NOW, It's over.

I just rediscovered this blog (and a post I never posted on it) today.

Today, several years after the split. Since then, I'm still in court, battling over the children. My mother has died, leaving me bereft after we finally patched things up.

But some good things have unexpectedly happened as well:

My boyfriend is now my husband (Thank you, Colorado comon-law)

I go entire days and weeks without thinking about the Ogre.

I am strong. I stick up for myself and I shoot arrows with alarming accuracy.

And, what really makes it Over:
I no longer will be ashamed of things that people did to me. 

I started a new blog, which hopefully I'll self-publish up on its completion, called "Talking Back".  In it, I discuss some of the things that were happening in my life at the time of my mother's journal entries, as well as my real reaction to those entries. I finally name names and accept what others did to me and what I did to myself.  I finally let things go.

And that's what makes it "Over": letting things go.

Yes, I was in an abusive relationship. That doesn't mean I deserved it. That's nothing to be ashamed of. In fact, I can be proud: I survived. I got away. My children aren't away, but I have the law finally protecting them and curbing his abusive behavior toward them. They are empowered to call the police if they need it. Soon they will be living with us and visiting Ogre, instead of the other way around.

It's not "happily ever after", but it's real life, being lived now, and being unburdened by the things others have done.

It's Over, so something new has just begun.

A Time To Cry

I cried for over four hours straight yesterday.

I left work, because I couldn't make it stop.

It was the first time I went home because I was upset, and not away. And I stayed home, even though my poor boyfriend had things he wanted to do, I stayed home and asked him to stay home, and he was super-supportive about the whole thing.

There wasn't any one thing that set it off, really. I went to the gym, had a fantastic workout. I felt great. People were being mean to me the day before, I heard, so I wrote a little note to the people.

And then I started to wonder why people want to hurt me. It seems a lot of people go out of their way to hurt me, and I wonder why.

And then the tears started, and I couldn't stop it. I tried to stop it for an hour, I think. I finally gave up.

Chunk of Perspective on my Shoe.

There's a chunk of perspective on my shoe and I can't shake it off.

I just got back from a vacation. The stressful, screamingly-happy (and screamingly-tired) children type of vacation. We had a blast.

Of course, the Ogre tried to ruin it in countless ways, but we took as many precautions as we could and just didn't have the phone on for most of it.

And now we're back, and I'm back to reading "The 4-Day Win" by Martha Beck (awesome book, too). I just bought "Feminine Warriors" by Al Marrewa on Amazon, too (it has to go back to the library, and I am SO not giving it up). But, best of all, I'm looking through my tasks, thinking about which ones make me feel trapped, and which ones feel liberating.

Now, a note on tasks: all tasks on your to-do list suck. Otherwise you wouldn't have to remind yourself to do them. I get this intellectually. But tell that to my stomach, my hands, and my mouth, which all go into Munch Mode as soon as I even CONTEMPLATE a task that I really hate doing. And then, the more I put it off, the worse I feel about it, because now I feel like I hate it, but I feel guilty.

Here's an example: I have to clean out the litter box. There are WEEKS that I've cleaned out the litter box twice a day, and don't mind doing it. But once there's more than a day's worth of crap in it, I can't do it. I end up pouring the whole thing out and replacing all the litter. Then I'm grossed out for a couple of days. Then I can't clean it out again. Now I feel guilty, because my poor cat's feet smell like pooey litter after a couple of days. Now I REALLY can't face the litterbox, because it's smelly and my cat is looking at me like I'm a bad Kitty Mommy. And, since I'm already a bad Kitty Mommy, how can I face her and clean out the litter box?

It's a vicious circle. And, although I don't feel like eating when I think about the contents of the kitty litter box, when I think that I have to change the litter, I feel like munching.

Now, "have to" tasks are very trapping. "Want to" is so much more liberating. But guess what happens when I take a "want to" task, and start telling myself that I "have to" do it for a little bit a day in order to get better at it, or whatever?

Suddenly it's another chain holding me down.

I can totally see why people have to have a lonely, rebellious year or so after they get out of an abusive relationship. And if I didn't have such an amazingly considerate boyfriend, who does not tell me what to do, or what I should do...and if he slips, he corrects himself and apologizes, I would need a year to just do the opposite of what everyone says. In fact, I am doing that now, but luckily he can take it, accept it, and then ask me when I'm more logical what I really want to do.

So, after vacation I read about gauging the unpleasantness of what I do, and then when all of this mental clarity vomited up the tasks of my life and my feelings about them, I ended with a piece of perspective: I don't actually like what I'm doing with my life.

I mean job-wise, responsibility-wise, etc. I don't like being in my apartment much ("home"=bad, for most of my life). I don't like being indoors very long. I like climbing trees, rocks, pretty much anything. I like walking at night. I like coming and going. I like quick answers, not filling out long forms. I like analyzing processes for things I can improve, not checking them against some published standard. I like solving problems, not filling out paperwork.

AND THAT'S OK.

But it's also showing me how miserable I am sometimes, and although it distracted me from my home-life misery for the past six years, it is certainly not a happy place now.

So I keep trying to bury my head back in the sand, and tell myself I'm just not "back in the swing of things" yet.

But of course I know what it is....

It's that big, shiny piece of perspective I just can't shake off.

Fine

I'm fine, really.

I smile. I laugh. I'm helping out a colleague. I'm going out with the girls. I'm reading the children bedtime stories.

I'm fine, right?

Not so much. Like you, I put on a face of being fine. Happy, even.

I just managed to talk to my therapist about being molested, raped, abandoned, abused, and terrorized, all with nary an eyeblink. I even laughed at a few points. Then, at the end, she (bless her little pea-picking heart), did some relaxation exercises with me and I--guess what?--cried.

I patted my belly and said, "there's a lot of cry stuck in here."

I remember when I used to pat my belly and say, "There's a lot of laugh stuck in here."

But no, not now. Now there's just a whole lotta cry, and I'm afraid to let it out. There's a whole lot of punch and kick and scream, too. And I'm terrified that it will break out.

The past week or so, the synchronicity is this: Self-limitation. I'm writing a little booklet on it right now. Because how many of us fail to try because we've already told ourselves that we can't? Depressed people are LOADED with self-limiting thoughts. "I can't go out because..."
"If I do this, then that might happen..." They also tend to think they're impostors.

Impostor Thinking is real. And it means that you don't believe you're really as good as people say you are, and one day you'll disappoint the whole lot of them. So either you work really, really hard, and live in fear, or you underachieve and adjust their expectations.

I always did the latter.

Many Cognitive Behavioral Therapy worksheets ask what you want, and then what keeps you from doing it. The thought is that, if you blast out your reasons for not doing something, then you'll just go and do it. God, I wish it were that easy. I'm constantly developing new ways to shoot myself in the feet. And all the while, I'll tell you that I'm fine.

Directions: Shoot Foot.

I bet there was more than one sailor who, after having gotten used to life on the ship, spied land in his glass and said about the shadow on the horizon, “Turn back! It’s a Sea Serpent!” instead of “Land, ho!”

We may daydream of the great things we would have accomplished, if not for the twisting of fate and of life. We may feel tired and colorless, bored and listless. We may even dare to polish off our resumes and dream about new companies.

But we generally stop there.

I actually caught myself speaking to a recruiter this morning. The job was for a position out of state (which I wanted); it paid better than my current job; and included a lot of the activities I loved in my current job without a lot of the activities I didn’t love. I was thrilled to write my cover letter, and even more thrilled when she contacted me and wanted to hear more. And when she came on the line, I didn’t question the sweating palms or breathlessness. I was excited, right?

A few months ago, I asked my son how he liked his first year in public school. He said it was OK, and then, in a small voice he asked, “Mom, can I go to the same school next year?”

“Of course, honey!” I sang.

The whole scene comes to me as I am telling the recruiter exactly what she needs to hear to place me in the running for this job. Suddenly, my throat and chest swell up with guilty anxiety. I can’t move out of state! I promised my son that he could go to the same school next year! I scrambled to think of things to say that would tell the recruiter the position she had wasn’t for me. And then—voila!—she asked me if I had been using a certain program for a long time. “Oh no,” I answered. “I’d say less than six months.”

“Oh. Well, this position is for someone who has used the program for 3-5 years.”

Whew!

It took me a little bit to catch myself: had I just shot myself in the foot? What was that, looking to get out of a job interview that I had applied for on purpose? For which I had been nearly jumping up and down a few days before? I had remembered my son’s request when I applied, and it hadn’t been a deal-breaker then!

If a door opens in a forest and we slam it back shut right away, was it ever really an option?

Exercising the Demons

I took the advice of my therapist and began exercising at the gym. I've had the gym membership for several weeks, but __ happened and then ___ happend, and basically, I didn't go.

So, for the last three days I've gone every day. I've gotten over my fear of looking around, although I'm still afraid to look at people. I'm kind of still afraid to be over in the free weights section, too. But I've seen all kinds of people, including heavier people like me, and that helps.

It also helps that I took a Weights and Fitness class in HS. I'm obviously not lifting the amount of weight I did in HS, but at least I recognize most of the machines. And I'm doing good. My muscles fatigue, and that's the main point. I work up a sweat, whether lifting or cardio.

I feel fantastic.

I hear about exercise as a way to combat depression, but I've never seen an actual study, and in fact, some of the reports I read are less than encouraging.

But I'll tell you what: exercise beats that feeling of helplessness. There's no way not to feel powerful when you're working out.

I suppose it helps that I have little or no expectation for myself, since I haven't done it in forever. Even with running, I'm starting out super-slow. I'm approaching working out like this: I want to build a good habit, so I'm not going to push myself to out-perform myself all the time, just to go. I just need to build the habit of going to the gym every day, like brushing my teeth.

I've learned from Al Marrewa that I can defend myself if I have to, which reduces the need to turn every potential threat into a full-blown panic.

I'm also just becoming more of myself, and I had no idea how much I missed myself, and how active and tough I was. Like, I was really a badass compared to how I am now. And I can really be a badass again.

I'm certainly not healed; right now, as I work on getting to the gym, the cleaning of the apartment has completely suffered. If my fantastic and amazing BF weren't picking up the slack, it would be terrible. Of course, he's working doubles for the next three or four days, so he will NOT be helping out (I won't let him and he couldn't anyway). so I need to get on that. A load of laundry every day. Putting clothes away. cleaning the cat litter. Making the beds. doing the dishes, taking out the trash, putting things away. Last night I just rested, because I really needed it, emotionally and everything. It was a rare weeknight without the kiddoes, and I just needed to decompress.

But you know what? Everything's just a little bit easier when you're doing something good for yourself, and you know you're not last on the totem pole, nose-deep in the shtuff with the weight of the whole pole on your shoulders.

Note: See the comment below? Albert Marrewa actually responded. How cool is that?

To give full credit and to answer the question: I read "Feminine Warrior" (from the library), which totally kicked ass. So much so I had to buy it (and I'm still dealing with all of the reticence involved in buying things for myself, which makes it a big deal to make a purchase).

But, Mr. Marrewa, you certainly did help! Even just knowing that there are ways to defend myself that aren't overly complicated, and that I could if I had to, helps me feel much more secure, and I feel more empowered to then make decisions on whether or not I will take someone's crap or not. I realize there is actually the element of choice, which I could not even see before learning that I'm not helpless.

Thanks! For the book and for responding, which is still so cool I can hardly breathe.

Powerlessness

That's what we talked about today.

Powerlessness.

The rage, the anger, the frustration, the anxiety, the feeling overwhelmed. That shaky-core feeling you feel right before your eyes start to well up...

...that feeling that chokes you and makes your stomach and chest heave while you're watching a movie, and trying not to cry, damn it!

Powerlessness.

Where does it come from? Where is it going? What can I do with it?

Like a lot of abuse victims, I have to let go of my rage. A little at a time, I have to let out the little punky girl who says, "How DARE you...." to her abuser. I know you have one. I have one, too. She shakes her fist. She gets in your face, and she's what makes you bite your lip. You bite your lip to hold her back, because she's angry.

But I don't know what she's going to do.

She might just want to exercise, to feel like she's punching or running.

But right now she's making me shake.

Powerlessness. I'm powerless against her. I'm powerless once I let her out. I'm powerless holding her in, because she is my power. she's the Source.

If I respected women at all, she'd be the Goddess in full Retribution mode.

That's what she should be. Not an angry brat, but a vengeful goddess with lightning in her hair.