Can you see me? Really see what’s behind my eyes? The words that tumble from my mind but that my lips can’t form.What do you see what you look at me?
The first time I stepped foot on that playground, I felt as if I was in a whole new world. Sure my baby was entering Kindergarten, but it was like a new world for me to. There were so many new people that I didn’t know. Plastering a smile on my face, I held fast to my scared little boys hand not letting him see the fear in my own eyes. After he was in and settled, I lingered there for the parents meet and greet. Since I was new to the are, I thought it would be the perfect opportunity for me to start to make friends with the people whose children nine would grow and k earn with. I was so excited that these were the parents who would stand beside me as we faced trials and tribulations together. I had visions of fundraisers, sporting events, school dances in my head. Moments later, my visions were crushed and I went home with my pride limping behind me. Everywhere I turned I was snubbed, from the Moms in pj pants with slippers to the ones in the jeans and rock shirts and the ones dressed for work, not one of them glanced my way. My smile was met with a forced show of teeth, bared as if to pounce. My words cut off suitably shorts. My greetings falling on deaf ears. Did I say someth I ng wrong? Did I smell funny? Dress too out if place? I couldn’t figure it out. Chalking it up to first day jitters I limped my pride home and was ever so hopefully for day two.
The days came and went like the ones before. It didn’t matter what I wore, how enthusiastic I was or what I had to say. These women had known each other for ages or just didn’t need a new person invading their territory. I began to blame myself for the fact that my son never brought home friends. Because his Mom was a little too different. A little to single. A little too New York. I tried again two years later, when my daughter joined him in school. I went to my first PTO meeting. But the results weren’t much better. I spoke a little too much, my ideas were a little too strange, I was a little too much. So I began to make up excuses not to go. They never asked for a reason but it made me feel better just in case any of them cared, I knew they didn’t.
When I moved into a new neighborhood I thought things would get better. I never realized how wrong I would be. My kids still go to the same school. But now the stakes are up. Because I don’t fit into the socioeconomic structure of where I live. I get by because I fight to do it. My kids are put first because that’s where I put them. But the cold shoulders never seem to cease. It’s like I have taken out an add for an airplane that Flys overhead with the sign that says outcast her perpetually over my head. My efforts to fit in have fallen to the wayside. I am just not part of the cool Moms club. I don’t go to PTO meets and don’t discuss plans with other Moms. There are no hang outs or coffee dates because really why would I sit around to be ignored. And on regular days, I am ok with being the odd Mom out.
But today is the anti bullying rally. Something I have brought up time and time again. I was supposed to have a large role in it. And once again I was passed over. Now instead of being a part of the assembly I am passing out stickers. Because that’s what they really need me to do. Out of everything I could have done. Stickers. Because I am not a PTO Mom. Even though the teachers know me. And that I am a champion for the cause. Stickers. Because the popular girls are more popular. Now you tell me how that’s not bullying. How that doesn’t make a person feel invalidated. You tell me I’m wrong.
I believe in this cause because I am the odd one out. And it hurts and feels bad and makes your heart break. And that’s what my heart is. Broken. This is not the side I show my kids. This is not what adults should do. But adults can be bullies too. Im stronger than what anyone can throw at me. Im know in my heart i am a good person and a good Mom. I dont have to change myself to fut into a stereotype to meet what they need me to be. This is why I’ll never step foot inside a PTO meeting again.
I can’t promise you the answers
If you ask me what is wrong
I can’t promise I can do it
If you tell me to be strong
The days are going slowly
Dragging by silently
I sit and watch the clock
My mind begging to be free
I wish I knew what was happening
Why I just can’t be free
Of the hidden pain and judgement
Of the wrongs that were done to me
Everytime I think I’ve done it
That I’ve finally moved on
I get this sharp painful reminder
That it hasn’t been so long
But I’ll just keep pushing forward
Because I refuse to be held down
I’ll keep fighting this feeling
I’m going to stand my ground
I deserve to just be happy
to let my wings fly free
I am going to live my life now
And somehow finally find me
Can we take back all the words that I have said that were cruel and unusual in the past 24 hours? Not just to others but you myself as well. Take back the pain, the hurt. The frustration , the tears. Can we hold on to the precious few moments that I felt like I was doing something of value instead of screwing up everything I set my mind, my hands, my eyes my heart to?
Can I know where the messages in my brain came that nothing was good enough. That all of a sudden I was this failure. Can you fix those short circuit ingredients wires and replace them in my head. Can you dry up the tears that fell from my cheeks as I cried over the fact that I wasn’t good enough for them, to cherish their laughter, to deserve their sticky kisses. Those thoughts don’t belong here anymore.
Long have I worked to prove to myself that I could make it through the hardships. Long have I toiled, re-education my brain to prove to myself I was worthy of everything I had put so much effort towards. But today…yesterday. feels like all that effort was in vain.
Black stormy clouds took over my head and down I sank. Clawing my way to some sense of peace. That I was going to be ok. To stop judging. To picking away at parts of myself that had scarred over. I struggled through the day just to fall into a restless sleep.
And upon awake the cloud not black but grey. Could I make it through. Would the sunshine and push away the sorrow that and stole my peace. I’m fighting. Fighting so hard. Counting the blessings.
But I feel unworthy. Why. Why is the question. I have no answers. No answers but I’m pushing through. Just have to make it. Make it till Thierry smiles can chase the clouds away once more. I’ll get there.
So many changes. Changes provoking thoughts. Thoughts pushing me so hard. But my body isn’t ready. Rest. Rest. I will be strong enough to do what I have to. In time. Not all at once. Shhh. Rest now. I will get through this. I will get through
I’m just having a bad day. Isn’t a girl allowed to have a bad day? For no reason other than she woke up sad. There’s a lot if things going on and I’m having a bad day. I feel scared, alone, exhausted. I feel netvous anxious. I feel like the tears are coming from no where and I can’t explain them. You ask me why and I say I don’t know. I can’t tell you why I feel this way. I can tell you the kids are just fine. This has nothing to do with my miraculous little creatutes. This has nothing to do with their father. He’s alrite in my book too.
This has to do with the fact that I feel so very alone. That words and memories and songs keep playing through my head like faded memories and I can’t make themstop. I can make them go away. That I’m fighting this battle, this amazing, fantastic journey and I’m doing it all alone. And yes I’m fucking proud of nyself. It has nothing to do with pride. It has to do with I wish I had someone to hold my hand. To tell me ill be ok. To hold me through my what if and im scareds. To tell me they were right there beside me all along and you know what I don’t. And I’m mad. And I’m sad. And yes I’m allowed to be sad. I’m allowed to want to curl up and be held and just worry for a little while.
I have all these emotions. I’m feeling all these things. This year’s has been so hard and I’ve been through so much already. And yes this is my journey, my step towards a better me, a healthier me, a new life. But I’m fucking scared. I’m scared that this is how it with always be. An uphill battle. Me against the world. With nothing soft to come home to. I miss the soft. I want the other side of my bed to be warm. I want comfort in knowing my insides are loved as much as my outsides. I want my forever. I want to stop THINKING about it. It hurts. I’m tired of it hurting. The hurt springing frp. No where at random times. Random moments of goid, like in the shower when I’m peaceful and safe and the thought of a forever moment creeps up. Because I let my mind go a little to easy. I let the wall crash down. I let myself relax.
This is the person I don’t let you see. The girl behind the mask. The girl who still has the softness to her. The fear of letting the world in. The one that wants to be held. Craves to be cherished. The girl that sits, weeping in her parked car, at the edge of a park. Instead of going home to sit in her room. Because maybe I can get over this and still make something of my day. All I want to do is eat. And I can’t eat. I gave up that line of defense.
I’m allowing myself this time to have a bad day. Because it’s ok for me to cry. It’s ok for me to want. It’s ok for me to feel. I just wish….wish I had the switch to make it all ok again.
I didn’t go to therapy today. I know I need to but I really just didn’t want to. I surmise that this is for many reasons. Such as…My new antibiotics are making feel I’ll, I’m wicked tired, I know we’re starting to discuss emotional regulation today and my father in law passed away yesterday. All of these are very good reasons (well except one) for not going to group today but what lies under all of them is the fact that I really just didn’t want to go. Now, first of all, I believe it is helping me, more often than not I practice my debt skills to get me through the day. I try to be mindful and shuffle through all the skillfully playing cards they give me in order to cope with the outside world. I do not however like the fact that I have to keep track of what I am doing or follow each class up with himework. It makes me feel like a child and not an adult who is profiting from a group scenario. I think that is one of the reasons I get so snarky about it sometimes. Anyway, I do feel like crap from a third round of antibiotics I’ve been put on and will be going back to sleep for at least a little while.
As I sit here in my dim room with my pumpkin spice frappe (it’s amazing be jealous) I am drawn to the fact that I want so desperately to clean it, yet I can’t find the energy to do it. Granted I haven’t been high on spoons and I use most of them on my kids but there’s more to it than that. You see my room isn’t a mess per say, there are just parts of it that have clutter or need sorted out. There’s a brand new bookshelf that needs to be filled with all the wonderous books that I have. Some whose covers have never yet been opened. I think a lot of this is like my mind, a huge space so full of stuff that only the carefulness can navigate and find there way thtough. Easy to see what’s there but to delve into the hidden spots takes a keen eye and an intelligent mind. Things are hidden away. Locked treasures that you need to find the key for. One of them being my heart. But that box has multiple keys.
Speaking of which, so I was on Whisper the other day, where I received a very nice compliment. I wasn’t sure what part on my post deserved such a compliment but I appreciated it non the less. This is what I wrote.
And in very unhappy news, I am still numb after the phone call I got from the ex husband that his step dad had passed. Now I don’t generally think most people stay close to their ex’s family after a divorce but his mom, step-dad and siblings remained family to me. We exchange cards, pics, calls and whatnot. Living on two different coasts has made it hard on visits and I now feel guilty that he never got to meet my pixie. I am just taken totally aback by the situation. So I will be strong and I will push through. Gotta plan a trip sometime.
My thoughts are churning out endless streams of who knows what at the moment, so I shall attempt to shut them down and nap. My tip of the day. Self love. Do it!
Walking down the shore at dusk, the air is soft and warm, the smell of the ocean is inviting. My mind begins to wander, thoughts of what is yet to come fill my mind and I sigh happily content with what the future may bring. And then it happens, I hear a little voice in my head and that voice isn’t talking to me. It is a distant memory that I have buried in the back of my mind and it is getting louder. One glance out to the ocean and I can tell it is uneasy. As the waves begin to bubble up my body tries to turn so that my steps take me further from the waters edge but I am frozen. I am frozen as the sudden wave comes crashing over me, threatening to pull me into the depths of the water. As the waves crest to crash again I hear that voice louder this time. The water stings my eyes and as I try to blink I see memories of the days in the past. The water is tugging at me and it knocks me to the ground. The swell happens again and the voices and the pictures and the memories flood over me as I cling to the sand holding on for dear life. Tears fill my eyes over and over again and the waves crash and I sob, nails digging into the shore unwilling to let myself be pulled into the chaotic whirlpool that is the angry water. The waves last an indeterminant amount of time, and the salt water mixes with my tears and I am no longer able to tell the difference. My body is sandy and soaking as I press myself to the sand begging the water to cease. Finally, battered and worn, I feel the warm air on my back again and I realize the water is further away than it was to start. The waves have calmed and my body is tired. I pull myself into a sitting position, knees to chest, arms wrapped around to warm myself and I watch as the sun finally sinks into the water. My eyes swollen from the memories they saw, my body tired from the fearsome fight and my mind full of what ifs. But I made it, and it did not pull me down this time. I am allowed to cry, I am allowed to feel sorrow and pain, I am allowed to fight through the pain all of it caused but I am NOT allowed to give up. I deserve the solace and peace of mind that comes with moving forward. I deserve the happiness that lays in front of me. I know the ocean has not finished its fight with me and I never know when it is going to try to pull me under again but I know that I will be ok. I’ve come so far and I am ok.
I wouldn’t say I worry about my writing. No worry isn’t the word I would use at all. I don’t worry about who reads my work, it is up to them if they continue to read it after they have realized it was written by me. I don’t worry about my content, because once again if you continue to keep reading after you’ve glimpsed what I am writing about, it is more of a proceed at your own risk. I don’t worry about the points that I try to make, I try to articulate everything I have to say as clear as I can. Granted I know they may come off as wacky, convoluted, snarky, sass and *insert your own adjective here* but I think I get my words out eventually. I will tell you what I “worry” about. My biggest “thing” I guess you would call it is wondering if I am touching anyone out there. I want to know that what I have to say is relevant to someone else and not just this big point that I have made in my mind. I want to know that in my manic phases and my borderline withdrawals I have not overstimulated my ego enough to think that my writing is SO GOOD that I am touching people’s lives when I am merely performing a literary masturbatory dance on a platform for the world to see. I mean some of you may be into that sort of kink and if that’s the case, go ahead and watch but I mean to affect the world.
I remember being younger, younger by days, months, years and just wanting something to touch me in a moment so that I would know that I wasn’t so very alone. That is how I took to the written word in the first place. I would crank up the music (much like the very 90’s playlist I have pumped in the background) and sit down and just write. I could write and write and write and cry or laugh or snicker bitterly at what they would never read and that would be my haven. I remember the first time someone read what I had to say, they told me that I wrote well and that I should think about writing for a living. I remember thinking that they needed to mind their own business and keep their fucking hands off my stuff. But in my mind’s eye (I hate that phrase) I dreamed of what it would be like to write for a living. I dreamed of an open-air studio, a hammock, scarves around my head, a typewriter (yes I had one as a kid and I would love to have one again) and just chronicling my life. I dreamed of taking people on adventures of the soul on journies through the mind and spirit. I wanted to touch people with my words.
Then that harsh hand of reality struck, as it always does, and I was forced to think about the future. About how writing held no real money and how I should focus on what I really wanted to do. But I REALLY wanted to write. OBVIOUSLY, I didn’t know better. So my writing went into journals and random blogs online. My poems went to those whom I loved and lost, who may or may not have deserved them at the time. Who knows, maybe pieces of me are still out there, in memory boxes of those who I wrote them to, little pieces of my soul scattered around the world, or maybe people aren’t as sentimental as I am. I still wrote as much as I could, I was still told that I should keep writing, but my words had taken a different tone, a darker one and as my mental health turned inward it continued to reach toward the light from a very dark place. It became a cry for help and when it wasn’t a cry for help, it was undauntingly the whispers of a soul crying for the loss of those she loved, used in eulogies of all who had passed from her life.
Journals upon journals, half empty pages, torn out half written scribbles, they fell out of the boxes I had packed them in when I finally moved into a place that could hold them all. It had been years since I wrote anything of substance. I had shifted my mental focus on the two lives I had grown within and given up all hope of touching anything but their lives. Through my struggles to become a better mom and a better person I was starting a journey to figure out exactly who that person was. As I came across the whisperings of yesteryear everything clicked back into place. I remembered how desperately I needed that someone to take my hand and pull me through my darkest hour. I felt that tug again because it wasn’t too long ago that I once again needed that person. It had only been a few years since I almost lost myself to a diagnosis I did not understand. I felt as if no one could understand me. I did not know how to be a single mommy, let alone one that had this undeniable feeling of being alone all the time. I needed a shoulder, a hand, a heart to open to mine and show me the light. I found what I needed to pull me through and though there are still days I yearn for the caress of words to make the struggle so much better; What I want for more is to reach through that void and grab the hands of someone else faltering, even if only to tell them that they are not alone.
I feel sometimes that my words as not enough, that they will come of convoluted or even superior to the struggles that the demons inside take you through on a daily basis. And to that I have no words other than I am here, feel me with you, I have been there, hold on tight, I promise I get it. I do not think myself above even the lowest of days, the days of mascara streaked cheeks, of blanket nests, of the desperation that looks like a razors edge. I know the bleakest of grays and blacks but I know the glimmer of yellows and pinks, the glitter of the snow as it falls over the scars that have long since healed. And if it is only for a moment that I can hold you in my arms and let you see the world, see the hope, see yourself through my eyes;Let me show you the way.
I cleaned out the happy jar, to save myself the pain of doing it at the end of year. My children should not think about what we’ve lost. I found beautiful words.
Lovely memories to smile upon
But as I smiled the tears began to tall. Because such wonderful words were marred as I remembered…
That a little over 6 weeks later. The dreams turned to nightmares.
I began to cry harder as I wondered what was real and what was fake. Did those words express what was really felt.
A love that was so pure. An end that was never written. In the stars. A tragic faerietale.
This is a topic we covered in depth at DBT today. It is a topic that comes up quite a bit in distress tolerance and one that is the hardest for me to grasp. Mind you I know exactly what it is, I know how to do it (in theory) and I know how it works. But fuck my life if it comes easily to me. I sit here listening to a playlist I made on Spotify for one of the many manuscripts I am writing and I have tears dripping down my cheeks. The only saving grace is that I already cried off all of my eyeliner in the last hour of the group, so I am not going to look like a raccoon after writing this. I am sitting here staring at my phone, not paying attention to the keys I am pressing, knowing I can just auto correct this in Grammarly and repeating to myself “Radical Acceptance Shaye, do NOT pick up that phone, don’t do it, you are stronger than this…”.
The principle of radical acceptance is that things happen in life that is painful, stressful, hurtful and sad and you just have to accept them. You accept that these things happen and move forward. You can’t change them, you can’t change the emotions they cause so you accept them for what they are and you go forward in your life. Easy right? For more things yes, yes they can be considered very easy. Sometimes, accepting things comes very easy to individuals and sometimes they are very hard. My therapist put it this way. There is a difference between pain and suffering. It is like stepping on a nail. You can feel the pain and take your foot off the nail and move on, or you can keep your foot on that nail and continue to feel the pain…THAT is suffering. The point of radical acceptance is to not let yourself suffer. I have radically accepted a lot of things in my life. But one thing, in particular, I have realized I have accepted but I am still suffering because my foot in some small way is still on that nail. That is why the tears fell from my eyes for an hour discussing this principle in the group. I have still not radically accepted the biggest change in my life. And I really want to but I don’t know how.
I have radically accepted –
My diagnoses’ of BPD, BPII and all the fun stuff that comes with it
My 5 autoimmune diseases
My divorce from my ex-husband
My inability to lose weight without a medical intervention
The fact that my miscarriages were NOT my fault
The death of people I have loved so much
I have accepted –
That I have lost the one person I have truly loved
I am having trouble radically accepting the three facts above. I having trouble with accepting them because I don’t know if any of what happened between us was real. I can not radically accept any of those emotions because I don’t know if anything he said was true. I don’t know if he meant all those pretty words that came out of his mouth. I know he has said them to her and who knows if he said them before me. He said forever and always and he didn’t mean them or he would still be around. He promised me family and children but that’s out the window too. They say karma’s a bitch and he hurt me so he will be hurt. But I don’t want him hurt, and if I got hurt that badly who the hell did I piss off in order for me to be hurt that badly in the first place? Is anything I am saying make sense or am I snowballing down a treacherous slope? The thing is I am healing, I have moved past it, but a song, a word, a memory creeps in and I doubt the things that happened. I doubt that the year of my life made any impact on anyone except my children and I. Why bother wasting a year of your life if you never meant the words. You moved on from the pain like you felt no pain. You left all the pain for me to feel while you can go and give someone else the promise of forever when you have known them not even a fraction of the time you knew me. And you said I gave you the meaning of love. And what sucks is that I don’t know if anything you said was real. Except goodbye. I know that was real. And you couldn’t even say goodbye, it was just silence. With an apology to someone else. I can’t radically accept something that has no ending, no closure. It was all a fantastical daydream that turned into a nightmare. And it left me with the one thing that I never have. Regret. I regret it and you How am I supposed to radically accept regret.
I hope I understand it soon. I hope I can radically accept it soon. I hope boxing the rest of it up and getting it out my house helps. The memories, the pictures, the pieces of our handfasting, the pieces of your mother that you left with me…Why? Why keep what was a lie? One big dream. One last nightmare. Faerietale suicide.