Thanksgiving

I live in Sweden and therefore this day is not a public holiday. So I'm sitting here by my computer, watching people run around, pretending to be busy. I look at the pile of photos I'm supposed to check against the database and I just can't be bothered taking care of them right now. I'm too tired, too indifferent, and too annoyed with the whole place.

And yet, I have so many things I am grateful for.

I have a wonderful life partner, who loves and supports me without judgement and without wanting to change who I am.

I have amazing friends, who I love above and beyond what might be considered healthy.

I have a nice apartment to return to.

I have a warm bed to snuggle up in, and clothes to wear every day.

I have food to eat every day and a warm stove to cook it on.

I have access to the cleanest tap water in the world, and it's almost entirely free of chemicals.

Physically, I am completely healthy, even though I complain about small aches from time to time.

I have access to some of the best medicare in the world, and it's relatively cheap.

I wake up every morning and no one is threatening my life. I am safe in my home and I'm in no danger of becoming homeless.

Today, I contemplate everything I have and I consider myself fortunate. I have everything I could ever need. Anything else I want is just icing on an amazing cake.

The importance of a kind word

I have previously mentioned what a complete goof my Dad can be. What I didn't realize was how damn perceptive that man is. He hides a brilliant mind behind bad puns and strange behavior.

I have also never really thought about how much his opinion means to me.

Dad has always been the quiet one of my parents. If we asked him for sweets or ice cream, he'd always refer to my Mom. He was the one who built things, who mended things. He was the one who taught me to ski and put up with endless tantrums in the slope. He fixed the bait on fishing rods and taught me and my sister how to safely cross marshes and frozen lakes.
Mom was in charge of the household chores while Dad was in charge of making sure we had a functioning house.

Both of my parents were working while I was growing up. Mom was a midwife, so her hours were not your regular office hours. Dad worked as a communications whatchamacallit for EDS, so he had regular office hours, which meant that he took my sister and me to school and did the bedtime things when Mom was working late.

Seriously, that man has the patience of a saint. Not once have I heard him raise his voice to me or my sister. Not once has he raised his hand against anyone in my family. I can't even remember him getting really angry.

So when he said that he was happy with me when I put my foot down about my future, something warm and tingly came to life in my chest. When he said that he appreciate me being straight with him (and my fears that he'd be hurt were unfounded) I got so happy. It's like I'm no longer a baby girl in his eyes. I am a grown woman, and it feels like he's proud of me.

TW: Once more onto the breech

Trigger Warnings apply for mental illness and self-doubt.

There comes a point when I can't pretend anymore. When all guises fall away and leave me bare and exposed. When my nerves scream in agony at even the gentlest touch and my mind feels like it's about to explode.

Last Tuesday, that point came to visit.

Despite all my raging and groaning and biting at the world, I still felt like it was all falling apart. Now, almost a week later, mind mind is still not on right.
The good thing is that I got new medication, which will hopefully do what the old couldn't. Bad thing is that I get so damn frustrated at set-backs.

Don't get me wrong, I knew it wouldn't be an easy ride back to Functioning Person, but I set so high standards for myself that each step back feels like a major failure.

Logically, I know that I have come miles from where I started out. Just being able to admit when I need to step back and care for myself is a huge victory. And still, the guilt is gnawing at my insides, like so many caterpillars. The guilt born from not being Perfect, not being an Example, a Role Model. The guilt born from not being the Happy, Easy-Going, Daughter/Girlfriend/Friend Person.

Logically, I know I can't be perfect. Logically, I know being me is enough.

The guilt spits on logic. The Conditioning stomps on logic, makes a stamp of it, and mails it to Antarctica.

In all of this, my biggest fears are being judged and giving up. It doesn't really make sense, but fears rarely do.

Being weighed, measured, and found wanting. Being sneered at, glared at, and judged to be lazy, stupid, disgusting.

The fear of giving in to the guilt and the fear and the pain.

How do you move forward when you feel like the world wants you to fail?

Self Care

As I sit here, snuggled in warmly under a slanket and a blanket, watching the soggy snow falling outside, I can't help but feel guilty about taking the time to take care of myself.

Yesterday was the Transgender Day of Remembrance (no, firefox spell check, it's not "transgendered". It's "transgender"). I wanted to write something to put a light on it, but I couldn't think of a single thing that would make it justice.
I have friends who are trans*. No, scratch that. I have FAMILY members who are trans* and my heart and mind screams out in pain just thinking about something happening to them.

And suddenly, I got hit by a wave of resolve. So many people fight to have the right to be themselves. Even though I am a cis female, I can take up the banner and be who I truly am. I am born into privilege just by being cis and in order for me to be an ally, I need to first be strong in myself and my being.

I am living with a mental illness. An illness that will, at times, make me incapable of doing things adults are expected to do, such as laundry, dishes, making my bed, going to work, do anything except looking at a wall blankly etc. In order for me to function properly (read: at all) I need time for myself. Time to do absolutely nothing. Unfortunately, I have been conditioned that self-care is a selfish indulgence. That, unless it benefits someone else as well, it's not to be done. That feeling is causing me stress. Severe stress. So as I am currently chilling out under my warm covers, watching the snow falling outside my apartment, I am also actively using tools I have that help me relax.

Logically, I know that, in order for me to be productive, I need to be strong in my own self first, but years of conditioning have left me with a heavy sense of guilt when it comes to putting myself first. Part of it is how I was raised. For example, I have a hard time eating anything in front of someone unless they're also eating. Doesn't matter if they turned down an offer of whatever it is, I feel selfish for enjoying what I have when they don't.
Part of it is my extreme fear of being abandoned. Logically, I know that I have to be a right jerk for my friends to abandon me, but phobias don't listen to reason.

Today, I will care for myself in any way I can think of. Today, I will play Sims3 until it's time for my doctor's appointment, and when I get home, I'm taking a long luxurious foamy bath, complete with my vanilla crystal foam bath. Today will be all about me, so I can be helpful to someone else tomorrow.

Moving on out

This past weekend, I spent my time upside down in boxes. It's really depressing how few things I've managed to scrape together over almost 28 years of living. I always thought I had so many things.

Some context perhaps.

I got my last things from my parents' house on Friday. On Saturday I started to Sort All The Things (thank you, HyperboleAndAHalf), and Boy isolated himself in the attic and in the basement. All in all, we had a very productive day, which ended in six boxes donated to charity, four huge bags of trash thrown out, and three runs to the junk yard with broken stuff, electronics, broken furniture, and old mattresses.

During the course of the sorting, I came to realize that I have less stuff than I thought/feared I have. Boy and I don't have that much stuff, really. With a combined age of 56 years, you'd think that we'd had managed to gather more things, but really, it's almost depressing. And in a way, it feels really nice. When we/I are/am finished with the sorting and evicting of things, the total of our worldly possessions should be no more than 12 boxes, of which five or six will be books in various forms (you can never have too many books).

Growing up and living in pre-AdultApartmentLife apartment, I always felt that I had collected too many things. Too much stuff was clogging up my life and I felt bogged down. Last night, however, I felt light and free for the first time since moving out from my parents' house. My apartment still looks like something exploded in my closets, but most of the stuff is either sorted laundry or things that will get thrown out the next time I have access to a car.

There is something very cathartic about getting rid of old things, be it to charity or the junkyard.

TW: The Saintity of Your Lair

Wow. I just realized it's been weeks since I wrote anything here. Or it feels like weeks, at least. I feel somewhat guilty, and yet not. This is my space, after all. My little corner in which I can deal with the world using writing as a tool.

Anyhow, I've been going through a lot of bad things lately, and some day, I might feel comfortable writing about it (I need to deal with it, but not right now). Today, I'd like to touch on the subject of boundaries. This piece will contain stuff that can trigger many bad memories. If you or anyone you know needs help, there are a host of hotlines you can contact, some of which I have listed in a previous post.

MASSIVE TRIGGER WARNINGS: predator behavior, self-hate, guilt, self-harm, ignored boundaries, rape

This post was inspired by this article over at CaptainAwkwardDotCom. Please, check it out. I totally love CaptainAwkward, by the way.

OK, on to the ranting bit of this post:

I have long struggled with boundaries. Not other people's boundaries, but my own (I would never willingly/knowingly compromise someone else' boundaries). What are my boundaries? How do I feel about my boundaries? Have my Self been compromised and/or violated? Have I imagined being compromised? Am I being oversensitive?

Thing is, I have let myself been walked all over for almost my entire life, all in the name of acceptance. I told myself that I would never be a person who would end up in an abusive relationship. I would never accept being subjected to violation of my boundaries or compromises when it comes to my comfort zone.

But!

I have.

I have let people walk all over me. I have let people trample my sense of self, my dignity, and my self-respect. I have been physically abused and raped by an ex-boyfriend. I have been emotionally abused by the people who are supposed to care for me.

The clearest sign of a social predator looking for a target is the search for someone whose boundaries can be tested with no/little resistance. They will charm their way into your social circle, then push you until you break. Usually, we think about these predators as strangers or acquaintances. Rarely do we realize that these predators also come in the Biological/Adopted Family, Lover, and/or Friend varieties as well.

There are people in my life who make me question my own memory and my sanity. Who will push me into Guilt Territory if I put up any resistance. Every time I try to shut these people out, they change, making me believe that this time, it will be different (see a pattern here?), but every time, they switch back as soon as they think it's safe to do so. This switching pattern have caused me to do very bad things, mostly to myself. I have cut myself. I have scratched myself with sharp objects. I have starved myself, and I binge-and-purge on occasion. If I didn't have Boy by my side, I would have crumbled or freaked a long time ago.

A predator will weasel their way into your life and under your skin, using imitations of caring and love in order for you to drop your guard. Some predators have it easy, especially in the case of Biological Family. The love for parents is conditioned into a child's brain from birth and society makes damn sure you don't question it as you grow up. The guilt of standing up to a parent and calling them on bullshit behavior is overwhelming and extremely hard to fight.
Other predators have to work harder, such in the case of Lovers, Friends, or Adopted Family, but the pattern is the same. They will make you care for them, then jab you until you believe that they are the only ones who matter. In extreme cases, the predator might kill you (as with the serial killer in the linked article). In other cases they will violate your sense of self, your self-respect, and/or your body in ways that will leave scars and wounds that will never heal properly.

When I moved out from my parents, I thought everything would be great. My own home, my own responsibilities etc etc. What happened was an apartment that looked like a storage unit and boxes filled with stuff I've never used clogging up my attic and closets. Now, six years later, I finally have an apartment I feel at home in, and I'll take that one way ticket to Hell before I let anyone breach the sanctity of my home. In my home, I want to feel safe. I want to feel loved and secure. And right now, I do. Just me and Boy, living together in something that's starting to feel like a home. That's all I need. Outside forces are trying to rob me of my sense of self, by making light of my beliefs, by telling me that I can only be liked if I change things about myself. These people are no longer welcome in my home. My home is my sanctuary and no social predator will destroy it for me.