Jump to content
Some browsers are having difficulty with functionality. Please try an alternative browser, if this is happening to you. If you are having connectivity issues beyond this or or need assistance, email us at: aftersilence.moderators@gmail.com! ×
After Silence continuing intermittent maintenance--Click here for latest updates ×

Capulet

Administrator
 View Profile  See their activity

  • Content Count

    6,765

  • Joined

  • Last visited

 Content Type 

Blog Entries posted by Capulet

  1. Capulet

    Finally hit #50!

    By Capulet,

    Have y'all been here for the 49 other blog entries?  Proud to say this is the longest running blog I've had in years.  Whether entries were added in the middle of the day or the middle of the night, I've learned a lot by writing my thoughts here.  I've gained valuable feedback and perspective from YOU, my readers, and I DEEPLY appreciate all of you!
    Seeing as this is entry number 50 (are you sick of my ramblings, yet?) I wanted to make it a good, meaningful one.  I know I've been absent for a while (as far as my blog is concerned - I've been present everywhere else!) and I apologize for this extremely delayed update.  I seem to be experiencing a little bit of writers' block - this USUALLY doesn't happen too often.  But lately, it has been happening a lot - I don't know if it's because I've spoken on just about everything - but I know as well as anyone else, life is a bottomless pit when it comes to things we're struggling with, trying to make sense of or simply need to get off our chests. I am no different - I've just gotten caught by an invisible tree branch, and am, for the time being, hanging in limbo.  The things I COULD write about are swirling around me, I imagine in bright, neon sentences.  And as I stare at the words, they resonate as pure gibberish.  
    Do I write a letter to one of my abusers?  We all know I PROBABLY have a lot of not-so-nice things to say to these people.  But no, that's not going to do tonight.  I'm not feeling this - and I'm guessing a lot of you are not, either.
    Do I talk about the kids?  Because, really, we don't know enough about their typical nonsense, do we?  I have a feeling that this wouldn't be appropriate for tonight's entry, though they're starting school on Monday and this week, their pure ridiculousness has been amplified with the acquisition of their school clothes, sneakers, supplies and other needs that have successfully drained my wallet and bank account.
    Do I talk more about my wonderful mother, whose drama has been a constant since childhood?  And do I talk about something she said to me recently that I'm STILL pissed off about?  No one wants to hear about that, I'm sure - as much as Oompa is a favorite topic around here, there's become a need for me to experience her in small doses - this does include writing about her.
    Or....
    The thought dawned on me to write about the power of memories and how these memories can certainly explain some of the self-proclaimed odd behaviors we display today.  I was watching "Castle Rock" on Hulu tonight (if you've seen this series, please - no spoilers - we're only on episode 4!) and one character asked the other, "what's your first memory?"
    I remembered mine right away.  (Don't you love when TV shows inspire deep thought without intending to?  It's all squished in between dialogue and while your characters are talking about a song or a picture or a smell from their childhood, YOU find yourself doing the same thing, trying to isolate your earliest memory, just so you can 'play, too!')
    My memory has nothing to do with music or smells or even anything I heard.  It's purely visual; given my hearing impairment, everything was, even from the beginning.  Perhaps that is where I get my gift of advanced perception - I see FAR MORE than is offered at times.  We've all heard of the possibility of heightened 'other' senses where there is one lacking.  I have found this to be true for me, as well as some slightly clairvoyant tendencies that I've never really tried to explain before.
    I was in diapers, standing up in my crib.  I know we rarely retain memories from that far back, but this one is clear; it's possible I was roughly a year and a half old.  I was in my bedroom, the same room that I stayed in for as long as my father lived in that apartment.  When my parents divorced, my mother moved in with my grandmother and I spent weekends at my father's, and this bedroom was small but still "my" room until I was roughly 11 or 12 years old and he bought a house in the 'burbs.  There used to be a picture hanging over my crib.  Two, actually.  One was a clown needlepoint that my favorite aunt made for me while I was still in utero.  I still have this particular needlepoint - it rested in my son's room when HE was a baby but he's since decided that thanks to Stephen King, he's not fond of clowns and the picture has been ordered removed from his room when he was still a toddler.  I guess they're not for everyone...
    There was another larger picture hanging on that wall, too.  I want to say there was some sort of nursery rhyme.  The Jungle Book is coming to mind.  Perhaps it had something to do with that.  I AM pretty 'smart' but I don't think I was reading at this age.  I do recall that hanging picture having words and it being there for years into my childhood, though.  Now, though, it is drawing blanks.  
    So there I am, bouncing up and down from behind the bars of my crib - perhaps this was before things would taint the person I was destined to become.  This is perhaps before my life's 'script' changed.  But I was happy.  I didn't remember sadness nor fear.  My mother and father were both there.  When I was a baby, my great-grandmother used to say my father looked like Jesus.  He had long hair, a beard, and was Jewish.  I'm not sure he ever wore sandals and a robe, but my Italian great-grandmother used to remind him of his resemblance to the son of God every single time she saw him.  He was a very handsome man in his day - today he more closely resembles Jeremy Irons.  My mother, when she was young, looked a little bit like the late Brittany Murphy.  They were smiling. They came in when they saw that I was awake, and made faces at me.  They spoke to me.  I don't think I heard or understood their words, but there was no doubt - they both loved me.  They knew I was deaf before I was able to stand - so they would make sure I was always able to see them because not being able to hear them would likely scare me in my young age.  
    And that's it...there are only a few more memories from that apartment - I had one of those Sit and Spin contraptions.  Mine was blue.  It was a round thingy I sat on, with my legs crossed around a middle piece/wheel that I would turn in order to spin myself as fast as possible, until the room and everything in it was a blur. I remember the couch we had - blue also - and quite ugly, I'd add.  I remember toddling down the hallway from my room to my parents' room and sitting on my Sit and Spin while my mother sat in a rocking chair and read.   
    As I got older, I'd soon be introduced to the idea that not all memories were good ones nor would they make sense. It's possible I do not remember many of the happy times in which my parents were together because they were divorced by the time I was two.  Being a non-hearing child, it's also possible I witnessed NONE of their fights, there was NO sign that these two perfect, happy people were having problems.  And so this 'earliest' memory of standing in my crib waiting for my parents to appear is the only one I have that still makes me smile today.  And I've been called "silly" because "it's not possible to remember things from that young," but I certainly do, right down to the room being filled with sunlight, the pictures on the wall, both my Mom and Dad walking in and putting on their, "oh, MY, LOOK who's up from her nap!?" faces.  It was a truly peaceful and serene memory.
    There are OTHER memories from childhood that when I look back at, I am NOT filled with this same sense of security.  In fact, I don't think ANY further memories award me this feeling.  Perhaps this is why it stands out so forcefully when I try and pinpoint my earliest, happiest recollection.  In fact, I'm betting on it.
    Other memories, although not definitive, also play a role in why I suspect I behave in certain ways today.
    In the memories to follow,  I am older.  Definitely no longer in diapers.  I am at my grandmother's house - so, SO many memories take place here.  This was also the house my mother's brother lived in, and still lives in today.  When you stepped into the main entrance, there were 2 doors - both were always kept open.  One led toward the left and a small hallway took us to my grandmother's part of the house.  The other led straight ahead toward a flight of stairs that would take us to my uncle's apartment, upstairs.  I remember sitting on those steps, just sitting there, so that I didn't have to be around those 'boring' grown-ups in the apartment downstairs.  In fact, I didn't want to be around ANYONE.
    Now, I'm pretty sure it was around Halloween or Thanksgiving - my grandmother was big on hanging up these paper decorations she'd tape to the windows or onto the walls.  Now that I think of it, it may have been Thanksgiving/the fall because I'm now remembering two smiling Pilgrims - a boy and a girl - it was just their heads - they were smiling and perhaps it said 'Happy Thanksgiving' across the bottom.  The girl had on a bonnet...the boy had on a top hat and a smile, there were freckles scattered across his nose.  There might have been a turkey somewhere, too - Grandma had them all as well as a witch's head, a vampire's fanged smile, a pumpkin, a cornucopia, taped to these walls, her kitchen walls, her fridge, etc, in observance of the fall holidays.  After Thanksgiving, she'd replace them with Santa-themed decor - but she always kept up with them as ALL holidays were celebrated at her house.  She didn't have a large house but it was, by default, where we were every Sunday for pasta and 'gravy' or during any holidays that required family-style observance.  
    I remember some of these decorations being a point of focus.  I'd simply stare at them for several minutes at a time.  Hard to explain but it's possible the one on her fridge was the one I focused on the most.  The layout of her kitchen was an odd one indeed.  Her fridge was actually against the wall BEHIND her stove - so whenever we needed to go get something from the fridge, we would have to exit the kitchen, walk around the corner and into another small hallway to where the fridge 'lived.'   Next to the fridge was the bathroom and across was a bedroom. 
    Whenever I slept at her house, I'd be in the bedroom directly across the fridge.  The bedroom or bathroom doors NEVER closed properly - not sure if it was because she'd never gotten the hinges fixed and my uncle was about as useful as a potted plant when it came to assisting his mother with the cleaning or maintenance around the house, but I do remember the presence of the fridge being sort of (or not 'sort of' but 'definitely') ominous and unsettling because when I was laying there trying to sleep, all I'd see was those ugly white doors, the decoration (usually a Pilgrim or character head) hanging on it.  In my brain, I'd 'hear' threatening, foreboding tones (or at least my idea of what these would sound like) and I'd ATTEMPT to close the door so that I wouldn't see the fridge or that freaking Pilgrim, but my grandmother would 'peek in' and the door would be reopened several times during the course of the night.  I am not sure if this is even important to mention, but whenever I slept there, my uncle would 'tuck me in' and tell me a made up 'scary story' before bed.  The stories never scared me as much as amused me - he was NOT good at thinking up new content - most of his stories were vampire themed and all started with "Once upon a time, in Transylvania...."  I was always in the stories.  And I was always the one to drive a stake through Count Dracula's heart at the end.  My cousins were the ones who would flee in fear and I LOVED being made the heroine, even though I knew it'd never be any other way.  As MY memory currently serves, he would leave after the story and I'd begin the task of trying to sleep but there was always that feeling of uneasiness, not related to his story-telling, but more so with my surroundings and the feelings accompanying them.  It may also be worth it to mention that this was AFTER I seven years old and AFTER an investigation into my uncle had yielded nothing.  Then in the morning, after I'd slept horribly, my grandmother would make scrambled eggs and he'd come downstairs with this brand of cereal - Puffed Rice - that he ate religiously every morning.  For some reason, I remember that cereal - I'm disgusted today by it if I walk past it in the cereal aisle in the grocery store.  
    Sleepovers at my grandmother's were a regular thing as my mother would be anxious to ship us off to Granny's whenever she wanted or needed a night out.  However, we were three girls and we never were together when we slept at Grandma's.  One week, she'd take me, one week, she would take the middle sister, one week she would take the 'baby.'  They do not recall ever having any problems sleeping - but I don't think anything was ever done to them, either.  The middle sister was born when I was seven - the investigation had already been completed and I'd like to think this was when any possible CSA had already stopped on account of perhaps my uncle being spooked.  They've made no mention of him tucking them in or telling them bedtime stories -  I've also never asked.  But today, they are fine with him - it's only me who has developed a profound hatred toward him.   They, along with my mother, though, have stopped questioning me as to why.  I've given the same story for the last decade: I hated watching him allow my grandmother to live in such disgusting, unsanitary conditions.  And this is what I'll continue to tell them if asked - the rest is just too complicated to try and explain.
    Perhaps, though, this triggers the need I currently have today for all doors to be securely closed when I am in my bedroom ready to sleep.  If at some point I see a door is open, I have to physically get up and close it.  And now I have a cat who knows how to open doors that have a handle-style knob rather than the rounded sort - this is pretty much EVERY knob in the house!  In order to effectively keep him from opening our bedroom door in the middle of the night, we now have to lock him out of the rooms we don't want him letting himself into.
    Anyway, there is one other issue I have when I'm trying to sleep.  Some of you may remember the light sensitivity issue I've brought up in the past but I will remind you if you're drawing blanks.  I absolutely cannot be able to see ANY sources of light, no matter how big or small.  I need for it to be completely dark - pitch black would work best. If I do not have these conditions, I cannot sleep well.  If there is an open door, that is one of the biggest issues because I'd have light coming in from neighboring rooms.  My grandmother would sleep on the couch whenever I was there, and so the kitchen light would pour into the hallway until she'd finally shut it.  Even so, I could still see that godawful refrigerator...not sure if it's because I knew it was there regardless.
    There were two windows in that room.  She had blinds on those windows.  I would sometimes attempt to look in a different direction while trying to sleep.  Instead of looking at the fridge, I'd look toward the window but that wasn't much better, either.  There was possibly a streetlight that was located not too far from that window and these blinds were NEVER able to completely filter out the outside light, so I'd see whenever cars drove by at night, there would be bright lights every so often.  And I remember HATING that I could see the light coming in from the windows, enough to occasionally try and bury myself underneath the blankets in order to get the complete darkness I craved.  Gawd, I spent HOURS trying to fall asleep and sometimes didn't sleep at all! 
    Today, I take extreme measures to ensure that every stray light is covered, even if it means draping a sock over the cable box to cover the small, red power dot that I feel is too bright.  I will cover my phone or flip it face-down, since while it's charging, a green light is constant.  If someone is awake (usually by the time I go to bed, no one is) then I will assume a light is on in the room outside my bedroom and I will lay a towel or clothing garment down across the maybe 1" space between the bottom of the door and the floor.  
    I KNOW it sounds awfully odd - I can't figure it out, either.  It's probably one of those things that I will need to consult with small-child Capulet one of these days, should she become more forthcoming with the details that would explain these behaviors that have carried over into adulthood.  I do know that I'm not "afraid" of the light - I know it cannot harm me.  I'm not sure if the light is even what bothered me as a child or what the origin of this even IS.  Was there light once, before I was old enough to remember the reasons behind this irrational fear, and I 'saw' something that scared me?  
    I just do not like that unsettled feeling that almost always seems to reappear whenever there is "spare" light when I attempt to go to sleep and it's dark outside.  Funnily enough, if I attempt a daytime nap, although I do try and block out as much of the natural sunlight by closing the blinds and drawing the drapes, I can still see everything in the room.  Even so, I can still fall sleep or nap in a room that isn't dark (although the door still MUST be closed!) as night.  
    Grandma also had a basement that terrified me.  And as much as I was scared by the three-room layout of her basement, I still would venture downstairs when I was bored.  It was EASY to feel bored at my grandmother's house - she had some toys there but there were only so many that interested me, so I would seek out other ways to quell the boredom.  The first room was where most of her 'junk' was stored.  A lot of it was my mother's and uncle's and aunt's accumulated junk that none of them had thrown away.  The second room (let it be known there were no doors in the basement; it was all 'open' and one room simply 'fed' into the other) had a washer and dryer and one of those wooden racks that was for clothes hanging.  There was a small bathroom in the second room but I do not remember that bathroom ever being usable.  The third room was always pitch-black, the only way to see anything in there was to pull a string (that sometimes took a while to find) on an overhead light.  I was never able to reach that string, so I never ventured past that second room.  But I could still see those two holes in the wall, they were literally holes that we were able to see outside through - next to one another.  I'm not sure how those holes came to be.  The house was pretty old, though.  But the way they were positioned next to each other made them appear as "eyes," especially during the daytime hours when they'd actually be the sunlight coming in through those two small holes.  I'd call those the "eyes of the beast," and I would repeatedly peek toward the third room from either the first or second, to make sure the beast was still there.  It always was.  I'd realize I was still afraid of 'it' and would go back upstairs.  At night, though, of course, the 'beast' wouldn't be there.  
    Again, this house was never maintained - my grandmother had her skills but house-cleaning and upkeep was NEVER one of them.  Everything was rickety and dirty, we learned to 'ignore' the occasional roach we would see crawling around on the walls or floors.  One of the adults would pull off a shoe and put it out of its misery if a big deal was made, but her house was literally infested by the time she did pass away in 2002.  This was also what 'flipped the switch,' I looked at my uncle and realized that despite remembering nothing 'off' from childhood (before age six or after) I loathed him.  And from that point on, I exorcised him from my life.  I think, though, I also eliminated the possibility of ever being able to get any answers from him, but perhaps that is okay - perhaps the answers will present themselves in different ways.
    Either way, these are just a few memories that I have of childhood.  As you can see, a lot of them circulate around her house.  A lot of them have to do with my uncle, her bedroom, and being afraid in the evenings.   A LOT of time was spent in that house - a LOT.  And until she died, I was a frequent visitor.  Perhaps my reason for being able to sail through all the sleepovers, family gatherings was because it was what Grandma truly enjoyed and I loved her VERY much.  And when she died, there was simply no more reason to return to that house for a visit.  And that afternoon we'd gone there after her funeral HAD indeed been the last time I set foot in that house.  Her death somehow 'freed' me from that house - and brought forth a slew of memories, emotions, recollections that I'd learned to effectively ignore for a long time - to include my attitude toward my uncle.  THAT was the thing I noticed the most, in fact.
    That tells me something, even though it's nowhere near the 'everything' I need to know.  In time though, perhaps I will understand more. 
    Memories are THAT powerful.  And lately, I've been making note of the things I do remember.  Ways I behaved.  Every little feeling, every emotion.  There are other things I've done as a child/pre-teen that I'm still hesitant to share here.  For now, those are mine and only mine to sift through, but sadly those, too, make sense and are 'in line' with the other suspicions I have.  And these are things that bring me sadness as well as anger - sadness because they exist and anger because there's nothing I can do to change the past.
    Memories sure are complex, aren't they?  They can bring us peace, or they can bring us further turmoil.  They can make us smile, they can make us laugh, they can make us cry.  They can confuse us while at times, they provide a sense of clarity.  And sometimes while they may repress, they cannot be erased, as much as we'd love for them to be.  
    And finally...
    In honor of this being my 50th blog entry, I've an announcement (of sorts) to make.  I've decided that my life has been 'in limbo' for far too long.  I focused only on raising my children and my family for the last twenty years, give or take.  I quit school and subsequently put my professional aspirations 'on hold.'  I was only two semesters shy of my Associate's, and I was majoring in English when I became pregnant with my first child and life just didn't allow me many opportunities to go back and finish what I'd started.
    And, so, I've decided that I'm going to get the ball rolling and soon go back to school.  I am also going to change my major from English to Social Work and obtain my BSW (Bachelor's in Social Work).  I feel that to choose English as my initial major was a result of simply not knowing where my calling was.  That's traditionally what people who like to write major in - English.  At the time, it felt that was what I wanted to do with myself, since I spent so much time as a child and teenager writing.  Twenty years and SEVERAL experiences later has shifted that focus, though, and I feel that I can truly contribute more toward a job in social work than I could as a writer.  I mean, I'll still write, but I think that being able to tap into my own personal experiences in order to help others make sense of their own, will be extremely valuable in this new venue.  
    And so, I'm going for it.  I am soon going to be making a lot of changes in my life.  Rather than feel 'stuck' on where circumstances have landed me, I am going to now embrace these circumstances and use them to strengthen me in my new career choice.  When I told my mother of my plans, she made a face that resembled one she'd make if I'd shoved a dozen lemons into her mouth, and said, "don't you realize how much WORK that is?  And that you're going to have to talk to a lot of people and you're hardly going to make any money??  I thought you'd be better suited to go into something to do with computers!"  
    I told her to enjoy her lemons.  I'll not explain this to her as I don't feel it's worth the aggravation - all I said to her was that my choice was made; I was going to do what I want - after spending the last 20 years doing what everyone else wanted or expected of me, it's now time to make something of myself.  I refuse to choose a field that I won't feel accomplished in.  Computers may be something I use daily, but I do know I'm capable of far more than writing code or trying to de-bug a virus-riddled PC.  No, I'll pass on those headaches.
    But to you guys, I'll honestly say it is NOT about the money.  It is also NOT about the amount of work, because as far as I'm concerned, I've already put in a significant amount of work into understanding how the mind works from a survivor's standpoint.  I have a natural understanding of it, mostly because I spend a great deal of time trying to make sense of my own mind.  I do know that others' work differently - of course they do!  But I think that having a basic understanding of the impact of sexual abuse/assault and its long-term effects will enable me to be a better advocate.  I truly feel that this is where my true calling lies - and by helping others to heal, perhaps I will eventually be able to consider myself healed as well.  I feel it will also give me a greater sense of purpose - for being a survivor of DV as well has greatly diminished my self-value in addition to putting a limit to what I could do with myself.  It's time to build myself back up and if I can, bring others up with me.  I want to make a difference in myself using the cards I've been dealt, the memories I've collected over the years, and to be able to pull something positive out of those negatives.  Because they're there - they're hard to see right now and I've still got quite a bit of work to do on myself, but I DO recognize that those positives exist and they are simply waiting to be recognized.
    I'll be keeping everyone informed of the process, of course!  I'm excited for myself, for the first time in years!
    Here's to 50 more entries.   Hopefully they'll flow a little bit quicker than the last few have, but you betcha they'll be here.  Thank you all again for being here and for hearing everything I've had to say.  You are all dear to my heart.  
    Peace, love and light - (darkness for me, please!)
    - Capulet
     
  2. Capulet
    The mind is a VERY, VERY tricky thing.
    This will be a short-ish entry as I'd like to share something that happened last night.    (Or it might be a medium-length entry, as you know I'm VERY susceptible to rambling!  We'll just have to see how it all flows!)  This should NOT trigger - it's not that kind of 'happened.'  But JUST in case - I will issue a SMALL trigger warning for a recovered memory, sorta - the memory itself isn't triggering, but you know - I'm thinking this has happened to some of you before and although it's not triggering, it's a little bit unsettling.
    So - here's the thing.
    Last night, after the kids had gone back to their father's, J and I went to the store to pick up some food and snacks and desserts.  Her Patriots are in the Super Bowl - AGAIN - so naturally, I am happy for her if her team wins - they'd earned it at this point - but...secretly, I'm rooting for the Rams.   Yes, I'm a little salty that my Giants/Jets (hometown teams) and Eagles (local team) didn't make it this year, but it seems that those damned Patriots are in it EVERY year!  So, like MANY, I'm rooting for anybody BUT the Patriots!
    Anyway - my love decided she wanted to have a party and since her work friends (including boss lady) got her into playing Fantasy Football and they'd been following the NFL since the start of this previous season - she wanted to invite them to our place for the game/food/drinks.  (I balanced the guest list out a little by inviting MY bowling friend and her husband - I'm NOT entirely comfortable about meeting some of J's other friends, but I did promise to get to know them in more 'comfortable' settings!)  So...counting us, we will have eight people here tonight.  We needed alcohol - as MOST of the people coming tonight are heavy drinkers (boss lady, especially) and we needed a bunch of snacks, food, etc.  
    OK, so we're coming home...our local town is a small-town type - there's a Main Street, with little shops, some fast-food joints, tailors, a bank, a diner, a Dunkin' Donuts, pizzeria, ice cream parlor.  There is also a very small cinema house - I want to say they feature OLD movies, and they charge maybe $1.00 to get in - but these movies are mostly ones that we can buy from the bargain bin at Wal-Mart in most cases.  We do have a regular Cinemark (for the new releases and the recent big-screen movies) at the mall, so fear not, there IS somewhere we can go to see something new.   
    So, on our way home from the store, we pass all these little shops, and the movie house - it's one of those old-style ones where there's an awning over the box office, almost - with the name of the movie on the side....I have NO idea what these are called, so I'm putting a photo as an example:

    Note - This is NOT my local small-town theater - ours is much more plain.  We don't have the fancy lighting shown up top, just the sides are similar - this is where they let us know what's playing and usually, we'll pass by there and I'll smile - last week they showed "Marmaduke,' and during the holiday time, they showed 'Home Alone.'  
    So - last night's 'feature' was missed, as I got caught on the phrase, "Stan and Ollie are here!"  The letters on the side spelled this out - perhaps the name of the movie was on the other side - or perhaps it was under the phrase advertising the return of Stan and Ollie, whoever these two were.  I didn't bother to look, though.  My brain was ALREADY racing.  Stan and Ollie.  Stan.  Ollie.  
    Stan and Ollie.  I don't know who they are.  Indeed not as Stan and Ollie.  If you were to ask me, "who are Stan and Ollie?" I'd likely have shrugged because yes, while I'd heard of the duo before, I wasn't sure who they were.  They were just another duo, one of the unknown ones that you'd heard but didn't have faces for.  And there are SO many famous duos - there's Thelma and Louise.  Ozzie and Harriet.  Punch and Judy.  Simon and Garfunkel.  Siskel and Ebert.  But almost immediately after reading the names in THIS duo, I had a mental image of Laurel and Hardy.  Just like that, there they were, in black-and-white, as I'd last seen them.  Laurel with his top-hat and Hardy with the bowl cut hair and badly-maintained toothbrush mustache.
    When I was a small child, my uncle (yes - the one I HATE!) used to watch March of the Wooden Soldiers.  On repeat, it seemed.  He had a copy of the VHS tape, and whenever I saw him or he was babysitting, he would ask if I wanted to watch Laurel and Hardy with him - and although I didn't necessarily find this particular movie entertaining, I would still agree to watch March of the Wooden Soldiers.  I was likely four or five - and I was not introduced to closed-captioned television until I was at least 8.  So this movie, to me, was completely visual.  Perhaps as it was one of the duo's 'silent movies,' it was something my uncle felt I could 'follow.'  I honestly would have done better with Tom and Jerry (another duo!) but March of the Wooden Soldiers, it was.  
    Laurel was the skinny one, Hardy was the stocky one.  Both were equally stupid.  They didn't do a lot of talking in the movie; it was mostly gestures, actions - mostly resulting in either Laurel or Hardy falling into water, getting a pie in the face or injured in an otherwise comical way.  Perhaps that's why I was able to derive a minimal amount of enjoyment of this movie - it wasn't because I understood the plot behind it.  I am sure there was one - and my uncle was able to 'explain' who some of the other players were.  I'd later find out that most of their movies were 'silent' films - makes more sense I'd understand them.
    But - to me - Laurel and Hardy were JUST 'Laurel and Hardy.'  A friend confirmed for me last night that their names were indeed Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy - so this tells me that I've remembered something - something purely out-of-the-blue, as I don't ever remember ever knowing that Laurel and Hardy had first names - or that they were their real names - I'd always thought they were fictional characters - they've always been recognizable to me as just Laurel and Hardy, those stupid, bumbling idiots from those stupid movies my stupid uncle used to watch and burst out in uncontrollable laughter, every single time one of them made a stupid move - says a lot for his own intelligence, I suppose.  (On another note, I am guessing that this is why I find MOST comedy 'stupid.'   That's yet ANOTHER realization I've come to in recent years - I can be made to laugh by a movie, but then there's 'stupid' comedy - I have found that kind of film is more likely to annoy me than make me double over in hysterics!) 
    This 'recovery' is even more bothersome because I've so closely associated Laurel and Hardy with my uncle.  I'd been doing so well at pretending he didn't exist - being I've no concrete memories of what possibly happened while I was often under his care as a child.  It was just so much easier to do this.  No memory = didn't happen.  I could live with this - as long as I kept him out of sight, too.  There WAS always the possibility of things coming back to the surface, but I'd always thought it would be upon his (delayed) death.  I'd also successfully blocked out anything having to do with Laurel and Hardy, just as I'd blocked out MOST things from that time frame.  It IS possible I knew or heard "Stan and Ollie" back then, but I've absolutely no memory of it.  And then, thirty-five years later, I see Stan and Ollie in bolded text, and BOOM, there's Laurel and Hardy, front row and center of my brain's auditorium!  HOW does that happen???  
    Is this what happens in the beginning?  Is it like a storm, perhaps?  As they all start off small, bearable and mild...then, before you know it, the elements become fierce, unrelenting, and you eventually find yourself flooded.  
    I'm GUESSING it's now started to 'drizzle' up in my brain because of my very recent struggles/trigger with having to possibly see my uncle at my nephew's and niece's birthday party.  We've also had additional stressors since my mother dropped this bomb on me (bomb discussed in my last entry) and as I deal with things that are more important (my sick cat), I've chosen to put this into the back of my mind, knowing I have a month and a half before this event is to take place.  That's ample time, right?  I just refuse to give this piece-of-shit ANY importance or any thought - he will NOT destroy me - I said that, of course, after deciding that my nephew and niece are FAR more important to me than he is - and I'd go to their party regardless - even if I had to carry a flask of vodka with me.  I've also some hope that he will eventually say he can't go for whatever reason, or he'll develop a nasty cold or he'll....oh, I don't know....die?  Or my father will be on MY side, and refuse to have any part of chauffeuring him there and back.  This is not likely, as my father, bless his heart - is clueless.
    Either way, it would seem that this has been sitting in the background for three weeks and is now starting to rot.  It smells AWFUL.  I cannot explain last night's experience otherwise.  
    I welcome any thoughts on this - especially those who have recovered memory from seemingly nowhere.
    My break from cleaning is over.  Back to the grind.
    Let's go, Rams!
    - Capulet
  3. Capulet

    Fly By Faux Pas

    By Capulet,

    A light blog today, just because.
     
    Last night, we had a laugh as a family.  It hasn’t happened in a while but, damn, it felt good!  Not saying we aren’t a family that laughs, it’s just so easy to get caught up in the more serious day-to-day routines.  Sometimes we forget to laugh, to cherish these little moments that bring us a chuckle when times become challenging.  
     
    As most of you know by now, we recently moved from the city and became country bumpkins this past summer.  To find a supermarket, bowling alley, restaurant, movie theater or just about any other place after five o’clock in the evening means driving down the pitch-black back roads for about fifteen to twenty minutes and bringing ourselves to the busier part of the town, where there is everything.
     
    Everything, except for an Applebee’s.
     
    For those of you who aren’t familiar, it’s a popular US chain American restaurant.  They’re everywhere.  It’s J’s favorite place to get a Caesar Salad and my son’s and daughter’s favorite restaurant, overall.  I personally prefer Texas Roadhouse (which we DO have locally) but I do rather enjoy the Wonton Tacos that Applebee’s serves.  The closest Applebee’s is about 30 miles away.  So it was arranged last week that yesterday, when J got home from work, we were going to get into the car and go treat ourselves to our favorite Applebee’s meal or appetizer.  
     
    Let me just insert a little story-supporting factoid here - when we first moved here, J began working for Amazon.  Yes, that Amazon, the one everyone shops at online. We thought it would be pretty damn amazing, plus the 15% discount she’d get on her own Amazon purchases were a perk we would have loved to enjoy come holiday shopping time.  However, J found that the bar was set way too high and the level of training was too strenuous and strict, they not only were inadequate in their methods of teaching and left very little margin for error.  Let it be known that J is an exceptional, thorough worker and she is the type to do well in just about any job she takes on.  Amazon, though, aside from being far too physically demanding, was too fast paced and simply didn’t want to take the time to properly train their new people…let’s call them one big-ass mindfuck, because at times, she would try to maintain accuracy and her job performance was better, although slower.  They apparently rate your quality of work and her quality was not matching up to the quantity…so they basically because of that criticism, she sped things up to try and appease them and I believe the problem wasn’t in the work she was putting in, but actually the presence of technical, computer errors with her scanning device she was using.  It was entering into the system incorrectly, resulting in the “too many errors” reason they gave her when she was terminated.  She worked there for three weeks before they fired her.  Normally, she’d have argued that the termination was unfair and unjust, but at that point, after constantly feeling overworked and underappreciated by them, she’d dosed herself with a healthy amount of ‘fuckitall’ and found a different job with better hours, benefits and pay.  And a note to Amazon before I continue, in the event one of you should happen upon this post - your company SUCKS.  I will still shop on Amazon simply because you do have the best deals at times, but the way you operate is absolutely ridiculous.  You put my wife through the wringer, worked her to the point of collapse, you didn’t step up and help her make any necessary corrections when you saw she was struggling…instead, to show your appreciation for her hard work and efforts, you fired her.  Y’all ought to be ashamed of yourself and your company.
     
    So, anyway…back to my tale for today…on our way to Applebee’s, we passed the Amazon Warehouse.  You can see this huge, white building from the highway.  J and I both flipped off the building as we sped past it, for they are a distant, but still unpleasant memory.  
     
    We found the Applebee’s, went in, sat down, ordered and ate.  Everyone got their favorite meals.  The bill came to just over $100 including a tip, but everyone was happy and so it was worth it.  The kids even suggested we do this every couple of months. 
     
    On the way home, we were soon to pass the Amazon Warehouse again, coming from the other direction.  J was being funny and in her tour-guide voice, says, “And over to our left, we will soon see the Amazon Warehouse that fired me.  Let us all show them our middle finger in appreciation.”
     
    All our middle fingers went up and toward the driver’s side of the car.  
     
    Yes, even my 11-year-old’s little middle went up; while I’m sure I’m not in the running for any parent-of-the-year awards, I still allowed for it because I feel she’s old enough to learn to express herself if the situation presents.  Plus, she’s seen and heard f-bombs come out of my and J’s and her father’s mouths on MANY occasions.  If she can successfully watch her mouth more often than letting a word slip, then I feel she’s earned the right to use a swear word when she feels the need to.  Because to me, swearing is simply your way of not sugar-coating anything and letting someone know how she REALLY feels about something.  If you ask me, swearing is healthy, but should still be done responsibly and she should be sure not to use such language around someone who could be offended by it (an older relative, grandparents, etc) or otherwise influenced by it, for example a younger sibling.  I know that personally, I feel better if I let out a string of well-placed swears rather when I say “oh, poo.”  I normally don’t condone unwarranted displays of vulgarity, but in this case, we were sticking up (our fingers) for one of our own.  
     
    What we DIDN’T count on, though was the car that had pulled up next to us on the left lane.  We were in the right lane and between the Amazon Building and our car, there was now another car full of unsuspecting people who, I’m thinking, probably thought we were flipping THEM off.  And they’d rather conveniently pulled up, JUST in time to see all of our middle fingers go up at the same time.  Add to this whole funny situation, the overhead light in the car is usually on when it’s dark outside so that lip reading is made easier…which means that not only were the cars next to us able to see our raised middle fingers, anyone driving along that highway at that particular moment could also see quite clearly our little family display of expression.
     
    When we realized this, we all quickly put our fingers away, there were a few “oh, my GODs” and “whoopses” and then, we erupted in an uncontrollable fit of laughter.  I’m sure my and J’s faces were red with embarrassment, but as soon as the car had passed us and was already a half dozen or so car lengths’ ahead of us, we joined the kids in hysterics.  We giggled at the pure timing of it all.  At what the occupants of the other car could possibly be thinking they did to piss us off.  At what the sight of a sweet, baby-faced, frizzy haired, 11-year-old with her middle finger up must have looked like, especially with her two moms and brother’s fingers up right next to hers, all pointing in the same direction.  At least, we’d given someone else something to ponder for the evening.

    We laughed for several minutes.  We laughed until the tears rolled.  We laughed until it hurt.  
     
    Then we just smiled at one another, for a memory has been made and tucked away for one of those times where we feel we need to pluck them from the reserves for one of those instant-smiles, because there ARE times we scramble for one of these 'remember when?' moments.  
     
    And, no one got hurt or arrested, so in my book, that’s a win. 

    Live, love and laugh a whole lot.
    - Capulet
  4. Capulet

    Goodbye, 2018!

    By Capulet,

    Have I REALLY been gone since December 4th?  
    Yes, friends - this is VERY much unlike me.  Those of you who know me - know that when my mind is cluttered and my brain is busy - I write.  It's how I make sense of things.  To say that my mind has been clear lately would be a lie - there's SO much clutter up there - it's starting to look like Grandma's attic! (Although MY grandmother, may she rest in peace, did not have an attic - she had a basement that scared the shit out of me for most of my childhood!)  
    My brain has been running a mile-a-minute, but I've been effective at compartmentalizing - at least until the holidays have passed us.  Rather than say, "okay, I'm going to think on this tonight and see what comes out - it'll be a good thing to blog about because I'm SURE there are others who feel this same exact way," the last few weeks have been more of a "maybe later," or a "perhaps after Christmas" or just plain, "not now."
    Things with J are....fine.  I don't want to say there's been improvement because with the looming holidays, stresses have indeed mounted and any left-over issues we have been having were not to be confused with the typical stress the holidays are notorious for bringing forth.  It's easy for past stresses to escalate, when new ones are introduced.  So rather than let this happen - I chose to just go through the motions of the holidays - and make the most of it, even though I was not feeling it this year.  If you've been following this blog for a while, you know by now the result of LAST year's (2017's) Christmas - I didn't want a repeat of that, when it comes to my mother and my sisters, and that entire part of my family.  
    This year's wasn't as dramatic - but it was still sorely lacking.  
    It hasn't been terrible.  Don't get me wrong.  It just hasn't been spectacular.  Maybe I've set the bar too high - maybe I'm just expecting too much at this point?  It IS, after all, what I thought Christmas was supposed to be.  Filled with love, with enjoyment, with fulfillment - instead, it's become purely obligation...my obligation to others, to make sure they have everything THEY want and need.  Over the last several years, I have bent for everyone else - to the point where MOST have now began to take me and all of my efforts for granted.  There is very little reciprocation - if not for my mother, my father, and J - there'd be NOTHING for me under the tree.  And while I'm not a material girl at ALL, it's hard to ignore that - when I have been attempting to MOVE heaven and earth to make EVERYONE ELSE happy - never mind my own happiness and sense of holiday cheer.  
    Since the divorce, the wasband has been unrelenting on where the kids spend the holidays.  They MUST be with him.  ALL of his kids.  They've got to be seated at HIS table - for Christmas, New Year's, for Thanksgiving, for Easter, for St. Patrick's Day, for Halloween, for Father's Day, (that one, I understand!) for July 4th, for Passover, for heaven's sake - and he's not even Jewish!  Early on, years ago, I had asked if I can bring the kids with me to someone else's house for the holiday (or if we could alternate?) and it's been met with an "absolutely not."  
    This, of course, means, that, if I want to spend any of the holidays with my children, that I, too, have to be at his house, celebrating within the chaos of HIS home, with HIS wife, all HIS kids.  Mind you, I don't mind any of his kids - I raised all of them, if you think about it, to include his and his wife's youngest.  I am, of course, free to choose whether I want to be there for the holiday, or if I want to go celebrate with someone else.  But my children would not be allowed to come with me.  If, God forbid, I chose to spend a holiday with someone else, then he's the type to turn around and poison my children's minds against me - "your mother would rather be with so-and-so than you...."  
    Yes, friends - his abuse goes ON - even though we are no longer married, even though we no longer live together.  His manipulation continues - and WILL NOT cease until he is six-feet-under.  This IS painfully hard to accept - but I'm out of energy.  There comes a point in time where you no longer have the desire to change things that simply cannot be changed.  
    So, I've sacrificed my ideas of what I'd like for Christmas to be, for the last decade.  It's supposed to be give and take - this, I know and this, I've been taught in childhood.  My parents aren't eligible for POTY (parents-of-the-year) but they DID teach me to have good manners, and consideration for others.  They DID teach me the true meaning of the holiday - that it was to spread joy, kindness and happiness.  Instead, I've learned to DREAD not only Christmas but every holiday, too!  No, it's not fair - I know this, you all know this - anyone with a shred of human decency and a sense of compromise knows this - but it is what it is.  He's not budging.  And because he won't budge or so much as meet me halfway, I have to celebrate holidays with my family on days that aren't the actual holiday - adding MORE stress to my already full plate.  And it is NOT easy to get the kids to come with me to 'family gatherings' that don't include their father - he's done enough moaning, groaning and bitching and complaining to them over the years - and if he's not invited, they're quick to refer to the 'WWDD' (What would Dad do?) way of thinking.  And if Dad wouldn't want to go, neither would they.  So, that's ANOTHER battle - I guess it's a good thing that my birthday is conveniently located five days post-Christmas - I can very well play the 'it's my birthday, I want my kids with me' card.  This usually works. 
    This year, I INSISTED upon doing Christmas Eve at my house.  Oompa, after some resistance (she wouldn't be Oompa without her slew of complaints!) promised to come for Christmas Eve, and then to sleep over and leave early Christmas morning so that she could spend Christmas Day with her other two daughters and the rest of her grandchildren.  
    Both my sisters were invited also - along with their spouses and all of their kids.  Youngest sister had previous arrangements with her husband's family - so she politely declined.  Okay.  I understood that and didn't begrudge her at all.  
    Middle sister came up with every excuse in the book before saying no, too.  What were her excuses?  Let's see...her husband is working for the first half of the day.  Oh, and he's allergic to cats! (he's not had any problem with the cats when he's come to my house in the past - my cats don't want to be around the likes of HIM, either!)  Or my youngest niece is bad in the car - a 2 hour drive would be 'too much.'  Yet, there are PLENTY of Facebook posts documenting their MANY family outings - some locations MORE than 2 hours away from where they live.  So, yeah.  Long story, short - she doesn't want to come.  
    So the stage was set, at this point.  Oompa would be there, I'd be doing a Christmas Eve/birthday celebration for J at my house.  She'd see her elder grandchildren Christmas Eve and her littler grandchildren Christmas Day.  I'd be spending Christmas Day at the wasband's, of course.  So now this meant that I wouldn't be seeing my nephew or nieces unless I went to THEM for my birthday - which doubled as an opportunity to give them their Christmas gifts, thus extending the holiday aggravation by a few days - I'd just like for them to be over and done when they're over and done!  
    Most of my shopping was done online - alone, and without much input other than the Son's sending me a link to an eBay auction for two books he'd been wanting to read.  "It's a good deal, Ma....you can get it for me for Christmas!"  I didn't think twice.  I bought the books.  Both of my kids are at the point where it's HARD to shop for them - they're getting quality over quantity, a couple expensive things and a few smaller things as 'fillers.'  They are the only ones I really splurge on.  I DID get for the wasband and his wife, and I did get for the REST of his children - I ensured NO one was left out - because although two are adults, one is not even his child, (it's his wife's son) I didn't have the heart to exclude anyone - there was something under that tree for EVERYONE who would be around my dinner table for Christmas Eve.  No questions asked.  Did they bring me anything?  No.  They did not.  They, just as always, took me for granted - they came, ate all my food, made a mess in my house, and left with full stomachs and a trunk full of gifts they'd received - my mother got nothing from them, I got nothing from them.  All we received was a sheepish "didn't realize we were exchanging!"  I could hear my brain going, then...Maybe not, you ass, but common sense dictates you go to someone's house for the holiday - you BRING something!  Even a freakin' dessert platter or pastries or whatever - it doesn't have to be wrapped!  Because the ONLY reason I want YOUR rude, ungrateful, obnoxious ass in my house is because it means I can have my children home too!
    I'm NOT going to have an easy Christmas next year, that's for sure - Oompa is flirting with the idea of taking BACK the torch she's passed down to me - and she wants to do Christmas Eve at HER house - which is far smaller than mine.  She'll, of course, invite the wasband and all the kids - but knowing him, he won't budge - he wants ME to do it - apparently I 'do a good job' keeping the family together.  Completely oblivious to the very sad fact that I don't feel as if I've a choice in the matter anymore.  Top this off with J wanting to spend next Christmas with HER family in Massachusetts - she did tell me this BEFORE this year's festivities - but knowing that she won't be here and there is likely going to be MORE bending on my part to keep everyone appeased.  
    How much more bending am I capable of, before I finally SNAP?
    I feel this is enough of my bitching - at least, for this year.  I DO sincerely hope that YOUR Christmas/holidays went smoothly and with a minimal of drama/stress.  It seems to be unavoidable to some - as some families don't understand the concept of 'simple.'  Still, I do hope that everyone's had at least one smile this past Christmas - at least one gift, be it something wrapped with a pretty bow or simply the gift of kindness, friendship or a phone call...whatever it was that made us feel loved.  We are ALL deserving of that joy, even if it was a small amount.  I did have some of this; and for that, I'm grateful.
    I am now headed over to the wasband's to watch the ball drop with my children - J will be working an overnight shift tonight and will drop me off there on her way - then I'll just drive my car back home, as the son has it sitting at his father's house for absolutely no reason at all.
    The next few days, the first three days of 2019 will be filled with NO celebrations, NO festivities, no NOTHING.  On the 4th, we are headed to Disney World and Universal Studios, where we will be celebrating out 10 year anniversary - of the decade we've spent together, 2018 has been the most 'bumpy' year.  And yes, I admit, this past year has unnerved me to my core - but I am going to resolve to continue to better myself as a person, as a wife, a mother, and a friend.  And to shed off the pounds I've re-gained whilst stress-eating all of the Christmas cookies!
    Happy New Year, everybody.  Will be toasting to my AS family tonight at midnight!
    Love,
    - Capulet
  5. Capulet

    Hands not required.

    By Capulet,

    Hello friends,
    My sincerest apologies for my lengthy absence.  Yes, it's happened before and it's likely to happen again, but we all know that I always, always come back to my writing space - I will go through times where I do not really know what to write but as soon as I sit down, I am often hit with a little reminder of how much of a help it is to process things through blogging.  Sometimes it takes a little while for things to start to flow, sometimes I have to get up and return the following day.  This particular entry has been sitting in draft mode for a few days, already, but - finally, it's made its way to you all.
    It has been a very, very long and emotional week.  For those of you who don't know, our beloved kitty has crossed the Rainbow Bridge.  He was an otherwise healthy 8-year-old boy - until one month ago, everything changed for him when he suddenly became paralyzed in his hind legs.  Nearly one month from this discovery, he is gone.  I am still absolutely heartbroken, although with each day, I am comforted a little bit more, knowing he isn't suffering nor is he in pain.  He's probably extremely happy now, having been reunited with his hind legs in the afterlife, and is purring while running, jumping, chasing other animals in the fields of Heaven.  
    We honored our boy's wishes and made the call when he let us know that he was struggling just to stay with us.  We chose to do the euthanasia at home, so that he wasn't having to experience the stress of being transported to an unfamiliar location, especially being as sick as he was.  He was surrounded by people (and his cat siblings) who loved him dearly and at 4:35pm 2/11/19, he passed peacefully in J's arms.
    There is a very noticeable emptiness in the house - our boy was 'the man of the house' and he was ALWAYS present, ALWAYS where we were.  Whenever we had guests - there he was, to 'observe' everything.  He was docile, he was patient, and he was approachable.  Although he was more J's cat than he was mine, (he preferred her presence over mine, although he would sometimes demand that I allow him to climb onto my chest while I laid down) I am taking his passing VERY hard.  I am the one who is home most of the time - and so, I was the one to provide the around-the-clock care, medicate him, clean his litter box messes, transfer him and his bed, food/water dishes and litter apparatus from room to room, keep him company, etc, for the last month.  The day following his passing was especially difficult, for it was finally hitting me - there was nothing for me to do for him, no way I can make him comfortable, he was no longer there for me to open the blinds for so that he could enjoy the natural sunlight.  Just seeing his empty bed and empty food and water dish and rolled-up litter mat would send me into fits of ugly-crying - and even as I write this - I can feel that lump in the back of my throat and the tears begging to fall.  
    I've just ordered cremation vials/pendants for J and for myself.  His ashes will be returned to us within the week by the vet that put him down and handled his cremation arrangements, and we plan to carry a piece of him with us wherever we go - when the pendants arrive, we will fill them with some of his ashes and surely as he's in our hearts, he will also be on our person, even in the smallest way.  It is one way we are made a little bit more okay with his (sudden) departure.  I am also considering a small paw print tattoo, while J, his preferred 'human,' is wanting a more elaborate likeness of his beautiful face tattooed onto her arm, so that when positioned a certain way, it will look as if he's resting atop her chest like he used to do every night.
    Moving along, though, before I really DO ugly-cry some more and have to postpone the release of this blog entry for another day.
    Survivor's Art Group was canceled this month - we had snow on the actual day it was planned for, and there weren't enough confirmed guests when it was rescheduled for a couple days later.  M, the leader,  had sent me the topic of discussion so that I could give things some thought.  Ironically, this would be a 'Helping Hands' workshop/group and since I'd expressed an interest in knowing the topics beforehand so that I could better prepare my responses - so M has helped me to do this, in a sense. There WERE more questions listed than the ones to follow,  but these were the ones that stood out and were what I felt related the most to some things I've been recently dealing with.  The rest, I omitted, but saved for a later time/train of thought.  (And let it be known and understood that my 'train schedule' is AWFULLY unstable right now!  I never know what I am going to end up pondering and when.)
    Name something your hands have helped someone else with that you are proud of. How does it feel when you think about a time when you helped someone?
    I don't think it's my actual, physical hands that actually help others.  Yes, I help physically by giving assistance or even affection when asked - but this is just what's expected of anyone - when you see someone struggling with physical baggage and your hands are free - you help them.  If they need their hand held, you offer yours.  When they ask for a hug, you open your arms.  Other than that, my hands are not my best way of helping others.
    As most of my interactions are online, it's my mind and my heart that does most of the helping.  My voice.  Even if and when it is not my physical voice, as that's not one I am very comfortable using, especially around strangers.  While I do not hear with my ears, I do with my eyes and I respond with my heart where applicable.  I am told I am empathetic, have a very calming presence, a patient and caring disposition.  Lately, I'm not so sure this is the case as each and every one of my senses is being put to the challenge.  Not in small ways, either.  And I truly do wonder if I am indeed helpful.  I believe that no matter how much we help others - ultimately they have to help themselves.  Perhaps we've helped them to reach the point where they're able to.
    I have mixed feelings about my 'help.'  Sometimes it feels good to have been there when I was needed, and sometimes it feels terrible.  Especially having to make the difficult choice to 'help' along my cat's transition into his end-of-life stages, and eventually over the Rainbow Bridge in a humane, loving manner.
    Imagine all that your hands may hold for you, or for others, either materially or energetically. Over time, this may become very heavy and you may have your hands full. Is there anything you are holding that you would like to let go of now?  Describe what you are holding and how it feels to let go of this.
    I have let go of more than one thing, lately.
    The most obvious answer is, of course, my cat's required, continuous care.  I received these questions, ironically, a couple of days before his passing.  While taking care of him, I was also relentlessly researching how to care for cats with hind-leg paralysis.  I'd even joined a Facebook group for people dealing with handicapped/disabled felines and had conversed with a few on what to expect, how can I help him? What can I do?  What toys can I buy him to boost his morale?  Unfortunately, I did not have enough time to apply too many of their suggestions, as the upper respiratory infection soon began to batter away at his reserves.  Both vets we had taken him to were quick to say that his quality of life needed to be considered.  J and I agreed that as long as he wasn't in pain and was doing all of the important things (eating, drinking, eliminating), we were going to let him call the shots - for as long as he was able.  And here I am - browsing the 'net for alternative treatments, etc that would help him to thrive and adapt to his now-new lifestyle.  My plan was - get him strong enough, then help him learn to get around on his front legs - was fully prepared to buy him 'drag pants' (to protect his lower end from rug burn/skin irritation that the dragging was likely to cause) and work with him on his balancing so that he could properly and comfortably position himself  to use the litter box.
    This quickly became an obsession.  I wanted to hear the words 'euthanasia is probably best for him,' less and less.  He wasn't showing that he was in pain....why was this coming out of the vet's mouth, rather than, 'let's try this...'?  
    I felt like I was his biggest advocate; even J had to keep me in check by pointing out to me certain things - 'look at his legs, they're rock solid and it's just a matter of time before the rest of him is affected,' 'he's not eating,' 'he's suffering, even if he's not showing us as clearly...'
    Slowly, I began to see she was right.  I was holding on too tightly, to the idea that I could fix our kitty.  I needed to - not give up - but to step back a little bit and let J decide.  I was not helping him anymore.  Not that we were hurting him, but perhaps those words we'd heard from the vet were indeed the truth - there was nothing under the sun that could be done for him.
    I have also learned that, in general, when there is nothing I can do, then I must stop trying.  It's time to let go and to let things happen as they're supposed to.  It is not healthy for me to stick on this same obsessive path to nowhere.  There are more ways than one to learn this very important lesson and I've learned it in many ways recently.  It is not easy for me to let go - not by any means, and NOT with how much of my heart and soul I invest into it in the first place.  
    Think of a time when someone else loaned you a helping hand. What did it feel like to receive help?
    Tricky, this one.  I am not a big fan of asking for help.  Ever.  My mother taught me well - when you ask for help, you had better be readily available when someone asks YOU for help.  It's a tit for tat kind of thing - to ask for help gives someone something to hold over your head.  At least, in adulthood - this is the case.
    But, I don't know if it was always this way.  You see, I don't remember ever asking for help before I was seventeen.  Sure, my parents did mostly everything for me - they cooked, they provided a roof over my head, they bought my clothes, they gave an allowance so I had 'pocket money.'  There wasn't really much I needed 'help' with.  To me, this likely wasn't 'help' - they were doing what they, as parents, do.  What I do for my own children.  I don't look at this as 'helping them,' but as obligatory nurturing, instead.  
    I asked for help twice on the night I was raped.  Once directly, to the man who would rape me instead of helping me.  And the second, indirectly; for it was not even a 'help me,' but instead, a 'can I have a glass of water and can I use your bathroom?'  
    The help came in an unexpected form and was more accepted than asked for - from a kind-hearted stranger, a diner waitress, who, without my asking her to, called me a cab.  I didn't tell her anything - nor did I say anything about what had just happened at the time of my arrival.  My understanding was - you couldn't use a business's facilities without being a customer.  And I might've been somewhat stuck on the fact that she'd done what I asked my rapist to do.  I didn't supply him with the number to a cab, but did intend for him to call a friend to let her know I needed a ride back to where my car was.
    But somehow, this woman knew that something was wrong.  She was very careful not to touch me - even though I was trying my hardest to put on the 'I'm fine,' face; obviously ineffective.  My body language was likely suggesting differently.  When I returned from the bathroom, she handed me the glass of water and a menu, (just in case, I guess) and gently told me that there was a cab on the way, and that the driver was a relative of hers.  I must have been able to mumble a 'thanks,' because she said, 'take care.'  The cab was there shortly after, although it felt like hours and I'd hardly touched the water and still being under the impression that I had to be a customer to have the right to sit at the counter, had mindlessly stared at the menu without intending to order anything.
    The driver came inside and the waitress conversed with him for a brief time before he went back into the car.  On a normal day, I'd likely be able to lip-read the entire conversation.  Not tonight, though.  I did catch, 'when you're ready, he's waiting outside.  Just let him know where you need to go.'
    It didn't occur until later...YEARS later...that she'd also given me something that my attacker hadn't that night.
    A choice.
    Medical attention was likely what I needed, but it wasn't what I had the common sense to say at the moment.  Physically, I was hurting.  Mentally, I was telling myself that I was 'fine' and that the bleeding had already slowed - it would stop eventually.  So would the searing pain in places I'd never felt pain before.  All I could think of at the moment was how angry my parents would be at me if they ever knew about what had just happened - especially since I'd gone to lengths to lie to my father to get him to allow me to go.  In hindsight, I probably didn't even HAVE to lie to him - my father isn't the type to question where I was or who I was with - his usual is, 'have fun and be careful.'  (Which, further thought processing would tell me I failed at that, too.)  And WHAT would they both say, should the police be called?  I was a minor; they'd be called.  And then my parents, in turn, would be called.
    All of these thoughts sending me into instant panic, I gave the driver my home address and he asked no questions.  He drove.  And when he arrived at my Dad's house, he let me know that the fare was already taken care of, likely by the woman at the diner or it had been an 'off duty' favor.  Either way, no explanation was provided and another 'thanks' mumbled.  
    The help was greatly appreciated, but the choice was what I was more grateful for.  She COULD have called the police, especially if she knew something was wrong.  She COULD have told her family member to take me to the hospital, likely closer to the diner than where I lived.  She COULD have done so many things differently - just as I could have, too.  She chose, though, to allow me to make the choice between going to a hospital or going home.  What I wouldn't give, today, to thank both of these kind people for giving me what I needed at the time, no questions asked.
    This still scares me when I find myself needing help, whether it's with something simple - like taking out the trash or other household chores.  Or when I'm grappling with those deep, invasive thoughts.  My first notion is to make it clear that it's something I'll eventually finish (chores) or figure out on my own (thoughts) - but I never, EVER ask for help with these things.  J will attest to this, and often scolds me for taking things on by myself.  My usual response is, 'Well, if I want it done right, I have to do it, myself!'
    But I cannot and still will not ask a stranger for help; the biggest reason for this is obvious.  Even today, I am very, VERY choosy with who I ask for help.  J is my first and (I tell myself) ONLY option.  If it's not possible, I'll approach the Son.  I refuse to ask my parents for help - although my mother will offer it verbally and although she'll not say 'and in return, I want....' I will always know it's coming and she will always hold whatever it is that she's helping with over my head.  My father seemingly offers it freely and without strings, but I've never asked him for anything.  And it is only in desperation that I accept help - and even so, I am uneasy in doing so.
    I'm just not comfortable admitting the need for help - I know, in reality it is not the case, but my own, stupid brain tells me that to do so is an admission of weakness.  I am quick to let others know that there's nothing wrong with asking for help - and I believe this.  It's just, with myself, there is a barrier, a strong, almost impenetrable one - and that annoying voice in the back of my head, 'Capulet, you must deal with it yourself.  If you can't, go to J, but you MUST try to figure out your own shit!'  
    If you could reach out with your hands and take in everything you have ever wanted for yourself, what would your hands reach for?
    Not sure there's any material thing that I could physically reach out for that I want right now - other than my cat being alive and well, which is obviously unrealistic.  Aside from a million (or two or twenty million?) bucks, there's really nothing I want for as far as the material things or the money to pay for it all.  
    No, what I want is more those things nobody can see, the things nobody can give me.  I want to be normal, but don't know how that's possible, as for me, my definition of the word was tainted VERY early on in life.  What if THIS is all normal, based on what I've already seen?  
    I'd LOVE to have been left unscathed by life's ugliness.  I'd love to not understand heartbreak, trauma and its effects, loneliness, depression.  There are times where I wish I were the perfectly-formed person - the one who has it all - but there is NO 'all' without the bad, is there?  An 'all' good just doesn't exist.  Not for me, not for anyone. 
    Air.  That's all my hands are going to reach for.  Maybe some understanding.  Maybe wisdom.  Maybe motivation.  All of those things that are unseen to the naked eye, but would make sense of everything at the same time.
    So yes, I'd most likely reach for clarity.  Not just with myself, but in everything I've ever questioned in life.  
    In closing, this is the gist of what I've been struggling with this week.  A whole lot of everything and nothing.  My search for additional purpose continues - I did have a temporary, very important one for the last month - my fur baby's care and medical needs - but now that he is gone, so is that particular purpose.  
    I am well aware that one adopts many, MANY different purposes in the course of their lives.  I know I have great purpose here, and that is not in any way diminished nor will it ever be.  I love being here, I love this site, and love ALL of you.  It just seems when one alternate purpose disappears or is cut short, it is very, very hard to see what still remains as we grieve that loss. That being said, I wish to thank everyone who has reached out and who has sent me kind messages and who has allowed me to feel what I was feeling without judgement or criticism.  There was an outpouring of support, both before and after my beloved cat's passing, and I will NOT forget this.   
    On a positive note, amidst all of last week's insanity, I've submitted one college application for this coming fall's semester - to the local university where my son is now a student.  I paid to have my transcripts sent over to them and I am now waiting for a response.  The next step will be to meet with the Dean of Transfer Admissions - and this will hopefully happen soon.
    I am trying to remain focused on moving forward with life, because this is, above all, what we must ALL do whenever we're knocked down or otherwise delayed, be it through loss, or any other significant life event.  It is important to pick ourselves up, to re-emerge, to re-focus, and to keep going.  And this is something we survivors have to learn to do - not just once or twice, but SEVERAL times as we continue on our healing paths.
    I am hoping everyone is doing well, or at least as well as they can possibly be.  I am sending my love and thoughts.  Be good to yourselves - this is not something I say easily as it's something I am also having to remember to do for myself.
    Love and light.
    - Capulet
  6. Capulet
    Hello all,
    Apologies for not having been around lately.  I'm still here at least once a day; checking boards and my inbox, in case anyone's said 'hello.'  (hint, hint.)
    So, I do have a few updates for you all. 
    I won't get into too many of the weight loss details, but that's still ongoing, I've dropped 20 pounds and there's still quite a way to go!  But being able to bend and cut my toenails without looking like a circus contortionist is fantastic!  Oh, and I can finally fit inside a regular-sized bathroom stall and I don't have to wait for the 'handicap accessible' stall...you guys know what I mean, the biggest stall that you can find in almost every bathroom.  Mind y'all, I always could 'fit' into those half-stalls, but man, twisting and turning to take care of/clean/wipe certain areas wasn't an easy feat...
    On that topic, I haven't bought new clothes yet.  My old clothes are starting to get baggy on me, which is a nice thing to see but pretty soon, I'm going to have to get things a size or two smaller.  I started with underwear last week and am loving my new granny panties!  (I'll always still wear full briefs, I don't think any weight loss is going to change my attitude regarding the butt floss some people prefer - I'm going to be 40 this year, that butt-floss ship has sailed)...
    I also bought myself a new XBOX with my birthday money.  My birthday was months ago, but my old XBOX decided that it didn't want to recognize wireless connections anymore.  So my son called Microsoft to attempt to troubleshoot, but the fella on the other end had him reset the console to factory settings (basically wiping the whole thing out) in attempts to fix the problem.  All that did was render the console obsolete because in order to re-install games onto it, we have to have an internet connection.  They wanted me to pay $135 to have it fixed, so I just surrendered my birthday money, plus a little extra toward a brand-spanking-new XBOX.  And for the last several days, I've been playing GTA V.  (If you think I have a potty mouth, you should hear the language coming from THAT game!)  
    Okay - moving along...
    Most of you know that I have a problem with religion.  I don't understand it.  To me, it's just a set of rules that apply to only a select/elite group of people who believe they're right about whatever it is they believe is going to happen to us all when we leave this world.  Did you know? The Catholics are right about theirs, the Jews are right about theirs, the Christians, Buddhists, Islamics, Hindus, Slavs, etc are all right, too.  Here's my thinking - we're all headed to the same place after we depart this one, and EVERYONE can't be right!  If you ask me, I think the Atheists are right - you just gotta be a good person, the best kind of person you can be, and you're golden.  Sticking with that.
    So, holidays in general, especially the religion-based ones, are very rarely seen by me as anything other than an opportunity to enjoy some good food and family or friends.  I always end up feeling badly that I don't even think about the real reasons behind the Easter or Christmas...but then I remember that fact that no one ever feels the same about them and I don't feel so badly anymore. 
    It seemed fitting that I'd post a little blurb here today.
    I woke this morning at around 9:30; I was having some weird-ass dreams.  Something to do with one of the past Hell's Kitchen contestants trying to jack my wallet.  (As if I had anything in it!)  After I thoroughly checked the house for the thieving contestant and confirmed my wallet and it's contents were still in my possession, I sat down at my computer.
    I started thinking about how as a kid, my mother used to dress us in those god-awful Easter dresses with the equally as ridiculous bonnet/hats and we'd go to church before ending up at my grandmother's house for dinner.  My grandmother wasn't the best cook.  In turn, my mother isn't the best cook, either.  Her forte is cookies - she does well with the holiday baking, that's something she enjoys immensely, and partially why she's always on Weight Watchers.  
    My grandmother, though, was second generation Sicilian.  (I'm not even sure I'm correct using the 'second-generation' term; what I mean by this is HER parents were born in Sicily, Italy and came to New York before she was born.)  She was a gem of a women, although impoverished, had nothing and raised three children (my mother, aunt and uncle) on potatoes, eggs, and bread.  She didn't know how to cook anything unless it was eggs or pasta.  And when serving pasta, they had what was called Sicilian Meatballs, she used to plop peeled hard-boiled eggs into the sauce (or as she'd call it, 'gravy') and say that those were their meatballs because she couldn't afford the meat.  
    When I was a kid, we'd have real beef meatballs, but old habits die hard.  We were introduced to the hard-boiled eggs in the gravy when we were kids and every year on Easter, we'd have one meatball (a real one) and an egg in our pasta.  Gravy on top.  I know it sounds nasty, but when you're introduced to these "weird" eating habits as a kid, you're kind of doomed as an adult to introduce to your own family and friends these little culinary inventions.  I'll never forget when my kids looked at me as if I were crazy (I KNOW I am, I left that one wide open, so...shhhh!) when I asked if they want an egg in their sauce.  So I never did again.  
    I have to also mention that whenever I try to remember holidays when I was a kid, every single memory is tarnished; he was always, ALWAYS there.  My uncle, the priest.  As he was my grandmother's son, it's hard to cut him out of these memories.  He was always a presence; he lived in the same house.  I will admit to being adequately blocked-off so much, that I didn't mind him being around.  It was just a way of life at that point, an instance where I didn't have a choice.  It was one of those things that couldn't be helped, because wherever Grandma was, there he was, too.  In hindsight, I can certainly say I ignored the little things.  He constantly smelled like sweat and rotten farts, he had that birthmark on his hand that I didn't like, little things like those were ignored because the younger version of myself simply didn't know how to express or further process my reasons for hating him.  But anyway, he used to cook, (not very well, either) and since HE was a slightly better cook than his mother, our holiday dinners were hyped-up by my mother, his sister...it was usually "Uncle So-and-So is making a lamb for Easter," or "aren't we so excited to have Uncle So-and-So's turkey for Thanksgiving?"  As my grandma got older and older, he took over more and more of her cooking duties until she stopped preparing food completely a year or two before she passed away.  And I know I've previously mentioned that when she passed, a switch within was flipped.  I realized how much I hated this man, and now I feel as if all of my previous holiday celebrations were, well...fake.  
    I'm not even sure this makes an ounce of sense.  So I'll stop here.
    Just because I have an issue with religion-based holidays doesn't mean that you all should, too - we have different likes and dislikes...for me, it's all about the food and the chocolate and spending time with my children and watching them eat the things they love, but for others, it's going to have a completely different meaning.  I accept that and respect that.  
    So, in closing - enjoy your day, friends!  Enjoy the food, if you're partaking.  Enjoy the company, if you'll be with people you love and trust.  Or, enjoy yourselves if you've got plans to spend the day alone - do something wonderful for yourselves, you're worth it!  Either way, enjoy today, in any way you can.
    XOXO 
    - Capulet 
     
  7. Capulet
    ***Please skip this if you're generally uncomfortable with talk of periods, bleeding, medical procedures involving the female reproductive system.  I'm trying to make this mild and non-triggering but you just never know.  So proceed with caution!***
    Okay, guys, I'm nervous.  
    Ain't gonna lie, I'm seriously trying to swallow the lump in the back of my throat, with my new doctor's name on it.  If the roles were reversed, I'd probably be the one saying, "it'll be all right, it's gonna be uncomfortable for a few minutes, but then it'll be over with...your health is more important than being nervous or scared for a little while..."  But when it comes to applying these pearls of wisdom to myself, it's an entirely different ball game.
    I don't want to get into extreme detail about my female woes; some of these details are just plain disgusting, so in summary - when I have a regular period, it's not pretty.  Not that monthly menses ever is, but mine are absolutely ridiculous.  And since having my children, they seemingly became worse.  And so when my daughter was young, I consulted with a local 'vagician' (we may thank my darling daughter for this alternate, creative term for a gynecologist - it's seemingly stuck and I now refer to these doctors as 'vagicians' only) and she put me on birth control.  Obviously, my reasons for being on BC is NOT to prevent pregnancy, as for the last ten years, I've had relations with only a female and I'm not worried about conceiving.  My reasons for starting the pill was to regulate/control monthly periods.  And for the last several years (I want to say five or six years) the pill I was taking daily was working BEAUTIFULLY.  I wasn't HAVING a period.  I'd take this DELIGHTFUL little white pill every day and I spent more on the prescription than I did on Tampax.  And my GOD, it was the best, BEST thing, EVER... 
    But I ran into a birth-control snafu last year.  Almost exactly a year ago, in fact, right smack in the middle of my move from New York to Pennsylvania.  In the midst of the move, I forgot to take a pill.  It might have happened twice.  This wouldn't be the first time I've forgotten to take a pill, but it was the most unforgiving, indeed.  I tried to get back on track, but since messing up once or twice, I began to experience spotting.  This wasn't the once a week kind of spotting - this was more like every single fucking DAY kind of spotting.  It increased with activity, too.  Then, when I thought it had stopped, it would start again within a day or two.  I couldn't catch a break...this went on for literally months.  And to top it off, I wasn't near my regular vagician anymore.  And my insurance was no longer the same, and we were in the process of changing everything over....and I didn't have a CLUE where to go in my new surroundings.  I kept telling myself - it'll correct itself...just give it time...
    When it continued, I stopped taking the pills, thinking that maybe my body needed a 'reset.'  I had enough for the next six months, and so I threw away the "pill wheel" I was working on at the moment and planned to start again at the start of my next period two months ahead - I'd allow my body to have a normal (abnormal) cycle, then I'd start taking the BC the following month.  Hopefully I'd get things 'fixed.'
    My spotting stopped.  EVERYTHING stopped.  
    I got a regular period a month later and was reminded once again, WHY I became so reliant on these BC pills.  Still, knowing that I'd go back to my pill-taking regimen that I knew would eventually control it, I endured it.  I loathed every minute of it, I envisioned throwing my uterus, my cervix, my fallopian tubes, everything involved in the female reproductive system, out the window - what the hell did I need 'em for, anyway????  I'm almost 40, I'm DONE with baby making.  I don't need my eggs anymore. I could sell them.  I'd donate them if I could.  But I certainly don't need one released every month anymore, there's NO way they're going to ever be fertilized.  So I grumpily went through that time of month, every single day swearing up and down every time I went to the bathroom to remove and replace a saturated tampon.  The first couple days of a period (while not on BC) are usually crampy in general - days 2-4 are the heaviest and then it will taper off on the fourth or fifth day.  Usually.  
    The following month came along.  I started the pills again on day one.  Of course, I had another ridiculous period but this was to be expected.  It lasted the usual 4-5 days.  And now because my body had to become re-acquainted with these pills, the spotting was back.  But upon looking up the side effects of this medication, I knew to expect that, especially for the first few weeks.
    But then the weeks became months.  I'd been waiting patiently for my body to 'take' to the pills again, I hadn't forgotten to take any, I'd been taking them every morning.  Yet, the spotting never stopped.  And, again, with increased physical activity, came increased spotting.  Again, I felt that I couldn't catch a break.  My uterus hated me and I didn't know why.  My J had been saying for weeks already, "I think it's time to get checked out." I'd been saying, "yeah, it'll correct itself, that's what it says online!"  But deep down, I knew it probably wouldn't, it would have already if it was ever going to.
    So, this prompted my visit to the vagician two Mondays ago.  J made me the appointment and although I didn't want to go, I begrudgingly went.  Although I understand that at this point, something had to give.  Prior to visiting this new doctor, I once again stopped taking the pills and discarded whatever was left in that month's supply - since I knew that stopping was likely the only way to stop the spotting.  And it did.  Leads me to believe that the pills simply aren't working for me anymore.  Or something else is going on with me that is causing these pills to be obsolete.
    The doctor gave me my (two years' overdue) pap, did the breast exam...we then discussed the pills I'd been taking and he suggested the depo shot - once every three months...won't have to remember to take any pills, I will just have to remember to go in every three months for a new shot.  Which I'll gladly do if it helps manage the monthly discomfort.  
    "I'd also like to send you for bloodwork."  He said, "Just to make sure your hormone levels are okay and if the shot is indeed the best option for you."
    "Sure."  (Now I'm NOT good at bloodwork in general - that's another blog for another day - but in short, needles being anywhere in my inner elbow makes me panic, my BP to spike and overall, I lose my shit...I instead direct the phlebotomist to the back of my hand where my level of anxiety over bloodwork is usually lessened - and if they can, they'll oblige.)
    "And I'd also like to schedule a mammogram..."  I knew this was coming.  Bring on the 40's, bring on the obligatory booby-squishies every year.  This isn't as invasive as having paps, though, on a scale of 1-10, ten being the most uncomfortable, I'd put annual mammos at number four and paps at a nine.  
    "Yep."  I've got a cousin who DIED at age 41 due to breast cancer.  So this is something I KNOW I'm not going to fuck around with.  So the mammogram appointment wasn't as concerning as what he'd want next.
    "Okay, and then I'd like a trans-vaginal ultrasound...to check for fibroids."
    Hooooold the phone...what?? I must have looked at him funny because he further explained that in order to confirm that the depo shots were the best form of BC, he had to run some tests and make sure that my abnormal periods (when I had them) were not being caused by any other condition.  I guess that made sense.
    I left the office.  Went straight to the lab, got my blood drawn from the back of my hand, as requested.  Check!!!  
    Then the radiology building was across the way - dropped in over there, made appointments for the ultrasound and the mammogram for later on that week.  Check!  
    I went home feeling, gee, I accomplished a lot in one day - it was a nice feeling.  For a little while.  I then spent the next few days dreading the ultrasound and wanting it over with.  The ultrasound and mammogram were scheduled as back-to-back appointments and so they too would be dealt with in one combined visit.  I agonized over the ultrasound more, naturally, mostly because of the location of this particular test, as well as it being an internal exam to boot.
    Surprisingly, when the day came for the mammogram and ultrasound, I would discover that although the ultrasound is indeed a bit invasive, it was NOT as uncomfortable as the pap I'd had in the doctor's office.  The technician was a female.  She gave me a sheet to cover myself with and treated me with professionalism, respect and considering the nature of the test she was about to perform, her demeanor was overall calming.  I needed this.  I'd put the Ultrasound at a six or seven, based on this.
    Went home proud of myself for having done everything asked of me at this point.  All done!!!!!  And I'd managed to deal with it all, process it all, as well as bring myself to these appointments without having to be dragged - may not seem as big an accomplishment to most, but for me, it's big.  I've been told I need to follow up with my primary care doctor because my BP was found to be 'elevated' (gee, I wonder why) and I'm also due for a regular wellness check with a new doctor - one that I do have as appointed by insurance company, but also one I've not met yet.  
    Later, though.  This isn't a priority right now.  It SHOULD be, yes, but it's not.  A dentist visit is also on the horizon - and the same situation applies - I don't have one of those, either!  I'm pretty sure I'm going to get scolded for the shape my teeth are in and the fact that I've not had a cleaning in five years.  I don't do very well with the dentist, either but I'm guessing this is common among survivors and non-survivors alone.  It's something I'll work on, eventually, I guess....but the best way for me to deal with these medical things is one at a time.  Piece by piece.  Little by little.
    And apparently, the vagician is not finished with me, yet.  
    He called on the same day I had my ultrasound...several hours later, in fact.  J spoke to him on the phone, there was a lot of 'okay, so when can she come in for that?' as well as other things that ultimately meant to me that we weren't as finished as I thought I was.  J hung up and then told me that he had called to say that the results didn't show any existing conditions (which is a good thing) but he still would like to determine why I have abnormal periods and rule out endometriosis as well as a couple other things that I really didn't care enough to ask for clarification on.  I'm stuck on what he said first - he now wants to do a biopsy/DNC before I get my next period as a final test prior to prescribing the depo shot, which would need to be administered on the day my next menses begins.  I'd likely feel some period-like cramps and some discomfort for a few days after the procedure, but he'd be able to run some further tests...
    ...a biopsy.  I don't even like THAT word.  A sample..??  Fine.  A specimen?  Ehhh, that's fine too.  A BIOPSY???  Are you TRYING to give me a heart attack or is that a natural reaction to the word for everyone else too??
    "Oh, hell, no," was the first thing I said when J finished relaying the message to me.
    J's saying she'll go with me and hold my hand through this but even so...what?  Why can't you just go by what you're seeing in the bloodwork, the ultrasound and just give me the stupid shots????  I know what a DNC is and I don't want that shit, I don't want to relinquish a piece of my uterine lining, my cervix, I want it all to stay where it is and where the good Lord intended for it all to be.  I did the bloodwork they asked for...that came back fine.  I did the mammogram, which although uncomfortable, I knew was necessary.  And then I did the trans-vaginal ultrasound which came back showing nothing concerning.  Why can't we leave me alone, now????   
    So while I went to the first appointment on my own and to the lab on my own and finally to the mammogram and ultrasound on my own, this is increasingly becoming an appointment I have to be dragged to.  And J is willing to do that, for she's more worried about this shit than I am.  The appointment is currently set for next Tuesday, but we realized that J has to work on next Tuesday and likely wouldn't be able to make sure I show up at the doctor's office to have this procedure done.  She knows as well as I do that I'm more likely to say, 'screw it...I'm not coming."  And so she asked me last night for the doctor's phone number - she would reschedule for three days later - for Friday next week, since that's her day off.  And she'd go with me and we'd go to lunch afterwards.  It all sounds great but I'm stuck on what the procedure entails, I can't see past that right now.
    So after I moaned and groaned about all of the above for a half-an-hour last night, J eventually said: "Sometimes we just have to put on our big-girl panties and go do what we need to do..."
    Me, in the middle of my meltdown:   "But how am I gonna put them on if he keeps asking me to take them OFF?"
    I got the "only you" head shake, followed by the much-needed laugh.
    Yeah, only me.
    For now, I'm trying not to agonize over this.  I seriously would like for one appointment to STAY one appointment.  None of this, 'let's get some labs' or 'let's check this out' or 'let's take a look at that' shit.  If it's not broken, don't fix it.  That's always been my motto, and deep down, I DO know that things break for unseen reasons and they have to be 'investigated.'
    Never said I liked it, though.  
    And if this is all a preview of what life after 40 looks like, I've got some adjustments to make when it comes to stepping out of my comfort zone when it comes to medical stuff.
    Still nervous.  Still more scared than I'll ever be able to verbally admit to anyone.  But I'm also working on being honest with myself with what I'm feeling, as well as with others who ask me what's going through my mind at any given time, rather than shrug it off and say 'nothing.'  And writing these things down is the most effective means of doing that...so thank you in advance if you've made it this far.
    In closing, I hope that my American friends have a safe, happy 4th of July!!!  I'll be using the holiday as a distraction from the events that will likely take place next week - it's all I can do right now.  
    - Capulet
     
  8. Capulet
    Hi, everyone.
    It feels like the last couple of months has gone by in a blur.  I'm starting to realize the true meaning of the statement, 'too much time on your hands.'  When I had it, (it being time) my mind wouldn't shut up.  I had so much more to say.  I looked at things sooooo differently.  I'd have TIME to sift through whatever was swimming around in there - now, all that's in there is numbers, formulas, political definitions, social work case studies (hypothetical ones), papers that would be coming due, and the neverending, bottomless threat of that thing called 'exams.'  Never mind those things I USED to think about, those things that warranted deep reflection - it feels like there's no room for it, right now, and I'm not sure I like that.  I'm not sure if after the last three weeks of school is over, I'll have a six-week reprieve from all those things I HAVE to think about and I'll be free to let my mind focus on whatever it is that I've been neglecting, to include this blog - but I'm hoping so.
    Right now, I'm trying to think of what else is new since my last update, which was...a while ago?  I know I've fallen off the blog grid lately, and do apologize to all of those who actually read and enjoy these!   I'm looking forward to my six weeks' break from school - after my last final, school is out until January 21st, when the spring semester starts.  Spring semester will run from Jan 21 - May 5th - and I'm HOPING there will be a couple of snow days that will mean the cancellation of an 8am class that I had no choice but to take - if I wanted fifteen credits, I needed to dip into my major-related electives as the classes that were required were either full or required me to attend evening/night classes.  Definitely wasn't doing that.  I'll be spending as much of that six weeks relaxing and sleeping - two words that have not been in my vocabulary since August.  
    *shudder*
    It's been getting down to the 20's at night.  We've had no significant snowfall here, yet.  Next week, though, may yield different results as the second or third week in November is usually when we see accumulations of more than a mere dusting.  The dusting came along a couple nights ago - but even so, there wasn't much to see, and thankfully, clean off our cars.  It's quite evident - winter has arrived, or at the very least, it's making itself comfortable as it'll be here to stay for the next three to four months.  
    Fall was short - or maybe it just feels that way because I've been too busy with classes to take note of it being a shitty time of year for me.  It was hard not to see the prettiness of it - the daily commute to and from school was, I MUST say, nice, regardless of what the Fall season represents for me.  I just had fifteen minutes in the morning and fifteen minutes in the afternoon when I'd take in all the scenery and TRY to appreciate the genuine, innocent beauty of nature - but for the most part, this year's traumaversary was just - nothing.  I feel like I've had NO time and no thoughts to give to it.  There was still the presence of that looming feeling of dread.  That hasn't wavered at all.  There was a period of time where I was snappy and cranky - but having two exams during my traumaversary week - (one being a midterm) - was the excuse supplied to those who were on the receiving end.  In a way, being back to school has been helpful in keeping my mind from being able to focus on the usual things it does during early October, but I do wonder if this was, in fact, harmful.  
    Might it have been harmful to not really have the opportunity to slow down and reflect and allow the usual traumaversary process to occur?  It's been 23 years, now.  And for each traumaversary, it's been the same.  For the first few years that followed my rape, there was crying and panicking, there was nightmares, flashbacks, there was self-injury, there was depression.  Over time, this has all changed.  The self-injury is no longer an option for me.  Depression comes in bouts - but it's not at the point where it keeps me from functioning on a day to day basis.  I can't say the same for fifteen or twenty years ago, when it was a constant.  I still have that odd dream here and there, I still jolt awake at times, but that is seemingly the gist of it, now.  While I know that I am safe now, that unsettled feeling that arrives every year has not changed.  For the past few years, I've been of the attitude that I'd see what this year's 'bad time' threw at me, and deal with whatever it was.  It's kind of like a batter-up situation in baseball....the pitcher will throw life's little curveballs, and I'll hit them all with whatever I've got.  My turn will eventually end and I'll get another chance at next year's at-bat.
    If I'm thrown a trigger?  Fine...I'd tackle it by identifying it, and then trying to put into words why I was triggered.  To give a trigger meaning and to understand it will give it less strength.  If I'm thrown a nightmare?  Okay.  I'll get out of bed, get a drink of water, and either turn on the computer or go back to bed.  If I'm to face a series of restless nights for no particular reason at all?  Sure, bring it on. It's not like I sleep that much, anyway!
    This year's at-bat, though, has felt like an intentional walk.  There's been nothing thrown, nothing to hit, nothing to tackle, nothing to face.  I wonder, though, if that was me.  Has numbness taken over?  I do feel different, and I don't know how to explain it.  
    I WILL say though, that I'm glad that Fall is in its way out.  The trees are now mostly bare, waiting for the snow to transform the back roads most commonly travelled by into a wintery wonderland.  THAT, too, despite it being a pain in the ass, is pretty.  
    I lied to my T a few weeks ago.  She texted to confirm an appointment, (which ironically was within a week of the date of my traumaversary) and I wasn't feeling that I had anything to say to her, either.  I told her I had a 'terrible cold.'  She said to let her know when I was feeling better and wanted to reschedule.  I told her I would....but my 'cold' hasn't gone away.  In my last blog, I mentioned that she wanted to delve into some of the deeper issues - and I'd tried to contain my excitement.  Don't get me wrong, she's a very nice lady - I just don't feel any differently whenever I walk out of her office.  Honestly, I can't remember having any successful relationship with any therapist, to include the one I had when I was a child and saw again as an adult.  Granted, my last T wasn't a specialist in trauma-related issues, and very quite possibly failed me as a child (which I really didn't fully see until I stopped seeing her for the second time as an adult) and while this would have been a good time and place to discuss 23 years ago with my current T (who DOES have experience with trauma, being certified in EMDR and all), I just didn't want to.  I've had about six sessions with her in total - and we haven't really talked about ANYTHING trauma-related - while she does know from my initial session that I am a survivor of rape and CSA and DV, it's mostly just surface stuff that we talk about in our sessions; my lack of interest/comfort level within social settings, gatherings, etc.  Relationship stuff.  It's never gone beyond that.  I guess my feeling right now is, if it's not broken, don't try to fix it.    
    (Note, by no means am I endorsing the discontinuation of therapy - for some, I know it's a lifeline.  I've just never been able to form a truly successful connection/relationship with a therapist that I felt was able to challenge me.)  
    Another thought to what might be a reason for not being able to feel too much right now starts with the passing of my (potentially very first abuser) uncle on 7/2.  When I went to the wake, it was for my mother's sake - not his.  I remember what I was doing when the text came in.  I was mowing the grass outside, preparing the exterior of the house for my son's birthday barbecue, which would be held a few days after.  Of course, this meant my mother wouldn't be attending, as she now had to bury her brother.  While I told the Oompa that my reason for attending his wake was out of support for her, I had my own reasons for doing so.  I wanted to SEE him dead, that child that still lives within me needed to see for herself that he'd never be able to LOOK at another child again, he'd never be able to lay a disgusting hand (which I did want to see, just to make sure it was dead along with the rest of him) on anyone.  
    One thing, though, that I need to say, first, a tidbit of background information.
    Without getting into specifics, my wife and I hit a bump over the summer.  In hindsight, it was, thankfully, something that was fixable, as it has nothing to do with abuse, infidelity or unfaithfulness, which are our 'dealbreakers' - it was more a matter of us not being on the same page and failing to connect with one another, emotionally, physically, mentally.  She experienced a mental breakdown (she was at the time, undergoing therapy sessions and working on her own trauma, something she'd been delaying for years) and decided to take off for a few days.  We've attended therapy sessions together, and since then, have been able to reconnect on all levels, and I'm feeling overall a lot better about it.  My relationship is much more safe now than it was over the summer.  
    That being said, at the time of my uncle's passing, she chose not to come with me to the wake and chose that DAY (also the day of my son's birthday) to take off.  As she is one of the very few people who knows and understands why I disliked this man, this hurt me very deeply.  
    It didn't even matter that when I arrived at the funeral parlor, my uncle's partner stopped me from going up to the coffin, and proceeded to tell me that it was among my uncle's final wishes that I not be there or pay him a final visit.  I did see him from a distance, though.  Looking as pathetic as he's always looked.  I could not see his hands, I couldn't even spit in his face if I wanted to.  Not that I would have, but the temptation to set him on fire and expedite his journey to Hell was VERY great.  He likely knew that, and made sure that it was known that I was to be kept away. 
    But, my wife, being one of the only people who truly could understand my need for closure in this situation, was not there for me, when I had told her many years in advance, that I would need her that day, to keep me grounded, keep me calm, to know and recognize anything that might come up for me during my final encounter with him.  When this day finally arrived, she wasn't there for me to talk to her about things with.  I couldn't even tell her, until she'd come back home a week later, that I was stopped from approaching his coffin and told that I wasn't welcome.  The only reason I was able to attend was likely because the Oompa would have expected all three of her dutiful daughters to be present, regardless of whatever issue they may have had with him.  She'd not told me that he'd specifically requested for me to not be there.  She allowed me to waste my time, and for this, I'm angry with her, too.  (This'll likely come up ten years from now - a slight exaggeration, yes, but also meant to say it won't happen anytime soon.)
    But, see....
    I wasn't safe to allow whatever might have come up - to come up.  My safety net wasn't there.  To deal with this, I allowed the numbness to consume  me.  I felt nothing, being told that I wasn't to approach his body.  I felt nothing, seeing him from six feet away.  I felt no sadness, no anger, no fear, no anxiety.  I felt nothing at all.  Not even relief, which I'd hoped I'd feel.  
    Although my wife has come back home and we have spent a fair amount of time getting back on track, this has stayed with me.  I have had to push this hurt aside, and I've had to forgive her.  I've had to accept that her breakdown is the primary reason behind the choices she'd made, to shut me out and to shut out everyone around her.  When someone you love does that - it's certainly not easy to stick around, but it's what I've chosen to do.  I've defended her furiously to those who have come to me with anything negative, I've shut them all down, and although my heart still hurts, I have remained 100% focused on her happiness and contentment and on whatever it takes to strengthen our relationship.  That's me doing my part.  I'm glad to see that she is making and has made some life changes as well, and mutual communication has been reestablished.  I know that in time, the hurt will lessen, and I'll be able to look back at all of this and recognize it as one of those bumps that I'm sure EVERY long-term relationship experiences at some point.  
    I was perhaps still in that 'it's not a good time for me to fall apart' mindset when it came time for my traumaversary to make its yearly appearance.  Although my wife and I were already doing much better when this year's October 4th came and went, that numbness from the summer has retained its hold.  The day came and went, and I felt nothing.  It does help that I've also had school to contend with, too - I've NEVER been this busy in my life.  Even raising kids has been a piece of cake compared to having to write a five-page paper on Politics!  
    Maybe next year's at-bat will be different.  This year, though? I'm not thinking anything is going to develop.
    I'm not even sure how much sense I'm making at the moment, but, ah - I tried to put it out there in the fashion I'm most used to.   I also wanted to try and explain why I've not been myself lately - or in recent weeks, less like myself than you may be used to seeing.  You're all likely used to my extremely lengthy novellas talking about my feelings - and I promise, I'm trying to find my way back to tapping into those.  I've admittedly been staying focused on others more than I have myself, and while that's not normally recommended, it's sometimes necessary, at least for a little while.  The only way out of this funk is known only to oneself, and I'm likely having to wait until I'm feeling emotionally safe enough for that numbness to dissipate.  When that happens, I'm sure it won't be pleasant, but I know I have somewhere to put it all, if needed, whether it's here or in therapy.  I've not given up on either option.  
    I'm still around, though, friends - I've not disappeared and I don't plan on going anywhere.  I just feel as if while there may be a lot to say and I've got more to talk about than I want to admit, nothing's flowing.  There is a block in place, and I'm not sure what will remove it and when.  I'm good when it comes to talking about what others may be going through, but when it comes to myself and my feelings, I've managed to keep most of it locked away for a little while.
    I am, though, practicing some self care on this fine Wednesday afternoon, though, and do think that in choosing to write a little bit about what's gone on in recent months, it's helped me to understand and process and explain some of why I'm feeling so emotionally constipated right now.  I am hoping I've successfully conveyed it to you all, as well. I have been feeling like I owed you all a little bit of a rundown, as you've all always been kind to me.  I'm always so overwhelmed by the support of the friends I've made here.  You know who you all are.  I'm SURE there have been a lot of 'WTF?' moments, and for those, I do apologize.  
    Maybe when the semester finally ends, this will change, because then there will be a six-week period of time where I'll not have to focus on my GPA. I've got those lovely holidays to look forward to, and if you've followed this blog, you're already well aware of the family drama and bullshit that usually goes hand-in-hand with the upcoming holidays.  🙄
    Anyway, as I'm starting to feel the growly stomach and lunch is calling, I'll stop writing for now.  
    Before I go, I'm wanting to say that I'm sincerely hoping you're all doing well!  For those of you who are struggling - I hear you.  I may not have been posting too much lately, but I still hear you and I hope you will all be reassured that I still care very deeply for all of you.  It is hard to remind others about the concept of self-care, especially when you, yourself, realize that you must do the same, but I do strongly encourage you all to not lose sight of those little things you can do to make yourself feel a little bit better, your day a little brighter, your life a little more positive.  Look every day for that that one small thing that makes you smile, and make it happen. ❤️ 
    I already do feel a little better having done something I've always enjoyed - and that is to sit here and write to you all.  I also did something I've never done - not once this semester - and I've taken the day off today.  I skipped my classes this morning, because I wanted to.  Now I'm trying to ignore the voices telling me that I'll regret having missed today's Government lecture -  but at least I'll eat something while doing that.
    Later on, I'll be going to get a coffee.  Tomorrow, I'll find something else.  
    The little things do add up!   
    Until the next update - which will hopefully be soon, I'm sending an endless supply of hugs!

    - Capulet
  9. Capulet

    Hold the bandwagon!

    By Capulet,

    Here's the update I promised you all in Monday's post-Super Bowl blog entry. 
    It was either going to be a rant or a rave.  See, I've been down this road multiple times.  The rant will likely come in a future entry, when I've done everything right and the numbers aren't going down anymore.  That'll likely happen when I've plateaued and it's time to incorporate more physical activity into my daily routine.  For today, we've been hit with Winter Storm Liam, so I see some shoveling in my very near future.  The winter won't last forever, though.  If it would WARM up soon, we'll be able to go for walks by the lake we live near - something.  I've got a basketball hoop set up in the driveway for my daughter - next year, she'll be joining her school's basketball team.  While she can sink a basket more often than I can, she needs some work on her dribbling and her defense.  So, I'll probably lose the last few stubborn pounds by teaching her some fancy footwork.  But in order to be able to MOVE enough to do so, I need to drop some weight.
    A second aside for a small inside family joke...when my daughter was asked about her ability in sports in general, she shrugged and said, "I have two lesbians at home to help me."  
    Now, for the rave...
    Ok, so this morning, wearing only my birthday suit and socks to keep my feet from getting cold, I stepped onto the evil scale that had been banished into the bathroom closet since we moved into our house six months ago.  Didn't want to see it, didn't want it to sit there and silently mock me every time I walked past it. Because it did.  I'd see the scale, and immediately flash back to the juicy steak dinner I had the night before.  Doused in gravy, too.  The scale, even though an inanimate, non-living object, knows it too.  I'll bet it just wants me to step onto it so that it can yell at me.  I wasn't giving it that satisfaction, so into the closet it went!  Until last week, I decided to give weight loss another try. 
    A few seconds after I stepped on, I was pleasantly surprised to see that I am now TEN POUNDS LESS than when I weighed myself last Wednesday.  Ten pounds, EXACTLY!  In ONE week.  
    There was no eating out, no fried foods.  I did binge on chips and (oven baked, homemade) wings on Super Bowl Sunday, but I had my reserve points to fall back on.
    Side note:  WW has a point-system.  Point values are attributed to foods, so if you have an 'oops' moment and go over the number you're allowed per day, there are some 'grace' points they give you for the week. 
    I calculated and logged everything I put in my mouth with my trusty app.  I drank at least two 64-oz bottles of water for the last few days.  Overall, I do feel better.  I'm bored stupid with my food choices, though, I do have to admit.  I'll gladly talk about these things in depth with anyone if they want to discuss privately.   
    "You're shittin' me, right?" I'm talking to the scale, that no longer looks like something out of Fangoria.   It almost looks pleasant.  Who the hell calls a scale 'pleasant?'
    I step off.  Back on.  Same number.  More talking to myself.
    Guys...I CAN do this!
    "You and me are going to be friends, now," I say to the scale as for the first time in forever, I didn't feel the need to chuck it out the window.  Then I'm talking in the high pitched voice that I usually reserve for my orange tabby who usually accompanies me as I move from room-to-room.  "I will say hello to you whenever I use the bathroom.  I will visit you once a week.  If you keep the numbers going down, I may even replace your batteries more often than never!  Keep up the good work!"
    The scale survives another week. 
    And I am back on the bandwagon!  
    - Capulet
  10. Capulet
    Today's been somewhat productive.  
    I probably should be getting ready to wind down and attempt to sleep but instead, my fingertips are tingling; if nothing else, it's a signal that my brain will simply not allow me to sleep until I've said my piece.
    I'll start with this backstory...
    Lately, my fiancee's relationship with her boss has shifted more toward a developing friendship than strictly professionalism.  This woman is J's direct supervisor, but J is also her 'right hand,' she is in a position that is 'above' the other staff members but usually is their go-to person in the event that the supervisor is not available.  Resultedly, J has been working very hard lately - taking more naps after work and is seemingly more physically drained.  There is one other staff member that is in an equivalent position (the left hand?) but he has dropped the ball SEVERAL times - and J's had to pick up a lot of his slack. The supervisor will call J at random times of the day to vent about this, and about work and all the stupid things that the staff does, etc...and she'll also talk about happenings outside of work - specifically about issues she's having at home with her husband and her child...she already communicates with J several times a day about work-related issues - it's probably a natural reaction to call her whenever something personal comes up and she needs a friend.  J is just that type of person.  You can talk to her about anything.  In that sense, she and I are very similar people - perhaps it's one of the main reasons our relationship has been able to flourish and has become stronger than ever.  I absolutely love this about my fiancee.
    Two weeks ago, J's supervisor came here for dinner and drinks and it was my first time meeting her.  I do like her very much, she's very down-to-earth and an overall fun person to be around.  We had dinner and we downed Strawberry Daiquiris like there was no tomorrow.  Additionally, she will be attending a barbecue I am having this weekend - she's J's friend, though - I do not feel, nor do I expect to feel as if I'm 'within this circle.' 
    She recently told J that she's experiencing a large amount of stress at home in addition to at work.  And that she'd like to go for drinks after work one night.  Then, she asked J: "Would Cap mind if you took off with me for a few days and we just stuffed our faces and drank and just forgot about everything having to do with work or life for a little while?"
    J MUST have seen the raised eyebrow when she repeated the question to me.
    "It's not going to happen, don't worry about it."  She said nothing more of it for the rest of the evening. 
    So I pretended it had never been said.  But it DID bother me.  Yes, I DO think Cap would mind.
    Here's the thing....and this was the epiphany that decided to hit me like a fuck-ton of bricks while we were having our weekly cheat dinner at Olive Garden.   The scale was a little bit bi-polar this morning and I'm starting to think it's been malfunctioning for the last three weeks....but yeah, beside the point.  
    Do y'all remember the asshole I was married to?
    Yeah, him.
    Well, while married to his royal highness, I was NOT allowed to have friends.  
    Okay...that isn't coming out the way I need for it to.  He never actually made the statement, "I forbid you to have friends."  No.  His actions spoke louder than his words, even when his words hurt.  
    He casually claimed that he wouldn't mind if I had friends, but he was a firm believer of keeping my friends at a 'healthy distance.'  He made it abundantly clear to me that HE was my friend.  HE was my spouse.  HE was my lover.  HE was the one I went to whenever I had a problem.  And I tried that for a while, I called him my best friend (barf) and I repeatedly tried to convince him that he was it for me, but I don't think it worked very well.  God forbid I wanted to go to a movie with a friend - I'd first have to build up the courage to ASK him to stay with the kids while I went to unwind for a little bit.  There was ALWAYS an argument, but he'd begrudgingly let me go.  And while I was gone, he'd sit, bounce his leg, stew, chain-smoke three packs of cigarettes, go through my emails, check my browsing history, look for ANY signs of my conversing about personal matters with anyone other than him...why?  I wish I knew!  I'd NEVER stepped out on him, I was loyal and faithful to him.  I took care of his children, his house, did his laundry, his ironing, his errands, cooked his meals...and all I wanted to do was go to a movie or to have lunch or dinner with a friend without being made to feel as if I were committing a mortal sin and that the world would come crashing down if I'd actually enjoyed myself.  Eventually it became a matter of 'not being worth it' and I withdrew from everyone.
    He was my person, but I think it's because he FORCED the situation and himself to be my person.  I had NO choice in the matter.  He didn't have any friends, either (I don't think I wonder why, anymore) and so when you have two friendless people under the same roof, one who doesn't particularly have anything to say unless it's mean, derogatory, vulgar or a request for sex, it's a surefire recipe for disaster.  
    When he became seemingly uninterested in hearing what I had to say anymore, I began to withdraw...I know I've said this before.  This seemed to make him unusually pleased - because if I wasn't talking to HIM about the matters that still bothered me, I wasn't talking to ANYONE.  And if it wasn't being talked about, it no longer existed.  At least, in his warped brain, that was the case.
    The only time this changed was when he was done with me and had already moved onto someone else.
    "You should go hang out with your friends," he would say.  "Or if you want to go out with a guy, that's good, too...I'll stay with the kids and spend time with them, you just go have a good time."
    Yeah....'HUH?'
    There was no more 'attention' to what I did online, nor was he behind my shoulder anymore when I had IM conversations.  He just didn't give a shit anymore, because now, he had someone else.  In fact, that was probably WHY he wanted me to do the same.  To justify his own actions, like the coward he truly was.
    So...tonight...J brought up her supervisor again.  It was actually because I sat in the car for 45 minutes before we even got into the restaurant.  The supervisor called J as soon as we pulled into the parking lot.  So I played a few (several) rounds of Candy Crush while they had a lengthy conversation about the problematic staff member they both hated.
    J did apologize for the delay and we went into the restaurant to eat.  She rambled a little bit more about work.  
    Somehow the topic of going out after work came up again.  J expressed that while she didn't feel she needed my permission or green-light to go and be with her friends (right now it's just her boss/friend) and have a good time with them, she felt badly leaving me at home (especially since I'd likely already BEEN home for the day already) and that by going out, she was disappointing me.  She also recently attended another co-worker's housewarming party (with the boss) and had a GREAT time.  She commented on how my face sort of 'dropped' when she mentioned that she'd had plans with her friends.  She asked me if I ever felt angry with her for doing so.  
    I put my fork down.  I honestly didn't know how to answer that.  Because I HAD periodically felt SOMETHING.  It wasn't anger.  But it was significant and VERY hard to explain.
    Have I become my ex-husband???? I am NOT the paranoid, untrusting son-of-a-bit*h that is my ex - I trust J COMPLETELY.  But has his twisted way of thinking somehow become an unreasonable truth, even in a small way?  Was I convinced that I needed to be the only person in her life?  I knew I wasn't - she has her sister, she now has her boss, who has become her friend.  She has me.  Her circle is small, yet it seems huge in comparison to mine.
    To tell her that it didn't bother me at all would be a lie.  And I'm a HORRIBLE liar.  And so I spoke slowly...chose my words as I went along.  
    I told her that I wasn't mad.  Because THAT was the truth.  If there was any anger, it was toward my ex.  Because he's the one who has caused me to feel this way.  It's COMPLETELY his doing.  And now his bullshit was seeping through into my current relationship - a place where such bullshit has NO business being!  I wanted her to enjoy life.  I wanted her to have friends.  I already knew that I wasn't her ONLY person - I don't feel that's the way it should be either - but it was ingrained onto me by my ex - when you're with someone, that's who you spend all your time with.  When you're married, you live ONE life, there's no room to forge additional relationships that may or may not derive from the marriage.  I know this is a hundred percent wrong.  It didn't feel right being on the receiving end of that line of bullshit - and I NEVER wanted J to feel that way - even though purely unintentionally.
    I finally (slowly) told her that if anything, I was slightly envious - because she HAD nearby friends who would call and ask her to go get a drink or to hang out.  I've just gotten SO fucking used to withdrawing from social opportunities, and now people didn't know how to approach me.  Either that, or they knew not to bother trying.  
    While I know I'm not her only, she's my only.  She's the ONLY one I feel comfortable drinking with, talking about the 'deep stuff' with.  And now she's got other people to enjoy those things with.  People who don't necessarily want to include me in their plans.  And almost automatically, that feels like a rejection.  Not particularly by them because really, they've got no reason to invite along someone they don't know.  
    * Side note - I've been working on this, though, on opening myself up to more social situations.  I've told J of the little plans I've got to expand my circle, to somehow break down some of these massive walls that I've build around myself.  I have no secrets from her and she was seemingly excited to hear that I would soon be going back to school, I'd soon be searching for other ways to spend my (too much) free time, and to get involved in SOMETHING that would distract from the loneliness that I've by now accepted as a way of life.  Loneliness that I've learned to like, in a way that is even more difficult to explain, so I'll not try right now.
    "You should," she said when I told her more about things I wanted to do in the near future, "It'll be good for you to get to know people, make some friends.  Go out, have lunch, a drink, enjoy yourself.  And it's okay to do that with someone other than me."
    THAT's when it hit me.  The epiphany, along with the side of parmesan-encrusted zucchini I'd just taken a bite out of and swallowed prematurely.
    And I just blurted out what I said next.  I don't think it was even thought out completely.  It just seemed to be there, waiting to be purged.  
    And out it came:
    "You know, that's the same thing my ex said when he was finished with me and he didn't care about me anymore.  He encouraged me to go out, make friends, have a good time with someone other than him...and now here you are, telling me to do the same thing.  It's what happened just before I lost him completely.  Right before I ended up with no one at all.  And I can't help but be afraid of that happening again."
    Although a moment of blunt honesty, it also felt like a moment of weakness. After saying that, I felt tears well up in my eyes.  I was NOT going to be childish, I was NOT going to cry!  Not in the middle of a fucking restaurant!!!! NO!
    I think it hit her at the same time, too.
    ".........ohhhh."  She nodded.  Her face was silently saying, "Got it."  Then she said she understood....and that it now made sense.  My faces, my reactions to whenever a friend calls her and invites her out, my unintentional interpretation of why SHE was now telling me that it was okay to go out with friends and let loose once in a while - everything.
    I managed to swallow the lump in my throat and told her that it wasn't her fault that I was this way.  It was HIS.  And this was something I now had to add to my list of things I needed to fix....that list of all the shit that's wrong in my life, whether it was taught to me or it was something other circumstances have forced me to learn.  
    She let me compose myself and while she did first assure me that she understood and that this wasn't what she was doing.  She firmly believed that we humans NEEDED more than one person in life.  We NEEDED a more expanded circle.  THAT was the healthy way.  
    And I think I was surprised too...mainly it's the realization of this - I've been divorced for nine years, already.  I've had nine years to 'unlearn' his bullshit teachings.  Yet, my brain is still fucking wrecked by him.  I STILL feel like it's not okay to become emotionally close to other people, even though it really IS.  I still feel like I'm doing something wrong whenever I have a conversation that resembles anything close to enjoyable.  I still see his fat, fucking face in the back of my head, I still hear him telling me that to emotionally invest in other relationships was the equivalent of cheating.  Even something as innocent as a heart-to-heart and a movie was something that would send us to divorce court.  And now it's becoming an evident problem within my current relationship to the point where she feels like she's upsetting ME by wanting 'more.'  
    And I do NOT like this about myself, AT all.  Yet, I can't easily snap out of this funk I seem to automatically enter whenever my significant other wants to go out with friends.
    For a long time, I was fine with J's and my 'arrangement.'  In our old hometown, she knew the same people I knew.  And so whenever I was invited somewhere, so was she.  We were truly a unit.  She'd go to work and when she got home, we'd go to dinner, we'd go bowling, whatever.  We were and still very much are joined at the hip and VERY rarely separated.  It's also worth a mention - she was working in a different job then, and her co-workers were not as much 'friend material' as her current ones.  
    But now, things are changing.  We've moved to an entirely different place.  We BOTH don't really know anyone other than the local bowling crew - the only exception being J's co-workers...she knows and is friends with some of them now.  I do have some acquaintances, maybe even one or two who have the potential of being true friends to us both, given the opportunity.  But when we moved, I've left behind everything and everyone I ever considered to be a friend...I'm feeling as if I'm back at square one and that feeling of being withdrawn is sometimes amplified.
    J is evolving.  That's not necessarily a bad thing, either - she is not the same person she was when we met.  We met here, in fact, if you're just tuning into my blogs and didn't know that - well - now you do.  I'm trying not to panic, as the appearance of a friend in my fiancee's life does not necessarily signal the end of our relationship.  I suppose it just means she's reached the point where she is comfortable being in social settings, while I'm still trying to find my footing.  I just hope that I am able to find it soon - before the misteachings of my ex turn me into the person I don't want to be.   
    This is just an overly annoying, yet significant ingrained fear that I have to learn how to effectively quell. 
    Okay - I think that's about all I've got on the brain tonight.  
    More next time.  Until then, I'm hoping you're all doing well.  
    Peace, love, & light,
    - Capulet
     
  11. Capulet
    I'm not sure which to believe, first. 
    The fact that I received an email from the University that I applied to transfer into this coming fall - at 12:02am in the morning.  Someone was apparently in the office VERY late, despite this coming week being Spring Break...
    Or....
    .....that I've been accepted for the Fall 2019 term and will be working toward my Bachelor's of Science in Social Work.  
    I've previously made this goal of mine known - but until a few nights ago, it was simply that - just a goal.  I knew that there were going to be additional processes behind it.  There were going to be more steps to take in order to make this goal a reality and I am now another step closer - I've decided not to apply anywhere else as my first choice has accepted me.  I'll be submitting the 'hold my place' fee (an amount that's going to be somewhat painful to throw anywhere other than toward this year's heating bill) later this week and I've spoken to my VR counselor asking her for an appointment as soon as she's able.  In the meantime, I'll be shifting focus onto applying for the state grants, for financial aid, and all the other required, headache-inducing, FUN stuff that's needing to be done prior to registration for classes.
    I remember feeling this way, before.  23 years ago, when I held my first college acceptance letter in my hand.  I'm going to college.  I'm in that final stretch of road that lays between being a kid and being someone with a job, a title, a purpose.  
    Little did I know that almost immediately following my entrance into college the first time around, that path would crack and split off into multiple additional directions that I didn't anticipate ever having to take.  It was no longer a straight line for me.  In order to get to where I needed to be, there were now unexpected detours that although I would have LOVED to step over whatever obstacle obstructing my path from A to B, I felt forced into having to take the longer, more unfamiliar route.  Much can be said for changed plans and shattered aspirations but it's always worse when you don't see it coming.  And in an instant - everything that I knew about myself was now gone. Everything I wanted to do - also gone.  My dreams?  Some remained, but they were now cloudy; and this thick murkiness enveloped them all - sort of a message to the 17-year-old me that in order to see these dreams clearly again, I was going to have to wait for the fog to clear, first.
    Yeah, trauma IS that powerful.   
    My assault did not happen on campus.  It did, however, happen four weeks in - when there was still that 'I'm in college,' disbelief.  My toe had been dipped; but there was still much to get used to.  People to figure out.  Lots to discover, including who I was - something that would only become seemingly impossible as time went on.  
    See, when I started college in 1996, I didn't really have a plan.  I wanted to do something with writing.  I thought being a playwright or scriptwriter would be ideal for me, the thought of writing for the stage and screen was an exciting one.  At this point in my life, I had become very shy, very withdrawn.  Perhaps that's one of the 'deaf things' my mother likes to throw forward as a possible reason for any of my 'odd behavior.'  
    On that note, yes, there existed little thoughts that I'd learned to not spend time with.  The thoughts were present but were not considered for rethinking.  Just as soon as one would pop up at a random opportune moment, it would disappear just as quickly.  I remained oblivious (if simply not remembering counts) to the possibility of previous trauma and the aftereffects until I was seventeen.  Until trauma looked me directly in the eye, there was that thought that lingered deep within that there was something wrong with me - based on the behaviors I remember having as a child.  As these thoughts had been forced (by myself, mostly) to sit dormant in the furthest recesses of my mind, I had been plodding along, just taking it day by day.  No one brought any of it up, so in turn, I did not, either.  Any concern surrounding my odd behavior had been dismissed so long ago at this point, and I'd effectively been led to believe that it was my overactive imagination that birthed these thoughts - nothing more, nothing less. 
    Either way, I was a watcher, not a participator.  I watched people from afar, took mental notes of their personalities, they'd sometimes inspire the creation of a fictional character in one of my plays, that I'd write in a spiral notebook since this was way before I had my first computer.  Scenarios played out in my thoughts, and I'd write them down.  I'd then mentally cast my favorite actors and actresses into the roles of my characters.  I didn't consider this a life ambition nor did I think it'd get that far and that I'd be sitting next to Steven Spielberg one day, but it was a thought, it was a goal, it was a direction, even though my brain told me that it wasn't a reasonable one.  There was nothing else that spoke to me - no other career aspiration - perhaps this is because Oompa threw them all at me and said they were good ideas.  Even as a child/teenager, she was forever trying to manipulate me into making choices she wanted me to make and to 'shape' me into what she thought was best, with little consideration for what I wanted or believed.  
    "You should be a teacher," Oompa said to me, once.  "What about for a deaf school?"
    "No."
    "Why not?  You're good with kids.  You're a success story and you could be an inspiration!"
    "NO."
    Yes, I do have a way with children - I'm the favorite aunt, I'm the one who gets on the floor and plays with the kids at family gatherings, but that's generally because I prefer the company of my nieces and nephew in place of their parents and I don't see them as often as I'd like.  However, Oompa was a teacher.  I do NOT want to follow in my mother's footsteps in ANYTHING I do.  While I do sincerely love my mother and DO owe much of my 'success' today to 'early intervention,' I harbor a very deep, hard-to-find-at-times resentment for her - there was much she could have handled differently while raising me.  While there was much she did do, there were also things she neglected - things having nothing at all to do with my hearing disability.  
    At this point, bygones are bygones, and I've put into place an impenetrable barrier when it comes to her.  It has taken YEARS, but I've managed to establish a distance between my mother and me; it has become increasingly necessary to do so as I got older and wiser.  Admittedly, moving two hours away from her has helped, too.  
    Anyway, my first time around, I chose a major in Liberal Arts/English.  I didn't know what I was going to do with it, but was hopeful that eventually a different path would present.  Little did I know that one would, but in the most unfavorable way imaginable.  While the goal I have today took over two decades to become clear, I spent most of my first three years of college in a daze.  I'd been raped shortly after the beginning of my collegiate journey and I was still trying to deal with that aftermath of that while balancing the 'basic' introductory courses.  I wasn't thinking about anything other than just getting through the current day.  I was directionless, I was unmotivated, and I was LOST.  I was doing just the minimum needed to pass the class - that was pretty much it.  There was no longer any excitement, there was no longer any visibility on the road that lay before me.  All I had left of that was the faint memory of what it looked like BEFORE - and I was proceeding in hopes of not stumbling over an obstacle that had fallen when that illusion of a perfectly mapped-out future had blown up in my face.
    It was almost a relief finding myself pregnant with the Son in the middle of my third year.  In a way, I took it as a sign - that I needed to begin to focus on things that I knew were a sure thing.  It was time to stop wandering aimlessly.  Impending motherhood was now more important to me than trying to balance schoolwork that I just wasn't of the frame of mind to be doing.  And to what end?  I had no idea where I was going - I was going to graduate in another year or so, but then what?  Life was going to again, change drastically for me in a matter of months.  It made no sense to continue on a path toward the unknown.
    And so, I dropped out in 1999, telling myself that one day, when I was able to identify a newly paved road to a destination that was doable, I'd revisit the idea of picking up where I left off.   
    I announced late last year that I was ready to consider going back to school.  The Son is now in his second semester of his freshman year in college and my daughter is in the seventh grade.  I've spent the last nearly nineteen years of my life making sure they each had everything they needed.  I put their needs, along with those of the wasband and my stepchildren, before my own.  I gave little to no thought on what my purpose was, other than to be a wife and mother.  Although I will always be Mom to my children and a wife to my committed partner of ten years, I am now ready to be something more.  I am ready to work toward a career title, and I am ready for my reach to exceed that of what I'm used to.  I'm ready for all of it.
    Again, Oompa, who was, I believe, most excited to hear my announcement, pushed the idea of my working toward becoming a teacher.  Again, I told her no.  She suggested a few other things she thought I'd be good at - some having to do with working with deaf children, since I was still considered a 'success story.'  Likely, she'd want some more bragging rights reserved for when I graduated and was now working as whatever she recommended.  After all, my successes were because of her, didn't you know?  I shot those ideas down, too.
    I've previously shared with you all my aspirations to become a Social Worker.  Oompa's soured expression was what further solidified this choice for me - she was SO sure that I would agree with her that social workers don't break the bank with their paychecks and I'd pick something that she'd initially recommended...her wisdom wasn't to be discounted, after all.  'It's hard work,' she also said.  I wasn't sure whether to be offended that she was thinking I couldn't handle it, or to say, 'yes but because of your early intervention, I'm fully capable of a little hard work.'  In hindsight, saying the latter would have shut her up immediately, but it's one of those thoughts that come to light days after the conversation had ended.  
    For the first time in years, I stood my ground and told her that I wanted to become a Social Worker - and that was my goal - period.  I did NOT want to be a teacher.  I did NOT want to be an advocate for the deaf.  I did NOT want to 'apply to a trade school so that it was easier and I could start working sooner rather than later.'  I had started distancing myself from my mother prior to the age of 17, and I never shared with her details of my trauma.  I just never felt safe doing so.   That being said, I don't expect her to understand what mainly steered me in the direction of Social Work with a focus on Sexual Assault Counseling and Advocacy - but at this point - I am past the point of attempting to explain anything to her.  Her thoughts no longer MATTER to me - and little by little, I am finding myself becoming FAR more vocal with her when I disagree. You've likely seen a recent example of this with my recent decision to lease a Jeep (my choice) over a Subaru (her recommendation)...
    So, now, here I am, with the acceptance email in front of me.  Y'all know my tendency to ramble, and I'll try to wrap up soon, I promise.   I came here to blog about something very specific I am feeling, and all that's been said before the mention of my mother, well - it's not unimportant, but it's for the most part, supporting information.
    So, without further ado...
    How do I feel about this acceptance?  You'd think I'm whoop-whooping and clapping to myself in anticipation of finally completed some of the required steps to re-commit to going back to school.  But I'm not.  I can't stop looking at this letter, and although I am happy and I am pleased with myself for taking the steps I've taken, all of my doubts are coming back to say hello.
    I feel something.  Maybe many somethings, but for sure, it's not as simple as I'd like for it to be.
    I've got jitters.  Yes, definitely.
    I don't want to say I'm excited because I'm not sure that's what it is.  There IS some excitement though - knowing I've made good on the promise to myself to re-focus on my education is something I'm proud of.  I'm so used to doing for others, and doing for myself is rare.  Another thing to take pride in is having found something that, although under circumstances that I'd love to say weren't a contributing factor,  I can truly focus on building a career in.  
    I'm nervous.  I'm starting to wonder if this is indeed best.  Not because of what I've decided what I wanted to do by now - but because I've been out of the 'school loop' for so long, now - I'm used to life being the way it is now - to take on school would bring forth VERY drastic changes.  I know I stated above that it's something I'm ready to do - but I'm finding that the more ready you are, sometimes the doubt is stronger.
    Changes are, for me, VERY uncomfortable.  I am sure I am not alone in this - change is not easy for many.  I'm not completely in the dark on what college life entails, but...I'm 40, now.  I've spend the last 19 years building a life that didn't involve me conforming to schedules, doing homework, meeting deadlines.  I'm no longer a spring chicken, and I wonder if starting over at my age is even what 's best.  
    I know - we never stop learning, it's never too late to get that degree, you can be furthering your eduction until the day you die - I know all this, I have even said this to others.  I have to admit that a part of me anticipates there being somewhat of a sadness when I show up to my first class and I'm surrounded by kids my son's age, who are fresh out of high school and are going to get to travel that straight-line road that I was unfairly denied.  
    I am going to be not only required to emerge from within my 'bubble,' my comfort zone, in order to attend classes - I'll also be meeting new people, there will be discussions I'll have to participate in, there may come a time where I'll have to speak in class.  All of these possibilities are constantly circling my brain because this is what I do remember having to do 20 years ago (my first rodeo) and I was the same social disaster back then.  Understandably, there are going to be times I will have to say to myself, "Cap - this is all a part of your overall healing journey.  To put yourself out there is to re-learn how to establish a comfortable place within society."  I have been a self-proclaimed hermit for the last several years, and this, I FULLY expect to have some issues with in the beginning, as I attempt to emerge from this mental cocoon I've become so comfortable staying hidden inside of.
    I'm terrified because I know that my goal to become a Social Worker is going to REQUIRE I become somewhat comfortable using my voice, being around others, looking others in the eye when I speak to them.  I am going to need to learn to approach others, start conversations, learn to communicate in ways that don't involve writing emails or messages.  I know that I cannot be forced by anyone other than myself to do these things.  Even to self-push isn't always recommended but it certainly IS something that I've decided I need to work on as I proceed on my own personal healing path.  In fact, going back to school can be seen as intertwining two positive steps toward a better me.  It's inspiring but also scares the ever-loving shit out of me.
    I'm also sad - because there is great irony in one of the reasons contributing to my dropping out - now becoming something that is motivating my return to school.  That cannot be missed.  
    I know that all this seems...well, silly.  At least, it does to me - I know that a lot of time has gone by since 'the first time around' and that I should be embracing these upcoming changes as I am now approaching them from an adult perspective.  I know am not the same person I was at 17.  I'm more mature now.  I won't be attending any parties.  I won't be putting myself into any potentially dangerous situations. These changes are good for me - they're healthy, they're ambitious.  They're decisions I've made without pressure from anyone else.  And deep down, I know that some of these concerns are probably unreasonable and I'll likely be just fine.  I just feel it is important to be honest with myself and with whomever reads this - honest and truthful about what has been attacking all of my recent feel-good thoughts and leaving behind ones of impending failure.  
    I think, though, that there's also another thing to add to what I'm still having trouble believing.  That the fog has cleared, and the road ahead has become more visible.  There is no longer any debris for me to navigate over, around, under, etc.  There is once again - a straight path from here to where my degree awaits.  I'd taken a serious detour - but now, there is a part of me that is back where I was when I was seventeen - standing at the beginning of the road (be it made out of yellow bricks or not) and eager to get started on the rest of my life - and then there is a part of me that is fearful of that road unexpectedly changing AGAIN.  It doesn't even have to be in the form of trauma - change is brought forth in SO many different ways and I've too often seen things not work out the way people hope they do.  I'm just so used to things not happening the way I'd expect them to - why should this be any different?
    In closing, I am asking for all of your good thoughts and well wishes as I begin this brand-new walk; there's still much to be done to put my butt into a chair by the time September rolls around.  In the meantime, I've decided that now that I've had a chance to write on them, I'll say no more on my 'unreasonable' fears and instead just focus on what I CAN do to make it all a reality.  Still, some motivation wouldn't hurt!  
    That'll be it for today, I think.  I've a date with the online FAFSA tonight and tomorrow with filling out some more paperwork for the VR counselor - slowly but surely, and despite the unwelcome self-doubts, I am getting the needed steps taken.  And here's another thing I cannot believe I'm hearing myself say - but I'm proud of myself for getting to this point.  
    Hoping you're all doing well.  Until next time, friends.  
    - Capulet
  12. Capulet

    I found it!

    By Capulet,

    I'm on a roll, it seems, with these blogs.  I simply have too much time to think these days.  It seems it's all I do.  When something baffles me - this is my drawing board.  I'm reminded of the evidence room whiteboard with scribbled notes and pictures and the strings connecting one to the other....that is an accurate assessment of my brain right now.  There's all this information, all these images.  I know there's more to it, and so I'm constantly and obsessively going over it.  Over, and over again.
    First off, I wanna thank those who provided me with the requested hugs and who checked in on me last night when I was having a moment while trying to release my last blog.  I really didn't feel 'right' talking about (or rather, complaining about) things that really can't be helped.  I know nobody has it easy right now, and my 'inner voice' was telling me that I have no room to complain.  I debated whether or not to post and whether to delete the whole damn thing, but a friend wisely reminded me that I'd likely be pissed off with myself if I deleted.  And so, I posted - but felt terrible for it.  I can't explain fully the reasons behind my guilt over complaining but sure as shit, this is a project for a different whiteboard.  This one is full enough.
    So, I've been trying to find more of a connection between how things are now and how things were in 1996.  This morning, I woke up and scared the shit out of my sleeping dog as I said it out loud.  Maybe, just maybe, a little too loudly.
    "I've fucking got it!  It's the communication barrier!"
    That's the connection.  I knew it had something to do with the ongoing pandemic, I just had a feeling, though, that it was something a little more specific than the feelings of isolation and disconnect.  And this is it.  
    In 1996, it was my inability to communicate by means of making a telephone call (a cab, a friend, etc) that ultimately led to my rape.  Texting wasn't invented, yet.  There was absolutely NO way for me to 'call out' or to ask for someone to come pick me up and bring me home.  There would be no lips or words for me to read.  I was truly trapped.  It was this communication barrier that left me no choice but to ask for help - and doing so resulted in trauma.
    And now, here in 2020 - I'm feeling this communication barrier again.  Of course, technologically wise, we are in a much more advanced place, but this does not change the fact that I still can't see lips whenever I'm out and about, at a store, at an appointment, ordering food.  I am forced into have to ask for help more than I'm comfortable with (for example, if I need to speak to someone and read their lips, I'm HAVING to explain that I'm hearing impaired and that i need for them to either lower masks or write things down) and I HATE this...because of 1996, I absolutely fucking hate this.  
    Mind. Blowing.  🤯
    I would say I'm gonna puke, but I've had nothing to eat, yet.  Still, my stomach's in knots.  Did I really just figure this out?? 
    - Cap
  13. Capulet
    *** possible trigger warning for medical procedure details, etc.  I've kept it as mild as I could but you just never know. ***
    Hello friends!
    Apologies for not getting this blog out sooner.   It's been a busy few days and I've not had the quiet time that my writing usually requires.
    This is the follow-up to the 'Have you seen my big-girl panties?' blog entry; with a bit of added information that I don't believe I've shared yet.  
    Firstly, the mammogram results showed some calcification on the right side and the doctor felt that he needed another, closer peek - and that was done via 3-D imaging.  It came back benign and I've been instructed to simply return next year for my routine yearly mammogram.  So, of course, after agonizing over having to have this done in addition to the biopsy, I was relieved to be told that there was no further cause for concern over the ta-tas at the moment. So that's one (of two) weights that have been lifted off of my chest.  (No, no pun intended...)
    The biopsy was another story.  
    See, I can deal with my boobs being squished for a few seconds while they take an x-ray, but this particular OTHER test - the biopsy - was causing my anxiety levels to skyrocket.  Made the mistake of letting Oompa know about this upcoming test.  Hearing my mother say, "oh, yeah, that's definitely unpleasant" was NOT helpful and I promptly changed the subject.  She didn't ask too many other questions though and went on about other things that were going on in her life that she deemed more important. 
    Anyway, biopsy day came...J took half the day off work and came with me for moral support, and I was of the impression that she would be allowed in the examination room WITH me.  And at first, she was.  The nurse came in and took my vitals first.  My BP was through the ROOF, but I told her that was no surprise - this test was making me EXTREMELY nervous.  She smiled and told me that I needed to calm down.  The whole procedure would take no more than five minutes.  I wouldn't feel anything afterwards.  I'd already had children, and what was going in was far smaller than what had come out.  She showed me the specimen-collecting tool - looked like a straw, almost.  Thinner, though.  She explained the 'straw' would be inserted, and the sample would collect inside.  "Five minutes, and you're all done," she said.  I shrugged and apologized - "I'm just not good with this kind of thing..."
    I know that some people choose to share whether there is sexual assault in their history, and there have been times where I entertained the idea of letting my GYN/the nurse know that I have some serious issues with examinations/touching (even though said touching is for examination purposes) and I'll also have a problem if the touching causes pain.  Paps are a necessary evil, but even with those, I'm clenching the edges of the table, they're irritating and my stomach's in knots by the time they're finished.  And just the idea of having to have this biopsy done was causing me pain BEFORE I even walked into the doctor's office.  Yet, it had to be done before he'd approve me for any medication to keep these periods under control.
    So, then, the doctor walks in and promptly asks J to leave.
    It happened so fast.  I don't think I even heard him say that she had to leave for the duration of the procedure.  I think that if I'd heard him ask her to go wait in the waiting room, I would have insisted upon her staying in the exam room.  But at this point, the lower half of my body was covered with a sheet and I was now in full-blown panic and really couldn't speak.  All I could think about was going home, being in my own bed, in my comfortable pajamas.  But to get there, I had to finish this stupid exam, first...  But anyway, J complies and mouths "sorry" as she's ushered out into the waiting room.  They closed the door and again, the anxiety levels begin to rise...it's go-time now and I'm beginning to consider running out of the building. I think what saved me from actually doing that was the fact that I had nothing on from the waist down.
    The doctor must have been told that I was nervous because he hands me this squeeze-ball thingy.  It was one of those foam stress balls, about the same size as those high-bouncing blue rubber balls I used to bounce off my grandmother's stoop back in Brooklyn.  
    "Okay, you just hold onto this..."
    I held it.  He then instructed me to lie down, and assume the position most appropriate for the examination.  The nurse stood next to me and was nice enough to warn me prior to whatever would be done next.  "Okay, he's now going to clean the area with betadine,"  then "Take a deep breath and exhale..."  "You'll feel some cramping now."
    I nodded after each 'warning.'  I complied when they told me to breathe (who knew, you had to breathe!) and I counted the moments until it'd be over.  I got through it...somehow.  I'm not sure if it was because I was squeezing that stress ball so tightly for the duration or if I 'checked out' for a few seconds during the painful, cramping moment - that, too, is entirely possible.  But the nurse was right - the whole thing DID take just five minutes.  
    And now, it was over!
    When the doctor was finished, he gave me the "okay" sign and left the room.  The nurse stayed behind only briefly while I sat up.  I guess I was shaking.  She asked me if I was all right.  I handed her the stress ball back and nodded.  I couldn't really say much.  She asked if I wanted a pad.  Another nod.  She opened a drawer and handed me one.  I had a feeling there was more she wanted to ask me but she didn't.  Again she asked if I was all right.  I could feel my eyes well up, but I refused to show weakness...I still have a problem with this, guys, a big one.  I do think, though, she was able to pick up on more than I'd intended, and rather than ask any more questions, she gave a reassuring pat on the arm and finally left me alone in the room.
    I fumbled with my clothes and dressed as quickly as I could.  
    In the meantime, a few tears escaped.  I wiped them away as quickly as they'd fallen; I'm not even sure why I was reacting this way.  I questioned myself, mostly...and where I stand when it comes to my own healing journey.  I thought I was over this, to be honest.  Yes I was raped - but this happened nearly 22 years ago.  A lifetime ago.  Since then, I've been married and divorced.  I've had two children.  I've had at least 15 paps done, one for each year between now and then, perhaps one every two since I very possibly missed a year here and there.  I've had plenty of other medical procedures done, including a five day hospital stay (with meningitis) and two cochlear implant surgeries.  My body's been through plenty.  This simple little 5-minute procedure SHOULD have been a walk in the park in comparison to brain surgery (implants) or having a PICC line put in following the meningitis episode.  And I honestly don't remember THOSE procedures (perhaps I was too sick or anesthetized to really remember) causing me this much stress before and after.    
    I just don't know if this means that I'm not as far along as I thought I was?  Or does this happen often, with others?  You're okay for a while and then one thing, even something as simple as a medical procedure, causes you to revisit a state of panic that you hadn't felt in a while?  Are you momentarily flooded with an overwhelming rush of emotions during that five minute, ten minute, however long it is, procedure - and then, when it's all over with, you're back to normal?  (or at least whatever you perceive 'normal' to be?)
    Either way, I managed to compose myself and we left - the doctor let us know that he'd call within a few days with the results. This was Wednesday last week - Thursday through Sunday morning, I had mini-vacation plans with J, my mother and the Daughter.  This is also a reason to stress, apparently, as my mother NEEDS to be administered in SMALL doses and the daughter's tolerance of her grandmother is wearing thin.  VERY thin.  Admittedly, it WAS a little easier to be able to go on this trip knowing that the underlying stress over these appointments was no longer and they were over with - now I was just waiting for results.  
    He finally called on Friday - and gave me the green-light to start taking the depo shots.  "A touch of endometriosis," he said.  But no cancer cells, everything else was fine.  The depo shot would regulate and relieve some of the endometriosis symptoms.
    See, I could have told him that, myself. But these medical professionals have to see for themselves, don't they? 
    But anyway, there you have it - that's the update on that...I do not have cancer, but apparently, (surprise, surprise!) I have underlying issues.  
    What ELSE is new?
    - Capulet
  14. Capulet
    Did I mention how much of a pain in the ass my mother is?  You all might know her as Oompa at this point, but - I might change that to 'pain in the ass.'  She's always going to look like an Oompa Loompa,  but lately this new nickname for her is becoming FAR more appropriate.
    I might have indeed mentioned...but just in case I didn't...
    My. Mother. Is. A. GIANT. Pain in the ass!  I just spent most of this morning arguing with her and one of my lovely readers is likely going to have to front me some bail money because I'm about to be arrested for matricide.  Unless of course, I can 'untwist my panties,' (as she so eloquently put it) by venting here.  It seems like a much safer alternative to jail time, so - here goes.
    The son has pretty much commandeered use of my car - he uses it to get back and forth to the (local) college.  When he goes back to the wasband's on Saturday evenings, he will take the car with him (unless I need it for any other reason) and more often than not, it's with him these days more than it's with me.  That's okay - this was always my intention - let him 'take over' my car - in lieu of a hefty monthly car payment, he would pay for gas, insurance and any other upkeep/maintenance costs on that car - and I would get a new one to ensure I had a means of getting from A to B without having to rely on anyone else.  I've told him this, too - 'you NEED to find a job - if you want to have a car (and I added the usual mom-style pep talk about growing up, becoming responsible, etc) then you NEED to start learning how to budget and manage your money.'  
    As is, we are now living somewhere where 4WD is NEEDED and owning a SUV is highly recommended - and although my existing car (which will soon be the Son's) does not have 4WD and is TERRIBLE in the snow, I don't have the heart to trade it in as it was bought from money my aunt and uncle left me upon their passing.  Rather than the son spend the money (that he doesn't have) on a car that he'll have payments (that he cannot make) on, he can make do with a significantly reduced financial responsibility and use my old car to get to school/work.  It does snow a lot here, but it's NOT a CONSTANT problem - when it does snow, his classes are usually cancelled anyway.  
    I have some money saved - and am now feeling the need to be situated with a car - I'm going to be starting school in the fall, so there's a little time.  However, I've realized that the son is also dragging his feet.  He won't move unless I do.  He had PLENTY of time to find a job during his first semester (last fall) and didn't.  He isn't fully to blame for this, though - the wasband (another VERY accurate addition to my 'Top Five' Pains in the Ass) has been taking the majority of his elder son's and daughter's paychecks, 'to pay house bills with.'  Our son, aside from having an endless supply of self-admitted laziness, is a VERY perceptive and observant young man.  He sees that his older brother and sister NEVER have a penny to their names - they work and hand their paychecks over.  This has been going on for months, already, and my elder stepson, having finally reached his limit, has left the wasband's home and moved back in with his mother.  There was a HUGE blowout between him and the wasband, something I had no idea was happening until AFTER the fact - and long story short, Junior is no longer 'supporting the family,' and MY son has now been told that he now has to take over Junior's job working alongside his sister at HER job.  
    This means, now the son has a job.  Which is what I've been waiting for.  It is my intention to let the wasband know that he's going to need to afford the son a little bit of leniency with his paychecks so that he has the money he'll need in order to maintain the expense of having his own car and possibly his tuition so that he doesn't doom himself to a lifetime of debt. 
    So, how does Oompa fit into all of this?
    Well, for starters, she knows I've been saving up to buy a car.  And now, my savings is starting to dwindle - as we have lately had some hefty financial responsibilities - vet bills, vacation bills, household repairs, etc, all in the last three months.  The vacation we planned on, but the rest, we did not.  So, now, I am of the impression that leasing my next personal-use vehicle is likely my best option.  But being 'President's week,' she has began to urge me to research the sales because 'there are some excellent deals out there.'  Not a lie, but still, considering the window of opportunity is beginning to close on the Son's EVER being in a position to control his own finances, it's time to move.  To top that off, my sister's best friend's husband is a dealer at the Subaru near her and he's 'EXCELLENT' and 'can get me a good deal.'  (Though, likely only on a Subaru.)
    I've always wanted a Jeep.  I've already accepted that I'll not be able to afford the pretty purple Wrangler that sits teasingly in front of the local dealership - but saw today that a local dealership is offering NEW Jeep Cherokees, and I could lease for $169 a month.  I supplied Oompa (the pain-in-the-ass) the phone number and instead of calling THEM to find out more about this 'special,' she called the dealer she knew.  She then mentioned that he wouldn't recommend a Jeep (as no Subaru employee likely would) and that he recommended an Impreza or a Legacy and could get good deals on those cars for me.  We could go see him on Saturday because he got my brother-in-law a good deal on HIS car - he would definitely do the same for me.
    I told her that those cars mentioned were NOT SUVs.  And I had told her previously that I did not want anything other than a SUV.  WHY was she pushing cars?  Apparently, 'they have 4-wheel drive,' but, still.  These are CARS.  I told her, 'I am absolutely not wasting my time looking at cars when I already know what I want."
    "But why do you need such a big car?"  
    I could NOT believe she'd just asked me that.  I've never had a big car/SUV.  Before my Avenger, I had a Neon.  Before that, a Mitsubishi Mirage.  My SISTER, (who is smaller than me) - has a GMC Acadia - that is a VERY large SUV.  Why doesn't she ask HER why she needs such a big car?  She has two kids - who combined, are still much smaller than my 12 year old.  My 18 year old is bigger than ME.  J is bigger and taller than me.  What if I want to take my family somewhere?  We're not all going to fit in a clown car!  
    I told her I had my heart set on a Jeep.  She then proceeds to tell me that I should look them up online - they're not the most reliable, they're not the safest (Subaru is) and they've got bad reputations.  She actually went as far as to say she wouldn't 'cooperate,' should I not agree to keep an open mind and at least LOOK at cars that are 4WD.  Yes, you heard correctly - SHE will not cooperate.  Another manipulation tactic.
    I'm DONE with manipulation.  In the course of my forty years, manipulation has been a constant.  My mother and my ex being the two biggest offenders - the reason for that being they were people I depended on most.  Yes, manipulation indeed goes hand-in-hand with dependency - for if you 'upset' or 'disappoint,' you lose a means of support - whether it is a GOOD source of support is irrelevant.  What matters is, I THOUGHT these people actually were looking out for my best interests, and am sad to realize that this was never the case - it is a matter of what is more convenient for them, what THEY want.  There were almost always ulterior motives.  And I'm not even sure what my mother's motives are, here - was she trying to get my sister's friend's husband a commission?  
    I finally said, 'Look - NOTHING pisses me off MORE than someone who tries to change my mind when I've made it clear what I'm looking for.  I asked you to come along because you're good at negotiating with dealers (she is) and working out the best deals - but If you're not going to cooperate and help me find what I want to find, then I'll go without you and go buy myself a fucking Jeep!'
    That's when she said I should untwist my panties, the dealer would sell me whatever I wanted.  I told her that if this 'excellent' dealer could show me an actual SUV (like the Forester - more the type and size I'm looking for) and beat the lease price of $169 a month for a Jeep, then we'd talk and see about getting him a commission.  But that $169 a month was the right price for a car that I actually wanted - so why WOULD I settle for anything other than that?  Is she paying for the car?  No.  Is she co-signing?  No.  So what's the fucking problem???  Safety?  A Jeep would be safer than what I'm CURRENTLY driving.  They're not known to be reliable? Well, that's why I'm better off LEASING, isn't it?  Repair coverage.  And after the lease is up, I'd be put into a brand-new car.  There's not enough time for something to go wrong with it - if something does, it's covered. 
    As it stands right now, I'm going to the dealership in the morning - armed with my dwindling patience, my checkbook and my manipulation-proof vest - I know all too well how it's going to go.  She's going to try and push those 'cars' on me again - she's going to ask (again) why I need something so big...she'll get J to 'talk some sense into me,' and J is fully prepared to put her in her place - SHE likes Jeeps, too!  It's just sad that I have to be this firm with my mother - at forty years old.  That she still feels the need to control me and she CANNOT just let me make choices without trying to meddle.  She has two other daughters, younger than me, and who LIVE closer to her than I do.  Why can't she bother them!?
    In closing, I will let all of you know tomorrow of the following: 
    Whether I need bail money and where to wire it; (I'll pay you back...someday?)
    Whether I get a new SUV tomorrow or I end up planning to 'buy a fucking Jeep on my own;'
    And whether my mother is still breathing, and carrying on with her usual day-to-day annoyances...she likely will be, as no matter how angry or annoyed or irritated I can get, I could honestly never hurt a fly.
    My tolerance for bullshit is at an ALL TIME low with my mother, and with my ex, both of whom are tied for top pain-in-the-ass!  Some days, I just don't know who's worse.  When I eventually figure it out, I'll let you all know.
    Hoping the rest of you are having a less stressful weekend.
    My best to you,
    - Capulet
  15. Capulet
    Years ago, I used to spend a lot of time interpreting dreams.  Mostly my own, but whenever someone else told me theirs, I'd sit with them and we'd together make sense of why they dreamt about this person, why they'd dreamt of themselves either doing or behaving in a certain way, the list went on.  It was healing to be able to make sense of certain dreams, and so I kept a notebook and whenever I had one, I'd write down whatever I could remember so that I could further analyze them later.  I haven't kept such a notebook in a while, though - perhaps that's because I've not had many analyze-worthy dreams in recent years - most of them have been 'reruns' or the reoccurring dreams that I've already made sense of as best as I could.
    Dreams are a magnificent thing - they are so, very powerful, they're derived from our innermost, deepest thoughts...and when you can remember them (as some of them disappear as soon as you open your eyes and are fully awake) they're possibly the more important ones that contain hidden meaning and messages within.
    I had a very strange dream last night about my uncle.  The 'most reverend'...the...ughhh...the...abomination of a human being.  Yes, that's better and much, much more appropriate when it comes to feelings while talking about him.
    This particular dream was strange, in a way, funny, even a little scary when you think about it.
    I'm not sure what brought it on.  It could be anything at this point, but I think it's due to him coming up in conversations twice in the last few weeks.  Maybe a combination of that, topped off with the memories (involving him) that I have been struggling to make sense of as of recently.
    The first time he was mentioned was when Oompa was visiting us last - we were on our way to the supermarket and he'd called her cell.  I was driving and so at a red light, she turned to me and said, "I need to call your uncle back, he left me a message asking for a favor.  Don't worry.  I won't tell him I'm with you."
    (Yes, I did find that to be a bit strange - why now, all of a sudden, she's being all protective?  Same woman who has for YEARS been asking me why I can't stand her brother?  Now she's all, 'don't speak, I won't tell him I'm with you'??  Hmmm.  VERY interesting and I'm seeing possibly more flags than I should be, but this isn't what today's blog is about.)
    And then, Oompa sent a text last night, asking me if I wanted her to buy me pizza.  I responded with, 'Huh?' knowing she likely didn't mean to send me that message - its intended recipient was likely my sister.  My mother responded with "Oops. Wrong daughter.  I'm with your uncle and cousins (not his kids) at Luigi's Pizza* (* = name has indeed been changed...I'm not sure where the REAL Luigi's Pizza is although I'm sure there are several scattered across the United States) and was going to bring your sister some pizza for dinner."  
    I responded with, "Oh, that's nice."  And I had no desire for pizza for last night's dinner.  Made a nice little bowl of quinoa and brown rice with apple-flavored chicken sausage, instead.
    So...now, about the dream - it was odd to say the least.  I'm not even sure where I was - perhaps it was at a family gathering of some kind because that's the only reason I could think of that would warrant his being there also.  But dreams aren't known for precision; they're erratic and unpredictable so that throws that theory out the window.  Lately though, he's not been attending any family parties - because no one wants to be delegated the task of picking his rotting ass up and bringing him home afterwards and he lives far from all the rest of us (me being the farthest) and he doesn't drive nor do well with public means of transportation, having bad, arthritic knees.  I've also made it clear that while I can't really help whether he shows up at a 'big' event such as a wedding, I'll NOT attend if it's a small holiday gathering at someone's house and he'll be there.  And for the most part, my mother and sisters have done well with not including him - but they make it clear also that their reasons for not doing so are because of the reason stated above - no one wants to chauffeur him to and from the event.  
    Okay, so, in last night's dream, I was standing there - there were people around me.  I can't remember whom, now.  I'm sure my J was there, my kids were there.  It was that kind of event - it was important; I sensed that.  The only person I remember seeing, though, and clearly - is him.  
    Or at least...parts of him.
    Let me just say this, he is not a short man, he's of average height.  Taller than me, for sure.  I'm 5'2 with sneakers on.  He was always a large, obese man.  I last associated with him at my younger sister's wedding, a brief hello and 'gotta go,' was the gist of our brief interaction, as I went out of my way to avoid him whenever I could for the remainder of the wedding.  
    There are some surefire signs of aging - his hair is thinned and grey now.  The eyes, though, have not changed - they're sky blue - and while I absolutely love blue eyes on a person, his always made me uncomfortable; they had an inexplainable way of piercing through me, threatening me.  And that feeling has not changed...when I see his face, the eyes are what makes my heart leap into my throat.  He's survived far more than he deserves to - a heart attack, a quadruple bypass, gangrene, other shitty ailments that he has no business being alive after going through - he's lost some weight but still carries around a large overall frame, filled with a whole lot of ugliness that if you ask me, should entirely cease to exist.   
    So I'm just minding my own business.  And there he is...his...HEAD...was walking by.  All I see is his face, there's no doubt in my mind that it's his.  His face sickens me...and then there were feet.  You're probably thinking of this grotesque vision of a severed, bloodied head but it wasn't that way at all, it was as if that were his natural shape/form.  Head rested on top of feet where the neck and shoulders are supposed to be.   No blood, no gore - just this...defective, malformed creature that he'd become in my mind's eye.   If we can get past the sheer creepiness of this image, I'm thinking there's more that I can derive from this dream.
    And he walked (scurried or waddled, perhaps, there were no legs) past me.  He looked at me and kept walking.  At one point, he probably would have stopped and tried to speak to me, but in this dream, he did not.  Nothing happened.  He said nothing.  I said nothing.  
    I may be silly in thinking there's perhaps a meaning to all of this.  Maybe I'm overthinking, which is something else I am guilty of doing all the time.  
    But seeing him reduced to being just inches tall...that was the nice part.  If I wanted to, I could have picked up, drop kicked and punted that walking head into the Atlantic Ocean, but for some reason, that wasn't how the dream ended - I just woke up after he passed by.  And I kind of had this stupid smile on my face, too.  I think it was confusion that kept me from laughing at the sheer ridiculousness of it all.
    See, there were perhaps times where, theoretically, he WAS bigger than me and I likely felt powerless against him.  I'm without concrete memories to support these theories, but I've had to further accept that I feel a certain way toward him for a reason.  Even if that reason is not entirely clear right now, it is time to listen to my gut feeling.  And to see him take on an entirely different shape, even in a pretty far-fetched dream, his being small and without any way of defending himself, was NICE.  Unrealistic, but nice.  
    I'm bigger than you, now, asshole.  And now I have power over you.  I CAN hurt you and turn your pathetic life upside down if I wanted to, but I choose not to.  I choose for Karma to take care of you and give you what you deserve, and when the time comes, she sure as hell will.  And THEN, I'll laugh.  I'll not lose any sleep over any of your misfortunes or eventually, your death.
    This is basically what the dream tells me.  That, and I've got to lay off the horror movies before bedtime.  Or maybe it's the salty snacks...?  I'll go with the first assessment, though.
    Hope you're all doing well.  Until next time... 
    - Capulet
     
  16. Capulet

    I've been unfaithful!

    By Capulet,

    ...not to my fiancee, of course!!!  
    Guys, I'm not that kind of girl.  Never have been and never will be.  I've been cheated on (likely by the wasband, and likely by other guys that I dated before I married him.  One girl I dated briefly (for a few weeks) cheated on me...with a man, no less.  Imagine that?!
    Either way, unfaithfulness and I do not get along.  I've no respect for unfaithful partners, the heartbreak they cause and the re-building of trust that is required afterwards - nope, it's not a road I ever want to go down, nor would I want to go down with anyone who was unfaithful to me.  Because really, that's a deal-breaker.  My lovely wifey and I strongly agree on this, it's a hundred percent over if either one of us were to stray.  I'm sure that a lot of why we both feel this way has to do with both of us having endured abusive relationships in the past.  
    So why the (clickbait) title?
    Well...
    Last week, I was unfaithful to my diet.  I admit it.  I'm holding myself accountable to you all.  I'm writing this for a couple of reasons.  First off, I want to be able to come back to this whenever I feel the 'ah, screw its,' because a (small) setback like this one is likely to make anyone think that.  I'm still over the 20-pound mark, but now it's going to be a little bit longer to get to the 25-pound mark, which I'd been hoping for.  
    I got on the scale on Monday, my usual weigh-in day.  And yes, this is a big part of the reason I didn't update right away.
    I gained one stinking pound.  1.1 to be exact.
    After I kicked and screamed at the scale (half expecting it to scream back at me, "What the hell do you expect???  Do you know what the hell you ate this week?!") I rang Oompa to share the verdict.
    "Do you know why?" Was all she said.  My mother's had her own ups and downs, if anyone were to understand the frustrations of dieting, it's my mother.  She's been on a diet for as long as I've known her.  
    Let's see.  Monday, I want to say I ate normally, eggs for breakfast, chicken for supper.  Tuesday, we had pasta with homemade alfredo sauce (I was sure to use the cream of mushroom in a can rather than buy the store brand jarred alfredo sauce).  Wednesday, I made a pulled pork in the crock-pot and served them on rolls that weren't necessarily the healthy type.  Thursday, we had chinese take-out because the kids begged me not to make anything to do with chicken.  I guess I can't blame them - they've had enough at this point.  And so, the Son requested I make different things this past week, and I obliged.  And I also indulged.  My portion sizes weren't enormous; I can't eat as much as I used to.  However, I still ate mindlessly, without measuring, without being strict with myself, without cutting myself off when I'd eaten enough, regardless of whether I was still hungry.  On Friday, the wifey had a medical procedure done (more on that another time) and wanted a cheesesteak with fries afterwards.  I didn't eat the cheesesteak, but I ordered a chicken parm hero - when they handed me my plate, I think I might have said 'sweet Jesus' a little too loudly.  Suffice to say, I ate about 1/4 of that hero - brought the rest home where the kids devoured my leftovers.  Then on Saturday, we went to my nephew's birthday party and I ate two slices of buffalo chicken pizza.  Then I've got to consider the nights I had (fat-free but not point-free) popcorn for a snack.  I didn't track ANY of these foods - but I don't blame my weight gain on that.  I haven't been tracking via electronic app for weeks, because I was eating all of the same things and it got too easy not to write it all down.
    Here's what happened.  Like the kids, I got bored with the same ol' and I gave myself a little too much slack last week.  Lesson learned! 
    And yes, guys, I know - it's only one pound.  I do know I could have done a lot worse than that.  This brings me to the second reason I'm writing this and sharing here.  I need to convince myself, too, that it's not the end of the world.  Maybe I just didn't drink enough water and maybe retention is part of the problem.  And I know I COULD HAVE done a whole lot worse.  I was not strict with myself, but a part of me WAS careful and a part of me was doing some damage control - I think the numbers on the scale could have been a lot more grave.  So, while I'm annoyed with myself for not taking care and losing that pound rather than gaining it, I have to remember to also commend myself for having a degree of self-control and minimizing the damage.  
    And now, I must go on.
    I told Oompa I certainly did know what I did wrong.  There was just too much, so I didn't give her any details.  Not only did I go over my allotted points for each day, I was sure I surpassed my weeklies, too.  
    Interestingly enough, I won't admit these little menu details to Oompa.  I don't know why - like I said, my mother likely would understand anything I had to say about diets.  Maybe it's because for years and years, I rolled my eyes at her and made fun of her measuring cups and spoons and recipes...I can't tell you how many times she served me something that looked like cat puke....being a mediocre cook to begin with, her "diet" foods weren't appealing, either.
    God, I can't begin to explain why I hear her voice CONSTANTLY when I'm going down the food aisles at Wal-Mart.  "That there, you mix it with this here, and it's three points," etc.  Whenever I see the words on the app - I hear her voice.  "Two points."  "Zero points."  "Points, points, POINTS."  And I'm hearing impaired, explain that!?
    She's never scolded me for my dieting snafus.  The last thing she said to me before I hung up with her on Monday was, "It's all good.  Just keep going." 
    But I've got no problem with admitting it to you guys.  No one here knows me from a hole in the wall, and yet, sharing little things online has always been far more comfortable to me than sharing in person with someone who knows me.  Someone who can see me.  Tell me I'm not the only one?
    So, yeah.  I failed miserably last week, but I'm going to try to get back on track this week.  I'm going to get back into my app and starting tomorrow, pay better attention to what I eat.  I did make a lovely bean soup with white meat chicken on Monday.  Today, I had balsamic chicken with roasted potatoes and vegetables.  Tomorrow, J will be making pasta with meatballs, but I am going to measure what I eat.  And I'm going to be downing the water.  I wanted my popcorn snack while watching the baseball game tonight, but I decided against it.
    It's all I can do, really. These little things.
    Hoping to have better news for you all next week.  
    To myself...I'm sorry.  I screwed up.  I'm going to make it right.
    To the scale - screw you.  I'm coming back next week,  and I'm owning you!
    - Capulet
     
  17. Capulet

    If it ain't broken...

    By Capulet,

    For the last few weeks, we have had a broken front door lock; and my son's key was refusing to come out of the door.  Home Depot wanted $130 for a new lock/set that looked the most like the one we have now.
    $130 that we just didn't want to have to spend right now.  I now have past-due vet bills, a car payment, increased insurance payments, this just wasn't on my to-do list.
    So, we left the son's key in the door (it was LITERALLY stuck and wasn't even turning, so it was impossible for anyone else to pull the key out and let themselves into my house) and started using the top deadbolt lock until we could invest in a new one.  In that time, we've had several people (to include two of our neighbors, the cable guy, the mailman, and the UPS delivery man) point out that our key was still in the door.  
    "We know," I'd tell them all, then would fidget with the lock to see if by some miracle, the key was removable, yet.  The movie, "Sword in the Stone" comes to mind.  It was confirmed that not even King Arthur himself could turn this piddly little key, and I've been delaying having to shell out the $130 for about a month, now.
    Yesterday, I was inspired to, once and for all, get out the tool box and see what I could do.  There had to be SOMETHING going on inside the lock, some reason the key wouldn't turn.  The sun was out and I wouldn't be freezing if I stood in the doorway and did some investigating.  In between shooing the cats from the wide-open door, I managed to take the whole thing apart.  The key remained in the lock and despite all the jiggling and button pressing and tinkering, it was LOOKING like I needed to invest that $130.  I needed to now put it all back together, or there would literally be a hole in the front door that the neighbors, cable guy, postman, UPS man would ALL be able to see through.  
    The first time I put it back together, I found that I couldn't even turn the KNOB now. 
    Screwdriver got thrown.  Slew of obscenities flew out of my mouth.
    Picked up phone to text J to see if she'd pick up a lock set on her way home from work - but decided against hitting 'send.'  I was going to try this again - I REALLY didn't want to spend $130!!!
    Picked screwdriver up, and in the process, scared the cat who had gone over to investigate it. 
    Took apart the knob and handle again, did some more tinkering, and apparently, all of my swearing must have helped, because not only was the knob turning now, but, out came the key, too.
    YES.
    I screwed in for the second time the knob and handle.  Confirmed that the inside knob was now turnable post-screwing and the button on the handle was press-able.  I wasn't brave enough to try the freed key yet because I wasn't confident enough in my hardware skills to say it wouldn't get stuck again.  Nevertheless, I texted the wife to let her know that I didn't know exactly how, but that I'd fixed the door and saved us a trip to Home Depot.  Not that there was one planned, but it was likely having to be planned soon!
    Small update on this, since this was yesterday's excitement - I did end up trying the key when I returned it to the Son - I locked myself outside and used the key to let myself back in.  He's now put it back onto his keyring and I'm patting myself on the back.  
    $130 is a lot of fucking money to save, isn't it?  Yeah, I thought so.
    So, it's confirmed.  Gone (for now) are the days of having to explain to houseguests that the key being left in the door was NOT a result of absentmindedness and that it was because the lock, somehow, was stuck.  
    Please don't ask me how I fixed it.  I couldn't tell you.  
    So, this opens the door (no pun intended, or maybe it IS?) to conversing about something that I've come to realize over the last few weeks.
    People have been trying to fix ME for years.  
    My mother was first.  I came out 'defective' and with two bad ears.  They told her I'd NEVER speak (big surprise, I'm sure, to those who know me now - I'm not an overly loud person but if I'm comfortable with someone, I do NOT shut up!) and she made it her personal mission to 'correct' the doctors and audiologists.  She made it a priority to raise me as she would a hearing child.  Sign language was out of the question.  I had no deaf friends.  I don't know if this caused more damage, socially (it likely did) but it was almost definitely a result of her trying to 'fix' me.   Yes, when she realized she had a deaf child, she did rise to the occasion and did whatever she could to to make sure that I thrived, regardless of how.  It's HARD to say whether she had my best interests in mind, or it was more so in her own to have as 'normal' as possible a child.
    My parents also tried to 'fix' me by taking me to therapy as a child - I will never know their real reasons for introducing therapy into an 8-year-old child's life but have very deep suspicions it is for the behaviors that I was demonstrating - behaviors indicative of being exposed to CSA.  This is something my mother was never willing to see, even though the signs were all there.  As far as she was concerned, I was not behaving normally, and it needed to be fixed.  Oddly enough, she decided that there was enough 'fixing' done after a year and I was unexplainably yanked from therapy.  The behaviors continued well into my teen years, so I don't know - while I don't want to say the effort was wasted, I don't see that there was any resolution, either.
    As some of you know, I became recklessly promiscuous following the rape in 1996.  There was partner after partner - both men and women.  Some knew more than others as far as my history - and some insisted that I just needed to be "taught" how to enjoy sex.  "Just let me try this," they'd say while I laid there, TRYING not to flip out, "you will like it, trust me."  There was ultimately NO 'fix' here, but they sure as hell tried!
    My ex-husband tried to 'fix' me by pointing out EVERYTHING I did wrong.  It didn't matter if it wasn't illegal-kind of wrong - if it was not up to his standards, it was wrong.  Yes, he used manipulation more often than he did not, and he was SO talented at getting me to actually BELIEVE him.  I believed him enough at one point to completely transition into the mindset that if things weren't done HIS way, then they were automatically incorrect. And so, even though his 'right way' of doing things didn't necessarily match mine, I went out of my way to ensure HE was happy. 
    Reflecting on all of this - I think I always thought I was broken - even as a young child.  Here was everyone telling me what I needed to do, what was best for me, what would work, what wouldn't.  Rather than take the reins myself (when I was old enough to), I placed my trust into the wrong people and listened to them instead of listening to myself.  Instead of chalking things up to opinion, I'd say, "sure, I'll try this.  Sure, I'll do that.  Whatever you think will fix the problem, I'll do."  I suppose trusting myself to make better choices was always an issue, perhaps even more so after enduring trauma, but that's just another factor to consider as I try to get to the bottom of this.
    If I wasn't broken before, this definitely is what did it.  All of the 'fixing' others have tried to do, only succeeded in breaking me further.
    I know there's only one person that can truly fix me.  Right - me, myself, and I.  That's it.  It just became SO easy to let others guide me - they'd been doing it so long and I never had the confidence (or motivation) to speak up for myself.  Having this newfound confidence scares me now as I'm not used to fixing anything other than unruly doorknobs or a tech issue here and there.  I'm now recognizing the difference between what needs to be fixed and what was never broken and am wondering just how much was even necessary!
    Has this made it harder for me to fix myself?  Maybe THIS is why I'm feeling particularly stuck nowadays, why these 'grown-up' decisions are seeming so hard?  No one suggested going back to school, starting up with counseling, participating in a local Survivors Art/support group.  These were all things I took on, by myself, as a first step toward fixing my own way of thinking.  
    The only fixing I'm going to do for the rest of tonight is that of dinner.  London Broil on the barbecue - sun's still out and it's a good grilling day. 
    Back next time.  Hoping you're all having a good day!
    Peace, love and hugs,
    - Capulet
  18. Capulet
    It's been a rough, ROUGH few weeks.  I'm not really wanting to rehash on things and put too many details here, but I did want to let everyone know that things have been stressful and difficult as of late.  I'm still around, though, no worries!!!  It seems that no matter what's happening in my life, this remains my safe space, the place where I feel most comfortable, and where I 'escape.'  
    I know I've been extremely neglectful to my blog, my and to my kitchen sink, among other things.  I've managed to autopilot through, though, and am starting to see some semblance of normalcy; it's been a while since there has been 'sunshine,' both literally and figuratively speaking.  Some of my closest friends here already know a little bit about what's been going on in my life, and they have been absolutely amazing.  My heartfelt thanks to those of you who were never without a kind word and those who have checked in or sent pick-me-ups my way.  I'm a very fortunate woman, to know you and to call you friends!
    So, when it rains, it pours...there's a hell of a lot of truth to that statement.  And when it's pouring out and things keep coming at you like those balls being whipped at you in the batting cages - you learn to compartmentalize and to recognize what you can handle now and what you should tuck away for later.
    Now that the storm has passed (somewhat) and the weather is becoming nicer and more bearable, I'm taking a peek at what's been in the back pocket of my brain for a few weeks.  There's not TOO much in there due to my trying to tackle everything else that was coming at me at once - some things couldn't be put away.
    As many of you know, I'm finishing up my junior year at the University (been back for a year, after taking a hiatus!) and I'm just a few classes shy of my bachelor's in Social Work.  I'm taking a Child Welfare class and it's taught by an excellent professor.  The guy is knowledgeable, he engages, he's not boring, he keeps our attention - and that's not easy to do at 8 o'clock in the morning.  Anyway, in preparation for our midterm, he was kind enough to reveal what one of the essay questions would be.
    "Identify the four types of child abuse and describe the indicators and signs that point to each."
    I mean, some of this - it's a no-brainer.  You have your physical abuse cases (seeing burns, bruises, welts and spiral fractures on a child's body and the child's account most often not being consistent with the story the marks tell), there's neglect, which is marked by the child's appearace at times - the child who rummages through trash because they're hungry and are in search of food, the child who is unkempt or inappropriately dressed (flip-flops in December?) is likely not getting what he or she needs at home.  Emotional and mental abuse struck a chord for me for obvious reasons - although I was older when experiencing this type of abuse at the hands (and mouth) of my husband, it would be easy for me to spot signs of emotional distress in a child.  The emotionally abused child will often verbally put themselves down, chastise themselves, minimize their self-worth, all reflective of what they perhaps hear from adults they trust.
    I paid the most attention to the fourth 'type' of abuse - sexual abuse.  I've not said much in class during these discussions - I'd chosen to just sit, listen, observe.  I was fearful of what I'd hear were indicators of this - because for a long time, I've been holding onto the belief that I was sexually abused as a child.  I'd LOVE to not believe it, but based on what I do know of myself and my behaviors as a kid, I can't discount any of it.  I wondered to myself - what signs was everyone else missing?  What was ignored?  Was I that good at hiding secrets, that even as a child, I showed no indication that something was wrong?  
    The professor did talk about physical signs - those signs aren't always accurate, though - some can be confused for physical abuse (not that sexual abuse isn't physical, because it is - but a flinching child or a child afraid of an adult could truthfully point to either) and some can be attributed to one of the other types as well - and as children don't normally show up to school with their private areas exposed, sexual abuse is by far one of the most overlooked of abuse types.
    There is one indicator, though, and according to the esteemed professor - it is the number one sign that a child has been sexually abused.
    Anyone care to venture a guess as to what that sign is?
    Okay, I'll tell you.  I didn't get it right away, either, for the record.  I guess I never really sat down to think about it because I never had to - but in preparation for getting my degree, I've had to take a good, hard look at a lot of things.  I wasn't planning to pursue working with children, and I think I'm understanding now why there might be some (unconscious) hesitation there.  It all makes more sense, now.
    Without further ado - the number one sign is - 'a child who has an advanced knowledge of or is demonstrating sexual behavior at an age where they would not normally have it or do so.'
    I wanted to shake my professor's hand at the end of class and say, "I can't tell you what for, but thank you!!!!"
    He validated me and he doesn't even know it.  Although I still have no memory to support my suspicions, he made them a little more true.  I'm still not sure what to do with this - perhaps it's going back into that pocket from which it arrived, especially now that I know and understand that these signs weren't missed...they were ignored.  My mother saw them when she witnessed (and scolded me for) behaviors that she told me were 'inappropriate' and dirty.  I was seven.  Or eight.  How the hell else would I have known the things I was doing if something hadn't happened?  A kid doesn't learn these things without some sort of exposure.  A social worker saw the signs, too, when the 'dolls' did sexual things to each other.  She asked questions, there was an investigative process but nothing came of that, either.
    I dunno, guys.  
    I kinda hoped that there was some truth to me being a 'dirty' child.  Or that I was just crazy and imaginative enough to make things up.  Even being a kid that had something wrong with her was an easier concept to grasp, because it would mean I wasn't a bad kid...and that the REASON I did these things was because I was crazy, or just...smart enough to 'discover' certain sexual behaviors on my own...  
    Anyone I've spoken to about these things is most likely a survivor themselves.  "Something did happen," they all say, "you didn't make this up..."  Don't get me wrong - I do believe it - but there was always that tiny sliver of hope that I was wrong and that there was a misunderstanding or misinterpretation somewhere.
    To hear this information from a non-survivor (as far as I know) and a professional....a teacher TELLING future social workers what to look at when trying to identify child sexual abuse...this has made it....different, somehow. 
    Surprisingly, I'm not triggered.  I'm almost relieved, in a sense.  It's a very hard feeling to explain, but perhaps I will be able to at a later time.  I wanna say I'm angry, but it is not yet at the point where I'm feeling enraged.  It's still a feeling of fizzing disgust - and mostly at certain people who were in my life, saw these very obvious signs, and did nothing.  I've already, in my mind, held those 'players' accountable - even if I've not said anything to them (and with good personal reasons for not doing so) or shared with them what I DO remember.  My suspected abuser is dead, now.    Perhaps this can be looked at as an act of divine intervention - as I'll never get any confirmation from a pedophile who was buried last summer - maybe this was something I needed to hear in order to make peace with it, even in a small way.
    I will say though, I'm glad social work professionals today are smarter and more thorough than the ones that existed back in the 80s.  It's RIDICULOUS how much was missed, or even ignored back then.  
    I've just received word that my spring break has been extended another week due to the University's taking precaution over the mass hysteria caused by the COVID-19 outbreak - they are still having faculty come in but delaying students' return until March 23rd.  Staff will be exploring the possibilty of continuing classes remotely if the need arises.  So, the week that I mentally missed, (I still went to classes even though my head wasn't with it, but that was strictly for attendance purposes) I now have back and will utilize it in order to catch up as best as I can. I'll be spending some time with my word processor, research engines, and $25 bottles of hand sanitizer.  So - back to the grind on the two papers that were due when we returned from spring break.  No extensions have been granted on those as of yet, so I'm back to working on those under the assumption that they're still due on the established due dates.  
    I did want to post something here, though, as it's been a while since I let my words flow.  It ALWAYS does make me feel a little better when I've done so - and as expected, I'm feeling calm and more able to focus on the things that are still sitting in front of me.  
    I'm hoping everyone is doing well and is staying safe and germ-free!!!    My thoughts are always with you!
    Peace, love and hugs,
    - Capulet
  19. Capulet
    Also posted in Share Your Story:
    Installment One: The Formative Years
    I was born on a snowy winter morning in 1978.  Originally, I wasn’t planning to reveal my age – but felt there was some importance in divulging the time frame.  I DO believe that there is FAR more awareness now than there was back then.  Maybe, just maybe things would have turned out differently.  Maybe it would have set off an entirely different chain of events. Maybe I wouldn’t be writing this, now. As life is full of too many maybes and not enough definites, I’ve decided to chuck the what-ifs into the (digital) trash where they belong, because regardless of what the maybes are, they’ll never be proven and we cannot dwell on them.
    My mother was a schoolteacher.  She’d been teaching kindergarten up until shortly before giving birth and my father worked in insurance.  They married young.  I’d learn years later that I was not their first child – before they married, my mother, at seventeen, had become pregnant with my brother – that pregnancy was terminated, likely for a number of reasons but two main ones stand out – one – they were young and not yet engaged – and two – although my mother claimed she was ambiguous and would have birthed my brother, my father was of the mindset that they weren’t ready to have a child, yet.  So, they’d made the decision to terminate, and didn’t have me until eight years later and after they’d already been married for seven of them.  
    When I was six months old, my parents noticed that I was not responding to loud noises or to my name being called.  I think an investigation was sparked when my father set off the smoke/fire alarm, alerting all tenants of the apartment building we lived in, (I must say that his cooking has not improved) and I slept through it all. There was enough concern that they brought me to have my hearing tested.  The audiologist took out a cowbell and stood directly behind me and rang it.  My parents could hear it.  The people in the office next door likely heard it, too. Hell, the people outside probably could have heard it. 
    I, however, did not.  I remained stationary in my seat and unfazed.
    “Your daughter is deaf.”
    The diagnosis rattled my parents to their core. They thankfully didn’t waste time seeking out second or third opinions – they’d likely have gotten the same responses.  They liked this particular audiologist, too, and felt comfortable with her and her advice to get me fitted with hearing aids as quickly as possible.  
    “What happened?”  They did ask her.
    I am the only one in my family history to have a hearing impairment, so they knew this was not genetic.  After discussing any and all possibilities, the one theory that seemed most likely was my mother’s (while being pregnant) having come into contact with a student of hers that had come down with the measles.  Another way that ‘back then’ was different from today – there wasn’t so much stress on the importance of vaccinations and kids were showing up to school with brewing illnesses and sharing them with their friends, or in my mother’s case, with their pregnant teachers.  So, the reason that’s been put down in all of my medical charts is, ‘birth defect.’  
    It was also explained to my parents that I’d likely never speak, having never been able to ‘hear’ proper speech.  It’s been suggested, although never confirmed, that I was born with a severe hearing loss and it had rapidly declined into a profound loss by the time of diagnosis.  It was recommended that I be taught sign language as a primary language – which would have meant that both my parents, who combined, didn’t know a single word in sign language, would have to first learn it themselves in order to teach ME to communicate.
    The sign-language route wasn’t an option that my mother was willing to accept as a primary plan.  It quickly became a secondary, back-up plan as she decided to quit her teaching job and to focus on taking care of her special-needs child. I’m unsure if it was due to her strong background and focus in education, or if it was a personal mission of hers that she undertook at this point, but early intervention was her mindset and quickly became her obsession.  If speech training could not be implemented into my day-to-day life, then they’d revert back to Plan B.
    EVERYTHING was a lesson.  A learning experience.  I am partially glad that I have no memory of this, either.  The way my mother tells it, every waking moment was spent teaching me. Every time she spoke to me, she’d place my tiny hand onto her throat so that I could feel the vibrations of her voice. She’d also say the names of things she’d pick up, and make sure I was looking at her when she did, so that I could see how they looked on her lips, and put the image together with the words. Cup.  Ball.  Book. Toy.  The list goes on.  And the colors….this is red, that’s blue…etc.  There were flash cards, too…she’d cut out photos from magazines and make these herself.  She would eventually be able to say a word and have me point to the picture.  

    She didn’t do all of this, herself, though. She also took several trips into the city, sometimes as often as three times per week, where trained professionals would also work with me on speech and language development.  Being at home was just a constant continuation of all of the work they did there.  In addition to being my mother, she became my first and most important teacher.  
    My father wasn’t as involved with all of this.  I’m not sure if this was where they started having problems or disagreements, but they were divorced before I had any memory of him living with us or being a constant within my very early childhood. 
    My mother was given sole custody.  My father didn’t fight her.  While I know he loved me very much, he was clearly happy with having her do most of the parenting and he’d take me on weekends and holidays.  I was 2 when their divorce was final; Mom and I moved out of the apartment that my parents shared.  My Dad would remain in the same place for the next decade.  As she needed time to get onto her feet, she moved in with my grandmother for a little while.  My grandmother owned a house that had been in the family since HER mother bought when SHE was a child.  It was a brick, two-story place that had been converted into a two-family home when my mother was still a kid.  Now it was the very early 80’s and my mother’s brother and his ‘friend’ (a male roommate/his best friend/possible lover?) lived in the upstairs apartment while my mother and I lived in the downstairs apartment with my grandmother. This was only meant to be a temporary arrangement, as my mother, following her divorce from my father, had returned back to work.  As soon as my mother began to gain a steady income, (along with my father’s child support) we moved out of my grandmother’s house and into a small basement apartment just a few blocks away.  My mother, until she eventually re-married, made sure to stay close to my grandmother – and also my uncle.  
    You see, she needed help with getting me to my appointments into the city for continued speech therapy.  I was not yet in school, so my uncle, who was not working at the time, was tasked with taking me back and forth via city subway.  There was a train station literally behind my grandmother’s house and it was one train from there to the city, where my uncle would bring me for my appointments while my mother worked.  On days I didn’t have appointments, he was my babysitter – and would watch me at my grandmother’s house until my mother got home.
    A pause here, to tell you a little bit about him.
    He was (I suppose I shouldn’t say ‘was’ as he’s still alive – but my grandmother is not) my grandmother’s eldest. My mother also had an older sister, who at the time was married with a couple kids, lived elsewhere (although not too far) and had her own issues at the time – so was unavailable to help out. My uncle had joined the seminary years before I was born.  I’m unsure if doing so had to do with his sexual orientation – or guilt and confusion relating to it.  Either way, he became a Roman Catholic priest – and still lived with his ‘friend,’ a man I knew for my entire life and adopted as a second uncle.  From when I was born, he was there.  I’d never known my uncle to be without his ‘friend.’  To this day, they are still living in that apartment, even though I think now, he’s moved downstairs and is occupying the space that used to be my grandmother’s.  But, anyway – I rarely saw him in anything other than the black pants, black shirt, priest collar.  He never confirmed that my second uncle was anything more than just his friend, and no one wanted to ask.  We all just went along with it, not wanting to know what went on behind closed doors.  None of that was our business.  My uncle was the equivalent of the ‘housewife’ while my ‘bonus’ uncle worked a regular nine-to-five – so unless it was a weekend or Sunday dinner at my grandmother’s or a holiday or family gathering, I rarely saw him.  
    While we lived within walking distance from my grandmother’s house, my uncle would walk over in the evenings to ‘say goodnight,’ and usually that consisted of him telling me a bedtime story and tucking me in.  Usually it was the same corny story.  He would put me in as the main character – he would also insert my cousins, (my aunt’s kids) but always make me the heroine.  There was no doubt that I was his ‘favorite’ and he made sure to tell me often.
    I spent a LOT of time with him when I was between the ages three to five. When I started elementary school, the trips into the city had lessened from three times a week down to two, and they’d likely be after-school appointments.  He would still take me to those, as my mother’s work schedule often consisted of after-school tutoring, to earn a little extra.  
    All that being said, let it be known that I have no memories of ANY of this.  I only remember all of the above as that’s how it was told to me.
    By the time I turned six, my mother had just re-married.  My new stepfather was a decent guy and a hard worker. My first sister was ‘baking,’ my mother had become pregnant shortly after her wedding.  My father had also remarried within months of my mother.  I now had two ‘bonus’ parents aside from my biological parents – I still lived with my mother, though, and we’d moved into an apartment further away from my grandmother’s house – meaning my uncle could no longer walk the distance to ‘tuck me in’ at night anymore.  
    I’m not sure how this came to be – it might have been suggested that I was struggling socially in school, but my mother eventually decided to put me into ‘play therapy.’  It was church sponsored and free – but being six, I didn’t care about the ‘therapy’ aspect of it all.  All I cared about was the fact they had a Barbie Dream House in one of their playrooms, and I LOVED the idea of being able to go play with it for an hour. There were a WHOLE lot of toys to pick from…blocks, puppets, stuffed animals…but that Dream House was all that I’d go for.  They had a range of Barbies that I could play with, too, which only made it all better. I remember a Dream House of my own being added to my Christmas list, but it never did show up under the tree. Damn that Santa Claus!
    That’s where my memories start.  I remember nothing before going to play therapy.  I, however, remember THIS particular afternoon at play therapy where I clenched a Ken doll in one hand and a Skipper doll in the other. This is where it gets fuzzy.  I don’t remember what the dolls were actually doing.  Perhaps I’m not allowed to remember.  I DO, however, remember the lady waving her hand to get my attention, and then when I looked at her, asking me who the Ken doll was.  What was his name?
    I could have said, ‘Ken.’  Even back then, I’m sure I was a smart-ass.  I did know that was the name of Barbie’s boyfriend.  But I didn’t.  In this representation, he wasn’t Ken.  Instead, I named my uncle.
    The lady told me I could play for a little while longer.  She would be right back.  I didn’t care that she left me alone in the playroom.  Thinking back, I’m sure she was going to speak to my mother and properly ‘reporting’ what had just been said.  At the time, though, nothing registered.  I was oblivious and uncaring, as long as I had a few more minutes with the Dream House, I was golden…
    I never saw that woman or that playroom again.  I think I was more disappointed that I never saw the Dream House again, either.
    Shortly after my last play therapy session, two women showed up at our apartment.  They sat on either side of me on the couch.  My mother was there, too, standing across from where we sat.  I remember her telling the women that I was deaf and I needed for her there to interpret, in case I didn’t understand them. I remember vaguely one woman beginning to speak slowly.  She started out with some simple questions.  What was my name?  How old was I?  What was my favorite color?  What was my favorite toy?  When she was sure that I could understand her without my mother’s help, she put down the clipboard she had in her lap, and slightly opened her legs.
    “Do you know what this is?”  She patted her own crotch.  It was quick, a pat-pat when the word ‘this’ was said.
    I remember looking at this lady as if she were bat-shit crazy. Of course I knew what THAT was.  I had one too.  I knew the name, but I called it a ‘private part.’  
    I remember there being a brief dialogue between my mother and these two women.  My mother was someone that there was NEVER any issue lip-reading.  The person I had NO choice but to understand.  She was suggesting to the women that she’d spoken to her brother and he’d disciplined me because I was being ‘fresh.’  He’d admitted to swatting my bottom. Additionally, maybe that was why I was confused, and THAT’s what he’d touched, instead of where Ken had touched Skipper.  I assume that is why they asked me what (pat-pat) ‘this’ was.  ‘This’ and my bottom are not in the same place.  In hindsight, even at six, I knew the difference between that was in the front and what was in the back.  
    Why would I deny this, though?  My mother was the one person I knew I needed to obey.  Whatever she said was the truth.  One of the not-so-good things about her being my first-ever ‘teacher’ – I took every single thing she said seriously and as being the truth.  She was right about everything.  Whatever she knew, I was supposed to also know.  And like most students try to do with their teachers – I was eager to supply the right answer and to make her proud.  I wanted to please her, I wanted to be right and not wrong.
    So, when the women turned to me and asked if that was what happened, and that my uncle had spanked my bottom, I nodded.  Yes.  If Mom said that’s what happened, then that’s what happened.  I DID remember him doing that, after all.  Not details, but I DID remember being warned by my mother not to give my uncle a hard time on the subway. I was six, of COURSE I was going to get out of line a few times.  The subway had poles in the aisles and I’d love spinning around them…he’d probably complained about that and said I’d misbehaved.  I’d probably been swatted a couple times because I didn’t listen.  It wasn’t something done regularly.
    I suddenly felt very afraid.  Of what, I don’t know.  Maybe it was of these strange women and them being here and asking weird questions. They’d seemed friendly when they arrived.  Now, they were just intimidating, and I wanted them to leave.  I’m not sure how much longer we were talking but to an anxious six-year-old, time drags and it’s hard not to get restless.  
    “I made it up.”  
    Yes.  I said it.  I said it so they would leave.  Sure enough, shortly after, they gathered their papers and clipboards and left. My mother let them out and said nothing more of this.  Ever.  Not a single word.  You’d think something this serious would be followed up on.  It would be something that I’d need facts on. Something that would be too hard to ignore, but it’s something my mother had too little difficulty ‘forgetting about.’  
    I do think, though, my uncle was spooked, and if there was indeed something going on, it stopped here.  I did always remember that meeting with those women and telling them I’d lied and that I’d entirely made up what Ken had done to Skipper was always in the back of my head, bottled and stored in a place that would remain undisturbed for the next a decade and a half.  It perhaps stayed in the back of my mother’s mind, too, but unlike me, she’d never get around to re-opening this bottle.  
    I’m not sure if the behaviors began before or after this meeting with those two women.  I remember nothing from ‘before’ I started to believe that I was a liar, for having made up something so terrible about my uncle.  And now, looking back at the behaviors I remember so clearly, I was having to believe that there really was something wrong with me, too.  
    I remember beginning to take my own baths at the age of seven.  My sister had been born shortly before I turned seven, and my mother was now often busy with an infant.  So, every night, I would go into the bathroom with my bucket of bath toys and take a bath on my own.  
    This next part is one of the hardest things for me to admit – but I will do so anyway, as I’ve promised not to hold back, not to kick certain details over to the side because they’re too shameful or embarrassing.  It’s important.  It’s another huge, significant, blinking question mark when it comes to the whys behind it.  Another black void that I truly cannot shine a light on, to see what started it.  
    But – at age seven is when the masturbation started.  Water was how I did it, mostly with the shower head/spray. I don’t know if this means of masturbation was ‘discovered’ by accident or it was a previously introduced method, but it regardless became a routine.  At the beginning of ‘bath time,’ I would turn on the shower head and let the water hit me ‘there’ until I couldn’t anymore.  I had no idea what an orgasm was, but there was a point I needed to get to – a point  where I could no longer spray in that spot, because it was throbbing too much.  While a child knows nothing about masturbation – certainly not the proper term for it - she somehow knew that it was how to arrive at that ‘feeling’ at the end. 
    To experience that feeling soon became a bath time obsession for me. While it was something I had grown used to doing, and I am ashamed to admit I enjoyed, too – I also knew, deep down, that it was wrong.  There was something about it that didn’t feel right – and I ignored that nagging feeling. Instead, I hid this from not only my mother, but from everyone else in the household.   It was my secret, something I never told anybody about.  A few years in, my mother did eventually realize what I was doing when she walked into the bathroom and caught me in the process. She’d confirmed my fears – it was wrong, it was a sin and it was disgusting.  And because I’d become so intent on doing it, I felt even more so that this meant that I was not normal, I was a bad person, I was a disgusting, vile human being.  It was something she would tell me that I needed to confess to our parish priest (we were Catholic…I only say ‘were’ because I no longer follow the Catholic) before receiving Communion at Sunday mass.  So, every week, I’d shamefully admit to the priest (the face-to-face confessional was how I had to do it) that I touched myself.  I’d grow increasingly ashamed of it, and of myself, as I got older.
    An addendum to the whole ‘confessing my sins’ bit – I wasn’t thinking to add this as I was almost finished writing this installment when remembering this part.  As my mother insisted on my going to confession before church, and her brother was a priest, she would sometimes have HIM listen to my confessions.  There was a room in his apartment that he’d made a mini-chapel out of – he had an altar, his statues, the communion dish, the wine goblet, the incense thingy…there was a single pew where we would once in a while hear him say mass.  Or it was where I’d sit next to him and avoid eye contact while I told him the same things I’d tell our parish priest.  He would absolve me of my sins every time, and then give me my three Hail Marys or two Our Fathers to recite as penance.  I never really thought about how messed up this was – not until much later. I can’t help but wonder, looking back, what HE was thinking when hearing me say these things?
    Another behavior that also began when I was very young was soiling myself. This, I cannot explain the reasoning behind.  I would literally ‘hold it’ even if I needed to go to the bathroom – and usually would have soiled underwear at the end of the day. I’d taken to hiding them when I took them off, fearful that I’d be yelled at.  My mother would indeed yell, but usually it would be when she either realized that there weren’t too many pairs of my underwear in the laundry or when she’d find however many pairs that I’d hidden when she ‘cleaned’ a certain place in my room.  She also knew about my soiling – she’d shame me for that, too, telling me I smelled, and that nobody would want to be near me.  Perhaps, deep down, I knew that.  Either way, this, along with the masturbation, was likely one of the several reasons I met my first therapist when I was eight years old.
    Dr. M had her office in the basement level of a brownstone in downtown Brooklyn.  She was a Jewish lady with an 80’s perm, glasses, and a fondness for saying ‘what do YOU think?’ whenever I asked her a question.  Her office had a playroom, too, but alas, no Barbie Dream House. She did have wooden building blocks, plenty of paper, crayons and other crafting supplies.  Most of the time, we’d converse while I drew pictures or built something out of the blocks.  I don’t recall what we talked about, but I do remember wanting to know more about her. How old was she?  What was HER favorite thing to eat?  It would piss me off to no end when she would smile and ask what I thought.  I’d tell her, “I dunno.  That’s why I’m asking you.”
    I saw her for once per week, for one year.  It became something I looked forward to – it was hard, at eight, to view Dr. M as a therapist or to wonder why I was seeing her.  Mom would later say it was because I was having trouble at school and that I was imaginative.  Hmm. Imaginative.  Meaning, I guess, I was a liar, and that was just a nicer word for it.  I think she also threw in “well, your being deaf was making it hard for you to make friends at school.”  That doesn’t quite top the ‘imaginative’ reference, but it was also true that school SUCKED for me.  Kids were cruel, I kept to myself mostly, and shied away from as much social activity as possible.  Not that seeing Dr. M improved on that – school was a nightmare all through middle school – being deaf was simply what was wrong with me now, and what would be wrong with me for the rest of my life.  While the other stuff that was wrong with me was a secret, this wasn’t one I could keep.  There was constantly attention being drawn to my disability, and my classmates, not being mature enough to be able to see past it, would be merciless and consistent with their bullying.  
    To me, Dr. M was a kindly lady who talked to me, who drew with me, who let me tell her stories.  Perhaps those were imaginative, too?  I honestly have to wonder if any of my ‘stories’ raised any red flags, because suddenly, one Saturday morning, I was prepared to go for my therapy session and my mother informed me that I’d not be seeing Dr. M anymore.  “It’s too expensive,” my mother said.  In hindsight, I cannot imagine that being the case, as my father, who has always been comfortable with money, was funding all of this.  That’s basically his role in all of it.  My mother would tell him what she needed – money, take me to this appointment, pick me up, drop me off.  Dad never questioned anything or the cost of anything – he just did it.  She said to jump, he’d ask how high.  
    There was never any closure with Dr. M.  My mother stuck to the story that her services were too expensive.  I remember being disappointed – sad, almost, that I would no longer see my ‘friend,’ Dr. M, but almost as quickly as it became a routine, it became a thing of the past.   
    Life went on after the discontinuation of therapy.  My mother and stepfather eventually had another baby. Another sister.  My father and his wife remained childless; Dad always insisting that his one daughter was enough for him.  I was with Mom most of the time and spent every other weekend with my father. Family gatherings continued to be held, most of the time at my grandmother’s house.  We did all of the holidays – Easter, Christmas, Thanksgiving, Mother’s Day, birthdays.  My grandmother was a non-driver – as my uncle too, never got his driver’s license, either. So, we always went to her house, as to simplify things for my grandmother and uncle – and us, as if we wanted them elsewhere, someone would have to pick them up and then drive them back home.  My grandmother, up until she became sick, would insist on our visits on Sunday. Without fail, we went there on Sundays for dinner – even if it wasn’t a holiday.  She wanted her family together – it was what she loved more than anything. This, I’m realizing, was something she passed down to my mother – I am finding that this family closeness is what my mother wants, as well, but it is, unfortunately for her, not how it unfolded.
    Still, life went on as if what had happened when I was six – had never happened.  My uncle was no longer my babysitter, but he remained a constant.  He was present at all the holidays and birthday celebrations. He would, on occasion, take me to movies during visits to my grandmother’s house.  He didn’t seem to begrudge me for what I do remember having gone down with the dolls, and like my mother, he said nothing about it and carried on as if it was nonexistent.  I will never know what was said between brother and sister – and what the plan was between the two of them – perhaps because keeping the family together was of paramount importance to my grandmother, it was decided that nothing would become of any of that – especially if I wasn’t remembering it…or at least, giving off signs of remembering.

    After all, as I entered adolescence, the abnormal behaviors (the bath stuff, the soiling) ceased and stopped.  My mother had gotten her wish – I’d ‘forgotten’ about it.  It no longer existed and it had effectively been swept under the rug.  I carried on as ‘normal’ a relationship with my uncle as possible and ignored those little things that I would randomly remember for no particular reason.  He has a birthmark on the knuckle side of his right hand – situated between his thumb and forefinger.  His favorite breakfast cereal is Puffed Rice.  Whenever I’d pass the Puffed Rice in the supermarket, I’d think to myself how much I hated it.  He would call me ‘baby girl’ (his nickname for me) and I realized as the years went on, how much I hated that, too.  Still, I said nothing, and would shift my thinking whenever any of these things came up.
    Several years went by without a mention of anything.  Still, I remembered, but mentally, leaned more toward the theory that because I couldn’t remember any actual details, then I probably was confused and DID lie.  I did, however, see less and less of my uncle, as my grandmother eventually became much older and too weak to host the weekly Sunday dinners.  
    I know that this particular installment is really only supposed to discuss what I remember of my childhood and my young adulthood doesn’t really fall into this category.  I however, need to fast-forward for a moment, to when I was twenty-two years old.  This took place after I’d been raped at seventeen – after I’d moved out of my mother’s house, after I’d already given birth to my son and married his father.  After a series of poorly-made choices that I’ll get into detail on in installment three.  It was after life had succeeded in deepening the cracks that were likely made in childhood.  
    My grandmother, sadly, had succumbed to osteoporosis and other health issues, and died in her sleep at home.  A day or two following her funeral, my mother and I stopped by her house to sort through some of her things to see what could be kept, what could be donated, what could be thrown away.
    The minute I walked into her house, I was hit by a feeling of dread. Of unfamiliarity.  My uncle let us in, and we saw that he’d already began to ‘move on.’  He (or the ‘bonus uncle’) had transferred all of his religious statues from his chapel upstairs and there they stood, wrapped in protective plastic, in the bedroom that used to be my grandmother’s.  He told us of his plans to relocate his chapel downstairs, as well as take over my grandmother’s part of the house for himself – as his knees were declining and it was becoming increasingly difficult to climb up the flight of stairs every day.  He was already beginning to fix the cracks in the floors by replacing the rotted wood squares with new ones. 
    It was like a flip was switched.  For the first time, I became angry.  
    Grandma wasn’t alive anymore.  I no longer had to pretend.  I looked again at my uncle and realized how much I fucking hated him.  I hated the sight of him.  The smell of him.  I hated the ‘baby girl’ every time he saw me, I hated seeing that ugly fucking birthmark on his hand every time he reached out to hug me.  And he didn’t look like my uncle anymore.  Not the uncle I’d been telling myself for all of these years, was probably innocent and that I was a lying piece of shit for having put him through that investigation that nothing ever came out of.  No.  Now, a look at his face made me want to insta-puke.  All over his Jesus statues and new floors.  Floors he could have had installed while my grandmother was still living and might’ve had the opportunity to enjoy them!  Her body wasn’t even fucking COLD yet, and you’re redecorating!?
    I’d also, by now, experienced a sexual assault five years earlier – so I am thinking that, combined with the passing of my grandmother, was what made possible the swift, rude uncovering of those bottled-up suspicions that had been collecting dust in the back of my mind.  It became harder to believe myself when that tiny six-year-old voice said, “I made it up.”  Nothing made sense anymore.  I had more questions now than I had answers.
    Guess what I realized on that afternoon, other than the fact that I hated my uncle?
    I didn’t make this up.  Something happened.  Something so horrible, that my brain will not allow me to remember it.  A six-year-old kid doesn’t pull this shit out of thin air. Where the hell would she get it from? This started somewhere!
    I have seen my uncle only a handful of times since my grandmother’s passing in 2002.  I cut him out.  Completely. I wanted nothing to do with him.  I wanted my KIDS to have nothing to do with him.  I refused to attend any family gathering where he would be present.  I no longer invited him to ours.  I had to suck it up at the weddings of both of my sisters – he was there, and I’d had to be polite as not to arouse curiousity. I’d say hello and goodbye and avoid any interaction beyond that.  There was a time during my mission to remove him from my life when he’d been hospitalized with an infection, and my mother, thinking he was going to die then, insisted I go see him – the hospital was, after all, just down the street from where I was living at the time.  I’d told my husband to leave the car running and took the elevator up.  As soon as he saw me, he broke down into tears and blubbered, ‘I didn’t mean for us to be enemies.’  Not knowing what the hell to do with that, I left minutes later, saying that there was no parking and they were waiting for me to come back down. That was as good enough to a confession I was going to get out of him, and I left the hospital that day further convinced that cutting him out was the absolute best choice I could ever make. THAT was what convinced me whenever there was question, whenever there was that moment of doubt.
    My mother, who, for many years, had seen me ‘carry on’ as if everything were normal, eventually began to ask me why I was so angry with him, why I no longer called him ‘uncle.’  Why I snapped at whomever dared mention his name or sing his praises.  Why whenever someone said ‘he’s a priest!’ my face would scrunch as if I’d bitten into a lemon.  I would never be able to say anything more than that initial feeling I’d gotten when walking into my grandmother’s house and seeing that he’d gutted it and been so quick to ‘remove’ her from it.  He’d treated his mother like shit, he’d likely been anxious for her to die, so that he could redo her house and conform it to his selfish needs.  Additionally, I added that he’d cheated my mother out of her inheritance – something I’d find out not too long after.  Yes, she would have more reason to be angry with him over that, but it ‘fit’ and it was something more to add to my list of what to be angry with him for…but whether it was enough to hate him was probably unlikely.  
    I also realized that I was becoming increasingly angry with my mother.  This, though, was tricky and I couldn’t help but feel incredibly guilty each time I looked at my mother and felt periodic bouts of anger, mixed in with bits of hatred and disgust.  To this day, I cannot hug her with my heart – only my arms. I believe this is only because the physical affection was obligatory – a greeting, a farewell, a special occasion – all those things that require hugs and shows of affection – those were easy, mostly because there was usually more than just one person to greet/say goodbye to/congratulate on whatever.  I find it sad though, that I cannot hug my mother to show her love.  I cannot go to her for comfort.  I cannot trust her.  But I do love her, in my own distant, detached way.
    My mother was the one who supposedly loved me the most, the one who molded me into this greatly improved version of what they told her I would be.  She’s been there whenever I needed her to be. She helped us financially in the past, and she continues to, if she sees us struggling.  She genuinely (and probably) does more for me than she does my sisters.  While I’ll always appreciate what she’s done, I’m stuck on what she didn’t do.  What she refused to see.   For that reason alone, I’d chosen to not tell her about the things that would happen afterwards.  My thinking on it – if she failed to help me when I needed it as a child, then she certainly would fail to help me at an older age.  She had her chance to help me deal and cope with the aftereffects of abuse, whether it was child abuse or abuse I’d suffer in adulthood, but she failed.  I’m unable to find it within myself to give her another chance.  Especially now, in adulthood, where she continues to inadvertently insult me by repeatedly throwing her brother into my face.  Especially now, that his health has severely declined and he’s actively experiencing end-stage congestive heart failure on top of not being able to walk or do much for himself without assistance – and she’s made efforts to get me to mend fences, even if by way of a greeting or a brief conversation with him before his (long overdue) death.  Her efforts have failed, and will continue to fail, for he’s been dead to me for years, already.  He ‘died’ on that afternoon in his house when that bottle of memories that I’d tucked away for years, was suddenly knocked off its shelf and had shattered.  
    The idea of him had died.  My connection to him – dead and severed.  Unfortunately, his physical body has not yet died, despite a heart attack, a quadruple bypass, diabetes, obesity, knee and hip replacements, arthritis, that infectious disease he’d been in for when I’d visited him, and countless bouts of pneumonia and other respiratory issues.  I swear, this disgusting, vile, rancid, sorry excuse of a person has more lives than my five cats combined!  
    Anyway – I’ve seemingly gone off course.  This installment was supposed to deal with just childhood and what I remember of it.  It just seemed pertinent to discuss a little bit of my more recent attempts to reduce contact, especially since some of you have seen me bit*h and complain and moan about my mother and about having to be at the same family gathering as my uncle as recently as a few months ago.  
    In closing, I think that it is safe to say there were many victories within my childhood.  I succeeded where kids like me who didn’t have the extensive training did not.  I was always ‘ahead’ in language, vocabulary. I thrived in the ‘hearing’ community, when it was told to my parents that the likelihood of that happening was very slim.  I’d be more likely to graduate high school with a fourth-grade reading and vocabulary level – but that didn’t happen.  I’d learned to function within a hearing community, and I wasn’t that .  Granted, my mother had gleaned most of the praise for my accomplishments – having done all of the required foundation work. Perhaps that’s another mother-issue to analyze in another piece of writing – it won’t be done in this one.
    As there were successes, there were also several failures.  Most of them, though, were not my own.  Those two ladies who came to our apartment?  They failed to persist, to follow up, to see through my mother’s version of events.  They believed my mother when she said that I likely misunderstood.  I was easily confused, and probably didn’t understand the difference between bad touching and a spank on my ass.  So, they let this go.  Dr. M?  She failed, too.  Maybe she had been getting close to uncovering what had really happened.  Maybe not.  Either way, she’d later tell me (more on that in a future installment) that there had been no resolution, as my mother yanked me from therapy at nine years old.  My father – although he is someone I think my mother constantly lied to and therefore the person I truly believe was the most clueless of all of them, also failed by not assuming a more active role.  Him, though, I’ve forgiven and don’t begrudge. My mother is a powerful force – and a master manipulator.  She knows how to cover things up, how to lie, how to sway a child’s thinking.  How to self-protect.  Next to her brother, who also quite obviously failed me, she was the one who failed me the most, and in the worst possible way.  
    And for years – I failed myself, too.  Even unintentionally, I did so by denying, by burying, by ignoring things, by keeping silent.  By lying about what I thought, even if they were lies by omission.  By allowing someone else to speak for me, to tell a story that didn’t feel accurate.  To always agree, because I was a liar and it didn’t matter what I said – it was wrong. By also giving in and accepting the idea that there was something wrong with me and that was the reason for all those ‘abnormal’ behaviors.  
    Well…no more.
    It’s time to make this right.  Make those things I thought were lies, a truth.  Although I cannot correct what others have or haven’t done, it is time to turn my own failures into a victory - even if I do it here, first -  behind the safety net that I know will remain intact and where I know I'll be met with the love, support and validation that I truly need.  I do not know if I will ever be able to tell this story outside of this forum or to confront those responsible, but to be able to do it here at this time, is a freeing start.  
    - Capulet
  20. Capulet
    This is also posted in Share Your Story.  The three installments are now posted in order there, and the board is now open to responses, but you may respond either here, or there, if you wish!  As always, please heed the trigger warnings above - and thank you in advance for reading!  Normal blogs will resume very soon, as my OCD self wanted these installments to be in order, without 'interruptions.'  And so, without further ado:
    Installment Three: After
    It might make the most sense to say that this third installment began when I opened my eyes on the morning of October 5th in 1996.  I’d gone to bed only hours earlier, but still hadn’t slept long.  I still felt sore, my head still ached, and my eyes burned whenever I blinked.  I needed the bathroom again but remember not wanting to get out of bed just yet.  I was in my room, but scanning through all of my familiar surroundings and belongings only made me uneasy and made everything seem ominous.  
    I didn’t know who I was, anymore.  Everything that I knew – wasn’t the same.  
    That realization sat with me all through the rest of the weekend, the rest of the month, the rest of the year of 1996.  After the week of school that the ‘stomach bug’ caused me to miss, I’d gone back and auto-piloted my way through the rest of the semester.  I went to class, sat quietly through lectures.  If there was a break in between classes, I would get a meal at the cafeteria and find a quiet place to sit.  That was a challenge, but I’d managed.  Then, when it was time to go home, I went home and usually retreated into my room, only coming out to eat, drink or to use the shower or bathroom. My father, not a very emotionally present man, didn’t question anything, which I was glad for.  My mother was a little more involved, but I’d managed to pull the wool over her eyes, too – something MUCH easier to do when there is minimal contact.
    I made my best (also minimal) efforts to stay afloat, and by the time 1997 had rolled around, I’d managed to finish my first semester of school with a solid 2.7 GPA.  I don’t know if there was pity on the professor’s end, but I probably deserved to flunk at least half of my classes.  Everything was half-assed.  I did not participate in the in-class discussion, I really couldn’t focus too much on any of the reading without glazing over and eventually throwing the book aside. My papers were shorter than they should have been.  Yet, I’m grateful for the C’s and D’s – they simply meant to me that I wouldn’t have to sit through these classes AGAIN!  That was just one of many lucky breaks, though.
    I’d known that moving into my Dad’s house for college would make it very difficult to maintain my now long-distance relationship, but now, there was even more reason to avoid seeing Matt. The shame was too great; I couldn’t help but think of my ‘non-virginity’ whenever I’d see a photo of Matt and I together.  His words would repeat in my mind, “we’ll do it on our wedding night, it will be SO special!”  First, I wondered if I could hide it, could I just pretend that I still was a virgin? How even would Matt be able to tell? It wasn’t something that would come out in flashing lights…as soon as we’d done it.  
    Everything in my brain, though, told me he would know, and images of him looking at me with disgust – took over.  So, my responses to Matt’s emails (daily!) began to falter and shorten.  Eventually, he began to ask when he could come see me, and my excuses that I was busy with classes only worked for a little while. He missed me, he said, and wanted to see me.  He’d seen me for Christmas the month before, when I’d gone back to Mom’s for the holiday break – there were a couple of brief visits with Matt during my trips home, but I’d definitely been distant, and to avoid kissing him, I’d told him I was either sick, or I’d make sure we were only around a bunch of other people (his family, my family) so that there was NO opportunity for ‘alone time.’  I am sure Matt wondered what the reason was for my being distant, but he’d never pushed, either.  In hindsight, I’m not even sure I would have wanted him to.  There was some hand-holding, though, which was probably nice for him but uncomfortable for me, especially because of all the remaining guilt I was feeling.  I felt unworthy of Matt’s love and affection – holding this HUGE secret.  I knew that I needed to break up with him, and just didn’t have the heart to do it.  I think, though, it was my hope that HE would be the one to walk away from me. 
    He wasn’t budging, though.  Despite my telling Matt not to make the 2.5-hour drive to my father’s house, he still decided to surprise me with a visit.  My Dad was out when he showed up, holding flowers.  When I’d gotten through with yelling at him for not telling me he was coming, I agreed to go for a drive with him.
    THAT’s when he pushed. We were eventually parked outside a restaurant and he’d been telling me about his own classes, his friends, his band that they were trying to form.  I’d listened, done a lot of nodding, ‘hmm-hmm’s’ and had thrown in a few automated responses of ‘that’s nice.’
    “Okay…what’s wrong?” He finally said.
    I PROBABLY could have broken down and told my boyfriend what had happened just a few short months earlier, but at that very moment, I literally SAW the walls rise up.  It wasn’t safe.  It was dangerous.  Matt, who had NEVER raised his voice to me, NEVER touched me in any way that was not gentle, NEVER had gotten angry with me – Matt, the saint – now scared the hell out of me.  It made NO sense, whatsoever, to want to run away from him, but I did.  I think I remember vaguely, my hand clasping the car door handle when he began to say he’d noticed a change in me.  I don’t even remember the half of it, even though the words and memories swirled….
    I was caught completely off guard when Matt’s lips covered mine – it was one of those unexpected last-ditch effort at romance, I think – kinda like in one of those old films when the man grabs the woman and plants one on her in the heat of the moment. While I might have appreciated the sneak-attack kiss months earlier when Matt was the one who was keeping a distance, it didn’t sit well with me at the moment, and I shoved him away almost as quickly as the kiss had come on.  He backed off, stunned, and just stared at me.
    And that’s when I told an incredulous Matt, without making eye contact, that I just didn’t love him anymore and that we needed to break up.  Through the corner of my eye, though, I could see his heart break into a million pieces.  He stared at me for at least a minute, which seemed more like several, before he began to plead.  He asked me to look at him, which I couldn’t.  He asked what he’d done – I couldn’t think of a single thing that he’d done wrong, but at the same time, I couldn’t explain that this wasn’t about him at all.  
    I provided one-word answers, mostly, and let him bawl, I let him take my hand, thinking momentarily that maybe, just maybe, this could be fixed?  Maybe the truth wouldn’t be as bad as I thought it would be – but still couldn’t get past the notion that it STILL might be seen as a betrayal.  I’d already said what was hard enough to build up to saying, and there was no turning back, now.  I finally asked him to take me back to my Dad’s house, and he put the car in gear and drove.  He declined to come in when we got back to the house, and instead sped off – likely heading back home.  
    I went inside, sat down, and cried, tears of relief, tears of shame, tears of self-hatred for having done what I’d done.  Matt hadn’t deserved any of that.  And here, I’d done a horrible thing and had sent him home upset – I HAD told him to let me know when he got home but was sure he’d be too angry to.  I understood that, too, and was surprised to actually receive an email later on that evening – an email that I left unanswered because there had been more pleading, more ‘talk to me’s’ and more questions I couldn’t answer truthfully.  I responded a few days later, with ‘glad you made it home safely, will talk to you soon.’ I gave him no hopes of us reconciling. Matt was too good for me, he deserved so much better than me.
    Eventually, he stopped emailing, and our breakup sank in – and the next time I’d see Matt was by running into him at Party City years later, where he and his fiancée were picking up their wedding invitations.  I had my son in tow as I walked in, needing to buy paper products for a party his pre-kindergarten class was having.  We’d locked eyes after not seeing each other for nearly a decade, and we’d exchanged a very, VERY awkward ‘oh, hi!’ before walking away from each other.  No conversation.  Perhaps it would have been different if we were both alone.  
    There was a sigh of relief, I must say, for it was nice to see that Matt had found love again. At this point, I was married too, but my original plan (as well as Matt’s, as we were supposed to have married each other!) had been unfairly foiled.  I still resented myself for not having been able to salvage what Matt and I had, but knowing that he’d found someone that he was soon to marry was relieving.  At least he was happy. 
    But was I happy?
    At the time, no. Probably not.  I had a husband, three children (the youngest of the three being ours) that I was raising, a part-time job and a whole lot of baggage that LOVED to resurface from time to time.  It was day-to-day, there were smiles whenever one of the kids did something wonderful, or during the occasional times my husband would smile…but genuine happiness?  That remained a foreign concept.
    I suppose I should talk about the ‘BH’ (before husband) time period, though, before I delve into the rest of the issues that hold significance.  It just seemed to make more sense to discuss Matt, first, as he was my first failed relationship, and the first example of what unreasonable decisions that the after-effects of trauma can drive a person to make.  
    Although Matt’s and my breakup was my decision, it was a choice I’d made without fully considering what it all meant for me.  Matt had been my anchor; the guy I’d been saving myself for.  My not being able to tell him the truth (about how it had been TAKEN from me and that I’d not given it willingly) was a weak moment, built on fear – and moments like this are built up on even further as time goes on. One weak moment triggers the next. I don’t have any other explanation for the shameful subsequent behaviors that I’m going to be sharing next.  
    Before I get into that, it should be noted that I felt, in a way, freed of my promise to Matt. There was nothing left to save, nothing holding me back, anymore, to the idea that Matt was my one and only.  I wasn’t a virgin, anymore, and I’d had sex. The adult version of me can certainly say that virginity was MUCH more than physical; but the eighteen-year-old version of myself wasn’t able to form that conclusion.  So, now that I was no longer ‘pure,’ a new perception of myself was born; a self-image that although inaccurate, proved to be the driving force behind the poor choices I’d make next.
    The men (I guess I can call them all ‘men’ as they, as well as I, were all over the age of 18 and considered ‘adults’) started out being close to my age, if not a year or two older than me.  It was 1997, now, and it was around the time when AOL (America Online) was the hottest new thing.  The internet, the world wide web, dial-up connecting with that familiar high-pitched screech at the end - was all brand-new, very exciting, and ALL people talked about.  
    I was introduced to chat rooms rather quickly, mostly because I had a clunky desktop computer that my father had given to me for school use, and for some reason, the internet (by 'internet,' I mean primarily the world wide web 'searches') never worked properly for me.  I got to exploring one evening and discovered that there were so many OTHER benefits to AOL than simply the ‘You’ve Got Mail!’ announcement upon log-in, and surfing the information superhighway – I don’t think I even knew how to do this until later.  For the most part, my online visits were used for the purpose of sending emails back and forth, and for browsing the chat rooms that were themed.  There was a teen chat, location-based chats, and, I was shocked to see, a Rape Survivors chat.  
    When it came to the latter chat, I kept a distance for a while.  I’d go in but for the most part, I’d just sit and observe.  These were the days when instant messaging was insanely popular, and there were many, many conversations with men who were, sadly, visiting the chat room for the wrong reasons.  I did very much want to share my story, to talk, to speak with someone who could relate, but AOL’s chat rooms were NOT monitored, and the members were WAY out of control.  Questions were rude, and very few people actually spoke IN the chat room. Instead, everyone was pinging each other privately, asking for sordid details and hoping to ‘hook up.’   Each room held about 28 people at a time, and of the 28, perhaps a small handful were actually survivors.  The rest, I believe now, were voyeurs or simply people who were curious or got their jollies from hearing of others’ pain or horror stories.  
    As an adult, I know and understand now that people like this exist – but being an 18-year-old who wanted so much to talk, to make connections, to be listened to – it didn’t matter who a person was or what their curiosities were based upon. They were there, they were listening, and responding to me.  See, offline, I had nobody to talk to.  My parents remained oblivious, the very few friends I had in my classes only really knew the ‘me’ I was post-rape – so they really didn’t notice any ‘changes’ in me.  In a way, it was nice to not have to explain what had become different.  At that point in time, moving forward was important, and leaving things in the past, where they would be forgotten.  (Yes, we can laugh at that thought – it wasn’t until much later that I’d realize that this kind of thing wasn’t able to be forgotten!)
    Now, I’m not saying everyone was like that.  I’ve met and still am in contact with some very genuine people – people I’ve known for that long.  Those were the lasting friendships.  But while there are lasting friendships, there were other lasting impressions made, although not favorable ones.  
    My first consensual encounter was with another deaf guy.  It wasn’t even a good experience – it was more memorable simply because it was the first time I’d said ‘yes.’  And I remember thinking when it was over – wait, THIS was what all the hype was about???? Not only was it a little physically painful (whether it was due to body memories, or simply inexperience) but it was also over in seconds.  And that night, I said to myself, ‘I’m not a virgin anymore.’  
    I guess there was more expectation of losing virginity than what I was seeing, though.  Pre-trauma, I’d heard sex was supposed to bring pleasure. It was supposed to be special.  It was supposed to be something people LIKED to do, something that kept people going for more.  It was what my friends, (at least, the very few friends I had at the time) talked about doing with their boyfriends.  All I had to show (or tell) for it was a ten-second experience that left me overall unimpressed and unsatisfied.  It’d not occurred to me that this was something I had to build up to, something I had to be comfortable with in order for it to work – not now and not at this time.  Instead, I became increasingly convinced that there was something wrong with me, and it had to be fixed. 
    I continued to sign into AOL and to enter chat rooms.  It was more so for the connections and wasn’t really for the purpose of finding in-person companionship, but I still got asked on dates by men in the location-based chat rooms.  One was a boyfriend for about a month, before he decided that there was someone else he wanted to date.  In hindsight, I recall seeing that as a rejection because I likely wasn’t an exciting date.  Yes, there was sex, but there was also that inability of mine to invest emotionally. I wasn’t finding pleasure there, either. I guess there was MORE expected of me than sex, especially with someone who was a potential boyfriend, and relationship-wise, I just wasn’t measuring up to HIS expectation.  Our breakup was quick, he was distant for a while and eventually sent me an email saying he wanted to remain friends.  There was a lax ‘okay, that’s fine,’ response, and I never saw him again.  I did eventually (MANY years later) Facebook-search him and saw he’d settled down with a girl who LOOKED as if she were more into him than I ever was. There was love in her eyes, there was joy.  There had been NONE of that in mine when we’d dated.  Oh, how could I blame him for turning elsewhere?
    Honestly, maybe that was the problem.  Emotionally, my heart perhaps still belonged to Matt – or it possibly just didn’t belong to anyone.  It makes sense to assume it was just being kept to myself, it was chained up, and to solidify it, there was a brick wall in front of it.  I’m sure this was another after-effect of the rape – but it wasn’t something I was working on at the moment, either.  Not with therapy, not with counseling, nothing beyond browsing the self-help section at the bookstore because I’d heard ‘The Courage To Heal’ workbook was worth buying.  I had a block in place when it came to interacting with others about my trauma and my reasons behind this particular wall – because I simply didn’t want to, I didn’t want to have to un-barricade my heart and make it privy to being broken again. 
    And so, I chose to just not care, moving forward.  I made horrible choices.  I didn’t care about my personal safety.  I met man after man online, and I’d end up meeting and sleeping with most of them.  They weren’t in it for the emotional connection. They just wanted sex.  And being that I was avoiding emotional attachments at the time, I usually obliged – even if one seemed to want a date first – we’d almost always end up in bed, in a hotel room, in the back seat of a car, and it was the same thing, every time.  They’d initiate sexual activity, and I’d allow it to go as far as they wished. I didn’t care if they used condoms, I didn’t ask them to.  Most times, they did, but sometimes they didn’t.  I didn’t stop to consider STDs, pregnancy, none of those things mattered. I wanted to feel SOMETHING, even if it was occasional pain.  It was all a part of my self-destructive plan.  I felt numb during the actual sexual activity – there was a bit of shame after the fact, but it wasn’t enough to make me cease behaviors.  It instead fed into my desire to feel something…ANYTHING…even if it wasn’t favorable.
    Over time, my depression got deeper and my behaviors became more risky.  I drank heavily, with the goal of being too drunk to feel anything afterwards, should things become physical.  It was now an expectation, for all of these random men (and women) were the opposite of Matt and always were ready to go.  Perhaps I wasn’t admitting it to myself, but I would secretly hope one of these several partners of mine would finish the job that my rapist seemed to have started.  The job of just ending my life.  In a way, they were, I was just dying slower than I wanted to.  The guy who was into bondage…would he just kill me when he was done? The older, fifty-something car salesman – would he take his enjoyment of rough sex a little further and finish with snapping my neck?  The sex itself wasn’t painful most of the time – and even if something were being done that I didn’t especially enjoy, I still kept my mouth shut and allowed them to finish, to satisfy themselves.  There were a couple of ‘generous’ partners who wanted to reciprocate, and I’d end up faking it because it wasn’t happening for me, and I was honestly ready for it to be finished.  Truthfully, when they were done, I’d be too disappointed that I was still alive and feeling no satisfaction.  Just more numbness, more shame, more self-disgust.  And these feelings were what drove me down a very dark path consisting of self-injury and more recklessness.
    I wasn’t in a safe place with all of these thoughts – and it scared me to realize that I’d be disappointed time after time again when none of these men wanted to kill me – they were GETTING what they wanted, which was an easy lay.  I was getting absolutely nothing.  Yet, the behavior continued – I’d meet people, we’d hook up, and 95% of the time, there would be a sexual encounter.  Not all of them were the same, but I’m fairly positive that some were questionable as far as consent was involved, but because I wasn’t the one to initiate, I was also the one who never actually said ‘no,’ either.  When things didn’t feel right, I still allowed them to happen.  There was almost ALWAYS that memory of what had happened the last time I DID say ‘no.’ 
    It wouldn’t be until MUCH later in life that I’d understand that being silent doesn’t equal consent.  At this time, though, I viewed my actually being there, in whatever situation it was, and willingly – as consent.  It didn’t matter if it started out comfortable and finished with my feeling the need to hurt myself in some way in the near future – I was there, and I’d let it all happen.  It was very, VERY rarely that any of my partners would stop and ask me if I was okay – most all of them were simply too caught up in the moment.  
    This was behavior I was used to when the wasband (if you’re a follower of my blogs, you know that this is how I refer to my ex-husband) entered my life for the first time.  He was 29, I was 20.  He was introduced to me by a mutual friend who knew a little bit of my depression – she realized that he and I lived 20 minutes away from each other and thought that since he was a police officer, he would be a good resource and someone who could find me ‘help.’  
    We talked online for several weeks before agreeing to meet.  He’d been told of my self-injury tendencies (by our mutual friend) and he did know a little bit more about my past by the time we’d planned to meet at a small corner diner near where he worked.  The plan was to have dinner and get to know each other.  I remember the first time seeing him – he was pudgy, had a rounded, boyish face, he had hair on his head – although thinning.  He was in the middle of a separation with his wife. He had a four-year-old daughter and a two-year-old son, that I wouldn’t meet until a bit later.  
    I’m not even sure what it was about him when we first met.  He wasn’t without flaws, but then again – neither was I.  He was a heavy smoker, something that I KNEW my father would despise.  By this point in my life, I’d tried occasional cigarette smoking and never really liked it enough to form a habit.  He listened.  He talked to me.  He didn’t judge anything.  He would notice the scratches, bruises, burns on my arms, and ask about them.  In a way, it’s a good thing that our mutual friend had supplied him with some background information – I don’t think I could ever FULLY explain to a non-survivor the reasons behind these self-inflicted injuries.  He seemed to understand, though, and eventually disclosed that he, too, was a survivor – not of sexual abuse, but of neglect and physical abuse at the hands of his parents.  His mother was a drug user.  His father was both into drugs and alcohol, and the wasband had left home at the tender age of 15 – he’d moved in with a grandparent and then straight after High School, he’d joined the army.  
    He was someone with a tough façade, but, for a while, (likely for as long as we were still in the ‘dating stages,’) his interior was smooshy.  He held my hand when we went for walks, he was gentle, he was kind. He didn’t judge me for any of the marks I’d made on myself.  And I think this is what made some of those walls begin to lower – but he was the very first man (since Matt) who held my hands in his and asked my permission to kiss me.  I granted him permission, and from that point on, he asked for permission to proceed any further.  We didn’t sleep together right away – it wasn’t until we’d been seeing one another for at least a month.  This was new to me.  While I was ‘getting to know’ the wasband, I had stopped entering chat rooms.  I would just talk to him, day in and day out – while he was at work and I was in school, I’d write him letters to give him when I saw him, even if it was going to be later that same day.  He became someone I looked forward to seeing, connecting with, sharing with.  Kissing. I was starting to enjoy it.  I was feeling something.  Physically, also, there was a connection that I’d not felt before – not even with Matt, because I’d simply not gotten that far with Matt. While I’d gotten that far (and sometimes further, if that’s even possible) with complete strangers, this was all new to me – this was with someone who seemingly WANTED for me to feel safe with him.  He took things slowly, he took his time, he was patient when I needed to stop.  
    It’s possible that what I was feeling wasn’t accurate, though.  Because I was now dating the wasband, I was no longer ‘hooking up’ with anybody else.  I wasn’t putting myself into risky situations any longer.  I was now with ONE guy, who seemingly cared about me, about how I felt. There was no longer a need to find these things elsewhere – it felt NICE to gain this sense of security that I’d never felt before.  
    Then he proposed – we were out for coffee – at a coffee shop that no longer exists today. He presented me with a ring – and asked me to be his wife.  I accepted immediately.  I’m not sure if it was love, though, that prompted me to say yes – perhaps it was the idea of prolonged security – a safer path to be on than the one I PROBABLY would end up back on if this didn’t work out.  And it wasn’t a bad alternative path, not at this point.  Here was a guy who seemed to genuinely care about me – a guy who was considerate, a guy who had his own faults that I knew I could accept….he was, after all, accepting of mine.  It meant I would become a step-mother.  I’d met his children at this point and had such love for them, for spending time with him and the two of them.  
    Despite my mother’s hissy fit when she learned of my plans to move in with him, I left home at 20. She’d never liked the wasband.  At least, not in the beginning.  “He’s been married before,” she’d say, “why did he break up with his first wife?  What went wrong?”  (I’d not be able to truthfully answer this until MUCH later, but these were questions my mother had thrown at me, since the day I came home with the announcement that we’d gotten engaged.)  I told her that I loved him and was moving on with my plans to live with and marry him. 
    Shortly after moving in with him into his apartment and going to school from a new ‘home,’ things began to change.  The changes were slow and gradual, though – in ways that were too minuscule to really make a big deal out of, and I was not seeing the waving red flags.  First, it was the small things – he’d take notice of the fact that I didn’t really know how to make coffee.  Or how to do laundry.  My parents had always done those things, I’d never been on my own.  He’d already been married once, had experienced married life once – he’d had a partner in which to run a household, parent children with – things I had absolutely NO experience in.  I seriously lacked in life skills – but what I DID have, though, was credit.  His debt piled up on MY credit cards, from the very beginning.  There was always the promise that he’d pay this bill when he got paid, that one next month, etc.  I didn’t think much of it, because really, they were for US.  For things we needed. Food, stuff for the apartment, clothes, gas, etc.  I paid no attention to the charges – as long as there was a ring on my finger, whatever was mine was his, too.  His responsibilities were now also mine – and I thought nothing of putting things onto my credit cards.  This, in hindsight, was another HUGE mistake, as it made me file bankruptcy before I was 25.
    There was one day he’d asked me to wash one of his shirts for work – and I’d had to admit that I didn’t know how.  Not one of my finer moments, no, but the look on his face then, DID make me feel about two inches tall.  But then we’d both gone down to the laundry room and he’d shown me how to operate the machines – how much change to use, how much detergent, the works.  But, now, this became MY job.  I did ALL of the laundry, from that point on.  I was to ensure he had clean shirts for work – if he didn’t have one, it was my fault.  There were times he’d say he loved me, but it still felt as if we were worlds apart – he’d experienced so much more in the course of his nearly 30 years – he’d seen combat and I’d only seen the inside of a classroom.  He’d been married before, had children – I’d just left my parents’ house.  There were no deal-breakers at this point but it was clear he wanted me to step up, to step in where his first wife had failed to do so.  He wanted me to grow up, wanted me to skip ahead, catch up, be where he was in life.  He didn’t say so using exact words, but there were little actions of his – little looks, little comments.  Including one day, when I’d just gotten out of the shower, “I’d like to have a child with you, soon.” 
    Make no mistake about this – our son was NOT unwanted.  He was perhaps rushed, but never unwanted.  I was still in school, with two years or so to go – and when the wasband had mentioned having a baby, there WAS a part of me that felt that although I DID want my own child one day, if I didn’t agree to it now, it would become something else that he would view as further resistance toward the life he wanted me to share with him.  We were already engaged to be married – there was already commitment, there was job security on his part, there was no real reason not to agree to having a child with him – at least not one good enough to present to him.  It would make him happy, after all.  He’d said he would let me think about it, and there were a few more sexual encounters in between my ‘nod.’  
    See, it hadn’t been discussed beyond that day in the bathroom, I’d not thought about what having a child at 21 would mean for me – I thought nothing other than how happy it would make him.  I didn’t think I’d be entirely unhappy with having my own child, either.  I’d worry about being a mother – I was already becoming a stepmother, but being a mother to my own biological child was a terrifying thought.  It was a thought, though, that I was sure plenty of other women shared, at least, until they had their first baby.  There were also thoughts of what any baby the wasband and I made together would look like…and that was admittedly nice.  Girl or boy? Maybe they’d have his blond hair? Maybe they’d have my freckles.  He already had an adorable little girl who looked just like him – and son….would our child look like his or her siblings?? 
    So, that night in October, he’d paused during an intimate moment – a sign that he was ready to finish - and I knew.  He was again, asking permission.  I didn’t want to spend too much more time over-thinking, over-analyzing, so I gave the nod.  When we were finished, he kissed me, and said, “you’re pregnant.”
    I don’t remember saying anything.  I do remember thinking, though – HOW?  Was it really this easy?  I didn’t know too much about my ovulation cycle at all – I’d also had a LOT of sex – although mostly protected, there was ALWAYS that possibility that it hadn’t worked. Maybe this, too, would take a little time?  I did already know from hearing others talk, that sometimes it took a while…maybe this, too, would take several tries?
    But, sure enough, I WAS pregnant.   Whether it was that night, or the within the few times afterwards, I conceived VERY quickly. The wasband, to this day, jokes that our son was a ‘one shot, one kill’ deal.  At the time I’m writing this, he’s fathered five, in total.  Perhaps there are others from his military era – but there are currently five biological children that we know of.  My mother, several years later, would joke that the wasband could get a piece of furniture pregnant.  And if furniture could reproduce – that would be true.  
    Our son was born in 2000 and instantly became the love of my life.  Any doubts I’d had before – gone.  The Son, however, was NOT an easy baby and challenged me in every single way – he was colicky, he had a lactose intolerance, he had to be in my arms CONSTANTLY, which was never an issue for me as much as it was for the wasband – I loved holding my child.  This perfect little extension of the wasband and me.  He had soft golden hair, beautiful brown eyes, rosy cheeks, tiny little lips and ears that stuck out in an adorable Yoda-like way.  He was most peaceful whenever sleeping, and I could stare at this image of perfection for hours on end.  Sleep was already hard for me, but now even harder, as the Son VERY rarely slept when he was not in my arms.  MANY nights were spent in our living room recliner – for any time a transfer from the arms to the crib was attempted, he’d wake up and scream for the next amount of time it took to get him back to sleep.
    I was sleep deprived fairly soon – and there was absolutely NO help from the wasband during the day – he worked within walking distance from the house, but rarely came home for lunch.  My days were spent tending to not just our son, but also to his daughter and son from wife #1.  They needed picking up and dropping off from school.  The stepdaughter was sick EVERY other week – it was like clockwork and continued until she was eleven and had her tonsils removed.  But she needed to frequently be picked up and brought to the pediatrician, with both boys usually in tow.  Their mother usually wasn’t able to take them to the doctor, which, to this day, STILL irritates me – it was enough that my husband was expecting me to take care of his children in his absence, but you’d think that the real mother of these kids would step up whenever needed – especially since I now had an infant.  I made the mistake of complaining to the wasband ONCE when the stepdaughter needed to be brought to the doctor in the middle of the day and the baby was napping – it was actually more of a vent than anything, but something to the tune of, ‘why can’t her mother take her?’  
    I was now ‘lazy.’ I’m sure he had more reasons built up to call me lazy.  Time went on and raising three children who had NO concept of tidiness, the housework piled up. The laundry was delayed.  Dinner was NEVER ready when he got home.  We were now married – we’d tied the knot when the Son was nine months old.  I was a horrible wife when it came to keeping everything running smoothly.  I was in my very early 20s, and EXHAUSTED.  I was ending up doing emergency loads of laundry in the middle of the night, with the Son, who still wasn’t sleeping like a normal child, in the Snuggli thingy that you wear on your torso.  
    You know what they say about exhaustion bringing forth additional stressors, and I was no different. I began to see my husband in a different way than I had a year earlier.  Especially when the nightmares, the restless nights, the stray memories started up, again – likely around my traumaversary-time.  He was very rarely kind to me anymore – whether that was because now he viewed me as lazy or it was because he was stressed out, too – either way, he was not the man he used to be.  He was more critical than he was pleasant, he would joke around (and not about the typical things worthy of joking around – his jokes were hurtful, mean and of the bullying sort) and when his jokes weren’t taken well, he’d shoot me the look of disgust – why couldn’t I take a joke? I had no sense of humor, I guess, and was constantly made to feel badly about it.   
    My depression sank in again.  I gained weight, and this was yet another thing that he would chastise me for.  I began to spend more time online again – not for the same purpose of my previous online encounters, of course, but more so for friendship, for conversation where I didn’t have to be judged for whatever I might be feeling.  For the kindness that I was no longer receiving at home.  For connection, for there was none of that, either.  For commonality, for I now felt alone in a house FILLED with people.  I was an army of one, the ONLY one who knew what I was dealing with, and the only one who cared, too.  Although I was not entirely verbal about these things, a LOT of time was spent within the confines of my own mind, while I tried to balance everything else.
    The wasband was NOT pleased with my being online, though.  He’d read over my shoulder, question me about whomever I was speaking with. I’d made the mistake of telling him that one of the people I was speaking with was also a rape survivor and that we were talking about things that had helped her deal/cope.  
    You WOULD have thought I’d told him I was having an illicit affair.  He said some pretty hurtful, disgusting things, and pretty much accused me of everything in the book.
    “Why are you trying to make other people feel sorry for you?” 
    “Your sharing stuff of such a personal nature can be viewed as an emotional affair.”
    “Nobody wants to hear about these things.”
    “These personal things need to stay private.  It’s not anyone else’s business.”
    And my favorite:
    “You’re supposed to talk to ME about these things.  Not strangers.”
    Okay.  Fair enough, on the last one.  Yes, perhaps he was the one I needed to go to for support, but he wasn’t providing it.  Maybe, though, NOW he would ‘step up’ and into a more actively supportive role? Now that I was seeking it elsewhere?
    You see, I never shut him out.  I WOULD tell him about how I was feeling.  I HAD.  I’d told him a few things while we were still in our dating stages, and he’d been supportive and kind. The problem here, I think, is that he felt this ‘support’ he had given was a one-time thing.  It was not something that should continue beyond the initial giving of support.  I should now be over this.  I should NOT be letting this consume me, anymore.  I should be focused on being his wife, being a mother, our home.  To him, it was frustrating that I couldn’t do this easily, and to me, it felt as if I was truly broken because of my inability to ‘move on.’  
    At one point, I suggested going to a therapist, and he’d made this face – one that my daughter, to this day, calls ‘the Trump face.’  Eyes narrow, lip curled upwards.  Even better when he’d say, ‘Therapy??’ and refer to it in a tone that was nothing short of belittling – of both me and of the idea of my taking my issues to a therapist.  It was enough to make me decide against it entirely; and further paved the way toward option number three – which was to completely withdraw and self-isolate.  I stopped reaching out for support, whether it was online or it was offline.  I still maintained ‘platonic’ friendships (people from my bowling league, online friendships) but made sure to keep walls up - it seemed to make him the happiest when I did that.  He’d ask how I was doing, and my response, if not ‘fine,’ would be met with the ‘you don’t need therapy, do you?’  
    I became increasingly miserable, but tried to focus on remaining as engaged with his and my children’s lives as possible.  I carried on this way, for years.  I ignored whatever uncomfortable triggers might have arose along the way – during everyday life, during the night when the nightmares would revisit, during every October that would come and go, during sex with him, which while it wasn’t forceful, it WAS almost ALWAYS initiated by him, emotionless, and devoid of feeling. He had his ‘bedroom routines,’ that I cared nothing for, but like with anything else I didn’t particularly agree with, it became yet another thing for me to remain silent about – even if it was just for the sake of avoiding an unnecessary argument.  He was a man that needed consistency in the bedroom – and while I could honestly go for weeks without sex, this NEVER would have flown for him.  I never refused him, though I would feel HORRIBLE afterwards – dirty, disgusting, tainted.  It didn’t seem to be the right way to feel after sex with your spouse – but like anything else, I ignored these feelings, too.
    I chose to keep my mouth shut and shoved ANY negative feelings down almost as quickly as they’d surface, because I felt that if he saw me struggling with any of it, there would be MORE looks of disgust, MORE criticism, MORE comments on why I’d not moved on.  MORE reason for him to not see me as the perfect wife he’d THOUGHT I’d be on the night he proposed.  There was just NO sparkle in his eyes, anymore.  In me, there was only emptiness and a yearning for more, for something that seemed impossible to find.  And I’d doomed myself to all of it, I’d chosen to adopt his mindset, even if I didn’t necessarily feel there was anything ‘right’ about it.
    We had our daughter in 2006.  I’d have liked to have her sooner, but after how difficult a baby the son was, the wasband had always said he didn’t want any more children.  (Yes, laughable now, that he’s got six – five of his own and one belonging to his current wife!)  I’m not sure if he’d sensed my overall unhappiness and that was what changed his mind, but he did eventually ask if we should try again.  Thinking this would make a difference; even the smallest bit of a difference, I agreed to it.  I DID want more of my own children.  Where there was a VERY noticeable void with HIM, there was never one when it came to my son.  He had unconditional love, he cared nothing about what I might be struggling with, he’d just climb into my lap and I’d instantly feel comforted.  I loved NO ONE as much as I loved him.  And the idea of having someone else to love, to nurture, was certainly appealing.  I DID want a little girl, and knew that whe opportunity likely wouldn’t present again if I’d passed on it now.
    It took three months of trying before we conceived the daughter.  There were times where he was overly loving and sad to say, it’s likely because I was pregnant.  He was more gentle with his words and his touch.  He did some stuff around the house, mostly when I’d hit my third trimester. He’d barked at the rest of the kids to clean up their rooms, their toys off the floor so that ‘your mother doesn’t step on them and hurt herself or the baby.’  I knew this change in him was likely temporary – and that what had happened after the son was born, would likely happen again after I’d had the daughter. 
    I was right.
    The daughter was not as difficult as the son was.  She was not colicky, she was fine with being put down into a swing or a rocker, she was content with being placed in front of the television while I went about normal chores.  But, now, I had FOUR children and a husband who worked from seven in the morning until five in the evening – and his expectation that I’d have to (flawlessly) hold down the fort, remained the same.  With three out of four being school-aged, there was ALWAYS the chance one would have to be picked up, one would be home sick and have to be taken to the doctor’s office, one would forget a science project was due until the NIGHT before…there was absolutely NO help from him when he got home.  He’d have his dinner and retreat into the living room and sit in his recliner for the rest of the night.  He’d complain (from his chair) that the house was untidy, there were dishes in the sink, dinner wasn’t ready, laundry was piled up, kids’ rooms were a shambles, the floor hadn’t been swept, vacuumed, etc.  There was that occasional ‘what did you even DO around here, all day long?’ 
    I’d shoot back, ‘taking care of a baby is a full-time job!’  He’d scoff and rattle off a list of things he’d gotten accomplished before noon – and top it off with, ‘I bust my ass all day long, so when I come home, I want to not have to handle anything at home.’
    Yes, he actually thinks that’s how a household is run.  That duties are separate.  The man goes to work and the woman does everything at home.  So, because he works most of the day, (and let’s not forget, he gets MOST of his heavy work done before noon!) anything having to do with the house and with the kids, is on me.  Where’s the partnership, here?  Are we forgetting that two of these kids aren’t even biologically mine?  And don’t get me wrong – I NEVER treated his elder son and daughter any differently than I treated my own.  I even LOVED them as if they were my own.  Whenever I told anyone about my kids, I never said I had two children – I said had four.  There was just ALWAYS a shred of existing resentment, toward him and toward their mother – for not stepping in when things were noticeably overwhelming. Knowing that I was not only taking care of what was REQUIRED for me to take care of, but also going above and beyond that to make sure HIS elder two children had stability and security in their lives, even if it meant compromising my own happiness.
    What did I want? A thank-you?
    No.  That’s not what I wanted.  A little recognition would have been nice, though.  I did it all without a complaint.  These kids shouldn’t have to suffer because their mother was stupid and and their father preferred for ME to be the more attentive parent. I wouldn’t have minded it so much, either, if he would have just occasionally said, “I appreciate all you do for my kids, for me.”  Those words NEVER came.  Instead, the criticism came.  The put-downs, the consistent mention of where I would fall short.  He also NEVER had my back in any of it – he would undermine me – CONSTANTLY – and in front of the kids, too.  If I complained that one didn’t clean their room properly, his response would be, ‘that’s where you have to step in and supervise.’  These kids could do NOTHING wrong – it was always MY fault if they didn’t do what they needed to do.  Even his eldest, who at the time was 12-13 years old – whenever I complained to him that she wasn’t doing what was asked of her, his response was, I’m too hard on her, I’m not willing to help her.  At 13, my mother was NOT helping me clean my room, or perform simple chores.  I was doing that, myself, and when asked.   My mother did do me an injustice by not making me do my own laundry – but that wasn’t even what he was complaining about.  And this was just plain bullshit – I was to drop everything else I had to deal with during the course of a day, and help a pre-teen clean her room?  I didn’t make the mess.  I shouldn’t have to assist anyone over the age of six in the cleaning and tidying of their bedroom.  But I did – and this push was now coming from the man who stated that I had absolutely no life skills?  What favors was he now doing his children?  His children, who, currently and in present day, now have absolutely no life skills???  (and YES, this includes my two, who, over time, have become lazy slobs!)
    Rather than things improving with the arrival of our daughter, they seemingly became worse. He’d come home in a cranky mood, EVERY day.  There was less frequently a smiling moment.  We were both miserable, despite sharing four children, having a (very small and cramped) home and our physical health intact.  We rarely spoke to one another, and when he DID speak to me, it was not usually gently.
    I began to ‘rebel,’ in very small ways.  I waited until he left for work in the mornings, and I’d boot up the computer. Again, I felt the need for connection, for friendship, to feel less alone.  While I didn’t care too much about what he wanted, as far as reaching out ‘beyond the home,’ I was still careful to NOT allow him to see what I was doing online.  My internet browser history was promply deleted as soon as his car pulled into the driveway.  Anyone I spoke to through messengers, was informed that my husband could not ‘see’ us speaking, so if it was later in the day, they knew to let me make the first contact.  There was absolutely NOTHING inappropriate about my conversations – I was never unfaithful to the wasband.  I, however, knew that It would make him angry to learn that I’d 1) started talking about my past trauma again, meaning I wasn’t 'over it,' yet, and 2) it was with people that ‘had no business knowing about my personal life.’  In hindsight, I do wonder if a small part of him feared being pegged as the one who was unreasonable and irrational – but I suppose that’s something I’ll never know the answer to. I knew there was absolutely nothing that I should be ashamed of, but there was always that fear of being MADE to feel as if I were doing him an injustice by spending my time the way I wanted to spend it.  I didn’t want him questioning my conversations or online activity – so I made sure to hide it all.  It was simply the path of least resistance.  While I didn’t fear any physical blowback, should he ever discover how I was spending my days, it was the emotional response that scared me more. My husband NEVER struck me in anger – let that be known.  He, however, had a way of battering someone with his words and his often unreasonably strong opinions. 
    Regardless of my ‘rebellion,’ I still tended to my baby/toddler.  I balanced the cleaning and childcare and dubbed the half-hour before his arrival home the ‘crunch time’ and would scurry through the house, making it look as if I HAD done some cleaning.  It was SIMPLY just a matter of there being clothes on the floor, or stuff on the table that needed to be put away, or a quick sweep of the kitchen floor. I began to put in as much effort as he’d previously said I was.  Why not, right?  I might as well REALLY be the fat, lazy wife he’d always said I was.
    It was, in fact, a spring day in 2007 when I found After Silence.  I’d been conversing with someone else, a fellow survivor that I’d told the wasband that was a parent of a child with a hearing and speech impairment (because THAT commonality was okay to have) and it was she who provided me the link to AS – saying, ‘try this place.’
    I registered an account with AS and began to look around.  The interactions between the members, the staff – it all was so wonderful to see.  I quickly felt compelled to become a part of all of it.  And so, every day, in between feedings, diaper changes, housework and errands, I was browsing AS and making the connections I’d been denied for so many years. As time went on, I felt MUCH less alone and I cared less and less about what he’d think about the whole thing.  I carried on with my ‘plan’ and he was none the wiser.  I made friends here, and looked forward to spending time on the site.  It was a Godsend to me – a home away from home.
    I probably shouldn’t have been surprised when he, after a while, came home from work and asked me while I was preparing dinner – ‘what do we have in common other than the kids?’
    For the life of me, I couldn’t answer.  I thought about it for a full minute, though.  We didn’t like the same TV shows.  We didn’t share views.  Well, we WOULD – mine would be ‘stupid,’ while his was right.  Every time.  We didn’t see eye to eye on ANYTHING.  He might’ve thought we did because whenever there was a heated debate, he’d turn to me and ask, ‘am I wrong?’ and for the sake of avoiding an argument, I’d shake my head in silence.  Even if yes, he was wrong.  Even if none of it made sense.  Even if it meant that something I believed to be right would be dismissed.  There was NOTHING in common in the bedroom.  He liked things I despised.  He was hard, I was too sensitive.  When I’d come to the conclusion that the only thing we likely both equally enjoyed were certain foods.  
    “I don’t know,” I finally told him.  
    “I was thinking, maybe we should get a divorce,” he said.  I don’t know whether he expected to hear that we REALLY had nothing in common or he’d expected me to surprise him with my answer.  
    “Okay,” I shrugged. Perhaps I’d answered too quickly and surprised us both.  Either way, it was an out…and one I needed to take.  An opportunity.  I’d been imprisoned within this loveless marriage for FAR too long, and I was NOT seeing any ways that this would change.  Not anytime soon.  He’d never change.  He’d remain this horrible bully that I’d grown to despise, despite being married to him. 
    He nodded and retreated into the living room and I sobbed silently as I continued to prepare dinner.  Not because I was upset over this marriage ending – but because this, like everything else – was on HIS terms.  Although it was best, and I knew it – I still wouldn’t have left him first.  I was loyal, to the end.  I cried for my children, who loved us both equally…especially the son, whom I knew would take this news especially hard.
    And he did.  Days later, we sat him down and explained to him that Mommy and Daddy were getting a divorce.  We were, however, both still going to remain a constant in his life and that he’d be spending an equal amount of time with us both, and that we’d still be ‘together but separate.’ The wasband did most of the talking – I was unable to do much other than nod in agreement.  This was all just so surreal.  He had become a different man.  At first, I suspected he knew he’d been the one to turn my life upside down, and he was the one who was going to be walking away.  So when I told him, yet, again, that I wanted to go see a therapist, he surprisingly agreed.  ‘Go ahead,’ he said, ‘I think it’s a good idea.’
    Two weeks went by. Now that we had a ‘plan,’ he said very little about my therapy, my online activity, or even about the housework not being done.  I questioned that, honestly, especially for the first few weeks following his request to get divorced.  It all made sense when he casually mentioned that there was a woman that he’d like to begin to get to know.  He’d met her online, playing poker.  She lived an hour or so away from us, and was a single mother, having just gone through her own divorce.  THREE weeks after he’d told me he wanted a divorce, he was wanting my blessing to go see someone else?  He did add, ‘If you’re not okay with it, I won’t.’
    We hadn’t even gotten OUR paperwork started.  I wasn’t okay with it, no, but I wasn’t going to hold him back, either.  Especially if it meant he would be around less.  And even more especially if he’d been seeing this woman for a little while already.  That’s what my gut instinct was telling me – THIS was why he asked me for a divorce.  He’d already proven he couldn’t be alone, couldn’t do his own laundry, couldn’t do his own cooking or cleaning.  So he’d waited until he had his third wife (she’d eventually become his third wife) lined up before asking me to grant him the divorce.  He was going to make sure HE was all set.  Of course, if I were to ask him today, he’d deny that.  He’d deny ALL of it.  
    Upon my ‘do what you want,’ he began to see her, and spend a lot of time with her.  I did put my foot down, though, and made it clear to him that this woman would NOT be meeting my kids – not anytime soon.  He agreed, although reluctantly.  He would come home after work, spend a few hours with the kids, and then sometimes drive an hour away to where she lived – sometimes he’d spend the night there and go to work from there in the morning.  He’d made plans to move out, but eventually realized that he couldn’t afford first, last and security.  So he approached me again, and asked if he could stay at home a little bit longer, until he was able to come up with a little extra money for an apartment.  As is, he was only ‘home’ a few nights a week.  I told him that was fine, but he’d have to sleep on the couch.
    You’d have thought I told him he had to bathe in his own shit.  
    “I work every day. You’re going to kick me out of my bed and make me sleep on the couch?  I’m the one who should be more comfortable.”
    I looked at him. There he was, again, looking down at me, with that narrow-eyed look of disgust.  I was, once again, completely wrong.  What I’d said to him was appalling.  So, like always, I’d backed down.
    “Fine,” I told him, “You can sleep in the same bed.  But we are NOT having sex.”
    “Why not?”  He smirked.  “We’re still married, after all.”
    I just looked at him for a minute before walking away with no response.  
    For a while, he adhered to my wishes.  He’d come home from seeing her, or on nights he wasn’t seeing her, and he’d go to bed on his own, usually after me.  I was even more exhausted those days, more so than when I was when I was a teen.  I was spending more time on AS, too, for he now no longer asked any questions about what I was doing with my free time.  He no longer cared – as long as he was free to do with himself what he wanted.  I’d secured a staff position by then, on AS, as a chat room moderator. It was where I spent most days and nights – it was where I felt happiest, most wanted, most needed, most valuable.  I was still cautious, especially on the nights that he did come home.  I didn’t want him to know much anything about AS, so whenever he was around, I kept my distance from the site.
    There was that one night when he’d came home late from being out with her.  I was already three-quarters of the way asleep.  Nearly down for the count, but not enough that I didn’t feel him get into bed as he normally did.  Moments later, he was on top of me, and was having sex with me.  I didn’t protest, I didn’t say no.  I, for the moment, felt that the best course of action was to do nothing.  A sense of familiarity sank in.  This was the father of my children, we were still legally married, even though he was no longer ‘with’ me.  Maybe I WAS being ridiculous, after all.  Even though none of this felt right, it felt a little too familiar to be considered wrong. He was not rough, nor did he move to reciprocate – when he was finished, he simply rolled over and went to sleep. 
    The following morning, he had a smile on his face.  I want to say this was likely a weekend – for the kids were home, and I remember being in the kitchen.
    “You know – I can still see us doing what.  Ten years from now.  Even if we’re with other people.”
    Again, there were no words.  I simply stared at him.  I’m not sure if I was expecting him to say he’d made a mistake, that he no longer wanted his other woman, he wanted me – he didn’t want a separation, that he wanted us to go to counseling, to fix this, fix whatever had gone wrong in our marriage. At that point, I’m not sure if I’d have agreed to it, but it was, at least, something to hope for, even in the slightest bit, the morning after sex – something different than what I was getting from him now.  But no, here he was, basically saying he wanted his cake, and he wanted to eat it, too.  He was now cheating on his mistress – with his wife.  Imagine that? When I’d finally managed to ask him what she’d think of it, his response was, ‘she won’t know...she’d kill me if she did know.  You won’t tell her, right?’
    I sat on that for a couple weeks.  He’d not tried again to have sex with me – I think I feigned a period in order to keep him at bay for a few days, but then there was a time where opportunity simply didn’t present, or I’d kept my distance.  He was now in the process of LOOKING for an apartment – but likely wasn’t going to find one that would allow for his specific needs – he was a heavy smoker, he wanted his dog with him, his credit was shit, he needed extra space for when the kids came to visit.  Although I wanted him gone, so that I could move on with my own life, I still felt that I owed it to the kids to ensure that their father wasn’t homeless.  If I were paying anything toward the house, the bills, I certainly had more leverage in order to eject him – but I didn’t have a penny to my name.  I had absolutely nothing.
    There was one additional time when he was in the shower, and called me in.  Thinking he needed a towel or toilet paper, I poked my head in asking what he needed.  He whipped open the curtain and asked me to join him.  
    Saying no seemed to take too long.  I remember staring at him, thinking to myself – what is wrong with him?  Doesn’t he SEE that this is wrong?  Doesn’t he see what this is doing to me?  CLEARLY, I’m not into it and I’d said nothing to allude to wanting any of it to continue.  But – the words did escape my lips – somehow.
    “No.  I can’t.”
    With that, I left him in the bathroom and locked the door from the inside behind me so that I couldn’t get back in, should he call me again.  I then went and tended to the kids – half proud of myself for having done what I did, and half terrified.  Was he going to yell at me, was he going to verbally harass me for having told him no?  In the eight years we’d been married, I NEVER told him ‘no.’  Never.  Whatever he wanted, I agreed to.  Whatever he asked, I did without question.  Whatever he believed, even if it seemed a bit unreasonable, I said I believed, too – even if I didn’t.  I didn’t want him angry with me, I didn’t want there to be an argument, I didn’t want him to continue to tell me how lazy or stupid or fat or otherwise undesirable I was.  
    Imagine my surprise when he came out, fully dressed, and pulled me aside.  He leaned in and said, “thanks for keeping me honest.”
    Another silent nod on my part.  I’m glad to say he never again approached me for sex.  While this was a good thing, it was also VERY damaging – and I’ll explain why.
    You see – it was the one time that I had the nerve to say no to him.  A time where it WOULD have been easier, although equally as damaging, to give in and do whatever it was that he was asking.  And now he was okay with my response?  He wasn’t going to treat this like any of the other arguments we’d had in the past, and resort to nastiness and belittlement?  Were all of the past issues I’d had with him – now my fault?  Had I said no to him in the beginning, would I still be in this position?  Would a ‘no’ any other time have been listened to, as this one was?  What about that other night?  Would he have stopped if I said ‘no’ to him?  Was ALL of this entirely my doing??  
    The mind is a relentless, vicious machine when it wants to be – and for a while, I allowed it to continue to run, to allow myself to self-blame, rather than shut it down. He was still living at home, I didn’t feel safe enough to ‘shut down’ this machine, yet.  And so, I carried on as I normally would, while he began to spend less and less time at home.
    Around this time, was when J entered my life.  You all know J from my previous posts, my blogs.  She’s my better half, my best friend, my lover, the one I trust the most, the one who is my everything.  And at the time of this posting, she is my partner of ten years.  I had met her here on AS – and we were friends first and foremost.  After talking with her daily for a while, I realized how much we had in common.  There was much more to our friendship, and we were both beginning to slowly realize it.  I’d never been with someone who had similar trauma in her past.  There was a connection here that I’d never felt before.  I found myself talking about things I’d never discussed before – and felt safe doing so.  This, too, was new.  I felt understood, I felt validated.  I did worry about what the wasband would say when I found myself becoming attracted to her – but surprisingly, he said nothing negative…unless you count, ‘you were always a lesbian,’ negative.  He instead smiled, and said, ‘it is what it is.’  Granted, it was probably because he now had his new woman, and was glad to see me considering ‘moving on.’  And, so, I did.  
    I suppose there’s more to the story relating to my marriage and after it ended, but I’ve now reached the point where fast-forwarding is a little bit easier.  Perhaps installment three will be due a re-do in a few years from now (or 12?) but, for now, there SEEMS to be further processing to do.  I thought I'd be finished at the end of this installment, but as I sit here day after day, I'm realizing that it's not as easy to reflect upon these things, and my writing is not as 'flowy' as the previous two installments.  I am getting stuck more often than I want to, and I'm feeling more need to put it away.  In the beginning, I was putting this away for days.  Now, I've realized that I've put it away for weeks - and if I don't finish it now, it'll likely be forgotten for another decade.
    To summarize what I've been up to lately:
    I’ve restarted therapy, after several years, as there are now things that have come up more recently for me – things I know I’ve not had the time or even the desire to deal with.  At least, properly.  I know that I’ve recognized that I am a victim of not only CSA and of rape – but also of domestic violence.  I’d always thought of DV as the beatings, the punching, the broken bones, the visits to the hospital…this is not what was happening to me.  My ex’s abuse of me was not physical – it was emotional.  It was verbal. It was mental.  Before returning to AS after a lengthy hiatus, I didn’t even KNOW what gaslighting was.  I do now, because that was, also, what happened.  This realization has floored me - because I'd been so blind to it.  All of it.
    I've come to realize that I'm not completely free of his grasp; of his influence. There IS still difficulty saying ‘no' to him.  There is still that fear of letting others in – because that was once not allowed, or acceptable.  I am not, by any means, where I want to be.  Not yet.  In some ways, not all of the puppet strings have successfully been severed and I'd be lying if I said I was 'healed' from this.
    Safe to say, though, that this is a healing process that I've restarted and have been diligently working on, especially recently.
    I'm starting school one week from today - after taking a 20-year-long vacation...a break that HE encouraged me to prolong.  I can't entirely blame this on him as I did agree to have our son and the desire to go back never really presented itself - but even after I'd married him and born him children, he'd made sure I was too busy to focus on anything other than him, the house, the kids.  I never came first.  It NEVER mattered what I wanted - THIS was my purpose in life.  I was secondary to everyone else, and I believed that this is how it should be. 
    I don't believe it, anymore, though.  Going back to school is just one of the first steps toward my getting to where I want and need to be.  I think it is safe to say that I am where I am now because of the events of the previous installments, and that recognizing this has been yet another step in the right direction.  I don't know where I'll be in three years, and I know that question has been asked...but I CAN say that I am a little closer to answering that than I was a year ago.
    So, perhaps, this is why I should end on the note that I’m still healing, and why I must admit that I still have quite a bit of work to do.  But for now – I want this to be where installment three ends – and hopefully there won’t be a fourth installment to write, but instead a more confident ending could be added to this one.
    Let's just say, for argument's sake, that my next installment is simply yet to be lived and experienced.  And it'll all be shared via blogs!
    In closing, I'd like to thank you all for reading each of these installments.  I've unlocked this board to responses, and do hope to hear from anyone that can relate, that understands, that can validate who I am, and the reasons for being who I am.  
    I am sending my love to each and every one of you - I've so much appreciation for those who choose to walk this path alongside me.  There is indeed strength in numbers.  I believe this, 100%. 

    - Capulet
  21. Capulet
    Also posted in Share Your Story:
    Installment Two:  The Party 
    I am now fast-forwarding, (or rewinding, depending on how old I was in your minds upon completing reading of the first installment) to when I was seventeen years old as I bring to you all, installment 2 of my story.  
    This is the full, uncensored version of what was shared back in 2007. One would think that as time goes on, you’re likely to forget some details.  
    While that may be the case for some, I WISH that was true for me.  Time has gone on, but in some ways, remained stationary – frozen, almost – and I still remember the details of that night as if it were only yesterday.  And for the last nearly twenty-three years, it HAS been ‘yesterday.’  While I know a lot of work has been put into my healing efforts, the memory of the work isn’t as strong as the memory of the actual event. It’s stayed fresh, although I do have to admit that time HAS made it sting less.  
    In this newer version of my story, I’ve decided not to talk about the ‘fluff stuff;’ by this, I mean the benign, unimportant events leading up to what happened on the night of October 4th, 1996.  The pre-story of having gone to a classmate’s house, my lying to my father, telling him that I was going to be working on a school paper, my thinking this was a good way to jump-start my social status.  
    Why not talk about these things?
    Because they’re not important, now.  Originally, I perhaps felt partially to blame for what happened.  It was a classic case of, ‘well, if I hadn’t been there, this wouldn’t have happened.’  Perhaps I was waiting for someone to say to me, ‘yes, that’s exactly why this happened.  You were in a place you did not belong, and at a time that you shouldn’t have been there.’  Believe it or not, there WAS the occasional question of ‘why?’ but I have come to realize that there simply is not an answer good enough to justify what happened.  I could search for the rest of my life and I’d still never find one.
    There IS one very important detail that you should know about me, though, before I delve deeper into this part of my story.  If you’ve read through my first installment, you know that I was born deaf.  This is something I don’t like bringing attention to – unless circumstances make it that I have to.  I don’t share this with many people unless, well, I think there will be a reason they need to know.  Don’t get me wrong – there’s nothing wrong with it.  It just plays a COLOSSAL role in who I am.  While it doesn’t define me, it also does.  And this, as much as I HATE to admit – is a HUGE contributor to what happened that night.  Whenever I think back on my trauma, it also ALWAYS comes back to this.  As a matter of fact, it plays such a role in BOTH of my traumas, although I cannot remember one of them.
    I guess the running joke on this is – even from the very beginning, I didn’t want to hear it…it being drama, bullshit, and whatever else makes me momentarily (and rarely) appreciate my lack of hearing.  My mother and father wanted me to speak, so they were quick to alienate me from the deaf community and (my mother mostly) moved Heaven and Earth to ensure that I functioned as a ‘normal’ hearing person.  And, to be ‘normal’ was always something I had to work extra hard at – with certain limitations that were beyond my control, I had to overcompensate, all under the impression that this was what was ‘wrong’ with me and that it was never something I could fix.  This was simply the hand I’d been dealt.  
    And now – back to the story.  
    To summarize, I was 17 and was at a house party.  It wasn’t a frat house – it was simply someone’s home – off campus.  I’d gone with an acquaintance from one of my classes – thinking this was what the stereotypical college kids did with friends on a Friday night. To call her a friend is inaccurate, for she never once had my best interests at heart and likely invited me to accompany her to this party so that she could delay working on the research paper we were assigned to complete together.  She probably still, to this day, thinks I’m angry with her for forcing me to find another way home at the end of the night. I’d only seen her a small handful of times afterwards – once when I finally picked up my car, which was parked near her house – and a few times in class.  I made very small talk and avoided her at all costs.  We’d never spoken of what happened; which was my choice. She was the enemy.  I wanted her out of sight and out of mind – and thankfully, I got my wish – we were fortunate to not share any more classes after that semester.
    And for a long, long time, possibly YEARS, I WAS angry with her.  I even blamed her.  It was, after all, because of her – the whole thing was her fault, simply because she was having too good a time to leave when I wanted to. For years, hers was the face that popped up into my mind when thinking back to that night.  No, it wasn’t the ONLY face, but it was still a face that shouldn’t have been as much a focus as it was.  
    HIS face is the one I see now.  The only one I see when I think back to that night.  There is no longer any blame for her.  While I still unfondly remember her face, I’ve mentally connected the image of it to a ‘type’ of person that I’ve vowed to NEVER trust again. That’s the face I see when people around me are acting recklessly, in a manner that reminds me of the behavior of those around me at that party on that night.  
    Although nearly 23 years have elapsed, I still remember.  It’s funny, isn’t it?  How we can recall with ease the moments BEFORE trauma, but draw blanks when it comes to the actual event?  I cannot bring myself to forget their oblivious, stoned, drunk-off-their-asses expressions as I followed the man who would forever change my life through smoke-infused hallways.  The obnoxious laughing, the booming music, the glazed-over looks, the tongues hanging out, the god-awful SMELL of weed.  All of these things added to my overall discomfort of the whole scene and I wanted nothing more than to go home.  
    This is where I will issue a trigger warning for those who are still reading.  I am going to be sharing some things that I’ve never written before.  If you’re not in a good frame of mind, please close this and bookmark it for another day.  I totally wish it were possible to turn this night on and off in my brain – and there are times I have succeeded in doing so.  But instead of an on/off switch, there’s a dimmer – sometimes it’s bright, sometimes it can be reduced into the background so that I can carry on as normal, whatever that means.  The very purpose of this update is for me to be able to shine a brighter light on some of those things that I’ve kicked into the shadows for as long as I can remember, in hopes that they’d not find their way back into the light.  We all know how well that works, right?
    So – trigger warning now in effect, for several details and for rape.
    The first thing I noticed about my attacker was how incredibly good-looking he was.  Sporting thick jet-black hair, broad shoulders, a dimple, a complexion hinting that he was of either Spanish or Italian descent, ‘Eddie’ was undeniably handsome.  I’d later learn that even the most physically beautiful people are truly capable of evil, of ugliness.  For the moment, though, I remember having to remind myself that I had a boyfriend that I’d been seeing for two years prior to this night.  I had my boyfriend in mind when I politely declined when Eddie, after overhearing my drunk acquaintance tell me that she was not ready to leave, offered me a ride home.  There were a couple reasons, really, for my passing on the ride home – one – I didn’t see a drink in his hand, but I didn’t know if he’d been drinking before he approached me, and two – I didn’t think any girl should be in a car with a guy who wasn’t her boyfriend.  Things might happen!  
    I suppose, in hindsight, knowing that Eddie turned out to be the predator I was unaware he was at the moment, that was likely his original plan – for something to happen.  Instead, I asked him if he could make a phone call for me – something that I’d asked several strangers to do for me in the past.  I had someone from the campus office call my father for me when I’d left the lights on and now the car wouldn’t start.  Someone to call my mother when my wallet was stolen.  And in this case, for Eddie to call one of my other friends to see if she could possibly come pick me up from this disastrous party.  He seemed slightly taken aback by my request, but agreed to make the call.  “Come with me,” he said, “I know where it will be a little bit quieter.”
    We weaved through a crowd of other partygoers, went up a flight of stairs and eventually got into a bedroom, where he locked the door behind him.  I’d gone in first, wanting to believe nothing more that this man was going to help me to get home.  I am sure there were other phones in the house – he insisted that being in one of the rooms farthest from the speakers downstairs would be best and he’d be able to hear.  There was the phone on a night table, next to the bed.   It was black, the buttons glowed.  The bed was along the east wall, there was a small adjoining half-bathroom straight ahead. Along the west wall, there was a window, a desk and a chair.  There was a small area rug and there was a pair of 20 or 30-pound barbells rested on the floor next to the bathroom door.  If this was a bedroom belonging to a teenage or college-aged boy, it was by far one of the cleanest I’d ever seen.  
    The computer sitting atop the desk was on, but had been left idle for a good while – the screen-saver was activated and there was this bouncing, morphing shape…it would first be a ball, then a square, then spiky, then something else, all the while changing colors – before returning into the original ball shape. Background was black – it was the first thing I saw when entering the room and little did I know it would become an unpleasant reminder.  I didn’t know what the definition of a trigger was, until this became my first one. It was a very popular screen-saver in the late 90’s, too, so it was every-freaking-where. At libraries, at doctor’s offices, on computer screens at electronics stores…
    Eddie went straight toward the phone.  He sat on the bed close to the night table and patted the seat next to him. I sat, but not too close.  He picked up the phone and asked me what number I wanted to call.  I gave him the first name of one friend of mine that didn’t go to school with me, but lived somewhat close to my Dad’s house.  I figured she’d likely let me crash at her house, and then perhaps she could bring me back to pick up my car in the morning, so that I wouldn’t have to tell my father the truth.  I was also admittedly trying to think of another ‘cover story’ to tell my father – I certainly didn’t want him to know I was in this predicament.  I recited her phone number from memory.  He dialed.
    “It’s busy,” he said after a few seconds with the receiver to his ear. I had no reason not to believe him – this friend of mine was one of those who’d have her phone surgically attached to her ear if it were possible.  He asked if I wanted to wait a few minutes and then try again.  All I could think of was how much I wanted to go home, versus going back out into the insanity outside these four walls, so I nodded in agreement.  He hung up the receiver.
    That’s when the questions began.  At first, they were innocent.  It was when I learned his name and his age.  Eddie, 25.  Twenty. Five. My initial thought was that this was the house of someone he knew.  He claimed that he was a friend of a friend, and he didn’t live in the area.  He was just ‘passing through’ and heard that there was a party and came down.  He asked where I was going to school and what I was majoring in.  I told him.  He told me he was in between jobs at the moment.  
    He then asked if I had a boyfriend.
    Let’s call my boyfriend Matt, for anonymity purposes.  I confirmed.  Eddie became genuinely interested in my relationship with Matt. Those questions started out innocently, as well, before becoming much less so.  He asked how long we’d been together, if Matt went to the same school as I did – and then, boom – there was the question of whether Matt and I had ‘fucked’ yet.  In those words.  I could feel my face turn beet-red.
    I cannot believe, looking back, how much SHAME that question made me feel.  Not because it was overly inappropriate for a pretty much stranger to ask me this, but because the truth was, I was a virgin.  I’d never experienced sex.  Matt was a virgin, too.  Like me, he hailed from a strictly Catholic family, and pre-marital sex being forbidden and sinful was something his parents instilled into Matt and his siblings. My family was of the same belief, but this was never something impressed on at home.  My sisters were barely 10 and 7; and my mother hadn’t had this ‘talk’ with me, yet.  Perhaps she knew, she herself hadn’t been married when she’d first had sex – maybe this was one thing she didn’t want to be hypocritical on.  
    Matt was a typical 17-year-old boy with raging hormones and we’d only gotten as far as kissing, roaming hands over the clothes and occasionally down the pants, but whenever it became dangerously close to becoming an ‘all the way’ situation, Matt would slam onto the brakes and it’d be over.  Personally, I was ready to experience it all – and to lose my virginity to him – but respected that he was not yet ready for that step.  We’d talked about marriage and how our wedding night would be absolutely amazing – but that, like many other things, was just a dream.  An illusion.   And it would never become a reality. 
    When I didn’t answer Eddie’s question, he proceeded with, “Do you like it when he fucks you?  What’s your favorite position?”  There were other questions, too, and I could feel my face flush even more with each one. I felt increasingly embarrassed, and I HATED the fact it was because here was this handsome, likely experienced twenty-five year old man asking me about sexual encounters that I didn’t have. What the hell would he think of me if I were to tell him that the closest I’d had to sex was Matt’s hand down the front of my underwear for all of 0.4 seconds before he’d put the kibosh on the whole thing?  It didn’t occur to me, not at 17, that there was more cause for alarm to be derived from that line of questioning, especially by someone that much older than I. 
    Instead of scrambling for an answer to a question I didn’t wish to entertain, I asked Eddie if he could please try my friend’s number again.  He picked up the phone again and asked me to repeat the number.  I gave it to him, but this time, watched his fingers carefully.  Back then, there was no need to dial the area code first, and I saw him dial SIX numbers, instead of the standard seven-digit telephone number. His finger did not fully press down on the number 4.  He skipped right over it and went to number 8.  I saw it with my own eyes.  My heart jumped into my throat as realization sank in – he’d been lying to me.  Playing me.  This whole time, he’d been manipulating the situation.
    If the mental danger flags weren’t waving before, they were, now. My heart sank when he hung up the receiver again, turned to me and said, “it’s still busy,” thus confirming my suspicions that I might be in trouble.  I suppose for a split second, I hoped he’d realize he didn’t fully press the number 4 and try redialing – but he did not.  He’d already hung up the phone, and was again focused on me, probably expecting I’d answer his question now that we had more ‘waiting’ time.
    My heart began racing. The panic was setting in.  If we had the option to ‘press pause’ during significant moments in our lifetimes, so that we could re-evaluate and to give more thought on how to proceed, this would have been my first pause of the night.  Maybe I’d have answered his questions – if I’d known what would alternatively happen, perhaps I’d have been better off answering and buying time by doing so.  Maybe someone would have knocked on the door.  Maybe this, maybe that…
    I’m not even sure how I managed to croak a weak, ‘thanks for trying,’ as I stood up and moved for the door.  I’d just managed to reach for the knob when it all went into motion.  First, I felt his hand firmly clasp around my arm, just above my elbow.  Then, before I could scream, I felt myself being flung.  My body quickly hurled toward the bed that we’d just been sitting on, and then bounced off.  I landed hard onto my back, hitting the back of my head on the floor.  It took a moment to process what had just happened, plus I’d had the wind knocked out of me.  
    I couldn’t move quickly enough.  By the time the stun had worn off and I’d managed to pull myself into a sitting position with my back against the side of the bed, he was standing above me with his pants and zipper open.  Still, I remained in that place in-between shock and paralysis.  I’d always been taught there was a cause and an effect to everything.  All I could think at the moment was, what I’d possibly done to make him transform from the man who was going to help me, into this angry, violent monster that I now needed help getting away from.  Was this a punishment for finding someone other than Matt attractive?  Was that considered to be cheating and this was the price I’d pay?  Was it a consequence for having lied to my father and told him I was working on a school project that night?  I MUST have done something wrong!
    Everything was seemingly in slow-motion from this point on.  One of his hands was now behind my neck, and from there, he reached up and clenched a fistful of my hair in between his fingers, pulling backwards.  His other hand was on his now-exposed penis.
    I’d never seen one up close before.  I’d FELT Matt’s, even touched it once.  I’d seen photos.  I’d seen the ‘adult section’ at the video store (when they still had them, back in the day before digital streaming was a thing!) and those video cassette jackets were NOT censored in the least bit.  Although I had very little sexual experience, I somehow knew what he wanted me to do, and again, panic took over.  I pressed my lips together as tightly as I could, trying to shake my head every time he moved himself closer.  With each time I moved, his grip onto my hair tightened.  Eventually, he roughly yanked again, forcing open my mouth when I gasped in pain.  He wasted no time and maintained his hold onto my hair as he forced his organ into my mouth.  Every time I tried to move my head in desperate attempts to evade him, he’d jerk me into position again.  I began to gag as he violated my mouth and throat, and in the process, felt my teeth eventually sink into the shaft of his penis.  
    I WISH I could say this was done on purpose, but it was completely, 100% an accident.  Regardless, he released my hair, quickly withdrew, and angrily struck me in the mouth, knocking me back onto the floor.  I immediately tasted blood in my mouth, as my lower lip was punctured on the inside by a tooth when he’d hit me.
    I hadn’t noticed the tears until that moment.  Maybe they’d started forming when I was gagging.  Maybe fear had caused them.   Maybe it was the pain – in my back, my throbbing head, my mouth, my throat.  Either way, the tears were now rolling down my face and I could no longer hold them back. It was also the moment I chose to plead with him, as hysterical as I was becoming.  
    When a normal hearing person with normal speech is upset, they sometimes become difficult to understand.  When a DEAF person with ‘different’ speech becomes hysterical, all hopes of being clear and understood are pretty much out the window.  I’m not even sure what I said, as I was in no condition to choose or plan out my words.  But I know I begged him to stop, I pleaded with him to let me go.  It’s likely I said more, but my thoughts were racing and I had no idea what matched what was coming out of my mouth at the moment, and what didn’t.  
    I stayed on the floor as I sobbed and spoke to him.  I was terrified that getting up would mean he’d hurt me more or strike me again.  He stood over me, holding himself in one hand, rubbing where I’d bitten him.  When he was satisfied that I’d not permanently damaged his penis, he smirked, got down onto his knees, and lowered himself on top of me, straddling me just above my waist.  I could not move, for his knees were pinning my arms to my sides. I continued to shake in fear, to cry, to beg, to appeal to any part of him that was kind.  I know now that there was no part of him where such kindness existed, especially when he brought his face close to mine and began to mimic my sobs. He spoke with his tongue hanging out of his mouth, to emphasize on what I probably looked (and sounded) like to him. To clearly state to me that he saw me as a special-needs person who somehow deserved to suffer simply because they were different.  There was no doubt in my mind then, that he’d taken pleasure in hurting others before me, or even after me.  Although I somehow came to this conclusion at this moment, I’d not revisit this particular thought until many years later.
    I shut down.  I stopped begging.  Just so he’d stop mocking.  He did. He kept on speaking to me, though. I didn’t catch all of it.  But I was called some very nasty names, names that fully supported my theory that he viewed me as completely helpless.  I cried silently.  Eventually, he began to lower himself, slowly releasing my arms in the process.  I waited until they were free, and then attempted to push him off of me.
    My fighting seemed to excite him even more.  In one swift movement, he lifted himself off of me and roughly flipped me over to my stomach.  In that split second while he was no longer on top of me, I attempted to crawl away, but now, he was in a position that better served to his advantage.  He shoved me forward, and I stumbled and landed face-down onto the floor.  And quickly, his lower body was between my legs, he was using his legs to hold mine apart, and the heaviness of his torso was keeping me from further being able to try to escape. 
    I couldn’t see his face at this point.  I saw only the bedroom door in front of me and called out for help.  I screamed.  My arms flailed; I used the palm of my hands to bang the floor, but these were likely camouflaged as stray musical beats and vibrations, as I could feel from underneath me, that the music was blasting loud enough to wake the dead. I kicked my legs against the floor, too, but that, too, was ineffective and went unnoticed to anyone who was not in the room with us.  
    He managed to gain control of both of my arms and momentarily held them above my head.  Then, using one hand, he continued to hold them there, by pinning my wrists to the floor. He brought his face close to mine, and using his other hand, began to roam.  He first ran it over my breasts, (more so along the sides, whatever parts were accessible with all of his weight being on top of me) and then began to hike up the skirt I was wearing.  Next, his fingers were inside of the elastic of my underwear, and I felt them being pushed to the side.  
    “No.” I remember saying it.  I did say it.  There was also a ‘please’ in there, but he ignored me.  I said it several times, each subsequent ‘no’ becoming quieter as I began to realize that I’d lost this battle.  I was trapped.  
    He replaced his probing fingers with his penis, and again, there was a sharp, searing pain.  It was like nothing I’d felt before.  A combination of burning, friction and pressure.  More of my tears rolled, but I went silent and limp. There were no more remaining ‘no’s;’ I saw no point in it, anymore.  There was no desire to fight any further – hadn’t I been fighting all along, just to try and prevent this moment?  A moment I never thought would happen to me – a moment I’d only heard about on the news or seen on television shows or movies.  It was too late, now.  He was inside of me.  His grip on my wrists eventually loosened, as soon as he’d realized that I was defeated and resigned.
    And I was.  I let my cheek rest on the cold, hard floor, feeling right away my tears transfer onto the wood below.  While he moved my body with his, I stared at the screen saver, that was still bouncing, still morphing.  I counted the beats that I could feel beneath my body.  I noted the time on the clock and saw that I’d only been in this bedroom for twenty minutes.  Twenty minutes.  That’s all it took.  I could tell that I was in a house that was cleaned regularly – with my face rested against the floor, I could smell the unmistakable scent of Pine-Sol.  This would become yet another trigger – the Pine-Sol.  
    I paid attention to everything except what was happening to me.  I stared only at the things I’d chosen to focus on, even when he brought his face close to mine and told me how much I liked it.  I’d caught that through the corner of my eye and wanted to scream back, no, I didn’t like it.  But I feared that I’d receive the worst possible response to anything I could do or say, so I held my tongue.  He’d added some other choice words in there, too.  Even when he licked my face, even when he would become more rough in hopes of soliciting a reaction or even a cry from me.  Even when the necklace he wore (it was a thick chain) hit me in the face with every thrust.  Before tonight, I’d not know what dissociation was – but sure as shit, I did it that night.  I felt my eyes glaze over as I left my body, and I encased myself within my surroundings, the music, the vibrations, the computer, the barbells on the floor, the flashing colon between the hour and minutes on the digital clock.  On ANYTHING except what was happening to my body at the moment.  For the moment, I only existed outside of the body I no longer would recognize as my own.
    I also remember thinking momentarily, what if these were the last things I’d see?  What if this was it for me?  What if he planned to kill me when he was finished?  Would I ever see my family again?  Would I ever turn 18?  I didn’t want this stupid screen-saver to be the last thing I saw, my last memory.  I remember letting my eyes slowly close as I scrambled for thoughts of good times, the smiling faces of the people I loved. It provided a measure of comfort during a time where my life was uncertain, although in a miniscule way.  
    He eventually slowed, stopped, and withdrew.  I opened my eyes only when I felt his weight shift from my body. Still, I didn’t dare move.  Moving had always gotten me into more trouble. Instead, I remained stationary on the floor, even after he’d gotten up.  I assume he took a moment to zip up his pants, because I only watched his feet.  I didn’t want to see his face again.  It was a passing thought that if we’d made eye contact, he’d speak to me.  He likely had more horrible things to say.  I didn’t want to be put in a position where I’d have to respond, so I avoided looking above his feet – which was easy, being on the floor.  They eventually moved for the door, which was perhaps six feet away from where I lay.  I saw it open, then close again.  I was now alone in this bedroom – once a symbol of hope, and now a museum of unpleasant memories.
    Everything hurt.  My head was throbbing.  My stomach was in knots and was churning.  My heart was racing.  And down there, there was burning.  I could tell I was bleeding.  I could feel it.  Still, I stayed on the floor and continued to stare at the same few things I’d stared at before.  First the computer, then the barbells, then the clock…back to the computer for a few seconds, over to the barbells….  
    Oh, God, what if he came back?  What if he wasn’t finished?  The thought that he might not be finished was enough for more tears to fall before I began to slowly shift my thoughts over to how I was going to get out of this place. More than anything, I wanted to go home. I wanted to be in my own bed.  I wanted my DAD.  I don’t know that I wanted him to know what had just happened – I was still undecided on whether he would be mad at me or he’d criticize me for lying to him.  Never once did I consider he would tell me it wasn’t my fault, because all I could think of at the moment was how much it was.  I think, more so, I wanted to see my father’s face.  I wanted to crawl into his lap like I used to when I was five, and watch a Mets game with him.  I wanted to see him cheer when one of the Mets got a hit.  I wanted to see him grumble when the relief pitcher turned out to be a bad idea.  
    I knew though, most of all, I wanted to be anywhere but here.
    I moved my arms for the first time in several moments and using them for support, picked my head and upper torso up slightly to check the door. Eddie had locked it behind him, the lock was in its vertical position, same as it had been when he was in the room with me.  Whether that was a plot to buy time so that he could make a clean getaway was only a consideration for a moment – I’d certainly been laying there long enough and was more concerned with how I was going to be leaving.  If anyone were going to help me, to rescue me, they’d have done so already.  No one even knew I was there.  I could feel that the music was still blaring downstairs. Everyone was still having the time of their lives, while mine had just been hanging by a frayed thread – or at least that’s how it felt.  
    The pain in my stomach had turned into complete nausea.  
    Remembering there was a small bathroom behind me, I hurriedly scurried toward it and made a beeline for the toilet.  I collapsed next to it, bent my neck over the side, and threw up. It was mostly liquid and whatever of my dinner (several hours earlier) wasn’t digested.
    When the contents of my stomach had been emptied and I was no longer heaving, I looked down.  My skirt was still hiked up, and there were blood smears on my legs, mostly in my inner thigh area.  My underwear was still on, as when he was finished with me, it had snapped back into place.  I could feel they were wet, likely with blood.  
    I sat there for several minutes longer.  At least, it FELT like several minutes.  In reality, it probably was not very long at all – but still. NOTHING made me feel dirtier than what was on my legs, what was in my underwear, what was probably still on the floor where I’d been lying.  
    Again, I felt my heart begin to pound.  Everything felt wrong.  I felt as if I didn’t belong.  As if I were intruding.  There was not only the mess left on me, there was also the mess I’d made in a complete stranger’s bedroom.  Completely disregarding the fact that a very serious crime had been committed here, I immediately felt the need to clean it, wipe it away.  Erase myself from having ever been in that room.  The words played over and over in my head, this is entirely my fault, I lied to my parents, I knew there was going to be drinking at this party, yet I came…I willingly walked into this room with a guy that I felt attracted to, although only momentarily.  Maybe deep down, I’d wanted this, maybe I’d considered, even if only for a few seconds, that I was ready for a sexual experience – being Matt’s girlfriend was not a bad thing, but it was indeed frustrating at times, not being able to explore what sex was.  Maybe I’d realized that, even if it were only for a very brief moment.  I was a horrible person.  That HAD to be it.
    I stood for the first time since I’d been thrown down.  My legs shook as the skirt, that had been hiked up, finally dropped back down.  I felt weak and used the sink to steady myself.  I caught a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror hanging above the sink and saw that there were also blood smears on my left cheek, and around my mouth area, from the split lip.  It was no longer bleeding, but had certainly puffed up.
    That was first.
    I turned on the water and washed my face thoroughly. I washed away the blood, the tears, the snot.  His saliva. I cupped my hand underneath the faucet and rinsed my mouth out, wanting him out of there, too.  When I finally understood that no amount of rinsing could remove those feelings of shame and disgust, I stopped.  
    Almost as if some cosmic force was trying to let me know what my next step was - because I sure as shit couldn’t think straight - I felt a gush. Almost like a period gush, but deep down, I knew it wasn’t from that. Even periods, with the added cramping, did not hurt as much as I hurt at that moment.  I hiked my skirt up again, pulled my panties down and quickly sat on the toilet.  Once I was seated, I lifted my ankles out of the leg openings and picked my underwear up. I wasn’t ready to look at them, yet, so I held them in my trembling hand while I sat silently for a few minutes. I knew that to look would confirm whatever pain I was feeling.  The pain was in the same area I’d cramp in when I did have my period. Just far worse than any I’d ever had in my life.  I shook more as I became overwhelmed with my first flashback – if you could call it that, given it’d happened just minutes earlier.  
    He’d repeatedly torn into me, paying no mind to the pain he was causing me with each angry push.  Somehow that thought turned into, ‘maybe if I’d asked him to stop, he would have?’ The adult me now knows that he absolutely would not have shown me any mercy, but the 17-year-old version of me couldn’t see past that fact that she’d stopped pleading with him, thus she’d allowed him to do what he’d done.  Stopping the fight was the equivalent of giving in, and to do so was giving consent.
    I’d soon mustered enough courage to look at the garment I held in my hand.  The back and sides were clean, but as I’d suspected, there was blood in the crotch area.  There was absolutely no way that I was putting these back on.  
    There was a small trash can in a corner across from where the toilet was positioned.  I found the cardboard core of an empty roll of toilet paper, and using my finger, pushed my soiled underwear into the open space in the center.  I then plugged both ends with small pieces of tissue to keep the panties hidden, and tucked the roll back toward the bottom of the trash barrel.  
    I was sure there was also some blood in the toilet, something I’d confirm during the next stage of my clean-up.  Dirty.  I felt SO dirty.  I reached over to the sink next to me, turned the water back on and dampened wad after wad of toilet paper and cleaned myself up as best as I could before flushing my ‘sins’ away forever.  
    When I was as satisfied as I could be with my cleaning, I stood, grabbed another handful of toilet paper and wet it.  I exited the bathroom and walked over to the spot where I’d been raped. There were some droplets and smears of blood on the floor.  Not wanting to see them anymore, wanting them gone along with the evidence I’d just cleaned off of myself, I immediately took the wet wad of toilet paper to the floor, wiping furiously at each spot and smear, until I was convinced that there were no further traces of me and that nobody would ever know what happened here.
    When finished, I returned to the bathroom to flush the bloody wad of toilet paper.  I then ensured there was no remaining traces of my blood on the toilet seat, in the toilet bowl, in the trash, on the floor or the sink, before leaving the bathroom.
    I realized then that I had nothing on underneath my skirt.  Almost immediately, I felt exposed and overly vulnerable.  I needed something to wear, something to protect what was right now, the one part of my body I wanted hidden by several layers of clothing.  Inpenetrable steel would have been a lovely, although unrealistic alternative, but I needed something there before I could safely re-introduce myself to the world beyond these four walls.
    Realizing again that I was in a bedroom, I made my way over to a dresser and opened the top drawer, where I found a pair of boxer shorts.  They were faded and looked old and unlikely to be missed, so I took them and slipped into them.  I did feel badly about doing that, too – stealing was added to the mental list of things I’d done wrong that night.  I made one final trip to the bathroom where I grabbed another large wad of toilet paper, and stuffed it into the boxer shorts, between my legs, with the intention of it acting as a makeshift maxi pad.  
    I stood in the middle of the room for what seemed like an eternity.  I stared at the door, mostly.  What if he was still here?  What if he was standing right outside?  What if he was waiting for me?  Would I even see that ‘acquaintance’ of mine?  It’s awfully hard to put into words the impasse I was at during this particular moment.  I no longer wanted to be in this room, but what was out there was proving to be just as threatening and terrifying.  What if I was in fact, safer in here?
    I‘m not sure what drove me.  Perhaps it as the feeling of suffocation that was starting to set in. Maybe another part of me took over – a part of me that knew that I’d likely be standing in that room for several more hours if I didn’t move now.  I felt my fingers turn the lock, and then my hand wrap around the cool-to-the-touch silver knob.  I then was greeted with the heavy smell of pot once I’d let myself out into the hallway. There were other people in the hallway, there was a lot of smoke, there was the same loud music playing and the place was jumping.  There had been no lapse in their world – only mine.  I knew from memory that the front door was only a few feet from the bottom of the stairs and that in just moments, I’d be out of this house.  I descended the stairs in a daze, refusing to look in any direction other than straight ahead.  I think, deep down, I told myself that if I continued to look straight ahead, I would be less likely to find him, less likely to see his smirk, his amused smile.
    As soon as I stepped out the front door, I was met with a cool, relieving breeze.  I am unsure of which was more relieving – the fresh air, or finally being out of that house where the smell of pot was overwhelming.  I walked as quickly as my shaky legs would allow me to – I took step after step, knowing each carried me further away from the nightmare I’d just endured.  I will admit that I’d hoped that the further I became from that house, the less hold it would have over me.  My plan for the moment was to go home and forget about it.  All of it.  I’d not tell anybody.  Not my Dad. Not my Mom. Not Matt…especially not Matt!  Once I got to it, I’d crawl into bed and sleep.  For days, if I needed to.  Until I felt better, then I’d move on with my life as if nothing had happened.  I know that plan is laughable, but for the moment, it was pure gold. 
    But I had to get home, first.  I thought as I walked.  How the fuck was I going to get home?  My car was at that stupid bit*h’s house!

    Still, I kept walking.
    If only I could remember where she lived and what streets she took to get us to the party?  Maybe I could walk there?  But my keys were inside her house.  My purse, too.  My wallet. My book bag.  Everything.  It was either inside her house or in my car.  EVEN if I could remember where she lived and was able to get myself there by foot, I didn’t want to have to knock on her door. What if she’d gotten home already? Would I be able to refrain from punching her in the face when she answered the door?  What if her mother answered the door?  No. That wouldn’t work…
    Kept walking, still.  I could feel that there was more bleeding, but still needed to be further away.  I needed more distance to be put between myself and that horrible place.  I kept looking behind me, to make sure he wasn’t there.  What if he’d seen me leave and was following me?  I needed to be states away.  My legs couldn’t get me that far, and that quickly.  No fucking way was I going back to that house or stopping to knock on someone’s door.  That was completely out of the question.  I needed to move forward, not backwards, and to ask another stranger for help was, to me, moving backwards.  I walked for several minutes more, pondering my options.  There weren’t many.  And the burning between my legs was back and intensifying with each additional step I took. I could tell the tissues I had stuffed into the boxers were already becoming saturated.  I needed a bathroom so that I could clean myself again.
    I’d arrived at a busy street.  It was late at night, so traffic was light, but there were still cars passing by.  Across the street, there sat a small diner.  It was one of those storefront diners, you could see through the front windows that there were booths lined up along the length of the window, there was a counter.  And there was likely a bathroom, too, as any establishment that served food must also have a bathroom…
    My first thought when walking in was that they’d likely not allow me to use their bathroom if I wasn’t a paying customer.   As it was pretty late in the evening, there was only one customer there - an elderly man sitting in one of the booths farthest away from the front door, his companionship being a lone cup of coffee and a newspaper. 
    A plump, kindly-looking waitress stood behind the counter and greeted me with a smile.  I leaned against the counter, exhausted, and asked her for a glass of water (as I was of the impression that you couldn’t use the bathroom unless you were a customer, and although I didn’t have any money on me, I NEEDED the bathroom and needed to, at least, LOOK like a paying customer!) and then after a pause, if I could use the ladies’ room.  Without hesitation, she pointed in the direction of the bathroom.  It was just past where the old man was sitting, and he briefly looked up from his newspaper as I walked past him and disappeared into the rest room.
    There was more blood, and several more flushes.  I sat for a little bit longer, as my  legs were weary and sore – I’d walked as fast as they were capable of carrying me.  It hit me that I was still unsure of how I’d be getting home.  It was looking more and more like I’d have to call my father – or have someone call him FOR me.  The lady at the counter worked at the diner.  Name tag and all.  (What was it? Susan?  I want to say it was Susan…)  Could I trust her to make a call to my father?  I probably could trust a business employee but I’d have to build up the NERVE to ask, first.  I needed to think some more.
    When I’d replaced the wad of toilet paper, I stood and walked back over to the counter, where Susan was patiently waiting.  Right away, she produced a glass of water and a menu, I guess, just in case I WAS a paying customer.  In hindsight, she probably wouldn’t have cared if I was or wasn’t – she was soft, kind-looking and I believe, deep down, she knew something was wrong.  She was careful not to touch me when she handed me the water and the menu.  Perhaps it was the body language that spoke for me – back OFF.  Or was it something else?  My hands had been shaking on and off for the last hour – perhaps they were still unsteady?  Maybe my lip was swollen?  Had it begun to bleed again?  I hadn’t looked in the mirror on my way out of the bathroom…what if there was blood on my skirt?  I’d not seen any when I cleaned up at the house, but what if there was some there, now? 
    I remember gently touching my lip with a finger and running my tongue along the inside of my mouth to check.  I wrapped both of my hands around the tall glass of water, needing them to be still. The concern of there being blood on my skirt was the biggest at the moment, especially now that I was sitting down.  What if I’d bled through?
    Susan waited until I’d taken a sip of water through the straw before leaning in.  I felt myself tense up but didn’t move.  I was terrified of people right now.  Even the old man, probably harmless, sitting in the booth on the way to the bathroom. Even he scared me.  I didn’t want to be seen; I didn’t want to be smiled at. I didn’t want to exist.  Eye contact was a dangerous thought – I felt as if ONE look at my eyes would reveal everything that had happened, every shameful detail - and I wanted to NOT be in the spotlight.  I wanted to be invisible – or at least completely unseen for the time being.  Still, I knew that if it was likely I’d have to suck it up and ask for help for the second time that night, I’d better at least LOOK at her.  Slowly, I raised my eyes and met the lips of the waitress, who spoke softly, almost in a whisper.
    “There is a cab on his way here,” She said, “the driver is a relative of mine and he’s trustworthy.”
    I’m not sure how I managed, but I thanked her.  She said, ‘you’re welcome,’ and, I suspect that in addition to her good timing, she also had a touch of ESP, because she must have sensed that I needed a moment.  She left me to sit in silence and walked over to the old man with a coffee carafe.  
    My hands were getting cold from being wrapped around the glass, so I gently pushed my drink over to the side and picked up the menu.  I knew I wasn’t planning on getting anything to eat, but there was still that desire to ‘blend in.’  To look as if I belonged, as if I was ‘fine.’  To put SOMETHING into my hands.  It was either the menu or the nearby salt and pepper shakers.  I knew I wasn’t ‘fine’ or even okay, and that I wouldn’t be for a while.  Still, I held the menu in my hands, feeling them begin to tremble again.  I looked only at the calligraphic writing for another indeterminate amount of time.  I don’t even think I remembered how to read at the moment – the words stared back at me and would blur every few seconds.  My head was pounding, and I felt sick to my stomach.  Yet, the kind words of Susan the waitress, replayed in my mind.  
    A cab…on the way.  She’d called a cab.  I didn’t have to ask her to – she’d done it on her own.  She’d saved me the trouble of having to muster up enough courage to admit that I needed help.  I wanted to cry, this was one of the first things to have gone right that night!
    When I felt a breeze from the front door being opened, I looked up only briefly to see a man walk in.  He had on a Yankees hat, jeans, and a black leather jacket.  He stood at the opposite end of the counter for a moment, as one would if they were waiting to be served.  Susan, who had disappeared into the kitchen a few moments earlier, re-emerged with a tray of desserts to put out on display in one of the see-through counters that was noticeably low on muffins and cakes and other desserts that I normally would have found appetizing.  There was a brief exchange between Susan and the man, following a quick kiss hello. They spoke softly while Susan grabbed the nearby carafe and poured him a coffee ‘to go.’  He then took his coffee and left the diner.  I watched as Susan opened the dessert display case from her side of the counter and she put the tray onto one of the shelves.  
    She then began to make her way over to me. Again, I tensed up and my heart began to race.  I felt safe for the moment, but at the same time, still wary of impending danger.  I wouldn’t be completely safe until this night was over and I was in my room, in my Dad’s house, in clean pajamas, with my own pillow and blanket. 
    “My brother-in-law is here.  His car is right out front.  He will take you wherever you want to go.  All you need to do is give him an address.”
    I turned my head and looked out the diner’s front window.  The man with the Yankee hat was sitting in the drivers’ seat of a black sedan, with the name and number of a local cab company printed on the side.  The lights were on in the car as well as the headlights.  He was sipping from the coffee cup Susan had given him.  
    I wasn’t sure about this.  Susan had indeed been helpful and had taken the initiative to call the cab for me, but she’d not asked me what I wanted her to do.  Perhaps I’d not have been able to verbalize, nor would I have been too comfortable having her explain to my father that I needed a ride home and why.  Maybe the cab would have ended up being something I’d asked for.  I just hadn’t had the time to entertain the idea of getting into another stranger’s car – even if it meant that it would be bringing me to safety.  How was I to know, though?  What if this guy was a crazy, too?  
    But then again, if I didn’t get into the cab, how WAS I getting home? How much longer would it be before I would figure out what the plan was?  I was aching badly in places I didn’t even know existed, my head was continuing to pound, and my legs felt rubbery and sore.  It was an opportunity I had to take.  
    I stood, slowly, knowing that it was my best option.  I thanked Susan again and made for the front door.
    “Take care,” was what she said.  That was the last I saw of Susan, at least physically.  I’d see her several more times in memories of that night and of the difference she’d made.  I’d regret never having the nerve to go back to that diner to see if it was even still standing and of course, if she was still working there, so that I could say the words to her that I couldn’t say 23 years ago.
    I got into the back seat of Susan’s brother-in-law’s cab.  He put his coffee into the cup holder in between his seats, turned his head and asked, ‘where to, honey?’
    Where to?  
    To the house of my acquaintance to pick up my car?  I did have her address confined to memory from when I’d MapQuested it earlier.  Yes, back then, GPS’s didn’t exist, at least, I don’t think so.  So MapQuest or written directions were the way to go.  But could I actually drive my car, feeling the way I did? Or was I more likely to die in a fiery crash on the Sunrise Highway because everything was blurring on me?
    To the hospital?  The thought of painkillers was a good one.  There HAD to be something they could give me that would numb my entire body.  But, wouldn’t they have to call my parents?  I wasn’t 18 yet.  I didn’t have any insurance or even any ID on me.  They’d likely call the cops.  And then THEY would call my parents.  And then my parents would know.  And, so would Matt, eventually.  My mother never could keep her mouth shut, so naturally, that would mean the whole world would know, after what had happened was broadcast on the six o’clock news.  Then my parents would be SURELY be angry with me…
    The driver was patient.  He waited quietly for me to mentally scroll through my choices of places he could bring me, and only pulled out of the diner’s parking lot as soon as I supplied him with the instructions, “Exit 43 off the Sunrise.  I’ll direct you from there.”
    I was going home.  I’d figure out the car later.  After I’d showered, slept, and the pain had subsided.  When I was able to form a conscious thought.  When every damn part of my body wasn’t shaking or throbbing or otherwise uncomfortable.
    The ride lasted about thirty minutes – and that’s only because it was late and there was very little traffic on the road.  After he had taken the exit and I’d told him which turns to take, we arrived at my Dad’s house.  All of the lights were off.  My Dad had likely gone to sleep hours earlier.  
    I realized then that I didn’t even have my house key.  I knew though, that my father kept a spare key underneath a large rock on the side of the house – it wasn’t a decorative rock, just one of those stray rocks that nobody knew served an additional purpose than to just exist.  I knew my father kept a pouch of grocery money in one of the drawers in the kitchen – I hoped there was enough in there to give the driver.  As soon as we were in the driveway, I told him to wait while I went in to get him some money.
    “No,” he said to me. “Susan already took care of it.  You just get yourself inside, okay, honey?”
    I tried to ignore the ‘honey’ – I knew he wasn’t being fresh or inappropriate.  He was genuinely a gentleman – and had gotten me home, he hadn’t tried to engage me in conversation, he’d driven responsibly.  For all of that, I was eternally grateful.  I just didn’t like the ‘honey.’  Especially not tonight.  I shook it off, though, for I was finally home now – and nothing mattered more than that.
    “Are you sure?”
    “Go on.”
    I thanked him, (and mentally thanked Susan, again) and got out of the car. As soon as he’d driven away, I made my way over to the side of the house, where I prayed no one had moved the concealed key.  I REALLY didn’t want to knock on the door and alert my father to anything – I just wanted to quietly go inside and get OUT of these clothes…clothes that usually were comfortable and that I actually liked – now were tainted. 
    I never wanted to see that skirt again.  I wanted the boxer shorts I’d been wearing wadded up and discarded.  I wanted the smell of weed off of my shirt, out of my hair, out of my nostrils, where all of the unpleasant smells of that night continued to linger.
    I located the key despite it being dark outside, thanking God that it hadn’t been disturbed, and let myself into my father’s house.  I disabled the security system, and quietly made my way into my room, where I wasted NO time.  I grabbed clothes from my dresser drawers and made a beeline for the bathroom one door down.  
    Finally.  Fucking FINALLY.  
    I stripped as soon as I’d locked myself into the bathroom and stepped into the shower, switching on the faucet.  I don’t know how long I was standing there – it could very easily have been forty-five minutes before the water went from hot to cold.  Still, I stood there for yet another period in which time seemed endless, letting the stream of water wash away any residual traces of blood – and him- that had dried up in between my inner thighs and on my legs.  I washed myself thoroughly with a soapy, even though it burned to do so.  The bleeding had slowed significantly by now, but I still avoided looking at the blood-streaked water before it disappeared down the drain, along with any evidence that might have remained.
    I know what you’re all likely thinking at this point.  No, I thought nothing about reporting what had happened. By now, I’d decided that I was NOT going that route.  The shame was far too great, and I truly felt at this point, that the events of the last few hours had been entirely my fault.  My parents would tell me the same thing.  They’d call the cops.  The cops would ask me about him and really, what would I say?  I didn’t know anything about him, just that his name was Eddie. I didn’t know his last name or where he lived.  They’d never find him.  And I didn’t want to get into it.  I wanted to forget it.  ALL of it. I wanted it buried.  The thought of people knowing about this – TERRIFIED me. What would they think if me?  
    I suppose you could call me chicken – but my excuse stands – being seventeen and still ‘a kid’ DEFINITELY hinders sensible thinking.  
    That shower was also the first time I cried since it had happened. I know I’d cried during, but in between Eddie’s leaving me and my arrival home, it had been unsafe to cry, to show weakness and vulnerability.  Look at where it had gotten me in the first place, after all.  I’m not sure what that night taught me as far as showing emotion, but to this day, I still have trouble crying in front of others – most particularly when talking about this one event.  As I finally felt safe and alone and that the spotlight had been removed for the time being, I stood there in the shower, bawling, and at one point, sank to the floor of the tub and sobbed silently and until my tears had run out. It would be the most I’d cry about this for several years. 
    When the water had become too cold to bear, I got out, dried off, put my pajamas on and gathered all of the clothes I’d been wearing that night.  Into a plastic bag they went, until the bag was eventually discarded days later.  After ‘squaring away’ those clothes, I’d crawled into my bed, and that was where I’d spend most of the weekend.  I didn’t want to get up, or to move.  It took a little time for me to fall asleep and it was almost dawn when I’d finally succumbed to it.  My father had poked his head into my room a few hours later, and had asked why I was home – where was my car?  He hadn’t expected me home until later that day.  I told him that I’d gotten sick with a stomach flu and that my classmate had driven me home – I’d have to pick my car up when I was feeling better.  He didn’t ask any more questions – and while part of me was disappointed that my own father hadn’t even been able to pick up on the fact that something was wrong, another part of me was glad.  
    Maybe, just maybe I could keep this secret. It was, after all, mine, and mine only to hold, to carry, to hide whenever necessary.
     
    This installment is dedicated to the woman who just wanted to fit in.  The woman who wanted to have a good time.  The woman who wanted to try new things.  The woman who was put in a bad position by stretching the truth. The woman who found him attractive at first.  The woman who allowed herself to trust a stranger, a friend, a family member.  The woman who stopped fighting because she couldn’t anymore.  The woman who was rendered defenseless and powerless.  The woman who was too afraid to report it to the authorities. The woman who did what she needed in order to survive.
    The woman who is to blame for none of it.
    - Capulet
  22. Capulet

    It's all connected.

    By Capulet,


    Blogs
    I know I am good at writing about my feelings.  That’s always been the case with me.  Talking about them – not so much, but writing about them always enables me to explore them further in depth. Lately, I’ve had a lot on my mind and plate.  It shows at home the most, where I am constantly snapping - my daughter and I have been like snapping turtles lately, but we have gotten better at communicating as politely as possible whenever one of us is getting on the other's nerves.  It shows at work - I'm not sleeping very well at night, so I'm dragging ass and daydreaming when I really should be paying attention to other things.  It's comparable to what we may recognize as dissociation but 'present' dissociation, if that makes sense.  I can't even remember when I was ever this tired - likely when I was working 10-hour days (which will resume in about a month's time).  It also shows here - I've been trying to spend the same amount of time here as I always have, but lately, I've found myself taking a few steps back because my mood isn't the best.  It's nothing at all to do with the community or the beautiful people who help to make it the absolute best one in the world - it's more me, being in a funk and being overall irritable and not wanting it to spill over. 
    I’ve been avoiding talking about some things but am arriving at a point where I need to start being a bit more transparent with my family, friends, co-workers, my AS family and even with myself.  Just to give an idea, I did not even tell my own mother about what was going on until last week....and this has been happening for months.  This is typical of me, anyway - wait until the last minute. 😉 
    Before I start, let me tell you all not to worry.  This is not a life-threatening situation or even a very dangerous one, but has been a lot to have to take in.  I didn't know how to explain any of it without giving the back story, so here is the product of several nights' worth of writing.
    *** I will issue a trigger warning for some mild language, some references to trauma, but there are no graphic trauma details.  
    So, many of you know already that I am deaf.  (A humorous thing to keep in mind as I type this is my tendency to misspell ‘deaf’ and accidentally type ‘dead.’  I assure you all that I am very much alive, and to disregard any typos that may be scattered in random spots throughout this entry.  Autocorrect sometimes likes to switch words here and there, so there’s that.)
    My ears, however, ARE dead.  They have been since birth, and I’ve never really ‘heard’ the way that an individual with ‘normal’ hearing would be able to hear.  Up until I was 21 years old, I functioned with the help of hearing aids – childhood was interesting with those old-school aids that came in the form of electronic boxes that we’d plug a cord into, on the other end, there would be earmolds that I’d have to have made every few months – because they would eventually harden and as my ears grew, the molds would shrink and emit an annoying whistling feedback sound.  It was extremely common for my mother to say, ‘you’re whistling.’  This would mean I would have to turn the volume down, or turn the hearing aid off, especially if I was in a setting where the whistling would disturb others, such as in school or at church.  When I was about six or seven, I transitioned to the BTE’s (behind the ear) and those, too, required molds, they were just modified hardware and the molds attached to a tube, which attached to the actual hearing aid.  No more wires – but still headaches with the whistling and having to have new molds made three times a year, on average.  Whenever I had new molds made, this would take care of the feedback issue for a little while.  Trips into Manhattan were frequent, and take up a great portion of my childhood memories.  I don’t really remember much other than having to deal with deafness-related issues.  I got used to it, though, it is what it is, right?  What I was hearing wasn’t ‘real hearing.’  It was just sound tones, and it was often muffled.  I’m not sure how to explain it, so I’ll stop trying for the moment.
    Fast-forward to sometime in 2000 or 2001, a little while after my son was born.  We were likely at a maintenance (earwax removal) doctor appointment, where the doctor who had been cleaning my ears out since I was a baby, pulled up a chair and said, ‘you know – there’s something out there called the cochlear implant.  I think you would be a marvelous candidate for it.’  He told me, my mother and my husband (at the time) about this device that they’d implant into my auditory canals, and it would enhance my quality of ‘hearing.’  I guess we’ll call it ‘fake hearing’ because to me, that makes the most sense.  I’m not hearing things the same way that others hear.  I can identify sounds if I can attribute it to something (car horn honking, doorbell, phones ringing) but I first have to make the association so that I know what the sound is.  I cannot make heads or tails of speech, unless I’m reading lips.  Music to me, is just noise.  He said he would be the one to perform the surgery, and he knew my ears like he knew the back of his hand.  It would be his honor to do it.
    I didn’t want it.  I guess I can say that my initial ‘no freaking way’ was based on the fact that it involved surgery, and it wasn’t something I wanted to do…why fix it?  It wasn’t broken.  It was annoying, yes, but I was functional, I was able to communicate.  Getting the cochlear implant wasn’t going to mean I was miraculously going to hear – I’d still be deaf.  It was (this was back in 2001) just a new, innovative way of hearing.  There is an incision made behind the ear, and electrodes are put in.  This is the implant – it’s not a replacement cochlear – (contrary to how it sounds – maybe they should look into this?) – it is simply electronically sending the sound into the brain via these electrodes.  It is not classified as a major surgery, but to me, it is.  ANYTHING requiring me to be put under via general anesthesia is ‘major.’  It was a lot of information to process and I didn’t want to hear it at the time.  I don’t know if it was also the fact that this was something that was going to require a lot of change.  Or if it was because I’d dealt with a heavy trauma four or five years before…anything to do with my deafness is a nasty little reminder of the fact that it contributed to my trauma(s).  (That’s a different story for a different day, though.)
    Still, the pressure came at me from all directions.  My son, who was still a baby, was used as a ‘motivator,’ in the sense they would all ask me, ‘don’t you want to hear his first words? Don’t you want to be able to hear him if/when he cries?’  Still, I said no.  My hearing aids worked fine – I did hear him cry.  I was able to speak and verbally communicate whatever it was I needed or whatever I thought HE needed. I knew I was going to be able to function as I had been.
    The decision was put on hold until I had opened the door for a delivery one afternoon.  I didn’t know that my son, just over a year old, had followed me to the door and when I closed it, I’d accidentally caught his finger in the screen door.  He screamed and wailed and I felt like shit, but his finger was ok…by some miracle, I’d not broken it – it was just bruised and had a little cut from the metal from the screen door.  But ultimately, that was the accident (and the guilt I felt) that made me throw my arms up in the air and say, ‘fine, I’ll do it.’  I went through in my head what a terrible mother I was, for not knowing he was right behind me – would this new ‘device’ fix this?  Would this prevent future accidents?  I know now, realistically, that means nothing, for plenty of Moms out there (with normal hearing, to boot) have closed screen doors on little fingers or toes.  Still, it was an ambiguous decision, and not one I made for myself.  I made it for my son.  I feel it was manipulated, it was coerced.  Not by him, of course, but by my mother and my ex.  I did say yes, but I felt at this point, that if I didn’t, I wouldn’t hear the end of it and I’d be branded a terrible parent.  So, now, I didn’t care if I did it, or I didn’t do it.  I didn’t care about the ‘remarkable benefits’ to it.  I knew it wasn’t a cure for deafness.  All of those ‘remarkable benefits’ were just promises that the doctor wasn’t going to be able to base on personal experience, just science.  We all know science doesn’t work the same for everyone.  Most of all, I just didn’t want to hear about it anymore.  I hated it because it was ALL people wanted me to do. I hated the idea of it, I hated the look of it (because, really, who wants to walk around with a unattractive headpiece attached via magnet???) and I guess most of all, I hated being deaf enough to need it.  It was a constant reminder of my being deaf, I guess.  And, I guess – my deafness is a trauma trigger, and I’m always going to have a bit of self-hate for that, even though it’s beyond my control.  
    The pre-op testing took place next.  There was a lot to do.  Hearing tests to determine which ear the implant would go into.  It was decided that my right ear was a better home for it, due to the fact that the right ear had more residual hearing than my left ear.  There were vaccines, there were head CTs, blood work, etc.  Then, of course, there was the surgery, which took place in 2002.  Following surgery was a night in the hospital (insurance wanted me to stay overnight) and then two weeks’ recovery.  During that two weeks, I was not to wear hearing aids (even if I wanted to, only my left hearing aid would have worked and my right ear, post-op, would have rendered hearing aids ineffective since residual hearing is essentially destroyed during surgery) while the incision healed.  I guess it was a quiet two weeks.  The third week was ‘activation week,’ which required another trip into Manhattan to turn it on.
    I can’t even describe how awful it sounded in the beginning.  It was definitely a ‘new’ way of hearing.  I wanted to rip everything out of my head.  They performed what is called a ‘mapping’ and adjusted the processor to tolerable levels and told me I would need regular mappings for a little while, at least until I was fully used to it.  They would adjust every few weeks to start with.  It was explained to me that the brain now has to get used to processing sound – and, so, it was going to be a little dissonant and mysterious in the beginning.  It took a few weeks, but then I began to secretly appreciate these remarkable benefits the doctor had talked about.  Things began to sound crisp.  The level of ‘fake hearing’ had been significantly enhanced.  It’s actually comical….I was questioning everything.  The hiss of a soda bottle opening for the first time.  The rumble of cars driving past.  Horns honking, phones ringing, water running, little things like that.  I’d ask what it was and would be told, ‘oh, that’s just the air conditioner…’ It WAS amazing at how much I’d been missing.  I tucked the magnetic piece underneath my hair so it wasn’t so noticeable – to this day, I do this because I simply don’t like it being visible beyond the external BTE processor that I have to wear in addition to the internal device.  The magnet is attached to the processor by short 3-inch cord.  The cord blends in with my hair, and the magnet, I tuck under.  I secretly felt glad that I had made the decision to get the implant...of course, I'd never admit to it because deep down, I will always remember the pressure that came at me from multiple directions.  I didn't want to give any of them the satisfaction of being right - that this WAS a life-changer.  It WAS better than hearing aids.  The quality of sound WAS improved.
    All was going relatively well until 2004.  Just under two years after the implant.  That’s when the shitstorm hit.
    It was a normal day.  I’d just come home from picking my son (then four) up from pre-school.  I was cleaning up around the house while the kids (my stepdaughter, stepson and my son) did their own thing.  We were waiting for my husband to come home.  That morning had been normal too, aside from waking up with a sore throat.  I dismissed it – wasn’t my first sore throat.  I didn’t think much of it and just carried on with my day.  I did a lot of that back in the day - I focused on everyone else before I paid any attention to myself.
    I suddenly became violently ill that evening.  In hindsight, I’m glad it happened at that time of day because had it happened earlier, I might be sitting here.  It all happened so fast.  My stomach was turning, the nausea was overwhelming.  I had the worst headache of my life, I was vomiting.  I remember thinking that I needed to at least get dinner started, I tried to push myself, but couldn’t.  I think I would have died that night if my stepson hadn’t innocently mentioned to my husband that I was ‘asleep on the floor in the bathroom.’  My husband had called home to ask if he needed to pick up anything from the store, and had gotten my six-year-old special needs stepson.  He’d probably asked him to find me (the kids were very used to relaying messages from their Dad at this point) and when Junior told him that, my husband bypassed the store and flew home.  He knew something was wrong, and he was right.  
    When he got home, I’d managed to make it to the couch, and was laying down.  The kids were all there, oblivious, scared, anxious.  My husband looked at me and proceeded to make two phone calls.  One to my mother and one to 911 for an ambulance.  By then, my eyes were involuntarily darting from side to side, my vision was blurred, the headache was so bad.  My mother arrived at the house and stayed with the kids while my husband followed the ambulance.  They took me in immediately and my husband communicated with them and told them that I had the cochlear implant.  This, I’m also glad he did – they apparently had a protocol for cochlear implant patients and made sure not to do an MRI.  Instead, they did a spinal tap (which was also painful and uncomfortable) and told me that I needed to lay flat on my back for five hours and not move.  This, they wrote down on a piece of paper and made me tell them I understood.  They then put me into a room by myself, and only came in wearing masks.  It would be hours between 'pop-ins' and I would ask them what was wrong with me, what was happening.  They would speak to me from behind masks, which was stupid as all hell, coming from medical professionals.  You’d think they know that a lip-reader is not also equipped with x-ray vision. They finally left me in there for a long time.  They dimmed the lights, thinking it would help the headache and I'd fall asleep, but that wasn't happening.  I was in a considerable amount of pain.  I couldn't sleep.  My mind raced.  I moaned and groaned and counted the ceiling tiles until I couldn’t stand it anymore.  Determined for answers, I began to holler.  Fuss.  Anything that would get someone’s attention.  I eventually screamed (from a lying-down position) that I needed to know what the hell was going on.  The nurse finally came in, wearing a mask.  I asked her to please tell me what was going on.  She put up a finger (I don’t know if the light bulb went off here, but either way, she finally understood that I wasn’t hearing anything) and signaled she’d be right back.  She returned with a piece of paper and showed me what she’d written on it.
    “You have meningitis.”
    I shut up.  The nurse wrote some more onto the paper and showed it to me.
    “Very contagious.  Sorry, we need the masks for our protection.  We started the antibiotics right after the spinal tap and will move you to your room soon.  Please try to rest and continue to lay still.”
    Meningitis?  The word played over and over in my head.  I’d heard of it.  I’d heard it was sometimes the reason someone went deaf in childhood.  But I didn't know much else about it.  
    How the hell had I gotten meningitis? I’d known there was a risk involved among cochlear implant recipients, and I’d gotten vaccinated prior to surgery….so why was I dealing with this, now?  Did it not work?  Was I immune to the vaccine?  They array of thoughts going through my head during that time was overwhelming and I just told myself to focus on getting better so that I could go home to my family.  That, I guess, is where my brush-off skills were improved.  I didn't think about it, so I didn't have to talk about it.  I'd done this before - for different reasons, of course, but this probably worked the same way.
    I spent a total of five days in the hospital.  They sent me home with a PICC line that served as a way to administer antibiotics for the next two weeks.  During this time, it was theorized that the meningitis was contracted because of the usage of a spacer during the cochlear implant surgery.  This was basically a small piece of hardware inserted to further secure the electrodes into the cochlear.  This created a pocket – and the strep throat that started the infection that conveniently found that pocket.  From there, it had quickly escalated into meningitis.  Another hour or two left untreated would have probably ended me.  My stepson, nearly 27 now – is probably the reason I survived.  
    It took me several weeks to finally read up on the illness and its long-term effects.  There was so much that I didn't know about meningitis in general, including the long-term effects on meningitis survivors beyond the most commonly known about - hearing loss.  Meningitis survivors also report personality changes, emotional changes that are sometimes day-to-day, memory and concentration struggles, reduced IQ, loneliness, feelings of isolation, headaches.  I can say I have experienced most, if not all of these.  Some of these, I STILL experience.  Hell, I was already isolated BEFORE getting sick.  Returning to reality after this ordeal was not easy.  There was depression, there was more of a tendency to withdraw, to retract.  It took a long while to feel like myself.  Some fact sites referencing meningitis also classify it as a traumatic experience.  Reading about all of this only made me angrier, so I eventually stopped. 
    Shortly after recovery from meningitis, the surgeon who implanted me called and said he wanted to remove the spacer and re-implant me with a new device.  I was not keen on having a second surgery, especially not so soon after the first one.  The surgeon also said that the second surgery was considered corrective, so it wouldn’t cost me anything.  I didn’t want to have to deal with meningitis again, and as long as that spacer was housed in my auditory canals, the risk remained.  Again, I threw up my arms.  Sure, why not?  Let's go back in and fucking fix the mess you all convinced me to make of my life.  
    The second surgery was done in February of 2004.  It went smoothly.  I spent another night in the hospital.  The activation wasn’t as bad this time around that I’d become accustomed to ‘the bionic ear.’  The recovery required the same silent two weeks.  At the time, I was not working.  I was just home with the kids, and had my mother fifteen to twenty minutes away to help with the kids while I recovered.  This was nineteen years ago.  
    Now, we fast forward to the present day.  By now, I'd divorced my husband, but not before having a little girl in 2006.  I met my wife in 2009 and we were joined in marriage last year.  We had moved out of the state in 2017, I'd gone back to school in 2019, gotten my BSW degree, got a job.  I did all of the things I really, in hindsight, should have done a lot sooner.  Won't dwell on this now, for it changes nothing - just mentioning it to give an idea of how different life is now vs. how it was when I was a young housewife and mother.  But anyway - it is a given that I am in a different place now than I was twenty years ago.  Many transitions have been made, and things have happened to bring me back to the same mental place I was years ago...a place that I had worked hard to climb out of.
    For the last several months, I have been experiencing some serious battery drainage.  I’m eligible for a hardware replacement (outside processor/equipment) every five years.  I’ve had three processor upgrades since 2004.  The last upgrade was last year, in 2022.  Everything was working fine.  A cochlear implant battery is supposed to last 10-15 hours on a full charge.  I noticed back in April/May that the battery was lasting less than half of that amount of hours.  I was finding that I’d have to carry one or two spare batteries with me to work, because it would be drained before I finished with my first client.  I thought it was an issue with the batteries themselves, and when they continued to rapidly drain, I opened up the two spare batteries I had (I’m eligible for two additional batteries per year and had these two still in the plastic wrappers they came in) and charged them up.  When I discovered that these brand-new batteries also only lasted me barely two and a half hours, I contacted my new audiologist and let her know that something was amiss with everything. 
    She said it could be a potential problem with the hardware, and that she would send a new pre-programmed one to me.  All I had to do was pop a battery in, change the wiring and put it on.
    OK – easy enough.
    The replacement processor came the day after.  I put a fresh battery in, put it on and crossed my fingers.  Sadly, the warning beeps (when it’s low) came on after two hours.  Additionally, the sound was cutting in and out, and eventually, nothing was coming through the processor they’d sent.  Exasperated, I returned it to the box it arrived in, and went back to the processor I’d been using.  After a day or two, the sound began to cut in and out on the processor I’d been using – which was frustrating, because until I’d tried the replacement one, this was not happening.  Additionally, battery drainage was still a huge problem.  I emailed the audiologist back and let her know.  I did apologize for blowing up her email on a weekend.  I also told her that I didn’t care that it would take me two hours to travel to where they were – I would move mountains to get this shit working again.  I told her how frustrating it was, and how I couldn’t function with sound cutting in and out – especially in the profession I’m in.  I work with children – so being able to hear them and understand them and their teachers is important.  She got me an appointment for last Friday, and told me to bring all of my equipment, both new and old, and she’d run diagnostics on everything. 
    I went to see her this past Friday.  The daughter accompanied me – (she’s seventeen so I have had this implant for her entire life) and we traveled the two hours there and met with the audiologist.  She hooked my hardware up to her equipment, pulled up my map program onto her computer and started to talk.  She turned the computer screen so I could see what was happening while she spoke.  When sound was going through…the arrows would dance up and down.  When it cut out, all would drop to the bottom of the screen at the same time.  She saw exactly what I was hearing.  It was intermittent, and at this point, happening very often, and mostly whenever I changed batteries, which by now is six, seven times a day.
    She finally turned the screen back around and gently spoke.  
    “Okay.  I think we have what we need to diagnose a potential internal failure.”
    “You think it’s the inside piece?” I asked.  My daughter became VERY interested at this point.  She sat up straight and paid attention.  
    The audiologist said that all the evidence was there.  The battery drainage regardless of battery age.  The intermittency.  Even the headaches I’ve been having.  The inconsistency of delivery of sound.  She tested all of my external hardware and found no problems with any of it.  This left the internal piece, which being 20 years old, always had the very slight possibility of malfunctioning.
    “I do have some good news, though,” She said.  “I see you were last implanted in 2004.  Your current implant is under warranty for twenty years, so you’re still covered for revision surgery.  In February of next year, that warranty expires.”
    “So that’s your recommendation?”  At this point, I’m trying to see the silver lining in all this – I really am.  Not having to pay out of pocket for this surgery definitely was a good thing.  But...fuck.  Surgery.  It's a scary word, a hard word to chew on.
    “It would be completely covered,” she said, again.  “But yes, it IS my recommendation.  For now, though, I am going to tweak your map settings, though, to a manual frequency.  This will help the intermittency.  It will enable the processor to not work as hard – sound qauality might be a little different, but you’ll still have sound awareness.  It will not stop the device from ultimately failing but it will help hold you over until we can get the surgery scheduled.”
    So, basically, a band-aid technique has been applied.  There is no cutting in and out of sound – it’s constant.  The batteries are STILL draining at a rapid rate.  I am having to bring three to four batteries with me to work every day – my pockets are full of keys and batteries.  When I get home, I have to charge up the dead ones – out of the five batteries I’m cycling through, this sometimes means that I’m without any while three of them charge, as the charging port only holds three.  I am concerned about having to return to full-time (10 hours a day) at the end of this month (school starts on August 28) and having to constantly change batteries or even bring my charger into the classroom with me.  I expressed to her that the need for this to be fixed was emergent.  
    The audiologist then said she would be contacting their surgeon immediately (my surgeon has since retired) and that she’d be reaching out soon to do a telehealth visit to discuss next steps.
    So, this is where I’m at right now.  The audiologist had given me a reassuring pat on the hand and said, ‘third time’s the charm.’  Then she proceeded to tell me that there have been many advancements to the cochlear implant since 2004.  She promises that the updated model is MRI-compatible (meaning I can have an MRI if needed and it won’t kill me) and that the sound quality may also be improved.  The newer models are also made to last longer, so this would likely be my last implant.  
    The Oompa had asked to be present via FaceTime, and asked the audiologist if a hearing aid could be loaned to me while I recovered, for the other ear.  The audiologist explained to my mother that the last hearing test I’d had yielded 0% residual hearing in my left (non-implanted) ear.  I’m sure she said more but I was unable to process it all at the time. 
    I’m STILL trying to process it all.  A lot to think about, even though I know the decision to have the surgery is a necessary one.  The timing sucks. Not that timing is ever good...
    After all is said and done, it’ll be three times I’ll have had this surgery.  Two times too many.  I’m, by now, the worst person in the world to advocate for cochlear implants.  My mother, bless her heart, because it’s truly a good heart and she means well – will always tell me that I should convince other deaf people to get the cochlear implant because look at how differently and how much better I’m hearing with it.  Alas, I’m still likely to turn around and say, ‘run as far away from it as you fucking can, and embrace your deafness!’ than I am to say, ‘it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.’  While it has significantly improved my functionality in a world where the majority of individuals have working ears, it will always, ALWAYS be a sour subject.  Because of my trauma history, because of the meningitis, because this, like many other times in my life, represents pressure, loss of control, and me doing what other people want me to do, regardless of what I felt.  I can’t look at another person with a cochlear implant without hating it, or hating my own even more, despite its obvious benefits.  And then hating myself for my own bitterness.  I mean, how much sense does that even make?
    There’s that two, three maximum weeks’ recovery time.  I’ll have to wipe out my paid time off, whatever I have banked will have to be used.  I’m supposed to return to my full time status/10 hour workdays on the 28th of this month.  Right now, my work schedule is light.  I can schedule pre-op stuff around my work schedule.  But now I have to wait for the surgeon to first schedule a telehealth appointment to discuss the ‘next steps.’  After a day’s worth of email tag with her nurse this week, I have an appointment scheduled for a head CT on Monday – because apparently, the next step wasn’t the telehealth call – it was the imaging she wanted BEFORE she’d schedule the telehealth call.  Oh, and it gets better – she wants a disc of the images sent to her office.  Her nurse mentioned casually that she’s on vacation this coming week…meaning she won’t get to see anything until the following Monday, the earliest when she returns.  Meanwhile, time is going by and I feel like everything is moving way too slowly.  I’m currently walking around with four batteries in my pockets (left pocket is charged, right pocket is dead) praying that I get home before they’re all out of juice.  This will be much easier to do in the summer because NO WAY is this going to be possible during my full-time hours.  
    Where there’s surgery, there’s going to be bloodwork, and even worse - needles.  I can barely wrap my head around having to deal with the surgery and recovery, and am having to accept that in order to put in the anesthesia, they will have to put in an IV prior to surgery.  I am going to speak to the surgeon beforehand about seeing if I could possibly be sedated before they put in the IV…don’t know how possible that is going to be but it's going to be nothing short of hellish if they can’t.  I CANNOT do blood draws from the inner elbow calmly.  It is possible to get an IV in me, but I literally am panicking from start to finish, and it would just be easier on us all if they sedated me before trying to poke around for defiant veins.
    Prior to the FIRST implant in 2002, they told me my left ear had some residual hearing left.  It was also a candidate for implantation – they just wanted to do the better one, which was the right side.  I never even considered dual implants (some people do have two, and do both sides) and I never really wanted to go through the fuss of wearing a hearing aid in the left ear but knowing it was an option was oddly comforting.  But to hear the audiologist say that the hearing in that ear was completely gone….makes me wonder - did the meningitis, which is known to cause permanent hearing loss, destroy that ear, too?  My last ‘in the booth’ hearing test was a year ago and they based that statement on those findings.
    So…this is what has been going on in my world lately.  All this, along with the surfacing of pre-existing feelings of self-inadequacy and hatred that I’d managed to keep at bay for years.  This news of a failing implant has made some of these feelings re-emerge, because again – my being deaf has caused a problem.  
    I find myself occasionally feeling angry at my mother for no good reason other than for having two other daughters who don't have a stinking thing wrong with their hearing.  They're perfect.  I was just the one she had to fix because I came out with something not working.  She thinks she knows everything about my hearing and what I'm going through when she, in fact, doesn't have a clue.  I'm angry at my ex for all of the pressure and manipulation he took part in.  I'm angry at the original surgeon, at whoever even thought to invent these things.  I also hate to admit it, but there's this ridiculous, unfounded anger (that I will also admit that I know deep down is misdirected) toward other deaf individuals - because they seem to possess a level of acceptance, (even happiness) with their hearing loss than I ever could imagine having.  I can count the number of deaf friends I have on a single hand.  This is because I never fit in with them in a peer sense.  I could not sign, I couldn't maintain an advanced conversation with them, and I ALWAYS was the odd (wo)man out whenever there was a group of us.  In the sense that we had zero function of our ears, I certainly could relate but because I was brought up and conditioned to be functional in a hearing world, I had zero appreciation for deaf culture.  There IS a culture.   You see - they have a certain contentedness with it.  Some love it.  Some don't even wear hearing aids. Some are 100% against the idea of a cochlear implant, so I'm sure that has changed many deaf people's view of me.  Most have accepted their hearing loss with grace, and don't see it as a disability, or even something that is broken - they see it, rather, as a culture. They have their language, they don't need anything else.  They're perfectly happy as they are, and embrace many things I cannot.  Perhaps there's a bit of envy there, too.
    And then, there's me.  I don't even FEEL like I'm deaf at times.  I don't even tell people when meeting them for the first time unless they ask.  I have gotten better with explaining myself online but that's easier to do than it is for me to tell someone that they have to make sure I can read their lips in order to converse with me.  I also loathe doing that.  My mannerisms and my speech have a lot of people fooled as is, so it's not even really a conversation I have with people.  But lately, all the sound cutting out and the batteries dying at random moments and my asking people to repeat themselves several times has been a cruel reminder of the fact that I am deaf.  
    I will never fit in either category - deaf or hearing.  I will always be stuck in the middle, somewhere.  I will always feel that deafness, or anything having to do with my lack of hearing, is what also made me vulnerable to trauma, whether it's sexual trauma or medical trauma.  It's all connected, and it ALWAYS comes back to that.  And so, I'm currently trying to combat these nonsensical bouts of anger by internalizing and throwing myself in front of a baseball game (which has grown increasingly annoying because the Mets are pitiful this year) or a video game.  I've been distancing myself from people, at home, at work, online.  I'm sure it's all a phase that will pass upon recovery of my latest surgery.  I'm HOPING it will.  I don't like myself when I'm like this, and even though I know it's understandable and that past trauma factors into it, I know that it's also senseless to remain angry about something I can't change.  
    Anyway.  It's late, and I kind of want to post this before I decide to delete it all.  Like with other blogs, I sometimes have thoughts after posting, but I suppose I can always type in an addendum later if something pops up.  I just needed to do a mental upload, maybe free up some headspace.   
    If you've made it this far, thank you.  I know that this mess was a lot to read. ❤️  I will keep everyone updated as best as I can and let you all know what the timeline is.
    In closing, I'll also say that I do know that this hasn't defeated me. It took me a while to come to the understanding that the sexual trauma was human-inflicted, and what happened to me could have (and definitely has) happened to someone with two perfectly good ears.  Simply put, a predator will find a way to hurt someone.  They've done it before, they'll do it again. The choice to harm someone else was one they made.  I know that this 'vulnerability' of mine has shown up at every turn, and I know that I will once again arrive at that place where I can say those bolded sentences and believe them.  Right now, it just feels like the figurative 'tray' I've been carrying all of this on for the past few decades, arranged all neat and tidy, has just been smacked upwards from the bottom and everything is now in the wrong place and thoughts are in mid-air, jumbled, out of order, on the floor, stuck to the walls, and thus not sitting well.  
    It will all get better, I know this, too.  
    It just sucks right now.
    - Cap
  23. Capulet
    Hey, all!  Hoping this finds everyone in good health...mental and otherwise!  As for me, I'm still...well...me. I dare not say for sure that I'm in good mental health because that, as always, remains a matter of opinion.   
    So...spring has finally sprung where I live...where there were gnarled, menacing tree branches, there are now lovely cherry blossom trees in bloom, colorful leaves growing, grass and flowers sprouting.  Rising temperatures are also lifting my spirits - although we've had more than enough rain, it's still nice to be free of the arctic nightmare that was this past winter.  I'm more motivated to go outside - this week, we're having a little work done in our backyard.  Next week, I'll be attempting to decorate.  The Son's graduation barbecue has been set for five weeks from now and I'm motivated to make our back yard beautiful.  The cherry blossom tree I want of my own is likely going to be next year's project; making the yard presentable is going to keep me busy enough for the next few weeks.
    Lost a little bit less than one pound,  bringing my total to 26.1.  Slowly but surely, I'll get there.  My water intake hasn't been what it should.  Will work on that this week.
    But, anyway...enough of the small talk... 
    Lately, I've been struggling with sleep, again. I thought I had it figured out, but I apparently do not.
    Tylenol PM has been deemed ineffective - two nights this past week, I took two and waited, waited and WAITED.  Sleep remained elusive, even though I had managed to cover every single little annoying light in the room.  I tossed and turned for at least another two or three hours before I finally fell asleep - an hour before the alarm roused me to get the kids up and off to school.
    I think I know what the problem is.  It's not until I'm trying to fall asleep at night that my brain (which has been inadequately programmed to accept SLEEP as an acceptable and normal way of life) decides that it's time to think about things that I don't necessarily have answers for.  At two or three in the morning, no less.  I'll be tossing and turning, intent on replenishing on my energy and strength and my brain goes something like this: "Pssst.  Hey, Capulet.  D'ya remember the kitchen drawer you meant to re-arrange and organize?  Well, it's getting fuller because you've been neglecting it for weeks.  How much longer do you think it'll be before you won't be able to open it?  And when you finally DO get to it, the knob you pull to open the drawer is loose.  You're going to need a Phillips screwdriver to tighten it.  The screwdriver is actually IN that drawer, too, so you don't have to look far.  You planned for that, actually.  And then when you're done with that knob, you're going to need to tighten at least a dozen other knobs throughout the kitchen and bathroom cabinets..."
    So, there you have it...there's me...at three o'clock in the fucking morning, there I am with the screwdriver, because my brain won't shut the fuck up about the knobs.  You'd also think - okay, all thirteen knobs tightened, am I going to be able to sleep now?  No.  Because then it starts with the next thing.  It's like my brain queues thoughts - things I push away when I have all the time in the world during the damn day, and it saves them for when I'm supposed to be sleeping.  But I think I'm a sleep superhero - I've mentioned previously that this was something I've been used to since I was in my late teens.  Sure, the day after, I'm a zombie and the night after, I USUALLY crash accompanying a NyQuil swig.
    So, a couple nights ago...I had a pounding headache.  Took a Tylenol PM - (and here's further proof that it simply doesn't work...I either need to take three or four or find something stronger) and headed to bed.  Few minutes in, there's the voice of my brain.  
    "Hey.  Hey.  Never mind sleep.  Tell me, Capulet, why do you think you don't like music?"
    I punch my pillow.  Oh, my God.  All I want is to SLEEP!  Shut up, brain.  SHUT UP!  I attempt to ignore the voice.  I think of other things.  I think of my beautiful nieces and my handsome nephew.  My cats.  My upcoming house projects.  The parties I'm trying to plan for birthdays, graduations, other marvelous life moments.  I try to "start" a dream...hopefully I'll drift off and finish it.  No such luck that night, though.
    "You're not going to sleep until you explain to yourself why you hate music.  Come on.  It's time to think about this and nothing else, because you're NOT going to be able to sleep until you do..."  I want to say Will Ferrell is the voice of my disobedient brain - simply because I can't stand him and find him annoying.  Very convenient, isn't it, to have him narrate my impromptu middle-of-the-night thoughts?
    So, I get to thinking about my dislike of music.  It's not because I want to or choose to, it's because Will Ferrell won't let me sleep.
    I always thought that it mostly has to do with the fact that I can't hear it.  I can feel the beat, I can hear, through the help of my hearing aid, the sounds.  But I cannot string together the words to a song.  I can't tell if it's a pleasant sound or dissonant.  I can't enjoy it, even in the smallest way.  I don't understand when someone tells me that music is more than hearing; it's an experience.  I don't get it when my fiancee rushes over to me after watching 'The Voice' with goosebumps on her arms and she says, "Oh, my god...their singing...it sent chills through my body...look!  See the goosebumps?"  And sure enough, yes, there they are.  I don't get it when I see people in the gym or jogging in the park with headphones in.  I mean, I guess I CAN understand - for these people, it serves as a distraction...when you can focus on your favorite songs while you work out, the exercise doesn't seem so tedious.  Maybe that's why I fail miserably whenever I DO bring my ass over to the gym. 
    I see people with song lyrics tattooed on them.  Lyrics I normally cannot identify the song they came from or who the artist is.   
    My mother loves music and enjoys Broadway...she goes to shows often with her (retired) friends.  My father, when he's not swearing at the Mets and their recent lack of baseball talent, loves music and occasionally 'jams' with his (also retired) friends - he plays the organ and the saxophone, for fun.  He's also known to enjoy American Idol when it's on.  My sister (the one who's a bit of a snoot) has been performing since she was a small child and much to all of our relief, she's now just had her second child and is just now focusing on motherhood, something she should have started doing five years ago when my nephew was born.  
    My fiancee loves playing her favorite music in the car or in the bedroom...she will attempt to tell me about certain songs, certain performers, and as much as I try, I can't bring myself to care.  In fact, J and I have an inside joke.  Whenever I see people sing, I have to admit to being amused by it and often referring to it as 'people screaming.'   Because, to me, it looks like they're screaming in pain.  Especially the ones who belt out in song and distort their faces so excessively, it reminds me of someone attempting to pass a kidney stone or preparing for childbirth.  And so, on J's days off, I sleep late (most likely because the night before was a restless one) and while she's waiting for me to awaken, she 'watches people scream' with her cat.  It works for me.
    And finally, my KIDS love music.  The daughter is constantly playing music through her iPad while she does homework, cleans, takes showers.  A lot of the time, I have to tell her to turn her stuff down, because it's giving me a headache.  The Son, a few weeks ago when I picked him up from school, expressed his sadness that I couldn't hear music.  He said he 'felt so bad' for me, that he found it devastating that I didn't know what I was missing.  I told him that I wasn't bothered by it.  I think I found it more touching that he was of the impression that we'd even have the same taste in tunes...
    I've even seen and met other deaf people (and it's safe to say they are just as deaf as I) who enjoy feeling the beat and claim to love music, even watching people sing/perform on television, even if they're not getting the full audio experience they still SOMEHOW manage to gain from music and reading the subtitles as a person performs.  I'll never understand though, how that's possible, either.  But I never questioned it. I don't think I ever really cared enough to do so.  I guess it would be a different story if I'd ever heard music.  If I'd been born with the ability to hear and lost my hearing later in life, I think I'd have been crushed, having something I enjoyed so intensely taken away from me.  I think that's what my son THINKS happened in my case, even though I've explained time and time again - you can't possibly miss something you've never had the pleasure of understanding or experiencing.  
    But...I have to confess...I hate music.  When I hear music playing through the radio or through someone's phone or from the TV, it sounds staticky.  It's just loud, annoying noise.  Oftentimes, it gives me a headache because that's what noise DOES.  When you can't make heads nor tails of it, you're left with unnecessary background noise that plays in your head long after it's been turned off.  I can't help but roll my eyes - is it really as hyped up as everyone says?  I mean - I've always said people were entitled to their own opinions, not everyone likes and dislikes the same things.  But almost every single person I know likes music...and I can't help but feel left out because this isn't something I can take joy in alongside them.  Ebenezer Scrooge's 'bah humbug' comes to mind whenever I see someone enjoying music or singing...and I just find myself disconnecting from any and all forms of music.  I allow myself to get lost in thoughts and if the 'noise' gets to be too much, I take my ear out.  I retreat into silence, because, for me - this is more comfortable.
    I have another theory, though, on why this is such a torrid topic.  And this isn't an easy theory to recognize but in hindsight, it makes a whole lot of sense.  I am going to issue a trigger warning at this point...okay?
    When I was assaulted at seventeen years old, it happened at a party.  I was in someone's bedroom (it was not my attacker's house nor a fraternity house - it was simply someone else's 'folks-are-away-on-European-vacation-so-let's-have-a-rager' house) and my assailant had locked us inside that upstairs bedroom under the pretense of making a phone call to someone who could pick me up since my 'ride' was downstairs and drunk.
    Anyway, at one point after things had gone terribly wrong, I was pinned down on the floor, with him on top of me, methodically ripping away my soul.  It was after I had stopped fighting him - any previous attempts to cry for help were not heard nor recognized and the door remained locked for the duration of the assault.  And although I may not have understood it in the moment due to shock and eventual 'check-out', I'd later begin to realize why no one came.  It's because, through the floor, I could literally feel the blasting of the music playing downstairs.  This kid must have had top-of-the-line speakers and stereo equipment because it was the type of loud that one could barely hear themselves in, never mind someone in a bedroom upstairs.  My body (back mostly) vibrated along with the floors.  Surely, no one heard my feet and fists stomping on the floor.  No one heard me scream.  No one came to my rescue because NO ONE HEARD ME.  During that life-changing moment that I will never be able to associate without the presence of loud "noise," I lost not only a huge part of myself, but also the ability to see music as anything but bothersome as well as loathsome.
    And there you have it, friends - I want to think that although the hearing impairment is likely the primary culprit, that there is also that secondary reason why I won't open up my mind to music.  I just can't.  Yet, I've been known to jot down some poetry and I was constantly writing things down following the sexual assault.  These were my most common outlets.  Both of these are closely associated with songwriting and with creation.  But for me - there was no musical vision accompanying these words.  While another artist might be able to put 'noise' and lovely melodies to these words, all I can manage, is silence.  I am sure that music in general is a beautiful thing - yet, I can't help but associate it with something so ugly and heartless, cruel, cold.  And this is something I don't like about myself nor to admit about myself, especially since I know that for so many people, whether they are close to me or not, this is a STAPLE.  People have said they don't know what they'd do without their favorite music...for to them, it's comforting.  
    As I near the end of this post, I do want to put a little disclaimer here - that if you are one of those who gain comfort from music, I certainly do respect that - I just would never be able to understand it the way you do!  And in no way do I feel differently about any of my friends who love something I dislike so much - for I truly feel we all have our valid reasons for loving/hating something.  I just feel that unless you can effectively explain and comprehend what your own personal reasons are, then you're not justified.  (I don't know if this is even the right word or even fair to say - it's just a feeling I have when it comes to my own likes and dislikes, and it's, as expected, nearly 3am right now so I've surpassed the point of translucent thinking.)  
    I truly wish that this was different for me and that I were more open to reading song lyrics, 'feeling' the meaning behind them, etc, but this is not something I can do right now.  If this will ever be possible, I don't know, but I'm not in a hurry.
    But, to me, aside from not being able to hear it properly, music is simply just noise...and likely a triggering one.  
    I'm not sure if writing this blog entry will enable me to completely understand or even to answer this particular pressing question that from time to time plagues me at odd hours of the morning.  I'm not sure if it's even validation I seek.  Either way...I'll hope that this interpretation appeases Will Ferrell as I hobble over to the bed.  I've taken the swig a few minutes ago and am hoping that shortly, sleep, along with silence, will overcome my otherwise busy, insomniac brain.  I'm sure that in the next couple nights, Will shall be back and he'll be asking me (at 2am) if I've remembered to feed the Daughter's hermit crabs or if I've remembered to transfer the clothes from the washer into the dryer or I've paid a bill or emailed an aunt for her birthday.
    My best to everyone.  And, until next time, adios!
    - Capulet
  24. Capulet
    Hello, everyone!  
    I am hoping this finds you all well.  
    While I am doing fine health-wise, I'm not doing so great with my sleeping.  There are some days when I think I've got it all under control and then there are other days when I revert back to what has grown to be all too familiar.  While food shopping last week, I found a bottle of NyQuil that is set to expire in three months - it was marked down to $2, so I grabbed it.  I have it sitting on my desk as a reminder to go to sleep when the clock passes 2-3am.  It sometimes hits 4 before I'll feel tired.  Ideally, I'd want to take a swig before 2, but if I'm not feeling 'tired' enough, I'll wait another hour...or two....or three?  And then, before I know it, I'm first falling asleep at 4-5am and waking up at 11.  That's, of course, on the days I DON'T have my kids here and don't have to worry about getting the daughter up for school.  Those nights, I could EASILY not sleep at all and make do with a four-hour nap when she's boarded her bus.  
    What's that, you say?  Insomnia's a thing?  Really?  Hmmm.  That's what I have, then - no doubt! 
    So, a little update for you all as I know it's been a while since my last one.  (I know.  I'm sorry.) 
    First off, I'm officially a student!!!!  *insert horns and sirens and whooping noises here!*
    Last week, I registered for fifteen credits' worth of classes at the University.  There's DEFINITELY no turning back, now.  My classes start on 8/26 and if all goes well, I'm set to graduate in 2021; with my bachelor's in hand.   Most of my credits from 20 years ago have been transferred and there are only a small handful of classes that I have to re-take, that feed into the Social Work major that my previous credits will not satisfy - so there's American Government and then there's a Statistics class that I'm TRULY not looking forward to.  My son is going to be taking that very same class, only at a different time slot (he'll literally be arriving when I'm leaving!) and it might be helpful if we could study together.  I'm HORRIBLE with numbers - this is something I've unfortunately passed down to both my children, apparently - my daughter is wrapping up seventh grade with all A's and B's but with one C in Math!  I admittedly still count on my fingers on some simple addition and subtraction problems!!!  Math is just not me, not at all.  Statistics is going to be a nightmare, but hopefully the Son and I can hold each other up through it.  LOL.  
    The Oompa came with me to register.  Being a retired teacher, anything school-related gets her giddy.  Plus, she never really had the opportunity to join me when I did this the first time around - so I allowed her to tag along on registration day, so she could feel in the slightest bit needed.  I will admit, it was good to have an extra pair of ears along with me, in case I needed them.  We met with my academic advisor, who so happens to be the chairman of the Social Work department, as well as one of my professors for one of the introduction to Social Work classes that I'll be taking.  So, it was very nice to meet him and get a feel for how he speaks.  
    We all know that any Oompa visit isn't without drama or bullshit.  A couple times, I wanted to smack my mother in the mouth.  The first comment came while we were waiting to speak with the academic advisor - we were seated outside his office.  She asked if I was going to go for my master's.  I told her that I didn't want to think that far ahead.  I wanted my bachelor's in Social Work and then I wanted to focus on getting myself work.  Here's the comment:
    "And you'll make nothing."
    It's not about the money, I told her.  We all know my reasons for pursuing this field and it's certainly not something I wanted to get into with her.  Not now, not ever.  I didn't have to, though.  She shut up for two reasons - one - the student that was visiting with the academic advisor before us was now leaving, and two, I think she sensed that I wanted to punch her in the throat and felt it was wise to shut her mouth.
    We had a meeting with the professor/academic advisor and the second comment came while we were walking across campus, making our way over to the bookstore.  
    She spoke to him, though.  "Can I ask you something, as a concerned parent?"
    Oh, here we fucking go....
    "Do you think my daughter's disability will make it harder for her to find a job in this field?  Do you think she'll run into discrimination?"
    She actually asked this to the man who was going to be my freaking professor.  If I was gonna be able to find a job or if I was just wasting my time.  She didn't word it that way, but it's even more clear, she doesn't want me to become a Social Worker.  I believe she wants me to become a teacher, or go into Education or to become an educator or mentor for the deaf, something I don't have any desire or passion for - I am not a school person - never was.  I'm only finishing school because I've finally got a desire to do something specific and I need the degree.  Personal experience doesn't count, apparently.  So, why the hell would I want to go into Education????  Why would I want to follow in my mother's footsteps???  I've been trying to run the other way for years!
    The professor probably couldn't believe the audacity and ignorance of her question either.  He somewhat blinked. "Well, we have laws in place against discrimination..." 
    You'd think my mother, the retired EDUCATOR, knew that.  She was effectively shut down, though - see, I am of the belief that she wanted him to turn around and say, 'you're absolutely right, maybe Social Work isn't in your daughter's best interests..." but when she didn't hear that, she shut up again.  And for good.  Possibly because this was where we parted ways with the professor - I told him I was looking forward to meeting him as one of his students in the Fall.  And I am.  I'm all the more determined to make his class my BEST class (it helps that it's not statistics or history related, it actually has to do with what I am majoring in!) and to show him myself that I'm not the dummy my mother basically cast me out to be.
    I thank whoever's calling the shots upstairs - (I don't like using 'God,') - that my mother, the social butterfly, had a concert to attend with one of her friends that night and she had to head out immediately following the registration.  I think, had I been subjected to more time with her, I would have unleashed on her my anger over WHY she constantly continues to draw attention to my disability - why she keeps inadvertently reminding me that it's a limitation, a reason I might not succeed at something, a reason people would discriminate against me.  I cannot understand, why she continues to allow my deafness to define me, who I am.  This is one of the things that angers me the most today, one of those things that I have struggled with for all of my life and that I STILL grapple with.  My hearing impairment has indeed contributed to a LOT my trauma. I've been slowly realizing that it ALWAYS comes back to it.  It contributes to my social issues, too, and there's SO much more to it than Oompa even realizes, but that, I'll take the blame for.  That's my fault.  I've never told her.  
    Why?  
    Because I'm not heartless.  She's proud.  I know she is.  I am her masterpiece.  She's proud that her early intervention is what I can honestly thank for getting me onto the right track.  It was because of that early intervention that I am able to speak, I am able to function as if there were no disability.  She did that.  She pushed, she prodded, she poked.  She was a pain in my ass for pretty much ALL of my childhood and formative years, and I DO owe her credit for that.  I don't have the heart to show her where she's fallen short.  I figure it's more important for me to know for myself where those shortcomings are, and a kindness to her to keep them to myself. 
    While I'll not be able to explain all of that to my mother in detail, I can certainly do so here.  I'm not hurting any feelings by doing so.  I'm able to speak more freely here - I've always felt that way.  
    On that note, I've begun the undertaking of telling my story.  ALL of it.  I know there are bits and pieces here and there, and some of you know some of the puzzle pieces already through my posts and blog entries.  I'm able to pull out a few smaller pieces at a time, talk on it, and then I toss it back into the box because it's not needed beyond that.  I've realized that my story is scattered, it's all over the place, and it's because I've never really taken the time to write all of it out, from start to finish, and to analyze any and all of those little traits and quirks of mine that I've learned to adopt as 'normal,' even if they are not seen as such by someone who cannot relate.  I've been tossing the pieces back into the box rather than connecting them all and showing the bigger picture.  
    So, I've been spending the last couple of weeks writing.  Not here, obviously.  It is currently being drafted via MS Word and I admit I've neglected this blog for a little while - and I apologize for that.  I hope to make up for it by posting my story here, too, when I'm finished.
    It will likely come in three installments.  I've done a lot of thinking over the last several weeks - and have come to realize that I don't just have one story.  There are three very obvious junctures in my life, all with very different, but equally damaging situations.  All three points in my life are contributors to who I am now, who I've learned to be.  These are moments that, if I devote enough time to thinking about, will provide the answers to questions that I've recently had to re-ask myself as I begin the next chapters in my life.  
    I suppose, in a way, I am restarting.  I don't know if that's even the right term for what I'm doing.  I can't say I am picking up where I left off, because I didn't leave off in a good place - I left off at a point where everything derailed and from there, my life took all of these unexpected turns and twists and I lost track of who I was and where I was going in the process.  I guess the right term will come to me later, but for now, I'm sticking with that.
    I'm determined to get these installments out before school starts on the 26th of August - and they'll be posted here as well as in a more follow-able format in Share Your Story.  I'm determined, but somewhat nervous at the same time.  Like I said, I've told my story before, but I've never really told it in entirety.  I've left out details, I've sugar coated enough to send whoever was listening into a diabetic coma.  It is the first time that I am able to tell these stories without being afraid of what others may think, of being judged, of being criticized, of being told my feelings, thoughts, and reactions weren't normal.  Yes, it is being done here, from within a community where there is no fear of these things, but it's indeed a start.  Rome was not built in a day, and my story will not reach beyond its intended audience until much later.  I just feel ready now, to begin writing it and sharing it with whomever would like to truly understand me.  I don't know that I'll have this desire later, nor if I'll have the time, so while the motivation is there, I'm taking myself to task.
    I am sure this writing I've set out to do, too, is a contributor to not being able to sleep - I'm in the middle of some pretty hard stuff and am finding myself opening the word document only to close it after adding one or two sentences here and there.  This isn't easy by a long shot.  But I'm thinking that once the hardest parts are written, then I can focus on somewhat of 'cool down' writing - focus on writing about the harder stuff in the daytime and the milder thoughts in the evenings...I'll force myself to Ny-Quil no later than 1, be in bed by 1:30....set my alarm for 8 or 9am and eliminate the naps.  It's a plan, anyway!  When school starts, I'll need to have this routine down pat as my first class will begin at 9am daily.  Perhaps subconsciously, it's why I'm trying to focus on the harder details now as opposed to when I will have less time to sift through it all and give it the attention it deserves.
    So...there's that.
    Other than the above mentioned, there really aren't many things to report as happening in my life.  The Son has been finished with classes for a while and the daughter's last day of seventh grade is tomorrow.  The next few weeks are going to be insane as during the first week in July, they both become another year older (19 and 13) and we will have family coming in for the celebrating and festivities, and of course, the anticipated drama that I'll likely be posting in my next entry.   (That is, providing my next entry isn't the first installment!)
    I hope all is well with everybody.   
    Until later,
    - Capulet
  25. Capulet
    I have been eating chicken.  A WHOLE lot of chicken.  Every. Single. Day.  Oh, and eggs.  Lots of eggs.  You'd think the eggs were being laid by the chickens I'm eating.  A typical morning for me is something like this:  Get up.  Go through the pantry.  End up skipping breakfast. (I know, it's not recommended but I do it because what else is there to eat but eggs!?)  Oh, and do you know how many points is in a wee cup of cereal and also for the milk you'll put into the bowl???  I don't think I have enough points in a day to waste them before noon!
    Sometimes I'll take a nap in the morning so that I don't have to actually put anything into my stomach until lunch time.  By then, I'm noticeably 'hangry.'  
    After going through the pantry for the second time on any given day around noon (because, really, you never know, the Food Fairy SOMETIMES puts something tempting in there while I'm napping) it's usually an egg salad sandwich that I end up making myself and eating.  
    I take teeny-tiny bites out of that sandwich; even though by now I'm hungry enough to be done with that meal in sixty seconds flat.  I savor every bite - because I'm telling myself that even though I'm still going to be hungry after my lunch, I have enough 'points' left to have a nice dinner that will satisfy. I can have some rice, I can have pasta, of course, there's almost ALWAYS something to do with chicken for dinner.
    So, this is the problem I'm running into, now.  
    Chicken, particularly white meat, is considered a "free" food.  I can stuff my face with as much lean chicken as I want, but of course, have to allow for the points used in order to prepare it.  (For example, if you sauté it in oil, you have to count the point for the oil, if you marinate it in some sort of sauce, you count the sauce's points.  But the eggs and the chicken, providing it's white meat, boneless and skinless, are both free proteins!)
    What the hell do I do when I get tired of chicken...and eggs!?  I'm not thinking eating this many eggs is in any way good for my cholesterol!  But I'm quickly approaching the point where I want to swear off both of these for a while.  There's only so many things you can do with eggs (including teaching myself to effectively make a frittata) and the chicken is rapidly becoming something I'm liking less and less.
    I want something different, SO badly.  I've told myself that I'll allow myself a red meat one night a week, as a treat.  I have a frozen steak in the freezer for sometime this week.  I'm just afraid of falling off that damn wagon that I've spent the last month trying to stay atop.  It was recently the Chinese New Year - I would have LOVED to ring in the year of the Dog with some fine Asian cuisine, but the amount of MSG used in their (SO SO tasty) dishes is not going to agree with me when the time comes to step onto (and likely cuss out) the scale on Wednesday.
    Yeah.  I'm not really expecting an answer to this little outburst; just being able to sit here and vent is sometimes helpful.  Not just about the things I can't change, because there are plenty of those!   But about these little things that I know I CAN change with a little on-screen thinking aloud.  I mean, I'm sitting here saying, "Jesus, Capulet, no one told you to go on a diet, no one wants to hear you talk about food woes!"  But at the same time, I'm asking myself...what AM I going to do about it?  If it's not food I have to complain about, it's something else.  Every single one of us has something to deal with.  Something that pisses them off on a daily basis.  Something that makes them question, something that makes them angry.  Talking about things, even if I'm not doing it verbally, helps me to put into perspective what I'm feeling and I thank you all for listening, if you've gotten this far.      THAT helps. 
    So, anyway....a little while ago, I just got back inside from hangry-shoveling...we had about two inches of snow last night.  The daughter and son have gone back to their father's house and J is not home.  So the big-ass driveway we have got a walloping with the shovel and I have to properly thank the sun for shining today, it made the job a whole lot easier.  So...at least I got some exercise in the process.  My back will probably be screaming at me in the morning, regardless.
    And, while I was getting my shoveling done, I made myself a little proposition for tonight's dinner.
    Tonight, I'm making chicken (what a surprise!!!!) but am making BBQ chicken wings.  This is not a 'free' meal as the wings have skin and bones but it's a small treat for yours truly considering the 'same ol,' is getting extremely tiresome.  My better half is on a double shift.  And so, that's my plan and my reward to myself.  Chicken wings and maybe a side salad.  Plus, they'll be baked in the oven and not fried so they won't kill the diet.
    As a parting note, if anyone would like to come and prepare unique meals for me and listen to me whine and complain, I'll repay the kindness with hugs and a lifetime's worth of gratitude.  Must know how to be creative with chicken and must be skillful at omelette-making. I also have a spare bedroom when Oompa's not here.   A full collection of Blu-rays.  What I don't have though, is junk food.  You'll have to bring your own.
    Furthermore, feel free to send me any chicken breast recipes - even if there's a lot of "no no" foods (butter, oils, etc) used, I can perhaps modify them some with their diet-friendly counterparts.  
    I'm having my water now (that's yet another thing - need to come up with more interesting things to drink.  I haven't had more than one or two soda cans in the last week and the caffeine headaches are becoming more frequent!) and relaxing before it's time to prep the wings.  
    Hope everyone's Sunday is going well.  Love to all of you beautiful people!  And thank you.  It means a great deal to know that y'all are out there.
    - Capulet 
     
     
×
×
  • Create New...