A Better Way to Start My Day

I’m struggling with self disappointment this morning. Yesterday I posted a short, breezy, almost upbeat blog – so unlike me. While everything I said yesterday was true, it also feels like I faked my way through my post. I didn’t try, I didn’t dig inside myself. I told myself I was worn out from swimming (I was). I told myself I do plenty of long winded, gutter mouthed posts (I do). I told myself I was FINE – all the time, meaning FINE in the sense I once heard it described (it was in a film): FINE? So you’re FREAKED OUT, INSECURE, NEUROTIC, AND EMOTIONAL? Yes, yes I am. And I was yesterday, too, and let it slide because of all my excuses and more. So I’m disappointed in me.

I was left shaken by completing my task of reporting a suspected domestic abuse situation with my neighbor. I’d called – spoke to a secretary in Dutch. Got enough to understand I wasn’t talking to who I needed to talk to, and that someone would get back to me. The return phone call came yesterday while I was settling down to watch a film after swimming. I wasn’t prepped for it; didn’t practice in my head what needed to be said. So of course I got too emotional. Too involved. I remembered too much. For a few minutes I was back in a grotty east side high rise with a mattress on the floor for my bed and the ex/abuser/stalker in my life 110%.

To make my emotional distress worse, my brother headed off for a psych visit yesterday. He’s full blown manic, never stops, never goes down. He bleeds internally at times when the stress gets to be too much. He’s been waiting in the system for a fucking YEAR to see someone, and this long term drag around of his situation does NOTHING to make me feel reassured that when I get there the same thing won’t be happening to me. I was also bleeding jealous of him, jealous that he’s that far in the system, jealous that he’s got someone to talk to and I don’t. I felt like, why the fuck should I enter this fucking merry go round? Why should I wait around for another fucking year, talking to different people with each fucking appointment, never having any cohesiveness in my therapy or any ONE person I can count on. Cause even tho I’m jealous of his situation, he’s told me that every appointment he’s been talking to someone different. Telling them the same story, answering the same questions. FUCK that!

Top it off with a cherry: Reading news online, I see the headline “Shooter unstable…suffered bipolar”. FUUUUUUUUUCK YOU! Just read a blog ranting over the media shoving bipolar and other labels at the world, intimating that we’re all fucking psychos ready to blow anyone and everyone’s head off with the least fucking provocation. I am NOT a happy camper.

My body is rebelling, too. I’ve developed a lovely little thing called pustular psoriasis. I’ve got regular psoriasis, too. The added pustular bit is as ugly and disgusting as the name implies: I get raised blisters of pus in the middle of red, itch psoriasis patches. It’s not contagious. But it makes me feel like a fucking leper every time I have to show the palm of my hands or my bare feet, which is so far (and Goddess, please keep it that way!) the only places it’s showing up. The skin just keeps peeling and rotting, layer after layer after layer. No amount of goop helps. It’s a cyclical problem: comes and goes. Last time it cleared up I was seeing a dermatologist. He warned me of what I already knew – it could come back. I should have kept my feet on the ground. I shouldn’t have celebrated when I saw my feet clear of the infection. Because now I feel doubly bad. I really had hoped it wouldn’t surface again. I really did think, ‘well now my RA is under control and it won’t happen again’. Stupid, stupid, stupid!

Oh mother fucking universe, you fucking suck some mornings!!!!! My fucking lighter just died. Why is it that every lighter in the fucking universe comes my fucking way to DIE?!?!

Mothers…been thinking about mine, and her mother before her. How my mother learned to ignore me and emotionally abandon me (I’m learning to own that – may take a while) from her mother. How my mother’s siblings all had children. How my one cousin took his family hostage. How my other cousins got whipped with their dad’s belt when they misbehaved. All dysfunctional families. And all but 2 of us have chosen to NOT be parents. I always knew the family was sick. It wasn’t something I could have put words to when I was little, but I was aware of problems that shouldn’t have existed. So it ain’t just MY mother – it’s all of her family. Which points back to my grandparents. And then their parents before them. And so on. It’s also occurred to me that mom chose to ignore me rather than risk physical violence. She DID slap as a last resort. Her brother is the one who whipped his kids with his belt. So a theme of physical violence, perhaps physical abuse, runs through my mother’s family. Was mom actually so fucking afraid of REALLY hurting me that she chose to lose herself elsewhere? Did she just take herself out of the equation enough to make sure she COULDN’T do what was done to her? New thoughts. New thoughts I’m not completely ready for. I’ve only just begun to own my anger at my mother. I’m not ready to fucking forgive her yet…

And then there’s dad (and then there’s dad! – you gotta have seen the old tv sitcom Maude to have got that joke). Dad was the one I ran to. Not always; got a tummy ache? Better ask mom. Dad would just look worried. BUT…got a sliver? Dad was the one one who could take it out. Fell down and really hurt yourself? Run to dad for some love and comfort. And later…got a broken heart? Go and get a hug from dad. I’d TELL mom about my broken heart. I don’t remember her offering a hug, tho. Just advice. Dad gave hugs freely. Dad also taught me to swim, catch a baseball, throw a football. He tried to teach me to ride a bike, but my hyper flexibility prevented me from good balance all my life (and that was a disappointment I feel he never got over). Dad introduced me to the exciting idea of becoming a race car driver. Dad taught me football so well I knew more than any guy at school, including the football players…..I think if I’d been born today I may have chosen to be a guy. That would have opened up a whole new world of hurt, as I can see becoming the son my dad wished my biological brother would have been (for clarity: I live with my adopted brother and we are very close. I talk to my biological brother once every 5 years). And then I’d be writing this blog and telling you all about my horrible brother who’s so nasty to me. It would become HE WHO MUST NOT BE NAMED, not SHE WHO MUST NOT BE NAMED. Cause I’m not a fool. It would be same shit, different body. If I’d done it…I think I would have got more approval and affection from mom. Maybe. And dad? Would he have been stricter? Perhaps. I want to say no, that he would be the dad I remember. Then I think of my brother. And chances are I would have seen a different dad.

Dad’s story isn’t hard to understand. I heard it when I was about 12, and I got it all – what was said and what WASN’T said. Dad was the second son (there was a 10 year gap between them). His older brother went MIA in WWII. Lost over the pacific. Presumed dead. The family never recovered. His older brother was the golden boy, and dad could never compete. Dad’s dad came home drunk every Friday night, crying. Not talking. Just crying. No one talked about dad’s brother. And dad’s eyes grew sad: they looked out at the world still with that innocence of his youth, that need to be approved of and loved and told that HE was the one that was the most important thing in his parents’ lives. I knew all of that at a young age. I could hear it and see it and FEEL it. And it was passed on down to me, this sorrow. These sad blue eyes of my father’s. Sometimes I cry when I look in the mirror because I see HIS eyes in my face.

…And now I am spent. I have dug deep. I am tired but satisfied. A better way to start my day….

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