Wednesday, January 9, 2008

Compassionless

"I hate depressed people. They piss me off. I want to send them and their long faces and dirty hair out onto an ice flow never to return. All that whining and fatigue just make me wild. They drag around uselessly and someone else always has to take care of them. They get to completely abrogate responsibility under the guise of "depression." They are putting it on so as to be lazy. They are weak.

Don't come moaning to me about how tough is your life. Get some gumption, get up off your fat ass and do something. I am no longer willing to listen to how hard you have it. If you can't pull yourself up by your bootstraps you are a pointless person and should pack it in and give the remainder of us a rest. If you are so damn depressed you can't function shut the fuck up about it and just die."

I have been very depressed for the past couple of months.

I am grateful God and Blessed ones love me.

My anger originates with my depressed mother who could not care for me. I cared for her. I was frightened, overwhelmed and ANGRY. And I had not words. Rage now pours out of me when I am faced with someone who is depressed. I want to kill them, and put me out of my misery.

I have known for years about the anger but could never get to the heart of it. Enter the dog. Such angst I have endured over this dog. My mother was clinically depressed as are many members of my family of origin. Nothing was ever done to help her. She just got worse and worse. I was born into and from her hopeless pain. This shroud of agony was my swaddling blanket. I have also been protected from birth. I always knew the pain was not mine. I knew I was healthy in a way my mother was not. And I was a child. I resented (and resent) not being able to function as a child. I resented (and resent) having to comfort rather than be comforted. In never receiving comfort I never learned how to comfort myself. I stumbled onto the anesthetic powers of food early. I have held on tightly ever since.

The dog. I identify with abused and abandoned animals. Only common sense has kept me from adopting hundreds and living in a kennel. I rescued Mollie. Then we brought her home and all my rage broke loose. Some how this dog became me and I became my mother. Then the roles would reverse. Then the cat's began to pee everywhere. I have gone the gamut of all my emotions...with no control. I have been my mother, and myself as a child. The onslaught of "stuff" has been staggering. I am protected. I am grateful for my unconquerable soul and for my husband and Mentor Mary.

Self hatred propelled me to consider the delights of suicide...again. I'd kill the cats and the dog and me and then Mark would not be troubled by any of us. This thinking sent my to my knees. God has revealed many things to me in the past few days. The hardness of my heart was just one of the revelations. I am broken. My indomitable will has been rent asunder. I am weak. I had and have to accept help. This does not make me "pointless" it makes me human. I am humbled.

I am not so angry. After my mother died I was raised by an iron willed woman who concealed her own insecurities through work. I admired her strength and chose to identify with her rather than with my "weak" birth mother. I willingly let Aunt Wilma pound into me the notion that anyone who didn't pull their own weight was "useless." My poor mothers. One bore the burden of weakness and the other the burden of strength. I am more blessed. Apparently I don't have to bear either.

Fragile but recovering. Take care of yourselves. I am taking care of me. Love Bea

9 comments:

Cindy164 said...

I have not been suicidal since las summer, which is a miracle for me. I surrendered a bunch of stuff, which sounds like what you are doing. I had a trigger, that one guy, and you have the dog. It brought up all kind of stuff, which inspired a new level of surrender, among other things, and now I feel restored somehow, recovered, healed. Odd how it happened but it did. I still marvel, though, that I have not gone to the depths, or been suicidal for what seems like a long time for me. Thanks for writing about it. It helps me to read it. You are awesome, don't forget.

Lori said...

I really can't add anything to what Cindy said with her wonderful words of wisdom.

My mother is like your Aunt Wilma. I realize that she is just as depressed as you are but she channeled it differently.

Your phrase of "I never learned how to comfort myself" resonates with me; I (and members of my family) have self-medicated with food.

Take care of yourself, please?

Helen said...

Bea,

Thank you for coming here and posting...while I luckily have never felt suicidal (too chicken?), I relate a lot to what you said about not being able to be a child. THAT is hard to get over and, I know, comes from having been abused as a child.

Know that I am thinking of you...admiring your strength...AND your softness.

Vickie said...

I can't add much to what the wise women before me wrote - except for ditto and hugs.

Anonymous said...

I have placed you and Mark in my prayer box. Strength, Love, Joy.
Lord, Hear my Prayer.
Carol

ar said...

What a wonderful blog again Bea and so glad when it ended with compassion for you and Molly. I can relate fully and am possibly even more angry than you are. When people lament their lots, I feel angry too, and then immediately after doubly angry at "me" for lack of compassion and understanding. I love abusing myself. It gives me great pleasure.

I have had no role models in my birth family to emulate, and only challenges to overcome, and of course those challenges can only be my own personal challenges that had been gifted to me by virtue of who I am, rather than who I had been born to, including the physical aptitude for complete depression. Maybe you are the same. For me to say I am depressed has always felt like expressing a great failing and imperfection. But then again, by whose standards are we ever "less"? Only our own standards.

I am sure many people told you that you have a few books to write, have a feeling they are coming, and perhaps the depression is what hones your writing ability and skills and makes you that more special. I genuinely believe for every negative there is an offsetting positive. It is like people who are blind, who can hear and feel more than people who can see. People who have to endure depression, would be able to write about characters that are that much richer and more interesting in experience. I love your style of writing, which is spontaneous and natural.

So here is looking forward to a book and who knows, maybe you already have a few chapters in all of your blogs. Maybe one day when you are out country skiing, as you have set yourself out to do, and you our out and alone with the elements, and your breath icing against your nostrils, and your cheeks rosy and freezing and you find "the gap", the empty spaces between the words, the empty spaces between the music notes, the book will hit you out of the blue and then there will be the "force" of Bea, and nothing else. Good stuff! :>)

ar

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