Who Am I? : Up by My Bootstraps

Pulling yourself up by the bootstraps is not the easiest thing in this world to do. Yet, it is possible and it was seems to be a never-ending process. We work on one thing and succeed only to have to turn around and pull ourselves up for another. Constantly, we are working and improving and striving for something. However, when you reach hell, well, you basically don’t have much further to fall. It is time to yank yourself back up to your feet. It is scary. I know. I have been there. I know what it is like to fear the tiny breath of negative wind, because it felt as if it were strong enough to send me careening back into the pits of hell.

People seem to imagine hell as being a fire hole. Actually, hell is more like dead numbing cold. You know you are alive and no matter what you do you can’t feel anything. You can’t laugh. You can’t cry. A smile is something to be forced. Even anger subsides into nothingness. There is nothing. You feel nothing. Nothing matters. Nothing affects you. That is hell. No warmth, no cold. It just exists. Even a depressed of mind is negated. Sleep only comes upon collapsing. There are no dreams. There are no hopes.

For me, I had one flame in the distance. I had my faith in Gd. That was constant. Out of reach and nearly unattainable, but it existed and that was what mattered. There were prayers for things to change. However, really emotionally feeling anything, I was numb. As a person, I did not exist. I went through the motions of life. If was lucky my temper would break through with a gush of icy anger. In my anger, I was a coldhearted bitch. Well, truth be told, I couldn’t be coldhearted because my heart was neither cold, nor did it exist. I seemed to keep it in a box guarded closely. It took it out only when it was safe and before the worthy. There were not many who were.

Now every so often I left the complete oppressive prison of hell. There were moments of humanity. However, for the four years after we gave up our nice home of 14 years, this was my reality. There was no end to the fighting and bickering. To make things worse my grandfather passed away and there was whole big drama over that. My family broke apart to be a bunch of strangers living together. They didn’t know me and frankly, I didn’t want to know them. I kept a dead family together for four years longer than I should have. I should never have tried, yet I did and I try with whatever I had in me. Looking back this seems to me what Gd had in mind for me.

Anyway, you are probably wondering where I am going with this. Well, I pulled myself up by the bootstraps. I went back to work at my beloved library where I was surrounded by people I could trust. I hate to commute, but I wanted to be back where I was wanted. I decided to go back to school. I had finally saved enough to go community college. I took two courses at first, one a History and the other English. In my English class, I met two girls my age. The three of us began to hang out after class. I started to have a life. I still e-mail and talk to the one periodically. She’s now in the navy and very difficult to get a hold of some days.

I made a bold move. I decided I was going to move out. An apartment was offered to me and I jumped at it. I made this decision around Rosh Hashana of that year. My father, who at the time had separated from the family, walked back into our lives. I told my mother I moving and she told me that my father was whisking her and my littlest sister to NJ to live with his sister until they could find a place to live. Instead of moving in around November/December, I moved into my new place October 24th.

I was back in school. I had the job I loved. I had a place of my own to live in. I was hanging out with friends and doing things.

I yanked myself up to where I wanted to be. It felt weird and I was scared. For the first eight or nine months, I slept on an air mattress on the floor. I eventually got a bed when the mattress got a hole in it. I got a queen size canopy bed. I put the sucker together myself. I got curtains for it too. I had fun going through the curtains that ended up on the clearance rack or at oddball stores that take discontinued items. Yes, I admit it was girly, but to me, it was a palace and it was mine.

The second semester, I took karate. Here I met a very good friend of mine. I met her fiancé too. She just didn’t know that he was going to be her fiancé at the time. I had a ball with them. I lost so much weight. I drop nearly forty pounds. In addition to weight loss, I learned how to better protect myself. In addition to that, I was showed off to my friend’s friends and became involved in a much bigger group of people. I now had a community of people to hang out with. The number of people I met exploded. I became friends with a whole bunch of people around the country and frankly, the world.

Now that I had myself in a safe place taking care of myself the best I can, I went searching for a closer connection to Gd. It was very faint most of the time during the previous four years. Other days it was very strong. The day I decided to move out, it was very strong. I felt confident and I knew I wasn’t going to waver. Gd was letting me leave hell. I got a reprieve for meritorious service; at least this is what I envision. I owed it to myself to keep Gd in my life and to find my true connection to him.

A friend invited me to NY for a weekend of Shabbat. Since I was not about ready to go through the subway system alone, I came in early and experienced my first really Shabbat. When I went to shul, when I read the prayers, I found what I was looking for. Being a stubborn child, I refused to admit that I found what I had been looking for simply by putting myself at the right place at the right time, so soon after picking back up my quest. See, I had tried to find that closer connection to Gd before and got nowhere. Here I walked in to shul and began reading. It was weird. I was alive. I was at peace. I knew where I belong. I know every time I am in shul that I am where I belong and I am doing right by the convictions of my heart and honoring the miracles that Gd has given me.

I pulled myself up by my bootstraps. One leg at a time, little by little, I moved forwards and up. It was hard work. It is still hard work. There are days I want nothing more than to cry my heart out. There are days were I feel broken and worthless. Then it passes. Then I remember. I have come a long way in a relatively short amount of time. I also know, I still have a long way to go and I have the rest of my life ahead of me.

Fallen Angel

Who Am I? : Glimmering Moments

Despite the hell I lived in there were a few glimmering moments. These moments are what made things marginally bearable.

When I graduated from elementary school, which for me was 6th grade. My parents threw a party. Well, it was a combined graduation of sorts because my youngest sister was moving from preschool to kindergarten in the fall. There was also something to do with one of my cousins meeting a milestone, as well. In addition, it was my family’s turn to host some kind of family gathering. Thus I got a graduation party.

Now the party itself is not the glimmering moment. It was a gift I received at the party. To this day I still own said gift. It is a 14 carat gold necklace. The charm is a heart with Austrian crystals at the point on each side. The chain has long since died and all I am left with is the charm.

This was my special occasion necklace. I wore this to every chorus concert I was in. I wore this to every marching band competition. I wore the necklace the day I was inducted into the national honor society. I wore it again when I received recognition for volunteering at the volunteer banquet at the library. I wore it at my high school graduation. In a sense this was my good luck charm. It was the one thing I could count on, since I could not count on my family being present. For a long time I took it as a symbol of my parent’s love and pride in me. I knew then that I was holding on to dream, but it was nicer to pretend than not. The necklace is beautiful and it made me feel good, so that was what mattered. I can look on it and remember all the memories that were made when I when I wore. Those were happy memories.

Disney:

The big music trip happened when I was a junior. We went to Disney for 6 days. That was amazing fun. My parents couldn’t keep me locked at home because it was a school-organized function and they would have looked bad after all my efforts to go, if they made me stay home. While there I sang for the president. We didn’t know we were singing for the president until after we got back, but it was cool to find out that we entertained the president. This was still under the Clinton administration. I marched down Main Street with the rest of the marching band and color guard in parade. It was just incredible to be there. I saw Toy Story II in Disney with two good friends. All in all it was amazing.


Championship:

I was in colorguard for a year and half. I did two outdoor seasons with the marching band and one indoor season. The indoor season is just the colorguard in competition. We had a fabulous season. We won many of the competitions we entered and went to East Coast championship in really good standings. The last championship competition was held in Wildwood, NJ.

It was a blast. There was a dance held the night before competition. That was fun. I think most of the males present were gay, except for the one that spun with us. We knew he was straight, well, mostly straight, anyway. Gay guys can dance. It was blast.

Competition could be brutal. I believe we had to perform our show twice. All I remember about the show was that I dropped my flag in the championship performance. I was so furious with myself. I had not screwed up by dropping my flag in any of the prior shows. However, when I looked at the tape later, you couldn’t tell I dropped it. I seamlessly picked back up the routine. So, in the end, I know I messed up, but I messed up in such a way that no one else noticed.

We won our division. It was exhilarating. We all received medals, but true be told, I don’t know where they end up in the packing. Those might be lost to me for forever. At least I can remember my flag twirling accomplishments without them.

The volunteer banquet:
I mentioned above about receiving recognition at the volunteer appreciation day banquet. That year I received federal and state certificates for excellence for my work as a volunteer at the library I now work at. I had over 500 hours of volunteer service around the time of my high school graduation. I was going to be surprised at the banquet that I had no choice to go to. I didn’t usually go to the banquets because my family couldn’t be troubled to take me. However, this time my mother was adamant about it. Then I started to receive mail from government representatives. This let the cat out of the bag. I knew what was going on.

This was fortunate for me because I needed to throw together a senior project. It was the first year my high school was doing senior projects, so we were told in like October that we would not graduate without one. Well, I just pulled all my volunteer stuff together and presented it. People were impressed. It made me happy that someone took notice of my work and dedication. More importantly there were people proud of me efforts for the right reasons. That felt good.

Prom:

The summer between my junior and senior year was supposed to be spent looking at colleges. I did not see one single college that summer despite my plans. My grandfather went in for double knee replacement surgery. I spent most of my summer taking care of my grandfather’s house and cooking for him. It was a long summer without TV, just my laptop and notebooks, and the heat running. Yes, I said heat. My grandfather was always cold, so the heat ran even in the summer on 90-degree days. I slept on a mattress on the floor where it would be easy to wake me in case something happened or needed to be done. Also, the bedrooms upstairs were like sleeping in an oven.

You are probably wondering what this has to do with Prom. Well, this is where I earned the money for the dress I wore and paid for the tickets for my friend and me. My grandfather paid me for the work that went into taking care of his house and caring for him. It was a big house and I often had to get on my hands and knees and scrub those floors. I would have done it for nothing, but my grandfather believed you paid people for the work they did. Of course we set a price and be made me fight for it. He taught me a valuable lesson. Know what you are worth. Know what your work is worth and don’t let people tell you otherwise or push you around. Grant doesn’t always were in a free market economy, but it was a very good lesson that I struggle to put into practice.

Anyway, I got a beautiful dress. My mother went with me the day I tried stuff on. It was slightly an embarrassing time trying stuff on, but in the end I picked a dress. Usually I gravitate to dark blues, however, I chose a dress of a different color. I chose a light gold. The bodice had embroidery in what looks to be metallic thread. I looked like a princess in that dress. I felt like a princess in that dress.

I still own it. In fact, I am currently making pieces in order to be able to wear to a Renaissance Faire. Someone told me that I could get married in that dress. Frankly, I like the idea. Perhaps I will have a Renaissance faire inspired wedding. However, I am not ready to get married.

Glimmering moments that stand out in my life. Some of them have bittersweet undertones to them, but in general they are happy memories. There were other happy moments. One of those was wining the local competition of history day and going to state competition. Another would be graduation itself, though there is a dark cloud hanging over that. There are some fond memories of people. For the most part, most of the happy moments in my life were mundane tiny things that only mean something to me. These, however, were glimmering moments, moments that stand out as being something great.

Fallen Angel

Who Am I? : Living in Hell

Life had descended into hell for me.

At school, I was teased and picked on rather brutally. My clothes were ill fitting and frumpy and teenage girls can’t resist picking on a fashion disaster. I kept to myself and usually had a book with me. Another unpopular thing was to be caught reading. Only nerds brought books to read for pleasure from home. Also I went from being this skinny child to being over weight. I no longer went outside and got the exercise I used to get. I gained a great deal of weight, so that was another strike against me. What few friends I did have in school were also social outcasts.

This was the way of things until I hit high school. Somewhere along the line the majority of people gave up trying to pick on me. This happened for two reasons. I no longer reacted to the taunts. I finally figured out that it was them who had the problem and not me. I was happy to be who I was. The second got me respect. People needed help with homework or projects and stuff for classes. I wasn’t willing to do the work for them, but I was willing to help them. This gained me some respect. Now, this didn’t work for everyone, but it was nice to no longer be the number one target.

Despite being mostly invisible at school, which was what I strove for, it was the safest place for me. I would often get a ride to school with a friend. This meant I got there early and could participate in some of the clubs. I also tried to stay late. However joining activities after school seemed to get me more hell, than not.

I was on scholastic scrimmage. Since this was right after school, this meant my mother picked me up. This was a good thing. I was apart of the colorguard (bandfront) {marching band: I was the one with the 6-foot flagpole; and yes, I knew how to wield it}. It was fun. It was also exercise. I lost weight, which was good, however this meant being picked up from my dad because it wasn’t right after school. Those five minutes drives were hell.

See my father would drop me off ten minutes, sometimes 15 minutes or more late. He did this for everywhere I needed to be. He would then expect me to be waiting for him on time. It was ok for him to pick me up ten or 15 minutes late, but heaven forbid I was kept 5 minutes late at a practice. I got reamed at the entire way home. There worse things than being reamed at in that car.

In the end, I stopped going to school activities that involved my father picking me up. It was better to be completely locked at home than to endure what happened if I tried to spend any time out of it.

The only place I was free was the library. There I hid in the shelves. For the first three or four years, I worked as a shelver. It was my job to put books back on the shelf in the proper place. I was happy to hide in adult fiction or in YA (young adult) sections. I would find books to take home and read.

Reading was the safest activity for me. Of course, nothing was safe for me when my mother or father was screaming for me to do something. Yet, it was something I could easily go back. I also spent a great deal of time writing on an old beat up laptop my father pieced together so I wouldn’t be using my mother’s computer. It had Microsoft Works on it. That was all I needed. In fact, I still have that laptop. It no longer works, but it is currently sitting in my closet. It was my one true and constant companion. When that laptop died, my father pieced together another laptop from parts for me. That one still runs, but has a broken screen. So long as I NEVER EVER close the screen, the laptop will work.

Making sure I had a working laptop was the most decent thing my parents, actually my father did for me. In fact the laptop I use now was a birthday present two and half years ago. The other laptop wasn’t going to be able serve much longer. All I wanted for my birthday was a working laptop with wireless internet. It was one of those must have for college.

I surprised when they actually got it for me. Of course, there were people for my parents to impress by showing how much my parents loved me and took care of me. It was a rather insulting birthday. My mother went out of her way with gifts for me because others were watching. I got what I needed and wanted. I would have been happy with just that. Of course this was the only birthday that my parents even tried. Since my birthday falls so close to Christmas, I got a few things, enough to say they got me something for my birthday. I also lost out at Christmas because I was the oldest and “grew out of it”. However, they kept chugging away with the Christmas gifts for my two sisters long after the age they stopped doing decent Christmas loot.

Oh, nothing is worst than shooing your sisters to bed, then to wrap their gifts, stick them under the tree, that you put up and decorated, drink disgusting warm milk, so that it looked like Santa Claus came, nothing there was hardly anything there for you, doing this all while you are sick and running a fever, to finally collapse into bed, and then not be woken up Christmas morning, but then to be sent into the kitchen to make Christmas dinner. Yup, sucks to be me. Personally, I hate Christmas. I have hated it for years. Frankly, Jesus isn’t the reason for the season. Look at how the children act at Christmas: “Santa will you bring me this” or “Santa, can you bring me that”. It has become about presents and out decorating your neighbors. If it were out Jesus and his birth, there wouldn’t be presents or decoration trees, which, mind you, is a pagan aspect of Solstice.

There were too many Christmases where I did all the work and got absolutely nothing. I didn’t even get to see my sisters happy with the gifts they received. Heck, I picked them out and wrapped them. My mom pretended that she was the one who did the stuff. She helped minimally with wrapping. Every holiday that ever hit my house was hell.

I like Chanukah. I set up my menorah and light my candles. I recite the bracha beside it. True the holiday is rabbinic and to commemorate the 8 days the oil lasted, but it means a little more. By lighting the candles each night, I recognize the miracles that Gd gives to us. It reminds me that Gd listens and sees us. We are Gd candles here on earth. We try very, very hard to do good and sometimes we fail, but we keep trying to serve him. In that we hold a light, a little candle. I might be weird in thinking that, but by doing mitzvahs, we bring light to others and to ourselves in the name of HaShem.


Stress relief in the pit of hell was playing RPG video games. It was the only place I got to kill things. I enjoy killing things. I could do it all in the guise of saving the world. True, I liked watching the story on unfold and go on missions, but killing mean, nasty monsters was good therapy for me since I couldn’t destroy the mean, nasty monsters that plagued my life.

I was once told by a friend that she would understand if I had become an ax murder and killed my parents and ungrateful sisters. Yeah, that is a doozie of a comment. I didn’t become an ax murder despite it all. I prefer swords. Yes, I collect. No, I don’t kill people. Well, I did keep a sword by the bed in case someone broke in. I like being able to defend myself. I no longer keep a sword by my bed.

Anyway, I lived in Hell for years and years. After graduating high school, my father was trying to move us to Delaware. Our house was given up before we had a permanent place to stay and before my father actually got the job he was supposed to get. This meant bouncing around motels and hotels until a permanent place could be found. Living in one room with your family and pets, sucks. There is no privacy and no space for yourself.

I was forced to leave school half way through the semester and leave the job that I loved. I gave up everything to take care of the family. Essentially, I gave up all the good in my life to go live in a blacker, deeper pit of hell. My college dreams were shattered by the endless need of my mother to have me there to take care of her and my two sisters.

It became evident that I would need to work if we were going to eat. I got a job at 5.75 an hour. At the time minimum wage was 5.15. Not bad and I after 90 days I got a raise and I got a promotion several months after that. It was a job that I could get to no matter where we were living. I worked long hours schlepping heavy stuff around. It killed my back further.

So for four years my life is basically as follows. I can remember the rough lines of what happened and very few actual detailed memories. I became a rather nasty bitch.

I fought with my parents to get my youngest sister back in school. They didn’t want to get her in a school only to move her. I had someone call Children and Youth on my mother, because if I called, I probably would not have lived to type this up. Children and Youth only helped the situation minimally, but it got my sister back in school.

I fought with my parents to get permanent housing. Living in a motel for 4 years sucked royally. My mother ran the TV 24 hours a day and the lights were never completely turned out. Try learning to sleep like that night after night after working sometimes 10-hour shifts doing a job you pretty much hate.

Money was tight. I had to fight to make sure there was enough food to cover the bill at the place we were staying, put gas in the car so I could get to work and put food on the table. My mother didn’t seem to be too interested in making sacrifices. She still needed the expensive treats and cakes she had when we weren’t living in temporary quarters. It came down to fights.

It was the first time in my life that I learned how to make and expletive an expletive. I was didn’t know I could curse with meaning behind it. I am not proud of that. It did get my parents attention. I had gained power with age. I stood up to my parents when they were unable to retaliate. I might not have been so brave if I knew they could retaliate. See, I had lost everything at this point. I had no contact with friends my age. I lost both school and work.

I went to work, did errands, came home, did chores and collapsed into sleep. When not doing chores at home, I was on call. I sat at my laptop writing with headphones on my head. A quarter of the time I played music. The headphones were for show. With them on, I was not bothered as much, only when I was really needed.

I had no life. I prayed every night before I went to bed. I prayed in the car when I was alone. When things got to be too much, I cried in the car. It was the only place that I was ever alone. I wasn’t even alone in the bathroom. I often had to remove the door so my mother’s wheelchair could get in. A curtain got hung across the door. So, yeah, I didn’t have the shower to myself. Think about that evasion of privacy.

I did everything. I got nothing but heartache. I was more servant or slave than an actual member of the family.

I know Hell exists. I lived there. I now only occasionally vacation there.

Fallen Angel

Who Am I? : Welcome to Hell

Ah, I can remember the year things went to hell in a hand basket so clearly. I was twelve. It was a rainy day. My mother walked out the front door and broke her leg, both bones into three pieces, one a spiral break, a couple inches above the ankle. Now, a broken bone can lay up a person for several months. In the case of my mother, it was a permanent lay up. See, my mother has MS or Multiple Sclerosis. So, a broken bone isn’t the injury to deal with when you are losing the ability to feel the limb that has been injured. Still, despite the pins, she healed.

Now, I had already started doing chores. It wasn’t anything that would have been considered oppressive. However, when my mom broke her leg, I pitched in more like a good girl. My father couldn’t be bothered to do much and neither of my sisters would pitch in or frankly, keep from making a mess. In fact, they found great joy in making more and more mess than usual so I would have to do the clean. Anyway, my mother didn’t do much of anything and that included keeping the peace and making my sister’s behave. If something was done, I got yelled at. I was 12 and doing all the cleaning and cooking for a family of five, plus taking care of a cat and dog, fish and I think, at the time hermit crabs.

Many of you are probably going that’s not fair, but livable under the situation. Well, here’s a kicker for you. My mother took her Girl Scout troop camping with a cast up to her hip, but she could not do a single thing around the house. Yeah, makes you wonder doesn’t it? Oh, to top that off, whenever I wanted to do something, I got some guilt trip story about how things were for her growing up and how she didn’t want to do what she was doing to me. Funny, she put me through more than her guilt-laden stories.

Even after the bones had mended, my mother gave up pretty much all responsibility for anything around the house. She only did something when it suited her and for herself. Otherwise, it became my place to make sure everything was done. I was 12. I wasn’t allowed to go anywhere until things were finished, which basically meant, I went nowhere. I went to school. I went to the library to volunteer because it made my mother look good. I got a two-week reprieve at summer camp, which my mother bragged about being able to send me. And summer camp stopped when I was 14, so then I spent all summer being on call.

My mother’s MS got worse. Of course looking back over this time period, she would haven’t gotten worse if she just took care of herself like she was telling her doctor she was. My mother didn’t exercise. She did not eat a balance diet and she did not regularly take her medication. I had to learn how to mix up the solution and give the daily injection. Yes, I know how to give a shot and the proper places for a tissue injection. I learned because there was days when she could not make her hands behave to do it herself. However, even on days when she could, my mother refused to take care of it herself. Often she would blame me for missed doses. Then something called the Auto jet came out. This made giving the whole injection easier, but still my mother kept missing doses, not because she wasn’t able, because she could still play video games, hold books, do puzzles and craft, it was because she was lazy.

My mother refused to fight for physical therapy. This meant her body got weaker and weaker. She didn’t even have the common sense to exercise on her own until she could get physical therapy. This meant her ability to walk became a bit of a challenge over time. For a time my mother refused to walk with a cane, despite the fact she couldn’t get very far without one. So what did she do, she would take my arm and use me as a cane. I was willing to help my mother then, however, knowing the damage she did to me, I would not be so willing now. She then started to walk with a cane, but sadly by that time, it wasn’t enough, she still clung to my arm or occasionally one of my sister’s. Then there were the frequent falls. Helping someone stand up that weighs more than you without the proper support isn’t good either. However this happened more and more as things progressed. There came a point where my mother could no longer walk long distances or actually walk around the block or even half that. She started taking to a wheelchair. This meant pushing her everywhere because she would not wheel herself, despite she was capable of doing it, and it took a very long time for her to get an electric wheelchair. However as soon as she took to a wheelchair when long distances were involved, she stopped walking the short ones. She literally stopped walking, so her legs atrophied.

So, by the time I was 19. I had been used as human cane from about 13 to when she stopped walking. I was a wheel driver for many, many years. I was also a sort of forklift from when my mother fell. At 20, I was lifting her in and out of bed to and from the wheelchair. I also did all the maneuvering in a small ill equipped bathroom. My sisters started helping more, but the bulk of lifting went to me simply because I was stronger. Add in the fact that I was working full time and making dinner and doing the chores. My life was hell.

This is just part of it, a set up if you will.

At puberty, my father started sexually abusing, molesting me. I told my mother. She didn’t believe me and would do nothing about it, despite the fact that she knew what my father was doing. In fact, she made my life more of a nightmare. My father and mother could be physically abusive. I got hit for things that I did not do. I got physically punished for things I did not do. My father would get angry with my sisters for being wild and loud. I would get punished because I should have been the one keeping them tame. I still want to know how I was supposed to tame my sisters when neither one of my parents disciplined them, in fact they rewarded them by getting them whatever they wanted. I was punished harshly for the tiniest of things and constantly watched my sisters get away with whatever they damn well pleased.

Hell, it is the place of my memories.

My father nearly broke my arm, a couple of my fingers, tailbone, and nose; that I can recall. I had bruises on my shoulders and my arms where he would shake me for emphasis at the scolding I got for not being able to read his mind. My mother did this as well. My father sexually assaulted my body and acted as if it was my fault that it was happening. My mother made my life difficult by stacking on the chores and taking what few privileges away from me. Instead of taking care of herself, it was ok to use me in place of developed health aids. I was locked in the house and unable to go play with friends. If I so much as slipped grade wise from having A’s or at least B’s I was grounded. Mind you, I watched my one sister fail out of high school and for the longest while was my mom’s pride and joy. I essentially was forced to watch my sister’s twenty four/seven and basically do the work to up keep a household of five with pets.
Modern Day Cinderella. ::shrugs:: I am no princess and frankly, not looking for a prince. I do however know what it is like to be the scapegoat, the slave, the sometimes servant, the object that made my parents look good and so forth. There are memories I have blocked or tried to eradicate from my memory banks. There are times when I will go to recall something and can’t. It is annoying, but I know deep in my heart it is probably good that I can’t clearly recall those nightmares. As curious as I might be to know what they are, I am not stupid enough to want to be balling my eyes out for hours. There are still memories I wish would disappear. There are things I wish would just go away. Sadly, that is not the case. I just keep dealing with those demons the best I can and one day, hopefully soon, I will win the war and not just battles here and there.

Fallen Angel

Being Screwed-Up versus A Screw Up

There is a difference between being screwed up and being a screw up. Some would claim it is a matter of tense and an article in front, but is more than this. They actually mean two different things. Though they may be related there is some major differences. There are times when being screwed up and being a screw up go hand in hand, however there are times when a person is one or the other.

Being screwed up:

Things can be screwed up in a person’s life. Their family can be more than dysfunctional. Life just can’t seem to go right shattering or skewing dreams. Views on the world can change harshly as reality gets darker and harsher. On and on, I could go.

Being A Screw up:

A screw up is a person who has given up. They stop trying to change their screwed up reality. They sit back with their bitter view of the world being harsh and analytical. They often become hypocritical in this by pointing out the wrongs of another, yet doing nothing with the ills in their life. On and on, I could go.

My life is on the screwed up end of things, but I am not a screw up. There was a time that I came close, but those years are far behind me. All might life things have been rather messed up. I lived in an abusive home. Over a period of more than ten years my conception of reality and the norm was wrapped. My dreams were shattered. Nothing I ever did ever seemed to be good enough to the people around me. I was picked on mercilessly. But I was never a screw up and to this day I refuse to be identified as such.

Yes, I suffer from depression. It is true that there are periods where I lose more battles than I win; yet I still manage to do what I need to do for myself at the end of the day. Against all odds, I am putting myself through college despite all the obstacles that have been and are being placed in front of me. Not only am I succeeding in going to college; yet my grades are beyond grade. I will not settle for anything less than my best. If I was a screw up, I would not be in college and I certainly would not be working my ass off.

I bought my own car and I pay my own rent. I keep food on my table. It is a struggle some days, however, I manage. I hate the feeling of barely eking by, but I know one day I will come out on top.

I am insecure. I have my issues with touch; yet, my religious beliefs have changed something I was so terrified and leery of to something potentially beautiful. Though I will not touch member of the opposite sex over the age of nine by religious choice, I no longer shy away from proximity. I have learned the value of no shrinking back to shake hands, accepting a hug from a guy who does not know or understand this aspect of observance in me, or the occasionally high five. See, the one thing about being from the secular world, converting and choosing to be shomer negiah “Protect” or “Guard” and “Touch” is that some expect a physical response. One of concept attached to being shomer negiah is not to embarrass the other person. Some do not hold this, however I do. I will not cause another harm when it will not cause me harm. Do I actively seek out touch? No. However, when situations where it would be wrong of me not to shake a person’s hand no longer terrifies the hell out of me. At first I though, my heart felt I was using it hide behind and protect me from my fears, but in truth it has strengthened me. Are my issues with touch messed up or screwed up? Yes, but that does not make me a screw up.

No matter how screwed up things get, I still remain true to myself and my ducted taped dreams. One day, I will be a published writer. I need to get over my fear of rejection, but I still write. In fact, I post here on this blog my thoughts, feelings and views of the world. There is also another blog that hosts my poetry. One day I will see my work bound and on bookshelves. The day will come in its time when it is meant to be.

Keeping myself above water. Hell, I end up treading water a great deal, but all of this that I do, it is so I never ever become a screw up. I may make horrible mistakes. I may screw up royally, but I keep trying to learn and correct my mistakes. That value alone keeps me from be a screw up. Screw ups do not bother learning or growing. I refuse to stop. One day, I will be health, happy and all my dreams that I value will happen. There will always be screwed up things in my life. Everyone has those screwed up things, but no one should settle for being a screw up. We can make our worlds better. We can learn from the things we screw up. We can be what we dream ourselves or want ourselves to be. All we need to do is keep trying. For the moment we stop fighting for it, stop doing battle; that is when we become a screw up.

Fallen Angel

Who Am I? : the early years

This is a question that everyone asks themselves at one point or another and often. The question should be a simple one to answer and yet, is not. Who am I? I am “Me”. I am a unique individual and there is no one just like me anywhere else in this world. That is the simple answer. Yet, defining what is “me” is not so easy. So much of “who we are” is shaped by the environment; the people we interact with; and the events that have taken place. We are constantly shifting in our environment. We grow and learn from out mistakes. We will push ourselves to be the person we believe we should be. Sometimes we change without really wanting to, shaped by events that we wish would change or shaped events that did not happen. Everything that surrounds us impacts us in some way whether we realize it or not.

Back to the question at hand: Who am I?

I am the product of all the experiences, people and places that I have encountered since the day that I was born. I am also the product of every emotion I have felt, every action I have done, and every word I have spoken. So what does this amount? Well, truth be told, I am not sure. The simple response is that it has at this moment of time amounted to the words you are now reading. It has also amounted to the other words on this blog, yet as I said, we are in a constant state of growth or change.

A word on growth: Some of our growth is good and healthy. This makes us stronger. Some of the growth is not so good and really not so healthy. In a sense atrophy grows instead of is pushed back. Either way, something inside of us growing whether it is positive or not.

Who am I?

Well, I suppose I shall start at the beginning. Fast Forward using the scroll bars, but that would basically defeat the purpose of this post, now wouldn’t?

I was born in Livingston, NJ and spent my early months living off the beach in Bayonne, NJ back in Dec of 1982. For my parents this was their second shot at marriage. They had both been divorced once before. My father had just been divorced around the time he met my mother. I believe about ten or eleven months after they met I was born. So, essentially, they made short work of things. At the time of my birth, my parents were not married. At this juncture at time the reasons for this are not important. However, it is something that has affected and will continually affect my life.

See, since my parents were not married and due some of those reasons that I am not sharing, my father’s name does not appear on my birth certificate. I was given my mother’s maiden name. Sounds like no big deal, right? Well, it sort of is. I didn’t know that the name that I had been using on my documents all through school and such was not my legal name filed before the government until I was asking to get my permit to drive. This was months before my 16th birthday. At the time I wanted very much to drive, but I was not allowed to get my permit until my mother could take me to get my name legal changed to my fathers, however, she refused to take me. It also has created issues with official paperwork because I have to remember that I had to legal change my name at 19 in order to actually get my permit.

Bad me, I have jumped ahead in time. I basically spent my early years bouncing around the state of NJ and NY because my parents were in the military. My mother left her military position before my one sister was born in 1985. During that time my two older half-brothers lived with us. They are both at least 10 years my senior. The elder of the two ditched our family to live with his mother. Thus, I have not seen or heard from him since before I was 4. I have a few scattered memories of him.

When I was 5, my family moved out of NJ to PA. I spent the next 14 years living in one place. For a child who had gotten used to moving around a lot it was a bit bothersome staying in one location. Since we never lived in one place long enough, I was never put into a preschool program or a playgroup. I only had my two older half-brothers and my little sister for company beyond my parents and my mom’s parents. There were no other people in my world until I went school.

I was a good child. I sat and played in a corner by myself. I could stay for hours. I was never a child who needed to be entertained. Not only could I entertain myself, but by the time I was three I could tell vivid stories with logical progression from my imagination. I have always been a writer and storyteller. I did not really see a child my own age until I entered Kindergarten. I could already read and write my letters and bunch of the things taught in that era of schooling before entering Kindergarten. I did not know how to interact socially with children my own age.

In a sense this has been something I have struggled with all my life. Because I only ever had people in those early years that were way older than me or younger than my one sister, I never interacted or experimented with peers until after my peers were well beyond me in this facet. Also, it sort of didn’t help that I already knew a great deal of stuff that was taught in Kindergarten, so that made fitting in that much more difficult.

Now you are probably saying: what does this have to do with anything? It has a great deal to do. It is the rocky foundation that has tinted my whole life. Those early years are the ones that tend to shape our personalities and will dictate much of our second nature responses as we grow up and later in life.

In truth, I can chronicle everything that has happened to me growing, but that would not get us any closer to defining who I am. So, I am going to fast-forward for you and give you the end results.

I was a good student with amazing potential that was never supported. A grade lower than a B would get me in trouble. Heck, even a B would get me in trouble. There was not room for failure or mistakes. I was not pushed academically to succeed beyond the minimum. I generally wanted good grades, but I was never rewarded for them. I just liked them. I liked to be able to say that I was, actually, still am a good, well-rounded student.

My spelling sucks. Frankly, so does my vocab. I was just never pushed in these fields, which is surprising given my writing skill. My mother was jealous of my ability. She had a dream of being a writer, but never pursued it or was just not good enough. For as much as she encouraged me or I thought she was in encouraged me, she held me back. Now, I struggle to learn something I should have learned when it would have been much, much easier.

I have always been a writer. There is not a time that I can think of that I haven’t had a story or a poem brewing in my head. I used to write songs too. I was also a storyteller for as long as I could talk. I entertained my mother and everyone else shopping with stories complete with plot from my imagination. People thought my mother was crazy because the details were so vivid.

I have crafty side. If it means creating something from a pile of stuff, well, I am almost always game. I have sort of learned to knit. I can paint. I can sew. There is also embroidery, counted cross-stitch, jewelry making, stamping, scrap booking, origami, and a bunch of other things I can do with paper, string, fabric, paint, beads and so forth.

I was a creative child. I was also an active child. I could essentially keep up with the boys. I could run and out ride on my bike many of those in the neighborhood. I had no qualms about getting dirty, tackling or playing sports. My clothes always had grass stains and mud marks. I was skinny kid.

I suppose you are all wondering what happen. MEH!

My world shattered when I was 12 and I was forever changed. That is what happened.

In general, I was a happy child. I could easily entertain myself. Socially, I could not get along with girls. I was a tomboy through and through. Frankly, I enjoyed running around and playing with the guys outside instead of being inside with the girls playing with dolls. At home, I was a girly girl. I played with my dolls, Barbies and my little ponies. My mother sent me to school until third grade in dresses except on gym days. She complained about the holes in my stockings, but I always shrugged that off for the most part. I was taught a ton of arts and crafts, which was my mother’s hobby. I started helping at the library and was apart of a storytelling group. I became one of the younger volunteers to work at the library. Again this is something I did because it was one of my mother’s interests.

There were good things. There were bad things. Bad things like my grandmother dying when I was seven. I was taught my numbers and basic math through card games. At five, I beat my mother and my grandmother. There was no cheating involved. It was another gift that was overlooked and frankly, suppressed by my mother.

My happy little world or I should stay what I thought was a happy, stable world ended abruptly at the age of 12. The events that happened that year changed me drastically and irreversibly. It wasn't until more recently that upon looking back, that what looked to be stable and ahppy was far from it. What I thought was normal, well, it was not the norm. However, this is a discussion for another time.

Fallen Angel

Power of Prayer (part 2)

Now, my prayers regarding my teenage battle of suicidal depression were for me. In addition, the prayers that constantly were repeated in my heart and fell from my lips were to fix the pain I inflicted and essentially bring my best friend back to me. It was a selfish prayer, but one Gd granted anyway. There are other prayers that carry a great deal of power.

We pray for people who are sick to get better. Most times we know the person and have a personal emotional investment for them getting better. These prayers are strengthen the community. It connects us to other people and makes friendships stronger. In addition to that, we can prayer for people we don’t even know to get better. We can do this because we have innate sense of what it is like to be sick ourselves or have watched a family member get sick. This too is a way for the community to rally. Prayer is a way we can help people we don’t even know no matter where we are and no matter what we have to devote to cause.

Recently several friends of mine went through break ups. There was on particular friend who was fiercely devoted to needing his girlfriend. Emotionally losing her would crush him. Over top of that, the break up rippled out to affect others in the close circle of friendship. Living a distance away, I was not able to physically be there for the finalization of the break up. However, from where I was, I knew the pain and hurt feelings that would be flying around the group. As soon as, my last phone call disconnected, I prayed. I did not stop until I knew the worse of the storm was over. My words were spilt out onto my steering wheel. As I prayed, I could feel great pain wash through me. Then, when the dust started to settle the burning need to cry stopped.

Now, again there is no way of knowing what good my prayers did. However, I would like to think that it has some impact on bring heavenly peace to the injured parties. It may have done nothing or it might have made a difference. The only one that knows that is Gd.

Now, I am human. I make mistakes. I will admit to that. Somewhere in that mess, I spoke rather harshly to a friend without understanding her emotional state. I was trying to keep the will of another friend involved, who decided to change her will without telling me. Thus, caused me to misspeak badly. This was a nice straight arrow into the center of my friend’s heart. After the whole blow, I was talking with her. I explained myself and apologized.

Looking back over the conversation and what happened, it was a blessing and answer to a prayer. What I said was sort of the last straw kind of deal or that is what she seemed to relay to me. She wanted to be stronger, stop being used and pushed around. What I said and the feelings from this drama made her put her foot down and resolved to change the way people treat her by changing how she acts. Now I pray everyday for Gd to give her help with that. I know I will be there.

Even our mistakes can be made blessings, essentially answering prayers, if we are mindful to correct our mistakes and make amends for our actions. We have the great capacity to do harm, but we also have the great capacity to do good. All we have to do is apply our hearts and our actions will follow.

Also in this conversation with this friend, she shared with me a remarkable story. She was in car, traveling with her family, during a rather particularly rainy night. The rain was falling so hard that it practically formed walls blocking out one’s ability to see one’s surroundings. Somewhere in the middle of the storm, her parents asked for a particular prayer to be recited. It is called in English the Wayfarer’s Prayer. It is a prayer recited when a person leaves the city limits asking for safe travel to their destination and their return. Once she said that prayer, the driver was able to see through the rain because it was lighten a tad and find the turn they needed. They passed under an overpass and the rain had become little more than a mild drizzle.

In danger or during moments of great fear, we reach out with hope. Hope launches prayers and brings us miracles. So long as we believe, amazing things are bound to happen. By giving thanks to Gd we express our appreciation. In our time of need, we bring Gd close lifting our spirits and making us able to accept divine help. All we need to do is believe.

Fallen Angel

Power of Prayer (part 1)

Some people don’t put much stock in prayer or a higher power. Well, I do. I know Gd has a certain thing for me. Gd prefers me alive for some reason and in a position to help people despite the fumbling I have in my own life or the lack of energy. For some reason, I seem to have just enough strength and endurance to do what needs to be done. Sometimes I make mistakes. Occasionally the mistakes turn out to be blessings all the same.

I firmly believe in Gd and I firmly believe in the power of prayer. I truly believe that prayer can save lives and change things. I have seen it happen enough with my own two eyes. So, yes, I have seen miracles. Also, I have heard my friends speak of the miracles brought on by prayer.

Connecting to my two previous posts on depression and suicide, I wish to speak briefly on a miracle connected here. About ten years ago, I tried to take my life, twice. The first time I tried to suffocate myself. I freaked. I fought bitterly clawing at the restricting piece of cord tied tightly around my throat. I sent a prayer up and somehow I managed to get myself free before I could black out. This happened under the two-minute mark, but felt like an eternity.

The second time, I took enough painkillers to kill a person. At the time due to migraines, constantly being sick and under stress, I was addicted to them. So, wanting to be permanently out of pain, I downed a bottle. I woke up in a haze. I knew I shouldn’t have. The only thing I remember is one distinct word that I heard in the darkness. It was an emphatic “NO”. I woke up feeling really sick, and then fell into a dreamless sleep. I wasn’t meant to die either time. It is a miracle I am alive and each day despite the evil that often plagues it is a blessing, simply because I am alive.

Even when there seems to be no hope, there is plenty of it. Often times it just takes a prayer to open a door or a window.

Moving on, that was not what I wished to focus on. Recently, I broke up with my boyfriend. I was having difficulty being in a relationship because of my depression. I needed to be free to fix myself. It hurt to leave a man I loved so dearly, but knew that I could not devote myself completely too. I wanted to lose the boyfriend, but keep my best friend, which at the time of the break up didn’t seem to be possible. However, I prayed. I prayed a lot for him to find peace and understanding. I also prayed that he would remain my friend, because despite my inability to be a good girlfriend or a committed girlfriend, I could be a committed friend.

My friendships cannot be shattered, or I should say, it takes an act of Gd to do so. Once a person is my friend they remain that way, at least in my heart. I have little control over another’s heart in such a manner.

I did not want to lose my friend, nor did I want him to be in pain. There was nothing but prayer that I could do about it. That is what I did. I prayed. Then, after shabbos, I get the message that he wanted to be my friend after all. I sent a prayer of thanks up to Gd.

A couple days later, I received an e-mail. I debated whether I was ready to read it or not. I initially decided that, I did not want to read it. Then about ten minutes later, I just opened it. I felt compelled. I am very glad I read it because he needed me to read it and respond. I respond with a rather long e-mail, nowhere near my longest e-mail lengths, but long enough. In addition to sending the e-mail, I notified him through aim that I replied to his e-mail. I did not want something to hang a couple days when it was clear to me that he needed to hear or read my words, not be given a message through a friend. After writing that e-mail we talked through. It made me happy to be able to talk to him and hear his words from him. We agreed on being friends and somehow shook online.

Now, I cannot attest to how much of the break-up resolution could be accounted for because of prayer. Both my ex-boyfriend and I tend to keep daily prayers with Gd. I cannot speak for him, but it seems to me that he would turn to Gd when things are not going well for guidance or relief. I want to say that prayer and mindfulness of Gd had a great deal to do with how things turned out.

Fallen Angel

Depression and Suicide (part #2)

Major Depressive Disorder is where a person is depressed for prolonged periods of time marked by an absence and withdrawl from friends, daily activities and special activities. There are no manic or hypermanic moments. It is just a steady depression where sleeping, eating and everything else are out of whack along with threat of suicidal or harmful thoughts.

It is possible, as I have learned through experience, to be functional. I can after awhile I wrestle my butt out of bed, get a shower, get dressed and force myself to get to work or class. Often times I am a little late, but that is better than not showing up at all. Sometime the morning shower is forgone and taken the night before. Though the pressures and strife of the day piles up towards night’s arriving, it is easier to function at night. For me, this has always been the case.

Now, I know that I have yet to be treated for this horribly sustained depression. However, due to another medical issue, I sharply found out that drugs are not going to be a way to manage it. One psych drug they had me on to manage migraines had me sleeping nearly 16 hours a day with the remaining hours being a horrible haze. I was only awake for half an hour a day. To top that off, the medication was not doing what it is doing. It is important to watch how drugs interact with your system, because psych drugs can often impound suicidal thoughts and intentions causing a person to do something they would not have done off the medication. Therapy, though the best option for me, is not easily obtainable since lack health insurance. So, I have to wait.

Depression can be spawned by many different causes. The cloud starts out as tiny and just seems to grow until you can’t get out from under it. There are days where it is just partially cloudy, but there are also days when there is nothing by sunshine. However, most days tend to stay under the black, storming cloud.

Prolonged depression creates a chemical change in the brain. So, for some people who are seeking to break the depression cycle may find it incredibly difficult to do so, because of a chemical tendency in the brain. The atmosphere in the brain wants to stay in the condition it is at. This is where drugs come in. They change the chemical balance in the brain allowing for change while trying to input the chemicals that should be there. Sometimes this works, other times not. It depends on physiology of a person.

However, the brain has a capability of righting itself. The haze of depression is gone because the chemicals in the brain that keep that person in a state of depression are gone. They literally wake up. Their moods can be depressed or on the dark end of things, but their thinking is usually clear. This can last for several hours, days, weeks, or months depending on the person. For me, once my brain rights itself, I have a handful of months before I cycle back in depression.

Environment is also something that affects depression. Depending on a person’s association with certain seasons can cause the brain to cycle. I know I crash somewhere in February or March, usually in the spring semester. I don’t know why, it just happens. Once I break that cycle, I have the rest of summer and fall as a good stable time. December gets a little weird some years, but usually rights itself in January. So, since it is summer and the spring cycle has been completely broken, I am free of a large dark cloud over my head. I just have a small one from time to time.

It is a continuous battle. It is not one that I expect to win anytime soon, but I tend to win more of the scuffles than I once did. Also, if you have any signs of depression or are depressed, you should seek medical assistance. There is no reason to live life this way and there is no shame in admitting that you can’t fix the depression yourself.

Fallen Angel

Depression and Suicide (post #1)

We all know what it is like to feel depressed. Where nothing we seem to do is going right. We feel miserable. We don’t want to talk to friends or hang out or play games. We feel sad and grumble and, in general, pissed off at the world. There are many things we feel when we are depressed. Now imagine that emotion becoming a permanent state of being. Not fun.

I live in a state of depression and have for more years that I can truly count. I have spent nights on the edge of a suicide, though given the fact that I am writing now, I did not manage to carry out and succeed. I have spent some nights on the rocky side of doubt, frustration, pain, and morbid inclination. There are many moments where I rather have the peaceful surrender to death. The only reason for this is the fact that the pain is just so frickin’ unbearable. Yet, I value life.

I value it highly, not because it means the world to me, but because it means the world to my friends and certain family members. Despite my depression, I am a functional member of society. I can help people even though I cannot completely help myself. In helping others, I know I am helping myself. I help myself because I gain worth as a person in the eyes of others. My self esteem sucks, or should say is greatly lacking. I do not find myself to be beautiful or attractive, I am intellectually, though I know I am smart, but I am not brilliant. I am just there.

In my world, there is no commitment beyond the one flickering flame of hope in which I cling. I have faith in Gd. I have always had that. Nothing else can hold me. Sadly, not even my promises to my friends not to do something stupid. Nor my inability to cause another person to be in pain because of my action or myself can truly hold me from that edge of reckless abandonment. There is no one and no thing that can hold me beyond my faith in My Gd. This bond that keeps us, those that live in a state of depression, constantly reaching out and trying is different, yet means the world to us. Without it, we would find a way to leave this world for another or be able to obtain the serene peace that is death, the pure ability to be out of pain.

Now, it brings sadness when I hear someone has taken their own life, that they lost their connection, their battle. People speak in disbelief as how could this happen? He/She was such a good kid, got good grades, never made trouble…ect. They have trouble placing themselves in the other person’s shoes and feeling what they were feeling. See, I am sad, because I have been there. There is no disbelief or how could so and so do such a thing. I know what it is like to stand in that moment; that last leap to reconnect to the world.

I was a good student. I was responsible. I participated in school activities and I did my chores. I took care of things. Reason stands that I should have left this world about ten or so years ago. However, by some fluke or perhaps a miracle, I am still here. Yet, I live in a constant haze of depression. Some days, I push through the haze to a point where depressed is only a fleeting emotion. This can last for several days, weeks, and even a handful of months. However, I never seem to keep my head above water for long. I keep plodding through in hopes that things will get better, that I might find the door out, that is if there is a door, but until then I am in my own little world where few are allowed to do more than visit for a short while with me.

Fallen Angel