There are as many answers to that question as people who are asked. For me, defining it has always been difficult. For me, the very word "family" has often been enough to trigger feelings of dread. When I was a child, "family" meant me, my mother, my father, and my grandparents on my mother's side. I knew that, at least in principle, I had other family members, like my father's relatives, uncles, cousins, great aunts. But we didn't talk to those people. I was discouraged from associating with my father's side of the family, and other branches of my mother's side of the family.
One Christmas, my great aunt, cousins, niece and nephew came to visit. There was a terrible argument that involved yelling, objects being hurled through the air and words I had never heard before. I wandered out of the house and walked the field, pretending I was somewhere else. When I came back, they were gone, and that was the last I ever saw of any of them. I remember I even had to give back all the presents they had brought for me. What the hell happened that day? The only person left alive I could ask is my mother, and she'd probably suspect I was spying on her for them if I asked. (I wish that was hyperbole.)
There are times when I wonder about the family that was disowned. Were they really bad people, or just people my mother and grandparents didn't get along with? They were still blood. Might I have found some measure of kinship with them, had I been allowed to? Who were they? I'll never know, because the war that began that day permanently severed any ties I might have had with them. Apparently, I had a gay uncle. My third cousin (whom I had an unholy crush on at the age of 14, when I met him at my great grandmother's funeral) is also gay. They are living their lives somewhere I cannot go, and it isn't worth the effort now to find them.
My own family, those I am related to by blood, have been the cause of little else but pain, so I often sought comfort with others' families. My best (and only) friend in elementary school lived across the street from me, and I liked spending time with her, her siblings and her parents. It seemed to me that they had a "real" family, while mine was ... not real. I must have been adopted, I thought. My parents obviously didn't love each other, but my friend Sheri's family was different. Her parents were loving and warm, and they treated all the neighbourhood kids like they were their own. The family went on trips together, supported each other, and didn't judge others for not being just like them. I know there were arguments. I know there were problems. But there was no problem big enough to tear them apart.
My parents didn't like me hanging around them. They told me they were a bad influence, because they were Mormons. Well, they never tried to convert me. All they did was treat me like I wanted to be treated. Was that so bad? To my mother's relief, they moved away when I was in 6th grade.... or was it 7th? I forget. Anyway, that was that.
Flash forward to the end of my parents' marriage. I'm 17 years old. I have found one person who does not treat me badly, and actually reached out to me because he was afraid I might commit suicide. He lived down the street. Brian and I dated for six years, which is a huge chunk of your life when you're only 22. I'm not going to go into my tumultuous relationship with him, but I want to explain the reason why his family was both wonderful and terrible for me. You see, his mother loved me dearly. She took me in as one of her own and tried to undo some of the damage my real parents had done. She tried to make me feel at ease. I had a very hard time trusting her, despite how warm and wonderful she was to me.
The rest of Brian's family didn't like me. His sister and brother-in-law didn't appreciate my living there without paying rent, and they had a toddler with autism, which further put stress on the entire family. Brian's father was a selfish, ill-tempered alcoholic. I was already suffering the symptoms of complex PTSD, unmedicated, and their behaviour triggered alternating bouts of hiding in Brian's room and emotionally violent outbursts over the tiniest things. I feel awful about what I put that family through. At the time, though, it just felt like more rejection. And when Brian's mother died, just when I was beginning to trust her, I thought, "Well, that's typical."
And now, here I am. I am a member, by marriage, of Matt's family. His parents and grandparents have shown me nothing but kindness, but I still harbour a fear that, somehow, they will find out who and what I really am, and try to stand in the way of me and Matt. It's a ridiculous fear with no basis in reality, at least, not their reality. For me, though, there will always be a sense of waiting for the other shoe to drop. I don't have much experience that supports any other scenario. Most of my friends come from broken, abusive or non-existent families. (Except Sheri, who now lives in Florida and has her own.) I don't want to sabotage myself, but I still cling to this need to have a backup plan. I still cannot fully relax.
I want to have the warm, fuzzy feelings other people have when they say that word and think of the memories surrounding it. Yet, there is a part of me that still wants to hide away. I do not know if I will ever feel as close to blood and by-marriage relatives as I am "supposed" to. I would just like "family" not to be a dirty word for me any more, because it isn't fair to me or ... my family, whomever they are.
Tuesday, May 28, 2013
Wednesday, May 22, 2013
Compliments, and how to take them
After my entry yesterday, in which I talked about how damaging the labels applied to me in my youth have been, I decided to focus this entry on compliments. Compliments and reassuring statements are something I crave more than I like to admit. In a culture of confusing messages about self-esteem and the value of humility, it is often easy to dismiss compliments as worthless. "She's just saying that." "He's just being nice." For someone like me, though, I think it's important not to dismiss anything that may be validating. If I can internalise negative statements, I should be able to also internalise positive statements, and allow them to start to re-write the programming that keeps me from reaching my full potential. More often than not, though, I find some reason to refute compliments given to me. I want to try to stop that automatic response and replace it with something more productive.
So let's start with things my husband says to me.
"Hello, beautiful."
He says it almost every time he comes home from work. My brain says, "Well, of course he's going to say that. I'm his wife. He's kind of required to tell me that." Instead, why not just take his sincerity as a gift?
"You look great!"
My usual response is, "Um ... o kaaay..." Why should he think I look "great"? My brain says, "What does that even mean? I feel disgusting. He's obviously blind." Instead, why not feel reassured that I don't look as bad as I feel?
"You're an awesome wife."
My brain says, "Yeah, whatever. If I were an awesome wife, I would (blah blah blah) and not (blah blah blah.) Instead, why not just accept the fact that I'm awesome, if not in my own eyes, in his?
I have come to understand that refuting compliments isn't an act of humility. It's a form of whining. It's a kind of begging for more reassurance. And when I fish for it, the stuff I catch isn't as sincere and lovely as the initial, spontaneous statement of approval. I am asking the other person to justify their opinion. I am not only putting myself down, but invalidating the person's opinion who complimented me.
Some compliments I have recently received:
"You have a larger-than-life presence when you walk into a room."
"You have beautiful hair."
"I love the way you role-play that character."
"I always look forward to reading your journal entries."
"You're amazing. I can't believe how comfortable I am talking to you."
"You're the beautiful kind of crazy. Never change."
"You are one of the most fascinating people I have ever met."
"You are regal."
"You have a beautiful speaking voice."
"You might be chaos incarnate, but I wouldn't have you any other way."
I get these compliments, spontaneously, and they bewilder me. I do my best to accept them graciously, sometimes with a slightly-exaggerated air of confidence. "I know," I joke, or sometimes I smile and blush, or counter with a compliment to the other person. Inside, though, I'm freaking out. "Really? They really think that about me? That's totally awesome, but really bizarre!" On rare occasions, I am able to take the affirmation in stride, and say to myself, "Good. That is what I am trying to cultivate in myself, and I'm glad it is manifesting on the outside where people can see it." But I am still having a hard time with it. Growing up, such compliments from my peers were usually meant sarcastically. It has taken me a very long time not to assume the worst of anyone who would compliment me.
I think I've come a long way, but I still have a ways to go in terms of truly loving and respecting myself. My spirituality has done a lot in terms of freeing me from my self-made prison of shame and doubt. Slowly but surely, the bindings are coming free. My light is shining brighter, and I am beginning to realise some of my potential. I still have a deep need for respect from others, and it is difficult for me not to see this as a weakness, but I am learning that the more I respect myself, the more others will respect me.
So let's start with things my husband says to me.
"Hello, beautiful."
He says it almost every time he comes home from work. My brain says, "Well, of course he's going to say that. I'm his wife. He's kind of required to tell me that." Instead, why not just take his sincerity as a gift?
"You look great!"
My usual response is, "Um ... o kaaay..." Why should he think I look "great"? My brain says, "What does that even mean? I feel disgusting. He's obviously blind." Instead, why not feel reassured that I don't look as bad as I feel?
"You're an awesome wife."
My brain says, "Yeah, whatever. If I were an awesome wife, I would (blah blah blah) and not (blah blah blah.) Instead, why not just accept the fact that I'm awesome, if not in my own eyes, in his?
I have come to understand that refuting compliments isn't an act of humility. It's a form of whining. It's a kind of begging for more reassurance. And when I fish for it, the stuff I catch isn't as sincere and lovely as the initial, spontaneous statement of approval. I am asking the other person to justify their opinion. I am not only putting myself down, but invalidating the person's opinion who complimented me.
Some compliments I have recently received:
"You have a larger-than-life presence when you walk into a room."
"You have beautiful hair."
"I love the way you role-play that character."
"I always look forward to reading your journal entries."
"You're amazing. I can't believe how comfortable I am talking to you."
"You're the beautiful kind of crazy. Never change."
"You are one of the most fascinating people I have ever met."
"You are regal."
"You have a beautiful speaking voice."
"You might be chaos incarnate, but I wouldn't have you any other way."
I get these compliments, spontaneously, and they bewilder me. I do my best to accept them graciously, sometimes with a slightly-exaggerated air of confidence. "I know," I joke, or sometimes I smile and blush, or counter with a compliment to the other person. Inside, though, I'm freaking out. "Really? They really think that about me? That's totally awesome, but really bizarre!" On rare occasions, I am able to take the affirmation in stride, and say to myself, "Good. That is what I am trying to cultivate in myself, and I'm glad it is manifesting on the outside where people can see it." But I am still having a hard time with it. Growing up, such compliments from my peers were usually meant sarcastically. It has taken me a very long time not to assume the worst of anyone who would compliment me.
I think I've come a long way, but I still have a ways to go in terms of truly loving and respecting myself. My spirituality has done a lot in terms of freeing me from my self-made prison of shame and doubt. Slowly but surely, the bindings are coming free. My light is shining brighter, and I am beginning to realise some of my potential. I still have a deep need for respect from others, and it is difficult for me not to see this as a weakness, but I am learning that the more I respect myself, the more others will respect me.
Tuesday, May 21, 2013
Crumbs.
I had this stupid nightmare the other night about my grandmother. I think I was a little kid in the dream. I was spending the night there, as I often did, especially in the summer when school was out. I was eating cookies in bed, in the middle of the night. My grandmother came in and screamed at me. She told me that I could not be trusted not to destroy things. She actually pulled the bed out of the room and hid it from me, and made me sleep on an uncomfortable cot instead. I appealed to my mother for help, but she agreed with my grandmother. Apparently, getting crumbs on a bed was tantamount to being "destructive," and I deserved to be punished for it. I yelled back at them that it wasn't fair, and that I wasn't doing anything wrong. It upset my grandmother so much that she got sick. The next day, she died. I felt guilty because I had obviously caused my grandmother's death, and screaming back at her hadn't helped.
None of these events actually happened, but I feel that this dream is an allegory for things that did happen to me. When I was a child, it felt like even the smallest transgression was cause for great alarm. They reacted severely to things like my breaking a toy, losing some possession at school, or even leaving something my parents considered valuable on the floor. My mistakes weren't kid stuff. They were seen as carefully calculated acts of rebellion meant to disrespect or hurt my elders.
Sometimes, I did do things out of spite. Or... was it spite? I don't know. I remember breaking the ears off one of my grandmother's little pig figurines, just because I could. I remember hearing my grandmother telling my mother (when she didn't think I could hear) that "there's something wrong with her. She just seems to destroy everything she touches. I don't know what to do with her!"
I didn't do things like that often, but every once in awhile, I would have the urge to break something. Or hurt something. Around the age I was when I broke the figurine, about nine or so, I also delighted in torturing toads. Again, I did not know why I was doing it. I would pinch them and pull their legs to see if they would make some kind of sound of pain. Sometimes I even pulled their toes right off. I would open their mouths and put rocks down their throats to see what would happen. I always released them, eventually, knowing they'd probably die or be caught by something that would eat them. I didn't feel the slightest guilt.
Yeah, there was something wrong there. Why did I want to make things hurt? Why did it give me satisfaction? It was because I was destructive. My parents said so; therefore, it must be true. I grew out of torturing animals, thankfully, when I began to develop a deeper sense of empathy for the life around me. I did not stop destroying things, though. In secret, I would burn things. Just little things, like leaves or paper. Make something into nothing. It was there, and then it wasn't, and I was the cause. Maybe I could even make my father go away, or my mother. It was just a thought, though. It never got any further than that. The implications scared me. I did, however, fantasize about being an orphan. In my nine-year-old mind, starting over in another house with different parents seemed ideal... as long as I could take my cats with me.
I am truly amazed that I did not end up either an arsonist or a serial killer. What stopped me? I mean, I know I'm not neurotypical. I accept that, even embrace it. What kept me from becoming the monster I could have been?
The monster, the predator, the cold and calculated part of me resurfaced a few years ago when a combination of triggers and a bad reaction to medication led me to take the life of my own pet rat. I realise now that the relationship I was in at the time made me feel powerless and inferior, just the way I felt when I was little. Left alone for several days, I regressed. I was watching a cartoon when I killed her. It was just something to do, like I was playing with one of my toys. I even lied at first, to cover up what I'd done, the way I would have as a child. I snapped out of it, though, and checked myself into a mental hospital. The relationship ended shortly after. I didn't realise it then, but that was the best thing that could have happened.
Kids, more than adults, internalise things their parents say about them. It's one thing for dad to be upset that little Billy broke the toy truck that cost three hours of overtime. It's another thing for dad to take it personally, and label little Billy as destructive or "a menace." A kid takes those labels seriously. If your parents say that you are or aren't something, you don't have any reason to believe it isn't true. You take it to heart. You start to become what they say. As a kid, you just don't know any better.
I am lazy.
I am clumsy.
I am a scatterbrain.
I am damaged.
I am strange.
I am destructive.
I am a menace.
That's not to say that my parents didn't compliment me at times. They told me I was gifted. Bright. Intelligent. They couldn't understand why I was such an underachiever, why I chose to disappoint them so much. I remember my father telling my mother, "We better have another kid quick, because there's something wrong with this one." It wasn't a joke. He was referring to something I had said, or written. I don't remember what. I just know that he was serious.
What has kept me from collapsing under the weight of all of these labels and expectations, both negative and positive? What has kept me from continuing the destructive patterns that, in many non-neurotypical individuals, lead to becoming an abuser, an addict, even a murderer? Sheer force of will, perhaps. A need to survive and adapt, and the self-awareness to understand that in order to survive, I could not loose that monster.
Whatever has confounded every factor that might have made me a headline on the evening news, I am thankful for it. I thank my gods, I thank myself. I thank the people in my life who can see the beauty in me, especially those who have glimpsed my darkness and accept me even so, and do not judge me for crumbs in my bedsheets.
None of these events actually happened, but I feel that this dream is an allegory for things that did happen to me. When I was a child, it felt like even the smallest transgression was cause for great alarm. They reacted severely to things like my breaking a toy, losing some possession at school, or even leaving something my parents considered valuable on the floor. My mistakes weren't kid stuff. They were seen as carefully calculated acts of rebellion meant to disrespect or hurt my elders.
Sometimes, I did do things out of spite. Or... was it spite? I don't know. I remember breaking the ears off one of my grandmother's little pig figurines, just because I could. I remember hearing my grandmother telling my mother (when she didn't think I could hear) that "there's something wrong with her. She just seems to destroy everything she touches. I don't know what to do with her!"
I didn't do things like that often, but every once in awhile, I would have the urge to break something. Or hurt something. Around the age I was when I broke the figurine, about nine or so, I also delighted in torturing toads. Again, I did not know why I was doing it. I would pinch them and pull their legs to see if they would make some kind of sound of pain. Sometimes I even pulled their toes right off. I would open their mouths and put rocks down their throats to see what would happen. I always released them, eventually, knowing they'd probably die or be caught by something that would eat them. I didn't feel the slightest guilt.
Yeah, there was something wrong there. Why did I want to make things hurt? Why did it give me satisfaction? It was because I was destructive. My parents said so; therefore, it must be true. I grew out of torturing animals, thankfully, when I began to develop a deeper sense of empathy for the life around me. I did not stop destroying things, though. In secret, I would burn things. Just little things, like leaves or paper. Make something into nothing. It was there, and then it wasn't, and I was the cause. Maybe I could even make my father go away, or my mother. It was just a thought, though. It never got any further than that. The implications scared me. I did, however, fantasize about being an orphan. In my nine-year-old mind, starting over in another house with different parents seemed ideal... as long as I could take my cats with me.
I am truly amazed that I did not end up either an arsonist or a serial killer. What stopped me? I mean, I know I'm not neurotypical. I accept that, even embrace it. What kept me from becoming the monster I could have been?
The monster, the predator, the cold and calculated part of me resurfaced a few years ago when a combination of triggers and a bad reaction to medication led me to take the life of my own pet rat. I realise now that the relationship I was in at the time made me feel powerless and inferior, just the way I felt when I was little. Left alone for several days, I regressed. I was watching a cartoon when I killed her. It was just something to do, like I was playing with one of my toys. I even lied at first, to cover up what I'd done, the way I would have as a child. I snapped out of it, though, and checked myself into a mental hospital. The relationship ended shortly after. I didn't realise it then, but that was the best thing that could have happened.
Kids, more than adults, internalise things their parents say about them. It's one thing for dad to be upset that little Billy broke the toy truck that cost three hours of overtime. It's another thing for dad to take it personally, and label little Billy as destructive or "a menace." A kid takes those labels seriously. If your parents say that you are or aren't something, you don't have any reason to believe it isn't true. You take it to heart. You start to become what they say. As a kid, you just don't know any better.
I am lazy.
I am clumsy.
I am a scatterbrain.
I am damaged.
I am strange.
I am destructive.
I am a menace.
That's not to say that my parents didn't compliment me at times. They told me I was gifted. Bright. Intelligent. They couldn't understand why I was such an underachiever, why I chose to disappoint them so much. I remember my father telling my mother, "We better have another kid quick, because there's something wrong with this one." It wasn't a joke. He was referring to something I had said, or written. I don't remember what. I just know that he was serious.
What has kept me from collapsing under the weight of all of these labels and expectations, both negative and positive? What has kept me from continuing the destructive patterns that, in many non-neurotypical individuals, lead to becoming an abuser, an addict, even a murderer? Sheer force of will, perhaps. A need to survive and adapt, and the self-awareness to understand that in order to survive, I could not loose that monster.
Whatever has confounded every factor that might have made me a headline on the evening news, I am thankful for it. I thank my gods, I thank myself. I thank the people in my life who can see the beauty in me, especially those who have glimpsed my darkness and accept me even so, and do not judge me for crumbs in my bedsheets.
Tuesday, May 14, 2013
Why is everything so complicated?
I imagine most people get up in the morning, take a shower, brush their teeth, get dressed, eat breakfast and leave the house without much consternation. For me, such rituals are not automatic. They take an insane amount of willpower and stamina that I often have little of at the beginning of the day. First, there's waking up. Always an adventure. If I had a bad night's sleep (which is more often than not), I am often in a lot of pain. If I had a good night's sleep, I'm too comfortable to want to move. But assuming I actually do get out of bed, I feel overwhelmed by the things I need to do to get ready for my day.
"Normal person" morning routine:
"Normal person" morning routine:
- Wake up.
- Get out of bed.
- Shower.
- Dress.
- Breakfast.
- Leave house.
My morning routine:
- Wake up.
- Hit snooze. (20 minutes)
- Lie in bed reading my email or checking Facebook until semi-coherent. (20 - 30 minutes)
- Take pills. (I have a water bottle on my night stand)
- Get out of bed.
- Pee.
- Get back into bed for "just a little while longer." (10 minutes)
- Get out of bed again.
- Put on loud music to motivate myself to move. (This is VERY important.)
- Oh gods, gross, I need to shower.
- Shave. (Yes, I shave my mustache. What of it?)
- Dry hair. (This takes forever and is my least-favourite thing to do.)
- Put on make-up. (30-40 minutes from Step 10 to Step 13)
- Dress. Jewellery, bra, panties, socks, jeans, and shirt, in that order.
- Change shirt because it didn't "feel right" for today.
- Pet the cat. Get distracted.
- Still sitting there in my bra because I got distracted. Check Facebook.
- Finally find a shirt and put it on.
- Feel exhausted.Fiddle with my hair. Pick out the right earrings. (10-20 minutes from Step 14- Step 19.)
- Crap, I need to eat. Fiddle around with something in the kitchen until food happens. (10-15 minutes)
- After eating, feel disgusting and need to let food settle before going out. (I'm not sure why I always feel gross after I eat breakfast, but I do.) Facebook/ games/ music again. (30 minutes)
- Check to make sure none of the cats are trapped anywhere.
- Check to make sure all doors and windows are locked.
- Check to make sure cats have food and water.
- Check to make sure I have my pills with me.
- Crap, I forgot my ____, where is it!? Oh, there it is. (10-20 minutes from Step 22- Step 26)
- Headphones. Music again. Essential for walking. I won't walk without music.
- Finally leave the house.
Yeah. So... see how this is a problem? It's a three-hour ordeal for me just to leave the house. There has to be a way to make this less painful. Just getting up and leaving the house should not be so hard. Sometimes, I shower, shave and dry my hair at night, and that helps somewhat, but I don't feel quite clean enough when I leave the house, and that sets me on edge. Crap. Am I really this OCD? Or is it ADD? Or both?
Hair trigger
There are few days when my anxiety isn't an issue at some point. There are many days when I am able to push through it. I'm able to deal with it better than I used to, for the most part. There are still some days, though, when triggers still catch me off-guard. Using the example of the party a couple of weeks ago, I'll list all the triggers I can think of that I encountered that day.
- Bright sunlight
- Constant noise/chatter
- Unfamiliar environment
- Unfamiliar people
- Kids (feeling like I have to censor myself)
- Expectations not met; feeling awkward
- Drunk people talking shit
- Claustrophobia (large group of people in a small place)
- Feeling trapped (Matt was otherwise occupied and could not 'rescue' me)
- Music that reminded me of high school (?)
There wasn't really anywhere to have a quiet lie-down, and the more I thought about that, the worse it got. Aside from the party, I've had some other near-misses with panic over the last few days. Triggers included:
- Gastrointestinal upset (both a trigger and a symptom)
- Feeling alone and vulnerable at home with Matt on a business trip
- Allergies (Yes, allergies trigger panic because they make it hard to breathe)
- Mother's Day in general (not being a mother, having issues with my own mother, etc.)
- Being afraid of possible side effects from meds
Since my therapist only wanted me to list the triggers, I'm stopping here for now. This is probably more than we can even talk about in one or two sessions. Suffice to say, I have a lot of triggers. Sometimes they're present but don't get pulled, and sometimes even the slightest thing can set me off. I'd like to have more consistency and control in terms of my anxiety, so knowing what these triggers are is essential.
Thursday, May 9, 2013
Money and guilt
Matt and I have annoyingly synchronistic triggers when it comes to money, and it centres around guilt. I feel guilty when I ask him for money, and he feels guilty when he can't give me everything I want. We have a lot of medical bills, and both of us are very frustrated right now because it seems like Matt is working 50-60 hours per week and we're just scraping by. Mind you, by "just scraping by," I mean that we don't have "extra" for fun stuff. We're still making the rent and all the bills and stuff. But as soon as I want something else, like money to go out, or money to buy new clothes, the answer is usually "no." And it makes us both feel bad -- me for asking, and Matt for not being able to say "yes."
We have talked about a budget. I gave Matt a list of my wants and needs, and he made a list of our finances. It was scary. According to what he showed me, we are constantly in the red. We decided to cancel cable TV and XM Radio. That will free up roughly $100 per month. It isn't much, but it's something.
All I feel is guilt, guilt, guilt, guilt. How dare I ask for anything? I don't work. I don't have the right to ask for things like that.
All Matt feels is guilt, guilt, guilt, guilt. What's wrong with him that he can't provide for his wife?
For me, the feelings are an artefact from having been in destructive, co-dependent relationships. For Matt, I think it's because of how he was raised. Regardless, it's baggage that doesn't have any business weighing us down. We're us. We're not "them."
The practise of talking and listening to each other, taught to us by our therapist, really has helped. At least we understand each others' triggers better. I always feel accomplished after we do our practise and I think that it has helped us avoid at least one argument, possibly several. I feel that we are making slow, but steady progress.
We have talked about a budget. I gave Matt a list of my wants and needs, and he made a list of our finances. It was scary. According to what he showed me, we are constantly in the red. We decided to cancel cable TV and XM Radio. That will free up roughly $100 per month. It isn't much, but it's something.
All I feel is guilt, guilt, guilt, guilt. How dare I ask for anything? I don't work. I don't have the right to ask for things like that.
All Matt feels is guilt, guilt, guilt, guilt. What's wrong with him that he can't provide for his wife?
For me, the feelings are an artefact from having been in destructive, co-dependent relationships. For Matt, I think it's because of how he was raised. Regardless, it's baggage that doesn't have any business weighing us down. We're us. We're not "them."
The practise of talking and listening to each other, taught to us by our therapist, really has helped. At least we understand each others' triggers better. I always feel accomplished after we do our practise and I think that it has helped us avoid at least one argument, possibly several. I feel that we are making slow, but steady progress.
Monday, May 6, 2013
Sometimes stuff just sucks.
On Friday, as I was boarding the bus to visit a friend, I got a call from the veterinarian. My cat, Radar, has cancer. She can't determine what kind of cancer it is, and isn't sure of the origin or how to treat it. She recommended a consultation with a veterinary oncologist. No word yet on how much that will cost.
He may have months, he may have years. I've already decided against putting him through chemo or radiation. Even if it wasn't prohibitively expensive, I cannot explain to a cat that I am putting him through terror and pain so that he can live longer. Anyway, he isn't showing any signs of illness, yet, except for the lump, and he's already cheated death once. He'll either do it again, or he's used his token. I will accept whatever comes.
Yes, I am sad for my kitty, for the years I might not get to have with him. However, I remember my plea to my gods, months ago. I said, "If there must be cancer in this house, let it be my cat and not my husband." My prayers were answered, so I'm actually not bitter at all. My cat is still here, happy, symptom-free and blissfully ignorant for the moment. My husband is healthy, healing, and out of danger. If my kitty must be the trade-off, then so be it. I know that probably sounds harsh to some people, but I look at it this way: if Radar could consciously take away our pain and illness, he would. He's that loyal of a pet. He's also a reincarnation of a cat I grew up with. So he'll be back, just like everything else. I might even find him again, someday.
Okay. Yeah. It still sucks. But this perspective makes it suck a lot less.
That same night, Matt had to stay at work an extra three hours. I'm glad I was with Isa during that time, so I could talk some stuff out, but it still made things more complicated. Matt was just too tired to really talk about anything when he got home, and there were things we really, really needed to talk about. Like the money thing. There was some tension and the beginnings of an argument, but we did our "practise" and we worked it out. I will write more about that later.
On Saturday I went to a Beltane party. I wanted very much to enjoy myself. I went to the party anticipating that I would, indeed, enjoy myself. I didn't have any particular warning signs that it was going to be a bad day. And then ... splat. I was right in the middle of high school again. I suddenly lost all of my confidence. I could not open up. I couldn't talk to people. I felt like an outsider on the outskirts of conversations, unable to contribute in any meaningful way. They weren't talking about anything complicated. Maybe it's because I hate making small talk, I don't know. I was there for a ritual, and food and drink. I felt like most people were there for food and drink, and maybe a ritual.
Despite the fact that I hate making small talk, though, I am usually quite good at it. I am usually able to pass myself off as a somewhat-normal, well-socialised human. Not this time. Even though certain people were reaching out to me, trying to help, being in the presence of that many new people (about 25 or so in the space of a small house and back yard) was too overwhelming. I kept sneaking away to close my eyes and try to ground.
Eventually the host of the party (who was the only person I knew fairly well), came to see what was up. I assured him that it was "just a panic attack" and that I would be okay, but that I probably wouldn't be staying for too long. Even as I told him this, I knew that if I could just stick it out until the sun went down and the fire was lit and the small screeching humans had gone away, I would probably be able to calm down, come back to myself, and have a good time. But this time, I just couldn't stick it out long enough. Even the Klonopin didn't help. I ended up sitting by myself, chain-smoking, rocking back and forth.
I know there were multiple triggers. The stress of the day before, bright sunlight, noise, close quarters, unfamiliar surroundings, unfamiliar smells, and kids (both toddlers and teenagers.) I think the kids were one of the biggest issues. I know it was his party, his house and his friends, but you'd think a party centred around a Pagan holiday that's all about sex would be an "adults only" shindig. I don't know how to handle interactions with children whose parents I don't know. I have to censor myself so much it's ridiculous. Maybe that's it. Maybe feeling that I have to censor myself, that I can't say or do or be who I really am, is the biggest trigger of all.
And what would have happened if I had been my bawdy, flirty self? Probably nothing. At worst, the parents would have covered their kids ears and given me dirty looks. Whatever, right? I could have done what I wanted to, but I convinced myself that I couldn't, for reasons X, Y, and Z. The whole thing was in my head. But why did I suddenly regress to my fifteen-year-old self? I don't get it. These were good people. Several of them even tried to reach out to me and help me cope, unlike the active shunning that I experienced when I was younger.
What the fuck, brain? I'm pissed off because I feel like I was cheated out of what could have been a really great opportunity to network with some new people who (at least in a general sense) share my spirituality. I've been feeling a lack of local community. I have plenty of friends online, some whom I even see in real life sometimes, but not too many in the area I can actually interact with. I've been looking for something like this to happen for a long time, and then it does, and ... fuck. Just... fuck last week altogether.
He may have months, he may have years. I've already decided against putting him through chemo or radiation. Even if it wasn't prohibitively expensive, I cannot explain to a cat that I am putting him through terror and pain so that he can live longer. Anyway, he isn't showing any signs of illness, yet, except for the lump, and he's already cheated death once. He'll either do it again, or he's used his token. I will accept whatever comes.
Yes, I am sad for my kitty, for the years I might not get to have with him. However, I remember my plea to my gods, months ago. I said, "If there must be cancer in this house, let it be my cat and not my husband." My prayers were answered, so I'm actually not bitter at all. My cat is still here, happy, symptom-free and blissfully ignorant for the moment. My husband is healthy, healing, and out of danger. If my kitty must be the trade-off, then so be it. I know that probably sounds harsh to some people, but I look at it this way: if Radar could consciously take away our pain and illness, he would. He's that loyal of a pet. He's also a reincarnation of a cat I grew up with. So he'll be back, just like everything else. I might even find him again, someday.
Okay. Yeah. It still sucks. But this perspective makes it suck a lot less.
That same night, Matt had to stay at work an extra three hours. I'm glad I was with Isa during that time, so I could talk some stuff out, but it still made things more complicated. Matt was just too tired to really talk about anything when he got home, and there were things we really, really needed to talk about. Like the money thing. There was some tension and the beginnings of an argument, but we did our "practise" and we worked it out. I will write more about that later.
On Saturday I went to a Beltane party. I wanted very much to enjoy myself. I went to the party anticipating that I would, indeed, enjoy myself. I didn't have any particular warning signs that it was going to be a bad day. And then ... splat. I was right in the middle of high school again. I suddenly lost all of my confidence. I could not open up. I couldn't talk to people. I felt like an outsider on the outskirts of conversations, unable to contribute in any meaningful way. They weren't talking about anything complicated. Maybe it's because I hate making small talk, I don't know. I was there for a ritual, and food and drink. I felt like most people were there for food and drink, and maybe a ritual.
Despite the fact that I hate making small talk, though, I am usually quite good at it. I am usually able to pass myself off as a somewhat-normal, well-socialised human. Not this time. Even though certain people were reaching out to me, trying to help, being in the presence of that many new people (about 25 or so in the space of a small house and back yard) was too overwhelming. I kept sneaking away to close my eyes and try to ground.
Eventually the host of the party (who was the only person I knew fairly well), came to see what was up. I assured him that it was "just a panic attack" and that I would be okay, but that I probably wouldn't be staying for too long. Even as I told him this, I knew that if I could just stick it out until the sun went down and the fire was lit and the small screeching humans had gone away, I would probably be able to calm down, come back to myself, and have a good time. But this time, I just couldn't stick it out long enough. Even the Klonopin didn't help. I ended up sitting by myself, chain-smoking, rocking back and forth.
I know there were multiple triggers. The stress of the day before, bright sunlight, noise, close quarters, unfamiliar surroundings, unfamiliar smells, and kids (both toddlers and teenagers.) I think the kids were one of the biggest issues. I know it was his party, his house and his friends, but you'd think a party centred around a Pagan holiday that's all about sex would be an "adults only" shindig. I don't know how to handle interactions with children whose parents I don't know. I have to censor myself so much it's ridiculous. Maybe that's it. Maybe feeling that I have to censor myself, that I can't say or do or be who I really am, is the biggest trigger of all.
And what would have happened if I had been my bawdy, flirty self? Probably nothing. At worst, the parents would have covered their kids ears and given me dirty looks. Whatever, right? I could have done what I wanted to, but I convinced myself that I couldn't, for reasons X, Y, and Z. The whole thing was in my head. But why did I suddenly regress to my fifteen-year-old self? I don't get it. These were good people. Several of them even tried to reach out to me and help me cope, unlike the active shunning that I experienced when I was younger.
What the fuck, brain? I'm pissed off because I feel like I was cheated out of what could have been a really great opportunity to network with some new people who (at least in a general sense) share my spirituality. I've been feeling a lack of local community. I have plenty of friends online, some whom I even see in real life sometimes, but not too many in the area I can actually interact with. I've been looking for something like this to happen for a long time, and then it does, and ... fuck. Just... fuck last week altogether.
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