Wednesday must be the day marked in my uncle’s calendar to get under my skin. This morning I received 5 notifications of comments on my FB posts by the man. A quick scan revealed half are admonishing, half argumentative. Don’t know if I’ll have the strength of character to go out to FB today and deal with it. I DID have the strength to just hit the delete button a lot while checking my email.
Still choosing to not hate – tho that’s a challenge. I do recognize the difference between being angry and hating; I am clear: I HATE my family. Many I would not lend a hand to if I found them dying on the side of the road. Hate is an all pervasive shut down. It’s an I don’t care WHAT happens to you feeling. Anger is anger, but doesn’t prevent me from experiencing that basic empathy and sympathy I have for most living things. HATE prevents me from feeling anything close to that. So I acknowledge my hate. I hate my family – or most of them.
But I won’t let it envelope me.
It IS gratifying, after so many years of being verbally subjugated at the hands of “loved ones”, to hear the gasps of shock from other people when I describe my family. These days, saying that most of my family will be supporting Trump in the next election is enough. I got that yesterday from my physiotherapist. He couldn’t believe it. Right now I’m thinking of some other shocked responses I’ve received when discussing my family. These are the responses and the people who led me to look at my childhood as truly abusive. And I found their assessment to be correct: I suffered abuse at the hands of my family. That’s still a new thought for me. The first time I let myself ponder it, I was scared. Really scared. Now…I find it a strange sense of strength and comfort. It doesn’t absolve ME of the decisions I made later on in life. Those are mine. But it DOES absolve me of the crime of thinking what I was doing was the only way, or the right way.
The hardest part about all of this is fully embracing the idea that I’m NOT a piece of shit. The damage to my self confidence has been the worst. At my core, I believe I am worthless. THAT is the fault of my family.
The question now is, what am I gonna do about it?
…This is going to come back to a basic binary thing again, isn’t it? I choose to believe I am worthless, or not. Goddamn it. Why is it that the simplest of choices are the hardest?
Man! I feel un-enlightened this morning.
I am getting out of this box today. Not sure exactly what I’ll do, other than a few short errands. But I AM getting out.
Happy to say my back is getting better. Though I’ve had some stiffness post walking, the joints are mobile. My physiotherapist feels I’ve just got to retrain everything now that it’s in proper alignment. I can do that. Eight days to my appointment with my rheumatologist. We’ll talk about the effects of summertime on me, maybe get a shot, ask about wrist braces. Ugh…tho I must admit, a shot this time would be my third booster shot in a row. I don’t know how many boosters I get before we just up the meds.
I DO need to move a bit better to get proper exercise.
Thinking about asking for more pain relief, too. Taking Tramadol and paracetamol AND diazepam for my back and STILL having pain just seems too many pills in exchange for where I was.
It DID take two weeks of my life. Three before I felt I could really walk again.
And my wrist took seven days. Today is the first day I have full movement again.
That’s…too much time. The cost of pain is beginning to outweigh the dangers of increased meds.
Damn! I said HAPPY and then petered out into ick. Discipline that mind!
Sunshine and lollies. Dancing elves and garden gnomes…Not really working. I’m either not high enough or it’s just a load of bollox.
Something more substantial, than. People who’ve been kind to me for absolutely no reason. Times and places I’ve made a difference in other people’s lives. The thank you’s I’ve received. The life I saved. The little bullied boy. Not one of THEM would say I was worthless. No. That little boy…he may still think of me, as I of him. As I think of all of them. So many are nameless, short encounters.
I find it ironic that the moments that mean the most to me, that spring to mind and fill me up with something that drives out all hate, all doubt, are also the ones that are singular. These are not people I have in my life as friends or family. They are strangers, all of them, yet I am closer to them – and would run to help any one of them – faster than I would my family.
Maybe some of us are built for families, for that close knit clan. And maybe some of us are built for other things. To be those individuals who step in and make a difference in strangers’ lives. Our clan is looser; it’s not tied by blood but by something else. Something intangible. But it is there, and we take action to guard our clan. Why I chose to step into these particular individual’s lives is a bit of a mystery, even to me. Looking back, I know I couldn’t sit still during those moments. I was compelled to act. I never asked for anything. Not even a continued connection with these individuals. Somehow, though…somehow I knew THEY were my family. They were the ones I needed to protect. It’s so deep in me that I don’t even question it.