It's Always a Cycle

I realize I haven't blogged in...almost two months. It's not like it matters, because nobody reads this anyway. It's 1 AM and I can't sleep.

It's been rough the past couple of weeks. I was doing well before that. I was working 50+ hour weeks, and found myself so preoccupied with my work that I didn't even have time to stress about anything else. It was wonderful...until two weeks ago when they had to cut my hours back. That meant spending more time at home, which, as usual, turned into more stress.

It was last Monday that began my vicious, self-destructive cycle all over again. I wasn't feeling well. I had just endured a five day bought with a stomach bug and had very little patience. I was in the kitchen when, for no reason, my mother started calling me names. I had a pimple on my nose, so she started calling me "fat Rudolph." I kept to myself fir a few minutes, but she kept going on. Finally, I just blew up and said that at least I had a pretty face. Then she said the most hurtful words: "You look just like me." She rubbed it in my face. I finally left the room and went to go cry in the bathroom. I didn't know whether to cry or scream. So many emotions ran through me. Memories came back to the surface.

I burned myself that night. I burned my entire abdomen right up to my chest. I tried to burn my mother out of me. I hate when people say I look like her. I don't want to look like her. I don't want to look on the mirror and see her. It disgusts me. I can't seem to escape her. Sometimes I want to disfigure myself so badly that I won't look like her at all. The pain the burn gave me is only a fraction of the pain my heart that I can never explain. I wish I can tell people what's wrong with me. Society has idealized mothers so much that people pass judgment on me for not idealizing mine. I guess I'll always feel alone.

I get it now...

I think I understand now why they say it's not a good idea to date your coworkers.

I've continued my relationship with the SBMWSRN. To my surprise, we've successfully kept the relationship a secret from everyone. It's been difficult to say the least. I have to see him almost every day and pretend that we're just acquaintances. I don't know how much longer I can keep it up. I have a feeling that, no matter what happens, it's not going to end well.

There a lot of nights (this one included) that I stay up and ask myself what the hell I'm doing. At first, I thought I'd be okay with the whole setup of this situation. He has a girlfriend...a girlfriend that is serious enough that they live together. So from the beginning I should have known that I was never going to be his girlfriend. I did know that. I just never expected to develop such strong feelings for him. The more time I spend with him, the stronger the feelings get, and the more I fall in love with him.

I'm at a point now where I feel like if I continue the relationship, it's going to break my heart. So, I'll end it. But wait...I can't just end it. I work with him. I have to see him everyday. I'm not going to be able to handle my feelings for him, if I stay with him or not. I can't erase him fro, my life completely. If I could, then this wouldn't even be an issue.

I applied for several jobs today. I told people it was because my hours were cut at work (which they were, but money is not really an issue enough for that to mater). The truth is that I really need to escape this situation. I don't want us to get caught and get both of us in serious trouble. I don't want to have to think about him every day. I don't want to get hurt. I don't really know any other way to handle it.

No Title Necessary

I'm just lost.

I can't even blog about it because everything is so jumbled in my head. I want to erase the last 9 months of my life and start over.

So I spent most of tonight in the bathroom crying and throwing up. I've been feeling good lately and the speed bump today will probably fuck that up for me for quite a while.

If I didn't mention it previously, I've been on vacation from work this week. It's nice. I haven't had vacation in over a year, and I worked so hard the last two months that I needed the relaxation time. I decided to pamper myself this past week with some shopping, a hair cut and color, and getting my nails done (which I haven't done in years). I was feeling so good about myself...until tonight.

I came to the kitchen to get a drink and noticed my mother doing her nails...the same way I got them done. Before you assume I am crazy, my mother has never gotten her nails done or even painted them for as long as I can remember. She was also about to color her hair.  I have no doubt that she was doing it on purpose. I immediately had to go to the bathroom. I started crying so much, I couldn't breathe. I was throwing up. I had a million things running through my head. Flashbacks of things in the past were starting to come back to my conscious. At that moment, I wanted to put my head through a wall. To make things worse, no one can really understand the emotions and feelings that overtake me, because no one I know has been through what I have.

This isn't the first time this has happened. Quite a few times, my mother has taken my clothes and will start wearing them for no reason.  I never take them back. It sickens me when I see her in them. It makes me want to burn all of my clothes. It makes me want to burn everything.

No one understands how badly I try to differentiate myself from my mother.  As I learned in my brief stint in group therapy, one of the hardest things to do is find my own identity separate from my mother. When I look in the mirror, I see my mother. It disgusts me. It's part of the reason I physically destroy myself. I try to destroy the parts that remind me of her. To see her in my clothes, and doing her nails and hair the exact same way I do, brings back those thoughts that I am her, and she is me. I don't want to be anything like her.  My immediate response is to destroy it. I want to rip my nails out. I want to rip my hair out. I want someone to tell me I'm not her.

Late Blooming Rebellion

You know how they say teenagers have a rebellious stage? I think I'm going through mine now, at the age of 24.

During the past few weeks, I have told my mother off numerous times. It felt great afterward. I had no regrets about it, either. Lately I have just been saying exactly what's on my mind. No more holding it in, and no more hiding my feelings. When someone is interrupting my TV show, I tell them to shut the fuck up. When someone is making fun of me, I tell them to get the fuck over themselves. I think I may continue this trend for the rest of my life. I love it.

On another rebellious note, I'm getting a tattoo. I haven't gotten it yet, as I am still tweaking the design a little. I am getting a tattoo of a phoenix on my upper back, with the Latin phrase "Luctor et emergo" underneath, which means "I struggle and emerge." I think it is quite fitting and meaningful to me personally. I want to overcome everything. This will remind me of that goal.

Then, there are rebellious acts which I am, somewhat, ashamed of. I have been having unprotected sex with a guy (and yes, he has a girlfriend). I have fallen in love with him, but I doubt the feeling is mutual. I don't even know that much about him, yet I continue to have sex with him like it's nothing, I never even thought to ask him to use protection. I never even asked if he was clean. I should know better, but I'm not using my brain. There is also a chance that I could be pregnant. As much as I try to put it out of my mind, it's stressing me out. Maybe I've gone too far. Maybe I've lost control.

Edumacation

The other day, a very good friend of mine asked me what I was going to do with my life. I just looked at him, and said "I'll work here forever."  He's been getting on me for years about going back to school. For those of you who don't know, I dropped out of college in my sophomore year. I had a 4.0 GPA and was ranked 2nd in the entire college. I won awards.  People knew who I was. So why did I drop out? I hated it there. I never wanted to go to that school in the first place. In high school, I got accepted to every college and university I applied to. I received over a half million dollars in scholarships. I got accepted to Princeton. I could have gone anywhere I wanted to. Instead I was told by my family that I could not go away for school, which left Saint Peter's College as my only choice. I was miserable there from the start. I always had a perfect GPA, but I never worked for it. I was put it in a writing class with juniors who had repeatedly failed the class, in hopes that I could somehow teach them what the professors had been trying to teach them all along. I wanted to go to school to learn, not to have to teach others or to be held back from moving ahead because no one else could understand ANYTHING. After a year and a half, I finally gave up and left.

I never really explained my real reasons for leaving to anyone until recently. I didn't want people to think that I think I am better than anyone, because I don't think that at all. It was just extremely frustrating for me on many levels. I lost a lot of my faith in people during college. I realized that very few people were on my level, and I certainly couldn't find any there. Now, since I am 24, going to the Ivy League schools that I once dreamed of are out of the question. I don't want to be stuck in the same situation I was in before. That's why I haven't gone back.

But anyway, I don't think my friend is going to leave me alone until I go back to school. He insists that I am the most intelligent person at my job, even though I act like I am not.  When I told him he was smart, too, he said "Sure I am, but I have to work my ass off for it. You don't even have to try. It's natural for you."  In my heart, I know that he's right. I just don't want to accept it. My family has told me so many times that I need to stop thinking so highly of myself, that I'm just as dumb as everyone else. I guess I started to believe it.

My Father

So, I guess I was lucky in the way that my parents never divorced and my father was always physically present, which is more than many others can say about their fathers. Then when I think about it, being physically present doesn't mean squat if the person is emotionally absent, as my father is and has been throughout my life.

When I was younger, my father worked a lot. Every holiday, he worked. After school and at night time, he worked.  I never spent time with him, even as I got older. He never gave me hugs or kisses or showed any affection towards me. The only time he said anything to me was when he was yelling at me or making asinine comments about me or something I did. He was always an angry person, for as long as I can remember. If he said something incorrect and I would correct him, he called me stupid and told me I didn't know anything. When I was 14, I tried out for Varsity soccer. My father told me I was too fat and couldn't play for my life. I stopped going to practice. When I saw the coach at school, he asked me why I stopped coming to practice. I had made the team. In high school, when the guidance counselors called my parents and told them I was depressed, my father sat me in the corner and slapped me across the face, telling me he'd give me something to be depressed about. A few months ago, when I got a third job as a salesperson, my father told me I couldn't sell anything, and that I'd fail. I never went back.

So yes, sometimes I wish my father would have just left. In a way, I sympathize with him because he has had to deal with my mother this whole time, and that it the cause of most of his misery. My mother is even more physically and verbally violent than he is. I guess he just takes out his anger from her on other people, which most of the time is me. That is where my sympathy ends.  He could have taken his anger out on someone else. He could have left my mother. Why didn't he protect me from my mother? He had to know what was happening, yet he didn't say anything. He just added on to the pain, and left me with no family to turn to. As horrible as it sounds, I do hate him. I just don't hate him as much as I hate my mother.

From Zero to...Two Many?

Over a month ago, I was single and not even expecting to be with someone anytime soon. Then, I fell in love with SBMWSRN (Sexy Black Man Who Shall Remain Nameless).  It's been a complicated situation because he has a girlfriend. I struggled for a little bit over whether I should continue the relationship, and decided WHY THE HELL NOT? I've been living as a quiet, safe, well behaving girl this whole time. I need a change.

I recently started talking to my ex again.  I guess we made up, though never of us really apologized for what happened, it seemed like we were able to just pick up exactly where we left off, like nothing ever happened. I would have never thought I would talk to him again or even be able to forgive him, but I guess I have. I'm not sure why, but it seems I have a different attitude about a lot of things lately, especially relationships. So, now I'm seeing him again. And yes, I am also still seeing SBMWSRN. Neither of them know about the other.  I'm not really sure what to do, or who to pick. I'm going to wait it out and see what happens. It's strange that SBMWSRN is seeing me behind his girlfriend's back, and I'm seeing my ex behind SBMWSRN's back, and ex is seeing me behind his girlfriend's back. Yes, I am the 'other woman' in both situations. A giant clusterfuck of lying...this has become my social life.

Oddly enough, I actually feel comfortable being the other woman instead of the girlfriend. I've been so fearful of relationships my whole life because I've never had a real, positive relationship with anyone (even familial).
The good thing about this is that I can stop it whenever I want. In reality, I'm in control of the situation. I decide what I do and don't do. I kind of like it that way.

Unwanted Advice

I hate when people try to give me advice. I hate it even more when I never ASKED for their advice.

The other day, I was sitting in my office on my break enjoying a Pop Tart and a diet Pepsi. One of the other guys came in and lectured me about how what I was eating wasn't healthy, that I shouldn't be eating and drinking these things that are bad for me, blah blah blah. I said "It's a fucking POPTART!" and shut the fucking door.  This isn't the first occurrence, and I'm sure it won't be the last. Next time, I may knock the fucking shit out of him, even though he's old enough to be my grandfather.

I hate how people assume just because I'm unskinny, I sit around eating Twinkies and Mountain Dew all day.  First of all, I have no health problems apart from my respiratory issues. My cholesterol is normal, I have no Diabetes or problems with my sugar, and my blood pressure is on the low to normal side. I know some skinny fucks that can't even say that. Second of all, I work a very physically demanding job. I work in areas that can reach up to 120 degrees with no air circulation, and I lift up to 200 lbs as a regular part of my job. I'm pretty sure whatever I eat, I'd be burning off in 2.5 seconds anyway.  Lastly, I'm malnourished as it is. I'm lucky if I consume 1,000 calories in a day. I live on protein shakes and gummi vitamins most of the time.

So please, asshole, let me enjoy my goddamn Pop Tart and diet Pepsi. I'm actually considering purposely buying the most unhealthy shit I could think of and eat it in front of him, just so he could say something and I could knock him the fuck out. That is all.

You're Insulting Me?

This week went by so quickly.

Since I got my old position back at work, I now work Monday through Friday and have the weekends off. It's good, but during the week I have almost no energy to do anything but work and sleep. I've also been fighting off a cold this past week, thanks to Sexy Black Man Who Shall Remain Nameless sticking his tongue down my throat and infecting it with his germs. He owes me big time.

Anyway, since I have a semi-hectic work schedule, I can't run errands like I used to be able to during the week. I had a $50 pair of Crocs I'd been meaning to return, but hadn't gotten the chance to. My brother said he was going to the mall, so I asked if he could return them for me. He said it would be no problem.

After I came home from work last night and settled down, I asked my mother (since my brother was asleep) where my $50 was. Her response? "I lent it to your brother." I stood there speechless, literally speechless. It was my money. It wasn't her money to lend. The way she said it bothered me, too, like she didn't even understand what was so bad about it. After a minute or two, I finally found the words to tell her that I really needed the money for bills (which happen to be her bills I have to pay, ironically enough). So, even more surprising than her original response, my mother says she will pay me back $20 next week, but that's all she owes me. When I asked her where the other money went, she said since she bought me some vitamins from Walmart that it's only fair that she deducts the amount. Gummy Princess vitamins from Walmart do not cost $30, AND I had picked up some things for her from Walmart a few days prior and didn't ask her for the money. I was enraged. I had to walk away or I would have blown up.

What's even worse is that my mother was offended by the way I handled the situation, and took it out on me the rest of the night, flinging insults at every opportunity. Normally I am good at ignoring her, but the combination of me being physically sick and exhausted from working made me extra sensitive, and her comments were genuinely hurting me. It's not easy to ignore comments from your own family. People tell me "Oh just ignore it" but you can't. You grow up being told to listen to your parents no matter what. Why stop now?  I can recall every insult my mother has ever told me: ugly, fat, stupid, bitch, worthless, asshole, daughter of the Devil, failure and even a whore several times, which seems to hurt me the most out of all of the insults.

I don't think I'll ever be strong enough to ignore everything completely. No matter what happens, I always seem to hear her voice in my head, calling me a whore, whenever I do anything remotely sexual. It's ruining my life.

Oh, what a month...

I finally have time to update this thing. Lately I've been lucky to have a day off from work, and just haven't had the energy to do much of anything.  I promise I am going to try to be better at this. I should be getting weekends off from work starting next week so my life will be a little easier and a little less hectic (at least for a few months).

Most of my life this past month has been the same shit as usual, except that I fell in love...or at least I think it's love.  It's a feeling I've never felt before, not even with my ex-boyfriend.  It started out as just friends with similar interests (and we also happen to work together, which can be a big issue in the future).  A few weeks ago, I started to realize that I liked him as more than just a friend.  Being my shy self, I didn't tell him anything about the way I was feeling. He continued to play around and talk to me every day until one day I just told him I couldn't talk to him anymore. When he asked why, I said "I like you. I really, really like you." Then I hauled ass and ran away before he could even respond.

To my surprise, he didn't stop talking to me. He still tried to talk to me, and I tried to ignore him. I was confused, and more worried than anything else that he didn't feel the same way about me. I found out that he already had a girlfriend, which he did admit to me a few days after I revealed my feelings for him. I told him I knew already, but that I would just need some time to get over him (though I knew I wouldn't be able to just "get over him").

A couple of days later, while at work, he asked me to bring some food to his office.  I didn't think anything of it. As soon as I walked in, he took the food, locked the door, and started to kiss me. I'm surprised I didn't shit my pants at that moment. I didn't know what to do.  All I could say was "I thought you have a girlfriend" and he responded "It doesn't matter." I couldn't deny him at that point, he was giving me what I had wanted all this time. We did everything that could possibly get done in 10 minutes time. Then I went back to work like nothing happened.

Since that day, I keep going back and forth in my mind. I really like this guy, possibly love him, but he's taken by someone else. It obviously doesn't matter to him, but in my heart I feel like I am in the wrong because I know that he's with someone and I'm messing around with him anyway.  I cried for weeks when I found out my now ex-boyfriend was cheating on me. Now I'm a hypocrite because in this situation I'm not the one being cheated on, I'm the one being cheated with. I still don't know what to do. My mind tells me one thing and my heart tells me another.

I've been busy

I know I haven't written in awhile. I got a new job a few weeks ago (my third) and have been trying to juggle everything without draining myself completely.

Things have been so-so. The new job isn't as stable as I'd like it to be just yet, so I can't leave Hell-Mart just yet. I can't find an affordable apartment that is in a decent enough location where I can walk out of my front door without the fear of being shot. Financially, I'm great. I still have all of the money I saved, with money to spare. It still just seems that nothing ever goes right for me.

 I've been crying a lot lately, mostly about things at work. I found out yesterday that the job that I originally had that I was told "didn't exist" has been given to another person, who isn't even qualified for it. I guess the job exists then, doesn't it? My own human resource manager told me it's because of the things I've been framed for. Even though I know I didn't do it and she knows I didn't do it, there's no way to prove that I didn't. The "innocent until proven guilty" claim doesn't apply in Hell-Mart, apparently. No matter what I do or say, that shit will follow me for the rest of my career. It bothers me every day, because I still wonder what I did to ever deserve it.

My Job

My job sucks.

I know, almost everyone says that, but to say that my job sucks would actually be an understatement.  The things I have witnessed and experienced there shouldn't be happening, yet no one cares enough to stop it. I care.

My boss strongly dislikes me. He can say he has nothing personal against me until he's blue in the face but I, as well as the majority of my coworkers, know he personally hates me. It's not because I am a poor employee - I am one of the most intelligent, most rounded, hardest working people at my job.  I have no problem saying that I am more intelligent than he is - and I think deep down he knows that. I also don't sit there and take shit like everyone else does.  He hates that. He hates when I answer him back. He hates when I prove him wrong. He wants everyone to just sit there and yes him until he's satisfied. Sorry, I'm not that kind of person. I go right back at him. If I'm not satisfied with what he does, I go above his head.  He thinks he's hurting me by constantly demoting me. He tells me all the time that I need this job and that I need him. I'm sorry, but the only person I "need" is myself. I will never be in a position to need a man, or any person for that matter. I work not because I need the money, but because I need something to do in my spare time.

I've been stalked by a manager, told I was mentally ill, had my personal health information disclosed on more than one occasion to associates who had no business knowing that information, been lied about, had numerous letters written about me that targeted at me and my close friends, been told to work off the clock, and I've even been framed by a manager. What is my job's response? Demote ME, even after it's been proven that I didn't do anything.

Someone asked me a few days ago why everyone was always trying to attack me. I of course don't know the real answer, and probably never will. Are they threatened by my intelligence? Are they scared that I know too much about them?  Who knows. Like I said before, I work because I need something to do to prevent boredom. I'm not out to get anybody, yet they are all out to get me.

Today, my boss cursed out the assistant manager in front of other associates and customers. He told him he was "fucking stupid" amongst other things. In any other professional place of business, this wouldn't be tolerated. Yet my boss is allowed to do whatever he wants, and no one reports him because he claims he's untouchable. No one is untouchable. People have to know the right places to go and the right people to speak to. Eventually his ass will get what it deserves.

Sickness of the Physical Variety

So I haven't updated in a week.  To be honest, I've had no energy. I don't know how I made it through work this past week.

It's hard for me to realize when I'm sick. I'm not talking sick like having a cold sick, I'm talking about hospital-level sickness. This past January, I spent a week in the hospital. I had pneumonia. I had been feeling under the weather for several weeks before, but I just assumed it was allergies or my asthma. I woke up one Sunday morning and could barely get out of bed. I managed to drag myself to work, but I wound up leaving after two hours. I had taken my inhaler several times, inhaled steam, and even tried vapor rub because I couldn't take two steps without gasping for air. Nothing was working. I went home and stayed in bed all day so nobody would know I couldn't breathe.

The next morning, I woke up and tried to take a shower. Before I even got in the shower, I started coughing and couldn't stop. I was choking on nothing and after a minute I just threw up mucous all over the bathroom. I didn't know my lungs could hold that much fluid. I ended up in the emergency room later that afternoon.  While waiting for an X-ray technician, I got dizzy and passed out. Doctors and nurses rushed in and made me lay down, gave me an oxygen mask, three IVs, and a heart monitor, as well as some pretty painful shots of epinephrine and steroid right in my arm.  I just wanted to go home, but my oxygen levels were so low that I had to be admitted.

Did I mention I hate hospitals? I hated the fact that I couldn't take a shower for a week. Those warm wipes they give you are just not enough.  I hated the fact that I had to wear a heavy ass heart monitor around my neck. I hated that I was surrounded by old people for a week. I hated having to drag the IV pole with me every time I had to take a piss.  I hated getting shots in my stomach at 3 AM. Worst of all, the nurse had undressed me in front of my family.  I was afraid to say anything. I tried not to think about things, but I couldn't help it. I started to have a panic attack, and the head nurse eventually gave me something to calm down (after waiting a half an hour for approval).   I wanted to die.

So, needless to say, I don't want to end up in the hospital again. I don't have insurance, so any time I go to see my doctor it costs me $100. I can't even afford my medication right now, let alone a doctor's visit. I'd hate to scrape up the money to go to the doctor and have him tell me it's just a cold.  I can't tell when I'm really sick until I'm deathly sick. Other people around me seem to know I'm sick before I do. Yesterday, I was walking out of the bathroom at work, and the manager had told me to sit down, that I looked like I was about to pass out. Sure, I felt dizzy, but my dumb ass told her "I can't, they need me to work" and stumbled my way back up to the front, holding on to the wall so I wouldn't fall over. I always put everything and everyone before I myself.  If I would have passed out, I would have gotten up and went right back to work. I've done it before.

Love Over Hatred

Last week, a very good friend of mine made a proposal; if I stopped hurting myself, she would stop smoking.  My first reaction was that I could never stop. I have been doing it for 15 years, and I don't really know any other ways of dealing. She told me to think about it over the weekend, and I did. I realized that she had been smoking probably as long as I've been alive, and it would be hard for her to stop smoking just as it would be hard for me to stop hurting myself. I know that she really must love me for her to make that sacrifice. After much thought, I agreed to try it out. She is finishing her last pack of cigarettes, and I'm healing from my last burn.

I was nine when I first starting hurting myself. I had an over-sized pencil I bought from the Museum of Natural History, and I would hit myself with it for hours until I couldn't take it anymore. I would have bruises all over my arms and legs. It's amazing how many times I got away with the "got my arm stuck in a door" excuse. No one ever questioned any further than that. Why did I do it? It was at that age I realized that the things that were happening to me were not normal. I remember sitting in my fourth grade class, and the teacher had mentioned something about us being old enough to take showers and bathe by ourselves. Everyone raised their hand except for me. That was the first of many realizations that what was happening was wrong. I started to blame myself for it, thinking that something must be wrong with me. So every time something happened, I hurt myself. It was my own self-punishment that I believed I deserved.

When I was 13 years old, I started scratching and cutting. Whenever anyone noticed, I blamed the cat, or running into something, etc, etc. It didn't get bad until my second year in high school. Even throughout counseling, and therapy, I never really stopped; I just found better ways to hide it. A few years later, I got into burning. After that, I got into drugs (street and over the counter).  I was grasping for anything that could help me deal with the pain. It was no longer about punishing myself as it had been when I started out. It turned into my way of coping with the feelings I couldn't express out loud.

I have my doubts about being able to stop. If guidance counselors, therapists, psychiatrists, and friends couldn't help me before, why would this instance be any different? Maybe it won't be, or maybe it will. My friend told me that I needed to learn how to love myself. I never understood how to love myself because no one has ever loved me enough to love myself. My friend loves me more than I love myself. I love her more than I love myself. I guess maybe that's the problem.

Therapy

For the past week or so, I've been contemplating going to see a therapist/psychiatrist/psychologist, or whatever you want to call it - same shit, different degrees. I'm still on the fence about it. I don't have insurance, so I'd have to pay out of pocket. I could handle that if I could find one who accepted payments on a sliding scale.  Then there is the issue of getting there without my family knowing, as my parents are not very...fond...of the idea of therapy (for obvious reasons). Finally, there is the issue of it actually helping or not.

I saw my first therapist in high school. I was a sophomore when my guidance counselor pretty much told my parents that if they didn't get me help, I would be suspended/expelled, and they would be reported.  Yes, that seems harsh, but you have to consider the fact that I had been having issues since my freshman year and my counselor had made numerous failed attempts at getting me further help.

My first course of therapy was rather unproductive. I went to see my therapist once a week and my psychiatrist once every other month.  My first diagnosis: Bipolar Disorder. Of course, that meant daily medication, monthly blood testing, mood charts, and other crap I found to be pointless. The medication didn't make me feel any different and I knew, after researching the disorder, that I most likely didn't have it.  As for therapy...well, I think the therapist got more therapy than I did. I know I'm not a very social person, but she definitely talked 85% of the time AT LEAST. She had a lot of personal stories to tell. I rarely got a chance to tell any of mine.

After several months, my therapist got a position at a hospital, and would no longer be doing individual sessions. I saw this as a perfect opportunity out. I pretended I was fine, and didn't need therapy anymore. I promised to see the psychiatrist every other month to check on my medication. I never saw the therapist again, or the psychiatrist for that matter. My parents never made another appointment.

A couple of years passed before I had to see another psychiatrist. This time, it was my job pushing for me to get professional help.  Even though I was 19 years old at the time, my boss decided to call my mother and discuss my personal issues I was going through at the time with her. Despite the illegality of that, I didn't have the energy at that time to fight it. They told my mother they would have her arrested, which my mother was dumb enough to believe and she called the doctor the next day.

The second therapist was also a psychiatrist, and much better than the first.  He didn't talk about himself nearly as much as my first therapist did. We shared a lot of the same taste in music, we both played the guitar, and had a similar level of intelligence to which I was able to connect more easily than I had with the prior therapist. I also liked the fact that he didn't put me on medication. I told him that I was previously diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder. He didn't agree. His diagnosis was PTSD, depression, and anxiety.  I saw him every other week, but even that didn't last long. I realized after awhile that he was avoiding talking about certain issues, like self-injury, that I really needed help with. I don't think it was because he was uncomfortable with it, I just think he was probably unfamiliar with it, as many psychiatrists and therapists seem to be. I knew that if I couldn't talk about these issues, nothing was going to change. My family was becoming increasingly agitated about me going to therapy. So I walked in one day, told him I felt better, and never came back to see him again. I thought it was the best decision for everyone.

Since then, I've been dealing with my issues on my own.  In some ways, I'm better than I was years ago, but in some ways I'm actually worse. As much as I try to do it on my own, I don't think I can. I am definitely a lot more open about things than I was ten or even five years ago, but being open to people who can't really help me isn't beneficial to me in the long run.  I just wish I could find someone who really understands my issues.

Memory Fail

Something happened tonight that was a real eye opener for me.

I was heating up some left over ham and rice in a pan on the stove. It was done in under ten minutes, and I put it on a plate and ate it. Later on, I went to reach for something on the wall towards the back of the stove, and felt the heat of the coil on my arm. I had forgotten to shut the stove top off. I had left it on high for God knows how long. Something could have caught fire. No fires occurred, but it's still scary.

I wouldn't be worried if this was a once-occurring incident, but for the last three months my memory has gone to shit. I started forgetting names. I spent over an hour one night trying to remember the last name of someone who I have known for over five years. I brushed it off and attributed it to being tired, but I continued to have the same problem. I'll be having conversations with people and forget what I was going to say in the middle of my sentence. I forget words randomly and find myself describing them to people instead.  I will go somewhere specific and forget why I've gone or what I'm supposed to do. I thought it would go away, but the problems seem to just be getting worse. It's frustrating to me, and it adds a tremendous amount of stress to my already over-stressed life.

One of my friends jokes around that I'm an old lady because I piss my pants, occasionally use a cane (when my arthritis is bad), can't breathe right, and can't remember anything. One night she told me I had "nothing to look forward to." I'm not sure if she was joking or being serious, but either way it hurt.  When you think about it, she's right. As we age, health declines, not improves. If I'm functioning like this at 24, what the hell am I going to be like at 34, 44, and 54? I don't even want to think about it.

Revealing Myself

"I don't live a perfect life
But God knows I'm trying the best I can
And I've been wasting so much time
Pretending I'm not lying about who I am" -Decyfer Down

 I am very much an introverted person. I don't go out of my way to make conversation with people, especially people I don't know. I have a lot of acquaintances, but I can count my close friends on one hand. Even my close friends don't know everything about me. I'm not the type of person to easily open up to anyone.

There are only three people in my life that know about what happened in my past: my aunt, my former friend, and my ex boss. The first person I told was my former friend, and it wasn't intentional at all. It was in May 2008, less than a month after I had attempted suicide. I was still very on edge (mentally). The both of us were working one day, and we were having a discussion about hugging - particularly why I never hugged a certain member of my family. My friend just kept asking me why I didn't hug this person, and I just kept responding "I just don't." She kept pushing it and asking me, so I just blurted out "because they molested me!" We were both silent. I never wanted it to come out that way, but my mouth opened before my brain could really think it over. I felt like the world was lifted off of my shoulders. I did feel better, but looking back, I regret revealing it to her. I feel that she used me. Correction: I know that she used me.

From then on, I've been extremely cautious about revealing my past to others. My three closest friends don't even know. They are the kind of friends you can talk to about the grossest things and not even get embarrassed. Yet, I haven't told them about what happened to me. I'm scared it will change the way they think of me. I'm scared they will use me like other people have before. I'm scared they will think it was my fault. So in a way, I continue to show them a part of me that really isn't true - it isn't the complete me. I don't really think anyone can understand me- why I think and act the way I do- without really knowing what I've been through.

Maybe one day I will find the strength to be honest with myself and with others. For now, I will continue on pretending I'm not lying.

So I'm Not A Financial Genius

I admit it; I've made most of my financial decisions based on my heart and not my head.

I've been working since I graduated the 8th grade. I made decent money (I actually earned more money per hour when I was 14 than I earned with my most recent job at age 19) and had good hours, weekends off, and very low stress. All of the money I earned over the three years I worked as a daycare assistant manager either went back to the children I took care of or to my family, who always claimed to be financially strapped. I didn't know any better at 14. I didn't have any financial burdens, I wore Catholic School uniforms five days out of the week, and had a few outfits from K-Mart that I wore on the weekends, so I never really needed to buy anything.  I didn't think I would become a constant money train for my family.

Ever since I was an infant, my grandmother had always given me savings bonds for my birthday. She never gave the real ones, though. She'd make a copy of the bond and put it in a card, so I (and more so my parents) would not be able to spend it. When I turned 18, I got all of the savings bonds she had bought for me the last 17 years. I cashed them at the bank, and received well over $3,000. A week later, the money was gone. My mother needed it because there was a "financial emergency" and I was the only one with the money to help. I couldn't say no, so she took the money. I never saw it again.

During my first year of college, I was bombarded with credit card applications. It was November, Christmas was coming, and I needed some extra money. I applied for a Citibank card and was instantly approved for $2,000. I made the mistake of revealing it to my family.  BIG MISTAKE. My mother ended up going on a shopping spree with my card, buying gifts for people that didn't even care about her, expensive meals, and within a month, the card was maxed out. I never saw that money, either.

Later during my first year in college, my father's heart disease worsened. My mother was putting pressure on me to get a job (I chose to take a break from working to focus on studies) so I can support the family. I switched my school schedule to two 9 hour days a week so I could work the other five days at what is now my current job at a well-known retail store.  I paid for groceries, electricity, and basic necessities for the household.  Eventually, I dropped out of college the next year and ended up working more hours. I spent the extra money on myself, but was criticized for not helping the family. By this time, I was still paying off the now over $3,000 in credit card debt my mom left in my name (and FTR, I am still paying it off today). I felt bad, and instead gave my money to her. I assumed she was paying bills with it.

For the past two years, my family has had the electricity shut off at least a dozen times. At one point, my mother was five months behind on the electric bill, and couldn't understand why they kept shutting us off. Of course, the electric company demanded money in order for the power to be turned back on, and of course, no one had money but me. I regretfully paid the bill, numerous times, because I didn't want to be criticized for not helping the family. After a few times, I started getting pissed off. I saw my mother going on shopping sprees, spending hundreds of dollars on shoes and clothes, and then having the electricity shut off a week later. My mother got the call at work that the power was shut off. She then called me to the office, and in front of everyone, asked me to borrow the money. I said no. She then started her crying routine and made everyone think I was a bitch for not helping out my family. It was at this point that I started hiding my money by giving it to someone else, so I wouldn't have to feel bad when I told my family that I didn't have money, because, well, I really didn't have the money.

I also failed to mention that I loaned over $500 to a coworker because she needed to pay her rent and buy groceries. The loan was almost two years ago. I have yet to receive a penny or even a Thank You card back. Apparently I owe her an apology for telling other people that she owes me money. Maybe it's just me, but I'd rather NOT apologize. I should be apologizing to myself for being an idiot and loaning out that much money.

Now that I think about it, it makes me angry that thousands of my hard earned dollars I will never see again. Sure, most of that is my fault. I've heard "I told you so" a hundred times. I just haven't learned the lesson yet. I can't be a genius at everything.

The Reason Behind The Title

The Damaged Genius. Creative title? Not at all. It's really just a literal title I came up with during last night's bout with insomnia. Yes, I am damaged. Yes, I am a genius. History shows that the two situations go hand-in-hand in a lot of cases. In my case, I don't believe they're directly related in anyway. I think God just stuck me with the shitty end of the stick...twice.

Some people would think it self-centered that I refer to myself as a genius. In actuality, I don't refer to myself as a genius or even as intelligent.  I dumb myself down to fit in with those around me.  I learned from an early age that being intelligent only isolates you from the rest of the world.  I'm lonely as it is, I don't need intelligence ostracizing me even more. I can count on one hand the people that know my true intelligence.

I had a semi-revealing conversation with a friend last night, in which she asked me "So...you're like a genius?" I couldn't come up with a one word answer. The answer isn't yes, and it isn't no. I believe if my life had taken a different path, I probably could have been one of those people that change the world in some way. I, however, made a conscious decision that I would try to be normal. All I've ever wanted in life is to be normal, and being intelligent was not going to get me there.

So that covers the genius part of my title; now to explain the damaged. I was/am a victim of sexual abuse. I use both tenses because although I am no longer physically abused, the emotional part still affects me, and is a (much unwanted) part of my everyday life. I was sexually abused by a family member until the age of 13. I'm not really sure why it stopped or why it even happened in the first place. I spent years trying to find reasons and couldn't come up with anything aside from blaming myself. That is the main reason why I don't refer to myself as a survivor. I have yet to overcome the abuse; it still consumes me. I still fear that one day I will not be able to cope with my feelings and I will give up. Every day always has been, and always will be, a struggle.

What's the point?

Some people, either now or down the road, may ask: What is the point of this blog? My answer: I don't really know. It was a spur of the moment decision. I've always had problems expressing my feelings out loud, but on paper, I could spend hours writing down every thought and feeling that was inside my head. I grew up in a family where feelings were not allowed to be expressed, and that practice continued on into my adulthood. I hope one day that I will be able to express my thoughts and feelings out loud. For now, I will let my keyboard be my voice.