If I never move a dagnabbin, godforsaken box in my entire life, I WILL HUG A PORCUPINE. A real one. Quills and all. I would rather have to slowly and painstakingly remove hooked quills from my chest region, than pick up another box/carton/bin/container/random bucket of junk. Which means I'm in for a painful next few days, considering that now it's UNpacking time. Joyous. This wasn't your typical one day movathon however. This became what will be forever known as the Massive Epic Weekend Saga Moving Hell Adventure. Lets begin:
Day 0:
Preparing for the move! Combine one negative-nancy-familial-moving-helper plus one ill boyfriend plus new house furniture moving plus two pre-trips so that I had a set up room having for myself plus uber stress plus still not finished the house PLUS U-Haul totally SCREWING us by allowing us to book (a month in advance) a 17 foot truck then calling us the day before moving day to tell us that it wouldn't be there. But they had a 14 foot one. 2 hours away. Discount Trucks saved the day with a 24 foot truck only 30 minutes away. Our saviours. Awake from 3pm Day -1 til 2 am Day 1.
Day 1:
Up at 6am, picked up the truck. Laughed my ass off watching little 5'4 mom driving a 24 foot truck around town. Movers arrived (one tiny 110 pound girl, and one 6 foot 4 basket ball player) and the race was on! Huge heavy tubs of dishes and crystal were my job to slug from the kitchen to the cars, load'em up, take them to the house (thank god it's only 15 minutes away), unload them and then head back. Lather, rinse, repeat. It took 6 hours to pack the truck top to bottom, back to front, slamming the door closed to keep things from tumbling out. Ate the only meal of the day at 8pm. Movers were finally finished at 11pm. Bruises start showing up all over my forearms from lifting heavy things. Pass out at 2am again.
Day 2:
Up at 6am, had to tape up mom's wrist cuz she fell out of the moving truck and landed on her hand. 7am at the old house filling up the truck with shit from the garage going to my fathers place for storage. In a colossal rage, much swearing and heaving and burning through emotions with hard physical labour. Feels good. So much dust I think I may be dying. 9:30 am, family shows up to help. We pack until 3pm. Truck is full (and much more poorly packed than Day 1. Damn professionals make it look so easy). 3:30 more family arrives. I get to tie an air hockey table to the roof of a station wagon. Feeling the burn now. More random bruises from falling out of the moving truck when I missed a step full skinned shin. Excellent. Get to the house, unpack. Mom heads off to my fathers house so he can unload his shit. Have a brief nap. Wake up, keep slugging. My sinuses are so swollen from dust that everytime I swallow my ear drums explode. I sleep sitting up and crumpled over to one side.
Day 3:
More moving and hauling. I spend some time at the new house unpacking. Almost die in a massive box mountain collapse. Manage to save myself and the cat and anything fragile. Lose a date with dignity when I stand up to climb over the box and immediately trip and smash my eyebrow into a cement topped table. Move moving, more slugging, think I'm getting sick. Mom, sister and I have a sleepover on the floor of the old house. I discover new bruises on my stomach, hips, thighs and arms from using various body parts to heave heavy things up into lifting positions. Is intensely glad to be wearing padded bras through all of this. I wrap myself up in a duvet to watch an awesome thunderstorm, promptly fall over and fall asleep at 10pm.
Day 4: D-Day
More moving, more hauling. Temperatures sore and I'm soaked within 10 minutes of lifting boxes. Have a mini freak out at how much crap there still is. Family is back to help out. We work right up til 10 pm packing and making van trips. Day four of my sister doing ABSOLUTELY NOTHING AT ALL TO HELP. No lifting no directing no helping NOTHING. Swallow my rage and keep moving. Boyfriend comes to help a bit for about 2 hours. Gets distracted by a guitar while I'm lifting heavy things. I send him home. Not helpful. We are at the house cleaning and packing yet MORE junk into the car until 5:30 am Day 5. Sneaked garbage bags into other people's garbage boxes. Threw some old furniture around behind the garage as a terrible "oversight" for the new owners. The three of us quietly walk through every empty room, crying. It isn't fair that we've been forced out at gun point because my fathers ego was more important than his family's well-being financially, or physically (case in point: attempted murder). Spend more time crying. Finally lock up and leave the old house. Cry all the way to the new house. Stumble into bed. Fall asleep somewhere around 6am. Seem to find peace in sleep. No dreams, no nightmares. Just four hours of well deserved sleep.
It's over.
Even our lawyer didn't think we would make it. We did. Fuck the world, fuck all the non-believers, fuck the doubters and the people who wanted to see us in a shelter instead of helping us. We survived. Though not on our own time-frame, we left on our own terms. We left with dignity (mostly), pride (a bit battered), and with the knowledge that we did it on our own (mostly, family is a god send).
Now it's time to unpack. There is light. The bank is paid, the creditors are next. We are finally able to start fresh. It's time to move forwards. No more looking back.
Monday, July 4, 2011
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Doomsday
He gets out today.
I don't know whether to scream until I'm hoarse, cry until I'm dried out, tremble until I shake apart, worry until I throw up, or tear myself to pieces to ensure he never gets a hold of me again.
I want to whisk my mom and sister away to a place where he can never see them. I don't know what I'd do if I couldn't save her again. If he came back while I was away.
I'm heading for an emotional lockdown. I feel numb and terrified and despairing and empty.
I want to be left alone but I want to curl up in someone's arms so they can protect me.
I want to sit and let myself be pulled into that place where the world is too heavy, where talking and feeling and smiling and breathing is too much. Where all I can do is exist. But I want to live and breathe and smile and laugh and love and feel. To stick it to him. To prove that he didn't kill me.
I think he did though. A part of me. A part of me I don't know how to repair. A part of me he spent my whole life cutting away at piece by piece. Maybe I should be happy he's finally destroyed it for good. He can't hurt it anymore. I can't help but want it back though.
My heart races, my hands shake, the tears thunder behind my eyes, trapped by my own stubborn resolve to face this with the same desperation to LIVE that I did when I faced him bleeding and sobbing and begging for him to give me the wrench. When I stood between him and my mom, in my three inch heeled boots, stance wide and grabbed him by the throat and told him to stay away. I want to curl up under a rock and die like after the first hit when he had me on the floor, and stood over me, holding me down for the second one. When I heard him tell me that it would be ok, and he used my nickname, and I wanted him to kill me so I didn't have to live knowing this had happened. When I didn't know if my mom was alive or dead and all I could think about was how I could save them from him. When I thought my sister would be left alone.
I want to rage at the world for leaving me alone. For the doctors and nurses at the hospital who wrapped me in a blanket, separated me from my delirious, bleeding mother and then closed the door. Trapping me in a room, the only person who saw. Who remembered. And left me alone to face a future that was crumbling in front of me. Later, to the police who separated me from my mom and sister to take my statement. And then put me in a room, alone. To my friends who were innocently unaware of what had happened who understandbly never thought to reach out to find out where I had gone and why I had left them. To the therapist who saw me and told me I was coping as well as he'd seen and he had nothing more to offer. Unfairly, to the family who cannot see past my hard exterior because I won't let them. To the boyfriend who wants to be close to me and can never truly understand why I can't let it happen. Who is hurt by my distance. At myself, for blaming my father for so many of my malfunctions. At him, because my blame falls true.
I want to cry. For all of the people he hurt and extorted. For the lives he has ruined and the futures he has inexplicably altered. For my cousins who lost a close uncle. For my aunt who fears her own brother. For his cousins who lost out on so much trust, and so much money. Who shared my nightmares of him and who now protect us so dearly. For my uncle who is dying who has lost one of the true friends he thought he had. To my sister who is torn over what to do. To my mother who lost everything financially, who almost lost her life with her children and who was so horribly betrayed by someone she loved. For my friend, my almost brother, who lost a second family that was whole and loving and stable. For myself. Who lost her father. Whose memories are tainted with emotional abuse. Who knows that he made a choice. To lie and let her live, or to lie and try to kill her. And he chose to try to kill me. Because some of my family does not believe me when I tell them how hurtful he was to us. How cruel he was to me. How abusive. That they believe the lies and the image he created of our family.
I want to rejoice. For my mothers freedom. For the end to the abuse and oppression and disdain he wrought upon her. For the freedom to have fun and to be with friends and to come and go as she pleases. That she had regained her independence and her vitality. For my own freedom. For the chance to live life the way I want without such negativity. That we are no longer controlled by him. That my life will not be governed by his guilt trips and his condecension and disdain. That I no longer need his approval.
I want to live, to spite him.
I want to die because he has destroyed everything. He has polluted my views, my ideals. He has changed me in ways I can see and ways I know I won't see yet.
Though not an anniversary yet, today is a day I wish I didn't have to face. Today is the reality, that though he is out in the world, he is dead to me. Today is the reality that though he is dead to me, he is very much alive, which makes him dangerous. Today is a day of nightmares.
Though that day shattered my existence, today is every bit as much a Doomsday. I am too weak to hold together. I am too stubborn to fall apart. I float disconnected in between. Waiting for something to pull me in one direction or the other.
I don't know whether to scream until I'm hoarse, cry until I'm dried out, tremble until I shake apart, worry until I throw up, or tear myself to pieces to ensure he never gets a hold of me again.
I want to whisk my mom and sister away to a place where he can never see them. I don't know what I'd do if I couldn't save her again. If he came back while I was away.
I'm heading for an emotional lockdown. I feel numb and terrified and despairing and empty.
I want to be left alone but I want to curl up in someone's arms so they can protect me.
I want to sit and let myself be pulled into that place where the world is too heavy, where talking and feeling and smiling and breathing is too much. Where all I can do is exist. But I want to live and breathe and smile and laugh and love and feel. To stick it to him. To prove that he didn't kill me.
I think he did though. A part of me. A part of me I don't know how to repair. A part of me he spent my whole life cutting away at piece by piece. Maybe I should be happy he's finally destroyed it for good. He can't hurt it anymore. I can't help but want it back though.
My heart races, my hands shake, the tears thunder behind my eyes, trapped by my own stubborn resolve to face this with the same desperation to LIVE that I did when I faced him bleeding and sobbing and begging for him to give me the wrench. When I stood between him and my mom, in my three inch heeled boots, stance wide and grabbed him by the throat and told him to stay away. I want to curl up under a rock and die like after the first hit when he had me on the floor, and stood over me, holding me down for the second one. When I heard him tell me that it would be ok, and he used my nickname, and I wanted him to kill me so I didn't have to live knowing this had happened. When I didn't know if my mom was alive or dead and all I could think about was how I could save them from him. When I thought my sister would be left alone.
I want to rage at the world for leaving me alone. For the doctors and nurses at the hospital who wrapped me in a blanket, separated me from my delirious, bleeding mother and then closed the door. Trapping me in a room, the only person who saw. Who remembered. And left me alone to face a future that was crumbling in front of me. Later, to the police who separated me from my mom and sister to take my statement. And then put me in a room, alone. To my friends who were innocently unaware of what had happened who understandbly never thought to reach out to find out where I had gone and why I had left them. To the therapist who saw me and told me I was coping as well as he'd seen and he had nothing more to offer. Unfairly, to the family who cannot see past my hard exterior because I won't let them. To the boyfriend who wants to be close to me and can never truly understand why I can't let it happen. Who is hurt by my distance. At myself, for blaming my father for so many of my malfunctions. At him, because my blame falls true.
I want to cry. For all of the people he hurt and extorted. For the lives he has ruined and the futures he has inexplicably altered. For my cousins who lost a close uncle. For my aunt who fears her own brother. For his cousins who lost out on so much trust, and so much money. Who shared my nightmares of him and who now protect us so dearly. For my uncle who is dying who has lost one of the true friends he thought he had. To my sister who is torn over what to do. To my mother who lost everything financially, who almost lost her life with her children and who was so horribly betrayed by someone she loved. For my friend, my almost brother, who lost a second family that was whole and loving and stable. For myself. Who lost her father. Whose memories are tainted with emotional abuse. Who knows that he made a choice. To lie and let her live, or to lie and try to kill her. And he chose to try to kill me. Because some of my family does not believe me when I tell them how hurtful he was to us. How cruel he was to me. How abusive. That they believe the lies and the image he created of our family.
I want to rejoice. For my mothers freedom. For the end to the abuse and oppression and disdain he wrought upon her. For the freedom to have fun and to be with friends and to come and go as she pleases. That she had regained her independence and her vitality. For my own freedom. For the chance to live life the way I want without such negativity. That we are no longer controlled by him. That my life will not be governed by his guilt trips and his condecension and disdain. That I no longer need his approval.
I want to live, to spite him.
I want to die because he has destroyed everything. He has polluted my views, my ideals. He has changed me in ways I can see and ways I know I won't see yet.
Though not an anniversary yet, today is a day I wish I didn't have to face. Today is the reality, that though he is out in the world, he is dead to me. Today is the reality that though he is dead to me, he is very much alive, which makes him dangerous. Today is a day of nightmares.
Though that day shattered my existence, today is every bit as much a Doomsday. I am too weak to hold together. I am too stubborn to fall apart. I float disconnected in between. Waiting for something to pull me in one direction or the other.
Saturday, June 18, 2011
The Night Watch
Ahhhh....the glories of the night watch. Surly drunks. Amorous drunks. Drunks in the their underwear. Angry drunks. Pukey drunks. Drunks that pee in public (did I mention they're women? And they just hike up their skirts? Right in front of everyone?). Drunks throwing stuff off of balconeys. Drunks picking fights. Drunks wishing they didn't pick fights after the OPP is done with them. Drunks who wake up in the drunk tank tomorrow morning wondering what the heck happened after they picked a fight WITH the OPP.
Not to mention the questions like: "Does the TV have channels?" "Where are the towels in my room?" "Can I go swimming?" "Can I still use my microwave after midnight?" "Can you send someone up to my room to fix my microwave that I tried to use after midnight, but please ask him to wear his hover boots because everyone is asleep but me and I really really want to micrwave this...whatever it is RIGHT NOW but I don't want your noisy staff to wake up my two year old that I put to bed in the living room right near where the microwave is".
I think my IQ is dropping. 10 shifts and counting!
Not to mention the questions like: "Does the TV have channels?" "Where are the towels in my room?" "Can I go swimming?" "Can I still use my microwave after midnight?" "Can you send someone up to my room to fix my microwave that I tried to use after midnight, but please ask him to wear his hover boots because everyone is asleep but me and I really really want to micrwave this...whatever it is RIGHT NOW but I don't want your noisy staff to wake up my two year old that I put to bed in the living room right near where the microwave is".
I think my IQ is dropping. 10 shifts and counting!
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Understanding
I'm starting to understand desperation.
Not the desperation that comes from being in need of something. I'm not starving, or dehydrated. I have a home, and family. Yes, I've had loss this year, but I'm not in want of anything. I have opportunity, and a good work ethic. If I apply myself, I have confidence that I can achieve success in my life.
So what am I desperate about?
I'm desperate, to not be sad anymore.
"Ok, cry-baby, so stop being sad."
It seems like such a simple problem. Find ways to not be sad anymore right? The problem, is being so sad that you don't want to do anything. That even talking to someone you care about, is exhausting. So you don't. It's like being full of sand. You just kind of sit there, and stare at nothing. It's oppressive.
I made a pledge to myself for a while to stop being so sad. It worked a bit. Regular exercise and eating properly and trying to sleep properly helped. What I think was the best part though, was school. It kept me moving forward and forced me to get up and work my ass off. I hid in school work. I know I will next year as well.
HIding only lasts as long as whatever it is your hiding behind lasts though. Then the sadness comes back.
I understand. To anyone who feels sad. More than sad. To anyone who despairs. Despairs about anything, everything, or nothing at all. To anyone who feels like your despair is stupid, unfounded, ridiculous, irrational....it is all those things. Many of us don't have reason to feel it. That doesn't make it any less real though. Your sadness, your despair, the hopelessness. If you feel it, if it paralyzes you, the way it catches me, and holds me and drowns me....it's real.
I understand, the desperation, to be anything but sad. To do anything to escape the sadness. I do. There are ways to help the sadness though. I know I need to take advantage of them. I know that I will. Right now I can't, but I know how you feel.
I understand. Now I need to find some people who understand as well. Who can be patient with me. I hope that the people I love, never KNOW how I feel. I hope they can love me anyway though. Until I can find my way out of this. Even if I struggle to love back. Please understand.
Not the desperation that comes from being in need of something. I'm not starving, or dehydrated. I have a home, and family. Yes, I've had loss this year, but I'm not in want of anything. I have opportunity, and a good work ethic. If I apply myself, I have confidence that I can achieve success in my life.
So what am I desperate about?
I'm desperate, to not be sad anymore.
"Ok, cry-baby, so stop being sad."
It seems like such a simple problem. Find ways to not be sad anymore right? The problem, is being so sad that you don't want to do anything. That even talking to someone you care about, is exhausting. So you don't. It's like being full of sand. You just kind of sit there, and stare at nothing. It's oppressive.
I made a pledge to myself for a while to stop being so sad. It worked a bit. Regular exercise and eating properly and trying to sleep properly helped. What I think was the best part though, was school. It kept me moving forward and forced me to get up and work my ass off. I hid in school work. I know I will next year as well.
HIding only lasts as long as whatever it is your hiding behind lasts though. Then the sadness comes back.
I understand. To anyone who feels sad. More than sad. To anyone who despairs. Despairs about anything, everything, or nothing at all. To anyone who feels like your despair is stupid, unfounded, ridiculous, irrational....it is all those things. Many of us don't have reason to feel it. That doesn't make it any less real though. Your sadness, your despair, the hopelessness. If you feel it, if it paralyzes you, the way it catches me, and holds me and drowns me....it's real.
I understand, the desperation, to be anything but sad. To do anything to escape the sadness. I do. There are ways to help the sadness though. I know I need to take advantage of them. I know that I will. Right now I can't, but I know how you feel.
I understand. Now I need to find some people who understand as well. Who can be patient with me. I hope that the people I love, never KNOW how I feel. I hope they can love me anyway though. Until I can find my way out of this. Even if I struggle to love back. Please understand.
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
The Great Relationship Fuck Up...Again
Yep. In a relationship. Apparently constantly fucking it up.
I don't like being in relationships. I don't like being told by someone, that I can count on and rely on them, when it turns out that I can't. It's not even that most people mean to be unreliable. We're human. If someone would rather drink beer with friends than deal with a significant others emotional melt downs....well, that's just how it goes. As I was told, people can't drop everything for me.
Ok.
It's wrong of me to share my feelings apparently. I get that too. I'm obviously so judgemental and out of touch with reality. I should really have known better. After all, my dad jumped down my throat any time I got too emotional. Why should anybody else be any different?
It always seems that me trying to say or share anything, just turns into a fight. Maybe I'm really that bad at breaking bad news to people. Maybe I'm much more antagonistic than I thought I was.
Am I really so selfish? I didn't think I was. I was always told by others outside of my relationships, that I was too UNselfish. That I never insisted that my own needs be met. Tried that today. It didn't go very well.
I think I'm destined to be alone. Maybe it's my own issues that contribute to how terrible I am with men. It's my dad and I over and over and over again.
It's a shame too. I really like this guy. I could maybe love him (other than the fact that I don't really believe in love, and I'm not sure what it's supposed to feel like and I'm really really good at walking away and never talking to people again for no particular reason except that I suck at staying attached). I just can't communicate how I feel at any given time. I can't explain my logic or reasonings too him without there being a big misunderstanding.
Oh, and I always overreact. Clearly.
I'm going to be a single mom. I'll just get my mom to move in and help me. Obviously I'm not cut out for this relationship thing. I just ruin them. No point in bringing someone down with me.
*whine whine whine*
I feel like shit.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)