Rock Bottom, Hit

Have you ever been so sad that you can’t move?  Feeling so depressed and rejected that even moving your face to cry is impossible?  Tears just roll down your cheeks? Chest unable to heave?

The feeling of unimportance finally proven to be true?  That all along fighting the thoughts of being unlovable were in vain?

All of those coping skills learned, all of the meds, all of the triumphs to succeed in life against incredible odds fail?

The betrayal so overwhelming and complete that your broken heart can’t move you?

The only way to tell these feelings is in a blog, because telling anyone else just makes you look more pathetic than you already feel?

This is the place I usually insert the last line of hope or whit not to worry anyone that I might finally crack.

This morning sitting comatose on my couch for the first time in my life might just be a step closer.





Is this rock bottom? Nope, not yet.

Time for some honesty.  My life has been hell for the last two years.  It wasn’t that great before divorce, but never like this.

My oldest daughter and I used to be so close, but since the divorce, it has changed.  She doesn’t text back, return phone calls or emails.  There are plenty of ideas going around that have nothing to do with me, but the evidence is irrefutable, it’s me.

My youngest daughter, who came out to me last summer, is transgender.  I’ve been coping, adjusting and trying to understand.  He’s moved in with his dad (and woman he was cheating on me with) last month and has cut off all contact with me.  If you will remember, his dad is a raging narcissist and still will not stop tormenting me.  I suspect Caleb is a border line.  Might as well throw that in to my family; border line, bipolar, narcissist….I’m surprised any of my children are functioning.

I have also be cut off by my beloved sister.  I guess mental illness and the drama of my marriage, divorce, transgender child was just too much for her.  I’ve sucked her dry.

My therapist is actually just trying to keep the boat afloat.  Trying to give me ways to cope, because facts are facts, all this shit is happening and I can barely come up for air before some other event occurs.

I had to call 911 on Caleb before he moved into his Dad’s because he threw a tantrum and was destroying my bedroom and bathroom.  Glass was everywhere and due to his mental health I was afraid for him.  No one from my family has asked me, what happened and how I am.  I am totally shut out.

What the hell is going on?  I am alone.  I’m supposed to be depending on my friends according to my therapist, but I’m not there yet.  It’s not the same.  I’ve never lived alone.  As with most mothers, my family has been a huge part of who I am and now they are all gone.

I’m sure it looks bad for me.  I must have done something.  I must be something to drive everyone away.  The only thing I am is … well the only thing I think I am is unimportant and not worth the effort.

I feel like shit right now.  I feel like shit everyday.  I’ll make it though and eventually get to enjoy my life.  I’ve been telling myself that for 52 years.


Rejection for Christmas

Christmas is approaching.  That’s when the old family hurts and feelings start to poke through the facade. Each year I wonder if it is easier to smile and ignore the past? So far it has been, but this year my skin feels a little thinner.

It begins when I start addressing Christmas cards. There are a few years here and there I haven’t had the mental strength to send them out and until now I haven’t realized why.

I tend to contemplate each relationship as I write the name and address on the envelope. I breeze through the names of my closest family members and friends, but then I inevitably have to write the names of those who have hurt me.  I start remembering events where I felt like an outsider, feeling misunderstood and just being downright mistreated.

And more hurtful than those names I write is the one I don’t, my mother’s.   Oh, my mother is alive and well. Physically that is.  To be kind, she is a little “off” mentally.  I don’t think this apple fell too far from the tree.  The difference is I am well and she refuses to be.  Therefore, with whatever  mental illness she suffers from she thinks she is better off without me.  I miss her. I’ve missed her for decades although it’s been only a year since I’ve seen her.

The biggest hurt was when she stopped sending me birthday cards.  That cut deep.  It’s been years and I still can’t come to terms with it.  We each have our breaking point. That is mine.

During this last year I have been tempted to contact her because, well I still miss her.  The idea will come and I will make a plan to call her.  Then the opportunity arises and I put it off.  Then I put it off again.  Next thing I know a week has gone by. I know why I don’t call, I fear the rejection.

I could go on and on about my mine and my mother’s history together, but I really don’t want to.  I’m tired of it all. Well, exhausted actually, otherwise I would dial her number again.