Fuck You

25 + years.
Lies.
Manipulation.
Abuse.

I took it all in, and tried to be better for you. It's what you said I needed to do. It was never enough. I was never enough.

It's been 27 days since the direct abuse stopped. Every day, things get a little clearer. This time I'm in charge of the silent treatment.

My efforts weren't the problem. Your ego was.

I started planning for our marriage to be over the day I tried to commit suicide and you were off doing coke with your friends and talking to some other female. I was so pissed. Not at you. But at myself because I didn't die that day. I was so disappointed that I had failed at yet another thing that would have made you happy.

But fuck you. I didn't die that day because that's the day I started living for myself. That's the day I realized that all the years of believing that you were my savior and that you'd always have my back were a big, fat, fucking lie. I was nothing more than someone who would always owe you something. That's not love. That's ownership. Like a car you put time and money into, you expected me to perform to your standards. You forced me to leave my standards behind, to live a life of constant lies and betrayal and abuse.

Every time I fought back, you broke me down a little more. Every time I begged you just to love ME, you lied and said you did. But the unrealistic expectations never stopped. I told you over and over, I'll never be who you want me to be.

I used to think that made me less than you. I used to believe that I wasn't good enough for you. But that's not the case at all. The reason there was so much strife was because the little girl who learned to fight against the abuse as a child was in there screaming to keep me going. She reminded me often that just because I didn't meet your standards didn't mean I had no value. It meant that YOU didn't value me.

That's no longer my problem. I don't need your false validation. I don't owe you a fucking thing. You've taken plenty already.

I value me. My friends value me.
I will come out ahead. Not ahead of you, because I don't really care to compete with your grandiose sense of self any longer. But I'll come out ahead of where I was yesterday. And tomorrow, I'll be even better. 

So you take your drugs, your lies, your slander, your flat out fucking weirdness, and find a new piece of property because I'm not it.

Fuck. You.

It's Not What You Think

In light of the suicide of Robin Williams, there's so much chatter and "professional" opinions flying around about depression, anxiety, mental illness, and substance abuse.

Well, here's my experience...

Have you ever been lied to, found out the truth, tried to forgive, only to realize that the relationship will never be the same?

That's what happens in my head. My depression and anxiety lie to me about my abilities to cope and function.

Has anyone ever stood in your face for hours on end and relentlessly called you names and told you how unworthy you are and reminded you of every mistake you've ever made... but instead of little mistakes, they make them all out to be catastrophic? And no matter how much you cry and beg them to stop saying those things, and no matter how much you defend yourself and can logically throw proof at the accusations, you just can't stop hearing the bad stuff?

That's also what happens in my head. I build myself up, but can tear myself down in an instant.

Have you ever had an idea that you were positive would work, but everyone had a million reasons why it was a bad idea. And their reasons only seemed to serve them and doesn't solve or remedy your situation? Guilt, that's what you're left with, which only tailspins you into feeling more defeated.

That's what it's like to think about suicide.

I'm currently in therapy 3 times a week trying to reconcile everything in my head. I'm at a very severe point in my depression. My anxiety is keeping me from functioning properly. I've tried to "suck it up". I realize "everyone has problems". I'm not "weak". I'm not a "coward". I understand that "people love me" and I know I "would leave a mess". If everyone saying all those things about this disease could only comprehend how much we've swirled all those things around in our minds. I can physically feel the pain and agony my thoughts are causing. I'm consumed with trying to dig myself out of one of the darkest holes I've ever been in. I cry trying to get myself out of bed in the morning. My chest hurts constantly. My heart races. It's hard to breathe. My hair falls out. And I'm fighting to stay alive. There's nothing cowardly about this fight. And there's nothing weak about giving in and ending it all. I will acknowledge that it's a choice to end one's life, which indicates that there's another option. But to a depressed person, suicide becomes the lesser of two evils, the choice that will make the noise in one's head shut down. You have no idea how loud and chaotic it is in here.

I'm doing what I can for myself and my family right now. I've lost my way a little but I don't plan on giving up until I find the right road for us.

Stop judging. Stop voicing your harsh words. Be a friend instead. You can't stop someone who's determined to hurt themselves, but don't let the last words someone hears from you be harsh and unforgiving.

I'm not lazy or crazy.

We've all had the flu or a hangover that's lasted a few days. You feel sick, weak,  antisocial, worn out, achy, etc. No one ever says, "Man, this is a blast! I could do this every day for the rest of my life!!"

Guess what? That's what chronic illness is. Fibro, lupus, thyroid disease, depression, anxiety... the list is long.

For those of us who suffer (and yes, it's suffering) from any of them, we hate it even more than the people who have expectations of us.

I guess I can't speak for everyone, but I know I'm not a loser. I didn't choose this. I don't want to isolate from my friends. I don't want to miss work and appointments. I don't like begging myself to pull it together so everyone isn't let down by me. I'd love to just do something different and change the way I think so I can be as productive as so and so. I think it would be cool to be normal. I would really like to focus on anything but my symptoms.... which, by the way, I'm not faking. I try to ignore them and convince myself it's all in my head. When that doesn't cure them, my brain goes into overdrive. Maybe I AM just crazy. Maybe I AM doing this to myself. But why? Why would I sabotage myself on purpose? Am I really thinking myself into numb, swollen hands with blisters? What about the headache and SEVERE fatigue? I slept 8-12 hours last night. There's no reason I should be equally as tired as when I went to bed, right? The hair loss is all me too? The sores in my mouth? The chest pain? The muscle aches? The joint pain and swelling? I'm obviously doing this to myself, like everyone thinks and insinuates and blurts out in arguments over my laziness...

Yeah, that's it. I'm 38 years old. I WANT to spend the next (God willing) 35 years feeling like I have the flu. I want to be weak, mentally, emotionally, and physically... because anyone who's ever spent 5 minutes with me would describe me just like that? I love not being able to focus on the task at hand and losing control of my body and life. I love losing friends who think I'm ditching them because I'm a jerk. I relish in the idea of yet ANOTHER Dr appointment where the highly educated professional won't listen to ME because my "numbers" are normal. It's pretty fun. I celebrate every appointment with a full blown panic attack. And then, I muster every single drop of energy I have to complete one task, to start a new habit, to attempt a better routine. I'm zapped, but I pull it off for a while. Then the crash happens. I'm physically exhausted, I'm mentally drained, I'm emotionally lost, and everyone around me is let down because I'm a hypochondriac who can't keep herself together.

(Please read that previous paragraph in a sarcasm font.)

I did not choose this, but I will choose to do what I can, when I can. And I'll choose to back away from anything that is too big for me to handle.  And I'll choose to untie anyone who doubts me, is unkind to me, lacks understanding, or is just a doodyhead in general, because I just don't need it. I will only surround myself with people who are honest and supportive and encouraging. That's what I deserve.

~h

Family Values

As I was growing up, I was fed the idea of family values. Stick together. Blood is thicker than water. Parents. Siblings. Cousins. Aunts. Uncles. Grandparents. There were supposed to be no boundaries to who was accepted into the family. No such thing as outsiders. Steps and halves weren't mentioned.

A good gust of wind has blown that house of cards all over the lawn. It makes me sad to think that the people who constantly preached to me about sticking together are the very same people who have the ability to shun their own family. They can shut out and gossip about family members because they don't do what is expected of them. They make life choices that don't do any harm to anyone, but simply don't coincide with someone else's definition of right and wrong.

I guess I'm no different because I've shut out those doing the shutting out. I've feared being shut out for not being who my family wants me to be. I've learned self acceptance and self sufficiency, but not because it was taught in my family values lessons. I learned it out of self preservation. Family approval would be great, but it's never been necessary for me to move forward with my life. I'll continue to be who I need to be for myself. If it's not your way, move over because I'll run you down to get you out of my way.

You Can't Take These

I've been thinking a lot about my tattoos lately. Recently I decided I wanted the backs of my hands done. My initial reaction to myself was, "Oh my God, you can't do that, people will think you're a fruit."

Uh.  What!?

I can do whatever I want. Simply because *I* said so. So the decision has been made. I'll be doing my hands with two beautiful designs that mean something to me.

Then I got to thinking about how best to explain my tattoos to others. Believe it or not, I get asked. I think it's strange because I'd NEVER dream of walking up to someone and saying, "What the hell were you thinking with that haircut!?"

While chit chatting with a client today, it came to me. These tattoos are my story. They are my photographs. They are my memories. I choose them. I'm in control of them. No one can go through this diary without my permission, and even then, they'll only get the excerpts I choose. No one can take them from me. No one can twist them and make them something they're not, no matter what insults or queer looks are thrown my way.

I'm bold enough to wear my story on the outside for all to see, while many of you live in your sick secret-infested lies. That might work for you, but it'll never be me.

Time to Get it Together

After a morning text chat with a friend...you know who you are, thanks!...I've had an epiphany about my anxiety.

I've felt "weird" about the spa for several months.  (And I can't believe it's been MONTHS already.)  But I get very nervous and anxious and panicky whenever it's time to go there.  I feel like a child who just wants to shut her eyes until it's over with, because if I can't see it, it's not happening.

The spa is where I got The Phone Call.  The You-Have-Cancer phone call.  I LOVED that place before that phone call.  I would sit in there for hours doing absolutely NOTHING.  Now I feel afraid to be there.  I love my clients and miss them dearly.  And when I think back to all the work that I put into the spa, I feel terrible for neglecting it.

It's time to get it together.  It's time to make that place mine again.  It's time to get back to loving my safe place.  It's not the spa's fault I happened to be there when the call came in.  So now I've got to get back in there and make more good memories to overshadow the one crappy one.  I will not let my little slice of Heaven on Earth be ruined by one ringy dingy.

I'm thankful for everyone who's been patient with me and my sickies.  Hope to see you all soon!

<3 H

Cherry Coke Lake

As I sat in the waiting area of my new oncologist's office I watched hairless, one breasted, sickly looking women pass by me.  There were others around us, but this group is who I noticed.  Of course I felt the compassion one is supposed to feel when one sees living, breathing proof that the world is a cruel place.  I felt sad and scared for them.  I felt pity, as much as I tried not to.  I felt like hugging each and every one of them.  I didn't, instead I said a quick prayer for each of them as they passed me.  My prayers weren't for a cure.  Instead I prayed for each of them to find the inner strength to feel completely at peace with wherever they are in their cancer journeys.

(I also prayed for that wretched Taylor Swift song to end, it seemed so loud and endless...holy cow, purely selfish prayer, I know.)

I'm what I like to call a survivalist.  Not in the sense that you all know the word; living off the land and armed to the hilt.  Unless Fudge Rounds grow on a bush and there's a Cherry Coke Lake, I'm screwed.  And the only artillery I have is my gift of completely inappropriate humor and the ability to drop it like a bomb at the worst possible moment.  But mentally and emotionally, I've always been able to pull myself together and move forward in spite of any barriers I've faced.  Sometimes it takes longer and sometimes I get pretty low mentally before I can get back up, but I can make it happen.

Cancer is going to be different.  I can tell.  My body is going to overcome this bastard of a disease, but my emotions have taken a beating I'm not sure they can come back from. I've experienced anxiety before, nothing like this.  I know most of you have seen "The Shoes"...those started out as a funny cancer joke since I pulled my Cancer Card to justify buying them.  But now they've become my courage to leave the house, much like a preschooler might wear a cape to make him feel strong when he's scared.  I've regressed to the point of a cape for my feet.  Intellectually, I know I'm the one who assigned this significance to them.  Emotionally, I've realized it was necessary.  That scares me.  I'm afraid of being afraid.

While chatting with a friend today, who's been through exactly what I'm going through right now, this statement struck a nerve, "I'll tell you what, cancer is bullshit.  Even when it's gone, you never feel safe.  Every headache, pain or pinch, you wonder if it's cancer.  Cancer is emotional and mental rape."   (I won't say who, because her story isn't mine to share, but feel free to take credit for the quote, You-Know-Who.)  This is exactly how I feel.  I know there will come a day when all of this isn't so fresh and isn't in the forefront of my mind.  And I will be (and am currently) grateful that I'm physically better than I started.  And I'm grateful for all of the support I'm receiving from so many.  And I don't expect anyone to have any answers or to wave a magic wand to make my Feels Bads all better.  And there's absolutely nothing that any one of you has said or could say that is the "the wrong thing to say".  It feeds my soul to hear from all of you, cards, dinners, prayers, laughs, shared expletives...I love it all.  

Please don't feel bad for me.  I haven't suddenly become fragile.  I'm still me, hold the thyroid and add extra neurosis on the side!   I think I'm only telling this part of my story because the more I read and more people I meet with cancer, this is their story too.  It's cruel and unusual punishment.  We must find a way to learn from it.  We just have to...

<3 H