Soon I am going to Target with one of the very FEW women I would ever trust enough to do this with. She is kind of private in things of the *world wide web* so I don't know how to refer to her to protect this privacy. She has been a loving and constant friend for a few years now, and I trust her with my panic. She is one of the few people I can risk "let" seeing me, the real me, breakdown... and not feel shame or embarrassed.
I need a swimsuit.
Not want. Need.
I am a different size than I was last year, and the year before - and well, we are leaving in 2 days to take our brood of kidlets to California.
I think this has been the source of my anxiety and subsequent insomnia over the last few days. So... here I go. Off to get a swimsuit. Regardless of my size or its size. Because I refuse to let my fucked up body image ruin or steal a moment of my time with my kids on this first, amazing family vacation that S and I are taking them on.
Or at least that's the plan.
So as my Middle, S's "twin-separated-by-32years" would say: Let's do this thing.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Motherless has been renamed Freckles. Obvious reasons. She’s no longer a motherless soul and if you’ve ever seen her, then you too would be in love with her Freckles as I am.
Now, on to business.
Freckles is in trouble. She is very sad. Depressed. Seeking an escape. I see it now. She just wants to feel something. Or nothing. I’ve been there. I even go *there* sometimes still, shamefully. So last night I tried to be as brave as possible and a little after midnight I ATTEMPTED to have a convo with her dad. It went like this:
Me: “Has Freckles ever mentioned being depressed to you?”
Him: “Are you saying I’m making her depressed?” (I shit you not. Exact words.)
More conversation about what depression is and isn’t and how it IS about her and IS NOT about him… More conversation with him trying to get pats on the head for being such an involved father… Then he tried to tell me that he thinks she only “gets this way” for about “three days a month” and it’s “around the same time each month.” I have never wanted to scream at him so much more than I did last night.
Then I told him, “Are there drugs in your house?” He repeated the question before saying no. Liar.
He asked why I was asking, I said, “A couple of the kids mentioned seeing …. Hey, do you think Freckles is doing drugs?”
Him: “I know for a fact she is not.” OMG. REALLY?? She is going into high school. She is fourteen years old. Quit pretending she is a toddler. I want to fucking shake him. It won’t do any good.
Anyway. Enough of that. This morning I talked to her and told her about what he and I (tried) to talk about. I told her I think she has a lot of anger, and anger is okay, even anger towards me—I will always love her. But she needs to get it out. Anger held in is just more depression.
I can only imagine how hard it is for my kids to have a lesbian mom-- or two lesbian moms. The divorce was hard enough. But I made it clear to her that I have to be myself. I can’t pretend to not be gay because I have already “done that” for years and it wasn’t healthy. I promised her to love and fight for her always. That means getting her healthy in all ways.
I spent the better part of the afternoon searching for psychologists specializing in adolescent / family / LGBT sorts of issues. I feel very good about who I chose. I think Karate Kid (my 11yo daughter) will get some much needed help too.
And that brings me to where I am right now, near panic attack. Karate Kid. My other little soul that I am worried about. When I was telling the therapist my concerns about her, I mentioned her pulling (trichotillomania), anxiety, and eating issues… She stopped me short and wanted to know “more” about the eating issues. Out of nowhere I just admitted I have an eating disorder and then I started to stumble, mumble, and literally choke. Finally settling on, “I don’t want to talk about it. So you can see why I am worried about her. I am not in a good place myself.”
What. The. Fuck.
How… Why… am I oversharing like this? I don’t want… I don’t need… to talk about ME. It’s my kids, they need help. I certainly don’t want to fucking talk about the ED. Because talking about it means having to let go of it. And I can’t let go… Why can’t I let go of it? Just admitting it is a part of letting go of it, did you know? Well, it is. And I’m not ready.
So, this was a random ball of shit. But I’m writing. Today at dinner S told me I need to write not just when I’m “down here” … but every day. Regularly. I assume she means I only write in a therapeutic manner – when I am “down.” That made me hold back tears. Christ. I didn’t see myself as *that* kind of writer.
So, I’m really going to force myself to write every day. I know there are sources out there that provide writing prompts, and I am going to take advantage of them. She’s going to play her guitar and I’m going to write. Every day. I have another blog now, a private one, so that helps a little. Between this one and that – it will be a release.
And yes, I got married. Not to make light of such a serious event – but really, life goes on, and it has – as you can see. And just as I thought, S is right here by my side. Wedding photos will be posted when I get them from our photographer, then I will write a nice little synopses. xo It was truly a beautiful day.