Today's been a hard day. I've been up and down, up and down, with very little forward momentum. I've been feeling stuck, like I'm spinning my wheels, because I'm not sure where to go. I tried to do some digging on where to go, only to be told to wait at every instance.
Patience is not my strong suit. I don't wait easily or well. I do it because I must, but "wait" is a bitch of an answer.
In a way, I feel depressed. Not the usual version of fear and old sad creeping over me. This one is an honest fear of the future. I don't recall a time I've ever feared the future. Feared the present, hated the idea of the future, and ran at all costs to stop an undesirable future, but straight through the gut fear.
I have a lot riding on this test. I pretty much only get one shot to get it right. I should do fine with some review, but I fear fucking it up. I fear losing the chance at an awesome job by not being good enough. I feel like this is my right path, but I'm not sure of the next right step. I don't want to fuck this up. Paralysis by analysis. At least with the FE, I has seen it recently enough that I felt good about it. Same goes for the APs and CLEPs. I haven't touched some of this stuff in over a decade, nearly 15 year. This test means I need to face my past with biology, that most loathed subject. It means facing some facts I've held long true about myself and breaking them down.
I need to face that I do well with facts, even rote memorized facts. I do it well everywhere else.
8th grade biology are the only classes I've failed a marking period for in straight science. I almost failed that same marking period in history and math (I need to remember what made 8th grade an emotional struggle.) I failed the basic structures course. Twice. I despise structures as well. I hate the things that prove I'm not perfect or that carry reminders of that.
There are memories attached to those early failures. I would have preferred yelling to the disappointed looks. I would have preferred a beating to the blame and shame I heaped upon myself, far more than m parents gave me. My parents never saw my college grades. I never showed them off. They weren't what I wanted to show them. Again, I heaped shame upon myself. I called myself every name in the book. I told myself that I must be stupid for not getting it. I told myself I wasn't worthy of certain things I enjoyed and grounded myself away from them. You know what the grades were that caused so much havoc? A 69 and a 68 out of 100. So fucking close. I still would have chastised myself for a 70, but nowhere near as badly. That at least was passing. I shredded my psyche for every C and obliterated myself for a failing grade. They meant I wasn't perfect, and that couldn't happen.
So I rationalized. Internalized. Obviously I wasn't good at biology. Why wasn't I good at biology? All the rote memorization without explanation of why things worked the way they did.
A while back, I picked up a genetics text and a biochem text. I was determined to get to the heart of why biology worked and fix that preconception by giving myself the whys. I never got very far. I kept running up against that preconceived "I'm bad at biology" and giving myself excuses not to do it.
So, my next trick is breaking down that wall I created. (Remembering what fucked up my 8th grade year wouldn't be a bad thing either.)
Showing posts with label shame. Show all posts
Showing posts with label shame. Show all posts
Thursday, November 14, 2013
Wednesday, November 13, 2013
Memory: The Shield
Like so many of my memories, I'm not sure how old I was. I believe I was in my early teens. Because we were cramming 3 girls into a 10' x 10' room, there wasn't much room for anything. In that room was an L- shaped double bunkbed, with one lower section being a desk, 3 dressers, a bookcase, and a nightstand. The bunk beds and one of the dressers were separated by a narrow space that led to the nightstand and the closet (we're talking maybe 24", maximum, clearance.) Just big enough for a child or a thin adult to get through.
We had been told to clean our room. I had sensed Dad's volatile state and was doing everything in my power to clean it up and get my sisters to help. 5- 10 minutes later, or so it felt, it was too late. He came in, saw that we "hadn't done a damn thing," turned around and left. I heard their bedroom door open and started herding my sisters towards the closet. The sound of the tie rack on their bedroom door only meant one thing in this context: The Belt. It had no buckle, only a loop at that end. I knew my father couldn't get through that narrow gap and didn't dare put his weight on the bed. I shoved my sisters against the nightstand and tried to place myself to absorb what blows might make it through the gap. I heard a few cries that let me know I wasn't completely successful. There was a groping hand, reaching for anything to yank one of us out. I pressed them further back against the nightstand and closet. I don't remember anything after that except tears and a million apologies: "I'm sorry, Dad! We'll clean it right! I promise! I'll skip UIL and clean it, please, Dad!" I don't know whether he gave up or sobered up, but he went away after a bit. I checked my sisters afterwards. They seemed shaken, but not hurt (well, my middle sister had taken a couple hits.) I don't remember how badly I got hit. I honestly don't. I remember pain, so I know I took some hits.
I remember shame. Shame at not being able to get it done right and quickly enough.
I remember blame. Somehow, it was all my fault that the room wasn't clean to begin with. (Utter nonsense. with all the stuff crammed in that room it would always look cluttered and messy.)
I remember fear. Fear of the belt, fear that I wouldn't protect my sisters, fear that my father would squeeze through that gap and really give it to us for trying to hide, fear of CPS, fear of marks I might hafta try and explain away.
I remember black rage, the evil twin of red rage, that wanted to yank the belt from Dad's hands and use it on him.
Mostly, I remember thinking "I'm not good enough to keep him happy and never will be. Why can't I be good enough?"
That was the night my sister ran away to the neighbor's house, evoking a CPS call. I blamed myself for that, too. I caught her trying to get out the back door and made her to go back to bed. She did it later that night. If I had just stayed up and made sure she stayed in bed, that wouldn't have happened.
I think, to an extent, I still see that night and it's following drama and my fault, something I caused, something I could have somehow prevented by being a "good girl." I know better, logically, I know he would have found some other way to target us or one of us. He was just in that mood. I did it, though. I'm the one that pissed him off by not cleaning well enough, quickly enough. It's all my fault that all that happened.
I remember why I think that. I told Mom the next day that my bruises hurt. Her response was "well, if you had just cleaned your room like you were asked, you wouldn't have made him mad." Bam. Confirmation that I was the cause of the problem by not being a "good girl."
We had been told to clean our room. I had sensed Dad's volatile state and was doing everything in my power to clean it up and get my sisters to help. 5- 10 minutes later, or so it felt, it was too late. He came in, saw that we "hadn't done a damn thing," turned around and left. I heard their bedroom door open and started herding my sisters towards the closet. The sound of the tie rack on their bedroom door only meant one thing in this context: The Belt. It had no buckle, only a loop at that end. I knew my father couldn't get through that narrow gap and didn't dare put his weight on the bed. I shoved my sisters against the nightstand and tried to place myself to absorb what blows might make it through the gap. I heard a few cries that let me know I wasn't completely successful. There was a groping hand, reaching for anything to yank one of us out. I pressed them further back against the nightstand and closet. I don't remember anything after that except tears and a million apologies: "I'm sorry, Dad! We'll clean it right! I promise! I'll skip UIL and clean it, please, Dad!" I don't know whether he gave up or sobered up, but he went away after a bit. I checked my sisters afterwards. They seemed shaken, but not hurt (well, my middle sister had taken a couple hits.) I don't remember how badly I got hit. I honestly don't. I remember pain, so I know I took some hits.
I remember shame. Shame at not being able to get it done right and quickly enough.
I remember blame. Somehow, it was all my fault that the room wasn't clean to begin with. (Utter nonsense. with all the stuff crammed in that room it would always look cluttered and messy.)
I remember fear. Fear of the belt, fear that I wouldn't protect my sisters, fear that my father would squeeze through that gap and really give it to us for trying to hide, fear of CPS, fear of marks I might hafta try and explain away.
I remember black rage, the evil twin of red rage, that wanted to yank the belt from Dad's hands and use it on him.
Mostly, I remember thinking "I'm not good enough to keep him happy and never will be. Why can't I be good enough?"
That was the night my sister ran away to the neighbor's house, evoking a CPS call. I blamed myself for that, too. I caught her trying to get out the back door and made her to go back to bed. She did it later that night. If I had just stayed up and made sure she stayed in bed, that wouldn't have happened.
I think, to an extent, I still see that night and it's following drama and my fault, something I caused, something I could have somehow prevented by being a "good girl." I know better, logically, I know he would have found some other way to target us or one of us. He was just in that mood. I did it, though. I'm the one that pissed him off by not cleaning well enough, quickly enough. It's all my fault that all that happened.
I remember why I think that. I told Mom the next day that my bruises hurt. Her response was "well, if you had just cleaned your room like you were asked, you wouldn't have made him mad." Bam. Confirmation that I was the cause of the problem by not being a "good girl."
Friday, November 8, 2013
Mom in the Psych Ward
I'm not sure I remember much of this one. It's in a really fuzzy part of my memories of high school. It comes after my near suicide attempt and just after my mother's near suicide attempt on the bridge.
My mother was given the option to go into the psych ward at a hospital or be put there. I believe she chose to go on her own so we wouldn't hafta see her cuffed. We did not go with her to the intake, only Dad did. We, as a family unit, visited her a few times, not very often. Whether that was because of hospital rules or because of schedule conflicts I don't know. I remember she seemed at her happiest sad while she was there. She didn't want to be there, and felt deprived, but I could tell it was helping her. To my knowledge, that's the only therapy my mother ever has done, is that 6 week stint at Parkland. One of my strongest memories of that time is her saying "they won't even let me have a scrunchy, how am I supposed to kill myself with a scrunchy?!" and my thought of "I'm sure you'd find a way."
I was embarrassed of my mother being in the psych ward. I think, to this day, I've only told a handful of people about it, including my high school best friends. I think I was/ am more embarrassed of her being in the psych ward that I was of her suicide near attempt. I think part of it is because, with the suicide near attempt, I was able to cast myself as my mother's savior, I did it, I was the hero, even if I'm now no longer certain that's true. If she had abandoned us in suicide, it seemed more "honorable" in my head for her to leave us in death than to just leave us. I was also embarrassed of her being there because of the stigma attached to mental care facilities. I know better, now, but back then, ti was flat out embarrassing, way more than the suicide near attempt.
I was also mad at her. How dare she abandon us, yet again? Intellectually, I knew better, that she had no real choice. Then again, my mother CHOSE to go to the psych ward rather than come home. What had we (I) done so wrong that she wanted to kill herself and spend all that time in the hospital? Didn't she know we needed her? Dad worked, picked me up from school (that was a quiet car ride, usually Mom and Dad carpooled), came home, and started drinking. I think dinner during that time, more often than not, was fend for yourself. I pretty much went to school, came home, tried to get everyone something to eat, and babysat until bedtime, even though Dad was right there, most of the time. Or maybe he wasn't, I know he went out with his best friend to bars a lot around that time.
I blame Dad, too. One of the times we needed someone the most, there was no one. He was there, but we all knew better than to bug him about Mom when he drank. I was furious at him. We needed a father, not just a source of income. I was doing everything around the house. Do you have any fucking idea how rough it is to step up as both parents at 16 when you don't even fully understand why?
Why do I have abandonment issues? Because both parents continually abandoned me. Dad was always either at work or drinking, unless it was a holiday, in which case he was a happy drinker. When Dad drank, he retreated into his head, became a statue in the chair, unless he needed to yell at someone to shut up. Mom just flat out ran away for a period of time when things got hard. Usually only a couple hours, but a couple hours of not knowing where your Mom is when you're a kid is fucking scary, especially when Dad is freaking out and pressuring you to remember "anything she might have said about where she was going." Hell, we usually didn't realize she was gone until we heard the sound of keys and the front door slam. There were times I wished she would stay gone, then immediately chastise myself. Every Saturday, she would either drop us off somewhere or I'd watch my sisters while she went and played bingo. I realize she needed a break. It still hurt to watch Mom drive off, usually because she would have a rare smile on her face as she left. What caused that smile? Not us. Not me. Matter of fact, it the idea of the absence of us.
I felt worthless, while she was in the psych ward, like somehow we kids should have been enough to keep her happy and home, but we never were. Of course, because I was the eldest and should have somehow known, it was my fault we weren't good enough kids to keep her happy as our mom. Your kids are supposed to be a reason to live, not a reason to run away or a reason to die.
My mother was given the option to go into the psych ward at a hospital or be put there. I believe she chose to go on her own so we wouldn't hafta see her cuffed. We did not go with her to the intake, only Dad did. We, as a family unit, visited her a few times, not very often. Whether that was because of hospital rules or because of schedule conflicts I don't know. I remember she seemed at her happiest sad while she was there. She didn't want to be there, and felt deprived, but I could tell it was helping her. To my knowledge, that's the only therapy my mother ever has done, is that 6 week stint at Parkland. One of my strongest memories of that time is her saying "they won't even let me have a scrunchy, how am I supposed to kill myself with a scrunchy?!" and my thought of "I'm sure you'd find a way."
I was embarrassed of my mother being in the psych ward. I think, to this day, I've only told a handful of people about it, including my high school best friends. I think I was/ am more embarrassed of her being in the psych ward that I was of her suicide near attempt. I think part of it is because, with the suicide near attempt, I was able to cast myself as my mother's savior, I did it, I was the hero, even if I'm now no longer certain that's true. If she had abandoned us in suicide, it seemed more "honorable" in my head for her to leave us in death than to just leave us. I was also embarrassed of her being there because of the stigma attached to mental care facilities. I know better, now, but back then, ti was flat out embarrassing, way more than the suicide near attempt.
I was also mad at her. How dare she abandon us, yet again? Intellectually, I knew better, that she had no real choice. Then again, my mother CHOSE to go to the psych ward rather than come home. What had we (I) done so wrong that she wanted to kill herself and spend all that time in the hospital? Didn't she know we needed her? Dad worked, picked me up from school (that was a quiet car ride, usually Mom and Dad carpooled), came home, and started drinking. I think dinner during that time, more often than not, was fend for yourself. I pretty much went to school, came home, tried to get everyone something to eat, and babysat until bedtime, even though Dad was right there, most of the time. Or maybe he wasn't, I know he went out with his best friend to bars a lot around that time.
I blame Dad, too. One of the times we needed someone the most, there was no one. He was there, but we all knew better than to bug him about Mom when he drank. I was furious at him. We needed a father, not just a source of income. I was doing everything around the house. Do you have any fucking idea how rough it is to step up as both parents at 16 when you don't even fully understand why?
Why do I have abandonment issues? Because both parents continually abandoned me. Dad was always either at work or drinking, unless it was a holiday, in which case he was a happy drinker. When Dad drank, he retreated into his head, became a statue in the chair, unless he needed to yell at someone to shut up. Mom just flat out ran away for a period of time when things got hard. Usually only a couple hours, but a couple hours of not knowing where your Mom is when you're a kid is fucking scary, especially when Dad is freaking out and pressuring you to remember "anything she might have said about where she was going." Hell, we usually didn't realize she was gone until we heard the sound of keys and the front door slam. There were times I wished she would stay gone, then immediately chastise myself. Every Saturday, she would either drop us off somewhere or I'd watch my sisters while she went and played bingo. I realize she needed a break. It still hurt to watch Mom drive off, usually because she would have a rare smile on her face as she left. What caused that smile? Not us. Not me. Matter of fact, it the idea of the absence of us.
I felt worthless, while she was in the psych ward, like somehow we kids should have been enough to keep her happy and home, but we never were. Of course, because I was the eldest and should have somehow known, it was my fault we weren't good enough kids to keep her happy as our mom. Your kids are supposed to be a reason to live, not a reason to run away or a reason to die.
Thursday, November 7, 2013
Working the Steps, step 4, Part 1
I guess before I start the workbook questions, I should start the inventory list. For those unaware this is step 4:
1) I can be kind.
2)... when I'm not using someone as a sharpening stone for my tongue in an effort to keep or drive them away.
3) I can be generous.
4) That generosity can, and often does, have strings attached, even unspoken strings. I tend to get peeved when someone does not read my mind and do what I mentally demand of them for them generosity.
5) I can be generous without strings, if I feel the person "worthy."
6) I have a nasty tendency of taking things personally, even when they aren't aimed at me. I think this has to do with the imperfect attempt to be perfect and blame: something's not right, and I had to have somehow caused it, ergo, something is wrong with me.
7) I am accepting of every person as themselves, no fakery or flattery necessary.
8) ...so long as you don't want to get beyond my walls. If you want to get beyond the moat, you hafta learn to swim in acid. I think this ties to the fear of abandonment: if I don't let you close, it doesn't hurt when you leave me... wow, note the "when," not if. That goes deeper than I thought.
9) I have many creative talents.
10) Using the talents for both happiness and pain still eludes me. I cannot think of a single painting I have done that was done in happiness I can do neutral subject matter (I have evidence in my sewing and ceramics.) I can use them for gifts to others. A happy use of it for myself is foreign. It's possible that my art is an outlet for emotions, and I don't recognize lasting happiness nearly as often.
11) I am very empathic, to the point of causing myself pain because I don't know when to shut off that faucet. I think my inability to shut off that faucet comes from fear: what if shutting off that faucet causes them more pain, so then their pain is my fault?
12) I can be friendly, in much the same way as a dog that was abused can be. I'll laugh and play until the instant you hit a trigger, then I shut down, almost instantly, or react in an unhealthy manner.
13) I'm reactive, not always proactive. As a kid, it was hard to be proactive when there was never a set schedule and you didn't know when things would go to hell.
[To be continued]
Made a searching and fearless inventory of ourselves.An inventory is a complete list of what is in stock. I take this to mean I should examine what is good about myself and what defects/ flaws/ bad stock I have taken over the years. Honestly, the hard part will be coming up with the good stuff. I have a laundry list a mile long on what's wrong with me, but to think of the positives... it's something you Don't Do. You don't self promote, you don't self aggrandize. Ego is not in humility or caring for others. I think, in an effort to keep myself honest, and help my hurting self esteem, I'll force myself to alternate, good and bad.
1) I can be kind.
2)... when I'm not using someone as a sharpening stone for my tongue in an effort to keep or drive them away.
3) I can be generous.
4) That generosity can, and often does, have strings attached, even unspoken strings. I tend to get peeved when someone does not read my mind and do what I mentally demand of them for them generosity.
5) I can be generous without strings, if I feel the person "worthy."
6) I have a nasty tendency of taking things personally, even when they aren't aimed at me. I think this has to do with the imperfect attempt to be perfect and blame: something's not right, and I had to have somehow caused it, ergo, something is wrong with me.
7) I am accepting of every person as themselves, no fakery or flattery necessary.
8) ...so long as you don't want to get beyond my walls. If you want to get beyond the moat, you hafta learn to swim in acid. I think this ties to the fear of abandonment: if I don't let you close, it doesn't hurt when you leave me... wow, note the "when," not if. That goes deeper than I thought.
9) I have many creative talents.
10) Using the talents for both happiness and pain still eludes me. I cannot think of a single painting I have done that was done in happiness I can do neutral subject matter (I have evidence in my sewing and ceramics.) I can use them for gifts to others. A happy use of it for myself is foreign. It's possible that my art is an outlet for emotions, and I don't recognize lasting happiness nearly as often.
11) I am very empathic, to the point of causing myself pain because I don't know when to shut off that faucet. I think my inability to shut off that faucet comes from fear: what if shutting off that faucet causes them more pain, so then their pain is my fault?
12) I can be friendly, in much the same way as a dog that was abused can be. I'll laugh and play until the instant you hit a trigger, then I shut down, almost instantly, or react in an unhealthy manner.
13) I'm reactive, not always proactive. As a kid, it was hard to be proactive when there was never a set schedule and you didn't know when things would go to hell.
[To be continued]
Tuesday, November 5, 2013
Emotions, Part 2
I just went to what was supposed to be an interview with a headhunter at a personnel firm for an engineering job. They had me fill out the personnel paperwork, which I thought odd, but figured it was SOP. While she was explaining the paperwork, the woman mistook me for a secretary. I corrected her and she went on explaining everything. As I was filling out the paperwork, and was halfway done, the lady came back in and said "Oh, you don't hafta fill that out. Just come back tomorrow for an interview with your resume." When I told her that was what I was told today would be, she vanished to talk to somebody and came back and said "just come back tomorrow."
It irritated me that I had wasted the gas to drive to the neighboring town to be told to come back tomorrow. It angered me that they couldn't keep a schedule that they had set. It frustrated me that I had rearranged my schedule to be told "come back tomorrow." It made me feel not worth their time and worthless. Instead of calling them on their horseshit (more than I already did), I just said thank you and left. I'm still fuming. I know the firm must generally work more with the nonprofessional fields, but you can't treat someone like that and expect them to be happy! I was treated like drone number 2356896786346756, like I wasn't worth the lint on the bottom of their shoes. I'm actually kinda angry at myself for keeping my professional cool and just taking it. I know it's better for my career to do what I did, but I wanted to remind her that I drove 45 fucking minutes for an interview that didn't happen. It made me feel shame, like it was somehow my fault they couldn't keep a schedule straight. I felt worthless, like I was someone they couldn't be bothered with. I felt that enough as a child, I don't need it from someone I just met. It's really tempting to not go back. If that's how they treat me now, how will they treat me in the long run? I know I will go back, though. I need that potential job.
I hate it when something like that happens. Especially when I feel trapped into doing what they say, because my options seem limited. I know I'm not trapped, that I could walk away and not go back tomorrow. In the same breath, I don't feel I have an option, because this may be one of my few engineering job chances.
Gods, how I wish I hadn't screwed my resume. I wish people were more understanding. I wish people were kinder, and there were more smiles and fewer tears. If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.
I also kinda wonder if maybe this is a hint from God. Maybe one of those "quit trying to work around me and trust" moments. I also know better than to count my chickens before they've hatched. I've had promising interviews fail before. Sorry, God. I trust you, but I also know you can only help those who help themselves.
Well, God, the ball's in your court now. I'm done with what happened earlier. I'll listen for your small voice in me. I really don't want to go back tomorrow, though.
It irritated me that I had wasted the gas to drive to the neighboring town to be told to come back tomorrow. It angered me that they couldn't keep a schedule that they had set. It frustrated me that I had rearranged my schedule to be told "come back tomorrow." It made me feel not worth their time and worthless. Instead of calling them on their horseshit (more than I already did), I just said thank you and left. I'm still fuming. I know the firm must generally work more with the nonprofessional fields, but you can't treat someone like that and expect them to be happy! I was treated like drone number 2356896786346756, like I wasn't worth the lint on the bottom of their shoes. I'm actually kinda angry at myself for keeping my professional cool and just taking it. I know it's better for my career to do what I did, but I wanted to remind her that I drove 45 fucking minutes for an interview that didn't happen. It made me feel shame, like it was somehow my fault they couldn't keep a schedule straight. I felt worthless, like I was someone they couldn't be bothered with. I felt that enough as a child, I don't need it from someone I just met. It's really tempting to not go back. If that's how they treat me now, how will they treat me in the long run? I know I will go back, though. I need that potential job.
I hate it when something like that happens. Especially when I feel trapped into doing what they say, because my options seem limited. I know I'm not trapped, that I could walk away and not go back tomorrow. In the same breath, I don't feel I have an option, because this may be one of my few engineering job chances.
Gods, how I wish I hadn't screwed my resume. I wish people were more understanding. I wish people were kinder, and there were more smiles and fewer tears. If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.
I also kinda wonder if maybe this is a hint from God. Maybe one of those "quit trying to work around me and trust" moments. I also know better than to count my chickens before they've hatched. I've had promising interviews fail before. Sorry, God. I trust you, but I also know you can only help those who help themselves.
Well, God, the ball's in your court now. I'm done with what happened earlier. I'll listen for your small voice in me. I really don't want to go back tomorrow, though.
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