A Million Different People….

I hate it when this happens, when I rail at God, spewing my venom of choice, carrying on like a mad woman, banging appliances and, more than likely, injuring myself in the process.  It is time to admit that I am “dopic” as my husband calls me, which means clumsy in Pennsylvania Dutch.  Sweet Jesus, no wonder I drank.

Whilst “redding up” the house (I love the people here, but sometimes I wonder if I have awoken in an old Mayberry, RFD rerun…..my GOD, there he is, Gomer Pyle, sitting on my front porch swing)  I lied.

Anyway, tortured by my living situation, (across the street from the in-laws, frown) the fact that the stepson was there, AGAIN-sorry, but I have CPTSD.  There is nothing funny about having to hold your breath in anticipation of the worst possible scenario happening at any given moment.  Call me crazy, but I walk around with mace in my underwear, for crying out loud.

…the combination of my pms and the full moon situation (I always go apeshit when the moon is full) I fought with my husband this morning, then, after a nice snow laden hike with my bestest canine I proceeded to fight with my Abba, and I will say this:  it is a miracle I made it out of that tirade with a bloody finger, and not the roof caving in on my head.  It was brutal, and I insisted that He had mistaken me for some crazy martyr, who had a chip on her shoulder and a death wish.  I fussed and fretted, cried and took my ire out on the houseplants.  Finally, after the Holy Spirit told me to get some ganga, I calmed down enough to NOT throw myself out of the second story window.

And then I got to thinking, my life is more than victimhood.  I am only a victim if I buy into the theory that I have it harder or crappier than anyone else.  And I do not.  Yes, this is a very painful time in my life.  If I could say anything to my stepson it would be this:

You, sir, are the human version of period cramps.  🙂

 

A Million Different People….

I hate it when this happens, when I rail at God, spewing my venom of choice, carrying on like a mad woman, banging appliances and, more than likely, injuring myself in the process.  It is time to admit that I am “dopic” as my husband calls me, which means clumsy in Pennsylvania Dutch.  Sweet Jesus, no wonder I drank.

Whilst “redding up” the house (I love the people here, but sometimes I wonder if I have awoken in an old Mayberry, RFD rerun…..my GOD, there he is, Gomer Pyle, sitting on my front porch swing)  I lied.

Anyway, tortured by my arthritic pain and absolute on-my-ass fatigue, I wanted to surprise my husband.  You know, it’s Friday evening, and although I have not been bedridden, I pitied the man.  He has dealt with my depression, anxiety, PTSD, alcoholism, Lyme disease AND my six months in a cast after being creamed by a drunk dude on a Harley.

I do the laundry, use all my life force to vacuum the downstairs.  Made a beautiful chicken pot pie in the slow cooker.  I changed the sheets and went out to the gardens, in pouring down rain, to fill our vases with fresh flowers.  I also did the sink full of pots and pans he left behind, which took me half of the day because we have no dishwasher.

I stood on the deck with anticipation.

“What’s wrong with you?”

It is a unspoken rule in this home.  No matter what, for reasons going back to my mother’s hypochondria, my firm belief that no one wants to hear about your aches, pains and health emergencies (trust me, I know this to be true) But there are times when I’m in dire straits-I am human, after all.    Dwain’s inability to accept me being sick-he hates it, absolutely hates it when I am sick.  But I am not going to lie-he knew I was on antibiotics for a bout of Lyme that was kicking my ass-I didn’t realize I looked so crappy, and I answered him.

I don’t feel well.”

I don’t want to go into detail, but needless to say?  He was none to happy.  He threw the mail on the table, and yelled that it was his weekend, and…it gets better, that the reason he believes I was ill was because of my smoking weed for my PTSD.  Here’s the thing, I won’t even put up with that line of bull, because I literally take two hits at night, it’s medical cannabis and in the years prior; before Jesus got a good hold of his britches, my man was so controlling, so narcissistic that I almost left, many times.

How in the Harry is it my fault I was bitten by a tick?  I could probably think of a few, but that’s not the point.

I gathered my bible, pc and books.  Went up to the bedroom and wrote him an email.  Here is the gist of the missive:

For years and years you did everything you could to bully me into what you wanted me to be.  I thought becoming sober would be enough to validate my worth-sadly, it was not.  After I got sober, it was my smoking.  That HAD to go.  If I did happen to have the flu or a sinus infection (wherein I would have to go to bed) you gave me absolutely no comforting words, and in fact, on one occasion you left me in the bedroom sick as a dog, and never thought to check if I needed food, or even water.  I want you to picture what went down this evening, but pretend it’s your father, flipping out on your  mother.  Shades of lost days, months and years…times I couldn’t stop shaking, with fear…and then rage.

I ended it by telling him I would not, could not, go through those abusive years again.  Frankly, the whole incident was shocking to me.  I turned the light off and slept.  I was too tired to cry, to exhausted to whimper.  I awoke this morning to him standing over the bed.  His apology was profound.  Promises were made.

Tomorrow we return to church, which has always helped us to be better people, better servants, and serves to remind us that pettiness cannot be tolerated.  We have to cherish each and every day.  Don’t ruminate.  And if he begs forgiveness, for God’s sake forgive him, so that your father in Heaven will forgive you~

 

 

 

A Million Different People….

I hate it when this happens, when I rail at God, spewing my venom of choice, carrying on like a mad woman, banging appliances and, more than likely, injuring myself in the process.  It is time to admit that I am “dopic” as my husband calls me, which means clumsy in Pennsylvania Dutch.  Sweet Jesus, no wonder I drank.

Whilst “redding up” the house (I love the people here, but sometimes I wonder if I have awoken in an old Mayberry, RFD rerun…..my GOD, there he is, Gomer Pyle, sitting on my front porch swing)  I lied.

Anyway, tortured by my living situation, (across the street from the in-laws, frown) the fact that the stepson was there, AGAIN-sorry, but I have CPTSD.  There is nothing funny about having to hold your breath in anticipation of the worst possible scenario happening at any given moment.  Call me crazy, but I walk around with mace in my underwear, for crying out loud.

…the combination of my pms and the full moon situation (I always go apeshit when the moon is full) I fought with my husband this morning, then, after a nice snow laden hike with my bestest canine I proceeded to fight with my Abba, and I will say this:  it is a miracle I made it out of that tirade with a bloody finger, and not the roof caving in on my head.  It was brutal, and I insisted that He had mistaken me for some crazy martyr, who had a chip on her shoulder and a death wish.  I fussed and fretted, cried and took my ire out on the houseplants.  Finally, after the Holy Spirit told me to get some ganga, I calmed down enough to NOT throw myself out of the second story window.

And then I got to thinking, my life is more than victimhood.  I am only a victim if I buy into the theory that I have it harder or crappier than anyone else.  And I do not.  Yes, this is a very painful time in my life.  If I could say anything to my stepson it would be this:

You, sir, are the human version of period cramps.  🙂