Musings

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.

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.

  

Grey

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.

Daddy

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.  

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.

Confusion

For some reason my depression is slowly creeping back on me.  My bipolar feels as if it's turning into tripolar and there's nothing I can do about it.  All I want to do is cry, which takes an enormous amount of strength NOT to do.
In fact, a few days back, I locked myself in my room for three hours.  I just couldn't take life.  I was in no place to make decisions or to deal with reality.  I didn't do anything to hurt myself, nor was I tempted to do so, I simply didn't want to get out of bed.
I've actually been thinking about using.  I realize what that would mean to my life, and understand that I would never do that, but to be honest, it is creeping in my mind more and more often lately.  Sometimes it comes from nowhere and literally takes my breath.  All I ask myself is "Why?"  After all these years of being clean & sober, why would I have these thoughts.  And I can't very well share these feelings with anyone except my therapist, but I haven't seen her in over 2 weeks since she went out of town. What to do?  I know I have no way to get anything, but the thoughts of how "good" using sometimes was, I'm romanticizing the entire situation.  I feel like I'm on a see saw with the using and my my depression wrapped into one.
I'm trying so hard to fight them both & I swear I'd rather be manic than feel this way.  But being manic scares  me because whose to say that if I were, would I actually use?
I feel like I'm going crazy and not strong enough to fight thru this anymore.

The Fighter

So I haven't written in forever, sue the fuck out of me.  Excuse me while I  had my nervous breakdown and meltdown. 

Did I finally break after holding on for so long? Was every bit of strength sucked from my body and soul, leaving me limp, cold, and broken on the concrete. 

Yes.

Did I start to cut again, despite therapy and a head doc?  Did I reach out to my husband trying to explain that I was internally combusting?  That I had nothing left to give and that sweet death seemed like an alternative that to live one more useless day?

Yes. 

Was I nearly hospitalized?  Did everyone find out my dirty little secret of cutting and self injury?  Were there warning signs that no one could recognize despite that fact that I was standing in the street screaming them? 

Yes.

Did I become so manic that I just simply up and quit school despite being so close to being done?

Yes.

Have I felt like drowning without a light to guide me home?

Yes.

Have I felt alone and charred like a doll that someone left to melt in a house fire?

Yes. 

I felt as if I had burnt all my bridges, barricaded myself in a room behind sand bands, ready to fight not others, but the internal battle within.  A fight I felt that was no longer even worth fighting. 

Did I feel suicidal? 

No. 

Did I need to be helped, held, rocked until the windstorm of my bipolar passed me over as I lay cowering in it's midst?

Yes. 

Did that happen for me?

No. 

So here I sit, months after battling thru a personal hell of believing myself crazy.  Much better but only because I've worked my ass off getting to be better.  Well, at least better than I was before I totally melted in the middle of a lone winter.  I have attempted to carry on the best I know how to be a good mother in the middle of all this, and no one would have known it at all.  My husband failed me at every turn, whether it's his lack of understanding what is the matter with me or he just doesn't care. Truth be know, I believe it's both.  Do I feel like an embarrassment to him for being the way that I am?

Yes.

Do I really care?

No.