BECOMING DEPENDENT - DEALING WITH FORCED CHANGE

I am certainly no angel. People often say to meal how brave I am and whilst I appreciate that they are being kind something which I really do appreciate, it isn't really true.

For one thing I do get very down about the limitations my disease puts upon me or I get very angry and break things and shout, scream and swear.  For short periods I even find myself feeling that I have been unfairly given to much on my plate.

I am not going to go over yet again my rotten childhood. Most of you reading all about it and those that don't will search it out if they are that interested.

What has been bugging me a lot recently has been my loss of independence. I can still drive and I drive very well. I can also still knit and I still knit well.  However, I can barely walk and I need John to help me dress. If we are not going out anywhere together then I stay in my lounge clothing which is bright and cheerful at least.

With the use of aids  lot I can take care of myself when it comes to the bathroom and showering I hope that I will always at least keep that part of my dignity.

 I adore music and watching films and TV series.  When John is in London on Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday that is all that I do  apart from feed the dogs and play with them and talk with them.

I certainly would like to go back to travelling next year. I realise that we will not be able to do the long distance thousand mile destinations. I have had many friends who have left me to get on with it.  whilst it was painful I am more circumspect in my choices now

HOPE...I CAN'T FIND IT

Every time I feel down the same thing comes up: I have no hope. Yes, I k now how lucky I am to have a husband who adores me and takes care of me. 35 yrs this coming July. I get to listen to music every day on the best equipment, can watch what I like on a 4k TV. (4k meaning resolution not cost!!). I have my dogs to love and who give me great pleasure.

But I have no hope. Nothing to look forward to. Since my disease forced me to stop showing, I have had nothing to hope for. So what if I can still breed a litter. What for? I will only be upset if I produce a stunner. No one will buy it. I don't have the next show to look forward to, the next litter, the next possible win. Nothing. 

It seems I just must enjoy each day I can watching tv and listening to music and reading until I die. The recession has put paid to my hand dyed yarn hobby.

I don't say these things because I feel sorry for myself, or because I feel depressed. I feel neither. I truly cannot find hope. 

HOW IT WAS...OR WASN'T

If you are an adult and I came up to you and slapped you or punched you or kicked you or tried to throttle you, you would know that I did and take appropriate action. No matter what I said, you'd never think for one second that I had not done this to you. Now imagine you are a very young child. Throughout your growing up, you were punched and kicked and throttled and called names regularly. Imagine also you were never hugged or told you were loved. Yet, within hours of being abused you were told you imagined it. It didn't happen. Not just one person told you this. The whole family did. (The other children behaving in ways their abuse taught them OR their lack of abuse and doing nothing about the one being abused.) You dreamed it. You are wicked. That bruise was from when you fell. Starved of love and affection, other adults were able to see that and if they too were abusers, used your need for love and affection to abuse you. Thus you don't see it as abuse and even if you see it as something you shouldn't do, you blame yourself because you were not forced. When the time came and you were forced, well, it was no more than you deserved. So the first 17 years of life, you are told what did happen didn't. That black was white and white was black. Then you are taken away to a safe place. A hospital full of kind Doctors and nurses. At least that is what you grew up believeing. Instead, you found some nurses were abusive. The Doctors told you that your memories of growing up were symptoms of mental illness. They filled you with drugs when you resisted their truth. After a while, you resign yourself to the fact that indeed you were crazy. That you had come from a loving caring home but you had a mental illness that made you believe differently. So if I was ill, why was I treated as if I was bad? Deep inside the real me still existed and knew the real truth. He just didn't know how to live with that all alone. Daeth was the only way to end the nightmare. The result was a coma and proof I was nuts. After about a year, I was finally the patient of a new dr who let me go, and suggested I never went home again and went and made a life for myself. That I did. It has been very difficult. Even today I struggle with my perceptions. It is why I am useless at choosing friends. It is why I keep myself back and don't let myself feel loved. I had got past that, I thought, until my wedding in 2012 and now knowing that more than a few were not my loving friends at all. I had humiliated myself again. I truly believed they cared for me. Hanging on to truth is hard. It's tiring. The constant 'am i good, am I bad' argument in my head all back again. Fear moved back in.