So today my mood is crap and I don't know why. There's no reason for it to be crap, but it is, and I'm over it. Last night I was looking forward to today because I was going to draw and paint and read and it was going to be good. And then I woke up. And it wasn't good. I did 4 drawings of horses - which seems like a lot - but that's all I did. No painting. No motivation. No desire. So I decided to scan all my recent paintings into the computer. All, like, 30 of them. And then I posted 20 to Etsy. Which took up a great deal of time. I didn't want to do it but it needed to be done and it was something to keep me busy and from napping. Then, I sat outside for 20 minutes - it's 70 degrees here today in Colorado. But it did nothing for my mood. And now, now I'm writing.
I've been reading a book on complex PTSD for adults who grew up in a neglectful or abusive home. Several years ago when I went to Boston to see a bipolar specialist (Dr. Brian Schulman), he stated that he thought I had CPTSD due to growing up in an alcoholic home. And from being a nurse. But mostly from growing up in a neglectful, alcoholic home. So I ordered this book and have been reading it. And it's interesting because it describes my behavior quite well. I want to write about it but my thoughts are all jumbled up. I don't think I can get them out coherently. But this book really got me thinking.
See, my mom and dad both were alcoholics. They divorced when I was very young - maybe when I was 5 years old or so (I'm not entirely sure). My brother and I lived with my mom during the week and would see our dad on the weekends. Already, without alcohol involved, that creates instability. Then throw in my mom drinking every night - often to the point of passing out. My brother and I were left to fend for ourselves. For as much as I can remember, my dad didn't drink when we were around. He did during the week, but not on the weekends when he had us. My step mom has told me how I was always a ball of tightly wound stress when they would pick us up. And how by the time we were being dropped off back with my mom I had started to unwind. Only to become a tightly wound up ball of stress again.
Living with an alcoholic is not fun. Especially when it's a parent who's supposed to love and care for you and does the opposite. Not that my mom didn't love us - I'm sure she does and did in her own way - but she most definitely neglected us. She chose alcohol - again and again - over her own children. She was not very loving. Ever. She did - and still does - show her affection through money. She would buy us little things, or say she was going to buy us something, as a way of "showing her love".
My brother and I were raised by the TV and video games. We were latchkey kids. Now don't get me wrong - I know my mom worked hard to provide for us. Being a single mother isn't easy by any stretch of the word, I get that. But she was either physically absent (at work), or mentally absent (drunk). Being home with her was worse than being alone. Me, being the oldest, often had to take care of her. Make dinner, get her, myself and my brother to bed. Clean up. My brother and I begged her daily to stop drinking. We would find her vodka (vodka and Kool Aid was her drink of choice - still is) and pour it down the drain. She'd have cups of alcohol hidden all over the house that my brother and I would find and get rid of. Only to have her buy more the next day and the process would start all over again. Sometimes, she'd blame her drinking on our dad. Sometimes, she'd blame the drinking on us. It was always a guessing game as to which "mom" we were going to get on a given night. Would it be "fun drunk" mom, who would want to play games and dance and sing (which my brother and I found embarrassing and annoying). Or would it be "sad drunk" mom who cried about everything in her life and blamed us for her misfortune. Or possibly "angry drunk" mom (which needs no explanation).
As we grew older we came to hope that she would just pass out and leave us alone. It was much easier to deal with. When we were younger, it was terrifying. We didn't understand what was going on other than our mom was on the floor and wouldn't wake up. We were repeatedly traumatized by this until we finally grew numb to it and realized that her being passed out meant we weren't going to be harassed or yelled at.
Because of this, I became a nervous perfectionist. I thought that if I got good enough grades maybe she'd stop drinking. If I could do this or that good enough, be a perfect daughter, then maybe she'd stop drinking. I was a high achiever in school. Worked full time starting when I was 16 and still was a straight A student. I was shy and withdrawn, anxious and depressed. I had no friends. I thought I didn't deserve them and was too embarrassed to bring anyone over to our house lest they see my mom drunk. My brother just kind of gave up. He became a slacker and low achiever. He got in trouble and developed anger issues.
To this day I'm still a perfectionist. I don't think I'm good enough. I have imposter syndrome. I don't have many "real" friends. I'm an introvert. I'm a people pleaser and put myself last. I'm always shocked to know that someone likes or (gasp) respects me. I'm still a high achiever. I feel selfish if I do things for myself. I have bipolar disorder and deal with depression and anxiety on the daily.
My brother is still a slacker. He's never had a steady job. He has anger issues, anxiety and depression and spends his days playing video games and smoking pot. We're polar opposites. The one thing we have in common is that we can't stand our mother.
I wish I had a dollar for every time we confronted our mom about her drinking. I'd have a decent sized nest egg. She'd either tell us she didn't drink/wasn't drinking (lies) or that she promised she would quit (more lies). She started drinking before I was born and hasn't stopped since. Her drinking is why my dad left her.
I guess I should be happy that we were never physically abused. However, I think the emotional abuse and neglect were worse. Because it went on unseen by anyone. I don't know. But reading this book helped me realize that emotional abuse and neglect can be worse than physical abuse.
Wow. What a downer of a post. But I needed to get some of this out. I know what I'll be talking about in therapy in a couple of weeks.
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