Today is the two year anniversary of "This." I'm going to attempt to write it all down- what I can remember, anyway- in the hopes of being able to let it go and move on. I'm not sure if it will work. Excerpts of letters to a former pen-pal will help me to fill in the blanks.
Technically, "This" started in 2008. I was a Junior in high school. It was a regular day in September, classes had ended for the day, and I was piling my homework in my arms (I didn't use a backpack or schoolbag at the time). My mother tapped me on the shoulder and told me to hurry up with an urgent look in her eyes. It was a bit strange, since she usually waited in the car while I got my stuff together. Unless something was wrong. I inquired along those lines, and was informed that my father was on the operating table for a quad bypass. It didn't surprise me. Dad had always been bad about taking care of himself. He was diabetic, and for five years (at that point) he'd refused to take any of his medication. Including his insulin. We spent most of the night up at the hospital- I didn't know it then, but this would become a common occurrence over the next two years.
My father was released from the hospital with some new medication and a lecture. I'm not sure if he took the medications after that or not, but the heart problems persisted.
The summer of 2009 was odd. I had a boyfriend. Sort of. (Coin Toss Boy, for those who remember my previous ranting) Anyway, I was spiraling into a sort of major depression, but wouldn't admit it. I was tired, and upset. I'd snap at people for no real reason, then wonder afterwards why I'd said those things. It scared me, because I've always been good at hiding my emotions- I'm not the sort of person who blows up. Not at the little things, at least. My mom suggested I go to the doctor for answers. Of course, she knew what was happening. I was stubborn. I wanted someone else's opinion first. We went to my mother's old church, where I spoke with the pastor there. He was very kind, and told me that he also thought I had depression. He mentioned that he had it too- that lots of people do and it's nothing to be ashamed of. He told me to seek a doctor, get on some medications, and go to counseling. I took is word to heart, and made an appointment the moment I got home.
The normal level on a numeric scale- that is to say, for someone without depression- is 12. I scored a 47. Hello, Major Depression. Hello also, Prozac. And lots and lots of paperwork.
I may also mention here that my at the time boyfriend was a complete and utter jerk. Communication skills of a rock, that one... Anyway.
I began counseling in September, along with my Senior year of high school. Horrid memories here. On top of my Major Depression, I was diagnosed with Chronic Dysthymia. It was a pretty nasty combination. Through all this, though, there was a brighter spot. Lulu. That's what we're still calling the he/she/it that ended up saving my life and ripping out the last shreds of trust I had in me. In that order. In short order.
During this year, I had rejoined the swim team, needing something to use as an outlet for all these emotions that were being released in my therapy sessions. My Freshman year, I'd ended up with tendonitis in one of my shoulders. It's an annoying injury that is very likely to return. And it did. In both shoulders this time. I headed back to physical therapy, hoping to catch things early and move the freck on. My right shoulder was getting better, my left shoulder was getting worse. We stopped working on that shoulder, and my bone and joint doctor mentioned that I should probably stop swimming. It was a recommendation I chose to ignore. (I did mention my stubborness issues, right?)
November. ISC's. The final meet of the year. Yes, I was still swimming. I really, REALLY shouldn't have been. As it turned out, I had been steadily tearing the labral cartilage of my left shoulder. During one of my races at ISC's, I finished it off. And holy shit did that hurt. I managed to finish my race- slowly, of course, and thanking God that I was swimming next to the wall. My vision was blurring pretty badly by the time I came into the finish, and my shoulder... Well ouch. In January I went in for an MRI scan. The results weren't necessarily pretty. I had torn the cartilage completely: Anterior, Superior, Posterior. We set a surgery date for June of that year.
February. "This" truly began in earnest.
LETTER TO LULU 2.9.2010
Dear Lulu,
Yes, I'm writing to you in colored pencil, and yes, I'm writing to you on the back of the previous letter. This is important- so important I didn't even bother to dig out a pen.
My father had a stroke today.
(I TOLD YOU SOMETHING BIG WAS GOING TO HAPPEN!!)
Anyway, I kind of had a feeling that today was going to be strange. He passed out this morning- never a good sign, but I never would have guessed that it would lead to a stroke.
Lol... My uncle gave me a ride home. >.< First he informed me that one of my great aunts had died, then filled me in about the whole stroke thing.
And then, true to his character, he proceeded to hit on me. ... I just sat there with one of those forced smiles thinking, "Okay, is this really the time?"
I mean, any other time it'd be somewhat funny, but not today.
*sigh* only MY family... -.-
Love always,
NEKO <3
P.S: This is a really pretty color. O.o
If that wasn't bad enough, there was the constantly deteriorating relationship between my parents. My mother had planned to leave him years ago, but when he started having all those health problems, her conscience stopped her and bit her in the ass. She stayed. And found something out after the quad bypass that I didn't discover until 2010.
LETTER TO LULU 2.17.2010
Dear Lulu,
A very unhappy Neko writing to you today. Well, "livid" might be a better word, actually.
My mother just decided to fill me in on something. A while back she discovered "somebody's" password to a little site called adultfriendfinder.
That son-of-a-bitch was cheating on my mother! It gets better, too. The account was activated around Thanksgiving 2008, only a few weeks after he got out of the hospital. My mother had almost quit her job to look after him, and he turns around and does THIS.
I honestly feel slightly sick right now. That's how angry I am. I don't think I've ever been this angry. Ever.
Now I KNOW I won't be able to visit him. Unless I'm in a straightjacket with my mouth taped shut.
Well, I'll sign off here- I need to clean something. O.o Hopefully the next letter will be happier.
Love always,
NEKO <3
A few days after that was written, I had to perform at Solo and Ensemble. Afterwards, we went to visit my father. I protested- why would I want to ruin a perfectly good day? My mother replied that Dad would probably want to know how I did. I wanted to shoot back that he'd not been interested in going to these things in years, why the hell should he care? The anger coming off of me was probably tangible, and the letter I wrote the next day shows that I wasn't much better then.
LETTER TO LULU 2.21.2010
Dear Lulu,
I GOT A NEW PURPLE PEN! lol
But it's a ballpoint. I hate ballpoints- I can't seem to write in cursive with them. >.< (Please refer above.)
Anywho. Enough about my pen.
I was going to write this when I got home from S&E yesterday, but I was so tired I didn't even bother to change out of the dress before I crashed. Not even the espresso helped. :(
The event went well though- we got a one, but they were all out of medals. Oh well.
Anyway, the performance went better than I thought it would, but we had a little bobble at the end. I hate when that happens. *shrug* We still won a pretty blue medal! ^.^
There was only one bad part about yesterday, and it really ticked me off. My mom made me- yes, MADE me- visit that scumbag in the Center. I fought valiantly though, refusing point blank to get out of the car for a good two minutes. Sadly, I lost that one, and found myself walking down those Godforsaken halls. I hate the smell of those places. Looking back, I'm actually quite impressed with the restraint I showed. Especially when he greeted me with the whole "Hi, Sweetheart" routine. Asshole... I wanted to slap him right then and there! But I just nodded and sat down in one of those AWFUL overstuffed chairs- the kind that makes awkward noises every time you move. Luckily, I still had my ipod in the pocket of my jacket. He asked how I did as I was replacing the earbuds in my ears for what seemed like the umpteenth (new word!) time. I think I answered with three words ("Got a one.") then turned the ipod up and began resisting the urge to verbally attack him then storm out of the place. It was HARD too. >.<
We were there for an hour, while my parents exchanged pointless chit-chat and put up a charming display for the nurses. I just sat there in silence, wanting to throw up at the relatively pathetic sight in front of me. When mom finally decided it was time to go, I think I was halfway down the hall before she was even out of her seat. She scolded me when we got back to the car, but I could barely hear her over the music on my ipod. I don't think she noticed. We got home and I pulled this pen out of my purse, fully intending to write to you. I was out as soon as I lay down on my bed. No harm done though- you still get my letter!
Love always,
NEKO <3
I actually find the end of this letter quite funny, as none of these letters have been sent. Nor will they ever be. But we'll get to that later. My father made an excellent recovery and was back home for all of a month before all hell broke loose. There are no letters during this time, as Lulu and I had broke contact. In early March, almost a month exactly after the first one, my father had a second stroke. It was bad. Really, really bad. My mom heard a loud crash at about five in the morning, and went out to see what had happened. My dad was lying on the floor between the living room and kitchen, unresponsive. She called the ambulance, then got me up to move the truck. I might add here that her voice was at least two octaves higher than it should have been. I might also add that my mother does not handle these sorts of situations very well. I became first responder, checking for a pulse, trying to rouse him. I didn't even think of another stroke until the EMTs tested his grips. Then I knew, and I knew it was bad.
School was particularly difficult to get through that day, and I really can't remember much- I was on autopilot. We were informed that the stroke had effected half of my father's right frontal lobe. He would never be able to walk, or talk again. He remained in the hospital for a time, then was transfered to a skilled nursing facility. Goodness knew mom and I would never be able to take care of him in his state.
Stress has a funny way of backing down for a while, then coming back with a vengeance at the most inopportune time. April 2010. I was struggling with the depression again. It was a struggle to get out of bed in the morning, and sometimes, I just couldn't. The day I landed myself in the Mental Health Wing was one of those days. My mother didn't understand how much I was struggling to even keep going, and quoted my father, saying that at the rate I was going, I'd never graduate. That stung. I was used to hearing it from my father, but never from her. I froze, wondering if I really was letting everyone down. And when I say I froze, I mean it literally.
I didn't move, didn't speak, nothing. For almost an hour. Mom finally realized her mistake, and worry set in. I'm not a stranger to suicidal thoughts. I'd been cutting for years by that point. She made an emergency appointment with my psychologist, who upon talking with me for all of fifteen minutes, referred us to the hospital. I sat in the ER, waiting to be evaluated for almost two hours. By then I had calmed down. A little. If I'd known what I was getting myself into, I never would've signed those papers. I would have run, damn the petitions. Unfortunately, my psychologist said I'd be safe there, so I signed myself away for four days.
Safe? Evidently it's a matter of perspective. Strip searched, questioned about every bruise and mark on my body, then lead into a room full of strange people. I'm not antisocial, but I'm very shy around strangers. It didn't help when the nurse introduced me to a woman who could tell me "who's alright and who to stay away from."
Fear sank in, and when my mom came back with my clothes (and Bear, thank GOD for Bear) she found me in the room I was to share with another woman, in tears. I remember whispering that I wanted to go home, and I didn't care if I sounded like a child. I certainly felt like one. I was terrified. I didn't sleep much that night, and in the morning I was forced to go to an anger management seminar. (They were convinced that I had "anger issues" because I use sarcasm. -.-) Over the next three days I did a lot of word searches and coloring pages, and told a lot of lies. Most of which consisted of the words "good," "I'm fine," and "thank you." I'd made a few semi-friends. Rather, people I deemed safe enough to feign socialization with. I tried not to break down completely when my family came up to visit. We had visiting hours- two hours at most each day, like a prison. I lied to the psychiatrists in a bid to get out early on the fourth and final day, saying that I had made an appointment with my psychologist, and that she was very difficult to get in with. Lies, damned lies. We had canceled the appointment, and Shelley would have dropped everything to see me if I'd asked her to, but they didn't need to know that. Ultimately, it did the trick, and I was granted a morning release. Once all the paperwork had been taken care of and I'd successfully dodged the questions from one of the nurses who seemed intent on keeping me in that place for the rest of eternity, I was free to go. I started out with a normal walk, until we were out of the security doors. Then it became a jog, then a run, and a sprint to the truck. We went home after that- I needed to catch up on restful sleep, and there was no way I'd be able to handle school right then. Naturally, all of my friends knew what had happened, (thanks, Mom. >.>) and when I got back in the next day my locker was decorated. *Sigh* I've never liked being the center of attention, and this one was really difficult to explain away. So I didn't. I told the truth.
I graduated the next month. Against the odds. My dad made it there, and everyone was shocked at his condition. Suddenly it made sense why I'd been depressed, and I got a few mumbled apologies.
June was my graduation party, and my father made another appearance, this time shocking the members of the family who hadn't seen him. It wasn't a very happy party, now that I think back on it. Bone crushing hugs, and way too many tears.
A week later was the surgery on my shoulder. It went well, and I was determined to recover in half the time. Oxcodone is NOT my friend. My arm was in a sling the next six weeks. During which time we began the renovations to our house, beginning with the rewiring. It took quite a lot of time, since they had to do it from the inside of a cement house. It would have been much easier to go from the outside, but we'd just had new siding put up the summer before. (Great planning, dad.)
August 10, 2010. From the former blog.
Stupid.
Everything's stupid. Don't ask me why- it just is.
I'm running out of footholds. I don't know how much longer I can keep this up. it's all just... too much.
I heard from my pen-pal again. Funny, how you sometimes think you know someone. Everything was a lie. I don't even know what gender any more. And yet, I'm not surprised. Hurt, yes. But not surprised. It just so happens that my best friend being a lie fits in perfectly with how my life is going at the moment. And besides, what can I do about it, anyway? I'm powerless in this situation... Just like everything else.
How stupid.
I had the joy of discovering what a panic attack feels like today. It was awful.
Damn my weakness. Damn my fragility.
I used to be a pretty strong person. Not any more. Now I feel more like glass. Cracked, chipping glass. It pisses me off. Every little thing just keeps piling up and up and up, and there's no relief in sight. And then that last little bit falls on top of everything else, and I break into a million pieces.
It's very glamorous, sitting in your bathroom, bawling your eyes out for a million reasons and you can't pick which one.
And then you look up at the vanity, and see the pill bottles just sitting there. You could end it right then, if you wanted to. And you do want to. But you know that if it fails, you will go back to the hospital, to that place where you're treated like the poisonous scum on the bottom of a shoe... They don't give a damn about you, but they're wary enough to not let you out of their sight for more than fifteen minutes.
And then you're torn. The pills are calling you- if you take enough of them at once, they will ease the pain forever. But your mind and heart are filled with fear of the what ifs, the consequences, the things left behind.
You start to hyperventilate, your eyes widen, and your heart rate skyrockets.
You curl your knees up to your chest, and hide your face against them, covering your ears with your trembling hands. Your sobs are running you ragged, but you can't regain control.
It isn't over yet.
You're trying to cry quietly, so that no one will worry over you, but your cries are coming out much louder than you would like. You can't control your body's convulsing as sobs mix with hysterical laughter. You can't stop. You're only dimly aware of what's happening. Your heart is beating too fast, causing you great pain and adding to your tears.
Your mind wanders as you lose the last bit of control over your body, which is still trembling and convulsing. Your throat is raw from the harsh sobs that are tearing through it, but you hardly notice. What caused all of this?
Mere minutes ago, you were fine.
You were laughing.
Everything was okay.
The door opens, and your mother walks in. She knows that she is what pushed you to this, and a mumbled apology escapes her.
You are lost; blame and forgiveness tumble out of your mouth in the same sentence. You know you're not making sense, and you dig your nails into your palms in an attempt to stop your body's shaking. Unable to think clearly, and overwhelmed by the new flood of emotions, you begin to hyperventilate a second time. Your mother says nothing, but stays by you, stroking your hair.
Slowly, you begin to regain control, You bring yourself to your knees, then to your feet, standing waveringly on shaking legs. You see the tears in your mother's eyes.
Look what you've done.
Quickly you begin to fix things as best you know how: Draw the blame into yourself.
And so the cycle begins anew.
I was there not two hours ago. I was frightened. I still am.
I don't know what to do.
I don't know how much more of this I can take.
I feel so... wobbly.
There are so many things in this house that could kill me, if I took the initiative.
I could be dead in the morning and no one would ever really know why.
That scares me.
I scare me.
It's been a year since I began treatment for my depression.
Am I ever going to get better?
August 16, 2010. "This." It wasn't me I needed to worry about. It was her.
I vaguely remember a debate about ice cream. One that turned heated, as debates often do when my mother is stressed. I took a nap, letting her do her cool down thing. Except, that's not what she did.
August 17, 2010.
I woke up around midnight. No idea why. I decided to go online for a bit until I got tired again. I was munching on carrots, headphones on so as not to wake up my mother, since I figured she was sleeping. I thought I heard her call me, but when I went in to check on her, she was asleep. I woke her up and apologized for arguing with her earlier. I don't know if she actually heard me or not. I went back to the computer, watching videos on youtube. I suddenly remembered that I'd forgotten to put the carrots back, and got up to do that. I'd forget permanently if I didn't do it then, and that would make mom angry at me. Again. I heard her clearly this time. She called me into her room, and asked me to call an ambulance. She said she had stomach pains. I decided it was best to do as she told- she knew her body better than I did, for sure. I explained what the situation was and gave our address, then hung up. I turned to ask her if she needed anything, when she screamed. Seriously screamed. Like I think my neighbors probably heard that. She started convulsing and coughing up a white foamy substance. (I would later link it to the pills. A residue that her body was trying to expel.)
Thank God I'm a trained lifeguard. I recognized the seizure and instinct and training took over. I rolled her to her side, so she wouldn't choke, then set to the task of keeping her awake and alert so she wouldn't go comatose. I wouldn't realize that I'd saved her life until everything was said and done.
The EMTs arrived (Frecking LATE, if you'd asked me then) and assessed her. They said it looked like a drug overdose. I wasn't surprised. Angry, but not surprised. I should have known. A few months before I'd argued with her, and found her crying in front of a bunch of lined up bottles. I hadn't called her into the hospital then, not wanting to subject her to what I'd gone through not so long ago. Maybe I should have...
Anyway, they took her into the ambulance, and one of the EMTs came back in. He looked particularly nervous- just a kid, not much older than I am now. He said that she'd told them that she'd hid the pill bottles under her bed, and asked if we had a plastic bag or something. I grabbed one and headed back into her room, digging out the bottles. There were a lot of empty ones.
I remember clearly pulling out the first one and reading the label. "Welbutrin." It was an antidepressant that I'd been on a few months before. I was allergic to it though, and had only taken two of the forty-five pills. That bottle was empty.
My memory gets pretty blurry here, I think I'd slipped into shock. The ambulance pulled out of the drive, leaving me alone. I allowed myself a few moments to freak out properly. I'm sure it involved a bit of screaming and more than a few tears. I then collected what was left of my wits and called my aunt, who is a retired RN. I filled her in and she came to take me up to the hospital. I couldn't have driven myself if I'd wanted to.
"You didn't need this," I remember her saying. No. I guess I didn't.
When we got up to the hospital, my mom was in the ER. They allowed us back, informing us that she'd had two more seizures on the way over, and was currently in total organ failure. I remember seeing one of the doctors on the phone with poison control, trying to sort through the bottles and figure out what she'd taken. Our final count was an estimate of 104 antidepressants. Forty-three of which were the Extended Release Welbutrin. The doctors had a brief discussion about what to do, and came up with a conclusion. I really wish I hadn't been in the room to hear it, because it only scared me more. What they would do would ultimately cause her to seize again, and chances were she'd no longer be able to breathe on her own, so they wanted a vent on hand.
And that's exactly what happened. A nurse relayed the information to me in the lobby. They were moving her up to CCU. I remember asking: "So she's stable now?" It probably sounded pathetic.
"No. Not even close," was the answer. She was kind of a jerk about it, now that I remember. She could've been a little more sympathetic, but hey...
By this time, I'd called my mom's younger brother (Had to borrow a phone book because my brain couldn't recall their phone number.), and they joined us on they way up to the unit. My aunts had a brief discussion about where I'd be staying, since staying home alone wasn't an option. I made the decision to stay with my Aunt Sherry- the retired RN, knowing that the hospital would contact her first with any new information.
I remember attempting to go to sleep at seven in the morning in her spare room, hoping that this was some twisted nightmare as punishment for past transgressions. It wasn't a nightmare- not one I could wake up from, at least- and I knew it.
We went back up the next day, my uncles were trying to get me to eat something, and my Aunt Kris was trying to help me get things situated for my first semester of college. Time is not fond of me, I think.
Over the next few days, Mom ended up with ARDS (Acute Respiratory Distress Syndrome), and I think she had fluid around her heart or something. Memory's not so good.
My memory from here is very, very patchy. All I can say is that college was probably not a good idea at the time, and my Aunt Sherry can't cook worth crap.
August 25, 2010
I had an appointment with my psychologist, having explained what was happening. We decided to check in on my mother before I went to the appointment. Go figure, they had some bad news.
They'd run some tests, and the results came back positive in her kidneys as well as her sputum. She was septic. People go into CCU with septicemia- they don't get it in the unit. Most people die from it, septicemia being an infection that has dumped into the bloodstream.
I nearly fainted, and explained that I needed a moment. I found myself in the fifth floor chapel. I prayed. It was not a kind prayer of please and thank yous. It was more of an angry tirade of "if you take her from me, if you let her die, I will never forgive you."
I was seeing my psychologist two to three times a week from this point on.
A few days later, I found my mother's suicide note. I don't remember what it said.
By this point I was trying to juggle all these appointments, my first semester of college, and making potential funeral arrangements for my mother at age 18. Trying to figure out how I'd get by, where I'd live, how I'd get to school- hell, how I'd get THROUGH school...
Thankfully, it didn't come to that. I must've touched a nerve with the Big Guy upstairs, because she made a surprisingly quick recovery after that. Within the next two or so weeks she was transfered to West Campus, where she would work to regain her strength after two weeks in a hospital bed. A week from that, she was my roommate at my aunt's. We were still renovating our house, you know, so it wasn't exactly somewhere we could live at the time.
By 2011 we were situated in our own home again. I was hoping that this was the end of it, and for a while, it seemed like it was. As usual, I was wrong.
Stress came back for me during my second semester of college. I was getting so, so sick, all the time. My heart was doing strange things. I was diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Hardly a surprise, but it was still a bit of a blow.
Mom didn't help much. She still doesn't. "This" seems to be her favorite conversation topic. The wounds are deep- it still hurts. I don't like to talk about it, and it astounds me, the tone she takes. Almost as if she's proud of what she's done. She thinks she's the one to suffer the most, because she can't remember anything from those two weeks on the vent. I remember more than I'd like to, and wouldn't mind blank space there. I don't think she realizes that she wasn't the only victim in all of this.
September 30, 2011
My father passed away, age 61.
I was relieved. He'd gotten so much worse. As it stands now, I'm not sure if he remembered who I was when he'd died. If he remembered he had a daughter at all.
My only regret is that I'd never gotten the chance to tell him that I'd finally let go of the hate I'd held for him for so long. That I took my share of the blame for the anger between us, and that I wished him peace in heaven.
Then again, I'm not sure it would have made a difference, he was so far gone.
2012
During the summer of 2011 I'd realized how much writing letters actually helped me, and took up my pen again. I didn't have a receiver on the other end of my letters, but I found it didn't matter. As 2012 moved along, I began to notice that the relationship between my mother and myself had drastically changed. Maybe my mother had died in 2010- the person I'm left with now isn't the person I remember from before.
LETTER TO SOMEBODY 2.13.2012
Dear Somebody,
HELP ME! I'm losing my mind here! Everything has spiraled wildly out of control. I want to run, but I've got nowhere to run to. My mother seems bent on tearing me down. She's going to kill me if this keeps up, and I can't do anything about it. I can't defend myself- every time I do, she thinks I'm accusing her of something. She even told me that she bets I wish she would've died when she was in the hospital. Does she even know what that did to me? What her saying that DOES to me? I can't do this- can't focus. My mind is already messed up from before, I DON'T need help in that department.
If I can't fight and I can't run, what can I do?
Wait?
For what?
Until she kills me? Until I kill me? Until, by some miracle, she comes to her senses and saying what and how I feel is no longer a crime? What, in all honesty, do I have to wait for? I don't see anything worthwhile in front of me. It's only ever gotten worse, why on Earth would it turn around now? Bitterness seems to suit her just fine.
I've got to get out of here.
But where do I go? And how? I don't have the answers. If I did, I wouldn't be in this mess. Here I am. Trapped in the place I'm supposed to be safest. Trapped in my own home.
Maybe it IS just me. Maybe all this really is my fault. But if that's the case, what do I do? Where do I start? How can I make things right if I don't know what's wrong?
Where do I go from here?
Where's my ray of hope, my light at the end of the tunnel?
I'm beginning to wonder if this tunnel even HAS an end.
Love,
Aimee
I still wonder about some of the things she said. As though she blames me for what happened then. And then... What if she's right? What if it was my fault? Did my choices and actions result in her almost dying? If I'd been more mindful, could I have stopped it? The guilt is bitter and ever present in the pit of my stomach. So I did resolve to remain silent. If my words and actions caused her to want to die, then I would stop. I would bite my tongue each time she lashes at me, bear it silently, because it's easier to take than a repeat of 2010. And it would be my fault again. What if she were to die if it happened again? Would that make me a murderer, I wonder. HEADLINE: Woman, 20, kills mother with words alone.
Of course, silence is an easy thing to pledge, but not so easy to practice. Everyone has a boiling point, and even I, as stoic as I've forced myself to be, can't hold the entire world in my heart.
LETTER TO SOMEBODY 3.09.2012
Dear Somebody,
JESUS FRECKING CHRIST!!!
I am about at my wits end with this thing they call my mother.
Actually. It's me that's the problem. I'm not strong enough to stick to the plan. So I end up making a half-assed attempt at defending myself, then I stop myself half way through out of fear. Which inevitably blows up in my face. It's hardly any wonder I'm as much of a train-wreck as I am. It's actually rather impressive that I"m not worse off. These letters have been particularly helpful- I mean, I knew I'd lose it eventually, but eventually would have come a whole hell of a lot sooner without these things.
Yeah. I lost it today. It wasn't as messy as I would have expected. Then again... What I let out today was probably less than half of what's up here in my head. Makes more sense, doesn't it? Two years of pent up stress and anxiety aren't likely to be resolved with five minutes of yelling and a few tears.
Regardless, the disaster's been averted for the time-being. I'm still sure that it's only a matter of time before the dam bursts. Hopefully I'll be prepared this time, and no one will get hurt. At least, not badly.
Some people would suggest that returning to therapy would be an appropriate preventative measure. Unfortunately, I disagree. I've been down that road before, and I don't have the emotional stamina to survive a round two. No, I've learned all I can from that world. It's up to me to take the initiative and apply those lessons now. It won't be easy, but I wouldn't call my life so far a walk in the park, either. But it's not in me to give up just because something's hard. I'm too damn stubborn for that sort of nonsense.
It's ironic, really, how the attribute that broke me down and drove the situation this far is the same one that will keep me fighting, and in the end, when all is said and done, probably save my life.
Life really does work in mysterious ways. (And yes, I'd still like to tell her to take a flying leap.)
Love,
Aimee
Break down, build up. That's the cycle, the norm. Sometimes I'm bitter, angry even. Most times though, I'm too tired too feel anything but resignation. This is life. It's not easy. It's not fair. And a lot of the times, it's not even worth living. That thought is always there in the back of my head. Surely Death wouldn't be so horrible. Something as ancient as that must enjoy tea, and if he enjoys tea, then we should get along splendidly. However, be it fortunate or unfortunate, he seems antisocial. I've knocked on his door several times- he never answers.
LETTER TO SOMEBODY 7.09.1012
Dear Somebody,
Things aren't going well here. I guess things started okay, since my doctor said I beat my depression. But that's kind of the only good thing.
I was... Honest with some people. One, in particular. Yeah... (insert nervous laugh here.) Do I ever wish I could have that one back. Oh well, what's done is done.
What's got me pained and upset though, is my mom. I'm scared. And there's NOTHING I can do about it. I don't know how much longer I can handle this- I'm only human. What if I say something? What if she dies?I know she's not the same person anymore but she's still my mom and I don't want to lose her.
And this is my fault.
There's something about me that makes her angry or upset. But I don't know what it is. It's frustrating.
I feel so sad. But it's not the same as before. It hurts so much more. I don't understand what's happening. All I know is that I'm tired and my chest hurts... And I need to stay way. I know I can't fix this.
Help me, please. I don't know what I should do. My tears are like ice... And I'm asking a notebook for help...
Love,
Aimee
It's been over a month since I wrote that letter. I've stayed as far away from her has I can. She's not happy about it, but she hasn't blown up at me either, so I'm going to keep at it. It's okay if she hates me for this in the end- as long as she GETS to the end. I can handle hatred, I can handle bitterness, I can handle anger. I can't handle loss. Not yet.
"This" has not yet come to an end. I think it will be a part of me for the rest of my life. But I'm hoping that by getting this out of my head and onto paper or screen or whatever I can start to move on. I want to be able to sleep at night without flashing back and waking up in a cold sweat, swearing to God that I can hear her scream from the first seizure. I want to be able to be alone in my living room without having to turn the lights and TV on. I can't do that now. I see it as it was that night, and I panic.
I can deal with not being able to talk to my mom. I can deal with having to treat her like a dog that would bite me the second I got too close. What I can't handle is what my own mind does to me when the lights are out.
I might not be able to erase what happened, or even make it better, but I want to be able to leave it here now. I want to leave "This" behind. It's time to go.
