World of Make Believe

I’m crying as I write this. I honestly feel as though I’m on the verge of a complete and total breakdown, and frankly, I’ll have probably reached that point by the time I’m done with this. To put it plain and simple: I’m scared. I’m writing this in notepad and saving it about every other minute so I don’t lose anything. I have got to get this all out. I can’t hold it inside anymore. First off…Chris, I really, really appreciate you listening to me for so long tonight. I love you. I just wanted to say that publically. (I’m writing this in pretty much a stream-of-consciousness style, so…yes. Since I just got off the phone with you, that’s at the forefront of my mind.) If I hadn’t talked to you, and if you hadn’t been there for me, I’d probably be a lot worse off than I am right now. Thank you so, so much.

Okay. So, right now, I am scared. I was okay, when I was talking to you (Chris), but I still just have to get this all off my chest. (You know how I am about writing.) I’m absolutely terrified. It’s pretty much a granted to know that my mother is at the basis of this. (Shocking.) I’m going to try and sum up why I am so upset as briefly as I can, but I’m feeling quite rambly at the moment (clearly) so …yeah. I’m not sure how this is going to work. Please just bear with me. I’m trying to be logical here…but I’m not sure it’ll work.

There was a great deal of drama at work tonight, which essentially culminated in a lot of stress. In addition to having to watch my little cousin get her teeth pulled and be in serious pain for a while…*sighs* It just wasn’t a good day. But at any rate, after all was said and done, I was so fucking tired and stressed out. After spending a little while hanging out with some coworkers and talking (gossiping, really) about everything, my mother called, jumping my ass. I’m just going to forget the conversation that consisted entirely of her yelling at me (over the phone) for being late coming home and accusing me of lying about where I was, because it doesn’t really matter. She hung up on me a few times, I called her back and told her I’d explain further when I got home as to why I was late (my manager/talking with coworkers and all). I came home after that, and I basically said “Mom, I’m really tired, really pissed off, and really stressed out, can I please just TALK to you?” after she made a sarcastic comment along the lines of “Oh look who made it home.” (For the record, I got home at 12, after telling her I was hanging out with my coworkers, which is ONLY an hour after I usually get home anyway.) She rolled her eyes and goes, “Okay, whatever.” I started telling her about how stressed I was, partially because of my coworker and everything she’s going to (she’s really nice, we always get along great), and about the whole deal with my manager and the napkin holders. I started tearing up a bit at this. I KNOW it’s because I’m so tired and stressed, and I said that in some way, like, “I know I”m only so upset because I’m so tired, but still” or something like that. And as I keep talking, the tears get a little bit worse– honestly, I’m not sobbing or anything, I’m just talking and crying a bit to relieve tension and all. My mother goes, “I think you need to call the doctor, clearly your medicine isn’t working.”

This is what still has me so upset, three hours later. I didn’t get more upset in front of her, I just said something like, “Mom, look, honestly. I know how I was when I wasn’t on medicine, and I know how I am now. I know I’m only tearing up and crying because I’m especially tired and stressed, so please just trust me that I know I’m okay as far as my medicine goes. Don’t you ever just have moments once in a while, because you know I don’t do this often, where you just get so stressed out you just cry a little to relieve it? Doesn’t Grandmom?” (For the record, I have only seen my grandmother cry one time, when my mother was in Intensive Care. I’ve never seen my mother cry.) And my mother says, “Of course.” So I asked her, “Why is it when I cry or when I’m really happy or when I’m anything other than just ‘okay’ do you tell me to call the doctor? If you cry too, if Grandmom cries too, why do I have to call the doctor because my medicine isn’t working right, apparently?” She says, “Because I don’t know what’s normal for you.”

I tried to tell her, “Mom ,look, okay? I’m going to say some not-so-nice words, but just LISTEN, okay? I know how fucked up I was when I wasn’t on medicine. I KNOW. I was out of control. I could have been completely manic and happy, and there’s a part of me that was just always scared. I could have been completely depressed and suicidal, and there was part of me that was scared. I was terrified. No matter how I felt, I was always feeling out of control, like I wasn’t myself. I felt like I was just watching myself live, like I was outside of my body. I’m OKAY, Mom. I know why I’m crying, and it’s because I’m tired. Please just fucking STOP telling me that I need to see a doctor at every mood swing!” My mother goes, “Okay, you’re right.” I said, “No, Mom, don’t say that either. I’m going to go to bed now. I’m going to go up to my room, call Chris, and talk to him. Then I’ll go to sleep. I KNOW I’m right. But don’t tell me you think I’m actually right until YOU believe it. It’s not going to do anyone any good.” And then I just came up and went to bed.

I didn’t break down in front of her. I almost did. I called chris, and talked to him for two hours-ish. And he’s made me feel a lot better, but I just need more opinions on this, because now that I’ve hung up the phone with him, I still have my doubts, and I just want some feedback I can access whenever. Because right now, even after talking to Chris, I’m crying harder than I have yet, and I’m really, actually frightened.

I’m scared my mother may be right. I’m scared at even the slightest possibility that maybe my medicine isn’t working. Logically, if I sit and think about it, I know I’m doing really, really fucking awesome compared to where I was even last year. But the thing is– even when everything was out of control, I still rationalized it. I rationalized the shoplifting, the drugs, the drinking, the …out-of-controlness. I chalked it up to primarily being a teenager. I still made straight-A’s through it all and worked my job. I took care of what I had to. I’m just terrified that maybe my mother has a point– maybe my medicine isn’t working– and that this is just the tip of the iceberg before it comes crashing down around me. And that scares the shit out of me.

It’s like I told Chris– if I knew tomorrow that I was going to be hit by a truck and put into a coma OR if I knew that tomorrow I was going to be as out of control as I was not all that long ago– I’d prefer the coma. The thought of being so out of control is so, so scary to me. I don’t talk about it much, probably because I’m now sobbing as I write this (please forgive any typos, I don’t really care right now). But back then, I didn’t know what was going on. All I knew was that I felt like I could do anything, get away with anything, was happy as could be, and then I would be in the hospital from a suicide attempt or doctoring the deep cuts I made on myself. I rationalized this all. Somehow– I can’t quite remember how, honestly, I’ve blanked out on a bunch of these past several years– but I did. I made it be “okay” in my mind, because “everyone has problems” and “well, this must just be teenage hormones.” I made it ALL OKAY in my mind. I didn’t know any different.

After I was arrested (during an extreme manic phase– I was shoplifting a ton) and sat back in front of a psychologist for several, several hours, being tested and quizzed, they diagnosed me as being Bipolar, instead of simply suffering from Depression. They said it explained the memory loss, the acting out of character (shoplifting, drinking, lying, etc.), the rage, and several other things, and started me off immediately on 200mg of Lamictal. It took a while, but I believed that I noticed a difference, I felt more in control of myself, I knew what I was doing.

My mother, however, didn’t. Any time I’ve suffered from anything ranging from mild depression, extreme aggravation (often at work), to incredibly happiness (most recently, getting a new car)…she tells me I need to see a doctor. Usually when she makes some of her comments to me (those that know of my mother and I’s struggles will understand this, those that don’t can ask), I can brush them off now. For example, if she calls me fat, I can brush it off mostly (FINALLY)– after the eating disorder and everything, I gained a pretty realistic view of myself. That comment doesn’t affect me. If she tells me I’m stupid, I have my grades and transcripts to look back on, and if I’m feeling *really* vulnerable, I can pull out the couple of IQ tests I took in elementary and high school (LOL). Stuff like that. But when she told me tonight that I “need to see a doctor” because I was crying– this is it. I can’t brush this off.

I’m so, so scared she might have a point. Yes, right now I think I’m okay, compared to where I was back then. But the thing is, I thought I was okay then too. What if I’m not? What if I”m about to lose control all over again? I’m really, really not trying to be overly dramatic, I’m trying to get a grip on thsi as best as I can– but I just don’t think I could safely handle that. And that comment is probably the one comment she can make to me for the rest of my life that I will never be able to brush off. I don’t ever want to go to that place. If you’ve never been there personally, I don’t expect you to fully understand. If you didn’t KNOW me back then, I don’t expect you to understand at all– but those that did know me, those that have been there, I need to know what to feel right now.

I know my mother doesn’t cry. I know my grandmother doesn’t cry. No one in my family cries. It took so, so long for me to even be ABLE TO cry after what happened when I was eight years old (recap: My grandfather dropped to the ground as I was running to hug him, in the rush to get him to the hospital I was left alone to care for three other children. My mother came home at five that afternoon and told me that my grandfather was dead– but told me not to cry, I had to be strong for everyone else. I took it to heart.) Honestly, it still takes a LOT for me to cry. I still hold everything I can in, way more than I know is logically healthy, and then it all explodes. I do NOT cry. I hate unloading my problems on everyone, I hate being a burden. I shoulder everyone else’s problems, I listen to them, I give advice, I talk to them– I have no problems doing that. I don’t talk about myself much emotionally until it’s too late– and I don’t talk about my past at all unless I”m seriously close to losing it (which I’m just going to admit right now, because this isn’t getting much better, honestly.) But I don’t cry. I don’t unload. It’s something I struggle with in therapy– five years later, and the fact that I cry at all when I’m overwhelmed is considered progress. But I do try, I do. Hence why I tried to talk to my mother tonight about what I was feeling. That I cried.

But then she said that I needed my medicines checked. Honestly, it’s not just that she said it tonight. She’s said it SO often lately, every night (almost entirely without fail) because I’m not HAPPY when I come home from work, I’m usually aggravated. And then tonight, when I wanted to talk to her, because our relationship was so strained and I know she can at least relate a little bit to bitching managers and last-minute schedule changes (she works in a gas station, I work in fast food), because…well, you know, she bought me my car, and I’ve been sick lately, and I just try and talk to her once in a while, and when I left she was in a decent mood. But then she said that, and now there are so many things going through my head right now.

First of all, right now, I am absolutely sobbing over this, I am SO terrified that she might be right. What if the medicine doesn’t work? I am on SIX HUNDRED milligrams of Lamictal now– yes, mostly for the anticonvulsant factor the medicine has (Bipolar, I was only on 200), but what if it’s not working? What if I am rationalizing everything I’ve done lately– even if it’s not actually all that bed, save the weekend drinking once in a while and the occasional mood swing)– what if I’m not going to be okay? It’s like I told Chris– I wish, at this moment, that my moods had been nothing but ALL up and down, repeatedly. But even when I was so sick, there was middle ground. What if this is just a cycle of middle ground? I can’t go back to the way I was. I can’t handle it. I am fully aware of how dramatic that sounds. All of this probably sounds drmaatic. I don’t expect most of anyone to fully understand. But just the thought of going through that again– I can’t take it. I’m so terrified even thinking about it. I’m sobbing, shaking, and I feel a bit like I’m about to vomit. I can’t do that. I felt like I was outside of my body. I felt out of control. I didn’t know what was going to happen enex.t And in spite of it all– I rationalized it to myself.

What if the fact that I’m so upset at all of this– when it just started out as me being tired and wanting to talk to my mother– what if that’s just proof I’m about to crash and burn again? The damn darkest times of my life. None of this stuff I will ever forget. I can’t. What if the fact that I’m so upset about this– that this is the one comment that gets under my skin, after all is said and done– what if that’s just proof that I’m really still unstable?? I’m doubting myself. I used to believe in myself. I really did. Right now, at this moment, I don’t. I NEED to know I”m doing better. I really do. I NEED to know the medicine is working, that I’m a better person, that everyone has fucking emotions. No one in my family has emotions. my grandmother and mother don’t cry. I was taught not to cry.

Part of what Chris and I talked about is that some of my problems are behavioural problems, not chemical. The thing is…it’s taken five years of therapy (seriously and literally) just to be ABLE to cry. To know that it’s okay to talk about my feelings. That’s actually about the time I started journalling. My family doesn’t talk. Somehow, something got mentioned about positive behaviours being used than negative behaviours…like talking instead of cutting. Stuff like that. I know he’s right about that, I don’t cut anymore…but when I think about the fact that I hit rock bottom only about two years ago (if you count cutting/being arrested/suicidal/etc, ha)….it’s not that long ago. It’s really not. It’s entirely possible that I’ve just had an extended middle ground.

I’m trying SO hard to be logical about this. And it’s just making it worse, it’s making me worse right now. But that’s what I do, I rationalize things, I overanalyze things. I would give ANYTHING to have all the doubt in my mind erased right now. It’s tearing me apart. I know it’s such a small, small thing…one comment, but this just…did it. I can’t be quiet about this. On the good side, I guess, I’m “letting it all out” (my doctor would be proud), but on the downside, talking about all of this is so damn hard, and it hurts so fucking much. I have never really known what my biggest fear is. Everything I hate, I block out. I push it to the back of my memory, maybe bring it up once in a blue moon to discuss (fairly apathetically, I tend to ignore the stronger emotions)….but I think I do know now. My biggest fear is losing control like that again. I can keep my emotions in check really, really well most of the time (unless I’m feeling aggressive after one too many drinks once in a while). I don’t cry in front of people, I don’t talk about how I feel or anything that *really* bothers me. I brush things off. The fact that I’m so upset over this scares me– I do feel a bit out of control right now. I just…I can’t go back there.

And please, anyone, I need to know that I’m okay, that the medicine does work, that I’m not about to lose everything I’ve managed to piece back together. I need to know that I’m going to be okay– because if I lose it again, I really believe that…that’s it. Checkmate. Please just reassure me that the medicine is working, that I’m going to be okay, that I AM okay. Please. (Yes, I know this entry is probably just pointing to the fact that I’m losing it all, but…any words of comfort, advice, support, questions, ANY comments at all…are appreciated.) Just please let me be okay. Let me not be about to lose it all again. There is honestly so, so much more I want to say, but I just can’t do it now. I might update again later on, I have a couple of really good friends I’m talking to online about it– I need to calm donw, I know I do. Please, just let me know I’m not alone.

Why is it so motherfucking hard for people to just get along? Why are people so fucking hell bent on destroying one another? Why are my two sisters so fucking hell bent on destroying their fucking relationship that they can’t and won’t stop fighting?

I spent nineteen years of my life living a lie. I didn’t know. I was the only one, it seems, who didn’t know that there are seven/eight children by my father. I knew of three children. When Marie found me over myspace, I thought she was insane. I didn’t know.

When we all started talking– Marie, Stacie, and me– both of them resented me. They hated me. For being the last child. For being the only child our father didn’t abandon. They were furious that I was never told about all of the children. They held it against me. It caused several, several fights. I came so close to saying “fuck it” so many times.

It wasn’t worth it to me. Do any of you know what it is like to realize that you have been lied to your ENTIRE life? And then, before that thought even has time to sink in– to realize that your sisters are furious with you because you didn’t know about them?

Welcome to my world. That’s what I went through when we all first met. I was the one they both disliked. They thought I thought that I was better than them– neither one of them went to college, both have kids out of wedlock (both two kids, both with two different men, both married at one time or another to a man who wasn’t the father of *either* child). It took a long time. I withdrew from them.

Over time, they realized that I didn’t think badly of them. They realized I wasn’t perfect. It was about that time that they started fighting with one another. One, two, three times I was called into referee. To run interference, to try and persuade them to make peace. More than often I was cussed out in the process, because clearly, if THEY hated one another, I should pick sides. I never did. These past two times, I just stopped listening. They made up on their own.

And now, less than one month after their last big fight, they’re at it again. Both are now proudly declaring that they are finished. Marie “doesn’t love” Stacie, Stacie “hates” Marie. That’s it, game over, checkmate. Period. How did I discover this?

Myspace, of course. My other myspace. I’m not stupid enough to answer the phone at 3AM when it’s one of them, I already know what they’ll say.

They hate each other.
They’re done.
They’re finished.

Nevermind the situation we’re all in anyway…the fact that we’re all torn apart because of our father, spread across the nation, ages ranging from 42 (I *think*) to me, at 20. The fact that I will more than likely never know any more of my brothers and sisters. Nevermind that, it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter, frankly, that I am still DEEPLY hurt by the way I have been treated, and I still feel shattered that I was lied to by my mother and grandmother for so long. My fucking life has been a lie.

I don’t cry anymore. Not over this.

I just feel fake. Like I’m not a real person.

I’ll be called on to run interference again. I know this pattern well.

Now, though, I won’t be answering the phone.

It kills me that nineteen years of my life– fuck, TWENTY if you count when my mother actually told me the whole truth– twenty years of my life it took to learn the truth about everything. It kills me that I am resented because I didn’t know. It kills me that I have so much more family that I will never see.

I think what hurts the worst, though, is seeing what little family I have found– my two sisters– destroying each other and all of our relationships.

Fuck this. I’m not strong enough to handle it. I’m not going to, either. Neither one of you will speak to me again, unless you call from a new number or come to my job. Neither one of you will see me again, unless you come to my job. I’m not getting involved anymore.

I wish I could rewind to November 1st. Before this all began. It was a lie, but it was so much better than this. I didn’t feel like a liar, I didn’t feel like a fraud, and I didn’t have two sisters ripping apart what little bit of love that there should be. The lies were so much better than this truth. So, so, so very much better.