Sharing a picture of myself is hard and scary and as real as it gets. This is what a part of my body looks like. It’s one of the most damaged areas, but there are similar markings on my shoulders, lower back, arms, and face. It’s shocking for me to see it.
For as long as I can remember, the need to pick has been part of who I am. It began when I was a kid, not sure exactly when but probably around puberty. That’s when the abuse at home got really bad. I’ve been picking my skin ever since. The severity comes and goes, but the action never ceases.
It’s much worse when I’m stressed. I’ve been very stressed for a few years now and it shows. The scars and wounds are horrible. I’ve attacked so much of my body that I can’t hide it all with clothes anymore.
I notice it the most during summer. Everyone’s wearing light clothes and showing lots of skin. I’m jealous. More than anything, I’m in awe that most others don’t suffer like I do.
I wish I could stop. I can force myself to slow down, but even that’s been futile for a long time now.
It’s so disgusting. As if I needed more reasons to hate the way I look. I can’t even get a haircut because I’ve trashed my scalp so badly. WTF?!
Alright, I’m in a self-loathing mood right now and that’s not helpful. Stress leads to picking. Time to shift gears and do my best to focus on something better.
Can you relate? If you want, share your story below. Your struggles. Your success. Encouragement. Advice. We help each other the most when we allow ourselves to connect.
Too long pretending
bending, changing, adjusting
Want more accepting
forgiving, celebrating, touching
Authentic ~
impossible without self-knowing
self-being, self-seeing, self-doing
This journey of parenting a special-needs child has stretched me in ways I could not have imagined. In the last couple of years in particular, I have learned more about mental health challenges, the educational system, and social dynamics than I ever had before and let me tell ya, it’s all frightening.
People and systems are faulty. Some malicious, some ignorant. It’s a never-ending, ongoing daily effort to seek out truth, implement strategies, and hope for the best. Often settling for non-catastrophic is reason to celebrate.
Where would we be without support. Granted, it’s not as though we have a big social network, or even a little one. I’ve used the excuse of moving across the country as why we haven’t made new friends. The truth is, it’s hard. Even without all the added stuff going on providing for the intense needs of our daughter, any down time is happily spent relaxing in our home with no pressure from others.
I’m not discounting the need for friends. It would be helpful to model this for our kid. I just don’t have the energy. I find most people are draining and don’t understand what we’re going through nor do they want to.
We are beyond fortunate to have a set of parents/grandparents on our side. They may not fully get all the struggles we face, but they are undeniably there with unwavering support, encouragement, and love.
I didn’t expect to have to need others in the way our family does. It’s been a pretty big learning curve. And we’re only a few years into it. We have a long way to go.
As I navigate the scary terrain of researching and attempting to understand bipolar disorder in children, I come across some things that really hit home. I feel so guilty for any contribution I make to my daughter’s suffering. I’m trying hard not to blame myself for her mental health challenges. All the while, doing everything I can to learn, grow, and do better for her every day.
“Because these children are so proud and often manage to keep it together in the outside world, people don’t believe that this charming child can turn so quickly in the home environment, and they are apt to jump to the conclusion that the child is manipulative, or that the mother is igniting the problem, thus placing a double burden on the already-abused mother.”
My daughter does display severe symptoms around other people, particularly teachers and others in authority attempting to direct her actions. Other parents of special needs children can be dismissive, especially if their child has more outwardly obvious issues. Parents of neuro-typical kids are shocked by her behavior and make harsh, unfair judgments.
It’s tough when family members blame my parenting style. This happens a lot. I’m far from perfect and I make lots of mistakes. But I am devoted with a full commitment to help her and our family.
Until a mile is walked on someone else’s journey, no one can fairly judge nor should they. Most parents are doing the best they can, myself included.
We still don’t have a diagnosis. All this research may be off course a bit, but the knowledge I’m gaining is empowering me to ask more questions, to find more answers. That’s the best I can do.
I married him on September 1, 1995. I was 23. He was 24. My then official step-daughter was 6. The first 3 years were amazing.
Then it went to shit.
I was miserable for years. Most of my twenties and the first half of my thirties were lonely and frustrating. I raged like a crazed animal. He shut me out and shut down. She was the brightest spot, but in hindsight I see what a failure I was to her.
I did the best I could with what I knew. I’m trying so hard to do better this time around.
Looking at pictures from back then recently felt like a slam to my gut and heart. It was a mistake to marry him. Oh, I know I wouldn’t be or have what I do now if I hadn’t traveled that path. Not at all. The family I cherish now wouldn’t exist.
But still, I did it for the wrong reasons. That’s my standard and often repeated behavior. I wanted her to have a mom. My ego let me believe I was up for it. Wrong.
I wasn’t in love with him, but I did love him. Like most of them, I tried to conform and ignored the red flags.
I thought we would be friends forever. I am such a naive fool. He’s moved on. I missed him for awhile. Then I was really angry for a long time. Now I’m resigned to the sadness of it all.
There were a lot of smiles in those pictures. But there weren’t any pictures from the later years. For good reason.
Gone. Without a trace. Walked away from this life. No good-byes. No looking back.
It would hurt the ones who love me. But I wouldn’t keep hurting them with my words and actions anymore. I wouldn’t bear the guilt of all the mistakes I keep making again and again. I wouldn’t feel this literal heartache. I would miss them and wonder how they are. Like the others I’ve left behind.
I’m tired of feeling like this. I don’t like my life’s circumstance. Feeling stuck. Trapped. Like I’m drowning. I don’t want to be the cause of someone else’s suffering. Better to not be here anymore.
This morning, just like every morning, I looked into my closet to choose my clothes. The selection is mostly t-shirts and ill-fitting cotton and poly tops. Having gained a lot of weight over the last couple of years, I’m currently at my heaviest. I stopped weighing myself months ago. I’m disgusted by the condition of my body Continue reading Self-Awareness→
When life gets hard, as it does with certain regularity, I tend to retreat. It’s dangerous being inside my mind when I’m feeling threatened, insecure, and unworthy. Self-loathing is an all-too-easy habit.
I’m fighting like hell against it today. In the past 3 years I’ve had big dreams crushed, again and again. It’s fucking exhausting to try to have hope that I’m not just spinning my wheels.
Where do I belong? What do I need to be doing? How do I let go of the pain and embrace the joy when disappointment has been such a frequent visitor?
I can choose to lay on my bed and wallow in the pain. Or I can breathe and simply be right here, right now. What matters is what I believe, not just what I perceive.
In a mindfulness class I’m taking, they talk of “changing your storyline”. It’s about shifting the tone, having self-compassion, cultivating better habits, and believing something better. I like that. I want that. I need that.
Clearly, my kid and I were both struggling with
our emotions. She felt overwhelmed and out of control. She’s not one to be intimated and will fire back with all she has. I wanted compliance and used the counting method out of anger.
Being screamed at is a trigger for me. I know this. Sometimes I can walk away. Take that much-needed, critical break to regroup.
I have an amazing kid. Sometimes I’m a really horrible mother. Like today, when I screamed at her for screaming at me. Oh yeah, getting someone to stop screaming by screaming louder than them isn’t an effective strategy. She was being extremely defiant and my patience was nil. It was an unnecessary power struggle that left me feeling overwhelmed and ashamed. I wouldn’t tolerate anyone treating her like I had.
Then I realized the window just a few feet away from her bathroom was wide open. An upstairs window, next door to the neighbor with his patio door open, 2 doors down from the family of 5 who I never hear yelling. Gut-wrenching shame that not only did my daughter experience my catastrophic meltdown, but also witnesses that I will encounter frequently. I’m sure they’re not taking up a collection to get me the Mother of the Year award.
After ‘winning’ the battle of teeth brushing, at the extreme cost of our dignity and with obvious trauma to our relationship, my 7 year old retreated to her room and I to mine. A few minutes had passed when I knocked on her door and was granted permission to enter. I sat at her bedside and asked her if she wanted to talk. “No, thank you” was her quiet reply. Nodding with understanding, I assured her we would talk later and left, requiring her to retrieve her own Clarees stuffy from downstairs. I was still angry and wanted to set her clear on the boundaries and rules of our home.
A couple of more minutes was all it took for the guilt to wash over me. The realization that I was failing as a mother, as her teacher, as a human. A flood of tears rushed forth. I made my way to my precious’ room, knocking softly and hoping for access. She graciously let me in, allowing me to snuggle under her blanket, wrapped up in her warmth, spooning in silence for a moment.
My apologies were abundant. I took responsibility for the individual ways I had made the wrong choices, for causing her sadness. Grateful that she wasn’t scared, but conscious and burdened with the sadness I inflicted on her. I asked her to turn and look at me, which she did without hesitation. She hadn’t responded to my apologies yet, but as she saw the tears streaming across my face she comforted me.
Her encouragement to be okay, that she was near me so it was okay. That she was “happy about you”, my puzzled expression prompting her to continue “for all the nice things you do for me”. Her gift of focusing on the positive, of understanding that I and everyone makes mistakes, and being able to choose to move beyond it so quickly, all combined to remind me yet again what a blessing it is to know her. What a responsibility it is to do better for her.
I keep failing. I continue to have good intentions and crappy execution. I cannot fathom forgiving myself for being so much less than she deserves. What in the world am I doing? How much damage am I doing, despite the nice things I do, what scars am I inflicting on her innocence? It’s not okay. It’s not. If I don’t do something to get myself help I’m not going to get better.
I have the tomorrow-I-will syndrome. There isn’t a tomorrow. Today is what counts. I screwed up today. Again. And the day is only half over. It’s probable that I will mess up a few more times. I’ll get a few things right, too. I’m okay with crying in front of my daughter, but only to a point. Sobbing uncontrollably is scary. A lot of the time being an adult is scary. And so is being a kid. I’ll keep trying to do more nice things while attempting to shift my reactionary behavior to align with the peaceful spirit inside of me.
On a side, yet relevant note, although it’s uncomfortable to be exposed to other people’s drama, something as simple as an “It must be hard to deal with all that” comment or a kind smile means so much. Anger comes from fear which comes from pain. It’s a vicious cycle that only love and kindness can heal. Try to remember that we’re all struggling.
Feeling alone, isolated from support, is draining. Reaching out for support can seem impossible. My demons are becoming more apparent all the time. More accurately, I’m losing the ability to excuse them. I want to feel better. I’ve done my share of suffering and I sure as hell don’t want to keep making the ones I love suffer, too.
How is someone supposed to do that when they don’t even like themselves? When forgiveness seems impossible, self-love is crippled.
But I try to be kind to myself. By posting reminders and inspiring words, I make my home a haven for encouragement. From laminated images to scribbles on paper to lipstick on the mirror. Whenever and wherever the feeling hits.
And it works. Sometimes.
When I’m feeling good, life is colorful. It’s easy to see the messages of hope.
On the other days, even though it’s gray, a simple nudge of inspiration might be enough to keep me moving forward.
The key is to remember to read the words. To gaze upon the images. To breathe in the hope.
