Saturday, September 27, 2014

For Me, Too.

"Do I wanna know? If this feeling flows both ways. Sad to see you go. Was sorta hoping that you'd stay. Baby we both know That the nights were mainly made For saying things that you can't say tomorrow day. Crawling back to you. Ever thought of calling when you've had a few? Cause I always do. Maybe I'm too busy being yours to fall for someone new. Now I've thought it through."

Arctic Monkeys



This last weekend, I had a couple really good days with Mr. M. At my weekly therapy session, I mentioned to my therapist that I had made up my mind to let him go, until those couple of good days... I also expressed the fear that this might be the "honeymoon" phase in the cycle of abuse directly following an incident (which we had about two weeks ago). She advised me to watch behavior and see if it cycles again.

Guess what? It did. That very night. Two hours on the phone- arguing, apologizing, begging, pleading for him to care about me and the affect that his behavior has on the children. Words lie, but actions don't. He yelled, he blamed, he patronized, he detached, he deflected, he put up his walls. After all that, all I got were empty commitments to try recovery again with no plan, no real conviction to stick it out through the hard parts. He got angry and defensive when I tried to ask what "better" looks like to him and how he's going to get there. I got worse than nothing. False hope.

It's time to let go.

Let go.

Let him go.



Somewhere in those two hours on the phone, I told him that someday he's finally going to do or say something that I can't get over. Someday, something in my heart is going to break irreparably and I won't be able to love him anymore. I have tried at this over and over because I deeply, passionately, unconditionally love him. When does the pain eclipse the ability to love and forgive?

I begged him to change while he still had a chance with our family. I have never begged for anything from anyone the way I beg him to change and come back. I feel like such a fool every time I do and he says my name in that way, like he's speaking to an unreasonable child. He has no respect for me. It's gone. Maybe he never really did respect me to begin with.

Let him go.

Maybe if I say it enough, I'll start to accept it. I'm certainly not there yet. I keep crawling back to him in my weak moments, like he's a drug I can't quit. I feel pathetic and stupid. I feel like if people know my situation, they would ask me why in the world I stay. I've actually had that reaction from people before. It's like they look at me, wondering why in the world I'm foolish enough to stay with a man who uses me the way Mr. M does.

Let go.

I guess I don't think I deserve any better. Sometimes, I feel like this marriage is my punishment for getting knocked up right out of high school. I deserve it. Even though I'm not the girl I used to be, some part of my heart still believes I am a bad, horrible, sinful, criminal person... And always will be.

But then I have to consciously shake myself and present the opposing evidence. My life has changed dramatically since Mr. M and I started dating. I abandoned my eating disorder to have healthy children. I keep myself far away from drugs, alcohol, and situations that would test my morals. I love and believe in God. He is the power that carried me through the loss of my son, and continues to guide me through my present situation. I work so hard in school, keeping the end in mind. I'm doing this for my babies and for me. So we can all have a better future. I am a good mother. I say it, then doubt, then say it again. Perfection is far out of my reach, but I am doing my very best. I love my children deeply and passionately. They are my world. I try desperately to see their needs, hear their desires, read what their faces tell me, and connect with their souls.

For their sakes...

For mine...

It's time to let go.


Final Thought


"Courage, dear heart."

C.S. Lewis


Tuesday, September 9, 2014

Mourning in Stages. Again.

"Lo, children are an heritage of the Lord."

Psalm 127:3

I miss my children like crazy today. I'm on campus, walking, studying, eating, All I want to do is get in my car and speed to their daycare to pick them up. I suppose this is what moms who have to work feel sometimes, too. My heart aches for my babies. I know being home with them all the time was challenging in a much different way, but being a full-time mom is all I've ever wanted.

Sometimes, I'm very angry with Mr. M for taking my dream from me. Today, I am just sad, just longing to be with my children. I know I am blessed to be able to get an education instead of working right now, but I miss them. So much it hurts. I have a good daycare provider, but she's not me. She's not their mother. They need me.

Today at their daycare, a mom was dropping off her six week old baby for first time, along with her two older children. Perhaps she was hiding how she felt, but it was surprising to me how stoic she seemed. Were I in her shoes, I would have been bawling. Perhaps that's what she knew she would have to do from the moment she knew she was pregnant. Maybe she has had months of preparation for this day. I certainly don't mean to judge this woman, who I'm sure is terribly missing her children today, after spending almost two months home with them.

As a stay-at-home mom, I longed for freedom. As the equivalent of a working mom, all I want to do is be home. I loved and appreciated my children before, but now I understand what I had. Whatever happens in my future with marriage, either a repairing of my current relationship or a divorce and remarriage, I need staying home to be a priority.  Before the separation, the M Family was certainly not wealthy, but we were making it work.

A couple of golden moments...


Coming back from the bathroom to find that Charlie was feeding Noah dog food


What happens when we try to take a nice family picture.

Brother love


Final Thought


"Don't it always seem to go that we don't know what we got 'til it's gone. They paved Paradise and put up a parking lot."

Counting Crows

Tuesday, September 2, 2014

Spinning

"Sometimes you close your eyes and see the place that you used to live when you were young."

The Killers

I don't know what it is about living in the home I grew up in that takes me back so often to the very first time I was raped. Maybe it's the lack of control I feel or the constant presentation of the surroundings that I had hated so much as a teenager. I was able to stay in my beautiful condo for two months after Mr. M left me, but circumstances have found me living again with my parents and siblings.

I am a vastly different person than I was then. Losing my oldest son in his infancy changed me in ways that I think nothing else could. That pain was like a refining fire, burning away some of my most visible imperfections. Having more children and struggling daily with loving a husband who suffered greatly with addiction have also drastically changed me. The pain of the way he hurt me and used me sometimes felt just like flames eating at my heart. It occasionally still does.



Tonight, something took me back to when I was fourteen years old. Feelings of being controlled, mistrusted, and deemed incompetent took me right back to that time period. It triggered thoughts that were so prevalent then.

You are stupid.
You are dangerous.
You can't be trusted.
Your needs don't matter.
You don't have anything worthwhile to say.
Your interests and passions are a waste of time.
You are not worth anyone's praise or approval.
You are a criminal.
You are immoral.
You are a failure.

Writing those thoughts makes it glaringly obvious that, while I don't think them as often, I have internalized them in a way that provides instant recall when triggered by a situation. Triggered is a good word. Triggers are what sufferers of PTSD, like myself, constantly struggle to avoid or control. I'm really pretty bad at dealing with my triggers still. I feel like I barely even know which situations are problematic and why.

In a class a couple months ago, I was participating in a debate staged by the professor- himself versus the class. Each member of the class was only allotted one chance to speak. The class as a whole was doing poorly and I attempted over and over to say my part. The professor intentionally ignored me until he felt like he couldn't anymore. I presented an argument that I thought was rebuttal-proof. The professor, realizing this, cut me off and took the chance to insult me. I began having a panic attack and needed to leave class.

I felt like such an idiot. Was I staging the whole thing because I was throwing a fit about being ignored and insulted? Why did I need to be heard so badly? 

I remembered being shut in a bedroom repeatedly as a preteen and teenager with another person demanding things out of me and finally refusing to speak because my words, and by association my thoughts and feelings, were consistently wrong. Nothing I said mattered. It was never about understanding my behavior, but about forcing compliance.

I remembered having the same conversations over and over with boyfriends and even my husband about what I wanted and needed. How I needed the exchange of thoughts, ideas, and emotions in order to feel loved and worthwhile. I remembered not understanding why the addicts I always seemed to love couldn't connect with me like I needed.

I remembered when I first found out about Mr. M's addiction and was forbidden to tell anyone. I remembered telling people I was fine while my heart was screaming inside me that I wasn't. Charlie was an incredibly colicky infant at the time who would cry for hours. When I had tried everything I could think of to help him, sometimes I would just hold him and sob, too, because my dearest hopes for a happy family were destroyed.

I remembered reporting to the police that I had been raped only hours after the event and seeing the officer act bored and skeptical, finally making it perfectly clear that he thought I was a liar and successfully pressuring me into denying my testimony.

Thinking about the stupid classroom situation flooded my mind with countless situations that I was not allowed to speak or my opinion was under attack or treated as irrelevant. Repression and shame have been significant themes in my short life that have helped to set the stage for repeated verbal, emotional and even sexual attacks.

In my mind, the feelings that were invoked from the experience with my professor were the same as those I felt when the friends of my rapist repeatedly sexually harassed me about the abuse, and the way a mind affected with PTSD works is that it interprets those situations as the same. Like you're back in the original trauma.

I don't have anything else useful to say tonight. I need to be up in four hours and my thoughts are spinning dizzyingly. There is no clean resolution, no way to neatly tie up the loose ends. I continue to free fall.

Final Thought


"Don't pray for an easy life. Pray for the strength to endure a difficult one." 

Bruce Lee

Saturday, August 30, 2014

Update

Dear Blog,

     It's been awhile. I've been having trouble with the update for Internet Explorer that I had really hoped to resolve, but I'm not super tech-savvy so I just gave up and downloaded Google Chrome. Ugh. Computers...

     A little update:

Summer semester has ended and Fall semester has begun. I am taking 15 credits, volunteering for a disabled student, involved in an exercise study, participating in a weekly group for victims of sexual abuse, attending a support group for family members of addicts, and doing individual counselling as well. There is no more room in my schedule!

The boys are learning and growing. We found someone good for daycare and they seem to be adjusting as well as can be expected.

Mr. M and I are still really back and forth. I would love to save our marriage if that were a healthy option for both of us, but I am losing hope. There has been a lot of hurt lately.

Me and the boys went to Denver! We flew. On a plane. On our own. More on that in another post.

I am really struggling with depression, money issues, stress, and self-esteem. I'm weary and simply worn down from the daily, weekly, monthly struggle. Mr. M had agreed to watch our sons tonight so I could do something for myself tonight, but things fell apart. He arrived acting defensive, rude, and combative. I didn't feel good about the way he was acting and I felt like the boys needed to stay home. So no break for Mommy and a night crying instead.

     With everything going on, I feel like I need this outlet more than ever. I desperately need to talk, to be heard. I feel like the people in my life that should be listening just shut me down. It's frustrating and heart-wrenching to feel so distant from everyone around me that I love. I just need someone to honestly tell me that I'm doing well with what I've been given.

     I'm not feeling very hopeful or cheerful tonight. I'll have my little pity party and then I'll get back up on that horse and ride it like a champion again.

Love,
Story


Monday, July 7, 2014

Fun on the Fourth

"We make a living by what we get, but we make a life by what we give."

Winston Churchill

I got a long weekend off from school for Independence Day, which was great. The weekend as a whole was up and down, but we had some fun. Friday was our traditional BBQ at my parents' place. I wanted to take the kids to go see fireworks, so Mr. M came with us. Things between us have been very mixed, but he recently decided that he doesn't want a divorce and he's willing to work on our marriage. That's a huge breakthrough that I have been waiting MONTHS to hear!

Saturday, we did sparkers and pop-its at home, plus I changed my hair color. Below are pictures my sister and I took that evening. Have you ever wondered what it would look like if you could freeze a sparkler in time? Well, even if you haven't, I'll show you anyway!

 
Pretty sweet, huh? Next time we do them, I think I'll get some night shots and see how my camera does with those. I pretty much love my camera.
 
 
Charlie wasn't really sure how he felt about sparklers. He seemed to be a little afraid of them, but that's okay. I'll definitely take that over a total lack of fear. He seems to have a healthy respect for things that are hot or appear to be on fire.

 
He was only okay with it if I was right there with him and he did NOT want to hold one.
 
 
My sweet-faced Noah boy, who did not participate in the fun with the sparklers. He was happy laying in the grass and watching us.


BAM. How's that for a picture?

Final Thought


"Responsibility is the price of freedom."

Elbert Hubbard

Sunday, July 6, 2014

In Loving Memory

"The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where the one ends, and where the other begins?"

Edgar Allan Poe

With the end of first block summer classes, I finished my English class. Many, many times, I thought of my uncle, Preston, during that class. He was an incredible intellectual. My final paper got to be a topic that I chose. I knew I wanted to include him somehow. Not long before his death, Preston wrote a great article, entitled "Dream Cred", which was published in eFiction Magazine. I wanted to base my paper around his article, so I chose the topic of mental illness in America, which encompassed the symptoms of PTSD he wrote about. Below is his picture and a piece of my final paper.

photo credit Preston McConkie, May 2012
 
 


Literature Review: Mental Disorders and U.S. Society

“I used to think it was a big deal to wake up screaming or swinging. That’s what the Vietnam vets did. It was a new version of the red badge of courage. I certainly didn’t expect it to happen to me, and when it did start it was two years after those 38 days from the Jan. 14 outbreak to the Feb. 25 invasion, then the six days of combat and the other two days falling back out of Iraq through Kuwait and at last to King Fahd Air Base and Al-Khobar.

           “Two years went by and then, one day, a roommate touched me when I was asleep and I came awake gasping and panicked and hit my head on the wall.

“It pleased me a little at the time because you can’t choose how to wake up, and this gave me street cred as a real combat vet, and not like what I thought of myself as: someone who’d been there but hadn’t really seen it, hadn’t really done it.

           “I didn’t regret never having to use my rifle to kill someone I could see fall and bleed. And helping hand up an 8-inch projo while someone else rammed it and another guy pulled the lanyard and sent it 20 miles downrange -- well, that was just like practice.”

“…While the glass was crazing in our windshields and the door windows were blowing clear out of their frames because we were shooting bigger powder than we’d ever fired in practice, BANG! … BANG! … BANG! … there came that sound we’d never heard except far away, but that sounds nothing like a round going out the tube. Incoming fire.

“There was no scream of a shell rolling in, and maybe that’s only what you hear when it’s about to land on top of you. But CRUMP. CRUMP. CRUMPCRUMP. And louder than it sounds in a word like CRUMP, but that’s the sound it makes.

 “And then I knew I was in a real fight and, standing on top of the ammo, I was on top of the world too, certain I couldn’t be touched, and I wasn’t a bit afraid because it was impossible to die just then.

            “And when it was over I set up my cot and went to sleep, and when the howizter went off a few times in the night I woke up for a second or two and went back to sleep because it was my first time on a cot in four days.

“But that’s not trauma. That’s adventure.”

These are the words of combat veteran, Preston McConkie, who wrote about his experiences related to Operation Desert Storm, in which he served as a member of an artillery unit, in his article, “Dream Cred”, both as a narrative of the actual events and how they affected him much later in life. McConkie developed Posttraumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) from his involvement in the war, as evidenced by the symptoms he describes in his article. PTSD is a disorder caused by uncommon emotional or psychological trauma, usually accompanied by the threat of physical violence or extreme helplessness on the part of the individual who witnessed/experienced the trauma (ncbi.nlm.nih.gov). As its name suggests, Posttraumatic Stress Disorder is a reaction to and processing of the traumatic event generally after the danger has passed. Most of the symptoms of PTSD are caused by remembering or trying to avoid remembering the traumatic event (Merriam-webster.com)

This paper will address mental disorders such as PTSD and postpartum depression, stigma regarding mental illness, Attention-deficit/Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD) and the public education system, social support, and the idea that these disorders are invented and magnified by organizations or individuals who use them for their own gain. Ultimately, we ask the question: how does social perception and support affects people suffering from mental disorders? Does the public understand mental illness?

Historically in America, as well as in the rest of the world, there has been a divide between soldiers and civilians in many ways. One of the most vivid examples from American history is the way the Vietnam veterans were treated upon returning home from war. Many veterans have in the past and currently do struggle with the return to everyday life. One of the many elements of the difficult transition can be altered mental state, due to conditions such as combat stress, depression, anxiety, and PTSD (maketheconnection.net). That begs the question- does civilian and military stigma affect the way those who suffer from mental disorders are able to get help and function on a daily basis?

In his article, McConkie expressed feeling like he was not a “real” veteran because he had never fought in close combat (McConkie). This is an example of how someone can be affected by “self-stigma”. Self-stigma is defined as “harsh or unjustified beliefs about yourself that lead to feeling worse than your peers and the avoidance of certain activities or conversations because of these beliefs” (afterdeployment.org).  His feelings of inadequacy as a veteran are reflective of society’s stereotype of what a veteran looks like. Common perceptions can be things like soldiers experience a lot of firsthand violence and are “toughened” by their experiences, do not need talk about their participation in war, and can always readjust to civilian life easily and unassisted. Some misconceptions, stigmas, and pressures actually come from inside the military, as well. Unfortunately, these misunderstandings are not always true and can prevent a veteran from receiving the help they need. While experts do not agree on how many returning soldiers suffer from an altered mental state, approximations range between one in eight and one in three veterans developing PTSD after deployment (NBC News, dosomething.org). Over half of soldiers that were a part of a 2007 survey who were found to potentially need mental health services reported that they felt influenced by perceived stigma, such as being viewed as weak or being blamed for their problem (USDoD Task Force on Mental Health 2007).

According to the National Center for PTSD, sufferers can experience a number of symptoms, including high levels of alert, trouble sleeping, anger or irritability, detachment, nightmares of the trauma, physical manifestations of stress such as rapid heart rate, risk of self-harm or suicide, and self-medication through drugs or alcohol (ptsd.va.gov).

When looking at these returning soldiers, what does the public see? Alair MacLean and Meredith Kleykamp addressed that question in their article, “Social Problems” (2014). They found that the American public is generally supportive of their returning troops and treats them honorably for their military service, however, the public also believes the common stereotype that those troops are prone to substance abuse, mental illness, and violent behavior. MacLean and Kleykamp claim this is a paradox- the public both supports and condemns veterans. They also found that non-military contractors who were exposed to combat while working with the military were viewed as less favorable or honorable than soldiers (MacLean & Kleykamp). This exposes some discrepancies in the way society views one person with PTSD (military) versus another person with PTSD (civilian).
Enlistment picture, September 1987. Credit Preston McConkie's Facebook page.
 
To read Preston's full article, visit this link. It's a great read and I would definitely recommend it.
 

Final Thought

"Our dead are never dead to us until we have forgotten them"
George Eliot

Monday, June 30, 2014

Hallelujah!

O billows rolling high, and thunder shakes the ground,
The lightnings flash, and tempest all around,
But Jesus walks the sea and calms the angry waves,
And the storm is passing over, Hallelujah!


The Storm is Passing Over, Charles A. Tind­ley

Last night, a dear friend of mine sent me a text, telling me that she was thinking of my son who died in infancy and expressing her desire to meet him some day in the afterlife. It touched my heart to think that she stopped to think of him in the midst of her busy life.

I was prompted to think of another dear friend who sat by me during my son's funeral. She never left my side. After the service, she sang the above song. The words have been on my mind today.

The storm is passing over...

The storm is passing over...

Hallelujah!

At the funeral, she only sang the chorus, so today I looked up the rest of the words to gain some context as I asked myself what it meant.

It is not a celebration of the fight being over. It's not the praise for immediate relief. It's the long hard trudge through the pounding rain and the sleet and the mud. The storm is raging overhead. But it's passing. It's moving. One day, it will be beyond us. One day, it will be over. It's the celebration of that "one day."

photo credit weather.com

Dieter F. Uchtdorf of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints says,

"Over the years, I have had the sacred opportunity to meet with many people whose sorrows seem to reach the very depths of their soul. In these moments, I have listened to my beloved brothers and sisters and grieved with them over their burdens. I have pondered what to say to them, and I have struggled to know how to comfort and support them in their trials.
 
"Often their grief is caused by what seems to them as an ending. Some are facing the end of a cherished relationship, such as the death of a loved one or estrangement from a family member. Others feel they are facing the end of hope—the hope of being married or bearing children or overcoming an illness. Others may be facing the end of their faith, as confusing and conflicting voices in the world tempt them to question, even abandon, what they once knew to be true."
 
He goes on to describe his proposed solution.
 
"Everyone’s situation is different, and the details of each life are unique. Nevertheless, I have learned that there is something that would take away the bitterness that may come into our lives. There is one thing we can do to make life sweeter, more joyful, even glorious.
 
"We can be grateful!
 
"It might sound contrary to the wisdom of the world to suggest that one who is burdened with sorrow should give thanks to God. But those who set aside the bottle of bitterness and lift instead the goblet of gratitude can find a purifying drink of healing, peace, and understanding."
 

It is a hard sermon to hear in height of the storm. I have incredible admiration and respect for the people who so humbly and so selflessly can be grateful in all circumstances.
 

Final Thought

 
"Could I suggest that we see gratitude as a disposition, a way of life that stands independent of our current situation? In other words, I’m suggesting that instead of being thankful for things, we focus on being thankful in our circumstances—whatever they may be."
 
Dieter F. Uchtdorf