The Same Old Abandonment Issues: Insomnia Edition (Trigger Warning)

It is seven thirty in the morning, day two of an insomnia attack. I know the source. I had to trust my mother if I wanted to get the cat off of Ebay, and she made arrangements without consulting me for the spay/nueter. Then when I agreed to go forward with her plan because of course I was lied to by the shelter staff, something that in a few hours will be dealt with though I may put it off a day and try to sleep first as I may give up on dealing with them nicely… She of course does not show. I remind her. I try to sleep because I know she isn’t showing. I still, just in case don’t feed the cats or let them near water for seven hours while trying to sleep. They of course throw a fit. All night long.

It was actually quiet for the first five hours. I still couldn’t seem to rest. Of course, I am in pain, I am headachey why should my body rest? I actually didn’t let my Sunday caregiver come in because I was too tired to find out if she would do a half assed job and give me excuses that I have yet to verify but seem bogus to me. Ah well, it’s monday. Even if I don’t sleep I will call the office and broach the topics she felt I needed to know and since the local Community College is run by idiots, I don’t actually think she is lying.

I gave up on sleeping to write for this simple reason. I realized I felt the same way today as I did many years ago, ten in fact, when awaiting my mother. When I was in one of the many mental hospitals she would schedule a visit. I would get excited, and then… she wouldn’t show. She wouldn’t call. I would spend days worrying about her safety.

I have decided it is time for me to risk her shutting down and I need to tell her that she cannot expect me to respect her or trust her when she costs me money, I have no idea how the hell I am supposed to pay for Sylvani’s spay nueter now since I paid the shelter and this was supposed to be included. So I am going to send her a bill. I am going to itemize my stresses, and I am going to put a monetary value on said stresses. I will include a note that this doesn’t include every other time she has failed.

Even when I had no one left to ask for help moving in here she did this crap. Sometimes if it’s really important, life or death, she’ll show up the day she says she will. I already have stopped calling her most of the time, I already cut off Grandma and my elder sister. B is now Sixteen, she’s pld enough that if she needs me she can call me regardless of my mother’s whims and permissions.

I dislike that sensation that sits in my gut when I have to wait. I dislike the utter terror I get when being late. I also dislike the fact that as I lay in my bed waiting for her to show up I replay every time she berated me for making us all late, and not all of them were actually my fault. I replay each time she promised she would show up, and each time she failed to do so. Even though she saw my father do the same thing to me and my siblings and saw how much it hurt.

I am tempted to point out to her that when I need her to drive across the state, she won’t do it barring me probably dying and even then she puts me in danger. She’ll cost me money and will wonder why I never buy presents anymore, never call to just talk, and tend to just nod along to whatever she says without listening, though I really doubt she notices this. Yes. She’ll put me into a position where my health is in jeopardy and I am once again stressed and frustrated.

My brother and sister, who have both lived either across the state or the country however have not had this, at least that I was allowed to see. Instead, she’ll spend money that we don’t have on them. She’ll go across the country with almost no notice, and of course with me there’s always notice.

The best part of reminiscing a bunch of betrayal and abandonment issues is I realize now, whenever my mother refused to believe me after every hospitalization about trying to fit into my family, about trying to be happy, and always beleived my siblings when it came down to a matter of my pain, health, etc, and when she said “Well you never tried before, why would you try now?” She was really talking about herself.

The most hurtful thing she ever said to me was that, and when she agreed with my step grandmother that my disagreeing with their opinions meant I was full of hate. Whenever she promises me she’ll do better next time I know it’s that cycle of abuse talking. I have yet to tell her I think she’s abusive, but it’s damned well time. Screw her promises of my very own wheelchair van, it’s a lie to keep me around. Screw her in general. I am going to send her the bill after I get some sleep. I’ll find a way to take care of the cats, I always do.

I just hate that in order to stop her from hurting me I have to risk her hurting Beth. I hate that. I am enraged with this fact, and the idea that she seems to think it’s her right to treat her children like chattel, as if somehow time magically fails to pass for me.

Now that H my older sister is in the picture constantly does my mother try this crap with her? I somehow doubt it. After all I noticed a long time ago my mother only responds positively to the crueller behaviors. My mother only showed me actual symptoms of what she thinks love is when I was being abusive.

I know I write this sort of post about once a year, and I always mean it. Each year I get a little more distant. I am truly looking forward to having Section 8 and moving to California. She won’t be able to lie to me about visiting then, she won’t ever have the money to do so. I am safe once I am out of state. It isn’t as if she’ll actually call me or anything like that.

I considered adding this to the Humor section, my lack of sleep sure does make me mean.

Surgery of the Sisterly Relations

I am having quite the day. To be honest todays ragathon started before I even had my glasses or morning “can I make it to the potty without falling on my face”? Nope. i woke up to the sound of my phone going off and discovered my sister thinks I am incompetent and unaware of dates. It seems, because she has remembered my mother’s birthday, that everyone else will forget.

She said it was a courtesy but H does nothing courteously. She’s never done anything nice for anyone without having an ulterior motive, unless this was done sometime in the last two years with my largely pretending she doesn’t exist. H is the sister I wrote about, my older sister. The one that I think is an unfit mother. I haven’t hid from her my disdain for her, nor do I plan to. Obviously, since this is a public post I am hiding nothing as is my purview.

My reply was harsh, however she woke me up and my filters take a good hour to activate. Not an excuse, a fact. I retorted that I remembered and didn’t need reminders and had remembered even when she wasn’t around and didn’t care for all those years she wasn’t around and was busy not caring. I am hoping she understands I meant every word I said today, but it seems that she felt the need to berate me for being ungrateful, at being woken up to be reminded of my mother’s birthday despite daily reminders for the last two weeks and my sister and mother both trying to make my own birthday nightmarish between the two of them.

Her response was I should bite my tongue if I have nothing polite to say. Well there was cursing involved but, again, I had nearly drifted back off thinking that she may get a clue. This would be where I insult all blondes and make a blonde joke except some of my dear friends are blonde and would’ve understood that if you don’t want me to bitch at you don’t keep talking. This has been my method since I was a small child of making sure people know they have screwed up. For someone who knew me for the first thirteen years of my life she seemed to forget I wake up as a malevolent rage bomb. That’s on good days. Something about insomnia makes being woken up very difficult, there’s a pain to it at times and this was such a day.

So, I am expecting her to not talk to me for a few more years. I replied you see. “Because you set such a fine example of courtesy? Leave me be. I do not require your scolding either. Or texts. or Calls.” I felt this was more clear. Yes I did just pick up my phone and copy that down. Somehow being cursed at for not really giving a damn while I am asleep makes no sense to me. Except that my sister has worked hard to have no class.

Some of the things my mother tried to teach us were attempts at good things, and my sister chose to work to be anything but what my mother said, as did I. We have this in common. Except like in the Robert Frost poem we came to a fork in the road. I took the road less travelled and she turned around and walked the other way.

I know this post is harsh, but I cannot tell you how many times I have regretted not telling her what I think. She still believes I am her gullible “retarded sister”. She is the sister that left me to die with my bad reaction to pot, she is the sister that told me I had no writing talent and that she’s the writer despite her writing skills being… what I consider poor. It isn’t about the spelling, mine is fairly rotten anyway, it is about the idea that because she thought she was a good poet, and maybe was when she was young but isn’t now and I have only read her recent work, that no one else could be.

My sister used to lie to me. She would make up facts and if I could prove them wrong would beat me. My sister’s conception of reality is that everyone should just do as she says. It’s very much like our father. I used to accuse my elder brother of walking in his footsteps when he would hit me. They both did. J did his best to stop after a time but H has wedged herself into the role of abuser quite nicely.

So this was how I cut her this morning, my scalpel of sleep deprived rage hopefully was sharp enough. I know my mother will hear of this, but she and I had a nice text talk. I dislocated my jaw again or I would have actually called. She got my jokes, after some explanation which was apparently more amusing anyway. My mother’s birthday sounded good and there are things that are planned which my being sick precludes me from enjoying but the fact is, I have no doubts that the antipathy that has grown in me with my family is beyond my sister’s comprehension

I had to cut her off. Her belief that I am still wanting to be just like her, that I am jealous of her and all her friends is dangerous to my health. You see, when she has the startling revelation that 13 years ago I was a different person and I have since grown up, she may try to force me back into that sort of childish thinking. It fits her whims. I knew then to not back talk her unless I wanted to get hit. I knew then that telling her how pretty she was was good for me.

I don’t think she’s pretty now. I think life has been hard to her and it shows in her face. I don’t want to have her life at all. Somehow fornicating with cousins and reproducing just doesn’t work with my thinking. I don;’t want a string of men that my children each are forced to call daddy. I don’t want to be her. I found myself somewhere along this road of life, and while I am still working on the puzzle pieces I am left to wonder… what if I had never stopped trying to be like her?

The answer is I would’ve died in a gutter.

I love her. I love my mother too. That doesn’t mean they get to take part in my life. That doesn’t mean that I will pretend to be happy to see them. Sometimes I am. My mother is coming to take Sylvani to a vet over the mountain, because the shelter screwed up and that’s how we have to get the situation and the cat fixed. My mom took care of the dangling threads before calling me, which is a bit annoying but also kind of her since she did so after I didn’t call but texted over my jaw. she didn’t want me to hurt myself. This doesn’t make me beholden to my mother

Just like I am not beholden to H for all of the years of her lying to me and telling me that eacht hing that hurt was love. I have never forgotten the moment I realised what real love felt like. M my dear friend is guilty of teaching me what love is. Her lies about love, romance, and men have all left her in what I feared my life would be.

My sister is someone I pity. Her life makes me sad. I fear for her. Ifear for her children. So with a snip, I cut her free and I must go the other way. There is nothing pity does for people but poisons them. If all she does is literally hurt me, figuratively and emotionally hurt me, and expect me to regress into a thirteen year old girl so desperate for a small modicum of love that I risk my life daily… she can go home and be in that terrifying space of poverty that is self imposed.

I would rather she instead let me be an adult, grew up a bit herself, and gave her kids the love they deserve but something tells me she has no idea how to do so. Neither do I, on the kids thing. That’s why I don’t have any.

The Chronic Life Style

When you live with one or two or even more chronic illnesses your life changes. You lose something. Life becomes medicalized. You are removed from society, even if society doesn’t see it. Some conditions are blatantly obvious, but others may be hidden by clothing, misinformation, or even great efforts by the patient. You become a patient. Likely you also lose patience with the practice of medicine. Depending on the rarity of your disease or diseases you rapidly eschew laymen’s terms, having to research so that you can teach your doctor about the latest treatments.

It may feel like you should give up on doctors, but you may need medicine in order to have any sort of quality of life. Painful procedures including biopsies may become a regular requirement for treatment. You will have a team of doctors, none of whom communicate with one another. The coordination of this team depends on you. Most doctors will try treatments that do not corelate, and many will eventually give up on you. They want to treat you with a cookie cutter treatment, though for most rare conditions these do not exist because the pharmacutical company cannot make enough money and doesn’t really care if you are in pain.

You spend most of your life in a waiting room, and once you have a doctor in a room with you there is often a fight to get them to listen to you. Eventually, you learn how to make them listen, though this comes with practice. You are known by your first name by a pharmacist if they care. You learn to count your painmeds at the counter if they don’t. Sometimes they pretend to care just to steal your medicine.

Your doctors all want you to take dozens of pills, and often put you at risk for an overdose if you do not know why you are taking other things or their side effects. This burden can be very heavy if the pain is effecting your cognitive function. Some doctors will ignore what you want, they will ignore your chart and may prescribe drugs that you are allergic to. They then get offended when you point out that the medication will harm you. You don’t matter to these doctors and they are often specialists. You learn soon too, that you want a doctor freshly out of med school, because they are open minded and are often the ones who remember the names of rare diseases, but you want the experience of a doctor who has been at this for years.

There is no option for both, you can either have inexperience and passion or the doctor who has been dulled by years in the system. If you go to a hospital with even one medical student you will be shown off like a side show freak, because you are rare and fascinating. They will prod you, even if your condition has nothing to do with your visit. If you have an ear ache, they will still want you to flex your joints or to poke your skin to see it’s odd reactions. They all want to interview you or treat you so that they can write a paper on your condition. None of them keep in mind the humiliation that some of their questions can cause. Some doctors do not ask permission before telling these students about you, violating your HIPPA rights.

At other hospitals the internists may be in the same position as medical students, though they are much rarer. Often the internists will arrive and will ask permission. The curiosity still gleams in their eyes but they are not going to ask the questions with as much bluntness, a sign of mental maturation. Still, even if you are a small child, you forget to have a childhood. Doctor’s don’t really seem to understand that you lose your personal life.

The condition may have treatments, but many of them might be surgical. You could have a few conditions that cancel out the treatment options of others. The horrible sensation of turning into a grotesque monster may hit you. At this point, or even before, many with Chronic conditions turn to thoughts of suicide. Some even commit suicide, abandoning their families and lives. Some choose this route because they were abandoned instead. All Chronic Illnesses come with a side risk of severe and Chronic depression.

You might start laughing at every new diagnosis. You might hear the words “rare” or “genetic” and burst into giggles. They aren’t sounds of joy but it is really a mask for your horror. Each diagnosis has the same grief process. Sometimes you may be able to skip denial but you can never skip over the tears that you cry when you are alone. Even when you have a support system, they can’t always help you to feel better.

As your condition progresses you forget to do things such as buying groceries, or you have to choose between the medication that is vital to you and your pain medication. Many people with chronic conditions are looked down on if they need a handicapped space to make it through their shopping. Some careen through the store in a rush trying to get everything done before the pain overwhelms them, or the fatigue. Others use a motor cart provided by the store, praying that some little old lady doesn’t see them. They might feel guilt the first few times, but the ability to buy groceries with diminished pain is such a huge relief that they continue to use the carts.

At this point some continue to work, though others may lose their jobs. Not only are most people with Chronic conditions, even those which are supposedly pain free, fighting depression but the treatments may cost them their ability to work. If, as with Hidradenitis Supprativa, there is no treatment beyond surgery the patient will likely wait until the condition has debilitated them completely depriving them of their livelihoods. Some of these conditions are listed in the government’s database of conditions which need expeditious approval for a Disability claim.

Due to the listing in the Disability Database, the patient may run across a person who desires their disease or at least the diagnosis. This can be in the waiting room of the doctor, in line at the Social Security Administration Office, and even online, when seeking information and hope. This can often prevent a patient from seeing this doctor again. The patient might notify their doctor or the receptionist about the conversation. Instead they likely are too ashamed by what they have heard. Usually the person who has stated they desire this horrible condition believes it is truly painless, and considers it the easy way out. They are unaware of the detrimnetal effect that their words might have.

The patient with disability still faces the cyclic visitations to a doctor that the patient who has retained work or has made the choice to try and deny the need for Disability Benefits does. No chronic patient is exempt, though there may be enough relief from their condition to give them the sense of remission. Sadly due to the Chronic nature of any Chronic condition, there is no truth to this and they face the risk of a deepening depression or the onset of depression depending on their personality.

It is recommended by most physicians that patients seek therapy, although the psychiatric community eschews supporting most pain patients, preferring to tell them that their condition is in their head. The patient likely has spent years fighting for a diagnosis and will often have trouble with the notion of seeing a therapist again due to the traumatic treatment recieved before. This is not universal, though it is more common than a happy history with a therapist. This does not mean that therapy is not a good choice, as the state of mind can effect the reception of treatment by a medical physician.

Many patients will seek a support group before seeking out a therapist. With the advent of the Internet there has been an upsurge in email groups. Some patients may struggle with finding a group where they “mesh”. This struggle can be due to race, religion, or even prejudice faced against certain conditions. The rampant discrimination with in the chronic illness community can at times push people back into the mental distress mentioned previously. Many support groups try to modify the twelve step system or insist on a certain religious belief. Some members of support groups may be religious centric, focusing on prayer. Not every chronic patient wants to pray constantly. Many have had crisis of religion and are also seeking out their beliefs. This means that the religious patients who have turned to god may agitate their mental stress further.

This does not mean that any of these groups should disband, it merely means that a further support structure must be created and maintained by the patient. The patient has at this point forgotten that they can be more than a last name in a waiting room, or a first name if their last name is moderately difficult to pronounce. The patient may have had multiple personal crisis, and many years may have passed. Each patient progresses through various points in this article, and perhaps all of them. Some may be exceedingly lucky and find the perfect doctor, therapist, and have the perfect family who supports them unconditionally. These patients are rare. They also live with Unicorns.

Depending on the condition and the level of gore that the patient faces romantic interludes might be impinged. It may become difficult to hold their children, or to touch their pets. Fear may also be an issue with the patient’s spouse. Sadly, many chronic pain patients face marital crisis though a significant number of these crisis actually strengthen the relationships. Chronic Illness does not preclude the patient from desiring romance, love, or affection despite the potential for an increased level of anger as a side effect for the pain. The patient might begin to display outbursts of rage, instead of depression. They may also seem to mirror the bipolar patient (if this is not their chronic condition) with Mood Swings.

Some of these emotional reactions are the natural response to the brain altering it’s function to try and work around chronic pain. Others may be a response or side effect to treatment. Some medications excaserbate depression, others may mask the symptoms but only for short periods of time. The end of the masking period will be followed by a worsening of the condition.

With patients who have only surgery as an option there is the risk of being scammed by snake oil salesmen, untrained herbalists, and finks. A patient must research every medication, doctor, and treatment. It has become the patient who knows more than the doctor.

In order to return to being a person instead of the patient, a patient may tell their doctor to sod off. This is otherwise known as firing the incompetent buffoon. This is not always effective, as the medicalization of their humanity may have progressed rapidly and with great depth. The patient has found that resistance is futile. It appears that the Chronic Life Style is much like that of the Borg, as the patient has lost personal identity with in their medical file, beyond DNA evidence. The patient has discovered the medical hive mind, and thus their own knowledge has given them the ability to connect to it.

Published By Dr. Sarc A. Sim in the American Muddicle Association Joynal.

Author’s Note:

This was my attempt to try and vent. I spent last night trying to find out if I needed surgery for a very painful abscess that stayed hidden in my flesh for a good while. The cavernous hole was larger than a baseball, and showed up only as a small spot. The current treatment prescribed was oral antibiotics, which I stopped this morning. They made my stomach hurt and effected my reactions to the sun too much to continue.

The incompetent dermatologist I wrote about before prescribed this and a topical antibiotic that I used last night. I am now being forced to choose between improvement in the skin itself with the sensation of being burned alive or a faster progression of this illness that has no real treatment besides surgery and skin grafts. I haven’t decided yet. I am not sure I can handle that much pain.

I also am trying to get over the feeling of being alone. I wrote before about my rejection of mainstream religion, and all of the HS groups I could find last night seemed to talk about how prayer is the only treatment. This left me feeling as if I should just go to sleep and never wake up. This is a step away from suicidal thoughts for me, but is very close. The urge to give up is universal, with any challenge.

The final nail in my emotional coffin was seeing pictures of the treatment for HS. My skin is unable to hold a stitch, which means that where someone else could have the skin literally cut out completely and grafted over I could not. I did determine, as my doctor never knows and I have yet to find a Dermatologist willing to treat me more than once that I likely do not need surgery as long as I drain the abscess hourly. I am doing this and the wound is already shrunk down to the size of a golf ball.

I know I have support here, and someone else who is reading this probably found out they aren’t alone. I am considering doing something that feels drastic. I am considering building a website to host an email support group, a forum to discuss medical things, and a place to discuss non medical things. This would be a place to congregate. There would be a selection for those with the need to talk about their religious choices, but it would be seperate from the main support group as those persons are more likely to find a support group that fits them. I hope that it is clear that I am not judging anyone based on their religious choices with this, yet I want to make a place where you do not have to be religious, of the same religion, or can be an athiest without being judged.

I dislike reading about how once someone started praying, eating parsley, and did penance they realized they are marked as a sinner and that is the end cause. Yes, this is an extreme form of self belief, yet with the more untreatable conditions, of which I have many, that this form of extremism is more prevalent. I believe that some persons who happen to believe in the more widely accepted religions just as the less widely accepted religions may go to extremes but the main groups do not.

I feel that this all needed explanation as some people may be offended by my words, and that is the last thing I want. However, I needed to vent my emotions in order to subvert the depression that is trying to take over my mind.

If you would be willing to help create a system as described, please either use the contact form and drop me a line or post in the comments section. I cannot do it alone, and I do not have enough time to make this a reality at this time. This of course is logical as any group needs more than one person. I am looking at the Yahoo Groups System, as well as some of the free services for a website.

Hidden Abuse Take Two (Trigger Warning)

Abuse is something that is running rampant in our society. I think the “right” to abuse is not just reinforced in some religions, but it is reinforced in other ways. The media often shows women getting hit as punishment, or if male and females are both under assault, the woman gets hurt worse, and it is the man’s duty to avenge her. There are very few deviations from this formula. I am writing a deviation, at least I hope so, for my own novel. I realized that I am exploring what it is to be a survivor in my writing.

I am not going to give the plot away by much, but, there is an exploration of rape, incest, and the confrontation of an abuser in my story. That is a big portion of it’s core. This is a core part of what has made me who I am. I have confronted every abuser in my life, and although it is extremely painful and has ended badly in most circumstance, I was able to show them that I know what they are.

Through this exploration of what abuse is, and my constant thoughts and warnings I have come to see that the media lies. Abuse isn’t just when you are beaten bloody. That is the most obvious abuse. That is the abuse that comes in at the end of a very long escalation. Abuse starts small.

My first abusive boyfriend actually helped me find my name. At times I feel weird answering to Kat, because he was the first to call me that. The spelling and intention is different yet the association sometimes pops up. The abuse with him was the smallest. It started over food. I have huge food issues, and have had for most of my life. He would start out with our food order. I would order something meaty and he’d look at me and say, “That will make your cholesterol high. Don’t you want a salad?” If I refused to order the salad, at first he would just shrug, but then the comments started to escalate, “Well, if you want to be a fat pig for the rest of your life fine…”

I nearly died when I started to give in. I didn’t see this as abuse. It was not as bad as what I had dealt with before, so how could it be abuse? I didn’t understand. He then began to accuse me of things, little things that made no sense to me. “You are one of the Illuminati, You are the destroyer of worlds.” I thought he’d been reading way too many comic books. He hated them but read them to try and make me feel better about him, in some ways that worked at first.

This was one of my longest relationships, I was hiding my relationship from my family per his order. After all they would surely judge me for dating a person of a different ethnicity. Before you ask, no he was not black. I have been blessed to know only gentle men of color. No single ethnic group holds the buy out on violence. Most of my abusers are men of my own color, white.

I began to miss out on time with my friends. He then started pressuring me for sex. I had decided a long time ago I want to have sex with the man I marry. For some reason this was not the same in my mind with women, I could explore them but men were too dangerous and in my mind hated pleasure with promiscuous women. I was warned that if I did not have sex with him, the world would end.

The night we broke up he hit me. I do not remember much, I had a flash back to one of the worst beatings of my life. I also reacted, I don’t remember it but when I came back to reality I had been hitting him with a frying pan. My face hurt, and he snarled at me, “I am going to rape you, kill you, and then I will have your soul forever.” Those words haunt me. He meant them. He wanted to steal my soul, because in his eyes I had too much personal power.

I called 911, he was arrested, and some of the things I found out about him were frightening. He had lied about his name, he had lied about a lot of things. He was a known serial rapist, and had killed more than one person. He went to jail, and although he is out now my fear of him is very small. I doubt he will try to find me. If he does, I know how to protect myself, and I will call the police.

Looking back, I see many warning signs of abuse. I thought these were normal for social interactions however. Any time you are not allowed to share a relationship, it is a warning sign of abuse. If you are not able to meet their friends or family, that is another sign of abuse. It is a bit harder to feel that these are significant with internet dating, but they are in the majority of cases. If you must stop seeing your friends, it is a warning sign of abuse. If you say no, and he takes that as yes? Get out of there.

There are more signs to abuse, but my brain is trying to flash back now, so I need to stop writing this piece. Abuse is not as hidden as it thinks it is. As a survivor of abuse I have dealt with varying layers, finding each time my brain accepts it as normal, until I finally found my way out of the cycle of abuse. It takes years, it takes practice. If anything hurts you, even if it might not feel wrong it is abuse.

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