RealMental

I am a step mother that happens to love my step daughter as if she were my own flesh and blood. This has been a huge problem in my life over the past 8 years and I’ve made a LOT of mistakes.

My step daughter isn’t living with us now, it was decided and agreed that she needed the opportunity to live with her mother for a school year. She is coming home for Christmas and the day I made those flight arrangements, I felt the best I’d felt since she left at the beginning of the summer.

Now that the dates are even closer, I am beginning to have generalized anxiety about the visit. Worried that she won’t love me anymore, or has she changed that much?

Since she left, I don’t visit her room because the smell of her, the energy in her room, I cannot bear. Then the whole missing her, the whole fucking truck load of feelings that are there.

I have been working my ass off in therapy to try and correct, make better, and change for the betterment of myself, my daughter, and everyone else involved. Loving and taking care of her has never been the issue.

No one handed me a book to tell me how to be a step parent, and while there are books out there, I never found them to be very useful.

This is due to the fact, that EVERY situation is different. This is because EVERY child and set of parents is different. There is no magic formula for any of it.

Even the therapists of the world have no clue. You try and stick to the basics of human understanding “the things you learned in kindergarten” and do the best you can with what you have.

I have figuratively had my heart outside of my body, open and bleeding with several people stomping and chanting BURN WITCH, BURN!

As a step parent, people will lie and hate you. You will hate yourself. You will wonder 80 times a day if maybe you should just go away so everyone will be happy, including the child involved.

I am not supposed to “really” love my step child, nor am I supposed to refer to her as “daughter.” Why you may ask? Well, it bothers her bio mom. And, I can understand that completely.

Many times over the years I have tried to put myself in her mom’s shoes, we haven’t always had the best relationship, and this is not satisfying to me. I like to iron things out and move towards solutions.

I am not without fault; I have made some of the stupidest mistakes of my life in this past 8 years. I’ve often wondered if I should write a book of things NOT TO DO as a step parent.

One in particular, “Do not write about your daughter’s mother on your PERSONAL BLOG.” I should have seen that one before I even committed the crime but no, I did not.

As a step parent, I am damned if I do and damned if I don’t. I am blamed for more than my share. Step parents are easy targets, especially, loud mouth sensitive step parents like ME.

There are so many worry thoughts in my head; there are parts of the brain that wish to pounce. I can’t pounce, I must remain calm, and I must remain in my own space. I HAVE to remember that this visit is about HER and not ME, and I am to enjoy every moment with her with no worrying about the “what ifs.”

People have always said, “She’s not your real child.” What the FUCK does that even matter? I can love any child regardless of whether that child came out of my womb or not. Am I wrong to love her, I think not.

How do I please everyone in the situation, how do I love and nurture a child that has a mother?

I’ll send you twenty dollars if you have a reasonable solution for me.

Swear.

(Sunday morning, East Coast Time)

As I traded phone calls back and forth with my brother (here), my aunt (there), and my mother (there), I reflected on the fact that this is just too damned hard right now. And, that maybe I precipitated her mania? by not just keeping my damned mouth shut during her visit. By the time I talked to her this past Thursday, she was excitedly complaining to me about the internal inconsistencies in The Golden Compass series, which I’d lent her to read on the plane flight home. Something about how Lyra already knew how to do her hair in the first book, so why was she learning all over again in the second? Hoo-whee.

When I talked to her on Friday night, she was excited to tell me about how she’d finally been able to get out some thoughts about a theology based on the Holy Spirit, and not on God the Father or Christ the Son. From a lecture she gave 30 years ago, back when she was teaching at divinity school. “And I was considered quite one of the more brilliant up-and-coming feminist theologians.” Nah, obsession with the past and inflated ego are not signs of mania.

“Why is it, that whenever I finally have a breakthrough in the creative process, you people think I am crazy?” Well, let’s see, the giggling every minute or so might have tipped me off. And . . . “whenever?” This is only her second manic episode. She was very irritable with me during the three phone calls we had, and was refusing to go to the hospital over the weekend. She was sure she wasn’t manic. “This is different.” Telling her that sure, creativity and happiness are nice, but these were precursors to delusion and confusion, like last time, and that you have to stop it before it starts, or it’s longer and worse, wasn’t getting me anywhere. So the third time I spoke with her, after she told me “I did NOT agree to go tomorrow, I will NOT go anywhere until MONDAY, when the doctor’s office is open again,” I just started sobbing, and begging her to please go to the hospital on Saturday, because I am three thousand miles away, and as angry as I am at her, I want her to be OK, and I just can’t handle her breaking down right now, in the middle of my own issues.

Well, when I put it that way, and appealed to her self-image as a caring mother, it was a different story. She went, the doctor and she and my aunt met, the doctor told her he thought that she was on the verge again, she grumpily accepted the ‘scrip, and then she and my aunt went out for Thai, according to my aunt, who called from the restaurant while Mom was in the bathroom. I’ve got to call her in a few hours to try and convince her to fill the prescription, and take it before she goes to see the shrink tomorrow, so that he can “prove to you that I am fine.”

(Later Sunday afternoon)
Well, that didn’t go well. She told me the doctor gave her the medications “just in case,” got increasingly more agitated, and then hung up on me after telling me that she didn’t understand why we all hate her. She then called my aunt, told her that she hated her for telling me “lies” about what had happened with the doctor, and hung up on her.

I then spoke with the covering psychiatrist, who seems a saint. I told him what’d happened and he agreed with my take, and told me he and the shrink at the hospital yesterday had rx’d Abilify, but we’re at that point where she’s not yet hospitalizable, so there’s not a lot I can do from Boston.

I don’t want to go to California. My brother’s going to try to call her in an hour and see how she’s doing.

(Early Sunday evening)
She’s been calling my aunt, yelling at her, and hanging up. My brother then called her, talked her down, and got her to agree she’s going to see the shrink tomorrow. (I’d told him the covering’d told me they were open tomorrow and she could come in whenever.)

She then called me to tell me she was sorry she’d yelled at me, but that she was still mad at my aunt, and that we were all still wrong. I said, “Good, I hope I am. Give Dr. X my cell number so he can call me and tell me so while you’re there.” “That’s a good idea!” she says.

I don’t want to go to California. I don’t want to look for documents to establish our relationship, so that I can start guardianship or commitment or representative payee proceedings. I want her absence to make my heart grow fonder.

Well, I kicked the puppy. But it wasn’t without provocation– not that it changes how I now feel about the whole thing. Before she arrived, I wondered if I’d be able to tell if she’d ever be able to have an honest conversation with me about how her behavior when I was a kid has affected me, but I’d determined to keep my mouth shut. But I just couldn’t.

Things were actually going pretty well up until after dinner Saturday night. I’d picked her up from my brother’s, and actually felt bad for her because of his reticence around her, and how she seemed starved for conversation. We had a nice day visiting one of her favorite haunts and having lunch, and she was cool with and didn’t pout about the fact that I had to do some work, unexpectedly. We went to the movies, had a good time, and came back to have dinner with a friend of mine who’d wanted to meet her.

It went downhill fast. She immediately started trotting out all her stories of how she was a hot shit thirty years ago, and the conversation inevitably turned to smack talking about my father and how he ruined all her hopes and dreams. I changed the subject several times, but she always tried to yank it right back. I just kept changing the subject. As soon as I left the room, though, she took it upon herself to tell this friend, whom she’d never met before, about how my father used to beat her.

I immediately put an end to the night, and drove the friend home after telling her that she needed to get the fuck over it. When I returned, she was apologetic for saying it to company, but not apologetic for saying it at all.

I’ve been trying to get her to understand that I don’t want to hear about what happened thirty years ago over and over again, and that my focus is on what has changed since then. I tried again to get her to understand that I blame her for not trying, because she felt entitled to blame everyone but herself for her predicament. And I tried to get her to understand that I thought that she needed to take some of the responsibility for her own failures, as well as for how we kids turned out.

It’s like I was speaking a different language, as always. Even worse, she accused me of lying, and then of being revisionist, in terms of how she used to talk about my father in front of us. I may be crazy, bu tI am clear-eyed.  My brother, who won’t ever talk about growing up with me, was good enough to say I was remembering things correctly.  She then started trying to defend herself based on stuff that happened before I was born, without ever listening to me say “I don’t care about that, I care about what you never tried to do to get over it.” Despite repeating that it wasn’t about failure after trying, but about not making the effort in the first place, she continued to harp on the same things that predated my birth, not the changing point/opportunity/watershed that my father’s drunk driving arrest presented for us all.  At a certain point the brick wall I was banging my head against became bloody, so I put an end to that conversation, but not before calling her (and defining) the terms narcissist and  psychopath, and telling her that she has rewritten history for herself because she doesn’t want to face the fact that she didn’t to a damned thing to help herself or us until after I’d left for college, even though she knew she ought.

When I woke up Sunday morning, of course there was a long letter that she’d spent all night writing.  (I once moved out on her after a week of no conversation, just stacks of 3 x 5 cards with accusatory notes at the bottom of the stairs to my room.  Obviously, I was not happy to see this letter.)  Of course, none of it was on point. It was all about things that happened before I was born. None of it dealt with what was the entire focus of the conversation– the time from when I was twelve onward, when Dad’s arrest presented us all with an opportunity to try a different tack, even though starting over isn’t an option. The letter did nothing to help, and just made me feel bloody and broken all over again– you’ve never seen passive aggressive like one of my mother’s letters.

I cried a little, emailed my brother with whom I never speak of these things (his choice, not mine) and asked him if he’d be willing to take her for the afternoon and/or the evening, too, in case I couldn’t stand to have her under my roof any longer. And then, of course, when she woke up, she was moping around and crying and feeling sorry for herself– even though I was the only one who had the ight to be mad.  But, as I said, she’s a narcissist and psychopath.  By the time she’d gotten out of bed, she’d rewritten the entire evening before in her head so that it was an unprovoked attack on her.

My brother was kind enough to confirm that I was not a liar or a revisionist, and my dad actually filled in a few things that confirmed what I’d suspected all along, i.e., that while he was not saint, he did not do the things she said he did, and that she was making things up and rewriting history– but damn, is it hard to learn, much less accept, that the worldview your mother brings to bear has nothing to do with you, or with what’s right, or with what’s true– that her perspective is so limited by her selfishness, her self-centeredness, her complete insecurity and paranoia, that she denies history that’s true, and tries to rewrite her own (and everyone else’s) past. Sorry, Mom. Just telling me I’m wrong doesn’t change things.  And even though you’re living on Planet Mom, everyone else around you knows better.

Having her out of the house let me catch my breath, and grit my teeth to get through the evening “family” birthday party, which my dad wanted to host. But honestly– it’s like I did something wrong, the way she is acting, rather than the other way around. And that’s not just limited. That’s insane– and way crazier than I’ve ever been.  I wish I’d kept my mouth shut when I got back, and just told her I wouldn’t discuss it with her, and let her stew in her own juices– but that probably wouldn’t have worked, either, because she’dve picked, picked, picked at me to forgive her until I exploded anyway.

So, now?  Now I know how limited her reality is.  And now?  Now she’ll have to learn how limited our relationship will be as a result.  Or maybe she won’t.  Since I am never going to discuss anything important or heavy with her again, maybe she’ll think everything is happiness and light.  Or at least she’ll tell herself that it’s true, until she believes it.   And me?  I’ll keep my unlimited grief and anger to myself, and limit my resolution of it to therapy, since I can’t expect it to come from the one source that might have been truly healing.

Well, you probably don’t think of them when you’re not the person most directly affected, anyway. This post is going to be short and sweet, but I think it’s important. Mostly because I myself am guilty of what I’m going to try to explain here. And what I understand of this, I understand because of the patient, thoughtful, and painstaking explanation of it to me by my bipolar husband, Alex.

Alex has Bipolar 1 Disorder, and nothing about it is fun. Unmedicated, his hypomanic phases are short preludes to pretty horrific and lengthy manias. He’s never had any symptoms of psychosis, but the extremes of his cycling are pretty severe. Fortunately (ironic as that term is in this context), he has tremendous insight into his own illness, and total dedication to treating it and staying on top of the often chaotic ebb and flow.

You would think that having his illness managed as well as he does would make everything just hunky-dory most of the time, wouldn’t you? Well, most people would, and DO. And that’s kind of the problem. There is a catch-22 here that most people would never even consider, and that is this: Even when you are open and transparently honest about your illness, as Alex is–everyone in our lives, from family to workplace to church to friends, knows about it–there’s a hitch. Because even with all proper treatment, bipolar disorder is prone to “breakthrough” manias and depressions, and that can cause disruptions in daily life, with work, family, friends, etc. Sometimes BIG disruptions, like not being able to get out of bed for a few–or several–days, or not being able to concentrate, or just feeling…”off,” and anxious to the point of distraction.

And therein lies the rub. When you’re “doing well,” especially the longer you’re “doing well,” then the more people expect you to ALWAYS be doing well. The reaction that comes from a crash of any kind is surprised, disappointed, even shocked. It’s as if every single time you have a good stretch, people seem to expect, if not totally on a conscious level, that you are “cured.” And sometimes, compassion, or the impression of compassion, anyway, can seem reduced, and people can seem impatient for you to “get it together” and “get back on track.” Very few people understand about breakthrough manias or depressions, and most seem to think that once you start taking medication, it’s going to work forever, so if you’re having problems again, it must be due to some personal weakness or omission. And even though I know that it’s a perfectly reasonable question from a clinical standpoint, given the low rate of compliance and insight among bipolar patients, when Alex and I get an emergency appointment with the psychiatrist because things are going awry, and the first thing he asks is, “Are you taking your medications?” I get pissed off.

I could ramble on about this for a while, but my point, for those of you who may be reading, who have significant others, family members, friends, who deal with mental illness and who try hard to keep things on an even keel, is…well, when there’s a blip on the radar, a wobble of the boat, or whatever other metaphor you want to use to indicate a break in the desired pattern of behavior: Try to remember that there IS an illness there, and that just because things were managed for a while doesn’t mean they always will be. Try not to be impatient with your loved one, because I assure you that he or she doesn’t want to be “off” any more than you want them to be. Give whatever support you can in getting things back on track, but give it with a compassionate spirit. If you have a compassionate friend who REALLY understands, then vent if you need to, but don’t vent to those who aren’t “in the loop,” because you’re only doing damage to their perception of someone you love.

People who are trying hard to maintain, and having a good percentage of success at it, shouldn’t have to think, sometimes, that it might be easier if they were just sick to the point of being totally disabled all the time, so that everyone else’s expectations would be lowered. And here’s where the tightrope-walk of a significant other comes in, because at the same time, you don’t want to live your life as if you expect things to go awry at any moment–or to project that feeling onto your loved one.

Nothing about this is easy, but one thing is sure. It’s a joint effort.

My mother’s coming to visit.  I’m very mixed in my feelings about it.  On the one hand, I’m hoping to confirm what our phone calls are telling me– that she’s worlds better than she’s been for decades, since this spring’s bipolar diagnosis.  On the other hand, I’ve got years of pent-up resentment and anger waiting to be triggered by the slightest irritation, and my struggle to keep it in check.  I usually do keep it in check– prior to the bipolar diagnosis, she had no insight on how she affects me, and it’s like kicking a puppy.  Sure, the damned thing just pissed on your brand new virgin cashmere kilim (or whatever), but it just couldn’t help itself.

Now?  I wonder about telling her how angry I am, how mixed up I am, how mixed up I may always be.  Because she allowed herself to stay depressed for thirty years.  Because unlike my dad, she didn’t use any of her rock bottom points as the impetus to change things.  Because she seemed to enjoy playing the victim of cold and critical parents, and the ex-wife of an (undiagnosed bipolar) alcoholic.  Because she didn’t want to work, and I grew up with the stigma of a fat, lazy mother, section 8 housing, food stamps and free lunch.  Because her refusal to do anything about her weight made me bulimic as a teen (even worse?  she never noticed, despite my losing 30 lbs.), and in possession of a fine set of food and weight phobias for the rest of my life.  Because, because, because.  I’ve a world of reasons for anger, for shame, for grudges.

Now I wonder if she has the insight now?  ever? to understand these things.  Or whether she’s been so long in her self-centered groove that she’ll never have the perspective.   Or maybe that she is, under all the new meds, still self-centered?

And I wonder if it’s worth it, in any event.  Would I feel satisfied?  Relieved?  Healed? to tell her all these things?  There’s nothing she can do about it at this point.  And is my anger even justified, if she’s been bipolar all these years?  Can I hold it against her?  I want to.  Or do I have to forgive her?  I don’t want to.  I had enough insight, and enough concern for the effect of my behavior on others, to seek help and get the diagnosis that has been such a blessing to me.  My dad had enough strength after his first drunk driving arrest to kick the alcohol.  Is it fair for me to believe that someone who’s smart enough to write a Ph.D. at Harvard and become an ordained minister should be smart enough to get some clearly-needed help?  Or does it come back to emotional maturity, a lack of self-centeredness, an inherent personality flaw, instead?  If that’s the case, then I’d just be banging my head on a brick wall, which gives me a headache, and leaves blood on the wall.

Plus, if she didn’t get it, then again, there’s the kicking a puppy thing.  She would be sad, noncomprehending, and hurt because I’d shattered her self-image as a caring person.  But here’s the deal– she’s “caring” because she wants to be thought of as caring.  At least that’s what my therapist and I think.  But at the same time, there’s no doubt that she did want to listen to the things I had to say as a teen, and that she did want us to succeed.  And in a way, I have.

I don’t want to forget, and I am not ready or able to let go yet.  Forgetting would mean that none of this stuff was important, negative as it is.  And it’s who I am, this stuff.  I can’t, I won’t forget it.

Right now, I’m leaning towards just keeping my mouth shut, except for the bare minimum inquiries to make sure she’s taking her meds, starting talk therapy, and working well with her new shrink.  I’ll have a horrible stress migraine after she’s gone, probably get a cold, and fall exhausted into bed every night that she’s here by, like, 7:00 pm, but the self-inflicted harm at this degree is still better than staving in that poor puppy’s ribcage, so hard is my urge to kick right now.

Here’s to hoping I can let go at some future point.

By StormyBluez

I haven’t had a psychiatric app. in about 10 years. 11 years ago it was Prozac. I was 13. I felt that the Prozac robbed me of my creativity I remember it making me feel very empty. I stopped after 4 weeks and rebelled against all help psychiatric.

Ive always drank far too much- insecurity I guess, helps me creates a fake atmosphere. I may have done too many street drugs that possibly added fuel to my internal fire. Heroin was what helped better that all the others – my sister was diagnosed with Schizoaffective disorder in late 2003, my doses were increased and I really had a iron clad reason to hate the world now. Not just my own ugly worthless forgotten demons. She was not hospitalized, they wanted to but my mother would not allow it.

I remember coming home in the rain one night not being able to feel my mind or legs. I sat beside her bedside as she slept and contemplated burning the house down, stop everyones suffering. I felt SO selfish and worthless- here my sister incapable of controlling her mind. Really literally Mentally unable. And me abusing my capability of control. Because I CAN no matter how deep and suicidal my episode is – I am capable to stop, acknowledged my actions and thoughts. So I stopped shooting-up and decreased my drinking.

My sister went through so many medications. 3 years to find the right ones. She’s ok now, although she is not the same she is and wants to survive. She is a huge inspiration. I’m clean now- about 3 years, don’t even smoke cigarettes. But I am deeply sad, I feel alone stupid and worthless ungrateful & suicidal. I have a therapist app. on Halloween. I don’t want to go I’m scared of myself. I think its a man. I don’t think I can be honest with a man. maybe I shouldn’t go. Damn this is gonna be hard, I want to listen to the better half of me, I want to be able to love myself, but can’t even get dressed today.

By CP

I am listening to The Cult and some other Post Punk Era bullshit music. I love this shit. I can wallow in it’s inane banality all night long if allowed. It brings back some amazing memories for me.

It brings back the mania that I love so much.

I remember being 18 years old and going out to Club Spanky or to Spize and dancing my fucking ass off while shoving mountains of cocaine up my Jewish nose. I was all over Long Island back then, running around to “New Wave” clubs with my half shaven blue hair and my Madonna rubber bracelets. I wore fishnets and combat boots back then. Everything I owned was black. My nails and my lipstick were black. I wasn’t “goth” or anything like that. I was a kid that was desperate to find where she fit in. I loved the post punk era music like The Cure, The Cult, New Order, the Smiths, The Ramones, etc. I wanted to emulate those bands and pay homage to them through my manner of attire. I wrote poetry, deep poetry as I always have, but didn’t share them with anyone. I kept all of that for myself, lest I become a “poser” and be known as someone who was chronically depressed and on the verge of suicide. I wasn’t. I was extremely happy being miserable, taking chances, doing spontaneous things that were definite no no’s for college kids like me.

And there lies the difference. College kid. In school, you would never know about the other life I was leading. Designer jeans, trendy blouses, high heels, pink nail polish and my hair in a ponytail so you couldn’t tell that it was shaved on one side. Yes, the blue streak still showed, but it was the 80’s and no one questioned colorful hair.

It was around this time I think I realized something was wrong with me.

All kids go through phases. I know that. I respect that about youth. I know most of them experiment with drugs, alcohol, sex and that sort of shit. I took everything to the extreme. I was entirely too promiscuous. I slept with more men back then than most women do in a lifetime. Actually, probably more than 10 women have in a lifetime. It wasn’t the sex, it was the control. I said when. I said where. I said how. I said why. And it was never “normal” sex. It always involved some sort of knife play, asphyxiation or blood letting. This is why it pleased me so much to live amongst the night creatures at the punk clubs. I scared the shit out of most of the men I had been with. Eventually it circulated that if you were into insane practices during sex, I was the person to see. I cut myself during sex to watch myself bleed. If the man or woman I was with joined me in doing this, I was all the more thrilled.

During the day, I was chaste, pristine and untouched. I listened to Paula Abdul and Janet Jackson because it was the thing to do. It was what the “normal” kids did. I listened to Great White and Poison too, lest the rockers I hung out with thought I wasn’t cool either. I hated every second of it. It was lies, all lies and that is what my life amounts to. I kept this charade up for years, even after the birth of my first child. Mommy by day, vampire by night. The two lives never met. Never. My daughter didn’t know of my antics and my psychos never knew I had a daughter. I did mescaline, quaaludes, acid…everything but smoke pot, because somehow, I associated smoking weed with being a loser.

Can you imagine? Like I had room to judge someone else.

There were days/nights when I felt too mentally exhausted to keep up with this dual lifestyle and I started to fray at the edges. Eventually, the two worlds did collide and I realized what I had been all along.

I was bipolar, living my mania and my depression in two completely separate and individual lifestyles. My psychiatrist agrees that it is a passive form of schizophrenia. I hear things. I hallucinate sometimes, but I am forever hearing things that aren’t there. Sometimes, they are in the form of whispers. They tell me what to do and I do them. The logic is fallible of course, but to me, it always made sense. Do what the whispers say and no one gets hurt…

at least not right away.

I never felt as happy as I did when I was cutting myself, abusing myself or allowing others to abuse me. It made me feel alive. Even years later, when I was in a relationship that was drowned in domestic violence, there was a certain safety factor there. Everytime he beat me, everytime I saw blood flow from some orifice, I was okay. I was alive and when I didn’t die, I was invincible…a very bad frame of mind for the manic depressive. No one is invincible, but don’t expect me to have believed that.

I think, in a lot of ways, I still live my life this way…the black and the white. Even my blogs are very different. One blog is all white, pretty, shiny and full of silly thoughts and amiable rants. It’s extremely public. The other? Dark, dreary, private and I could give two shits less about what anyone who reads this one thinks of me. On the other one, I do care…because I want the world to see the changes I have made in myself.

Have I changed? I don’t know.

I know a part of me still yearns to break free of the Mommy/Wife/Nurse life. It’s not that I don’t love my family. I do, probably moreso than most. I love being a nurse. I love my children with every fiber of my being and I couldn’t breathe without my husband. But, there are times when I just want to walk away from it all because I feel like I don’t belong. I don’t fit in. I am not ordinary. I am extraordinary and I know this. I am a walking contradiction and it breaks my heart that I can’t be completely content like other people are. I try to count my blessings like a good girl should, but I can’t see them sometimes. I know this makes me sound like an ingrate. I resemble that remark. There are people in the world that would kill for my life.

And still, there is the side of me that needs to bleed.

I hurt myself all the time, just to make sure that I am still in existance. I don’t take a razor to my arms anymore. I don’t gash myself with knives any longer. What I do, I do passively. I rip the cuticles from my nails in one swift move, knowing it is going to hurt like crazy and bleed. I leave my hair dye on a little too long so my scalp burns. I take showers in water that would make other people blister. I make myself sick, physically…like a sick form of Münchhausen Syndrome. I will do things that make me suffer because it is the only way I can feel. I hurt myself emotionally too, setting myself up for disappointment over and over again. I betray myself constantly. I set myself up to be fired from jobs I love because I don’t feel worthy of keeping them. I keep very high expectations of people and then, knowing full well they couldn’t possibly measure up to them…I allow it to disappoint and discourage me. It gives me a reason to be angry at someone…

someone other than myself.

If you met me on the street, you wouldn’t have a clue about this girl. Not one iota. You would think I am the most well adjusted human being on the planet. I am funny. I have a great sense of humor and sense of self when put in all sorts of situations. I am full of grandiosity. I am humble and nice. I am polite and respectful of others.

And I am suppressing the beast inside.

As I get older, it gets a little easier, but not much. The medications have helped a lot. I don’t feel as angry all the time. I don’t want to hurt myself too much anymore…but I still have moments, like this one, right now where I wish I didn’t have to answer to anyone. I wish I could cut myself or someone else. My husband, my beautiful and perfect husband doesn’t understand this part of me. He accepts it, but he doesn’t understand it. It’s not part of who he is. He suffers in a different way…a more logical and realistic way. He will throw himself into his work or do a chore that helps him to let off some steam. Sometimes, he will smoke a joint to relax. Whatever works for you. Me? I’d rather engage in painful activities. I want to have sex often, hard and brutally. My husband slaps me on my ass when we fuck. I enjoy that, but if he knew how hard I wished he would hit me, I think it would sicken him. I told him once to grab me around the neck when he is behind me. He will, but only for a moment or so before letting go. The man is not capable of hurting me, not physically or emotionally. That’s probably a good thing, because I tend to do that all on my own.

“You shut your mouth
how can you say,
I go about things the wrong way.
I am human and I need to be loved,
just like everybody else does.”

There is salvation in being alone sometimes. I have the house to myself tonight. I want to take some valium, percocet or vicodin, have a drink or two and then come back and re-read this article. I will dare myself not to erase it. Just another form of hurting myself without cutting into my forearms or my thighs. I need the pain of knowing that I wrote all this down and someone will be disgusted or disappointed by what I have to say. But, I will wake up in the morning, throw on my dress attire for work, pick up my child from school and make dinner at night. No one will be the wiser. It will keep me the perfectly pristine housewife and mother that way and the PTA will never know my dirty little secrets.

I wish my husband was home. I miss who I am when he is around.

Originally posted here.