Bits & Pieces.

Can I be put back together or am I like Humpty Dumpty?

I almost screwed up last night. There's been too much crap about death and dying. I felt so much pain and grief that I thought I could not stand it. So I went to the ER and told them I had a migraine. While I was waiting to be seen I recognized what I was doing and I left.

Had a thought. By being around mom, am I emotionally self-mutilating? The perfect laceration--all internal. That's interesting. I never thought of it that way before, but it makes sense. I don't know why but last night all I could do was beat myself up. I couldn't find one good thing to say about myself. More self mutilation I guess. I want so much for this to end. What do I have to do to gain control of my life?

Do you think you know what hell is? Do you think you know hell? OCD is hell. You don't know hell until you know my hell.

The light of God surrounds and fills me.
The love of God protects me.
The humility of God humbles me.
The mercy of God inspires me.
The presence of God guides me.
The power of God awes me.
The grace of God sustains me.

I am trying my darnedest to work on this house, I've got it all torn apart. And it occurred to me that while this is a nice thing to do, it's also VERY passive aggressive. Mom will get a clear message that she can't keep house. She will be VERY pissed off. So it's also self defeating because the last thing I need is mom pissed off. Why do I do this?

I feel like crap because that is the way mom brought me up to feel. I feel like crap because I agreed with her when I didn't know any better, and now that I do, I can't rewrite the definition of who I am and what I am supposed to think and feel and do. I do horrible things to prove to myself (and anyone else who's watching) that I am exactly what she thought I was. So how do I change this? All I have to do is change everything. I have to do things that make me feel good about being me. If I want to improve my self esteem, I must do esteem-able acts.

Somewhere I read that folks with OCD count in order to avoid feeling something deeper and very painful. To distance themselves from what bothers them the most they substitute something meaningless and benign and seemingly under their control. Busywork for the mind that winds up making them feel out of control and hopeless. So how do I stop counting? I do it all the time without even thinking about it, without realizing that I am doing it. How do I get past this? What is it that hurts me the worst, that I need to avoid the most? What have I done that was that awful that I have spent decades trying to push it out of my mind? What did someone else do to me? Is it me? Mom? Something else? I try wrapping my mind around it being mom or my response to mom but my brain just won't go there. What is it that I can't allow myself to feel? Being molested? Being a slut? Mom's drinking? Dad's absence? What? What thought do I need to take to bed tonight?

Perfection also keeps me from trying and doing things. If I can't do it perfectly why bother to even try?

I continue to shovel out my parents house. Now my son is helping. I am mortified by all the crap we are throwing out. My son on the other hand is calling his friends to come and see, like we are some circus act. A freak show! Someone should charge admission. Surely between us there is some kind of balance. Like eating a Hershey's while drinking Diet Coke.

Today my OCD is making me crazy. On top of all the counting, I am in constant motion, wiggling, tapping my hand or foot, just about anything to avoid being still. And of course nothing will shut off to let me sleep. Laying in bed last night I remembered when I was about 10 years old, I desperately wanted attention and I thought that being sick like my sister would get me attention. But, I could not lie. So, I used to bang my head into the wall to give myself a headache. (Might explain some of my brain damage) Then I was legit. They didn't give a crap. May be I was into self mutilation long before I recognized it.

I am a slow learner. I think that I even challenge God as I am sure He has been trying to teach me about enabling for a very long time. What I got from God last night was that He will not enable me. What am I talking about? When my son was arrested, I wanted to bail him out and that was enabling. My parents got him an attorney, because we all know if you have a court appointed attorney, you're going down. That was enabling. When I screw up, God will not cover over and make nice for me. I am sure that as a parent even His gut reaction is to fix things. But enabling allows me to continue in the same horrid behavior. God forgives me my screw ups but He does not take away the consequences. If He did, I would have no reason to change. God is not interested in fixing my screw ups. He is interested in a personal relationship with me. For so long I prayed, "please God don't let me be pregnant" or "please God this one last fix." God was not interested in those self serving prayers, which were not a request for mercy but a plea for escape from negative consequences. That is not a deep, personal, committed relationship. That is a conditional relationship and I already have plenty of those. Am I making any sense? God does not want to fix me. He wants to experience every thing good, bad and ugly with me. And He wants me to change my behaviors so to have more of the good in my life.

Few people know how truly ugly I am. I don't want to hurt anyone with my words or ever have them used against me. I heard today in church that we are all ugly without Christ. Just had a shouting match with mom, real Christian- like of me. I'm leaving before any thing else happens.

I went to Borders the other day while I was in the city. Came across a spiritual journal. Listed topics to journal about, Bible passages to read, and more. I thought it looked cool, so I bought it and brought it home. I got it out this morning, excited to start my own spiritual journaling journey. The first chapter covered anger. So, I put it away. Would have been so much better to start with guilt.

I understand hatred. My mother never draws a sober breath. But she doesn't live for the beer, she lives to hate my son. Her soul mission in life is to make him pay for my sisters death.

I screwed up yesterday. I "overdosed" and had another seizure. That was not my intention, I just wanted some sleep. The ER doc had to staple and glue my head back together, and there's not a spot on me that doesn't ache today. I cannot believe that I completely forgot that I had a seizure before and took that stuff again. I'll remember next time and won't take as much. I promise.

It was my father who pulled my long hair into a high tight ponytail. It's not that my mother never fixed my hair, surely she must have, I just don't remember her doing it. It was also my father who took me to confession every Saturday evening and mass and Sunday school the following morning. The only time I remember mom ever being at church was a day when I saw a black lady with a really large Afro and I pointed and commented on what big hair she had. My mother yanked my arm out of the air and told me I was the rudest child in the world. When I was 13 my dad was in Thailand and I had a part time job after school. I brought home my paycheck every Friday and gave it to mom. She would buy me, us, Rum and cigarettes with my earnings. My sister and I were dating two men who were almost 30. I do not think that mom and dad are the reason I continue to make bad choices, I said it was a familiar pattern. When my daughters father, my first true love, left me fat, dumb and pregnant, something broke inside of me that I have always known could never be fixed. I have always wanted to care about my appearance, wear make up and do up my hair, but I have never thought it would make a difference. And in part that is very true. I am not a beauty queen and I know it. If someone can only love me when I am looking my best, I don't want their love. My baby sister has the opposite problem. She is so beautiful she won a state beauty pageant one year. But, she will not even take out the garbage without putting on her face first. I have always wanted to give more of myself. My mother has always said that if I had a penny then "everybody's got a penny." I simply don't know how to not share or care.

My mom was very beautiful when she was young. She was 5'5" and 120 lbs or there-a-bouts. Now she is barely 4'11" because she is so crippled by osteoporosis and only about 90lbs. She ambulates with the use of a walker rolling in and out of the bars. But even more crippling and more damning is her refusal to ever have a nice thing to say. She hurts me every time I see her; yet I keep coming back for one more round. I wish she would TKO me.

One year when we were living overseas, mom got me up in the middle of the night to listen to the OU-Texas game on the radio. She was probably drunk, but I remember feeling so special because she didn't get anybody else up. Just me and her.

When I was young all I wanted to be able to do was to write a book. I just could have lived on the smell of ink and paper. But, I think that is buried pretty deep now, and I don't know if it can be uncovered.

I think I have read so many autobiographies because I stand in awe of people who know themselves well enough to write about themselves. And biographies for much the same reason but also because those people left some kind of mark that interests others. I, on the other hand, have done nothing except live under the rule of my mother too scared to have a dream of my own. She told me that she had wanted to be a nurse, so what did I do? I became a nurse. Easy to see why that plane crashed and burned. I have no idea of who I am. I am sure that I was a burden to her when I was born. There is 3 year difference in everyone's birthday except mine and Jeri's. We were just a year apart. She was sick and needed mom. I was... I was what I was. And I needed mom too.

I left the house for lunch today. It was the first time I've left the house in 3 days. Hadn't even bothered to get out of my pajamas. I haven't even showered. I've been sending in resumes online. As usual, I feel like crap, in part because I have done nothing productive but also because I haven't slept.

I used to think that gratification was just around the corner. It would come with the right job, the right boyfriend, more money etc. Now I know that gratification comes from the accumulation of doing the right thing over and over again. Can't do that when I'm using or sitting like a lump. It's the difference between getting through difficult times and getting away from or avoiding the inevitable--at least temporarily. It's the difference between making excuses and making a difference. I get gratification from being with people I enjoy, my work, church, AA meetings. All things I haven't done this week.

I feel like a pseudo-adult. I forget that I have any real value. Being around other people makes me feel like I'm a child wearing my mothers high heels and lipstick. I learned very early on that children should be seen and not heard; I've never emotionally outgrown being a child. Maybe I am making some progress because last month I actually took up wearing lipstick for the first time in my life. It always felt like I was playing dress up before. And besides that I did not want my lips to be of any special attention because when my mom kissed me her lips were always ice cold from the beer she was drinking.

I am comfortable in my pain and unable to see beyond it to some thing better.

I am not looking forward to Valentine's Day. I have never gotten a valentine from a man who loved me. I was engaged once and was supposed to get married on Valentine's Day, but we broke up before that happened. I had bought the most beautiful wedding dress. Never got to wear it. But both my little sisters thought it was the most beautiful wedding dress they had ever seen, and they both wore it on their wedding day.
The pain is the price of admission to paradise. It's only thus that we know and appreciate God. The purest spirit is the product of the harshest fire. He knew every hair on your head (and tear on your cheek) even before you had a name. And he wrote your name down where it matters most as one sealed by the Spirit and His forever. He was sitting next to the kid on the playground alone on a mound of grass. And next to the kid who had no friends and sat motionless on the swings. And the one who hid in the jungle gym pretending it was a rocket-ship that would fly him away from the beatings.

I asked my dad if I could borrow $20 to buy a yoga DVD, and he said yes. My mom bitched at him for 10 minutes for giving me the money and then turned on me and said it will be like every thing else I've ever done in my life, I won't stick with it. And that I'm going to end up looking like a 10 ton beached whale anyway. It times like this that I want most to die, to vanish, to just stop feeling. Doesn't she know how much it hurts to hear those things? Of course she does. That's why she says them.

Dreams? Nightmares. Since my sister died I have had many, many dreams that vary in the details but the central theme is always the same. In my dream I forget that she is sick and that I am responsible for taking care of her. She dies alone. I usually wake up in a panic trying to figure out where she is. Then I remember that she is gone. And there is nothing that I can do.

What is the best explanation for OCD? I have concluded that it is an adaptation. Like a shield and sword, it protects me when I am must vulnerable from that which most threatens me. It purposefully serves to keep my mind from exploring things I don't want to explore, things that I know are out there and in here, waiting for me to let my guard down, to step casually where I don't belong, to act like they don't matter any more, like they can no longer hurt me. That is when they will strike. But the OCD is itself maladaptive. It devours me. It requires constant attention. Practice does indeed make perfect. What is it that I'm so dead set on avoiding that ruining my life seems preferable, that driving me insane seems like a better alternative? Is it the stuff from my past, or is today's crap? Have I been in this mode for so long that I don't know or comprehend any other way to function. Where do I begin? How do I address the crap that is making me crazy? Do I start with current crap and go backwards or start with childhood crap and go forward? I really want to work on this. I am so tired of living this way.

Fears...
of failure, and of success,
of acceptance and rejection,
of not surrendering my will to God,
and of surrendering my will to God
(He may not do what I want after all),
of being loved and being unlovable,
of the truth and of denial,
of forgiveness and of being unforgivable,
of growing up and of never growing up,
of not being good enough and of being a perfectionist.
I could do this all day long.

I have to get that job in the city and get myself and my son out of this house. My mom is a lunatic!! She is filled with hatred and contempt for everyone especially my son. I told him to leave and not come home tonight. When he was six months old, my sister decided she needed a break from motherhood, so she dropped him off with me for four months. When my mom found out that I had him, she was outraged and tried to take my daughter away from me. She said she couldn't believe that I would expose my daughter to him not knowing whether he had hepatitis or AIDS or something. Mom would not let it rest until I had him tested. When my sister was dying and asked me if I would take him to raise, I vowed that I would move away from here, from mom and all her madness. I am ashamed of myself for bringing him back into all of this and angry at myself for not keeping that vow and for allowing her to emotionally and spiritually poison my son.

My mom just came in and chewed me out for eating yogurt. She said that eating at night is making me fat (probably true) and that she can't afford to feed me at night. Now this is the woman who has two refrigerators FULL of food. So full that the doors some times have to be duct tapped shut. A freezer in the same state. A pantry larger than many closets. And still there is food in every closet in the house and on every horizontal surface. She even has 3 ice chests with food in them on the back patio. I'm not kidding. She stockpiles food like she stockpiles her beer. That should pretty much say it all. I am only allowed to have two cans of diet coke in the refrigerator. But I am fortunate you see, because my dad and my son aren't allowed to keep anything at all in the fridge.

Do you know what the punishment is for writing your own scripts in this state? Up to 20 years in the penitentiary!. I could still be in prison for my stupidity 7 years ago.

I don't know if you know Bob Smith and or his family. Bob was a young guy, 30 something, member of my NA group. He went to the city and got himself killed. I heard that his car broke down on the highway, and he was walking to get help when he got hit. He had a heart for God but couldn't stay off the crap. Just another day in the life of an addict.

I lost my job in the Big City on March 31st last year, got back here in early April. I have done nothing for a year. I could easily do nothing for another year. I don't know why I decided to put mission work on the back burner for the time being, but I think I need to put it back on the front burner. Even without a job, had I spent this last year raising the funds to support my mission work, I could have been gone by now. My son went to see his attorney yesterday. I discovered that I am a blooming idiot. Parents always are. I have been trying for years to get him interested in Vo-tech. I offered to pay for it. His grandparents offered to pay for it. Nothing. School's not his thing. He called me yesterday from the Vo-tech all excited. He told me they offer a welding class and auto mechanics. I just acted surprised. He's enrolled in the welding class! You know what beat's that?. Tomorrow night he wants me to go to an AA meeting with him. Just to check it out, of course. Turns out somebody else got through to him. Or maybe it was just his turn to listen.

I wish I had the courage to talk to other women who are considering abortion about alternatives.

I can tell you exactly what I've had for dinner on my birthday every year for the past 30 years. Blood rare roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. As prepared by my mom, my favorite meal. The leftovers reappearing two days later in a bowl of beef and noodles, the best this side of heaven, my second favorite meal.

When I was a kid my mom could draw the best looking, realistic picture of Bugs Bunny. She even fooled Elmer a time or two.

If I was sick, I mean genuinely sick not just having a bad day I could depend on mom. I knew my recovery would be hastened by a bowl of her homemade potato soup. Hands down, as Walt would say, the best potato soup in the world.

Mom was right. I never finish any thing I start. I haven't done my Yoga exercises in three months. Not that it matters. Mom's not here to keep score any more.

Unless a kernel drops to the ground, dead to itself it cannot bring forth new life. I have received encouragement to write that book I use to dream about. That dream was buried a long time ago. I've been looking at my dream thinking it could never be uncovered. It was never meant to be uncovered but fed and watered. Fed and watered to bring about new life to fulfill my dream.

There are so many things I want to tell you about, so many painful things. I don't know where to begin though and I can't conceive the pain will ever end.

I have cried over this pain, I have used to cover this pain. I have shared this pain, I have prayed about this pain. I have lied about this pain, I have fantasized being free of this pain. I have given my entire life to this pain.

My dad leaves tomorrow for MN. to see my baby sister. She had to arrange for him to be out there this week I'm guessing so that I could spend a week at home by myself before going to treatment for a year where I'll see no one. My brother and sisters can go fuck themselves. I don't care to have a relationship with any of them ever. FUCK THEM TWICE! Thought about using. Have the money to get some thing. But I think I will buy myself some thing nice to wear instead. It'll last longer.

I have listened to the lub dub of my anxious heartbeat all night.

After a few rounds of chemotherapy for lung cancer my sister elected to stop all treatments. She had been a severe asthmatic all her life and said she was tired. I believe she was tired. Not so much tired of fighting for air but of fighting for some kind of peace and dignity. My sister and I shared many of the same horrors. I think her death was socially acceptable suicide. Sometimes I understand. Sometimes it makes me angry. Sometimes I wonder why I cannot be as fortunate. Is that wrong?

I was in the bathroom
When recovery called
Puking up yesterdays resolve.

I am so fucking scared that I will go to treatment for a year come home and still not know how to stay clean and sober. I am so fucking scared that I will lose my daughter forever.

I was with some friends last night who have traveled some of the same highways and byways that I have. One of them remarked that he wished he had never gotten a tattoo, that every time he sees his tattoos he is reminded of whom he is and what he has done. My other friend agreed. I don't have a tattoo to remind me who I am and what I have done. I have me.