I’m sorry for being away so long.
Yes, I’ve been away.
I have awakened from a depression. A depression is something that no one else can help you with. You can become medicated, sure…but I chose not to. I made it. I survived. There were moments where I wanted to die. I wished someone would run me off the road. I hated myself.
I cut my own bangs on a whim the other day. I always wanted to do that. I cut them “Betty Page” style. Betty Page looks a lot like Morticia Addams. More about that later.
My husband HATES it.
Your hair can (and should) be used as a canvas to show others who you are. I didn’t cut my bangs because I hated myself, I just wanted something different. Something to “wake me up.” Something to force me to take better care of myself, because I wasn’t doing a very good job.
This is why “current hair fashion” and I never did get along very well. I adore a specific era of hair, but I don’t give a shit what is in style for 2015. I never really gave a shit what was in style my whole life, actually… and I like saying Shit every now and then. Shit! 🙂
I have always tried to be “me” I lost that part of myself for awhile. I became consumed with fear about what others thought about me. Now that part of me is back.
Does this mean I had some sort of mental break in my past? Yeah. Probably so. My Father did put the barrel of a 30-06 in his mouth and pull the trigger just before I graduated college.
I have JUST dealt with this, in my adulthood…11 years later. I’ll tell this dramatic, backwoods, real life story to you as time goes on.
My husband is an amazing man. He’s really hard to be married to sometimes, because he can be brutally honest. He was just trying to heal me, but I didn’t see it at the time. I thought he hated me and was just tolerating my presence. I didn’t believe that he really loved me. I didn’t think anyone loved me. I have been programmed, you see, to believe that no one cares about me. All thanks to the programming that my mother downloaded into me. It is sort of not her fault, though. I’m convinced, after talking to her older sister, that their Mother, or Father, perhaps both, had treated them this way their whole life.
“Fuck You! FUCK YOU, Bitch! I’m TIRED of the way you treat me!” – loving words from my Mother, two years ago.
Yeah, that’s just an exert from the story that has been my life during this depression. My Father (literally) blew his head off in our family’s detached garage. I watched the hazmat crew clean him up through my parent’s bedroom window. They told me not to, but I did. I have seen the contents of the inside of my father’s entire head stuck to buckets and our family bicycles. I watched two guys in white suits and face masks put him into trash bags.
He wanted to be cremated. 11 years later, he was still sitting on the shelf in my Mother’s living room. HER living room. I was sick of waiting. We were supposed to scatter his ashes off of the Green River bridge. But no one was talking about that. In fact, no one EVER talked about it. All that my Mother ever really said to me about the fact that her husband (whom I doubt she really loved— she just got “KNOCKED UP”(her words–that’s how I’m here) had blown his head off was that his entire head was gone and that there was a piece of his scalp with long grey hair attached to it sitting on the shoulder of his corpse. This is how she found him.
Granted…yeah, I am glad I didn’t find him. I know she is still in some state of grief, shock… but no one is helping her. I tried, but she wouldn’t listen. We weren’t supposed to talk about our FEELINGS. She was tired of me trying to get her to deal with it. To FORCE her to deal with it. To talk about it. No one ever really talked to me about it…I mean REALLY sat down and checked in on me, asked me how I was dealing with it. No one. People would offer, “If you ever need me….” or “If you ever want to talk, I’m there.” I know that they meant it, but a person in that position does not ask for help or healing.
I was tired of waiting for her to be a good mother and talk to her daughters about it. It is a Horrible situation, eh?
I did take drastic measures, however, to bring the fact that he was still in the urn and that no one was dealing with it into (literally) my own hands. My family and I drove to my childhood home, took the key, opened up the house, picked up the yellow urn with a Robin sitting on a branch, walked out of the house, locked it, and buckled it up in a seatbelt in my car’s back seat. I took it home. Without permission. Without saying anything.
As soon as we were home, I called my sister’s cell phone. She didn’t answer, so I left a message. She began furiously texting me. I told her that this was not a conversation to be had via text, and that we needed to talk over the phone. She replied, “Fine then, Don’t talk to me.” (She was 22 yrs. old @ the time) Now, she’s a Mother.
My sister said (through texts) that it was disrespectful of me to take the urn without asking our “Mama” for it. I felt that I didn’t need to ask permission. Those were the ashes of my Father. I didn’t view “him” as a possession.
Next I called my Mother’s cell phone. She was at work, so she didn’t answer. Yes, I did plan to go to the house to take the urn while she wasn’t there. DUH. A vein might have popped in her head and she could have dropped dead over that. Seriously, she has some major Anger/Anxiety issues. (More horrible issues which she also programmed into me, and I have been trying to rid myself of).
Being a Mother, if you’re a good Mother, makes you take a look at yourself. I don’t mean in the mirror… I mean REALLY take a look at yourself. Watching how you react to things. Taking note when you get angry and asking yourself, “Why? Why Did I react that way?” Being HONEST with yourself. To NOT be defensive about your REAL issues. TO DEAL WITH THEM AND FIX THEM.
I took the urn, because I wanted to deal with my Father’s Suicide. I NEEDED to deal with it. It had been too long. I needed to move on. I needed to let it go, before I could really live.
This is what I’ve been doing over the past two years. I feel I have healed. I mean REALLY healed myself this time…but then again, my Father did Have Bi-Polar Disorder. I could be on one of my Happy benders. My husband has called me crazy, but that’s okay, because I’ve called myself that. I have been crazy. I don’t want to be crazy. I don’t take pride in being crazy. I have been purging a HELL of a lot of CRAZY out of this mind of mine over the past two years, and it has been a boat ride through the swamp without a paddle. I have worked HARD on my mind, and it needed it.
Damn. What a ride I’ve been on.
Anyhow, to continue my story, I called my Mother’s Cell phone after I had brought my Father’s ashes into our house. I intentionally called her when I knew she was working, so that I wouldn’t have to listen to whatever her reaction was. I let her keep that anger to herself. I predicted she’d be angry, and BOY OH BOY was I ever right about that.
“Hey. I’m just calling to let you know that I have Daddy’s ashes. Don’t worry, don’t freak out, I’m taking good care of them. I just wanted to let you know where they were and that I have them.”
No, I did not scatter the ashes without my family. Not all of them 😉
What I did do, before my Mother arrived, was to take a portion of the ashes that I felt was my right as his daughter. I didn’t need permission to take them. I still feel that way. I’m not sorry that I took them.
In fact, it appeared as if someone had already had the same idea. The lid had been popped off. It had once been glued on. The ashes were inside the little yellow ceramic urn (an urn that belonged to my Dad’s Mother). They were not quite as I expected them to appear, however. They were inside a thick mil plastic bag. They had been stapled shut with some industrial stapler. Yet, someone had poked a hole in the top of the bag, next to the staple. GASP! Someone had ALREADY “disturbed” the ashes. Heal yeah. (spelling intended), It didn’t have to be me.
SOMEONE had already poked around in the ashes. Someone had made a silver dollar sized hole in the bag of ashes. But it wasn’t me. I felt even more justified in my next action: I took some of the ashes (by shaking the urn). I put them in an old metal coffee tin that I’d found at a thrift store. Someone offered to buy that tin from me, long ago, when I was selling all kinds of things online. I couldn’t take less than $10 for it, and no one wanted to pay that, so I had kept it.
My husband, who is a HUGE Big Lebowski fan, found it quite hilarious that I had chosen a coffee can. I seriously did not connect my actions with the movie, but it may have been programmed into me to put ashes into a coffee container after seeing/hearing “The Big Lebowski” over and over during one of his repetitive aspie (and endearing term) benders.
Aaron, my husband, likes to listen to things that he likes over…and over…and OVER…AND OVER again. It gets to me sometimes, because one of my biggest pet peeves in life is repetition. I can’t stand it, mostly. An example of some really great musical artists that he has played over and over are: U2, Pearl Jam, Rebelution, and most currently Heartless Bastards.
Aaron, we’re about 99.9 percent certain, has Aspberger’s Syndrome. He has not been formally diagnosed by a team of doctors, but he did befriend a doctor online who claimed that if he were his patient, he would say that he was on the high functioning end of the “disorder.” He may not be “formally” diagnosed, but as his wife, I can say with CERTAINTY that he DOES have it. There’s no question in my mind. This is something that I’ll have to study more, so that I can be a better wife. I’m working on understanding it daily.
Here is a quick description of Aspbergers, from someone with Aspbergers:
Asperger’s can not be cured, it is a genetic condition that can be worked on and mitigated, but can not be cured. Each person has it differently and reacts to the world differently, but here are some basics.
Asperger’s syndrome is, in it’s most basic form, Autism. Autism is broken into two types, Kanner’s and Asperger’s, with the break at the 70 IQ level. If your IQ is 70 or below you have Kanner’s Autism, if your IQ is 71 or above, you have Asperger’s autism. (it is a little more complicated than that in it’s break up, but for a beginner this is good)
The easiest way to describe Asperger’s syndrome to someone who has never heard of it is to describe it as a Social Autism. The person who has Asperger’s grew up not learning the social cues around him/her. The person does not, usually, understand subtle social cues that the normal person takes for granted. Things such as sarcasm, and body language that change the meaning of a statement, are not understood by the asperger person, and taken literally.
Asperger syndrome is also called “the little professor syndrome”
The Asperger type is usually very literal in what is stated, and what is understood. The normal person usually sees the asperger person as being emotion-less, though this is not true. Emotions are just kept very deep inside and not brought to the surface. The aspie also does not know what to do with another person who is experiencing emotions, and needs to be told what to do in these instances. Phrases like “I need you to hold me now” are very helpful” in a relationship, for the normal (NT) person to say to the aspie.
Aspies tend to like routines. Change is very difficult, and they will be slow to accept it.
Aspies will appear to lack empathy. As stated above, this is not due to lack of empathy, but a lack of knowledge of how to show it.
Aspies tend to have more of a formal use of words than the NT wold or have a formal style of speaking that is advanced for his or her age. For example, the aspie may use the word “beckon” instead of “call” or the word “return” instead of “come back.”
ASPIES TEND TO AVOID EYE CONTACT. This is not due to lying or being self conscious. The eyes are very difficult to look at, and cause mental anguish and pain in many aspies. They are unable to think of what they want to say, and look another in the eyes at the same time.
Aspies may have unusual facial expressions or body postures. They may be more formal in the way they stand, or just look out of place. Their facial features may not express the emotions that they are experiencing. They may not frown when they are sad, smile when happy, etc…
Many Aspies are pre-occupied with one or a few subjects of interest and learn everything there is to know about those subjects to the exclusion of all others. They may not want to discuss anything other than those subjects with anyone. When brought into a conversation, they will immediately take the conversation to their chosen subject of interest, and then talk about it non-stop. They will not notice that nobody else wants to discuss that subject.
Aspies tend to have heightened sensitivity and become overstimulated by loud noises, lights, or strong tastes or textures. They may only eat certain things, or order foods certain ways. They may not be able to work in rooms with florescent lighting due to the buzz or the flicker, even when nobody else notices. Many different things, for many different people.
*Not all of what this lady says in the above video applies directly to my Mother. My Mother is the “Ignoring” Narcissist. But the “I don’t want to talk about that” portion of the conversation DID strongly apply to my situation. She could call and complain about her miserable life and all of the negative things going on in her life for hours. One time, during a cell phone “conversation” I timed how long she talked without a response from me. The entire 20 minutes, she was complaining. I connect with the video that I’ve shared here because I DID tell my Mother, “I am a WOMAN. ” She also bought me many things so that I could “Owe her.” Classic Narcissist. The whole, “Adult Children of Alcoholics” plug of her’s at the end? Yeah, my Dad was an alcoholic too.
My mind seems to have plenty to choose from in its array of crazy .
When my husband met me, he knew that I had issues. He knew that I had not dealt with my Father’s Suicide…at all. He knew that I was a barrel of monkeys, per-say…that more issues might keep on rolling out of me, holding furry knuckled phalanges together. He knew, but he didn’t know. Neither did I. (the little professor syndrome) He was a bartender when I met him. He enjoyed psychoanalyzing people over the bar. He had a set of regulars who would come in and tell him their problems. He actually is pretty damn good at helping people solve their issues…but he will PISS YOU OFF, because he’ll be brutally honest. He is NOT always right, though, in his diagnosis of what your mind may be thinking at the time. He just uses logic to deduce where your mind might be, and what it might be thinking. It’s sort of a mind cuss, actually, because he’s mostly right…so even if you think he’s wrong, you’ll have to ask yourself if he’s right. There were moments where I would be mad at him for being so smart. There were moments where I just could not convince him that he was wrong, and that his deduction of where my mind was and what I was thinking was wrong. Aaron has a very hard time reading emotions and feelings. He just could not understand why I looked so miserable while I was depressed. He had no empathy for me, either. Well, almost none.
Because of all of this, I was left thinking, at times, that I was just an overall shit-bag. He kept telling me that I liked wallowing in my own misery, just like my Mother. That I didn’t want to be happy. I kept asking myself if that was true. If I was just “Acting out a script” that was programmed into me by my Mother. Was I just acting like her? As I reflect on it now, I can say that there were times when I was, and times when I wasn’t. There were times when I was only depressed and not even thinking about her…but then Aaron would say that I was acting like her.
I was overwhelmed with being a Mother to two. I was overwhelmed with trying to figure out how to be a good mother to them. I had no strong female role model in my life to mold myself after when it came to being a Mother. I often envy other Mothers who have an awesome, supportive and loving Mother of their own. I don’t know what that is like. I can imagine it, sure, but I have not lived it. I am mad about that, off and on. My Mother (I usually refer to her as Sarah these days) is absent from my life because of my choice to keep her out of it. That’s my fault, sure. I told her that I never wanted to talk to her again, and I meant it. She hurt me to my core. No Mother should do that to her daughter. Especially without a breath of regret.
Sometimes Aaron says I’m just like her when I mope and complain. I try not to complain, I really do. I’m not writing this blog to feel sorry for myself. I’m just telling my story. I’m sharing my feelings.
My Mother once said to Aaron, “I’ve had a shitty life.” Sometimes he brings up that statement when I start complaining about the negative things in my life. It pisses me off when he does it, but I must say that a much better approach to correcting my focus on the negative might be to say something with more empathy like, “Wendy, please just try to focus on the good.” instead of “Wendy, you sound just like your Mother.”
“When you don’t know what it is you’re fighting, you can’t possibly know how to deal with it. I wrestled for years with some unknown presence that seemed to affect every aspect of our relationship. Those years in the dark, left me with feelings of self-doubt, insecurity, and total worthlessness. I cried many nights, thinking it was something awful about me that caused my husband’s rejection, when in reality, it was AS.” Source
Aspies. They’re the smartest, deepest people you’ll ever meet. When I met Aaron, I was smitten by how completely different he was. One of the first things he told me on our first date was that women told him he was “too deep.” My response to him at the time was, “How can you be TOO deep?” Aaron didn’t give a SHIT about what anyone thought about him(and still doesn’t), and he knew himself better than anyone I had ever met in my life. He was eons ahead of me when it came to knowing myself, and I knew it. I didn’t care, though…he was taller than me, he was intriguing, he was weird and dark and handsome and had a U2 tattoo on his chest. There was no stopping our romance. From the moment I met Aaron, things continue to happen in my life that are synchronistic about our relationship. Actually, the night I met Aaron, U2 came on the jukebox at the pool hall/bar where we met. I can’t recall whether or not I played that song, but chances were good that I had. I used to pump that machine full of quarters so that it would play songs that I liked so that I could dance and sing and play pool. When I met Aaron, I was wearing a little red, 100% cotton, ruffled mini skirt. My “shirt” of choice was a lace, black, spaghetti strapped midriff that was see through on the back and at the waist. I was out shopping, I suppose 😉 I find it worth mentioning that the bar in which I met Aaron had a corner room display of Betty Page prints hanging on the wall 😉
I was a virgin when I met Aaron. Yeah, that’s right. I was a 22 year old virgin. This was mostly because my Mother had terrified me about sex. She made it sound disgusting and degrading. There was never any “Making love” to be had. It was all nasty, nasty intercourse. You were a whore if you had sex. This caused me MANY *almost* relationships of past. I didn’t understand why I never had a boyfriend before Aaron, either. I sure do see why now, though. I was afraid of sex because of my Mother. This made me VERY sexually awkward. VERY.
My soulmate found me at just the right time in my life. I learned how to make love. 🙂
Anyhow, I’m tired of writing for today. I just started typing out my story this evening. It came almost out of nowhere, but I’m finding as I write it that it is very therapeutic for me. I am telling the story of my struggles. I am writing the story to help myself, and to help others too. One of the characteristics that I know about myself is that I “like to help.” Sometimes I can try to help to the point of hurting. I hope I don’t hurt you, dear reader. 😉
In my next blog, I will continue the story about what happened after my Mother received my voice mail message about the urn. Her reaction convinced me that she is indeed a Narcissist.
Later, I’ll tell you about my hands. My oozing, weeping, cracking bleeding hands. The hands I wielded during my time of turmoil. If you’d like a little background to that tale, go ahead and read my first blog entry about it at: https://thebutterchurn.wordpress.com/2013/10/15/dyshidrotic-eczema-a-malady-of-concerning-cause-and-effect/
Later, I’ll ramble some more. I’ll share some more about the hurtful words that my own Mother said to me that continue to circulate around in my mind. I’ll talk a bit more about what it is like to be the wife of a husband with Aspbergers. I’ll reminisce about what it has been like to be a Mother who can’t use her hands. I’ll heal some more, through writing.
I’ll heal that hurt, but I won’t deal it back.