Month: December 2015

I feel like writing a list more than I feel like going out–so, yeah.

1. It doesn’t matter what day it is, the cat boxes aren’t going to clean themselves. Yuck.

2. Relatedly, we are capable of creating so many amazing things–inventing a litter scoop that doesn’t let half of the used litter fall through isn’t one of them, apparently.

3. My goals for the coming year include being kinder, being a better friend, being a better advocate (for myself and others), being a better person and just being better than this year. Clearly I have to refine them, but that’s the direction my goals are headed. It’s hard to explain, but I feel like I have a lot of catching up to do in the “better” department. All of my friends are talented and amazing–and I really question whether I can keep up sometimes. I know, I’m being hard on myself. Like that’s something new. Welcome to my brain. It’s hella perfectionistic in here. And I can totally do this.

4. In another post, I had mentioned that my cats have been begging terribly lately–with Sprinx being the worst of the bunch. Tonight, he jumped up on the table as I sat down and didn’t really know how to handle that there was nothing that he wanted to beg for. Everything was vegetarian. He just sat there giving me airplane ears and glaring at my tofu. He is a brat–it was uber funny–but I kind of feel bad that I had nothing to give him. What can I say? I’m a tender heart–or a total sucker–I guess that it depends on the day.

5. It’s no secret that I’m a total movie buff. I absolutely love movies–which is kind of weird because I’m also a huge reader and am almost always disappointed when beloved books are made into movies (spoiler alert–the books are usually way better–duh). But, I have to confess, in addition to the usual heady, talky stuff, I love horror movies (you all knew that) and really stupid, ridiculous, insipid romantic comedies. Although, only under certain circumstances–like on weekend afternoons or late at night. Yeah. 

6. In the same vein, despite everything that’s happened in my life, I still believe that actual, romantic love exists and is possible for everyone. Corny, right? I prefer to think of it as also–resilient or hopeful or possibly, delusional. Kidding. It’s definitely not delusional.

7. I really love the word, jejune. And, zesty. Jejune seems like it should mean something entirely different than it does–and zesty sounds so dirty, but isn’t. What’s not to love?

8. This one should not be news to anyone paying attention–I’m not entirely the same person as I was before February 14, 2014. As an adult (in my mid 20s-early 40s), I used to value the illusion safety and security over happiness (it’s very hard to explain how being abused fits, but that’s part of the diseased thinking that comes from long-term abuse). I was afraid of risk. In my personal life, I was subservient and actually felt thankful (in an unhealthy, self-conscious, harmful kind of way) that people wanted me around. I would do just about anything to keep them happy because I didn’t believe that I, alone, was enough. While these aren’t necessarily bad things (to a point), it’s a horrible way to go through life–always feeling like I had to prove my worth and justify my existence. I used to always believe, deep down, that I was just not one of those people who got to choose–I was stuck (mentally) being chosen–waiting for people who weren’t even close to being worthy, to choose me. Ridiculous, right? And yes, all of this is rooted, no doubt, in paternal messages in childhood and extremely destructive romantic relationships throughout my life, but placing blame is beside the point. I was a fucking mess. 

Well, that’s changed. Somehow, I started to see myself as others really saw me (as opposed to how I thought that they saw me), and it wasn’t even in the same zip code. I just wish it hadn’t taken so long to get here. 

Yeah, I may have gone too far in the opposite direction–I will grudgingly admit that–but I would much rather be fearless and more than a little reckless than be lying in another hospital bed full of regrets. I am a genuinely nice person, but I am not going to be the doormat that I used to be because I know my worth. I’m not just an object that loses my worth as I lose my utility. If you knew me before, you may not like me as much as I am now. But for the first time in a long time, I really, truly don’t care. I love who I am now–and I love being me. xo

So, yeah–today I had my first pelvic exam/pap in almost 10 years. It took me so long, mainly, through a combination of apathy, fear, avoidance and not actually remembering to make an appointment until it was late at night. It’s sounds like a cop out, but that’s the truth. I used to avoid going to the doctor at all costs. I don’t really know why, I just did. 

Looking back, I get how stupid that was–how I could have died without intervention when my heart got so bad that it started sending up flares to alert me that something was wrong. I kicked up a TIA (transient ischemic attack), and I ignored it–not for nothing, I did ask my mom about it–and she told me to relax, that it wasn’t a stroke and to go put my feet up. I still give her crap about it, but she doesn’t find it nearly as amusing as I do. I’ve told her so many times that it’s not her fault, that she had no way of knowing–but I don’t think that she’ll ever forgive herself–and that makes me very sad. 

Once my heart knew that I didn’t take the hint, she threw some blindness at me (in my left eye). That’s what it took to get me in to see a doctor–I was worried that it was a detached retina and knew that those had to be treated ASAP. It wasn’t a detached retina. My blood pressure was causing all sorts of vessels in the backs of my eyes to burst and there was significant damage to my optic nerve. Thankfully, my eye doctor doesn’t fuck around and was very, very aggressive in treating my eyes while I worked to get my BP down. It’s strange, but he’s the second doctor to literally save my life in a very non-dramatic way. It’s amazing how intricate the tests are for back-of-the-eye issues. We could literally track my progress over time  and actually see the landscape changing back to normal in the films that he took each time that I was there. 

Anyhow, I digress. Back to today. The exam itself was really fast–and I was waiting to see if she thought that anything looked weird or problematic. Thankfully, everything looked good–now I will just wait until my test results post on My Health and I can see what’s up. Apparently, almost all of the adult population carries HPV–it just all depends on which strain. I have only had one plantars wart when I was a kid–so, that’s my entire experience with warts of any kind. I just hope and pray that everything will be okay and normal. 

On a funnier note, I spent a whole lot of time that I can never get back worrying about shaving my legs. I didn’t get a chance to this morning and I was really wound up about it. Turns out, no one cares–well, in this context. I also wore my  Cookie Monster panties. It wasn’t intentional and when I was changing, I made sure to hide them under my shirt and bra on the chair. Want to feel ridiculous? Strip down in a doctor’s office and remeber at that very inconvenient moment that you have on Sesame Street panties. Like I needed to find something else to make me self concious. It was actually funny–and I think that I may have alarmed them more by my folding everything, including the gown and used paper on the exam table. It shouldn’t surprise anyone who knows me well. 

All in all, I’m glad I kept my appointment and went in for the exam. I am concerned that they may find a problem, but pray that they won’t. I’m aware that cervical cancer usually grows slowly–but it defies logic to think that I would be relatively healthy and symptom free if I’d been carrying cancer in my cervix for the last 10 years. I even got my dad to grudgingly admit that. That, added to the fact that I have literally been checked for everything when I was in the ER last year. Unless they were trying to lower my BP by actually removing blood from my body, all of the middle of the night blood draws had to be for something.  They took 6 to 12 vials every hour for the first 2 nights that I was in ICU. It’s a terrible way to wake up. Trust me on this. 

Anyhow, one of the very best things that happened today at my appointment was when she was listening to my heart–she listened from a few different places on my chest and back–I asked her, “How is she sounding today? Regular?” And she said, “She sounds really good.” That’s music to my ears.

**All information contained in this post is a reflection of the author’s life and memory–and is ALL a matter of opinion and personal point of view.

So, yeah–today, I read some sort of meme about how scars make good stories. It sure is pretty to think so.  Perhaps, that concept originated with someone who has a fun, bawdy story or two about how she got a cute scar on her knee or chin or wherever–that she tells to the new people in her life as they enter it and get to know her. We probably all have a scar story that is way more funny than tragic–but living with the tragic ones is, at least in part, what makes us who we are in a more profound way. 

My scars are both visible and hidden–I have a lot. Most of them are hidden under my clothes or under tattoos–the dog bite, the slash from a knife, my surgical scars and so many others that I would love to tell you about, but dwelling on the details and minutiae of the past and going where my nightmares live is not something that I’m up to right now. You’ll hear all about most of those scars eventually anyway.

It’s tricky to write about this. Mainly, because Adolf is a litigious prick (IMHO) who would love nothing more than to drag me into court for one reason or another–and I don’t want to give him the ammunition. 

It’s defensible to say that the environment  of our marriage was extremely unhappy, at best–and violent, torturous and coercive at worst (IMO–in my opinion). No true consent existed in that relationship, as far as I’m concerned, unless you count wearing someone down verbally, emotionally and with what is basically sexual battery, until that person will do anything just to be rid of you. And, if that is your idea of consent, then we can’t be friends. Seriously.

My point? We all have scars and we all have our stories–but some of us have actual, physical scars that we can’t ignore–that remind us of what happened and how far we’ve come every single day. And in my case, I have certain scars that affect my “personal” health on a very regular basis–which is why I’m writing about this now–because maybe by talking about it, it will be less aggravating, less painful, less powerful, less present. I’m hopeful that you all, as adults, can read between the lines and figure out what the hell I’m talking about.  

And even with all of this–those scars can’t hold a candle to the damage that he (Adolf) did emotionally and psychologically. Imagine living for over a decade with a man who not only gets off on hurting you in every way imaginable–but who also constantly tells you that you’re stupid, useless, ugly, that no one will ever want you because you’re damaged, stupid, useless, ugly, etc.–all while, at the same time, referring to you as a trophy or piece of ass to others–bragging about your accomplishments because he has none of his own. It was all very contradictory and awful. And this is just a  small glimpse into what a relationship looks like when domestic violence is present. 

And before any eyerolling happens (this is where I’d probably roll my eyes, tbh), I’m telling you this, gorgeous friends, because this is my last step in healing–not because I’m all, “poor me”. I am not that chick–the one who wants attention and pity and rescuing. Hells no. I’d rather remarry Adolf than be anyone’s pity project. 

I expect that this step in healing will take a while, but I’m almost there. I don’t hear his verbal abuse in my head every minute of every day. I’m actually making more close friends than I’ve I ever dared to before–people who are good and kind and trustworthy. And I still have my close friends who stood by me through everything even when they had no idea what was going on with me most of the time. They made me be out in the world, away from my house and away from the abyss–and I owe them a debt of gratitude that will never be completely paid. 

So there’s that. If any of the above paragraph applies to you, be patient and bear with me–there will be days that I will be in a funk and so very down on myself. I get that it’s bothersome–but it’s part of the healing. Abuse happens in private for a reason. When it’s out in the open, it loses its power the minute you see the horrified looks on the faces of any people who witness it. That’s what this post is–a very public way to exorcise my demons so that I can be done with him and his crap once and for all. xo

So, yeah–I have to start by saying thank you, gorgeous friends, for caring enough to read my posts. I always thought my life was pretty boring–I guess that I was wrong. 

If you didn’t already know, J and I broke up a while ago, and it feels so good to be taking care of only myself–either you know exactly what I mean or you have no idea. Being the caretaker of another (capable) adult is challenging. Who am I kidding? It sucks–like really, really. And when I was free of that, at first, I was a little paralyzed. I didn’t really know how to  live without putting another person first. 

It sounds way more pathetic than it actually was, but hopefully, you know what I mean. For once in a VERY long time, it was all about me in terms of  what I wanted to do, where I wanted to go, who I wanted to go there with, etc. I was and am accountable only to myself. And I really, really like it. More specifically, I used to have to be very careful of what I said and how I behaved around J. I didn’t realize how tedious our interactions had become until they weren’t really there anymore. 

It’s actually really hard for me to write about this, not because it hurts (although it does–less now than before), but because I don’t want to hurt him or the people who love him and still see him as a sweet, little boy. He is sweet when he wants to be, but it all still feels like a manipulation–that the minute I do something that pisses him off, that sweetness will be gone and I’ll be left with the apathetic person that lived on my couch, drinking and caring only about himself. 

And while before, he always threatened me with not trying to get sober (he promised that he would God knows how many times)–not overt threats, but the kind that you know are there, implied in every interaction; now that he is sober, the threat is that he’ll start drinking again. It’s a new one and it pisses me off more than I can really describe. This will be his new way of manipulating me –IF I allow it–and I’m really not inclined to. As much as I want to believe that I owe him nothing because all he did was take–I still can’t stand the idea of hurting people–especially one who was a big part of my life  for so long. xo

When I first started this blog, I promised myself that I would be as open and honest as possible. And those goals often stand in contrast with the fact that you have to live with the fallout from being so. It’s easy to say that I shouldn’t care–it’s much harder to live it. xo

So, yeah–this has been a crazy, fucked-up week, both personally and in the larger scheme of things. So much focus has been about mortality–my own and that of my loved ones. And I hate thinking about anything that involves harm to the people I love. 

Last Monday, I had a big test on my heart–and I was lucky enough not to have to go through it alone. I am eternally grateful for for that and for the person who kept me company and kept me sane. It was above and beyond. Mad, mad respect.

Waiting for the results was torture. Everything came out normal, so that was a huge relief. Not that anyone would even know that I am sick unless I told them. I don’t seem sick–and that makes dealing with my heart stuff so much harder–hell, most days, I can even fool myself. 

The biggest restriction that I have b/c of my heart is that I’m not supposed to lift anything heavier than 10 lbs–and that’s not even remotely possible. I hate asking anyone for help, so I pretty much do my own lifting–and will likely continue to do so. I know that that sounds childish, but there is just something about not wanting to be dependent that drives me to ignore my Dr. when it comes to this restriction. It’s bad enough that I have to ask strangers in grocery stores to get things off of the higher shelves for me when scaling them isn’t an option (the shelves, not the strangers, although I could probably make that happen with the strangers if I was so inclined)–I refuse to make someone else carry all of my stuff too. Yeah, no.

For those of you who have no idea what I’m talking about–I found out on Valentine’s Day 2014 that my heart is extremely compromised–about 65% of my left ventricle is black (that’s what my Dr. said, and it was confirmed by the tech who did my echocardiogram)–and they don’t know if that is dead tissue or if it can heal. It’s becoming more likely that it’s the former, given that it isn’t really healing at all. They believe it to be (their best guess is) a birth defect that was exacerbated by long-term, extremely high BP (likely caused, in part, by the heart defect and by genetics–a vicious circle). How do I know? I’ve been checked for EVERYTHING and there is no good explanation for why I have high BP other than the reasons given above.

Strangely, this should have been caught somewhere around 1998 or 1999. My then-Dr. noticed that there was something wrong with the sounds that my heart made and sent me for an echocardiogram–but the tech doing the test was sobbing the entire time (she was going through a very recent breakup–like, right before my appointment), and it was basically useless–she never even finished the test. I never followed up and went for the do-over one. I was far too busy building my practice and attempting to keep my sanity (Adolf never let me be out of contact with him for more than an hour at a time–this included multiple calls to my cell while I was in court, in client meetings, doing jail visits, etc.).

The strange sounds were noticed again during a pre-employment physical, along with elevated blood pressure, but by then, I was too busy and too afraid to go in and be checked out more thoroughly. I know, I know–that’s abject stupidity–but, in my defense, I was hiding the daily abuse that I was living with and you really don’t think very well when your main focus is just getting through each day without a huge blowup. The high BP was explained away by the Adderall that I was taking for ADHD. If I knew then what I know now, I would have known that high BP ran in both sides of my family very strongly, including in my parents. I would have also known that my maternal grandfather had his first heart attack at 34–and that heart problems are what made him disabled at a relatively young age. Heart problems (which led to a fatal stroke) also killed my paternal grandfather at age 50. 

So, there you have it. That’s the thumbnail version of what my damage is–well, the heart part anyway. My life exists in two parts–before and after. There is so much more to it, but I can say that having my heart stop for that very short time that it did changed me in a lot of ways–some that I have yet to discover, I’m sure. But, I’m still me–and I love being me. xo