It’s hard to remember the good things. It honestly is. And after so much criticism from people who purported to love me, I almost shut down my blog. I decided to keep going because after all, this is for me. Not for anyone else. I started out with this as a means of reflecting on my life. 

I realize that I’m not an easy person to love sometimes. At my best, I’m logging the miles away every day to keep a roof over our heads and food in our bellies. With every day, it takes a little more out of me trying to sort things out.

When I was a kid, I had a pretty dynamic life. While my dad wasn’t exactly …. supportive in emotional means, he supported the family financially. It didn’t make sense to me why we didn’t spend time with the Seppanen side of the family more. We certainly spent time with mom’s side of the family. That’s for sure.

I was always overweight. My dad was not always the nicest about my eating habits. I remember asking my mom one time to leave my dad. I don’t remember how old I was, but I just didn’t like him. He didn’t make me feel secure like my mom did. My mom was always there for me. For better or for worse.

I had febrile seizures, a couple of them. (FYI, if you’ve had seizures at all in your life – don’t ever try to donate plasma. They’ll turn you away. Just so you don’t go through it like I did) I was a little girl, but those medical situations required a lot of time an energy out of my mom. I can’t tell you the amount of trips to Marshfield, Wisconsin that we had to take to see a specialist. How many EEG’s I had. How many tests I had to take. The medication I had to take. The blood draws that I had to take. The time that my mom and I spent together cemented my relationship with her.

When I was sick, my mom would dote on me. We’d get what she’d call “sick supplies” which would be 7-Up, sherbet, hawaiian punch, and jello. She’d rub my head and console me. We watched Anne of Green Gables together. (Megan Follows version from the 1980’s.) There is a lot of my siblings being around that I don’t remember. I do remember my parents telling me that everyone had to be awake to open Christmas presents. So I can remember irritating the crap out of my siblings because I wanted to see what Santa got for me each year. (That is, until I realized that Santa had the same handwriting as my mom). 

I was a kid who was loaded with Barbie dolls, dream houses, record player, many records, light brite, Strawberry Shortcake dolls and the strawberry shaped house that was available in the 1980’s. I had stuff. I loved my mom with everything I had. And I loved using my imagination. It was easy back then. The world was my oyster.

My parents marriage may not have been ideal. As an adult now, I’ve heard that my mom was irritated that my dad really didn’t want to go out and do things with her. And honestly, I could see why that was. He sat around reading books, newspapers, magazines, and watching tv. Once his day at work was over, he just settled in for the rest of the night until he had to do it again. His communication skills were limited, all through my growing up. He seemed like he was done on the phone or in person after a few minutes – unless of course you talked about something he enjoyed. I remember taking a friend up to the U.P. while we visited my dad once. Sean, who doesn’t stop talking… most of the time… I thought he’d for sure annoy my dad. He didn’t. He knew a trick. Talk to my dad about his job. What he used to do at the mine. I guess I never thought about it. 

I remember being in … high school, maybe? I don’t remember my mom being around at that point. I was sick and I asked my dad to rent “Casablanca”. He seemed excited. I was confused. Now, I realize it was because these were movies he grew up watching. He seemed excited that I enjoyed it. Missed opportunities, I suppose. I wanted my dad to reach out to me more. Maybe that just wasn’t something he could do. And in turn, I grew up to be like him in many ways. I come home and settle in for the night. By the time my leisure time comes, I rinse and repeat. Not that I don’t love Eric, I’m just afraid of spending any money. Money isn’t exactly easy to come by when you’re the only one working in your household. And the economy is …booming for someone. Certainly not me.

I was lucky to have a family like I did. During the time that I did. When Dianne died though, I broke. I was 11 years old and didn’t know what an autopsy was. I thought the doctors were going to bring her back to life. My hopeful self cropping in. My siblings were mostly doing their own things and weren’t around. Not that I can blame them. That’s how life is. You grow up, move out, do what you’re supposed to do to move on to the next stage of your life. 

I have never tried to be ungrateful. I have been stuck in anxiety and trauma mode most of my life since the time Dianne died. I don’t recommend trauma to anyone. Don’t experience it, if you can help it. It’s not a club I enjoy being a part of. Nor does anyone I’ve met or encountered with it. It leaves me feeling like less than a person. That I’m always on edge. I’m always defensive. I’m always left feeling like no one cares or understands me. It’s not because I want attention. It’s because I’m terrified. ALL THE TIME. 

I’ve often somewhat sort of joked that I wanted to be put in a functional mri to show the parts of my brain to see what’s overactive and what’s not. To prove to many people that I’m not just a fuck up … like I feel like I am. That there is a scientific reason behind why I am the way I am. Why isn’t it good enough that I am a person worthy of being loved without having to prove to people what I’ve been through?

I really haven’t talked to my brother Brian for a long time. And I recently touched base with a niece of mine who … well, I never imagined a relationship with. I was terrified to reach out because I felt like.. again, fuck up. Constantly looking at me through the proverbial rear view mirror. My thought… she won’t accept me. None of them will accept me. I’m a moron. I didn’t finish college. I’m broke, I’m working my tail off though. For what? My parents are gone, my daughter is gone, and my one living child is so mentally unstable that she hates my very existence. 

I know I can’t live my life based on what is gone. I’ve done that long enough already. I’m trying to find space for me. To show myself that I deserve a good life too. Not having to prove myself to anyone. To kill myself trying too hard. To kill myself trying to measure up to other peoples’ idea of success. It’s still hard. The amount of chatter I hear in my head… not like a voice in my head. Still, like the invalidating things I tell myself. And the way I treat myself and my body. I probably have a binge eating issue. Not that I vomit it up, but I do consume until I feel relatively nauseated. Which is generally until whatever sweet item I’m eating is gone. Cookies, ice cream, licorice, etc. I know what portions are, mostly. I just don’t observe them. At every turn, I have felt like I had one barrier after another. 

My husband’s health is getting better, for the most part. His back surgery has done a lot of good for him. My trauma, of course, has left him wanting. Wanting for a partner to do things with or communicate with. And I’ve been vibrating on my own plethora of guilt and inability to control my own experiences. 

I’ve noticed that being in trauma mode has left me selfish. Not that I want to be. Trauma is a very selfish thing. DO NOT TAKE THAT THE WRONG WAY! Trauma in and of itself is not selfish. It just takes the person who experiences the trauma and leaves that person locked into themselves and what they are going through. They cannot think outside of themselves until they can start to get out of that. And being a partner to someone with PTSD can be extremely ungratifying. I give anyone who loves someone with mental illness a lot of love and respect. We are NOT easy to love. It just takes a lot of patience and connection. Being there is tough. 

At work, we’ve having this work party. And part of the celebration for the Christmas themed party is they asked for baby pictures. I found one, not as a baby, myself. Young, nevertheless. When we were first asked for a picture of our baby selves, I was angry. I was scared. I was terrified. And honestly, it didn’t make a lot of sense. All I could say is that I didn’t want to be seen. I didn’t want to be exposed. I think, more to the point is that… I have trust issues. I’m afraid to be the butt of the joke. Like someone will make fun of me. I was not popular. My dad belittled me for my weight, my mom was always working on hers, I always felt insecure, and I was raised in a church environment that was not nurturing to me. And all the people I lost… well, collateral damage??? 

I broke. Like humpty dumpty, I’m trying to put myself together again.

If you are with me, fine. Thank you.

If you’re not, that’s fine too. I’ll do it with or without you.