more whine?
Daniel has a heart murmur, which is no big deal bla bla bla, your neighbour, brother, sister, aunt, dentist, whoever has one too-and they're fine, but pish. Daniel is my son. I'm not freaking out or anything, and have no plans to do so as, according to his pediatrician, it's most likely related to the iron deficiency which is being treated so murmur, begone etc. Still, I feel...worried, sure, because my little boy can't be feeling one hundred percent at present, but also...I dont know. Disappointed, maybe? Sad? Guilt ridden, definitely, ugh. I take inventory a thousand times a day, did I feed him enough of this, do I feed him enough of that, and come up with a solid yes each time, so really, I don't know what my problem is because I feel sick with thinking over and over about what I should have done to prevent this, but when I think about those things I come up with *drumroll* nothing. God.
Dude is having an ungodly amount of a sickly ferrous sulphate solution squirted down his gullet twice a day for the next eight weeks, which is causing some interesting artwork in his underpants. Also, his poop, which doesn't smell too flash on a good day anyway, now smells like something metallic died in there, like he's harboring the rotting corpse of C3P0 in his bowels or something. From his perspective, I can't imagine it's too much fun, and from mine, OH MY. GOD. Ferrous sulphate rusts in water, by the way, which is an aside and doesn't really explain why some days his poop, if one could destink it, would be perfect as road tar, and why on others it makes an odacious beeline to the back of his head. Anyhoo, in two months we go back for some more blood from those tiny, tiny veins, and then we celebrate because everything will be perfect and fluffy bunnies etc. In the meantime, I can't tell my mother any of this because she'll freak the fuck out. Frankly, it'd be nice if I could have an adult conversation with her, something like 'ma, Daniel has heart murmur and I know he's okay, but I'm in turmoil, hold me' and have her do so, but hello. It's my mother we're talking about here. I'm kind of resentful that I always have to censor my world when I talk with her. Not that it means anything anyway because she only goes over all le freaque when it looks good to do so. It looks good to for the witnesses and she'll look like a good grandmother if she worries about my son. She looks like a good friend if she worries about other people. She's all about how it looks, in my biased little opinion. Or, she cares about everyone else in the world except for poor weetle me. Case in point, my friend A, with the breast cancer? Mum was all cooking her lasagne and being all upset and worrying about leaving because A must need the support, but when I had my own breast cancer scare several years ago, she didn't even call to see how the surgery went. Oh, and six weeks after that, I was in hospital again for a totally unrelated, totally major surgical intervention, and being a fool, told mum what I was up for. Why, you ask, when she's never shown any concern for your wellbeing? See aformentioned reference to 'fool'. Also, I think I keep hoping she'll magically care about me one day, so I keep offering her opportunities to demonstrate that she does. Which she does, I suppose. How much though? This much, and just so you know, I'm punching the air between my thumb and forefinger right now. Anyway, as it was around Christmas time, mum's response was to invite me to spend the holidays with her and her brother, sipping champagne on his balcony. You know, to recuperate. From major surgery. Yeah. When all she really meant was that my ill health was an inconvenience she had no willingness to actually mother me. After I had Daniel, mum was all telling people how she was here to help me and bla bla bla when in fact, she didn't do a damn thing except to say "they don't look that bad to me" when I was going over all emotional at the filthy state of my floors. I'd had a cesaerian fercrisake, so no doing anything of significance for six weeks etc, and she was supposedly here to help me except I, being a fucking martyr, actually ended up doing more, thankyou very much.
I just had to take a break and fan myself because, whoo boy, my blood pressure. I'm chock full of resentment - did you guess? Enough for pages and pages of blog, because for whatever reason, I'm hanging on to the hurts of the past, woot!
Oddly (or not, if you're a deep, universal thinker that believes in life lessons etc) enough, Stef was the same with the whole lack of care thing. God, what a fuckwit. And what a fuckwit I was to put up with that crap! Seriously. Then again, if you believe in life lessons etc, you'll understand why I essentially slept with a short, fat, hairy backed, male version of my mother for five years.
So, um, yeah, that's why I can't tell my mum.
******
an interlude about eggs: Stop buying cage eggs. It doesn't cost that much more to buy eggs that come from happy chickens, so spend a few cents more per egg and buy a damn carton of free-range.. Thankyou.
Speaking of eggs, as much as I am so fucking blessed to have my miracle boy, I'm also pretty pissed off that I'm unlikely to ever have anymore. Pissed off works better for me than 'incredibly saddened by' does. Also, resent. Resent, resent, resent, because had my mother actually given a damn when it mattered, it might not be like this. I'm still grieving what my life could have been, if only, you know?
Four years ago, I weighed under 45 kilos, and fifteen years before that, I barely weighed more than 33, and today, I'm not that far out of an eating disorder. I'm not even out of it at all. I live with it now, not for it, that's all, which while it was the goal I set myelf, go me, it kind of sucks because now I'm an anorexic who actually is fat. In all those years in between though, I was left alone and condemned to die. I was 22 when my family left me, and I'd been sick for less than eight months.
As difficult as it is to see where I am now as a success, I know intellectually that it is. Emotionally though, I feel like a big, fat failure. I mean, how bad of a person must one be to have one's own family not think you're worth saving? And then I compare myself to others my own age, with their house, their car, their families, their success, when I should be comparing myself today with who I was and where I was at not even five years ago. The gains I've made in that time are more than many make in a lifetime, but I still feel I need to explain that to others, to compare my gains with theirs, and to explain that my past isn't that long ago. I'm so saddened by the thought that if someone had helped me all those years ago, my illness might have not have been something that defined my very existance. Blaming others isn't a proactive way to move forward, I know, but I do. I do blame my family. Not for my illness, but for leaving me to succumb fully to it. From a purely objective point of view, I don't know how anyone could survive what I did, but from a subjective one, it was my life , it wasn't bad, I just lived it.
None of this makes any sense. I guess I just wanted to point out that I have achieved a lot, even though I have nothing, and probably because I feel like such a fucking loser pretty much all of the time, and I don't want you to think I am that much of one too.
Dude is having an ungodly amount of a sickly ferrous sulphate solution squirted down his gullet twice a day for the next eight weeks, which is causing some interesting artwork in his underpants. Also, his poop, which doesn't smell too flash on a good day anyway, now smells like something metallic died in there, like he's harboring the rotting corpse of C3P0 in his bowels or something. From his perspective, I can't imagine it's too much fun, and from mine, OH MY. GOD. Ferrous sulphate rusts in water, by the way, which is an aside and doesn't really explain why some days his poop, if one could destink it, would be perfect as road tar, and why on others it makes an odacious beeline to the back of his head. Anyhoo, in two months we go back for some more blood from those tiny, tiny veins, and then we celebrate because everything will be perfect and fluffy bunnies etc. In the meantime, I can't tell my mother any of this because she'll freak the fuck out. Frankly, it'd be nice if I could have an adult conversation with her, something like 'ma, Daniel has heart murmur and I know he's okay, but I'm in turmoil, hold me' and have her do so, but hello. It's my mother we're talking about here. I'm kind of resentful that I always have to censor my world when I talk with her. Not that it means anything anyway because she only goes over all le freaque when it looks good to do so. It looks good to for the witnesses and she'll look like a good grandmother if she worries about my son. She looks like a good friend if she worries about other people. She's all about how it looks, in my biased little opinion. Or, she cares about everyone else in the world except for poor weetle me. Case in point, my friend A, with the breast cancer? Mum was all cooking her lasagne and being all upset and worrying about leaving because A must need the support, but when I had my own breast cancer scare several years ago, she didn't even call to see how the surgery went. Oh, and six weeks after that, I was in hospital again for a totally unrelated, totally major surgical intervention, and being a fool, told mum what I was up for. Why, you ask, when she's never shown any concern for your wellbeing? See aformentioned reference to 'fool'. Also, I think I keep hoping she'll magically care about me one day, so I keep offering her opportunities to demonstrate that she does. Which she does, I suppose. How much though? This much, and just so you know, I'm punching the air between my thumb and forefinger right now. Anyway, as it was around Christmas time, mum's response was to invite me to spend the holidays with her and her brother, sipping champagne on his balcony. You know, to recuperate. From major surgery. Yeah. When all she really meant was that my ill health was an inconvenience she had no willingness to actually mother me. After I had Daniel, mum was all telling people how she was here to help me and bla bla bla when in fact, she didn't do a damn thing except to say "they don't look that bad to me" when I was going over all emotional at the filthy state of my floors. I'd had a cesaerian fercrisake, so no doing anything of significance for six weeks etc, and she was supposedly here to help me except I, being a fucking martyr, actually ended up doing more, thankyou very much.
I just had to take a break and fan myself because, whoo boy, my blood pressure. I'm chock full of resentment - did you guess? Enough for pages and pages of blog, because for whatever reason, I'm hanging on to the hurts of the past, woot!
Oddly (or not, if you're a deep, universal thinker that believes in life lessons etc) enough, Stef was the same with the whole lack of care thing. God, what a fuckwit. And what a fuckwit I was to put up with that crap! Seriously. Then again, if you believe in life lessons etc, you'll understand why I essentially slept with a short, fat, hairy backed, male version of my mother for five years.
So, um, yeah, that's why I can't tell my mum.
******
an interlude about eggs: Stop buying cage eggs. It doesn't cost that much more to buy eggs that come from happy chickens, so spend a few cents more per egg and buy a damn carton of free-range.. Thankyou.
Speaking of eggs, as much as I am so fucking blessed to have my miracle boy, I'm also pretty pissed off that I'm unlikely to ever have anymore. Pissed off works better for me than 'incredibly saddened by' does. Also, resent. Resent, resent, resent, because had my mother actually given a damn when it mattered, it might not be like this. I'm still grieving what my life could have been, if only, you know?
Four years ago, I weighed under 45 kilos, and fifteen years before that, I barely weighed more than 33, and today, I'm not that far out of an eating disorder. I'm not even out of it at all. I live with it now, not for it, that's all, which while it was the goal I set myelf, go me, it kind of sucks because now I'm an anorexic who actually is fat. In all those years in between though, I was left alone and condemned to die. I was 22 when my family left me, and I'd been sick for less than eight months.
As difficult as it is to see where I am now as a success, I know intellectually that it is. Emotionally though, I feel like a big, fat failure. I mean, how bad of a person must one be to have one's own family not think you're worth saving? And then I compare myself to others my own age, with their house, their car, their families, their success, when I should be comparing myself today with who I was and where I was at not even five years ago. The gains I've made in that time are more than many make in a lifetime, but I still feel I need to explain that to others, to compare my gains with theirs, and to explain that my past isn't that long ago. I'm so saddened by the thought that if someone had helped me all those years ago, my illness might have not have been something that defined my very existance. Blaming others isn't a proactive way to move forward, I know, but I do. I do blame my family. Not for my illness, but for leaving me to succumb fully to it. From a purely objective point of view, I don't know how anyone could survive what I did, but from a subjective one, it was my life , it wasn't bad, I just lived it.
None of this makes any sense. I guess I just wanted to point out that I have achieved a lot, even though I have nothing, and probably because I feel like such a fucking loser pretty much all of the time, and I don't want you to think I am that much of one too.
posted by aibee at 13:50
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