Connor, my second son from my second marriage. He was ten months old when I left him and his father in order to have a nervous breakdown that had been brewing for years. Ex-husband "M" likes to throw that in my face and tell me that the reason I left them was so I could party all the time and sleep around. His big ego and even bigger pride won't allow him to admit that he was dumped because he was a monster.
Moments before I walked down the aisle my best girlfriend said to me "it's not too late to change your mind". She was absolutely correct because I already knew I was making a huge mistake. But I married him anyway. On Sweetest's Day, 1992. By January of 1993 I started making plans, behind his back, to move out and file for divorce. Then fate stepped in and I broke my leg so badly that it took surgery to attach a plate and a bunch of screws and eight weeks in a cast to put all the pieces together again. I felt like a caged animal and my resentment toward him continued growing but at a much faster pace.
As was typical in the latter stages of our relationship, I only had sex with him for two reasons: to shut him up or when he gave me no choice by pinning me to the bed. With my broken leg painfully encased in a hot pink cast, and in an instance of shut-him-up-sex, Connor was conceived. All the plans I had made to move out and move on came crashing down around me. We were going to have a baby, three-year-old Matthew was going to be a big brother, how could I possibly leave now? The thought of staying in the marriage for the baby's sake ran in a constant loop through my brain.
I kept telling myself that things would get better and I could somehow make the marriage work. I was still telling myself that even after he shoved my six-months pregnant body into the pink bathroom wall. Stay in it for the baby. Stay in it for the baby. I was still telling myself that every time he pinned me to the bed and, nose to nose, screamed all my faults, insecurities and everything I lacked in my face. He knew all my weak spots and stabbed and jabbed at them frequently and repeatedly. "M" was (probably still is) a power junkie and an egomaniac. Whatever possession he owned was, of course, the best. Clothing, cars, jewelry -- he truly believed, was better than anyone elses. He still does.
He was never shy about telling me he could have any woman he wanted whenever he wanted them. I'm pretty sure he thought that by telling me about the women falling at his feet that I would have sex with him more often out of fear he would stray. He.was.wrong.
When I met him I was a single, bipolar, un-medicated mother of a toddler. He was, of course, charming and disarming in the beginning. He unleashed my un-medicated bipolar demon when he started trying to control me and certain aspects of my life. The harder he tried to control me, the harder I fought for my independence. We were masters at manipulating each other to get what we wanted. It was a constant tug-of-war and totally toxic.
Shortly after Connor's birth I started seeing a therapist again and went back on medication. We never did find the right mix and I continued in a downward spiral.
Finally, in March 1995, alone in my apartment one night after work, I swallowed a bottle of prescription antidepressants meds that I was sure would do me in. Imagine my disbelief when I woke up the next morning with what felt like an alcohol induced hangover complete with throbbing temples. Just like every other work day, I showered and dressed and drove to my office. I was on auto-pilot. I spoke to a co-worker who had become a close friend and she followed me, in her car, to the nearest hospital where I checked myself in for a psychiatric evaluation. Once I was registered and placed in an emergency triage room, where anything considered a potential threat to me was removed, she left and returned to work.
I don't remember how much time passed in the emergency room before I was moved to their psychiatric unit upstairs. Most of what happened within that locked unit over the next two weeks is a (drug-induced) smoky memory and the fallout with "M", as well as the father of Matthew was a nightmare and I only remember the most painful parts.
"M" received a promotion within the company he worked for (requiring a relocation a month before we married) and we had moved from an area we grew up in, where we had family and friends close by, to a town more than two hours away.
When I moved out, the company I worked for was just finishing a brand new R&D facility so I found an inexpensive apartment close to it. I was still more than an hour and a half from my family and although I had never counted on any of them before for emotional support, I was suddenly aching for my parents to rally around me when I started to pick up the pieces after my attempted suicide. I vaguely remember my mom making the almost two-hour drive to visit me once in the psychiatric unit. I don't remember the contents of the visit but I do remember how absolutely devastated I was that she was - and would always be - emotionally absent from my life. My dad is just as, if not more, emotionally absent from my life, too.
Over the past 12 years I have attempted to tear down the emotional bridges between my parents and myself a few times. Although I knew in my head that I would be hurt and disappointed every time, my heart still held onto hope that somehow we would find a way to close this huge gap between us. These efforts to become closer to my parents causes my husband a great deal of frustration because he knows the outcome will never change, but he still catches me when I fail and holds me as I lick the old wounds, yet again.
Henry knows vivid details of why my family is so dysfunctional. My need to have my parents close to me often overrides my memories of what a monster my 6'2" tall dad was to my three older brothers and my mom. The same need overrides my memories of my 5' tall mother sitting quietly at the dinner table while my dad unleashed his intense fury on the bodies of my brothers. What I didn't know was that during that same time period, my father was also abusing my mother -- only he did it behind closed doors.
My need for a deeper relationship with the people who brought me into this world makes me gloss over everything they did wrong or didn't do at all and that drives my husband crazy.
My most recent attempt to bring my mom and I to a common emotional ground happened the day after my oldest sons graduation party at his father's house on June 23rd. I made the same mistake again in pouring out my heart to her about how awful I felt in the way I was ignored. Instead of saying something helpful like "I know that must hurt", she does what she always does and tries to talk me out of my emotions.
The night before the party was blogging like crazy, trying to release the anxiety I was feeling about being around people who know only one side of my psychiatric hospitalizations. Who only knew I left my two boys with their respective fathers and tried to kill myself but didn't know why.
I was not successful in bringing these enormous feelings to the surface so I could let them out and regain control. Instead, it hit me full on while I was showering the next day, the day of the graduation party at Matthew's dads house. I collapsed against the wall and sobbed as quietly as I could but it still didn't take long for my husband to clue in to what was happening and climb in the shower behind me, to wrap me in his arms. When I thought I had my emotions under control, I exited the shower and started toweling myself dry. The full weight of my emotions was sitting on my chin and it started to quiver. In a heartbeat my eyes flooded with tears and I was sobbing all over again. The waterworks continued on and off for the next hour. It was finally safe to put my makeup on without fear of tears and a runny nose ruining it.
Our drive to Matthew's house was a quiet one. I was trying to use deep breathing exercises to keep my anxiety (and tears) under control. Henry and stepson were lost in their own little worlds, too.
Some of the people I saw that day I had not seen in about 15 years. Including Matthew's grandmother -- who was always so generous and good to me and him. I have never ever been in a situation where I felt so insignificant yet I was the elephant in the room. My son, although barely, was more gracious than his dad or step mom in introducing me around. One older guy, the cousin of Matthew's dad, started a conversation with my husband and me and when he asked who we were I told him I was Matthew's mother and he said Matthew? Who is that? I said the graduate, the reason why we are here for a graduation party.
The longer we stayed, and the less I was near Matthew, the more insignificant I felt. I was the elephant in the room that nobody would discuss. Oh, her? That's Matthew's egg donor. You know, the crazy one.
Matthew's stepmother spent a great deal of time putting together a really nice scrapbook for him as a graduation present. The first two pages were pictures I had sent to Dad's parents and Dad before the paternity test was completed and proved what we already knew that D was Matthew's father. Pictures from birth to sixth months of age when D held Matthew for the first time.
Every turn of a scrapbook page made my heart ache by bringing all the guilty feelings I've wrested with for years to the surface. At one point I thought I was suffocating because I couldn't breathe. Here were pieces of my first-born sons life that I had no part in.
All the time I missed by being in psychiatric units, every opportunity I had for visitation was done under close supervision. Although I had never hurt or attempted to hurt or even thought about hurting my kids, Matthew's dad had gone to court to strip away my physical custody of Matthew. I showed up at our regular meeting point and time to pick him up for a weekend visit and instead of seeing D and Matthew, I was met by a process server telling me D now had sole physical and legal custody and all visitations here on out would be supervised.
My husband, stepson and I stayed at the party for a more than reasonable amount of time. Finally I hit the wall where I would collapse in sobs if I didn't leave immediately.
My sister, although we have never been close, lived along the path of our way home and not far from my son's house. I called her and asked her if I could stop by. I told Henry I needed to make this stop NOW and that he and Jake should run up the store to return a few items we bought earlier that day but didn't use.
I walked through her door and collapsed on the couch in sobs. I doubt I made much sense at first but I had to vent some of these painful emotions before they consumed me. I couldn't believe that only one person at the party approached me to ask if I was Matthew's mother. She had always wanted to meet me and had felt guilty about not inviting me to her wedding where Matthew was the ring-bearer. She was very sweet and I could tell that she didn't get any support on inviting me to the wedding and that if she had there probably would have been a few unhappy people.
The word "insignificant" keeps stomping across my brain because that is exactly how I felt. Insignificant in a group of people where the son I gave birth to was the guest of honor. It didn't matter that for the five years of Matthew's life, I raised him by myself. Nobody from D's side of the family bothered to include me in family photographs assembled around Matthew. I had to actually reach out to Matthew's dad to ask if he would mind being photographed with Matthew and me. He didn't and it is now only the second picture in existence of the three of us together. The first picture is locked away in medical records of the hospital where we had the paternity test done.
"We are Family"
Moments before I walked down the aisle my best girlfriend said to me "it's not too late to change your mind". She was absolutely correct because I already knew I was making a huge mistake. But I married him anyway. On Sweetest's Day, 1992. By January of 1993 I started making plans, behind his back, to move out and file for divorce. Then fate stepped in and I broke my leg so badly that it took surgery to attach a plate and a bunch of screws and eight weeks in a cast to put all the pieces together again. I felt like a caged animal and my resentment toward him continued growing but at a much faster pace.
As was typical in the latter stages of our relationship, I only had sex with him for two reasons: to shut him up or when he gave me no choice by pinning me to the bed. With my broken leg painfully encased in a hot pink cast, and in an instance of shut-him-up-sex, Connor was conceived. All the plans I had made to move out and move on came crashing down around me. We were going to have a baby, three-year-old Matthew was going to be a big brother, how could I possibly leave now? The thought of staying in the marriage for the baby's sake ran in a constant loop through my brain.
I kept telling myself that things would get better and I could somehow make the marriage work. I was still telling myself that even after he shoved my six-months pregnant body into the pink bathroom wall. Stay in it for the baby. Stay in it for the baby. I was still telling myself that every time he pinned me to the bed and, nose to nose, screamed all my faults, insecurities and everything I lacked in my face. He knew all my weak spots and stabbed and jabbed at them frequently and repeatedly. "M" was (probably still is) a power junkie and an egomaniac. Whatever possession he owned was, of course, the best. Clothing, cars, jewelry -- he truly believed, was better than anyone elses. He still does.
He was never shy about telling me he could have any woman he wanted whenever he wanted them. I'm pretty sure he thought that by telling me about the women falling at his feet that I would have sex with him more often out of fear he would stray. He.was.wrong.
When I met him I was a single, bipolar, un-medicated mother of a toddler. He was, of course, charming and disarming in the beginning. He unleashed my un-medicated bipolar demon when he started trying to control me and certain aspects of my life. The harder he tried to control me, the harder I fought for my independence. We were masters at manipulating each other to get what we wanted. It was a constant tug-of-war and totally toxic.
Shortly after Connor's birth I started seeing a therapist again and went back on medication. We never did find the right mix and I continued in a downward spiral.
Finally, in March 1995, alone in my apartment one night after work, I swallowed a bottle of prescription antidepressants meds that I was sure would do me in. Imagine my disbelief when I woke up the next morning with what felt like an alcohol induced hangover complete with throbbing temples. Just like every other work day, I showered and dressed and drove to my office. I was on auto-pilot. I spoke to a co-worker who had become a close friend and she followed me, in her car, to the nearest hospital where I checked myself in for a psychiatric evaluation. Once I was registered and placed in an emergency triage room, where anything considered a potential threat to me was removed, she left and returned to work.
I don't remember how much time passed in the emergency room before I was moved to their psychiatric unit upstairs. Most of what happened within that locked unit over the next two weeks is a (drug-induced) smoky memory and the fallout with "M", as well as the father of Matthew was a nightmare and I only remember the most painful parts.
"M" received a promotion within the company he worked for (requiring a relocation a month before we married) and we had moved from an area we grew up in, where we had family and friends close by, to a town more than two hours away.
When I moved out, the company I worked for was just finishing a brand new R&D facility so I found an inexpensive apartment close to it. I was still more than an hour and a half from my family and although I had never counted on any of them before for emotional support, I was suddenly aching for my parents to rally around me when I started to pick up the pieces after my attempted suicide. I vaguely remember my mom making the almost two-hour drive to visit me once in the psychiatric unit. I don't remember the contents of the visit but I do remember how absolutely devastated I was that she was - and would always be - emotionally absent from my life. My dad is just as, if not more, emotionally absent from my life, too.
Over the past 12 years I have attempted to tear down the emotional bridges between my parents and myself a few times. Although I knew in my head that I would be hurt and disappointed every time, my heart still held onto hope that somehow we would find a way to close this huge gap between us. These efforts to become closer to my parents causes my husband a great deal of frustration because he knows the outcome will never change, but he still catches me when I fail and holds me as I lick the old wounds, yet again.
Henry knows vivid details of why my family is so dysfunctional. My need to have my parents close to me often overrides my memories of what a monster my 6'2" tall dad was to my three older brothers and my mom. The same need overrides my memories of my 5' tall mother sitting quietly at the dinner table while my dad unleashed his intense fury on the bodies of my brothers. What I didn't know was that during that same time period, my father was also abusing my mother -- only he did it behind closed doors.
My need for a deeper relationship with the people who brought me into this world makes me gloss over everything they did wrong or didn't do at all and that drives my husband crazy.
My most recent attempt to bring my mom and I to a common emotional ground happened the day after my oldest sons graduation party at his father's house on June 23rd. I made the same mistake again in pouring out my heart to her about how awful I felt in the way I was ignored. Instead of saying something helpful like "I know that must hurt", she does what she always does and tries to talk me out of my emotions.
The night before the party was blogging like crazy, trying to release the anxiety I was feeling about being around people who know only one side of my psychiatric hospitalizations. Who only knew I left my two boys with their respective fathers and tried to kill myself but didn't know why.
I was not successful in bringing these enormous feelings to the surface so I could let them out and regain control. Instead, it hit me full on while I was showering the next day, the day of the graduation party at Matthew's dads house. I collapsed against the wall and sobbed as quietly as I could but it still didn't take long for my husband to clue in to what was happening and climb in the shower behind me, to wrap me in his arms. When I thought I had my emotions under control, I exited the shower and started toweling myself dry. The full weight of my emotions was sitting on my chin and it started to quiver. In a heartbeat my eyes flooded with tears and I was sobbing all over again. The waterworks continued on and off for the next hour. It was finally safe to put my makeup on without fear of tears and a runny nose ruining it.
Our drive to Matthew's house was a quiet one. I was trying to use deep breathing exercises to keep my anxiety (and tears) under control. Henry and stepson were lost in their own little worlds, too.
Some of the people I saw that day I had not seen in about 15 years. Including Matthew's grandmother -- who was always so generous and good to me and him. I have never ever been in a situation where I felt so insignificant yet I was the elephant in the room. My son, although barely, was more gracious than his dad or step mom in introducing me around. One older guy, the cousin of Matthew's dad, started a conversation with my husband and me and when he asked who we were I told him I was Matthew's mother and he said Matthew? Who is that? I said the graduate, the reason why we are here for a graduation party.
The longer we stayed, and the less I was near Matthew, the more insignificant I felt. I was the elephant in the room that nobody would discuss. Oh, her? That's Matthew's egg donor. You know, the crazy one.
Matthew's stepmother spent a great deal of time putting together a really nice scrapbook for him as a graduation present. The first two pages were pictures I had sent to Dad's parents and Dad before the paternity test was completed and proved what we already knew that D was Matthew's father. Pictures from birth to sixth months of age when D held Matthew for the first time.
Every turn of a scrapbook page made my heart ache by bringing all the guilty feelings I've wrested with for years to the surface. At one point I thought I was suffocating because I couldn't breathe. Here were pieces of my first-born sons life that I had no part in.
All the time I missed by being in psychiatric units, every opportunity I had for visitation was done under close supervision. Although I had never hurt or attempted to hurt or even thought about hurting my kids, Matthew's dad had gone to court to strip away my physical custody of Matthew. I showed up at our regular meeting point and time to pick him up for a weekend visit and instead of seeing D and Matthew, I was met by a process server telling me D now had sole physical and legal custody and all visitations here on out would be supervised.
My husband, stepson and I stayed at the party for a more than reasonable amount of time. Finally I hit the wall where I would collapse in sobs if I didn't leave immediately.
My sister, although we have never been close, lived along the path of our way home and not far from my son's house. I called her and asked her if I could stop by. I told Henry I needed to make this stop NOW and that he and Jake should run up the store to return a few items we bought earlier that day but didn't use.
I walked through her door and collapsed on the couch in sobs. I doubt I made much sense at first but I had to vent some of these painful emotions before they consumed me. I couldn't believe that only one person at the party approached me to ask if I was Matthew's mother. She had always wanted to meet me and had felt guilty about not inviting me to her wedding where Matthew was the ring-bearer. She was very sweet and I could tell that she didn't get any support on inviting me to the wedding and that if she had there probably would have been a few unhappy people.
The word "insignificant" keeps stomping across my brain because that is exactly how I felt. Insignificant in a group of people where the son I gave birth to was the guest of honor. It didn't matter that for the five years of Matthew's life, I raised him by myself. Nobody from D's side of the family bothered to include me in family photographs assembled around Matthew. I had to actually reach out to Matthew's dad to ask if he would mind being photographed with Matthew and me. He didn't and it is now only the second picture in existence of the three of us together. The first picture is locked away in medical records of the hospital where we had the paternity test done.
"We are Family"
3 comments:
did it help to get it out here on the blog, carrie?
i've read this a few times, and i still have no clue what to say. but i wanted to let you know that i understand.
Oh my God, Carrie. Our lives are so parallel it is frightening. I hope no, I pray for you to find some peace in all of this muck. You arent crazy. You're sick...with a legitimate disease and you have to know that. Don't hate yourself for it. You arent to blame.
Anonymous mom, thank you for understanding my mixed up post. I started writing and couldn't stop so there are places where I jump around a bit.
CP, thank you for your honest words. My "real" sickness differs greatly from what some friends and family members (Matthew's and Connor's dads and their friends and family) seem to think it is. The dads esencially confuse the situation to suit their need so people perceive me as the crazy mother who left her kids and wound up in a psychatric facility.
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