Posted by Audrey as part of the Mo' Babies Baby Shower.
My favorite memories of my early days with my daughter are the time that she and I spent cuddled in bed, nursing, sleeping, and getting to know each other. I had an unexpected C-Section that left me much less mobile than I had planned. Thankfully, I had help from my husband and my parents, so I was able (and forced!) to take it easy and not do much more than delight in my daughter. Now that we're preparing to get pregnant again, I treasure those moments even more, knowing that any subsequent babies won't get quite the same attention that I was able to give my first-born. I know that I will have as much love for as many children as we have, but I also know that as I am getting to know the next one, there will be a sweet little girl by my side, also taking in every detail of a new arrival.
I also can't get over how much I loved to nurse. I stopped recently, when my daughter was about 16.5 months old. I am not a "nursing Nazi" nor did I think I would make it as long as I did, but there was something so amazing about knowing that I was providing my daughter with those beautiful baby rolls, to know that I had sustained her in my womb for forty-one weeks and that I could still provide that sustenance. I loved to watch her root and when she started to play with my hair while nursing...so sweet! I loved to comfort her and stop her tears by nursing her. As a first-time mom, I didn't always know what my daughter wanted or needed. If all else failed, my boob usually calmed her. Even though we no longer nurse, rocking before bed is still our special time and I know it's because of the hours and hours we spent in the rocker together those first few weeks - maybe even months - of her life.
Rebecca and Kristen: congratulations on the sweet little girls about to enter your lives! I can't wait to hear about your births, your babies, and all of the trials, tribulations, adventures, tears, smiles, and laughter that your daughters will bring with them. Best wishes to you both!!
Friday, September 19, 2008
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Beware The MIL With Internet Access. SERIOUSLY
Posted by Anonymous
I didn't expect to like this blogging thing. I figured I'd give it a whirl and abandon it within weeks, as I have countless other hobbies. Writing has never come naturally to me and it didn't seem like it would be a good fit. But, for some reason, it is and I love it. I love having a virtual baby book for my children. I love having a creative outlet and a world wide web of cyber friends. I love it all.
I began my blog mostly as a way to update friends and family on the kids. I figured it was better than sending photo links and long e-mails to people who may or may not care. People could come and go as they please. Sick of my antics? Take a break. Can't get enough of me? Visit every day, numerous times a day. Whatever. Had I known how much I would love this weird little world though, I would have done one major thing differently: I would have remained anonymous. Perhaps I would tell a handful of friends about it, and my husband would be privy to my rantings, but that's it. No aunts, no uncles, no parents, no siblings, no distant cousins, no neighbors, and no old coworkers. Most importantly, no mother in law.
Let me explain: My mother in law and I despise one another to the core have always had a rather strained relationship. We've battled for years and for the sake of my husband and children, finally arrived at an amicable place. Things were going along just hunky-dory. Until the day I blogged about her. If you read my blog, you'd see that I am very sarcastic and poke fun at those I love. My kids... my husband... even my poor dog. Imitation isn't the purest form of flattery, ridicule is. In my world, at least.
I meant it to be funny and light. I thought we were at a place where I could be myself with her and she'd appreciate the humor. I even called her to tell her about it and to make sure she wouldn't be offended. I thought we were cool. Apparently, I was mistaken. Within moments of posting, my husband and I received a profanity filled e-mail from my mother in law. How dare I write about them. I was called vindictive and hurtful and mean. And the letters haven't stopped; from his mother, his 97 year old grandmother and other family members. Letters blaming me for the demise of their totally dysfunctional "perfect" relationship. Letters imploring him to see the light and side with them. Really upsetting letters.
Clearly, the strain is about a whole lot more than my blog, but it's easy to blame everything on a post-- it's there in black and white. They aren't speaking now, and the future is uncertain. In a way, it's pretty damn nice not to have to put on a happy face with people I can't stand. But it came at too big of a cost. My husband and children suffer, and of course that's not worth it. I didn't take the post down though, as I stand by it. I have apologized in vain and refuse to grovel. I meant no harm, and their reaction is the problem here. (And the recipe really is good.) But it wasn't worth it, not at all.
So, my sage advice to you: If you are single, marry an orphan. And if you are married, don't blog about your mother in law. If you are new to blogging, keep yours on the down low for a while, until you figure out who you really want to share it with. It would be much more fun, not to mention therapeutic, if I could honestly write about all of the wacked relationships in my life. I've contemplated taking my blog private, so I could do just that. But I've come to love the attention of strangers and blog buddies too much to abandon them. So, I will remain myself, and stifle some of the words I need to express most. Except today.
I didn't expect to like this blogging thing. I figured I'd give it a whirl and abandon it within weeks, as I have countless other hobbies. Writing has never come naturally to me and it didn't seem like it would be a good fit. But, for some reason, it is and I love it. I love having a virtual baby book for my children. I love having a creative outlet and a world wide web of cyber friends. I love it all.
I began my blog mostly as a way to update friends and family on the kids. I figured it was better than sending photo links and long e-mails to people who may or may not care. People could come and go as they please. Sick of my antics? Take a break. Can't get enough of me? Visit every day, numerous times a day. Whatever. Had I known how much I would love this weird little world though, I would have done one major thing differently: I would have remained anonymous. Perhaps I would tell a handful of friends about it, and my husband would be privy to my rantings, but that's it. No aunts, no uncles, no parents, no siblings, no distant cousins, no neighbors, and no old coworkers. Most importantly, no mother in law.
Let me explain: My mother in law and I
I meant it to be funny and light. I thought we were at a place where I could be myself with her and she'd appreciate the humor. I even called her to tell her about it and to make sure she wouldn't be offended. I thought we were cool. Apparently, I was mistaken. Within moments of posting, my husband and I received a profanity filled e-mail from my mother in law. How dare I write about them. I was called vindictive and hurtful and mean. And the letters haven't stopped; from his mother, his 97 year old grandmother and other family members. Letters blaming me for the demise of their
Clearly, the strain is about a whole lot more than my blog, but it's easy to blame everything on a post-- it's there in black and white. They aren't speaking now, and the future is uncertain. In a way, it's pretty damn nice not to have to put on a happy face with people I can't stand. But it came at too big of a cost. My husband and children suffer, and of course that's not worth it. I didn't take the post down though, as I stand by it. I have apologized in vain and refuse to grovel. I meant no harm, and their reaction is the problem here. (And the recipe really is good.) But it wasn't worth it, not at all.
So, my sage advice to you: If you are single, marry an orphan. And if you are married, don't blog about your mother in law. If you are new to blogging, keep yours on the down low for a while, until you figure out who you really want to share it with. It would be much more fun, not to mention therapeutic, if I could honestly write about all of the wacked relationships in my life. I've contemplated taking my blog private, so I could do just that. But I've come to love the attention of strangers and blog buddies too much to abandon them. So, I will remain myself, and stifle some of the words I need to express most. Except today.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
(Not so) Open letter to my well-meaning friends and family
Posted by Anonymous
I. GET. IT.
No really, I truly do. I understand exactly how lucky I am and I thank the universe for every single moment with the munchkin, and for every single breath she takes. What part is it that you think I don’t understand? She was born at 25 weeks and weighed one freaking pound!! Do you think maybe I missed that part? Do you think I was sleep walking during the 4 month’s we spent in NICU or that I somehow forgot?? Do you think I just glossed over all the information on future outcomes for children in her circumstances? Maybe you think I don’t look around at the other children at her follow-up appointments and see what could have been? Are you aware that there are still moments when I watch this precious gift sleeping soundly and drift to that dark corner of my mind remembering sitting by that isolette trying so desperately to force this child to take her next breath by willing it - thinking that somehow I could give her the energy to take that next breath and live that next minute…
And now I watch one and a half years later while this beautiful, living breathing child plays and runs around after her brothers. She’s not just living, she’s thriving.
The boys have gone upstairs, maybe to get a game, more likely to get a minute to themselves and she runs after them but is stopped by the gate at the bottom of the stairs. Her eyes fill up and her bottom lip starts to quiver. I’m watching her face and waiting for the wailing to begin. Hold on a sec though – she blinks away the tears, her brow furrows, she gets “the look”…you can see her little mind working and the look definitely says “Oh I don’t THINK so” and then she’s yelling “Guys!” at the top of her lungs in that demanding little sister who “knows” that she’s the queen of the universe voice. I try to call her over and she shakes her head “No” and calls again. When her big brother comes running and picks her up over the gate she looks back and her expression definitely says “Ha! Told you so!” then she turns her attention to her brother and starts babbling in a voice that leaves no question that she’s giving him hell for leaving her downstairs in the first place.
It’s just a mundane family sort of moment, one that might even drive me batshit crazy on some days, but as I’m watching her in my mind’s eye the scene is superimposed with the image of that tiny raw, red newborn hooked up to so many machines, and tubes and wires that you could barely see her. I have a feeling that although the nightmare image has faded with time that it will always be there as I watch this amazing child grow, like my own little watermark on her life that only I can see. And I can’t believe that I am privileged to share this little moment with her and that I get to see that little bit of humor peeking through “See Mommy – they’ll do whatever I want” – she honestly thinks it’s funny !
So, like I said. I. GET. IT. More than you could possible know.
But no matter how lucky we are, no matter how many blessed moments we have there are also the more shadowy times.
She’s fallen down and pulled a chair down on top of her and left a bump on her head. She screams, and arches her back, and won’t let me hold her to comfort her. She squirms away from me and crawls to a corner of the sofa and hugs herself into a ball to calm down and I watch with my heart breaking because my baby hurts and I can’t freaking comfort her…
We’re in the ophthalmologist’s office sitting with her on my lap in the exam chair while I hold her with one arm in a death grip around her head, the other around her thrashing arms, and Dad holds her feet to keep her still while the doctor examines her eyes – I don’t know which is worse, the kicking and screaming or when she finally gives up and goes limp in my arms, disassociating from the exam that she hates so much…
She’s in her high chair at dinner time and has just finished eating her pureed dinner, but she spies what we are eating and wants to try. I sigh, and try one more time to give her a little piece. She’s so freaking pleased and excited, she plays with it for a second and then pops it in her mouth just like her brothers, she’s even chewing this time (that’s new and VERY exciting) and I start to think that this might be the time – but then no, here comes that familiar panicked look and she’s gagging. I manage to get her to spit it out and give her a sip of milk, letting her know how proud I am that she chewed this time, that it’s OK we’ll get this, reassuring her brothers that everything is fine, and my 8yo puts down his fork and says “Mom – it’s not fair” with tears in his eyes…
See, that’s where we are right now. It’s not that we don’t know that we are so very lucky; it’s not that we don’t realize how much worse it could have been. It’s not like we don’t know that these are all really little things in the bigger picture…but there are days when it seems like the little things are never going to end. There are times when as much as I couldn’t picture a moment without the wonderful child that she is, exactly the way that she is, that I mourn the carefree easygoing child that she was in my dreams before my pregnancy started to go down the toilet.
And there are days when it’s just not fair. This wasn’t supposed to happen to her or any child and the fact that it did and that it makes things more difficult for her sucks sometimes OK? So if I complain, or if I seem sad about something that you judge to be “nothing compared to what could have happened” PLEASE refrain from telling me I don’t know how good I’ve got it or how lucky I am, or how worse someone else has it – I get it already…
I. GET. IT.
No really, I truly do. I understand exactly how lucky I am and I thank the universe for every single moment with the munchkin, and for every single breath she takes. What part is it that you think I don’t understand? She was born at 25 weeks and weighed one freaking pound!! Do you think maybe I missed that part? Do you think I was sleep walking during the 4 month’s we spent in NICU or that I somehow forgot?? Do you think I just glossed over all the information on future outcomes for children in her circumstances? Maybe you think I don’t look around at the other children at her follow-up appointments and see what could have been? Are you aware that there are still moments when I watch this precious gift sleeping soundly and drift to that dark corner of my mind remembering sitting by that isolette trying so desperately to force this child to take her next breath by willing it - thinking that somehow I could give her the energy to take that next breath and live that next minute…
And now I watch one and a half years later while this beautiful, living breathing child plays and runs around after her brothers. She’s not just living, she’s thriving.
The boys have gone upstairs, maybe to get a game, more likely to get a minute to themselves and she runs after them but is stopped by the gate at the bottom of the stairs. Her eyes fill up and her bottom lip starts to quiver. I’m watching her face and waiting for the wailing to begin. Hold on a sec though – she blinks away the tears, her brow furrows, she gets “the look”…you can see her little mind working and the look definitely says “Oh I don’t THINK so” and then she’s yelling “Guys!” at the top of her lungs in that demanding little sister who “knows” that she’s the queen of the universe voice. I try to call her over and she shakes her head “No” and calls again. When her big brother comes running and picks her up over the gate she looks back and her expression definitely says “Ha! Told you so!” then she turns her attention to her brother and starts babbling in a voice that leaves no question that she’s giving him hell for leaving her downstairs in the first place.
It’s just a mundane family sort of moment, one that might even drive me batshit crazy on some days, but as I’m watching her in my mind’s eye the scene is superimposed with the image of that tiny raw, red newborn hooked up to so many machines, and tubes and wires that you could barely see her. I have a feeling that although the nightmare image has faded with time that it will always be there as I watch this amazing child grow, like my own little watermark on her life that only I can see. And I can’t believe that I am privileged to share this little moment with her and that I get to see that little bit of humor peeking through “See Mommy – they’ll do whatever I want” – she honestly thinks it’s funny !
So, like I said. I. GET. IT. More than you could possible know.
But no matter how lucky we are, no matter how many blessed moments we have there are also the more shadowy times.
She’s fallen down and pulled a chair down on top of her and left a bump on her head. She screams, and arches her back, and won’t let me hold her to comfort her. She squirms away from me and crawls to a corner of the sofa and hugs herself into a ball to calm down and I watch with my heart breaking because my baby hurts and I can’t freaking comfort her…
We’re in the ophthalmologist’s office sitting with her on my lap in the exam chair while I hold her with one arm in a death grip around her head, the other around her thrashing arms, and Dad holds her feet to keep her still while the doctor examines her eyes – I don’t know which is worse, the kicking and screaming or when she finally gives up and goes limp in my arms, disassociating from the exam that she hates so much…
She’s in her high chair at dinner time and has just finished eating her pureed dinner, but she spies what we are eating and wants to try. I sigh, and try one more time to give her a little piece. She’s so freaking pleased and excited, she plays with it for a second and then pops it in her mouth just like her brothers, she’s even chewing this time (that’s new and VERY exciting) and I start to think that this might be the time – but then no, here comes that familiar panicked look and she’s gagging. I manage to get her to spit it out and give her a sip of milk, letting her know how proud I am that she chewed this time, that it’s OK we’ll get this, reassuring her brothers that everything is fine, and my 8yo puts down his fork and says “Mom – it’s not fair” with tears in his eyes…
See, that’s where we are right now. It’s not that we don’t know that we are so very lucky; it’s not that we don’t realize how much worse it could have been. It’s not like we don’t know that these are all really little things in the bigger picture…but there are days when it seems like the little things are never going to end. There are times when as much as I couldn’t picture a moment without the wonderful child that she is, exactly the way that she is, that I mourn the carefree easygoing child that she was in my dreams before my pregnancy started to go down the toilet.
And there are days when it’s just not fair. This wasn’t supposed to happen to her or any child and the fact that it did and that it makes things more difficult for her sucks sometimes OK? So if I complain, or if I seem sad about something that you judge to be “nothing compared to what could have happened” PLEASE refrain from telling me I don’t know how good I’ve got it or how lucky I am, or how worse someone else has it – I get it already…
Tuesday, September 09, 2008
You Quit Your Job Today
Posted by Anonymous.
OMG.
OMG.
You quit your job today. We have 2 kids to feed, school to pay for and medical bills, and grocery bills, and why did I buy that new couch?
You quit your job today. I am so neurotically scared. What will we do, how will things get done? Am I going to be homeless? Oh, my, I am such a drama queen even in my head.
You quit your job today. I am trying so hard to be optimistic, supportive, and wise. But, seriously? You quit your F'ing job today. Because it was boring and complicated. And you don't have another. And you want to start your own business. And we live off your income. How can I be optimistic, supportive and wise when I am so scared? I am a Zoloft-taking, therapy ridden, sleep deprived, materialistic, stay at home mother of two without a college degree. (Truly, y'all I'm a crazy bitch, who needs her meds but always forgets to take them. Why is that?) Oh, I should have finished college, I should have stop letting myself quit when things got overwhelming and scary but that's what I do... It's what the Zoloft is for truly. So, it's really overwhelming and scary for you to quit your job (and brave) and it makes me want to run away, hide in the sand, freeze time. I'm just so frightened. But not you. You're brave, you say, " Let's do it now while we're young and dumb and can recover from our mistakes. Let's earn "real" money so we can have the life we want now, not when we are to old to appreciate it." And you're right. And I'm proud. But really scared too...
You quit your job today.
What if the worst happens... What if I have to get a "real" job?
Sunday, September 07, 2008
Deep, Dark and Dirty
Posted by Anonymous.
That is my secret. A secret that tears me apart mentally & physically and has every day for a year now. Today is the kinda anniversary of my first realization of it. I'll just go ahead and come out with it, though I've never been able to speak the words aloud, even to myself. I have a problem. A BIG problem. I am addicted to prescription pain medicine. Vicodin to be exact.
This has gone on for a year now and it seems so insane it has been this long. I know the first thing anyone reading this will think is to automatically judge me and think badly of me as a drug addict. I hate that term and all the feelings associated with it. To me, it sounds like some cowering thieving no good dirty rotten teeth creature hiding behind a dumpster shaking and sweating ramming needles in its arm. That's the mental image a lot of people get associated with the term drug attic. I know I did, I thought the same thing, until I realized I was one. Yet I am far from that visual to the eye. Did anyone hear Cindy McCain was addicted to pain meds back in the late 90's? I know it made me not feel SO horrible and trashy about my problem, though I know it doesn't justify shit.
I didn't intend on acquiring this awful habit, as I'm sure nobody sets out to do so. I had a surgery last year that had many complications resulting in lasting pain, thus me staying on the pain medication longer than originally intended. After the first week or so of taking them, I didn't really feel buzzed off of them like I did in the beginning. They just took the pain away and I could function. A few months later when I tried to stop taking them, I felt AWFUL.At the time, I didn't realize it was from stopping them, but knew I felt better when I had been taking them. For 3 days I walked around (or tried to) and just could not function. The mental anguish of anxiety and feeling like I was just gonna lose it, crying non stop, sweating profusely alternating with cold sweats, the diarrhea SO bad I couldn't go further than 4ft from the toilet. Looking back - Now I know what it was, it was withdrawals. At that time I didn't even have a clue it was related to the drug use but I knew I felt better ON them. And it wasn't considered a bad thing in my mind at the time. The Dr had given them to me for a valid reason and told me to take them. So I started taking them again - and felt back to "normal".
When my Dr suddenly quit writing them for me, I was worried. I enjoyed this feeling, not only did it give me the boost of energy to go about my daily routine, but it made the previous depression I had so long suffered with almost disappear. The past 2 years in my family's life has been pure hell, one thing after another with me being the targeted victim getting the brunt of it all. This could & should be a separate post in itself ---> I went through a stressful complicated pregnancy in late 2005 - early 2006 alone (though I was married), only to find out my husband had been having an affair the entire time and was planning on leaving me and taking our older child with him. (All of these events could be a novel in themselves so I'll try to keep it short. And I KNOW it is not an excuse for MY behavior or to blame for my problem. I'm just trying to convey the level of stress causing and contributing to my depression.) After a long painful 3 months of living with this horrid situation trying to make it work, hubby and I decided to part ways. After learning all the down and dirty details of this affair (thanks to his slut bag mistress telling me EVERYTHING I never wanted to know - I drove myself insane with rehashing these memories over and over!), doubled with the PPD, no, tripled with a screaming colicky baby that wouldn't let me put her down = I was a basket case.
So he was leaving, and I had no where to go. 4 days before he was to leave, he was diagnosed with 2 very horrible types of cancer (karma?) and was given 2 weeks to live. It was the scariest situation I have ever been through in my life. I couldn't leave him lying there on his death bed, although I truly hated him for all he had done to me. I was stuck. So I did the humane thing I knew I SHOULD do, against the advice of my closest girlfriends at the time, and stayed. I stayed with him throughout all of the chemo and hospital stays and nursed him back to health at home for an entire year. Supposedly, everything was "better". This life changing event was supposed to make everything all better - but I still had all of those horrible feelings crammed down inside me. Just because he got better, those feelings never went away. All that stuff was still there, merely pushed aside for a bigger crisis. However I was the only one who seemed to remember it and feel it. I had no closure on the situation.
He got better and went back to work, leaving me at home with the now 1 year old and an 8 yr old. Alone. Day & night while he tried to make up for a year's lost wages. I was alone with the baby during the day until my son came home from school, just them, me, and my insanity. All the depression was still there, just like it had been since I was 15 years old when my parents started me in therapy for it. But I quit after I became pregnant with my first child at age 18 thinking the baby would bring joy and hope into my life and I wouldn't be depressed anymore. Not to mention the antidepressants I was on were fairly new, and the effects on an unborn child were unknown - so I quit taking them. Plus, I had to focus on him, not me anymore. It got a little better in the first few years I had him, being a busy young Mom trying to make a life for us. I didn't have time to sit around and worry about how I felt. Hubby and I grew together and made a life for our new young family. Things were better. Until the 2nd baby mess came about and all that drama.
Off and on I have struggled with this addiction, hating myself, feeling ashamed, trying several times to get off of them on my own only to go right back to them. I've tried everything, replacing them with other meds, tapering them down to lessen the withdrawals but nothing ever works. Not with where I am. Now I have to find them "on the streets". Just like those creatures behind the dumpsters. Humiliating. Hubby KNOWS fully about my problem, and even gets them for me so I'll be "OK" because he hates to see me like that. He also plays sort of a (really fucked up demented) game with them, making me agree to do sexual favors for him in exchange for him getting them. The few times I tried quitting on my own I never made it past the 3rd or 4th day being stuck on the couch, unable to function or even get up or think and be the super Mom everyone expects of me. That I HAVE to be. Maybe if I were alone, not solely responsible for a high demands 2 yr old screaming at me ALL DAY LONG, I could lay in bed and eventually get over it. But with the responsibilities I have now, I can't accomplish both. I just can't do what I need to do where I'm at right now. So hubby does his work, calling around, and brings me some asking if I feel better now. (I know, he is awful for enabling me, I hate it too).
I have had countless break downs curled into a fetal position on my bed crying, BEGGING him to PLEASE let me go to rehab and get help.But he just kinda blows it off with the opinion of the fact that he grew up with parents submersed in addiction and has no sympathy for it cause "it's all in your head". He is desensitized to it all. He just says, "Oh, you'll be alright, it's not that bad, you just need to grow some balls and get over it.You're making it a bigger deal than it is." But then the next day or so he'll come home with some and say, "I just want you to be happy." Every time I bring up rehab, he has a million reasons of why NOT. Because it would be an embarrassment to our family, he can't take off work to keep the kids... It's even harder because I am literally a stuck at home Mom with NO car, no way to go anywhere, take my kids anywhere, go to the store, or especially take myself to the Dr. I have always depended on either hubby or my Mom taking me where I needed to go. Now that Mom is not talking to me, I am really stuck, not to mention lonely as she was my best friend, my ONLY friend.
Earlier this year, I went into my OB/GYN for my check up and saw one of 9 Dr's practicing there. (Not my regular sweet loving compassionate female Dr that offered me nerve pills at my 6 week PP follow up when I told her about the affair...and I didn't accept them but it was the thought that counts to me.) I saw a male Dr, the one I like the least,a cocky prick by his manner, but he was all that was available. I broke down sitting on the exam table telling him everything thinking he would immediately offer help and support and actually FUCKING HELP ME or something. Seeing where I am today, you can probably guess that didn't go as planned. He said that was not his department or place and his words were so sharp and hurtful saying stuff like "You're going to hurt your entire family with this, not just yourself, and how horrible and selfish of you to do this to your children. They usually take drug addict's kids AWAY from them and place them in foster care..." The first few comments WERE true, all of it I already knew but still, he had NO compassion or tact at all. Like I hadn't thought all those same things! But the threat of having my kids taken away???? Scared the living shit out of me!!! I ran from his office crying and praying he didn't call the cops on me.
I do have family, that if it came down to it, would keep my kids for me. But as of right now, we are not on speaking terms because of a fight we had and I don't want to face them - not in the state I am in now. They're close to knowing, they know something is going on, but not exactly what. It kills me to be estranged from them after being SO close my entire life literally working together, eating together, always being at each other's house, talking on the phone 20 times a day. But I just CAN'T tell them. I can't hurt them like that. They've got enough of their own problems as it is. Besides, there are several other of our family members that have prescription drug problems, and I know how they are treated and viewed among the family. I don't want to be put into that category.
I CAN NOT live like this anymore, I want my old life back, even if it was depressing. I am not the same super Mom I used to be, baking cookies for neighbors and teachers, working hours on end in my garden, playing with my children...I used to have projects that I enjoyed working on, now they're all crammed in the garage for another day. I used to be creative and artistic and find joy in creating things and doing stuff. Now it is all I can do to tread water to keep up with the mandatory daily stuff. Now I stay in my house secretly consumed with counting pills, worrying if I'll have enough for tomorrow, harassing hubby to hunt for more... I don't have any real life friends anymore, I don't talk on the phone anymore or even open my blinds. Son goes to school, hubby goes to work, and daughter and I stay home, inside, killing time until the guys come home. I have the same routine everyday, 2 loads of laundry, the dishes, cooking, keeping daughter content. It is very rare that we leave on any outings during the day, and if we do, I have to make sure I have enough pills to take with me.
It has affected my relationship with my kids too. I know I'm not the same Mommy I used to be and the older child has made random comments about me not being happy and always being grumpy. He takes every opportunity to go home with his cousin after school instead of coming home. I don't blame him, I know it sucks here. I know I am hurting my kids with my addiction and behavior. I feel deep down also that it is affecting HIS behavior, which lately has been spiraling down fast. The guilt alone from that, thinking I am messing my kid up makes me hate myself even more.
I HATE that I have let these horrible things consume me and kill every sign of life I ever had. I HATE being a slave to them and letting them control me. I know I could stop if I could just go somewhere long enough to get better. I have spent countless hours researching online about treatment options, rehab facilities, etc. I found a great one, but it is clear across the other side of the states for me, and it costs $17,000. I know my insurance would cover something here too locally if I could find a place where I could stay long enough to detox and get through the withdrawals. I just can't get through that part here where I'm at. That is the hardest part in my point of view right now. I'd like to find a place that is caring and compassionate with their patients, NOT treating them like they are criminals or 2nd class citizens. The same way most everyone else views the situation, looking down on a user. Believe me, I've gotten down on myself enough as it is. I don't think I could get any lower, my self esteem is completely gone. I've thought all the horrible things and said all the horrible negative things to myself. My biggest fear is reaching out for help and just getting beat down & judged even more - if that is even possible. Also the looming fear that if I do try to reach out for any help on my own, even just calling somewhere would alert authorities somehow and possibly my children being taken away. That alone is enough to keep me hiding this secret, I just won't risk that. I'm not a criminal, I'm not endangering my kids. They are healthy, clean, fed, and have everything and possibly more than most kids do not have the luxuries of. Just not a happy Mommy that they deserve.
Just writing this, is the biggest step I have ever taken in concern to this problem (besides telling Dr Dickhead). I have never let on to ANYONE about it besides my husband who is just as ashamed as I am about it. So this is my deep, dark, dirty secret. I ask that if you do comment, please try to be gentle. I know what a horrible person I am for having this problem, but it can happen to anyone anytime. Everyone says they don't judge other people, but it is impossible to not. It is human nature and we ALL do it whether we realize we are doing it or not. I judge myself every single day, hating myself for being like this and turning into one of "those" people I myself used to judge and think bad about. How did I let myself get this way???
Any advice, suggestions, support, similar stories of I can relate from personal experience or a family member - just anything would be appreciated. In my short time visiting the blogosphere I have seen first hand the love and power that can come from it. I know I need help. I really do want it more than anything in the world. Even if nobody comments at all, at least I said it out loud. It is killing me keeping this for so long.
Today is one of those days where I am down to only having 1 left, and nervously await hubby to try to meet up with "the guy" after work to get more. If it does not work out, tomorrow will be hell and all the days after until I can find some.
I just want out.
That is my secret. A secret that tears me apart mentally & physically and has every day for a year now. Today is the kinda anniversary of my first realization of it. I'll just go ahead and come out with it, though I've never been able to speak the words aloud, even to myself. I have a problem. A BIG problem. I am addicted to prescription pain medicine. Vicodin to be exact.
This has gone on for a year now and it seems so insane it has been this long. I know the first thing anyone reading this will think is to automatically judge me and think badly of me as a drug addict. I hate that term and all the feelings associated with it. To me, it sounds like some cowering thieving no good dirty rotten teeth creature hiding behind a dumpster shaking and sweating ramming needles in its arm. That's the mental image a lot of people get associated with the term drug attic. I know I did, I thought the same thing, until I realized I was one. Yet I am far from that visual to the eye. Did anyone hear Cindy McCain was addicted to pain meds back in the late 90's? I know it made me not feel SO horrible and trashy about my problem, though I know it doesn't justify shit.
I didn't intend on acquiring this awful habit, as I'm sure nobody sets out to do so. I had a surgery last year that had many complications resulting in lasting pain, thus me staying on the pain medication longer than originally intended. After the first week or so of taking them, I didn't really feel buzzed off of them like I did in the beginning. They just took the pain away and I could function. A few months later when I tried to stop taking them, I felt AWFUL.At the time, I didn't realize it was from stopping them, but knew I felt better when I had been taking them. For 3 days I walked around (or tried to) and just could not function. The mental anguish of anxiety and feeling like I was just gonna lose it, crying non stop, sweating profusely alternating with cold sweats, the diarrhea SO bad I couldn't go further than 4ft from the toilet. Looking back - Now I know what it was, it was withdrawals. At that time I didn't even have a clue it was related to the drug use but I knew I felt better ON them. And it wasn't considered a bad thing in my mind at the time. The Dr had given them to me for a valid reason and told me to take them. So I started taking them again - and felt back to "normal".
When my Dr suddenly quit writing them for me, I was worried. I enjoyed this feeling, not only did it give me the boost of energy to go about my daily routine, but it made the previous depression I had so long suffered with almost disappear. The past 2 years in my family's life has been pure hell, one thing after another with me being the targeted victim getting the brunt of it all. This could & should be a separate post in itself ---> I went through a stressful complicated pregnancy in late 2005 - early 2006 alone (though I was married), only to find out my husband had been having an affair the entire time and was planning on leaving me and taking our older child with him. (All of these events could be a novel in themselves so I'll try to keep it short. And I KNOW it is not an excuse for MY behavior or to blame for my problem. I'm just trying to convey the level of stress causing and contributing to my depression.) After a long painful 3 months of living with this horrid situation trying to make it work, hubby and I decided to part ways. After learning all the down and dirty details of this affair (thanks to his slut bag mistress telling me EVERYTHING I never wanted to know - I drove myself insane with rehashing these memories over and over!), doubled with the PPD, no, tripled with a screaming colicky baby that wouldn't let me put her down = I was a basket case.
So he was leaving, and I had no where to go. 4 days before he was to leave, he was diagnosed with 2 very horrible types of cancer (karma?) and was given 2 weeks to live. It was the scariest situation I have ever been through in my life. I couldn't leave him lying there on his death bed, although I truly hated him for all he had done to me. I was stuck. So I did the humane thing I knew I SHOULD do, against the advice of my closest girlfriends at the time, and stayed. I stayed with him throughout all of the chemo and hospital stays and nursed him back to health at home for an entire year. Supposedly, everything was "better". This life changing event was supposed to make everything all better - but I still had all of those horrible feelings crammed down inside me. Just because he got better, those feelings never went away. All that stuff was still there, merely pushed aside for a bigger crisis. However I was the only one who seemed to remember it and feel it. I had no closure on the situation.
He got better and went back to work, leaving me at home with the now 1 year old and an 8 yr old. Alone. Day & night while he tried to make up for a year's lost wages. I was alone with the baby during the day until my son came home from school, just them, me, and my insanity. All the depression was still there, just like it had been since I was 15 years old when my parents started me in therapy for it. But I quit after I became pregnant with my first child at age 18 thinking the baby would bring joy and hope into my life and I wouldn't be depressed anymore. Not to mention the antidepressants I was on were fairly new, and the effects on an unborn child were unknown - so I quit taking them. Plus, I had to focus on him, not me anymore. It got a little better in the first few years I had him, being a busy young Mom trying to make a life for us. I didn't have time to sit around and worry about how I felt. Hubby and I grew together and made a life for our new young family. Things were better. Until the 2nd baby mess came about and all that drama.
Off and on I have struggled with this addiction, hating myself, feeling ashamed, trying several times to get off of them on my own only to go right back to them. I've tried everything, replacing them with other meds, tapering them down to lessen the withdrawals but nothing ever works. Not with where I am. Now I have to find them "on the streets". Just like those creatures behind the dumpsters. Humiliating. Hubby KNOWS fully about my problem, and even gets them for me so I'll be "OK" because he hates to see me like that. He also plays sort of a (really fucked up demented) game with them, making me agree to do sexual favors for him in exchange for him getting them. The few times I tried quitting on my own I never made it past the 3rd or 4th day being stuck on the couch, unable to function or even get up or think and be the super Mom everyone expects of me. That I HAVE to be. Maybe if I were alone, not solely responsible for a high demands 2 yr old screaming at me ALL DAY LONG, I could lay in bed and eventually get over it. But with the responsibilities I have now, I can't accomplish both. I just can't do what I need to do where I'm at right now. So hubby does his work, calling around, and brings me some asking if I feel better now. (I know, he is awful for enabling me, I hate it too).
I have had countless break downs curled into a fetal position on my bed crying, BEGGING him to PLEASE let me go to rehab and get help.But he just kinda blows it off with the opinion of the fact that he grew up with parents submersed in addiction and has no sympathy for it cause "it's all in your head". He is desensitized to it all. He just says, "Oh, you'll be alright, it's not that bad, you just need to grow some balls and get over it.You're making it a bigger deal than it is." But then the next day or so he'll come home with some and say, "I just want you to be happy." Every time I bring up rehab, he has a million reasons of why NOT. Because it would be an embarrassment to our family, he can't take off work to keep the kids... It's even harder because I am literally a stuck at home Mom with NO car, no way to go anywhere, take my kids anywhere, go to the store, or especially take myself to the Dr. I have always depended on either hubby or my Mom taking me where I needed to go. Now that Mom is not talking to me, I am really stuck, not to mention lonely as she was my best friend, my ONLY friend.
Earlier this year, I went into my OB/GYN for my check up and saw one of 9 Dr's practicing there. (Not my regular sweet loving compassionate female Dr that offered me nerve pills at my 6 week PP follow up when I told her about the affair...and I didn't accept them but it was the thought that counts to me.) I saw a male Dr, the one I like the least,a cocky prick by his manner, but he was all that was available. I broke down sitting on the exam table telling him everything thinking he would immediately offer help and support and actually FUCKING HELP ME or something. Seeing where I am today, you can probably guess that didn't go as planned. He said that was not his department or place and his words were so sharp and hurtful saying stuff like "You're going to hurt your entire family with this, not just yourself, and how horrible and selfish of you to do this to your children. They usually take drug addict's kids AWAY from them and place them in foster care..." The first few comments WERE true, all of it I already knew but still, he had NO compassion or tact at all. Like I hadn't thought all those same things! But the threat of having my kids taken away???? Scared the living shit out of me!!! I ran from his office crying and praying he didn't call the cops on me.
I do have family, that if it came down to it, would keep my kids for me. But as of right now, we are not on speaking terms because of a fight we had and I don't want to face them - not in the state I am in now. They're close to knowing, they know something is going on, but not exactly what. It kills me to be estranged from them after being SO close my entire life literally working together, eating together, always being at each other's house, talking on the phone 20 times a day. But I just CAN'T tell them. I can't hurt them like that. They've got enough of their own problems as it is. Besides, there are several other of our family members that have prescription drug problems, and I know how they are treated and viewed among the family. I don't want to be put into that category.
I CAN NOT live like this anymore, I want my old life back, even if it was depressing. I am not the same super Mom I used to be, baking cookies for neighbors and teachers, working hours on end in my garden, playing with my children...I used to have projects that I enjoyed working on, now they're all crammed in the garage for another day. I used to be creative and artistic and find joy in creating things and doing stuff. Now it is all I can do to tread water to keep up with the mandatory daily stuff. Now I stay in my house secretly consumed with counting pills, worrying if I'll have enough for tomorrow, harassing hubby to hunt for more... I don't have any real life friends anymore, I don't talk on the phone anymore or even open my blinds. Son goes to school, hubby goes to work, and daughter and I stay home, inside, killing time until the guys come home. I have the same routine everyday, 2 loads of laundry, the dishes, cooking, keeping daughter content. It is very rare that we leave on any outings during the day, and if we do, I have to make sure I have enough pills to take with me.
It has affected my relationship with my kids too. I know I'm not the same Mommy I used to be and the older child has made random comments about me not being happy and always being grumpy. He takes every opportunity to go home with his cousin after school instead of coming home. I don't blame him, I know it sucks here. I know I am hurting my kids with my addiction and behavior. I feel deep down also that it is affecting HIS behavior, which lately has been spiraling down fast. The guilt alone from that, thinking I am messing my kid up makes me hate myself even more.
I HATE that I have let these horrible things consume me and kill every sign of life I ever had. I HATE being a slave to them and letting them control me. I know I could stop if I could just go somewhere long enough to get better. I have spent countless hours researching online about treatment options, rehab facilities, etc. I found a great one, but it is clear across the other side of the states for me, and it costs $17,000. I know my insurance would cover something here too locally if I could find a place where I could stay long enough to detox and get through the withdrawals. I just can't get through that part here where I'm at. That is the hardest part in my point of view right now. I'd like to find a place that is caring and compassionate with their patients, NOT treating them like they are criminals or 2nd class citizens. The same way most everyone else views the situation, looking down on a user. Believe me, I've gotten down on myself enough as it is. I don't think I could get any lower, my self esteem is completely gone. I've thought all the horrible things and said all the horrible negative things to myself. My biggest fear is reaching out for help and just getting beat down & judged even more - if that is even possible. Also the looming fear that if I do try to reach out for any help on my own, even just calling somewhere would alert authorities somehow and possibly my children being taken away. That alone is enough to keep me hiding this secret, I just won't risk that. I'm not a criminal, I'm not endangering my kids. They are healthy, clean, fed, and have everything and possibly more than most kids do not have the luxuries of. Just not a happy Mommy that they deserve.
Just writing this, is the biggest step I have ever taken in concern to this problem (besides telling Dr Dickhead). I have never let on to ANYONE about it besides my husband who is just as ashamed as I am about it. So this is my deep, dark, dirty secret. I ask that if you do comment, please try to be gentle. I know what a horrible person I am for having this problem, but it can happen to anyone anytime. Everyone says they don't judge other people, but it is impossible to not. It is human nature and we ALL do it whether we realize we are doing it or not. I judge myself every single day, hating myself for being like this and turning into one of "those" people I myself used to judge and think bad about. How did I let myself get this way???
Any advice, suggestions, support, similar stories of I can relate from personal experience or a family member - just anything would be appreciated. In my short time visiting the blogosphere I have seen first hand the love and power that can come from it. I know I need help. I really do want it more than anything in the world. Even if nobody comments at all, at least I said it out loud. It is killing me keeping this for so long.
Today is one of those days where I am down to only having 1 left, and nervously await hubby to try to meet up with "the guy" after work to get more. If it does not work out, tomorrow will be hell and all the days after until I can find some.
I just want out.
Monday, September 01, 2008
The Post-Partum Week From Hell
Posted by Anonymous.
The last four weeks of my pregnancy were hellish. First, my doctor almost killed me and my unborn son by administering an anemia treatment to which I had a severe allergic reaction.
The last four weeks of my pregnancy were hellish. First, my doctor almost killed me and my unborn son by administering an anemia treatment to which I had a severe allergic reaction.
I could barely walk by the end, and when my doctor told me she wanted to deliver me five days early, I issued no protest.
Now I'm wishing I could turn back the clock.
It isn't the baby - he is as sweet as pie, some nights even sleeping for six hours at a stretch. He wakes twice at the most. The blessing of birthing an almost 10-pounder. I earned some good karma while waddling around with his big noggin pressing on my cervix.
But this week? This week after the birth?
Is from HELL.
First, every in-law I have descended on me, with my FIL and MIL doing their level best to divert my husband's attention from me and our new baby. Their 30-year-old divorce feud spills over into every family event, culminating this time in a call from my MIL to my husband the day after I came home from the hospital, summoning him to her hotel room so she and her husband could interrogate my husband as to his "feelings' about the divorce.
IT WAS 34 YEARS AGO. GET OVER IT ALREADY.
Then my brother found me on Twitter and made his way to my blog. This is such a bad, bad thing. Such a very very bad bad thing. He and his wife now have the goods on me - my mother doesn't know about my blog, and my brother - and especially his wife - hate my mother.
There is little to deter him from using my blog as a weapon against my mom - or me, for that matter - should one of them get in a snit about something.
And I don't want to hurt my mom. I never told her about my blog, because at the beginning it was a place for me to vent and grieve in private anonymity. Not even my husband reads it, giving me free reign to write honestly about my inner life.
A freedom now curtailed.
I am stifled by the idea of their eyes on my words. I'm tentative, where once I was fearless.
What do I do? Clear out my archives of precious words and tell her? Or wait, crouched in defensive position, to have the bomb dropped for me?
How do I explain it?
Oh, and just after that, my husband decided we should finally, after six years of marriage, combine our bank accounts. Let's just say we have very different ideas when it comes to finances. And that was the last vestige of freedom I had - my own checking account.
As a woman who gave up all her independence to stay home and raise children, the few dollars I earn from my writing gave me a sense that I am not totally reliant on my husband.
And now I am.
I had hoped to avoid anti-depressants this time around. But major life changes are my biggest triggers. How about a series of stressful life-changing events?
Please pass the Lexapro.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Betchfest, Ho!
I said it before, and I'll say it again: sometimes, you can't vent openly - that is, yell at people to their faces, or, say, rant freely on your blog - without risking big trouble. The Basement is always available for that kind of thing, of course, but it occurred to me that sometimes we need to be invited to spill our guts, to be welcomed to vent and rant and get all messy. So I proposed the following: a Bitchin' Bitchfest Blog Exchange, wherein we arrange some swapping of blog spaces and opening up of blog spaces so that we can all blog openly on a theme that isn't entirely appropriate for our own blogs. Like, say, 'Things (Or People) That Make You Go ARGH' (not that I would know anything about this, but, you know: family members, in-laws, neighbors, et al.) Hence, the Bitchfest/Betchfest/Festival Of Rants.
This weekend, there's a whole lotta people set to rant. They'll be posting all over the Internet, at blogs that have been generously donated or traded for the purpose of said ranting. Links to the host-blogs - where these rants will appear - will be submitted to the comments here; after the weekend, those links will be gathered together and listed in this space for easy reference and inspiration.
You're welcome to participate too, of course. All trading arrangements have already been made (there are still two spots open that I'll assign to the first two commenters who ask for them), but that shouldn't stop you: post your own rant on your own blog or ask around for someone to lend their space (it's a long weekend, and everybody loves a little guest-posting on the holidays.) (Feel free to solicit in comments.) Then just leave your link here.
Grab buttons below. spread the word, and then - BETCH AWAY.
Buttonz:
(transparent background)
This weekend, there's a whole lotta people set to rant. They'll be posting all over the Internet, at blogs that have been generously donated or traded for the purpose of said ranting. Links to the host-blogs - where these rants will appear - will be submitted to the comments here; after the weekend, those links will be gathered together and listed in this space for easy reference and inspiration.
You're welcome to participate too, of course. All trading arrangements have already been made (there are still two spots open that I'll assign to the first two commenters who ask for them), but that shouldn't stop you: post your own rant on your own blog or ask around for someone to lend their space (it's a long weekend, and everybody loves a little guest-posting on the holidays.) (Feel free to solicit in comments.) Then just leave your link here.
Grab buttons below. spread the word, and then - BETCH AWAY.
Buttonz:
(transparent background)
(grey background - better for dark backgrounds)
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Missing My Mom
Posted by Anonymous
For better or worse, my mother has always been my best friend. She's always that first phone call I want to make when there's something wonderful or something terrible. She is the first shoulder I run to cry on and more often the person who gently - or not so gently - kicks me in the pants and tells me to get over it.
For better or worse, my mother has always been my best friend. She's always that first phone call I want to make when there's something wonderful or something terrible. She is the first shoulder I run to cry on and more often the person who gently - or not so gently - kicks me in the pants and tells me to get over it.
I was never the little girl who dreamed about her wedding day. I always dreamed of the day I would have my first child. I imagined running over to her house and telling her the great news, asking her to come for ultrasounds, exciting shopping trips and nursery decorating sessions, and most of all, having her in the waiting room, third in line to greet the new arrival.
Of course, life never goes as planned. We live a continent apart. I had to deliver the exciting news over the phone and could only hope that the timing would work for her to be here. A few weeks after my announcement my grandmother had her first "incident". You see, my grandmother is an alcoholic. While it was a bit of a shock to find that college keggers smelled just like grandma, my life was pretty untouched by her drinking. Except where it touched my mother. Which was every where and in every way. And while that's not the point of this, it needs to be repeated that this woman made my mother's childhood and quite a bit of her adulthood unbearable. So I found myself pregnant, far away from family, and my mother's distraction was just beginning.
"Mom, I was diagnosed with Gestational Diabetes, I'm freaking out."
-"Your grandmother fell again."
"Mom, I have low-lying placenta, they want to monitor me closely."
-"Your grandmother is calling me 20 times a day."
"Mom, I have gained 75 lbs, I'm miserable."
-"Your grandmother hasn't called me in a week."
"Mom, I have this rash, it's called PUPPS and it's an allergy to being pregnant and I look like a leper."
-"Your grandmother fired the aid."
"Mom, my feet are so swollen I can't walk and they tell me I have this thing called pre-eclampsia."
-"I think we need to put your grandmother in a home."
When I had to go into an emergency induction to have my first son, she did her best to get out here and she arrived a few days after he was born. When she left, I cried. Possibly harder than I ever had in my life. I wanted her to be there with me and guide me through all these new things. I grieved, selfishly, for all that she had missed during my pregnancy. And most of all, I was heartbroken for my son who I knew would miss out on so much with the distance between us. I knew I would lose her to my grandmother again when she got home.
And I did.
By the time I was pregnant with my second son, I again had hope that she would be there. This time home with my older son waiting for the new baby to come home. My pregnancy was far less eventful and she was still just as preoccupied with my grandmother. By this time, grandmother was being moved to an assisted living facility and people were finally listening to my mother about her drinking problems. My grandmother generally hid her drinking well, but it finally caught up with her in the form of "alcohol induced dementia", which means that she now has an excuse when she pretends to forget some of the more awful things she has done. I fully believe that at this point, most people would just walk away. I know I would have. My husband says he would have made me. There is no love lost on either end of the relationship and sometimes I think you need to sever ties with people who are just plain poisonous. But my mother is a God-fearing woman and takes her commandments to heart. She will honor her mother till the end. So she started a regimen of every-other-day visits while spending the off days preparing a long-neglected home for sale.
With my due date at hand, my mother arrived. But again, when does life EVER go as planned? As my due date passed, her departure date arrived. We joked the night before she was to leave that I would have the baby that day. Still, I was surprised to wake up in labor at 3am. At 8am the next morning I was in full swing active labor and my husband and son were in the car taking my mother to the airport. I was fighting contractions, sobbing and making her empty bed. My son was born a few hours later.
I know I'm being selfish. But Goddamnit, having a baby is the time in your life you want your own mommy the most. I feel ripped off. I feel like all the aspects of my pregnancies and births that she missed are somehow less real, the memories less tangible for having not been shared. We'd like more children, and we want to wait a few years, but don't think it's a coincidence if my grandmother dies first. I'd like to say all of this to her, but my mother is a hard woman and would just get defensive and tell me to stop whining. So I'll tell you instead.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Let The Bitching Begin
The Bitchfest (aka BetchFest, aka Festival Of Rants, aka I Has Issues, Let Me Show You Them) is just about ready to roll. If you have already e-mailed me (betchfest at gmail.com), then you're on the mail-list and are being tallied into the roundtable as we speak. If you want to join in, but have not yet e-mailed me (with your preferences for inclusion - hosting a rant, posting a rant, or both - noted in the subject line), then get on it.
The Bitchfest will take place this weekend. Yes, I know that it's a long weekend, but that means that we have four full days in which to bitch and rant. Also, it means that you can just get it all off your chest before you hit the beach or whatever for the last time this summer and just enjoy yourself, secure in the knowledge that if you have one too many margaritas there will be little risk of you going off on some unsuspecting MIL/DIL/spouse/neighbor/whomever because you already dealt with that shiz, hurrah!
Assignments will be circulated by e-mail by Wednesday. Full details about how it will all work will be posted (here) by then, too.
Any questions, fire away in comments below. I'll try to respond as best I can.
CANNOT WAIT.
The Bitchfest will take place this weekend. Yes, I know that it's a long weekend, but that means that we have four full days in which to bitch and rant. Also, it means that you can just get it all off your chest before you hit the beach or whatever for the last time this summer and just enjoy yourself, secure in the knowledge that if you have one too many margaritas there will be little risk of you going off on some unsuspecting MIL/DIL/spouse/neighbor/whomever because you already dealt with that shiz, hurrah!
Assignments will be circulated by e-mail by Wednesday. Full details about how it will all work will be posted (here) by then, too.
Any questions, fire away in comments below. I'll try to respond as best I can.
CANNOT WAIT.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Beast
Posted by Anonymous.
Immediately after it happens, I am surprisingly cool. It's only a few minutes later, when I think of his little face and the fear and confusion written on it that I start to crumble inward. The guilt and disappointment in myself are overwhelming, and there's nobody to blame, no extenuating circumstances to add up and say "This is why it happened." It just comes out of nowhere.
I am surprised because it's not a particularly hard night. I was easy on everyone, letting the children watch a new DVD, skipping bathtime so bedtime could happen punctually. Kyle wasn't even resisting more than usual, and he even cleaned up his cars without being forced. But he peed in his pants and then asked for water. I said no. He cried. I thought about how he gets his way in this manner too often, that it's becoming a pattern and it must be stopped. So I stood firm, and kept saying no. He threw a tantrum. I lost it.
I slammed his closet door and yelled at him as loud as I could: "LISTEN TO ME! WHEN MOMMY SAYS 'NO' YOU SAY 'OKAY, MOMMY!' You do NOT throw a tantrum and scream and cry!" I held him by the shoulders and yelled this into his face, which made him cry harder. His eyes widened and he shrank away from me in fear and despair. He had awakened the hideous impatient unmotherly thing inside me. He knows the deal by now. He's already three. This would end badly, and he was totaled.
It only gets worse. I roughly pulled his Pull Up on and then shoved him into bed, yelling "I'm sick of you! Go to sleep!" and then slamming the door on my way out of his room. And then, as he wailed with rejection and sadness, I calmly took the garbage outside and threw a load of laundry into the washer.
Who is this version of myself that can treat my child this way? Why do I, the nurturing woman who dissolves into tears when I hear of any child being mistreated, mentally stand aside and watch from within as this happens? It's like another person takes over my body and I can only think "you should stop. This is getting worse. You'll regret this later."
And I do. I do, very much. My throat hurts from yelling and from suppressing the sobs that are just below the surface. My heart hurts, and it's making my back hurt and my toes hurt and my head hurt. I have hurt my child with my words and manner, and I can't take it back.
I need a way to handle this when it happens. I need my self to speak up when the angry beast rears her head and takes over. I need to stop this now, before it happens again as the children get over, and these episodes root themselves in their memories and affect the way they are shaped as people. I need help.
Friday, August 22, 2008
Consumed
Posted by Anonymous.
I want to cheat on my husband.
It all started while we were having problems- major problems, and things have settled down and worked out, for the most part. He's a wonderful man, whom I love dearly and have dedicated 10+ years of my life to. He's attractive, smart, funny, affectionate, thoughtful (sometimes), and a good lover. He'll make a good father someday.
He lost his job, and with it, himself. You can't love someone when you don't love yourself, and I dare say that for some months he didn't love me. It surely didn't feel like it. I was cold, I was hungry, and I was alone. I'm not exaggerating, either. The pantry was empty and it was 46 degrees in my house and he didn't care. Did. not. care. I was so entirely alone. I never understood loneliness until then. It's a whole new kind of lonely, and trust me- I know lonely.
This man, this incredibly attractive, charming man, who fortunately (unfortunately?) I work with, started paying me the kind of attention I so desperately craved. He is also married, and his wife is a crazy, crazy woman (which, I suppose I might be too, in her situation). I'm not naive, I figured I'm one of who-knows-how-many, and I don't envision a relationship resulting from anything that might transpire.
So, at this point, while you're thinking I'm a total whore, let me tell you something. I'm not a whore. I can count on one hand the number of men I've slept with and still have fingers left. I have never, ever been tempted or considered cheating on my husband in eight years of marriage or at any point during our courtship.
Things heated up to a rolling boil, and he laid his cards on the table. I begged him not to give me a chance to think about it, to consider the consequences and the morality of it and the weight and the depth. "Don't give me time to think about it". Well, he did give me time to think about it. I made the right decision.
He left for an extended vacation not long after. He came back recommitted to working on his marriage, and I had a long talk with myself while he was gone and had resolved to put this silly, dangerous game behind me and concentrate on my marriage. I thought that when things got better with my husband, this burning desire would fade. He and I remained friendly. Platonic. Even business-like.
Until the past week or two, when the compliments and the comments and the emails that teeter on inappropriate began again. We take the banter right to the edge and then back off. Which I know is for the best. And the right thing to do. Yet, I want this man more than I've ever wanted anything in my life. I can't sleep some nights, I'm so consumed with him. Would it just be a one time thing? I don't know how, unless it went really poorly. We work together. Our attraction isn't going to die when it's finally fulfilled. Or would it?
We recently had a conversation about the end sum of our situation. He contends that I won't be able to live with the guilt, that I am better than this, that I'm not this type of person. By all reasonable measures, he's absolutely right. I'm not a good liar, I'm not good at hiding things, and my husband and I are close. We always said that we would "just know" if one of us cheated on the other- that kind of betrayal, that level of betrayal couldn't be hidden by one from the other.
So why am I still considering this? Why am I still consumed by this man? When I think about putting a rubber band around my wrist and snapping it every time I think about him, two thoughts immediately come to mind. The first is that I would have bloody wounds in a few hours. The second is "opportunity lost". The idea of giving up on this completely, of never having this fantasy fulfilled just kills me. At some point, our lives will go down separate paths and we won't see each other at all anymore. Will I regret giving up this opportunity for the rest of my life? Is the consequence of getting caught worth the experience?
My husband would be heartbroken to read any of this. It would shatter his world. Again, I'm not some kind of whore. I'm doggedly loyal. I'm jealous and possessive, and all of the other things that should keep me safely on the side of not doing this. So why does this little voice inside my head keep telling me that he would never know?
I don't even know myself anymore. I worry that I've married too young- at twenty- and that this is a product of that. I can't leave my job. He isn't leaving his anytime soon. Worse yet, my husband has taken up a hobby that this man, and no one else in our current social circle, can help immensely with. I can't push back when he brings up calling the guy to help him without raising suspicion. The idea of them working on a project together makes me puke. The idea of getting to see more of him, to have him around my house, of him earning enough trust with the husband to be alone with me, on the other hand, well, it makes me want to insist again that I am not a whore.
Or am I?
I want to cheat on my husband.
It all started while we were having problems- major problems, and things have settled down and worked out, for the most part. He's a wonderful man, whom I love dearly and have dedicated 10+ years of my life to. He's attractive, smart, funny, affectionate, thoughtful (sometimes), and a good lover. He'll make a good father someday.
He lost his job, and with it, himself. You can't love someone when you don't love yourself, and I dare say that for some months he didn't love me. It surely didn't feel like it. I was cold, I was hungry, and I was alone. I'm not exaggerating, either. The pantry was empty and it was 46 degrees in my house and he didn't care. Did. not. care. I was so entirely alone. I never understood loneliness until then. It's a whole new kind of lonely, and trust me- I know lonely.
This man, this incredibly attractive, charming man, who fortunately (unfortunately?) I work with, started paying me the kind of attention I so desperately craved. He is also married, and his wife is a crazy, crazy woman (which, I suppose I might be too, in her situation). I'm not naive, I figured I'm one of who-knows-how-many, and I don't envision a relationship resulting from anything that might transpire.
So, at this point, while you're thinking I'm a total whore, let me tell you something. I'm not a whore. I can count on one hand the number of men I've slept with and still have fingers left. I have never, ever been tempted or considered cheating on my husband in eight years of marriage or at any point during our courtship.
Things heated up to a rolling boil, and he laid his cards on the table. I begged him not to give me a chance to think about it, to consider the consequences and the morality of it and the weight and the depth. "Don't give me time to think about it". Well, he did give me time to think about it. I made the right decision.
He left for an extended vacation not long after. He came back recommitted to working on his marriage, and I had a long talk with myself while he was gone and had resolved to put this silly, dangerous game behind me and concentrate on my marriage. I thought that when things got better with my husband, this burning desire would fade. He and I remained friendly. Platonic. Even business-like.
Until the past week or two, when the compliments and the comments and the emails that teeter on inappropriate began again. We take the banter right to the edge and then back off. Which I know is for the best. And the right thing to do. Yet, I want this man more than I've ever wanted anything in my life. I can't sleep some nights, I'm so consumed with him. Would it just be a one time thing? I don't know how, unless it went really poorly. We work together. Our attraction isn't going to die when it's finally fulfilled. Or would it?
We recently had a conversation about the end sum of our situation. He contends that I won't be able to live with the guilt, that I am better than this, that I'm not this type of person. By all reasonable measures, he's absolutely right. I'm not a good liar, I'm not good at hiding things, and my husband and I are close. We always said that we would "just know" if one of us cheated on the other- that kind of betrayal, that level of betrayal couldn't be hidden by one from the other.
So why am I still considering this? Why am I still consumed by this man? When I think about putting a rubber band around my wrist and snapping it every time I think about him, two thoughts immediately come to mind. The first is that I would have bloody wounds in a few hours. The second is "opportunity lost". The idea of giving up on this completely, of never having this fantasy fulfilled just kills me. At some point, our lives will go down separate paths and we won't see each other at all anymore. Will I regret giving up this opportunity for the rest of my life? Is the consequence of getting caught worth the experience?
My husband would be heartbroken to read any of this. It would shatter his world. Again, I'm not some kind of whore. I'm doggedly loyal. I'm jealous and possessive, and all of the other things that should keep me safely on the side of not doing this. So why does this little voice inside my head keep telling me that he would never know?
I don't even know myself anymore. I worry that I've married too young- at twenty- and that this is a product of that. I can't leave my job. He isn't leaving his anytime soon. Worse yet, my husband has taken up a hobby that this man, and no one else in our current social circle, can help immensely with. I can't push back when he brings up calling the guy to help him without raising suspicion. The idea of them working on a project together makes me puke. The idea of getting to see more of him, to have him around my house, of him earning enough trust with the husband to be alone with me, on the other hand, well, it makes me want to insist again that I am not a whore.
Or am I?
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Am I Normal?
Posted by Anonymous.
After my husband told me he was going to go on antidepressants, I ate a bag of cheezies and drank almost one entire bottle of (good) wine.
Am I normal?
After my husband told me he was going to go on antidepressants, I ate a bag of cheezies and drank almost one entire bottle of (good) wine.
Am I normal?
Monday, August 18, 2008
I'm Angry
Posted by Marti.
I’ve been carrying this around for six years and two months. No one knows. And now it’s getting heavy; as my son grows older, it’s getting unbelievably burdensome and awkward to hold within.
I’m angry. I’m bitter.
You would never guess that from looking at me. I have myself together. I’m an independent single mother. I provide nicely for my son. He attends a private school. I have my nursing degree, and I have a stable, dependable job with excellent benefits. I am incredibly laid back. I don’t yell, I’m not excitable, I don’t have mood swings.
Except that my insides are teeming with anger. Seething. I grind my teeth and don’t even realize it. I clench my jaw until it aches. Because I am angry.
When I found out I was going to have my son, I was twenty-one years old. I was living with the “father”, who was already a father to a one year old girl. The daughter’s mother did not know that he and I were “together” like that. He told her I was a lesbian and that we were just “roommates”. So imagine her shock when she walked into the apartment one afternoon and found us taking a nap together. She freaked. He freaked, thinking she would take the daughter away from him. She ran out. He ran after. And left me alone, where I remained until he came back in and furiously declared, “You can’t be pregnant and live here”. So I left. Alone. And alone is where I am now, six years and two months later.
I love my son. He is the sole purpose for my existence. He is everything I never thought I wanted. The moment he was born, I realized – this is it. This is why I am alive. For him, and him only.
But still, I was alone.
Yes, there were friends and the occasional family member and heaven-sent home daycare workers, but at the end of the day, after going to school from eight in the morning until noon, then working from 4pm until midnight, I was alone. Me and my baby.
I put myself through school. Twice. I received food stamps, Medicaid. I still remember the hot sting of the flood of tears I had to hold back until I could make it out of the government building and to my car. My pride was crushed. My spirit was broken. And out of those ruins, I created this – our life.
My family told me I couldn’t do it. My mother gave me money for an abortion. I sent it back. I am pro-choice, but my gut told me to hunker down, pull myself up from my bootstraps, and plow through. My relationship with my mother was forever damaged from the moment I marked “Return to sender” on her $400 check. My son is half-black, and my mother’s second husband is incredibly racist. We’re not welcome in her home; therefore my son has no real “grandparents”.
I’m angry.
But for all those people who told me “You can’t do it”, I proved them wrong a thousand times over. I turned myself into a one-woman operation. Cleaning, laundry, cooking, shopping, lunch-making, kid-bathing, lawn mowing, rent-paying, ...I could go on but you name it, I do it. Alone.
The “father” has since gotten back together with the daughter’s mother. They had a son, and now they’re married. My son is no more than an after thought to the “father”. A distant memory, a living walking talking piece of proof that he once lied and got caught lying.
All of my friends are married, most of them have kids. And supportive families, and in-laws. It’s hard to be around them sometimes. The husbands and the grandparents and the idea of “family” seems to point to all I don’t have, and all I ache to be able to provide for my child.
Because it’s just me, me and my baby, and I am angry about that.
I am grateful for all that I have. I’m not so incredibly bitter that I am unable to be grateful. We have our health; we have a roof over our heads. My son is beautiful and articulate and imaginative. I no longer have to rely on government assistance. I was able to go to school and rise above the statistics of single motherhood. I also know that I chose this; I knew (to a certain extent) what I was getting into. But really, who truly knows the full repercussions of “what they’re getting into” when entering parenthood for the first time?
Every night I crawl into my son’s twin bed, squeeze myself between him and the wall, fold him into my arms and sing what he refers to as “The Sunshine Song”. And most nights I fight not to cry, even as one or two tears escape, because the words tear me apart. He is my sunshine, he does make me happy, and I would die if ever someone tried to take him away. After the song is over, I kiss him, and I hug him. I tell him I love him, make sure he has his blankets the way he likes them, and his blankies are within reach. I scratch his back, adjust his nightlight, and then I shut his door, and I am alone. My baby is sleeping, and I am alone.
My anger has been shoved down deep inside me for a long time. It festers in the dark, mostly because I won’t allow it in the light, where it could begin to air out, scab over, and eventually heal. I can’t keep shoving it down any longer. It’s eating me from the inside out. I need to allow it to heal, I need to allow it to the surface. This is my attempt. This is me saying, “I am angry”, bringing it into the light, allowing it to the surface, not letting it fester anymore.
I’m angry. But I don’t want to be anymore.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Living In Pain
Posted By Anonymous
My husband is in constant physical pain. We don’t even really know what’s wrong with him (one doctor said RA, another said Neuropathy), but the pain is so bad that he can barely walk some days. Other days he gets fed up and just yells at anyone who crosses his path. On those days our kids are afraid of him. He’s not physically abusive, but the yelling bothers them a great deal. This morning my 2 year old son was sitting on the couch and when my husband came in and sat next to him, my son cried and reached up for me to pick him up. I’m afraid he will never remember his father any other way.
A couple of weeks ago we all went out to a community fair and had to walk a little ways from where we parked. My husband started yelling at me that I didn’t understand what he was going through (even though I had offered to drop him off right at the gate and then go park and walk back). There was such a hateful sound in his voice and I was so ashamed that he was acting that way out in public, in front of our children and total strangers, that I found myself wishing he would die and leave me in peace.
I know how horrible that is. And I feel guilty for it the most when my husband has calmer moments and sits with me and talks with me and really listens.
I don’t know how to live this life. I hate my job and have hated it for years, but I can’t quit and risk a pay cut and loss of health coverage for my family. One of the few comforts I find (other than my children) is in food, especially sweets, and my weight is out of control.
Obviously I feel for him, being in pain all the time is terrible. But his health and behavior is affecting all of us, and it seems like something has to give.
My husband is in constant physical pain. We don’t even really know what’s wrong with him (one doctor said RA, another said Neuropathy), but the pain is so bad that he can barely walk some days. Other days he gets fed up and just yells at anyone who crosses his path. On those days our kids are afraid of him. He’s not physically abusive, but the yelling bothers them a great deal. This morning my 2 year old son was sitting on the couch and when my husband came in and sat next to him, my son cried and reached up for me to pick him up. I’m afraid he will never remember his father any other way.
A couple of weeks ago we all went out to a community fair and had to walk a little ways from where we parked. My husband started yelling at me that I didn’t understand what he was going through (even though I had offered to drop him off right at the gate and then go park and walk back). There was such a hateful sound in his voice and I was so ashamed that he was acting that way out in public, in front of our children and total strangers, that I found myself wishing he would die and leave me in peace.
I know how horrible that is. And I feel guilty for it the most when my husband has calmer moments and sits with me and talks with me and really listens.
I don’t know how to live this life. I hate my job and have hated it for years, but I can’t quit and risk a pay cut and loss of health coverage for my family. One of the few comforts I find (other than my children) is in food, especially sweets, and my weight is out of control.
Obviously I feel for him, being in pain all the time is terrible. But his health and behavior is affecting all of us, and it seems like something has to give.
Tuesday, August 05, 2008
They Say It's Your Birthday
Posted By Anonymous.
Dear Mother-in-law,
Dear Mother-in-law,
Damn! Already off to a bad start. Because technically, you are not my in-law. You’re the woman who birthed that guy I live with. Your son. As far as you know, your son and I have not had a stranger declare us Husband and Wife. We haven’t handed money over to The Government in exchange for a piece of paper that makes our relationship legitimate. And we haven’t held a big party so that relatives can grumble later that the food was too spicy.
I’ve been with your son for eight years, and for seven of those we’ve been living outside the law. Except we haven’t, not really. We pay taxes together and get invited places together and he was on my group health plan at work. We’re boring outlaws, really.
I’m writing to you because once again, you haven’t bothered to acknowledge my birthday. And I want you to know that it really hurts.
I know, crazy, right? I’m a grown woman, with 34 birthdays behind me; I should be beyond such petty things as acknowledgement of the day I was born. But here’s the thing:
You send your grown son, the son in his mid-thirties, the son who has not lived with you or been financially dependent on you for 15 years – you send him cards all the time. Valentine cards. Easter cards. Halloween cards. You sewed a giant advent calendar one year. You sent stuffed bunny rabbits at Easter the following year. You address these cards and age-inappropriate gifts to him, and you’ve kept them coming steadily over the years.
But there is no birthday card for the woman who lives with him. You know, the person he shares his life with? The gal he loves?
Your daughter told me that her boyfriend, whose birthday is three days after mine, received a birthday card AND a gift card from you this year. Which of course was very nice of you. Very thoughtful.
But nothing for me. Okay: it’s petty time.
As stated above, and as you are well aware, we have been together for eight years. Your daughter and her boyfriend have been together half that time. I have a friend who has gone through two divorces in the past eight years. It is not an insignificant amount of time, and it has not always been easy. YOU KNOW THAT.
I’ve sent you birthday cards and pestered your son to make sure we get a present off to you on time.
I’ve wracked my brain to come up with interesting birthday gifts for you. I’ve written thank-you notes for the Christmas presents you sent.
Boyfriend tells me that you’ve never even asked when my birthday is. Whoa – here’s some more pettiness: my mother has his birthday marked on her calendar and she always sends him a gift. Always always always.
She’s not too happy about us not being married either, but her marriage is a pit of misery and despair, and I think she’s pretty happy to see me happy. I shouldn’t compare you to my mom, but I can’t help it.
She’s not too happy about us not being married either, but her marriage is a pit of misery and despair, and I think she’s pretty happy to see me happy. I shouldn’t compare you to my mom, but I can’t help it.
One year you happened to call on my birthday, and when Boyfriend told you we were about to go out to celebrate – you asked to speak to me. You wished me a happy birthday. It was very nice.
That’s when I thought “Aha! Now she knows when my birthday is! I’m gonna get a card next year! Or a phone call! Or an email!” Problem solved. I did a happy dance. Acknowledgement from the family of the man I love!
That’s when I thought “Aha! Now she knows when my birthday is! I’m gonna get a card next year! Or a phone call! Or an email!” Problem solved. I did a happy dance. Acknowledgement from the family of the man I love!
But that was….five? years ago. No birthday card from you, ever. But those weird valentines and stuffed animals keep on arriving.
I married your son one spring day seven years ago. I don’t remember the date. But I remember how I felt that day, when we made the overwhelmingly adult decision to move in together. I remember my tummy fluttering with the realization that I wanted to be with this man through everything. EVERYTHING. We didn’t want a wedding, we didn’t want a party, we didn’t want someone else to declare us married. I know this is not within your realm of reality, but couldn’t you just pretend?
Mother-in-law, I don’t want to send you any more birthday cards. I don’t want to pay for super expensive shipping costs to make sure a birthday gift arrives on time. But then I have a problem, because of that good ol’ credo: Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. I think those are fairly wise words to live by.
See? There’s the problem. Because I love getting things in the mail, and I love it when people remember my birthday, I know that you must like it too. To know that someone spent time choosing or making a card, addressing an envelope, looking for a stamp? Or a phone call. An email. It’s nice to be thought of.
But I think I’m being a bit of a chump here. What would Miss Manners tell me to do? She would tell me to suck it up and just get married already. And to handwrite the marriage announcements. But that advice messes with MY belief system, which is often contrary to the beliefs of Society At Large. But my belief system is important to me.
Your birthday is coming up, so I have to make a decision soon about whether to throw something in the damn mail for you. But whatever I decide, PLEASE stop sending your son valentine cards meant for a 10 year old. It was kind of funny at first, but now it’s just….creepy.
Sincerely,
Fake Daughter-in-law
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
No Thanks For Being A Friend
Posted by Anonymous
This friendship is over. I am not in the least bit sad about it. It was never real to me. I thought it could be. I did try. But you could never open up enough for it to be a real friendship. You're too busy trying to present this picture to the world that isn't real.
I'm too old for this shit. And you're even older than me. I won't be made to feel bad for just letting a friendship go. If I were to have problems in my other friendships, I would talk about it. I would deal with issues, no matter how painful. But with this one, I'm afraid I don't care enough.
I'm mad at myself for letting you off easy. For making it seem as though I'm just too busy. If I felt like you cared at all, I would have made more of an effort.
I've overlooked snide comments, snotty comments, mean comments, and I've thought to myself, "I don't need this shit".
Really, I don't.
Perhaps we'll say goodbye this week. We're both moving.
Perhaps we won't. Perhaps you'll just blame me some more, even though I've been the best friend you've had for four years. Did you ever ask yourself why the other women stopped talking to you? Because you will never open up. You'll never be vulnerable, or real. You'll never let anyone see you without makeup, or let anyone in if your house is a mess.
That speaks volumes to me.
I'm over it. I'm mad that I'm even letting it bother me. We haven't spoken in a week, but I'm being blamed for this. You could have picked up the fucking phone. Or emailed. Or done anything to show that you cared. But because your husband is deployed for longer than mine, your struggle is bigger and more complicated than I could ever understand, right?
And just so you know, your son's comments have made it obvious what you say behind my back. He's too young to understand what not to say. But now I know.
I feel like I'm in high school. Can't a friendship just end without any recriminations? It's not working, move on, end of story.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Where I Wish I Was
Posted by Anonymous.
I am so disappointed in myself. And so jealous of her. We are the same age. We both graduated from high school the same year, went to college and both have a bachelor's degree. She makes $50,000 a year and I make $14.00 an hour. I feel like a failure. That should be me. I'm just as smart, just as capable as her. The difference? I have 2 kids. The position she was given over me requires her to travel 75% of the time. I am not in a position to do that because of my children. I cannot be away from home for extended periods of time and overnight. I love my children so much...so why do I resent them and feel like they are holding me back from a promotion? When I see her in the office (she has an office with a door and I work FOR her from a cubicle), I feel insufficient. I doubt myself. She is going on to get her master's. I can barely afford $200 a week in daycare, I can't even consider going back to school. She immediately got a job in her field of study after college and has 7+ years experience. Me? I worked at a zoo, then for a graphics company, then I had a baby and another baby. Now that I actually have a job relevant to my degree I have zero experience. If I hadn't married young, if I hadn't started a family so soon, if I had chosen a career path and stuck to it - I could be where she is. My husband has a good job, but does not even have a college education and he makes $20 an hour. My self esteem is in the toilet. I know I can't compare the joy of having two beautiful, healthy children to having a career, but I will be fully honest and say I wish I was where she is instead of where I am. And I get even more depressed about feeling that way.
I am so disappointed in myself. And so jealous of her. We are the same age. We both graduated from high school the same year, went to college and both have a bachelor's degree. She makes $50,000 a year and I make $14.00 an hour. I feel like a failure. That should be me. I'm just as smart, just as capable as her. The difference? I have 2 kids. The position she was given over me requires her to travel 75% of the time. I am not in a position to do that because of my children. I cannot be away from home for extended periods of time and overnight. I love my children so much...so why do I resent them and feel like they are holding me back from a promotion? When I see her in the office (she has an office with a door and I work FOR her from a cubicle), I feel insufficient. I doubt myself. She is going on to get her master's. I can barely afford $200 a week in daycare, I can't even consider going back to school. She immediately got a job in her field of study after college and has 7+ years experience. Me? I worked at a zoo, then for a graphics company, then I had a baby and another baby. Now that I actually have a job relevant to my degree I have zero experience. If I hadn't married young, if I hadn't started a family so soon, if I had chosen a career path and stuck to it - I could be where she is. My husband has a good job, but does not even have a college education and he makes $20 an hour. My self esteem is in the toilet. I know I can't compare the joy of having two beautiful, healthy children to having a career, but I will be fully honest and say I wish I was where she is instead of where I am. And I get even more depressed about feeling that way.
Friday, July 11, 2008
Privacy Is As Privacy Does: A Poll
Have you ever been freaked out when a casual acquaintance from ‘real life’ found your blog? Or when your Sitemeter showed a steady stream of Google pervs visiting your site? Do you wonder about whether to put up photos of your children or your friends on your blog, for fear of your privacy? Many of us have experienced these unsettling moments, and questioned or even changed our writing styles and our habits as a result.
What strategies do you use to reach the audience you want, while maintaining your own privacy? Most bloggers use some kind of anonymization or privacy strategy, a ‘screen name’ being the most simple and obvious.
Mommy-blogger and researcher Aimée Morrison (Department of English, University of Waterloo, Canada) is conducting a study of writing strategies to protect privacy. She has set up a voluntary, anonymous 15- to 20-minute survey at http://english.uwaterloo.ca/~ahm/ that asks questions about such strategies, for example, if you use password protection to limit your writing’s audience. Follow the link to learn more about the study, or to participate. You can also contact Prof. Morrison directly at ahm [at] uwaterloo [dot] ca for more information.
Aimée is going to BlogHer in San Francisco, and she’d love to interview you in person if you’re going—send her an email at the address above.
Please feel free to repost this message, unchanged, to your blog to encourage others to participate too.
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This study has been reviewed by, and received ethics clearance through, the Office of Research Ethics, University of Waterloo.
Tuesday, July 01, 2008
Birthday
Posted by Anonymous.
48 hours from now (6/25/08) I will be broken. Beaten down, heartbroken, aching, longing, destroyed. Just for that day.
48 hours from now (6/25/08) I will be broken. Beaten down, heartbroken, aching, longing, destroyed. Just for that day.
It will be your birthday. Your first birthday. I never got to meet you, but I knew you. You grew inside of me. I felt you there before I even knew for sure I was pregnant. I say, "before I knew", but I knew. I knew you were there long before I even missed my period. If I'm honest, I think I knew you were there the second you were conceived. I can't explain why, or how, but I knew. I think your father knew too. We hardly talked about it, and I haven't spoken to him in months, so I certainly can't ask him now. He doesn't understand (no one seems to) why I feel the way I do. Why I miss you, why I mourn for you.
Aside from how things ended with him and I, you were conceived in love. In the greatest love I have ever known. The kind that awakens your soul, makes you feel invincible, makes everything seem brighter and more alive. That is why it hurts so bad. You were a piece of that love that I could keep with me.
But you left me. And the only way I could describe it to him is that I feel like a failure. I feel like I failed at being a woman. We are given this incredible gift to carry life inside of us and introduce it to the world. And I couldn't do it. He pointed out, "You've done it before". At the time (and still at times), that doesn't matter. It doesn't matter that I was able to do it before. That I have a beautiful daughter. What matters is that I couldn't do it that second time.
It took a long time after you left to get back on my feet. To not walk around with this huge hole inside of me. Feeling empty and betrayed (by who, or what, I don't know). It took a long time to stop rubbing my belly, pretending I could feel you. To be honest, I still do. To make matters worse, two of my neighbors got pregnant around the same time as I did. I couldn't look at them or speak to them without choking up. I'd stare at their bellies in amazement. Thinking, "That's what I'd look like now." Now that the babies are here, it hurts to look at them. Because all I see is you. What you would have been.
I still look at photos of your sister when she was a baby. And imagine you at that age. If you would have been anything like her, you'd already be walking like a champ. Getting into anything and everything. Lighting up my life. Your sister constantly tells me she wants a baby sister. She has no idea how deeply those words wound me.
I can't talk to anyone about it. I hear the same old things: It wasn't meant to be; These things happen for a reason; You'll have another baby again someday; Mother Nature knows best. Fuck Mother Nature. Also, I don't want ANOTHER baby. I want YOU. I want you back. I know that's not possible. I know it. Just like it's not possible to have your father back. But I want it all the same. I want to know WHY. I'm tired of doctors telling me "It's not your fault. Nothing you did caused this." I don't believe it. It was MY body. My body that rejected you. Not my heart, but my body. That is something I did.
I'll be thinking about you on Wednesday. Not that I don't any other day. You're always with me. I think about you all the time. I miss you. I don't know how to move on from this. Maybe I never will.
I never got to hold you in my arms, but I will always hold you in my heart. Always. I love you my precious baby. And I'm so, so sorry.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Living In A Nightmare
Posted by Anonymous
Is this for real? Am I living in a nightmare? Let me start by saying that my husband and I have been married for almost 4 years. We have been together for almost 8. Really and truly he is my other half. My everything along with my 14 month old daughter. Last week he tells me that he does not know if he is in love with me anymore or if he wants to be married to me anymore and that it is my fault. The bad thing is that I think it is my fault.
Throughout our whole relationship I have been battling depression and most likely pmdd along with a little late onset congential adrenal hyperplasia which has symptoms that mirror polycystic oviarian syndrome. I have been dealing with these things my whole life, along with a few ovarian tumors and the removal of my right ovary. So lord only knows how messed up my hormones are and you can guess at my moods. I don't even know if I believe in pmdd but I know that I feel like a raving nut for about two weeks out of the month.
So, for the past several years, but really getting bad over the past year since we had the baby I have been very, very mean to him. If I was a man you would call me abusive. Not physically, but emotionally abusive. I call him names, I yell at him, I curse at him, and I have no idea why. Too much mayo on the sandwich? Major tantrum. Baby not dressed in clothes that match? Better watch out. Why do I do this to him? What is wrong with me? He is a really good man who has been more than patient with this lunacy. Now he says it has killed our relationship and he may want out.
However, there is our daughter to consider, and we want her raised by both of us and we don't want to be single parents. We don't want to be arguing parents. We want her to remain happy and safe and perfect. Also, I know I cannot raise her alone financially or otherwise if he leaves us. Every day is a roller coaster.
I wish he could understant that I do not know what is wrong with me or how to stop it. I wish he could understand how hard mothering is. I wish he could know the tangle of love/aggravation/exhaustion/sadness that I feel. On top of all this we have a kid-which means we have no money, so go nowhere unless our parents are paying, and are constantly under financial stress bc the mortgage on the house we just bought and the daycare are sucking us dry. He has been at the same job for four years, which is good, but I make more money with a bachelor's as a teacher then he does with a masters at his job. This has been a point of contention for years. But the alternative seems to be he is not home much, and that is not good either.
We have had many talks over the past two weeks and some days are better than others-I am trying really, really hard to clean up my act. I also went to the doctor and got some Zoloft, I have a fabulous doctor who talks about all of this with me. There is apparently a two week waiting period for this to kick in. This is day 2 and mostly I feel spacey which could also be due to lack of sleep as I convinced myself that he was having an affair so I stayed up worrying about that all night. I asked him, very calmly, this morning if he was in fact having an affair. He said no, if he was he would not be at home every night. However, he is going out tonight with friends, something I have encouraged him to do, but he has never actually done much. He asked if I was going to call 20 times tonight-I said no, how about 3? He said no, only if it was an emergency and reminded me that he kept the baby on Friday night and all day on Saturday so I could visit friends and did not call to bother me-but let me have a good time. I know I have to do the same.
The whole idea of an affair came to me at 1:30am when it dawned on me that he worked sort of late two weeks ago on a Thursday, before all of this and I never thought about it. Now it is another Thursday and he is going out again and it reminded me of our very haunted past, when we were sneaking around behind someone's back. Not something we are proud of, not something I ever got over doing, but it was there none the less. Maybe I deserve this as some sort of kharmic payback. He says he is not having an affair. He almost laughed at me and asked me if I was. I checked his phone, not very many unfamiliar numbers but he uses the thing at work so who knows who those numbers are. I will not check his email, even if I knew his password I could not bc he always knows if I try something like that. Where did this craziness even come from? It never would have occured to me to even consider this until all of this got dumped on me last week. I breifly considered stalking him but he would hate me for it as he does not do that to me and anyway what would I do with my daughter?
We are trying to get into counseling but I have yet to get a stinking counselor to answer the phone, much less return a phone call and I do not know what to do about that. Isn't counseling what counselors do for a living? Don't they need patients? Are there that many screwed up people out there that all appointments are full?
Over the past few days he has told me he loves me, does not love me, loves me, feels good and bad on some days, might be in love with me, and made love to me. I have no ideal what to think, what to and am trying to survive my day in a zoloft and exhaustion induced haze. I will take care of my daughter and make sure she is happy and cared for. I will try not to give in to the pain building up in my chest threatening to burst out at any moment. We just go on - living together, parenting, and acting like nothing is wrong, and then sometimes we talk about it. I don't know what else to do. Any thoughts?
Monday, June 09, 2008
Home Sick
Posted by Anonymous.
two days ago she told me that the doctor has called for a test. a bone marrow test. she is my little sister and i have to help hold her while she faces what may be leukemia. maybe. i've spent two days distracting her/myself from what she describes as 'this demon inside me.'
fucking fuck.
fuck.
no seriously, fuck. i'd never say it to her, but this isn't fair. cause it's not just that, it's the triple threat. it's the my-mom-was-diagnosed-with-parkinson's-six-months-ago-my-other-sister-was-diagnosed-with-ms-one-month-ago-and-now-my-sweet-precious-love-her-like-my-daughter-sister-is-facing-the-C-word triple threat.
and i'm treading water. like a madwoman.
i wish it was me. seriously, i wish it was me who had this and not her. i always wondered how people could want to take something so horrible from someone and bear it themselves and now i get it and i wish it was fucking me.
she keeps saying that she feels homesick. like when you're visiting your grandparents over the summer as a kid and the whole day is consumed by sunny fun and then you get back to their house and sleep in a strange bed with sheets that don't smell the same in a room that's just a little too cold on a pillow that's just a little too thin and your stomach aches for home.
only, she is home, and she feel's like that.
shit shit shit shit shit.
i keep drawing a blank when she asks me where the hope is supposed to come from. how am i supposed to face this with her?
two days ago she told me that the doctor has called for a test. a bone marrow test. she is my little sister and i have to help hold her while she faces what may be leukemia. maybe. i've spent two days distracting her/myself from what she describes as 'this demon inside me.'
fucking fuck.
fuck.
no seriously, fuck. i'd never say it to her, but this isn't fair. cause it's not just that, it's the triple threat. it's the my-mom-was-diagnosed-with-parkinson's-six-months-ago-my-other-sister-was-diagnosed-with-ms-one-month-ago-and-now-my-sweet-precious-love-her-like-my-daughter-sister-is-facing-the-C-word triple threat.
and i'm treading water. like a madwoman.
i wish it was me. seriously, i wish it was me who had this and not her. i always wondered how people could want to take something so horrible from someone and bear it themselves and now i get it and i wish it was fucking me.
she keeps saying that she feels homesick. like when you're visiting your grandparents over the summer as a kid and the whole day is consumed by sunny fun and then you get back to their house and sleep in a strange bed with sheets that don't smell the same in a room that's just a little too cold on a pillow that's just a little too thin and your stomach aches for home.
only, she is home, and she feel's like that.
shit shit shit shit shit.
i keep drawing a blank when she asks me where the hope is supposed to come from. how am i supposed to face this with her?
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Letters
Posted by Anonymous
To the wife of my husband's cousin:
You know what, I don't NEED 37 pictures of your children pushing a toy car around on your driveway. Nor did I need that album of party photos that included the out-of-focus shots of tortilla chip bags, or the one with 10 pictures of your bathroom. For the love of God, learn to edit!
To my mother:
I can't believe you just made me feel guilty for not wanting to spend an extra $600 to take a 6 a.m. flight with a 4-hour-layover - with a THREE-YEAR-OLD. During our visit, I'll be telling her to go bug you when she wakes up at 4:30 because of the time change.
To my husband:
If you're so freaked out about us having an only child, how about you make it worth my while to have a second one? How about YOU get up at the crack of dawn with our kid, cook the dinner, do the weekly shopping, do the laundry, take care of the dishes, handle the gardening, paint the house, take on free-lance projects and hold down a full-time job, and see how you feel about another kid. Yeah. I thought so.
To my sister:
After I tell you a funny story about my 3-year-old being bossy, you tell me that you are concerned that she will grow up to be a bully unless she is properly socialized and that I need to have another kid. And when I warn you it's a touchy subject and I'd rather not speak about it, you start crying and hang up on me? Get over yourself.
To my supervisor:
Your obsession with 'buy-in' from the rest of the department on the projects I am working on is co-opting the last remaining shreds of creative joy I took in my job. In case you're wondering, yes, I am deliberately digging my heels to make your life harder. Making you hate your job too is the only power I have left, and I intend to use it.
To the wife of my husband's cousin:
You know what, I don't NEED 37 pictures of your children pushing a toy car around on your driveway. Nor did I need that album of party photos that included the out-of-focus shots of tortilla chip bags, or the one with 10 pictures of your bathroom. For the love of God, learn to edit!
To my mother:
I can't believe you just made me feel guilty for not wanting to spend an extra $600 to take a 6 a.m. flight with a 4-hour-layover - with a THREE-YEAR-OLD. During our visit, I'll be telling her to go bug you when she wakes up at 4:30 because of the time change.
To my husband:
If you're so freaked out about us having an only child, how about you make it worth my while to have a second one? How about YOU get up at the crack of dawn with our kid, cook the dinner, do the weekly shopping, do the laundry, take care of the dishes, handle the gardening, paint the house, take on free-lance projects and hold down a full-time job, and see how you feel about another kid. Yeah. I thought so.
To my sister:
After I tell you a funny story about my 3-year-old being bossy, you tell me that you are concerned that she will grow up to be a bully unless she is properly socialized and that I need to have another kid. And when I warn you it's a touchy subject and I'd rather not speak about it, you start crying and hang up on me? Get over yourself.
To my supervisor:
Your obsession with 'buy-in' from the rest of the department on the projects I am working on is co-opting the last remaining shreds of creative joy I took in my job. In case you're wondering, yes, I am deliberately digging my heels to make your life harder. Making you hate your job too is the only power I have left, and I intend to use it.
Monday, May 05, 2008
Cruel Dilemma
Posted by Anonymous
Last summer my 8 year old son was molested by his 12 year old adopted cousin. Thankfully we found out about it right away and we were able to have good discussions with our son... We have not allowed ANY contact from the boy who molested our son. However, now we are getting pressure from the both the parents of the molester, and the grandparents to "get over it", "move on" and let the boys get together again... for the sake of "family harmony".
I just don't know how that would effect my son.
Would seeing the boy who molested him hurt him more emotionally? (We would NEVER let him play alone with him)
Or would it be good?
If we did start seeing them again, I do worry about safety. The molesters parents are very laid back... we have FOUR sons to try to keep safe.
For me, as a mother, the easy answer is never to see this boy who caused so much pain again.
But is that what's best?
Thanks for listening, any advice is more than welcome.
Last summer my 8 year old son was molested by his 12 year old adopted cousin. Thankfully we found out about it right away and we were able to have good discussions with our son... We have not allowed ANY contact from the boy who molested our son. However, now we are getting pressure from the both the parents of the molester, and the grandparents to "get over it", "move on" and let the boys get together again... for the sake of "family harmony".
I just don't know how that would effect my son.
Would seeing the boy who molested him hurt him more emotionally? (We would NEVER let him play alone with him)
Or would it be good?
If we did start seeing them again, I do worry about safety. The molesters parents are very laid back... we have FOUR sons to try to keep safe.
For me, as a mother, the easy answer is never to see this boy who caused so much pain again.
But is that what's best?
Thanks for listening, any advice is more than welcome.
Monday, April 28, 2008
This Ain't A Song For The Broken Hearted
Posted by Anonymous.
My son got dumped yesterday.
Let me start over.
My teenage son's girlfriend of 8 months who started out as his Best Friend Forever and who was the first girl to hold his heart in her hands took his heart and broke it today. Into several little pieces. THREE DAYS BEFORE THE BIG DANCE AT SCHOOL.
Let me start by saying that I gave him some good advice the last few weeks when he and I felt like she might be stringing him along. She started ignoring him for no reason and hanging out with other boys. I told him that I know from experience that this is her way to be passive/aggressive about dumping him. I had been dumped that way many times. So he confronted her, and she dumped him.
I also would like to go on record saying I gave him some good advice about how he should stay friends with her since they've been friends for so long and they'll probably be friends for years. But that maybe it's okay to make her feel bad for a few days since she did dump him three days before a dance.
Now that I've sworn to you that I was a good Mom, at least a little bit. Let me tell you the rest.
I might have spent the majority of last night helping him mend his broken heart by calling this poor girl a frakkin' beeyatch and possibly offering to burn the gifts she had given him. I may have also tried to talk him into rolling her house. There may have been times when I openly mocked her annoying habits by doing exaggerated impersonations of her and then encouraging him to direct horrible insults at me, pretending I was her. And then there was the whole, "Fuck her. You're too fucking good for her anyway," comment I might have made in a fit of desperation when I thought he was going to start crying. It may have been the first time he's ever heard me use the f-word somewhere other than the car. And, of course, there might have been a moment when I told him that if she went to the dance with the boy she's been flirting with, I was going to spray paint the walls of his school declaring that she is a WHORE.
Of course, I wouldn't actually do that.
(Or at least I'll let you think that I wouldn't. But I totally would.)
But - I did threaten it and it made him laugh. Actually - all of my rants where I may or may not have called his girlfriend "THAT SKANK" made him laugh. And it's the only thing I knew to do for him. Make him laugh.
I asked him if he'd still go to the dance, just to hang out with his friends. He said, "No." I don't think he wants to risk seeing THAT SKANK dance with THAT ASSHOLE FUCKWAD. So he asked if I'd go see a movie with him instead.
And now my heart is broken.
I guess I'll just toughen up and enjoy a date night with him since this is probably the last time he'll invite me out to a movie. And then, when he's not looking, I'll totally take her off his top friends in MySpace. It's the least I can do.
My son got dumped yesterday.
Let me start over.
My teenage son's girlfriend of 8 months who started out as his Best Friend Forever and who was the first girl to hold his heart in her hands took his heart and broke it today. Into several little pieces. THREE DAYS BEFORE THE BIG DANCE AT SCHOOL.
Let me start by saying that I gave him some good advice the last few weeks when he and I felt like she might be stringing him along. She started ignoring him for no reason and hanging out with other boys. I told him that I know from experience that this is her way to be passive/aggressive about dumping him. I had been dumped that way many times. So he confronted her, and she dumped him.
I also would like to go on record saying I gave him some good advice about how he should stay friends with her since they've been friends for so long and they'll probably be friends for years. But that maybe it's okay to make her feel bad for a few days since she did dump him three days before a dance.
Now that I've sworn to you that I was a good Mom, at least a little bit. Let me tell you the rest.
I might have spent the majority of last night helping him mend his broken heart by calling this poor girl a frakkin' beeyatch and possibly offering to burn the gifts she had given him. I may have also tried to talk him into rolling her house. There may have been times when I openly mocked her annoying habits by doing exaggerated impersonations of her and then encouraging him to direct horrible insults at me, pretending I was her. And then there was the whole, "Fuck her. You're too fucking good for her anyway," comment I might have made in a fit of desperation when I thought he was going to start crying. It may have been the first time he's ever heard me use the f-word somewhere other than the car. And, of course, there might have been a moment when I told him that if she went to the dance with the boy she's been flirting with, I was going to spray paint the walls of his school declaring that she is a WHORE.
Of course, I wouldn't actually do that.
(Or at least I'll let you think that I wouldn't. But I totally would.)
But - I did threaten it and it made him laugh. Actually - all of my rants where I may or may not have called his girlfriend "THAT SKANK" made him laugh. And it's the only thing I knew to do for him. Make him laugh.
I asked him if he'd still go to the dance, just to hang out with his friends. He said, "No." I don't think he wants to risk seeing THAT SKANK dance with THAT ASSHOLE FUCKWAD. So he asked if I'd go see a movie with him instead.
And now my heart is broken.
I guess I'll just toughen up and enjoy a date night with him since this is probably the last time he'll invite me out to a movie. And then, when he's not looking, I'll totally take her off his top friends in MySpace. It's the least I can do.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Blackbird, Fly.
Posted by Anonymous.
Small Christmas lights, first red, then blue, then green, then white sent small stars of color over the ceiling where she slept. Tiny. Little hands, grasping and flexing tubes that ran into her nose. Warm among blankets that her mother brought for her. Warm among the clothes that her father bought for her. Nurses quiet and reverent in the soft lights, humming wordless songs to small babies in plastic cases.
And me.
Still wearing a scar from her exit from my body, 7 weeks to early and a lifetime too soon, for me; I sat. In the almost black of early morning, in an outside caked in the dirtiest of old snow and sharp winter air, I sat. Alone, with my daughter. For the last time. I sang quietly to her and slid my clean hands inside that incubator, pressing my lips against the side of it, willing her to feel me. One finger tracing the line of her back, one stream of tears tracing the line of my face.
Blackbird singing in the dead of night
take these broken wings and learn to fly
My voice became the only one singing, as the room fell silent around me. Me and my daughter. The daughter I had failed to carry to term. The daughter I was going to permanently place in the arms of another woman, to call mother. My guilt was overwhelming in my failures to her. Failing to grow her healthy, failing to raise her. failing to be her mother.
Her dark hair, gently curling around her face, was mine, her softly curling lips, her father's. I would see none of these things day to day. To see them change as she grew, to hear her beautiful voice lilt words for the first time. To hear her cry, until her needs were met.
To be the one she cried for.
Blackbird fly
Blackbird fly
Knowing full well, that this was beneficial for her. For them. For everyone but me. My daughter sighed under my touch and moved closer. For one shining moment, I was hers and she was mine.
Small Christmas lights, first red, then blue, then green, then white sent small stars of color over the ceiling where she slept. Tiny. Little hands, grasping and flexing tubes that ran into her nose. Warm among blankets that her mother brought for her. Warm among the clothes that her father bought for her. Nurses quiet and reverent in the soft lights, humming wordless songs to small babies in plastic cases.
And me.
Still wearing a scar from her exit from my body, 7 weeks to early and a lifetime too soon, for me; I sat. In the almost black of early morning, in an outside caked in the dirtiest of old snow and sharp winter air, I sat. Alone, with my daughter. For the last time. I sang quietly to her and slid my clean hands inside that incubator, pressing my lips against the side of it, willing her to feel me. One finger tracing the line of her back, one stream of tears tracing the line of my face.
Blackbird singing in the dead of night
take these broken wings and learn to fly
My voice became the only one singing, as the room fell silent around me. Me and my daughter. The daughter I had failed to carry to term. The daughter I was going to permanently place in the arms of another woman, to call mother. My guilt was overwhelming in my failures to her. Failing to grow her healthy, failing to raise her. failing to be her mother.
Her dark hair, gently curling around her face, was mine, her softly curling lips, her father's. I would see none of these things day to day. To see them change as she grew, to hear her beautiful voice lilt words for the first time. To hear her cry, until her needs were met.
To be the one she cried for.
Blackbird fly
Blackbird fly
Knowing full well, that this was beneficial for her. For them. For everyone but me. My daughter sighed under my touch and moved closer. For one shining moment, I was hers and she was mine.
Monday, April 14, 2008
Read No Evil...
Posted By Anonymous.
So, I was not at work for a day recently and the guy who subbed for me used my computer. He logged into gmail and didn't log out. I read his email. It was not my finest moment... but I did it.
It became obvious that he was "seeing" several women, including his long-distance girlfriend who is 6 months pregnant. (He commented that he liked the picture that she had attached to her last message because her t*tties looked so much bigger). There were messages from the local women, flirting, sex talk, etc.I wanted to send this long distance girlfriend forwarded messages of what he had sent/received from the other women, but I didn't. I logged him off, instead. I felt a bit guilty for reading his email. Now, two weeks later, I feel guilty that I didn't let the pregnant girlfriend know what was going on.
What do you think? What would you do?
So, I was not at work for a day recently and the guy who subbed for me used my computer. He logged into gmail and didn't log out. I read his email. It was not my finest moment... but I did it.
It became obvious that he was "seeing" several women, including his long-distance girlfriend who is 6 months pregnant. (He commented that he liked the picture that she had attached to her last message because her t*tties looked so much bigger). There were messages from the local women, flirting, sex talk, etc.I wanted to send this long distance girlfriend forwarded messages of what he had sent/received from the other women, but I didn't. I logged him off, instead. I felt a bit guilty for reading his email. Now, two weeks later, I feel guilty that I didn't let the pregnant girlfriend know what was going on.
What do you think? What would you do?
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
Hold On, Or Let Go?
Posted by Anonymous
My relationship with my husband used to be a source of great strength and comfort for me. We were a team. We could rely on one another and we enjoyed each other’s company. I couldn’t wait to see him at the end of the day.
Then we decided to have a baby and everything fell apart about halfway through my pregnancy. My husband quit his job from one day to the next without discussing it with me and without a back-up plan. When the baby was born we had to move back to his hometown to make ends meet. I had to leave my job.
I stayed at home for a year with my son before starting a freelance business. Eventually I began to overcome my anger with him for what had happened. We were beginning to rebuild our relationship. Then I discovered that he had been lying to me for years – almost since we met – about something to do with his family that had a direct impact on me. Again, I felt angry and foolish.
I considered leaving him, but I couldn’t afford to, and I didn’t know where I could go. I didn’t want to be a single mother, and I didn’t want our son to grow up traveling back and forth between us.
I tried to overcome my anger, to forgive my husband and trust him again, but the resentment is still there. It doesn’t go away, and I don’t know how to rebuild the open, trusting relationship we used to have.
My business is doing well now. I make as much as my husband. Last year I earned more. When my husband suggested we move to a new town closer to where he works so we would see each other more in the evenings and hopefully work through some of our issues, I agreed. I knew that moving would absorb the resources I had set aside as a way out if I needed one and so I committed myself, financially and emotionally, to staying with him.
Things have improved somewhat. I’m in therapy now, and although it has been fairly helpful, there has not been a dramatic improvement. I am still fearful that he will deceive me again and resentful for having this fear.
I just found out that I am newly pregnant. I do want another child, but I am paralyzed with fear that this pregnancy will lead to the complete deterioration of my relationship with my husband and ruin my chances of financial independence for a long, long time. Which makes me wonder if I am really all that committed in the first place.
Why can’t I just let go?
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