure I had come to a point where I'd finally given up on the pretense of seeing other people. We weren't with each other, but we certainly weren't with anyone else either. How could I be with someone else when I was always with you? It was confusing and addictive. You were, after all, my best friend.
Then you left. You moved on easily it seemed, without much of a backward glance. Every now and then you would check back to see if the wounds were still fresh, if my heart was still breaking. They were. It was. We didn't talk for months. I was incapable of hearing your voice without feeling a knot in the back of my throat. The tears always came and so I avoided your calls and your emails until I could respond as a friend, as a person who wasn't bent over in grief.
It has been almost two years and we're finally back to being friends, calling on the holidays and periodically checking in on each other's lives. You're happy and finally, I am too. That doesn't mean that I don't miss you, or us. I miss holding you hand on the car ride home. I miss cuddling. I miss relying on you, knowing that I could find your shoulder if I needed to cry. I miss weekend trips to forget the week behind us. I miss silence that was comfortable. I miss the dinners we cooked, the parties we hosted. I miss swearing like a sailor and then in the next breath talking about our issues with the church and with God. I miss being loved by you. I am more than a little terrified that I will never find that kind of love again. For weeks and months the smallest things reminders of you would trigger a blast of tears. I spent months not wanting to move from the couch.
You know so little of this. I didn't tell you then because I was furious with you for leaving. I won't tell you now because the past is too far gone.
Part of moving on, was moving away from the place where all those memories lived. So I packed everything and drove until we were a continent apart. It has been fantastic and challenging and exhausting. On T.V. and in the movies, New York is a city defined by both its grit and its glamor. What no one tells you is that if you're not careful you will lose yourself among the masses. You have to fight to make New York your own, to meet people that are interested in you as a person and not as a means to climb the corporate ladder, to connect at a level beyond some superficial ability to woo one's way into a nightclub. I am happy here, satisfied with where I've landed and the person I've become in the process but still, my world was still brighter and better with you in it. Had you ever bothered to ask, I would have chosen you. I would have chosen us. Finally, you should know that when you call on Christmas, I will smile into the phone and we will tell each other stories from the last few months reveling in the fact that another year has crept by. I will love every minute of our conversation. Still, a small part of me will ache as I hang up the phone. This my dear, dear friend, is just not how I thought things would end for us.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Am I crazy? I think I just might be. My mother was, so it would stand to reason that the Nutso might jump from her branch to mine in the ol’ family tree. (She wasn’t like, dangerous crazy. Not really. I mean, she might have been, given a weapon at the right time, but since that never happened, she was generally not physically harmful. Emotionally, however, is a different story… And that wasn’t intentional. She didn’t mean to be the way she was…)
I’ve wondered for years – since I was old enough to observe that other moms weren’t like mine, and that I wasn’t like other daughters -- if maybe, just maybe, I’m cracking up. Maybe my attic has a few leaks, if you know what I’m saying. The idea scares the ever living shit out of me, the thought of being out of control in the same ways that I witnessed for so many years, the very possibility of harboring that kind of beast inside my brain… Why, it’s enough to make me want to scratch my own face off.
You see, my mom was different. Very large Catholic family. Very, very religious. She thought she heard God’s voice as a child, and she may have. Having never heard it myself, I wouldn’t recognize it and have no reason to brush off her claims. (She was a lot of things, but never a liar.) She was her father’s favorite. They weren’t poor, but were rubbing elbows with it. She married a rich boy straight out of high school, he joined the military, they moved overseas to a small island. He became wildly abusive, attempting to kill her every chance he got. She had my oldest sister in a hospital in Germany, alone, when she was 20 years old. They all moved back to the states, and eventually back to the place my mother was born and her family still lived. Her father was diagnosed with cancer and died. Her husband mocked her pain, and in her rage she found the strength to leave him, although she was no longer… whole. The years of terror and pain and torture had left her already-fragile mind fractured. She was still beautiful, brilliant, vibrant and so brave, but there was something foreign in her mind after that, something that warped her view of herself, the world around her and the people in it... She met my ‘father,’ married him, had my other sister. I believe she then had an affair with a man she never identified to me let alone admitted to being with, and then I was born.
She loved us so much. More than I can even fathom. We were her entire world, my sisters and I, or at least everything in it that was good. That love didn’t keep her whole, though. In fact, it frequently acted as a bludgeon she used to break our hearts and her own. She had two major psychotic breaks that I know of, because I was there for them. I grew up idolizing her, and living in terror that I would become like her. She was everything to me- my fear, my love, my hate, my protector and the person I longed to escape. As I got older, she became one of my best friends, the person I loved more than life. She died three years ago. Cancer. Was diagnosed in January, died in June of the same year… It literally tore her apart. One of her obituaries said “died peacefully after a long battle with cancer.” What a fucking load of shit. It was a horrific, swift massacre. Nothing peaceful or long about that “battle.”
Oh! When she died? I was pregnant. My boyfriend of seven years and I were expecting a baby. A little girl. I was the exact same age my mother had been when she had my oldest sister. Did I mention that we were high school sweethearts, and that he joined the military? Or that he was stationed on an island overseas? And wouldn’t you know, he had this really odd habit of getting violent when I made him angry, which happened a lot. (His hurts were small potatoes next to the torture my mom lived with, but he was gearing up for the big stuff with shocking speed and enthusiasm. However, I’m sure we can all see the parallels between her life and mine.) Yeah… So, she died about 4 and a half months into my pregnancy. I turned to my boyfriend for comfort, he shoved me, I fell and went into early labor. Miscarried a few days later. That was three weeks before my 21st birthday. Four months later, I left him. (I know. Really long time, huh? Well, I probably AM crazy. So duh.)
Then I got together with a guy that was my best friend. He was happy, spiritual, beautiful. He was everything I’d ever wanted. He was more than I ever thought I’d get, given the fact that my stepfather and my mother’s psychosis pounded “you’re shit” into my brain for many, many years. Three years later, he wasn’t even a shadow of the man I’d met and I called our relationship off because I got tired of killing him. We ended up being really terrible for each other… I made him sad, and he made me angry. We both struggle with clinical depression, so… bad combination. I loved him so much, I never thought we’d be apart. Leaving him was the most terrible choice I’ve ever had to make.
Now, there’s this great guy. A guy that’s so peaceful, so mellow, so supportive. I have no idea how to be with him. I’m so far out of my depth that I can’t even see the shore, even though he’s right there with me, encouraging me to swim. You can do this, you can be this, it’s okay, I’m right here. After being on an emotional roller-coaster for nearly 25 years, I don’t know how to stand still. I don’t know how to be sane, or even how to fake it. I know he makes me wildly happy, and that he cares for me and understands my issues as much as he can, and is so loving. I know he quiets the static in my brain and eases the terrible grief in my soul. Yet… every day I find something to dissect, something to pick apart and sharpen and stab myself in the heart with. Something that tells me I’m not good enough, I’m fucking it all up, I’m ruining everything and the sky is about to fall in.
I can’t get out of my own head, I can’t stop the shockwaves that keep pounding me down into the terrible, dark hole I know is waiting just beneath this delicate net he’s woven for me, allowed me to weave for myself. It’s the hole my mother dug, the one she was trapped in for most of her life, the one she pushed me toward and shoved me away from. I see it there and know it like the back of the hands I inherited from her- every detail is etched into my mind. I’ve had a quarter of a century to stare at that hole, to slip into it and claw my way back out. I can’t stop staring at it now, from the corner of my eye, even as I try so hard to focus on this happiness in front of me, this reality that could so easily be mine if I could just fix what’s wrong in my head and heart and quiet the voices that scream out so much terror from the bottom of that pit.
I know that the next time I fall, when the net finally gives, that I’ll never get back out of that terrible darkness again.
I am so scared. I don’t want to be this way.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Friendship with a cousin just bounced right into the street and got squashed by a car.
How great is it to reconnect with people from long ago? Since moving back to home, I've had a lot of this going on. It's amazing how ten years away lets you change and you even find friendships where you didn't expect them.
But sometimes you put in the effort to reconnect, and after a while it's becoming quite evident that while you're all having a good time, you're the one putting in the effort? Months go by and you're still the one initiating the exact phrase, "Hey, I want to get together and see you." You see them be active with others, yet never a word to you.
I've had a few of these in my life. One told me she couldn't be around me because I was getting married and she was getting divorced, it hurt her too much. One of them told me my expectations were too high (she missed 2 playdates and didn't return any calls for over a week). Returning phone calls was too much for me to expect. Another told me it was my responsibility.
I'm familiar with the sign to give up. I know when to cool it. I mourn it. I dream about it. I dream about "high expectations" girl. I also know that sometimes they bounce back and in one instance, stronger than ever.
In fact, recently I got a message on my Voice Mail from one of these old friends, "why don't you come over?" I called back and left a message, "sounds great!" (thinking: It's Bouncin' Back!) And the response back is, "Oh sorry, someone just called and we'll be going with them now."
I know I'm weird... but am I rank? I know I'm more cynical now, but I thought that made me funnier. I've got cute kids you might like. I finally decided if it looks like you're being blown off and it smells like you're being blown off, chances are, you're being blown off. I finally realized that she just doesn't like me... and usually I'd just get over it, but I it's not just any friend... it's family. Yep... a cousin who I grew up with like a sister. She's told me it's my responsibility and goes out of her way to make dates with friends on facebook, but not with me and we even had a talk about how we re-establish things and she has done NOTHING... except the story above about inviting me and then dis-inviting me.
Thanks for the vent.. I was about to post this on mine and a friend advised against it.
Monday, March 23, 2009
He was 18. She was 12. My husband, who could never even hear the kids in the night when they were throwing up, heard the sound of our daughter's doorknob turning. Normally, this would not be cause to get up in the middle of the night but something prompted him. He opened our daughter's bedroom door and there was my 18 year old stepson at her bedside, reaching for her, wearing only his underwear. My husband told him to give him his house key and get out now. He offered no protest. He was gone within minutes. My husband was so angry, he was afraid he would kill him if he touched him.
Friday, March 20, 2009
I’m afraid I’ve wrecked our future. And we’ve only been married for 6 months.
This failure goes back, way back, to 3 years before I met you, to my freshman year of college.
I hated college. I hated every single minute of it. And I was scared of coming home because I simply don’t do failure. And calling and saying that I wanted to come home from a college 2 hours from my house because I was homesick was my definition of failure.
I called my mom twenty times a day, always in tears, unable to cope with anything. After several weeks, my family decided that it was time to stop this cycle of depression and get me some help. And I resisted, oh how I resisted. But my doctor convinced me that anti-depressants were the right choice. At the time I was embarrassed. I failed at keeping my emotions under control, I failed at being happy. I failed at something so innate that it shouldn’t be something you can fail at. But I did.
And that failure flipped a switch in my head. It was as if from that moment on, I needed control in my life. It didn’t matter where. The medication helped and the crying slowed down and my moods stabilized, but the fact that I couldn’t even control my own emotions without pharmaceutical aid ate away at me.
And so I turned to food. Not in the, gobble down everything in sight way, but rather in the, control every single calorie that my body ingests way.
I started slowly. Just cutting back on sweets, eating a little healthier, reading some fitness websites. And then I began running. And running was this freeing process where all that was going on was the wind and air and whatever music I chose to listen to for the morning. I wasn’t thinking about my classes, or my future, I was just thinking about taking the next physical step in the run. It was amazing.
But before long, it wasn’t just eating healthily or running for the exhilarative freeing feeling, it was a problem, a sickness. It was counting every single calorie I ingested. It was calculating the speed and distance I ran to convert it to calories burned. It was stepping on the scale each morning, and despite it showing a weight lower than what I’d been since middle school, it was wanting to drop just two more pounds. Or three more pounds. Just a little more.
It was anorexia.
At the height of my eating disorder, I was eating, (at best) 1 cup of cheerios in the morning, a salad of only vegetables and fat-free Italian dressing for lunch, a snack of green beans and a dinner of either a bagel or the same salad as lunch. On a wild day, I might throw a whole apple into the mix. But I always felt guilty about it.
There were days where my calorie count was easily less than 500, but I drank water and tea so I didn’t feel the hunger. I had over $1000 out of my initial $1400 from meal plan left at the end of the semester when most everyone else was completely out of money.
And the numbers on the scale dropped. 120. 118. 115. 110. 107. 103. I went from 145 to 103 pounds in less than 6 months. On my 5 pound 5 inch frame, these weights were dangerous. I looked gaunt, my hair was falling out, and worse, I hadn’t had a period in months, a fact I outright lied to my doctor (and mother) about when she asked after rightly assuming that I wasn’t just “exercising and eating healthier,” but rather, killing myself.
It wasn’t until the end of my freshman year, after all but one of my friends completely deserted me (understandably since the most important social part of college is meals and I wasn’t participating in any), that I realized that I had a problem. I remember getting into a car with my only friend and saying out loud what I had known for weeks, maybe months. And before I could stop myself, I blurted it out. “I think I have an eating disorder.” And she hugged me and said that she knew, but also that she knew I needed to realize it first.
I went to the school counselor, which was a huge failure (“You don’t look underweight, you’re probably fine”) and eventually just worked hard to let myself eat again. To get past the voice in my head telling me that that muffin over there would go right to my belly, or thighs (never my boobs of course). It was miserably difficult, I was forbidden from stepping on a scale and I hated myself. I could feel myself getting fat again and I hated every single minute it.
In the end I gained too much weight back, a fact that I came to peace with, and tried to move on with my life. But the damage I had done over the past year was not damage that could be fixed simply by gaining the weight back. As it turns out, depriving your body of fat and nutrients for more than a year is not a safe thing to do.
And that brings us to today.
One of the things that my gynecologist talked to me about recently is that because of the severity and length of time of my eating disorder, I may be infertile. We can already see that my bones are too thin and it makes sense that the after effects of my anorexia aren’t confined to just my skeleton. She said, actually very compassionately, that because I went 14 months without a period from being malnourished that there’s a good chance that I won’t be able to conceive a child. Ever.
Suddenly it’s hitting me that our dream of having children may already be over.
I know how badly you want kids, how badly I want kids, but I’m afraid I might have already ruined that life for us. What if what I did 7 years ago keeps us from the lifetime of happiness we’ve both wanted? How can I un-do something like that? What if my life and my mental illness caused us to be childless?
I know that you’ll forgive me and tell me it’s okay, because you love me. But I know I’ll never forgive myself for ruining the future we were supposed to have, because I know it’s my fault.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Posted by ANTM.
You suck. I am one of the nicest people on the planet and I hate you. Seriously – I hate you. Right now, as I am writing this you are messaging me wondering what it is that you did to push me away.
In the beginning, things were bright and shiny like all new relationships are. I liked you. We moved in together. I started to question your judgment two months in when you allowed your ex-fiance to sleep over night in our house together. Without asking me first. I let it slide since she was pregnant and obviously over you but I should have left you right then.
I am 6 years younger than you and I was straight out of college when we started dating. You partied just as much as I did. Funny thing is, I gave up partying once I got a job two months after graduation. You are 31 now and still go out every weekend. Not just out for a few beers with the guys. It is more like drink as much alcohol as you can because it might be banned tomorrow kind of out. Then you decide it might be a good idea to come home and wake up your girlfriend for sex. Who really cares that she has to get up and work in two hours right? Remember the time you threw up all over the bathroom and woke me up at 3 am to clean it up? Classy…
I moved away for a while to give you some time to grow up. Not just down the street away either. I moved to a whole new country. You would call and write. Messages of how much you missed me and you wanted to get married. You wanted to have babies. You wanted to move away and start a life together. I was pretty convinced you had changed so I moved back to the very town I hated for you.
I signed a one year contract for a job that I cannot stand. Miranda from the Devil Wears Prada is totally my boss. Each day it takes every ounce of strength I have to prevent myself from stabbing her with my letter opener. You promised after one year we could move to a bigger city. You took me to a ring store to look at rings. Then something happened and you stopped all of that niceness. I should have known better but I guess I didn’t.
You started going out every weekend again. You stopped talking about marriage with me and instead started talking to every girl who would look at you. So you know what? I stopped talking to you. For one week – complete silence. Then my grandfather had a stroke. A bad one. I hadn’t slept in three days. It was the night before my family was going to turn off the machines. I was going to the hospital the next day to say good-bye. I cried myself to sleep that night. You went out and got drunk. Around 4:30 am, you came home, stripped off all of your clothes and woke me up. You asked if I could help you out. When I told you to get the hell away from me, do you know what you did? You laid on the floor next to the couch I was sleeping on and asked if I would just go down on you for a bit. I should have kicked you directly in the groin but I didn’t.
I moved out two weeks later and you still cannot seem to figure out why. Perhaps I am just a selfish bitch but in reality I think it has more to do with the fact that you are a child and I would like to be with a man. You don’t love me anyway. You just love the idea of me being around to do your laundry, wash your dishes, and clean up your vomit after a rough night at the bar. So you can pretty much go screw yourself…
P.S. You can stop with the damn messages that I don’t care about your feelings and how you just don’t understand how I could be so selfish because frankly, I don’t give a damn!
Monday, March 16, 2009
So I might have to warn some of the mothers who read this....you might not want to and I'm sure that what I am about to say might offend some people but I don't know where else to say what I need to say.
I know a dozen or more people who got pregnant out of wedlock and yes I'm going to be judgmental and say that bothers me. Several of these people say its because they "could not afford birth control" well the last time I checked a box of condoms for about 3 was about $4 maybe even less than that. Oh and planned parenthood will give them to you for free!!! You can also get the pill for a 90 day supply at some drug stores for $10....wow that must be so expensive. But yet these same people can afford $1,000 a month town houses and the latest video game systems.....but who cares about trying to prevent pregnancy.
Did you ever think they considered how much a kid would cost? Probably not, I mean what could a little unprotected sex hurt, right?!?!?
My parents have also never been fans of unprotected pregnancy but they are also pro-life.....I know if I ever got pregnant out of wedlock I would quietly take care of the problem and never tell them. That's my own choice and I don't want to get into that, different topic and too many opinions there. But just today my mom informed me that a family friend who is 23, still in college, working an unpaid internship and has no medical insurance is guess what, pregnant. This is her bosses daughter, who I used to be very close with, almost like sisters. I was angry when my mom told me because I know that this girl is smarter than that, but her parents are excited for her and so is my mother. Her and the father will be living with her parents and I can almost guarantee they will take care of the baby, since she and baby daddy are still in college and jobless.
My mother, the person who would throw me out on the street if I EVER told her that I was knocked up - she is excited for this girl. I just wanted to scream.....I just cannot fathom how people think this is okay....maybe I am too old fashioned but I am also careful. In my life I have had 2 pregnancy scares and in one case took the Plan B pill just to be safe. I have been on the pill since I was 14 and I wasn't even sexually active then.
I'm tired of pretending to feel sorry for them when I know how easy it is to not get yourself into that situation. I know for some people things work out but for most they don't. Its much easier for one of the parents to get out of the situation when there is no legal marriage. Not planning for things almost always means there is little to no money to help raise that child either, so there goes my tax dollars into their WICK and Welfare checks.
I don't plan on attending her shower or calling her to tell her a fake "congratulations." I can't keep letting myself feel sorry for people like that. I cannot fathom how a person could be excited to be in that situation. My mother tells me not to pass judgment but that girl is not her daughter and if the tables were turned I'd be living in a homeless shelter. I've watched many of my cousins do the same thing, I've seen them fight for child support, work dead end jobs and one of them even had her 4 children put into foster care.
I don't know if its wrong or what to feel like this but it just makes me sick inside. I just hope and pray it never happens to me but if it ever does I know what to do and I know what would be right in my heart. Maybe there is something wrong with the way that I feel but I do know how else I am supposed to feel. How can I react to situations like this without feeling the way that I do.
Too many babies and shot gun weddings
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Posted By Anonymous
**A warning before you continue reading. This might get graphic, it might not make sense, it might go from one thought to the next, and it’s not well written, but I’ve got to get this out.**
I’m twenty-one and I have a secret that I’ve kept my entire life. I just recently told my therapist this secret (more like she flat out asked me saying that she just had a hunch). You see, I hate my father. I hate him with all that I am. It’s not your typical type of hate, but I am filled with a hatred that goes through every part of my body and soul. It is this secret that I keep, that keeps this hatred strong. My mother divorced him when I was around five because he came home so drunk one night that he hit her instead of coming for me.
I was sexually abused. How I hate typing those words. But they have been in my mind forever, swirling around, hiding at times, but it’s always there. Since freaking out and tearfully saying yes to my therapist, it’s been on my mind constantly. I’m constantly terrified. I can’t sleep, I either don’t eat or eat too much, I can’t take showers unless I’m wearing a bathing suit, and I sleep in jeans, sweatshirts, and sneakers. I have panic attacks throughout the day and I can never relax.
I can’t stand people to touch me. I don’t like people getting close to me. Even family members that touch me, cause me to coil in fear. The only people that have ever touched me and don’t make me feel sick are children. They seem to be the only innocent things that exist. I can’t explain to my mom that when she touches me on the shoulder why I jerk away. She won’t understand. As it is now, she yells at me for being inconsiderate of her feelings when I ask her to please don’t touch me. She doesn’t give me a chance to say why, instead she reminds me of how selfish I’m being. How I must hate her because I don’t want her to touch me. That’s the same thing he used to tell me.
Almost every night he would come into my room, smelling of alcohol and cheap cologne. That smell still makes me sick to this day. I can’t remember the first time, and I don’t remember every time. For that I’m thankful. He would wait till the early hours of the morning and sit on the edge of my bed. It started off with only his hands roaming over my body, then it changed. Apparently that wasn’t enough for him and he started having sex with me. I went away in my head, and that’s always worked for me until now. Since admitting my secret, I haven’t been able to just go away in my mind. Hours aren’t passing as quickly and that scares me because it means that the memories and feelings are always there.
I feel like it’s my fault. I didn’t do enough to stop it- I blame myself. I didn’t tell anyone, so does that mean that I wanted it? Did I subconsciously not tell anyone so it would continue? Did I want it? Did I ask for it? Is it my fault for tempting him? I not only hate him, I hate myself. I hate myself for letting it happen, I hate myself for keeping a secret, I hate myself for telling my secret.
I hate that because I am his only child, I have to take care of him. He’s sick. He has heart problems, lung problems, he still drinks and smokes, and he’s in and out of hospitals. I’m next of kin and power of attorney. Everyone expects me to be the adult and take care of him. I also am next of kind and power of attorney for him mother and brother (both who are in nursing homes- Parkinson’s and stroke respectively). I hate having to see him, and each time I spend days trying to feel ok again. I never feel safe. I never feel relaxed, and rarely do I feel ok.
I don’t want people to feel sorry for me, but I want to be a kid. I never got to be a kid. From the time I was little, I was a part of his adult fantasy, and now I go to school full time, I work two jobs, and I take care of him, my grandmother, and my uncle. I’m tired of it all. I’m tired of having to be the perfect daughter. But most of all, I’m tired of hating myself.
I’m tired of this secret, but I fear that if I say anything about it now, then no one will believe me. After all, I’ve kept it this long. I’m scared and really all I want is someone safe to hold me and tell me it’s ok. I want someone to tell me that it’s ok to feel like this, that it’s ok to be scared, but also that I will be ok, and that they will protect me.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
It's depressing to me that what feels like the most important decision I will have made up to this point in my life can be reduced to some stupid, cliched song lyrics. My husband and I have been together for more than a decade. We have an amazing two year old son. And more bad blood between the two of us than I care to think about most days. Our marriage got off to a rocky start, I'll admit, what with me attempting suicide a few months in and then again a year later. What can I say? I was young, and depressed, and felt trapped in the horror of feeling that the walls were continually closing in on me. I tried to kill myself, in part, because I thought my husband deserved better. Now, years and scores of pills and hours of therapy later, I look back on that time in our marriage and regret that I felt so utterly incapable of letting in my husband (or anyone else) even the tiniest bit. And I regret having ever put him through that mess.
Five years ago when he told me that my depression and emotional withdrawal from the marriage led him to have an affair, I cringed. I felt responsible. What was wrong with me? The fact that he waited to tell me about the affair until after we had planned a move across the country to be closer to (his) family eventually infuriated me. Cue the start of breeding resentment. And then, six months after we had moved across the country and he told me he was having another (emotional) affair with a coworker, the world slipped out from under me and I ran, no, sprinted head-on into the land of denial and workaholism. Maybe it was because my body was telling me, in a voice not unlike what I imagine a shrieking harpy to sound like, "You need to have a baby! Right now!" and having one with my husband seemed the most accessible option. Maybe it was because I couldn't imagine giving up on the years of history built up between us. Maybe it was because neither my family, nor his family "believe" in divorce, and I couldn't imagine shaming them by telling them I just wanted to give up. Maybe it was because I felt incapable of living on my own. Maybe it was because I was scared.
Not surprisingly, we had had sexual issues from the getgo. We had waited until marriage. Why, I don't know. Our honeymoon was one long disaster. I have always found sex uncomfortable at best and painful at worst, and not infrequently, would cry after intercourse because I felt as if something was being taken away from me. I know, I know, that sounds pretty fucked up right there. He wanted it all the time; I never wanted it. I was convinced (and he was convinced) there was something wrong with me. I had sex only out of a sense of obligation, and never really out of a sense of anticipation or enjoyment or intimacy. And then, after a long dry spell, he subtly pressured me to have sex. I can't really blame him for that. I understood that he had needs that weren't being met. I don't know if I can blame him for continuing to pressure me - "Come on, it'll be fine" - after I said no, it wasn't a good time. I know I blame myself for not standing up more strongly to him. Of course, I got myself good and knocked up. I was never really ambivalent about being pregnant. I knew from the moment I found out that I wanted the baby.
For a brief period, we got along better. We tried really hard. We stopped the constant arguing and forced ourselves to look forward to the oh-so-bright future. And then he told me that he was still in contact with the woman with whom he had had an emotional affair. That he was still attracted to her. He described the sex acts they had discussed. Even though something in me was screaming, "Get out! Get out! Get out!" the thought of being a single, graduate student mother flooded me with fear. So I stayed. I have tried to forgive him, but I can't. I have told myself I need to live with the consequences of my actions that led to my (wonderful, brilliant) son being conceived. I thought that meant staying with my son's father and "working it out." I thought it meant providing my son the perfect nuclear family. I thought it meant swallowing my pride and self-respect and getting on with life.
But now I just don't know. I went through a horrifying postpartum depression and have emerged from the other side. Emotionally, I'm still a thousand miles away from my marriage. I cringe inwardly every time my husband touches me. I don't feel attracted to him. I've stopped sharing things with him. We haven't had sex since our son was conceived. I'm angry. I'm hurt. I'm exhausted.
Last weekend, the issues in our marriage, sexual and otherwise, came to a head once again, as they tend to do when even the strongest denial is insufficient to fill in the gaping cracks in our relationship. He shared his frustration that I won't touch him. He told me "We need to do something about this. I can't ignore this need forever." In my head, I agree, yes, we need to do something about this. In my heart, I feel sick about the idea of touching him. He told me that he thinks I need to touch him, even if it is uncomfortable for me. Even though he took it back later, a part of me flew away and started singing a high-pitched tuneless tune when he said that. I can't live with that expectation, I told myself. I can't live with that expectation, I told him.
I spend most of my time feeling utterly numb. In the moments when I touch the despair in our relationship, I feel like I cease to exist. I want to make this all his fault. Outwardly, I do. But inwardly, I keep chanting, What is wrong with me? What is wrong with me? What is wrong with me? I look at our son and think How can I shatter his world with a divorce? And I think How can I keep living this nonexistence in his presence? And I sit here, paralyzed.
Wednesday, March 04, 2009
How could you?