What I really should have been doing, instead of getting all doom and gloom like I did below, was wishing my Aunt Heidi a very happy birthday!
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU, TOOTSIE ROLL!
Heidi is like a second mom to me (as well as being my mom’s partner in crime) and I appreciate her so much.
You thought I was going to talk about religion. Ha! No way.
A good friend of mine received some interesting news from her family today, and while she is still processing it – she asked if I ever had a big “revelation” in my family.
I immediately thought of when I was like 7 and my dad said, “Oh by the way, that person you thought was your grandfather is actually your step-grandfather. We are going to meet your real grandfather today.”
They had a falling out and Dad didn’t speak to him for like 15 years. Basically because (I think) my real grandfather had a nervous breakdown and left my grandmother.
It was kind of cool actually cause I never liked my step-grandfather. Well, I never liked my paternal grandmother much either. I felt guilty about it for a long time, since you are supposed to love everyone in your family no matter what – kwim?
But I stopped feeling guilty about it the day my sister told me that our grandmother had told her – when she was like 9 years old – that is was her fault that Dad died. Let me be clear. My GRANDMOTHER told my SISTER that it was my SISTER‘s (and I suppose in turn, my) FAULT that my father DIED. No wonder my sister was fucked up for so long.
Speaking of revelations. It has been interesting to revisit my father through talk therapy. I have dissociative memory disorder… which means, when things weren’t too cool at home during the early years, I started blocking things… and usually when people start that habit at a young age, they just keep doing it into adulthood, even though the trauma may be gone. It’s been a joke among my family for a long time that I can’t remember anything. But here is the thing – I can remember things like names of songs, what celebrity is dating who, etc – things that don’t mean anything.
From what I have pieced together from talking to my mom and my aunt, from my therapist’s interpretations of my stories and my dreams, and just my general feeling on things… it is possible that my father molested me (or us) as children.
My father was non-paranoid schizophrenic… or as my mom calls it, psychotic (same thing). Apparently the worst episode was when he was conducting an orchestra (that was not there) and the doctors had to tell him that the rest of the band was waiting for him in the ambulance to get him out of the house. My mom downplays this, says that it resulted from the medications that he was taking, but my therapist says that is impossible. That drugs like lithium do not cause psychotic episodes, they treat them. Who knows.
My dad also possibly had mild OCD (Obsessive Compulsive Disorder)… based on some of the stories of his behavior, and my own tendencies towards OCD, I feel this to be correct as well.
My therapist has compared him to a lesser version of Russell Crowe’s character from A Beautiful Mind. That does not surprise me since my father was brilliant. In fact, he helped develop the first communications system for the first satellite that NASA ever sent up. My sister tells me that XM Radio is based on some of my dad’s work. Very very very smart man.
My therapist says that someone who is schizophrenic with possible OCD tendencies is not likely to attack, rape or violate… so it is unlikely that my father violently attacked me/us. In my bones, I am pretty sure he did not molest us. She said it is far more likely that he would masturbate in my presence, or expose himself – since one of the characteristics of this type of person is lack of boundaries and lack of empathy. I am not sure about that either. I do remember my dad in a robe and skivvies all the time, but my guess is that was more related to his level of intoxication than anything else.
But I do know that my father would come into our rooms and watch us at night while we are sleeping (see, lack of boundaries). There was one occasion where, he either scared my sister (or did something to her) and apparently I came to the door of my room and was so scared that I peed myself. Obviously I was really scared of something.
It is freaky not knowing for sure. But I have come to accept the fact that it is something I may never know.
Wow, lots of revelations.
Met with a new diabetes doctor this morning – my old one is closing her private practice (sniff sniff). I liked the new doc, although her main push was to get me exercising 4-5 times a week at least. What an evil bitch.
Just kidding. Surprisingly, I am excited to get back on the wagon. I go to my Curves-esque workout place 2xs a week and that has really helped with toning… but I also need to get my heart rate up more often. (I say Curves-esque because it is like Curves, but it isn’t actually Curves. It is a local place – the owners are way fun and talk me through my workouts, so that is a bonus).
Also, we have an eliptical in the basement which has been a breeding ground for cobwebs since August (as in, when we remodeled the basement). Tonight! Tonight, I promise to get back on that thing.
My blood pressure was good (112/74) and I am hopeful that my Hemoglobin A1c comes back with glowing numbers too. I have always had decent A1C numbers, but since taking Lunesta and sleeping, my numbers have been dropping. We even discussed reducing my meds. (But let’s not get ahead of ourselves here folks. Gotta get the test results back first!)
I was telling the new doc today… that in some ways, I feel lucky to have been diagnosed with diabetes in my early 30s. First of all, I have to take it seriously. I hope to have a long road ahead of me, so I can’t screw around with it. Also, lots of people feel life is downhill from 30… but things have been getting better and better for me – at least body & health-wise.
They found my diabetes while I was pregnant with Declan. Since pregnancy exacerbates diabetes, I was immediately and urgently put on insulin and had to give myself 4 shots a day… I had to check blood sugars 6-8 times a day. (That was fun.) And the hilarious thing is, that when Declan was born 8 weeks early, the diabetes actually helped us because he was a hefty 4 pounds. He was a bruiser compared to the rest of the kids in the NICU!
After Dex was born, the diabetes came way down and I settled into a mild Type II diabetic (for those who are glucose-challenged… that means I make insulin, but my body has no idea what to do with it). So, I have learned to adjust my eating and control my blood sugars with a minimal amount of medicine. No more shots for me! At least for now.
I have felt so much better since then. The docs think I was diabetic for at least a few years before getting pregnant and it went unnoticed. One of the nurses said to me once that I would be surprised to realize how shitty (my word, not hers) I felt before the diagnosis. And schloobie if she wasn’t right.
Then, in February 2004, my then diabetes doc (the one who has abandoned me) talked my insurance into paying for a breast reduction. Essentially, she reminded them how much easier it is to exercise when they cut 6 pounds off your chest. And holy cow, if she wasn’t right on target!
I started at Curves-esque in last Spring and immediately noticed a change in the way I move and carry myself… and I can even run up a flight of stairs without being out of breath for 10 minutes! No small task, living in Denver!
And then, this August, I started on my beloved Lunesta and dropped 12 pounds immediately (that loss has been stalled by Halloween, eeks).
I feel great.
My goal is to lose 2 more dress sizes by May, when we go to Mexico to celebrate our 10th wedding anniversary.
This photo is the result of a fairly painful photo session in the tub – wherein I thought it would be cute to mimic a holiday card I saw last year, with the kids had shaving cream beards and Santa hats on.
Declan absolutely refused the shaving cream beard and I barely got him to put the Santa hat on. He is getting to the point where he is unthrilled with me taking pictures of him at any time, much less in the bath.
It is kinda painful for me, actually – because taking photos of my son is one of my great joys in life. I also get dissapointed when something I view as major fun, such as getting the photo for the annual holiday card, is viewed a not-even-close-to-fun by the other members of my family.
Oh well. I still have time. (Insert evil laughter).