It's been awhile since I last wrote--one, because I was busy and two, because I've been in a weird place... mentally. A lot of changes are coming my way and I don't do well with change. In one of my many therapy sessions it was made clear that I fear change because changes have not been good ones in the past. I associate change with loss and instability. Stability being my #1 priority in life.
I am trying desperately to observe the feelings that are coming up for me without letting them drag me down into depression, which is a state that feels comfortable to me. I get depressed and I know it's bad to give in but then I go into this defensive, "I don't give a f***" zone and do it anyway. Now though, I have my son to think about and so it's not like I can just lie around feeling sorry for myself. I have to do better because he deserves better.
I'm actually doing pretty well. I think with the new year, I have new hopes and new resolutions. One resolution being to let go and let God. I know that I need these changes because I don't want another year like the last in that I'm stagnant and it's ridiculously clear that I'm not living up to my potential. Happiness does not grow in a place like that and I am determined to find my happiness again.
I did a vision board to try and motivate me and I have a new mantra, "I'm a closer". I like it because it's powerful and it's something that was true of me once. I'd like it to be true again.
On my board, I have "parties" but it's just that I like to throw parties but I have shied away from entertaining in the past. Hopefully, one day, that will change. Oh and I know I have the no OCD right under Mr. Clean, but what I want is a clean home without feeling like cleaning rules me.
I'm still working on my board but it's been good because it really makes you focus on what you want for your future. You may think you know but then sit down to do and go blank. I'd suggest everyone try it.
I remember sitting at the edge of a fountain once, when I was a kid. I dipped my feet in and swirled them in circles, creating waves. As I watched, I felt like I was floating away. I liked that feeling very much.
I was too young to think of where I was going or why I wanted to go. My thoughts weren't so heavy back then. All I knew was that I wanted to go away. It is a profound memory of mine. Thinking back on how young I was at the time, I think what a sad thought it was for a child to have.
Unfortunately, the thought of "away", and whatever that means, never left me.
When I was in my teens, I started having thoughts of jumping out of moving cars. I'd imagine myself hopping out and then running like the wind...away. It was a really freeing thought.
I don't really know if these thoughts are "normal" because no one talks about these things. Maybe they should though because there's freedom in that too. Maybe if we didn't keep these things to ourselves, we'd all realize that we're not alone. Then maybe I wouldn't feel the need to go away.
How Different My Life Would Have Been Had Pirates Been Popular When I Was Little
0 comments at Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Be honest, I got ya interested with that title huh? Well, please read on because this is a tale of warning for all the kids who don't listen and the parents who don't force their kids to do what's best for them.
Basically, I had a lazy eye when I was a kid and was supposed to wear a patch over my good eye in order to strengthen the weaker eye. Patch, Pirate, get it now? Well, of course, no kid wants that target on their back and so I didn't wear it and my parents didn't make me either.
Thus, I am now legally blind in one eye and have migraines because that eye strains so hard to see. Turns out, that's the good news. The bad news, is that I have floaters that have floated down into my main field of vision, in my "good" eye. Then, yesterday, I went in because I am finding it hard to even read now and was told that surgery is too risky being that I only have the one eye that I see out of.
So, this is it. Apparently, I have to live with this, not knowing if I'll be able to read much longer because the floaters are only getting worse, not better like they act like they might. To some this might not even be a big deal, I guess, but I love to read. I love being on the computer and was just thinking of going back to school. It's a hard pill to swallow.
This leads me to why I chose the picture I did. That's me, when I was little. It's one of the few pics of me with my coke bottle glasses and where you can see my burn. It's a picture I think of often and it makes me sad. I just want to grab that girl, with all her problems, and hold her. Life's already been so hard for that girl and it doesn't get too much easier.
I wish this story had, or should I say has, a happy ending. I guess we shall see...bad choice of words.
I've been thinking about going back to school to get my Doctorate. It's a tough decision because I'm 32 now and feel like things have changed a lot since I was in school. I don't want to be the only person who prefers using paper over laptops, that sort of thing.
That, and I'm worried I wouldn't be able to keep up. I mean I'm a pretty intelligent person, but there's a whole mind set to being in school and learning under those conditions. I feel like my mind turned to mush after I walked out of school doors for the last time.
Still, I feel like I need to do it. When I first graduated, I thought I would take a short break and go back. Years have passed and it was okay because I told myself I wanted to be at home when I had kids. Now, I've had my son and think I might be done having kids. So, I'm left wondering what I will do when he goes off to school.
I am working on-line and have a pretty sweet gig being able to be home and enjoy my son. I just can't help but feel like I'm denying my potential. What kind of message is that to send to my son? I want him to be proud of me. I want to be proud of myself.
Please feel free to share your stories. I can't be the only one in this position.
Last night I dreamt about spiders and that wasn't so important as was the thought, within my dream, that I felt like I react to spiders like I do my mother. I woke, not knowing what that meant. All I did know was that I don't like spiders and I try to avoid them. So, before I got up and around, I stopped to reflect on why I would be having these same thoughts about my mom.
The thing about my mom is that she wasn't raised with a lot of affection and so she didn't give a lot. This didn't matter too much to me because I was very affectionate and would go to her when she didn't come to me. It wasn't until I got older that I resented that fact.
What I resent even more, however, is that my mom's side of the family is made up of a bunch of recluses who don't leave the house unless they have to. So, as a child, my mom never made an effort to do things with me. We never went to the park, except for the time when we were homeless and lived there. Which makes it understandable that, under the circumstances of our life at the time, fun wasn't her main priority.
Anyway, I don't like to think about these things because I know she did the best she could and I don't see the point to dwelling on it. However, I feel like I can't run from these things either and when they come up as they did in the dream, I think I need to face the truth of the situation that is my past.
So, after this soul searching, I naturally came to the conclusion that the dream wasn't telling me I needed to bash my mom. but it was warning me not to make these mistakes with my son. I say naturally because I let my mind wander and when I hit upon this conclusion, it felt right.
Being my mother's daughter, I am prone to wanting to be a home-body. This week, especially, was hard for me to get motivated and I didn't take the interest in my son that I should have. This dream was my wake up call. I believe we get several of these and, if we don't listen, then I think the world does something drastic to make us listen. I don't want that to happen and so it's time to get off my butt.
So I talked about my struggles now, It's time to talk about my goals.
To give you an idea of what I'm working with, here is a picture of me (in black) back in the day:
And as much as I hate to even show this, here is me now:
It's not that I expect to look like I did when I was young, though it would be nice. I will settle for being healthy and more energetic for my baby's sake. I especially don't want him to have the same eating habits I have now. So, that's it. I have to make a change for both my baby and myself.
Here's the plan in it's simplest form:
I have lost 5 pounds since I started working out 4 weeks ago now. Hey, it's something and I'm pretty happy about it given that I've been really pushing myself.
While I would like to say the 45 pounds I've gained since I met my husband is pregnancy weight, that would be a long pregnancy. Truth is, I've been steadily gaining over the last 8 years. It was mostly due to circumstances and ignorance in the beginning.
I'd always been smaller, not super "skinny" but happy with my weight; but I was also very active and worked at it. Then, we moved to a place with a gym, but didn't find out until it was too late that nothing in the gym actually worked. So, rather than join a gym, I told myself I could maintain my weight without working out. Turns out I was sorely mistaken.
Once I started gaining, I got depressed about it and ate as a means of soothing myself and it turned into this vicious cycle that I would have never believed I would be in.
I stayed at 160 for a long time, and I swore I'd never get bigger, but then I got pregnant. Now, I'm 10 pounds heavier than I was before I got pregnant and it has absolutely nothing to do with the baby weight. I actually did better when I was pregnant than I normally do. I only gained 35 lbs. I ate right, drank tons of water, and all that jazz. I then lost the weight I'd gained pretty immediately after having my 10 pound baby.
The problem is that I wasn't expecting to lose it that fast and it tricked my mind into thinking I had super metabolism. So I ate all the things I denied myself. I am definitely paying for the bad choices I made, but I'm finally taking steps towards rectifying the situation. My husband and I both joined a gym with a daycare for the babe. It's been 3 weeks now and let me tell you, I feel great.
The changes are small at this point; but for the first time in a very, very long time, I feel truly hopeful.
Just when you think I can't possibly have any other major issues in my life, I assure you I can. When I was 3 years old, I was burned by coffee. The water had just been boiled and the cup sat on the kitchen table. In the one second my mom's head was turned, I climbed up and grabbed it. 1st, 2nd, and 3rd degree burns were the result.
Luckily, my burns are not on my face and can be hidden with clothing. When I was really young, the scars didn't bother me, but somewhere in middle school, kids started making comments and I started hiding.
For a very long time, no one ever saw me in short-sleeved shirts. When I was 21, I actually tattooed over a large portion of the scars. The portion covered, however, is not the portion someone could even see in short-sleeved shirts. I did it, mostly, so that I could feel comfortable in bathing suits.
This was not a decision supported by my family but they don't know what it's like to walk in this skin. Tattoos, to them, are scarring the body, but my body was already scarred. All I could hope to accomplish was to make my scars more attractive to the eye.
Now, I know there's going to be people out there who think I should just accept myself for who I am and all that jazz. I say that's great, absolutely, do that if you can. For me, this was my attempt to make lemonade out of lemons. The burns are still there, but I feel better about them and I don't see any harm in that approach. That same theory could easily be applied to plastic surgery. The hope is a person won't go overboard with it and change everything about themselves, but I don't think everything has to be so serious. If bigger breasts or a smaller nose makes you feel better, then it doesn't have to be the biggest deal in the world.
Now, again, a person should try and love themselves and shouldn't try and be something they're not, but some changes can be good. My tattoos do make me feel more confident and I feel good about the choice. If it's not for you, then I respect that. I will say, I don't know if it was the tattoos or just getting older, but I am not in hiding anymore.
In fact, whenever people from my past see pics of me today, they all remark on how strange it is to see me in short-sleeves. It's funny because I've come so far from that time in my life, that I didn't even remember I'd ever hidden my scars.
Depression is something that effects so many. I know I've suffered from it as most people in my life have as well. My family, specifically, have had a long running history of severe depression. Four members of my family have been committed, two of which died in asylums. On top of that, I am one of the few of us who have not tried to commit suicide. In `96 my half brother succeeded.
Unfortunately, I had been living in a different state for 5 years and hadn't seen him in that time. Our relationship was always strained though because his mother, my dad's ex, and my dad didn't get along. It wasn't until after their son's death that they buried the hatchet. It's a shame it took something so devastating, but it happens all the time...sadly.
My brother (10 years older than me) had just had major brain surgery, was going through an ugly divorce and his wife was threatening to take the kids. Life definitely looked bleak, no doubt about that.
I still fight with depression now and then and fear I will always; but I know, from having been on this side of things, that suicide is not the answer. I have seen my brother's kids sparsely over the years. His wife did take the kids and left. They know little of who their father was as a result of not having his side of the family be more of a presence in their lives. That, to me is so devastatingly sad. It is, however, the chance that my brother took when he made the choice he did.
I always felt bad because my dad had told me he was depressed and asked me to talk to him, but I was 18 and had no idea what to tell him other than "join the club". I think because I was depressed too and felt his pain, I took his death hard. That, and I felt so much for my dad. It was one of the few times I ever saw my dad break down; not just cry, but really fall apart. Now that I have a son of my own, I can't imagine the pain he was feeling. Nor can I imagine not being able to see my kid grow up, which is something my brother wasn't able to do.
In lieu of all this, I would plead with anyone who's suffering, please talk to someone. If that person doesn't listen, keep talking. There is help out there.
In my last post I mentioned that my mother had been abused. Over the years, I've talked in great depth to my mother and father on the subject as they were both open to discussion.
My father went into a type of recovery from alcoholism when I was around 14. When I say recovery, I mean our life circumstances changed dramatically and he gave up the boozin' and thus stopped the abuse.
From those years on, life was fairly good I'd say. Once that happened, my parents shared alot about their lives with me. I found out my dad was abused as a kid and he watched his father abuse his mother. This is a story we hear all the time. Patterns do repeat.
My mom didn't have a father figure and so she sought out acceptance and love in the wrong places. She didn't know she deserved better. I know there may be a lot of people who would judge both, but unless you've been in the situation, you really shouldn't.
It's not to say people get a free pass because they had hardships growing up, but it's like Oprah says, "When you know better, you'll do better". You'd be fooling yourself to say that what happens in our childhoods don't affect our adult lives.
Once I understood where my parents came from I could see them as human and humans make mistakes. The one thing I always had in my life, as crazy as it was, was love. I knew my parents loved me. I think that, without it, I wouldn't have turned out as good as I did.
Talking about marriage, along with compromise, honesty is by far one of the most important factors to a successful relationship. I've been thinking about honesty a lot lately in trying to analyze myself and what's important to me. Honesty has, in my adult life, been of the utmost importance to me. When I was a kid, I lied alot, but every night I would come and confess these lies along with whatever else I felt bad about to my mom.
I wondered for a long time why I did that because my family wasn't Catholic, not even religious really. Then, pretty recently, I was talking to my therapist about it and she linked it to my OCD by saying that confessing made me feel clean. I need to feel clean, that's big for me and so for her to link that together just made so much sense.
Now, I know what you're thinking, you hear clean and you think I feel dirty therefore I was probably sexually assaulted. This is not the case. If it were, I would admit to it. I might as well, I'm admitting to everything else. My OCD, in general, isn't something I share with a lot of people.
I don't know where this idea of dirty/clean came from and why it plays such a role in my life. I do, however, know that honesty was something my mom put a lot of value on. If you were dishonest she would be disappointed and I never wanted my parents to be disappointed in me. I think this was because they fought alot and I always, to this day, think I caused a lot of it. It's crazy to me that I still think that because I know better, but that kid inside me still doesn't.
To be disappointing, to be a problem, in our already chaotic life was something I tried so hard to avoid. I wanted to be good and I think I was a good kid, comparatively. Oddly enough the good kid never gets the attention, not with a troubled rebel as a sibling. I understand it, why my sister acted out, why my parents had to give her more attention, why the good kid gets pushed to the background, and yet it still sucks.
Life is so much about those realizations that life just isn't fair.
Today, is my father's b-day. Next month, it will be two years since he's been gone. Immediately after, I could have sworn it would never get better. I didn't know how people went on with their lives after losing someone so close. I didn't care about anything else. I would go out in public and breakdown and I didn't care who saw me. It was like I was in my own world.
I remember it took me about five months before I was able to talk about him without crying. I could even laugh at old stories of him. Still, the first year was definitely the hardest. I had a hard time accepting the idea that he wasn't coming back. I'd have thoughts like "I need to tell Dad that' or "I should call Dad". Once I even thought I saw him, I mean really saw him. It's when the reality hits that you can't call or that it's just a stranger who resembles him, that's the hardest part.
Now, I still think of him everyday and I know I will continue to for the rest of my life. Though the pain is there, it has dulled. Just like they say, time heals all. Of course, just because the wound has healed doesn't mean that it doesn't still hurt or that there aren't scars.
I hope that this helps those who are grieving. I know that after I lost my dad, I wanted to know that I wasn't alone and I needed to know what to expect. I guess I needed hope that things would get better and I'm here to tell you that they do. Just hang in there.
I started keeping a dream journal when I was 12. I had a dream so realistic and so disturbing that I wrote it down and hid it like a secret. I knew then that dreams were important. They could affect you. In fact, I still remember that dream vividly, 18 years later.
It was the beginning of a 10 year stretch of time in which 90% of my dreams were nightmares. I'm talking a lot of dreams too because I typically remember 3 a night. Believe me, they were easy to remember. I am not exaggerating either. I actually went and cataloged my dreams, titling them, numbering them, and categorizing them so that I could get a better idea of how serious the problem was.
The majority of my nightmares were split between my being chased by a killer, a monster, or dogs. I am terrified of dogs and I had been studying serial killers from the age of 13, so it made sense that they may play parts in my nightmares. Monsters were a rarity and probably slipped in there because I was young. The other main component in my dreams was that someone would always be around, see what was going on and sometimes I'd even go to them for help but they never would do anything. I was always ignored.
The obvious answer being that I'm afraid of these things so I have nightmares about them and that maybe I have issues with feeling ignored in my life. I knew that it meant something more than that and that once I figured it out and did something about it, the dreams would cease. Like I said, it took 10 years, but I finally did it.
Turned out that my nightmares were all about a feeling of being out of control. That's actually why I fear dogs in real life, because I can't control them. They're driven by something primal, something I can't understand or reason with. They can turn on you at anytime and that scares me.
I figured that part out pretty early on. That's why I stress that you don't only have to understand why you're having the dreams but that you also need to do something about it. It wasn't until I did something about these control issues that the nightmares stopped.
Once I became more in control of my life, I still had similar dreams but when someone would chase me, I would turn it around on them. I know I had one dream where I stopped running, turned on the guy and lit him on fire with a blow torch. It was brutal but so empowering. I can't even tell you how good it felt to not be afraid anymore.
At the end of May, it will have been 2 years since my father passed. A year before that my grandmother had passed. It was at that same time that my grandmother was sick that my father fell ill, but we were so concerned with my grandmother dying that we didn't give my dad the attention that he needed. The doctors were just telling us my dad had a pneumonia. We had no idea how serious it was.
Four months later, we learned it was actually cancer. All I could think was that I hoped his heart was strong enough for him to have it removed because he'd had 3 heart attacks. The reality of it was that, by the time they found it, the cancer had spread throughout his body and there would be no removal. In fact, he was so far along that the doctors didn't even suggest chemo. I had never felt so helpless.
Still, I had great hope. I spoke to my dad about the blessings in his life. I told him that all we learned was that he wouldn't live forever and we knew that, but that he could have years left. I prayed every night and I visualized the cancer leaving his body. I actually convinced myself that if anyone could fight it, it would be my dad. He was, after all, the strongest person I know. In my mind he was invincible.
It was just as I'd learned with Elizabeth Kubler-Ross' 5 Stages of grief. After denial, there was an anger in me like nothing I'd experienced. I tried desperately to channel those feelings into something positive. I started painting my basement. We had planned on completely re-doing the walls before painting and so it wasn't a good idea and I knew it. I just needed to keep busy, to keep my mind off of what was happening. One day my husband questioned why I was doing it, and it sent me into an utter rage. I didn't want to tell him why. I didn't want to talk about it at all.
Bargaining came next. Once you realize the reality of the situation, there's a desperation. You start offering anything you can to try and persuade God to change the inevitable. It's a sad state of being. A different kind of sad than the next stage, "depression". Depression makes the most sense given the situation.
Acceptance, now that's the hard one. I'm still working on that one.
My Grandfather died when I was 9. A year later, my grandmother followed. Those were my first experiences with loss. It felt like a huge thing at the time. Then, in my teen years, I lost two friends and my half brother all on separate occasions. It made a hard and confusing time in my life even harder and more confusing.
However, nothing compares to the pain of losing my father. He was the planet around which my life orbited. After I lost him, I fell apart. I told my husband that if our life together was a plant, it would die because I couldn't water it at that time. So, my husband started bringing me cacti. That's the type of man my husband is.
After four months, he became so concerned about me that he asked me to go talk to someone and I did. A third therapist, another woman, supposedly specializing in grief counseling. First thing she did was ask me to write my father a letter talking to him about any unresolved issues. Well, that was fine and good but when my father died, it was of cancer and not a heart attack like we'd all prepared ourselves for. So, my dad actually had nine months before he passed and we'd said everything we needed to. Still, I wrote a letter saying good-bye. I don't know how helpful it was but it didn't hurt.
In the next sessions, my husband joined me for support. The therapist started telling us we needed to get passed the pain. I thought it was too soon to tell me to get over it. I was no where near ready. In fact, it's almost been 2 years and I still don't know if I'm ready. The point being that I didn't think she should tell me when I'm ready. What I wanted from her was someone to listen. I wanted my first therapist, "the wall". Turns out he did have a function.
While my husband and I were seeing my third therapist, we got pregnant. It was our first, after years of trying and we were ecstatic. I thought this was surely God's gift to us to help us move passed the grief. I was wrong. We lost our baby a of couple months in. I can't even describe the anger that I felt.
Throughout my father's whole ordeal, I'd managed to keep my faith. When I lost my baby though, I lost my faith and I cursed God. It's not something I'm proud of. I just felt so lost. I couldn't wrap my brain around the dreaded "why?" question.
Fortunately, we got pregnant again 3 months later and we now have a healthy baby boy. My faith is restored. I know that I am blessed.
T his was my first experience with a therapist:
... my father had his third heart attack and was told that he wouldn't have long to live. I became extremely depressed. So, I started going to a therapist myself. It was nothing like I'd expected. There was no lying on a couch, crying, while being asked questions about my childhood. In fact, there wasn't much to it at all. The guy that I saw barely said anything to me. I felt like I was talking to a wall. He did, however, send me to a psychiatrist who pumped me full of meds that made me start hallucinating that people were attacking me. When I told the guy, he actually advised me to stay on them. There I was, seeing people run at me, defending myself against people that did not exist, and he tells me it's okay.Needless, to say, but I stopped seeing both the therapist and the psychiatrist.
The next therapist I saw was a woman. I told her up front that I didn't like that my previous therapist didn't talk and that he put me on meds as an answer to my problem. She then assured me that she would be different. Well, she was and she wasn't. She did talk more but then she slowly convinced me to go back on medication. To her defense, the drugs helped; but I made a very common mistake.
After I started feeling better, I thought great! I can stop taking the pills and I don't need to see a therapist anymore. Turns out it was the pills that were making me feel better and when I put a halt to them, my happiness halted as well. Things got better with my dad though and so I decided to let it go.
The whole thing left a bad taste in my mouth because, even though I was feeling better, I didn't think psychology should be about handing off pills to everyone who walks through the door. I would have much rather had a therapist talk me through the emotions so that I could deal with these types of things better in the future as well.
Turns out I really needed that because when I finally lost my dad, I completely fell apart. My husband was so concerned that he asked me to go see someone and I did. A third therapist, another woman, supposedly specializing in grief counseling. First thing she did was ask me to write my father a letter talking to him about any unresolved issues. Well, that was fine and good but when my father died, it was of cancer and not a heart attack like we'd all prepared ourselves for. So, my dad actually had nine months before he passed and we'd said everything we needed to. Still, I wrote a letter saying good-bye.
In the next sessions, my husband joined me for support. The therapist started telling us we needed to get passed the pain. At only 4 weeks since we'd lost him, I thought it was soon to tell me to get over it. I was no where near ready. In fact, it's almost been 2 years and I still don't know if I'm ready. The point being that I didn't think she should tell me when I'm ready. What I wanted from her was someone to listen. I wanted my first therapist, "the wall". Turns out he did have a function.
In summary, I haven't had the greatest experiences with the therapists that I've seen. However, I do still believe in therapy. I know there has to be some good ones out there. I'd love to hear your experiences with therapists.
W hen I originally decided on psychology as a career path, my intentions were to become a profiler. Specifically, I wanted to work with serial killers. Mind you, I was 13 at the time and was sure that the world was black and white. Thus, I was fascinated with the idea of good and evil.
You can read what first inspired me here.
I was actually very passionate about psychology for years, right up until I was about half way through college. A few things happened at that point. One, I realized what college was really about. It wasn't caring people who wanted the best for me, teaching me the essentials to make sure I was the best psychologist I could be. Instead, college was a money making monster, doing the least amount of work possible to pump out degrees to anyone who paid their dues. I realize now that I was naive to have thought anything different.
Secondly, my father had his third heart attack and was told that he wouldn't have long to live. I became extremely depressed. So, I started going to a therapist myself. It was nothing like I'd expected. There was no lying on a couch, crying, while being asked questions about my childhood. In fact, there wasn't much to it at all. The guy that I saw barely said anything to me. I felt like I was talking to a wall. He did, however, send me to a psychiatrist who pumped me full of meds that made me start hallucinating that people were attacking me. When I told the guy, he actually advised me to stay on them. There I was, seeing people run at me, defending myself against people that did not exist, and he tells me it's okay.
Needless, to say, but I stopped seeing both the therapist and the psychiatrist. That experience along with my realizations about school, led to doubts about my career path and about everything I thought to be true.
Finally, I met the man who would become my husband. This was ultimately the deciding factor for me because I never wanted to have a career and a family. It was always one or the other in my mind because I didn't think I could be great at both. It's like how medical doctors nurse you to health, but tend to be unhealthy themselves because they're so over-worked and stressed. How was I supposed to go deal with life's "monsters" during the day and come home to be sane enough to raise a mentally healthy family? I don't know, maybe there are people who do it, but I didn't want to take a chance.
When I met the man I knew I was fated to be with, at the time in which I was doubting my other path, I took it as a sign and a blessing. It's been 9 years since then and we now have a beautiful 6 month old son. I know I made the right choice for me.
