Thanksgiving 2018: Gratitude for Pain

The holiday season is in full swing in America. Christmas items have been in stores since before Halloween, but I haven’t seen much of them because I haven’t done much shopping. In fact, I don’t know what kind of money I may or may not have for Christmas. I might not have anything at all to spend.

            We’re fast approaching Thanksgiving, an extremely American holiday dedicated to feasting, or, as it’s rather commonly imagined, absolutely stuffing your face until your stomach screams in protest and you pass out in a food coma. Naturally, this is followed by Black Friday, which has essentially become a holiday all its own, arguably more American than Thanksgiving itself. Black Friday is a true ode to consumerism, and ever so American as people literally assault one another just to spend less money for products they don’t really need, than they would have spent otherwise.

            At this time of year, the paradox is this: We give thanks for what we have, only to wake up the very next morning and buy more things. It seems quite contradictory to me, and that’s why I don’t participate in Black Friday. I don’t participate in Cyber Monday, either, although the idea is rather brilliant for targeting people like me who would rather die of suffocation or drowning than ever be caught in a Black Friday crowd at an outlet store.

I’d like to dedicate this entry to gratitude.

            Often, people who have been through trauma as I have find that this is an exceptionally difficult holiday. Family dysfunction throughout our lives throws a cog in the gears of attempted joy on a day dedicated to, well, food. That’s why I think it’s important that I talk about my past as I say what I’m grateful for.

My father has never hosted an event for Thanksgiving.

            He’s seldom had his own residence, but more than that, I have no memory in my life of my father hosting Thanksgiving, with or without roommates. He always sees his mother, my grandmother, for the holidays. This isn’t a bad thing until one realizes he wasn’t there for a lot of Thanksgivings. He broke a lot of promises and made me feel very small when he would see me. He’s been one of the most dismissive people in my life of my dreams, my desires, my goals, and my personality—my own essence of being.

I’m thankful for my dad.

            The abuse and neglect have taught me a lot about forgiveness and human nature. No, it’s not human nature to be the way he was, but given his own background, the explanations exist. The reasons are there, and they have nothing to do with me. I’m not convinced my dad loves me the way a father’s supposed to love his daughter, and there’s no way to go back in time to give him another chance to be my dad. But he’s doing better with his new kid than he did with me, and even if he doesn’t contact me very often, it seems he’d like to have a relationship with me. Maybe it’s guilt. Maybe it doesn’t matter.

            He’s my father. I respect him for his experiences and wisdom, for what they’re worth.

Thanksgiving with my mother is never a great time.

            I’m sure she’s hosted Thanksgiving in my lifetime. I’m almost sure I have refused to attend them if she’s hosted. More often, she would take us to her uncle Ken’s house, with her mother. These days, Uncle Ken doesn’t seem like much of an option. He seems to be losing his marbles much the way his late mother did (dementia is a beast), so my mother told me the celebration this year would be like last year: hosted at her mother’s house.

            The problem is, it’s always awkward. The good news is, it’s only awkward, now. The reasons for the awkwardness aren’t great, though, as my mother was a terrible parent. I can’t speak for how she parents now, but I have a hunch it’s only marginally better. She makes a lot of poor choices, and has for most if not all of her life. She’s certainly made poor choices and poor judgment for the entirety of my life.

I’m thankful for my mom.

            Let’s be real. No matter how much of a fuck-up my mother may be, she still gave me this life. With the trials, tribulations, and exposure to opposing and coexistent worlds, I wouldn’t be here without her. It’s a hell of a trip, living life. It’s not easy, nobody gives you any shortcuts or manuals, and anyone who gets those things is only lucky to those who do not know better. The truth is, even the silver spoons and life manuals only do so much, and nothing beats the hard, hands-on experience that comes from bumbling through life without instructions.

            My mom’s been through trauma at least as much as I have, if not more. She didn’t have the best mother in the world, either, and she didn’t have the best father. I would never speak ill of the dead, much less the grandfather I never knew. I met some of his family and they never spoke badly about him, but I know what my mother and uncle have told me. While I’m thankful for my mother giving birth to me, I’m more thankful to her for letting me go when she did. I’ve often wished I could go back in time and take away the two years I spent with her. I’ve thought, I wouldn’t have developed such anxiety, or I wouldn’t have developed an adjustment disorder, if only she’d never had custody of me.

            Even so, if I hadn’t lived with her, I wouldn’t know what it’s like to live in poverty. I wouldn’t know what it’s like to have an abusive, dysfunctional household. I wouldn’t know what it’s like to be yelled and screamed at instead of spoken to, or what it’s like to beaten with a wooden spoon. I wouldn’t know what it’s like to have lice, to be outcast and treated like shit for things you have no control over.

Thanksgiving with my grandparents is a wholesome family experience.

            Throughout everything, I remain most thankful to my grandparents. They took me in, gave me shelter, provided me with everything I needed: food, drink, education, clothing, healthcare, and even vacations. Thanksgivings and Christmases with my grandparents is almost always a great time. Still, it’s occasionally been something like your typical American family Thanksgiving: awkwardness and some fighting.

            Year before last, when I was married, I didn’t enjoy Thanksgiving with my grandparents. Part of it was that my ex-husband had ruined my daughter’s and his own appetite before we arrived.

I’m thankful for my grandparents.

            They’ve always had my back. They’ve helped me more than anyone else in my life. There’s no way I’ll ever be able to repay them, and that’s okay, because I’ve learned throughout my life thus far that it’s more important to pay it forward than to pay it back. I didn’t learn that from my grandparents, or my mother or father. I learned that through the myriad of experiences I’ve had, and it’s something that’s confirmed every now and then as I continue living.

            If it weren’t for the time I had with my grandparents, I wouldn’t know that it’s possible to improve my station in life. I wouldn’t know anything about the possibility of a person to overcome their past, their heritage, their own culture. If it weren’t for my grandparents, I’d never have joined the military, and if it weren’t for the military, I wouldn’t have as open a mind as I do.

            A lot of fear remains. I’m not married anymore, and I’m grateful to no longer be in an unhealthy and toxic relationship. I’m grateful for my daughter, who wouldn’t be here if not for my ex-husband. I’m grateful for the lessons I gleaned from my relationship with him, the character wisdom I gained.

Life is a journey whose end you can’t see, and whose beginning varies in meaning and importance.

            I’m in a better place than my parents have done. I’m relatively stable, with every opportunity to keep what I have and continue to improve. It’s overwhelming, and difficult. I can’t survive on a single income, unless I manage to increase my VA disability to 100%. I believe I qualify for such a rating, but it’s not something that’s been high on my list of priorities because I’d rather push myself to do better. I don’t want to lie around doing nothing, collecting a check just for having a pulse.

            Life is about the struggle. It’s about the journey, the ups and the downs. It may be true that we don’t have a choice to have it any other way, and showing gratitude is a great way to cope.

Conflict: A Poem

Cold tendrils like rage

curl around my lungs and chest,

held within the cage

of my ribs.

Adrenaline, hot, mad,

courses through my tibia, femur

burning with the bad

desire to run.

My hands begin to quiver

with the pent-up emotion within

causing a full-body shiver

of reactivity.

Unable to physically fight,

my voice rises with the stress, pitch

high as you police my right

to express it.

“Do this, don’t do that!”

Words that ring hollow like plastic,

“Be careful not to get fat,”

as you balloon.

“Do as I say, not as I do,”

never sat well with me from the start,

yet I can’t speak to you

about anything.

If your ears were doors,

they would be closed at all times

as your eyes sweep floors,

anticipating misstep.

Anticipation for naught

when one considers the consequences.

With fear, you’re fraught:

can’t be wrong.

Tinted Glasses

You perceive of me only what you wish to see,

but I’m a human with flaws, like you.

Like him, you’re quick to say, “It’s not me;

it’s you, you’re wrong,” but I can see through

it now; things will play how they must be.

At the end of the day, see, I have my crew.

How many close relationships does he keep?

Tones would change if you knew what I knew.

But you could never be wrong.

I recognize when I’m wrong, I write it down,

take note to make the needed change

and work on it every single day, through the frowns

that come when I’m feeling a little strange.

I’m learning every single day, yet like a clown

you recognize nothing of import, set a stage

to paint me as a villain all the way around.

To think I’d wanted to chalk ignorance up to age.

But you could never be wrong.

If this were a movie, we could flip; we could switch

perspectives, and maybe then you would see

the truth instead of calling me a rude bitch.

 Unfortunately, I can tell when it comes to me,

there’s nothing you want to see but that which

makes you pretty and helps you feel free.

So, then, like a disease, you pull at every last stitch

on my heart, doing your best to unravel me.

But you could never be wrong.

The meaning behind your words is so devoid,

I can practically feel your desperation

to control everything and monitor the noise

coming out of every radio station.

Your eyes glaze over, all you care for are coins,

ears plugged while you make accusations.

Your masks are so thin, it’s no wonder your boys

are so easily discovered, peeled like crustaceans.

But you could never be wrong.

Heaven forbid you see things through the eyes

of any person other than yourself,

but I won’t join in your pity-party or lies

or enable the bullshit to come back off the shelf.

I’m done with you and your slithering spies.

But you could never be wrong.

Perception

Mindful practice leads to mindful expression,

yet my words bring on unwarranted projection

of a psychotic, horrible, toxic perception

of unfolded events; denial; rejection.

Boomerangs aren’t my style; I prefer seeds

to plant as thoughts that, like food, feed

some ideas that might just let you see,

if I explain it right, I’m a human with needs.

Reputations do not depend on one person’s thoughts;

actions explain themselves, reason is sought,

and when reason comes up naught,

then, only then, is the true villain caught.

Those without balance devise their own doom,

regardless of dark or light on their loom

of life; the organization of their living room

does nothing to stop the disastrous boom.

“Unacceptable,” the consensus does say;

the same word is uttered every day

as an assessment of the inexplicable way

he decided he no longer wanted to stay.

A tiny spirit, confused, heartbroken, trampled and torn

over sudden abandonment, sharp as a thorn;

I do what I can to ease her pain, while my scorn

comes out in writing; yet it’s seen as something worn.

Distance, closed by screens yet expanded by air,

I am here and you’re all the way over there;

you will never see the why and the where,

the what or how I soothe her when she’s scared.

Mental Illness and Social Media

Shit happens and then you die.

            That’s the way life works. If you don’t like it, that’s just too bad. It doesn’t matter what you do, there will always be obstacles to your success. In the absence of obstacles and in the absence of pain comes entitlement, greed, and gluttony. Without boundaries, humans are lost.

            My husband and I have not been separated for very long. It’s been just over two months. I’ve moved with extreme quickness on many matters since the separation, so much so that it feels like it’s been much longer than it has. It also still feels like yesterday, some days.

            Negativity has no place on my social media profiles. Snapchat is a good outlet if I need to vent, since the video clips disappear after 24 hours. It’s the one and only social media outlet that is exclusively about me and my reactions to things, rather than my response. As someone who needs a great deal of attention and must vent to multiple outlets in order to avoid feeling like a burden upon others, I need Snapchat for this purpose. Still, I do not update my Snapchat Story every day. I may not even update my Story every week. These days, there is very little to which I want to react negatively.

            I have filled my Facebook page with as much positive information as I can share about my life and that of my daughter. My Instagram account is nothing but the joy I work to create for myself and my daughter. My blog exists to let others know that they are not alone, I am not perfect, and it is my interest to uplift others and help them on their paths to success.

            Still, I see others who seem completely incapable of doing what it takes to get better. I share my information with those who ask for help. I respond to those who reach out for advice and I give them what has worked for me. I give them what has been proven to work for most people in our positions.

            The fact is, I suffer from Major Depressive Disorder. That is my primary diagnosis. I suffer as well from anxiety, misophonia, and PTSD, but those do not impact my disability claim through the VA. I don’t think I need extra money for my extra issues. What I know is that I need to continue doing what I know is effective, even if the effect isn’t the same every day.

            Every single day is a struggle. The level of struggle depends on the day: My activities vary throughout the week, as well as my ability to get out of the house. If I am stuck with one or both of my grandparents for the majority of the day and do not have a chance to get away, I find myself tired and without patience much more quickly and easily than if I’m able to get out in the morning and do what I need to do for myself.

            So, when I see depressive statuses on Facebook, they disgust me. I used to be one of the people posting those things, asking people to be mental illness apologists.

The message in these posts reads something like this: “It’s okay, it’s just who I am. I’m sick, but you should love me anyway.”

Yes, these people absolutely do deserve love anyway, but that doesn’t mean they should stop trying to get better. I know what works for me and I fight against my illnesses every step of the way. Some days are more successful in these endeavors than others. My extenuating circumstances differ from those around me. I understand all of this.

            Still, I find myself disappointed when a friend tells me I’m wrong. When a friend tells me that it isn’t enough to base my statements on my own experiences in addition to the research I’ve done, I’m dismayed. I know how this works. I realize that some people need medication to balance their chemicals in their brains. Still, I’m convinced there are natural remedies. Why?

            I’m convinced of natural remedies being superior to pharmaceuticals because of a strong trend I’ve observed among the mentally ill. Every person I know, have read about, or have heard about has said the same thing about prescribed psychotropic medications: “It makes me feel fuzzy.” No one likes the “fuzzy” feeling. We, as a species, want to feel alert and clear in our minds. No singular medication or method of treatment works for every single medically ill individual, but that is why it’s called a struggle.

            Herbal remedies, exercise, socialization, and maintaining a journal and planner are all helpful to me. Pharmaceutical pills are always detrimental and the only ones left available to me to try based on my issues are those that cause weight gain. With a goal of losing weight, how is a pill that causes weight gain supposed to help me? With the desire to be in control of my own life, how I feel, and what I do, how is a medication that fogs my brain supposed to be beneficial?

            I will never try to debunk doctors’ works. Research has been done extensively to create medications for a wide variety of medical issues, including mental health problems. There are prescription medicines out there that treat mental illnesses I witness in my friends.

            The thing is, I think society is a bigger problem than what’s going on in their heads, as I think society caused such anxieties, depressions, and other problems. One day, I may do more and have more impact for those who suffer. I may be much more helpful to others around me, in the future. For now, I must continue to focus on my own self-care, self-improvement, and self-esteem. Those who cannot find the joy in their lives, cannot create it for themselves, or simply dismiss what I know is wisdom, can continue on their paths as they choose, but I may not choose to keep them close to me, anymore.

A Letter to Self

Dear Ally,

This may be the longest letter I ever write. You are worth every word, every moment of effort put into this, just so you can see the words for yourself, from me. It's time to start seeing yourself as worthy of love, acceptance, and kindness.

It's okay not to be okay. It's okay to hurt and it's okay to be unsure and it's okay not to know what's going to happen next, how long a chapter in your life will last, or when something will transition into a better thing. It's okay to be kind and loving to everyone, even those who are abusive, and it is okay to tell the truth, even if others do not like it or agree.

"If I encounter evil and I am not ready, I can still win if I do not compete." (Unknown.)

Now that you've processed and released your feelings towards him for what happened, it's time to recognize yourself. You've caught your reflection as you've written letter after letter to various individuals and personalities in your life. Now it's time I spoke to you.

The Gut may be overrated, but it is also underused by many. Many people have subscribed to "Head over Heart" thinking and have lost touch with their intuition and natural guidance in life. Darkness is attracted to those who lose touch with reality, and I watched you lose touch with yourself and sight of what's important to you. I watched you compromise your core values for him. Don't do that again.

You cannot sit back and wait for another person to read your mind. You cannot expect someone to know what you want all of the time. You were born in the United States of America, one country of many in the Americas whose culture is that of the low-context variety, meaning the assumption is that the person next to you differs in thoughts, feelings, beliefs, and values. Yet, you operated as though you were brought up in a high-context culture, as though the people around you are supposed to share your thoughts, feelings, beliefs, and values, and you sat back as though in such a culture and expected people to read your mind. You're not in that kind of culture, and you don't have the power to change the culture in which you were raised, by yourself.

It takes action to change habits. Consistency is the only key and the only way to improve. Your emotions are powerful and you've allowed them to govern your actions. This is not acceptable; it never has been, nor will it ever be. There is merit to "Head over Heart" thinking, when used correctly. Keep improving your response, rather than trying to tailor your reaction. Forward thinking, planning, and prevention are the things that will get you the furthest in life. Lack of proper planning on your part does not constitute an emergency on part of another. Feel your emotions and allow them to course through you. Start using your head based on what you feel in your heart, and use your heart to know what's right when making forward-thinking decisions.

It's easier to see the ways you can improve now that you have a planner that outlines it for you. How convenient for you to have your journal right next to it in your bag. Every day has the most potential to be successful. Perhaps I don't need to point out your areas for improvement or tell you you're slacking. You've always been so quick to pick up your own shortcomings; this is something those around you seem to fail to notice, more often than not. You look at yourself more than others through this mirror I hold... and you know, although you are quite attentive to what really matters, you've been slacking here and there.

Bad habits die hard, especially when they've been reinforced. But it doesn't matter what you say or what anyone else says. Your expectations for the relationships you've had have been ridiculous, at times. You were certainly convinced he was "the one," that he was perfect for you. Although you've burned away the negativity and taken back the ill will in the form of guilt and shame, still you're hurt. What matters now is what you've done these past two months. You've been constructive, positive, and happy, and your daughter is picking it up. She's doing much better now, with you, than she was doing before.

It's okay to hurt. And it's okay to love yourself. You've given so much of yourself, you've forgotten who you are. You've compromised so much of yourself to change who you are to try pleasing someone else. What if he did that, too, to an extent? You believed in him wholeheartedly. You were on his team when everyone else told you things that put him in a bad light. You defended him against all of your friends. You believed he could be better, if only you could find the way to reach him and communicate effectively. Yes, he lied to you, but what if he truly believed he had good intentions? It's not about blame, at this point. It's about forgiveness and love. The love is still there, and it may always be. It's okay to still have love for him. Without that love, the relationship would not have begun in the first place. Without that love, your daughter wouldn't be here.

It does not do to let go of love. Instead, let go of the pain, the fear, the anger, the darkness. You've been so attracted to darkness for so long. Darkness can be beautiful and it can be useful, but think of your namesake, Ally. Think of the meaning behind your first name, derived from Alice: "Of a noble kind; noble; honorable." Next, think of your middle names' meanings; Virginia: "The maiden; virgin," and Marie: "Sea of bitterness/sorrow; rebellion; wished-for child; Mistress or Lady of the sea." Darkness is in your very name, preceded by light and innocence. There's a lot of light out there to be shared; we do not need others to feel our darkness. They are just as aware of it, through their own experiences.

I love you. Usually, I've said it to you more as a joke. I've sarcastically laughed and said, "I kill myself!" as a euphemism for laughing at your jokes for finding you hilarious. Briefly, in those moments, your confidence is greatly bolstered, and I shine for you. But then you retreat, almost as quickly as you came to surface. Back into whatever troubles you, whatever it is you've desperately been trying to make others see.

Do what you like to do, love. You enjoy cooking; you enjoy having a clean home. Even mundane chores are fun to you, when you've got the right groove going. Now, you've found people who help you into your groove. Hold on to them. Love them. Allow my daughter to love them. Love is never the problem, fear is. You have a lot of both, yet you've allowed fear to govern you for too long.

You're afraid of love. It's terrible, yet it's true. You're afraid to hear me tell you, earnestly, that I love you, yet here I am. I do. You're at your best when you accept me, and it's time. You can trust me. I will not lead you astray, and if I do, you already know I'll make it right immediately--or as immediately as possible.

If they dance with demons, let them have them. Those are not your demons; you needn't accept them into your life. Let others fall for the Glamour before their eyes; it is not your concern if you cannot enlighten them or open their eyes with kindness or good intentions. Go with love in all that you do and remember the Celtic blessing from the stranger on the street:

"Let those who love us, love us. For those who do not love us, may God turn their hearts so that they love us. For those who do not love us, whose hearts God cannot turn, then may God turn their ankles so we may know them by their limping." -Celtic Blessing (Unknown)

Love,
You

Drastic Change: Paradise Lost, or Paradise Found

May was a tumultuous month, though not altogether unpleasant. Naturally, my birthday came and went, and I managed to have a good time! Now it is June and things are so completely different than they were back then, it's hard to know where to begin.

So, I suppose I can begin by saying I am nowhere near where I thought I would be, today. I had a great birthday--my grandmother took my daughter and me out to lunch at a nice restaurant and I got a massage and a facial. Later in the week, I had my "Always" tattoo finished and I am in love with it! What happened after my birthday was supposed to be a smooth transition. It was supposed to be smoother than any transition prior.

It wasn't. Instead of continuing on the course I had set with my husband, I was derailed by an intervention from my best friend. He was the one and only person in my life to point out the ways in which I was not living the way I wanted to. He was the one to point out why I was unhappy, while I ignored many problems that continued to grow within my home life. His intervention, with some help from his wife, really provoked me to take immediate action.

And so, instead of taking off to California at the end of May, I sat down in our ever-emptier house and began a conversation with my husband. I wasn't sure where I would end up in this conversation or even what I wanted him to say. The problem was, it seemed he only wanted to give me words I would want to hear. So, when he brought up the word "divorce," for probably the third time in the duration of our marriage, I thought about it seriously for the first time.

Where I am now is not where I wanted to be, but it has turned out to be better for me than I could have imagined. There are downsides, of course: The Internet usage is limited to 5GB per month until further notice; the computer I use does not have Microsoft Word for easy blog making; I have yet to figure out where or how I should set up my computer to do my art. But there are many upsides, as well: I unplug much more often and interact with my daughter and my family; I have my little girl on a meal and potty schedule and she is thriving under my care; I watch old Disney movies with my daughter every chance we get and I take her to the park at every opportunity to let her play. There is not a day that goes by in which she doesn't have a total blast playing with toys, watching cartoons, playing outside, and talking our ears off.

We're staying with my grandparents for now. I've begun seeing professionals in the Mental Health Clinic at the American Lake Veterans Association. My goal is to set up couples counseling, as it has always been my desire and my goal to have a healthy, lengthy marriage that is strong, stable, and lasts. Unfortunately, shortly after I expressed my desire to set up couples counseling, my husband took off in his car across Canada, driving east back to his home state. I hope he is happy, staying with his mother and receiving the validation he so craves.

Meanwhile, I have paid off several overdue bills related to our relationship and the house we rented together. I have realized, with help from family and friends, there are many ways in which I allowed myself to feel the way I did and I allowed him to make me feel worse. There are many things coming to light in his absence that have been shocking, disheartening, and even heartwarming.

We are halfway through June. The difficulty has only just begun. I've broken down crying, sobbing my eyes out while I was home alone, over ideas of what I should do for myself and my daughter. I've received various messages from him and responded as kindly and pleasantly as possible, while the nastiest and dirtiest thoughts crossed my mind. He called me hateful and spiteful and I know those things are inside of me but they are not what run my life.

I will never again allow someone to dictate my life in such a way that I act out in hateful, spiteful ways, nor will I allow someone again to make me feel as though everything I do is pointless. Regardless of who did what while we were together, I know now how to make myself feel good about myself. It is a process. It is a practice. It is difficult. It is not a linear path; I fall and I have to get back up. But now that the rotten apple has fallen from the tree, the tree is growing yet again and it's healthier than ever.

Efforts in Futility

Nothing hurts me more than disrespect from someone who has asked for my help and accepted my extended hand. Nothing disappoints me more than someone who has requested help yet refuses to help themselves.

            My hand extends to every person who deserves it. I do not always know who deserves it and who doesn’t, and so my default reaction to a request for help is to respond in as helpful a way as I know how. Sometimes, my response is to ignore the request either because I do not have the resources, or because my resources are limited and I must care for myself, my family, and my household first.

            My assistance is not free, but I do not charge money for the service I provide. I charge resources. Guests—extended guests, more specifically—and couch surfers are charged in the form of food and other items consumed. Usually, these people also pay us back monetarily, but this is not required except by those who board here.

            We have four boarders and one applicant to our lease and things in the house tend to run smoothly. Two of these boarders will be moving out in the very near future, but we refused to let them get into paying rent at another hotel because it is unsustainable in every sense of the word. These people are our friends. We do not invite strangers into our home. Ours is a family home, first and foremost and always. Even when Persephone is gone, this remains a family home, no matter what amazing acts of sexual exploration occur.

            Recently, we paid for one of my friends to fly from her location to our state. We picked her up at the Seattle-Tacoma International Airport baggage claim carousel. We brought her into our home, explaining in the car on the way that our primary expectation was for her to listen to us and do what we say as well as keep to her own word and do what she says she will. She agreed on all fronts. She met Stacie, our boarders, and our new swinging partners. She is a male-to-female transgendered individual with severe psychological issues, so, I promised to get her to the Department of State and Health Services and the Social Security Administration in order to get her started with food stamps and Medicaid. She failed to get her food card because she failed to tell the truth of her homelessness—after all, she was to board at my house and give back by cleaning. We were providing literally everything for her. So, she didn’t get her card, but she ravaged our food supplies and ate foods that had been planned for meals.

            There’s more. She disrespected every single person in my home. She disrespected the space of every person in my home and she disrespected my belongings and the belongings of every person in my home, whether staying or visiting. I told her to stop touching things that don’t belong to her. She continued to move things around that weren’t hers, such as my books and Pat’s bong, and she would take drinks that weren’t hers and drink them, such as Pat’s Rockstar and Marie’s can of coffee. She was absolutely insufferable and she did not understand the mere concept of personal space or boundaries. We told her multiple times to give us space and not to touch us, yet she continued to hover over people, stare at people uncomfortably, and invade their space by standing mere inches from them and touching or leaning on their shoulders.

            I went so far as to write a contract for her as a boarder in my home. I itemized basic respect and consideration, yet she spat on it. She basically said, without speaking, “Fuck you and everything you are trying to do for me.” After all, we took her to DSHS and the Social Security office. We took her to Goodwill and Value Village, because we do not have the incomes we had recently, and we purchased ladies’ clothes for her so that she would feel more comfortable in her own body and feel as though she was moving forward in her life. I gave her space in my study to keep her things and to sleep, yet she disrespected the space by spreading her belongings all over the place, taking over space on my desk and taking my books off of my shelves and failing to put them away properly.

            Four days. That was all. She didn’t last a day past the fourth, as she broke her contract the moment she signed it and did so repeatedly—lashing out for attention like a neglected two-year-old. She is 28. She made everyone so uncomfortable that every single person who had any means or future means of income was offering to pay to get her out of our house. Randy purchased a Greyhound ticket for her to go back to her home in Tennessee. He spent nearly $300 on this ticket, after spending nearly $200 on her flight here from Montana, and after spending at least $100 on clothes, food, weed, and drinks for her. That’s a conservative estimate.

            She checked in at the Greyhound station, then ripped up her tickets and ditched the station in favor of a bar on 4^th Ave. We heard this from her girlfriend, who called the house phone (since Becca had been using it to call her girlfriend) and told Randy what was going on. Somehow, Randy ended up speaking to Becca’s mother, who begged Randy to ensure that Becca get on a train to Tennessee. I understand Randy having empathy for Becca’s mom, as a parent, but the fact of the matter is, at this point, we simply cannot and will not support Becca in any way any longer. She is no longer our responsibility, plain and simple. Point blank. The way I see it, there are two options, because Becca’s mother offered to reimburse Randy for the cost of a ticket. Becca’s mom can either reimburse us for the ticket we already bought, or she can buy a new ticket for Becca and Randy can track the bitch down and make sure she gets on it. Either way, we are not about to buy another ticket for her.

            I cannot believe the level of disregard she had. I did not expect it in any way. When I had spoken to her online, she had come across as level-headed and sane, for the most part. When she got here, she could not actually adjust or settle in with the group. She could not stop focusing on whatever obsession she had and when she got high, it was an exacerbated problem. So, we cut her off, but she didn’t improve…

            The effort I put into this person has been reciprocated to me by all of the people in my home. Pat, Nikki, Stacie, Leo, Kayla—everyone who has either visited or stayed in my home and witnessed what happened with Becca has been highly supportive and helpful, taking all of the stress that they can off of Randy and me. My house is being cleaned right now without my or Randy lifting a finger, because we have an internal inspection tomorrow and we have a lot of people here but we are overwhelmed, personally.

            Becca was one example of many people I have attempted to help. There are other friends I’ve lost through much the same way, including Mary and Alex. I simply cannot tolerate someone asking for help and then shitting on the help that is offered, nor can I tolerate someone failing to uphold their word to help me. Now, I feel as though I am at a crossroads, in a way, though I’m not sure that’s the right euphemism. Now, I am working to help someone who is not really a friend, but who has reached out to me for help due to a mutual friend.

            This person believes people hate her when they do not. Her anxiety and depression push people away and she recognizes it yet fails continuously to take action to correct it. That’s okay, except that she simply ignores advice that is given to her—or, she has, so far. The one time she took my advice, things went well. We went out and had a social outing at a café, where we got coffee and tea and played chess. It was a good time and I told her how good it was. Now, I’m telling her that she needs to take care of herself and she’s telling me she doesn’t know how, but when I tell her what she can do to help herself, she makes excuses for why she can’t do it.

            She says her excuses are legitimate reasons, but the fact of the matter is that she is allowing her depression to run her life completely. I’m telling her what she can do and she is not doing it, she’s claiming that she is “trying.” And so I said as Yoda said.

            “Do or do not. There is no try.” And I said what Gizmo says. “Trying is dying.”

            I am tired. Those who energize me are the ones I keep because I am sick of putting effort into futile endeavors. It was an effort in futility and it had a pretty steep cost to help Becca. I do not want to think it is an effort in futility to help this severely depressed woman in Tacoma, but frankly, I’m seeing all the same red flags. I cannot help those who cannot or will not help themselves. It is that simple.

Anxiety and Depression: Roots in Childhood

All good parents want the same thing: Health and wellness for their children. As we propel ourselves into the future, parents take action and give more and more thought to better provide healthful foods and activities for their children. Studies that prove the detrimental effects on children of such disciplinary practices as spanking and yelling resonate with today’s new parents on unprecedented levels, encouraging parents to be gentler and kinder when shaping the personalities and characteristics of their children. This article aims to let parents know what they may be doing wrong and why their kids may act out more than others.

            The purpose of this entry is to shed light on the ways in which parents are unwittingly damaging to their children, how they can better support their children moving forward, and what happens to children who grow up without proper support from their families. To accomplish this goal, I will tell my own life’s story as a means of letting others out there know that they are not alone. Abuse takes many forms and we do not have to lie down and take it.

            My life started like any other girl’s life in the early 1990s. I was born in a secular hospital to a mother who had been abused most of her life since childhood, did not know how to tell someone “no,” and wanted nothing more than to work as a secretary while raising her children in a farmhouse with horses in the fields. My father was a tweaker.

            I fit in perfectly to the heteronormative expectations of our society, always a people pleaser. Early on, I lived with my mom, but it wasn’t long before I lived with my dad, who, unbeknownst to me, did not make me his first priority and that’s why he would yell and spank me if I didn’t tell him what he wanted to hear, even if what I said was the truth. It didn’t take long for him to get rid of me so he could focus entirely on himself and his addiction, though. Before the age of 5, I was living with his mother and her husband, none the wiser to his habits or any of the reasons behind my not living with my own mother.

            Those were the easy days. Kindergarten and first grade were the best years of my life. I had friends, teachers loved me, I was social, I fit in exactly the way I wanted to—exactly the way I was supposed to. I was a good kid. I was happy and I didn’t think very deeply about my mom or dad because they were just never around. It didn’t matter whether they were there or not because I lived in a nuclear household with the only exception being that the “parents” were actually my grandparents. Before first grade ended, though, my mother filed to take custody of me and my grandparents asked me if I wanted to go live with her.

            At the time, I could not fathom why I hadn’t been living with my mother all along, so I eagerly accepted the idea of moving to her house and being with her. I knew that my dad was not always nice to me. He liked to tease me, make fun of me, tickle me too much, yell at me, and spank me. Surely, my mother would be much better, I thought. I was wrong in the way only those who have made a decision that ultimately lead to various health problems would understand.

            My mother was neglectful. She would pay no attention to me, leaving me entirely to my own devices, unless it was a meal time or she thought I’d done something wrong, at which time she would yell at me either way. Yelling for food is one thing—most parents do it and it is not a detrimental practice—but when she would yell about the disobedience she perceived, it was a different story. My grandparents would drop me off at my mother’s house and I would scream bloody murder and cry as if my cat had died, clinging for dear life to the elders who provided me safety, security, good hygiene, prescription spectacles that were aesthetically pleasing, and clothes that fit.

            My paternal grandmother took notes. Every time I came back for a visit, she would check me over and note anything that construed child abuse. The welts on my butt from wooden spoon paddlings were the most obvious sign. What she couldn’t see or record was the true damage done to my psyche, but that is not to discredit her by saying she failed to record any important information. On the contrary, her notes were thorough enough to use in court, as that was their intention, and outlined everything from the lice on my head to the dirt in my toenails.

            There was one thing that didn’t make it to my grandma’s notes, one thing that was significant enough to change the way I saw myself for years to come: My mother told me I wasn’t pretty. Explained to me later, as an adult, my mother said that her reasoning behind such a statement was that she was told the same thing as a child. I don’t see how that justifies such abusive language—there is no way to justify abuse—but I don’t hold it against her because now I understand her mental illness, not just how it affects me. The other significant abusive event was when my mother’s boyfriend molested me, continuing to touch my private parts after I told him “No,” and “Stop,” multiple times.

            When he came into my room, lay down on my bed, and began feeling me up, it was the climax to the abuse I’d endured from him over the course of my stay with my mother. Previous abuse, I had tolerated, but this time, I told him to stop. Instead, he licked my earlobe and I could not protest due to the laughter generated from the tickling sensation of his tongue. Previous abuses fled my mind. All that mattered was that he had woken me up and all I wanted to do was sleep, but he would not leave. I was appalled—he had always stopped when I told him to, before. He tugged my pajama pants down and I said, “No,” and he told me to let go. I struggled, my tiny, 9-year-old fingers holding onto the hem of my pants for dear life as this middle-aged man forced the fabric from my grip, baring my legs and letting the cool air of the room violate my sensitive, prepubescent skin.

            “Don’t tell anyone,” an earnest, hushed, panicky request, sounded like a joke when the unwelcome stench of his spunk filled the room and the gooey, sticky substance rendered my blankets unusable. How was I to keep this thing a secret when I had told him I didn’t want him to do it in the first place? I was a good girl and I had been told that it was the right thing to tell on someone who was not respecting your autonomous desires. So, I did. I told my best friend, then my older brother, then my mother. The reactions of the first two were bolstering; the third reaction left me confused and damaged.

            My best friend listened with sympathy and offered me her support. My older brother began scouring the property for blunt force objects including crowbars and baseball bats, with which he intended to beat my offender over the head until death. My mother looked at me and said, “Keep it in the house. Don’t tell anyone else.”

            I was hurt and confused, but I listened to her. I didn’t tell anyone else, so when the cops arrived at the house, I couldn’t figure out why. It turned out my brother had told a neighbor girl whose mother had alerted the authorities. My mother’s boyfriend, the father of my second-youngest brother, was hauled away and I was taken to the hospital for examination given the nature of the crime.

            The hospital gave me an adult-sized, preheated, white blanket that I wrapped around myself, taking comfort and solace in its heat and security. I would keep this blanket for nearly a decade before deciding it served as nothing more than a reminder of my trauma. They looked me over, checked my insides for seed, and then let me go, never once losing their faces of friendliness, concern, and compassion.

            With her boyfriend gone, my mother was faced with homelessness, a fact to which I was clueless in part due to a complete lack of understanding that people could actually fail to find housing. Thinking of what was best for her children in the best way she could think of—all the while telling me it was my fault he was gone, my fault she was facing eviction again, and my fault my baby brother would never see his daddy again—encouraged her to allow me to move back to my grandparents’ house, the very house from which she had taken me.

            I thought I could be happy again. I thought moving back under my grandparents’ roof would somehow fix everything and make it right. The reality turned out to be very different, taking instead the form of further abuse from my mother. Phone calls from my mother greatly upset me as she would yell and scream at me over the phone, telling me that her circumstances were my fault, leading to the purchase of a speaker phone that would allow my grandmother to listen to the entire conversation and help me cut it off when the time was right. I never thought that I needed actual guidance, encouragement, or attentiveness to my development as a 9-year-old child.

            It was not until after I separated from the military that I realized the depth of my childhood ignorance. The advice my grandparents gave me was sound and given with the best intentions, but I thought the advice lacked encouragement. I thought it lacked the kind of rhetoric that makes a child think, “I can do this!” and instead included the kind of rhetoric that makes a child think, “I’d better not try it.” Case in point: When I told my grandma that I wanted to go to art school because my dream was to be an artist, her words were, “What are you going to do with it? Are you going to be a starving artist?” This was a significant exchange, one of many smaller exchanges, that caused lasting damage despite the fact that it was not the entirety of the conversation or even the whole of her advice.

            My grandparents found a counselor for me immediately after the sexual abuse incident. The counselor told them I’m strong and they trusted me when I told them I no longer needed therapy. I had no way of realizing the depths of my mental illness or how it would manifest later in my life. Pieces of conversations are missing from my memory, leaving me with the damaging pieces and not the helpful bits. Phrases like, “That’s not helpful,” stick in my mind, while encouragements like, “You could look into doing a double major,” fall short of my mental registration. The therapist I saw as a teenager was unable to target all of this, but she was able to pinpoint my mother as the root cause of my insatiable rage, thus provoking me to write a large series of violent poems directed at my mother.

            I was lucky. I had access to care, no matter what. I had family members who honestly and truthfully looked out for the best for me. They were not perfect. No one is. Every parent is going to say something damaging to their child. The important thing is to heal the wounds as much as possible. When I finally swallowed my anxiety and called my mother from Germany, I was pleasantly surprised by her response and my ability to have a full conversation with her that ultimately led to the healing of our relationship. When I mentioned to my grandmother her response to my desire to be an artist, she came back a little later and reminded me of the rest of the conversation, giving me a better understanding and helping reassure me that my childhood was not actually as terrible as I had come to believe as a disabled veteran.

            If the most important thing is communication, though, my dad falls short and always has. Where my mother grew and became healthier, my dad has stagnated in that I feel more comfortable of talking to my mother about any issue I have than I am comfortable talking to my dad. I have gone through the forgiveness process with my dad as much as my mom, for they were both equally nonexistent for much of my childhood, though in different ways. When I called my mom from Germany, it was with the goal of forgiving her for the neglect and abuse of my childhood. It went well. Forgiving my dad felt much more forced because he came clean from drugs and practically demanded forgiveness.

            Forgiveness cannot be forced or demanded. Demanding or forcing forgiveness is a good way to eliminate all possibilities of future forgiveness. When my dad came clean and said, “Yeah, I’ve been doing methamphetamines. I would get clean for a short while and get my shit together, then I’d go get loaded and lose it all.” It explained the pattern of behavior I so abhorred in him as a child and with his insistence and my grandmother’s willingness to listen and forgive him, I found myself sucked into his web of deceit. Deception in the form of words that assured me that he would turn around and be a good father. A supportive dad who would actually care about me and encourage me towards my goals. I thought the elimination of drugs from his life would turn him around. I was wrong—not in that he ever relapsed, because he is still clean, but in that his attitude never changed. His way of approaching me never changed.

            It is important that one day, I forgive my father. It is important to forgive those who hurt us, not to excuse their behavior or even to say it was, is, or ever will be okay, but to relieve ourselves of the negative emotions that we harbor without forgiveness. Parents are imperfect. Now that I am a parent, I have a much deeper understanding of what my mother went through. I also have a much better understanding of the ways in which my father has interacted with me throughout my life. I interact with my daughter in many similar ways to how my dad interacted with me when I was young. I also interact wither her in ways my mother interacted with me. But more than that, I have the best example of a parent I could ever have asked for: My husband.

            Without my husband, it is likely I would not be writing this blog post. It is likely that I would not recognize the abusive nature of my father’s rhetoric. So, I will close with advice for parents. Perhaps it will seem cliché. Perhaps it will seem overdone or unsolicited—parents get so much advice already, who am I, as a newbie mom, to interject?

            I’ll tell you who I am. I am a woman. I am a disabled veteran who suffers from major depressive disorder, persistent postpartum depression, generalized anxiety triggered by certain social interactions, and PTSD from not only my time in the military, but also from the course of my life.

            So, to parents, I have this to say: Listen to your children. When they tell you their dreams and aspirations, think before you speak. Make sure your FIRST words are words of encouragement, not of advice or caution. It is good to caution our children of the dangers in life, but it is more important to ensure that our children feel strong, confident, and capable of facing the challenges ahead.

            Be mindful of your reactions towards your children. When your son or daughter spills an entire gallon of milk onto the kitchen floor, take a deep breath before you speak. Walk away if the adrenaline is making your hands shake. Take your child to the side, away from the mess, to explain to them why their actions were wrong. Demonstrate what they must do to make it right and lead them to do it themselves—with the gallon of milk example, clean it up with them, but make sure they do most of the work and remain positive while doing it. There is nothing in the world harder than keeping your cool when your child is testing your last nerve. But that is the absolute most important thing any parent can do for their kids. Keep your cool, remain positive, and encourage more than you advise.