"I hope this happens to you"

So today's her birthday. She would have been 79 today. Right on time, this morning her sister sent me a text with nothing but a heart emoji in it. That's what my relationship with her has been reduced to: no actual communication, no substance, just emojis. 

Not to be out or underdone by my aunt, my siblings don't reach out to me on the birth and death anniversaries of our parents. I don't know why, but I suspect it might be because our parents did nothing outwardly to memorialize our grandparents on their birth and death days. The last time I recall going to one of our family cemetery plots was in the mid-1990s with dad. We planted some daffodils and tidied up the grave and snapped photos. And then, that was it. No more trips to the cemetery. My family moved to the shore in the mid-1970s, and it was well over an hour or so to get to the cemetery, and as my folks got older and life got in the way, the cemetery trips became less and less.

As I've blogged elsewhere, among the cruel things mom said to me over the course of my life was "I hope this happens to you" as she was struggling to climb the 15 stairs to get into my condo to attend my housewarming party 22 years ago--the solitary time she ever came to my home. Mind you, blogging about it loses all tone of voice and facial countenance, just envision Livia Soprano saying it along the lines of her quotable quote, "Oh poor you!"  

If I thought there were any therapeutic value in doing so, I'd inventory every hateful word she said. Sure as shit, there was an abundance of words than loving words--so much so, when mom did say something remotely loving, the words would go in one ear and out the other, and roll away like water rolling off a duck's ass, because why would I believe anything loving, when the bulk of what she used to say was so hateful. When you're programmed that way, no matter how much loving shit she'd pour out would just drain right through the emotional cups she provided us, cups with holes in them, ensuring that the cups would never be full, and we'd never be contented. But this is the legacy she left me with, a raging case of C-PTSD.

Lately, I have been on a quest of sorts to find someone to lift the curse (or curses) with which mom cursed me. Though I haven't found someone to do the traditional Italian ritual to lift the malocchio, my therapist highly recommended an energy healer out on Long Island, and my appointment is set for 3/28/24, and who knows, perhaps she'll have the key to unlock this trap I have been stuck in for so long.

I am not sure what I hope to evolve from the meeting with the healer. I need to focus my intent for that appointment. Right now, I am hoping to achieve some nebulous goal of the healer unblocking whatever it is that has me stuck in this cycle of suffering and grief and everything that is triggering my C-PTSD symptoms. 

Mom has been dead four years now, and I want her emotionally destructive programming expunged from my psyche so I can move forward with my life. She died at age 75 never attempting to extricate herself from the abusive trap her own parents set for her. I don't want that to be part of my journey anymore. And it's very hard work to try to fight against the learned helplessness she (and dad) ingrained in me, the "why should I bother trying, nothing works."

I made so much progress in 10-15 years before COVID, and in one fell swoop, like a tsunami, the pandemic, mom dying, my friend Susan dying, the constant state of stress from assessing my risks for EVERYTHING--it wiped out the life I had.  

I am tired of many things. I am tired carrying around this sadness and loneliness and feeling that I am worthless and a failure, all ideas or concepts planted by and designed by my mother--that I'll never be enough. I am tired of just existing or surviving; I want to resume THRIVING.

I have come to the conclusion that the purpose for my suffering is to possibly help others NOT to suffer as much. In this moment, I'm trying to help myself. It's a process. I vacillate between working hard and then allowing myself moments to just BE and coalesce before resuming more work, and just keep TRYING. Trying and failing beats the alternative of doing nothing. Sure, there's misery AND I guess comfort in doing nothing; and there's misery in trying and failing. But the hope with the trying is, I'm trying so many things, eventually I'll stumble upon the key to unlock all of this. Rather than fixating on the end result, I'll just try to focus on doing my due diligence, doing my work and abandoning attachment to the results, because if the results don't come, then I suffer more. Just do the work. Do my duty to myself.

Bye Bye YentaBeast

End of an era. And I am a hateful enough of a person to wonder why it didn't happen sooner, perhaps 20 years ago, but the YentaBeast, the wife or exwife or whatever she was to my brother, she passed away yesterday.

Though her passing at age 49 was not a surprise, the cause of death was the surprise. She died of cancer; however, she suffered from neurofibromatosis all her life, and trust me when I say that the physical manifestation of those fibromas were the least unattractive thing about her. 

She just was an awful contrary person to be around, and so much so, it made me cut back on attending more family gatherings when dad was alive--and after dad died, I cut back even more. I missed out on a lot of experiences because of her, and of course, because of my lack of conflict resolution skills to navigate that mess. The solitary nice thing I can say about her is that she made a delicious noodle kugel.

I struggle to find anything nice to say about her, she truly was a challenging person to be around. She and my brother communicated by bickering every chance they got. She ruined most family gatherings. And most family gatherings were punctuated by mom having a trip to the ER the day after due to cardiac issues brought on by undue stress. 

She'd grouse about every damned thing, and she'd try to find ways to attempt to extract money from us, then acted like we all were beneath her. But whatever, she's dead now, and the damage is done. She was just as bad as my mom, doing the "divide and conquer" routine, just as mom did to us regarding dad's family.

My niece informed my brother (her father) he was not welcome at the funeral, so by extension, none of us were welcome. My niece is now 18 and can do as she wishes, and I suspect she'll trot off to Florida to be close to her maternal grandmother and just forget about the rest of us. As my dad used to say, "Don't go away mad--JUST GO AWAY."

It's just as well. And while I don't know the intimate details of what it was like to live in a house with my brother and her mother, I can imagine it was similar to my own upbringing, and I can understand, probably better than others, her need to insulate and protect herself. And part of me is relieved YentaBeast is gone. One less person to attempt to make a claim on my estate when I die. 

In all likelihood I would not have attended the funeral; however, if I were to have attended it would have been for my own selfish reason: to ensure that she was, in fact, dead, and unable to hurt her daughter and my brother any further.

And so it goes

 After four years of grieving mom dying of covid & being in a constant state of chaos being triggered and overstimmed and overwhelmed by everything, after four years of diligence and sacrificing personal experiences, I caught COVID. 

How this came to be is a combination of conditions:

1. My boss insisting I attend a mandatory meeting with 30 people in an enclosed conference room for 4 hours—when I have been avoiding crowds for sustained periods of time and have medical documentation justifying my working remotely 2 days a week.

2. My inability to advocate for myself by pushing back regarding this because of the fact my boss has only perpetuated this dynamic wherein I feel and believe I am a problem, and by pushing back it would have only contributed more to this dynamic. 

3. A half century of both, a fear of failure and people pleasing as a byproduct of my C-PTSD, which was brought on by decades of narcissistic abuse from mom. I was unable to make my mother happy, and by extension, I’ll never make my boss happy. 

It is convenient for me to blame my mom, and have a white hot hate-on for my boss, for this. I lack sufficient conflict resolution skills necessary for me to navigate challenging situations like this. Convenient & a reasonable conclusion; however, I am weary and fucking bored of this trope, blaming mom, and of course suffering because I feel disempowered to advocate for myself.

I caught covid a month after being diagnosed with a DVT in my leg, so I was already distracted and overwhelmed before the situation regarding the mandatory meeting presented itself. 

In the 88 days since my DVT diagnosis and 40 days since testing positive for covid, not once has my boss nor my office manager bothered to ask me how I am doing. In fact, when others are brave enough to inquire, my office manager tone polices me when I dare to respond. 

The ultimate conclusion I have come to is neither my boss nor office manager gives a shit about my health, well being, or comfort—just as mom didn’t give a shit. 

Each day I manage to drag myself to the office, it is as if I were trying to work up an appetite to feast on rotten meat. And unlike all those years of family gatherings I avoided, I cannot avoid work. I need my job and its medical insurance which sadly I need more and more with each passing day. 

I have been unhappy since roughly day 45 of my initial 90 day probationary period, and I’ve attempted to extricate myself from this trap of misery by interviewing for jobs elsewhere, to no avail. 

I have tried to change my perspective to muster the fortitude to keep at it, and I have yet to make my peace with it. So, it is imperative I change my paradigm, and try yet again to find a new job. 

Just as I felt as if I never fit in, in my family, in school, in church, always an outsider looking in—I don’t fit in at my job, and I am tired of being a square peg being judged harshly that I am a fish who is being judged harshly for my inability to climb a tree.