I’ve been waiting to write this blog for a while. I’ve needed to take time to process my feelings about… well, everything.

The end of September, I found out about my psychiatric test results. I have (Anxious) Avoidant Personality Disorder. According to my personal research, AvPD is not uncommon and is usually found more in females. (How to Spot High Functioning Avoidant Personality Disorder) More information can also be found on WebMD, Cleveland Clinic, or Mayo Clinic – among other very reputable information sources about the disorder. I think AvPD was the diagnosis that hit me the hardest. And I’ll explain why.

I’ve heard time and time again that I’m too sensitive. That generally happens when you compound one trauma after another on a young and hormonal person. The brain stops developing by the time an adult hits the age of 25 years old. However, a personality disorder (as I found out with my eldest daughter) cannot be diagnosed by a clinician until at least 18 years old when the individual is considered a legal adult.

I felt like an “other” type of person. You know. Other. Like the black sheep of the family (after Dianne died and Brian moved out). I went to a church that I couldn’t comprehend the unwritten judgmental nature of the “believers”. You can cluster in one building for a common purpose – but NONE of us are perfect. No one should judge another – especially if they haven’t walked a mile in their shoes. I saw Dianne walk down the aisle at church to marry Duane Novak. Dianne was 8 months pregnant at the time – so it was obvious what Dianne and Duane were up to. Wink wink… And NO ONE in the entire church stood up. Not one single person. I just watched in unmitigated horror. EVERYONE in the church stands up when the bride walks down the aisle. Everyone. And among many of my conversations with people online – a person who had attended the IALC church like I had, he confirmed what I suspected. And believed. This individual had been to considerable numbers of weddings at the IALC in different locations (Wisconsin, Michigan, Minnesota, California, New York….. ). The person confirmed that of all the weddings he’d attended of that faith – it absolutely was an unspoken judgment by the entire congregation.

You don’t want to make the congregation mad… I guess??? Or disappoint them?

I knew by six years old that by 18 years old, I wanted to be out of the faith. I didn’t believe in it, the social structure made no sense, the music was dreadful, there were no instruments. Again, not all faiths probably have instruments. And that was probably part of the church dynamics present and historically (Data I personally witnessed up until I left in 1997)

Smoking cigarettes was generally accepted by both secular and church community. Many young teenagers, like myself, started smoking at the same time. 14/15 years old. I believe my Dad said he was younger than I was when he started smoking. Neither here nor there, he didn’t approve of my grabbing cigarette packs from his carton when he’d leave his cigarettes unprotected and unmonitored – in the kitchen. On the shelf for every 5 year old on up to see. What I couldn’t acquire myself, my friends either stole or bought illegally through a friend that was 18 years old (at the time) or pretended that they were 18 years old and the cashier bought it, no questions asked. Hell, even cigarettes back then, the consumer could pick them off the shelf themselves. They were even sold in cigarette machines in some bars – if you went to bars. My family was dry. Pop (soda), chips, and visiting during get togethers after church was the regular.

My confirmation day *summer or fall of 1994 or 1995* I didn’t want to be there. I didn’t want to get confirmed. It was my familial and overall personal responsibility. I would have preferred to be anywhere but there. However, I did what I could to make my dad happy. Despite only feeling somewhat and sort of secure on my own. He was in one room, I was in another. Opposing sides of the home – old or new home. Remember – lost my sister when I was 11 in 1988. I had two great friends L & D. Neighbors K, K, C – and the Illikainen kids that I used to hang out with. I started smoking about 14 years old. I got busted stealing cigarettes from the IGA in Negaunee and was banned from re-entry. I believed that they would remember me. My dad just remarked – you need to quit. And that was it. Nothing more was said. Confirmation though – you have an initiation. What I recall seeing (and panicked when I saw it – because I’m so “sensitive”) In the lunch/potluck area there is a C shaped countertop. Kids that were confirming the same year/date as me were lining up to crawl across the countertop and believers would take a paddle and whack the new confirmed believers on the rear end. I saw that and I KNEW it was inappropriate. I went to a family member and told him I was not going to do it. He told me, assuring me, that everyone does this that gets confirmed. Just to get it over with.

My 49 year old brain says – holy fuck, that’s WRONG! I’m glad I refused to take part. That really is – by the act of paddling someone for either individual humiliation by the paddlee and the paddler getting some enjoyment out of the act to a developing child…. woof. I’ve heard other people remark of other concerning confirmation initiations.

In your life you’re told to “Trust Your Gut”. If something feels wrong, it probably is! Yet, if I don’t believe in the tale of Jesus Christ and God – or that there should be best or “others”…. The fact that historically, Christianity has been fraught with unbelievable acts of horror, misogyny, sexual assault accusations or criminal acts proven through the court of law, pedophelia, and other illegal activities – not to mention coersive control, psychological manipulation, and love bombing. Yet the LGBTQIA+ is filled with would be destroyers of the “family unit”, while many Televangelists have been found to be corrupt and greedy. One of the seven sins. They should… know better.

I left my faith, my community. I dated people I shouldn’t have. While I’m being judged by my church community, the teachers and other adults, and my peers – I’m drowning in sorrow and not one person connected with me as if I was … in the pain that I was in. At least nothing to really help me feel accepted. So, AvPD this diagnosis I’ve been given, develops when a person is in their teenage to early twenties.

I BELIEVE I WAS IN CRISIS DURING THAT TIME!?! The whole time.

My brain wasn’t done developing. My Dad didn’t show love and affection to me. He took me out grocery shopping sometimes, to church, to the gas station, to grab food, and to church. I drove to school once I had my drivers license. My dad provided me with food, drink, shelter, and the necessities. Clothing, schooling, money for extra curriculars, rides to friends or other hangouts, you know…. Stuff that generally parents do for their kids. My Dad RARELY spent time with me and he certainly did not nurture me. He yelled at me, at times lied to me, and did what he could manage and – I what I could manage – with him. I didn’t like my Dad before. When I was little, he scared me. He could be really angry. I only remember getting spanked once, but it was hard. He would yell. And it was frightening. After my mom went into the coma, my Dad wasn’t himself. In his “normal” non visiting, non church time – he was alone. Watching tv, reading books, going where he needed to … and that was it. He picked up after himself. Just, it was a very lonely house without my mom. There were few casual conversations with my Dad. My brothers were living their lives and I never got a chance to realize a relationship with my sister Dianne. I was too young. And now I wouldn’t be able to have a relationship with my mom anymore. After all, she was in a coma and then persistent vegetative state for 19 years. Very similar to Terry Schiavo.

In 2005, I was attending NWTC (Northeastern Wisconsin Technical College). The interest in what was happening with Terry Schiavo and the families – it was still everywhere. And, it was sad. My mom was a story somewhat akin to Terry’s. My mom was at NMU (Northern Michigan University) and started vomiting in the bathroom. My mom choked on her vomit and went into a cardiac arrest. She wasn’t found for a few minutes after the event. I do not know what my mom’s brain functioning was, but she had no feeling from the neck down on her body. She could follow you around the room with her eyes. And she knew what you were saying. I knew that by observing her. My mom would listen. What else was she going to do? My mom would listen to what you said and would respond with a light chuckle (nothing like the belly laughs she gave before) and if it was something that brought on the “feels”, she’d shed a tear or so. My mom could no longer protect me from the world. The world was coming to me. And my Dad couldn’t slow my world down. I just ran straight at it. Making stupid decisions after stupid decisions. I was engaging in risky sexual activity, often by the time I was 15. I was having protected sex, drinking, I got raped a few times, I was manipulated, and I was taken advantage of. It was never about me for the guys I had sex with. I was there to do a task. I just had the goods. Once I walked out of their lives, there was no commitment to seeing me again. It was fun while it lasted.

My best friend “D” moved away when I was 15 years old – obviously, she had no choice. After that, my world slowly became more bleak. My social world was make believe. I couldn’t be how I needed people to understand how I was feeling. I HAD to put on a brave face. And how dare I step out of line! Didn’t I know that would look bad on my dad or consider his feelings? Yes, I knew my dad had feelings. He rarely ever was in the room long enough to show me much of anything. Conversations were had around me with others. Not often with me. I don’t know if it was hard raising me – being the last female in the house and not my mom. My dad even offered me to pretend I was my mom to get new tires – since the account was under my mom and dad’s name at the shop. I refused. I wouldn’t say I was my mom. Not on my worst day. And that is not to disparage my mom. Nothing of the kind. I’m me, she’s her. I’m not pretending to get something for cheap or free. That level of deception is beyond me. It makes me feel gross inside.

I’ve since lost a child, myself. She was 16 years old. She had an abortion at 16 just a few months before her death. It was an awful time – in addition to what we had been dealing with since Ashleigh was no longer in the house, but still misbehaving. Kids….

I wasn’t the best mom I could be. I had problems. MUCH MUCH too much trauma in my developmental years. Married and had my first child by 19. I had never had my own insurance before. I started working and my piece of shit husband (at the time – Ashleigh’s father) refused to work. And eventually cheated on me. I had lost my husband now. I was not going to let him back in my life. The betrayal was awful. Yet, now – despite still being married to Ashleigh’s father, I had needs too. So I cheated back. I was still the mentally messed up teenager. The dysfunction had rattled my insides. I had already tried to commit suicide by 13, that didn’t work. I got Tinnitus instead as a bonus gift for staying alive. I was just, responsible for myself. Kind of. Once I realized my fucked nature, I moved back in with my dad. Now I have Ashleigh. A baby. And I’m stressed. I am poor. And my husband is a loser. Everyone was right. I just wanted to see what I wanted to see. And make sure that I righted the wrong of getting pregnant so young and inexperienced in life. I had to make sure that I married the father. It would be better for Ashleigh. Yea…. not so much. Rich left in April of 1997 to Milwaukee, Wisconsin and left me with no money. Still married.

After a bit of fooling around, I met Eric. He’s my husband and has been for 24 years. He has seen me through every (almost) manner of worst. The trauma of leaving home and losing my community and learning to cope with PTSD. Helping me parent Ashleigh – even though he was young, himself. I moved to Wisconsin by the time he was 18 years old. I was still married.

By October of 1997, I was back with Rich. He was done with Milwaukee and wanted to try again. So, I agreed. It’s the best thing for Ashleigh. Eric refused to leave. And I thought he was nuts. The relationship with Rich and I had devolved. We realized it was never going to work. Eric and I got back together. Mentally, I started to see a settling down to our relationship and I couldn’t understand it. I started screwing around. I had never really had many long term relationships. Junior for a few months, Rich for a few years, and now Eric. I don’t know how relationships work. And my experience watching other people in relationships was very limited in scope. I was used to the heavy petting and the excitement. That was long gone. We’re now sitting on the couch together talking about random shit. I needed the excitement again. I met a guy that worked in the refrigerated section at the grocery store I worked at in Green Bay/Ashwaubenon. I liked him. I dated him. I got pregnant by him. And then Darrian came along.

Now I’ve got two kids, one kid has a speech delay and i’m having to get her into school and the other one ends up having RSV a few months after she was born. I was going to work still. Darrian was born in 1998. Ashleigh was in 1996.

I had to take care of things, monetarily. Rich eventually skedaddled. He had a better option. And eventually was accused by someone who ended up not being credible (not believed legally speaking to be honest and trustworthy) of being abusive to a speech delayed little girl who couldn’t stand up for herself with a man that should have been a good father. She relied on him to be a good father. Yet, she got him. When Rich left, he left me (and Eric biproxy) with Ashleigh. Ashleigh had a speech delay. Her agitation over not being able to communicate was evident through the yelling or when Ashleigh would bounce her head off of any flat surface. Floor, doorway, side of the tub… door. Whatever made an impact was what it was. The Birth through Three program got her to say over 100 words. Then, onto school. The nighttime enuresis, the lice (the massive lice epidemic because of the amount of hair on that child’s head.) Ashleigh was eventually kicked out of day care for being a flight risk. And the risks that Ashleigh took on. Wearing the wrong shoes on her feet constantly. Everything just kept adding up.

By 5 years old, Ashleigh was diagnosed by a neuropsychologist with having Reactive Attachment Disorder. During the testing, I was asked to take a five year old Ashleigh into my arms and cradle her like she was a baby. Ashleigh lost her mind. Screaming, squirming, and the yelling of put me down. Followed by her sitting underneath the chair across the room from me in the fetal position. That’s what Rich left behind. A scared and anxious child. And Darrian was there in the middle of all of this. And our animals that we eventually had gotten, if not had already.

Child support was eventually ordered through the family court system in Marquette Michigan. That was where Rich and I married, and the city and state where Ashleigh was born. During the court proceedings, when the Judge asked what Rich was doing to earn a living in California – this is how Rich responded. “I’m mooching off of friends.” The Judge repeated the phrasing and Rich agreed. Yes, that was what he was doing. So, the court had no choice but to mandate the legal bottom of the barrel for child support. For a child with special needs. For someone who needed to go to the doctors often. Have lice treatments. Have other needs and I was “awarded” with the state minimum – which essentially was the equivalent of a package of toilet paper and a hair cut every month.

I worked. I worked hard. For years. Humana Dental, APAC… and during my stint at APAC, I had problems with my period. I was bleeding so heavy that I had to fall asleep sitting up and I would still leak through my feminine hygiene product as well as my clothes and sheets. Eventually I had to have a uterine ablation. Not to mention – when you work at a call center like I did – any person on the phone can treat you like you are NOTHING. Absolute garbage and the caller has limited responsibility to fairness and care to the representative they get in touch with. I eventually took a call that triggered my PTSD, so badly. It reminded me of the treatment that I had heard Rich being accused of. Except in Florida and with a larger group of children. I bawled while talking to the guy on the phone. I had to place him on mute while I tried to explain to my coworkers why I was flipping the fuck out. I never went back to that job. I didn’t answer the phone when management tried to call me. I knew it was them. I just avoided it.

And I signed up for social security disability. It took about a year or so, but eventually I was awarded social security. Eventually Social Security told me that I was overpaid and had to pay them back. I paid them back $100 a month for a long time. I was on social security disability from 2013 (?) to 2017 when I went back to work full time. After losing Darrian, I couldn’t stay home for too long. I had endured about a year of full fledge home grieving. Rocking in place, watching “The Good Place” because it gave me a visual of “Heaven” when I needed it. I had rewatched the same episodes over and over again. It was a comfort to me. I wouldn’t stay awake longer than 8 pm during my year ish grieving period. I didn’t want to be alive anymore. And sleep was like…. what I could imagine, a temporary ease of my anxieties and depression.

During this period of time, I started with the Compassionate Friends chapter in Green Bay, Wisconsin (where I lived at the time). If you have ever lost someone to a death, they are a great support network to have. I’ve also been in therapy now for well over 20 years. I was diagnosed with Major Depression and PTSD. I was gaslit over my experiences as a kid. Oh, it’s the past. Get over it. Yada yada. Yes, it is in the past. However, by definition – C-PTSD and PTSD is defined by the memories of an event or events that traumatized you. The cycle the sufferer continues to experience – no matter how much they know that they’re not back in … whatever it was. The people and places are different. The fear feels the same, so a sufferer will react as if it’s happening. The amount of times I started screaming and crying seeing a fire engine drive by, speeding with their lights flashing. I cancelled plans with a friend because this happened while I was in traffic. I went home, jumped under the bedding, and bawled. It brought me back to December 25, 1992. And it was well after that. Probably 1998 by this time. If not afterwards.

Complex PTSD (C-PTSD) is something I learned about from a friend. I never imagined that I had it. I had never been diagnosed with it. By the time I went into intensive outpatient treatment – I was told, oh yes… you do have C-PTSD. That was a relief. The symptoms that I experience. The disassociation to survive through a day that feels like a year. That reminds you of a place you once wore. Not the same people, but the same loneliness. People were around, but I was terrified of all of them. Not because they threatened my safety. Not even a little. I didn’t know what they intended for and with me. So every day after I turned down my promotion, I realized… something is very much wrong. I was coasting – every day up until that time. I knew I was fucked up. I just didn’t know in how many spots it was going to show up in my life. I was able to manage it before. And suddenly, I was shown a shit ton more on how it would impact me.

I’ve always been afraid of asking for what I’ve wanted. I’ve been feeling guilty about my sexual practices with my husband. Despite the fact that my Christian upbringing would absolutely be okay with the fact the sex I’m having with my husband is legit. No qualms there. Yet, after the rapes – I would cross my legs as soon as I got into bed with my husband. Not a remark to him – but my body “remembers” how it felt. And I never dealt with the rapes that I experienced between the ages of 16-18 years old. And the fact that my ex husband would expect sex EVEN during my menstrual cycle. And honestly, I didn’t think it was that weird until much later. As a Christian woman, you take care of your husbands needs. And that is what I did. Aside from the fact that I had been raped several times, I also was strongly judged for having premarital sex. No one specifically told me to stop (well, unless you count my uncle Lenny when he called me screaming. My cousin Mike found my stash of condoms. One would say congratulations to me for safe sex, but wtf. Nope. Mike found my condoms and pocketed one. The condom Mike took from my stash he was caught by someone he knew giving the condom to a girl that was on the bus on the way back home or to school. Not sure. Lenny never gave me an opportunity to say anything. So, that was as close as it got)

My dad locked me out of the house when I got home. And then abruptly lied about the doors and windows being locked so I couldn’t get in. My dad didn’t pursue charges on the 25 year old I was having sex with when I was 15. My dad didn’t help me with figuring out the complexities of life. He just had me find out the hard way. On my own. And… it took me a long time, but I think I’m finally getting there. Understanding the flaws in my thinking. That there are two sides, obviously to every situation. At least.

I do know that I have removed myself from people out of fear for my personal safety and security. However, I have been shunned by the church community. I severed my relationship with a sibling a few years ago. That relationship was not serving me. I had hoped it would. Talking to him was like … somewhat talking to a male version of my mom. He has the gift for gab. My other sibling communicates like my dad did. Very short and to the point. I couldn’t tell what was shunning or just a natural progression in someone’s life shifting. All I saw was that I wasn’t worth it. Between my mom’s friend that is still “travelling” and hasn’t gotten back to me years later after she said she’d finish telling me about her new husband. And my aunt that lives in the next state over from me, has access to the internet and eight children…. and very capable – hasn’t talked to me since 2002. I tried reaching out to her once upon a time. I even mentioned that my grandson had died. Crickets (Crickets simulates the absence of any return contact). When she did reach out to me, she reminded me about how I need to get over the past. I don’t know her life, and that things can get better. That she’s grateful for her grandkids and that she lost her sister.

Bitch… I lost my mom. I was 14 to your 50 something years old. Your mom was alive well after that to her 90’s. Tell me about how much you understand me after you see that reality. In the meantime – you made your choices. I have to live with mine.

The church I grew up in IALC or Independent Apostolic Lutheran Church (aka Laestadianism). The church type came from Sweden and Finland back in the late 1800’s. You can look it up if you’re interested. I didn’t appreciate the sexism, the gender specific roles and limitations of church leadership, the anti LGBTQIA+ sentiment, and the coercive controlling nature of the community(ies). As long as those things still exist in those forms, I will continue to not respect it. I will hope for the best for anyone that is considered a “believer”. I just hope that they can see sense about how they not only hurt me. That pseudo culture is damaging. Not everyone wants to go to church. And you can’t force feed everyone flavor aid and hope they’ll die committed to your mission. (I know they’re not a suicide conscious group. Please understand I reached into my pocket of obsurdity and dark humor)

So… October 5th, I asked my husband for a separation. It’s been almost a month. I told him he can return (if he’d like) on Halloween. And he seems to want to. Our relationship is getting better than it was before. He’s seeing me and I’m watching to see how he relates to me in all of these moments. He has had to prove to me that he loves me so much over the course of our relationship. From the first time I tried to get him to hit me at my old apartment in DePere Wisconsin. It wasn’t my apartment. I was living in it with three other people. A couple and the daughter of one of the couples. I got in Eric’s face and yelled at him to hit me. He wouldn’t. And in all the years I’ve known Eric, he never has hit me. He’s raised his voice. And he’s done stupid shit, but overall, he’s not a bad guy. Every once in a while though, I hear something that he says and construe it to mean something that it likely doesn’t. I grab on to that like my life depended on it. To protect myself from any further harm. Even when the action harms me. Harm and discord is what I know. I’m more comfortable with that than safety and security.

With the diagnosis and my psychological work that I’ve been doing to facilitate growth in my relationship – but more importantly me, I:

Quit my job

Signed up for School

told Eric that HE MUST get a job. (And he starts working soon)

I’ve also been talking to my oldest daughter, Ashleigh for the last few months. It’s been a while now, actually. I’m not sure when the last time we talked this consistently without us saying “fuck it, I’m done.”…

Last night, I got a video call on facebook with my daughter. We’ve been talking for about 2.5 hours a night for a few nights lately. I have been trying to be involved in her life. Asking about her experiences in foster care, homelessness, safety, mental health, self care, and going down memory lane when appropriate. We’ve had a lot of good and productive conversations. This one last night meant everything to me. I’ll shorten this part down because I’ve already typed so much.

Since she has had kids in the foster care system and she was also in the foster care system from like 15 or 16 years old until she graduated from it – how did she view the foster families? I admitted I resented the fuck out of her foster parents. I admitted I didn’t want them to see the joy I felt like I had worked so hard for. For a few moments, Ashleigh said she was going to tell me something. Didn’t want me to get excited too much. She said she knew how I’d be reacting. Probably getting emotional. And until she couldn’t stop herself from saying it – she said I was the best mom that she could have had. I was aghast. I did it. I won the emotional lottery. This is what I had silently and not so silently hoped I’d hear. And since Ashleigh seems as though she’s making progress, I’m proud of her. I really and truly am. And I told her as such.

Sure – her life isn’t perfect. Yes, she’s stressed to the gills as well. Her reality is very different than mine – but I can see some of how she got to the way she is. It’s like I’m kind of looking at myself in a way.

FYI: Eric’s not in the house. I don’t have anyone here to tell. I called Eric. I told him on the phone. He was happy for the fact that it happened for me. He wished he had heard it himself, but he was so glad that I got something I felt like I needed.

Oh hey, guess what else? That bit of news that I got from her? It also caused my brain to break a little. Why was I getting good things now when no one gave me shit before? On the emotional end. Remember, before could have been meaning yesterday. My before means when I was 11, 14,-19. And then when Ashleigh began suffering with mental illness, when I got locked again more fully in mine. Poverty. Lack of Self Esteem. Dysfunctional nuclear family. Mental Illness. Weight Problems. Etc. I’m text book classic this. And instead… I should just let the past go. Like it’s just that easy.

I deserve to be angry. I’ve been confused, depressed, lonely, and scared for decades. Because I’ve been gaslit. Because I lost family. Because no one came looking for me – time and time again, those non actions spoke louder than words ever could. So why would Ashleigh tell me this now? Why would I feel good? I don’t deserve good. Etc, blah blah. You see a pattern right?

Yes – but I’m crazy. Not because fucked up things happened to me and my brain tried to take care of me since no one else came. And when they did, they had to fight to get me to understand it. I have tried not to lie. I understand the repercussions pretty well. I think things a few points ahead, especially after I’ve almost been alive for five decades.

I’ll close off. Soon.

I tell you, the reader, these details because all the points before didn’t make sense to me. This is my organized way to put details out that I don’t talk about often. That never seen the light of day after it happened. I know that telling these things might make certain people uncomfortable or unhappy with me. That’s fine. I’m telling the truth though. If you can find evidence to counteract what I’m saying, I’d love to see the evidence. Not points of views or opinions. Evidence. I fucked up. I know I did that. I was there. My fucking up was my way of trying to fix how awful I felt inside by at least, 20 minutes a week or better, I could feel close and accepted by someone. Even if it meant them doing things that I knew were morally wrong. Everyone wants love. The strongest people in the world are this way because they’ve seen the other side.

One last thing. I told my daughter this yesterday and I believe that it is true. People will always remember you on your worst day. Sometimes it’s hard to prove to other people that you can change. You can be better. The people I was referencing are not the average people though. No details necessary – but … look at our world. We remember a celebrity’s awful racist rant or flaw. People will see our worst day and regail others with the tales of fuckery. And if it serves them to think badly of you, they will. No matter how much proof is shown to the opposite.

I want to be a therapist. I want to help other people NOT feel like I feel right now. Or have for the last few decades. I want to go outside and not give a single fuck about what anyone thinks about me. I don’t want to live as if I need to get shit done. I want to be okay with myself. And… I’m still in my room. I’m getting a feel for it. It’s starting to feel more natural to be in here in my happy time.

Thank you for reading. I hope you got something positive from this post. I know it’s filled with a lot of personal stuff – but I think I needed to let go of some of it. We all need to be able to speak our truths. And I could give a shit about my metrics. My purpose was to just say what I needed to, to feel better.