Janice M Cali
Soul Searching & Saddness
Roux's Blue, Me Too
Thursday evening, just after finishing watching a video, Hancock, I got up to go and get some more tea (iced 'cause it's more refreshing right now), anyway, as I got to the kitchen, a walk of abut 20 feet, I suddenly realized that I hated my life. I hate what I've allowed myself to become, and how I feel, and everything else.
I've allowed myself to become almost an invalid, I spend most of my time in bed because of my depression, with bouts of mania when I rush around and do things for a few hours and exhaust myself, and crawl back into bed.
Eat, drink, bodily functions, watch movies, play games, write, check out that ridiculous site Twitter, and I've just about decided that it is a waste of time (no apologies to Twits who love it), and sometimes, I go out. I go down to one of the local restaurants, visit with the people I know, then come home. I go to doctor appointments, to my therapist, my shrink, and see my nurse twice a week, you know the one that makes sure my medications are working and that I haven't decided that life just isn't worth it anymore. She's one of the two people I'm supposed to call when I feel like this, but sometimes I just don't want to bother, whether I don't want to bother her or I don't want to be bothered I'm not sure. The other is my therapist, and I feel basically the same way, why bother her, I'll see her this week anyway and we'll talk about what isn't going on in my life, what I'm feeling, rotten, what's happening with my parents, my sister, my only remaining dog (see picture), and then why I'm so angry, where the rage comes from, as if I really had a clue.
Do I have a clue where the rage comes from? I do sometimes, most of the time, then sometimes I don't have a clue. Oh sure, I know some of it comes from the condition my parents are in, my father who gave up on life when he was diagnosed with a major heart problem, but was told there were things he could do to help improve his life, and then he sat down in his chair and decided to wait for death. I mean why fight to live, just sit there, sort of like I do, and wait for death to come knocking, trying to get better, if not well, was just going to be a waste, right? Yes, I do much the same thing, the only difference I admit that that's what I'm doing and I fight, I always fight against what I'm doing to myself, emotionally if not physically. My father is not the person I get my strong will to live from, I get it from my mother. Now there's a fighter.
My mother is riddled with arthritis, she started having problems around 35, she's now 85, imagine 50 years with arthritic pain, and very few treatments? Now that there are treatments, she's too old for most of them, and almost crippled. She can barely walk, she falls a lot, some thanks to an inept doctor who prescribes medications that make her either dizzy, or make her legs weaker, now how's that for brilliant? She has bad knees, bad hips and bad ankles so the doctor prescribes medications that make her muscles weak. Right, that's the thing to do, so she falls, and injures herself, badly, only luckily she doesn't break anything, yet. And yes, she's changing doctors or I'll be killing someone (no not really).
OK, parents, there's one source of rage, you know when you are a child your parents are perfect, at least that's how I saw mine. Strong, healthy, steadfast, all that, with brilliant minds, and my parents were brilliant that' not just a child speaking, that's the adult child with the knowledge of reality speaking. Now my father can't remember much, he is slowly becoming senile, and my mother just sits, day in and day out and watches, she can't do anything, so she doesn't do anything at all. (Humm, guess I wasn't done with the parents).
No, I can't change anything, I can only love them as they are now, and hope to enjoy whatever time they have left, but believe me this gets harder every day, day after day. And they are not close enough to visit daily, no they are too far to drive easily and they wouldn't want us there everyday anyway. Damn, what can you do?
Anger, rage, my dog died. And I miss him tremendously. Silly, go from parents to dog. But you see that dog was part of my family too. He lived with me, he comforted me, he entertained me, he made me feel happy. Roux misses him too, and she is mourning him as much as I am. She still watches the back door to see if he's coming home. When I leave and can't take her with me, she tries to go anyway, she follows me to the gate, she tries to beat me out it so she can get in the car, knowing that getting her back out is hard. So now the electric fence is up and working again, why, because little Miss Roux 'b Doux, is an escape artist, and she will get out and she will try to find me, she will go all over town looking, crossing busy highways, running up and down trying to figure out where mom went, then she will go to the one place she knows I used to go the most and wait on the porch for me to find her. That is if she survives the trip there.
My dog shouldn't have died, I should have let them take all the extraordinary measures to prolong his life, I wasn't ready for him to die. I didn't want to let him go, it wasn't my time to lose him. Yes, it was the kindest thing I could do, for him, not for me and I'm selfish enough to want him back for a few more months, or maybe weeks, but I want him back so I can say good bye, and tell him I'm sorry for all the times I yelled at him for licking too much, even if it was bad for him because he licked himself raw, it was the pain, I now realize, he was licking where he hurt and the medicine didn't stop the pain enough, but I yelled, because I couldn't stand the noise, because I was afraid he cause an infection, for all kinds of reasons but right now I'd give almost anything to have him back and licking, the hell with why.
And then there's me, I'm so angry with myself for letting so many thing that are gone and done with affect the way I live. The car accident 10 years ago, still causes me pain, both physical and emotional, and the old man who lived next door to us who tried to molest me when I was 12, and the friend who raped me when I was 35, some friend. All those wonderful memories that keep popping up, and I can't let go.
Hateful teachers who didn't understand that my brain works differently from others, that I think differently, that many children do, that I'd know answers even when they hadn't given them yet, why because I'd read them, or just because my brain said that was the right answer, yes it's called many things and yes, I am those things, but it took me more than 21 years to accept that I wasn't stupid. In high school I almost convinced myself that I was stupid. I managed a D- average, but when we took national tests, called Iowa tests then, I'd score in the top 10% of the nation. My mother would then be called to school to explain how I cheated on a cheat proof test. An explanation that I didn't cheat but was actually smart, was taken with great skepticism, because of my class work, an explanation that I was bored, unhappy and unchallenged, went over most heads. I just hated school and wouldn't conform to the standards that were expected of me.
More Rage, because when I was a child anger was not allowed in our house. No, you see my father never, ever gets angry. To this day he'll tell you that, but believe me he is angry. He's angry that he is almost totally blind, that mom says he can't die until she does, that he can't drive anymore, that he has to depend on my sister and me to do things like pay his bills, keep his books, do his shopping, all the things that a dependent person used to do for himself. I could go on about all the things he's angry about, but why, imagine a man with a brilliant mind, who was at the top of his profession when he retired early, realizing that his mind isn't what it once was, that he didn't plan enough for his old age, he didn't expect to live this long, and now all his hard work, his planning, his life is ending in a way he didn't expect. He feels as though he is a failure because of the things he can't do and doesn't do, so he sits, and my mom sits and watches him, waiting for him, to do something, die, decide not to die, fight, show his anger, whatever, she waits and so do my sister and I.
Anger is a funny thing, not being allowed to be angry can be a very damaging thing. Anger can be healthy, I'm starting to learn that, as I start to recognize my own anger and rage, I beginning to realize that if I talk about it, write about and act upon it, withing healthy and legal limits, I can start to let it go.
But letting go isn't all that easy when some of the anger is based in the constant happenings in my life. I would wish my parents to die except I've never wanted to lose them, they were the rock on which my insecure self was and is built. If they are no longer alive, on what will I build myself? Me? I'm not someone I want to base my life on, I want to build a life on the person I should have been. Not the person who my father hoped I'd be and wasn't, not the person my mother wanted me to be and wasn't, and most of all not the person I expected me to be and never will be. Rather the person who started life with such promise, such joy and happiness, such an adventurous nature and mind, the mind that had no limits, the person who could have been anyone, anything she dreamed of, and would have been true to that dream and good at whatever she choose, but who got lost and warped along the way.
I'd sure like to find that little girl, the one who lost her way, who didn't know that a mind like hers was rare and wonderful, that indeed she was smarter than many of her teachers and that it was all right to be smarter than most people around her, that she could and should follow what she believed in and be damned with those who tried to stop her, who tried to rein in her enthusiasm for life and learning and thinking and dreaming. I'd like to tell her that regardless of age she can still fulfill her dreams, she can have them, she can still be whatever she wants, damn the limits of body and age and the world, but I doubt she'd believe me.
This is now early Sunday morning, this started Thursday night, I've seen my therapist since them, I've slept away most of the day on Saturday, the emotional strain of the session with said therapist was very taxing, many truths came out, many facts that I didn't realize or admit came out, and they hurt a lot, and now I'm finishing what I started two nights ago, for now.
You see many of the truths, many of the facts that I write about many others also deal with, the depression, the aging of parents, the loss of a loved one, regardless of whether a pet or person, the loss of one's dreams and in so many ways one's life. Maybe reading my rantings, my searching, my measuring of my life and it's regrets and all will help someone who happens upon this. I hope so, you see putting all this down in writing helps me deal with it more successfully, and more honestly, more openly, and then I actually publish it in a blog for the world to read if they choose. Why? My name isn't hidden, I admit to things most people hide from others, but you see I'm not ashamed of my life, my thoughts, my dealings with life, my falls, my fears, my failures, and most importantly my state of mind. I have nothing to be ashamed of, I'm just one person who has emotional and physical problems who is willing to write about and share them.
If just one of you out there gains anything from this, than my writing is a success.
Poetry Lighthouse
Time to Get Up Club
Thanks for sharing your story in such an open and honest way. I struggle with panic disorder, depression, and PTSD, and it helps to hear that I'm not alone. Not that I wish these things on you! I hope you find success in your trying to make things better for yourself. It sounds like you're doing a lot for yourself, and I commend you for that. Take care!
Kristin
Thanks for the comment.
I share my struggles so that people know they are not alone, that others struggle as they do. I too have panic and anxiety disorders, PTSD and possibly am becoming bipolar (sounds like fun). But something like this blog helps me keep, at least on the edge of sanity, in ways my painting never did. And knowing that others find value in what I write is a big help too.
Janice
When I read your story I felt as if someone had written my life story!! Like you, I stuggle with depression and how it has robbed me of my life. I grieve for unforfilled dreams and what should have been. Thank you for having the courage to write about your life.
Jolanda
Thank you. It makes my writing meaningful when someone like me gets something out of what I say. I hope you, like me, keep up your struggle and win out, as I'm convinced I will, someday, hopefully sooner than later for both of us.
Hang in there, keep fighting and find a smile at least once a day if you can.
Janice