The PTSD is winning

I’m thinking this is my last post for a while. 

I’m hurting. Every day there’s a new situation that just drives home how little I matter. How abnormal and unfit to be around others I am. Meds didn’t help. Missle hates me. She vents to That Geek all about it. Then he shares the choice bits – in the hopes that I will fix things – and I stew. I obsess. I self analyze and realize I’m the problem.

My brothers wrote me off. People that I think are my friends are just people I happen to know. Or they have so much going on in their own lives that I feel like I really don’t have a right to add to their load.

I say stupid things. Over and over and over. I’ll get told this, so I’ll just stop talking. Which makes others uncomfortable. If I separate myself so that people aren’t uncomfortable and I can catch a breath – and I don’t say “excuse me, I am overwhelmed, I’m taking a time out” – than I’m “hiding.”  Never mind that IF I excuse myself there’s probing nosy questions. Never mind that I always feel like the outsider. I’m breaking rules that have been set for me that I didn’t know existed.

That Geek doesn’t want me. He doesn’t want to kiss or be kissed. He doesn’t hug me. Or talk to me. I feel like a barely tolerated room mate. We haven’t been physical in over six months. When he does talk, he wants it to be about his classes, at home. So he can dig out his notes and it’s easier for him to process what they’re teaching.

I’ve scratched the skin on my arms open. It looks like I’ve got chicken pox. I can’t stop digging. I start projects, find a mistake and start over again and again and again.

The people I might have a chance to be friends live 45 minutes away. I’ve seen them twice. Missle HATES me. That Geek says hate is all consuming. Silly me. To hate me, they’d actually have to think about me. A lot. My own husband can’t be bothered to think about me, why should anyone else?

I think I may be done, Hellions. I will never be as witty, cutting edge, or interesting as everyone else. I’m not worthy of anyone or thing. I’m just another dog in the pack, barking for some sort of acknowledgement that will never come.
I guess I feel like the only time anyone’s been excited that I’m actually going to be around in my mom while she was pregnant with me, my kids, and my dog. I feel like the kids and the dog are the only ones that would be sad if I were gone. Can’t destroy my kids. Can’t hurt my dog.

So here I am. No hospital. That’s for people that have more support than I do. I get to stay right where I am. On my stationary bicycle, pedaling as fast as I can, while watching the everyone leave me behind.


No more pills….

I stopped taking my anti-depressants this week.

Part of it is that my opinion is that they aren’t working. That they’ve probably never really worked?
I’m hopeful.

I hated taking the medication. It was a prayer that I could be like everyone else, that I could function. But it wasn’t working. It never worked. Nothing got done. I’ve lost friends.

I’ve never really cared about happy. I’m hoping for content. I’d be over-joyed with functional.

Take. A. Bite

Yeah, we’re fighting over food.  I’m sitting in a hard kitchen chair, saying, repeatedly “take a bite.  Chew it.  Swallow it.  No, you just went to the bathroom.”  Nope, not with Mouse or Boychik.  See, both of them ate the supper that Geek made LAST NIGHT with no problem.  I got home from S-mart at almost 9 and Ms Scarlett was STILL at the table.  After 30 minutes of her staring at her bowl, I finally got annoyed, told her that she’s eating it for breakfast, and sent her to bed.

What. The. Fuck.

The kiddos with sensory issues, the daughter that can’t do spicy, they had no problem eating it.  It is now mid-afternoon.  Ms. Scarlett is STILL working her way through her supper from last night.  I keep heating it up.  She tried telling that Geek that she didn’t eat it because “it’s not breakfast food.” I’m proud of him, he didn’t lose his shit.  I know, right?

Don’t worry, it’s not like I’m feeding her food that has been out for hours.  In between battles of wills, it gets put into the fridge.  Then microwaved.  There’s NOTHING in this meal that she doesn’t like.  But she’s not eating ANYTHING that Geek makes. Sure he puts all of the food groups into a pot and calls it casserole, but this is getting ridiculous.

There’s NOTHING spicy in it.  She begs to differ.  So while her brother and sister got to eat ramen for lunch – everyone here LOVES ramen – she’s trying to whine her way through last night’s dinner.  She takes a little bite, stares at her bowl, pretends to cough, then startles when I tell her to take another bite.  REPEATEDLY.

I’m tired Hellions.  Tired of fighting with this strong willed child.  She lies.  She tattles.  She tries to torture Missile’s kiddos.  And worst of all?  She doesn’t care about the consequences.  She turned seven last month.  I don’t know how the parents of NT kids deal with this.  I remember doing this with food I hated.  I just don’t understand.

Seems I need to go, she’s zoned out on her food again.

I miss my life

I thought that I’d talk about my youngest being born today.  The anxiety, the miracle.  Her perfect little feet and soft hair.  But Boychik actually took a shower on his own and washed his own hair.  That is a HUGE accomplishment for a kid on the spectrum and I’ve been really inconsistent with this blog thing.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m super proud of all my kids.  The progress they make on even the little things is amazing.  But I’ve just been feeling off.  For a really long time.

As I’ve mentioned before, I’ve got PTSD.  And I didn’t manage to get in an “honorable” way – military service – instead mine was created by the adults that were supposed to protect me.  I always feel like a jerk when it affects me.  I don’t like the attention that I end up getting when I start having a panic attack.  I hate that it feels like everyone around me has to take time from what they are doing because I am too weak to handle myself.  And I now have a super horrible minimum wage job working with the public.  I like my co-workers a lot, but I HATE my job.  Its retail and I’ve said to a couple people, “No one is EVER happy at S-Mart (Evil Dead reference.  Do you think I’d slander my employer on-line?  Geez, give me some credit!)

To date, I’ve had at least 2 panic attacks at work.  It sucked.  I’m sleeping too much.  My head hurts almost all the time.  And my muscles will spasm for no reason other than the ortho problems I’ve got…  I’m feeling older than I should, Hellions.  I wish I could have the motivation and a manageable level of pain long enough to lose the weight that makes every movement I make painful.

I follow A LOT of different sites on social media.  And wouldn’t you know, one of them popped up with a blurb about an individual that was physically abused and ended up with TBI.  Of course, that made me think.  Most of us think that TBI (Traumatic Brain Injury) and PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) go hand in hand, much like macaroni and cheese.  And for a while, I thought that I got lucky, that I’d gotten away with that level of physical abuse without TBI.  Suuuuure.

I don’t know ANYTHING about TBI.  So I fired up the ol’ laptop and started looking.  And the gist of it is IF I’ve got it, there’s nothing to be done for it except to pay more attention to my own health.  Like everything else.

I ask myself “what is normal? Do I want that?”  I do know what I want.  Less pain would be nice.  Not having weekly panic attacks would be amazing.  Sleeping a normal amount of time, having self-control when I eat, having memory for immediate important things…  I despise my personal differences.  I wouldn’t change my kids for anything.  Ever.  They are content with who they are.  I’m not.  At my worst, I hate myself.  On good days – how I miss those – I can barely tolerate myself.

I miss my memory.  The energy I had.  Pain being manageable.  Sigh.  I really want my life back.


Mother’s Day

1974 1224 me and momAs I’ve mentioned before, I have mixed feelings regarding Mother’s Day.  Is it really the day to appreciate the woman that raised you, or a way for candy and greeting card people market to folks between Easter and 4th of July?

It’s to the point that more and more of the people that I grew up with are missing their mothers this mother’s day.  Others are in the position that they’ve lost children.  It’s a vicious cycle…

Today is the 10th mother’s day without my mom.  She always asked for dirt.

As a special needs mom, Mother’s Day isn’t always great…  My first Mother’s Day on my own, I woke up to Mouse staring at me over the edge of the bed.  As soon as I opened my eyes, she started smiling and bouncing as if she was super proud of herself and happy to see me.  It was cute as hell.  Sometimes, I miss that crazy-haired baby in her Beetle-juice jammies.

This year, Ms Scarlett’s teacher did something awesome.  I got a poem about breakfast in bed.  In the bag was a granola bar and a tea bag.  It reminded me very much of Mouse at 8 years old bringing me a cold bagel with cream cheese for Mother’s Day.  That Geek and Chuckles made breakfast for me and Missile.  It was awesome.  Chuckles made the eggs, so instead of scrambled egg pudding, they were done right.  Seems that Chuckles’s mom and grandmother were strong believers in making sure he could actually cook when he was a teenager.

I don’t know that I can say anything more about my mom or my own doubts about my parenting that I’ve not said before.

Call your Mommas, Hellions.  Family isn’t always blood, and Facebook isn’t going to cut it.

Old Mo – Nope.

Monday.  Monnnnnday.  mon Day.  MON day.  Mooooonday…  Nope, it still sucks.

Honestly, I’ve got nothing right now.  I feel like this “old mom” stuff is ignored.  Okay, sure, fine.  I was hoping for questions or something I guess.

So, lets see…  I got a mild concussion last week.  Yup.  First and hopefully last I will ever have.  Muttley got damaged.  I’m never gonna see my deductible again.  Last night it was -10 degrees.  Let me put that out there again – NEGATIVE.  TEN.  I went to Missile’s house this morning, and her MIL asked me “so, did it ever get to 8 degrees in Cat Box?”  So I wracked my brain and the lowest daytime temperature I remember was in the early 90’s.  It was around 25 degrees give or take.

So the kids had a two hour delay for school.  Mouse stayed home sick.  I know that if she isn’t wanting to go to school because of feeling pukey, it’s not a fake out.  It’s real.  Ms Scarlett, on the other hand, is a completely different story.

And that Geek surprised me.  He got me yarn AND chocolate last week.  He’s not real good with the romance crap, but he got me yarn!  I’ve already started a project with it.  I think it’s gonna look cool.  The other project that I was working on is shaping up to be over corrected.  I’m gonna have to start over on it.  I hope the little person that it’s for appreciates it.  Cause I almost screamed obscenities cried when I put the grid markers over the image.  Too round for something that is ultimately going to look like an 8 bit image.  DAMMITALL.  So, back to the computer.  And laundry.  And waiting to hear if the agency I registered with has FINALLY gotten a company to give me a chance to prove that I’m good enough to work for them.

Recovery Sucks

Every so often, I hit the bottom of my mood cycle so hard that I stop understanding myself and everything around me.  Welp, that happened.  With my ankle the way it is, and the furniture where it is, and the slowness of EVERYTHING IN MY FREAKING LIFE, I pretty much just stopped doing everything.  And, as usual, it scared that Geek hard enough that he scraped another layer off of the compost heap of my childhood.

I HATE talking about my childhood.  It was fast, foul, and brutal.  But that Geek is now the proud co-owner of a little more of my baggage.  Yay!

I’m starting to try to take control of my recovery.  I’ve been diagnosed with PTSD.  No, I haven’t been in the military.  I have anxiety and mental issues.  I’m still a good person, and a good mom.

At the bottom, I have a hard time remembering that at the end of the day, I’m a good person.  At least I think I am.  Crap, I don’t know.

What I DO know is that Mouse is going back to school tomorrow.  The program she’s enrolled in seems pretty amazing, and the school district issues netbooks instead of textbooks.  I got to meet a couple of her classmates.  Most of them are male, but what are ya gonna do?  She’s having to start from scratch on so many things…  I just want her to do well.  I’m scared for her and excited at the same time.

We’re finally starting to get normal – for us any way – again.  Hopefully I stay stable.