You've Dreamed A Thousand Dreams, None Seem To Stick In Your Mind

And all the people who've seen it all before
And all the people who really understand
Know they're right, and have done it right, could I get to be like that
I'll know what I don't know, it's harder everyday
Can't lift a finger, can't hurt a fly
I've found I always move too slowly
One things for certain, I'm insecure
I never knew till someone told me that....
If that's all you will be, you'll be a waste of time
You've dreamed a thousand dreams, none seem to stick in your mind
Two points for honesty
It must make you sad to know that nobody cares at all
Nobody cares at all
They never care at all
- Guster

So much in this painting. And in this song. So many dreams, such indecisiveness. What do I truly want? What's important in life? Why do I have so many racing thoughts? What is this painting even about?

8X10, watercolor

I'm so bloody tired

I am so. Bloody. Tired. I haven't been sleeping well the past 4-5 nights. And when I say not sleeping well, I mean 2-3 hours a night. My mind is racing the minute my head touches the pillow. I even resorted to taking a klonopin the night before last. At least then I got 6 hours of sleep.

And there's been a lot going on. Mentally, emotionally. I'm getting so stressed over everything and angry and I just want to cry. I could cry at any given moment for no reason. I'm trying not to catastrophize things, but sometimes it's hard not to.

I had therapy on Thursday. We talked about work - I'm very stressed about work (I'll save the details for another post). I was almost in tears the whole time. I didn't cry, but it was there. I had brought my 3 latest paintings and we talked about those. I also asked him what he and Dr. C had been talking about the previous week - as they had been talking about me. And M said that they're worried about me. When they saw all of my paintings laid out before them (they had 30 of them), they were overwhelmed. The honestly couldn't go through them all because they were a little too powerful and distressing. But here's the thing - they're worried about me. About my state of mind, about my emotional well-being. I think I mentioned that Dr. C says I'm one of the worst cases of bipolar depression he's seen in awhile. M said that he's very glad that we're doing weekly sessions. And I do know that they consult each other back and forth about patients in general, and certainly about me.

And here's the thing - I know they care. I do. I always think though - I'm not that special. I wonder if they do this with other patients, this almost seemingly preferential treatment (for me, meaning using my paintings in a presentation, sharing them with other people, taking what seems to be special interest in me . . .I don't know). Or if it just feels that way. I would think it just feels that way. I feel a very strong connection to both, but I'm sure all of their patients do. And I'm nothing special. I don't even know why I'm bringing it up. Fuck it.

Anyway, my moods have been everywhere. Horrible stress at work. Melancholy to depressed feelings. Thursday before therapy was bad. Having those naughty suicidal thoughts again. But trying to look alright. Insane anger and stress and frustration and hopelessness at work. Extreme exhaustion. Some happiness, fleetingly. Most of the time I'm in this down state, pushing on through because there's nothing else I can do. Feeling numb to most things except the irritability. And it really is frustrating and stupid. It's no way to move through life. It seems I can't quite move through this stage. I wonder if this is just how I am. Numb. Little flits of happiness, extreme bouts of depression, and the rest of the time, numb.

I think I'll end this now. I'm so very tired, and I want to sleep. Later I may read through this and add to it. I don't know. Soon I'll be writing my "work" post. Next couple of days I think.

Exploring again

I'm not entirely sure how to start this post. There have been a few interesting things going on over the past few days. So lets just start with the mood run down, shall we?

Saturday. I worked Saturday, and it was my first day of training for charge nurse. Yay? Notice the question mark? Yeah. I was so withdrawn and down and otherwise out of it on Saturday. Not really there. I tried to be there. I really did. Especially since I was training with one of my two best friends. But no. I faked it alright . . .but that's not the same, is it? And it got me thinking about if I really wanted the position or my job anymore. I have, after all, been thinking of changing areas for the last 2 years. But that bit is for another post. Too long for this one. The important thing is that I wasn't there. I wasn't happy. Even though I tried to be.

Sunday, if you read the previous post, I spent in the ER and in bed. Which was a delight. I'm still getting vertigo spells every now and then. Which sucks.

Monday - aka Christmas Eve. My psychiatrist Dr. C wanted to see me. Because of the post I emailed him about cutting myself. He's worried. We went in around 1130, J, myself and our son. We talked a bit about my post. We talked about my continued depressive downswings. We talked about my medications and what we could add/tweak/try. What was scary is how concerned he was. What was scary is how he mentioned being able to get me in to see a specialist out of state. What was scary is how difficult he thinks my bipolar depression is and will be to treat. And what is scary is all of this. All. Of. This. And what is scary is that I'll be fighting for the rest of my life. And what is scary is the prospect of having deeper and worse depressive episodes where I may not have the self control that I do now. It's enough to make me want to scream and cry at the same time. To pound my fists against the wall, hard enough to bust through, to draw blood, to do anything to release the fear and frustration and anger and hurt.

But that would be playing it up, yes? Making it worse than it is? Being dramatic for attention? Fuck the fact that this is very real. The risk is real. All of that? All of that is real. The tears I'm fighting back while writing this . . .they're real. But why should I wax poetic . . .I'm only looking for attention . . .

Tuesday - aka Christmas. We left the house for my mom's with me in full blown vertigo - which made for interesting stumbling episodes. I have to say it was rather pleasant. Yummy food, hanging with my bro . . .and after we headed home and my friend the bottomless pit of my soul said "hey Cami, you know what would be awesome? It would be awesome to question your existence!". So instead I went and took a nap. At least with sleep I can ignore the emptiness. I, of course, didn't tell J this. Again for the seeking attention thing. So instead I hid that pit as best I could.

And now I'm typing this while listening to Silversun Pickups. Over the past few weeks, and more noticeably the past sever days, my anger and irritability has been increasing exponentially. I'm barely able to contain it. Often I can't. It's boiling just below the surface and I don't know when it will finally blow. Some escaped last night when I blew up at J over cough medicine. I screamed at him over fucking cough medicine. That's not okay. I calmed down. I apologized. But that never should have happened in the first place. And I felt horrible. And I beat myself up over it. What the hell is wrong with me? Why can't I just cope? I know the answer . . .but I don't. And nobody gets it.

Tomorrow I'm going to box. I'm going to kick and punch the shit out of my heavy bag. And I'm going to make tomorrow better. That's what I tell myself. And I'll believe it.

While writing this post, I've come up with another painting idea. This will be number 33 in a series that was supposed to be one . . .I don't think people will like this as much as some . . .it will invoke negative feelings. Yes. 

A quick update for now

Just popping in for a quick update - I'll be writing a lot more later, I've been a bit down, withdrawn and irritable the past few days so I'll go over that, along with my visit with Dr. C today (yes, on Christmas eve). Sorting things out in my mind and confused about some, I guess.

Also? I got to spend 4 hours in the ER on Sunday morning with vertigo. Never had it? DON'T. It sucks. It started with sudden onset of dizziness which quickly turned to having the room spin and spin and spin. Nausea followed. I started hyperventilating, mainly because I was scared and had no idea what was going on. J drove me to the hospital. On the way there I became more nauseous, my thinking slowed and I started getting confused. Tremors started half the way there and got worse and worse. When we got to the hospital (my hospital), I couldn't even stand. I also almost couldn't give them my name I was so confused. I got IV fluids, Antivert (mescaline) for dizziness, phenergan (for nausea), and Ativan to help calm me down. It knocked me out. But helped with the room spinning, etc. I slept at home for 3 hours after we left.

And delightfully I had another episode today. The ER doc said it could last on and off for 2-3 days or 2-3 weeks. I'm hoping for days. It's not fun.

Anyway, more later. Have a delightful Christmas :)

Time to sort some thoughts

There are several things I'm struggling with right now. One is working through all of the ACOA stuff. Examining how I fit into having grown up in an alcoholic household. And it's tough. Another is my job. I'm thinking about switching my area of nursing - right after accepting a promotion and getting my expert certification. Go me.

But there's something else I'm, going to write about tonight. Something that I'm truly having a difficult time thinking about/coming to terms with/accepting/believing. And that's the topic of self sabotage. It's a hard pill to swallow. One I don't want to swallow.

My husband has pointed out several times that he thinks I bring my depression upon myself. That I start to feel better and I get scared and find some reason to stay depressed. I asked him the other night what patterns, specifically, he saw and he couldn't tell me any - just that it's what I do. Let's be honest, that's less than helpful. So I asked him to be aware and if he saw something to please point it out to me.

There's one aspect of being ACOA that was hard to examine and write about - that we often play the victim. Whether to seek attention or approval, we often play the victim. I wrote a ton in my ACOA post about this. That I can see myself playing the victim. Seeking attention. Seeking approval. Exaggerating faults against my self. Catastrophizing everything. Overreacting. I can see this within myself and I hate it. Absolutely hate it. It's a trait I wish I didn't have. I don't want to be a victim or play that role. I don't.

Which makes me think - is this what I'm doing with my depression? Am I truly keeping myself depressed for attention? Sabotaging myself so I don't get better? It's such a difficult question. And the answers could be scary. Ugly. Things that I don't want to know let alone admit. But it's something I need to take a close look at if I want to get better.

So I started thinking. Examining. Paying attention to my thinking patterns, what I was feeling at any given moment. Looking for behaviors, patterns, triggers. And I discovered something: I have no idea what the fuck goes on in my head.

Let's look at last Thursday. The few days before I felt pretty good. Pretty upbeat, no real complaints. Some irritability, but that seems to be a staple with me the last 6 months. Then Thursday hits. I had no reason at all to feel depressed. Depressed enough to feel suicidal. Depressed enough to cut myself. No reason. I tried to find one. I couldn't. It happened. I was in a dark pit of despair for no reason I could see. Then my husband came home. We talked about it and I felt considerably better. Friday I was pretty good, a little down. Same with Saturday and Sunday. Monday, not bad. I went to therapy Monday night, where we talked about the cutting. I left laughing, having had a good session. Tuesday and Wednesday pretty darn good - the irritability again, but again, that seems to be normal for me.

I can find no reason for Thursday. None. J would assume that I caused it myself. Which is why I didn't call him when I wanted (and did) cut. I didn't want him to judge me and think I caused it. If I did, it was completely subconsciously.

And so I'm thinking. Thinking about everything. Thinking past over the last year. And there are patterns. Patterns of mood swings. Swings between depression and mixed episodes. Up and down over the past year. Could this be it? The ongoing struggle of finding the right combination of meds to balance me? It can take a year or more to find stability after a bipolar episode, whether depression or mania. Is this it?

Sadly, I don't think so. At least not entirely. I think it plays a major role, for sure. But I also think that ACOA is contributing. Part of my fucked up personality and mindset and just me. When I look at myself, really look at myself . . .I see that victim. That lonely sole looking for attention and approval. The one who sought it so often growing up. The one who sought it in friends but never had any. The one who sought it in a relationship and was met with pain and abuse. I see that. I see me.

That's who I am. I need attention - whether it's good or bad. I need approval. I seek it out. I strive for perfection. I worry about what people think of me. I push myself - even when I want to crumble. All for attention. All for approval. All to try and fill the void in my soul. In my core. But it's always empty - no matter how much I try to fill it with love or hate or attention or pity.

And I look at this, and I wonder, am I really causing my own depression? Do I need attention that bad that I would make myself feel like shit just to get it? Am I truly that afraid of feeling good? Am I truly that fucked up? I look at the patterns. I look at my behavior, my thoughts.

And the answer, I think, is no. The operative words being "I think". I think in some instances I might "play up" how I'm feeling. Meaning, I feel bad, but I portray that I'm feeling a little worse. For example, in therapy, when M and I were discussing my rape and abuse and sexual assault, it was difficult for me. I hadn't talked to anyone about it -ever- and it was over 12 years ago. So yes - it was hard. But I played up how difficult. I was a little more dramatic. Why? Seeking attention. I wanted sympathy, empathy. I wanted to be told that everything was alright. I wanted to be mothered.

But on the same token, it was genuinely distressing for me. It was genuinely difficult. I had nightmares. I had anxiety so bad that I needed xanax. That is not a lie. That is not me seeking attention. That is not me causing the pain or anxiety myself. Did I play it up? Yes. As much as I don't want to admit it, I played it up. But that doesn't discount the fact that it was painful and difficult and horrifying to talk about and relive.

If we look at my second major depressive episode this year (starting in October, building to a crescendo on Halloween and the week after, and slowly now leaving), I did not cause that. I was suicidal. More so than I have ever been (even more so that my episode that started this whole year long process of recovery). I felt so empty and hopeless and worthless that I almost took a gun to my head. I did not cause that. No one wants to feel like that. I don't want to feel like that.That is depression. That is bipolar disorder. That is not me.

I'm coming out of that depressive episode. It was pretty bad until the beginning of December. My meds were changed. It takes awhile to adjust. Anyone who has been through something like this knows that. I have good days and mediocre days and bad days. That's normal . That's part of bipolar disorder. That's part of being human. I have days like today where I'm down. I'm angry and sad and all I want to do is sleep. And that's okay. And maybe on a day like today I'll play up my mood. Just a little, to get attention.

And then I have days like last Thursday. A day, randomly out of the blue, where the depression is back full force, making me question if life is worth living. And those days? They happen. Do I like them? No. Do I cause them? No. I sure as hell better not because how fucked up would that actually be? And when I feel like that, I don't play it up. I'm not acting. When I feel that bad, there's no need to play it up. My actions and words - or lack there of - speak for themselves. My cuts speak for themselves. And lets be honest - I'm a highly educated RN who knows cutting does nothing. But when I felt like I did, it seemed like the only thing I could do to stop the pain. That is not looking for attention. That is looking for help.

Do I play up my moods for attention? Yes. Do I play up my mild depression for attention? Yes. Do you know how difficult it is for me to admit this? Probably not. Do you know how shitty it makes me feel? I doubt it.

Let's move on to the second part of the issue. Am I scared of being happy? This is troublesome. Because I don't know. It's true - I've dealt with the depression for so long . . .my whole life, honestly. But I had ups and downs, times where I was relatively happy. Times where I wasn't depressed. That being said, this past year has been hellacious. I've spent most of the past year either horribly depressed or in a mixed episode. It's what I'm used to. It's familiar. So might I be scared to feel good? Hell yes. I'm not sure what it feels like anymore. It's been too long. I have days, days where I do feel happy and good and okay. And yes, those days scare me. I wonder when the crash will come. If I feel really good, I automatically wonder if I'm starting to swing the other way - mania.

My thinking about it is fucked up. I don't know what to think. How I should feel. So when I feel okay, I second guess myself. It's not what I'm used to. Conditioned to. I think I should still feel bad. That I've felt so bad for so long that I can't possibly feel good - it's not in the cards. I never will. In this respect am I sabotaging myself? I guess yes, I could be. But how? How the actual fuck am I doing it? I can't find any triggers. Nothing. No trigger for last Thursday, no matter how hard I look. And if I'm doing this, it's obviously for attention. The only thing I can think of. Attention from J. From Dr. C. From M. That I don't want to lose the attention I'm getting from them. If I feel better, I won't see Dr. C as often. If I feel better, I won't have weekly or bi-weekly therapy sessions with M. I won't get as much attention from J. I won't get a pass from doing housework sometimes because "I'm depressed and have no energy". All of these things . . .

I can see how this is plausible. Part of me even believes it. Part of me fights this thinking tooth and nail. Why? What a horrible thought. What a horrible truth. I making myself sick, suicidal, because I want attention. That would be something that no one wants to admit to. Myself included.

But the possibility is there. My fucked up personality, whether a result of ACOA or not, is causing a detrimental worsening of my bipolar symptoms. Is causing me to become suicidal for attention.

I don't quite believe it. And I have to think more about it. And talk with J and talk with M and write and explore and figure out what's going on. Between my bipolar disorder, my fucked up personality and my ACOA traits . . .I have my work cut out for me.

And damn this post turned out to be long.

I'm not sure what to say

I want to write but I'm not sure what to say. That's a lie - I know what I want to say, I just can't do it now. I want to talk about my ACOA. I want to talk about my previous post and the cutting and my therapy session and the other things racing through my mind but I don't know how to say it right now. I'm not sure how to express it. I don't know exactly what to say or how to say it.

There's so many things on my mind at the moment, all these thoughts racing around, jostling for a position. I have a lot of things to sort out. A lot of things I'm thinking about - some bad, some good. Some things that I don't want to think about. But I am. I'm trying to sort things out. Over the next days and weeks and possibly months.

There will be plenty more coming. You can expect that. I just don't know what will be coming. And now I'm going to bed. Busy day at the baby factory, and another one tomorrow. And I'm tired. All these racing thoughts. They keep me up at night.

I did something I shouldn't have. . .

And what is that something? Well, let me start by saying that yesterday sucked balls. Big, hairy, sweaty balls. I woke up in a bad mood - irritable and a little down. It got progressively worse. I tried to stop it. I couldn't. I went to the gym. I went shopping with a friend. And my mood worsened. It spiraled down. Lower and lower, out of my control. My thoughts became darker, increasingly more concerning. Suicidal thoughts started. Slow and insidious, they permeated my mind. I should have gone downstairs to box. I should have called for help. I did neither. I reached for a blade instead. And I cut. Not too deep. Not too many. Just enough. Enough to feel the pain, to feel something. Enough to feel something other than the bleak and all consuming darkness that was sweeping over me, threatening to crush me under its oppressive weight.

And so I cut. Six parallel slits. All the same length. All in a neat little row. On my thigh. Easy to hide. Not like my arm - I can't hide that at work. And they bled. And I cleaned them and covered them with a gauze pad that I taped down. And the emptiness was still there. And I didn't feel better. I stared off into space and wondered why these feelings kept coming back. I felt good on Wednesday. I felt normal and okay and happy and better. And yesterday . . .yesterday I did not. And so I cut. Because I didn't know what else to do.

Except I did. But I chose not to do it. I went against my better judgement. And I felt bad. And I felt guilty. And at the same time I wanted to cut more. To cut more and cause more pain and try to break through the darkness enveloping me. But instead I threw away the blade and cleaned myself and cried. Silently, I cried. And wondered what my problem was. And wondered why these thoughts still came. Why they came when I was feeling better.

And I thought. And I stared off and I listened to music and I told myself this was only a setback and that I would feel better tomorrow. I would feel better tomorrow. Now was bad. Tomorrow would be better. And the emptiness wouldn't be as deep and the despair would fade and I would be okay. I would be okay.

And I wondered if I did this on purpose. If I felt like this on purpose. If I made myself feel so bad on purpose. I've been told I do. That I'm scared of feeling better. That I find a reason to feel bad. That I do this on purpose. And I believe it. And I feel bad for it. And it all feels useless. And I wonder, why would I do this? I don't want to feel like this. And I try to think of why I would do this. And I try to find a trigger and I can't. And I try talking about it and writing about it and thinking about it and I can't see. I can't see in front of my face and it's useless.

And I don't want attention for this. I don't think I do. I don't like this. I don't want this darkness, this darkness that follows me like a cloud, even when I feel good. Even when I feel well. Even when I feel happy. If I stop for a minute, it's there, always willing to take over. Maybe it's my upbringing. Maybe I'm sick and twisted and am doing this to myself and I don't even notice. Maybe I want attention. Maybe I'm sabotaging myself.

And maybe I'm not. And maybe I don't know what's going on. And maybe all of this is right and I just can't see what's right and what's happening and what to do about it.

And so I cut. Six parallel slits. All the same length. All in a neat little row. And I cleaned them. And I cried. Because I didn't know what else to do. And I thought about everything and told myself that I was okay and that this was only a setback and that tomorrow would be better.

And it was. Today was okay. It was a good day. I felt good and I felt happy and I looked at my six parallel slits on my thigh and I wondered why I didn't cut more. Then I pushed those thoughts aside because I felt good and I wanted to feel good and I was going to feel good. And I did.

And this is only a setback. This is what I tell myself. I'm getting better, I am better. I tell myself I'll have setbacks, that every day is a new day. That I don't want to feel bad and I won't sabotage myself and I'll stay positive and I'll prove people wrong and yesterday was only a setback.

And I believe it. And I look at my six parallel slits. But still I cry.

I am an Adult Child of an Alcoholic

 Warning: This post is long. Virtually a novel. Well, maybe not quite that long . . .you get the picture.

I am an adult child of an alcoholic. That's a very strange statement, isn't it? And "adult child"? What does that mean, exactly? Well, I'm an adult, and I grew up as the child of an alcoholic parent. Until I started therapy, I had never heard this terminology, this phrase. I had no idea what it was or what it meant. At the suggestion of my therapist, M, I looked it up. Even bought a book on the subject, read it, and apparently didn't give it much thought. I don't know why I didn't.

But now, with all of the "issues" I've been having lately, and setbacks, and depression, and anger and feelings of emptiness, M suggested I look it up again. To really pay attention to it and maybe, just maybe, I'd gain some insight into my behavior and thoughts. I'm always up for a little insight, so I figured yes! Why not? I'll gain all the insight! And so I looked it up, I began reading, and I began noticing how I so perfectly fit the description of an adult child of an alcoholic.

I'd like to start with some background information. Just some basic stuff. My mom is an alcoholic. She's been one for as long as I can remember. Seriously. One of my earliest memories (I think I was 5) is of her passed out on the floor. I was terrified because I didn't know what was wrong. My brother (who was 3 at the time) and I kept trying to wake her, shaking her frantically, crying. She'd come to long enough to tell us she'd get up only if we stopped crying. My brother and I tried - we would go into the bathroom and calm down, wipe away our tears and try and be brave and the minute we saw her on the floor . . .the tears would come again and we couldn't move her or get her to talk or do anything except cry and worry. I think we both slept on the floor next to her because we didn't know what else to do.  

She drank most nights. Always Skoll vodka mixed with kool-aid. And she hid it. Under the kitchen sink. Under the bathroom sink. In a coat pocket in her closet. Anywhere she thought we wouldn't find it. She lied about it. Tried to convince us (and herself, I'm sure) that she wasn't drinking, she wasn't an alcoholic. We all knew the truth though. It was the elephant in the room we weren't supposed to talk about. Other family members weren't supposed to know. Shhh, it's a secret.

We never knew what mom we were going to have on any given night. Depressed, withdrawn mom? Angry, intolerant mom? Giddy, giggly, annoying mom? Roll the dice, take your pick. Not that it mattered, anyway. Sometimes she was all three depending on how much she drank. All we knew was that it was never consistent - we always had to be on our toes. And as we got older, we had to worry about the phone calls. She had, I believe, two DUIs and totaled one car. When she was in the hospital, and the police called, I didn't believe them. I didn't know what to do. And I couldn't drive -  I had to wait until my step-dad got home to go and pick her up. 

And there's so much more to write about it. I could fill pages and pages about the fights, the promises broken (so many promises), the feelings of hate and guilt and loathing and powerlessness to do anything to change the situation. I could fill pages about how going to my dad's house on the weekends was a vacation for me, where I could be myself and be happy and not have to worry about if my mom was okay. I could fill pages about my current struggle with her in trying to create a mother-daughter relationship. I could . . .but I won't. At least not here. This post is going to be long enough as it is.

The last thing I do want to mention, however, is that despite the drinking and lies and broken promises, my mom did everything she could to provide for my brother and I. She did everything in her power to give us everything we needed and wanted (if she was able). Despite her drinking, I love her. Despite her drinking, I think she was a good mother. And I say these things for a few reasons. One, because they're true. And two, because my mom isn't a monster - she didn't set out to "harm" us with her drinking. She's an alcoholic - alcoholism is a disease, and one that can be brutally hard to recover from. I honestly don't know why she started to drink - according to my step-mom, it was before her and my dad were divorced. But I'm not sure. 

As a result of growing up in an alcoholic home, many children of alcoholics develop similar characteristics and personality traits. In 1983, Dr. Jan G. Woititz wrote the book, Adult Children of Alcoholics, in which she outlined 13 characteristics of adult children.

Below are the 13 characteristics of adult children of alcoholics (ACOA). Below each characteristic, I'll write about how it pertains to me - or at least I'll try to. This is where a lot of soul searching had to be done. And, perhaps, some ugly truths faced.


1. Adult children of alcoholics guess at what normal behavior is.
The home of an alcoholic or addict is not "normal." Life revolves around the addict and most family members must learn to keep their family going, as they know it. Children of alcoholic or drug-addicted parents do not live the same life as their "normal" peers. Therefore, the child and later the adult must simply do their best at maintaining normalcy, as observed from friends, television, or simply guessing.

This one . . .this one yes. I always felt like an outcast - I still do. I don't feel "normal". I didn't have a normal childhood. I had to worry about my mom constantly - how much was she going to drink tonight? Is she going to pass out? Do I need to get her into bed? Is she going to drive? I would worry and have to hide that worry. The few friends I did had never came over to my house - what would they think if they saw my mom? I'd pretend everything was okay, and tell lies. I still even do this into adulthood - although I do it a lot less now. I would sit embarrassed at family dinners with my in-laws or whomever because of my mom's behavior. I'd ignore it, try to explain it away . . .anything. I didn't know how a mother-daughter relationship should be. I still don't. I see it with my friends, but I don't have it. 

This has carried over into other aspects of my life. Virtually everything I am or I do or I say feels . . .false. Not that I'm lying or trying to be false or anything like that - I simply don't feel like I fit in - anywhere. I've always been the "weird" one, the "funny" or "sarcastic" one. I'm described with these terms as well as odd, awkward, inappropriate, strange, off and many others. I try to wear these terms as badges of honor when in reality they make me feel less than human - even more of an outcast. (not all the terms are bad - but you get the idea).  

This has caused some social anxiety as well. Without really knowing how to act, well, what if I say something wrong? What if I act strangely? What if my home life is different than theirs? I don't know. I just feel different. In so many ways.
 
2. Adult children of alcoholics have difficulty following a project through from beginning to end.
In the home of an addict, daily living is frequently interrupted due to misbehavior or unpredictable actions of the addict. For example, the family may start playing a game, but then dad comes home and everyone must stop playing. Or maybe mom promised to help work on a school project, but then passes out and never follows through. When project completion and follow-through are not consistently modeled, it is a hard skill for the adult child of an alcoholic to learn.

I'm not so sure that #2 affects me that much. If anything, I'm a bit frantic trying to finish things. I've tried my best to be vigilant about what I'm doing, are there deadlines to keep, is there some way I could do this better or faster? I was neurotic about this in school, I'm neurotic about this in my profession, and I'm neurotic about it in my artwork. Maybe it's because I had to finish some things that my mom didn't. Maybe it's because despite her drinking every night, my mom still held down a difficult job with the government and went back to school for her degree. Maybe it's all of that and more.
 
3. Adult children of alcoholics lie when it would be just as easy to tell the truth. As a child of an alcoholic or addict, one must constantly lie and make up excuses for the addicted parent. The child also hears the parent and everyone else in the family lie and make up stories constantly. This behavior is a necessity to keep the addict family intact, and therefore becomes a natural trait. Once the child acquires this behavior, it tends to stay with the adult child.
These lies are not always malicious or harmful. Something as simple as the route the ACOA took home, or what type of fruit they like is fair game for lies. Unless the child or adult receives enough consequences (either internal, like guilt or anxiety; or external, like getting in trouble with someone), the ACOA may begin to practice the art of telling the truth more.

This one is tough. This one . . .this one I don't want to admit. At. All. But it's true. And it's difficult for me to admit that. It is. I know I lied all the time as a child. About everything. Home life, school life, friends, everything. Talking to me you'd think I was on top of the world and had tons of friends. Reality? I was not, and I had no friends. And I got good at lying. Scarily good. 

I've tried my best to break this habit in my adult life, and I'd say I've done a fairly good job. Most of my lies now are about money - nothing big, but a lie none the less (like saying I sent a bill out when I really forgot to and it's crammed in my purse so I can send it out the next day without J finding out, or neglecting to tell him that I spent money on something and waiting for him to ask - of course I "forgot" to tell him). I still lie about my mom from time to time. And I lie all the time about how I'm feeling - it's much easier to lie about that than tell the truth.

This causes a lot of guilty feelings in me. Especially now that I'm admitting it and examining it. I don't want to lie - especially about small stupid things that make no sense to lie about. I understand the origin of it, I understand the why, and now I need to stop. 
 
4. Adult children of alcoholics judge themselves without mercy.
No matter what the child of an alcoholic or addict does, they cannot "fix" their parent or their family. They may be able to take care of the addict or other members of the family, but they are unable to fix the root of the problem: the addiction and relating family dysfunction. No matter how well the child does is soccer, how high their school grades, no matter how clean they keep the house, how "good" they are, they still can't fix the addict. Everything they do falls short.
Additionally, the child of an alcoholic or addict may blame him/herself for bad things that happen in the family, and are frequently guilt-ridden for reasons beyond their control. Perfectionism is very common in ACOAs.

Guilty. I've always thought everything I've done falls short - and I still do. I struggle with this day to day. I was always a perfectionist in school - I did everything I could to get good grades, to achieve. The only thing I didn't do in school was sports or band or anything like that - low self esteem +no friends+"weird"=not feeling comfortable doing anything like that. I worked. I started work when I was 16. I payed for everything myself - car, insurance, clothes . . .I payed for college myself. I wanted the burden taken off my mom. I took extra classes, I volunteered. 

And nothing helped. Home life was still the same. Nothing changed no matter what. And I did feel guilty about this. I felt that I failed my mom. I tried talking to her. Tried getting her to go to AA meetings. If I could do so well, surely she could to. But it never happened. No matter how hard I tired. No matter how well I did.

To this day I'm very judgmental of myself. How I look (I'm always too fat, my clothes don't fit right, etc. despite what everyone tells me), my artwork isn't good enough (and when I get praise, I don't take it well - I assume the person is just trying to be nice), being a mother (I always feel like I could be doing so much more), as a wife (Again, I could do so much more). The list goes on and on. I'm my own worst enemy.
 
5. Adult children of alcoholics have difficulty having fun.
Growing up with an addicted parent is not fun. Kids are not allowed to be kids. When the kids are not given this joy, the adult usually does not know how to simply enjoy life. The ACOA is constantly worrying about their addicted parent, or is in trouble for things they should not be responsible for, or compensating in some other way for the addict. The usually carefree, fun time of being a child often does not exist if the parent is an addict.
The addict is the "child" in the relationship. Because of this, the child does not know how to be a child.

Number 5 is a bit difficult for me. I know a lot of the time I was worrying about my mom, lying for her . . .but I did get to act like a kid. Going to my dad's house was always a release for me. Though, thinking about it, my step-mom told me that Saturdays I was always tense and withdrawn and didn't act like myself but by Sunday I was a happy, carefree kid. So maybe I didn't act as much like a kid as I thought. I remember sleepovers with friends (always my brothers friends, who were the only kids I typically became friends with), playing video games, football outside . . . so yeah. Kid stuff. 

I'd say I had a difficult time just "letting go". Just being in the moment and enjoying it. And I know . . .I know this is an issue I struggle with now - more so in the past year. I can't just "let go" and have fun. I have to worry and fret over everything. I have to worry about how I'll feel tomorrow or next week or when I'll have another depressive episode or if I'm going to be mixed or hypomanic. I can't be in the moment. I need to. I truly need to. I just can't seem to figure out how.
 
6. Adult children of alcoholics take themselves very seriously.
Due to the gravity of their roles in their families growing up, adult children of alcoholics take themselves very seriously. The weight of the family, and thus the world, is on their shoulders.

Sometimes, yes. I feel responsible for a lot of things. I have to do it all. I don't ask for help - to a fault. I try not to take things seriously, but I do sometimes. I can get in the habit of over-reacting to the littlest things and sometimes fail to see the humor in a situation. And humor is something I possess (let's be honest, I've had numerous people tell me I should do stand up comedy), so to not be able to see the humor in a situation . . .well that's quite a blow. And I've been taking things more seriously lately.

With having had two major depressive episodes in the past year - both with very close suicide attempts - it seems I've almost had to be more serious. Which does tend to go against how I usually am. I should be able to make light of it, make some morbid joke of it. And in time, maybe I'll be able to 
 
7. Adult children of alcoholics have difficulty with intimate relationships.
Having never known a "normal" relationship or family roles, the ACOA does not know how to have one. The adult child of an addict does not trust others. The ACOA has learned that people are not trustworthy or reliable, and has had their heart broken from such an early age.
New relationships must be handled with caution, too, because the child of an alcoholic doesn't want others to find out their secret. Adult children of alcoholics have learned to shut themselves off from others to protect their feelings, as well as to protect their family.

When first entering a relationship I would say this holds true. I have a hard time with this though - on the one hand, I have a hard time coming to trust people, and on the other, sometimes I share way too much, way too fast (I blame that on the bipolar disorder - I have a hard time with boundaries and using my "filters"). One thing I've noticed is that I expect to be let down. With friends, family, most people . . .And this gets reinforced when, let's say, a plan falls through or any number of small infractions occur. I do tend to isolate myself because of this.
 
8. Adult children of alcoholics overreact to changes over which they have no control.
The child of an alcoholic/addict lacks control over their lives much of the time. They cannot control when their parent is drunk, or that the parent is an addict to begin with. S/he cannot always predict what will happen from one day to the next, and this is very anxiety producing. A child needs to feel safe. Because of this lack of control as a child, the adult child of an alcoholic/addict craves control. They need to know what is going to happen, how it is going to happen, and when.
Of course, this control and predictability is not always possible. If plans are changed, or somebody does something that the ACOA doesn't like or feel comfortable with, all the insecurity of their childhood may come back to them, and the adult child may over-react, leaving the other party stunned or confused.

Oh my. Yes. I want to be in control. I don't like feeling out of control, I don't like when someone or something takes control away from me . . .no. If something doesn't go my way I'm libel to throw a tantrum or yell or act rude and snippy. I feel stressed and anxious though I do everything I can to hide those feelings.

I like having my days planned out. I know what I'm going to do, and when I'm going to do it. Don't throw a wrench in that plan. Just . . .don't. If I'm scheduled to work, and end up getting called off, it's rough. I planned to work. Now I have nothing planned, nothing to do. My overreaction to this is usually a depressive mood - or overt anger. Situations arise like this all the time. And it can be the smallest, silliest thing that doesn't go my way and it's the end of the world. Completely ridiculous things like J is driving and he's not in the lane that I would be in and I can't make him change lanes and so I get anxious and annoyed and try to silently will him to switch lanes because I don't want to sound like an ass-waffle by telling him to do so. 

I like the control. I like the predictability. I'd even go so far as to say that I'm not a fan of spontaneity.
  
9. Adult children of alcoholics constantly seek approval and affirmation.
Similar to ACOA characteristic number four, children of alcoholics and addicts are used to continuously seeking approval or praise from their parent or other valued person. They probably did not grow up with a regular and consistent rules and expectations, and could never make their addicted parent happy.
Not knowing what is "normal" or expected, adult children of alcoholics need someone to tell them what they are doing is right. They are often indecisive and unsure of themselves.

I certainly seek approval. All. The. Time. And for everything. Even the little things like doing the dishes. I'll point out that I did them so J can say "thank you". I want the recognition that I did something. I need that recognition. I want and need praise for doing things like housework, cooking, paying bills, even though J and I share these responsibilities equally. When I don't receive the recognition or praise I feel . . .slighted somehow. I take it as a personal insult. What did I do wrong? How can I do better? Is J mad at me?

And it's the same with everything. At work, with friends. I don't want to make people mad. I don't want to rock the boat. I don't want to hurt anyone's feelings. I think I do this more so with J than with anyone else. I'll seek approval from my managers from time to time, but I try and do it in a round about way.

Indecisiveness is often my middle name. I'll waffle on where to eat or what to do in the evening. Even on which store to go grocery shopping at. Don't get me wrong - I can make a snap decision when needed (for example, resuscitating a baby or, for some reason, buying a house), but the small things . . .those get me. And I know it's annoying to the people around me - especially J (at least I'm assuming so). And, try as I might, I can't seem to change that.

 10. Adult children of alcoholics usually feel that they are different from other people.
Another overlap with other characteristics, children of alcoholics sometimes know from an early age that their home is not normal. Children from addicted families may or may not know what is different, and sometimes don't completely "get it" until they visit friend's houses and observe their parents. 'Hey... Janie's mom makes her do her homework until she is finished, and they have dinner at this time, and then they have to go to bed at 9. Every night!" This consistency may be shocking, and either attacks or appalls the child who is not used to such structure.

I've always felt different from other people. Always. I don't think I've ever felt "normal". It's been this . . .I even know know how to describe it. Like this black void that follows me around, like I'm missing something. Like part of me is gone. And even that's not quite it. I feel like I hide so much, that so often I'm fake in how I relate to people. I try to act how I think I should act - not how I may be feeling or thinking or experiencing. It's all a play (which, incidentally, goes along with my hiding my bipolar moods).

I marvel at how other people can move through their lives seemingly without thinking about their every move. "Is it normal to say this? Or think that? Will they think I'm abnormal if I do this?" I listen to my friends and coworkers carry on with their stories, so happy and oblivious to how difficult it is for me to even speak. Because I may say the wrong thing because I don't know how to act. I've been described as "socially awkward". I've even joked that that's how I should introduce myself - "Hi! My name is Cami and I'm socially awkward." Sometimes I think I should.

I have trouble opening up to people because of this. Meeting new people and having to talk, to carry on a conversation often brutal. The other night I had dinner at a friend's house. Her and her husband were there, along with another friend and her husband. Which is usually okay. But my friend H had another of her friends over - one whom I hadn't met - and I nearly froze. I didn't know how I should approach the situation. It should be easy. Talk. Share things about yourself. Interact. Why is that so bloody hard? I floundered. I was quiet at times. I tried to find a common ground - something we could talk about - and I just couldn't quite do it. I wanted to hide. I wanted to leave. I didn't know what to do or what to say and I felt ashamed of myself for being so me.

I don't fit in. I don't belong. I've always been the weird one, the strange one. I've always been the funny one and sarcastic one, which are good traits I guess, but I've always been an outcast. In school I was shunned and ignored, as if people knew I was hiding something. I'm sure that was only my perception, but the feeling was prevalent.

And that black void follows me to this day. I can't shake it - I don't feel I ever will. No matter how much people tell me otherwise. I'm missing something. Whatever it was or is, it's gone.

11. Adult children of alcoholics are super responsible or super irresponsible.
Once the child from an addicted family gets older and forms their own identity, the ACOA may either strictly follow a schedule and wants everything in order, controlled- perfect. These adult children often struggle with anxiety, OCD, perfectionism, and eating disorders.
The opposite result is the ACOA who is a party animal. This adult child may develop an alcohol, drug, or other behavioral addiction. This ACOA may live a life very much like their addicted parent, or they may "shape up" and get their life together, with appropriate support.

I am the super responsible one. Good grades in high school and college. A BA in biology, BS in nursing, married, house, son, ducks lined up in a row. I've never been in trouble with the law, never done drugs. I actually did drink for awhile - about 3-4 years from ages 19-23, only on weekends. The typical young person thing to do. I like things ordered. I have little quirks that are a little OCD (the toilet paper goes over the roll - if I'm at your house and it doesn't, don't worry - I'll change it for you). At work I have certain ways I do things, certain steps that I take, in order. I hate when things don't go as planned. I like predictability. I want to know what I'm doing each day and if something changes I'm liable to fall apart.

My brother, on the other hand, was the irresponsible one. He  partied, experimented with drugs, got several DUIs, dropped out of college . . . It's interesting that we went the opposite way with this. Luckily he did manage to "get his life together" and is doing quite well.

12. Adult children of alcoholics are extremely loyal, even in the face of evidence that the loyalty is undeserved.
"Why do you put up with him?" Adult children of alcoholics/addicts are used to dealing with just that- an addict. They are used to either taking care of an addict or seeing others take care of an addict. Drunken fights and broken promises is normal to the ACOA. Growing up, the child of an alcoholic was probably told "it isn't his fault" or "he didn't mean it, he was drunk."
Because of these lowered expectations, an adult child of an alcoholic/addict frequently ends up in a relationship with another addict, abusive partners, or otherwise unhealthy relationships.

Growing up with an alcoholic parent actually made me do the opposite - I wanted nothing to do with people who drank. I wanted no part of it. I was so sick of dealing with everything with my mom that the thought of doing that with a boyfriend or husband was not an option.

I did, however, run into issues in a different manner. I was in an abusive relationship and found myself making up excuses for the abuse ( he really loves me, I must have done something wrong). For a brief time I tried defending him and then it was convincing myself that his behavior was normal. After 3 years I knew something was wrong but didn't have the courage to leave for another year.

13. Adult children of alcoholics are impulsive. They tend to lock themselves into a course of action without giving serious consideration to alternative behaviors or possible consequences. This impulsively leads to confusion, self-loathing and loss of control over their environment. In addition, they spend an excessive amount of energy cleaning up the mess.
The last trait is fairly self descriptive. The ACOA will struggle with falling into unhealthy patterns of behavior, in whatever form it might take.

Yes, I can be very impulsive. And impatient. And selfish. Once I get my mind set on something you better get out of the way. J and I can be at the flea market and someone is selling puppies. Well, we're getting one. I don't care if we have a dog (who dislikes other dogs) and we don't have the time, that puppy is damn cute and we're getting it! J, thank God, is the voice of reason and takes over. We're at a grocery store and they're sampling cheesecake. We're going to buy all the cheesecake! I don't care if we don't need it and they're $13 each. We're buying the cheesecake. I'm becoming bored with my job and am thinking about changing the area I work in. Oh, there's a job posting for a day shift in an area I'm not sure I'll like? Screw it! I'm applying!

You get the point. I do this with so many different things. And I get impatient and almost frantic about my decisions and can become very selfish and only think about what I want. I don't care what anyone else says or thinks or feels at that moment - the only thing that matters is my one-track mind and the decision I made. Sometimes this has lead to arguments because I'll do something without talking it over with J (like spending money). And I always feel like crap afterwards. And I have to try and make amends and I feel like an idiot and am left wondering why I ever did it in the first place. And that's not a fun place to be.


The next 14 characteristics are taken from the ACOA World Service Organization. Many of them are the same as above, but there are a few that are different. The ones that are similar, I'm not going to write about as it's covered above. The ones that are different, obviously, I'll be writing about.


 1. We became isolated and afraid of people and authority figures.

I was never aware of this aspect until later in life - most notably in the past few months. That's not to say it wasn't there - I think it always was - I just never acknowledged it. Let's start with my past though - seems like the logical way to go.

 

Growing up I was always shy (and yes, I've always known that). I never said much, especially in social situations. Even when with friends say, during lunch in high school, I could barely talk. I worried about what they would think and I was nervous and uncomfortable. It took me a very long time to come out of my shell, so to speak. I was okay speaking with teachers, most of the time, but my hands would get clammy and my heart would race. I was this way when I started working, as well, and it was only after I had been at my job around 2 years that I started to open up.

 

I truly started opening up when I started college. And the more I think about it, the more I realize that what started this openess, this willingness to talk and interact, was a manic episode and alcohol use. I was with my ex, hanging out with his friends, and partying . . .and then you throw in the hypomania . . .well, I became a bit overzealous at times. Maybe the experience served me well - I made friends, I had more fun, I had less anxiety (at least in the case of interacting with people - my relationship with my ex is another story).

 

I think I had a period of time where I wasn't as shy, wasn't as anxious. I became outgoing, inappropriate, loud, trying to be the center of attention. The big part of course was the innapropriateness (let's be honest - I had no idea how I should act). After my son was born, I started to become more withdrawn again. J and I would be at a store or something and I would want to know the price of something - I was too nervous to go and ask. If I was told something (like needed car repairs) I would go along with what was said because I couldn't stand confrontation.

 

And in the last year, since my near suicide attempt, it's become much worse. But not in all areas. At work I'm the picture of confidence and authority. I know my job, I know it well, I'll bark orders during a code and take control. No anxiety interacticg with patients or doctors (in fact, I like to boss the doctors around). But in my personal life, not so much. When J and I hang out with friends - very good friends - I have a hard time opening up. I feel like I can't relate and I'm quiet and all I can think about is leaving. J has a huge family and at get-togethers (most notably last Christmas and this thanksgiving) I can barely manage. I become excedingly withdrawn and tend to either stay by myself or stay by J's side. I feel overwhelmed and want to leave, leave NOW. But I can't. And I go to the bathroom a lot so I can hide for a few minutes. And I'm surprisingly NOT ashamed to say that I'm glad I work this Christmas - that way I don't have to go through the uncomfortable, suffocating anxiety that I experience there.

 

 2. We became approval seekers and lost our identity in the process.

This is similar to one above.

 

3. We are frightened of angry people and any personal criticism.

 I really, really hate angry people. I'm certain that their anger is either directed at me, or caused by me. No matter what the issue is. This is especially bad with J. I'm convinced that any time he is upset or blah or mad or anything that it's because of me. It's all my fault. And I try desperately to find out what's wrong, what I did, and how can I make it right. 

I do take criticism poorly. I hate to be criticized. I take it as a personal attack and that it means the person thinks less of me or dislikes me or I must have done something wrong. It could be criticism about how I fold laundry or something completely stupid and I get defensive, angry and upset. Even if it's jokingly and I know it's jokingly, I don't take it well. I overreact and either get upset or mad. Sometimes to the point of completely shutting down.

 

 4. We either become alcoholics, marry them or both, or find another compulsive personality such as a workaholic to fulfill our sick abandonment needs.

No. Sort of addressed above, but definitely not. I don't drink, J doesn't drink, our friends don't drink. And I don't think anyone in my life has any type of compulsive personality. Apparently I wanted to buck the trend with this one. Probably because I didn't want to follow in the footsteps of my mom.

 

5. We live life from the viewpoint of victims and we are attracted by that weakness in our love and friendship relationships

 This one has got to be the hardest for me to write about. The most difficult to acknowledge. To myself. To anyone. You see, I like to think of myself as strong. I've been through a lot. A lot. And I've always been adament that this or that didn't bother me. That I didn't dwell on the past or even recent issues.
 

And that is a complete lie.
 

Do you know how difficult it is for me to admit that? How much it physically and emotionally pains me? And I'm not being dramatic - I'm being dead serious. This goes against everything that I make myself out to be. Everything. I'm not a weak person. I don't want people's sympathy or attention or anything. 
 

And yet I do. And yet I crave it. And I loathe myself for that. I'm embarassed by it. I'm so distressed by that that I'm tearing up just typing this. I don't want to be a victim and yet that's exactly what I am. I'm a victim of my circumstance, my past, my upbringing, my bipolar disorder. As much as I attest that I'm not - that's exactly what I am.
 

I do things subconsciously . . .and yet it's not subcouscious because on some level I'm aware of what I'm doing. When I started talking about my rape and abuse from my ex I was truly distressed by it. Honest to God distressed about it. But I played it up a little. Maybe acted a little more distressed than I was. Maybe a little more dramatic when I talked to J about it or talked to my two closest friends about it. Of course, I'm not a victim so I made sure that they knew that - even though I was very much playing the role. Maybe I needed the attention, the support, the affirmation that I truly had gone through something traumatic.
 

But, as J pointed out, I had kept that all burried for 12 years and it hadn't bothered me at all in that 12 years. Why was I making such a big fuss over it now? I don't know. I don't know why. Because I don't want to be the victim but I want the attention of being the victim. And I hate this. I hate this about myself. I'm suppossed to be strong and push on.
 

But I don't. And with this exercise, with me very honestly looking at my behavior, I've noticed things I have't acknowledged before. Another thing I've noticed is using my bipolar disorder as a crutch. A crutch for my behavior, for whatever. But I don't do it often (thank God), and I want to stop that before I do. And I keep going back to why the hell am I doing so horribly this year with the depression and mixed episodes and the stupid thing is that I know why and I've written aobut why but I still don't accept it. And I see this cycle over the past year and I see things moving in the same direction with continuous bouts of depression and not getting better and then I wallow and I dwell on everything and I become a victim and slave to my bipolar disorder. And apparently it causes me to write long run on sentences.
 

The point is, regardless of how much I do not want to be a victim, I very much am one. This is a new view of myself - one that I neither wanted to admit to myself or anyone. And now I don't know what to do. I don't know how to change or move forward or stop the behavior. And I want to stop. I don't want to be the victim anymore.

 

6. We have an overdeveloped sense of responsibility and it is easier for us to be concerned with others rather than ourselves; this enables us not to look too closely at our own faults, etc. 

When I look back, I'm not sure how much this applies to me. I now that now I do tend to take more responsibility and I think I'm more concerned with others, but I'm not entirely sure. Sounds a bit wishy washy doesn't it? See, I tend to put others ahead of myself, sometimes to a fault maybe, but this one is difficult for me. 
 

And I'm thinking now, trying to come up with examples and what I see is I did put my ex ahead of me - big time. He was always first. I didn't do it that much with friends to be honest. I put my mom ahead of myself - tending to her and worrying about her when I needed the attention. But this is about all I can think of. I hoestly believe that J would describe me as selfish now. That I've been doing more things for myself rather than for our family. I'll spend several hours painting instead of doing housework or paying bills or running errands. When I have money in my paypal account from Etsy sales I'll spend it on me rather than on the family. I want what I want and I want it now. Who knows - maybe I've become this way because of how my past has been.

 

 7. We get guilt feelings when we stand up for ourselves instead of giving in to others.

  This one is up in the air. I don't get guilty when I stand up to others. One, I rarely do it, and two, I only do it if I have a valid point to make (otherwise I'll tend to defer). Now, if I don't give in to something or someone, I can feel guilty. J might want to do one thing and I might want to do another, but I'll go along with what he wants to avoid feeling guilty and to avoid hurting his feelings (although most likely his feelings wouldn't get hurt).

 

 8. We became addicted to excitement

This one is quite interesting. I am an adrenaline junky. Not to the extent of most - I don't play risky sports or go skydiving or anything like that. But at work . . .boy howdy. Resuscitating a baby? Oh my God yes please? Code on an adult? I'm there in seconds. Post-partum hemorrhage? Let me in there. Stat c-section? Please? May I go? My coworkers think I'm crazy for this, but I absolutely love it. You know what else I love? Tea. That fact is irrelevant but I figured I'd throw it in for fun.

I'm not sure why I'm so much in love with doing things like that. I don't know how that relates to growing up in an alcoholic home. If anyone knows, please enlighten me.

 9. We confuse love and pity and tend to "love" people we can "pity" and "rescue."

I'm not so sure I do this. I don't confuse love with pity. I don't pity my husband or friends or co-workers, and I love them (well, most of them). And the very few people I pity, I don't love. Maybe another one I'm bucking the trend on. 
 

10 .We have "stuffed" our feelings from our traumatic childhoods and have lost the ability to feel or express our feelings because it hurts so much (Denial).

I hid my trauma. I hid the drinking, I hid my abuse and rape, and I pretended that they didn't happen and didn't affect me. For awhile (a little over 12 years) I felt nothing about my rape. Had virtually forgot about it. I ignored my feelings about my childhood. I did deny that part of me. It's certainly much easier. 

But now that I started opening up about it, I can most certainly feel it. The feelings came flooding back and it was almost too much to bear. But besides all this, and before all this, I was still able to feel. I felt everything else except my past. 

 

11. We judge ourselves harshly and have a very low sense of self-esteem.

This one is addressed above.

 

12. We are dependent personalities who are terrified of abandonment and will do anything to hold on to a relationship in order not to experience painful abandonment feelings, which we received from living with sick people who were never there emotionally for us.

I've never considered myself as dependent, but when I think about it, I am. At least a little. I don't depend on most people - in fact, hardly any. And I think that this stems from the fact that growing up, I could only depend on myself. So in one aspect, I'm very stubbornly independent. 

And at the same time, I'm so very dependent on J. I would be lost without him. There's so much that he does that I wouldn't even know how to do or approach - I don't even like taking my own truck in for an oil change. If he weren't around, if our relationship faltered . . .I don't even know. I would try everything to keep us together, to keep him with me.

One thing I hate to admit, especially writing it here because he might read it, is how dependent on my therapist I've become. Obviously, he's helped me so much, more than he'll ever imagine, but I'm so terrified to not see him. What will I do then? It's strange, I had never seen a therapist in my life until last January. And now I can't imagine not seeing him. It makes me feel pathetic and stupid and like I can't take care of myself. And I can - I know I can - I've done it my entire life. It's just that I feel so much better after each session. I've learned so much, released so much tension and anger and bad feelings and memories and it helps me feel better about myself. And I look forward to it. And now . . .now I'm definitely dependent on it. And that truly does make me feel weak. Because I need it. Because I'm scared about not going. Because eventually, I won't be going every week or every two weeks or every month. Eventually I won't be going at all. Fuck.

 

13. Alcoholism is a family disease; and we became para-alcoholics and took on the characteristics of that disease even though we did not pick up the drink.

I'll be honest - I'm not exactly sure what this means. I mean, the statement says that I would take on some of the characteristics that my mom displayed, and that makes sense. I'm just having a hard time with this. I don't know which behaviors. Some of the above characteristics seem as though they could fall under this category. Others, not so much. And maybe there's a whole host of other traits that I might be exhibiting.

Thinking back on my mom's behavior, she lied, she yelled, she overreacted, she constantly felt sorry for herself and blamed her situation on external factors - sometimes vague, sometimes something that made absolutely no sense (in a drunken stupor one night she blamed her drinking on not receiving a paycheck from Disneyland from when she worked there as a teenager). She was often unreliable and uncaring and distant. She had three broken marriages and only the third I can remember. And she treated my step-dad like crap. He was the nicest man and she yelled at him and accused him of everything under the sun. I don't know how he put up with it as long as he did.

That was when she was drunk.

When she was sober (typically until around 6pm) she was caring and loving and interested in our school work and our days. She could be fun and I could joke with her and feel close. She took very good care of us as we grew up, despite her drinking. There was such an opposite in her behavior from daytime to drinking time.

I think I try to emulate her good characteristics. Everything I wanted in my mom is what I try to be for my son. Seeing how she treated her ex-husband, I made a promise to myself that I would never treat my husband like that. Ever.

I don't know if I'd consider myself a para-alcoholic. Maybe in some ways, I guess, if any of the above numerous characteristics apply. But I'm trying my best to not be like her.

 

 14. Para-alcoholics are reactors rather than actors.

What? A nuclear reactor? Am I a nuclear reactor?

I'm assuming this means that rather than taking action, I react to a situation. Is that correct? I don't know. That's what I'm going with. 

So do I react, or act? Both, I think. I often do tend to sit on the sidelines, not making much of a fuss about anything. Jumping in when I need or want to. I'm very rarely the catalyst for anything. Almost a bystander to my own life. I've let opportunities pass me by because of low self esteem, feelings of inadequacy, not knowing what to do or say. I know I've done that. That would be reacting I suppose. 

But I can and will take action. I can be that "actor" in my life. Give me an emergency situation and I'm the one in charge, making things happen. Sadly, however, is how little I see myself doing this. Being the actor. Is it fear of confrontation? Fear of disappointment or letdown? I'm not quite sure.

I know this post is ridiculously long. Trust me - I know. It took me countless hours to write this and I've only just scratched the surface. I researched and thought about and contemplated everything. And I thought long and hard. I learned a lot about myself in the process. Including things that I didn't really want to know or admit or acknowledge, but that I needed to in order to be able to move on. To move on through recovery and my life. If I understand the things I don't like about myself, I can learn to change them. If I understand where many of my characteristics and behaviors come from, I can learn why I react a certain way or say or do certain things or have such strange feelings and always feel different and isolated. (and I can still write awesome run-on sentences). 

And even with as long as this post is, I still have so much more to learn. So much more to figure out. This is an ongoing process, one that most likely will take the rest of my life. I'm going to view that as a challenge. A challenge to learn more about myself. A challenge to learn to love myself a little more. And a challenge to change the aspects of me that I don't like and enhance the ones I do.

No doubt I'll be posting more on this in the weeks/months/years to come. And I look forward to doing so. And if you've read this whole post, you win the internet. Congratulations! You're the proud owner of the internet!

Now I'll leave you with this: a song by the amazing Amanda Palmer. It's called "In My Mind" and it's a wonderful song. The first time I heard it I cried. And then I listened again, and cried. It fits me so perfectly. Every word I can relate to. It's the first song in an very long time that has actually moved me. So enjoy it, please.

Almost there . . .

I'm very close to having my insanely long post finished. It's a post on being an adult child of an alcoholic and it's way more in depth than I ever imagined it would be. I've learned so much about myself in writing it. Both good and bad. And the bad things, well, I don't want to deal with. They're hard to admit, but admit and write about and post them I will. Because I need to. If I'm ever going to truly move forward, I need to face my demons.

I'm hoping to have it posted today or tomorrow - it depends on how much more I'm able to write today. So a quick update over the last couple of days: I've felt better. Happy even. My irritability has still been ever present and at some points through the roof, but I'm working on it. I'm trying to calm down, slow down, and not be as frantic about things. I still feel tearful at times for no apparent reason. And this morning, after I dropped my son of at school I was listening to the end of a song before I got out of my truck. And I thought about how nice it would be to stay there. To sit in my running truck and breathe in the exhaust fumes and go to sleep. To sleep and not wake up. And I got out and went inside and noted, out loud, that I was not suicidal, that I wasn't feeling suicidal - because I wasn't. But I have those thoughts every few days, sometimes every day. And I note them and move on. I've learned that many people who are bipolar have those thoughts. And that's okay. Annoying, but okay.

And I'm trying to continue to be okay and to move on and I am to some extent. And I will be okay.

Just a quick pop in

A quick post, nothing terribly special. I'm working on a very long and in depth post that I'm hoping to have finished and posted in the next 2-3 days. It's quite the undertaking for me, but I hope the process brings me some insight into my behavior and attitude and manner of thinking. We'll see.

In other news, my anger has been increasing again, which is a treat for everyone around me. I'm sure I'm just a joy. And I broke down 3 times today - twice at the gym and once on the way home. I had to stop mid-workout to go into the bathroom and cry. About nothing. I don't know why I was crying. No idea. I decided it wasn't going to shape the rest of my day and I put on a strong face and went about trying to be happy and have a good time. It worked . . .sort of. I still felt down and irritable. So very irritable. I got through. And I'm fine. It's not a setback. And I'll tell myself that until I believe it.

So yeah. Short post. Back to my long one now.

What is contentment?

And how do I achieve it?

M said something in therapy last week about contentment that was interesting. A couple of posts ago I wrote about how I needed something to look forward to to keep me going. Whether it was therapy, a tattoo, going to the mountains, a 3-day in a row off stretch . . .something, anything. I've done it as long as I can remember.

Except I haven't. That's what J pointed out. From when we started dating, to when we had our son, I didn't do that. For 7 years I didn't do that. For 7 years I was relatively stable - though I didn't know it at the time (I had plenty of depression, and a few manic episodes before this, but I had yet to be diagnosed). What the hell is up with that?

Contentment. At least that's what M said. I was content. I was happy. I had everything I needed. And, save for one ugly manic episode and subsequent short depressive period, that was true. That was the norm. I was happy and content and everything was right with the world . . .

So what happened? How did everything fall apart? It was around 8 weeks after we had our son. I became horribly depressed. I was diagnosed with post-partum depression and put on antidepressants. I felt mildly okay for about a year when the depression was back full swing. Switched meds. Became suicidal. Switched meds. Was okay for about another year. Then started upping the dose until I had my major break down this past January. The one where I almost killed myself. The one where I met Dr. C and M and started working with them, was diagnosed as bipolar, and started on mood stabilizers.

Through out all of this, I found it increasingly necessary to have something to look forward to. I've been trying to figure out why. Part of it, I think, is fear. Fear that if I don't have something to look forward to, I won't make it. I'll crumble. Collapse. Fail. Die. Even though I know that won't happen. But it's what I feel - like I can't go on without it. I'm conditioned - much like Pavlov's dogs.

So why? Why this change? How did I become so sick after 7 years of being so well? How did I loose that contentment? From a medical standpoint, it makes sense. I come from an alcoholic home. I was used to chaos, inconsistencies, unpredictability. I was in an abusive relationship - more chaos, more inconsistencies, and unpredictability. Is it any wonder I had mood swings between depression and mania? Is it any wonder I needed some form of hope to latch onto? And then, then I met J. He showed me love and stability, affection and praise. He was my savior. I calmed. I was happy. I had my hope all around me and in me and I didn't need to look for it anymore.

Having a child produces a massive hormone shift. The placenta puts out great heaping boatloads of estrogen - a feel good hormone. Once that placenta is delivered, there's a dramatic drop in estrogen and other hormone levels change. This is called the "baby blues". It can lead to post-partum depression. In someone who's bipolar, even if stable, it can start mood cycles. When this happens in the post-partum period, and you haven't been diagnosed as bipolar, you get put on an antidepressant. And antidepressants perpetuate bipolar mood swings. You don't put someone who's bipolar on an antidepressant. You don't.

But I was on them - for 4 years before having my breakdown. This is why I'm so sick. This is why it's been so difficult. This is why I struggle. And you know what? I know this. I'm an RN. I'm smart. I've done tons of research, I've read numerous books.. And I know this. And at the same time, I don't understand why I'm so sick.

That doesn't make sense. How can I know and still have no idea? I do everything right, everything I'm supposed to do. I'm on proper meds, I have a psychiatrist and therapist I work very closely with. So why? Why do I struggle? Where's my contentment?

I've been running myself ragged trying to analyze this. Turning it over and over in my head. I can't quite grasp it . . .it's just beyond my reach. J gave me his interpretation - he says I'm scared. Scared to feel good. That when I start to I set myself up for failure. It's easier to stay with the familiar than to let myself feel okay. He says he's seen me do this time and time again.

Sabotage my own happiness for the sake of depression? That sounds stupid. That sounds crazy.  That sounds almost plausible. One can get addicted to a certain kind of sadness . . . I've noticed something since he told me that: anytime I have a really good day - one where I'm joking and laughing and talking and feeling good - I wonder when the crash will come. Surely I won't feel like this tomorrow. Or I wonder if this normal. Is this how I'm supposed to feel? Or am I getting hypomanic? And maybe these thought are my downfall. I should just enjoy the moment, the day, and not analyze what might happen next.

I'm not sure if this is the case. Maybe. Maybe it's something else entirely. Maybe it's a combinations of things (most likely). But the big question, the million dollar question is: how the hell do I stop this? I've tried, and obviously, I've failed.

That's the question. Maybe one day I'll have an answer.

A bit of a rant . . .

I don't know exactly what this post will be about. Maybe everything, maybe nothing. I have a sneaking suspicion it will be stream of consciousness about everything bugging me and going through my head and controlling me right now. And that's a lot.

 

I think I'll start with my artwork, my paintings. My painting has been at a fever pitch - neurotic and fast paced, an ever-pressing NEED to get as many done as soon as possible, yesterday if I can and I have to keep up the pace because if I don't, what then? What will I do then? And I need (and have) more and more ideas that need to come out, and they need out NOW, they need to be on paper. And I've been going on and on like this for, I don't know, 3-4 weeks? J has pointed it out to me and I'm trying to be more aware. But I feel anxious if I can't paint. Because it's this NEED.

 

And then, there's this opportunity to maybe have my work seenby other people, to be used in a presentation by my psychiatrist and therapist, maybe be in a magazine. And that's exciting and amazing and wonderful and I've had good feedback about how powerful my work is and how it may help other people going through what I've been dealing with. How awesome is that? So or course I need to paint more. More and more pictures and they need to be done now. And I need digital prints made for the presentation and magazine (if that happens) and I need those done NOW. And I'm frantic about it, and anxious and I feel like time is slipping away to get it done. If we don't do it NOW, it won't get done. Ever.

 

Now, couple that with this almost crippling fear about having all of that done with my work. You know why? I don't think it's good enough. I don't think people will like or relate to it, despite what they've said. They're just being nice. I want so badly for my work to be out there and be seen, to help others, but I'm convinced that none of it will happen, it's pointless to even try, so why bother?

 

And so I'm stuck. I want my work out there and I paint (and enjoy it, let's not forget that) frantically, eratically, so focused on the task that I have blinders on to everything else. But I'm so convinced that none of it matters anyway, that I feel guilty and sheepish and stupid and defeated. All of this swirls in my head almost constantly. I worry that if I sit down to paint J will say or think something negative or critisize me or get upset or angry because I'm doing that and not something else. I've almost become frozen.

 

Now, the next "big" issue is my work. My work which everyone thinks is so wonderful and amazing and oh my God you must LOVE your job! No, actually, I don't. It's boring and not particularly challenging. What do I do? I deliver babies. Not quite all the time - I work on post-partum too (moms who have delivered). Post-partum is BORING. So boring. Unless there's a post-partum hemmorhage, or code or eclamptic seizure. Then: fun. The other section I work in is the nursery. I attend every delivery and my job is the baby. Only the baby. This part is a little more fun and challenging because you never know what you're going to get - a healthy pink crying baby, or a limp blue one with no respiratory effort (my favorite ones, actually - and no, I'm not joking. I love a good ressusitation).

 

Anyway, I've been toying with the idea of finding something else - in nursing of course - just in a different area. And I've been toying with this idea for 2 YEARS. TWO. BLOODY. YEARS. At first, I wasn't quite sure which area I might want to go to. Oncology? GI? And then, I got scared. Of change maybe. I don't know. Change IS scary. And I like most of the people I work with. In fact, I work with my 2 best friends. And it would be difficult to leave them. And it's all so familiar and safe. Familiar, safe, working with friends. What's not to love? I should like it, right? I've been doing it for 4 1/2 years . . .But no. I'm growing more and more dissatisfied with my job every day. Now, that's not to say I don't have good days. Days where I do, indeed, have fun. Days when I enjoy being at work. Days where I get to do something to really make a difference, at least for one family. And I like those days. And I wish I had more of them.

But the sad thing is, I'm still not happy there most days. I'll have fun with my friends and other coworkers, but my job is mostly routine, no real changes, no real challenge. I've become a bit bitter. I can get snippy, too judgmental, less empathetic and I hate that about myself. That's not who I am. That's not who I want to be. Well, try to stay positive! You know what? I do. I try damn hard to stay positive, to curb judgmental thoughts when they arise and to try and have fun and keep my anger in check. And it's hard. But that's just the name of the game.

So what do I want to do? I've always said oncology, but something else seems to have a stronger pull on me: psych nursing. Yep. Working with crazies like me. I mean, why not? I know how shitty and out of control you can feel. I can relate to them on many levels. And wouldn't it be nice to help someone like me? I think quite a few people would think me stupid or daft or all sorts of things if I told them I wanted to do psych nursing (in-patient psych, hopefully). I think some people would think it's a phase and it will pass. And who the fuck knows, maybe it is just a phase and it will pass. However, again, I've been wanting to do something different for 2 years and only haven't because of fear. And this is an area I'm very interested in. Hell, I even ordered books on therapeutic communication and will be ordering a general psych book as well.

But still, I'm scared. I'm worried about leaving my friends, the familiarity, and the level of expertise that comes with working in the same area for almost 5 years. Change is scary. I'm back and forth too on when is a good time to really start looking. Why? I'm worried about mood instability. I'm admittedly not handling stress very well at the moment. And to start a new job, with new people, in a new place, with new expectations, and stay stable and level headed is a tall order right now. The minor stresses over the last 3 days have me on a roller coaster of emotions again. Should I just jump in and go for it? Do I wait until I'm more stable? I have no idea.

Of course, in the meantime, I figured "Hey! Since we want to leave so bad, but are just scared to do so, lets go ahead and sign up for our RNC exam and apply for the charge nurse position on the floor!" Yeah. Way to go self. (the RNC exam, by the way, is a national level test you take showing that you're an expert in your field of nursing - you get more fancy letters behind your name and and extra $1.50 and hour). So now I've got these 2 things - the RNC, which I already paid my $300 to take, and taking on a charge nurse position. The charge position will at least look good on my resume . . .

Fuck. There's more. But I'm too tired to focus and type. I'll write tomorrow I suppose This turned into quite the long rant. Oops.