Juggling Knives

I sometimes feel as if I mistreat this blog, but that is not my intent.  I am just really working hard to build an audience for Busy Black Woman.  I have no idea if my goals will ever be realized, but there is this part of me that feels compelled to try.

That is kind of the way it feels with everything in my life lately--just try until it fails (or succeeds).  But success has been elusive for me and I feel that it is starting to show.  It shows on my face for whenever I look at myself in the mirror a defeated old woman is looking back at me.  And that is new and unexpected.

I realize that what I am going through is typical.  It isn't normal in the sense that everyone deals with unemployment, infertility, care-giving and whatever else is on my plate these days...it is normal that people my age begin to feel the pressure of life.  This is the age when pressure turns into chronic disease, bad habits, gray hair and permanent cynicism.  This is when idealistic people become jaded.

I am unsure how I am going to fare these next few years.  Tonight my back tensed up so much that I was wincing.  I almost have to take a drink in order to relax and that has become scary.  How am I supposed to get through the really rough patches of life if I think I need a glass of wine?  What happens when the wine stops working (like now since I am still very tense)?

I feel overwhelmed.  And I often feel as if I brought all this on myself, not as a way to find material for the blog, but because I fear boredom and idleness more than anything else.  I live in fear of dying on a day when my biggest accomplishment would have been checking my Facebook page.  Therefore, I am booked with activities through my parents' anniversary and then I have a week until Thanksgiving.  Then I have my recital and it just keeps going until January when all of the Centennial activities begin.  I don't know how I am supposed to even start thinking about having a personal life in the midst of all that.

I have already written a piece for the other blog on my trips to a social worker...I just need to post it.  And once that happens, I need to face the fact that maybe I stopped going to relieve myself of the guilt of self-indulgence.  Which is a problem for way too many reasons.  Why should I feel guilty about needing professional help?  Why should I, when the husband runs to the doctor for stomach pain every two months?  I am about to cancel a doctor's appointment next week because I need time to do something else.

And therein lies the real problem.  I am getting really good at knife juggling, but not so good at setting them down to take a break.  Why I should feel some kind of way about an hour a week spent talking about myself to a professional (granted, I felt guilty mostly because of the cost) is beyond me.

So I think I am about to make some very different decisions about my life moving forward.  One change that will take place immediately (next week as a matter of fact), I will go back to getting my hair and nails done on a regular basis.  It is funny that I started getting my nails done as a birthday gift to my mother and for at least four months, we kept at it.  Then she changed her mind and I stopped going after a particularly draining episode when she threatened to walk home.  So one of conclusions I had to reach after that episode and many others is that I need space to live a life of my own every now and then. 

And that needs to be okay with everybody, including especially me.

Herding Cats

I'm angry, and in order to avoid saying in person what I want to say (go f*** yourself), I am here.

There was a lot I intended to say to someone, and earlier I thought that it would be therapeutic to write it all down in an email.  And I had every intention of it being one of those no holds barred emails--fueled by red wine or vodka that is so clear and direct and raw.  But those emails never have the desired effect since it is still Groundhog Day.

I am tired. I am spent. I am blown. I hate fucking dementia and the havoc it has wrought in my life.

For the past two years, I have been offered the "call me if you need me" kind of back up whenever people have learned of the situation, but that is bullshit and they all know it.  Because if you really want to offer me help, you would call up and tell me what you intend to do and wait for me to say yes or no.  You do not ask a drowning person if they need help.  You jump in or you throw out a life preserver.

I am fed up with the Monday morning quarterbacking that goes on when folks offer belated suggestions of what I should be doing.  I am beyond tired of the foot-dragging and delays that have prevented any movement forward on anything.  I am exhausted by playing multiple roles in this soap opera--the overbearing mother, bad wife, nagging big sister, attentive aunt and devoted daughter.  I am frustrated that I am failing and can't get a retest, a do-over or even a fucking break. I'm mad that every time I get to cry, I have to do it by myself while writing a weepy, overly sentimental blog because none of the a$$holes in my life want to deal with how I'm feeling.

But when I get angry, the sky sometimes opens and I get small reprieves. Today I made an appointment to meet with a professional.  As someone once told me, prayer is good but people are better.  So maybe if I keep praying, I'll get better people.

Sunshine and Rain

Earlier this summer, a local politician was featured in an article about his wife's early onset dementia. Yesterday, he gave a radio interview about her and the ordeal his family has gone through since 2010.

When I first read his story, I could not help but to think about the parallels.  The origin of my mother's odd behavior began sometime in 2009, and as it continued, we struggled to come up with answers.  I too had to trick her into going to a doctor, eventually tricking her into seeing a neurologist when nothing improved.  And just as was the case for Mr. Baker, within 15 minutes after we left the office with a preliminary diagnosis, my mother did not seem to acknowledge that he had just told her that she had dementia.

But unlike Mr. Baker, I have been hiding in plain sight when it comes to discussing my mother...only talking through the blog or to friends. Or not at all.  For a time I retreated from this when I felt that I was revealing too much.  We had an opportunity to be featured in another radio interview, but we arrived late and left early so that I could avoid an embarassing over-reaction. 

I am grateful to Mr. Baker for speaking out because people need to know the private hell it has been these past few years.  I came back to write about it because I need to tell others in my own way and on my terms.

I will try not to dwell so much on the negative, but at times, it will be impossible not to...I need a release.  It cannot be a release that is tied to physical exercise or drinking or staying busy.  I need to have a space where I can scream and cry and question God about this.  I need a place to turn after having the same argument with my husband for the 103rd time.  I need a refuge from biting my tongue and not telling my family that I am not Jesus yet, I am essentially putting my life on hold so that everyone else can live theirs with minimal inconvenience.  I need a space to bitch after someone has said something insensitive or mean to me so that I can resist the urge to tell them where to go.  I need a place to bury my disappointments and broken dreams.

Today there is rain. Tomorrow there may be sunshine. I'll try to take each day as I find it.

17 Days

My life has been a crazy roller coaster ride of insanity for years, and the past 17 days were particularly ridiculous.  I have been wanting to write about the most recent turn of events for some time...just have been waiting for the right time.

Not that there ever is a right time to receive good or bad news.  For instance, I received one bit of bad news right before the start of the holiday weekend.  And yes, it totally ruined the weekend for me.  It would have been better if the news had been received weeks earlier so it could have ruined something else, but perhaps the timing of the news matters less than its substance anyway.

Then there was a bit of promising news...not exactly good, but maybe better than expected or good enough.  It was good enough to put me in a better frame of mind after trying for a few days to process the bad news.  And even if this bit of promising-yet-better-than-expected news does not deliver, well at least it gave me some hope.

So what in the heck am I talking about?  Cryptic as ever...

Several lessons learned in the past 17 days.  The first is to only allow people into my life who are going to support me.  No more wasting my time and talent for people who can toss my efforts aside like used tissues.  I have been here too many times and it sucks, but I know that I deserve better.  It is not too much to expect compassion in a difficult situation.  So if I cannot be the recipient of another person's grace, then clearly I am much better off doing something more worthwhile.

The second lesson--God shows up in unexpected and surprising ways.  I was licking my wounds but as life goes on, I had to follow up on a few other matters and BAM, there God was!  First of all, He revealed that there are plenty of people in this world for whom compassion and understanding are not just words.  To replace the position I lost, God put me in a better situation which will provide me with support.  And knowing that there will be people to have my back is far more important than receiving accolades for a thankless job.

The third lesson is to believe in miracles.  It has not happened yet, but perhaps the miracle is that I changed my mind to be receptive to the possibility.  I have been feeling despair because it seemed that everything was just coming down around me.  But I heard a sermon a few months ago about helpless situations and let's just say that I am finally getting the message.  Again, nothing definite, but maybe. 

And finally the fourth lesson is to keep the faith.  After letting go of the doubt, the anxiety, the voices of negativity and especially the unnecessary baggage of others, what else is left? Faith...and yes, it can be the size of a mustard seed and that can be sufficient. 

I have been on this manic ride plenty of times--when I allow myself to believe in the possibility and then get my hopes dashed.  This time might not be all that different, but what do I have to lose in being cautiously optimistic? 

Test

I have not been blogging for a while and clearly things have changed--like the new Blogger interface!

And wow, I must have really had the blues back in March.  I just read one of the pieces that generated several readers (now apparently I can find out how many readers people a specific post attracted), and it seems that I was not in the best place.  Sorry about that.  I'll try to manage my emotions a little better.

So what to say?  What to write?

Nothing special or sad or related to illness or stress.  Just a quick piece to see if I can figure out how to use this new and *improved* Blogger before I start back to regular writing at Busy Black Woman.  So this is just a test.

.................................................BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP...................................................

In the event of a new posting, I would have provided something more substantive and interesting.  Or I would have offered up some sort of whine, complaint or moan (or all of the above).

Now back to your regularly scheduled whatever.

A Fine Mess

A theme that has been discussed ad nauseum on this blog is the total mess of a life that I have.  With the recent twist of having a sick mother added, this piss cocktail is just perfect.  I'm fugmangled (still working to keep that Lenten promise not to curse).

I had a bad argument with the husband last night, fueled by a very good Belgian beer that loosened my tongue to express my sentiment that the husband is, in many ways, just as selfish as the members of my family that he is so fond of casting himself as more supportive than.  My proof was his declaration that if a certain deadline was not met, then he would not participate in the activity.

I told him that he was putting me in an uncomfortable spot.  He felt that his decision was going to help.  We disagreed.  The discussion continued in the car and again, I stated that it just seemed that whenever these ultimatums are made, my feelings are not generally considered.  That while I am critical of my family for acting in a way that places me in a very uncomfortable place (because their denial, selfishness, obstinance, etc. rarely considers the impact and toll this is all taking on me), it does not help that he expresses his discontentment in ways that put the blame on me as well.

I will not recount how the argument ended, but I will focus on how I feel today.  Because for the life of me, I am sitting here trying to figure out why I have not walked out on everything--my family, my obligations, my marriage--EVERYTHING.  Clearly since it would take extreme overreaction on my part to get anyone's attention anyway.

Two months ago, there was some drama at a meeting I attended and as a result, the event at issue was a smashing success.  And it should have been, but for my stuff, not nearly the same type of response.  Even if I did cry (which I did over another matter), my tears move anthills, not mountains.  And I show up and do my very best, often ALONE without much help from anyone else.  I don't want a parade.  I just want someone to know that I give it the best that I have without the manipulative theatrics, and just would like for it to mean more than just the occasional pat on the back.

Take last year when my mother-in-law passed.  I never said a word about how I felt completely slighted by my in-laws, but especially my own husband.  I took the bus to New York to be with him.  I stayed up half the night packing for him.  I wrote his mother's obituary and planned the funeral program.  I had to miss most of the repast because I had to take my brothers to the ferry.  And I spent that night alone in her apartment because he went out with his best friend.  NOT once has he even asked how I felt about any of this.  He just took it for granted that I did not mind.

And here is the kicker--I feel guilty about even expressing how I feel. 

And that is the story of my life.  I do the best I can to be present, to give it my best and I have nothing to show for it.  I am supposed to be content with a warm fuzzy glow or with the illusory promise of heavenly reward.  What crap.

I don't even know how to be selfish.  What else would I do if I were not taking care of my mother?  I'd be sitting around writing pieces like this about feeling guilty that I left her care to someone else.  As much as I need professional help to tackle this house, I would feel guilty about having to pay someone to clean up after me.  I love my niece, but I want my own family; clearly that is not going to happen for me at 38 years old and counting without the miracles of modern medicine.  And since I'm being so honest, I need the help of modern medicine because things are not working the natural way at all.  I want to make my own money, but I have failed at every turn--jobs and businesses alike and for the same stupid reasons.  Because I always have work to do for the things that need to get done, there are not that many invitations that come my way. 

I am a miserable.  I am a failure.  I am a miserable failure.  That is something I do well, but again, no one notices.

Circles

We were doing very well for a time, but then there was Friday...

And after listening to the most deluded monologue of ostrich-head-in-the-sand-because-the-truth-is-just-too-unpleasant-to-accept craziness, I am now wracked with doubt.  Maybe I am the deluded one?

A moment to review the last few weeks...we started a new medication and despite a few bumps things seemed very promising.  We were stablizing, and though I have to admit that a part of me had begun to experience the could-it-be euphoria that almost always means that things are too good to be true, it felt great to get a lot done last week without any major hiccups.

Then it was time for a refill and the decision was made to consolidate two doses into one.  And another decision was made to administer those doses in the morning.

On Friday, my mother walked home from the hair salon after waiting 15 minutes for me to come get her.  She denounced me as her daughter.  I left my brother's car running on Minnesota Avenue.  I think the guy who stopped to offer to help us probably was a cop who was trying to justify his gut instinct to have me arrested for assault. 

Then I took my niece to the museum to see the dinosaurs.  Today I took Mom to see a Monet.

This is taking a toll.  I gave up cursing for Lent, so that has meant more alcohol.  I refilled my anxiety prescription and have been using it.  I worry about my blood pressure and what would happen if I dropped dead--what in the world would I wear to my grave?

I have no other way of expressing how this is making me feel except for off-beat and inappropriate humor.  I have to carry on because no one is all that interested in feeling my pain.  Not even the folks who are supposed to be enduring this same nightmare.  Which is why I am questioning whether I am actually caught up in the Matrix...or in the Adjustment Bureau.

Here is the thing--I've been having my doubts about whether I am forcing acceptance of something that might not be as severe as I have imagined.  But every time I get through one phase, I get some independent confimation that no, I am not just some masochist who hates her mother and wants her to be sick so that everyone in the family can depend on me to make up for the fact that I probably will not have anything else going on in my life for the foreseeable future.  This is really not about me, is it?

But I swear, every single time I think we've turned a corner...we have, but it is a wall, just like in a maze. 

Better yet, I feel like a dog that keeps chasing its tail.  I see it, I can almost bite it, but I fail.  Of course, if I actually succeeded, I'd be biting myself in the a$$.

For the Record

Today was a good day until it was not a good day.  Then it became a lousy day.

This morning my aunt called to warn me that my mother was in a bad mood, so I decided to take my time getting ready to leave.  I drank three cups of coffee.  I watched music videos, then a few minutes of Lethal Weapon II.  I put away a lot of my clothes and I packed my things.  I decided to dress nicely, so I took my time to apply some makeup as well.  And then, when it because clear that I was stalling, I hurried out of the house.

It would have been SOOO much better if I had just stayed put. 

For Lent I have decided to give up cursing, which is really hard when dealing with a difficult person who suffers with dementia.  Everything was fine when I walked into the house, but once I got out of the bathroom, all heck broke loose.  (See how hard it is not to curse?)

I have suggested that members of my family are selfish and stupid and while I might edit those statements for posterity, I am not going to edit the sentiment here...Yes, members of my family are absolutely selfish.  And I am the stupid one.

For the record, I just want to say that I am really trying to be a good daughter.  But I feel like that daughter from the Joy Luck Club who sacrificed her flesh for her dying mother and still her family disowned her.  My family probably will not disown me, but at times it seems that the sacrifices that I make are just all in my head.

And can I also just say for the record that I am not thin-skinned.  There are callouses all over my body from the wounds inflicted over the years.  And just because I get upset every now and then, that does not mean that I do not deserve any empathy!

So at the beginning of this Lenten season when I really want to curse, especially at God, I will hold my tongue. 

Where to Begin

I watched the Alzheimer's special about Glen Campbell today and just visited Maria Shriver's website.  I wish I had not done this.

All of the stories about Alz patients end the exact same way.  Loved ones die.  People who were intelligent, vibrant, and engaging become forgetful, withdrawn, and paranoid.  They become helpless.  And they die.

I cannot wrap my head around this eventuality.  I am going to lose my mother to this horrible disease.

Of course, I do not know this yet because we do not have a definitive diagnosis.  And as long as some members of my family bask in the luxury and carelessness of their wanton igorance, I just have to try to stay calm.  I just need to pray.

I am she of little faith...

The website invites caregivers to share their stories, and I was tempted, but for what purpose?  To know that one day someone will be desperate for answers and may stumble across my ramblings and discover that they too are going through Hell?  Yes, this is hell, even on days when we only have a minor meltdown.

By minor meltdown, I mean on a day when there is only one slammed door or perhaps one indignant declaration that she is in charge and that it is her house and whatever else she decides someone has not appropriately acknowledged.  On those days when the meltdowns are more like thermal nuclear reactions, well...

And this is what I do not see in the stories of others--how to deal with someone who is determined to be angry about any little thing.  Someone who has become so self-centered and totally unaware of the tumult she causes with her anger, especially when the target of her ire can barely reason herself.  How are we supposed to diffuse those atom bombs?  I guess the answer is to take cover.

By the Way

I am back to blogging.  And drinking.  Red wine.  Lots of Spanish reds.  And no, every post will not be about my mother and her dementia even though that is the single most significant thing that is happening in my life right now.

I might blog about the Baby Niece.  Or about politics (because I got pretty fired up about the Planned Parenthood vs. Komen Foundation spat today).  Or about how I have no money and no desire to do much of anything except drink red wine every night.

I might blog about this baby that the husband and I are trying to have.  Yes, I might be amenable to getting knocked up because for some reason, I think a baby is exactly what I need to feel better about my sorry life right now.  And yes, if I get preggers, I will knock off the red wine!

I can blog about all sorts of whackitude because in spite of my terminal depression, I still have a sense of humor.  Wait, all of that stuff goes on the BBW blog...so I guess that means I am back to blogging there too (I am, starting tomorrow).

Ciao!

Thieves in the Temple

My mother insists that people are stealing her things even though she is constantly moving things around.  She has lost her drivers' license, credit cards, hats, scarves, pajamas, purses and many other items of clothing because 'strangers' are roaming through HER house.

There are no strangers in the house.  Nothing has been stolen.  Items that were lost are miraculously found days, weeks and even months later.  But none of that matters because in her mind, she is not losing anything.

Especially not her mind.

When she lost her ids back in Novemer, I spent several hours looking through her drawers, which are now all filled with useless, rubber-banded together pay stubs, letters and other assorted crap dating back to 2008.  I had determined that it was time to call the DMV the very day that she claims her items were returned.  My useless brother claims that she found everything because he chose not to affix her patch that morning.

No, she is not losing her mind at all.  I am.

More Drama from My Mama

I ruined my mother's birthday dinner by refusing to attend after an especially ridiculous episode wherein she walked up to the bank...again.

My mother and I spoke yesterday morning around 10 or 11am, can't remember, but it doesn't matter because at no point during that conversation did she mention that she needed to go to the bank.  Once a week now, she goes to the bank to withdraw money that she doesn't spend because I spend my husband's money and my aunt spends her unemployment whenever we go out.  When I spoke to my mother, I told her to expect me that afternoon since I was at home with the plumber.  She told me that she and my aunt had plans to go out, so I called my aunt to tell her that the entire family had dinner plans that night and to invite her to tag along.

Fast forward two hours after I left messages for my aunt, my mother and my father.  I got a call from my aunt informing me that my mother was not at home and that she had been outside waiting for a while and had to use the bathroom.  I stopped what I was doing, made a quick pit stop, grabbed my keys and headed over to my parents' house.  I suspected that my mother had walked up to the bank again, but I drove like a bat out of hell anyway because of this lingering fear that one day, she might have another destination in mind...

I get a call when I am about to reach my exit from my aunt, and of course the connection is bad.  I presume that all is well but since I am now on their side of town, I have to go by the house.  I call my aunt again and she tells me that my mother is at home, so when I arrive at the house, I let myself in and am greeted by my aunt and my mother's angry face from the kitchen.

I guess she thought I was over-reacting because she was just fine and in the kitchen cooking dinner even though we just spoke about the dinner plans for the evening a few hours earlier.  Actually, she does not say anything about the fact that I am out of breath, stinky from not having taken a shower yet, but she does snap that she knows where her cell phone is when I ask.  My aunt plays interference and it occurs to me that I am far from calm even though I am trying to maintain my cool.  After a few more snarky responses to my questions, I decide to leave (although I did make it clear that I was leaving to avoid having an aneurysm).  Once I am back in my car, I call the husband and declare that I will not attend my mother's birthday dinner that evening.

And that is how I ruined her birthday.