Pieces Of Me

I Don’t Have Time For This

Miss Poison Writing , , , , , , , ,

“I am a migraine, that occasionally gets to be a human-being.”  😦

In preparation to meet with my new neurologist next month, I forwarded a copy of my current migraine report to myself so I can print it and bring it with me. In one month, which was recent, I counted thirty migraine days. That’s not just “chronic”; that’s unfair. No one should have to live like that.

When people see me pushing through my migraines by continuing to write, by going places (which isn’t often), by running errands, etc., they assume I’m okay. I’m NOT okay, but I have learned, in the nearly twenty years I’ve suffered from migraines, when I can push myself and when I cannot. I pay dearly for it, but I also think sometimes it’s unhealthy to be in your room 24/7, never leaving the house, never breathing fresh air, because while you’re suffering, life is also passing you by. I’ve lost an enormous chunk of my life being sick, and not just with migraines. It’s hard not to feel robbed at times.

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I wish I fully believed this.

At a doctor’s appointment at the end of last month, I stupidly felt incredibly trusting of my new physician. In the last six or seven minutes, he revealed he’d be leaving in six weeks. I’ve never seen a doctor wince when he looked at me, but whatever my eyes or face did in that moment, and I’m truly not sure what either of them did because I tried to play it off with humor, I can say that I’ve had cheating boyfriends not look at me with that kind of pain on their face.

When I left his office that day, I sat outside for over forty-five minutes contemplating the effort it took for me to get there in the first place. Physically, mentally, and emotionally; it was a LOT. The strength it took to open up and be comfortable with someone new was monumental. If I didn’t truly need to be there, I wouldn’t have been. But that’s the thing; I did feel comfortable. I’ve never walked into a situation completely at ease with the other person. Perhaps that’s why I felt the way I did walking out.

As I went over my thoughts, I also went through every emotional range you could think of. I nearly went back upstairs and told him off, except I actually like him, which is SO rare; I’d follow him to China, and I’m completely in my comfort zone admitting that to all of you.

I NEVER like doctors immediately. I tolerate them, but I never actually like them or invest anything other than civility into them. When you’ve been burned a lot, you learn precisely how to carefully guard yourself, and with doctors, I simply don’t have a whole lot of trust to give. I’ve had too many fail me personally.

I understand that doctors have contracts and non-compete clauses, and can’t always take patients with them, but I have no intention of staying with this practice if I’m not going to be understood by the person who “replaces” him, as if that can be done. What’s the point? If I’m not going to be treated with the same level of courtesy, kindness, and respect; I’m out. I don’t have to stick around if I’m not getting what I need out of the situation. I simply don’t need the bullshit.

I am going into my next appointment pretty fucking angry. It’s SO unprofessional to still be seeing new patients 6-8 weeks before you leave. I know that wasn’t his call, so technically I am not blaming him, but I still have the right to deem it unprofessional and be pissed.

When I spoke with him to let him know that the medication he’d prescribed had some adverse side effects which I can’t tolerate, it just plain made me sad to listen to our conversation because we have this great rapport, which is rare for me to have with someone immediately. I’ve searched FOREVER for a doctor that “gets it” and ultimately, gets me.

I haven’t felt right since leaving that first appointment. Not mentally, not emotionally, and physically, I’ve felt weakened and messy in the sense that I am slowed down from a physical perspective. It was like taking an emotionally draining beating, except the only physical interaction was a handshake. When was the last time a doctor said it was a pleasure meeting me? A long time. I’m starting to think psychiatrists think I’m an interesting case-study.

I’m both too young, and too old, not to mention far too smart, to place faith in people and be left hanging again and again.

The relationship between doctor and patient is based on trust. If you cannot trust someone, then they cannot be your doctor. There are certain types of medicine where this is even more crucial because you have to communicate with your doctor on a regular basis. If you don’t feel you can be open and honest, it won’t work.

Consistency with the person you’re seeing is important, at least it is for me. I don’t want to build trust with someone and have to start over again with someone new. I’ve done it so many times already and I don’t want to do it again. This, in my mind, was the last time I’d planned on making an effort. I went into this new situation kicking and screaming. I tried talking myself out of the appointment the morning of, so clearly, I already sensed all was not right in Whoville. I don’t know if there are still pieces of me left at ground zero, but I DO know I walked away a different person.

When he asked me to describe myself, I noticed that he disagreed with my assessment. He doesn’t think I’m a broken, pretty mess. He actually said “I can’t put you in a box because you don’t fit in any of the tiny boxes. I could, but it would be wrong, and that’s not fair to you.” I can’t tell you how long I’ve waited to hear a doctor say that to me, but it’s been the majority of my life. Someone else would check off as many of the boxes as they could, add on diagnosis codes ‘til they’re blue in the face, and send me on my way instead of taking the time to truly help me. He not only wants to help me; he’s making an effort. But in doing so, he’s upsetting me because he won’t be there much longer, and ultimately, where the hell does that leave me? Letting me know I’ll be getting a new doctor and a therapist did not leave me reassured; it only pissed me off.

Square one is not a fun place to be. I was already at square one when I showed up in his office. I kept my appointment, I filled out the insane paperwork in the biggest rush known to man (I had a fucking field day with the race/ancestry pages. I didn’t know we’d be doing that, but hey, they asked the RIGHT GIRL. I’m pretty sure I missed a few countries my family has ties to. I love how my paperwork says White/Caucasian because the office determined that by my skin tone. I may have some European ancestry, but I checked off Other on the forms.), I sat with him for nearly an hour, and I haven’t been okay since. I walked out feeling like an idiot for showing up.

When I see him next week, I am not entirely certain what I’ll say. That’s why I’m writing it out of my system. I need the catharsis, and he needs to know that by seeing me late in the game and not immediately disclosing his role in things, it was a gross error in judgment. If I needed someone to care about me temporarily, well, I’ve got family for that. Quite frankly, I’m at the point where I prefer for my insurance to pay for people to care about me, as opposed to dealing with people who should care simply because it’s what you do. I am the polar opposite of the majority of my relatives, and while I am grateful I was raised right, it can be lonely to be the standout.

The one diagnosis I did come away with was shocking, at least for me. I knew I was experiencing PTSD. I’m much smarter than I let on, and this was probably the second doctor’s appointment this year where I dumbed myself down on some level, but ultimately C-PTSD, or Complex PTSD, is more common in military personnel returning from active combat. It is also prevalent in veterans. Anyone can be diagnosed with this, though. Trauma is trauma, there’s no getting around it. The discussion we had about trauma itself brought up a lot of things I thought I’d moved past and dealt with. This is precisely why I’ve felt worse since meeting with him. He picked at all of my old scars and opened them up with surgical precision. A therapist normally does that slowly, over time. Instead, he removed the sutures that keep me together without knowing it, and I’m slowly bleeding to death. It’s messing with my ability to function. Quite frankly, I’m surprised sharks haven’t found me and vultures haven’t picked my bones clean.

I’ve been unable to do a whole lot since that day. There have been days where I’ve barely been able to get out of bed or articulate how upset I am. I’m incredibly self-contained most of the time because I’m very much inside my own head, so if you get me talking, I don’t always stop. On the plus side, no one disagrees with my thought process in terms of how I feel on this subject. I will be about 75-90% less forthcoming with a new doctor because I already feel like my trust is shattered. But the truth is, it’s not just shattered, it’s broken. It’s an awful feeling. And yes, I pretty much have it in my mind that once he leaves, I will, too. I don’t foresee myself committing to someone new, not unless they make a damned good case in twenty minutes or less. I do not have time for another doctor to attempt to earn my trust. It’s gone.

Ultimately, there aren’t a lot of medication options left for me, and unless you’re on medication, I don’t feel you actively need to be seeing specific types of doctors. I wouldn’t go to see a surgeon unless another doctor believed I might need to have surgery, or I needed a consult, or I was recovering from surgery. It’s all very common-sense based in my eyes. Either you need to be seeing someone, or you don’t. I certainly don’t want to waste my time if a doctor isn’t going to be there for me. That’s not how the relationship works. I would rather invest more time with my doctor, someone who is fully engaged, than with someone who could, for all I know, be playing Candy Crush Saga on the other side of the room, but tell me they’re “taking notes” on their phone.

I keep saying “I don’t have time for this.”, because I don’t. Life is so fucking short. Your support systems, from personal to professional to medical, all need to be in sync with who you are as a person and what you need. If they’re not, then you have to be honest with them. If you still don’t get what you need through that honesty, then yes, you must walk away. And sadly, you have to be okay in doing so. No matter how painful it is.

He may not agree with me, but I know what a broken, pretty mess looks and feels like. I may have walked into his office like I was going on a date (That wasn’t my intent.), but that’s usually how I go to doctor’s appointments. Someone told me last night that my face masks all of the pain I am in. I asked if that made me fake, and they said no, it’s just a point of pride for me. I feel like crap, but I don’t have to look like crap, too. So yes, I put forth effort into looking like a human-being, but by no means is it a “mask”. It’s not false, it’s just art work. On my face.

A good doctor usually talks to me like a peer or colleague almost immediately, which he did. Technically, he and I ARE peers. I enjoy people who treat me like a person. They’re rare, but they exist, and it makes it easier to deal with someone when they don’t have a superiority complex. He made me feel like I was talking to a friend the entire time, someone I’d known for years. That’s incredibly rare.

A huge part of me doesn’t want to go back, but I said I would, and I’m dreading having opened my mouth. I keep saying I don’t want to go. I genuinely don’t. I spend enough time being angry, and I don’t want to walk out of there angrier than I already am.

I know he said he’d “do his homework” when we talked because he “really wants to help me”, but I’m sitting here wondering precisely where this appointment will take me, and who the hell I’ll be dealing with once he leaves, and whether or not it’s worth my time. I’m tired of leaving doctor’s appointments dejected. This one was no different.

I texted a close friend immediately afterward and said “Psych eval went great. Love the new doctor…but he’s leaving in six weeks.” and her reply was “What.The.FUCK! That’s not right! Nor is it fair to you. I’m so sorry, Li.” She knows I NEVER say I like or love a doctor, EVER, so at first she was happy for me, until she read the rest of what I said. I texted a second friend when I got home and she basically said the same thing. My friends were outraged. They knew how long I’d waited for this appointment and how much I’ve been through waiting for help in this Godforsaken state (It’s like living on another planet where they sort of speak the same language, but think I “talk funny”. I believe it’s called ‘enunciation’.). One person after another was shocked, but thankfully, all supportive of me. That helped me get through any doubts I had about whether or not to say something. As if I’ve ever needed my friends to tell me to be myself or to hold back.

I’m the one who has encouraged them to get help when they have needed it, and one friend in particular was in pretty bad shape before I stepped in and forced her to seek out therapy and medication. She’s not happier for having done it, but at least now, she’s on a path, and that is a positive thing. My honesty and experience helped someone else get the help they needed, and they were able to walk in with some knowledge instead of going into the situation uneducated. If my pain can help others navigate dark waters, that’s great. I’ll hold your hand through the bad times and stick with you through the good. However, I’m standing here on a ledge, wondering what the hell I’m going to do. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’ve already drowned and this is all a nightmare, or a hallucination.

I’ve done all of this before, more times than I care to count. This insanity began at a very young age for me. Every single doctor and therapist has, at one point or another, walked away. I have walked away from those who’ve had zero intention of helping me and many who were some of the most burnt out, unpleasant people I’ve ever spent time with, and let’s not discuss how negative their energy was. There was one doctor who I nearly threw out of a third story window because she was one of the most vile people I’d ever met; caring only to write prescriptions, but barely looking up at you and seeing you as a person or a patient. The first doctor I ever encountered threatened to hospitalize me less than ten minutes into meeting me because he “didn’t like my attitude”. He tried to turn me against my mother and when I told her about it, she informed him that I’d no longer be seeing him. He had the gall to call the house and demand to know why I didn’t show up for my appointment, playing the role of the injured party to attempt to manipulate her into bringing me back. My mother didn’t often lose her temper on people, but she did tell him off, and she supported my decision not to return to someone who, behind closed doors, was treating me differently than when she was in the room. He had no intention of ever helping me, or understanding precisely what the issues were. I was a product of my environment at the time and he was trying to abuse his authority. I know he thought he had the ability to brainwash me, but he underestimated my sense of self, and that’s where he failed. No matter what someone tries to spew at me, I know who I am.

So here I am all these years later; I finally meet someone with positive energy, a good attitude, and a healthy mind-set, someone who isn’t looking to shove drugs down my throat, and naturally that person would be leaving. Honestly, why don’t you just shoot me?!

Maybe I’m on a short list of people in this world that likes consistency in their physicians, but I not only like it, I need to know who the hell I am dealing with. I don’t have time for games, nor do I care to be passed around from one doctor to the next like a game of ping-pong. The last time I checked, I was still a human-being. In a vampire-esque sort of way. With the occasional use of a daylight ring (Huge points to anyone who understands those references.).

Just as I need consistency, I am consistent. I apologize in advance to the doctor that’s about to meet the polar opposite of who he first met, but sometimes, the bitch card comes out. If you really want to help me, do right by me. I wasn’t kidding when I said I don’t have time for this. No one can get better when they’re being jerked around.

How much damage can I do in twenty minutes? I’m about to find out.

Lisa-blue copyright © 2017 by Lisa Marino & Blackbird Serenity, LLC. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

Privacy Isn’t A Setting

Miss Poison Writing , , , , , , ,

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A few days ago it dawned on me precisely what bugs me most about some of my family members. To be fair, it’s probably in my top ten things that bug me about them. It’s not just the fact that their combined I.Q. is my shoe size (I’m a nine, in case you were wondering.), but their flagrant use of personal information and photos on social media makes me cringe. Their motto seems to be “put it on social media, and that will make it true”, when in reality, photos are often artifice.

A year or two ago a “friend” pointed out that I have zero photos of myself on Facebook. She had actually gone through every single album of mine (Who DOES THAT?!) before messaging me to demand that I send her a photo of myself “because we’ve been friends for so long and she has a right to know what I look like”. I nearly laughed myself onto the floor at her audacity. My response went a little something like this: “I’m an EXTREMELY private person. I utilize social media for work and to keep in touch with close friends who live far away, but that does not mean I owe anyone the rights to my private life, and that includes personal photos.” In response, she claimed she was “super private too”, which is laughable because she is constantly posting photos of herself, as if she’s trying to prove something. I went on to describe myself as a “little old lady with blue hair and no teeth” and further stated I was “somewhere between age 10-100 and she could choose one she felt best fit the profile.” She hasn’t spoken to me much since, and I’m good with that because the truth is, it’s not a deep, personal friendship, nor has it ever been. She’s mostly an acquaintance, despite “knowing me” for over twenty years. This chick couldn’t tell you a damn thing about me without Facebook to remind her, so I wouldn’t exactly call her a friend. The fact that she feels the need to report that her new dog farts more than her husband is really unnecessary. I cannot imagine saying or sharing something like that on social media. It’s inappropriate, but to each their own? :/

My best friend Marion flew from Germany to meet me after we’d been friends for several years. She had zero clue what I looked like, other than knowing I had long dark hair and light eyes, and that I’m very fair on the complexion side. When I met her at the airport, it was like we’d been friends forever. My hair color has changed so many times during over 20+ year friendship, and she will swear up and down that I’m stunningly gorgeous. I’m concerned she has cataracts. 😛 I simply do not see what my friends see when they look at me. They will all say I’m not what I describe. Other than stating my current hair color, height, and the best description of my eyes I can give, there’s no other way to say “short and pale”. There’s a reason that when I wear heels, they’re at least 3-6 inches high.

But I digress; privacy is crucial to how I live my life. I write the truth, I speak my mind, I say precisely what others think and may not have the courage to say, but I don’t even mention my cat’s names on here. I made that decision for privacy’s sake, and because a friend started calling them Cat and Kitten and I thought it was cute. Suffice it to say, they have very unique, creative names that I’m proud of. When someone does happen to hear their names and the story behind them, they’re impressed. I am always complimented for my creativity in pet names. Fluffy, Mittens, Pumpkin, Princess, Muffin, Buttons, Cookie, etc., that shit does NOT fly with me. I also don’t use human names for pets. It’s a rule.

When I refer to a guy, I often use his middle or last name. That might very well be what I call him in every day life, but again, it’s very much a privacy thing. I’m not posting photos of him and invading his personal life, or bringing direct attention to his place of employment. If you’re in a relationship with a writer, you know you’re going to be written about in some capacity somewhere along the line, but you also need to know ahead of time to be on your best behavior before I break out the Taylor Swift songs. 😉

I’ve written about a lot of people in passing, and I’ve never named names. My brother’s name is not a secret, but that’s an entirely different story and YES, I struggled with that SO MUCH. Ultimately his health is so much more important than my protecting him. Spreading the word about what he’s going through and getting him some much-needed help is far more important. He has yet to have anyone approach him and ask if he’s my brother, so I think he’s good, at least on that level. The fact that he no longer looks healthy might have something to do with that. 😦 As for the rest, not so much. It seems people are much more apt to helping an animal than a human-being. I’ve never understood that. It makes me cringe to see how much humanity humans have lost.

I don’t remember exactly when I started my Instagram account, but I can tell you that it’s original intent was for my work as a makeup artist. It isn’t attached to this platform because they’re separate, for obvious reasons. Thus far, it is full of photos of flowers, food, a few makeup items, and one or two cat photos. Like I said, not my original intent. But again, I struggle HARD with posting photos of my completed work on myself, often deleting forty photos every day I put makeup on because they’re “not good enough” or because I’ve deemed the angle “weird”, which it usually is. I don’t mess with the filters, either. If you don’t look good the first time, then retake the photo and keep going until you get the most accurate portrayal of your work. Thus far, I’ve shared exactly two photos with close friends, and no one else. Posting it online crosses such an immense personal line for me because privacy is mandatory in my life, and once you throw yourself into cyberspace in such a manner, privacy is dead and buried. It becomes a setting, and nothing more. I’m not okay with that.

So to see my family posting hideous photos of their newborn genuinely makes me cringe (I’m not exaggerating. I know cute when I see cute. That baby is NOT cute.). Why do people feel the need to post announcements on Facebook to thousands of their “closest friends and family”? Anyone can snatch up those photos, especially the ones that had personal info on them in the background, and the baby’s wrist band, and track you down. It’s a simple fact. If I could zoom in on them, which I did not because I don’t care to do so, what would a stranger do? If that occurred to me, why did this NOT occur to them with a newborn in their arms?!

When did birth announcements go out of style? Is it too hard to mail a fucking envelope? I would NEVER publicly put a newborn on display like that. Not online, not en masse, and certainly NOT because I feel the need to show off. I’ve never posted a photo of my Goddaughter for that precise reason. Not her baby photos and not a current photo. She is a CHILD and it is my job to PROTECT her. The Internet is a place of exploitation; it does not promote the healthiest “sharing” experience for photos of babies and children. Let’s call that my detective brain, but it’s also common sense, which is something sorely lacking in today’s society. I’d rather be slightly paranoid than the stupidest person on the planet.

My cousins needs to STOP. Give the kid a few months before you show me photos (Upwards of sixty per day. Honestly, he hasn’t gotten better-looking since being born on Friday and hasn’t done anything even remotely interesting, so please save the photos for yourself! Stick them in an album until he’s thirty.), and PLEASE, pour me a double shot of Kentucky’s finest bourbon first because, EWWW! Yes, I have very high standards on newborn cuteness. They’re called “my baby photos”. If you can’t compete with them, you’re not a cute baby. These are the facts. I’m just being honest. I truly lack the ability to lie and tell you your baby is cute. My face will give it away in half a second.

It’s wonderful that the baby is healthy, despite being born three weeks early. My cousin actually looks like he’s going to puke in a few photos holding him. Again, I feel like there should be some semblance of privacy there. Keep SOMETHING to yourselves. He’s not the one posting them though; it’s his wife. Whatever she wants, he acquiesces to. I find it unnerving.

I had to make an executive decision to block everything from here on in because I cannot abide by what they’re doing. On top of making me uncomfortable from a privacy perspective, you’re letting people know precisely where you are at all times. We don’t live in the safest world and it’s important to be smart about what you post and how you go about it. Announcing “Home from the hospital.” was one of the stupidest things I’ve seen him do, but I ignored it. I’m going to ignore a lot from now on because these are not people who enjoy the truth. They’re people who want what they want, when they want it, and genuinely seem to enjoy burying their head in the sand.

The other decision I made was to prioritize my health, and in doing so, I will not be attending the Bris. My cousins don’t know this yet, but after being told it would be the end of this month earlier this year (the due date was the 25th), that was what I’d prepared for. First babies are usually on time or late. Based on his healthy weight and size, I can only assume the due date may have been miscalculated since my cousins’ labor was induced due to high blood pressure. Instead of the Bris being the original date I was given, it is this Friday. In the middle of the day. I am battling migraine after migraine with no break. I am dealing with too much pain within my body. I am NOT okay to be in a space with the nearly 200 invited guests (I shit you NOT! I’m baffled by this. 100% a “Facebook event”. I’ve decided to not respond at all. They won’t even notice I’m not there.) and a newborn. I can’t do that to myself.

I will go on my own, at another time, and bring them gifts. Forty-five minutes, maybe an hour, and I won’t have to deal with an over-crowded apartment and loud noises. I fully intended to be there for him, but his parents and all of his siblings will be there, so he should be fine. I absolutely won’t be missed. If he’s annoyed, angry, or disappointed, so be it. I asked myself if he’d drop everything to be present for anything in my life and the answer is no, he wouldn’t be, so I shouldn’t feel an ounce of guilt. In the year and a half I’ve lived here, we have not seen each other once. The one time I asked him for help, he said no, after having said he’d do anything for me because I’m family. We live thirty minutes away from each other. Clearly I’m not much of a priority. Any time I’ve suggested doing something, he’s told me coming up this way “makes him anxious” or he’s made an excuse, like saying he wanted to do something with me, but he’d only “fall asleep” while doing it. Really?! I’m great company, I’ve never had anyone fall asleep on me, When his wife decided we should all do something together, I wanted to tell her that I’m no one’s third wheel, because that is genuinely how I feel. I can spend an hour with you, but I’m not meeting a couple for dinner unless I am bringing someone with me. Yes, I can go alone and I’m fine in doing so, but do I want to deal with a couple and their nausea? Not so much. Do that with your couple-friends, not with family. My cousin should be allowed “out to play” on his own without a babysitter/chaperone. How much trouble can he get into with me?! #1- We’re related. #2- I’m NOT going to steal her husband! Refer to #1. #3- Couples should have healthy individual relationships with other people as well as relationships with other couples. #4- Please refer to #1. If she can go out on her own with her family, then he should feel confident to do the same. Pretty soon, he’s going to be BEGGING for breaks from being trapped at home with a wife, dog, screaming child, overbearing mother, and overbearing mother-in-law. Call it a hunch. I’ve just become extremely unsympathetic and incredibly unavailable. I refuse to go over there until his mother returns to Florida. If I have to spend five minutes in her presence, she won’t survive it.

A close friend, who is very secure in herself, casually mentioned to me that any woman would be intimidated by me being close with their husband. She’s fine that her husband and I talk. She knows he’s like a brother to me and that I have zero interest in him. A wedding band on a man’s hand is like a big red EUNUCH sign on his forehead. LOL. While I find that utterly baffling (other women being intimidated by me), I took a good look at that particular side of my family and realized that compared to them, I am basically a supermodel. One cousin asked what foundation I was wearing in a recent photo because “your skin looks so flawless.” When I replied that I wasn’t wearing foundation, she asked if I’d used a filter on the photo. No, I hadn’t. Without outright saying it, she let me know I looked a little too good, and again, I thought it was so bizarre, so yes, I could understand the comment my friend made, if we weren’t related! Basically, my cousin is an extension of my brother. I don’t see either of them as men; I see them as little boys. They could have twelve kids a piece and they’d still be little boys to me, and eunuchs. There’s no sexual component to being friends with a sibling or a cousin. I find that utterly ridiculous. However, I’m not going to argue with a petty woman or my cousin who thinks she’s his savior. If he wants a relationship with me, he’s going to have to work for it.

On a much sadder note, late Saturday night my Great-Aunt, the last of sixteen siblings on my Dad’s side, passed away. My five cousins are deeply upset, as they should be. The funeral is today and then Shiva begins for seven days. Four of my cousins are sitting Shiva and I have agreed to do it as well. My Great-Aunt had a rich, colorful life and was an interesting, groundbreaking woman. The funeral is going to be a fight because four of my cousins are arguing with their Uncle about the cemetery choice. I agree with them; she would have preferred a Jewish service and a more religious burial. She sacrificed a lot being married to my Uncle. She left her Orthodox Jewish family and rigid tradition to marry him. However, she still lit Shabbat candles on Friday night and baked lasagna and made meatballs every Sunday. She never truly forgot where she came from.

I spent most of yesterday fielding their issues, trying to help them, taking a call from the lawyer’s office, etc. I’m amazed I didn’t have a stroke. By the time I was ready to make dinner, I was a shaking pile of lunatic. Her funeral is in less than nine hours and I’m still awake, typing this, unable to sleep, dealing with severe pain in my upper back and ribs.

So yes, you get written glimpses into my life, and I do share photos here and there, but the chances of me posting thousands of photos simply to show off or look like an idiot are slim to none, and slim just left town. I have yet to find a single reader that thinks “Man, she doesn’t write enough about herself.” The comments I get that are the most profound are when I am as honest as I’ve been today. Or when I am writing about specific subject matter.

If you’re close to me, you know who I am. If you’re a friend or a family member I deem worthy enough to have a relationship with, then you know I have nothing to prove. People always tell me they love me because I’m always real, all across the board, and they don’t have to question if I’m different outside their presence. I’m just me, in all my craziness. It’s okay to be low-key and real. It’s okay to be private.

Am I judging my family for oversharing like they’re the fucking Kardashians? They’re new parents, and they’re stupid, so yeah, maybe a little, maybe a lot. Do I think what they’re doing is dangerous? Absolutely. There is no doubt in my mind that it is unsafe. However, I’m smart enough to keep my mouth shut. When it comes to babies and parents, their first thought will be that I am jealous. They won’t hear the knowledge and intelligence in what I am saying, they will simply think I want what they have. Do I want to be a moron who doesn’t know when to stop? Fuck no! Do I want to tote around a hideous little child that everyone keeps saying is adorable and handsome? G-d NO. When I have children, I don’t think anyone will have to lie about their looks. I’m good breeding stock. 😉 And yes, I just laughed at my own joke.

P.S. Apparently I’m not the only smart person on this planet. A sweet friend of mine just posted a photo of herself and her infant son at the beach. For his safety and protection, she used a filtering app to shield his face with an emoji, so the only thing you can actually see are his lips, and nothing more. I praised her for being SO smart and protective as a Mom and she agreed with me that it’s the highest priority. So, she got to share the photo, which is a sweet photo of mother and son, but she in NO WAY exploited her infant by putting his face all over the Internet. Brains, class, and beauty. Yes, we’re out there. 🙂

copyright © 2017 by Lisa Marino & Blackbird Serenity, LLC. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

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Pull The Trigger

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Almost two weeks ago, after an appointment with the Certified Nurse Practitioner at my doctor’s office, I went into the afternoon with one thought in mind: What are my triggers? It began to nag at me, until a few things dawned on me.

I keep a food journal to track what I’m eating each day. I’ve done this for a little over a year now, mostly because I wondered if something I was eating was causing my migraines to become worse than they were prior to my move. After going over it repeatedly, I genuinely don’t think my diet is triggering me in terms of stress or my migraines. It’s simple, boring, repetitive, crazy healthy (for the most part), and I’d probably murder you for a Triple Classic with bacon and cheese from Wendy’s and a baked potato with extra sour cream if I went within a minute of the place. Notice I didn’t say a mile. I haven’t touched fast food in almost a year and a half. I catch myself missing it when I’m stressed, or a few days a month when I just NEED a change of pace.

The CNP was exceedingly clueless as to what is causing my blackouts. I would refrain from blonde jokes temporarily, but she opened the door wide open the following morning when she called and yelled at me about the medication that was prescribed to me after she’d left for the day. And by yell, I mean she has a very shrieky voice and it is offensive to my ears, especially when it goes up an octave and she’s actually yelling. She blew off my lab work like it was no big deal when I questioned it, thus leading me to wonder if she can read lab results because I can, and I’m not a medical professional. I questioned the issues because they’re exceedingly visible (Elevated white count, which is NOT uncommon in Fibromyalgia sufferers or in anyone with an autoimmune disease, except I never used either word in my visits to this doctor’s office. I knew my blood work would speak for itself.) and her answer was “Can you like pop in next week and re-do it?” (Said precisely like that.) Um, NO. I’ve got a hematoma that spans three fingers on the inside of my left forearm that IMMEDIATELY bruised. I hadn’t even left the office and it was BLUE, which never happens to me. I’ve applied Arnica gel to help speed up the healing, and it’s looking a lot better now. It went from looking like someone had taken a mallet to my arm, to looking like a trauma version of Saturn, to looking like a heart, and now that it’s almost gone, it’s just plain ugly.), but I’m not rushing back for blood work any time soon. If you aren’t concerned enough to call me about that, which my physician did NOT, then I’m not concerned enough to come running in. In fairness, my doctor should have looked at it and called me to go over it. That’s what every doctor should do if something doesn’t look right. I went in running a fever and that was also blown off like it was no big deal. “It must be because it’s a warm day.” No, that’s not it, USE YOUR BRAIN.

The entire appointment was useless. I didn’t need to come in to tell you I could fail a baseline test, or that my neurology appointment couldn’t be moved up. You didn’t “save me” a trip to the emergency room by having me come in to “assess the situation”. And for the record, they thought I’d come in because of my migraines, NOT because I’m blacking out and losing time almost daily. Why would I go to a primary care physician’s office over migraines?! I wouldn’t.

A smart person would have ordered an MRI or a CT scan ahead of my neuro appointment, just to be on the safe side, but this chick didn’t even have suggestions (Did you know CNPs earn roughly $98,000 a year when they are part of a medical practice? Factor that in and you’ll be able to tap into my disgust.). I was so distracted that I forgot to ask about new anti-nausea meds and a muscle relaxer. It only took three phone calls for that to get cleared up.

When she called to yell at me about the medicine, it was because, in her words, I should “only take the muscle relaxers at night”. I had to bite back the “Duh!” that I was thinking when what I almost said was “Chill, blondie! I wasn’t prescribed an entire bottle of them. I was prescribed fifteen pills.” I paid roughly .30 cents per pill because the doctor who wrote it (not mine) was afraid to give me a full prescription. That annoys me, because it’s more cost effective for me to have a prescription that is a month of medication, as opposed to a few days worth. The normal daily dose for this drug is 80 mgs. I was prescribed 10 mgs. One pill does NOTHING. Two is slightly helpful, but 30 mgs does the trick and helps all of the muscles in my body ease up a smidge. I am going to be extremely honest with my doctor about that when I call for a refill. I don’t particularly like the drug, but if it helps my muscles not be stiff when I wake up, then I’d prefer to stay on it until another doctor says otherwise.

The anti-nausea medicine is for twenty-one pills, which is a little more practical. The whole “passing the buck” onto the neurologist pisses me off. Implying that they could get me in sooner to see him was obviously not handled properly, if at all. The neurologists’ office told me when I got the appointment that this was the first opening available with any of their doctors. There were literally two times on the same day, and I chose the earlier of the two. I took what I could get. I know they’d contact patients if they had cancellations, but obviously, there’s no room. As a first-time appointment, I expected to wait. I’d rather wait and actually get the doctor’s full attention, as opposed to deal with a rushed physician who is completely overbooked.

In all of this craziness, I learned that my ultimate trigger isn’t something I’m eating, but an actual person. Anyone who seems to gain from your misery, pain, isolation, and fear that something is seriously wrong with you is just plain evil and is someone you should probably avoid. It’s not often I find myself hating people, but I realized I hate how I’m being treated. I hate how anyone can deny how horrible their treatment of me is, and in the classic deflection technique, tries to turn it back on me. That’s not love, it is hatred, and it is so palpable, it enrages me.

This person is the ultimate “self-harm”. Rarely is a kind word spoken to or about me, unless there’s an insult thrown into the mix. I’d elaborate, but it chaps my ass to the point where I just can’t. Repeating hateful things said about me that aren’t true is giving the other person credence. When you tell someone who is chronically ill, and has been for the majority of their life, that they “Don’t want to get well.” because they didn’t go running to pick up two prescriptions the second they were filled, or ask for someone else to pick them up, there’s not a whole that that you can say to that, is there? It’s a crock of shit. If a muscle relaxer and anti-nausea medication would cure and/or “heal” me, then I’d have been on both years ago. Is waiting 48-72 hours going to change anything? No. Not one bit. Those medications are not cures. They’re temporary solutions to long-term problems. They will not magically heal me.

When you genuinely care about a person, you don’t ever want to cause them harm with vicious, hateful words. But now I see what others have been trying to tell me for probably the past twenty years; this person doesn’t love me. Maybe they think they do, but when you love someone, you want what’s best for them. You can always say things without being cruel, hurtful, or harmful. If you can’t, there’s something wrong with you.

When you realize that a person in your life, however close or not, is a serious trigger for you, you need to be self-aware when you’re around them, especially if you’re left without a choice. I feel my best when I am completely away from my triggers, both human and otherwise, but I know that’s not always a possibility for everyone. Hell, it’s not a possibility for me at the moment, but at least I’ve fully identified the target and know how to deal with it.

The neutered, “I’ve been to therapy” Lisa would disengage, say nothing, and walk away, but would internally be enraged. However, I’ve decided that particular version of me isn’t acceptable in my daily life any more, whether I’m going to therapy or not, so I’ve decided to let the other person (and people) know that their mouth is a problem and that I expect them to keep it in check with me. Yes, they will likely slip up here and there, but it’s my duty to correct them immediately, or the issue will get bigger and continue to fester. It’s easier for me to say what needs to be said and shut it down, so I am able to let it go. Mostly because, I don’t think I’d be a very good inmate.

When coping with triggers, it’s important to first identify them. If you are able to write them down and nail them the first time you try, that’s good. If you need to nail them down in therapy, or over time, that’s good, too. It shows growth. It comes down to “What/who hurts me the most.” I see a lot of people mention family issues as major triggers, or their wife/husband/partners, friends, children, etc., and all of that is normal. You definitely want to write those down if they’re affecting you and find a way to turn it around, but also look at your past and present, as well. You might even want to look into future things you know will take place that are causing you some form of triggered pain.

Ultimately, we’re all different. I’m not Zen enough to ignore rudeness and insults that are blatant and feel personal. I can let a lot fly, but there are things I MUST call people on. And if I happen to remain silent about something, it will eventually come out at a more appropriate time. I do believe in the “write it out” philosophy, too. I am lucky in that 99% of the people who effect me do not know I write and if they do, they don’t read my work, so I can come here any time and write exactly what I’m thinking or feeling. I can be my authentic self, and if they ever stumble upon it (they aren’t interested, so the chances are slim to none), they’re probably too stupid to know who or what I am talking about.

When I used to write about friendships, one of my best friends thought everything I wrote was about her (on occasion it was. She should know better than to piss me off or push my buttons.), but I never named names, and I never would. Most of the time what I am writing is a generalization and pertains to no one in particular. If I have to resort to calling someone out by name, that’s a pretty sad day in my writing career, but I’d do it in a New York Minute if I had no other choice. Otherwise, I like to keep my integrity in check.

From here on in, I am willing to “pull the trigger”. That’s my analogy for shooting down someone or something that is causing me any form of harm or emotional pain. No more.

I’ve been through hell and back. I have the scars and the ashes to prove it, but I’m done feeling victimized and/or excluded from my life. I’m in control. I am the boss. If you step out of line, prepare for the warning shot. I only warn once.

‘Pull The Trigger’ is copyright © 2017 by Lisa Marino & Blackbird Serenity, LLC. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

Memorial Day Silence

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It’s so important to remember what this weekend is truly about. I have deceased family members that served and one family member who currently serves. My brother’s best friend returned with a Purple Heart. He always says “the real heroes came home in coffins”.

I got to spend half of this holiday weekend solo. I’d forgotten how much I enjoy “me time”. I was able to enjoy a long walk, a manicure, and have lunch by myself. Even though the walk killed my legs (I’ve walked so much the last few days, I’m probably going to be crawling in the morning.), it was nice to be out of the house, breathing fresh air, and enjoying pretty decent weather.

It’s 11:00 PM on a Sunday night and I’m singing at the top of my lungs, and because there’s so much wood around me, the acoustics are amazing. I am reminded that my professionally trained voice is pretty damn good. I need to sing more, because I need that creative outlet, just as I need my other creative outlets. Not singing is like cutting myself off from oxygen. It’s also a waste of talent. I hate wasting my talents, regardless of what they may be.

I definitely need to write more. I have two things I am working on, plus the novel. I also have a seven hundred page book to tackle as a reader. That’s a lot of work and a lot of words, but I love it. Tomorrow, I will write and read, and enjoy what’s left of my solo “me time”.

blue-ruler

Exactly how did I come to be solo this weekend? My cousin Julia is getting married in Vermont. By now, she’s about four hours or so into “wedded bliss” (Yes, I just rolled my eyes. I won’t lie about it, either.). As far as I can tell, my brother & I are the only family members who were excluded from the guest list. Believe me, this did not come as a great shock. The family dynamics are such that I do not consider them family any more. I grew up with Julia and her brother, Jamie, along with three other cousins. I can honestly say I felt my cousins were forced upon me at times, but I always loved Seth, Jamie, and Julia the most. So yeah, it’s a slap in the face and the epitome of rude, but it just reaffirms why I distanced myself after my mother’s death. This behavior will remind me why I will continue to avoid them on a whole. These are the kind of people that would eagerly attend a book signing as “family”, but only so they can say they know me. They’re happy to jump on the bandwagon, but they can’t be genuine family members. Here’s a fact; they don’t me. They stopped “sort of knowing me” by age fifteen, and even then, they didn’t truly know a damn thing about me

The things that were said and done are completely unforgivable. I rarely think about it or focus on it, but this was one of those defining moment reminders that I’m “not goof enough” in their eyes to be treated with any level of respect. Family embraces you; they do not throw you to the sharks and allow you to be eaten alive.

In fairness, I would not have attended even if I had been invited, but when you have a wedding and turn it into a four-day weekend, it’s a little over the top for me. I know destination weddings are popular, but they’re also expensive for attendees. The one family member I know who is attending actually said “Thank God it’s not in Hawaii!” I know people who’ve gotten married in Hawaii and didn’t even tell people. If you want a vacation wedding, you don’t need to drag 100-500 of your closest “friends” and family along with you. If you haven’t seen or spoken to someone in the past 2-5 years, and will not see or speak to them again for the next 2-5 years, then they don’t need to attend your wedding. Those are actually a set of rules every good wedding planner will tell you about your guest list. I know this because I’ve planned a wedding that didn’t work out. My up-to-date guest list is currently at under ninety people, and approximately 50-60 won’t attend. I look at it like this; those that do attend will have one hell of a party to enjoy. My cousins, who had actually been on the list, have since been removed. My Grandmother would be appalled at the mere thought of me not sending them invitations, but I can’t abide by her every wish.

When I do get married, I want the people around me to be those who are genuine in their love and respect for me. I don’t need anyone who is full of crap attending simply because they were invited. Nor do I want gifts that have even a trace of negativity in them. BTW: If you’re getting married, register for things in reasonable price ranges and use registries from different stores, not just a few, because it’s unfair to expect people to attend an out-of-town function AND spend a fortune on a gift. My cousin’s registry was appallingly out of touch and overpriced. Buy your own damn vacuum cleaner! Don’t register for one that’s $600. Maybe get with it and DON’T register for a $900 gift from Bloomingdale’s (I’m appalled that this was actually fulfilled. I hope like hell it was his parents or hers, because that’s INSANITY.). Asking for a $2,000 gift card to Anthropologie is taking it a bit far. Am I off-base? I would cringe at the mere suggestion of asking people for such things. In fact, I’d rather people give to a charity that’s important to me. How many people use a $400 vase? Not many. Even if they’ve been married for thirty years. And honestly, I’m surprised she’s not registered at Tiffany’s considering the prices on some of these items. There’s nothing down-to-earth about any of that.

I get invited to funerals, but I don’t get invited to weddings. What does that say about my family? It says “You’re not good enough to celebrate the happy times, but come and pay your respects.” I have an answer for that; no. I did not attend my Great-Aunt or Great-Uncles’ funerals. I was not personally contacted about either passing. It’s not hard to make a fucking phone call, I made tons after my parents passed away and not once did I complain about who I had to call or how many calls I had to make. I did it all by myself.

My Great-Aunts’ funeral was seven months after I lost my Mom. I was a third-party mention. I was in the process of moving, surrounded my boxes and tons of junk. I didn’t have the ability at the time to drop everything and run three and a half hours away. I sent sympathy cards to each of them, one of which was returned to sender. But when my Great-Uncle passed away, I never would have found out if my Aunt hadn’t told me.

I take great issue with my mother’s immediate side of the family trying to use my Aunt as the go-between, and saying things about me that aren’t true. I was accused of being “hateful” and “angry” at my mother’s funeral. I was mourning TWO PARENTS who died young; how exactly did my professional courtesy toward them become an accurate portrayal of how I feel or think? They don’t know me to decipher that aspect of who I am. Not one of them said “I’m so sorry for your loss.” or “Call me if you need anything.” There was not a single kind word spoken to me or my brother. There was zero sympathy or empathy. For all I know, they might have been wasting the thirty minutes it took for them to show up and pay their respects! You can tell a lot by watching a person’s face and the three of them looked like someone had interrupted their Wednesday afternoon.

I was insulted by one cousin who, in response to the eulogy I gave, came up to me afterward and said “You’re such a great writer. You should really do something with that.” Wow! Why don’t you slap me?! The woman has zero tact and even less common sense. I have no tolerance for crap like that. It was a backhanded “compliment” and I could have let it go, but when I heard that I was “hateful” toward them at the funeral, which is untrue, I lost it. If said to my face, none of them would have faces to walk around with, so why say it behind my back? If you think there’s an issue to be resolved, grow a pair and say something to me directly.

Ultimately, the world doesn’t revolve around them, even though they believe it does. I was barely aware they’d be attending. I was dealing with a lot, and I still am. Have any of them reached out once in nine years to see how my brother or I are doing? No, but they’re more than happy to discuss me behind my back. That’s not family. They’re merely people I dealt with growing up. Family behaves like family, not when it’s convenient, but all the time. I just happen to have the unfortunate luck in being related to them, despite the fact that they’re my first cousins once removed (which to me, is basically saying they’re my second cousins. I don’t care about being genealogically correct on this one.)

I spent most of my life being compared to their children. My Great-Aunt would brag to my Grandmother (In her eyes, her Grandchildren were somehow superior to me simply by existing, My mother & Aunt also dealt with this while growing up.) and in turn, I’d have to hear “Why can’t you be more like…” How about because I’m ME. Being myself is damn good, and I’d prefer to remain me. With all due respect to my Grandmother, who was an amazingly tolerant, kind, giving, generous woman; I’m glad I’m me. She took a lot of shit from my Grandfather’s family, as well as her own, and having witnessed all that I did between her and my Mom, I won’t stand for it.

I have cousins who CHOOSE to be a part of my life. We didn’t grow up together, and at least one cousin feels robbed because of that fact, but we’re close and that’s a lovely thing. They’re smart enough to see me as I am and accept me. I can only have a relationship with people who are open to having a relationship with me. If you’re going to treat me like second-hand shit, and tell blatant lies about me, then NO, I am not going to engage with you. I have the right to pick and choose my friends, as well as my family. Simply put, I don’t need the drama, or the hassle.

I find myself content sitting here typing, with Kitten by my side being a cutie. I have thirty minutes of a movie left to watch, and I can binge-watch Pretty Little Liars on Netflix until I get sleepy. I can finish my laundry and just breathe. I am grateful for the time spent on self-care. I am grateful for the songs I’ve sung tonight, for the solitude and peace of it, and for the fact that I can pull some of that solitude back into myself Tuesday afternoon when I return from my doctor’s appointment. I missed NOTHING by not being invited, and I do not feel excluded. In fact, I feel superior.

Even more so, I am content in the fact that by being me, I’m one of the strongest people I know. I don’t have to be false or put on airs, or waste time thinking about what others think of me. Think away, providing your combined I.Q. isn’t equal to your shoe size. Life is short. I have real problems. Who gives a fuck about self-absorbed idiots? Not I.

P.S. Grandpa, I am deeply sorry that your sister’s children are not what you thought they were. I’m glad I see everyone clearly. I know you can see it, too.

copyright © 2017 by Lisa Marino & Blackbird Serenity, LLC. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

Life Is Full Of Everything

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Nine years ago today, I lost my mother. I can’t always say it out loud, I can’t always talk about it, but I honestly have no clue how I’ve survived this long without her. Not because I need someone else in order to survive, that isn’t it, but because life is full of people that mean something to you, or at least, that’s what life should be.

Stupidly, I sometimes expect certain people to be a little more like my mother, and they aren’t. On a scale of my Mom to them, they’re epic failures. They don’t mean to be, they simply cannot be her. No one can. Irreplaceable people are precisely that; irreplaceable.

I have spent the past year and a half holding on tight to everything near and dear, and I’ve been a failure. I have needed help, and I’ve allowed my health to fail in the process. But ultimately, I have actually needed kindness, compassion, understanding, a person who listens, and someone who can put me first sometimes. No one ever does. Not for long.

When you go from being someone’s daughter to just being a person, there is a great shift. Suddenly, nothing is right in the universe, but there’s no way to fix it. And so, you move from one thing to the next at your own pace, trying to succeed and make a person proud, a person who is no longer here. Inevitably, there’s nothing you can do, because life is full of everything.

People, places, things, photos, shared moments, building memories. That’s life. It’s laughter, misery, friendship, companionship, love, and so much more. I went from being a daughter to just being. I’ve spent nine years trying to figure out who the hell that is. I still have no answers.

Hours before her death, the last words my mother spoke were “I love you, too.” I’d been sick for weeks at that point from Fibromyalgia pain. I couldn’t get out of bed, couldn’t move, and I had missed Mother’s Day the weekend before due to pain and a migraine. I felt like the biggest piece of crap on the planet. So getting the call that my mother had gone into cardiac arrest was like lightning striking through my entire body. I remember exactly what I was thinking and exactly what I said. I also remember thinking “This cannot be happening. This can’t be my life!”

After losing my mother, I got a brief respite for a few years before more damage could be done to my psyche. But as I sit here today, I realize some damage may be irreversible.

When you’re sick and you’re hurting, Google is your worst enemy. So tomorrow, I see my doctors’ Nurse Practitioner to see if she can be of any help in figuring out why I am suffering to the extent I am. Unfortunately, I suspect the only thing I will come away with is additional referrals to more doctors and maybe a prescription, or two. While there, I’ll get my lab work done. That should be an interesting experience. I hope someone reminds me to pack a snack. Especially since it’s going to be over 90 degrees tomorrow and I’m basically the Wicked Witch who will melt, with infinitely better skin. 😉 It’s 91 today and I can barely breathe.

Today has been a shaky day for me. I’m unable to function, unable to think, and it took repeated phone calls to find out what I was forgetting (and G-d help me, I WISH I had just let it go because when I did find out what I’d forgotten, knowing something wasn’t right with my memory, I wanted to crawl into a hole a die. I have less than 20 hours to solve the problem and quite frankly, I’d give up completely if I didn’t feel that not giving up was the right thing to do.). That I could not remember something from last week definitely makes me question what the hell is going on inside my brain. I want answers, not more questions. I’m terrified knowing I, once again, have to ask for help and that I might very well get shot in the process. It has occurred to me that, quite frankly, few people care to have your back when you’re down, but damn, they want you to have their back when they’re in the same place as you. They want you to fix their problems and make everything better, but are very happy to cast you aside once all is well in their own world. It doesn’t make you feel very good, and they’re, unfortunately, too stupid to understand that something isn’t right and they should reach out.

If we’re close and I say “I’m fine.” or you ask how I’m doing and I don’t answer, I urge you to look deeper. It’s extremely rare for me to say “I’m fine.” or “I’m okay.” when I’m not. If you dismiss it and take it at face value, then you’re showing me that you really don’t give a damn, because you’ve just accepted a blatant lie. I can’t remember the last time I was “fine” or “okay”. I wish people weren’t so self-absorbed and took a minute to really connect sometimes. No matter how good or bad my life may be, I still check in with people. If someone tells me they’re fine and I sense otherwise, I call them on it. That’s the mark of a true friend/family member.

I rarely go to the doctor. I’m not fine. I’m not okay. And quite frankly, I’m afraid for my life and sanity.

Life may be “full of everything”, but right now, life is empty, scary, lonely, and heartbreaking.

Here’s hoping my prayers are answered and that someone, somewhere, is looking out for me.

Lisa-blue

copyright © 2017 by Lisa Marino & Blackbird Serenity, LLC. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

 

The Aftermath

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*Potential trigger warning*

I survived, and I’m always sorry when I do. Always.

Last week, a member of my family overdosed on prescription medication. It wasn’t painkillers or anything like that. In fact, I have yet to look the drug up, but I do know what it isn’t. It’s not lethal if you’re taking it responsibly, but it can be deadly if you’re being an asshole or you take four instead of one. That’s true for a lot of drugs we deem “safe”, which is precisely why the pharmacy tells you that if you can’t remember if you missed a dose, skip the dose, don’t double-up.

We don’t know yet if it was intentional or accidental, but she doesn’t remember what happened. I wish I could say the same. It took me roughly twelve hours to talk two different family members down over what happened. I’ve felt deeply depressed, unhappy, mentally, emotionally, and physically drained ever since. I’m in such a dark place and as I sit here, I realize no one has noticed.

I remember when I tried overdosing. I’d had enough and I wanted out. This was long before my Fibromyalgia diagnosis, and honestly, it was unnecessary back then, I just couldn’t tolerate what i was going through with zero support (much like I feel now). I can say with absolute certainty that no one noticed what I did and no one knew I did it. Even now, no one spends enough time with me to notice if I’m sick or not acting like myself because they don’t know me well enough to know what’s normal for me. I can’t laugh or be goofy or do anything without it being criticized or psychoanalyzed. I could do so many truly dangerous things and I am certain no one would notice. When would they have the fucking time?!

I’m not content living a half-life. I’ve spent the past few weeks in so much pain, I didn’t realize until yesterday just how badly I want it all to stop. The daily struggle. The forcing myself to get out of bed when I really shouldn’t be moving at all. The emotional struggle. The blackouts are so bad that I don’t remember most of today after eating breakfast and I’m concerned, because I think I hit my head at some point. My skull is on FIRE and aches so bad, I’m freaking out. I’m tired of forcing myself out of the house to do far too much because the one person who knows me best and knows exactly how to help me is hundreds of miles away and I haven’t seen him in a year and a half. The financial struggle is never-ending, and realizing that I’ve been unhappy before, but this is a whole other level of miserable is the icing on the cake of misery. This is something that cannot be broken with a positive attitude and smiley faces. This can’t be fixed with kind words and someone being polite. This is serious and every time I turn to someone for help, I’m given their equivalent of a gigantic middle finger. If someone does help me, they hold it over my head like a weapon. It makes it worse because helping someone should mean that you care, not that you show them hatred.

I do have a doctor’s appointment coming up, but it’s mostly for a diagnosis. A new one, because the old one is almost five years old and things change, including me. This is a fresh start and I don’t know if this doctor and I will click or not, but he’s only getting one chance to show me who he is and what he can do to help me.

Five years ago, I was in a different financial position, and while I was struggling emotionally, I kept it in check as much as humanly possible. I was making things work. My life came tumbling down less than six months later. Horror after horror, and I am suffering for it every single day. My doctor never billed me for my last appointment. He knew I had no insurance that would cover the visit at the time (Hell, the only thing my insurance was paying for back then was monthly medication and the occasional ER visit. My primary care doctor, at the time, was months away from dumping me as a patient when I needed help the most.) and that things with me were not okay. I never saw a bill from him. If he’d sent one, I would have paid it, but sitting here today, struggling, I see it as a major act of kindness in a world where there’s so little of it. In sixteen years, he’s probably bought a car or put his daughter through private school for a full year based on what I did pay him, so I don’t feel guilty about it. When I found out in late 2015 that he never put Fibromyalgia into my chart when he diagnosed me, thus making me look like an idiot and making me question exactly what the hell is wrong with me, I damn sure felt even less guilty. I was shaking with rage, and I still am. That one absent-minded mistake cost me DEARLY. And here I am, back at square one.

I feel like an insane basket-case, just waiting to explode. I’m looking at the pile of problems in front of me, which I cannot solve. I’ve got nowhere to turn for help, and I am scared out of my mind. I can let certain things go, but the realization of this particular problem and how important (and potentially damaging it could be) is making things worse. I suspect knowing that since yesterday is what caused me to blackout today. The stress is too much for my body. Stress can be so damaging, we don’t always know exactly how much stress we’re dealing with, until it’s too late.

Unlike many people, I’ve always understood the level of emotional pain it takes to make a person say “I’ve had enough.” I also understand the level of mental and physical pain it takes to say “No more. I can’t do this.” Most people never act on it, especially when they’re talking about it for several years to family and friends, but the people who, like me, keep it inside, are the ones more likely to act on their thoughts. There’s no fascination involved, we’re just done.

Today, I am 100% DONE. I have no idea how I’ve survived this far and I’m tired of worrying. Of not sleeping. Or praying and feeling like I’m all alone. There’s only so much hurt, disrespect, abuse, and abandonment one person can handle.

Will tomorrow be better? I don’t know. I never know. I can pray, and I am going to reach out for help to see if someone will have my back this week, but ultimately, once I’ve exhausted all options, I don’t know where I’ll be.

I’m praying for better days, but I feel lost and completely abandoned. The level of emotional pain for that is off the charts.

This is the aftermath of loss, grief, abandonment, abuse, and other things you may never heal from. No matter how strong you are, no matter how hard you try, there are some things you can’t do anything about. For me, that hurts almost as much as seeing how meaningless I am to others.

Most people would say “It’s the Monday blues.”, but those people don’t understand I feel like this almost daily. That’s not okay.

copyright © 2017 by Lisa Marino & Blackbird Serenity, LLC. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

 

The Countdown

Miss Poison Adult Orphans, Writing , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Every year, usually around mid-April, is the countdown reminder from every company I’ve ever done business with, or might do business with in the future, that Mother’s Day is fast approaching. Last year, it angered me to the point where I unsubscribed from about 20-30 different mailing lists. I just couldn’t take it any more. The e-mails were daily. Daily. Sometimes, there were three or four a day. How much more business do these people need to drum up?! Was it a slow year?!

This year, Mother’s Day falls out on the day when I normally do my big grocery shopping, which requires hitting three different stores, usually, to acquire everything on my detailed list (which I usually organize by store, so I don’t forget anything major). If I keep my head down and I just focus on that list, I should be able to avoid as much of the hoopla as possible, but the pain in my heart will never go away.

There have been years where I couldn’t even get out of bed at the mere thought of facing other people on Mother’s Day. And the worst part is; Few people acknowledge this or discuss it. I refuse to be one of those people.

It’s unbelievably rude when people dismiss your feelings, especially in regard to something like this. When someone tells you to “get over it”, it might actually be wise to consider the source and/or re-think your relationship with that person. Being dismissive of someone’s pain, be it physical, mental, or emotional, is never acceptable.

Being a Motherless Daughter is painful. There is this enormous piece of me missing, and I assure you; no one gives a damn. No one else’s life stopped after my mother’s death, no one else mourns her daily, and that makes it so much worse in my eyes.

I remember how I felt at her funeral. I probably know her eulogy by heart because I only had a few days to write it, but every word was from the heart. I did her proud. I try to keep making her proud every day of my life.

The things I could talk about with my Mom are now things no one else on this planet would understand. Instead of having a person laugh with me and enjoy my insight and sense of humor, I am criticized for having a sense of humor that others do not understand or appreciate. Technically, that’s their problem, not mine. There are so many times I want to tell her about something going on, and I can’t. I know she is looking down on everything happening in my life and is now the “All-Seeing Eye”, but I really hope she sees how I am being treated and the character of others. I hope she sees and does not forget.

My mother always taught me to forgive, but never to forget. “Forgive for yourself,” she’d say, “So you don’t have to carry the hurt and allow it to harm you, but don’t EVER forget.” Forgiveness has become downright impossible in the wake of her passing and other terrible things that have occurred since that fateful day. There are always things you can never un-hear, un-see, un-learn, etc. There’s far too much you cannot forget. My mother was a nice, kind, caring person. I’m not all that nice and my kindness and ability to care is limited.

My Mom used to tell people she couldn’t remember what she wore two days ago, but that “My daughter remembers EVERYTHING.” My short-term memory is shit, but my long-term memory is eerily accurate. So you can question me, but don’t, for a single second, try telling me I’m wrong. I’m many things, but wrong isn’t one of them (I have a key-chain that says that verbatim.). Not when it comes to most things. And I openly admit when I am wrong, which many people won’t ever do.

Last year, right around the start of this month, is when my blackouts began (at least I’m pretty sure that’s when they started. In fairness, it took a few months before I was aware that I had lapses in time each day.). Is it somehow tied in to my mother’s passing and all the other death that has effected my life in the month of May? It’s possible. I have an appointment at the beginning of next month and I will certainly ask the doctor if he thinks it’s a possibility. If it’s not something triggering me, then it is something neurological, and that’s even scarier to me. I doubt an MRI will show damage, but psychologically, I suspect it’s a form of trauma manifesting itself.

I wish there was a measure of sensitivity surrounding this subject, but there really isn’t. I can attend the local Motherless Daughter event, or I can stay put and mourn on my own. I don’t think I can actually focus on other people’s stories at the moment, so it’s probably best I just isolate myself, except for the fact that I am ALWAYS isolated and alone. The effort I put forth not to be is always slapped down, always insulted, and is never good enough. The more negativity I hear, the more triggered I become. Someone might think they’re paying me a compliment, but I know an insult when I hear one. I’m NOT stupid, and I will walk away or disengage when a person is acting like an asshole or just plain being disrespectful.

One of the reasons people like and respect me is because I’m always the same person. Whether it’s on the phone, in a letter or e-mail, interacting on-line, or when you meet me or spend time with me; I don’t change. What you see and read is precisely what you get. I’ve had friends tell me precisely how much they enjoy that and respect it because they never have to worry how I am going to be because I’m always myself. When my friends spend time with me, they don’t understand why anyone wouldn’t love me. I am most at ease and most myself when I am with them. I wish they didn’t all live so far away, but I do have a very close friend visiting next month from California and I am SO excited to spend time with her! We met through my writing, as well as hers, and have been friends for five years. It seems like a much longer time period because of the bond between us, and I’m really looking forward to whatever adventures we get to share. Right now, having something to look forward to is all I’ve got. I don’t really know what I will do after she goes home. 😦 I do know I will miss her, though.

I might not write anything on Sunday this year, and if I don’t, I hope everyone will understand why. I might reblog something I’ve written in the past if I have the time to search, but if I am silent, I hope no one will take it personally.

I am still recovering from last week’s Urgent Care visit for my migraines. My IV “wound” is nearly healed, but I learned my lesson in regard to how to handle this horrible pain from here on in. I hope the neurologist I see is a good one and that he will have answers for me. I’ve been doing extensive research to make sure I go in armed with information to try and come up with a plan that we can both agree on.

And so, the countdown begins. On the plus side, I’m glad to be writing in a successful, productive way. For those of you who’ve been super supportive of this project (Lillian & Steven), please know how much it means to me.

Have a lovely Friday, everyone!

copyright © 2017 by Lisa Marino & Blackbird Serenity, LLC. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

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