crabby

The psychologist seemed nice enough.  Didn’t finish going through my history, therapy goals and such, though.  Telling my DBT/therapy tale brought back a lot of shame.  Today was a bad day.  I was very moody, short tempered.  Couldn’t think of a skill to use, didn’t want to use any damn skill.

I’m freaking out about filing a complaint against old therapist.  I’m afraid that I’ll get in trouble.  Stupid, I know.  But I’m afraid.  For some reason I’ve come to associate him with all the bad authority figures in my life and I’m afraid that he’s going to hurt me, even though the rational part of me knows that it makes no sense, a bigger part of me is a frightened child.  I don’t think that complaint will get filed.

I’m trying to shake that off and look forward.  Next session with the new psych will be about therapy goals.  I need to come up with those, what’s realistic for me.  I need to keep pushing myself to move forward, no matter how small the steps may be I have to move forward.  And I did make progress today, even though I was crabby.  I can still move forward when I’m crabby, and crabbiness didn’t have to define my whole day.

baby steps

I’m seeing a new psychologist tomorrow.

I’m still a bit labile, I hope I don’t cry.  I hope I can  keep the mindset that I’m hiring her to help me.  Emphasis on the HIRING part.  I’ve been perceiving my therapists as authority figures and that’s not healthy.

In thinking about what my expectations of therapy are, I’ve been wondering if my expectations have been very realistic.  I am in my forties.  I’ve been very isolated.  I could probably be diagnosed as agoraphobic. ( I haven’t been formally diagnosed as such).  I am easily overwhelmed.  I have little to no outside support.

What changes can I realistically make?  I tend to look at the finish line and panic.  By that I mean, envision myself in a steady job, competently earning a nice income and navigating my way in the real world with ease.  This is something that I want, this is something that I don’t have the tools to actually make happen at this time and it scares the hell out of me.

So I’m wondering what is realistic?  How many people my age, who have isolated themselves for so many years have been able to crawl out of that hell?  Who have no support or friendships because of that isolation?

But I’m trying so hard not to get bogged down by my past.  I’ve been trying so damn hard not to let that stop me from trying anyway.  I have to start where I am, no matter what my circumstances are.  I am here.  I can’t change that.

I’ve been thinking about college.  I can’t afford classes right now.  Our public library system has an online learning center with free courses in math, business English, adult job skills refresher courses among many other resources.   So I’ve been looking them over and sticking my toe in and testing out the waters, seeing how much I’ve forgotten over the years.  I never went to college.

I read something on a forum, someone mentioned that they had once been very obsessed with themselves, and once they had made the decision to stop being so self obsessed, life became so much easier.  That really hit home.  Hard to hear, but oh, so true.  So I’ve been trying to stop being so damn self obsessed, and I’ve been trying to stop dwelling on the obstacles in my way.  They just tend to bog me down and stop me in my tracks.

All of this scares the hell out of me.

strength

Sigh.

I think I can write about it now.  I’m stronger than I thought.  There was a point two weeks ago when I honestly thought that I wasn’t going to make it.  I really thought that I was going to die.

I’ve been going to my DBT group for 1 1/2 years now.  I loved my group.  One of my struggles is that I tend towards agoraphobia.  This group has been my source of social support.  I’ve learned so much, and not just the skills.  I’ve learned that I’m not the hideous monster that I’ve made myself out to be.  I can fit in with a group.

Therapy has been a struggle.  When I read back I see that I’ve had doubts about it for a long time.  T can be very validating at times and therapy can feel like a battle.  I think that’s par for the course.

Therapy has gone wrong.  I don’t want to get in to the particulars, but I’ve lost all trust with him.  He happens to be co-leader of DBT group.  I’ve decided to stop both.  This was a heart wrenching decision that brings me to tears, even now and it’s been 2 weeks.

T has called me twice in that time.  Both times, when I saw his name on caller ID, I started shaking, my legs got weak, I started to cry and my heart began to race.  What in the world is going on with me? I don’t understand the fear response at all.  Nothing happened in therapy to warrant this response, yet it’s happening and it is very real.  I am not usually like this.

We had been opening up old wounds in therapy.  Painful ones, obviously, deep ones.  They’ve gone unresolved.  At our last session, I brought in a journal entry, like I had been doing in previous sessions.  This one wasn’t pretty.  It had been a very difficult week.  I wanted him to see exactly where I was at so I didn’t censor as much as I usually do.  He couldn’t have been more invalidating in his response to what I wrote.

One of the things that got to me the most was I journaled about an incident with a person who had sexually abused me when I was 13.  My t then discussed what I had written, spoke the names out loud, actually got the name of my abuser wrong, and then I don’t remember anything, I don’t remember what he said except that I found it to be so hurtful, so cruel even.   Then he said that I was creating my own emotional pain by staying in emotion mind.  Said journaling is fine if I want to relate facts but not if I want to relate emotions.

I journaled about another very painful memory.  I felt like it all blew up in my face.  I shared some really painful stuff and he shit all over it.  And this isn’t the worst of it, but I’m not going to get into the rest right now.

I don’t understand my response to his mere phone calls.  It doesn’t make any sense.  I don’t know what’s wrong with me.

I felt so alone, so hurt.  I stayed sober.  I called my old therapist.  I made good decisions, healthy decisions in the midst of the storm.  I didn’t know that I could do this.

Endings

I don’t even know where to start.  I have never felt more alone than I do right now.  My world has shrunk yet again.  God it hurts.

Therapy has gone so wrong, trust has been destroyed, I wont go back.  And because of that I’m going to have to quit my DBT group that I loved so much, which was my only source of support, because my therapist was also a group facilitator.

I don’t think there is any other way to make it right.

There is so much stress in my life right now.  Work is slow for my carpenter husband, so money is tight.  Not enough for bills.  Our 17 year old dog is at the end of her life and that is not easy to see.  She will be euthanized very soon if nature doesn’t take its course.  Therapy has been a trial, I may blog about that another time.  Marriage is rocky.

Worries, mind spinning, wanting to escape, the ultimate escape.

Providence, too.  I came here for the first time in months and find comments that give me strength.

reckoning

(4-4-09, catching up still)

I’m sick of me.  I’m sick of I I I I I I, incessantly I.

My bones remember.  I was thin in high school.  People wondered if I was anorexic.  My sister showed some genuine concern, wanted me to drink Ensure.  Mom ignored it, but my dad WAS concerned.  My grandparents were very concerned.

Whatever it was, it didn’t get a label, wasn’t that important to mom, anyway.

So during Thursdays freak out, I didn’t eat.  It felt good, the hunger felt good, the power over my appetite felt good. My body remembered and it felt familiar and right, being hungry, not eating.

When I woke up this morning, my bones remembered.  I felt the sheets and blankets on my hip bones and my ribs, even though I’m currently overweight, something in my bones remembered and I was comforted by the feeling of my bones. I used to grab on to my hip bones, feel the scoop in my belly between them and grab onto the bones and get comforted by that…I want that feeling again.

I didn’t eat on Thursday or Friday, I ate a little bit today. I want to feel comforted by my bones again, god I love that feeling in my bones, I need to feel that again… comforted by control over my appetites, by my size…but most of all by my bones.

I hate myself.  I feel fragile, like whatever it is that is ME has been in a terrible accident, is really wounded and is not ok…

I’m confronting just how selfish, self centered I am and I hate what I’m seeing.  Confronting how dependent I am, confronting my total lack of inner resources to deal with crisis, no matter how small.  I hate me.  I really despise me.

I want to clam up in therapy.  I feel embarrassed for freaking out and I feel ashamed for showing  my vulnerability to T, for calling and being weak.

DH’s hand looked a lot better today.  Clinic called and he tested positive for staph, so continue meds.  I know that he dodged a bullet, and he doesn’t appreciate how close he came to some pretty bad shit happening. I’m not sure that he is out of the woods yet, either and he thinks that he is.

He puts me in such a horrid position, he refuses to take care of himself and I see the adverse effects, so I end up taking on one of many different roles: nagging fish wife; one of pleading him to take care of himself and I DESPISE being put in that position; one of letting what happens due to his behavior happen, but then I take on the blame for the consequences and I then have to live with the guilt of causing the bad shit to happen.

I’m shaking again, my whole being is shaking just writing this out. I think I’m going to lose it again, have a break down.  It takes little for me to start having physical symptoms, shaking, heart pounding…I’m too far gone to relax.

so I look for pills to take but I have none right now.  No wine.  Maybe I can find comfort in my bones again, for a season, because I need them right now, they got me through hell in the past, my bones and my hunger can get me through this, too…

catching up, making sense of it all

(4-3-09)

DH isn’t out of the woods yet.  If his hand isn’t noticeably better by tomorrow evening, he has to have surgery. Doc thinks he has an abscess.  He told DH to soak it 4x daily in Dreft but DH “forgot” about it until I asked him if the doc wanted him to do any think like soaking it.  Why?  Why does DH refuse to ACT unless someone TELLS him to?  I get pissed off all over again and go to the store to buy the damn Dreft.

I’m thinking more rationally today.  I am embarrassed by my freak out.  I feel very fragile though.  Tears and another freak out are just under the surface.  I’m very tired.

I think that some of this weird over-reaction also has to do with the fact that the boys and I are so very dependent on DH for everything that I really freak out when that is threatened in any way.  I need to become independent, I really need to be able to provide for us. I’ve been emotionally dependent on him ever since I met him.  I didn’t realize how strong that still is. I feel so frantic when I feel that he might be taken away from me.  I can’t even name the emotion, but it’s a terrible feeling, a panicked, hysterical, terrified feeling. It’s primal.  I am ashamed of this. It’s not normal or healthy.

I’m worried that if DH does need surgery, which will be done out patient but under general anesthesia in the CITY, where I am totally unfamiliar and have no idea where anything is or where I’m going, I’m worried that DH wont be able to tell me how to get home due to the anesthesia, and I wont be able to figure it out.  But this is a few days away, IF it happens at all.  I need to stay present, in THIS moment.

I’m disturbed by how easily I spun into some very dangerous thinking and actions.

Just some thoughts on calling T for help yesterday.  I honestly don’t even remember what I told him, I think I remember most of what he told me.  The big thing is, I called.  I really HATE calling for help.  Just making the call, knowing that someone actually gave a shit, at least at that moment anyway, grounded me a little, brought me down. Hearing the voice of reason brought me down.  When I found myself ruminating, I could hear T’s voice telling me to focus on other things so I don’t ruminate.

and I lose it.

(4-2-09)

Looks like I wont be alone after all.

How to put the story together so it will makes sense….here goes:

DH cut his hand a couple of weeks ago.  When I first saw it, it looked red, inflamed and dirty.  I told him to wash it, put some antibiotic ointment on it and bandage it.  He refused to do so. I felt very frustrated, but decided that I couldn’t make him take care of it so I let it go.

Fast-forward to yesterday afternoon. DS1 (my son) had a med check with his pdoc.  DH took him.  Pdoc sees DH’s very swollen, red hand and says, let me look at that.  You need to see the doc, it’s infected.  You need to see the doc NOW.

DS1 runs into the house when they get home and tells me what his doc said to DH.  I demand to see DH’s hand, demand that DH tell me what DS1’s doc said, and proceed to call the clinic to get him in.

After a frustrating conversation with our local clinic, I contact urgent care and get him in to be seen within the hour.

I lose it.

Here is my secret. I feel that this is my fault.  I feel guilty that I didn’t realize, or even notice how bad his hand was.  I didn’t tell him to go to the doctor. I didn’t insist that he take care of the wound.   I was too self centered, too occupied with my own damn self to even consider that other people have problems, too.  But I did this to him. It doesn’t make any sense, but I really feel responsible for this.

I feel tremendous guilt.  I feel extreme worry, I think he’ll be put in the hospital, and he may be put in tomorrow by the hand specialist, but that’s getting ahead of the story. I feel tremendous anger at DH for allowing it to get this bad.  He’s not stupid.  He knew it was getting really bad last week he admitted to me tonight.    So I yell at him.  I yell at him and I yell at him and I yell some more.  I feel frantic. I want to yell and scream and hit him.  I need to chill.  I refuse to go to the clinic with him get my hair cut instead.  I’m a jumble of conflicting emotions.

I get my hair cut, call home and lose it again.  I call my T for coaching.  He understands that I’m upset, he understands that there is something else driving this reaction but I can’t tell him that this is all my fault.  I can see him using rational mind, asking questions like, did you smear crap in it to infect it, did you keep him from going to the doctor or cleaning and dressing the wound…and of course I did not.

But he wont understand that I feel that this really is my fault anyway, he wont understand the guilt and I cannot explain it.

This is what my mind is telling me….You are such a self centered bitch that you couldn’t see that your husband’s hand is cooking an infection that could kill him?? And that’s all you can do is piss and moan and whine about your own damn self?  You piece of shit. You selfish, whining, cunt.  You deserve to die. I try to push these thoughts away but can’t.  They are no longer words, they’ve become imprinted on my soul.

I freak out every time I see DH and his grotesquely swollen, reddened hand. When I spoke with T, I told him that I wouldn’t go for a long drive, but I did.  After I get home, after talking to T, I freak out.  If I stay I’m gonna take pills.  I lose control, am on the brink of yelling and yelling and yelling some more so I leave.

I lose the fucking cell phone somewhere in my car.  It’s turned on, I can’t figure out how to turn the fucking ringer on, I can’t talk and drive at the same time so I throw it and now I can’t find it.

I want to drive hard and fast.  The music is cranked so loud I can’t think.   I blow the speakers.  I set the cruise because I keep finding myself really going fast. I realize that I have no cell, no money and it’s late. This scares me, but not enough to make me go home.

The radio blares the song “Spirit In The Sky.”  I start to sing along.  Then I start to actually listen to what I’m singing:

When I die and they lay me to rest
Gonna go to the place that’s the best
When I lay me down to die
Goin’ up to the spirit in the sky
Goin’ up to the spirit in the sky
That’s where I’m gonna go when I die
When I die and they lay me to rest
Gonna go to the place that’s the best…

Is the “Spirit in the Sky” telling me to get my ass home, that DH  is dying of this raging infection and worthless piece of shit that I am, I’m driving because I’m too selfish to put aside my own shit to help DH??  I drive until the urge to drive is gone. I drive until I am burnt out.  I turn the car around and go home.

It’s after midnight.  I wake DH and take his temperature.  Only 98.3.  This is good news, I hope.  I look at the boundary of infection marked in ink by the doctor to assess if the infection has spread.  Who the hell am I trying to kid, I’m no doctor.  He doesn’t feel worse.  Still angry, I tell him that if he ever does this again I will kill him he wont have to worry about any infection rotting his arm away. Of course I don’t mean this literally.

I turn on the TV.  John Edward is talking to the dead.  I’m not kidding.  If this “Spirit in the Sky” is trying to tell me something, it really has a twisted sense of humor.  John Edwards has not graced our TV screen for quite a few years.

I feel like I have to clean.  I do the dishes, clean the counters, mop the floor.  Aside from 2 antibiotic shots in the ass and a tetanus shot in the arm, DH has to take Keflex around the clock.  Next dose is at 4 am.  I wait until 4:00, wake him and give him his medicine and go to my room.

I haven’t eaten today.  I don’t deserve to eat. Fuck eating. Fuck hunger.

It’s 5:00 am and I’m too wound up to sleep.  Do I take extra seroquel or not?  He has to see a hand specialist in the morning, who will most likely admit him to the hospital from what DH tells me.  I need to be awake and strong and advocate for him.  I have to make up for giving him this infection.  For being a selfish bitch.  For being worthless and thankless.  I have to atone.

I’m shaking deep within my belly my whole being is shaking and I cannot relax.  I’m hanging on to sanity by my fingernails.  I’m assaulted by guilt, by crazy thoughts but I have to hold on and be strong and I can’t let anyone know what is going on because I know that it’s crazy but I can’t get myself to believe that it is not true. So I try to shove it down but it keeps coming back so I push it away again and again and again.

I can’t stop shaking.  My arms are shaking, my legs are shaking, my gut is shaking, my chest is tight.  Why the fuck can’t I just die? Why the fuck couldn’t this horrid infection have happened to me instead?  So I sit in my bed and rock and rock and rock some more.

struggles

Therapy has been difficult.  I’ve been dealing with ancient wounds.  Making progress is slow, I really don’t want to face the pain so I shut down.  T is trying to move me forward and backward at the same time it seems.

T brought up the subject of hope yesterday.  I don’t have a good relationship with hope.  T kept pressing me as to why I reject the notion of hope.  It has to do with my loss of faith.  The loss of hope and the loss of faith went hand in hand.

Then we began talking about religion.  I’m not sure I’m comfortable talking religion with him.  He is a Christian, a charismatic Christian at that.  I think he works with youth at his church.

He asked me how I lost faith and I went into it a little.  I think he understands that it wasn’t an intellectual decision on my part, in other words, I wasn’t looking at apologetics with a critical eye, trying to reconcile my basis for belief intellectually.  I’m not that smart.  I simply came to realize that Christianity did not work, not for me at any rate.

When I told t that I bought the line that God was the answer to my problems, t acted as if that was unreasonable.  That floored me.  He seemed incredulous that I would expect God to intervene in my life and be the catalyst for positive change.  I challenged him on that, but he held his ground.  I want to discuss this with him next time.

I became a born again Christian at a very dark time in my life.  My marriage was in trouble, there was physical and emotional abuse and we fought all the time.  I had 2 young girls under the age of 4 who were (and still are) precious to me.  I was isolated and alone and sinking into depression.  I could see no options for my future and lived under a profound sense of futility.

One night, as I was channel surfing I came across the Catholic channel, EWTN, and saw a little old nun with great big glasses wearing a brown habit, hopping mad and ranting about the movie, “The Last Temptation of Christ.” It was Mother Angelica I later found out.  I admit, I stopped to watch purely because I got a kick out of seeing a nun rip into someone like she was doing.  My only experience with nuns thus far had been seeing them walk in town when I went to visit my cousin during the summer.  I was fascinated with them, they wore full habits and carried an aura of holiness about them. Mother Angelica busted every stereotype that I held about nuns that night.

So I would periodically tune into EWTN to see who Mother Angelica was going to rip into next.  At some point, I began to listen to what she had to say.  I began to crave this peace that passes understanding that she spoke of, the love of Christ in our hearts and forgiveness.

She spoke of forgiveness one night, stating that through Christ’s sacrifice on the cross , our sins are forgiven, they are erased, gone forever. I had been carrying around a burden of guilt from past and present sin in my life. It sunk in that forgiveness is final.  It’s a done deal.  Sins are no more when we accept Jesus as our savior.

It sunk into my soul.  I was forgiven.  I bought a Bible and read it.  I watched various preachers on TV.  I heard the message from many sources that God is the answer.  I began to believe that God would be my answer.  He would deliver me from this life, from the hopelessness and isolation, from my sinful past, He would be my redemption.

I have always had a hard time fitting in. Friendship has always been elusive to me. I longed for a feeling of fellowship, of being part of a community. I prayed to God to change me, to transform the awkward, ugly, lonely, bitchy, clueless, hateful, spiteful person that I was into a Godly woman.   I began to go to church, expecting to be welcomed with open arms, with the hope that I would find a home, so to speak.

I longed to feel accepted, to find fellowship.  This wasn’t a mere longing for friends. It was a plea to be set free from the loneliness and isolation that had punctuated my life.  I had dug myself into a hole that I couldn’t get out of.  I really thought that God would answer my prayer.  I felt hope and staked my life on it, because I really was dying inside.

I tried for a few years to find peace and happiness, knowing that it would be found in God through Jesus Christ.  I prayed.  I repented.  I read the Bible. I went to church.  I became active in church.  I still felt so unclean, so different from everyone else. I didn’t speak the language, I didn’t dress the part.

I struggled.  I was depressed. When I sought counsel from peers and pastors, I was told that I was trying too hard, that I wasn’t trying hard enough, I was told to “let go and let God” whatever that is supposed to mean.  I had demons cast out of me, demons of rebellion, of depression, of whatever demon was fashionable at the moment.  By the way, I never felt any different when the demons were supposedly cast out.  I just felt stupid.

I prayed harder, read my Bible, listened to Christian music and read Christian books.  Despite all that, I remained isolated, filled with self hatred.

Two more children and a few years later, I broke.  I fell apart.  I found myself in the psych ward.

Where was God now? I was duped. I could no longer talk a walk that I wasn’t living. I was not a successful Christian, it simply did not work in my life the way that it worked in the lives of others. I lost faith. I lost hope. I carried a mantle of shame and guilt.  I lived in a state of hopelessness, a place of desolation and despair, emptiness and anxiety, a place of endings, never beginnings.

Even though I was now on antidepressants and mood stabilizers, I continued to fall.  The depression that followed was profound and severe.  Big chunks of time are missing, I have no memory of my youngest son’s first steps, his first words. I was easily overwhelmed with even the simplest of household tasks. I was afraid to be alone with my boys, who were 1 and 3 years old at the time. Making dinner was too much for my fractured mind.  It wasn’t until almost a year later that I began to crawl out of that hell.

It’s been many years since then.  I bear the scars from that fight.  Latching on to hope again just seems masochistic to me.  I don’t see the point of opening myself up to another fall.  I don’t think I would survive it.

the family of my dysfunction

My parents come from dysfunctional families.  My fathers side is fraught with addiction and mental health issues.  My mothers side has their own dysfunction, but addictions and alcoholism aren’t as prominent, and the exact nature of the dysfunction is harder for me to label, but it’s there.

My father has 2 brothers, they are all alcoholic.  My father’s sister has her own unique addiction problems.  I have never really gotten to know her, my mom and dad have avoided contact with her for the most part. But when we brought Gramma to see her, it became very obvious why they avoid her.

I’ve heard that B, who is married to L, is a hypochondriac. I know that she has legitimate health issues so that has always confused me.  Now I understand.  It’s not so much that she’s a hypochondriac, it’s more that her identity is based on her illnesses.

From the moment we drove up the driveway it was apparent that there were sick people in the house.  A wheelchair ramp has replaced the sidewalk.  B was on the couch, which has been modified for her use with a thick piece of foam under the cushions to get it at the proper height for her to get in and out of.  They specifically pointed that out to us. Another badge of honor, I guess. She has a walker with wheels and brakes.  She has a wheelchair.  She is connected to her oxygen compressor like a dog on a leash.  Her bottles and bottles of pills are on the coffee table. The only thing that she talked about was her various illnesses, her dialysis, the oxygen, anything related to her disabilities and infirmities.  B is a little older than my mother, who is in her mid 60’s.

B is on dialysis and wont consider a kidney transplant because she claims that her body can’t take anymore surgery and she doesn’t want to put herself through that.  I wonder if she knows that she is signing her death certificate with that decision.  Mom commented that B has so much invested in being sick that she would rather die than get well.  I got that impression as well.  It’s so sad, so very sad. Being sick and dependent on others is her whole identity, it’s how she copes with life.

B is on a pain meds, one in the form of a patch.  B has been on various meds for years.  She legally gets high every day.  She has much invested in staying stuck in her situation.  B was addicted to Valium years and years ago.

The conversations revolved around B’s illnesses in one way or another.  B’s infirmities consume her.

B has 3 grown sons.  All of them have addiction issues. They have not had dental care and each of them are missing teeth. The oldest is just plain scary.  He is angry, very angry and is alcoholic.  He doesn’t bathe,works sporadically and no one trusts him.  D has poor personal hygiene and cares little about his appearance.

D (the oldest) and Brunhilda his scary girlfriend were there. (not her real name but damn does it ever fit…)

I’m not sure who was scarier, Brunhilde or D, but I think the girlfriend wins this contest.  She actually looks a LOT like the picture.  They never smiled.  Brunhilde never spoke, she just glared at us.  D told me that his neighbor shot his dog, then showed me a picture of the dog.  That is the extent of the conversation. Then he said that he was going to scare the mailman when he came and so he did.

But as scary as D is, his life is sad.  He is doing what he needs to do in order to survive and I hate it that it means a life of anger and addiction and misery. I hate it that the extended family distrusts him and fears him due to his addictions. I can’t imagine what knowing this has done to his spirit.

B’s youngest son N lives with them.  N is really a nice guy.  It appeared to me that he takes care of them.  He put together a lunch for us, set the table etc and you could tell that he made an effort for us.  All B and L did was rag on him, cut him down.  N couldn’t do anything right in their eyes, he set dessert plates on the table instead of just serving pie from the counter, he cut the pie wrong, and on and on.  Mom and I felt really bad for him, and Mom made a  point to complement him and counter B and L’s attacks. You could tell that he tried his best to make an abnormal situation seem normal.

N has had his license taken away via DUI.  N has trouble holding down a job and drinks a lot.  No wonder, if he’s grown up in an environment in which he is constantly belittled and cut down, he couldn’t have gotten the confidence in himself to be successful.

The house, which they’ve lived in for 40 years, looks like it has never been updated. Everything is worn out and old, except the fridge. The carpet was very worn and gold colored.  It smelled. It smelled like when you leave towels in the washer too long and then dry them…kind of musty but also an icky sweet/sour smell to the odor. It looked like it could use a really good cleaning.  It looked like it was stuck in a time warp.

What struck me was how her brothers and in turn their own families have scapegoated her and used her dysfunction to deflect their own dysfunction. I could write similar stories about the dysfunction in their own families.  I hate what alcoholism has done to my family.  I hate that so many of us have turned to such destructive measures to cope with our lives.  I hate that there is so much shame and hypocrisy wrapped up this hot mess.  I hate it that the family seems to cannibalize some of us in order to survive, rather than rally around and pull us out of the hell in which we’ve found ourselves.

My therapist has commented on the dysfunction in my family. He asked me, “what are you all running from?”  I really don’t know.  I really have no idea.

A tearful reunion

The trip was a success.  We were able to transfer Gramma into the car with a little bit of difficulty.  Her mobility is very limited.  She has little strength or flexibility in her legs and that made it tricky.

Gramma is 90 years old.  Her health is great right now.  Her hearing is excellent and her mind is sharp.  She does become confused at times, but not as a general rule.  It is her mobility issues that keep her in the nursing home.  She says that she feels good and is in no pain, but she wishes that she would just die in her sleep.

She gets bored, the days are too long with nothing to fill them.  She can’t do her handwork anymore.  She is dependent on staff to get her to the bathroom, to get her up and dressed, to get her in her wheelchair and back in bed at night.  She doesn’t drink enough fluids because the nursing home is short staffed and they can’t always get her to the bathroom in time.  The blow to her dignity must be great.

We arrived in town sooner than we expected.  Gramma and my Aunt cried when they saw each other- for the first time in 2 years. It became apparent that Gramma carries a lot of guilt.  She said to me that she hasn’t been the best Gramma,  she expressed guilt at being a bad mother.  She expressed a lot of worry over her daughter’s health.  It was sad to see her distressed and not at peace with her life.   We visited for 3 hours.  It began to snow, first just flurries, then it started coming down in earnest.

The drive home was draining.  That part of the state is very flat, the highways often close in the winter due to ground blizzards, and the visibility was awful.  The snow was boiling and swirling on the road, gusts of wind would kick it up in clouds making it impossible to see the road and the traffic around me.  It took us twice as long to get home as it did to get there.

We got her back to the nursing home and settled in, then we went to a local restaurant and brought dinner to the nursing home and ate with her.  Gramma expressed her gratitude to us for bringing her to her see her daughter.  She wanted to give me something in return for doing this for her, but she has nothing.  I told her that I love her and was happy to do this for her.

I hope that Gramma can find forgiveness for herself, I hope that she finds peace in her life.  I don’t know how that can be accomplished.  She also expressed the desire to see her sister again. Her sister has Alzheimer’s and doesn’t recognize her own daughter so no one thinks that a visit would be possible or really be beneficial.  It seems that Gramma needs to find some sort of closure with her relationship with her sister, I don’t know how that can be done, either.

My concern now is that she wont have a peaceful death unless she can find peace with her life, some forgiveness of herself, some easing of the burden of guilt that she carries.