So, yes, I have a bit of an anger problem. When I'm scared, I get angry. When I'm sad, I get angry. And when I'm angry, well... I get angry. The question is , why so much anger? Why do I and other survivors, turn those other emotions into anger? For myself I have found that it was a survival technique that worked well in the past but now has become maladaptive to my life. It was necessary at one point in my life to show no weakness. So instead of tears I became aggressive. Not violent mind you, but tough.
I wish I could shed the tough "skin" that I had to grow. I wish I were gentle and sensitive in a way that makes others want to reach out to me, not back away and shut me out. People have a natural tendency to respond to anger with anger. I don't want to be part of that.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Monday, April 19, 2010
Current Drama - C-section birth
My son (M) was born via cesarean section in December of 09. It was an unexpected traumatic event that went from cervical ripening to induction to 9 hours of labor and ended in needing to have my babe cut from my belly because I wasn't progressing and his heart began to decelerate. During the surgery I could feel some of what they were doing and needed sedation. It was a bad time, one of the scariest and worst things I've ever been through (and that's saying something!).
My husband (B) was also in a bit of shock after and while he may have been physically in the hospital room with the baby and I, his mind was out the window. He just wasn't helpful. My mother in law ((K) came back to visit with my daughter (E) two days after my son was born. And all hell broke loose. Seeing my husband and I in the states we were in (specifically me), she went to the nurses and complained that there was something "wrong" with me and I needed help. In other words, I'm sure, she was afraid I was having a wicked mood swing. Which I wasn't. I was simply recovering from surgery, on a ton of pain meds, trying to take care of a baby while my husband just sat.
After my daughter told me what K told the nurses, I confronted K who promptly called E a liar.
A very short time later my mother in law told my daughter to go with her, they were leaving but E refused. K told my daughter that she would leave her in the hospital if she didn't go then. My momma bear welled up inside of me and told K that if she didn't take my daughter she wouldn't be seeing my son for a while either. At that, K told me that I couldn't use my son against her. Proceeded to tell me that while my husband is easy to love, I make it very difficult for people to love me. And proclaimed that women have c-sections every day (as if that made my c-section so much easier to bear). During this she's shaking her finger at me slowly walking closer and closer to my hospital bed as I ask her repeatedly to leave, telling her that her words are hurting me and as my husband just sat on the bed and watched. She finally left after I hit the nurse button.
So the situation (cesarean) was made so much worse and my therapy has been sidetracked to deal with this. I cannot find it in me to forgive her. It was all a terrible betrayal and the timing was so awful.
My husband (B) was also in a bit of shock after and while he may have been physically in the hospital room with the baby and I, his mind was out the window. He just wasn't helpful. My mother in law ((K) came back to visit with my daughter (E) two days after my son was born. And all hell broke loose. Seeing my husband and I in the states we were in (specifically me), she went to the nurses and complained that there was something "wrong" with me and I needed help. In other words, I'm sure, she was afraid I was having a wicked mood swing. Which I wasn't. I was simply recovering from surgery, on a ton of pain meds, trying to take care of a baby while my husband just sat.
After my daughter told me what K told the nurses, I confronted K who promptly called E a liar.
A very short time later my mother in law told my daughter to go with her, they were leaving but E refused. K told my daughter that she would leave her in the hospital if she didn't go then. My momma bear welled up inside of me and told K that if she didn't take my daughter she wouldn't be seeing my son for a while either. At that, K told me that I couldn't use my son against her. Proceeded to tell me that while my husband is easy to love, I make it very difficult for people to love me. And proclaimed that women have c-sections every day (as if that made my c-section so much easier to bear). During this she's shaking her finger at me slowly walking closer and closer to my hospital bed as I ask her repeatedly to leave, telling her that her words are hurting me and as my husband just sat on the bed and watched. She finally left after I hit the nurse button.
So the situation (cesarean) was made so much worse and my therapy has been sidetracked to deal with this. I cannot find it in me to forgive her. It was all a terrible betrayal and the timing was so awful.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Fast Food
The topic of this particular blog post is not actually about fast food itself, but about two oddly coincidental incidents that happened at fast food restaurants.
One of my earliest memories is of the day I was adopted. I vaguely recall the adoption proceedings themselves but I do remember what happened afterward. I was three and a half and to celebrate my adoption my new parents took me out to eat. It was a fast food restaurant a few blocks from the courthouse in Riverside, Ca. I had a milk shake and fries. I was so happy, I had a mommy and daddy. Wasn't this how all children got their mommies and daddies? By being adopted?
Fast forward thirteen years later, and after being in the system for four years. The courts had finally had enough of my constant running away. It was time for me to make a decision, become emancipated or go home with my adoptive parents. I chose the latter.
Back at Hillcrest Receiving Home, I gathered what belongings I had and waited in anxious anticipation. When they arrived, I was told I would not be needing my belongings so I left them behind and went with my adoptive parents. We made quick stop at McDonald's for soda and coffee. After a brief conversation my adoptive parents excused themselves to the bathrooms and asked me to watch their coffee cups. Several minutes later they emerged from the restrooms and promptly walked out the back door of the restaurant heading to their car. I quickly abandoned the coffee and followed. As my mom got in the car I heard my dad say, "Get in and lock it". The car door slammed, the clicking of the lock sounded, and they drove away into the night.
Ironic isn't it?
One of my earliest memories is of the day I was adopted. I vaguely recall the adoption proceedings themselves but I do remember what happened afterward. I was three and a half and to celebrate my adoption my new parents took me out to eat. It was a fast food restaurant a few blocks from the courthouse in Riverside, Ca. I had a milk shake and fries. I was so happy, I had a mommy and daddy. Wasn't this how all children got their mommies and daddies? By being adopted?
Fast forward thirteen years later, and after being in the system for four years. The courts had finally had enough of my constant running away. It was time for me to make a decision, become emancipated or go home with my adoptive parents. I chose the latter.
Back at Hillcrest Receiving Home, I gathered what belongings I had and waited in anxious anticipation. When they arrived, I was told I would not be needing my belongings so I left them behind and went with my adoptive parents. We made quick stop at McDonald's for soda and coffee. After a brief conversation my adoptive parents excused themselves to the bathrooms and asked me to watch their coffee cups. Several minutes later they emerged from the restrooms and promptly walked out the back door of the restaurant heading to their car. I quickly abandoned the coffee and followed. As my mom got in the car I heard my dad say, "Get in and lock it". The car door slammed, the clicking of the lock sounded, and they drove away into the night.
Ironic isn't it?
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Crystal Meth
My first encounter with meth was when I was about fourteen. I was on AWOL (absent without leave)from one of my group homes and had found some "good people" to stay with. It was a comfortable group living in an apartment in San Diego. It was one of those places where you don't really know who lives there, just a flow of people coming and going, staying a few nights and then leaving. So I stayed, more than a few nights. The only person who's name I remember was Kat. She and some of the guys staying there would offer me meth every few days and I would just say, "No thanks". At that point I really wasn't interested. Eventually I made my way back to Hillcrest Receiving Home then on to the next group home.
Periodically, being the chronic run away I had become, I would take off from whatever current placement I was in and head on back to the "apartment". There was a guy living in the garage. He had electricity and all he needed and would just come in to eat and use the pot. Eventually, still saying no to the offers of "do you wanna line?" I began scraping bags when no one was around. I'd seen it done many times, just cut the little zip lock baggie open and take a razor to scrape the left overs out. I'd find them just laying around or on top of the trash in the trash can. Curiosity had gotten the best of me. I didn't get much out of the little baggies I found, but enough to get a fifteen year old high. I would clean and get chatty and, at the time, I loved the extra energy.
So began my love/ hate relationship with meth. Once an addict, always an addict. As they say, curiosity killed the cat. I'm lucky I'm alive, not on drugs and living the blessed life I am.
Periodically, being the chronic run away I had become, I would take off from whatever current placement I was in and head on back to the "apartment". There was a guy living in the garage. He had electricity and all he needed and would just come in to eat and use the pot. Eventually, still saying no to the offers of "do you wanna line?" I began scraping bags when no one was around. I'd seen it done many times, just cut the little zip lock baggie open and take a razor to scrape the left overs out. I'd find them just laying around or on top of the trash in the trash can. Curiosity had gotten the best of me. I didn't get much out of the little baggies I found, but enough to get a fifteen year old high. I would clean and get chatty and, at the time, I loved the extra energy.
So began my love/ hate relationship with meth. Once an addict, always an addict. As they say, curiosity killed the cat. I'm lucky I'm alive, not on drugs and living the blessed life I am.
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