I’ve f.ucked up my blog. Since I am too damn tired to figure out how I did it and since there aren’t very many posts on it after this one about daughter number two’s graduation, I am making this the default until I can get my s.hit together and figure out what I did that screwed the other one up! Stay tuned.
I now have two…count ’em…one, TWO…daughters who have graduated high school. The remaining daughter (my baby) will be a sophomore in September and that means I am blessed to stave off a completely empty nest for three more years.
I count that as a blessing because my daughters are exceptional. I know this because I am not the only person who says that. My daughters are intelligent, well spoken, articulate – nodding to Susie 😉 – caring, compassionate, funny and loving young women. I told my two youngest daughters a few days ago that I could live with them. As adults. Really. I enjoy their company. I know they need to find their ways however, if it came down to it, I really could. In reply they told me the same with one slight difference. They could not live with their step-father. My first thought was how much I totally get that.
Enough about my daughters, this is about me. It’s ALL about me. Heh.
As I watched my second child perform on the theater stage and then walk across that same stage a bit later to receive her diploma, I was in awe of her. A friend who was there leaned over and said “OMG, it’s like looking at YOU up there!” Yes, my daughters do look like me. It is odd sometimes. I am in awe of this girl who was the answer to a prayer. She was the beautiful gift at the end of 13 months of fertility issues and treatment. Now as she enters what she refers to as “pretend adulthood”, I wonder what I will do. Yes, I have one more daughter in school. Yes, she was also the answer to a prayer. A gift at the end of months of fertility issues. I wasn’t completely sure I wanted her until I saw her being born. The minute our eyes met I knew it was meant to be. I thought “There you are!” and my heart was hers. It will be three more years before I write of her graduation and yet, I know it’s coming.
My introspection is ongoing. I wonder why alot. I am trying to focus on the what of it all right now. What do I want? What do I have to do to make whatever that turns out to be happen. A therapist I once had told me that I was all about mothering and he wondered what I would do when that mothering was no longer my main occupation. I told him I had plans for when my children were grown. I did. Have plans. Now, I’m not so sure what I want to do next. Plans change. Interests change. Life changes.
I am 42 years old and I have no idea what I want to do when I grow up.
So, what do I do to figure that out? I want to go to school. I don’t what for. I don’t even know that I can afford to go. I just know I want to. There was a time when I wanted to deliver babies. I was going to finish nursing school and apply to midwifery school. We have a great school in this neck of the woods. Now, I’m older and I have no desire to have my life run by the likes of a newborn. Heehee… I do have an interest in nursing and all things medical but do I want to do that forever? I’d definitely have a good paying job when I was finished with school.
I have an affinity for children. I totally “get” them. My heart hurts for those children who have no one to care for them, or advocate for them, or listen to them. I have a friend who is building a center for hospice care and counseling of families that is a bit different than any other place in our area. The thought of working there fills me with something I can’t quite describe. There are so many things that interest me. I’m good at alot of them. Is it weird to say that? It feels weird to acknowledge that. I just feel like there is so much more to my life that I haven’t figured out yet.
I wrote awhile ago of not living like my mother. Those weren’t just words to me. I meant them. With every single fiber of my being. I do not want to sit in my chair in front of my big screen t.v. and wait for life to happen to me. Although…that chair is so comforting. While I sit there, I don’t have to think, or feel, or worry, or plan, or figure out anything. I can simply…be. I want to throw out my chair. I want to get rid of the furniture so I can no longer sit on my ass while the world goes by. I want to write and sing and travel and feel…and yet, feeling is so foreign to me.
I watch as people are angry, sad, happy, excited, funny, whatever and I think “What does that feel like? What is it like to feel something and not shut it down or off?” How do people figure out what fills them? How do they know when they are doing something they love? Or even like? I did figure out today that I hate my job. Actually, that’s not true. I don’t hate my job. I just hate that I am still doing it here. With this woman who has one of the most difficult reputations in the place I work. If I can work with her, I can work with anyone. I know this. The job fiasco that is occurring at my place of employment is unsettling and at the same time, freeing. I will have a job. The where is the question apparently. I’m scared. It’s unknown. But I’m ready to get on with it already. I just want to do it and move on. It’s time.
What to do. I haven’t a clue. I don’t even really know how to figure out the “What”. It seems odd to me that I don’t. No wonder my newly graduated from high school daughter said “I don’t know what to do now. I don’t know what I want to do.” I keep telling her she’ll figure it out. I hope I’m right. For both our sakes.
So, last night I’m in my bedroom changing clothes and muttering to myself about the latest hoo-ha with my husband about my latest um, “lack of forthrightness” episode. No one was around so no one heard my voice get louder and louder as I progressed to not quite yelling in frustration.
I knew I’d reached another important place in my journey when I pounded on my pillow and nearly growled out the words “Dammit Rory, I am NOT a fuckup!” How is this important?
My husband’s name is Tim.
My EX husband’s name is Rory.
“Sometimes the most obvious gets missed. I most definitely care about you and about what happens to you.”
These words were written by my former therapist, Sarah. To me. Just a few days ago. Um, yea. Wow. They’ve stuck with me, rolled around in my heart and opened the door to some self reflection that I’ve been avoiding for some time. Good times.
See, here’s how I deal with things; or don’t deal with them, take your pick. When the going gets tough, the tough get going…or the not so tough get running. Away. As in “fa, a long, long way to run, so, a needle pulling thread, la, a note to follow so…” You’re getting the picture I’m sure. I’m a runner. And I don’t mean in the get healthy, marathon kind of way either. I disappear. I dissociate. I ignore. I sleep. I eat. I read. I play. I avoid. I pretend. I stop. Talking. Doing. Sleeping. Functioning. Sometimes for a long time. It’s not that I want to do this. It’s that I don’t realize I’m doing it. It’s my coping mechanism. It’s been learned through my life experience. It’s getting unlearned through my life experience as well. Turns out the unlearning part is hard. Really. Hard.
I wonder sometimes if the unlearning is actually harder than the learning was. Now that’s saying something because, trust me, the learning part was no fun at all. Here I am, though, an adult woman with three almost grown children and I’m unlearning alot of things. Sometimes I’m unlearning the same things over and over again because well, I’m slow like that.
I’ve not had a therapist for 10 months now. For the first several weeks, I thought I needed to find another one fast. For the months that came after that, I was comfortable with the stillness; the quiet that went with not talking. I think I needed it. Since February, I’ve known it was time to find a therapist and have quite simply avoided it like the plague. Finally a few weeks ago, I made the choice and put myself on the waiting list of the woman I decided to go with. Whether I end up there or not remains to be seen. Today I am comfortable with waiting. Who knows what the future will bring.
I’ve been having some serious anxiety issues recently. Over the weekend, I had a particularly severe anxiety attack and it was real work to remember how to deal with it. I have breathing exercises and some other stuff that I’ve learned over the years and managed alright. I did end up writing a few emails however. One of them was to the above mentioned therapist. It felt grounding to touch base with her. Just writing the words and sending them helped me get to sleep.
I received a reply from Sarah after the weekend was over. It was sweet. She told me she had faith in my ability to get through whatever I was dealing with. I was instantly so pissed off I just wanted to scream. If I’d been anywhere but at work, I might have. I wrote some extremely angry things in reply. And deleted them. I decided not to reply at all and then thought “fuck it” and wrote: “Geez, Sarah, can you just once tell me you care about me and what happens to me”…Her reply, or part of it, is quoted above.
It is difficult to explain how seeing those words from her affected me. I wonder if I’d heard them before would my therapeutic journey have taken a different course? Would I have felt capable of opening myself up to her in a different, perhaps more honest, way? When she said “I just don’t understand what we’re working on here” would I have been capable of putting into words the thoughts and feelings that were pouring through me upon learning that my dad’s dad was a pedophile and had raped his youngest daughter? I think probably not.
I’m learning with more certainty every day that I cannot always articulate what is going on inside my heart and head immediately. Often times when I feel the pressure of needing to do just that, I pull out that old standby coping mechanism and I run. I put as much distance between me and the pressure as possible. The distance can often be measured by the number of bridges I burn, doors I close, relationships I shut myself off from. I feel too vulnerable; too exposed; too scared and I run. I run from what I don’t want to see or hear or learn.
So, did I run from a therapeutic relationship that put me on the spot when I wasn’t quite ready or did I move on because it was time to find another path? I’d like to say it was time to move on however I know how I am when it comes to making big choices or decisions. I do it sometimes but my preferred m.o. is to have the choice or decision made for me. Once that first major hurdle is over, I usually get moving and do what needs to be done. Making that first move is a tough one for me. I am often paralyzed by the mere thought of it.
Just writing that sentence made me think of my mom. I’ve spent alot of my adulthood wondering just why my mom did or didn’t do certain things. I bet she felt that paralysis alot. I’m almost sure of it now that I’ve written the words. Ohgod. I do not want my life to end up like hers. I’ve spent my life purposely doing most things exactly the opposite of how my mother did them because I didn’t want to be like her and now look at me…running like she did. I’ve never put two and two together before now. I am sick to my stomach with the thought of it. OhwowOhgod…
Aha moments sometimes suck. I’ve spent several days with this piece of writing and only just now did it come together in my head. Some of what’s been working it’s way up has arrived. With clarity. Ok, perhaps not quite clarity but a foggy sense of rightness…
I am blessed to have a few people who read here regularly. I know I am blessed because these people keep coming back to ‘see’ me and support me, whatever I write. Sometimes I write about stuff that is uh, not for the faint of heart.
I read lots of other blogs, written by people who amuse the hell out of me, and often think “I wish I could be that entertaining.” They are funny. They make me think. And I laugh. Alot. They get lots of visitors and lots of comments and I am in awe of their ability to draw others to them.
The stats for this blog of mine stay pretty consistent. So, what the hell is up with the number of visits to my place in the past day or two? I’ve had over 200. For two freaking days in a row. I’m curious…and gobsmacked.
I would like to say that I am sick. Sick of life as I know it. Sick of flashbacks. Sick of anxiety attacks. Sick of having no therapist. Sick of my husband being the biggest whiniest person I know. Sick of being told I’m different than I used to be. Sick of my job…which I will no longer have come August 31st. I’m sick of feeling alone. Sick of the news. And politics. And people who treat their children like less than garbage. And foggy, gray days. And and and…gah…today the world sucks. I just need to yell and scream at something or someone and cry; if I could just cry for awhile, I know it would be a release of some kind. I know it’s going to be ok. It always is, one way or another. I will have a job on September 1st. It simply will not be the one I’ve had for the past 9 years. This could be a good thing and most days I try to see it that way. I’ve just lost my way temporarily. That’s all. Now where the fuck did I drop the bread crumbs?
So yea, been having some…flashbacks, that is. My grandfather was the biggest fucking prick. If he were still alive, I’d have to kill him or turn him over to the police so he’d land in prison and you know what happens to child molesters in prison. I’ve had my share of triggers during the past few months and yesterday was a puke-tastic day. Thrills and chills to be sure. Details, yea I could volunteer some but I’m not gonna. I simply can’t write them down yet. I’m exhausted. I’m relieved to have some of the memories connected to some of the feelings and hopefully can move forward a bit more after this shitfest. Ok, I’m outta here. Isn’t this fun?