Tag Archives: bff

She didn’t want me anymore

I’m noticing a theme in my entries. A good portion of them talk about losing friends, how I felt about it, and why I think I felt that way. I can tell you that my feelings are as real as the experiences, but they’re not the whole story.

Most relationships are fluid. I don’t know why it happens that way. I have a few sturdy relationships, those that last and get stronger sometimes, then weaker, but are always close. My brother is one, Mauditmo is one, and I hope my husband is one.

What makes them different than the other people I’ve written about? I don’t know. My brother and I are almost four years apart. He is so physically gorgeous I had a therapist once ask me if there was any animosity on my part. (He looks like one of the guys from those teen vampire flicks) There has never been any animosity, for one I had been raised by my parents to believe I was one of the most beautiful girls the world had ever known. I realize now that is not true. I am not unattractive, but I have acne scars and Hermione hair (most of the time). I am also thirty-five and rarely wear make-up. If I cared, I would. I think if he had been the sister I so desperately wanted, of we were closer in age I might have felt that way, but I didn’t, and never have. I doubt I ever will.

I think what makes Mauditmo and me friends after all these years is devotion. We are hardly alike at all. Her family background and mine are polar opposites. She likes four seasons, she gets to study and write all over the United States. I forwarded her a funny youtube video and she not only didn’t laugh, she told me her life was not a whole lot different than it was at twenty-one. She doesn’t do anyone’s laundry but her own. I do a lot of laundry, tiny dresses and panties, sweaty t-shirts and a lot of lounge pants. We’ve traveled together, loving the coast while we headed to Canada. We’ve taken long round trip friends to the city where both of our extended families still live.

She is also considerably smarter than most people, including me. I am considerably more spiritual and am devoted to Jesus. Religion is not on the radar for her. She’s studying at an extremely prestigious writing school and I am writing a blog in my two story track home. My seven year old is waiting down stairs for me to help her learn to ride a bike. She doesn’t really want to. My husband says she just doesn’t want to do something hard.

I best go.

My husband is the one I worry about, to be honest. He loves me; I love him. We are supposed to sustain this love forever. It’s a source of fretting. I think we will be together, and I have reasons why: our vows. We both promised in sickness and in health and there has been a lot more sickness around here lately. Good thing it’s so specific.

The odds for us are not good. 90% of marriages, where one partner is bipolar, end in divorce. B wants to approach heaven with the confidence that will come with making a marriage to a bipolar woman work. It’s not only my issues, though. He knows that, and certainly God knows that.


“Wouldn’t You Like to be Popular?” (G)

Small was seven yesterday and she already wants to be eight.  She’s one of the youngest people in the class and thinks their age gives them authority.  She is a month older than one of her friends and a year older than another and she lords it over them.  She is always the one in charge, she makes the decisions and they execute them.

Is she always going to be like that?

I sure hope she’s not bipolar.  Bipolar gives you weeks of being on top of the world followed by weeks of crashing in to the ground.  Your friends who loved your energy and love of life often abandon you.  It’s not that they don’t like you anymore.  They probably didn’t really like you in the first place.  For someone who enjoys people and wants to be around them, this could be detrimental.  When she is at the top, she’d be at the top.   When she would be depressed, no matter how much she struggles  she won’t  be able to snap out of it.   She does care about what other people think, and psych-hospitals are the joke to end all jokes and she would probably be shunned.   I don’t know if she’d be able to be on top ever again.

Does it seem like I’m obsessed with my daughter’s future popularity?  I guess I am, because I see that being around people and having BFFs feed her spirit.  I have real friends, now, like T and L.  They cook for me and invite me over.  I have a feeling they aren’t talking about me behind my back, or if they are, it is not picking me apart, or finding fault with me.  My friends in high school weren’t that real.  I had mauditmo but she lived very far away.  Other didn’t even notice they were trampling my body in to the ground.  None of us were knowledgeable enough about anything to notice I had something serious going on. I have the twisted idea that, if Small is at least moderately popular she will have more friends, and among those friends she will have good friends.  I should find some former homecoming queens (are there any “former” homecoming queens or is it something like in the Marines, “Once a Marine, always a Marine”?”) and ask about their friendships and relationship.  Or football quarterbacks.  (Can I think of any other stereotypes?  I never even knew our school had a quarterback.)

It occurs to me, in a flash, that punitive parenting would destroy my daughter.  I don’t think it’s good for any kid, but a kid like Small could be crushed.  I raised my voice to my husband earlier this week.  They both were shocked, but Small was spooked.  It reminds me it is good that I don’t yell.  I don’t want her to get used to being yelled at or at hearing yelling.  Same thing goes for corporal punishments, from slapping hands to spankings.  I got ticked at her when she was almost two years old for grabbing at something.  I smacked her hand and she laughed and smacked me back.   It was silly.  It put the whole thing in perspective.  I said I was sorry, but she had dropped it before I could.  I can hear dissenting voices – I should have hit her harder.  I should have been doing it more consistently. I can’t expect punishment to work if I don’t make it hurt.  What?  Why?   As Small says, “That doesn’t even make sense.”

It also doesn’t make sense I was able to fly below the radar.  Although I had obvious symptoms, I was not diagnosed or treated for any mental illness until I was in late twenties.  I struggled  alone, fighting to do the very best I could.  I didn’t have the luxury of any kind of support team or the counseling I desperately needed.  When I was first diagnosed I used to joke that, although  was sick for over a decade, I didn’t get “caught” until much later Most people get diagnosed in their late teens/early twenties.  I managed to plow through those times with sheer willpower, fighting against my body and mind and was chronically suicidal.  Maybe you could have met me and I’d look fine, maybe you would be insightful enough to tell.

P.S.  The title of the entry comes from the 80s flick, “Can’t Buy Me Love.”

More about babies (PG-13)

I’m cycling, as in bipolar cycling.  I spent, I shopped, I cried and I refused to do anything difficult.  I tried to sleep like crazy.  I took an Ativan but all that did was make me exceedingly mellow for about twenty hours.  I did sleep a reasonable amount, but who cares?  The point is, I wore that checkbook out.  I returned some of the things, but I felt entitled to the ones I kept.  The next day, nay, the next afternoon I felt really guilty.  It was a sign that I am headed back to some sort of normalcy.  Normal is one of my least favorite words, but I need it for my family.

I was crying today because Small asked me to read to her.  We read a Lola and Soren Lorenson book.  I love Lola and her brother and her invisible friend, Soren.  Then the other book  she chose is book about a pregnant woman and her baby.  They were going to go “catch the sun.”  I couldn’t hang with it.  Seeing them together was too much – the last few days of it just being the two of them.  I thought I was over this, but it is a sadness and joy I will carry with me my whole life.  I will never be callous towards myself or anyone else who lost a child.  They are earned scars.  What is it Rumi says about the bruised  hand?  There are people who are compassionate but have never had trouble with fertility, or miscarriage, or still birth, or….  An empathetic hand is what is gentle, helpful and hopeful.

I know just what brought this up.  The other day, while I was in the bath, Small tried to explain to me why it would be great for her to have the big sister we lost.  “She’s be eight years old, not too old to play with me,” she said.  I agreed with her, although that possibility would not be great – we found out I was pregnant with Small on our first child’s due date.  Then I realized that Small didn’t understand what happened.  I don’t remember why I told her about the miscarriage, and I’m not sure it was a wise thing to do.  If we had another I would wait until she was older, for sure.  Something in me clicked and I think I could understand where she was coming from:  “Small, we can’t just go pick her up.”

She was surprised.  She must have thought, “Why not?”

It seemed like she thought she was waiting for us welcome her back into our family.  I tried to explain to her we could never do that, but I am still not sure she really gets it.  I remember reading about twins, aged seven, whose father died of a heart attack.  Their mom had heard them in the hall in the middle of the night.  They had packed and were ready to go find dad.  So, seven is probably too young, too.  But what do I know?  I’m a first time mom.

I’m also a last time mom.

I don’t need another child.  Not to be happy and not to be fulfilled.  I am open to more children, but will not seek to adopt or surrogate.  I figure the only way we will have more children is if someone leaves their children to us after death or some sort of incapacity.  We are godparents to my 16 year old cousin, though if something happened to her mom I’m probably sure she would emancipate, she’s just that together.  (Her dad is a meth-user, among other stupid things).  So anyway, that’s out.  I thought once that I have things to do that I could probably not accomplish with a large family.  I love my daughter and try not to let the sorrow get in the way.  It must.  I have a feeling my longing some how lodged itself in her and that is why she keeps asking.  My therapist’s stance about my sadness about the birthday parties (now up to 3) is that I am projecting my loneliness and feelings of exclusion on her.  It doesn’t seem to really effect her.  Does she even know about them?   Would she care or is she secure enough to not let it bother her?   I have a sneaking suspicion she really doesn’t care.  It’s a shock to me.   How can she not feel the sting of rejection and exclusion?

She has a new best friend every week.  Normal.  (There’s that word.)  I had one friend a year, if that.  Kindergarten – Jennifer.  First grade – Kristie (but I had not her best friend.  Davina was.   Second grade- Megan and Regina (that’s two!)  Third grade, also Megan and Regina.  Fourth grade- Persephone, Fifth grade – Pam.  Sixth grade and Middle school changed things a little.  There was a little clan of us, Erica, Cindy, Valeri(e), nd me.   (Cindy was my roommate at sixth grade camp.  Valeri(e) and I locked her in to the closet. Cindy was still my friend after that.  That same week I met Monique (mauditmo.wordpress.com).  I have always gotten better things than I deserve.

Small is not ready for a clan, and I am not ready to get a call from the school telling me about the horrible things she did.  (I believe she is a kinder, less frustrated person than I was  Also I was never caught.  Not for locking a girl in the closet, not for the very mean slam book I carried around, not for nothing.)

I have to get ready for church.