by anonymous | Feb 25, 2019 | Family, Feelings, Happiness |
As I’ve gotten older (read: 29 for the first time), I’ve come to realize something.
Family is what you make it. I have a fuckton of blood relatives – aunts, uncles, cousins I can’t even name or recognize on the street. This is because we don’t live anywhere close to them. I have two sisters I rarely see because we can’t always be in the same room with each other without wanting to hurt someone. And, again, we don’t live in the same state.
When I got married, I got a whole new family – Uncle Sam’s many minions. Again, we don’t all live in the same state, but we have that one thing in common: our significant other is a military member, and we deal with that in the best way we can. Some of us handle it better than others. Whatever. We’re bonded. We know. We speak our own language.
This past September (ish – I don’t remember if I got dressed unless I look down), Aunt Becky put out a call on The Twitter. She was looking for some peeps to help with behind-the-scenes here at Band Back Together.
I’ve been a long-time reader of Aunt Becky’s and read all of her posts, then jumped on the bandwagon when she started this site. I love this site. I’ve loved it from day one. I’ve read all your stories. So when AB asked for help, I thought, “Heh, how hard can that be?” So I sent her an email and said “I’M IN!” And I got a new family.
Actually, I kinda got two. I got to be a part of the amazing people who submit, and I got to be an official member of “The Brains.” (Kinda sounds like its own band!) Seeing the front-side of the site for so long, I kinda thought I’d have a hard time finding stuff to do; it seemed to run so smoothly and without many hitches.
Boy, was I (mostly) wrong.
Behind the scenes is a WHOLE ‘nother world. Editing posts, scheduling posts, coming up with awesome Carnival and World Tour ideas, writing resource pages, commenting, social media teams, plus all that stuff that the IT crew takes care of that I have NO CLUE about. (Side note: I grew up in an IT-savvy family. I’m not computer illiterate. That crew talks about stuff I have never heard in my life.)
There are so many e-mails everyday, I almost can’t keep up. But, this is my new family. One I take with me everywhere I go. I’m waiting for the day when I’m wearing my “With the Band” t-shirt and someone gives me that knowing smile. Because they KNOW. They know what an awesome thing this site is.
I can’t speak for the other Brains, but we’ve saved lives. Mine, most especially. Both my kids are in school and when they started, I thought, “Finally! I can do whatever I want all day!” There’s only so much daytime television I can watch. The house can only be so clean (okay, I don’t clean – quit judging me). Job hunting was going nowhere. My depression was starting to rear its ugly head. I needed something to make me get out of bed in the mornings.
So now, I spend my days reading, commenting, promoting, writing, and laughing. Oh, my Brains make me laugh. And cry. It’s like a secret club that anyone can join. Because we are none of us alone. We are all connected (in the great circle of life).
And, ’cause I’m not too proud to beg, and I know Aunt Becky hates to do it, go nominate us for a Bloggie. It’s a small thing that would mean so much to our AB. ‘Cause without her, The Band wouldn’t be here.
And I’d like to keep my triangle skillz up.
by anonymous | Feb 22, 2019 | Anxiety, Ask The Band, Chronic Illness, Fear, Feelings, Mental Health, Postpartum Depression |
My fiancé and I have been together for over three years. We have an almost 1.5 year old daughter. I have chronic illnesses.
I have good days and bad days, as well as post partum depression.
Why do I always feel like he’s going to be sick of me being sick and leave? He’s fully supportive at all times, and I rest when I need rest.
Will I ever feel good enough!?
by anonymous | Feb 21, 2019 | Anxiety, Coping With A Dysfunctional Family, Family, Feelings, Hypochondria, Mental Health, Panic Disorder |
My mother is a hypochondriac, and so my sister and I have grown to question, by default, everything she ever says about her health.
Six years ago, I got sick with an incurable condition. My sister has always questioned the validity of my condition, even though half a dozen doctors have confirmed it. While the condition is in remission, there are side effects that linger.
I can’t talk about my health struggles around my sister. I feel as though she dismisses them or invalidates them.
I can’t discuss my anxiety or panic attacks, even as they are happening. I can’t say no to going places because of my agoraphobia because I fear her reaction. I can’t mention the pain of my chronic hives because she’ll flippantly say “just put some lotion on it,” as if that will cure it.
I love my sister, but I wish I could be open and honest with her about what is going on in my life. But our mother has poisoned that potential. Every attempt at conversation about health ends in her shutting down. I understand why she does this, but I just wish that someday it could be different. We are not our mother, and we are allowed to get sick.
by jamesysmom37 | Feb 21, 2019 | Abuse, Adoption, Adult Survivors of Childhood Sexual Abuse, Alcohol Addiction, Child Abuse, Coping With A Dysfunctional Family, Family |
My story all begins in August of 1976. My birth mother was 17 years old and pregnant with me. My mom already had one child, my sister who was four years older than me, so my mother was 13 when she gave birth to my sister. My sister was taken by the state and was considered unadoptable because she sat in the corner and rocked back and forth.
Fast forward to 1976. I have been told that my birth mother’s parents informed her that she had already made one mistake (my sister) and if she had me they would disown her, so she threw herself down two flights of stairs. She went into labor from the fall and, because she was only seven or so months along in her pregnancy, I only weighed 4 lbs. 5 oz. at birth, but I survived.
My birth mother took me home and life began. It was said she was a drug user and abuser, and while she was under the influence, she would hold me underwater to watch the bubbles come up. I was told she used my bottom as her personal ashtray, and that she used her food stamps to buy drugs (at that time food stamps were like paper money, and were traded for real money or drugs).
Elsewhere, my adoptive mother was telling her best friend that all she wanted for Christmas was a baby. The best friend had a sister and that sister knew my birth mother. One day, when my future adoptive mother’s husband was at work, he came out to his car and there I was. I was dressed in a dirty T-shirt that had been used as a makeshift diaper. He zipped me up in his coat–it was winter in Charlotte, NC–and took me home. He walked into the house and unzipped his coat to show me my future adoptive mom.
Adoption proceedings began, but I was returned to my birth mother. She burned all the dresses my adoptive mother bought and didn’t use the burn cream for my bottom. My birth mother tried to stop the adoption because she would lose her welfare benefits. The judge approved the adoption and at 14 months old and 11 pounds, I was finally adopted.
When I was about two, my mother’s marriage ended; her husband threatened to kill me because I wouldn’t stop crying. We moved back home with her parents and we lived with them until my mom remarried. Her husband adopted me to give me his last name.
Every time I was adopted, my birth certificate was legally changed to represent my current parents and their respective ages at the time I was born. However, many years later I told my mother than I had been abused by a family member and she confided in me that her father, my granddaddy, whom I called daddy for years, had molested her. Only after she returned home with me after the end of her marriage, did she confront him and say it was over. I think she got pregnant by him, moved away, remarried and had me.
Every time I tried to talk about my adoption and wanted to search, she would tell me to talk to my granddaddy; he was supposed to have all the paperwork. When I asked him, he would tell me to go see my mom, that she had the papers. This man never threw anything away, so it’s odd to me that the papers were never found, which also makes me think something shady happened. But no one in the family who is left will talk about it.
My granddaddy was a raging alcoholic for years and only stopped drinking when the doctor told him if he didn’t he would die. He abused my uncles and my mom.
My records are sealed, as it was all considered a private adoption, and unless I have a terminal illness or need an organ that my children can’t provide, I’d have to petition the courts to unseal my records, and they can still deny the request.
I don’t know the truth for sure and it doesn’t really matter, I guess, other than to finally have answers. I hold no ill will toward anyone involved, no matter which story is true. I feel bad that my mom suffered that abuse. I’ve been abused sexually and I know how that feels. I just wish I could know the truth just so I’d know where I belong. I have an awesome husband and three great kids, so I have a family. I’d just like to have medical information. So there it is my story I hope it helps.
by anonymous | Feb 20, 2019 | Anxiety Disorders, Depression, Fear, Mental Health, Therapy |
So, I got my medicine adjusted like I said I was going to in my last post.
After a hilarious rigmarole of being referred to a doctor who only saw seniors, then one who only saw children, then one who didn’t take my insurance, I finally ended up with a really sweet doctor (who is the tiniest woman I’ve ever met).
She added another antidepressant to the one I was already taking, and it seems to have helped the symptoms in question – I’m still sleeping odd hours, but it’s only for 8-9 hours at a stretch, not 12-14, and my default state is “bored” instead of “bored and sad and mopey and lonely.”
And yet…
(There’s always an “and yet” with mental illness, isn’t there?)
(ed note: Yes. – AB)
And yet I’ve not managed to quite nail things down. I’ll stay up late without realizing how late it is, then sleep until 4 or 5 the next afternoon. The new medicine causes insomnia, so I was warned to only take it in the morning. But if I don’t take it when I wake up at 4 PM, then I’ll just sleep even more. If I do take it, I’ll be up all night and sleep late the next day. If I do manage to wake up early and take my medicine, I’m so tired that even the medicine can’t keep me up and I pass out around noon and wake up at 7 PM (which is what happened today).
I just want to wake up in the morning feeling at least somewhat rested and get tired at night being able to fall asleep. Since when is that such a massive thing to ask? If I could just do that AND have my medicine killing off the sadness and apathy, then all I’d have to do is muster up the motivation to do laundry and clean my room and make it look like a human being lives here!
To top it all off, I’m moving to North Carolina within the month. My best friend is moving back into her childhood home, which she inherited when her dad died, and she’s offered to let me live there rent-free if I cover half of the bills. Her area has a much better economy than mine, so I could find a job more easily. And there are nearby schools where I could get either an associate’s or a second bachelor’s degree in the field I want to move into. It’s too good an offer to refuse, so I’m cashing out my savings and heading up there as soon as she gets moved in and ready.
And yet…
What if it all falls apart? What if I can’t find a good psychiatrist nearby? I don’t even know what my insurance situation would be before I got a job. What if I get on this same fucked up sleep schedule again and my room stays this messy and I’m awful to live with and she hates me? What if I still don’t find a job and I burn through all my savings? What if I get the degree, and take out a bunch of loans to do it, and still can’t find a job even then?
I don’t know. I was so sure for awhile this medicine had made things a lot better, but I sure don’t feel any less afraid.
