This being my fourth entry, I am feeling rather indulgent and worried. Please understand, if you are reading this, that I write this not for you to care, but just to know. I am not trying to sway you into feeling sorry for me or to be angry with others. I feel quite lucky to be in my position. My history is, in part, driving my work.
In my early family (ages birth-13), as in many families, self image is a huge issue. Actually, I would dare to say that poor self image is a devastating epidemic here in the US and many other countries. My mom was and is obsessed with image and look. She truly believes that if you are truly unhappy with your body, surgery can fix it. Strangely enough, she has been damaged time and again while under the knife for both cosmetic and emergency operations. As a young child I remember her spending hours in front of the mirror, primping and posing. Surly this is not uncommon, but what it eventually turned into is. That is for another day. Today is about expectations and self image.
As early as I can remember I was told that I was not beautiful and that the best I could be is cute. I was also told that this was not meant to be mean, it was just a fact. This hurt. K-older was constantly praised for her beauty. I hated being compared to my sister. It isn't like she came out of our childhood without major issues either. However, to this day, she sees herself as beautiful and I see myself as depressingly fat and plain. Just Heather.
K-older was a very thin little girl, much like Jules is now. I was not. No, I was a tomboy in a dress. Always the tallest and biggest in the class, this was an unbearable part of early childhood and adolescence. After dinner, the family would joke around about my weight, incorporating my nickname into a Hefty commercial. Was nothing sacred? The would laugh as tears of shame and sadness would well up inside as they would gleefully sing, "Howdy's tough enough to overstuff." Even writing this now makes me queezy.
I don't think I want to write anymore about this today.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Suppression
There are countless ways of dealing with pain. Sports, talking about it, commiserating, angry outbursts, becoming a recluse, suppression and countless more. Given my quiet nature, the latter two were my preferred methods of dealing with the pain of life.
When pain is generated within your family, the core group of people you live with, how you deal with it is highly dependent upon them and how they will react to how you are acting. For me, all I wanted was for the anger to stop. The violent outbursts and hours of yelling are intimidating, especially to a child. I would watch and hear these things and tried to understand why I had to be near it at all. Talking about this was out of the question though.
I didn't want to say anything that would hurt my mom or put me in bad favor with my step dad and I couldn't let K-older know because she thought that I was looking for pity. So I was stuck with my pain and in complete confusion. The few times I tried to express myself to a family member, I was belittled. I was the ugly fat retarded one. The more I held it in, the less I could let out. I began to stutter and could not say a word to another person without blushing to a full sweat and forgetting what I was about to say. As far as telling anyone else, how could I? Who would believe this little quiet girl?
Meanwhile, my dad was in Seattle. He was also remarried and had a step daughter. I knew him only as daddy L..... From my perspective, I thought he didn't really love me. I thought that I was an after though. When I got older, I used to joke that both my dads were dicks, a derogatory pun on them both having the same name.
As the years passed and the violence, anger and insanity came to a crescendo, I found myself living in a shell. This is true in a couple of senses. I hid from everything, but also, in order to shield myself from further damage, I became detached. It was like watching the world happen in front of me. I wasn't connecting with anything. Yes, I would talk and do my school work, but I wasn't there. I had taken myself out of the equation. Somewhere around 10 or 11 is when I started cutting myself and picking at scabs. At least I could feel pain still and see that I was a living being. Even now writing this I get a knot in my stomach, thinking that someone is going to ridicule me for my pathetic expressions and tell me that I am a drama queen or that I am exaggerating. I am not. Every night I would cry myself to sleep and beg for someone to take me away, or to just die. My relationship with death is another story all together.
I am still disconnected. At my wedding I watched myself get married. My then new husband was moved, but I could not feel a thing. Maybe I was waiting for him to save me. Somewhere in the back of my mind I am still waiting for someone to save me. Someone who will love me unconditionally, not judge me and accept me for who I am and support me in becoming the amazing person I now know I am. No person has ever loved me that way.
I love Jules in this very complete way. At least I know I can give the love I always wanted.
When pain is generated within your family, the core group of people you live with, how you deal with it is highly dependent upon them and how they will react to how you are acting. For me, all I wanted was for the anger to stop. The violent outbursts and hours of yelling are intimidating, especially to a child. I would watch and hear these things and tried to understand why I had to be near it at all. Talking about this was out of the question though.
I didn't want to say anything that would hurt my mom or put me in bad favor with my step dad and I couldn't let K-older know because she thought that I was looking for pity. So I was stuck with my pain and in complete confusion. The few times I tried to express myself to a family member, I was belittled. I was the ugly fat retarded one. The more I held it in, the less I could let out. I began to stutter and could not say a word to another person without blushing to a full sweat and forgetting what I was about to say. As far as telling anyone else, how could I? Who would believe this little quiet girl?
Meanwhile, my dad was in Seattle. He was also remarried and had a step daughter. I knew him only as daddy L..... From my perspective, I thought he didn't really love me. I thought that I was an after though. When I got older, I used to joke that both my dads were dicks, a derogatory pun on them both having the same name.
As the years passed and the violence, anger and insanity came to a crescendo, I found myself living in a shell. This is true in a couple of senses. I hid from everything, but also, in order to shield myself from further damage, I became detached. It was like watching the world happen in front of me. I wasn't connecting with anything. Yes, I would talk and do my school work, but I wasn't there. I had taken myself out of the equation. Somewhere around 10 or 11 is when I started cutting myself and picking at scabs. At least I could feel pain still and see that I was a living being. Even now writing this I get a knot in my stomach, thinking that someone is going to ridicule me for my pathetic expressions and tell me that I am a drama queen or that I am exaggerating. I am not. Every night I would cry myself to sleep and beg for someone to take me away, or to just die. My relationship with death is another story all together.
I am still disconnected. At my wedding I watched myself get married. My then new husband was moved, but I could not feel a thing. Maybe I was waiting for him to save me. Somewhere in the back of my mind I am still waiting for someone to save me. Someone who will love me unconditionally, not judge me and accept me for who I am and support me in becoming the amazing person I now know I am. No person has ever loved me that way.
I love Jules in this very complete way. At least I know I can give the love I always wanted.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Fear and Anxiety
I wasn't always so afraid, but it has been a long time since I felt free and at ease with anything. It is always as if the other foot is going to drop and everything will fall to pieces. This expectation has often created destruction.
Right after by first brother A was born, his room was moved into K-older's, my older sister, and she moved to the other end of the house away from everyone. Really, I would have preferred that room.
Late at night I would wake up to the sounds of loud whispering. The tone was violent and vicious. Quietly I would get out of bed and stand around the corner of my mom and step-dad's door listening to their nasty arguments, most often started by my mom and her anger and step-dad's behaviors and/or actions. With tears streaming down my face, I would will for these arguments to end. It was like I was drawn to listening to them. Sleep was not a possibility until they were quiet. Some nights the arguments would end quickly. Other nights they would go on and on and I would curl up against the wall, crying.
The fights during the day were a different animal all together. They were loud and violent, but thank goodness not as often. With those I would run and hide somewhere in the house, inside my toy chest, my armoire, behind something, anything. After the fight the rage continued and I knew that K-older and I were targets. K-older, however, would get in the middle of the fight and physically try to stop them. All I wanted to do was pull her out and save her from the pain of the fight, but this is her nature. She has always been proactive and aggressive in seeking resolution.
Over a seven year period these fights increased in both frequency and intensity. The feeling at home was always adversarial. I did not ask for help with homework, even when it was required to read with a parent. For that, at the age of 7 or 8, I learned how to forge my mom's signature. When I got caught, I couldn't very well explain to anyone what was going on.
I started hating school because I did not belong there and I surely did not want to be at home. By 3rd grade I had lost my friends and no longer played. At least K-older had E, her best friend, as a refuge.
For now, I will have to see where these thoughts lead me.
Right after by first brother A was born, his room was moved into K-older's, my older sister, and she moved to the other end of the house away from everyone. Really, I would have preferred that room.
Late at night I would wake up to the sounds of loud whispering. The tone was violent and vicious. Quietly I would get out of bed and stand around the corner of my mom and step-dad's door listening to their nasty arguments, most often started by my mom and her anger and step-dad's behaviors and/or actions. With tears streaming down my face, I would will for these arguments to end. It was like I was drawn to listening to them. Sleep was not a possibility until they were quiet. Some nights the arguments would end quickly. Other nights they would go on and on and I would curl up against the wall, crying.
The fights during the day were a different animal all together. They were loud and violent, but thank goodness not as often. With those I would run and hide somewhere in the house, inside my toy chest, my armoire, behind something, anything. After the fight the rage continued and I knew that K-older and I were targets. K-older, however, would get in the middle of the fight and physically try to stop them. All I wanted to do was pull her out and save her from the pain of the fight, but this is her nature. She has always been proactive and aggressive in seeking resolution.
Over a seven year period these fights increased in both frequency and intensity. The feeling at home was always adversarial. I did not ask for help with homework, even when it was required to read with a parent. For that, at the age of 7 or 8, I learned how to forge my mom's signature. When I got caught, I couldn't very well explain to anyone what was going on.
I started hating school because I did not belong there and I surely did not want to be at home. By 3rd grade I had lost my friends and no longer played. At least K-older had E, her best friend, as a refuge.
For now, I will have to see where these thoughts lead me.
Friday, August 21, 2009
A State of Disconnection
For the greater part of my life, I have lived in a state of disconnection. This has been both a benefit and a detriment, more the latter, in many obstacles I have faces. Recently, I started seeing a psychiatrist, who is oddly enough more holistic, and she has urged me to figure out what feelings I harbor that I block out. I was able to come up with pain, loneliness, abandonment...all very general and vague terms that seem, well, prescribed so-to-speak. Isn't that what you are supposed to say when you are not happy and seeking help? But I really do feel those feelings.
Today, however, I was on Skype with S, my ex-husband, after he had spoken with Jules for a while. He told me how his parents and sister would like to see Jules. He also said that they feel that they have been unrightfully punished by the divorce, having been kept from their grandson. This shocked me as I thought I had made it clear that they were allowed to see Jules whenever. They had my address and never wrote. He said they still harbor anger and resentment towards me. I am sure this has something to do with him and a bit to do with their personalities. Writing it out now makes me angry. What I felt after getting off the phone was something different though. I was sad and in pain. I called the only person I know that knows enough about the situation to not have to have a full history recounted and is not biased. Yes, she is my best friend, but she has that spot for a reason. She lets me know when I am out of line. I love that.
She wasn't available. I laid down on my bed running names of people through my head. There were reasons for each not being the right person to call at that time. I deep pain grew in my stomach and I started to cry. I cried hard with racing thoughts of how I can make this pain stop. That is when I thought of my psychiatrist and the task she bestowed upon me.
The pain I felt was old and familiar. Delicious in its connectivity, the feeling torn through my memory banks, bringing up a handful of very distinct images and moments.
For the next while, I am going to dedicate this blog to working through these memories and thoughts. In part to just work them out to see how it feels to see it in print. However, this could be done in a journal, but this blog offers something else I need, connection. Many of the people who read this blog are those that are closest to me. I want you to know. I want to explain who I am and where I was in my mind for so many years of my life.
First entry:
From 4 years on I lived in a mild state of fear and a heavy state of anxiety. I knew people noticed, but there was nothing I could do about it. I had no idea how to explain what was happening. My older sister, K-older, and I had moved to Portland, OR from Bellevue/Kirkland (as they were known at the time), WA with our mom to live with our new step dad. We moved around the time of my birthday. I remember feeling that my celebration of me was insignificant. The adjustment to a life with a new person that made the rules and occupied my mom's time and thoughts was difficult, but I was getting there. Unlike my older sister, I was not outgoing. Instead, I was a dreamer (was???).
It was at this time I became very aware of my physical self as well as my need for approval. I wanted to be noticed. I wanted to feel important. Most often I was told how insufficient I was with words and quick wit and how my body was bigger than that of an "average" kid of that age.
More and more, I would talk less and hide more. I preferred to hide in corners of my room or in the partial clubhouse/fort in the back yard. That way I didn't have to be made fun of or fear rejection. All I wanted was for someone to have a special love for just me. Someone that supported me just because. At that time I started envisioning the world blowing up into chunks of earth and that I was on one solitary chunk flying through space, all by myself, for the rest of my life.
Today, however, I was on Skype with S, my ex-husband, after he had spoken with Jules for a while. He told me how his parents and sister would like to see Jules. He also said that they feel that they have been unrightfully punished by the divorce, having been kept from their grandson. This shocked me as I thought I had made it clear that they were allowed to see Jules whenever. They had my address and never wrote. He said they still harbor anger and resentment towards me. I am sure this has something to do with him and a bit to do with their personalities. Writing it out now makes me angry. What I felt after getting off the phone was something different though. I was sad and in pain. I called the only person I know that knows enough about the situation to not have to have a full history recounted and is not biased. Yes, she is my best friend, but she has that spot for a reason. She lets me know when I am out of line. I love that.
She wasn't available. I laid down on my bed running names of people through my head. There were reasons for each not being the right person to call at that time. I deep pain grew in my stomach and I started to cry. I cried hard with racing thoughts of how I can make this pain stop. That is when I thought of my psychiatrist and the task she bestowed upon me.
The pain I felt was old and familiar. Delicious in its connectivity, the feeling torn through my memory banks, bringing up a handful of very distinct images and moments.
For the next while, I am going to dedicate this blog to working through these memories and thoughts. In part to just work them out to see how it feels to see it in print. However, this could be done in a journal, but this blog offers something else I need, connection. Many of the people who read this blog are those that are closest to me. I want you to know. I want to explain who I am and where I was in my mind for so many years of my life.
First entry:
From 4 years on I lived in a mild state of fear and a heavy state of anxiety. I knew people noticed, but there was nothing I could do about it. I had no idea how to explain what was happening. My older sister, K-older, and I had moved to Portland, OR from Bellevue/Kirkland (as they were known at the time), WA with our mom to live with our new step dad. We moved around the time of my birthday. I remember feeling that my celebration of me was insignificant. The adjustment to a life with a new person that made the rules and occupied my mom's time and thoughts was difficult, but I was getting there. Unlike my older sister, I was not outgoing. Instead, I was a dreamer (was???).
It was at this time I became very aware of my physical self as well as my need for approval. I wanted to be noticed. I wanted to feel important. Most often I was told how insufficient I was with words and quick wit and how my body was bigger than that of an "average" kid of that age.
More and more, I would talk less and hide more. I preferred to hide in corners of my room or in the partial clubhouse/fort in the back yard. That way I didn't have to be made fun of or fear rejection. All I wanted was for someone to have a special love for just me. Someone that supported me just because. At that time I started envisioning the world blowing up into chunks of earth and that I was on one solitary chunk flying through space, all by myself, for the rest of my life.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Saturday, July 04, 2009
The Nano
Before moving to NYC, my older sister, Kristin, let me keep her black iPod Nano I had been borrowing for the past few years. I used it all the time. When I got here to NYC, I used it even more. I kept out the unwanted distractions of the bus or classroom. Now I have a new little toy (my phone) that has the same capabilities.
Today I passed it on as a gift. I gave it to Jules. He is THRILLED. He has had other MP3 players, but they all had severe limitations. This is what he wanted. (Side note: as much as I try to teach him otherwise, he is still very much a part of consumerist american economy and loves things that are popular.) However, it is the music that really moves him. I love music and it is an inseperable part of my life. His father IS a musician, a truly talented one at that. It is no shock that Jules is a happy world of his own with these headphones on and a wide selection of music to choose from.
Today I passed it on as a gift. I gave it to Jules. He is THRILLED. He has had other MP3 players, but they all had severe limitations. This is what he wanted. (Side note: as much as I try to teach him otherwise, he is still very much a part of consumerist american economy and loves things that are popular.) However, it is the music that really moves him. I love music and it is an inseperable part of my life. His father IS a musician, a truly talented one at that. It is no shock that Jules is a happy world of his own with these headphones on and a wide selection of music to choose from.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Positive Energy
It has been difficult as of late to stay positive and optimistic. They are, in fact, two different things and both just as challenging to maintain in my current state.
1. I am not walking this spring. (*&*#%&$*#)$!!!! This is the least of my worries, but utterly tied to the politics of Teachers College Art and Art Education.
2. My time at the gallery is over and I will not have the job as of June 30. Not so many explitives this time as I am finding a huge sense of relief knowing that working with certain people has a very close end in sight.
3. I have to find a new job.
4. I am not going to Italy with NYU this summer due to job situation. I have deferred to start next summer.
5. There is a massive budget issue all over the world. This does not exclude TC and my department in particular. I am being pinned for the majority of the problems when it is clearly not my fault. I am seeking counsel through various university sorts. Do I REALLY have time and energy for this battle?!?!?! (that is rhetorical)
6. I am not successfully recovered from my sinus surgery. Anyone that has been told they need it and it is from a fantastic surgeon like mine...DO IT!!!! However, it took a lot more time to recover that I had planned for myself.
7. I have had severe chronic pain in my lower left side for over 6 years now. It is at times debilitating. I went to see one surgeon and she told me I had to get a rib removed. At that I walked out and tried to ignore the pain. Recently I was telling another doctor off-handedly about this incident and it turns out there could be a potential suspect. My spleen. I am getting an MRI tomorrow night.
8. My body is feeling older than 36. (I think)
9. In order to avoid interaction with the director of my department I had to can my thesis, which I had been working on for 3 years, in order to cut her out of the picture. See, what I was working on is her specialty. There was no way I could not have her as a reader. (This is where the gallery and budget thing come in.) I do not feel she is capable of being an objective reader.
10. My insurance company folded in the middle of my learning disability testing. I know from preliminary tests that I do in fact and have always had ADHD. The company that replaced them does not have the doctor I was using in their network. SOOOOO...I am starting all over with the arduous task of testing. The problem is, I need it now.
11. The effects of the combined stress along with life in general is VERY overwhelming. I often feel like I am drowning in thin air. If I were not taking antidepressants I would be in big trouble.
Some good things:
1. Jules. N'uff said. He kicks "patutie". He is a fountain of joy and wonder I have the fortune to be around every day.
2. Laundry service. For just pennies more I can have my laundry picked up at my door and delivered beautifully clean and folded two days later.
3. My advisers. All three. Baldacchino, Pellegrin and Stevens from UW. They are all still ardent supporters.
4. Family and friends. Yeah. They kick patutie as well.
So for now, I am focusing on those things and trying to maintain some semblance of a working life while I sort the other things out.
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