Abandonment

He leaves

My insides empty out

And I feel the death inside of me rise

Empty.

Alone.

I feel nothing.

All of my hopes and dreams

Dissipate above me

and rain like tar over my body

gluing me to this nightmare even longer

seeping through my pores

to match the poison inside

you left with me

this can’t be the same one who loved me

just minutes ago

the blackness of death

reaches my soul

the cycle is complete.

 

These words came to me as my husband left for work today.  I always crash after he leaves as the day becomes longer.  That’s when I realized what it was that I feel every time he’s gone…abandonment.  It started out about my husband leaving, but morphed into my true source of abandonment, my abusers.

I’ve never understood what abandonment meant or how it really felt to recognize it.  Today, I got it.  Today I could actually put the word with the feeling.  I was able to feel it and see it.  It is a start.

Sandy and the retribution.

I’m only using the name “mom” for a reference point.  She never earned the right to be called such a title and she of one of many abusers I had in my life.  I choose to call her my abuser, as it is the truth.

I was about 10 years old, hanging on to my mother’s dog, Sandy.  Sandy’s breathing was erratic and fast.  She laid on her side on the floor, while I spooned her, draping my arm across her shoulder.  I was petrified.  I knew this was it for her and she was going to die without my mother there to be with her.  I was all alone with just Sandy.

Sandy had a bad heart and was prone to anxiety attacks from loud noises.  There had been a jack hammer going all day long in our neighborhood.  It sent Sandy into a downward spin.  Some how I knew this wasn’t like the other close calls Sandy had in the past.  She was dying.

I tried to comfort her and held on tight.  It wasn’t long and her breathing slowed all the way down to nothing.  Then like a whisper she was gone.

I don’t know how long I held Sandy and cried, but it wasn’t long before my mind was tormented.  I was suppose to be baking cupcakes for my brother’s birthday, but I knew I would be in trouble for Sandy dying.  I also knew I would be in trouble if I didn’t make the cupcakes.  Scared out of my mind, riddle with daunting guilt, I slowly made my way off the floor and got the box for the batter.  There was no good choice.  I was going to be blamed either way.  For some reason I chose the cupcakes.

My mother walked in the door and screamed, “She’s dead!”

Then it all went black.

There is nothing worse than my mother’s screaming.  Blood curling.

I don’t know the exact words she used, but the jest was something like, “You are the reason for Sandy’s death because you didn’t take care of her.  You should’ve known better.  Don’t ever have any animals of your own, you’ll just kill them all.

Believe there was more, but that’s all I could really gather from all the years of trying to heal from this shit.

I’m still haunted til this day of those words, that were reinforced with more abuse.

**********************************************************

Today I didn’t feel like walking the dogs, I had too much I wanted to get done and really they weren’t asking for one.  I called my husband because I felt guilty for not being able to walk them and couldn’t make a decision.  I was in AGONY.  I couldn’t ask for his help and I couldn’t do it, even though I felt I should.  Husband was willing.  In fact he told me before he left today to let me know if I walked the dogs, because he would do it if I didn’t.  Finally, I told my hubby, “You do it!”

After we hung up, the guilt, fear, worthlessness all flooded over me leaving me with no choice but to believe I AM a horrible dog mom and I don’t deserve to be one.  Just like everything else I am horrible at.  All my talents and gifts are just wasted because I always hold this same roadblock of not being good at anything.  What’s the point?  Why try?

I always feel defeated before I even try.

I wish I had a rebuttal to this line of thinking, but this always been a pretty tough one for me to shake.  And it comes up more often than I realize.  I feel better just writing it down and getting it out there.

Does anyone else have a mother who blames you for everything?

I grew up a pretty skinny kid.  When I reached my teens and hit 100 pounds, I was told I was fat.  I felt like I was HUGE.  It was until my early 20’s that I actually gained weight for the first time because of the psychotropic medication I was on when I had a complete and total psychotic break from drugs, my childhood abuse and discovering I was bipolar.  The weight I gained came on very quickly and stayed for the next 20-some years.

I have tried everything to beat the medicine at it’s game.  The only time I have ever been able to lose weight is if I’m off my meds.  My last psychosis, five years ago, ballooned me almost back up to my peak weight.  And I was so tired, tired, tired, of being heavy and not being able to lose any weight.

About a month ago, I started lifting weights.  I have always wanted muscle and definition and I’m getting that even after such a short period of time.

I am starting to find my own definition.

One of my mental roadblocks to losing weight is being that “skinny kid” again.  The one who was hurt.  That my body will look “inviting” again and it will be “wanted.”  I don’t want to claim my body back only to get those “looks.”  I’m talking strangers, friends, acquaintances.  And I’m not saying nor do I think I will end up with the hottest body around and everyone will want me.  But I’ve been told I am a pretty girl and my current body weight has been a shield to ward off all those “looks,” “glances,” and “wants.”  To keep bad men at bay.  I know that’s a bunch of shit, it’s not like my body could protect me from being molested and raped, but I can’t help but feel like my heavier self is more protected than if I were to lose the weight.  I’ve done all kinds of exercises to lose weight, but it has been the weight lifting that has brought this fear to the forefront.

I must be making some progress for this buried fear to surface.

So this is what I’ve been thinking about.  And it’s NOT stopping me from getting my dumbbells out.  Something must be working.

Any thoughts?