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About stealing_wonderland

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  1. Thank you so much, Bella and Candu. I appreciate your thoughts and support so much.
  2. Predators prey on those of us who are "weird" by a family's standards. I'm convinced of this. You were different because you were a good child, and that was taken advantage of by the rat-bastard. You are so strong for going through all of that, surviving it, and being courageous enough to be the kind-hearted, successful human-being that you are now. You are a powerful person; don't forget that.
  3. Wow, I literally just saw these. I'm so sorry for not responding to you guys sooner, MJ and Cheli.
  4. Endings and Beginnings.

    I don't visit this site very much anymore as, despite the incredible support and kind words offered, I often don't feel like I have anything worth-while to write about. In addition to that, my life the past two years has been an incredible roller-coaster, with highs I'm proud of, and lows I try to compartmentalise and move past. I was a full-time students and a full-time employee for nearly a year, carrying a load of 12 units on top of a 9.5 hour work-day (with a half hour lunch and every other Monday off). In that time, I managed to finish a few pre-requisite classes needed in order to apply for university -- a goal i had set aside when my father fell ill and forgotten about as my family struggled to regain footing in the wake of medical and funeral costs. Never did I expect to return to school, especially at the age of 31, when every-body in my family was against the idea. I struggled for two years, barely sleeping three hours a night, taking classes in five different community colleges (because American schooling is beyond bull-shit and finding classes is nearly impossible in just one college) that ranged from chemistry to microbiology to anatomy and statistics, and received news that I have been accepted to all four universities I had applied to last fall. The catch ? I will have to quit my job as the university I've accepted to attend as it is nearly 1.5 hours from my work place. I don't necessarily have a huge problem with this as I hate my job with a passion, but it does offer great health-insurance, which I will sorely miss when I quit, and enough pay to see my dietician once every three weeks. It isn't the job that I'll miss, but these people who have supported, and encouraged me to return to university since before I even realised I wanted to return to college. It's by having them to talk through my anxieties and insecurities with that I have been able to continue this journey as I never have had anyone believe enough in me to continue encouraging me to attend. I am so incredibly terrified of quitting my job now because I don't want to lose this support that means so much to me, so the thrill of having been accepted to university has completely worn off and I am now filled with utter terror at the prospects of quitting my job, losing my insurance, and losing the only three people in this world who have ever told me I can achieve something in life. To make matters worse, my aunt and uncle are here on a visit from Austria, and mum's been bitching and moaning about the stress she feels at the prospect of me quitting my job, and how much she will be affected by it. It's always just about her and how she is affected, never taking into account how I might be feeling since, you know, it's impacting me *directly*. While my friends are being treated with gifts and dinners because of their achievements (both are 29, so younger by a few years, which I suppose takes the sting out of it for me a bit), I have to sit through lectures about how lazy I am for not wanting to keep my job (despite repeatedly explaining there is no way to take classes at a university that is 31 miles away from my job and keep the job, especially as I work from 7.30 a.m. until 5.00 p.m.), or lectures that completely magnify the financial insecurities I'm already fearing, or lectures about being too old to have these cockamamy fantasies about earning my BS and MS at some point in the future. I can't sleep because I am so terrified of the changes coming my way in the next few months, and though I plan on getting a part-time job, I don't know how I will manage in a state like California. I wish I had applied to the university I wanted to attend in Montreal, as I wouldn't have all of these anxieties to deal with there. I have done everything within my power to make these people understand I am not making a rash decision, or not considering how this will affect my family, but am I being self-centred for wanting to do this for myself ? These people have all descended on me like vultures and the only thing that keeps me going forward are the two therapists and dietician whom I can talk this out with, so when I lose them, and the pressure of this family gets to me, what do I do ? How do I handle that situation ? The level of anxiety I've been feeling has resulted in a four-pound weight loss this past week (and, let's face it, at age 33, with a messed up metabolism thanks to twenty-years of eating-disorders, four-pounds is not easy to take off of this body). Keeping all of this in mind, I went to dinner with mum last night, and just as we had ordered our meal, she brings up the fact that my grandmother and aunt will be spending the day at our place on Tuesday. I get angry because I'm not working as I was planning out a gift that includes a lot of baking and cooking, and my aunt will not let me breathe in the kitchen when she is around since she wants to get everything done fast so she can make her dishes (she likes to cook). If she is around, I can't bake or cook in peace (and, these are things that are very calming to me. I love to bake, so want to enjoy the process in peace instead of constantly being on guard because of them). I tell mum as much, and ask her why it doesn't cross any of their minds to take me into consideration and ask me if it's okay for them to come over the entire before making the decision to do so ? Mum become angry in the middle of the restaurant, and asks why she should ask for my permission. I tell her because I'm 33, I told you I will be home because this gift is special to me and i want it to be perfect, and that I'm no longer a teenager who should have to suffer through her family taking over just because she doesn't seem to think I exist (she brought her drunk and drug-addicted brother to our house for seven-years when I was a teen, never taking into account how anyone else might feel about it). At that, she spits out, "You are disgrace. I don't understand what's wrong with you that you don't want your own family around. You're exactly like your aunt [her other sister, whom she doesn't like], the exact same shit. No wonder you don't have anyone in your life. Who would want to be friends with you ? You're a nothing. A selfish, 33-year-old nothing who lives under my roof. I don't have to ask you for permission for anything as it's my place, not yours. You only live there, you don't own it, and you have no say in what I decide to do with my apartment". After a couple of minutes, I completely tuned her out, so I don't know what else she said, but that was enough to ruin the entire night. Mind you, I pay a third of the rent and grocery costs around here, and think some of what she said stems from the fact that I will most likely not be able to pay rent once I return to school (right now, my net is $2000 a month, with rent for a two bed-room being $1550. One bed-rooms cost $1100+ where I live, so there was no way for me to manage my own place due to some debt incurred while attending college, as well as with a car that I'm still paying off, etc., so I have been stuck living with her due to financial necessity. This has also allowed me to save a little bit for uni, though not nearly enough to even cover one year of it). This exchange, however, took me right back to my childhood and teen years, where all I heard all day was how worth-less, thoughtless, careless, selfish, stupid and weird I am. I grew with zero self-confidence, no self-esteem, no trust in anyone, extremely social-phobic, and am trying so hard to move past these things and learn to trust my intuition and my needs so I can build a better future, but those words, no matter how untrue (I'm very lucky to have a few very good, solidly close, friends) struck me to my core. After everything I've done for this woman, from quitting college to take care of her husband (a man I never got along with), to dealing with her drunk, drug addicted brother as he slammed his way home at 2.00 a.m. every night and took $60,000 of my money I earned killing myself on the ice and in circus in order to support his habit (with her blessing, of course), to all the cooking and cleaning I have been doing around the house in order to take some stress off of her, to giving up my own fun and spending most Friday nights and Saturdays with her because, in reality, she has no friends and gets lonely -- which I can't stand to see -- and, this is what she decides to hurl at me in the middle of a restaurant, with people sitting in the booth right behind me. If I was a person who could cry, I would probably have burst into tears out of the sheer embarrassment of being in that situation, but I can thankfully tune her out and keep myself composed around others when necessary. I don't know how to describe what I was feeling all night and all day today though. I am seriously questioning going to university, and my mind keeps going back to that conversation. I've always felt very lonely, even with friends around, but part of that is the fact that I can never afford to do the things that my friends are able to do thanks to them having their degrees and better paying jobs. They can go to Costa Rica for a week, or spend six- or seven-hundred dollars at Vegas, but I can't be that irresponsible if I want to save for school and that means spending a few weekends alone. I don't mind it, but are they not including me because I'm just that unworthy and weird ? She is making me question my friendships, despite knowing that I am really close with these people, and I resent her for it. I also really resent the fact that her family has come to the US, and, instead of offering to help, has only put me down and made me question my decisions. These people own five houses in five countries (recently having purchased a place close to where we live), and instead of offering to loan me money for school, or help me find a position in one of the company's they own, or a myriad of other solutions, all they have done is tell me not to quit my job and not to pursue this degree. I don't think I can fight these people off on my own, but there is no one who can fight for me either. I just wish I wouldn't lose the only three people whose support and opinions matter and get me through the pressures of school just as all of these changes are coming down around me. I don't know what to do, but am really terrified of what the next few years will bring.
  5. It is great that he apologised to you when he was in the wrong, and your response sounds perfectly polite and on-the-mark. Glad he is the type of person who realises he should apologise when his response his outlandish and inappropriate, but wish you'd realise you exist and matter outside of these gestures, because you do. Take care, Z. Glad to see you around here.
  6. Just wanted to wish you a [slightly belated] Mother's Day, Bella. Hope you realise you are an awesome Mother, and if your "only purpose" in life was to break the dysfunctional cycles in your family, then you have achieved more in your life than most will ever achieve in theirs. Don't down-play your strengths and achievements....
  7. Thank you so much for all of your support and comments. It means the world to me to be able to write this out and not have it met with negativity. Thank you again.
  8. Choke.

    TW: Swearing, using words that may be upsetting to read, describing war in a bit of detail. When I was seven-years-old, a missile hit the street across my grand-parents' neighbourhood, effectively killing every-one and destroying every building on that street. When the war was active, my parents, sister and I lived with my grand-parents and aunt due to the proximity of the bomb shelter to their house. We used to crowd into their formal dining room and sleep on the floor there. I always chose the spot by the piano, since I used to play it. I don't remember much about what preceded the attack, nor do I remember too many details after the immediate reactions after the missile hit. I think we might have been asleep. Maybe it was in the middle of the night. When I was a kid, we were taught to look for "red air-planes" in the sky. That was the sign that we were about to get bombed. I don't remember seeing red air-planes, and given that I used to look up at the sky every few minutes to ensure safety, I'm pretty certain we must have been asleep. I remember being deaf after the attack. Or, feeling like I was deaf. I think the blast was loud and may have temporarily affected my hearing. I remember my father scooping me up into his arms, my mother grabbing my sister, my grand-mother running out of the house nearly naked, her breasts wildly slapping against her chest, my aunt screaming at her to wear something. I felt like I was being half dragged, half-carried towards the end of the street where the bomb shelter sat. There must have been a hundred other people running in that direction. We managed to get a shirt on my grand-mother before running down the steep stairs and into the street. The shirt was plain white, so her nipples were still visible from under it. I was disgusted by how ugly and distracting breasts were and hoped to never have them. I wanted to always be able to play tag without having the two sacks of fat jumping wildly about while I ran around and tagged people. At that age, that was a very real cause for concern. Haha. In my childish mind, I couldn't comprehend the magnitude of the attack. I knew we had escaped death. Kids my age in my country didn't have the luxury of magical thinking and assuming invincibility. We knew death could come at any moment. I lived with that awareness every day for seven years. There was a calmness and a stillness to that awareness that deeply resonates with me even now. While everyone around me was frantic, I remember looking at the street across, like an observer, a journalist, in a calculating manner, and floating away from my body. I watched the tear-streaked face of my mother, saw dismembered body parts dotting our street, blood running greedily towards the drain-pipes, coating the black streets so that rocks looked as though they were glistening. I watched angry orange fires rise off buildings and roar into the dark sky, plumes of smoke steadily closing in on the street like curtains coming down the stage after a play. I smelled the smoke, the blood, felt the bristle of my father's unshaved face brushing across my cheek. I have a faint memory of feeling like I was looking at my face as we kept running for what felt like forever. I think my brain dissociated from the events around me, learned to create distance between my mind, body and emotions. It is a weird truth to have felt these sensations, and not have felt them at the same time. I felt and saw every-thing rationally. Went through what had happened step-by-step, telling myself the story I was watching un-fold. There was a bomb. It was loud. I should be scared. The street was on fire. People had died. We hadn't died. There were body-parts. If the bomb had hit twenty-feet to the left, we would have died. Our house would have been on fire. I repeated this story step-by-step several times in my head, and I have no memory of any-thing after that from that night. This calmness and distance is a part of who I am now. I don't cry. I don't feel. I tell my-self the story of what happened, of what I should feel, but the minute the over-whelming emotions rise, I knock them back down, swallow hard so the rock in my throat doesn't find its way out, doesn't cause an embarrassing display of uncontrolled emotions. I am a rock. A statue. When my father died, I consoled every-one, but didn't shed a tear. When I was raped, I distanced myself from it, rode to the rink in my mum's car (where he had attacked me just minutes before), got on the ice and competed two days later. I felt dead. I was on auto-pilot. A few years after that, when my cousin died when we were both seventeen, I stared stone-faced into my sister's eyes and told her what had happened when she returned home from school. My mother stood in the corner, crying, and I hugged and consoled my sister and cousin, blinking back tears, keeping my voice calm, chewing gum so the sadness wouldn't find its way into my voice. A few years after that, I stool alone in the lobby of the hospital waiting room and listened as doctors explained my best-friend lost his battle to Glioblastoma Multiforme. It was expected, I heard myself tell them. Yes, I was aware this was a matter of when he would die rather than if he would die. Yes, I was relieved he was no longer in pain. Yes, I knew who to contact to collect his body, his items. No, I would not make any decisions about donating organs until his family arrived from Austria. I was calm, cool, collected, yet my heart crumbled and what had remained of my life shattered inside of me. I could almost hear everything in my body turn cold, turn dead, crumple up and wither away. I concentrated hard to hear what the doctors had to say. To comprehend the words, the questions, the advice, the decisions I needed to make. The doctor with the brown eyes looked concerned. The blue-eyed one looked bored. Or, dead. Like me. I had loved him more than I had allowed my-self to love any-one else, and had to think hard about the steps I needed to take in order to get back some semblance of normalcy. My parents weren't aware of the relationship (different cultures and they weren't open to that at the time), so I went home the next day and went to bed. Alone. Living with parents at 22 sucks, I thought. The smell of food was nauseating. I didn't eat for three days, until my mother started pestering me. Relapsed completely right after. The more I didn't eat, the more weight I lost, the better I felt. That sharp, stabbing pain of Matt's death was being dulled by the lack of food inside my body. I felt light. I felt great. I threw-up so many times a day, I lost count. I purged after drinking water. Chewing gum. I purged saliva. It didn't matter what was coming out of my body as long as it distracted me from knowing Matt was dead. That I had walked out of that fucking hospital with-out him by my side. I think I have an idea of why I'm fucked up. Of where this dissociation from my-self began. I know some of the reasons behind the eating-disorder. I think I know the mechanisms I use in order to avoid feelings. But, how do you feel if you're so embarrassed by a display of emotions ? Of your weaknesses ? If you have lived an entire life not allowing any-one to see you break down, cry, lose composure in the face of unbearable pain ? There is a very real part of me that is holding onto these self-destructive acts because the alternative is so much more frightening. To face these issues, actually feel them rather than intellectually explaining them...I would be lost if I even tried to do a proper job of this in therapy. I would not return to the therapist's office if I cried. I am deeply ashamed of crying. How does one recover when the self-destruction serves so many useful purposes ? It's more of a choking sensation than a release to let any-one know what is bothering me, why I'm depressed, why I have such a love and hate relationship with food, so facing this daemon probably scares me more than just about anything else I have ever experienced....
  9. Yes, this is exactly what I think. This country is literally like a third-world country now, except it's more technologically advanced. It's a scary place to live in these days. I'm so glad you have had the help you needed to stay afloat. You deserve to have people help in times of need, and, more than that, deserve to be taken care of when sick and unable to work. Shame on this country for not taking care of its vulnerable population. I think, if I ever do finish college and save enough money, I will leave this country for one that actually takes care of its people.... I'm sick and tired of constantly worrying about the future because of what our government has done to all of us.
  10. Thank you so much for all of your replies. Pink, what you have written makes a lot of sense. The ED is like the angel and daemon playing havoc with my brain. One side lists all the reasons to try recovery, the other all the reasons to fall deeper into the disease. I think I quite like holding on to the emotionless state-of-mind though. The numbness feels safer, more comforting, than the alternative right now. It also keeps me in a completely miserable space of mind. Such a Catch-22 in that sense. To answer your question, yes, my dietician is still in my life, but she doesn't know about any of these things. I can write about all of these things here, but telling my therapist or dietician about it is impossible. I'm too embarrassed to speak. I still depend on her quite a lot though as she is such a safe person, but to tell her any of this would be completely humiliating.... How are you doing ? How is life going for you ? I haven't been here in a long while, so have missed out on a lot, as well. Free2Speak (love your monicker ), thank you for your words, and I'm glad you are able to reach out and find understanding and comfort from the posts on this site. I'm sorry you have experienced these awful feelings, but please always remind your-self there is hope, especially when going through hard times. It's hard to see anything clearly when depression hits. Bella, you have helped more than you know. I hope you are doing well. I'm sorry I haven't been around, but life became hectic, then suddenly quiet, and it's difficult to visit this site while feeling voiceless, lethargic, and all-around exhausted. I hope life has improved in every way for you since the last time we spoke.
  11. The Path to Hope[lessness]

    When I was younger, I spent a lot of time fantasising about being saved from my life. Countless hours in bed were spent dreaming up a kind woman, or a gentle man, who would lift me out of the darkness I was living in and show me a better life. Show me the kind of acceptance and love I was so desperately missing. I think this sort of fantasy saved me from suicide on so many occasions, especially after I was raped and had no one to talk to. In my head, I carried conversations about being okay. About surviving this awful thing, and for years after, I would repeat the same conversation, even when I couldn't remember the rape itself. Soothing myself through this image I'd created somehow made life less bleak. Back then, my fake person gave me hope. There is nothing more uplifting in this world than hope. It gives you motivation to keep going, no matter how trying a situation, how desperate the circumstances, how un-happy a life. As the years slow melted into one another, and my eating-disorder became more of an identity than a hobby, I relied less on this hope and fantasy life and fell more into the routine of living a 'normal' life: working, school, cooking, laundry, taking care of family member. Losing this hope I'd had, thinking someday life would magically become better, meant the hollowness within me gained strength, the bitterness grew, the resentment walked alongside my shadow. Purging allowed me to take some of this desperate hate out of my body, but nothing replaced how much I missed having hope. Now that I'm older, I spend less time wondering if life will ever become better, and more time thinking of creative suicide methods so I can end this ever-expanding numbness and hopelessness. I have spent so many years pasting on a smile, acting fine, allowing various eating-disorders to take the wheel, that I can't recall what real feelings actually are. The only feelings I've had the occasion of meeting are depression, hopelessness, laziness, and procrastination. It's scary to listen to people talk about how they feel, and know there is nothing "real" inside of me. There is a sadness in knowing I have lost the ability to identify something so critical to healthy living. I look into the windows of different houses, sometimes, if I run my usual path instead of going to the gym, and always feel a sense of isolation and depression claw its way up my back and tattoo itself onto my shoulders. It doesn't matter what the picture is, I still feel overwhelmingly sad when I look into a window. There are times when I'll see a few people gathered around a table, or a television; other times, I'll see what I suspect my future will look like: a woman sitting in a comfortable recliner, reading a book off of the shelf of her many book-cases, completely alone and oblivious to the weird woman standing out-side, staring into her window, and sharing in the aloneness with her. That future is not a far-fetched one unless something drastically changes in my life. When I was a kid, I would sit on the window-sill in my bed-room, look out-side, and wish someone would see me. I felt completely invisible in my own body and wanted the assurance that I did, in fact, exist from someone else. This was particularly true after a fight with my parents, especially if I'd been hit, or gone un-heard. I would stare out and wait for hours for a person to walk by, look in, acknowledge my existence, offer a smile. I don't remember if anyone ever walked by or noticed me, but in my head, someone always put their arm around my shoulders, told me it would be okay, and that sense of isolation somehow became less of a stabbing, throbbing pain and more of a temporary feeling because it had the fantasy of hope stamped onto it. I thought to myself that someday I would have a person make me feel less invisible, less alone, heard and understood. These days, I have no hope. I am doing every-thing I'm supposed to be doing to create a better life for myself, but it all feels futile. Every step I take feels fake, every achievement un-deserved. How does one reconcile that feeling with a vision or perspective that offers some sense of hope ? I can no longer take comfort in my fake guardian protecting me, and there is no one in my life who knows how deeply hopeless I feel. There is no one who can look into my eyes and say there is still a place in this world meant for me. All I have is my eating-disorder. It's my only comfort in this world, this counting of calories, compulsive exercising, purging and torturing myself with whether or not one bite of a brownie will cause an immediate twenty-pound weight gain. I think I have traded out hope for irrationality, but it seems to serve the same purpose. It provides the comfort I crave. The companion I want. It provides a sense of knowing I can go on another day, so how do I continue with eating-disorder treatment if there is literally nothing else in this world to hold on to ?
  12. Ambiguity in Life.

    I was driving to work today, listening to the back-ground noise of my CD playing in the car, my mind every-where except where it was meant to be - in the present - as I groggily yearned to be cradled inside the soft folds of my blanket in my warm, comforting bed. I've been going through a period of fairly heavy depression, and my bed provides the softest of comforts when my mind wanders into the darkest of corners. I was thinking about nothing in particular as I stopped in a lane, ready to make a left turn onto the street that would deliver me to work in twenty minutes. This street is located in one of the poorer areas of Los Angeles, and its sides are littered with trash, and homeless people. Drug addicts, mentally ill, down-on-their-luck sort of people. I always glance at the number of men and women crowded into each-other, resting against the wall of a dilapidated flower/gift shop, and wonder about the sort of conversations they hold with each-other, in secret, invisible to the early morning people driving to work, the students carrying heavy back-packs to school, head-phones securely plugged into their ears, and the old women quickly shuffling across the street, two brown bags cradled in the nook between their breasts and elbows as they go home to start cooking meals their loved ones won't appreciate. There is a sort of sadness that envelopes me when I think about these people, and then I make the turn onto the street and quickly forget about them as the rest of the day unfolds in front of me. Something changed for me today though. I was waiting on the main road ready to make the left turn when a woman half fell, half ran into the walk-way. She was wearing a heavy red sweater, a fuzzy white beanie on her head, and yellow sweats. As she started crossing the street, she suddenly took her pants down and started gesturing wildly at some of the men sitting against the flower/gift shop. Most of the men didn't react, but a few yelled something in Spanish, their faces showing obvious disapproval at her half-naked body. I was sitting in my car with my heated leather seats, and was still cold, and this woman was walking across the street with her ass hanging out, not caring about who saw what. I was suddenly very much ashamed of my luxuries, knowing fully well just how often I consider my-self unfortunate and entertain the idea of suicide just so I won't have to feel this awful for no reason any longer. I wasn't so much embarrassed for this woman as I was saddened by her. Where did she come from ? What was her past ? What lead her to this place in life, so dark and miserable, that she had no where to go except on the streets on which she put herself on display ? How many mistakes and wrong turns brought her to this corner of the world ? The thought of how easily one can tumble into homelessness in America suddenly jumped into my head. In a country where the government has done every-thing in its power to ensure its people suffer and stay poor, the idea of falling into homelessness isn't a far-fetched one. Two missed rent payments, job-loss, and an empty savings account, and that's it. That's all it takes to be homeless in this country. That's all it'll take to be one of the people huddled against the peeling yellow paint of the Spanish store, trying to stay warm and conversing with other kindred homeless souls about who knows what. With un-employment benefits getting cut this week, the chances of someone being able to live any sort of life in this economy is a laughable one. Watching this woman, undeniably mentally ill and increasingly more hostile towards her unintended audience, I couldn't shake the feeling of our vulnerability out of my head. I remember just how scary it was to think of these things when I was younger, exposed to the homeless as a kid, a soft spot always in my heart for them. I couldn't point my finger on it then, but now realise it's the general sense of life being out of our control that scared me the most. Someone else could decide to not give me a job (or fire me. Or, lay me off). Someone else would decide I no longer had a place to live in after a missed payment, even if I paid rent every month for years. Someone else would hold my right to purchase foods I want in their hands. None of it would be within my power, and something about those thoughts gave me anxiety attacks as a teenager and probably played a role in developing an eating-disorder as a kid. Now, 32-years-old and working a boring, full-time office job with benefits, the same thoughts swirl around my head as I try to make a future for my-self by returning to university, the knowledge that I will be quitting the safety of this boring, lifeless job soon very much at the forefront of my mind. The same fears have intensified as I know this government and this country wouldn't take care of me if I were to fall into the black void of homelessness, even though I have been working steadily since I was fourteen. Even though I have paid my taxes, have never been drunk or done drugs. Even though I sit with the homeless, feed and talk with them, always keeping a certain distance between us in order to avoid the shameful anxiety that I could someday end up in their place, the knowledge of how easy it would be to become one of them torturing me in the back of my mind. I wonder though, if I ever did end up in that place, would I be like the crazy lady, walking across the street with my ass half-hanging out, not caring about anything except the voices in my head, or would I just walk into the street, pretending I didn't see the car that accidentally killed me ?
  13. This is why I have such a love/hate relationship with Facebook. I will never talk about feelings, but writing about anger, frustration, hate, aggravation, etc., is no problem and that issue gets me into trouble more often than not. Whatever you said on needed to come and it did. No reason to be hard on your-self or regret it now. You said what you did and, someday, you'll be able to sign back on and read the comments people have left for you. Don't push your-self, but don't fear their reactions to the point of avoidance either. As far as your friend dismissing your pain is concerned, I'm sorry s/he said that. The abuser might be dead, but the pain and ramifications of it didn't die with him. What he did to you didn't die with him. I think people assume death will automatically bring with it a comfort and closure we can't otherwise have, but that is rarely the case. It's not that black-and-white. Please know that there is nothing wrong with being alone. Some people are happy being married; others prefer being alone. You "hate every-one" (which I honestly doubt considering how caring you are on here...) because your trust was broken by the very people who were supposed to love you and whom you were supposed to be able to love. You didn't build a relationship with your parents from an early age; of course you'll have issues trusting people now. That's totally normal, but it doesn't mean you will be forever alone because of it either.... Just keep moving forward and making progress the way you have been. Take good care and be kind to your-self !!
  14. I am so sorry to hear you are struggling with your health as much as you are. I can't offer anything other than to say I wish you the healing and health in this world. I hope your infections will clear up in the next few days and you'll be able to live with less pain and other symptoms. It makes perfect sense to be afraid of Urologists, but can your doctor possibly with one on your behalf and share the results from your tests with her/him ? Maybe there something specific that isn't being caught, but might be by someone who has specific training in that area...? I don't know...I just hope your health will improve soon and that you can put all of this behind you as you don't deserve to be hurting anymore.
  15. Wow, that sounds like such a stressful situation. It's hard enough to allow people into your home, but when the person is a little "off" or seems disinterested in the work, it can make the situation so much more painful. I'm sorry you had a bad helper, though am proud of you for calling and asking for a different person for next time. It sounds like the lady who came to your house is truly sick and I hope she will get some sort of medical help if that is the case. Hope you'll get another person whom you click with (and, who doesn't freak the bejeezus out of you ! ) on the next visit.