Feisty Bloggin’ Housewife

November 26, 2012

A HOME OR A WAR ZONE?

Filed under: children,family,health,life,parenting,Uncategorized — feistyhw @ 5:34 pm
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People are wondering what’s going on with me. Since I don’t think secrets serve anybody, I’m going to share a personal letter I wrote to my in-laws and an attached article that “Splains everything, Lucy.”  So here it is. Judge me if you will, judge away muthuhfuckuhs. In our attempt to save a little girl from deaths door at a shit-hole orphanage, my super-mom superpowers were put to the test. 10 years later, resignation. Can’t save everybody. And at this point, I just gotta save myself. And the remaining members of our nuclear family.

Hi Mom, (& *****)

Erik  wanted me to forward you this article which my friend Tracey sent me. The first time I read it I was stunned to see my life so handily displayed in black and white. After reading it several more times I have to say it is the single most concise explanation of what I’ve spent 10 years doing. The director of Geneva’s unit, after speaking with me on the phone, told me he thought I had PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) or some degree of it, and I had to agree. Attempting to be Geneva’s mother has changed me, I’ve said it a dozen times, and here it is in this paper. At any rate, researching more deeply the fallout of RAD (Reactive Attachment Disorder) Erik and I will be strategizing differently. Since Geneva has been out of the home, Estelle has begun to blossom. Living in this vacuum, I had not realized how much living in this war zone has oppressed Estelle’s spirit, but now it’s quite clear.  Anyway, I could go on for days.  Our family situation is described in every. Single. Sentence.  I have always viewed myself as one of the most emotionally/mentally strong people I’ve ever known, knowing very little fear and certainly rarely questioning my sanity or capabilities. But there has been a slow, almost so slow it was not perceptible, deterioration in my mental/emotional health and only by standing back and gathering this and other data, can I begin to realize just how far I have fallen from who I used to be. I mean, I know how miserable I am, but putting a face on it is another thing entirely. I only leave the house when forced. I can sleep for outrageous amounts of time. I quit school. I quit the gym. I tried to quit my band, but some tiny spark of life preservation jumped in at the last second, prompting me to beg for my job back ~ most days I cry off and on for hours. And I, am not a crying, miserable person. This is NOT who I am!  Jumpy in public, angry in public, completely distracted at all times, my mind buzzing with a thousand ways to “fix” everything, but nothing ever works. This decline is because I have been somebody’s target for almost 10 years now. Walking around your own home with a target on your back changes a person. And NOT for the better…. Yesterday I went to see Geneva on her unit and I was crying within 5 minutes, as she was difficult with me and showed no attempt to even ‘schmooze’ me for a get out of jail card. The only time there was a glimmer of any emotion was at the mention of her freedom, a word she used when I suggested that hopefully she would get better. She was not concerned with getting better, only getting ‘free.’  But it was only the concept of freedom that she responded to ~ coming home or rejoining her family was not a factor. She was pulling all the same crap on me she does each and every day, each and every hour. Last night I spent some time researching more RAD data, including reading some blogs by women who have been doing this for years and years, and suddenly I realized that even more pervasive than an underlying mood disorder, we were dealing more and more with RAD, along with the fetal alcohol and mental retardation. A trifecta of agony and frankly, flat-out family destruction.  This kid, this poor damaged soul, has just about managed to take me down….and as I fall, so do Estelle and Erik. A wake of misery. And after pouring your heart and soul into an abyss for 10 years, a sad ending to a tragic story of deprivation. I’ve never been one to be ANYbody’s target. I told her psych unit that I have “a very low tolerance for abuse.”  But putting motherhood first, I was looking at these things as challenges. Sadly, from all the research I’m reading, these challenges do not go away and in fact, I have YET to run across anybody who’s had any degree of success at fixing these kiddo’s.  All that’s happened is the destruction of marriages and families, in their heroic attempts to fight the good fight.  We are not sure what our next move will be, but at this point I have drawn a line in the sand. One patient (Geneva) is turning into 4, as she destroys the rest of us. Well, not on my watch. Throwing myself and Stel under the bus is not an option any longer….especially since there is no cure. She already broke my finger last month, swinging at me. I won’t wait for her to put me in the hospital or worse. This is fixin’ to end, one way or another. The line that most jumped out at me in this article, tho they ALL rang true, was “It is a known fact, that kids diagnosed with RAD tend to target their Moms, play it cool around their Dads, and charm strangers.”  Hello. Taken straight from our daily play book around here. In fact, the night we took Geneva to the hospital, she had been taunting and tormenting me all day ~ but it was not until Erik left to go to the store (or the gym or somewhere, I’ve blocked it out)  that she became physically aggressive towards me. Literally within about one minute. So calculated. Which you don’t want to ascribe to a ‘child’, being calculated, but she is. Then when Erik came home, it had become so combustable that even she could not control herself any more and began kicking in my bedroom door repeatedly….turning our home from a home into a violent, psychiatric ward. There’s nothing quite like being pursued by a violent person, in your own home. And my child, no less? Somebody’s gonna get hurt or killed and I think, in fairly short order unless we take measures to prevent it. I want to write a better ending to this story other than death and destruction. I appreciate all your support and advice over the years and consider myself blessed to have married into a family of such smart and loving folks.  As for me, I am trying to dig my way out and seek recovery for PTSD, given to me by my CHILD, not by war. But a mother, who is really a mother, is truly never free. My home IS a battleground (as this article describes in a way I would have never thought to use). Here’s to writing a better ending to this story….I was prepared for motherhood, not for war.

Post Traumatic Stress Disorder
in Parents of
Reactive Attachment Disordered Children

by Jody Swarbrick

Many foster and adoptive families of Reactive Attachment Disordered children live in a home that has become a battleground. In the beginning, the daily struggles can be expected, after all, we knew that problems would occur. Initially, stress can be so subtle that we lose sight of a war which others do not realize is occurring. We honestly believe that we can work through the problems. Outbursts, rages, and strife become a way of life. An emotionally unhealthy way of life. We set aside our own needs and focus on the needs of our children. But what does it cost us?

The majority of the population does not understand the dynamics of parenting a RAD child. Family and friends may think that you — the parent are the one with the problem. Families are frequently turned in on false abuse allegations. Support is non-existent, because outsiders can’t even begin to imagine that children can be so destructive. 

It is a known fact, that kids diagnosed with RAD tend to target their Moms, play it cool around their Dads, and charm strangers. Where does that leave a parent? Without strong support and understanding, the parent will become isolated, demoralized, hurt, confused, and often held accountable for the actions of their child. 

Families are simply not prepared for the profound anger that lives in the heart and soul of our RAD children. It’s heartbreaking, frustrating, mindboggling, and extremely stressful. In essence, we’re fighting to teach our children how to love and trust. Intimacy frightens our children; they have lost the ability to love, to trust, and to feel remorse for hurtful actions. They see us as the enemy. Small expectations on our part can set our children off in ways that are not only indescribable, but also often unbelievable.

Your home becomes a war zone and you feel totally inadequate. You begin to question your parenting abilities, and your own sanity. You know that your child has been hurt beyond words, you ache for them. Despite your loving intentions and actions, it’s thrown in your face.  Your heart’s desire is to provide your child with untold opportunities, a future, and all the love in the world. You want to soothe your child.  You want your child to have a fulfilling childhood and to grow up to be a responsible adult. Yet, you are met with hatred and fierce anger.

In war, the battle lines are drawn; an antagonism exists between two enemies. In our homes, we are not drawing battle lines; we are not prepared for war. We are prepared for parenting. Consequently, the ongoing stress can result in disastrous affects on our well-being literally causing our emotional and physical health to deteriorate.

The primary symptoms of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder include:

  • Avoidance — refusing to recognize the thoughts and feelings associated with the trauma, this further includes avoiding activities, individuals, and places associated with the trauma.
  • Intense distress — when certain cues or “triggers” set off memories of the traumatic event. You may have trouble concentrating, along with feelings of irritability, and frustration over trivial events that never bothered you in the past.
  • Nightmares and flashbacks — insomnia or oversleeping may occur. You may exhibit symptoms such as heightened alertness and startle easily.
  • A loss of interest in your life — detaching yourself from loved ones. Losing all hope for the future and a lack of loving feelings.

Secondary symptoms of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder can include:

  • The realization that you are no longer the person you once were. Relationships have changed by alienating yourself from loved ones. Loneliness and a feeling of helplessness prevail in your daily life.
  • Depression, which can lead to a negative self-image, lowered self-esteem, along with feeling out of control of your life and environment. You may become a workaholic and physical problems may develop.
  • You become overly cautious and insecure. Angry outbursts may occur putting stress on significant relationships.

If you are parenting a child diagnosed with Reactive Attachment disorder, you will not escape adverse effects. It is essential to recognize that your feelings are typical under stressful conditions. It is just as essential to accept the fact that extensive stress is unhealthy. By recognizing the symptoms and seeking support, you will strengthen your abilities to cope. Counseling is readily available to families and individuals. Take advantage of resources that will help you put the traumatic experiences into perspective, enabling you to let go of past feelings by replacing them with positive skills for recovery.


Reactive Attachment Disorder and Fetal Alcohol Syndrome
FAS Community Resource Center

To sing is to pray twice. ~ St. Augustine
                                        

November 12, 2008

Everybody Should Almost Die

Filed under: health,humor,life,parenting,Uncategorized — feistyhw @ 7:51 pm
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You know, when you almost die, it changes you.  In my case, almost solely for the better.

31 years ago today my life plunged into chemo hell.  Week after week (For 3 1/2 years) of noxious chemicals being sifted into my blood, to every fiber of my body.  Radiation, such a dangerous type they don’t even use it any more, blasted my still growing, frail, frame.  Oral med’s – sometimes 24 pills a day, infiltrating i.v.’s backing up chemicals like Cytoxan into my flesh, spinal taps, bone marrow extractions, radioactive dye being blasted thru me.  Can I tell you that it sucked?  Can I make you understand that dry heaving every 20 minutes for 2 days is some kind of really really bad movie?  Anyway, the point of today’s entry is not to bemoan all that horrendous shit.  All I have to do is look at photographs taken in Nazi Germany’s concentration camps and I feel like a real pussy.  My life, was a cake-walk compared to that.  Someone was trying to save my life, not thrash me lifeless.  Unless you characterize cancer as a person (which sometimes I do) – Me vs. Cancer, battle to the death.  So — I killed IT, I guess.  I win.  For now.

Everybody should almost die because it makes you…a lot of things.  It makes you smarter about life.  Death bed perspective cannot be taught, picked up in graduate school, beaten into you or given to you by a loving party.  You have to EARN that motherfucking stuff.  And once you do, life can be a downhill run from there. Besides learning what is ‘most excellent’ in life, you also develop low tolerance for certain things.  Here is a list of things that I have ZERO tolerance for since kicking cancer’s ass:

  • Whiners
  • Weak Willed People
  • Smokers
  • Professional Victims
  • Addicts
  • Having My Chain Jerked
  • Indecisive Morons
  • Negative Ninnies
  • Picky eaters
  • Greed
  • Money Hungry Bastards
  • Spoiled American Brats
  • Plastic Crap At Christmas
  • RWNJ’s (right wing nut jobs)
  • Liars
  • Mechanical Object Which Do Not Do What They Are Supposed To Do
  • Ignorance
  • Complacency In The Face Of Evil
  • Taco Meat That Tastes Like Artificial Smoke
  • Cruelty To Animals And The Aged
  • Indifference

And wow…I just realized I could probably go on and on like that…scary…..and it makes me sound kind of, well, grumpy frankly, but I’m not at all!  I think I can sum it up this way:

If you are an apathetic ignorant idiot who smokes & is mean to animals and gandy’s and who won’t get off their ass and do something about injustices that come your way and you always want more than your fair share and you’re willing to lie to get it and you throw your kids lavish, ugly birthday parties and you inundate your children with gads of plastic crap each holiday without instilling the gift of charity to them instead, while simultaneously complaining about the abundance of food served to you and you whine about your life yet have no idea what you want out of it while straddling the fence and enabling the weak around you to continue to be weak and you don’t have the guts to own your mistakes and you never do what you say you are going to do AND you make lousy taco’s….then I guess I have zero tolerance for you.

Shalom.  🙂

If you were to almost die a lot, I bet you’d get a list too.

Love,

Feisty Housewife – 31 years out.

P.S.  Oh yeah.  And hunters.  I don’t think guys should be able to take guns and kill things while the things are trying to drink from a babbling brook.  Man, that’s just fucked up unfair.  Kinda reminds me of Cancer just kinda sorta….sneaking up on ME……BAM, FUCK YOU, BAM.  Unfair.

October 18, 2008

Laugh or Die

I write, tho no one’s reading.  And that’s o.k.  I still get to write.

I was e-mailing an old chum today (Mac) and was reminded of a time I laughed…too much I guess.

For my part, I’m still waiting to grow up, but suppose I never fully will.  I guess I’m kinda-sorta ‘always waiting to die’ in the farthest recesses of my mind.  My toe has been on that line and I think it fuels my behavior.  For years I was treated for Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma and was really not expected to live, so it was a 3 1/2 year ritual of needles and puke and pain and then…aaa, maybe you die anyway kid. I daresay growing up like that changes you.  Coming out of that “normal” would be like coming out of other traumatic fights as if nothing ever happened.  Aint gonna happen, boys.  Anyway, I am much like a child who won’t go to bed because they don’t want to miss anything – – I’m always the last one to fall asleep at the slumber party. Being all grown up I don’t have the occasion to attend slumber parties any more and I think that’s a total gyp man! Youth is a wonderful thing.  What a shame to waste it on children!!  (O.K, I just ripped off George Bernard Shaw, but I admitted it, so it’s all good.)   Here is an example of my dedication to fun: Once, as a teen, I had to be taken to the hospital with exhaustion because I physically could not walk.  It scared my mother to death.  I had gone to a slumber party, staggered home the next day and collapsed in my bed.  When I tried to get up, I could not.  Not only was I incapable of standing on my own, all I could do was cry rivers.  Cry, cry, cry and mumble, “What’s wrong with me?”  So off we went to my pediatric oncologists office.  I sat there weeping like a freak – mind you, I’m the kid who wrote English papers while they were extracting bone marrow from my backside.  With the pain tolerance of a mule and the disposition of Hawkeye from MASH, I was the ever joking, sarcastic, tough as nuts chemo patient.  So, Dr. Pecoraro asked me what I’d been up to.  I, between sobs, told him that I’d been at a slumber party the night before.  I ate Nacho Cheese Dorito’s (NEW back then), & orange sody pop.  Gee, maybe I was trying to kill the cancer with some combination of red dye #2 and yellow #3…..Anyway, tho not the preferred diet of a cancer patient, one night of evil orange foods certainly could not be the culprit.  I confessed to staying up until 3 or 4 and laughing a LOT.  He grilled me on this, and as I began to regale him my evening I started laughing again, rather uncontrollably, but I was also still crying, so then I was laugh-crying and my gawd, what a side show!  He took a moment and looked at my mother then at me and said, “You’re suffering from exhaustion.  Plain and simple.  Get home and get in bed.  Do not get up for at least two days, otherwise we’ll have to hospitalize you.”  The exhaustion was caused by laughter and lack of sleep. But mostly laughter. I had cackled myself sick!!   Do you know how many hours you have to laugh for that to happen?  Many many many.  And here’s something scary.  I have a cassette tape from portions of that evening to help me remember.  It’s a tonic like no other.  I put that tape in, take a listen, and suddenly I’m 15 again – my friends and I and our littler voices, innocent and goofy and sublimely unaware that we would probably never laugh like that again.  We thought we were so funny, we cracked ourselves up at every turn – singing to the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack and doing ridiculous dances to make each other laugh.  I have a similar tape which I made when I was actually in the hospital.  I carried my tape recorder everywhere with me. The hospital tape is, listening back, so sad.  I was sick-dog-sick with cancer and pneumonia on top of it, yet I was sharing a room with another teenage girl and in the middle of the night we were whooping it up like drunks!  You can hear my wheezing as I’m laughing, you can hear my I.V. dripping/clicking in the background.  The first time I heard that noise on one of my hospital tapes after I’d long been cured, I almost threw up.  That tick tick tick of my I.V., sliding poison into my veins, gave me a physical reaction to a psychological trauma.  Even writing this I’m feeling sick.  After you dry heave a few thousand times your body never forgets and old sounds/medicinal smells can bring it smack right back atcha.  Yick.  Double yick.  Anyway, the nurses had to come in and tell us to shut up numerous times, but after spending hundreds of hours in hospitals as an adult, I can only imagine how laughter coming from our room was perhaps so refreshing for those nurses.  Not only that, now I know  laughter was probably theeee best upper respiratory therapy in the world!  They’d come in and beat on my back every few hours, but my raucous laughter couldn’t have hurt that congestion any.

So I’ll make a point.  I think everyone should be taken to the hospital and diagnosed with “laughter” at least once in their lives. I had a great doctor, saints as nurses, and they threw every toxic chemical in the book into my veins, but if I had to put my money on the thing that cured me the most, I’d have to say it was laughter.  Studies now show it actually changes your blood for the better – but I could have told them that in 1977.  Not to be naive, but I believe laughter chased cancer right outta me.  For cancer is evil, and it could not abide in such a happy place.  My challenge as a ‘grown up’ is to manage to find enuf laughter to make all the woe’s go away.  And damn it, sometimes I just can’t.  This quest for fun gets in the way of being a grown up…No, being a grown up get’s in the way of laughing my ass off all night.  That’s what it is.  So “Middle Age” – get the fuck out-my-way.  Laughter calls.

May 9, 2008

BINGO! Sport of The Disabled

So I escaped the house tonight. To do charity work. But hey, it’s still NOT fixing dinner at my house and doing the bedtime routine. An escape of any ilk is still emancipation from the pattern – that one I’ve been sucked into. Suck, suck, slurp and there goes my brain, being vacuumed right outta my wee little head. Anyway –

Our Relay For Life team does an annual bingo fund raiser for The American Cancer Society which garners great numbers and is in honor of a courageous gal from our town who passed away from cancer, leaving two young children behind and THAT should be illegal. I am a cancer survivor myself. (Diagnosed in 1977 with Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma which had a nasty survival rate so they gave me odds of 1000 to 1 to survive. HA! Showed them, eh?) Don’t tell me I *can’t* do something….even like, survive. I’ll kick your ass. So I’ve had more chemotherapy than anyone I’ve ever met, hundreds of spinal taps and bone marrow extractions, yadda, yadda, yadda – they inflicted theee most prehistoric chemo on me. Dumped the entire kitchen sink into my veins, and then some. Radiation from hell. No surprise I’m a nut job – I glow in the friggin’ dark. Nothing quite as fun as being a bald 15 year old albino girl. Well, I’m not a true albino but I’m a mere gene twist away. But I digress!! I am not talking about cancer survival in this blog, on-account-a I figure I could write a friggin’ book. What I want to talk about is the phenomenon I’ve observed about BINGO and it’s place in American weeknights.

It’s the sport of the disabled. I say this because of who plays bingo. Gandy’s (my sister-in-law’s slang word for the elderly. I’m not sure where she got it, but we use it around here. Example: Someone’s creeping slowly down the road in front of you in their floater-mobile such as a Towncar or Crown Vic and they are wearing a HAT and they are drifting ever so slowly within their lane to every extreme – so as to not cross over any line but yet you can’t predict exactly where they are going to float to next. You can either call them a “hat driver” or a “Gandy”. It’s a thing. Anyway, Gandy’s play bingo and that’s an internationally known fact, I’m not being prolific here. But who else plays? O.K, I’ll tell you, because I know you are fixin’ to wet yourself with anticipation….People who drag their oxygen tanks behind them, that’s who! And they arrive extra early to get the best seat at the cafeteria tables with the institutional metal chairs. I mean, I’m setting up the kitchen food (I always work the kitchen at this event) – Jeeeesus, I guess I don’t actually get out of the kitchen EVER, do I? Anyway, so here they come, pulling their little tanks of life. They are followed by the “Limper’s”. They are in walkers, using canes or in wheelchairs. They gimp in and make camp in choice locations. As I observe these poor folks, I realize that my daughter who is currently in a wheelchair could also participate. Why, this could be HER sport! She’s 9, not 90, but the crippled-up part applies. Even after her accident where she tried to get killed by a riding lawn mower, bingo was the first thing they dragged her to in the play room at Johns Hopkins. She had 3 out of 4 of her limbs down. Only her right hand escaped the ravages of that goddamned mower. Sigh. Cry. My Stella. Moooovin’ on…..don’t get caught there tonight, you are too tired. In addition to the Gandy’s, the Barely Breathing’s and the Limper’s are the….now DON’T get your panties in a wad over this, but let’s just put it delicately and say the “larger” Americans. By large, I mean they have their own zip code. No lie. I feel sorry for them, as they squeeze their way between the lines of tables and chairs but I also feel sorry for those damn chairs, – stop it! Not nice, not nice. The metal chairs release squeaks of pain and strain as our larger friends take a load off. And of course I’m standing back there in the kitchen/snack bar area with my head into my 3rd helping of nacho cheese dip and chips so who the hell am I to talk? As the evening progresses the irony strikes me that we are here to raise money to cure and help prevent cancer and the entire place is full of colon cancer nominees and I’m serving them hot dogs, nachos and soda pop! To be fair, we also had fruit cups, fresh veggies w/ dip and home made chicken salad that was not too evil. One guess as to what item was most left over at the end of the night? Aw, you got it. Fresh veggies. I finally had to break down and eat a fruit cup and some veggies because I could actually hear my arteries beginning to harden from the cheese sauce I was inhaling.

These people are also very serious about their bingo. They are “hard core”. They do not joke when they play, they do not look as if they are having any fun at all. (Just like people at slot machines who always look like they are at a wake or really boring church and I’m always hopping around at my money sucking machine shouting, “Come on baby, mama needs a new pair of Sunday-go-to-meetin’ shoes” and other highly obnoxious quips that amuse and entertain me.) Do NOT get between these Gandy’s, Barely Breathing’s, Limper’s and Larger’s and their bingo for they have perfected the art of the death glare and they are heavily armed with bingo blotters. Or dobbers. Or whatever the hell they are called.

So as we age my darlings, we can look forward to a fabulous sport that’s tailored to our special needs. A sport that mandates you sit on your ass, eat snacks, and only requires one good hand to make it happen. BINGO! My future awaits. And I hope it waits a long long time.

Yours,

D. Feisty Housewife

Sidebar: Geneva cannot play bingo. The scanning and dobbing specific numbers is simply too much for her brain. She’d have greater success sitting inside the bingo ball blower trying to catch the numbered orbs as they flew by. In fact, she’d rock that out. I’ll probably need to find her a job like that in about 5 years or so….

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