Coming Home.......is difficult

Welcome. I have another blog here on blogger, but I feel a need to start fresh. Over the past year, actually the past few months, I've learned a great deal about myself as a person and who I am going to be as an adult. Confidence. If you have it in yourself don't ever let it go. I've never had much. I grew up in difficult circumstances, but I also was always aware that they could be much, much worse and I was grateful. Those difficult circumstances led to a difficulty in not feeling like an adult, feeling stagnant in my life and in who I am, and a lot of fear keeping me from moving forward. I spent almost 16 years stuck in a...... dark place. I don't know how else to explain it. I know now that I was depressed and that I was suffering from some PTSD. It didn't click for years because after I got married. I felt like I didn't have any reason to be depressed or anxious because my life was so much better, but I still couldn't seem to do anything with myself. I stayed awake nights worrying..... I still do. I still have things that I've acknowledged, but that are going to take time to correct. One is the fear. My mom was chronically ill and a single mom. My dad created a new family, but he visited, sent presents on my birthday and paid child support. I wish there had been more visits, but people are human and it didn't work out that way. There were times when I couldn't see him because of work or family issues and times when I felt like I wasn't important enough. There were things that I could have harped on and been bitter about, but when I was with him I just wanted that time and to enjoy it and so I never brought it up. As we've all gotten older my dad has stepped up more and I hear from him more frequently and he's admitted past regrets. I feel strongly that people can change and sometimes all you can do until that time is love them and appreciate the relationship you do have. With my mom being a single mother we lived below the poverty line. She remarried twice, but it didn't turn out good either times. From the time I was a preteen to the day I moved out she remained single. She focused her energy on raising me while I focused mine on taking care of her. When I was seven we had to move in with some family and I was molested. We moved from there once I told my mom and not long after she got sick. I don't ever remember her being that sick before this time. It really started becoming a constant threat to my mind at this time. I woke one morning to my Grandpa telling me they had to take her to the hospital. She had surgery and they sent her home with Xanax for the pain. I don't know why they did this. I also kind of wonder if it was Xanax or just a different type of pain medicine from the kind she'd had in the hospital following her surgery. Either way I was woken in the middle of the night to the words "I'm dying". It was said softly but I remember she was crying. I bolted out of bed and ran to the phone. I didn't know who I was going to call I just knew I needed to call someone, but she said that she had called my dad and I went and sat on the couch feeling that he wouldn't leave me hanging in that situation and so I should just wait for the ambulance. I remember sitting there, but not much else until they arrived. One paramedic asked me some questions and told me I had been brave and smart for asking who it was before letting them in. I would look back later and think "yea, great." They took her in the bathroom and were trying to get her to throw up and one of them said "You have a little girl out there that wants you to live. Don't you want to live for her?". I had peeked around the corner and saw her shake her head no to that question. When I got older my mom and I talked about it. She took one pill because she was in pain.....it didn't work so she took another...... she didn't recall anything else until she looked and realized she had taken most of the bottle. She called poison control and called my dad, but she was pretty out of it by then. I don't know if she even remembers waking me and she says she never remembered them asking her that. I understand as an adult that drugs are crazy things and will make you say things you wouldn't normally say. I'm sure between the drugs and the pain she probably didn't want to keep going, but it was something only her unconscious mind would acknowledge and say. This was where my PTSD took root. It was a small, nagging, constant companion that got stronger with every emergency, every hospital stay, every medical problem. It just snowballed so slowly it became a monster without me even realizing. Ten surgeries and five times she almost died (that I knew of until I got older). She has Crohn's and it never goes away. She also happened to have one of the worst cases (frequent flares) her doctor had ever seen and the medication for it when I was growing up was spotty at keeping it at bay. Anyone who has ever cared for someone with cancer or any other long term disease will understand the things I experienced. As I've said before, drugs are crazy things. Steroids and pain pills can make a person act different, but when you're in the thick of it you don't always know not to take it so personally. I have a lot of good memories of the in between times that I held onto during the not so good times. A part of me knew that wasn't my mom, it was the drugs and the pain and the stress. When I turned 17 I went to visit my grandparents (my dad's parents) as I often did when my mom had to have surgery. I was ready to start my senior year of high school and I had aspirations to be a doctor. By the time I came home it had been a week since her surgery and she still wasn't able to come home. I commented to my grandpa (her dad) that something else must be wrong while he was driving me back home. I arrived at the hospital alone to find I was right. She wasn't in her room and they had taken her in for emergency surgery. I waited what felt like an eternity for a doctor to come and talk to me. In the ICU everything was burned into my memory. He told me what had happened and what they had to do while I watched them wheel her in. I walked in and tried to give her a smile, but she looked at me and mouthed the words "Go home." Her eyes said that she was sure she was going to die and she didn't want me there to watch. I left. I didn't want to cry in front of her. I didn't want to be sad in front of her. I wanted to be strong. I cried all the way home. I was terrified. I was alone. I don't think I even called anyone. I just waited all night for them to call me and tell me my mom had died. I can't express how much guilt I have from that single action of running. I've told her I was sorry for leaving, but she maintains that it was what she wanted because she did think she was going to die and she didn't want me to witness it. I don't care how many times she tells me that, I think I will always feel guilty for that. These are all the things that I had to open the wounds on and spend hours crying buckets of tears. I'm still crying buckets every time I write about it or talk about it. About a month ago I had gotten pretty low and my mom expressed concern and stated that I might have PTSD. I scoffed at the idea thinking you had to have flashbacks and intense anxiety attacks. I figured I should have been having panic attacks every time I had to visit a hospital and I wasn't so I was okay. The more I sat and thought about it the more I realized. I lost my will to become a doctor. I was sick of hospitals and try to avoid them at all costs. I fast forward through certain kid movies where a parents dies and in fact the only reason I will re-watch any movie in which a parent passes is if it's a kid movie because I have kids that wish to watch it. I still leave the room during those scenes or direct my thoughts elsewhere if I'm forced to watch them. I can't sleep at night. I feel unsafe doing so. I feel like I have to be on guard in case something happens. Going to sleep once the sun comes up is easy and comfortable while trying to go to sleep while it's dark is difficult (impossible) and very uncomfortable. In fact I'm writing this at seven in the morning after not having slept all night. I have great anxiety about letting my son go anywhere or do anything. It's a constant struggle not to be to restrictive on him. He's had minor health problems since he was a baby, but I've always worried it was signs of something more. I'm so happy with who and what I have in my life, but at the same time I'm so scared it's going to be taken away if I make the wrong step so I've done little to nothing in the way of my personal dreams. I made a resolution that night that I was going to work through these things. I had let it drag me down to the point that I wasn't really living life anymore. There are still days when I think I should just go back to bed until things get better, but I'm trying day by day to be a better person for myself and my kids. I had mood swings that I couldn't understand and just a general feeling of being in a dark hole. Smothering. I know my faults. I have little self confidence. I constantly seek my dad's approval and am afraid that he'll never be proud of me. I feel guilt for things that I shouldn't feel guilty for. I don't always stand up for myself. But I know my strengths too. I'm smart and I can learn to do anything I set my mind to learning and most of the time am self taught. I see that everyone has their demons and that sometimes someone who acts like a jerk really just needs someone to listen to them. I believe that people can change and I'm very forgiving. If someone's toxic to my life I still love them from afar and believe that they can change if they want to and wait for the day when they realize it themselves. I'm waiting with open arms when they're ready even if I'm not willing to be a doormat for them. Moments are precious. People are precious. Relationships are precious. I've told this long story so that you will know where I'm coming from, what some of my art and stories are about and where I'm going. I'm breaking free. I'm coming full circle. This year I hope I can learn to value my talents. I want to promote myself and be successful and then in turn be able to help others. I want to make a difference in my life, my family's life and the world...... little by little. Small steps. One foot in front of the other. Keep moving forward. That's the purpose of this blog. This is going to be dedicated to my journey. This will be a place for my stories and my art. This will be a place where I start being me even with all the skeletons in my closet, all the deep, dark feelings I've hidden for so long, being brought out into the light, aired out for the world to see so that they can fade away as they should have long ago. I hope this makes me a better person. I hope this helps someone else step forward and keep stepping forward even if it's just one person. I hope someone enjoys it all. Welcome to 72nd St.