Wounded animal

*I thought I should do a clause to say that I may feel all of these dark thoughts, but I have no intentions of any self-harm.*

I thought if maybe I sat down and wrote out how I’m feeling that I would feel better.  It usually does.  My feelings will often flow through my fingers and find some measure of closure in space.

I am lost.  Really truly lost.  I hate myself.  I truly wish God would have mercy on me and put me down like the wounded animal I am.  Farmers do it all the time.  Isn’t he the ‘great shepherd’’?  Isn’t there a ying and yang to the natural vs. the supernatural?  If a farmer can have mercy on a wounded animal can’t the great shepherd?

Chads texts haunt me.  Just as he wanted. He found his happiness because he isn’t the problem. I am a 38 year old woman who has a broken brain.  I’m 20 lbs over weight.  Kids are struggling.  Disposable trash.  My hair is falling out.  Thankfully less after I changed meds, but it’s thinner.  I’m not even worth a good fuck anymore.

Why does God make me live?  Seriously.  Why?  Does he love watching people suffer?  Why can’t he just put me out of my misery?  No one would miss me.  Maybe my kids for a while, but it seems like all the good I thought I was doing is in fact not good enough either.  I can see no reason to keep me on this earth.  What worth am I when I’m sick and unlovable?

I detest myself, but I’m stuck in it so now what?  The doctor doubled my anti-depressant med yesterday.  Maybe that’ll help?  The first few moments that I woke up my head was clear.  I laid there going over what the scriptures say about me.  That I am loved.  The apple of his eye.  I felt a measure of peace.

Then I stood up.  And it was as if all the memories of chads words and my life flooded down into my brain.  He’s in love.  She’s a better mother and won’t let him meet her kids.  She’s 29.  125 pds.  Mind you, I was at that age too.  She’s stable.  Pretty.  Kind.  She’s better in every way physically and sexually.  I’m a psycho that no one stays with.  Even Jason finally had enough of me.  I’ve had an abortion.  She’s std free. How he laughed at my tears.  Even accused me of using him for a paycheck.  Which is insane!

My friend told me, “Stop believing him even if it is true.  Believe in what you want to be and in time it will happen.” I liked that.  What do I want to be?  Stable.  Loved.  Good at what I do.  Loving. 

I sobbed such heart wrenching sobs on Monday that my body shook and my eyes swelled up.  I am so sorry for who I am, but this is the best I can do with what I’ve been given.  I look around my life and see it in shambles.  Even down to my trampoline.  It all fell apart after Chad.  Is it because Chad left or because my life was no longer submitted to the Lord?  I remember so many praise reports of God providing.  Of being thankful.  I had some measure of joy… so I told God I would submit my life back to him.  It can’t be worse then this.  So I pulled out Isaiah 54:5. He’s my husband.  Lord of heavens armies is His name.  He is my redeemer.  The holy one of Israel.  Romans says that nothing will ever separate me from his love.  Me.  I’ll try to not ruin my kids.  Try to focus on God.  Help others if I can.  No love. 

Okay.  But why would He keep a wounded animal alive only to suffer? I really don’t want to be me anymore.  I seriously can’t even look in the mirror without cringing. My eyes are hallow and sad.  I can see nothing good to fight for. I just want mercy.  I want this torment and suffering to suffering to go away.  Either fix me or put me out of my misery.  Please.

Responsibility

I sit here wrestling with so many thoughts, emotions, and memories.  You’d think I’d be excited, or peaceful, discovering my roots of why I do what I do, but I’m not.  I feel overwhelmed and nauseous. 

I have been experiencing deep heart wrenching grief.  I’m thankful for the few that understand, but I know most are ‘’over it’ and may even think I’m trying to get attention.  I’ve realized in the last few days that this isn’t about Chad, per say, but something far deeper.  The belief that was instilled within me at a very young age that I am not lovable.

I always thought the root was the day I had to get a blood test to prove my dad was my biological father.  It was a very traumatic moment that I remember in vivid detail.  I remembering being tied down.  I remember the screams of terror.  I remember my mom Leaving the room as my life blood left my body because that selfish bitch ‘’couldn’t handle’ it.  I remember the scars and message that sent me.  I always stopped there.  I never looked into my earlier years.

Until this weekend.

I was molested when I was 5 years old.  It continued until I was 10 by various babysitters and neighbor kids.  I know this and I talk about it with no problems.  It’s totally untouchable to my emotions. 

I can tell you that my dad left when I was 10 months old.  He left because there was no work, he was an alcoholic, and beat my mom.

I can tell you that my mom was an alcoholic and drug addict until I was 3.  I can tell you that I’m proud she cleaned herself up, but that she still very much had the personality and abusive techniques of an alcoholic and drug addict even after she was clean.

I can tell you that the one thing my mom did for me was stand up to one of my sexual abusers.  I told her when I was about 8.  I remember that sticking out to me because it was the first time someone stood up for me.

I know all that like text book… but here’s what I didn’t know.

1.  I am the mother I am today because OF my mom; not just despite of her.  There were a few times people wanted to adopt me or take me away from her abuse, but she would never let me go.  Her own mother abandoned her as a young teen.  She swore I would never know what that felt like.  I remember, at the time, wishing she’d change her mind, but now I see that truth was deeply ingrained in me instead.  It's the foundation that I’ve clung to.  To fight for my kids no matter what. 
2.   Sexual abuse.  I never felt wanted, or noticed, until my sexual abuse started at age 5.  It was traumatizing, yes, but I was noticed.  I was seen.  This is one of the main reasons I associate sex to love.  Sex to being noticed and wanted.  It’s all I’ve known.  My grandma loved me, but my family had weird issues with sex.  Like a belief that we were only valued for sex that came even from my grandma.

Ugh.  Just writing all that makes me sick to my stomach.  Grief and shame floods me in waves.

But then there is also pride.  Shock.  My mom actually gave me something GOOD!  Her tenacity to keep me put a GOOD tenacity within me to do the same for my kids no.matter.what.   I cried different tears realizing that.  Maybe redemptive tears for her?  I don’t know.

But then counseling happened yesterday.  Weekends are hard.  I think it’s the exhaustion from the week that hits me.  But two people, who know me well, have taken one look at me and told me I look tired.  I am tired.  So. Deeply tired.  Between the nightmares and mind fucks – I haven’t felt safe in a long time.

So.  I sit down in the counselor’s office.  She tells me I look tired.  I tell her I am.  She’s never told me that before so it stood out to me.  I told her all I had realized the weekend before about my mom and the abuse.  I find myself, crying, again how deep the wound is that Chad threw me away.  All men have thrown me away.  How mad I am at God that He made me UNLOVABLE.  Just trash. 

It was then she looked at me and asked how old I was when my dad left.  I told her ten months old. He left because he was an alcoholic, couldn’t find work, and beat my mom… But that I was a cholicy baby.  I was told that all I did was cry and exhaust everyone.  She asked me if a baby is responsible for crying when it’s in pain.  I said no.  But it can drive people away and my dad never acknowledged me after that.  Not even a birthday card.

Her eyes brimmed with compassion and she asked me, “Janine.  When are you going to stop carrying everyone else’s responsibility?”  I stared at her in bafflement.  “huh?”

She got three objects.  One represented my dad.  One represented me.  The other represented responsibility.  She told me she wanted me to move responsibility off of me and onto my dad.

She tells me that I am not responsible for my dad leaving.  I am not unlovable because he denied my existence until the day he was murdered.  She tells me it’s not my fault I have bipolar.  She tells me it’s not my responsibility/fault chad left.  It’s not my fault I was raped.  It’s not my fault I was molested and it’s not my fault my mom beat me and abused me.  Even though she said it was.  Every day.  I would have to gauge her moods or I would pay the consequences.  When she beat me she said it was my fault.  When she couldn’t hug me it was my fault.  God.  Everything was my fault.  Everything equaled to me being unlovable.  Everything.  Everyone.

So. Here I am.  Truly and honestly sick to my stomach.  My head hurts.  Overwhelmed.  I don’t know how to except that the responsibility isn’t mine to carry.  That’s like telling me the grass is green when my whole life it was red.  I don’t know how to process the belief that I’m lovable.  All I’ve ever known is that it’s my fault or ‘responsibility’ as to why I’m not lovable.  Sometimes it was a silent message, but a deeply ingrained one.  Only firmed up by boyfriends, Jason’s emotional/mental/spiritual abuse, and ultimately Chad.  Chad.  The one man I trusted and believed.  Seriously.  The very first person ever.  He was my night in shining armor.  And then I was trash all over again.

So.  I wrestle.  I wrestle being thankful God is showing me all this.  Trying to believe He must love me to do so.  Struggling trying to grasp that all those beliefs are lies.  I truly feel ill by it all. Overwhelmed. And confused.  And so much damn grief.  I burn from pain to the depths of my core and i'm not sure what to do with any of it.

A Pig with lipstick

It’s just so unfair.

I realize that statement makes me sound like a petulant child, but it’s how I feel.  Life is unfair.  The world is unfair.  Most of life’s unfairness comes from our choices… but what about the things we don’t choose?

What about the people who have diabetes, cancer, a genetic disorder, or a mental illness.  We didn’t do a damn thing to cause this.  It’s just so unfair.

I try to dress my pig up in a pretty dress.  Paint it’s lips red.  Convince myself that this means I am just able to help others.  I’ll be able to show love and empathy to my children should they suffer.  I make a big deal out of my accomplishments… trying to encouragement myself with words like, “brave”, “honest”, “safe.”

But when the rubber meets the road; most days I can barely get out of bed.  The weight on my head feels like it’s suffocating me.  But.  I do it.  Every damn day.  I’m so tired.  So unbelievably exhausted.  All I want is for chad to love me again and come home.  He’s the first man I ever believed.  First man I ever trusted.  I was actually happy.  Helped.  My kids adored him and believed him too.  They talk about him all the time.  And now we are nothing.  Literally nothing.  He escaped my bipolar because it makes me trash.

But I can’t give up because my kids need me so I go back to being a pig dressed up with words like, “brave”.  Doing life.  Working full time.  Forcing myself to smile and forget all my pain.  I have moments I feel like I’m actually DOING IT… Then I have pieces of shit like Jason who love to make my life harder.  Kids who beg to not go to their home, going hungry, spanked 50 times, etc… but I am powerless.  I have a counselor for the kids who is amazing, but when it comes to confrontation about Jason’s horrible choices she goes silent so no one is telling him he’s wrong.  My own counselor listens and is proud of me, but I don’t feel any better.  I want to punch her when she says she’s proud of me.  Proud of what?!  That I’m alive when it’s fucking hard?  Okay.  I’ll give you that.  Proud of me that my house is clean?  I’ll give you that (mostly.)  Proud that my kids aren’t being beaten, making their own breakfast at 2 out of fear, or being beaten with a spoon until it breaks?  K.  I guess I can give you that too.  Or how about this.  Is she proud that neither of my kids are hiding underneath any bed they can find to protect themselves?  Guess I can give her that.  Or maybe that my kids aren’t being molested by male and female babysitters or ‘friends’?’ I guess I can give her that too.  Or maybe that my kids are told that they are loved, and hugged, every day of their life?!  I guess I can give her that too.  Cause that's not what happened to me.  I was rarely told I was loved.  Or touched.  in fact I was told I was a stupid bitch and my mouth would get me in trouble and I'd never be wanted.  Or maybe she’s proud because I put a face to all of this.  An ugly face, but an honest face. 

I’m tired you guys.  So exhausted.  My stress levels are so high that I’ve felt like I was having a heart attack twice last week.  It happened after Carol told lies that I killed my beloved healthy dog so her sister attacked me.  It happened when the school systems were failing so I had to fight for my son.  Jason and Nara certainly didn’t do that or thank me!  It happened when I missed paid work to handle ben’s school issue and to register all three kids.  It happened when I went to the fair and forgot an Ativan.  I was so terrified being on one of the rides that I put a smile on my face to make my kids happy, but tears ran down my face because I thought I might die.  I realized then that I am brave, but I have no peace.  Not one stroke of peace.

Where does my help come from?  It’s supposed to come from the Lord.

But I’m mad.  Really fucking mad.  How could He let me grow up in such horrendous abuse?  How could he make a little girl/woman who is unable to be loved when that’s all she’s ever craved?  How can he expect so much from one person?  Why do I have to suffer every single day?  Can’t I get a break?  I can’t even enjoy a Christian concert that I waited two months for.  Why would I want to seek a God who made me this way?

Again.  So fucking unfair.  I just want to sleep.  I want to rail.  I want answers.  I want help.  I want to be lovable.  I want chad to come home.  I want to do the right things. 

I just want a little bit of fun.  A little bit of joy.  A little bit of peace.  I want to see the big picture.

I want my life to be more than the sum part of my kids having it better than me.

They are worth it all, but can't my life have more purpose then that?