One month . . . and if you don’t know what I’m talking about, then you just aren’t speechul. :)
It’s been a badass month, though. I mean, really. It’s been kinda surreal in places – especially at the beginning, but I’m by no means bitching!! I like this. A lot.
I’m crazy about him, which, all things considered . . . :)
(ephemeral)
Here are the lyrics to Breathe by Prodigy:
Breathe with me
Breathe the pressure
Come play my game I’ll test ya’
Psychosomatic addict insane!
Breathe the pressure
Come play my game I’ll test ya’
Psycho-somatic addict insane!
Come play my game
Inhale, inhale, you’re the victim!
Come play my game
Exhale, exhale, exhale!
(Like a fool)
Breathe with me
Breathe the pressure
Come play my game Ill test ya
Psychosomatic addict insane
Breathe the pressure
Come play my game Ill test ya
Psycho-somatic addict insane
Come play my game
Inhale, inhale, youre the victim
Come play my game
Exhale, exhale, exhale
Come breathe with me
Breathe with me
And this would be the END of my dealings with the two people at Dramapartment.
(ephemeral)
Wow . . . that was powerful stuff there. I mean, really. I can totally relate to the emotions there.
I can’t thank you enough for sharing that with me. I started crying soft, mellow tears. Someone got it. People around here haven’t been through the death of a parent. I’m the only one of my friends who’s had to deal with anything like that. The closest that anybody’s come is losing a grandparent at like three or four years old before they could really form a relationship with them, so even they don’t even really have a clue what this is like.
Most people have been like, "Why is this so hard sometimes, especially near the anniversary? It’s been so long? Move on already?" Heh . . . I wish it were that simple. My Mom died tragically, too. She had a brain hemmorage as a complication from systemic lupus and I was the one who walked in on her convulsing right before she died and tried to figure out what was going on. I called 911. I did what they said. I couldn’t save her before they got there. I was the one who held her while she died. I was sixteen. I’d been taking care of her solely since I was thirteen, putting my teenage existance on hold, sacrifincing any hope of being ‘normal’ – whatever that means – because my father was an absentee parent so the responsibility fell on my shoulders as the oldest.
She was abusive. Nothing was good enough. I struggled to please her. I tried to be perfect. She was Borderline and Narcisistic. She tried to live vicariously through me. No matter how much I achieved, it wasn’t enough. How many people in my position could’ve maintained a 3.95 GPA, taken college courses on top of it and maintained a 3.75 GPA there, gotten a hardship license, taken care of the household duties – including the budget and shopping and housework, taken care of a learning diabled and diabetic younger brother’s special needs, and their mother’s illness? Somehow, by some miracle, I did it for three years. At the end of it I had a nervous breakdown.
I was angry. My dad, when she died, came back into our lives like he’d never been gone at all. I hated him with such vehemence as he tried to control us with rules and regulations so overbearing and strict that they were insane. In the end he ended up sending us to a boarding school in Connecticut – until I attempted suicide after being raped there and checking myself into a psych hospital for it. And I learned to hate more deeply.
I knew depression. I couldn’t cry. I was comforted by few things at that time. Rain, dark winter days, thunder and lightning, deep gray clouds that promise storms . . . Yes, those things, too, lent me a measure of peace and calm for some reason. Perhaps it’s because they seemed to understand somehow, inherently.
I got diagnosed as Bipolar then, at sixteen, while at the psych hospital. The treatment seemed to help stabilize things over time, but that didn’t mean that I didn’t have to do a lot of work on my own as well. I’ve always been a writer and kept journals and I found that especially then it was a huge theraputic tool to put pen to paper. I wish I still had those journals, but an ex of mine threw them out. I still write . . . It’s something that keeps me sane, I guess you could say.
So . . . thank you, again, for your candidity this morning and the things you said to me on the site. They really hit home and meant a lot. How much I don’t think you know. And I truly appreciated what you sent me in e-mail, too. Hopefully this doesn’t come across as too self-absorbed . . . sigh I guess it’s just where I am today, thinking about all this shit with my mom. It’s finally come to a head and swimming around my mind in some strange mass I can’t seem to shake. :P
This, too, shall pass . . .
(ephemeral)