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Scared, Part 2

I am scared of everything. I said it before.

I’m scared of the normal stuff, like something happening to my family. I’m scared of the irrational stuff, like circular stairs. I’m scared of the absurd like “walking out of this room and never feeling the same way again.” (Doesn’t everyone misquote Dirty Dancing?)

I’m scared I turned down the only job offer I may get because just going on the interview made me feel like a giant douchebag. I’m scared I’m going to lose my house.  I’m scared my health insurance isn’t going to cover me.

I’m scared of living because of everything.  I’m not contemplating suicide. That goes back to the fear of something happening or my family. I couldn’t do that to them.   I just hate feeling like a loser.

I Went Back

Last June, I left my husband with the children at the request of social services. As time went by, I began to go through the different stages of grief. First of all, I didn’t feel anything about the abuse that my husband had given me. Secondly, I felt grief, then I felt angry and blamed him for the fact that the children had been removed from my care and put in the care of my parents.

Then I felt unsure. Had what he’d done to me actually been abuse? Was the way I had reacted at times a case of domestic violence? After all, I did throw a cup of tea at him in the middle of an argument. Did that constitute abuse?

When I first left my husband, he telephoned me often to beg me to go back. He would cry about how sorry he was. Every time I saw him at meetings with social services, he would cling to me like a child who was petrified that his mother was going to abandon him. Later, he finally began to accept that we were separate and that I really didn’t want to go back. Then, social services told us that neither of us had any hope of getting our children back because they said that the volatility of our relationship had emotionally abused them. This is untrue. We cared for our children to the best of our ability, and loved them so much that it hurt.

The children’s social worker is beligerent and only wants to tear families apart rather than putting them together. My husband suggested that if we couldn’t have the children, we should at least have each other. I told him that I had to think about it before I decided what to do. The more I thought about it, the more it made sense. Maybe we should try again. He had changed a lot in the space of nine months. Maybe things could be better this time. We’d both learned so much about ourselves and each other.

At the end of March, I moved back in with my husband, much to the chagrin of social services. They made a point of mentioning it in their reports that it was a sign that we put our relationship before our children. But how can we care for our children if our relationship is fractured and broken? Surely, if we fix our relationship, we’ll be able to better care for the children. After all, one of the reasons they took the children away from us was because of our relationship problems.

I’ve been back now for two months, six weeks of which I spent on the sofa with a broken ankle. When I went to the emergency room with my broken leg, someone commented to me that my husband treated me like a princess. And do you know what? He has. He has spent the last six weeks waiting on me hand and foot, while also redecorating our new bedroom. He went out to buy me wine, gum, and chocolate whenever I asked him to. But …part of me is still thinking maybe he’ll change back. I know that my family is scared of that. When I broke my leg, my father asked me if I’d really fallen down stairs or if I’d been pushed by my husband.

I’m scared to have sex with my husband because I’m scared of being raped again. Maybe my husband has really changed this time, but maybe he hasn’t. I’m so scared that he will go back to the way he was. Maybe my fears are the consequence of our volatile relationship. I don’t know. What do you think?

His Normal

G., my five-year old, has weekly therapy sessions. Right now we’re using therapy to help manage his ADHD symptoms but I’m also hoping that it’s able to help with his inability to express his feelings or relate to other children. My husband recently sent me an e-mail mentioning that G. asked when N., my two-year old, was going to start going to therapy.

And it made me cry.

G. doesn’t know that he’s different. I hope that he never does. We’re taking the necessary steps to help him at an early age. But it is hard. It’s hard having a child that behaves and reacts to things in a way that I don’t understand. I know that some of it, of course, is his age, but a lot of it has to do with ADHD.

T-ball is a prime example. Yes, I know. They are five. Attention spans aren’t exactly what your average five-year-old is known for. But when his team is on the field, the other little boys watch the ball and chase after it while G. lets it roll on by because he’s staring at the sky…or picking grass…or laying flat on his back in the outfield.

I’m the type of person who likes routine. I want things to go the way they’re supposed to go and get stressed or anxious when they do not. I realize that is my issue, and I’m working on it.

Routine does not work well with G. Requests with multiple steps do not work with G. Trying to get him to focus on anything for more than a few minutes does not work with G.

I know how swimming lessons and gym class have gone. I know how he has responded to soccer and T-ball. School is still a bit of a mystery to me. I know he’s a sweet and charming child and I know that he does well with women he likes. I also know that Kindergarten is packed with activities which means that the kids are never at any activity for too long, although the lessons of the day are repeated throughout, just in different ways. So it’s probably ideal for him.

But still, I worry. I worry that he can’t tell me the names of any of the students in his class. I worry that he’s not learning what he needs to be learning. I worry that Kindergarten may be the easy part, and next year first grade is going to throw us for a loop. I worry because that’s what I do, but also because of who he is. I’ve been worried about school from the first day I suspected that he had ADHD.

I worry because I watched my brother grow up with ADHD, and I watched him struggle. Things like school and making friends were so much harder for him. My brother is doing fantastically now. He’s working on his Master’s Degree. He’s in a career suited to his interests and personality. And he is still best friends with his best friends from fourth grade. One of whom was the best man at his wedding.

I know that I am not alone. I know there are other parents out there dealing with the same issues with their children.

On the bad days, however, it doesn’t make it any easier.

Why Am I A Monster?

I stand here, a shell of a man, alone, and without direction to find a path. I am a compulsive liar and I have been all my life. I have hurt and destroyed everything that is near and dear to my heart.

I have almost no friends, no family, and no love to call my own. I am defeated, at rock bottom, and needing to hear from someone why and what I need to do. I know everyone has a story, and I know some are worse off than me, but why can’t I stop lying? My childhood was a mess – abusive father and a mother who blamed her children for her life’s problems. I would cry for love and attention, but I never got it, just yelling and beating. Through high school, I would lie for attention, say things to be cool, yet get caught and pay by getting beaten up, or worse.

 I have lost every relationship and every woman I have ever loved because I would lie about the smallest things, and then the biggest things. From a failed marriage, I have a child. That is the only reason I haven’t killed myself. I have another child that I gave up the rights to because I was ashamed someone would never like me with a child. Now that child is 17 and wants to see me, but she knows the evil person I am.

I met a beautiful woman two years ago. She was life and beauty and love, a healer and a spiritual woman. She showed me love like never before, showed me how to be grateful for life and to love and help others. She loved my 8 year old daughter. It was a beautiful relationship, but I gave her my lies to make her love me. I lied and told her I was receiving cancer treatments, so she would hold me tighter to her. Why would someone lie about having cancer when so many people die from it? Why did I feel the need to put lies in the most beautiful relationship I have ever found? She accepted me despite my bullshit past. I told her I was healing every day.

Now I have nothing because I lied about having cancer and said the chemotherapy made me sterile, Now she knows the truth because she become pregnant 6 weeks ago. She has left me and is having an abortion. I am devastated that I have destroyed this amazing woman’s soul.

I am lost and ashamed. I am a failure and a coward. Who does this, and why? I look back and can’t believe this is what I have made of my life. It’s like it just happens. I don’t think about it. I don’t wake up and say I am going to hurt someone today. God, all I want is to be loved and cared for and I keep destroying those chances. The pain I feel is to much to take anymore. I’m afraid for myself, and the ones I have hurt.

I know I am a good person inside. I feel her pain and the pain of the others I have hurt. I want to be better. For the first time ever, I want to make my life mean something. I want to give back to the people who have trusted me and believed in me, when all I ever did was lie. Change must happen today, or I am done.

Why am I am monster when all I ever wanted to be was something beautiful to the world?

Thank You So Much

I’ve been having problems with my boyfriend (we are in our 40’s). He was brought up in foster care, abused by foster parents, and rejected by previous partners.

I read your article on self destructing behaviour and suddenly his anger all made sense. I now know how to cope with him, not only that, but help him overcome his lack of self worth. Thank you so much for helping!

Teenage Wasteland

Age 16 was a nightmare.

I was a nightmare. 

Drinking, Drugs, Sex, Violence. You name it, I did it.

I have a whole month that is one giant black hole. I remember snippets here and there, but they come few and far between. I was a black-out drinker, living with a drug dealer, and every night was a party.

But there’s one flashback I keep getting and I wish I had the rest of the pieces to the puzzle of that night.

I know I was drinking.

A lot.

I know people kept handing me drinks.

More.

More.

More.

The last thing I remember is waking up naked in a bed with four guys who were not my drug-dealing boyfriend. I remember trying to find my clothes. I remember being scared and not knowing what happened or how I got to be in that situation.

What happened that night?

Why?

Even at my drunkest, I still had a sliver of morality. I’d never in a million years consent to something like that.

Here I am, years later, STILL trying to put the pieces together.

Was I raped?

Was I drugged?

I don’t know!

and it kills me.

 

I’m scared of the truth