Everything's Been Great: . . . and that's bad.

I'm sure some readers "get it."  I finally did a couple of days ago.  Finally.

I'm cycling again.

How exactly is this a bad thing?

• I combined my girls' bedrooms and renovated one of the rooms to make a kick ass office space for myself (with a lot of help from S really).

• I finished an exorbitant amount of course work, including three large exams in two days.   

•  I read 18 chapters of material for a primary care course I am taking - in one sitting - at 2 in the morning.  

• I changed my specialty track in my master's program from nurse midwifery to family nurse practitioner.  I was hesitant to list this as a "result" of a manic episode... but after a long and honest contemplation, I do think that the chemicals in my brain had something to do with me making the switch.  It is a switch that I WANT to do.  But, I may not have had the courage and follow through if I weren't under the influence of the chemicals.  Maybe I'll blog about that.  I am on Spring Break after all.  (Any of my classmates reading this are laughing right now.)

•  I'm up at dawn.  Who needs to sleep?  A few times last week I woke up around 0230 and couldn't fall back to sleep for the life of me.

• Speaking of not needing to sleep -  we can also remove eating from my list of daily requirements.  (Because let's face it, eating and sleeping are just going to slow me down.  Or, I'm just not hungry or tired.  I'm not sure which because I at this point it is really getting hard to keep my thoughts...)

• Increased sex drive - check!

• I am the funniest woman who has walked this planet.  Everyone must drop everything they are doing and listen to my hilarious stories that may or may not have any relevancy whatsoever to a thing that we are doing at the time.  (I hate this part.  It's the most embarrassing.  This part and the food-eating part.)

• I feel like I overspent this week... but it was all stuff we needed for the house.  (I'm not sure we needed two mops.  Even though they were different mops, for different jobs, for different floors.  I don't know.  I can't tell.  Frivolous spending?)  And part of that really large Target bill was my daughter's birthday present.  (See upcoming birthday post next week!!)  Then there was a large Amazon.com purchase that may or may not have been for my upcoming school term.

• Overly sensitive - CHECKCHECK!! We have a puppy now.  A 13 week old standard poodle, baby girl, we have named Andie.  Anyway - S is like a dog trainer/animal whisperer.  I'm not being an asshole, really, she is good at it and so that is her "role" - to basically train up this puppy.  I feel like I am doing NOTHING right with the puppy though.  Every time S tells me what to do with Andie I get defensive.  I feel like crying.  I am now starting to withdraw from even wanting to do anything with the doggie.  Irrational and overly sensitive.  I think there are other examples.  This is all I care to mention at this point.

So next I get to look forward to the crash and burn.  S is leaving in the morning for a trip.  I'll be alone most of the week.  I'm working an all nighter tonight.  I fear I don't know where my emotions are going to be.  Will I be up or down?  I am interviewing with a preceptor for my clinicals early next week.  I really need to be level.

That's all.  Sorry I haven't been blogging.  I've been busy, cleaning, buying pure bred poodles, taking an entire 11 week course's exams in one week, shopping for mops that are JUST RIGHT, organizing the books in my office by very (I mean extremely) specific categories, having afternoon sex (sometimes in the shower and sometimes alone), ordering medical supplies that may or may not be required of me for school (like otoscopes and opthalmoscopes), and basically feeling like I could crawl out of my own skin at any given moment.

I think S loves me now more than ever.

My Dirty Little Secret

I have a mental illness.  If I don't take medication, it's debilitating; however, because I take my pills, like a good girl, I get to be a part of society ... and trust me... when I am medicated you can't tell that I have a mental illness.  A mental illness that I would do almost anything  NOT TO HAVE.

• I seem pretty put together.  I'm a fucking wreck.  The other day I couldn't be left alone because I was afraid of what I wanted to do to myself.  I took S into the bathroom and I told her, "I can't be around people right now, but I don't want to be left alone."  We had two hours left with the kids and she knew just what to do.

• I appear self confident.  I think others are talking about me sometimes... when clearly, they aren't.  I'm paranoid.  It's part of it.  I apologize too much.  Sometimes this means I don't talk at parties or social events, even if I *am* properly taking my little pills... and sometimes this means that others can perceive me as snobbish or rude or bitchy.  I am just not so self confident.

• I starve myself so that I cannot feel anything.  Somehow I forget to eat.  Somehow I know I'm supposed to eat, like, "Hey Elle do you want to have breakfast now?" I say, "Sure..." then I get going in a million other directions at the same time.  I starve myself because I don't think I deserve to eat.  

• And let's talk about deserving... I don't deserve my pills, so I don't buy them.  Which is why I'm in the spot I'm in right now.  Nearly immobilized with panic, on the crash pad couch, tears streaming down my face... waiting for S to return so I can feel safe again.  I feel so fucking stupid.  I know better.  I fucking KNOW better.

• I worry about when S will realize that I am not good enough for her.  Good enough.  Good enough.  Good enough.   I have a good enough syndrome.  And it's getting fucking old.  I'm sick of it.  What if S gets sick of it?  What if she can't handle me?  What if she can't handle this shit?  It's not easy having a girlfriend wife who cannot even drive herself to the goddamn shrink's office.  It's not easy loving someone who crumbles to tears because she cannot figure out the new prescription benefits on the new insurance plan.

• I have cut myself to make myself feel something.  I have a hard time seeing that in writing.  But there it is.  I write it because I know some woman might be reading this, and she may cut herself too, in order to "feel"... and well... I don't want her to feel alone.  I think it's the same reason why sometimes I HAVE to HAVE "fuckmetakemeharderlikethatfuckmelikeyoumeanit" sex.  Because I need to feel.  I need to feel human.  I need to feel inside my body.  When I have sex like that, though, I can feel another person close to me... at least...

To my friends who are reading this... if I have friends who are reading this... I am safe tonight.  S knows how I'm feeling.  We are communicating, always, openly, lovingly, and honestly.

I just need people to know.  I have a Dirty Little Secret.  Mental illness should not be a dirty secret.  I take medication.  When I don't, I get sick.  I'm sick.  Right now, I feel pretty sick actually.  I am embarrassed that S is seeing me this "sick."

We got married again tonight.  We "marry" each other every time we have a talk about our love, our plans for the future, and our promises for commitment.  Tonight, I reminded her that we are both in this for the long haul.  Not just for the happy, feel good times.  But for the "in sickness" times too.  All I really ask of her... all I really want... is to be able to count on her.  I want to be safe.

I Survived. But When Will it be Over?

My sister reads this blog and I am going to warn her that she may just want to skip this one.  Please.

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If my mother reads my blog, I do not know about it.  I'm not sure if she wants to read this one either.

I can't let that stop me.  I have to write this as if no one were reading...

I remember the day that my Elementary School Principal came to the classroom door and then my teacher told me to come to her desk.  My parents were in the office.  Both of them.  I remember the long walk down the short hallway to his office.

Why is dad not at work?  I'm gonna get in trouble.

I remember not wanting to remember their faces.

I remember how the smell of the cement plant filled up the Principal's office.  My dad hadn't changed his clothes from work.  

I'm gonna get in trouble.

I remember not looking at their faces.

I don't remember words spoken.  I remember going to to the girl's bathroom and getting sick ... vomiting ... and I remember a teacher finding me and asking if I was okay.  I remember wondering why mother didn't look for me.  

Was I in trouble?

They took me home.

I had just "accused" my step-brother of molesting me.  Incest.

When I got home I went to my room and at some point *his* mother came over with *his* sister.  They sat at my kitchen table, where I ate my family dinners, where I did my homework, where I played board games... and asked me why would I lie about such accusations.  My parents sat with them and said nothing.  They sat at my kitchen table and even called me names.  I was called a slut in front of my parents, in my kitchen, by my abuser's mother and sister.

I just stood there and took it.  Because that is what I knew how to do.  

"Didn't you say no?"  When did that mean I said yes?  I'm sorry... I didn't know I needed to consent to sex at age 9.

"You always were looking for attention." Oh... so by that logic it only makes sense that I did deserve what I got.  I did ask for it.  I asked for it and trust me... I learned how to take it and not complain so that I wouldn't bother anyone.

*************************************************

There were two of them, my step-brothers, and they took turns. I can't and I won't go into specific details... but after that day in the office... after that day at my kitchen table.... things changed.  It was the birth of some thing very ugly and ... well... I'd like to say the death of something very much uglier, but... it wasn't.

Let me explain.

So after the "accusations" were made and the reports were filed there was a bit of time when the "boys" were not allowed back into my home.  But I never really felt like I wasn't being violated, because even though I wasn't being touched... or watched... or... **sigh** I was literally being FORCED to talk about it with either the authorities, my parents, or a counselor.  This was supposed to be good for me.

Then, back at the kitchen table... remember the sacred place where I was called those nice things and just took it?  Well... I was told to set the table one Sunday afternoon, and I was told the "boys" would be there too.  I was told that I needed to get over it.  I was told that we needed to start acting like a family again. 

(Or something like that.  I'm sure my mother or sister both have their own memories, respectfully... these are mine.)

Again.  The kitchen table.

And so it was born.

I have thought really long and hard about this fucking eating disorder I struggle with ... and everything I have inside of me... every cell and every fiber I have.... well... it all shoves me back to the fifth grade and that goddamn kitchen table.

I would have done anything to never have to go back to the table ever again.

Bebe

I have these incredible women in my life that I don't give credit too often enough.  I don't recognize often enough.  I don't tell them how much I appreciate them and everything they've done for me... I just don't.

There is a particular woman that has been on my mind the last few weeks and usually, when something or someone is on my mind like this... it's for a reason.

Bebe and I 'met' in cyberspace more than 5 years ago where we both offered each other (and other women) support in the form of a message board.  Our friendship grew quickly after a phone call I made to her one afternoon that lasted hours long.  I could tell we were going to be friends for a very long time...

We shared.  A lot.  We shared our experiences that brought us to that message board seeking support.  We shared our childhoods.  We shared stories about our mothers, and then after I even made a trip out to see her I even tried to push her mother into a pot of boiling water.  No worries... I saved her by grabbing her broken arm to reel her back in.  It sounds worse than it was... really.

I was there when she became a (bio)mother.  I watched her birth video and reviewed the traumatic delayed evacuation with her (so nice for a student nurse-midwife, by the way).  I was there to listen to her stories and fears and frustrations of step-mothering.

She's been there for me too.  She has told me when to lock myself in the bedroom with the phone ... that the "kids will be fine for 10 minutes."  She's told me to eat because I was to sick to feed myself.  She's called my family and friends to make sure I am safe because she lived more than a thousand miles away.  She has opened her home to me, to my kids, and now most recently to S.  She is part of my chosen family.

A year ago... she loaned me money... and it was like a birthday gift.  Because it was money I used to retain my divorce attorney.  When I left one dysfunctional relationship for another... she loved me, and she stayed by my side to show me that I am strong enough... that I am not the sum of my mistakes.

What does she say for herself?  "That's what friends do."

I've been worried about my friend lately.  I need her to be okay.

Fear: Does it motivate you or paralyze you?

What would you do if you weren't afraid?

I find that most of my life has been filled with fear.  'Bullshit,' my friends are thinking.  My friends that read this.  I think that they see me as this totally brave woman.  A fearless woman who just goes out and does instead of sits and says.

If they really knew how afraid I am.  How afraid I've been. 

I think we are all afraid and I really don't feel special in this.

I have looked fear in the face though, and I have used it to motivate me.  But I do admit that there is a lot more that I feel is paralyzing about fear.  There are a lot more fears and anxieties that I have than confidences.  I'm just a really good fucking actress.  Maybe.  Or maybe people really can see right through me.

What would I do if I weren't afraid?  What have I done?

Leave him.  Hurt him.  Admit that there is no other way.  In admitting that I am a lesbian, I could not stay married to him.  For a long time I tried to find ways to leave him without hurting him.  I tried to will him into leaving me, thinking he would hurt less.  I never wanted him to get hurt.  I don't want anyone to hurt.  I was afraid, so I got married.  I was afraid, so I stayed married.  I was afraid, so I got divorced.  Fear was paralyzing and motivating. 

Fall in love.  Not use my body as a tool, as a way to avoid real communications or real relationships.  It's easier to fuck than talk.  It hurts more to be rejected for my thoughts than my body.  Talk.  Listen.  Share.  Even this blog, its' all fear based.  I get afraid.  I get quiet.  I come here and write.  It's bullshit.  To those who've told me it's so brave... bullshit.  It's not.  So... I try to make this as an authentic place as possible.  At least I can do that.  These, my friends, are the truest of my thoughts and feelings that I can share.  This is as close to me as one can really get.  My body is not involved.

Forgive.  Them.  Me.

At one time in my life I was afraid of failing, and that fear did NOT stop me from becoming a nurse.  Again, though, the fear is back.  I don't think it's a fear of failing this time.  I don't know what I am afraid of.  But the fear is there, on the surface and I have two simple choices.  Stay in school.  Quit school.  I really feel like I am meant to be a midwife, or rather, I am a midwife.  But I made choices and now, continuing my education at this point seems questionable. 

I chose myself over the lie of my marriage that was killing me.  I chose loving my kids fully over struggling to fight the resentment that was building daily while parenting them on an empty tank.

What would I do if I weren't afraid?  What have I done?

Play the guitar; Tailor my own clothes; Buy a real camera and learn to use it; Audition for community theater; Interview for a per diem RN job; Return at least one creditor's phone call; Learn how to make sushi; Cut my own hair; Wax my own bikini area;  Apologize; Forgive; Own a pet that I can't just flush down the toilet if it dies; Continue an unplanned pregnancy; Terminate an unplanned pregnancy; Talk without shame about those hard choices; Tell a friend the truth instead of biting my tongue; Write this blog as if no one ever reads it; Let myself cry and not stop; Admit that I am afraid...

There's a lot.  Too much.  So much.  But I have to keep moving forward and I must keep facing my fears.  At the end of the day I want to say, "I did all I could.  I did my best."  Some days, I wonder if that's true, sadly.

Maybe it was the GERD

S and I went out for lunch today.  She wanted spicy.  I had overindulged the night before with my wine and had taken some ibuprofen.  So... I'm not sure what was up with my stomach, you see... I was feeling wickedly sick before lunch and during our festive fajita feast all I could think about was lying down in the cool pleather booth.  Was it the overindulgence the night before?  The medicine stomach?  The fact that I have GERD and I'm not taking my protonix any longer?  (fuck, I feel old sometimes)

Anyway, cold sweats were about to ensue and she insisted we get the check and make it back to the Shack to cuddle on the couch with movies.  I was all in favor of that.

Here's my blog.

Every single time we are out to eat... anywhere at all... any kind of dining... the check gets put directly in front of her.  NOT in between us, ambiguously.  No.  Just smack dab in front of her.  Like where her plate was just two minutes ago.

I have noticed this in the past and it was a mere observation.  But today, blame it on the GERD I guess, I was a little irritated.

It wasn't like we were even asked if we wanted separate checks and S answered for us, "No," so that the server could have subconsciously made the decision S was paying. 

I'm overthinking.  I know.

I should just let her pay for my lunch.  But that's not really the point. 

It makes me wonder what makes the servers do this.

More later... 

Heart Starved

Everytime I meet S's friends for the first time it involves eating.  There was a brunch the first go around, and last night... a fucking buffet.  Which if you suffer from any sort of disordered styled eating is the actual worst environment to be in as far as I'm concerned.  Oh let's see... new people AND chosing what food to put on your plate... then walking with said plate of food to table... then trying to eat said food while talking to aforementioned new people.  My heart is racing just thinking about the possibility of doing it again.

I wanted to scream, "I'm better than this!  Let's go dancing!  Or let's go to a book store... or an anatomy lab... or hell a fucking park and swing!!"  I wanted to send telepathic messages that said, "Please don't judge me by what I'm putting into my mouth or not putting into my mouth, or how I'm putting it into my mouth..."

Here is the thing that the super duper smart Me knows:  They aren't judging me.  Because they aren't fucked up.  I am.

I am the one who cries in the dressing room because I feel less than a woman with no breasts.  I am the one who feels less than a woman when I know that others look past me or through me or can just see the surface me.  I am the one who doesn't ever feel heard...  so I often just don't really speak...

I asked once if anyone ever truly saw me or heard me.  None of them understood.  Except maybe a couple.  I meant do they SEE ME and do they HEAR ME... do they really know who the fuck I am and do they understand?  Do they care to?

I do okay eating with S, just her and I.  And Kevin and I really have fun eating... I've never had FUN eating.  I'm trying very hard to not make this about anything more than it needs to be.  But sometimes, you know, you just can't help it.  

I'll see S in a few days, for a few days.  And we'll spend time cooking for one another.  It's so healthy and for me, truly healing.  I need it.  I need to be in the kitchen with my heart.  Feeding it.  And her.  And me.