Health and Hell; A mother’s hatred.

As I watch my Dr’s fight amongst themselves whether or not it’s time to test me for cancer, in more physical pain than I ever thought I could endure, my home life has tanked to a low I didn’t think it would reach.

My mother lied to the family about why we went broke. I knew she pinned it on me, I did not know it was to the tune of $3,000 a month, every month, for the period of at least 6 years. During that time she gambled it all away with her “friend” Jane.

Her lies have cost me every family member I have and left me completely alone in the world. Now in a rare moment of honesty, she won’t retract her lies but couldn’t wait to express how much she honestly hopes and prays that I have terminal cancer or would get up the nerve to kill myself. She said the only reason she didn’t have an abortion was because her parents were still alive and she would pray for them to die so she could “drown me in the tub” or find some means to get rid of me.

I’m sure some people that know my family will read this. I hope you do. I honestly can’t care what any of you think about me anymore. I do however pity you that you can’t think for yourselves and would take her word as gospel based on what, exactly? That my mom confuses classically styled fashion in dark colors to be “goth” which you believe is evil? Is it that I’m disabled and therefore poor, which many of you find sinful? Is it the times when I was a child and I dared to talk back to either of them? Well I don’t care how much reverence you claim to have for your own parents. You didn’t live with mine.

I spent a lot of time trying to be placed into a foster home. Welcome to the 80’s! When parents could talk their way out of anything. 

To all of my family that told me I’m not right with God, should be “put down like a mad dog.” or believed her to my downfall without an ounce of compassion on the horizon, I hope you can accept the eternal consequences of your own judgment. 

Should the news of my health be as most of the Dr’s expect, at 36 years old I am opting to NOT have treatment. I’m all alone as it stands, and I wouldn’t want to continue to be a disappointment.

How to save a life.

1. Listen without judgement.

2. Be kind, have compassion.

3. You don’t know anything about it so shut up.

4. Really, I mean it. The last thing they need is an ultimatum or the fear that you too will abandon them.

5. Offer real help. Condolences and prayers only go so far when someone is going under for what might be the third time. Knowing what resources are in your area and the number of any warm lines IS helping.

6. Know these numbers:

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline 1-800-273-8255 (TALK)

Rainn.org (rape, abuse, & incest national network) 1-800-656-4673 (HOPE)

The Trevor Project for LBGTPQ youth  866-488-7386

unitedway.org Provides many services and resources for free. Call 211

7. Take as much time as it takes. It very well could be you feeling that low someday. Would you want the person you reached out for to be in a hurry?

8. If at any time your friend makes it clear they have immediate plans to end their life, take it seriously. Try to get them to voluntarily admit themselves to a hospital or dial 911. 

No one has to be alone. You are worth more than you could ever know. 

Take it from someone who is still fighting, had I punched my own ticket every time I didn’t think I would see the sun I would’ve missed SO many wonderful things.

The births of 7 kids between family and friends. Some I haven’t even gotten to meet yet because of distance but I hope to someday.

Yeah, there’s been bad and I’ve been neck deep in a ton of bad for the last four years BUT I have faith. I have faith in a lot of things. You don’t have to go for a big guy in the sky you just have to have faith that YOU can survive. You will, if you always reach for help.

Ok. Who am I F**KING kidding? 

My last post titled “So…” was the, fresh from the Dr, try to stay calm, and for Fs sake just try to be optimistic, post. I, however, am failing miserably. Just the antibiotic she prescribed alone is scary! We’re talking some tough stuff here. Not a z-pack or levaquin (sp?) but this horse pill sulfa drug that’s beyond stout, almost a sure bet to rip up my tummy, and I must take two pills two times a day! 

Then hits mega fear. While praying it’s only an infection, I’m to prepare for the worst case scenario. What if it’s cancer? 

The nicest way to phrase this is I’m not in a suitable environment to begin any sort of treatment. I’m desperately in need of a boost out that isn’t on the radar and to top it all off, if I managed to get a place, I won’t be able to take anything with me without a great deal of help. 

Lately, the lady that never could get much sleep, can’t stay awake to save her life! I will pass out, mid-task any and every moment of the day. I have woken up hunched over, sitting in bed to find I had been watching a movie that’s now almost over or texting a friend. (Of course now everyone thinks I’m just forgetting about them) 

At this point I’m afraid to drive. Not that I can do so well in the first place since I have almost no use of my right arm. 

I would love any positive vibes you can spare.

I think I would make an awesome sister wife if…

I never had to have sex or make babies. Basically I think I would be the best live in nanny ever. I’m great with kids, love to craft and cook. I would be thrilled to split housework plus as a disabled person I’m always on call if the kids need anything. I’m totally not the fun outdoorsy type, but I can read the same children’s books thousands of times and it never bothers me a moment.

 
That said, I would totally want dental and vision. I should probably also be allowed to see other people… You know, since I wouldn’t be married and would really just be a nanny.

I at least hope I am able to foster someday. Though amazing nanny would be so cool!

Rest In Peace Wes Craven 

The loss of horror movie Writer/Director Wes Craven has left many of us speechless and heartbroken. As a lover of the genera and also having a thing for thrillers, the massive void left in his absence is almost tangible. Don’t look into it too long or get too close to the edge least it swallow you whole. A sacrifice to alleviate the suffering of the many. 

I keep hoping it’s a mean joke or the biggest fright he’s ever pulled off. Maybe we’re all stuck in a nightmare only we don’t die, the brilliant writer does and we’re left to fend for ourselves. *Pictures thousands of horror fans trying to write their way out of this.* 

I wish I could have met him. Though there’s a decent chance I would have asked about birds and we never would have gotten to movies. 

I hope he’s at peace. If anyone should get to enjoy an easy going afterlife it’s the man that gave my generation plenty of nightmare fuel. 

The case of the lost adult child.

In May of 2011 my parents, then boyfriend, and I survived the Joplin tornado. I guess I’m using the word survived rather loosely here as since then my life has changed beyond what I ever could have imagined. My then boyfriend soon became my seriously abusive husband, my parents are still out of their minds between mom having a heart attack the day after the storm and the loss of everything they owned. I’m disabled, I’ve been so since my lungs became too unpredictable for me to hold employment at the age of 20. 

I was 32 when the storm hit. By 33 I was saying “I do” to a man that had changed since the storm, which was also the day he proposed. I had an awful feeling about going through with the wedding but I was told to stop being stupid and that I just had cold feet. My mom watched the wedding via Skype from her bed in the rehabilitation unit of the nursing home. My dad, almost as though he had been replaced by a robot, walked me to what can only be described as the moment when a deep wound in our lives became both gangrenous and cancerous.

With both parents now living in the house I was renting from them, I was not only back in my childhood home with the toxic people I had tried so hard to escape as both a child and young adult but they cared even less now than ever before.

My dad witnessed the first time my husband hit me and he did nothing. It was 2 weeks in and I immediately declared I wanted a divorce. My dad told me I was over reacting. The year that followed brought countless beatings, silkwood showers, endless reminders that Marital Consent is still a very real thing in my state, choke holds, being suffocated with his hand on my mouth while the other plugged my nose, death threats, threats to turn his attention to my mom if I made a “mistake” whatever that meant as there were no correct answers with him, and lastly I watched him steal $20,000 from my parents.

Now maybe if there had never been a witness, maybe if I hadn’t been telling my parents everything I could, maybe if I had said “Yes” every time the hospital asked me if I felt safe at home, and maybe, just maybe, if I hadn’t thrown him out 3 times without his house keys only to have dad let him back in, then maybe I wouldn’t feel this gargantuan hole inside of me, but I do. It eats your soul and takes away your ability to trust anyone. It appears to also have made a home inside both of my parents.

I’m not sure why I was ever born. I don’t know if it was some narcissistic thing on their part or they honestly had good intentions. Either way, my biggest goal as a child was to be as invisible as possible. This didn’t always work out though. Kids need help with things and I had no one else to turn to.

They took me to therapy with a pedophile therapist that worked out of his basement office in his home. I would beg to not have to go back. Too ashamed to admit why, too worried they wouldn’t care anyway. They finally sent me to someone else when they walked into his office and had to find us in this tiny cinder block room, the only light coming from a computer screen, and me on his lap. I don’t remember what computer task I was supposed to be doing. I don’t remember what was on the screen. I just remember that wasn’t the first time and I was completely numb. When my parents showed up I burst into tears and ran to them. He made some excuse for this scene and I remember them trying to question me in the car. The only problem was they weren’t questions about what was going on, they were accusations that I was to blame. That my 8 year old self had put the moves on my shrink. They sent me to another therapist and now a psychiatrist. By the time I was 9 years old I was on a steady stream of psych meds.

I lost my Medicaid during the separation from my soon to be ex husband. I also lost the ability to afford any mental health care. I panicked at first. I had been told since the age of 9 that I HAD to have these medications and now at 34 I would have to suddenly stop all of them.

I was terrified. I couldn’t remember a single day that I didn’t pray to die nearly my whole life! It was my first thought every single morning, every quite moment of the day, and the last thing I thought about before falling asleep. I would pray for what seemed like hours every night, but was probably around 30-60 minutes. I wasn’t actively suicidal mind you, I never wanted to end my life. I just felt dead inside. Beyond hope. It was as though everything I experienced was from the inside of a glass box, and the glass was 12ft thick.

I felt love, pain, and even sympathy for others, but I don’t really recall ever feeling happy or joyful. What little I could feel barely registered and I hated myself and my life. If this was the best way I could be with all of those meds, I didn’t want to be anything anymore. Then came the detox.

About 4 weeks after I had to stop the medications, I laughed. I was watching a standup comedy special and for the first time since I was 9 years old, I laughed for real. The sound of my own laugh even startled me, I was that caught off guard. It was then I noticed I hadn’t been praying to die for weeks. Not once that I could recall and in fact, if I really thought about it, I felt hopeful. I’d never felt this way before! I wanted to fix the mess left by the storm and my ex. I wanted to start my new life and finish my degree. I wanted to say I was sorry to everyone for being so checked out and most of all I wanted to tell my parents how much I loved them and beg for forgiveness for every fight, moment of apathy, and tell them that I promise we will survive this because for the first time we really can all work together. I didn’t know then that no matter how much you hope for something to work out, if you haven’t seen a clear view of whom you have to work with, you need to adjust your hopes to match their capabilities.

What do you get when you attempt this with 2 unmedicaited, checked out bi-polars, chocked full of tornado PTSD, that still couldn’t care less if I lived or died? You are told you’re a liar, a worthless selfish c**t, they never want to see your face or hear your voice again, and then they lie to you. I was told to stay out of their lives for and they would help me get out of here. I couldn’t make a sound. If I left my room all Hell broke loose, and any chance they had to be hurtful in anyway they took it. This resulted in me doing all I could to stay asleep or doing something on my phone. I to this day spend all but 30 minutes a day in bed because there is no place else to go.

After a year had passed and my health had deteriorated due to inactivity. I checked the progress of getting me out of here. They hadn’t done anything. I cried. That was new. I was never one to cry before, but I cried. Deep, heavy sobs with raging rivers of tears. They told me to “Shut the f**k up and stop blubbering!” It was the first two years off the meds that I had to learn how to process feeling everything. I was now 35 and to what most people my age would be extremely disappointing or things that could be nice came at me like debris in a wind tunnel. This didn’t hurt like a normal disappointment should, it was like someone fired a cannon full of nails and razor blades at me. I tried to explain to them and to even my poor friends who had to watch me cry over commercials or find the littlest things far too funny, that I’d spent almost 30 years without feeling anything and now I’m adjusting to feeling everything.

My parents didn’t care. Instead they dubbed me a liar and only when it suits them to twist a knife, do they remember the first shrink, the first grade teacher, the countless times one or the other decided I couldn’t win on any particular day. Otherwise, I’m just a “Selfish, lying, whore.”

I’m going to be 37 soon. I don’t hyper feel things anymore and somehow, as I sit in my locked room, I still have hope for a future someday. I’m disabled, and my health is failing. My friends for the majority have long since taken off. My parents still promise help but both can’t and won’t while at the same time my mom spreads lies to the family about me. Dad destroys the house and mom texts pictures of the mess saying that I did it. He’s covered her bedroom wall with blue acrylic paint twice and his clothes were covered in it but somehow it’s my fault.

I’ve been told to stop lying about my ex husband too. Apparently even though he did steal $20,000 he was a saint and I’m too ugly and fat for anyone to ever bother with beating or raping. (Whomever said that a mothers love knows no bounds, clearly needed to get out more.)

Oh update: My father is in the hospital. He has an infected tush and needs cysts removed. I’ve tried to get him into anyone for weeks. He wouldn’t go because he hadn’t had a bath in months. Still, somehow this is my fault.

The adult juice box and it’s importance in survival.

This, for those of you who still have dignity, self respect, and no children. This is an adult juice box. Aka, “Mommy’s sippy cup”, a safe way to drink on the patio without the fear of broken glass, and if present with some SERIOUS R. B. F. it’s a great way to to make sure to let the world know you are so far past caring and they shouldn’t dare test you. If they do? You’re gonna need a shovel! Also super handy on beaches or in the park!

More than this though it’s quickly becoming the survival tool of women aged 25-45 that are tired of hearing about how they need to get married and have kids. They are also REALLY tired of having to tell everyone their baby, puppy, and new hubby are adorable (but not in a creepy way) because, harsh truth, not EVERY baby is adorable and most husbands become lumps once kiddo arrives.

I have been BEYOND lucky that so far there hasn’t been a weird looking kid in the bunch and the husbands seem to be trying.

This isn’t a drunken life hack, it’s a survival skill. ;-p


Happy wines-day this coming week! Please juice box responsibly.

The adult juice box and it’s importance in survival.

This, for those of you who still have dignity, self respect, and no children. This is an adult juice box. Aka, “Mommy’s sippy cup”, a safe way to drink on the patio without the fear of broken glass, and if present with some SERIOUS R. B. F. it’s a great way to to make sure to let the world know you are so far past caring and they shouldn’t dare test you. If they do? You’re gonna need a shovel! Also super handy on beaches or in the park!  

More than this though it’s quickly becoming the survival tool of women aged 25-45 that are tired of hearing about how they need to get married and have kids. They are also REALLY tired of having to tell everyone their baby, puppy, and new hubby are adorable (but not in a creepy way) because, harsh truth, not EVERY baby is adorable and most husbands become lumps once kiddo arrives. 

I have been BEYOND lucky that so far there hasn’t been a weird looking kid in the bunch and the husbands seem to be trying. 

This isn’t a drunken life hack, it’s a survival skill. ;-p

 
Happy wines-day this coming week! Please juice box responsibly.

Being 36, childless, & asked for parenting advice.

Every woman who has yet to have kids or may not want them has been in this little scene: Your BFF since you could sit up in the sandbox is having a baby and you may not have to plan the whole ordeal but you bet your kneecaps your butt had better show up unless you are actually at death’s door. (You KNOW she is an emotional wreck and WILL NOT hesitate to kneecap you, don’t even lie to yourself!) Well as always “someone” (the grandma to be or friends that have gone before and want to show off their parenting knowledge.) just can’t resist breaking out a hand crafted, blessed by the Gods, soon to hold part of the child’s umbilical cord, advice for the mom to be book. (This is where every non parent would happily gut themselves with the cake knife.) 

The book is passed in a circle and each person, young and old is to give their best advice on rearing the child. After a few of these here is my stock answer. Go ahead and use it. I don’t mind. What else are women like us supposed to say? So here goes:

“Don’t worry about making mistakes or messing up your child because you will. If you didn’t that would mean that not only did you make a perfect person but everyone around your child is perfect. Since there are no perfect people in this world, aim for doing as little damage as possible, it makes the therapy cheaper, and always be there with an open heart and mind.” -Meredith Flenner 

If I feel generous I add my P.S. Always carry a small pocket knife. 

I swear after “momma” & “daddy” it’s “Can you open this?” Plus you can make apple slices on the go for WAY less than prepackaged.