The Unabridged, Unadulterated, Ugliness of Truth and Life

I can feel some psychological pathologies coming back because of the excruciating, unrelenting pain I’m facing with each minute of the day. Although I’m overweight, I have been a borderline anorexic for many years. Whenever I get depressed I refuse to eat. It’s the one thing that I can do to myself by myself other than the obvious, cutting. Yes, it’s a control issue. I am absolutely terrified that I will end up in a hospital within a few days to a week because I’ll momentarily lose control or I’ll be so distracted that I’ll have an accident. I’d bet on the former more than the latter. Right now, I want to lay in a fetal position and just fade into nothingness. If it weren’t for my girls, I would have ended this hell days ago.

My mother did everything she could to come back to me. I watched the hospital personnel working on her and I am so deeply grateful to them. If there was anywhere in the world she could have been saved, it was Cleveland Clinic. She died within less than an hour of collapsing, but not because they didn’t try. Funny, I immediately knew who they were working on even though I couldn’t see into the room because of all of the people. Now, she’s in an urn in a cabinet as I hope her spirit roams free to learn all that it can before coming back again.

Glenn is a completely different story. There was no closure at all. I’m not sure there ever will be. I am haunted by it, hounded by it and can’t cope without it.

Glenn’s silence makes me feel ugly. I feel as though I’m as big as a house–a fat Miss Frankenstein that he can’t stand to look or talk to. For him, I’m nothing. I am as insignificant as an ant in the street. There’s an argument going on in my head that says he’s an ass and that I’m so much more than either he or I believe myself to be. I admit to being obsessed with learning why he did what he did. I strongly believe he owes me at least that much. But he’s male and males do the dumbest things on earth and call it “funny.” His “fun” nearly cost me my life. I’m not sure he gives a damn. I sent word and asked him to phone. He hasn’t. All the speculation in the world won’t give me an answer that will be satisfying. I wonder how he lives with himself. I could never do to someone what he did to me. Most people couldn’t do it. That level of cruelty is characteristic of bullies. When did that happen? Why did that happen? Was I right all those years ago when I called him a sociopath? I know that some are made and some are born. He’s always had a fairly hostile relationship with his mother and his father seemed to be a much nicer (non-pedophile) version of my mother’s second husband in that he’d immerse himself in the newspaper to keep from dealing with whatever was going on around him, like his wife.

I wear an artificial leg on the right side. I am what’s called in the UK a “thalidomider.” My mother took the drug thalidomide in 1961 when she was pregnant with me. It wasn’t approved by the FDA because there were a large number of babies born with major birth defects both externally and internally. Many didn’t live at all. It’s killing me, but what if Glenn made the decision to marry that woman, Robin, because she was whole? This isn’t a new idea, but has popped up very strongly this moment. I can’t argue with him for it. She was a med school graduate when they married and I’d just learned that I had fibromyalgia and would never work a consistent 9 to 5 again. I’ll work again, but it will be on my own terms.

I started this post very early this morning. I stopped at the above paragraph and did what I said I wouldn’t do again and that’s write him another letter. I got a lot out, but I just want to stop chasing him and be discarded at every turn. I feel pathetic because I need and want him in my life. I’ve got this incredibly strong feeling with no basis at all that there’s something else going on that I know nothing about. Whatever the case, I can’t make him say anything. If he did say something, would it be kind and compassionate or will it be emotionally abusive? If I have to ask that question, what am I doing trying to find the beautiful man he’d become instead of a twisted, narcissistic hot emotional mess of a man? I just keep hoping that some portion of decency is left in him. And if it’s that hard to find, is he really worth it? If I had a friend in this situation, I’d counsel her to seriously re-think whether she wants to be an emotional and, possibly, physical punching bag.

I don’t need anyone who, for whatever reason, makes me feel like I’m worthless. The grief I feel is so damn powerful and it’s fucking with my brain in ways that I’d never expect. I don’t understand why this is happening? I don’t understand what I’m doing? I know that I really want to take a razor blade and start cutting again. I haven’t done that in years, but it’s as though the words I’m typing aren’t enough. I feel like I’m screaming and no one hears. I have an appointment with my therapist tomorrow. Maybe she can help me figure out why I feel so utterly hopeless, helpless and worthless. When will this hellish nightmare end?

Yes, I Am Here

Lips clothed in red lipstick always impress.

My mother is the kind of woman who can wear brightly colored clothing in either prints or solids accessorized by large pieces of jewelry and not look like a $20 hooker. In fact, she looks great even at 84 years old. The fact that she is blessed with lustrous skin and the wrinkles one normally sees on someone who is in her 60s helps. Despite the fact that she’s quite shy, Mom would definitely not fade into a beige wall.

Anyone who has ever seen my mother and me together says that we look alike. With some very minor differences, this is true. Her skin is yellower and fairer than my mocha-based skin tinted with red and yellow. She also has a conspicuous fingertip-shaped birthmark that I think is adorable and a gap in her front teeth that gives her face character. With the exception of the additional shades of melanin added by my father, I almost look like my mother’s clone. However, that’s about as far as the cosmetic similarities go. Where she wears vibrant colors and prints, I wear earth tones. Where she wears larger, colorful jewelry, I tend toward simplistic gold, silver, white and some blue smaller pieces. Neither of us has ever worn much makeup–until recently.

It is not unusual to hear disabled people complain that they are invisible to the able-bodied world. In many instances, I think that’s true, especially if you’re a woman in a wheelchair. Those of us in wheelchairs are looking at everyone else’s navels (or something lower on the male body) as we try to make it through a crowd. Able-bodied people walk, talk, eat, daydream or generally don’t pay attention as they go from Place A to Place B and expect everyone else to inhabit the same general vertical space. However, if a person is in a wheelchair or on a scooter, they’re not in that space. They are somewhere else that can be blocked out of the conscious brain of the able-bodied person. Usually, a loud, “Excuse me!” will get their attention. But absent a polite (or impolite) exclamation, the wheelchair- or scooter-bound person doesn’t exist. And sex?! Most able-bodied people (read “men”) don’t think of the disabled as sexual. Again, we are invisible unless it’s for all the wrong reasons.

Some weeks ago, I realized I was tired of not existing. I think it was probably around my birthday this past March when I began to think of how long ago I was born versus how old I feel. I don’t feel older than my mid-30s. My body worked a whole lot better then than it does now. Nevertheless, in my mind–indeed, in my very being–I am that 35-year-old woman. Better yet, I am beginning to think of myself as a 35-year-old woman who is very sexual and very sexually attractive. I made a conscious decision to feel this way because, truth be told, getting laid was never a real problem for me. The problem was getting laid by the right person. I didn’t have the confidence and so I didn’t get the attention I wanted from the right people. It was as though my pheromones told people to “Stay away!” In truth, I think it was my desperation.

I have been ill for nearly seven years straight. My life has changed dramatically. People I thought were friends, really weren’t, and; people I thought were family were only related to me by chance DNA. Part of this time has been deeply painful. It has been so painful that at times I’ve wanted to leave this world forever. The only thing that stopped me was three days in ICU. But from there, I began to heal. I’d already begun some parts of my healing years before, but the last suicide attempt resulted in me finding the very best therapist I’ve ever had. If it weren’t for her helping me make sense out of something tragic, I doubt I’d be around today to write these words.

I have a birth defect called proximal focal femoral deficiency, (aka PFFD), that is the result of exposure to the drug thalidomide in utero. My right leg is significantly shorter than my left and I have to wear an above-knee prosthesis to walk. I am different. I have always been different. That difference didn’t physically effect me until I was in my mid-20s. From there, things began to slowly go to hell in a hand basket. But today, at this moment, there is a tremendous sense of hope. I think it is the hope that has unleashed my desire–my sexuality–and my yearning to be noticed. You see, part of the desire to blend into a beige wall stems from being a rape and incest survivor. We never want to be noticed. But part of it stems from being disabled–different and vulnerable to predators. So, there are two very strong instincts fighting me and telling me to go back into my cave where it’s safe. I won’t do it. I want to look and feel pretty again. I want to be noticed again, even if I’m using my wheelchair at the time.

In that vein, I’m buying accessories to brighten up and enhance the clothing I already have and I have my eye on some really cute, sexy underwear. I’ve also gone through all of my jewelry and realized that I’ve got some exquisite pieces that only need the right clothing and makeup. Yes, I have begun to wear makeup far more often. I’ve purchased two types of mascara that I’ll wear depending on the occasion and I am searching for diverse, colorful eye shadows that make my eyes POP and lipsticks. I think the eyeshadows I want are only to be found at a department store, but I’ve discovered a lipstick vendor with many varied shades at my neighborhood drug store. To be blunt, I want to be so fucking attractive that I don’t have to sit and wait for ANYone to call. It can and will happen. In fact, I think it might be happening now. But, for the moment, I think we’re playing a game. I am amused, no doubt, but this person won’t be the only suitor if they play too long. Yes, I am here!