dry holidays

My grandmother and aunt have a gambling problem. My maternal grandfather, aunt and uncle are active alcoholics. My paternal grandfather was an alcoholic as well, though he quit drinking after a drinking-related incident nearly killed him.

I've always said that I think I have an addictive personality, though I never had hard evidence until my alcoholism took root. I never gambled -- I refuse to by lottery tickets and will never go to Las Vegas. I know that I wouldn't know how to stop once I got caught up in it all.

The longer I go without alcohol, the better I know that I am truly an alcoholic. A few months ago, my husband was out of town, and I went to the grocery store (which remains the most difficult place for me to keep the beast at bay). I put alcohol in my cart, fully intending on drinking it entirely that night and hiding the evidence. In a moment of clarity I realized that what I was about to do was the sirens of my addiction, and just left the cart in the middle of the store and high-tailed it out of there. I am not proud of this, except for the end result: I still have not drank since the day I gave it up about ten months ago.

I'd like to say that I have control over my addiction, that I am fully 'recovered', but I would just be kidding myself. I know they always say the addiction is always there, but I liked to think that I was different. That it was a phase for me, and once I got over it, I could be a responsible drinker.

That was the hardest part about putting down the drinks -- the idea that never again will I taste an oaky red or crisp white paired perfectly with a meal. Never is a very long time. Finally, AA taught me to stop focusing on forever, and just focus on today. I can get through today without drinking, that's easy. We'll worry about tomorrow when it gets here.

Yesterday, my husband and I went to a friend's house for a thanksgiving dinner. We haven't been out with a group of friends like this since my realization that I was an alcoholic, and we knew there would likely be alcohol there, wine -- my particular poison -- especially. And there was: a carafe of white and red sitting on the table, everybody but my husband and I partaking.

It wasn't as difficult as I thought it might be, but I did have fantasies of everybody being in another room and me escaping to the bathroom off of the kitchen with a bottle of wine. I found myself staring at an empty glass as wine was being poured into it. Luckily, it was cheap wine that I know doesn't taste good, so I was able to quiet the thoughts of, "It's just a little wine -- it tastes good, and it's Thanksgiving."  I was even able to take part in conversation without the presence of the wine completely enveloping my thoughts.

The holidays are difficult for an alcoholic, especially and introverted one with a messed-up family situation like me. But I made it through without any missteps-- my first holidays as a non-drinker.

slowly but surely

Therapy got intense there for a bit. I had one session where I could barely breathe, because I felt like I had to talk so fast to get everything that bothered me out. At the end of that one, my counselor asked that we would talk about my molestation at the next session, because she was concerned it was just beneath the surface and causing my mind to race.

I talked about how I thought it affected me, I talked about when the memories came up, but I couldn't say the words. I tried. And I tried again. I realized I had never even thought the words. I couldn't even replay the video in my head. My counselor suggested that I write a letter to my molester, and then do some sort of cleansing ritual with it -- whether it is to burn it, or send it, or whatever I saw fit.

I couldn't do that either. When I spent time trying to pinpoint why, I figured out that it was because I wasn't sure whether it was my brother's fault, or just something bad that happened that I was taking out on my brother unjustly. I talked to my husband about this, and he said: well, write a letter to Evil. Or, hell, just write down what happened. Do something.

So, I wrote the story down with the purpose of turning it into a piece of art. I sat down and just wrote stream-of-conciousness.

Something amazing happened: I realized that he brought me downstairs. I realized that I never took off my clothes. I realized that I was forced to touch him. I had no idea what was going on. I definitely didn't want it. And he knew what he was doing. I realized that my mother almost definitely knows it happened, and may have sent my brother away because of it, and since then has misplaced her anger over everything onto me.

None of it was my fault. It was entirely his responsibility. He was old enough to know better, because when I was at that age and realized what happened to me, I knew it was wrong.

I took what I wrote and printed it onto a page of paper. I spent time finding a quote about evil that resonated with me. I found it, and cut the words of the quote out of the story of what happened. Every cut I made into the story felt like excising a cancer. I felt lighter at every swipe of my xacto knife. It was a meditation on the quote through the fabric of this terrible thing that happened.

I took what was left of the story and pressed it in paint. I used a mix of colors that are not dark or moody, but have a tension about them when together. I put the painted paper on a canvas. I want the story to be accessible, just below the surface. When I showed my counselor, she was worried that I covered it in paint to symbolize burying it -- but that's not at all how I think of it. I wanted the story to come out of me and be subjected to my will. It's like writing on the cast when you've broken your arm: you aren't trying to pretend its not broken, but you are trying to take what it is and make it beautiful. I wanted to be able to make what I wanted of it. I put the story on backwards -- my version of turning it inside out, finally taking complete control of it.

I pasted on the words I cut out into the quote: "Very few people see their own actions as truly evil. It is left to their victims to decide what is evil."

Since I created the painting, it has become a source of refuge. When I think about what happened, I think: "I've been through that story. I know what happened, and I hold no culpability. I cut it to pieces. I turned it inside out. That story is mine, it is no longer just something that happened to me."

I don't know what I'm going to do with the painting. I feel weird hanging it up because it remains quite personal, but I feel weird putting it in the closet because I don't want to let myself be ashamed of it. I don't want to burn it, because I want to be able to look at it when I begin to forget what I've learned.

I brought the painting to my counseling session last week. I told her the story. No tears. No hesitation. I just said it. I showed her the painting. She asked if I had anything else to talk about. I couldn't think of anything...just brought up a few little tiffs that my husband and I had three weeks before, and that's just because I was reaching for something to talk about in the awkward silence.

Then, 10 minutes before the end of the session, we ran out of things to talk about. She told me that she wasn't going to schedule me for another session, because the use of a person like her is best when one needs to work through things, and I had this major breakthrough, have all the tools to deal with things that come up and am using them. She said to set up an appointment whenever I need to talk to her about something, and wished me well.

It's scary, but I know she's right. I feel like I'm getting out of a mental hospital. I'm a little bit scared that I can't handle the real world any more, without a therapist to back me up.

But, the truth is, I'm happy. I'm less irritable. When I am, I know why and I address it. My work isn't taking over any longer. My husband and I just went through a stressful move, and we didn't have a single fight during it.

Dear readers, I think I am approaching recovery. I'm not there yet, and I'm sure I have months or years to go. But I can feel that its nearing.

catch up

I have been absent from this blog and reading your blogs for just about three weeks. I feel sorry that I haven't spoken to you, Reader, as I might feel sorry for not speaking with a good friend i an extended amount of time. I want to catch up with you.

I had an annual review at work a few weeks ago. I am paid well for a 20-something with a bachelor's degree, but I am underpaid for my particular degree, what I can do and for the work my company utilizes me for. Headhunters have been calling. I did salary research before my review and found that I should be making between Y and Z, and I am only making X. It came to about 15-30% above what I make. Let me be clear: I love my job. I love my colleagues. I love my boss. I know I'm lucky to have what I do when it comes to workplaces. And that's why I let it go for so long. I gave them time so that I can prove myself and really show I'm not a risk. I feel arrogant talking about this, but I have been working hard in my to give myself credit where it's due, and my work felt like such a prime example that I had to seize the opportunity. So, after my boss gave me a rave review, he asked me for comments. And I told him that I love my job, but I'm getting these calls, and no matter how much I love my job, I can't ignore that I could be making Y to Z for too long. The conversation ended with my boss telling me that they can't lose me, and that he was putting in for a promotion and a 22% raise for me.

My husband and I have been trying to get pregnant for quite some time. I have endocrinology issues and a history of ovarian cysts, and my husband had surgery when he was a young boy to ensure he would not become sterile due to his own medical issues. So, the fact that we have been trying to get pregnant and have not is not much of a surprise. But, I'm tired of not knowing why exactly -- is it me? is it him? Is it something fertility drugs could fix if we decided? So, I decided to see a new gynecologist while I live so close to a great hospital and finally get some answers. My appointment is on Friday of this week. I'm nervous as hell.

About a week after I made this appointment, I was helping his mother with something. While the two of us were alone, I said, "now moving on to happier news...." to which she said, "you're pregnant!"  I know my face gave me away. So I blurted out: we're not pregnant. But we want to be, have been trying, and are going to figure out why it's not working. This was not my place at all: my husband and I decided not to tell anybody until we know more just a few days before. But, because I got in the awkward situation, I really wanted her advice on it (she was a NICU nurse), it just came out like word vomit. Luckily my husband is very loving of this particular flaw of mine, and therefore quite forgiving of it. When the three of us had dinner that night, my husband teasingly said, "so I heard you and my wife had The Talk."

Two days later, his sister announced she was pregnant. Their marriage has been very unstable, they already have one child, and a year ago his sister made a big commotion out of the fact that she may never be able to have children again due to some scarring. And then 6 weeks of trying, and bam.  My husband and I had trouble feeling anything at all when they announced they were pregnant. I went numb when she said it, and had to feign happiness the entire evening. I cried in the backseat on the way home. That night, my husband and I went to our guest bedroom, held each other and just cried together in frustration. In anger. We wallowed in how it didn't seem fair at all -- here we are with this fantastic marriage and financial stability, and nothing.

It has been a week. Last night, Mike's sister rushed to the hospital with a possible miscarriage. They know that her body at least is acting as if it is pregnant, but it's too soon to tell if she is. I felt intense guilt, because in my heart of hearts, I didn't want her to be pregnant. I feel almost a responsibility, although I know, of course, I have none in the matter.

forgiveness

When I was 18, I did something that I have a hard time forgiving myself for. I treated several people poorly, and I feel as if I hurt one in an irreparable way. I would give anything to relive my life and undo what I did, but I can’t. Meeting with a friend last week and hearing of her heartbreak brought up this moment in me. She was so upset at her terrible boyfriend, and all I could think is: I am the kind of person that can do this to people. I am her jackass of a boyfriend.

It seems that when I talk about things with my therapist, that I can start to move beyond them; I thought that I could do the same by explaining the moment here. That maybe, I could work out what happened and explain it to myself in black and white. Then, perhaps my Emotional Brain and my Logical Brain could be on the same page. That's why I wanted to write about my past relationships. I thought maybe it would help me figure out how to forgive myself. Now, I see that it was just another way to punish myself for it all over again.

While I was writing about the incident, I started hearing the sirens of my alcoholism. “I could buy a bottle of wine and drink it and nobody is here to know” and “I’m not really an alcoholic – I like wine, so what? Lots of people like wine” are my main indicators that I am an on the verge and need to get to safety as soon as possible. I was supposed to spend the weekend alone, but I instead drove 8 hours so that I could be with my husband and in-laws to keep myself out of harm’s way.

I see now that it isn’t thinking through the events or understanding them that helps me heal, but having the reassurance from somebody that the past is past, that I was young and heartbroken, and that if it were somebody else in my position, I would have forgiven them long ago. Three people on this earth knew what had happened, because I couldn’t bring myself to talk about it with anybody. Even now, I cannot find the words to express the shame that I feel; all I know to say is that I cry more about this than about the memories of my sexual abuse. I haven’t ever brought myself to tell my husband of the incident, and although he is not in any way involved in it, it feels that I am constantly lying to him by not letting him know that I apparently have this capability inside me.

Long after the person I hurt has moved on from my mistake, I find myself stuck. At my therapy session yesterday, I told my counselor the story. My counselor brought up that with a mother like mine, I know what it is like to be hurt irreparably, because I have been so many times. Some people become cold in response to all the pain they’ve endured; I take empathy to the extreme. She noted to me that I am clearly more affected by these mistakes than my sexual abuse, and that clearly shows that I am punishing myself too much.  My therapist reassured me that I should not tell my husband, because it serves no benefit to me or him, has no relevance, and can be quite damaging to our relationship because it will undoubtedly play on his insecurities. I badly needed that reassurance, because that’s what my brain was telling me for the entirety of our relationship, but I was constantly wondering if that was simply to protect myself from a difficult conversation.

I am not going to write about the relationship here. In fact, other than DW, my husband and this man that I hurt, none of my past romantic relationships are consequential to the story of my life, and so I am abandoning the idea of writing specifically about the relationships altogether. I am trying to make a choice not to relive my mistake any longer. I know I have punished myself long enough: my alcoholism took root in the moments during and after this incident. I made mistakes that I would take back, yes. But, it’s hard to breathe just thinking about the pain I was trying to numb out with my behavior. It was seven years ago, and I have to move on, just as the others involved did.  I would have forgiven anybody else these sins long ago; I want to give myself that same kindness. 

DW, the high school sweetheart

I have snippets that come to me like visions, or overwhelming feelings with no discernible cause. When I describe them to people, I often call them "dreams", because I think that calling them "visions" comes off as a bit schizophrenic. The best way I can explain these visions is that it is as if somebody has downloaded a memory of something into my mind that I haven't experienced yet, like I'm remembering something that hasn't happened. Whether or not you believe in these things is irrelevant, I think: perhaps it is just good intuition and luck. In any case, it happens more rarely now and less intensely than when I was younger, but it peaked when I was with DW.

When I was a junior in high school, I was taking an advanced calculus class that was half seniors and half juniors. Some of our classmates and I would have study parties before every exam. We would invite anybody who wanted to come, make popcorn, and work through practice tests and homework together and learn from each other's strengths. A couple seniors would come to these study parties, one of which was a boy who I began to notice: I'll call him DW.

On a Monday night, I had a vision that DW was going to ask me to the Senior Prom. He was going to do it outside of a house I've never been to, under a tree I've never seen, and next to a dark blue pickup truck I didn't recognize. A black-blue sky would be dotted by only the brightest stars, with wispy clouds moving quickly through it. I told my friends about the vision, telling them it was a dream. That Wednesday, we had a study party to prepare for a Thursday Calculus test at a house of one of the students that I had never been to. I saw the tree and the truck on my way into the house, and I knew that the vision was referring to tonight. I spent the study party trying to put it out of mind, trying to focus, trying not to notice that DW was trying to time when he left with when I was leaving. I knew exactly what I would say, because I knew exactly what he would say from the vision and I rehearsed my response.

It happened exactly as I had seen. It was surreal -- I felt like I was in one of those made-for-teen movies where the popular older boy and the not-as-popular misfit girl get together. I had never kissed a boy before. I had never had a real boyfriend before. I wasn't unpopular or bullied, but I wasn't popular and I had always felt plain. And here I was, one of very few juniors being asked to the senior prom.

I wore shoes, jewelry and a dress that I had laying around because I didn't have time for anything else since he asked me two weeks before the dance. I still have the photos of us on the stairs in a friend's house with him, me with a silver scarf thrown around my neck to accent my black gown, he with his arm draped around me, and both beaming. I have never thought of myself of glamorous, but looking at that picture reminds me of Old Hollywood.

We went to a fancy dinner, and then to the dance, and then to the school-sponsored After Prom. A friend's parents were making breakfast for us post After Prom, and we went to their house in the wee hours. He and I sat on a couch, and I laid my head on his shoulder, and we both fell asleep until somebody woke us up when it was time to leave.  He drove me home, and as he was dropping me off, we had a moment -- but no kiss. I just remember me giving him a sly smile as I read the nervousness on his face. I floated into my house on a cloud at 8am. Boys had liked me before in school, but never the one that I was interested in. It always seemed impossible that the person interested in me and the person that I was interested would ever be one-in-the-same; I had just learned that it wasn't.

A few days later, he was waiting for me outside the public library that I worked at as I got off my shift. He asked me to go to dinner with him. When he was dropping me off afterwards, he said, "I was supposed to ask you something that night at Prom, but I chickened out. Will you be my girlfriend?" I said of course. A few days later, we had our first kiss.

He was my first boyfriend. He was the first boy to tell me I was beautiful. He was the first boy I kissed. I was head over heels. He was a complete gentleman. There was a lot of kissing while horizontal, but he never pressured me into anything more. My parents loved him; his parents loved me.

A few months into dating, DW and I were making some graduation party rounds when I was with panic washed over me. I steadied myself on a trampoline nearby and tried to regain my balance. This was the first time I had ever been overcome by disassociated, overwhelming feelings like that, and I didn't recognize what it meant. But it made enough of an impact on me to note that it was 2:33PM at the time.

I was sitting in the living room with DW and his parents when I got the call. I stood up and said that I had to go but couldn't say why. My dad had a heart attack, and because of his pride, they told me not to tell DW or his family what was going on. My little sister was at home alone and I needed to go be with her. My hands were so shakey that I dropped the keys to my car on the way out, and I had to ask them to turn on their light. When I did that, DW knew something was very wrong. He came out and hugged me and said he was coming with me. We got in the car, and I told him what was wrong. I remember him holding my right hand with both of his hands and talking to me in a soothing voice as we drove.

I asked my mom when they left for the hospital, and she said 2:30 that afternoon.

I remember more about that night than any other night with DW. DW made us dinner. The three of us turned on a movie and ate popcorn together. Once my sister fell asleep, DW smothered me in cuddles and kisses. I remember having very chapped lips the next day, and somehow that still makes me smile. DW stayed with me until 3AM, when his parents finally demanded to know what was happening. That night should've been one of the scariest in my life, and though I feel shame to say that it wasn't, I'm glad it was the way it was. I would've lost it if DW wasn't there to distract me.

Around month four, DW had college orientation. He was gone for the weekend. When he got back, he called me and said sweetly that he missed me a lot. I had never had somebody say something like that to me, so I responded: "yeah, right". I could tell he was confused and hurt, and he said, half-jokingly: "Well, see if I say something nice again." I remember that so perfectly, because that was the first time I knew there was a problem.

About 5 months after being together, he left for a college an hour away. My mother wouldn't let me visit him because she was afraid of me driving that far. Soon, I felt like I had fallen off his radar. After a couple weeks of not hearing from him, I found his dorm phone number online and called it. When he answered, I said that I was ending it. That I still wanted to be friends, but I didn't like the distance. He said okay. It broke my heart. I always thought of him as my first love, but looking back I don't think he was. He was a lot of firsts for me though -- first date, first kiss, first boyfriend, first heartbreak -- and I think all that adds up.

Soon after breaking up, I had a vision that DW's grandmother died. I watched the newspapers and found that she passed a few days a later. I made an apple pie and left it on DW's front porch during the funeral hours, when I knew they would be gone.

DW holds a special place in my heart. When I found out he was engaged four years ago, it broke my heart all over again, regardless of the fact that I had moved on to other guys by that point. I wrote a poem entitled "loves that were" about it, which you can read here. We don't keep in touch, and I'm not sure I want to. But I'll always look back on the memories fondly. I feel as if the purpose of my relationship with DW in the scheme of my life was to help me figure out who I am and come into my own. Now that I think about it, that's probably how he fits into a lot of peoples' lives, since he now is a Youth Pastor in a lower-income neighborhood.

One of the largest impacts of my relationship with DW was with my relationship with my best friend. I was always the girl in high school to refuse to change my life around for a boy and here I was, the first one out of my friends to have a real relationship. My best friend was the opposite: she was constantly pining over this boy or that boy, but didn't date until well into college. She was upset that I started listening to Linkin Park while dating Dan (she had recently been converted to listening to only Christian bands) and wasn't always available to hang out. She told me I had changed. And admittedly, I had, at least in the way I acted: I stopped being a follower. I stopped putting on a show. I became myself. DW helped me find my own way, regardless of my friends' paths. My relationship with that friend never really recovered, but that is a story for another day.

As far as the visions go, I have no idea why so many of them predicted things involving DW. They are fairly rare for me, let alone this vivid, and yet I had three in the span of 7 months involving one specific person. When I have visions about people, though, it makes me feel as if God is assuring me of my relationship with them. Hopefully that means that I have had a positive affect on DW's life, just as he has had on mine.

not so romantic

Once my friend AN and I found each other in high school, we quickly became close. She and I understood life in a different way than the rest of our friends. We didn't have idyllic childhoods, and so we had a more realistic outlook on life. Our friends wanted to stay in our hometown forever, but she and I couldn't wait to escape it. She was the only friend I could ever be truly honest with -- and I hers. We believed it was unrealistic to be abstinent until marriage, though we were in no hurry to have sex. We loved the same moody music sung by men with eyes we could drown in.

AN and I went to dinner and a concert last night together. My favorite thing about AN is that we have similar experiences when it comes to relationships. We have both made mistakes. We have both been heartbroken.

AN has recently ended a four year relationship. She had not heard anything -- not a text, not an email, not a phone call -- from her boyfriend at all since he moved to Pittsburgh for grad school. She had no choice but to email him that she was moving on, because she had no other way of communicating with him. The relationship was in such a state that she hasn't seen this man for a year, and she only broke up with him six months ago. She found out through a mutual friend a couple months ago that immediately after moving to Pittsburgh, her boyfriend started dating somebody else; instead of calling her to break up, he just never responded to any of her attempts to contact him.

She's devastated. She's humiliated. Four years wasted with this jerk! She hates that so much of her development into an adult involved him, and then he just left it without so much as a goodbye.

Because AN and I are kindred souls, speaking with her often stirs my own heart. Talking to her about this over dinner and trying to console her took me back to all my heartbreaks.

I have been thinking lately about the relationships with men that I have had throughout my life. I have scars left by men, and by my own behavior against the men I have loved. I have been thinking about this a lot lately as I am trying to work through the confusing events of my life, and trying to decide whether I should write about it here.

Reader, my hesitancy comes from fear of telling you these imperfections in my life and my own character. I keep thinking, "they won't like reading this," but that's unfair to both of us, isn't it? It assumes that you, Reader, are as judgmental of me as the person in my head (who happens to be my narcissistic mother). And it defeats the purpose of this space: trying to accept the events that make up my life thus far and finally process them. These are parts of me, and if I can't even bring myself to write about it, no way in hell will I ever be okay with it being a part of my history.

As I told AN last night, we can't always seperate the bad from the good. Sometimes, things are a mixed bag, plain and simple. The best we can do is learn from the bad, and revel in the good. That's what I plan on doing. I will be writing series of posts about the important romantic relationships in my life as a way to process what they were and what they did or didn't mean. I hope that in the process, I'll gain a deeper understanding of myself and continue on my Gauntlet of Healing.

silver lining

I am afraid of becoming my mother. Through all this work I have been doing, I am starting to realize that, ironically, fear fuels the parts of my personality that resemble my mother’s. I have been trying to think, “If somebody were in a similar situation as me, what would I tell them to do/say?” instead of “What can I do/say that will make nobody dislike me?”. I am intuitive when I am looking from the outside; but when I’m in a new or difficult situation, I go to angry putty or shut down.

My car is in the shop. Still. It has been there for a week now. When I first took it in, it was pretty clear it was a fuel-related problem -- probably the fuel pump -- from work my dad did on it. I told the shop everything we did and found out before they touched the car.

They checked the fuel pressure. When it looked fine, they dismissed that it was fuel-related.  They called me and told me that it was the timing chain and tensioner, and it was going to be $950. I got a phone call two days later, and they had gotten to the point where they could see the timing chain and tensioner….and they were both fine. And the car still wouldn’t run. So they had to put it back together and figure out what was wrong with it.

It is now a full week after dropping off the car, and they called me to tell me it was the fuel pump. They said they missed it before because it is keeping good pressure right until the second before the engine shuts off…which means the fuel pump dies intermittently and shuts the engine off. Then they said it would be $950 to fix it.

There were a few long seconds as I freaked out a little. My parents happened to have their car’s fuel pump fixed at the same shop several times before. Because of that and internet research, I knew this should be a $700 fix. I knew they were charging me for all this extra time to go down the wrong path before fully exploring the fuel system that I had told him was almost definitely the problem. I knew I was going to have to argue with this guy. Past Melissa would’ve gritted her teeth, said okay, called her husband, her husband would’ve said it was a ridiculous price and insisted Melissa talk the price down, then Melissa would’ve gotten mad at said husband for making her do something uncomfortable.  But Current Melissa is less scared of becoming her mother and being embarrassingly mean to store clerks. Current Melissa is realizing that just because there is a disagreement doesn’t mean that there should be yelling. Current Melissa knows that she can ask for something reasonable in a reasonable way and a reasonable store clerk would be happy to try to help.

So I took a breath, and said in my normal conversational voice (though there may have been some trembling at first): “Ummm…I’m a little bit confused. I must be paying for the extra work before you guys figured out if was the fuel pump, because changing a fuel pump should cost less than changing a timing chain in a Sunfire. When I brought it in, I called to tell the story of what happened, and told them that when we sprayed ether into the air intake it would run, but then would stop when you stopped spraying it in. So, if it had been fully verified that it wasn’t the fuel pump before digging into the timing chain, I would be paying considerably less, right? I'm sorry, I just want to make sure I’m getting a fair price.” The guy, who I have dealing with exclusively through this past week, said, “Let me just rerun some numbers here….” One minute later, the quote was a full $200 less. I was expecting to pay $700, so it is still a little bit higher than I would’ve liked, but they had put four new sparkplugs in it, as well and that’ll probably save future money, so I’ll let that slide…..(forgive me my rationalization!).

My point is, I’ve been learning the lesson that I am not my mother. More importantly, I can be a fully functioning adult without doing the things my mom did in public that horrified me. [There don't have to be crying store clerks or children left in my wake!]  Today I got to put it to practice, and I got $200 of positive reinforcement. I am very proud of myself for the progress I've made.

pandora's box

I have Hashimoto's Thyroiditis, which is an autoimmune disorder that causes me to have chronic and severe hypothyroidism. Right before Christmas, I was put on a much lower dose of my medicine than I have been on since I was first diagnosed. Because of this, I have been exhausted for the last three months. I have trouble thinking straight. I am forgetful to the point of sometimes feeling very simple. I am back up to the weight I was at immediately before finding out that I have a generally non-active thyroid (I had lost about 10% of my body weight when I was first put on medicine, which was a little more than a year ago). I have an appointment with my endocrinologist next week.

Last night, my husband seemed to want to say something, so I asked him what was going on. He said, "Well. I don't know. Nothing, really."  I pressed him, and he said, "It's....I don't know how to say it. It's just that.....I'm worried about your health." I knew exactly what he was talking about. He was talking about the fact that I had gained weight -- almost back to the weight I was when I was first diagnosed.

My husband grew up in a household of three sisters, his mom, and an absent father. I assume this is why his personality is an amazing balance between sensitive brother and man-of-the-house. He can take charge when he needs to, but he is extremely in touch with his feelings. He also is very sensitive to people's emotional bruises -- which is great, because I certainly have a lot of them. My point is: he has never made any negative comment about the way I look, especially my weight.

So, last night was a stab in the heart that felt completely out of nowhere. I said, "You know, I've been weighing myself every day because I know my thyroid is off. It's less than it was when I first was diagnosed, but yes, I weigh more than our wedding day. I assume that's what you're talking about: my weight". He didn't answer, until I prodded again.

The floodgates opened. I sobbed in the way that makes you wonder if a person could literally drown in their own tears. I sobbed like a little girl who just lost her mother. I couldn't catch my breath. I cried for hours. Of course this was much more than my husband's comments warranted or deserved, but he held me tight to his chest through it all. I tried my best to explain what was happening: every negative memory of my mother telling me what she thought of how I looked overtook me.

When the Senior that I had a huge crush on asked me to the prom (and I was only a Junior!), my mom's response to the news was: "He must like big girls." Every shopping trip with her from the time I was in 8th grade was my mother telling me that I had "a woman's body", and therefore wouldn't take me to shop at the places my friends shopped, but only the places SHE shopped: JC Penney's and Sears.  When I was a in high school, I went with a friend shopping at American Eagle, and came back with a shirt and jeans.  When my mom saw the bag, she immediately made me try on the clothes because she didn't believe that they could possibly have clothes that fit me. When she saw them on me, she said in front of my friend that my clothes were so tight she could see my "gut". She made my friend and I get into the car as she drove us back to the mall, because she didn't trust that I would actually take them back. My friend and I cried the entire ride back to the mall, and then my mother marched me in to make me return the clothes.

There are so, so many more stories. These are the ones that just got to my fingers first. The worst part about all this is that I was watching videos of me when I was in high school and middle school just a few weeks ago. I realized for the first time that I was an absolute string bean then, and never once have I thought of myself as thin. My mother made sure of it.

I told my husband some of the stories as they boiled up. He was apologizing profusely, telling me how beautiful he thinks I am, and that he didn't mean to imply that he thought I was anything less than perfect, but that he was just worried for me. He held me so tight, crying with me until I finally fell asleep.

Yes, what he said would've stung no matter what. I know that. But that reaction was not a normal one. Not anywhere close. I woke up this morning feeling an almost physical pain from the memories. My husband woke up before I left for work, and through tears, he kept saying how sorry he was that he ever made me feel that much pain. I have been trying to soothe him since last night, trying to let him know that this isn't pain from him, but pain that's been locked in me for a very long time. 

I worked a short day, and came home and cried some more.  As I'm writing this, I can't stop the tears.

This is what I was afraid of while pushing all the negative thoughts down my entire life, whether it be with keeping insanely busy or with alcohol. I've been avoiding this pain. And now that I'm starting to let myself feel it, I get these overwhelming waves of emotion that completely blindside me. I have to say, I am not a fan of this process. I know it's the right path, I know it. But it hurts. And it makes me incredibly pissed off at my mother. What kind of person says those things to their 14 year old daughter?  My husband said it best: "These stories don't even sound like something that really happen in real life; they sound like the things that people say to your in nightmares. Your real-life mother is like other people's nightmare."

I embarrassed of my reaction to my husband's comments, because I really, really do not want him to feel responsible for my pain. He isn't at all. He's yet another innocent casualty to my mother's cruelty.

There is a silver lining to this dark cloud. Although I did make a small pit stop at Angry at Husband on the way to Sad, I got to Sad in record time. That's great, because my normal MO would've been to just get pissed off at my husband for his perceived insensitivity, rather than dealing what is actually going on. That is showing immense progress. Healing hurts like hell.

honor thy mother

I've written a lot about my mother, and how terribly she treats me. Every time I hit Publish, I feel a twinge of guilt. She gave birth to me, she raised me, she invested a lot of money in me: does that deserve something back from me?

I've never been one to give respect because somebody feels they deserve it. Age is not a reason for respect. Following nature and getting pregnant does not deserve respect. My mother raised me, but she didn't love me unconditionally. She was only supportive when I did things she could brag about. I know there is a difference between a mother and being Motherly, and while mine was the former, she certainly wasn't the latter. It is so against her personality, that I can't say what she could've changed to be a good mother.

I guess the truth is, I don't know what makes a Mother. I especially don't know what makes a good one.

I was unspeakably relieved when I found out in college that it is unlikely that I will bear children.  I learned that my husband also has a disorder that make it unlikely for him to have children when we were just dating, and I was even more relieved. This is embarrassing for me to say, because my husband would be the best father I have ever known, and he can't wait to be. While I love babies and children, being a mother is never something I looked forward to.

When I sent the email to my close friends and family confessing my problem with alcohol (you can read the email here), my mother-in-law called me immediately. Through tears, she said: "You have no idea how wonderful of a thing you are doing for your future children." She grew up with alcoholic parents, and so I thought: that's right. I won't be an alcoholic parent. Yay for me.

Finally, all these months later, I realized what she meant.  If I hadn't had this problem with alcohol, I wouldn't be healing from terrible parts of my childhood now, because nothing short of an addiction problem would've gotten me into therapy. I would be as stuck as always: hating my mother, mad at everything, stressed to the max. And, as I'm healing, the urge to become a mother is coming on strong. I find myself crying about not being able to have kids with this wonderful man who married me, instead of reveling in it as I used to.

My mother-in-law was so right. This is an amazing thing for my future children.  I sure as hell will not be the terrible mother that I had. I am making sure of it. My daughter will respect me not because I demand it, but because I love her for all that she is and all that she isn't.

Not to mention, it's an amazing thing for my husband. And for me.

And when I think about that, I stop having these existential thoughts about if a terrible mother deserves to be respected. What matters is that I love and respect myself, the people who love me, and the children that will depend on me. The rest is just noise.

momentary lapse

I have been working on calling people out when they're being passive agressive or hurtful. Not engaging them, but bluntly saying, "that is not a nice thing to say" or "what is the purpose of saying that?". If I do that, at least there's a chance of them learning something from the exchange. I have been working on this with my husband's passive aggressive tendencies, but I can be baited into arguments so easily by my mom that I often forget all the great things therapy is teaching me.

She and I spent 3 hours alone in a car this weekend. She kept picking on me in the usual ways. The way I dress. My hair is too dark. My relationship with my husband. My relationship with her. She called me a bully, and related me to the most narcissistic person I know. I am not a pushover when it comes to my mother, and so I fought back all along the way.

After about 2 hours of arguing, it clicked. I need to disengage and call her out.

I said, "You know, you're hurtful today. For example, I know that you don't like my hair dark; if you had told me only once I would know that perfectly well, but you tell me repeatedly every time I talk to you. Telling me once MIGHT be okay, but telling me more the once can have only one purpose: to hurt my feelings."

Her: "You're my daughter, I should be able to say whatever I think. You're too sensitive."

Me: "I've been in therapy for two months, and I'm learning that I can be hurt most easily by my mother, because she is supposed to be supportive in all things."

Her: "...therapy? What does SHE say about this?"

Me: "That I'm not too sensitive. That its normal to have feelings. That it's not normal to be picked on relentlessly, and that it's even more painful if its by my mother."

She figured out quickly that the reason I'm in therapy is because of my alcoholism. She got immediately worried that I was trying to say that my alcoholism is her fault. I kept responding with versions of, "My therapy isn't about you. It's about me" until something magical happened.

She apologized.

Not a sarcastic apology, but a tearful "It's hard for me to understand that what I say can hurt your feelings, because this is the way I grew up. This is the relationship I have with my mother. I'm sorry I hurt your feelings. I hope I've told you enough how proud I am of you."

She started telling me about her childhood and how she knows its affected the way she is as a parent. She said that she always remembers how jealous of her her mother was. She told me that one of my teachers told her a long time ago that I will require a lot of positive reinforcement, and she knows that she did not do that enough.

I wasn't surprised when she returned to her behavior of picking on me almost immediately, and with the oomph of knowing that it's actually hurting me. I knew that her apology wasn't a band-aid to our relationship. I knew that nothing would change. I know that, even though I begged her not to tell my gossipy Grandmother that I'm in therapy, it's only a matter of time before everybody knows. I know that she'll use it against me, as proof of her being right: she's not in therapy, so she's of more sound mind.

But at that moment, it was nice. It felt like I had found my mother. But it's heartbreaking to know that the person that she could be is almost certainly lost forever in the person that she is.

soliloquy

My car broke down on the highway on my way home from work.  It happened about 30 miles to the west of our apartment, and about 50 miles to the east of my parents' house, with a garage full of a tools and a father who can (and loves to) fix anything.

After I called a tow truck, I called my dad to let him know what was going on and get his take. Without a beat, he told me to bring it home so he could at least look at it; he said that if its something he can fix, we'd save a lot of money; if not, we'd have to take it to the shop anyway.  So, I had it towed to my parents' house.  When I talked to my dad,  I told him I only had cards on me and no checkbook, and asked him if they'd be able to cover me until I can get to an ATM if the tow truck only takes cash/checks. He said, "of course."

When we pulled in the driveway, my mom was standing outside with her checkbook. While the man was unhooking my car from the truck, I told her that I don't need them to write a check, because I found out that they take credit cards and I have one. Her response, in front of this stranger was, "BUT YOU DON'T HAVE A CREDIT CARD, RIIIIIIGHT?!"  (She is totally opposed to the idea of anybody --except her, of course -- having a credit card and says things like this about it often.)  I said, "I have a debit card" and went on to explain again that I just didn't have a checkbook with me. She kept insisting she pay for it. Finally I just pulled out my card and handed it to the man well before he asked for it, and said, "I have a good job. The problem was that I didn't have a checkbook and was afraid I would need it, not that I don't have money in my bank account." 

After that, she would say things like, "Isn't it SOO nice you live close enough to home that you can get help from mommy and daddy when you need it?" and "What would you do without our help!"

Before I even sat down from this whole 3 hour ordeal (an hour of which was this introvert chatting with a stranger in a tow truck), she said, "Lets go to a movie. Your aunt wants to go to a movie, lets go."  I told her that I started my day exhausted and that I was exponentially more so now. She said, "....she'll be so disappointed. She called earlier to ask me to a movie, and I said that it might be perfect because you were coming home. But that's fine." Then proceeded to make a big, sad show about calling my aunt and informing her that Melissa is much to cranky for a movie tonight.

I hadn't eaten since 10am and my mom hadn't eaten dinner, so we went to grab dinner and run by Walmart so I could pick up some clothes to sleep in and a toothbrush.  The Walmart trip was horrendous. Reader, my mother and I stopped shopping together about 10 years ago. She has this habit of picking up a piece of clothing that is a pervision of something I wore within the last 15 years and declare that, "THAT is something YOU would like. Not me, of course. But YOU would."  I try to avoid going to stores with her at all. 

Then we went to check out. I put my things on the belt, and put a divider between hers and mine. She told me that she was going to buy my things for me. I said that there was no reason she should have to buy me these things, that it was nice enough that dad was going to take the time to look at my car and that she brought me to Walmart. She kept insisting that she pay, in a too-loud voice, until I paid for my things.

In the car on the way back home, she asked me personal questions about my husband and I. Things that I do not talk about with her. Do you sleep in the same bed, even though you have that extra room? How often do you get sex out of him? I told her none of that was her business. She said one of her favorite lines: that I am her daughter, and so anything about me is her business.

I said, "I may be your daughter, but I am an adult. I have gotten through a lot in my life.  I'm married.  If I had a credit card, that's between my husband and I.  If my husband and I wanted to sleep in seperate beds, that's between him and I. If he wanted to quit school and move us to Japan, that's between him and I. My decisions from here on in are decided by my husband and I and nobody else. I don't need money, I don't need to be dressed, I don't need to be taught lessons. I don't WANT to be given any of those things, either. Yes, tonight I was in a position where help from my mechanically-inclined father will save me hundreds of dollars, and he is happy to help. But that doesn't change the fact that I'm already raised, and I resent any implication otherwise."

This isn't my first speech like this to my mother, but the first one that seemed to get somewhere. I like to believe she soaked some of it in. I'm sure she didn't.

mother knows best

I'm back in the land of the living!  I've made myself wallow this weekend; no work, no cleaning, no visiting , no baking. I still have to figure out where the tendrils of this Evil in my life have taken hold and expose them for what they are. But telling my secret has done so much good, and I'm on my way.

So, for now, I'd like to get back to regular programming!

Something I love about my therapist is that she's caught on that I am introvert in an extrovert's clothing, and that I will steer the conversation to anything more comfortable to talk about. When I'm doing this, she just waits silently for my mind to go back to what I need to be talking about.

In one of these quiet moments, I surprised myself by saying this: My mind (my emotional brain) and my brain (fact/logic/common sense) tell me two different things, and I give my emotional brain way too much credit.

As an example, here's how my fact-based, common sense brain and my emotional brain have to say about my college experience.

My fact-based brain looks at it like this....

I studied Aerospace Engineering in college and minored in math, and I worked my ass off. My last three years of college, I was averaging 4-6 hours of sleep a night just so I could get my work done. The only time I was with friends was to work together on homework. My senior design project took even more time than usual, on top of me maxing out the number of credit hours the university would let me take in a single semester. But the project turned out fantastic, landed me the job I have today working on a NASA satellite subsystem, and created many lasting friendships.

That said, my first few years of college were unbelievably rough on me. I dealt with things ranging from feeling abandoned by God to having vicious, unfounded rumors spread about me to feeling as if I had lost the love of my life, and I dealt with them in unhealthy, college-like ways.  On top of all that, I contracted Mono and was sleeping all the time, which killed my GPA. The only way I graduated on time with a decent GPA was to take maximum credit loads for five semesters, which is commendable on top of an already difficult major: out of the 200 people who started out in my major, less than 30 graduated, and only 4 of them were women.

But....

The first thing I feel when I think of college was the terrible things I did the first year. Getting black-out drunk at parties, smoking pot, sneaking off weekends to other college towns, getting involved with men who were jackasses. I think about trying to get boys to fall for me at parties, getting sick in the dorm bathroom, walking home across campus at 4am after waking up on a friend of a friend of a friend's couch. I think about how I screwed up that Physics lab. I think about how I could've done better in mechanics. I think how I could've been a nicer person through it all. And on and on.

You get the gist. I know that if I met somebody on the street who has done the things I have, I would consider them successful. I would be able to see their mistakes as being lost, hurt, confused, and young. But when I think about myself, my emotional brain trudges up everything I've done wrong and conveniently ignores the commendable accomplishments.

Today I had an epiphone. My "emotional brain" is my mom's voice in my head! And its not saying, "As long as you try your best, nothing else matters!" or "I love you no matter what."

It's saying: "You should have done better."  It's saying: "You're so lazy!"

I was reading McBride's Will I Ever Be Good Enough and came to the recovery section a few weeks ago. In this section, McBride tries to help its reader develop their "Inner Mother," which I dismissed as Self-Help Bull Honky. But hell, that's what I'm talking about here: replacing my mom's voice in my head with a unconditionally loving voice that is understanding above all else.

I think the first step to replacing my mom's negative voice is to take all the sore spots and write them down. Write what my brain knows about the situation. Then write what I feel about myself with regards to the situation. I think I'll come to find out that most of the negative rhetoric will sounds just like all the crap my mother has fed me throughout my life.

I'm curious -- has anybody done this before?  Any other suggestions with pulling apart my mom's voice in my head from my own?

status

I went to my therapist yesterday. I sat down and told her that I was more nervous than I have ever been to come see her. I started on my way to a panic attack, so I just said the words: "I was molested." I told her more of the story than I even said here, which is gigantic for me.

I want to thank you all for your comments on my last post. Your kind, understanding words went a long way in making me feel safe enough to tell the story aloud.

After therapy last night, my husband and I went out with our Couple Friends. It wasn't what I would've chosen to do right after a hefty therapy session, but it was cleansing to laugh so much. When we got back home around midnight, I told my husband that I told my therapist what had happened when I was little. I had never outright said the words to him before, but I had alluded over the years that something had happened, and it wasn't hard to for him to figure out who did it.

Having said it out loud has taken such a weight off me. Its amazing how much more poisonous it can be for the darkness to just be sitting inside me than after bringing it to light.

I feel as if this rock had been tied to my heart, weighing it down, for all these years. And I finally cut the damn strings.

lost in the trees

I asked myself today why I have been avoiding writing here or thinking about this blog, when normally it is so  enjoyable for me.  I realized that I have no idea what to write. I have no thoughts right now. It's as if my emotional brain had just shut down. And then, at that moment, it powered back on. And for the first time I can remember, I cried an onrush of tears that about the secret that I've held onto so tightly.

I thought that publishing the last post would be the hard part, but of course dealing with my emotional aftermath is. The truth is, the last post has forced me to face things that I haven't ever really faced and when I get upset, I shut down. I avoid dealing with things and retreat into myself, presumably because I have so often been scarred by showing vulnerability. 

I've spent the last few days stressed out to the max with work and with people at work. I finally noticed today that something wasn't right, so I left work at 2:30. I came home, read, did yoga, caught up on a couple of television shows. And I was able to get centered enough to figure something monumental out. Really, the situations in the past few days haven't been any different than they usually are. Work has been pretty much the same. I have the same deadlines. I have the same coworkers, that annoy me in the same way. Hell, my boss is actually out of town! Only my reaction to the situations is different....this intense, dizzy-sick feeling of just absolute stress.

And then this image of a shivering, nipping chihuahua comes to mind: after baring my soul, I'm feeling small and anxious, and so am pushing everything away to feel safe and normal again. Particularly my own feelings.

I can't think of much more to say than that right now; my brain is an exhausted, sloppy mess right now. Today is the first day in probably about a month where I have thought, "I could really use a drink", even.  Luckily, I have had a therapy appointment on the books for tomorrow evening. I think it will be a hefty one.

I will be back in a few days' time. Since I don't have many words for you, here's a sweetly tragic song by Lost in the Trees that emotes perfectly how I'm feeling.

oh brother

Dear Reader,

I have spent my life so far trying to live in the space between letting people feel as if they really know me and guarding my pride by keeping my secrets. When I tell deeply personal stories, I edit and delete enough to feel protected and to keep that gap between You and Me from getting unmanageably small. This blog is meant to be a conscious step -- albeit a baby one -- toward changing my immediate reaction from hiding to openness, so I think it's time to tell you one of my biggest secrets.

I have mentioned my "brother's daughter's mom" a few times, without ever talking about my brother himself, which is completely normal for me. Most people are very surprised to hear that I have a brother or easily forget that I do, because I mention my sister rather often and never talk about him. "My Brother" is actually my half-brother from my mom's previous marriage; he was 8 months old when my mom and her ex-husband divorced. She moved from Pennsylvania (her ex-husband's hometown) back home to Ohio with my half-brother, met my Dad, got pregnant with me, and married soon after. Later came a little sister. Our mom was strict, and my brother's dad was lenient (smoking pot with him at age 11 while hunting -type lenient). Our mom had full custody, until my brother came home from a summer visit with his dad and told our mom that he wanted to live with his dad instead. After thinking about it, my mom acquiesced because she didn't want to put him through a custody battle. That summer, my brother moved to Pennsylvania to live with his father, with the stipulation that my brother would spend summers and vacations with my family. He was 12 when he left. I was 8.

Years later, when I was in 7th grade, I was in the health class about Changing Bodies and the like. While I was in that class, I had my first flashback to being molested by my brother in 3rd grade. I'm finding myself editing out the harsher parts of this story because I'm not sure what level of detail will make this too difficult for you (and frankly, for me) so I am going to tell you all of the difficult broad strokes without dwelling on them:

      A. At the time, I just thought we were playing.

      B. I have no idea if I thought it was wrong or not as it was happening.

      C. I don't believe it was recurring.

      D. While having the initial flashback, I recalled my mother being aware that something was off afterwards. This, of course, could be that she actually did have some sort of suspicion, full-out knew, that I had a guilty conscience, or I was misremembering due to projecting my guilty conscience. My therapist is convinced that she was aware of it, that she effectively sent my brother away because of it, and that she's treated me because of resentment of the situation.

I am 90% sure this happened, but I also have had powerful false memories in the past, especially due to dreams. That said, the effect on me has been the same. To make matters worse, I had discovered Christianity at the beginning of that year, and having this in my past made me believe I was dirty, used goods. I remember becoming a Christian at a summer camp, crying my eyes out in the hope that this would make me feel clean.

It didn't.

As far as the effect the abuse had on me...I'm unsure. Sometimes, I rarely think about it. I've gone years without thinking about it in the past. Sometimes, I think about it a lot, and try to dissect the effect it had on me. But if I learned anything in the past few months, its that humans internalize more than they would ever guess. But this is one of the reasons I don't tell this to people....thinking that it might not have affected me seems completely abnormal. Shouldn't this have devastated my life?

When my brother left to live with his dad, my mom changed. I know that my mom has always been a bit of a nutjob, but this definitely worsened it. I don't recall any of this, because I was young, but she maintains that my brother and I were always bickering before he left, and that my sister and him were close. Because of this, my mom openly blames my father and I for my brother leaving, saying that my dad always favored me in these fights. After my brother left, my mom overcompensated and always sided with my little sister. From then on, I couldn't do anything right and my sister could do no wrong.

When my brother was in high school, he was suspended several times. He stole jewelry and diamonds from my mom to give to his girlfriend and pawn. He brought a friend with him from Pennsylvania, and my mom found weed in the room they were staying in after catching them outside. My family had a New Years Eve get-together at a hotel, and my brother disappeared. He came back in the early morning high and drunk, and we woke up to him choking on his own vomit in his sleep.

As you might expect, he barely graduated high school.  And then his girlfriend got pregnant, which is the one good thing that I've seen come from his life.He couldn't keep a job; he'd start one, get his first paycheck, and disappear on a drug binge. Soon after, my brother went to prison for drugs and criminal trespassing. When he was out on parole, he cut off his ankle bracelet and threw it in a dumpster, they found him, and they took him back to prison. He was given a time range for his sentence, and was going to go the minimum....until he stabbed a guard with a pencil. When I was a sophomore in college, completely living on loans and buried in schoolwork, I got the one and only letter I received from him. He was in prison and asking for $100. My then-pregnant 18-yr-old sister got the same letter.

After that, I stopped talking to my brother and started refusing to talk to my mom about him as if he has been wronged by the system. I will not let him manipulate me; somebody has to refuse to be seduced.  He is completely unreformed, often saying that he's going to sue to the state of Pennsylvania for wrongful imprisonment and live on the paycheck for the rest of his life. The last time they spoke, he told my mom that he's going to "take care" of people like my Grandpa did -- alluding to an incident where my Grandpa got drunk and threatened my Grandma's life with a gun to her temple. My mom called my brother's counselor to tell her of what transpired, and the counselor said that my brother had been refusing treatment, except for the drugs. Including heavy doses of anti-psychotics.

Recently, my brother told my mom that my Grandma sexually abused him. I have no idea if this is true. I would be unsurprised to find out my Grandma, another person in my life with Narcissistic Personality Disorder, did abuse him. I would also be unsurprised to find out that it is yet another manipulation tactic from my brother to prove that his life isn't his responsibility. But what I know is this: for over 10 years, I have been cursed with a flashback that I was molested -- by him, no less -- and I haven't stabbed anyone with a pencil.

It makes me so nervous to share this with you that my heart is beating out of my chest. I don't want you to know I was sexually molested, by my brother, no less. I don't want you to know that I must be dead inside for it not to have had major tangible effects. I don't want you to know that I do not feel an ounce of pity for my brother as he rots in prison. I don't want you to know that my husband, who I've known for 6 years, has never met my brother and doesn't care to. I don't want you to know that I dread the day, less than two years from now, that my brother is out of prison, because the thought makes me scared for everybody I love.

But there it is.

Melissa

PS -- As a happy sidenote, my family has an excellent relationship with his daughter and daughter's mom. His daughter's mom has put herself through teaching school and is living on her own with her daughter. My niece's mom has lost patience with my brother, and has moved on. Only time will tell if he has.

fight fair

As an engineer, it is quite literally my job to have a different point of view from those around me and to express it. At work, my colleagues and I can freely express disagreement, because it's not personal -- its for the common goal. Being a good engineer requires one to be aware that they do not know everything: because I have a background in X while my colleagues have a background in Y and Z, we all must point out issues and work off each others' strengths to find our best solution. I have to say, this is one of the aspects of my job I find most invigorating.

However, it does not translate to home for me. I had developed a habit of saying, “The problem with that is….” to my then-fiance (now husband) which I have come to understand sounds belittling outside the no-holds-barred engineering environment. At home, talking about where we might move to or wedding plans or any joint decision, I had to realize that we are coming at it from the same exact knowledge base. This tactic of disagreement works well professionally, but at home, it can come off as: “I know more than you and my feelings on the subject have more relevance.” Friends of mine that are also engineers report having similar issues with their disagreement tactics when applied to non-work situations.

The truth of the matter is this: I never learned how to fight fair with regard to personal matters. I’m known for retreating into myself when I get mad or stressed, often literally biting my tongue. I realize that if I don’t, I will say something nasty, completely unconstructive, hurt the other person, and wish I could take it back the second I say it. So, I try to wait until I cool down, to dig through the anger to get to the hurt, and that usually takes me a few days. After I cool down, I usually think I forgave and forgot, only to find out later that I haven't forgotten at all and that it has been simmering below the surface, causing me to have a disproportionate reaction about a later issue.

Another truth: my husband comes from a family of pacifists-to-a-fault. I love them to death, but they are full of passive-aggressive, enabling “peacemakers”, which is a stark contrast to my family's in-your-face disagreements. When my husband and I have an argument, even a calm and rational one, he gets sort of a post-fight hangover that takes the form of a dark cloud following him (eh em, us) around for a couple of days. He says it is because I always seem to have a problem with his behavior, he gets crapped on, and then he has to change his pattern and be mindful; but that I rarely have to do that for him. But, I notice that it is much more likely to happen if he’s already in sort of a funk, and perhaps he is unconsciously displacing his other anger on me because I just gave him a reason to.

I don't think I haven't ever been in a situation where I could learn to fight fairly. I certainty didn't learn it from my parents, I definitely didn't learn it from friends (Reader, I'm sure this is something we'll talk about down the road), and the way I have learned to disagree with people at work offers lessons that only apply to impersonal situations -- not everyday disagreements with my husband or other loved ones.  Year One of marriage is certainly providing its classes in Loving Disagreements, and I'm learning along the way, but it makes me wonder.....is this an effect of having an unhealthy childhood? Is this something everybody learns as they enter adulthood and the long-haul relationships that come with it? Is it a product of being an engineer? Or is this just an idiosyncrasy of my personality?

green-eyed momster

I started reading farther into Daughters of Narcissistic Mothers a few nights ago. The particular section I started at struck a chord so much that it brought up some unresolved anger about an incident with my NM. It was part of the book was about the envy of the NM towards her daughter.

I recall realizing at an early age that my mom seemed jealous of me. When I was growing up, she would always say that my father loved the kids better than her. Through college, she would get mad that I "got to do fun things" as they stayed at home and “toiled away” (I haven’t told you this yet, Reader, but I was in a major in college that demanded a particular sort of commitment to it; I started with 200 people in my major my freshman year, and graduated less than 30. I was doing fun things, sure, but I wasn’t being spared from toiling away by any means). Her lack of invitation to my bachelorette party made her fume. My mom will happily offer to babysit for my sister so she can go out with friends, and then attacks her for the next few days over everything, telling her that it's her own fault that she's tired because she went out too late and drank too much (even if she clearly isn’t tired from it and didn't drink a drop).

But this is all dwarfed by the biggest source of her envy: my other families. When I was little, it was my relationship to my friends and their families. Then it was my relationship with my boyfriends or their families. Now, its my relationship to my in-laws, particularly when it comes to holidays. My husband and I live an hour away from my family and 3.5 hours away from his family. Trying to make a Thanksgiving and Christmas at both families was difficult when we were both in college and on holiday breaks for them; now that I have a full-time job, it is ridiculous to think of trying to. When I called my mom in early October (1.5 months early!) to let her know that my husband and I have made a decision to spend Thanksgiving with my family and Christmas with my husband's family, my mom was out for a work meeting and my Dad answered. My mom has these meetings at some interval, but I don’t know when or how often, although when I call when she’s at them, she'll expect a nefarious reason. I told my dad what I was calling to tell my mom. He innocently told my mother, and the next morning, I received an email response from my mother at work. I always say that passive-agressive isn't my family's style. Agressive-agressive is our modus operandi. Case in point.

NM:
"I saw you called last night.  I hope you were not trying to circumvent me while I was at a meeting to get the answer you want from Dad.  Haven't we been there,done that?

I realize you guys have to travel on the holidays usually, but when do you propose to exchange gifts here?  Many  people do travel on the holidays to see their family. Christmas is on Saturday.  Can't you come here Christmas Eve and leave for <Husband's hometown> on Christmas. Or have Christmas Eve in <my husband and my current city> and Christmas morning here.  Usually <Sister> does not have to go anywhere until afternoon on Christmas. Don't you want to see <Niece> and <Nephew>, me, <Sister> and Dad on Christmas?  As far as Thanksgiving, I need to call <Brother’s Daughter’s mom> to see what her plans are to come or not.  Thanksgiving seems to work on Friday."

I have to say, reading this email still pisses me off. I could list off all the reasons why my husband and I chose to split the holidays this way, Reader, but I have a feeling that you might understand that our decision did not involve purposely causing offense to anybody.

I responded to her with a very long email outlining our thought process, to prove the underlying  reasons. It was biting, but fair. It made me feel better to send it, even though I knew it would accomplish very little. I had outlined exactly what our reasons were, leaving her with no leg to stand on. Now I realize that it is typical of my communication with my mother...
1) Try to remain calm. Emphasis on "try". Usually fail. Bite back just enough to feel revenged, usually in response to a particular nasty comment from her.
2) Use logic -- logic is undeniable.
3) Use email/text and be as explicit as possible: then my words can't be twisted.

And I met my goal: she stopped arguing that we had to come to both Christmas and Thanksgiving. I left her with no legs to stand on!

But, of course, it didn’t matter in the end. She just changed how her anger came out. In the days up to Thanksgiving she stopped saying that we were favoring my husband's family, but instead, she would say in a nasty tone that my husband and I just dictated to her what we were going to do for the holiday (Of course we did! We are married, a family of our own, and can make our own damn decisions!) She constantly said that my nephew and niece weren't going to have their aunt and uncle there for Christmas. She used every tool at her disposal to show me her anger over the fact that we weren't planning on going to be in my hometown for both holidays.

My husband and I stuck to our guns. Thanksgiving in my hometown, Christmas in his. When Thanksgiving rolled around, though, my Mom attacked my sister verbally to the point that my sister left and said she wouldn't be back for dinner. Then my Mom came after me, saying things like, "Why don't you go and see the people you ACTUALLY want to be with?" to the point that we told her we were going home and left. And then we went to spend Thanksgiving with my husband's family -- because I'll be damned if her tantrum ruins our holiday. Later, when she asked me what we did for Thanksgiving, I told her that it was none of her business the second after she ran us out of her house.

Thanksgiving at his family would be considered a disaster in my mom’s eyes. We heated up store-bought entrees and sides. It was disgusting, and cold, and the one thing we did buy and bake ourself -- the turkey -- was undercooked. And it was the best Thanksgiving my husband and I have had together.

I’m trying to use this NM Parable to learn my lessons in communicating with my mother…

1. She’ll probably get to me, because, as my mother, she knows the buttons and can find them when looking. But, I don’t have to give her that pleasure. I can stick to my guns, make my own decisions, and she can make whatever noise she wants. I can try to find out why these sore spots she’s pressing on are sore at all, and fix them. I can draw firm boundaries and refuse to engage her. I can choose to keep my dignity. I can choose to block her out. I can choose to realize that this person, while she did give birth to me, is a far cry from a Mother.

2. I can use logic all I want, but will likely just force her into a corner with it where she’ll just scratch her way out. She hates losing control, regardless of reason.

3. Email/text helps in the immediate time frame, but will inevitably spill over into life. Really, the best bet is to avoid extraneous conversations altogether.

I’ve been working on this. I used to call my mom idly, because I was bored or wanted to see what they had for dinner. Considering about 50% of our phone conversations ends with me being degraded or bossed around in some way, I’ve been avoiding calling her unless necessary.

But I’m not doing so well at it. Just a few days ago, I let myself get baited, and my mom started yelling on the phone, and hung up when I tried to stop her. Then picked up and hung up when I called her back. And let it go to voicemail the next time.

I wish this blog post ended with resolution. But it won’t, because I haven't gotten there yet. I have listed out what I have to do, but I don't know how to actually implement it. I don’t know how to keep myself from being baited. I don’t know how to finally learn that yes, my mom gave birth to me, but I can’t expect her to be a Mother.

self help.

The past few months have been a whole lot of what I thought I never wanted to do or be. It's involved AA meetings and therapy, two things I am sorely disappointed in myself for having to attend. And most recently, and perhaps most embarrassingly, I have found myself buying and reading self-help books.

Since my counselor said that my mother might be NPD, I have been reading about it voraciously online. It's brought me to a few websites and blogs, where I gained what information I could, but realized that I would need to get books to really understand. From what I could tell, Dr. Karyl McBride's Will I Ever Be Good Enough: Healing the Daughters of Narcissistic Mothers was the place to start. So I went to amazon.com to buy that, and ended up getting Dr. Susan Forward's Emotional Blackmail: When the People in Your Life Use Fear, Obligation, and Guilt to Manipulate You and  Toxic Parents: Overcoming Their Hurtful Legacy and Reclaiming Your Life as well.

They were delivered today, and I rushed home from work to get them. I'm on page 143 of 219 of Will I Ever Be Good Enough. So much information, I am overwhelmed. Perhaps I should've read it slower.

I'm relieved by the validation. I'm completely irked seeing my personality type laid out plainly in print, and having to think that maybe I'm not who I am because of my own hard work, but because my mom's Crazy pushed me into it. It explains to me why I am overachiever in many ways, yet still feel completely uncomfortable with success. It explains why alcoholism is a part of my life.

As the daughter of a Nmom, there are three steps to recovery, it says.

Step 1: Gather background information, identify problem, diagnose problem, understand problem on cognitive level.

Step 2: Process the feelings related to step one, grieve, feel, reprogram negative messages.

Step 3: Reframe, view differently, make decision to change, change.

So here I am, stuck somewhere between step 1 and 2. I find myself completely frustrated that my cognitive mind can't just snap my emotional mind out of it and get on with Step 2.

Narc

After going to two months of meetings, I have decided that AA may not be for me, because I'm having trouble connecting to the people -- as I often do in large groups.  I also have this nagging feeling that I may be susceptible to any addiction right now -- to work, to food, to sex, to anxiety meds, etc -- because of the emotional baggage I've been carrying around. So, I decided to see a counselor that has experience with addiction.

My first appointment was last week. My husband has been trying to coax me into therapy for years. But I was absolutely terrified of baring my soul to anyone and of being so vulnerable, and so always put it off. I have been nervous a month, running through my head the questions she might ask and the answers I will give, and telling myself not to soften the truth like I do for everybody else. She's here to help me, and she can't unless I give myself fully to the process.

Three minutes in, I was bawling. She asked me where I thought the alcoholism was rooted, I said anxiety, she asked me where I thought the anxiety was rooted in, and I said work and my family -- no -- my parents -- no -- my mom. And then the stories from my childhood poured out, in tears and lip quivers. For once, they were the actual cruelstories without any editing to reduce the pity the other person might feel for me.

And then she asked me if I knew what Narcissistic Personality Disorder was. She described it, and told me that it sounds like my mother may have it, and that it's poisoning me, and that people with narcissistic parents often have to put up walls between themselves and their parents to protect themselves....that they sometimes I have to cut them off entirely.

I cried the whole way home, the whole night and the next day, as I researched what this meant. It meant that maybe she never loved me, because she's incapable of it. I have always thought that she doesn't have the 'mother gene'. But maybe I was wrong, maybe its that she has the 'me gene'. It meant that all of my memories have to be looked through this different lens.

And then, that's all I could think of...all my memories through this new lens. Doesn't it explain the blatant difference in treatment between my sister and I our entire lives? Doesn't it explain her snooping into anything she could use against me? Doesn't it explain her inability to complement except when it is inappropriate, and her ability to cut my legs out from under me during the times that should be nothing but celebratory?

It's exhausting. But exhilarating.

It wasn't me! IT ISN'T ME! I never could understand why no matter what I did, it wasn't good enough. And now I do! No matter what I do, it could never be good enough to get due (or any!) praise or unconditional love from her.

And now, I need to look through my own personality through this lens. How did this affect me? In what ways has my emotional health been affected by this environment? What do I need to do to protect myself from the narcissistic poison?

I was terrified of it, but tearing myself apart and finding where my roots end might just be kind of great.

sponsor

I am not an open person. I barely know what I'm feeling myself; I tend to just stew in my emotions, not explain them out.  I don't like talking about the past, especially the not-so-happy parts of it.  I don't like the idea that somebody could know me better than I know myself; in fact, the implication would infuriate me. But, that's exactly how I was able to hide my alcoholism so well for so long: I didn't even realize that I had a problem, I just knew I didn't want my husband to know I was secretly gulping glasses of wine down when he wasn't looking.

For the health of my relationship, I have been working on these things. But I still don't like it. Especially with people I don't know and don't fully trust. When I tell you something, I want to know what you're going to think before I even say it.  There are a lot of people in my life who have called me perfect at one time or another. It is completely untrue, but I've worked damn hard to seem that way, and god forbid you see through it.  That's aprtly why I have always alluded therapy, though I've done enough crazy, stupid things in my life that it's warranted. Well, that, and I don't want someone else to get to the bottom of my problems before I do -- because I don't know that I want anybody to see where the bottom of my problems rests.

So, when I say that the idea of an AA sponsor makes me uncomfortable, put it in the context that I have to work to be open with myself, let alone anybody else, let alone a stranger. And if I'm just going to mask myself to them, is one even worth having?

I've been feeling pushed by my AA group to get a sponsor. I'm not ready for it yet. I want to know the person first. I want to have felt them out. But, should I abandon that comfort, knowing that it'll just be reason to avoid telling the full truth to them? Should I just bare it all, knowing that I'll never know this person in any other context than AA?

Step One.

I went to my first AA meeting a little less than a week ago. To be honest, I sat there, shaking and crying silently through most of it. It wasn't because I missed alcohol, or because I didn't want to be there, or because I was happy to finally be getting help. My mind kept repeating, over and over: "This can't be my life. This can't be my life. This can't be my life." I was, and often still am, in complete disbelief that AA has to be a part of my life.

Both sides of my family tree are littered with alcoholism.  I had been diligent, I thought, about making rules for myself regarding drinking so that I would never have a problem. It's not okay to drink when stressed. It's not okay to drink to feel better. It's not okay just because you "feel" like one. It's not okay to drink alone. I designed these rules to make it only okay to drink socially with friends, family or coworkers.

My rules seemed like they were working. But the Devil side of my mind would often get around the rules: "I shouldn't drink, because I'm alone...but I haven't been sleeping, and that's more important right now" -- ignoring the fact that I was using alcohol to lull me to sleep. My mind was full of work-arounds I could call on as necessary. I would amend, or append, or ignore as I wished, but having the rules at all gave me the peace of mind it took to continue on my path.

While tapping her finger on her temple, a woman at my first AA meeting told me: "We are much more conniving than we know," to which the crowd around us agreed. My mind instantly responded with, "I'm not like these women. I didn't get kids taken away from me, or a DUI, or have any relationship problems because of my drinking. I'm not like that. It's not like that." Even though I had enjoyed the catharsis of AA, I became increasingly convinced that it wasn't for me.

As I was driving home from orchestra practice two days later, I kept thinking that it wasn't fair that I didn't get a farewell drink. I kept thinking that I could stop somewhere and get one last drink. For the entire half an hour drive, I couldn't empty my head of all the options I had to just have one final glass of wine. Increasingly, those thoughts were punctuated by panic: what if I am like those women? When I got home, I laid down next to my husband, and told him how conniving my brain was being, all the thoughts that I was having that were telling me to drink and to lie to him and everybody about it. And only after that was I able to stop obsessing.

It's commonly heard that the first step is admitting you have a problem -- but I think it takes more than that. I think that by time you're willingly at an AA meeting, you're already pretty sold on the idea that you have a problem. I realize that it takes a lot of naivete to be saying something like this a week into sobriety, but I think the "aha" moment of Step 1 is realizing that your problem is on the exact same level as everybody else with alcoholism: we are all powerless, particularly when it comes to alcohol. And to stay healthy, we have to stay the hell away from drinking.

As the wise woman in AA said, my mind is more conniving than I know. So, I think talking is the answer. I'll show my evil mind for what it really is. I was able to feed my alcoholism by hiding it diligently. To recover, I need to expose it incessantly.

Rabbit Hole

I had barely been sleeping, and the little sleep I did get was punctuated by dreams and tossing and turning. I didn't know if the problem was my husband being away visiting family, or the general anxiety I tend to carry. Either way, I decided that a little relaxation was the answer. On my way home from work, I bought a bottle of my $10 favorite and laid down to watch some TV.

That's where the normal stops.

About an hour and a half later, the wine gone, I drank the three raspberry smirnoffs in the refrigerator in an hour. My stomach started to turn, from the aciditiy of the smirnoffs I thought, so I took a few tums and looked for more to drink. The alcohol we had in our kitchen consisted of a bottle of champagne to be drank on my one year anniversary with my new husband, a bottle of Old Ale, and several bottles of Sam Adams' from their Winter Collection. I hate beer, but I chose the Old Ale -- either because I didn't realize it was beer, or because I didn't care that it was. In any case, it was my husband's, and I drank it with the intention of replacing it without him knowing.

I felt disgusted with myself the next day for getting into something that is his, with the clear intention to deceive him. That is not me. That is not the relationship we have. I still feel remorse for that. But it didn't keep a similar incident from happening early the next week, again in an attempt 'relax'. This time, it ended with me alone, retching in the bathroom; I had forgotten to eat dinner since I was feeling full with alcohol before I had a chance to be hungry. The next day, feeling terribly hungover, I couldn't pretend that my relationship with alcohol is a normal one.

I sincerely think that my alcoholism isn't rooted in unhappiness, but I'd be lying if I said that I didn't feel lost after the realization that I'm an alcoholic. It seems that somehow, now that I've come to realize that I'm an alcoholic, my life revolves around alcohol more than ever. Or, at least, now I'm more aware of it.

to my close friends and family, a confession

Dear Friends and Family,

Let me get to the point, before I scare anyone: I have an inappropriate relationship with alcohol, and if I wasn't already an alcoholic, I was well on my way. A few of you will not be shocked at all. Many of you may be rocked to the core, and for that, please forgive me for telling you in such an impersonal way. Realize that I chose to tell you this way for fear I might not tell you at all otherwise, so that I might continue this inappropriate relationship with alcohol without you being the wiser.

I want to tell you that this is not a reason to be sad for me, though you may be as astounded as I am that this has become a part of my life. Alcoholism is rampant in my family tree, and so don't think that my problems with it are a sign of unhappiness. In fact, it is my happiness and levelheadedness, as well as my recent decision to head my anxiety issues head-on, that has allowed me to make the decision to remove alcohol from my life permanently. Be happy that I will never again find myself feeling ill after indulging my addiction.  Be happy that my realization comes now in this good time in my life, before it has affected my job, marriage, or finances. Be happy that I have come to realize that there shouldn't be shame in having a problem with alcohol, though there is shame in indulging it.

I also want you to know that if you didn't see it in me, it wasn't your fault -- I strove to hide it. A very good friend of mine once said one of the most true things about me: that I am great at seeming as if I am open person, while in fact, it is such a core reaction for me to keep quiet about my real emotions or perceived imperfections that I never think to share them even with those closest to me. The bulk of my problem-drinking was while I nobody was around, in a perceived attempt to relax, though it often ended in anything but a relaxed state. What you might've seen is that I could and did go days or weeks without alcohol. But what you never could see is that alcohol enters my mind at inappropriate times -- such as in stressful meetings or while grocery shopping. What you couldn't see is that after a single sip of alcohol, I have a physical impulse that tells me that no amount of alcohol will be enough. Most people could easily accept the idea of never drinking again without a second thought; it gives me a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. So, it's time to leave it behind.

I finally admitted my problem with alcohol to myself this past week, and told Mike the first day we were in person after that. On that first night, we dumped out our Anniversary Champagne together. The morning after, though I told him he didn't have to, I walked in on him opening and emptying every one of the beers in his collection.

I want you feel free to ask me any questions -- I did not send this in a email to avoid talking a discussion, but to ensure that I tell everybody that should know. In fact, talking about it will help me, since hiding my problem has been such a big part of my life for so long.  Feel free to talk amongst yourselves about it, as well, but I would appreciate if you would do so only out of respect and love. Know that the only thing I'm asking of you is your support of keeping alcohol out of my own body. Also, please don't see this as an indication that you  need to tiptoe around me: I'm lucky enough that, even though I have this problem, none of my relationships are founded in alcohol.

I have been sober for 5 days. I plan to stay sober for the rest of my life.

Thanks for all of your love and understanding,
Melissa