For Now, Not Farewell

First, and foremost, I wanted to let all of my wonderful blogging friends know that I am alright.  The gaps between posts keep getting larger, and I worry that others are worrying.  I will make you a promise now that if something serious happens and there is a critical situation, I will not hesitate to inform everyone.

There are a lot of things that are happening in my life right now.  Many personal matters need attending to.  I’m probably getting laid off in three weeks, although my boss doesn’t seem like she wants to drop that bomb on me.  Personally, I find that incredibly irresponsible.  I could have been looking for other work.  Well, in any usual situation.

Still, it creates a serious blow to my self-esteem at a time when it is not well received.  I know everyone has been passed over for a job and has suffered layoffs before.  It’s really unpleasant, to say the least about it.  Then, there’s entire summer, twelve weeks ahead of me, where I have to sit on my hands and wonder if I’m getting recalled for the school year.  Something tells me that I’m not.

There are an increased number of incidents that have been happening on my watch.  I see my faults and flaws as a teacher, though I have little help on my end establishing my role and developing my skills.  I feel as if I am not well accepted or even really respected at my job. I feel undervalued and underutilized.  Each project I have suggested has been shot down.  And, each time I volunteer for something, I am assured that my assistance is not needed.

I realize this could be the ever present paranoia that has been occurring where I get this idea that I am being persecuted in my life (including at my job).  This includes ideas what someone / something is out to get me.  Or, it could be the subconscious vibes I get from others.  My immediate employees that are on the outer circle of the program seem to be unaware.

However, those on the internal circle are treating me as if I am a ghost.  They mumble a sort of hello as I walk by, hardly acknowledging my presence.  No one is keen on engaging me in conversation.  And those that are my higher-ups have taken to lambasting me at every chance they get for things that aren’t entirely my doing.

I’ve always kept Xanax on my person at all times, in case I encounter a situation that flares the anxiety.  Typically, this is an unexpectedly crowded area.  Lately, Xanax has become part of my diet.  I can’t fathom the idea of going back there.  And I tick the days off of my calendar.  Twenty-two left before I am unemployed.  Twenty-two left before leaving my house becomes optional.

(I’m exhausted this morning and not very inspired.  Please forgive the bland post.)

I had told my husband at one point, “I feel as if there are many things that have gone neglected in my personal life, especially my home life that other things are interfering with.  Maybe it’s for the best.”  I believe that there is a rhyme and a reason to everything, whether it is God or just the pattern of the universe.  Choose whichever suits you.

My husband agreed.  I’ve mentioned that he needs tended to more now than ever.  I’m not the only one who thinks so.  His best friend has been sending check-in messages, noting that C.S. “hasn’t been himself for awhile.” I am very focused on keeping my resolve so that I can be a part of his treatment.  It’s difficult.  He has always been my rock, the stable touchstone that I could rely on to keep me in check.  Now, it seems, the tables have turned.

Six more days until the appointment.  I’m checking the days off of my calendar, holding onto the wild ride as hard as I can to get us there.

Then, there is the matter of my son.  Though he has made significant gains without therapy in the last six months, he still requires it.  He still remains behind his peer group in terms of speaking and social interaction.  And because of everything that has happened with his parents in the last six months, I have been unable to navigate the labyrinth of services.

That is something that takes a lot of time.  I recall from the first time we had to go through this.  There were a lot of evaluations in places that were at least a half an hour’s drive from here.  Even the ones in home took an hour at the least.  There were meetings with counselors, social workers, specialists, and all manner of people.  It took a great deal of time, effort, focus, and all of the things I’m sorely lacking in my position right now.

My lack of initiative makes me feel like a bad parent.  It makes me feel as if I’ve robbed him of crucial developmental time.  My self-absorption in my illness makes me feel as if I have precipitated and then ignored serious signs and symptoms in my husband.  I find that I am destabilizing to the point where I don’t want to return to work.  And the paranoia and the anxiety it produces when I think of all of this are too much to handle.

I’ve determined that I need a break.  Please, don’t take this as I am self-isolating.  I have been feeling this way for months now, starting in my depressive state.  I wasn’t sure if it was the trickery of depression, or if it was a genuine need to crawl inside my shell for solace.  My emotional reserves are tapped, and I’m really running on empty.  My support system is crumbling, and I feel like I can’t run my life anymore.

I have even made the consideration to file for disability.  Making the admission that I might not be of sound mind enough to work with any stability is very difficult for me.  It’s difficult to think that I am having such a hard time managing my personal life.  I do understand that things are unusual in the way of stress and function (or lack thereof).  However, I seem to think that others who aren’t quite as affected may stand a better chance against life’s little upheavals.

For myself, to collect my own emotional fortitude, and to prioritize what little there is left to go around, I must limit my writing.  This is so that I may stabilize my personal life, and have reflections that may be useful to those in my immediate vicinity.  I would like to focus primarily on my personal journal at the moment, in order to keep a solid documentation of what is going on, free of any flare or censorship (yes, sadly, there is a little that happens here).

I adore each and every one of you.  I am always available via email at tallulahlulustark@gmail.com  If you’d like to touch base with me, or just need to talk about something, I am always available and always willing.

Just for now.  This is not a farewell.

Marginally Clear

Thanksgiving will hopefully be a day of thanks. It marks two weeks since the LEEP procedure. Since it falls on a holiday, my doctor’s office was kind enough to squeeze me in on Wednesday, Nov. 23. I’m sure the scheduling nurse I spoke with was aware that I’d have a Sword of Damocles hanging over my holiday table. It was kind of her to be so considerate. (Note to self: Be thankful for considerate, compassionate people).

The Healing Process

I was briefed after the surgery about care and restrictions. No worries – this is not going to get graphic. I’ll admit, it was not quite as I expected it. They likened it to a colposcopy with a biopsy. I know there is a huge difference between the two. One is a little snip and the other is more akin to taking a sizable section. Like trimming the hedges versus pruning a tree.

They under-exaggerate when they describe the more unpleasant parts of post-op care. I was in nearly constant, serious pain for the first four days. I would wake up in the morning in severe pain, because a full bladder likely pressed against the area. The more I moved, the more the pain increased.

Mothers will especially stand this next part. It is more akin to the physical sensations to about a week after labor and delivery. My bottom half was sore. It was pain like a T, across my hips through me, and into my back.

They don’t tell you the real story on a lot of it, although they are still defined within the parameters of “typical healing”. To sat the least, it was a lot more intense than I predicted.

The healing time takes longer than I predicted too. The doctors assured me that I’d be back on my feet, doing my daily activities in a few days. But, those activities are not to include any aerobic / strenuous activity. I haven’t been able to do any housework. No stairs, so I have to limit my use of them at home. It’s frustrating to leave something on a different floor.

I’m still not quite back to normal. I always feel like the doctors overreact when they give you restrictions. Possibly, it is because they know patients will not follow them to the letter. But, they weren’t kidding here. I’m moving better, but I am still in pain. I need extended time sitting. I’m tired.

The biggest thing they don’t tell you is the emotional rollercoaster that follows. I don’t know if it’s hormonal, but I have been completely out of whack. I described some of it in With This Pill. Manic Monday touched upon the subject in 2.5.

This is a conversation C.S. and I had on Friday.

I swear. A lot.

I thought I was on the cusp of a depressive episode. Mobility is difficult. It is irritating and frustrating to be at the mercy of others. I am a control freak. I like things done my way, and I like to be an active participant at all times. But right now, I feel like a useless invalid watching life pass as I’m bound immobile, as much as possible.

I feel useless. I can’t take charge of classes because I have to meet them in their classrooms. I must have children assist me in classes by passing out lyric sheets and retrieving items for me from across the room. I hate asking people for help. Then, I start to feel like an inconvenience, a burden, if you will.

Tomorrow’s Follow-up
I was under the impression that they were going to poke in there and assess my healing.  Then, they were going to report how much had to be excised, and what my chances of having more children is going to look like.  What they failed to mention is that tomorrow is also the delivery of the results from the sample they took.  What I thought was going to be a completely benign appointment turned malignant fast.

What the doctor is looking for is are Clear Margins.  Essentially, if the tissue they collected has both the cancerous cells and a margin surrounding it of healthy tissue, then we can be assured that all of the cancerous cells were excised.  However, if the margins are not clear, then cancerous cells still remain and pose a possible threat.

The course of action after that is typically to wait until the results from the follow up Pap smear come back.  If they are positive, then we visit colposcopy land to see how bad it is.  And, there is a possibility of yet another procedure.

You guessed it.  This poses a greater threat to my future pregnancies.  The more cervix that is removed, the higher the risk of miscarriage and pre-term labor.  I have a plan, but I need to get C.S. on board.  If the issue is forced, I want to make the Hail Mary pass in order to conceive another child before I would have another surgery.  We have two months to make a decision, because after that, it’s do or die.

I really do want another child, even if it’s not at a great time.  If I have to do it and take some risks, I’m willing to do that.  However, C.S. has not expressed a great deal of enthusiasm about another child.  I don’t want to come to blows over this.  But, if there is a serious disagreement, I know it’s going to turn into a serious problem.

One bridge at a time, Lulu.  One bridge at a time.

Eleven, Eleven, Eleven

I am completely luck impaired. If I had luck as a stat like in role-playing games, it was be a -3. I swear.

But today, on the luckiest day of this millennium, I thought that I would acknowledge all of the luckiest things that have ever happened to me.

  • From what I understand, some people search their whole lives for that one special person. I met him in my teens. I became romantically involved with him, and nine months later we were married.
  • I am blessed with a wonderful son. Many women have fertility issues. Even if this surgery results in infertility, I still have T.D.
  • I was lucky enough to have a mostly uncomplicated pregnancy with T.D. and a complication free labor. He was born healthy and beautiful.
  • Through pure chance, I fell into the job of my dreams. This was the spark that started my passion for education and love of children. Some people search forever for the job they love, and I received mine by chance.
  • I am naturally gifted in many areas. I was afforded so many different chances to hone my abilities.
  • I am lucky enough to have a permanent home.
  • By chance, I have found a mental health community. Here, I find warmth, comfort, guidance, and camaraderie.
  • C.S. was lucky enough to walk away from a potentially fatal accident. I am lucky to have him alive.
  • Through absolutely random chance, I met a stranger on the bus who helped me save the big spring musical. It saved my job, gave me work over the summer, and promoted me to Music Director.
  • Once, I found $123 on a sidewalk with no one in sight.
  • And best of all, I am the luckiest gal on the planet to be surrounded with people who love me for who I am. This one goes out to you.
  • Maybe I’m not so unlucky after all. Happy 11/11/11!

I Bet Jekyll Felt This Way

I’ve mentioned this in recent posts. But now, it’s gotten to a point where I’m not even sure what is going on anymore.

In case any readers aren’t up to date, I’ll summarize with some links. This all began with my last cutting episode. We determined that the mixed emotions I was going through was dysphoric hypomania. It lasted 16 days and I though it was over when I got sick. I thought I went from hypomanic to panic. But, I’m not sure that’s the case.

Yesterday, I was hit with panic earlier in the day. My mind started drifting and I got this urge to call off of work. I had this strong feeling like something was very wrong. However, since I’ve been in the throws of panic lately, I figured it was anxiety. That was that.

I started feeling very bad at work. I’ve been feeling ill – unsettled stomach, puffiness, etc. At work, it was magnified. I became nauseated with a throbbing head and a terrible stomach.

I wasn’t right in my head to handle kids today. I let them pretty much do what they pleased, within certain boundaries. I snapped out at my 3rd grade class because their behavior was atrocious. More than anything it was agitating because of the extreme annoyance. Children don’t typically annoy me. This was a clear sign that there was something very wrong.

Later, one of my co-workers pointed out a mistake I had made. I took it very personally. I became inexplicably angry that he would dare correct me although I knew I had made the mistake. I wanted to jump down his throat and tear him a new one.

But, I feared that he would put me up on the chopping block. I became paranoid, thinking he was the unidentified source who reported concerns to my boss about my performance. He had it out for me. He secretly didn’t like me and wanted me eliminated.

At that point, I had the mother of all panic attacks. I sat still, far in a corner of the room. I was trying to plan an escape route without anyone becoming suspicious. I had to get out. I couldn’t get it out of my head. But, if I left early, then someone would be upset. I’d be giving them even more reason to send me away.

I couldn’t wait to get home. Home, the only safe place left. And yet, just three months ago, I would’ve said that about work.

Here’s the question. Am I hostile at work because I’m feeling threatened because I’ve been having panic attacks at work that are making me delusional? Or, am I actually still in a now dysphoric mania with serious paranoia and delusions?

A Peach and A Catalyst

This one was inspired by Colonial Punk’s Post.

Stress.

A one syllable word that is so commonplace in everyone’s life. When am I not stressed? I can’t answer that. It really is always something.

It’s more about how stressors are processed that produces the effects and thus, the consequences. I’m probably not a prime example of how stress is interpreted. I have been known to buckle under the weight. I am guilty of allowing my situations to become critical.

How stress manifests for me is a complicated thing. It depends on the particular stressor and the source that it is coming from. In addition, it depends on my particular mood, the emotion, and the intensity of emotion that the stressor produces at the time.
I’ve been running a little high lately. I’m out of the hypomanic episode, thanks to a virus or something. But, if I had to describe the state I’m in right now, I’d call it a 6 or 7 on the mood scale with panic attacks. (In all fairness, this started before the abnormally high stress). Honestly, I’m used to running at about a 4.

I mentioned in Just Got Served, But It Wasn’t Dinner that C.S. is being sued. That was Thursday. That comes with a whole host of problems for both him and me. We finally have the name of an attorney. Any further than that and I’m really not at liberty to publicly detail the rest. Legal problems are at least in the top 5 of my “Worst Things That Could Happen List”. (Medical is number 1. We’re getting there.)

My typically benevolent boss is coming down on me. I understand her concern. My boss has a difficult time delegating and the Winter Concert is in my hands. Her anxiety has to be off the charts. It would be absolutely embarrassing if this project flops.

The electric company has recently determined that we are financially ineligible for services. Now, we’re stuck with a budget amount of $430 a month. That’s up $200 from what we were paying on a “just making ends meet” budget.

T.D.’s Early Intervention services ended October 16th, when he turned three. This is complicated, so try to stay with me. He was supposed to have transitioned into school-aged services at this point, but it didn’t happen.

Adding fuel to the fire, C.S. isn’t sure if he wants to take this promotion on the cusp of some serious financial detriment and before the holidays.

I mentioned problems with T.D.’s pediatrician giving me some serious trouble in The Farris Wheel. I won’t go into the complete story, but I have a ton of things I have to face now with his health and development.

And I have this surgery looming.  My consult is finally scheduled in stone for October 28.  We’ll just have to wait and see.

Blah.

The reactions varied. When I saw the papers for the suit, I sprang into action. It was an insult. I was angry.

When my boss came at me, I flew. It shook the very foundation of my work experience. I’ve always considered work to be a safe zone. I became so anxious that I responded with annoyance, fear, and paranoia.

All of T.D.’s things are overwhelming. I’m treading into unknown territory and I’m not sure how to proceed. It froze me in fear to know that my child has something wrong. And I felt like the worst mother in the world.

I’ve never had a major surgery. There are a lot of unknowns. I’ve been dodging it because I don’t want to walk around blindly. Too many what if’s. How am I going to handle news that something bad has happened?

And as for the bills, what am I going to do? We can handle it, but we’re going to be on a tight budget. We might have to make some heavy sacrifices. I am upset. I can’t stand the idea of living in extreme poverty again. I am almost to the point of tantrums. I still need a couple new staple clothing items (white t-shirts), new contacts, and new glasses. When will these needs be satisfied, if at all? Rawr!

So, as you can see, stress produces a wide variety of responses. But, the end result varies. Either, I crumble into a depressive episode because of the feeling of helplessness and hopelessness. Or, I go manic and power through with serious ferocity. Or, I am frozen with anxiety, and if I approach the situation, I’m overcome and retreat.

Spin the wheel. It’s hard to tell what stress will trigger with bipolar disorder.

Take two, three or four pills and call back in the morning.

The Farris Wheel

Manic Monday recently wrote a post entitled Surgery Date that talked about nasty, unprofessional health care professionals. I spoke to her about their disgrace and the extreme agitation it caused.

I have been through the situation many times. I have a certain amount of animosity toward health care professionals as a result. I have been misdiagnosed. I have been diagnosed and not treated correctly, if at all. I have been treated as a hypochondriac and a liar. One clinic took the wrong course of action and made a condition worse. I had cruel nurses during my delivery and one that popped my hip out. I’ve had overzealous doctors want to pump me full of drugs when unnecessary. Others refused me much needed medications such as antibiotics until I developed a worse condition. And the worst of all was the incompetent doctor that botched my last surgery and left me on the table to fend for myself.

Worse, there are doctors that have mistreated my son. They’ve attempted to withhold antibiotics, and advised me against taking him to the hospital when he had a fever of 105F. But they are eager to pump him full of brand new, live vaccines, which have not been tested in the long term. I am almost convinced they are attempting to kill my child.

Dr. W., T.D.’s psychologist that diagnosed him with PDD-NOS on the ASD, was the worst of them all. At his diagnosis, she essentially handed me a stack of papers and sent me on my way. And still, she failed to include some crucial information.

T.D.’s pediatrician appointment did not start well. Dr. F. had a nasty demeanor. She started a physical exam when C.S. and I mentioned T.D. suffers from chronic diaper rash. She snapped, “Well, why is he still in a diaper.” I answered in a snotty tone, “Because he has Autism Spectrum Disorder.”.

“Oh.”

Yeah, oh. Bitch.

She certainly changed her tone after than. Until, we got to the vaccinations. You see, we started vaccinations until T.D. was a little over a year old. That is when my FIL (father-in-law) was diagnosed with stage 3 lymphoma. He started chemotherapy and it was recommended that T.D. stop the vaccines until my FIL was declared in remission. In that time, C.S. and I decided against them.

Don’t get me started on the vaccination debate. Suffice it to say, I’m not going to change my mind. But, I got those looks like I’m a terrible mother for signing that waiver.

Worse, they uncovered an ear infection in both of his ears. T.D. showed no symptoms and didn’t complain of pain. How was I supposed to know? He’s still largely non-verbal!

She treated me like a terrible parent all around and T.D. like he was retarded. I got crap for him not seeing a dentist. WTF?! Most dentists won’t see patients younger than 3. On top of that he has special needs!!! Do you think he’s going to sit still for an oral exam when I can’t get him to sit for a haircut? I don’t think so.

And here’s the cherry on top of the sundae. His BMI is high. So now, we all have to keep a constant and detailed food journal. Yeah, as if I’m going to be able to get all of his sitters on board with this. But, it has to be. I’m sure the next step is a dietitian and CYF at this point.

And at the end of our visit, she made it pretty clear that she doesn’t believe the diagnosis. Excuse me, are you a child psychologist? NO!. Don’t make judgments you aren’t qualified to make!

I do feel like a failure of a mother. Even when I know a doctor is trying to guilt trip me and fear monger me into doing things her way. I know my son better than any doctor could hope to.

At the very least, I’m pointed in the right direction as to where to get the referral for services. And unlike other pediatricians, she was not hesitant to prescribe medicine. Those are her only redeeming qualities.

I still absolutely detest that woman. I am rescheduling his appointment with another doctor. I never want to see her again.

Just another reason on the pile as to why I despise medical professionals.

Radio Silence Breaks

It’s been five days since my last post.  I realized the huge gap in posting and attempted to write something on the bus on the way to work quickly.  That ended in my phone crashing the app and me seething over lost work.  So, here’s an update on the RL that’s been eating my Lulu life.

Saturday, October 15, 2011
That was the day we held T.D.’s third birthday party.  The morning started out with a breakfast buffet at Eat N Park.  T.D. is an incredible eater.  What made the buffet worth it was the fact that I knew he would eat an adult portion, though C.S. and I may not have.

C.S. and I put T.D. down for a nap when we came home.  Then, we feverishly cleaned the house before our guests arrived.  It’s not as if we keep a dirty home.  In the past week, I’ve been sick, so the domestics got a little behind.  Really, we could have gotten it done in about an hour, but we opted for the deep clean.  I won’t bore you with the details.

T.D. had a lovely party.  His Grammy (my MIL), Poppop (my Dad), and his Grandma (my mother who he actually calls “Gram”), all stopped by to open presents and have birthday cake.  The rest of our guests weren’t able to come until later due to other obligations.  But that was fine.  T.D. considers our friends to be his friends, too.  He has his favorites, and they all managed to make it.  He really loved it.  And I’m so happy that he had such a wonderful party.

Saturday, October 16, 2011
This is my little dedication to the birth of T.D..

We all must have partied a little hardy and woke up later than usual.  We were sitting at the breakfast table when I noticed the time.  I said, “At this time, exactly three years ago, Mommy was hooked up to all over her IV’s.”

I had an induction with T.D. at 38 weeks.  My pregnancy was riddled with problems.  Most of them were normal pregnancy symptoms – acid reflux to the point of vomiting, migraines, etc.  When the doctor asked that Monday morning if I was ready to have the baby on Thursday, I was overjoyed!  There’s nothing I wanted more than to not be pregnant anymore.  My stomach was so big that I couldn’t even lean forward anymore, much less bend down.

I also had more threatening pregnancy problems.  I had placental problems and cervical dysplasia at the time.  Additionally, I’m a small woman.  There was an issue with narrow hips, and the question as to whether I was going to be able to deliver naturally.  On his last ultrasound, T.D. was about 6 and a half pounds and his lungs were fully developed.  It looked like we were ready to go!

A little later in the early afternoon, while relaxing with some television, I noted the time again.  I said, “At this time, Mommy got her epidural that didn’t turn out so well.”

The doctors and nurses urged me to schedule my epidural ahead of time so that I wouldn’t miss my window of opportunity.  Personally, I didn’t want to get it until it was absolutely necessary.  However, since I had to schedule, I had little choice.

They cleared everyone out of the room, and I panicked.  I begged for my husband to be allowed to stay, but it was hospital policy that no one remain.  Apparently, some had fainted at one look at the needle.  I was scared.  I tried to remember what other women had told me; “By the time I got the epidural, I was in so much pain I didn’t even feel the needle!”  But I felt it.  I screamed when that needle was shoved into my spine.  The nurse and doctor were jerks about it.  “It couldn’t have hurt that bad.”

We hung around in a silent room for awhile.  Finally, I asked, “Why are we waiting around?”  It was hospital policy that the doctor and the nurse administering the epidural wait for fifteen minutes in case something happened.  Nothing did happen, and everyone was allowed to come back in.

It wasn’t even ten minutes before something did go wrong.  I kept telling C.S. that I felt like I was going to vomit.  I was spinning and everything blurred.  A hazy black formed around the edges of my vision and enclosed in while voices seemed to drift away.  In my mind, I thought, “This is what dying feels like.”  I was brought back to with a shot of adrenaline.  The epidural caused my blood pressure to tank out and I lost consciousness for just a moment.

Later on, more toward the evening, I noticed the time again.  I mentioned, “This was the time that Mommy’s epidural wore off.”

My doctor and nurse expected me to have delivered around dinner time, and we had gone past that now.  I was in absolute screaming agony and begged that my nurse get someone to give me more medicine.  She told me to wait.  Wait?!  Wait for what?!  Finally, my screams attracted enough attention to get a boost of epidural.  It was a relief, but not enough to bring the pain down to a manageable level.

And this is where my memory gets a little fuzzy.

There was a clock across the room and a TV underneath of it.  I was keeping time based on both the TV programming and the clock.  I could have sworn that the doctor came in and told me around 10 that we were going to do some practice pushes.  I know that’s the time that they cut me off from the epidural.  But C.S. seems to think differently.  To say the least, T.D. was born into this world after between 45 minutes and an hour and a half of pushing labor.  They told me, “He’s out!  He’s out!”

“I know.”

They rushed T.D. off to the little cart. I didn’t hear him crying at first. I asked, “Is he OK?” They assured me he was fine. But, I didn’t hear him. It was the longest minute of my life, but I finally heard his voice.

Today, T.D. is alive and well. And my hips remained two inches wider.

Debt of Explanation

What do I say now?

I’ve written and rewritten and edited this draft for the last three days.

It originally started out with a rationalization:

Lamictal and hormonal birth control don’t play nice. When I first started Lamictal, I would take the bc placebos for that week and start exhibiting symptoms of PMDD. My Pdoc recommended that my OB/Gyn consider putting me on a continuous cycle for three packs and then have the off week. And I’ve been doing that for almost 2 years.

I have that liberty to schedule when Aunt Dot comes to visit. Risking a complete mental break down every 63 days was better than having to do it every 21. In the last year, the last couple had been pretty mild. I thought I was in the clear.

I lost track and went 5 months this time.

What person with bipolar disorder wouldn’t want to be able to blame conditions that are within their control?  I was telling myself that Monday would come, I would be back on the BC and all would be right with the world.  In the meantime, I adjusted my dosages – with no effect.  I did that a couple of days ago thinking I could put a bandaid on the situation until there was a real fix, meaning I straightened my meds out and all of this moody woman bullshit was over with.

PMS was a word invented by men to explain women’s emotional behavior.  (No offense intended to my male readers).  My husband discovered my self-inflicted injuries today.  Actually, more like he discovered the band-aid that I’ve been hiding under layers of bracelets all week.  He said, “What’s that?”  I answered in a low voice, with T.D. on my lap, “Nothing.”  I won’t lie.  I’m sick and tired of cowering in fear for someone else’s approval.  I didn’t lie to him.  It means nothing to him, but it will stay with me for a long time.

He asked again, “What is it?” And once again I replied in a murmur, “It’s nothing.”

“Every time you get your f***ing period, you have to go and cut yourself!!!”

I don’t recall being afflicted with such in my very first post, “To See If I Still Feel”. And I can honestly say that was the very last time I engaged in self-injurous behavior.

I’m starting to suspect it isn’t completely me.

Originally, I wrote:

My marriage has been on the rocks lately. My kid is raising hell. I have the crushing weight of being solely responsible for T.D., anything domestic, and work. I am expected to have time for everything. I am also expected to take all kinds of crap from everyone when something goes wrong. That is, surprisingly, with the exception of my boss and co-workers.

I have dealt with be mistreated and disrespected in my home. I have endured vicious criticism and blame. I am overwhelmed and over burdened. And anytime I speak up, not only am I wrong, I am intentionally starting trouble. Suddenly, my condition becomes a reality because it’s convenient to blame me “being a bitch” on having bipolar disorder.

I am falling apart and it’s not even at the seams. It’s from consistent strain and wear on my fabric. And when someone I let close enough to me starts taking swipes… it’s enough. It’s more than enough to come undone.

I wrote to a dear friend that I used to be able to depend on C.S.  I described all of the wonderful things he had been to me.  But now, I feel like I’m being pushed off the ledge and then kicked in the face when I finally hit the bottom.

Each morning, when I awake, I have been telling my dearest friends here that I’m doing better.  And each afternoon, I’m doing worse than the day before.  After that comment, “Every time you get your f***ing period, you have to go and cut yourself!!!”, I’m about to give it up.  I was mistaken when I said to my dear friend that I wasn’t sure that he was even aware of what he was doing to me.

We don’t get to choose our family.  Sometimes, we can’t choose who we fall in love with.  But we always have the choice to make the decision to devote ourself to each other through marriage.  How could someone who chose me, who is supposed to love me, be causing me so much hurt?

My Sitter’s Spare Time is an EPIC Fail

I’m always all about leaving some funnies on my site.  It’s a nice pick-me-up when things are crappy.

I happened to be on IRL FB last night and saw a status from my good friend.  She was talking about how sick she was but how she and her roomate were still going to the bar.  Yeah, that’s while her kid called off for the entire week.  So much for getting her fine paid off so she could get off of probation.

Apparently, that’s not a problem.  This is what my sitter does in her spare time.

Comments, questions, and hilarious laughter are welcome.

Spitting Fire

I started this off in One Day, I’m Going To Grow Wings. I’ll provide a brief synopsis. When referring to my mother, there should probably be another word accompanying it. Really, if you want the entire story, please review the referenced post.

So, to continue this saga, we’ll open up Lulu’s family history. My father is a disabled Vietnam Veteran with PTSD. My brother has disabling Autism. So, that makes my mother a dependent homemaker.

“I (bleeping) hate that woman. If my dad dies before her, I’m going to let her rot on this Earth until she dies. And then she can burn in hell,” I wrote in a text message to C.S. this morning after my first conversation with her. I mean it.

Rewind. My mother is second born of my grandmother’s six children. Of those six children, three remain in Allegheny County. One continued to live with her and my Pappap. Pappap was ten years older than my grandmother, and he passed away 15 years ago after a ten year battle with prostate cancer. That makes my grandmother 85.

My mother was my Pappap’s favorite and my grandmother’s least favorite as a result. And since Pappap was always away on the railroad, and my mother’s older sister was always in the hospital on the cusp of death, that made my mother mostly head of the household. Yes, responsible for all of the cooking and cleaning for all of the kids my grandmother kept popping out. This was during the fifties and sixties. So, of course, my grandmother’s last little girl was her favorite and has resided with her ever since.

Are you still with me?

The people in that family are the most mentally unhealthy people on the planet. No exaggeration. These people can seriously not even see the big, pink, suede elephant in the middle of the room, because they are that good at denying it’s existence. They have enough guilt to start their own religion. And in the same line of thinking, you know what my family needs? A big wooden cross! Everyone resents each other but keeps them under each other’s thumbs in the name of family. A little box of lies wouldn’t cut it; they need a whole bleeping warehouse! The air is so heavy with secrets that the walls actually can talk. Except they’re too afraid to.

I’d like to point out that I’m really not exaggerating this at all.

That brings us to the last week in July during my extended absence just before Alternate Realities. Summer semester had just come to a close, I was In lay-off status, so I was at home all day with T.D. I was at my parent’s house with T.D. when they got the call. Apparently, my grandmother had called my aunt (Abby) at work hysterically begging her to come home. In turn, AB calls the Rents and asks them to stay with GiGi for the remainder of her work day because she couldn’t stay. So, naturally, they rushed off.

That’s when Abby finally revealed to the rest of the family that GiGi has been mentally deteriorating badly. We had suspected as much when another aunt (Accy) flew in from California at the beginning of the year for a visit but didn’t leave for two months. But all potentially embarrassing information is provided on a need-to-know basis. You know, because the potential of senility is really mortifying. Especially when it is presenting with hallucinations and delusions. But, in my family it is more important to save face than to admit it, and go to the doctor.

This afternoon visit turned into daily eldersitting, which turned into my mother accompanying GiGi to doctor’s appointments. Eventually, they ended up at a geriatric doctor who handed down the diagnosis of Lewy Body Dementia. In short, GiGi had been suffering from a combination of Alzheimer’s and Parkinsons’s for over six months. At least, those are the six months that we know about.

Last week, I got called back to start work today. I asked my mother if she was watching Trent. I pressed the issue and all I got was a pathetic, “I don’t know, I don’t know!”. When I pressed some more, she gave a lofty sigh and said, “I guess I’ll have to work it out.”

Today came. It got around 11AM and I figured that I would call since I hadn’t heard anything.

I asked, “So what’s the plan?”.
She replied, “What plan?”
I said, “To watch T.D.”
She answered indignantly, “I don’t know what you me to do.”
I tried to keep the peace. I calmly said, “I have to go to work. I have professional training that I cannot miss.”
She let out another sigh. I heard her ask my father in the background, “Would you be OK with watching T.D. today?”. He easily agreed. She continued, “He’ll look after him through Friday but I don’t know what do after that. We could get Accy to fly out but it won’t be until the end of the month at the earliest.””
“Mom,” I said, “you and Abby need to start facing facts. GiGi isn’t going to get better. Something has to happen here.”
She snarled, “That’s my mother and your grandmother you’re talking about.”.
“Fine, I’ll have him ready for Dad at 2:15. Bye.”

I was ready to explode. How dare she put me in that position?! I asked her for a whole week if she could do it. And she was backing out at the last minute, claiming that I couldn’t care less for GiGi, because I was selfishly shoving my kid on her so that I could have a job. The same woman who complained for the last month that she was the only child that had to bear this burden after GiGi had treated her like garbage throughout her entire life.

It wasn’t about that. I could have worked something out last week! I absolutely cannot miss these seminars and trainings. My job hangs in the balance. And I can’t afford to quick my job; we depend on that income.

I took the reins. I called friends and made arrangements. I was still enraged, so I took it upon myself to have another conversation with her.

I growled, “After Friday, you won’t have to worry about T.D. anymore. I have that covered. So don’t you worry about it being your problem.”

She responded, in her most innocent voice, “I told you that I couldn’t.”

“No! You went on and on for a month saying, (in a whiny voice)’I don’t know, I don’t know.’! And then you screw me at the last possible minute! I could have worked this out last week! I have to work! You seem to think that with two working adults in this house that we’re rolling in the cash! Guess what?! We’re broke! We can’t afford for me not to work! And guess what?!

Eventually, you are going to be stuck spoon feeding GiGi and changing her spoiled diapers. Enjoy turning a blind eye to the future, and patronizing everyone, because she isn’t going to get better! I hope you’re happy!

I’ll call Dad later. Bye.”

She deserved it. It was a long time coming. She stood by and watched as my father physically and emotionally absued me. She knew I was cutting for two years and turned a blind eye until the school got involved. She would get belligerently drunk and instigate fights with me. She got drunk the night of my homecoming dance. She didn’t bother to stop my dad from kicking me out because I got a tongue piercing. She got drunk the day of my 18th birthday party that she made my Dad drag me to and then told the whole family what a horrible daughter I was. She made a circus out of my wedding. She hid the fact that I got pregnant three months before my wedding. She outright refused to throw me a baby shower.

I thought I could forgive her for all of that. It was a long time ago. But every new knock brings up those terrible memories.

Do you know the last time she hugged me or told me that she loved me? Right after my blood pressure tanked when I was having T.D., almost three years ago.

Today, she acted like she bought T.D. a toy and Wendy’s. What bull. She didn’t get back until six. I knew it was Dad who took him out today. She told C.S. this when he picked him up. Because, I refuse to be within 50 yards of her. I want nothing to do with her. And after Friday, I won’t have to.

I’m done.