by Band Back Together | Oct 11, 2010 | Abuse, Adult Survivors of Childhood Sexual Abuse, Anger, Child Sexual Abuse, Guilt, Postpartum Depression, Shame |
My father is a terrible person. I’ve written my story before and I’m sure you will absolutely agree with that statement. What he did changed my life forever.
I’m in therapy right now. I started in April, three months after I was given the diagnosis of postpartum depression. I started anti-depressants right away, but I was too scared to go to therapy. I didn’t want to see what would come out.
But I went. And last month, something happened that I wasn’t expecting.
Anger. Lots of it. So much anger.
Towards my mother.
I didn’t know where this came from. I know it isn’t her fault that my father did what he did. She had no idea. How could she? It was actually because of her that it stopped.
So where is this anger coming from?
It could be from the talks we had after everything came out. She told me never to tell anyone about what happened, especially any boy I was dating. If they knew what happened, they wouldn’t like me any more. Boys don’t like to date, as she put it, “damaged goods.”
It could be the times we talked about marriage. She told me she took marriage vows seriously. In sickness and health. She believed my father was very sick, which is why he did what he did. If she’d had her way, she would have stayed married to him. The only way she would have left him was if he ever hurt us kids. But, like I said in the previous post, I guess what I went through didn’t count as being “hurt.”
It could be all the guilt she would make me feel any time I did ANYTHING with my father. I’ve never wanted a full father-daughter relationship with him, but it wouldn’t be so bad if we had SOME relationship. But anytime I talked to him on the phone or had lunch or dinner with him or invited him to anything, I would get a guilt trip.
It could be the fact that depression is bullshit. In high school, I was very depressed. She told me to knock it off and get over it, This family doesn’t turn to drugs to help us.” Enter extreme guilt when I started taking Lexapro for my postpartum depression.
It could be the fact that she uses me as her personal therapist. I’ve heard everything about her current marriage; the ups, downs, and (lack of) sex life. And when I tell her I don’t want to hear these things? “When my mother was alive, she and I were best friends and I always hoped that I could be best friends with my daughters. Sorry for wanting to confide in my best friend. I guess I’ll just have to go back to living in silence.”
It could be the fact that she told me several times that if it hadn’t been for my sisters and I, she would have killed herself a long time ago. She even “jokes” about committing suicide. But she masks it by saying she doesn’t want to take pills or anything. She wants to kill herself with chocolate. That way no one will know she’s trying to actually kill herself.
I wonder where this anger towards her is coming from?
by Band Back Together | Oct 7, 2010 | Diabetes, Guilt, PICU, Special Needs Parenting |
It’s 1:30 in the morning, and we’re having the worst week since my daughter’s diagnosis of Type 1 Diabetes. Insane blood glucose numbers, ever-increasing insulin needs, ketone testing…and the endless blood sugar testing. My daughter is a pin cushion, and I hate myself each time I jam another needle into her skin, when she winces, but doesn’t say anything, when it hurts badly enough that she says “Ow, that one hurt,” it feels like razors cutting my heart to ribbons.
170 days since the diagnosis. 170 days since I leaned against the wall in the hallway outside the emergency room and allowed myself the luxury of five minutes of tears. 170 days since I called the ex-girlfriend and the midget’s father in the middle of the night and told them to get to the hospital NOW! 170 days since I watched them strap my daughter to a gurney and load her into an ambulance. 170 days since I heard the term “PICU” and realized that’s where my daughter was going. 170 days of trying to readjust to normal, and realize that nothing was ever going to be normal again.
170 means at least 700 finger pricks and 700 injections. And that’s assuming that every day we only test four times and give four injections. Which never, ever happens. When she runs high, I give insulin corrections, then check again to see if she’s come down. When she runs low, I give sugar, then recheck to make sure she’s gone back up. Not even six months in and she’s had 1500 holes poked into her body.
I’m sitting here at 1:30 in the morning waiting for it to be 2AM so that I can test her again, and then lay down and try to sleep, but I know that I will instead spend the rest of the night waking up every thirty minutes to make sure she hasn’t gone low in her sleep. If she does, she doesn’t wake up, which could mean…I can’t even bring myself to type the word, can’t bring myself to use it in conjunction with my beautiful, precious daughter…but it would be very bad.
On the other hand…when she runs high all night like she has all this week, I think about all that sugar in her blood, and the damage it’s doing to her body, knowing that it’s coating the blood vessels in her heart and her eyes and her kidneys, another layer of damage, bringing her that much closer irreparable harm. It sickens me, makes me physically ill, makes me want to scream and cry.
170 days of wishing that I could take her place for each finger stick and injection.
170 days of wishing I could take away her type I diabetes.
170 days of wishing there was a cure…
by Band Back Together | Oct 2, 2010 | Anger, Anxiety, Faith, Fear, Guilt, Hope, Loneliness, Love, Marriage and Partnership, Military Deployment And Family, Romantic Relationships, Stress |
Today is Day 1.
The first day of this deployment. Familiar in a sort of comforting way, but also strange and surreal.
You see, this deployment is my husband’s choice. It is a civilian deployment for his everyday job- an electrical engineer at a company that makes military radios. He is installing them in vehicles in Afghanistan. He didn’t have to go.
He chose to go so that we have a chance to get ahead financially. A choice that he felt he couldn’t say no to. I feel awful that soldiers who are putting their lives in more danger are making so much less money. It just doesn’t seem right. My husband says, “hey I served, I don’t feel bad that I am taking this opportunity.” But still somehow it bothers me.
He is not responsible for the lives of 100 people this time, only his own. Later in the day I realized that I feel like this is cheating. Last time I felt guilty that he spent most of his time on base and rarely had to go outside the line. When meeting other wives, whose husbands were in further outposts and doing more dangerous jobs, I never told them how lucky I felt that most of the time, I was pretty sure my husband was sitting at a desk, a desk in Afghanistan, but still a desk and not kicking down doors or looking for IED’s.
If I felt guilty last time when he was serving as a soldier, its no wonder I feel so strongly like we are cheating now. I will be surprised if I don’t get into some sort of fight with my mother-in-law this year. She loves to get on her podium and proclaim to the world how hard she has it because her son is gone. Sorry, not my style. even more so this time. She was just posting some crap on Facebook (a picture of my kid wearing an Army hat) and commenting that my husband was leaving Sunday; to remember the sacrifices soldiers make.
Sorry lady (and I use that term loosely), I don’t even know where to start. I’m not usually a freak about letting people know he is out of town, but I haven’t put it all over Facebook yet. Its really my business to share that my husband is leaving for a year. Thanks for putting that out there. If they are our friends/family that matter, they already know. After reading that, I sent her a brochure about Operational Security (OPSEC) and the things that are appropriate to post online. I think she was pissed, but I don’t care.
And that reminder about the sacrifices that soldiers make?
Again, he is not going as a soldier.
I feel it is disrespectful to those service members over there to put them in the same sentence.
Last time I had ways to show I was proud of him – blue star flag, wearing his unit pin, etc. this time I feel as if I have none of that. Luckily, I have my battle buddies, the wives who banded together with me the last time when our husbands were all deployed. But still, it’s weird because people realize that he must be getting paid a lot. It makes me feel greedy and ungrateful for all that we do have. It makes me feel guilty that I am excited we will be able to pay off the house.
I have been trying to hold it together for a few months now. When I do this, I give the impression to people that I am a cold-hearted bitch. Because I usually am very practical and pragmatic about deployments. What good does crying all the time do? Do they just expect me to fall apart because he is leaving or gone?
The first time, I said to myself and them “Someone has to go. When some guys have to go 3-4 times, who am I to think my husband deserves not to go at all?” and we were both okay with that deployment.
We were tired of waiting for the Army to pick a time to send him. And at least he was going with his own unit. This time, we are both okay with the sacrifice because we are hoping to pay off the house. Both times, it feels like people didn’t understand how we could be okay with this. Sure, we will miss each other, sure it will be hard. (I think it is hardest on the kids) but I am proud to be an independent wife and I want to teach my girls self reliance too. We never have been the type of couple that has to go everywhere together.
Since the Army has been a part of our relationship since I met him, we are pretty used to the short-term separations. Cell phones and email has made it easier. When I first met him, he didn’t have a cell phone and had to wait in line to use a pay phone. So I got pretty used to not hearing from him. Also, as an only child, sometimes I relish my time that I get to myself. My new job is great for that as it allows me to help other military families, yet get some alone time in the car traveling.
i don’t usually get upset about deployment in public, and I don’t usually get upset about it at home, because you see, with two kids, two dogs and a house to take care of, I have more things to do than wallow in self pity. So usually the magnitude of it all doesn’t really hit me until the night before he leaves.
Yesterday, I had to drive him to the airport in the late afternoon and it was my day that I allowed myself to be sad. I let the girls have cookies for dinner, eat in the living room and watch a movie while I laid in bed and watched my own TV shows.
This morning I had to move past that and get my daughter on the bus. Somehow I was reminded of the song “This Too Shall Pass” by Ok Go. I couldn’t stop listening to it today.
Somehow it made things better.
by Band Back Together | Sep 24, 2010 | Anger, Anxiety, Breast Cancer, Cancer and Neoplasia, Compassion, Coping With Cancer, Family, Fear, Feelings, Forgiveness, Guilt, Hope, Love, Stress, Trauma |
The first night after my breast cancer chemo treatment was awful. Nugget sobbed hysterically in my arms, giving way to heavy sighs between her defeated attempts for true comfort until she finally fell asleep. I cried, and cried, and cried. Between the tears i apologized over and over to my sweet baby girl for being sick.
Last night was thankfully less painful. She fell asleep with my mother and only had to be quietly lulled back down once. Thank god for small miracles.
As for me, I felt pretty nauseated yesterday and today, and the meds to combat that make me tired. Today, I really started to feel exhausted. We went out for some quick errands this morning, but I’ve since spent the remainder of the day in bed.
by Band Back Together | Sep 14, 2010 | Anger, Anxiety, Breast Cancer, Cancer and Neoplasia, Caregiver, Coping With Cancer, Family, Fear, Feelings, Guilt, Stress, Trauma |
I’m not even sure to where to start. Remember that fever? It finally went away. Then it came back. A second set of bloodwork later, the doctor still thinks it’s viral. I get a chest x-ray to rule out pneumonia. Next is a CT scan, then a biopsy. The biopsy has to be done under general anesthesia by a mediastinoscopy, and a bronchoscopy is thrown in for good measure. Now they think I have Hodgkins.
I know that there are readers who will get this so much more than others that have already heard it from me. My biggest fear? What if I have to have chemo and stop nursing my daughter? It’s going to break her little heart (and mine) if she looks up at me, her mama, with her pleading, beautiful blue eyes and signs for her nursies and i have to say no.
I can’t say any more than that right now. I just can’t. This fear is crippling me and the tears won’t stop.
by Band Back Together | Sep 13, 2010 | A Letter I Can't Send, Grandparent Loss, Grief, Guilt, Help For Grief And Grieving, Hospice, Loss, Stroke |
Dear Grampa,
I don’t know if I will ever be able to live down the guilt that I feel for abandoning you in the end. I should have gone. I should have called. I should have written.
When the stroke hit, I felt like my own life was falling down around my feet. I was barely hanging on to my own sanity so I said a few prayers and cried a few tears as you lay in that hospital bed over a thousand miles away. I took the rest of the day off of work to feel sorry for myself and to soothe my sense of loss but I didn’t go. I didn’t call. I didn’t write.
Time went on and you went home. Gramma did her best to take care of you with some help from Dad and your other kids and my cousins. I cried when I talked to Mom about the difficulties you were facing. You had to learn how to let other people do things for you instead of being independent like you always had been. I felt better with the sense of urgency gone so I didn’t go. I didn’t call. I didn’t write.
It was a Sunday when Mom called. You were in the hospital again and it wasn’t looking good. Your kidneys were failing. They were going to let you die. I cried and I cursed Mom for waiting to tell me as you’d been hospitalized days before. I went to work the next day, numb and angry but still I didn’t go. I didn’t call. I didn’t write.
You slipped away on a Thursday, two weeks before my birthday. I got the voicemail from Mom just before I went into a meeting at work. It was all I could to keep the tears from my face as my boss yammered about something or another. I sobbed all the way home, grief and guilt overlapping in my tears. I didn’t go. I didn’t call. I didn’t write.
I don’t know if I kept myself from your funeral because of the expense (which is what I told everyone), out of selfishness (I’ve never been good at dealing with death) or to punish myself. By staying away, my guilt is complete. I didn’t go. I didn’t call. I didn’t write.
My Grampa, I have eulogized you in my heart: You were a mean, ornery old bastard that said what you shouldn’t and stepped on plenty of toes, but we never doubted that you loved us. You taught me my first swear words and gave me my first gun. You were the hardest working and most independent man I’ve ever known and I will miss you for the rest of my life.
I’ve never believed in communication with the dead, so my pleas for forgiveness must fall on deaf ears or be lost in the air. Still, I wish I could tell you that I am sorry that I didn’t go and didn’t call and didn’t write.
I will love you always,
Stephie
