It’s a Good Thing

When I started this blog way back when, I was in the deepest part of the dungeon of despair. But I saw the window. This let me know that there was life outside. I know I’m lucky, that some don’t even see that window and think that the damp and darkness and self hatred and confusion is all there is. But I saw the light and knew where I wanted to be which is why I called, in tears, at midnight, for a psychiatric referral. Then, I did nothing with the number and lost it because I was scared of what it said about me that I needed help. However, over a month later, I found myself after three days of crying and tortured thoughts and flashbacks realizing help isn’t something bad to ask for and called again, crying at midnight, and started regular therapy.

Goals were set. I wanted to recognize triggers, to get methods to deal with them, to discover what set me off. I wanted no more flashbacks, night terrors, to get the voice of my mother telling me how worthless I am out of my head. I wanted to stop her continued control over me. I wanted a feeling of self-worth.

Things weren’t easy. The first few sessions involved me reliving the worst moment, the one freshest in my mind, the one where a lot of guilt started – when my mother killed my cat but blamed me. I had to keep going into the memory, to stop looking in as an outsider, but begin to look out of my 12-year old eyes and remember how she was the one that performed the actions. And it's not like stuff didn't start way before then. Hell, I remember her ripping my clothes off my back and dragging me by my hair way before then. But that's the moment that stuck, especially with the whole Bobo situation.

I had to take control of my past to take control of my future.

The thing that is the worst for me is the feeling of being trapped, because I was trapped for so long. Crowds, elevators, etc., I don’t freak out but don’t like them. Then, with both feet broken, I was trapped.

I worked with my therapist for well over a year and have slept much better. In fact, the last bottle of Ambien I got, in January of 2007 was for 30 pills. I still have some left. That’s a good thing.

Anyway, during that time at home I was faced with a lot of triggers. I was mostly immobile, my mother e-mailed me, I needed to rely on other people. And I handled it. I lived through that time and saw that people can be trusted, dependable.

So now, I’m phasing out of therapy. I meet with her once in February, and then we discuss the final session. It’s a good feeling, to regain control. Just as good as when I first got the diagnosis and realized I’m not alone, and more importantly, am not crazy like my family. Sure, some things come up. Right now the news is all over the Nixmary trial. To those not informed, she’s a little girl that was killed by her parents. They abused her horribly, forcing her to use the cat litter box, constant beatings, among other things. These stories are truly upsetting, and do bring up old feelings and memories. It’s sad that such abuse continues all too often.

Another big help was this blog. I started it to help me face things, to help me face therapy. I never really thought it would get the positive reception it would, the wonderful people that would appear, converted from the binary of computer language to support and aid, both in support of my blogs and my own escape in theirs.

But for now, it’s Victorya phasing out of therapy and wondering where my life will lead. Where ever it does lead, I know I’m the one doing the leading. It’s a good thing.

Happy Memories

Here are two I remembered the other day:

One:

I forgot why, but my brother, mother, and I were running toward the doorway. We lived on the second floor of an apartment building. We were in a happy mood, laughing. We all wanted to be the first out. I was young then, not yet a teen. Well, we all hit the doorway at the same time and got stuck. I remember the force of them on either side hitting the doorway lifted me off the ground and I was kind of dangling there between them. We laughed about it, and somehow got ourselves unstuck. But it is just funny to think that we actually got stuck in a doorway.

Two:

Standing before my mother before even hitting age eleven, I was sick of her already. Every day was a trial and here was the final insult. Despite hearing from doctors the terrors that milk can cause my delicate system, she has taken my hand and filled it with whipped cream insisting I eat and enjoy it like she and my brother. I stare at the hand covered in rapidly deflating aerosoled milk product and then turn to my mother. Finally, I do it. I raise my hand and push the whipped cream into my mother’s face. I feel my greasy palm as it slides from her eye and brushes against her smooth ski slope of a nose.

“Ah! My eye was open!” she screams. But then she begins to laugh. I begin to laugh. My brother takes what’s left in his hand, warm whipped cream and saliva, and pushes it into my hair. I yelp and grab the can, spraying it at him, covering his worn G.I Joe khaki green shirt. My mom has washed out her eye, the rim red, as she grabs me. For a moment there’s tension. When not turning the television channel fast enough gives rise to a hanger across the back, I know that whipped cream in the eye must mean an even harsher punishment.

Silently, my mother takes the canister from my hand and sprays a huge mound into hers. I watch it cover her life line, her health line. The mound of soft cream towers above her slightly curled and calloused fingers. My brother watches with a wary smile and whipped cream dripping down his chest. Then she rubs the whipped cream on my shirt. I feel her palm press into my chest and stop for a moment above my heart. I feel her pulse and the cool of the cream penetrate my thin clothes. When she lets go, my brother and I chase each other around the house, my mother trailing behind, until the canister is empty.

Image from http://commons.wikimedia.org by Luis Miguel Bugallo Sánchez

Stories of Friendship – Xiomara

So I was talking to my best friend about the website (yes, she’s still stressed and eating not getting help. Although she told me she tried Nutrisystem to work on the weight.) and she said I can talk about her as long as I say she’s pretty (yup, she is) and change her name to something exotic. We agreed on Xiomara.

I already mentioned how we met in college during Badminton class. I remember when I really began to feel our friendship bloom. After finally getting a CD player, I purchased a John Lennon CD. It had the song ‘Mother’ on it. We both started to cry when it came on, and it opened up for us to talk about our families in a more honest light. No one’s family is perfect. I think she mentioned sleeping on wooden planks (softer than the floor).

The lyrics to ‘Mother’, for those who don’t know:

Mother, you left me
But I didn’t leave you
I-i-I, I needed you, but you didn’t need me
So-o I just want to tell you, goodbye

We were both children deprived and ended up making up for it in college. Beanie Babies were big then and she and I used to buy way too many of them. Sometimes we sold them on Ebay, more often than not we kept them. Our senior year we were roommates and fed into each other’s bid to reclaim childhood. We played hooky from classes one day to go down to the Manhattan Mall and buy games such as Operation and I think CandyLand and sat down in our dorm and played them.

But, such extravagances add up quickly so, for Christmas that year, we each went out and realized we had bought stuff mostly for ourselves. So what did we do? We handed it to the other person who wrapped it and gave it back as our holiday gifts.

That year I think we were off our rockers. She was a huge Yankees fans and every year NYC was having a parade in their honor. So for some reason we got it in our heads to create a picture book comparing each of the Yankees to a cartoon character (such as Scott Brosius as Droopy Dawg and Derek Jeter as a limp carrot, we never much cared for him). After we got the book finished, we had to find a Kinkos to Xerox it so we’d each have a copy. So we went all over ‘the city that never sleeps’ and found out it does take a lot of naps. At around 3 a.m. we finally found a Kinkos and by then, we realized there wasn’t a need to go home if the parade was going to start around 8 am or so, no?

So by 4:30a.m. we were down at the parade route and watching all the floats be put together. The place was quiet, and dark. Well, quiet being relative for New York City streets. There were reporters running all over the place and security, but the general populace was still preparing for the day. As we were the first ‘fans’ there the reporters had a field day interviewing us. I don’t think we were in any way coherent after being up all night. Then, as the sun came over the horizon, the newspaper vendors came out. For those that don’t know, they give out the papers on parade day complete with posters of the team. At least, most do. Those that charge only charge around a quarter or so. So we went around the parade area collecting all the papers we could and other memorabilia. By then more people were starting to come and crowd up the streets. We entered a Modell’s just when it opened, bought some Yankees shirts, looked at the people congregating on the sidewalks, and left.

Back on campus we were now over 24 hours without sleep and had to go to class. We debated skipping it, but both were mostly conscientious students. I had an early morning film class that I went too – and started to fall asleep during. Then I got nauseous (lack of sleep really messes with my stomach) so after 45 minutes in that three-hour class, I went back to my room and found – Xiomara asleep. But then she got up and went to class.

We were both falling asleep in various classes all day. But it was fun. I highly recommend going to a parade before everyone gets there just to watch it being set-up. I think it was much more entertaining than the actual parade would have been.

Camp Long Point

*Quick update before I get to the post today - I'm still a bit shaken from yesterday, but not stirred. I'm one of a few people who made it in and the place is on high alert. Never fun. I also have a huge lump and bruise on my arm, probably from all the pushing and shoving this one woman was doing on the subway yesterday.*

The Salvation Army was a force in my town. “Give me your tired, your weak, your souls longing to be free” has nothing to do with America, but everything to do with the Army. Everyone knew about them. But, while many saw it as the place to get free food or clothes, I knew its philosophy that to feed the soul you need to feed the body. Many hours were spent at the Salvation Army. I was one of God’s Sunbeams – then later a Girl Guard. I played coronet in the band, sang with the choir, and learned how to play the timbrals. I abhorred the timbrals, but it kept me out of the house. I still remember some of those moves to this day.

During the summer the Salvation Army has camps with ‘scholarships’ going to the poorest of parishioners – as in – most of us. It was two weeks where we would be free from our homes, given three meals a day, and at least the hope of compassion. Granted, the workers were just as damaged as we were as they came from the same pool, only with more years of abuse under their belt, but for two weeks there was some freedom and fun.

At night we’d go to the shore and skip stones by the lake, attaching a hope and dream to each one and praying we could toss it deep into the enveloping night and far away from us. Every morning we’d have to go to the center of the camp and sing as the flag was raised. We went to church services at least twice a day, thrice on Sundays. The day was filled with a mixture of play, arts and crafts, bible study, and choir. There were different sections of camp – ones for the sunbeams, for the choir, for the boys club, for those whose parents were in prison, etc. I usually went to the first two.

When I was old enough I fought against my mother and into a job at the camp to provide the whole summer away from my family. It wasn’t easy there, everyone was so used to distrust that there was no attempt made to connect. We sneered at the one girl whose mother worked there and was kind to all of us. Jealousy easily dominated. There was another who dreamed of being a singer and we, those who had already died, hated her for her hope of a life beyond the inevitable suffering. While what we did to her is one of those moments in my life I wish I could take back, or apologize for, I do recognize that we were the living dead at that point.

I suppose there always has to be a balance, a yin and a yang, to everything. There are a lot of memories attached to that camp. Heck, it could probably be a book – Memories of Camp Long Point. There was one man, Cliff I think, who was a lifeguard. Ever girl wanted to be with him. He had dreams too, but we didn’t hate him for them. I remember one night he and I sat up late talking, philosophizing mostly. We ended up past curfew in the musty cafeteria breathing in the mixture of decay and harsh cheap bleach used to clean the place.

Perhaps refection is its own end to the means. Those times were, I was, and now I am. As I think about Long Point all the scents and emotions come back. There was excitement that night I spent talking to Cliff. There’s remorse for what we did to that one girl. There’s fear and trepidation and just downright uncomfortableness. There’s also some freedom, happiness and laughter. I remember one night I spent sleeping on a picnic table outside under the stars, the gentle lapping of the lake my lullaby. There was one girl who always ate onions and the joke was, she ate so much that she only had to breathe on the spiders that made our way into the cabins and their legs would curl under their bulbous bodies as they die. I learned how to blow bubbles there. 14 years old and could never blow bubble gum. I remember when the girls were first teaching me, I spat the gum straight across the room and on to someone’s bed.

There were other memories too – nice bookends perhaps. Something had happened and I didn’t want to stay. There was a lice outbreak, but I don’t think that was it. The burden of being surrounded by people but still alone probably had me dreaming of the mother I wished mine was. I remember calling her crying, asking for her to pick me up. Her answer was that unless I had been raped she wouldn’t come up, and even then she’d have to consider it. Thus, it was kind of fitting that in the end she had to come and pick me up, called by the camp as I ended up in the emergency room three times. It was hives. No one could figure it out – was it something I touched in the cafeteria? Or perhaps some unknown allergen to nature. There was a fruit grove nearby, and I was allergic to the fruit but could the pollen have caused such a reaction as well? When my mother came into the hospital room she walked right back out crying. I must have looked a mess, completely swollen, tubes in and out, the hives had gone internal and I couldn’t even speak.

She came back in after I got my antihistamine shot (every hour or so) and could talk. The hospital was nice – it was small and everything was home cooked. I remember sharing the meal with my mother. It was a biscuit with chicken and gravy and some lemon cake. She took me home and was instructed to wash everything. Apparently she didn’t as that night I ended up in the ER again. Turns out she didn’t bother to wash my pillow. For that summer I broke out in hives every time the temperature got above perhaps 70 degrees F. It was horrible; I was stuck in malls all day. The doctors couldn’t quite figure it out, some diseases were thrown about, something about my cooling system needed to rebuild (I still break out when the temperature changes drastically, like going from an air-conditioned environment to outside or vice versa, but not bad), but nothing definite.

It’s amazing how it all swirls back now once I open the gate. There was the wilderness camp and cooking food in tinfoil over coals. I remember having to walk back and forth for, I think, 25 laps because I had walked between the tents. Then there was the time Tiffany fell through the cabin floor. There was a song I created to get through the long hours of washing tables, “When Mr. Frown has got you down try- pep,pep, peppep-pep pep!” I was just playing with jingles. Per kangaroo court I was banned from singing it the rest of the summer.

Truly, what would I have done without the Salvation Army? And now, as I remember this, I feel my mood shifting so much, it’s weird. I was told that dizziness and disorientation are part of the anxiety/PTSD, but it’s amazing when it hits. I feel like Jello as these memories flood in and fight for their time, time I don’t have right now as I am, technically, at work. But there are a lot emotions of loss mixed in there. Along with smiles, I loved the arts and crafts, the greenery. I have had so many dreams about Seneca Lake, even recently. It does feel like one day I need to go back and confront that lake again.

*note: All photographs taken from the Salvation Army site. Donations can be made here. It's through such donations that kids like me can get a chance to experience a different type of life, at least for a week.

Chicago - I'm back!

I can’t believe I’m back already. Sure, I was only going to go a couple of days, but it went by so fast!

The weather there was perfect and we arrived on time. The guy seated next to me said he couldn’t believe it, the planes are always late to Chicago. It was a cinch getting from the airport to my hotel via the trains there.

That first day I just wandered all over the place. I went down to Millennium Park and took pictures of the skyline. There was an art fair going on there outside the NBC studios. I was able to see the famous ‘bean’ (which I hadn’t heard of until I saw it and overheard every other tourists oohs and aws over ‘the bean’) as well as other sculptures.

But, what really fascinated me was the stage there for various concerts they have. I loved the sound system, as to me it looked like a fence to keep the clouds at bay.

No clouds allowed!

There was also this really freaky waterfall/fountain thing that kids could run around in. I say freaky because on the side was this womans face and it kept winking or smiling!

My first day was spent just wandering all over the place, as my hotel was right on the loop. What struck me the most was how this was like NYC – only slightly different. It felt a bit like a bizarro world version of my hometown. There were all the same stores as our central district – Nordstrom, Bloomingdales, Hershey, Macys, etc – but there was just something slightly off about the whole thing. The architecture was a bit different and I figured no matter how far south I walked I wouldn’t find the Gridiron building, but it was eerily similar. In fact, I even had no problems on the busing system because it seemed like I did it every day.

The second day was the ultimate in faboo. I woke up early and went to the Lincoln Park Zoo. The weather was, again, amazingly clear and perfect. I wandered around for a bit and saw all the animals. All that weren’t hiding in their dens that is. The ultimate for me was seeing the Zebra. When I was a kid in Phoenix my favorite animal was the zebra. I loved them so much but every time we went to the zoo to see the animals, something had always happened to the zebras. I can’t remember all the times we went to the Alligator pits, saw the roadrunners and the prairie dogs and peacocks that ran free all over the grounds but the zebras? Never. So it was a real treat for me to finally see those beautiful creatures. All that awe just came rushing over me, it was great standing there and finally seeing the scrub brush manes of black and white.

They also had this small African Safari exhibit and the meercats were just the cutest of things! They looked right up into everyone’s cameras, used to being the stars it seemed, not afraid of the paparazzi. The animal that was irked was the rhino. There were signs warning about flash photography and I found out why when one person used the flash and the rhino charged. Then it got agitated and started pacing back and forth. I felt bad for that poor thing (and took no pictures of it).

After the zoo I went straight to Navy Pier and had a nice Chicago Deep dish pizza. It really was good, also very heavy. After that trip, it’s back to the salads for quite some time!

Navy pier was gorgeous – the lake was just so crystal clear. There was a stained glass museum there with works from Tiffany and I only wish it had more than a few pieces as it was just magical.

I love you forever in glass
The best part was that night because I had tickets to ‘an intimate evening of music’ at Stone Cutter records. They were having a few of their artists do an acoustic set. It was five hours of amazing artists that should certainly get a lot more publicity than they have! First up was Jen Porter who cited her influences as Janis Joplin, among others. Her voice had such power and conviction and she definitely had me enthralled. After her came Scottish McMillan. ‘Quirky’ is how I had him described to me before I went. He was incredibly engaging and smart and, well, just downright awesome. Everything about him was grand.

After his set was Sarah Potenza. She was billed as country and that had me a little worried. But it was much more folksy/blues and she had a great clear voice. Unfortunately, by that time some of the artists had gone in the back area by the drinks to mingle so there was a lot of conversation going on. I kind of felt like she got cheated as her songs were definitely ones I’d listen to more often, but at the time my attention was divided between the ruckus going on in the back and her in front of me.

Finally were the Lovehammers, a band whom I mentioned previously. They really had the banter going on! There were a lot of comical interludes between there songs and they knew how to take charge of the audience. Their music is more punk/rock with some pop mixed in for good measure. There was one ‘ultimate’ fan who kept using the flash even though it was announced not too, and she was in front of me so I was blinded a couple times myself. But that really didn’t deter too much from the amazing music of that night. I think ‘eclectic mix’ could be a good phrase for the music that night.

I know it's acoustic, but I still want my echo!

I didn’t even get to my hotel until late and, unfortunately, didn’t meet a single architect. I met this very sloshed guy and was invited to a bar afterward, but decided since it was after midnight to prepare myself for the flight the next day.

It really was an amazing experience and I’m so glad I just got up and left. Definitely happy memories from this one. The whole thing was just over too quickly. I need another vacation.

Another Happy Memory

“And when she was good, she was very, very good, and when she was bad she was horrid.” That’s the way I tend to think of my mother. There were times when she tried. And one of those involved when she took my brother and I to Hoffman’s Playland.

Everyone in our town went to Hoffman’s Playland, it was a little amusement park somewhere around Albany, NY. Inside the gates were roller coasters that went in circles over little bumps (but never upside down), a Ferris wheel, bumper cars, the ‘swing’ ride (where two of you are in a seat and the whole thing goes in a circle in the air), Teacups and the Scrambler. There were also these dinosaurs that went around a track and some ‘strawberry cars’ but those were the baby rides, and I was ten years old by the time my mom took us to Hoffman’s, so I wasn’t going on one of those. At least, not with my brother there. I wanted him to see I was as cool as he was.

I know it was hard. My brother and I had wanted to go for a long time and were envious of others in our schools who talked of their weekly excursions to Hoffman’s where they enjoyed sticking their tongue on cotton candy and watching the delicate strands of sugar melt and playing ski ball until they had enough tickets for a toy.

Our home was one of hand-me downs, but my mother saved enough that one day we could go to Hoffman’s Playland. There was a set limit – my brother and I each had to choose how to spend the money. We could go on rides, play games, or a little of both, but had to stay within the budget.

My mother was beautiful when she smiled. I always thought of her as beautiful. But when she surprised us by saying we were going to Hoffman’s, she was glowing.

Hoffman’s was a wonder. I decided I wanted to win a toy like others in my class, so only bought tickets for a few rides. My favorite was the scrambler. But, my brother wanted to go on the giant swings and I was just tall enough and honored to go up with him, so that is the ride I remember most for the following reason:

The swings were high and scary. I don’t remember the color of the one my brother and I sat in. They were all primary colors, and my favorite at the time was yellow. They put the bar down and I held on in glee and trepidation. As we went into the air I could see over all of Albany. I looked at my brother and he was grinning from ear to ear. As we started to go in circles we passed over some trees, maybe a grove. Then I saw my brother’s smile change – it became mischievous. He started kicking at his shoes.

“What are you doing?” I asked, “You can lose a shoe!”

“I know,” he grinned, “I want it to hit that tree!” He kicked and kicked while we were over the brush, but would stop as soon as we twirled over where all the parents smiled and waved.
Finally, he succeeded and his shoe went flying. What he wasn’t anticipating was centrifugal force.

When we exited the ride there was a lot of commotion. There was someone hovering around the teen that operated the ride, and our mother’s face was beat red. At first we thought anger, until we heard her boisterous laugh. That always meant that things were okay. She was holding up my brother’s shoe.

The centrifugal force had sent his shoe spiraling down and it slammed into the side of the operator’s face. She had 12-year-old boy sized tread on her cheek and was crying.

“You could have lost your shoe in the woods!” my mother exclaimed as my brother chuckled. “I can’t afford another pair for you.”

“It just fell off,” he lied, lowering his head but looking up at her with big fake-sad blue eyes.

The rest of the day wasn’t nearly as eventful. I did get to play ski ball and win enough tickets to get a pair of sunglasses that folded to resemble a cats face. The rims were red. We ate some junk food, and went home smiling and laughing over how my brother’s shoe knocked out the operator.

“You certainly left your mark,” my mother chuckled.

I got to wear my cool sunglasses to school and tell everyone that I, like them, could afford Hoffman’s and ride the rides.

I still laugh when I think about this. That poor operator.

photo from http://www.hoffmansplayland.com

Recognizing Happy Times

This is something my therapist wants me to work on, the ability to recognize happy times in my past (as well as, of course, the present). She doesn’t want me to always dwell on the negative, but to see that there were moments of peace. Plus, I suppose, by acknowledging the good times in my own past, I can build a foundation that allows it to be more prevalent in the present. Or at least easier to spot.

So today is a happy memory:

My family lived in Arizona until I was nine-years old. We lived in what was, to me, a very big house. Across the street from us was a house with an in-ground pool. People often jumped the fence to swim during the hottest weather, and the owner didn’t like coming home from work to find cigarette butts all over her backyard. To stave that off some, she allowed my family access to her pool when she wasn’t around, and we took full advantage of that.

I had a friend, Rose. That wasn’t her real name, but that was what she thought her real name should have been, so that’s what I called her. My house had a big backyard and, behind that, some type of trees. It was a huge maze of branches and leaves and flowers. It was here that Rose and I played.

We crawled and climbed through every inch of those trees. We created stories, told each other of wild imaginary adventures. And there was one constant path we went through. It involved one branch that was bouncy and our ‘trampoline.’ We had to always hold the branch above it, and then jump up and down. Then there was another branch that we used to swing across the tiniest of clearings. Then we ended up on the top of a shed in someone else’s yard. It was completely overgrown, and our fort. We’d sit up there and read comic books, color with our crayons (or, more often than not, melt them) and paint each other’s nails with polish snuck out of her mother’s drawer. Basically, we were kids.

I thought Rose was very beautiful and smart. She had long black hair, everyone in my family was a blonde or redhead. She was taller than me, braver than me. She knew about make-up and there was never any in my house. She knew about boys and rocks and I think had a rock polisher. Sometimes we traded stones, or stickers. The smurfs were popular ones then and Lisa Frank I think was just starting out with her colorful creations, so we would trade those.

I remember the happiness, the freedom. When we were swinging from those branches we weren’t just kids, we were the next generation of Tarzan, we were Wonder Woman, we were super heroes, we were independent, and we were laughing. It was Rose and me on the fort.

And oh how our biggest dream was to decorate that fort. We were never pink Barbie girls, but we did recognize the power of a good makeover, even if we couldn’t afford it. I think the most we got was a sheet to cover the top of that shed and maybe some crackers to snack on. But it was still magical, it was still ours.

And it’s still a happy memory.