I am choosing not to medicate myself with anti-anxiety meds this morning. They have a tendency to make me slow and stupid, like I'm swimming through jello.
A year ago, my doc gave me this prescription to help me through the madness. He warned me that they can be addictive and that I should only take them when I REALLY NEEDED THEM.
Well, on the first anniversary of the two anniversaries over these next two days, I'm still on that original prescription.
There were a couple professionals that tried to get me to take anti-depressants instead but the last thing that I thought I needed was to feel numb, no matter how much I really wanted it.
Walking into the courthouse? Yep. I was medicated. It's a good thing that I was drugged at the attempted name change because it slowed me down a bit when I ran screaming after him at the elevator. Had it not been for the intervention of chemistry, I very well might have leaped onto his jugular and feasted on the refuse of humanity. I am, after all, a Krillitane.
So, I guess the medical community and the criminal justice community can stand down. I'm not addicted to their pills and I didn't act upon the darker impulses in my heart.
Now if I could just kick that black tar heroin habit, I'll be golden.
Showing posts with label recovery. Show all posts
Showing posts with label recovery. Show all posts
Friday, December 18, 2009
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
If You're Not Losing Your Mind, You Obviously Haven't Checked Your Messages
Between working extra hours this week and having visitors from out of town, blogging will be fairly low on my list of priorities this week.
What will be on my list of priorities? Well, when one does not have a life and is then faced with a seeming glut of “shit I gotta do in the next 48 hours”, my list feels a bit overwhelming.
Since my house is awful and does not have a lot of room for guests, I’m going to try to shuffle a few things around, wash some bedding and convince the dogs that if someone new is sleeping in the beds for a few days that DOES NOT MEAN THAT THEY WANT THEIR FACES LICKED AT 2 AM OH MY GOD WHY DO YOU INSIST ON DOING THAT????
They are planning on staying at a hotel for a couple nights but I feel awful not being able to offer them grand accommodations when they will be working their butts off to make this house livable.
The road to hell is paved with good intentions. It also leads right up to my front porch.
I want to have some quick meals ready for them to be able to grab it and eat when they take a break during the day. I’ll be figuring that out tonight. (I’d also like some recommendations for places with good steaks and seafood as that seems to be something that they like and if I have to take them to a chain restaurant, I WILL SCREAM. I like to show off local places when people visit but I don’t get out to a lot of steakhouses. The last time I went to Timberlodge, I was disappointed.)
Of course, I also have the Home Depot Dude (HDD) coming tonight for the final measuring of my windows.
My brother and sister-in-law are supposed to be here tomorrow evening and of course, I have an Art Auction committee meeting that I need to be at for 5:30. I would feel less inclined to go if the last meeting hadn’t been cancelled because not enough people were able to attend.
Oh, and I’m transitioning into my new job next week but I will still be working in the wee hours of the morning at my old job.
And I’m signing up for college classes next week.
Aside from that, things are pretty boring right now.
What will be on my list of priorities? Well, when one does not have a life and is then faced with a seeming glut of “shit I gotta do in the next 48 hours”, my list feels a bit overwhelming.
Since my house is awful and does not have a lot of room for guests, I’m going to try to shuffle a few things around, wash some bedding and convince the dogs that if someone new is sleeping in the beds for a few days that DOES NOT MEAN THAT THEY WANT THEIR FACES LICKED AT 2 AM OH MY GOD WHY DO YOU INSIST ON DOING THAT????
They are planning on staying at a hotel for a couple nights but I feel awful not being able to offer them grand accommodations when they will be working their butts off to make this house livable.
The road to hell is paved with good intentions. It also leads right up to my front porch.
I want to have some quick meals ready for them to be able to grab it and eat when they take a break during the day. I’ll be figuring that out tonight. (I’d also like some recommendations for places with good steaks and seafood as that seems to be something that they like and if I have to take them to a chain restaurant, I WILL SCREAM. I like to show off local places when people visit but I don’t get out to a lot of steakhouses. The last time I went to Timberlodge, I was disappointed.)
Of course, I also have the Home Depot Dude (HDD) coming tonight for the final measuring of my windows.
My brother and sister-in-law are supposed to be here tomorrow evening and of course, I have an Art Auction committee meeting that I need to be at for 5:30. I would feel less inclined to go if the last meeting hadn’t been cancelled because not enough people were able to attend.
Oh, and I’m transitioning into my new job next week but I will still be working in the wee hours of the morning at my old job.
And I’m signing up for college classes next week.
Aside from that, things are pretty boring right now.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Life Outside The Box
Stepping outside of the comfort zone. Mixing it up. Consciously stopping myself when I do what I've always done and taking the time to do it differently.
This has been my own personal campaign over the past few months. Since I have had the emotional ability to state my name without weeping and I've realized that my life will now be what I make of it, I've wanted to avoid what my life has been for the past 17 years: hunkering down, surviving, living in my head instead of my life, and continuing in a rut that was all to conveniently laid out in front of me.
I've managed to do this with the same techniques that I have done when I find myself in a knitting rut. I've found myself going from one project to the next, always using the same color yarn or the same sized needles or doing the same project until I finally stop myself as I'm planning my next gig and I say "What would I choose to do reflexively?"
I then formulate in my mind what would be the exact opposite of that reflex.
When I found myself nestled in the happiness of blue yarn, I decided to knit something with orange yarn. I never had an inspiration to use orange yarn. I have never picked up orange yarn and thought "Oh my, but that is lovely!" I have actually had the idea, when picking up orange yarn of "DAYEM! That is some hideous shit!"
So I started knitting with orange yarn and I started to look at the color orange with a new eye and a few more projects down the road, I realized I was getting into a rut with orange and I reached for the next challenge for myself...pink. I hate pink, pink is for girly girls, pink is all feminine and soft and weak.
Until I got to making my pink socks (put on hold currenly due to hand pain). My pink socks are beautiful. Someday, I might even have two. If not, I may hack off my other foot with a kitchen knife so as to enjoy the beauty of the single sock.
So, you get the idea. Recognize your comfort zone, be honest about how you feel about change, then challenge yourself to change without freaking out.
I've always been one to not rock the boat in my marriage because I was afraid to be called a bitch. I was afraid to be a boat rocker. I wanted everything to be quiet and normal and I defined this by being afraid of change. Let's just keep going along and pretend that everything is ok and maybe we'll convince ourselves that feeling like shit every day is normal.
Yeah, I'm trying to develop life habits that challenge my concepts that change is a bad thing. From yarn, I have traveled to clothing.
There are three or four resale shops in our area that have served as a source for my new wardrobe over the past few months. I honestly don't think I have very many pieces of clothing that I had a year ago. I used to go in and look at everything and then choose one or two frumpy things and then settle on the one that depressed me the least. Now, I literally will grab anything and everything that might be even mildly kicky and I take a mound of clothes into the changing room. I'm actually taking more than two seconds in there...you know...like girls usually do.
85-90% of the time, I don't buy anything because I now refuse to settle for anything that doesn't make me actually feel good when I'm wearing it. I'm super critical which keeps me from spending money unwisely but over the past few months, I've managed to turn over my wardrobe into something that I'm not ashamed of.
And sparkly things! OH! Sparkly things! I stopped at a garage sale today because I saw something sparkly from the road and it turned out to be a dress that I scored for $2 and I will be wearing it to an actual function next month in which sparkly things will be expected. It's slinky and shows off my tatts which I love. Even at my present weight, a year ago I would have never thought to put a dress like this on.
You never know until you try...kind of like broccoli.
So today I decided to put this challenge to myself when I got my hair cut. I do not go to fancy places to get my hair cut. I will never go to fancy places to get my hair cut. My hair has the texture of a rabid hedgehog and all the body of Don Knotts at Muscle Beach. It cannot be permed, it cannot be curled, and it is so heavy that if it is grown out, it weighs a ton and cannot be contained by any ponytail holder, barrette, or hair containment device. My last haircut had the stylist commenting that he had never seen hair so straight aside from people of Asian heritage. I told him that since I was 100% Korean, I found his failure to recognize me as a member of the Korean community to be, frankly, insulting.
For some reason, he just looked at me as if I were seriously a VERY CAUCASIAN ASIAN. I followed that comment up with a very small voice and told him that I was just kidding.
I was actually Laotian.
ANYWAY, the majority of the time, when I go in to get a haircut, I get a stylist that is no doubt competent but not necessarily creative. I ALWAYS judge a stylist by their own clothes and hair. Is this wrong? I don't know. All I know is that if my stylist looks like she put her clothes on with a pitchfork and styled her hair with an egg beater, I'm probably not going to ask her for advice on what to do with my rabid hedgehog. I will just keep it simple and have the same thing that I had last time.
But today? Today the gods of opportunity were smiling down upon me. I went in right when they opened in the morning and I was the only customer there. (I know these folks are supposed to get through a certain amount of customers in an hour and if they are busy, I also don't make them 'get creative'.) I looked at the stylist and I knew that I had a keeper. He was both artsy and fartsy and absolutely unique.
When I sat down, I asked him what he wanted to do with my hair. I told him how I usually had it and that I needed something creative. Not only did he ask all the right questions, but he also avoided all the small talk that makes me HATE getting my hair cut. I'm not an antisocial bitch, I just hate blathering on about 'what I have planned for today' or 'how long I've lived in Duluth'. I am perfectly contented to shut my eyes and just listen to the conversations around me. It can be very entertaining.
So, my hair is now cut in such a way to make spiking it up like a crazy woman the best option. Something I would have never done a year ago. (I would have WANTED to do it, but I wouldn't have done it. Why? Because I was a ninny.)
I've always lived fearlessly...in my head.
You know what? Life is way too short for that.
This has been my own personal campaign over the past few months. Since I have had the emotional ability to state my name without weeping and I've realized that my life will now be what I make of it, I've wanted to avoid what my life has been for the past 17 years: hunkering down, surviving, living in my head instead of my life, and continuing in a rut that was all to conveniently laid out in front of me.
I've managed to do this with the same techniques that I have done when I find myself in a knitting rut. I've found myself going from one project to the next, always using the same color yarn or the same sized needles or doing the same project until I finally stop myself as I'm planning my next gig and I say "What would I choose to do reflexively?"
I then formulate in my mind what would be the exact opposite of that reflex.
When I found myself nestled in the happiness of blue yarn, I decided to knit something with orange yarn. I never had an inspiration to use orange yarn. I have never picked up orange yarn and thought "Oh my, but that is lovely!" I have actually had the idea, when picking up orange yarn of "DAYEM! That is some hideous shit!"
So I started knitting with orange yarn and I started to look at the color orange with a new eye and a few more projects down the road, I realized I was getting into a rut with orange and I reached for the next challenge for myself...pink. I hate pink, pink is for girly girls, pink is all feminine and soft and weak.
Until I got to making my pink socks (put on hold currenly due to hand pain). My pink socks are beautiful. Someday, I might even have two. If not, I may hack off my other foot with a kitchen knife so as to enjoy the beauty of the single sock.
So, you get the idea. Recognize your comfort zone, be honest about how you feel about change, then challenge yourself to change without freaking out.
I've always been one to not rock the boat in my marriage because I was afraid to be called a bitch. I was afraid to be a boat rocker. I wanted everything to be quiet and normal and I defined this by being afraid of change. Let's just keep going along and pretend that everything is ok and maybe we'll convince ourselves that feeling like shit every day is normal.
Yeah, I'm trying to develop life habits that challenge my concepts that change is a bad thing. From yarn, I have traveled to clothing.
There are three or four resale shops in our area that have served as a source for my new wardrobe over the past few months. I honestly don't think I have very many pieces of clothing that I had a year ago. I used to go in and look at everything and then choose one or two frumpy things and then settle on the one that depressed me the least. Now, I literally will grab anything and everything that might be even mildly kicky and I take a mound of clothes into the changing room. I'm actually taking more than two seconds in there...you know...like girls usually do.
85-90% of the time, I don't buy anything because I now refuse to settle for anything that doesn't make me actually feel good when I'm wearing it. I'm super critical which keeps me from spending money unwisely but over the past few months, I've managed to turn over my wardrobe into something that I'm not ashamed of.
And sparkly things! OH! Sparkly things! I stopped at a garage sale today because I saw something sparkly from the road and it turned out to be a dress that I scored for $2 and I will be wearing it to an actual function next month in which sparkly things will be expected. It's slinky and shows off my tatts which I love. Even at my present weight, a year ago I would have never thought to put a dress like this on.
You never know until you try...kind of like broccoli.
So today I decided to put this challenge to myself when I got my hair cut. I do not go to fancy places to get my hair cut. I will never go to fancy places to get my hair cut. My hair has the texture of a rabid hedgehog and all the body of Don Knotts at Muscle Beach. It cannot be permed, it cannot be curled, and it is so heavy that if it is grown out, it weighs a ton and cannot be contained by any ponytail holder, barrette, or hair containment device. My last haircut had the stylist commenting that he had never seen hair so straight aside from people of Asian heritage. I told him that since I was 100% Korean, I found his failure to recognize me as a member of the Korean community to be, frankly, insulting.
For some reason, he just looked at me as if I were seriously a VERY CAUCASIAN ASIAN. I followed that comment up with a very small voice and told him that I was just kidding.
I was actually Laotian.
ANYWAY, the majority of the time, when I go in to get a haircut, I get a stylist that is no doubt competent but not necessarily creative. I ALWAYS judge a stylist by their own clothes and hair. Is this wrong? I don't know. All I know is that if my stylist looks like she put her clothes on with a pitchfork and styled her hair with an egg beater, I'm probably not going to ask her for advice on what to do with my rabid hedgehog. I will just keep it simple and have the same thing that I had last time.
But today? Today the gods of opportunity were smiling down upon me. I went in right when they opened in the morning and I was the only customer there. (I know these folks are supposed to get through a certain amount of customers in an hour and if they are busy, I also don't make them 'get creative'.) I looked at the stylist and I knew that I had a keeper. He was both artsy and fartsy and absolutely unique.
When I sat down, I asked him what he wanted to do with my hair. I told him how I usually had it and that I needed something creative. Not only did he ask all the right questions, but he also avoided all the small talk that makes me HATE getting my hair cut. I'm not an antisocial bitch, I just hate blathering on about 'what I have planned for today' or 'how long I've lived in Duluth'. I am perfectly contented to shut my eyes and just listen to the conversations around me. It can be very entertaining.
So, my hair is now cut in such a way to make spiking it up like a crazy woman the best option. Something I would have never done a year ago. (I would have WANTED to do it, but I wouldn't have done it. Why? Because I was a ninny.)
I've always lived fearlessly...in my head.
You know what? Life is way too short for that.
Friday, October 16, 2009
Ask Me No Questions, I'll Tell You No Lies
Starting a new job is a lot like swinging from one vine to the next in the jungle. When you’re parsing out money with an eyedropper to pay your bills, it can involve a lot of shuffling of bill payments to meet a new pay schedule.
Yeah, I got a new job and then I missed my house payment…
Thankfully, I’ve been able to do a shell game and I should have all my bases covered.
The other thing that will be decidedly weird is entering into a bunch of new relationships where no one knows my story. Everyone at my present job knows my story because my life exploded at their feet. They even rallied their friends and went with me to the sentencing.
It was all very public and “out there”.
But now I’m left with that eternal nagging problem that has haunted me from day one: How do I deal with questions both innocent and nefarious?
I’m fairly adequate at steeling myself for specific events such as court dates (so long as I have an idea of what will happen and no overt douchebaggery takes place), where I fall down is the comments from out of the blue or the phone calls from left field. I’m not used to being left speechless and when I don’t know what to say, I’m often left fumbling like an idiot.
Even innocent comments from strangers can cause that vasovagal reaction that makes me alternately want to throw up and pass out.
“Oh, you’re getting a divorce? Do you have joint custody?”
See? An innocent question that stops me in my tracks and makes me stutter. What I want to say is “Well, if by joint custody you mean that the asshole is in the custody of the joint, then yeah.” What I end up saying is “Ummmmm. No….” and I get a pale sweaty ‘deer in the headlights’ look that probably communicates to them that upon commencement of divorce proceedings, I cannibalized my seven children and buried their eyeballs underneath the basement stairs. There is always palpable tension when the subject comes up. You couldn’t even begin to cut it with a knife, better pull out the chainsaw.
Or there is an opposite reaction. When I went in for a pre-employment physical at a clinic that I hadn’t been to in years, they went over my emergency contact information. “Is Tracy still your emergency contact?” Yup. Fairly innocent question to which I started laughing and managed to burble “Oh HELL no!”
She then directed me to the psych floor.
I don’t want to tell you my story. Neither do I want you to ask me questions. Maybe you’ll see me pause occasionally and get that haunted look in my eye. Maybe you’ll notice how I take a deep breath and shake off the sadness. Maybe you’ll surf the internet and figure it out on your own.
But when we’re in the break room, surrounded by everyone? Yeah, please. Just don’t go there.
Yeah, I got a new job and then I missed my house payment…
Thankfully, I’ve been able to do a shell game and I should have all my bases covered.
The other thing that will be decidedly weird is entering into a bunch of new relationships where no one knows my story. Everyone at my present job knows my story because my life exploded at their feet. They even rallied their friends and went with me to the sentencing.
It was all very public and “out there”.
But now I’m left with that eternal nagging problem that has haunted me from day one: How do I deal with questions both innocent and nefarious?
I’m fairly adequate at steeling myself for specific events such as court dates (so long as I have an idea of what will happen and no overt douchebaggery takes place), where I fall down is the comments from out of the blue or the phone calls from left field. I’m not used to being left speechless and when I don’t know what to say, I’m often left fumbling like an idiot.
Even innocent comments from strangers can cause that vasovagal reaction that makes me alternately want to throw up and pass out.
“Oh, you’re getting a divorce? Do you have joint custody?”
See? An innocent question that stops me in my tracks and makes me stutter. What I want to say is “Well, if by joint custody you mean that the asshole is in the custody of the joint, then yeah.” What I end up saying is “Ummmmm. No….” and I get a pale sweaty ‘deer in the headlights’ look that probably communicates to them that upon commencement of divorce proceedings, I cannibalized my seven children and buried their eyeballs underneath the basement stairs. There is always palpable tension when the subject comes up. You couldn’t even begin to cut it with a knife, better pull out the chainsaw.
Or there is an opposite reaction. When I went in for a pre-employment physical at a clinic that I hadn’t been to in years, they went over my emergency contact information. “Is Tracy still your emergency contact?” Yup. Fairly innocent question to which I started laughing and managed to burble “Oh HELL no!”
She then directed me to the psych floor.
I don’t want to tell you my story. Neither do I want you to ask me questions. Maybe you’ll see me pause occasionally and get that haunted look in my eye. Maybe you’ll notice how I take a deep breath and shake off the sadness. Maybe you’ll surf the internet and figure it out on your own.
But when we’re in the break room, surrounded by everyone? Yeah, please. Just don’t go there.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
De Clutter Is Leaving De House
There is a decided shift in the force. Either that, or I've finally succumbed to the manic side of manic depression (having traversed the flip side for longer than is comfortable).
I think it's because I'm seeing progress. Not LEGAL progress, mind you. More like psychological and physical progress.
Plus, the de-worming pills that I'm taking are kicking in and I can finally attest to just how awful I was feeling because I am now feeling so much better. Hooray for not having parasites!
Maybe it's the birthday thing coming up. It's another demarcation in my life, my own personal demarcation. It is not another anniversary of awful events. It's not He-that-shall-not-be-named's birthday (I'm growing weary of STBX. HOW SOON??? THIS HAS NOT BEEN SOON!) And it is not my upcoming wedding anniversary (November 23rd! Be sure to send me happy anniversary greetings on that very special occasion...) My birthday will be a time to look back at last year and to realize how much better things are now. For all the shit and shinola, things are soooo much better. (Now pass me that wallpaper paste, I'm hungry!)
Or perhaps it's the fact that I'm starting to see so much progress in the purging of the house. It's one thing to get rid of the clothes and the photos and all traces of his personal existence. It's quite another to clean out 12 years of his piles and abandoned projects, computer hardware and porn.
Remembering how he would come up with grand plans and either never start them or abandon them after 15 minutes of work and finding out that I can kick it in the ass and get it done because I'm not sitting in front of the computer, cyber-fucking a loser, can sometimes make me cranky. These are not my plans, these are not my projects, this is not my mess. Yet, it is another sweet, sweet inheritance that I have to deal with.
BUT, there are always days like today. Days that I get to load up the car with his shit. Days that I take my little coupon for the dump and I get to do just that: Dump.
I'm not sure if the dump-master (kinda like the dungeon master, only a bit more smelly) understood why I didn't just set each item in the proper bin. I held it over my head and I threw it down with all my might.
Smashy Smashy.
It felt so good.
I think it's because I'm seeing progress. Not LEGAL progress, mind you. More like psychological and physical progress.
Plus, the de-worming pills that I'm taking are kicking in and I can finally attest to just how awful I was feeling because I am now feeling so much better. Hooray for not having parasites!
Maybe it's the birthday thing coming up. It's another demarcation in my life, my own personal demarcation. It is not another anniversary of awful events. It's not He-that-shall-not-be-named's birthday (I'm growing weary of STBX. HOW SOON??? THIS HAS NOT BEEN SOON!) And it is not my upcoming wedding anniversary (November 23rd! Be sure to send me happy anniversary greetings on that very special occasion...) My birthday will be a time to look back at last year and to realize how much better things are now. For all the shit and shinola, things are soooo much better. (Now pass me that wallpaper paste, I'm hungry!)
Or perhaps it's the fact that I'm starting to see so much progress in the purging of the house. It's one thing to get rid of the clothes and the photos and all traces of his personal existence. It's quite another to clean out 12 years of his piles and abandoned projects, computer hardware and porn.
Remembering how he would come up with grand plans and either never start them or abandon them after 15 minutes of work and finding out that I can kick it in the ass and get it done because I'm not sitting in front of the computer, cyber-fucking a loser, can sometimes make me cranky. These are not my plans, these are not my projects, this is not my mess. Yet, it is another sweet, sweet inheritance that I have to deal with.
BUT, there are always days like today. Days that I get to load up the car with his shit. Days that I take my little coupon for the dump and I get to do just that: Dump.
I'm not sure if the dump-master (kinda like the dungeon master, only a bit more smelly) understood why I didn't just set each item in the proper bin. I held it over my head and I threw it down with all my might.
Smashy Smashy.
It felt so good.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
I'm Not OK, You're Not OK. OK?
The whole notion of “making amends” and “forgiveness” when it comes to the pedophile in “recovery” makes me want to vomit.
There. I said it. Does this make me a bad person? Does this make me the brick wall blocking the perpetrator’s healing?
I had a chance to talk to a friend today, a very wise friend in the field of victim advocacy. I had to know, from a clinical perspective, does my brick wall stance with my arms across my chest and my frowny face on fire, does that mean that I am doing myself and my children a disservice?
Yes, you will note that I said “myself” and “my children”. Let’s be honest, I don’t give a rat’s ass about “his journey of healing”. He’s busy bonding with all his pedo friends and I’m sure they’re getting nice and healthy. His journey is not my business. I have no control over his journey. Never have, never will.
I have control over my journey. I have the ability to influence my children’s journey.
I don’t ever want to see this man again, that much I can be assured will not change.
The notion that someday, far down the road, he might try to look up his children and “make amends” makes me nauseated. It actually keeps me awake at night.
I will always be their mother. I will always want to protect them from pain.
I have no control over this.
Why can’t I let that go?
Even when you visualize your children as adults, you still want to protect them. You don’t want them to get that phone call when they are 31 years old and starting their own family and trying to recover from their childhood by doing things “right” this time.
The problem with the “making amends” schtick is that there always has been and always will be an imbalance of power between a pedophile/perpetrator and their victim. I can’t imagine any person of any age who could look their perp in the face and not instantly be that child in that bedroom on that night when the entire universe changed.
A pedo/perp will never get this concept. They will always feel that the world and its inhabitants should exist for their own pleasure. Even when they can parrot the self help books. Even when they have went through their twelve steps. Even when they have picked up their own shattered lives and walked on.
They feel powerless and so they take the ultimate power. The power of a child’s mind, body, heart, trust, imagination, and love.
And they crush it in their filthy hands.
Then, someday, they just might ask for forgiveness.
The power that I have is over my own life. My own belief that I do not have to join hands with this person and say “I forgive you.”
My power is that I continue to exist. I continue to nurture my children. I see a way forward that does not involve his power. I see that I can learn and grow and love and laugh and feel sunlight on my skin for the first time in years.
My power lies in the fact that someday, we will all be in the sunlight. We will no longer dwell in the shadow that he has cast over our lives.
My power is telling my children that in 15 or 20 or 25 years, that power will be theirs.
The power to say “no”.
There. I said it. Does this make me a bad person? Does this make me the brick wall blocking the perpetrator’s healing?
I had a chance to talk to a friend today, a very wise friend in the field of victim advocacy. I had to know, from a clinical perspective, does my brick wall stance with my arms across my chest and my frowny face on fire, does that mean that I am doing myself and my children a disservice?
Yes, you will note that I said “myself” and “my children”. Let’s be honest, I don’t give a rat’s ass about “his journey of healing”. He’s busy bonding with all his pedo friends and I’m sure they’re getting nice and healthy. His journey is not my business. I have no control over his journey. Never have, never will.
I have control over my journey. I have the ability to influence my children’s journey.
I don’t ever want to see this man again, that much I can be assured will not change.
The notion that someday, far down the road, he might try to look up his children and “make amends” makes me nauseated. It actually keeps me awake at night.
I will always be their mother. I will always want to protect them from pain.
I have no control over this.
Why can’t I let that go?
Even when you visualize your children as adults, you still want to protect them. You don’t want them to get that phone call when they are 31 years old and starting their own family and trying to recover from their childhood by doing things “right” this time.
The problem with the “making amends” schtick is that there always has been and always will be an imbalance of power between a pedophile/perpetrator and their victim. I can’t imagine any person of any age who could look their perp in the face and not instantly be that child in that bedroom on that night when the entire universe changed.
A pedo/perp will never get this concept. They will always feel that the world and its inhabitants should exist for their own pleasure. Even when they can parrot the self help books. Even when they have went through their twelve steps. Even when they have picked up their own shattered lives and walked on.
They feel powerless and so they take the ultimate power. The power of a child’s mind, body, heart, trust, imagination, and love.
And they crush it in their filthy hands.
Then, someday, they just might ask for forgiveness.
The power that I have is over my own life. My own belief that I do not have to join hands with this person and say “I forgive you.”
My power is that I continue to exist. I continue to nurture my children. I see a way forward that does not involve his power. I see that I can learn and grow and love and laugh and feel sunlight on my skin for the first time in years.
My power lies in the fact that someday, we will all be in the sunlight. We will no longer dwell in the shadow that he has cast over our lives.
My power is telling my children that in 15 or 20 or 25 years, that power will be theirs.
The power to say “no”.
Sunday, August 09, 2009
Feathering The Nest
One of the first things I did after life hit the fan was to get new sheets for the bed. It sounded like a ridiculous expenditure at the time but I needed a clean slate at the very basic level of life.
But yesterday I went out with a friend to garage sales, something I hadn't done all summer since I am in the purging mood.
But I did forget about my garage sale karma. If I have no other true super power, I can make items appear at garage sales with the sheer force of my mind.
After getting our phone number changed, I realized I didn't pay for messaging services. When Qwest "followed up" with me on my new service and tried to get me to buy more, the saleswoman tried to strong arm me into getting messaging for "only $7.00 a month!"
Uhhh, no. That translates into $84 every year. Can we ask how much an answering machine costs?
How about $1.00 at a garage sale? It works like a charm.
Then we went to another sale where I found a business type outfit suitable for interviewing or that career in life insurance sales for $5.00.
Next up? A new Nautica comforter for $15.00
At that point, I had tapped my mad money but then we found a feather mattress cover and a set of Woolrich bedding. My friend gave me an early birthday present and I took it all home to set up my new nest.
After moving the bed and purging crap from the bedroom, my new nest is ready.
And from the looks of it, quite comfortable.
But yesterday I went out with a friend to garage sales, something I hadn't done all summer since I am in the purging mood.
But I did forget about my garage sale karma. If I have no other true super power, I can make items appear at garage sales with the sheer force of my mind.
After getting our phone number changed, I realized I didn't pay for messaging services. When Qwest "followed up" with me on my new service and tried to get me to buy more, the saleswoman tried to strong arm me into getting messaging for "only $7.00 a month!"
Uhhh, no. That translates into $84 every year. Can we ask how much an answering machine costs?
How about $1.00 at a garage sale? It works like a charm.
Then we went to another sale where I found a business type outfit suitable for interviewing or that career in life insurance sales for $5.00.
Next up? A new Nautica comforter for $15.00
At that point, I had tapped my mad money but then we found a feather mattress cover and a set of Woolrich bedding. My friend gave me an early birthday present and I took it all home to set up my new nest.
After moving the bed and purging crap from the bedroom, my new nest is ready.
And from the looks of it, quite comfortable.
Thursday, August 06, 2009
My Book Report- Conclusions
As I stated a few weeks ago, I'm still getting used to people who recognize me through the blog or the the newspaper article. I don't mean to be slow on the uptake, there was just that incident when I was a baby and I got dropped on my head.
So, to the several people at the grocery store over the past couple weeks and the waitress, and the gal at the Farmer's Market and the postal worker, thank you for sharing your stories with me. It's made me even more aware of the stories that we carry around under the surface of our skin. There are so many of us out there.
I've finished Out of the Shadows and I'm getting ready to pass it on to someone else. It pissed me off but I'm glad I read it.
There were reactions in the book from spouses that I totally identified with but there were also conclusions drawn that missed the mark, at least in my case.
I think, once again, it came down to a book that didn't match my situation. It really hammered home the idea of the co addict who assisted in the "addiction" by covering up for the spouse's issues. It also talked about spouses who are controlling because they feel so out of control.
Does the fact that 99% of all the chores and responsibilities in our marriage fell on my shoulders in turn make me controlling? Had I not done them, they would not have gotten done. Whenever I asked for help in doing something, STBX blew me off with sarcasm and turned back to his computer.
If this indeed means that I was controlling, can I ask what my options were? Or does controlling mean that a spouse tries to manipulate her "addict's" behavior by keeping him busy so he won't cruise the bars and pick up prostitutes?
The only control I had was over myself and I realized that long ago. STBX didn't want a wife, he wanted a mommy. Women who play that role for their husbands DRIVE ME AROUND THE BEND.
The book did mention how a common theme for "addicts" is that they want a woman who is nothing like their mother and then they spend years hating her because she isn't their mother.
I underlined that paragraph. Perhaps two or three times. That is the perfect description of the last 17 years of my life.
Before we got married, STBX told me "I'm so glad you're nothing like my mother."
Hindsight can be so funny. It makes me want to puke.
Where I disagreed with the book most heartily was when it was stated that a co addict is the same as the addict in that they feel they have no self worth and are unlovable.
Yeah, I'm not going there at all. I realized a long time ago that I did not deserve the shit that I was fed. It turned out to be many years of being isolated and manipulated and I became very angry. Unfortunately, after being rebuffed enough times when it came to talking about these things, I gave up. I began to mark my time and plan my escape.
Funnily enough, my revelations all happened after the abuse stopped. Not the brightest bulb, I will admit.
As I stated before, this book is for the "addict", not the survivors. Nowhere, and I mean NOWHERE in this book does it talk about families breaking up over this. Every scenario leads the spouse and children to therapy with the perp and they allllll live happily ever after.
Yeah. STBX was never able to take in information and actually apply it to a new situation. He could parrot those that he shared their beliefs but to actually digest a book and apply it to the reality of his situation, well, that would just lead to a court statement that was painted in rainbows and tethered to clouds.
There are about five sentences or so in this book that state the possibility of "legal action" for some things that "addicts" do. Perhaps this is to refrain from scaring perps away.
It is, however, not grounded in reality.
Not my reality at least.
So, to the several people at the grocery store over the past couple weeks and the waitress, and the gal at the Farmer's Market and the postal worker, thank you for sharing your stories with me. It's made me even more aware of the stories that we carry around under the surface of our skin. There are so many of us out there.
I've finished Out of the Shadows and I'm getting ready to pass it on to someone else. It pissed me off but I'm glad I read it.
There were reactions in the book from spouses that I totally identified with but there were also conclusions drawn that missed the mark, at least in my case.
I think, once again, it came down to a book that didn't match my situation. It really hammered home the idea of the co addict who assisted in the "addiction" by covering up for the spouse's issues. It also talked about spouses who are controlling because they feel so out of control.
Does the fact that 99% of all the chores and responsibilities in our marriage fell on my shoulders in turn make me controlling? Had I not done them, they would not have gotten done. Whenever I asked for help in doing something, STBX blew me off with sarcasm and turned back to his computer.
If this indeed means that I was controlling, can I ask what my options were? Or does controlling mean that a spouse tries to manipulate her "addict's" behavior by keeping him busy so he won't cruise the bars and pick up prostitutes?
The only control I had was over myself and I realized that long ago. STBX didn't want a wife, he wanted a mommy. Women who play that role for their husbands DRIVE ME AROUND THE BEND.
The book did mention how a common theme for "addicts" is that they want a woman who is nothing like their mother and then they spend years hating her because she isn't their mother.
I underlined that paragraph. Perhaps two or three times. That is the perfect description of the last 17 years of my life.
Before we got married, STBX told me "I'm so glad you're nothing like my mother."
Hindsight can be so funny. It makes me want to puke.
Where I disagreed with the book most heartily was when it was stated that a co addict is the same as the addict in that they feel they have no self worth and are unlovable.
Yeah, I'm not going there at all. I realized a long time ago that I did not deserve the shit that I was fed. It turned out to be many years of being isolated and manipulated and I became very angry. Unfortunately, after being rebuffed enough times when it came to talking about these things, I gave up. I began to mark my time and plan my escape.
Funnily enough, my revelations all happened after the abuse stopped. Not the brightest bulb, I will admit.
As I stated before, this book is for the "addict", not the survivors. Nowhere, and I mean NOWHERE in this book does it talk about families breaking up over this. Every scenario leads the spouse and children to therapy with the perp and they allllll live happily ever after.
Yeah. STBX was never able to take in information and actually apply it to a new situation. He could parrot those that he shared their beliefs but to actually digest a book and apply it to the reality of his situation, well, that would just lead to a court statement that was painted in rainbows and tethered to clouds.
There are about five sentences or so in this book that state the possibility of "legal action" for some things that "addicts" do. Perhaps this is to refrain from scaring perps away.
It is, however, not grounded in reality.
Not my reality at least.
Tuesday, August 04, 2009
My Book Report
I'm halfway through Out Of The Shadows and now I understand STBX's statement in court.
Why should he apologize for something he had no control over?
There are many things in this book that ring true to him and to what I imagine his childhood to be. There is also a chapter on co addiction that says it's wrong to hide your spouse's porn and to discount your child's disclosure because you're just feeding into his cycle of addiction.
But thus far, the main gist of the book follows AA and even has the 12 steps for sex addicts.
You are powerless in the face of your disease.
STBX jumped onto that bandwagon as quick as he could. Powerless? Not responsible? Hey, it's the card he played his entire life.
The killer of it, for me, is that he would go on mini-rants about how AA was ridiculous and that alcoholism wasn't a disease and that alcoholics used that "disease crap" as a crutch.
But when it comes to the consequences of his own actions, suddenly, it all makes sense.
As I figured, this book completely ignores the devastation that families are in after the offender has done his worst. I'm picturing the drunk driver lurching down the highway after causing a twenty car pile up and the author of the book running up to the drunk and asking "Are you ok? Let me get you a band aid." Meanwhile, twenty cars are piled up with people bleeding to death, completely ignored.
When STBX turned to my daughter at the sentencing and said "I thought we could just work this out in therapy," I was appalled at how minimizing that statement was.
Now that I read this book, I can see how he made that statement. One of the steps in recovery is to go back to all the people that you've hurt and talk it out.
That idea, in and of itself, is so completely off kilter that I can't even go there. The idea that a person who has done unspeakable things thinks it's ok to force themselves onto their victim at some point in the future so they themselves can "get better" is, once again, self centered. The book does mention that this step should be done so long as it "doesn't cause the victim pain".
What???
Crack pipe smokers unite!
The book also spends a sentence or two on how manipulative and secretive these folk are yet talks at some length about how co addicts are to blame for not listening to the sex addict and not telling the sex addict how they really feel.
I haven't quite figured out if the author is calling all spouses co addicts or just the lucky few that pay off the babysitter after their husband tries to feel them up.
How could I discuss my feelings with "my addict" when I was called a bitch and told to shut up? The most infuriating part of the whole scenario is looking back and remembering the odd questions that he would pose to me. Things that made me look at him as if he were from Mars but never things that made me say "Ah ha! You're a pedophile!"
I'm certainly guilty of stupidity and ignorance. I'm also guilty of staying in a broken marriage and putting up with years of misery. By the time I was plotting my get away, it was years too late.
What this book fails horribly at is looking at the flip side. It can tell all the scenarios out there: Dan was a married man with two kids and a good job. He spent $5000 a month on hookers and porn and when his daughter turned eight, he began molesting her. This lasted for six years.
Poor Dan. My heart is bleeding for him.
How about a flip side to this scenario?
Mary was married to Dan and she had two kids. Communication had broken down in their marriage long ago as Dan withdrew from the family unit. Whenever Mary would try to talk to him about her day or the kids, he would snap at her. Whenever the kids would try to talk to him he would ignore them for at least five minutes, hoping they would just go away. If they didn't give up trying to communicate, he would sigh heavily and answer them sarcastically at every opportunity. Aside from being at work, Dan spent all of his time on the computer. On the rare occasion when he was home at dinner time, he would take his plate and sit at the computer, once again ignoring his family. It was later discovered that Dan began molesting his daughter when she was nine. He had engaged in coercive sex with Mary after the births of their children and Mary, a survivor of abuse as a child, had managed to bury the trauma. Her flashbacks to these times would start after finding out about her daughter's abuse. Mary had distanced herself from Dan emotionally and physically and had been planning her get away from him for at least a year before disclosure.
Wow. Mary and Dan. Pretty screwed up, eh?
Glad I don't know anyone like that.
Apparently, I am not the only skeptic...
Why should he apologize for something he had no control over?
There are many things in this book that ring true to him and to what I imagine his childhood to be. There is also a chapter on co addiction that says it's wrong to hide your spouse's porn and to discount your child's disclosure because you're just feeding into his cycle of addiction.
But thus far, the main gist of the book follows AA and even has the 12 steps for sex addicts.
You are powerless in the face of your disease.
STBX jumped onto that bandwagon as quick as he could. Powerless? Not responsible? Hey, it's the card he played his entire life.
The killer of it, for me, is that he would go on mini-rants about how AA was ridiculous and that alcoholism wasn't a disease and that alcoholics used that "disease crap" as a crutch.
But when it comes to the consequences of his own actions, suddenly, it all makes sense.
As I figured, this book completely ignores the devastation that families are in after the offender has done his worst. I'm picturing the drunk driver lurching down the highway after causing a twenty car pile up and the author of the book running up to the drunk and asking "Are you ok? Let me get you a band aid." Meanwhile, twenty cars are piled up with people bleeding to death, completely ignored.
When STBX turned to my daughter at the sentencing and said "I thought we could just work this out in therapy," I was appalled at how minimizing that statement was.
Now that I read this book, I can see how he made that statement. One of the steps in recovery is to go back to all the people that you've hurt and talk it out.
That idea, in and of itself, is so completely off kilter that I can't even go there. The idea that a person who has done unspeakable things thinks it's ok to force themselves onto their victim at some point in the future so they themselves can "get better" is, once again, self centered. The book does mention that this step should be done so long as it "doesn't cause the victim pain".
What???
Crack pipe smokers unite!
The book also spends a sentence or two on how manipulative and secretive these folk are yet talks at some length about how co addicts are to blame for not listening to the sex addict and not telling the sex addict how they really feel.
I haven't quite figured out if the author is calling all spouses co addicts or just the lucky few that pay off the babysitter after their husband tries to feel them up.
How could I discuss my feelings with "my addict" when I was called a bitch and told to shut up? The most infuriating part of the whole scenario is looking back and remembering the odd questions that he would pose to me. Things that made me look at him as if he were from Mars but never things that made me say "Ah ha! You're a pedophile!"
I'm certainly guilty of stupidity and ignorance. I'm also guilty of staying in a broken marriage and putting up with years of misery. By the time I was plotting my get away, it was years too late.
What this book fails horribly at is looking at the flip side. It can tell all the scenarios out there: Dan was a married man with two kids and a good job. He spent $5000 a month on hookers and porn and when his daughter turned eight, he began molesting her. This lasted for six years.
Poor Dan. My heart is bleeding for him.
How about a flip side to this scenario?
Mary was married to Dan and she had two kids. Communication had broken down in their marriage long ago as Dan withdrew from the family unit. Whenever Mary would try to talk to him about her day or the kids, he would snap at her. Whenever the kids would try to talk to him he would ignore them for at least five minutes, hoping they would just go away. If they didn't give up trying to communicate, he would sigh heavily and answer them sarcastically at every opportunity. Aside from being at work, Dan spent all of his time on the computer. On the rare occasion when he was home at dinner time, he would take his plate and sit at the computer, once again ignoring his family. It was later discovered that Dan began molesting his daughter when she was nine. He had engaged in coercive sex with Mary after the births of their children and Mary, a survivor of abuse as a child, had managed to bury the trauma. Her flashbacks to these times would start after finding out about her daughter's abuse. Mary had distanced herself from Dan emotionally and physically and had been planning her get away from him for at least a year before disclosure.
Wow. Mary and Dan. Pretty screwed up, eh?
Glad I don't know anyone like that.
Apparently, I am not the only skeptic...
Monday, August 03, 2009
The Brave Little Poster
That blog title may be the highlight of my day. I'm just saying...
Hey, I experienced a break through today! I managed to collapse and sob my eyes out.
No, not over the divorce that will never end.
No, not over the name change that will never end.
No, not over the fact that my wonderful daughter is moving far away in less than two weeks.
No, not over the bank account, the doctor bills, the car repair, or nonexistent peace in the middle east.
It was because I couldn’t get my damn hold button on my phone unstuck.
See? That’s why I couldn’t figure out the slippery cheese on my crackers! I should have considered telecommunication issues!
Reality? There are times when boning up on a few realities can help.
For non-offending parents
Understanding the non-offending parent
Abuse and the non offending parent
Stages of grief
Hey, I experienced a break through today! I managed to collapse and sob my eyes out.
No, not over the divorce that will never end.
No, not over the name change that will never end.
No, not over the fact that my wonderful daughter is moving far away in less than two weeks.
No, not over the bank account, the doctor bills, the car repair, or nonexistent peace in the middle east.
It was because I couldn’t get my damn hold button on my phone unstuck.
See? That’s why I couldn’t figure out the slippery cheese on my crackers! I should have considered telecommunication issues!
Reality? There are times when boning up on a few realities can help.
For non-offending parents
Understanding the non-offending parent
Abuse and the non offending parent
Stages of grief
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
The Education of Me
I followed an internet trail last night, quite unintentionally.
There's nothing like reading articles on sexual addiction on the internet, only to realize that your STBX had made a comment on the article twenty days before being sentenced to prison. A funny comment. Or at least, an attempted funny comment.
Because it's ever so amusing to have someone say that if you're a sex addict, all you need to do is masturbate a lot. What a great addiction, huh?
Needless to say, I stopped trying to educate myself by reading articles online.
Right after life hit the fan, I tried to educate myself on molestation and pedophilia. It wasn't easy. It never is.
Coming from the perspective of a survivor and a non-offending parent, the betrayal and anger that I felt came from so many different levels. There weren't many resources out there for my situation.
Also, when you are feeling so emotionally raw, picking up a book can be like picking up a bomb. I read a book that was geared toward my story as a survivor. It was for girls that have no family member to turn to. When they disclose, they are dismissed or called a liar. It was a good book until I got to the chapter on mothers. The author made almost a throw away comment that mothers almost always know what's going on and many times are complicit. As a survivor of abuse, this was true. When I disclosed, my adoptive mother called me a slut and said "I always knew."
But coming from the perspective of a mother who didn't know, this single sentence tore me apart.
When it comes to books written for non offending parents, they are few and far between. Thankfully, I found one author, Jane Gilgun, who manages to discuss all perspectives of an abuse scenario: child, parent, and perpetrator. If you follow the link, you can download the book "Child Sexual Abuse" for free. It's a good starting point.
It is hard. It is always hard to read the words of perpetrators. It is also hard to wrap my mind around reading a book on sexual addiction.
But I'm going to.
The hardest part of the whole exercise is reading a book that is talking to the perpetrator, especially after listening to STBX's statement before the court. He stood there with blinders on talking about "me...me...me..."
There are so many throw away lines and comments in books like these, regarding the people being hurt by the perpetrator. It minimizes the victimization. This is exactly what STBX fed into with his statement to the court. I'm sure it's not intentional by the author, it's just that the book isn't necessarily meant to be read by the person that was on the receiving end.
But I will go there. Somehow, I can't imagine STBX ever picking up a copy of The Courage To Heal and learning about the consequences of his actions.
And that's the saddest part.
There's nothing like reading articles on sexual addiction on the internet, only to realize that your STBX had made a comment on the article twenty days before being sentenced to prison. A funny comment. Or at least, an attempted funny comment.
Because it's ever so amusing to have someone say that if you're a sex addict, all you need to do is masturbate a lot. What a great addiction, huh?
Needless to say, I stopped trying to educate myself by reading articles online.
Right after life hit the fan, I tried to educate myself on molestation and pedophilia. It wasn't easy. It never is.
Coming from the perspective of a survivor and a non-offending parent, the betrayal and anger that I felt came from so many different levels. There weren't many resources out there for my situation.
Also, when you are feeling so emotionally raw, picking up a book can be like picking up a bomb. I read a book that was geared toward my story as a survivor. It was for girls that have no family member to turn to. When they disclose, they are dismissed or called a liar. It was a good book until I got to the chapter on mothers. The author made almost a throw away comment that mothers almost always know what's going on and many times are complicit. As a survivor of abuse, this was true. When I disclosed, my adoptive mother called me a slut and said "I always knew."
But coming from the perspective of a mother who didn't know, this single sentence tore me apart.
When it comes to books written for non offending parents, they are few and far between. Thankfully, I found one author, Jane Gilgun, who manages to discuss all perspectives of an abuse scenario: child, parent, and perpetrator. If you follow the link, you can download the book "Child Sexual Abuse" for free. It's a good starting point.
It is hard. It is always hard to read the words of perpetrators. It is also hard to wrap my mind around reading a book on sexual addiction.
But I'm going to.
The hardest part of the whole exercise is reading a book that is talking to the perpetrator, especially after listening to STBX's statement before the court. He stood there with blinders on talking about "me...me...me..."
There are so many throw away lines and comments in books like these, regarding the people being hurt by the perpetrator. It minimizes the victimization. This is exactly what STBX fed into with his statement to the court. I'm sure it's not intentional by the author, it's just that the book isn't necessarily meant to be read by the person that was on the receiving end.
But I will go there. Somehow, I can't imagine STBX ever picking up a copy of The Courage To Heal and learning about the consequences of his actions.
And that's the saddest part.
Monday, July 27, 2009
This Laundry Won't Clean Itself
I've encountered two very different reactions to the article in the paper on Sunday. I have encountered friends in public that I haven't seen in years that simply come up and give me a hug. (FYI: You might want to ask first...) Then, of course, there are the people commenting on the News Tribune site that state I have no business airing my dirty laundry in public as that should be the job of social scientists.
I sincerely can't stress what a difficult time I (and others reading this blog) have had in finding someone in similar circumstances. There is a decided disconnect when reading a sociological treatise on pedophilia in modern culture. I know, I've been there. I've read disserations so dry and filled with statistics that totally take the heart and soul out of everything that normal human beings go through in a situation such as this.
Can you quote me the statistics on how many mothers have flashbacks to what they have read in police reports?
Can you quote me on the statistics of the mothers who get off the phone with the prosecuting attorney, the victim advocate, the therapist, the lawyer, the teacher, the neighbor, the friend and quietly hang up the phone and sink to their knees and sob uncontrollably for an hour?
Can you quote me on the statistics of the mothers who look back on their own marriages and see the warning signs like flashing neon but were too trusting? Too blind?
Can you quote me on the statistics of the mothers who stand at their windows at 2 a.m, looking out on a rain washed street, feeling so hollow that they can hear their insides rattle at the slightest breeze?
Can you quote me on the statistics of the mothers who tried to protect their children from harm only to find harm under their own roof?
Can you quote me on the statistics of the mothers who endured verbal abuse and physical assult by telling themselves that "as long as he doesn't lay a hand on the kids...as long as I can hide it...as long as I don't call forced sex within the marriage rape...as long as I just pretend...everything will be ok.
Can you quote me on the statistics of the mothers who stayed up late at night, looking at a line of perscription meds on their counter and wondering what the magic concoction would be to make the pain go away? Permanetly?
Can you measure the decibel level of the screams in the middle of the woods? The cathartic wailing once a mother finds herself alone and unable to move one more foot along the path.
Can you quantify the fleeting looks in your child's eyes that betray the words coming out of her mouth? Can you inform me how many minutes, hours, days, and years I can wrap my arms around her and tell her that I'm sorry. That she didn't deserve it. That she is a beautiful, valuable human being that never deserves to be used by another human being.
Can you quantify the anger? The dispair?
Give me your statistics. I will break their structures and rend their pages and show you that they have nothing to do with my heart.
We are not numbers to be studied. We are not statistics. We are flesh and bones and pain and anger and hope.
My hope for anyone reading this that KNOWS what I'm talking about would be the ability to look in the mirror and see what your experieces have done to you and for you. I would hope that you can come to terms with your ability to trust people. Your ability to protect yourself. Your ability to learn about healthy relationships. Your realization that strength comes in many forms. Some days, it's just getting out of bed. Other days, it's facing your bitterest fear in the court room.
I'm by no means an expert. I do, however, strongly recommend that people seek out experts.
If you live in Duluth, there are agencies out there to help. Our personal experience was with PAVSA, the Program to Aid Victims of Sexual Assult. We had trained people helping us every step of the way, sitting with us through police statements, court dates, meetings with probation offices, group therapy, and individual therapy. I can't sing their praises high enough. They also have a crisis line and have advocates that can help women during rape exams at hospitals.
Here is a listing of their mission and services.
There are also organizations that assist women in situations of domestic violence and native women facing these same issues within their own cultural framework.
You've lived through the nightmare. Maybe this morning, maybe fifty years ago. Realize what you need for your own well being and seek it out.
You are worth it.
I sincerely can't stress what a difficult time I (and others reading this blog) have had in finding someone in similar circumstances. There is a decided disconnect when reading a sociological treatise on pedophilia in modern culture. I know, I've been there. I've read disserations so dry and filled with statistics that totally take the heart and soul out of everything that normal human beings go through in a situation such as this.
Can you quote me the statistics on how many mothers have flashbacks to what they have read in police reports?
Can you quote me on the statistics of the mothers who get off the phone with the prosecuting attorney, the victim advocate, the therapist, the lawyer, the teacher, the neighbor, the friend and quietly hang up the phone and sink to their knees and sob uncontrollably for an hour?
Can you quote me on the statistics of the mothers who look back on their own marriages and see the warning signs like flashing neon but were too trusting? Too blind?
Can you quote me on the statistics of the mothers who stand at their windows at 2 a.m, looking out on a rain washed street, feeling so hollow that they can hear their insides rattle at the slightest breeze?
Can you quote me on the statistics of the mothers who tried to protect their children from harm only to find harm under their own roof?
Can you quote me on the statistics of the mothers who endured verbal abuse and physical assult by telling themselves that "as long as he doesn't lay a hand on the kids...as long as I can hide it...as long as I don't call forced sex within the marriage rape...as long as I just pretend...everything will be ok.
Can you quote me on the statistics of the mothers who stayed up late at night, looking at a line of perscription meds on their counter and wondering what the magic concoction would be to make the pain go away? Permanetly?
Can you measure the decibel level of the screams in the middle of the woods? The cathartic wailing once a mother finds herself alone and unable to move one more foot along the path.
Can you quantify the fleeting looks in your child's eyes that betray the words coming out of her mouth? Can you inform me how many minutes, hours, days, and years I can wrap my arms around her and tell her that I'm sorry. That she didn't deserve it. That she is a beautiful, valuable human being that never deserves to be used by another human being.
Can you quantify the anger? The dispair?
Give me your statistics. I will break their structures and rend their pages and show you that they have nothing to do with my heart.
We are not numbers to be studied. We are not statistics. We are flesh and bones and pain and anger and hope.
My hope for anyone reading this that KNOWS what I'm talking about would be the ability to look in the mirror and see what your experieces have done to you and for you. I would hope that you can come to terms with your ability to trust people. Your ability to protect yourself. Your ability to learn about healthy relationships. Your realization that strength comes in many forms. Some days, it's just getting out of bed. Other days, it's facing your bitterest fear in the court room.
I'm by no means an expert. I do, however, strongly recommend that people seek out experts.
If you live in Duluth, there are agencies out there to help. Our personal experience was with PAVSA, the Program to Aid Victims of Sexual Assult. We had trained people helping us every step of the way, sitting with us through police statements, court dates, meetings with probation offices, group therapy, and individual therapy. I can't sing their praises high enough. They also have a crisis line and have advocates that can help women during rape exams at hospitals.
Here is a listing of their mission and services.
There are also organizations that assist women in situations of domestic violence and native women facing these same issues within their own cultural framework.
You've lived through the nightmare. Maybe this morning, maybe fifty years ago. Realize what you need for your own well being and seek it out.
You are worth it.
Friday, July 17, 2009
Trust Me
I ran into a friend last night, a friend that I haven't talked to in quite a few months. I felt a bit awkward since I was wearing a name tag with my new name on it and I saw her look at it quizzically. Since she is far too classy to point to my chest and say "What the hell???" (which would have been my reaction), I sort of blurted out my life story for the past 7 months.
She then told me her similar story from a few years ago.
And I asked her the question that I haven't been able to really ask anyone yet because no one would understand unless they have walked this path.
How do you ever enter a relationship and trust anyone again?
I can make jokes about it and be a glib smart ass but it wasn't until that question passed my lips with such desperate earnestness that I realized how truly lost I feel.
I have such a wonderful circle of friends, both women and men, that I love and trust and would do anything for but then I go home. I go home and find my own heart in my closet and it's in so many pieces. I can hold it in my hands and cry myself to sleep and wake up in the morning and go through my day but when I return home, it's still there in pieces.
The hardest thing is realizing that there isn't any reason why I should mourn about my broken heart. I never had a healthy relationship. I may have loved but I was never loved in return. I was with a person who believed that love was being taken care of and taking what he wanted, when he wanted it.
Maybe I cry because I feel so foolish? Am I mourning 17 years of being an idiot? I know I stand back at times, still staggered by the amount of pain that one person can bring about in this universe. The very fact that I can still be surprised by it makes me feel foolish all over again.
It's the questions of the heart that are so deep and hidden, that can only be broached in the guise of a joke, that will take you out at the knees.
Crying, not laughing, can sometimes be the hardest thing.
She then told me her similar story from a few years ago.
And I asked her the question that I haven't been able to really ask anyone yet because no one would understand unless they have walked this path.
How do you ever enter a relationship and trust anyone again?
I can make jokes about it and be a glib smart ass but it wasn't until that question passed my lips with such desperate earnestness that I realized how truly lost I feel.
I have such a wonderful circle of friends, both women and men, that I love and trust and would do anything for but then I go home. I go home and find my own heart in my closet and it's in so many pieces. I can hold it in my hands and cry myself to sleep and wake up in the morning and go through my day but when I return home, it's still there in pieces.
The hardest thing is realizing that there isn't any reason why I should mourn about my broken heart. I never had a healthy relationship. I may have loved but I was never loved in return. I was with a person who believed that love was being taken care of and taking what he wanted, when he wanted it.
Maybe I cry because I feel so foolish? Am I mourning 17 years of being an idiot? I know I stand back at times, still staggered by the amount of pain that one person can bring about in this universe. The very fact that I can still be surprised by it makes me feel foolish all over again.
It's the questions of the heart that are so deep and hidden, that can only be broached in the guise of a joke, that will take you out at the knees.
Crying, not laughing, can sometimes be the hardest thing.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Gettin' All Pretty For Court. Again.
Nightmares are a funny thing. As are dreams.
I normally can't recall my dreams which I attribute to the fact that my sleep is so poor, my brain never gets in the right place to remember.
Which is why I will probably end up in the booby hatch by the time I'm 50.
Is booby hatch politically correct? Hmmmm. Cracker factory?
After six months of insomnia, I woke up in mid-nightmare last night. The funny thing is, it wasn't so much a traditional nightmare as just an endless tape loop of me, reading my victim impact statement.
I had practiced my statement every morning during the week of the sentencing so I wouldn't break down when I read it. I also knew I couldn't look at anyone or else I wouldn't be able to read it out loud. In court, it ended up being me, staring down at the sheet of paper in front of me, pretending I was alone.
The really weird part was, I don't remember anything that I said.
I don't remember the tone of my voice.
I don't remember anything my daughter said either.
Of course, we KNEW what we said because it was written down, but the actual moment has been blocked out of my mind.
Until this morning at 2 a.m when I woke up in full panic mode because I kept reading my statement and I could never get to the end of it.
After I woke up I ended up going over what he said. Yeah, see that dead horse? BEAT IT! BEAT IT HARD!
A useless, ridiculous activity that just got me all pissed off all over again.
I think if there wasn't a chance that I would have to see him again on Tuesday for the divorce hearing, I wouldn't be going there. At least, I hope I wouldn't.
I am, however, planning my wardrobe for Tuesday's appearance. While I really vacillated on what to wear for the criminal proceedings and, up until now, the divorce proceedings, I am sooooo done with all of this crap. I'm thinking that I will actually bring a change of clothes to put on at work before I go over to the courthouse.
How about a big comfy sleep shirt, cut off jeans, and house slippers? Along with a half burned cigarette hanging out of my mouth, my hair arranged in a freshly fucked all-on-end style, and perhaps a half empty can of Coors in my hand? And lots of blue eye shadow. Perhaps applied with a pneumatic air hose.
I'd like to give everyone the honest to god message of "Really??? Really??? Do we actually have ANYTHING to discuss here???"
Since Jackass and Chuckles (STBX and his lawyer) contested the name change by saying that it should be dealt with in the divorce, you can bet your sweet hootenanny that it will either be written into the final paperwork or I will be flicking boogers over my lawyers head in their general direction.
Oh, and I need to go to the courthouse today for more errands as well.
I swear, I want St. Louis County to give me a frequent flyer card, complete with some sort of "Get three parking tickets, your fourth one is free" deal.
Well, I suppose I'd better get looking for that pneumatic air hose. And can someone lend me a can of Coors? I promise, I'll return it.
I normally can't recall my dreams which I attribute to the fact that my sleep is so poor, my brain never gets in the right place to remember.
Which is why I will probably end up in the booby hatch by the time I'm 50.
Is booby hatch politically correct? Hmmmm. Cracker factory?
After six months of insomnia, I woke up in mid-nightmare last night. The funny thing is, it wasn't so much a traditional nightmare as just an endless tape loop of me, reading my victim impact statement.
I had practiced my statement every morning during the week of the sentencing so I wouldn't break down when I read it. I also knew I couldn't look at anyone or else I wouldn't be able to read it out loud. In court, it ended up being me, staring down at the sheet of paper in front of me, pretending I was alone.
The really weird part was, I don't remember anything that I said.
I don't remember the tone of my voice.
I don't remember anything my daughter said either.
Of course, we KNEW what we said because it was written down, but the actual moment has been blocked out of my mind.
Until this morning at 2 a.m when I woke up in full panic mode because I kept reading my statement and I could never get to the end of it.
After I woke up I ended up going over what he said. Yeah, see that dead horse? BEAT IT! BEAT IT HARD!
A useless, ridiculous activity that just got me all pissed off all over again.
I think if there wasn't a chance that I would have to see him again on Tuesday for the divorce hearing, I wouldn't be going there. At least, I hope I wouldn't.
I am, however, planning my wardrobe for Tuesday's appearance. While I really vacillated on what to wear for the criminal proceedings and, up until now, the divorce proceedings, I am sooooo done with all of this crap. I'm thinking that I will actually bring a change of clothes to put on at work before I go over to the courthouse.
How about a big comfy sleep shirt, cut off jeans, and house slippers? Along with a half burned cigarette hanging out of my mouth, my hair arranged in a freshly fucked all-on-end style, and perhaps a half empty can of Coors in my hand? And lots of blue eye shadow. Perhaps applied with a pneumatic air hose.
I'd like to give everyone the honest to god message of "Really??? Really??? Do we actually have ANYTHING to discuss here???"
Since Jackass and Chuckles (STBX and his lawyer) contested the name change by saying that it should be dealt with in the divorce, you can bet your sweet hootenanny that it will either be written into the final paperwork or I will be flicking boogers over my lawyers head in their general direction.
Oh, and I need to go to the courthouse today for more errands as well.
I swear, I want St. Louis County to give me a frequent flyer card, complete with some sort of "Get three parking tickets, your fourth one is free" deal.
Well, I suppose I'd better get looking for that pneumatic air hose. And can someone lend me a can of Coors? I promise, I'll return it.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
This Elephant Ain't Gonna Eat Itself
I'm realizing that I've been living off a list for six months, or perhaps an outline. Large, overarching goals with a million and one different tasks below each, every goal contingent upon the completion of the one above it.
It's been this list that's kept my head on straight. Whenever I stand back and look at the big picture, I collapse to my knees. I have to stay focused on the next goal, the next rung on the ladder.
Tuesday is another divorce hearing. As much as I am rolling my eyes at the stupidity of it all now, the fact is, I need this to be finalized before I can investigate going back to school and applying for financial aid.
And I need to be able to go back to school in order to have any hope of being marketable on a nation wide job search.
And I need to get a decent job in order to get away from here.
And I need to get far away from here in order to wipe the slate clean; in order to disappear into the crowd without even looking back.
Today has been me, trying to reign in the horses. Trying to convince myself that sticking to the plan of staying in town for three more years and allowing the kids to graduate and me to finish my degree is the wisest decision. Trying to convince myself that living low to the earth, trying to pay off debt and bills, trying to stay focused and move forward is the way to go.
And then I listen to my daughter, blasting this from upstairs and all I want to do is find that crowd, far away from here, and disappear into it without even looking back.
It's been this list that's kept my head on straight. Whenever I stand back and look at the big picture, I collapse to my knees. I have to stay focused on the next goal, the next rung on the ladder.
Tuesday is another divorce hearing. As much as I am rolling my eyes at the stupidity of it all now, the fact is, I need this to be finalized before I can investigate going back to school and applying for financial aid.
And I need to be able to go back to school in order to have any hope of being marketable on a nation wide job search.
And I need to get a decent job in order to get away from here.
And I need to get far away from here in order to wipe the slate clean; in order to disappear into the crowd without even looking back.
Today has been me, trying to reign in the horses. Trying to convince myself that sticking to the plan of staying in town for three more years and allowing the kids to graduate and me to finish my degree is the wisest decision. Trying to convince myself that living low to the earth, trying to pay off debt and bills, trying to stay focused and move forward is the way to go.
And then I listen to my daughter, blasting this from upstairs and all I want to do is find that crowd, far away from here, and disappear into it without even looking back.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
The Power Of Art
My daughter, as I've said many times, is incredibly creative. (Hopefully she'll be heading to art school in a couple years.) She has been her own best therapist for a long time. When I look at her drawings, I am so incredibly amazed at what a strong person she is. We're living this nightmare together and I wouldn't know what to do if she wasn't by my side.
One of the comments that my son made awhile back was that he was repulsed to even be related to his father. His sister drew this for him (his chore around the house is to do laundry) and commented that "not all boys grow up to be their father."
Kill the lights by =mshizuko on deviantART
Carry your weight by =mshizuko on deviantART
Don't paint me agressive by =mshizuko on deviantART
Silver Crimes by =mshizuko on deviantART
The anxiety of by =mshizuko on deviantART
I will take the weight of the by =mshizuko on deviantART
Gestures by =mshizuko on deviantART
One of the comments that my son made awhile back was that he was repulsed to even be related to his father. His sister drew this for him (his chore around the house is to do laundry) and commented that "not all boys grow up to be their father."
Kill the lights by =mshizuko on deviantART
Carry your weight by =mshizuko on deviantART
Don't paint me agressive by =mshizuko on deviantART
Silver Crimes by =mshizuko on deviantART
The anxiety of by =mshizuko on deviantART
I will take the weight of the by =mshizuko on deviantART
Gestures by =mshizuko on deviantART
Friday, February 20, 2009
The Culture of Shame and Blame
It wasn't until a few weeks ago that I had a startling revelation.
As I've stated before, being the victim of sexual abuse myself and having a mother (actually the aunt that raised me) blame me for the abuse and not the perpetrator, made me know how I wanted to treat my daughter's situation. Exactly the opposite of how I had been treated.
The hardest part of my childhood experience was that my aunt was the person who took in other people. She was the one who tried to be supportive of other people when their lives hit the skids. People respected her. People didn't think she had a bad bone in her body.
So it took a long time for me to realize and admit that she was wrong. A child is never to blame for abuse. An adult is never innocent when they abuse a child. Sounds like a rather obvious statement, doesn't it? That simple truth was never spoken to me when I was nineteen and telling her that her boyfriend molested me when I was a kid. She called me a slut. Thus began a long decent into depression for me that encompassed her diagnosis with terminal cancer and eventual death. Even though I realized she was wrong before she died, I couldn't bring myself to go to her hospital room and lay out all the dirty laundry. Instead, I tried to commit suicide. It seemed like the easier way out of a shit load of pain. Thankfully, I was unsuccessful.
It wasn't until I was at a work meeting a few weeks ago and we began to discuss the whole culture of blaming victims and shaming people into thinking that they are wrong for things that were perpetrated against them that I had my entire life laid bare. For as long as I can remember, the shame/blame game (say that fast three times) has been the nexus of my life. Growing up, I was told that being seen naked by any man meant that you had lost your virginity. When I told my aunt that since I was delivered by a male obstetrician, I lost my virginity on the day I was born she was less than impressed by my humor.
I was actually a good kid growing up and I know that my aunt spoke highly of me to her friends but somewhere between the darkness and the light, there was a constant shadow of assumption on her part. I MUST be doing something wrong...I MUST be up to something...I MUST be a bad kid somehow.
This constant noise in the background of your mind makes you start believing the shame and blame. It makes you carry it through your life like a yoke around your neck.
Then you get into relationships and in retrospect, you realize that you have replayed the scenario for years. People that want to shame and blame others have a tendency to hook up with willing partners. I sat in the meeting at work and realized how I was the perfect spouse for my husband.
Ignore me.
Talk down to me.
Treat me like I'm stupid.
Be condecending to me.
Ignore your children until you decide to molest one of them.
Blame everyone for everything that you have ever done wrong.
I was just replaying the role that I knew so well.
When I told one of my relatives what had happened to my daughter her first question was
"And you didn't know this was going on???"
Her second question was
"Why didn't she ever tell you???"
This is me. Right here, right now. This is me saying "Enough".
The blame and shame stops here.
Perhaps the operative question should be, "How could anyone do this to a child?"
As I've stated before, being the victim of sexual abuse myself and having a mother (actually the aunt that raised me) blame me for the abuse and not the perpetrator, made me know how I wanted to treat my daughter's situation. Exactly the opposite of how I had been treated.
The hardest part of my childhood experience was that my aunt was the person who took in other people. She was the one who tried to be supportive of other people when their lives hit the skids. People respected her. People didn't think she had a bad bone in her body.
So it took a long time for me to realize and admit that she was wrong. A child is never to blame for abuse. An adult is never innocent when they abuse a child. Sounds like a rather obvious statement, doesn't it? That simple truth was never spoken to me when I was nineteen and telling her that her boyfriend molested me when I was a kid. She called me a slut. Thus began a long decent into depression for me that encompassed her diagnosis with terminal cancer and eventual death. Even though I realized she was wrong before she died, I couldn't bring myself to go to her hospital room and lay out all the dirty laundry. Instead, I tried to commit suicide. It seemed like the easier way out of a shit load of pain. Thankfully, I was unsuccessful.
It wasn't until I was at a work meeting a few weeks ago and we began to discuss the whole culture of blaming victims and shaming people into thinking that they are wrong for things that were perpetrated against them that I had my entire life laid bare. For as long as I can remember, the shame/blame game (say that fast three times) has been the nexus of my life. Growing up, I was told that being seen naked by any man meant that you had lost your virginity. When I told my aunt that since I was delivered by a male obstetrician, I lost my virginity on the day I was born she was less than impressed by my humor.
I was actually a good kid growing up and I know that my aunt spoke highly of me to her friends but somewhere between the darkness and the light, there was a constant shadow of assumption on her part. I MUST be doing something wrong...I MUST be up to something...I MUST be a bad kid somehow.
This constant noise in the background of your mind makes you start believing the shame and blame. It makes you carry it through your life like a yoke around your neck.
Then you get into relationships and in retrospect, you realize that you have replayed the scenario for years. People that want to shame and blame others have a tendency to hook up with willing partners. I sat in the meeting at work and realized how I was the perfect spouse for my husband.
Ignore me.
Talk down to me.
Treat me like I'm stupid.
Be condecending to me.
Ignore your children until you decide to molest one of them.
Blame everyone for everything that you have ever done wrong.
I was just replaying the role that I knew so well.
When I told one of my relatives what had happened to my daughter her first question was
"And you didn't know this was going on???"
Her second question was
"Why didn't she ever tell you???"
This is me. Right here, right now. This is me saying "Enough".
The blame and shame stops here.
Perhaps the operative question should be, "How could anyone do this to a child?"
Monday, February 02, 2009
Kate Winslett, Eat Your Heart Out
Once again, let me state, I have wonderful friends!
There, just had to make sure I said that up front.
This weekend was an odd mix of being sick with a rotten cold and my attempts to deny it. I've been wanting to start a training program for newbie runners but when it's cold I use that as an excuse to stay in the house and work out on my glider. I was hoping that the warmer weather this weekend would inspire me to get started but then I woke up with fifty pounds of snot in my head.
I also had public rink time written down for the Heritage Center indoor ice rink and I figured I would do a little ice skating there.
I can sense that spring is coming and I'm getting antsy.
Instead of all of the above, I woke up Sunday morning and read on Perfect Duluth Day that there was access to skating on Lake Superior and at 7 am I was gone. Ice conditions were better than at Portman Rec Center and I think the City of Duluth should hire Mother Nature as their ice tender.
All I can say is that skating against the headwind toward the lift bridge for awhile and then flipping around, holding out your arms like a sail, and letting the wind propel you on a crazy assed nature ride was a blast. It was also therapeutic, at this precise moment, to scream my soon-to-be-ex-husband's name followed by a wooping "FUCK YOU!"
I'm gonna bet that the ice fisherman were entertained as well.
There, just had to make sure I said that up front.
This weekend was an odd mix of being sick with a rotten cold and my attempts to deny it. I've been wanting to start a training program for newbie runners but when it's cold I use that as an excuse to stay in the house and work out on my glider. I was hoping that the warmer weather this weekend would inspire me to get started but then I woke up with fifty pounds of snot in my head.
I also had public rink time written down for the Heritage Center indoor ice rink and I figured I would do a little ice skating there.
I can sense that spring is coming and I'm getting antsy.
Instead of all of the above, I woke up Sunday morning and read on Perfect Duluth Day that there was access to skating on Lake Superior and at 7 am I was gone. Ice conditions were better than at Portman Rec Center and I think the City of Duluth should hire Mother Nature as their ice tender.
All I can say is that skating against the headwind toward the lift bridge for awhile and then flipping around, holding out your arms like a sail, and letting the wind propel you on a crazy assed nature ride was a blast. It was also therapeutic, at this precise moment, to scream my soon-to-be-ex-husband's name followed by a wooping "FUCK YOU!"
I'm gonna bet that the ice fisherman were entertained as well.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
My Perfect Duluth Day
Yesterday was a very intentional day for me.
I wanted to have a day in which I realized all the things that were comforting/good for me and then proceed to do them.
I started off the day in my new recliner swathed in comfy blankets and Corgis, reading my go-to literature choice in times of trial: Polar expeditions gone HORRIBLY HORRIBLY WRONG. Nothing like cannabilism to put your problems in the proper perspective.
I then proceeded to my ongoing project of remodeling our dining room. I'm going to guess that a lot of home/DIY projects happen after a marriage splits up. I've lived inside a home of unfinished construction projects for years now. This house has always represented for me the inside of my soon-to-be-ex-husband's mind: everything in disarray and clutter, full of ugliness, and negativity. Just tearing the carpet up was an act of defiance. The wallpaper coming down has been more representational of this whole rotten process, it takes a lot of hard work, visioning, and filthy, filthy swear words.
I then proceeded to pull out my new favorite toy. A random orbital sander! The wooden floors beneath the horrible carpet are also horrible and although I don't have the money for a new floor, I did have the money for a random orbital sander. I wasn't sure if I could make it look good but the one patch that I practiced on now looks KICK ASS. It's about 2' x 2' and it took quite a bit of time but at least now I realize all I really need is elbow grease and time. I also went to Home Depot and salivated over the different colors of varnish and paint. Is it entirely healthy to pick up "antique walnut" varnish and actually gasp out loud at the possibilities?
After this, I proceeded to get a chiropractic alignment and then a massage. I've only had one massage before this and it was by a guy and it was a little intimidating. This massage was from a female and it was very nice. I sincerely made an effort to relax and concentrate on all the negative self blame bullcrap that I've been beating myself up with. I'm sure there are psychologists out there somewhere in the world that do talk therapy while their clients are getting a massage, because if there aren't I really need to fire off a letter to the American Psychological Association. Patent Pending...ME.
I had intended on ending my day with a full moon yoga class in the evening but after I got home from the massage, I decided that the best thing for me would be to park my butt in my recliner and end the day as I had begun it.
Today will consist of ferreting through the tools in the garage to bring some sort of semblance to what is out there. The garage is also like my soon-to-be-ex-husband's mind: all the nice things are discarded on the floor to rust and waste away.
Well, we can't have THAT anymore now, can we?
I wanted to have a day in which I realized all the things that were comforting/good for me and then proceed to do them.
I started off the day in my new recliner swathed in comfy blankets and Corgis, reading my go-to literature choice in times of trial: Polar expeditions gone HORRIBLY HORRIBLY WRONG. Nothing like cannabilism to put your problems in the proper perspective.
I then proceeded to my ongoing project of remodeling our dining room. I'm going to guess that a lot of home/DIY projects happen after a marriage splits up. I've lived inside a home of unfinished construction projects for years now. This house has always represented for me the inside of my soon-to-be-ex-husband's mind: everything in disarray and clutter, full of ugliness, and negativity. Just tearing the carpet up was an act of defiance. The wallpaper coming down has been more representational of this whole rotten process, it takes a lot of hard work, visioning, and filthy, filthy swear words.
I then proceeded to pull out my new favorite toy. A random orbital sander! The wooden floors beneath the horrible carpet are also horrible and although I don't have the money for a new floor, I did have the money for a random orbital sander. I wasn't sure if I could make it look good but the one patch that I practiced on now looks KICK ASS. It's about 2' x 2' and it took quite a bit of time but at least now I realize all I really need is elbow grease and time. I also went to Home Depot and salivated over the different colors of varnish and paint. Is it entirely healthy to pick up "antique walnut" varnish and actually gasp out loud at the possibilities?
After this, I proceeded to get a chiropractic alignment and then a massage. I've only had one massage before this and it was by a guy and it was a little intimidating. This massage was from a female and it was very nice. I sincerely made an effort to relax and concentrate on all the negative self blame bullcrap that I've been beating myself up with. I'm sure there are psychologists out there somewhere in the world that do talk therapy while their clients are getting a massage, because if there aren't I really need to fire off a letter to the American Psychological Association. Patent Pending...ME.
I had intended on ending my day with a full moon yoga class in the evening but after I got home from the massage, I decided that the best thing for me would be to park my butt in my recliner and end the day as I had begun it.
Today will consist of ferreting through the tools in the garage to bring some sort of semblance to what is out there. The garage is also like my soon-to-be-ex-husband's mind: all the nice things are discarded on the floor to rust and waste away.
Well, we can't have THAT anymore now, can we?
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