I'm still awake. I was saying a prayer before bed where I talked to God about how hard it is to say I love you even to him. I have a hard time hearing others say, "I love you." Most of the time terms of endearment irritate the snot out of me. Hun, sweetie, yuck! "I love you" will make me recoil with mistrust.
My mother told me if I didn't change my ways I'd end up like my Aunty S and die alone and unlovable. How dare she? I was told early on that I was killing her love for me. I was killing my mother's ability to love me. When younger, my sister would catch me as I walked around the corner, hit me in the stomach and say, "love hurts." She tried to tell me in better ways but it ended up being awkward. "I'd tell you I love you but you'd just do something to make me regret it." At the time I couldn't hear past the words.
I didn't know that grief would be accompanied by desperation to fill empty spaces. I used to require silence. It helped keep me calm so as not to be overwhelmed by stimuli. I now need to hear some type of program, film, theater, something. I need background noise to break the silence. Now, in silence, my head goes on and on. I go over all my mistakes and failings. I think and think some more.
It's not just that I need noise in the background to break the stream of thoughts, there's a specific noise I need. I need to hear a male voice more than a female voice. My anxiety remains sky-high and my attention span is short so I do well with 45 min TV shows and such. Two hour films feel like a commitment. Most of the time I don't sit and watch the show, I'm up tinkering with this and that, cleaning, pacing.
I didn't realize how much blame is added to his death. It's humorous that his grandmother (not my mother) feels no guilt for the cruelty she slapped him with before he died. She's smoothed it over in her head. Nope. You can't cover that up. It was profoundly immoral. ...continue reading "Grief: Didn’t you know this would break us? 1"
I can't call my aunts or my sister or cousins to share the grief, to encourage or be encouraged. I often feel alone with this. I feel broken. I've vomited out my heart. I no longer have one.
I tread waters of criticism when I say I can think of a hundred people who should take his place in a coffin. I have a hard time thinking that he's in a box decaying. My brother!!!! My boy is decaying!!! Really? Somewhere I read about a woman blogger whose mother died. She talked about how undignified death is. I can't remember which blogger it was, but she talked about how her mother's autopsy discussed her in ounces and pounds. To think there was an autopsy done on my boy is mentally terrifying. You cut up my boy? You weighed him like a pound of meat, sewed him up, put him on display, locked the lid then put dirt over it. You left him to the bugs. I'm mad that such barbarous acts were perpetrated against my loved one.
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 "Do Not Betray Your Sister"
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 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.