…in which she is scattered, smothered, and covered
It’s cold in this room...the kitchen/eating/living room. It’s also a mess because I’m the only one who can load the dishwasher right. Yes, my OCD has caused me to blow up a few times over how it does no good to empty the dishwasher and leave the clean dishes on the counter for me to put away later, and for me to re-load the dirty dishwasher, so, this mess, this sink piled with dirty dishes is on me.
I’ve added a new medication to my regime — Abilify. It seems to be working okay. I’m stable. Functioning. No panic attacks. No paranoia. No emotional outbursts. Even. Balanced. No racing thoughts. Even the bad, circular thoughts are well-controlled and come out in a linear fashion; like in this written format. I compose these in my head first and find I have to get them down later. Sometimes, like tonight, I have to get them down before I can sleep.
It’s 1:30 a.m. My husband and I came home from a lovely evening out. We saw a concert — Jon Anderson and Rick Wakeman. Fine old-school prog-rock. We had a lovely time. I wasn’t cold.
I used to enjoy downtime at home. I used to enjoy being a couch-potato, binging on junk TV on a boring Sunday afternoon while the husband snoozed in a chair in the room we call the “library”. Ever since mom moved in, that’s come to an abrupt end. Now, junk TV has become limited to re-runs of banal police procedurals, trite reality cooking competitions, or faux home fix-it shows. Gone are the beautiful Chinese and Korean language historical costume dramas set in ancient times, or horror films from the silent era, or twisted psycotropic B-movie cult classics, or Netflix original series’. Ted Talks…oh, my Ted Talks! Gone.
I’m bored. Restless. Tense. Stressed. But the Abilify has mellowed me…I don’t have the wherewithal to take much in the way of forceful action. I should go get some exercise. I need a heavy bag to punch or kick. I need a treadmill. I need an inversion board to get the kinks out of my spine, but I’m too mellow to bother. I now have a tick in the corner of my right eye. I’ve never been a WASP. How do they do it? How do they keep all this emotion bottled up inside with no release?
I’ve been up since 5:30 a.m. and don’t feel tired yet. I know it’s from the stress. My doctor and therapist suggest a brisk walk. They just don’t understand that just will not suffice. I need more. I need aggression. I need bloodletting. No…not cutting. I’ve never been that kind of girl. Well, not directly. I’ve scarred my face pretty badly by picking at acne which accomplishes the same thing as cutting — and I wore it on my face; unlike those other scare-crows who covered their tiny little razor marks with their clothes. I shouldn’t pick on cutters. They clearly have issues too. I get it. Solidarity, comrades.
I used to enjoy doing needlepoint and, just before the Abilify, I was getting my desire to create art back. However, now, anything that requires focus becomes chore-like and I just can’t get lost in it, which is what I need to find. I got out the sewing machine that Mom bought me 20 years ago but I can’t make the bobbin work. So, now I have to find a repair place and see if it’s even worth repairing. I really despise how the bobbin on this machine loads. I’d prefer to chuck it out and get a different machine but it’s not an essential purchase and we need to hang onto that $80.
I had a spontaneous memory this week. I’ve had it on the periphery of my memory before, but like a slide in a Kodak Carousel projector, I would just hit the imaginary “forward” button and move on quickly to the next slide, burying that one deep into the back of my memory again. I, like millions of women in the U.S., am a member of the child molestation club. Husband of trusted family friend, who was also my mother’s employer.
Oh, and by the way, their near college-age son looked on and said or did nothing to help me. This is the man my older sister later practically stalked in order to marry. She had two children by him, as well as the longest custody battle in history in a major metro-Atlanta county (it lasted for over 6 years). Two of her 3 children reached age of majority before it was over. The divorce from his 4th marriage was in full swing while their custody battle was ongoing and THAT was swept up into it as well.
He is now destitute, homeless (at last I heard), jobless, mentally ill, had stolen a rental car under his mother’s name, and ended up in county lock up with the son of his first wife (unrelated in both blood and police charges). He was picked up for breaking a lifetime restraining order his mother had on him by breaking and entering her home. It was later discovered he might have been there with intent to harm her, but there was no proof at the time the police were there.
Do I pity him? Feel sorry for him? Forgive him? Think God should help him? No on all counts. I’m gloating. Proudly. I spit on him. His actions are evil. Continuing this path makes him evil by choice. He might be redeemable, but not by me. I’d like to think that if I ever saw him again I’d have a few choice words. I’d be strong. I’d be brave and endure. However, I’m pretty sure if he comes near me, I’ll faint from a panic attack — from pure, unadulterated rage. Or, even more likely, I’d completely disassociate and have know knowledge of what was going on or what I was saying. I fear and loathe him. I hate that because it gives him power he shouldn’t have and doesn’t deserve. How the Goldbergs and others like them went through a trial like the one with O.J. where there son was brutally murdered; they saw the murderer in court and in the media every day, listened to people still hold him in high esteem, and did it with such grace and dignity I’ll never know. What I do know is with only a drop of pain from the pool of misery, I’m a pitiful, pathetic wreck.