This is my story of why I need to get away.
I've never really been what you would call a sharer. What I mean by that is, I'm not really good at sharing my fears, emotions or feelings of joy. I don't want to be a burden.
Why am I like that? I've been hurt and my trust has been betrayed so many times that I can't put it out there anymore.
When I was 11 my dad was in a serious bicycle accident and I had to grow up overnight. I missed out on so many of the childhood experiences that should have been mine for the taking. I was a daddy's girl through and through and I was devastated by his accident. From then on my role has been care taker and peace keeper and now, I am exhausted.
I was so emotionally stunted that I got married at 18 thinking that Rob would change everything, when really all he did was make it worse. At first it wasn't so bad to be emotionally abused, it was just kind of an extension of the things my dad said when he was angry. The only difference was that I could excuse my dad because of his lack of control in life. My husband was all together different, in the fact that he chose to make me miserable. Then he chose to hit. I think it came as a surprise to him the first time he did it and he saw how easy it was to control me, that he did it over and over again.
Why didn't I leave? Good question, I think that I didn't want to be a failure in that part of my life too. I played my role as caretaker very well in that relationship too. I took care of him and his needs, with nothing left for me.
I finally got divorced from Rob, it was the hardest thing to do. I had to pull myself up by my bootstraps and really see what was going on and it took a while but I finally got out.
With no self confidence or self worth to speak of I threw myself into my work and quickly became the best that I could be, because maybe I could get some sort of validation from a job. Someone would see me and think that I was worth something.
Over the years I've chased love, trying to find my place in the grand scheme of things. I married again and was for a little while happy. I thought I was being taken care of for once. Turns out all he really cared about was himself and what others thought. After partying at a strip club with his friends he proceeded to come home to throw up after doing the deed. He was too hungover to go visit my family with me the next day when we had a "my dad is dying" scare. I visited my family by myself and then drove back to Arizona and told him it was over.
Maybe that seems harsh, but I was devastated. The situation showed me exactly what he thought of me. Here it was two years into the relationship and I'd worked my butt off to pay off his bills and then he pukes on me.
I eventually married again, yes, the third time's a charm. We are happily married, however, I am not happy. I am so stretched to my limit. I need a break. I was diagnosed with undiagnosed PPD and hypothyroidism. I never have any energy and feel like I am on the verge of a breakdown all the time.
My life now is full of demands on my time, from work to my husband, and most of all my kids. I don't have time for myself, ever.
I deserve a spa getaway, because I really need one. I need to have some time, some where that I can completely decompress. If I don't "win" I'm sure I will be fine, however I would love the chance to just, be.
Just be, without any demands on my time but my own. I'm not really sure what that is like, but I'm sure I'd love it.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Let The Eating Begin
I don't really remember many things about the next couple of weeks, some things are, bright as day others are really muddy. The things are so random, I remember taking my dads rolls of coins out of the freezer and using the money to buy snacks on the first floor of the hospital. Eating disorder anyone?
That must have been the beginning of my love/hate relationship with food. I needed to eat out of boredom/stress/loneliness. I didn't want to eat because I was scared and had no idea what was going on, I was 11 for pete's sake.
I remember going to the drive in to see Tron with our neighbors across the street and hating the movie. I still hate it to this day, though my husband says it's great, I just couldn't get into it. I had other things on my mind.
I remember going to school and one of my teachers telling me that I could just go to the back of the room and occupy myself, since I was traumatized recently.
Looking back, it was very surreal. My dad was in the hospital, we were instantly broke, but the rest of life was going along just like normal.
That must have been the beginning of my love/hate relationship with food. I needed to eat out of boredom/stress/loneliness. I didn't want to eat because I was scared and had no idea what was going on, I was 11 for pete's sake.
I remember going to the drive in to see Tron with our neighbors across the street and hating the movie. I still hate it to this day, though my husband says it's great, I just couldn't get into it. I had other things on my mind.
I remember going to school and one of my teachers telling me that I could just go to the back of the room and occupy myself, since I was traumatized recently.
Looking back, it was very surreal. My dad was in the hospital, we were instantly broke, but the rest of life was going along just like normal.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
The Day It All Changed
I remember the day everything changed. I remembered it like it was yesterday. I was 11, it was September, school started the week before, but we had the Labor day weekend off. My mom was mowing the lawn and my dad was on a bike ride. We were all minding our own business when Ron drove up and had a hurried conversation with my mom. I didn't hear what was said, but the look on my moms face was memorable.
My mom looked like she went into shock and told us to stay at home and she would be back soon. Have you ever had that feeling that the world as you knew it was ending? I knew something was wrong, I knew everything was changing.
I remember our neighbor from across the street came over and tried to tell us that everything was going to be alright. It wasn't.
Everything else that day happened in a kind of blur. I remember going to the hospital and that there were a bunch of people that I knew in the waiting room for the ICU in support. I remember mu grandmother asking why these bad things kept happening to her. The thing I remember most of all from that night, was that because I was 11, I was too young to be on the second floor of the hospital.
I don't remember what words they used to tell me that my dad had been in an accident on his bicycle. I don't remember crying, I remember being confused like any 11-year-old would be.
The doctors wouldn't let my older sister and I in to see our dad. He was too hurt, we were too young. My 13-year-old sister sat in the waiting room with our family and friends, while I wandered the 1st floor by myself. Looking back that seems so wrong.
Someone finally came to get me from my first floor wanderings and said the doctors were going to allow us in the room with my dad. One at a time, but something was better than nothing. I remember the doctor saying to me, an 11-year-old, that I needed to go see my dad because he wasn't going to make it through the night.
What? Who tells a kid to go say goodbye to their dad?
I was devastated. I was the true daddy's girl. We climbed trees, rode bikes, played catch and all the other things girls and their dads do. He was my knight in shining armor, my protector. I think I died a little that day.
My sister was the first to go in and see him, because she was the oldest and it was only fair. I remember thinking, when she came out bawling, that I had to be strong. I had to be strong for my mom, dad, and myself.
When it was my turn, I straightened up, held my head high and braced myself for the worst. What was the worst my 11 -year-old brain could come up with? Whatever it was, the reality was worse.
There he was, lying on a flat bed, hanging upside down attached to the bed by straps, he had bolts in his head, his hair was shaved and his skin was yellow from the iodine. His elbow was shattered and pinned, his fingernails ripped off, he'd broken every bone in his neck and back and worst of all, his spine was severed. He was never going to walk again.
He thought he was going to die, because it's the first time I really remember him telling me he loved me.
My mom looked like she went into shock and told us to stay at home and she would be back soon. Have you ever had that feeling that the world as you knew it was ending? I knew something was wrong, I knew everything was changing.
I remember our neighbor from across the street came over and tried to tell us that everything was going to be alright. It wasn't.
Everything else that day happened in a kind of blur. I remember going to the hospital and that there were a bunch of people that I knew in the waiting room for the ICU in support. I remember mu grandmother asking why these bad things kept happening to her. The thing I remember most of all from that night, was that because I was 11, I was too young to be on the second floor of the hospital.
I don't remember what words they used to tell me that my dad had been in an accident on his bicycle. I don't remember crying, I remember being confused like any 11-year-old would be.
The doctors wouldn't let my older sister and I in to see our dad. He was too hurt, we were too young. My 13-year-old sister sat in the waiting room with our family and friends, while I wandered the 1st floor by myself. Looking back that seems so wrong.
Someone finally came to get me from my first floor wanderings and said the doctors were going to allow us in the room with my dad. One at a time, but something was better than nothing. I remember the doctor saying to me, an 11-year-old, that I needed to go see my dad because he wasn't going to make it through the night.
What? Who tells a kid to go say goodbye to their dad?
I was devastated. I was the true daddy's girl. We climbed trees, rode bikes, played catch and all the other things girls and their dads do. He was my knight in shining armor, my protector. I think I died a little that day.
My sister was the first to go in and see him, because she was the oldest and it was only fair. I remember thinking, when she came out bawling, that I had to be strong. I had to be strong for my mom, dad, and myself.
When it was my turn, I straightened up, held my head high and braced myself for the worst. What was the worst my 11 -year-old brain could come up with? Whatever it was, the reality was worse.
There he was, lying on a flat bed, hanging upside down attached to the bed by straps, he had bolts in his head, his hair was shaved and his skin was yellow from the iodine. His elbow was shattered and pinned, his fingernails ripped off, he'd broken every bone in his neck and back and worst of all, his spine was severed. He was never going to walk again.
He thought he was going to die, because it's the first time I really remember him telling me he loved me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)