So I Wrote

Fucking father's day.

It was father's day here last Sunday. I had blissfully forgotten it until I went to yoga in the evening, and the instructor told us to "reflect on our fathers" during the class. Yeah, thanks a lot.

On the way home I started getting flashes of good memories: Watching Lord of the Ring together, how we always used to laugh at the part where Merry and Pippin throw stones at the cave troll in Moria when arrows, swords or axes are making a dent in him.

When I got home I got flashes of things I feel guilty about: How I borrowed his English version of Hitchhiker's Guide and he had to read the Swedish version while at hospital getting chemo. I never ended up reading the book at all. To this day it sits on my bookshelf, unread, because everytime I look at it I get a surge of guilty guilt. Then one guilt ridden memory brought me to tears when I was in the shower. One of those surprise sob fests that you don't expect. You're fine one moment, lathering up your hair or whatever, and the next your face is screwed up and hot tears are spilling out at an alarming rate and you're not quite sure how it could happen so quickly and with no build up. I was thinking about how when my father was sick he had a hard time keeping any food down. One day I went to him and I made him this mexican style soup that had a lot of corn in it. He ate three bowls of it, and kept it down. He was smiling ear to ear saying it was so delicious and felt good in his stomach. I only made him the soup that one time. I was so scared to go see him. I was scared to realize how sick he was. I never even googled "lung cancer" until he had died because I was so afraid to really know what I already knew - he was going to die. He was dying. I couldn't watch it. I couldn't pretend cooking soup for him would save him. I couldn't go there and pretend that I was okay, that he was okay, that the whole situation didn't get me down at all. Many times after I had gone to see him I went home and and got absolutely plastered in my room.

But, as the duality of my psyche strives to be the most irritating and confusing it can, these guilty memories are always followed by memories of how I was treated by him sometimes. How his anger with life led me down dark paths and how hard it has been for me to survive that.

It is still so hard for me to reconcile these images I have of my dad. The dad he was the last few years he was a live, and the dad who destroyed everyone close to him. I wish I could take the blame for what he did because the guilt of even typing that he hurt us brings tears to my eyes and makes my stomach do a flip.

But I wonder if anyone in my family ever get tears in their eyes and a surge of nausea if they think of what they didn't protect me from.

God, I am so confused. I feel guilty for my family being unhappy. I feel guilty that it makes me angry at them that they  couldn't see past their own unhappiness long enough to see that the youngest member of the family was trying to kill herself every few months because nobody was even attempting to protect her, and yet she was bending over backwards to protect them. Taking the blame for things my mother did or my brother did just so dad would yell at me instead of them.

Fucking yoga teacher can go fuck herself with her fucking "reflect on your dad" nonsense.

Yoga is supposed to relax and center! Not send people into emotional turmoil. Fuck.

Day 3 of the bandwagon

Day 03 Something you have to forgive yourself for

I don't really believe in regrets, so there isn't much that I feel bad about in my past. A couple things bring a sting to my heart though.

When my father was sick he had to get chemo. He didn't want anyone to go with him, much rather bringing his favourite books with him. I had borrowed a book from him - The Hitchhiker's Guide - and he had forgotten about it. He asked me if I knew where it was and I knew very well I had it but I said I didn't know. I'm pretty sure that would have been the last book he would have read in life. And I kept that from him. I've never even read it. It's on my bookshelf now, and everyday I see it and I think about what a compete jackass I was. What the hell was I thinking? I can't bring myself to read it, even though I want to very much. It feels like a jinxed book now. I've tried a couple times but it's only ended in tears and only a page or two read.

It's strange what I feel guilty about. When he was sick I barely went to visit him because I was scared. Scared of his mortality, scared of him vomitting infront of me from the chemo, scared of how I feel seeing him sick. I have no problem forgiving myself for that, it's never been an issue to me. I was scared. I get that. But I can't forgive myself for this book. I feel like I don't deserve that forgiveness. Who does that to someone with cancer? Or maybe I do actually feel guilty for more things concerning his illness and I'm projecting all those feelings on to this rather silly thing. I don't know.

The second thing that I feel guilty and stingy about I've already covered in this blawwwwg. My difficulties with sex. I'm so ashamed thinking of how sexual I could be a few years ago compared to now when I even have to turn away from a movie if there is a sex scene being shown. I'm so ashamed to think about how it's affected my marriage. I'm so ashamed to think about how it affects my husband, how unhappy it makes him. I'm ashamed how it makes me less of a wife, a woman, a person. I'm so ashamed that my trauma concerning sex is so fucked up that not one therapist has even tried to help me with it. I don't know how to forgive myself for this. I know it's not my fault. I didn't ask for this. But, as usual, I hold myself to an impossible standard.

To my husband; I am so, so, so sorry. If I could snap my fingers and be amazing at spreading my legs I would for you. You are the only reason I even try to face this. I'm sorry.

I'm cured!!! (Sort of) (haha) (not really)

I went to my bi-weekly therapy appointment last Friday. As usual my head has been spinning a mile a minute afterwards with emotions and little flashes of painful memories. We begun our conversation with discussing my emetophobia - apparently I am quite close to being rid of it. I've definitely felt that it's under my control, rather than the other way round. I have my hard days with the big challenges (like the airport one) but I don't have panic attacks every night anymore. It's unreal just typing that. Just a few short months ago I had horrid panic attacks each night until I fell asleep out of pure exhaustion. Unreal.

We moved on to... more difficult things. Things that I've been able to largely ignore for a long time thanks to my emetophobia taking up so much of my brain power. But now that my emetophobia is going bye-bye more and more, I can deny these things less and less. I've touched upon the subjects here on my blog, and it seems to have sparked a new crapstorm within me. And it's the most cliche kind so it makes it really, really hard not to roll my eyes at myself. But perhaps that is another form of my denial. It wasn't so bad, get over yourself. Or become a stripper, you loser.

My therapist asked me to go to an al-anon meeting. A meeting for family of alcoholics. To that I simply replied "My father is dead, he isn't an alcoholic anymore", and my therapist sort of smirked and said that I am still here, his death hasn't erased any of my past. He suggested that maybe his death has made me free of The Family Secret that I held on to so tightly.

No.

I didn't tell people my father was an alcoholic. I don't know if people would believe it. He had a very prestigious, well paying job that he never took one sick day from (until he got cancer, that is). We were all provided for and we lived in a enormous apartment in the middle of our city. He only smelled of alcohol on the weekends. I never told anyone how much he drank. I never told anyone how angry and violent he got when he was drunk. I never told anyone how scared I was. I never told anyone the reason why I didn't sleep at night.

And I still don't want to. I feel like I'm spitting on the memory of my father by telling this particular truth. I feel like I'm betraying my family. Why do I bother feeling this way? They've betrayed me.

This weekend I was so angry. Furious. Why don't my parents love me?! Why, why, why, why, why did they not do more for me? Try harder? Why was I left to fend for myself when everyone else (my siblings, friends, friggin strangers) they would go out of their way for. Why was I left out? And, in my mother's case, I still am. I cannot for the life of me get attention from her. I've never really reached out to her - due to the guilt, due to feeling like taking care of their feelings was my responsibility etc - but she's always asked me to, and I always assumed that if I ever did she would take super duper awesome amazing care of me.

No.

I was at my lowest in my autumn depression. I was crying left and right, becoming very desperate for it to just stop. I called her. I sobbed so hard I couldn't speak. She asked me to come over for "some tea and a chat", and I went. I arrived, got a hug, a cup of tea and then spent the following two hours listening to how much her job sucks. All the while I felt like I was herp derping with my face out of desperate desperation mingled with why are you talking? What about me, ma?! 

And that feeling stuck in me, internet. What about me? Hello? Is this thing on? 1-2-1-2 testing. Hello?

This weekend I realized: Oh, It's not the microphone. It's you.

I've cried out for help, as they say, many times. Perhaps not always in words. Blasting the same song that I felt depicted exactly what I was feeling over and over (once I actually blasted on repeat, while shouting the lyrics, For You by Staind), hoping someone would hear it, or dressing in all black with torn up pants because that's like, totally how I felt inside omgz, or not going to school, or not getting out of bed, or not eating, or eating all the time, or accidentally revealing wounds that I had 'I fell down the stairs' and 'I walked into a cupboard! I swear!' type explanations for. But they weren't capable of dealing with me.

Why. 

In which my PTSD is explored.

I'm laughing. Having a moment with teh lulz. I thought I would write something about PTSD today and I literally cannot remember what I've written about it before, I've blocked it out. My brain is so effective! It won't even let me keep memories of writing about memories. Sometimes I feel like I'm being trolled by my own brain, and it's just trying to make me look stupid. Or maybe I am just stupid. Trollolol.

I have two seperate PTSD 'instances'. I call them PTSD#1 and PTSD#2. I don't talk about PTSD#1, but I have been working on PTSD#2.

PTSD#2 is the 'easy' one, the one most therapists can help with, I am sure. When I have asked them (and I've had a few) about PTSD#1 they will not touch it and say it requires training they don't have. So I don't talk about it, because it even scares therapists (and that scares me). I don't know if it can be fixed, or by whom.

I just spent an hour trying to describe PTSD#2 but it was all crap and sounded ridiculous so I got backspace happy and wrote this instead. How's the weather where you are? Spring yet? Denialdenialdenialdenialdenialdenial! Repress that shit. Hurrah! I am cured.

This is much harder than I thought it would be. I can speak about it, I can tell the PTSD#2 story - but why can't I write it? Hmm. Then again, when I really think about it, I don't think I speak about it very well either. Basically I think I would say something like "My dad was very angry. He yelled a lot. He drank alot. After mum moved out I had to take care of him. And he drank more. It was not a great time."  

What? Fuck. Suddenly there are tears. This is all so very confused by the fact that when my dad died three years ago he had changed from The Man Who Gave Me PTSD (though it is unfair to pin it all on him) and we were good friends, and hung out quite often. But then he died. And for some reason the only thing I can think about right now is the way he used to chew his food and drink his milk while reading Donald Duck comics at dinner time.  

I'm not angry at him. At least, I don't think I'm angry. I just feel guilty. I'm guilty because I wasn't stronger and couldn't survive those 7 years without making myself sick and making that my dad's fault.

I'm guilty because who I'm actually angry with right now is my mother, because she didn't save me, because I wasn't protected. I'm sorry, mum, I really am. It makes me want to weep with guilt when I think bad things about my family. But the truth is - please, forgive me - nobody fucking protected me and I was too young - TOO YOUNG - to be unprotected. To witness all the things I did. To shoulder all I did. And I'm sick now and I'm struggling to get better. And I'm sorry but it's all my family's fault, because none of you protected me and all I ever did was try to protect you (and I still do.). And now I'm sick and in a situation where nobody can protect me, because all those things happened and nobody protected me when I could have been. 

The skin of my emotions is raw and torn and the medicine stings worse than the wound.

I guess I am angry. My mother could run away to her new life and ask me to come with her all she wanted, but how was I to leave my alcoholic, broken father who needed me? My siblings - oh please, forgive me - didn't see me. They were deaf, dumb and blind while I stayed up to make sure my dad didn't set the house on fire when he fell into an alcohol induced stupor with a cigarette in his hand.

I guess I am angry. But there is more of my guilt than my anger.

I am so sorry for writing what I just did. I am so, so sorry. I wish I had the strength to protect every single one of you forever.

I know they all have a story too. A story when they were hurt, when I disappointed them, when I failed them. We all have stories about how we were failed by eachother. I guess this is just me documenting mine. And I'm really, really sorry about that.

Crapstorm Recovery

As I recover from the crapstorm that drove me to two therapists and to the bottle (the pepsi kind) I feel increasingly afraid of actually doing what I've been working for. You know... like, living.

It's not that I haven't lived so far, or like all my times have been crap and dark - because they haven't - it's just that I've always carried around a dark cloud that has tinged every blessed day of my life. I'm getting ready to move on to a new life where every good event won't be slightly in shadow or have me thinking "I can think of a thousand ways this pisses me off/makes me sad/reminds me of that one depressing time/will make later suck/may make me throw up GOOD GOD WHAT I AM DOING HERE fleeeeee!".

What's it like not being weighed down by a million mind-bricks? What's it like to allow yourself to really enjoy moments? What's it like to live without what-ifs? I have no idea. I don't remember if I ever have. I didn't think I was capable. Now I know I'm capable. Maybe not as capable to be as care-free as some, but hell - any improvement is very welcome. Also, I find those really happy-go-lucky people annoying to the extreme. I bet they all crap fairy dust and pee champagne. I just crap and pee the regular things. I'm cool with that, because I can act like a monkey and throw my regular crap at those people and bring them back down to earth. Fuckers.

Sometimes I think about all the things I want to do but haven't been able to because of my emetophobia and general fear of pleasure. Like bike really, really fast without being afraid I'll become so winded I'll throw up. Or go to dinner at someone else's house and not be paranoid and checking on their hygiene. Or just simply go for a walk in the winter and end up at a cafe and enjoy myself without fear of the noro virus. Sometimes I try to think about freedom and fail because emetophobia is a strong monster that can block you even from fantasies. Sometimes I'm so sick of the entire therapy shit that I rebel against myself and spend the entire weekend in bed rejecting the company of everyone (including, shock and disgust, my cats). It's all so freaking exhausting but ever since my first taste of what life without a thousand mind-bricks could be I haven't doubted it will be worth it.

 But still, the freedom frightens me. Being free from fear frightens me. Where will I focus all my energy? Will I find other bad habits? What are good habits?

Who am I without all this?

I am a terrible wife. Sorry bout that.

I think I'm a terrible wife. Scratch that. I know I'm a terrible wife. Truly awful. I bring down the good name of wives all over the world. I whine, I bitch, I yell, I fight. I'm prone to selfishness, I'm judgemental. I'm horrible. When I'm unhappy it really shows. I deal with 'my issues' and get frustrated and I take it out on the person I trust the most. And, unsurprisingly, that is my husband, Stephen.

I think our relationship has been more of a struggle and more difficult than the average relationship. I blame most of this on myself - I opened Pandora's box, and, lo, it was full of crap. And then I proceeded to make life crap for the both of us. Hurrah! My logical, emotional, spiritual (in)ability to deal with Pandora's box o' crap surprised even myself. At times I am sure he felt I did not even love him. But what he doesn't know is that on those days is when I loved him the most. And that it scared the crap out of me.

This whole marriage-relationshippy thing is not easy for me. I don't easily trust. I'm suspicious and defensive. I don't have any relationship role models. I'm flying blind, basically. Stephen is not blind. The difference between our marriage-relationshippy eyes can be hard and frustrating. But along the way I've had seeing-eye dogs and glasses and I'm saving up to get lasic eye surgery to get my 20/20 vision.

Did you just roll your eyes at what I just said? Because I sure as hell did.

I am a terrible wife. I haven't taken care of my husband nearly as well as I should have. I've spent 99% of my energy on nursing my poor (yack!) self back to a state of mental health that does not resemble something that's gone through a meat grinder, then been trampled by a stampeding herd of panicing horses, then been masticated and spat out like a chew toy by one of those creatures the Nazgul ride. The flying kind (the kind that masticated and spat out King Theoden). The remaining 1% of energy has been divided up between cats, school and husband. Probably in that order aswell, to be quite honest.

As I said, I've been a terrible wife.

I read a lot of blawgggss and I wonder - where the hell do all these happy people come from? With the seemingly quite conflict-free relationships. The hell?! I've never had a relationship of any kind that wasn't complicated and sometimes oozed venom (but never turning me into a Ninja Turtle, further rubbing in the unfairness of everything) (Kowabunga!!). Maybe I am so damaged in relationships that everyone I touch starts to just suck. Or maybe people on the internet are a bunch of liars.

Well? Fess up, internet, because you are making me feel very inadequate.

If I want to give myself a break and be kind to myself I could say that I haven't had a real chance to be a good wife. Who can be a good anything when they are so (steretypically, eye-roll worthy, yack-tastically) broken? 

But, being God-like and all, I am rebirthing with the help of much therapy and much ass-kicking and discipline of self. And I hope that I can once again make my husband feel as lucky as he did the day he married me.

 
 

 

Happy Birthday, dad.

Dad,

It's your birthday. You would have been turning 57. I wonder what you would be doing if you were alive, dad. Would you be ignoring your birthday, and hoping everyone else would too, like always? Or would you be changed from defeating cancer, and celebrate your life?

I would be celebrating your life, dad. I'm so sick of this mourning, and I wish I could throw you a big "You're Alive!" party. Or maybe a "You're So Awesome!" party, because you were SO awesome dad. I hope I never forget how awesome you were. It's been a little over two years now, and I can't believe it's been that long since you were here with me.

You've missed so much. Let me tell you.

T, my youngest elder brother, is doing so well at work dad.  You would be so proud of him. All the nurses come to him to ask for advice they should be asking the doctor for. I hope he goes back to school soon, so he can use his brain to save more lives. But you know how he is... So incredibly intelligent. Just like you.

A, my eldest brother, is still working in Thailand. The apartment you helped him buy is completely decorated. It's very white and clean. After you died he told me how much you helped him with the apartment and he cried. I cried too,because you did so much good that you hid. You deserved to be celebrated more. I haven't seen A in a while, but I hope he will come visit soon. But you know how he is... work work work. Just like you.

H, my older sister, bought birds. She breeds them now, dad. It sort of fits with her and M, her boyfriend, doesn't it? They're like swans. They've mated for life. She gave five birds to mum... Well actually she forced five birds on mum. Mum didn't want them because she's afraid of them dying. Death is so upsetting when you're the one left behind. But I guess she knew how happy they would make mum in the end, even if mum was upset at her first. But you know how she is.... always relentlessly giving. Just like you.

Mum just came home from her yearly trip to Thailand with H. She celebrated her 60th birthday there at a spa. I don't know what else to tell you about mum, dad, that you wouldn't already know.  You know how she is... Lights up a room. Just like you.

I got married, dad. I married Stephen. My wedding day wasn't what I thought it would be, because you weren't there. I know you would have put on your nicest suit, and you would have hemorrhaged money on the party. I think you might have cried. I have two cats now. Lilly and James. Remember Lilly? I showed you so many pictures of her. I flew her over from America to Sweden because I just couldn't leave her behind. Apparently she was the calmest animal they've dealt with in Cargo.
Dad, I'm about to finally finish high school. I start crying just thinking about how proud you would be of me. Dad I owe so much of it to you. You told me I was intelligent and that I could do anything I wanted. When I doubted myself and thought that maybe I wasn't smart at all, and this emotional weight I always carry wasn't the cause of my failures in the past... well I would hear your voice telling me it couldn't possibly be so because I'm your daughter. I think I got that from a text message you sent me when I was at the airport heading for Scotland and I was surrounded by drunk business men. It said: "You're my daughter. You are better than them." Well I am your daughter dad. And the demons I have won't hold me back, because I am better than them. I'm going to school this fall to learn acupuncture. Are you proud of me dad? I'll never give up. But you know how I am... Unbreakable. Just like you.

I love you dad. I hope you can hear me. I miss you so much. Things aren't the same without you here.

Happy Birthday.

My second therapy session was today. She plowed on into my Daddy Issues and asked me questions that I really didn't want to answer.I feel as if I am betraying him by saying he wasn't always the nicest guy. I also felt like a complete jerk by telling her that my family isn't perfect. Oh, horror! Everyone in my family is human, with their own baggage and own reasonings! Will wonders never cease?

A lot of my more weird anxieties are rooted in my childhood (oh my GOD the fact that I am a walking cliche makes me want to stop existing) - like how I get a rush of anxiety sometimes when I open a bottle of fizzy drink (ie pepsipepsipepsi). It brings me right back to Saturday night when I was living with my father and he opened his first beer can of the night. His first of many cans over many weekends. Enough said about that.

I carry the devil's taint.

I'm so siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiick.

Achooophleegmmmmmmsnot.

Inconveniently, I was just coming down with it on the day (of my daughters wedding) of my first therapy appointment. Oh, yes. I succeeded in getting an appointment after waiting a year and three months. Apparently the secret to getting face time with mental professionals is to call them hysterically crying and throwing not-so veiled threats of suicide out there. One could say that the teenytiny piece of mental floor I was standing on suddenly gave away and I went hurtling through Childhood Memory Lane, Oh My God, My Daddy Is Dead Street and Why Am I Such A Shitty Person Avenue with such great speed that I could read none of the neon signs which were announcing just what I was upset about in that very moment, let alone take polaroids of these lovely tourist attractions. You know, to put in the scrapbook to hand out to in-laws and prospective friends.

Anyhow. The therapist lady who seems very nice and intelligent asked me to tell her about my father. To my great defence I can tell you that I tried. I don't know how well she understood me though as even in my ears I sounded something like this: "(dainty sniffle and large inhale)AOOWWWWisjussosaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad. He dieeeed annowimiiiisshiiimanidunnohaowdofeelbeddahh"

At this point she hands me a tissue which I dab lightly at my eyes (not nearly containing the stream of tears), creating a damsel in distress air about me which I ruin in the following second when I snort snot back in my nose so loudly it startles us both.

Another hour of talking (and no more outbursts of crying on my end because there are some memories that are so bad you cannot even cry) and she says she would like to focus our coming talks on my father. In other words, I have Daddy Issues. I am thinking about changing my name to Crystal Chandelier and joining the mighty workforce of strippers.

Which probably means I need to go stretch now. Also drop about 20 pounds.

Two Years and Twenty-Nine Days Ago

Two days and twenty-nine days ago I became half an orphan.

My father died. He died of lung cancer. The horror that ensued in my life and in my mind is something I've been trying to put words to since then, since the moment the smell of death in his apartment entered my nostrils.

Maybe this is a strange post to start with. It is rather depressing and barely ever funny. But it's also pressing in my mind. The grief is a constant. I can count on it poking its sad little face up like I can count on my addiction to pepsi. The shadow of the ghost of my father follows me and casts a dull shade of grey around me, sometimes. And sometimes it drives home the exquisite and ridiculous joy of life and all the nuances of it that I come across daily.

My fathers death is creating stories for me far more real than my stories ever were before.

I will take courage and write them down, even though they scare me.

(I will even post this even though I feel like I sound a bit arrogant in it!)