T is for Telling

I work with a girl who is 28 and single. She is starting to worry about dying alone, running out of time to have kids, and being lonely for the rest of her life. Her standards are, well, going down. She said she would take just about anybody right now, and this has been a recurring comment. I'm beginning to worry about her. Sometimes you just have to tell people what they need to hear. So I told her.
                         
I told her it's better to be lonely when you're alone than lonely when you are with someone. I told her Ex was a fantastic boyfriend and then tried to drown me on our first day as man and wife. And then he got mad at me and would barely speak to me for five days. ("P is for Pool") I told her he chased off all of my friends, although my best ones did come back after I reopened the door to them. I told her I wish I'd never met him. Writing this, I feel as if I told her too much.

I didn't tell her that I once spent a week living in my car because I was too scared to go home. I didn't tell her that there were many, many single nights when that happened, and I would creep home the next morning, only to find that Ex had ordered pizza. I didn't tell her that Ex raped me. I can't believe I just mentioned that again. ("N is for No") I didn't tell her that Ex abandoned his mother in a locked memory ward. I didn't tell her that we used to foster dogs until I realized Ex was hitting them. There are a lot of things I didn't tell her.
                          
Telling is why I write this blog. It helps to tell people what happened, but most of it is so shameful that I don't want people I know to know this stuff. I don't want pity. I want understanding. Oh, that explains why she flunked out of dental school. Twice. Oh, that explains why she will die alone. Oh, that explains why she slept on the floor for months and months even though she had two beds and a comfy couch. Oh, that explains why she was on anti-depressants and anti-anxiety pills for so long. Oh, that explains it...

S is for Scared

So, I'm packing for my big move on March 1st. I have nine days to finish and I'm not doing very well. Ever since moving out of Ex's house, packing has been incredibly difficult. I have moved a lot in my lifetime, and never had a bit of trouble before Ex. When he helped me move out of my house and into his, it seemed to be the easiest task in the world. Then I had to pack and sort mine and his and it was the worst task in the world.
                                    
I've moved twice since then. This will be my third move. The first time, I moved out of a two-bedroom apartment into a very small one-bedroom that was close to dental school. Um, THAT didn't work out, so when they kicked me out of school for the second time, I moved again. I currently live in a want-to-be slumlord's tiny house with a huge backyard. I chose it because I could afford it and my dogs have a huge backyard to play in, but the place is a mess and I cannot wait to get out.

I've lived in this dump for a year. Here's what's in the backyard: six broken lawnmowers, a pile of sticks, a pile of lumber, a broken refrigerator, two ladders, and various other crap. The pipes freeze, the drains don't drain, the siding on the back of the house is torn off, and the screen door doesn't shut. But I'm scared to move. I feel that all I deserve is this dump. I'll be honest - the inside of the house isn't much better. To say I don't clean often would be the understatement of the year.
                                     
My new house is a huge project. It was built in 1920 and the lady who sold it to me has lived there for 30 years. It needs a lot of updating and love, but I'm really excited about moving. So why do I need sympathy? Why do I need a shoulder to cry on? Why am I scared out of my wits?

Things have not exactly been going my way lately. Buying this house and moving is a huge step in a positive direction and I'm scared to death that it will blow up in my face. I'm scared to move up in the world. I'm scared to try again. I'm scared I won't make it. Again.

I'm finding it hard to breathe.

R is for Repentant

"I'm sorry." This is what I hear as I trudge through the snow at 2:34 AM, looking for something to stick under a tire that is stuck in the ice and snow mix on the side of my driveway. What? Tonight I learned my lesson: don't mess with assholes you meet on craigslist. This is the guy I posted about a few months ago; the dude I really, really liked and thought might actually turn into a relationship. HA!
                                 
Dude knocked on my door in the middle of the night. Tapped on it persistently, I should say, waking my poor dogs up and, through their barking, me. I wouldn't let him in and then he told me he was stuck. Stupid guy missed the driveway and hit the ditch. It took half an hour to get his car unstuck. I really should have called the police on his repentant soul. Let them deal with him and him with them.

I hate it when people repeatedly do something they need to apologize for. Just stop being mean, rude, thoughtless, whatever. I don't care if you're sorry. It changes nothing when you just keep doing it. Dude's favorite phrase, from previous experience of him being way too drunk and saying and doing rude things. He's sorry. I know. He kept saying he was sorry and that this wasn't my problem and to go inside. Well, you made it my problem when you knocked on my door, Dude.
                           
I'm mad at myself for getting involved with someone so thoughtless. Even without getting stuck - which of course I know was completely unintentional - why are you knocking on my door in the middle of the night when I haven't seen or heard from you for months? Go away and be sorry somewhere else.

Q is for Quadral

Quadral: in four parts. Irvin D. Yalom, author and renowned existentialist, created the four states of the human condition:

1) Meaninglessness: "Despair is the price one pays for self-awareness. Look deeply into life, and you'll always find despair." ~Yalom   
                        
     There doesn't seem to be much meaning to life. I've heard "great minds" say that nothing has meaning in itself, but that meaning must be attached by the individual. I can see that. Not much matters to me right now. I am just going through the motions and hoping something sticks. No luck yet.

2) Isolation: "To the extent that one is responsible for one's life, one is alone." ~Yalom
                       
     I was raised for a life of isolation. When I was a teenager, my dad made a little room up in the attic for me. It was a relief to get away from him (He used to sit in the room I shared with my little sister almost every night. Why?) but it was incredibly isolated from the rest of the family. I was so lonely up there that I used to call the radio phone line and listen to the Top Ten lists, just so I could hear a human voice. Then I married a sociopath who took great pleasure in ignoring my existence on the planet. My loneliest times were when I was with Ex. And now I live alone and am quite certain I will die alone. Thanks, Mom and Dad. Thanks.

3) Freedom: “The spirit of a man is constructed out of his choices.” ~Yalom             

                      

     At least in being alone, I can choose my own destiny. Although I have no heart and, as I said before, am just going through the motions. I must find some spirit in there somewhere. I can't possibly have given it all to Ex. Could I?

4) Mortality: "Though the physicality of death may destroy us, the idea of death may save us." ~Yalom
                        
     My rampant suicidal thoughts have quieted themselves for a long time now. There was one brief moment a few days ago in which I was quite angry that someone else had died and I can't. My friend told me of a doctor we used to refer patients to. He was found dead in his apartment and they think he died of influenza. I was instantly angry that things like that don't happen to me. Then I felt really sad, because this guy lived a very solitary life. He worked alone. No receptionist, no assistant; just him. He lived alone. He died alone.

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

I am alone now but I am not lonely. I am choosing isolation most days. I just want to be left alone. I don't know why. I don't know if this is something I should allow. I do get out and see friends, but all I really want to do is lie in bed and cuddle with my dogs.

Therapy has been really rough lately. I am attributing this current wish for isolation to my rough therapy. It's not easy when you go back and look at how, in each stage of growth, your parents went the wrong way. How can I hope to be "normal" when I have no base for that? Every major relationship in my life has just furthered the proof that I am unlovable and not worth time and attention. I am worthless. Hopefully, there will be a breakthrough soon, because I can't take much more of this.

P is for Painkillers

Hi, I'm Marcy, and I'm addicted to painkillers. (Hi, Marcy)
                         
I've taken hydrocodone in the past, but it never seemed to work, so I never took it very long. One or two days, maybe. Well, it helps a LOT with my thumb pain. I have taken it every night since I sliced halfway through my thumb at the deli, and 45 minutes later - boom - no more pain. It's not just my thumb that hurts, either. My entire body aches at the end of a long day. I literally hurt from head to toe.
                      
Somebody call me the waa-mbulance. I need to complain. It makes me feel better. On the inside, at least...

I decided not to take any painkillers last night, since it wasn't hurting too bad and I'm down to three pills with little chance of getting more. I thought it would be smart to keep them for the end of a long work shift, when I really needed them. So I spent all night last night tossing and turning. Couldn't get comfortable. My poor dogs ended up sleeping on the floor because I kept moving. Well, they slept on their beds. Just not with me. I missed them.

                              
I sought the advice of a friend who is a medical assistant, and she said to taper by taking half a night until I'm out. So that is what I will do tonight. My body is crying for it. My thumb is a plethora of pain - the actual incision stings like ice, the entire thumb feels like a taut balloon that keeps getting filled with more and more air, my whole hand throbs, and my entire right arm aches.

I'm a mess. I want my painkillers.

O is for Orange

It took me five tries to type the title. Amazing how you don't realize how important a thumb is until you injure it. I sliced the tip of my thumb to the bone on the meat slicer in the deli last Sunday. This is why I have been slow to post - because it hurts to type. One would hope this post means I'm feeling better but no, it just means I needed to vent.

I just got home from work and did a little Self-Soothing. That is a Dialectical Behavior Therapy skill I learned that engages one or more of the five senses and is a Distress Tolerance skill. I put on some orange-scented lotion and am currently lying on my couch, typing and breathing in the good smell.
                       
Why do I need orange lotion and Self-Soothing? Well, I was informed that my boss told my co-worker that she doesn't understand what the big deal is. She cut her thumb a long time ago, too. The store director (the big boss) has seen me almost every day and not ONCE asked how I am doing, but apparently went into the deli last night and was saying it was my fault for holding the slicer that way. My friend stuck up for me and said she demonstrated how it happened and how holding it that way is the only way to slice the meat. After that, the director agreed to get the slicer fixed.

It took my blood sacrifice to get them to fix the slicer. Great.