So, yesterday I was in a messed up mood, and for some reason or another I went back in time on this blog, and looked through a few of my very first posts. It got me to thinking.
Throughout my life, I've had a myriad of people (beloved and non) tell me that they'd "always be there" for me. Now, here I am, years (and even decades) after knowing them, and they're ... Not here. Now, don't get me wrong. This doesn't really bother me. Most of them were more trouble than they were worth, and caused me endless amounts of heart ache. There are those select few that I wonder about from time to time; where they are, what they're up to, if they're happy. But really, the rest I don't miss. What I do miss, is having people like that to talk to.
My circle of close (and I mean call in the middle of the night to talk kind of close) friends lately consists of my 2 boyfriends (who I can't really talk to about each other, or themselves, now can I?), my sister (who's going through issues of her own, and I don't want to bother her), a friend who lives half the country away, and, believe it or not, my ex husband.
Meh. I've gone off on a tangent. Anyway, it kind of makes me wonder about when people say "always." Do they really mean always? Because, I do. Everyone I've ever said I'd always feel a certain way about, I still do. I do. I still love every single person I've ever said I always would. And I have tried to "be there" for everyone I've always said I would always be there for. The only reason I'm not is because they removed themselves from my life. So...
Did they really mean "always," or did they mean "as long as I'm around for"?
Just something to ponder on...
Showing posts with label think. Show all posts
Showing posts with label think. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Monday, September 10, 2007
Quirk #13
I have a tendency to get caught in a nasty tornado of the "what if's."
This is something that, as much as I've tried, I don't completely have control over. I've tried to train myself not to do it. My psychiatrist has tried to medicate the habit out of me. So far, the only thing that works is complete and total avoidance of the world around me. This of course works, because if I'm not aware of the things I would worry about, I don't worry about them.
Unfortunately, the avoidance technique isn't a permanent solution. I mean, I can avoid things for only so long, and then there they are, back full force -- if not more so than before.
Writing it all down seems to help a little bit more than the avoidance technique, but if someone happens across my brain spillage (thats what I call it when I do that -- see last post for example), they get all sorts of worried, or take things out of context, or don't realize that its just me spewing out everything that happens to be in my head at the moment.
It's for that reason that I used to keep a journal, but no longer really do. The last time I kept a journal, it was read by someone, and the idiocies inside of it were used against me. Now I try to write in public, and only write the things I'm okay with other people knowing. That restriction makes it a lot less theraputic than it used to be.
But back to the what-ifs.
I start with something relatively straight forward, and then my mind goes into overdrive predicting all the things that can go wrong. This used to happen with everything in my life, not just the understandably scary things. Heck, it used to happen with things as basic as doing the laundry. What if all the machines are full? What if I run out of quarters? No, I have enough quarters. What if the machine breaks? What if someone decides to be bitchy and move my laundry before I go down to get it? What if management decides, for once, to enforce the curfew on the laundry room? What if, what if, what if? -- scream --
I've gotten it under control enough now though, that the what-ifs only strike when a situation is much more serious. The whole abnormal cell thing, for example. What if it's pre-cancerous again? What if it's cancer this time? What if it was cancer before, but the doctors were incompetent? What if I have to have surgery again? What if I have to have a hysterectomy? What if it's a radical hysterectomy? What if I want kids later on? What if, what if, what if? -- scream --
And the thing about it is, I can't get past it until I've worked out both my emotional and active responses to each and every what-if that comes to mind. Only then, after I've rehearsed all those things, can I sit myself down and actually take care of things. It can be crippling at times. It drives other people insane sometimes. Heck, it drives me insane. But there's just no getting around it. My brain kicks into emotional overdrive, and it won't shut off until I've appeased it appropriately.
Telling myself "I'll deal with that if it happens" doesn't work, because then my brain says "What if you put off thinking about it, and then when it does actually come up, you're caught completely unprepared, huh? Then what? Huh? Huh? Huh?!"
*sigh*
It's remarkably exhausting. And it seems to be all I'm doing lately -- if I'm not in avoidance mode, playing Wii or WoW.
This is something that, as much as I've tried, I don't completely have control over. I've tried to train myself not to do it. My psychiatrist has tried to medicate the habit out of me. So far, the only thing that works is complete and total avoidance of the world around me. This of course works, because if I'm not aware of the things I would worry about, I don't worry about them.
Unfortunately, the avoidance technique isn't a permanent solution. I mean, I can avoid things for only so long, and then there they are, back full force -- if not more so than before.
Writing it all down seems to help a little bit more than the avoidance technique, but if someone happens across my brain spillage (thats what I call it when I do that -- see last post for example), they get all sorts of worried, or take things out of context, or don't realize that its just me spewing out everything that happens to be in my head at the moment.
It's for that reason that I used to keep a journal, but no longer really do. The last time I kept a journal, it was read by someone, and the idiocies inside of it were used against me. Now I try to write in public, and only write the things I'm okay with other people knowing. That restriction makes it a lot less theraputic than it used to be.
But back to the what-ifs.
I start with something relatively straight forward, and then my mind goes into overdrive predicting all the things that can go wrong. This used to happen with everything in my life, not just the understandably scary things. Heck, it used to happen with things as basic as doing the laundry. What if all the machines are full? What if I run out of quarters? No, I have enough quarters. What if the machine breaks? What if someone decides to be bitchy and move my laundry before I go down to get it? What if management decides, for once, to enforce the curfew on the laundry room? What if, what if, what if? -- scream --
I've gotten it under control enough now though, that the what-ifs only strike when a situation is much more serious. The whole abnormal cell thing, for example. What if it's pre-cancerous again? What if it's cancer this time? What if it was cancer before, but the doctors were incompetent? What if I have to have surgery again? What if I have to have a hysterectomy? What if it's a radical hysterectomy? What if I want kids later on? What if, what if, what if? -- scream --
And the thing about it is, I can't get past it until I've worked out both my emotional and active responses to each and every what-if that comes to mind. Only then, after I've rehearsed all those things, can I sit myself down and actually take care of things. It can be crippling at times. It drives other people insane sometimes. Heck, it drives me insane. But there's just no getting around it. My brain kicks into emotional overdrive, and it won't shut off until I've appeased it appropriately.
Telling myself "I'll deal with that if it happens" doesn't work, because then my brain says "What if you put off thinking about it, and then when it does actually come up, you're caught completely unprepared, huh? Then what? Huh? Huh? Huh?!"
*sigh*
It's remarkably exhausting. And it seems to be all I'm doing lately -- if I'm not in avoidance mode, playing Wii or WoW.
Monday, May 07, 2007
I Never Have to Stop and Think
I never have to stop and think. Really. I'm always thinking. Usually about all the wrong things, but I am thinking. It's getting myself to stop thinking that's the hard part -- and it shows.
My son, however, never thinks. I swear. He doesn't. Sure, he's 8, and he's still a little kid really, but he acts as if he hasn't got a single brain cell in his head, let alone one he's actually making use of. Sometimes I think there must be something desperately wrong with him -- some sort of mental defect... But then he goes and says something so infinitely intelligent that I know he's in full working order. Like the other day. He says to the BF on the way to pick me up from work: 'What are the numbers on the houses for?' If you stop and think about it, thats actually a rather deep question. Instead of just following the herd and accepting that houses are supposed to have numbers on them, he actually wanted to know the reason for it. But ask him to tell you what the one page story he read 30 seconds ago was about, and all he can say is "I don't know."
Its actually making things really hard on me and the BF. We're at the point where we don't know what to do. I mean, how do you teach a child to want to understand a story? No one had to teach me... I just wanted to know what happened. I wanted to know more than just what happened. I wanted to know who the characters were, and what they were feeling, and why... I always loved reading and stories. If I read something, not only could I tell you what it was about, but I could recite it for you almost verbatim (semi photographic memory... it's picky about what it photographs, and what it doesn't, as well as being a relatively bad photographer -- severed heads and the like).
I also can't seem to get him to recognize the passage of time. We gave him a clock... But he doesn't seem to have made any sense of what the thing actually is, or why he should care.
And he "forgets" everything we ask him to do, or acts shocked when he has to do something that he's done at the same time every day for months -- like going to pick me up from work, like they do every day.
I have a feeling that most of this behavior is just him distancing him from the world around him. The lack of care he got with his dad is telling. The fact that he's now being asked to be responsible for some of the things in his life (like actually doing his homework himself, instead of having someone feed him the answers, and cutting his own finger nails when they get too long, and washing his own body instead of having mommy do it). That he always thought Mom's house was for playing games and having fun, except now that he lives there full time, it's not anymore. He's adjusting. And not really doing it very well.
The BF has been a saint about it, being the positive male role-model the kiddo needs, picking him up from school, making sure homework gets done, etc., etc., a million times etc. I, on the other hand, haven't been adjusting well at all either.
I'm one of those people that needs peace and quiet (from people that is -- I can't live without the TV or stereo or both on all the time). I need to be alone, to have low stress environments, to not have to share my personal space if I don't want to. Having my son more than the every other weekend I used to have him has taken away my space. It's taken away my time. It's taken away who and what I am, at my core, because I'm not allowed to be that person any more.
I can't help thinking of myself as a horrible Mom because I resent the fact that I can't do what I want, when I want anymore. Eventhough I know these are feelings that every mother has at least once in their lives, if not every day. I feel bad that I don't want to spend every waking moment with my child. I feel bad that sometimes I wish I could have just left him with his dad until the end of time (especially bad about that, given how bad things were at his dad's). I feel bad that sometimes I cry because I just want my life back. Eventhough I know these are things that every mother thinks and feels at some point, you can tell me that what I'm feeling is completely normal until you're blue in the face, it's not going to change the guilt I feel for feeling that way.
Growing up, all I ever saw were TV shows and movies that showed moms who, no matter what, always felt only love for their children. Mom's who didn't want their children to move out of the house, mom's who didn't want to go back to work because they wanted to stay home with their kids, mom's who fought to have their children with them full time, mom's who worked 3 jobs and walked away from a social life to raise their children. And I was brainwashed to believe that feeling anything other than the purest, most unconditional, love for your children every second of every day was bad, that it wasn't normal, that only junkies and alcoholics and crazy people didn't dote on their children the way the Cleavers or the Bradys did.
But isn't it normal to want to be treated like the woman that you've always been, instead of just the mom that you are right now?
I want to be able to sleep naked on hot summer nights again. I want to be able to moan as loud as I want when I get off. I want to be able to just lay in bed all day on a weekend, with no one and nothing but my favorite books. I want to be able to stay home sick from work and actually be able to rest. I want to watch horror movies before 9 o'clock at night. I want to get drunk when I get home from a bad day at work. I want to have conversations about art and literature and philosophy without having to stop and explain that I am NOT talking about a video game.
I want.
I want.
I want.
*sigh*
I've got another 10 years left... If I'm lucky... But then it will be too late. Won't it.
My son, however, never thinks. I swear. He doesn't. Sure, he's 8, and he's still a little kid really, but he acts as if he hasn't got a single brain cell in his head, let alone one he's actually making use of. Sometimes I think there must be something desperately wrong with him -- some sort of mental defect... But then he goes and says something so infinitely intelligent that I know he's in full working order. Like the other day. He says to the BF on the way to pick me up from work: 'What are the numbers on the houses for?' If you stop and think about it, thats actually a rather deep question. Instead of just following the herd and accepting that houses are supposed to have numbers on them, he actually wanted to know the reason for it. But ask him to tell you what the one page story he read 30 seconds ago was about, and all he can say is "I don't know."
Its actually making things really hard on me and the BF. We're at the point where we don't know what to do. I mean, how do you teach a child to want to understand a story? No one had to teach me... I just wanted to know what happened. I wanted to know more than just what happened. I wanted to know who the characters were, and what they were feeling, and why... I always loved reading and stories. If I read something, not only could I tell you what it was about, but I could recite it for you almost verbatim (semi photographic memory... it's picky about what it photographs, and what it doesn't, as well as being a relatively bad photographer -- severed heads and the like).
I also can't seem to get him to recognize the passage of time. We gave him a clock... But he doesn't seem to have made any sense of what the thing actually is, or why he should care.
And he "forgets" everything we ask him to do, or acts shocked when he has to do something that he's done at the same time every day for months -- like going to pick me up from work, like they do every day.
I have a feeling that most of this behavior is just him distancing him from the world around him. The lack of care he got with his dad is telling. The fact that he's now being asked to be responsible for some of the things in his life (like actually doing his homework himself, instead of having someone feed him the answers, and cutting his own finger nails when they get too long, and washing his own body instead of having mommy do it). That he always thought Mom's house was for playing games and having fun, except now that he lives there full time, it's not anymore. He's adjusting. And not really doing it very well.
The BF has been a saint about it, being the positive male role-model the kiddo needs, picking him up from school, making sure homework gets done, etc., etc., a million times etc. I, on the other hand, haven't been adjusting well at all either.
I'm one of those people that needs peace and quiet (from people that is -- I can't live without the TV or stereo or both on all the time). I need to be alone, to have low stress environments, to not have to share my personal space if I don't want to. Having my son more than the every other weekend I used to have him has taken away my space. It's taken away my time. It's taken away who and what I am, at my core, because I'm not allowed to be that person any more.
I can't help thinking of myself as a horrible Mom because I resent the fact that I can't do what I want, when I want anymore. Eventhough I know these are feelings that every mother has at least once in their lives, if not every day. I feel bad that I don't want to spend every waking moment with my child. I feel bad that sometimes I wish I could have just left him with his dad until the end of time (especially bad about that, given how bad things were at his dad's). I feel bad that sometimes I cry because I just want my life back. Eventhough I know these are things that every mother thinks and feels at some point, you can tell me that what I'm feeling is completely normal until you're blue in the face, it's not going to change the guilt I feel for feeling that way.
Growing up, all I ever saw were TV shows and movies that showed moms who, no matter what, always felt only love for their children. Mom's who didn't want their children to move out of the house, mom's who didn't want to go back to work because they wanted to stay home with their kids, mom's who fought to have their children with them full time, mom's who worked 3 jobs and walked away from a social life to raise their children. And I was brainwashed to believe that feeling anything other than the purest, most unconditional, love for your children every second of every day was bad, that it wasn't normal, that only junkies and alcoholics and crazy people didn't dote on their children the way the Cleavers or the Bradys did.
But isn't it normal to want to be treated like the woman that you've always been, instead of just the mom that you are right now?
I want to be able to sleep naked on hot summer nights again. I want to be able to moan as loud as I want when I get off. I want to be able to just lay in bed all day on a weekend, with no one and nothing but my favorite books. I want to be able to stay home sick from work and actually be able to rest. I want to watch horror movies before 9 o'clock at night. I want to get drunk when I get home from a bad day at work. I want to have conversations about art and literature and philosophy without having to stop and explain that I am NOT talking about a video game.
I want.
I want.
I want.
*sigh*
I've got another 10 years left... If I'm lucky... But then it will be too late. Won't it.
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