Relationship Stupidity Disease… Do We Have a Drug For That?

 

I’ve been enjoying my new relationship. And being a completely disgusting loveydovey couple with the Luke Wilson look-a-like. But when moving forward, sometimes you have to look back at your past just a bit…

 

Relationship stupidity should be an actual disease. I mean, if we’ve gotten to the point in America to call obesity a disease, why can’t we do it for those that let themselves become verbally, mentally, and physically abused all for the sake of a relationship? I may be on the right track now with much soul-searching, self-improvement, and self-study, but I WAS an absolute mess… with no clue how to get out. Some call that growing up. I call it the Evil Ex fiance and the nightmare years.

 

The other day I was going through boxes of stuff in my guest bedroom… things I hadn’t opened in many years. I came across a letter about 10 years old. I remember that back then I liked to write things out before discussing them (you know, before you could write out and rewrite a text message before pressing SEND).

This is not my hand. For one it is not chocolatey. And… my fingernails and polish are so much more awesomer ­čśŤ

 

The conversation that I needed to have with the Evil Ex shows just how naive, mentally abused, and under his control I was.

 

Here in all it’s cringeworthy glory:

 

“Evil Ex,

I have no clue as to why you are upset with me. Why you decided that you couldn’t even sleep in the same bed with me. What did I do last night to piss you off? I was a little drunk, but I don’t remember saying or doing anything. All I was trying to do is what you wanted. You’ve kept saying that you wished I would drink because I’m more fun when I’m drunk. But still it seems I did something wrong. Every time I try to do what you want, I do it wrong by your standards, or you change your mind about what you wanted. I am constantly trying to live up to your expectations, your ideals, but I keep coming up short. And then you can’t talk to me, look at me, because I’ve hurt or pissed you off in some way. But when you hurt me, somehow I always end up comforting you because you feel bad. If I mess up, you close yourself off from me like I make you sick.

Is this how it’s going to be? Someone constantly telling me I’m not good enough… oh excuse me, not being the best YOU know I can be> Tell me this: do you ever comfort me when I’m hurt? Or do you just turn it around and say that you’re hurting more than me. You want control. To dominate someone. I just want to love and be loved. Can’t we see eye to eye on anything? Can’t you just love me?”

 

*gagging sounds*

 

There are days I want to go back and slap myself into an alternate reality. And other days all I can do is thank the heavens at how far I’ve come. But the mental/emotional abuse I received from the so-called man who would make me write such a childish crazy letter… well, this letter was just a drop in the bucket of crazy, and not my fun natural crazy. He preyed on my insecurities, my youth (Evil Ex was old enough to be my father), my introverted-ness, my want of a relationship, companionship. He used my secrets against me instead of holding them as a gift that I shared with him. He took my issues with women from a childhood molestation and tried to live out his fantasies and fetishes as a way for me to “let go of the past”. He took my beliefs, ideas, and personal studies on submissiveness and what it meant to me, and twisted it into having complete control over what I wore, who I talked to, the decisions I made, my life. And he took my ongoing depression and exploited me and my feelings and my sanity until my family didn’t recognize me.

 

Do I blame him for everything? No, I actively pursued him and ignored all the warning signs. I was still learning what a real relationship should be like and thought he would work because he wasn’t the “type” I had in the past. But those rose-tinted glasses of like/love/lust had me to the point of cutting myself to escape the pain of dealing with a twisted relationship. And I couldn’t figure out how to get out. I couldn’t just break up with him, he’d sit in my parking lot, constantly calling until I talked to him… and accepted him back. Somehow that behavior made me believe he truly loved me. Until the cycle of “you must do what I say to make me happy” began again.

 

So…. I ran. I had a job related offer/excuse and I took it and ran. I knew that if I stayed in the same vicinity I might let weakness and loneliness keep those rose-tinted glasses on my visage of what was really real.

 

Now, I use my experience to talk to friends/ acquaintances that may be headed for, or have experienced the same thing if I can. And I’ve been pretty good at running the other way from any men that give me the vibe of the Evil Ex. I dodged a bullet in more ways than one. No lasting damage really… except the scars to my soul. But hey, you haven’t really lived until you have battle scars to prove what you’ve survived.

 

I threw the letter away. I don’t need it to remember where I will never let myself go again.

 

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My Couch is My Boyfriend… Oh God, Either I’m Becoming Really Weird or Pathetic

So, when I come home after work, I throw my bag down and instead of getting out of uniform, I run right to my couch. Of course, that’s where my laptop is and yes, I may have a small internet addiction, but that’s not it. On weekends, Fridays where I don’t go out. I fall asleep on my couch. The Monster Teen has learned not to try to make me go to my room. He just turns off all the lights. I have a pillow and blanket there.

My couch is my inanimate boyfriend. I name him forever more… Hector.

This is not Hector. Hector is more handsome in a solid sage green. And he’s bigger. Bigger is better when it comes to my sofa Hector.

Hector is there for me. We sit comfortably together. He doesn’t tell me I’m fat (even though I’ve lost over 25 pounds in the past 2 months, go me!). Hector doesn’t care if I decide to hang with him in PJs, unbrushed teeth, and my hair a mess with no makeup. Hector is the PERFECT inanimate boyfriend.

He’s not like my bed. Cold and empty because my picky butt still hasn’t found someone I’m willing to share it with, no matter how many online dating sites I join.

Oh god, its depressingly hilarious that I have a closer relationship with a frackin couch than any man right now.

For that reason, I’m going out on a date today with someone who while attractive, may be just trying to see the dimensionthe5th knickers color. But, as much as Hector means to me, this relationship is bad for my mental health!

 

(http://thequeencreative.wordpress.com/2013/06/11/for-the-promptless-s-2-e-5-gezellegheid/comment-page-1/#comment-301)

Its Not The Way I Want It – Awkward Fracktardery

My life, that is.

This is about to be an extremely short and whiny rant.

I stop, or argue with my family and friends, because you know, by now I should be married right? At least once? And screw me saying that I want to do it once and right, even though that’s the truth. It’s kinda now “Have another baby, or get married, or do something dang-it!”

Because my life has turned into: work, Monster Teen quality time, church, internet surfing, rinse and repeat. My phobias of crowds and talking to people outside of work has gotten worse. I don’t know how to interact, without sounding like an awkward fracktard. What do you do in this situation? Because I seriously feel like I’m turning into my mother. After my parents separated, she had one doomed to fail relationship. It went so badly that she didn’t date for over 10 years. She swamped herself in work, family, and church.

And here I am, following along the same water slide without a way to stop the speed. It’s not like it’s all about relationships. I even have trouble making friends outside the office and internets. I want to do more, but I have no one to do it with. All my friends are married or in serious relationships. I’ve surrounded myself with what I want, but still cannot get it.

How do I reach in and pick myself out of a slump like this? I feel like I’m sinking.

Sometimes Thoughts of Suicide Are For Entertainment Purposes Only

*Before I begin… thanks to all who read my last post… I didn’t write it so anyone would think ill or good of me… It’s just an extremely important part of my life I thought I would share, just in case anyone had a┬ásimilar┬ásituation. It’s all about trying to help others right?

On to the crazy…

I know you’re looking at this title saying “WTF DT5, have you finally lost your teacups for good?” No… No… I’m still my optimum level of crazy. With a dash of sugar.

But I wonder if anyone else out there has the twisted way of thinking that I have. See, I’m one of those people who when I think of something really fracked up, I worry if there’s a mind reader around. You know? Like randomly there’s some old dude explaining stuff to a group, and your mind seems to have taken some LSD without your knowledge because:

Suddenly you are imagining this old wrinkled sack of flesh having smexy times.

Ugh. I wish my brain could vomit and leak out my ears. And I hope there wasn’t a Professor Xavier type mutant anywhere near to read all of that.

So, that’s just a small taste of the randomness of my brain. There’s so many weird compartments in here that even I’ve forgotten it. Seriously, my brain and its folds are like an Old Crazy Hoarder Cat Lady’s attic. Full of old dusty weird things…and is that hairball in the corner moving?! O_o

I’ve been in equal parts playing that I’m crazy and then really being off my rocker, that its hard to tell which is which. I’m functioning crazy. I’ve never been committed although one supervisor of mine tried to push for it. I’ve been on many medications, but feel I function better when I’m just high on life. So no need to try to find me, I’m long since past the days where I would be a danger to myself. I just like to joke about ­čśë

Back to weird thoughts… The truth is, I’ve only thought of actually killing myself twice while I went through two separate bouts of severe depression. Once was as a teen, the other as a young 20 something. While a teen, I didn’t even plan it out really. Just located things I could mix together that would hopefully put me out of my misery. As an adult I actually thought up 2 possible ways that would hopefully not hurt that much, and not take that long. But I never went through with it (obviously, or maybe not). And then I never thought of it again… in the same way.

So, although I didn’t have suicidal thoughts any longer since I’m in optimal functioning crazy mode, I began to have What If/ Choose your own gruesome adventures. But I really didn’t think of it as too weird. Until I opened my mouth around others and realized that it was kind of creepy to them.

For instance, do not energetically say that you heard drowning is the most relaxing way to go, and if you had a choice that’s what you would do, drink and swallow a couple of pills and then swim out into the ocean. People will look at you funny. Or if you talk about every time you’re driving in the mountains, you have this image in your head of hitting the rails and going over car and all down the cliff.

Those kind of conversations seem to only be allowed during deployments. Now, if you’re down in the sand box getting hit with mortar rounds everyday, you can joke about the port-a-potties that have been hit a couple of times, and get promises from your friends that if die on the toilet, they’d at least pull your pants up before anyone else sees what’s left of you. Or that if you get hit by anything, hopefully all you’ll lose is a baby toe… Because, come on, the baby toe isn’t all that important right?

Morbid humor only works with certain people I’ve learned. The anonymous dudes and dudettes of the internet, and about 75 percent of the military. But there’s a time and place and a such thing as going to far. I like not being locked up and going for mental health when I want to, and not on someone else’s orders. To do that, I just have to keep from opening my mouth about random crazy thoughts that may get me locked up. I guess I can still discuss what I’d do during a zombie apocalypse right?

 

Crazy must be genetic

So I’m writing in BEFORE thoughts in anticipation of taking Monster Teen to the doc tomorrow. To the head doc. I’ve avoided this for years but I think its starting to really hinder him. Both his teachers and I believe he may have ADHD.

This is not the only time its come up. Back when he was just a Monster elementary schooler, the teachers pushed for him to be medicated. I took him to a counselor that noted the bigger problem at the time was that he had a reading disability that only I had noticed and repeatedly tried to bring to his teacher’s attention. So he got his own IEP (individual education plan-I think it’s called) and received extra help in reading. And things got mucho better.

Until the last 2 years. There’s not a┬á reading problem (well, he’s still not at OMG the greatest level, but passing). But he just can’t seem to focus. I want to write this off as teenage boy hormones, but he, the Monster Teen himself, is actually concerned. He doesn’t like that he can’t focus, and is so forgetful. Heck, I’d be pissed too if I actually did the homework and then failed because I forgot to turn it in. So, I decided to have him tested. I’ve long thought that probably even I qualify, because oh look shiny happens more than I’d like to admit. It’s why I live off of 3 separate day planners and a chore list to keep me on track.

So, I’ve never wanted to label my child, well other than pet names, but we’ll see what happens with the doc tomorrow.

The next day…

So its official. Monster Teen will start on ADHD medicine. And continue to see the behavioral health specialist for ways to keep his short-term memory working and tricks for keeping focus. He asked very good questions, wanting to know about side effects and such. He was adamant in only wanting to take meds if it did not mess with his health or personality in an extreme way. And he’s like “I know that this isn’t a crutch, but I want to be able to focus like other people do and remember things the way I’m supposed to. Aww, I’m proud of the snot rag.

I also apologize to him, which trust me, doesn’t happen often. I told him that I was afraid of him being labeled so much that I wanted to ignore signs that were there. Bad mother. -30 points. But hey, we’ve got time to get him on track ┬áto a good high school start. I’m excited to see what the changes will be like when he doesn’t misplace 20 bucks in less than 5 minutes. Heck I may want to get myself tested. Nah… I can handle my crazy. No need to add anything else to the long list of my nuttiness.

Behind Bloodshot Eyes…

A person I know, that possibly I may one day become good friends with, just came back after weeks of recovery after hitting rock bottom. Depression, PTSD, alcoholism the whole skinned cat. And it brought up memories. Of when I was there in that same place, freed after years of depression.

You get an emotional high for a while after you first break through the dark days and aren’t looking through smokey glasses at life. And then, of course, you have to maintain. The bandage is ripped off, you’ve gone through the hardest parts of psych surgery, and now its time for mental physical therapy. Make sense?

Its odd in this day and age in the military to talk about having mental problems NOT caused by the many deployments. In fact, I think for those of us like that, that suffered before, those deployments either helped us maintain in that time alone from all we cared about, or just put a band-aid on it. For my friend, it was a band-aid. For me, it was the former.

It’s been years since I was cutting on my wrists, trying to see how deeply I could cut without leaving permanent scars… of course I did end up having them, but I can only call it a miracle and blessing that they disappeared over the years.

I didn’t even suffer the kind of abuse that my friend did, not physical anyway. There was verbal abuse in my household… From my father even now. It’s why I don’t talk to him. Physical/sexual abuse in my early childhood years came from another female. It took me years to be comfortable with a female friendship after that.

But that is my past. One thing I’ve learned from mental health, and my own research is that you have to face your past and move on. You don’t let it rule you. Yes, I’ve gone to mental health over I’d say the past 15 years, off and on. Does that make me weak? Heck no! I’ve gone when I knew I was close to a breaking point, or just so stressed by my circumstances that I needed someone who didn’t know me to talk to. I don’t drink to excess, and keep in mind at all times that alcoholism runs on my dad’s side of the family. I hold my fathers picture in my head as a focus point of who I don’t want to be as a parent, and as a person. I wear my scars, the ones that cover my spirit, with pride AND humbleness. And I face new challenges, whether the outcome is good or bad, with no fear… But determination.

My friend will get through this time. He’s strong and surrounded by people who care. He’ll make it. And then, he’ll maintain.