Divorce & Health
This last week, a local radio personality posted a blog her daughter had written, which discussed how hard she found her parents' divorce, and how she thought it would be so much more traumatic to deal with as a child. I still scoff when I hear people refer to divorce as traumatic. I think my parents divorcing when I was 12 was one of the best things to happen to me (even if the timing could have been a bit better, it was still a good birthday present). If they hadn't divorced, I would have continued to be raised in a household that normalised incest and where I was little more than a sexual plaything to my father and brother. Even growing up, I was never close to my brother - he always frightened me a little, and when I as 11, he blackmailed me into sexual acts. Probably why I'm having a hard time with making a real effort to re-connect with him now, but there is a <i>lot</i> of history there.
One of my strongest memories of my brother is of him wrapping his hands around my throat and strangling me. I have no idea what I'd done to trigger that response, and I don't remember if it was a one-off or he did it more than once. To this day, I hate wearing proper turtlenecks because of it, though. These are the things my sister is asking me to "forgive and forget".
Anyway, my point was that there are worse things than having your parents divorce. If mine hadn't divorced, I would not have gotten away from my father's sick way of seeing the world. where fucking your brother is better than exploring sexual relationships as a normal part of growing up. Where sexual acts and watching porn with your father are normalised. Their divorce gave me some room to breath, to think for myself, and realise that what my father was doing was wrong. It ultimately led to his arrest and the fragmentation of my family, but I have worked hard not to blame myself for that. He was the one who sexually abused us, even though my sister tried to guilt me out of testifying against him, and even though my brother and sister had very little to do with me for years afterward.
No wonder I'm fucked up.
Health wise .... I've been a bit stressed about my health, actually. I've started monitoring my blood pressure, as the chest pressure / discomfort / pain has come back over the last month and a half. Probably had something to do with March - March has not been the best month for me as the 29th is Alex's anniversary. But I've had a mix of normal readings, and some pretty scary readings (150/90 was the highest). I really should get in to see the doctor, but I've been dealing with the chest discomfort off and on for the last two years, been to a cardiologist, had a stress echo, and been told that everything is fine. I don't want to go to the doctor again and end up getting mocked, told it's all in my head, or that I have nothing to worry about. So I wait. But I also don't want to end up dying of a heart attack or worse, disabled due to a stroke. I could give up on my own life easily enough, but the thought of not being there for my kids breaks my heart. There are certain aspects of life that are harder without a mother, and I don't want to take their mother away from them. There are so many things I still want to do with them, and wear and tear on my heart from untreated high blood pressure will shorten my life. So I better get off my ass and make a doctor's appointment.
Guess we'll see how I get on. For now, I should get some work done on this paper.
Saturday, April 16, 2016
Tuesday, March 29, 2016
Angelversary
It's hard to believe it has been twelve years since the last time I held my baby boy in my arms ... felt his dark, soft curls under my hand ... his head on my shoulder. The passage of time has allowed me to find some acceptance and peace with his death. Knowing that my younger daughter would not exist had he not died kind of forced some level of acceptance. Knowing how sick he really was helped me get some peace too. It was worth getting the autopsy done, as at least this way we knew there was nothing more we could have done.
I still get a bit flooded with emotion though. I get these snapshots of memories that I don't normally let myself linger on because they are just too painful. For today though, I let myself remember. I let myself remember screaming for my husband for help as he stopped breathing and had milk coming from his nose and mouth. I remember my husband shoving things aside to lay our son flat so he could give him CPR. I remember the fire truck was the first emergency vehicle to arrive. I remember telling the EMT that we didn't want him intubated; running down the list of his medical conditions; frustration at drivers that wouldn't give way, wasting precious seconds while my son lay dying; sitting across from him and holding his tiny, curled hand.
I remember the aftermath, too. I remember being angry at the paediatrician for being right that he wouldn't live long. Putting together the montage of his photos; getting appropriate clothes as I was still very overweight; calling my sister to tell her he'd died, then her telling me she wouldn't be able to come to the funeral. And one of the more painful memories - putting Alex's casket in the hearse, turning and looking at the crowd, utterly alone while my husband's family initially went to him because nobody from my family was there. I carried my son's coffin because I was never going to be able to carry him anywhere, ever again.
HIs death is the closest I have come to being truly broken. My faith in any kind of benevolent, omnipotent deity died with him. Part of me died with him, and for a long time I wanted to join him. I truly understand what it means to have a broken heart. We lost a lot of friends along the way, too. They were still largely in the single head space, so couldn't imagine having a baby, never mind watching him die. We lost the two parent friends that hung around when I had a miscarriage while they had a second successful pregnancy ...
I remember the day he was born, watching him struggle to breathe, and wishing I could give him my lungs. I remember thinking that I knew what it meant to have my heart beat in the body of another. I had so many simple dreams for him - pushing him in a swing and watching him soar to the sky - I think he would have loved that. He liked movement, but didn't have the muscle tone to sit in a swing. I used to sing to him at bath time, and we watched TV and did genealogy research together (well, I did the watching and research, and he napped on me quite a bit).
I have no idea what he'd be like as a 12-year-old boy. I didn't get a chance to really get to know him.
I miss him. I may have found a measure of peace and acceptance, but I still miss him.
Having my living children keep me from wallowing too much in the pain of his death, as they give me plenty to think about. But for a few moments today, I remember him and I grieve.
I still get a bit flooded with emotion though. I get these snapshots of memories that I don't normally let myself linger on because they are just too painful. For today though, I let myself remember. I let myself remember screaming for my husband for help as he stopped breathing and had milk coming from his nose and mouth. I remember my husband shoving things aside to lay our son flat so he could give him CPR. I remember the fire truck was the first emergency vehicle to arrive. I remember telling the EMT that we didn't want him intubated; running down the list of his medical conditions; frustration at drivers that wouldn't give way, wasting precious seconds while my son lay dying; sitting across from him and holding his tiny, curled hand.
I remember the aftermath, too. I remember being angry at the paediatrician for being right that he wouldn't live long. Putting together the montage of his photos; getting appropriate clothes as I was still very overweight; calling my sister to tell her he'd died, then her telling me she wouldn't be able to come to the funeral. And one of the more painful memories - putting Alex's casket in the hearse, turning and looking at the crowd, utterly alone while my husband's family initially went to him because nobody from my family was there. I carried my son's coffin because I was never going to be able to carry him anywhere, ever again.
HIs death is the closest I have come to being truly broken. My faith in any kind of benevolent, omnipotent deity died with him. Part of me died with him, and for a long time I wanted to join him. I truly understand what it means to have a broken heart. We lost a lot of friends along the way, too. They were still largely in the single head space, so couldn't imagine having a baby, never mind watching him die. We lost the two parent friends that hung around when I had a miscarriage while they had a second successful pregnancy ...
I remember the day he was born, watching him struggle to breathe, and wishing I could give him my lungs. I remember thinking that I knew what it meant to have my heart beat in the body of another. I had so many simple dreams for him - pushing him in a swing and watching him soar to the sky - I think he would have loved that. He liked movement, but didn't have the muscle tone to sit in a swing. I used to sing to him at bath time, and we watched TV and did genealogy research together (well, I did the watching and research, and he napped on me quite a bit).
I have no idea what he'd be like as a 12-year-old boy. I didn't get a chance to really get to know him.
I miss him. I may have found a measure of peace and acceptance, but I still miss him.
Having my living children keep me from wallowing too much in the pain of his death, as they give me plenty to think about. But for a few moments today, I remember him and I grieve.
Thursday, March 17, 2016
Okay, here's the deal. I don't like to think of myself as someone that feels sorry for myself. I like to think of myself as someone who can (and has) pick myself up from my bootstraps and get on with my life when bad things happen.
But sometimes things get overwhelming.
The interesting thing about doing a psych degree is that it helps me understand some of the issues I have historically grappled with. I went to see my family over the Christmas holidays, and it was the first time I had been back to my home country in 13 years. It was weird ... being in the area where I spent my childhood brought back too many issues.
I don't remember a lot about my childhood before I was 9 or 10. I've made passing mention that my father was a pedophile (did I mention he died a few years ago? Found out he was dying from my sister-in-law's post on Facebook, and by the time I talked to my sister, he was already gone. She, on the other hand, had a cathartic time talking and crying and laughing with my brother. Found out about that on my trip). My parents split 2 days after my 12th birthday; before then he made me watch pornos and suck him off on a semi-regular basis. He also encouraged incest between my brother and I. Looking back, I guess my relationship with my brother never stood a chance.
When my parents split, my father told me to go with my mother while my siblings went with my father. My mother wasn't perfect ... as an adult, I realise she suffered from depression, and was hospitalised when I was 10 (I think). My sister had real issues with her; my family was not one where healthy dynamics existed. According to my sister, my mother hurled some real insults at her that cut deep. As a result my siblings decided they didn't want anything more to do with my mother, and because I was 12 and living with her, that included me. I suppose I should mention that he was 15 and she was 19 when my parents split.
So when my parents split, I didn't just lose a consistent father figure. I effectively lost both my siblings. When I was 13, a friend's step-father was getting a bit touchy-feely with her, and in researching what was going on with her, I realised what my father had been doing to me. I went to the school counsellor, and he was arrested. When he was arrested, my sister tried to talk me out of sending him to prison. He did his best to emotionally manipulate me into caving; he changed his plea from guilty to not guilty to make the case go to trial so I would have to testify. Never in my life, before or since, have I had such a clear urge to do harm to another human being. I showed up on the date of the trial and was in the witness room when he changed his mind again and pled guilty. That was the last time I saw him until my brother's wedding.
The other thing with my parents that I forgot to mention is that they didn't want me. By rights, I should not have been born. My mother tried to abort me when she knew she was pregnant with me by taking birth control pills; as a result I was born with pseudoarthrosis in my right collar bone and had to have corrective surgery when I was four. She told me I wasn't wanted when I was 18, though I think she had made some comments earlier in my life as well.
Psych has taught me a bit about attachment theory. Our first relationships are with our parents; this is a relationship where we are supposed to learn that we are loved and can trust the people around us. It forms the mental representation of what we can expect from future relationships, from the continued relationship we have with our parents, to our relationships with friends, life partner, and children. When that gets screwed up, it screws up our ability to form healthy attachments. And that's pretty much what happened with me. I don't know if an attachment disorder can be resolved. I'm only an undergraduate. But I do know that in my adult life, I have a hard time progressing friendships beyond a certain stage. I have trust issues. And I have real difficulty in opening up to people. Unfortunately going back to the town where some of the most negative events of my childhood occurred ... they've brought up a lot of old wounds that I wish could have just been left closed.
Which is why sharing things anonymously in a blog works for me ...
But sometimes things get overwhelming.
The interesting thing about doing a psych degree is that it helps me understand some of the issues I have historically grappled with. I went to see my family over the Christmas holidays, and it was the first time I had been back to my home country in 13 years. It was weird ... being in the area where I spent my childhood brought back too many issues.
I don't remember a lot about my childhood before I was 9 or 10. I've made passing mention that my father was a pedophile (did I mention he died a few years ago? Found out he was dying from my sister-in-law's post on Facebook, and by the time I talked to my sister, he was already gone. She, on the other hand, had a cathartic time talking and crying and laughing with my brother. Found out about that on my trip). My parents split 2 days after my 12th birthday; before then he made me watch pornos and suck him off on a semi-regular basis. He also encouraged incest between my brother and I. Looking back, I guess my relationship with my brother never stood a chance.
When my parents split, my father told me to go with my mother while my siblings went with my father. My mother wasn't perfect ... as an adult, I realise she suffered from depression, and was hospitalised when I was 10 (I think). My sister had real issues with her; my family was not one where healthy dynamics existed. According to my sister, my mother hurled some real insults at her that cut deep. As a result my siblings decided they didn't want anything more to do with my mother, and because I was 12 and living with her, that included me. I suppose I should mention that he was 15 and she was 19 when my parents split.
So when my parents split, I didn't just lose a consistent father figure. I effectively lost both my siblings. When I was 13, a friend's step-father was getting a bit touchy-feely with her, and in researching what was going on with her, I realised what my father had been doing to me. I went to the school counsellor, and he was arrested. When he was arrested, my sister tried to talk me out of sending him to prison. He did his best to emotionally manipulate me into caving; he changed his plea from guilty to not guilty to make the case go to trial so I would have to testify. Never in my life, before or since, have I had such a clear urge to do harm to another human being. I showed up on the date of the trial and was in the witness room when he changed his mind again and pled guilty. That was the last time I saw him until my brother's wedding.
The other thing with my parents that I forgot to mention is that they didn't want me. By rights, I should not have been born. My mother tried to abort me when she knew she was pregnant with me by taking birth control pills; as a result I was born with pseudoarthrosis in my right collar bone and had to have corrective surgery when I was four. She told me I wasn't wanted when I was 18, though I think she had made some comments earlier in my life as well.
Psych has taught me a bit about attachment theory. Our first relationships are with our parents; this is a relationship where we are supposed to learn that we are loved and can trust the people around us. It forms the mental representation of what we can expect from future relationships, from the continued relationship we have with our parents, to our relationships with friends, life partner, and children. When that gets screwed up, it screws up our ability to form healthy attachments. And that's pretty much what happened with me. I don't know if an attachment disorder can be resolved. I'm only an undergraduate. But I do know that in my adult life, I have a hard time progressing friendships beyond a certain stage. I have trust issues. And I have real difficulty in opening up to people. Unfortunately going back to the town where some of the most negative events of my childhood occurred ... they've brought up a lot of old wounds that I wish could have just been left closed.
Which is why sharing things anonymously in a blog works for me ...
Passage of time
Clearly it has been awhile since I have updated this. I have another girl, who was born in April 2010. She is very different from my older daughter. She seems to be borderline with some behaviour issues - I'm not sure if it's anything that is worth putting a label on. There has been some stress over the behaviour issues, and she's been referred to RTLB, but it's still early days. She's had a good week at school, so I am slightly less stressed about it, but there have been a lot of tears. And a lot of self-recrimination.
My older daughter is doing very well. The label of autism does not seem to have done her undue harm yet, though I worry about what will happen in a couple of years when she starts intermediate. She seems to be a bit less able to cope with deviations in routine than she used to be - anxiety seems to be something we're going to need to help her manage, as it's come up when her dad was away overseas for two weeks.
I have been studying for the last three years, working on a BSC-PSYC part time. Between working school-friendly hours, parenting and study, I have been very busy. I do my best as a parent, but I know I am by no means perfect. I have had some health issues over the last year (spent four months on prophylactic beta-blockers last year), which have been significant enough to be scary. It's had some ... knock on effects that I might get into later. Let's just say that it significantly coloured 2015 for me.
If anyone is reading this, it must seem very disjointed with the huge gaps. However I think it is time that I pick this up and run with it. I will try to keep things anonymous, so potential harm to others is minimised ... but then I'm not exactly advertising the presence of this blog, and there is so much white noise and far more interesting things to read on the Internet that I suspect this will never get found. The beauty about posting in blogs on the Internet is that you can convince yourself that someone might one day read what you've written and care, while still remaining safe and anonymous.
My older daughter is doing very well. The label of autism does not seem to have done her undue harm yet, though I worry about what will happen in a couple of years when she starts intermediate. She seems to be a bit less able to cope with deviations in routine than she used to be - anxiety seems to be something we're going to need to help her manage, as it's come up when her dad was away overseas for two weeks.
I have been studying for the last three years, working on a BSC-PSYC part time. Between working school-friendly hours, parenting and study, I have been very busy. I do my best as a parent, but I know I am by no means perfect. I have had some health issues over the last year (spent four months on prophylactic beta-blockers last year), which have been significant enough to be scary. It's had some ... knock on effects that I might get into later. Let's just say that it significantly coloured 2015 for me.
If anyone is reading this, it must seem very disjointed with the huge gaps. However I think it is time that I pick this up and run with it. I will try to keep things anonymous, so potential harm to others is minimised ... but then I'm not exactly advertising the presence of this blog, and there is so much white noise and far more interesting things to read on the Internet that I suspect this will never get found. The beauty about posting in blogs on the Internet is that you can convince yourself that someone might one day read what you've written and care, while still remaining safe and anonymous.
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