Having A Good Cry Never Killed Anyone….Yet.

I cried last night, I mean had a tissue-in-hand-supressing-sobs kind of cry.  I had to put Sammy in the hospital yesterday, as broke as I am too, was an extra strain.  I couldn’t not take care of her.  After bedtime prayer I asked Mom for a hug, and she leaned into me so I could hug her.  I NEEDED THE HUG.  I know she was mad at me, but she couldn’t reach passed that to comfort me.  I went to my room and broke down.  I didn’t cry this much when Mom was in the hospital, so yea, it’s a little uneven [my love] between Sammy and Mom, but Sammy saved my life and sanity….can’t really say that for Mom.  What I really realized is that I am alone, utterly alone on this mortal plane.  I know Heavenly Father is there for me, and yes, I get comfort from His Spirit and the knowledge that Christ is there, and all that.  However, sometimes I just need strong arms around me to tell me that everything will be alright.

The tear stained revelation came to me that I have to do the work in the Homecoming book by Bradshaw.  It’s not something I can just joke about, or fear any more.  I don’t want to be that alone anymore.  I’m not talking about going out and finding a man, I’m talking about being whole enough to be able to find the comfort in my own solitude when things get this scary for me.  Only when I am whole, or as whole as I can get considering the privation of my rearing, then I will look for someone.  I don’t want to have to rely on someone for my happiness, that’s a trap no different from relying on your parent for comfort when she is too depth-less to understand how anyone could need comfort more than she does.

Of course the depression has a small side car of paranoia that loves to spin conspiracy theories right and left.  I made the ultimate mistake of telling Mom how much Sammy means to me and why.  I even had to choke back the tears as I told her.  (I know better than to cry in front of her), and then Sammy, about ten days after this little talk ends up vomiting glittery, crystalline substance, not unlike the sequins on her red skirt.  I keep telling myself that Mom wouldn’t hurt her because she loves Sammy almost as much as I do, but Sammy has been bugging the crap out of her lately and she has become a full on rival for my unconditional love…..you can see the little sticky wheels spin, can’t you.  I was actually beginning to think that Sammy loved my mom more than me lately with the way Sammy kept hanging out with my Mom…but the way she’s snuggling up with me and just rubbing her head all over my face has made me change my mind.  She was just annoying Mom to make me happy. (I just love her to bits)

The crying though, made me scared when it kept coming and I couldn’t stop.  When I started this blog, the thought of Sammy not getting well, or even dying made tears come back to my eyes.  I don’t like crying.  Crying is for sissies…..okay, it’s really not, I know that….but it makes me feel so vulnerable.  I don’t like feeling vulnerable around a woman who uses your weaknesses to manipulate you into doing her bidding for her…..Again, I digress into a little angry rant.  I’m trying to keep those under control.  I was afraid for a while that I wouldn’t be able to stop, which tends to be the standard fear when I cry.  What if I can’t stop?  What if I can never cry again?  I know it’s important to the emotional health of humans to have that release of whatever hormone it is that makes you feel better after you cry, I’m hoping that’s what Lexapro does because, well, I don’t want to be a cry-baby.  I don’t want to be ruled by my emotions.  Strangely enough I feel like those deep, dark emotions are like some sort of manipulation….I can’t really explain it….it’s like a war between my consciousnesses…if you cry your subconscious wins because you can’t keep it together.  I don’t like to lose.  Maybe that is the wrong way to look at it.  The tears might be the rain that flower the creativity of the soul? (Isn’t that so icky poetic).

The truth be told, I still need a good hug.  My nephew promised me one on Thursday.  I need to start this process no matter how much it hurts, or how much ectoplasm I hemorrhage.  Like a boil, my psyche needs to be lanced so the healing can begin.  Hopefully, it won’t kill me.

I’ve attached a comment as to why Sammy means so much to me, if you are confused why a 47-year-old woman is neurotically attached to a fickle little mini macaw.

Popping The Emotional Clutch

I asked my best friend how long was it going to be before I could stop being disengaged from the world in order to figure out what is going on with ‘me’ and re-engage.  She gave the best yet most frustrating answer, not quite as simply, it’ll take as long as it takes.

I feel like I’m an engine revving to go, waiting to engage the clutch to move the car forward and, like the novice standard transmission driver that I am, I’m terrified I’m going to pop the clutch and stall and hold up the world behind me.  I have to do my work in Homecoming before I can safely venture out again, I know this, but at the same time, I’m afraid to actually engage those methods for fear what will float up to the surface.  If I’m kept them so completely bound in my subconscious, why would I want to bring them up?  What kind of moron would do that to themselves…..Of course, I’m the kind of moron that is willing to do this kind of work because, like the dragonfly before it’s metamorphosis, I’m tired of living my life surrounded by cold water, keeping me from actually engaging or feeling anything around me.  I need to rip open my skin and let the wings emerge, and I can’t help but feel that it will hurt some, but like the dragonfly, it will be worth it.  I just need to keep telling myself that….IT WILL BE WORTH IT.

In the mean time, I need to keep practicing letting the clutch in and out in first  gear so when the time comes, and the light turns green, I can move forward into traffic and continue on my journey through this life without having to have to rebuild the emotional engine again.

The Ups, Downs and Pratfalls of Anger

So, I’ve been off my anti-anxiety pills for close to a week now, and I have to say, I’m doing much better than I anticipated.  I’ve also, for some inexplicable reason, stopped taking all my mental and physical meds, I guess to see what happens.  I’m grumblely, meaning when I’m asked to do something I grumble and moan behind the backs of the people that are demanding it of me.  Sometimes I put things away rather abruptly, but I’m not harsh to the other person.  Grant it, I’m not very mobile and I really resent the idea that I’m still expected to clean and play step-and-fetch it.

But the up feeling that I have from the fall-out of the whole “I’m ashamed of the way you look” BS, after my shopping, and I still stroke my purse like it’s a wonder in my life, I’m still feeling over all, very good about myself and about what I did.  True, I still haven’t hung up my new clothes, they aren’t the symbols of my up-yours like I thought they’d be, but rather a side effect.  I’m never going to change who I am innately to please two people who are so narrow in their view of life they can’t abide anyone or anything that doesn’t fit within their known universe.

See, that ranting, above, that’s that down side of not having my pills and I’m so easily startled, and I jump every time I hear Moms voice.  I don’t want to be around her, and I’m rather pissed off at C.  She knows that I’m sort of just limping along in life right now, and that I still need to take care of my mom, does she call?  Of course not.  She left her phone at work so now if we need her we have to call her husband, as she informed us as they were on their way out to Kareoke….And she says I’m embarrassing?

I guess the biggest side-effect of not being level on my meds was the swan dive I sort of took out the garage door.  I had just come home from the dentist appointment that wasn’t, did some shopping and was going to snuggle with Sammy for a while before Mother got up.  But she heard I was home and was demanding breakfast.  I told her what her options were and she felt so put out that we didn’t have bagels left, and would lower her standards to English muffins and as I was going out to the freezer to get them, wearing my reading glasses, which really aren’t for wandering around the house in, I stepped on an aluminum can I didn’t see and slid off the step, I sort of caught myself, then at the very last minute I lost it and my left foot turned in.

So, yea, I’m still feeling euphoric from the shopping spree, but I guess I’m still a danger to myself without the meds.  They better get here soon, I don’t want to know what will happen if I go for two weeks without them.

Revenge Is A Dish Best Served With Whipped Cream

Okay, a rather long title.  I’m still flying a little bit on the cheese cake(s) from my celebratory vengeance expedition at the local mall.  Perhaps I should say that revenge is best dished up with a credit card and someone elses money.  It goes back to the whole “I’m really ashamed of the way you present yourself.” and “I don’t want you to embarrass me” crap that I got from my sister today and my mother on Saturday.  So,  went shopping to buy clothes to wear to work with my sister.  Despite the fact that I got a great deal on the clothes, like saving over $200 on the majority of it, I used the money I’m supposed to pay my sister with.  Can’t have both, money and a sister that doesn’t embarass you.  Pick one.  I do have to say, retail therapy is VERY effective.

I did something I can’t believe I did but I have absolutely no regret on and that was buying a purse that is all leather, that fits all my writing paraphernalia and is just elegantly understated and is so not the tattered bag I’ve been carrying around with me because it fit everything I needed to carry around.  It’s sitting here next to me and the smell of the leather is soooooo nice.

So, let’s address the issues at hand.  First of all, I got angry and went shopping.  Everyone I talked to about how I had been so mightily abused agreed with me, even though I looked horrible, dirty shirt and torn jeans and tennis shoes, everyone agreed that was just out-of-bounds for anyone to say to another person, especially a family member.  But the sting of the anger that I normally would have been fussing at before, even though I’m off my anti-anxiety pills briefly due to supply, has me feeling more empathy for Cyndi and even understanding that she thinks it’s okay.  I’m trying to get beyond the crap our childhood has mired us in, she’s happy as a clam up to her nose in it.  She is hurting me because she is hurting and doesn’t realize it, and I can’t hate her for that.  And I’m going to keep trying to maintain that attitude.

So, the clothes, socks, pj bottoms, purse, make-up, face care and make-up brushes are my ways of compensating myself for the slight by giving Mom and C what they want, me to not shame them in public.  Of course, this doesn’t mean I won’t wear the dirty shirt and the torn jeans when we’re out as a family.  I’m not going to stop who I am because it offends their narrow interpretation of what the world should look like in order to be accepted.  They can just bite me if they think  I’m ever going to be like them.  The one thing I am keeping is my Mickey Mouse watch.  They can pry that off my cold dead wrist before I’ll give that up.

I love my purse.

The Winds Blow Against Me

The breath of negativity seems to be pushing against my resolve not to melt into a gibbering puddle of tears.  Today, I’ve been told that my sister is ashamed of me, that I’m a hoarder who needs help and that since I didn’t make any money this year so I’ve lost my mothers exemption because I apparently am no longer worthy of it.

Okay, so I’m sensitive today.  My teeth have been on edge all day, wanting to scream and run away.  I’ve had images of sawing through my wrists again.  My anxiety level is high, and I’m running low on my anti anxiety pills.  The next few days are going to be an unmitigated joy. (That’s sarcasm, btw, in case you don’t read sarcasm fluently).

It didn’t help watching Hoarding: Buried Alive on TV today because Mom lost the remote in the garbage so we couldn’t change the channel.  It taught me something though….Messy inside, messy outside – tidy inside tidy outside.  I need to put more effort into keeping my surroundings neat and tidy, I know it’s something I need to learn to grow up and do, at least according to the blowhards that are content to sit back and judge me.  Maybe I am being a big baby and I’m throwing a sort of rebellious tantrum, but F’em.  I’m ging to go through the Bradshaw stages, starting with infant and work my way through to healing my wounded inner child back to being a wonder child and champion myself the way I never have been in my life.  I am a loved daughter of God, and I am worth the effort and time this is going to take.  So, yea, F’em.  I’m not shameful, I’m not a hoarder and I don’t need the exemption.  I don’t need them F’ing up my growth or their attempts to blow me off course.