The Wrong Turns

Realizing that I have not yet explained how much of a pain getting my license was...

Let's do that now.

The first test went wrong for a number of reasons.  
For one, it happened that the guy looked like an almost-assailant of mine, was WAY too cocky, and in general pretty obviously hated women.  
That was fun.  

I felt remarkably unsafe. 

He was also very vague. 

Like, Dude, don't say "Sunday driver…" without specifying if I am being one, or should be. 

He claimed I was speeding and gave me a mockingly presented pop quiz at the end.  
I'm a pretty cautious driver for obvious reasons, so no, I was not speeding at any point.  
He also told me I was way too cautious.  
THAT one, I'll believe. 

He wouldn't even look at my mother, who had to basically chase him down to ask if I passed. 
His response?  "She needs work."

After about a month of me never wanting to try again, my well meaning parents sent me off with an instructor about two weekends before my second road test. 

To clarify, I did pass it on the third try.

This particular driving lesson went so poorly that it ended with my sobbing hysterically.  

Oddly enough, not at all due to driving.

Before we even started, I got a call from the driving instructor-man saying that he was looking on google, but couldn't figure out where my house was.  
I did my best to explain, to which he responded, "I KNOW the area." 

...Like, okay dude.  If you know the area, why are you having a problem? 
The houses are clearly numbered and otherwise it's kind of just us and deer, but whatever.

Anyway, he came to the house to pick me up and drove the car to the lot where he would, in theory, have me drive. 

Again, the driving was not the part that flipped me out.

In fact, the only driving he had me do initially, was weaving around parking spaces. 

I did this while he occasionally slapped my hand, not entirely explaining why, and then saying things like, "You looking to get slapped??" and "You wanna get hit, dontcha??" and then laughing, like this is a funny thing to say after I've already told him that, no, seriously, I'm a survivor of abuse and that's kinda entirely triggering, so please don't.

He tried to fix it by saying I could slap him back, and then holding out his hand and forcing me to slap it, even after I told him that it made me reeeaaaallllly uncomfortable. 
Also, fun fact, I have cartilage where there should be bone in my wrist. 
REALLY hurts when hit, even as a light slap. 

Also, grabbing my hand is a terrible plan because of that. 

Just sayin'.

Still did not cry here.

That part was all preempted by him saying, "I'm going to be a male, chauvinist pig for a second," and then just asking me really politely if I know how they train for football. 

Dude, you wouldn't have come across as a jackass if you had just asked the question or talked about the training outright, without announcing that you are, in fact, a jackass.

I must have done something right though, as he then had me go on to phase two. 
Keep in mind, the first HOUR of instruction was him driving around town mumbling things as he thought of them, calling this a "demo" like that would at all be helpful to me. 

I chalked it up to the fact that he is probably eight thousand years old.

Part two involved him making me FLOOR the gas and then wait until he told me to STOMP on the break. 

Everything about this was terrifying and extremely dangerous, yet I managed to not cry at this point. 

I did, however, consider calling someone to pick me up, or just the police, because clearly I was trapped in a car with a lunatic.

He said this was to teach me what it felt like, in case it ever happened. 
…Wouldn't I know what it felt like if I ever had to do it? 
And WHY do this for the person WHO ALREADY SAID SHE HAD BEEN IN MULTIPLE ACCIDENTS???

And yet still, I had not cried.

At this point, he decides I'm ready to drive home. 
Two hours have almost passed, and I have done NOTHING that I wanted to do, such as things that are actually on the road test.

By telling me I'm going to drive home, what he meant was that my feet would control the gas and break, but his hands would never leave the steering wheel… 

So, this old man is like, draped across my freaking lap to control the car, questioning why I'm trying to fight him when we are veering on top of the line on my side, and otherwise coasting with the wheel RIGHT next to the line… 

I'm just waiting for the left mirror to get clipped off, really.

THIS is when I start crying. 

A lot. 

He tells me not to be embarrassed, and that HE isn't scared. 
If he was scared, after all, he wouldn't have let me drive home.

…He didn't see me doing ANY driving. 
NONE. 
And I did NOT care if he was scared, nor was I embarrassed.

He also used the word "angsty" when I asked to pull over.

I explained to him that I was afraid of getting hit, and that was why I was crying. 
He told me not to be afraid, and that no one was going to rear end us. 
I explained that, no, I was afraid of HIM hitting me.

I felt unsafe IN the car.

He laughed. 
Then he said he was sorry and that he didn't mean to make fun of me. 

I don't even know what he meant by that.

By the time we got home, he decided not to let me do the parking in front of Rob's car, and to instead demo how easy it is.  

He did what could only be described as a twenty point turn, and actually backed into Rob's car.

There was no damage, though the license plate did make a satisfying pop noise, as if to say, "HA, you asshole."
EDIT: No, his license plate did actually pop off soon after.

He then proceeded to tell me that he'd be calling my mother to tell her I did a great job (I’m a grown ass woman.  I'll call my own damn mother) and he let me know that I'm totally not ready for the test and I would fail it if I took it now.

…Gee, thanks, guy-who-didn't-see-me-drive-and-instead-just-freaked-me-out.

Our interaction ended when he reminded me that we had been together for two hours and that his price is $35 an hour, but that I could pay any time, and he's not worried.

I told him I didn't think I could handle another day of that right away, and that I wanted to cancel the 9:30 for the next morning, but maybe see him for a three point turn and parallel parking sometime next weekend.

He looked at me like I was a moron, handed me a piece of paper that reads "How to parallel park for the road test" and then said he'd see me at 9:30 the next day.

I went upstairs. 

Rob was taking a nap, as he still wasn't feeling well all weekend. 
I tried to hook a right to the bedroom, and instead flopped down on the floor by the door and just started ugly-sobbing.

There was so much snot.

Rob didn't wake up, but Perry recognized the sound of hysterical tears, and so burst through his doorway with a box of tissues.

I literally cried on Perry's shoulder for a half hour. 
He's a trooper, really.

Rob woke up around then, and I had calmed down enough to be coherent about what had happened. 
This was a good thing, as Rob's instinct was to panic and think I was in some way physically hurt.

I was still hyperventilating every now and then, but not to the point of a full blown panic attack.

I contacted my parents, explained what happened, and they laughed at me, telling me to suck it up. 

Rob then called my mother (Why is everyone calling my mom for me??) to explain that we would not be seeing the man again. 

My parents then said, "OH!  We're sorry.  We just thought she was exaggerating and being dramatic.  We didn't realize she was actually upset!" because my word means nothing.

…This may explain how my life has gone the way it has, actually.

So, Rob took over helping me polish everything up, driving wise, though I was kind of a wreck all Sunday. 
Rob and Perry are both endlessly patient.

For the record, I did not pay the driving instructor man.
EDIT: My parents still paid him.

I did sort of get an apology from the driving man, through him calling my mother (he did have MY number, but whatever) and saying that he was sorry he upset me.  

He figured it was because of the gas and break exercise.

While that was stupid and dangerous, it was not at all what freaked me out. 

Which, you know… I told him.

In detail. 

Seriously. 

I swear I told him what the problem was.

Is there just something about me that completely invalidates
everything I say about my own anxieties?  Because what the Hell?

*Ahem* So.

Good times.

In any case, I was pre-freaked out for the second test based on that instructor and the first time I took the test, so I actually went SO SLOWLY that I had trouble getting up a hill. 

The third one I actually passed, and I wonder how much of that was due to the fact that
A. I just gave no shits anymore. I just wanted it done forever, and
B. the person grading was a woman about my size. 

There is something extra creepy about being a survivor and then being trapped in a car with an older man and having to take all of his orders.  
In essence, that was what the test was for me over and over. 

BUT it's done.  

So.  


Good. 

Of Blood and Butterflies

So, lemme tell you 'bout yesterday morning and why I didn't go to class last night. 

As you may have gathered by now, my health has been questionable for the past two years, but it's mostly been my mental health, with a dash of "WHY CAN'T I SWALLOW ANYTHING???"

Yesterday, my physical health had an interesting turn. 

See, I was all sure of myself, and I had eaten breakfast and everything…

I was gonna be an adult.

So, I decide I'm going to make myself some pizza rolls (adults do that, right?) and I reach my hand into the bag, which is frozen… 

And holy shit it hurts.

Now, normally, cold does kind of suck on my hands… but this was different.  This was a shocking pain.  I attempted to run warm water over my hand, but it couldn't get warm enough. 

Then my head got unreasonably cold, and a slight nausea started. 

It was kind of like Spidey-senses were going off but there was nothing going on. 

At first, I thought I was having an allergic reaction, because that is always my assumption.  

Then, I looked into it and checked my symptoms, which is generally how I calm myself down. 

I noticed that I wasn't having a panic attack because my heart wasn't racing.  In fact, I had trouble finding my pulse at all. 

This thought did cross my mind: 

I went to the bathroom, because the nausea had pretty much stopped, but I figured maybe something was going on down there.  

When I sat down, my vision started to go. 

I'd like it stated here that I, among the panic and thinking I'm dying, took the time to consciously decide to flush the toilet.  

Like, I thought to myself, "Well, that would just be impolite." 

So, then I rush to the bedroom. 

I have experienced little bouts of vertigo before, but they are normally when I just get up way too fast, and then I sit down, or lay down for a second and I'm fine. 

This wasn't that. 

Here is a rough blueprint of how not-right I was in my mostly blacked out state:
 

If that doesn't make any sense, basically, all I had to do was go straight forward from the door to the bed. 

Instead, I took a hard left and found myself in a tiny area between stuff on the floor next to a giant computer desk and the guitar. 

EDIT:  I realize that we have a lot of guitars in this place, so this is what I woke up to: 

My Knight figures I subconsciously wanted to play on the computer while being blacked out. 

Our housemate found me.  I woke up to him very gently trying to remove the stuff that had fallen onto my feet, and looking concerned as to whether I had hit my head or broken my leg or anything like that.

Thankfully, I was fine. 

He handed me juice and I climbed into bed. 

At some point, I started texting people about what had happened, because I realized that it was not normal.  


Naturally, my Knight flipped out and wanted to come save me… from… something?

I got an appointment with my doctor and fled with my mother to see what could be wrong.  My Knight met us there. 

My doctor was understandably confused as to why I had a posse with me to talk about my period lasting two weeks, a possible inner ear problem, and hey, lets do blood work for good measure. 

She agreed with all of these points.

What didn't get said, for whatever reason, is that my mother used to faint a lot when she was my age.  My grandmother used to faint too.

THIS RUNS IN THE FAMILY but my mom just like… forgot.  I guess. 

So, hopefully that means it's fine.  My thought is that if no one else ever went to the doctor about it, maybe there is a way to fix it, and even if not, clearly they both lived their lives just fine.

I'm hoping it's not a thyroid issue.  Every lady in my family has one. 

Some hyper, some hypo, but everyone does.  

I've had mine tested a few times already, though it would explain a lot if there was actually something wrong with it now. 

It's also not the worst thing in the world, but since I'm still panicking over taking a new kind of Advil if I ever have a headache, I can't imagine the intense stress that would come from having to take a pill for my thyroid every day. 

Obviously, I would do whatever I need to do…

But come on.  I just want a break, you know?  For a little bit? 
 
It all comes down to the fact that I do freak out inside my head about every single thing ever, so when there is actually something dire going on, I tend to assume that there is no reason to panic. 

I don't trust myself anymore, and so I automatically become MORE chill if something is actually wrong. 

In any case, I was really nervous about getting blood work done.

I have gotten a lot of blood drawn in the past couple of years, but I'm always nervous. 

About everything, really.

The lady was really nice though. 

Plus, she didn't blink an eye when I asked for a sticker after getting my blood drawn. 

She asked the logical question, of course, which was, "Do you have any children?"

The answer is no…  I just wanted stickers.  I responded, "Nope, but I have a boyfriend."

Her perfect response?  "Ah.  Well, that's pretty much the same thing." 

She gave me the prettiest (and probably most adult she had) stickers ever:

 CLOSE UPS:

 Can you tell I'm really excited? 

My Knight and I stopped by my parent's house for some well needed protein, then went off to shop for food.  I got interestingly irritable at some points, like a panic attack wanted to show up but just wouldn't come. 

It was like the emotional equivalent of not wanting to burp, needing to burp, and just having it not happen either way. 

We bought pumpkins!  I still want a slightly larger one, but these are decent sized pumpkins… and the big one I wanted was full of bug holes. 

Worms and bugs have become a thing in my life.  …  I'll get to that in the next post.

In any case, by the time we got back home, I had an hour left of class, but about half an hour to get there.  It just wasn't worth it. 

I sent a few emails back and forth to my teacher.  She asked if I should talk to my advisor about having some time off. 

The fact is that even if this was partly from stress, I'm not willing to take any other years off from school.  I've already been in it too long, and already have started questioning over and over what I'm doing with my life. 

I have to finish.  I'm doing well enough in two out of three of them that I'm not concerned (yet) and I'm half way though. 
 

The trick will be doing well on my presentations, which is what screwed me up a bit in my Wednesday class. 

I still assume I'm not going to fail that class, but that doesn't mean my grade will be particularly stellar either. 

We'll see. 

For now, I'm going to just… Keep going. 

And if it turns out there is something wrong that needs fixing, so be it.  

Wishy Washy Dishwasher

Our dishwasher was wonky and poorly placed when we moved in.  

This was our sad dishwasher:    

I had to hip check the damn thing to close it.  I had bruises.  

This was either because there was no slab of wood beneath it, and so it drooped into the empty space, OR it was too big and so they removed the slab of wood.
Either way, without that wood there, there was that GIANT, dusty, grimy, GROSS EW EW EW empty space for bugs and monsters and all sorts of things to hide:
 

(For the record, cleaning up, getting organized, spraying the Hell out of everything and caulking up the place relieved our squatter-roommate-cockroach problem.  They were coming up from a lower apartment and now they fear us.  :-D) 

Because it was off kilter, the dishwasher would take a while to right itself on the inside and would make horrible noises while it struggled. 

I was previously unaware of the noises, as I normally have headphones on while I play stupid games:

 

But this time I was headphoneless AND it happened to also vibrate the ground:

So, my totally sane response was:
 

I called my sponsor friend Dani to explain that I was about to fall through to the first floor and die. 
 
It was then that Dani and I determined that the dishwasher is, in fact, a dragon.  Dani then drew this to express what the dishwasher was trying to articulate:
 

Another fun fact is that when the dishwasher is running, nothing else can be.  It's not that nothing else will turn on, so much as that if you want to say… put something in the microwave…

 

All the lights go off.  Power goes out.  Total darkness besides, for whatever reason, the clock on the coffee maker.  

This is particularly problematic now that we've set up the office (read: has a lot of shit plugged in) in the room with one outlet that is, for WHATEVER REASON shared with the kitchen. 

Then the biggest bedroom has three outlets, one of which is almost to the ceiling. 
 

…We have high ceilings. 
(And wall nipples.  What are they?  Were they something before?  There are two of them in the bedroom.  …I don't?  Wat?) 

I don't even understand. 

There are bullshitilly placed outlets in the living room too:

 

That's above the TV, if you can tell.  ...Basically ceiling. 

Also: 

Next to the radiator.  Does that seem completely unsafe to anyone else?

Anyway, my Knight got down on the floor and fixed the dishwasher issue.

He also fixed the tile:

 

So now that one rebellious tile actually looks nicer than any of the crap around it:

 

We just rent here, so screw making the entire thing all nice and shiny. 

I may still turn the dishwasher into a dragon (with completely removable parts, of course) much the same way I turned a toilet into a creature once.  
(See: Showers, Baths, and Referring to Poop Too Many Times) 

If I do, you internet cats will be the first to know. 

Of Strength, Luck and Crashing Down

I'll add illustrations to this and some passages to thin it out and make it... not as heavy.  For now, it's two AM and I just wanted to get this out there.
EDIT: Hey look!  Illustrations. 

While reading this, you will see that some things are in italics.  These were added later.  It may make for a discussion with myself, or even an argument.  You may actually read my sanity arguing with what I've become.

An appropriate quote from Alice's Adventures in Wonderland is, "Either the well was very deep, or she fell very slowly, for she had plenty of time as she went down to look about her and to wonder what was going to happen next."

I am not as strong as people think.

I don't really know what gave anyone this impression.

The fact is that when a person gets a lot of shit handed to him or her, everyone naturally assumes that person must be very brave.

This doesn't make a whole lot of sense.

The bravest person in the world could die from a bee sting or complications after a fever.  It doesn't make him or her less brave just because that person didn't survive…

So the fact that I just… kept going… shouldn't really indicate any bravery.

I didn't fight, I didn't argue, I didn't really do much except panic, hide, cry a lot, not understand and be frustrated when no one could understand me, feel alone, and pretty much hate everything, yet never ask for help above a whisper…

To never ask for help and then complain when no one assists is just plain rude.  It is no one's fault but my own.  
Yes, I did ask a few times, at random, to the wrong people.  I blindly trusted the wrong people as well, and blamed only my own judgement later on, rather than blaming the fact that I didn't try again with someone else.  I should have kept going... And now as an adult, when I ask for help, I do feel guilty.  I feel like I'm wasting everyone's time or that they must think me very stupid.  I understand in a logical sense that none of this is so terrible.  

In fact, it's not even as bad as I've already been through...  But it's affecting me and hurting me.  I'm hurting myself, and I want someone to stop me.  That isn't fair.  It's no one's job to stop me from hurting myself but my own.  
And you know what?  I am strong enough to do that.  I'm just afraid and I hate myself for being afraid of nothing.  Why would I help someone I hate?  Someone who does such stupid things...  
I'm embarrassed, and that embarrassment is crippling.  

And then I would forget and be really happy for a while. 

I wasn't brave.

I was just in denial and didn't always have much else to compare it to.

Stunned maybe.  

I survived.

This doesn't mean that I had an undying will to survive or that I pushed myself beyond the odds…

Perhaps I didn't need such a will to survive.  I didn't need to push and push and push.  Maybe a lot of people would have needed that, and I just happened to survive without it.  

It means that in all the bad luck, there were moments of good luck or at least moments of calm that were long enough to pull me through.

It means that I plain forgot to care when I reached a point where nothing mattered anymore. This isn't bravery, so much as it's a kind of depression.

And sometimes... Not always, but sometimes...  Things were not so terrible.  Sometimes things were actually quite wonderful and helped the bad not matter so very much.  Still, always the neurotic child destined to be the neurotic and shaky adult, I always had a nagging fear in the back of my mind.  

The trick was acknowledging it and then letting it sit there without it taking over everything else.  
That was the trick only because I had no idea how to let it go. 

I gave up, and then life let up a little.

I called uncle, so my situation laughed and let me go.

"Just kidding Rowyn!  Go on, off with you.  Go try to be normal now that you're shaking.  Hope no one notices."

That isn't bravery.  It isn't being strong.

My father, and many others vehemently disagree.  They say strength is just the opposite of what I feel it is.  It's having the ability to just take it all and survive.  Still, the idea that I never fought back is troubling.  The idea that I am still not fighting back, and I'm allowing myself to disintegrate into a puddle of mush resembling something I do not want is even more troubling still.

Damn it, I'm better than this!   

That being said, I was never so completely hopeless.  I just didn't have the space to think about hope one way or another.  I just dragged myself along, scraping the bottom with my toes but not quite touching my feet down to the darkest depths.   I wouldn't let myself.

I don't call this a strong will so much as being stubborn.

Which in my life, may have actually been the same thing. 

I skirted along until I washed up on shore.  I didn't search for it or find it… I accidentally tripped onto land.

And why can't I be thankful for such luck?  Do I not feel I deserve it?  

And once I was there, I had no fucking clue what to do with myself.

I had wadded for so long that my legs had atrophied, but in an attempt not to bother the people around me, I just kind of held it in.

I bottled it up and pretended I was strong and had let things go.

Again, this may be it's own kind of strength, but in the end it isn't healthy.  If I could bottle it for a while and then empty it out, sure... but I don't.  I keep it.  I keep bottles and bottles of all this terror and I keep them safe and sound in some hateful wine cellar.  I'm afraid of what I am if any bottle is emptied.  I'm afraid of what my friends would say if they saw the contents without my explanations. 

So I collect the bottles as though they are important.  I make myself believe that I need them and that they make up who I am. 

Well, they fucking do now.  But I know I'm more than this.  

…I'm not a good liar.  I never have been.

I don't let anything go.

Ever.

Everything just builds and attaches itself to other things and becomes this giant conglomerate of hate and pain and sorrow magnified a thousand times until it overshadows all that blissful denial filled joy I had once enjoyed before.

I know that the joy is there somewhere. 

Enveloped in my own stupidity and stubborn nature.

Even now in the swing of this strange semi-functional depression, I am still capable of being happy.  Every now and then, by body gets confused and fuzzes the difference between elation and terror, which is unfortunate.  Still, once I get it straightened out again, I'm very content at times.  The trick seems to then be not letting myself sink back into "This will all come crashing down again" and instead hold onto the idea that I can, in fact, be happy once in a while.  

To be content should not immediately turn to assuming I now have something great to lose, and more than that, it should not MEAN that I WILL absolutely lose that wonderful new happiness.   Provided I don't suddenly chuck the damn thing out a window for no reason, there is nothing saying that chance and fate and all that won't finally let me hold onto it.  

...So why do I throw it out, assuming I'll just lose it all anyway?  It's that stupid logic that I've argued against in relationships, so why not my own life on a day to day basis?

I am not strong.  I am a stubborn ass.

And eventually, that stubborn nature will absolutely kill me if I don't make a change soon. 

I don't have the will to fight my fears every single day.  No one does.  No one should have to.  I barely have it on good days, but I still HAVE those good days, and that means something. 

I cannot do this alone, and I know I don't have to.

I have many friends who have not only put up with my shit, but have seemed happy to do so.

Many of them have even gone through similar times.  They understand and accept me.  

So why do I feel lonely?

I'll tell you why.

Because I'm a stubborn ass.

I've decided that my life is over and that there is nothing I can do and no one can assist me.  I've decided that because I feel guilty when someone does want to help me.  I feel like I'm wasting everyone's time and that I'm not worth saving.

Stubborn and stupid, but I know better. 

And then when I DO feel better, that brings it's own guilt.  "How miserable will I make my friends and family, who are currently so happy with me, when I have a bad day again?"

Has this become a fear of success on some level?  How very sad.  I would love to be successful in many ways.  It would be a shame to sabotage myself to prove a non-existent point to no one but my own negative voice in my head.  

That being said, obviously, I'm still standing.  I haven't done anything, nor will I.  At least, I assume I won't, since I haven't yet.

I've already been through enough that could have led to such an end.

It didn't.

Out of another fear, or for someone else...?  Either way, in this case it is a good thing.

There are plenty of people who have been through more on a daily basis than I have ever gone through.

What we live through specifically doesn't matter so much as how we respond to whatever it is we have been through. 

I have not responded terribly well, and no, this is not a new thing.  I'm just not the kind of person who handles stress well... but I handle it very inwardly.

On the other hand, I went a good 26 or so years without a complete meltdown.  That's a pretty good record.  It's not like I had one big trauma that stuck out and shook me.  I've had many things happen over the years.  Each one on it's own was both terrible and something others could have just forgotten.  It depends on the person, I suppose.  

I never had time to get over each one before something else would happen.  I never let myself just sit and work through what I needed to.  Just letting go won't work.  I've tried it.  It just makes me feel like nothing mattered and nothing meant anything... When clearly it did.  

I know now that it all mattered.  Even if no one else knew that.  It still mattered.  

It's all smooshed together and therefore harder to look at clearly.  Perhaps picking each piece apart and going through them one by one would help?  

I tuck it away.

I have my moments to be sure, but how easily I give up even the things that matter most to me should matter in the "I'm not a strong person" argument here. 

I come to a wall, and I don't climb it. 

I just walk away.

I don't walk around it…

I walk away from it and continue to look back as though I couldn't have taken another route.

I'm stubborn and I'm kind of an idiot.

While I've done this in many respects, the one that really gets me still is what happened at my first college.  I never moved on.  
Art school represented my entire life to me.  I went to live my dream and be away from what was hurting me emotionally.  I had real hope.  
I got one opinion on my arm and forced myself to prove the doctor wrong.  That doctor didn't even keep me in his record.  I hurt myself for nothing, and then got kicked out.  I could have fought it.  I could have easily stayed and gotten help.  Instead, I finished my degree in a school that was not an art school and never forgave myself.  

What do I need in order to feel accomplished in this area?  What would validate my time spent there and the fact that I AM an artist, regardless of what I tell myself when I am depressed?    

I don't feel like I really exist anymore.  I'm aware that when I'm not around, there are people who miss me, so I don't mean in that sense.

Thank God.

I mean that my past is so muddled and forgotten by everyone around me…
You know...  I forget things that don't matter to me, so it makes me question how much it really mattered if everyone but me forgot.

If everyone can forget, and this means my shitty little life hasn't really been that bad… I'm just reacting incredibly poorly.

And without a past, how do I know who I am today?  What have I learned?  What HAVE I overcome?  I'm a "strong person" who has no past anyone will talk about.

But it wasn't their past.  It was mine.  It was mine to remember, respond to, interpret and grow from.  Even if it's wrong or right, it doesn't matter in that literal of a sense.  What matters is what I'm doing now with all of it and all of the meaning behind it.  

By this logic, my PTSD, my anxiety, my current health, my nightmares?  All just me responding in a stupid way and I'm not strong enough to stop it through will alone, nor am I smart enough to figure out this puzzle, nor am I brave enough to just medicate myself until I feel nothing at all anymore.

Bullshit.  Yes I am.  I'm just afraid to acknowledge that, lest I try and fail.   Failure is much easier.  I'm lazy.

I, myself, often confuse that last bit with bravery.

Ah, but if I don't want medication, even if it might help in theory, I'll just find a way to use the fact that I'm on something against myself.  I'll teeter back and forth between feeling brave for it and feeling weak.  So, lets stop that line of thinking now. 

It's just stubbornness at it's purest. 

I'm determined to get through this on my own,
to get back to how I was…
Which wasn't really all that different and may be a complete muddle of facts anyway.

It was just quieter and less in anyone else's face.  I bothered less people with it.

This is good to remember.  Once I'm back to how I was, as miserable as that often was, THEN I'll be able to move forward in a different way.  I'll conquer new fears.  I'll move forward and be stronger than ever.  But, I need to understand what it is I'm really going back to first.  That way, I won't be so disappointed in myself and get too hung up on it all.  

I'm determined to get through this on my own…
but I can't.

Some days, I really want to. 
I want a normal life.  I want the life I've never relaxed long enough to have…

And some days, it just isn't worth the struggle to me.  I get mad at myself because it shouldn't NEED to be a struggle.  It's easy for other people.  I get frustrated and then stop moving forward all together, when I should be using those moments to propel myself forward.

Yes.

What happened to the determination I ever had?  I had it for stupid things, like winning boyfriends, but it was there.  Stalker level... but determination none the less that could be utilized now if I had any idea how to conjure and harvest it.

Exactly.  So how?  Just remembering won't work if I don't trust my own memory.  How do I picture the real Rowyn Golde?  Who is she?  Maybe I can pretend to be her until it sticks.  If I'm so easily led, perhaps I can trick myself into a better life.  

I want to blame someone other than myself.

I want to think I had no choice so that I can move on without just hating myself for doing this to me.  Punch out whoever did this to me and walk away. 

I want to put my goals and my emotional stability on someone else.  I want to get better FOR someone else, because I don't think I'm worthwhile enough to bother doing so just for myself.  Myself and I have an awful, rocky, love/hate thing going on.  Real soap opera crap.  I'm just not supportive enough of me to be my own therapist, let alone friend or goal.

Imaginary friends are probably unhealthy too, as is projecting and effectively using a friend as a therapy tool. 

My denial is broken.  It doesn't work anymore.  The reality is so strange and twisted and ugly to me that I just don't want to look.  It's not that I can't.  It's that I don't want to.  I want to wake up and just not care…  But I want to care.  I want to care and love everything.  …But I don't want to push myself.

I need to remember the cup.  There is a large blue cup in my parent's house that warped in the dishwasher.  When turned a certain way, it looks like it's smiling.  
It's ugly, for a cup, but cute for an art piece showing a facsimile of a human facial expression.  

The cup is deformed, but still functions.  I have an odd love for this cup because I look at it as though it is a mirror.  It doesn't match the other ones and other people would throw it out, but it still holds liquid.  It still does the job... and when looked upon from the right angle, it doesn't look deformed at all.    
It's still good enough, and I still like it.  
Even if I feel ugly, maybe I'm just different. 

My main issue as of late: I don't want to choke or have an allergic reaction to nothing at all.

Okay.

Well, it's strange science.  No one really knows anything.  Anyone can suddenly develop an allergy at any given moment to any damn thing.  That's the problem…

I have no control over my own body and I therefore have no control over whether I live or die.

Technically, no one does, but I'm having trouble finding comfort in that. 

It used to be that taking a chance wasn't a huge deal, because anyone can die any day from pretty much anything.  ...And sometimes, I was afraid, but I sat still and dealt with it with a smile on my face for the sake of those I cared about.

I have a hard time doing anything for myself when it isn't secretly for someone else.

This could be good in a sense.  If I smarten up and prove to myself that I can be okay for a few hours when with someone, even if it is FOR that someone, I can then remember that I had gotten that far and repeat accordingly.  

I knew in my heart that this (severe allergies) was common enough, and certainly nothing compared to EVERYTHING else in my life.  ...Everything else being other situations where I felt I had no control over my body, felt I couldn't cry out for help, felt no one would try to hear me anyway...
Much like suffocating inside yourself due to eating a macadamia nut.

It's a different kind of trauma, but for me it's just yet another trauma.  Nothing more and nothing less.  The difference really is that you can SEE if someone is going to hit you.  You can HEAR a car smash into another car.

You can't actually have any idea if someone freaking touched a nut and then touched something you are about to eat.

Tiny particles of instant death are scary, and even though I have lived just fine thus far, (lived JUST FINE thus far!!) they have become the end all be all of scary shit I can't really control.  The fact that I've HAD these reactions is the problem.

I've had these reactions, this is a real thing... and then I had throat damage that caused an amazing amount of pain from... something.  Environmental allergies?  Smoke damage?  Who knows??  Could have been anything. 

I had no control.  It just happened without my knowledge.

There is something kind of... rape-like about it all.  Beyond that, I've developed a desperate need for a plan, but I haven't yet developed the "umph" needed to demand a plan.  This is silly because a lot of my friends wouldn't mind one from time to time.  I still fear being an overbearing burden.  Crap.  

...So I don't eat or only eat in very specific circumstances in order have a sense of control. 

This is inherently wrong.

Especially considering that I want to eat.  I WANT to eat.  I've been avoiding even my favorite foods from my favorite places, just in case of... something?  Something like what??  Tree nuts and chickpeas on everything!! 

I'm going to die, but I'll die by my own rules?  …But I don't want to ever commit suicide.

Right. 

…Poses a bit of a problem, doesn't it?

Circular, illogical logic that I've been grabbing onto just so I can hold onto SOMETHING that I feel won't leave me of it's own accord.

Huh.  Abandonment issues to an odd extreme, yet I avoid social gatherings with my best friends.  Kay.

How very sad.

And how very silly.

...And I know that.



I'm not the only person in the world to have a crippling bout of depression, nor am I the only one to flip shit and turn into something I don't like.  The art of other people has helped me a lot in feeling less alone.
Penanggalan's Depression on deviantart and  Adventures in Depression on Hyperbole and a Half are great examples. 

Of Foodstuffs and Other Terrors

I'm going to finally respond to “Wrote a Blog-Like Thing” and tell you what led to my recent eating issues, by telling you a little bit of my history with food.

We've never gotten along terribly well.

From age one there was an issue.
There is a chance that I was reacting poorly to soy in the formula, since I do have an intolerance to soy which was at one point a full blown allergy. However, soy wasn't quite as common in EVERY GODDAMN THING when I was an infant.
 

~~Before anyone chimes in with “all your problems are because your mom didn't breastfeed you” I'm going to go ahead and say A. No. and B. she actually tried to breastfeed and just couldn't. 

It's like telling someone who has no feet that by not running, they are purposefully trying to get fat.
By telling my mother that she did something wrong by not doing something she really physically couldn't do, you are a bad, hateful person.

...Quite frankly, it's right up there with people explaining to me that I'm unhealthy because I don't eat the things I'm seriously allergic to.  It's backwards, stupid logic. 

So, moving on.~~~

I was diagnosed with a “failure to thrive” and often this is an emotional thing. Babies sometimes get this when they just don't have a will to live, as well as possible physical reasons. So, it could have been a lot of different things.  "Failure to Thrive" is kind of a catch all in this respect.  

Regardless of the reason, the doctors didn't have much faith that I would survive, because food and I were already on bad terms.

 

It was like getting in the middle of a gang war. What doctor wants to do that?

Luckily, interns are used to being thrown into the middle of gang wars, so an intern put some cereal in milk, which I guess flavored it or something? I'm not really sure what went down, actually. One way or another though, this guy got me to eat.

My thought, as depressing as it may be, is that with all my other medical ailments putting me in incubators and making it most likely pretty uncomfortable to do anything, even as an infant... Having someone just be with me and spend that time with me may have done a lot.

My parents absolutely tried and they are wonderful people. However, when you've got one daughter who is loudly mentally unstable and then a much younger one who is physically funky, something has to give. I could never cry as loud as my older sister could. That is a simple fact.

By four years old, I had the rest of my hearing back.

Lemme explain that one. 

I had been mostly deaf due to a common fluid problem, but it took two surgeries to fix instead of one because my inner ear, like the rest of me, is kind of wonky looking. This made it so my speech was also funky. I spoke the way I had always heard things, which was reeeeaaaalllly quiet and kinda mumbled. I still speak this way if I get nervous.

Anyhoo, I had my hearing but I couldn't really communicate well. I could understand everyone around me, but only my sister (of all freaking people) could ever understand what the Hell I was saying.

Around this time, I fell down.

Hard.

In my memory, there was a push involved and a traumatic moment attached, but we seem to have chosen to pretend it didn't happen.

...Kay.

So, my parents took me to the doctor and because we were having a bit of a disagreement as to how it happened, and any verbal argument from me wasn't entirely audible, it was decided that my S shape of a septum was just yet another deformity.

The problem here is that having a deformity from birth isn't something so easily fixed when you are a little kid, as it could just grow back as you age.

...So I didn't get my nose fixed. He took out my adenoids instead. 

It didn't help.

Not being able to breathe meant I couldn't really taste anything either.

More than that, I had to breathe out of my mouth. This meant that I couldn't scarf food and I had to be extra particular about drinking, because I wouldn't be able to breathe.

Beyond that, I had come in contact with a number of things over the years that had made me itchy. We understood that I had food allergies, but we had no idea what that meant other than a lot of food seemed to make me really uncomfortable.

We didn't even really look into what the foods were, besides nuts. This made for a vague sense of ALL food being potentially unpleasant.

This was made much worse when I was thirteen.

We went to Israel.

As a Jew-type person, this should have been a wonderful experience.

It was not.

The main reason?

Turns out, I'm allergic to chickpeas. Hummus is kinda big there.  Kind of a big freaking deal.  

At the time, we had no idea that anything, even nuts could do what this thing did.

I blew up like a balloon, broke out in hives all over my body, my eyes swelled shut and blinded me...

And still, I was the calmest person in the whole damn room.

My parents were in a frenzy, unsure of what to do “What the fuck is an epi-pen??”

There were doctors on the phone telling them I may need something injected into my heart...

But, no one said to take me to a hospital either.  The phone-doctor just said to watch me.  ...Having no epi-pen, what would have happened if I had keeled over?

But I didn't.

I threw up. Waited for it all to get worse or better, and then calmly stated that I should eat something I know I'm not allergic to, like pizza.

This is hilarious in retrospect, because it turned out at the time that I was also allergic to wheat and tomato, but to a more mild degree. I've since grown out of them for the most part. Somewhat experimental allergy drops have helped.

By the way, ordering pizza on the Sabbath in Israel?  Amazing freaking feat.

Either way, after all that...

It left me, every now and then, like this:

I was pretty good for many years at hiding this. People could eat things I was allergic to, and I'd just quietly panic and tell them it was fine. I'd only seriously panic if a boyfriend ate these things, because then kissing him could be potentially dangerous.

I felt like a giant asshole.

“How dare I expect a man who loves me to not eat something that could kill me? I'm ruining his life!”

Talking to anyone else, I'd think they were being unreasonable. They can't help what could hurt them. But me? No no. Ever accommodating I am. Even if it actually does, in the end, kill me.

This is part of what led to the Fishbone incident.

Part one and two are here:

How a Fishbone is Slowly Driving Me Mad

Okay, So It Wasn't the Fishbone

At fifteen, we went to a crackpot quack of a surgeon to fix my nose. He was purely a cosmetic doctor, which was upsetting. He wanted to shave my jaw down because I looked too “masculine” and give me my sister's nose. He wanted to make me look like a different person.

Being a fifteen year old girl with a speech impediment, a slouch from boobs that were too big, gnarly hair... My self esteem was already garbage.

I did not need that shit.

So I just cried a lot and for some reason they let him cut me open anyway, in hopes that he'd find my damaged Happy gland.

He sort of fixed one side a little.

I still couldn't really breathe, which led to another doctor giving me a nasal inhaler that I couldn't use. 

 It was not a lung issue, you freak.

Also, throughout my childhood, I would stand at the table or eat elsewhere. This was because of two things:

A. Pressure. The pressure to eat like a normal person made me feel like it was something I could fail at, and so I pretty much made myself fail.

When I'm upset, I don't eat, and my childhood wasn't exactly fantastic. This was not my parent's fault at all, by the way.

I want to make that clear.

B. I felt silly and too small. I had to sit on phone books in order to reach the table.

So, fine.

Back to the nose thing.

After a very unpleasant healing process, I could wheeze through my nose with a lot of struggle, but at least I looked the same. I guess he was afraid to even straighten the damn thing with the “fuss” I had made about him wanting to rearrange my face.

Not enough space to breathe, smell or taste, but there was just enough space to shoot food out of my nose by accident.

I can not express how incredibly painful and embarrassing this was.

Powered cheese product on macaroni should never exit through nostrils.

Five years after that, a reconstructive surgeon fixed my nose for real. I was very happy.

He also went out of his way to try to prevent me getting anything else done, realizing that I was also asking for things I didn't need. He worried that I had Body Dysmorphic Disorder, and... maybe? I may have had some variation of it. I figure I was just oogly and now I've accepted that I'm... a “unique” kind of pretty.

I felt so bad for my mother here. Her immediate instinct was to jump on “OH! Don't worry, you don't have BDD!” The problem with that was that if I didn't have it, that meant I was ACTUALLY as hideous as I thought I was, and that it wasn't just in my head.

It seems to have been a phase though, rather than the actual mental illness. It pops up every now and then when I'm already depressed. My brain goes to “you are deformed” and just kinda sits on that.

...

Back to food.

With all this nonsense, it isn't really that remarkable that I've spent most of my life underweight.

I don't really look like that. But, it is how I feel sometimes. I liked the year or so when I was a bit more filled out. I looked the same, just healthier.

After the Fishbone incident/Everything that was where I was living for ten or so months, I wound up like this:

So eating was just... Not something I ever associated with causing happiness.

And now, you know.