A 'LITTLE' (not) about me--
I am an only child. My mother was 5 months pregnant when she married a man that she barely knew and turned out to be an alcoholic and physically abusive. Before I had even reached 9 months of age, she had moved back in with my grandmother and we lived there all of my childhood life.
My mother and I never got along. There were many issues, including her immaturity with motherhood. She couldn't handle it. Although I had a hard time with the feeling of rejection as a child, I learned to not judge her as I grew older. She was 20 when she had me. I remember being 20 and there is no way I could have parented then. With anger also comes forgiveness--sometimes, anyway. I forgave her when I was 24, and the two of us became friends at that time.
My grandmother raised me. She was a strict and devout Catholic. She firmly believed in the "SPARE THE ROD, SPOIL THE CHILD" theory. Let's just say that, to this very day I do not keep my metal spatula in the utility draw. The sound of that draw opening still brings shivers down my spine.
My mother was atheist, and very angry with the Catholic Church as well. Because divorce was only accepted if you were a Kennedy back then, she was told she was a sinner and shunned from the church. She was extremely angry with them, and it caused many arguments between my grandmother's ideas and hers.
My grandfather was agnostic. He just kept his mouth shut. My grandmother ran the household, even in the days when June Cleaver wore pearls, high heels, and baked cookies.
I am thankful she brought me up instead of my mother, who was very dependent on my grandmother. I was out of the house at 18, in my own apartment, had a full time job and my own car. My mother lived at home until the day that she died.
I didn't have a great childhood--actually, it pretty much sucked. However, reading all of the stories about physical and sexual abuse on the web, my issues of emotional abuse are minor. The main thing in our house was that, you couldn't speak your own mind (you were called stupid), you couldn't make mistakes (there was something wrong with you), and you didn't cry (showed weakness).
I tend to turn into one screwed up broad sometimes--this is just a warning.
My grandmother died in 1984 and I felt as though I had lost my mother--she had raised me all of my life as a child and, I rarely had seen my mother.
I had a great young-adulthood however. I was quite the social butterfly. I really enjoyed myself, including living in Las Vegas for 7 years of my young life. I didn't settle down until I met my husband in 1985, and married him in 1987.
I was a cocaine addict before that. I have been clean since 1986. Before that, I dated a cocaine dealer--I need not say more except, I beat it on my own without any help. I know how hard addiction is but, it can be beaten. You just need to stay strong and committed.
We tried for 3 years to have children with no success. I finally gave up, believing I was--eh, hem--infertile. I lost 60 lbs.,(I am now overweight, but have always dealt with a weight issue, losing and regaining constantly), and got pregnant with my first child--Molly.
From there on, there was no stopping me. Molly was 2 when I found out I was carrying twins. Two boys, Sean and Ryan.
My years from hell began in September of 1996. I had a small argument with my mother one day and felt guilty, so I invited her over for breakfast. While cooking breakfast the phone rang and it was my grandfather (she lived in his home), stating that she wasn't feeling good. My mother was diabetic and tended to 'eat the bad things' constantly. I just figured she had done so and headed over to her house, which was in the city. It was about 20 minutes from where I live in the 'burbs'.
When I pulled up, my grandfather was standing outside. He was pacing, saying he thought she was dead. I ran into the house and found her--it was a terrible sight, for she looked as if she had been in severe pain and died that way. I won't go into any more detail, but this was the beginning of my PTSD. I often have attacks when I talk about that in length.
After that, it just kept going down hill. I have worked at home for all of my daughter's life, wanting to not make the mistake of 'not knowing my child' as my mother did. I had great pay and even greater contracts. When NAFTA passed, I started losing contracts to foreign countries. My largest contract, UPS went to Mexico. At that point, I had lost my bread and butter, but my husband still had a great job at Textron, and was about to hit the 15-year mark. All seemed okay.
He then was laid off. Here we were, with 3 children and both of us unemployed. Thankfully, I had my mother's life insurance to live on or we would have lost everything. He got another job almost immediately, but the pay was nowhere near the same as at Textron. We had entered the real world where, college meant more than experience. He had no college education but had worked at Textron all of his working life.
I found smaller contracts, which held us over with the life insurance money. I was on birth control--but I am that 1% of those that it turned out ineffective. I got pregnant--had no insurance because I was pregnant BEFORE my husband's new insurance kicked in. Things were slowly getting worse and worse.
I refused to have an abortion, even though my MIL tried to talk me into it. I wouldn't do it--I already had living children and I couldn't think of not having another one. My MIL knew I had one special needs child (Sean) and kept bringing up that, I couldn't 'deal' with another. It didn't matter to me. Even if the child had 5 heads and green fingers, I would have loved him or her just as much.
My 4th child, Conner was born dead, full term, and only days before his scheduled birth by c-section. His cord had knotted; having had all of that room in my womb from the twins I had previously. He was buried on his due date.
I went a little fruity at this point--actually, I went completely extreme to an extent. I couldn't stand ending my birthing days with a death. I felt my body betrayed me. I had to prove to myself that, I could birth living children. I became obsessed with becoming pregnant.
I had just given up, after months of crying over negative pregnancy tests when, I became pregnant--with twins again!
The problem was that, I had never been properly diagnosed by a psychiatric professional, nor was I allowed to grieve openly. I buried the grief, told that it might harm the babies I was carrying. I didn't know about the PTSD back then, and only thought I had anxiety problems. I couldn't take medication, so I was ‘raw’ during that entire time.
I won't go into details but will leave you with this image: I pictured aliens running around my yard, stealing babies and heard my dead son crying in the night, as I searched all over the house for him. I also kept seeing my dead mother, pointing her finger at me, and blaming me for fighting with her the day before her death.
It wasn't pretty.
I birthed my twin babies, 1 year and 2 days after the birth of my 4th child. Everything was said to be fine. My son had a cleft palate--just a small hole in the back of the top of his palate, but I was sent home, telling me it would be fine and 'probably close up on its own'. I believed them, not knowing that they NEVER close up on their own. I was also never told that, you have to feed children with Cleft differently. Within days, Colin showed signs of not thriving, and began having blue episodes.
I went for 6 months of hell, living in and out of intensive care with him as he continued to have blue episodes. Several times, they ended up having to revive him completely.
I will skip ahead and say that, thankfully--the cleft was repaired and he never had another issue with breathing again.
Taylor seemed fine until a series of vaccinations--but, I have already written about that in another entry. She is severely autistic and Colin is diagnosed with PDD. In other words, I have 3 special needs children with severe issues.
Some people know that, after the loss of a child marriages can have problems. This was so with my husband and I. Add in two new special needs children and all 3 needing 24-hour care, the camel's back broke. We were separated several times, and are now on 'agreement'--I will go into that at another time. (STOP APPLAUDING).
There are days when I swear I will break. There are other days when, I don't want to get out of bed--but, I do. I have no choice. Without me, these kids wouldn’t have a chance. My husband can't deal with it and I have no family or friends that can help.
It also has its rewards as well. I have seen major breakthroughs in all the kids, just in the past year. Those breakthroughs keep me going--even though it involves very little sleep and constant devotion.
That is my prolific writing for the day. (Okay, I can hear the cheers! STOP THAT!)