20 April 2007

Rage Against the Child

I had planned to write today about one of my other co-workers, The Foot Lady, and about the strange behavior of an old friend of mine. Then I heard the Alec Baldwin tape. (http://www.tmz.com) I heard it early this morning on television and haven't been the same since. It triggered a major bout of post traumatic stress disorder. My hands are still shaking from fear.

My father had a temper like that. It was unpredictable. I would be sitting at the dinner table and suddenly he'd knock the shit out of me. I'd start to cry, which would give him an excuse to do it again. Crying always made things worse. Or better. My dad liked to make people cry. I learned to withhold tears. At some point, I just wouldn't give him the pleasure of seeing me cry anymore.

Long, drawn-out dramas where there would be multiple opportunities to hit and yell were his specialty. If he could make something go on all day, he was a happy guy. Since I had no place else to go, he had a lot of fun with me. It was an extra treat to beat up my mom while threatening me. I got the point.

The point tended to revolve around Dad. How was he feeling? Had someone made him feel like shit at work? Was he psychotic? Was I looking at him in a way he could tolerate? How should I look at him? Was I performing intellectually up to his standards? What was the correct response to the question he asked? Would it be better to try to stay out of the house or would he think I was trying to hide from him? (No hiding.)

Much like Mr. Baldwin, his abusiveness was firmly rooted in his own self pity. He'd been working his ass off, he'd given up his only son (because of me), he had a terrible childhood. The list goes on and on. There were always plenty of reasons why I should be punished. Even though they really had nothing to do with me. It was all about him.

My mom and dad (but she didn't count) gave me a ring when I was around nine. I lost it the same year. You can not imagine the firestorm that set off. I'm not sure I'd even noticed it was gone. They never had it sized, so they'd just wrapped tons of cellophane tape around the band to make it stay on. In retrospect, it wasn't all that surprising that I lost it.

My father noticed. He always noticed things like that and took them as a personal affront. If one of my mom's hubcaps fell off, he acted like she'd gotten out of the car on the way home, removed the hubcap, thrown it into a field and come home without it just to spit in his face. It was that way with the ring.

He demanded to know where it was. Oh shit, I had no idea. I tried to think back. Quickly. That was hard to do when my father was raging. I couldn't think of where I was when I last felt it on my finger. I started crying. Uh oh. He slapped me and knocked my glasses against the side of my nose. That really hurt. He told me not to cry or he'd give me something to cry about. He wanted me to sit there and think about what I'd done with the ring. He left. He probably went to the bathroom. There was just something about getting angry that made the bathroom call out to him. I was punished many times in the bathroom. But that's another story.

After he left, I was in a panic. I knew there was no way I was going to come up with the answer and that, even if I did, there was most definitely going to be hell to pay. Just like Alec Baldwin, my father didn't care that I was nine; he would not tolerate being treated so ungratefully. There would be adult punishment coming; it was just a matter of time.

He told me to go out in the yard and look for it and not to come back until I found it. I walked around in the sun, peering at the grass under my feet. I prayed the yellow topaz stone would miraculously glitter and catch my eye. I made bargains with God. God never held up his end of those bargains, though, and after a while, my father called me back inside.

As I walked over to the door, I seized upon the idea of blaming it on someone else. I blamed a girl I used to play with from the neighborhood.

"I think maybe Sheila took it."

That did not completely resolve my problem. I was going to have to come up with a means by which she took it. I couldn't say she'd thrown me to the ground and wrestled it off of me. That would have created more problems for me. My father expected that when someone was violent towards me, I would hit them back. He asked me how in the hell she got it? I had no answer.

He told me to go out in the yard again and find something he could whip me with. I got to cry a little bit after I got outside. I found the smallest branch I could and took it back to him after I had composed myself. Couldn't take long with that self-composure thing; he was waiting. The longer he waited, the worse it would be.

I took the switch into the house and handed it to him. He told me that it wasn't big enough and that I should go back out and find a larger one. I did. I had stopped being afraid by that time. I just wanted to get it over with and get out of my father's line of vision, if possible. The most reliable form of rescue was dissociation. I just got numb. I've been a little bit numb ever since I learned in my childhood what a great strategy that was.

I received my punishment. He'd learned when I was 7 that he couldn't hit me around my arms and legs. My mom saw the bruises he left on me and told him that someone at school might notice. They might wonder. They might be inclined to call people.

After all the rage subsided, he made me leave the room. Later on in the afternoon, he called me in from the front yard. The law was laid down. I would never, ever have any contact with that little girl again. He was still considering calling her trashy parents to make her give it back. I promised, I swore, I'd never exchange another word with Sheila. That seemed to work.

When I got much older, I wondered if the Sheila story didn't just play right into his hands. He'd had my mom outside numerous times, beating her up. One night, he held a knife to her throat while I screamed at him to stop. Surely Sheila's family must have heard some of that. As I write this, I'm not sure what that would have mattered. It's amazing the power that violence holds on me still.

I felt awful about my behavior for years. I lied about a friend to save my own ass, which I knew couldn't be saved anyway. That was not the path to self-esteem. Of course, I've forgiven myself for that and the many other ways I attempted to shift the burden of blame off of my shoulders. It was a long time coming, though. It came at great expense.

Even so, I'm still consumed with terror from time to time. My hands still shake when I'm reminded of the past. I'm easily startled. Without medication, I don't sleep well. Sometimes, like today, I have flashbacks. Suddenly I'm in that time and space when panic struck, fueled by my father's rage.

I'd really like to thank Alec Baldwin for the flashback. I haven't had one for a long time. Mostly, though, I hope his little girl is able to sleep at night. I hope she feels loved. I hope she isn't terrified of her dad. Terror gets its hooks into your soul and won't let go. It's awful when that terror arrives courtesy of your parent, the one and only dad (or mom) you'll ever have.

19 April 2007

Xanax Dilemma

Oh damn. I can't remember if I took my Xanax this morning. Should I just take two more and risk hitting my head on my desk when I pass out? This result could be alarming to my co-workers and my mother when she finds out about it.

Should I just assume I've taken it and spend the rest of the day in unrecognized but nonetheless debilitating anxiety? That sets my co-workers' and my husband's teeth on edge. Probably mine, too, if I notice it.

I guess I'm going with Option 2.

Tub Mishaps and Marital Wonkiness

I'll just start by talking about myself. (I think this is a big emotional breakthrough, because you know how I hate to do that.) First of all, no one told me that the steroid injections I received on Tuesday would continue to hurt. No truth in advertising in the surgeon's office, it appears. I've definitely felt worse lots of times, so that's not so much a complaint as it is a surprising statement of fact.

I had a little accident last night. It was just before bedtime and I was in the bathroom when (somehow) my foot slipped and I fell backwards into the bathtub. My back ended up on the bottom of the tub and my head landed on the soap dish with a resounding thump. I took a quick inventory and didn't feel like I had a concussion or anything; I was just concerned about how the hell I was going to get out of there. My feet didn't touch any surface at all; my knees were dangling over the top of the tub where there's no foothold to be found. How humiliating. My mom heard the loud thud and came rushing to the door, asking me if I was okay. I had to break the news to her that Humpty Dumpty seemed to be unable to get upright. She helped me get out of the tub and started to get worried about potential physical damage until I reassured her that inventory had been taken and all parts were working just as well as ever.

They're still working just fine. I have a little soreness along the entire right side of my body and my head's a bit tender if I touch it. So I just don't touch it. No vomiting or any other symptoms of concussion. The upshot? You just can not kill me. That's great news because I've been known since my childhood as a huge klutz. I was the kid who wasn't coordinated enough to play kickball with the other kids during that period of physical torture, known as "Physical Education" class or recess, take your pick. (The ball would be coming at me and I'd kick at it, then I'd realize it was still a couple of feet away from me. Try to imagine the hilarity that created for all the other children.) I've been known to walk directly into walls. (I get a little lost in my own thoughts sometimes.) I stumble over grass. Turns out that my history has served me well; I've developed an uncanny ability to both continue to injure myself and still be (relatively) fine if I just take some ibuprofen.

Now on to the fun stuff. Office antics. Loathsome is going to remain with the company, despite his egregiously bad behavior after the accident. I'd like to collect on that bet now. Wonder who I could see about that? I'm fairly certain I put $100 dollars on staying.

Not only does he still have a job at the same rate of pay as always, he's on vacation right now. Vacation. Is there any way in hell that, having screwed up so mightily, I would have the (figuratively speaking) balls to go on vacation? I don't think so.

I told you Owner was going to think keeping Loathsome on would be a much worse punishment than firing him. I see hours and hours of Loathsome's time being spent in Owner's office, listening to Owner read things to him. (Owner likes to write clever emails and fake news stories he then sends to everyone on his email contact list.) Everybody hates it when he isn't satisfied with having us all read the written version and has to call us up and read it to us. He won't have to now; he'll have Loathsome. I believe it's the win-win solution for everyone.

Money Man, or Bible Thumping Hypocrite (as one of my co-workers refers to him) seems to be having some issues on the marital home front. Money Man has "taken a personal stand against homosexuality." That kind of speaks for itself, doesn't it? I mean, how does that work? When gay guys approach him, I guess he plants his feet firmly and intones, "No! I will not have homosexual intercourse with you!" Oh god, if only the marital discord was caused by an affair with a guy he met in his prayer group. It would be so entertaining.

The real issue is that he's not a very good husband, according to his wife. I can only imagine. One of my co-workers and I are constantly amazed anybody would live with him. He watches too much television, for one thing. They never do anything together; that reason is always a crowd pleaser. He said he wasn't surprised. Money Man's wife and he don't have anything in common anymore, he stated, except for the kids. The problem there is that each side picked a fave kid years ago and have stuck with their original choices. Each always seizes upon any infraction of the rules by the other's favorite as an opportunity to rail against that spouse about child-rearing techniques (which encompass just about everything that could possibly go awry in the marriage). Even though the "kids" are in their mid to late twenties now, it's a hard habit to break, a veritable marital war by proxy.

Money Man says he "saw it coming." It's that ominous phrase that makes me think things have really gotten waspish between the two of them. It doesn't bode well, does it? A friend of Money Man's wife died this week in a different city. He's lobbying for her to go to the funeral so he can get her the hell out of the house and watch the NBA playoffs in peace. I'm with him on the playoff thing. I'd try to get her out of town, too. Nothing like your spouse wanting to do things with you when Phoenix is getting ready to play L.A. in 5 minutes. In the playoffs.

On the other hand, if I were the wife, I'd use absolutely any excuse to be anywhere other than with him. Maybe that's just me, though. It's entirely possible that she's become so inured to his general nasty temperament and rampant negativity that she doesn't even recognize it anymore. And she did say they should spend more time together. Maybe she should see a doctor about this.

There's so much more office entertainment to catch you up on, but I remember reading that blog posts are supposed to be short so people will read them. So I guess I should get around to the other stuff later. And who knows? Maybe I'll have a close encounter with some other immovable object in my house. (Oh wait...I have to knock on the oak-like particle board I call my desk.)

Now who do I need to talk to about that $100 bet?

18 April 2007

Pigeon Tales

I'm worn down to a nub today. I ended up sitting in one of those little examination rooms for over an hour. Surgeons' schedules are like that, I know, but I start to feel a little claustrophobic after 30 minutes or so.

Everything is progressing nicely, except for some thickened scar tissue. I had a series of steroid injections along the incision site across my lower stomach. I had two at my belly button and two or three right around the New Girl. Everyone (the nurse, 2 physician's assistants, the surgeon who were all crowded into the exam room) was concerned about the pain involved. I'm still numb in several places. The other sites hurt, but I now laugh at pain. Hahaha. A few steroid injections doesn't even really show up on my radar screen.

I'll have another surgical event in four or five months (whenever he can fit me into his very, very busy schedule). We're going to do some liposuction and other work on both the new and old girls. I'll have to be in the hospital overnight and more drainage tubes. (Oh no!!! Anything but that!) Those really hurt. Maybe they won't extend so far into my body this time. Nothing like having sensitive inner body contact with plastic.

Still waiting for the day when I'll be able to wear normal clothes and/or everybody stops hurting me. My psychiatrist tells me I shouldn't think of it that way. It's not very "empowering," you know. She can get back with me on that when she's gone through the same things I have. I have not, for the past year and a half, chosen to be hurt.

Aside from all of that, the skies are blue, the trees outside my windows are lush again and waving in the breeze. Nesting continues and the squirrels are feeling energized. They run along the branches and make daring leaps from one to the other. Out of my other window, I have a bit of a crepe myrtle tree visible and the roof of a church. The crepe myrtle isn't in bloom yet; it's too early still.

There's plenty of action on the church roof, though. The courting going on over there is lively. There are a lot of pigeons in the neighborhood and they like to hang out on that church roof. Since it's mating time, there are constantly three or four male pigeons chasing after (usually) one female at a time. She keeps moving away and here come the gang of boys right after her. Generally, when the females get exasperated and leave, all the boys stand there, looking at her as she flies away, collectively baffled. That's usually about all they're willing to put into the chase, so they mill around until some other hapless female arrives.

It's so good to be back. I have another M.D. Anderson visit with my oncologist coming up next month. I'll cross that bridge when I come to it.