Fuck!

Nov. 25th, 2009 at 10:52 PM


Shit and vomit. That's pretty much it. My really fun night. And I'm actually upset because I missed out on another fun thing. -Isn't that small? I need to develop my maturity more. I need to not be upset. Period. But I just keep crying. I hate my life sometimes. And I wish my mom could help me more. But she can't. It's not her fault. She can't. And when I freak out, I feel like I just can't do this alone. I can't. It feels like it's killing me. I know it's not. But when I can't breathe or stop crying, it feels like it is.

My mom pooped her pants in the bed. It's not a big deal. It's a big deal in the sense that she is getting worse. But the actual pooping the pants is not a big deal. I can clean it up. I have it down to an art now. And I took her to the bathroom. All the way it felt like she was biting me. I have these deep purply-black bruises on my arms from her holding on so tight and digging her bony fingers into my soft fat arms. Or from her actually nibbling anxiously on my arms as we walk together. She can't actually walk any more. What I do, is I sit her up in bed. She can't actually do that either. So I sit her up, and I pull her to the edge of the bed, and then I "help her" get up by picking her up and wrapping my arms around her. I'm so fat now, that my belly makes a nice leaning spot for her, so she leans into me. I lock my fingers behind her back, and I walk backwards as she walks forwards, her head always turned into my arm. I try to remind her to stand up straight and to put her head up, but she is so afraid of falling, that these words go right past her. But she has the grip of death. I try to remind her not to hurt me. Or tell her when she is hurting me, but these words go past her too. Later on, when she sees my bruises and asks me about them, I tell her, and she always says that she's sorry for hurting me. And I feel like a jerk for even telling her. She doesn't need to feel bad about that. And I can see that she is so concerned for me. She doesn't want to hurt me, and the look of shock and suprise is always there like she can't belive that she did that to me. I wouldn't believe it either years ago. But it's a combination of my blood disorder and her grip of death, which equals fat arms with purple bruises.
She had shit in her vagina. I don't know if you can understand how hard that is for me. It is so gross, and so sad all at the same time. I honestly never wanted to see my moms privates. Let alone become familiar with cleaning them. It makes me so sad because it just is the most humiliating thing in the world for her. She'll ask me repeatedly if she can go to her room. And I'll have to tell her "Not yet, we have to clean you up first". She'll say "I wanna go now." Insistently. Urgently. Single-mindedly. And she will find the strength to start making her get away. To walk. To take steps towards her goal. This frustrating revolt is what keeps my hopes up that she can do the things that I keep working on. Like walking. And hopefully one day, going to the gym to swim together. If she can only have that determination and focus when the stakes aren't so high, we will get there. At those moments though, she isn't fully connected with the reality that there is soft gushy poop caked into her crevices. Or the danger of infection which her body cannot fight off. I get a rag and run warm water over it, ringing it out and then clean her/hold her/keep her from falling/keep her from moving forward/keep her from sticking her fingers in it. She is always shocked and disgusted when she sees the brown rag pulled out and run under the faucet. "That's not clean. It's not good." And then she lets me clean her. I sit her down on the toilet when she needs a break from standing. I know it's hard for her. And a big part of that is mental. Believing in herself. Knowing that she can do this. That we are going to do this TOGETHER. And that I will not let her down. I am here for her forever. Till the very end. I will always be by her side. And come what may, we will rise. We will face every challenge. She needs to find her confidence. Her game face. Her hard-core spirit. She needs to know that she can do this. And that every effort is important. When she helps me just by holding onto the counter and getting her ballance and standing, it is a big deal. It makes my job so much easier. When she gets control of her fear and says the chant with me, it helps me stay calm and get through this. We say: "Inch by inch -Life's a cinch. Yard by yard -Life is hard. -So we're gonna take it inch by inch." I make her repeat after me: "I can do this. I am strong. I am capable. I am good at this. I am going to make it. I believe in myself. I am smart. I know I can. I can do this." It makes walking back to her bed much easier. And then when I sit her down on the bed, it is a triumphant finish, instead of a defeat because she couldn't keep standing or take another step. I love my mother. And I know she loves me. But I am so tired. I am perpetually exhausted. If I had magical powers, I would pause the universe for at least a week just to sleep and breathe. Then another year, just to catch up on everything. The house is warm. My room is cold. If Eva was here, she'd tell me to go eat something. She'd remind me that I need to take care of myself like I would a small child. Love myself. Be gentle with myself. If little Vanessa had had a really stressfull situation and vomited from stress...after her tummy settled and she was calmed down in her room, it would be time to get her some nice warm dinner. No loving mother would send their baby daughter to bed in a cold room with an empty stomache. It's time to love myself and get some soup. Chicken noodle.
Groups:Inner Circle Peeps
Mood:  exhausted


Comments



witty_banter wrote:
Dec. 1st, 2009 08:34 pm
Vanessa ... this had tears rolling down my cheeks. You are so courageous -- to even write these things down has to be painful and difficult -- to experience them is something I can't even begin to know. I am serious when I say that...one day...I hope you can write a book about life with your mom that is this honest and human. There is so much here.

I want to relieve you of some of this pain and stress, I want to hold you and bring you a warm dinner. I wish I knew a way to take away some of the load. It hurts my heart that the bulk of it.. I cannot.



vanmedi wrote:
Dec. 1st, 2009 09:51 pm 
Writing these things is somewhat cathartic. It allows me to give them acknowledgment and then let them go.

The more people keep telling me that I should write a book about this...the more I am thinking about it. So who knows there?

And as for relieving some of the pain and stress...You do. Big time. Just being able to be myself (including the heavy moments) and being able to joke and laugh (and even cry) about all of it with my close friends is unmeasurably helpful. -So thank you. ...Plus...I cannot tell you what a godsend those sheets have been. :) We use them every day. Seriously. I do on average 2 loads of laundry a day. Sheets are always one of them. So thank you Jodi. Really.



kitty8fish wrote:
Dec. 6th, 2009 12:26 am
hey girl. what an entry you have written here. i wish i had better words than to tell you that i love you and you are amazing. please do take care of yourself as you would a small child, and get help where ever you can to make things easier for yourself. you deserve it. your mom is so very lucky to have you, and i know it's because she raised a wonderful daughter. big hugs. and yes, if you decided to write a book, i think it would be a very valuable and good thing -- for yourself and your readers.