Depression

I want the earth to open and swallow me up. I would like to be decomposed, to feel all of my molecules seperating and blending into the universe, too cease existing as myself.

Divorcing my father.

I'm struggling tonight. Really struggling. I always think of myself as one who doesn't cry very often, but maybe that isn't true. What is normal, when it comes to crying? Tearing up every few weeks? All-out sobbing three or four times a year? Anyway. I'm tearing up a little bit now and that always shocks me. Emotion, begone to your usual dark corner and behave thyself.

Evidently I like to share my private life with the Internet. There are some risks there, but you know what, if I talk long enough in real life, this stuff always comes out anyway. I think I have some social filter issues. At least on here you don't have to read it, and you can avoid uncomfortable responses to an over-sharer, lol.

So tonight, because I am struggling, I am going to share something involving not just my private life but a few peoples' private lives. I don't know who all reads this, but chances are if you know me, you also know my father. Small towns are awesome that way.

So my dad. Did you know he was abusive? Yeah, neither did I until a couple years ago. I was doing research for a seperate issue and found myself reading apt descriptions of my family in a book called "The Batterer as a Parent." And apt descriptions of my father, words he said, things he did, in plain black and white print upon the page before me. Wow. And suddenly, things started making sense. My little sister as the scapegoat, my older sister the protector, my younger brother, the apprentice, and me, the golden child. This stuff hurts, it really does. I can't tell you how much it hurts. I still have to remind myself...normal fathers don't announce their children's pregnancies to their fellow students...they don't use their body and their anger to scare and threaten, to go to devious means to belittle their children's mother and destroy a connection. See, even now though, I feel like typing that out, although they are true, I feel like I am betraying my father. There is still that child in me that wants to run to him and get his approval, to prove I can be a worthy daughter. She wants to tell him, "Dad, THANK you for everything! Thank you for teaching me how to camp! Thank you for encouraging my reading! Thank you for all the ways you've helped me when I've struggled! See, I can be a good girl! See!"

I don't know how to tell that little girl that despite all those good things, she didn't really matter to that man. It was part of his efforts to maintain an  image. Such an involved father! How lucky those kids are! I suspected for a long time, not long after my daughter was born, that the only reason my father had anything to do with me was so he could play grandpa. I was just grateful that he was there. I didn't mind being used for his never-ending ego stroke. When my brother got into trouble as a young adult, he didn't want me to tell anyone. So I didn't. Well, I tried not to. Things started coming out regardless, and then who got a call and a lecture? Me. A grown woman with two kids, feeling like a young child who had just gotten caught stealing cookies or something because I respected the privacy of another adult. How dare I not promote our family's image at the cost of my own sanity and the boundaries of another.

That isn't even the worst of it. There was another person he hurt, who I love dearly, and he has the audacity to blame his actions on that person. That she wanted to be hurt. This is a child, mind you. I don't know that I can get any more detailed than that, but let it be known my father is a liar, a narcissist, and out for his own self-interests no matter who else pays for it. He has a lot to lose, my father. Maybe not as much as he once did...I wrote a letter to our Bishop and the head of the Diaconate Program. I get the impression they do not take me very seriously, but I couldn't keep my mouth shut anymore. I can't go to our church anymore either. I am terrified of running into someone, running into him, or my stepmother. It's pretty terrible that she has to be mixed up in this. I love her, my stepmom. I think she is a wonderful person. I'd be friends with her any day. Maybe someday I'll write her a letter, and let her know that what I did, it had nothing to do with her.

I'm going all over the place with this, please forgive me.

So I was done pretending. I mean, honestly, how long can one go on, ranting about abuse left and right, while having one right there, insulting one's husband, condescending about one's beliefs, and (the gall of it) shamelessly telling you that not only is he NOT the abusive one, but that every ex girlfriend, the ex wife, and his children abused him? Does he think I am stupid? That may be the one part that I just don't understand. I think my father is perfectly aware of right and wrong. But is he so self-absorbed that he thinks if he says it, it become truth? That I won't see through it? He knows how much I've been learning about this stuff. This is my LIFE lately. Weird.

So. I wrote him a letter one night, after he called and invited the whole family to tea the following week. My husband had told him that he was not going to see him anymore. I had kept going to things, visits, I felt like it wouldn't be fair for me to keep the kids from their grandpa, I couldn't bring myself to confrontation. But it was tearing me apart inside. Every time I saw him, it was harder to keep pretending nothing was wrong when I could now see through the illusion. I hated that he was always re-writing history. My husband detailed that he felt disrespected; my father did a perfect non-apology. Do you know what a non-apology is? "I'm sorry you feel that way."  As in, "Sucks to be you because I refuse to think that maybe I did something wrong." And then my father pretended it didn't happen. I suppose in his mind, he was extending an olive branch by inviting Josh over too. Really what it was though, was "You called me out on bad behavior, and I'll still show you generosity as long as you are willing to never call me out again, because I'm awesome that way."

I went the passive route. I just stopped seeking him out, for one.  I started screening his calls, didn't answer his messages. I worried what the next step would be. And, he showed up. He came to my home, bearing gifts, said he was worried about me when I didn't call him back. Normal concerned father. Yep. Until he started going on about how he hurt he was about it. I fudged something about the kids being sick and I've been out of touch (this was true) and he kept going on about how hurt he was that I would not call him back. Then my stepmother told me that I was giving him the silent treatment, and that it was abuse. She told me that I was abusive, in front of my children, because I didn't call my father back for a week.

After they left, I sat down and I typed out the letter and I sent it to him. I detailed my reasons, explained that it was for purposes of my own closure, and that I did not want to hear or see from him again.

Even reading this I feel that part of me that is just outraged that I could do such a thing. He is my father.

And I am surrounded by reminders. Notes to the kids inside their favorite books. Things they gave us. My youngest daughter was asking about him today. I just feel mean. And spiteful. And ungrateful. My older sister, when I was telling her that I didn't want to see him anymore but before I sent the letter, she told me that she thinks I feel this way out of anger and hatred. I said no. I mean, not that I don't have anger, I do have anger. I feel like my dad has broken our family beyond repair. I do not feel safe around my brother, my younger sister will have nothing to do with me, and I feel like a pawn in my dad's game of looking good to the community. I said I love him. I do love him. I love my father. I didn't want this. I didn't ask for it. I tried to hold it together. I tried. So hard. It was tearing me up inside. And who was I protecting? Not my children. Certainly not myself. I was protecting him, from his own actions. She said you can't love a person and do that to them. I have to remind myself...it is not something I am doing to him. It is something I have to do for myself.

I don't regret what I've done, exactly. There is a large amount of relief involved now. No more pretending.

Now the daunting task of going forward.

Young Mothers.

I went to a Reconciliation service a few weeks ago during Lent. My mom went with me, and my two older kids stayed home with my husband. I took the baby, since he's literally attached to my breast a majority of the day and has absolutely no idea what to do with a bottle. I don't mind one bit.

While waiting in line to speak to the Priest, my mother and I were talking and I saw my little one smiling over my shoulder. I turned around and there was an older woman making faces at him. I smiled at her and we started some small talk. Which I am terrible at, by the way. I mumbled things about not knowing which priest to see. Anyway, babies happen to be good for chatting, thank goodness. Especially when they are in good moods and like to smile at older ladies; until she said, "I assume this is your first!"

Cue familiar awkwardness. I look younger than I am, for one thing, or so I have been repeatedly told. I am 25. When my husband and I spent our wedding night at a hotel, I was sitting outside taking in the scenery and the lady in the room next to us waited for my husband to go inside and asked me in a very concerned tone if I was ok. I'm sure it looked like I was an underage naive child who had been whisked away by the scary-looking man (he can look scary, I'll grant you that, and he is obviously older than I am). I assured her I was of age and that we had just been married. I'm not sure she was satisfied.

Anyway. I smiled and told the woman in church that no, actually, he was my third and my oldest is almost seven years old (I may have left out that particular in this instance, I just said he was my third). I'm well-versed in the reaction to this; peoples' smiles freeze, the air becomes heavy, their eyes begin to glaze over a tad bit. Then the uncomfortable laughter and glancing at my ring finger. Often, the exclamation that I am "too young to be a mother!" I have learned to counter this by saying it first. "I know, I'm too young to be a mother." That's generally when the conversation ends in these little chance meetings, and yes, I'd rather have the last word.

Because it's true and I do know it. I am too young to be a mother. I was always too young to be a mother. I look at my oldest daughter and I see someone I grew up alongside, not someone I am raising. I was too young. All those stereotypes of teen mothers? I fit some of them. I live in poverty. I have not finished college. I married young. I am on government assistance sucking up all your tax dollars. I've dug myself into a hole that just keeps getting deeper.

I suppose every parent grieves for the life they had before. All those possibilities, opportunities, good memories of great and carefree times. Flexibility, freedom, whatever.

I grieve those too at times. I never had them to begin with, but I'm hardly the exception to the reality of deciding to be the caregiver of another human being.

I chose to be a mom and I chose it happily and I am glad I did. Even if I am too young.

Spiritual Crisis

I'm having some trouble.

I want to love my church. There are so many positively beautiful aspects of it that I can't ignore. I love the Saints, I love the Mass, I love the tradition. I love the words of Jesus and the Apostles (most of the time lol). Love it love it love it.

What I don't love? I don't love an inherently patriarchal institution who does not seem willing to help those of its flock who are being hurt by clergy. I don't love that it's affected me personally now, that their need for clergy overrides the spiritual health of myself and my family. It is not fair and it's not right and I don't know how to reconcile. My pastor, I love him. He doesn't know. I've approached it tentatively with him, that I have doubts about scripture and I am struggling with family, but nothing specific. He tells me trust in God, have faith. It's not faith in God I lack. It's in seeing God in the Church that I'm having trouble with.

When I don't go to Mass I feel loss. The idea of not baptizing my youngest child hurts. When I think of the possibility of not raising my children into the faith, attending church, receiving Communion and Confirmation (if they chose to do so) it makes my heart ache. Yet what are my options? We can't afford to attend church in a different parrish. And even if we could, it would be there, in the back of my mind, that this is the institution that protects those who should not be protected and leaves the wounded in the cold.

 I can't fathom going to another religion. I know it seems ridiculous that a rational human being could believe entirely that a human man can be a conduit with which to make bread and wine become Divine. I understand that the idea is entirely laughable. Why do I hang on? I've met many people now who don't believe. That makes sense to me. However, I've also noticed that for many, belief is not something you can "grow", but rather something that is either with you or isn't. Those who don't believe sometimes try, earnestly, but it's no use and they are more fulfilled when they acknowledge it just isn't there. There is of course nothing wrong with that. My beliefs about God (which are, perhaps, not entirely Catholic) tend to be that my perception of Him/Her is all-encompassing to any human being who strives to do good and to love their fellow human beings. And that He/She knows every heart and connects with them on individual terms. I think we will be ok.

Yet being Catholic feels like an inherent trait in me. Something I don't think I could divorce myself from. But then again, I never thought I could divorce my own flesh and blood, and I've done that. It wasn't as hard as I feared it would be. Would divorcing my faith be as fulfilling? Or will it do the opposite, and create a vacuum of unfulfilled need in my soul?

Where do I go from here?

confessions of an animal killer

I killed my rabbit two months ago.

I have had one bunny for three years; her name is Lucky. She belonged to my older sister, but when she moved to Hawaii to teach, her (now ex) boyfriendtold her she couldn't bring the bunny. So I took her. We've had some rough times...I do not always get out every day, especially the first winter I had her, I was very pregnant and our back door was sealed shut and it was basically hazardous for me to try to squeeze out through the fence. But I did it! She got fat and happy over the summer...then when winter came again, I was concerned that I would forget to feed her and convinced our landlord to let us bring her inside. She spent a lovely winter living on our kitchen floor, basically little trained, and had her pick of veggies and attention from all of us. It was very nice.

We moved, and our new landlord is adament that no pets be inside. So outisde she goes. I rigged a little run for her with a puppy pen and her regular cage so she has lots of room on the grass, I move it to a different location every so often to prevent buildup of feces and whatnot and she has two "dens" for shade, wind cover, and security. Over last summer I was itching for something, I had baby fever bad. I wanted me a baby! We decided it would be better to wait til I was done with school, and instead a friend offered to give me another rabbit. He was about a year old, neutered, a beautiful black lop named CoCo. They adjusted pretty well to each other. I was happy!

Ironically, after December, I found out I was pregnant. Oops lol. Life continued...until, the last week of January, my morning sickness hit me full swing. I was miserable. I only moved from the couch to go the bathroom and puke. I missed a lot of school. I could not function. In the back of my mind I kept telling myself, gotta get out and get them water, gotta take care of the bunnies...but the thought would go as quickly as it came. I should have asked my husband for help. But I did not.

Finally I dragged myself out there, on Feb. 3rd, my husband's birthday. Coco had died. I burst out sobbing when I saw his body, I petted him for a while crying, hoping desperately that somehow I'd feel him start to move under my hand, that I hadn't been too late. But I was, and he was dead. Lucky was still there, huddled in her den, she was very thin.

Since CoCo's death I have been vigilant about getting Lucky food and water. Sometimes I go a day, and as it's been getting warmer I've been slipping again (not as bad though, because the water is not freezing so she has it available) but she is not gaining any weight back. I called the local vet today and felt like I was lying, I said she had lost weight over the winter and that I have been making sure she has food and water, but I didn't tell her about that one-week fatal screw-up. The guilt over CoCo is hanging over my head and heavy on my shoulders. "I forgot" is inadequate. Do I not care about my animals? Should I be an owner at all? I never told the friend about it...she got the rabbit from a girl who had raised him by hand as a 4H project and loved him dearly. I am completely and utterly ashamed of myself.

This is something that has a history with me. I have always loved animals, but I seem to lack the capacity to care for them. When I was around ten or eleven years old my father agreed to let us three younger kids get some pet mice. We each bought a pair. The employee did not sex them correctly...those six mice quickly multiplied. I can't remember the exact sequence of events...I think I tried to seperate the sexes but I lacked the equipment and the room, and I think I was actually very pleased with the idea of being a mouse breeder. Baby mice! What fun! Eventually I had all the mice in my bedroom in a large fishtank. I tried boards and wire and all sorts of things to keep those guys and gals seperated but they were PERSISTANT. At one point, the worst point, I had 33. Mamas were eating their babies because the crowding was so bad. Some of them started to die; I avoided cleaning the cage and didn't feed them consistently. Why? I couldn't tell you. I got distracted. "I forgot."

Finally my dad intervened (in my head, I am thinking now, THEN he intervened? Where was he at the beginning of this fiasco? Who was the adult here???) and we gave many of the mice back to the pet store. I was allowed to keep my two favorites (my sister and brother had lost interest in their pets way before that) and for some CRAZY REASON my dad said I could breed them ONE MORE TIME. Again. Where is the logic? Who was the adult? Wow. Anyway, I was of course thrilled, the terror and gruesomeness of the 33 forgotten. More mouse babies! Yay!

My female Cornflower had 12 babies. I loved those little babies! I had two cages now too, so the dad, Methuselah, was safely apart. I was energized and re-inspired and kept the cages clean and they were fat and happy. Then Cornflower got out of her cage, still don't know how, and I found her that afternoon dead in my parent's bedroom. I think she knew she was going to die and got away to do so quietly. So I had 12 orphaned two-week old mice. I tried desperately to save them. I spent hours grinding up dog food and putting it into powdered milk, feeding them with a syringe every few hours. It wasn't enough...they started to die, slowly, refused to eat what I had to offer them. Once six of them were left I couldn't take it anymore and asked my dad to drown them. This is one of the saddest memories I have of my childhood. After that though, I was a very responsible mouse owner with Methuselah and he lived a good two years longer and died peacefully of old age.

I had two goats for a while. Again, I often put off feeding them, but they did not suffer any illness. I had to get rid of them because they would escape their pen and eat my dad's fruit trees.

I had two other bunnies as a child. One, I cannot for the life of me remember how he died. I probably forgot to feed him and my parents didn't want to tell me it was my fault. I don't remember. The other, my sister left the cage open and my other sister's cat killed her.

I have had a host of kittens; to be fair, their deaths were not my fault. Most of them were hit by cars because my parents wouldn't let me keep them inside. I had a dog that I took good care of because my parents helped me, had to get rid of him though because he scared and bit my friend once.

When I have help, I don't do too badly. But I am a grown woman. I shouldn't need help and supervision with feeding an animal.

This is all in my mind today because yesterday my husband buried CoCo, and Lucky is still skin and bones. I couldn't even get myself to take care of his body. It just screams my failure at me, that an innocent and helpless animal paid for. He sat outide in a plastic bag (inside a cage so animals wouldn't get at him) but the ground was soft enough yesterday.

When I forget to do things, or get distracted from them, I can often quiet that accusing voice in my head telling me that I am lazy, I tell myself I have a disorder, that I am sure I have ADD. But CoCo died, and shame prevails.

For the record, if Lucky does not improve within a week (the vet gave me some tips to help her gain weight) I do plan on taking her in. I've got to move forward and make sure she is ok.

The worst part of this? Other than CoCo dying anyway...I still want animals. I still have that clamoring little girl saying "I WANT it!!!"

When will I get some common sense?

nightmares and lost friends

My nightmares are one of the reasons my counselor suggested PTSD. I felt silly afterwards for not having considered it. It stands out to me now. I had a nightmare last night about my abuser marrying a former best friend.

I had a painful friend break up that happened with me a couple years ago. This was a friend who I'd known since childhood. We spent SO much time together. I ended up feeling stifled. I wasn't very tactful (I was in 7th grade at this point) and I basically told her I didn't want to be her friend anymore because I didn't get any space. She was mad, of course, and we didn't speak for another two years. After that we happened to strike up a conversation at a church youth camp and decided that we loved each other tons and didn't want to continue being mad at each other. I felt grateful that she'd given me another chance. She is really funny, a strong personality, and we had a strong history. We were obsessed with our American Girl dolls, babysat each other's pet fish, rode our bikes to each other's houses all the time, played on the same soccer team. We attended the same church and our families were friends. We celebrated several Thanksgivings together.
So we were friends again after the church camp. We weren't "best friends" quite the same, but that was ok. We went to choir together, talked occasionally, kept each other updated. Eventually she started dating one of my friends and we had a couple double dates with my abuser and myself.

She supported me when my abuser broke up with me, but was shocked to find that we'd been having sex. I've never quite figured her out; she always made dirty jokes and innuendo and seemed to understand the process and culture of sex WAY more than myself, but she made no secret of her disapproval of me. I think she knew that I had felt pressured into doing it, so that maybe softened her reaction a bit. This was also before I knew the extent of the abuse and was still blaming myself for everything.

When my daughter was born and I moved out of my mother's house, she helped me move and go shopping. Her mother bought me a crock pot. I felt so grateful that I had her; she was my rock for a while. She came over often and we'd make dinner and stay up late. We'd all go out to the "beach" (there is a small artificial lake in my town) and we generally just hung out a lot. She offered to babysit for me when I began dating my now-husband. I am a terrible housekeeper. My dishes were often a week old, laundry was never folded, toys often were not picked up. I seem to like and attract clutter.

My friend was a neat freak (she also had a diagnosed anxiety disorder for which she took medication). Sometimes when she came over, after my daughter had been put to bed, I'd do the dishes while we listened to music and talked. I didn't want her to do them for me, I just appreciated the company. But it started to happen that she would get impatient with the dishes piling up and start doing them before I did, or she'd start tidying up, folding laundry, etc. She taught my daughter to fold before she turned two! Again, I was grateful for the help. I don't think I ever failed to thank her, and I don't know that I ever asked her to do these things. Now, though, I wonder if she felt used.

Anyway. When I began to date my husband, she was my confidant and was eager to know ALL the details. So I told her all the details, including the first time we had sex. She became really concerned again; she urged me to remember how awful my relationship had been with my abuser and chalked it up to premarital sex. Despite being such a strong personality, loud, and very opinionated, she also subscribed to pretty rigid gender roles and made fun of us for not always fitting gender norms (my husband is more of the sensitive and romantic one of the two of us). It was strange too, because she would act excited and ask me about the things we did and what is was like and even gave me a gift card to Victoria's Secret, implying I should get something naughty for him. Then she'd turn around and berate me for my activity, talk about how it was against the Church and sinful. I continued being honest with her. I didn't know how to explain how it was radically different than my first and only other sexual experience. After my abusive relationship, I also attributed my continuing feelings of anger and guilt and shame and hatred and misery to the sin of premarital sex. I know now it's a normal reaction to the abuse, and that I most likely have PTSD. At the time I didn't know it. With my husband, it was not the same. I felt free, like I was in charge completely of my decisions and my body. He never pressured me; I initiated almost all of our physical encounters. He didn't degrade or make fun of my body. He didn't withdraw emotionally or  push my boundaries or make fun of my awkwardness or any of the horrid weapons my abuser had used against me. I didn't feel as though I was doing anything wrong; my gut told me this was the right person to be doing it with. It ended up just being a strange topic between us, so I'd find reasons to change the subject.

Other stuff started coming up. While she was visiting she'd discipline my daughter on things that weren't terribly important to me and clean up after her without really waiting to see if I would. I didn't speak up, because she watched my daughter often and I didn't want her to feel unappreciated.  Once when she offered to babysit to see if I wanted to go hang out with my boyfriend, I said I'd rather spend the evening with her. She congratulated me on being "grown up" and not going out on a school night. Seriously. She started staying later and later even after I dropped hints that I was tired. If she felt my attention wandering from her, she'd throw pillows at me or make jokes about how sexy I was. Sometimes I wondered if she was attracted to me. I started remembering how stifling the relationship had felt when we were younger, but I loved her. I wanted to be friends with her.

My husband and I decided we wanted to have a baby. It was a very rash, spur-of-the-moment decision and we knew it. We didn't even live together. We'd discussed marriage but he was wary about it and we wanted to just feel like we could be together without any label "pressure". I was ok with this, although he knew I wanted to get married someday. We both just felt that we wanted a child together. I became pregnant the night we decided.

It was rather rough on everybody. My mom was terrified, my older sister thought I'd gone nuts, his parents were diplomatically congratulatory (they've always told me though that they were positively thrilled we got together; my mother and his father are best friends), I don't even remember my dad's reaction. I don't think it was bad, just sort of distant. Anyway. My friend continued to be a babysitter for me. My daughter adored her, but we started getting further apart. She seemed less and less interested. I remember feeling like she wanted me to choose between her and my husband.

We lost the baby we had conceived at 5 1/2 weeks. It was devastating for us; my husband cried often and I cried all the time and it was terrible. We had wanted this baby so badly and we were thrilled that she had been coming. We had both gotten a strong vibe that it was a girl, and we'd decided to name her Matilda. When she was gone, I felt like we were going insane with grief. My family tried to help, but due to the religious nature of the family I have their consolement went a little too often to the idea that losing the baby was "for the best" due to our unmarried status. We made no secret of the fact that we were still determined to be parents together and shortly moved in to a house that we rented. It was exciting despite the lingering grief of the lost baby, but it seemed to be too much for my friend. She stopped calling me after that. I called her a few times, wanting to clear up any misunderstanding, and I wanted to assure her that I loved her very much and didn't want her out of our lives. We invited her over for dinner a couple times and things appeared to go well; she and my husband got along very well (they both love dirty jokes lol) and I felt like maybe we were on the mend. When we became pregnant again soon after (our daughter will be two years old in a week and a day!) I called her with the news. We had a long conversation about how our relationship had gone so far...she told me she felt that I had betrayed her by my decisions, that I wasn't the person I had led her to believe that I was. I was at a loss; I felt more myself than ever. I tried to express how I felt like I was finally learning about who I am and what I want out of my life. She felt that I had betrayed my faith by living in sin. I even spoke with my priest, because I had stopped recieving the Eucharist out of respect for the Church, but I felt sure that if I was truly in mortal sin, I would have some sort of inner voice saying so, and it simply wasn't there. My priest was amazing about it. He listened to me about how I did want to get married, but my husband was atheist and wary of all things religion. We were surrounded by broken marriages and divorce. He simply didn't have any faith that our commitment could be stronger because of a piece of paper. I told my priest about my inner conviction that had been present since the beginning (in sharp contrast to my gut feelings about my abuser) that I knew my husband would stand by me til the end despite our unmarried status (he had also stated so, and he has never been anything but terribly honest with me or anyone else). My priest said it in a beautiful way; he said we grew up in a world where the concept of true marriage had been dropped and broken into pieces, and our generation had been left to pick them up and put them together in any way we could that made sense to us.  He said that also meant eventually it was our responsibility to pick up that last piece, marriage, but he didn't tell me I was in mortal sin, and he said I could recieve the Eucharist without fear.

My friend didn't see it that way. I told her I wasn't any less Catholic; that my relationship with my husband was full of love and goodness, and how could that drive me from God when it was full of God? I even told her that our having a baby was conditional on having that baby baptised. My husband knew of my faith, and I had no desire to leave my faith or not raise my children in it. She insisted that he must not really love me if he wasn't willing to marry me. My friend still didn't understand, and I had to accept the fact that she probably never would.

When our daughter was born, my friend and I had not spoken for a while. I called her up and invited her to dinner. I had left her and her family a message inviting them to my daughter's baptism but had not recieved a reply. She came to dinner and it was like nothing bad had ever happened between us; we joked and laughed and told stories. Then she asked my husband how he felt about having the child baptised in a faith he didn't believe in. He made a light-handed comment about not thinking that some "guy in the sky" was going to make much of a difference for us. My friend got very quiet for a minute. When she spoke she sounded very defensive and started arguing with my husband and his beliefs. We were both taken aback; he said he wasn't trying to attack anyone, and she responded with a biting comment about how it was stupid to think that God couldn't exist. My husband responded with reminding her that she had asked him how he felt, and all he had done was tell her, and that he didn't feel appreciated about being critizised in his own home. She started crying and left.

After that she deleted me from her facebook page. I called her infrequently but she never responded. I have seen her a couple times at the university we both attend, and we exchange a smile and a nod, but that's it.
I wish this still didn't hurt me. I think back and I don't know how to feel. Was I taking advantage of her? Did I not do enough? Why did she always pretend everything was fine until I pushed her to talk? Was I a bad friend or was she jealous of my relationship? I don't think I'll ever know.

In any case, I often have nightmares about my abuser finding ways to infiltrate my life. My most frequent dreams involve waking up to him in my bed instead of my husband, him stealing my daughter and disappearing to another country, or him just walking into my home, sitting down, and joking with my family like he belonged there. These dreams terrify me. Last night, I dreamed that he was marrying this friend. It was flashed in my face and hints were dropped that it was part of a grand scheme to ruin me. When I woke up I was choking back tears.

I know they are dreams. I know it's not real. But I hate it that the deepest parts of my heart are still exactly where his program knows to target.

angry post that will do no good

Dammit, I KNOW what I'm talking about. A woman in labor who is feeling her labor pain has a brain response that releases endorphins and relaxing, pain-relieving hormones that help cope with her pain and lessen the trauma of the birth for the child, who also recieves the hormones. It's a nerve response, not a muscle response, so it doesn't happen near to the same extent or at all when the mom opts to use medication to cope with her pain. If you're going to wave it in my face that the mom next door to you screamed with her natural childbirth and you had a pleasant time with your epidural, at least get your facts straight. I'm not trying to show off because I answered your challenging question with an honest response that I didn't scream at all. Just because I have my reasons to do it differently doesn't mean I think less of you for doing it the way that you decided was best for yourself, so please drop the defensive loftiness.

This is a response to a situation where I couldn't remember the specifics and therefore sounded like a baseless idiot on the subject. So I have to tell myself I am not an idiot, despite my embarrasment and the arrogant attitudes of this person and and her husband. Why is it that I can have good converstations with others on subjects we don't agree on (I don't care if you had an epidural or not! So sue me if I get excited about learning about different aspects of childbirth!), but if I mention anything interesting to me that I have recently learned or experienced with them, it becomes a cold and hostile atmosphere? IT MAKES ME ANGRY. And I doubt it will ever change...if our relationship, strained as it may be, is going to survive at all I will have to learn to just not talk. I will be a head-nodding "mm-hmm, isn't that nice"-er.

That's probably what they think about dealing with me, except I doubt they have these stupid re-hashing episodes, because obviously they only say the right things that they mean fully, and I'm the only one who thinks maybe she messed up and has to replay the whole stupid situation in her head wondering if she really comes off as stuck-up as they make her feel. We are the classic Mommy Wars.