by Band Back Together | Dec 1, 2010 | Anger, Depression, Grandparent Loss, Grief, Help For Grief And Grieving, How To Cope With A Suicide, Sadness, Stress, Suicide |
Just yesterday I was reading posts at this site. Shedding sympathetic tears and yet at the same time being so grateful that I had nothing to post here. My gratefulness was premature.
For all intense and purposes, my grandfather died at 8:30 last night. He actually died at 6:20 this morning.
At 8:30 last night my grandfather shot himself in the head. Even after that and being on no life support it took the rest of his body 10 hours to die. 10 hours that my father and mother waited at the hospital all the while knowing that what they were waiting for was a pronouncement of death for my father’s father.
When my mom called me last night, I knew intelligently, that my mom calls my pop-pop “Pop”, and when she called I could tell by her tone that something had happened. Someone had died and at 91, my grandfather was – of course – the most logical answer. But he was healthy. Healthier than most men 10 years his junior and his mind was sharp as a tack, but I knew that it had to be him. However, when I heard the words “Pop shot himself tonight.”
I was thrown immediately into an hysterical state and just started screaming, “Pop-pop or my dad?!?!? Pop-pop or my dad?!?!?”
I’m numb. I’m at work today because I need normal. I need routine. When I actually stop and really think about it, my body shuts down and I go into a near catatonic state. My body’s defenses are too high right now. Too ready to go into flight mode. I need normal. For at least today.
But nothing will ever be normal again. My grandfather killed himself. And my aunt who lives with him was home at the time. I don’t know what to think. I’m devastated. I’m angry. And I feel so awful for my dad. Beyond awful.
When dad called me this morning to tell me that Pop-pop had finally passed away, he broke down and asked me not to hate Pop-pop. Which I never could. I loved that man more than anything. He asked to please not think less of him. And I don’t. Then he asked me to please not be angry at Pop-pop. I told him I wasn’t. I told him I didn’t understand, but that I wasn’t angry.
I hope it’s not always wrong to lie.
If you or anyone you know is feeling suicidal, please remember that suicide is never the answer.
Call the National Suicide Hotline (US): 1-800-273-8255
by Band Back Together | Dec 1, 2010 | Abortion, Abortion Recovery, Abuse, Anxiety Disorders, Coping With Domestic Abuse, Domestic Abuse, Emotional Abuse, Infidelity, Major Depressive Disorder |
I can’t believe it has been 15 years since I meet him. There are days it feel like it was just yesterday. I knew his past – his Dad killed himself when he was young and he rebelled. He still did things that you would expect a troubled youth to do, but that stuffed seemed to stop once we started dating.
I can’t really complain about the first year and a half of the 3 years we were together. We were a normal, young couple in love. Everyone thought we were a happy couple. Then I got pregnant. It wasn’t planned, but I was young and “thought” I was in love.
That’s when you started telling me how worthless I was. It’s also when you started to hit me. A punch in the arm here. A shove there. Then you started with my stomach. Told me I was stupid and I wasn’t going to have this baby. You forced me to have an abortion, which in hindsight I am glad I did, mainly because I think if I had carried this baby longer, You would have made sure it didn’t survive.
I was no longer allowed to see my friends. I feel into a deep depression and was heart-broken when you broke up with me. What to do with all of this new found freedom? Take a trip with my BFF of course! Well, once you got wind of that, you had to have me back. Could it be the rumor that I was planning on moving with her to Florida, start a new life? Foolishly I agreed to meet you for lunch. I let you make me think you were truly sorry and wanted me back.
Things only got worse. I had a curfew, had to sneak out to be with my friends, could only do what you wanted me to do. The beatings and verbal abuse got much worse the second time around. I remember the time I picked you up from work at one in the morning in the city and you beat me in my own car because I was listening to a mix tape of songs that my favorite cover band played. A stranger came up to the window as you were banging my head into the car window. He said he was calling the cops and told me to get out of the car, that he’d help me. You stopped hitting me long enough for me to drive away, only to start punching me in the legs the whole ride home.
If I loved you enough, you’d stop, I told myself. You told me how much you loved me.
You were only doing this because it’s what your Dad did to your Mom.
I started sneaking out to go out with one of my BFFs. I started having fun again, feeling like myself again. I cheated on you. I found a great guy, at my favorite hangout, who I had known since high school. He worshiped me. He told me how smart, beautiful and fun I was. It gave me my confidence back.
I got the nerve to leave you. I made sure to do it when everyone was home at your Mom’s house.You proposed to me, told me you’d already asked your Mom for her engagement ring your Dad had given her. I took all my stuff out of her house and moved right in with my new boyfriend. I lived 10 minutes from you for 3 years and you never knew.
To this day I live with the scars you left me, physically and emotionally. I have been on and off anti-depressants for 10 years. I have panic attacks when I am reminded of a bad beating. I freak out when my husband tries to kiss me (like if I am leaning up against the counter & he blocks my way out). I feel trapped, yet I know he would NEVER lay a hand on me.
Luckily I found REAL love with my husband. I told him EVERYTHING you did to me and he still loves me. I am damaged goods, but he loves me anyway. You told me if I left you NO ONE would want me. I can count on one hand the number of people who know what you did to me, but I need to get it all out.
I was a silly, young girl who believed I could change you. I now know, that you were the one who changed me. Not because you loved me, because what we had WASN’T love.
You made me stronger, no I made me stronger.
I survived the hell you put me through.
by Band Back Together | Dec 1, 2010 | How To Help A Parent With a Special Needs Child, Parenting, Special Needs Parenting |
I just spent two hours trying to explain to my middle child, who is 3 1/2 (and I suspect autistic), that the puzzle she insisted I get down for her did.not.exist, that hitting her sister was unacceptable, and that she needed to be quiet because other people were trying to sleep.
I spent 30 minutes in the closet, pointing to each puzzle we did have and asking, “This one? No? This one?” over and over again. We only own three puzzles, if that gives you any idea of the sheer frustration I experienced. She kept pointing and saying in her fuzzy Bitsy speech, “There! Up there! Pongo!” Pongo, for those who do not know or readily remember, is the father dog in 101 Dalmatians. We own both the original and the sequel, Patch’s London Adventure, but she did not want a movie. That much was clear as day, because every time I showed her the movie case, she screamed and shook her head no. Ooooo-kay, back to the puzzle-pointing-is-it-this-one? game.
Every time I didn’t find what she thought should be there, she got a little louder, a little more shrill.
After thirty minutes had gone by, I was sick of trying to convince her it wasn’t there, and I left, apologizing that I couldn’t find it but that we really don’t have it. I swear. This set her OFF.
She started hitting her sister in her frustration — this is a common problem with her — and we spent the next twenty minutes on a merry-go-round of, “Say sorry to Punky.” “NO!” “Bitsy, we do not hit. Say sorry.” “NO!” “Do you need to sit in time-out?” “NO!” “Then say sorry to Punky.” “NO!” “I’m counting to 5–” “NO!” “–and if I get to 5–” “NO!” “–I’ll have to put you in time-out.” “NO!” “1″ “NO!” “2″ “NO!” “3″ “NOOOOOOOOO!” “4″ “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” “5. Okay, I’m putting you in time-out now for hitting Punky and not saying sorry.” “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” I sat her by the front door (designated time-out spot) and she started shrieking. Not just the typical “I’m upset” screaming most children use to bloody ear drums, but the kind that evokes images of murder and torture. I’m a teeny bit surprised that our neighbors didn’t call the cops or CPS or something. Ten minutes of this while I sat there like an asshole, reminding her to be quiet because people are trying to sleep, including her baby sister.
She refused to calm down. For an hour. And before you think she couldn’t possibly go on so long, I know for a fact that this child can scream and shriek and cry and whine for four hours solid — and that’s only MY record hold-out time. I’m convinced she would have gone on longer had I not given in. But that was almost a year ago, and her tantrums — if you can even imagine this — have gotten worse.
I try redirection, and sometimes that works… but sometimes it just doesn’t, no matter how hard I try. And there are times where I don’t believe redirection is appropriate. Sometimes there just have to be consequences. Like hitting, for example. I’m not going to use, “Would you like to color, Bitsy?” when she’s smacking her sister around. That’s like I’m rewarding her for hitting. If they’re fighting over a toy and I notice she’s getting worked up, yes, coloring works as a distraction. But her safety and the safety of my other children demands a direct correction.
But Bitsy doesn’t take direction well. She screams and hits and bites and throws things, going so far as to plug her own ears so she can scream harder and louder without hurting herself. It’s like she’s trying to drown us out because reality and her idea of reality aren’t meshing, and she can’t handle it. Literally cannot handle it. Not “chooses” not to handle it, not “doesn’t want” to handle it, cannot handle it.
How do you deal with that? I’ve yet to find a way. I can’t trail her all day every day to catch every little stress-trigger and divert her from it. It’s just not feasible — I don’t even think it would be feasible for a stay-at-home parent of an only child. There are things I have to do; clean the house, wash dishes and laundry, mend clothes… And I have two other children, one of whom is only nine months old.
And you might wonder, why would I have another child when she was so time- and attention-consuming? Because 17 months ago (baby was born at eight months, not nine), she wasn’t nearly so bad. Her behavior, while problematic at times, was not constantly this way. She had her bad days, certainly, but she had lots of good days, too. I don’t know whether it was bringing another child into the house or just her own natural progression that did this to her, but I did not intentionally put myself in this position. I had no way of knowing this would happen, but it did, and now I’m stuck in it. And it isn’t just her behavior that makes my days trying.
My beautiful little girl used to eat a wide variety of food; in fact, there was very little she wouldn’t eat. Pears, the peel on an apple, cabbage, horseradish, and sauerkraut. That was it; that was her list of dislikes two years ago, and she’d been exposed to a very wide variety of foods. But now I’m lucky if she eats anything but granola bars, bologna, and fruit snacks. I’ve seen so many healthy foods she loved fall out of her diet, like broccoli, chicken breast, corn, fish, nuts, fruit of all kinds… The only real fruit that has passed her lips in months is blueberries, and I stared in amazement as she ate those.
I don’t know what to do anymore. I have to wait until after the holidays to start the ball rolling on being evaluated, and even then it is a long process. I have very few ways to cope day-to-day. I have no family, no friends nearby who can help me out or give me a break once in a while. And even if I did… who would be able to deal with her? And all three? Forget it! Their father can barely handle them, and he’s their father. He’s good with kids — he has six little brothers! — and even he throws his hands in the air and says he doesn’t know what to do anymore. I can’t even count how many mini-breakdowns I’ve had over the past few months.
And there’s no relief in sight. God help me.
