Monthly Archives: April 2012

Missing Person

I really wanted to get a new post up this week because I’ve got a lot to say and no place to really say it. For example, I’m so ashamed that I can’t tell my therapist about my latest “tryst” with the man who was old enough to be my father. I’m not so much ashamed because of his age, but the circumstances were all wrong and I have no real defense, only an answer to the question, “Why?” I’m having a battle with what shall hereto be referred as the Food Monster. I don’t eat when I’m depressed, but I make myself eat usually a bunch of carbohydrates because my body craves quick energy to prevent me from literally passing out. Carbs are addictive. That old ad slogan, “Nobody can eat just one” was the truth! Potatoes, from which potato chips are made, are carbohydrates. The more you eat, the more you want to eat. Sugar is also addictive because it is also a carbohydrate. So, the Pierre’s Spumoni and Pierre’s Cinnamon ice creams that call my name each night get me eating what should be a little bit, but ends up being more than a little bit. Then, I hate myself because I’ve given in to the Food Monster.

I don’t remember what day it was last week, but I think it was the one where I had the disgusting encounter, I tried to put on a pair of pants that fit just days ago. However, because I’d eaten, the pants were too tight. Mind you, this happened in less than a week. If I could figure out my menstrual cycle, the difference might be explained by water retention. However, after a little over a year of keeping track of my cycles, and after three months of not having a period, I gave up. There were other things I could do with my time. The chances of me running across a “baby daddy” in the near future are remote. That’s several more posts alone. I’ll deal with that another night.

The point is, I have so thoroughly fucked up my metabolism that the only way to lose weight is by eating more or less nothing. I’ve been toying with going against several doctors’ advice and exercising. Understandably, they’re all concerned that if I manage to hurt myself, they won’t necessarily know how to fix me. The surgeon who performed my knee replacement is definitely a star already and getting to be more of one as time flies. I don’t remember his exact words, but they went something like this: “If Humpty Dumpty falls, I can’t promise I can put him back together again.” That kinda made me swallow hard. I know cutters. They have egos bigger than my house and if several of them say the same thing, then I’d better listen up. About the only thing I can get them to agree to is water therapy. I’m going to have to get another referral since I’ve misplaced the original, but there’s a heck of a great water therapy facility I’d like to try. My problem then becomes one of how to keep the liquid in my body from pouring out of my body at an inopportune time. Sorry for the ewwy imagery, but the truth is the light. Swimming pools make me have to pee and that means I have to rush, thereby risking injury should I slip and fall because I wasn’t careful.

It was a particularly sad day for me today. I got some paperwork mom’s lawyer sent over for my signature as well as the signature of her three brothers. I know that Mom didn’t mean to do this, but she left her youngest brother out of her will. None of them will get anything anyway because I’m alive. However, I don’t want David, who’s always said my mother and their oldest brother favored the middle brother, to feel left out AGAIN, so I told him that he had to sign as well. Fortunately, sloppy lawyering on the part of my mother’s attorney made the white lie pass the “smell test.” The lawyer relied on his memory instead of looking at the will itself and put David’s signature line in the way it should have been in the first place. However, he left another person out because he forgot that I’d told him she’d reached the age of majority only a few weeks prior to Mom’s passing.

My point is that, yes, David is right. She’ll take her middle brother’s side over darn near everyone else, including me. She did so even when I was being verbally attacked by him in my own house over some shit he thought I’d said. Mom was sitting right in the middle of this and said she didn’t hear anything. She’s taken loans against life insurance policies where I’m the beneficiary for him and she’s placed a second mortgage on the house largely because of him. For the first time, I am truly afraid that I will lose this house because I can’t find insurance that pays off the mortgage or even establish that she had such a policy that was active when she died. I’ve found one that the company says lapsed, but I can’t see my mother doing that unless there was some financial benefit. So, I get to look through all her check copies post-2009. The reason being that the bank will tell me nothing without a court order. That’s where we get back to getting the paperwork signed by the brothers and two of my cousins. This is also where we get back to the problem of my mother putting not only her youngest brother behind the middle one, but me as well. I begged and pleaded with her not to take a second mortgage, especially one that I couldn’t pay if she died. I even threw a hissy fit in the loan officer’s office for making a predatory loan to an old woman left behind somewhere in the 1960s or 70s. Sure enough, I’m screwed, in all probability.

Finances and will aside, I just miss my mom. That’s the center of it all; I miss my mom. I go to sleep and wake up and she’s not here. For a minute or two, sometimes more, sometimes less, I forget that she’s not here and ask if she’d mind taking the dogs out for me. My little spoiled “Brat,” (as I’ll refer to her here) came to us with a horrid urinary tract infection that has cost me over $200 to clear up. I’m still not completely sure it’s gone, but the odds are fairly good that it is. My “B&W child” now has a bad ear infection that may or may not have damaged her ear drum. The tissue is so swollen that the vet can’t get a scope in there to look around. Then, through my own negligence, we got off-schedule with her meds and I have to start all over again. I hated seeing that sad little black and white face and not be able to do more. B&W and Brat got into it for unknown reasons except that Brat may have believed that being on the grooming table was some sign of weakness OR, more likely, she was jealous because I lifted B&W onto the table where, in Brat’s mind, I don’t carry/hold her nearly enough. You have to understand that Brat and B&W are both little foundlings. B&W was found by my mother traipsing through snow that was far taller than she was, about to get mowed down by a vehicle of some sort. The decision to keep Brat was more or less mutual, but Mom let me make the final decision. It didn’t take me long to decide to keep her. She has a face that’s so ugly she’s adorable. She’s also extremely intelligent and is of like mind as my middle child, B&T (for black and tan). Both of them have larcenous hearts and I love watching them plan how they’re going to pull off their next caper. I thought Brat would be my mother’s dog/puppy (we think she was about nine months old when we got her), but she chose me. I don’t mind at all.

We all miss my mother. Maybe I’m projecting my feelings onto them, but I know that B&T was far more quiet than usual. She’s usually just a big kid. Today and tonight, she was depressed. I think I spent most of my time today either on the phone or giving love to and soaking up love from my girls. My mother wasn’t perfect as either a person or a mother. In fact, an argument could be made that she was not emotionally equipped to be a mother because she hadn’t confronted her demons and tried to pass them along to me. She did pass some of them to me, unfortunately. However, she also passed along a love of learning, especially history and anthropology. She taught me to love birdwatching, something I do in the backyard with relish. I love animals, that was her doing as well. Finally, but no less importantly, she taught me the love of family, even if there were, and are, times when that love was a horrible perversion. I wish that she’d passed on her artistic talents because I’m not even a mediocre artist. In fact, I rather suck at it. If I happen to get even 10% of a subject right, believe me, it was by mistake.

I am so torn. I want my mother back, but I also know, and have known since I was in my early teens, that the only way I’d have a life was when my mother passed on. This house holds a lot of very bad energy because evil took up residence here for over a decade in the form of my mother’s second husband. I understand through the grapevine that he nearly destroyed the next woman he married, too. I think that she also had fairly young children. I’d bet those kids, now adults, would have stories to tell that are very similar to my own. My question isn’t “Why did [the perpetrator(s)] do it?” Hell, that answer is fairly simple. They–he occasionally included his best friend–were in search of power and the only time they felt powerful was when they made children complicit in their own rape and/or molestation. No, my question is to the mothers: “Why did you let that bastard do this to us?!” My mother swore up and down that she didn’t know, but the evidence was there in front of her even if she didn’t want to see it. I’d made up my mind to forgive her and had planned to tell her the week she died. I hope enough of her essence was around when I held her beautiful, cold hand and said goodbye to hear that I forgave her.

I am trying so hard not to be angry with her anymore. I think what I feel these days is more pity than anger. She allowed one person into our lives who ruined both of us. We never recovered. She got angry with me for being angry with her all the time. According to her, I had no right to feel the way I felt. Hence, I had to cope real time with her emotional abuse as well as the mess that was left after being de-humanized, molested and then raped thanks to her choice. I get to be the bad guy here, too. In her mind, she was not only a victim of her husband, but the victim because I didn’t tell her. Well, duh, if your kid asks, begs and pleads with you on a DAILY basis before and after the marriage for about ten years to dump some guy, you bet your bippy something is wrong! But in her mind, she married that bastard because I needed a father. She forgets that her future hubby wasn’t the only man she dated, nor was his the only proposal she had. There was a really nice guy she was seeing who’d proposed, but he was between five and ten years younger. What would “people” think? Um, maybe they’d think she made a smart move by marrying a young, successful entrepreneur instead of the freakin’ mail man! Yet more stupid crap left over from an era that was long gone even in the 1960s that she held on to like a life preserver thrown to a drowning woman.

Breathe.

There’s no point in rehashing old arguments with a person who is no longer alive. I don’t miss arguing with her at all. I don’t miss the manipulation at all. I will be extremely glad when the real estate market recovers to the point I can sell this place and never have to set foot inside of it again. Honestly, I don’t wish the people or person who buys it any harm, but like I said, there’s a lot of negative energy in these walls. A good cleansing ritual might do some good.

ETA: a fair amount of exposition regarding Mom’s estate crap as well as info about her brothers, and; a lot of exposition about my mother’s abusive second husband.

Trippin’

There are days when life seems like someone’s dream. I understand Australian aboriginal societies view dreams as valid as anything they may experience while awake. That might explain why sleep is no respite. I’m angry with myself for having sex with a guy old enough to be my father, (not that that’s bothered me before, but I was younger then), and; for eating things I know are not good for me, although I have honestly tried to get better. I went from not eating for days until I felt so faint I could no longer walk to eating all of the things I know have a zillion calories and feeling like a pig who’s as big as a house. I keep asking myself and God, “When will this end?!” I can accept hurting myself by cutting or something, but I can’t accept myself if I eat, especially when I already feel horrible about my weight. There are days when I want to hide. In fact, for over a year, that’s exactly what I did. I hid. I’d only leave the house for doctors’ appointments. Even then, I hid myself under baggy clothing because I wanted so badly to be invisible.

Looking at the above as a complete outsider, I’d say that this chick needs some help. Yep, she does. She’s a hot mess. My therapist can only see me a couple of times a month because she doesn’t work full time. I don’t want to break in a new therapist, so I’m sticking with this one. Besides, she’s really good. I asked her if she treated people with eating disorders as we were walking to the door. She said that she didn’t treat eating disorders specifically, but has run into them in the course of treating other disorders. It’s essentially the same thing she said about another pathology with which I have to deal more and more often.

People don’t understand that cutting is not about attempting suicide at all. It’s the exact opposite. By cutting, the person can release some of the anger, pressure, stress that’s going on inside so that they can function. Another reason is that cutting or, in my case, burning, is the only way to express the intense pain felt. I burned myself nearly to the bone about a decade ago because I was dying inside. I wanted to scream, hit (inanimate) things and curl up in a tiny little ball forever. I desperately wanted someone to understand what I was going through and, at the same time, knew they wouldn’t. I just wanted someone to look my way and realize that I was at the end of my rope and needed help. No amount of cutting/burning would release enough pain to allow me to function, but I did want to function. The only reason I’d want to die was because no one would understand how hurt and devastated I was. It was Glenn who pushed me to the point where I wanted to die. That is, he and his buddies who decided it would be funny to hear some stupid, foolish, idiotic chick 500 miles away who’d had a 17-year relationship with him until he disappeared for two years, leaving said chick to discover she liked women a hell of a lot more than men, including Glenn, tell that rat bastard how much she loved him still, wanted to get back together and have him pretend it was within the realm of possibility. I think of what he did to me and I am still humiliated even though I shouldn’t be. If he had a conscience, Glenn would be the one who feels shame and humiliation. However, it seems he doesn’t and never will.

I’ve been told that I have to move past this–that Glenn’s threats against my life weren’t credible because he lives 500 miles away. They don’t know him like I know him. Five hundred miles is nothing for him. He used to drive that regularly to see me. He loves to drive. And if he chooses, he certainly has the means to hire someone to carry out his threats. Barring some monumental law enforcement fuck up, he’ll be the first person the authorities will look at. Since he would have had to cross state lines either to conspire or to have someone carry out the plot, it then becomes a federal crime. My lawyer thinks I’m diverting all my attention to him when I’m really grieving my mother. Hello! Ever heard of multitasking? Glenn can and will wait for years until his victim is most vulnerable and then strike. He’s already done it to me once. I’ve seen him do it to other people before as well. I only saw a glimpse of his dark side. It’s a place from which no light escapes, like a black hole in the center of his soul. With me, his chosen weapon was always the great mindfuck. I cannot begin to describe how much he hurt me until he finally decided he wouldn’t anymore and we became lovers, although he’s the one who had control. I guess he figured that there was something inside that was worth dealing with and needed a second, third and fourth look. What was going on is that I took a lot of body blows to my emotions and continued to love him, for better or worse.

Do I go to bed worried that I won’t wake up? No. Do I go to bed worried that my furbabies won’t have anyone to care for them if something happens to me? Damn straight I do! If it weren’t for them, I wouldn’t care who did what to me to end my life. I’m tired of living it myself. I want peace in death and a chance to come back one day in different circumstances. Then again, I wouldn’t get a chance to choose my life. That would be up to The Powers That Be. They could decide that I’m unworthy and put me in even more untenable circumstances always ending the same way. Eventually, I won’t want to come back. I’m almost to that point now. As I said, I’m tired.

How Do I Write This?

I sat in my living room, unmoving, for hours after feeding and watering the girls and taking some garbage out for pick-up Friday. I sat in what was my mother’s chair and didn’t even turn the television on. You see, I’d done something earlier in the day I didn’t plan, didn’t even think about, but ended up doing anyway.

I met a very nice, very intelligent man in his 70s or 80s some weeks ago. We talked for a while and enjoyed each other’s company. Thursday, I went back to the fast food restaurant looking for him. I only wanted someone to take my mind off of my own pain and try to help someone else with theirs. You see, he’d lost both is wife and then, late last year, his girlfriend. He and I understood each other’s pain and sorrow. He let me know the first time we met that he wanted me. I was flattered, but I wasn’t interested. Today, to my surprise, I did get interested. I needed to touch someone else’s soul and I most assuredly needed someone to touch mine. It was “shrink day,” and I didn’t feel all that much better after the session. In fact, I felt worse. It wasn’t the therapist’s fault. How can she understand in 50 minutes what has taken me someone else’s lifetime to understand about myself? That, and NO ONE will let me tell the whole story without interruption which leads to some tangent that’s important, but can wait until I finish my story. It’s involved, it doesn’t make a whole lot of sense when heard in pieces and I ask myself so many “whys” all the time. In fact, that’s one of my biggest problems: “Why?” It’s always been that way with me and I honestly don’t know how to change that or even if I want to do so.

I feel shame. I feel so fucking alone (no pun intended). I’m worse than I was before. I just needed someone so very much and he was there and offering, so to speak. He’s also the kind of man Mom wanted me to have before she knew I was mostly lesbian. (Don’t try to figure my sexuality. You’ll get a headache. Really.) She wanted me to settle down with a very nice older man who adored me and would let me be all of who I am. That “all of who I am” became more meaningful after my unashamed and unabashed love of women was confirmed. Mom wasn’t as old fashioned as I’d believed in that regard. She wasn’t at all happy when I told her. In fact, she bordered on, I thought, being a little bit peeved that liked women more than men. Her words were, “Hmph. I’m going to have to get used to this,” in a very grumpy voice. By that time, Daddy had died and I was spared the tiny possibility that he’d be upset. If anything, he wouldn’t have cared at all as long as I was happy. Actually, Mom and I were just about on the same page. However, while she read right to left, I read left to right. My mother would have me with a husband as a primary partner while I’d have a woman. I have loved more than one person at the same time and been loved by more than one person at the same time. If I’m really lucky, I’ll have the opportunity to do so again. To be honest, it would be much easier for me to give up men than for me to give up women. I think the latter would require severing a major part of who I am as a person. I don’t think that giving men up would do that, but it also wouldn’t be painless.

I thought my days of one night stands were over. I haven’t had one in so long that I can’t remember back that far. The reason this will be a one night stand is two-fold: I didn’t know I was going to take my clothes off in front of another person today and forgot that I’d left the house without putting any lotion on and without shaving those areas women tend to shave, and; I think we’re hopelessly sexually incompatible. He’s very old school Italian and I’m not. Men of a certain age think that women should orgasm with the wiggle of their fingers in certain places. It’s our own fault because we’ve faked orgasm so many times horrible lovers think their wonderful lovers. While I wouldn’t put him in the “horrible” category, it’s pretty damn close. Any time I can’t even make myself orgasm while with someone, then something is wrong. Then again, it could be my meds. Naah, while the meds don’t make orgasms easy at all, they haven’t stopped me from getting myself off either.

It really doesn’t matter how good or bad a lover this man was. What matters is that I feel shame, regret and dirty (in a negative way) about what I did. I do want that one, last, epic love affair and I don’t particularly care about what sex my lover is, although I honestly believe it will be a woman and not a man. I don’t want to be treated like a $10 whore getting it on in the back of my van. Those days should have been over when I left my teens, but we each had obstacles at home, although all mine were either paper, dust or had four legs. He’s a neat freak and this house is anything but right now. I never, ever should have allowed my need for some kind of solace to overshadow everything else. I think I just want to forget. I think that’s the only way I won’t feel like a $10 whore. Just forget.

I forgot to mention that I’m really having trouble eating. I’ll order something and not want it when it gets here or I’ll make a sandwich and only eat half of it. Then, I get dizzy during the day and have to stop and eat just to go on, all the while hating that I’m eating. The question popped into my head while writing, “Do I cut or do I stop eating? That is the question.” Even I have to admit that things are not getting better, at least they weren’t today. Maybe something will make tomorrow bearable. A cousin I’ve never met but have spoken with dozens of times is in town for a convention. We’re going to compare family history notes and make a plan for ferreting out more information. I wish she were coming here in a month or two. I don’t know how I’m going to get through the day tomorrow and I have to drive 20+ miles each way to get scripts for my pain meds.Damn.

Crying

I’m sitting in my van inside my garage after taking one of the furbabies to the vet. Then, I went to pick up a book I ordered from my favorite music store. By the time I got to the music store, it took everything I had to not break down in tears again. I first lost it in the shower today. Now, I’m so close to losing it here in the garage. I don’t want to go into the house because there are two other furbabies who need me and I can’t cope.

I prayed and prayed, asking God to both give me strength and let me know why Glenn is more probably than not a narcissistic sociopath. I have zero credentials to make that assessment. NONE! All I have is a lot of experience with shrinks and parts of the DSM-IV that’s online. So, maybe I’m wrong. I want to be wrong. If I’m right, the dark side he’s always had won over the good.

I did something stupid yesterday and wrote to him about what I’d discovered about myself and about him. How do you tell ANYONE that they’re something so horrible? How do you tell someone you knew years ago and your first, real, forever love that his actions and attitude fit the profile of someone so horrible I can’t bear to type it another time? Somehow I did. It wouldn’t matter because he couldn’t care less about what I think or feel except insomuch that he enjoys watching the pain. And there truly is pain. I feel as though my soul has been cleaved in two.

On top of this, I really need my mother. If she were alive, I wouldn’t tell her about this for fear that she’d say I was weak. But now, all I want– besides the ability to go back in time–is to lay in my mother’s arms and cry. She never knew how many times I wanted to do that, but she considered crying a weakness.

I prayed to her too while sobbing in dry heaves in the shower. I sensed that she was sympathetic, but also told me to pick myself up and do the things that need to be done. I will, but I don’t have it in me now. The most I can do is go in the house and face the two girls.

OMFG

I found this definition of a sociopath. It explained a lot about both Glenn and about me. While not everything is applicable, too many things are.

Here is the link. Thank God, I finally understand.

In later, very unhappy news:

NARCISSISTIC SOCIOPATH

Sometimes people suffering from Antisocial Personality Disorder also tend to suffer from another mental disorder known as Narcissistic Personality Disorder. Such people are often called narcissistic sociopaths or sociopaths with narcissistic traits and such a situation is a dangerous one, as these people do not want to be helped. Such people often tend to be highly manipulative and without any shred of remorse for their actions, even if their actions have harmed others who are close to them or their family members. There is nothing that can stop a narcissistic sociopath from achieving his goals. He makes use of all his charm which is highly superficial and intellect in order to attain his goals by any means possible. Such people often think that they are above all and they do not really care if anyone disagrees with them.

From the site DepressionD

All I want to do is cry. I didn’t want to be right. I wanted to be very wrong.

A Lovely Day

I never thought this day would come, but I actually don’t feel sad. I’m sitting outside with the girls, in a backyard that’s about to start blooming all over the place, one of the furbabies digging yet another hole to expose her favorite food–small tree roots and the warmth of the sun on my face.

I have no desire to go inside. Inside sits a bunch of insurance forms to fill out and no sun. But, all good things must come to an end. We’ve been outside for about an hour and soon we’ll have to leave. However, I’m listening to my favorite artist and can enjoy the here and now. For the moment, that’s all I need to do.

Naming My Desires

Occasionally I’ll mention something about the “old ways.” I refer to the ways of shamans in various societies, but also of laws that existed almost before there was time. For example, I said three times “I renounce thee” in one of my posts, along with the person’s name. In days not so old, a man or woman could divorce his or her spouse by publicly stating that they were doing so while turning around three times. The individual in question was not my spouse, but we were together longer than many marriages. Funny, now, we have been apart almost as long, but that’s another story.

In many old cultures, it was believed that it was possible to speak a thing into existence. Unfortunately, the thing brought into existence by speaking it is usually something malevolent. I choose to believe that it’s possible to bring something good and beautiful into existence by speaking or writing it too. I am sadder than I’ve been since my mother died on February 27. In a way, that’s good because I don’t have the usual protective armor and can allow the pain pour out into what I want and need.

What I Need

  • Shelter that I can count on
  • I need to claw my way out of this crippling depression
  • I need to know that I matter
  • I need to be clear about who my friends are and who they aren’t
  • I need to know who I can count on for what
  • I need to eat occasionally
  • I need to feel safe
  • I need to be important to someone
  • I need money to keep the house functioning
  • I need a home
  • I need to let some of this agony out of me before it tears me to pieces
  • I need to forget
  • I need to be loved
  • I need rest
  • I need help with some of the above

What I Want

  • I want one last love affair that burns so bright it lights the night sky
  • I want happiness
  • I want great monkey-hanging-from-the-chandelier sex
  • I want a partner who understands me
  • I want a partner who can console me even if she doesn’t understand
  • I want to be wrapped safely in her arms and hold her safely in mine
  • I want a chance to pass my knowledge of so many things on to someone else
  • I want someone who can love me just as I am
  • I want someone who doesn’t see me as a liability
  • I want someone who can appreciate me and see me as an asset
  • I want Glenn to burn in hell for what he’s done to me and, I’m sure, to others
  • I want to live my life in beauty, love, grace and forgiveness
  • I want to be a parent, even though I know that won’t happen now
  • I want to cry because my heart is breaking and I’m alone
  • I want to know that I’ve mattered to someone special
  • I want a garden of wild flowers that border a stone patio sitting in the middle of the backyard
  • I want to be a successful publisher
  • I want to be a person who believes other people matter

What I Don’t Want

  • I don’t want to be someone who believes they are entitled just because
  • I don’t want to forget that no one is perfect
  • I don’t want money to be my sole badge of honor
  • I don’t want expensive things to prove to myself and/or others that I’m worth something
  • I don’t want anymore dysfunctional relationships
  • I don’t want to hurt or cause harm to anyone–unless it is to promote change
  • I don’t want to feel so hurt and alone ever again
  • I don’t want to pass love by
  • I don’t want to be sad anymore
  • I don’t want to hurt anymore
  • I don’t want Glenn at all
  • I don’t want to feel like dying
  • I don’t want to see tomorrow
  • I don’t want my girls to suffer

I’m done.