'The grown up' was a powerful presence; sometimes, the child feared her, loved her and hated her (as far as a child is capable of hate) all at the same time.
The child lived with criticism - she learnt to put herself down.
The child lived with aggression - she learnt to be afraid.
The child lived with shame - she learnt to be guilty.
The child lived with strange (often terrifying) intrusive thoughts; anxiety, obsessions and secret compulsions - she knew what it was to fear her own mind.
If the badness 'The grown up' saw wasn't badness enough; she had a head full of badness she didn't dare tell.
The child was hugged, loved, cared for; pulled around, raged at, beaten - she learnt vulnerability, confusion, resentment; mistrust.
The child was often naughty; "bad" - "hard work" - a "LITTLE GIT!"
She asked for it; sometimes she'd been - "ASKING FOR THAT ALL DAY!"....
She asked for the huge, perfectly formed hand prints, red raised on her skin; for the slap, slap, slap, SLAP of the dirty blue 'flip flop' against the top of her leg; for the welts that might never stop stinging.
She asked for the disorientation and pain that followed being hit full force (by adult hand) around the side of the head; to be pushed down (or stretched up) and beaten; to (on one occasion) be thrown out shamed and sobbing, naked onto the street.
She deserved to be raged at; the monsters face so close to hers that noses almost touched.
She asked to have 'Palmolive' rammed into her dirty little mouth; she'd learn from the gag inducing taste of it and the inevitable soapy spew!
The child would outgrow 'The grown ups' hand; she never outgrew fear or shame or the badness in her head!
The child didn't know that 'The grown up' (a victim herself of an abusive parent) was mentally ill; that she really was incredibly sorry after each meltdown, that she would carry guilt and regret into old age.
How could she know? - She was just a child!
Now; years on - 'The grown up' is a very different person.
Her eyes; which (seemingly) once spoke "I hate you" now cry "I love you, forgive me; let me in, I'm sorry!"
She is old now; healed, gentle, reaching out - mindful that she won't be around forever, she is desperate for reconciliation; for her childs sake as much as her own.
And the child now? - She hurts 'The grown up', pushes her away; though she tries hard not to.
With an adults understanding of mental illness she forgives but she 'cannot' forget.
She hasn't yet buried fear and resentment; she still feels incredibly uneasy in 'The grown ups' company and stands ridged in, or pulls from her embrace.
The child now knows how much past mistakes are regretted; she can see how desperate 'The grown up' is to be embraced as a loving, caring parent - which indeed, without exception, she now is; this only serves to increase the childs own guilt and self loathing.
The child loves 'the grown up' (at least she thinks she does; feelings contradict) but she is still vulnerable, confused, resentful in her presence; she doesn't trust her.
And the welts on her skin; now faded - they are still red raw in OUR head!
Lord, I pray that by giving the child a voice, through my writing; I will one day feel able to expose her to her mother again, Amen.
Thank You as always for allowing me to share
Tuesday, 15 July 2014
Wednesday, 9 July 2014
Early yesterday morning 'body, mind & heart sore' my fingers were itching to do that thing that I do - that thing that has seen me through many mental melt downs, despairing days and sleepless nights.
More often than not when I'm feeling particularly negative I sit on my itchy fingers (I hate dragging others down) but yesterday morning sat in my kitchen (In a borrowed wheelchair) overwhelmed by pain and grief I gave in to the itch and knocked out the following tweet.
I'm going frigging bonkers with sciatica, crying lots, sleeping little, dreaming the weirdest s*** Iv'e ever dreamed and my Dad's gonna die
Almost immediately embarrassment (followed closely by paranoia) set in and if it hadn't been for the kind responses that hit my notifications box within minutes I probably would have deleted *negative&needy* then (as I often do) I would have either stayed away from tweeting altogether or (in response to numerous "how are you"'s) I'd have dressed 'I'M REALLY NOT OKAY' up a bit with something along the lines of "Been better but muddling through" and then switched the attention back to sender with "How about you?"
Misery condensed into 140 characters can often come across as negative, slightly pathetic or 'just attention seeking' and it's for this reason I usually try and tweet as positive as I can and if I really can't do that refrain from tweeting altogether for a while, It's also the reason I'm so grateful for this *The whole truth and nothing but the truth* blog space I'm rambling away in now.
The truth is that yesterday morning on this side of the screen my bad really did feel as bad as bad can be!
I was incredibly tired - writhing in pain, (and I mean writhing) - and though it's true my Dads not dead yet (he has 6 - 12 months to live according to his oncologist) I was drowning in grief!
Condensed into those 140 characters was (I could write a bloody book on the past week so in diary form to control rambling) the following....
Monday 30th June - I was up at the usual 'stupid O'clock' that allows me enough time for 'Coffee-cig-Twitter' before I'm required to do 'The mum thing' - Aside from the usual aches, pains and fatigue I felt relatively okay.
We had a house check at 10.30am (a yearly requirement if you're a private tenant) so after 'Little' had left for school (and after a tad more 'coffee-cig-Twitter' time) I went up stairs to make beds and run a duster round.
I'm not quite sure what part of 'It's just a bit of dusting' my back didn't understand but by the time the house check (intrusion) commenced I was bent in half when standing, unable to sit pain free and struggling to walk!
By lunch time (during an essential food shop trip) my mobility was so poor I could really have done with a wheelchair - as it was I hobbled slowly around Sainsbury's hanging onto the shopping trolley for dear life, my hips gave way every few steps and how I never passed out (the pain was unbearable) is beyond me!
Tuesday - I was in an incredible amount of pain all day, my mobility was very poor and I was worried sick about my dad!
Wednesday - Awake at the usual 'stupid O'clock I edged tentatively to the edge of the bed, braced myself and (expecting to crumple) stood up to find that other than the usual aches & pains, fatigue I was okay....Phew!
P.M - Dad called - his results are back - he has an appointment tomorrow - tomorrow we will know if his Cancer is operable or (please God NO!) terminal.
Thursday - I tried to get up at the usual 'Stupid O'clock' but was initially unable to move the lower part of my body! Twenty minutes later (after much heaving, crying and 'ow ow owing') I eventually made it to the edge of the bed and stood up, using the wall for support I managed a few incredibly painful steps before collapsing into a heap on the floor!
Almost passing out with nausea & pain I had no choice but to stay there - I was (quite literally) temporarily unable to move from the hips down.
I couldn't call 'The body guard' (that's hubs to the newbies) as he was already downstairs with 'Littlie' (who is disabled and unsafe if left unattended)
After a while (I'm not sure how long but I missed 'Coffee-cig-Twitter' time) temporary lower body paralysis subsided and I managed to crawl to the dressing table, pull myself up and make my way (painfully & carefully) down the stairs.
'The body guard' padded & dressed 'Littlie' (usually my job) - I managed (with great difficulty and in unimaginable pain) to brush and plait her hair.
I remained seated but at least upright long enough to see her into her wheelchair and onto the school bus then hobbled (unwashed & undressed) to a lounge chair in the garden and there in a state of agony only marginally less than that which walking would have caused I stayed.
P.M - Dad called.
I was expecting the call, I'd planned my reaction, I'd talked myself through it....
("I won't cry while he's on the phone.. unless the news is good."
"Relief tears he can cope with.. tears of joy are okay"
"Blubbing uncontrollably while he's still on the line if the news is bad.... No! - I won't do that")
"I'm sorry babe" he said " It's spread, it's in my stomach, liver and lymph nodes - There's nothing they can do - It's terminal".....
....I cried! (Breathless, snotty, mournful sobbing would be more accurate) - I knew the sound of my grief would break his heart and I went and did it anyway!
Thankfully he was not aware when he hung up the phone that I would have a severe panic attack a little while later - that my tears would continue relentlessly for hours and then off and on for days, or that in addition to my broken heart my body was (and had been for days) broken too.
Friday - I struggled from bed to family in much the same way as I had done the day before.
Once with them I was next to useless and on a scale of 1-10 pain scored an easy 9 while mobility struggled to get much past zero. I was temporarily at least (now physically as well as mentally) disabled!
I probably should have gone to A&E as soon as 'Littlie' left for school but agoraphobia prevents me being able to go anywhere without hubs - the wait to be seen is usually 4+ hours and despite having shopped on Monday Littlies specific dietary needs meant we needed to shop again (we don't own a car so we 'small shop' twice a week as much as we can carry)
Anyway, I could make it to the loo and back hanging onto hubs, walls, furniture but effectively I couldn't walk so after dressing which was agony we jumped (he jumped I crawled) into a cab and headed (hitting every frigging road bump there was to be had) over to my mums to pick up her spare wheelchair.
(My wheelchair experience is a blog on its own so I'll save that for another day)
A text message from my Dad came through while we were out, It read....
"Kimmie, I'm so sorry, I will always be your Dad, it was so hard for me to tell you yesterday that nothing can be done, I love you so much"
With a head full of all the right words but eyes too blurred by tears to type them - in reply I managed only "I love you"
Saturday & best part of Sunday were much the same as Friday had been except thankfully we didn't need to go anywhere.
With back & heart breaking I was no use to anyone and 'The body guard' was run ragged taking care of 'Littlies' needs and my own.
'Littlie', though usually prone to meltdown was thankfully (aside for one incident) a dream all weekend.
Around 4pm on Sunday afternoon, my mobility quite suddenly improved and by the time I went to bed pain (aside from when initially getting up out of a chair) was manageable.
There are no words that adequately describe how relieved I felt.
Monday again, 7th July - Awake at the usual 'stupid O'clock I edged tentatively to the edge of the bed - braced myself - stood up and.... no pain, Yah!
I headed (practically skipped) down the stairs in plenty of time to indulge in *coffee-fag-Twitter* before doing 'The mum Thing'.
I managed to dress 'Littlie' without 'The Body Guards' assistance and for the first time in days got myself dressed without having to chase knicker holes round the floor with my toes in order to get my draws on.
I then walked into town with hubs and all the way round Sainsbury's relatively pain free - A miraculous recovery!
Once home 'The body guard' unpacked the shopping and I sat down to *coffee-fag-Twitter*, no sooner had I done so and my bum began to beat ( I kid you not!) within minutes of bum beat commencement the whole of my right leg, from hip to toes excluding (weirdly) my big toe was a nauseating combination of numbness akin to pins and needles and pain excruciatingly similar to 'Funny bone' pain.
The only relief from said combination (exhausted though I was) was to walk....and walk and walk and walk o_O
Sitting down even for a moment increased both pain and nausea and I spent the next few hours humming bonkers style (screaming would have upset Littlie) and pacing floor space like my life depended on it,
Dad called in the midst of all this to tell me that his life expectancy (if chemo is successful) is 12 months - if it fails we're looking at 4-6.
Eventually after 'Littlie went to bed I crashed exhausted onto the settee and spent the evening squirming - doing my best not to throw up - sobbing every time my thoughts turned to 'Dad' and battling the ever present and recently exacerbated OCD (intrusive thoughts)
....It was a similar state to the one just described that I was in yesterday morning when I gave in to itchy fingers and tweeted my despair and today (though writing has been cathartic) things have been much the same.
So Thank you kind friends (You know who you are) who responded to my '140 characters' yesterday morning because truth is - I WAS feeling negative & needy - I did make for a pathetic sight sat in a borrowed wheelchair typing through tears and if I'm honest (in the sense that I needed sympathy, kind words, a friend, a distraction) I WAS attention seeking.
Thank you also to all the others (You also know who you are :O) who have (over the past few weeks especially) responded to my various other *characters*.
Your friendship/kindness/support means an awful lot to me.
Lord Thank you for leading me to a whole bunch of *lovelies* who are willing despite their own struggles to support me through mine. Amen
Thank You as always for allowing me to share
God bless you and all those you love
Links to related posts>>>> 'The man' has Cancer. Me to You
Monday, 30 June 2014
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