That Time I Got Hit by the Crazy Train

Dear Diary,

I broke a bone yesterday. It’s ok though, the bone is a small one. I know what caused it too, I got hit by a train.

Even though I got hit by the Crazy Train 9 months ago…the physical manifestations of a hit that hard take a long time to show themselves.

Remember when I wrote about disembarking the Crazy Train back in October? No? You can read it here…Disembarking the Crazy Train.

I was woefully ignorant on how far the crazy engineer (my Narcissistic Mother) would go to make me pay for that.

Stupid me…acting all strong and thinking by disembarking the Crazy Train I could actually get away from it. Oh no…that’s not how the crazy train works. By disembarking I actually bumped the Crazy up to a whole new level. I should have seen it coming, but I got hit from behind.

After a lifetime of crazy, what could possibly have affected me so deeply that it has taken me 9 months to actually write about it? That’s easy. She hit me in the place where I am most vulnerable. By inviting all of the people I love the most to ride her Crazy Train. The people I hold dearest. Who are those people you ask?

My children and my deceased sister’s children (also my children I like to think).

She wrote one of her poison letters to me and sent copies to all of them. The most poisonous of all. She has outdone herself.

By the grace of God, I was out traveling when my copy came in the mail. My daughter picked up the mail, opened my copy and read it. Evidently it was so evil that she threw it away (or so she said), and never intended to let me know of it’s existence. She intended to try and protect me from my own Mother.

It worked for a few weeks evidently, but she felt guilty deceiving me and finally broke down and told me about it. My daughter said the letter was so bad that she was hoping none of it was true. She went on to say that we could  pretend it never existed, but there were copies sent to other family members.

With just those few words I was pushed, and started freefalling, into a deep crevasse. Like anyone who is falling, I tried desperately to self arrest the descent. Clawing at the sides of the deepest and darkest places in my mind to keep some sight of where the light might be so I could find my way back out.

I started with damage control. I called my niece to ask if she had received a copy of the letter. I could tell by the pity in her voice that she had. Here’s how the rest of the conversation went.

Niece – “Auntie did you read it?”

Me – “No, Daughter (not her real name ha!) intercepted it and threw it away.”

Niece – “Good for Daughter, nobody should have to read something like that.”

What? I thought I knew what my Narcissistic Mother was capable of, but how bad did it have to be that NOBODY should have to read it?

I assured her that none of it was true…but this rang hollow with both my niece and I since I hadn’t actually read it.

With that I was yet again sent spiraling down the rabbit hole even further.

I called my son. “Yes Mom, I got it.” I tried to downplay it with “well you know how Nana is.”

“Yes he said, I know how she is. I called her and she told me that she never wanted to see or hear from you again after how badly you abused her when you took her on vacation with you last June.”

WTF?

Trying to self arrest again I said, “You mean when I tried to take her to one of her favorite places in the world and make it perfect for her because she may never make it there again? That time?”

My son replied, “Yes, but Nana has a much different story Mom. She said you abused her, are evil, and you will bring us down with you into hell if we go around you. Don’t worry Mom, we know that can’t be true.”

Falling…still falling.

Before I bid him goodbye I tell my son, “Please don’t tell me anymore of what Nana said. Not if you love me and want me to stay on this Earth.” But he continued on anyway…”she said to tell you never to contact her again, and when she dies she doesn’t want you at her funeral.” I think he thought by telling me this he would be igniting a fire in me to fight back. But that’s not how this dysfunctional relationship ever plays out. I may be mad, but I know better than to get into the ring with a narcissist. They fight dirty.

I told my son I had to go and hung up the phone.

Injustice has always been something I can’t endure. And now…I stand accused and convicted of a crime I not only didn’t, but wouldn’t commit. Evidently there was much more slander in the poisoned letter, but who cares what it said. Just this little taste was so toxic I was rendered paralyzed. She played the “victimized little old blind lady” card.

So here I am. In a deep hole. So dark that I have no  idea which way is up. I am 5 years old again and so full of self loathing that I am quite sure that not even Jesus could love me. So enraged that if I have to share heaven with her, I don’t want to go.

Depression has always been an ugly word to me. I know it’s real, I have the suicides of my Daddy and little sister to remind me. But I hate the word because my dear Mother used it as a crutch to make everyone wait on her. “I’m too depressed to get up.” was her mantra, thereby (as the oldest) creating a overdeveloped sense of being responsible for EVERYTHING and EVERYONE around me. I loathe the word.

But a perfect storm was already set into motion and depression was bearing down on me. Just a couple of minor things happening at the same time as my Mother’s newest betrayal and I was down for the count. For the first time in my life, I couldn’t even get out of bed for a couple of days.

I normally am a master of disguise. I can fool even the most intuitive of audiences. So I feigned illness (well I feigned physical illness anyway), which is another of my taboos, while I desperately clawed at the sides of my dark prison to find a way out. The more I struggled, the deeper it seemed to get. Like a psychotic quicksand.

When I finally was able to get up and put on my cloak of normalcy, I was out of step with the world. Standing in line at a store, I looked around me and wondered if they could tell I was an illusion? Would they notice the real me was being held in a prison of pain with no hope of being helped back out?

That’s the conundrum of depression. When you need to be saved from yourself, you cannot ask for it. Depression steals hope. It steals even the idea that you might be worth saving. I didn’t even bother talking to God because I was sure he could not hear me from this place.

The more I told myself that I didn’t care, the more my auto-immune disorder was fueled into a full blown flare that even now is not quieted.

So the months passed in this suspended state of desperation. Going through the motions of daily routines so that the dark musings in my mind could not be detected. How often did I wish for death to deliver me? Every. Single. Day.

But as I clawed desperately at my prison walls, I remembered a familiarity of this place. I had been here before. Many times. In the past, when I finally made it out of this dark place, I would block out the memory that I was ever there. And now it is a slow realization that this is the place my Narcissistic Mother and Abusive Step-Father made me call home when I was growing up.

So I stopped clawing. I sat quietly and waited for redemption, if there was to even be any I couldn’t be sure. My mother had pulled the rug out from under me and I was left with all the dirt I had swept under it. So fresh I could still taste the blood in my mouth from the beatings, so real I could feel the terror as I heard my step-father’s car door close when he came home from work. And so alone.

But I kept still in my dark place. I knew that nobody would come for me. I was trapped deep in my mind. So deep, I couldn’t even find myself. I dared not look in a mirror. I would be looking at a ghost.

stock-photo-a-woman-covers-her-face-reflected-in-a-broken-mirror-or-the-shattered-life-concept-141673471

And then I saw it, a tiny crack of light. Through the tiny crack of light, I heard a voice. A familiar one say, “Be still, and know that I am God.”

Oh my gosh. I remembered how I got out so many times before now. I remembered that it wasn’t me that found my way of my own private hell, it was my faith. I remembered that nobody can be so far gone that they can’t be found.

Even though I thought I could never write in my Diary again (because remember I have to be honest), I remembered that I am already a MAD baby boomer …so I have set the bar low. I can’t really let you down then, can I Diary?

My daughter asked me to find something in her room for her recently (she is living somewhere else but hasn’t actually moved out of her room yet), when I ran across the letter from my Mother she said had been trashed.

On the back of the envelope it said, “I know you are prone to throwing things away, but you really need to read this.”

No…I don’t Mom. I really don’t. You are done here.

I promptly trashed it.

I am still deeply angry at my Momster for running me over with her Crazy Train. I am still paying for it through my dis-ease. My dark auto-immune passenger is not easily put back to sleep. But I remembered that the best medicine is also the sweetest revenge.

HAPPINESS.

So I do what I always do when faced with a long climb to get back to the top of the  happiness scale. I turn to my bucket list and book a trip. I can happily announce I have six months to get back into physical shape and be ready for hiking, biking, and kayaking NEW ZEALAND!

As for all of the kids? Nothing’s changed. Turns out that the letter really says more about her than it does about me. And the broken bone? It will heal. They always do.

Yay! I’m so excited and HAPPY! Did you hear that Mom?

I win.

Until next time dearest.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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It’s Finally Time To Celebrate – You

Dear Diary,

Halloween.Thanksgiving. My Birthday. Christmas. New Year’s.

I’ve had 57 of them (well technically 57 of the last three, but you know what I mean).

When I was little it was an eternity before they would roll around again.

Since I’ve been an adult I’ve developed a love/hate relationship with the holidays. I start out so happy and festive on Halloween…and then by Thanksgiving I can’t wait to see family and am on a cheerfully steady roll toward the big one – Christmas. Then by New Year’s I’m exhausted, chubby, older, grumpy, and can’t wait to bid family and friends farewell.

I’m still waiting for them to leave.

While everyone sleeps in this morning after a night of reveling, I find I finally have peace and quiet and a moment to breathe.

And think.

What are my resolutions for 2015?

I go through the usual…lose weight, eat better, exercise, actively help humankind and animals in a meaningful way, take an exotic vacation, mark off bucket list items, then I always add a couple of fluff items that are easy to mark off like plant a garden (it comes up on it’s own now), and get rid of crap we don’t need. Done.

I’m already physically and mentally spent, so why do I do this to myself?

I let go of the resolutions. Finally. Forever.

I think it’s time to just celebrate me, and you celebrate you.

Do you know how hard it is to wake up every morning and take up our mantle of responsibility/expectation no matter how heavy it may be? Yet we do it. Day after day, year after year, and we forget to pat ourselves on the back for it.

We forget that this is our time.

So this year I resolve to be happy. That’s it.

Just. Be. Happy.

Be happy being me…warts and all. Right now. Whoever, whatever, and wherever I am.

I don’t need to do anything to be the best I can be, I already am. And so are you. Just the way you are. Right now.

This is OUR TIME. Don’t sleep at the wheel by comparing yourself to anyone else. Enjoy the ride knowing that you don’t have to make it matter because it already does. There will never be another you that passes this way again.

Happy Being Me

You were meant to be here, and you being you is the most genuinely important thing you will ever do.

Time doesn’t give us mulligans.

2015 is your year to be free of the expectation of being anything else but you.

Just. Be. Happy.

‘Til next time.

 

 

The Aging House In The Mirror

Dear Diary,

I am notorious in my family for awkwardness with electronics. It was no surprise to my daughter when I accidently “Facetimed” her from my ipad. So much so that she doesn’t even bother to answer anymore.

What was such a huge surprise to me was the old lady I was looking at on my screen. At first, I didn’t even know myself. Then I realized the old lady was mirroring my motions, and I quickly shut it down.

I have never spent time in front of the mirror. I put make up on if I’m going out, but it’s for everyone else’s sake that may look my way, not mine. I never give another thought to my appearance for the rest of the day.

I think of the skin I live in as just a house for who I really am. I don’t live on the outside of my house, I live on the inside.

I guess that’s why it is such a shock when I see photos with me in them, or as in the case last night, see myself beyond the make-up mirror. I don’t feel that old. I feel like I should look the way I did 30 years ago, because my mind and soul don’t feel aged.

Sage with time maybe, but certainly not as ancient as the old lady on my screen.

I’ve never even considered enhancing the outside of my house. Maybe because I thought God didn’t give me much to work with from the start, and since it wasn’t meant to last forever anyway, I tried not to get too mad about it being so deficient when compared to all those around me.

There is the key I wish I would have found sooner…don’t compare my house to anyone else’s house. Each of our houses is one of a kind, specially built to match no other, not meant to be compared to any standard.

It was meant to be appreciated for the rare gift that it is. The definition of unhappiness is wanting things different than what they are. Yet…that’s what most of us do. We hold ourselves up to images on magazine covers that have been “photoshopped” to perfection. An impossible illusion.

That’s why the “beauty” industry is ever burgeoning. It is more than happy to help one try and achieve what is impossible, especially when the ability to digitally enhance images keeps upping the stakes.

I’m all for being the best we can be, but what would happen if everyone suddenly became happy to be exactly who they already are on the outside?

That’s not good for business.

I had no hope of ever competing with anyone else, so I’ve always been much more interested with what needed fixing on the inside and have no plans to ever finish that project.

The inside is what I’ll take with me when I go. The house stays here.

I’m not judging anyone else who spends time staring at their mirror, it’s just not for me.

My little sister Susan was born beautiful. She was without even trying. Her perfect olive skin, her heart face, her dazzling smile. I remember when I was about 24 or 25, Susan and I went to Olan Mills to have our photos taken together as a Mother’s Day gift to our mother. The photographer thought I was Susan’s mother. I’m only 2 years older than her for crying out loud.

Susan

Susan

Yet, while still in her twenties, she began enhancing what was already perfect.

She ramped up focusing on the outside after her daughter died. She’d had a tummy tuck (what tummy?), liposuction, and a facelift by 39. When I packed up her house after her suicide at 40, on her calendar was a future appointment to have her lips injected.

I know now that the acceleration of perfecting the outside was to create a beautiful mask for what writhing regrets and pain were doing on the inside, however misplaced those regrets were didn’t matter.

I think when we work toward mending or developing what’s on the inside, the outside takes care of itself. Have you ever seen a happy person that is hard to look at? We are drawn to them, like hungry ants to sugar. Happiness from inside is what makes a house beautiful on the outside. Without exception.

It’s not surprising that my house shows more weathering than those around me the same age. I’ve demanded quite a lot from it over its 56 years and frankly am surprised it’s still standing at all. Because I drove it from the inside, I know I pushed it harder than I should have. But God bless it, my house is still trying to keep up even as it is irreparably breaking down.

That’s not to say that the inside didn’t have its share of storms. Some were so dark and long that the fire in my soul was reduced to embers, and many times I was afraid it would go out altogether.

Then I learned to let God and time fan the embers back to life. This light is eternal, it never really goes out anyway. It just moves into God’s house when it’s free. Kind of makes it sound like our earthly home could really be a prison doesn’t it?

It just might be.

I also learned to open up the closets and let the light shine on the monsters that reside there. When the monsters are allowed to be kept hidden in the dark, they become bigger and more menacing than us mere mortals think we can handle. Opening those dark doors and shining a light on what’s inside in our own time, allows us to see monsters for what they really are, small and insignificant with no teeth at all.

When I finally became brave enough to look at the biggest monsters I was hiding since I was a child, I realized they didn’t even belong to me, they were remnants of the evil that my stepfather rained on us and taught us to keep hidden. Those will always be there as dark memories, but I don’t claim their monstrous origin.

The monsters that are of my own creation will always be there also, but when I feel them trying to gather strength to erode the forgiveness I’ve worked so hard to allow myself, however painful it may be I must face them anew.

I remind myself that they reside in the past, they are not here, are not now. Then they are reduced again to just an old bad memory…until the next time they try and rule. Monsters tend to want to kick me when I’m down, so now I know to keep an eye out for them when I’m vulnerable.

The truth is, there are so many good and happy memories in my house the little monsters pale in comparison.

Redirect the focus, which is the key to positivity versus negativity. Light versus dark.

I promise when you look into my eyes which are the windows of my house, you will see that I am looking back out at you. I am seeing you from the inside.

We are not both on the outside looking at me. Unless I accidently “Facetime” you, but chances are I’ll shut it down before you can answer.

Let my weathered house be a testimony to the storms it has endured. That it still endures. It may be older and breaking down on the outside, but it is ageless and strives to be beautifully happy on the inside.

Where I live.

Until next time dear diary.