Honestly Honest

One of my favorite bloggers, MckMama, recently blogged about how she has decided to take back control of her blog. Hallelujah!! That, despite the slashing of pristine acrylic nails upon her character (my words, not hers) and the unfathomable gnashing of rotten teeth (again, my eloquent words, not hers) that spew nasty, hurtful words towards her, her family and her readers, she will continue to be honest on her blog even if others continue to use her honesty as fodder to further their pathetic cause.

It is, with all due respect, her blog.

Personally, I think they should go back to worrying about their own lives (maybe remove the crumbs from the bottom of their toaster, or something.) and stop putting so much energy into trying to destroy someone else's. Buy hey, that's just my opinion and nobody has to agree with me. Even though you should. Because, I'm right.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

MckMama's post got me thinking about my own writing and my own honesty. Before I started Semi-Organized Mom, I was positive that I really wanted to share creative ways to organize, recipes, parenting and even marital issues. When thinking about my own blog and deciding what I wanted to blog about, I guess I wasn't very honest with myself. Yes, I'm truly Semi-Organized, a wife, a mother of five, a professed FeisMom (proud of it!), a chronic organizer, and I am a Christian. However, I also fight a daily battle with PTSD, depression and an eating disorder. I have many reasons to be depressed, but I have 10x as many to be Joyful and yet, Joy is one of the hardest things for me to experience.

Honest.

Within the past two weeks I've felt extremely overwhelmed. My anxiety levels went through the roof. I've had suicidal "wonders" and then would burst into tears because I could never kill myself. First, my kids would miss me and my husband would be left alone. Not only that, but my mom...I could never leave her. How selfish of me.

Then I'd say, "But I'm tired of not being selfish. I have no one to talk to (not even my husband because he's stressed out, too and we'll just end up in a fight), no one to cry on, no one to vent to. No one." The cyle of loneliness would go around so many times I couldn't take it anymore.

Then, in some ironic twist of fate, I would just recover.

Like that.

Fakefully (is that a word?) cheerful for the world because I didn't want to deal with any more pain. Nor did I want to deal with one of my biggest pet peeve's...fake sympathy. If there is one thing that I despise more in this world, it's fake sympathy. Gag! Seriously, take it somewhere else, because I can see right through it all. I'm rather good at reading body language. You see, I am a CODA (child of deaf adult). Both of my parents were profoundly deaf. I grew up in the deaf community where people signed to communicate and their body language said everything. I can read people like a book. Better than a book... because it's visual. Despite being extremely good at reading people (voice, body language, demeanor), I suck (for lack of a better word at 1 AM) at being observant of what goes on around me. I "check out" mentally when things get rough. It's a terrible coping mechanism and yet, I really believe that it's how I've learned to cope/manage that has kept the anxiety attacks from taking my life.

Maybe I'm so busy reading people (and protecting myself) that I fail to see other things that are important. Maybe growing up so differently makes me unlikeable. Maybe people don't understand why I am different. Maybe it bugs them. I don't know. I see their emotions because I read them. I want to help and usually they get it out (via me). It can be trivial or traumatic, but I've given them an outlet. Someone to mull it over with or just feel like someone really cared enough to ask the REAL questions.

So, I spent many hours these past two weeks crying over things I really have no control over. I cried because I didn't have any true close friends and then became angry because "who were they to treat me this way?! They used to call me all the time to vent, complain, cry, whine or just gab away. We would go places together, spend time together, call each other...laugh. Now they've made new friends and shut me out...completely! Did they get what they wanted and now they don't need my friendship anymore? No matter that maybe I needed someone to ask me the deep questions. No matter. I changed what I was doing to be there for them and then, when I'm the one suffering, where are they? Do they even call to see how I am doing? Knowing that my, "Yeah, things are great." comment was just what they wanted to hear, now they could get it off their guilty conscious and move on because...."at least they asked." Do they even wonder why I haven't called to chat with them? Am I just that good at hiding my pain?

Huh?

Is that really friendship?

Quickly, I change from being hurt to angry and then from angry to negative. "They probably are glad I do not call them. What did I do to them? What's wrong with me? Am I really that bad of a friend? I've been nothing but nice and helpful and friendly and I just keep getting spat upon. I'm sick of being a friend, being ignored and being treated as less than by people who, frankly, don't deserve my friendship. Who would/could really be my friend? I'm really not likeable."

Yep, that was/is me. All manic and stuff, but the emotion is still real. The thoughts are still real. The feelings are still....raw. And real. I'm not just imagining it all in my head, because, it's real. I'm finally just dealing with it the best way I know how. Cry, get mad, negative self-talk, stuff it away........and the cycle goes on and on and on.

Don't get me wrong, my suicidal wonders weren't about being friendless. They were about feeling hopeless in my marriage, parenting, all relationships, being a homemaker, etc. The only thing that has kept me from becoming completly unglued is the fact that I have a job. A good job, that helps people. I get to make people HAPPY! I help people, they say "Thank You" and I'm done. Sometimes they beg me to take a bag of garden tomatoes (which I love!!), but always it's a "Thank You!" Well, except for today, but that's okay because it's rare that someone is not appreciative of our service when they need it the most. Simple. Heartwarming. No excess expectations on either part, no hurt feelings, just a sense of giving and being appreciated. My job is amazing and I am grateful that I get to help many people each week.

In the past two weeks I made a huge mistake. I abruptly stopped taking 60mg of Cymbalta without doing any research on the side effects. Stupid me. This is where the suicidal wonders came in. I debate going back on the meds. My husband and my children really need me to take them and I feel like a much more calm wife/mommy when I do. My PTSD is controlled, my anxiety attacks are almost non-existant and well, I feel "normal". What I hate about taking the meds is that it allows me to disagree with something, but not truly stand up for what I know is right. Before, I'd really debate the issues and try to come to some sort of agreement. Maybe I was extreme in my behavior, but my points were vaild and (believe me) duly noted. On Cymbalta, I still put up a debate, but I easily retreat into my shell because the anxiety isn't there to keep it going.

Does that make any sense?

Ultimately, I want to live. I want to experience Joy and true Happiness along with all the other normal hurts and pains of life. I want to embrace them and trust God. I know that God has and will continue to use my hurts for His glory, I've seen it! God has taken some of my darkest moments of my life (the ones that caused the PTSD) and made beauty from ashes. I cling to those times, hopes, goals and praises when I calm down enough to remember them. I pray that, as I open up (and stop hiding), I'll be able to experience the joy God meant for me.

Why should I only focus on one aspect of my life, when there are so many diamonds emeralds waiting to be found!

Basically, what I'm trying to say, is that I will still write about organizing, Irish Dance, teenagers and being a mom of 5, but I will also write about the other things I am. A struggling survivor of terrible abuse, constant fear, engulfing shame and controlling addiction. A survivor who, after loads of therapy, still cannot seem to see the beauty until it's pointed out to me.

Regardless, I'm still a survivor! And I'm here!