Monday, November 25, 2013

The Way It Is.

I asked myself a question yesterday.  Why am I so mean to myself? Why do I put myself down so much, despite coming so far from where I've fallen?  It really makes no sense that I have such a sense of self loathing, & I can only contribute it to being raped as a child and as a grown woman.  Right?

Maybe it's because I was a low down junkie for so long that lost a career, a marriage, the respect of my peers & family that causes me to curse myself.  Hmm. Maybe? Right?

Perhaps it's the household of hell I grew up in.  The constant fighting.  The way my mother would hold my father at gun point while I hid under my bed in tears, hoping not to get shot.  The emotional abuse she directed at me my entire life (And still does to a certain extent.).

Could it be the accident that took away the one good thing I had when I had nothing else to hold onto during those terrible years?  The love of one young man that still occasionally haunts my dreams?  The one who went from love in his eyes to his brains in my hair?  Probably.

All I know is that I abuse myself.  I weigh myself down with the entire world when I only have two hands.  I'm a piece of shit.  I'm not good enough for the great kids and husband that I have now.  That one day I'll relapse and end up dead or in jail.  That I had such a bipolar mania I just quit school one day & have regretted it ever sense.  These are the things that are stuck in between my ears and won't shut off.

Granted, I know that I have Bipolar and racing thoughts are all over that diagnosis, but I'm a garbage can of medicine.  Shouldn't that be helping me?  Shouldn't the weekly therapy I go to be helping me?  Isn't sitting in my therapists office bawling my eyes off BE helping?  Because it isn't.

I don't feel good enough.  I feel like a piece of shit and I feel worthless.

I guess the why's don't even matter.

Tuesday, June 11, 2013


At the lowest of my lows, I've always been able to have gratitude.  Gratitude that I have my health, well physical health anyway.  That the kids are healthy and not on drugs and haven't ever given me any trouble.
I've always thought that as long as I know everybody hurts, then I can hold on.  To a string.  Dental floss, what the fucking ever.  Always with the knowledge of what I could have. Or could be without.

Even with that being said,  being on the lowest of the low still feels like someone is grating my atrium with a fork.  Everything hurts.  Aches.  Crying doesn't help and why would it.  What does crying help? Never anything with this girl.  I just don't get it.

I can't relax.  I'm wound tight like a drum ready to burst.  I won't hide out, because it's not what I'm made of.  I'm more to show my pain inside my sleeve.  I don't want you to know.  Don't look.  Don't see.  I look the same down here in the gutter, but I'm too far down for you to reach down and help me.  So what to do?  What to do?

I have anger in the roots of my being.  They run deep, twisted and miles long.  Thick ropes that have been made for the past 42 years.  So how can they ever let me go? No matter how many times I fake a smile or act like a normal human being, being tied to the choking roots that own me, I attempt to find a way to dig my way out.  Start with an idea, fake it til I make it.  It works for awhile.  Awhile.

It's almost easy.

Thursday, March 21, 2013


I've been thinking about something.  Pondering, really.   Have the lives we've led made our children proud?  Or do they have to make excuses for mommy and daddy, because daddy is passed out on the couch and mommy is pilled up cooking in the kitchen.  Oh, for those happy pills.

I don't for one second know that our actions as parents imprint on our children's lives forever.  It shapes and molds them.  I also think that the biggest role model for a child is their same sex parent.  So, does that mean I've done deep damage by the choices I've made in my person life for my daughter?  I never said I was a perfect mother, but I think I've done pretty well holding her together considering she's a one parent child.  Will my being married to her abusive father affect her despite the fact I left him when she was a baby?  What did it do to her that I had a child out of wedlock without the father around for 12 years of her brothers life?

What about the fact that I was married for nearly 10 years to a man who didn't love her, never showed her affection, and never hid the fact?  No matter how much I stepped up to protect her from that behavior, she KNEW the reality of it all and I know it had to hurt her.  How many rings of hell will I endure for that one?

Then, what about the face that I left that man to be with my present husband?  The long lost father of my son, the one born out of wedlock that never came around or did shit for us.  Whether I've begun to wonder if that was a good idea or not, what did it SHOW her about being a woman?  One to live a life for herself, not others?

My therapist applauds my attempts at motherhood for all three of my children.  She says that I sacrificed my own happiness in order for my kids to be happy.  Is that really true?  Because I have my doubts.

When it was just me and my daughter I made an unspoken vow to her that I would make her proud of me.  I'd go back to college and become something.  To show her that it was possible to get out of an abusive relationship and be a better woman for it.  To be strong and empowered.  Seems know that vow blew away in the wind.

I want my daughter to have self confidence, be strong, and have the balls to stand up for herself.  Did I make that baby girl into that?  Did I do a good job? Or did I fail her miserably?

I guess only time will tell.

Wednesday, March 06, 2013

March still sucks

Yeah, I know it will always come around.  And as long as I live, I'll have to live with it.  But I still hate March.  Yeah, it's a month that drags on until the anniversary day, and I have to be reminded (re live) the night of the accident, but it's time to let go.  Hmmm.  Yeah. Right.

I'm almost at a point in my life that I think my sadness and bone crushing depression is something that infiltrated my psyche long before the accident.  Fuck, I was a walking case of teenage angst.  A depressed cutter.  Molested.  Dysfunctional parents unlike any I've ever heard of.  The only bright spot in my life was a set of green eyes that saw past all that fucking shit and saw who I really was.  Who I might have been.  

I'm really, really, REALLY working on all this shit.  For two years now I sit and talk these traumas out.  You know they say if you talk about bad things it makes them better, and while the thought is a bit Polly Anna for me, it has begun to finally work with me.  SOME of the time. 

One thing that I cannot, nor will I ever be able to, is to explain the ingrained, body trashing pain that I go thru over Greg's death.  God, there was no end to what we dreamed.  Nothing but death, which to a 17 year old, already twisted thru no fault of her own, was a mystery.  And so it remains.  

This entire month is long for me, but short even in it's longest days.  Like my life with Greg.  I could say that he's like the other bad things that happened to me.  But there are days when I'd rather be molested again at 11 than go thru this kind of fucking shit I have to live with.  Other times I just wish  I'd have never met him and let me have gone thru hell as a teenager all on my own.  

He knew all those deepest secrets of mine.  Those darkest places that the light never saw.  He knew, and protected me from myself.  I never cut again once he found out.  I never used once he found out.  I never loved until I found out what he showed me love was.  Hell, I didn't even love myself.

And now, after all these years, I'm finally learning how to love myself.


Friday, January 25, 2013


Well, I've fallen back in the hole again.  I knew it would come one way or the other, or maybe I just live in a state of depression that will never go away.  This has nothing to do with recovery.  It's all about the bipolar and how far I can crash and how fast I can hit bottom.

Sometimes I wish I could be manic more.  Live in the moment. Go crazy.  Live like there's no tomorrow.  But no, it's got to be depression.  Life crippling, don't raise my head depression.

Wed. my therapist said she saw it coming.  She said I was already depressed but had so much anger that I couldn't see it yet.  Well, now I do see it.  In technicolor, vibrant colors.  But as soon as they shine, they turn a deep grey.

How did I ever live like this before treatment?  By numbing myself with drugs and alcohol I suppose.  No, it's true.  I hid feelings that I didn't know existed by being an addict.  An out of control addict.  And I thought I was my own hero.  Depression kills my hero, takes it away and I watch it go.

How I can even fall into this hole is beyond.  I take enough medicine to kill a horse to keep from falling into pits of depression, yet it still occurs.  I'm so out of it that I've told myself I can quit all my meds and be fine.  WHAT?  Who tells themselves that shit?  Well, I suppose an out of control freak.  Actually, that goes along with mania, not depression, but I haven't had any mania in weeks.  God, I miss it.

Pardon the politically incorrect comment, but I feel like a retard girl.  Which was is up?  Down?  I feel cross eyed.  Ugly.  A time consuming bomb of unspoken emotion.  I feel like I walk funny, and can't speak normally.  I can't quit with the pointless crying.  I'd like to keen into a pillow and stay in bed for weeks.  But I'm a mother and must trudge along.   I have to be responsible for lives more important than my own.

But still be a retard girl.

Thursday, January 17, 2013


As y'all know I've got nothing to zero with my father.  Our relationship, if you wanna call it that, is and has been a joke.  I said on Twitter the other day that he deleted and blocked our relationship 25 years, so my hurt has somewhat has healed since then.  But only a little bit.

Now, what our relationship consists of is a rare 5 minute phone call about stupid and pointless bullshit.  
Fucked up, eh?

Well, this Christmas I decided not to call him.  I didn't send out anyone Christmas cards,and didn't buy him a special one either.  I also didn't call him New Years.  So now, (since he does speak to my mother: WEIRD) I'm a terrible person and an awful child.  Like he was a stellar father. 

Strange this is this, I don't even feel guilty about it.  Maybe that means I shouldn't feel guilty about it.  Maybe the relationship is so far beyond repair from all these years of neglect that it's ended.  

Who knows?

Don't get me wrong.  I love the man.  I wish  he had been a better father to me, but he wasn't.  He is who he is, and will never change, no matter how hard I wish he had.  I know that the next time I see the man is when he's in his coffin.  The idea hurts me, but I've accepted it.  For he already feels dead to me as it is.  

I love you and miss the father I wanted him to be.  I miss the man that I wish he could have been, but he made his choices a long time ago, and there's no going back now.  

There's no going back now.  

Monday, December 31, 2012

Happy Fuck Year

Let me be lighter,
I'm tired of being a fighter.
Could you beam me up?-Pink

Another year.  Another time for me to let out a collective sigh and to continue moving on.

I've been stuck in a bipolar hell for about two weeks now, and we all know that when that happens I get stuck in the accident and the loss of Greg.  I've got to say that it all gets so old, but I just can't NOT do it.  I just wish this was some sort of thing that I can make the hurt go away.  But I feel like I'm screaming under water.

I'm glad that I've resisted the urges to do things to harm myself.  It's not to say that it's easy, I just want the pain to go away.

Not a pill, or self harm will help me.  This is a step forward. But for him, I'll find a way to keep him alive some day.