Boo suffered Night Terrors since she was old enough to dream, I think…
Even before the attack on her mother – by her father, she always openly dreaded sleeping. She struggled mightily against the act of actually falling asleep since she was a newborn, seriously…she used to do regular face plants into her cereal bowl at night in her high chair at the kitchen table with her father and I. Even as an infant, her sleeping schedule was that of a middle-aged, workaholic adult.
I remember so many frustrating nights with her in her room, trying to lull her to sleep somehow: through traditional bedtime stories, songs, back and/or arm “tickles”, just my quiet presence in the bed beside her little, restless form. I remember how she used to draw invisible things on the wall with her tiny finger in the darkness, in total silence, thinking about Gods know what…I don’t know if Boo still has Night Terrors, but… I would venture to guess her Night Terror has likely evolved into something much more horrible than it ever could have been during her childhood. I wish I knew my Boo at all, anymore…
I can say that I now suffer from something similar to the psychological thing known as Night Terrors, as well. Oddly I didn’t experience anything like it throughout my surgeries and hospitalization period – maybe my brain just wasn’t capable of such things back then, who knows? It’s only getting worse as time goes by, too – it’s becoming kind of a problem for me as of late…I can’t really sleep anymore. I just semi-sleep on the tacky surface of this place called Slumber…I ‘dream’ in rapid succession non-stop from the time I sort of fall asleep until I finally “wake up” between 5 and 5:30am in a fucking layer of Jello-sweat and barely able to catch my breath. I usually can’t recall any details of my nightmares …I just know that whatever is happening in my dream-scape is stuff that leaves me feeling terrified and jumpy and paranoid as fuck for the first few hours of every day…no fun. My therapist always defaults everything that I go through during the Holiday Season back onto that factor in itself – especially these days, since I truly and genuinely HATE this season with all of my hollow heart. But I’m just not so sure that he gets me completely, so I continue to doubt his generalized and seemingly lazy opinions of me and my issues.
(They say that’s a red flag symptom of mental illness/instability: second-guessing your shrink like it’s a sport and you’re the Champion) …Fuck ’em….
I do not want to start having to take pills to sleep; I also don’t want to gradually become so delirious from lack of sleep that I lose it, altogether…I don’t want to face the Holidays all over again when I feel like I am still not even recovered from last year’s painful experiences with it…I wish it were different – I used to love the Holidays; I wish I weren’t stuck in this precariously teetering state on the ledge anymore – I wish I could just suck it up and BUST A GRAPE – good, bad, or life-sentence. There is no “better” in the future when it comes to Boo and me; and it hurts like Hell.
Objective: Seeking full-time sanity and normalcy; but will compromise for part-time or swing shift if full-time sanity is unavailable.
- Will relocate if necessary; given relocation costs are at least reimbursed, in part. (I am willing to pay for this goal out of pocket.)
Birth – 1995: Drug Addict/criminal
1994 – 2001: Wife/hostage to a Psychopathic Murderer
2001 – 2003: MAJOR TRAUMATIC INJURY/long-term hospitalization/countless surgeries
2003 – 2009: Mother/gladiator
2009 – Present: Grieving Mother/local government hostage/ticking time bomb
The reasons I feel that I am a good candidate for sanity and normalcy are pretty straightforward:
- I crave both things deeply and genetically.
- I would not abuse either one in any way.
- Without my achieving one or the other fairly soon, everybody involved better watch the fuck out.
I’m crying a lot again lately…the Holidays, I assume…
the point of my post is not to gain pity from anyone reading this, it’s simply an observation that I’ve made over the past week about my own tears and the way that they seem to work.
I blew my nose this morning after a disgusting sneezing/coughing fit (yes, I have the creep and bronchitis still…), and was somehow given the cursedly magical flashback of a time during Boo’s earliest years alive – she was probably around 3 or so; she inherited her mother’s schedule-bending allergies, and I flashed upon the time she was learning how to blow her nose. I was overcome by the memory of holding a wad of tissues to her little button nose and directing her to blow from her “booger holes” as hard as she could – and the experience that followed my instruction – the one in which I learned how well my only child can mimic me; she blew with all her might into the tissues and never had a runny nose again, to my recollection. People always used to trip out about the way my toddler regularly retrieved a tissue and blew her little faucet nose, without being told to do so.
She was such a miniature adult, always….
I cried for about an hour after I finished blowing my nose.
Next, were the stupid Candy Corn Rocks in the box of Halloween decorations that I begrudgingly pulled out at my roommate’s out-of-character request (wtf???)
The year before she left my life, Boo and I painted some river rocks that we had started collecting right after I came home from the hospital; the collection had grown over the handful of years, and we spent a lot of time and attention on finding rocks that were specifically reminiscent of Candy Corns, because when we started out with it, she was too young to differentiate shapes very well and it was one she could easily identify. It had been her random idea to paint them in time for what would become our very last Halloween at home together. When I see them, I feel both endearment and bitterness; one of my hands wants to throw each rock as far away from me as I can manage; the other hand wants to somehow wrap each one up and protect it from anything and everything because it’s Boo.
As the “Dark Side of the Year” quickly approaches, my ‘psychological overdrive’ kicks into ‘Beast Mode’ – every year now, without fail.The holidays are especially difficult for me these days – it was the holidays last year that prompted me to begin a blog here, as a matter of fact – the pain and emptiness has gotten nearly unbearable.
When I was still a Mom, I was no different from most: I obnoxiously over-decorated the house and dressed up in micro-detailed costumes for Halloween with Boo every year since I came home from the hospital when she was almost five. At Christmas, we ALWAYS went and picked out whichever tree she chose (even if it was terribly hard on the eyes for any being with aesthetic ability) before decking it out beyond recognition with the shiniest and near-blinding ornaments and tinsels…some of them even flashed or blinked, it was insane. I spent hours and hours each year wrapping up her fuckloads of presents and stocking stuffers with the girliest wrap I could find (typically, waaaay overpriced stuff that I had spent an arm and a leg on during one of her previous school fundraisers), and baked so many cookies and treats for class parties that I couldn’t even try to count all of the batches in and out of the oven.
Christmastime was when I would finally get to buy Boo things that I had socked cash away for since the prior holiday season; it was always a chance for me to see her happy, even if that happiness was in the temporary form of watching her gaggle over a gift she had opened, and loved. I don’t know…I guess the holidays were the only time that she and I were ever able to feel close enough to one another to let go of the trauma between us, that defined both of us somehow. She always openly missed her Father at Christmas; some of her ONLY existing memories of him are enveloped by the holiday season and everything that’s associated with it. I always told her stories about what he was doing where he was – the most despicable piles of bullshit that I have ever uttered to my daughter – I would tell her about the way “he missed her so much and planned to have her with him again for Christmas someday”, even if it was without me, I assured her that he wished she were there with him. I have no idea if she bought those stories or not, but at the time it was all I could come up with in response to her queries about him. I didn’t even know where he was for a few of those first conversations.
Anyway, yeah…well now days – I’m alone every year. My isolation over the holidays is mostly because I choose to be solo; I prefer to be alone in solitude for whatever reason to endure, as opposed to attending any of the meals or celebrations that I am invited to by various people who probably feel sorry for me. I won’t even spend my holidays with Jack the EMT anymore; I am the wettest of wet blankets during this season – can never wait for it to come and go so that I can begin to recover once more. It’s a recurring wound – a reinfection – a rip down the seam of my mending soul…I know the hollowness and sense of loss that bleeds the brightest, freshest blood from my heart this time of year will never cease to reappear with the Harvest Moon, despite my efforts to ignore Christmas lights and Halloween parties and New Year’s fireworks; I can lie to myself all I want and pretend those things don’t exist anymore, but that hasn’t worked thus far because here I am.