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This is the first Mother’s Day since I cut off my parents, and I can’t really say I miss anything about them because of the holiday. I never sent her a card or flowers or anything, anyway. I’ve disliked her as long as I can remember. Well, as a child I didn’t hate her or anything, but as an adult? The older I got the more I realized what she was, and what she did. Or didn’t do – which was protect me.

Sunday I unfortunately forgot to take my morning antidepressant meds. By evening I was back in “I should never have been born” mode. Scary how dependent I am on medication. Without it I don’t think I’d be here, children or no children.

But speaking of them, I got a very nice breakfast on Mother’s Day, as well as a some pretty flowers. I had a luxurious nap in the afternoon, too. We didn’t go anywhere, but that’s fine by me. I’d usually rather stay home, anyway.

Do I have something deep and profound to say today? Nothing I don’t say in my head all the time. It’s a battle we all fight, if we’ve been through sexual abuse.

I wish I could say I forget it some days. I don’t, but that doesn’t mean it’s horrific every day. It varies. If you’ve been through the healing process you’ll know what I mean. Some days I’m so angry I could put my fist through a wall (well, not without breaking every bone!). Other days I’m so sad. Some days devastatingly so. On others, I can deal with it. I hate it, I feel the unfairness of it, but I can deal with it as long as it’s compartmentalized as part of my past.

As I said in an earlier post, I’ve been working through this for two years now, with psychiatric and therapeutic help. My doctor – psychologist – is concerned I’m not feeling any more happiness than I did when we started. She tells me to appreciate the little things. And I try to. The daffodils that popped up in spring were pretty, and the flowering trees are, too.

I love photography, so I took photos of them. Photography takes my mind off things and helps me direct my energy toward something positive. So does writing. I rely more on those two things than the simple acts of seeing little, positive things.

I’ve been depressed all my life, as far back as I can remember. I don’t know anything else. It’s only been recently that I discovered not everyone feels such a black, oppressive weight. I knew some people were happy, some excessively so. And those people annoy me.  But I didn’t know how far removed I was from “normal” mood swings. My husband had to tell me not everyone thinks about death every week, that not fearing death – but rather having no fear at all, because with it comes oblivion – is abnormal.

I don’t know what’s to fear about it. Not existing doesn’t scare me. In fact, it brings me a measure of solace. Imagine not having to fight the demons everyday! Not having to live with all the years of your life you were in a black hole, and not being able to escape being in a constant, grey funk. Grey’s the best I can do. Grey with occasional lighter colors, when I’m engaged in doing something I like, when I’m as close to happy as I can get. But those times are so short, so fleeting.

My doctor thinks I’m resistant to being happy, that being depressed is so normal for me I’m more comfortable in that state. Some part of me thinks I’ll lose part of me if I’m suddenly happy. Another problem is I don’t trust happiness. It won’t last. Ups and downs are inevitable, but my doctor tells me the lows won’t be as low as the are now. I’m trying to comprehend that, trying to imagine peeping through my blinds, seeing it’s sunny outside, and not closing the blinds against the light.

I don’t believe in the light. I don’t believe happiness is possible, or if it is, that isn’t not sustainable. So, a big part of me says, “Why hope?”

I have a long way to go yet.




I have bipolar disorder, in my case probably stemming from childhood trauma. In my case, it’s the depressive kind, the “I want to die,” “I should never have been born” form. I don’t yell at people, or get up at midnight to clean house or anything.

But one thing I used to do, pre-meds, was take on way too many tasks, feeling more ambitious than a team of people. I couldn’t say no to anyone, no matter what they asked, and in  my case that meant writing reviews or columns or whatever.  And that time spent either reading for reviews or actually writing kept me away from my family. I isolated myself then, and I continue to have a severe problem with that.

I’ve been going to graduate school for a couple years now. Homework’s been a great excuse to isolate. Now that I’m coming near the end of that I’ve started reviewing again. I love doing that, so I know it’s not just to isolate. But one thing I do is sleep a lot. I know that’s isolating. As soon as I bring my youngest child home from school I nap. Then, after I get my middle child I sleep ’til dinner time, curled up in my bed.

I get away from people whenever I can. It’s an urge I fight, but there’s nothing I love more than being alone, under the blankets, asleep.

Bipolar is another result of child abuse. It doesn’t happen to everyone, but if it’s in your family – as it’s in mine – and you go through hell, sometimes it gets triggered. But my form isn’t the major up and down kind.  Thank goodness for that. It’s treatable, and for now under control. When I feel it slipping back I tell my psychiatrist, and he titrates my meds.

So far, so good on that, but the isolation thing is a problem.

I see my therapist tonight. I didn’t do any of the homework she gave me from last time. And there’s no time to both take a shower, which I have to do, and do that homework. Then again, here I sit typing, when I could get at least some of it done.

But I didn’t.