Extremely. Disgustingly. Fail. At. Life.
I had to run out mid-writing the last entry and pick up the EX from school. I had his van because I was helping him move, and then we had to get the kids from my Grandma's. I ran to the store and got lunch for them as it was so late, and got him a sandwich. Didn't have the time to run me and the kids back home and drive back to school himself and just park there. So he drove there, got out, and I drove the kids and I home so they could eat and then it was time to rush my son to school.
Came home, still can't find the damn TV remote so I had to crouch down by the cable box (it's on the floor) and change channels for the youngest that way. Why is that detail important? You'll find out later.
Anyway, had to go, get the EX. We make it to the art store because I learned that I didn't buy the proper size drawing paper for class that starts... oh, you know. Tomorrow?
Actually, first we checked office depot, since that was the only place I could even find the drawing pad I needed for my last two classes. Oddly enough, but okay.
They didn't have the size I needed, they had one that was close. 11 x 15 but I needed 11 x 14. I am not sure if it's DEMANDED to be that specific size, or if close to is good enough, but for me. It has to be.
Make it to the art store, yay! they had it, in excess. Lots of different types. Oh god, I had to make a choice on things?! That took some waffling while I'm being kind of rushed because it's 1:24 and the ex has an appointment at 2 someplace maybe 5 minutes away. Ummm... okay?
Buy drawing book, one with lots of pages and it was on sale $10.50 instead of $19. Yay! Really lovely, I just want to snuggle it and draw lots of pictures and do really well in class though at the same time I absolutely just want to quit school and life in general and I am just. Done. Done done done.
Drop the EX off at his appointment early, o.o Okay. Drive home, it's 2 by the time I get there. Err, here. Anyway.
What. The. Flying. Fuck?! Today.. TODAY is the FIRST day In 13 1/2 months, the entire time I've... we've lived in this place. That I have the key. It's MINE on MY key ring. Oh god the power!
Not there, not in my purse. But I locked the door. I don't lock it from the inside and then close it. Not usually anyway. So.. how?!
I take EVERY LAST THING out of my purse. No keys. Gone.
I search the entire porch/deck. No, not there.
No, inside the van? No... again in the van? No, ground again? No. Porch again? No.
Purse again? No.
Grass even though I was not on it during that time? No.
I call 411.
I CALLED a place. Holy crap. I spoke to a human I don't know.
Called the art store.
No keys. You could NOT miss my keys. I have lots of keychains and things. There is NO missing K's (mine) key's!
Not there, not outside. The lady was sweet enough to check.
So I call the office supply store, grumpy man says no one has turned them in,
Still. I'm LOCKED out my house here. I can't exactly just sit around on my hands right?
So I drive across town (obviously, I have Ex's keys. Otherwise I couldn't be driving his van... Which I am luckily still insured on so I can do this driving around stuff with/for him when he feels like he wants me to/needs me to.), to the office supply store. I park in the EXACT parking spot. The youngest and I scan the parking lot as we retrace our footsteps. I'm >thisclose< to crying and freaking out. My typical reaction to stressful situations like this. Cry and freak out and I realize that when this happens, I'm no better than a toddler crying over their teddy bear gone missing when it's only in the wash as it's dirty.
"So I went here, and stopped to look at this." I stop, and look around. The youngest goes "I'm only looking at the floor Mommy, so I can find yours keys" (she's 4 1/2, she talks like that a little still. Yes.) for which I thank her for.
She talks through what she did as I talk through my walk through. "and I farted here," she says. I manage a giggle, thank you youngest. For helping sooth that inner toddler of mine, without even trying.
"and I burped here too." She's completely serious as she says these things. It's just a matter of fact, and that's all it is to her. Still, it calms my insides, at least a little.
We retrace all our steps, all the way back to the car. We get on our hands and knees and look through different parking spaces. Perhaps a car tire had pushed them someplace?
I drive the exact route the EX was driving, and make it back to the art store.
Again, we make commentary on our actions as we look through the store. Doing so is the only way I'm not a crying, whimpering, sniveling mess.
No keys. The lady says "still didn't find them?" and we converse briefly, and I'm starting to tear up.
I go out and check the small parking lot. The space we had is occupied by this huge beast of a SUV that's had a lady just sitting in there the entire time I've been there. She just stares at me with this "what the fuck are you doing walking around right here you crazy bitch?!" look on her face.
So I back off and go sit in the ex's van.
I'm trembling, I get the youngest in and I start crying. Slowly, quietly. Trying to breathe and calm down, yet failing to do so. I'm trying to do my best to keep my composure, cry like an adult or something. That works until the ex calls. I'd tried to contact him twice (yes, despite the fact that he's at an appointment. He's the only one that might have a clue on the key situation.)
He calls and goes, "what's up?"
"I can't find my keys..."
I manage to sniffle, my voice catching.
"I'm sorry what?"
"I ... lost... my keys!" I'm starting to panic, I can't control what's washing over me.
"I'm not understanding you"
I lose it, I'm crying harder. "My..M...My key..keys! I can't find them! I lost them!" I wail desperately at him, my head going to rest on the steering wheel.
"What??" He says. I wonder if he's holding his phone to his bad ear??
"I LOST MY KEYS!! MY KEYS MY KEYS!! I LOST THEM! THEY'RE GONE!" My voice is shrill now, like a child who's favorite toy in the world has just been run over or they witnessed the most horrific event in the universe right out their bedroom window, or maybe 5 feet from their face.
I'm hysterical now. I cannot control the wave crashing over me even as I attempt to use anything from my distraction plan. Digging my nails into my arm doesn't help, trying to breathe doesn't help as I cannot manage my brain and body to work together to breathe slowly and calmly at the moment, counting in my head doesn't help. I can't leave the situation, since the situation is one that I need to FIND and not run from. I'm screwed. Holy crap am I screwed.
"Oh? Oh really? Did you check.."
I cut him off, crying louder, voice cracking and squeaking, "I checked EVERYWHERE! The van, more than once! the ground more than once! the porch! it's not like it was one tiny key to fall in the cracks! I have all those key-chains and things you know?!? It'd never make it through! I even called places! I walked through both places! They're gone! they're gone! I don't know what to do now! I can't get in my house! my first day with the key and I can't get into my house! I can't drive my van! what am I going to do?!"
He says some words to calm me down and eventually I'm able to drive again, to go pick him up from his appointment. I apologize to the youngest for my crying and freaking out and explain to her that mommy isn't doing so good with the stress. She says that it's okay, and that they have to be somewhere.. *sigh* Somehow, a 4 1/2 year old is more emotional mature than I am.
Ex drives after I pick him up, I recheck the van, he checks the van, we recheck the van. We check the college where I'd picked him up at. Nope, not there. He checks two different places just in case they've been located and turned in. No.
We head home, he looks around the porch, the ground, the van again, I check the van again. I'm slightly more calm, I'm desperate to push down the tidal wave and keep it down. It's raising so fast, but I'm struggling for control yet again. This time I keep it, aside from tearing up as we're driving to the school to get the kids.
I try and stay okay. My eyes sting, my face is read, I'm a mess and only minutes away from having to face Dr. J... I should give her the respect she deserves for all her hard work right?
I tell the kids I love them, and I'll see them when I'm done. They have no idea that I go to the doctor weekly because I'm such a mental case. I never tell them exactly what I do there, or why. Just that I have an appointment every Wednesday.
The wait in the waiting room wasn't too bad. I was nervous, and toyed with my phone after checking through my purse again, and again. It's almost 4pm now and my keys have been missing two hours.
God let me curl up in a ball and just die now.
Dr. J doesn't make me wait so long this time. That was nice of her. She gave me a smile and said good day as I'm walking in. I manage I weak hi, and how're you as we walk towards her office.
"So how has the week been?"
"Not really very good," I say softly, trying to keep back that tidal wave of tears.
"Well, I guess we'll have to talk about it wont we?"
I cried more this session, and shared more this session than I ever have before.
At times I could not do anything other than hide my face, crying desperately hard, unable to control myself as I rocked the chair back and forth. Eventually crossing my legs to sit as you would sit on the floor with them pretzeled in front of you. Rocking back and forth, grabbing more tissues as I need them. "I just want to be done. I can't do this anymore at all! I just can't. It's too much. I can hardly get out of bed, I just hate it. I want to be done! I'm done! This is... this is..."
I cry for a time again, hopelessly lost to myself, "This is why I want to quit school and give the kids to their dads even more! Because I cannot do this. I cannot take care of it. I just need to be done!"
More just me crying as I rock back and forth some more.
"Client is uncooperative and difficult!" she says in a playful tone at me, before going serious.
I cry more, another couple of minutes or so, perhaps even just thirty second. I can't tell anymore, tick past and Dr. J clicks her pen a couple of times. She says something, but I don't remember what.
Oh,wait. Yes I do...
"Do you really want to abandon your kids like your mother did you?" Her voice is calm, non-judgmental.
I cry even harder, I feel sick to my stomach, like I want to throw up and I hate myself even more.
"No!" I wail desperately into my hands as I start rocking in the chair, this was before I curled up my legs. Basically right before it. My hands still hidden by my hands. Tissue after tissue used for my snot and tears. "But I'm fucking them up! They shouldn't have to suffer through me! They should at least be with the more sane parent! Everything online says 'don't have kids!' or 'take your kids and run!' for people like me.. I can't do this! I don't want them messed up and having to be in therapy for issues because of my issues!" I'm yelling, my tears are flowing, the snot is plugging up my nose, I sound like a 5 year old throwing a tantrum after being told no to something, or not to do something, or being sent to their room for something.
"What's wrong with therapy?" She asks, still calm. It's frustrating. I HATE her for her calmness in this moment. For asking me questions, because I just want to cry about it, I just want her to shut up and listen and not say a damn thing about anything!
"They shouldn't have to be in this spot!" I manage, my voice starting to choke up again. "I never want them to have to sit in this chair! I don't want them to be like me! I don't want them to be hurt, and damaged! I don't want them to suffer!!!" I'm yell/crying even more, sometimes looking at her. Sometimes not.
Hiding my face in my hands some more, shaking in the chair, rocking the chair, I tuck my legs up sometime around here. I refuse to look at her, or say anything, I try and stifle my crying so I'm hardly breathing. Shaking my head and acting oddly as I wipe at my tears without a tissue for a little bit.
"Why should they never be there?" She asks, or something close to this wording.
"Because! They should never be in this spot, because otherwise they'll never be in THAT spot, or any good spot!" I cry, waving my hand at her chair with frustration.
The conversation turns as she gets into assumptions.
We talk about how I blow things out of proportion at times. How on Monday I was so upset because it was snowing fairly hard, but it ended up being far less than half an inch and all melted by the end of the day. Still in the morning, I'd gotten so upset and made assumptions about things.
She then tells me, that she's suffered from depression since she was a teenager. That she's on medication. She reads me a story about a Law Professor who succeeds despite Schizophrenia. How about one of the other counselors has massive anxiety, and is on medication too. How it's not that hopeless and how with the right medication and things, that it can be better. How BPD is curable.
I start crying again, tugging at my shirt and rocking the chair as I whimper wondering how long it's going to take. How am I going to manage things? How I can hardly even manage to make sure the dishes get washed now, how my kids are suffering just knowing me.
"Are you abusing or neglecting your kids?" She asks with a raised eyebrow.
"I don't know!" I sniffle with a huff as I lower my head some and hide my eyes with a tissue. "Probably! I yell too much, I don't make dinner every day that's proper. I don't clean up after them all the time and I have a hard time getting out of bed in the morning and doing stuff!" I cry harder into my tissue, and soon enough need another.. and another..
"But do they eat?" She asks, still calm, serious, knowing full well I'm being utterly ridiculous yet not reacting to my currently uncontrollable outburst.
"Well, yeah! Of course they do, just not... I just don't!" I can't find anything to really say, "I just don't cook for them all the time like I should, I get take out, or easy things, or.. or.. or have them have breakfast things! I don't make them breakfast and..."
"So they eat, and they're old enough to get their own breakfasts right?"
"Right..." I say, blowing my nose and rubbing at my eyes, brushing some of my bangs out of my face.
"Are they walking around filthy smeared with feces?"
"Oh hell no! of course not!" The more reasonable, firm, adult manages to come out for that part. Not for very long.
As we get back into my general misery and how I have no support from people who are nearby. Or next to no. How I should get a break, yet get none. How the youngests dad doesn't want her to visit at his apartment, he wont let her, he wont take her for a weekend. We have no parenting plan even though I suggested we do one similar to the one my ex-husband and I have. He'll just want to come over and see the kids. He'll have to intrude on my space.
We also get into my undying, over the top, fear of CPS. How they were called on me shortly after my oldest sister's children were taken away from her for actual abuse. A call I hadn't made, but she thought I had made. It was likely a retaliation on her behalf. My sister is vicious like that, directing things towards me that I have never done, and have never imagined doing. Though yes, I did want to call, but she was.. err.. is.. blood. I didn't have the heart to.
So they tell me, as they come one day when I am all of 17 and struggling with depression as is. All the things they heard, and they had to check on. A friend had come to visit during lunch break at school, the school was next door. CPS said, "You can't have friends come over. It's not good for your daughter." Basically, I was told I had to be isolated, no one could come over even for 30 minutes to visit me and have lunch.. Because I had a kid?
They, of course, found nothing wrong. Obviously I wasn't abusing my daughter, who was laughing, happy, snuggling me, begging me to read her a story as the CPS worker talked to me and took an inspection of my apartment that I was trying so hard to keep up despite a very active 15 month old and my depression that made it hard to even want to eat or breathe most days.
Things got harder from there, I broke down and tried to kill myself. Okay, sort of. I didn't cut very deep and despite my efforts the tylenol did nothing again. I was committed to the psych ward again after that, only for roughly 5 days that time. I don't remember, it felt like forever. I was away from my poor daughter and I needed her so desperately. Really, she was all I had in the world, all I was allowed in the world. CPS had taken away my ability to have a social life. I was scared from then on out to EVER have anyone set foot in anyplace I lived after that. It's part of why I struggle with the kids having friends over. I have this horrific fear of it.
I am not safe. They will take my kids. If I don't try and do everything exactly perfect and make sure the kids have nothing wrong with them EVER.. CPS WILL come, they WILL take the kids, I WILL NEVER SEE THEM AGAIN! I confess to Dr. J..
And she just looks at me, I can't tell what her facial expression is. I can't read anything about her because of all the pain inside me as I cry and realize just how absolutely crazy I am.
She tries to tell me that it was so many years ago. It was 9 years ago. Almost 10 now. I was a teenager then and it should be different now.
"It's not! Because this is (state!), and that was (state!). But this state is worse! No one gives a crap! They're just there to take your kids!" In response to her saying that it takes A LOT to get your kids taken away.
"No! they WANT to take them! They just want to find a way to take them away! They're GOING TO TAKE THEM AWAY!" I'm getting into hysterics again.
I'm not 100% sure, at the moment I'm writing this... what happens from there.
I know that eventually I'm rocking in the chair again, I'm calm again, she's talking soothingly and I'm trying to listen and look at her. Trying to give attention, trying to be okay. ((oh damn! I left chapter 2 of the DBT book at her office! blargh!)
I again say that I just need to be done, that I need to move away, that I am going to quit college "No, you are absolutely not!" She says, looking at me astonished that I could say such a thing. She's not angry, but there is a certain tone to her voice along with a slightly higher volume. Not much of a reaction...
"I am! I just can't do it anymore! After my final project for my last class I am just so worn out, I am done! I just can't do the stress anymore!"
"But you're not going to quit, because you are doing so well in it!" she says, rather praisefully I'd have to say. "You are still doing well right?"
She says I'm highly intelligent, I always give a 'yeah right' look to the side as she says it. I wonder if she notices.
"Well yeah.. but I just... I need to be done, with everything, I just need to give up.."
The appointment draws to it's end after some more talking. She sits there quietly, I sit there hunched in almost a ball. Still curled up in the chair a bit, my purse hanging off my right knee. Safe. I wont lose it too.
"Are you going to be okay? Do you need to check into KMC?"
"What? What's that?"
"The hospital, do you need to be inpatient?"
I feel that panic raise again, as the tears spring to my eyes. Even trying to dig my fingernails into my palms to distract from all the pain that I couldn't control this session, is failing me.
"No! No because if I do that, then.. then they really will take my kids away forever! I'll never get them back!"
"Are you sure?" she raises an eyebrow, really curious on if I truly believe that. Which I do, and if they'd truly do that, which I really think they would. She also wonders if I'll really be okay.
"I'll..... I'll be okay. I mean. It takes too much effort to kill myself. I'm too lazy for that. I'll be okay. I don't have the energy to put the effort into it. Yeah.. I'm fine," I manage while getting my tears mostly under control.
"Well, I'm worried about you. When do you see Ruth again?"
"Tomorrow, tomorrow at 2:30" I manage, another tissue makes its way into the garbage and I grab another one.
"So you'll be done by 3 then?" She looks thoughtful. "When you're done, I want you to check in with me okay? Because... I'm worried you might hurt yourself."
"I'm... okay. I will... I'll be okay. I wont... because... well.. yeah.. I'm too lazy to do it. Okay?"
"Well, at least check and see if I'm with a client. If not, don't bother. But I do want you to check in with me at 3 tomorrow okay? Are you sure that you don't need to go in?" She seems really concerned. More than my mom ever seemed when I was in this much trouble in my head.
"Y.. yeah.. I'll be alright. I can't go in, if I go, they'll take them.. they'll take them and I'll never see them again. S..So I wont.. do anything. Because they can't take them..." The very kids I consider giving up so that they don't suffer so much. I love so much. Are the ones I absolutely do not want to live without at the very same time. It's such a conflicting thing.
"Alright, well. Our time is up," she says, as we both stand. "Are you sure?"
"Yes... I'm sure..." I manage, sniffling as I walk out the door as she holds it open. "B..besides.. I have to go home, and do the laundry and make sure I didn't break the washer. I couldn't get the cold water to work... on the normal setting. Because I thought I put it from warm to cold, but I put it at hot, and when I tried to change it to cold. It messed up!" my speech is rapid and racing. I want her attention still, I don't want to leave her side. I don't want to leave the comfort I feel even though I may be acting like a little baby in her office. I don't want to leave the way I feel in there, the way it's one of the safest places in the world.
"Hmm, really?" She shakes her head looking thoughtful.
"What?" I look up at her, wide eyed and curious. Really what?
"They're their dads, they should be making sure they have clean clothes too."
"Yeah..well... well not my ex. He likes to do this thing you see? Where I send them with clothes and he doesn't send them back sometimes? And he did this game before, for awhile.. before.. Where I'd send them with clean fitting clothes, fairly new, or used but still new to them.. and they'd come back only with things that were dirty.. and didn't fit at all..."
She looks displeased and goes "hmm" again, shaking her head.
"I still think you need a break. You don't get any breaks or time to recuperate from being with them all the time, from any of your stress at all."
"Yeah... I know.." I look at the ground as I walk towards the door that leads out to the waiting room, she's at my side.. but a little ahead.
She sighs a little as she holds open the door, "Try and see me tomorrow okay? I need to be sure you're going to be okay." She looks down on me in a way I am not sure I understand being directed towards me. Is it genuine concern and care on her face? I know how to feel concern and care towards my kids, and other people... but I am not sure what it really looks like when directed towards me from someone actually old enough to be my mother.
"Okay... I will try okay." I nod a little, "I'll be okay... I wont do anything." I walk through the door and she walks with me.
"I should just pick up this trash here..." she says idly. It's just trash, it's just conversation.
"Good luck finding your keys, be careful okay?"
"Have a good night, I'll see you tomorrow."
I don't look back at her, as I dig into my pocket for my phone. "Okay, you too..."
It appears that I have an even worse memory than I thought.
I had, indeed, locked the door from the inside.
My keys, it appears, were on the floor. Right in front of that cable box I spoke of before.
See? It was important.
I wish I had had the time to write this without someone coming in here every couple of minutes. I need the break. Like the says. I need the peace. I need the downtime.
I lost my purse when EX interrupted me writing this. "Can you use my card and pay my half of the cable bill?" Ugh... why not log into the site and do it yourself?! It's your bank account, your cable bill account! I am busy and trying to write for my own good here!
"Yeah.. Okay, just give me a second."
I hide this blogger tab from view and log into the site quickly. So he doesn't know the name of this. So he can't find me.
I ask the oldest, who had decided to pop in yet again even though I'd asked for the chance to write this in peace.. many times... for a hug... to grab my purse for me.
It's not where I swear I put it.
I panic, at least inside. As I get up, looking all around my room. Looking where I thought it was. I ask her to check the van. I'm struggling to control my breathing with slow, even, thought out breaths as I dig my fingers into the palms of my hands and try to suck back the tears that well up into my eyes. This day is too much..
It's not in the van. I look more in my room and then realize it.
Maybe it's there?
On top of the dryer. Remember that laundry? The washer is okay, and I'd run a load of laundry seconds after walking back in the door.
Pay his part of the bill with internal cursing at his pure laziness, and my doormatness for allowing this crap to happen to me....
and write... more interruptions..
My left palm hurts the worst.
I've taken to biting my nails.
A habit I never had before. I hate it. My nails hardly are strong enough to grow as it is. So what I have now, are ugly and uneven from my biting.
I finally managed a shower today. I haven't since... did I say when I last did before? Perhaps it was Friday? No. I think last Thursday. I've resorted to wiping down with a wet washcloth and using baby powder at times to soak up the greasiness of my hair as a fix to look at least... somewhat.. decent for public few.
I also washed the dishes, which needed done since Saturday.
Or perhaps it was Friday evening.
Yet when I had told the girls I needed them to do it last night, I then realized it was too late and they needed showers more than the dishes needed washed.
I can take care of them.... better than myself anyway...
But I can't take care of myself very well yet.
God how do I handle this?
Perhaps. Really. I do need more time within a hospital. More time where I am able to focus on me, to have some measure of control taken away and have people help me...
But they'll be taken away.
They'll be taken away and I will never get them back.
My ex-husband will pull them away from me.
I try so hard for them. So so hard.
So I cannot try for myself.
Not that anyway.
Even if it'd be good.
Because then I'd lose them. Forever.
What would I do then? I'd die. He'd get them away.
.... but what about me?
PS: Guess who's not moving out tonight? Who's only thing from here to his new place is... his dresser sans drawers?
Yeah. That's right.
I have to help him move his box spring back to his room. Geez.