When the World Falls Down

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Sometimes it’s hard to be me.

I don’t really have a lot to complain about.  I have my wonderful husband, I have four beautiful children who I love and a Mom who drives me insane.  I honestly wouldn’t have it any other way.

Then there is the rest of it.

I am bipolar.  The part that worries some people and sometimes makes life harder is that I am also unmedicated.

My doctors and I chose to remove me from medication eleven years ago when I forgot a single dose and had a downswing so hard I nearly killed myself.  Instead, I went to therapy for three years learning new tools to cope with the world.

For the most part, if you consider my history of physical and psychological abuse, I am a fairly well-balanced person.  I am probably overcompensating, but I am ok with that.

I have had numerous issues with an Ex who was also physically and psychologically abusive. His world is unraveling and it an odd twist of fate, It’s helping tie my world back together with bits of hope and joy.

My older two children were kept away from me for whatever reasons that the dreaded Ex had decided were fit.  He blatantly ignored court orders, and life in general sucked.

Then it happened.

The Ex did something so Heinous and Depraved that I can only hope he rots in prison and has to live every day knowing that his children will never want him to be in their world again.  I will, on the other hand, get to be there as they grow into adults and I get to be a tool that can lead them to the right therapeutic steps to rebuild their lives.

I hold on to SO much anger that sometimes I feel like I could literally shatter, and that is when life decides that I need to deal with a liiiiiitle bit more.

Some of my children are Socially Anxious and one is most likely Bipolar as well.  Early Onset Bipolar Disorder, they think, and Mood Disorder.

I do what I can to love and support the kids properly, but I find myself hating myself a little bit because of a disorder that is genetically defiling my children.

Bipolar disorder can be nerve-wracking, annoying and sometimes downright scary. I personally used to have VERY vivid thoughts of doing physical harm to others.  My therapist said it was because I was abused.  No one ever told me that bipolar disorder could, and did do that.

Now I write.  I feel violent, I kill a character, or they live through some sort of catastrophic hell that I create for them.

I feel like I am in the wrong skin some days.  I am this sad, angry person that is trapped in the body of a semi well-adjusted mom.

I take the kids to school and appointments. I am complimented on my organization (I have to be because I forget everything when I am overwhelmed).  I take them to clubs and school events. My kids even come to me and are honest about their feelings.  If they think about sex, drugs, drinking, etc, I am one of the few lucky parents that actually KNOWS about that part of their lives.

I feel honored on one hand, but on the other I also know it is because I HAD to train them from an early age to be 1000% open about every minute of their lives.  There are no secrets in my home.  There can’t be.

Secrets can break the foundation of everything we build to support our disorders.

My teenagers can, and will look me in the eye and say “You are being a bitch” or “I want to slap everyone in this room right now”. They do this at home, and usually in private, but if it happens in public, the direct approach we take, we startle people.  People will sometimes even butt in and try to parent or comment.

I politely shut them down with a calm explanation, but some days that is just too damn exhausting to keep up on.

Here I go again, rambling.  I write what is literally bouncing about in my brain on this blog.  Sometimes I am well thought out, and other times I am disjointed.

How do I bring myself up when I am feeling so very low right now?  Seriously, if anyone has any ideas, I am all ears.  You can never have too much advice, and the wrong advice for you might not be wrong for someone else.

Some Things Just Need to be Said.

As a child, I saw the world outlined in bits of sunshine and possibility. I could be whatever I wanted to be and I could do whatever I wanted to do. The world in front of me was endless and I could have or do whatever I believed I could. I never actually noticed my world getting smaller. I never saw the opportunities that I had lain in front of myself slipping away, but it happened. The gradual disappearance of my childhood came in tiny slips at first, eventually crumbling underneath my feet as I ran in desperation for a ledge that was probably not going to be there anymore by the time I reached the spot where it once had been.

I was a child of an addict. I had no idea what that meant as a little kid, but as I grew older I was thrown into the icy water and was left to sink or swim in the cold reality of my world. I was about six and a half years old. My father loved our family, but he loved his bottles more. We were his world, unless we came between him and his next fix. The “Evil Daddy” as I had dubbed him would come out after long nights of drinking. At first he just yelled a lot. Sometimes he might smack the table to make a point. I remember one time I jumped so hard I wet myself. I still don’t know what I did to make him angry.

There were horrible days. I have permanent damage in my mouth from the day that he drank so very much and then decided that I had to go for a drive with him. I was seven years old. He was screaming at mommy and hit her, so I took his hand and said “Ok Daddy, let’s go for that drive!” I wanted him to stop, and I didn’t realize just how much I had taken upon myself with that simple sentence.

Daddy drove us into a ditch and then into a tree. When he woke up, he drove us home and drove us into the closed garage door four times before the police officer pulled him out of the car and took him away to jail for the night. I got to go to the hospital. I have permanent damage to my gum line to this day, and we never did find the tooth that I lost in the dashboard.

After that, my brother came and dad was ok again, at least for a bit. He still drank and yelled, but the hitting went away.

I don’t remember a lot from my life for the next few years, I just remember that around eleven years old, about five and a half for my brother, that dad would get angry at pretty much everything that he would do. I was bigger, so I made sure that dad would focus on me instead. The hitting started again, and it didn’t stop again until I moved out at seventeen.

I was beaten, hit, thrown down stairs, and even ended up in the hospital at one point with severe bruising on every bone on the left side of my face. I was heavily medicated, but dad was back in jail. He called so many times to tell me what I would HAVE to tell the judge and police that the cops had to put a no contact order in place. My father made me move out when they told him that because he had been caught, he could no longer keep his guns.

If you ask him, I destroyed his life. If you ask his parents it was my mother, who forced their precious boy to marry her with her whore powers and she bore the demon spawn that was me.

I was twelve when I told my father’s mother that she was no longer allowed to speak to me because she was a worthless human being and she didn’t deserve to be related to me. It’s the one time in my life that my father ever agreed with me to his family, and it’s the one time I ever remember him standing up to that woman.

I don’t know if it was his upbringing from that horrible woman, or if it was some sort of internal demon that took hold of his life and just would not let go, but even with our past, I still loved my idiot father dearly. When he passed away, I knew I would be fine and feel nothing. When my heart shattered into a million pieces and I fell apart, I was confused and broken.

I don’t write this for sympathy, I don’t write this for attention. I write this for that person out there who is broken, who is scared, who is sure that whatever is wrong they must have done it. I understand being broken. You are not, nor will you ever be alone. I am far from perfect. I am NOT a professional, but I AM here. I will listen. I will remind you that things can get better. I will help you find the right people whenever I can.

You are not alone.

The Definition of a Burden

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“I am helping her out as much as I can because I don’t want to be a burden.”

This is the sentence that makes my blood boil.  This sentence makes me see red. This sentence makes my chest hurt, my eyes fill, and my head light and heavy all at the same time.

The definition of a burden isn’t one that one would usually have to have explained to them, but in this case I feel that I must be obliged.

You don’t seem to understand the impact of your careless words.

You don’t understand the sting of frustrated tears burning your eyes as you try so hard to choke your emotions away so that you don’t step over the invisible line between security and chaos.

Without further explanation, I will give you my burden.  If you choose to take it, I would be surprised, as everything else that you have done thus far has been in a self serving capacity.

My first burden. Your promise.  The promise, that KNOWING I grew up with an abusive alcoholic, and then married one later on, that you would abstain from alcohol in the house, near myself and near my children. I realize that it is hard for alcoholics to be sober.  I recognize the struggle, but you were informed that my children are too precious to me to have to watch an idiot throw their life away.  How long did that promise last.  I come to find out that it was less than two days.

My second burden.  The loss of your job.  Great, now not only are you drunk all of the time and everywhere, but you are also a financial strain on a single income household that is working its ass off to make a move THAT YOU HAVE KNOWN ABOUT FOR YEARS.  Our timeline is coming up, so let’s do everything that we can to sabotage the work that we have already put into our move.  You want us to stay nearby, but we want to be far away from you.

Our savings are drained now.

I should probably thank you for that. How do I spell that again?

Right.

F-u-c-k  Y-o-u.

The third burden. Your blackouts.  Congratulations, you are a very serious alcoholic.  You have a grandchild in the home that has recently fallen off of a bike and had to get stitches for a rather nasty head wound.  Great way to follow that up?  Blood all over the garage.  Blood all over your bed.  Blood all over you.

Let me take a moment to remind you that at this point, you have taken ONE bath or shower in the two months that you have been here so far.  ONE.  After six months or so, you have taken FIVE.

Blood all over your arm.  A huge gash above your eye. Bruises that last for over a month because alcoholics don’t heal properly.

My fourth burden.  Your attitude.  We replaced a broken television.  It was for the entire household, not for you.  It is in the front room of the house.  It is to be used by everybody.  You still come in and push and push and push at everyone until they just hand you the remote and walk away.

Your fucking nerve and audacity to raise your voice to my child because he set the remote “On the wrong spot on the table”.  It was about a foot to the right of where you kept setting it, but by fucking Gods, it nearly found a new home in your ass.

My fifth burden.  My children’s hate for you.  You are a person that my children should love.  Your consistent horrendous treatment of my children has developed into a full blown hatred.  When my son comes to me after dealing with you with tears in his eyes asking me if it’s OK to hate you, HATE YOU, well that hurt me.

My answer was a simple “It’s ok to love a person, but to hate everything about them.”

My sixth burden. Hate. We have received so much hate for dealing with you, and we have been treated like shit for it as well.  You own this home over our heads. What would have happened to us had you decided to make a big deal over anything that we said or did that didn’t meet up to your standings.  We couldn’t risk your possible wrath.

My seventh burden. You.  Somewhere along the way I became your mother. I hardly came near you again after the one time you were too drunk to think about who I was and you kissed my neck.  I did not wear my hair up around you again. Somehow still, I ended up cleaning you up and bandaging your wounds. I had to check daily on a schedule, literal words here, “Just making sure you are still alive”. You fell into stupors.  I didn’t understand that this was only the beginning.  I came to miss the quiet.

My eighth burden. Your blame.  I am a writer.  I am not famous yet. I am not published. I am working my ass off on my first series, and I could not do that around you.  I am also inherently a night owl, so it was easy to flip myself to a night schedule to continue working. I work in my room, with the lights off and a pair of headphones on, but somehow, you, sleeping on another floor, could hear my typing or SOMETHING because “It’s your fault that my sleep schedule is all thrown off”.  Fuck you.  You are an adult, and are responsible for yourself.  I have slept on that floor and you can’t hear SHIT from downstairs unless it’s LOUD.

My ninth burden. The emotions of my family.  I get the fallout that you leave in your wake as you walk out and leave insecurity hovering over our heads.  I get the children who will always have a harder time trusting the people in their lives because you have betrayed them.  I get the man that has grown up from the little boy that you could never bond with to the man that tried to love you.  I get his eventual heartache at the loss of a family member.  Whether the heartache is great or not, it will be there to some degree.

My tenth burden. My anger and my tears.  Oh how you have frustrated me.  I have been sick for months, literal MONTHS since you have started smoking in the house after you KNEW about the allergies. You suck. I will always wonder what could have been different, but I will never know. I wash my hands of you and this whole situation.  Your time with us is now on a clock.  I hope, for your sake, that you stop wasting your time, because we are through wasting ours.

Ok Goddamn It. I Like 4 Christmas Songs Total, Stop Ruining It For Me!

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Ok Goddamn it!  Here it it.

Baby It’s Cold Outside is an Old ass song. It is not a Goddamn “Date Rape Anthem” It is a song about a woman who should be going to her place, and to her parents, for the night, when she would really rather stay with her man. He would also clearly enjoy the same thing.

The phrase “Hey what’s in this drink” is about roofies…. NO IT IS NOT. It’s an antiquated vernacular that has different modern implications than may have been originally intended. A modern equivalent would be “I shouldn’t tell this bitch off, but what the hell, I’ll say it was the booze”.

She basically states that, “I could spend the night, but even if you and I sleep separately, we should prepare for gossip”. Yes he wants so make out with her, but she is of the same mindset and wants to spend more time there, when she knows there will be a goddamn scandal.

If you don’t like my opinion, shove it, and don’t fucking try to discuss this shit with me, because I am so tired of people reading into shit. I am fairly certain that if it was intended as a Goddamn “Date Rape Anthem”, they wouldn’t have made it into a popular ass song in a mostly “Puritanical” society.

FUCK!!!!!

End Rant.

On Being Myself in a World Where People Judge Everything.

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My name is Amy, and I am an asshole.

A revelation like this may seem humorous to some, but it is incredibly offensive to others.

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I am not a person who holds back my thoughts.  I do try to not be offensive, but most days my mouth does not give a damn that my brain is screaming at me to “Shut it, this is not the time or the place”.

It’s entirely a mental issue for me, and a reason why, as an aspiring writer, I am so afraid to do what I love.

I want to write my thoughts and feelings.  Some of those are incredibly dark and disturbing.  George R. R. Martin’s red wedding is tame in comparison.

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Other times I thrive off of rude humor and dad jokes.

I don’t always know what is going to come out of my head and onto the screen/paper or what my mouth is going to say that I may need a shovel or a really good lawyer for, but that is a part of me, and I have to learn to embrace it.

Locking this away is not an option.

Domestic Violence Awareness Month

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October is Domestic Violence Awareness Month. I invite you to take a look at some of the information on this page that highlights some statistics of the abuse against women AND MEN.

I have been a victim of domestic violence, and my closest friends know I will promote awareness until my last breath, but I really want you to think about the information you read.

The reality is that men are just as abused as women, and are also, unfortunately, overlooked. Men, on average, don’t report domestic violence due to the stigma that is attached to it. The men that DO report domestic violence are typically belittled or disgraced. I know the same thing happens to women, but the reality is this: Women get the advocacy, where men don’t.

There are a ton of women’s shelters, and domestic violence safe houses for women. Men cannot typically get help in these locations unless they have children, and even then, they are treated with distrust.

The world will not be free of domestic violence without first taking the steps to ensure that ALL victims of domestic violence are given a voice.

Sorry for the rant, thank you for your time, consider donating to a cause that promotes assistance for men, or men and women equally please. Everyone deserves a chance to get away from their abuser.

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Suicide

As I write this, a mother and father grieve the loss of their fourteen year old son.  Fourteen.

No one knows why.  Hearts are breaking all over my community, and I sit here at a total loss of words.

If you, or someone you know feels that suicide is an option, please know that no matter how low you feel, there is always, ALWAYS, a light at the end of the tunnel.  

Some peoples’ tunnels are longer than others, but there is a Goddamn light there, and it is just waiting to light up the world.

There are no pretty poems or eloquent words that can fix this sort of broken.  I barely even knew this young man and yet, I sit here in tears mourning his life.

My children.  Oh Gods, my children.  I hope that they never EVER feel this sort of broken or lost.

I will hold onto them tonight so that we can hold each other’s worlds together.

Please.  If you feel like suicide is an option, check out these resources.

Please don’t give up on yourself.  I don’t know you, but I still love you too much to let that happen.

http://www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org/

http://www.boystown.org/hotline

http://www.helpguide.org/mental/suicide_help.htm

National Suicide Prevention Week 2016

http://www.metanoia.org/suicide/