by Band Back Together | Aug 10, 2015 | Encephalocele, Happiness, Internet Trolls |
The first time I got a blog troll on my personal blog, I ate a celebratory cupcake and washed it down with a tall Diet Coke on the rocks. It was probably, in hindsight, a spammer (just like my first comments , which I think I framed somewhere were) but I didn’t care. I’d made it! Someone, somewhere hated me!
Then, I got someone who copied bits out of my blog posts. Actual bits of my posts removed and pasted onto hers, like it was no big deal. Someone else, a watchdog, alerted me. My daughter had just been born ill and I wasn’t about to deal with it right then. Talk about bigger fish to fry. I like to think I would have fist-pumped, though, and perhaps celebrated with a tasty bowl of edamame or a wee Uncrustables.
Later yet came the loon who created several blogs composed of entirely stolen posts filched neatly from other bloggers, myself included, who I did fight. Google claims they shut her down, but I don’t care to check because I don’t want to drive her traffic up. I still have, somewhere on my desktop, screenshots of all of your comments on her blog, just because they were so full of the awesome, by the way.
You don’t fuck with the Pranksters or The Band.
Since that first Internet Mole Person (troll), I’ve gotten a handful of others.
Generally, they make me laugh.
There are weeks when they do not.
Like anyone, I’m a person, and I have bad days, and bad weeks, and sometimes I say and do the wrong things. In fact, if I had to describe my blog, I’d say something like, “THIS is where I bow to the alter of my wrongness.” I don’t have a publicist or an adviser to tell me not to do something because, uh, why?
This week, I’ve gotten a couple of nasty-grams that hurt my feelers. I know bloggers are “supposed” to pretend like it doesn’t matter; like we don’t care, like it doesn’t hurt our feelers when people call us names or insult us, but it does. Of course it does.
Like it or not, this is my life.
Certainly, it’s my steaming pile of guts spilled here, my wrongness on display, and my inconsistencies on the table to be judged and if I don’t like it, I can absolutely pack up shop and go somewhere else. That’s the answer, right? To delete my blog in a stompy flourish? Go back to being Becky, In Real Life? That’s how to handle hurt feelers?
Not so much. At least, not for me.
Blogging, writing out your pain, and sharing it with the world, is an act of bravery. When you put yourself out there, especially waaay out there, you stand a very real chance to be very hurt or very disgusted by human nature. The farther you stick your neck out, the worse the inevitable hurt* may be.
ANYWAY.
What I think is worse than any troll are the people who get you entirely wrong. Because you’re left standing there stuttering, “but, but, BUT, that’s not what I meant AT ALL.”
These are the sort that make me sort of question myself in a way that I seldom do (perhaps I should): Did I say it wrong? WAS I wrong?
And most importantly: why the hell do I do this at all? I see that typed out here, on my screen and it looks like I’m being all 15-years old and dramatical feet-stamp *woe is me, OH NOES* and I’m (for once) not.
I mean that genuinely: why do I do this? Why do ANY of us bother?
It’s certainly not for the billions of dollars in my bank account that still haven’t been deposited, nor is it for the notoriety and free swag, or to be able to tell someone that “I blog, and it’s really, really cool.” Because I swear, if I told someone that, they’d be all, “um, huh? Did you just insult me?”
No. It’s not for that.
It’s because it all matters. Every word I write matters. To me. To (maybe) you. These words are what define me, what make up my life, and what bring me joy. Whether or not someone else finds them and finds joy in them too is inconsequential because it brings me joy. I write because I love to. I write because that is what I do. I write because it matters. Every comment I make, every life I touch, it matters.
That is why The Band exists.
It’s why we pay for servers to handle our traffic and keep your stories edited and fresh. It’s why we’re always looking for new volunteers. It’s why we use our social media accounts to share your stories. It’s why we cry with you, we laugh with you, and we dust you off, and get you to your feet to fight another day. It’s what we do. For you and for every life you touch by the words you write. Why our volunteers help keep the lights on and guide you to us. We all know the truth of what it is that we do here: it all matters.
Everything we, what you, do. We know, above all else, this to be true:
It all matters.
Everything you do. Every single thing.
It all matters.
*I’d like to tell you guys a secret. We do moderate comments because you never do know if/when an Internet Mole Person may scurry up to shit on things. It’s our way of protecting you and every other person who uses the site from the ugly bits. We moderate so that you can share your ugly bits without fear.
With the exception of a Jehovah’s Witness trying to convert The Band into their, uh, program? Church? Erms, I don’t know much about it. But with that exception, I have seen maybe 4 comments deleted and those were people trying to raise money or promote their own blog. You just don’t get any hate. Way to be awesome, The Band.
by Band Back Together | Aug 7, 2015 | Gastroesphogeal Reflux Disease, Irritable Bowel Syndrome, Self Injury |
It’s been a while since I’ve been back here, and thought I’d update.
The last year has been hell for me, but I am emerging as a different person. I spent last fall in and out of hospitals and self-harming constantly. Things came to a head when I moved to Florida briefly. I would cut multiple times a day.
I finally decided to come back to Texas. That, along with the medication changes have made a world of difference.
In April, I started having disturbing digestive symptoms. I finally found answers with a restrictive diet and prescription treatment for Irritable Bowel Syndrome (IBS) and severe Gastroesophageal Reflux Disease (GERD.)
I am now employed for the first time in eleven months, and that’s going well. I’m a very different person now. I no longer have a desire to cut, and I am more than four months clean.
by Band Back Together | Aug 6, 2015 | Anger, Breakups, Grief, Guilt, Help For Grief And Grieving, Loss, Parent Loss, Sadness, Suicide, Survivor Guilt |
My ex husband killed himself two months ago, and I’m not coping.
He has left behind a four year old daughter, and as we are still married, I am his next of kin.
I left him 18 months ago, he seemed happy and he seemed to get on with his life.
Since leaving him, I have been dating someone new.
I found my ex hanging from his loft. Since then, he is almost all I can think about.
My partner has been great, amazing, incredible, but I really cannot shake a feeling of guilt, and sadness, wondering why he did it, and how if I hadn’t left him, he would still be alive.
It’s breaking my heart, and it’s breaking my soul. Every time I feel strong again, the slightest thing sends me right back to square one. I saw him hours before he died. Why didn’t I notice any signs or see anything wrong? He seemed happy and normal and himself.
I am so cross with him. How could he do this to our baby? How could he not see that she adores him and hangs off his every word?
He will never know how many regrets I have. He will never know he is so missed. I don’t know how to rebuild my life, as a 20-something widow, single mum of a grieving four year old.
by Band Back Together | Aug 5, 2015 | Anxiety Disorders, Coping With Anxiety Disorders, Coping With Depression, How To Help A Friend Whose Child Is Seriously Ill, Major Depressive Disorder, Mental Health, Mood Disorder, Pediatric Caregiver, Stress |
Watching your children struggle is hard on a parent.
This is her story:
I sometimes say that I won the craptastic mental health lottery. I’ve had my share of minor struggles. My children, on the other hand, have dealt with much more than I did.
My daughter is twelve, and has just returned home on Wednesday from her second hospital stay in four months. I am confident really believe hope like hell that we’ve gotten to the heart of identifying her disorder so we can do the right things to treat it. She’s smart and creative and beautiful, and I want everyone to know that about her, not focus on her anxiety or her awkwardness or her peculiar outbursts.
My nine year old son was the one who pulled us kicking and screaming into the world of mood disorders. I’ve done lots reading (books, websites, you name it) about kids like him and the myriad of Disorders (the conditions are often too big to be suited to a lowercase “d”) that could have caused his behavior. Always one to resist a label, Hoss does not fit neatly into any of the diagnoses that generally cause the behaviors as they manifested themselves in him. Welcome to “mood disorder- Not Otherwise Specified.”
He’s witty and brilliant and is such a computer whiz that I could see him as the next Bill Gates.
My baby boy, who is seven years old and therefore long past being a baby, is the hardest to pin down. He may be quirky. He may be something more serious. His stubborn streak and need for routine may not be OCD or Aspergers, but no one has ruled it out yet either. Little Joe, he of the unbelievable memory and soothing routines, is still a wild card.
Most mental illnesses have some genetic link, although there are always families with no history who have a child with some issues rising to the surface. What would be the odds of having not one, not two, but three kids with these disorders?
Like I said, maybe I just won the lottery.
by Band Back Together | Aug 5, 2015 | Abandonment, Abuse, Bullying, Depression, Domestic Abuse, Fear, Intimate Partner Rape, Psychological Manipulation, Rape/Sexual Assault, Trust, Unemployment |
I am a victim of domestic violence and almost every form of intimate partner abuse that you can name.
Through my therapy, I have heard of “White Knight Syndrome.” This is when a person has a naturally good nature and wants to protect people in danger and people in need. My ex knew that I was an instinctively good person and would help those that I could, the elderly lady that fell off a bus, the disabled man that asked for help to get up the stairs, someone being attacked on the street, a victim of domestic violence, a victim of rape.
She knew, and she took advantage of it. She claimed she was raped one night. She claimed that someone was bullying her because she was a woman. She said that she was unfairly sacked because her boss was racist. She would say anything she could to try and get a reaction out of me, anything to prove to herself that she had control over me by having me fix whatever problem she created.
If I didn’t beat up the rapist, she would say I was controlling.
If I didn’t side with her against her bullying friend, she would say I wasn’t letting her go out.
If I didn’t have a go at her boss for being racist, I was called the racist.
None of this added up to me. Her friends would call me and say I should let her go out, even though she was out with them every week. My friends started threatening to beat me up for something I apparantly did to her whilst I was at work. People started threatening me and attacking me all the time. When I’d ask her if she knew what was happening, she’d deny it.
This is where I knew she was lying.
Not once, not ever, in all times I was beaten did I get a hug, or a kiss, or any empathy, sympathy, or pity from her. When I walked in with my leg nearly broken, she shrugged it off. I went to the hospital alone. When I was threatened, she would just turn the other way and go back to watching something on TV. I gave up telling her. I would either be ignored, or worse, she would deliberately walk away and call me weak for being upset, depressed, down, low.
I was more scared of telling her that I was battered with a pole through fear that this would give her satisfaction. I was terrified of telling her that someone nearly broke my leg. Instead, I told her I fell over. I kept hiding the injuries caused by what she was doing to me. I was hiding the number of times she’d had me battered for something as simple as asking her to sweep up whilst I cooked and cleaned the dishes.
Now when someone tells me that they have been raped, I worry that they might be lying, and I’m going to be manipulated again. I worry I will find myself stuck in a place where I know my heart tells me to protect this person, but my mind is telling me to keep myself safe.
For a very long time, I was running from pillar to post trying to protect the person that I loved, without destroying my own life. I eventually started letting the police deal with it.
That’s when the truth came out.
She wasn’t raped. She arranged to meet up with him because I wasn’t dominant enough.
She wasn’t wrongfully sacked by a racist boss. She had her final disciplinary action because she refused to do her job countless times, and she damaged clients’ property.
She wasn’t being bullied. She wanted to hide the fact that she had stolen money.
The list goes on and on.
Anyone can be in danger of false accusations. The people like me who have suffered forced penetration (that’s what they call it when a man is drugged and raped by a woman) don’t come forward until it’s too late. None of us have the courage to face disbelief from others for what we have suffered.
To all the women out there who are victims of rape, I am sorry for you all.
To all the men who are victims of domestic violence, I am sorry for you all.
I know how hard it is to fear disbelief because I have faced disbelief.
I have had to relive my abuse over and over again with every time I tell someone what happened. Over and over again, I feel scared that the person I’m telling is going to point at me, laugh at me. I’m scared that they will disbelieve me even, when shown the evidence, even when hearing the truth from my abuser, even after becoming a victim of it themselves.
