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rachg821. My alarm woke me up with this song today. I just about had a meltdown. An au-gasm, if you will. Music that powerful hits me right in the body like a physical reaction. All over. Like strings plucked on the skin & inside your nerves. So many notes, and it's like they're each individually skipping & hopping in your mind's eye, visually, like lines & colors & dots. And you want to either shout or start flailing your arms like a spaz over how good it is. Like, "WHAT IS THIS? I CANNOT DEAL."
. . .or maybe that's just me. Heh.
Of course then my burst of music-inspired synesthetic happiness (including the link there so people know I'm not crazy, haha) had to be kicked in the metaphorical groin by a collections agency. Grr. Argh. I am unemployed, mofos! My money = brokedy broke-broke! You are stalking me over medical bills that are over a year old! I hate your face!
The worst part is that the medical bills are from two office visits (and lab work) from the Fall/Winter of 2009, mostly, which were all about my stomach (ergo, anxiety & depression as well). I kind of want to be like, "What would you like me to do? I went so I could keep living. She knew I had no insurance. Each office visit was $100, not including lab work (which came to A LOT MORE). I called a suicide hotline in September. I still have no job. I still have no insurance. I know this isn't your problem. In any other circumstance, I'd say I should've thought of it before going. But in situations of mental health--please--tell me what you'd like me to have done then & what you'd like me to do now. Should I kill myself now & make it easier for you? You still won't get your money. Wanna give me a job? No? Then shut up & stop calling me."
2. My sister emailed me last night, and I'm not going to respond.
First, her email. Then I'll talk about it:
Hey, so could you please just respond with at least a yes I am alright. You do not have to have anything to do with me if you do not want, I just have been really worried about you lately. I just want to make sure you are ok thats all. Could ya just let me know, can be just ya for all I care. I am your sister, like me or not, you gave dad chances all of or lives and all I am asking for is a short response. I hope that you are good.
OH MY GOD, WHATEVER. Like she's been trying to contact me all this time or something & I've been avoiding her. "So could you please just respond. . ." BITCH, YOU CALLED ME "WEIRD" & "NOT NORMAL" & INSULTED ME FOR SEEING A COUNSELOR "TOO MUCH" & CALLED MY HOME A "HOLE" & FLIPPED OUT ON ME FOR THE FIFTH MILLIONTH MOTHERFUCKING TIME IN WHAT HAS BECOME A DISGUSTINGLY PREDICTABLE & ABUSIVE FASHION. Then you proceeded to belittle my emotions via facebook messages in the days immediately afterward, implying I was some sort of drama queen & should just get over it because I actually cared. If I remember correctly, I was told "fuck you & the high horse you rode in on." Right. Ooh, and I was two-faced & rude & afraid to live my own life. And some other things, but let's just stop there, shall we?
All because I wouldn't babysit your kids for you so you could go out with a guy, after I'd already told you no the day before. Because I wanted one weekend to myself. After watching them three times the week before. After already offering to watch them the next week. When I'd been watching them pretty much every week for months. That's what I got. Just like always.
Then, after everything, you told mom about my cutting (you know, the drug-addicted mother you're still hanging around, swapping pills with? The one traumatizing your kids on a regular basis? Kind of like the sex offender you leave alone with them? YOU SELFISH, NEGLIGENT NITSHIT). After promising to not tell anyone. Yes, you're so worried. Let me come talk to you some more about my life, particularly so you can insult me again & mock the therapy I sought. FUCK YOU.
But the best part?
I am your sister, like me or not, you gave dad chances all of or lives
WHAT DOES ANY OF THIS HAVE TO DO WITH DAD? Why must it always be about him? Every email she sent me last year bashing me over Mom pulled the same crap. Growing up, I was always the bad guy for seeing him. I'm somehow still the bad guy for it now. If you're so freaking pissed that I talked to my dad as a twelve year old little girl, and as a teenager, then open up your mouth & own it. Stop pussy-footing around & using it as an excuse to treat me like shit in every other possible way. Especially since this has NOTHING TO DO WITH HIM. There is no logical parallel whatsoever. Yes, Dad is an alcoholic. Yes, he was abusive. But she has no idea what either place was like during my adolescence--she was gone. Before she moved out, she was on drugs (she tried everything. Coke, shrooms, acid, I'm talking just about everything, minus heroin. Plus she barely came home anyway, even when she technically lived there. I had identical twins at my 13th birthday party & she walked in--tripping--and thought she was just seeing two of the same person). She doesn't even *remember* those years. And by the time I was 17 or so, she'd officially moved out. What fucking right does she think she has to judge what I did to get by during those years? Christmas Eve at 16 years old, wanna know what I was doing? Being screamed at until three AM by my mother, having my new violin hurled at the wall beside my head, being told I could go live with my father. Hours & hours & hours of being yelled at and insulted. They would make fun of how emotionless & fake my dad was, but guess what? That was like a VACATION for me. Playing a role and walking on eggshells was all right with me as long as most of the time it meant surface-level suburban stability. Dinner at 6 pm, sharp. Everything lined up just so. I would've gone crazy living there permanently, but for one weekend a month? To stop being yelled at? And only get insulted at a moderate decibel? If it meant playing with my little brother, whom I loved dearly? (Kyle was like my Jayden at the time. I used him as my reason to not kill myself. I had pills hidden in my dresser drawer beneath my clothes--given to me for migraines over the years & never taken because they didn't help & because I dislike prescription pain pills anyway, but I kept them for the purpose of "just in case, I can use these for suicide"--and a lock on my door & a razor in the bathroom, and I knew I could do it. I came close many times. He was the biggest reason I held back. I'd get in the car on those Friday evenings & there'd he be in the middle seat, just so he could sit right next to me.) And hearing my stepmom ramble about coupons & watch her fry eggs like a Stepford Wife? Versus my mom ranting & raving and asking me why she shouldn't just go jump off a bridge, followed immediately by her sneering and flipping me off, followed by maniacal laughing & singing, followed by a shopping spree, followed by a car crash, followed by God knows what fucking else? As I'm trying to do MATH HOMEWORK? I could deal with that.
Seriously. 16 years old. And you have to go to school the next day. And your teacher's all, "Why are you missing so much?" And it's like, "Do we really have to do this right now? Can I just go do the assignment & we can carry on like everything is fine? My life is crazy enough. I just want to be normal." But no. Instead your teachers ask your mom to come in & say, "We heard there are problems at home." Which you then have to deny, because she's sitting right there, all agitated & defensive, and you can't believe they'd betray your trust like this, and UGH.
I remember sitting in the pricipal's office that day, waiting for that little setup to begin, thinking "this is the worst day of my life." After everything I'd been through, THAT was the worst day of my life in that moment. Simply having to acknowledge that I'd been missing school (despite still having a B average), that I wasn't perfect, that I wasn't fine, and that they KNEW. So horrible.
Anyway. I'm just beyond tired of having it thrown in my face. Dad moved to Arizona eight years ago. I haven't even seen him in seven years. I talk to him on holidays. I'm not going to apologize for the fact that I kept trying when I didn't believe it was self-destructive to do so, especially since I was very young at the time & only responsible for myself.
She, on the other hand? Has children. And is 32. Plenty old enough to be expected to know that letting chaotic drug addicts & sex offenders around you & your children is probably not a good idea, especially after they've done the following things in the last 12 months:
1. Asked you for a topless picture (when they're your STEPFATHER & known you since you were eight)
2. Hidden pills in golf clubs, reported them stolen to the police, & named you as the suspect. Left screaming messages on your machine immediately afterward, threatening to take custody of your children.
3. Showed up in the middle of the night, ransacking your 7 year old son's bedroom for a stash of pills that don't exist, yelling & crying.
4. Been banned from the nearest hospital for drug-seeking behavior.
5. Threatened once AGAIN to call the police on you, accusing you of child abuse.
6. Shown up at your sister's door, wailing & yelling over an inability to "go on", staying & pounding on the door until the police are called.
. . .shall I go on? Just the last 12 months, folks. And not even all of it either, but you get the gist.
Don't forget though! She's not an "addict"! My grandma would be quick to remind me of that. And Joe was not a sex abuser, despite the pesky technicality of the whole "cops convicting him thing". Oh, nooooo. He's a "teddy bear"!<---quote my mother. And of course "Satan" was in my thoughts & he had "work stress" and "abandonment issues" and bla bla bla THEY ARE ALL INSANE.
I just can't handle it. The "I'm just worried about you & want to know you're okay!" thing pulls at me, but it's like falling into a thorny rabbit hole. When you ignore that? And sit back to look at the whole message objectively, as part of her larger pattern? It's the same old manipulative crap. "I will abuse you, wait a while, say I'm worried about you or that I care, bait you & hook you back in, use you, and then shit all over you again & again." I'M NOT DOING IT ANYMORE. She can't even manage to go one email without shaming & blaming me for something. I'm just OVER IT. Nothing is different, nothing has changed, and there is no reason for her to be so damned worried. She can be worried. I don't care. Her friend Natalia is on my facebook. She can ask her if I'm alive. Whatever. I just don't give a shit anymore. The bottom line is, I don't *want* to talk to her. I'm not interested in hurting people or being mean. I don't like the idea of people sitting around worrying about me, but I don't think this is true, healthy worry on her part. I think it's codependent, abusive-cycle bullshit. I don't want to hop back onboard. I can't stand the idea of it actually. If/when I get healthy, I then find out she's gotten healthy too? Then fine, we can see what happens then. But I made a mistake in August trying to reunite with her when *neither* of us were mentally healthy yet. I was on my way, and that was great, but she wasn't even making it a goal to be in recovery yet (in this case, when I say "recovery", I mean from growing up in an ACA home. She not only still surrounds herself with my mom & stepdad, but she was separated from her physically abusive/alcoholic husband, yet still "friends" with him, texting him all day & giggling over the messages, and letting him come in with groceries & giving the kids baths while she was there & it was just fucking WEIRD. No boundaries. HE GAVE YOU A CONCUSSION, CORINNE. STEP AWAY. When he assaulted her later & got arrested for a felony, I wasn't surprised & yet she of course acted like it was some crazy ~shock~ that he was still violent underneath it all. DUMBASS. And of course she still refused to get a babysitter, only relying on either him or me, that way she could flip out on me if I said no, causing fights like the one above, or set up conflict for herself by being around him all the time without legal visitation rights set up yet or anything. Nice, right?)
Clearly, the whole thing was not only a recipe for my codependent nature to spin wildly out of control (I care *way* too much & it stresses me out so bad), but repeatedly allowed her to use & abuse me. Which she did. Unapologetically. Oh, she'd say sorry. Eventually. But a true amends means changing your behavior. Which she never did. Instead, she'd try to take over my life, infect it with her toxic crap, hold me back, & find ways to tell me exactly how odd & pathetic I was. But it was only because she cared so much, you see. And of course she needed me. 24/7. And maybe if I wasn't so selfish & she wasn't so unfortunate, I'd be there for her even more than that.
OVER IT.
3. I now have two sections of my fic completed & 2,500 words written. It's somehow decided to be some kind of linguistic chimera, part poem & part story. I don't know, dude, my brain does what it wants. Ha. I'd really like to have it done by tomorrow night, but we'll see. Depends how much progress I can make tonight. It'll be unique, that's all I'm gonna say. I'm still surprised by how much Booth is taking over this thing. I gotta give him the elbow a little, haha. Brennan needs some room! Especially because I'm not sure if I'm as good at his POV as I am hers. I know I understand his background like a snap, but even her way of speaking comes more naturally to me than his, not to mention the style of thoughts/perceiving the world. So, I'll have no problem with narrating his emotions & behavior, but I have to overthink things when it comes to HOW he thinks them & talks. Hopefully it all still comes out right in the end.
My real test though will be a scene I have planned coming up with Cam. Last time I barely had to write for her. This time I plan to give her quite a bit of dialogue. As a heads-up,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
keenai, you're pretty much just gonna be standing in for her. Hahaha. Kidding. But kinda not. Like, writing Angela? I kept thinking of my friend dosidella. And just how I am with some other friends in general. And whenever I need advice, boom, keen is always right there. And Cam seems that way too. Plus keenai loves Cam, so it just works.
So, yes. Keenai, you are hereby designated Cam. Haha. Maybe a littlehuh920 too, because I know you'll be twirling batons over seeing Cam get some attention, and because your snarky ways totally match up with "I'm a pathologist: ask me how!"-deadpan humor. Which, if you guys haven't noticed, is totally a trope. Like, really, there's not a pathologist on TV that isn't deadpan. It's like they're TRYING to make a pun. Without even saying it. (i.e. DEAD-pan? Get it? *rimshot*)
4. Sometimes I'm really glad I've kept this journal for so long. Rereading my 2002 Year in Review Post and some of my entries from October to December of 2003, it is obvious that I have made progress. Despite depression now, despite anxiety now, despite everything. Simply because of the *way* I talk about all of it. Things are different. I either know how I feel or I figure it out pretty quickly. I keep myself away from hurtful people. I have hopes for the future that I can acknowledge *might* work out. I have interests. I have creative outlets. I have friends, even if I don't see them often. It's just. . .yeah. And honestly? There were so many things I blocked out. That whole time period when my mom would just slam doors in my face & tell me to shut up if I started talking (and I'd be talking about something like insurance for my car, which I was paying for. I was trying to let her know something good), being called a "lazy little girl" and all sorts of other names, just on & on. And I'd come to LJ & try to still be chipper & it's just kind of heartbreaking to look back at. I'd be like "I keep getting waves of sadness & I don't know why." Really? You don't? With all of the stuff you're going through & thinking & having inflicted upon you? But I DIDN'T. At least now I'm starting to be able to figure it out, even though it hurts like hell.
I really struggled last night, to be honest. I finally cried, after two days of feeling like I needed to & couldn't. Like, my chest kept hurting & my eyes kept burning, and I FELT like I was on the verge of crying, but there just were no tears.
What pushed me over the edge was a comment fromkeenai in response to an excerpt from my entry:
"What if I'm bad?"
Interesting how that crept in there.
Just that. The acknowledgment of what I had thought. Being forced to stop & look at it. What if I'm bad? Woosh, waterworks.
I guess it's what was underneath everything, because it certainly felt like it. Everything that was bothering me the last two days, I mean. I felt BAD. Physically, emotionally, in every way. I wanted someone to hug me & tell me I was okay. I still wanted to cut so, so fucking badly. The thought just wouldn't go away, like a compulsive tic, and on top of all the memories & other thoughts that keep popping up now, it's like, "GOD, CAN'T I JUST MAKE ONE OF THESE THOUGHTS GO AWAY? MY BODY IS TOO FULL; I WANT TO RUN INTO A WALL".
I listened to classical music & lay in the dark, I cried, I jogged, I ate, I wrote, I got through it. Eventually. I still didn't cut. Just about wanted to flee Wendy's because I felt too hot in my clothes & they had an annoying noise from some machine in there & I got self-conscious about my face (old social phobia, sometimes it still pops up), but whatev. Made it.
And yes, when it comes to the "what does my face look like? How am I supposed to make it look? Are my hands trembling? What about my legs?" obsessions, it's still a trip for me to reread all of that, even though it's still in me, but it was so much harder for me to deal with then:
(10/21/03):
Me: I wish that sun wasn't shining so brightly into my face. I wonder if my face looks weird, squinting so much. Others don't seem to squint as much. Are my eyes more sensitive? Why? Oh, what the crap, my cheek keeps twitching now. Damn sun, go away! Where should I look, anyway? Just down, so the sun isn't in my face? Then people in these cars going by might wonder about the girl sitting there, staring at her feet. I wonder if I look too serious. I wonder if I look too. . .I don't even know. My mouth feels weird, is my expression normal? Why wouldn't it be? Does it look like I hold my nose up in the air at people? I hope I don't look snobby."
And blah blah blah blah BLAH. I'm not even kidding at all, here. That's seriously my brain, all day long. Stupid, self conscious shit. Over and over. Like, God, SHUT OFF.
(11/15/03):
I've gotten to a point where I'm starting to write checks like I got used to simply signing my name in the past, but I still hate just walking down the street sometimes or waiting at the bus stop, because I feel so self conscious and on the spot. When I get off the bus, I still sometimes don't say thank you to the bus driver even if I want to, because I'm afraid of my voice coming out strange in front of people.
When guys look at me now though, sometimes I get myself to maintain eye contact for more than a half second. That's new. I still have a hard time smiling or anything, largely because I'm too anxious, but at least I'm trying.
(11/19/03):
When I stepped off the bus, for a split-second, I considered waiting right there for the next one, and not going. But I turned my body toward the bank and went. It's funny how intersections seem miles long, when you're panicking about walking across them. It did make it easier that it was dark out, though
(11/24/03):
I don't think someone who hasn't had to face a phobia for extended periods of time could really understand what it does to you. Especially when that phobia is basically life. The world. People. And it's like you fight and fight and fight, just to fall the fuck back down, and then you have to fight even harder again, and it's like "When will I ever reach a point that others straight up take for granted?!" I heard somewhere once that depression can be anger turned inward, and I don't think that's entirely true, but I think sometimes that's a factor. . .
. . .There's nothing better than social anxiety and generalized anxiety, at the same time. It's so much fun! I especially love it when I can't stop obsessing over how my hands feel and look, when I lift a can of pop, even when no one's looking. How I can't stop worrying over everything in general. How I am so painfully aware of my legs, my face, every inch of my body, around others. How I wish I could just take a club and knock myself out, so I could wake up a normal me. A me that could go to the mall, and think of what clothes I'll buy, instead of "My voice sounded weird just now, with that salesgirl. I feel on edge now, maybe I can't sign my name if I use my debit card when I buy these." And blah blah fucking BLAH. Every. Single. Person who looks at me, sends self conscious spirals of worry into my head. And it's like it's endless. Do you know how fucking exhausting that shit is? God.
*reaches for club*
Holy fuck. It gets old, being. . .well, me.
. . ."But WHY do you shake? Why can't you just NOT shake? It doesn't SEEM like you always had a slight tremor, so why did you just feel one now? So what if it just lasted a second? If you can't control it now, it'll get worse! People will see, and think you're unbalanced, think you're crazy, or a druggie! No guy will want to date a crazy looking girl. No boss wants a constantly nervous receptionist." Getting myself all in a tizzy. And it's not like I do it on purpose. I just have a hard time fighting it off, some times more than others. Like I'm looking around for my weapon, and just can't find it right away. So I sort of lie there, covering my head against the blows, in the meantime. And that's what a lot of my time is like, just trying to get by, while I wait to find the right means of retaliation. When I have days like I did last week, I swear I go into so many situations in a blind state of panic, pushing through the fear and feeling like I have no idea how it will turn out. It's hard to explain how you feel in those moments, too. It's like, you're standing at the intersection, or starting to write your name in front of the cashier, and for a second, everything stops. And it's like you want to move your hand, or your leg, but for a moment, the fear stands in the way and it's almost like swimming through quicksand. Like "Oh my God, move. Just move." Then everything goes back to normal speed, and loses that sense of immediate danger.
And all I'm doing is fucking WALKING, and WRITING. Christ.
Welcome to YEARS OF MY LIFE. Oh, what fun it was. At least now it's only sometimes, and to mild/moderate degrees. No, thank you, therapy.
Anyway, that's all for today. I think this entry will probably end up really long because of all the quotes. Heh. Whoops. Sorry, guys.
For my Vid of the Day, let's gay it up with redroseteas, shall we? Aww yeah, Idgie & Ruth! Totally shipped it as a kid & was so thrilled when I grew up & found out they were established canon in the book. I KNEW IT.
. . .or maybe that's just me. Heh.
Of course then my burst of music-inspired synesthetic happiness (including the link there so people know I'm not crazy, haha) had to be kicked in the metaphorical groin by a collections agency. Grr. Argh. I am unemployed, mofos! My money = brokedy broke-broke! You are stalking me over medical bills that are over a year old! I hate your face!
The worst part is that the medical bills are from two office visits (and lab work) from the Fall/Winter of 2009, mostly, which were all about my stomach (ergo, anxiety & depression as well). I kind of want to be like, "What would you like me to do? I went so I could keep living. She knew I had no insurance. Each office visit was $100, not including lab work (which came to A LOT MORE). I called a suicide hotline in September. I still have no job. I still have no insurance. I know this isn't your problem. In any other circumstance, I'd say I should've thought of it before going. But in situations of mental health--please--tell me what you'd like me to have done then & what you'd like me to do now. Should I kill myself now & make it easier for you? You still won't get your money. Wanna give me a job? No? Then shut up & stop calling me."
2. My sister emailed me last night, and I'm not going to respond.
First, her email. Then I'll talk about it:
Hey, so could you please just respond with at least a yes I am alright. You do not have to have anything to do with me if you do not want, I just have been really worried about you lately. I just want to make sure you are ok thats all. Could ya just let me know, can be just ya for all I care. I am your sister, like me or not, you gave dad chances all of or lives and all I am asking for is a short response. I hope that you are good.
OH MY GOD, WHATEVER. Like she's been trying to contact me all this time or something & I've been avoiding her. "So could you please just respond. . ." BITCH, YOU CALLED ME "WEIRD" & "NOT NORMAL" & INSULTED ME FOR SEEING A COUNSELOR "TOO MUCH" & CALLED MY HOME A "HOLE" & FLIPPED OUT ON ME FOR THE FIFTH MILLIONTH MOTHERFUCKING TIME IN WHAT HAS BECOME A DISGUSTINGLY PREDICTABLE & ABUSIVE FASHION. Then you proceeded to belittle my emotions via facebook messages in the days immediately afterward, implying I was some sort of drama queen & should just get over it because I actually cared. If I remember correctly, I was told "fuck you & the high horse you rode in on." Right. Ooh, and I was two-faced & rude & afraid to live my own life. And some other things, but let's just stop there, shall we?
All because I wouldn't babysit your kids for you so you could go out with a guy, after I'd already told you no the day before. Because I wanted one weekend to myself. After watching them three times the week before. After already offering to watch them the next week. When I'd been watching them pretty much every week for months. That's what I got. Just like always.
Then, after everything, you told mom about my cutting (you know, the drug-addicted mother you're still hanging around, swapping pills with? The one traumatizing your kids on a regular basis? Kind of like the sex offender you leave alone with them? YOU SELFISH, NEGLIGENT NITSHIT). After promising to not tell anyone. Yes, you're so worried. Let me come talk to you some more about my life, particularly so you can insult me again & mock the therapy I sought. FUCK YOU.
But the best part?
I am your sister, like me or not, you gave dad chances all of or lives
WHAT DOES ANY OF THIS HAVE TO DO WITH DAD? Why must it always be about him? Every email she sent me last year bashing me over Mom pulled the same crap. Growing up, I was always the bad guy for seeing him. I'm somehow still the bad guy for it now. If you're so freaking pissed that I talked to my dad as a twelve year old little girl, and as a teenager, then open up your mouth & own it. Stop pussy-footing around & using it as an excuse to treat me like shit in every other possible way. Especially since this has NOTHING TO DO WITH HIM. There is no logical parallel whatsoever. Yes, Dad is an alcoholic. Yes, he was abusive. But she has no idea what either place was like during my adolescence--she was gone. Before she moved out, she was on drugs (she tried everything. Coke, shrooms, acid, I'm talking just about everything, minus heroin. Plus she barely came home anyway, even when she technically lived there. I had identical twins at my 13th birthday party & she walked in--tripping--and thought she was just seeing two of the same person). She doesn't even *remember* those years. And by the time I was 17 or so, she'd officially moved out. What fucking right does she think she has to judge what I did to get by during those years? Christmas Eve at 16 years old, wanna know what I was doing? Being screamed at until three AM by my mother, having my new violin hurled at the wall beside my head, being told I could go live with my father. Hours & hours & hours of being yelled at and insulted. They would make fun of how emotionless & fake my dad was, but guess what? That was like a VACATION for me. Playing a role and walking on eggshells was all right with me as long as most of the time it meant surface-level suburban stability. Dinner at 6 pm, sharp. Everything lined up just so. I would've gone crazy living there permanently, but for one weekend a month? To stop being yelled at? And only get insulted at a moderate decibel? If it meant playing with my little brother, whom I loved dearly? (Kyle was like my Jayden at the time. I used him as my reason to not kill myself. I had pills hidden in my dresser drawer beneath my clothes--given to me for migraines over the years & never taken because they didn't help & because I dislike prescription pain pills anyway, but I kept them for the purpose of "just in case, I can use these for suicide"--and a lock on my door & a razor in the bathroom, and I knew I could do it. I came close many times. He was the biggest reason I held back. I'd get in the car on those Friday evenings & there'd he be in the middle seat, just so he could sit right next to me.) And hearing my stepmom ramble about coupons & watch her fry eggs like a Stepford Wife? Versus my mom ranting & raving and asking me why she shouldn't just go jump off a bridge, followed immediately by her sneering and flipping me off, followed by maniacal laughing & singing, followed by a shopping spree, followed by a car crash, followed by God knows what fucking else? As I'm trying to do MATH HOMEWORK? I could deal with that.
Seriously. 16 years old. And you have to go to school the next day. And your teacher's all, "Why are you missing so much?" And it's like, "Do we really have to do this right now? Can I just go do the assignment & we can carry on like everything is fine? My life is crazy enough. I just want to be normal." But no. Instead your teachers ask your mom to come in & say, "We heard there are problems at home." Which you then have to deny, because she's sitting right there, all agitated & defensive, and you can't believe they'd betray your trust like this, and UGH.
I remember sitting in the pricipal's office that day, waiting for that little setup to begin, thinking "this is the worst day of my life." After everything I'd been through, THAT was the worst day of my life in that moment. Simply having to acknowledge that I'd been missing school (despite still having a B average), that I wasn't perfect, that I wasn't fine, and that they KNEW. So horrible.
Anyway. I'm just beyond tired of having it thrown in my face. Dad moved to Arizona eight years ago. I haven't even seen him in seven years. I talk to him on holidays. I'm not going to apologize for the fact that I kept trying when I didn't believe it was self-destructive to do so, especially since I was very young at the time & only responsible for myself.
She, on the other hand? Has children. And is 32. Plenty old enough to be expected to know that letting chaotic drug addicts & sex offenders around you & your children is probably not a good idea, especially after they've done the following things in the last 12 months:
1. Asked you for a topless picture (when they're your STEPFATHER & known you since you were eight)
2. Hidden pills in golf clubs, reported them stolen to the police, & named you as the suspect. Left screaming messages on your machine immediately afterward, threatening to take custody of your children.
3. Showed up in the middle of the night, ransacking your 7 year old son's bedroom for a stash of pills that don't exist, yelling & crying.
4. Been banned from the nearest hospital for drug-seeking behavior.
5. Threatened once AGAIN to call the police on you, accusing you of child abuse.
6. Shown up at your sister's door, wailing & yelling over an inability to "go on", staying & pounding on the door until the police are called.
. . .shall I go on? Just the last 12 months, folks. And not even all of it either, but you get the gist.
Don't forget though! She's not an "addict"! My grandma would be quick to remind me of that. And Joe was not a sex abuser, despite the pesky technicality of the whole "cops convicting him thing". Oh, nooooo. He's a "teddy bear"!<---quote my mother. And of course "Satan" was in my thoughts & he had "work stress" and "abandonment issues" and bla bla bla THEY ARE ALL INSANE.
I just can't handle it. The "I'm just worried about you & want to know you're okay!" thing pulls at me, but it's like falling into a thorny rabbit hole. When you ignore that? And sit back to look at the whole message objectively, as part of her larger pattern? It's the same old manipulative crap. "I will abuse you, wait a while, say I'm worried about you or that I care, bait you & hook you back in, use you, and then shit all over you again & again." I'M NOT DOING IT ANYMORE. She can't even manage to go one email without shaming & blaming me for something. I'm just OVER IT. Nothing is different, nothing has changed, and there is no reason for her to be so damned worried. She can be worried. I don't care. Her friend Natalia is on my facebook. She can ask her if I'm alive. Whatever. I just don't give a shit anymore. The bottom line is, I don't *want* to talk to her. I'm not interested in hurting people or being mean. I don't like the idea of people sitting around worrying about me, but I don't think this is true, healthy worry on her part. I think it's codependent, abusive-cycle bullshit. I don't want to hop back onboard. I can't stand the idea of it actually. If/when I get healthy, I then find out she's gotten healthy too? Then fine, we can see what happens then. But I made a mistake in August trying to reunite with her when *neither* of us were mentally healthy yet. I was on my way, and that was great, but she wasn't even making it a goal to be in recovery yet (in this case, when I say "recovery", I mean from growing up in an ACA home. She not only still surrounds herself with my mom & stepdad, but she was separated from her physically abusive/alcoholic husband, yet still "friends" with him, texting him all day & giggling over the messages, and letting him come in with groceries & giving the kids baths while she was there & it was just fucking WEIRD. No boundaries. HE GAVE YOU A CONCUSSION, CORINNE. STEP AWAY. When he assaulted her later & got arrested for a felony, I wasn't surprised & yet she of course acted like it was some crazy ~shock~ that he was still violent underneath it all. DUMBASS. And of course she still refused to get a babysitter, only relying on either him or me, that way she could flip out on me if I said no, causing fights like the one above, or set up conflict for herself by being around him all the time without legal visitation rights set up yet or anything. Nice, right?)
Clearly, the whole thing was not only a recipe for my codependent nature to spin wildly out of control (I care *way* too much & it stresses me out so bad), but repeatedly allowed her to use & abuse me. Which she did. Unapologetically. Oh, she'd say sorry. Eventually. But a true amends means changing your behavior. Which she never did. Instead, she'd try to take over my life, infect it with her toxic crap, hold me back, & find ways to tell me exactly how odd & pathetic I was. But it was only because she cared so much, you see. And of course she needed me. 24/7. And maybe if I wasn't so selfish & she wasn't so unfortunate, I'd be there for her even more than that.
OVER IT.
3. I now have two sections of my fic completed & 2,500 words written. It's somehow decided to be some kind of linguistic chimera, part poem & part story. I don't know, dude, my brain does what it wants. Ha. I'd really like to have it done by tomorrow night, but we'll see. Depends how much progress I can make tonight. It'll be unique, that's all I'm gonna say. I'm still surprised by how much Booth is taking over this thing. I gotta give him the elbow a little, haha. Brennan needs some room! Especially because I'm not sure if I'm as good at his POV as I am hers. I know I understand his background like a snap, but even her way of speaking comes more naturally to me than his, not to mention the style of thoughts/perceiving the world. So, I'll have no problem with narrating his emotions & behavior, but I have to overthink things when it comes to HOW he thinks them & talks. Hopefully it all still comes out right in the end.
My real test though will be a scene I have planned coming up with Cam. Last time I barely had to write for her. This time I plan to give her quite a bit of dialogue. As a heads-up,
keenai, you're pretty much just gonna be standing in for her. Hahaha. Kidding. But kinda not. Like, writing Angela? I kept thinking of my friend dosidella. And just how I am with some other friends in general. And whenever I need advice, boom, keen is always right there. And Cam seems that way too. Plus keenai loves Cam, so it just works. So, yes. Keenai, you are hereby designated Cam. Haha. Maybe a little
huh920 too, because I know you'll be twirling batons over seeing Cam get some attention, and because your snarky ways totally match up with "I'm a pathologist: ask me how!"-deadpan humor. Which, if you guys haven't noticed, is totally a trope. Like, really, there's not a pathologist on TV that isn't deadpan. It's like they're TRYING to make a pun. Without even saying it. (i.e. DEAD-pan? Get it? *rimshot*) 4. Sometimes I'm really glad I've kept this journal for so long. Rereading my 2002 Year in Review Post and some of my entries from October to December of 2003, it is obvious that I have made progress. Despite depression now, despite anxiety now, despite everything. Simply because of the *way* I talk about all of it. Things are different. I either know how I feel or I figure it out pretty quickly. I keep myself away from hurtful people. I have hopes for the future that I can acknowledge *might* work out. I have interests. I have creative outlets. I have friends, even if I don't see them often. It's just. . .yeah. And honestly? There were so many things I blocked out. That whole time period when my mom would just slam doors in my face & tell me to shut up if I started talking (and I'd be talking about something like insurance for my car, which I was paying for. I was trying to let her know something good), being called a "lazy little girl" and all sorts of other names, just on & on. And I'd come to LJ & try to still be chipper & it's just kind of heartbreaking to look back at. I'd be like "I keep getting waves of sadness & I don't know why." Really? You don't? With all of the stuff you're going through & thinking & having inflicted upon you? But I DIDN'T. At least now I'm starting to be able to figure it out, even though it hurts like hell.
I really struggled last night, to be honest. I finally cried, after two days of feeling like I needed to & couldn't. Like, my chest kept hurting & my eyes kept burning, and I FELT like I was on the verge of crying, but there just were no tears.
What pushed me over the edge was a comment from
keenai in response to an excerpt from my entry:"What if I'm bad?"
Interesting how that crept in there.
Just that. The acknowledgment of what I had thought. Being forced to stop & look at it. What if I'm bad? Woosh, waterworks.
I guess it's what was underneath everything, because it certainly felt like it. Everything that was bothering me the last two days, I mean. I felt BAD. Physically, emotionally, in every way. I wanted someone to hug me & tell me I was okay. I still wanted to cut so, so fucking badly. The thought just wouldn't go away, like a compulsive tic, and on top of all the memories & other thoughts that keep popping up now, it's like, "GOD, CAN'T I JUST MAKE ONE OF THESE THOUGHTS GO AWAY? MY BODY IS TOO FULL; I WANT TO RUN INTO A WALL".
I listened to classical music & lay in the dark, I cried, I jogged, I ate, I wrote, I got through it. Eventually. I still didn't cut. Just about wanted to flee Wendy's because I felt too hot in my clothes & they had an annoying noise from some machine in there & I got self-conscious about my face (old social phobia, sometimes it still pops up), but whatev. Made it.
And yes, when it comes to the "what does my face look like? How am I supposed to make it look? Are my hands trembling? What about my legs?" obsessions, it's still a trip for me to reread all of that, even though it's still in me, but it was so much harder for me to deal with then:
(10/21/03):
Me: I wish that sun wasn't shining so brightly into my face. I wonder if my face looks weird, squinting so much. Others don't seem to squint as much. Are my eyes more sensitive? Why? Oh, what the crap, my cheek keeps twitching now. Damn sun, go away! Where should I look, anyway? Just down, so the sun isn't in my face? Then people in these cars going by might wonder about the girl sitting there, staring at her feet. I wonder if I look too serious. I wonder if I look too. . .I don't even know. My mouth feels weird, is my expression normal? Why wouldn't it be? Does it look like I hold my nose up in the air at people? I hope I don't look snobby."
And blah blah blah blah BLAH. I'm not even kidding at all, here. That's seriously my brain, all day long. Stupid, self conscious shit. Over and over. Like, God, SHUT OFF.
(11/15/03):
I've gotten to a point where I'm starting to write checks like I got used to simply signing my name in the past, but I still hate just walking down the street sometimes or waiting at the bus stop, because I feel so self conscious and on the spot. When I get off the bus, I still sometimes don't say thank you to the bus driver even if I want to, because I'm afraid of my voice coming out strange in front of people.
When guys look at me now though, sometimes I get myself to maintain eye contact for more than a half second. That's new. I still have a hard time smiling or anything, largely because I'm too anxious, but at least I'm trying.
(11/19/03):
When I stepped off the bus, for a split-second, I considered waiting right there for the next one, and not going. But I turned my body toward the bank and went. It's funny how intersections seem miles long, when you're panicking about walking across them. It did make it easier that it was dark out, though
(11/24/03):
I don't think someone who hasn't had to face a phobia for extended periods of time could really understand what it does to you. Especially when that phobia is basically life. The world. People. And it's like you fight and fight and fight, just to fall the fuck back down, and then you have to fight even harder again, and it's like "When will I ever reach a point that others straight up take for granted?!" I heard somewhere once that depression can be anger turned inward, and I don't think that's entirely true, but I think sometimes that's a factor. . .
. . .There's nothing better than social anxiety and generalized anxiety, at the same time. It's so much fun! I especially love it when I can't stop obsessing over how my hands feel and look, when I lift a can of pop, even when no one's looking. How I can't stop worrying over everything in general. How I am so painfully aware of my legs, my face, every inch of my body, around others. How I wish I could just take a club and knock myself out, so I could wake up a normal me. A me that could go to the mall, and think of what clothes I'll buy, instead of "My voice sounded weird just now, with that salesgirl. I feel on edge now, maybe I can't sign my name if I use my debit card when I buy these." And blah blah fucking BLAH. Every. Single. Person who looks at me, sends self conscious spirals of worry into my head. And it's like it's endless. Do you know how fucking exhausting that shit is? God.
*reaches for club*
Holy fuck. It gets old, being. . .well, me.
. . ."But WHY do you shake? Why can't you just NOT shake? It doesn't SEEM like you always had a slight tremor, so why did you just feel one now? So what if it just lasted a second? If you can't control it now, it'll get worse! People will see, and think you're unbalanced, think you're crazy, or a druggie! No guy will want to date a crazy looking girl. No boss wants a constantly nervous receptionist." Getting myself all in a tizzy. And it's not like I do it on purpose. I just have a hard time fighting it off, some times more than others. Like I'm looking around for my weapon, and just can't find it right away. So I sort of lie there, covering my head against the blows, in the meantime. And that's what a lot of my time is like, just trying to get by, while I wait to find the right means of retaliation. When I have days like I did last week, I swear I go into so many situations in a blind state of panic, pushing through the fear and feeling like I have no idea how it will turn out. It's hard to explain how you feel in those moments, too. It's like, you're standing at the intersection, or starting to write your name in front of the cashier, and for a second, everything stops. And it's like you want to move your hand, or your leg, but for a moment, the fear stands in the way and it's almost like swimming through quicksand. Like "Oh my God, move. Just move." Then everything goes back to normal speed, and loses that sense of immediate danger.
And all I'm doing is fucking WALKING, and WRITING. Christ.
Welcome to YEARS OF MY LIFE. Oh, what fun it was. At least now it's only sometimes, and to mild/moderate degrees. No, thank you, therapy.
Anyway, that's all for today. I think this entry will probably end up really long because of all the quotes. Heh. Whoops. Sorry, guys.
For my Vid of the Day, let's gay it up with redroseteas, shall we? Aww yeah, Idgie & Ruth! Totally shipped it as a kid & was so thrilled when I grew up & found out they were established canon in the book. I KNEW IT.
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Date: 2011-01-30 11:08 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2011-01-30 11:24 pm (UTC)