by Y B Normal | Mar 14, 2019 | A Letter To My Younger Self, Abuse, Adult Survivors of Childhood Sexual Abuse, Family, Feelings, Forgiveness |
I wish I could write like our Aunt Becky, but I can’t. My words will be misspelled, my commas will be out of place, and there will definitely be run on sentences, but I swear like a trucker, so somehow I think I will fit right in.
So the back story is this: BAD shit happened to me when I was a kid. You know, the dad was an alcoholic, “show me on the doll where the bad man touched you” (I never told my parents, by the way), sister got preggo at 14, and eventually my Mom could no longer deal with it all, so I had to take the bulk of the bad shit. There were days I didn’t know if I would make it. Some days I wasn’t able to deal. I would burn myself or punch a wall just to feel…something. Still, it’s not as bad as some have dealt with and not the purpose of this post. I made it through, bruised but not broken. I just wish I could tell the young girl who dealt with all of that what I know now.
I have been talking to a friend who is quite a bit younger and going through so much in her life right now. She (like me) puts up a strong front, but if you dig just beneath the surface, you can see the hurt and self doubt. She sometimes reminds me so much of my self that it’s scary. When asked, we will both say we are “fine.” Every time she says it to me, my heart cracks just a little. You see, I know when she says “I’m fine,” what she really means is ”This hurts like hell!! My heart is breaking. Somebody please just take away the pain.” But no, it’s always “I’m fine.” I just want to give her a hug and tell her it will all be OK. I won’t, mind you, because that would make me seem weak or soft, or whatever my fucked up mind thinks.
Still, talking to her I got to thinking what would I tell my younger self? So I wrote myself a letter today. Maybe it will help her or some other young girl who needs to know it WILL BE OK.
So, here it is.
Dear Tonya,
I know it’s hard right now, but experience brings knowledge, adversity brings strength.
None of that makes a damn bit of difference when you’re hurting, but faith gives you hope. The hope that there is something greater brings a small amount of peace, even in the darkest times.
When you find love, it calms. Love doesn’t hurt, it heals, it comforts, it expands. Love gives, it should not take away.
If life seems to be spiraling out of control, find solace in the small things. Family, friends, music, words. These are your armor against all that will stand against you.
Remember that the lessons learned from the mistakes we make, and the paths we choose, make us who we are. Never regret them. To do so would mean you doubt yourself. Nothing or no one should make you doubt your worth.
Though it’s sometimes easier to forgive others than yourself, YOU ARE ONLY HUMAN.
Be as kind to yourself as you are to others, and love yourself as much as you do others.
Stand tall without being cocky and be proud of who you will become.
I know I am.
Tonya
P.S. If none of that shit works, there is always vodka.
by anonymous | Mar 13, 2019 | Alzheimer's Disease, Coping with Alzheimer's Disease, Dementia, Family, Health, Stroke |
Over 5% of Americans are living with Alzheimer’s Disease.
This is her story.
Alzheimer’s is one crazy bitch, just like my mom.
Don’t worry; I’m not an evil daughter, I just decided to take the more, shall we say, “optimistic” approach to my mom’s disease than some people would. Also, I have a very warped sense of humor, which has helped me get through quite a bit throughout my 40 years on this planet.
I’ve already been through my dad’s stroke in my 20’s, Mom’s stroke right after, followed by the death of my first husband when I was 27, my dad’s death when I was 28, my mom’s slow decline into Alzheimer’s Disease, and so much more.
Humor has been my savior and my go-to tool for as long as I can remember. So, please keep that in mind as you read what I’m sharing. Because believe me, my heart breaks into thousands of tiny shards of broken glass when I really allow myself to think of the shell of a person my mom has become.
I miss my mom terribly.
It pains me to talk to her now; our weekly phone calls have drifted into bi-weekly and crossed over into monthly conversations, simply and selfishly because it hurts me to hear her so confused. There is nothing more that I miss than being able to talk to her – really have a normal conversation with her – one that I know she was comprehending what I am saying to her.
Even when I was at war with her in my teen years, I’d take that over what I have with her now. I wish I could have those times back, but I can’t, so instead of being hurt and mortified by mom’s words and actions, I try to find humor instead. Although there are times I hang up the phone and just allow myself to cry for her, for me, for us.
I have decided to blog various stories about mom that have made me chuckle over the years. It’s okay to laugh, I do.
——–
I should have known Mom was drifting toward Alzheimer’s when we went out to eat one night. While the cashier was ringing up our check, mom grabbed a peppermint from the large bowl of candy on the counter. She must have really loved those peppermints because she grabbed another one and shoved it quickly into her mouth while the cashier handed me my change.
I unzipped my pocketbook and Mom unzipped hers. I put my wallet back in to my pocketbook; Mom dumped the whole bowl of candy into her pocketbook and walked out the door.
I was mortified! I asked the cashier “How much for candy?” She just looked at me, shocked, and said “Don’t worry about.“
———-
One day I was lounging around, soaking up the sun, half watching my children swim in our pool and half daydreaming. The phone rang, bringing me out of my semi-comatose state.
“Hello,” I mumbled into the mouthpiece.
“Ma’am,” a Southern gentleman drawled, “is your mom named OCB?”
“Yes, who’s this?” I asked, my suspicion aroused. Who the hell was this guy asking about my mom? How did he get my unlisted number?
**Side note: even in the depths of her Alzheimer’s, she’s never forgotten my home phone number.**
“I’m Clyde, from the Pottery Mart? Over here on Airline Lane? You know it?” he asked.
I could see the big red building clearly forming within my brain. It was located in the town where my mom lived, about fifteen minutes away. They had a large statue of a rearing horse on top of their sign and I often wondered how they had gotten it up there. “Yes, I know it. What’s going on? Is my mom alright?” My suspicion had now turned to concern.
“I reckon ma’am. We don’t want to call the police…”
Police! What the hell is this guy talking about?
“…but it seems your mom has gotten into someone’s car, and she won’t get out. The owner of the car has been real nice and all, but your mom insists it’s her car, but it clearly ain’t; her keys just won’t fit into the ignition. She told us to call you. Can you come down? She seems pretty scared and, well, pretty mad.”
I was dressed and out the door with the kids in record time. On the drive over, never once did it occur to me that my mom had Alzheimer’s. I figured she was merely having an ‘off day,’ which happened from time to time since her stroke several years prior.
I arrived to find my mom sitting in a white vehicle (hers was red), with a gentleman standing alongside and another gentleman sitting on the ground looking a wee bit pissed. I thanked both men profusely, apologized countless times, and sent several thankful prayers up to God that they didn’t call the police or the EMT’s. I was even thankful that we lived in the South at the time and not New York. I managed to talk my mom out of the man’s car (I don’t recall what I told her), and I drove her home. My friend drove her car, and that was the last time my mom ever drove her car, or any other vehicle, at least that I know of, anyway.
This event led me to take her to the doctor for a full work up and her first official diagnosis of Stage One Alzheimer Disease.
———-
Now that I’ve brought you full circle, this fun phone call I had with Mom the other day prompted me to write this novella in the first place:
After going round and round with Mom about my weather on the east coast versus her weather in the central United States, and having that same conversation several times, she asked how things were with my family. She always remembers my boys’ names, but has trouble remembering Peanut’s name because she came along further into Mom’s illness. We talked about the kids for a few minutes, then I shared with her that I bought myself a car.
Out of the blue, Mom remarked, “A car? It must be nice to have a car to drive wherever you want. I wouldn’t know since you took mine away. You know you did. I remember. It was red and I loved it and I shopped in it and I went to the VFW in it. I danced at the VFW on Saturday night. You took it away. Why did you take my car? I went to the craft store in it. I used to go…”
I could sense she was building up steam so I cut her off at the pass and said, “As a matter of fact, I do remember that car, Mom. I gave it to my brother. Aren’t you going to see him at lunch today? You should ask him what he did with it!” I snickered into the phone. I could see my brother now, sitting across the table from my mom and getting blindsided by this conversation. It would be a classic! He gave that car to his son almost ten years ago; who knows how long it’s been out of the family now.
“Really?” Mom replied, “He’s coming up here for lunch. I’m going to ask him about my car!”
Crisis avoid.
Buck passed.
by Aunt Becky | Mar 12, 2019 | A Letter To My Younger Self, Family, Soundcheck |
Hey The Band!
I’d been meaning to push this out on Fat Tuesday (could there BE an awesomer day?), but life did what it always does – ignores my plans. So here I am, Aunt Becky, rocking you from the suburbs like the Quiet Riot.
It being March already, I hope that you are having a good one, and hey – what’s the weather like where you are? Here, in the suburbs of Chicago, it’s vacillating from low twenties (heat wave!) to subzero temps. Perfect way to breed microbes, as evidenced by 1/2 the schools around here being empty – looks like the Influenza A virus. Damn kids are petri dishes (OF LOVE).
One of the things we’re always (always!) looking for on this site is new content. I know some of the stories you could tell aren’t “as bad” as the others, but that doesn’t change them from being important – we’re not running the pain olympics and as far as we’re concerned, if you have a story, tell it. I know, I know, it’s hard to do, but it’s a task I’m making myself do, because it matters. All of it. It all matters.
You can even do it anonymously, if you so desire.
We do understand that it can be tremendously hard to know WHERE to start on any given story, so we’re giving you some writing prompts (aren’t we kind?). Feel free to add more into the comments.
This month, we’re featuring the always-popular Letter To My Younger Self and we’d love to see what you’d tell your younger self. Bring ’em on!
We’re also doing a Spotlight Series on brain issues – damage, accidents, congenital issues, genetic diseases, viruses that cause encephalitis, stroke, you name it. I’ve had several requests for additional posts on the site regarding coping with or living with brain problems.
And as always, we’re expanding. I know that a lot of the links and other things around here aren’t working like they should, but our very own Matt is helping us to fix this site and start it with a new look and ease of use. So please bear with us!
If you don’t already follow us, you can find us out and about on social media!
Twitter
Facebook Page
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We are always looking for new volunteers, so if you’re interested, please fill this out and we’ll holler at you!
Love and Pyrotechnics,
Becky
by anonymous | Mar 11, 2019 | Dose of Happy, Feelings, Happiness, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder |
I painted my nails two weeks ago in honor of Susan Niebur and her almost-5-year battle with inflammatory breast cancer.
I’ve never had a period of time where I stopped picking my nails.
I don’t bite. I pick. I did realize a long time ago that biting them was pretty gross. But I pick. And pick. And pick.
Ugh.
I know it’s anxiety. And maybe even a little OCD.
But I painted my nails and wanted them to be perfect. For Susan, who would never see them.
I haven’t picked at my fingers in TWO WEEKS, y’all!
I changed the purple sparkle polish twice and now it has clear/silver glitter polish. They’re so pretty I can hardly stand it.
I want to pick. But I’m not.
My Dose of Happy this week is that I’m able to tap my fingernails on my computer and THEY MAKE NOISE!!
**************************
What’s your Happy?
Don’t think you have one? Look harder. Something will make you smile today.
We want to know! Just find a bit of happy in this Monday!
by anonymous | Mar 8, 2019 | Borderline Personality Disorder, Marriage Problems, Mental Health |
So, The Band, I need your opinion:
Can a person be held fully responsible for her actions if she is not of the mental capacity to understand her actions? Can the Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD) wife be held accountable for her uncontrollable rage? Can she be held accountable for manipulating someone when she has no idea she’s doing it?
According to our court system, a person who is declared insane does not receive full accountability for a crime she commits. But does that line of thinking apply to mundane day-to-day actions?
Should I no longer hold my husband accountable for his emotional breakdown? The one that lead to him to order me to quit my job years ago, leading to a long period of poverty, near homelessness, my own breakdown and our thousands in debt?
Are we being too tough on those in our lives who have obvious limitations? Or is insanity simply a convenient excuse to the affair between a BPD woman and her white knight lover?
Right is right and wrong will always and forever be wrong, after all.
What do you think, The Band?
