Insomnia is So Much Better When the Reason is Worry

I can't sleep. Not because I don't want to... I really, really do. Hell, my six year old is coming back from my mother's house tomorrow after an entire week gone and I want to be functional for him. And the day after that, I start one of my biggest classes. Anatomy/Physiology. You'd think that's enough stress and excitement for one evening but it's not. 

Thursday evening, my grandma took a tumble. While she's a mostly spry elderly lady in her 80's, falls still do the same damage that they would to anyone who has reached the years where your body degenerates due to nothing more than age. My father monitored her over night, something that I have to admit baffles me considering his recent history of being unreliable and completely self-absorbed, but hey, why crap on a good thing? He says that the stay was uneventful and despite being tired, she seemed fine. 

Today, on the way to my son's birthday party (oh, yes, did I mention today was my son's second birthday party?). His birthday isn't until June 27th but we did a double party with the husband's sister. In-laws, toddler and infant, pool. It was quite the event. Needless to say, it was already a stressful evening for all of us (sister-in-law and her husband included.) We have a lot of drama queens in our family on both sides. The drama queens that will cold shoulder you for no reason and the side that will ignore any and every stressful experience by sticking their heads in the sand until it either goes away or it is so big that it literally can't be ignored. 

But back to my story: We're driving down Czech Hall road and I've finally pumped myself up for the day when I notice that I've missed a few calls from my stepmother, Mary. I call back immediately, as it is rare that my stepmother calls me ever, and she quickly hands the phone over to my dad who tells me that they've taken grandma to Baptist Hospital to have her checked out because she has fallen an additional three times and isn't doing well.

Here's where it gets tricky. You see, her eldest son, Jim, lives with her. In fact, this person has never lived anywhere but with his mother. I take that back, he MIGHT have lived in a dormitory during college... when he got a degree that he currently has no use for. Anyways, he has been coddled his entire life because he was a premie and is mostly blind in one eye and somewhat blind in the other. He sits at his mother's house in his freakin' 60's without a wife or children or boyfriend or anything and plays on his computer all day. He's also incredibly self-important and suffers from "pseudo-intelligence." This is the phrase we use for people who think they are very smart but lack any and all common sense or ...well, smarts... at all. Perhaps it's cruel for me to speak that way about another adult. Maybe it's libel. But here's the thing, I'm pretty sure in order for it to be libel it would have to be untrue and none of it is. To put the last straw down, during this illness with my grandmother, he was so fucking useless that he couldn't even take care of her for a few days so that she wasn't put in a position as weak as she was to fall in the first place. He didn't try to bring her something to eat or drink. He didn't help her to the restroom or to get comfortable or ask if she needed anything. No, he kept expecting the world to revolve around him and I will honestly and completely be surprised if her fall had nothing to do with getting up to do something for her dear precious son. What is so infuriating about this, beyond the above in general, is that when/if grandma does recover (she has a subdural hematoma a.k.a. brain bleed and two broken ribs, so who knows what the chances of recovery are) he will go back into his little bubble of idiocy and completely ruin any chance grandma has to be normal again. If he cared in the tiniest measurable way, he would use his damn smarts to recognize that he is in so far over his head that he needs help. Either professional or familial. Either way, he can't be trusted to take care of her and an emotionally healthy human being can recognize their limits, despite not necessarily liking them.

So, yes. My grandmother is in the hospital. I'm terrified that any minute now, I'm going to get a phone call that she's slipped into a coma or has passed away. I don't know what the chances are because my dad isn't the most talented communicator I know and so all I hear are "subdural hematoma" and "broken ribs." Before that, I heard "CT scan." I just need some kind of peace of mind because honestly, as selfish as the following will sound: I am not ready to bury my grandmother.

She was and is the world to me and my children. I'm not ready to explain to my six year old that he can't go visit his grandmother anymore because she isn't here. I'm not ready to wipe the tears from his eyes while my heart is grieving myself. I will do it, because if nothing else I am a damn good mother, but I am just not ready. I guess that is a really stupid thing to mention though because I'm 99% sure that you can't really prepare for death anyways. 

But for now, I'm going to curl in bed next to my husband with a book and hope that either a) one of the pills I took will kick in or b) the book will lull me into a relaxation mode that knocks me out.

If anyone out there is reading this, please send a thought out to Grandma Dorothy. I know you don't know who she is but she is almost my entire world. Light a candle, say a prayer, send out cosmic wishes, whatever you do. Just think of her tonight or whenever you read this. She deserves all of them and I will be better for having known her.

Baa, Baa, Black Sheep

With BPD, comes a quick to flare up temper and an easy to bruise ego. A lack of patience. Suicidal tendencies at the slightest of slights. It is not fucking easy. And it's a damn miracle that I haven't put a bullet through my head with this family.

I've Joined the 21st Century

I got my new spanking phone today. A Samsung Galaxy Mega that has a fucking SNES emulator on it. Im in hog heaven. Who says that type of redneckian verbiage? This girl does.

I've also decided to work officially on my book. For several weeks now, despite crippling bouts of depression and anxiety, I have felt empowered and inspired to write. The story is my giant metaphor representing my life and I look forward to its growth. 

Now my daughter calls for my attention despite the odd hour so I will update again soon.

I Finally Did Something...

That I've been wanting to do for quite some time now. I got myself a tattoo. I wanted to get a tattoo of an anchor that is tangled in some rope, with a razor knife trying to cut through one area and a lighter trying to burn through the next. That wouldn't have translated well on to a tattoo. So I snuck on over to Tornado Tattoo (on MacArthur, right before NW 33rd on the east side of the road) and had the artist there (Frank, I do believe) to custom design one for me. I got my anchor and he drew it in traditional Americana. (Or at least that is how it looks to me.) It was probably the most painful of my tattoos but it is also the most distinct and most likely will be the longest lasting.

I'm waiting for my mother or father to see it and have something to say about it (yay Southern Baptists) but I'll be honest that it was something that I felt I needed to be able to identify with the BPD and the struggle of the last several months. So, without further ado...

by artist Frank at Tornado Tattoo.

I am very happy with the design. I think that it represents me as a person but has the artist's vibe in there as well, which I think is important. I wasn't immensely happy with a shield that was on another version of this anchor so he drew me a new custom one. And it fucking worked! 

I'm going to have to wait until next year to expand the repertoire of tattoos but I will definitely be visiting this tattoo parlor (and Josh) again. He was also an amazing person to talk to (well, when he wasn't intensely staring at the work being done--which is exactly what I'd like him to do anyways... do you disagree?) 

Seriously, great place. Check out the links below the image and here, if you'd like to see some of their work, set up an appointment (OKC area for those that are interested... great location) and/or just be a crazy internet stalker. I go back in today to get some better pictures of it for him to display. I feel better already. :)

Edited for accuracy. I apologize. When I had this tattoo, I did not do my research and had misunderstood that the artist I had was Frank. He is an amazing artist (so are the others in the studio but credit is to be given where it is deserve. Sorry, Frank! I swear I'm not a total moron!

Penicillin is the Debil

So, over the course of the past 72 hours, I've had three episodes in the hospital. Twice for strep (the second time my throat closed up on me, although now I'm beginning to understand it may have been also due to the allergy to penicillin) and the third time was for a major allergic reaction to the penicillin. I've been on it before and was fine but my God, this was awful.

The only way I could think to describe it to the ER doctor was that it felt like I had a giant, itchy sunburn that someone would scratch with burning sandpaper. God awful. It didn't help that I was dizzy and light-headed as well.

For some reason though, every time I go to the hospital, they treat me as if I had just walked in with a dirty hypodermic needle sticking out of my arm with traces of heroin and cocaine in it, possibly some blow on the inside of my nostril. I swear, I must give off this, "I'm trouble vibe." Strange thing, they don't treat me like that when I have my children with me. WHAT. THE. CRAP?!

A Stigma Exists--

And it's a terrible one.

Mentally ill and physically disabled parents are still losing their children today. Not because of abuse or neglect or anything nefarious at all really. They are losing their children simply because they have a disability or illness. Now THAT is insane to me.

As a sufferer of Borderline Personality Disorder, this rings especially close to me. I worry that someday, if my oldest child's father so chose, he could come and fight me tooth and nail despite being an absent parent for six and a half years (and potentially win) all because of an emotional developmental delay that I endure. I am in therapy for it and am taking my medications diligently but it is not something that can be cured and for some reason, a "potential" problem such as mine is a lot more terrifying to a judge than the actual problem of... I don't know... absentee parents?

I've also seen a friend of mine with schizophrenia lose their child to a step-parent forever. Sure all of this is anecdata and I have exactly zero idea of the logistics and details on the case of my friend... but we can no longer say that a stigma isn't attached.

This also bring me to the next logical conclusion of, "What kind of person has a child with someone who has a mental disorder and then suddenly it's a terrible thing when it suits them for it to be?" HOW DOES THIS EVEN MAKE SENSE?! It is one thing to be lied to all day every day but if you were aware of the situation from the start then you should not be allowed to get a 90 day return policy with an extended lifetime fucking warranty!

So help me god, if we have to march on Capitol Hill to start getting the world to help instead of hinder those of us with chemical and personal imbalances...I WILL!

Childhood/Adulthood... We ALL Need a Security Blanket

I've been through a lot in my life. Don't get me wrong, a large portion of it was self-inflicted and easily avoidable but the experience was still emotion-inducing and sometimes traumatic. So many times I have been out of control of myself or situations and it's a lot to deal with.

I often come up with random scenarios in my head. Most of them are about the children. I think I'm going to find them smothered or I'll wake up to a fire and not be able to get them out. Or a serial killer comes in and slowly tortures them until I completely snap. And what's scary to me is that each of those thoughts kills a little part inside of me.

My biggest current fear (since we've had to move in with relatives until this whole mortgage thing is figured out) is that the babies will be molested. It's not that anyone in this household is untrustworthy (to my knowledge) it's just that I am projecting my insecurities onto them.

One of these days, I hope to feel like not everything and everyone is out to get me.