There is no update on the eviction threat or my sister. There's a temporary resolution to lack of transportation to see my therapist.
As always, I think of my sister every single day, just not every single second of every day.
I realize I focus on my brother's death more than my mother's. It reminds me very much of being a child who felt it was too dangerous to be angry with the abuser so she chose the safest route of blame and anger.
I can't touch my mother's dramatic exit without trembling. At least there are words to describe how I feel about my brother. I wasn't prepared for the changes his death would make in my life, but I'm not short on words, not by far. I could easily fill the heart of a violin telling him how it feels to be left this way. ...continue reading →
I hugged the lady very tight. She knows my sister. She gave me an update. My sister has locked herself in the apartment and there is still no movement, no contact, nothing has changed. They do know she was last seen in there. No phone activity, no FB activity.
I hand wrote a letter to her. I said nothing negative at all. I said she doesn't deserve to die and that I understand a lot of what she's going through. I asked her to rethink things, to let her support system do what she gathered them to do. She sought out good, solid supporters. I know 2 of them personally.
Of her friends, I asked them to have patience with her. She's a 50-year-old woman who doesn't know what to do with herself. She has to be told what to do and when she's told, she will do exactly as she's instructed. She won't do more or less. The lady kept looking at me like it should be simple for her to function because she's a 50-year-old woman. I said, she's not a 50-year-old woman who has matured. Being on her own is culture shock. She has no clue what she's doing, none. I shared the story that tells exactly how she thinks. I told the story about the garbage bag that my mother told her to get. She got the bag and then waited to be told to put the trash in it. Her friend put her hand over her mouth then said, that's exactly what she does. She waits to be told what to do.
As I finished an image for My Face My Art a cruel voice in my head reminded me that I'm worthless. My gut felt heavy. I wanted to curl in the fetal position and face the wall with my back to everything; anything that might be damaged by my existence.
If this feeling could be weighed, one person couldn't hold it.
I didn't review the images on a day where self image was greater than zero, perhaps I should have. Still, I look at some and think they aren't that bad. They show how much my eyes are becoming a problem.
I would search to find words that contradict the negative talk but I don't really want to. ...continue reading →
i feel so broken, exhausted, shredded. i need a mental vacation, somewhere out of my body and its inferno. that thought plagues me, i have to escape this.
they say when a person says they want to commit suicide that it's a cry for help, that they don't really want to die. that's true. i cried as loudly as possible. i'm not okay. help me. i'm not okay.
February is nearly over and i'm still here. i nearly didn't survive it. had it not been for answers to my calls for help i may not have been here to look people in the face and say, i'm fine.
what a ride this has been in a body with no armor traversing through emotional warfare. the disease let my body live but left my mind to rot. (eyes open at this point)
i took the diagnosis of CRSD very hard. i'd never heard of it. it made sense to me once it was explained. but i promised myself i wouldn't look up information on it. i promised i wouldn't study it because i want to be able to give the doctor a report from me and be able to say 100%, this is from me. I didn't read it somewhere. I'm paranoid about not being believed.
A short hospital stay was needed. I'm home recovering but I'm not to go anywhere. I was grateful that 3 from my care team responded after hours, including over the week end. They got me all squared away .... not to mention super drugged.
I said I wouldn't take narcotics unless its absolutely necessary. Well, it was absolutely necessary. Several days of going through that crap was enough! I'm still very tired, still not keeping anything down and still feel like crap but I don't hurt nearly as badly as I did. I'm down to a 7, which I hardly ever see even with this much stuff in my system.
I'm sleeping a lot, at odd hours as usual, but its good sleep. The elders from the Hall have been very helpful, so have the sisters.
Here's another My Face My Art piece created here in bed. She's wearing Nesting Place 2 on the left side of the screen and Reed 1 on the right. Also to the right of the screen there's a tiny bit of texture from the small drawing New Dimensions.
Back to sleep I go. I talk to Dr. D on the phone tomorrow afternoon. He was one on my care team that responded after hours.
Now you know I have to write about this. I saw the question posed in an entry. As a matter of fact it was the entire entry. What is a mother's love?
My first reaction was to think I don't know because I've not ever felt it but that's not true. I do know what a mother's love is because I'm a natural nurturer. I was a foster mother light years ago.
A mother who loves her child seeks out the best for the child. She helps provide the basic needs but she also touches softly, gives a shoulder to fall asleep on. She cleans up cuts and scrapes. She teaches life skills and leads by example. She's prideful, strong, mild, meek, serious, playful and a thousand other personality traits that aren't detrimental to her child. She's not all at of it wrapped into one. She's an individual, not a character on TV.
I'm not really great with leading into things slowly so I'm going to jump right in here and get to the point. I'm trying to remember you as a person separate from an abuser. It feels important to me to have a better picture of who you were as a kid and as an adult. I never thought of you as human, never thought you could actually die, or live for that matter. You seemed so big and without definition.
Although I have words that tell me what vacations your family took and what languages your family spoke, I have very little information about who you were and how you interacted with your family as a child and young adult. I've seen photos of vacations, photos of Spain, Mexico, Hawaii, Belize, up and down the Caribbean, on and on, but I've never seen photos of you and your sisters hanging around the house or just being kids. Your family photos left you and your sisters out and hardly ever included your parents doing anything other than standing stiffly beside one another. I sat through slide show after slide show seeing beautiful places void of family members. Click. Click. Click.
I saw a baby photo of you where you said you were ugly and looked like a little man. It wasn't your best shot but babies aren't ugly. Ugly is an attitude. Babies aren't ugly.
I realized the other day that I know very little about my mother's childhood other than the abuse. I know they traveled extensively. I remember the house and was absolutely impressed with the basement and it's many rooms and how it lead to the backyard. There are good memories from my grandmother's house yet very little is known of my mother's day to day childhood life. I know even less about my aunts.
The aunt I will eventually sit down with was bullied at school for her very dark skin with very dark, straight hair. They turned her name into a cruel song game. I can all but see them circling this very pretty, well dressed school girl who is trying to ease through a space between girls skipping and singing about how ugly she is.
Could they ever know their songs would be so heavy on the heart of that child and then the adult? No. They too were children and children just don't get it. They don't get how deeply their sing-songs hurt because they lack the life experience to know how emotions work. Kids live in the moment, they're growing, taking risks like there is no debt to pay, no bruise that won't heal. They were just kids that abused my aunt, just stupid kids. How hurtful stupid kids can be to those with a little bit more life under their belt and a clear understanding of emotional consequences.
I was cleaning my computer files and ran across a video which prompted me to create another. It's short. I talk about my head not feeling right and that if my emotions have color then they'd be turquoise being pushed down by white. The turquoise would press down on red, tear at it, shred it. It felt heavy in the pit of my stomach as I spoke to the pc camera. I had a day that started off rough but ended fine. As explained in the comment section, this is not a professional video. I rock back and forth, I look up and down and I talk, period. I tried to use the tools on YouTube to help the video look better but I'm not so sure it's any better.
I did a few photos of my feet since they're really bothering me right now. It's difficult to walk. If I try to bend the right foot it feels as if the skin will tear. It's hot, red and puffy all the way above my knee. I see Dr. R on the 20th about it. ...continue reading →