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Posts Tagged ‘Grief’

imagesCA4V39REI am back to talking to my mom again.

I had a very good session with the counselor on Thursday, from which a new outlook and the taking back of some power in my personal life, has since occurred.  With these feelings of peace and strength, also came a truce of sorts with my mother.  I am not sure how long this period will last, if it will just be a few days or from now on, I can’t predict yet.  I do know I am a little more at peace and a whole lot less depressed.  So that is a VERY good thing.

This morning while doing dishes (one of those mindless tasks that always seems to invoke a thread of words that I feel must be IMEDIATLY written down, thus resulting in no more housework and hours of me sitting at the computer), I had an epiphany of sorts:

My mother lost her mother to cancer around 23 years ago.  I was 15 when this happened.  I remember her being extremely emotional and upset, crying and hiding in the bathroom for hours, disowning me for being late home from ballet class, lashing out and yelling at us all.  I remained fairly detached during this time.  I was not very close with my Grandmother, after all, I remember she had been quite mean to my mother, and she really just made it difficult to ever get very close to her.  I continued to be my mom’s “good girl” but I do know I was not the “comforter” my mother needed at that time.  I was only 15.  I remember my Aunt calling me “strong” and “just who Mom needed to get through this”, but I really do not remember doing much different from how I always had been, maybe a few more hugs and a little more obedient?

My grandmother was, what I have now since learned, the epitome of the Co-Dependant parent.  She was the main reason my mother became the person she became, the mother she became.  My poor mother had no chance of ever being a different kind of mother.  Things like “co-dependant parents”, “depression”, “verbal abuse”, etc… were not discussed or even diagnosed in the 1950’s.  She only knew to raise us girls the same way she had been raised.. with an iron will and a ready belt.  Guilt and shaming were the only words she knew.  Conditions, the conditional love… all learned from my grandmother, who probably learned it from her own mother.

So, I feel I owe my mother an apology, of sorts.  I need to release this anger I have towards how she raised me.  I know she loved me, I know she did some very wrong and unfair things to me…. said some very mean things, did some things that nowadays would be considered  “abusive”,  and YES I still have a right to  be angry for those things,  but she also did some very good things, some very loving things, and she did the very best she knew how.. It may have taken her a good 30 plus years to get there,  and it may have taken me fighting every step of the way,  but she was learning to trust me and allowing me to take back some control, however small, she was giving in… a little.   Part of it may have been that she knew she was not long for this earth.  I know she was trying to prepare me.  I don’t know if she realized just HOW hard it would be on me, but she was worried.

I don’t think for a second she would have ever taken responsibility for her actions and words against me all those years, but I do think she understood that some of the mistakes she had made were very bad, and that I was being very kind to just “let them go” the way I had.

I feel like, for now, I can release some of this anger and just allow myself to miss her and at LEAST make it through Christmas and New Years without blowing my brain out with the loaded “anger gun” I have been waving around.  I hope.

I still feel like a scared little 4 year old girl that has lost her mommy… I’m just not soooo mad and accusing her every minute, thats a start…. thats a start.

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Mom, doing something nice :)

Mom, doing something nice 🙂

 

It’s hard to belive it has been 2 months now since momma passed.

I have been so busy just trying to muddle through the day-by-day… I have let the time slip by.

I went to a Christmas program with my boss Saturday night.  I thought it would be awful, but it was really pretty pleasent, for the most part anyways.  It was very hard to sit through the show without thinking “Mom would have loved this!” or “Oh, mom’s favorite song!”

I did even tear up a time or two with the sadness that mom would have really enjoyed that music so much more than I was.

I allowed myself to miss her for the rest of the evening.

I think I have been sooooo very busy being angry with her, I have not been allowing myself the time to remember, grieve and actually MISS her.

For everything bad I say about her, I can now say a good thing just as fast.  And you know, she really was a good person in so many ways.  She tried so very hard to create a perfect, christian world for us.  I think her human side, her mental state, just did not ever allow her to be “happy” with her results.  I think she might have been just as hard on herself, on the inside, as she was on us.

Today I am going to “TRY” (big emphasis on the word “try”) to put up Christmas decorations and the tree.  I am going to try to get through December the best I can.  Then maybe I can look forward to kissing 2013’s Ass… GOODBYE!

This has been one Hell of an awful year.  I’m just going to try.. that’s all I can do, right?

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I knew it was sitting there.

I could feel its weight pressing down on my brain. I could feel it as if it were fire.  I was not touching it, but I could still sense the weight of it in my purse.  There was a little over $4 thousand dollars, right there in my purse.  Blood money, free money, will money, payment for 39 years of being moms “perfect child”, her “sweet baby”.

The stress is getting worse.  The kids are compounding everything I feel.  Just like a crushed tomato tied back together with string, I still ooz and bleed with every touch, jab, word. Ready to fall apart, easier than before.

The weight of depression, hopelessness, growing faster than a storm cloud in my mind. “Why can’t we just have one day of peace? Why can’t I have just a moment to think? Why can’t we just spend a day together without the fighting, the anger, the competition for my affections and favoritism?”

I am exhausted. Just thinking of a simple task like cleaning house or making the bed seem to weigh 500 pounds on my bruised brain.  I want to hide. I want to run away and hide.

The money, it’s right there.  It’s ready to burn my hand the moment I touch it.  I’m supposed to use it for bills, Christmas.. the kids, not me… not for myself, the kids.  Don’t touch it.

I slowly pull myself up in the bed.  I glance at the alarm clock, 2:30p.m.  I had fallen here just moments ago.  My bed a rescue raft, floating in my room for me to grab onto and wail into my pillows until the hopelessness and suicidal thoughts pass on by.  My raft is still shaking, threatening to sink.  I’m screaming inside, “It’s not going to get better! It is NEVER going to get any better!”   The kids will never get “well”.  Neither one has any illness that can be cured.  I will just be stuck in this life for the remainder of mine.  The same violence, the same temper tantrums, the same emotional drainage of mom day after day.  It. Will. Never. Get. Better….

I slowly drag my aching heavy limbs out of the bed and start pulling on clothes.  The argument that had just occurred between my children and I still ravaging my brain like it’s on repeat. The same depressing mantra on repeat:  “Its happened before, it will happen again, again, again, it will happen again.”

I look around the house. It’s a disaster. You would think that my teenage daughter, seeing her mother is drowning, would at least help with the housework.  I start pulling together dirty clothes, I make separate piles of colors and observe how they look like piles of dead leaves.  I will do the laundry, I can at least do that.

I quickly start to come out of the fog, suddenly I’m on fast forward.  Laundry, sweeping, dishes, clutter… each task tackled in a mindless rush. I can at least get these things done. I can at least leave a clean house.

The kids are in the background, sighing, stomping, slamming, sniffling… each, in their own passive aggressive way, are driving the nails into my back.  “You deserted me!”  “You took her side”, “you took his side”, “It’s not my fault!” “It’s all his fault/Her fault/YOUR fault!!” Each silent accusation a dart going into my skin. I ignore each dart with a disinterest, a tear slipping out silently instead.  “Don’t treat me like that”, I cry inside.  “I’m the one that loves you more than life!” “I’m the only one that understands you, but I’m tired!! Don’t yell at me, don’t hurt me! It hurts to be used like an emotional punching bag” “it hurts, It hurts, I HURT!!!”

Instead, I just keep cleaning, tears running down my face.  I want to run and hide, back onto my raft, back into my cave, I want to cling to the safety of the bed and hide. I keep doing the dishes.  I look out the window into the backyard.  Birds, a dog, a squirrel… things that usually make me smile instead make me feel the exhaustion of my own inner darkness.  There is such an anger in being depressed, like, how dare the sun shine when I feel such pain? Does it not care that I can only feel, can only see darkness?

Dishes, concentrate on the dishes.  Concentrate on the work.  Feed the bird, feed the dog, mop the floor, change out the laundry, feel the weight of the money in my mind, count it.. weigh it… smell it.. finish the dishes.  Finish the Dishes.

Freedom is in the weight of that money.  Freedom from everything weighing me down in this house, in this life.  It will never get better, so why stick around?  Why should I stay here and watch it all fall apart?  Why should I be the one to always have to fix, mend, tape, glue, wipe, heal… Why should I be the abused one? I can’t think, I can’t heal, I am supposed to be “momma’s STRONG girl” but my strength was obviously buried along with my mother.  It’s holding her hand in the cold darkness, it is certainly not holding my hand as I struggle to stay afloat.

I finish the dishes, I continue to stand at the sink, the moment has come.  The moment that entered my thoughts as soon as the money hit my hands.  Turn around, walk out the door, fill up the car and just go… just GO…. Walk out the door… WALK OUT THE DOOR…

I can’t seem to move.  Whats the problem?!?! Why am I not doing what I should, what I want, What I know will keep my children safe.  I am the problem, I am the reason their life is so chaotic and horrible.. I should leave, let them move on, let someone more stable and healthy deal with their needs.. I Should Just Leave.

I slowly turn around, away from the sink, away from my old life, away from the accusations and the pain. I turn, I turn away and find myself looking at the alarm clock, the alarm clock beside my bed… 2:35 p.m.

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I awoke this morning with complete control and determination.  I laid in bed, unmoving and slowly, brick by brick, built a wall around myself so strong, so impervious, that no amount of “this time last year” or “what if she was still here” would ever break through.  After 2 hours of Macy Day parade watching and distracted Tumblr scanning I suddenly found myself overwhelmed with a sense of loss, pain and grief so great I could not contain the tears.

Today is Thanksgiving.  Today is a day for Thankfulness.  Today is a day of forgiveness and love, family and comfort. Well, it’s supposed to be.

So today I am not going to punish myself. Today I am not going to punish mom. Today I am going to allow myself a moment to miss her, grieve her, love her.  Today is a day to remember the good things about my mom. The loving, caring, nurturing side of mom.  The woman that made the best dressing on earth.  The mother that made the entire Thanksgiving dinner, from scratch, by herself. Worked tirelessly to clean, cook and clean again, so we could see how much she loved us.  The woman who would orchestrate the filling and giving of food baskets that the church group took out each Thanksgiving weekend.  The woman that would sit down and play a game of Wahoo even if she was exhausted from cooking all day.  The woman who loved me, loved me better than anyone else in the family.  My mom.  I miss my mom.

No, I am not in denial. I do remember the many, many, many Thanksgivings that ended with me in tears, mom yelling, kids melting down, guilt laden accusation, squabbles, silences, chilly looks… feeling guilty for leaving daddy behind to suffer alone with her….

But I also remember the love.  I have to remember the love.  I HAVE TO REMEMBER THE LOVE.  It’s hard to explain the two sides to my grief.  The two sides to  my memories.  I am a literal mask of one side happy, one side sad… a drama mask of pain…

imagesHow in the world am I going to sit with my family at the dinner table and act normal?  I have got to start stuffing these feelings back down or I am not going to make it till tonight!  I can’t drown right now.  I have things to do, people to take care of… I can’t drown… I Can’t Drown!!

Why can’t I write a decent post on how much I love MOM?? Why can’t I sit and think of just the good and not be flooded with hurt and pain? ANGER?!?!

This is not the way this was supposed to go.  This was not the words I was supposed to say.

This is not a reprieve.  This is torture.  This is just me…  This is just how life will be for a while, I suppose.

The walking wounded… The “Poor little Robyn” that precedes me and follows me everywhere I go…

I don’t want to become a repellant.  I don’t want people to see me coming and start running the other way, running in fear that I will jabber like the Mad Hatter… crazy maniacal laughter, crazy rambling thoughts of mom… both good and bad.. all mixed into the pot that is my damaged brain… like a bad, goopy mess.

So today, I will fix the chink in my armor.  Glue it back with crazy glue, and I will function… Cause that’s all I can do, right?  That’s all I can do.

Bless you, my friends.

 

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You know something is very, very wrong… when you have to force your foot onto the brake of your car…. rather than plow head first into a “Dead End” on a dirt road.

I sat there for probably 10 minutes… dirt catching up with my car and flying on passed into that big black and yellow sign. I cried, screamed, hit the steering wheel… chastised myself for being such a coward. Told myself I wasn’t even good at killing myself.. I am a complete failure at being a failure. I probably wasn’t even going fast enough.. I would have just damaged my car and never have hurt myself.

Such a loser at being a failure.

I am a mess. I am  a complete book of undiagnosed psychological disorders. I would be a case study for at least a small junior college psychology class.
Depression, Grief, Bi-Polar, Anxiety, Suicidal, Co-Dependant Survivor, Sex Addict, Control Freak, Insomnia, PTSD, Abuse Survivor, Shop Lifter, Liar….
And probably some schizophrenia… in there to.

I don’t know who I am without my mom here to tell me.  I don’t know who I am without that person here to affirm my place. To validate my day-to-day existence. Who AM I??? Who AM I???

She has been gone a month now, and this feeling of “Ok, its been nice… but I’m ready for you to come back now” is overwhelming! I’m ready for her to return from her long trip so she can tell me that I did a good job… that everything will be ok now, that it will all go back to normal, test over.. I, at least, did a fair job… show me the areas that i need to improve. Show me how she would have done things differently, better, how I can learn from this…

I am scared I am going to return back to old ways. Everytime I pulled away from mom… I went spiralling out of control. I became this dirty, horrible, ugly person that did bad, ugly things. I stole things, married a jerk, lied, cheated, drank, had sex with random strangers… all to fill that void that was left after having mom say she was “disappointed in me” after we had a fight or argument… After she found out something bad about me… I always filled that void..
Now I can’t. NOW I CAN”T….

I have others to think of. I can’t drink, it bothers my son; I can’t have random sex, that would kill my sweet boyfriend; I can’t steal… I would go to jail… I can’t talk to anyone… or they will all know… they will all know… they will ALL know…
I have kept things inside and hidden for so long. I have always hidden who I am, from mom. I have ALWAYS been her “sweet baby” Her baby… HER BABY… nobody elses… HERS
 She OWNED me.. she pruned me, shaped me… gave birth to me to be HER child, her baby.. her perfect child… and I fell right in step beside her. Everytime I pulled away as a child I was spanked unmercifully with a belt.. everytime I argued with her… everytime I stepped out of line just for a second I was spanked and slapped and hit and told how bad I was… how I would mind her… Mind her, Mind her… MIND HER…

I minded her for 39 years.
 I was a good little girl. I did what I was told, I let her control every little thing in my life… i lied to her over stupid things.. just because I knew she would not like them.. I Lied, I Lied.. I am good at lying.. I am the best. Now I lie to everyone about how I am…
“I’m fine”, “I’m ok”, “oh, you know.. it’s hard, I miss her, but she’s in a better place now”….

Fuck that!!! I am PISSED!
 How dare she micro manage me, guilt trip me, control me, force me, teach me, preen me, build me up, knock me down, belittle me, control me, control me, CONTROL my EVERY MOVE… and then just LEAVE me?!?!?! How dare she do that to me?!?! How dare she leave me to flounder and drown? How dare she teach me to only swim with her help and then take away my life preserver?!?!

HOW DARE SHE???

I need counseling, I know I need help. I worry that opening up that door and telling everything to a complete  stranger will start me back on that self soothing road… that’s where I learned to steal, thats where I started to spin out of control with drinking, how I learned to go to the bar at 4:30 on a Wednesday afternoon and there was always a horny business man ready for a romp in the parking lot. Hot, stinky breath whispering “Who’s your daddy?” “what a beautiful little girl you are”, stupid Mother Fuckers never  realized that if I was just 1/10th less human I would have killed him at the exact moment he came… But I only smile sweetly and tell him my fake name and I will see him next week. Never to return…

How do i go back to the point of being as raw as hamburger meat… a walking, bleeding, wound for a whole week, while someone the same age as me with only 20 more college hours than me, discusses this messed up client at cocktail parties and in bed with her husband… How do I do that?!?! it’s not judgement… it’s a good story… but how do i know that someone else is out there judging my mom? Me?? My mom was a good lady, she did lots of things for other people in the community… But the mom I saw at home was so different, I always had to remind myself how wonderful she was.. If I start tearing her apart in counseling.. will that mean I am no longer a good daughter? Her “Sweet Baby?”

The Dead End sign was staring back at me. I could turn left and go away from my kids and life.
I could turn Right and head back towards everyone who loves and needs me.

Or I could back my car up, and try it again….

I chose Right…. I think.

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