The Family Of My Life Archive

BPD Borderline Personality Disorder and LossThis year…  To say I have lost is such an understatement that it’s almost laughable.  Or would be if I wasn’t spending my free time curled up into a tiny, tiny ball crying and raging.  I assure you I’m not laughing through my tears.

Some of this loss has been by choice  but too much of it has been by force which is, I suppose, how loss typically happens.

It might as well have been by gun point that my aunt was taken from us a couple of weeks ago.  We learned of the cancer prognosis about a month before she was taken.  No one really saw the prognosis coming and we were given just enough time between prognosis and passing to realize there was no preventing it.  Cancer, is an asshole.  But, I suppose we know that.  Knew that.

The “loss” of my best friend of 12 years in the opening months of this year was of my free will.  It was a conscious decision that I made on the spot but that I’d been building up to over the months prior.  And while her character was never much of a secret, I was made privy to its true nature over the last couple months.

You (she) will never, ever read this but I would like to say now what I couldn’t say as your relationship with my estranged husband came to an end:  I’m so very truly sorry that the timing of my mental break down was so inconvenient to you and your desire to throw your beliefs aside and get laid.  Because really, my mental break down really has been inconvenient to us all.  I suppose you’ll have to go and find another fuck buddy.  If you need help finding one, may I suggest the depths of hell where your selfish, inconsiderate, whoring soul belongs.  You’ll find your people there.  And they won’t care how truly hateful and negative your depraved existence is, inside and out.


Maybe we won’t add that friendship to the loss category after all.  We shall call it my escape.

The other friendship loss also wasn’t much surprise.  They say some people enter your life and are meant to stay there until the end.  Some come into your life and their role is brief.  Maybe it’s only meant to last a few weeks.  Maybe a few months.  A few years.  Or, in the scheme of life, even a decade or two might be considered brief.

N, as I shall call him out of a true respect for his desire to remain unknown to this world as a whole, I thought was meant to be a life long friend.  I still hurt over the loss of what I thought it would be.  But through my tears of the loss of a friend, I do see the role he played.  He was my secret keeper and companion in the days leading up to and following the end of my marriage.  And while he and I were only ever friends and never would have been more, I was able to examine who he was and my response to him and start to see glimpses of what it is I seek in a romantic companion.

The list is much longer than what I will say here, but for a starter, I will never, ever again find myself in a relationship with someone who doesn’t read.  My joy in sharing books with N and him sharing books with me… Him handing my books that weren’t about, “You’ve read such and such so you might enjoy this,” but was instead, “I really enjoyed this book and I’m excited to share it with someone who reads,” was, I think, one of my (many) favorite things about that friendship.

The idea of being able to add a romantic aspect to that, with someone else of course, is something I will no longer settle over.  I look forward to the day I find myself in bed with someone, sitting side-by-side reading our respective books.  Maybe we’ll even be reading the same thing so we can talk about it as we go, careful to avoid spoilers.  Both people in that bed understanding that the lights can’t be turned out until one more chapter has been read. And one more chapter is never just one.

N, I don’t really expect you’ll read these words but please know while our friendship exploded in flames and anger, I will forever thank you for the role you played in my life and the gift you gave me of sight.

I’ve already written on the end of my marriage.  The loss of tucking my children in each night and waking to their fighting each morning.  I do not wish to dwell on that here.  It’s been written about, but I can’t fail to mention it.

The loss of my fine motor skills, as I type on a computer keyboard plugged into my laptop because the keys are slightly bigger and have more space between them allowing for easier manipulation as I write, my fingers struggling to keep up with my head and heart as it is, has been the hardest to swallow.  Special pens bought for work in order to have a better, more secure, more comfortable grip.  Each of my coworkers knowing that while we are forever stealing one another’s pens, mine are off-limits.  It isn’t a matter of being my favorite, it’s a matter of me being a liability as I need to be sure and reassured I didn’t miscount the money my fingers struggle to manipulate.  I never count just once, I’ve learned to compensate, how to count it, how to manipulate it to be sure I balance each night. But my fingers, my hands, my fine motor skills are being taken from me as I fight tooth and nail to not lose it all.

As I drop my camera, not the point-and-shoot, but my darling Nikki due to a compromised grip as I simply lifted it to move it over 2 feet.  A special strap is already attached to help with grip, any photographer wanting that security no matter the state of their hands.  But who attaches a strap to move something 2 measly feet?  And Nikki fell, my portrait lens busted, and I still, months later, can’t bring myself, can’t find the will within, to learn if my beloved Nikki is still in working order.

As my fine motor skills trickle away, my sanity, stability, tumbles.


To Be Continued

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Yesterday’s Companion

Posted May 28, 2013 By kmarrs

I thought about posting this yesterday as well, but I didn’t want to imply that he died in service.  He was most certainly a vet who fought for our freedom.  But he outlived that war.


© KMarrs Photography (Me) – Rock Island National Cemetery, Rock Island Arsenal

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Ginny Rose

Posted November 11, 2012 By kmarrs

This is little Ginny Rose, whom is named for my Maternal Grandmother Virginia. Little Ginny is forever perched on my right shoulder.  Her and her books.

Years ago, my mom and sister got matching cherry blossoms. With Rachel and I having been born right outside DC, it was a way to tie my mom and sister together in a way the was meaningful to their beginnings as mother and daughter.

For awhile there, I too was maybe going to get a cherry blossom, but my sister respectfully requested that remain just her and my mom.  So my mom, ready for her second tattoo, opted to pick something new for just her and I.  With me having been old enough to remember her mother and having forged a close bond, we selected an owl which was something her mother collected and would forever tie the 3 generations even if her mother would never be inked or see ours.

I then suggested to take it a step farther and have a stack of books since we are/were all 3 known for our love of books.  Mom elected to keep hers to just the owl, and she did inverse the colors, but hers is equally adorable and forever perched on her left shoulder.

So is how am I celebrating turning 29 very very soon.  My first tattoo and a celebration of generations.

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Say It To Me Not Behind Me

Posted July 5, 2012 By kmarrs

We are best friends, but when we catch up it’s hard for me to get a word in to catch you up on my life. This wouldn’t be nearly as bad if 90% of your words weren’t negative about everyone and everything in your life. We all can say something negative about everyone we know since no one is perfect, humans are flawed. But the ability to look past the flaws and see the remarkable is the true beauty of human interaction. And no matter what I have negative to say about my husband, family, and friends, it’s always made clear by me how wonderful I think you all really are. You say that you don’t really talk to any of your other friends. And you give all these reasons based on their annoying personality traits. But as time goes by, and it’s been 10 years, I am wondering if as you start sounding more and more superior if maybe it’s you, and not them. That hit my full force with something you said at me. Not to, but at. You, who I thought to be the 1 person who loved me fully and unconditionally for who I am, yet don’t in any way have to. (Even my husband, who does have some choice, is tied by a legal contract and 3 kids that make it harder for him to just walk away.) And now I’m left wondering: what exactly are you saying about me behind my back? Because I’m well aware there is plenty you could be. I spend a lot of time, all our time together really, listening to what you have to say about every single person in your life. No one seems to be immune. And none of what you say is positive. So I’m left doubting that I could possibly be the one exception. And I’m left wondering what it is you are saying about me. And I’m starting to think maybe I don’t want to hear about them anymore. I’m done sympathizing with you. Because, no really. I don’t think it’s them. I think it’s you. I think you are the reason a long list of friends stopped contacting you. And I think it’s because you have it in your head that you are so much better. But sweetie, you are just as flawed as the rest of us. And I guess after 10 years, and an apparent gleaming white BPD built pedestal, I’m finally realizing that.

And for the record: No 4-year-old goes to a parade to see politicians drive by begging for you to vote for them. They go for the candy their wives and friends pass out. And then get excited over the occasional fire truck and (apparently) marching bands. And no, I will not apologize for or be made to feel bad for encouraging the 4-year-old, who was glued to my side, to be more aggressive in seeking it out; when the 17 or 18 year old to our right was being all grabby grabby and not a damn candy giver missed him. I wasn’t telling my 4-year-old to push and shove. I was encouraging him to step up and ask not to be missed like a 4-year-old should and to out cute the near adult who walked away with 10 times what both my kids did combined. And no, I simply can’t just go to Krogers and buy him candy. Not like that anyways. Not when there are weeks we are counting quarters for one last loaf of bread or gallon of milk to be sure we have enough until my next payday. I may not be the most responsible person, but I’m not that irresponsible. Though maybe you think I am? Because I am the welfare recipient with 3 kids after all. As I’m starting to imagine everyone you know and talk to is well aware. But do you also tell them how hard I’m working to improve my situation in life so that I can do right by those 3 kids? Somehow, I doubt it. Because I don’t hear any of that stuff about them.

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Can I Go Back To Bed Now?

Posted March 30, 2011 By kmarrs

I’m just having one of those days where I’d have been better off staying in bed. Never mind that I was in bed til almost noon. You’d think that would save me some trouble. But, apparently not.

First order of business, I discovered the cat chewed my headphone cord. I assume it was the cat. I don’t think my husband got hungry in the middle of the night. And I’m pretty sure the kids know better. She didn’t just lightly mangle them. She destroyed them beyond repair. Because that is what she does. Tiny Cat is more evil than the red headed 3yo. And that’s saying something. No offense to the red headed 3yo who I’m sure will grow up to be sweet. Probably. Maybe.

This is the same cat who runs head first into the glass back door. Repeatedly. Because she sees her reflection. I mean doing it once and learning from it would be understandable. Maybe even forgetting it a month later and doing it again. Fine. But multiple times in the same night every night? I can only assume that the first few times gave her sufficient brain damage and well, it’s only getting worse.

So apparently the request, “Can you turn on the dryer while you are down there?” wasn’t specific enough. What I needed to have said is, “Can you leave the wet clothes in the washer and the lump of wrinkled clothes that have been sitting there for 2 days now in the dryer and turn on the dryer so they can dewrinkle for me so I can go down in an hour and fold them and then switch out the loads.” See, I was about to go down into the basement to do it myself when dad mentioned he was about to go down there. So I’m like, score! Fat pregnant chick can avoid a trip up and down the stairs! Turning on the dryer is no big task so while it’s a huge favor for me, it’s a simple one that won’t take much effort on his part since he’ll be right there anyways. 5 minutes later he comes up and tells me the clothes that were in the dryer are now on my bed and the clothes in the washer are in the dryer. Sure, enough there was a lump of wrinkled clothes on the foot of my bed. So I took the wet clothes out of the dryer and put them back in the washer and put the wrinkled clothes back into the dryer and turned it on. While he looked on confused. I explained that the whole point of turning on the dryer was so I could dewrinkle those clothes before I folded them. He’s still confused. BTW, simply doing it myself the first time would have taken A LOT less work. Lesson learned.

Yes, I sometimes have clothes that sit in the dryer for a couple of days before I can get to them. It happens.

Oh, and on the subject of dad. Apparently he isn’t moving out. There was a long talk and things are going to change and yada yada yada. Which is fine. Until his next temper tantrum next month. But whatever. It isn’t that I want him kicked out, per-say. I’m just getting sick of the constant drama over bullshit. Because that’s what most of this is: bullshit.

It’s currently snowing. Or at least it was last I checked. And I realize, this isn’t the end of the world. Won’t cost me time, money, or energy. But it’s been snowing for 6 months now since it got started early last fall. And it’s suppose to be spring. And well, I’m sick of snow. Though I am grateful it’s not ice. Or hail. That was freaky.

One day last week, when Thomas was home sick from school, he and I were cuddled up in bed. We spent much of last week like that, actually. Out of the blue, Pat sent Luke down because a storm was coming and the tornado sirens were going off. I set the boys up watching cartoons and came up to investigate. Pat checked the weather report and saw the storm was still a half hour out, so we let Luke come back upstairs. About 5 minutes later, a brand new storm formed literally on top of us and the heavens broke lose with hail the size of golf balls. Luke, who was on the sofa, looking out the back door, stood there frozen in sheer terror. I grabbed him up and raced him back down stairs. The entire trip down he clung on and thanked me profusely for “saving him from the scary outside.” BTW, the initial storm that caused the sirens missed us by quite a bit.

So Sunday was fun. I had to work 10:45 to 6:15. But when I got there at about 10:30 and went to the bathroom, I discovered I was bleeding. And more than just spotting. Paired with the cramping I’ve been having for the past few weeks, I wasn’t taking any chances. I went up to the front of the store, told them what was going on, and then left straight for the hospital. 4 hours later I was pronounced fine. The bleeding was indeed coming from my uterus but there are no clots, and everything seems to be in order so they are pretty sure it’s just my placenta implanting on the uterine wall. Which can cause bleeding. But they were glad I came in because there are lots of things it could have been, most not so routine. Plus, because my blood type is A negative, I had to get a shot of Rhogam just in-case my blood mixed with the baby’s blood. (I get this shot with each pregnancy about 2 months before delivery.) I’ll tell you, of all the shots I’ve gotten to the ass in my life (my ass being the preferred place because well, there is a lot of muscle and fat so I generally don’t feel a thing) Rhogam is the worse. That shit burns! I didn’t feel the initial poke but once it started spreading my right ass cheek and hip were on fire for HOURS. Which is totally normal. And something I get to look forward to repeating in a few months because we aren’t close enough to time of delivery for this shot to cover that. Joy.

It is really snowing out there.

Since I’ve already brought up the pregnancy on my non-pregnancy blog, I might as well add in this little tidbit.

Remember when I was saying sleeping pill dreams (don’t remember which one specifically) were messed up? Well, they have nothing on pregnancy dreams. I’d forgotten how completely deranged these dreams can be.

Thomas (as a 7yo) committed murder in my dreams Friday night in a really bizarre way that I don’t remember. I do remember that he hid the body in a tree. How he got it up in a tree (it was an adult) is beyond me. And yet, if it had been Luke in my dream who did it, I would have found none of it odd.

Ok, this post started out being about my day so far (the whole 3 hours I’ve been awake) but apparently it morphed into something else. Go figure.

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I’m Tired

Posted March 22, 2011 By kmarrs

I’m not going into a lot of detail about this. It’s a tough situation and I’m trying to be considerate that someone who doesn’t even know about my blog is deeply involved.

I have shared parts of the back history on this here. My dad lives with us. He doesn’t contribute to any of the household expenses. He throws temper tantrums at least once a month where he ceases to do even what he did do to be helpful.

About a month ago he disciplined Thomas for something Thomas did deserve to be disciplined for, right in front of Pat before Pat had a chance to handle it himself. If Thomas had done something that affected Grandpa, we wouldn’t have been pleased with Grandpa trying to take the role over as Thomas’s parent, but at least we would have been closer to understanding. What Thomas did, don’t remember now and it’s trivial anyway, had nothing to do with Grandpa and he just happened to be there. Along side Patrick who also witnessed the whole thing. Pat informed Grandpa he was out of line and Grandpa threw a hissy fit. He decided since he couldn’t do right by the kids, he wouldn’t do anything with the kids.

He stopped picking Thomas up from the bus stop after school. This means Pat has to take me to work and pick me up 3 times a week so he can get Thomas instead. So we are going through twice as much gas. Which is expensive. Especially when we alone are footing all the bills around here.

He stopped getting up with Luke in the morning. See, dad likes to get up at 5:30 in the morning and take his shower. Which wakes Luke up, who would otherwise happily sleep til 7:30 or later. So in trade, Grandpa would feed Luke breakfast and watch tv with him while everyone else slept on. Now he continues to take his shower at 5:30 in the morning but leaves Luke to Pat. So, well, Luke has been sleeping with Pat every night so he’ll sleep til 7:30. This is no picnic for anyone. But dad of course.

So we were already at our wits end. We’ve been debating telling dad he had to move out for a long time now. Every time he throws a temper tantrum, to be exact. But we just didn’t have it in us.

Thomas is sick. Has been since 1pm Sunday afternoon. He can’t go more than 30 minutes to an hour without puking. It was like that all night. He’d sleep for 30 minutes, wake up, puke, sleep for 30 minutes, repeat.

I was up until 4am. One part couldn’t sleep, one part worried about Thomas. One part rinsing out the throw-up bowl. Thomas was sleeping in the living room with Pat, but I was trying to let Pat get some sleep while I handled things so he could take over at 4 and I could get some sleep. That was the plan anyway. I don’t know how well it worked. I was downstairs except when I heard Thomas puking, so that me being up wouldn’t keep Thomas up during his 30 minute sleep stretches.

Anyway I was up until 4am at which point I crashed into a deep sleep. Thomas was up, for all intent and purposes all night. Pat was up and down from about 4am on.

At 7am dad started vacuuming the kitchen. Which is like 10 feet from where the sick kid was currently sleeping. And about 9 feet directly above my head. The sun wasn’t even up.

Pat went into the kitchen and asked him to please stop 4 times nice and calm. Dad couldn’t hear him over the vacuum. So Pat shouted it. Dad didn’t take that well and the epicest of all epic temper tantrum ensued.

That was the straw that broke the camels back. Dad has until April to find someplace new to live.

There was of course a huge fight involved in this. These are the details I’ll leave out. I think the highlight that will make my point was when dad said he’d put together a bill of what we owed him money wise. To which Pat said he would do the same. Anyway, it wasn’t pretty.

So I guess we’ll see what happens. I’m not entirely sure dad took the April deadline seriously. I’m not sure what will be done to enforce it. I don’t know if he’s made any phone calls to try and find somewhere new to live. I just don’t know. So we’ll see?

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