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[ljln]

Show Me the Way to Forgive You: Maternal Conflict (repost)

Posted on July 30, 2014  It’s taken a while to get to a place where I can forgive my birth mother for leaving to eventually play mom to someone else’s kids. It wasn’t until I was twenty-three that it dawned on me that if I was having a helluva time trying to take care of myself, how could she and my dad have felt about raising two kids? I knew at twenty-three I wasn’t ready to have or take care of kids, and I might not be ready ever. but anyway, I had that epiphany, and while I’m not saying what she did was right or okay, I understood how overwhelmed and trapped she may have felt. Unfortunately, I can’t say that I’m in the same place when it comes to my stepmom. If I had to hazard a guess as to why, I would say that the effects and consequences of having her help raise me and my siblings have been far-reaching and so pervasive as to be deeply entrenched into my way of thinking that it’s caused havoc in my career, my marriage, and the way I relate (or not) to others. Don’t get it twisted, I know I have my share of blame and responsibility, but I contend that my parents’ lack of self-awareness and immaturity didn’t do any of their kids any favors. Organizing the narrative of this section has proven a challenge, because the best way I can think to show and convey what I’m talking about, I have a mish-mash of isolated incidents and general behaviors: • At one point, my stepmom said she hated fat kids, and there I was, along with my younger brother, being fat and offensive. she would often try to put us all on diets which never lasted long (see the last entry on weight and body image issues). • Spending entire days in the NICU when her reprobate of a sister, due to drug use, gave birth to a premature boy who would later develop epilepsy and be semi-retarded—along with driving him three to four cities away for healthcare, but bemoaning having to spend ten dollars for a copay when her daughter, my (step)sister was having painful back spasms. • Ingraining in our heads that a bad something was better than nothing, and that we had absolutely no right to complain about anything. This would set the pattern in the future for bad relationships of all kinds. • Ingraining in our heads that to be a good person, one has to be a martyr and never expect any type of reciprocity. You’re supposed to give, suffer, and give some more with no thought of your own well-being. Never mind if you can’t take care of yourself. Never mind if you can’t meet your own kids’ material or emotional needs—someone else’s kids needed you more than your own, who could take care of themselves. • Praise was rarely given, while criticism was abundant. Getting good grades, doing chores, doing volunteer work for the church, and being a “good” kid were things we were supposed to do anyway. We never had a lack of critical feedback, though: We were almost always too loud, too fat, too mouthy/smart-assed, too ungrateful to be worthy of anything other than constant judgment. • Constant denial that I was going through something beyond the usual teen angst, and dismissing me as a drama queen. For the longest time, mental illness was indicative of a spiritual problem instead of a physiological one. What’s worse is when I was out of high school, she told me flippantly that I just needed Prozac. I always took that to mean I needed medication to be in a mood she and the rest of the world would approve of, as opposed to actually treating me like an adult capable of dialog. In short, she and my dad just didn’t want to deal with me. • The sheer hypocrisy and contradictions dealing with sexuality. See, she was a teen mom who had three different children from three different men (my dad being one of them), and even though she said she would take us (my older sister and I, and my younger stepsisters when they were of age, I’m sure) to get birth control, she was convinced that my sister and I had the same lack of judgment she did (it’s noteworthy to mention that my siblings and I grew up in the beginning of the HIV/AIDS epidemic, and comprehensive sex ed was still being taught). She would constantly send my younger siblings to spy and report on me, and freaked the hell out if I even kissed a guy (for some reason, my older sister was spared the same scrutiny). This, combined with spending my adolescence in a fundamentalist Baptist church that can be accurately described as “this close” to being a Christian Taliban cell, and yeah, sexuality has been an issue. • One afternoon before I started at a state university to finish/get my BA, I got an angry phone call from her saying that my dad wanted to sell his motorcycle to help me out with school, and that I needed to figure it out and how dare I be so selfish? My family had all gone to Oklahoma for reasons unknown, and I knew there was nothing there for me (and I would have to live there for a year to establish residency to avoid paying out of state tuition fees). Understand that all throughout my college career (if you can call it that), I knew I was on my own in providing for myself. Yes, my parents didn’t charge me rent, and my dad bought my first car from a neighbor for twenty bucks (or was it two hundred?), but I was responsible for tuition, books, supplies, gas, insurance, and repairs/maintenance for the car—and my chore load at home was still more than my younger siblings despite going to school full-time and usually working two jobs. I knew better than to expect anything more than nothing, and to not bother asking. Anything extra was an unexpected and appreciated surprise. • Constantly packing an already full house with her awful niece, who was a teen mother who constantly dangled her daughter in front of my parents, threatening to run off to parts unknown if my parents didn’t give her what she wanted (weekends off from parenting, among other things), and her semi-retarded nephew, who was catered to and allowed to get away with most behaviors that would have seen the rest of us grounded or subject to some embarrassing punishment (she was really fond of having us stand with our noses to the wall, even as teenagers and young adults). Her niece was also catered to and did nothing more than consume resources and boss my brothers and sisters around—that was my job. After I called her out for what she was, she punched me, and my stepmom yelled at me, demanding to know what the hell was wrong with me and I should know better than to upset her, because she could take her baby and run at any moment. Never mind that said niece was sleeping with her half-brother and stepfather under the same roof that wouldn’t allow me to even kiss a guy at twenty years old without being ripped a new for it, I was in the wrong for telling the truth and not being tolerant of double standards, hypocrisy and utter bullshit. I could go on, but I think you get the picture. sure, there were some good things, like learning to stretch a few dollars, her advocating for me any time I had a problem with school officials when in junior high (thankfully, rare, but it happened), and sitting on her lap the first day of eighth grade to tell her it sucked (those were some of the meanest, elitist kids I’ve ever met), the hard truth is that all the bad shit overshadows the few good moments or positive attributes. As a result of the above and more, I spent most of my life believing that I was never good enough, that I didn’t deserve shit, to be territorial, to never fully trust anyone, to be hypercritical of myself and everyone else, and to be a spineless, resentful and seething people pleaser. It’s a devastating and enlightening thing to trace the how and why of my more detrimental traits back to the lessons I learned growing up the way I did with my parents. The sad truth of the matter is that it may take years to undo twenty-plus years of this twisted-ass programming and dysfunction. I guess, this writing is a huge part of it. I know someday, I’ll be at a place of forgiveness. I know, cognitively, that forgiveness is more for the person giving it than the one receiving it, but the only thing I can say for myself is that it still feels that to forgive would mean to convey that what happened is okay—and while I understand that the same principal applies to my birth mother, at least my birth mother knows and acknowledges her wrongs and trespasses, and knows that my forgiveness isn’t a pass—and she’s making an honest effort to be a mom to me (my older sister and younger brother, understandably, aren’t there yet). My stepmom, on the other hand, has never once admitted to doing anything wrong and has apologized for nothing, even though the effects of her methods can be seen to varying degrees amongst the six of her kids (remember, we never really did the whole “stepmom,” “stepsisters,” “half-brother” thing). I may get to that place someday, but not today.

[ljln]

Show Me How to Live

As I’ve stated before, I was forced to be a “good girl” growing up, and for the most part, I was. With that, I was brought up to think of things most people consider fun to be traps that would rob me of my money and possibly the future I was working hard to achieve.

As a teenager, I didn’t drink unless my parents knew about it (a cousin’s wedding), I certainly didn’t smoke because I hated it, and my stepmom kept close tabs on me any time I was with a boy who wasn’t just a friend. While I acknowledge that this was for the better, I was brought up to be afraid of life.

I didn’t really go to concerts because my parents were afraid I’d get messed up in the pits, or pressured to smoke and drink. I never understood the whole peer pressure thing, as I was never given shit for turning down booze or drugs. I had to fight to go on road trips by myself because they were afraid that I’d get abducted/killed/whatever by serial killers. Even when I was old enough to drink legally, they were convinced that I was an alcoholic because I had a beer a few times a week while reading for my college courses. Did I mention that while I was living with my parents, I paid everything else, like my car insurance, gas, school, clothes, medical bills, and even my own food? Despite working two jobs and going to school, my chore load at home was never lightened, despite having four other siblings who could’ve picked up the slack? From eighteen on in, while I was responsible for myself, I was ruled by my parents’ fears. While I understand that fear, I’m still pissed about their lack of faith in having taught me survival skills, or their lack of faith in my skills.

Years later, I’m in college. I may go to the occasional party, but I still work two jobs and have a full course load, and it’s hard to party when you have to open up at one job at 6am on a Saturday. This also makes Spring Break non-existent without jeopardizing my finances. But one time, I did California in a week with the outdoor recreation club, but even then, we were too busy setting up camp to get into any shenanigans.

Now, I’m in my 30’s. If you ask me what’s fun, I really couldn’t say. I can’t drink, smoke, or do drugs that aren’t prescribed to me because of my health and the expense. I’m too broke to travel. I don’t gamble because I’ve never been that lucky. I go to the odd convention, but that’s proving to take a lot out of me and more stressful than it’s worth. I was just starting to go in the pits when I was diagnosed, and the last concert I went to fatigued me pretty bad.

How can I live if I don’t know how, or if the things that make life bearable aren’t options for me? This year, I’d like to find out, but so far, so…meh.

[ljln]

Blue Christmas

When my paternal grandmother was nine, her mother took her and her two older brothers to the movies. Back then, a nickel got you two movies with news and cartoons in between. They had a great time. Their mom never came back. My great-grandfather, in his sadness and anger over having his wife run out on him with three kids to raise on his own, never celebrated Christmas or birthdays as long as his kids lived under his roof. My grandparents' first Christmas, Grandma went all-out with a tree, ornaments, the works. When she had my uncle and dad, she made sure to make their Christmases and birthdays memorable. She did the same for her grandkids too, all six of us when my dad got remarried. She did that until she couldn't afford to anymore. Even then, I (and my brothers and sisters) never doubted that we were loved. I can't speak for my siblings, but material things weren't necessary as I got older. One particularly memorable Christmas was just her and me. The remainder of my family moved to Oklahoma. She stayed in California because there was nothing for her out there. I stayed to finish school. I took her to a movie and for dinner at her favorite fish and chip shop. She gave me a manicure set. We also watched horrible TV and talked and ate candy she made. This is my first Christmas without her (and the sixth without my dad) and it fucking sucks. I don't know what happened to her plastic tree, or her ornaments. All I have are her recipes for goodies, most committed to memory from having made them for friends. I try to give my nieces and nephews memorable gifts and memories of their Crazy Auntie. Even if it's just for a day, I want them back. I want my dad making inappropriate jokes about smoking turkeys and shooting up gravy. I want my grandmother's cheese platter with the glass dome and chain attached to the knife and yelling at us to not spoil our dinners. I want my dad making caveman noises over getting new tools. I want my grandmother fawning over new family pictures and the sweaters with all the kids handprints on them. Goddammit, I want them back.

[ljln]

I'm Still Not Okay: Setbacks and Feeling Cheated

Thank goodness for waterproof mascara. I walked out of my cardiologist's office with waterproof mascara, but not a whole lot of dignity. I was admonished for not adhering more strictly to the low salt diet, despite the fact that Husband and I are struggling to pay the monthly bills as well as my medical bills. You see, low sodium foods cost money and tend to go bad quickly. Then, there's the balancing act I have to play because of the fucking diabetes. Many foods low in carbs tend to be high in sodium. Many foods low in sodium tend to be high in carbs. The only way I "win" is to eat like a rabbit with no palate whatsoever. That is not living. There is no joy in eating like that, and even less joy in cooking like that as well, especially when many people seem to like my cooking. It's not fucking fair. There, I said it. I understand that life is inherently unfair, but what can be done to make it right or just? Being forced to be a good girl, and being slightly pressured to succeed and hopefully escape further poverty, I missed or gave up many opportunities to do things that would've been fun or enriching: Studying abroad, wild young weekends in Vegas, the odd college hookup or two, trying illicit drugs, telling certain people in authority where to shove their bullshit...you get the picture. I thought not doing those things would help me get a life I could enjoy. Instead, what I got was student debt, mental health issues, and a sick and broken body that makes the few things I could actually enjoy difficult, impossible, or come with a price tag to my health. I've been fucking cheated...no wonder I wanted to die and tried to...this isn't living, goddammit...it's just barely surviving. My husband said that we spend 2/3 of our lives to prepare for the last third in hopes that we can actually enjoy it. At this rate, I may not make it to the last third, and it looks like if I do, it will suck even more than it does now. This isn't living...so why fucking bother? Give me one good reason to want to keep living this shit show. Go ahead. I'm curious to see what bullshit Pollyanna platitudes you come up with.

[ljln]

[ljln]

I'd Settle for a Life Less Frightening

I may have recovered a good deal of heart function, but I’m not optimal, and though the cardiologist is optimistic of a full recovery, it will take a lot of time and work. It would help if I didn’t have to work and if we had money for food that wouldn’t exacerbate the problem.

It would also help if my truck’s transmission didn’t need a complete rebuild, or if there was money to get something used but reliable.

I don’t want to be a victim. I didn’t survive a suicide attempt and a weakened heart just to be repeatedly kicked in the teeth. If so, then I seriously question the wisdom of the universe and wonder why I wasn’t just allowed to die in the first place. It would’ve saved everyone massive stress and I wouldn’t be the reason my husband’s credit is in the toilet and my medical bills and my truck wouldn’t be the reason he’s having anxiety attacks.

My husband and the new friends I’ve made are the only good part in an otherwise craptastic year. Everything else can just go to hell and stay there.

[ljln]

Fell on Black Days: Another Year in Hell

I know it’s been a while since I posted last, and I’m sorry for that. 2015 wasn’t such a bad year.

This year, however, has been a different matter entirely:

* Grandmother’s health in steady decline, and she died in late March. * Grandma’s health, predatory siblings, and a needy husband, combined with 4 days of no sleep prompt me to OD on sleeping pills and tranquilizers late February to deal with the pain and stress. The mental hospital is reason enough to never do that again. * Started to develop breathing problems in March. Activities that wouldn’t normally exhaust me start to wind me easily * Lost long-term job because I refused to work unpaid overtime. * Marital problems (that have been worked out for the most part)

Which all leads to the big one:

About a week after my birthday, I have to go to the ER because I couldn’t take more than 5 steps without getting winded. Turns out I had pneumonia, fluid in my lungs, and my heart was enlarged and only working at 15% capacity.

Eight days. Two hospitals. Four I.Vs. God knows how many blood samples taken.

Turns out I have cardiomyopothy. What’s worse is they don’t know why or how I got it, as I don’t have the traditional risk factors like drug and alcohol abuse. I was put on meds, low salt diet and told to minimize stress (so no work). If I couldn’t gain back so much function by late August, then I may need a pump or transplant.

I missed my goal by 3% but no word on what will happen now. I hate not knowing.

I feel weak both physically and psychologically. I’ve been denied all forms of aid and have to fight…and I’m so damned tired of fighting. My husband has been awesome through this, but I know he feels the stress and the strain and I feel bad because I’m the source of it. There have been a couple of times he’s taken it out on me, to which I replied that I was so sorry that my existence was costing him so much goddamned money and for not pulling my weight. Ugh…

I know I’m not alone, but at the end of the day, it’s my body and I’m the one who has to live in it and do the work.

A part of me wishes that this was my fault…at least there would be someone to blame.

[ljln]

I know it's so soon, but here's another

Another blog post on the existential angst that goes with moving.

[ljln]

New Blog Post Up

I know it's been a while. graceliss80

[ljln]

Blog in Hiatus

Due to getting my bearings in a temporary job that may lead to something more long-term, the blog will be going on a short hiatus. I know it's too soon with too few posts, but no one reads it anyway.

[ljln]

Show Me the Way to Forgive You: Maternal Conflict

It’s taken a while to get to a place where I can forgive my birth mother for leaving to eventually play mom to someone else’s kids. It wasn’t until I was twenty-three that it dawned on me that if I was having a helluva time trying to take care of myself, how could she and my dad have felt about raising two kids? I knew at twenty-three I wasn’t ready to have or take care of kids, and I might not be ready ever, but anyway, I had that epiphany, and while I’m not saying what she did was right or okay, I understood how overwhelmed and trapped she may have felt.

Unfortunately, I can’t say that I’m in the same place when it comes to my stepmom. If I had to hazard a guess as to why, I would say that the effects and consequences of having her help raise me and my siblings have been far-reaching and so pervasive as to be deeply entrenched into my way of thinking that it’s helped to cause havoc in my career, my marriage, and the way I relate (or not) to others. Don’t get it twisted, I know I have my share of blame and responsibility, but I contend that my parents’ lack of self-awareness and immaturity didn’t do any of their kids any favors.

Continued on WordPress

[ljln]

The Girls Who Eat Pizza and Never Gain Weight: Body Image, Eating Disorders

The majority of my life, my weight has always seemed to be everyone else’s problem, and they were hellbent on making it mine. From as young as seven, well-meaning but misguided adults have tried to put me on diets, force me into exercise, and pretty much ingrained into my head that I was somehow bad or defective because I was fat. This, combined with the overall meanness of primary school kids—let’s just say it didn’t help an already anxious and insecure little girl.

  There were points where I wasn’t so fat, and close to thin: When I was between 11 and 13, and between 17 and 19, but even then, success didn’t last long because, unfortunately, eating was a source of comfort as well as conflict, as the adults in my life tried to control me with it. As I became more independent, in some feeble-minded attempt to feel in control of my life, I ate foods that were forbidden and out of sight of everyone who would otherwise judge me by the contents of my plate as opposed to the contents of my character. This sick cycle, along with rotten luck in the genetic lottery would see me diagnosed with Type 2 diabetes by my twenty-sixth birthday, along with a cacophony of “I told you so!” This wouldn’t be so bad if only those around me could be just slightly more sensitive to the fact, and not drink all the diet soda at parties—the sugar won’t kill them.

Continued at WordPress:graceliss80

[ljln]

The Past Ain’t Through With You: A Genealogy of Dysfunction

I like horror movies, especially the ones from the 80’s—after all, I am a child of that decade. The first horror movie I remember seeing is “A Nightmare on Elm Street 3: Dream Warriors,” at a drive-in theatre before I was even in kindergarten. I remember being so creeped out that my sister (a year and change my senior) snuck in with some family friends, who were watching “PeeWee’s Big Adventure.” What the hell my parents were thinking, I don’t know, but I think incidents like this were kind of telling about how young and unprepared my parents were for raising kids.

Back to the horror: Some film and sociology buffs point out that it was in 80’s that a recurring motif in a good deal of horror movies/franchises (A Nightmare on Elm Street being the prime example) is that the sins of the parents would be visited upon their children, and how some of the horror writers and directors of the day were making commentary about how the Reagan administration was doing just that when he put the US into crippling debt with the arms race with Russia during the latter part of the Cold War and the fallacy of “trickle down” economics. My generation is experiencing the effects of these faulty policies first hand, evidenced by the advent of “boomerang” kids—adults who have to live with their parents out of economic necessity. Most of these boomerangers have been forced into massive debt trying to get higher education, and upon graduation, unable to find employment that will enable them to live independently. Many of these adults got their degrees after being promised—both implicitly and explicitly—that a degree is a guarantee of a better life. I was one of these young adults, trying to earn my way out of what was becoming generational poverty.

The rest of this is on the WordPress

http://graceliss80.wordpress.com/2014/07/10/the-past-aint-through-with-you-a-geneaology-of-dysfunction/

[ljln]

WordPress Blog Up--For more of the whole story

It's been brought to my attention that for what I plan on doing, WordPress would be a better option. I'll still post here, just the beginning or excerpts from new entries.

http://graceliss80.wordpress.com/

[ljln]

A Season in Hell: Living and Dealing with My Mental Illness--An Introduction

As I’m writing this, I’m suicidal. This isn’t a ploy for attention—it’s just the truth. The main thing that has kept me from killing myself is the same thing that is a source of constant aggravation: My goddamned monkey-mind that just won’t shut the hell up, that goes miles in seconds and thinks too much about trivial things, like trypophobic images that are clearly lotus seed pods PhotoShopped onto human bodies, but are still disturbing. Seriously, though, don’t go looking for trypophobic images—you have been warned. I think about what kind of damage any attempt can cause, such as the emotional fallout if I succeed, and any long-term physical affects if I fail, such as a damaged liver (pills and booze), looking funny (shooting myself), or having a lot of explaining to do or having to wear long sleeves all the time (slitting major arteries, or hanging), or just plain old brain damage from a lack of oxygen (any of the above). They say suicide is selfish, and a permanent solution to temporary problems, while I understand these things cognitively, I have to wonder how “temporary” my rotten luck is, when for the last three and a half years, too many things have happened, and when the hell will my husband and I will catch a break.

            The last three and a half years have convinced me that there’s either no God, or that I have somehow pissed him/her/it off enough to deserve all this: A really lousy first year of teaching (no classroom, hired late into the school year at a really bad school with no support and an administrator with unrealistic expectations), my dad dying three weeks before my wedding, losing my job three months after getting married, getting appendicitis two months after getting laid off (the experience was pretty horrific, considering the hospital was bad), getting taken to court by the EDD (the agency that handles unemployment benefits) for supposedly committing fraud and getting sued for the supposed amount I “scammed” from them (turns out they took my last paycheck, spread it over a few weeks, and said I didn’t report it—the judge threw the case out, but I never got my unemployment reinstated), losing my apartment and being forced to live with my mother-in-law, getting sued by an old creditor (lost that case, but they settled)—and all of this while unsuccessfully trying to find another teaching job (lots of interviews, but that’s about it) or any job where I could utilize my skill set. While I understand that it could be worse, I still contend that it can be a helluva lot better, especially since I held up my end of the implied promise of being a “good” citizen: Keep your nose clean, get an education, and you will be able to get a good paying job that will allow you to get out of poverty and help you provide for your family.

            I did what I was “supposed” to do: I did well in school, worked two jobs to support myself through getting all my degrees and credential, I didn’t sleep around (or if I did, I insisted on protection and I spent considerable time with my partners before sleeping with them—I can count all of my sexual partners on one hand), didn’t do any drugs that weren’t prescribed to me (and only took them as directed), didn’t drink to excess (if at all), and tried to be a decent human being overall. I was told my struggles and sacrifices would be well worth it, because I was “earning” a better life. Right now, my husband is the only good thing to come out of all this, but I know better than to rely on him for happiness, but even then, marriage has exacerbated many of the issues that have fucked up my head in the first place.

            Anyway, this is supposed to be an introduction, so I’ll keep it brief. Just know that you don’t need to read this from cover to cover, but can read “a la carte.” Most of what you might be thinking (such as my apparent ingratitude, self-absorption, and what, exactly, is wrong or has gone wrong) will hopefully be answered. I understand that a lot of this may seem trite, cliché, and ignores my first-world, white privilege—but fuck you, read something else, then.